The Chicken and the Egg (republish by request)

*The following is based on a true story. The names and places have been changed to protect the guilty-that’s the story and I’m stickin’ to it.*

Some may or may not know that I’m a photographer. I’ve done Bar Mitzvahs, family portraits, automotive, sports, boudoir, alt model, product and even a few proms. So I’ve seen it all from prima donnas to power forwards. Or so I had thought.

I got a call from a girl wanting to do some alt model (alt models refer to a sub genre usually involving, body modifications and or/ some kind of fetish) type shots. The shoot took place at her house and went fairly well and we hit it off so she felt comfortable enough to ask if she could try something she’d been thinking of doing for a while but never had the temerity to ask of anyone.

“I want to do some shots with an egg coming out of me.” She said as chipper as 10 year old at Six Flags.

I raised an eyebrow and said, trying not to sound shocked, “Say what?”

“You know, like I’m laying an egg.” There was a bit of silence as I mulled over the idea. The thought was admittedly whacked out and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who would look at photos of a hot chick laying an egg and think, “Damn, that’s sexy. I’m gonna whack off to that and then have a nice omelet.” So against my better judgment and in need of a little extra on the hourly I agreed to do it.

We took an egg from the fridge and she attempted to insert it but it was too cold and she dropped it and it splattered across the floor. We quickly came to the realization that we’d have to hard boil one lest it crack in her secret hidey-hole causing all kinds of problems.

So after some stove top preparation and a cool down period the egg was ready for insertion. I handed it over and she hid it some place that the Easter bunny never thought of before.

We walked over to the set I checked my camera settings while she got into position. I nodded signaling that I was ready. She moved her hips to and fro and a puzzled look washed over her face as nothing happened. I egged her on saying, “I’m ready, let’s go.”

Her brow knitted tightly as she pushed a little harder and let out a tight little breath.

“It’s not coming out.” She said with a little concern creeping into her voice.

“What exactly do you mean?”  I asked.

“I mean, I think it’s stuck.” She said with a tone that had more than a little edge to it.

After several more tries and some manual manipulation she abruptly stopped and looked up at me and pleaded, “You have to help me get this thing out.” I don’t touch any of my models ever and wasn’t about to start and I especially had no desire to go rooting around some poor girl’s kootch hunting for groceries.

I got the brilliant idea that maybe jumping jacks might shake things loose so I suggested that to no avail. Then I had her lay on her back and do what I called the reverse-baby-Heimlich Maneuver, where she pushed on her lower abdomen in an attempt to dislodge the foreign object. At this point we were both starting to panic a little and I had a horrible image CSI style image play across my mind of the egg cracking internally causing all kinds of irreparable damage to her womb.

“Wait, wait, wait! You could shatter the egg shell!”  I shouted.  She let out a little whimper and said, “You’re going to have to fish it out.” 

The color drained from my face and my mouth went dry. Weakly I asked, “With what?’

“Just find something.” was her response.

After a cursory circuit of the house it became obvious that she was ill equipped with gynecological instruments and we would have to improvise with items most likely found in the kitchen to perform the egg abortion.

She refused to walk to the kitchen for fear of driving the egg further north in her baby maker so I carried her to the kitchen counter. While carrying her, worst-case scenarios played through my head. I saw us in the emergency room trying to explain our situation to the duty nurse. I saw me just dumping her a the emergency room doors in a shopping cart or wheel chair and then just peeling away like a junkie leaving a friend who’s overdosed and didn’t want to have to answer any questions. And I saw her going into some kind of salmonella induced toxic shock and dying suddenly. I quickly realized that this was life or death and I just might have to touch her.

I put her on the kitchen counter and dug through her utensil drawers trying to find something. Anything. I pulled out a large ladle. “Are you crazy?” she asked exasperated. I found a soft plastic icing spreader and handed it to her motioning for her to start the egg hunt. She sighed and gave it a try while I looked around for a solid plan B implement. Truth be told, I was just trying to busy myself because I was too chicken to look or even help.

She let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the icing spreader into the sink. In the meantime I found some chopsticks and some small tongs. These could work.

At about this time, I hear the front door open and close with a loud bang and in comes her Goliath boyfriend. He sees her up half naked on the on the counter with her legs spread and me with my tools, sweating like some sort of mad doctor. I thought how long it had been since my last righteous ass kicking and if I could at least take his eye out with a spatula during melee. But to my surprise, he got a bemused look on his face and said, “I don’t even want to know.” I offered up the supplies for him to give to her but he waved me off saying, “You two are on your own.”  Then he hung back to watch his very own twisted version of I Love Lucy. “On tonight’s episode, watch as Lucy goes on a photo shoot where things go from bad to worse.”

I handed the model the tongs and she tried again. But after a few attempts she calmly informed me that she needed my active help. “Life or death.” I said under my breath. So between the chopsticks and the tongs we arranged a system of resistance and access and after a moment or two the egg was born again with quiet “ploop” on a suburban kitchen counter top. I deftly picked up the egg, handed Goliath Boyfriend the tongs, and gave Ms. Model Lucy the egg back and told her to do just hold it part way.

And then, I-Got-The-Shot. 

My model squealed with delight and hugged my neck. I felt like I had just delivered a baby in a taxicab and then, took its first baby pictures.

After cleaning everything up in silence and as we were saying our good byes the model thanked me profusely and as she paid me she hugged me again and said, “Next time I’m buying you lunch.” “Sure.” I said, “Anything but egg salad.”

Story©Mike Wilshin (www.myspace.com/old_man_mike)

Illustration by ©Grant Sutherland (www.greetingsfromwonderland.com)

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Metro Article: Beyond Vanilla preview

Metro Article: Beyond Vanilla preview (www.anemagazine.com)

So whadda you know about BDSM? You know, bondage. Whips. Chains. Leather. Chances are your first impressions are a little off. The chasing of the big O through out this little planet of ours never ceases to amaze me and whether this fetish business is a lifestyle, fashion or just plain business to you might find yourself surprised at just how much you have in common as a Vanilla.

“Vanilla” used in the context of the BDSM (Bondage Discipline Sado-Masochism) community could likened to plain ‘ol regular sex. Vanillas are the muggles of the world to those in the lifestyle.

In 1990, The National Leather Association (NLA) took over an educational forum called Beyond Vanilla. It was a one-day formal presentation of leather, fetish and SM and ideas that blossomed into a full-fledged convention of sorts with attendees from every walk of life.

Through the past 19 years, the workshops have included topics such as "Our Kink Is OK!” Flogging, Bottom Issues and Perspectives, Fisting, SM and Domestic Violence, Switching, Fantasies, Fetish Wear, Gay and Lesbian SM - Coming Out For The Second Time, Age and Gender Play, SM and Spirituality, Fantasy To Reality, Protocol, Canings, Single tails, CBT, Polyamory, all types of relationship issues and just about anything else you'd ever want to know about Leather, SM, D/s and fetish activities. 

According to event spokesmen,

“Those who attend this year's event will be treated to a plethora of workshops, from SM scene techniques to the relationship aspects that are a part of this as well. We have presenters that are coming in from all over the country to speak on topics such as mummification, knife play, personality types, fears that we have in relationships, porcupine quills and needle play, the history of the Leather community and where it stands today, and sensual flogging. A full listing of the classes and the biographies of their presenters is also listed on the website for those wishing to take a gander at it. There is also the iPup/IPTC conference for those that are interested in the human puppy and what it takes to train one and make them fetch!

There is also the entertainment, both Friday night and Saturday night. There is a wonderful show at the hotel on Friday night with local entertainers and a midnight wrestling contest, and another entertainment show in conjunction with the Dallas Eagle Bar will be happening Friday night at the Eagle. Saturday night, after the Leather Dinner and Keynote Speaker Travis Wilson, will be another round of hot fun for attendees to watch with a fantasy contest taking place. That is if the attendees do not have a ticket to the Masquerade Ball and Play Party where all kinds of naughty fun are going to be had.

Then there is the Teeter-Totter-a-Thon, which benefits Bryan's House, a local charity that helps kids and teens with HIV/Aids. Every year, both Beyond Vanilla and the Teeter-Totter-a-Thon help raise money for charities like Bryan's House, among other local charities, who need funds to support a greater community. NLA-Dallas and Beyond Vanilla are committed to providing outreach and help where and when we can to those in need, and there is an auction of wonderful items that will be going on during the event that is also raising money for the designated charities this year.”

Now you may be curious about all this but fear that you might be “outed” to your less than open minded fellows in the community. I addressed this issue of seclusion with an NLA representative who addresses the issue of secrecy by saying, “Not everyone in this world is accepting of what we do. It was not that long ago that being homosexual was not accepted or recognized under the law, neither was inter-racial marriage. In fact, the battle over civil rights is not totally won yet for many people and who they are as people in this country. We have a saying in the scene, “Don't scare the vanillas”. By that, not everything we choose to do is done in public, and most times it is done in the privacy of one's home. Or at events such as Beyond Vanilla, where we can be with others who share our ideals, and to share ideas, on what it is that we do. NLA-Dallas is an open group however, we have a website, have meetings in public, thus we are not secluded or secret. We are out there. You just have to come find us.”

The basic registration for the event happening, September 25^th - 27^th, includes access to all workshops and seminars for the entire event weekend, access to IPTC and iPup, and an event pin. The price right now is $99.00 if you register online at the website, www.beyondvanilla.org. You can also purchase day passes on-line or at the event for either Saturday or Sunday. A full registration will be $110.00 at the door of the event. However, if you want to visit the vendor fair, where there are many different types of vendors selling their wares, or the entertainment scheduled is free with picture id to make sure everyone is of proper age (open minded types 18 and up). Also see www.nla-dallas.org for info in NLA activities through out the month.

M. Wilshin

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Stuff I Couldn’t Make Up If I Tried.

Stuff I Couldn’t Make Up If I Tried.

Not long ago I participated in one of those market research studies where you’re asked to try out a product, provide feedback and in return they give you some cash. The product was some sort of science fiction looking razor with a bazallion blades and a trimmer for sculpting and hard to reach areas. I was to use the razor for a period of time making sure I’d used the trimmer at least once. There were scantron sheets that had areas to bubble in for my answers and I never spent so much time thinking about shaving as when I filled out that questionnaire. The trimmer could be used for sideburns, under the nose, back of the neck and “other regions”.

Earlier in the week I had seen a shirt that said, “I shaved my balls for this?” and I thought back to it when I had finished shaving and realized that I had yet to use the trimmer.

You know where I’m going with this.

So of course I had to run around and lock the doors like I was going to molest a goat or something. And before you can say, “smooth plums” I had finished. I couldn’t for the life of me see what all the fuss is about. They were the same ugly wrinkled things as before only now, they were bald. Whoopee.

What I was never warned about was just how much those bastards would itch. It started as a mild annoyance and became full on scratching events that could have lead to friction sparks had I had the time, inclination and less Gold Bond medicated powder. It was damn near crippling and I was scratching more than a frat brother returning from spring break.

In the midst of this I still had to get on with life so I made my weekend pilgrimage to my local mega mart for some random supplies. I was doing okay until I stepped up to the curb at the entrance and something shifted causing a full on, mega itch event. I was too far from the car and I had to address the issue immediately. The bathroom was not option because it was too far away and I couldn’t just go to town at the entrance lest some old lady could beat me senseless with her umbrella or some other matronly weapon of mass destruction before the cops were called. In the far corner facing the wall, beyond the second set of doors were the little motorized carts for the handicapped. No one was near them so it would be perfect for a secret scratch fest. I seated myself and scratched until I was in a stupor. When I looked up three girl scouts, their scoutmaster and a store manager surrounded me. I had visions of being hauled off to jail and a lengthy prison term given by a disbelieving judge. But on the plus side, my boys would look fabulous for the strip search.

The little blonde one said in a chipper tone, “We’re here to help you shop sir.”

Still startled and in a state of thankful disbelief I could only stare back blankly. The store manager smiled warmly and nodded in confirmation. “I’ll help with the items that they can’t reach,” said their scoutmaster in an equally happy tone. What could I do? I couldn’t tell them the truth-that would be disaster. I couldn’t just get up and bolt-I had just scratched myself numb and probably could barely walk. So I did the only sensible thing I shrugged and let three little girls work on their merit badges by dutifully retrieving items from the well stocked shelves of my local mega mart. It was rather pleasant and the conversation was nice as we motored down the aisles discussing their future, my past and I must say they were rather polite not to ask what had crippled me.

Words: Mike Wilshin (oldmanmike@anemagazine.com www.myspace.com/old_man_mike)

Illustration: Grant Sutherland (www.greetingsfromwonderland.com)

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Suggestions?

Old Man Mike Wrestles A Bear Once

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In a weird flip of the roles I found myself as my daughter’s plus one for the South By So What show down at the Plano center a few weeks ago. She likes the really heavy stuff just like her dad and is the director of metal programming at KAMP in Arizona. 

The South By So What show boasted 40+ bands ranging from the mildly popular (Devil Wears Prada) to the absolute sucky (Disco Curtis). I’ve been loving the random tracks I was catching of Iwrestledabearonce on Sirius and when I heard they were to play I figured if I saw only them I was coming out a winner. The daughter had them slated as her only interview so getting to meet them would be a filed in the bonus column.

There was some juggling of schedules that brought the daughter to the show earlier than I was to arrive. So when I got there I had no idea where she was. The show had started, the line was out the door and I was stuck with out a ticket. I grabbed my camera case and some old memo papers and headed for the back stage/load in area. It was total chaos as expected so using it to my advantage, I waved the papers at security and stated with all the authority I could muster, “Where’s Harold Robbins [the first name I could think of: -a popular novelist on the 70s that my mother used to read] because I have to get these AR-30 forms [completely made up] and this equipment to her pronto!” I pointed to my camera case like it contained the Hope Diamond, The Shroud of Turin and the Colonel’s ORIGINAL recipe safely tucked inside. The guard looked some how convinced. He called over another guard who took his post and said he’d help me find her. I was in but I had security with me so I either had to ditch him or do some fast thinking.

We made a good show of looking here and there for our phantom hook up as I got the lay of the land. When I felt confident enough, I told security that we should split up or that he should simply go back to his post. He agreed and I was in the clear. I texted the daughter letting her know that I was in and she texted me back, “Way to go Daddy-o! I knew you could do it.” They were in one of the rooms off to the north.

I spilled into the spare dining hall where Daughter and Iwrestledabearonce were sitting around dejectedly staring at a dead tape recorder.  The band was exhausted from travel the daughter was annoyed at the faulty equipment and her lost interview and I came charging in like a buffalo with a weak bladder.

I plop down; we swap howdys and begin talking about everything but the band and their music. I whip out a copy of the METRO and forewarn Krysta their diminutive vocalist with a colossal voice of the METRO’s potentially offending contents. She informs me that she’s a feminist. I say, “Oh shit.” And she explains how the strippers really hold the power and I feel a little better and a lot stupider. Their drummer finds the tranny ads immediately and we swap all tranny stories we’ve heard that all have the same ending. At one point we even found ourselves with our driver’s licenses on the table in a contest for the most ridiculous DMV photo. Krysta won.

At one point someone realizes that this is going nowhere and we all head out to check out the other bands.  We watch one or two and then Iwrestledabearonce says it’s time for them to prepare for their set so we part ways for a bit.

Daughter and I hit the tables in a vain effort to score some swag. She gets some because she’s young and cute and I get none because I’m old and creepy.

Before we can say, “Dan Haggerty”, It’s time for Iwrestledabearonce’s rock show extravaganza.

The floor is packed from barrier to the far end of the hall with sweaty teens and their creepy dads.  The lights go on and Iwrestledabearonce explodes on the stage. Krysta, cute as a button wearing a tattered furby costume is roaring into the microphone and caterwauling an endless barrage of sonic violence that was both intimidating and hypnotic. She looked like Bjork on a three-day pixie stick bender. And just when you  think Krysta is all growls and screams they make another left turn doing something haunting and beautiful.

The music itself is a vortex of mad chugga chugga metal riffs and left turns into every other thing that doesn’t quite fit but does like, jazz, pop, calliope and probably polka.

They tore me a new one and I loved it. This is what new bands are supposed to do push envelopes, buttons and the annoying jerk in the front row straight out of sight.

Iwrestledabearonce album on Century Media is to be released in a few months. Ep Available through www.myspace.com/iwrestledabearonce

Words/Photos: Mike Wilshin (www.mysapce.com/old_man_mike)

Illustration: Grant Sutherland

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George Michael Was Framed!

GEORGE MICHAEL WAS FRAMED!

Not all photo jobs are titties and tiaras. Sometimes the old man has to take the less glamorous route and do an anniversary party, real estate or amateur sporting event. One company would send me and another guy here, there and everywhere for everything from Hoop It Up to kids’ soccer games. This occasion had myself and previously mentioned friend, Joe (name changed to protect the guilty) trekking to Midland in the dead of night from Dallas. We hoped to arrive sometime before dawn so that we could set up before all the soccer games had begun.

Joe is a loud boisterous type standing about 6’2” barrel chested ex-marine from Gulf War one. He’s also crazier than the proverbial outhouse rat and pretty much not afraid of anything. He’d seen the Highway of Death between Kuwait and Basra back in 1991 when U.S. coalition forces annihilated the retreating Iraqi army so bar room toughs and surly red necks would often find themselves on their backs, staring at the ceiling when push came to shove. A very handy friend to have when you have the mouth/brain disconnect in full effect like I happen to have.

Mid way to Midland, I decided Joe had enough to drink and that he was becoming a menace enough for me to brave a punch in the eye by insisting that I drive. So after a brief 65mph front seat wrestling match, I had managed to plunk down behind the steering wheel. It probably looked like Perez Hilton and Foster Brooks swatting at a bumblebee in the front seat of a Buick. But for the purposes of this story, I want you to think James Bond fighting Richard Kiel (JAWS). The bottom line was that I won and I was satisfied.

Satisfied that one: I had bested him with a deft slap on the throat and Two: proved that he was drunk because I couldn’t have gotten the upper hand if he wasn’t at least partially pickled. We listened to bad music, discussed the merits of Dos Equis vs. Corona and talked about fights we’d won and lost in life. I didn’t bring up the one he just lost to me because like I said, he was a little loony and I knew that plus his Dos Equis could equal a rematch that could send us headlong in to a ditch or make us a fine hood ornament for an oncoming tractor-trailer.

At some point Joe decides that he has to pee and wants to pull over. I have to go too but I’m neurotic and pee shy. So I tell him to wait because I don’t want to get attacked by coyotes on the side of the road-a valid concern but one superceded by my whizzing in the open-air issues.

Just before Joe was about to hang it out the window we came upon a rest stop. I pulled in and before the car was in park Joe was out with his willie in his hand. He made it halfway up the walk before he started watering everything in sight. Thank goodness it was almost 2am. I went into the rest stop and took care of business like an actual member of the human race. I came back out to the sight of Joe, pants bunched up around his ankles continuing his public watering service. I shook my head and headed back to the car.

“Hey man, check this out!” He shouted.

“No thanks.”

“I think I drowned the biggest scorpion ever. It’s the size of a baby’s hand.”

That got my attention. I’m always up for looking at giant bugs.

I trotted back up the walk to where Joe was finally finishing.

“Where?” I asked.

“Over there. Near the grass.”

I got down on my hands and knees and saw it. Not as big as a baby’s hand but still a nice sized big black fully doused scorpion. Very cool.

It was at this perfect moment that the floodlights from the police cruiser were turned on.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” The voice boomed from the megaphone.

Joe muttered something obscene.

A uniformed policewoman made her way slowly up the walk.

Out of the side of my mouth I said, “Joe you’re gonna get a public intoxication citation.”

“Just what are you gentlemen doing out here?” I didn’t like the way she said gentlemen.

I said in a hoarse whisper, “You are so busted. I told you why you needed to go inside the bathroom like a civilized person.”

He looked at me the way Archie Bunker sometimes looked at Edith whenever she said something stupid. “Dude, she doesn’t care that I pissed all over the walk.”

Then it dawned on me. I was on my knees, in front of a man, with his pants down around his ankles, in the middle of the night, at a rest stop.

I shot straight up like a rocket startling the cop whose hand went to her waist. “Hold it, hold it, hold on!” This is not what it looks like.”

“Oh really?”

“There was a giant scorpion!” was all I could think of in the heat of the moment. She cop smirked. She knew I was flustered and was mildly amused. What she thought of old Joe standing there with his pecker shriveling in the wind I couldn’t tell you.

I went on, “I always pee in doors and Joe couldn’t make it.” “Joe can pee any where – I’m pee shy for chrissakes!” She raised an eyebrow and said that we didn’t look too shy to her. This was just when I could tell Joe was getting a little annoyed because he didn’t even ask if he could start reaching for his pants when he did. I had visions of Joe flipping out on the cop and then a scene of us burying her body in a shallow grave and then pissing on it just to prove that he could piss anywhere anytime.

But he just started giggling.

“Sir, what’s so funny?”

“Mike’s gonna have a heart attack because he thinks, you think he was blowin’ me!” Peals of laughter followed.

Between the tears and giggles Joe somehow pointed to the piss, the dead scorpion and got his point across. Before all was said and done both Joe and the cop were busting a gut over my coyote theory, my looking guilty when I got nervous and everything that had transpired.

Nice lady cop walked us to the car after running our information. It turned out her brother was in Gulf War one as well. Joe got in the driver’s seat and gave me a look that said, “Just try to get in the driver’s seat now sucker.”

We could see the officer in the rear view mirror waving goodbye under the moonlit sky as Joe lurched out of the parking lot. And just as we made the turn to get on the main highway I heard it. A coyote was howling not too far away.

Mike Wilshin (www.mspace.com/old_man_mike)

www.wilshinphotography.com

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