The Pervocracy: now collectible!

The fantabulous Ami Angelwings made these and if this isn't worth a post of its own, I don't know what is.

Slutwalk after-action report.

The Slutwalk was fun. Bigger than I'd expected--there had to be at least a couple hundred thousand folks there--and full of energy and anger and yet joy.

It's funny to think, the impact of the actual walk wasn't so much; we probably got seen by a few hundred people tops. The real impact, if there is one, comes when the photos get out in the news and on the Internet.

Here's a couple of the signs I saw there:

Mine: I'm a slut - I love consensual sex

Jesus ⟨3 Sluts

You got 99 problems and all of them are MISOGYNY

Love does not divide, it multiplies

I can have scalable, high-fidelity, multi-core love if I want to (this guy was awesome)

I hope the message isn't too diluted. A lot of people not involved seemed to be taking it as "HEY WE'RE SLUTS WAAARGH," rather than getting all the nuances of "Someone being a slut does not excuse shaming, harassment, or sexual assault." Was that a lot of nuances? Apparently it is.

That is, big letters now:
SOMEONE BEING A SLUT DOES NOT EXCUSE SHAMING, HARASSMENT, OR SEXUAL ASSAULT.

There was a "Pimp Walk." Five or six loud assholes. I don't think they were exactly anti-slut or pro-rape (maybe I give them too much credit), they were just there to make the rhetorical equivalent of fart noises. "You say women deserve safety no matter how they dress? Well, we say *FRRRTT* hahaha sluts hahaha *FRRRTTT* bro-five!" Something about that well-thought-out.

It was impressive, and wonderful, and strengthening to see just how many people turned out and how passionate they were. There's a lot of people on our side here and I think there's getting to be more. If all this got us one more, it was worth it.



On the walk and subway ride over, I hid my sign very carefully. Got catcalled twice anyway.

How to make your own simple strap-on harness: a photo guide!

First of all, to establish my dorky maker cred (as if that needed doing), this is the bed I sleep in every night:


Oh yeah--it lights up.


It lights up by remote control.


Anyway. Let's get to the fun part. Er, the part where you have fun.

How To Make a Thong-style Strap-on Harness

Materials
All you need is:
84 inches of 1-inch-wide nylon webbing

Obviously this could change with body size and shape, but the design is very adjustable, so the measurements I used should fit most people with a 42-inch waist or under.

Fittings for the webbing (you can get these at Strapworks and similar retailers):
2 side-release buckles
3 friction slides
1 O-ring

I used a 2-inch-diameter ring, which holds smaller dildos snugly, but if you want to wield a very girthy cock you might have to go up a little in size.

The only tools I used were a lighter and a needle and thread.

Construction
Cut the nylon webbing into four segments:
45 inches for the waistband
25 inches for the crotch strap
Two 7-inch stubs for the buckles

Use the flame from a lighter or candle to sear off the edges to keep them from fraying. Be careful; one pass through the flame does it. Extended toasting will release nasty fumes and melted nylon, which could give you a horrible burn, which I learned the hard way.

Stitch the end of the crotch strap to the center of the waistband. A sewing machine would be nice for this, but I just stitched it by hand, sewing a box around all four sides of the overlap as well as an "X" shape inside. For comfort, this should be on the outside of the waistband, away from your skin.


Attach a "male" buckle half and a slide to each end of the waistband. Keep in mind with each of these steps which side of the waistband will be toward your skin; the view here is how it should look from the outside.


Use the third slide to attach the free end of the crotch strap to the O-ring.


Take each of the two stubs, fold about an inch over the O-ring, and sew it in place.


Attach the "female" buckle ends to the other ends of the stumps, again folding over and sewing in place.


Fit
(The photos for this section didn't come out well, but they should give you a general idea of where the fittings go, at least.)

With the ring facing forwards, just click the buckles shut over your hips. Fuss with all three slides to get it symmetrical and snug.
The front should look like this:


And the back like this:


Now unbuckle. Get a dildo with a broad base or "balls" on it, thread it through the ring, buckle back up, and ride 'em, cowboy.

Rebellion.

Last night at work was bad. There were too many patients, not enough nurses, and I spent all night running through a giant mess of blood and screaming. There was a lot of blood last night. And more relevantly, a lot of yelling--pain yelling and angry yelling, but most of all the yelling that comes from pain but shows itself as anger.

How to get through it? The money's not nearly enough. The "helping others" stuff can get pretty abstract when you're "helping" people by telling them you can't help them and you can't really give them an ETA on when someone can, sorry. My rapport with my coworkers is nonexistent. What I have, then, what keeps me from turning to tears or rage or complete blankness when a drunk lady takes a piss on the floor and laughs at me for having to clean it up, is the bruises on my tits.

They're nasty and beautiful. (NWS of course.)

The bruises remind me that I'm more than this. I'm not working because that's what I do, I'm working to support who I really am. I'm not someone who eats and sleeps and works--I'm someone who still has dreams and pleasures. I am someone who sneaks away from the cage of tedium at every opportunity.

Sure, I put on a uniform and smile at people I hate and fill out forms no one will ever read. But these are only things I do, not things I am. And the bruises are proof of that. They mark me as a strictly part-time cog with a side gig moonlighting as a human.

It's not just the bruises. It's this blog, of course. It's all the time I spend and things I do with my friends. It's the red in my hair and my lack of panties. It's every time I write, draw, craft, sing, dream. It's every time I go out with nothing in particular to do, just to be out. Sometimes it's just sitting quietly. And it's hardly special to me--it's the reason we have parks and movie theaters and sports. Recreation. Re-creation. When the world destroys a bit of me, I rebuild myself.

I like sex because it feels good, of course. But also because it's an unproductive, unapproved, uncivilized, thoroughly self-indulgent way to spend one's time. How wonderful.

Thanksgiving Photos.

Augh! I slept through my alarm (actually, I deliberately and defiantly hit "snooze" 20 times) and now I have no time to write a post!

Here's two pictures from the Thanksgiving festivities, then.

VERY NWS, DEPICT CONSENSUAL BDSM, DEPICT NAUGHTY BITS, TRIGGER WARNING, SHOULD NOT BE VIEWED BY ANYONE EVER

My back, after fingernail and Magic Marker adventures.

Yep, that's Rowdy's arm.

As always, it makes me sad that the photos don't show how much laughter and cuddling there was and how very full of turkey and friendship we all were. I always worry that showing the gritty parts out of context makes everything seem sleazy and doesn't convey how happy the whole experience was. It was very happy.

Also, I'm vaguely aware that one day my real identity will probably be associated with this blog and that the pictures will probably make more trouble than any little ol' opinions I have on it. But screw you, hypothetical persecution of my hypothetical self, we're all naked under our clothes.

...and more of us that you'd ever expect are naked and covered with bloody scratches and "SLUT" under our clothes.

There's a story behind this picture.

I have this friend who's awesome. Sadly he's moved out of town so I only see him every couple months, but he's one of the most awesome people I know. He's exceptionally smart and funny, but far more importantly, he just has the kind of effortless self-confidence you can't buy in stores. I'm hesitant to describe him in too much detail because he knows basically everyone including famous people and all my friends including the ones I met in completely different ways, but he's the kind of guy who can walk down the street in a floral dress and diving mask with a live weasel on his head and elicit only admiration. And he's the kind of guy who would.

Let's call him PJ.

This morning, PJ was in town, and he called me up to accompany him on a little project. PJ had to repay a debt to a friend. This friend had loaned PJ a couple thousand bucks when PJ was going through hard times, and now that PJ was going through easy times, he wanted to repay the loan in style.

Our first stop was at the Bank of America. "I want to withdraw $2600," PJ said, "in one-dollar bills." We'd thought we might have to go to a few branches and maybe some fast-talking to accomplish this, but no, they had 2600 dollar bills on hand. They gave PJ 6 stacks of $100 and 2 fat plastic-wrapped bricks of $1000 without raising an eyebrow.

I should mention that PJ's friend is getting married tomorrow. Part of PJ's dream is that the friend and his new wife will now be able to fuck on a giant pile of money on their wedding night.

Our second stop was a luggage store. PJ bought a nice leather briefcase--crisp classic lines, rectangular profile, built-in combination lock.

Our third stop was at a grocery store. PJ bought six pounds of powdered sugar and a box of plastic baggies.

We went back to PJ's apartment and set to work. PJ carefully stacked the bills in the suitcase while his roommates and I packaged "the shit" in securely wrapped bricks. They had a glass coffee table, so I rolled up a bill and did a few lines. It was pretty sweet stuff.

Once the briefcase was packed, we were taking pictures, and we (okay, probably I) decided that the pictures could use a little pizazz. A little showcasing. I took off my top. PJ loaned me his 1950s smoking jacket.

And that's the story behind this picture.

NWS.

"You're like a cat."

(Theoretically PG but probably NWS hairy man-chest.)

Fun fact: cats can actually have different numbers of nipples depending on their breeding, and sometimes it's an odd number.

More fun you can have with a hatchet.

I had another hatchet-play photo on my computer, and I kept waiting until I had some kind of context to use it in, but really, what kind of context is there for something like this?

Do I have to tell you it's NWS?

Burying the hatchet, and other debauchery.

The following are SO VERY NWS and also document why you should probably buy stock in Tylenol today.

Fun with Sharpies!
Question: is it still "humiliation" if you're not just unfazed, but downright proud?

My back, in an early state of deconstruction.

My back with Ronco Rocker.
I do think it's cool that although there's less than 24 hours between the photos, most of the marks from the first one are completely gone. I've got Wolverine Healing Powers. Also note the second "WHORE," of course.

Um.
So yeah, that's a hatchet. It's a fucking hatchet. (Also, I am the kind of slob who leaves her watch on in bed. Ugh, I'm disgusted with myself.)

And honestly, it's a fucking shame that I don't show my face on the blog (and I'm sure as hell not showing it in the same frame as that), because I think the whole tone of the photo is changed when you can see that I'm laughing my fucking ass off. Decontextualized, it looks sort of fucked up and degrading; in context, my attitude was much more "hey dude check this out" than "this is what I've sunken to."

My breasts the next morning.
Christ that's sore! Christ that's awesome.

Dazzling!

I almost wrote another controversial, thinky post having as much to do with feminism and my general life philosophy as with sex. But then I remembered that I have a camera again now.

So yeah. (NWS)

This sort of thing simply wouldn't be possible in a modern pre-industrial radically self-reliant home-grown thinger. You'd have to extract and refine the bedazzle ore yourself.



I feel like that shot was kind of an unflattering angle so here's a bonus one that makes my tits look like the eighth wonder of the goddamn world.

Mommy Issues.

temporarily locked post, sorry

The Life of An Underpants Photo.

Today I took a photo of myself in my undies. That's the easy part, whether you're an amateur camwhore or a zillionare Evil Patriachial Media Overlord.

(Note: I am not a professional Photoshoppeur, and these examples will not be as polished as the EPMOs' plastic women. Also I don't have access to quality lighting/wardrobe/backdrops/cameras/models/etc., so my raw material is rough as hell. But I think these pictures can still serve as a basic example of what a difference software makes.)

This is the original photo with no alteration except resizing and de-face-ification.

Step One

Here's the level of modification I'd feel okay posting on the Pervocracy - I tweaked the colors, cropped and blurred the random junk in the background, and made my skin a bit smoother, but it's still basically me. It's a little vain but I wouldn't consider it dishonest.

Step Two

Okay, so the model isn't green and lumpy anymore, but she's still... you know. Not exactly ideal. At this level we're still using only the original photo, we're not importing Mary-Kate Olsen's ribcage, but we can put a little polish on her. She'll still be a "plus-size" case, but much less objectionable. This is still much less modification than your average magazine ad.

Step Three

Let's face it, Three looks a little silly, because there's only so much you can do with the original pixels. The distortions get obvious (the underwear styles look funny now), and there's some defects that cannot be easily removed. If this photo was theoretically "editorial" content I'd start to have some guilt at this point, but if it was purely "artistic" or advertising I'd have absolutely no problem grafting in better parts as needed. The perfect woman is not some gestalt, she's the perfect rack plus the perfect ass plus the perfect tummy, and I have no problem using a different woman for each of those if that provides the most perfection.

Step Four

Okay, so it's an unholy Frankensteinian abomination and still kinda stocky. (Mostly for lack of time.) But it's a sexy Frankensteinian abomination. A FAILF. And the part that creeps me out is that when I was turning myself into this ludicrous "ideal woman" made of four people and the Liquefy tool, I never had to question which direction I should go in to be more "ideal." I didn't have to look up reference photos or consult the breed standards; I knew, instinctually, exactly what about my body "needed" to be changed.

It's as if "woman" is a Platonic solid, every angle mathematically known, and any deviation is not an aesthetic difference, not a natural variation, but an error.

Oh, not in real life. Plenty of guys have met Step One and liked her just fine. But here's the weird part--those guys and their preferences are just as underrepresented in the media as I am. A man who thinks that fat/short/small-boobed/etc. women are sexy is going to be pretty hard up for a beer ad that caters to his preferences. This goes beyond sexism and straight into just weird.

Cosmocking: December '09!

White cover! I always like the white covers, they're so much nicer than the ridiculous screaming-neon-colors ones! Fergie! Right after Kim Kardashian, too! Cosmo's really classing it up here! The word "SEX" is in 45-point type, I measured! Fergie is so Photoshopped her neckline appears to be hovering in a totally different plane of reality from her chest!


Also, she is the Joker.

Hm, as long as I've got the scanner out, I think I'm gonna save myself some typing on this one.


This is a common theme in Cosmo "embarrassing stories"--as soon as something goes wrong, no matter how minor, the object of your affection will just fucking vanish. There's no laughing it off and there's not even any words you can say--they just back out in open-mouthed horror like they walked in on you fucking the dog.

I've had guys continue to mack on me after they've watched me vomit (CB, wherever you are, you are a true man's man), so if a little thing like hair extensions takes him from 60 to 0, he has some serious "DOES NOT MEET MAH STANDARDS" issues. It's also pretty harsh to ditch a girl for wearing cosmetics--obviously a girl with no cosmetics isn't appealing to this type, so what the fuck was she supposed to do? I guess she's supposed to create an illusion of natural perfection and seamlessly maintain it.

Meanwhile he's supposed to wash his face and maybe shave.


Gosh, what's in it for me then? Faking arousal for his benefit while I sit there with my pants on sticking my fingers in a jar of grape jelly for the sound effects is something I'd do for $1.99/minute, but it's not something I'd do in a relationship. Partly because, shit, I'll masturbate in front of anyone who won't call the cops about it--but also because being dishonest about something like that would make me feel all hollow and weird. What's the point of having a sexual relationship if it isn't genuinely sexual for both of us?


"Subtly."

"GET A ROOM, HUMPASAURUS REX!"


I'm not sure if this advice is terrible or not, but I do know that it's classy as fuck.


This is so, as Twisty would say, pornulated. And it brings up the "what, am I getting paid?" issue again. If I'm groping my own breasts during sex, it's because they're fucking aching for it and touching them feels so fucking good. Or because he likes seeing me like that, don't you, you naughty boy. But I don't do it to make him think that he's sexy. (Doesn't that imply that he's actually not?)


There's a whole article on the noises men make during sex. The frustrating part is, after every category--the grunter, the moaner, etc., "your move" is how to get him to stop! Why the fuck would I want to do that? It's primal, it's beautiful, and it means he fucking loves it! The article is written as if my partner's ecstasy is some sort of petty annoyance to me.


And they say Cosmo isn't topical.

The Mile High Ladies' Auxiliary.

So, um... does it still count as the Mile High Club if you only have sex with yourself?

Hmm.

(Warning: annoying porny image host because the non-porny ones keep ganking me. Sorry about the ads.)

Worth 1000 words.

(With thanks to Unix-Jedi by way of LabRat.)

Piercing Bleg Followup.

Salt water helped dramatically. Thanks to everyone who suggested it! Check out my ear being not-gross!




(The tacky mystery-metal Piercing Pagoda earring is in an old piercing; the one that was giving me trouble is the one with the stud. So don't go "there's your problem.")

Pervocracy Stew.

How long has it been since I last posted fun pictures? Too long!

So for your brief amusement, my butt, my boobs and pinchy things and hooray for nakey!

And a brief link, which I won't try your patience by fully eviscerating: Twisty Faster on what the "revolution" actually entails. Basically that we'd stop having families and being feminine (because only men want that, we all really want to be hairy and alone) and therefore all of civilization would restructure itself and religion and economy and government would crumble. (We want that too.)

And a weirder link, to something that's probably a great idea but you'd look so painfully ridiculous: Fleshlight cushions! Just plug it in and go to town like you were really having sex with a small square mattress-person! I think it's brilliant.

And a programming note: I'll be at the Kinky Crafters' Munch from 3-6 PM at the CSPC today, so if you're in Seattle and want to meet a real-life Holly Pervocracy, come say hi. (There's a $5 suggested donation for the event, membership not required, 18+ obviously.)



EDIT: Durrr. Fixed Twisty link.

Sex blogger completely forgets mission statement, posts vacation slideshow

Out of 6 planned ghost towns, 2 were impossible to find, 1 was located on private property, and the 3 I visited were not properly "ghost" but still occupied either in the form of really really shitty towns or deliberate historical showcases. If this area contains truly empty towns with naught but a tumbleweed rolling down Main Street, I didn't have the time or information to find them. I did get some maps and good advice at Cashmere, so I might be able to do better sometime in the future.

•Snoqualmie Pass, with busload of British tourists
•Roslyn, WA
•The Rosyln cemetery dates back to 1887
•Liberty, WA
•Liberty arrastra - water-powered stone-crushing mill
•Mysterious cairns in Liberty
•Campsite over the Wenatchee River
•Swim at your own risk
•Leavenworth, WA - a fake-ass "Bavarian" tourist town in some very real-ass mountains
•It's like Disneyland, only in the middle of nowhere! And German for some reason!
•McBavaria
•Cashmere, WA
•Moo
•Church in Cashmere
•Modern apartments
•Mommy, I want to see the 10 deadliest snakes!
•Feedin' time
•happysnake.jpg
•Chameleon!
•Tortoise :)
•Be nice to the tortoise :(
•Whitey
•HOLY SHIT



Your regularly scheduled horniness will resume later tonight; I've got a disgusting sex-toy story, a sexy fucking-outdoors story, and a Cosmocking coming up.

Lone Troops Overseas, FUCK YEAH!

Today, going through junk salvaged from my parents' house, I found my old Girl Scout uniform!

It still fits! (sort of)

...Man, I never did get very many merit badges. They're all indoorsy ones too like "health" and "multiculturalism." Our troop went camping and hiking plenty--hell, we even learned how to use a machete to bushwhack in dense jungle--but I guess we just never bothered to get the machete merit badges.

On Fat.

I am not a goddess. I am not a porker.

[All links are NWS images.]
Fat belly.

I am not less a person or less sexual than a thin woman. I can get laid. My pussy isn't loose or dirty or hard to get to. I'm also not more sensual, horny, hedonistic, kinky, masochistic, or inclined to give blowjobs than a thin woman. Fat doesn't make me more orgasmic, better able to take a beating, more in touch with my body, or in any way more of a real woman.

I don't like the term "BBW" because I think packaging "beautiful" into the term is kind of egotistical. Some fat girls are BBWs and some are just BWs, you know?

Fat tits.

I am not as healthy, as strong, as fast, or as flexible as I'd be if I were thin. I'm not teetering on the edge of diabetes and heart failure either. I can run, hike, lift weights, and do martial arts--but not as well as I could if I were thin.

I don't stuff my face with Twinkies and Big Macs all day. I don't obsess about food. But I did get fat by overeating, and when I consistently eat less food than I burn, I lose weight like anyone else.

Fat hips.

I didn't consciously choose to be fat. My fat is not a form of self-expression. It doesn't say "I made myself ugly because I want to be ignored." It also doesn't say "I enjoy pleasure to the fullest because I'm so free."

I'm repulsed by fat hate, but I worry that fat acceptance amounts to sticking my head in the sand. Being fat does crud up my life in some ways and it's easier to change my body than change the tide of society (or the laws of physics).

Fat ass.

I'm on a diet now and it seems to be going better than average (calorie counting with normal food, making a conscious effort not to try to overachieve by starving, and over the last three months I've dropped about 18 pounds), but I've seen a few diets come and go so I'm not going to announce "Hallelujah, I'm cured" just yet.

The funny thing is, if I were cured, if I woke up tomorrow at 110 pounds, I think it would be amazing just how many of my problems and insecurities weren't changed a bit.