Pssssst. (I’m fucking Martha Stewart).

Journal Entry | about 1 year ago

OK, I stayed up too late again. But I am making progress. I am going to bed soon. Also, I am going to do some much needed chores as soon as I get home. I have a ton of problems, money problems, and my house is a big mess. I also have a problem with staying up too late on the Internet and especially on Fetlife. But it is getting better.

There is one thing that happened recently to me that is a major breakthrough: I’m fucking Martha Stewart. I can say that because no one will believe me anyway—hell, I don’t believe it myself—and also because NO ONE READS MY BLOG. I feel like Tsar Trojan’s barber who whispered into a hole that Tsar Trojan had goat ears. Tsar would interview his barbers after they cut his hair and ask if they noticed anything unusual after he took off his helmet. They would say, ‘now that you mention it, you have goat ears.’ That was a big mistake, for then he would order his guards to chop off the dude’s head. Finally, a barber who understood that discretion was the greater part of valor, and who wondered why his colleagues all seemed to disappear after raving about the great new gig cutting Tsar Trojan’s hair, he told the goat-eared despot that, ‘no, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual at all, except that his highness was exceptionally handsome.’ He knew if he told anyone that it would get back to him and it would be curtains, but he had to get it off his chest, so he went out and said it into a deep dark hole that he dug on a moonless night out by the crossroads. His secret was safe until next spring when a bamboo shoot grew out of the hole, and a passing shepherd clipped it, thinking it would make an excellent flute. The shepherd blew into his flute, and the notes were sweet, but there was something funny about them. It was like someone was singing through the flute, and the lyrics kept repeating the secret the barber had whispered into the hole: ‘Tsar Trojan has goat ears. Tsar Trojan has goat ears. Tsar Trojan has goat ears. Tsar Trojan has goat ears. Tsar Trojan has goat ears. Tsar Trojan has goat ears.’

So, even though the tabloids would flip out and might even pay me big bucks for photos, I would never do that, because I am a gentleman. Also, like I said, no one would ever believe me, and also no one reads my blog anyway. Furthermore, I am setting it to ‘Friends on Fetlife only,’ and that is a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, exclusive club. This blog is even safer than the deep dark hole Tsar Trojan’s barber whispered his secret into.

So, how did I happen to meet Martha? Well, it all began when I was much younger and watching Saturday Night Live. There was a sketch about Martha Stewart’s Topless Christmas Special. It was just an absurd sketch that didn’t really have a punch line, but it was just Martha doing her thing making centerpieces and cranberry sauce and cutting pomegranates into four quadrants and then striking them with a wooden spoon so that all of the fruit could be easily removed. And she was topless. Or the actress portraying Martha was. Though, since it was on TV, they had the breasts blurred out like pixelated Japanese porn. Actually, now that I checked the transcript, her breasts were blacked out with black tape, old school censorship style.

Here’s the actual transcript from SNL Season 22, Episode 8, Host was Martin Short and musical guest was No Doubt, with Ana Gasteyer as Martha Stewart:

Martha Stewart Voiceover: I’m Martha Stewart. Join me next week, when I’ll share some old and new ideas for creating a truly memorable holiday.

Announcer: “Martha Stewart’s Home For the Holiday’s Topless Christmas Special.”

Martha Stewart: [ sitting in her living room, topless ] Hi there. I’m Martha Stewart. It’s my favorite time of year. Sleigh rides, caroling—these are just some of the things that remind us of Christmas.

[ cut to Martha in her Work Room ]

This is my Work Room, where we’ll be making these corn husk garlands. You can make them, too, in just 24 simple steps.

[ cut to close-up of Martha sitting in her kitchen ]

Also, we’ll learn how to make beeswax candles. They really say Yuletide. [ camera zooms out to reveal Martha only wearing a dickey ] And, I’ll show you how to make a festive holiday dickey out of an old turtleneck. I made this one. I really treasure it.

[ cut to Martha walking through the woods with two male friends ]

Today, we’re taking a field trip to my friend Tom Hardwick’s Christmas tree farm in the Hudson River Valley. [ glances skyward ] Oh, look, there’s a good one. [ they all walk towards it ]

[ cut to Martha back in her living room ]

So, join me, and my special guests, the Westport Boys Choir, for my Christmas special, “Home For the Holidays”. Even if you celebrate Chanukah, it’ll be a jolly good thing. [ Martha stands up and shakes her breasts in front of the boys but behind her black censor box ]

Announcer: “Martha Stewart’s Home For the Holidays Topless Christmas Special.” Wednesday night at 8:00. Parental discretion advised.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

I got a huge erection and went into my room to jack off. I started watching her on TV, the real Martha, and kept getting turned on imagining that she was as competent and creative in the bedroom as she was in the kitchen and other parts of her well appointed home. Before she started her media empire she was a model, and there are a lot of great photos of the young Martha. But even though she is older now, she is still pretty attractive.

Of course, by now you are probably wondering how my jacking off to fantasies of fucking Martha Stewart led to hooking up with her in real life. Well, here is what happened next. I had this friend, a female friend, who was bipolar, bisexual, and also a kleptomaniac. We were in the park and did a kind of Truth or Dare and she was telling me about a woman she had the hots for (Gwen Stefani, singer of No Doubt), so I had to tell something of equal value. I confessed about my Martha Stewart fantasy. Here is where the deus ex machina makes an appearance. If this were a movie or even a novel, fiction, it would be slammed by the critics as not being believable. But I kept in touch with this woman even though she was a criminal and she got sent to prison. I wrote her letters, and she wrote me back. Not much was happening and we were both running out of material to write to each other about, when she said that Martha Stewart was the new inmate. She said that Martha was her bitch, and she was real good at licking pussy. I am not sure if this part were true, but she said that she made her a poncho.

Later, when Martha had served her time, for obstructing an investigation about insider trading, she showed up at the board meeting of her media empire, the first board meeting since her release, wearing the ugly-as-sin poncho my friend had made for her. It was a symbol that she was going to claw her way back to the top. She wore that ugly poncho as a badge of honor. So, then I kind of believed my friend a little more, and though I am still not sure if Martha was her bitch, she did say that Martha Stewart had confided in her that she liked to get down and dirty when she had sex. As a child she had even played a game with a neighbor boy where she was the garbage man’s wife—which was the dirtiest thing their little minds could imagine. Unlike her public persona, the private Martha was a filthy slut. Dirt and sex were somehow linked. Of course, as soon as she came a few times, she would revert back to her Obsessively Compulsive behavior and be repulsed by the dirt. She didn’t stick around and make you cuddle. She would want to get out of there pronto, until the urges would build up again and you’d get that midnight booty call from Dirty Martha.

My friend also told her about me, and my thing for her. And also, that I was a bachelor and lived knee deep in squalor. No, she didn’t introduce us. That would have made it a little easier, but that didn’t happen. It was only later that we talked about our mutual acquaintance, the little old poncho maker.

Actually, I sent Martha a message on Twitter. I didn’t think I would get a response, because I asked her for tips on making a 7-layer dip for a Super Bowl party I was going to. I regretted sending it. As soon as I hit ‘send’ I thought that it was kind of rude, like asking a doctor for free medical advice. Also, 7-layer dip was probably too low on the totem pole for her to bother with. The crude sort of food fit only for proletarian tail gate parties—something she would not deign to soil her hands on. So, I didn’t get a nibble on that tweet. But I kept following her, and tried to come up with clever replies to whatever she said. I was just about to give up my quest, but then I saw that she retweeted one of my bon mots. I held back a little, not wanting to appear too anxious, and became conspicuous by my absence. She actually wrote to me and admitted that she was starting to look forward to my witty remarks, and wondered where had I gone off to. Game on.

Shit. I just looked at the time and it is 4:22 AM. I have to get up for work tomorrow. Sure, not until noon, but still. I need my beauty sleep. I will have to save the good parts of my story for next time.

Ciao, Los Angeles.

What Do You Think of Austen?

I have a friend on Twitter who is hopefully in her last semester of college before graduation. She is very intelligent and creative, (as well as a whole host of superlatives such as kinky, sexy, cute, beautiful, young, and delicious) and might be an English Major, judging by some of her tweets. Anyway, whatever she is majoring in will probably not immediately translate into a high paying career with a big corporation. I want to give her a little advice about how to make the most of her college days and avoid some of the pitfalls that befell me.

First off, don’t alienate your professors by making facile comments on the first day of class, attacking who might very well be their pet author. When your professor asks “what do you think of Austen?” I guess you shouldn’t say “is for women who don’t know how to make themselves cum.” At least not on the first day. Especially if your professor is a woman, because Jane Austen is one of the best novelists of all time—male or female—and a female professor will no doubt have a special place in her heart for Jane. This should have given you a chance to bond with her, to take up her cause, which could very well be that women authors are not given their due. You could have been two sisters with a common cause, perhaps you could be the Emily to her Charlotte Brontë? But instead you make a snarky comment that doesn’t even seem to have any basis. If I had been given such an opportunity I would have said:

"I think Jane Austen is a great novelist. A book like Pride and Prejudice might on the surface seem to be a gossipy romance novel about matchmaking but it actually offers deep psychological insight into the human condition. It is also somewhat subversive in how it questions the role of women in society, especially as it relates to class. Mr. Darcy reluctantly finds himself falling in love with a woman he thinks is beneath his class, and will have to overcome pride and prejudice if he is to be happy with a woman he loves. Elizabeth Bennett is the most perceptive character, and the third person narrator would seem to be an extension of Elizabeth, or at least an older, wiser version of Elizabeth who looks at herself and the other characters and comments on them with just a touch of irony. For these reasons Jane Austen still attracts a wide and devoted following even after two centuries have passed since it was first published in 1813.

Bam! Easy “A” even if you slack off for the rest of the semester. If your comments are met favorably you could add:

Sense and Sensibility was an earlier effort and is a bit awkward in some aspects, like the plot, but it still shows the brilliant developing style that I like to call Austentatious (pun on ostentatious fully intended). That last bit might be gilding the lily, but if you have the green light to expand, feel free to use it. Brace yourself for some groans, but are they groaning at you or with you? This shows a little qualified criticism os Sense and Sensibility, but you see, it isn’t really knocking Jane Austen, just saying that her first efforts weren’t as good as her peak achievements.

If this opens up the discussion give a chance for other students to chime in, paying particular and close attention to your professor’s reactions. If the topic broadens to other female authors you could say something about how George Elliott was also a brilliant female author, yet she felt compelled to use a male pseudonym in order to be taken seriously. Middlemarch is a really long Victorian novel that is also stunningly brilliant in the ways that Jane Austen’s novels are. Middlemarch could also be taken as a gossipy romance novel about matchmaking, that also offers keen psychological insight on a whole town full of richly drawn characters, and is also subversive about the role of women. Would the reading public have taken it as seriously if the name attached to it was Mary Ann Evans?

Throw in a mention of Edith Wharton and The House of Mirth and The Awakening by Kate Chopin, and like I said, you are virtually assured of an easy “A” even if you slack off for the rest of the semester, provided that you ascertain that “women writers are not given their due” is your professor’s particular axe to grind, which was no doubt the sub text behind her asking what you thought of Austen. Don’t be afraid to cry “Virginia Woolf.”

I have only read Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility by Austen, but I will get around to her other books as soon as I finish War and Peace and the nine volumes we refer to as Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust. I am more than half way through War and Peace, and heartily reccomend it, though it is 1,136 pages long. You really feel like it is a great accomplishment and validates your entire existence. It isn’t even that hard to read, as you get caught up in the grand spectacle of the war with Napoleon, and the trials and tribulations of Boris and Natasha, and of course that lovable bastard Pierre. There are a lot of characters to keep track of, and the Russian names can be confusing, but by page 666 you should have the situation well in hand.

In college there are some great professors and some not-so great. The great ones will inspire you and see the spark of creativity in you that could possibly be kindled into a conflagration. You might be called on the carpet for making a mistake in basic grammar, like I was for using “it’s” as a possessive pronoun in a poem when it should have been “its.” I was embarrassed but I never made that mistake again. I would consider that professor to be one of the good ones, and I also got a lot of insight into great poetry from him. He had associated with a lot of the Beat Poets, and also Bukowski, so there were a lot of interesting anecdotes.

Other professors seem very bitter that they could never write that novel, or maybe published one that was promising but then frittered away their talent after securing a cushy teaching job with tenure. No matter what you do, they just don’t seem to ‘get’ you, but there is a lesson to be learned here, and you could either file it under “render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” or “don’t cast ye your pearls before swine.”

Mark 12: 17
And Jesus answering said unto them, Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s. And they marvelled at him.

Matthew 7:6
Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.

Sometimes worse than the professors though are the other students who will attack your thinly veiled autobiographical short stories because they aren’t politically correct. This is bound to happen, especially if you are supporting your education through sex work or your idea of leisure activity is more than vanilla. Pay no attention to these critics, as none of them will ever amount to anything. Sex sells, and stories about Politically Correct robots are unreadable. Borrrrrrr-ing!

Lastly, even if your professor isn’t really that good they still deserve a modicum of respect. They don’t come to where you work and knock the cock out of your mouth, and you shouldn’t do that to them, either.