Give Me All Your Love

Madonna giving me panty stains

So everybody knows that I am a huge Madonna fan.  This is usually the point when some bitchy queen chimes in with an eye roll or some snarky comment.  Well YOU can go fuck yourself.  I mean that literally; find a way to insert your own penis into your ass, move it in and out, and literally fuck yourself.  I love her.

When I was younger my dad didn’t like me listening to music.  At the time gangsta rap was prevalent and he was afraid if I listened to what was out there I might join a gang or have an orgy or something.  He didn’t want music to influence me to make bad decisions, which is a good-at-heart parenting move, but something people should learn to embrace is to talk to their children about outside influences, not try to block them from the outside world.  They’re going to hear/see stuff no matter what, and if you try to block them from it they are only going to interpret that as “I have questions about this but I can’t go to my parents, so who will I talk to about it?”  That’s where the dangerous part comes in to play.

p.s. I was allowed to listen to his music (on CASETTE. omg @ dating myself).  His music of choice was Styx, Oingo Boing, AC/DC, etc.  All good wholesome bands.

I was about 13 when my mom snuck me my first CD (CD!!).  It was Madonna’s Immaculate Collection — an album hailed as one of histories “must haves” in regards to the 80s.  She handed it to me, I was in my bedroom, and she told me “Don’t tell your dad.”

Madonna then became a symbol of untapped forbidden extracurricular enjoyment for me, and my prying eyes and ears wanted more.

I would take trips to Warehouse Records in Torrance (it was a place, I promise) and just flip through all the CDs that she had released.  The artwork on the album covers taunted me, because I was a good little boy and I wasn’t about to purchase something I was told not to.  But I wanted it.  I WANTED IT.  Then she released Bedtime Stories, and upon hearing Human Nature — a song about being repressed and not caring anymore — my itch became a scratch and it needed attention.

I was a member of that horrible pyramid scheme BMG music.  It’s where you could sign up to order CDs via snail-mail and, unless you told them otherwise, they would send and bill you for the pick-of-the-month.  I abused that fucker like no other, and when Madonna’s Bedtime Stories was released, I decided to stand my ground.

I tried to reason with my dad.  ”It’s just music! It’s not like I am going to go out there and start having sex!”  This statement is probably hilarious to those who knew me back then.

“Human Nature IS sex!” he replied.  I stood my ground, and in the end he gave me permission to buy it.

Madonna has since been a connection between me and my mom.  Whenever I listen to Madonna I think of my mom.  Her act of treason opened up the doors to my musical life, and although I have obviously discovered other artists that I love, Madonna still holds a very dear and precious part of my heart.

I should point out that my dad, by my 16th birthday, loosened up a lot, and even bought Madonna’s SEX book for me.  He told me when he gave it to me; “I was going to buy you the video of the behind-the-scenes of the book, but I felt like that would be too much.”

Madonna’s SEX book inspired me to research other erotic-themed photography because I saw it as so romantic despite the raw sexuality of it all — which people typically view as crude — and lead to me being one of the dolls here at Darling House.  Just a little back story for you on how I got here.  Once I finish my upcoming art/erotica zine you’ll see what I mean.  Oh and yeah, by the way I am working on my next zine.  Photography by Travis Williams.  Stay tuned!

Anyway she someone just leaked her new song “Give Me All Your Love” and I am loving it.  It’s simple, it’s campy, it’s pop — It’s Madonna doing whatever the fuck she wants.

Check it out:


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The Lies That Save Us

I went on a date once with a guy and he told me that the fact that I am so open with my blogging scared him.

I asked him the obvious, already knowing the answer; “Why does it scare you?”

“Because if I piss you off or hurt you, you’re just going to tell the world” he said.

“Are you planning on hurting me?”

He never called me again after that.

Believe it or not, there are a lot of things that I don’t post in my blogging.  There are certain lines that I don’t cross out of respect to privacy.  Sure some people will know who or what I am talking about, but those people are my real-life friends and have heard it all first hand, in greater detail.  Everyone else…well who’s to say anyone else even cares what I write.

I recently ended a relationship that was like a poison in my blood.  I was obsessed with “being there” for this person who was going through some very difficult psychological happenings, and throughout the process there were really good times.  However, there was also a lot of him doubting me, a lot of me having to explain my actions and motives, a handful of him getting drunk and telling me he hated me and once that I was awful, and a lot of me feeling completely drained at the end of each day.  Now that we are broken up he is constructing walls around me in his head, kinda like that movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  Except that’s a movie and this is an actual person who is very openly telling me “I am trying to forget you and all of the silly stuff you put me through.” Finger pointing, blaming, redirecting, etc…Nothing I’m into.

The movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was inspired in part by a poem called Eloisa and Abelard.  It’s absolutely gorgeous, and it makes you want to fight monsters and destroy worlds for someone.  There is a line of the poem that I really connected with in regards to this person;

“Though cold like you, unmov’d, and silent grown

I have not yet forgot myself to stone.”

Everything that I put myself through for the sake of this person was very clearly linked to my experience with my mom.

My mother suffers from a range of psychological ailments.  I believe the last official diagnosis was “psychotic schizophrenic manic depressive.”  She has been plagued with these issues ever since I can remember, and only within the last handful of years has she made any real progress on the matter.

I remember the moment I became an adult.  I was seven years old.

My dad, sister and I had returned from Ralph’s with an armful of groceries.  As we approached our apartment door we noticed that it was open and that our living room was populated by a dozen or so paramedics.  On a stretcher there in the living room was my mom, hooked up to some breathing tank thing and asleep.

She had tried to kill herself. Again.

After they left I ran in to my room which I shared with my younger sister.  I knelt down between our two beds on the floor in an oversized shirt which I used as pajamas.  I placed my entire face into the palms of my hands and began to weep.

As I sat there on the floor crying I was oblivious to the lack of emotional restraint I had.  Part of being a child is acting in extremes.  Small disappointments result in dramatic outbursts.  Bubbles floating in the air result in fits of laughter.  Your mother being wheeled out of your apartment after taking a bottle of anti-depressants results in an outpouring of tears into your hands.

I looked over my shoulder suddenly, I’m not sure why.  There was no sound, no shadows.  I’ve always had this gift for being able to tell when someone is behind me, just enter the room and I can feel you there.  Standing in the doorway was my dad who had just seen me in my room.  He stood in the doorway briefly, sighed, and walked away to take care of my sister.

The expression on his face made me realize how alone he must feel having to do this whole parenting thing on his own.  Suddenly, in that moment, I straightened my back, the tears stopped almost immediately, I wiped my face dry and went to help him with my sister.

My childhood was put on pause when I was seven.

I would spend a lot of time with my mom listening to her.  It’s not something that my dad had a lot of patience for.  My dad is a laborer, and a damned hard worker, but when it comes to feelings and the emotional stuff he often struggles to relate.  So I would sit with my mom and just let her talk.  It was sometimes tame, sometimes obvious unrestrained ramblings.  I would piece together all of her stories and find tangents between them.  I would hear what she was saying but then also seek out where it was coming from and why.  I have been a psychoanalyst ever since I was seven.

It was difficult at times but I was there for her, and that alone showed how much I loved her.  We developed an insanely strong bond that remains in tact to date.  I was by her side and I always will be.

Now as an adult 2,500 miles away, it interests me to look back at the types of men I have dated in my 29 glorious years on this planet.  It always seems that I end up with someone who thinks of themself or is perceived as a “lost cause”.  I think I’ve learned a lot about my habits with dating recently and, yes, I think I have been drawn to people like this because of my desire to fix everything with everyone, ever.  I have limitations though, and realistically I can only do so much for someone.  And also realistically, I really didn’t feel right in a relationship.  Not just that one specifically, but just in general.  I have so much going on in my life right now, and I felt guilt as the realization crept upon me that I have not allowed for there to be time in my life for a monogamous relationship — and worse; I felt guilt that I realized I am ok with that.  I felt guilt around deciding this, because hey if I could be there for my mom then why not for a boyfriend.  Well you know what the difference is?


Don’t ever treat me like shit.  I wont tell the world your name, but chances are the people you’ve encountered already know exactly who I’m talking about, and I’m done being blamed for your issues and insecurities and my life style.  I never blamed us not-working-out on you, but you seem to love to blame me.  It just didn’t work out.  Some things just don’t work out.  Why does someone have to lose?

Travis and I are getting in to the Fleshbot awards and after party for free.  I’m going to have coffee with my pal Buck Angel and (hopefully!) do a photo shoot with him next week. My Swamp Witch friend in Arizona has surrounded me with wards.  Today I danced on my bed and wore wolf paws.

It’s finally over, my life is back to normal.



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I attended the Sacred Sex Roundup on Friday where I was to speak on a panel about spirituality and sexual identity/orientation.  I believe the entire thing is going to be online soon so I’ll let you know when it’s posted so you can see how idyllically awkward I am in real life.

After the panel I received some very nice feedback on my presentation.  Words used to describe me were “captivating”, “compelling”, and “hunk”.  I’ve never been called any of those before, so it was really exciting to hear and it made me feel really positive about the panel — which ended up being a very interesting conversation.

At one point I revealed to the audience that I was half Native American.  People are always surprised to hear that, I’m not sure why.  Oh wait I know why, it’s because my skin is as white as a porcelain.  But yes, it is true…I’m Native American.  Hopi and Cahuilla to be precise.

When I was young and studying my roots I came across ritualistic shamanism and shapeshifting and studied it pretty heavily for a handful of years.  Shamans are individuals that communicate with the spirit world in order to handle situations in the physical world.  They don’t deal directly with medicine, exactly, but rather work to heal the spirit, which then translates to healing the body.  Interesting little side fact — gay shamans are considered two-spirited shamans, and are actually revered as especially powerful as they successfully exhibit the traits of both the masculine and feminine.  Gender fluidity runs rampant amongst many shamans and is actually highly respected.

There are a lot of theories behind shapeshifting, ranging from fairytale stories to lore to actual practice.  To successfully shapeshift isn’t necessarily to turn in to a bird or lion or snake.  Rather it is to focus on the being (be it animal or otherwise) and what qualities it is about that form that you wish to adapt into yourself, and by doing so you “shapeshift” into that being and adopt its qualities and skills.

Anyway, there really isn’t a specific point to any of this I just wanted to share a little about my background.  This Halloween I have shape shifted into a tribal wolf.  Hear me roar!

Oh I also shape shifted into a blonde for the first time ever.  What do you think?


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Work vs. Werq

Oh em gee, I have been a busy little man.  I just wanted to stop by and tell y’all that I will be speaking on a panel this coming Friday the 28th here in New York at the Sacred Sex Roundup. I will be speaking alongside some very impressive individuals, including my friend and co-worker Ignacio Rivera from The Pleasure Chest.  It will be broadcast online for those of you that want to watch but can’t attend.  Cool!

Anyway, I hate posting without giving you something to look at, so check out my costume from my Halloween Orientation party this last Friday


And after:

Ahh I enjoy life, I do.

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Cups and Hurricanes

“I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.”

-John Green, Looking for Alaska

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The Desperate Kingdom of Love

When I was 19 I had an emotionally abusive boyfriend that enjoyed manipulating reality to absolve himself of guilt or responsibility and directed due blame at me.  He’d turn every issue into something that was, actually, my fault and he enjoyed controlling me, and I — 19 years old — didn’t see it happening.  After I left him for a witch I met that worked in the same mall as me at Hot Topic, I fell in love but he wasn’t able to do a relationship, so we ended in a flurry of tears.

Every guy I dated after that was either perfect or awful.  Cody was a good boy.  Larry was insane, but to his credit so was I at the time.  After a handful of relationships, both good and bad, I came to understand things about myself that weren’t healthy that only manifested when I was with someone; jealousy, possessiveness, hypocritical thinking.  I had a boyfriend when I first moved to New York, and we broke up almost immediately.  I am told by everyone who has known him the last five years that he has turned into an arrogant sketchy asshole.  He was a good boy when he was with me, but I was, again, crazy.  I e-mailed him last year to tell him that, despite the pettiness on both sides of our break up, I hope nothing but wonderful things for him.  Maybe that was a weird thing to do?  I don’t know.  All I know is I don’t need a grudge in the back of my head; it happened, it’s over, and sometimes things just end; the end.  Bury the hatchet.  Bury the hatchet.

I took five years off from dating to focus on me.  Well, me and work.  I realized that I had a lot of work to do on myself before I could have a meaningful, healthy relationship, and so I began doing things that made me happy and that I enjoyed.  I read somewhere once “If you are looking for love, don’t.  You’ll find love when you start doing things you love.”

In these last five years I have found my smile.  I see colors that I never saw before and I hear sounds in silence.  I discovered that this feeling I’ve always had in me was a love for life, and I wanted to share that love with the world.  My friends feel it — I surround my friends with love and joy and I never want to see them upset.  My life is busy but simple.  Everyday I come home and sit on my roof and watch the sun set.

So I finally met someone that caught my interest for more than a minute.  He is a wonderful person and extremely beautiful, and when I’d make him smile I felt as though I owned the entire fucking galaxy.  But there were problems, and the problems became bigger than me, and in the process my smile was misplaced.

I’m not really into posting boohoo woe is me stuff.  I am not a being of regret and despair.  Come to me for a smile, come to me to laugh till your face hurts, dance with me and hold my hand.  I do not root myself in negativity and complaining.  I took five years off and realized this; we really don’t have much time at all.

But I guess you can say that this is an exception to the rule.  I am sad, for multiple reasons.  Forgotten feelings got hurt,  tears shed.  So this is a reality blog, and my reality right now is this; I met someone I liked, it didn’t work out, and now I am bummed.  There I admitted it, I’m not immune.

I sometimes wholeheartedly believe that I am dumb.  Everything seems like it could be so simple to me, and everyday I think of all the things I want to do and I do them.  But I must be dumb because I don’t see too many other people out there doing that.  I’m going home each day happy and thinking “I did that day right!”  Meanwhile it seems that everyone else in this city spends their time complaining and being cynical.  I will not waste my time with that.  You may go ahead and complain, I will have wine.  Also I take a free annual IQ test online and consistently score above 150 so go fuck yourself.

I have a habit of putting myself out on a limb for a guy that I like.  I am a pretty tough cookie and can take a beating, and perhaps I stay in the game longer than I should.  I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.  I know this city, it’s a tough place to date.  Everyone is jaded, nobody trusts anyone else.

I am a difficult person to date, I’m told.  I get it, I get it.  But I’m a nice person.  I’m a good egg.  That’s all I promise; I’ll be good.

I can feel my optimism returning to me.  I know what is there for me tomorrow; a friend who lives five feet from me who will always cherish me as much as I cherish him, a memory of a beautiful boy smiling at me in the shower, the sunset falling down on my roof.

I was in the process of making him a CD because I am that gay.  This was the first track I added to it, I would listen to it on repeat everyday when I walked around the city, but now it just makes me miss things.

The Desperate Kingdom of Love

I’m going to bed.  I hope I dream of being able to fly.

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Scratch; I claw at the dirt and let it live under my nails.  I grab the stones and lay them all around me and around me they consume me.  Flora springs forth from rock cocks and lays firmly beside me.  I’m a slut for this floor; I let it abuse me with grainy texture and rough hands, and I see him there.  He thrusts one hand inside me, his fingerprints are in my blood. Scratch; no amount of rubbing will remove him from inside.

You’ve seen it; the clouds charge the sky.  They are dark and thick and low; black and grey.  Each mass churns into itself and off the rest.  I wait for it and it comes; a breeze around my body, squeezes my waist, fills me up.  I want that magic and by wanting I take and I let it inside of me – unprotected sex with the wind.  It fills me up.  I am intellect and knowing.  It’s then that the clouds excuse themselves and the sky, bright and blue, welcomes me.  I see him there, staring down, and I stare back.  He sees me as I am – the beauty of a flower’s petals fluttering lightly, the danger of a storm.  You’ve seen it; the magic in eyes the moment between the lightning and the thunder.

I come from California; there the Sun wraps the city in a blanket of heat – an idol in the sky.  Nobody would tell you because nobody knows, but the lord of Los Angeles is the Sun Himself.  Nobody worships the streets or Hollywood or The Coffee Bean or the 405.  People don’t go there for the celebrities, honest.  People don’t move there across the country for the beach itself.  Los Angeles is ruled by the Sun, and he blesses the people with burned flesh and warm faces and shade.  You cannot move to Los Angeles and expect to ever know this as I do, as I have been born in to it and am of Him.  The explosions and gas tumbling millions of miles away is implanted beneath my bones.  I keep it in my heart and when I kiss you, when I look at you, when I’m inside you, when you’re inside me, when we’re fucking, you are the recipient of love fueled by pure fire. I come from California; scratch my skin, feel the flame.

Imagine; I went to the ocean at night. Looked to the black water. Saw the broken reflection of the moon, streaks of cold bright whiteness shifting. Let the smallest of the waves race over my feet, and on contact didn’t feel temperature or wind or sand. Focused instead on the force of its fluidity. Felt instead my body inviting. Each swirl and leap, each wet embrace intoxicating; I have been poisoned. It’s not meant to kill, I can tell. I let it in, and he was there. The insisting waves moved fast around and across me and I saw him. I see him now, and my body is covered in moon kissed tide armor. My skin reflects all light and drowns all sound. I’m out to sea. I see him here. Imagine; come to the ocean at night and find us.

I stand before you awake.

I open my eyes, awake.

My eyes are open, awake.

Photo 2011 JM Darling

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Slut Walk NYC

Yesterday was the Slut Walk in NYC (or as the autocorrect in my phone reported to my dad, the Slur Walk).  I was out and about passing out some pins on behalf of The Pleasure Chest with my friends and they were a hit.  We passed out pins that said Consent is Sexy, Ethical Slut, and everyones favorite SLUT PRIDE (all caps).

September was a challenging month for me.  Work was intensely busy with the Pleasure Chest’s 40th anniversary celebrations and I got the news that a few of my employees would no longer be in New York.  There are times when I feel that I am always spending my life playing catch up, which is half just the nature of the job and half my fault for involving myself in so many projects.  I just hate not doing anything; especially in New York where there are so many events and causes to participate in.

Within minutes of arriving at Union Square for the Slut Walk I was recognized by the Daily News and asked for an interview, which I thought was pretty neat.  I was recognized by a lot of other people as “Brandon from The Pleasure Chest”, and my friend joked that “of course you’d be famous at the Slut Walk”.  If people knew how boring my life truly was outside of industry related events they would probably be somewhat disappointed in this myth of sexual awesomeness surrounding me.  When I am not working or performing at an event, I am usually just sitting on my roof staring at the sky, watching the sun set.  I am an old woman at heart, and I want to do nothing more than just sit and do NOTHING when I am not booked to be somewhere.  I may as well be a piece of patio furniture on my roof for the amount of time I just sit there being useless.

Right before the Slut Walk I was walking around Union Square and some random person who was unaware of the event asked me why I was all dressed up.  I explained the event and what it was for, and without any prior suggestion that she should relate she said “That’s really a great thing that you’re doing, I was raped when I was twelve and something needs to change.”

The casualness of how she explained the experience to me reminded me of so many other people who have experienced sexual abuse, myself included.  When you are the victim of sexual abuse you feel all the usual things, but there is also a moment for many where you realize you have to make a choice: let it bring you down and forever be mournful of the fact that it happened, or pick yourself up and go on with your life.  I chose the latter, and so did she, and after she took a picture of me with her new iPhone that she confessed she “didn’t know how to use yet”, she smiled at me ever so subtly and said “Thank you for fighting for me.”

It happened and it’s real.

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I’ll be performing tomorrow and I look like a witch

This summer has been incredibly busy for me. I moved into a new apartment and my old POS computer refuses to connect to the wireless router; spoiled by decades of being fed the internet directly into its ass like an information super highway enema. So I apologize for the lack of posting, I promise I’m still alive and working on being sexy.

Speaking of sexy, check out that photo above. That was taken by Travis Williams and I think it is just delicious. He has a beautiful natural eye for space and lines and color. He’s also the only person I know that will get drunk with me on a Monday.

Anyway I’m doing this performance tomorrow for The Chat Lounge. The presentation is the same No Homo presentation that I did for the MOMENTUM conference this past March in DC, except this time I’m not taking myself so seriously. I’m not very good at serious. Serious conversations usually involve words that are more than three syllables long and those words can kiss my very white ass.

Something else that can lick my fanny is sleeping on the floor. For the last two months I have been without a bed. It’s a long story but anyway the point is I’ve been sleeping so horribly that my face and hair on any given morning since the start of July has been somewhat akin to Ms. Bellatrix Lestrange.


Anyway I encourage you to stop by and enjoy the free food and get ripped at the bar. Some Darling Housers will be there and we will be streaming the performance live here on, so if you can’t make it you can still fap to my hilarity from the comfort of your own home.

Be sexy xox

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Inspiration; The Process

I am a Taurus. Taureans are known to be patient, reliable, determined, self-indulgent…They can be slow to start but once they are in motion nothing can stop them. A Taurus is slow to anger but once they’ve had enough, it’s no mystery why they are symbolized by a bull; strong, angry, stampeding.

My process is much like the definition of a Taurus. I don’t enjoy creating things for the sake of creating something. I am really only interested in creating something — be it a piece of art or a performance or whatever — when I feel that it is organic and pure expression.

It’s strange…I don’t feel that I am a creative person, but rather that I possess creativity from time to time. That may sound weird but..I don’t know if I can explain it.

My entire body feels like churning paint on the inside, various shades and textures. My inside writhe and struggle seeking a means to escape and manifest in the form of a creation. It’s not like this all the time; just periodically, randomly. I feel like something takes over my emotions and my thinking, and all I can do is close my eyes and feel what it is wanting to do. Pieces of the puzzle begin to manifest and I do my best to document them either physically or as a mental note. I don’t feel like I am creating when I am in this state, I feel like I am channeling. Giving birth. Possessed.

Anyway, I probably sound crazy, I just wanted to share some notes I’ve made recently, since I am once again brewing. There is a force in me that needs to be manifested someday soon. It’s indulgent and theatrical. It’s sensual and ecstasy embodied.





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