The opinion of Satan’s concubine.


On one of my last blog posts, a Satanist blog commented that I didn’t understand real Satanism.

I’ve read The Satanic Bible and I agree with the basic tennets or whatever. Be your own god, indulgence not compulsion, that sort of stuff, and that’s cool. I’m not really a LaVeyan Satanist, though, I’m just satan-worshiping. The satanist with a lower s, if you will.There are some things about Satanism that I have trouble getting behind, but I respect the philosophy.

This is not a Satanist blog, per se, it is a satanist blog.

In The Satanic Bible, LaVey makes the claim that Satan is an archetypal figure of freedom, rebellion, and independence, and I agree with that. I love that. I’m also pretty much an atheist, and I’m not really comfortable with lot of things about religion, and the Devil, especially where Milton’s concerned, epitomizes my sentiment towards theology.

I also have an interest in both the occult and that which is cheesy, hence my enthusiasm for black masses and ritual sacrifices. I’m kind of a witchy dude, I don’t know what else to say.

And even LaVey was ironic about the stereotypes surrounding Satanism. A favorite: one of the chapters in The Satanic Bible is titled “Hell, The Devil, And How to Sell Your Soul”.

That dude’s blog is pretty cool. Its called SatanicViews. Check it out.

If things go as planned I’ll be performing a ritual satanic sacrifice


Ghost is playing in Denver in two days, and Hoss and I are going to go see them. In an unprecedented move, a friend of our’s mom bought tickets for us, for free, which is about the coolest thing I’ve experienced. All shall embrace the love of Satan.

Their last concert that I went to was metal as fuck, what with the background noise of crying babies and the opening act of King Dude.  We shall see what their new act is like now that their new album is out.

Hoss and I recently bought a vape pen, which will undoubtedly only add to the metalness.

Keep an eye out for a review in the next couple of days.

Drag Day – Part One


A while ago I volunteered at a drag show. And by volunteering I mean I mean I drained a water bottle containing a big Caucasian and smoking Camels. The drink, not the race, though that would have been okay too.

Add a drawn-on douche beard and a Tupac song and Joan would have made a really good drag king.

Add a drawn-on douche beard and a Tupac song and Joan would have made a really good drag king.

Hoss and I decided it would behoove us to blaze before going over there. And we did. We also played a little dress-up. I was a skinny little leather daddy with an outrageously over-sized vinyl police hat. He was done-up in a red-dress.

Ah, Satan, I’m so depraved.

Anyways, we get to the venue. We wait around for a while, draining the Caucasian. We smoke the “special occasion” pack we had promised ourselves.

Rehearsals went well. (“Well” in that everybody who showed up seemed to have a basic understanding of what their act would look like. Not well in that the rehearsals were the day of the show or that not everybody showed up. Everyone was working on queer standard time, so it was understandable.Also, word had gotten around that the gaybies who had coordinated the event had not gotten their shit together soon enough, and that the venue was shitty.) Hoss rehearsed his routine.

Several more hours passed. The cool queers and I went out for drinks and nachos and got sufficiently drunk. Hoss and I went bong-browsing. We still had a shit-ton of time to wait.

…(Several cigarettes later)…

It finally came. The drag show. A good two-thirds of the venue was filled, which amounted to a couple hundred people. We started fifteen minutes after the scheduled 8 PM (that’s queer standard time, for ya). Backstage the gaybies had broken out a box wine, a bottle of vodka and accompanying tonic. With that little bit of courage, we started.

It was phenomenal. The gayby leaders proved themselves to everyone. The venue was almost full, the lights were fantastic, and every performer really gave a shit: The drag kings did their pelvic thrusts perfectly, the drag queens dolled themselves up in dazzling neon make-up, sparkled their eyelashes, padded their boobs to disproportionate sizes. There is one queen I would like to mention in particular: I can’t remember her name, or the song she did, but her outfit was gorgeous. She had these silicone breasts on that bounced with every step of her nine inch heeled boots. She contorted herself like Lilith on the stage, strange and erotic and dark. I can’t describe it, but it was metal as fuck.

Black-Eyed Susan, Hoss’s drag name, did Loretta Lynn’s “You Ain’t Woman Enough (To Take My Man)” She took the stage wearing an ugly checkered house dress. When the chorus struck the first time, she dropped it, revealing a red tutu and bra, her shitty blond wig whipping around. I flitted over to stage and offered her my dollar, which I had to bum from a friend. She took it, and it warmed my heart. For the final lines of the song, she drew a switchblade from her bra, and licked the blade as she walked away. My boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen and genderfucks.

I had to run backstage to help with the next show. A friend of mine was doing what she called her “power dyke” song. Here it is. She took the stage, aiming her hot pink machine gun at the audience. One of the gaybies and I walked up to the front stage bearing a poster saying “Your Make Up Is Terrible”. She ripped through it for the climax of the song, shot at some more audience-members. The gayby and I were her awkward back-up dancers.

We finished the night with “YMCA”. Hoss convinced me to dance on the stage with everyone else. I wasn’t at all dressed up, so I decided to strip to my underwear. Thank Satan I was wearing my sexy boxer briefs.

But the night was not truly over. We still had the after-party.








The instance in which that robot band was finally right


With my many orgasms I am only to trying to disrupt the phallogocentric structure. Oh, but my escapades have been great. Let me recount one of my tales.

It was a sultry Thursday evening, and the air smelled of … adventure. We were a wild and sexually rambunctious bunch of transvestite, non-binary, sexually experimental folks.

Our leader the beautiful Tanya in her lace bodice and fishnet stockings, lead our caravan to our destination of decadence. We lounged in the backseat passing a flask of cheap whiskey. Sitting in the parking lot, a girl with a ring around her nostril filled the large McDonald’s soda cups with gin and tonic. Using her Swiss Army Knife, she sliced the lemons which she miraculously pulled from her glove compartment and dropped them in. The drinks inside are too expensive for this band of misfits.

With a ticket, we got inside, and, let me tell you, it was enough to bring a tear to a godless faggot’s eye. Muscular men with thighs second only to Greek gods gyrated on stage in skin-tight red briefs. Asserting her dominion over the realm, a drag queen commanded the crowd to throw their hands up in the air. A bartender wearing only his Armani underwear served beers by having the revelers pull them from his locked thighs.

I was having a hard time getting into the mood. I danced with my comrades in a friendly fashion. I timidly grinded with my friend, a self-identified “quirky little Jew”. Then the inevitable happened.

A couple weeks beforehand, I was dumped by an asshole. We dated for a while, he told me he “cared about me”, you know the spiel. He’s a rich, privileged man-child whose parents own a condo in Maui. He had told me he was a sociopath, so I guess the joke’s on me.

I was sitting at my local hangout with a friend when I got the news. She got a text that he was “with a boy”, who, as you could guess, wasn’t me.

It was unsurprising that he would be lurking in a club with a sea of horny twinks. He shall now be known as the Spawn of the Original Darkness. Well, Spawny saw me with my friend, pointed us out to his friend and started laughing. I shrugged it off, bitches ain’t relevant. I started dancing with a beautiful girl with an exotic name. Spawny was skulking at the edge of my circle of misfits, obviously watching me. What happened next was serendipitous. I felt a hand caress my back and turned to look. It was Aaron, a nice enough man who usually watched the group from afar.

Taking the opportunity, he started grinding his ass against my pelvis. We danced for a while, riding the rhythm of the music. Periodically, he would unbutton my shirt until finally I succumbed and tied it around my waist. After five songs, I felt another pair of hands on my waist. I looked back and saw a man in a white shirt who I will call Rando. We all started dancing, with me in the middle. Then the words “She’s up all night for good fun / I’m up all night to get lucky” from Daft Punk filled my ears and the three of us skeazed out. I would lean back into Rando’s arms and press my lips against his while Aaron planted hickeys on my neck. Rando left after he yelled in my ear that “we should get out of here” and I kind of just stood there, disinterested.

Taking hold of his hand, I led Aaron through the mass of sweaty, grinding bodies. We were on the outer edge of the dance floor. Spawny happened to glance in our direction while Aaron twerked in front of me. It was at that moment that I started making out with him again and Spawny’s jaw dropped. At that moment, revenge was mine. For days afterwards, he would sneak jealous [or perhaps hurt] glances in my direction. Such are the rewards when you fall into  At least, in my case.

[Important note. After careful consideration, I have realized that Rando and Spawny were actually the same person, and I was just too fucked to realize, which really goes to show the kind of skeeziness I perform in the service of Satan. I have no regrets, but I am mindfucked.]