The adventures of a mostly vanilla hubby as he travels and shoots with his internet/fetish model wife
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Playing it by ear
Anyone ever grab your ear as a kid? Maybe to get your attention, or as punishment for something you did? I can’t recall it ever happening to me, or if it did, I don’t remember it, and I certainly didn’t sexualize the experience. There is, however a group of people out there who have. Most fetishes seem to take root during childhood. According to the videographer, the ear twisting is a big fetish among Indian men, as ear twisting is a common punishment . In order to fulfill more of the requests, Mrs. Marvel and I shot an Ear Twist video.
I played the part of the lazy boyfriend sleeping on the couch on a Sunday instead of doing chores, and just in case you are wondering, it was a stretch for me. I’m the husband, and I sleep on the bed. Mrs. Marvel came in acting angry and was supposed to twist and manipulate my ears in order to get me to do what she wanted.
My ears are pretty sensitive to happy time touching, but apparently not very sensitive to pain at all. I found out that my ears can be twisted to the point of being almost horizontal without it hurting. This was put to good use when Mrs. Marvel used my ear to leverage me up and off the couch. I hammed it up, and shouted and yelled about how much it hurt, and that she was going to rip my ear off, breaking the cartilage, etc. Apparently, that is of paramount importance to the fetish.
She lifted me up and then dragged me down to the ground, forcing me by the ear to do sit-ups, and then squats. The camera zoomed in on my twisted ears as I screamed in mock pain. Mrs. Marvel yelled about what a lazy slob I was, and used the ear twisting to get me to admit my slovenliness and agree into do the plethora of chores asked of me.
This went on for about eight minutes of tugging, yelling, and twisting. I can only imagine what the neighbors were thinking as all this went on. Afterwards, my ears were extremely warm to the touch, and the next day, they felt like they were sunburned, and were even sensitive a few days later. Another successful shoot in the bag, another new experience chronicled.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The game is afoot
Mrs. Marvel has pretty feet, an observation confirmed by how much foot work she has done and constant commentary from photographers. I’ve never really been into feet, but I can certainly acknowledge the attractiveness of her feet. She can spread all her toes out from each other, grab things with them, and she has a very high arch that is extremely desirable to the foot community. I spent the better part of two days up close and personal with those legendary feet.
I was her dedicated foot sub for about 8 different shoots. I did several sessions of sock worship, licking her socks up and down, peeling them off her feet, and putting as much of her foot in my mouth as possible (which turned out to be about the first twenty percent or so, I’ve got a big yap), then peeling the sock off and stuffing it in my mouth. I also at several points put as much of both of her feet in my mouth getting almost all toes on both feet, and managing to get them all a couple of times. I drank water that rolled down her leg and cascaded off the sock into my mouth. She found the dirtiest looking clean socks she had, so the desirable quality of nasty, sweaty, dirty sock could be attained for the video, helped by the descriptions of strenuous physical activity that Mrs. Marvel was supplying.
After that I did some high heel worship, again with the implication being that the high heel to be worshipped has been walked on all day, through dirty floors and carpets, and that the sub is licking all the dirt off. She had several pair of heels that had never been used, and thoroughly disinfected them before I put my mouth on them. I licked and kissed all over the shoe, getting them nice and shiny. The coup de grace of high heel worship is to have the sub suck on the heel spike, which I did. It’s very difficult to get your head at the right angle to do it right, without whacking your face on the body of the heel, or scraping your teeth with the spike, which is really uncomfortable. The shoes were also placed on my face where I was told to loudly and deeply inhale, thus solidifying the illusion that the shoes were well worn.
Witch Hazel is the disinfectant/cleaner of choice, apparently due to its lack of taste after a cleaning. I found that it tasted like bad soy sauce. Better than rubbing alcohol though, that’s for sure. I didn’t particularly enjoy either worship session, but I would say the socks were worse. The fuzzyness, the gag reflex trying to kick in as the sock is stuffed in your mouth, the way the texture scrapes on the tongue, and how the taste would get worse after a session, due to my saliva soaking in.
Included in these shoots was also some foot abuse, where she would fishhook my mouth with her toes, smash my features with her toes, force facial expressions on me with her toes and feet, slap me in the face with her feet, crank my neck and choke me with her feet, etc.
At the end of two days, we shot a custom requested video where Mrs. Marvel stretched and manipulated her feet and toes for an awfully long time. While she was doing this, I was rolling around and rubbing my back and shoulders on the carpet like a high school kid on ecstasy, trying to get some redness on my back so that when she walked on it, her foot and toe prints would show up. I was called into the shot, did some more foot worship, and then she walked on my back.
She’s walked on my back before for chiropractic reasons, but this time, in order to fulfill the request, she was trying to leave prints on my back. It was a different experience. She was walking on me for several minutes, and when she was trying to dig in, I would flex my stomach and roll my shoulders back, lifting into the pressure. It wasn’t particularly painful, but it was strenuous. After that, I flipped over on my back and she stood on my chest. I’ve never had anyone walk on my chest before, and that was tough. I whispered to her to move onto my stomach so she could also put a foot on my face. She had a little more difficulty standing on my chest, which caused her balance to shift, which was a lot more uncomfortable. Then she commanded me to get up on my knees, where she faux kicked me in the junk, and after I doubled over, kicked me in the ass and walked out of the frame as I rolled around and writhed on the floor.
I told her afterwards that I had had enough of feet for a little while. But, the shoot did inspire some interest in playing with her feet and trying to get a different reaction, and not in a dom/sub type of scenario, so that was well worth the journey. It was a really interesting experience shooting, as the videographer kept seeing more and more potential for our shoot to cover various requests, so one shoot with me turned into 5 hours of different shoots. I ended up getting 4+ blogs worth of material from two days. I took a good sized bite of the fetish pie. It tasted like feet.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
New posts coming soon
Had a couple of wild and crazy days, lots of content to write! Will be posting new experiences soon!
Spit it out
The last time someone spit in my face was in eigth grade, and we were having a heated discussion by the gym. He got in real close to me and as he was yelling, he was slobering on me like a drunken St. Bernard. I got right back in face and said through my teeth, “Don’t spit in my face.” I hit the sibilants real hard, making sure he got some of his own medicine. I was pretty hot-headed in my youth, so I got into several of these confrontations throughout my middle school career, and generally didn’t think too much about the consequences of my actions. He responded to my growled request by spitting a loogie right in my face. I punched him in the chest and he fell down a short flight of stairs. He got up, charged me, and the whole thing deteriorated into a good old fashioned middle school donnybrook that was quickly broken up by various classmates.. What a difference 17 years, fifty bucks and a wedding makes, huh?
My wife and I filmed a spit video yesterday. It was one of many aggressive/dominant videos we shot. Most of the day I was playing the role of foot sub, mostly doing foot and sock worship. The photographer asked if I would be okay with doing a spit video. The photographer had been trying to get content for a spit video request for almost two years. My wife would say degrading and humiliating things and spit on me for 6-8 minutes. The requester of the footage is almost always interested in the most extreme aspect of the fetish, which in this case would be Mrs. Marvel hocking a loogie and dripping it into my mouth. The noises are pretty much for the sake of the camera, she wasn’t really trying to bring anything up, and she was drinking root beer to make them look worse. I made it a goal to not shy away from things on this trip, and to at least give it a shot. We swap spit all the time, and various other bodily fluids, how bad could it be?
Pretty bad, when that’s all the mental barricades you set aside in advance. We did a dry run(not really the best descriptor when spit is involved, but we’ll roll with it) with no camera rolling, and when it dripped into my mouth, I was okay. At first. And then I started to gag. I came pretty close to hucking right then and there. I took a minute to regather myself, and the photographer grabbed a teeny little vase to catch my forthcoming involuntary protein spill. Mrs. Marvel lost it at this point, the thought of her large husband trying to contain a large quantity of vomit into a tiny little vase too much for her sleep-deprived brain, and collapsed into giggles. At that point, I didn’t think I would be able to continue.
I told them that I needed a minute to reset, and they assured me that if I didn’t do it, that it was okay, Most people aren’t able to shoot spit fetish, it was why she hadn’t been able to shoot it for almost two years. I went in the next room, took some time, checked myself and reminded myself that it was okay, went back in and did the shoot. I took it like a champ, about 10 minutes of verbal beration and a whole lot of spit, mostly in my face. She dripped a couple of long ones into my mouth, and I pretended to swallow them. The photographer wrote a message on her phone that I could spit them out as she panned away, but I was okay. Thoroughly drenched in spit, I went to change my shirt and wash my face off, and they were laughing and high fiving that I made it through and pleased I was able to do it.
It has been a lot easier doing some of these things than I previously thought. You just kind of get in this zone and stay in character, and then when the camera clicks off, you’re you again. It’s almost like it happened to another person. When she talks to me, I know that she is acting, I know she isn’t really the things she does, and she uses a different tone of voice than when we normally interact, so that makes it easier to keep the separation as well.
Maybe the next person who spits at/on me won’t get knocked down a flight of stairs. I definitely feel like these experiences are giving me thicker skin, and that my wife and I are closer than ever. Tomorrow, she pulls and twists my ears, walks on me, and maybe a few other surprises as well. Who knows what the next day will bring?
My wife and I filmed a spit video yesterday. It was one of many aggressive/dominant videos we shot. Most of the day I was playing the role of foot sub, mostly doing foot and sock worship. The photographer asked if I would be okay with doing a spit video. The photographer had been trying to get content for a spit video request for almost two years. My wife would say degrading and humiliating things and spit on me for 6-8 minutes. The requester of the footage is almost always interested in the most extreme aspect of the fetish, which in this case would be Mrs. Marvel hocking a loogie and dripping it into my mouth. The noises are pretty much for the sake of the camera, she wasn’t really trying to bring anything up, and she was drinking root beer to make them look worse. I made it a goal to not shy away from things on this trip, and to at least give it a shot. We swap spit all the time, and various other bodily fluids, how bad could it be?
Pretty bad, when that’s all the mental barricades you set aside in advance. We did a dry run(not really the best descriptor when spit is involved, but we’ll roll with it) with no camera rolling, and when it dripped into my mouth, I was okay. At first. And then I started to gag. I came pretty close to hucking right then and there. I took a minute to regather myself, and the photographer grabbed a teeny little vase to catch my forthcoming involuntary protein spill. Mrs. Marvel lost it at this point, the thought of her large husband trying to contain a large quantity of vomit into a tiny little vase too much for her sleep-deprived brain, and collapsed into giggles. At that point, I didn’t think I would be able to continue.
I told them that I needed a minute to reset, and they assured me that if I didn’t do it, that it was okay, Most people aren’t able to shoot spit fetish, it was why she hadn’t been able to shoot it for almost two years. I went in the next room, took some time, checked myself and reminded myself that it was okay, went back in and did the shoot. I took it like a champ, about 10 minutes of verbal beration and a whole lot of spit, mostly in my face. She dripped a couple of long ones into my mouth, and I pretended to swallow them. The photographer wrote a message on her phone that I could spit them out as she panned away, but I was okay. Thoroughly drenched in spit, I went to change my shirt and wash my face off, and they were laughing and high fiving that I made it through and pleased I was able to do it.
It has been a lot easier doing some of these things than I previously thought. You just kind of get in this zone and stay in character, and then when the camera clicks off, you’re you again. It’s almost like it happened to another person. When she talks to me, I know that she is acting, I know she isn’t really the things she does, and she uses a different tone of voice than when we normally interact, so that makes it easier to keep the separation as well.
Maybe the next person who spits at/on me won’t get knocked down a flight of stairs. I definitely feel like these experiences are giving me thicker skin, and that my wife and I are closer than ever. Tomorrow, she pulls and twists my ears, walks on me, and maybe a few other surprises as well. Who knows what the next day will bring?
Diving in headfirst (or ass first, as it were)
So, knowing that I would be experiencing and witnessing first-hand many different fetishes and shoots on this epic road trip, I decided to dive right in, and do a shoot all by my lonesome. I have attended a few of my wife’s shoots, and I have a fair amount of on camera/performance/acting experience in my background, enough that I felt I was prepared for a basic gig. The revelations came fast.
I was able to fully appreciate the complete lack of useful information that can pass between 50+ emails, and how much effort it takes to keep connected with the photographer, and try to be prepared for anything that might be thrown at me. For the first time, I got to ask my wife which jeans make my ass look the best (words I had never once uttered in my life prior). She went over the model release with me and helped me make sure that things would be handled the way I want. I know some of the lingo so I was able to discern the type of content I would be shooting. It was a 2-3 hour crush shoot involving some balloons and toys, using only my body weight and my ass. Sounded simple enough. I spoke with him about wardrobe requirements and the like, packed accordingly, showed up and modeled my pants for him. He selected the pants he felt would work best, and I changed into them, going commando underneath and begun the process.
I’m 6’5”, 240 lbs, so I figured my size and weight would be a big advantage, that it was going to be an easy shoot. Boy was I wrong. Everyone has popped a balloon at some point in their lives, maybe even sat on one to pop it. After a quick rundown of the content and what was expected of me, I sat on my first balloon off camera. I plopped down on it with all my weight, thinking that would be enough, but it wasn’t. I wiggled from side to side, with the grace and sensuality of a epileptic bull elephant and when I felt like it was going to pop, I involuntarily scrunched up my face and flinched. I immediately recognized that none of this would make for arousing content, an impression confirmed by the photographer. Reminding me that this was supposed to elicit a sexual response from the viewer, he gave me a few tips on how to position the balloon, and how to move, and then I popped a few more balloons, and he was satisfied with the results. I was no longer flinching, waiting for them to pop. After that we moved on to the next logical object, which of course was an alarm clock.
It was round, and made of hard plastic. I composed a character and some basic dialogue in my head, and waged posterior warfare on the hapless timepiece. It retaliated by rolling out from under my ass, upon which I would grab and replace it, roll it under me to where it would start to crack a little, then squirm out and whack me in the manberries, sometimes hitting the camera. Did I mention the camera was less than six inches from my ass or crotch at all times? This went on for quite some time, and then I found that rolling it under my thigh would work, and it started to break more and more. I would modify my technique with each different area that started to break, until I was dripping with sweat, out of breath, and the clock was reduced to an impressive tableau of chronometric violence.
The next shoot involved a bunch of kids’ toys and balloons, to which I created a character of a dad throwing a birthday party for his kid, who bought extra presents and balloons to ensure that he got his enjoyment out of the setup for the party. I once again came up with some dialogue. I found that sitting on the balloons was a nice change from the glute-grind that was the clock, so I did truly enjoy sitting on and breaking the balloons. After that, I let loose a deluge of derrierial destruction on two toy robots, decapitating both and removing arms and legs with my mighty backside. I attempted a diecast aluminum car and dismantled it to the point that it looked like it had been run over by Grave Digger, and then attempted in vain to smash a singing toy turtle, but had very little success. The little bastard was really well made, so I put it on the ground and stomped its head off. He was very pleased with the shoot, and asked me to do more balloons, and then some packing material, which was quite interesting. He complimented me on my pants selection, and said that between the natural light coming into the window and the silvery sheen on my pants, that he could really see the outline of my nutsack. What can you say to that? “Uh, thanks!” was the best I could come up with.
I have seen my wife go into character in her mind, in order to get herself through uncomfortable situations, and while always knowing why she did (being an actor of sorts), I can really empathize with the situation. If I hadn’t been able to fully immerse myself in the characters I whipped up on the spot, I would have been too focused on the fact that some dude I had only just met and interacted with for less than an hour was sitting on the floor with a camera pointed at my nether-regions, and that I was doing Elvisian pelvic gyrations on top of a ten dollar toy robot, and that someone out there would watch a video of this and think that I was a sexy mofo performing just for them.
A week ago, I would have never written that sentence. I couldn’t have made that up if I had tried. The photographer asked me to get in touch when I get back from our impending roadtrip, and that he is interested in doing another shoot with me. I’m not sure if it is an experience that I am too eager to repeat, but it was definitely one of the more interesting days I have had in a long time. And he was certainly right about one thing.
I’ll never look at inflatable packaging material the same way again. Ever.
I was able to fully appreciate the complete lack of useful information that can pass between 50+ emails, and how much effort it takes to keep connected with the photographer, and try to be prepared for anything that might be thrown at me. For the first time, I got to ask my wife which jeans make my ass look the best (words I had never once uttered in my life prior). She went over the model release with me and helped me make sure that things would be handled the way I want. I know some of the lingo so I was able to discern the type of content I would be shooting. It was a 2-3 hour crush shoot involving some balloons and toys, using only my body weight and my ass. Sounded simple enough. I spoke with him about wardrobe requirements and the like, packed accordingly, showed up and modeled my pants for him. He selected the pants he felt would work best, and I changed into them, going commando underneath and begun the process.
I’m 6’5”, 240 lbs, so I figured my size and weight would be a big advantage, that it was going to be an easy shoot. Boy was I wrong. Everyone has popped a balloon at some point in their lives, maybe even sat on one to pop it. After a quick rundown of the content and what was expected of me, I sat on my first balloon off camera. I plopped down on it with all my weight, thinking that would be enough, but it wasn’t. I wiggled from side to side, with the grace and sensuality of a epileptic bull elephant and when I felt like it was going to pop, I involuntarily scrunched up my face and flinched. I immediately recognized that none of this would make for arousing content, an impression confirmed by the photographer. Reminding me that this was supposed to elicit a sexual response from the viewer, he gave me a few tips on how to position the balloon, and how to move, and then I popped a few more balloons, and he was satisfied with the results. I was no longer flinching, waiting for them to pop. After that we moved on to the next logical object, which of course was an alarm clock.
It was round, and made of hard plastic. I composed a character and some basic dialogue in my head, and waged posterior warfare on the hapless timepiece. It retaliated by rolling out from under my ass, upon which I would grab and replace it, roll it under me to where it would start to crack a little, then squirm out and whack me in the manberries, sometimes hitting the camera. Did I mention the camera was less than six inches from my ass or crotch at all times? This went on for quite some time, and then I found that rolling it under my thigh would work, and it started to break more and more. I would modify my technique with each different area that started to break, until I was dripping with sweat, out of breath, and the clock was reduced to an impressive tableau of chronometric violence.
The next shoot involved a bunch of kids’ toys and balloons, to which I created a character of a dad throwing a birthday party for his kid, who bought extra presents and balloons to ensure that he got his enjoyment out of the setup for the party. I once again came up with some dialogue. I found that sitting on the balloons was a nice change from the glute-grind that was the clock, so I did truly enjoy sitting on and breaking the balloons. After that, I let loose a deluge of derrierial destruction on two toy robots, decapitating both and removing arms and legs with my mighty backside. I attempted a diecast aluminum car and dismantled it to the point that it looked like it had been run over by Grave Digger, and then attempted in vain to smash a singing toy turtle, but had very little success. The little bastard was really well made, so I put it on the ground and stomped its head off. He was very pleased with the shoot, and asked me to do more balloons, and then some packing material, which was quite interesting. He complimented me on my pants selection, and said that between the natural light coming into the window and the silvery sheen on my pants, that he could really see the outline of my nutsack. What can you say to that? “Uh, thanks!” was the best I could come up with.
I have seen my wife go into character in her mind, in order to get herself through uncomfortable situations, and while always knowing why she did (being an actor of sorts), I can really empathize with the situation. If I hadn’t been able to fully immerse myself in the characters I whipped up on the spot, I would have been too focused on the fact that some dude I had only just met and interacted with for less than an hour was sitting on the floor with a camera pointed at my nether-regions, and that I was doing Elvisian pelvic gyrations on top of a ten dollar toy robot, and that someone out there would watch a video of this and think that I was a sexy mofo performing just for them.
A week ago, I would have never written that sentence. I couldn’t have made that up if I had tried. The photographer asked me to get in touch when I get back from our impending roadtrip, and that he is interested in doing another shoot with me. I’m not sure if it is an experience that I am too eager to repeat, but it was definitely one of the more interesting days I have had in a long time. And he was certainly right about one thing.
I’ll never look at inflatable packaging material the same way again. Ever.
Origin of the Blog
Being married to a fetish model is the adult equivalent to the old “kid in a candy store” adage. My wife and I were best friends for years before we got hitched, but we never really talked too much about sex, kinks, etc.
When we finally hooked up, she asked me what I liked, what I was into, what really turned me on, and said that any of my wildest fantasies would now be able to come true. I had a little experience with some light bondage, Dom/Sub, restraints, flogging, spanking, tickling, and I knew I liked those, but nothing really past that. I realized, to my chagrin, and her disappointment, that I had no fantasies. Nothing. The kinky world was my oyster, and I didn’t even know where to dive in. I was the kid in front of the candy store with a hundred dollar bill, every kind of tasty treat at my fingertips, and I had no clue what I wanted, or would enjoy, and no clue even where to start!
I’m a sci-fi/comic book/horror guy, so I figured maybe something from years of various and sundry nerdery would have planted some kind of sexual idea, would I get turned on by seeing her dress as Leia, or Wonder Woman, Penelope Pitstop, anything?!? While I think she would look sexy in those costumes, and it would be fun, it doesn’t really flip a switch for me or anything.
My career took a turn for the worse in early 2011, and rather than not see my wife for 4 months while I sit home depressed and trying to find work, we decided that I should go on tour with her, see more of the country than just the four states I have been to other than California. Really get out there and experience a different scene and perspective. Her career has helped her really figure out who she is and wants to be, and what she needs and wants from life. Being an internet fetish model has done wonders for her personal growth, and maybe, traveling with her could impart some similar wisdom for me. I could break away from the routines, and really try something different. I could focus more on writing, and find more inspiration and ideas, figure out my next move, visit some family and friends I haven’t seen in a long time. When else would I get an awesome opportunity like this again?
I will also find out a lot about myself. How can I handle being crammed in a car for 10+ hours a day listening to nothing but the sounds of the road and NPR? I have a need for noise, sometimes quiet makes me uncomfortable. Do I need a gym membership, or would I enjoy doing Yoga in a hotel room? Do I need a comfy apartment and big bed to sleep in to be happy, or could I happily exist jumping from place to place? I’m somewhat of a homebody, never suffering too much for wanderlust, how would I adapt to these scenarios? I could really strip away a lot of bullshit and unnecessary trappings of suburban life and really get down to my essence.
Then things got really interesting when she mentioned to her bookings that I was going to be with her, and that places to crash would be appreciated, and they started asking about me for shoots. She asked me what I was and wasn’t willing to do. I had no idea. I have explored many other boundaries in my life, but never my sexual boundaries to this extent.
She has told me many times about what she does out on the road but there’s a difference between hearing about getting hypnotized, or hit in the ass with a pie, or holding completely still while pretending to be dead, and actually experiencing it. Which is what I am setting out to do. I am setting my status as open to just about anything, I welcome the opportunity to be silly, have some fun, do some really weird and crazy things, let go of my inhibitions, and walk the proverbial mile in my wife’s stilettos.
Soon, we leave our love nest and kitties behind, and embark on a 3.5 month journey of personal discovery, national exploration, strengthening our bond and marriage, and to answer the age old question that has plagued philosophers for centuries: How difficult is it to destroy a toy robot purchased at a gas station using only one’s ass?
When we finally hooked up, she asked me what I liked, what I was into, what really turned me on, and said that any of my wildest fantasies would now be able to come true. I had a little experience with some light bondage, Dom/Sub, restraints, flogging, spanking, tickling, and I knew I liked those, but nothing really past that. I realized, to my chagrin, and her disappointment, that I had no fantasies. Nothing. The kinky world was my oyster, and I didn’t even know where to dive in. I was the kid in front of the candy store with a hundred dollar bill, every kind of tasty treat at my fingertips, and I had no clue what I wanted, or would enjoy, and no clue even where to start!
I’m a sci-fi/comic book/horror guy, so I figured maybe something from years of various and sundry nerdery would have planted some kind of sexual idea, would I get turned on by seeing her dress as Leia, or Wonder Woman, Penelope Pitstop, anything?!? While I think she would look sexy in those costumes, and it would be fun, it doesn’t really flip a switch for me or anything.
My career took a turn for the worse in early 2011, and rather than not see my wife for 4 months while I sit home depressed and trying to find work, we decided that I should go on tour with her, see more of the country than just the four states I have been to other than California. Really get out there and experience a different scene and perspective. Her career has helped her really figure out who she is and wants to be, and what she needs and wants from life. Being an internet fetish model has done wonders for her personal growth, and maybe, traveling with her could impart some similar wisdom for me. I could break away from the routines, and really try something different. I could focus more on writing, and find more inspiration and ideas, figure out my next move, visit some family and friends I haven’t seen in a long time. When else would I get an awesome opportunity like this again?
I will also find out a lot about myself. How can I handle being crammed in a car for 10+ hours a day listening to nothing but the sounds of the road and NPR? I have a need for noise, sometimes quiet makes me uncomfortable. Do I need a gym membership, or would I enjoy doing Yoga in a hotel room? Do I need a comfy apartment and big bed to sleep in to be happy, or could I happily exist jumping from place to place? I’m somewhat of a homebody, never suffering too much for wanderlust, how would I adapt to these scenarios? I could really strip away a lot of bullshit and unnecessary trappings of suburban life and really get down to my essence.
Then things got really interesting when she mentioned to her bookings that I was going to be with her, and that places to crash would be appreciated, and they started asking about me for shoots. She asked me what I was and wasn’t willing to do. I had no idea. I have explored many other boundaries in my life, but never my sexual boundaries to this extent.
She has told me many times about what she does out on the road but there’s a difference between hearing about getting hypnotized, or hit in the ass with a pie, or holding completely still while pretending to be dead, and actually experiencing it. Which is what I am setting out to do. I am setting my status as open to just about anything, I welcome the opportunity to be silly, have some fun, do some really weird and crazy things, let go of my inhibitions, and walk the proverbial mile in my wife’s stilettos.
Soon, we leave our love nest and kitties behind, and embark on a 3.5 month journey of personal discovery, national exploration, strengthening our bond and marriage, and to answer the age old question that has plagued philosophers for centuries: How difficult is it to destroy a toy robot purchased at a gas station using only one’s ass?
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