Devil May Care

I’ve been getting asked quite a bit lately about where I got my penchant for doing highly dangerous things to myself for the sake of other’s entertainment. Oftentimes I’ll archly point out that I do these thing at a risk to myself AND in a state of undress. But the question is a valid one; how does one find their calling for tempting fate? Is it something that they always felt driven to do, to test boundaries and push personal limits? Or do they discover it by accident and become addicted to the rush?

How indeed.

I have a recollection of watching some small children play on a jungle gym and a tree while at a friend’s barbecue one summer. The little ones threw themselves off of things, performed ridiculous stunts, and potential bone-breaking manoeuvres. Because this gathering was largely made up of parents who are of a decidedly more laid back nature than most, the kids were able to be kids without helicopter parenting ruining the raw moment. It brought me back to a few of my own early ‘big bang’ moments of my youth, and I began to wonder as the kids in front of me playing took on a much more dark ‘Lord Of The Flies’ tone.

We grew up wild. Before the village I grew up in became an over developed bedroom community doomed to economic failure, there was tons of bush around it. Entire weekends were spent by the children of the town in the forest making up epic make-believes. I’ve no doubt this is why LARPing later appealed to me so much; full regression in grown up playing pretend and dress up combo. When left to their own devices, kids dream up impossible shit, with rational kid logic to go behind it: the pizza in the VCR, the bingo dabber on the pet of choice, the need to turn every room in your house into a fort and so on. With no parents hovering nervously around us, we were free to set our own limits, of which we found we had few. My folks were and are firm believers in experience being the best educator. So now that we’ve established that in our heads, all us neighbourhood kids thought that anything was possible. It was my dad though, who taught me that cheating death on a regular basis is possible.

My dad should be dead by now. He has danced perilously close to the grim reaper for years without ever getting his dance card punched. He continues to allude him, but when I was younger I witnessed some amazing feats which, I’m sure if they had happened to anyone else, they’d have been pushing up daisies. I think there must be some unconscious endorphin rush he must get by motoring through these events and getting scathed but not lathed, and has him continuing to put himself in, where he almost will be taking a dirt nap.

My Dad is a Kiwi. And like most New Zealanders the only thing I know that will kill them is being gored by an errant bull or old age. I have a funny feeling with Dad it’ll be the latter. I know this because his job is one that requires the utmost care and safety that he never balks at taking a minute longer to make sure everything is fine, double reads all technical notes and takes time to see they are applied that you’d never know he almost took off his own arm with a chainsaw.

I was nine, had come home from school and found my mother curled up in her room, white as a sheet. A myriad of scenarios went through my head. She’d been crying, which was never a good sign. She told me, shakily that my dad had an accident, and he was okay, but she was shaken up by it. I finally got out of her he was home and in the kitchen. I flew in to see him making a sandwich, forearm bandaged. He shrugged and said he had some stitches and asked it I wanted tea. What had happened was he was up a tree, trimming branches, and had just lightly tapped his arm as the blades were still rotating. A feather’s touch to be sure, but one enough to rip and rend his flesh open. Mom has never been good at the sight of blood (I know, I appreciate the irony about this too) so she passed out, leaving Dad to pilot himself to the hospital, with a towel wrapped around his arm to soak up all of his blood.

In time he’s fallen off of multiple roofs, electrocuted himself a few times, and I’m waiting for the day I hear about a piece of landscaping equipment gone awry and he’s dragging himself to the doctor to get a limb sewn back on. But never once did he flinch after the fact or have the little voice in his head speak up and say, “Oh, you might want to rethink this,” at any point. I think in that respect we are made of the same stuff. Oftentimes I’ve been playing with fire or pushing a needle through my arm prior to an energetic dance routine. The first time doing hair hang was suggested to me, I remember not worrying that my scalp would separate from my skull with the sound of velcro parting but if I could do the splits midair.

So if you see me doing something dangerous en pointe, eating something that should kill/maim me, or doing my best Bob Fosse moves in broken glass, know that I come by it honestly. And somewhere, as the stitches heal, my old man is smiling.

XOXO

Little Miss Risk

 

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Those Crazy Victorians.

Not too long ago, I penned a piece for Huffington Post regarding how Vancouver condo owners are a special bunch. The catalyst for this being that an old heritage building that was something of a white elephant in real estate was being repurposed as a funeral home. Owners were in a huff about potential ‘lowered property value, a nightmare of parking, and damaging the neighbourhood’s morale’. Aside from the fact that most Vancouver condo owners are probably good people, we do hear about the crazies like this.

The fact that it wasn’t a noisy nightclub, but a funeral home that upset them makes me realize that in the modern world, we’re fairly disconnected from the things we think we are comfortable with, such as sex, death and birth. As much as modern thinking likes to preach that in Western culture that we are progressive and open minded, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s truly the case. We like things to fit in clean little boxes, and not to mess with our day-to-day routine. But life and death has a long standing reputation of being anything but, and proudly messy and chaotic.

Recently, in my news feeds on various social media, when I’m supposed to be doing things other than getting sucked into the vortex of the Internet, a few of the same articles come up as friends and acquaintances repost them, giving these pieces brief viral celebrity. The ones that have, of late, piqued my interest is post-mortem photography in the Victorian era or ‘death photography’. When the mortality rate was, back in the day, quite a bit higher (dying from everything from measles to infections from corset boning stabbing you), photographs were exclusive and costly to produce. Often times, especially with child mortality so high, the daguerreotype would be the only physical memory of the passed family member for the living to remember them by.

Nope, not creepy at all.

Nope, not creepy at all.

 

The Victorians had many complex relationships with death. The larger, main room of a house was often kept as the funeral parlour, allowing family and friends to come by for formal viewings upon receiving their invitations, while the family mourned and prepared to say good bye. A lot of these folks received the most pomp and circumstance in death than they ever received prior to shuffling off the mortal coil. It wasn’t until the early 1900′s when it became unfashionable to lay out your loved one in the house that funeral parlours became a thriving business and one referred to the main room of the house as the ‘living room’.

 

With the Victorians, etiquette ruled all details of life and death. Queen Victoria really set the bar in her mourning the loss of Prince Albert insisting her dead husband’s rooms be kept as they were in life and that servants continue to bring soap and hot water to his rooms daily for his morning shave as they did during his life. She wore funeral black for her lost love until the day she herself died. Some of the interesting quirks of the day ranged from the dressing of the dead (‘The remains of a man were usually “clad in his habit as he lived.” A woman’s remains however, were usually dressed in a white robe and cap while children were dressed in white cashmere robes’), strict observation on mourning dress and periods to ‘memento mori’ in which lockets of hair were kept by the living to remind them of their loved ones and their own mortality.

I think my favourite Victorian death tradition is the death nightclub. Leave it to the French to come up with a way to make the most out of our own living time while giving a nod to the recently deceased and celebrate, well, death itself. In Montmartre, which is often most noted for being home to cabarets such as the Moulin Rouge and the Crazy Horse, clubs with names such as Cabaret du Néant (The Cabaret of Nothingness) and Cabaret de l’Enfer (The Cabaret of the Inferno) let people kick up their heels where they were served by monks and funeral attendees who offered drinks named after diseases which were imbibed on top of coffins and caskets. Another hot spot boasted a half dozen devil musicians, both male and female, would be suspended in a caldron over a fire, playing selections from Faust as red imps stood with hot irons ready to prod those musicians who dared miss a beat. Throughout the room, other red imps would serve beverages or do somersaults as crevices in the walls would suddenly spew thick smoke and emit odors of volcanoes while flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks. Upon entering, patrons would be greeted by a chorus of voices shouting “enter and be damned, the Evil One awaits you!”

Despite the customs and odd decorum of this bygone era, I can’t help but think that perhaps this process might have some good ideas in mourning the loss of someone close to you. Charming and strange though it may seem now, I’m slightly envious of  the little rituals one would be able to take comfort in during one of these moments that happens in our lives.

… and should I ever get the opportunity, I’d LOVE to open a funeral home/death night club in Vancouver. If only to annoy the hell out of the pretentious condo owners in the immediate area…

XO

Little Miss Risk

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Read My Hips…

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He had something to say to me…

“I see you’re not wearing a ring…” was his opening line to me. I looked over, impressed at such an audacious opener only to see despite the ballsy (and presumptuous, I might add) dialog that his body told me something altogether quite different… Staring ahead, shoulders hunched, neck pulled in and down. While the words spoken indicated a bold confidence, this poor fellow’s lack thereof was painfully transparent with his non-verbal cues. Normally, if some dude uttered that to me while I was minding my own business, it would earn him five across the jaw and a foot in the ass for something so outdated, misogynistic, and arrogant. But when I saw that this poor muffin was just a scared little bunny, I leaned over and purred, “My parole officer says I can’t have gentlemen friends since they switched me from my Thorazine.” I blew him a kiss as I left.

I speak, read, and write the English language exceptionally well. As my mastery of other languages is aphoristic at best, I pick up bits and pieces of foreign dialog to whip out on special occasions. But on the whole my best communication, being a dancer, is body language. The tilt of head and hand, flicker of eye line in conversation, and placement of feet… you can try to hide your intentions from me, but your body betrays your subterfuge. My favourite repartee is between two sets of eyes, and slow smiles. I had one very exciting encounter in Thailand in my roaring 20s, where a ladyboy approached me, and grabbed my hand and held it to her heart. She let my hand follow down, grab her hip and pull her to me. We kissed, two international showgirls, in a sweaty tangle of sequins, and marked each other with our different coloured lipsticks. As we withdrew, we smiled at each other, a beautiful moment and we melted back into the night market.

Not a word was spoken.

In our modern affectations of text, when we pen an email, a Tweet, or some other form of non-verbal digital communique, we have time to consider what we will say. We can self edit and find the right tone of what we are trying to say. Even with this consideration, there are still autocorrect malfunctions and things being misinterpreted with a flippant email being taken the wrong way. This, I’ve experienced, has made it even more of a challenge for people to verbally converse. We get shy, awkward, and worry that things will be taken out of context. But when we’re in person, our bodies help to fill in the gaps of all the unsaid things that hang in the space between us.

I related a story to a friend a few weeks ago about how, at a young age, a family member had thought that I was something of a medium because of my ability to read people uncommonly well, given my tender years. What I appreciate now, as an adult, is it’s not that I can read thoughts, but that years of observation of the human animal and constant silent interaction has taught me all I need to know about getting one’s point across. The combination of what’s spoken with what’s not gives me a clear picture of intention and is an easy gauge to communicate back strongly, both with body and vocals.

Don’t get me wrong: I adore spoken, whispered, sung words spun to me, but sometimes you just need to let your body do the talking…

…And in that regard, I love being a thrilling conversationalist…

xoxo

Little Miss Risk

 

Posted in Miss Risk, Raccoon Talk, Random Banter | 1 Comment

Under and Above Groundlevel…

I find it mildly amusing that my fellow Canuck, Bryan Adams, released a song in 1991 titled ‘Waking Up The Neighbours’. Amusing because you would think that with a title like that Canadians would be likened to rowdy hockey-watching hosers, sucking down a Labatt’s and blasting Rush til all hours. But ask any party promotor in Vancouver you’ll soon find out that even if the public wants to party, the city would rather you didn’t. While mainstream Vancouver likes to think they are more than ‘no fun city’ while City Hall is keeping a pretty good lock down on when and where you can have your hijinx.

For years the ladies of Sweet Soul Burlesque ran underground parties – some in their early headquarters in Babalong as I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, and later Dollhouse studios. This was our rehearsal space and dance studio, but we established it as a main showcase space for the blossoming West Coast electronic scene. The problem being that  is, if you’re au fait with and a lover of this genre, shows do not happen early in the evening. Usually the fashionable time to arrive to one of these is well after Cinderella’s ride had changed back into Jack-o-lantern bait. So this tends to raise some concerns with local pencil pushers at city hall and noise levels, possible drug consumption and alcohol licence violations and the chance that a large group of people might be having a really good time.

Sweet Soul sass pots in the DH

Sweet Soul sass pots in the DH

The city of Vancouver has faced for years this game of bureaucratic cat-and-mouse with the LCB and local party promoters. Licenses get granted to events only to have the fire marshall show up and shut it down. Fire inspections pass and security is being strict about body count inside and the police come and say there are noise complaints. Events get held on private land and the party gets busted for the owner running a bar. Are you seeing a pattern too? This isn’t to say it’s like this all the time. Just most of it.

I hate to say it, but the more I turn thoughts about this situation in my head the more I realize that this has been a problem in Vancouver for quite a while… Since Prohibition, I’d say. Because we are a port town and the youngest city in North America, we get treated often by our federal government like a small child. And like most small children when they feel they are being put upon, they bully things smaller than them. So the provincial government likes to flex it’s pipes to show us who’s boss; never mind that the contemporary social changes that have taken place since the 1920s – there are rules, and the BC government is going to make sure you follow them dammit! The vicious cycle continues in a downward spiral of shit sliding downhill til it stops in the lap of the average BC citizen.

But where there’s a will there is a way. Back in the 1940s, when Vancouverites were getting back into drinking socially again, there were a number of ‘blind pig’ operations in the city. These had existed since Prohibition, but with it’s withdraw we saw people opting out of dreary beer parlour drinking, to places with slightly more refined surroundings. These were the children of the beer parlour, evolved for the modern crowd. The most spectacular of these was, of course, one of Vancouver’s most beautiful buildings: The Marine Building.

 

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This art deco construct is the one thing that could possibly  compare to Vancouver’s scenic natural beauty. It’s elevator was the fastest in the city travelling at 700 feet a minute when the others travelled at 150 feet a minute. These beautiful bronzed elevator were manned by young women attired in blue and white sailor uniforms and acted as their pilots. The 18th floor boasted a penthouse apartment, and though amazing the first owners didn’t stay, due to the wife’s fear of heights. They left in 1940s but what was unique for both owners was that every night their elevator operators knocked off work in the evening, making whoever was upstairs sealed in til morning.

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Now, most people would think that this was something of a problem. But the second owner, Mrs Mary Fisher, saw the upside to the situation: if they couldn’t come down til morning, that also meant the cops couldn’t come up til then either. So without anyone to bust the fun, the party could keep going until there simply was no more party to speak of. This caused it to be a much sought after location where one could gaze over the city’s views all night and drink til the place ran dry. But all good things come to an end and the 18th floor ceased to be a residence and now is an operations office for a group of land economists and the elevator is no longer manned by pin up sailor cuties. Yeah, I know: there’s no justice in the world.

But whether you were fox stepping or raving, it would seem that since her inception, the city of Vancouver has always had a desire to have a thriving night scene -whether above the board or not. While places like New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles never seem to rest, Vancouver seems to be straining towards that, though it keeps tripping over it’s own red tape shoelaces. But it keeps striving in spite of itself. It makes it hard to be a world-class city if we have a curfew.

xoxo

Little Miss Risk

Posted in Notorious Vancouver, Raccoon Talk, Random Banter, Vancouver History | Leave a comment

A Bedtime Story…

The dark has always has a romantic allure for me. As a teen I cut my fledgeling fangs on erotic horror fiction, lapping up the Poppy Z Brite and Anne Rice, who’s sensibilities dovetailed nicely with my adolescent goth angst. I wore it as proudly as the chain between my nose piecing and ear and the ankh around my neck. As an adult I still like to read a good adult fairy tale, where the horror stems from the supernatural, not unwanted pregnancy, social diseases, or awkward small talk the following day. In the spirit of sharing, I’ve penned you all a little tale myself. I hope you enjoy it.

Nighty-nightmare,

Little Miss Risk

When I’ve talked to other divers, we’ve all commiserated about it in some way. About how you never forget the first time you see a shark drifting by that’s big as a motorcycle silently trailing remoras like a parasitic entourage. When there is that instinctual moment of panic that arises because of a lifetime of being shown films like Jaws, with fear dissolving which then gives way to a kind of awe to be sharing the water. Awe gives way to hypnosis, and you notice the light dappling the shark’s hide through the window of the water, your eyes following each wash of water over gills, tilt of pectoral fins, or flick of tail. Then it’s over and gone, likely the whole interlude taking less that minute or five and they sink back into the curtain of wet salt, finned phantoms, excusing themselves backstage to the rest of the ocean. Your left with bubbles expelled from your regulator, grateful that you’ve witnessed them in person, and your heart rate, accelerated slightly, thumps loudly in your ears.

One of the things I adored about diving was the way that you could give in to wonder. Any cynicism died when you put your face under the water and saw creatures from an alien world. That even though you know intellectually what a zebra eel looks like from books, seeing one with it’s head out of shoals of coal is two different things. Intellectually, you know that sea turtles, and manta rays, and whales all look like but the moment you see them in the water with you, huge and splendid in their own environment, you believe anything is possible. You accept that these things have existed before monkeys became men, and you feel like a part of a larger genetic tapestry in the world. You are an innocent again, and in that moment your adrenaline and excitement you realize all the make believe in hotel pools and bathtubs is actually real and in front of you, and that you’ve waited your whole life to witness this. No National Geographic spread nor documentary has adequately prepared you.

It was the same way when I saw my first mermaids.

Seeing the combination of fins and flesh together amid a flutter of fish to chase a school and feed, I knew what I had been watching had to be a hallucination. But when I just let go and stared, the trio of mermaids seemed as natural as hearing the waves at the beach. They darted, flipped and chased fish so fast I could have been watching porpoises. More streamlined and confident than any seal I had seen they wheeled around underwater, they way that hawks preyed but under the water at twenty feet, they were lower in water than any bird has dare dived. With the long human torsos and trailing clouds of hair, they looked as divine as any fantastic mythological painting. Their features were slightly too elongated to pass for completely human but still held an otherworldly beauty. Gills just below their jawline along to their clavicles pumped water with each fluid movement. They herded the school of fish in to one large group, then two would circle keeping the fish tightly together, while one would come up from below and strike, feeding. Blood would blossom into the water, and then they’d almost reorganize the fish back into a tight column, and the next attack could take place. I watched for about ten minutes before I shook myself out of my trance and realized I had to get back to the surface and the boat.

As I struggled with human weight and gravity and fell unceremoniously into the stern of the boat, I contemplated what I had just seen. Often I remember that Oldtimers and Mariners on the high seas, lonely without a woman’s touch, had thought to mistake manatees and seals for fish maidens fair. There would be no mistaking what I had just witnessed as any kind of pinniped. Mammals of some kind surely, given the breasts, small, tight and high, but despite fish-like flukes they moved like porpoises through the water. The gills perplexed me, wondering if they were able to surface and were potentially amphibian. My head spun with the idea of these beautiful creatures, and the deadly ease at which they had rounded up their prey and dispatched them. It was arousing and unsettling at the same time. The sun was starting to dip down low over the mountains to kiss the ocean behind them. I had another tank of oxygen but it would be dark soon and it was too late to head down for another dive to confirm if these strange beauties were hunting. Since it was becoming dusk I wondered if they hunted at night and were early risers for their kind or if they opted for daytime feeding. It was a question I’d have to leave for the night now. I pulled up anchor with unnessary violence as i pondered this, and set the GSP for my marina. As I prepared to motor back to False Creek, I wondered if the three mermaids could hear the baritone rumble of my engine, and if it sounded aggressive to them or like a male mating display of courtship. As I came around past Gibsons, I could swear I hear an accompanying laughter and song with my engine’s growl in the water.

I pulled into my slip and tied up the boat. Did my usual ritual of reorganizing the gear, cleaning up, and battening the hatches. With the salt water dried and leaving a barely traceable crust on my skin, I decided to leave having a shower til I was home rather than shower in the marina, like wearing a lover’s sweat as a reminder of a passionate encounter. As I walked up the ramp to the nearest dockside bar and went in, my mind kept travelling to that little spot up the coast where I’d pulled up anchor that afternoon. I alternated between staring moodliy at the flat screen televisions mounted over the bar, the opposing hockey teams on them flicking back and forth across the ice, to into my beer, watching little amber bubbles rise to the surface. I kept thinking about the speed and grace that the mermaids had moved through the water, cutting through it like beautiful knives to edge the fishes into where they were able to hunt them with ease. I watched the little bubbles dancing in the deep amber liquid and three caught my eye and I allowed my imagination to turn them into those beautiful haunting sirens. Over the din of the bar filled with rowdy patrons collectively cheering or groaning their teams victories and losses, I couldn’t shake something else. That strange little sound I heard when I headed out. Ethereal laughter, beautiful and slightly inhuman. It played in my head, lodged in the recesses of my immediate memory like a catchy Top 40 tune, determined to drive me to distraction. I finished my beer, settled up and heaved myself off of my bar stool. I headed home and tried thinking about other things – the hockey game, the small talk with the other barflies, the nice ass on the cute waitress, but the three mermaids kept pulling my thoughts back to that little patch of jade green water.

The shower was hot, blasting the last traces of saltwater off of me. I let the water run down, feeling it rush over my body. I massaged the remaining sea water out of my hair, and aggressively scrubbed myself with the plain egg of white soap to distract myself. The steady drumming of the water hitting the floor of the tub became a rhythm, to a song already in my head. Groaning, I felt myself beginning to get harder and harder the louder the music got in my head. As i washed, my hand reached down to take my erection in my hand. I squirted a generous amount of generic conditioner into my hand and closed my eyes, and felt the water, imagining it to rush up my body, not down, as if I was being pulled underwater. In my mind’s eye I looked down into shimmering west coast water, past tops of kelp and rocky cliffs to see three beautiful and inhuman faces look up through the clouds of their hair. I felt them pull me down, and moaned as bubbles leaked out of the side of my mouth as slender fingers with soft webbing between them tug at my hips, then down to my manhood, now harder to their cold alien touch. I ached for release and breath.  As I came, hard and fast, I opened my eyes to see my very real, ordinary bathroom in East Vancouver, not in a underwater tangled knot with three biological marvels, feeling their salt-soaked magic entwined with my ordinary, mortal self in the depths off of Sechelt. The water, no longer hot, pelted me with cold needles, and my cock was beginning to wilt upon realizing I was no longer in my underwater wet dream. I dried off, continued my evening routine, post jerk-off session by reading in bed, with a cup of tea next to me. I watched the soft steam rise and curl like a snuffed out candle. I could have sworn I saw three serpentine female bodies winding around one another. I coughed and the image was gone. I sighed, turned over on my side and tried to push the thoughts of erotic fish women from my mind before sleep.

The next morning I woke up thinking I had left the radio on. There was a song playing, somewhere in the distance. Realizing it wasn’t any thing from my own home or sound drifting from a neighbour’s stereo, I recognized the refrain I’d been hearing since my boat pulled anchor. I decided I was officially distracted, and the only way I’d be able to concentrate on anything was to make a trip back and see if I could find the mermaids. I flipped a mental coin: if I went to Sechelt and they didn’t come to me, I’d bury the incident in my mind, and chalk it up to a once-in-a-lifetime moment, be grateful that I had that experience and leave it at that. But… on the off-chance that I could see them one more time… Just once more, so my thoughts could not be plagued by otherworldly desires… I recalled I had one tank of oxygen left on board and  enough fuel to get there and back. I choked down my usual breakfast of black coffee and toast, and hustled down to the marina and loaded the boat. I busied myself on the usual maintenance, trying to kill time as it dragged along in order to align the estimated time of arrival to match that of yesterday’s dive. Finally it was time to leave the dock and head out and I felt my cock beginning to press against the waistband of my pants. The engine grumbled to life and we let the city shrink and melt away behind me. The North Shore mountains reared up out of the ocean as we approached. Low flying gulls casually looked over to see if I had any handouts for them. A harbour seal bobbed it’s head out of the water solemnly as I passed by carving the water, the dividing wake following my boat looking like the petals found between a woman’s legs. I got close to where I estimated I’d dropped anchor the other day and  found a place to stop. Once I felt the anchor was secured, I hesitated. What now? I wondered if there was a way to attract them, like chumming the water for sharks. I hadn’t done anything particularly out of the unusual yesterday so I wasn’t sure. My cock was beginning to ache and strain away from me, towards the water. I hesitated and looked around. It was quiet and I was the only human soul in sight. I went to the stern of the boat and took my cock out. I was already hard, thinking of piscine couplings that would hopefully soon follow. I stroked myself harder and harder and more violently until I came, my semen dropping into the water. I caught my breath and found myself still hard as dewy come dropped into the water to join the rest. I’d seldom been with any woman who’d I been so aroused with, certainly never just by myself. Again, I jerked off into the water and watched my semen as it sat on top of the water, then sank, dancing below the waves.

It was while I was hunched over, my sides almost panting, when I saw a face emerging from the depths. One was joined by two and then a third. They broke the surface and stared. Their eyes were slightly larger than a regular human’s, more rounded but the lips were full and sensuous and all were closed but curved into smiles of erotic promises. They swam a little ways from the boat, a few yards, turning back to look back at the boat, then dived under the water. I wasn’t even aware of the speed with which I was ripping my clothes off but it felt like seconds later and I felt the cold water knocking the breath out of me. I came up and broke the surface gasping for air, hoping my abrupt entrance into the water hadn’t made them flee. I didn’t have to wait long. As i tread water, I felt caresses along my legs, torso, and over my aching cock, waking up again despite the recent abuse and rude introduction of cold water. The three heads bobbed up again, this time surrounding me, so closely. A strange keening came from them, melodic and alarming at the same time and altogether familiar. I looked to the left and saw one lay her mouth on my shoulder. I reached to stroke her hair, swirling in the water around her. She sank her teeth into my hand and began sawing her head back and forth. I yelped and a result slipped under the water. I felt another pair of strong hands pull me down and away at my ankles. I felt the second mouth clamp onto my neck and sharp teeth sever tendons. I never got to scream again. As I got pulled under the water, and I felt flesh from my groin tugged and a crimson bloom filled the water around me. I was being pulled away from the fading bottle green light of the surface. I felt my ears pop as I looked and saw three grins. The sight of three shark-toothed mouths in the beautiful faces was the last thing I saw in the gloom before the air from my lungs escaped and water rushed in to replace it in my lungs. As everything went black the last thing I recalled was the smile on my face.

 

Posted in Miss Risk, Random Banter | 1 Comment