WHIPPET, GOOD. Otep
Jan 19, 2011
Frontwoman and Blurt blogger Otep Shamaya recalls a debauched night of sex, drugs and handcuffed homophobia.
BY OTEP SHAMAYA
Let us begin with the conspicuous.
The gypsy life of a political rock poet is a strange and savage odyssey that billows through an infinite multiplicity of exotic and sometimes erotic dimensions.
Yeah, it's tough.
What follows is an honest account of pure Gonzo-de Sade. I write this not only to set the record-oh, pardon me, I almost wrote straight, but that's completely contrary to what I'm hoping to do. Yes, this will corroborate my legend (as an outlaw wordsmith and armor-plated, gold emblazoned sex god) but also shine a bright light on those that cry "ABOMINATION" the loudest. If you find adult intimacy lewd, threatening or offensive, stop reading now. This is not for emotional amateurs. It will not be a delicate retelling.
It all started when two of my closest friends, Adam & Eddie (two chiseled Abercrombie effigies from West Hollywood), invited me to their soiree house in Palm Springs. I was single at the time, bored, and needed a break from LA.
I arrived on a Saturday morning with a serious jones for fun. The house was quirky and manicured with animal hedges. Eddie beamed, "The realtor said Madonna used to have secret parties here in the ‘80s". Adam whispered, "He's such a little starfucker". Eddie shushed him and we headed for the pool. I wrote little haikus and read Bradbury while the boys played Marco Polo and drank sangria. Around 8:30 we went dinner and they introduced me to a new friend, we will call Anita, a striking redhead with an enchanting smile. Next to her was a persnickety looking fellow gulping mouthfuls of gin and chatting up Adam. This boozing Republican (we will call Ted) railed on about the "Teabagger Movement" and told cornball jokes like, "How do you make a blonde laugh on Saturday? Tell her a joke on Wednesday."
Quaint.
My attention was on Anita. She was charming and intellectual. She had just quit her job as a PR person for an unnamed political personality and was searching for meaning in life. Her passion, she said, was sculpting. Ironwork mostly. She had some success with local galleries back in Connecticut (where she was from) but was still trying to find her place in the California scene. I suppose she was feeling a bit insecure. Who wouldn't? We shared a few quips on the cannibalistic nature of the art industry and I felt our souls click.
After dinner, Ted was so sloppy that my guys offered to drive him home. Anita didn't care. She and I dashed off to see her studio. Her pad was a swell ranch style home restored to its Sinatra-era glory. The back of the house was floor-to-ceiling glass with French doors opening up to a tropical deck and beautiful pool.
She poured some wine and set the mood. We flipped through a book of Ellen Von Unwerth's photography and flirted a bit, then moved to Anita's studio. Dark and muddled, most of her creations were brightly painted knock-offs of medieval torture devices: handcuffs, neck chains, and gynecological contraptions that looked absolutely terrifying. I smiled politely, she winked, and I suggested we sit on the deck.
The sky was clear and the moon beamed brightly. The warm desert air carried soft scents from the manicured flora.
After a tense moment or two, our eyes met, I brushed her red locks aside and we kissed. Her mouth on mine, fingers and hands, heavy petting. We moved inside to the couch, she flipped a switch and the fireplace bloomed. I sat back and she swayed like a cobra to the music in front of me. I smiled as she pulled a leather bag from beneath the coffee table, and unzipped it.....slowly.
She plucked a small vibrator, a box of whippets, a nylon cord, and a bottle of lube from the bag. She sucked on the vibrator as she removed her jeans. No panties. My eyes widened. There it was: the dreaded "meat curtains". Long, discolored lips and lots of fur, it looked like a bearded duckbill. Oh well, I liked her, so be it.
She slid the small vibrator inside her and pressed my face deep into her drapery. She started grinding and spitting insults at me, "You dirty cunt. Eat it!"
I pulled away, "You okay?" She flashed a plastic smile and said, "Yeah. You?" I nodded yes, and she pushed my face back into her. The words flowed again, "You bitch. Fucking filth. Eat it good."
I pulled her to the couch and she flipped on her back. She giggled, "Tastes like strawberries", and poured half the bottle of lube over her naked legs and drapery.
My fingers teased her here and there, she moaned and her body tightened. She whispered, "Baby, don't stop", and slid the nylon cord around her neck and pulled it tight. She grabbed a few whippets from the bag and inhaled the gas. She roared, "Faster, come on Fag-bitch! Do it!"
I stopped and said, "Seriously?" She moaned, "Don't stop, baby. I'll be quiet."
I sighed and went back to work. She inhaled huge gulps from the whippet and pulled hard on the nylon. The veins in her neck bulged. Her face turned purple. My fingers and tongue kept working. Her body quivered. She looked like she was about to blackout when she released the nylon, took a huge breath, then another shot of gas, pulled the nylon tight again, and locked her jaw. Her eyes bulged like an insect. I stopped again, she screamed, "NO! GO!"
She grabbed the back of my hair and pulled my face to her pelvic bone. I could see the end of the tiny vibrator pulsing inside her. The lube was everywhere, slapping across my arms, into my eyes. I resisted her grip, the roots of my hair plucking like harp strings one by one.
She roared like a mighty grizzly, purple face, tight nylon, screaming foamy nonsense. Her body stiffened like stone, she screamed "FAGGGGOT!!" and the tiny vibrator shot out of her like a bullet and thwacked me dead in the eye.
I fell to the floor and she squealed in excruciating orgasm. A few moments of weirdness passed and she snorted a laugh and jumped on me, "Bull's-eye!" She nuzzled to my neck and whispered, "You little devil, just look at what you made me do." She plunged her tongue down my throat and we made our way to her bed. She curled like a panther after a kill. I sat back and nursed my swelling eye. I heard a click and turned to see she had handcuffed herself to the bed with one of her medieval creations. She tossed the key to me and said, "C'mere and fuck me, Sodomite!"
I sighed, and she said, "Oops, sorry", and made that "my lips are sealed" sign over her mouth. I grabbed a shirt from the dresser to wipe off the sex spatter and saw a framed photograph that made my blood run cold.
It was a photo of Anita, at a protest, with the Westboro Baptist Church holding a sign that read, "GOD HATES FAG SEX". Just out of frame was someone else with a sign that read, "FAGS BURN IN HELL". It looked a lot like Ted.
She laughed nervously, "Oh, don't worry about that, I just did it for the job. My old boss wanted b-roll of the protest. It doesn't mean anything."
I looked at this woman handcuffed to the bed, wild sexhair, naked from the waist down, still quivering in the wake of orgasm. Then my eyes dropped back to the photo: Anita holding that horrible sign as high as her arms could, caught mid-scream, yelling at some blurred couple rushing by her and this monstrous group.
I quickly dressed in the bathroom and dropped the handcuff key in the toilet. Anita called after me but I was done. I walked out of the house and rang a cab.
I arrived back at Adam and Eddie's just in time for breakfast. The smell of omelets and bagels filled the air. I walked into the breakfast nook and saw Adam, Eddie and... Ted the Republican, all in matching robes, sipping coffee and sharing a newspaper.
Ted tugged at the robe collar to hide the swarm of hickies around his neck. I poured myself a glass of orange juice, sat down, and grabbed a section of newspaper.
Nobody spoke.
They didn't ask me how I got the black eye.
I didn't ask them about the matching robes and hickies.
This article was originally published in BLURT #9. Otep Shamaya is a 2010 GLAAD nominee, frontwoman for rock group OTEP, a writer, activist, and reprobate who resides on the jagged edge of Plasticland deep in the recesses of beautiful Los Angeles, CA. Read her BLURT blog at www.blurt-online.com/blogs/author/70.
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