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TS13 Day 1 

2:28 am - T.S. walks through the airport swarmed by casually dressed but serious looking handlers. Her assistant J. and two bodyguards complete the circle of human beings that surround her like wasps, crawling over a fragile paper nest. T.S. stares at her phone as they make their way to the exit. A blind queen.

2:45 am - T.S. climbs into the backseat of a black SUV. J. sits in the passenger seat in front of her, laptop already open. T.S. stares at her phone. A second black SUV follows behind them. No music plays on the stereo.

3:20 am – SUV arrives at The Nines hotel in downtown Portland. T.S. is ushered immediately to the elevator.

3:26 am – T.S. enters hotel suite. Three suitcases are stacked in the open closet. Dresses and outfits hang on the rod. Her makeup and toiletries have been carefully arranged in the bathroom. The walls are a papered in a tasteful, muted gray and all of the artwork has been removed. Two acoustic guitars sit in stands along the wall in the living room, under the TV. T.S. opens her purse and removes a protein bar, opens it and takes one bite.

3:54 am – T.S. climbs into bed, having gone through her nightly routine. Showered, teeth brushed, face cleansed with multiple applications of chemicals, plastic retainer in her mouth, white silk pajamas. She is asleep within minutes.

7:30 am – Phone alarm chimes and T.S. opens her eyes and sits up. The covers are almost exactly as they were when she laid down. She climbs out of bed and slides her feet into slippers. She picks her phone up from where it was charging on the nightstand and logs into her secondary profile. There are thousands of messages in at least seven different social media accounts. Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, the message board on her website, and email. She logs back into her primary account and looks at the messages curated for her by J. There are a total of thirty-two messages she needs to read. T.S. browses messages as she brushes her teeth, archiving each one with a swipe of her thumb.

7:33 am – T.S. selects a selfie from the plane and posts it to Instagram, which cross-posts to Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook. In it she wears a hoodie and appears to be half asleep, leaning against the plastic window. It is both cute and humanizing. The caption reads "In Portland! See you in 13 hours! XXOO"

7:37 am – The selfie has accumulated tens of thousands of likes, favorites, reblogs and replies on each of her social media accounts. People tell her she's amazing. People tell her she's a worthless cunt and should kill herself. People tell her they are crying because she is so beautiful. People tell her everything.

To be continued

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Digital painting, nudity, bondage 

Older work, first one I published on the net, when I discovered that painting shibari pieces the most fun is painting hands and the rope.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
#digitalPainting #mastoart #nsfw #shibari

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Stop being assholes to sex workers challenge 2022

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If you *appreciate* Jordan Peterson and consider him to be a *philosopher*, please unfollow me and erase me from your mind forever. Thank you. Everyone has their fine line, and Peterson is mine. 🙃 🖤

I never hit so hard in love
All I wanted was to break your walls
All you ever did was wreck me.
– Floor Candy

Most of them I don’t let inside.
I don’t want them to feel how cold I am.

Day One Concluded (blood drinking, talk of sex, masturbation, throwing up, possible eating disorder trigger) 

11:15 pm – J. looks at her tablet then over at T.S.” Did you actually fuck J.F.?” T.S. shrugs, not looking up from her phone. “Why?” “Perez Hilton seems to think you did,” J. says, looking annoyed and turning around her tablet to show a pink screen full of exploitation. T.S. doesn’t look at it. “Who gives a shit what that sycophantic vampire thinks?” J. chuckles and closes the screen. “A lot of people do, unfortunately. Besides, I know you fucked him. I just wanted to hear you say it.” “Okay. Sort of. It was quick and pathetic and utilitarian and not exciting at all.” “Why did you do it?” J. asks. T.S. shrugs again. “Because I could. He has a story no one will believe and I’ve got a song.” J. shakes her head. “You keep pulling shit like that and those stories are going to become more and more believable.” They sit in silence for a long moment before J. follows up.” You didn’t… do… anything to him, did you?” They look at each other for a moment. “No. I didn’t.”

11:33 pm – T.S. enters her hotel room. J. follows. They both stare at their phones as they drop jackets and purses and keys on the table. J. opens up a suitcase from the closet and takes out a long, clear plastic tube and walks to the bedroom. T.S. follows, still looking at her phone. J. pulls her skirt up over her hips and sits on the edge of the bed. Taped to her inner thigh is an IV needle connected to a short plastic tube, which is clamped and attached to a nozzle. J. unhooks the nozzle and attaches the plastic tube.

11:37 pm – T.S. kneels on a towel in front of the toilet, her head leaning back. After a long moment, she falls forward and vomits into the toilet. Water and chewed up chunks of undigested candy. A small amount of blood. Mostly it’s water. She stands, kicks the towel into the corner and flushes the toilet with her toe.

11:39 pm – T.S. stands in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth. Her hair is pulled back with clips and her face is covered with a clear, sticky cleanser.

11:45 pm – T.S. is wearing a robe now, her face is still shiny with the mask. J. sits on the edge of the bed, holding the clear plastic tube, her skirt pulled back down. T.S. pulls one of the pillows from the bed and sits on the floor at J.’s knees. J. hands her the tube. “Are you ready?” T.S. puts the end of the tube in her mouth and nods. J. unclamps the tube and blood makes its way down into T.S.’s mouth. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back as she sucks on the end of the tube. J. picks up her phone and sets a timer for 2 minutes then leans back on the bed.

11:48 pm – The phone’s alarm startles T.S. out of her daze and J. plucks the tube from her mouth. A small, slobbery drop of blood hangs from the middle of her bottom lip. “Are you okay?” J. asks. “Yes,” T.S. says, nodding. J. clamps the tube and unhooks the plastic extension and stands. “I put an alarm in your calendar for 5:30 tomorrow. Get some sleep, okay?” T.S. nods, still out of it. “Do you need anything else?” T.S. looks up at her and blinks, then shakes her head. “No, thank you. See you in the morning,” she says as she climbs to her feet. J. nods and leaves. T.S. stands in the middle of the bedroom, her robe falling open. She can feel the blood surging through her body, and while it doesn’t make her any less sleepy, it is speeding her mind up. Guitar licks and chord progressions, lyrics and ideas and melodies dance through her mind. She goes into the bathroom to finish her nightly routine.

12:03 am – T.S. lays naked in the hotel bed, her phone illuminating her face. A soft buzzing sound comes from under the blanket and her hands shake as she flips through photos in her phone. Scooting down the bed a bit, the comforter tents up as she bends her knees and rolls her hips forward. Her arm works in a rhythmic motion as her thumb swipes each photo to the left and off the screen. She sucks air through her teeth, not to breathe but as a gasp of surprise as the sensation intensifies. More photos. Dead people. Murdered people. Burned people. Bodies with mortal wounds inflicted upon them. Living people with limbs cut off. Suicides and traffic accidents. Victims of violence. Victims of murder. Dead women with stab wounds in their naked bodies, dead men with no heads. These aren’t only photos collected from the internet. Many of these are photos she’s taken. With a series of spasmodic jerks, she cums and drops her phone. After laying still for a moment she takes the electric toothbrush out from under the covers and tosses it in the general direction of the trashcan. With a full belly, T.S. rolls over and goes to sleep.

once I thought I saw you in a crowded hazy bar, dancing across the light from star to star

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when i close my eyes at night, i see billions of galaxies scattered across the cosmos like sand. some pop and fizzle as they explode, some collapse into themselves, some spin endlessly outward like a top, making long, languid loops, barely missing collisions with other galaxies. some smash together and become new systems, born of fire and destruction. then i hear the pained moan of a self-aware energy, crying out to be seen like a babe cries for milk. in my dream I lean over and peer into this swirly glob of gas and dust and see myself, arms outstretched, begging to be noticed. to be acknowledged. to be loved. I demand sacrifice.

Day Three Continued (talk of violence) 

9:46 pm – T.S. sits on a stool, holding her guitar. it’s intended to convey intimacy in this basketball arena, where she is perched at one end like a queen on the most ridiculous throne imaginable. A one-on-one with twenty thousand people. T.S. thinks for a moment about what she wants to say. “the person who wrote this song was instrumental in shaping who I am as a songwriter and an artist. They wrote about love and heartbreak and alienation and rebellion and not letting the will of others define you.” She hits that first sustained A chord that makes up the beginning of the song Doll Parts and lets it ring through the almost quiet arena. Instead of walking down to the C, she lights onto a series of rapid Ds. Angry Ds. Es and Gs and then back up to A again. The audience roars to life as she begins the unmistakable intro to American Girl by Tom Petty. She hits every chord with as much anger and resentment as she can muster into her perfect little porcelain hands. A pick splits between her fingers and she throws it to the crowd and pulls another from her mic stand. As the words fall out of her mouth, unprocessed and unrecognized, the right sounds on the right beats, images of mutilated, tortured bodies dance across her vision. She stares out at the crowd singing “Oh yeah. Alright. Take it, easy baby, gonna make it last – make it last all night” and she imagines carving into them with surgical scalpels and guitar strings wrapped around her fists like razor wire.

10:16 pm – House lights are up and T.S. leans against a wall behind the stage. Dancers, roadies, band members, staff, and crew mill about. T.S. picks up a bottle of water from the cooler and unscrews the top. Halfway through her swig, J. gently takes it from her. T.S. cuts her a look but J. doesn’t give in as she screws the top back on. “No more water. You’ll make yourself sick.” T.S. stares at her “Give me the bottle.” J. shakes her head. “I am not your enemy. You know this. You can have some milk back at the hotel.” The light returns to her eyes as T.S. recalculates. She nods and puts her hands on her knees, already feeling the water she did get down sloshing in her stomach. “I want that fucking limey twat fired,” T.S. says, looking across the room at R. “Maybe. But T. I want you to take a day and think about it. He wasn’t wrong. He could have said it better, but he was right.” T.S. lets out a frustrated moan, almost like a bark. “I would have killed that song.” “I know you would have,” J. says, patting her on the shoulder. “I need to throw up,” T.S. says, looking a little sickly. “You have meet and greets. Can you wait until after?” T.S. nods, her hands on her knees.

10:26 pm – There are about thirty people waiting in the long hallway between the stage and the dressing rooms. These are contest winners and sick kids. T.S. meets with each one, making sure to touch them on the arm in a non-threatening but personal way. She makes eye contact and is sincere. She poses for photos. She makes the sick kids laugh. She makes them forget they are sick for a moment. Two of them will die within a month and those few minutes will be the thing they remember most. It will be what they talk about for the last weeks of their lives. They will listen to her music over and over again. She has that effect on people. When everyone has been meeted and greeted, J. and two bodyguards follow T.S. back to her dressing room. She waves at the sick kids and contest winners and smiles her kind smile.

11:09 pm – T.S. climbs into the back of the SUV. She’s surprised when J. climbs in next to her, instead of taking her usual place in the passenger’s seat. “You can’t fire R.” she says. T.S. makes a face like she’s tasted something bitter. “Of course I can. He can’t contradict me in front of people like that. I can’t let that stand.” “No, you can’t, you’re absolutely right. And you’re going tell him so tomorrow, and you’re going to make sure he knows that he can’t ever do that again, but you can’t fire him. You need him. This tour is almost over. There’s four more shows. You aren’t changing tour managers in the middle of a tour over some dumb song choice argument.” T.S. looks at her phone in an attempt at angry, overt ignoring. It doesn’t work. J. touches her chin and turns her face up. “You’re doing a really good job and I’m proud of you,” she says. T.S. nods softly. “Are you tired?” T.S. shakes her head. “No, not really. Hungry.” J. nods. “We’ll get you fed and in bed soon, okay? Then tomorrow we leave for Seattle.”

nsfw 

anal sex is good because it's hard to mistake it for love. S.G. told me that.

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nudity, eye contact 

Portrait of @D4isy_L0ve@twitter.com based on one of her excellent self-shot photosets.

This took literally forever (I blame lingerie for this) but I finally pushed through.
I added a few crop shots for details.
#DigitalArt #MastoArt #nsfw

nsfw (sex talk) 

J.M. likes to have his cum spat back into his mouth. he is disgusting. not because of that, but just in general.

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Write Out

A small instance for writers.

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