Friday, December 31, 2010


I guess I haven't posted about this before. It's sort of a weird topic, because it's something that on the one hand I consider "minor," not worth making any big kerfuffle about, and on the other hand it affects me literally every day. I have Developmental Dyspraxia.

For me, this mostly means that I have tremendous difficulty thinking about spatial relationships, including the ones relating to my own body. I walk into doorframes because I don't know how wide my shoulders are. My handwriting and drawing are terrible because I can't figure out which way my hand should move to make the shapes I'm thinking about, and I have to hold my pen a weird way. I am absolutely useless at any form of sport or dance, and I... kinda walk funny.

Mentally, I can't estimate the size or distance of objects. I mean, I can tell the difference between a skyscraper and a pencil, I'm not The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, but I can't necessarily tell three feet from six feet. And I have some sensory weirdnesses; certain sounds and textures give me an intolerable case of screaming meemies for no good reason. (The worst thing: chewing gum. Ugh. I freaking hate gum.)

All this was a lot worse when I was a kid. Back in elementary school I would freak out or even throw up when I couldn't handle certain situations, and my lack of coordination was to the point where my ability to stay upright was pretty tenuous. If I was startled or upset or even just laughing too hard--hello, floor. I couldn't really handwrite until about fifth grade.

I'm better now. I had some occupational therapy, and a lot of practice just learning to exist in the physical world. I don't have grace--I'll never have grace--but I do fine at work and at most of the activities I want to do, and the impacts on my daily life are more of the "gosh I'm clumsy and quirky" variety than anywhere in "oh crap I'm disabled" territory. (While I was writing this post, I got up to get some milk out of the fridge. I tried to open the wall next to the fridge. Oh well, quick readjust. I probably shouldn't be a surgeon.)

Maybe the only weird thing is how other people perceive me. If someone pays attention, they can tell that I'm a little different, but they don't usually make the "oh, this is an actual disorder" connection. More often they characterize it as a part of my personality--positively that I'm silly, or negatively that I'm careless. Much as people tend to perceive my frizzy hair as some statement that I'm wacky and free-spirited, instead of just being the way it grows, people perceive me walking into stationary objects as some strange form of self-expression. The idea that I'm just, you know, the goofy absent-minded walking-into-tables type seems to characterize me. And I don't usually bring up that no, I really wasn't able to tell that I was going to hit that table. Most of the time I'd rather be a doofus than a special-needs kid.

In terms of sex, it hasn't been that big a deal, since by the time I was old enough to have sex I was compensating pretty well for the major stuff. It would certainly be nice for certain activities to have a better sense of rhythm and coordination, but I do okay. Likewise I might be attractive to more people if I could present my body in a less flailing manner, but there's more than enough people who are indifferent to or charmed by a little flailing.

Also, if you tell me your penis is twelve inches long, I'll have no way of knowing that it isn't.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Little Miss Perfect.

Another day, another woman threatened with the release of a sex tape. Because it would totally ruin her if anyone knew she had consensual private sex with her own husband. Except it kind of would (not as bad as ten years ago, maybe, but see her try to do anything with children or government now--the mere fact that this made international news tells you we as a society aren't exactly cool about it), so, yuck.

Every time one of these comes out, the water-cooler talk is the same: "This is why I'd never make a sex tape. You just don't know where it'll end up! I'd never do anything like that!"

And that's damn right, I would never make a sex tape!

Other things I would never do include: getting pregnant by accident, staying in an abusive relationship, gaining weight, losing weight, getting upset because of something that was said to me, putting up with sexual harassment, getting in debt, saying something rash on the Internet, getting drunk, giving in to social pressure, or making any bad or irrational decisions ever in my entire life.

As someone whose life contains absolutely no mistakes, flaws, or unexpected circumstances, I just can't muster up any sympathy for these... these humans.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Crisis averted.

I found a lump in my breast. I panicked for a moment. I have to see a doctor now! No, I have to see a doctor as soon as these gigantic black bruises on my breasts go away, because in my last bout of illness I had enough "that's just a hickey... I guess I bruise easy... YES I FEEL SAFE AT HOME" to last me all year.

(It makes me sad, in a way, that no one ever comes to the ER with identifiable BDSM marks. Or even hickeys! I have noticed, however, though most women don't groom their pubes, a surprisingly large number of men shave their chests. Makes EKGs easier.)

And then the lump went away. Guess it was just a hematoma.

I'm a little bit on the fence about whether I should go get poked at and mammographied anyway, but since I'm only 25 and I can't picture a way to tell the story to my doctor, I think I'll just let it go. I'm pretty sure cancer that size doesn't just heal in a couple days.

...Although if it does, shit, I need to get this to the attention of the medical community but STAT.

Monday, December 27, 2010


I have a declaration to make. After being told by oh so many people what a feminist says, does, feels, looks like, believes, votes for, buys, boycotts, dates, fucks, and generally is, I have come to realize I am not a feminist. I am actually a follower of a hitherto unknown gender philosophy. As founder of this unknown philosophy, I claim the right of naming it, and I now identify as a follower of Oogyboogykajoogyism.

The fundamental tenet of Oogyboogykajoogyism is that all genders and sexualities deserve equal human rights. As an Oogyboogykajoogyist, I believe in equal opportunity in the workforce, in fairly shared childrearing and household duties, and in freedom of gender and sexual expression. Oogyboogykajoogyism is dedicated to fighting sexual violence and all forms of physical and emotional abuse, and is opposed to the degradation of any gender or sexuality in the public discourse.

Oogyboogykajoogyism also kinda has a thing about Cosmopolitan magazine.

And that's it. There's no other baggage. No one to tell me "oh, but you're not a real Oogyboogykajoogyist if you don't do this" or "since you're an Oogyboogykajoogist, I assume you do that." No one to backhand-compliment me that I'm sure not your typical Oogyboogykajoogyist. No one to tell me that I'm a bad Oogyboogykajoogyist and I'm doing it wrong. No one to write me off because I'm just another angry Oogyboogykajoogyist. As a totally novel philosophy, it has to be taken on its own terms.

I hope you will follow me through the exciting process of transforming this into an Oogyboogykajoogyist blog. I expect great things.

Come to think of it, while I'm at it, I'd like to redefine my gender as an oogyboogykajoogman. That should help even more.

(An oogyboogykajoogman has a female body, but only some of the other traits of a woman. Therefore, when one of them looks or behaves in an unfeminine way, they are not an imperfect woman, but a perfect oogyboogykajoogman.)

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Fucking like an actuary.

To the Federal Aviation Administration, a human life is worth about $2.7 million. Oh my God, that's horrible, right? Well, you can dispute the amount, but the way the system works, there has to be an amount. In philosophical terms a human life may be worth infinity dollars, but when you're building an aircraft, you can't spend infinity dollars on safety features. Every design will let some people die, and you have to assign a specific number value to decide exactly where you draw the line between "this airplane is unsafe" and "no one can afford this airplane." If adding five-point harnesses to airline seats would save 10 lives and cost $30 million, then those 10 people are knowingly--and, although I wouldn't like to say this to the families, reasonably--sacrificed. They die not from cheapness but from compromise, from the understanding that if we want commercial air travel then we accept some deaths.

And this is why sometimes I have sex with strangers.

I'll admit right now, mea culpa, I haven't done the math. If I were really working this FAA-style I'd assign the benefit of gettin' some strange a dollar value, then multiply the odds of every possible adverse event by their assigned dollar values (1% chance of getting the herp x $500 worth of sadness caused by the herp = $5 Expected Herp Cost), and subtract costs from benefit to determine whether the sex breaks even. I haven't literally done this.

But I'm aware that there is math going on. The one thing I will not do is insist on a 0% risk. That's not sensible, reasonable, or possible. I won't even insist on the absolute minimum risk. Telling me "condoms have a failure rate" doesn't scare me--I know it; I'm neither ignorant nor in denial. I've simply estimated that it's still worth it.

So it's from the same philosophy, not a contradiction, that I won't fuck strangers without a condom. The Expected Herp Cost goes up too high, all the passengers on the plane die, and it's not worth my $2.7 million anymore. Taking calculated risks doesn't mean I'll take any risk.

A corollary of this approach is that not only should you avoid saying "I'll only have sex if it's infinitely safe," but you also need to not say "if I got the herp, that would be infinitely bad." You can't designate it as a moral failing or a sign that you're a disgusting or stupid person--you just happened to win the Virus Lottery, that's all. You're going to suffer some negative consequences, but you aren't going to be ruined. (I've noticed that some sex-positive circles are actually terribly judgey when it comes to the subjects of STDs and unwanted pregnancies, as if someone with these is not only shamefully irresponsible, but somehow an affront to sex-positivity itself. Sex couldn't possibly be positive and also sometimes harmful!) The fact that I don't have the herp means that I'm lucky, not that I've been doing everything right. And--whether you're a virgin or a streetwalker--you too. The amount of luck you needed might be different, but it was some. Nobody can say "I didn't need luck because I was smart."

And will I be steering this post in a circle if I point out that that's no excuse not to be smart?

My vagina is an airplane, and every time I take it up, I know that I might fall. I have a seatbelt, but I do not have wings. But I fly my vagina-plane anyway. Because it's worth it to see the world fall away beneath me, to break through the clouds, to tilt away toward the sun and soar.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

A bittersweet emergency Christmas.

I drove an ambulance for two years. No one ever died in my truck. Not one. Plenty of people were dead when we found them, and a few died before we could load them, and I'm sure many died shortly after we dropped them off.

The one who came closest was D. We picked him up at a nursing home, to take him home to die. When we got there he was already doing that fish-breathing dying people do, those desperate irregular gasps like each breath is a load they can barely lift. His son was by his side, holding his hand.

My partner mouthed to me, "Let's move quick. He's CTD." Circling The Drain. Ha ha! Like in a potty! We are monsters because if we were human we couldn't help people. Have you ever had to pick up human fingers and put them in a bag? It's a lot easier to do if you're a dumb callous jerk.

So we were monsters, and loaded the truck fast, and drove to his home. The whole way there D gasped, on and off, sometimes stopping for a long moment and seeming still but then finding the strength for one more breath. He reacted to nothing in the world, not sound nor sight, but when his son held his hand, D held it back. Weakly. And he held on. For fifteen miles, with my own breath held at every traffic light, he held on. We got to his home. His whole family was there. They were all around him, in his own home where he'd raised his children and played with his grandchildren, when he finally stopped gasping.

We put him in his own bed, and washed his face, and pulled the sheets up nicely. We made him look okay, look comfortable. He'd made it home.


M was the very opposite. We came to take her from her home so she could die in a hospice. It was better for her there--she'd get more care, be kept cleaner and medicated more consistently, and the burden would be off the family. It made sense. But it wasn't her home.

M wasn't old, but she had cancer. When we came into the room and saw her, she was, like D, seemingly unaware of anything. She did not look at us, did not move when we said her name. But when we got ready to take her out of her bed, before we had even touched her, she stopped breathing.

I touched her neck. I felt her heart beat a few times, weak and irregular, and then just a thready little thrill, and then nothing. For long enough to be sure, nothing at all. The family looked at me expectantly. "She's gone," I said. It felt like a stupid cliche, but I couldn't think of a better way to say it.

Her husband lost it. He forgot we were there, forgot his own family even. He just crumpled and sobbed. It wasn't dignified in any way; he wailed. He kissed her and kneeled by the bed and bawled until snot ran down his face. We let him be. I went into the living room and made calls to our dispatch, the hospice agency, and the funeral home. We realized we'd left our jump kit in the bedroom, and I snuck back in as unobtrusively as possible behind the husband to grab it. I needn't have bothered. I could have set off a grenade behind him and he wouldn't have known.

She had to die sooner rather than later to do it, but M, like D, didn't die alone and she didn't die in a strange sterile place. Although both of them seemed to know nothing of the world, I think they knew when they were home.


R didn't die in front of me. We came on the same mission as M, to take her from her home to a hospice. Her home was nice--not fancy, not big, not in a nice area--but nice. It was clean and calm with art on the walls and her bed was was big and old and looked comfy. The place we were taking her was also clean and calm, but the art was all generic soothing landscapes and the beds had plastic mattresses. This was her last moments in any place that was home.

Her husband, quite elderly and moving slowly, followed us out. He wasn't coming in the ambulance. Presumably he later came and visited her in the hospice, but this was the last time he would be home with her. In the parking lot, before we loaded her into the ambulance, we paused so he could say goodbye to her. He didn't say anything. He bent down, slow and unsteady, and kissed her like no one was watching.


We were cleaning a corpse, once, at the ER. Like ya do. The girl helping me clean him was kind of a sensitive type, definitely not a subscriber to the "I'm frivolous and callous because I care" philosophy, but she was holding it together okay. He was on the older side of middle-aged, not really old enough to die, but he'd been obese and a lifelong smoker and heavy drinker and that helps us make it okay in our minds. If someone didn't take perfect care of themselves, you know, that means they sorta deserved it and we shouldn't feel so bad. It's not that we're evil, it's just that we'll believe anything to not feel so bad.

But we took off his shirt and suddenly the girl started sniffling and holding back tears. I looked and I knew why. He had a tattoo that read, "If love could have kept you alive, you never would have died." Underneath was a picture of his daughter.


There are two paintings hanging on my wall. They're from a woman I cared for, way back when I worked at an assisted living facility. She had to leave the facility when she broke her hip and her health got worse, and she gave away most of her paintings--there were dozens--to the aides. One of the paintings is from long ago, back when she was healthy. It's an exotic market scene, rendered in blue and gold with wild, abstract brushstrokes, with birds in cages and vaguer figures suggesting hanging fruit and gourds.

The other painting was from after she suffered the brain injury that put her in assisted living. It's clumsy and simple, painted with the brush held in a twisted, contracted fist. But what's more noticeable is that it's an entirely literal, dead-center and unembellished image of some nice flowers in a pot. All of her paintings after the injury were like that.

But she never stopped painting.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

You all get screwed equally!

Insurance company rep: "We recognize gay marriage in this state, so male or female, doesn't matter, your spouse is covered. Because of this, we don't cover unmarried domestic partners of any kind. Male or female."

Even though they end up insuring far fewer people in the end, I still can't help but feel a little heartwarmed.

(The question of polyamorous marriage kinda runs into a hitch here. Asking an insurance company to cover my husband or wife shouldn't matter to them [actually, women have higher healthcare costs, but as long as the overall population is still 50-50 it doesn't matter who's paired with whom], but asking them to cover my husband and wife would be a different thing. Maybe they'd just have to say "okay, but we're gonna charge you for it" and come up with a new "Family Plus" rate category.)

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Autographs, photographs, and love.

I've come to realize that getting a celebrity's autograph is pointless. Meeting a celebrity in person can be a giddy experience, but the scratchy signature they make--probably you'll never even look at it again, and if you do, the only joy in it is remembering the meeting. And what a waste if the only thing you remember about the meeting is "oh yeah, Bruce Campbell--I made him write his name on some paper and then I walked away." I've met a couple famous people since and I've shook hands or exchanged a few words, left without any souvenir, and been happy.

For the same reason, I don't take a lot of photos. Occasionally I'll take touristy (or naked) pics to share with people, or I'll take a stab at artsy photography, but I almost never take photos of my friends; I don't do bar pics or party pics. Looking at the photo won't take me back to the day when "MOOSE EARS!" was the funniest joke ever told. Nothing will take me back to that day. And that's okay. I had that day. And do I really want to relive "MOOSE EARS!" forever when the future might hold, say, "T-REX HANDS!"?

It's a shame to waste a moment by trying to make it into an artifact. Life is ephemeral, memories don't have shit on experiences, and any artifacts that don't rot or demagnetize will be incinerated when the sun swallows the earth. Realizing this is what made me able to fall in love.

Love is wonderful and warmfuzzy and joyous, and it always ends in pain. There's no "happily ever after," because in real life, the story keeps going until you break up or someone dies. The best you can hope for is to get hit by a bus together.

Except that's not true. The best you can hope for is to spend a summer evening lying in the grass with your head on his belly, hands loosely entwined, talking about nothing, watching the orange glow of sunset wash over the clouds. The moment isn't forever; it's only good. Better to love and lose and all that. Better to go through the cycle of suffering, to want and not have, to have and not keep, to endure the pain every time around, than never to have those moments at all.

At the end there's nothing. I don't have a damn thing to paste in my scrapbook or frame on my shelf. Even the memories cause more grief than joy to think about. Why the fuck did I even bother? Because I was happy. And that time is as real as now.

I don't want to lose love. I want those ephemeral good parts to be as long and as many as possible. I don't like that love--or life, for that matter--is temporary. But I accept it. It's worth it.

This isn't a breakup or pre-breakup post or anything like that. It's just a reflection. Right now I'm in a happy relationship, and I worry sometimes that it'll hurt when it ends. Telling myself "don't think about that" doesn't work with my model of thinker, and telling myself "maybe it'll last forever" sells about as well as saying that my kitty went to a nice farm upstate. (Also, I feel like staying with someone forever no matter what is about as pleasant as a thirty-year-old crippled cat with cancer still staggering helplessly around some farm.) So instead I tell myself "it will hurt. That's the price you pay."

I'm willing to pay. The price is fair--no, not fair, it's a goddamn steal for all this joy. Just bill me later, please.


Sorry about the posting lull. Work's been brutal. I get home and I'm just whoof until it's time to go out again. I think it's just the season(I don't know why Christmas would make people get sick more, but it seems somehow inevitable by ER logic that it would), and things will be saner around January 2nd.


It occurred to me that my greatest fear when it comes to being outed to family, coworkers, or other kink-unaware people in my life is not that they'll find it shocking or bizarre. (I'm maybe a little afraid that they'll find it totally boring and unremarkable, and then what will I do with myself?) My greatest fear is that they'll find it gross. There's a certain cachet to being "that weird girl who goes to freak parties and does some freaky shit." There's no cachet whatsoever to being "that gross girl who goes to disgusting parties and does some nauseating shit."

I'm weirdly torn. Part of me gets off on having a shocking secret identity. The other part of me wishes that constant lies-of-omission weren't a part of my life. Partly because I'm naturally a very (probably too) open person, and partly because I think all the squares in my life just think I'm boring. Because I can't say "I was at a fetish party and I got spanked inside a spaceship," and I don't want to make up some elaborate lie, I apparently do nothing with my Saturday nights. I met all my friends "at a coffeeshop" and when we get together we "hang out." Whooo.

Fortunately, the answer to all my nail-biting is simple--anyone who doesn't know me well enough to know the "real" me doesn't actually give a crap one way or another. They're way too busy fretting over what I must think of them.

Sunday, December 19, 2010


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.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Three boundaries.

There's three different levels of boundaries that I run into in BDSM. And hell, regular sex too.

1) What I actually enjoy--more than this and I won't be having fun.
2) What my mind can tolerate--more than this and I'll get genuinely frightened or angry.
3) What my body can tolerate--more than this and I'll actually be injured.

I tend to play like enough of a fluffy little bunny that 3 is almost never a risk, but sometimes it's hard to make the distinction between 1 and 2. There are times that I'm willing--even find it somehow important--to go to level 2, but those times are few and serious. When I'm just having funsies with my budsies, I really want to stay within boundary 1. And that can be hard to communicate. It's a downer, and sometimes considered uncouth, to "yellow" or "hang on, honey," not because of any danger but just because you're not getting off. But it's a much bigger downer not to.

Hanging in there because you're able to put up with something, while letting your partner think that you're just lost in ecstasy, sometimes feels like the easy or polite thing to do. It's also a great way to guarantee that you get the same thing next time, and that your partner never really knows what you like, and that sex feels a little bit like a chore. As so often is the case, being polite is nice, but being so polite you don't communicate isn't doing either of you any favors.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Tales from the set.

Before I was an EMT, before I was a sexblogger, but considerably after I was a pervert, I spent several months working as propmaster and assistant art director on an independent horror film. A very independent horror film. (Because I'm about to dish dirt, some of which may be of dubious veracity, and because my real name and the real names of the dirted are in the credits, I can't post the title. Just think of it as Evil Dead, only without the breakout success or the Bruce Campbell.)


It was shot in northern Washington State, up near the Canadian border. Two of the producers, a couple with Actual Hollywood Experience, housed me in their guest room and took me under their wing as a sort of surrogate daughter--a sometimes cluelessly awkward daughter, but a dreadfully earnest and energetic worker with an almost puppylike devotion to my surrogate producer-parents.

The other producer--let's say "Muffy"--was woman with extremely rich parents whom she still lived with, and it was their money she put into the project. She even made her mom cook most of the "catering" for the crew. (At other times, we were fed by a real catering company--which gave us the leftovers from various weddings and events.) She also cast herself as the female lead, and pushed for the script to be the Muffy Story Featuring Muffy.

Other characters on the film:
-The director, who used a pseudonym comparable to "Robert Nightshade" and insisted that it be used exclusively on the set, although his actual name was more like Bobby Shmuckler. He was most notorious for asking the camera operator to widen out a bit on a bikini shoot, because, well, "Uncle Bobby likes the feet." He was also notorious for... I'll get to that.
-A Big Name Hollywood Actor from a very famous TV series who made our lives hell by being usually stoned, sometimes drunk, and constantly obnoxious. No-name community theater actors would painfully and precisely soldier through take after take until he finally deigned to say something sort of close to his lines. Midway through the production he unexpectedly shaved his head, which created a serious continuity problem for us. We solved it by painting his head brown.
-An endless supply of identical blonde Canadian model-actress-whatevers, who showed up, cried about having to do a nude scene, did a nude scene, died, and went back to Canada.
-Our "stunt coordinator," who ended up doing more security and general grunt work than stunts, and was a Special Ops veteran and Hell's Angel (I'm still fairly convinced he really was both) who had a lot of stories about killing people. Once we were startled by a sudden noise outside, and he leapt to the window, literally growling and pacing like an animal.


Fully aware that he had neither a great story nor lush visuals to sell, Bobby Schmuckler wrote in plenty of lush visuals of the other kind. There were a lot of nude scenes on the film. On one of them, we were between shots and the Canadian model-actress-whatever was wandering around in that fluffy white bathrobe that signifies "nude scene" in the movie world.

We were shooting in an actual abandoned asylum. A small corner of it had been niced up and secured for production purposes, but the rest of this vast building was empty and crumbling. Excursions through it always brought up surprises--a huge number of dead cats (one with three eyes), an operating room where lobotomies were performed, squatter nests, places where the walls were entirely broken through and plants grew into the building, and for some reason, one room with a giant knee-deep pile of broken glass. It was also so thoroughly, so blatantly haunted as to make me believe in haunting. But although this building was abandoned, two other facilities were still active on the campus: a center for troubled youth, and a Level 3 sex offender facility.

During filming, one of the sex offenders snuck into the facility kitchen, covered himself entirely in aluminum foil, and escaped. He was later caught on the other side of our set, still foil-wrapped for freshness. Not one of us had noticed him.

Anyway. Back to this nude scene. The lights for the next shot were taking a while to set up, and the model-actress-whatever wandered off in her bathrobe. She went to the fence of the sex-offender facility, where the guys were out in the yard, and gave them all an eyeful.

And that's how our movie production caused a prison riot.

The model-actress-whatever was sent back to Canada and our makeup artist was recast in the part.


As propmaster, I had many... unique... tasks on the film. One of my favorite was being asked to craft a realistic poop ("get me some Taco Bell and I'll craft that for ya"), then being asked to make it edible. Tootsie Rolls and some patient, truly loving sculpting saved the day.

There was also the problem of a tunnel that was supposed to be yards and yards long, but was, in reality, maybe fifteen feet. We put up pipes in the background and rearranged them for each shot, so the actress ran past the same wall with different pipes three or four times. It kinda worked.

Our best props failure came when it was time to kill off one of our favorite actors, a local theater guy who'd always been exceptionally helpful and decent to the crew. As our twisted way of giving him a good sendoff, we resolved to give him the messiest, nastiest death in the movie. We decided to use a cannister of compressed air and literally gallons of fake blood to create a spectacular arterial spray. On the second try, the rig worked perfectly and the spray was enormous, ceiling-staining, red-raining, beautiful.

On the first try, during testing out in the parking lot, we over-pressurized the cannister and it exploded. No one was seriously injured, but boy, did it look bad.


Another casting problem concerned the main monster of the movie, an evil female ghost. Our first actress disappeared. Our second actress drunkenly climbed a lamppost and swung from the top, then disappeared. (I mean, not immediately. But like the next day.) Our third actress disappeared. At his wits' end, or maybe just seizing the moment, Bobby Schmuckler decided to cast the only performer he could really rely on: himself.

He took this role very seriously. He got fitted for a bra. Although the ghost only appears in shadows and flashes and wears a floor-length dress anyway, he demanded the makeup girl shave his entire body. (They later ended up dating.) With a flowing wig, ruby red lips and pale cheeks, and long acrylic fingernails, he made a darling ghost. Although it could be hard to take him seriously when he directed in costume.


Places we set off fire alarms on this movie: the asylum, the public library, the best hotel in town at midnight, and the producer's house. But the only one that we actually set on fire was the asylum. It didn't burn down or anything. It was just, you know, a little bit on fire.


Amazingly, the movie was finished and distributed and I now own the DVD. Muffy took over the editing (via the editor's penis, you heard it here, folks) and it was made into the Muffy Story Featuring Muffy, but there's still plenty of drag-monster action, Canadian titties, and for me, so many happy and strange memories. It's kind of a terrible and nonsensical movie, but even to an outsider it has that wild, improvised, 3 AM, let's-put-on-a-show spirit in it, and I love it.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Everything once.

This afternoon I taught myself to solder components to a circuit board. I didn't really have a specific project to do, just a soldering iron and a practice board and the feeling that it's one of those skills I really ought to have. And I had the funny feeling, fitting resistors and capacitors into the board, that this wasn't so different from learning to take a fist.

Er. It's not exactly the same. But there are far more feelings in common than you'd expect. The sensation of learning to use your muscles in a new way, the initial rush of "wow, this is easier than it looks" followed by the setting in of "no, there are tricky parts and I won't be an expert on my first day", and the unparalleled pleasure of gaining a new skill. (And overcoming fear; soldering is more frightening to me than fisting, because my spatial perception is so screwy that I have to focus very hard not to touch the iron to my skin, whereas my tactile perception in my vagina is quite fine indeed.)

I want to try everything once. Everything that isn't evil or dangerous, at least. Even if I weren't at all bisexual, I think I would still have to have sex with a girl once, just to have done it. And indeed I don't like buttsex, but nonetheless I'm glad I've gotten fucked up the ass a couple times. To never try something, to die without even knowing what it's like, seems horrifying to me. I once had the opportunity to eat mealworms and I turned it down, and I'm still kicking myself.

I'm only going to live so long. I want to live a lot. I want experiences broad and deep, but if I have to choose, I choose broad. I have, at age 25, lived in 13 cities or towns, held 9 jobs (not counting innumerable short-term gigs; these are only the multi-month formal employments, here), and, by now, fucked 27 people. I suppose you could see this as a sign of some disquiet in me, a sign that I haven't found what I'm looking for--but this is what I'm looking for. I don't want one simple life. Although, you know, maybe I could try that for a bit...


I believe that God is the universe. Everything that exists is a manifestation of the divine--a divinity that may not be "good" or personally interested or even purposeful, but is beautiful. God is the atoms and God is the clouds in the pale-blue winter sky, God is mold in the drywall and God is IRS form 2290 (Heavy Highway Vehicle Use Tax Return), God is you and me and Kim Jong Il and Carrot Top.

I've been asked how this differs from atheism, and I'm not entirely sure. I don't believe in the divine violation of natural laws, although I do think we haven't (and maybe won't) discovered all natural laws. I don't believe that existence has a purpose, at least not one useful to humans. Maybe the only difference is that I see atheism as a philosophy without worship, and I worship the beauty of existence. (I tend to worship the pretty parts more, but hey, I've only got a human brain to work with here.) I love the world, I believe in the world, in a way that "I'm not religious" really doesn't cover.

My point is, when I gasp "oh God, oh God" during sex, I'm not kidding.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Beyond body acceptance.

Some days I look in the mirror and I just see fat and awkwardness and totally unmanageable hair. I try and tell myself that I'm beautiful, and that beauty is a totally artificial concept on top of that, and that the social pressures shaping and enforcing beauty and particularly female beauty are positively disgusting, but some days, I'm just not buying. Especially when I've got zits too.

On those days, I remind myself that, well, that person I mentioned doing CPR on a little ways back? They're alive now.

I remind myself that I graduated college at 19 and that at 12 I pulled a man having a seizure out of a swimming pool. I remind myself that I have my name in movie credits and that I once drove an ambulance lights-and-sirens hell-for-leather around a stock car track. I remind myself that I've wetted down a beached dolphin and I've explored an abandoned asylum, been on the national champion debate team (parli) and built trails in trackless wilderness, fucked a Calvin Klein model and broken into the set of "House" during filming. I remind myself that I've helped save more lives than I can even remember. And if there weren't all that going for me, even if I hadn't lived such a dramatic life, I'd still have what anybody has--a huge list of lives I've touched and things I've done, of differences I've made.

Don't you fucking dare tell me all that's nothing unless I'm a hot little hardbody too.

It's good to like your body, but you know, your body isn't the biggest deal about you. (Or rather, your beauty isn't the biggest deal, since few people insulting your body can be dissuaded by hearing how many pounds you can lift or how quickly you recover from injuries.) It's a heartbreaking waste to take a human being, a person rich in history and abilities and relationships and ideas, and judge them on how nice a decoration they make. Maybe that's inevitable when it comes to strangers, but you damn well know better when it comes to yourself. When you're judging your appearance, you're only judging one tiny part of your self.

So I don't tell myself "I'm pretty, really I am" on ugly days. I say "Maybe I am ugly. I'm still fucking awesome."

Sunday, December 12, 2010


Rowdy and I had been fucking for a good (oh, a good) while. We'd actually gotten to my can't-talk-can't-think point and come out the other side still playing. In an insatiable mood, but figuring Rowdy was starting to get worn out, I started using the Hitachi Magic Wand on myself. Silly me. Rowdy grabbed it and started fucking me again while grinding the wand into the intersection of our bodies.

In the middle of the rapid-fire, blinding mess of orgasms that came (and came and came and oh God came) after that, I felt something... different. Good but not exactly better, not some amazing explosion, and not some gigantic spurting tidal-wave gush of fluid. Just different. I reached down and the wetness there was thinner and much more copious than usual. "Did I just...?" I asked, and neither of us was sure. Afterwards, there was a little puddle on the bed where I'd been.

Did I squirt, or just get wetter than usual, or, um, pee a little bit? I don't know, and honestly, I don't really care. (I kinda hope it wasn't pee.) Whether I hit some arbitrary milestone or not, I had some fantastic orgasms and that matters a hell of a lot more to me. I know some guys are into squirting because "it's the female orgasm you can see!", but seriously now, nobody's at risk of not noticing my orgasms. (I mean, nobody in Middlesex County, seriously.) If it doesn't feel different than, eh, nice party trick I guess.

But it's cool to see what my body's capable of. And a little brain-breaking to have some of it be things that serious grownups will seriously argue don't exist. It's like having the goddamn Loch Ness Monster in my vagina.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Freely given.

It's a little scary at first, but awesome when I think about it, that Rowdy not only can but does get sex and love elsewhere.

Because he still wants to get it with me.

I don't want to be needed. I want to be wanted.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Union and Intersection.

I don't have a favorite sexual position. I have, however, a favorite sexual position with everyone I've been with. With Keith it was missionary, with Alan it was me on top and him thrusting from beneath, with Tommy it was doggy-style, and so on. And the funny thing is, in these people's other relationships, they had different go-to positions.

The geometry of bodies, genitalia, and personalities always fits together differently. It's hard, and not too common, to truly be "a doggy-style guy" who carries doggy-style from partner to partner and fits it in with whatever they are. It's the relationship, and not either (or should I say any) person in it, that dictates these things. (Also, the relative length of your thighs.)

Of course it goes beyond just positions. One of the things that I've been thinking about a lot lately is how it applies to kink. The reason I'm waffly about whether I'm a switch, bottom, sub, or just really horny is because I'm each of these things to different people. I like to be dominated, but only by the people I like to dominate me, if you get my drift. It's 20% "can I tell that they genuinely enjoy being dominant," 20% "are they any damn good at it," and 60% "I don't know, fucking magic." And I'm not describing simple attraction here--I can love fucking someone but not particularly want them to dominate me, just because the magic is different with them.

And of course it goes beyond sex. Alan and I liked nothing better than to cuddle up on the couch and watch 5 continuous hours of "Intervention" and "COPS." (I was filmed by "COPS" once. Funny story.) Rowdy would probably start chewing off his own arm after ten minutes. Neither one of them is wrong, and more importantly, neither one of them is less me. They're just different sides of me, brought out by different people, in whom I myself bring out different sides.

I don't know if it's right to say I'm a different person with every partner. I'm a different person with every relationship.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Proverbs 22:6.

Something that seems to get lost in a lot of discussions on sex ed: sex ed is not just for children and teenagers. It's for future adults. It seems like there's a lot of talk about what a fourteen-year-old needs to know, and not about what a person will eventually need to know. A lot of statistics and speculation about teenage sexual activities and STDs and pregnancy, and not enough about these things in the general population.

High school isn't about learning to be fourteen years old. Most kids show up already knowing how to listen to terrible music and sleep until 3pm on weekends. Why teach a fourteen-year-old biology or trigonometry when the only job a fourteen-year-old is likely to have is burger-flipping? Because you're not teaching the fourteen-year-old; you're teaching the future thirty-year-old doctor or architect.

(Digression: I really wish schools did more to teach for adulthood in general. I'd gladly have given up a semester of Western Civ to have had a class on "how to find a job and an apartment" or "how to treat minor illnesses and when to see a doctor." There's a place for high-minded well-rounded education and I don't want to be one of those dicks who asks "when am I ever gonna need to know about stupid old ancient Greece?", but I'd gladly sacrifice a little bit of Greece to get in a couple hours of lecture and discussion on "how to tell if something is a scam.")

And sex, as it so often turns out, isn't some sort of special case. When you teach a fourteen-year-old how to put on a condom or what consent means, you're teaching a twenty-year-old. And a thirty-year-old. They may not look it right now, but when you teach sex ed to a bunch of immature teenagers, you're teaching college students, married people, parents, police officers, journalists, legislators, and sex ed teachers. You're telling them things they'll remember, and maybe still rely on, when they're a bunch of fifty-year-olds.

You wanna stick "all you need to know right now is abstinence" on them?

P.S.: "Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it." I didn't want to make the actual quote the title because I didn't like the "he" language but felt it would be artificial to remove it, but now you don't have to look it up.

Subliminal virtue.

There's one good thing Cosmo does in every issue. They have a recurring feature, "Red Hot Reads," where they excerpt sex scenes from romance novels for your "his stalwart member plunged between her quivering petals"-reading pleasure. And in every single scene, there's something like this:

"Janey," he said, "I can't wait."
Janey felt the same way. All she could think was more. Jason slipped on a condom, and she guided him inside her. She lifted her hips to his... then pulled away. She lifted again, taking all he had to give her. Then he was grinding too, matching her rhythm. The sensation was so unbearably good. Rich, erotic, amazing. Soon he increased the pace.

It's never declared with fanfare, but the Red Hot Read always includes a condom. The condom is mentioned in passing and treated like a normal thing. It takes just one line--hell, half of a line--to mention, and although one instance of it doesn't do much, the preponderance of stories that include condoms in this way spread the idea that a condom is just a regular part of sex. It becomes part of the audience's model of how sex is supposed to go.

(Now I feel sorta bad that I don't often mention condoms myself. I use them absolutely every time; I just have a habit of considering them so normal that they go without saying, and my audience sufficiently sophisticated that you would understand that.)

In a way, this is more effective sex education than a straight-on screed about how you must use condoms because they're very important and you'll get horrible diseases and give your partner horrible diseases. Direct speech has its place in education--casual mentions in cheesy sex scenes won't tell you how to use a condom properly or what it's for--but sometimes fails as persuasion. Some people will use a condom because they're told it prevents AIDS and babies, but some will only use it when they're convinced that's what normal people do.

Now I just wish Cosmo would go further and model, say, consent in their stories.
"Janey," he said, "I can't wait."
"Neither can I," Janey said. All she could think was more.

A tiny difference, but it changes the heroine's reaction from lying there sending out consensual thought waves, to giving explicit enthusiastic consent.

Stealth propaganda isn't as much fun to write as direct screeds. It doesn't vent your spleen, and it can sometimes feel like a dishonest practice. It also raises questions of "do I want to perpetuate the beauty myth and heteronormativity in my consent-modeling romance novel, or do I want to risk losing my audience?" But it reaches people whom no degree of "Come on guys, you gotta wear a condom because it's really really important, listen to me" ever can.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


Events from this weekend:

-I went to an undisclosed location with undisclosed persons to engage in mostly undisclosed activities, and I am honestly worried that I'm saying too much by admitting it was this weekend. It does make me feel kind of cool to be engaging in dark secret underground shenanigans, but it also makes me incredibly sad that we have to. Pressure from the law and "morals" on one side, and creepy perverts-in-the-bad-way on the other, forces the Massachusetts kink community into this sketchy marginal existence.

-On the drive over, Rowdy was making out with a friend in the backseat. I couldn't look because I was driving, and asked Sprite to provide a play-by-play, which she did admirably. "Okay, they're kissing, they're kissing, there's some general petting going on... hang on, folks, he's reaching under her shirt now, and HE'S SAFE ON SECOND! THIS ONE COULD GO ALL THE WAY!"

-A fellow kinky Jew and I sang the Chanukkah blessings over a fireplay scene. Chag sameach!

-I got sealed in a vacuum cube. (Like this, but without the goofy hood.) It was... interesting. It starts out as just a cube of latex, and then as the air is pumped out it feels like six giant balloons inflating around you, so tightly that for a moment you worry they'll crush you, and then the latex seals to your body and you can't move. At all. This isn't "I can't run away" bondage, this is "I can't wiggle my toes" bondage.

It was a unique physical sensation, but ultimately it was more frightening than exciting for me. My preferred play style is intimately physical, body to body, skin and leather, so this very detached and technological restraint didn't really turn my buttons. And being stuck in total can't-wiggle immobilization is a little bit nightmarish. As I write this, I'm stretching out my limbs and taking deep breaths just thinking about it.

-I'd worked overnight and hadn't had much rest the day before, so as the night went on I got sleepy. I curled up in a dog-crate-sized steel cage and had a nice nap.

-I accidentally got a bit of flesh torn off my back. Ewwww, but not particularly painful or upsetting. What was upsetting was being stuck in a bent-over position (so as not to drip on a white carpet) while my friends made Keystone Kop efforts at first aid. At one point I came within a confusingly labeled bottle of being wiped down with kitchen cleaner.

-I got to run around all night and socialize quasi-normally with my tits out, and all on its own that's fun. Not even sexy fun. It's just freeing.

-The next day, with just Sprite and Rowdy, a discussion of phlebotomy somehow degenerated into examining Rowdy's superficial dorsal vein ("yeah, I could get blood from that, but he probably wouldn't like it"), which degenerated into a more general inspection and contemplation of the male anatomy, which of course degenerated into a double blowjob. As discussions of phleobotomy so often do.

-Oh yeah, and at one point I was getting flogged with a jingly bell clamped to my nipple and I was singing "Jingle Bells" very very enthusiastically. 'Tis the season.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Cosmocking: January '11!

It's that time again! Purple cover! Ashley Greene with one of the most genuinely sexy outfits I've ever seen on a Cosmo cover, but her face is so airbrushed I can barely tell if she has a face! "The Ballsy Way She Scored Twilight," which briefly led me to believe she was a composer and to be impressed Cosmo was featuring women in nontraditional roles in the film industry, but of course it's just an expression and she's an actress! Also: "Look Leaner Naked (The 14-Day Workout)"! I do not think you can lose more than 2 or 3 pounds of fat in 14 days but it only says "look" leaner so perhaps there is elven glamour involved!

The Second I Knew I Wanted to Get Serious
"I was dealing with a family emergency and was feeling really edgy. I'd snap at her for no reason, but she just kept rubbing my shoulders and stroking my hand, helping me calm down. She was so understanding, I realized I wanted her to stick around for good."

What a lucky girl. I wish I had a guy who would allow me to placate him after his random explosions. We could go on special dates where he'd yell but then I'd manage to stop his yelling! So romantic.

What Your Ex's Next Girlfriend Reveals About You
Oh no Cosmo no Cosmo no. Do not legitimize this kind of thing. What your ex's next girlfriend reveals is that he's still a person who likes to be in dating relationships. And what she reveals about you is that you creepily obsess about other people and then tries to relate it all to yourself.

The table below says that every type of new girlfriend (all four of them) reveals that your guy wasn't good enough for you. If he's dating "The Girl Next Door" he's boring and if he's dating "The Wild Card" he's immature. There is no type of girl he can date that reveals that he's a decent guy who just isn't in a relationship with you anymore, which is understandably upsetting but doesn't invalidate the times you had or the people you are.

Sweep your boobs over the back of his neck.
Once he figures out what you did (this may take a few), he'll be positively baffled with the eroticism!

He can insert his penis where the underside of your boob meets your ribs.
Cosmo isn't written for B-cups, is it? Or C-cups. Or most D-cups really.

Look at him as you run your chin from his chest to his crotch.
Oh yeah, baby, chin me. Chin me hard.

Put lube on your nipples, then trace circles on his bare back.
God damn it Cosmo, breasts just do not work like that. I mean, I could do this, but I don't think either of us would feel anything. It's a barely-noticeable backrub and rather harsh and imprecise stimulation for my breasts. I guess the general idea that "wow there are breasts and they're touching me" is supposed to drive the guy crazy, but I can think of so many better ways to do that.

Flutter your eyelashes against his boys for a sweet little tease.
I am now convinced that Cosmo is using a random number generator to make these things. "Okay, hit the 'body part' button twice. Eyelashes... and testicles. Sounds good, we'll roll with it."

Have him squeeze lube onto his penis, then swirl your body over his shaft to spread it.
I don't even know. I seriously don't even. I suppose if he has a flat and one-sided penis that's securely glued to his stomach, it's merely very awkward.

You already get that men and women don't process or present info the same way. But there's been new research investigating just how opposite our brains can be.
I want to take the raw data from this research, throw it all in a big pile, and divide the study subjects into two halves at total random. I bet with enough gold-mining and cherry-picking we could prove beyond statistical error that the resultant Star-Bellied and Plain-Bellied Sneetches were, like, total opposites.

Also, it's disingenuous to talk about "wiring" when you're dealing with study subjects who've spent the last 22 years (undergrads are a representative sample, right?) being taught to act like a boy or girl and being treated like one. I think I could take these methods and prove that people born in Mexico have brains naturally adapted to speak Spanish.

The whole article is made of things like this:
The corpus callosum, the area that connects the left and right sides of the brain and helps people recognize that there's a problem, is less active in men [...], which explains why they think everything's fine until we say otherwise.
Which isn't factually true, and even if it were true, would still not have shit-all to do with goofy "men are from Mars and like football" stereotypes.

This, by the way, is one of the things I refer to when I talk about feminism benefiting men. This article is raveningly sexist, but that doesn't mean it's pro-male, not when it's talking about how men are incapable of normal human communication because their brains are physically inferior.

Foreplay for women is everything that happens 24 hours before sex [...] For men, it's three minutes before insertion.
Shit, that time I spent two hours cleaning out the spider-infested backboard closet was foreplay? And that time Rowdy spent a good part of the evening rubbing against my body and whispering in my ear "you are so getting fucked when we get home" wasn't?

I suspect that Cosmo isn't actually advocating 24 hours of making out, with advancement to nipple stimulation by the 12 hour mark and hopeful vulva contact after 18, but just saying that women have to like you and have generally positive emotions about you before they fuck you. Which isn't exactly foreplay, and isn't exactly something men are exempt from. But putting it like that doesn't make the "women are impossible to please because we're all complicated and emotional and frigid and princessy" message nearly clear enough.

The Moment He's Most Likely to Cheat
Researchers found that a when a guy meets an attractive new woman[...]

Well, there's yer problem. The article goes on to sciencify everything by explaining that attractive women raise a guy's testosterone and this makes him like football more (or something), so you can stop your guy from cheating by raising his testosterone yourself by being more affectionate and sexual with him.

Which simplifies down to "it's good for your relationship to be affectionate and sexual," but that wouldn't be Science then.

When He Wants Vanilla Sex... and you don't.
No points for guessing that speaking honestly to him isn't the answer. No points for guessing that Cosmo's definition of "non-vanilla" is "sex that's, like, sexier," either.

For kinky action, wear something with zippers.
Guh. Wh. I... I... I. I. I uh. I don't... I don't. I uh. Uh.

Congratulations Cosmo, you have rendered me unable to speak.

Q: My man has known and hung out with my girlfriends for a while now, but recently he started becoming more buddy-buddy with my closest friend. They will text each other and G-chat all the time. I love that they're getting friendly, but I'm worried that they're getting along a little too well. Am I being silly, or are they crossing the line?
I know this letter is a fake because no one really uses G-chat.

Cosmo's answer is that they're probably not cheating because they're too open about it, but that you should still separate them because how dare people be friends in your presence. To separate them, it recommends you stop inviting the two of them to things together, and insult your boyfriend's masculinity ("G-chatting again? If you guys get any closer, you're going to have to start lending her tampons.") when you catch him chatting with her.

Apparently if someone isn't cheating on you, the best thing to do is help them realize how much better off they'd be if they did.

Q: I started talking to this dude at the bookstore, and we made plans to grab coffee. Then, a few minutes into our date, he mentioned his wife.[...]
A: [...] The problem here is that the guy is a dick. Married men are not supposed to make plans with strange women.

The hell they aren't! Married men are still human beings who are allowed to drink fucking coffee with whoever the hell they fucking want. I don't think anybody's marriage vows read "forsaking all others including fucking talking to them." I can understand that there might be hurt feelings when one person thinks something is a date and the other doesn't, but "married men must practice flawless Coffee Fidelity" is bugnuts.

There's an article on why you must have a baby between 25 and 35, and if you put it off you'll be sorry, and if you think you don't want kids at all you'll be super double sorry.

There's an article on a project that helps clear wrongfully convicted prisoners, which features glamor shots of the female interns for the project captioned "gorgeous and gutsy" and takes care to describe how they'd "easily fit in at a swanky cocktail party." Because that's what we care about--sure you do fascinating and difficult legal and social work, yeah yeah whateva, but are you fuckable?

If your boss makes sexual advances towards you, think about taking action. Whether it's the kind of action that happens in court or the kind that happens in a bedroom is up to you. It all depends on how far you'd like to climb up the ladder.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Rat race.

I wish I'd done a lot less homework when I was a kid. I'm glad I went to school--knowledge is both practical and wonderful and I wouldn't have just learned it all on my own--and I know that some homework was necessary to drill the knowledge in. But there's also huge amounts of work that I did just to get a grade. Either I already knew the material cold, or I did the homework without genuinely learning--often not out of apathy but out of a fear that if I challenged myself I would miss a deadline or get wrong answers, so doing problems by rote or writing papers on topics I already knew was safer for my grade. I wish that I'd used school to learn things I wanted or needed to know, instead of letting it push me into an arrangement of trading gruntwork for grades.

This is my roundabout way of saying that I hate my job and want to quit. I won't, because I don't have another income source lined up right now, but I want to. Ever since I was sick myself, I can't stop seeing the fact that I'm not working for the patients--I'm working for a monstrously ugly and dim-witted system that treats patients as cogs at best and obstacles at worst. We end up more concerned with shutting people up than with comforting them, better at filling out forms than at relieving pain, more motivated to clear beds than to fix problems. It's not something I want to be a part of any more. Especially since I'm a cogstacle myself--I don't fit into the workplace culture at all and the requirement to constantly work harder not smarter showcases my worst qualities and makes me look mediocre among people who read Twilight unironically. I'm bright and responsible, dammit, I'm just not motivated to spend my downtime washing things that are already clean so the boss doesn't see me sitting down.

Saying you're so super smart doesn't mean much if you are nothing more than a mediocre night tech, though. Going on about "brain the size of a planet, and here I am emptying bedpans" is just entitlement and arrogance if I don't find my own way to stop emptying bedpans. So my next project is to find a way to make money without being a cogstacle. (This doesn't mean I wouldn't be an employee, only that I wouldn't be an employee somewhere that's only hiring me because robots are expensive.) I don't particularly care how much money as long as I can pay my basic bills; I do care that my answer isn't "be a cogstacle somewhere marginally nicer."

The problem is that I don't have a lot of prerequisites for a "brain the size of a planet" job--no advanced or specialized education, decidedly unslick people skills, no business or financial expertise, a messy and unimpressive resume, and the only thing I'm worse at than looking "sexy" is looking "professional." (I have a sneaking suspicion that if I could fit into a suit without looking like a kid in Mom's clothes and say phrases like "proactive teamwork on the development taskforce" with total sincerity, I could make $50K without trying. But alas, I am peasanty of face and sardonic of manner.)

What have I got? A bachelor's degree in film (and rhetoric! ask me about Quintillian's canons of oratory, kids!), above-average writing skills, computer competence but not expertise, specialized knowledge in the fields of human biology, filmmaking, and sexuality, a tremendous amount of creative enthusiasm, the ability to pick up new skills really fast, tons of connections in the kink and sex-positive worlds, and a not completely broken work ethic.

Wow does that all lead up to one thing when I lay it out like that.

I should get me one of them home businesses with the cosmetics and hosting the little cosmetics parties.

I know it sounds like I spelled out "porn," and maybe I kinda did, but I was actually thinking more like "sex toy business." The idea is far less than half-formed, and the competition is certainly fierce and well-established, but I feel like I could actually do something new with the "sell things for people to touch their genitals with" concept. I'm most interested in showcasing unique and unusual toys, with providing a lot of information on the products, with making things previously only available from obscure kink artisans more available, and with trying to appeal to people's sex-nerd "oh I gotta try that" enthusiasm rather than their crotches.

It's a "also I'll have a pony" dream at this point, and I've had a lot of those that didn't pan out. Also a lot that did. It's worth working on.

Welp, off to go empty bedpans.

In Which Scientific Curiosity Is Stifled.

Hey Sprite, do you have a tampon?"
"Oh, of course, here's one."
"Thanks!  We're doing an experiment!  We figure that alcohol can absorb in by any mucous membrane, and the vagina is a mucous membrane, so we're going to soak the tampon in rum and stick it in me and see if I get drunk!  Also we're curious if it will hurt!"
"...Give me my tampon back."

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Nothing to reconcile.

Man, I've come up with better answers in the past, but really, being asked to "reconcile" being a feminist and being a polyamorous kinkster just feels irrelevant. Like being asked "How can you wear baseball caps and also own a cat? Don't you feel like a hypocrite?" They're two such separate things in my life.

It's possible to be polyamorous in a misogynist matter, and treat multiple partners as a harem, as multiple possessions and proof of your "status." (I always like that Rowdy's attitude has never been "I'm dating two women--I'm so cool," but "I'm dating two women--these two women are so cool.") It's also possible to be polyamorous because you're so damn feminist that exclusivity seems like oppressive ownership to you.

It's possible to be kinky because you like an excuse to hurt people and deep down you really don't like them--or because you think you really deserve to be hurt. It's also possible to be kinky because you simply like to play with intense and dramatic dynamics and sensations.

Although it's interesting to note that in both of the examples above, people acting in the unfeminist ways tend to be perceived as just plain bad and generally aren't popular in their respective communities. You may be kinky for bad reasons and maybe that's not going away, but very few people who come to be known in The Kink Community (patchwork as it is) are the bad-reasons type. If kink is neither feminist nor anti-feminist, The Kink Community tends to skew feminist. I'm less familiar with The Poly Community but I believe that they are even more so.

Two things contribute further to this:
1) Being in a sexual minority means that you can't hide behind "normal." Saying "well, gender roles are normally XYZ" sounds a little hypocritical when you're wearing floor-length latex and carrying two hundred and forty feet of lovingly coiled hemp rope. You're in no position to be enforcing the status quo.
2) The kink and poly communities are diverse. Although there are probably horrible little enclaves somewhere for people who only align themselves one way, in most kink communities you're going to run into dominant women and submissive men, in poly communities you're going to run into women with multiple male partners, and in both communities there are queer and non-gender-conforming people. Anyone who thinks kink is about putting women in their place would have that clarified for them right quick after about ten seconds with some of my kinky friends.

Finally, the main reason that I don't worry too much about the feminist cred of my sexual activities is that they feel good. Not "I deserved that and my inner pain has found catharsis" good. Like "warm fuzzies" good. I go to work and things get difficult or boring and I think about the bruises on my breasts, the little cuts healing on my back, and I'm happy. It gives me strength through the day.

I don't have the ability or authority to designate every activity on Earth "feminist" or not, but when something gives me as much simple joy as my sex life does, I'm just gonna go ahead and enjoy the hell out of it.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

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.


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.

Unstoppable force, immovable object.

You know what the not-so-great part is about being a girl who can have repeated orgasms in rapid succession, having sex with a guy who has both the muscular and sexual stamina to fuck for literally hours without stopping?



Monday, November 29, 2010

The dreaded flipside.

I looked at PJ longingly. I could feel the lust behind my eyes, and the entirety of my body was subtly tightened, my breath catching just a little in my throat, my mind swimming with desire to feel him inside me.

"I want to fuck you," I said out loud.

"I don't want to," he said, gently. "I don't feel that way about you."

And it was okay. It hurt a bit at first, my ego and my libido both being large and sensitive areas, but it was okay because now I knew. I didn't have to watch him for secret signals and coded messages and "this is your big chance" moments, and I didn't have to send any of my own. Were we friends or was something else developing under the surface? We were friends. Over time this became not just okay but good, because it gave us the freedom to be friends. "Friend" may not be as much fun a role as "lover" when a sexy man is involved, but it beats the hell out of "lover-in-waiting."

Sunday, November 28, 2010

The (completely imaginary) romance of silence.

I looked at Rowdy longingly. I could feel the lust behind my eyes, and the entirety of my body was subtly tightened, my breath catching just a little in my throat, my mind swimming with desire to feel him inside me.

He had no idea about any of this, because he's not psychic and I was pretty much just sitting there.

"I want to fuck you," I said out loud, and we fucked like there weren't no tomorrow.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Relaxing the sexy.

I hate being "sexy." I'm bad at it--I don't have a "sexy" body, I'm awkward in "sexy" clothes, and I never learned exactly how makeup works. And it just feels wrong to me. When I dress up as conventionally "sexy" as I can, I feel like I'm in an elaborate costume; when I'm in ratty jeans I feel like I'm just myself wearing my clothes.

But I tend to put on at least a half-assed "sexy" costume when I'm trying to meet new guys--I won't go full monty as I can't do that without looking absurd, but I'll at least wear sort of a nice top and some eyeshadow. I tend to assume--stupidly, insecurely, but I keep doing it--that "guys like sexy" and thus I'll endure "sexiness" to snag me a man.

As soon as I get in a relationship, every time, I stop the "sexy" completely. The third date is pretty much the last time you'll see makeup on my face or product in my hair. I just can't keep up the charade.

But, despite appearances, it's not a matter of turning slovenly and complacent. Because while I drop the "sexy," I never drop the sexy. I've never been in a relationship where the sex--or the sexual experimentation and adventure and enthusiasm--dropped off at all. I love fucking, I love finding new ways to fuck, I love talking about sex and being sexual, I love pleasing my partner and oh do I love it when they please me. I may show up to your house with my hair in a hopeless tangle and mustard on my shirt, but I'm still coming there because I want to have insane screaming orgasms with you.

And hell, we both know I'm going to be naked and have my face and hair totally smeared up fifteen minutes after I walk in the door anyway.

I'm still unsure if the conclusion from this is to show up to first dates in my hospital sweatshirt and painting pants. On the one hand, that avoids anyone feeling like they've been bait-and-switched, and it screens for the (minority, but quite extant) awesome dudes who like me better that way. On the other hand, it seems like un-"sexy" clothes can convey the message that I'm not interested in sex, and that's not something I generally want a date to think. Hyperfeminine clothes and behavior may be utterly unappealing to me, but they do seem to send the "dick wanted, apply within" message much more clearly than looking boring and just being sexy inside.

Maybe I should show up in the hospital sweatshirt, but pin on a long explanatory note about how in my perception this is what I wear when I'm horny.

Troll / What About The Men.

Man, I got some nasty troll attacks last night. The weird thing is that they were mostly calling me fat. Like I don't have a mirror? At least if you say "you're fat and that's bad," it's a proper insult. This is just, like, an observation.

But it does annoy me, because I'm fairly sure they're responding to the rape/blame posts, and I wish they'd just go ahead and say that they're offended by something I said, instead of latching onto something irrelevant that they think I might be insecure about. If something I said made you mad, Trolly, say so, don't get all "and I bet your dog's ugly, too!"


Anyway. One of the things I've had difficulty communicating as I've transitioned from being a "feminism means I'm free to give blowjobs!" feminist to a "feminism means I'm free to demand social respect and campaign for equal rights and give blowjobs!" feminist is that absolutely nothing about feminism (as I practice it, etc.) is about playing Boys vs. Girls. We are not on opposite teams.

And I don't just mean that feminists don't hate men, although we don't. I mean that we actually want their lives to be better. For some it's a side effect of liberating women and for some it's a goal in itself, but feminism actually has a lot to offer men.

For starters, anywhere that women are forced into a stupid little box labeled "femininity," men are being forced into an equally stupid box labeled "masculinity." It's a slightly nicer box, to be sure; you get to be in charge of stuff, and your clothes are comfier, and you don't have to deal with baby poop. But though the restrictions are fewer, they're there, and they're absolutely brutally enforced. If femininity means being forced into weakness, masculinity means being forced to play hyper-tough and often violent. A guy who isn't at least a little cruel is a guy who's going to be accused of being a girlyman--and woe betide a guy who really is kind of girly. You'd be more popular if you ate puppies.

I feel like this is ingrained deeply enough that a lot of guys will (in loud, deep, growly voices) protest that they don't want to get in touch with their feminine side. Well, that's okay. I would never stop a guy from grunting and watching football or whatever. I would just like it to be--just like the high heels! funny how that works!--no longer compulsory.

(By the way, one of the few legitimate gripes that "men's rights advocates" have is that women tend to automatically get custody and men tend to get child support and alimony judgments in family court. They generally blame this on some evil feminist agenda [because they blame everything on that], but I'd say that they should actually be looking at sexism. Compulsory masculinity means you must be a provider but cannot be a caregiver, and so men are expected to provide money and denied the opportunity to care for children. So if you want a better deal in family court, support single dads and high-earning women.)

The other big thing men would get out of feminism is happier, freer women. Don't smirk, 'cause I'm serious. When you treat someone like a trophy, an enemy agent, a sex toy, a child, or a space alien, the response you get is going to be about as bizarre as those options suggest. When you treat them like a person, asking no more and expecting no less, they're going to respond like a person.

Powerful people don't nag--they can get things done themselves. Powerful people don't cling--they can survive on their own. Powerful people don't manipulate--they can get what they want honestly. Powerful people don't complain--they have less to complain about. Powerful people don't make guys pay for dinner--they can afford to pay their share. When women are happy with our lives, we don't subtract from the finite happiness pool held by men; we spread it around and make everyone happier.

Finally, feminism is good for men because unlocking the potential of half the human race massively increases what the human race can accomplish. Letting women contribute to the world isn't some sort of generous favor we really ought to do for women. It is--once those contributions start rolling in--a favor to the world.

Friday, November 26, 2010


Rowdy, Sprite, and I have this word that gets a lot of use in our relationship. "Adorkable." It means pretty much exactly what you'd think.

For example, it was adorkable when Rowdy, after screwing me on the floor in front of all the Thanksgiving guests, pulled out and daintily crossed his legs for modesty.


Here's an issue I'm still undecided on: Rowdy has asked Sprite to safecall him (i.e., call and check in and confirm that she has not been axe-murdered) when she goes on dates with new guys.

Tonight, Rowdy has a date with a woman. He didn't even think to consider a safecall until Sprite pointed out the discrepancy.

The questions I haven't resolved is: is this sexist because it's a double standard, or practical because women are at greater risk of assault by men? (Particularly first-date assault; my knee-jerk no-research stereotype is that women may be physically abusive in relationships, but are less likely to act as predators looking for someone to assault.) Does it imply that Rowdy is somehow more "able to take care of himself" than Sprite is, or does it just reflect a sad reality in our society?

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Happy Spanksgiving!

I'm going to a kinky Thanksgiving this year. It's Rowdy, Sprite, and a few of our kinky friends. The idea makes me more genuinely thankful than I've been in a few years--this holiday will be a true celebration, not an obligation. Even the shopping trip, the stupid last-minute "oh god it's 9 PM on Wednesday and we don't have enough potatoes" shopping trip, was fun and happy and sexy.

I'm thankful for good people. They make all the difference in the world.

Hope your Thanksgiving is safe, happy, harmonious, and doesn't involve anything with the word "lite" on the label.

P.S.: Naamah is here also! Naamah is one of our Thanksgiving buddies and she wanted to be on the blog so hi Naamah! You are a very fun awesome person to have at Pervsgiving!

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Feminism and sexiness.

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How not to stick it to the Man.

Aaron sent me this link (NWS; Google cache due to the original site having technical problems) about a woman who decided to protest the TSA's sexually invasive search procedures... by wearing transparent underwear to the airport and taking off her clothing at security.

(I admit, I'm biased by the fact that her blog's premise is apparently "I'm not a feminist, because I'm sexy.")

Maybe it's my night-shift grouchiness, but this strikes me as a singularly ineffective form of protest. Sexy protesting is problematic to begin with, but a woman responding to pressure to expose herself by cheerfully exposing herself is sort of the exact opposite of a protest.

Put on your sexiest, filmsiest underthings, opt for a grope-down, have fun with it, treat it like a performance, and fake an orgasm in public next time you fly. You'll gain self-confidence, amuse and inspire other passengers, draw attention to the sexually-invasive nature of the modern airport security process, and make government employees look more predatory and inappropriate while feeling up strangers.

No. No, thank you. I'll be sexy on my own damn time. Fighting sexual harassment with sexiness isn't sticking it to the Man; at best it's making the Man's low-level employees vaguely uncomfortable, and at worst it's giving the Man just what he wants. It draws more attention to yourself than it does to the TSA screeners (they came off as the reasonable ones in the SeaTac scenario) and it seems to promote the idea that women can be happy sexy or angry sexy but by God you'd better be sexy.

I don't want to dress up sexy naked and fake a sexy orgasm and reclaim my sexiness next time I get groped. I want to NOT BE GROPED.

Anyway, from a purely practical standpoint, I think it would be a far more effective protest to burst into inconsolable tears during the screening. If you want to make the TSA look bad, sobbing "I'm so sorry, I'm not trying to be difficult, I just *sniffle* can't stand to be touched like this," does a hell of a lot more to highlight the real issues than sexypants shenanigans.

Monday, November 22, 2010

98% normal.

It's weird sometimes to think of my relationship with Rowdy and Sprite as weird. We're still alien enough to society to be worthy of detachedly anthropological, vaguely freakshowish human interest articles, to experience fear and difficulty explaining our relationship to our families and some friends, to be unable to marry even in Massachusetts, to be unable to list our relationship on Facebook, and to be generally so far removed from the public consciousness that most people who see us out in public don't even consider that we could all be together.

This weekend we went had hot three-way sex and slept three to a bed, yes, but we also went shopping for drapes and a carpet. We practiced our wild and crazy alternative lifestyle at the warehouse store, where our society expects that only one man and one woman should debate getting one large carpet versus tiling small ones. It was perverted.

And pleasant, because even when it's something mundane, I enjoy doing things with all three of us. I like the fact that we can all three get along and work together even when it's not hot sexy fun. We make each other laugh and we always have something to talk about. They're not just two people I fuck, they're two people who make me happy.

Then Sunday Sprite was busy, so Rowdy and I had to answer the question "what do two bi poly kinksters do when they have a whole day to themselves?" The answer is that they rearrange and clean the bedroom, cut and place the carpet, and install the drapes. I mean, we certainly fucked, boy did we fuck, but it's not the only way we spend our time and it's not the only thing we can do together. I feel a little ridiculous saying that--would someone in a monogamous vanilla relationship have to clarify such a thing?--but I've been asked in so many words and more than once if this stuff I do is really all about sex. It's exactly as much "about sex" as dating is. Because it is dating.

I don't mean to protest too much that I'm so super normal. I am kinda weird and I enjoy it. I don't keep a sex blog to talk about how boring and housewares-oriented I am. But I think it's important to always keep in mind that 24/7 live-in slaves still have old family recipes they treasure and latex-fetishizing ponyboys still have to go to the dentist. Even when you live a totally wacky alternative lifestyle, 98% of your life will still be... life.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Pink Square.

Rowdy had already fucked me and near-fisted me. I started playing with his new toy, a Hitachi Magic Wand, and since I was in a completely insatiable mood, decided to try out the G-spot attachment.

I guess it's no surprise that I came like a banshee. But the surprising thing tme was that I had a strange vision. Usually I'm not visual at all during sex; my eyes are closed or looking off into space, and I'm not having visual fantasies either. In this case, my eyes were closed, but as I was coming I saw, in stunning and unexpected detail, a pink square shape, with a smaller square open in the middle, like a picture frame. It was very distinct and I kept seeing it and thinking about it as I rode out the powerful orgasm.

I don't know what that meant. It was such a specific and vivid image, and seeing it gave the sex an unworldly dreamlike quality. It was bizarre, yet... strangely heavenly.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Cosmocking: December '10! Part Two!

Once more into the breach!

When blood flows into his shaft, the excess settles in the upper part of his thighs.
Oh God, there's more of this. Anatomy actually means something, Cosmo. It's not like sex and relationships where you can make up stuff that sorta sounds good and no one can technically call you wrong. Without even getting all smarty-pants know-it-all never-gets-laid on you, Cosmo, I'm just going to point out that men with erections are not known for their swollen red thighs.

Tickle his feet with your nipples: climb on top of him in reverse cowgirl position, then bend over until your nipples reach the tops of his feet.
Apparently when "your breasts called", this is what they wanted you to do. I would check the caller ID again.

Q: I enjoy watching porn online, but the content on a lot of sites is so hard-core, it turns me off. Do you have any female-friendly suggestions?
A: I have some softcore suggestions. I don't have any "female-friendly" suggestions, because there's three fucking billion of us and I think two or three of them might be individual humans who actually like different things.

I kept trying to come up with an absurd analogy for this one, like "can you recommend a food all women enjoy?" or "can you name a movie all women will like?", but every time I tried, I realized that a corresponding stereotype actually exists. Ugh.

Q: Using lube makes sex so much better for me, but my guy gets offended when I reach for it--it's like I'm saying he's not doing a good enough job on his own.
A: Jam his dick against your crotch--hard, his pain doesn't matter!--when he's completely flaccid. When he objects, throw a shitfit about how he's calling you inadequate by implying that he was soft.

Cosmo's answer is that you should claim you need lube because he's so darn big, or, if that's not plausible, to use lube during foreplay for fingering or handjobs so it'll still be there when you fuck. That's not sex advice, that's survival tactics.

[If your friend passes out drunk] Since her life may be in jeopardy, your only option is to call 911 for an ambulance pronto. While you wait for the EMTs to arrive, check her vital signs for two minutes. Use the first minute to see if she's taking between 12 and 18 breaths, then check to see if her pulse measures between 80 to 100 beats during the second minute. Should either be off or if she's gasping for air, she's in the danger zone. Know CPR? Start administering it now.
No. You don't start CPR because someone's vitals are "off." You start it because their vitals are nonexistent or close to it. If someone has a heart rate of 60, or is taking 24 breaths a minute, please do not break their goddamn ribs.

(I did CPR last night. A rib snapped right under my hand. It was nauseating.)

Also, calling an ambulance for drunkenness is massively overdone. 98% of the time it's a huge waste of everyone's time and money. I would check this: can your friend be woken up? Is she truly passed out, or just sleeping? If someone is so out-cold that you can't wake them up, they may need help protecting their airway. If they're just drunk and sleepy but arousable (by which I mean you can get them to talk and react in a way that suggests actual consciousness; groaning and twitching doesn't count), put them in the recovery position and let them sleep it off.

Nothing's worse than buying an inflated plane ticket--only to have the dude next to you invade his space with his big fat elbow. To fend him off, prop up a magazine against your side of the armrest. You'll create a wall that he can't infiltrate.
And for the price of only looking like a complete uptight asshole! I can sort of understand this as the last step in a passive-aggression war with someone who's stuffing their elbow in your gut and just doesn't care, but just sitting down and putting up your little Wall Of Prissiness is an uptight-asshole move.

[If a coworker asks you to take her shift] Say jokingly but firmly "Nice try, babe, but it's not happening! I requested the time off weeks ago."
That's not "joking." That's "asshole" again, babe. "Sorry, but I can't," or even just "no," convey the exact same message and don't make you sound like you're patting them on the head and laughing in their face.

Step 1: As soon as you spot Mr. Hottie across the room, look him directly in the eye and smile wide. Guys are more likely to approach women who seem open and easygoing--an enthusiastic smile conveys this perfectly.
Step 2: Once you make eye contact, divert your attention to someone or something across the room and let him watch you stroll toward it. As you do, keep your shoulders back and allow your arms to swing freely to project laid-back confidence and sexiness.
Step 3: The second you see him break away from the group, quickly position yourself in his immediate vicinity, and let him make the first move. He'll have no idea what you just did.

It seems like Step 3 could go on for a while. Like, maybe a long while. Like maybe forever because, indeed, he has no idea what you just did. "This woman existed in the same room with me! She existed herself right at me! I HAD TO HAVE HER."

But I guess this kind of thing is your only option at "all the women have duct tape over their mouths and don't know sign language" theme parties.

And that's pretty much that for this issue of Cosmo. The more I read in Cosmo, the more two things strike me. One is a form of gender determinism that's almost gender exclusionism: if women do a certain thing, not only do they all do it, but no men do it. If women like chocolate then men must not like chocolate. If men are good at fixing cars then women must be bad at fixing cars. Gender roles aren't just fixed; they're fixed as opposites.

The second thing is the romance of silence. There's this idea, which seems eerily prevalent in American culture in general, that love and sex should go without saying. You should lock eyes across the room and just know, and going up and introducing yourself isn't romantic. Then you get in bed and with one meaningful gaze and one kiss you just know which sex acts you've just agreed to. To do otherwise, to say what you want, is to acknowledge that you aren't magical telepaths, and that's soul-crushing. Love should make magical telepaths of us all, or you're doing it wrong. And as with lube dude above, the real failure only comes when you admit you're doing it wrong.

Of course, another part of the romance of silence is just the idea that women should be seen and not heard. Your job is to look pretty, honey, not to be having all these goshdarn opinions.