Frontwoman and Blurt blogger Otep Shamaya recalls a debauched night of
sex, drugs and handcuffed homophobia.
BY OTEP SHAMAYA
Let us begin with the conspicuous.
The gypsy life of a
political rock poet is a strange and savage odyssey that billows through an infinite multiplicity of exotic and
sometimes erotic dimensions.
Yeah, it’s tough.
What follows is an honest
account of pure Gonzo-de Sade. I write this not only to set the record-oh,
pardon me, I almost wrote straight, but that’s completely contrary to what I’m
hoping to do. Yes, this will corroborate my legend (as an outlaw wordsmith and
armor-plated, gold emblazoned sex god) but also shine a bright light on those
that cry “ABOMINATION” the loudest. If you find adult intimacy lewd,
threatening or offensive, stop reading now. This is not for emotional amateurs.
It will not be a delicate retelling.
It all started when two of
my closest friends, Adam & Eddie (two chiseled Abercrombie effigies from
West Hollywood), invited me to their soiree house in Palm Springs. I was single at the time, bored,
and needed a break from LA.
I arrived on a Saturday
morning with a serious jones for fun. The house was quirky and manicured with
animal hedges. Eddie beamed, “The realtor said Madonna used to have secret
parties here in the ‘80s”. Adam whispered, “He’s such a little starfucker”. Eddie shushed him and we headed
for the pool. I wrote little haikus and read Bradbury while the boys played
Marco Polo and drank sangria. Around 8:30 we went dinner and they introduced me
to a new friend, we will call Anita, a striking redhead with an enchanting smile.
Next to her was a persnickety looking fellow gulping mouthfuls of gin and
chatting up Adam. This boozing Republican (we will call Ted) railed on about
the “Teabagger Movement” and told cornball jokes like, “How do you make a
blonde laugh on Saturday? Tell her a joke on Wednesday.”
My attention was on Anita.
She was charming and intellectual. She had just quit her job as a PR person for
an unnamed political personality and was searching for meaning in life. Her
passion, she said, was sculpting. Ironwork mostly. She had some success with local
galleries back in Connecticut (where she was
from) but was still trying to find her place in the California scene. I suppose she was feeling a
bit insecure. Who wouldn’t? We shared a few quips on the cannibalistic nature
of the art industry and I felt our souls click.
After dinner, Ted was so
sloppy that my guys offered to drive him home. Anita didn’t care. She and I
dashed off to see her studio. Her pad was a swell ranch style home restored to
its Sinatra-era glory. The back of the house was floor-to-ceiling glass with
French doors opening up to a tropical deck and beautiful pool.
She poured some wine and
set the mood. We flipped through a book of Ellen Von Unwerth’s photography and
flirted a bit, then moved to Anita’s studio. Dark and muddled, most of her
creations were brightly painted knock-offs of medieval torture devices:
handcuffs, neck chains, and gynecological contraptions that looked absolutely
terrifying. I smiled politely, she winked, and I suggested we sit on the deck.
The sky was clear and the
moon beamed brightly. The warm desert air carried soft scents from the
After a tense moment or
two, our eyes met, I brushed her red locks aside and we kissed. Her mouth on
mine, fingers and hands, heavy petting. We moved inside to the couch, she flipped
a switch and the fireplace bloomed. I sat back and she swayed like a cobra to
the music in front of me. I smiled as she pulled a leather bag from beneath the
coffee table, and unzipped it…..slowly.
She plucked a small
vibrator, a box of whippets, a nylon cord, and a bottle of lube from the bag.
She sucked on the vibrator as she removed her jeans. No panties. My eyes widened.
There it was: the dreaded “meat curtains”. Long, discolored lips and lots of
fur, it looked like a bearded duckbill. Oh well, I liked her, so be it.
She slid the small
vibrator inside her and pressed my face deep into her drapery. She started
grinding and spitting insults at me, “You dirty cunt. Eat it!”
I pulled away, “You okay?”
She flashed a plastic smile and said, “Yeah. You?” I nodded yes, and she pushed
my face back into her. The words flowed again, “You bitch. Fucking filth. Eat
I pulled her to the couch
and she flipped on her back. She giggled, “Tastes like strawberries”, and
poured half the bottle of lube over her naked legs and drapery.
My fingers teased her here
and there, she moaned and her body tightened. She whispered, “Baby, don’t
stop”, and slid the nylon cord around her neck and pulled it tight. She grabbed
a few whippets from the bag and inhaled the gas. She roared, “Faster, come on
Fag-bitch! Do it!”
I stopped and said, “Seriously?”
She moaned, “Don’t stop, baby. I’ll be quiet.”
I sighed and went back to work.
She inhaled huge gulps from the whippet and pulled hard on the nylon. The veins
in her neck bulged. Her face turned purple. My fingers and tongue kept working.
Her body quivered. She looked like she was about to blackout when she released
the nylon, took a huge breath, then another shot of gas, pulled the nylon tight
again, and locked her jaw. Her eyes bulged like an insect. I stopped again, she
screamed, “NO! GO!”
She grabbed the back of my
hair and pulled my face to her pelvic bone. I could see the end of the tiny
vibrator pulsing inside her. The lube was everywhere, slapping across my arms,
into my eyes. I resisted her grip, the roots of my hair plucking like harp strings
one by one.
She roared like a mighty grizzly,
purple face, tight nylon, screaming foamy nonsense. Her body stiffened like
stone, she screamed “FAGGGGOT!!” and the tiny vibrator shot out of her like a
bullet and thwacked me dead in the eye.
I fell to the floor and she
squealed in excruciating orgasm. A few moments of weirdness passed and she snorted
a laugh and jumped on me, “Bull’s-eye!” She nuzzled to my neck and whispered,
“You little devil, just look at what you made me do.” She plunged her tongue down
my throat and we made our way to her bed. She curled like a panther after a
kill. I sat back and nursed my swelling eye. I heard a click and turned to see
she had handcuffed herself to the bed with one of her medieval creations. She
tossed the key to me and said, “C’mere and fuck me, Sodomite!”
I sighed, and she said, “Oops,
sorry”, and made that “my lips are sealed” sign over her mouth. I grabbed a
shirt from the dresser to wipe off the sex spatter and saw a framed photograph
that made my blood run cold.
It was a photo of Anita,
at a protest, with the Westboro
holding a sign that read, “GOD HATES FAG SEX”. Just out of frame was someone
else with a sign that read, “FAGS BURN IN HELL”. It looked a lot like Ted.
She laughed nervously, “Oh,
don’t worry about that, I just did it for the job. My old boss wanted b-roll of
the protest. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I looked at this woman handcuffed
to the bed, wild sexhair, naked from the waist down, still quivering in the
wake of orgasm. Then my eyes dropped back to the photo: Anita holding that
horrible sign as high as her arms could, caught mid-scream, yelling at some
blurred couple rushing by her and this monstrous group.
I quickly dressed in the bathroom
and dropped the handcuff key in the toilet. Anita called after me but I was
done. I walked out of the house and rang a cab.
I arrived back at Adam and
Eddie’s just in time for breakfast. The smell of omelets and bagels filled the
air. I walked into the breakfast nook and saw Adam, Eddie and… Ted the
Republican, all in matching robes, sipping coffee and sharing a newspaper.
Ted tugged at the robe
collar to hide the swarm of hickies around his neck. I poured myself a glass of
orange juice, sat down, and grabbed a section of newspaper.
They didn’t ask me how I got
the black eye.
I didn’t ask them about
the matching robes and hickies.
This article was originally published in BLURT #9. Otep Shamaya is a 2010 GLAAD nominee, frontwoman
for rock group OTEP, a writer, activist, and reprobate who resides on the
jagged edge of Plasticland deep in the recesses of beautiful Los Angeles, CA. Read her BLURT blog at