age: 46 (Mar 03, 1966)
MEMBER SINCE: January 2003
occupation: computer stuff
crush: Yelena Rossini
body mods: Brand new sea turtle at the base o' the spine
gets me hot: you want me as bad as i want you.
i lost my virginity: front seat of a '72 impala-I've been in beds half the size of those bench seats
sign: Pisces
into: Tao, decent whisky, road trips, punk rock, anything that makes George Bush's life more difficult, erotica, my cat, really unfortunate photography
stats: Varies widely-depends on who's asking
makes me happy: connecting things, growth, and mostly, sharing. there are few good things that can't be made better by having someone else to experience them with you.
BLOGS
Warning-this is a dream recap. Take it for what it's worth:
I'm tan-skinned, dark-haired woman who is lying face down on a massage table. The room is painted a deep orange, and candlelight flickers at the edges of my vision. Her long, black hair is in a bun, and both arms are raised, hanging over the edge of the table instead of at her side. She's naked from the waist up, her lower half covered by the same sort of white sheet that wraps the table. She doesn't say anything, but there's a signal, or a recognition that it's time, and I raise my right hand. In my fist, I have a long, silvery hunting knife. Half the blade is straight, the other half serated.
She wants me to flay her.
I make two parallel cuts down the length of her back, one on either side of her spine. Two more cuts, perpendicular, across the top and bottom of her back, and the skin folds back with only a little resistence. There's curiously little blood, but my hands are now wholly red. Taking the tip of the knife, I cut beside her spine, lifting one long cord of muscle gently from alongside her backbone. It's braided like her hair would be, looking warm and red and alive.
And that's all I have. I have no clue what this is trying to tell me. And no-there were no Cronenburg films on the telly last night...
I'm tan-skinned, dark-haired woman who is lying face down on a massage table. The room is painted a deep orange, and candlelight flickers at the edges of my vision. Her long, black hair is in a bun, and both arms are raised, hanging over the edge of the table instead of at her side. She's naked from the waist up, her lower half covered by the same sort of white sheet that wraps the table. She doesn't say anything, but there's a signal, or a recognition that it's time, and I raise my right hand. In my fist, I have a long, silvery hunting knife. Half the blade is straight, the other half serated.
She wants me to flay her.
I make two parallel cuts down the length of her back, one on either side of her spine. Two more cuts, perpendicular, across the top and bottom of her back, and the skin folds back with only a little resistence. There's curiously little blood, but my hands are now wholly red. Taking the tip of the knife, I cut beside her spine, lifting one long cord of muscle gently from alongside her backbone. It's braided like her hair would be, looking warm and red and alive.
And that's all I have. I have no clue what this is trying to tell me. And no-there were no Cronenburg films on the telly last night...
MAY 2010
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MrSmead