MEETING DEMON SPIRITS: AAMON BLACK WOLF DEMON &JANICE (La Madre Orsa) VISITING CHRIST CRUCIFIX
MEETING
DEMON SPIRITS
AN
EROTIC
PICTORIAL NARRATIVE
(PTSD DREAMS)
CREATED
BY
J. BECK
2026
JANICE
(LA MADRE ORSA)
VISITING
CHRIST CRUCIFIX
MEETING
DEMON SPIRIT:
AAMON
(BLACK DEMONIC WOLF)
In the shadowed ruins of an ancient Gothic cemetery, where crumbling tombstones leaned like drunken sentinels beneath a gnarled 200-year-old oak tree, the air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and forbidden desire.
A lone raven perched atop a feral fern embankment, its black eyes gleaming as it watched the profane ritual unfold below, beside a crude stone grotto where a completely black wolf lay guard, its fur blending seamlessly with the night.
At the center stood a towering marble sculpture of the Crucifix—Christ shirtless, his muscular form etched in eternal agony, crown of thorns biting into his brow, loins barely veiled by a tattered loincloth that hinted at a subtle bulge beneath.
His stone eyes peered upward toward the heavens, as if pleading for deliverance that would never come.
Beside the cross, the demon Aamon manifested in flesh that burned with unholy allure. Portrayed in the guise of a 24-year-old sinner, he had long, greasy black hair cascading over sharp features accentuated by dark eyeliner.
Skinny yet long and muscular, he wore an open blue ruffled shirt that exposed his taut chest, paired with tight black leather pants that outlined a slight, teasing bulge.
Heavy boots grounded him to the desecrated earth, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling like infernal incense as he exhaled with a predatory grin.
In his passion, Aamon pressed close to the sculpture, his tongue tracing the carved wounds of Christ with fervent, blasphemous licks—savoring the cold marble as if it were warm, bleeding flesh.
In his ecstasy, he let slip from his grasp a sleek black cat that yowled softly as it landed, and a bottle of deep red wine that shattered at the foot of the cross, spilling its crimson contents like sacrificial blood across the cracked stone.
Kneeling before him, lost in worshipful depravity, was Janice—a 40-year-old vision of voluptuous excess.
Obese and unapologetic, her body spilled with curves that demanded adoration: heavy breasts heaving with deep cleavage, framed by a dark black fur coat worn open and alone, save for the scant black thong that barely contained her, netted nylons clinging to thick thighs, and towering boot heels that arched her back.
Her big brunette hair tumbled wildly down her shoulders, gold jewelry glinting—choker tight around her throat, bracelets jingling on wrists, rings flashing on fingers, earrings swaying with every movement.
Her armpits, unshaven and hairy, added to her raw, primal allure as she bent over submissively.
Janice's hands roamed Aamon's body with desperate hunger, rubbing the hard lines of his muscles through the open shirt, sliding down to caress the growing bulge in his leather pants.
Her tongue joined his in the sacrilege, licking at the demon's neck, his chest, then daring lower as she pressed her face against him.
"My lord Aamon,"
She whispered hoarsely
Voice thick with lust:
"Take me Here."
Beneath His gaze.
"Defile me as you defile Him."
Aamon's laugh was low and guttural, smoke escaping his lips as he gripped her hair, pulling her closer.
His free hand trailed down her fur-clad back, fingers digging into soft flesh, parting the coat to expose her fully.
The wolf in the grotto growled approvingly, the raven cawed once from above, and the wind whispered through the ruins as Janice surrendered completely—mouth devouring him with wet, eager strokes, body grinding against his in rhythmic blasphemy.
In that forsaken place, under the watchful eyes of stone Christ and living beasts, mortal and demon entwined in ecstatic sin, the night echoing with moans that mocked the heavens themselves.
Janice's world narrowed to the taste of smoke and skin, the feel of infernal heat, and the promise of damnation's sweetest release.
Janice had always felt the bear stirring inside her, a low, restless rumble beneath the surface of her ordinary life.
It began in her childhood, growing up on the edge of a dense New England forest where black bears were whispered about more than seen.
Her grandmother, an old Italian immigrant with eyes like polished obsidian, used to tell her stories—not the sanitized fairy tales, but older, darker ones.
Tales of women who wandered too deep into the woods during certain moon phases and came back changed: heavier, hairier, hungrier, marked by the spirit of the she-bear.
“You have her blood,” Nonna would murmur, tracing a thick finger along Janice’s plump childish arm.
“La Madre Orsa chose our line long ago. She gives strength, appetite, protection—but she demands tribute.”
Janice dismissed it as superstition until her thirties, when the changes started in earnest.
It was subtle at first: an inexplicable weight gain that no diet could touch, her body swelling with dense, powerful curves that felt less like fat and more like armor. Her appetite became ravenous, not just for food but for touch, for dominance, for raw sensation.
Hair grew thicker and darker everywhere—legs, arms, the dense patches under her arms that she stopped shaving because the act felt like betrayal. She craved the woods at night, walking barefoot through bramble and fern until her soles toughened like pads.
The true awakening came on a winter solstice, ten years ago, when Janice was thirty.
Grief-stricken after her grandmother’s death, she fled to the old family cabin deep in those same forests.
Alone, drunk on stolen communion wine, she stripped naked in the snow and screamed her rage at the indifferent stars. That was when she felt it—the tearing, burning surge beneath her skin.
The bear did not take her completely that night. Instead, it bonded. A spirit older than the church her family had clung to for generations, older than the crucifix she still wore beneath her clothes out of habit.
La Madre Orsa, the Great She-Bear, had waited patiently through centuries of dilution, through marriages and migrations that thinned the bloodline. But Janice—voluptuous, unapologetic, furious in her desires—was ready.
The transformation was ecstatic agony. Bones thickened, muscles layered beneath new fat that felt like insulation against the world’s cruelty.
Fur pushed through skin in waves of dark heat. Her jaw ached as it broadened, teeth dulling into the powerful grinders of an omnivore.
Yet she remained herself—retained the heavy sway of human breasts, the wide hips made wider, the gold jewelry Nonna had left her glinting against midnight fur. The bear did not erase the woman; it exalted her. Made her a vessel of primal feminine power: maternal, territorial, sexual, unstoppable.
Since that night, Janice learned to call the change at will. Most days she walked as human—obese, brazen, adorned in fur coats that were both camouflage and homage. But when lust or fury or solitude overtook her, she let the bear rise. The spirit reveled in her indulgences: in food, in flesh, in defiance of restraint.
It was this ancient pact that drew Aamon to her.
The demonic wolf spirit, ever the hunter of sacred transgressions, scented her from across veils.
A Woman Carrying the Mark
Of a pre-Christian wilderness goddess, yet still wearing the trappings of the crucified god’s faith—gold cross hidden beneath choker, rosary beads tangled in bracelets.
She was blasphemy incarnate, a living desecration. And when she entered that ruined Gothic cemetery, drawn by whispers older than Nonna’s stories, Aamon knew she was his perfect counterpart.
Bear and wolf—ancient enemies, ancient lovers. Primal mother and infernal hunter. Her transformation was never about becoming something else; it was about remembering what she had always been. And in Aamon’s embrace, human or beast, she finally roared free.
In the desecrated cradle of the ruined Gothic cemetery, where moonlight bled through the ancient oak’s gnarled limbs like silver venom, Janice felt the bear spirit surge—not as a separate force, but as the deepest, hottest core of her own desire.
La Madre Orsa had never been a gentle guardian. From the very first awakening that solstice night ten years ago, the transformation had been drenched in raw, dripping eroticism.
Janice remembered it with a shudder that still tightened her thighs: naked in the snow, communion wine burning in her belly, grief and fury twisting into a molten ache between her legs.
When the fur erupted across her skin, it had felt like a lover’s tongue—rough, insistent, claiming every inch. Her breasts swelled heavier, nipples peaking painfully as coarse black pelt rasped over them.
Her hips widened with a wet, stretching pop of bone, the new weight of her ass and thighs sending pulses of slick heat straight to her core.
Between her legs, the spirit had lingered longest, fur thickening around swollen folds that throbbed in rhythm with her racing heart, as if the bear itself were stroking her toward climax.
She had come that night without touching herself—roaring into the frozen silence as the change completed, hot release spilling down furred thighs while distant church bells tolled midnight.
That was the true tribute La Madre Orsa demanded: not blood, but surrender to appetite in all its forms.
Hunger for meat, for sex, for the thick scent of one’s own musk rising from unshaven armpits and groin
Janice learned quickly that the more she fed those cravings, the stronger the bear became—and the more exquisitely sensitive her body grew.
Every transformation since had been foreplay.
The heavy gold choker Nonna left her was no mere heirloom; it was a collar of ownership, tight against the thickening neck that strained when the bear rose.
The bracelets and rings became anchors—cold metal against hot fur, reminders that she was still woman even when claws extended and muzzle pushed forward. She would masturbate for hours in partial shift, human fingers buried deep in bear-slick heat, teats swaying as she growled her own name into the dark.
It was this scent—woman in perpetual estrus, ancient mother-goddess drenched in mortal lust—that summoned Aamon across the veils.
He had watched her for years: Janice in her city apartment, fur coat open over nothing but jewelry and thigh-high nets, riding a lover until the bedframe cracked—then letting the bear peek through just enough for claws to score skin and draw ecstatic screams.
He had tasted her dreams, where she lumbered through moonlit forests on all fours, pausing to rub her swollen sex against rough tree bark until she roared release.
When she finally stepped into his cemetery, body already humming with pre-transformation heat, Aamon knew the pairing was fated.
Wolf and Bear—predator and powerhouse, piercing hunger and enveloping depth. Her bear nature was not mere strength; it was a cunt that could take demonic knotting for hours, breasts heavy enough to smother hell itself, a roar that vibrated straight through his shaft when she came.
As they coupled now in full beast form—his black wolf form locked deep inside her massive she-bear body—Janice understood the final layer of her heritage.
La Madre Orsa had always been a goddess of fertile excess, of seasons turning through mating and birth and hibernation fattened on pleasure.
Every thrust of Aamon’s knotted cock was an offering, every gush of her own slick response a benediction.
She was not possessed. She was fulfilled—eternally in heat, eternally powerful, eternally wet for the next desecration.
And as his seed flooded her again, hot and infernal, Janice’s roar carried a new note: gratitude to the lineage of thick-thighed, hairy, insatiable women who had carried the bear spirit through centuries of suppression, waiting for one like her to embrace it fully, spread wide beneath a crucified god while a demon wolf bred her into legend.
Aamon has hungered for millennia, but his desires are not the crude fires of lesser demons who crave only pain or souls. His lust is precise, surgical—an exquisite need to corrupt the sacred through the profane, to turn reverence into ravishing, devotion into devouring.
He is the wolf at the edge of every holy place, drawn irresistibly to what should remain untouchable.
The scent that quickens his blood is not mere sin, but the tremor of forbidden surrender in something—or someone—already marked by grace.
A nun’s whispered prayer behind cloister walls. A priest’s trembling hand during absolution.
A woman who carries an ancient pagan goddess beneath the gold cross at her throat. The blasphemy must be intimate, consensual, ecstatic; only then does it feed him.
Aamon desires the moment when holiness kneels.
That is why Janice became his obsession long before she ever stepped into his cemetery.
He first tasted her essence in dreams: the thick, musky heat of a woman who fed her body without shame, who let coarse hair grow wild beneath her arms and between her thighs, who wore fur coats like a second skin and jewelry like ritual bindings.
But beneath that primal indulgence he sensed the deeper contradiction—the faint echo of cathedral bells in her blood, the weight of centuries of crucified guilt pressed against the roaring freedom of La Madre Orsa. She was a living desecration, a fertile contradiction, and Aamon’s cock throbbed with infernal recognition.
He wants to be the force that tips the scale. To press his lupine body against her bearish one and feel the last vestige of mortal restraint shatter in orgasm.
He craves the way her roar will mock the silence of the marble Christ above them, the way her slick, furred cunt will grip his knotted shaft like a prayer turned inside out. Every thrust is a liturgy he recites: This is my body, given up for thee—take, eat, come.
His desire is possessive, but never stifling. He does not want a broken vessel; he wants a willing partner in damnation, a mate who meets his savagery with greater hunger.
Janice’s bear nature excites him precisely because it is older than his own infernal lineage—raw, earthy, maternal in the most carnal sense.
When she spreads her massive hind legs and presents, slick and swollen, he feels something perilously close to worship.
He wants to breed her not to claim offspring, but to seal the pact: demon and pre-Christian goddess entwined forever in wet, pulsing heresy.
Aamon’s deepest, most secret craving is to be devoured in return.
He longs for the moment when Janice’s blunt ursine teeth close gently around his throat—not to kill, but to hold him still while she rides the knot, milking him with deliberate, crushing squeezes of her powerful body.
He wants her to mark him with claw and scent, to leave him spent and trembling beneath her bulk, smoke curling from his muzzle as he whimpers her name like a prayer to a darker Madonna.
In her, he has found the perfect mirror: a being whose holiness was never pure, whose profanity is divine.
Together they are the eternal chase—wolf pursuing bear, bear enveloping wolf—locked in a cycle of pursuit, capture, release, and renewed hunger.
And when they finally collapse, fur matted with seed and sweat, the marble Christ still gazing down in silent witness, Aamon’s desire is sated only until the next throb of her heat calls him to rise again.
He will never stop wanting her. Not for an hour, not for an eternity. Because in Janice, Aamon has finally met a sacrilege vast enough to satisfy even a demon’s endless appetite.
La Madre Orsa traces her essence back to the most primordial layers of European worship, long before the gods of Olympus or the saints of Rome claimed the forests.
She is not a figure recorded in any single ancient text under that precise name—Italian for "The Mother Bear"—but a living echo of the Great She-Bear venerated across millennia, from Neolithic caves to Celtic shrines and Greco-Roman myths.
Her deepest roots lie in the bear cults of prehistoric Europe, where cave dwellers arranged bear skulls in reverent niches, treating the animal as kin, ancestor, and divine protector.
Bears were seen as shapeshifters: standing upright like humans, omnivorous, fiercely maternal.
The female bear, heavy with winter fat, retreats into hibernation pregnant and emerges in spring with cubs—rebirth made flesh.
This cycle made her the ultimate symbol of fertility, transformation, and raw feminine power.
In the Celtic world, she was Artio, the Bear Goddess of the Gauls, whose name derives from the Proto-Celtic *artos ("bear"). A famous bronze statue from Switzerland shows her seated, offering fruit to a great bear—or perhaps becoming one—her body blending woman and beast in eternal communion.
Artio guarded wildlife, abundance, and the wild heart of the land. Her worship lingered in isolated Alpine valleys, where later Christian tales recast her as "La Madóna di Ursatt," the Virgin Mary of Bears, a merciful protector who tamed ferocious beasts.
Across the Mediterranean, in ancient Greece, she manifested through Artemis, the untamed huntress whose sacred animal was the bear.
Artemis herself bore the epithet "Kalliste" (Most Beautiful), linked to the Arcadian bear rites at Brauron, where young girls danced as "little she-bears" (arktoi) in ritual service, shedding childhood to embrace womanhood's wild potency.
The myth of Callisto—Artemis's devoted nymph, seduced by Zeus, transformed into a bear, and finally exalted as Ursa Major—preserves this ancient totem: the violated yet eternal Mother Bear, circling the heavens with her cub (Ursa Minor), forever watching, forever fertile.
When Roman legions carried Celtic and Greek influences into Italy, these threads wove tighter. Artemis became Diana, Artio's echoes merged with local wilderness spirits, and the bear remained a potent emblem of maternal fury and sensual excess—protective yet dangerous, nurturing yet insatiable.
In the shadowed bloodlines of Janice's Italian ancestors, La Madre Orsa survived as a whispered heresy: older than the crucified god, older than the Virgin Mother imposed upon her.
She is the pre-Christian force that Nonna invoked in hushed tales—a goddess who demands tribute not in chastity, but in appetite. Who rewards her daughters with thick curves, dense fur, unshaven heat, and the power to devour and birth worlds anew.
She is the swell of breasts heavy with milk and menace, the roar that shakes cathedrals, the slick darkness between thighs that welcomes demonic knot and divine seed alike.
La Madre Orsa never bowed to suppression; she hibernated, waiting for women like Janice—voluptuous, unashamed, hairy and hungry—to awaken her fully.
In the cemetery's profane rite, when Janice's body erupts into black-furred majesty, teats swaying, claws raking earth, cunt dripping with bearish estrus—it is La Madre Orsa who rises through her. Ancient, insatiable, maternal in the fiercest sense: a goddess who licks her worshippers into ecstatic shape, who mates with wolves beneath crucified gazes, who reminds the world that true holiness is wet, wild, and eternally in heat.
Artio, the Gaulish bear goddess whose name directly derives from the Celtic word for "bear" (*artos*), was venerated primarily in the Alpine regions of modern Switzerland and southern Germany during the Iron Age and Gallo-Roman period.
Archaeological evidence for her rituals is sparse, as her cult left few detailed textual records, but surviving artifacts and inscriptions provide glimpses into devotional practices centered on abundance, wildlife protection, transformation, and fertility.
The most iconic artifact is a
Second-century CE bronze statuette group** from Muri bei Bern (now in the Historical Museum of Bern), depicting a seated woman—identified as Artio—holding a bowl or lap full of fruit, facing a large bear approaching from beneath a tree.
The base inscription reads
"Deae Artioni / Licinia Sabinilla," indicating a votive offering dedicated by a devotee named Licinia Sabinilla, likely in gratitude or petition for blessings such as prosperity or fertility
This Imagery SuggfruitRituals Involving
Offerings of the Harvest First Fruit
(Symbolizing Plenty and the Harvest)
Presented to the Goddess in her Bear Form or as a mediator between humans and wild nature.
Similar dedicatory inscriptions to Dea Artio have been found across Germany and Luxembourg, pointing to personal votive acts rather than large public ceremonies.
Broader Celtic bear cults, of which Artio's worship formed a part, emphasized the bear's cyclical life: hibernation as a descent into darkness (death/transformation) and spring emergence with cubs as rebirth and renewal.
Prehistoric evidence, like arranged bear skulls in Neolithic caves, hints at ancient shamanic rites, but for Artio specifically, practices appear tied to seasonal Gallo-Roman and protection of the wild.
In Gallo-Roman contexts, her cult blended with Roman traditions, as seen in temple assemblages including Artio alongside deities like Jupiter and Minerva.
Devotees likely made pilgrimages to local sanctuaries, offering food, symbolic bear figurines, or inscriptions for favors related to fertility, hunting success, or wilderness harmony.
While direct evidence of group rituals (dances, feasts, or shape-shifting enactments) is lacking—unlike the more documented bear rites linked to Artemis in Greece—
Artio's iconography evokes intimate, nature-based devotion: feeding the divine bear as an act of reciprocity with the earth's wild power.
Modern reconstructions often interpret these as offerings of honey, bread, grains, or fruit at natural altars, honoring her as a maternal protector who ensures seasonal renewal and human sustenance through the untamed world.
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
SOPHIA AKA
THE BLACK MOTH
STALKED
BY AAMON
THE WOLF DEMON
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-deities-demon-spirits-sophia.html?m=1
(PTSD DREAMS)
MEETING
DEITIES & DEMON SPIRITS:
JANICE (MADRE ORSA)
RETURNING HOME
AS THE DEVIL'S
PRODIGAL DAUGHTER
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-deities-demon-spirits-janice.html?m=1
(PTSD DREAMS)
. . .
(TO BE CONTINUED)
FURTHER
REFERENCES:
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
LILITH SUCCUBUS & INCUBUS
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demon-spirits-lilith-succubus.html?m=1
FURTHER INTRODUCTIONS
OF DEMONIC DEITIES
LAMIA & JOHN KEATS
(PTSD DREAMS)
AN
INTRODUCTION
PART 2
FEMME DEITIES & DEMONESS’:
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/an-introduction-part-2-femme-deities.html?m=1
INTRODUCTIONS
DEMONS & FAMILIARS:
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/introductions-demons-familiars.html?m=1
THE MOTHER GODDESS
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/the-mother-goddess-visiting-madonna.html?m=1
ELECTRA
AKA: "ELLIE"
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
BALAAM THE FALSE PROPHET
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/electra-aka-ellie-meeting-demon-spirits.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
RETURNS TO VISIT MAMMON
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-returns-to.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO "
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS: MAMMON
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-meeting-demon.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VISITING THE MADONNA
(& MEETING WOLF-DEMON AAMON)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-visiting.html?m=1
DEMONS
"LILITH & AAMON"
(MEADOW & JACKIE JR)
A SUPPLIMENT FOR
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/demons-lilith-aamon-meadow-jackie-jr.html?m=1
AN
ANALYSIS
OF
"THE UNHINGING CRUX"
(Meadow's Virgin Islands Confessions)
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS(TYS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/analysis-of-unhinging-crux-from-young.html?m=1
AN ANALYSIS &
PHOTO ALBUM OF MEADOW'S MANY FACES
W/CARMELA COMPARISON
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
APPENDIX II:
"Conspiracy of Crows"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/the-young-sopranos-appendix-ii.html?m=1
(The Ghost of Tony Soprano
Appears to Carmela)
A SUPPLIMENT
OF
"THE YOUNG SOPRANOS"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/read-young-sopranos-source.html?m=1
"MATILDA"
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL (1994)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
MATILDA II
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-ii-from-leon-professional.html?m=1
"MATILDA" III
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iii-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
"MATILDA" IV
RESCUING BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iv-rescuing-beethoven.html?m=1
"MATILDA" V
MATTY ORLANDO
DATING "JOHNNY B. GOODE"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-v-dating-johnny-b-goode.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VI
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vi-make-up.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MEMENTO MORI
(DRUNKEN DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-memento.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA
"MATTY ORLANDO"
SUBWAY RAT DREAMS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-subway-rat.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MATTY ORLANDO'S
(Narrative)
"SECRET LIFE"
(W/ OUT JOHNNY B. GOODE)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-matty.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
RESCUES BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime.html?m=1
MORE
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
DATING
JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-dating-johnny-b.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MEMENTO MORI
(ROMANCING THE DEAD)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-memento-mori.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-make-up-practice.html?m=1
"Johnny B. Goode"
(Live at the Fillmore East, NYC, NY - 1970) · Johnny Winter
https://youtu.be/gEayVWiJtLg?si=iePgaGvJVwQXTAmp
"MATTY ORLANDO"
INSPIRED
BY:
LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
(1994)
https://youtu.be/Pf0JW-cAFTs?si=-BMWviJ-Dham07HD
RAYMOND CURTO JR
DIMEO CRIME FAMILY
(FICTITIOUS CHARACTER WITH MS)
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Please Consider
Donating to MS SOCIETY:
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