Sex Scientist- experiment balls & bill fold

5 05 2007


It is 3:30 am and I screwed myself again. One of the most memorable phone calls I ever got was from a sissy slut who had got himself trapped in a ring and a butt plug…

oooooooooch! goes the straight, vanilla guy playing pool and stretching his neck to hear my story.

Well now I’ve fixed it so you can hear me whisper all my stories. Call me directly at 900- 787- 6642


Blogging has become a way for you to get to know me. I’ve wrestled a bit about how mysterious I should be. Today I am showing you my face. This photo was  taken  in  1989 when I  was  still at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago by a fellow student… my do I miss those pantyhose!

This American lifestyle has given me the luxury of having time to think about these sort of things. Time to try out new ideas. Honestly, while you are sweating against the phone I will be working on a sexy portrait of a lusty dancer babe.

Most men would expect me to say that I would have my hand on something else or that I would have the stick twirling some other soft place.

Well, I need to paint 3,000 portrait paintings of the dancer babes that I’ve met over the last 17 years. My obsession with the sex industry started in Art History class. Like many students, I was bored out of my mind until I heard the word ‘sex’. This time it was in reference to Henri de Toulouse- Lautrec and Montmartre.

Before I was introduced to Lautrec I was painting geometric shapes on vellum with oil sticks. I called them Glass Houses.

Young, hormones raging and impressionable, I began to investigate stripper venues. I was also a big fan of Cyndi Lauper. The punk thing wasn’t that popular amongst club managers. It took years before I felt comfortable shaving my armpits, legs or bikini line.

I’d plan to just dance for a while- ya know, to get subject matter. For a while, I tried over lapping the two. Oddly a packed house of art- goers- theater never translated into money in my pocket.

One the other hand, in a packed strip bar, things balanced out more in my favor.

As for artsy venues, I’ve always been disappointed in the benefits. In a mixed crowd of couples, men respond differently when they are with their wives and girlfriends.

Imagine this situation from the perspective of a college art student with loans to pay and an inflated ego.

Word got around fast that I took my top off and did monologues about sex. The house filled with patrons eager to hear about the other side of the tracks. Everyone wanted to peep into the world of a dominatrix. So I gave it to them until I noticed that they didn’t approve.

As I said, I was young and math has never been my strong suit. Subs were tributing well. My slaves showed up with flowers and I got to ask all the questions. The artsy performances left me feeling drained. So I quit and went full throttle into the true world of the underground.

Anna Nicole had her fantasy with Marilyn Monroe, I have Toulouse- Lautrec.

Now it is 5:35 am and I want to post a picture of myself to go along with this half ass bio. The phone isn’t ringing off the hook. Perhaps the mainstream public is jaded. I don’t offer enough porn.

You can go anywhere on the web and get all the live action, squirting, groping, fondling, dripping, pulsating, throbbing, swollen, pink, purple, stuck, Roman, Black, Fat, pregnant, lactating, slapping, bent over, pounding Live Action porn that you can afford or you can talk to me for $2.99 a minute.

There is a reason that the pictures don’t match the voice on the phone of those other people ads. Not many people can do all of it.

Girls seem to like to get naked. I like to know my models. I can find pictures to paint from anywhere. The paintings never come out the same. The paintings from photos that I’ve taken have an obvious depth. Images bought online serve well as poses but the expression and souls must come from showgirls that I’ve met.

That’s the scientific difference between men and women. Guys sometimes rather not know the fantasy girl. A man just wants to smell a woman. Man craves to watch woman move. It doesn’t matter what she is really thinking, as long as she knows how to make him feel as if her world revolves around him… for the moment.



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