NYT: Here’s How to Deal With Men (Thwack!)

“So you like breaking rules, do you?” Kasia Urbaniak said to the bald man seated before her. “Or do you like getting in trouble? That’s pretty greedy of you, to come here and do something right away to warrant punishment. I haven’t even had a chance to assess what kind of punishment you need.”

She paced across the bright stage in her platform leather boots. An audience of 130 professional women — bankers, marketing directors — were observing this demonstration in the parquet-floored ballroom of a rented Midtown Manhattan co-working space. They took careful notes and, when prompted, shot their hands in the air to volunteer to role-play on the stage.

Ms. Urbaniak, 39, worked as a dominatrix for 17 years, independently and in dungeons in New York City. Now, in something she calls the Academy, she teaches women what she has learned about men. In a moment of cultural reckoning around gender and harassment, the Academy is one of the new unconventional entities, including anonymous spreadsheets and Hollywood-run legal defense funds, emerging to fight harassment, discrimination and bias.

So the point is not her leather riding crop. Her mission is to teach women how to employ a dominatrix’s rhetorical tools in any scenario when there’s a power imbalance with a man, whether or not it’s about sex. The scenarios happen everywhere.

Sometimes, it’s in an office elevator. “I worked for nine months negotiating a multimillion-dollar contract, and the day we closed, my boss suggested I look into lunch arrangements while he and his boss signed,” said Hanna Kubiak, 46, a business development director for an aerospace company.

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Here's How to Deal with Men (Thwack!) by Alice Hines

January 20, 2018


KINK DOCTOR: Pilot Episode with Dia Dynasty

https://vimeo.com/ondemand/kinkdoctor/200052212

The Kink Doctor Pilot (46:43)

Kink Doctor is a talk show web series that gives an intimate look into the world of kink/BDSM. Fun and entertaining, educational but not overly didactic, Kink Doctor normalizes and universalizes kink, and clarifies common misconceptions of BDSM. Each episode focuses on a kink-identified person with a story to tell about the impact kink has made on their life. In the pilot episode, KD and Bastard Keith have a conversation with Domina Dia Dynasty about transformational domination, coming out of the kink closet, erotic humiliation, good vs bad shame, among many other kinky things.


THE SLUTIST: Mistress Lucy Sweetkill

An enthusiast of the unconventional, Mistress Lucy Sweetkill is co-owner and co-proprietess of one of NYC’s most decadent and discerning dungeons, La Maison du Rouge. This fem domme siren delves into her conscious sadism and kink positive outlook as our February Slut of the Month.

I am: Mistress Lucy Sweetkill (aka Daddie Lucy)

By Day: Dominatrix, Dungeon Owner, & Mother of a bunny named Moose

By Night: Purveyor of erotic experiences, Destroyer of taboos and egos, Food Club maven, Conscious Sadist, Excel spreadsheet fetishist, Co-Conspirator of La Maison du Rouge, and overall deviant.

 

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February Slut of the Month: Mistress Lucy Sweetkill by Kristen Korvette
The Slutist, February 6, 2017


SAMPLE SPACE: Mine to Own, part 3

https://soundcloud.com/samplespace/mine-to-own-part-3

Mine To Own: Part 3 (55:57)

A dominatrix, a romance novelist, and a new mom walk into a podcast episode… this episode! The final part of our 3-part series on “Periods, Pussies, and Power: Asian American Woman & Our Sexuality” and what happens when we assert ownership over our sexuality: we get to see and value our bodies in a totally new way, we get to dole out our own happiness and pleasure, we get to define what a woman’s sexuality is and who it is for.

Periods, Pussies, and Power: Asian American Woman & Our Sexuality” is a 3-part series of stories from Asian American women about our sexuality in all its color, nuance, and embarrassing hilarity. We explore getting our period for the first time, losing our virginity, discovering masturbation, pursuing sexual pleasure, and through it all, find what it is we stand to gain in embracing our sexuality as Asian American Women.

September 10, 2017


BUZZFEED: Want To Learn About Boundaries And Consent? Listen To Sex Workers.

Opinion: Their work demands the constant creation and affirmation of sexual limits in a professional setting — something most people clearly struggle with.

There’s a group of people who are uniquely qualified to lead the rollicking global conversation about sexism, sexuality, privilege, and power that is being fueled by daily reports of sexual assault by powerful men. These are people who know more about the negotiation of sexual boundaries than anyone else on the planet — and right now, they are barely being listened to.

As an attorney, I’ve been representing and advocating for sex workers for over 15 years. Their working lives are spent grappling with how to safely satiate sexual desires in a puritanical society that tells us sex is mostly bad and shameful. Their labor demands the constant creation and affirmation of sexual limits in a professional setting — something most people clearly struggle with.

When it’s done right, sex work is a straightforward and consensual form of sexual interaction in a deeply uneven world — money is power, sex is power, and the two can be consensually exchanged for mutual benefit in clear and honest ways. The entire sexual self can be acknowledged, seen, and enjoyed.

Not all sexual labor is empowering or even consensual — I have represented dozens of survivors of human trafficking who have suffered extreme abuse at the hands of traffickers, police, and to a lesser extent, clients. This is labor exploitation — and yet, again, survivors of this horrific abuse know more than most about the importance of consent and the creation of boundaries — and about the pathologies of men inclined to disregard these things.

It’s worth noting that, as you are reading this article, a veteran sex worker is at the heart of a presidential scandal. If you pay close attention to the words of Stephanie Clifford, aka Stormy Daniels, as she describes her sexual relationship with President Trump — one in which she clearly never sought his affection or romance, and for which she eventually got recognition and payment — it gives an insight into Trump’s character that few others were talking about back in 2011, when she gave her tell-all interview.

Read the full article: 

Want To Learn About Boundaries And Consent? Listen To Sex Workers. by Melissa Broudo
BuzzFeed, February 1, 2018

image: Adult film star Stormy Daniels visiting a restaurant in downtown New Orleans as she explored a possible US Senate run in 2009. Bill Haber/AP


BROADLY: A 'Lifestyle Slave' Is More Than a Sub Who Does All Your Chores for Free

The dynamic between a dominatrix and her 24/7 sub can be one of tender, mutual support.

When I was in my mid-twenties, I was a dominatrix for a couple of years.

I moved to New York at the age of 24 and was blogging, but I needed a job. I didn’t have any professional qualifications or a college education, so to make money—and avoid being a waitress—I became an assistant to a dominatrix. I was working in her dungeon (her decked-out kink lair) and she’d be like, “Hand me that gag.” And I’d be like, “Alright.” That was sort of my intro to the world of BDSM.

The mistress I worked for had a lot of submissives. Most of them were dudes who paid her by the hour to whip them in a dungeon—which is what most people think of when they think of BDSM. But she also had “lifestyle slaves.” These were men who wanted to be in her service all the time, not just in the dungeon. If she needed someone to change her air conditioner, they would come and change her air conditioner. They would drop her off at the airport if she was going on vacation—things like that. This dynamic was so foreign and intriguing to me. What exactly were these lifestyle slaves getting out of all these chores?

To find out, I thought it would be interesting to explore in intimate detail the relationship between a dom and a lifestyle sub. They are actually huge parts of each other’s lives a lot of the time, which is a side of BDSM and power-play relationships that people don’t typically see.

So, I spent a few days with a New York dom called “Mistress Lucy Sweetkill” and her sub, “Pain Puppy.” It was so interesting because they are so close that it felt like their relationship transcended the normal dominatrix-sub dynamic. They are very committed to each other, and they give each other so much mutual support.

 

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A 'Lifestyle Slave' Is More Than a Sub Who Does All Your Chores for Free by Karley Sciortino
Broadly, January 1, 2018


GO MAG: Kink And Trust - How Some Trauma Survivors Find Healing Through BDSM

As a survivor of sexual violence, I’ve found that exploring my kinks with partners I trust is a truly cathartic experience. It gives me a chance to reclaim my body as a source of pleasure—instead of anxiety or depression or trauma. I have complete control over how hard I want to be flogged and what sensations I want to experience with the other person. Through this, I’ve learned how to better communicate for myself and understand my desires.

BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism) is a powerful act that’s practiced for many different reasons. It can be a sexual practice, about power dynamics, or experiencing pain as pleasure. Play can even be used as a tool to help process trauma. BDSM is interdisciplinary, and therefore the actual practice varies for everyone in the community. That’s because kinks come in many forms—suspension play, role play, physical restriction, power exchange, administration of pain, spanking and age play just to list a few.

And while there’s a lot of debate around the topic of BDSM in general, people get especially up in arms when they hear that some trauma survivors have found healing through their kinks. Though psychologists have historically pathologized kinky behavior as “Sexual Sadism and Sexual Masochism Disorders”—there is research that shows people who practice BDSM are actually less neurotic, more extroverted, more open to new experiences, more conscientious, less rejection sensitive and have higher subjective well-being than non-kinky people. A similar U.S. study found BDSM-identified couples reported less stress as well as increased intimacy following play.

This is all to say that BDSM is a healthy and consensual form of expression—in fact, the current BDSM 4C Consent Model is based around caring, communication, consent and caution. “Fully engaged kink insists on full presence without pretense and the willingness to connect your raw humanity to another’s raw humanity,” says sex writer Midori.

Read the full article:

Kink and Trust: How Some Trauma Survivors Find Healing Through BDSM by Corinne Werder

November 20, 2017


The Velvet Chain: A Lesbian Romance

by M.L. Paige

The dancer twirled, unleashing a cloud of glitter and perfume as she turned her back to Isabelle. Then she folded over at the waist, coiffed hair hanging between studded stilettos, fake breasts stretching the nylon of her bikini top, and shook her ass in Isabelle’s face to the cheers and howls of the patrons of The Velvet Chain. The suits with their loose ties and undone collars on either side of Isabelle threw fans of cash in the air as Isabelle pulled her grimacing face away, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

With her eyes clenched shut, Isabelle–”Izzy” in her own head and to her friends–took in a deep breath and sucked down the wafting mix of sweat and sex and shea butter. She fought the urge to do what so many of her coworkers had done and plunge her face straight between the gyrating, shaking buttocks in front of her, the worst part being that the dancer would likely let her get further than any of the men who had tried a similar stunt.

But that would ruin the theater of it all and would ruin the game, for good. Izzy knew that the senior bankers only took her out to The Velvet Chain to delight in her looking aghast at the sight of the half-naked women, to laugh and egg the dancers on as they flirted with Izzy, and then to ogle silently as the dancers used her as a sort of proxy doll for what the men wished would be done to them, stroking and teasing and seducing Izzy until the dancers were content with the money they had milked out of the bankers.

Without those nights at The Velvet Chain, Izzy was just another mousy junior analyst putting in 60 hours a week to make a tenth of what the senior bankers did. During her first week at the firm, a female managing director had approached her in the cafeteria, took her aside, and warned her that the only way a “good girl” like her would get the corner office was to become shrewd and calculating.

“Play their games,” advised the managing director. “Ride their coattails. And for Christ’s sake never tell them you’re a lesbian.”

“Excuse me?” asked a frazzled Izzy. “I’m sorry, but I’m not a lesbian.”

The managing director smiled with her shadowed eyes and painted brows. “Sure you aren’t sweetie,” she said out of pursed lips. “And I’m not a power bitch who buys a new apartment every year.”

“Seriously,” insisted Izzy. “I’m not.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the managing director. “Just make sure the boys believe it and you’ll be fine.”

Before Izzy could respond, the managing director took off to make small talk with a couple of ashen-haired men wearing large watches and suit jackets that shined under the cafeteria lights. They chatted like old friends, the managing director bursting into laughter at even the slightest joke.

By definition, Izzy was no lesbian–which is to say, Izzy had never been with a woman. The most she had done was a bit of sloppy, drunken kissing in college, nothing more than the stupid antics of a girl trying too hard to fit in at a party scene that was never meant for her anyway. But Izzy’s eyes told a different story, their gaze drawn again and again and again to the angelic crimp of a woman’s face or the tight gulf of her cleavage or the sculpt of her ass as she walked in front of Izzy on the street. In the half-dreams Izzy experienced in the space between late night and early morning, when she could direct the flow of imagination just enough without dictating the script, Izzy saw herself entangled with other women, their faces stolen from those glimpsed while out walking or spotted in the dark corners of the dive bars Izzy frequented when she wanted to be alone in a crowd. During the best dreams, Izzy could taste these women and feel their flesh hot on her palms, and when she woke from such dreams there were always a few genuine beats of wondering if the whole sordid scene had actually occurred.

Then came the realization: No. Made up. Fake. And then Izzy would get up and begin another day of being someone she wasn’t.

The dancer swung her hips away from Izzy’s face and spun around, her excited eyes searching out those of the men who had just carpeted the club’s floor in bills. Izzy inhaled again but already the smell of the dancer was gone, lost in a swirl of a cologne and whiskey.

“Izzy, honey!” roared the beer-bellied VP sitting next to her who went by “Big Matty”. “You took that like a champ!” He clapped her on the shoulder, holding on longer than he had to. “If it was me...” he shook his jowly cheeks back and forth and made a motorboating noise. The other men laughed.

“That’s more like Nixon, BM,” said a bearded giant on Izzy’s other side. Alex Kensing Jr. was his name, and despite the bed of wrinkles on his face his beard was blacker than those of men twenty years younger. He reached out a long arm and brushed the dancer’s hip. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

The dancer stepped away from Alex’s fingers, making the move look like her improvised routine. Then she began shuffling back towards The Velvet Chain’s stage, turning one last time to show the room her ass before she disappeared behind dark, heavy curtains. The thumping music faded and the lights were cut in dramatic fashion, the entire room pitch black for a few seconds before an announcer came on the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the legendary Velvet Chain club, thank you all for coming out tonight!”

The crowd wooed and wailed and Izzy was grateful it was dark so that she didn’t have to watch as the pent-up patrons of the club realized she was the only woman there.

“We are pleased to welcome a very special guest tonight: the quixotic, exotic, and erotic Mistress Embers!”

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The Maneaters of Gynos: A Dark Fantasy Erotica

by M.L. Paige

The Golden Rooster Company, that’s what they called themselves. It was a cheap joke–standard fare for Asher, really–but to the surprise of all three of them it caught on with the local mercs and the generals and even the nobles. No one could believe when, at a raucous stag party celebrating the engagement of Lord Rayneth’s nephew, the Lord himself had leaned in close to Edsere and asked in a liquored whisper if he had a golden cock. As Edsere told it, the Lord giggled–actually giggled–and dangled his pinkie suggestively.

“I feel bad for the sad cunt if that’s all he’s got for a pecker,” Sahvin had said, sulking that the Lord had confided in Edsere and not himself.

“You hush up,” Edsere had replied. “If anyone hears you he’ll have your head.”

Asher grabbed at Sahvin’s crotch. “From what I’ve seen of it, I’d rather have the pinkie,” he said with a snicker.

In a way it seemed inevitable that The Golden Rooster Company would be embraced by Lord Rayneth and the rest of his cronies in the Kingdom of Virfortis. After all, Lord Rayneth was responsible for revitalizing the kingdom’s economy using one of the oldest tricks in the book–slavery–and The Golden Rooster Company was exceptionally good at scouting rural villages and secluded hamlets for so-called “human capital” to bring into Virfortis.

The Company divided their targets into two categories. The first category (and also the largest) was comprised of what Edsere had dubbed “Snoozer” towns. These were full of homely peasants offering little true value, most of them older than younger, and the plan for these peasants was for the men to be conscripted into military service as frontline fodder while the women were put to work on domestic duties. Couples were given bare lodgings and the illusion of freedom, which kept them complacent enough to prevent a revolution.

The other category was far more exciting to Edsere and the rest of The Golden Rooster Company, and no doubt to Lord Rayneth himself. These were called “Sleeper” towns, named for the abundant value these places had sleeping beneath their surface in the form of gorgeous young women. These women were captured, broken, trained, and then put on the slaver’s market where they were often snatched up by a wealthy noble looking for some excitement in his life. Some met a more public fate as “Comfort Stations” for Virfortis’s military and others were kept like animals to be rented out to the lower–and far more brusque–classes of the kingdom. Failure to bring in coin for the kingdom resulted in public punishment meant to not only humiliate the slave but to also advertise the slaver’s wares to whomever might be watching.

All three members of The Company had spent many a night with slaves whose capture they had facilitated and it never ceased to amaze Edsere just how malleable they were. Stunning, resilient women who spat and swore and promised that they would bite off Edsere’s cock the moment he tried to put it between their lips became in time eager creatures who threw themselves at his crotch like starving dogs hunting for a bone and who begged feverishly to suckle on his balls moments after he’d emptied days’ worth of seed down their throats.

It was enough to convince Edsere that maybe this was the intended order of things, the path set forth by some great creator in the stars above, and all that he and Asher and Sahvin were doing were righting the aberrations of nature. After a few years as part of The Company he began to think perhaps these women actually preferred being slaves, that life was easier for them without harsh winters, dwindling food supplies, and the constant threat of invasion to worry about. Now it came down to a simple focus on the cocks and pussies and lips and assholes of those with enough coin to claim them.

And judging by how often Asher and Sahvin frequented the slaver’s stables, his companions didn’t disagree.

A straight two weeks of storms had just passed through Virfortis when Lord Rayneth summoned The Golden Rooster Company to his private quarters, the four men left alone at the top of the kingdom’s tallest tower with enough wine to wet an army. The Lord poured his guests heavy glasses without asking, something Edsere knew to mean an unpleasant request was on the way.

“So,” said Lord Rayneth, swirling a glass of almost purple liquid. “I assume you’ve heard about what happened at the stables.”

Edsere had. A freak bolt of lightning from the storm had toppled a grain store adjacent to the stables, causing a waterfall of stones each heavier than a man to collapse down onto the stable’s eastern wing. Almost three dozen rental slaves were killed, along with two slavers who had decided to take advantage of the storm’s calamity to enjoy the slaves for themselves.

“It was a real shame,” said Asher with a face puckered from how tannic the wine was.

“A shame?” asked a drunken Lord Rayneth. He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “The ‘real shame’ here is that those rentals bring in more revenue than half the bloody kingdom does! If those holes could talk, they’d be able to name every cock from here to Princeps.”

“I mean, one of their holes can talk,” Asher said. “Well, used to be able to…”

“Shhh,” hissed Sahvin, smacking Asher in the head. “The Lord is speaking.”

Edsere tried to push past Asher’s idiocy. He addressed Lord Rayneth: “My Lord, you know matters of the economy far better than we do. But we know scouting. May I assume you’ve called us here to help–” Here Edsere struggled for the most tasteful word to use. “–mitigate the damages?”

A languid smile curdled across the Lord’s ruddy face. “I’ve always liked you Edsere,” he said, contemplating his wine. At this, Sahvin shot Edsere an envious glance. “I mean, you’re no noble–not even close–but you are a businessman and you have a way of cutting through the fog. Yes, I would like you and the rest of The Golden Rooster Company to replenish the stock we’ve lost in the storm.”

“As you wish My Lord,” said Edsere. “I actually have a pla–”

Lord Rayneth cut him off: “I also think that as a businessman you will appreciate that I want to use this replenishment as an opportunity to diversify our stock.”

“My Lord?” asked a wary Sahvin, raising one of his pale golden eyebrows high on his forehead.

“The people are growing bored of the same pussies,” slurred Lord Rayneth. “Profits are down. Complaints are up. Simply put, the men of Virfortis want something different to stick their dicks into. That’s why I’m sending you to Gynos.”

Gynos. Edsere had never been before–hell, none of The Company had ever been before–but they’d all heard tales of that land. Fertile fields and rolling hills, majestic mountains capped with snow that pierced the ever-blue skies. In Gynos it was said you could drink any water without worry, even the smallest streams, and that the meat and milk tasted fresher than anything available in Virfortis. The women were also rumored to be exotic and pure, with golden manes of hair and eyes like precious gems. Edsere had heard jokes and rumors in the backrooms of Virfortis pubs that even a Gynos woman’s piss tasted like the sweetest ale.

But to scout such a place without ever having been there? Edsere was worried. Who knew what unknown defenses Gynos had, what protections were in place to keep outsiders away?

“My Lord,” said Edsere. “Gynos is unknown to us. Gynos to almost unknown to everyone in Virfortis, in fact. This will be a difficult venture for sure.”

Lord Rayneth waved away Edsere’s concerns. “I know Edsere, I am no fool. That is why I am going to pay you fifty times the regular rate.”

“Fifteen times?” asked Asher, blinking in disbelief.

“No,” said Lord Rayneth. “Fifty. Five-Zero.”

The entire Company was silent.

“Ah now that shut up your concerns didn’t it,” mused Lord Rayneth.

“It is a lot of money,” said a still stunned Sahvin.

“I suppose it is to you, isn’t it?” asked Lord Rayneth, laughing. “But if I’m right–and I am always right–then the slaves of Gynos will usher in a new era for Virfortis. We’ll be entertaining visitors from across the seas, welcoming their most esteemed and most famed into new brothels that are nothing like anyone has ever seen. And with those proceeds you lot can hire a hundred more of golden cocks to help you go snatching up cunts from every corner of the world. We’ll have a zoo of holes for the fucking, a museum of every shade and size and style of pussy, and that will be the powder keg that launches Virfortis from Kingdom to Empire. Just you wait.”

“Fifty times the regular rate,” said Asher still in disbelief.

“We humbly accept your request,” said Edsere. He was dizzy at not just the thought of what he could do with the coin but what he could accomplish with a hundred more members of The Golden Rooster Company. They could be a business proper, forming contracts with multiple kingdoms, trading goods as supply and demand warranted. Edsere might even wind up as a Lord himself one day, sitting in a tall garish tower dictating his requests to a bunch of hapless hopefuls.

The possibilities seemed endless.

“Of course you accept,” said a laughing, coughing Lord Rayneth. He shook his head. “I really do like you Edsere. Now, go out and get me some Gynos pussy.”

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Bewitched & Betwixt: A Fantasy Femdom Story

by M.L. Paige

There are magicks in the world, believe you me. Not all that fireball, wall of water, sparks flying nonsense–those are just silly children's stories–but magicks in the form of lurking tendrils under existence, forbidden truths that challenge the very nature of what we assume must be. You're laughing, snickering under your breath and hey, that's alright. I was like you once.

Then I crossed paths with a Witch.

Let me back up a bit. She wasn't really a witch-witch–no hook nose, no emerald skin, no broom–but that’s what she called herself. I guess Sorceress would fit too, as would Shaman, as would probably a dozen other names I don’t even know. Whatever you call her though, Plumeria was something I sure as hell had never encountered before. Perhaps if I had I would've been a bit more respectful, or at least not as goddamn stupid. But what can you do? Hindsight, 20/20, blah blah blah.

I'd first spotted her at a tequila bar down in the Lower East Side, one of those faux-Cuban spaces slathered in sea green and peach that plays grating Latin music and always has its lights on too bright. I was drunk and alone, but the night had started quite the opposite with me starkly sober and joined by a meal-ticket date who I told to go fuck herself when she tried to order her third glass of Don Julio Real. As soon as she was gone the Reals began to flow again and somewhere in that agave cacophony is when Plumeria showed up.

She was a phantom with hips, all funereal in her black flowy anti-summer dress with eyes like volcanic stone and skin so creamy that the harsh bar lights made her veins show through. She was alone too, but cast a field around her so that she suffered none of the elbow bumping and loud talking that I did. Instead she was free to arch over her liquor, taking sips with lacquered crimson lips as if she were merely wetting her mouth with the tequila instead of drinking it.

Plumeria was one of those women who looked tall but just had stunning posture (as opposed to me with my six feet and change and my perpetual slump). It made it impossible to look anywhere else in the bar and before long Plumeria caught me trying catch her eye and stared me down with an impish little smile until I looked away.

A minute later a glass arrived before me.

“From the lady at the end of the bar,” said the unapologetically gringo bartender. “Don Julio Real.” He set the bottle down on the bar, its slender neck rising above a wide, flat base of amber.

“Did you tell her what I was drinking?” I asked in a drunken slur.

The gringo raised a caterpillar eyebrow at me. “If you don't want it…”

“No,” I said, snatching the glass off the bar before it could be withdrawn. “Thank you.”

I looked down at my benefactor but she was busy tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, no trace of flirtation or even a smile on her face. Unseen, I toasted her with my glass chalice of tequila raised in the air and then took a long, deep sip of the liquor. It warmed me from the inside out, blooming heat filling my arms and legs and a delicate tingly wave washing over my scalp. Was this the real Real? It tasted different–stronger–and I glanced down at the bottle to see if the bartender had made a mistake.

The bottle was gone.

“Excuse me,” said a silken voice in my left ear.

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