Overheard in the Studio

On a cold crisp day in the Montmartre neighborhood of Paris, she came bounding into my studio. “Good morning Monsieur! How are you today?”. Good! The sun is shining through the windows of my studio and I have a beautiful muse to model for me today.

“What will we be painting today Monsieur?”. Today we’re doing a quick painting that is a color study in preparation for a larger, more detailed painting later. I am going to show how the skin tones of your breast transition from pinks to whites to orange tones. And I’m going to offset the skin tones with a sharp contrast to the black and red of this nipple clamp. “Oh you know how much I love the clamps. Whatever you wish Monsieur!”

Leave your dress on the chair and come over to the chaise lounge. I’ve already set up the lighting and have my palette ready. The clamp is right there on the side table if you could put it on your left nipple for me. “It will be my pleasure. May I put the other one on my right nipple?”. Of course you may.

“Monsieur, I am having great difficulty with these as they are different from mine. Might you be of assistance?”. Yes I can help. I want the heart locket to dangle down and reflect the light just perfectly. There. How’s that? “You can make them even tighter Monsieur. I don’t mind.” A soft moan is heard in the studio as I screw them tighter and begin painting, applying different layers of color.

“Oh Monsieur, they feel so good. You know how much I love suffering for you. May I touch myself while you paint?”. You may use your right hand, but not your left. Your left shoulder is in my painting. “Monsieur, do you get aroused when I sink a finger inside myself? Does it give you any thoughts? Does it firm your manhood when I withdraw and suck my finger like this ever so slowly?”.

Slap your clit five times. “Yes Monsieur” (as the sharp slaps echo through the studio). Now put two fingers in and bang yourself rapidly ten times. “Oh Monsieur, I need your cock in my mouth.”. Now work your clit rapidly until I tell you to cum. “Yes Monsieur….please….please Monsieur..”. More. Now. Cum for me now. “Aaaaaaggghhhh…” Do it again now. “Aaaaaaggghhhh…”

Good girl. Lick off your fingers.  Now we will continue painting. “Yes Monsieur, but I will take your cock in my mouth before I leave this studio….”. Yes you will.


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The Beautiful Girl Inside

Tell me.  Who is that little girl inside of you?  Behind those beautiful eyes, I see reflections of a child in your tears. When I listen to your life’s struggles, I hear the whispered echoes of a precious, sweet girl hidden away.

Bring her out and let her twirl and dance before me.  It is the deepest form of trust to share her.  Let me hold her close and wipe her tears, read her a poem and tell her a story.

I listen.  I do hear your declarations of independence as a strong and capable woman.  I only know some of what you have endured, but I’ve felt the wounds of your heart many times.

Where did you hide when you needed to cry? When you fell off your bike and skinned your knee, who was it that brushed away your tears? Did your Dad bounce you on his knee and tell you how much he loved you? Did he tell you that you were his girl?

I understand.  It sounds too easy, like a promise whispered in the wind.  But I hid for decades and also suffered.  I don’t speak of it often, but my strength came not from success, but from many failures. I chose to embrace my vulnerability.

Sweet dear, let your little girl out into the sunshine.  Let me hold her hand.  Let her cry.  When she is done, we will laugh and play together.  We will color and draw, and then go for long walks in the woods. I’ll point out all the wildflowers and the birds.

Let me know her.  Let me cherish and adore the very special girl inside.

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The Granddaughter of Vlad – Final

If you did not read part 3, you may find it here:  http://wp.me/p3XBZ6-18R

The demon, now drenched in Jusztina’s blood flew about me, looking for its opportunity to strike. “You will die wizard and she will still be mine,” it hissed.

Raising my scepter with its mounted crystal high above my head, I drew upon my deepest powers and invoked “lumen de lumine, ad hunc daemonis sui.”

As I spoke the incantation, my white eyes and the crystal on my scepter emitted the most intense white light, and then shot a concentrated pulse of that light at the demon.  The demon howled and screamed, fell backward and then flew off into the night and back to its master.

With the demon gone, I removed the bloodstone from inside Jusztina and held it between her breasts.  Kissing her softly, the incision began to close and heal.  Jusztina was regaining her strength and was no longer possessed.  The true beauty of her eyes looked up at me and I felt I was holding an angel in my hands.

Bending down, I bared my own vampire fangs and took her breast into my mouth.  Her nipple was warm and inviting and I sunk both fangs into the breast just above it.  Small amounts of Jusztina’s blood flowed into my mouth.  Then taking the knife, I cut my own own hand and drew my own blood into my mouth.  Mixing the two together, I knelt further and kissed Jusztina, sharing my blood with her.

As she looked into my eyes, I saw her look of trust, respect and adoration.  Wizard, man or beast, there is nothing that stirs me more.  Then I spoke softly in her ear, “Simul erimus mundi” and together, both of us transformed into bats, and flew away into the night.

Notes from the author:  All of the incantations are in Latin and can be translated.  I wish to thank the beautiful and talented Garbo for her help with the story concept and research of the effect of various rune stones.



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The Granddaughter of Vlad – Part 3

If you did not read Part 2, you may read it here: http://wp.me/p3XBZ6-18J.  This particular portion of the story is quite dark and will not be for all readers.

img_0527I had heard her cries from my dark hollow and knew that she was suffering.  But it was not my place to save her. That was UNTIL she summoned me using the Dominus invocation.

I had taught Vlad the Impaler the way of fear and conquest during his rule.  But ultimately I could not save him and as he lay dying, slayed by the Turks, I promised that when I was summoned, that I would destroy anyone or anything that threatened his family.

Transformed into a bat, I circled the tower a couple times and then flew through the lookout opening.  As I flew through the window, I returned into my human-like form, part wizard and still part beast, and looked down on Jusztina.  Her eyes, now near death, looked up to see me and I heard the demon within her hiss and spit, fearful of my presence.

I held in my hand an ancient scepter with a powerful crystal mounted in a brass setting at its tip.  I also had a large knife, a small leather pouch with a half pound oval-shaped bloodstone and a leather whip made of dozens of long strips of leather.  Wizards have used bloodstone for centuries to expel demons, but they don’t go easily.  They hide deep in the body.  Sorcery and force are needed and many wizards have been killed by demons during the exorcism.

I had to move quickly and knelt down to cut off Jusztina’s dress.  I could seen the demon stirring deep beneath her skin.  Removing the bloodstone from my leather pouch.  Holding the stone in my hands, I incanted “Malo relinquas spiritus”, then placed it deep inside her driving the demon from her womb, away from the bloodstone.  The demon was now agitated and I took the leather whip and swung it across her body several times, striking at the demon and repeating my incantation, “Malo relinquas spiritus”.

The demon, now furious, rose to the surface between Jusztina’s breasts.  Jusztina looked up at me and weakly implored me, “Get it out! Take it out!”  I nodded to her and taking my knife, I cut a shallow “X” between her breasts.  The demon burst through the cut and let out a blood curdling scream, its wild red eyes threatening imminent attack….

to be continued (one more chapter…)

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The Granddaughter of Vlad – Part 2

Jusztina struggled both against her chains and the demon that occupied her.  It had been days since she had last tasted flesh or drank human blood and she was growing weaker.  She remembered what her grandmother Ilona, wife of Vlad, had told her before she died.  “They will fear you Jusztina and many will try to kill you.  You are the granddaughter of Vlad the Impaler.  In your weakest moment, cry out for the Lord of Light and he will fight to save you.”

And so when all hope of survival seemed lost, when Jusztina would either die a forgotten captive or be consumed by the demon ravaging her body from within, she waited for the church bells to ring, pulled against her chains then summoned her Latin and cried out: “Domini Lucidum me liberabit it de daemone”.

And though the church bells had rung, not a single bat took to the sky, for they knew the Lord of Light had been summoned.  They did not dare fly in the presence of the the Lord.  All the city was still except for one large bat with luminescent white eyes, that made its way from high in the mountains, then circled high above the city, its dark silhouette visible in the light of the moon before it dove for the tower.  

To be continued…

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The Granddaughter Of Vlad – Part 1

It had been nearly forty years since the rule of Vlad III Draculea in the kingdom of Transylvania. The residents of this small city of Sighisoara remembered his reign of terror, how he had beaten back the Ottoman Turks and impaled any invaders. Stories circulated of him cutting out the beating hearts of captured soldiers and then devouring the flesh in front of the remaining prisoners before they too were tortured or killed.

So it is not too surprising that anything or anyone associated with Vlad was feared. Many thought that Vlad’s spirit still haunted the city and Sighisoara’s dark Gothic architecture with its many spires, towers and gargoyles only fed the story that one day Vlad would return to take his revenge.

At night, as the full moon and stars illuminated the old cobblestone streets, bells would ring and clouds of bats flew from one tower to the next. It was high in one of those old bell towers, that shackles were secured to your wrists and ankles and another tight around your neck. Short lengths of heavy chain secured you to the heavy stone blocks of the tower.

You were chained and locked away because a woman in the village saw you eating a heart. Another woman saw the red glow of a demon spirit in your eyes. And they were right, for you are Jusztina, red haired, curvy, beautiful and beguiling.  You are the granddaughter of Vlad and it is true.  Though your heart is pure and your spirit kind and beautiful, you are possessed by a demon and do drink the blood of humans….

This tale will be dark and violent. Be forewarned. To be continued…

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Whoopi-Ty-Aye-Yay: A Western Duet

I once again had the pleasure to write with Wet Bliss.  She is a very talented poetess so please visit her blog and read all her great poetry, many of which are fun, sexy duets.  This duet is inspired by the old singing cowboy of the West, Gene Autry and also my fantasy of having sex on horseback.

I want you back in my saddle again
Naked on my horse, your breasts in my hand
I’ll slide it in slowly while you hold the reins
And together we’ll ride, hard on the range

Rockin’ to and fro’
In my saddle you’ll stay

Harnessing the rhythm beating in my heart
I’ll be your sweetheart, if you take me tonight
Out on the planes under the moon and stars
Burn a trail of kisses and hold me tight

Now, away we go
Start nice-n-slow

Love’s in the air, so giddy up, let’s ride
I’ll clutch your hips as we gallop down this road
The tension keeps building as we hit stride
Now polish my revolver before I unload

A little faster my dear
The moment is near

Cowboy, I like the way you fill my holster
Slip and slide with ease in tight spastic grip
Well oiled, shining with gleam, bite my shoulder
Oh! Rub that hard nub, squeeze a handful of tit

Playing with my gun
This is a lot of fun

There’s leather and skin by the campfire,
The coyotes yip their song under stars and moonlight
Our horse is hitched and unsaddled
But you’re bridled and ridden, hard through the night


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Toward a More Joyful Dynamic


I pursue life.  I pursue experience.  There have been times when I failed miserably and other times I have had great successes for a time.  From each experience, but particularly from the failures, I have grown.  The lessons from a failure are like the sharp edge of a knife or searing heat of a flame.  You learn…

And so from this experience, I have grown more attuned to the great alchemy, and the dynamic, that exists between a man and a woman.  The alchemy and attraction is innate, but it is the dynamic, and its joyful interplay, that fascinates me and drives me toward a deeper curiosity and desire to Master its nuances.

The closest analogy that I can offer is that a dynamic is like a magical type of sailboat.  It needs the wind given to it by both the man and the woman to fill its sails.  And if you sail (like I do), then you know the joy of a sailboat that is perfectly on course, slightly heeled heading into the wind and sailing at its optimum speed.  There is a magic, a beauty and a joy to it.

What makes this sailboat so unique is that the man and the woman use their communications and small acts of service to fill the sails, not at the same time, but each in turn.  One person uses all of their skill to listen, to be attuned to the other and the conditions, and then to blow gently into the sail.  The other then listens, is attuned and sensitive to the other, then blows gently into the sail in response.  It is this give and take between the two that propels the sailboat forward.

What is so unique about this is that the skill and the focus required is within one’s self.  You cannot fill the sail in collaboration with the other without first being aware of your own weaknesses and limitations, without listening to the other, without being attuned and sensitive.  You have to be attuned to what she is saying and not saying, to the deeper unspoken story within her and to the conditions around the two of you.  And then it becomes a matter of mastering your own emotional responses, perceptions, judgments, then your communications and ultimately your actions.

But you can learn to sail.  You can craft and participate in a more joyful, satisfying dynamic with your lover.  You can even tie your lover naked to the mast if you wish (use the clove hitch knot).  But the first journey is within you.



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I Am The Magician



On a side street of Old London
Dark, cobblestoned with black lanterns
The guests slowly file in

Beautiful masked women
With plunging necklines, pearls and gowns
Men in their black coats, tails and glasses

It is an erotic affair
As though it were a private masquerade
On All Hallow’s Eve

And as I come out on stage
Looking upward at the tiers and balconies
Gilded chandeliers and tapestries

I take my deep bow
And the lights dim
The audience settles to a whisper

There is nothing on this old stage
Except me, two candelabras flickering
and you naked in a long pine box

You are not quite awake, but not asleep
Aware but in a dreamlike state
Obedient to my commands

Looking slyly at the hushed audience
I wave my hands over the old pine box
As the lid slowly opens

Raising my hands slowly, rhythmically
Your naked body rises and floats
So beautiful, the audiences gasps

Your flowing hair and gorgeous face
Full, erect breasts
And beautiful curves

Aware of the audience and performance
But receptive to only me
Half dreaming, still desiring

Floating naked above the stage
I slowly tease a rope to encircle you
As though the serpent were to devour Eve

My hands never touch, but my motion
Controls your every move and response
Your body slowly rolls and twists

In a dreamlike stupor, you feel my touch
As though it happened
My hand on your neck, the lobe of your ear

As my hands move downward
I brush past your breasts
Your back arches, head tilts back

One hand below you, one above
The audience shivers and anticipates
Women whisper, men just stare

And as the rope begins to tighten
My hands near your deep wetness
While your thighs slightly part

You imagine my soft touch
Electricity rolls through, tingles and excites
Energy builds, pulses and throbs

And finally, as though possessed
You moan and explode, clawing at the air
Releasing all your power

The audience gasps

And as I lower my hands
You settle back into the box
And the lid closes

I take my deep bow
The audience roars
You are my assistant

And I am the magician

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Your White Stallion

I know the trouble
tension and fear
that echo in your mind
I sense your longing
to be wild
and free
so straddle me
my love
grab my mane
and let yourself go
ride me hard
under the stars
and into the night

I am your white stallion

Painting of Lady Godiva by John Collier

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Wenceslaus and the Bridge Builder’s Wife

My name is Wenceslaus and I was never a king, but was the Duke of Bohemia.   You may know me as Saint Wenceslaus.  This is the story of my relationship with Markéta, the bridge builder’s wife and ultimately, my martyrdom.

painting of peasant girl by Alexander Roche

Markéta was born to a poor family in a rural hamlet a few hours ride north of the capital city of Prague.  Her childhood was not perfect and at a young age she saw her chance to escape with a young man who had a promising future as a bridge builder.  He was tall, strong, modestly handsome, reliable and a bit dull.  But she dreamt of an exciting life far away from her parents and the little hamlet of her birth. Betrothed at a young age, she soon was bearing him sons and daughters.

Yet Markéta was not like the other young women of her village.  If you looked deep in her eyes, you could see an intellect, a curiosity and a sensuality that was being hidden away from the world.  And as the years went by, those traits, along with her physical beauty continued to grow until she literally felt she was bursting inside, trapped in a small life and kept by a large man, but one now much smaller in intellect than her.  Her husband lacked that verve for life that she so desperately lusted for and needed.  Like so many others, he was trapped by the conventions of a Bohemian society who could not grasp the spirit and passion that was hidden away in his own wife.  In this time, sadly, many of the men saw their wives as property, there only to serve their needs and bring honor to the family name and estate.

I am Wenceslaus and I also defied the conventions of society.  Other dukes of the time used their position to accumulate wealth, wage war, acquire new lands, drink, sleep with all variety of women and frequently conspired to overthrow the king.  They enforced the rules of society for their own profit or pleasure, but rarely abided by them.  This included my own brothers, also dukes, who fathered several bastard children with beautiful women in various villages but did not support them financially.

Many know me as a saint or even a Samaritan.  And, yes, I did give bread to the hungry, clothe the poor and build housing for the displaced.  But I was not a saint.  I, too, had my lovers, some of them quite illicit though I kept those relations very discreet.

painting of Wenceslaus by Sylvia Dahlgren

On one of my trips to her little hamlet, something about Markéta caught my eye.  It would be easy to say that it was the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her ass or the arc of her back.  But it was something more.  It was the way she looked at me.  She held her gaze a little longer with a knowing look.  The corners of her mouth would turn to a smile when she saw me.  And she spoke differently.  She was not simply a peasant girl. There was always a wisdom and worldliness that intrigued me that others did not see or appreciate.

It did not take long to take her into my bed.  The truth was that both of us were prisoners in our own lives and fucking each other wildly gave both of us a momentary escape.  We did things with her that polite society would never approve of, most would not even think of, but brought both of us great satisfaction.  Some of the things we did together were illegal in those times.  I fucked her hard and often, but I could never truly be hers nor she mine, and it wasn’t too many months later that she was discovered in the bed of an older Frenchman who had recently moved to the area.

Now if he wasn’t a Frenchman, nobody would have said a word.  She would have been escorted home and punished severely, probably with a leather belt, by her husband.  But we hate the French.   So the constable shackled her, threw her in the dungeon and a court date was set for the charge of illicit fornication.   A fair and just trial was an impossibility for Markéta.  She had been caught fucking a Frenchman.  The only real question is whether they would hang her or stone her to death.

By the time I learned of the trial from one of my couriers, she had already been convicted and was sentenced to public shaming and death by stoning.  The villagers, led by the powerful family of her husband, were furious.  She had brought dishonor to their name, which was all they truly cared about (and their grandsons and cattle).  Not even her own husband rose to her defense.  I saddled my fastest white stallion and rode furiously for her village hoping to stay her conviction and prevent her death.

When I arrived, she had already been disrobed and bound naked with rope on an old hag horse.  The villagers were in a frenzy.  As her horse was led through the village, the women hissed and spit on her.  Men yelled ‘whore’ and ‘slut’ with looks of terror and malice in their eyes.  A mob was starting to form and a few stones had already been thrown.

Much to the surprise of the villagers, I rode my horse straight into the angry mob and took Markéta off the old horse.  I cut the ropes that bound her wrists and wrapped her naked body in my red cloak, then set her high up on my white stallion.  The villagers were stunned and furious.  They were determined to see her blood spill.

The constable stepped forward, “Duke Wenceslaus, your presence here is quite curious.  This whore here has already been convicted for her crime and sentenced to death by stoning.  Not even you have the power to stay her conviction or intervene in her punishment.  What is your interest? Why are you here? ”

I looked at villager, many with stones in their hand and anger in their eyes and spoke firmly yet passionately.

“I am the Duke of this land, but today I speak with you as a man, a man no different than you.  Why is it that you seek the blood of this woman, a wife, a mother, and a child of your own tribe?  What is the source of your anger?  She is simply a woman who wishes to be known and loved for all that she is, all that she is capable of.  Do you seek to destroy her for wishing for love? Are we really so cruel that we cannot admit the complexities of love, of passion, of desire?   

Men of the village, let me ask you something.  In the moments before your death, will you remember how many cattle you owned or the balance in your accounts?  Or will you remember the moments you were loved fully and completely by a woman?  Where is your grace, your wisdom, and your compassion?  

Women of the village, why do you hiss and spit at her?   She is your sister and your friend.  Do you not care for her children? Can’t you see the tyranny in which you live? Many of you married as a child to a man selected by your parents solely to advance your family’s position and estate.  It was never for love and many of these men treat you as property.  Can you not empathize with her need for love?” Several of the women lowered their heads and cried softly when I spoke.

Then the constable and two village elders stepped forward.  “Duke Wenceslaus, that is a very fine speech, but she has already been convicted and sentenced to death.  She must be executed.

Now I was angry.  “Nothing in this land is fair.  The banker charges a usurous rate and repossesses the farms for his own gain.  The merchant triples the price for the least able to pay for his goods. The priest collects his tithes and vacations in a fine villa in Italy.  How many of you have had another lover?  I know for a fact that my own brother has sired two bastard children in this very village.  Perhaps the only honest people in this village are the children and the whores.  Let her go.  By the law of this land, an innocent person can step forward to take her punishment.  So I will die in her place.  Cast your stones at me.  I accept your anger and your sentence.”

The villagers were stunned with disbelief that a Duke would offer his life for a poor bridge builder’s wife.  Many lowered their heads while I looked the elders and the constable right in the eye.  I would not back down.  Then I heard the rocks drop and watched as the villagers turned and walked away.  Looking up at Markéta, she was bawling as I slapped the rump of my white stallion, “Markéta, you must go. Take my horse and ride hard until you are out of Bohemia.  Do not come back.“.  I saw one last look of love before my horse bolted forward to take her away forever.

Two weeks later was the Festival of Saints Cosmas and Damian.  It was the year of our Lord 935.  It was a cold dark, snowy night and while providing for the poor and the hungry, my brother, Boleslav the Cruel, had his assassin slit my throat.  He had been planning my death for some time, but my actions and words gave him the justification needed to kill me.

Some call me a Saint or a King.  I was neither, but I thought you should know the true story of Vaclav Wenceslaus and Markéta, the bridge builder’s wife.

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Marked as Mine


My hand longs
to mark the gorgeous
curves of your ass
as mine

Posted in Uncategorized | 17 Comments

Quick Sketch of Satyr and Maenad

I am traveling but had a few moments tonight to do a quick sketch of one of my favorite sculptures in the Louvre

Posted in My Artwork, Uncategorized | 17 Comments

An American Holiday Painting by Mr Modigliani

Not too long ago, Cinn put up a post that included a fun painting that she had done for Christmas.  Then Ash contacted me and said that she and some of the girls had been talking and were wondering if I could post some artwork for the holidays. So in the spirit of that request, here is one of my oil paintings done for the holidays. It was inspired by the traditional style of American painter Grandma Moses and has been in my portfolio for a long time. The scene is from a small town in Wisconsin at the turn of the last century. I hope you like it.

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What Will You Remember of Me My Love?

What will you remember of me my love?
What are the images of me, of us,
That are painted in your mind?
Will you remember the blue of my eyes
Or the desperate passion of our kiss?
Will you remember my mane of blonde
Or the clutch of my hands on your hips?
Will you remember the intimacies we shared
Or the erotic fantasies that we lived?
What will you remember of me my love?

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The Subject of Connection (rev 2)


Jupiter and Antiope, by Bartholemeus Spranger, c. 1596

Some time ago, I wrote a post entitled “My Own Thoughts on Connection“.  Then recently, one of my followers went back and read this post and “Liked” it, causing me to revisit it.

In reading these thoughts, I realized that my perspectives on this issue have changed and shifted.  So I am making some changes here, sort of as a journal entry for myself.

My Statement of Identity.  I am an intellectual, artistically expressive and sexual man.  I am progressive, non-conventional, worldly, adore and respect women, and live my life aggressively in pursuit of my dreams.  It is so important to me that I move forward in this life with a woman who loves, respects, understands and is interested in who I am on the inside.

I am sapiosexual and connection starts with the mind.  Intellectual connection is an important need for me.  It is so very important that I spend my intimate moments with an interesting person of intellect, an aesthetic appreciation and a point-of-view.  Nothing deepens intimacy with me as much as honest sharing and communication.

Words of endearment are important to me.  This has not changed.  Underneath everything, I remain a sensitive man and even the words “I missed you” or “I need you” have a big impact.  I know that I have not always been emotionally accessible, but this has really changed a great deal in the last couple years.

The need for a “spiritual connection” feels slightly less relevant to me now.  I think if two lovers have great alchemy, trust, intimacy, mental connection and passion, the net result will feel spiritual.  But this is a result of many factors and the inherent alchemy between two people, so I am moving it to the side of my main priorities.

I expect my lover to actively support and participate in my growth, development and artistic expression.  In my prior post, I did not even mention this, yet it is so fundamental and an absolute requirement for me.  I have been in relationships where my artistic spirit was not understood or appreciated and was stifled, even dismissed in the name of other ‘priorities’.  I love attending theater, a dance performance, drawing or painting a muse and I expect my lover to be my partner in all these activities.  I also would love for her to be the subject of my artistic passion much like Modigliani’s wife Jeanne Hébuterne.

A high level of sexual play along with tender intimacy is important.  My sex can be very high energy, fierce, wild, creative and kinky.  I have loved creating scenes and fulfilling my fantasies in collaboration with my lover.  I can be very demanding and she has to be able to match me physically and sexually.  But what I did not say in my last post is that the need for true intimacy supersedes this and all other needs.  I imagine a perfect day to be a lazy Sunday lying in bed with my lover, kissing tenderly and then passionately, touching, caressing and holding.  The kissing, touching and skin on skin contact is so very important and there will always be other times, moments and scenes that are far more urgent and demanding (in the car, my office, under my desk, the stairwell, the alley way, the theater, the restaurant, etc.)

Just to wrap this up, I want to reemphasize that is written largely for myself and to articulate my thoughts in one writing that I can refer back to.  It is a journal entry and a marker in time.  I do hope, however, that is spurs your own thinking on the same subject and I would be very interested to hear your thoughts.


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“Adoration for the Muse” – by Mr. Modigliani

“My art is simply not possible without a deep love and adoration for the muse.” – Mr. Modigliani

This was a 20 minute live model sketch done in studio on Sunday afternoon.  It was exceptionally challenging as the time limit for each pose did not allow for any rework.  The curve of her ass, slope of her back and fullness of her breasts brought to mind some beautiful memories in my own life. .  

Posted in My Artwork | Tagged , , , | 18 Comments

Pursuing My Passion 

IMG_0863For a few years now, I have talked about my adoration of the muse and my need to express this passion in my artistry.  Inside of me, it is both a fire and the voice of my inner conscience pointing to my destiny.

This blog has been an experiment in the rebirth of the artistry that was dormant for too long while I attended to the responsibilities and challenges of my life.  I took this opportunity to write poetry, small stories, record spoken word and pair those writings with some original drawings and watercolor paintings.  A good example of this synthesis of elements is found in my post, “To An Empyrean Sea

Much of my writing has been dependent on some very beautiful and talented muses that have inspired me.  The time spent with these muses has been rewarding on many levels.  I would not be where I am today as a man and artist without them.

I also find the synthesis of different forms of artistry is satisfying, unique and challenging.  The challenging part is that I compare myself to more skilled practitioners in each discipline and realize that I still have so much to learn.  There are poetic forms to discover and practice.  My drawing hand needs practice and I need to spend more time doing live figure drawing and painting in various media.

Moreover, I believe my skills would develop more quickly if I were in the company of other artists and writers.  Part of it is having exposure to their skills and feedback, but I am also interested in the friendship of other artists and writers.  I wish to spend the quality hours of my life with bright, adventurous adults that pursue life and share similar interests.

So I am making some significant changes.  First, my studio is getting a significant upgrade including a new gallery.  Second, I am joining an artist’s coop and will be listed as an emerging poet, writer and artist.  It is my intent to spend my time in this coop painting and drawing while becoming part of a figure drawing collective.

These are major changes that will impact my life, how I spend my time and my friendships.  Now it’s time to make it happen.  Oh, and if you were wondering, I am not going anywhere and it is still my intent to continue to curate and write for this blog.  It is my virtual gallery and a bit of a life journal after all.

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Your Sweet Moans

Dance for me
my beauty
and my love
Twirl for me
under the light
of the stars
Come and
slip off that dress
Let the fire’s flames
flicker against
your alabaster skin
Let me hold
your full breasts
and the curve of your hip
Kneel for me
so that I may
gaze into your eyes
Suffer for me
so I will hear
the cries of your devotion
And cum for me
For your sweet moans
will always be
the song in my heart

Painting is “Fire” by contemporary painter Henry Asencio.
More of this work can be found here

Posted in Erotic Poetry, Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , | 17 Comments

Joy to My Spirit

In the midst of the fiercest storm, it is still my hand, my eye, and my deep adoration and love for a muse that brings joy to my spirit

Original artwork by Mr Modigliani

Posted in My Artwork, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 24 Comments

Thoughts on Eve’s Temptation

hpcn0271In the last week, I have alternated between stories of my ancestors and some writing about the Garden of Eden and The Original Sin.

It is time to bring those two subjects together and share a bit of my history, as well as my thoughts about that original temptation.

I am not from Livorno, Italy but descended from German and Scandinavian immigrants who made their way to the center of the United States during the homesteading days of the mid 1800’s.  They, along, with many other immigrants came into this land to receive their 1/4 section for free so long as they worked the land for five years as part of the Homestead Act.

My great-grandfather on my father’s mother’s side was a highly respected Lutheran minister of great intellect who led the small prairie church.  His compensation was $75 a month plus feed for two cows, chickens and a few pigs, some meat, flour and some fuel.  However, the church was very poor and these obligations were not always met.

In those days, there was no religious or societal equality between men and women.  In fact, women sat on one side of the church and men on the other.  Women were not allowed serve in leadership roles or be ordained as ministers.  They served on the Ladies’ Guild or taught Sunday School. Many also taught in the small schoolhouse attached to the church.  And though my parents were raised a little later, after World War II, this culture and its beliefs still prominently influenced their upbringing.

I did not grow up in this community, but in the more contemporary setting of the suburb of a mid-sized city a few hours away.  Still the remnants of inequality persisted.  As a young man, it would puzzle me as I listened to the sexist viewpoints of various ministers and lay elders and juxtaposed this to the war in Vietnam and the societal revolution that was taking place.  One of the lay leaders was my own father.  I thought deeply about what had formed their world view even as the intellectual side of my mind rejected many of their tenets.

I explored various cultures around the world and uncovered their stories of origin (read the Masks of God by Joseph Campbell).  Each was profound and beautiful.  These stories were powerful and were repeated through the generations as the basis for a particular society.  Leaders used these stories to reinforce various cultural and theological dictates and more importantly to secure their own power and leadership.

It has always been my view that the Temptation of Eve story in the book of Genesis was used by many generations of paternalistic religious and lay leaders to shame the female gender.  They then used this guilt to conscript women to traditional roles that served the men.  This shaming might have been quite subtle, but it was there and repeated for each new generation.

So if I were to rewrite the Garden of Eden story knowing that society naturally tended toward male patriarchy, then the minimum that could be done is to eliminate the shaming of the female gender from this story.  It should be written in such a way that it would not be used to blame women for the expulsion from the Garden of Eden.

I do believe, however, that both Adam and Eve would choose enlightenment over the naivete’ and the protected security of their life in the Garden.  They would choose to eat the apple.  But in my version of the story, it is Adam that should be tempted by the serpent.  It is he that should consider the options and consequences and then explain them to Eve and it is he that should take the first bite of the apple.

Had this been this story, the burden of the original sin would be lifted from women and could not be used to reinforce generations of male paternalism. Women would be freer in their choices to both serve and lead according to their gifts, aspirations and desires.

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If I Discovered Eve in the Garden…

I have considered the temptation of Eve from my perspective. What if I had found her in the garden considering the apple?

My strongest instinct would be tie her wrists around the trunk of the tree of enlightenment, spank her pretty ass hard until well marked, then untie her, drop her to her knees and drive my shaft deep down her throat until I filled it with my own seed.

Then when she was on her knees looking up at me with those adoring eyes, then and only then would I shove the apple in her mouth.

Posted in Erotic Thoughts, My Dominance | Tagged , , | 22 Comments

Grandma’s Last Thanksgiving

This will be Grandma’s last Thanksgiving.   She misses Grandpa terribly, is tired of making trips to the emergency room and has asked that no further interventions be taken to keep her alive.

And yet she is just well enough to travel two hours (as a passenger) to spend Thanksgiving with us.  Most likely, she will be of very good spirits, will smile, joke and socialize with me and my boys.

And yet I know this is the last one.  I also know that she loves me deeply as much as I love her.  Two weeks ago, she called on my birthday and I excused myself from a board room full of executives to take her call.  Her words to me were a pure expression of love.

As a teenage boy, I would drive two hours to spend time with her and Grandpa on their Midwestern dairy farm.  On one of those trips, I brought an easel and my oil paints.  And at the young age of 14, I set up an easel in the front yard of her farmhouse and painted the farm she loved so dearly.

I painted the red barn, the windmill that provided fresh water to the dairy cattle, the outbuildings and the two navy blue Harvestore silos.  For thirty years, that painting hung above their fireplace until she moved to assisted living and gave the painting back to me.

Now I am taking the painting back to give to her one last time.  I want it to be with her, a symbol of a beautiful life well lived and a love shared.

Posted in Other Musings, Uncategorized | 22 Comments

The Portrait of My Life

I have never believed in a Creator.  There is simply too much injustice that I cannot reconcile.  And yet I sometimes hear a wise voice deep inside me, gently instructing, consoling and illuminating my lessons and choices.

Is this wise voice a deeper part of my self, my own inner Master? Or is he the spirit of the universe?  Does it even matter?  For truly, it is my choices that have meaning, whatever their inspiration.

Yet, when I think about what has happened, a drama of extraordinary beauty and ugly pettiness, truly I could not script it better myself.  It is as though the divine hand of the Master had to teach me, had to paint it for me personally, in the starkest of contrast and color, the portrait of my life.

Posted in My Development, My Dominance | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Communion of Love


A Master is nothing without the wanton desire and adoration of his slave.  Indeed, he is not even a Master until anointed by the slave, and it is the deep gift of her soul and body that gives blessing to his power and his fierce desire to command her pain and pleasure in the communion of love.

Posted in Erotic Thoughts | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

Eve’s Choice

Let’s suppose for a moment that you are Eve in the Garden of Eden. 

You have a companion, though there is no passion. There is safety and your most basic needs are provided for in this sheltered and confined utopia.  Yet there is this ache inside of you, an awareness that something is horribly missing. 

Then a creature comes to you and says, “Daughter, you are naive and live like a child, yet what kind of life is it? Have you experienced ecstasy? Do you truly know the pangs of love? Has your soul been seared by pain and tempered in the heat of its lessons? Are you content to live eternally always knowing that you are a small fraction of all that you could be in your fullest glory?  Do you feel those pangs of want and desire in your soul? All you must do to truly live and explore all that you are, all that you can become, is cast off the shackles of those that confine you and protect you in this supposed sanctuary.”

So would you take a bite of the apple to realize the joys and pangs of your humanity or would you choose the conscripted, perpetual safety of the garden? What would you do?

Painting of Eve by Anna Lea Merritt 1885

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We Are All French

What words can I say? My heart is with my Parisian friends. Today we are all French in our sorrow, love and compassion. 

Image by Parisian designer Jean Jullien

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My Hope for Every Man

My hope for every man is that he sup from the Golden Chalice, such that the weight of his lament is lifted and his experience of the divine is discovered in the communion of love.

Image is of the ancient Chalice of Valencia

Posted in Erotic Thoughts, My Development | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

A Golden Thread


All I ask
All I require
Is the small gift
Of a golden thread
I need to feel
your current
and spark
I need to know
that your words
to me live
I will take it all
But I will not tolerate
empty words
that feel
the cold voids
of space
weave with me
a tapestry
give me
a golden thread

picture from DeviantArt posted by Blondbeoy99

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , | 13 Comments

Magic and Beauty

Time flows like a river
And yet I hardly feel its pull
Even in the autumn of my days
There is a new spring
Inside me
A rebirth in
Body and spirit
And I celebrate today
The sun shines in my life
My loves
and my friends
We are a flowering vine
All of us are eternally
In magic
And beauty

Thank you


Posted in My Development | Tagged , | 57 Comments

The Arc of Your Back


It is not the arc of your back
and its perfect tone
that draws me to you

It is not the fullness of your breasts
and their erect attention
that affix my gaze

It is not the strength of your thighs
or the curve of your ass
that firm my desire

It is simply your gift
the joy and lightness in your voice
and the adoration in your eyes

That delight my spirit
and inspire my dreams
Drawing me ever closer to you

Sculpture by Auguste Rodin

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The Master’s Rose


Should not be kept under glass.   Original work in pastels by Mr Modigliani, October 2015

Posted in Uncategorized | 31 Comments

Rendezvous in Paris, Twenty Years Later 

Twenty years had gone by since the time of our love affair. I was now in my late 60’s and had long since retired from my career in the restoration of historic artistic properties. You had finally left your husband and had started a small business importing vintage jewelry. We had lost track of each other but had not completely left each other’s thoughts.

On a Tuesday, I was scheduled to speak at an international conference of art curators in Paris.  An expensive piece by Gustav Klimt in oils and gold would be on display.

A mutual friend (and former lover of yours), tipped me off that you were in town at a large jewelry show, and since it was on Monday, I thought I would stop by the show. When we were younger, we had dreamt of fucking in Montmartre, but now, two decades later, we were both finally here, though long since separated. I really didn’t have any expectation of finding you, but it was a beautiful day and a wonderful way to kill some time in the art district.

As I walked among all the displays of colorful vintage jewelry, I suddenly caught your eye. You were stunned to see me, but were friendly and gracious and gave me a huge hug, asking why I was in Paris and wondering how I had found you. There was some gray in your hair now but you were still beautiful and elegant. Your enthusiasm surprised me and I coyly gave my explanation, before agreeing to go for a walk and have lunch with you. 

And so we walked and talked. We shared the joys and pains of our lives. We talked about the lovers that had been gained and lost, the great joys and and maddening sorrows. We talked about choices and the learnings from those experiences.

And then as a small band performed on a street corner, I took you into my arms, putting one hand on the small of your back, and taking your other hand in mine and we simply danced.  And as I held you and our bodies swayed together, you looked up at me and I once again saw the love in your eyes before you put your head on my shoulder and cried, your tears falling onto my shirt, your arms clutching me in embrace.

A little while later we would kiss briefly and part, exchanging well intended but false promises of staying in touch. We never saw each other again.

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Remembering Cezanne

Paul Cezanne died today in 1906.  I enjoy his work as a post-impressionist and particularly his still life paintings with a simple bowl of fruit.  Nobody could do a still life better than Cezanne.   In the gallery above, there is a painting of a boy in a red vest.  There is a fascinating story behind this painting as it was only recently discovered in Belgrade not too many years ago.  It is worth a fortune.  I have some thoughts to share about my own artistic development and will do so later today.  Love, -M.

p.s. special thanks to the J. Paul Getty Museum for the reminder

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged | 2 Comments

Siren Gets Married!


For those of you that have followed my blog for a long time, you may remember when I helped rescue a younger submissive woman from her very abusive and dangerous fiancee’.  This young submissive wrote a blog under the name of Sicilian Siren.  (If we are very lucky, she will comment here…)

After she left her fiancee, she asked my help in qualifying the various suitors and Dominant men that were taking an interest in her.  After weeding through a couple of bad apples, she settled in on a very nice man and starting dating him in earnest.

I hear from her every once in a while and after a lengthy absence, she remains connected to me on a couple of social media accounts.  Today, when scrolling through my feed, I saw a beautiful picture of her getting married in front of City Hall and I about hit the ceiling.

I cannot tell you how thrilled and happy I am for both of them.  To be honest, I don’t know how long this blog will last, but I will always remember this situation and the opportunity I had to help a beautiful and generous young woman turn her life around to find true love.

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged | 18 Comments

So Open Your Petals…


There are times
you hide away
preferring safety
feeling the world high above
looking down, casting judgment
And yet the She-Spirit knows
the smallest flowers are the most
cherished souls in the forest
touched by the hand of God
a Master’s creation
inspired, each unique
painted from his own palette
so open your petals
drink in the sun
you are a source of life to others
and you are not alone…

Picture is a blue hazebell wildflower, taken by me

Posted in Romantic Poetry | 10 Comments

The Spinning Orbit of Delirious Love


Imagine with me, for a second, that you are a particle in space, floating in a web with trillions and trillions of other particles.  Yet none are connected.  Each is alone.

And then something changes as though a nearby star has emitted a massive burst of quark through the universe.  There is something about you that has changed.  And as another particle draws near, he or she is attracted as though the forces of the universe, the laws of God and physics, have put you together in some kind of divine play.

The electricity flows between you as you circle and orbit each other, each anointed with the majesty and power of your attraction.  And what is it that holds you in orbit with each other?  Is it a kind of magic alchemy or purely the laws of physical attraction?

And then suddenly the flux in the universe changes, either naturally or by catastrophe.  Particles change their polarity and float apart from each other, leaving each other once again alone.

It’s then that you realize that this flux in the universe was love itself.  And the quark and quanta that flow in it were really trust and faith.  Only with trust and faith, can we draw others to ourselves in the spinning orbit of delirious love.

Posted in Sensual Writing | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Passion and Artistry

My craft is to create the beautiful and the possible. And, in this, I demand the sensuous gift of all that you are. You will be dressed in vintage white and bound gracefully in the master suite of my old Victorian mansion. Soft light will reflect off your feminine curves like the muses of Renoir, Degas or Delacroix as I paint, draw or simply consume you. You are my muse, my love, my beautiful, and I will direct you fiercely in the scene that gifts you with my deepest passion and artistry.

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , | 16 Comments

My Heartfelt Apology to Kit

beautiful-blonde-blue-eyes-girl-pretty-Favim.com-130766_large (1)I was only 20, a junior in college at a large Midwestern university, when I met her.  She was 22, a fifth year senior and had already been accepted to Law School.  She was also one of the most beautiful and charismatic women on campus.  At 5’4″ and 105 pounds, she had blonde hair, a killer smile, striking blue eyes, a tight little ass that made men pant, great fashion sense, and a flirtatious,  intelligent personality.

She lived in one of the finer sorority houses on campus, but never came across like a sorority girl.  On our first date, she simply invited me to the living room of her sorority house for a chat.  When I took a seat on the white couch, she pulled out a chess board, set up all the pieces, looked up at me and said, “Black or White”.  I chose black, replying “Ladies first…”  This started off a wide ranging discussion of art, style, geopolitics, religion and many other subjects.  Then I asked, “So Kit, do you always play chess with your dates?”  She replied, “Yes, M, I do.  I can tell a lot about a man when I play chess with them (as she winked at me in her sexy, flirtatious way).”  Many moves later, I checkmated her.

This set off a torrid romance.  Our lovemaking was like two passionate hungry beasts that clawed at each other and couldn’t get enough.  When we weren’t fucking, we were cooking together.  Food, fashion, shoes (Nine West), clothes, sex, music and great discussions were her joys.  We enjoyed cooking in her new townhouse with its fabulous kitchen before we retired to more play on her giant waterbed.

But Kit also had some Daddy issues.  Her mother was a local television personality famous for her kids show in the morning.  Her father had divorced her mom, moved to a southern state, was a prominent attorney and dated a much younger playboy model.  This caused Kit all kinds of angst and there were times where she would get very moody and started fading in and out on me.  She would disappear for a month, then show up on my door, asking to be held.  I would give her a bath and then fuck her all night.

We never thought of ourselves as boyfriend and girlfriend.  We were lovers and intimates that eventually started fading apart.  Part of it simply was our age difference.  She was starting law school and I was still in college.  I had dates with other women and she had occasional rendezvous’s with other men.  But there were some wild things that happened that I simply felt crossed the line.  A young man once chased me down in his car, cut me off and then pleaded with me to let him have a relationship with Kit.  My reply was, “Who are you?”  This kind of thing, along with her disappearances and reappearances, tested my patience many times.

One night, we had agreed that we would make dinner together at my place at 7 pm.  I had purchased all the food, set the table and had the wine chilling.  Seven o’clock came and went, then 8, then 9.  I called but got no response.  At ten, I was in a bit of a panic worried about her (she had some mild suicidal thoughts occasionally) and drove over to her townhouse.  It was there that I discovered her in a compromising position with another man that I had seen previously.

Infuriated, I drove home, wrote the nastiest, most brutal letter I could write and put it in the mail to her, essentially saying that I never wanted to hear from her or see her ever again.   I was angry and the intent of that letter was to hurt her in a way that she would never forget.

I was 21 at the time and I regretted that letter every day, every year, every decade afterward.  Whatever she had done, I felt terrible about my willful intent to hurt her.  It was a weight that I carried around within me and I deeply regretted my actions.  She still meant so very much to me as someone that I had cared for deeply.

She had always told me that, after law school, that she wanted to move to the south to be near her father.  After thirty years, I wanted to apologize.  The hard part was that she had a very common last name when she was single and the university no longer had a record of where she had moved.

Finally, almost 30 years to the day from our first meeting, I found her on Facebook working as an attorney in a small town in the Carolina’s.  She was just as beautiful as she was in college, had been married for 20 years, divorced and was recently remarried.  I sent her a Facebook message and asked for a time to speak with her.  She was very surprised to hear from me and agreed.

I called a few days later, heard the same voice that I knew so well thirty years ago and then I apologized.  I apologized for writing the letter.  I apologized for wanting to hurt her.  And I did not ask for or expect an apology for her actions.  We laughed a little, chatted about our lives, the great times we had together, the challenges and joys we had experienced and then I thanked her and said goodbye.  And to this day, when I think about the women that have reached me at the deepest levels, the number is less than five and Kit will always be one of them.

Posted in My Development | Tagged , , | 14 Comments

Beauty and Love of a Woman

20140420-044737.jpgWhat kind of fools are you, men of this world, to believe you can own a woman?  Are you so powerful, so righteous, that you catch fire with rope? For  a woman’s spirit is surely like fire and your rope is nothing but the wilting, charred evidence of your own false pride.  What good is it to shame her, to control her, if there is no gift to you?  Is it not better to love her and set her free than to place a crown of thorns on her head?

Master your own emotions. Control your stupid jealousies.  Give the gift of yourself, your honor and strength and then perhaps then she will suffer for you willingly, but it will be the kind that will make your heart sing, your body writhe in pleasure and your own soul will finally realize its salvation in the true beauty and love of a woman.

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , , | 33 Comments

Nymph of the Lake

On a warm autumn day,
Leaves rustled and hot winds blew
My shirtless chest glistened in the hot sun
While men’s strong backs strained against dock and lift

And as I walked to water’s edge
Your naked form would rise to greet me
Those haunting eyes, full breasts and wanton hips
Beckoned me, “Come to me Sir.  All that I am is yours

Yet she was a spirit, a nymph
Not meant for union with mortal men
So as my arms parted cool waters, I heard her cries
I am so sorry Sir” as she disappeared forever into the depths

Posted in Romantic Poetry | 19 Comments

A Livorno Affair

I wrote this some time ago and still appreciate its romantic elements

Mr. Modigliani's Private Studio


We met in the small Tuscan city of Livorno. It was a warm, sunny day and both of us sought our own solitude in a small outdoor cafe. And as I glanced over, I caught a glimpse of your beautiful, radiant eyes, looking at me, momentarily distracted from your deep immersion in an old hardcover.

“That is quite an old book you are reading there. What is it?” I inquired pleasantly. “Oh yes. It is quite a unique treasure called ‘Spy-jacked’ by Mavis Bacca Dowden”. And as we talk further, this beautiful woman tells me it is about a young violin teacher who makes her way back from Italy through Spain to return to Great Britain during World War II. Much of the book is a private true memoir about her exploits in Francoist Spain, she explains.

This leads us into a lively discussion about European politics and conflicts, its…

View original post 426 more words

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An Altar of Carpathian Elm

Your body will be bound
On an altar of Carpathian elm
Your supple skin adorned
With pagan charms
Then lashed
With the stroke
Of braided leather
By your Master’s strong arms

Posted in Erotic Poetry | 12 Comments


Be steadfast in your resolve. Never back down from the communication of your own desire. Never apologize for the honest expression of your own expectations.

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Pablo Neruda on Jealousy

“Love is not about jealousy. Jealousy kills love. Jealousy kills the capacity to feel freely.”

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Altar des Dionysos by Gustav Klimt

I’ve recently acquired a greater appreciation for the artistic work of Gustav Klimt.  This is one of his earlier works, entitled “Altar des Dionysos”.  This painting is on the ceiling of the Austrian National Theater in Vienna, also known as the Burgtheater.  The theater itself is one of the great gilded theaters of Europe.

What Klimt has done is to put beautiful mythology, painting and architecture together in a sublime combination of sensuality and artistry.

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I Will Bathe You…


In a small clearing
Of verdant green 
Tall pines whisper,
As I bathe you…
The soft breezes blow
Across a clear blue sky
A warm sun sparkles
As I immerse you… 
Close your eyes my doll
Feel my gentle command
And tender touch
As my strong hands
Love you…

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , | 34 Comments

A Different Place

I find myself entering a different place as though I were passing through a door. There still is the appreciation of artistry, the communion of spirit and my adoration for the female form. Yet I don’t need the affirmation and validation I once did. I grow more aware of my motivations, some borne of strength and others still of doubt, hurt or fear, and I settle into a more comfortable maturity, still confident of my command and mastery, but no longer needing to wave it in front of the world.

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To An Empyrean Sea

I dive into cool waters, my arms reaching away from sunlight and life.  There is no anxiety or  fear and though I angle down to the dark unknown,  I swim strongly, knowing my way.  It is not a drowning but a return to a truer self, the self that calls back to me, my own Master’s voice beckoning.  The cold water fades to an empyrean sea, no up or down, no surface or depth, particles of light illuminate.  I swim naked and unafraid, past fear and regret, sensing the blessing of spirits loved, finally arriving at self, Master rejoined, once again feeling the lyricism of my soul, the artistry of my hand and my own rebirth.

Words and image by Mr Modigliani

Posted in My Artwork, Romantic Poetry, Spoken Word | Tagged , , , | 24 Comments

A Small Dream

OldTownSq.PragueIt was late summer in Paris and the city was overrun by tourists.  Both of us needed to get away.  The day before, I had closed my studio near Montmartre and had purchased two tickets to Prague.  Now we were in my flat in Montparnasse packing.  There was laughter and joy in the room, as you packed a few sundresses and I threw in a few extra shirts and a pair of pants.

The train ride was long with an exchange in Cologne, but we chatted and touched in our sleeping cabin, trying not to take it too far as the conductor periodically walked up and down the aisle, checking on each compartment.  Fifteen hours later, we found ourselves offloading and taking a quick cab ride into the Old Town.  There we visited the massive old square, discussed Kafka and then, when the bells struck, we watched the Old Clock with the other tourists.

But this isn’t why we came.  We came to see the beautiful Czech countryside and invest our time in each other.  You were interested in the Farm-to-Table cafes and the organic produce.  I was interested in riding a motorcycle from village to village, staying in farm houses and  small bed and breakfasts.  Both of us wanted to sample the local wines.

And so that’s what we did.  I rented a large BMW motorcycle, perfect for the two of us, a couple helmets and some leathers.  You packed our bags even lighter into one backpack, bringing nothing but bare essentials and your favorite hat.

And as I look back on it now, I remember your arms wrapped around my waist as our bike sped down the winding country roads, the wind in your hair and the smile on your face.  We walked in the farmers’ fields and hand picked squash, green beans, and other vegetables that you prepared into a fresh medley.   It went beautifully with the bread, cheese and the wine that I had purchased in the village.  And while we ate, the moon and stars filled the night sky and the candles on the table flickered and reflected in your beautiful eyes.

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The Shackles of My Mind

I have been seriously thinking of ending the MrM identity and was speaking to someone that gave me encouragement. There is so much history here of my life, love and development. So I went back to look at a few older posts and thought I would reshare a few.

Mr. Modigliani's Private Studio


I was shackled
To her small mind
Her conventional priorities
Insecurities and angry tirades
But the most important shackles I wore
Were the ones I put on me
And yet I contrast that
With the soaring joy
Of having you here
Naked in my studio
Tied and bound
Not because I demand
Your submission
(Though you offer)
But because I crave
Your love

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“Elegantly” – An Elfje

wet tendrils
taken with urgency
sating my fiercest need

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The “Vagina Currency”

I recently ran across this blog and was so impressed with Dannette’s bravery, her story and her very strong message of loving yourself first. This is really an important message and I encourage all my submissive and baby girl friends to read it.

Fully Exposed

Hello and welcome to my blog~

Dannette Unfurls is a tell all about the juicy, messy, naked truth of my life. Some stories may be hard to read, some funny, some complete chaos, others fucking train wrecks, all will be shared with an open heart and from a space of love and compassion for myself for they have made me who I am today.

Last year I had the idea to start this blog, because somewhere deep down I believed my story had the power to help heal me and others, but I wasn’t ready to bare my Soul. I was too vulnerable, too raw; I was crying out for life to take it easy on me, and I was too sensitive to share with the kind of openness I am ready for now. For years I abused myself with drugs, alcohol, food, hatred and men. My body had become…

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Wednesday Selfie

I can’t even remember the last time I did a selfie on WordPress. Enjoy your Wednesday 

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Life Notes – Jan 25

Many of you are great friends and WordPress has become my Facebook-like forum to communicate with you.  So I will just pass along a few life notes that are bringing some zip to to my Monday.

  1. I am excited that my brother’s heart surgery went so very well.  I’ve spoken to him a few times and he is already feeling better.  His biggest complaint is that he can’t sleep because the nurses keep coming into the room every half hour or so.  So today, he will be discharged and will be able to go home to rest.  It is a big step forward.
  2. Tonight is my first night of art school.  This is such an enormous step forward for me.  For those of you that have been with me a long time, you know that I was accepted into several fine programs when I was young, but then opted for other life and professional choices.  I did attend the Art Institute of Chicago evening program as a young professional so this will be my first formal training since that time.
  3. And finally, I am headed to Manhattan for a few days.  And even though I will be there for business, I will be returning to see a very extraordinary arts redevelopment project that I had the good fortune to be part of several years ago.

So it’s an exciting Monday and there are a lot of good things happening.  I hope you all have a wonderful day.  My writing is likely to be pretty limited over the next several days.

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Update on My Brother

So many of you have been so very kind. I just wanted to let you know that my beloved brother came through his heart surgery very successfully today. It is truly an amazing world we live in when replacing a person’s heart valve has become so professional, consistent and routine. My brother is very tired but is already talking and simply needs to sleep. Thank you for all your love, prayers and best wishes. I love you all.

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