#stevenorr

[theshamelesspersonabouquet]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Perapart Praisuwanna (@pronicegolfstudio)

Relationship between HAND and CLUB | Impact fix (scoop) | exaggerate hand in front of the club longer #StevenOrr #TrainingDrill https://www.instagram.com/p/BqRUmahFPKl/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=wq3o6m5qxd95

[saintorr]

A Compass to the Heart

https://divadiba.wordpress.com/tag/david-blair/

[saintorr]

Imperator: Warhammer 40K Scoring Demo by Erik-Peter Mortensen

Yet another incredibly talented musical work from my engineer Erik-Peter Mortensen. I am so grateful to be working with this mentor and music genius!

[saintorr]

Letter to Tori Amos

1-19-21 Tori Amos c/o Girlie Action Media 243 W 30th St, New York, NY 10001 Kindly forward to Tori Amos, thank you in advance : ). DEAR MS. AMOS, I hope this letter finds you and your family well, healthy and happy. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Steven Orr (artist name “Saintorr”).

For many years I have never considered myself to be a fan of anyone, excepting myself! Back in my teenage years, I was deeply entranced, hypnotized, addicted to and inspired by Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, Chuck Mangione (at certain times) and I wept when Janis died (so you see I’ve got some years on me LOL!). Then the Disco years came and I discovered dancing LOL! However I am writing this letter to you to tell you how deeply you have touched me with your “Reindeer King” song. Even now I can easily come to tears with the audio memory of the track playing in my head. Oh, the depths of musical beauty, prosody and wisdom in that song! Thank you for this tremendously powerful gift of music. So there it is, I have become a forever fan of you! That is the gist of this whole letter. If you would like to read on, please do!

I am a bodyworker, M4M masseur, songwriter/musician and published writer living in New York. Two nights ago I was watching the interview you did (I believe the location was NYC?) with the lovely blond lady more than a year ago just before your “Native Invader” tour. You touched me deeply, especially when you spoke of the muses and how you listened to them. The cynic in me suddenly took note! You opened my eyes to listening to MY OWN muse! I think when I was younger I listened more and currently, especially the past two years I have begun to listen again. Anyway this letter is more a tribute/missive to you, not so much about me.

The magic, grace, power and beauty of your “Reindeer King” made and continues to make a lasting impression on me. I was even thinking about doing a cover of it. What an honor it would be to have you listen! Thank you for this gorgeous song. Further, thank you for being you. An artist, creative spirit, intuitive power-magical-wizard witch—for inspiring me and reminding me all the possibilities of music! Not to mention the boundless joy you are brave enough to share with your millions of fans. Thank goodness Higher Power led me to rediscover you in all your gorgeous, talented complexities.

I am also a survivor of sexual abuse from my Mother. This is way too much info. But I wanted to share that with you, and tell you that I empathize with your experiences in that area of life experiences. Also, I too was, at one point in my life, “a singing lampshade.” In my early years of being in New York, nothing could possibly make me happier than becoming a so-called “Professional musician.” And after reaching my goal, it then took me about a decade to recover from the professional music world and re-discover my love of music. LOL! (Be careful what you wish for, eh?) Your time and experience speaks worlds of your strength in being able to keep with it. I envy that and so respect your sheer strength and force of spirit.

In the interview you mentioned you do read letters from fans. I hope you read this. I hope you realize the depth of your power to inspire others even on an almost mystical level. And no I’m not a stalking so don’t worry about that! I’m more a ferocious, dancing queen, trans type, a survivor and a broken warrior who is singing and loving music while I walk my way slowly toward the rainbow bridge at this golden time/point in my life.

And of course now a word from our sponsor (my “Saintorr muse”)... I co-wrote a gorgeous song called “Keeping Distance” online now.  My buddy and collaborator Fuentes de Vida is the artist on the recording. You can find the track in on my Youtube channel... https://youtu.be/mZqad3493AA

or Google my YouTube channel stevenorr54, that’s another way to find my channel but the link above will take you directly to our song. It’s a love song for those we have lost during these dark times and a monument to not being able to touch our loved ones or witness their last breath; but still being able to find peace strength and hope in the knowing that even though we cannot touch, the love goes on, infinitely, eternally... If you are interested too, excerpts from my novel “Comfort” may be found here. https://comfortbysaintorr.wordpress.com/

God bless and may you and your family, friends and loved ones be safe and secure in these “Twilight Zone” times. All the best, Steven Orr “Saintorr” NYCMASSEUR.COM

[saintorr]

Dancing Ocean Queer 12-2-20

It was a celebratory early evening as I danced and worked out by the woods, in the backyard of my second home in Marshfield, MA, the front yard, up and down the street entirely devoid of shame, propelled by the power of music and dance. Thank God I have that ability to escape the mundane. Only feeling the joy of movement; and then bike riding to the beach, coldly inviting me to take a swim--"not yet, a voice said but soon."

Later reading AARP wherein it is said that being an elder is a privilege...not sure if I agree; but what Springsteen had to say about songwriting, that songs are like dreams, was inspirational.

I'm having lots of trouble preparing music covers for my "big debut" on Spotify. And quite frankly listening to some play lists on it the other night. Meh. I wasn’t impressed. Is it just me or does the world of social media music have a real “dollar store” feel? The quality seems so lacking. Must be from everybody in the uncle rubbing each other’s backs and blowing smoke up each other’s a-holes in order to “get liked.” How dreary. 

So here at my staycation spot I'm sharing the house with a 5 year old and her gorgeous but extremely "obsessed" Mom (sexy white trash I mean WTF says “Gookfood.” Her ignorance doesn’t become her in the least and I worry about her influence on the kid).

Later, I was crying by the ocean I think because my heart was releasing a strange kind of love, memories-if you will-of when I loved women more at an earlier time in my life. And the deep sadness that I will never have a child to carry on my seed. (Hey that sadness passes real fast let me tell you! LOL). And the 5 year old helps me experience an "elixir of innocence" reminding me of feelings I felt way before the whole world of New York living, M4M massage and too much knowledge of life and love overtook me and forced me to form such a tough, outer leather-like skin. Sex is still a joyful and healthy addiction; at the same token it’s become quite, utterly meaningless.

I'm not sure if I want to post on Double list for a hook up while here or not. All the queers are in P-town and here in Marshfield the straight, DL, extremely judgmental and capricious demographic of married guys forces one to be celibate. Can we talk deep, DEEP closet? Blue-collar, working class—zzzzzz. At least in NYC a percentage of that ilk LOVE and welcome M2M play! Here, puritan masculinity and the power of the hetero rule all (barf). Oh well, I focus on the ocean...

What was my goal for this co-called vacation? Post my novel on my WordPress blog in its entirety! Work on a song or two and simply do nothing. What did I leave behind in the East Village? The stress of having a roommate who is a pothead, and barely functioning lost-soul-addict, (cute but not bi in the least, he is a victim of his own "anti-bisexual tendencies" too ignorant and afraid to "go there.)” He is also one of those rare birds who can’t seem to lose himself creatively in anything or work towards any kind of goal so he immerses himself in his job and a menial one at that. He is one of those “born to work” types. No imagination, nice but stupid. He is the goyem working for a couple of neurotic, abusive Hasidim in Borough Park. He works like a slave, allowing himself to be used and abused and then loses himself in getting stoned and drinking and pursuing “cute girls” in the neighborhood butcher shop; or courting female bartenders in the East Village. He is a little boy in a 45 year-old, man's body. Then there's the CO-VID fear and the ongoing stomp, stomp stomp of the cow upstairs. She's a good influence on the building but walks like a woolly mammoth.  Oh God I LOVE living in NYC LOL! Goals, goals, goals. Isn't it enough just to watch the birds play? I function much better when I get away and go on retreats. Doesn't everyone? I have a lot to be grateful for. Though being feral seems to be my destiny. There's a sadness in that and a tremendous freedom that I love. Nothing like meditating next to live waves, sitting in the cold sand after the dance, the seawall at my back. Years ago I would wait for a man. Now it seems, the stars and waves are enough. Yes!

[saintorr]

On being Queer Bashed, an exercise in radical acceptance. Recorded circa Nov. 10, 2010

[saintorr]

Hello all! “China Sea” a gorgeous, romantic, gentle, soothing ambient track is now available on Spotify for listening and/or to purchase...

[saintorr]

The Most Beautiful Parts

by St.Orr c. 2017

             The most beautiful parts of myself glow when I have compassion for myself, for my pain, my joy and solitude; for the craters, bags and wrinkles that attach themselves to my face and body as I age. Along with these come the tears, smiles and feelings (stuffed and unstuffed) that constitute this lovely, divinely starborn (and sometimes stillborn) psycho-bionic being and oh so grounded human entity called myself. There are broken dreams and anger, the shadows of dark and the shadows of gold; both the ashes and the infinite parts of the pieces of the puzzle that make up the me, a man who thought he was a little girl, who then accepted the man he grew into, wrapped in all of the scars of that cocoon woven into a fleece of many colors, of many shadows, and seasons that make up a life.

            I can see the grace and beauty of those larger than life stars as they sit at their tables at the great awards shows, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, etc. I sit at home and watch and wonder at their flow, their luminosity, their electric energy broadcast through all the wireless waves and satellites and piped into my monitor; I feed on them, consume them and think to myself because I can see their beauty, their grace, that I have it too!  Because I can feel them glistening with unimaginable gentleness, grace, beauty and power, then I too must have those things in me. Or maybe some essence? Well, doesn’t every human being?

            When these luminous ones come together to make their art, they overshadow all the neurotic news of bombastic tyrants and terrorist statistics; they shine through the fear, bloodletting, violence and hatred of the current world, circa winter, 2017. But they shine their fake smiles on all the dreamers and poets who still scrawl, write, and scrounge through the bottom layers of silt seeking a chance at the glamour and the gold of this crap game called show business where beauty is elevated to an art form that can inspire and lift. Their beauty too can be a trap—for it is the A-list, in-crowd that the agents and managers feed on and fight over, the stars we worship and adore. For, let's face no one wants or cares to hear about the losers whose dreaming destroyed them.

            The only famous person I ever massaged was Clive Davis. Other writers have warned me never NEVER to use real names when I record my memoirs but here I go. My purpose is not to gossip or slander but simple illustrate how the high roads and pinnacles of great success can sometimes meet the everyday world of the common man and produce a strange concoction all its own. I was called to Davis’ black marble penthouse tower on Park Avenue late one Sunday evening. He was an elderly man, he owned his own massage table and after a very anti-climactic session he paid me partially in nickels and dimes. While I stood there, in his kitchen, receiving the coins in open palms, his sick, dying Cocker Spaniel had the audacity to throw-up on my shoe. I don’t think there were any pennies. Clive inspired me to write a song called “Park Avenue” which I later produced, recorded and played for him when he called me for a second massage. He didn’t seem impressed when he heard it. “Meh, it's not a killer” he said, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips. So much for inspiration.

            There was one client who actually did pay me partially in pennies; a forgettable outcall in the West Village truly more deserving of the demeaning label of trick than that of massage client. Besides the backbreaking massage, this arrogant, cold-blooded white snake of a humanoid also demanded that I piss on him in his bathtub. I still recall the hideous, garish Kelly green and shiny silver wallpaper of that awful bathroom; and the urge to throw the carefully counted pennies that he doled out right back in his face as he paid me off, both of us standing by the door. God I so wish I had flung those pennies right back into his satiated, smirking face. This was after I rubbed him and worked him up to a sensual release as the bedside photo of his lover standing on some pristine Hamptons beach replete with foaming waves and pant legs rolled up in the sand looked on, a boyish smile sweetly singing into the camera.

            The little boy in me has followed the man to the places where touch replaced sanity as the ultimate actor's “Survival Job” and the worship of the ecstasy of the orgasm was all, was enough, was better, truer and more real than any other form of working in the mundane “real world” could ever be.

            Now, I am emerging from that cocoon. Emerging from all my years that are spread out like a long, murky dark night of the soul. Older, wiser, a bit slower and a bit less generous with my body and hands to the hungry, horny minions of men; for what choice does one have when the downtime waves come lasting for a week, two weeks, or two months? In years past, when I was younger, the downtime could be measured in hours or days, there was always an endless supply of male (and sometimes female) clients in and out and up and down the one flight of stairs leading to my one-bedroom East Village flat. Then I recall all the hours spent in spas, the Plaza, the Waldorf, the crème de la crème of the best hotels and spas in the city; those passive aggressive, peach and crème-colored torture chambers with their silken linen smells and serenely smiling blond aestheticians working the front desk, making bookings, taking payments, listening to the complaints of the rich and not-so-famous. How many times was I initiated into the true meaning of the embalmed slave-state of the so-called service industry mentality? The place where New age serenity smiles are glued in place like impenetrable plastic masks. Oh the ache of the pressure of hands on bodies, hour after hour, giving until there’s nothing left to give; to have to smile, to have to fight attitudinal managers over incorrect paychecks, explain yourself like a criminal when some cunt complains about something you did or didn’t do (“too much peppermint oil on my thigh, it started to burn!” "So sorry to rock your bliss lady, but the cap was loose and came off in my hand!” or “During the massage, his fingers felt much too close to my inner thigh;" or "he stole my Rolex watch”). Oh what joy to be jumping like a trained circus dog when the cruel but handsome, Latin bisexual manager snapped his fingers “Room 4-Go!” at the West Village “Nickel-Spa for men.” That was the summer of the blackout I remember. There, in a tiny massage room, in the dark, a client lay prone, waiting. And there, light from outside glowed through a slit in the door like some view into a World War II NAZI gas chamber that "Hector” would peep through to check up on you, his eyes searching and accusing, making sure you weren’t doing anything naughty! In the darkened room while you massaged, sometimes you fantasized about lunch, the end of the shift, fantasizing the clock speeding up so the hour would go faster. Also, sometimes there were mysterious energy shifts and exchanges. You would begin the massage with a sore wrist, back or an upset stomach and simply through the mindful meditation of touching--of giving--your malady would disappear. Miraculous. After many a massage too, the clients would reappear looking pleasantly-sleepy, refreshed and years younger. Healing hands are so underrated. There is a lovely Zen quality to simply touching and being paid for it. It’s a pure physical, intimate work on a much higher level than office 9-5 drudgery. I’m grateful too for all the joys the sexual release work have given me through the years. Talk about “sweet labors of love.” So it almost appears strange that after all this physicality and all this time I wonder why is it that now, when I find myself servicing a client’s sexual needs that an intense nausea rises in my gut and I’m forced to fight the almost overwhelming urge to vomit? Interesting that after what?--some thirty years of doing massage (I started in 1990) that this very ethereal thing called self-integrity that I thought I’d lost or abandoned years ago, (my lost soul perhaps?) has come back to own me with a vengeance. Or maybe I’m owning it, my dear, sweet self-soul, after all these years. Thank you, God. I guess there’s a point where every man grows into his skin and outgrows his tired, cock-heavy adolescence. It’s as if my gut is telling me “You HATE this.” But I ignore the feelings and my urge to puke when repulsion grips me. I know the hour will soon be done and this strange “stimulation/torture/meditation” meshing and merging of energies, fluids and fantasies called M4Mmassage will help me pay yet another month of my over-priced New York rent. In my new vision of this my “third ace,”  I see myself fleeing this inflated, over-hyped, hollow, over-populated and all-too-neurotic place called New York City. Please God, soon, I pray, just the vista of the ocean and a small garden and I’ll be fine. Oh, and no more massages please, unless he’s my lover and not a client.

[saintorr]

Beware of Fat Anthony from the Bronx

https://www.nycmasseur.com/post/beware-fat-anthony-from-the-bronx

[saintorr]

Listen/purchase: Pagan Moon (Bilateral Stimulation mix) by SAINTORR

Healing music. Use headphones for an optimal listening experience.

[saintorr]

Listen/purchase: SPEAK SOFTLY LOVE by SAINTORR

[saintorr]

Just got my E.M.D.R. kit in the mail!

Can't wait to try it!

https://catalog.pesi.com/item/theratapper-41854

Had disappointing experience yesterday with a volunteering experience; however bounced back making videos of me shadow dancing to great music on roof last night...watch for the video edit. Amazing what you can do with a passion for music, your own body, a Galaxy 7 and a super bright bike light : ).

[saintorr]

The Three Roaches of Christmas

Like the Three Wise Men came to worship the baby Jesus, I had three men contact me today. But they weren't wise, and they had no gifts. Only insanity. The first was a psycho, simply stealing my time; more than 10 texts, asking aggravating questions and trying to bargain my rate down. 1-2-3-BLOCK! The two before him were lonely, vermin calling late and pretending to book but really just pretending and wasting my precious time. BLOCK. BLOCK. Before this I had a black man from New Orleans (via Rent Masseur) asking me if he could come for the weekend--the whole weekend, which doesn't even make sense. I wonder if homeless men are now trying to book? BLOCK. Then just now another black man (one Shawn from Brooklyn) booked and this clown even went so far as to send me a text that he was 5 min. away! BLOCK again. You have to love the entertainment value. Not racial profiling here, just calling a spade a spade. All this cray acting out follows the insanity of the times. Ah, M4M massage! When it works, it's heaven. When it doesn't, true horror. So that's the state of my M4M massage business, Christmas Day 2020. In the spirit of forgiveness of man's insanity toward his fellow man, I remain. Put upon yet full of compassion and still open. After all, I am a saint. Steven Orr

Saintorr NYCMASSEUR.COM

[saintorr]

Saintorr Links to writing and music

https://steveorrstory.blogspot.com/

https://comfort-complete.blogspot.com/