Tuesday, 20 August 2019

Lee Holmes of Clones of Bruce Lee is Stupid


A reply to the baseless accusations of Lee Holmes of Clones of Bruce Lee.


I’ve no wish to draw others into your attempt to create a spat, so I will not bother to cover all the issues raised by your brickbat on pages I do not run regardless of how obsessively you repost your rant on social media. Here no one else need be involved, unless they chose to involve themselves. So let’s go through your preposterous claims. You write:

“I must say I am pretty annoyed at the reference to me in the book. The author seems to be obsessed with trying to put down other writers who have delved into this genre in some sort of attempt to make himself out as the more superior researcher.”

Here’s most of what I have to say about you: “Within Brucesploitation and the related Chansploitation phenomena, actors who copy and clone Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan make up one strand of these subgenres, but their importance can and has been over-stated. This is evident not just from the title of the book Here Come The Kung Fu Clones by Carl Jones, but also the UK fan site Clones of Bruce Lee run by Lee Holmes. Both Jones and Holmes treat Bruce Liang as a clone. My own view is that when Liang appears as Bruce Lee in The Dragon Lives Again (1977) he is there as an actor playing the Little Dragon in the underworld after death rather than a clone; this is emphasised by dialogue in the English dub addressing head on the fact that Liang doesn’t look like Bruce Lee…. Movies such as The Black Dragon’s Revenge (1975), with a narrative that revolves around a fictional investigation into the death of Bruce Lee, belong to the Brucesploitation genre without even featuring a clone so copyists are not essential to this film category. Lee Holmes on his Clones website at one time listed Black Dragon’s Revenge supporting actor Charles Bonet as a Bruce Lee clone, but given this martial artist’s karate leanings and rejection of kung fu, this is not a claim I take at all seriously. I would further argue that those who see figures like Bonet as clones do so because they approach Brucesploitation in thrall to the misleading idea that copyists define it. Tadashi Yamashita, sometimes called Bronson Lee after a character he played, is another example of a karateka I do not accept as a Bruce Lee clone; despite Jones and Holmes – among others – mistakenly asserting he is one.”

Seeing this any intelligent reader will immediately realise that your claim that I want to pose as “the more superior researcher” is based on a basic category error.  The passage above is focused more on interpretation than research and I certainly wouldn’t damn myself with feint praise by claiming to be a superior theorist to you because you are not a theorist at all. Likewise your clumsy attempt at commentary on something you failed to fully understand might be cited as evidence that I am a superior writer to you; sadly your prose as quoted in the present paragraph is so clunky that this hardly requires pointing out. While I may be putting you down now for a ridiculously over-sensitive and stupid response to Re-Enter The Dragon, this was not what I was doing in the book when I laid out the differences between my positions on Brucesploitation as a genre and dominant discourse on it to date, of which your website simply provides an example. If you don’t want your views of Brucesploitation to be met with anything other than agreement then you’d be best advised not to air them in public, or indeed private.

You write: “…who doesn't think that Fist of Unicorn should be categorised as Bruceploitation? This not some big revelation.”

Newsflash for Lee Holmes, billions of people in the world have never heard of Fist of Unicorn or Brucesploitation, and it is therefore extremely unlikely they think a film of which they are unaware should be categorised as part of a genre they aren’t familiar with. However if you look at what I say in regard to this in context then it is also obvious that I’m not claiming this as some ‘big revelation’ but rather deploying it as part of a broader argument: “I have seen it falsely asserted in a number of places – including Wikipedia – that Brucesploitation movies attempted to exploit interest in Bruce Lee after his death. Fist of Unicorn (1973) can and should be treated as part of the genre, and it was made and released before Lee died on 20 July 1973…” In case you want to check the Wikipedia entry, although it appears you don’t bother to fact check anything very much (see below), there is an archived version of the page here: https://web.archive.org/web/20181102091239/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bruceploitation

Incidentally if you think Fist of Unicorn is Brucesploitation then you implicitly support my argument that the genre predates the Little Dragon’s death, and Wikipedia - among others – was wrong to claim it is made up of movies shot after 20 July 1973. Note that this Wikipedia entry opens with various errors I am attempting to correct in Re-Enter The Dragon: “Bruceploitation (a portmanteau of Bruce Lee and exploitation) refers to the practice on the part of filmmakers in mainland China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan of hiring Bruce Lee look-alike actors ("Lee-alikes") to star in many imitation martial arts films in order to cash in on Lee's success after his death.” Alongside the dating error in this opening sentence, there are the misleading assertions that Brucesploitation is characterised by look-alike actors (or clones to use the term found in the title of your website) and about the geographical areas that produced such films (which, of course, also include The Philippines, Korea, Indonesia, Japan and the USA). The claim that Brucesploitation movies are ‘imitation martial arts films’ is particularly silly; in my experience most of those interested in the genre currently consider them to be actual martial arts films rather than imitation fight flicks. That said, such a slippage does serve to illustrate the damage the clone fallacy does to a proper understanding of the genre.

Wikipedia entries are highly ranked by search engines and are influential, therefore misconceptions within them and the sources they draw upon and link to – including in the instance of the one on ‘Bruceploitation’ your website - need to be challenged, which is what I’ve been doing. I would also point out that this Wikipedia entry has for some time contained a link to a review of the Carl Jones book Here Come The Kung Fu Clones that I wrote and published in 2012, and that my understanding of Brucesploitation has changed since then; although I would stand by the review’s premise that Jones in his book was confused about the Bruce Le filmography - this is reiterated in less detail in Re-Enter The Dragon.

You say: “I also don't think anyone has ever said that Bruce Lee A Dragon Story is the first Bruceploitation movie, it is the first Bruce Lee Bio-pic.”

The top two entries of the web search I just did for Bruce Lee: A Dragon Story (1974), both addressed the matter of it being the ‘first’ Brucesploitation movie. I got live links for Wikipedia and Hong Kong Movie Database but I’m providing archived ones here:

Bruce Lee: A Dragon Story… is a 1974 Bruceploitation film starring Bruce Li…. The film is notable for being the first biopic of Bruce Lee (it was released the year following his death), the debut film of notorious Lee imitator Bruce Li, and the first film in the Bruceploitation genre.
“Bruce Lee: A Dragon Story is thought to be the first entry in the extraordinary genre of what are known as "Brucesploitation" films.” https://web.archive.org/web/20120710022900/http://hkmdb.com/db/movies/reviews.mhtml?id=9646&display_set=eng

You say: “…how do you know my opinions on Bruce Leung Siu-Lung or Tadashi Yamashita and how they fit into Bruceploitation? I've never published a profile on them on my site. If you wanted my opinion on them, here is a radical idea, you could have just asked me!”

I assume it is narcissism that makes you think I’d be interested in your opinions. To clarify, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about your opinions on Bruce Liang (AKA Bruce Leung Siu-Lung), Tadashi Yamashita, or anything else for that matter. My book dealt with Brucesploitation as a genre and that meant I needed to address the discourse(s) that create and shape it, and unfortunately your website is a part of this and is publicly accessible. On your site you have a page dedicated to ‘lesser known stars of Bruceploitation’, where you mention three major clones and go on to provide a list of others who were ‘impersonating The Little Dragon’. You include both Bruce Liang (AKA Bruce Leung Siu-Lung) and Tadashi Yamashita on this list and therefore effectively treat them as clones. It would have been completely redundant to ask you about this because you’d already implicitly stated your position online. In case you’ve forgotten what’s on your own website here’s an archived version of the page: https://web.archive.org/web/20190819111923/http://clonesofbrucelee.info/enter-another-dragon/

You say: “And why would anyone classify Mission Terminate as a Bruceploitation movie? It is only included on my site due to the fact that it features Bruce Le and I cover his entire filmography.”

If you cover Bruce Le’s entire filmography why am I unable to find coverage of it all on your site? For example I can find nothing about Treasure of Bruce Lee or My Name Called Bruce. When I use the search engine on your site for these films it produces no results, see screenshots below. It’s claims like this, which I’m unable to substantiate, that lead me to suspect you may be a habitual liar. Since I’ve never been able to find coverage of ALL Bruce Le’s films on your site, your sorry justification isn’t exactly convincing. There’s nothing on the page containing the Richard Norton interview to suggest you see Mission Terminate as anything other than Brucesploitation. That page is archived here: https://web.archive.org/web/20190819112551/http://clonesofbrucelee.info/richard-norton/

Your homepage explicitly states: “This website is dedicated to Bruce Lee exploitation cinema, or ‘Bruceploitation’ as it has become to be known.” This is at the top of the page in capital letters and it is therefore reasonable for anyone visiting the site to conclude that anything on it - such as the coverage of Mission Terminate - you consider to be Brucesploitation, unless you explicitly state otherwise. BTW: your sentence construction is shockingly bad and you really ought to rewrite the dreadful ‘as it has become to be known’ since this sloppy phrasing is very visible on the page.  In case you’ve forgotten what’s on your homepage there’s an archived version of it here: https://web.archive.org/web/20190209093714/http://clonesofbrucelee.info/

You write: “I applaud anyone who goes to the effort to bring out a book on this genre that I love I just don't see why you think you had to include my name, and other writers (e.g. Carl Jones) in such a negative way to try make yourself and your book look better. As a fan and researcher of this genre for more than 30 years I wouldn't see the need to try and put down you in anything I write. My research into the genre consists of more than merely watching what i can find online or purchased from the poundshop and writing a basic plot line and sticking it in a book.”

This self-refuting passage really made me laugh. You are attempting to put me down in your brickbat, and it is something you’ve written, so why pointlessly contradict yourself within it by rhetorically stating: “I wouldn't see the need to try and put down you in anything I write…” You appear incapable of making or sustaining a coherent argument or writing a well-constructed sentence. Likewise some of the absurd errors on your part addressed here rather belie your claims to have been researching ‘this genre for more than 30 years’. It would appear that what you call ‘research’ consists mostly of spouting the first piece bullshit that enters your head and deluding yourself into thinking no one will notice you’re utterly clueless. Likewise your claim that me ‘putting you down’ will make me or my book ‘look better’ is ridiculous, since you’re a complete twit who is utterly incapable of making me or anyone else ‘look better’ by comparison. I also hope it’s clear by now I wasn’t putting you down in my book even if I am now. I’m doing that here to demonstrate the difference between civil critical engagement with your website – which is my stance towards it in Re-Enter The Dragon – and personalised refutation with humorous insults, which as I trust this reply illustrates is a style of address that I am also familiar with and that I can deploy as and when is necessary. It would be great if this eventually helped you to understand the difference between the two, although at present that seems rather unlikely.

You say: “And one final thought, I've never seen Bruceploitation spelt "Brucesploitation". I've no idea where you got that idea from.”

I discuss the variant spellings of Brucesploitation in Re-Enter The Dragon and if as you claim you’ve been researching the genre for 30 years then you really ought to have seen the spelling I use elsewhere. Either you’re lying or you haven’t done any serious research, or both. I’m going to give you one example of the Brucesploitation spelling being used here but you can find many more by doing a simple web search, assuming - of course - you’re not too simple to use a search engine: https://www.grindhousedatabase.com/index.php/Brucesploitation



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Sunday, 11 May 2014

DAVID HOCKNEY'S ART SCHOOL DAZE Part 25


A FIGGING FOR HOCKNEY TEACHES THIS BDSM FREAK THE VALUE OF THINKING WITH HIS DICK!

At the start of their second year Kitaj was doing very well at the Republican College of Art. Hockney wanted to see whether he could make a better fist of the new term at the RCA than he had of the last. He began with a much better chance of doing so, for he was thoroughly humbled. The discovery that he was not altogether such a hero as he had fancied himself, had dawned upon him very distinctly by the end of his first year as the full depths of his masochism had been revealed; and the events of the long vacation had confirmed the impression, and pretty well taken all the conceit out of him for the time being. The impotency of his own will, even when he was bent on doing the right thing, his want of insight and foresight in whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness of his temper and passions just at the moments when it behooved him to have them most thoroughly in check and under control, were a set of agreeable facts which had been driven well home to him. The results, being even such as we have seen, he did not much repine at, for he felt he had deserved them; and there was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the prospect was, in facing them, and taking his punishment like a man. Or at least like a girl since he most enjoyed bondage scenes in which he was made to put on dresses and act like a member of the ‘weaker’ sex.

Kitaj was so fully occupied with painting and a muscle-building regime that he’d taken up, that Hockney had scruples about demanding much of his spare time in the evenings. Nevertheless, the two men still wanted to enjoy some kinky sex together, and were able to do so both at the RCA and in their rooms. On the first day of term Hockney checked out the new first year students and had even sucked one of them off in the men’s toilet at lunchtime. He hoped Kitaj would hear about this and would punish him severely for it. And that was precisely what happened towards the end of that first day back at college.

Hockney stood in the corner of a lecture room, his hands firmly planted on the top of his head, muttering at the injustice of it all. He knew that Kitaj was strict, but he was in his early twenties for fucks sake, a post-graduate art student, and he had been standing with a view of nothing but peeling paintwork for the last forty-five minutes. Hockney heard Kitaj step back into the room and the blinds of the lecture hall fell, leaving only the glow of the lights.

"Boy, what did you think you were doing?" Kitaj’s voice was harsher than before, Hockney could tell this time he was in for it.

The sub’s response came out as a mutter: "Nothing, it was just a bit of fun..."

"Just what? A Joke? I'm sure that fresher’s orgasm wasn’t a sarcastic orgasm, was it?"

"No," Hockney was sulking by this time. He was being spoken to like a child, it had just been guys messing around in the john, a quick blow job, and now he was taking a heavy wrap for it.

"No sir, is how you shall address me Hockney! I see it is not just your submissive peers you treat with such disrespect but even your master. Come over to the lecture desk."

Hockney walked over to the most imposing piece of furniture in the room as Kitaj instructed. He lowered his arms from his head and gave them a little rub to improve their numbed circulation.

"They tried punishing you with lines when you were at school I presume?" Kitaj snapped.

Hockney rummaged in his bag with one hand, thinking how cruel it was that his position in the corner had made his arms ache before the hours of endless, repetitive writing.

"And writing lines didn't make an impact on you I see" Kitaj continued as he sat down in a chair behind the lecture desk, "So instead of getting you to write out 'I must not suck fresher cock' a thousand times, I want you to bend over this desk, and we will see if I can't beat some discipline into you."

Hockney jerked his head up to look at Kitaj, and was shocked to see he was done up like a tranny. Kitaj was wearing make-up and a low cut dress, not to mention a sick stern kind of smile that made it clear that he was on some strict school-mistress trip. He even had on long false nails that had been painted with purple varnish! Kitaj hadn’t looked anything like this when he’d left the room. It was sick, in anyone else the way Kitaj was done up would have looked like forced feminisation, but the dom was able to carry it off and retain his aura of authority and masculinity. Still being beaten by a top wearing a dress was a new level of humiliation for Hockney.

Hockney took his time bending over the desk, taking in Kitaj’s female scent – a perfume he was unable to name – as he leant towards him. Kitaj stood and walked round the desk and out of Hockney’s line of sight. The apprehension the sub felt was nearly unbearable and although it could only have been a few seconds it felt like minutes had passed before Kitaj spoke.

"Hockney, earlier today you seemed to think it amusing to suck some boy’s cock without my permission." This was clearly a statement, not a question, so Hockney kept his mouth shut. "I think it is fair that you shall drop your trousers for your caning"

Before Hockney had time to refuse to comply, Kitaj pinned the sub to the desk with one hand. Hockney felt Kitaj’s body against his own and a strange sense of arousal came over him as he once again took in his master’s feminine scent. Hockney was thinking he shouldn't be turned on by this, a master who has dressed himself up in a frock, plastered make-up over his face and drenched himself in cheap perfume. It was a new low in Hockney’s sexual fetishism.

Kitaj practically assaulted Hockney. The sub felt one hand undoing his belt, removing it and then Kitaj used a length of rope to tie Hockney’s hands to a hook on the other side of the desk, stretching him across the wood and pressing his cock against it. Hockney clenched his legs together determined that Kitaj would not remove his trousers, but Kitaj’s strength was astounding, probably the result of all the weight training he’d been doing. Hockney’s overpants were at his ankles, and Kitaj ordered him to step out of them, his smalls did little to preserve his dignity. Hockney snapped his legs back together, determined that Kitaj wouldn't see through to his cock, which was, much to his great pleasure, rock hard. The reason Hockney had a stiffy was because he was completely vulnerable. He clenched his butt cheeks tight together in anticipation of the cane.

"Boy, I am going to give you eight strokes for your cock sucking antics. You are to count them and if you miss one I will start again. If you try to avoid your punishment by squirming, I will start again. Don't give me a reason to make this worse boy."

Hockney heard the cane before he felt it. A swoosh through the air then a thwack as it landed on his clenched buttocks. The pain took a few seconds to register in his brain, being felt as a tingle before it became a sting, and by the time the sub fully appreciated this agony it was every bit as bad as he was expecting. Hockney clenched his gluteus muscles to help him control himself and stay still. "One, sir," then "two sir," almost immediately after.

Hockney wasn’t ready for the second stroke, he tensed up just as the cane hit, and Kitaj saw that all of Hockney’s gluts had contracted. As both Hockney and Kitaj knew the gluteal muscles are a group of four muscles. Three of these muscles make up the buttocks: the gluteus maximus muscle, gluteus medius muscle and gluteus minimus muscle. The fourth and smallest of the muscles is the tensor fasciae latae muscle, which is located anterior and lateral to the rest. Without Hockney even thinking about it all of his gluts had tensed. Indeed even Hockney’s hamstrings had contracted.

"Hockney, why are you clenching your buttocks like that? Does the caning hurt too much or are you daydreaming that you are performing squats with a heavy barbell across your shoulders?"

The sub wasn't fooled by the mock sympathy in Kitaj’s voice and didn’t answer.

"Do you know, boy, what they did to naughty boys who clenched their buttocks during a canning in the ancient world?"

"No sir."

"Let us have a little history lesson then…"

Hockney felt Kitaj getting up close and personal with him, and then pulling down his skidmarked knickers. Hockney tried to struggle against Kitaj but it was useless, the top already knew Hockney didn’t have the best hygiene habits in the world, and was often reduced to boiling his shit and piss stained underpants in a pan to get them clean. When he did this, Hockney always feared a knock on the door from his landlady Mrs Longbottom. She would scream at him and yell that she ran a Christian house in which no man was allowed to boil his underpants on a hot plate since the smell was an affront to the dignity of upright and moral women of all classes.

Just as he tried to hide his underpant boiling activities from Mrs Longbottom, Hockney hoped to hide the fact that he now had a raging hard on from Kitaj.  The top’s false nails scraped against Hockney’s cock as Kitaj pulled the sub’s skidmarkded underwear down. But the dom didn't mention the state of extreme sexual arousal the slave just happened to be in.

Hockney wobbled as Kitaj pulled one of his ankles towards the leg of the desk and tied them securely together – the operation was then repeated on the other side. Hockney was trussed up like a turkey at Christmas and hoping he’d end up just as well stuffed. The bottom was unable to move his arms or his legs, but he could still clench his butt cheeks together. He heard the clink of Kitaj’s high heels on the floor and the door opening, but not shutting. He was tied to a desk, naked from the waist down with the door open whilst Kitaj went out for what Hockney wrongly imagined to be a wank in the john.

Hockney had no idea how much time passed before Kitaj returned with what looked like a carved vegetable that had been shaped into a buttplug in his hand. Kitaj stood behind the sub and fondled his butt cheeks, spreading them apart.

"Relax, it will be worse if you don't."

Worse? Hockney wondered what the hell Kitaj was going to do with him. With one hand holding Hockney’s arse cheeks apart, the top slipped something cold and wet into the sub’s anus. Why was Kitaj doing that Hockney wondered? Then his bum started tingling, and the sub tried to clench his rim of dark pleasures tight to stop Kitaj pushing the unknown thing in any further. Despite Hockney’s pitiful attempt to struggle against it, the strangely carved vegetable kept going in deeper and deeper. And while this was happening the tingling had progressed into a burning.

"This Hockney is called figging, the tighter you clench, the more it hurts and burns."

"What is it sir?"

"Ginger, four inches of it, freshly cut and shaped for your naughty little bumhole…"

Hockney winced as Kitaj stepped back to retrieve his cane, The sub had no choice now but to relax because the more he tightened his gluts and pelvic core the more the ginger burned him. He wondered how much the caning would hurt? Determined to stay relaxed, Hockney awaited the third stroke of his punishment. And it came. Harder than the last two on his now bare and figged bottom.

"Ahh shit, fuck, oahh, th-three sir." Hockney had been relaxed for the stroke, but then clenched on the ginger once he felt the pain of it, getting the worst of all worlds. And yet through it all his cock was throbbing, desperate for some attention. For a moment sexual desire took over from the agony.

"That was not three, boy, we had to start again, and your appalling language has done little to help you, counting is clearly too difficult for your hormone crazed brain to handle - that's right, I have seen how hard your little dick has got from me punishing you. Let's try it again, five more strokes."

Kitaj walked around to the desk, and shoved Hockney’s filthy skidmarked drawers into the sub’s gob. The smalls were wet with piss and shit and tasted dirty in Hockney’s mouth, Before Hockney could consider using his tongue to push the underwear out of his north and south, they were taped firmly in place and he was instructed to remain silent.

The next three strokes came in quick succession, one after the other on the delicate fold between the leg and the cheek. That is to say he was being whacked on the gluteal sulcus, also known as the gluteal fold, the horizontal gluteal crease, or the fold of the buttocks. It is an area on the body of humans and great apes described by a horizontal crease formed by the inferior aspect of the buttocks and the posterior upper thigh. The gluteal sulcus is formed by the posterior horizontal skin crease of the hip joint and overlying fat, and is not formed by the lower border of gluteus maximus, which crosses the fold obliquely. It is one of the major defining features of the buttocks in both great apes and humans.

But Hockney was not giving much thought to anatomy. The sting of the cane mixed with the burn of the ginger, leaving him in a state of sexual agony. His anticipation of the next stroke forced his buttocks to clench hard around the ginger, intensifying the burning sensation and immediately making him relax in an attempt to dull the pain. Kitaj waited for that moment before he struck. This stroke came firmer than the previous three and was immediately followed by another swift blow.

As the sixth stroke came, Hockney’s body thrust forward by the three millimetres available to it. The sub’s knob, trapped between his body and the desk, rubbed pleasurably against the tough oak. Hockney let out a low moan despite the shit-smeared gag in his mouth. This cry articulated both pain and sexual arousal. Kitaj heard it and let out a disapproving chuckle. Hockney, meanwhile, thrust his cock against the desk in an attempt to gain some release from that hard and sexy surface.

As the seventh stroke smashed into Hockney’s reddened backside, it greatly added to his sense of extreme sexual arousal, and all pain was washed away by the genetic urges coursing through his core. Hockney awaited stroke eight. The sub was unable to see his master, but he felt his hand, cold against his burning bumhole, making its way towards the ginger plug. And then the pain intensified. Kitaj was fucking Hockney’s arse with the ginger, renewing the sensations that had begun to subside.

Then it finally came! The eighth and last stroke of the cane. It was, in fact, the eleventh stroke - and Hockney’s arse burnt and stung like it had been attacked by a swarm of angry bees who believed their queen to be imprisoned in the sub’s guts. The bottom’s cock was hard and pressed against the art school desk.

Then Kitaj spoke. "Well done, boy. You dealt with that well in the end. Was it really worth making all that fuss over?"

Hockney tried to speak, but through the shitty gag his words came out as an incomprehensible murmur. He wasn't going to argue. His love muscle was too hard and his bulk ached for release too much for him to do anything. He simply found himself grateful for the restraints. They kept him from falling to the floor.

"However, I am disappointed at this." As he spoke Kitaj reached underneath Hockney and cruelly prodded his throbbing member. "It seems I have done little to teach you in the long term about the consequences of unauthorised cock sucking. It seems that no matter what I do you are only able to think with your dick..."

After the figging Hockney was convinced that thinking with his dick wasn’t such a bad idea – since it opened up so many orgasmic possibilities. He even made a student painting on the theme entitled "Be A Man, Think With Your Dick" but unfortunately it has been lost to posterity.

Wednesday, 2 April 2014

DAVID HOCKNEY'S ART SCHOOL DAZE Part 21

DAVID HOCKNEY TRANSFORMED INTO A YUMMY MUMMY BY THAT MASTER OF THE BULLWHIP R. B. KITAJ!

"Are you engaged tonight, Hockney?" Kitaj demanded of his slave through a glory hole in one of the Republican College of Art’s male toilets. Hockney answered in the negative.

"Come to me then" Kitaj went on. "I’ve got something new for you to try and I don’t think we’d get away with doing it in one of the studios here. Although it would be very funny to see what was made of it should someone walk in."

What Hockney experienced that night was complete darkness and silence... there was virtually no stimulation for his senses. His entire world was blacked out, he couldn't see, hear, feel, or smell anything. But stranger than that his heart rate was slow, and he was at peace. The sub totally trusted Kitaj. Hockney knew Kitaj would not allow any real harm to come to him, just the pleasure of pain that hurt but wouldn’t kill him. That night after a hard day’s painting at the RCA was their first attempt at total sensory deprivation and it proved to be a groove sensation! The trust between the two art students was total. The dom knew his slave would tell him if he felt too much pain and the sub was secure in the knowledge that if he but said the safety word ‘merkin’ he would be released with no second thoughts or hesitation. If, on the other hand, Hockney merely muttered ‘pubic wigs in England are thought to date from the middle of the fifteenth-century’ then Kitaj would know things were getting a bit intense for the sub and if the bottom was lucky might ease up a bit!

Hockney lay covered from head to toe in gauze; his hands were encased in thin gloves, both his arms had been individually bound before being swaddled again to his body. Kitaj had been very careful not to cut off any circulation by binding the sub too tightly. Before he mummified the slave’s face the dom had dropped a light kiss on his lips and told the masochist how proud he was of him, and how humbled to be trusted so much. Kitaj had gently wiped the tears from Hockney’s eyes and covered them with cotton patches before wrapping the postgraduate art student’s head with bandages. Hockney found this strange at first, but he had gradually settled into that special place in his mind where Kitaj taught him to go to when he thought he could handle no more. The sadist was right; Hockney could take a lot more pain than he had ever dreamt of accepting in the dominance and submission game.

Hockney felt totally safe and secure, knowing he was just as much wrapped in Kitaj’s hatred and alienation as the gauze.

The young masochists felt a faint touch to his arm, or at least thought he did, and he found himself straining to meet it. His skin was devoid of sensation so he figured that it was just a phantom caress. Hockney had no idea how long he’d been lying still wrapped in the gauze. It could have been only moments or it might have been hours. Suddenly he felt the scissors cutting a layer of gauze from his lips. Hockney had been able to breath perfectly well, Kitaj had made sure that the bandage was thin there. Feeling a light puff of wind on his lips raised goose bumps on Hockney’s skin. Picasso, Duchamp and Malevich! Hockney had no idea his lips were so sensitive! Something brushed across them and they tingled in response. Hockney pursed his lips. When he stuck his tongue out to lick them, it was gently tapped with a rock hard cock and he knew not to do that again.

Hockney desperately wanted to suck the dick but it was whipped away from him. Instead he soon felt Kitaj’s lips on his own chops and the dom’s tongue sliding across his mouth gave him a raging hard on! It felt wonderful! He wanted to clench his hands because the feeling was so intense, but the sub couldn’t as they were so tightly bound. More time went by and Hockney’s lips were the only part of the sub that Kitaj was stimulating.

The next thing Hockney knew – and he had no idea if this was hours or seconds later - was that Kitaj was deploying a pair of scissors to cut around the gauze covering his nipples. Hockney’s spine arched up when what felt like a feather brushed across his teats. A low moan escaped from his throat as a sexual induced release of endophins flooded his body. Kitaj’s finger brushed across Hockney’s lips as the dom’s tongue rubbed his nips. The sub knew he was soaking the gauze around his crotch. What he didn’t know was whether he was shooting a load of liquid DNA or pissing himself! There was so much fluid it was hard to believe it was all cum! Hockney knew he wasn’t in any serious trouble when Kitaj made some comment about nappies. It was urine for sure!

"K. K. Kitaj!" Hockney gasped. There was a pause and then Hockney said his master's name correctly: "R. B. Kitaj!" The dom paused for a moment before tapping the slave’s mouth twice. That was their signal; if Hockney wanted Kitaj to release him now all he had to do was say the safety word ‘merkin’. Hockney didn’t even give the signal to ease up: "pubic wigs in England are thought to date from the middle of the fifteenth-century.’ He closed his mouth and the dom knew he could proceed.

For the longest time (or so it seemed to Hockney) the only feeling he had was of something lightly brushing across his nipples. His entire body trembled with desire. He hadn't known that being swaddled like an Egyptian mummy in more bandages than you’d find in a military first aid kit could be so erotic! A jolt that felt like an electric shock shot through Hockney when nipple clamps were placed on him. The pleasure factor went up ten fold when Kitaj lightly pulled on them. The small moans and cries coming from Hockney’s throat pleased the dom. As suddenly as the erotic assault began, it stopped and Hockney was once again left to his lonely thoughts. No matter how hard he tried, the swaddled adult baby mummy couldn't get his body to stop shaking. He knew better than to orgasm without Kitaj’s consent but he might have done had he not held back. Before trying it Hockney wouldn't have guessed in a hundred billion years that the sensory deprivation kick was so intense!

Some time later the sub felt the scissors slicing up between his legs. Once freed, his lower limbs were then spread apart and tied down. Then the scissors went back to cutting, baring his cock to the cool air. The instant that his slick dick was bared, Kitaj bent over and ran his tongue along it, licking the sub’s length with two short light strokes. As Hockney screamed a pleased smile lit up the dom’s face. He stepped back and admired the slave’s body. Hockney couldn't see Kitaj and as long as the dom moved slowly and soundlessly the mummified perv didn't know where his master was or what he was doing. Hockney was beautiful, his big pink nipples bare to Kitaj’s eyes, the boy’s mouth open and gasping with pleasure, and his cock all flush and erect. It was a dick that was begging to be sucked or wanked off. Kitaj’s heart was full to bursting. He knew what it had taken to get Hockney to this point. He was proud and humbled that the sub had let him lead him in the exploration of the limits of their sexual boundaries.

With gentle hands Kitaj picked up the thinly woven silver chain that was connected to the nipple clamps and dangled a cock ring over Hockney’s throbbing manhood. The master knew that it was cold; he had wrapped it in an icy cloth for an hour before their ceremony. With each pass of the cock ring Hockney’s body jerked in response. When Kitaj judged Hockney could take no more, he attached the cock ring to his slave’s thrumming length. He stepped back and watched the pork sword swell even more and turn a light shade of purple. Kitaj knew Hockney was now so excited that all he had to do was touch his patriarchal staff and it would make the slave cum.

Kitaj amused himself for hours teasing and gently torturing Hockney as he lay bound and helpless. He knew the sub was fighting off his orgasm with all that he had; his body was one quivering mass of nerves beneath the sadist's magic touch. A mere flick of the lash to the slave’s nipples was enough to make him cry out more in pleasure than in pain. Next Kitaj pulled a ten-foot bullwhip from under the bed. After several practice lashes with it, he turned his attention back on Hockney. He knew that if he wasn’t careful he’d end up cutting into the sub instead of just the gauze.

Kitaj carefully flicked the whip over Hockney’s body, cutting the bandages at the sub’s shoulder down to the skin. At the touch of the whip the slave jerked and then froze. Hockney felt like jumping up and doing dances that had yet to be invented – like the frug, the twist, the boogaloo, the Boston monkey and even the uncle willie (which in the mid-1960s would briefly be all the rage on Chicago’s southside, inspiring such classic tunes as The Daylighter’s Oh Mom Teach Me How To Uncle Willie). Hockney knew that the time had come and that he was not to move. The subtle kiss of the whip across the gauze made his nerves jump like a nymphomaniac with a go go dancing gig. Kitaj moved his whip all over Hockney's body until the sub lay bare to his touch, all that is apart from the slave’s face, hands and feet. The master coiled his whip and picked up his favourite flogger. Kitaj lightly whacked it across Hockney’s exposed skin. He knew that the sub’s shell was sensitive and that if he lashed him hard it would cause immense pain.

Kitaj played Hockney’s body like a fine tuned instrument, like a 1960s Fender Precision bass to be exact, bringing him to the brink of orgasm only to pull back over and over and over again, until the sub simply lay there and cried. These tears brought tears to Kitaj’s own eyes and the dom decided he’d had enough. He used a pair of scissors and cut the bandages hiding Hockney's face. Next he removed the cotton pads from Hockney’s eyes and the plugs from his ears. The slave blinked several times, adjusting to the low light before staring up at the dom in wonder. Kitaj was kneeling between Hockney’s legs and once the sub met the sadist's gaze, the dom licked his slave's cock before raising his head briefly and announcing:  "Cum for art young David Hockney! Cum for Francis Picabia, Wassily Kandinsky and Piet Mondrian. Cum for Giacomo Balla, Umberto Boccioni, Carlo CarrĂ  and Gino Severini! Cum for Giorgio de Chirico, Marc Chagall, Jean Arp, Max Ernst and Kurt Schwitters!"

Kitaj then got his mouth around Hockney’s pork sword and sucked it deep into his throat. The force of Hockney’s orgasm was Kitaj’s undoing. The love muscle expanded so greatly and so much liquid spurted from it, that the sadist’s breath caught in his throat. Hockney sobbed when he came; the pleasure was so hard and intense that he couldn't speak at all. Once he’d got over his coughs and splutters and caught his breath, Kitaj held Hockney tightly in his arms, their bodies pulsating with their shared pleasure. Now it was Hockney’s turn to wank Kitaj off. The sadist’s orgasm giving Hockney a fresh erection. Kitaj told the sub he was exhausted but gave his slave permission to jerk off.

After Hockney came a second time, neither of them could speak a word. Kitaj lay back against Hockney, "Tonight you gave me the greatest gift a submissive could ever give their master, your total trust and your heart. You have mine as well, my own dear Hockney."

Tuesday, 18 March 2014

DAVID HOCKNEY'S ART SCHOOL DAZE Part 19

LEFT HELPLESS IN A HOGTIE AND THEN FORCED TO VOMIT!

There are moments in the life of the most self-contained and sober of us all, when we fairly bubble over, like a full bottle of champagne with the cork out; and this was one of them for our Hockney who however, be it remarked, was neither self-contained nor sober by nature. He really hardly knew what to do to give vent to his lightness of heart; and Kitaj, though self-contained and sober enough in general, was on this occasion almost as bad as his friend. They rattled on, talked out the thing which came uppermost, whatever the subject might chance to be; but whether grave or gay, it always ended after a minute or two in jokes not always good, and chaff, and laughter.

The spirits of the two friends seemed inexhaustible. They ate a shit load of food and lasted out the bottle of sherry which Hockney had uncorked, and the remains of a bottle of port. Then they went out and wandered the streets, eventually falling asleep on some park benches. They were woken by a couple of drunk women who introduced themselves as Tara and Chloe and who said they were looking for some fun. Kitaj invited them back to his place and they readily agreed. Hockney wasn’t much interested in the two girls, but Kitaj was desperate for some bicycle action. Once they got to Kitaj’s and uncorked a bottle of wine, the conversation quickly became fast and loose and soon got onto the subject of the puke fetish.

"So what don't you like about vomiting," Kitaj asked.

The three guests were sitting in one of Kitaj rooms. Their chairs were arranged in a circle and they were all looking at each other.

Hockney went first, "Well, I don't like the feeling. Feeling all that food in your stomach trying to come out."

"No one likes feeling sick," Kitaj said. "But why are you afraid of being sick?"

"Well," Hockney shrugged. "I just get so embarrassed. It's so disgusting, losing control like that... people seeing what you ate earlier... It's just so embarrassing."

Tara and Chloe nodded along.

"Have you ever made yourself throw up on purpose?" Kitaj asked.

"No, of course not," Tara chimed in, and Hockney mumbled in agreement.

"That's a classic sign of vomit phobia," Kitaj said. "Hockney, why don't you tell us about the last time you threw up?"

"Oh... I can't. I don't even want to talk about it." The sub said, shifting in his chair. He looked down at the floor. "It was last year... I got food poisoning from some shrimp. I was out shopping with some friends when I started feeling it, so of course I left quickly. I knew I had to get home if I was going to get sick. I was walking so fast, but I felt so awful... it started trying to come up while I was still walking, when I’d almost got home. I was gagging a little bit and burping... I kept swallowing it down, until I finally got to my front door. I ran inside and slammed the door, and tried to make it to the bathroom, but I couldn't... I just had to get it out of my stomach, there was nothing I could do. So I..."

"Come on Hockney. You have to say it if you want to get over your fear." Kitaj said.

"I ran inside, closed the door and... vomited all over the floor." Hockney said, lowering his face in shame. "It was so humiliating even though no one saw... I got the first wave up - the shrimp that made me sick. But it just kept coming. I couldn't stop until everything inside my stomach was splattered on the lino."

"Why did you hate it so much?" Kitaj asked.

"Because I was ashamed that I had done something so disgusting." Hockney said bitterly.

"How about a little bondage?" Kitaj suggested.

"Ooh," Hockney said, grinning happily at the change of subject. "Let’s do it."

"Take your clothes off and lay on your stomach on the bed," Kitaj instructed. Hockney complied, and Kitaj guided the student’s arms behind his back, and bound his wrists to his ankles, so he was hogtied.

"What do you have in store for me now?" Hockney asked, expecting the usual beating and handjob. But he was in for a huge shock.

"Listen Hockney," Kitaj said seriously. "I think tonight would be a good night for you to try to cope with your phobia."

"What? What do you mean?"

"The best way to overcome a fear, is to face it. You need to face your fear of vomiting."

"But I don't need to vomit. I don't feel sick at all." The student replied.

"You can't just wait until the next time you feel sick and try to be less afraid whenever that happens. That's not facing a fear. You need to accept that this terrifying thing is going to happen to you right now, and cope with it. I knew you would never do it on your own, so I'm going to help you. I'm going to put my fingers down your throat and make you vomit several times, and you will see that nothing bad happens. It's not the end of the world."

Hockney looked panicked. "No! Please don't. You can't!"

"Yes, Hockney. This will help you."

“And it will be fun and educational for us to watch too!” Tara and Chloe chimed in.

"Please! Any other night! Not tonight. I ate so much at dinner... Please don't. It's going to be disgusting. I can't let you see me do this! Please. I can't do something so disgusting."

Kitaj chided Hockney, "This is why you have this phobia - you are terrified of doing something so disgusting, and you spend your whole life trying to control it and make sure it doesn't happen. But tonight, you can't control it. I picked tonight on purpose; I know you ate a lot at dinner. I picked a time when you would be most afraid of throwing up, because you'll be stronger when you get through it."

"Please!" The student begged, tears running out of his eyes. "It's too disgusting... the food wont be digested..."

"I know, Hockney. I'm going to force you to do something disgusting. You're going to make disgusting faces, and noises... and worst of all, that food sitting in your stomach is going to come up out of your mouth. I put you in the middle of the bed because I want you to vomit all over the quilt and see how much was inside you. Normally, you are a beautiful, refined boy, but tonight you are going to get really sick and make a disgusting mess. But when it's done, you'll see that you're okay."

Hockney sobbed and clenched his mouth shut.

"I knew you would try to fight this," Kitaj said. "It is to be expected of someone with your phobia."

“C’mon Hockney, puke for kicks!” Tara and Chloe chanted.

Kitaj gently forced the sub’s jaw open, and pushed two fingers into his mouth. Hockney tried to struggle, but with his arms and legs bound behind him, it wasn't much use. Kitaj began thrusting his fingers into the slave’s throat.

"Relax and get ready," Kitaj instructed. "This is going to make you throw up. Just accept what your body does."

Hockney coughed and sputtered.

"Good boy," Kitaj said. "Your throat is trying to get my fingers out. Soon your body will try to clear your throat by vomiting. It may take a while though. It's always hard to get started at first."

Kitaj patiently thrust his fingers deeper into the bound boy's moist throat as tears streamed down his face. Hockney’s slick muscles contracted every time Kitaj’s fingers pushed deeper into his throat.

"Are you feeling nauseous yet?" Kitaj asked, and paused briefly for Hockney to answer.

"Please stop!" The submarine begged.

"No, Hockney. You know I'm not going to stop until your stomach is empty. Just try to calm down and answer the question."

Hockney whimpered, and said quietly. "Yes, I'm getting very nauseous."

"That's good," Kitaj said. He put his fingers back down Hockney's throat, and this time the bottom coughed and gave in to a violent gag. Inspired by his progress, Kitaj forced his fingers deeper, in and out, making the boy convulse, gag, and dry heave. He slid his digits in once more, forcing the sub to gag and belch loudly.

"See?" Kitaj said. "Look how disgusting I can make you be. I stuck my fingers down your throat, and you tried to burp them out. I wonder what other sick things you'll do while you try to empty your stomach?"

You’re ugly, pug ugly!” Tara and Chloe sang in unison.

Once again Kitaj forced his pinkies down the bottom’s throat and Hockney involuntarily extended his tongue and belched loudly, "URRRRRRRRRRRRP." Then he heaved and retched. Hockney could feel the contents of his stomach being pushed up into his throat.

"Pay attention to your body," Kitaj said. "Can you feel your stomach expelling your food? You're about to start vomiting. I want you to feel the whole experience and enjoy it the way Tara, Chloe and I will enjoy it."

Hockney sputtered again, and Kitaj knew one more plunge would be more than the submarine could take. "Ready?" He asked. "Here it comes..."

The top stuck his pinkies deep down into the slave’s mouth, blocking his airway. For a moment the bottom was frozen, his open mouth stretched around Kitaj’s hand, the art student’s terrified eyes staring at his dominator. Then Hockney clenched his pelvic floor muscles, and his transverse abdominis, and his six pack muscles, so that his stomach forced up the liquid inside. The bottom gagged repeatedly, "REPPP... REPPPPP... REEEEPPPP... REEEUUUUUUUUURRRRP" And finally the last gag was taken over by a gassy gurgling as he expelled up the first wave of vomit.

As he spat it out, Hockney cried uncontrollably, and tried to speak, still begging Kitaj to stop. There was a sense of burning humiliation, since the top had forced Hockney’s stomach to do something so vile... it was too much. Hockney was not in control of his body anymore; Kitaj was. And the top could make Hockney regurgitate all the things he had swallowed that night. Other than cocks of course, since they’d only gone into his throat and come out again. All Kitaj had to do was put his fingers down Hockney’s throat, and he could force out everything that was inside his slave's stomach.

"STOPPPPP!" The masochistic art student sobbed.

"But Hockney, you're doing so well," Kitaj said, wiping a bit of vomit off the boy's parted lips. He gagged the sub again, and Hockney tried to resist.

"Please! STOOO-URRRRRRRUGHHHHH." The submarine couldn't even finish speaking. All that came out of his mouth was an enormous heave of barf that flowed down his chin and onto the bed.

Hockney gasped, and Kitaj rammed his fingers back in. "BLERRRRRRRRRUGHHHHHHH." The next heave was impressive; the bottom kept his lips open and let the vomit gush out of him.

"Doesn't it feel good?" Kitaj asked, gently teasing Hockney’s throat with his fingers. "Pay attention to your throat closing around my fingers... and how you gag and retch... pay attention to how your stomach muscles tighten... Face your fear!”

“You’re so gross! You’re so ugly!” Tara and Chloe trilled.

When Kitaj gagged Hockney again, the submarine chocked and belched and then gasped. The top speared his digits through Hockney’s gob and into the boy's wind pipe yet again, and once more the masochist retched without bringing anything up.



"Come on, Hockney," Kitaj said, pushing his digits into the back of the bottom’s throat. "I know you've got more than air in there. Puke it all out..."

Hockney gagged and coughed again as Tara and Chloe screamed: “If you don’t put on a decent show for us we’re gonna be sick on you!”

"Alright, it looks like you need more help," Kitaj announced. He untied Hockney’s legs so that the submarine could lie back comfortably, but the master kept the slave’s hands tied behind his back. He climbed up behind the bottom, and slid a hand under the masochist and pressed it against his bulging belly, still packed with all the food he'd eaten earlier.

"See how much is still in there!" Kitaj observed, applying gentle pressure to Hockney’s full gut. "I know you have more for me. We're going to get it all out. Open your mouth."

Defeated, Hockney weakly opened his gob. Kitaj stuck his thick masculine digits back down into the submarine’s wind pipe, and Hockney heaved. As he brought up a wave of vomit, Kitaj pressed his other hand into the boy's belly, and it forced the masochistic post-graduate art student to vomit up even more. He was literally pushing the puke out of Hockney’s stomach.

"Good boy," Kitaj said, clasping Hockney’s belly. "That made you puke a lot didn't it? Do you like it when I force your vomit to come out?"

Hockney sniffled, and didn't say anything. He was too exhausted to fight.

"Look how disgusting you are," Kitaj said. "Look at all that puke, all over the bed. And you're not even done. You're going to make even more of a mess."

“Make a spectacle of yourself, entertain us with your filthy ugliness!” Tara and Chloe demanded.

Hockney obediently opened his mouth, and let Kitaj gag him once more. The masochist sniffled as he let out the most vulgar gagging noises, "ERRRRUP ERRRRRUP ERRRRRUP." It was so painful, that in his humiliation Hockney was actually trying to make himself vomit as well - pushing with his stomach muscles, engaging the pelvic floor from front and back as well as the transverse abdominis and six pack, trying to force out the contents of his gut, effluent that so desperately wanted to escape its belly prison. Finally Hockeny brought up a decent sized gush by pushing out a hearty belch.

“Gross!” Tara and Chloe shouted together.

"Ugh," Kitaj said. "Disgusting. Look how sick I made you. You don't even care what you look like anymore - belching on purpose to try to get your puke out... Let's make you really disgusting; push out another loud one!"

At the next gag, Hockney burped loudly and up came another thick heave of puke, all over the bed.

"Perfect. You're not even ashamed anymore, are you?" Kitaj teased.

"I am," Hockney said quietly. "But I've already done everything embarrassing that I can... so what's the point of resisting..."

Kitaj rested his hand on the submarine’s belly and said, "Okay, I'm going to make you vomit up a lot this time by pressing on your stomach. Are you ready?"

Hockney complied, and Kitaj stuck his digits down the masochists throat, and the submarine barfed up a thick gush. When Hockney was almost done, Kitaj gave him a firm push on the belly. Another gush flowed out of the bottom’s mouth. Then, with a second firm push, Kitaj forced the RCA MA Fine Art student to vomit up yet another tidal wave of puke, all without even taking a breath - three continuous projectile vomits.

"Good boy. Puke up as much as you can. You might almost be done." Kitaj cooed.

"Good..." Hockney said weakly. "I can't take much more of this."

Kitaj knelt over Hockney's back, straddling him with one leg on either side, forcing the submarine down into the mattress. He inserted his fingers into Hockney’s mouth, and the masochist began retching, "ACK...ACK... ACK...ACK..."

“I’m a bug!” Tara and Chloe screamed, then the two of them fell about laughing.

As Hockney struggled and gagged, Kitaj began speaking. "For the last part of the exercise, I want you to completely lose control. I'm going to hold you down and force you to keep vomiting without stopping, until your stomach is empty. Understand?"

Hockney tensed, and, "BLERRRRRRRRRRUGHHHHHHH..." spewed out an enormous stream of vomit. Kitaj kept his fingers lodged in the submarine's throat.

"Good boy. Oh fuck yeah. Keep puking. Spread that vomit all over the bed..."

Hockney struggled for air, and when he couldn't get any down into his lungs, he just kept barfing instead. "ERRRUP... BLERRRRRRRRUGHHHHHHHHHH....... BLERRRRUGHHHH." The sub heaved with his front and back pelvic floor muscles and his transverse abdominis and his six pack, trying to force out as much puke as he could. Wave after wave of stinking vomit...

"Nice... you're fucking disgusting. Look at you, barfing as hard as you can. You're not embarrassed anymore are you?"

“He’s a shameless hussie!” Tara and Chloe giggled.

Still struggling for air, Hockney clenched again, and braced himself against another geyser of vomit. He choked, aswallowed air, and struggled to burp it back up "...URRRRRRRP." The belch did the trick and was followed by a forceful, "HERRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPP" as the submarine violently heaved up everything remaining in his stomach. Hockney knew he was empty, but Kitaj made sure by keeping his fingers in place, and indulged himself with his enjoyment of his slave's pain. "HERRRRRRUUP HERRRRUUUPPP," were the sounds the young art student emitted as this rubber slave dry heaved uncontrollably.

Hockney gasped for breath, his face beet red. The bottom looked at the swamp of vomit in front of him, ashamed, but not as ashamed as he thought he would be.

"You see?" Kitaj said. "You’ve lost all your shame, and you're completely fine. You threw up more than I've ever seen anyone retch before... It’s a rare sight to see someone as beautiful as you, tied up, letting vomit gush out of their mouth."

Hockney looked completely stunned. Like he didn't know what to think. Like once he left, maybe this horrible incident could just be erased from his mind. But it couldn’t be erased because Tara and Chloe had been there to witness it. That was why Kitaj had invited them back, and he proceeded to further humiliate Hockney by indulging in a threesome with them in the pool of vomit the bottom had thrown up!