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Training To Be A Submissive

January 19, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

Sir M is an elite Master in L.A.’s BDSM scene and is training me to be a submissive. After meeting with him and learning his rules of protocol — and imagining the consequences for disobeying them — I agreed to join him for a “play session” (yes, whips and chains and more) the following night at a familiar dungeon party.

I had prior plans to go to a birthday party first, so I wore a fashionably fetishy outfit that I hoped would cross over for the dungeon party. I slipped on a black leather overcoat over a sheer black top, waist cincher, tight silver pencil skirt, garters and opaque black stockings with a swath of fishnet weaving up the back. I then pulled on platform ankle boots that make my legs look impossibly long, and headed out.

My First Dungeon Party With Sir M

I tried deep breathing to fend off nerves. Sir M had warned, “no booze or pot tonight; I want to see how you react when you are sober,” so I had neither of my familiar crutches. He instructed me to meet him at the front of the club at 11:00PM.

When I saw him walk toward me I instinctively smiled and started to say hello, then remembered to look down and not speak. I’m not allowed to address him until I’m spoken to. He was dressed in the standard sadist fashion: black collared shirt, black leather pants, shiny black leather boots. He scanned my outfit. “Hmm… I like mini-skirts with no panties better. But we’ll work with this.”

We walked into large, dimly lit playroom to find a location for our “scene.” About eight other scenes were going on in the room; some people were chatting, others were watching. A foot fetishist lounged in a chair on the periphery getting a foot massage from a woman wearing only a slave chain around her waist. Loud whacks and occasional screams melded with The Crystal Method track blasting from speakers.

Sir M chose a spot-lit corner with a large wooden frame in front of a mirrored wall. He sat in a leather armchair in the dark facing the platform and instructed me to stand in front of him.

“First take off your jewelry, then take off every stitch of clothing. Slowly.”

I am somewhat self-conscious about being naked publicly and I pouted. He agreed to let me keep on my panties — this time — since I asked his permission correctly. I slowly peeled off each layer of clothing, folded it and handed it to him piece by piece. My undressing was not very sexy, in my opinion. But I looked down and he was gazing straight up at me and smiling. I also saw the outline of his hard cock in his leather pants. I could look at that and avoid looking him in the eye.

I am Here For His Pleasure

“Do you know why you’re here?” I didn’t know how to answer and nearly panicked. “You are here for my pleasure. And this is pleasing me very much.”

I was slightly relieved and embarrassed.

Next, he ordered me to stand on the platform facing out, feet shoulder-width apart. This is his favorite stance and it gives him easy access to inspect between my legs if he desires.

He buckled leather cuffs lined with soft red sheepskin around each wrist and chained my hands up to the frame, elbows parallel to shoulders like a bodybuilder’s pose. He grabbed my hair at the crown and then slipped a foam-padded blindfold on over my head. Standing behind me with one arm securely around my chest, he slipped his fingers under my panties and stroked the lips of my vagina. His middle finger darted inside me briefly, checking to see if I was wet.

For a while he left me there: silent, chained and blindfolded. Terror rose in my throat, my skin crawling with goosebumps. What would he do to me? What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

To Sir With Love

January 12, 2010 Daisy, Diary 2 Comments

My boyfriend/owner (S) and I recently separated and I found myself unowned and uncollared. An old lover showed up soon after for lots of sex, but I still missed S’s loving torture.

And then Sir M entered my life.

A self-described “hedonistic sadist,” Sir M is a highly regarded VIP in the local BDSM scene. He looks for “play partners” (for BDSM play) and has trained many people like me to be submissives or slaves. We traded several e-mails and a friend in the scene gave him a great referral so I felt more comfortable. We agreed to meet and discuss. I’m rather new to this so I had no idea what to expect.

I Met Sir at a family restaurant right off the 405

He sent me precise instructions of where and when to meet him. Finally–a man who can make decisions for me! I love that. I hopped on the 405 to rendezvous at a nondescript family restaurant.

He had instructed me to sit on the bench and wait. This positioned me facing the restaurant, with my back to the parking lot so I couldn’t see who was approaching me. I arrived first, terrified of what punishment I might suffer if I was late. Sir M was coming on the 405 from the opposite direction, and got caught in some traffic. I waited nervously, texting friends and family with double entendre greetings like “sorry I couldn’t call yesterday–I got tied up!” Suddenly I realized He was behind me, trying to read my texts over my shoulder.

We had a “getting to know you” discussion, and then he let me know what I’d be in for if I chose to train with him to be a submissive. The idea is that he would train me and help me look for a new “master,” at which time the new guy would take over. In the meantime I’d be under Sir M’s “protection” and any guy in the scene would have to approach me through him. Also since he pretty much knows everyone, if I see someone I’m interested in, I could ask him to approach the guy. It sounded like an old-fashioned and highly ritualized kinky method of courtship.

Sir M has three basic rules for me

Sir M explained his basic rules of protocol:

  1. When addressing him always begin or end each sentence with “Sir.”
  2. Always walk 1-2 steps behind him on his left side. I become his left hand, opening doors for him, holding things, etc.
  3. Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me his third rule:

  4. NEVER look him in the eye. Look down at his shoulder level.

I immediately snapped my gaze down from his. Talking to someone’s shoulder is a challenge when you’ve been making eye contact all your life. But in being forced to speak that way my character immediately changed–my voice got quieter, my speech less assertive. It did help put me in the submissive mindset.

The hardest thing was to keep from giggling when inserting “Sir” into every sentence. Jumping into this role-playing while at a family restaurant at lunchtime made me feel like a delusional gamer confusing World of Warcraft with real life.

“YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?,” he barked when I stifled my giggles into my hand and turned away.

He got up and grabbed my chin, smacked my cheek, and repeated, “YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?”

Stunned, I mumbled, “No Sir,” with my eyes fixed on the table. He walked off to the restroom.

My cheek stung and heart pounded. I got my first taste of how it would be in training with Sir M.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Musical Imagery: Carved in stone?

January 7, 2010 Diary 1 Comment

We have all been there before… or at least, to God, I hope you have been.

You will be completely focused on a task at hand–working, playing, creating, fucking–whichever, and then it happens. Regardless of your level of concentration or amount of enjoyment, a song will come on, randomly, that brings you to your fucking knees. Whether it is the first darkly familiar strum of a guitar, a beautiful raspy voice delivering a resonating lyric, or a bridge and chorus that rattles your mind and heart, it just doesn’t matter.

Music affects us all in different ways, and the instant a song comes on that has served as a backdrop to something magical, something memorable, or something terrible, we are immediately brought right back. The time warp is immediate, and the memory will be as clear as a bell. And, depending on how life altering or monumental the soundtracked experience was, an entire scene will flash before your eyes, in your mind, and you will be rendered incapacitated.

There are many songs that are special to me. All for different reasons and different chapters, but I’m not about to get into each and every one. However, there is something interesting that very recently happened to me regarding this phenomenon, and I wanted to explore.

There is a particular song by Nine Inch Nails, which was played for me by my first girlfriend when her family was moving away, and we knew it was the end for us. Now, you must understand that I was infatuated with this girl through and through. My first love, and it was all encompassing.

We lied side by side on the floor of her room on her last night before the move. The lights completely off. Darkness blanketing us with only the sounds of our breathing to be heard against the cold silence. Then it began. The haunting piano notes mixed with the deep and disturbing bass chords, sending a feverish chill toward those areas reserved for the most exhausting of emotions.

I still recall the taste of your tears
Echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears
My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore
Scraping through my head ’till I don’t want to sleep

These chilling lyrics are the start of Trent Reznor’s epic ode to insatiable desires called “Something I Can Never Have” If you know it… then you get it. If you don’t, stick to Britney Spears–it is much safer for you.

I haven’t thought back to that night in a very long time. As a matter of fact, the song had been dubbed completely off limits for a fair amount of time–once I decided I had enough of the soul tearing tears of a flickered first love. I would do my best to re-create the entire scene…darkness, quiet, the smell of her perfume… everything but the girl beside me. It got to the point that I no longer even needed the perfume. All I needed was the song, played at incredibly loud levels to vibrate my being, and it brought back everything I craved. Her beautiful scent would fill my entire existence.

Once it was declared dead to me, there were times its airing could not be prevented, and depending on the situation, shit would just get uncomfortable. Over the years, I heard it less and less, the impact of the song dwindled as my memories of the girl faded away. I still remember her, and I remember how she captivated me…but the effect of the song was eventually no longer there.

And this is where my questions lie. Are musical memories carved in stone for eternity? Or, like anything else, do they fade? Is it possible for a song to provoke different and new imagery from what it originally fueled?

I’m leaving those answers up to you, the readers. However, I will share one more little tidbit.  Many years after my first girlfriend played the NIN song for me, I met a woman for drinks while we were both spending some time in another city. Conversations were had prior to the meeting, which gave us an inkling of the chemical potential, but completely unaware of the eventual flammability of our mixtures. Long story short–we drank, we ate, we fucked, we caressed, and then we fucked some more and more. We connected on levels I won’t even begin to disclose for this entry, frankly, because you have not yet earned those types of details.

But, as we laid there, side by side, with the cityscape through the window, her dark hair contrasting against white sheets, I decided to make a new stone carving. I reached over to the iPhone dock, scrolled to the Ns, and pressed play. She exhaled and sent a dramatic plume of smoke into the air, as the haunting piano mixed with the deep and disturbing bass began to fill the room. She closed her eyes to take in the music like she just took a bite of pancakes and syrup on a Sunday morning. I closed my eyes as well, and took in the musical imagery. And at that moment, that incredibly memorable instance… I smiled at the beautiful scent of a new perfume, now filling my existence.

I <3 Being Owned

January 5, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

I love being owned. I submit any time and any place to my lover. In return, I’m disciplined and banged hard with his hand throttling my neck, the way I like it. I was in service to S as his owned and collared pet. Nothing made me happier than to kneel down in front of him, forehead pressed against his taught stomach as he padlocked my collar around my neck. My buttocks stung as they rested on my heels, making me smile, because it reminded me of the bruises left by his riding crop and the power he had over me.

The Collar

The collar signifies that one is property, a possession like a car or house. I had many with S and they looked damn sexy on me, like I was born to be collared. My every-day collar was black leather with a big O ring in the front for easy access so I could be locked up to a cage or torture device. I had a sleep collar made from a delicate but menacing-looking wire cable with a heart-shaped lock. I also had a fancy collar for show, black patent leather with gold trim, purchased at a big leather convention in Texas. I was pampered and well taken care of, as a good pet should be.

The electrifying appeal of completely submitting to a lover as his possession is something I can’t explain rationally but it allows me to worship and respect my lover for being able to conquer me. There’s a certain amount of objectification that goes along with it, where I become a walking fucktoy for him. As a feminist, I know in theory this is all politically incorrect and wrong on many levels, but that just makes it hotter. As S’s pet I was perpetually sexually charged and satisfied in a way I’ve rarely experienced in my many years.


By now you are doubtless wondering what kind of person I am and how I got to this point. You may know me and not realize it. In daily life I’m strong-willed and assertive; I bend to no one. I am a self-made business owner and former corporate executive, head of family, role model, trend-setter, mentor, good neighbor. I was respectably married once to a man we’ll call C. My ex-husband, a deeply brooding repressed intellectual, was controlling in some ways but acquiescent in others. I became increasingly sexually frustrated as his chronic melancholy snuffed his libido and we drifted apart. Eventually the power balance shifted to me and I came to resent him for it. He seemed less manly if I could call the shots.

It played out in this way: I got swept up into a madly passionate affair with H, a young, hot, sexually evolved man with a beautiful cock and many lovers. He reawakened my sluttiness and taught me the divine ecstasy of complete surrender. He owned my pussy and dictated who and when I could fuck or if I could even look at another guy, including my husband. I’d never been happier. H would greet me at his door showered, shaved, cock hard, ready to toss me over his shoulder and slam me on the bed and fuck me mercilessly. I always screamed loud and hard with orgasms that seemed to last for hours and nearly rattle the windows out of their frames. I’d return home giddy, cheeks flushed.

After about a half year of that the passion died down a bit and reality made it difficult to continue at that level. I went back to being the dutiful but sexually-repressed wife, living for the next tryst with H. Always wanting to be dominated, again–in that way.

I met S online

S came into my life nearly a decade later, long after my divorce. We met through a “vanilla” dating site, not a place for kinky people. He wrote me a very sweet note and I read his profile. Divorced, devoted dad. Scientist. Avid cyclist. Good cook. Tattooed. And a BDSM enthusiast. Wow! I hit the jackpot!

He romanced me slowly. I encouraged him to write me explicit emails detailing his plans for me and seducing me with his intimate knowledge of the BDSM lifestyle. On our third date, he wore leather pants and a tight shiny black t-shirt that made him look cruelly handsome. It was tight enough that I could make out the silhouette of his nipple piercings underneath. He chomped on my neck all night in such a way as to leave no mark but make biting sensations that lingered for days.

With those lingering bites, my pussy throbbed and I ached to have him throw me against a wall and penetrate me deeply. He fully owned me. I became his pet.

Being a Pet

My duties as a pet were to give him love, companionship, and serve him sexually in whatever ways he might want (all within the bounds of prior negotiation). I could be caged, chained up by the collar, lovingly tortured. The collar was my uniform signifying that I was “on duty” to him. Wearing it transformed me into what I believe was the embodiment of femininity–soft, sweet and surrendering with no hard edges. Once it was locked on, I shifted gears from being the one in charge to happily relinquishing all control.

I wore the collar at home with him at all times and also at kink events, where S liked to show me off on a leash (which made me feel humiliated, thrilled and turned on all at once). A few times I nearly wore it to a suburban supermarket or Target because he was gone for the day and I couldn’t find the key. Or I’d just forgotten I was wearing it. The collar signified our private world.

When S grabbed me by the ring on the collar and dragged me to the bedroom, I went limp with pleasure.

Erotic Torture

Our dynamic was one of bondage and discipline (B&D), not hard core sadomasochism. Some members of the BDSM community follow stringent rules in a master-slave relationship but we scoffed at such conformity. B&D is less about pain and more about the dominant/submissive relationship. It’s about restraining the submissive in some way, either physically or emotionally, and then ‘training’ them to behave in certain ways (to paraphrase Jay Wiseman in SM 101). There is some light S&M involved, but we consider it erotic torture.

I am not a masochist. I crave intense sensations. I love the rush of getting into a nearly scalding hot bath or biting into Thai food laced with super-hot chilies. S explored harnessing these intense sensations, as there are different kinds of pain to distinguish and much of it has to do with context. Our “torture sessions” were about pushing boundaries and embracing more creative forms of eroticism. S was calculated and thoughtful when giving me erotic pain.

Pampering Me

Like any good master, S took good care of his possessions, including me. He often surprised me with creative gifts like fancy collars and nipple clamps. He ordered an electrical stimulation device made by a medical supply company and adhered the stimulating pads to the outside lips of my vagina to give me some loving torture. He loved fiddling with those controls like a mad scientist. With every whipping, there were interludes of tender caresses and kisses.

If I arrived at his house wearing panties I was punished. Of course, I loved the punishment so sometimes I would taunt him by wearing panties. Ouch! Our role-play sessions were our kinky foreplay, always culminating with hot sex. A spanking and whipping session made me my juices gush more than any tongue-to-clit action. Crazy love, that’s what it was for me. Cuffs, gags, ropes, nipple clamps were all instruments of pleasure. The brushing of his nipple piercings against mine with a clank of stainless steel, the flash of his pierced tongue as he fucked me–it made my nipples pop up even more erect and propelled me into intense shivering waves of ecstasy. My body continued to quake long after he had finished.

His Hobby is Building Dungeon Furniture

S prided himself in his woodwork. Sometimes the spanking horse was set up for me in his office when I came over. With my collar, hands and feet locked to it he could efficiently whack my behind with a paddle, cane, crop or his bare hand. Another advantage of his spanking horse design was that it positioned me at the right height for him to have his way with me as he pleased. He could stuff his cock in my mouth or walk around me and spank some more.

He called another homemade torture device of his own design “the trap.” It incorporated a set of medieval stocks with an upright v-shaped construction for the legs. He had this and many more devices, which he kept disassembled and hidden far in the back of his suburban garage.

My Screams Turned Him On

In me, S found an open-minded and willing subject for his experiments. I am quite vocal and he would get incredibly turned on by all the noises I made–the little whimpers, gasps, screams and louder cries. Part of my enjoyment was the glorious release of being able to scream and let everything go like that, whether I am getting tortured or fucked.

In being owned I found liberation because I could at last completely be myself. When I am in a safe place with him I could shut off the conscious mind and reach a realm of nirvana akin to Tantric sex. The spanking might hurt the physical body but it propels me into a mind space where I just want more. I’d arch my buttocks up to receive the strike of the riding crop sooner and focus all my being on its reverberations. I’d writhe around, digging the ropes deeper into the flesh of my wrists but I didn’t care. The rope marks look nice afterward.

And so I’d find myself there again, cleaning up his entire kitchen just for fun, wearing nothing but my collar, a little sheer apron and high heels. The act of service showed my devotion to him even if he never acknowledged it. And it made me wet. I never bother to ponder the question, “why does an intelligent, desirable woman like me revel in being owned like a slave?”

Why, indeed! To serve is the purest form of love.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. She’s currently unowned and uncollared. The image used in this post is from Daisy TralaLA.

My Reality Check

December 23, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

I’m a risk taker. At times, I have been a daredevil. I’m no angel, and I am definitely a siren. As I get older, I wonder if should start being more cautious about the kinds of shenanigans I get myself into on a bi-weekly basis. Should I not have gotten involved with the most pungent playboy at my film studio? Should I not have moved back to Los Angeles on a whim and a precarious livelihood? Should I look before I leap? 

Well, ever since I was old enough (a toddler) to look people in the eyes, smile at them, and jump into their laps at the doctor’s office, looking before I leap hasn’t deterred me from going for it.

We are all here for a reason, if not many. If one of my purposes in this lifetime is to be a warrior for love and all the wild at heart, then I must. I must keep dating in Los Angeles. I must be open to different kinds of men–even reality TV stars.

As I’ve written in a previous post, I fell in love with a rock star not long ago. The experience was wonderful and horrible, and decadent and deadly, and surreal and like living the truest truth I’ve ever felt. If I could do it all over again I would–minus his public arrest and my weathering integrity.

You’re probably thinking, after such a disruptive dating debacle, why on earth would she ever want to get involved with someone in the entertainment industry again? 

I don’t go seeking out these men, I swear. It. Just. Happens. I’ve known “Reality” for a couple of months now. When we met some definite sparks flew, but I wrote him off as a cheesy talk show host, who was just another notch on Hollywood’s belt of shame. But then I had an actual conversation with him, and my cynical lamp post knees began to bend, at least half-way.

Back when I watched MTV, I used to think Reality was funny, charismatic, light and bright, and in better shape than Michelangelo’s David. After meeting him in person, I can verify he is all of those things.

At a recent holiday party, our eyes locked as soon as I walked in the door, and as the old adage goes, “it was on!” 

So can I remain open, or will I shut down, affronting the face of potential romance and fun? Can I date more than one person for once in my life like all the dating experts out there say single women should? Can I manage to not put Reality in a box and toss it to the sharks? Can I dismiss the fact that girls young enough to be my daughter stop him on the sidewalk to get his autograph?

I’ll let you know in early 2010. 

Newsflash: Yes, Fucking Someone Else in Front of Me is Insulting

December 2, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

“Didn’t you just fuck him last week?” asks my friend Tanya, as the two of us watch the last guy I had dinner with walk into a film industry wedding reception with a tall blonde, who was clearly his date. 

“Why yes.  Yes, I did.”

“The two of you have been spending a lot of time together.  Did he tell you he was bringing someone to the reception?”


“Have you talked to him since he’s been back in town.”


“Don’t you think he should have told you?” 


Suddenly, my friend Kathleen runs up behind me and whispers anxiously in my ear.

“What the hell is Lucas doing?  Did you two have a falling out of some sort?”

“No, not that I’m aware of.  Last time we saw each other, we were having pancake breakfast at my favorite Los Feliz diner.”

“So what’s the deal with the two of you?” asks Tanya.

“The deal is over, apparently.”

“No, I mean did you like him?”

“We were just getting to know each other,” I reply before taking an extended swig of my cocktail.  “I wasn’t planning on anything developing other than friendship at first, but then it did.”

Our male confidante Patrick approaches us.

“Who’s the chic posing with Lucas?” he asks.

(Silence and frozen faces)

“Ah shit, don’t tell me one of you is sleeping with him,” Patrick says disapprovingly.

I look down at the ground.

“Jesus Adora, you know better than that,” he scolds.

“I just starting working at the studio a month ago, Patrick,” I say, starting to get annoyed.  “I didn’t know anything about him other than that I was starting to enjoy his company.”

Patrick shakes his head in disappointment.

“What is it with you women getting your hopes and expectations up over guys like Lucas?  Women are totally disposable to him.  That’s just how the dude functions. You should’ve known he just wanted a taste of the new girl on campus.”

Aggravation begins to flood through my veins.

“My hopes and expectations?!  My hopes were not to get seriously involved with a guy I just met a month ago, and my expectations were not to be exclusive after only a few weeks.  My expectations are to always be treated with respect, and he just slapped me in the face with the fact that he has none for me.”

I storm away from the group and head in Lucas’ direction.”

Tanya and Kathleen run after me.

“Adora, don’t do be upset,” Kathleen pleads.  “It’s not you.  This is just how Lucas is.”  


You’re probably all wondering what happened next.  Well, I asked Lucas why he didn’t let me know he was bringing a date to the reception.  He stared at me blankly, said he didn’t know why it even mattered, and that there was no reason for me to feel awkward because there was nothing between us.


We’re adults living in Los Angeles.  Casually dating more than one person at a time is completely socially acceptable behavior.  Losing interest in someone you’re seeing and letting that person know, so as to not lead him/her on is socially responsible behavior.  Showing someone that you’re no longer interested in him/her a week after you fuck him/her by bringing another man/woman to a social function is just plain mean.

There may be a number of sophisticated psychological reasons behind why people behave the way they do when it comes to dating and relationships.  Maybe they’re tortured individuals.  Maybe they fear rejection.  Maybe they’d rather go through men/women like tissues than ever risk breaking open because they can’t stand the thought of being happy.  Maybe they’re just unable to be sexually satiated by one person at a time.  However, giving someone a free pass to perpetuate his/her bad habits because that’s just the way he/she is isn’t something I can do. That’s just the way I am.

Lucas left me a voice message two days after the wedding.  I guess he grew a conscious over night.

“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings or insult you in any way,” he said.


Dear Lucas,

Of course, you hurt my feelings, and of course, you insulted me.  I’m so happy I helped you get a taste of the new girl on campus.


Cowboys, Celebrities & Walking Contradictions

November 22, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

“You only fuck celebrities,” said an ex-lover of mine, who was trying to get me to sleep with him again one lonely night last winter on the Santa Monica Pier.

“That’s not true,” I replied. “I have only been with two or three men who happen to have notoriety in some worlds, and one of them was really just a friend who wanted me to join in on a threesome.”

The truth is, prior to that night my romantic history of the last two years could have been chronicled on imdb.com. However, this was not something that I was consciously aware of, nor did I want to make it a habit. I lived for passion and excitement, and the men I was spending time with provided that.

I’ve never cared about money. I’ve been with the most starving of artists to the highest paid actor in television. At the end of the day, the bottom line is always the same. When it comes to matters of the heart, the heart is all that matters.

A man’s fortune won’t stomp through the city with me hand-in-hand, exploring endless possibilities for love and adventure into the night. And a man’s fame won’t brush my hair out of my face, look deeply into my eyes, and take me in his arms like I am quite possibly the most precious and desirable thing he has ever touched.

So where and when did my taste for loving so hard and long in Los Angeles arise? I suppose it started with my affinity for cowboys and the Wild West.

I have always believed that whatever we fall in love with as children, we continue to love as adults. We may forget what these things are, but when faced with reminders, the love rushes back with a vengeance.

I was obsessed with horses when I was a little girl. In addition to dancing until a pool of sweat surrounded my shoes on the dance floor, and skating until my quads turned to jello, horseback riding made me feel free.

Who better to ride with than a cowboy with grit and sensitivity, someone to kiss the fire and salt off my lips, caress my spirit and shoot straight from the hips? I thought I found my cowboy not too long ago when I dated a man who played such a character in an early ‘90s flick. But it was just a movie. It was just a fairy tale. Mr. sensitive cowboy was not a real person, and my Golden Globe boyfriend was simply playing a part.

It’s quite possible that I’ve spent my entire life looking for someone to take his place, the cowboy character not the actor. The thing with cowboys is they are often trouble, something not unfamiliar to me.

I was somewhat of a wild child during adolescence. I used to roam the streets in the bad parts of my hometown until 4:00 a.m., carrying a pint of Jack Daniels, a can of Mountain Dew, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and a jack knife. I hitchhiked and I stole things. I spray painted Pink Floyd lyrics on the wall of my high school gym. I lost my virginity at far too young of an age in a cornfield across the street from the engineering plant where my Dad worked.

That phase of my life lasted for only a brief period of time, but the urban angst and appeal to chaos stayed with me for many years. My friends in college used to say my attraction to rebels and misfits sprung from my desire to “nurture and save all the lost cowboys.” These are the same confidantes who nicknamed me “Vixen,” and said I was a femme fatale – so smooth and in control of every guy who dared pursue me. Looking back, I suppose I did come across that way. Like that Flaming Lips song, “I thought there was a virtue in always being cool.”159627088_a05470f092

However, I was really just one giant walking contradiction, as so many individuals with such brazen bravado are. I have never been smooth or in control. And I wasn’t always a wild child. There was a time when even I was a rainbow-unicorn-pink-muffin girl. Underneath the Hollywood battle scars, she is still in there, and she’s looking for someone daring enough to understand her wild child, her Vixen, and her pink muffin girl.

I don’t want to “save all the lost cowboys,” but I love the idea of riding alongside and lying in the arms of just one.

Here’s the catch. I am horrible at relationships. I either give too much or not nearly enough. I either dive in head first, or I walk along the edge of the water, while my reflection and my lover both stick their tongues out at me. I am not the slightest bit domestic. I don’t cook. I don’t clean. And you can forget about asking me to fix anything around the house. An ex-boyfriend of mine once called me the “consummate bachelor.”

“You’re practically a guy,” he said one night as I opened my pathetic excuse for a refrigerator, which occupied one item – a bottle of vodka.

I lack staying power. I’m a workaholic. I make mistakes – a lot.

But I have loved deeper than my depth, and I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for the chance to love and run free with Adventure’s Son.

So what’s a girl who is so clearly a tragic yet hopeful walking contradiction to do?

The only answer I can surmise is, keep her eyes opened and her heart aware of someone who could possibly be a walking contradiction as tragic and hopeful as her.

No actors or rock stars, please.

Image by Kevin Zollman.

My Name’s Simone And I’m Giving Up Vanilla

November 12, 2009 Diary, Simone 2 Comments

Yesterday was a sexy, but very strange day.

Arriving at the West L.A. office suites of my gynecologist for my yearly exam, I was prepared to spread ‘em. Shaved, showered, and smelling sweet, I was led to my room by a dark haired, tan skinned, male nurse.

“Take everything off then put on this robe, opening at the front,” he instructed, professionally.

“Everything?” I asked. He nodded. I wondered what he was thinking. Did he find me attractive? Did I find him attractive? He flashed me a smile, then was gone before I could finish the thought, a neat pile of hospital gowns laying on the examination table next to me.

I dutifully disrobed. Slipping on the loose-fitting garb, I hopped onto the table ready for action, sitting and swinging my legs like a school girl.

In walked my doctor, an attractive early 30 something woman with long, curly black hair. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and discussed my recent birthday (29!). She updated my daily vitamin intake and sexual history. We spoke of her pregnancy and breast tenderness. Giggling like old friends, I was feeling comfortable.

My naked body was about to be examined, by an attractive, newly pregnant female doctor. Maybe it was the oxytocin radiating from her (they say people pick up on pregnant women’s vibes, often feeling a surge in feel good hormones), or the fact that it’s my most fertile time of the month, but there was something fascinating and even stimulating about this trip to Pap Smear Land.

Soon my feet were in the stirrups and my butt pushed to the end of the table. Doc fiddled with the warmed speculum for what seemed like an abnormally long time, until finally she exclaimed, “All done, would you like to take a look?”

“A look?” I asked, truly ignorant.

She grinned as if she were talking about a rainbow she’d just seen out the window and said, “Yes, I have a mirror here and if you sit up just slightly you can have a gander at your parts, up to your cervix.”

I sat up as instructed, legs still spread. She did indeed have a white vanity mirror in hand and was looking down admiringly at my displayed pink butterfly.

What followed were some gentle adjustments to the mirror until I could finally see deep into… myself.

Now I’ve watched some porn and I have to say, compared to the punanis I’ve seen thanks to the small screen, I’m beautiful — all pink and smooth and glistening, even on the inside.

We smiled at one another and I lay back. She seemed disappointed that I’d had enough, but the position was like a nude pilates work out and it was time for a deep breath.

She collected her instruments and left the room. I dressed. Went about my day, replaying this titillating incident in my mind.

Much much later, I decided to tell someone: My male roommate (of all people) and his friend, who were sitting on the couch drinking beer and talking football.

“Wanna hear an interesting story?” I prompted.

“Yesss,” they echoed in unison and I recounted the above, with no need to embellish the already poignant details.

This got us talking about porn and something I’d never before heard about.

“I’m surprised she didn’t have you sit on a Sybian,” laughed roomie’s friend.

“A whaaa?” I’ve seen traditional porn yes, but I’m far from versed when it comes to its bells and whistles.

Before I could object we were transfixed on my roomie’s computer screen, searching images on YouTube.

We started with Carmen Electra in a plaid skirt sitting atop such a contraption while Howard Stern egged her on, begging that she increase the speed to orgasm potential. After a few minutes, all three of us, were ready for nudity.

Finally, we settled on a strip tease by a stick-thin northern European looking model with the hottest body I’ve every seen (diet started today, thank you very much). Even I found myself slightly aroused with images of earlier dancing in my subconscious as a taut gorgeous body writhed on the screen.

While none of this was typical in its arousal building potential, it’s certainly got me to thinking. Perhaps the vanilla fantasies I’ve subsisted on for so long are in need of an update. Mirrors? YouTube? There’s a whole world of fun things out there. Hello late twenties sexual peak–it’s time to explore.

Golden Boy to Golden Dreams

November 8, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

Hello my delicious interwebs.

I hope you’re thoroughly enjoying sexandthe405.com. I’m sure you are. How can anyone not just love sinking their teeth into one of AV Flox’s salacious creations?

In my last diary entry, I mentioned that I’ve recently been reacquainted with the possibility of “falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.” I haven’t been able to expound too greatly on the subject with words, but I feel I’m at a point where I’d like to dissect and share how my rebirth came to pass. It happened during my recent leave of absence from Los Angeles, which was both heartbreaking and groundbreaking.

It all began when I met Christian. He possessed the first new set of hungry, eager, and irresistible eyes to enter my realm fresh off the heels of the Post-Chance Era

We met on a rainy night in May. The streets were so wet that all their colors slipped into the sky, along with my relentless shades of purple. When Christian opened the door everything changed. The shape of my heart finally made sense again, and even the darkest parts of the city looked yellow. 

It was a simple scenario of boy meets girl. Christian was younger than me, not by enough years for either one of us to feel strangely about our courtship, but just enough that he was not the slightest bit romantically jaded–such a refreshing treat. (My darling AV Flox would refer to him as “a fetus.”)

The carnal attraction between us was palpable. Never in my life have I been as aroused mentally and physically by a man, while fully clothed and rolling under the covers like a little kid. He was so present–more present that I have ever been. And he made me moan louder than any Chance encounter or jilted ex-lovers ever had.

Christian and I were very different people, but at some point in time we were of the same place, a safe harbor of calm blue waters, where in an instant a tidal wave of heated passion would pulverize all social graces. I used to think he saw me as some dark eccentric Hollywood heroine. To me, he was a golden boy sent from my guardian angel to save me from my old ways. Christian helped me remember a part of myself that had been lost for many years. He opened a gateway that exposed a soft vulnerable side I no longer thought I had. It was terrifying and exhilarating. It made complete sense, and it was absurd.  For lack of a better phrase, it was sweet surrender.

The stories I shared with him about my time in different cities, especially Los Angeles always sent his head spinning. He would say things like:

“What do you mean there were multiple orgies going on in the next room, while you were signing contracts?!” 


“So after you said that you wouldn’t have a threesome with the guy, he refused to finance the project?  That’s ridiculous!”

One night while we were driving along the coast after an ideal day of music, food, and dancing, he grabbed my hand and looked at me with the purest, simplest, most gorgeous expression. I pulled over to the side of the road, and we started undressing each other, as the stars gleamed above us and the waves crashed next to us.

In some other little ditty, we were Jack and Diane. We were Benny and Joon. We were Harry and Sally. But in this world, we were two people on different journeys.

He is off sailing the seven seas becoming a man. And I am back in Los Angeles, finishing the business I started when all my dreams were still in front of me. I don’t know if I’d have the gusto to do so had I not met Christian, the one who made everything shiny and new again with his gentle hands, boyish enthusiasm, and strong Midwestern arms and shoulders. Thanks to him, I reached down into my bag of tricks and found some forgotten dreams, which I’m now determined more than ever to turn into gold.

Loving Long and Hard in Los Angeles

November 3, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

My name is Adora Flame.  I am here to share with you my dear Internets, my mischievous little voyeurs of all that burns deep within the hearts of feline spirits and between my divinely mouthwatering thighs, the sins, wins, losses, and lessons learned from loving long and hard in Los Angeles.

My first LA love, the angry yet lonely young man that he was, married someone else three months after we parted ways for the umpteenth time.  After a love triangle with his roommate, five years of stormy break-ups and earth-shattering make-ups, three cities and a trillion frequent flier miles, oceans of passion, rivers of ecstasy, 365 favorite positions of the day, and multiple underground sex clubs, my ex (the ex of all exes) ran into the arms of another woman, who had just broken up with her long-term partner two months prior to our split.

I was too shocked to feel resentment when I heard the news.  I was too certain we had always been doomed from the start to feel anything at all when he and his wife divorced a year later.  In the interim, I went through men like tissues.  If there was an inexplicably endearing and flagrantly dangerous man in sight, odds are he was glued to my side for three months, the general duration of the courting period, which is fun and light before someone gets frightened and runs for the hills.

Then one night I met Chance.  He was a rock star – a beacon of hope to any romantic young woman in search of a soldier with grace and heart, a cowboy with poetry, and a majesty to all lost boys.  I had been collecting his albums since I was in high school.

Arpeggios punched and vibrated the walls inside my favorite Sunday night venue, as the man in question lit my cigarette, and told me we’d change the world together.

“You’re one smart motherfucker, aren’t you,” he said as more of a declaration than a question.

“Yes, yes I am.”

It was at that one moment, and not one second sooner that Chance had me. He knew I intellectualized every encounter and exchange with relentless skepticism. He knew glitter and gold failed to stimulate my senses and only sharpened my defenses.  He was attractive, but not gorgeous.  He was charming, yet sincere.  He was powerful, and he was insane.  He ruled the world, but he was alone. He was a tragic king, and he had the passion and balls of an amphetamine-induced Shakespearean superhero on Cialis. He had me at “smart motherfucker.”

By our third 48-hour long date, we were already talking about what we’d name our first child.

“Jack,” he said. “I like the name Jack.”

Then came the three B’s – the booze, the babes, and the bourgeoisie.  I thought I could handle it, and perhaps I could have.  However, I convinced myself I was incapable of being the iron-willed matriarch my girlfriends in college said I was.  Because behind all my blazing bravado, I am not made of iron. I talk hard and I play strong, but everything on the inside is soft.

I didn’t think I could ever live in his world without feeling like I was sacrificing who I really was.  I couldn’t be a rock star’s lover because I couldn’t play second fiddle – not to his fame, not to his fortune, and not to the countless groupies who wanted a piece of him.  He knew all of this, but then one night, as we lied down wrapped in each other’s arms on the floor of his recording studio, he asked me to try.  And so I did.

A few weeks later, after having a colossal argument over a horrible misunderstanding, we made plans to go to his ranch in Montana the next day.  That evening, he was arrested.  He was arrested and his handlers wouldn’t let anyone, even me, near him for weeks.  He went to jail for  three months, and then moved to New York to be closer to the east coast fashion mogul he had been seeing before he went to the big house.  (Yes, he was seeing her the same time he was seeing me.  No, I didn’t know about her.  Yes, I should have seen it coming. No…I didn’t.)

I had a fulfilling and free-loving life in Los Angeles before I encountered Chance, because I didn’t know what it was to be in love and feel that in spite of all the chaos, maybe just maybe love could conquer all.  All my time in LA after that experience was the “Post Chance Era.”  I didn’t date anyone for a year.  Eventually, I left LA for outside reasons, only to be beckoned back six months later.

While I was gone, I became reacquainted with the possibility of falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.  It’s a beautiful dream that I don’t want to lose.

Now that I’m back in the City of Angeles, I have decided that I’m not leaving without soaking up this newfound lease on passion and romance with each and every pore and loin I possess.

Please join me on this journey. It’s going to be the joy ride of my life.


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Gamers Won’t Be Seduced, Will Stare At Random Cleav Instead

That Steam allows the objectification and sexualization of female characters in a variety of its games but refuses to accept a game about actually engaging with women in a more interactive fashion is astonishingly backward.

FetLife Is Not Safe for Users

That the site doesn’t take measures to protect user content and has shown incompetence or negligence in regard to user privacy, all the while prohibiting victims from warning others about predatory behavior creates an environment where it is nearly impossible for members of the community to take care of themselves and one another. By enabling FetLife to continue espousing a code of silence, allowing the spinning self-created security issues as “attacks,” and not pointing out how disingenuous FetLife statements about safety are, we are allowing our community to become a breeding ground for exploitation.

Why You Should Vote No On Prop 35

Should people who benefit (parents, siblings, children, roommates!) from the earnings of “commercial sex acts” (any sexual conduct connected to the giving or receiving of something of value) be charged with human trafficking? Should someone who creates obscene material that is deemed “deviant” be charged as with human trafficking? Should someone who profits from obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should people transporting obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should a person who engages in sex with someone claiming to be above the age of consent or furnishing a fake ID to this effect be charged with human trafficking? What if I told you the sentences for that kind of conviction were eight, 14 or 20 years in prison, a fine not to exceed $500,000, and life as a registered sex offender?

Pretty and Calls Herself a Geek? Attention Whore!

If you are a woman, you might be given a chance to prove yourself in this community. Since there is no standard definition of what a “geek” is and it will vary from one judge to the next anyway, chances of failing are high (cake and grief counseling will be available after the conclusion of the test!). If you somehow manage to succeed, you’ll be tested again and again by anyone who encounters you until you manage to establish yourself like, say, Felicia Day. But even then, you’ll be questioned. As a woman, your whole existence within the geek community will be nothing but a series of tests — if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky, you’ll be harassed and threatened and those within the culture will tacitly agree that you deserve it.

Cuddle Chemical? Moral Molecule? Not So Fast

Zak’s original field, it turns out, is economics, a far cry from the hearts and teddy bears we imagine when we consider his nickname. But after performing experiments on generosity, Zak stumbled on the importance of trust in interactions, which led him, rather inevitably, to research about oxytocin. Oxytocin, you might remember, is a hormone that has been linked previously to bonding — between mothers and children primarily, but also between partners. What Zak has done is take the research a step further, arguing in his recent book, The Moral Molecule, that oxytocin plays a role in determining whether we are good or evil.

How to Avoid Pissing off a Stripper

Let’s talk about the strippers. Whether they like to be half-naked or not, whether they enjoy turning you on or not, there’s one thing they all have in common: they’re working. Whether you think that taking one’s clothes off for money is a great choice of career is really beside the point (is it a possibility for you to make $500 per hour at your job without a law degree? Just asking). These women are providing fantasy, yes, but that is their job. And as a patron of the establishment where they work, you need to treat them like you would anyone else who provides a service to you.


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AV Flox

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...