Fantasy is always better than reality

When I was eight years old my mother found me in front of the linen closet at around midnight removing a pillow case from one of the higher shelves.

“Now Rain,” she said “What are you doing getting another pillow case? You already have one on your pillow. It is very late. You should be asleep!”

I looked up at her with my big blue eyes and replied, “I am getting a pillowcase to put over my head so that I can imagine that the bad men have kidnapped me.”

That’s right. I was live acting out abduction fantasies at the age of eight. Don’t judge. My mother, bless her hippie heart, didn’t judge either. “Ok Rain, we can go back to bed, you can put the pillowcase over your head and then you can tell me what happens.” My mother has always been very new age and accepting. I am sure she thought me talking it over would be very therapeutic. We walked back to my bedroom, I put the pillowcase over my head, my mother sat on the edge of the bed and I tried to say out loud what I had been thinking before I had been so rudely interrupted.

And a very interesting thing happened. It was no longer fun.Instead, it was bloody terrifying. Even though I knew it was only my mother at the end of the bed and not some scary bad guy, all the excitement had fled. It was just frightening. This was my very first realization of a sad truth: Fantasy is always better then reality.

In Fantasyland, nobody has bad breath or zits. There are no awkward pauses and everyone always says the right thing at the right time. Everything is in soft focus and smells amazing. I honestly hope you never get a fantasy fulfilled. Because I can guarantee you that it is not going to live up to what you are carrying around in your head.

Don’t believe me? Let me lay on you the story of the time that I was finally going to get that abduction fantasy that I had been dreaming of since I was eight. My Dom at the time knew just how much I had been fantasizing about it and finally decided to put it into action. He “abducted” me while wearing too short camouflage shorts with his long skinny legs sticking out like stork legs. It wasn’t how I had always dreamed it would be, but I can be flexible. We were going to make this work. He handcuffed me, wrapped up my mouth hole securely with a duct tape gag and we were off to a secret location for all sorts of deviant activities.

Except there was not enough room in the trunk to shove me into, so he had to put me in the passenger seat. It was ok. No worries. We could make this work. He thoughtfully seat belted in my handcuffed ass, as my hands were not good for the buckling, and then we were off to the abduction!

There were a fair of red lights on the way, and at one of the stops a man walked by in the crosswalk, made full eye contact with my duct taped and handcuffed ass less then 3 feet from him before picking up his pace and hurrying away, head down. Well. Reassuring to know if I was really being abducted that the world is full of good samaritans willing to get involved. I was already feeling any tingle of excitement of this scenario slowly deflating like an old ballon.

And then a few blocks later the car ran over a nail and got a flat tire.

My would be abductor had to get out of the car in his ridiculous shorts, attempting to change the tire as I languished in the passenger seat in my handcuffs and duct tape. It was, to put it mildly, a complete boner killer. The abduction was called off and I never attempted another one.

So, I repeat, I hope you never get your fantasies fulfilled. Whatever you are carrying in your head is not going to work out. Trust me. It is going to be inevitably disappointing in some way. Instead, enjoy and revel in the moment of what is happening directly in front of you. It doesn’t matter if they are not airbrushed and there are some awkward pauses, it will still be fun, and more importantly, real. Leave those fantasies in your noggin where they belong, where cars never get flat tires and abductors always wear long black pants.


It is harder for women


It is harder for women…

Being alone, bored and horny is a dangerous combination for anyone, male or female. The internet is an amazing resource that increases your interaction potential by staggering amounts that previous generations could not possibly begin to comprehend. It used to be you were largely limited by the available pool of pussy in your town or city. Now you can talk to people all over the world! And there is SO much pussy on the internet. Pussy that doesn’t seem to be wearing that much clothing, pussy that seems to be gagging for your cock, pussy that is just hanging around waiting for your Magic Peen to come by and grace it with your presence.

So you do the easiest thing in the world. You shoot out an email like “ u r hottt!” or “wanna fuk?” or “sexxy! can i cum over?” (These are all word for word emails that I have received over the years BTW) without taking the time to see if that pussy is even looking for fresh dick and are shocked, SHOCKED that the cock starved pussy dancing in front of your face doesn’t immediately take you up on your generous offer. So shocked that you start yelling at the pussy, calling it fat or ugly or fake or secretly a guy. (All things that have been said to me. Evidently I am actually an ugly fat guy. Fooled ya!!)

Let’s break down what went wrong. All you have succeeded in doing is pissing off the pussy and making it more cynical and guarded. A wave of low grade hostility spreads. The pussy is that much more unapproachable to the next email that comes along. They are tired of being hassled and yelled at. Nobody wins.

Look. I get being horny. Believe me, I do. While a guy will NEVER truly be understand what it is like to go through life as a woman, I am going to attempt to explain it a little. It is so much more risky for women to meet up with men online that words will never do it true justice, but I am going to do my best.

A woman risks pregnancy from a sexual encounter. This makes her much less likely to cheerfully jump on the eager cock that shows up perkily in her inbox all ready for action. While there are steps, from condoms to the pill to abortions, the risk of pregnancy in a sexual encounter make a woman less likely to spread it like peanut butter.

Even in this day and age, there is a double standard. If a guy gets a lot of action, he is a stud. If a woman wholeheartedly explores her sexuality, she is a slut and a whore. Knowing the judgment that comes with an active sexual life doesn’t make a woman super inclined to jump on your dick just because it is available.

And lastly, and most importantly, imagine that what you have to fuck is stronger then you and can overwhelm you at any time. Historically, the worst thing that ever happens to women is men. I am in no way saying that women do not murder and dish out domestic violence, but try and picture that what you have to put your dick in can overpower and rape you anytime it feels like. Imagine turning on the TV, reading the newspapers, and seeing endless accounts of men’s bodies being found in rivers and empty fields. Imagine knowing a huge percentage of your friends that have been raped and hassled in countless ways, and it happens all the time, everywhere you look. It would make you somewhat less likely to just run over and thrust your cock in that pussy just because it says “available and ready big boy!”

So yes, women are going to want to talk to you for more then one email. They are going to be reluctant to give out their phone number. They have a hell of a lot more to lose then you do, and their survival instinct over millennia of dealing with males doesn’t make them much inclined to jump in their car and drive over to your house just because you emailed them a photo of your dick.

If you don’t rush them, if you don’t insult them, if you take the time to actually read a profile and see if they are even looking fresh dick in their life, if you show interest in them as a person as a whole, I promise that your internet experience will be a lot more pleasant.


Just imagine…

Imagine having me for a sister-in-law and having NO idea who I am or what I do. Imagine thinking of me as your slightly odd, all black wearing, vegetarian sister-in-law from California, but having zero clue of the fervor and dedication of my entire life to all things kinky.

I met the boy when I was very young. We were both working at a book store and he picked me up in the philosophy section, where we bonded over a mutual distaste of Sartre’s “Being and Nothingness”. I moved in 3 weeks later and the rest is history. He has been with me for every step of my journey, never judging, always accepting and supportive of my life choices.

“Hey, I am actually kinky and want to explore that a bit.”


“Hey I am actually bisexual, no pansexual, and want to explore that a bit.”


“Hey I am actually kinky enough that I might want to try some fetish modeling, but don’t worry, I will never ever do any boy/girl stuff.”

“Actually, I am going to do some select boy/girl after all.’


“Hey I am actually poly and I want to explore that a bit.”


This isn’t to make it seem like he is a total passive pushover, far from it. He is a very strong and confident person. He just bought the ticket and is taking the ride. It takes a strong person to hang with me and the way I approach this journey called life.

We even ended up married and buying a house together, not that I stayed at the house 7 days a week or anything. I am much more of a feral cat as opposed to a lap dog, but whenever I came home I always felt welcome. We made it work. He never let his family know my…proclivities, as far as they knew I was just one of those wacky CA girls raised by hippies that was not down with the meat eating. They are clueless as to what exactly I get up to on the internet. Everything was all well and good until this week, when the in laws decided to come out and visit for the very first time. Bringing with them my 18 month old nephew.

I have never had a baby in my house before. My house seems to be a bristling trap full of bricks, sharp objects and glass spice containers placed way too low. I have hidden all things kinky. I think. But I am sure there is something I have forgotten. My dog also has managed to develop her very first UTI and has completely lost all bladder control. The hose house reeks of pee and my poor dog is in diapers. The in laws will be at my house for a full 9 days, while I pretend to not be kinky and have to come home faithfully every single night, dodging the dirty dog diapers and scattered children’s toys. I am quite certain the effort in maintaining a vanilla mask for such an extended period of time is going to make my kinky little head implode.

Wish me luck. I am going to need it.

The scissors and the cherry blossoms

The winter was finally over and spring was making itself known all over the city. Well, as much as spring can in a city like San Francisco, a place that specializes in the business of cold and grey. It was not the sort of spring that would impress anyone born in the South, but WE were excited. Petals from the blooming cherry trees drifted and collected in small random piles on sidewalks all across the city.

I had been invited to an art event that night and I entered the gallery full of anticipation for the night of bondage decadence that was about to go down. One of the very first things I noticed on entering was the dozens of scissors dangling from the gallery ceiling. If you stood up on your tip toes and stretched your arm above you as high as you could, you could just reach them. There was a veritable forest of dangling sharpness above our heads.

The night was as fun as I had hoped, with various local bondage artists showcasing their skills. I caught up with old friend and made new ones, enjoying the chance to be among my fellow kinksters. And then it was Midori’s turn to perform. The music started, loud and jarring with a frantic pace. She burst out in full heavy kumadori makeup and a kimono, her face twisting in grotesque and passionate grimaces in time with the music.

Grabbing a hidden ball of yarn, she tied one end to the large wooden support pillar located in the center of the gallery and then started ducking and dodging through the packed gallery. It was so crowded it was hard to see her progress, it was only by tracking the tiny ripple as the crowd shifted for her that you could locate where she was. She would fight her way back to the pillar, looping the yarn around and then working through the crowd again. When the ball of yarn ended, she tied on a second one and kept going.

Midori was building up a spiderweb, and we were all the flies contained inside it. As she made more and more passes through the crowd to the pillar and back again, the strings that bound us all together got bigger and thicker. The bound crowd shifted as one unit as she increased the tension, and all the while the frantic music pounded. It was the most bondage I had ever seen, and it was all accomplished with a few balls of yarn.

And then she just abruptly walked out the gallery front door in full makeup and kimono onto the busy San Francisco streets, still carrying her yarn in one hand. She had never uttered a single word. The crowd was entangled and entrapped in the heavy yarn cocoon, uncertain what to do. We couldn’t get out if we had tried. I was the first person to shift, reaching up and ripping down one of the hanging pairs of scissors. I had been sure that they would somehow come in handy in the course of the night.

Moving swiftly, I cut myself free and went for the door. A woman in a bright kimono and painted up as a demon while carrying a large ball of yarn would have been immediately noticeable, but when I got outside she was nowhere to be seen. I looked down and picked up the trail, following the yarn she had left behind her. The yarn winded the entire length of a city block, rounding a corner. I continued on the trail. After another half block the yarn ended abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, the end half buried in the drifting piles of cherry blossom petals. It was as if she had suddenly vanished, whisked by the bondage gods while in mid-stride.

I never found out if she had a car hidden nearby, or a waiting ride. Maybe she got lucky with a taxi? They had to of picked her up and whisked her away on the spot, as it hadn’t taken me that long to cut myself free, but my god what an exit she had pulled off.

I never looked at yarn again without thinking of giant bondage spiders and cherry blossoms, nor was I was ever able to figure out how a bondage legend managed to make herself disappear in the heart of the city.

Marica Hase: Face of an angel, loins of a pervert

Marica Hase has the face of an angel and the heart of a complete pervert. And can only speak a few words of English. She is 32 and looks 12. You KNOW she has to be a complete and utter pervert, as there could be no other reason someone would leave Japan and travel half way cross the world to come to a country where they doesn’t speak the language and fuck for a living. It takes a special breed to say, “I don’t know the language, the food is different, everybody looks different, I am going to get lost easy, but I need to do the porns in America!” And she did just that.

Shooting with Marica is always interesting because you can’t really hold a conversation with her. There is a lot of smiles and giggles, and she has a heart of gold, and she loves the dick. That is about all you have to work with. I picked her up at the airport for her shoot and she was in her full Lolita gear, looking underage as heck. If I hadn’t already seen her ID and known she was in her 30s, I wouldn’t think she was legal to shoot. Naturally, she was clutching her Hello Kitty phone.

“Hello!” she giggled. “Bondage! Excited! Matt!”

Matt Williams was the director she had worked with before, and he is a master of his craft. He doesn’t even like to do wax play, he thinks it looks silly and doesn’t work well on camera, but he is a giver and completely adapted his usual style to do a traditional Japanese Shibari bondage style shoot, complete with red wax candle play. Marica had loved it. She was in rope slut heaven and it probably reminded her of her homeland. It took me months to get all of the red wax out of our studio ropes and they looked like they had chicken pox. Like I said, Matt is a giver.

“No Matt” I said. “He is sick today, I am really sorry.”


“It is Jack instead.”


“He is….um…really big, just so you know ahead of time.”


Her face fell, and I could sense her tiny Japanese pussy doing an involuntary spasm of panic. To say Jack Hammer is big is an understatement. If he lost a leg in a motorcyle accident he could use his dick as a back up leg. If burglars broke into his house he could use his dick as a baseball bat to beat them unconscious. His dick is just stupid big. It doesn’t even make any sense. Whenever you see it flop out of his pants, even if you have seen it a hundred times before, you stop what you are doing for a moment in sheer awe. I could understand Marica’s reservations. It is tough to bring such a tiny pussy to the table when Jack Hammer is what you have to work with.

The shoot actually went just fine, what made the day so memorable was what happened after the shoot. Porn follows very strict codes of professionality. All the sexy times happens when the camera is rolling. The second the camera turns off, all the clothes go on and there is no touching. Anyone that thinks that porn sets are just rampant, unbridled orgies all over the place at all times with lines of coke laid out on hot asses would be sadly disappointed. Sexual harassment can happen anywhere, even on a porn set, and businesses are strict with that sort of thing. Cameras off? No touchy.

Marica had been tied up for the entire shoot and it can be rather hard to see things, even if she could certainly feel it. When the shoot was over, I could see something was on her mind. Approaching Jack tentatively, like a person not wanted to startle a shy deer, she gestured at his groin area and whispered, “Can I…see?”

Jack paused for a second and then said “Sure” and unzipped his pants, taking out the tackle. It flopped impressively half way down his leg.

“OOOHHH!” said Marica, jumping back involuntarily for a second, her eyes widening before crouching down on the floor in front of him to get a closer look, her childlike face frozen in wonder and awe. “Can I…touch?” Her hand hovered, not daring to land.

Jack chuckled. “Go for it.”

Marica picked up the log reverently, cupping it in her tiny little paws and stroking it, half in shock, half completely impressed with herself. It was as if she could not believe it was actually real.

All the while I was dying in the corner. Only in porn would you ask permission to touch a dick you had spent all day fucking. Although to be fair, her hands had been tied up all day and this was the first time she HAD ever touched it.

A photo for reference

A photo for reference

Why I accidentally became a porn star

I never meant to have my butthole plastered all over the world. I never meant for millions of people to know exactly what my labia looks like, both inner and outer. I am an accidental porn star. Quite simply, I became a professional naked person because it was the safest way for me to live out my fantasies, to live them out in such a way that I never would of gotten to do if I had remained a civilian, no matter how kinky and perverse and hedonistic that civilian might be.

Don’t believe me? Let me run an example by you. Say it is your fondest desire to experience a gangbang. The idea of being stuffed full of cock in every hole with extra cock available for your greedy little hands is such a turn on you find yourself drooling a little at the mere thought of it. You must, you need, you CRAVE that experience. So you go to set one up.

First the scheduling is a nightmare. Tom is free on Tuesday but there is no way he can do Weds. Jack is ONLY available on Weds. Matt can’t do it this week, but is available next week, when both Tom and Jack are out of town. And then can you guarantee that everyone going to show up STD free? With the papers to prove it? Those tests run up to $250 a pop. Is everyone willing to shell out $250 to get in on that gangbang? And are they even going to be able to perform once they get there? Or is it going to be a forest of limp and flaccid cock and a bunch of guys staring shamefacedly at their toes? And are they going to be reasonably attractive? Or is it going to be a 350 pound guy named Bubba with a hairy back that has not seen the business end of soap in over a week enthusiastically trying to cram his weenie up your butthole?

Wow. That gangbang sounds like a damn nightmare now, doesn’t it? Whereas if I were to do one on film, I know for a fact everyone will show up, everyone will be able to perform, everyone has clean paperwork and is going to easy on the eyes to boot. Being a professional naked person gives me opportunities that I would never in a million years be able to experience otherwise.

In the course of my career I have been suspended upside down on a sybian, lowered into a 10 foot tank of water and cum upside down while attached to a respirator. I have been crucified on the side of a mountain and flogged with stinging nettles while the sun set majestically in front of me, covering my oiled body with its last rays. I have had my head completely buried under ground, with only my body and ass exposed, pinned down with stakes, as a man dressed like a giant raven molested me.

None of these incredible experiences would of likely been available to be if I had not chosen to step in front of a camera. You need a crew of multiple people and planning and equipment and knowledge to pull off stunts like that. I am a professional stunt person. I just do all of my stunts naked.

In porn, every single day is Halloween. You get to play dress up, look amazing in the hair and makeup provided, be in the coolest and most unusual situations, fool around with the hottest people and have the best sex on the planet. In the SAFEST of all possible circumstances. These people are professionals.

You can see after experiences like this going to my local dungeon or swingers club where Sir Lord McFloggypants or Studs McGee tried to impress me with the size of their flogger or dick would do diddlysquat for me.

I don’t regret a minute of it, It has been the wildest, most exciting ride of my life. My only regret is that I did not start on this particular path of perversion sooner.

Keep it kinky my friends!

IF I hadn’t had the courage to set in front of a camera, it is highly unlikely I would of been able to experience any of these amazing things.

My head buried underground in "The Dig" for Hogtied

My head buried underground in “The Dig” for Hogtied








Evidently I do not exist aka shades of grey

I know, I know, right? Shocking. Here I was thinking I was a real person and everything, but I have the audacity of not only being bisexual but a switch to boot. And evidently there is no such thing. As a bisexual, I am just confused and haven’t properly made up my mind yet. And as a switch, I am a submissive that hasn’t accepted her place. You haven’t heard the joke that a switch just needs to be properly switched until she accepts that she is actually submissive? I have. Repeatedly. It isn’t quite as hilarious as those Doms might think.

Have you MET me?! Do I come across as submissive?! What really chaps my ass is that it tends to be het male “Doms” pontificating that all women are truly submissive and the ones that don’t admit it just need to thumped around a bit until their senses are joggled into place.

Telling me that switches don’t “really” exist plunges you right into my least favorite place-The One Twu Way Land. Back the fuck up my friend. I know that this might come as a shock, but there is no ONE TRUE WAY. None. Take a minute to let that sink in. Those people over there loudly informing you that the way you do your kink is wrong? Who are they? Have they written the BDSM 101 handbook? No, they most certainly have not. Let them run their mouths, but don’t let them have the slightest effect on you and how you explore your kinks.

While men also get grief for daring to switch, there is a special level of distain leveled at women who identify as switches or Dommes. As if women are not truly capable of being anything other then submissive, and those that dare claim otherwise just need to be put properly in their place. Well, One Twu Way Uber Dommy McDompants, wrap your brain around the fact that women can Dom, and Dom well. What are you trying to distract from with your bombastic claims that women can’t Dom? What sort of insecurity are you desperately trying to cover up?

Well let me lay this one out for you my friend: We are ALL bisexual switches. Yup. Every single one of us on this planet. Sexuality is not black and white, one or the other, it is shades of grey. You are not just in one camp or the the opposite camp, it is a sliding scale. We are all on that scale somewhere. The most uber male het macho Dommy Dom might be 99% on the scale of straight Dom, but there is a 1% of a bi switch hiding in there, even if they will never admit it. Nothing is absolute. The most groveling slavey slave that wants someone else to be in control at all times has at least 1% of a switch in them. They have to or they would be dead. You have to be able to take care of yourself to at least a certain degree, this planet is too rough on you otherwise.

So by all means, run your mouth about how I don’t exist. Tell me I am confused. Say I just don’t know my place yet. Thank you for preemptively letting me know that you are someone I won’t wish to engage with, in any way. Thank you for cluing me into your character so that I can give you a wide berth. But in the middle of the night, when you get a quick flashback of that time you and your childhood friend Timmy once touched each other in your naughty places and then never spoke of it again, think of me. And know I am right. Bi switches the lot of you!


Recently I had the privilege of working with the legendary John Stagliano on Voracious 2, the second part of his vampire series. I have been in awe of him since he created “Fashionistas” and had always wanted to work with him. I was beyond pleased when I got cast as a bitchy and driven Mother Superior nun.

The SFW trailer has come out and I got to do a little acting. Well, I tried at any rate. I ad-libbed this whole monologue on the spot and had a blast.


Why do you do it Rain? Why do you subject yourself to all those things? Quite honestly, they seem pretty harsh. What do you get out of it?

I seek to be stripped away to a rawer, more primal and honest state of being. I seek to quiet the voices in my head. I seek to find my Zen. And for me, it is in the the heavier, deeper realms of BDSM that I find my honest self.

As of late I have been working with Alebeard who, to me, stands out as a true artist of pain. This is a man that can help you find your zen. I can not recommend his skill set highly enough.

Last night he sent me a video clip of our latest shoot, which I want to share with you all. In between the music and editing, I think it is quite well done and I hope you enjoy watching as much as I enjoyed making.

Gang signs are not funny Rain!!

Back when I was a baby kinkster and taking my tentative first steps to explore this amazing new world, I went to the only place I could think of as a resource-Myspace. I only wish that Fetlife existed back in the day, but nope. Myspace is what you had to work with. In short order, after some poking around in the darker corners of the world of Myspace, I found someone who would end up becoming my first Dom.

Richard was a good ol’ boy country music listening, pickup truck driving, Catholic police officer from Napa. I know, I know. I needed kink badly enough in my life that I was willing to overlook country music and pickup trucks. Richard was on the fast track to becoming the youngest gang detective in Napa and hung out with a hard drinking crew of fellow police officers. It is astounding just how much police officers drink. They were Bukowski level.

His biggest complaint was that he could not find a nice Republican conservative kinky girl. “All the kinky girls I can find are San Francisco liberal vegetarians with tattoos!” he would grumble. Yes, as it turns out, us kinksters tend to be more open-minded and liberal. Which leaves poor kinky Republicans having to grit their teeth around all of us vegetarians.

Coming from such wildly different worlds, the only thing we had in common was our mutual love of BDSM. I was his dirty little secret that he kept in the closet. (Literally. I did spend a lot of time tied up in his closet) This was fine in the beginning, but after half a year or so I got tired of being such a hidden part of his life. “Why don’t I ever get to meet your friends?” I would ask, “Are you ashamed of me of something?” Richard would shrug it off and tie me up some more. I was not happy with the situation, but the bondage and beatings were very distracting.

Then one night he called me up, completely plastered. “Heeeeeyyy girl, all my buddies are here and they want to meet you! Come on over!” he slurred, the fumes strong enough I could smell them through the phone line.

I shouldn’t of gone. But I did. I drove to the address Richard had given me and knocked on the door. I could hear the party raging behind the door.

When I walked into a room full of drunken police officers that specialized in gangs, they did a quick visual takedown on my liberal tattooed ass. Then one of them spoke up, “Why do you have a gang sign tattooed on your arm?”

Gang sign? What fucking gang sign? I didn’t have any…oh. That. Years ago, I had heard of a documentary on Mexican street gangs called “Mi Vida Loca”, aka my crazy life. Their sign was 3 dots in the shape of a triangle. My crazy life seemed fitting for how I chose to live life, and I had had my tattoo artist tattoo 3 dots behind my right elbow years ago and promptly forgotten about it. I had honestly forgotten I was rocking a gang sign on my arm. The dots were the size on a pencil tip and easily overlooked. Unless you are in a room of police officers trained to look for that sort of thing. It was not a good first meeting.

“Oh that? It is…err, a joke. Doesn’t mean anything” I replied nervously while covering the the back of my elbow with furtive fingers.

They were not amused. “Gangs are not a joking matter!” bellowed the drunken room of officers.

All the while Richard was slowly dying in the corner. Introducing his kinky liberal tattooed secret sub was not going as smoothly as he had hoped.

We broke up a few weeks later. I now date only liberals and still rock my joke gang sign tattoo. I can only hope he has found the conservative Republican girl of his dreams to do his dishes with a ballgag in her mouth, it will just never be me. And in retrospect, I probably didn’t really need to get the gang tattoo. Good thing I never told him about the 666 tattoo I have hidden in my hair over my left ear. I don’t think his heart could of handled it.