I have a very good friend who, now that I'm in the bondage business, has been helping me understand how people could possibly find kinky sex interesting (she's somewhat of an aficionado. I try to overlook this disgusting aspect to her personality, though it is rather difficult when she goes into the details of latex clothing maintenance, whereupon uncontrollable retching fits impair my listening skills).
There's just one slightly strange thing about her (other than her fascination for bound males): she's a dragon. A Jade Dragon to be specific. Now, being an open-minded and otherwise worldly guy, I'm fully willing to accept that large fire-blowing scaly creatures exist and thrive while having a fully positive macroeconomic impact on our capitalist society. What irks me just the slightest is that Ms. Jade is... well... cousins with my gargoyle (at least in a ribonucleic sense. According to her). When she came to visit recently, she was somewhat appalled by the fact that a fellow... thing was allowing itself to be chained up in my kitchen and to wallow in its filth whilst manufacturing sexual devices for prurient - yet, of course, brilliant and otherwise attractive - PEOPLE.
(Dragons can be slightly condescending towards us fleshy, non-carapace-bearing beings).
When I take exception to her lèse-majesté, trying my darnedest to explain to her that my property ENJOYS making ropes (and, quite apparently, LOVES wallowing in filth), she becomes rather overbearing in her protestations.
When she last graced us with her presence, I had run out of toxic-waste-cleanup kitty litter stuff. My enlarged insect was therefore particularly effluvia-endowed. Without consulting me, she took a pair of chain cutters from under her cape (dragons like capes. Silk ones. Now, this fact has little bearing on the story but it does give a visual cue, allowing one to appreciate the scene. If it weren't for such illustrative details, one would assume that only the insane can come up with such a triviality in a fictitious context, so I've gotta be telling the truth, right?) and let him go free. He bolted out a window.
At this point, I could compete with Solzhenitsyn's oeuvre in taking thousands of pages to describe the purest cruelty, sadism and pigeon entrails which resulted from her ill-advised decision. Suffice to say that the characteristically flat, quaint, working-class, fin de siècle Plateau rooftops were the setting for a scene of abject gore, gargoyle agility and scavenger bird rapes.
...it took a third of Montréal's firefighting resources to get him under control (not having belts - those huge rubber clown pants need suspenders - they weren't properly equipped with leather beating devices). I've a meeting at the municipal courthouse in a week to justify how such a being has come into my possession. I'll probably have to explain how hemp makes great ropes to a self-hating closeted submissive foot-fetishist judge.
AND Jade Dragon has yet to express remorse.
What a fun life I lead. *sigh*
Friday, December 28, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Romanian Hemp and the Gargoyle
Romania, for those of us in the civilised world, is a little known piece of ground that we associate with gypsies, gymnasts and gynacologist-dictator-shooting (...alliteration is hard. Screw off). While these elements do make up most of the charm of the place, I've found the people quite welcoming; as long as you don't try to become their megalomaniacal despot (they mostly just look at you strange when you do).
When I picked up my unconscious bulbous little friend, I did so because I had heard that walking through Romania's old capital accompanied by a gargoyle brings luck with the ladies. I thought it must be the overhwelming stench that contains weapons-grade pheromones.
...I quite apparently have a defective gargoyle.
In any case, having brought him home (the babe-magnetism doesn't seem to work on French-Canadian chicas either), I've found that he brings one distinct advantage to his ownership: he makes hemp ropes.
Now, I haven't a clue as to why this would be a good thing, but apparently there are people who use ropes to bind each other during marital (or martial. I'm not quite sure of the translation) relations and Romanian hemp is the rope of choice for these psychologist-dependant folks. While this fact causes me endless reverse peristalsis - I'm much more of a quiet-evening-in-with-wine-and-begging-for-fellatio kinda dude - I've found that the SALE of Romanian hemp ropes is quite profitable.
Being the proud owner of an MBA, I have absolutely no qualms about chaining up a repugnant prehistoric church-adornment in my kitchen and exploiting his innate hemp spinning for lucre. Quite the contrary, as we had an entire semester covering the ethical considerations of using iron restraints and other motivational tactics on foreigners (the conclusion was overwhelmingly pro-shackling but anti-frog-walking. Though I argued for the minority on that last point. Gotta love business school).
It would seem that my gargoyle uses a recipe for making ropes that has been handed down through the centuries (which, for such creatures, means two generations. His mommy gargoyle taught him right before her massively overdone suicide involving a vat of peanut butter, eleven kilos of gummi bears and a pregnant woman).
If you're one of the depraved minority for whom sex exceeds the bounds of that which is NORMAL (i.e. missionary-style, once every two Wednesdays for thirteen minutes), please visit my site at www.GargoyleToes.com. Remember: only YOU can keep a poor, loathsome, slimy but otherwise cute creature in chains. By giving me cash.
When I picked up my unconscious bulbous little friend, I did so because I had heard that walking through Romania's old capital accompanied by a gargoyle brings luck with the ladies. I thought it must be the overhwelming stench that contains weapons-grade pheromones.
...I quite apparently have a defective gargoyle.
In any case, having brought him home (the babe-magnetism doesn't seem to work on French-Canadian chicas either), I've found that he brings one distinct advantage to his ownership: he makes hemp ropes.
Now, I haven't a clue as to why this would be a good thing, but apparently there are people who use ropes to bind each other during marital (or martial. I'm not quite sure of the translation) relations and Romanian hemp is the rope of choice for these psychologist-dependant folks. While this fact causes me endless reverse peristalsis - I'm much more of a quiet-evening-in-with-wine-and-begging-for-fellatio kinda dude - I've found that the SALE of Romanian hemp ropes is quite profitable.
Being the proud owner of an MBA, I have absolutely no qualms about chaining up a repugnant prehistoric church-adornment in my kitchen and exploiting his innate hemp spinning for lucre. Quite the contrary, as we had an entire semester covering the ethical considerations of using iron restraints and other motivational tactics on foreigners (the conclusion was overwhelmingly pro-shackling but anti-frog-walking. Though I argued for the minority on that last point. Gotta love business school).
It would seem that my gargoyle uses a recipe for making ropes that has been handed down through the centuries (which, for such creatures, means two generations. His mommy gargoyle taught him right before her massively overdone suicide involving a vat of peanut butter, eleven kilos of gummi bears and a pregnant woman).
If you're one of the depraved minority for whom sex exceeds the bounds of that which is NORMAL (i.e. missionary-style, once every two Wednesdays for thirteen minutes), please visit my site at www.GargoyleToes.com. Remember: only YOU can keep a poor, loathsome, slimy but otherwise cute creature in chains. By giving me cash.
Friday, December 14, 2007
That's IT!
I recently had drinks with the pretty secretary from the 13th floor. The one who causes my ears to go all red whenever I walk in front of her desk.
In probably-futile anticipation of her coming back to my nest, I had hidden my little critter in a closet, with four chains holding him by the iron collar around his neck. I also made him a duct-tape ball gag. All in all, he seemed happy enough (I've learned that gargoyles like iron collars and sticky things in their mouths).
Drinks went well. My desperation for physical contact with a non-slime-spewing creature (well... at least a TASTY-slime-spewing creature. *blush*) didn't shine through too much. I hope. Probably. I'm sure she didn't notice my nervous tick, which usually consists of an elaborate choreography of crotch-adjustment and nostril-clearing.
After her dainty quaffing of light beers and multicoloured shots (colours that, quite stunningly, matched those found in her neck tattoo), we jauntily trotted towards my domicile, only occasionally stopping at trash bins in order for her to dry heave whilst I gallantly held her from falling unconscious into the snowbanks.
...then, our deliciously high spirits and budding desire were ripped from our synchronously beating hearts.
When I opened the front door, I realised that I had never seen my gargoyle in close quarters with an unamputated woman. He apparently could smell femaleness through the closet door and this caused him to become somewhat unsettled. After ripping the chains from the walls (I must remember to give the brand of cheap drywall screws to the young lady. She'll want to include their manufacturer in her legal attempts to recuperate the medical expenses), he lunged at her midsection, set his claws into her lower back and began a hyperventilation-like inspection of her... scents; his dangling chains smashing onto her shins and toes.
Fortune was smiling upon me though, as I had a flash of instant intuition and unbelted my pants, using the leather strap as an improvised flogging implement. After a few dozens blows to his upper back, he slowly released his grip of my belle and clunked to the floor, enraptured. I told her to leave quickly as I kept him in this state of blissful masochism, and she (quite brilliantly. Her superior genetics would've made her a great baby-oven) grasped that this was her best opportunity to avoid dismemberment.
...I will always remember the look on her face when she saw the little slobberer coming towards her. Her stunning green eyes unimpeded by their usual cranial apertures. *sigh*
Three weeks later, I heard through the office rumour-spinning network that she had left the company. Many hypotheses were propounded as to why, but she left no details and, most upsettingly, no forwarding address.
I've since had a cage made for the little spittle-gusher. One-inch steel bars. Completely enclosed with diamond plate.
...for the next time I bring a girl home. I'll also have gained a few new moves with the belt, which is all good.
In probably-futile anticipation of her coming back to my nest, I had hidden my little critter in a closet, with four chains holding him by the iron collar around his neck. I also made him a duct-tape ball gag. All in all, he seemed happy enough (I've learned that gargoyles like iron collars and sticky things in their mouths).
Drinks went well. My desperation for physical contact with a non-slime-spewing creature (well... at least a TASTY-slime-spewing creature. *blush*) didn't shine through too much. I hope. Probably. I'm sure she didn't notice my nervous tick, which usually consists of an elaborate choreography of crotch-adjustment and nostril-clearing.
After her dainty quaffing of light beers and multicoloured shots (colours that, quite stunningly, matched those found in her neck tattoo), we jauntily trotted towards my domicile, only occasionally stopping at trash bins in order for her to dry heave whilst I gallantly held her from falling unconscious into the snowbanks.
...then, our deliciously high spirits and budding desire were ripped from our synchronously beating hearts.
When I opened the front door, I realised that I had never seen my gargoyle in close quarters with an unamputated woman. He apparently could smell femaleness through the closet door and this caused him to become somewhat unsettled. After ripping the chains from the walls (I must remember to give the brand of cheap drywall screws to the young lady. She'll want to include their manufacturer in her legal attempts to recuperate the medical expenses), he lunged at her midsection, set his claws into her lower back and began a hyperventilation-like inspection of her... scents; his dangling chains smashing onto her shins and toes.
Fortune was smiling upon me though, as I had a flash of instant intuition and unbelted my pants, using the leather strap as an improvised flogging implement. After a few dozens blows to his upper back, he slowly released his grip of my belle and clunked to the floor, enraptured. I told her to leave quickly as I kept him in this state of blissful masochism, and she (quite brilliantly. Her superior genetics would've made her a great baby-oven) grasped that this was her best opportunity to avoid dismemberment.
...I will always remember the look on her face when she saw the little slobberer coming towards her. Her stunning green eyes unimpeded by their usual cranial apertures. *sigh*
Three weeks later, I heard through the office rumour-spinning network that she had left the company. Many hypotheses were propounded as to why, but she left no details and, most upsettingly, no forwarding address.
I've since had a cage made for the little spittle-gusher. One-inch steel bars. Completely enclosed with diamond plate.
...for the next time I bring a girl home. I'll also have gained a few new moves with the belt, which is all good.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Oh... gross
My apartment is now one big freakin' tarp.
No matter how much I try to shorten his chains, he still manages to spew medieval bodily fluids into every nook of my humble little (though once kinda single-guy stylish if I did some pre-date cleaning. As Garth would say, a "fully-functional Babe lair". IF there were Babes to be layered) Montréal-Plateau abode.
...he even gets the bank shots off the walls into the closets and cupboards. I swear. So I went to the Home Depot and emptied out its stock of heavy-duty plastic painter's dropcloths. And every last battery-powered mop thingy with "ultra-absorbent" pads. 'Cha. Right. Gargoyle snot burns right through them. I've been reduced to sewing the velcro backs of the things onto Zamboni collection fringes purchased on eBay from self-satisfied Saskatchewan hockey rink custodians.
Such are the joys of having adopted a gargoyle.
I'm just a simple, normal everyday kinda mid-thirties Management Consultant, battling with my abs to shine through the flab that just gets harder and harder to get rid of, hoping for that one weird redheaded girl who will zap into my life and end the endless onanist narcissism. Yup, I'm a catch.
...especially with this coitussing little Oedipus' reincarnation-like creature puking, pissing, farting, BMing, mucussing and otherwise stinking up my life. At least he makes REALLY nice ropes.
Desperate and lonely, I've started this blog. My therapist told me it would help. The impotence-inducing pills aren't, so... might as well give it a shot.
No matter how much I try to shorten his chains, he still manages to spew medieval bodily fluids into every nook of my humble little (though once kinda single-guy stylish if I did some pre-date cleaning. As Garth would say, a "fully-functional Babe lair". IF there were Babes to be layered) Montréal-Plateau abode.
...he even gets the bank shots off the walls into the closets and cupboards. I swear. So I went to the Home Depot and emptied out its stock of heavy-duty plastic painter's dropcloths. And every last battery-powered mop thingy with "ultra-absorbent" pads. 'Cha. Right. Gargoyle snot burns right through them. I've been reduced to sewing the velcro backs of the things onto Zamboni collection fringes purchased on eBay from self-satisfied Saskatchewan hockey rink custodians.
Such are the joys of having adopted a gargoyle.
I'm just a simple, normal everyday kinda mid-thirties Management Consultant, battling with my abs to shine through the flab that just gets harder and harder to get rid of, hoping for that one weird redheaded girl who will zap into my life and end the endless onanist narcissism. Yup, I'm a catch.
...especially with this coitussing little Oedipus' reincarnation-like creature puking, pissing, farting, BMing, mucussing and otherwise stinking up my life. At least he makes REALLY nice ropes.
Desperate and lonely, I've started this blog. My therapist told me it would help. The impotence-inducing pills aren't, so... might as well give it a shot.
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