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Remembrance of New York City dungeons past…

Folks were recently chatting on Twitter about the differences between the online femdom scene of today and the old days, back when dungeons and dommes had to be sought out in a more stealthy manner, when most mistresses made their money by doing real-time sessions rather than having the option of concentrating on filming clips and getting financial tributes via the Internet.

My British artist colleague Sardax just did an excellent post about seeking femdom experiences over in England back in the pre-Internet days. You can find it here.

For me, back in the 70s through the early 2000s, a femdom experience (and they were always commercial ones for me) could first start with a perusal of SCREW newspaper, which featured classified ads that tempted me into the ladies’ lairs. (Yes, I know the word “lair” is a melodramatic one, but that’s what they felt like to me in my nervous anticipation of my forays therein.)

 

 

Later I discovered the fetish-oriented femdom tabloids like DOMINANT MYSTIQUE and THE VAULT, which more specifically showcased the BDSM scene, often with large, tantalizing, and beautifully done photographs. I also looked at femdom magazines which very much got me into the mood for a real-time experience.

I never had these encounters when I was in an intimate relationship with someone, though. I kept them separate. There was a wide chasm between my attempts to have a “vanilla” existence and my expeditions into the kink world.


Once I was unattached again and decided to visit a mistress, it was then a matter of finding a phone booth from where I could call anonymously to get more information about her (nobody used the term “domme” then, as far as I knew) and where, approximately, to go for the scene and how much it would cost. I was paranoid about calling some total stranger from my home phone (there was still no *69 yet to block one’s own number); and of course there were no cellphones decades ago.

Once an appointment was agreed upon, the actual location of the dungeon or private studio would only be given to a first time visitor right before coming for the session, usually by calling the dungeon from a specified phone booth across the street, where the mistress could perhaps see you on the street from a window and, presumably, size you up. Once in the dungeon or studio, you’d get undressed, hand over the fee (over the years from mostly the 1980s to the early 2000s spanning $100-200, plus a tip afterward), then discuss the scene with the mistress and get down to it. It’s been quite a few years since I last went to a pro-domme, but that’s basically the routine that I recall following.

In the years afterward, I became more comfortable discussing some of my submissive fantasies with the dancers in strip clubs, and began to get my femdom thrills during the private $20-per-song dances instead. I also had some erotic femdom roleplay in the 80s and 90s in the “one-on-one” booths in Times Square, where the customer would be on one side, the performer on the other, and you’d watch her through glass and talk to her via a telephone. Actually, those were pretty hot experiences and I should really write an entire post about them sometime. Economical, too. Those booths used to cost only about $1 a minute (designed to use as tokens the one dollar coins with the image of feminist Susan B. Anthony on them). Since the scenes usually took about ten-fifteen minutes, the cost was around $20-$25, including a ten dollar tip. Not trying to reduce things to dollars and cents, but sex history is also economic history…

Anyway, going to professional dominatrices in dungeons was a mixed bag for me. As I came to realize, looking back over the years, I never enjoyed paying for erotic experiences very much; I did it (repeatedly, of course) because I was young, horny, and the women were so physically alluring and tantalizing to me (and usually much more glamorously attractive than those I could meet in my day-to-day life); but there was no way I could rationalize the ego-deflation I felt by being a “trick” —as I called myself in the spirit of being “realistic” about what I was actually doing.

You see, I never thought of myself as a “client” of a dominatrix but always as a “john.” I grew up in a conservative Midwest Jewish background (not overly religious, but sexually and psychologically uptight) and my erotic adventurousness was badly tempered by feelings of shame and guilt that I was not living up to the image of “being a good boy” with which I was indoctrinated. So I always felt there was something “wrong” with me because I had to “pay for it”–not to mention that I was paying for female domination (!), which was really considered beyond the pale thirty, forty years ago. I went to therapy for nine years and one of the topics I always brought up was how I could act more “normal.” Didn’t happen. 😉

Now, I’m not making a value judgment about pay-for-play; in fact I am grateful for the encounters which relieved many a lonely hour; and I believe in sex work decriminalization. I am simply expressing here what I felt about my personal experiences with it. So even though I did have fun now and then, the femdom sessions I had in dungeons or, earlier, New York’s apartment brothels and massage parlors, seemed to have very little resonance in my imagination or fantasies. Instead, I mostly fantasized about women whose pictures I saw in magazines, or in videos. I also liked written erotica; art (by everyone from Stanton to Bilbrew to Harukawa to Sardax); short stories; and audio files by femdom erotica creators ranging from Keri Pentauk (of WHAP Magazine fame) to Goddess Lycia; still do. Yes, I have always been partial to the erotic world stimulated between my two ears.

Some of the best femdom experiences I ever had in real-time, real-life, were with a beautiful and very intelligent Asian-American stripper in the early 2000s who came to understand my fantasies. In a friendly yet professional way, she asked me what I liked and then indulged those preferences in verbal roleplay while she gave me lapdances in a midtown club. I did not feel paying for lapdances or drinks was as hurtful to my wobbly self-esteem as going to dominatrices or, earlier, to those apartment brothels where I first explored some of my fetish and submissive desires; so for quite a few years the strip clubs became my venue of choice to explore my submissiveness. I only really stopped when the sex magazine business in which I worked began to crumble in the wake of the Internet, and my income declined. Simply, I could no longer afford the indulgence of spending money on twenty-dollar lapdances or on the dancers’ expensive drinks.

Often when I left a dungeon I would feel glad that I had gone; it was cathartic and I usually enjoyed the encounter with the mistress. Now and then a session wouldn’t be good, but generally the ladies were friendly and decent even if the chemistry was lacking in our session. But being playfully dominated in the strip club setting became more enjoyable for me, partly because I could spend less and I ended up preferring that. Also, in the strip club, I felt as if my desires were more integrated with the rest of my life—I just walked in, hung out for awhile, and left— whereas when I went to a pro-domme or a dungeon (or to vanilla hookers before that), I felt as if I were going into another, faraway zone (calling from a certain phone booth, etc.) and it was more stressful to me.

On trips to dungeons I only even took the bare minimum of identification in my wallet in case I was somehow going to be robbed during the session (which had happened to me in the 70s once). Maybe that was paranoid of me, but I thought I was being prudent too. And, even if the places were friendly and well-run, for me trips to dungeons or studios felt secretive and shameful; and, after I went to a couple of places that did not seem any too clean (including one very famous dungeon), possibly not all that hygienic either. And again, I don’t mean to sound judgmental; I am just describing my probably over-neurotic feelings for the sake of honesty and a sex history perspective. Looking back, I think I was overly fastidious—but returning to the subject of my background, I grew up with hypochondria and “germ-consciousness” in my family life. It’s a wonder, in fact, that I even could have even started going to hookers or mistresses at all, given my hang-ups; but one can never underestimate the horniness of the young, especially when gorgeous streetwalkers in hot pants and platform heels patrolled Eighth Avenue in its last fabled years of rich raunchiness, the ladies flaunting their wares to the lonely, the throbbing, and the susceptible.

I noticed in Sardax’s piece on this topic of bygone days (again, you can find that here)  that he discussed the idea of meeting people through contact ads. That was something I never tried to do; I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of writing a letter to a stranger about the fantasies of sexual submission I felt so ambivalent about. That’s undoubtedly why I just focused on commercial transactions with professional dominatrices. I did once go to a meeting of The Eulenspiegel Society, the well-known BDSM group, thinking perhaps I could meet a mistress that way; but I couldn’t get into joining or participating, I was still too unaccepting of my feelings and still wishing I could be “vanilla.”

This post was difficult for me to complete. I’ve been working on it since March 2019 and only finished it because Sardax’s post inspired me to finally get it done. I wish I could have struck a lighter tone, as he did. Anyway, forgive me if I went off on personal tangents possibly unrelated to the topic, but I decided to leave them in to give you a sense of what it was like for me, one person, to deal with the fulfillment of these submissive desires in the days before the easier-to-access pervy plenitude on the Worldwide Web.

 

 

 

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FATE OF A STRIPPER: when she goes too far~~

In the coming year 2019 I’m going to try to get my novel FATE OF A STRIPPER out there to more readers. It’s a damn good piece of work but so far has not found the audience it deserves. I may also make it available in a paperback edition as well as in the current ebook format.

Check out the lengthy free sample right here, below, and see what you think…it’s not porn, not erotica, but a psychological suspense story about a young woman who goes too far in trying to control her life, and the older guy she gets mixed up with.

For the time being, it’s still only $2.99, and can be read on phones, tablets, computers, and of course on Kindles.

What a great movie it would make, too!

 

 
 

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Tad’s Broiled Steaks: NYC Time Travel Portal!

Arghh! Was going to submit this to the Gothamist website (as a friend of mine urged), but I kept procrastinating and fiddling with it, and then yesterday they published someone else’s article on the topic! So I figure, what the heck, even though I already posted something else here today, this steak piece will work just fine on my blog…

TAD’S STEAKS: NYC TIME TRAVEL PORTAL!

About ten days ago I felt the most urgent desire to travel back into the past. The combined stresses of the holidays, freelance life, and the usual financial demands of living in NYC just got to me and I felt an almost visceral wish to leave my apartment on the edge of the Theater District and walk into 1970s Times Square—long-lost land of cheap movies, food, porn, and sex.

Absurd, I know—yet there was one way I could do it. Not by going to one of the few remaining Eighth Avenue porn shops or strip clubs—these are all firmly rooted in the present. The shrink-wrapped magazines in today’s smut shops discourage the pleasurable browsing which made porn emporiums fun in the past, and jiggle joints are just too expensive between their ten dollar beers, twenty dollar lapdances, and obligatory coat-checks to feel very casual to the cash-vigilant visitor.

But the one place I could think of that retains its 70s vibe is Tad’s Broiled Steaks on 50th Street off Seventh Avenue. True, the prices have kept pace with 2015, but the lovely faux elegant red-walled ambiance, the glasses of wine sealed with clear wrap, the constantly broiling steaks near the window, the baked potatoes and slabs of garlic bread slathered with butter, the bowls of salad slapped with the dressing of your choice—all these things felt mercifully the same.

Tads Steaks-50thSt-2015

Even the tall red plastic water glasses harkened to a fabled past recalling nights of triple kung-fu and horror features on the Deuce; cheap drinks at the Club 44 topless joint on Eighth Avenue with its gigantic bar and friendly barmaids and dancers of many nations; and bargain walk-in massage parlors behind impossibly crude yet alluring hand-painted signage.

It took about fifteen minutes of waiting online to get my New York sirloin steak with bread, potato, and salad accompanied by a Bud Lite. The tab came to almost $25, far more than I usually pay for dinner—but definitely worth the wait. It wasn’t a great steak—the one I had the week before at a Christmas/Hanukkah dinner at Gallaghers courtesy of a writer/personal trainer friend, was terrific (I didn’t even want to eat the next day so that I could retain the sense memory of that dinner); but my Tad’s repast was tasty, maybe a “tad” (haha) more well-done than I would have wished, but still good enough.

I sat in the back in the corner, listening not to the details of my fellow diners’ conversations, but simply enjoying the convivial murmur around me as I heartily consumed a decent meal in a place which, with unintentional heroism, preserves the exact glory of its past. There were two chrome-domed middle-aged guys who might’ve been twins, chatting with a lady and her smartphone; a pair of Asian men having a one-way conversation (one guy talked non-stop, the other just listened); and a Hispanic family with fussy grandma, little girl with bright pink Disney purse, calm and collected young mother, and a tall father with a white-and-pink stuffed animal dangling out of his coat pocket as he maneuvered his tray of steaks and clear-wrapped wine over to the table. Above us all in the fairly low-ceiling dining room was a symmetrical forest of Christmas decorations. Usually I like to read when I eat alone, and I did have a book in my pocket (the excellent 1947 novel The Blank Wall which became the terrific 1949 Joan Bennett/James Mason movie The Reckless Moment), but I didn’t open it.

TheBlankWall-NoirNovel

Instead I was, for once, very much into the moment and place in which I found myself, not daydreaming or escaping into someone else’s daydreams via their fiction. I savored my steak, devoured my salad, wolfed down my potato and mopped up with the garlic bread any last lovely residue of butter or Italian dressing. Then I settled in to nurse my Bud Lite as I continued to marinate myself in this little excursion back to the honky-tonk New York of the 70s.

Afterward I was tempted to check out a strip club too, but hitting the street again I felt my own pleasurably “reckless moment” of time-travel urges had been satisfied. And anyway, no modern “gentlemen’s club” (at least in Manhattan that I know of) can bring back the 70s since these current joints all have lap dancing now, which didn’t exist forty years ago and thoroughly changed the feeling of the clubs. So I decided it was time to go home to continue reading The Blank Wall and enjoy the memory of my brief but happy foray into one of the last-standing remnants of Times Square’s lost tawdry sparkle.

As far as I’m concerned, the city should confer landmark status on Tad’s Broiled Steaks!

 
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Posted by on December 22, 2015 in Erotica, New York City, Times Square

 

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Learn the FATE OF A STRIPPER!

Inside some porn and erotica writers are the restless spirits of scribes who aspire to also prove themselves in the wider arena of words. I’ve written about this on my blog before, that other genres of writing–like literary, suspense, or crime writing–offer different and exciting challenges to my imagination.

And so, with FATE OF A STRIPPER, the new non-porn mainstream novel I’ve just published on Kindle, I’ve met that challenge. It’s a complex story, almost 250 pages long, that’s not simply about a stripper and her customer, but about the difficulty of love and the deceptions of desire. It’s about office politics, and family relationships, and the struggle to survive both financially and emotionally. I guess you might say I packed a lot into it, and it’s available now at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon Germany, Amazon Canada, Amazon France, Amazon Italy, Amazon Spain, Amazon Brazil, Amazon Japan, Amazon Mexico, Amazon India, and Amazon Australia.

 

I look thru thousands of photos until I found this one, which perfectly evokes the stripper of the title.

I looked thru thousands of photos until I found this one, which perfectly evokes the stripper of the title.

FATE OF A STRIPPER tells about a middle-aged New York City guy named Vic Vanner who meets the sweet beauty of his dreams, but Valerie the stripper turns out to have some quirks to her personality, to say the least. Not that Vic isn’t a bit intense himself. Still, they give their all to the relationship–in their own ways–and they even start doing a stage act together in New Burlesque, the popular hip scene made famous by people like Dita Von Teese and which mixes striptease with performance art.

Vic is a romantic and unsure of himself with Valerie, especially since she’s much younger than he is. The situation is not helped by the cynicism of his father, who casts a skeptical eye on almost everything Vic does. Furthermore, Valerie has a thuggish friend named Tino who gives her an outlet for her aggressive tendencies. The way she figures it, if people get in the way of her relationship with Vic, she’ll have Tino take care of them. Tino’s willing to do almost anything for Valerie–as long as he gets to play with her feet…

Yep, FATE OF A STRIPPER is not a porn novel, but ye ole Uncle Irv couldn’t resist making one of the characters a little kinky like the guys in my femdom ebooks. It’s also set in the world of strip clubs and Times Square, two locations of human endeavor that I know a little something about.

Anyway, the situation builds to quite a violent climax, and if the New York Post covered it, the story of Vic and Valerie would be probably be entitled something like THE STRIPPER, THE SUCKER AND THE SLAVE. At one point I even considered using that as the title of the novel; it’s the headline Vic nightmarishly visualizes when he’s wondering what the hell is going to happen to him after Valerie goes over the deep end one dark night in downtown Brooklyn…

I’ve made no secret of my love for film noir and noir paperbacks, and so some of that has rubbed off on this novel as well. I hope you’ll read it, I hope you’ll enjoy it, and please let me know with short reviews on Amazon if you take the plunge and learn the FATE OF A STRIPPER!

You can just click through to the Amazon links above and read the opening two and a half chapters absolutely free!

By the way, months after I wrote the book, I looked through thousands of stock photography images for a cover, and I’m glad I was so thorough–because the image by wisky’ at 123RF.com really captures the way I saw the character of Valerie. Click this link to see his portfolio. I hope you agree!

 

 

 

 

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Porn scribe’s diary, 7/13/12: Angie Dickinson’s expressive face, leggy beauty…

In terms of views for my blog, today was the second best day I’ve had so far. I got a huge number of views from the United Kingdom, the most ever by far from there; followed by the United States, Germany, Italy, Mexico, Switzerland, Austria, Spain, Romania, Canada, Panama, Australia, Poland, New Zealand, France, Japan, Zimbabwe, and Greece. I just love that the blog is looked at all over the planet. I’d love to know your thoughts, so please don’t hesitate to leave a comment, which can be done anonymously if you wish.

As usual, I’ve been writing my weekly assignments for porn websites and newsletters, as well as short stories for magazines and a column for Domme Dose, a site devoted to the financial domination fetish. I was thinking about that stripper I visited last week at a club, too, and hope to see her again soon. She wasn’t working today–I called the clubs where she works to check if she was on the schedule.

Tonight I watched an interesting 1961 Warner Brothers melodrama on Turner Classic Movies called A Fever in the Blood that had Angie Dickinson in a good role. She’s always been one of my faves. Here are a couple of pictures of her I found at a cool site called Dazzling Divas here.

She could give anybody a leg and foot fetish! But what I’ve always loved about her especially is her expressive face, always forthright with emotion whether fierce or compassionate.

The actor Robert Colbert was also excellent in A Fever in the Blood. He had a small but pivotal role as a murderer on the loose who sets the story in motion, and he brought a sad lonely quality to the harsh character that made him really stand out. The set design in the movie, which showed him in his dank little rented room decorated with 1920s style girlie photographs, was also striking. Truly, there are no small parts for actors who know how to make the most of their material, and Colbert was memorable in this film.

Well, I better hit the hay now. Was typing up a piece of erotica tonight to either post here on the blog, or as a new Kindle ebook. It’s been a few months since I posted my last ebook, MOMMY’S LITTLE DUNCE (available here), and I want to get some more of my sexy fiction out there for you to read in handy digital form.

Have a good weekend, and thanks as always for visiting my blog!

 

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Porn scribe’s diary 7/3/12: No mood for strippers…

Sometimes I have the urge to just jot down a few thoughts or observations about my day, without doing an elaborate post with illustrations. So without further ado, and for what it’s worth, here is the new and ongoing PORN SCRIBE’S DIARY, which will pop up every now and then as a post.

7/1/12

After all the years I’ve spent going to strip joints, and I’ve been going to them in one form or other since 1971 (saw my first and only authentic old-time burlesque show that year, during college in the Midwest), am I losing my taste for it? I got dressed the other night to go out and have a little lapdance fun, feeling the need for some female companionship; but by the time I walked down to the street near Times Square where the club is located, I’d lost my desire for it, turned around, and went home. Picked up a fried chicken dinner and went home and watched D.O.A. with Edmund O’Brien on Channel 13, which just happened to be on.

Why didn’t I go to the club? Possible reasons: 1) Didn’t want to spend the money, which I can ill-afford these days, and 2) Kind of dreaded having vacuous conversations with dancers which only facilitate the transfer of my money into their g-strings, and 3) Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood, and I shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. The next time I do go to a club and see a cute dancer I like (especially if she’s Asian), all these downsides will be forgotten.

Still, as it turned out, D.O.A. was well-worth watching for the umpteenth time. One of the great films noir. And bad girl Laurette Luez, menacing O’Brien, was as sexy as any stripper I would have seen on any stage last night. O’Brien is such a great actor that each time I see this movie, I notice new aspects to his performance. One of my fave thespians, hands down.

Well, maybe I will toss in a picture or two when I can for these little diary entries, if finding ’em isn’t too taxing for a mini-post! Just want you to see what I’m talkin’ about close up when it comes to Miss Laurette.

 

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Times Square porn writer enjoys the calm before New Year’s Eve frenzy…

At last 2011 is coming to a close. I’ve definitely had better years as a freelance writer of erotica. Many of the magazines I was writing for in 2010 at this time closed down in early 2011. I lost a tremendous amount of regular income.

Still, I persevered. I figured it out last night from my daily records–I wrote, revised, and polished approximately 362,600 words–or the equivalent of SIX 60,000 word books. Or if you consider a full-length book 80,000 words, I wrote the equivalent of four and a half books. No wonder I feel discombobulated sometimes! That’s a lot of porn under the bridge. And this was an off-year assignment-wise for the reason I just stated above. The year before, when there were more magazines to write for, I wrote somewhere between 750,000 and 1,000,000 words (my records were not as meticulous last year, so I’m not exactly sure–I was too busy cranking out horny stories, girl copy, website prose, research articles and product reviews). That’s the kind of production pulp writers used to achieve back in the 1930s and 1940s…on the low end of the pulp spectrum! I’ve heard of pulp writers who did 3,000,000 words in a year (although unlike myself, they could only do that by mostly not revising or polishing). Anyway, I was a writing demon in 2010; I did as much as I could, maybe because I sensed or feared many magazines wouldn’t last. That kind of work opportunity isn’t available anymore in magazines.

So now 2011, when the sex mag business really took a hit, is coming to a close. And I sense it’s going to end noisily. I live in midtown Manhattan on the edge of Times Square, and the throngs are already blowing their little horns on the streets and whooping it up, and it’s not even 8:00 yet. You have more than four hours left to go, folks!

Yesterday I took a walk through Times Square and on the fringes of the nabe with my camera in hand. It was sunny and not too cold, and I enjoyed mingling in the crowds. When I have something to do, like making pictures, Times Square is interesting. When I’m just walking through the hordes of people, it’s annoying and stressful.

Here are some of the sights I came upon. As you’ll note, I enjoy contrasting tiny people with big billboards:

42nd Street Near 8th Avenue

42nd and Broadway

Around 45th and Broadway

Looking south from 44-45th and Broadway

In 1888, Eugene O'Neil was born on the spot where I took this picture

The ziggurat-like Paramount Building at 44th and 7th Avenue, where Frank Sinatra wowed the bobbysoxers.

Looking east from between 45th and 46th on Broadway

Later, in the evening, I went out to dinner with my camera along, and walking through the area once known as “Hell’s Kitchen” I came upon this striking sign. Two versions:

51st Street between 8th and 9th Avenues

A touch of the old Times Square & Hell's Kitchen, but timeless in its blunt force

I can’t decide what I want to do tonight. I made no plans, and money is tight, but perhaps on New Year’s Eve I could allow myself the pleasure of a lapdance or two. I have coupons to get into the strip clubs for no admission (that little ole clever carnal consumer, me). But do I want to fight my way through the crowds? I was also tempted to call friends, but I felt like being alone and maybe watching a movie and having a beer in pleasant solitude, despite the racket of the New Year’s crowds on the street. And then maybe, an hour or two before midnight, trying to work my way over to a tittie bar.

I’ve been very frugal this year, and sometimes I think I take it too far. Maybe it’s not good for a pornographer’s mental health NOT to check in with the floozies at least once a month…

Well, whether I go out or not, at least I can travel to sleazy destinations in my memory, stuffed full of the sensations of lapdances, strippers, hookers, dominatrixes, and peep show girls from my past…or through a screen capture like this one of Broadway and 52nd Street almost forty-six years ago, courtesy of the 1966 James Garner movie Mister Buddwing, a suspense thriller about an amnesia victim wandering through the raunchy old New York so many of us miss.

52nd and Broadway on the edge of Times Square, 1966

But you know something? If I walk around on the streets, I can find the film-noirish visual energy still in Hell’s Kitchen without time-traveling through memory or movies…

Click on the pic to enjoy its full intensity! This is 52nd Street and 9th Avenue, looking east toward Worldwide Plaza.

Let’s hope for a better year in 2012 for all of us who need it and want it! And thank you all for reading my blog and checking out my bizarre ebooks.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 31, 2011 in Erotica

 

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