its spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful and
free

free for jenny and jeff
come running from marbles and pirates and flowers
free for copyright lawyers
come running from the tombs of the courts
dancing with the little goat-footed balloon man
who whistles far and whee
and

its spring
burgeoning joy dawning on the buds of the trees
air perfumed with life
so thick you can sneeze it

and the waters of life rain down on spring
birthing again the squirrel
the pigeon
the doodlebug
that curls up when you flick it or touch it
the ground is covered with them in the wet morning air
and they say its
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
and the goat-footed balloon man whistles
far
and
whee

the world is free in spring
the ice-cream cone is cold enough to melt
in the warm spring blanket of air
wrapping us all in the bed of life
where we sleep as we awake
stirring in our sleep

pondering busted statues as the vines of spring
entwine
over
power
make green and jungular
lush humid and dripping
puddle-wonderful far and whee
as the goat-footed balloon man dances on the busted statues and ruins of yore
the crumbles of vanity
under the eternity of life
and spring

the big ripe peach
big as your hand
arouses all of your senses
all of them
bite through the air
your tongue touches the fuzz
hear the nectar as you smell the chomp
and see nothing but the explosion
of the puddle-wonderful
spring
-e e cummings

Velvet�velvet�plush and warm�
Fragrance of champa, hints of myrrh,
Hmmm�breathe deeply, drink deeply, so deep�
Drowning in this euphoria, nectar of arousal� Spider Queen's cruel laughter fills the air�

Surrender, such a lovely word, delicate and pure,
So luscious, my lips wet as it rolls off my tongue,
Hmmm, yes, I surrender, I plead to Her,
Accept me�
Take me�
Possess me�
My body, my mind�
From behind this mask, in this envelope of darkness,
My eyes are shut tightly, yet everything is red,
All I see is red�
red, red�a world painted in Red�
�and Spider Queen is frolicking on my chest,
�taunting, teasing, torturing�
�caressing the second skin that clings to my naked flesh,
A skin so comforting, Her healing touch - so inviting�

This sweet anticipation I can bear no longer,
(red, red, red!)
All of my senses, so aroused, so�alive,
Oh Euphoria, what how it feels to be Alive!
Wave after wave, crashing upon the celestial shore�
�as Spider Queen descends from Her astral throne�

I offer my sacrifice, my ailing soul, wounded,
My arms outstretched, legs held fast,
A fly trapped in amber, awaiting redemption,
Wanting but a single chance, to taste the Divine�
We begin our ritual dance, me and Spider Queen�
Ecstasy of the Ages, Spirits become One�
Every lash of Her tongue, every stroke of Her whip,
�I convulse, I spasm, I cry out�
Red marks my skin, every nerve is ablaze,
This healing fire, cleansing my spirit,
�Washing over me, renewing me�
�I slip my bonds at last!
Leave this body behind�

�and as Spider Queen looks on me, tender, loving,
A shell but remains, masked - hiding - no longer,
She reaches out with Her graceful leather hand,
To wipe the tears of joy streaming from my eyes.

Crete
Do you ever live long enough?

The crisp morning, your step brisk
walking into its current

humming breath, happy belly,
a skinful of pleasure.

But like Crete
this morning won't last

your isle of lilies will blow up
in a stinking roar

your calm sea will curdle
into catastrophe

and the tapeworm of horror
will hatch its eggs.

There'll be nothing
but morphine, black humour

and prayers for a shovel
from a kind and curious future

to guess what you were
and dig you back.

-Dorothy Porter

"You belong to me Boi"
"Yes Mistress"

If i were to ask for one raunchy leather boot as a gift if we ever part would i be denied Mistress?

That one raunchy leather boot that i have spat on dutifully, breathed across desiringly, that etched the pattern of my fingertips across its heel and toe....heel and toe, like a wholesome dance between us.

Though i sat alone to nourish and feed Your second skins Mistress i did so devotedly, and if i were to be a thousand miles from you my loyalty would never dwindle, i would polish till i lost my fingerprints, over and over, again and again...touching and carressing the eloquent line of the sole, reminding me of the taste of Your toes, the shape of your spirit, the passion in Your protection.

Tears drip and soak the boots, weaving fluid Through the fibres, weaving my tail, a puppy�s devotion and loyalty.

The sound of my spit hitting leather and brush polishing smooth reflective patterns lingers in my mind...I remember this sound, a song, a lullaby, which you feed into me as Your spit hits my skin and Your hands polish my body reminding me of the care and duty You take in my body, Your possession, my body that belongs to You in moments and strives to belong to You entirely, my body possessed with devotion for you, loyalty to you, desiring Your torture and passion.

Our spirits and skins layered, though our bodies stand apart, i offer my body and spirit to you, to cater to Your whims, needs, and desires. When You ask i strive to give honorably and respectfully. This is the greatest lesson a puppy could ever recieve

Heat, moist or dry, sucks you into My hedonistic vortex, and makes you squirm with delight and terror. How shall I cool you, make you understand the extent to which you belong to me?
The echoes of bells and chimes and more�
A subtle pause sometimes, can be much more effective than a scream.
My stable grows, and as all of your needs become Mine, I feel the growing anticipation of what is to come.
This diary is not sufficient to express My needs for flesh and devotion.
I wonder, are you up for the painful caning that will sear your backside tonight after I have seduced you into my lair?
Performing for the intimate crowd that gathers, watches, and jeers you on, you await my touch and are content. Comfort breeds complacency - a state of mind which I care not to cultivate.
But you must know this by now. Seek not my approval nor my desire. The infernal depths of my seduction knows, I ring the bell, and you come running.

EAST COKER
(Part 1., No. 2 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie-
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

Alluring,
With the passion of deep crimson
Soft,velvety touch of its petals
And of the beautiful scent
Attracts all
Who are helpless and captured by its beauty

The depth of its leaves and the
Strength of its stem
Fulfills the captive soul
While awaiting the thorns of
Discipline as the price
For pleasing the sense

-slutbeast

You are in love with me, I shall make you perplexed.

Do not build much, for I intend to have you in ruins.
If you build two hundred houses in a manner that the bees do; I shall make you as homeless as a fly.
If you are the mount Qaf in stability, I shall make you whirl like a millstone.

Rumi

Become a person of the heart
- or at least the devotee of one
Or else, you will remain
like a donkey stuck in the mud
If one has no heart,
one can gain no benefit;
In wretchedness, one
will be famous in the world

To kugel, et. Al�

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

To Jan and Natalie:
The Day Lady Died

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don't know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days

I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les N�gres
of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

- Frank O�Hara

**A PUSSY BENEFIT @ EL GATO NEGRO**

(This will be the first of more benefits to help animals who need medical care.)

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21 @ 8 PM

1461 W. Irving Park Rd.

$8-15 (not turned away for lack of funds) 21+

For your enjoyment and to express gratitude for your support, the benefit will feature Burlesque performer BETSY CHAINSAW, RAVENOUS GORGE asemcee, queer confusion core art punk outfit APARTMENT, as well as, the infamous faggot punk rockers THE ROTTEN FRUITS; drag shows including LUSTY LEZ, TRIAGE SPARKLE, ANDREAS DE LOS SANTOS and more!

Plus a kissing booth, raffles, live date auctions...play Twister with Jesus...and more!

The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot (1925)

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

After the drink, after dinner, after the half-hour idiot kids� cartoon
special on the TV,
after undressing his daughter, mauling at the miniature buttons on
the back of her dress,
the games on the bed � �Look at my pee-pee,� she says, pulling her
thighs wide, �isn�t it pretty?-
after the bath, pajamas, the song and the kiss and the telling his wife
it�s her turn now,
out now, at last, out of the house to make the call (out to take a stroll,
this evening�s lie),
he finds the only public phone booth in the neighborhood�s been
savaged, receiver torn away,
wires thrust back up the coin slot to its innards, and he stands there,
what else? What now?
and notices he�s panting like an animal, he�s breathing
like a bloody beast.
C.K. Williams

The two of you

Open or close?
So much missed
So much enhanced
Crossroads, decisions
Why can�t there be two of me
Like there is of you

Or is there
Sit, stay, turn, go
F**k off from my mind
There will be so much missed
So much enhanced
Can we do it twice
But this two is the real one

5307

Three chairs on the canvas
Black, white, black, white
Sealed eyes
In and out
The house speciality is
Love of the senses

BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue. Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine, But am betroth'd unto your enemie: Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe; Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

Snakes
By Selima Hil

The elastic jaws
of large disgruntled snakes
that lie in heaps
like soft exhausted mattresses
for whom she designs neat hats
and ingenious leashes
close over polished eggs
the size of sheep.

Consider Herrick, (1591 �1664):
A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:�
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distracti�n,�
An erring lace, which here and there 5
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,�
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,�
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,� 10
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,�
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

• The Snake by Class 3, Porchester Junior School, Nottingham

• oooh, sexy and dark, like La Grande Domina Serpent herself�
• The Blue Snake Lies Curled in my Bowl Like Oatmeal by Barbara Crooker

• Finally, an excellent commentary on our foolishness. How we believe others and act according to their desires and not our own. How mediocrity and pettiness dictate more often than sincerity and passion.

Snake

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.

The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
30 Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him! And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

He waits at his bench
Not just waiting but remotely
Carrying on with his chores
Passing time that was once a friend
But is now the cold
Implement of slow torture
That immoveable unit
That separates
Moves slowly, with dull pain
Until it disappears
In an inferno of passion
Moving at breakneck speed
Through the flames as fast
As the speed of love.

Nothing But Death
Pablo Neruda - Translated by Robert Bly
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

A Clear Midnight
Walt Whitman


This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Mercury Retrograde
ekb

we�re not talking, again.

you could be saying something
to someone who looks like me to you
but who avoids the distinctions that
your mouth confers sloppily
upon her, just as she would any
exhausted kiss

she is sure she cannot hear you
because we�re not talking, again,
even though I�ve been listening
to the pounding in your temples
as my mouth grazes your mouth
like a gun

You must know that adversity creates strength, and am I not supposed to be the Dominant here? How can I know strength if I have not tested and tasted glory and the loss of power? I must show you proof and here it is. Besides a profound hug of gratitude to boy Lars, and infinite thanks to Mdme DuChevalier, A.H. and Monsieur Mohrlant, I have no more to say on the matter.

San Francisco, was, as always amazing. This time a little bit more so, as it was also exceedingly productive. The women in the Intensive were also a super powerful group. Should you ever need a recommendation for SF, let me know. I am very fortunate to be making such contacts out there. Unfortunately, since the hard drive died, I have no new images of the trip, but if any surface, they will show here first.


I will be in NYC the weekend of September 10^th hosting a Fetish party with Carmen Li and Ms. Simone put on by Dominant Mystique. Please check the contacts page or contact me directly for more info.


In October, I will teach a class on one of my favorite passions: caning, (I specialize in formal caning), for TNGC. I may pop back to SF Halloween weekend to assist the next Intensive � boo! Then again, I will be collaborating on a very special medical play demo with Ms. Simone for TNGC in November.


For my olfactory aficionados, my favorite pleasure, you must read two books; ideally in conjunction or at least back to back: Patrick Suskind�s �Perfume� and Chandler Burr�s �The Emperor of Scent�. The former is a story of a Frenchman during the revolution with uncanny abilities and propensities involving scent, murder, virgin odors, and world domination, yum. The latter is a non-fiction writing on a male scientist who is trying to to prove a new theory on how we smell. Although it is not as fiction, it has mystery, intrigue, and fascinating information. I was riveted to both in very different ways, and they both appealed to my love affair with scent. By the way, Suskind is German and Burr is American, but both men wrote about Frenchmen and their fascination with smell. Why do you think that is?

On a final note, I leave you with a writing that was just submitted to me by Squire L., enjoy and be well�

xoMinax

Solution Here�s the problem You and I once saw Eye to eye. Cheek to cheek, Circumflex to lips, Lips to knuckles, Chest to chest. Razor slices propel me downward in dull dim dreams. I regurgitate your need when there is no need You suck - And so do I. Only now the sucking is the order of things And refracted desire christens my morning tea.

If Hope Grew On A Bush by Christina Georgina Rossetti If hope grew on a bush, And joy grew on a tree, What a nosegay for the plucking There would be! But oh! in windy autumn, When frail flowers wither, What should we do for hope and joy, Fading together?

Return to the Town by Konstantin Simonov When you come back into your town, And women come to meet you there And hold above their greying heads The children high into the air, Perhaps you've played a hero's part! Don't pride yourself, as you return! You don't deserve their gratitude - Forgiveness is the most you'll earn! You've merely paid a frightful debt Which you brought on you at the start, When your retreating regiment Condemned them to a year apart.

The Trial by Nizar Qabbani The East receives my songs, some praise, some curse To each of them my gratitude I bear For I've avenged the blood of each slain woman and haven�t offered her who is in fear. Woman's rebellious heart I have supported ready to pay the prize - content to die if love should slay me, for I am love's champion and if I ceased, then I would not be I.

Eating Tar Upon a Cloud Flesh eating bones billowing balloon balled zaps, Chartreuse door ajar, goldenrod fridge hums lullabies at fuschia scented walls and upturned silver lined ceilings. Beauty within the red light district. Older chests have seen the skeletal zapping at night, Regarding them as breathless children with fireflies in a jar. How does the time pass? Through those very bones of desire and grief who suffer daily walks along the avenue of complacency - My throat parched purple at the possibility of love. Knowledge and love make strange bedfellows - sleep evades their weary distractions bellowing loudly upon the ears of night. Nimble hands reach out to solve the problem that never existed. The universe exists in a grain of sand and My guinea pig is smarter than your guinea pig. In the blackness still, zipping metatarsals fill my loins with lassitude and lust. Only you no longer have any say so in the matter. Only you do because that feeling comes back only it's stronger now, stronger than ever even though you will never again be the catalyst for it you are certainly the pecan in the pie as it were and I know finally, what it's like to know which is like not knowing anything at all, and I weep. Tears of loss? Grief? Joy? Despair? Nirvana. Not possible you say, shaking your head in disbelief, wanting not to believe what you know to be true. Which is not true, and that is sufficient. --Leslie Frank

• Ever used a household object for something outside its original purpose?
• Ever wondered how to tie up your lover and stimulate her without paying big bucks for equipment you may only use twice a year?
• Are you just short on space in your apartment and need to economize?

• Want to know what women want?
• Want to know how to elicit their submission and their sexiness?
• Want your scenes to be hot, fun, daring, intense, memorable?

At the The First Annual Prodomme Social

IML 2008 on Saturday May 24th, 4-6pm Comiskey Room, Hyatt Regency Chicago

International Mister Leather’s 30th year…. The leather, the sweat, the debauchery! Come have a drink, rest, and mingle after a long day’s shopping. You deserve it! This event is for all BDSM kinksters, but especially for our lovely Professionals who often don't get a chance to hook up IML weekend.

So come show off those new toys, or perhaps acquire a few more at our raffle benefiting the Leather Archives and Museum. Raffle Prizes from our fabulous supportive sponsors: - [Vex Clothing](http://www.vexclothing.net), [Early to Bed](http://www.early2bed.com/), [Betty Dodson](http://www.bettydodson.com), [Rainbow Rope](http://www.rainbowrope.com/), [Toolworks Chicago](http://www.toolworkschicago.com/) and MORE!

Meet up with local and traveling Dominas... chat with old friends and new, relax and get ready for the evening's events.

We look forward to seeing you there...

xoMinax]]> 228 2008-05-21 11:21:18 2008-05-21 17:21:18 open open prodomme-social-at-iml-2008 publish 0 0 post http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=229 Sat, 07 Jun 2008 06:26:23 +0000 Minax http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=229 229 2008-06-07 00:26:23 2008-06-07 06:26:23 open open long-dayslong-nights publish 0 0 post 11677 Artrip@gmail.com http://www.squidoo.com/singles-dating-service 41.72.219.79 2010-04-09 03:31:39 2010-04-09 09:31:39

great post, raises interesting points

Is it the bite of a sighing crocodile? All your voluptuous bleeding incense come at once? I have traveled its Silk Road with my curtains drawn, hearing its lurching mirages shiver among the stones and nettles of its gorgeous desert. With kink and love, Minax]]> 232 2008-07-07 17:11:50 2008-07-07 23:11:50 open open 232 publish 0 0 post http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=233 Thu, 17 Jul 2008 22:29:18 +0000 Minax http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=233 233 2008-07-17 16:29:18 2008-07-17 22:29:18 open open relocation-to-san-francisco-travels-and-classes publish 0 0 post http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=234 Thu, 24 Jul 2008 18:35:03 +0000 Minax http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=234 Dearest Diary,  I just got forwarded a dirty little ditty from Anna's blog talking about my Medical Play Class at the Citadel in last month. "Dr Eve" saw three patients that evening who each had  very special ailments that Doc had to cure. First, was the multi- orgasmic woman, then was the man with a foot fetish and prostate condition, and finally a young woman who required cupping and piercing to tame her feral behavior. Anna summed it all up nicely I think! don't you????  Last night I performed with the lovely Annie Sprinkle and co. (on her birthday no less) at a benefit for Candye Kane who was recently diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. Annie was splendid of course, taking a moment of silence in the midst of all the fabulous Burlesquey chaos. Allotta Boutte was there also, with all her divine singing self! It was a lovely evening and for a very good cause. If you don't know who [Candye Kane](http://www.candyekane.com/index.html) is, (really? she's legendary!), please check out her [site](http://www.candyekane.com/index.html)...caution, if you're at work, her music opens the site, you may wish to turn your computer on silent.  Back to Chicago next week for 2 weeks.... see you then!!!  xoxMinax  ]]> 234 2008-07-24 12:35:03 2008-07-24 18:35:03 open open swede-loves-the-doctor-candye-kane-benefit-and-annies-birthday publish 0 0 post http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=235 Wed, 27 Aug 2008 00:05:55 +0000 Minax http://www.mistressminax.com/mm/diary/?p=235 235 2008-08-26 18:05:55 2008-08-27 00:05:55 open open its-a-veritable-wonder publish 0 0 post 11462 body_rubs@hotmail.com 76.202.78.218 2008-10-04 00:07:46 2008-10-04 06:07:46

Dear Diary,

Please tell me more of where you are right now with all the new adjustments and mabey if you wish.... where you would like to be?

• Medical: electro, needles, sounds etc...
• Feminization: rubber dolly, sex toy, etc...
• Sensory deprivation: mummification, sensual tease and denial...

• April 7th - Cleo and I will be teaching an introductory class for the Society of Janus at the San Francisco [Citadel](http://www.sfcitadel.org):

  “Making your Scenes Soar!”

  Tuesday April 7th at SF Citadel, 8:00pm - 10:00pm (Doors open at 7:30pm)

  Do you connect your heat, heart and spirit with your erotic power exchange? Cleo Dubois and Eve Minax invite you to ramp up the energy in your BDSM play at an evening of interactive and insightful exercises. Find the confidence you need to make your scenes soar!

  This is a great class to get a taste of what we do in the Intensives and to see our special dynamic in action!