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The tenth epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.
The tenth epistle of JD Nielson
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dear mitchellcakes,
like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks (whatever a waterbrook is), you will no doubt have realized that i am still longing in an entirely unrequited fashion for thee. i have not returned to your ample, ample bosom. nor, i sincerely regret to inform you, is there any likelihood of my doing so within the next god knows how long. i am still, alas, in brussels after my little international conslutancy [sic] session at shape, pimping us out like i drive a gold 80s oldsmobile with rotating rims. it was a success, and the germans are interested in our new shiny toy, but after wiping the professional bukkake off my face i arose to realise there are no flights out of brussels, paris, london, frankfurt, or anywhere in northern europe, for the foreseeable future. i have considered renting a horrible tin can european car and driving to spain to find a fucking flight. viva españa.
yes, this motherfucking goatraping cocksanding cuntscratching assflaying volcano is still erupting like a virgin twink getting his first prostate massage, like a tantric practitioner fully entwined in the kundalini embrace, like the venereal disease-ridden cock of europe leaking chlamidic magma out of its eyjafjallajoekullian urethra and infecting the surrounding air in a miasmic vapor of engine-melting spooge. i have been stuck here for four days now and have had to make an excursion to purchase additional boxers and t-shirts. do you know how to say 'boxer briefs' in belgian, mitchell? me neither. i ended up taking off my pants to show the nice man in the store what i meant, and proceeded to have an entirely unintended intercultural miscommunication experience that ended up in the dressing room with his cock buried so far up my ass i could almost taste the rubber. do you know how to say 'fuck me harder, you bastard' in belgian? me neither.
our airline of least-worst choice has been less than helpful. now don't fall over in surprise, mitchell, because thy serv't is not departing in peace, nor in fact in any fashion whatsoever. i know that you will be stunned that united are being assmonkeys, but you should know that you need to steel yourself for the shock. i ended up calling the super-special global services line and speaking to monica in chicago. monica was, on a scale of one to helpful, about a 'nah'. she had no idea when service might resume. this i can entirely understand, mitchell, on account of the problem being a fucking icelandic volcano spurting out ash like i do when that bastard andrew lets me after an afternoon at his place. (when i am on the plane back, mitchell my dearest, please call the man and make arrangements. i will probably need it.)
i will note, mitchell my love and my light, that i had hit united.com and found open seats on the madrid flight the next day. however, in the time that monica took to review my ticket type and contact her idiot supervisor barbara to see if my ticket could be transferred from bru-ord-cos to mad-ord-cos, every single seat out of madrid (or barcelona, or lisbon, or anywhere iberian) to any us airport this week was booked. i mentioned the fact that we are global services cardholders, but apparently the other global services cardholders had similar ideas to y'r ob'd't' s'rv't and had snapped up all the seats. on the plus side, this does mean that i don't have to make a fifteen hour drive across all of france and half of spain to get to madrid. my deep and abiding love of roadtrips is well known, but in this particular instance i feel that the novelty would wear off far, far too quickly: id est, before leaving the belgian border.
so here i sit, mitchell my sweetness and my sorrow, in this frankly mediocre hotel in scenic brussels. i imagine, mitchell, my sugar and spice and everything nice, that you have never had an enforced indefinite stay in belgium. it's the nation-state version of a supermax. except with worse food. i jest only slightly. moules-frites is an enjoyable meal the first time, and you know i'm a fan of sausage. (shut up, mitchell.) however, molluscs and blood, despite their notable deliciousness as an occasional treat (to which i say: om nom nom, mitchell, my refuge and my rock), are hardly appropriate for everyday fare.
i have had, with a heavy heart and the deepest possible regret (fine, fine, i've been loving it) to resort to exploring brussels' leather scene. you would be surprised, mitchell, joy of man's desiring, at the amount of kink here. the belgians are nearly as kinky as the brits, although with more sleaze and less cp. you will hopefully recall (for it has only been a week that we have been parted, my love and my life, and you may be feeble minded but i hope you're not that feeble minded) my lack of reluctance to dress up in leather, rubber, pvc or anything else that's formfitting and interesting on the skin. i will apologise quietly now for raiding our joint account for a set of leather shorts with harness rivets and a new set of knee-high dms; without them i couldn't have got into the leather club for its weekend kink party. i promise to bring them home for you to see, assuming of course that i can smuggle them past customs without causing a major agricultural security alert or giving some customs inspector a coronary. kink: making airport staff fall over dead in shock since 1903. by the way, what do you think about getting some ceiling hooks in the playroom? i kind of enjoyed being strung up by the harness and beaten last night. (also, do you recall if andrew has a martinet? that was fun.)
which enjoyment, wot i have had here in brussels, pop. just over a million, compared with our beautiful home in colorado springs, center of the universe, pop. just about half that, brings me to another point, mitchell, my way, my truth and my life (none shall come to a daddy except through thee). why the everliving fuck is the leather scene so bad in the springs? why is it so fucking impossible to find a top who knows what the fuck he's doing?
exhibit a, last weekend's top, randy, who was frankly anything but. now, i do not wish to begrudge tops who are into sitting back in a comfortable chair and having a nice boy service their every need. there are, you will doubtless remember with some relish, times in my own delightfully gay experience when i have been that nice boy. randy, however, put himself forward as a firm, strong daddy who was up for powerfucking his way into my ass for the whole night. this was, mitchell my redeemer and my strength, what i was looking for. why, then, mitchell, thou fount of every blessing, was i left unbeaten, unfucked and unhappy at the end of the evening?
exhibit b, mark, of a few months ago. allow me to interject (or, technically, preject, but who's counting, other than the irs?) that i have no qualms with people who are switches, which is a fairly good thing on account of being one myself. but for the love of the lord jesus, the virgin mary, the disciples, apostles, holy spirit and the holy catholick church, pick a damned, damned and thrice-damned side and stick to it in a session. nothing throws me out of subspace faster than a top who can't hold his place in the role. it's the chekhov's rifle of power play, and it makes me want to get an actual rifle and smack them upside the head of it with the butt. which, if you switch the words in that sentence around a little, i ended up doing with mark, because he slipped much more easily into sub than dom. on the plus side, his ass did warm very nicely and he had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner. but still.
exhibit c, dave. i have never had a good sexual experience with anybody called dave, mitchell. (nor dave mitchell, mitchell, but that should be clear from the logical q. e. d. of the former, on account of dave mitchell being called dave.) i did not, in fact, know that dave was called dave until i got back to his house and spotted his 'meaning of your name' keychain. which, in all fairness, mitchell my rock and my island, should have been the first clue. what credible top has a 'meaning of your name' keychain? dave did not, unsurprisingly, impress. the first moment i started moaning when he was paddling my ass he stopped and asked me if i was okay. i snapped at him in, admittedly, an attempt to make him beat my ass in irritation, but it didn't work and we had to have a discussion about our feelings and whether we were fully cognizant of our current power exchange roles. don't get me wrong, mitchell meine freude, i am in favor of tops who know a little bit about how to talk about the bdsm experience. however. thirty minutes into our little chat i had to remind dave that i kind of wanted my ass beaten. he didn't, apparently, feel that we shared the intense emotional connection required.
to sum up, your honor (rather than summing up your honor, which would be a very small summing-up indeed; to whit, i have finished), i intend serving as judge, jury and executioner of the alleged dominants of colorado fucking springs. let them eat cock. or send them to belgium. they have waffles here.
i remain, stranded as i am by the psychosexually symbolic eruptions of ultima motherfucking thule,
y'r ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dear mitchellcakes,
like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks (whatever a waterbrook is), you will no doubt have realized that i am still longing in an entirely unrequited fashion for thee. i have not returned to your ample, ample bosom. nor, i sincerely regret to inform you, is there any likelihood of my doing so within the next god knows how long. i am still, alas, in brussels after my little international conslutancy [sic] session at shape, pimping us out like i drive a gold 80s oldsmobile with rotating rims. it was a success, and the germans are interested in our new shiny toy, but after wiping the professional bukkake off my face i arose to realise there are no flights out of brussels, paris, london, frankfurt, or anywhere in northern europe, for the foreseeable future. i have considered renting a horrible tin can european car and driving to spain to find a fucking flight. viva españa.
yes, this motherfucking goatraping cocksanding cuntscratching assflaying volcano is still erupting like a virgin twink getting his first prostate massage, like a tantric practitioner fully entwined in the kundalini embrace, like the venereal disease-ridden cock of europe leaking chlamidic magma out of its eyjafjallajoekullian urethra and infecting the surrounding air in a miasmic vapor of engine-melting spooge. i have been stuck here for four days now and have had to make an excursion to purchase additional boxers and t-shirts. do you know how to say 'boxer briefs' in belgian, mitchell? me neither. i ended up taking off my pants to show the nice man in the store what i meant, and proceeded to have an entirely unintended intercultural miscommunication experience that ended up in the dressing room with his cock buried so far up my ass i could almost taste the rubber. do you know how to say 'fuck me harder, you bastard' in belgian? me neither.
our airline of least-worst choice has been less than helpful. now don't fall over in surprise, mitchell, because thy serv't is not departing in peace, nor in fact in any fashion whatsoever. i know that you will be stunned that united are being assmonkeys, but you should know that you need to steel yourself for the shock. i ended up calling the super-special global services line and speaking to monica in chicago. monica was, on a scale of one to helpful, about a 'nah'. she had no idea when service might resume. this i can entirely understand, mitchell, on account of the problem being a fucking icelandic volcano spurting out ash like i do when that bastard andrew lets me after an afternoon at his place. (when i am on the plane back, mitchell my dearest, please call the man and make arrangements. i will probably need it.)
i will note, mitchell my love and my light, that i had hit united.com and found open seats on the madrid flight the next day. however, in the time that monica took to review my ticket type and contact her idiot supervisor barbara to see if my ticket could be transferred from bru-ord-cos to mad-ord-cos, every single seat out of madrid (or barcelona, or lisbon, or anywhere iberian) to any us airport this week was booked. i mentioned the fact that we are global services cardholders, but apparently the other global services cardholders had similar ideas to y'r ob'd't' s'rv't and had snapped up all the seats. on the plus side, this does mean that i don't have to make a fifteen hour drive across all of france and half of spain to get to madrid. my deep and abiding love of roadtrips is well known, but in this particular instance i feel that the novelty would wear off far, far too quickly: id est, before leaving the belgian border.
so here i sit, mitchell my sweetness and my sorrow, in this frankly mediocre hotel in scenic brussels. i imagine, mitchell, my sugar and spice and everything nice, that you have never had an enforced indefinite stay in belgium. it's the nation-state version of a supermax. except with worse food. i jest only slightly. moules-frites is an enjoyable meal the first time, and you know i'm a fan of sausage. (shut up, mitchell.) however, molluscs and blood, despite their notable deliciousness as an occasional treat (to which i say: om nom nom, mitchell, my refuge and my rock), are hardly appropriate for everyday fare.
i have had, with a heavy heart and the deepest possible regret (fine, fine, i've been loving it) to resort to exploring brussels' leather scene. you would be surprised, mitchell, joy of man's desiring, at the amount of kink here. the belgians are nearly as kinky as the brits, although with more sleaze and less cp. you will hopefully recall (for it has only been a week that we have been parted, my love and my life, and you may be feeble minded but i hope you're not that feeble minded) my lack of reluctance to dress up in leather, rubber, pvc or anything else that's formfitting and interesting on the skin. i will apologise quietly now for raiding our joint account for a set of leather shorts with harness rivets and a new set of knee-high dms; without them i couldn't have got into the leather club for its weekend kink party. i promise to bring them home for you to see, assuming of course that i can smuggle them past customs without causing a major agricultural security alert or giving some customs inspector a coronary. kink: making airport staff fall over dead in shock since 1903. by the way, what do you think about getting some ceiling hooks in the playroom? i kind of enjoyed being strung up by the harness and beaten last night. (also, do you recall if andrew has a martinet? that was fun.)
which enjoyment, wot i have had here in brussels, pop. just over a million, compared with our beautiful home in colorado springs, center of the universe, pop. just about half that, brings me to another point, mitchell, my way, my truth and my life (none shall come to a daddy except through thee). why the everliving fuck is the leather scene so bad in the springs? why is it so fucking impossible to find a top who knows what the fuck he's doing?
exhibit a, last weekend's top, randy, who was frankly anything but. now, i do not wish to begrudge tops who are into sitting back in a comfortable chair and having a nice boy service their every need. there are, you will doubtless remember with some relish, times in my own delightfully gay experience when i have been that nice boy. randy, however, put himself forward as a firm, strong daddy who was up for powerfucking his way into my ass for the whole night. this was, mitchell my redeemer and my strength, what i was looking for. why, then, mitchell, thou fount of every blessing, was i left unbeaten, unfucked and unhappy at the end of the evening?
exhibit b, mark, of a few months ago. allow me to interject (or, technically, preject, but who's counting, other than the irs?) that i have no qualms with people who are switches, which is a fairly good thing on account of being one myself. but for the love of the lord jesus, the virgin mary, the disciples, apostles, holy spirit and the holy catholick church, pick a damned, damned and thrice-damned side and stick to it in a session. nothing throws me out of subspace faster than a top who can't hold his place in the role. it's the chekhov's rifle of power play, and it makes me want to get an actual rifle and smack them upside the head of it with the butt. which, if you switch the words in that sentence around a little, i ended up doing with mark, because he slipped much more easily into sub than dom. on the plus side, his ass did warm very nicely and he had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner. but still.
exhibit c, dave. i have never had a good sexual experience with anybody called dave, mitchell. (nor dave mitchell, mitchell, but that should be clear from the logical q. e. d. of the former, on account of dave mitchell being called dave.) i did not, in fact, know that dave was called dave until i got back to his house and spotted his 'meaning of your name' keychain. which, in all fairness, mitchell my rock and my island, should have been the first clue. what credible top has a 'meaning of your name' keychain? dave did not, unsurprisingly, impress. the first moment i started moaning when he was paddling my ass he stopped and asked me if i was okay. i snapped at him in, admittedly, an attempt to make him beat my ass in irritation, but it didn't work and we had to have a discussion about our feelings and whether we were fully cognizant of our current power exchange roles. don't get me wrong, mitchell meine freude, i am in favor of tops who know a little bit about how to talk about the bdsm experience. however. thirty minutes into our little chat i had to remind dave that i kind of wanted my ass beaten. he didn't, apparently, feel that we shared the intense emotional connection required.
to sum up, your honor (rather than summing up your honor, which would be a very small summing-up indeed; to whit, i have finished), i intend serving as judge, jury and executioner of the alleged dominants of colorado fucking springs. let them eat cock. or send them to belgium. they have waffles here.
i remain, stranded as i am by the psychosexually symbolic eruptions of ultima motherfucking thule,
y'r ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn
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*sporfle*
oh, jd.
and I had never before fully appreciated the flood of metaphoric potential inherent in an exploding volcano. consider me schooled.
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And bwahahahahahahaha at the description of the Belgian leather scene. Ahhh, Belgium. *is proud to be German*
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My transformation into one of Those People (the ones who think their iShuffle has a Psychic Mood Reader and is Trying Helpfully to Jolly Them Along) is now pretty much complete: whenever I have a particular sort of day - a 'motherfucking goatraping cocksanding cuntscratching assflaying volcano erupting' sort of day sums it up pretty well *I* think - there appears on my reading list one of your glorious & cheerfully, happily filthy epistles.
I think I may have actually squeaked in an involuntary manner when I saw it. (And I have 20 years of singing training, so take that squeak as the compliment I mean it to be.)
Having JD in your head can't be all kittens and rainbows. But you DO get to share such pithy gems as "engine-melting spooge"; "ultima mutherfucking thule"; "mitchell meine freude" (i've been singing a lot of lieder recently - hee hee); and my personal favourite: "...an entirely unintended intercultural miscommunication experience". Well. And haven't we all been THERE.
The offer to propogate any anchiselets still stands.
As ever: MORE PLS!
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It's entirely normal for me to lose the ability to breathe in the first page of one of these.
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No one named Dave need apply.