Sunday, December 27, 2020

Fan Letter to Tori Amos 12-26-20






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, etc. 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. 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 with the lovely blond gal 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!


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 realm of “fight or flight-survival.”


Also, I too was, at one point in my life, “a singing lampshade.” In my early years of being in New York, nothing would 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. 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.


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 my 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...


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, etc.


If you are interested too, excerpts from my novel “Comfort” may be found



God bless and may you and your loved ones and family

be safe and secure in these Twilight Zone times.





N.Y., N.Y. 12-27-20



Sunday, November 22, 2020

Ode to Sky


Ode to Sky

c. 2020 by Saintorr









Silken sun rays

Purify me

Here starts my day

Sing songs for free


In this HIGH sacral space

I rediscover me

Up on roof

Where hawk meets sea


Leave behind trolls

Natty nowhere emails

Promises sex

Devotion derails


Ode to it

Owned it

Boned on the rooftop

Sold to it, stoned it

Honed it on the rooftop


Fucking the air

In my gold shadow dance

Let go despair

Embrace romance


I come here again

To know me--the man

Feel that longing to soar

Nurture gold in my hand


I stand here

To know me

Be the man I am

Feeling burning spear rays

Melt the detours of men


I stake claims here


the man I was

to love me little boy

because and because



Ode to it

honed it

Boned it on the rooftop

Sold it, untold it

Owned it on the rooftop


A feeling soul high

Below, hungry ghost

Come sovereign of sky

Let go, let coast


Here touch me happy

Here touch me dream

In infinite air

Just passing jet steam


Writing sky ode

Releasing my load

Hip curve elevate

Enter streaming cloud mode


Sacred rays melting memes

Awakening mind

Evolving light dreams

where before was all blind


Silken sun rays

Purify me

I, King of sky

Empowering, free


Ode to it

Owned it

Boned it on the rooftop

Sold it, controlled it

Shone it on rooftop






Monday, October 26, 2020


Werebird* c. 2020 by Saintorr

*part man, part avian


Don’t call me by any human names

I’m a werebird; half man, half sparrow,

starling, dove, crow, haunted raven.

Feeding on the bliss of men

Dancing to their songs

Crying to the moon

for loves long gone

and the absence of human touch. 


Don’t call me 

by any human names,

I’m king of the sky

half man, half yellow-tailed hawk

Surveying my kingdom

from air currents on high

Master of space,

destroyer of fear, hesitation,

procrastination and stasis

For the air up here

Feels like sea foam.

Always rushing, floating, 

soothing, stroking,

like a hand-of-wind massage

on my body, my temple

Come play with me.


I’m the werebird

half man, half dolphin

half white ape, half witch.

Come talk to me

We’ll read tarot cards, 

tea leaves, yarrow stocks,

throw the iChing, 

for these are the quiet moments

to treasure, words piping in harmony

like lover’s calls and bird songs.


For I alone

can love you

I’ll weave s spell

To transform us from vultures

to eagles, canaries,

petulant parrots

older than a thousand years

Careful! I can bite through my cage

and snap off your finger tip

like a stale crust of bread.

Life has done this to me

clipped my wings,

crushed my beak,

locked me in a warehouse

with other slave birds


Of these rusted shackles

stroke me, entice me.


I’m a werebird,

part man, part angel

part bobby-soxer,

part arresting officer,

with velvet handcuffs,

woven of feathers and fluff,

Part fat, drunken, drag queen 

on a tiny stage, mouthing bitchy obscenities

to a deliriously restless, raucous

crowd of queens.

At night I peck at and follow

the trail of birdseed leading home

to my tiny wren house.


I am a werebird

you cannot love me

as good as the trees and sky do,

As good as brother moon, father sun,

I’m always soaring

far flung from the confined clowns,

in their chicken coop crumbs, and 

failed ruins of dreams.


I’m a werebird,

a ghost, a woman-man thing

walking the streets,

coasting on wind-sheers.

Don’t call me by human names, 

feed me your bliss, let me dance

to your sound of tears,

drumming of dawns,

I wear my wild gown with pride,

the corset and straight jacket

are too tight, my master has 

shredded them off me and tamed me,

whispering his love

as I hold him

in my muscle-feathered arms

whispering his name. 


Werebird, werebird come to me

Werebird, werebird, set me free

Ocean limbs and seeking skies

Stare through these

unblinking eyes.

Sunday, October 18, 2020

More Ages of Love by St.Orr (10-18-20)

 Age 66 Make them all pay! They are all to be held responsible for my failures!

Age 67 I kiss the sun and discover devotion following that drunken butterfly floating on the updrafts                     toward heaven.

Age 21 Trying to make man love into art, sketches of athletes wearing headbands on lithographs.

Age 20 Fearlessly telling Cookie I liked him. His expression changed completely. He left in a hurry.

Age 19  Lost innocence telegraphed into my teen age head by a lonely professor from California. Thank God I didn't go there. 

Age 18  Fake ID's pretending to be str8t, drinking to feel free

Age 1 An almost newborn babe, at one with the universe. Damn it's cold out here!

Age 2  Love is sucking my Mother's breast and being carried in the rain by my Daddy.

Age 3 Peonies and gardens, cinnamon rolls and dolls.

Age 4 Don't look now but I am a girl!

Age 5 Damn I'm not! Innocence damage begins.

Age 6 Every day her spiders bite at me like her spiked pubic hair

Age 7 There's a place for us

Age 8 All I want is to ride on George Campuses' muscular tanned body in the aqua swimming pool                      forever, take me away!

Age 9 Building Model monsters is cool; and I was sniffing glue all the while.

Age 10 Rat Fink is the best; rage of destruction

Age 11 I wanna be a bookworm girl, a nerd.

Age 12 Bullies are hell.

Age 13 I sometimes like to run away and become Sally Field in "Gidget."

Age 11 Loving screaming myself into a femmy faint at horror movies.

Age 13 (again) Fear, loathing, loving and craving to touch wiry boy's six-packs.

Age 16 Acid trips open the universe, amphetamine drama queen.  

Age 17 The loss of innocence scars my face even more, the scabs won't stay put. Goodbye smooth skin, I'll do anything to make my hair str8t! Anything to fit in. This seems contrary to smoking pot. But music sounds so much longer stoned.

Age 18 Boy longing lust. Playing with a Malamute in the snow is more fun than having boy lust!



Gifting to Myself 10-18-20

Gifting Myself by St.Orr


I'm gifting myself

the feathers of angels

feeling like gold dust

running through my hand

crumbling like sheets of gold leaf

now, in these amber days

Sweet autumn umber days


And during this 

neo-Pleistocene period

of Pandemic quiet--

I'm gifting myself

a magic Etch-a-Sketch

that draws every wrinkle, smile,

living sperm and dead cell

I sloughed off and rubbed onto

every boy I ever had,

every man I ever gave myself to freely

every animal I ever charged.


I'm gifting myself

a universal Aviator's License

so I can legally float straight up

beyond this matchstick tenement

beyond yellow towers-blocking-sun

Floating away with a Hawk's eye view

Bidding farewell

to the tiny speck below

And there I lived,

in a man-cave I outgrew.


And there I was,

a prisoner of strange men's texts

and phone calls. Sometimes I wore scruffy shorts,

a housework scarf on my head;

dancing with myself high up

on a Rapunzel-like roof,

and there a black hole like a dirty shadow

showed where the deck used to be.

There, my history was tangled in a money hungry daze later transmuting my energy

into a a lusting thirst for light.


Yes, I longed for the golden-brown

hair of boys who in passing,

ignored me.

Now, I can safely turn my eyes away,

the drama’s lost in the anticipation

of warm lava flows of chill-pill moments

moments in the sun;

catchin' rays, releasing rigidity,

mining my body's bald beauty

Nosferatu would be proud.


I'm gifting myself

brown age spots stuck like diamonds

in lazy, dreaming Autumn eyes.



I gift myself

brown age spots

stuck like diamonds

from my lazy, dreaming Autumn eyes



Call the leather leopard doctor

For this naked gerbil

has lost his drive, 

and succumbed to

slow-motion, chill-pill

fly-right feelings

crawling up brown weeds

buzzing with mute laughter

Come queen!

You roof nigger with your air orgies,

your extinct animals, dinosaurs and dancing dream monsters

that do not subvert, they inspire in spite of.

Ages of Love 1


66 Trying viagra it was like a ticker-tape parade down Fifth Avenue that never happened.

9 Playing with guinea pigs whose fur felt like undulating rivers of butter and milk.

5 My Mother fed me spiders that burrowed in my gut and fed on me for years.

13 Unleashing the hungry ghost longing for wiry boy's six-packs, secretly screwing myself with  tubes, lost in fantasies of pepper-cum, burning holes in bodybuilder's thongs obsessed with what was hidden underneath.

14 Taping my innocence to a 33 inch turntable like a guinea pig wounding myself with darts of hate.

67 Loving the injections that gift me a pain-free shoulder visible through turquoise silk, flowing over the rapturous sepulcher of my body as another facet of divine me enters stage left, stops and stares at the twittering audience. Cross, DS, stands until it's quiet. House lights on to reveal nothing but sparrows seeking open windows.

68 Growing like a fine, strong, ancient tree, into a muscled, wooden Indian carved from cedar, this self of me, this pillar of strength and marshmallow, chocolate and bacon boy-man flesh. Proud, stitched together by clinging vines of poison ivy and lilac shade, covered in worn shells of carousel horses lying on sun-bleached shores, while cruising dragonflies passing remind me of magic that is. As I breathe, just breathe in absolute love.



"To the Bone" 10-28-20 St.Orr

I think it's in the garden

I think it's in the wind

Say you love me anyway

when I state my sin


I think there's something coming

Maybe a new world

Gonna tie my hair up

Feel my inner gurl


She'll say you take it easy boy

Don't beside yourself

Some days you gotta stack

the plates all pretty on the shelf


No harm in being whorey,

no harm in gettin' high

No harmin you my baby

When your chill pill is the sky


time to ditch the phone

Aim the stone,

shoot down that drone


dream a dream of home

feel your love deep to the bone


dream a dream of home

Fill your love deep to bone







Piece of a song (in process) "Let It Go" 10-18-20

There you go again 

Talkin' 'bout chemtrails 

Policitcal Conspiracies

And all that insanity entails

ohhh Let it Go


Are you a savior sent to me

to set my heart on fire?

Or a lost misguided spirit

Form of energy vampire


aaahh Let it Go

Let it Go!

Friday, October 16, 2020

As I Stand 10-16-20


As I Stand 10-16-20

As I stand on this shore

looking out into forever

Can you hear me shout?

"I ADORE YOU come to me now."


I hear you, I'm coming, be there soon-

Just a few things I need to do,

Chores, like cleaning up after the cat,

picking dirt and dreams

off the kitchen floor,

Walking up the stairs to the roof

Looking for the hawk

flying in his majesty on the upper reaches

of air currents only he can feel.


I'm coming, in just a bit-

First I need to be showing up for my job (Oh God.)

Dancing in the rain on my crooked roof

Finally, I'll be sending you my heart

via astral projection

There I've caught it,

holding it now

like a stunning thing

vibrating with the innocence and soul of a child

shooting light

like a cotillion of moon beams


I love you for your dancing dreams

This is the stuff wars are fought over

Kingdoms rise and fall

meanwhile this jewel your heart

I hold to my cheek

until I can kiss you


Don't worry about the universe

just meet me around 5

by the sea wall

I need to look into your eyes,

feel the movement of your breath

echoing in the sounds of these waves

in and out

indestructible moments

there is no love, only us and eternity


Go ahead, shake our your hair

let me shimmy and quake for you

They'll think we're nuts

but who cares, they're dead

and we're alive.

Do your sexy walk

I'll make you forget

paying bills,

flies with Twitter accounts

Meowing gurlz on phones

The endless bumping

of the big, heavy-treading lady upstairs

my living, in this crappy matchbox of a man cave

(My kingdom, my home).

I'll fly with you

over rainbows

beyond the grey sheets

of discarded lovers

lying on shipwrecked shores

like so many skeletal hulls

on beaches filled

with pieces of hypodermic needles

bone fragments of Mafia bets gone bad

Call me angel

call me by my name.




Saturday, July 18, 2020

"KEEPING DISTANCE" song/video by St.Orr, K.Torres and E.P. Mortensen

Gorgeous song by myself, K. Torres and EP Mortensen. Thank you talented men!
Feel free to comment, share, contact, etc.


Wednesday, June 3, 2020

BLUE SANCTUARY c. by Steven Orr (a 17 min audiobook short story of a dystopian view of a zombie plague ravaging New York--downtown.

That Nefarious Dingleberry c. by Steven Orr

That Nefarious Dingleberry c. by Steven Orr

            Here I sit, surrounded by hundreds of varieties of birds. They are feeding, flying and freedazzling in all sorts of voices; making songs and generally creating a cacophony in multitudinous, avian tongues. 

            I was taking a week off. God knows I couldn't afford it but I had to get away. I was at the cape on the South Shore of Boston at a friend’s house in Marshfield, Massachusetts. Linda, my landlady, was a quirky, slightly overweight, alcoholic (but a functional one) who drove a school bus by day, kicked back with Chardonnay-soaked-TV-watching at night and on weekends attended church regularly along with once a week bible-study-classes. Here, I could savor a morsel of freedom, fresh air, and get away from the Golem's Gyre of New York City, where everything is dirty, loud, rich, poor, or simply untouchable. Here I could experience how I imagined life must be for the vestiges of my tribe, that formerly great, but now waning, white American Middle class. We were so powerful in the 50’s. And now so many of us poor were just a step away from falling through the cracks in the post-Millenial age of an American society bloated with the the 1% super rich 99% Dollar-store poor to Middle-class.

            I picture the god of New York to be a tall, skinny, grey, and extremely impatient, old curmudgeon with a hunchback. He is be-speckled, with a hooked nose, and constantly saying no to whatever is asked of him; or else ignoring everyone unless they wave money under his nose. I call him Golem, and he is my master. The gyre is that huge mass of plastic detritus that floats endlessly about the Pacific ocean and is as large as Texas. Put them together and you have a large playground, wasteland, i.e., the Golem’s Gyre, or my home, New York City. I have served my master here since my arrival in 1975. I put up with the constant anxiety, the rudeness, the abrasive mindlessness, and the awful noise (which gets worse every year) because it's still a pretty fantastic fucking place to find men and an even better place to find men massage clients. But for now, I am taking a respite and the birds are my only eye candy.

            The sounds of birds are a joy, the sun is hot silk on my skin, and I breathe fresh, sea air. I felt slightly dopey from it. For a little while, I can stop hating and fighting and start to feel normal, like after a good massage.

            Through the years, I’ve worked on thousands of male bodies and seen them come and go. Scott, one such client, was what I call a legacy client, which means he paid well and was very loyal. For the legacy client, you can do no wrong. He is the reason you are in business through all the good times and bad times. When he calls you, there is the sound of bells ringing, you are suddenly lifted up, and "Yes of course I'm free right now" is the unwavering refrain to his always-friendly question  "I was wondering if you were free this afternoon?" 

During the last few years, Scott had begun to study Bikram yoga, in order to counteract the tightness and rigidity of his aging body. He was always lean, tall and handsome with a full head of fine, ash blond hair that tended to flop over one eye and bounce when he was getting fucked. Though he wasn’t toned, his body improved soon after he began doing Bikram. He had a youthful face, which, except for a small pile of flesh forming under his chin, never betrayed his age. It was a WASPY face, both manly, and boyish. Scott swore he wasn’t gay but his behavior—especially when he was being a bottom—had a tendency to prove otherwise. I don’t question the “down-low” clients. They tend to all act overly macho in the public eye, and many are married or claim be to “bi-curious.” However many once they get behind closed doors instantly transform into big passive girls. Though the LBGTQ community is integrated into society more and more every year, the typical American male is still one conflicted homo sapien. “The river Denial runs deep and long” in our puritanical, American culture.

The first time I met Scott, I rendezvoused with him and a gorgeous, red-haired actress friend of mine named Angie. Angie had a wicked sense of humor and the capacity to be both wild and irreverent as a hooker one moment and as reserved as a nun or a librarian the next. All three of us met up at a Mexican restaurant in the West Village after Angie’s off-off-off B'way show. At the bar, Scott set himself up as host, procuring as many margaritas as we both could drink. Men who bought me drinks were always a huge turn on, for it implied they had power, deep pockets and I could give up control and be taken care of. And better yet, we all seemed to be flirting with each other! Here was my first bisexual experience since college. I was relishing it. 

We ended up in my apartment in the East Village. Angie's sensual hand caressed the banister of the staircase as we floated up the stairs. Our clothes seemed to remove themselves by magic. Within minutes, Scott was fucking Angie like a jack-hammer. I glued my body to his back and butt feeling every thrust and muscle as I hugged his chest to mine. My cock wedged into the crevice of his toned, perfect ass, first upward and then straight forward and down as if I was fucking Scot while he fucked Angie. Everyone came hard in one, loud sensual earthquake. I prayed we didn’t wake the uptight Jewess next door. 

I don't recall too much afterward, except thinking, there, I’ve done it. I’m bi! No small feat, after myriads of flaming bisexual fantasies and crushes during my years of college and throughout my acting and dancing career in New York throughout the 80’s and 90’s. Strangely I don’t recall much of any thoughts of my two playmates! The next day I remember having the image of a snake shedding his skin. My sloughed off snake skin was a metaphor for how delicious and delightful the experience was–a kind of sexual coming of age. For years afterward, that night would remain a novelty, though from that moment on, reflecting on being bi brought little more to mind that image of the snake shedding its skin, and little else in terms of the memories of love.

Anyway by that time I was doing massage for a living.  It was the early 90's. After that initial experience, Scott soon began to see me for massage regularly. I had no idea he was also seeing Angie! He would come on the average of at least once a month and was very generous. He contacted me one summer in Provincetown, where I worked as a houseboy for two seasons. He even came to see me in Amsterdam one summer when I’d swapped apartments with an older, uptight, but very seductive, Dutch, Jewish-American- Princess. I never asked Scott about his personal life. Although through the years, I gleaned he had married a female doctor, fell out of love with her, and divorced her.

The last time I saw Scott, he offered to take me out to a Thai restaurant in China town. While there, he revealed for the first time that he was the Father of two little girls. Then, after about fifteen minutes of hanging with him in public, the pleasure began to wane. His rigid personality could be oppressive; I'd had glimpses of it before, but now he seemed subtly disapproving and contemptuous of me. It occurred to me that possibly I was too gay for his comfort in public. Always a great fan of horror, at one point, when we were finished eating, I shared how entertained and fascinated I was to have seen the film "The Human Centipede" a week  before. “How can you watch something so deplorable and disgusting?" He laid into me. His bombastic response was almost a tirade. "What a sick, twisted movie–and anyone who likes something like that has to be just as sick and twisted!" Whoa I thought to myself. A little abuse anyone?

Thinking back now, I should have called Scott's attention to one particular experience we’d shared. It was a massage he’d booked, more than a year before. During this session, as was often our custom toward the climax, (when I wasn’t simply topping him) we were doing sixty-nine. As we were working each other’s bodies, I became super-aware that he wasn’t clean. Ew. One gets a sense of these things after so many years of being a body worker. In the next instant, I felt a particle of something stuck halfway between the back of my tongue and in my throat and it was larger than a hair. In a beat, without him noticing, I put my fingers down my throat and extracted the mysterious “thing.” I quickly looked to see it was a small clump of feces, obviously not mine. I quickly (and silently) flicked it away and continued licking, and sucking on Scott as if nothing had happened, albeit with a tad less gusto. Nothing like a piece of shit in one's mouth, to take the wind out of one's sails while “headin' round the mountain” toward that oft-hallowed “happy-ending” all the comedians make fun of in their monologues about massage.

Afterward, as he was reaching for the door to leave, I stood firm,  held the door closed and quickly shared with Scott the mystery of the nefarious “dingleberry” that had I had extracted from my throat. My narrative was more clinical than angry; all in all merely a factual relating of the events; ending with a request  "–And that's why Scott, I would really appreciate it if you would make sure you are clean when you come to me, and take a shower before the massage." It’s amazing how some of the most hideous things become commonplace when one sells oneself. Poverty breeds a kind of desperation and indifference all its own. The judgmental rich will always hold themselves in high disdain to the struggles of a poor whore. We are meat to be used and consumed; our humanity disappearing in ratio to how our cocks are worshiped in business dealings with M4M massage clients. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry bro–", his eyebrows went up, feigning concern. “Bro” was Scott’s ultimate term of endearment toward me. How I hated it. It reeked of his fake affection, but I dared not let on. "God” he continued, “I had no idea! I definitely will." Then I remember him saying something I never really understood. He paused, looked at me, and said, "You're a good man." It was as if he were addressing a dog, “Good boy.” We never mentioned the experience again. A few years later he disappeared from my radar.

When a friend of mine told me about her taking Bikram yoga, it triggered all these memories. With Scott there was such closeness and distance too. What was I to him anyway? A space to play in? A laundry bag? A closet? Or merely an object like a sex toy. More thing than human.

All these loops of images, spiraling around in my head like that large mass of plastic detritus, the size of Texas floating round and round in the Pacific going nowhere. What do I do with them? They play over and over in brain, never dissolving as plastic never dissolves. And so the memory of this gyre affair plays on.

Later that afternoon, a pack of fourteen wild turkeys, led by a huge Tom Turkey with a very red head, paraded like a herd of dinosaurs outside into the back yard of  the house. Linda and I watched them preen, and grandly scratch for food like feathered dinosaurs in the grass and under the bird feeders. Occasionally, the big old Tom Turkey would puff up and plump his feathers, showing off and looking twice his normal size. The alpha male. I tapped on the window. "Don't disturb them" Linda said.  "I'm not disturbing them” I said “I'm communicating with them."