tumor

I don’t usually write down my dreams, tho my dream-world is one which, altho often fearful to me, I will remain, living in it, half-lucid, reliving detail after detail, disturbed yet entranced.

I live with my lover in a large piecemeal house with his parents. It is a house of half-finished rooms, particle board walls and ceilings bending under the broken mass which hovers ill over the air.

Just returning from a trip away, I find my lover’s father staring not talking, silent disapproval hanging like a half-syllable he won’t let fall from his lips; my lover has spoken to him of me, words he cares not to hear and ring of falseness, but discordance spoken is too plain for his taste.

His mother approaches me in my bedroom, a falling-down room empty save a seventies-styled broken brown armchair and straw mattress which lies in a corner on the floor and out from which the harsh insides poke, leaving me marked and scratching each morning.  She sits in the armchair and hands me two prescription pills she has been saving for her cousin. She fears my lover will find and take them. I hand them back to her; I fear myself taking that which she is entrusting to me to hide.

At times the house fills with the caucauphonous laughter of nieghbors and relatives; it is then I know to sit and stare at the false walls in my room, rocking in silence. This is their world. The density of what the walls speak tells me so.

A high school friend I called my “best” when those definitions mattered most is one of that gaggle of neighbors. She is same in large laughter, aplomb, and unfearful to summon to contest as that which made us an unstoppable team of teenaged twitters and cackles lifetimes ago. Another neigbbor, this one colorlessly middle-aged, is leaving and my long-ago friend bellows in a manner still bespeaking cheer that she will not be welcome over her neighborhood gatherings, as she has no place for those who do not walk the generous fields which connect the group.

I burrow to the barn, cavernous, with stalls for horses which no longer exist, filled with the stench of rotted hay. In one of those stalls I had set up my white desktop with the blinking green computer monitor attached to a dot matrix printer. It is gone. The stall is empty. The gym school locker which held writing from a long-ago lover also is empty.

I return to my bedroom. On the long dank wall between armchair and mattress my lover has written in large grade-school letters “I love you forever strumpet you are here beastly you are mine.” The words are scrawled in his own execrement. The room reeks of it and I can see the streaks from where his fingernails, shit-encased, scratched as he finished a word with a flourish.

I crawl to the mattress. Unpack a bag. Take out my laptop. I can’t get a connection.

“There Is No Blue without Yellow and Orange”

(said Van Gogh)

….

I usedta love music

and you usedta stare into my eyes, the soundtrack

to my voice.

You never joined me

at the piano concerto

where I saved you a seat, second row center.

We never traveled to MOMA

to together grasp Vincent’s intense

loud brushstrokes.

I hate music.

The house fills each evening

with your clamorous chest voice,

crashing piano.

I am Vincent, missing an ear;

I cut it off to spite your sound.

You refuse a hearing aid for the one you have left

to forsake metaphor for truth

in “turning a deaf ear”

to my brazen belting.

Thru it, we discern Beethoven’s sheet music,

run trembling hands over our transcendent dissonance,

savor the harmony of our cacophony.

Ohhh, Norwich!

I was asked by Lady C., aka Cherry Norwich, to write a bit on my experiences at and emotions about Norwich State Hospital, for a book she has in the works on the history of the Hospital. It will include photos of and stories from models she has photographed there, as well as many images documenting the site and interviews with former staff and patients. I am honored to be a part of this.

Norwich State Hospital resonates with me on every level. As one born into a family history rife with mental illness, a grandmother who tried to commit suicide twice, had shock treatment, an aunt in a nursing home at an early age due to bipolar disorder, an uncle in a group home as he is schizophrenic, an ex-boyfriend of nine years who would mutter swears at the angry voices that pounded in his head…and my own maybe not-quite-categorizeable version of mental illness which leads to anxiety, mania, and paralysis.

That was the initial draw to shooting out of an abandoned mental hospital.

So many layers beyond that have drawn me back, repeatedly.

The first time was fucking amazing. Pre-dawning it, while no longer necessry, was a scary and excting intro to Norwich. Lady C. and Karen picked me up (from where my father dropped me off around midnight) at The Hungry Tiger.  A faux blues bar filled with guys wearing baseball caps and drinking domestic beers. It was raining heavily. I sat outside waiting in the designated “smoking area”, dressed like a jewel thief, complete w/black  headscarf and many fucking bags. Drunk dudes pullled some extraordinarily average come-on lines as I smoked my cigar – I was way too focused on what we were about to do to give them the least notice.

That evening we drove into Norwich, stealthed down the railroad tracks (I learned Mohegan Sun from the other side of the tracks is like 12 o’clock on a sundial, showing the exact half-way p0int to our destination), and we sat in the theater freezing our asses off  (it was late October) waiting for the sun to rise to shoot.

I was the first model, Lady C ever shot (despite having taken many pics in abandoments prior) and what shone thru even her first time shooting with a model was her innate ability to capture the personality and truth behind the model and location. Models are not objects to Lady C, and the abandonments she shoots out of are personalities to her,  as well. They live and breath together.

I had been given much urgent instruction on the drive to the locale where we parked the car before walking thru woods to reach the railroad tracks. All bags ready to go, seatbelts unbuckled prior to stopping the car, out the door in silence and walking almost running until reaching the woods. No cell phone conversation, silence speed and utmost caution finding our way into a building to await the morning, manners of fending off  Security if  approached, once inside, staying away from windows, smoking only in areas where the lit end couldn’t be viewed by patrolling Security.

I followed Lady C. and Karen thru mazes of tunnels…Not knowing in the least where I was being lead, carrying five bags following the light from someone aheads’ cell phone thru falling-down tunnels where water leaked onto the floor which was rife with potholes and random objects blocking the way. Thinking about the level of trust I was putting in her. As a bondage submissive, I realize the Dom has the responsibility not me. My safety is his priority. My responsibility as a good “sub”: know how to folllow, take direction….behave to a point exactly as needed. It’s a sacred relationship that is earned. She, the first night, earned that level of trust.

We went back a number of times. Many photographers and models have wanted me to take them there. I cannot. She is my guide, my “Master” in these matters. I realize, now, once on the property, without guidance I could wander the tunnels, move around, find my way about, But that is only becuause, the first few trips, I put my trust in her.

We went back once in December, Shot a silent erotic video on the old Stage, kinda burlesque-style. I wore majorly huge fake eyelashes, curled my hair right before she picked me up at 3am, combed it out once we were ready to shoot. We were shivering as we waited for the sun to rise in that building that is now being demolished…the shivering didn’t stop as I became scantily clad and danced…she hadta slow the video down in parts to cover up my shaking with cold.  We were outtta there by noon tbat day, a kick-ass video under out belt, making tracks in the snow that would make us easily traceable to anyone caring to find out.

Another trip, we truly started gettting our jam on with video. We came with many ideas, but found we best worked using a location that spoke at the moment…ideas flew to us on the spot. As the sun rose, I put on my make up in the room next to the space  in which we had napped as we pre-dawned it, awaiting sunlight, full of adrenaline yet fucking exhausted. It was a bathroom, there was a broom…I  had some cold chicken and an energy drink to fuel me for the day in one 0f my bags. I asked her to go with my vague idea. Skeleton discussion prior to filming me taking a piss in an 80 year old decrepit toilet, eating chicken and drinking on that toilet, then masturbating with an ancient dusty broom.

Ideas sped to us without trying. She became enamoured of sunbeams falling in a tunnel…starting shooting stills. I had a slight thought. She filmed me tripping and falling, hazily undressing as the sunbeams danced upon my body, falling to sleep on an ancient dirty floor.

That day ended when we had a fuckload more energy in us and vidcos yet to be created. We had filmed a simple duct-tape dental chair bondage short, and then a POV-style “rape scene”; she following me with the camera as I reacted to her “advances” (my favorite part remains when she realized I had a piece of tape sticking to my ass…she unsure what to do, but eventually, still POV-style, gently removed the tape from my behind. What a tender moment in an impending rape!)…At the end of that scene, we were smoking, I was naked, and we were planning part two of the video. Construction crews were on the site, and even tho my “screams of distress” and swearing and spewing hatred on video were quietly done, we could hear, loud and clear, the sound of rough constuction workers – “Where’s the front door?” about to enter the building in which we were comfortably sitting.

We looked at each other, panicked. Knowing the day was over. Knowing getting caught woud not just mean a ticket and court date, but the destruction of that days’ work.

Within a minute I was dressed in my “jewel thief” clothing and multiple bags of wardrobe packed. We back tracked thru building after building, making our way thru tunnel after tunnel, scoped the scene of possible exits to run thru overgrown summer grass and brambles where we could easily be seen before exiting the propety.

It took us an hour and a half to get out safely. Once on the tracks, we breathed a sigh of relief. Thank YOU, Lady C., for teaching me thru multiple trips how to Ninja it thru windowns and tunnels and down long leaps to the ground while carrying my always-too-many bags of wardrobe. Thank you for teaching me to trust my own judgment, and with0ut question folow yours.

Demolition crews are on the ground now. Buildings are coming down. We have a final trip to make, you scoping out where the new security cameras have been put into place prior, figuring out the safest entrance.

More videos and stills must be created than can fit into the day. I will be more comfortable making my way thru the property.  You’ve taught by example how to Ninja. Yet you remain my “Master” in navigating the territory.

You bring the camera and locale expertise…I bring the fetish…the ideas come from the perfect location, from between us and beyond us.

The adventure is ready-made by the nature of what Norwich is, all that it stands for, its artchictecture a piece of history with stories told and untold…It remains a living story-book, a choose-your-own adventure, the Greatest Amusement Park ever not meant to be created.

zee mind grows darker…

“I am an artist that creates using light and sexuality”
–Tony Focus, kick-ass photography whose photos are featured above…

As I continue going more deeply into fetish photography, I find my ideas becoming further beyond the norm. I’ve been lucky to meet up with some great photographers who are more than willing to go there with me…who are there. Don’t get me wrong, pretty pictures are fucking great. But…as with any photo shoot, it’s a jam between model and photographer, and getting certain kinds of minds together makes for some interesting work…and conversation!

A deeply important piece of filming this kind of work is trust. I’ll generally have an awful lotta late-night in-depth long-distance talks and e-mails with a photographer before shooting this sort of thing…and be sure that I know his/her reputation is a fucking great one, first.

These were shot in Detroit, with Tony Focus, who just rocked to spend time with, shooting, talking, eating, creating video, and barely sleeping. We also shot a kick-ass video I posted on my store (clips4sale.com/store#41655) “The Catholic Whore Is Brutally Forced to Desecrate her God”…yesss, piss is involved again. Fun for the whole family? Uhhhh…no. Fun in the eyes of many, or in any manner, appropriate? Uhhhhh…no. Yet a ton of fun to shoot (he was a natural in front of the camera as well as behind it) and an all-round great way to spend a Friday night!

roasted butternut squash

we got so drunk last night
I can’t recall the details to document.
My synapses are stuck on certain scenes:
the oven pre-heats to warm two Jamaican beef patties, mild,
we douse with hot sauce;
you swagger licention, belting out con affeto “Making Whoopie”
I writhe at your feet mouth by your cock, taunting,
then toss you blithely away;
grilled cheese and bacon, mac’n'cheese, roasted butternut squash;
your muscles are elated as you slap my ass bare-handed, your eyes
sublime as I wiggle in my undies, the sound of slaps grows harder,
sweat on your brow
stink on my wet stubbled twat;
I remember your spirited stubby fingers banged out,
grandioso, “Hurry Up Harry” and Pearl Jam on piano.

The concrete facts once sober:
I fall asleep safely in your arms
awake to my belly growing bigger
and the bald spot on top your head.

you sigh in sleep don’t want to let me go so I can
write this down.

She’s Such a Cunt (Comic Book)

_Shes Such A Cunt_ Comic Book#9203

(in PDF format…some wholesome fun!)

model and poet – Lauri Adverb
photographer – Melvin Moten
photoshop overlord – Dan Gilman

“Liberties” as Photopoem

Model and Words: Lauri Adverb

Photography: Randy Agnositis

Photoshop Overlord: Dan Gilman

Waiting

Model and Words: Lauri Adverb
Photographer: Randy Agnositis
Photoshop Overlord: Dan Gilman

Stories from Smutville (behind the scenes making my new site)


I just started a Clips4Sale site…Clips4Sale being one of the major websites on the internet, and the main, huge site which houses many other sites for fetish clips….My site runs the gamut of fetishes, from spanking to bondage to POV fear to…friggin’ eating chicken on an 80-year dirty toilet in an abandoned mental hospital and jerking off. Fun fer the whole family, I tell ya!

(you’ll find the link listed with other links to  my stuff on the right side of the blog…just so ya know, it’s called “LauriAdverbRAW” and it’s Studio #41655 on Clips4Sale.com…)

…I’ve got a friend who lives quite far away, with whom I share many late-night long-distance conversations that sometimes run ALL night and into the morning…he often encourages me to simply write a paragraph after each shoot that I do, his thought bein’ that soon enuf I’d have a book. Maybe down the line I’ll take his advice…

In the meantime, I thought I’d share a few snippets with y’all about some of the goings-on while I begin to create this site…Hmmm….maybe I’ll take his advice and update regularly with stories….

Snippets:

…On the road back from FetishCon ’10, Jim Hunter, a few other girls and I stop at Ivan Boulder’s in North Carolina. We arriive late at night, and Ivan and I stay the lone ones up, sharing some good scotch and cigars. He’s always one to count on for a good cee-gar and conversation. The next the the house slowly becomes abso-fucking-lutely FULL of gorgeous girls in lingerie and lovely seamed stockings and heels. Lottsa rope, lottsa filming. Katie Love barbecues for all of us…Porterhouse steaks for the others, chicken, for me. Ivan and I shoot for trade; I do a tickling clip for a friend of his, and he does a spanking clip for me. Everyone watches as we film, laughing their asses off as I play a shitty secretary who is disciplined by brutal spanking before being left there and fired…Ivan didn’t know quite how rough I can take it (he SHOULD!!! I gave him a good goddamn fight last year…I’m STILL hearing that story go ’round….) so he errs (as is right) on the side of caution…to let him know I can go a helluva lot harder, within the scene I egg him on, act like I kinda like it….the night ends with a series of tie-ups in the garage just for fun….

…On my birthday I film for my site with Jim, ideas for scenes from photos posted by someone on my Yahoo Group…Poor Jim truly DOES NOT enjoy seeing me naked, nor does he enjoy being even vaguely sexual with me…it’s a part of the relationship that we have…complete lack of sexual tension. Unfortunately, he must abuse me in ways he would prefer not (he far prefers the sarcastic pulling of the chair from beneath me so I fall while tied up, then perhaps a kick in the ribs while I’m on the floor…) AND see me in naught but my undies. He grumbles, but as the good-natured asshole that he is. I’m broke, and can’t buy a birthday present for my boyfriend, whose birthday falls just days after mine. Jim doesn’t have cash, but he buys the Glenlivet and cigars on his credit card so I can give my boyfriend a birthday present…

…Katie Love truly is a ton of fun to wrestle with. She’s been coming into realizing that she truly is drawn to fetish since attending FetishCon ’10. She is quite a dom, but happily bottoms, as well. We have a ton of fun shooting for trade, as we both are filming about to open our new stores (her’s is a superherione fetish store). She’s incredibly strong for such a small girl, but, like me….it’s not size that counts, it’s the pure aggro energy ya got inside ya that counts! We shoot a couple for each other…She terrorizes me inside a box (I do the same to her), and we both are making up as we go the horrors we will put each other thru…the scenes are electric in that we truly do enjoy terrorizing each other, and relish the surprises that come with that. At first we tried planning…it got too complicated. After Jim left to go have dinner with his family, leaving us with the camera and telling us to get to to work, we had dinner….then got to fucking work. Tons of fun in the box on both ends…and wrestling matches for both our sites where the fighting is quite “to the pain” and quite real (it’s a good thing we had decided prior to filming each scene who would lose…or we may still be filming!)…

…JJ Plush comes to visit…we’d talked about shooting trade for a while…in addition, she had said she really wanted to get tied up next to me…but that Jim would be too lazy and make us top each other, instead. She gets her wish, I get to try out one of her H-U-G-E ballgags (quite proud of myself for being able to handle it!), we film a scene for me that I’ve always wanted to do (a bondage take-off on Betty Page and Tempest Storrm’s Teaserama)…we head back to Jim’s get stoned and giggle while Jim bakes us warm cookies that he serves with almond milk…

climbing

photo by Andre LaVelle, poem written for his blog…ya should check it out! www.theprivateiproject.blogspot.com

It starts a tingle,
fleeting thought
of yr lips brushing mine,
her hips swaying
against a suburban silhouette,
the sound my cunt-lips make
when moist and in motion.

At five, summer afternoons
my mom would nap
in the cool of the basement.
Not tired, I’d nap, too.
Under a thin sheet
as the damp heat
pervaded the room,
I snuck my hand down cotton briefs,
thrilling in the sensation
of my index finger rolling
on my clit.

Age nine: three times
a day I’d stealth
to the side of my large bed
with large pillow, the high
frame and flowered sheet around it
hiding me from view.
the pillow became Johnny Depp,
Jon Bon Jovi.
I rode them, quiet ecstactic,
talking dirty to them,
sure they were getting off just as good
and amazed at my prowess.
After, we’d cuddle, spent.

Throughout timid teenage years
once they dropped me off in their parents’ cars,
the boys I’d never let touch me
down there
became my bitches
in the dark silence of my bedroom,
punctuated by my hushed moans
and mother’s snore.

I learned to ride
before I ever
climbed a man.