Model and Words: Lauri Adverb
Photographer: Randy Agnositis
Photoshop Overlord: Dan Gilman
Waiting
Posted in photopoems
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.
Posted in poetry
Tagged Andre LaVelle, masturbation, www.lauriadverb.com, www.theprivateiproject.blogspot.com
soul on fire
…I’ve been lucky enuf to to be asked by Melvin Moten, an amazing photographer, to write the foreword to his newest book, as well as text to his photos. I’ve included an example of his work w/me here, as well as said intro to his book…
Soul on Fire
I first met Melvin at FetishCon ’09 in Tampa. I had been doing Damsel clips for a hot three weeks when I got the invite from Jim Hunter. When I saw Melvin I was immediately arrested. His presence was aloof, too cool for school, and he was surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful, unconventional (even by fetish standards) women. I tried to approach him. I could get as close as one of the women, who showed me her, photographed by Melvin, in a book he had recently published.
I met a shitload of good people that week, but Melvin, often outside smoking at the same time as I, never said a word to me. He seemed unapproachable. I figured, “Well, I’m nobody. He’s…Someone. Why the fuck would he wanna talk to me?”
It was at Stu Levine’s afterparty that Melvin approached me. All around were well-known fetish models. He sidled up behind me, said in his inimitable husky-gentle voice, “I’ve just met the most interesting woman at this party.”
He asked to photograph me. I asked what he was looking for. “Just you. Looking beautiful.” I followed him to his suite, draped in red, where we listened to Jack Kerouac, jazz playing behind words. It was one of my first shoots ever. His vibe was sexy, intense, in awe. Before his lens I felt free of the constraints of vanilla society. Free to be myself, my sexy self. He showed me the shots on his camera after. They fucking rocked. Captured my essence.
I’ve shot w/Melvin a number of times since. Some of my favorite images come from a series we shot at the Carlton Arms in NYC. He mentioned to me before I arrived that he’d like to shoot me while I used a dildo on myself. I agreed. I was nervous. An orgasm seemed to me a private moment, not one I was willing to experience before the camera. I arrived early in the afternoon, sat out of the way of the lights and away from the action watching as Melvin shot “N” working it w/a curved silver dildo. I watched him work, treating the moment w/utter sacredness, creating that atmosphere that only he creates, one of intimacy and realness, as she came. Hard.
He shot me next. I was absolutely comfortable, it was absolutely exhilarating. I positioned myself on the ground by the sink in the room. I was in my own private world; I was in the world Melvin creates. The world in which sexuality, in any form that it takes, is normal, human, and at the same time beyond the bounds of the normal. It is a world in which sexuality is the most sacred form of enacting being human. It is his world.
That shoot w/Melvin taught me something important: it is not what one does before the camera that is the important boundary to hold, as a model, but with whom it is that one is shooting. Trust is paramount.
The atmosphere Melvin creates is beyond one of trust. Trust is a given. Melvin treats each person, each act, as unique, never to be encountered again, perfect. Behind his lens we are able to be ourselves, our most true sexual selves. What Melvin captures is real. What Melvin captures is soul.
poikilos nomos
(basesd on the Greek, roughly translated, ‘a shifting code’)
You are an asshole;
I am a bitch.
I write trite poetry
and yr songwriting is insipid.
I am yr Peppermint Patty
who just won’t take a hint
and leave you the fuck
alone.
You are my Chinaski,
drunk, dead-ended
listening to classical music
alone in a small stale room.
We are a thunderstorm
electric-charged
lightning crashing
dangerously close to each other.
God bowls strikes
His gallows humor
punches us in the gut.
You are my asshole, baby,
I am yr bitch.
We make a fine pair:
you walking like an old man,
bow-legged and belly first,
me, every bit
the fucking whore.
We are who our parents warned us about.
Together, painting the town puke,
serenading each other every thousandth or so night,
laughing at insult to injury,
dissolving tears into fucking.
I keep you in my barbed-wire arms,
sheltered from the other world
You rescue me w/barbarous force
from the shitstorm outside.
Truth or Dare is always safest
in the center of the storm.
Posted in poetry
Tagged "it's complicated", Bukowski, love, power struggles, relationships, www.lauriadverb.com
a snapshot of the artist
“I am not yr average guy”
He sits tall as his curved
5’3″ frame is able, waxes teethily
photographing in Prague,
a piece won a competition.
Kisses me.
Sloppy, directionless, body worming
its curved way
in every wrong direction.
In the dark he undresses.
I see the scar that runs
a lengthwise S around his back.
I am on top of him
he whimpers and moans.
He does not move to meet me.
He loses his erection.
Next morning is same.
He’s been waiting
for a gorgeous chick;
that gorgeous chick can’t ride a flaccid cock.
Late night stoned he is Serial Mom
pontificating editorial vs glamour,
informs me against wearing a bikini.
He says I have a belly.
I read him a poem. His body shifts
until I stop.
He points out flaws
in models’ portfolios. His:
eleven views, no comments.
I leave.
He never came.
Me neither.
Year later: the telephone.
Advice on distribution, website development,
profit margins.
All wrong.
He is unemployed. Failed relationship.
Couldn’t get it up.
Says he’ll leave the art to the artists.
trash
My father lives on a cul-de-sac.
He is surrounded by a quarter-acre of landscaping
upon which the neighbors fear
to tread.
The minorities have moved in;
they work on beaters dead in the driveway,
drink Carlo Rossi afternoons,
when they throw parties, guests
piss in his bushes.
He is perplexed.
He doesn’t know
it didn’t begin
w/upstart easy-approval mortages.
The suburban landscape has always been littered w/us:
Renting small rooms in falling-
down houses,
cold flats on the far edge
of town,
rent-controlled apartments
where the neighbor knocks at midnight, asks,
“Excuse me, do you have any marajuana or
crack, Miss?”
When taking out the recycling
means a mountain teetering
w/empty half-gallons of Lord Calvert.
When the neighbor downstairs
supplies the neighborhood
w/coke and pussy.
When the exterminator at long last arrives,
I am giddy at the sight of a niccotine-stained apartment,
dead roaches, belly-up,
deep like new carpeting.
I have itched envisioning that mirrored table,
’70′s era,
at the Salvation Army,
lined, endless cocaine.
Shit, tho, it cost three dime bags.
I have drank all night into morning
remaining in the piss-soaked chair.
I’ve let dishes pile
until cobwebs grew between grime.
We’ve always been in the fabric of yr community.
Me and my friends,
Our lousy paychecks spent by Saturday morning,
Friday having been a damn fine evening,
Sham and dancing,
a futon wet w/cunt-juice
that never seems to dry.
I’m moving home.
Packed a couple car’s worth of records and dirty clothes,
Left behind the empties, furniture, and garbage.
I ring the doorbell.
Daddy, the new neighbor has arrived.
