March 17, 2015 | Posted in Hardcore by
Performer/director Dana Vespoli's latest for Evil Angel is "Fluid 3", a ridiculously awesome exploration of the liquids that bind us to sex in all of its forms. Sovereign Syre stars here and does an intense power exchange scene with AVN Hall of Famer Steven St. Croix that features intense breath play in a full bathtub and with a running shower. Syre is a true gem in porn and I wanted to ask her what her favorite fluids in this life are. Here's what she had to say.
I love spit. I love its versatility. It can be an expression of indignation, rage, disregard or intense ardor. I remember the first time I saw old footage of Joan Jett the queen of cool, spitting on stage and giving the camera her signature “proud French housecat” underlook as she wiped her mouth. She was signaling a blatant disregard for gender roles, she was saying she was sexy, but with the swagger of a man. She wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, she was James Dean. In mythology, Apollo spit into Cassandra’s mouth to give her his supernatural wisdom and prevision because there’s something primitive in the intimacy of accepting the saliva of another person into your body with all of its enzymes and bacteria, all of its implications. Even the Greeks understood that when you bond with someone so intimately, you transcend your humanity, you become something more numinous. I could spend hours kissing my most cherished friend, and when he’s away, I find myself missing his spit the most, the sweet flavor of his kisses, that part of him that no one else can know.
It cleans everything. In it you are weightless. We are formed in water and baptized in it. It’s formless, without taste or color, it lifts us up and overwhelms us. Water has carved the Grand Canyon out of solid rock and preserved the hull of the Titanic. We can irrigate a dessert and turn a flat plain of cracked earth into an English garden. And if you drop your iPhone in the toilet, a hundred years of innovation is fucked.
My first girlfriend once told me that the only thing about sex with a man that was better than sex with a woman was when he took his dick out and came all over you. To this day I have to agree. There’s something about the warmth of come, the color of bone, glistening across your chest after you’ve just brought a man to a sexual crisis, it’s the feeling of victory made manifest. In a world where men are always coming out on top, always in control, always strong, it signifies that moment when something as simple and soft as a woman’s cunt, the warm cave of her mouth, the cool touch of her fingertips can reduce him to the ecstatic moment when his eye go wide and for a split second, he as absolutely defenseless. Whenever I pass by a blossoming pear tree in the spring and the heavy odor of sex moves through me, I smile to myself.
I remember the first time I ever saw my own blood. I was a toddler living on a faith healer’s compound in the mountains of Oregon. I had fallen in the gravel and scraped up my knee in the center of a circle of white bungalow houses that had been constructed around the small community of lost souls seeking sanctuary. I saw the bright red blood rising out of my skin and it terrified me. I started screaming and a woman came running out of one of the houses and spit into a tissue and wiped at my knee. I can still remember the stark contrast of her black fingers, the pale lunettes of her fingernails, the bright pink flush across my knee and the deep red blood that gushed out of it. When I was five my brother threw a gun at my head and cracked it open, I nearly went blind as the blood flowed down my face into my eyes. I can still see my brother’s striped shirt, covered in dark smears of blood where he tried to stem the flow, and I wasn’t scared, just mystified at what was coming out of my head. To this day I’m transfixed by the sight of my blood when it’s getting drawn, the way it winds down the butterfly tube to the vial it’s meant to fill up and the way the heat of it fogs the glass, just slightly.
I used to take a Bikram yoga class in Williamsburg Brooklyn. I was in love with an Israeli guy in the class with impossibly pale skin and a weird sigil tattooed on his bicep. The carpets in the place smelled like overripe peaches and suede but I used to love to press my face into it in the dim room and feel the rivulets of sweat flow down every crevice in my body. By the end of class the sheen on Omri’s skin made him look like he was carved out of marble. Sometimes he’d shoot a knowing look at me through the steam and funk of a dozen unwashed bodies stretching and slipping and reaching for something in time with the ceaseless narration of the tyrannical yogi posted up on the platform at the front of the room. Dripping with sweat and exhausted but charged with a kind of euphoria that only comes from putting yourself through something truly stupid, it was like we’d spent the last hour and half fucking each other. I lost ten pounds in a month trying to sweat out my desire for that well-hewn man’s body.
All of the images here appear courtesy of DV Productions/Evil Angel. Be sure to follow Syre on Twitter to keep up with her world. Here is the trailer for "Fluid 3" and some behind the scenes shots from Syre's scene that Syre sent over. Click here to go watch "Fluid 3" right now!