Wednesday, October 5, 2022

TROY FRANCIS THE DAGESTANI DIVA

 TROY FRANCIS

THE DAGESTANI DIVA

 

I knew very little about Dagestan before meeting Safia and to be honest I don’t know a great deal more now, except that the majority of notable figures who have emerged from the country to achieve global fame and prominence have tended to be fighters of some kind - boxers, wrestlers, UFC combatants and so on.

 

The foremost of these is a gentleman named Khabib Nurmagomedov, a superstar who was the UFC lightweight champion for the longest time, from April 2018 to March 2021, when he retired. 29 wins and zero losses! Imagine that - an undefeated record! Moreover, Nurmagomedov is the first Muslim to have won a UFC title. Not the kind of chap you’d care to look at in the wrong way if you happened to encounter him in the street.

 

Interestingly, a report on USA Sports Today from 2019 reveals that Nurmagomedov is also something of a moralist. The article, entitled ‘Know what really offends Khabib Nurmagomedov? Sexy plays and a lack of government censorship’ describes how the champ railed on social media against a play called Hunting For Men, in which ‘a woman in lingerie could be seen crawling across the stage’. “Why is the leadership in Dagestan keeping quiet?” he asked, encouraging his government to investigate, punish the play’s organisers and then apologise to the people.

 

According to Wikipedia, a 2012 survey revealed that 83% of the Dagestani population adhered to Islam, so this somewhat conservative attitude to art is perhaps unsurprising. What is curious, though, is how I wound up getting involved with a Safia in the first place. Given that my tastes tend more towards the degenerate, why would a woman from such a background gravitate towards me in the first place?

 

I first met Safia at an outdoor nightclub in Sochi, Russia in July 2021. Ah, attraction - eternally recurring, entirely predictable in terms of pattern and yet always so surprising. The music was loud and boisterous. House mainly, but they dropped a souped-up version of Rasputin (which the mainly Russian crowd loved). Safia was on the dancefloor with a couple of friends, dancing slowly, almost contemplatively, as though there was something else on her mind. She wore a short summer dress and her dark hair ran down her back to just above her waist. I watched her dance. There was an innocence about her that appealed to me, but at the same time her beauty and something about the way in which she moved ignited a more visceral desire in me.

 

I walked over and spoke with her directly - I’d seen her dancing, found her attractive and wanted to get to know her. Unlike in an English nightclub, where her friends would likely have shooed me away, or possibly called the authorities, the friends were respectful - albeit not overjoyed at my intervention - and they moved away slightly to allow us time to talk.

 

The conversation was not extensive. Safia did not understand much English, and my Russian remains pitiful. But she got the idea that I was hitting on her and we exchanged numbers. In a situation like this you are battling on a couple of levels simultaneously. For one thing, there is the aforementioned language barrier. For another there is the ear-splitting music and the general hubbub of the dancefloor. Best, in many such cases, to get the lady’s contact details and follow up later over WhatsApp, where you will be at leisure to render your bon mots in her native language by way of Google Translate.

 

I wasn’t expecting much to come of this brief meeting, however. Ideally you will spend a decent amount of time talking to your new acquaintance in order to (hopefully) ignite some attraction and to see whether that elusive ‘spark’ is present or not. And one problem with dating in a foregin country is that a lot of the time you are flying blind - you just have to assume that she likes you and proceed as though she does, even though any tangible evidence of this is yet to be revealed.  

 

Safia left Sochi for Moscow, where she now lives, the next day and I travelled to Ekaterinberg shortly after that. But against all odds we remained in contact over WhatsApp and Instagram. And some time later, when I returned to Moscow, I hit her up and we arranged to meet.

 

 

The Hookah Lounge once more - Timeless off Tverskaya Street. Well, it has become my favourite date venue. These girls all love ‘kalyan’ after all, and apparently the tradition for smoking it is alive and well in Dagestan in particular.

 

That hookah paradise! The golden glow of the room! The low leather couches! The grave and respectful Russian waiting staff! The incongruent Union Jack cushions! The cool electronic lounge music! The beautiful girls and snappily-dressed men on secret assignations together! The mirrors and the secret passages, the discreet cubby-holes where you can sit and smoke, each decorated in a discrete and anomalous style - faux coal fireplaces, huge screens where SEGA games play, bearskin rugs, antlers protruding from walls, and rugs inscribed with dizzyingly complex patterns.

 

She arrived, beautiful in a dark magenta trouser suit, her long dark hair carefully straightened and parted. Now we would get to know one another!

 

‘Hello, how are you?’ I ventured.

 

She screwed up her face in puzzlement. 

 

‘What?’ she responded.

 

OK, plainly this was going to take a little more work.

 

‘Google Translate is our friend,’ I said, gesturing with my iPhone.

 

Soon - with a hookah procured and a California Love cocktail for Safia plus a sparkling water for me - we were sitting together happily volleying banterous conversational gambits between the two of us, translated on my phone. It may seem strange to operate a date entirely via a digital translation medium, but I can assure you from personal experience that it is not only possible, but that it can be enjoyable too. The key thing is that your partner is happy to play along, which Safia definitely was. Pretty soon I’d found out that she was a tourist rep for Dagestan, selling it as a destination to prospective holiday-makers, and that she’d had a particularly busy time over the summer as the pandemic and travel restrictions had compelled Russians to holiday within the republic for the most part, rather than venturing overseas.

 

Safia was passionately proud of her homeland, describing as she frequently did the stunning natural beauty of its mountains, lakes, forests and beaches. This was a trait I found admirable and touching in equal measure.

 

Perhaps to demonstrate my admiration I placed my hand on her thigh. ‘We should go and listen to some traditional Dagestani music together,’ I said.

 

‘Where?’ she asked.

 

‘I’m staying just over the road. We can walk there in just a few minutes.’

 

She paused momentarily and then agreed. But if I’d hoped that the evening was to end with intimacy of the erotic kind I was to be sorely disappointed. As we neared my hotel she wrote on Google translate.

 

‘I like you Troy, but I don’t want to sleep with you yet. We hardly know one another at all.’

 

‘There really isn’t very much to know’, I said to her in English. ‘I am exceptionally shallow. You’ve probably got the jist of it already.’

 

She looked at me confusedly.

 

‘No problem,’ I translated into Russian on my phone. ‘Let’s just go and relax’.

 

She nodded, and I led her into the hotel.

 

I have noticed that there is little rhyme or reason to the sorts of women who are attracted to me. On paper there was no way that Safia and I had any business hanging out together, but it was clear that she liked me, and I was certainly drawn to her. As I was to discover, she was a woman actively rebelling against the traditionalism of her culture and upbringing, which I suppose is why I was now becoming a bit player in her story. But that didn’t mean she was ready to embrace good old Western sexual degeneracy on the first night. There were many more scenes to be played before we might finally merge together in the act of passion.



Cry-Baby Nano the Artist (2017)


The Small Matter of Tongues & Blood By Matt FreeMatt

The Small Matter of Tongues & Blood

By Matt FreeMatt


We were decked out in clothes that would be out of place at an orgy but in line with a christening. The cobblestone row created an echo on the nearby buildings that originated under her designer heels. She had a polite smile behind her wonderful fragrance. Layla hooked my arm for the short walk.


Layla appeared to be happy to have someone accompany her that wasn’t intoxicated or a complete moron. She always seemed to be troubled and her heart laid heavy on the surface. I found it awkward that she would turn to me in such a frank moment. I had been derided as a “too serious of a man, one that wouldn’t relax”. Her attempts at humor produced a polite smile at most. But within this time frame in question, I found it hard to smile.


Layla solicited advice from me when it came to her woes connected to her beau. She often was unhappy and it seemed to be a default position. I saw that there was a yearning for someone to cup her derriere firmly and to show her that she was a woman. Her question was not inline with her normal missteps but of a sexual nature. She was indeed without a clue.


It was a small matter of “tongues and blood”; a deep question brought on by complaints of a lack of cunnilingus and faulty lovers. My lady friend’s voice lowered, showing me that she was truly upset that she was denied a generous “eating out” during her monthly menstrual time. I presented shortly after two observations that seemed to fall on deaf ears. It was as I spoke a different language. I did speak of a man’s viewpoint and of reason, but I failed to sing within an emotional hymn.


I made sure she was heard and heard on the level that a “sister” should be, but the experience left me puzzled. Puzzled in that we have devolved so much from bringing our issues to those that need to know into creatures that spill to those that are ill-equipped to do anything tangible. It had left me asking the question: Have we walked down the row this far?



Countess Báthory (Paloma Picasso) takes her famous bath in Walerian Borowczyk’s Immoral Tales (1974)

Monday, October 3, 2022

POTE IN TSARIST RUSSIA

 POTE

Reblogged from

https://bdsmmaledrawings.blogspot.com/

English translation by Google



Two more experienced ladies & a priest teaching a young woman how to whip a peasant


Russian noble families spent the long, harsh winter locked in palaces, bored. Noble men ate and got drunk, staying drunk for weeks. Amidst the drunkenness, they also raped the most beautiful young servants.

 


While noble women, old or young, could not use their husbands or their servants to satisfy their sexual needs, one of the occupations was torturing employees just for fun.

This scene shows some more experienced ladies and a priest teaching a young woman how to whip a well endowed peasant. 

The servant was tied face up on the bench, had his pants and shirt pulled so that his body was exposed and naked for the lashes.

The women and the priest took turns for hours, lashing the boy's thighs, stomach, and breasts with heavy whips.

During the spankings the man got excited several times with his big hard cock. The women, intrigued by the emotion, tied the base of the penis to prolong the erection. The rich young woman had never seen a member so large and throbbing. She began to especially whip his groin and penis. After dozens of blows, to everyone's amazement, the servant simply came! The semen splashed a lot all over the place.

That`s why the castle women have adopted this brat as their favorite toy all winter long.


Ire In The Age Of Doom-Posting, Pt. 4 By Jon Hall

 Ire In The Age Of Doom-Posting, Pt. 4

By Jon Hall

Last issue, I wrote of an exodus from the “modern” way of living many find themselves currently stuck in. We buy and pay back into a rigged system that doesn’t benefit us – only the ultra-rich. Consider this… cell phones, typically one’s main source of the news, social media, entertainment (regressive mind distractions when binged in excess as many are wont to do), simply did not exist as they do today twenty years ago. Two decades ago, fledgling cellular technology – now proven to negatively rewire the human mind and thought patterns – infiltrated society right under our noses, in front of our very eyes in such a quick span of time. It’s a massive understatement: most do not realize the impact cell phones have had on humanity. True comprehension of the consequences smartphones have had on societies worldwide would first even be admitting there’s a problem. Not only are cell phones location trackers, keeping tabs on you pinging between cell towers (yawn, already know this… don’t care… zzz…), they also serve as “daily programming”. Think of how many people get breaking news alerts or headlines or articles sent directly to their phone. The very instant information is published, it also goes to millions of home screens. From screen, millions will digest and process the info, letting it shape their mindset. Sounds volatile, no? Full disclosure: I carry a smartphone even preaching on this bully pulpit. However, my app notifications are turned off – so nothing from Twitter, Facebook, Instagram… anything. I very sparingly tweet, barely use other socials. No matter how breaking they may be, I’ve turned off any news alerts to my home screen. This is what I mean when I speak of an exodus. For some, I’m sure the prospect of “unplugging” seems impossible. For others, it may come more naturally. Do I still use my phone and the internet? Absolutely. I listen to music and occasionally watch movies. I don’t think I’m hypocritical in these actions as my “vices” don’t control, let alone even effect my daily life. As far as self-imposed isolation goes, it may not be the right strategy for everyone. In fact, I may be best suited to warn of potentially “over-indulging” on this revolt away from the “old world”. You could easily ostracize yourself from social groups or friendships depending on just how far you decide to take it. There is a fine line to be tread, as with anything… The key to it is moderation. For instance, at one end of the spectrum is someone figuratively overdosing on movies, celeb drama, fashion, whatever – filling their mind to the brim with waste. Meanwhile, at the polar end of the gamut there is someone who has inadvertently cut themselves off from friends and family because of the mindset that using any tech whatsoever is corrupting. No. Back to the middle! An exodus. Not only from the brainwashing of mind-altering news headlines but from a reactionary, anger-filled lifestyle as well.


Saturday, October 1, 2022

MINERVA ARMATA. CATHERINE MILLET & SHAMELESS WRITING

MINERVA ARMATA

Reblogged from

 https://lamorbidamacchina.wordpress.com/2020/12/22/scrivere-di-sesso-al-femminile-catherine-millet-e-la-scrittura-spudorata/

English Translation by Google

"Eroticism is one of the bases of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry." 

(Anaïs Nin)

 

CATHERINE MILLET 

& SHAMELESS WRITING

The approach with which I deal with this topic must be evaluated from a gnoseological point of view, I do not consider those who approach the pornographic novel, whether it is erotic or obscene, driven by playful necessity (which also often arises and is an integral part of such readings) but of those who approach it with the same intent with which one approaches any novel: the pleasure of reading and discovery.

For a woman, reading an erotic novel written by a man is a way of understanding, a mentality, an attitude, trying to enter an imagination that is mostly unknown to her; with the female erotic novel it often happens that there is a process of identification or detachment generated by the underlying question: Would I ever do such a thing? 

I guess it's more or less the same for men. However, when one confronts the pornographic novel compared to a detective novel, for example, one enters a world in which personal involvement is much stronger, our desires, taboos, tastes, our inhibitions condition the reading; even when the tale is played out in the way of fiction. In the detective novel we can enjoy the plot, be the policeman or even identify with the mind of the murderer but with the reassuring idea that none of us will ever be a murderer. In the pornographic novel we know that sooner or later a situation could arise before us and the identification no longer becomes a hypothesis but a real fact. None of us assume we are a killer but we know we are a lover.

As I mentioned in this blog, literature is mostly about men narrating women, and although they often have sex with women, women have played a rather passive role in all of this, in bed and at the desk (in reality this passivity is more imaginary than real but especially as regards literature it was not easy for women to find a publisher; if we are talking about pornography, then, given the difficulties of men, imagine for them). The more pornographic literature has been a terrain of men who talk to other men, it could have been amusing reading for prostitutes in a brothel but we will have to, perhaps, get to the great ladies of the eighteenth century and the libertine spirit so that some would dare to show off knowing this literature, later write it! 

In the words of Nietzsche, and with the title of an erotic novel written in the feminine “Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior: all else is folly.”

All the more if the women started talking about the contents of that recreation, all the more if the women started talking about what caused this activity of "recreation" in them. Obviously, the evolution, the struggles for equality have begun to upset certain attitudes and we can see this since women now speak and write about sex.  

Yet something tells me that not everything is so simple, the author of Histoire d'O Dominique Aury writes under a pseudonym (Pauline Réage) and although already well known in the literary world with other works she will admit only in 1994 (the book is from 1954) to being the author; the diaries of Anaïs Nin already famous for her erotic novels will be published after her death, and this will probably cushion the scandal that a book like Incest should cause.

And let's get to the point: the annoyed reaction or the scandal. I happened to talk about Catherine Millet's novel, The Sexual Life of Catherine M., and I found myself mostly faced with a wall of negative judgments, such as: disturbing, a list of fucks, without an ending or rather a landing point, poorly written.  

The comparison that is immediate to me, given the character of "confession", is with Nin's diaries: I have always been an admirer of Anaïs Nin, of her psychological attention to sex, to her own sexuality, of her elegant writing in which even the crudest elements, although not mystified, take on a lyricism without being cloyingly sentimental; cultured, cosmopolitan woman, she expresses the culture of her time (born in 1903).

The equally cultured woman Millet, art critic, expresses the culture of her own time (born in 1948) in which the path started by women like Nin has undergone further evolution, where the psychological aspects of sexuality are not abandoned but can afford a more shameless language. And although Millet's narrative is undoubtedly even more explicit than Nin's, it cannot be accused of being crude or incapable of even psychological analysis of one's own sexuality. Certainly where Nin is more lyrical, Millet remains prosaic, their viscerality is expressed on two different registers. 

Then the doubt arises that female erotic literature still today, in the minds of some, must adapt to the mentality of women. Already; but what should be the character of a woman? What is her mentality?

The thought that is overwhelmingly revealed to me is that we are still judging the female mentality from the aspect of the male erotic-sentimental mentality and fantasy. A jumble of suppositions and impositions settled over the centuries that still today is part of the same female imagination, often also influencing the erotic way of putting oneself in the feminine. The educated woman will not express herself or behave like a whore, nor will the whore think of being educated; the woman will be available to experience forbidden erotic sensations as long as she is guided by a pygmalion to whom she is romantically linked; or else it will be a virago indifferent to love and, perhaps, also to sex, icy in the pleasure of making men suffer. There is always a combination. 

And then Millet can be read as a catalogue of fucks because this woman does not hide a sexuality that leads her to try everything: multiple intercourse, prostitution, sometimes degradation; it can be read as inconclusive because it does not close a narrative (and how could it if it is still alive and why should it if there is the good and dear habit of the open novel that leaves you the doubt and the freedom to finish the story yourself); it can be said that her book is poorly written because it narrates her sexuality as she feels it, as she experiences it and acts on her own skin.

Beyond taste, which I would never allow myself to judge, in a completely impartial way Millet's writing is curated, the narration of her sexual adventures, also in the considerations of her physical and mental reactions, deepened and ordered through her own system mental and aesthetic (it would be enough to read the titles of the chapters). Millet's is not a declared philosophical system like that of De Sade which, among the descriptions of various couplings, lays the foundations for the upheaval, even through sexual perversion, of a society that does not approve; or at least it doesn’t admit to. The fact that it is disturbing (and I confess that despite my reading it at the age of thirty it created various questions in me) means that perhaps that way of talking about one's sexuality touches an uncovered sensitivity, because let's tell ourselves the truth in centuries of erotic literature we have become accustomed to couplings of any kind and the aforementioned De Sade drags us into his Hundred & Twenty Days of Sodom in a hallucinated cupio dissolve of cruelty. That jolt comes perhaps and often from the freedom of a woman, cultured and intelligent, who appears mentally above average, who describes herself as she "degrades" (the judgement is in quotation marks because it is not mine but of society) giving herself in a lay-by for all the men who want to use her in line. Yet she has her dignity in narrating her own sexual needs or demands by putting on a book a name that corresponds to a face. Nobody feels disturbed by the thoughts of the anonymous queue with member in hand who says nothing and has nothing to say, if not perhaps some crude comment on the girl available. But it is a question of mentality.




TROY FRANCIS THE DAGESTANI DIVA

  TROY FRANCIS THE DAGESTANI DIVA   I knew very little about Dagestan before meeting Safia and to be honest I don’t know a great deal more n...