This is the place where you can personalize your profile!
By moving, adding and personalizing widgets.
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"Why," you ask? Because we want profile pages to have freedom of customization, but also to have some consistency. This way, when anyone visits a deviant, they know they can always find the art in the top left, and personal info in the top right.
Don't forget, restraints can bring out the creativity in you!
Now go forth and astound us all with your devious profiles!
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It’s a misnomer; an absent appliance, robbery of the worse sort. The bar’s not got one though named as though it would hold some premiere placement. In this city it should be gleaming brass and a minimum of two inches in diameter, rolled and shaped and bracketed along the styles and sheathing of a gleaming dark-polished wooden front-piece. It should be history. Misapplication and misdirection; the crumbling edifice is still maintained but slovenly; some miscreant remembrance of the sixties or seventies when people still believed a Jetsons™ future were possible. It carries its appellation based solely on location; nearby is a stop on the city’s trumpeted transport line, the “L".
“Fuck this Susan.” “Give it a chance.” “Really?” “Yeah, it’s not awful and some of the guys here are just too sweet.” I turn and stare openly, distain and resentment burning hot on my face. “For fuck’s sake Susan Murphy de Rangla why the hell would you say that to ME?” Not totally unexpected though, she’s straightish, divorced, and looser than even I am. “We could have gone to GD2 though.” “I hate their membership fee though.” “Yeah but at least we could have played there.” She’s laughing now “Oh shit, there you go.”
The crowd inside is mostly male, clean cut thirties to that 40ish look of Izot and Tommy paired with grey wool or khaki that successful white men wear. It’s not loud because there’s no local team playing; ‘middle of the week’ I suppose. I fix my VasolineSmile™ into place and glue myself to Suzie’s ass as we wedge through to the bar space. Susan gets nods and “Hey”s while I get stares at my artwork and pierced nose and snake bit lips. I jingle when I kiss. I can almost feel the mouths watering as they imagine the barbed wire bras they’d fuck me in.
The age slice for the demographic is better than the Goth clubs and small BDSM community though; late twenties gone thirties and a few of the forties generation who’re here for the light and sounds and flash of younger thighs. The femmes are athletic, bendy springy exercise mat and panting throb-ercise sweat-session fleshes. I raise my Martens’d foot and hold it at that height off the floor where it should find some rest.
She brings it down hard on the shoulder presented, feeling the finally satisfying snap of bone cushioned by the hollow sound of sheltered organs beneath. It had been lying in the hallway, along the unfinished wall that was under construction; seen when she’d been dragged up the stairway. She loves the heft of it, string springy raw oak, unstained but sanded smooth. He growls and the next blow she strikes brings a spray of blood decorating her bared tits, asymmetric ruby jewelry on her torso. Pitter pat, pitter pat, feeling cool compared to the heat of her hatred. Her jaw aches from his punch, and her thighs are going to be a mess the next day; but this payback for his assault is a rich reward. Softball hero so long ago, she takes aim and swings again.
Frozen in arched perfected symmetry; only the slight contact pressure of her ankle, an exercise in the balance that she had sought these many years. Lightly, though with incredible concentration to detail, she curves her back forward with her hands. The stretch of the roll forward, and then the torso’s turn and display of poetic flowing arms and hands now requires no thoughtful attention. ‘Drift now into it …’ and the muscle memory incorporates all of her. Later, that point of support, of gravity overcome, will be an extended hand, and then the cup of sensation upon calf and thigh as she rises, held proud, awing, above.
It runs; gleaming topside from the pressured wear. The sun’s low and yellow flashed spiked glare; gleaming halos spire and spike against the silvered metal. Design class had taught her the details of all the illusions the mind makes of eye-bred limitations. Horizons, and the gather points of disappearance; these the central elements of her own confusion.
I became a loom ... a work of wood and oils and flesh and pain ... I became words, woven together to impart myself, an offering of memory and love ... I became a crowd of voices longing for that final color that might complete ... I am Amanda here to open, here to pound loud and set you upon a journey ...
Favorite visual artistNatalie Shau. (long list of DA photographers and manipulation freaks)(Leana*kiss)Favorite moviesHigh Art, La Femme NikitaFavorite TV showsCarnivale, Walking Dead, Two Broke Girls, NOVA, Discovery Channel (anything)Favorite bands / musical artistsCollide, Apocalyptica, Blonde Redhead, DIE ANTWOORD!Favorite booksKissing Dead Girls, Look at Me, The Keep, Ghost WalkFavorite writersJennifer Eagen, Daphne Gottlieb, Marina Tsvetqeva, Sofia Parnok, S.PlathFavorite gamesspin the bottle, whack a trollFavorite gaming platformpool table, bar topTools of the TradeMac Book Air, Windoze 7 crate of crap, Nikon D200, Epson Perfection V750 ProOther Interestsphotography, modeling, kleptomania, screaming at strangers and then stun gunning them
For the ensconced demented deviants among us!
Yes, I AM a gay American woman; and damn proud of that. I flirt shamelessly with females, males, and photos of kittens. Anyone who let’s that go to their heads (eyes.the.homophobic.female.artist) is not only stupid but arrogant.