Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Injured Photographer Dominates Her “Puppy” and Keeps Things Spicy: Freelance photographer, female, East Village, bisexual, 37, single.
10:05 a.m.: Wake up groggy from previous night’s late-night burlesque-show revelry. For a moment I’d forgotten my ankle was broken, and I wonder what the hell is causing so much pain. Grab crutches and hobble to bathroom for much-needed pee. Wash up and debate why late nights make my face look so old. The downside of 37 is you look it. Do not feel sexy at all.
11 a.m.: With coffee I sit down to work. I bang out a hundred images from the night before and ponder what photographers did before Lightroom. Images are sexy and moody but my heart wasn’t in it. I was embarrassed to be front and center with giant cast and crutches. Lied and told everyone it was a pole-dancing accident.
3:22 p.m.: Finish e-mail blast begging for more work and get back into bed with my leg up. Contemplate my upcoming date with the Puppy, which involves (hopefully) spanking and general naughtiness. Hope he remembers to bring list of items with him, but know he will probably deliberately screw it up so I am forced to punish him. Decide that I should be grateful, not demanding and bitchy. Wonder if I have what it takes to be a dominant.
8 p.m.: Starving! Where is this guy? Grrr!
9:02 p.m.: Puppy arrives late, laden with gifts. I choose to forgive him. I decide he looks and smells good, but that dinner probably would smell better.
10:18 p.m.: I learn that I probably shouldn’t order sushi delivery. Still, it’s food, and we are hungry. The Puppy enjoys a glass of leftover red wine, I stick to water as I am afraid wine would interfere with the much-needed pain pill.
11 p.m.: Tie him face down on my bed and admire his pretty frilly panties before I yank them tight up between his (kinda hairy — ew) cheeks.
11:01 p.m.: Try to slide the leather hood down over his face. Much struggling, and I worry about breaking his nose, but I finally get it into place. I try to ignore the fact that he has to fix it so it sits correctly. I spend the next 40 minutes beating his ass with a strap, paddle, and a mini-whip (that leaves nasty marks). I stick a bunch of leftover wasabi in his asshole and watch as he goes wild. I bite his back and thighs and scratch him with what’s left of my nails. (Crutches are murder on manicures.)
11:49 p.m.: I notice the Puppy is extremely erect and decide, even though I’d never touched him there before, to jerk him off. God is his penis enormous! I can barely wrap my hand around it. I make the mistake of moving in for a closer look and wind up with come in my eye. Not hot. Even through the hood I can hear him thanking me.
12 a.m.: The Puppy is dressed and ready to head back to Riverdale. He worries that his Pathfinder might have been stolen downstairs. He once again reminds me that I could be living in a “nice safe place in Astoria” and that my building smells like pot. I shrug. I’ve been here for 20 years and shudder at the thought of a “nice safe place” like Astoria. Plus, I think the apartment smells like sex. And leather.
1:17 a.m.: I contemplate doing an illegal load of laundry in the empty renovated apartment downstairs versus masturbating. Desire for cleanliness wins. Happy time will have to wait.
4:05 a.m.: Sleep.
6:30 p.m.: Spent the day drumming up at-home work gigs. Am surprised at how exhausting begging is. Cancel dinner plans with chatty, high-maintenance friend. Sad to be at home missing major work-related party, but toe-to-hip cast and gangly crutches make going out a challenge. That plus five floors of stairs
decide I will have my own party. At home. Without food or drink or people. So sad.
7:48 p.m.: Magazine-man friend shows up for his weekly “visit and assist” time slot. Tries his best to convince me that the best way to deal with broken bone pain is weed. I do not put up much of a struggle.
9:30 p.m.: Munchies.
10:45 p.m.: More munchies.
11 p.m.: Headache.
1 a.m.: Too tired, stuffed, and logy to masturbate.
9 a.m.: Wake up with insane desire to orgasm warring with dire pressure to pee. Pee first, come second. Coffee third.
10:30 a.m.: Spend rest of morning editing images and playing with some new Photoshop techniques. Still humming from morning happiness.
2:15 p.m.: Corral friend into helping me grocery shop at Key Foods. Feel ungainly, ugly, and sore.
9:30 p.m.: Friend comes to visit with sushi and tofu and a quart of milk (and small stack of books!). Am embarrassingly glad to see her. Gossip and chitchat. My cat seems to know he is not wanted and makes his home in her belongings. I worry about her allergies but she is surprisingly cool about it.
7 a.m.: Ugh. Wake up for day of court and hospital visits. What misery. Landlord-tenant court is the lowest depth of an outpost of hell. Call Lower East Side car service and ask for non-pervy driver in Spanglish.
9:30 a.m.: Show up at 111 Centre Street to find I popped a stitch and am now leaking blood all over the place. Court attorney seems sadistically thrilled to see me in pain. Opposing counsel looks nauseated. Adjournment until January.
11:50 a.m.: Back at surgeon’s office at Beth Israel Hospital. Mild flirtation with technician who runs his fingers over my lower-leg tattoo. Thinks I don’t notice, but I do. Tattoo may be erogenous zone, as mild dampening of panties occurs. I stare at him lustfully from my prone position, but he spends the rest of the time talking about bones and ligaments and stuff.
2:15 p.m.: Back at home searching for (hopefully female) assistant for Saturday night fetish shoot.
9 a.m.: Not looking forward to date with the Kaiser. The Kaiser is sort of a de facto boyfriend who isn’t working out. Too complicated to end it quickly, and not wanting to do that during the holidays, we scraggle along seeing each other once a month or so with lackluster sexual activities. We’re too young to be this old.
8 p.m.: The Kaiser arrives with much-needed liquids and we order some cheapie Vietnamese food (delicious — thanks, New Saigon!). He heads to bed to watch TV while I struggle to clean up. I stay up getting work done until he falls asleep.
11:45 p.m.: I head to bed as well.
5:45 a.m.: Wake up with the Kaiser’s hard-on poking me in the ass. Decide a hand job would be as much as I can manage, so I do it and hope it’ll be enough.
7 a.m.: The Kaiser says he’s ready to split. He does.
6:45 p.m.: Photo assistant arrives to help ferry me and my equipment to fetish shoot at well-known and ridiculously expensive Soho sex-toy shop. Assistant cops an attitude and sighs when I take forever on the stairs. I contemplate pushing her down a flight with my crutch.
8 p.m.: Foxy Asian (Sexsation) producer/host has worst possible lighting but a searingly sexy show. The promised snake show doesn’t materialize (cold-blooded snakes couldn’t travel in the freezing temps) but the performers are erotic and the free booze keeps the hipster crowd happy. I spend a lot of time staring lustfully at front-row lesbian couple and avoiding the wickedly close double nunchakus that were being skillfully employed by the Alabaster Beauty.
11:30 p.m.: Despite lighting, manage to get decent (red) shots.
1 a.m.: Sleep, blessed sleep.
11 a.m.: Wake up and masturbate. Make plans for the Puppy.
1:30 p.m.: Spend afternoon processing images. Think of filthy things to do to the Puppy.
8:30 p.m.: Puppy shows up and isn’t in the mood. Try to poke him with my crutches. Look longingly at the paddle and strap. I give up and we enjoy Takahachi dinner.
11 p.m. The Puppy is worried about his Pathfinder and leaves at eleven on the dot.
11:15 p.m.: Call Massive Head-Wound Harry for some over-the-cell-phone story reading. He reads me next chapter of Roald Dahl’s My Uncle Oswald, our current book of choice. We talk about sex and jig-a-jigging. We both wonder if blister-beetle powder was a precursor to Viagra. Pet my kitty (not a euphemism) and think about sleep.
12:30 a.m.: Sleep.
TOTALS: two hand jobs (giving), two acts of solo lovin’, one mild flirtation, no sex, no oral.