The REALLY Long Tyler Knight Interview

This was an interview I did for The Black Sheep when it was still called the Booze News. A shorter version was printed around June 2010. This is the online version.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Tyler Knight, one of the leading Black pornstars of the last decade, aspiring novelist, and former World of Warcraft addict. His porn resume is extensive, having done hundreds with women in nearly one thousand scenes since 2002. But he is perhaps most famous for his roles in parody pornos such as Not The Cosby Show XXX, The A-Team XXX, and as Tiger in the upcoming, Tiger’s Wood. His career in porn is mostly focused on women and couples-friendly porn, for which he won 2009 Heart Throb of The Year by the Good For Her Feminist Porn Awards. He has also authored many stories and novellas available on his site, www.tylerknight.com(no nudity, just graphic language).

X: Let’s get right to the interesting stuff, what is the hardest part of performing on set?

TK: Obtaining then maintaining an erection for an hour or more under the most un-erotic and inhospitable conditions imaginable with a co-star that does not want to be there. Then, bringing yourself to the pinnacle of arousal, often with no help or stimulation,  through sheer concentration while surly Teamster types watch and talk about their weekends.

X: Favorite porn star to work with? You can only name one Asian, one Latina, one Black, one redhead, Euro, brunette, blonde…

TK: After close to 1,000 scenes you’re desensitized and don’t think in terms of “favorite” anymore. You appreciate who is most user friendly, professional, hygienic, and able to keep her insanity in check until the scene is done.

Asian: Charmaine Star, Nautica Thorn.

Latina: Lorena Sanchez

Black: Misty Stone, Marie Luv

Red Head: Madison Young

Euro: Barbara Summer, Katja Kassin

Brunette: Amber Rain

Blonde: Krissy Lynn

These women are not the sole representatives in their respective categories. They happen to be on my short list.

X: How do you prepare for a scene?

TK: I take people’s temperatures. Meaning, I speak to the director and the girl and see where they are mentally and emotionally. If the outlook is grim I’ll pop an Emergency-Use-Only Viagra. Regardless of whether the director is an idiot and/or the girl may be hostile I still have to get the job done. The public and even critics have no idea what dramas happens behind the scenes, and if a scene is less than stellar it’s always blamed on the male talent. Always.

Anyway, that was a digression. Back to point. After I determine the sanity of the female talent I decide if I must be Carl Jung, a baby talking dad, a self-deprecating Colombo, or Obi Wan slinging Jedi mind tricks to cajole a usable performance out of the girl. Often times when I’m with two or three girls in a given scene I have to switch back and forth–often different things at different stages of the scene with a single girl. Then there are group scenes with several girls and other male talent to contend with. It can be mentally exhausting. Most of my preparation is dealing with other personalities, this is a skill-set in itself.

X: Please dispel the myth of the correlation between vaginal tightness and promiscuity for us once and for all.

TK: I believe I pull my data from a large enough sample group to state with confidence there is no correlation whatsoever.

X: Tell us about the magical first scene that started it all.

TK: This was back in 2002 when VCA was in the business of making big budget features, before Larry Flynt bought them out. Basically, it was a restaurant scene with me, the contract girl Chloe, the crew of 2 dozen people (grips, boom mike guys, two camera men, director, and video tech behind monitors, the “c-light” guy whose job is to hover a light near the “action” to make sure its well lit), AND a dozen civilian (non porn) extras sitting at various tables for atmosphere surrounding Chloe and me. Not what I expected!

At that point, aside from girlfriends, and my mom, the only others I’ve been naked in front of was my doctor, and God.

The adrenaline dump hit me cold like a bucket of chipped ice flung in my face.  Cotton mouth. Myopic vision. Sweats.

Hell. I’m dressed as a waiter, waiting off camera for my cue, sweaty palms, cotton mouth in full effect, murdering myself with viciously negative inner monologue, and doubt…

What if I’m too small and she laughs…what if I pop to soon, what if I forget my lines, what if the extras laugh, what the hell does “open up for the camera” mean? Shit, a table? How the hell is that going to work? I’m 200 lbs, I’ll snap it., SHIT… that’s Randy fuckin’ Spears! I can’t compare to him! Is Randy looking at me? That’s kinda weird!…WHAT IF I CAN’T GET IT UP!

Chloe is at her table delivering dialogue to another girl, whom after a short exchange gets up and leaves the table. That’s my cue. The PA gives me the nod so I walk over to the table…

…Dead Man Walking. As soon as I step under the lights, I noticed the temperature is easily 20 degrees warmer.  The broiling air around me seemed to flicker like a mirage over an asphalt road in August. I truly was in hell after all!

I deliver my dialogue at mach 5 while staring at my shoes. Apparently that was good enough (hey, it’s porn after all) because the next thing I know, she is undoing my pants, and reveals Mr. Softee!

Space/time was warped: the next 20 minutes battling for an erection seemed like a year that would never end. To save film they turned off the cameras while waiting for me. After stroking it long enough to get semi-hard I said I was ready, only to have the erection wilt as soon as the cameras were turned back on. They killed the cameras and waited again while I stroked hard enough to start a fire. Half-hard once more, I forced the words, “I’m ready” past my clenched and dry throat.  The second  the cameras were back on, penile free-fall. This repeated four  more times, and even if there were fluffers–thing of the past–it would have been moot.  I had a beautiful (although fully clothed and inspecting her fingernails) girl right in front of me. Each time the crew’s grumbling, scoffing, and complaining grew louder until eventually it grew into a crescendo with them speaking about me as is I wasn’t in the room.

This was not hell, it was purgatory.

So the director, who has seen it all , handed me a stack of magazines, told me to go off set away from everyone else, jerk off, then come back when I’m ready. “I can do that. I’ve jerked off a million times,” I said to myself.

I flip through the selection of magazines…”Juggs”, “Black Tail”, “Fat And Flatulent”.  I go with “Jugs”. 3 (three, III) strokes into working up my wood, I ejaculate in my hand. I wanted the Earth to swallow me up. I was screwed.

Option A) Man up, return to set and fess up to blowing the days shooting and probably fifteen thousand dollars of the studio’s money.

Option B) Calculate the trajectory so that if I jump out the second floor bathroom window and roll on impact, would I be ok.

My IDs were in the production manager’s pocket on set, and I was wearing a shirt, and no pants (on set as well). Running around Downtown LA with a shirt and no pants is only cute if you are named Winnie the Pooh.

I went back and dealt with the consequences.

X: Shoulda gone with “Fat and Flatulent”. Next question. Is it tougher in the industry as a black pornstar?

TK: Even in 2010 it’s harder for minorities and women to reach the pinnacle of any profession, but at least competence and hard work may overcome these obstacles in other vocations. This is not so with the adult industry. Porn is the only profession where a person may be denied work or be fired based solely on the worker’s race. That, and there’s a better than even chance that your co-worker in porn may be paid more because she has to endure working with you. I have another, even longer anecdote:

Everybody is smoking. The director, the assistant and the girl. The naked goth girl is all elbows and knees. She reminds me of a hurt fawn limping alone in the woods, decoying would be predators straight to prison-where inside of ten minutes of incarceration the predator is now the prey–passed around, hurt, limping. Whore-red lipstick smudged around the filter of her cigarette she is holding. Not my type, but whatever. The other male talent I’m told is on set in the livingroom. The director’s assistant hands me paperwork, takes my IDs to photograph them. The director explains the scene.

“Ever done a double penetration before?” he asks.

Nope.

“Once.”

The assistant hands my IDs back to me.

“How did it go?”

A roach scurries across the wall behind the director’s shoulder.

“Okay I guess,” I say to the roach. I finish my sentence to the six-foot-tall insect that’s going to pay me. “the proximity of another dude’s scrotum as he digs in a girls anus while I’m inside  her vagina isn’t my favorite thing in the world to do but whatever, it’s money. As long as there’s no sword fighting or ball touching involved I’m cool.”

The director walks away. Conversation over.

The girl and I play I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours with our STD tests. The other male talent’s test is on the table.

After the homework is done, I shoulder my bag and excuse myself to the bathroom so I can freshen up and return the call.

The bathroom.

A single, bare bulb above is layered with dust, basking my skin jaundice yellow in its light. Black and fuzzy mold or mildew, the hell if I know for sure which, speckle the beige walls with their spores.

A Smurf-patterned shower curtain hangs outside the tub. It dangles on two rings giving the middle a depressive sag. Hanging there on its ring-as-hands for love of life. Caked-on soap scum at its tattered bottom. If it could speak it would beg for euthanasia.

The tub itself, a primordial tide pool with exotic life spawning from the sludge. A corpse could be dissolving in the bottom of the murk for all I know. I give it a wide berth as if I expect a hand to thrust out and pull me into the abyss. It wouldn’t surprise me if the home owner has gills and fins. Calcium deposits on the shower head probably focuses the flow into an industrial water-jet beam that can cut steel.

Not going to wash in that thing. May as well return the call.

He answers on the first ring. “Yeah, look man, I’m sorry but I can’t use you tomorrow.”

I take a breath before speaking. I don’t say the first four things to come to mind. “Why?”

There is a pause. “You know I like you and I think you’re gonna do well in the business–”

“Brian, get to the point.”

He says, “Nadia decided she doesn’t want to do interracial.”

I suppress a chuckle but nothing is funny. Even though I’ve never heard the term before, it’s self-evident. I still want him to come out and say it. “What the hell is ‘interracial’?”

“Look, you’re black–”

“Really?”

“–and she won’t work with you, Tyler.”

The police helicopter’s thwumping fades away. I want to set the bag down but think the better of it.

I say, “This is ridiculous, look at Nadia and look at me–I wouldn’t screw her if I wasn’t getting paid either. Hell, I’ve had sex with models from all over the world, my race was never an issue with women until I got into this business.”

He says, “Photographic evidence.”

“ ‘Photographic evidence?’ What am I, a goddamn yeti?” I reach into the bag still slung over my shoulder and pull out my toiletry kit. “That’s the problem, you people think everybody outside the porn bubble thinks like you do and you assume that most girls outside of the business think like that–”

“I don’t make the rules, man–it’s whatever the girls and the studio wants.”

This month’s porn trade magazine has a full page, one-sheet ad of Nadia doing some truly apocalyptic stuff on camera.

I take out my toothbrush and go to run it under hot water from the sink but my hand stops cold at the spigot. I settle for toothpaste and the saliva in my mouth.

I say, “So the act of getting chain sodomized by ten guys–all of them ejaculating inside her while dunking her head in a toilet, then blowing feces-and-semen bubbles out of her anus on camera is okay with the parents at home, as long as it’s white and not negro penis. Is this correct?”

“Hey man-–”

“Did it ever cross you mind to-–gee, I dunno–cast a black girl for a change? Or perhaps one of the 4 trillion other girls, most of them way hotter than her, that have no ‘moral dilemma’ with doing an interracial porn scene?”

He says, “Well, her morality has a price. She will do the scene but I’d have to pay her extra money to work with you. It’s not in my budget but if you agree we can pay her the extra money out of your chec–”

I click the cellie shut.

Tyler, the mope.

I take my time brushing my teeth. The routine relaxes me. A little. When I’m done, I wrap the brush in toilet paper, put it and the toothpaste back in my toiletry kit. A thought occurs to me and I take my toothbrush out of the toiletry kit and drop it on the floor. In my toiletry kit is an in-case-of-emergency Viagra.

Bird in hand, Eric.

I chew the pill. It powders tart and citrusy in my mouth like licking a 9-volt battery. It bites me back with a twang in my salivary glands. With my tongue I pry loose the caked-on deposit from my molars and swallow. No water.

Lovely. I’ll still need one more scene after this.

Now after reading that anecdote try something for me. The next time you are at work I want you to storm into your bosses office and demand more money because the person in the next cubicle is a Jew.

X: Do you find it funny when an Asian girl’s agent says she “doesn’t do interracial?”

TK: Funny is not the adjective I’d use. 

Gather round, cause Daddy Tyler’s got another story for you children.

I’m in a director’s office. We’re going to make a big budget flick that culminates with a group sex scene. Group scenes consist of several people switching partners a few times during the scene. This is to be the big movie of the year for this studio. Casting well is of paramount importance.

Director: Is there anyone you do not want to work with in this scene?

I know this studio only shoots top shelf girls. The best. Both in looks and in professionalism. My “no list” is moot.

Tyler: Not really, bro. As long as the girls are into working with me it’s all good.

The next week. On location six billion lightyears from LA.

Night time. People are cleaning up just before the sex scene after shooting action sequences and blowing shit up in the hot desert all day. Cameras are loaded. The fucking will commence shortly.

Director: Hey Tyler. You got a minute?

Tyler: Sure. Que Paso?

Director: “Cindy” does not want to work with you. She does not do interracial.

(Cindy is Asian. There are many Asian porn starlets that claim not to do interracial sex scenes. The thing is, there are exactly zero Asian male porn stars [in feature porn], making any boy/girl sex scene they do interracial. What they mean is they won’t work with a black person.)

Tyler:We had this conversation in your office. You specifically asked me if there is any girl I did not want to work with. I said–

Director: I know man. Look, I’m sorry.

A blonde porn girl walks by. The director grabs her by the arm.

Director: Hey “Brenda” you don’t mind working with Tyler do ya?

He is asking this now? What if she says no, too–-does he expect me to just go home?

Brenda: Not at all. He’s beautiful. I’ll fuck him any day!

Brenda walks off.

Tyler: There are three boys and three girls. Don’t you think it will be awkward with me sitting by myself for a good part of the scene?

Director: We’ll figure it out, my man. We can always edit and cut around you.

I’m silent. It is impossible to replace female talent at this hour. Especially where we are so far from the city. I’m as welcome as a dead roach in your bowl of corn flakes.

Director: You okay, Tyler? You’re not upset are ya?

Where the hell am I going to go? What he does not know is I have replaced the fantasy of banging firm young women with the sound of my V8 howling past set at 8,000 RPM. At this point in time I am the only black guy this studio shoots. I do not give a fuck if I’m never hired again. What I care about is the fact that I am in a fishbowl. Mr. Marcus and I are the de-facto point men for the entire Goddamn black talent pool with the high end studios. Our actions are scrutinized to an impossible standard and affects possibilities and opportunities for others. I leave set, and the go “SEE? Thats exactly why we don’t hire black guys!”

Still…

I give my short throw shifter a “click” and I mash the accelerator. Wheels spin. A pebble kicked up from my tires finds the director’s left ball. The needle on the speedometer climbs until it is pinned, as this tool and his set gets smaller in my rear view mirror…

Tyler: Nah it’s cool man. I really would appreciate it if next time you cast girls in a porn whom…gee, I dunno…will actually have sex with me?

Director: You’re a team player my man!

Die in a fire.

During the scene I hate-fuck Brenda’s ass. The other two male talent struggle to maintain erections, leaving the other girls largely untouched.

I gloat.

Who knows why any girl opts to avoid interracial scenes? Personal choice? Life experience? Profound ideological/moral conflict? Burning Bush? It’s a fools errand trying to understand the mind and actions of others. I have a challenging enough time as it is understanding myself, so even as a person directly impacted by this at least monthly I give it zero thought why, for that’s an exercise in futility. Frankly, I’m glad when a girl opts out of or refuses to do a scene because I am black for whatever reason she has.  I respect her honesty and as consumer who is spending his/her hard earned money, so should you.

The question you should really be asking is: wouldn’t you rather see a scene with a girl who is actually into the person she is working with as opposed to a girl that has been Jedi mind tricked into doing an interracial scene for say, a few hundred dollars extra and is virtually counting the minutes with an abacus till the pop shot and shower?”

As a professional, I’d just as soon call it and go home if my scene partner has a thought bubble floating above her head like in the cartoons with her overdue Sprint cellphone bill in it.

I care about the quality of work I do too much for that. While this is not a dating service, I’m way past putting out bullshit scenes just for the money. Short term gain = long term loss. It’s challenging enough as it is doing consistent good quality work without starting off 10 paces behind the start line due to poor casting. The consumer, my de- facto boss, deserves better.

X: How common are performance enhancing drugs in porn? How about booze, weed, and narcotics (on set)?

TK: As a professional male performer, perfection is demanded of you every single time. You may win or be nominated for a dozen performing awards, be spot-on seventy scenes in a row for a director, but the one time you’re human and have an off day that’s what he’ll harp on forever. It may be used as a negotiating tool to lower your rate for the next time. If there is a next time. In porn these days you are not as good as your last performance. You are only as good as the performance you are giving right now.

With the advent of Caverject, an embalming fluid site injected into the penis for an instant erection designed for use by quad and paraplegics, you are competing with kids that circumvent the learning curve by shooting their penises up. This also circumvents the human element, the performance is mechanical, and you lose several dimensions in the performance. Also, with an open and often bleeding wound on the side of the penis escalates the scene farther up the risk/reward matrix.  But nobody cares. With piracy and bit-torrent, and the death of DVD, every scene can mean the difference between profit and loss for the entire movie so talent is viewed as equipment that can be replaced, like a burned out set light.

Drugs and/or narcotics? In eight years I’ve only seen it a half dozen times. Excluding marijuana–that’s ubiquitous. Now, just because I don’t actually see it is no real indication of prevalence one way or the other, but I’ll say drugs on set are nowhere near as common as the perception.

X: I’ve heard your mention that you feel like you and Mr. Marcus are the token black guys. Do you feel like you’re in competition with the other top tier black performers like Lex?

TK:No. There is plenty of room for more. I can go months without seeing another black porn star. I have never seen [Lexington Steele] on a set. Never. The only time our paths have crossed in nearly a decade was on an ultra-rare occasion I got bribed into going to a trade show. Even if there wasn’t more room I don’t much care. My ambitions extend farther than being the top black pornstar. If that’s the pinnacle of my life goals…

X: How come female ejaculation porn looks nothing like female ejaculation in real life? Well, with the exception of Axel Braun’s movies.

TK: Because its fake.

X: If you could change one thing about the porn industry, what would it be?

TK: A doomsday meteor impacting Porn Valley.

X: Evan Stone has a story about how Nina Hartley made him go from impotent to “Oh Shit!” in 10 seconds with her mouth. Can you confirm her blowjob skills, and do you have any other stories of porn stars with incredible skills?

TK: Not really. Receiving oral sex isn’t my thing. Frankly, I’m surprisingly a-sexual. Funny choice of vocation, right?

X: What are your World of Warcraft characters and what server?

TK: I have not played in over a year. It’s a time suck. Funny thing happened when I quit playing Warcraft. I wrote a novel, published a dozen stories in several literary magazines, landed a monthly column, started a second novel, and lost 26 pounds.

(Tyler claims to have logged a total of 365 days playtime in a 4 year timespan with his main toons, a Death Knight tank and an 80 Mutilate spec’d Rogue.)

X: Cormac McCarthy, great writer, or best writer?

TK: He has his strengths and weaknesses.  Some of his work reads like a King James bible with no punctuation and can be quite laborious, which is okay if you don’t mind that. I don’t mind the use of arcane words.–I enjoyed Moby Dick. Blood Meridian was a very well crafted and enjoyable read. There are a lot of writers I’d list as my favorites before McCarthy’s name came up, but that’s all personal taste.

X: It was a pleasure interviewing you, Tyler. We wish you luck on your writing career and look forward to your second novel.

You can read Tyler’s many fascinating creative memoirs and stories on www.tylerknight.com

Bringing the Frat back to this blog…brah.

So yeah, I like to write serious stuff, and I like to write funny stuff. Most of the articles I wrote for The Booze News/ The Black Sheep weren’t really my thing. Yeah, it was my job to write funny stuff, but I was catering to a very mainstream, short-attention spanned audience  with different interests. Different styles fit different mediums, and newspapers are much different than blogs.

When I look back one year at the things I wrote for BS (tee-hee), they wreak of frattiness. To be honest, I never read the publication I wrote for. It wasn’t the type of literature that interested me, simply put. But my editors/bosses were awesome, awesome people, so I enjoyed the job very much, even when it felt like the voice I wrote with was generic and…not mine.

Here’s another article I wrote for them. See for yourself.

Ghosts, Sex, and Mushrooms: Part Two

Part Two

Are you crying?

Yeah

Why?

I don’t know. You’re so different, now, and I’m worried.

I know I’m different. But I still love you. What are you worried about?

I just…I’m worried that you’ll get bored of me. And that I’m not good enough for you.

Don’t worry. I won’t

Okay.

3 Hours After Ingestion

The times don’t add up. I had eaten the same amount twice before, we shouldn’t be coming down this fast.

“I’m freezing. I think it’s sobering us up.”

Fuck the midwest winters, I don’t want to be able to walk and think right yet. Wet dew sloshes under our boots as we leave, propelled to escape exposure and hypothermia by our desire to remain intoxicated. Two black figures walk toward us, an animal and a human.

Shit, she’s going to freak out. What do I do, warn her? Fuck! Too late.

The figures will startle Laura, which will throw me off. “I’m freakin’ out man!”, is only funny to people who’ve never been there. My mind is beyond logic now, and in a state made fragile by events minutes before, the act of thinking had subtly changed. In place of thought, there was only feeling. I feel myself slipping away from her. I felt our asynchronous psyches as proof that we were not meant for each other. And above all, I was certain of it.

I grip her hand and wait for it. The figures come closer when-

“Ah! What is that?”

“Don’t worry. It’s just a man and a dog.”

“Oh man, that scared me.”

I know. I know it scared you, now lets just get home.

The 22 North is in the distance, waiting for us to board. The familiarity of its rough purring assured me that I would be safe soon. A breath of warmth blasts us as we walk to the back. The bus is protecting us, putting a blanket over our shivering bodies. We sit in the very back, staring through the windshield.

A girl steps aboard and before proceeding to a seat, she turns to ask the driver a question. She wears black six inch heels, and a simple black skirt. The kind a girl wears to show that her legs need no flourish. Too many girls wear them without warrant in an attempt to imitate beauty. She, this goddess walks with the purpose of displaying her youth. When she sits her skirt rises, brandishing that skin, that flawless skin that Asian girls have. She crosses her legs, her calf lines visible. She does not slouch. She does not play with her phone. She does not kick her open heel back and forth. Everything she makes and every move she doesn’t has the air of disciplined sexuality.

I don’t know if the chemicals make me feel this way, or if they are just allowing me to see a divinity in her that I could not see before. By the time the bus is in motion, she has changed from a tangible female to an icon of divinity. Am I riding on a second wind of psychosis? The realization hits; The heat from the radiator is bringing back the unreality that we had lost in the cold night. I look over to Laura, and back at the Icon. Where I had expected Laura to look dull in contrast to the other apex of perfection, I instead saw beauty in both. I clasp her hand tighter.

We arrive at the house to a raucous scene out of any generic college movie. Nick stomps across the lawn yelling epithets at me. Oh, that’s right, cowboy hats and flannel. They’re getting ready for Barn Dance. We attempt to scuttle past the living room unnoticed and fail. Friends descend upon us, machine-gunning us with questions and greetings. I don’t have time for the answers. Nobody understands- We brought our world with us. We’re the only ones inside it, you guys are just visiting.

Up the stairs. Turn the corner. Open the door. Shut it, lock it. Our soundtrack of life returns to tranquility. It’s dark, save for the street lights peering through the blinds and a dimmed laptop screen.

I’m going to put on some music, okay? That smooth playlist you like.

Your ceiling is green, it’s swirling.

I find time to myself to recalibrate. Shut your eyes. The vibrant colors are gone, but my head still feels like shades of purple. I look over at Laura swaying side to side to the tempos of MGMT and something inside me becomes aware. It isn’t loneliness, just the opposite of intimacy. Four seconds pass and her face is an iridescent pendulum mired in psychedelic euphoria. The monitor’s light gleams off her pearl white breasts and into my pupils where I . It is seconds after this moment that the ignorance of her beauty becomes an injustice. I kiss her. She moans and stops oscillating. I take off her clothes- she doesn’t want foreplay. The rough sex sobers me enough to get distracted. She lies prone being taken from behind. My hips maintain their rhythm but my eyes and most of my brain are disconnected. Streetlight yellow peeks through cracks in my generic window shades, locking eyes with me. I stare at the light that should be much duller than it looks.

As I finish writing this 3 years after I began, the story ends with my finite memory. The sex was beyond rough, and I’m sure I felt great. From what I do remember, the street light peeking through my window overshadows whatever intimacy I was supposed to feel with Laura. Did the mushrooms erase our connection, or did they just make me realize how far it had faded in the first place? I suspect the latter, but I’d be lying if I said I was certain.

Ghosts, Sex, and Mushrooms: Part One

17 hours after ingestion

The memories are vivid with both meaning and dimension. Every emotion elicited by the wraiths, the hounds, the Goddess of the Orient, the personification of Death, the explosive orgasms, and the lights. Oh god the lights. Dimensions were meaningless. Was it all a dream?

Opening the front door, I found my answer. Everything in this muddy, gray town was so vibrant. Fatigue, even heat vanished from the scope of my nervous system. It was all my brain could manage just to process what was being fed into my brain. My pupils dilate, the rods focusing and de-focusing to swallow as much as they could. Turning the corner, I look up and look at a blue sky, as if it’s the first time I had seen one so blue. Maybe it is.

The Day Before: Pre-flight.

Fuck Fuck Fuck.

68%

The only thing that really mattered about this exam was the mood that it would put me in today. Minimizing negative thoughts is crucial to enjoying psilocybinic mushrooms. And here I am, pissed about my grade, hungry, jittery. Debating, “Should I go to barn dance, get trashed and hook up with a bunch of horny girls, or should see where the rabbit hole leads to a third time?” When it comes to warning signs that you should take a rain check, second thoughts are just as bad as negative ones. Prime conditions for a bad trip, something I’d never experienced before.

I won’t tell Laura. You’d be crazy to let someone you love take a trip into hell. Then again you’d be crazy for wanting to go there in the first place.

40 minutes after ingestion

It’s hard to tell how far gone I am. Visuals start to set in, and my perception of depth and movement is off. I remembered the arboretum to be a lot nicer than it looks now. In the Spring, it was a garden of nature’s every color. The winter night had twisted it into a cold valley of slate and mud. Only an hour past nightfall and the absence of light was enough to shroud it from civilization- not that one wouldn’t consider it completely removed even during the day.

Darkness will be the most interesting part of the next few hours, and yet it the Light was what granted me visions of imps, angels, and kaleidoscopic beauty in my first trip. The first visuals begin to form behind my eyelids. Shapeless with only a few colors. Still divine, but there are different levels of divinity.

Oh my god, it looks like we’re in a painting.

Whereas before, the dying trees on the outskirts instilled a vague sense of fear and caution, the colossal structures only strike me with their beauty. We had walked from the Earth into a tapestry. Everything from the portal of trees before the abyss to the mansion in the far north seemed as if they’d been painted on the background. I have come to the world that only a handful of people have seen before.

Two hours after ingestion

The two of us lie down and look at clouds surrounded by nothing. They dance and morph, and we watch them as one and as two. I flirt with my weakened grip on reality. My inner ear explodes and I’m on the verge of being rocketed into the sky. At the very last instant, a deliberate limb movement snaps me back into my body.

The contact with my partner fades once her peripheral vision disappears.

Oh god, I’m incredibly horny right now, I can feel how hot my pussy is.

We break the spell a few times to kiss, just for the heightened sensations of intimacy. Laura stares into me, mesmerized. Too much eyeliner had blackened her eyes and made them demonic. Out of respect for her own mental state I keep my discomfort inside. We go back to the clouds.

The clouds begin taking more defined shapes. Sandy streaks manifest. The kind you’d make in MS paint, fooling around with the spray can effect and dragging the mouse across the screen. Two streaks morph into indefinable circles. I know what they are. It doesn’t seem possible that I could know from sight, but I know what’s in the sky. Two worms with gaping, razor-toothed mouths swirl around me.

I laugh.

Is this it? Am I having a bad trip now? If this is the best It can do, it isn’t enough.

Hyperactive glands in my mind recall depictions I’d seen of demonic hallucinations. A face with two mouths where the eyes should be, laughing skulls, the monster from ski-free.

Make me feel fear

Let me see what you can do

These are the demons in my sub-conscious? You are nothing to me.

My personification of death appears. I play it like a game to find my threshold. The wraiths try to hack emotions out of me. I force fear, hatred, and suffering into my brain.

Come on, let’s go deeper.

In the back garden of Japan house we stand and make out, pausing to admire the shrubs. Every few moments she pulls away to stare at me. Just enough light illuminates two eyeballs and a crazy grin. The physical aspect of the trip is phenomenal but the disconnection with Laura is more than an annoyance. She was deeper into it than I was, and losing her grip. A goose startles her, and the resulting yelp cascades over into my mental state. All of the upsetting events compound poison my mind with discord towards her. Her punctuated and insincere attempt at conversation is an ugly stain on my own jolly-calmness. Are we this incompatible? Is this an epiphany or just a crazy thought that fades once sober? I love her, please don’t let this doubt be real.

We move further into the garden and sit. I remember this spot, because a friend of mine once saw the rocks breathe. And now I see all of them riddled with black holes, blinking in and out of existence. I don’t want the thought of what they could be capable of to come and it does anyway. And my brain doesn’t let me look away. Paralyzed in limbo, Fear takes the wheel from me. I grab Laura by the hand.

The exit branches. We could circle around and backtrack, or walk forward through a black thickness of trees.

Let’s go this way. The road is right at the end of this path

No let’s just go back the way we came

But this way’s quicker

Laura we’re not going that way

Okay

My connection with Laura fades even further. How could she want to leave through the pure blackness of a dead forest? To her, it was the shortest way back. To me, it was certain doom. I had flirted with the demons of hell and won, but after the breathing rocks I knew that going into that void would be suicide. I lock her out of my personal tempest by narrating the walk back to nobody in particular. To protect us both, as I found that talking like a little boy could calm me and give me direction.

Laura was the most beautiful person I had ever made love to. She loved me for my body, claiming to be chemically addicted. She showed me nothing to the contrary, and I was more than happy to reward her. In a minute, we could dance twelve times between lust and love, ravishing each other in so many ways. I would slap her face while I was inside her, forcing her to cum at my will. She’d ask me to bite her nipples, and pull her hair when I’d hold her breasts and pin her to the bed. “I want you to cum inside me, rape me,” and I’d grab her by the neck and kiss her deep, the way she needed to be kissed. The pleasure she felt when I gave her what she wanted was nothing compared to the starved lust she felt when I didn’t.

And now, I’m beginning to doubt it all. My meta-cognitive processes were working just enough to ask questions, but not enough to answer them. We start walking home, hands clasped through the bitter cold, as my mind slowly drifts from hers.

Her

Its 4:41AM and I miss her. That song I keep forgetting swims laps between my ears. She introduced me to Janis Joplin and an entire decade; I made her sit through music that reminded her of when she was my age. We ate mushrooms and waxed poetic. Swallowed synthetic drugs and watched synthetic drama.

Broken Bells, that’s it. The High Road by Broken Bells, that’s what remembering her sounds like. And I try to listen to the song, but on top of the version playing in my head it’s too loud. Drowns out the thoughts with feelings. Damn, guess we really had something going on.

She was slow to warm up, not that she was cold inside. She had a thick outer shell and it was gorgeous. We grew up in different worlds but somehow, ended up in the same place in life. Minus a few differences. The age difference was something I kept secret for a while.

 

You wanna know something that’ll freak you out?

What? I knew it, you lied. Guys always say ten. My ex-boyfriend said ten.

I was born in nineteen-ninety.

 

Seriousl-

I’m twenty-one.

 

I’m staring at the ceiling but I know her expression is frozen. There’s humor in this somewhere, for me at least.

 

Is that a problem for you?

No…just let me. I’m just processing this right now, give me a few minutes. So when did you turn twenty-one?

January

So you turned twenty-one….this year.

Yep. How old did you think I was?

Twenty two at least…I turn twenty-five in a few months.

 

She assures me it doesn’t bother her- she just wishes she knew earlier. We keep talking. An hour later the sun rises.

I sat next to her on the first day of class, four months ago. She wore designer clothes, expensive boots, and confidence. I saw her face and it was. Every bone was so symmetrical- you could tell she wasn’t wearing the make up to hide anything, for there was nothing to hide. After I saw that face I just wanted to keep looking.

I kiss her for the first time on March 5th. I feel her personality through her lips- she doesn’t hesitate when it comes to her desires and I doubt she ever has. She sighs into my mouth and folds her lips across mine and they fit perfectly. I’ll ask to spend the night and then in the morning she’ll tell me I snore. I have to kiss her if I want the reassurance that she doesn’t regret last night. She gives it to me and it feels lukewarm.

It’s 4/20 and she doesn’t want me to leave but her sister needs to sleep. I would feel more dejected but the night we had was too fun. Time slows as I walk a green mile down her hallway with her close behind. The noise of every movement I make sounds louder than it should. I open the door half-way and turn around.

This is the tricky part.

I should hug her goodbye, maybe give her a peck on the cheek. Half a kiss later, my tongue is dancing across the top of hers. I wrap my arm around her back and pull her in closer.

 

I open my eyes a month later and I’m standing with the entirety of my possessions packed into two suitcases, a thirty-two liter backpack and a black leather satchel. I close the trunk of her Range Rover and all that is left is to look her in the eyes and say goodbye. The driver behind us does not object while we kiss for longer than we need and nowhere near as long as we want. I turn around and walk into the airport. The plane won’t wait for me but I know she will and I find both solace and sadness in this.

On the drive over I had asked half-jokingly if there was any chance we could somehow fuck between then and my departure. “No. That’s…a terrible thing to even ask.”

Ten minutes before take-off, my phone buzzes.

ok so I admit I regret not

having sex one last time :)

I smile.

Point-Counterpoint: Spitting v. Swallowing

I wrote a point counterpoint with some guy and this got published. There were like four consecutive articles I wrote that referenced cum or semen, so they probably edited the shit out of this one. Published in November 2010

______

John: TFD, I think it’s about time spitting got a little respect. Face it, our world is changing where women have more say in everything. If we are expected to maintain our blowjob quota in an ever changing world we as men must learn to adapt. Besides I have even found a brighter side of how we can view it.

The Fratty Duckling: The world may be changing, but the market for blowjobs isn’t. Spitting is something that shouldn’t even be considered after high school. It’s really quite a perverse way to end a sexual act that results in an unnecessary mess.

John: The mess isn’t what’s important here. It’s more about principal: I’m a natural competitor so someone who spits is playing on what motivates me as a man. Since before the time of ancient Greece all the way to modern day the most basic competition between men have been to see who could spit the furthest as a test of prowess. Someone spits isn’t offending me, they are simply telling me “You are worthy. Well done, sir.”

TFD: Competiton’s got nothing to do with this. In fact, listening to you say “Sir”, “Man”, and “Ancient Greece” in an argument about the contents of a girl’s mouth makes me think we aren’t on the same wavelengths. Swallowing is how a girl shows pride in her work, by seeing the job all the way to the end.

John: TFD, you ignorant slut. Swallowing implies that a woman cares nothing for what’s in her mouth and places it on the same level as hot pockets or pizza rolls! I haven’t even started on the disaster when you see her gag mid-swallow. It totally ruins everything that happened up to that point. It’s like taking a little kid to the circus and right as he’s leaving a clown kicks him square in the nuts

TFD: Girls who gag do so because you taste like abortion. Lay off the cigs and beer and get some fruits in your diet. The problem isn’t the woman, it’s your nuts. Swallowing with eye contact is the natural, submissive thing to do. A gag just means you need a diet check, but spitting is full-blown rejection. I mean it’s already in your mouth! Spitting it out, unless its directly into another girl’s mouth, is just plain backwards.

John: TFD, is your hatred of spitting founded off your sexual frustrations? I told you bondage wouldn’t solve any of your problems, despite what Carly says.

TFD: Let’s not get off topic here. Besides, Carly’s so vanilla when she hears bondage she thinks of Frederick Douglass.

A blowjob is really all about the enthusiasm. A huge part of it is just the voyeurism in watching someone derive pleasure from their worship of you. If I can’t see the desire in her eyes, it’s just someone doing something with her mouth that incidentally feels comfortable. Spitting, which is ten times as insulting when its during my orgasm, completely ruins the apex of the act. It’s a statement of rejection, refusal, and I can’t help but think, “Did she even enjoy this, or was she just doing me a favor?” There is simply no argument you can make for spitting, the real debate about blowjobs is why good girls get on their knees and bad girls bend from their waist.

 

John: Eyes? I thought we were talking about what’s going on with her mouth, or would a slobjob from a girl wearing aviators do nothing for you? Consider the safety of the act as well. In this day and age a girl can sue you for anything. Besides that at least when she spits I know exactly what she’s doing with my splooge. One day when I’m famous the police may kick in my door because some random girl wants to give me the Kobe treatment and my manspunk is in her stomach.

TFD: NO, aviators make me think of the bad guy from Terminator 2. Listen man, I don’t buy this Kobe argument one bit. I’m just a guy who wants a decent beej every now and then just to remind myself about how cool I am, and then I go play World of Warcraft. I don’t want to see someone go “eew, cooties” and spit out the result of my orgasm. If that were to happen to me in my adult life, I could only imagine it being followed by an audible record scratch, and then after moments of me being aghast, Ashton Kutcher jumps out from hiding in my coffee maker and yells, “YOU GOT PUNK’D!”

Ask a Minority: Asians

Pokedex entry for Asian: Unofficially recognized as the “Model Minority” for its high GPA and ability to evade prison sentences, this species can be found at any hour of the day smoking cigarettes outside of FAR. Evolves from Charmander.

 

 

Q: Are you related to Chairman Mao?

 

No, but most of us are related to Genghis Khan. History and genetic tracing have shown that he was an excellent rapist, one of the best.

 

Q: Don’t you know smoking is bad for you?

 

“Bad” is a relative assessment. Chinese people smoke cigarettes because cigerarette smoke is actually cleaner than the atmosphere in China, and their lungs aren’t used to the abnormally low cyanide and CO2 levels in the US. Japanese people smoke to cope with the thirty hours of unpaid overtime they work every week. Koreans smoke because they think it makes them look cool. Seriously, never met a single Korean who actually inhales.

 

Q: What’s your favorite tentacle rape movie?

 

Man, we’re off to quite a rapey start here. I’m Chinese, not Japanese, so I’m not often exposed to tentacle rape movies. I asked my Japanese friend this question and he said “シンドラーのリスト!!” which translates into “Attack! List of Schindler, Monster Beware!!” I think it’s a remake, or maybe it’s just Schindler’s List edited for a Japanese audience.

Yeah, tentacle rape isn’t really my thing. Though I guess I was kinda aroused by that scene in Pirates of the Caribbean 2 where Johnny Depp gets a huge load in the face from the Kraken, but I mean, you’re pretty much gay if you weren’t bursting out of your jeans a few seconds into that.

 

Q: Do old war veterans make you nervous?

 

Not as nervous as I make them.

 

Q:Is it true that you can blindfold an Asian with floss?

 

What’s floss? Is that a video game?
Q: Do you feel unsafe when you’re mom is driving?

 

Yes, my dad as well. He has a PhD and MD and can not safely operate a vehicle. He isn’t as bad as some of the white girls I went to high school with, but you don’t want to be in the same lane when he gets behind that CRV. Just kidding, he drives a Nissan Skyline, and he is an absolute beast when he gets behind the wheel. Look out for him in the upcoming sequel to 300, 300 2: Tokyo Drift.

 

Q: How do you feel about Starcraft?

 

This is more of a Korean thing. They have two TV channels completely dedicated to broadcasting professional Starcraft games. One time I was with a white kid who was talking about Starcraft and he asks my Korean friend, “What level Diamond (the highest ranking possible) are you?” He didn’t even bother asking if he played Starcraft, he just assumed this kid was top-ranked, and you know what? He assumed correctly.

I don’t play the game, but I find it more entertaining to watch than any real sport, as long as the players are Koreans.

 

 

Q: When you smoke pot do your eyes get like, forced shut?

 

You spelled “chinky” totally wrong. Yes, they do get like, chinky.
Q: Are you offended by the term “Chinaman”?

 

I’m supposed to be offended, but no, not really. It’s just another one of those things white people say that’s out of style. I’d classify it as one of those ambiguous words that aren’t inherently offensive but just don’t sound right, you know, like mulatto or Jew. Guy from Sixteen Candles? That’s offensive. Guy from Breakfast at Tiffany’s? THAT’s offensive. Guy from Lost? That’s offensive. Offensively sexy, that is.

 

Q: Are all Asians into really weird fetish stuff?

 

That depends on your definition of really weird fetish stuff. Most FOBs, that’s Fresh Off the Boats, are as prude as it gets. Sex with a black dude, as in just one at a time (I know, lame), is the craziest thing a FOB could even imagine. The nasty shit you see in Japanese porn is one thing, but if you want to know about your everyday studies-hard eats-ramen Asians, I don’t think most of them are into anything crazy compared to White people. I have a question for you, why is there so much boy-fuck in all these Catholic churches? Call me vanilla, but I’m not about to wear a pre-pubescent child around my dick and make it a global fashion statement.

Q: Why do Asians hate animals? Stop killing whales, damn it!

I don’t, I love dog.