My name is Trixie (aka TastyTrixie). The Wandering WebWhore is my personal blog. I'm a 30-something indie pornographer whose journal covers a variety of topics: mundane daily life, work-related reflection, sex stuff, current events, and more.
I must've had my head up my ass when I worried that reserving a cabin for three nights was too LONG for a porn-shooting trip without running water or electricity or phones or internet of any kind. More like NOT LONG ENOUGH.
Being in the woods on the Olympic Peninsula, the proper WET woods southwest of us (unlike what we have here in the dry rainshadow), always feels like heaven to me. I'm not exaggerating: HEAVEN. Like what it would/should look and feel like if there were to be that kind of a fantasy afterlife (except I wouldn't have to be scared of having my scalp ripped off by a cougar in heaven, but I digress).
Anyway, it was great. FANTASTIC, the level of peace and tranquility I felt there. The lack of pressure and the way everything worked out just right. The way we had so much beautiful SPACE to sprawl out and shoot in with very little chance of intrusion. The way the weather couldn't have been more perfect. The way we walked for miles.
And when we got home? I pretty much instantly fell apart into a nervous wreck.
It's not that I think running off and living a "simple" life is the Answer to All My Problems or something I want on a daily basis (I don't), but experiencing it for a few days did highlight some of the things that I desperately need to fix in real life (like not having so MANY options and obligations every second of every day).
It's a small fix, but we're going to get rid of DirecTV completely and of course just keep plugging away on the usual stuff with a better reminder of what we could have if we got ahead, just a little bit: the freedom to fall behind and drop out more often . . . AND make better porn because of it. It's amazing how doing so much of my job every fucking day gets in the way of DOING MY JOB RIGHT.
Also, I have serious problems being distracted by every day life and PEOPLE and the noises they make and our computers and all of our shit, though, so coming home was like putting my head in a blender after all of that peace and quiet and fresh air. I know it sucks for voyeurs who want to watch a blissed-out horny woman rolling around in ecstasy or at least looking fresh and cute and bisected by cleavage but instead get me, frowning and muttering under my breath about how I'm going to shoot myself in the head if trivial problems and distractions interrupt my flow just one more fucking time. I am so sorry that has been the story of my lifecams for far too long.
Anyway, I would manually scratch all the skin off my left arm using the fingernails of my right if it would mean I could spend a third of my life in a cabin in the woods, peeing outside and eating pickled sausage on the back porch. Unfortunately I'll have to go about things the hard way: plodding forward, tiny steps at a time.
FYI: I'll try to post more about the magic of our little cabin experience. Also, I'm posting the rest of these pictures of me by the river on Monday for members. Delia is posting a set as I type this: see SAMPLE HERE - it is SO FUCKING AWESOME to be able to get almost any angle you want from whatever distance you want unconstrained by four walls.
*One of the webcam networks disconnected our access, but don't worry, you can still get in a couple of different ways to see Delia's show tonight. I will alter the page to tell members how. There are, however, a number of good reasons why my approach to dealing with that problem further are complicated. Not for you to worry about, even though blogging about it would make an interesting read -- I'll have to continue to bite my tongue for a few months or years longer.
*Ever since Twitter got attacked early yesterday, I haven't been able to tweet as TastyTrixie or SpyOnUs. Not via text/my phone, not on our main cable connection, and not on our DSL connection. For some reason, Delia's twitter account is working just fine, though. I *am* able to post tweets through blip.fm, though. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but it's driving me insane. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve to try to get it working, but honestly - there's a limit to how much time I can spend dealing with one fucking tribulation at a time.
*When I added more spycams, it broke some of them. The microphone on the NightVision cam (formerly known as "ballroom") is no longer reliably working, and my alternate method of connection to that cam using a different microphone also mysteriously died even after I tried reinstalling the software and other things. I guess the only solution at this point is to buy another microphone. In the meantime, you can still hear bedroom audio (though probably not as well) on the "MoreBed" and "BedroomDesk" cam. When they're not crapped out. Which they tend to be at inopportune times.
Anyway, little problems like that drive me batshit. I hate to admit how easily frustrated I get with those little unanticipated pinches of obstacality(?), but I do, especially when I'm in the middle of feeling bogged down and incompetent with larger projects (namely redesigning, like, all of our sites and most importantly helping get DeliaTS.com off the ground; I feel like it should be easy but all these design projects are just sucking out my life force). But of course as soon as I get through them, maybe we'll be a few steps closer to being able to HIRE people to do the parts of design we can't/don't want to do. At least, I pray to motherfucking god that will be the case.
I plan on enjoying a lovely and orgasmic show tonight, though, and I hope to make a new sexy show music mix to inspire me. See you there?
I went on a little field trip by myself today, and happened across this fucktastic hillbilly head shop:
You can get almost anything there: firewood, dildos, giant bongs, blow-up sex dolls, gay wanker mags (I bought one as a thanks for letting me take these pics . . . and because I really enjoy gay wanker mags), swords, patriotic novelties, and old issues of Playboy that should be in protective sleeves, but instead are gathering dust in layers of MEASURABLE thickness (I *so* wanted to rescue the one with Dolly Parton on the cover).
Even though the place stank of mildew and old carpeting stained with Sheltie poop and pee, I seriously fucking loved it there especially when I heard, then spotted, the fucking police scanner:
I just have a thing for police scanners. Don't know why I don't have one. Anyway, there's also a stuffed parrot of porn watching out for things along with a dude who worked there (he was kind of cute but I thought it would be asking a bit much to take his picture and post it here):
There was also a thin, grizzled hang-around guy there who got a little boisterous when I popped in. A couple good-looking, fresh-smelling locals also popped in to get some porn so the place is obviously doing business since I wasn't there very long. After I left, the hang-around guy wearing the straw cowboy hat followed me back out to my car to say, "boy! You SURE are cute!" then captioned himself by mumbling with concentration, "little hat trick for ya . . ." as he tossed it into the air and juggled it around with a flourish as a special little show for me. Much appreciated, hang-around dude.
Here I am on the security camera, standing basically two inches from the counter. Obviously surveillance is a fetish at this place, which I *totally* understand (and is only one of 100 reasons why I didn't visit the restroom there):
All the way home I scripted a movie in my head to shoot there and wished we had money to pay to shoot it (including paying not only to rent the place, but to have it professionally cleaned inside without losing ALL of the personality/flavor). Actually, whenever we make the trip to this particular loggerific town I always wind up using the time on the road to script porno movies. The last one was so funny I kept laughing out loud and confirming for Delia that her girlfriend is a crazy person. She didn't go with me today, though, so I got to be crazy all by myself and go places she would rather avoid like the hillbilly head/sex shop and this geeky place.
Here are a couple more shots of the joint to give you a better idea of the scope of their patriotism and firewood-selling enterprise:
Instead of having the wood bundles stacked in one area, they've created a car maze & parking-lot border out of individual bundles arranged in lines, with each bundle labeled with a price and the name of the tree it came from (not name like "Tom" or "Cindy", but Red Cedar, Douglas Fir, etc.):
I just enjoy seeing people making a modest and dirty living combining everything they love. Like, FUCK you! I'm going to let my dog come to work with me and rub it's dirty ass all over the carpet while I get high in the back room and show off my ninja sword to my buddies!! Are you sure you don't need a cord of wood to go with that? LET'S SPRAY PAINT THE SINGLE-WIDE RED, WHITE AND BLUE!!! GodDAMN I love this country!!
I wanted to post this update tonight, but I got carried away doing extras so here's a little preview for members (and non-members) to get an idea of the kind of video I'm posting (just for members) tomorrow:
It starts out with some tugging and dick-sucking, then progresses to reverse cowgirl with a cumshot in panties (after some closeups of it going INSIDE me) which is one of my (and my fans') favorites:
I kept manipulating my panties with the cock against my ass even after the cumshot. This little animation doesn't quite do it justice, but since it's more than enough for some people to get off looking at, I'll leave it in simple mode and you have to join to download the actual video (and others like it):
You've probably already heard how hot it's been here in the Pacific Northwest this week; I am on a pretty good roll with exercising semi-regularly, but it's so hot that I have to make sure to do it early or later after it cools down. Tonight it wound up being later (after an unexpected and annoying troubleshooting session with our most important spycam with nightvision & audio aimed at our bed) which means by the time I did that and showered it was really too late for me to put on makeup and record a vlog for members. Lately I've been trying to at least LOOK semi-sexy in the video blogs, so I'll save that for tomorrow when I hope the makeup efforts will do double-duty for some shoots. Then again, my period will probably come and I might have cramps so who knows . . . valiant efforts will be made, but they might be swatted down by the heavy hand of high humidity.
Some of you've been wondering how our family get-together with my brother went after my agonizing in this post; fortunately, it went fine but I'm still so glad it's OVER so I can stop stressing out over it.
We made the trek out to my mom's yesterday and had a fairly nice visit. Sometimes I worry that Delia's just receding into the background and that some of that's my fault, but then it always seems that one person in a couple is the quiet hanger-back. Like my brother's wife who mostly hung out in the kitchen. Some people are so quiet and pleasant those of us who are more obnoxious just naturally steamroll them.
Anyway, there was no mean-spirited or overt bullshit to be had towards us, though I did wonder when thank you's for the presents we brought came from the kids and I got all the hugs and thanks why that was . . . because I'm the one who's actually related to them (though haven't seen them in eight years, since one was newborn)? Because Delia's trans? Because I didn't do a good job of introducing Auntie Delia? Or just because I was the one standing there with open arms, like "HUG YOUR AUNTIE, DAMMIT!" while Delia was behind me on the couch and less accessible/approachable/talkative? And then that firm handshake my brother gave Delia after hugging me goodbye seemed to have an awkward masculine edge to it, but whatever.
On our way home from our family visit we got together briefly with AmberLily and her husband (Tiny aka BigD) who is too witty and well-read for me to get his jokes which mostly seem to consist of teasing us for being Democrats. They go right over my head and I wind up staring at him, completely bewildered, wishing I could keep up. Fortunately he's nice enough to try to meet in the middle, patiently reminding me, for example, of my Third Amendment rights (so I could understand the joke he was making) even when I obtusely ignored his explanation. Maybe if we got to spend more time hanging out then AmberLily wouldn't have to try to translate for us, "and now BigD is joking; that was a reference to the obscure blank and blankety blank." Anyway, I hope I haven't gotten them banned from their local McDonald's because I kept saying the "F" word and loudly talking about wet WET pussy, something I'm far more familiar with than our Constitution.
My point is, I love them and BigD should be an internet celebrity.
Normally when we go back to the area east of Seattle where I grew up I'm thankful we don't live there, but yesterday the summer air was too seductive and familiar for me to not want to have more of it. It smelled heavily of home, especially driving through shady places along rivers. My mom's yard felt so lush and green and bushy and the porch was so . . . porchy? With the screen door? Our dog looked like she was going to melt right into the cool grass, unlike here where all the grass is dry, short, and totally dead. It smells like saltwater and high wind and dry things where we live, but where I grew up it smells like a humid valley in the summer where every dog bark is magnified - sounds don't blow away where I grew up. I hate that, but it's still home.
Today we went to a protest against civil rights abuses and I realized THAT'S THE FIRST ORGANIZED PROTEST I'VE EVER ATTENDED! Which seems nuts, that as a thirty-six year old woman who is opposed to SO many things and has lived near Seattle my whole life, I have never been out in the streets with my floppy tits wrapped loosely in a shredded flag, armpit hair fluttering in the breeze as I pump my fist shouting a determined message even as I'm hoisted over the bulky shoulder of an armed man in riot gear.
Sorry to disappoint, but today was nothing like that.
Still, it was important and I'm glad we went. I'd love to be more specific and share the details with most everyone but as my webwhoring years have added up I've realized that sometimes I need to withhold some information for the sake of privacy and safety. What I will say, though, is it isn't connected to porn or sex work which in a way is sad because I'd like to be a better activist when it comes to civil rights issues related to the sex industry. This, though, is more local and I feel like I can more safely make a difference by being involved in it which is not something I can do locally (meeting up with people face-to-face) as a webwhore.
Delia actually sat this one out in the car because she has a soul-patch-like burn on her chin from her first overzealous laser hair removal treatment (she's been going through the process for years now and this is the first time she's gotten burned like that) and she didn't want to be out in the sun. This left me open to being approached by a cute ewok-looking fellow with a jaunty chipped front tooth who appeared to be about seven to ten years my junior. I almost told him I have a girlfriend, but then decided if he really was "interested" maybe it would lure him into getting involved. See, deep freckled cleavage can really win support for a cause. And I like bearded little roly poly guys.
I was actually a little concerned about the location of this protest because it's right next to an ultra-conservative hangout but they didn't come streaming out to scare us away or even mount a counter-protest. Instead I only saw about three people give us the thumbs-down and everybody else who responded as they drove by seemed happy to see us and honked, waved, hollered, etc. in support. That's a good feeling, but scary knowing this shit is going on even with so much outspoken criticism.
The past few days have been pretty windy here (I could barely hang onto my sign today) so it wasn't a big surprise when we lost power for a few seconds tonight. Could throw a monkey wrench into our spycam transmissions and Delia's update which she's trying to get uploaded and posted tonight, though. After the protest we had to drive all the way back to suburban hell to have them remove the inky security tag on a pair of jeans Delia bought on Thursday that they forgot to remove. Sometimes living so far from a real city is inconvenient. And sometimes it's just kind of scary (see above: there is some bullshit that wouldn't be tolerated in Seattle but in rural and small-town areas it's commonplace). But of course so is living near or IN a city, just for different reasons.
We went to Seattle but my sister didn't go into labor so we came home again. It was great to see them though, especially my number one nephew, Mr. Squishypants who's almost three now. We all went to the Japanese Garden at the Arboretum, a place I've always wanted to revisit ever since an annoying trip we took there when I was a teenager. I wanted to return and have everything be tranquil. IT WAS!!
One of the things I miss most about living in Tacoma is walking to the Conservatory and just sitting in there soaking in good, moist air and beauty. If we lived in Seattle I would probably hang out at the Japanese Garden for hours and hours every week. It's fucking therapy, man. It kind of boggles my mind that there are beautiful places -- gardens like these or woods like the Hoh rainforest (yes, I should totally do a WebHOH shoot) -- and people don't go, LET'S KEEP/MAKE EVERYTHING THIS LEVEL OF AWESOMELY BEAUTIFUL!!. And I'm not saying everything has to be totally pristine and "natural" to be beautifully awesome; we were impressed by Harborside Park at the Bremerton ferry terminal next to the shipyards (also beautiful, to me).
If I were to cultivate my own garden, it would be a moss and fern garden. I love how primitive they are. They totally feel like home to me.
After taking a bunch of pictures at the garden and looking at them here at home, I realized I'm doing a terrible job of paying attention to my horizon line or just making sure the subject of my photos aren't accidentally slightly slanted; most of my pictures look a little crooked. I don't know if other people would notice it, especially when there's so much stuff in the pictures, but taking non-porn pictures is always a good (and relaxing) learning experience. I wonder if it's because I'm still not used to our bigger, heavier camera? Using the viewfinder? I don't know, but I'm going to try to pay better attention to that.
Delia told me today's Star Wars Day so I thought I better post something. About how my own life force has been idling; maybe my new estrogen-heavy birth control pill is making it so it takes ten hours to wake up and all I want to do is gobble up food. MAYBE. Or maybe I'm just a Very Sleepy Lard Ass.
Anyway, everything is sort of on hold here while we wait for my sister to go into labor. Due to our far-flung location on the Olympic Peninsula and our usual route to Seattle being severed by a major bridge being closed for six weeks, I've been really anxious about how we'll manage to get to Seattle in time to see our second nephew being born. I'm finally calming down about it now, but I did go on a late-night rampage through our town channeling my mother as I stood on the dock screaming, "ALL I WANT IS A FUCKING FERRY SCHEDULE!! GODDAMN IT I HATE THIS FUCKING TOWN!!"
Okay, I didn't really do that, but I totally WANTED to, which made me start laughing hysterically in the same exact way my mom does after she's loudly expressed her feelings in a public place, much to the shock and awe of all spectators. Sometimes people in this town are helpful in every single annoying way they possibly can be without being at all capable of delivering the one thing you do want. Yes, I fucking KNOW the ferry schedule is online. Actually we CAN get to Bremerton with the bridge being closed, it will just take longer (you may be older than I am, lady, but have you ever looked at a fucking MAP?). No, I do NOT want your six-month-old schedule nor do I want to call the Department of Transportation for the schedule. I want the fucking fold-out piece of paper that does not require speaking to anybody or having an internet connection.
Ferry schedules are one of those types of items that are always littering your cars and house when you don't need them but are impossible to locate when you do. And the people in this town are lovely, they just really drive me batshit sometimes. I don't feel the need to reach a group consensus with strangers on the best way to get to Seattle. I can still see the tortured looks on three people's faces as they begged me to stay at the quickie-mart so they could offer their useless advice on guiding me to the right ferry even as I told them they couldn't possibly help me unless they know the exact time my sister is going into labor. Because there are at least five different routes we could take that are all dependent on what day of the week and time of day we leave and whether or not the wind is blowing hard enough to knock out the closest ferry.
Okay. I promise to stop ranting about this to every/anyone who will listen (unless someone has the audacity to try to make a travel suggestion to me in the comments; if that happens, I will recommence ranting). I've procured the schedule (which totally conflicts with the information online) and the only thing we can do now is wait. Or leave early and be stuck there for days since watched pots never boil.
I have a sneaking suspicion my gigantic hunger, lethargy, and the mild cramps I've had all week will go away as soon as my sister delivers. Until then I've been spending more time off cam than I usually do, hiding in our "secret" rooms, getting some private time before we have sleepless hours of family time that includes watching my little sister go through immense physical trauma and then experiencing the amazingly beautiful emotional wreckage that goes along with welcoming a new member of the family into the world.
Or maybe I just need to readjust my sleep and work schedule and give in to my night-owl tendencies. Sometimes I'm able to behave normally, sometimes not. Could be a seasonal thing. Or allergies. Or that I'm just insane in the membrane. Or all of the above.
As usual, I've got more interesting (to you) posts to make and pictures to share, but I wanted to spit out the quick and dirty daily details before going to bed. More of them here on DailyTrixie.
Have you been waiting for hot stories about our trip to Portland? While I did feel like I was in a perpetual state of arousal (shooting Delia always does that to me), the most action I got was from listening to the people fucking in the room next to ours.
At first I was nervous when they arrived while we were dirty-talking during a Delia-as-schoolgirl video and felt like they and the bellboy must have heard everything we were saying. I imagined the words "slut" and "cum" and "stop teasing me and show me what you've got in your panties!" echoing down the hallway.
Half an hour later I realized it was all good and maybe an appreciated dose of inspiration when I heard what sounded like crying on the other side of the wall. Of course, being the weird little voyeur I am, I hopped out of bed and ran to the wall to listen to a chick's rhythmic whimpers and a man moaning quietly. And "oh yeah, yeah"s.
The next day we wound up leaving our rooms at the same time they did. For some reason I'd imagined the woman was going to be an Asian girl in her early twenties -- I pictured her looking like Sierra on Dollhouse and the guy fucking her as a puffy white guy in his early thirties. Of course they didn't look like that at all. They were about five years older than we are, the woman short with dark curly hair and sharp, smart features and the guy tall and dopey with shaggy hair and a bandana.
It's weird how we populate our default images of "couples who enjoy fucking"; I'd never have conjured those two up in my imagination, but seeing them it did make sense. It was also weird riding ten flights down in the elevator with them, never acknowledging how we'd heard each other's intimate moments. I know it wasn't the kinkiest thing they'd done and it wasn't the kinkiest thing we've done, but still . . . it seems pretty kinky the way people check into hotel rooms and fuck in them and hear each other fucking in them just a few feet away, overlapping sex sounds and depositing DNA in all sorts of places that housekeeping might miss. All those boxes of hotel rooms and all the cum dumped in them by strangers. There were visible food stains on our comforter -- it looked like barbecue sauce -- and I can't help thinking about all of the remnants of human fluids from total strangers inhabiting the room. Layers and layers of spunk.
You never hear people acknowledge this weirdness of paying money to sleep and fuck where thousands of other people have fucked and jacked off. I find that very bizarre in a country where people are obsessed with sanitizing everything and showering once or twice or three times a day, but they think going to a nice hotel is like sitting in the lap of luxury instead of a germ and sperm depository. Like the people next door -- before they fucked, one or both of them took a shower. To be clean for fucking and letting total strangers listen in. It's not that I personally think hotels are disgusting cesspools of nastiness -- I realize the bedding and towels in nicer establishments are hypercleansed for our protection and I embrace germs up to a certain point -- I just think the double standards are weird with so many people being OCD about supercleaning everything and protecting themselves from germs that they never talk about hotel rooms as cum dumps.
Do you really think they sanitize the television remotes and all the little things you touch that traveling businessmen sully with semen? And how about all of those decorator pillows (especially in bed and breakfasts) that you yourself have stuffed under your bare ass during or after a fuck? Am I the only one and other people just don't fuck in bed and breakfasts or make sure to say, "no honey, not on the decorator pillow -- it will be hard for them to wash"? Personally I just think, "I wonder how many other people have gotten their fluids on this thing with the brocade upholstery." Other times I just count all the stains that remain, visible to the naked eye, like the semi-washed-out spots of blood on the bedspread at the LAST place we stayed and the crusty spots on the carpet. Or how about the blood on this wooden toilet seat (which DID totally gross me out)?
On top of the illusion of cleanliness, I'm fascinated by the illusions we have of privacy, or maybe the willingness Americans have to accept and embrace a total LACK of privacy not just in hotels but in general. I knew exactly when the people in the room next door woke up -- I could hear him draw up the mechanical shades and give her a wake-up spanking. Why don't we demand thicker walls? I'll never understand that. And security recording camera feeds of the four of us in the elevator together, pretending we didn't know how we used each other's genitals the night before.
I wonder how the couple next door expected us to look and if they were surprised by the reality of us.
Unfortunately our friend Krissy came down with a sore throat last week so we've postponed Delia's shoot with her. It will probably be better on a longer trip anyway. I do not understand how people can travel and shoot and get to appointments on time and tan and get all their nails and hair done AND visit with friends and go out and have fun -- we didn't do anything except walk around Portland and try to find reasonably-priced yet delicious places to eat (we failed most days, except I did love a certain sandwich shop in an office building with a delightfully surly cashier).
I also spent an extended amount of time lurking in the aisles of Rite Aid eavesdropping on a not-at-ALL-surly cashier being extraordinarily kind for at least ten minutes to a mentally-ill homeless woman who had a lot of questions that weren't altogether unreasonable:
Sir? Listen, sir -- you can probably tell I'm missing a lot of teeth and my mouth hurts . . . do you think this food is soft? Because that's a lot of money and I'll just be throwing it away if I can't eat it because it's too hard . . .
The guy seriously fondled the bag she handed to him and tried to explain that he couldn't make that determination because it was entirely subjective. She also had a lot of questions about pickles and cucumbers and tried to engage the man behind the counter in that age-old debate pitting sweet pickles against dill. It was heartwarming. Unfortunately I missed out on seeing someone steal a couple cases of beer the next day -- Delia was the only one who got to enjoy that scene.
Anyway, we had great weather for traveling, bought some new ponytail-holders and shot some good content. We did not go to Powell's or down the street to Mary's or visit any friends or enter any sensory deprivation tanks, though. Maybe next time.
We're getting ready to spend a couple of nights shooting in one of our favorite local places so our spycams at home will be mostly-dead except when we come home to let the dog out, pick up things we forgot, etc.
I made an appointment for next week to make my hair blonde FOR REAL and this time I will leave no room for any misinterpretation. EVERY SINGLE STRAND OF HAIR ON MY HEAD MUST BE BLONDE. Not all the same shade, but all unambiguously blonde.
The week after that we're going to be gone for four days traveling, shooting, seeing Delia's doctor, and maybe taking a day off for ourselves, too. We're only making plans to see one person while we're gone, someone we're shooting with/haven't shot with before. I have a hard time balancing socializing, shooting, and staying sane so usually I sacrifice the socializing when I know I can't handle it all. I honestly do not understand how other people are able to squeeze in so much time with other people. It's beyond me, but still I hate all the missed opportunities to see people we like/love.
I'm reserving my scanty social juices for two things over the next six weeks or so: spending time with AmberLily and BigD before they move away from us, and spending time with family when my second nephew is born next month (during an extremely inopportune time; the H00d Canal Bridg3 will be closed, severing our most direct route to Seattle.
Between that and the usual stuff, I'll try to post more interesting blog entries. For really real!
If my "porn" were standing before the judges on American Idol, Simon would totally call it self-indulgent nonsense. Like shooting almost entirely non-nude sets of pictures with a ren-fairish flavor just because I REALLY LIKE WEARING LONG VELVET DRESSES AND THIS IS MY FAVORITE NECKLACE AND I LIKE PRANCING AROUND IN THE FOREST!! From my latest members-only update:
Most people don't "get" non-nude or softcore porn, and I do think there's a bigger market for straightforward explicit hardcore sex (and I myself prefer to masturbate to fairly explicit, genital-oriented content, though not the generic kind), but make no mistake . . . there's definitely a market for the soft stuff. I'm not sure, but I'm *guessing* that its appeal diminishes the older the model gets, but I could be wrong. I *hope* I'm wrong. Because I will proceed as though I *am* wrong about that. Because I'm totally a self-indulgent softcore kind of lady. Well, not totally. Which is what makes my site difficult to categorize since I love hardcore stuff, too.
Running a personality site means I'm selling myself -- intimate access to WHO I am -- as much as jack-off material (which is everywhere nowadays for free), but maintaining a balance can be a challenge particularly since the balance other people want to see really varies. There are a lot of people who think the porno stuff is boring and others who think the "self-indulgent" softcore/personally revealing stuff is boring. I don't get that information from my own members (who I guess usually know it's futile/counter-productive to complain about what I do/don't do), but from surfing around and reading the variety of opinions/assumptions on this matter. I gave up on trying to please "everybody" a long time ago, but still feel self-conscious sometimes KNOWING that people will look at some of what I put out there, particularly something they paid for, and will be dissatisfied. Even when you know you can't please everybody, you still feel crappy sometimes that you can't. That you know someone will be distinctly UNhappy because you're older, because you're too nasty, because you're not nasty enough, because you're shaved, because you're hairy, because you're too quiet or not quiet enough. It's a constant challenge to silence that chatter in your head of what other people might be thinking and listen only to what you yourself want and think. But when I do, I hear that I want more cheap, stretchy, crushed-velvet dresses from the thrift store. I want more of the scenery I love that is home to me. I want more cleavage and swooning and vulgar meaty thighs.
I like being suggestive without fully delivering. I wonder how much of that's a (mostly) chick thing -- enjoying having a scene set and characters drawn and then using your own imagination to fill in the blanks to your own liking whereas (most) men want all of the blanks filled in for them in explicit, glossy detail. I have actually been thinking about duplicating and reformatting the way I present some of my softcore picture sets in order to fill in some of those blanks, or ramp up to the nudity in a way that makes it feel more like a money shot once you get to it, but I'm not sure I'll ever have time for that project. I think it would be very effective, though.
Lately I feel a little tempted to stop updating my site as frequently and focus more on marketing Delia's site. Financially, that would make a lot of sense, but I don't want to do that. The fact that Delia's site significantly outsells mine does free me up to think of her site as the bread and butter that allows me to totally fuck around on mine and do whatever I want without worrying that we'll lose our main source of income when I alienate all of my members. Not that this would happen, but the appeal of Delia's site compared to mine does give me a sense of freedom that it's not all about me. It doesn't all rely upon me. That's a huge relief that allows me to end these annoying trains of insecure thought on a positive note and go back to indulging in my own flights of fancy. In the forest! Twirling around in a long dress! Wearing a gypsy necklace with amethysts! And what more do people want than my boobies, anyway?
As a feminist and a sex positive person I probably should DESPISE Twilight, but I don't. I read the book (and only the first one so far) because it takes place near here and I saw the movie because the previews made it look way better than the book . . . I felt compelled by curiosity, local interest, a desire to know more about a pop culture phenom, and because I TOTALLY WANTED TO.
The book? Meh. It was entertaining, mildly annoying from a local's perspective, and mind-boggling since I wouldn't have STOOD for so many pages of overt chastity when I was a tween reader myself in the eighties. A sign of the conservative times, I guess; I am DAMN glad I grew up with Judy Blume's Ralph-named penises and totally taboo rape scenes in Flowers in the Attic.
The movie? LOVED IT. I mean, I seriously fucking LOVED it. The previews drew me in because it looked dark and funny (there wasn't a trace of self-aware humor in the book, so that was an improvement already) and I wanted to see the flying scenes. It was just an all-around great movie-theater movie -- pretty, entertaining, moody . . . familiar.
Here's the deal about Twilight: no matter how loathsome it may be from a political point of view, that movie (and the book for other people) delivers exactly what a lot of young women crave and feel romantically. It's extremely exciting and beautiful and "sexy" in a vague, inexplicit, totally hysterically emotional way. Beautiful boy looks at beautiful girl and they are CONNECTED, locked together . . . anticipating . . . SOMETHING totally INTENSE!!!!
You can criticize that all you want, but when you do, you're trashing the (natural) fantasies of lots and lots of young woman. When I watched that movie I really didn't care what the implications were, I cared that it DELIVERED visions of something deeply desired by girls. After you finally kiss? Something very exciting happens, kind of like exploding into a flying spell into the sky!! Yeah, it's fucking stupid, but that overwrought anticipation of something that gobbles you up entirely and transcends the mundane is part of most young women's hormonal pre-teen/teenage experience. What's next isn't sex, it's MAGIC!!
I had orgasms and the anticipation of sex on the brain a lot as a young woman and I *probably* wouldn't have liked that movie as much then as I do now (my generation's Twilight was Legend, which I thought was a enchanting for two minutes then a total fucking bore except for when Tim Curry as the devilish dark beasty was going to do whatever dirty things he was going to do to Mia Sara), but I still had to celebrate it for being pure fore-fore-foreplay and girly fantasy with pretty menacing shadows.
In general I'm becoming less and less tolerant of myself and other people making fun of what women want or theorizing that the politically incorrect, unempowering things women want are *entirely* constructed for us artificially. There is nothing fake about girls wanting to fly around on the back of a strong beautiful sparkly vampire boy's back or to be a vampire and run-really-really-fast/fly themselves (I haven't read the rest of the books so I don't know if she eventually gets there or not, but clearly there are OTHER female characters who do).
I don't know why it should make people cringe that girls want to immerse themselves in the fantasy of being in tragic love with such a creature or that the public version of this particular popular story is g-rated (except for the violence, of course -- this IS America, after all). Personally? I watch a lot of porn but there were scenes in this movie that were five billion times more agonizingly erotic than anything XXX rated ever could hope to be. It was a brilliant fucking tease, and there's nothing hotter than having no release. I don't give a fuck about the stammering heroine and her shortcomings; she's a blank slate and nobody else cares much about her either because it's a fucking FANTASY. Do girls really need a fucking role model in every single fantasy they have or are they entitled to be thrilled and entertained and suspend contact with reality just like everyone else? I also *almost* don't care about the scariness of fantasizing about a creepy stalker boyfriend who sneaks into your room at night and stares at you while you sleep; yes, it's totally gross and weird and dangerous. But a lot of us have had that same exact unrealistic fantasy and it made us feel good (in more ways than one). That? It's human nature. And I'm sick of women being shamed and cautioned into censoring their own fantasies because we're apparently too stupid to distinguish between fantasy and reality. IT'S A STORY ABOUT VAMPIRES. Can we tell reality and consequences to fuck off for a little while?
If anyone wants to post relevant links like feminist critiques of Twilight, etc. feel free. I honestly have clicked off of just about all of them without giving them the time they probably deserve simply because I'm not in the mood for dissecting it, but I totally understand if other people are (and that my "arguments" are ill-informed and based totally on suspicions and raw emotion). One of the good ones I clicked off of made interesting observations regarding the popularity of abstinence-only sex "education" and Twilight. I don't know why I'm just not in the mood to care a whole lot this time around (I was certainly pissed enough about The Girl with a Pearl Earring that I almost walked out of the theatre) unless it's as I said above; that girls deserve to have their desires spoken to and to enjoy their daydreamy fantasies regardless of how unrealistic and bizarre and dangerous they might be. So yeah -- *I'm* not very interested in getting into a discussion about it in comments, but I totally understand why others might be so more info and other people's perspectives and discussions are still welcome.
Unfortunately a variety of circumstances conspired against us. Like how I forgot that things have changed a lot since I was a teenager from two towns over driving around the area; now there are thousands of yuppies crawling around in and out of their weird, flimsy, housing development hives. There was TRAFFIC and stuff, even before school/work got out during the middle of the day in the middle of the week. Like how the sun was shining so it sort of ruined the mood, as far as I'm concerned, of capturing the Twin Peaks feeling of that particular shot - I think we'd have had to wake up really early and get out there right when everyone would have been driving to work to have gotten the right light.
There were also work crews out in a lot of places tending to damage done by the flooding. We wound up shooting on the riverbank further down the road and getting there was like walking through the sand into a weird post-war scene sort of like after Mount St. Helens exploded and covered everything in grey ash.
In the winter when there are already bare branches and less green, when the floodwaters recede they leave behind extra greyness and washed-out debris on all of the low branches and trunk-bottoms.
A fifteen year old girl was brought up on first degree murder charges around the same time as the most recent flooding here in Washington. Apparently she gave birth to a baby (fathered by a man in his thirties) at home in the bathroom where she let it drown in the toilet, and with (at the very least) the knowledge of her meth-head dad she'd only been living with for a few weeks, placed the body inside the rest of their garbage on the curb.
This news broke at the same time I was looking at pictures of the valley where I grew up with most of it covered by floodwater. I remembered the times we'd be trying to come home from somewhere, caught by rising water, and my stepdad would drive through standing water on flooded-out roads even after my mom begged him not to. I especially remember one of those times being at night. Pitch dark except for headlights shining out over water in places it shouldn't be, all of us screaming for him not to do it. Alone in the night surrounded by black water at the mercy of a motherfucking man behind a steering wheel.
Many people do this. Many people die when people do this. Kids and spouses and girlfriends, powerless in cars controlled by someone who assesses the risk as worth taking and makes the decision for everyone to plunge ahead. These deaths are almost always called "accidents". Tragic accidents. Even if the people were screaming and crying and begging the person not to do it. People who have names and can talk and the person didn't just go through physical trauma to give birth to in the bathroom of a house with a drug-dealing dad with a gun. Driven by people old enough to have a driver's license as opposed to someone who isn't allowed to drive a car by herself but was fucked without a rubber by some guy over thirty.
First. Degree. Murder.
Do you know the sound of a car driving through deep water in the dark with your little sister sitting beside you in the back seat? And you can't do anything to stop it or create any kind of safety? It's a scary fucking sound. My stepdad never even got a ticket for any of the times he did that.
The River. "River" is a scary, dark, dangerous word in my memory. It was a place my mom was afraid we would drown. A place where men dumped women's bodies. A swift swelling uncontainable body that could rise up and burst out of its banks in a matter of hours just because the sun did too much shining too early in the spring. The river is a fucking menace and I can never understand it when real estate brochures list "riverfront" in the words to lure prospective buyers. But I still miss living by those rivers, even though I hate the nightmares I still have about them. They are never not flooding in my dreams.
We actually only shot two sets of pictures and a video (all of Delia) but it was worth it not just for the content but to seize the moment and enjoy a few hours away off cam to visit my mom on one day and just do NOTHING some of the rest of the time. Seriously, we played a silly computer game called Peggle Nights for hours one night, and it was totally cool because we NEVER do things like that. It was so cold outside, and there was so much junk food to be eaten, and we were away from home for the first time since I started feeling human again . . . I wish we could have spent a WEEK not shooting or doing anything work-related.
It seems like that happens a lot when we leave home for shoots; we realize OH MY GOD WE HAVE NOT TAKEN ANY TIME OFF FOR OURSELVES OR SCHEDULED ANY VACATIONS AWAY THAT WERE NOT WORK IN FOREVER/NEVER AND NO ONE IS WATCHING US ON CAM IT'S LIKE OUR PARENTS LEFT US AT HOME ALONE!! Let's discover all of the microwavable instant noodles for sale at QFC and slum around doing absolutely nothing productive! LET'S HAVE A PEGGLE NIGHT EXTRAVAGANZA!!!
Seriously -- it was bitterly cold outside. I don't know how Delia managed to achieve an erection out there. I would have cried my titties off. Next time I *will* shoot something on Ronette's bridge, though -- I promise! Unless a new Peggle comes out . . . (fyi: we downloaded Peggle Nights from Big Fish Games)
In the meantime I have no idea what to post for my members-only update since I *thought* I was going to have Twin Peaksy pics to post. I mean, I have many IDEAS, I'm just not sure what we can pull off quickly. Like, tonight. We'll see what happens.
Am I superstitious about black cats and Friday the 13th and all of that? No. If I am, it's in the opposite way -- my rational mind rejects those superstitions and my personality seems to overcompensate by becoming GIDDY over the prospect of walking under ladders and attaching positive meaning to supposedly unlucky days/events/portents of doom. So yeah . . . I'm irrationally attached to those things that superstitious people consider unlucky.
I'm happy to be home again after being gone for four. We didn't get much shooting done, but the trip and time we took was worth it not just for the pictures, but the time to ourselves, off cam. We haven't spent a night away from work (aka home) together since . . . well, since well before September. I don't think this trip totally counted as a vacation, but it was a reminder that we should try taking one every so often (I know, it seems like I'm always saying that and never fully committing to doing it).
We also spent a few hours on Friday visiting my mom including eating at Ken's Truck Town (yes, we like eating at truck stops; why did they take the Monte Cristo off the menu?) and visiting the new casino. I was surprised she wanted to check it out since my stepdad had a serious gambling problem and my mom was initially vehemently opposed to that casino opening (not because she's still with him -- she's not -- but having lived with someone with a gambling addiction she's not into casinos at all). We all stood around like we were in a foreign country trying to decide what to do with the $3.75 I'd split between the three of us to put in the slot machines. I'd have blown more money there (I consider it a donation/reparations . . . AND mindless fun) but neither my mom nor Delia were interested once we lost the $21 we won.
We don't have any special plans for tonight. Tomorrow and Monday (President's Day) we've got webcam shows and chat scheduled so I think we'll just do a little work and relax this evening. Delia picked up a chile-flavored dark chocolate bar for us to share.
Yesterday we were obligated by desire and blue skies to take a walk in the middle of what would be normal-people's work day.
Right now I feel like taking a month long vacation. Not a real, TOTAL "vacation", but a chance to actually catch up on work with some breathing room to get healthy. There's nothing horrible going on in my life; everything is pretty awesome . . . except that I sometimes feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm feeling optimistic about it though now that I'm starting to understand why and commit to fixing the problem(s). I *really really appreciate* those of you who've taken the time and shared of yourself to suggest I look into getting my thyroid checked.
I could blog about this and all things related to it for hours, but now's not the best time to do it justice and make it sound relevant to people who probably have no idea how relevant it really IS to at least 10% of the population plus all the people who love them and wonder why they're cold, tired, fat, and crazy bitches with thinning hair and dry pussies. And the clueless, careless doctors who think it's all in our heads and just prescribe anti-depressants without even bothering to test us.
I am mad, hopeful, tired and I have a good, holistic plan (which includes taking as many walks in the middle of the day as possible) to get myself into top form and be less crazy. Again, I say I'd love to have a month-long "vacation", meaning a break from commitments but not a break from work. I'm not actually begging for that to fall out of the sky, I'm just semi-wishfully thinking while being partially thankful I can't have one. Because I don't really WANT one. I WANT to work. I'm just really fucking tired, but at least now I know WHY.
Okay. Maybe I *do* want to take a real vacation whenever I walk past someone who lives on shiny wheels:
Second photo of mountain from the top = Mt. Baker Mountain in last two photos = Mt. Rainier aka The Mountain (all shot yesterday)
We lost power at our house for a couple of seconds today because of the wind; it almost seems freakier when the sun's out and it's blowing than if the skies were dark and ominous. Blue skies + windstorms = the pink goth of weather.
Though we live northwest of/near Seattle, the weather is totally different here with a lot less rain. We're lucky to have big windows facing south so in January and February we can sunbathe naked. Inside, unless you have fur:
I took these pictures in our backyard after going to the store where the power was out. According to the locals I heard talking, part of town was out of electricity because a transformer blew, a tree fell/knocked down lines, AND someone crashed a car into a pole. Our wind is a force to be reckoned with!
Next month we're planning to spend some time shooting closer to my hometown, in the area where (some of) Twin Peaks was filmed. I really wanted to commission someone to sew a waitress costume to mimic the ones they wore at the diner in the series, but I messed up the specs on the auction I created and didn't want to pay for something four months in advance of a time that would be too late for the look/time of year I wanted. Maybe next year. For now we'll try to capture a little of the vibe/local color without being crazily ambitious. Someday I would love to have the resources to get a bunch of our friends and fellow-Peaks-fans together for a couple of weeks to shoot some tribute porn. Someday.
Late last night we fucked while I fondled my new toys: Delia's growing boobs. I dare you to not be jealous of me for getting to play with emerging, swollen boobies while getting fucked by your girlfriend's she-cock. Some people might call it convenient. I call it "barely legal". And myself? I call myself "lucky" because right now she's making us a Christmas meatloaf. Food and fucking -- what more could you ask for on Christmas? Simultaneous orgasms? Well we had those, too.
I love taking pictures of this bird feeder in our backyard at different times of day/year (no, we don't put bird food in it; it's a relic left behind by past owners):
Happy holidays to everybody -- here's to celebrating in as many safe, happy, and (mostly) healthy ways as possible with big loads of hot gravy on top!
These pictures of me in a blonde wig outside in the snow with a blue sky turned out almost exactly how I wanted them to be:
I'll be posting the full gallery of over one hundred pics for our members next week.
Tonight it's my turn to be the photographer shooting a Christmas gallery and video of Delia. We're off to a late start due to the severe winter storm warning we're under here in western Washington; it just started snowing again and is supposed to keep going for the next five days. In our town we're being hit by stuff coming in from the west AND the south, so it might get really windy. Don't be surprised if our voyeur cams go down and you don't hear from us for a time -- it will just mean we lost one or both of our internet connections and/or power.
The streets are already coated with ice so Delia made sure we went to the store to stock up on everything we'll need if we can't get out for a week. Of course we'll still be able to walk, but I got a blister on the bottom of my foot a couple of days ago when we had to go downtown and thought it safer to walk than drive; my Payless snow boots are cheap and don't fit me well so I don't want to have to trudge for miles to lug home heavy groceries.
We're staying home alone for Christmas; I'll miss seeing our nephew, but I think it's better for us and our whole family if we're not on the road. Actually, I'm really missing Delia's family right now; I love spending Christmas at her parent's house. It's the only place I've been in the past six years where I don't feel compelled to work. I plow through books, I masturbate in bed, we come down with colds and flu, and somehow it's just a huge, relaxing vacation (for me, at least -- unfortunately, Delia isn't as aroused by our bedroom being located right next door to her parents as I am).
I've never been a big fan of snow, but now that I work at home it's growing on me since I don't have to drive in it. Living in the Seattle area we don't get a lot of snow so it's always cause for excitement around here. It doesn't usually last long, either, so I'm really happy we had a chance to go out and shoot in it.
The window of opportunity for snowy, seasonal pics is actually still open; it's been snowing most of today. Here's a shot of our dog from one of our spycams a few hours ago:
Anyway, the rest of the photos are up for my members and we've got two outdoor spycams running today; we're going to walk downtown through the snow now to run some errands.
Last night we stayed up way too late, but it was worth it to catch up a little on something we haven't had enough of lately: SEX. Watching/listening to Daniel Lanois (see below) put me into a magic place, and reaching over to feel Delia's semi-hard cock made fucking her totally irresistible. I alternated between stroking her cock and feeling her swollen, growing boobs before I got on her and came two times to her one. The whole thing was super-intense, partly because it's been a couple of weeks but mostly just because it IS.
It's super windy here today with a projected snow storm rolling in; I think we lost power last night so most of our cams went (and stayed) down until we got up. Don't be surprised if it happens some more over the next week. I *hope* it won't interfere with the shows and chat we have scheduled this weekend, but if it does? You'll know weather is the reason.
Enjoy the full moon tonight, if you can. It will probably be clouded over here.
I'm going to make myself keep exercising because it's paying off after a week of being consistent; I feel a lot better already. I did fall off the wagon yesterday and tried to tell myself getting a massage was AS GOOD as getting exercise, but sex and backrubs really aren't all that aerobic so if I want to keep feeling good, I need to do some physical work tonight.
I have galleries to post for members, but honestly I don't like them enough to post them right now so I'll put something else up and we'll shoot something better.
We're celebrating Thanksgiving late today; my sister, nephew and brother-in-law drove to our house last night and Delia's cooking the turkey right now. The same turkey that's been in our freezer for more than a year since we had to cancel dinner last year after my mom broke her wrist and had to get surgery mere days before the feast.
As a teenager I really resented seeing the women stuck in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. It seemed completely unfair to me, the way they slaved away while the men sat on their asses thinking up ways to make the day unpleasant and contentious. It's kind of funny(?) that now I make basically no effort to help Delia prepare meals. And this is actually the SECOND turkey she's cooked and stuffed in the past month since she made one for a big potluck a few weeks ago. Maybe as a kid I thought I was feeling sorry for the women in my family when really I was just feeling sorry for myself because I had no desire to grow up and be stuck in that role, stuck in the kitchen. At the time it didn't occur to me to visualize what I WANTED, which was to grow up and have some OTHER woman (or some man) stuck in MY kitchen, cooking her little ass off while I come in just to rub my hands greedily and condescendingly tell her how GOOD it smells, and when will it be ready, honey?
My mom isn't coming to today's gathering, either, which is a good thing; I have an insanely bad case of PMS and our whole family gets exhausted when all of us are together. Someday I hope we'll all live closer together so it's not such a long-lasting, closely-packed, unable-to-escape-each-other ordeal but right now? That's how it winds up and it's too much of an energy-sucking drag for all of us to really be considered a celebration. The competition for control and attention between four strong personalities (mine, my mom's, my sister's and her two year old son's) is too constant. I've been encouraged to be more realistic in my expectations for family time, and in taking that advice I don't feel disappointed today that we're not all together at once; instead, I'm relieved.
Since our nephew is here a lot of our cams are down or cloaked so that he can run around freely. Also, one of the camsites where we broadcast has been down since yesterday; it's frustrating, but I'm trying not to worry about it today since there's nothing I can do about it and it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway with little Mr. Squishypants in the house.
I, my sister, and Delia stayed up way too late talking so I'm feeling really sleep-deprived right now and am going to try to get in a nap. I have a sick amount of anxiety when my nephew is here, worrying about all the ways he can get hurt, feeling like I need to watch everything he does in our child-unsafe house and around our dog. Even with all that watching, he's gotten hurt and while it is a consolation knowing none of those times have come even close to killing him -- kids HAVE to fall down, split their lips, bash their heads against sharp corners, etc. -- I still have a hard time letting go and it's much worse if I haven't gotten enough sleep.
Tonight's ending on a very positive note that could even be viewed as a metaphor for other things going on in our lives; we finally installed a second hard drive for storage on my main work machine so I'm moving big files off my weighted-down C drive. It feels like a fresh start! Right now I'm filling up some of that space by transferring non-work photos over to this machine so I can enjoy playing with shots we've taken for fun/to learn about our camera.
November 20th: a buck Delia spotted in our neighbor's backyard:
Our "new" camera (Nikon D300) has been therapeutic for me, making me stop and take time out to really LOOK and lose myself in details outside of myself. I'm not the kind of person who tries to capture EVERYTHING with a camera -- I definitely appreciate being in the moment with family, friends and on vacation -- but when we're at home (which is the same as being at work unless we make a really concerted effort for it not to be) doing the daily grind it's a big challenge for me to get out of my head. But now, when something mundane and beautiful captures my attention I feel justified in grabbing the camera, ostensibly to learn to take better photographs, and spending 5-20 minutes to really SEE and try to understand what I'm seeing: the light, the textures, the motion . . . challenging myself over what's real and not real because it can look so different viewed with my eyes compared to how it's captured by the camera. Immersing myself in all those different versions of truth and light and darkness and the stories we instantly create and details we insert after pulling them out of our asses when we think we're looking at our surroundings.
Looking out our window a few hours ago:
We actually bought three 500 GB hard drives months ago for three different machines and up until today, had only installed ONE of them because of little nuisances like not having Dell's annoying little drive "caddies", not having serial ATA cables with the 90 to 180 degree corner jobbies so the case will close properly, me despising crawling around on the floor fucking with all the cables and cords tangled around dust bunnies, etc. If you heard me screaming last night it was when I bashed my elbow into the corner of my desk during that process. Anyway, we finally took care of it and I ordered everything we need to install a couple more on other machines.
The past couple of days I had the alarm set for 8:30 in the morning to try to get us back into a groove of semi-normalcy; at least I *thought* I set the alarm for 8:30. Turns out I forgot to adjust the ipod when the time changed so we were actually being woken up at 7:30 which just didn't feel right. We'll try again tomorrow. Maybe I'll even start my day by going outside with the camera.
*Last night I enjoyed a conversation with my wanker in which I wasted lots of time raving about this Teddy Thompson fellow and a performance we saw on Later with Jools Holland. Here it is, and it slays me:
I've only downloaded one of his songs (a cover of "She Thinks I Still Care", one of my all-time faves) because there's no way I can narrow it down so I'm trying to hold out to be able to buy some of his albums, though I will probably download his cover of Leonard Cohen's "Tonight Will Be Fine":
Here are some webcam grabs I took today followed by a less-attractive (but slightly more entertaining) video we shot a couple months ago when we were camping and getting our weeny roasting sticks ready:
I can't even describe how much joy a couple pots of pansies have given me. We rarely spend money on yard-stuff since we rent, but damn . . . just having a reason to go outside and water a couple bowls of flowers and inspect their tiny, perfect faces makes me so fucking happy. It did suck when we were gone last week and came home to find the deer had eaten half of them in our absence, but since pansies are so cheap it didn't feel like a major loss:
We took most of the day off on Wednesday, AND IT WAS GOOD. We took the dog for a walk on the beach when we got up, then we came home for breakfast: eggs scrambled up with onions and softened apples (that Delia picked from the tree in our yard). It's pretty rare that I cook any of the food we eat together (Delia takes care of all the housewifey things here), so it made me feel good to contribute in that way for once.
We also spent time outside pruning the Camellia, meaning Delia pruned while I stood there and watched, enjoying the rain that started to fall while I picked up the branches. Or maybe that was yesterday, I don't know. I also got a headache on our day off, but since we didn't have anything planned it felt SO GOOD to not worry about what I wasn't going to get done and just nap instead. I'm redoubling my efforts to avoid migraine triggers, for real! I just had a minor lapse Tuesday night when I had some processed meat. Bad, Trixie!
A few photos from my most recent members-only gallery (which I think is totally charming, by the way, and I don't say that about ALL of my pictures):
I was pretty proud of our efforts in getting up early to shoot outside before the light got all freaky. Mostly I'm posting these pics though so you'll have visual reassurance that I'm not having a nervous breakdown or anything. I'm so happy just to have boobs!
Somewhere between this entry and the one before it is the truth.
Last month when Delia was on her way to her laser appointment she encountered a road block situation by the Hood Canal Bridge: border patrol. We were mystified by it since THAT IS NOT THE BORDER and we've never seen anything like that before and I've lived in Washington state my whole entire life. So maybe there was a terrorist threat to smuggle weapons from Canada and blow up a submarine or something as it passed under the bridge? Far-fetched, but it was the only legit reason I could think of for the border patrol to be fucking around in these parts.
I know I'll probably regret posting this because it's loaded with keywords that might bring people from our town and sparsely-populated region to this blog; that's why I haven't linked to our local papers' coverage of it, because I totally do NOT need a trail leading from my porn site to our local paper and back again. But here's a story on what they're doing and how totally fucked up it is. Because we live within 100 miles of the CANADIAN border, they're using 9/11 to justify slowing everyone down to pick out and harass anyone who looks Latino in a line of cars. We don't live by the Mexican border, and in my whole life here I've never heard of migrant farm workers committing acts of terrorism whether they were here legally or not. So WHAT THE FUCK?!?
I cannot believe this is fucking AMERICA in this new century. It's almost like traveling in time and space to some hideous place where all black people have a curfew and are detained by the strong arm of the law to show their paperwork, etc. "What are you doing on the highway without your papers?" And then the border patrol brags in the paper about how they "netted" however-many "illegals" they caught in their shitty little traps. And the white folk in the line of cars gawk as the men with guns chase the brown-skinned people who leap from moving vehicles to RUN into the woods to try to get away.
Where the fuck am I living? What the fuck is going on? I seriously cannot believe this shit and the people who have the pink balls to defend it. And they gleefully tell us to expect MORE of it. They're ramping up! Their funding has been increased!
It boggles my mind the way these fuckers act so proud of their horrid, invasive, pathetic jobs. The way they won't acknowledge for a second that what they're doing is a violation of civil liberties and pretty much defeats the purpose of living in what we like to call a "free" country. Nothing personal against those who are just following orders and need their crappy job with the border patrol, but it makes me mad when I as a whore am shamed and vilified for my job but these guys? Get to walk around with their chests puffed out for stopping people without cause and wreaking havoc on people's lives. For reminding all of us how weak this country really is and scaring us all into seeing the horrifyingly distinct possibility that freedom is something that too many Americans are happy to see flushed down the shitter if it means maintaining some semblance of white supremacy.
I can't even imagine how angry I would be if I were an American Indian stopped and harassed at one of these checkpoints. I think I would lose my fucking marbles at the sickness of it, the US border patrol trying to keep brown-skinned people OFF land they stole FROM brown-skinned people. Where do they fucking get off?
I think I'm on electronic overload since we got home. There's a certain feeling I get in my head, throat and upper chest when I've been talking on a cell phone, listening to an ipod, sitting too close to a webcam, or just having too much computer time; it's like metal and static inside me, almost like the taste of static if static had a flavor (and if I had taste buds all throughout my upper body). I don't think I've ever gotten it from cameras, but other things -- yes. Maybe I have it right now because of the new laptop. Maybe it's emitting some weird . . . something. Probably it's the noise and the frequency of the noises, but it feels more like it's the heated metals and plastics and ozone scents (which I like at first, but then feel like they're seeping into me).
We're home from our three night beach trek and had a lovely time, even if we didn't get to see the meteor shower because we had almost continuous grey skies.
I'm not complaining about the greyness -- it was super relaxing with the white noise of the ocean paired with the visual fog.
Here's what we did: drove, ate mostly junk food, WALKED AND WALKED AND WALKED (to the point where our poor old dog was even tired out), shot a few sets of nudey pics, shot photos recreationally, "swam" (more like played in the water like kids letting the waves crash into us) and had a blast last night at the campground roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.
Here's what I did not do: sleep well.
All in all it was splendid.
Now? I'm pretty tired, but excited to be blogging in bed with MY NEW LAPTOP! I'm going to have to get Zone Alarm (or some other security software: recs anyone?) before I take it places away from home, but I'm super happy to finally have a machine I can blog and write on that's not a dinosaur or hooked up to cams (though it does have the built-in cam I still need to add/subtract a lot of software and stuff to this machine before I log it in anywhere). Anyway, it's romantic to finally have a laptop that I can use the way other people use theirs. I doubt you'll see me haunting coffee shops on a regular basis, but I like knowing I *could* quickly pack up and do some work or even hold chat sessions elsewhere for a change of pace.
I love the smell of new electronic gadgetry. Mmmmmm . . .
Yesterday I walked across a field with my eyes closed. After the heavy grounded feeling of walking in wet sand for almost an hour, walking blind on hard-packed dirt with sunburned grass felt like flying with the wind in my face, blowing my hair around. Or floating, at least. The only other people in the field were three black-robed figures sparring with each other using long sticks. With my eyes closed they sounded like three people playing football. The field was so big it was easy for me to avoid walking into them even without the benefit of sight.
We've been having some private stress around here (on top of the published stress of trying over and over again to get pregnant) so yesterday Delia canceled her show and we *finally* went to see The Dark Knight. I wasn't nearly as excited going into it as I was Batman Begins and didn't feel the same attachment to this one, maybe because I preferred the more solitary focus on Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins and the whole emphasis on creating and finding an alter ego for himself. The imagery in Batman Begins was also darker and more appealing to me in a sort of Robert Louis Stevenson way than Dark Knight, which everyone keeps describing as "darker" than BB but really was just more hideous, brutal and scary. Yeah, the humour was darker and everything felt more tragic because of Heath Ledger's potent brilliance, but that diverted so much attention from Christian Bale that it wasn't really about Batman or anybody except for Heath Ledger's Joker. Oh yeah, I do love the whole commentary on human nature being a dual thing of dark and light, I'm just saying that it didn't speak to me on a deeply personal level the way Batman Begins did.
As I get older, it's harder and harder for me to watch movies without being bored and annoyed by what seems like derivations from other movies I think are "better" or strike me as more original just because *I* happened to see them when I was younger and was first introduced to certain themes. There were a lot of familiar elements in The Dark Knight, but it really was awesome enough that it didn't annoy me, especially since I recognize that there are *no* original ideas (plus, having no familiarity with comics or specialized movie knowledge I KNOW I'm completely ignorant of where some of these things "originated"). I felt like I recognized stuff from In the Line of Fire and freaky cross-dressing a la Silence of the Lambs. Since I know nothing of the comics and never even saw Jack Nicholson's Joker, I couldn't help totally associating the smile/scar with the Black Dahlia, especially since I just picked up another book (with the ghastly pictures) about the case.
Anyway, I loved the magic trick with the pencil and lines like "whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you... stranger." Favorites aside from Heath's performance? Maggie Gyllenhaal's Rachel Dawes was SO much better than Katie's -- LOVED her, and the chase scene/shootout with the semis. We also loved the political commentary on whether or not the threat of terrorism justifies spying on people, etc. Still, I don't feel compelled to see this one more than that once in the theater (unless we could see it in IMAX). I really wasn't prepared for the violence, and of course it always annoys me when there's no swearing in a movie but there's plenty of freaky brutality (I could not hack the part at the end when the dogs and Batman were being beaten with the pipe) and it gets less than an R rating; just having the knowledge in my head that our government is prosecuting people for "obscenity" even for just writing taboo stories and that they refuse to let COPA die makes me resentful when I see how violence in movies is embraced in America as totally acceptable for young people to watch. I can't watch this stuff without thinking, "so THIS is okay for thirteen year olds to see but the sight of my clitoris will scar them for life?" Whatever. It's not that I want kids to see porn or that I don't appreciate a movie without swearing or that I think violent movies should be boycotted, it's the nonsensical double standards that drive me up a wall.
So does Christian Bale's alleged assault of his mom and sister ruin my appreciation of his acting? Ummm, no. Just like a president cheating on his wife has absolutely zero to do with whether or not he's a good president, whether or not Marky Mark is a homophobe or a racist has nothing to do with my enjoyment when I watch Boogie Nights or Entourage and I still think PYT is a fucking awesome song whether or not Michael Jackson is a pedo. Given the rant I just made, it probably surprises you to hear that I don't relate to people who can't enjoy a celebrity's work because of their crimes and supposed personal flaws (which may or may not be true, but we will never know). It's not that I don't enjoy juicy gossip about famous people, but it's just another form of entertainment to me that is separate from whether or not I enjoy their actual work. Like, is it really a surprise to Christian Bale's fans that he's a freak? The guy wanted to starve himself to 100 pounds only eating an apple and can of tuna a day for The Machinist; were you really not aware that he's fucking mental? Apparently, because I've been reading whining from women who think they can't adore him anymore. YOU ARE WATCHING HIS MOVIES, NOT DATING HIM!
So yeah . . . sometimes I can separate things. Other times? Not so much.
In addition to taking the night off for a movie, I also made emergency reservations for a three night stay at the beach next week, so our Sunday, August 10th and Monday, August 11th shows will be canceled. We will do some shooting while we're there, but mostly we just need to get away. Yes, we have a beach here, but Puget Sound and the Strait aren't the same as the actual ocean. I didn't know it until Delia told me, but the timing is perfect because we'll be out there for the meteor shower. She also just happened to order some things from REI before we made these plans so it all fell into place perfectly since the days I happened to find open rooms and camping spots weren't my first pick before I knew these things, but just happened to be after the REI stuff will arrive and during the meteor shower.
Our stay in the Victorian bed & breakfast (they call it a hotel so you'll know they don't serve breakfast, but for your visualization purposes imagine more of a B&B than a hotel) was productive, but we didn't manage to completely avoid being "caught" doing our sneaky porno shooting. But first, there was an earthquake!
While I was sitting on the floor against an outside wall shooting Delia on the bed, it felt like a truck drove into the house and made us sway back and forth on the second floor a few times. It excited us but we weren't sure whether or not it was an earthquake, mostly because we'd just had a conversation the day before about how often we wake up in the middle of the night and IMAGINE there's an earthquake. It was just too much of a coincidence, having discussed our earthquake paranoia so recently. Plus, it didn't feel like most little earthquakes in Washington which are usually like rumbling underground tummies. Instead it was like a 3 second excerpt of the middle of the big earthquake we had a few years back with swinging, swaying, flexy building movement. I considered going downstairs to find out who else felt it, but we kept shooting instead. Maybe it felt unusual we because we were only three miles from the epicenter. Anyway, I know it's "nothing" compared to what Californians frequently experience, but for us it definitely is something else. Little ones are always a reminder of how vulnerable we are up here in the subduction zone to having a really devastating earthquake, or even just another like last time which was pretty fucking exciting and freaky (it made me positively GIDDY!). We also live in a town with buttloads of fresh tsunami warning signs, so we do have frequent reminders to be scared shitless of earthquakes.
The next morning when housekeeping knocked while we were sleeping I loudly dismissed her, firmly informing her "WE DON'T NEED ANYTHING". Later that afternoon while Delia was at home checking on the dog and I was out at the grocery store picking up snacks, the "innkeeper" must have decided to do some housekeeping himself; I came back to our room only to discover our door wide open and our bed made. The fellow hurried down the hall toward me and noticed the look of consternation on my face, explaining, "I was just emptying your wastebasket; I think everything is all right."
The way he said "I THINK everything is all right" sounded to me like he noticed our light stands, colorful cheap corsetry & lingerie scattered around, the way I'd moved an obnoxious framed snapshot from one dresser to another, and the conspicuously absent "checkout time is at 11 am blah blah blah" printout that had been taped up on the particularly photogenic doors. He was saying, "I needed to investigate your activities and have noticed many things are suspiciously askew, but I guess since you haven't pulled the chandelier out of the ceiling I'll let it slide."
I was pissed.
The only consolation was seeing Delia's cum-streaked black stockings on top of the bed; he'd moved them to make the bed, then put them back on top of the covers where I'd left them. If someone wants to go poking around in our stuff they deserve to encounter some unexpected bodily fluids; normally I would pick up/put away stuff like that if I'd indicated we needed maid service, but I had no reason to think someone would be inserting himself into our room and fondling our underwear.
None of this would be such a big deal if we didn't live in such a small town where word can spread like wildfire amongst the "innkeepers" or if we didn't want to have the option of returning to certain places to shoot again. I don't actually blame people for being concerned that someone's up to no good in their homes/mansions/hotels, it's just not very convenient for us. I would like to be up-front and honest about what we're doing, but it's just not an option; I only know one person who tells vacation rental owners what she's doing when she goes to shoot, and her stuff is more politically correct than what we do. Everyone else we know shoots overtly pornographic stuff, and none of them inform people what they're doing when they rent places or pop into hotels to shoot. People who genuinely aim to shoot "fine art nudes" (or at least exude the pretension of artistry) probably have an easier time of it, in part because it seems quieter and less scandalous AND because people don't assume artists are rich enough to pay extra for locations whereas everyone assumes pornographers are rich because SEX SELLS, not art. I'm not just worried about being blacklisted, I'm worried about people charging us more to shoot in their places.
Apparently there are often regulations, local ordinances, etc. and fine print stipulations in rental agreements forbidding doing commercial shooting without permits and/or permission; I think most of it is written with film in mind, but it's something few people realize, but could become more and more (or less, maybe) of a visible legal issue with so many people making photo and video content that then appears online. I don't know all of the ins and outs about it and would like to think when the "innkeeper" invited us to wander around and take pictures, his words could be taken at face value, but honestly I would prefer not to broach the issue at all. I'm sure everything's fine, but it does worry me a little. On the other hand, I feel very much that HE did something wrong by going into our room after I'd said, rather clearly I thought, we didn't want any housekeeping. I feel that if someone discovers we're moving furniture around or doing slightly kinky things with cameras BECAUSE THEY INTRUDED ON US (and fail to have "do not disturb" signs the way most places called "hotels" do) rather than because we broke something or made a bunch of noise, then they are more in the wrong.
I know some of you are reading this thinking I'm being totally paranoid, but I'm going to bet you either a) live in a city, and/or b) are more resourceful than I and/or have more resources at your disposal so you aren't worried about finding alternatives, and/or c) your job is not the same as mine.
In spite of the intrusion (and maybe because of the earthquake) we had a grand time. We weren't at all tempted to run away home to sleep this time. I *loved* our two nights in a strange bed, even with the walls being paper thin (this should be a hint to you that we didn't shoot any noisy couples action, or even any quiet couples action). It was all very softcore except for a couple of Delia's cumshots, and if I were the innkeeper I'd be happy to have us as patrons because the other guests? They were way louder than we were!
When I told Delia I wanted to take some pictures at night while the frothy white things were still in bloom, she explained to me that "those "blooming frothy things" are called oceanspray (Holodiscus discolor)". I adore it when she gives me the Latin names for plants. She went on to tell me, "they're a native shrub noted for their exceptionally hard wood. ;-) The local tribes used them for spearing fish and such."
It was windy when we took the pictures so the blossoms are white blurs in many of the photos, but here is a small taste of what we were aiming for:
I love the way my white panties are gleaming!
FYI: the light source is an overhead street light. We have a lot to learn and practice with night photography but I really enjoy making the attempts. We would go back and try again, but the flowers are all getting dry and brown; we really shot this set of pics on nearly the last possible night to get the white froth. There's always next year, though.
If you want a peek at something that encapsulates a lot of what's magical to me about black and white, nighttime, small towns, intimacy, and taboo, here's one of my favorite things from one of the most beautiful movies ever, To Kill a Mockingbird:
As if the opening credits weren't enough gorgeousness, so much of the movie takes place at night. It's spooky and vulnerable and wondrous. That feeling of trees with treasures holes and dark houses with Boo Radleys and curious little people wandering around at night when they shouldn't, finding out sad, scary grown-up things . . . that is a feeling I love and something I would someday like for us to be good at capturing (but without the children, of course). It's why my Keds and panties and my limbs lit up are so captivating to me in these pictures. Why I love the debris on the path. I love the nighttime. I love woodsy places in drowsy neighborhoods. I love being outside and awake when everyone else is asleep. Or *trying* to fall asleep. Or getting fucked really loudly, which is what we heard one lady doing while we were shooting -- it was HOT BEYOND BELIEF!
I'll be posting the full set of pictures for members today. If you'd like to see them (and support us in our erotic endeavors as we learn more about low light and night photography) but you're not a member yet, you can JOIN HERE.
As usual I have lots of thoughts and news swirling around in my head, waiting to be blogged about but without adequate focused time to do it. Thanks for staying interested and continuing to check in with me during my dry spells.
On my simple softcore porn photo shoot to-do list I've resolved to wear more REAL clothes. You know, stuff that can be (and is) worn in public: no stripper shoes, no Leg Avenue costumes, no fishnets.
I just posted this gallery last night with me wearing a bunch of things I love: my all-time favorite hoody with embroidered black flowers (I've been wearing that thing for about eight years), a t-shirt my sister loaned me the last time we went to the spa, a knit cap that actually belongs to Delia's ex-wife but has lived with us for years. I wore the pants in another shoot, but I love them so much and they're even softer now than they were then. They totally represent love to me because my sister bought them for me when she was out shopping. Buying pants for people is hard! I would never risk buying anyone a pair of pants, not even my sister, but she clothed me in soft, cozy legwear.
This picture here makes me want to do a Rosie the Riveter style shoot (won't be any time soon though -- we don't have the time or money to pull off something that good/important to me right now, not to mention I need bigger muscles):
Anyway, I really love this set of pictures -- I think they're adorable and I look palpably fleshy and real.
This week I've got a lot of chat sessions scheduled for any members who want a chance to talk to me. I'm actually in our chatroom right now . . . alone. Which is why I was able to make this post! Think how easy it could be for you to have an awkward one-on-one conversation with me by becoming a member. You could be moving your moist hands back and forth from your genitals to the keyboard while you talk to me about music and toggle back and forth between the chatroom, my desk cam, and these photos without being able to explain the appeal because I totally don't even look sexy, at least not in a mainstream media or porno way.
We finally got a new camera! It just arrived on Tuesday so today we shot our first nudey set with it. Here's one of my favorite, happy NON-nudey shots from that:
I'm extremely happy with it and hope to write a whole blog entry singing its praises and showing it off. Here's one I took last night:
I should say that I can't BELIEVE it's been over a week since I made a blog entry here, but I actually CAN believe it. I feel it in my marrow, this neglect. I could whine and cry about how disgusting I've felt and how tired I've been but that kind of melodramatic pathos won't do anybody any good. Instead I'll just say that I've revamped my routine goals and schedules in such a way that I will be more productive and efficient.
Basically instead of cycling through a long weekly routine to-do list, I've shortened my daily and weekly tasks and lengthened the monthly to-do list so I can group repetitive tasks in a lump to get weeks of them done ahead of time rather than trying to switch gears and never getting ahead by focusing on weekly cycles which barely give me a chance to half-assedly finish all my "chores" before the next week starts and I'm back on exactly the same treadmill; I've been depressed and overwhelmed feeling like I'm spinning my wheels so I really want to set work up so that I can get on a roll and STAY there for two to six days on one type of work at a time. Part of this switch began with me scheduling one hyperchat week per month and now I'm following through on that by making ALL of my work into lumpier monthly events.
Speaking of lumpy monthly events, I did get my period/am not pregnant. I just finished up with that and my second Clomid prescription so in a week or so I should ovulate again. This time we are 90% sure we're going to the doctor for an intrauterine insemination instead of the homebrew fucking. Maybe bypassing my cervix will get this party started, but it will probably leave our spycam voyeurs high and dry since Delia will be storing up her spooge for the fertility doctors who will spin it and wash it and prep it for my uterus (a process that causes some sperm to be lost). Sounds pretty counterproductive, doesn't it? Perhaps, but many sperm are lost in the vag, too, never even getting past the cervix especially if one has "hostile cervical mucous" which really sounds like a very Trixie-esque condition. I haven't had my cervical mucous tested or anything, but it would not surprise me one bit if all of this disappointment could be blamed on my bitterly acidic cunt juices. Oh, we've tried tricks designed to improve the quality of my mucous and used products intended to bathe sperm in slippery stuff they can easily swim through, but to no avail so far. We really want to get this motherfucking show on the road. FOR REALS.
Tonight I'm going to try to get these new photos posted for members and maybe get some more exercise, too. My body is like a weird stranger to me these days, all thick and dimpled in both good and bad ways. I did some exercise along with the tv the other day called "slow-robics" and couldn't even make it the entire hour even with commercial breaks. After the midway mark I had to take a big ass break then come back to it for another ten minutes. There were tons of speed-skater-imitating squatting exercises that turned my thighs and buttocks into what felt like big soft balloons of swollen jello. I have only just regained the ability to lower my ass onto the toilet without screeching in agony and clutching at the wall for support on the way down.
I guess this is what they call "thirty-five". On an intellectual level I know precisely how I've gotten to this point and exactly what I need to do to control at least some of the damage, but on another level I just can't believe this is my body. More to the point, I can't believe how different I am from when I was young. Again, on a rational level it all makes total sense and OF COURSE I'm different from my younger self, but it's not just my body that's different; I have changed in many ways and am maybe needing some time to adjust to my new identity and get to know who I am.
All this dim-witted introspection might sound silly, like it should all be easy and come naturally and make total sense, but you make a lot of plans in life and develop a lot of habits based on your perception of your identity. When your values, needs, and abilities shift then you need to change your habits and plans. Being here in my mid-thirties is almost like losing a limb and needing to learn how to do everything with three of them instead of four. My balance is off and I feel justified in simplifying things. It's not that I feel handicapped by my age (except slightly in the body/porn department); on the contrary, I know I'm more skilled and capable. On the other hand, I'm less deluded and more aware of (and complacent about) my weaknesses. I'm more sure of what I want and what I do NOT want which is great, but it does make one's options seem more limited.
I feel like I blew my ambition wad in my twenties, working really long and hard hours for other people. Proving myself to other people, making other people money, doing what other people wanted and tiring my damned self out. Now? I feel like I don't have much of that drive left, in part because I'm happy and content, but also because I'm just motherfucking tired of it. I don't like having to be resourceful to do my job; I want to have all of the tools I need to do my job well and it just exhausts me, mentally, physically and emotionally, having to pull everything together on a shoestring budget to attain mediocrity. It feels like a big waste of my time and I really REALLY want to spend more time with my family and I REALLY want to make better porn. A lot more time with my family AND a lot more porn. I think these are very normal, typical thirty-something feelings and part of me enjoys being in this stage of life. It's also embarrassing, though, because I feel like I should be able to muster up the energy to rectify this lack of resources. Sometimes it's empowering to know you control your own destiny and can CHANGE your situation just by hard work. Other times? It's just really depressing and tiring when you feel like you've DONE your hard work and you're way past due for the payoff. Everything feels like it hinges on how well I can mind-fuck myself into believing that I can, at the very least, double our income which is basically what we need to do and FAST to make continuing what we do justifiable. Of course, getting normal jobs is even less justifiable than continuing what we do full time simply because the only hope we have of paying off our debts is to win the lottery or work hard on our sites (since there's no limit to what we can make on them, unlike real jobs that have, ummm, limitations on wages and salaries and such, and are totally degrading and exhausting and enslaving compared to working for yourself on the internet). We don't play the lottery and I have no desire to quit what I do, so this is what we're going to keep on doing. Of course, my mind is always spinning with ways I can augment the porn site stuff and switch up our plans and find other revenue streams (aka pile even more jobs on myself) but the basic place I'm at is feeling like I've run a really long race and have no idea how far I am from the finish line. My body is falling apart and I'm beyond ready to slow my pace WAY down to falling flat on my face, preferably straight into a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy. But I just keep telling myself to keep trudging along even though I suspect when I round the bend there's just going to be another long-ass stretch of empty road.
It's almost 9 pm now so I'm not going to be able to get both exercise AND an update done. I'm feeling floppy after writing this and want to go to bed, but I'll try to get back in here to edit the photos because I know it will be fun and make me feel better. Then again, so would eating donuts and watching television.
We're getting ready to head out this afternoon/evening and not come home until Sunday; we'll be at a local transgender conference where we're slotted to be on a panel tomorrow talking about issues couples have. Other than that, we just plan to have fun. I'm looking forward to spending time away from home/work, socializing, and eating out. We haven't eaten out in a whole entire month so it will be a treat.
Members/voyeurs: some or all of our cams could go down while we're gone but if our laptop cooperates we will have a cam up in our hotel room (though I don't expect we'll be spending much time in there unless my period starts and I'm in cramp-riddled agony). At this moment I'm trying to finish uploading some video for you; if all goes well I'll get it posted before we leave. It's not hardcore, but it's entertaining (if you are entertained by the same oddball things I am).
I'm in a funk right now, mostly owing to PMS. The weather has been a bit gloomy; even when it's sunny out there's a shadow of oppressive darkness hanging around. See how it's crushing our dog? Tiny purple weed flowers growing close to the ground. You don't even feel like stretching.
How about some movie-talk? We saw Iron Man. We went into it prepared for the bad aspects; it was a ridiculous blockbuster MOVIE-movie, and we needed that for the mindless entertainment factor. I loved the metal King Kong and the flying-against-the-fighter-jets scenes. It was nowhere near a V for Vendetta type of flick, but it's still special to see a big movie in the theater with a lefty storyline. One annoying detail sticks out in my mind above all others: armpits. Was it my imagination, or were his armpits shaved after supposed months in captivity? If so, gross. That's the epitome of a fucked-up dose of contemporary unreality.
I definitely think we should all thank our lucky stars Robert Downey Jr. got the title role instead of Cage or Cruise. He's been wank material for me since I was a teen watching Less Than Zero when James Spader made him get on his knees and suck some cock to pay for drugs. I so wish that scene was hardcore or even just a minute longer (since it wasn't I relied heavily upon the straight scenes for "inspiration"). I loved Secretary and all, but I'd really rather have seen a long redux of that interrupted BJ scene. Maybe this time it could have been Jake instead of Maggie joining RDJ to perform sweaty, tear-stained head on some large coked-up stallion. Robert, you STILL have the most lickable, greasy eyelids in film. And I will never forget the way you told us you were getting "chubby" in Shortcuts.
If you want a sense of what my days have been like lately, check here.
Okay, sex with Jimi Hendrix is definitely the stuff fantasies are made of so I'm definitely curious about seeing his purported sex tape with two chicks. Looking at the preview video, I'm not convinced it's him (the face the guy's making looks like someone doing a comedy skit) but as a chick the mere IDEA or suggestion of fucking Jimi Hendrix is enough to send me into a groovy orgasmic hallucination. I'm almost afraid to watch it and have the fantasy ruined; I'm not the only person to feel that way, either.
I also have mixed feelings about the women in the video who are not identified and if the film *is* authentic/wasn't staged (which I doubt), it's kind of gross that the women apparently haven't been identified meaning they're likely to still be alive but they haven't given consent and won't be compensated, and we in the porn industry will be making money off of them since they're the ones front and center in the video, with "Jimi" only making brief appearances. While their anonymity facilitates fantasizing about sex with him, it makes me uncomfortable the way they're being discusses by the press as non-entities.
Living in Western Washington my whole life, there are basically three Elvises: Elvis (duh), Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. And two of them are the stuff of sex dreams.
Hmmm. . . maybe an Elvis & Jimi threesome? Or would that be too much . . .
Attending our county convention yesterday as an Obama delegate counted as my social event for 2008; so what if I only struck up conversations with three people? That's more action than this hermit usually sees.
Because socializing both bores and overwhelms me, I love getting my social time doing things with an agenda where there are rules guiding behavior and people in charge of reinforcing those rules. Parliamentary procedure definitely fills that need, and the lady I complained about here did an awesome job of keeping people in line, pushing them closer to the microphones, speaking coherently and just being generally awesome. She only used one acronym demanding clarification from an audience member which she explained without apology; you've no idea how much I admire that in a woman. While the acronym thing bugs me, I love her unapologetic down-to-business attitude.
It was both a relief and a disappointment discovering that the next caucus happens at the same time we'll be attending the transgender conference where we're on a panel so I couldn't even try to get elected to move on; you wouldn't believe how many people couldn't grasp the concept of a thirty second speech, couldn't keep their name tags swiveled around so people could see their names, and didn't even understand why the timekeeper was waving her arms at them after they'd been droning on in a disorganized fashion for upwards of 90 seconds!
Anyway, it was fun being surrounded by liberal people getting a charge out of showing off their familiarity with Robert's Rules of Order. I loved every minute of it, including the annoying parts/people. The Kucinich fanatics even made wonderful hyper-idealistic points and invited us to join in their futile, counterproductive bid to send as many "undecided" delegates on as possible. It was inspiring, it really was; in addition to preferring structured social events, I also like people-time that has an inspirational and/or change-making purpose, so I loved being in a crowd of people who are all excited about the positive changes our next president can bring and empowered to be part of that.
I wound up bonding with a lady who of course asked me what I do for a living. As usual, I first responded with the deliberately vague "webmaster". With her lovely shining smile she probed deeper, asking, "so what does that mean exactly?"
I liked her and felt like she was a relaxed person, so I told her; "I make porn sites."
Her smile stayed on, bright white and wide and her eyebrows perked up naughtily while she asked me to repeat myself. I laughed and teased her, "you heard me: PORN!"
She loved it, responded with fascinating disclosures about herself, and thanked me for making her day.
On my birthday (Saint Patrick's Day) we went for a walk in the woods with our dog. We've gotten more rain in the past week than we normally do in our Western Washington "banana belt" location, so the moss and everything seemed a brighter green edging the path.
One of my favorite things about being in the woods with Delia is the way she will point out pretty things, first using their common names and then (if I'm lucky) their Latin names. Was it a flowering quince she pointed out? I can't remember what it was, only that it had pink buds and the water was behind Delia when she said it. I can hear the sound of the comma between the English and the Latin, even if I can't remember the words.
As we wandered off the beaten path, Delia notified me that she found a morel:
For the rest of our walk she kept her eyes peeled for more while I just grinned feeling that fortune had smiled upon us. On me, especially.
Today she fried it up in butter and soy sauce and we shared that one small, delicious mushroom. It was better than a birthday cake. The kiss afterwards was salty and slick with grease.
The older I get the more awed I am by the weather. Or maybe the longer I work inside from my own home without being obligated to go outside at all for anything, the more STUNNING the weather is when I do take notice of it (or maybe I mean nature in general rather than just the weather). Today was gloomy all morning then POURED down rain then did the sunshine thing so beautifully that everything was dripping with wet drops of light. Here's a photo looking the same direction as this one with snow:
A little something that the deer left us near the compost bin (and yeah, I think it's BEAUTIFUL; I love the green in contrast to the glossy little pebble-turds):
The tunnel-like animal trail the deer take:
I interrupted my lunch-making to take those photos, then got in bed with my cooled-off soup, keeping an eye on the prettiness outside while I ate. Less than an hour later the sky and wind started hurling snowflakes at me, pelting the glass between us. It make me fucking giddy (this picture in no way does it justice, but there is that one flake you can see on the window and the obvious difference in the sky):
It's funny to compare how I feel about the weather to the way I feel about sex; I think people are entirely too excited about sex and really underenthused about the weather. I know local television news is enthusiastic about weather, but not the way I mean. I mean one or two people or some swinging couples in an RV campground hearing the rain pelting their roofs and hopping out of bed to say, "whoah! Dja hear that? WOW, look at that!!" Then everyone hugs and cuddles and gets wet. Or you hug yourself and grin and stare.
Everyone's so fucking excited about taking pictures of naked people, but I honestly think that will get old and tiresome faster than the weather. Maybe I just feel that way because I work day in and day out with naked pictures of people. But I also have lived near Seattle for my entire 34 years so you'd think if it was a matter of overexposure I'd be OVER getting excited about precipitation. Maybe if it were my job to take nature pictures, THEN I'd be able to compare sex vs. weather on a level playing field.
I'm not saying that sex and naked people aren't fantastic -- they are -- I'm just recognizing the intensity of my feelings for the weather and that I'm at a point in my life where sex seems almost ho-hum in comparison. To the weather.
Maybe it just feels good to experience and submit to a greater force that I can't control or harness for work. I don't know if there are a lot of surprises left for me in the realm of sex, but the weather? CONSTANTLY SURPRISES ME even though it shouldn't anymore. And hey, have you noticed how the sun and moon are in different places in the sky every day? Even when you look at them at the same time every day, there are all of these variables (WEATHER! PLANETARY ALIGNMENT!) making them appear different all of the time. That's fucking cool! Why don't we talk about this more often instead of all this SEX blah blah blah SEX SEX blah sexblahblahblah?
Next up on my exciting, sexy blogging agenda: how steam locomotives are unfairly ignored and underrated by sex bloggers AND bonus entry listing the ten best new age songs to play at the planetarium!
Because I'm always raving about the beautiful light and view we have, here is PART of our view of the Olympics:
We were hoping to shoot photos inside using exactly that southern light today, but it was actually all wrong and coming in at the wrong angle so my legs would have been in blaring bright light while my body and face would have been shadowed. We're going to wait and shoot with artificial light when the sun goes down. I wish our yard were as private as it looks in these photos, because we'd totally be shooting our asses off outside (snow on the "mountains" would be a great titty gallery):
When we had to scrap our daytime indoor shoot plans, we backed up to trying to go somewhere to shoot outside, but I had to scrap that plan, too; every outfit I tried on that included practical shoes (because it's icy outside even though the snow's almost all melted away) made me look like a bloated marshmallow. So we're just waiting to utilize the one tidy area we have in our house this evening and I am doing other work until the sun goes down. If our house were crystal clean we'd have more options, but ummmm . . . it's not. We'll have to work on that tomorrow or something.
Delia did have a show scheduled tonight (and last night) but both had to be canceled due to my cycle's unpredictability/us still trying to get pregnant, so she wanted to do a members-only chat session instead (which I am looking forward to).
The top things on my agenda for today are getting some exercise, then getting pretty and shooting some photos for members. I would also dearly love to do some more blogging, but I don't know if there will be time for that. Getting ready and doing our shoots could take up the majority of the day.
I'm not surprised at all. I never felt like my town was safe, in fact I always felt LESS safe there than I have in any of the places I've lived since, including crime-riddled areas of Tacoma. I've no idea why people would imagine that a small town is somehow immune to this stuff, particularly when it's family-style stuff. Why would a girl's boyfriend be less likely to kill her whole family in a small town than in a big city? Somehow it seems MORE likely in a small town, but that's just my own personal feeling about it.
The weird part of it is that when I look at those pictures in the slideshow accompanying the article on the murders, I actually feel homesick. Not in the sense that I wish I still lived there, but sick with recognition and the knowledge that no other landscape or location will ever feel or look or smell like home to me the way that does. I look at those pictures and know "that is where I am FROM". My roots are literally two towns away from Twin Peaks.
It's not that I was afraid of being randomly murdered there, it's that there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of violence so that everyone seemed infected by it without acknowledging they were carriers. You know the faces of really mean people in a small town and you know that if one or two of them decide to hate you, you aren't ever going to be able to hide or get lost in a crowd. On top of that, my entire childhood and teenage life was filled with current news of our famous neighbors, Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer; it's like we were constantly driving through and swimming with their victims' ghosts.
Long story short? Violent crime doesn't surprise me; it's too much a part of the local lore I grew up on. Woods were never just woods to me, they were always potential dumping grounds and they were EVERYWHERE.
If you're wondering whether or not I knew the victims, the answer is "no". No doubt I'd recognize the post office lady (and I'm sure my mom does know her) but none of them are family friends or anything.
Thanks for the heads-up on this story, Birdman.
Update: Here's another clue as to why I don't think small-town life is safe; in this more-recent article (or maybe they just updated the old one since it's the same link I posted before) that describes more of the possible motive we also find out that the cops were too unconcerned to bother with the locked gate after a 911 call:
A 911 call was actually placed from the house at about 5:15 p.m. Monday, around the time of the killing. But responding deputies investigating the hang-up call apparently turned back after finding the gate at the home locked, according to Sheriff's Office reports . . . . The emergency operator who took the call heard yelling in the background, but no voices.
"Heard a lot of yelling in the background," wrote the call taker in a note to a dispatcher. "Sounded more like party noise than angry heated arguing."
The first two patrol cars available were dispatched to the property minutes later, and the operator made two calls to the residence but the phone went to voice mail each time, Urquhart said. Both responding deputies arrived at the scene at about 5:45 p.m. only to find that a locked gate prevented them from accessing the property.
What the fuck? It wasn't an armed fortress with a motherfucking moat. Having had our own experiences with lackadaisical cops I have to say that I don't have the utmost faith in their ability to save the day. What the fuck more do you need to have than a 911 call during the holidays to get your ass out of your patrol car and walk onto the property? I guess it wouldn't have changed a whole lot in this case, but whatever. It's not the kind of action that breeds a strong sense of security in a community. On top of it taking a long time for the county cops to get to places outside city limits you have to wonder what they'll do once they finally arrive.
Delia had a sperm deposit to make in Seattle on Thursday. On our way to catch the ferry, we stopped for Chicken McNuggets on Bainbridge Island. I went inside quickly while Delia waited in the car and thought I saw an old familiar face of someone I fucked (and adored) years ago: Brian the Cop. I only saw him briefly out of the corner of my eye sitting at a table in back with some other men and dismissed the feeling of recognition to hurry and fill up our pop and get on our way so we wouldn't miss our boat. When I went back outside and noticed a police car with K-9 Unit written all over it, I realized it really must have been him and became GIDDY remembering how senselessly attracted I was to him.
This past year I've thought a lot about my promiscuous post-divorce adventures and the guys I met through a mutual interest in sex. I've thought about how they were all pretty decent fellows and that I was lucky to cross paths with them. I've thought about how unfairly mean and dismissive I was to some of them in my retarded early blog posts. I didn't have much in common with most of them, but I did like them and I feel even more fond of them now that they're cute little memories I can wonder about and wish well from a distance.
As I get older, I also feel guiltier and more conscious of some things I've done (or failed to do) that were idiotic, insensitive, unforgivably horrid, self-indulgent and/or just plain embarrassing. In fact, just the day or two before the Brian sighting I was spanking myself internally with mortification over the memory of how my retarded and unjustifiable infatuation with Brian the Cop led me to make my sorta-girlfriend at the time cry. I was inexcusably mean and stupid, and I enjoyed the whole fantastically dramatic mess.
Seeing him again, albeit fleetingly, made me forgive myself. He's stupid, I'm stupid -- we're all stupid. And beautiful. It doesn't matter what a goon the guy was, it WORKED for me and it's just not human to deny that some people electrify your insides in spite of how wrong they are for you. I'm thankful I never got the chance to completely ruin my life over someone like that and feel blessed that I got to enjoy the silly thrill of it all.
He was 6'4" and his penis was on the small side. He was a premature ejaculator and he had this song playing on his website. He was big and hairy and ridiculous and I loved every lie he told me. When I expressed interest in humping his assault rifle, he followed through and brought it over for me. Though I loved seeing its sexy blackness laying on my bed, I had to admit with disappointment that it wasn't designed for humping and that his hand and small penis were much better suited to my genitals.
I grinned like an idiot all the way to the ferry terminal and chuckled to myself over the bad fucking joke of it all. While we waited for the boat to arrive, Delia left the car to go to the bathroom and I looked around the holding area wondering if I'd see Brian jump out with one of his big German Shepherds to sniff out drugs and terrorists. I wanted to see him again without him seeing me.
I got distracted from thoughts of Brian when I saw a beautiful brunette woman in the distance and immediately felt a pang of attraction, that "WHO is THAT?!?" moment, before realizing a split second later that I actually knew her, too!
It was Delia coming back from the bathroom. Lucky, lucky, lucky times three (billion) because that woman in the distance is my girlfriend and it's no accident she's walking towards me.
Not the greatest-looking video, but here was our excitement for yesterday:
The brightness of the sun was totally trippy:
None of it (the snow) accumulated on the ground; it started to today, but as soon as I sent an email to voyeurs on one site to take a look at the snow falling on our outside-view cam, it turned to rain. Now it's just windy.
My goals for today are to get as much blogging as possible done and have a down-to-business meeting with Delia for us to get on track and set our goals and agenda for the week. I'm also going to try to edit and post one or two behind-the-scenes videos for the SpyOnUs.com members-only area, including a little bit higher-quality snow footage (I know, really exciting, right?).
Due to disturbing problems with our neighbors we're giving serious consideration to moving, if not now then when the weather warms up. The trouble is we LOVE where we live. We just don't love that our neighbors live here, too.
That's our backyard. It looks like there are no neighbors, right? And there aren't, at least not on that side. That is the south side, the sunny side, the side that warms our souls. But turn the other direction to look north and you've got the dark side, the shady side . . . the side adorned with decaying mattresses and dramatized by domestic violence.
Growing up on the once-rural eastside of Seattle I was steeped in overcast dampness and have always loved mossy shadows, rain, and all of the other things people think are dark and depressing. Though I still live in Washington at a point still considered near Seattle, we live in a micro-climate that suffers from very little cloud cover. Some people call it The Blue Hole.
After five years of living here I'm finally getting addicted to the sun. This is the third house we've lived in together here, but it's the first with really phenomenal southern exposure coupled with huge south-facing windows. Though it's colder here than where I grew up, it's hardly ever gloomy and is often sunny.
This might be the first year of my life when I've really felt gloomy about the days getting depressingly shorter so I am *loathe* to leave this house with its vacation-room, a room with a wall of window heated by southern sunshine. November, December, January, February -- it actually gets HOT during daylight hours in this room during these months without even turning on the baseboard. It's like magic, totally defying everything I grew up knowing about Western Washington. I can go there for an hour a day to sunbathe in brilliant light and lazily read summertime fiction; it has a holodeck quality that I just can't give up, even if it means staying next door to a volatile woman and her abusive convict boyfriend.
Maybe when the days start getting longer again I'll be able to say goodbye to the stunningly perfect location and southern light we have here, but I've been so spoiled by it that the concept of "southern exposure" as a desirable real estate characteristic is no longer just something to wishlist, it's become a necessity. I don't know if I can ever live without it again so long as we stay in the Pacific Northwest.
I'd love to rant in more specific detail about our neighbors, but it's been so exhausting dealing with them that I've not wanted to rehash it in blog form. Yet. Someday? Hope so.
Those of you who hate the automated loudtwitter posts? I am going to take them off and stop having them post here. Feel free to comment more if you have thoughts about the whole twitter phenom or preferences about how/where I use it.
To say that I'm really fond of the gallery we just shot would be an understatement. Sample:
I can't wait to edit these pics and post them for members. It's also one hell of a beautiful day, which makes shooting a great pleasure:
Beautiful or not, it's still fall and getting pretty nippy out. Delia's fingers were really cold by the time we got done, and she endured a lot in between lying on the soggy ground to get certain shots and listening to me harangue her about how I wanted her to shoot them.
It's pretty much dinnertime here, so Delia's deviling some eggs -- I can't wait to gobble them up! Later we'll take another stab at babymaking, viewable/audible to members on our spycams, of course. I'm actually lurking in our chatroom right now in case anyone feels like popping in, but so far no one has so I'll keep editing pics until my hunger interferes too much.
FAST FOOD PORN NATION Why I haven't finished reading the book, my childhood experiences with fast food and eating out, and my current fast food addiction:
I didn't grow up eating fast food. For one thing, it didn't exist in our town; neither did stoplights. On very special occasions we might stop at a McDonalds out of town, but between Dairy Queen, Burger King and McDonalds, I probably ate fast food less than twenty times before the age of twenty. Oh wait, we did go to Skippers and Kentucky Fried Chicken more often (my grandpa even brought home KFC a couple of times) so I could probably add another twenty or more onto that number. I think we ate at Skippers quite a bit; my mom loves fish & chips. Skippers now seems to be the grossest, dirtiest fast food restaurant around -- a shame. We also did eat burgers out, but generally at actual non-formula drive-ins that did old fashioned grilling or were local destinations with a sense of regional history, like Dick's. Also, my mom hated soft-serve ice cream and didn't want to spend money on milkshakes or cones unless they were made with hard ice cream.
When our family would really "go out" to eat, my stepdad would take us to obnoxious pizza places. Shakeys in Redmond was one, and Showbiz Pizza was another. My stepdad LOVED the animatronic band way more than we kids could possibly relate to. Showbiz was always pathetically underpopulated, so I picture my stepdad's chortling head hovering in an empty room, the garish red stage lights reflecting off his glasses while he stared, mesmerized by the inhuman display and echoing music.
We did go out to eat a lot with my dad when he had visitation on the weekends, but he took us to diners and family restaurants. In the seventies and early eighties, Guadalajara #3 in Crossroads (Bellevue/Redmond area) was an early favorite; my dad would always order a side of corn tortillas which they presented hot wrapped in a royal blue cloth napkin. He would butter them for us. I always got a cheese enchilada. Eventually that restaurant closed and I moved on to ordering chicken enchiladas instead.
We also ate at VIPs in Issaquah where my sister enjoyed coloring their wacky bunny heads and I learned to copy my dad by ordering my eggs sunny side up. After VIPS died, we went to Shari's where my dad usually ordered steak and eggs. To this day, that's still one of my favorite breakfast meals.
Our dad was also partial to Chinese food so we went to Andy's in Issaquah a lot. We were such regulars that once my sister and I even went to Andy's house and on an outing with his daughter and some other kids to Chinatown where we went to Oujimaya (why can't I fucking find anything in google for oujimaya to find out if I'm spelling it right?) and ate out. He scolded us for using too much soy sauce on our noodles. Last thing I heard he was embroiled in an immigration scandal where he was accused of bringing a bunch of illegals over and had them working in near-slavery and living in inhumane conditions.
As we got older, we wound up eating at Red Robin a lot with our dad. I also remember a restaurant called Casa Lupita. I can't remember many of the other places, but they were your regular suburban dining spots. He never took us to Denny's, but we did go to The International House of Pancakes where he would order the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruitie. Lately I have been wondering a lot about my dad's real gender identity and sexual preference.
I was not an IHOP fan, probably because they didn't have good booths at the locations we went to; there was something disturbing to me about sitting in the IHOP with those high ceilings and the fish bowl plethora of windows with no good partitions inside so every single person in the joint was highly visible. I think good puffy booths with high backs and a table layout that affords some privacy are appealing to children for their fort-like atmosphere and sense of glamour. I haven't outgrown my love of booths and I hope I never do; I'm guessing that our early exposure to restaurants, as modest as they might have been, instilled a preference for being waited on over grabbing fast food. I also suspect that my dad's (undiagnosed except by me) ADD made him fear ordering fast food; I understand this fear -- the menus are overwhelming, everyone's clamoring for their turn, the rules and rituals seem so regimented and difficult to decode. Everyone around you seems to know exactly what they want while you stand there alone adrift in a sea of confusion, beeping machines, and teenagers incoherently mumbling their customer service lines. It's much less stressful to have time alone with a menu at your own table with your own waitress who will answer questions or just go away if you need more time.
The only fast food our dad ever took us to was Wendy's; he loved their chili. Wendy's never did it for me, and fast food in general didn't do it for my dad. He seemed to be opposed to it. I learned to be a responsible and proud tipper from my dad and I think my sister and I are healthier people today because our weekday family was too poor to go out to eat much but did have STANDARDS when it came to burgers, burger joints and ice cream, and because Daddy took us to actual restaurants instead of grabbing us happy meals.
I started reading Fast Food Nation, but it was so good I couldn't get past the preface; my head got busy making parallels to porn. How most porn is made and presented like fast food. How people would never say that all food is intrinsically bad because FAST food is bad, but they will irrationally say all pornography is bad because some sucks ass, or has a few ass-suckingly unhealthy characteristics. Not that all forms of ass-sucking are bad or unhealthy . . . it's just a figure of speech. How people feed their children extremely unhealthy, addictive, and eventually life-threatening fast food and call it good without a moment of critical thought going into the decision, but think that PORN is somehow a gigantically dangerous threat to their children's lives.
That's why I don't read nonfiction as much as I'd like to. MY HEAD STARTS SPINNING AND I CAN'T KEEP READING FOR THINKING TOO MUCH.
At twenty years old I finally moved to a place with fast food restaurants ALMOST within walking distance. I became addicted to Taco Bell, and it was good. I ate a great many chicken soft tacos without ever feeling too badly about it.
Lately I've become addicted to McDonald's, though. Our town has restrictions on formula stores, so McDonald's and Subway are the only fast food places that are grandfathered in. McD's is the only place I can go late at night to get a hot and tasty treat; once I started taking advantage of this I started doing it more and more. It's only become a frequent (once or twice a week) thing in the past four or five months.
Just the other day I got suckered into playing their little Monopoly advertising game and went TWICE IN ONE DAY. We strategically planned our menu choices to get the most "game stamps". I am even online right now entering codes from my game stamps on their site. On top of that, I'm considering doing research online to find out which stamps are the hardest to get, and starting new "collector" boards to fully maximize our chances of winning a big prize; I mean, I wouldn't want to throw away a large-prize-winning property to turn in a board for a $50 prize!
I feel like a sucker.
I wish we had a Taco Bell in town -- if we did, none of this would ever have happened.
Normally I feel like just BEING there is more than enough luxury and perfection for me, but Cedar decided she wanted to try a body scrub so I figured I should experience it too. As soon as I payed for it I regretted it, wishing I'd bought something I *knew* I'd like (a foot massage, for example) rather than something that sounds so abrasive and potentially painful to hypersensitive little me.
I started getting nervous as our appointment time rolled around, particularly when my sister passed on information from a friend who regularly gets the body scrub and told Cedar that "they really get up in there". Any of you who know me well are aware that I am extremely vigilant about yeast-infection prevention, so I have no desire for anyone to scrub my twat with any foreign cleansers I've not personally pH tested. Cedar scoffed at my concern, shouting in a voice that reverberated in the tile pool room, "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET A *YEAST* INFECTION, TRIXIE." She assured me that the "there" they get so "into" is your ass.
You know how a dog flattens her ears when you scold her or come at her with a thermometer she knows you're going to stick up her butt? That's probably what I looked like. Then the Korean scrubbing ladies started coming out shouting our numbers and chastizing us for not being in the hottest pool or steam room to soften us up for the vigorous cleansing they would be giving us. Frankly, I was getting a little scared and thinking about how the $60 I'd earmarked to be tortured could have been put to much more relaxing use at one of the local massage therapists' with their soothing white voices, aromatherapy, phony Native American flute music playing in the background and diligence in covering and avoiding "private places". The scrub room at the Olympus seemed far from private with tables one right next to another arranged in an L-shape around the border of the pool room. There were walls separating the spaces, but two wide entrances shielded by flimsy bamboo curtains.
I know you're probably surprised to hear that I, a webwhore, feel uncomfortable at the prospect of having my body exposed to and probed by strangers, but I am definitely self-conscious sometimes, especially in new situations. I'm mostly-comfortable with the nudity at the spa, but the prospect of taking it to a whole other almost-medical level made me somewhat anxious. I know this seems bizarre to those of you who have heard how much I want to experience a colonic, but I haven't actually *done* that. I've only talked about it the way someone talks about wanting to ride the really scary roller coaster and never ever does it. Plus, I didn't go to the spa on Tuesday expecting anyone to "really get up in there", I just went to relax.
My scrubbing girl introduced herself in rehearsed English and told me to let her know if she applied too much pressure. She directed me to lie down on my stomach and within a minute I was TRANSPORTED TO HEAVEN and remained there for forty minutes. I kept my eyes closed nearly the entire time, but I could still see the milk-white tiles of the pool room and scrub room. I could hear the waterfall shooshing into the cold pool and indistinguishable voices echoing pleasantly. And I could FEEL nothing but the proficient scrubby-mitted paws of the scrubbing girl SCRUBBING ME ALL OVER.
With my eyes closed I honestly couldn't tell you exactly what she was doing or how, only that it probably felt otherworldly; I'm sure my feelings don't match up to whatever a casual observer would have seen watching me undergo this cleansing procedure. For example, after a long time of scrubbing every single accessible part of me in four different positions she then coated me with something thick that felt like an aura or inch-thick membrane of half-hardened gelatin. I felt like the fruit in a half-soft jello mold being JIGGLED and STROKED by a boisterous therapeutic jello-testing machine. It felt like she applied this with a delightful electric octopus with very fat tentacles and a four foot diameter, but I know it was just a small plastic shower pouf. At one point during the scrubbing I imagined I would open my eyes to find myself lying in a shallow pool of watery blood as though I'd been brutally sandpapered, but the part I can't convey to you is that this fantasy image was the result of an extremely pleasant warmth all over my body. I can't describe how I associated such a painful-sounding image with such an overall feeling of bliss, but I did (of course there was no blood whatsoever, fyi).
Every so often during the scrub she would efficiently slide her scrubbing hand up and down my asscrack, like her hand was a debit card in an atm machine (my ass) or an envelope (her hand) in a mail-opener (my ass). But her hand would come to life during the swipe and pause to swirl in a quick cleansing motion my ass-machine's special apparatus. It was briefly titillating, yet entirely professional. I know it's disgusting of me, but I enjoyed the fact that my scrubby girl was the youngest and prettiest of the bunch. Make no mistake, though, who submitted to whom and who was in charge: that girl owned me. At one point she put a steamy wet towel on my face, carefully allowing for room for me to breathe, only I wasn't so sure it was enough room and began to panic inside just a little bit, thinking to myself how easy it would be for her to smother me as she pushed on my toweled-over face. I expected at any second she would pinch my nostrils shut just for shits and giggles, but of course she didn't - my anxious imagination was just working overtime and in spite of my paranoia, I WAS STILL IN HEAVEN. Hot, steamy, towel-y heaven. When I told my sister this fleeting fantasy of how easy I thought it would be for my girl to smother me, Cedar firmly reminded me, "IT WOULD NOT BE SO EASY, TRIXIE, BECAUSE THE FIRST THING YOU WOULD DO IS *STRUGGLE* AND FALL OFF THE TABLE." My sister is such a party pooper when it comes to my wild imaginings.
I'm not doing this experience justice, so I'll stop trying now and just say that my entire body is now extremely soft and smooth. God, and I didn't even tell you what she did to my boobs; they were lifted, folded, flopped, rotated, and SCRUBBED at high speed. My body was POLISHED. It was SO FUCKING GOOD! It was interesting, too, the dual feeling of being both regal and totally subordinated while I lay naked, white, flabby and vulnerable on the table. I felt exactly like I imagine a biblical king would have felt, serviced by a well-trained slave who knew she could ruin me but only wanted to do her job.
I'm aware as I say these things that there might be some kind of racial component to what made this experience what it was for me. I'm not sure if I should apologize for that or pretend it wasn't like that and remove all reference to those things, but I guess I really can't. I feel like I've said something insensitive but am too dumb to figure out exactly how to fix it. I'm also kind of curious what it would be like to get a body scrub from a, ummmm . . . you know, white-person spa place. I have a feeling they wouldn't do that ass-scrub thing, but I'll probably never find out because why would I waste my money on that when I could have the real thing at the Olympus?
Aside from the spa experience, I had a great visit with my sister and got to spend time with my squishy nephew, too. The next day they walked me to the ferry and we made a blissful summer stroll out if it, stopping in Pioneer Square for a lunch of croissants, coffee and a delicious garlic, sausage and potato soup. I can't believe Mr. Squishypants is starting to talk. He says, for example, tickle. Over and over again. He is also like heaven, but a different part of it than the women's health spa.
Tonight I decided to follow-up this post by taking more pictures at the same time of night (about nine) in the same place (our backyard). It started sprinkling as I shot these:
You can tell by the way the trees lean that we live in a windy place:
She probably wishes I'd brush her instead of taking her picture. It's July, after all, and she's shedding a lot.
I woke up this morning with a foul PMS temper and went to the gym with a headache, but felt better afterwards. I even had a splendid two-orgasm show. Following that, I got some crap at McDonald's, some Little Schoolboy cookies, and a celebrity gossip magazine. I felt guilty about crawling into bed to enjoy those things, and even guiltier about extending my afternoon laze-around junkfood fest for what seemed like a really long time. I stopped feeling guilty, though, when I looked at my Twitter and realized I AM NOT A LAZY ASS. It's perfectly normal and okay for a person to relax and eat crap on a Friday afternoon for a few hours.
After I came to that realization I actually felt invigorated, happy, and focused (might have been the caffeine in the extra-dark chocolate on the Little Schoolboys). Since then I've gotten a lot of housework and photo editing done. I haven't responded to any email that's been stacking up, but whatever.
It's almost midnight, but I'm still looking forward to making some dinner.
I stepped outside tonight, just after eight nine, to a perfect July fog. The air was warm and damp, like it had healing powers better than anything in an asthmatic's nebulizer.
It's been steamy, even with rain the past two nights. For the past week or two we've slept with the window cracked and a fan sucking in cool air from outside, and, speaking of asthma, all sorts of allergens. I've been sneezing a lot more than usual.
The dog and I bring in sharp little weed seeds that cling to my pants and her fur. She rubs against the side of our bed and deposits them on the flannel sheets. I think I should spend tomorrow's twilight on the deck, slowly pulling seeds off of my pant legs. One by one. Extracting their barbs from my fuzzy socks, being nebulized.
It's funny to me, taking pictures. These don't look like tonight. They certainly don't SMELL like tonight. They're one good thing, and being there was another; I'm not sure if I look at these ten years from now if I'll remember the truth of the air's density and the way the skin on my face and hands was breathing for me.
You know how much I love being inside, in bed or in front of a glowing monitor. Maybe because I do spend so much time indoors it's easy for me to be lured away by damp layers of fog and dense natural light. I feel like I could be happier with less trying, wading in waves of dying July weeds.
Then again, I love coming back inside and savoring the memory of it, trying to preserve it because I always need help remembering how to breathe, not trying so hard.
Tomorrow we're going to be gone during the day - therapy, you know. I think I'll post my update tomorrow instead of tonight. For one thing, I had my heart set on shooting a "muffin top" gallery. I'd never heard of the term until we saw that commercial for I don't know what, and I thought it was so cute (and have always thought these "muffin tops" are cute regardless of what other people seem to think about the flesh spillage) that I wanted to take pictures of my own.
It turns out I don't have a fluffy muffin top.
Except in the front -- I'm very bakery in the front but on the sides and in the back? There's no good overflow, which is where I wanted it to be. SO sad. Using the elliptical machine with the arm-thingies seems to have pared down my sides and backphat so most of what I'm left with is concentrated exactly in my paunchy gut. I might have realized sooner I'm not a muffin top girl, but I hardly ever wear my jeans because they're uncomfortable BECAUSE my gut is so disproportionately distended. Whatever. Better luck with the next idea.
I don't work well in heat. Living in western Washington state my entire life I've not had to deal with it much, but when it does come around I prefer to sit it out. Like most people who aren't rich in the Seattle area, I've never lived in a house or apartment with air conditioning because it's so unnecessary most of the time. But when it *is* hot? That feeling of walking on molten shag carpet is pretty scary.
I honestly think my office and our bedroom are the two most impossibly steamy-hot rooms in our house, bringing my productivity to a parched crawl. Right now it's actually cooling down outside, but those two rooms just RETAIN the heat like blowtorch-equipped cuntholes.
I know I've nothing to complain about compared to people who live in other places like Vegas or Detroit or even people who live in Seattle proper or my hometown which don't have the kind of saltwater breezes we get here in PT. But sheesh, I *could* be pregnant, and that means I'm practically ENCOURAGED to gripe about the giant sweat stains underneath my floppy mammoth boobs with their gigantic pancake-sized areolas ringed by bluish-purple borders.
Wish I felt like blogging about something meaningful, but I don't. Wish I felt like stretching, but I don't.
Here are a couple of posts you might have missed over at the Fertile Trixie Blog:
I've been spending a lot of time "populating" the various areas of my Rude profile, like my store where I've got some ridiculously priced stuff for sale and my customs area which I haven't finished because I look too sweat-drenched to make teaser-content so I've just been filling out the prices, descriptions and photos. I'm going hog-wild on that site for a couple of reasons: one, they have a contest starting soon where all of the "producers" are entered into a drawing for a minicooper provided we've met all of the requirements (hence my "store", which I might never have taken advantage of if not for wanting to meet this requirement). Two, I actually really like a ton of things about the site.
There are a few things that have been overlooked (example: adding the option for users to identify as a different gender than male or female) but overall the level of attention to detail serving surfers, consumers *and* providers is really unprecedented. I have been on so many MANY sites over the years, and most of them are really good at one or two things, but totally lacking in others. Rude honestly is trying to be extremely good at just about *everything* you could want in a sexy interactive website. This is the only site I've seen that is user-friendly for people who want to DABBLE in hosting spycams and posting photos and videos of themselves *and* promo-friendly for people like us who are trying to make a living at those things. There's a rich range of both free content and for-pay content, plus this could be the solution panty girls and panty fans have been looking for to be able to buy and sell used panties. Sweet! Of course, I'll stick with selling my used bubblegum and leave the panty stuff to people who actually like wearing sticky panties for days on end, but it's nice to have a reputable site to procure such heavenly-scented items.
We didn't plan to get a room last night, but we were just so horny we HAD to!
We got the last ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge late last night after waiting an hour at the dock. Then we drove all the way to the Hood Canal bridge only to find that it was closed due to a fatal car accident. We were way too sleepy to sit there in the middle of the night for three or more hours waiting for them to investigate and clean up the scene so we drove to Silverdale and got a room. It was way too late to be horny. I actually just wanted to go to Sheri's and have some hash browns and eggs, but Delia was way too sleepy and not at all tempted by eggy late night breakfast concoctions.
Anyway, it looks like our cams went down while we were away, but don't worry -- you didn't miss anything since we weren't home. We did have an awesome time at Part I of my nephew's first birthday party (Part II is on Sunday so we'll be canceling or rescheduling our shows for that day) AND a delightful visit and late dinner with Kris and BCM.
Tonight I have a goodnight chat session scheduled for 9 pm pacific. Right now? I want to catch up on some of that sleep I missed.
My sister and almost-one-year-old nephew are here visiting, which is splendid in many ways. For one thing, it gets me out of my routine and out of my head, spending more time outside with people I love and (on a more trivial level) using muscles for good purpose (ex. pushing the baby in his stroller up a steep hill and on the beach; it's difficult to push a stroller through sand, fyi). Part of me feels calmer when they're here, and another part of me is sort of stressed out and nervous just from having people around with different agendas and noises and expectations; I feel tired and can't concentrate enough to do really basic things or remember why I decided to walk from one room into another.
Delia is about to grill some salmon and portobello mushrooms for our dinner and then my mom is going to come out, partly to babysit so we "kids" can go out and be rowdy, but I actually feel exhausted right now (as I often do after socializing) like I'd rather spend the night quietly in bed.
It's windy here, but blue-skied. Lying on a blanket on the beach was great this afternoon, but got a little too blustery to stick around more than an hour.
My update is going to be late (posting tomorrow rather than today) so here's a little something to make it up to you:
How To Make An Origami Vagina:
Of course, I don't need to tell you that's actually an origami VULVA, not a vagina, right? Anycooch, it's a really hot and kinky video so I hope you enjoy watching it as much as I did.
It feels like it's been a really long day which started with going to the gym where I poured more sweat into my "workout" than usual (still barely qualifies as a "workout", but whatever) and then we had to drive to suburbia for Delia's laser hair removal consultation where I was tempted by the allure of Botox (but I did not give in, but only because it's a luxury we can't afford).
It was actually HOT today! Well, in the eighties, anyway, which is considered HOT in my book, and actually TOO DAMNED HOT in shopping mall parking lots. The drive was sublime and we took the long way home to enjoy the weather with our windows rolled down. If this is a foretaste of what's to come this summer, though, I'm going to be bitchy. I actually have a slightly sunburned face from our outdoor sushi lunch yesterday. This is why night people were invented . . .
It's been a perfect day: Tucker/Delia brought home sushi for lunch which we ate outside on the deck (why don't we eat outside on the deck EVERY day? It's fantastic!).
We just now got back home after taking a walk on the beach in the full moonlight (why don't we walk on the beach EVERY day/night? It's fantastic!). There was even the last part of sunset for viewing out on the Strait. We walked by a small RV with a person-tall Christmas-light palm tree displayed under its awning. We walked by a boat anchored nearby with warm lights in the cabin and I could imagine the people snuggled inside, maybe making a snack in the galley; when we walked by it on the way back the lights were off and I could still imagine the people snuggled inside, bathed in moonlight. The cozy intimacy of my imagined images was so palpable I didn't envy the people in the boat at all or want what they had for ourselves; it was actually better to walk past it and just know it was good (but not as good as our night, walking together on the beach and thinking, as I often do, that I could die right then and there and be extremely satisfied with the moment and everything preceding it).
This afternoon we watched The Beales of Grey Gardens which has a bunch of footage left out of the original Grey Gardens. Little Edie: what a fucking inspiration! I almost started bawling during her swim in the ocean. I think the perfect voyeuristic porn site would revolve around women like the Beales. I adore Little Edie's combination of unself-conscious confidence and her coy, flirtatious flair for the dramatic. I can picture Delia and I in our eighties, still with our spycams, prancing around with floppy boobs, wearing floppy hats, fishnets and brooch-pinned towel-turbans and warbling all of our favorite ditties from decades past.
Here's a little Edie sample for you set to music:
One of the best bits of a Little Edie monologue:
I'd really encourage those of you who haven't seen the movie(s) to see them in their entirity and not just hacked into youtube bits that paint incomplete portraits of our Edies. They are SO GOOD. SO GOOD!!!
The only sucky thing about today is that as soon as my cold symptoms faded I got hit full force with an allergy attack and have been sneezing and red-eyed all afternoon and evening.
It's definitely spring here; abundantly clear-skied and the days are blessedly longer. The moon last night was CRAZY -- huge, orange and low on the horizon, dumping its reflection all over the water.
I did a good thing and planned to have Wednesday and Thursday OFF. I actually partially followed through on that plan so I only did about five hours of work between the two days and tried to spend the rest of the time relaxing. We took a drive, saw a movie, watched buttloads of television and movies at home, went to the gym (seriously, I did), took the dog for a walk, ate our lunch outside on our deck with me in my underwear, and Tucker grilled salmon outside last night for dinner. Days off are good, and now I'm raring-to-go with work. I have two chat sessions scheduled today and one tomorrow so if you're a member, I hope to see you there.
We're going to be gone for three days / a couple of nights in a rental shooting as big of a buttload of photos as we possibly can. Normally we don't do a great job of taking care of our fingernails and toenails as we should given our line of work, so I scheduled a manicure for Tucker and a pedicure for myself today. I think the asian guy doing my feet tickled them on purpose with his pumice stone and got a big jolt of pleasure out of making me squirm and giggle.
So. I did do the brunette thing again and even a shade darker than last time. I LOVE IT!
Anyway, there won't be any action on our spycams while we're gone since there's no internet access where we're going. I know, it sounds like we're living in some kind of a time warp, but we tend to rent places that are in rural locations for our shoots so modern amenities like internet access can't be taken for granted and honestly, I'm kind of glad. We like to get away from the spycams and just immerse ourselves in shooting and then having bedtime all to ourselves with no computers humming or peepers peeping.
Here in the Pacific Northwest I feel like I've grown up in Serial Killer/Sex Predator central in between Bundy, Ridgeway, Yates, Duncan, Shriner and other super-notorious criminals. One of these piece-of-shit-guys was up in Vancouver, another guy like Ridgeway who killed lots and lots of streetwalkers and then ground up their bodies and fed them to his pigs. I didn't realize that he hasn't even been "brought to justice" yet until I read this entry in Audacia's blog. The wheels of justice turn slowly, while the flesh-grinders spin quickly out of control.
I had to spend a couple of hours getting my hair colored this morning so it feels like I haven't been home much, and certainly haven't gotten any "work" done at the computer (lots of emails stacking up, I confess).
We did manage to waste a lot of time last night catching up on those American Idol auditions -- I *hate* watching those mean-spirited things, and hate myself FOR watching them, and hate people in general for guffawing at poor unfortunates, and hate myself for being duped into thinking that any of it is for real, and hate myself for guffawing along with the rest of America. HATE it.
It was strange to see the Seattle Idol auditions and recognize some of the people. Not in a specific way, but just a general way, like the sweet girl in the pink fishnet from Snohomish and the Bothell beatbox boy's dad -- those are the kinds of people I grew up with. Oh, I grew up around pretty people, too, but the people who really felt like locals -- the people who really belonged to the town in the same way generations of my family belonged to it -- those people (my people) are kind of hicks. It's shocking to realize how different we look from other people in this country, people from urban areas (the people we see on television most often). It's shocking to see how much more we resemble Appalachian hillbillies than, say, New Yorkers. The jolt of seeing our kind-mannered ugliness on television shocked me into realizing how hidden we usually are, we poor, white, unfashionable folk.
The culture and identity of my state seems so washed-out and unidentifiable to most people, but the older I get the more finely-tuned I've become to the small towns and city (Tacoma) where I've lived; they have made me into a certain person that other places couldn't have created. I am from "The West", and it's a real place not just some watered-down amalgam of other places or some expensive place to live that just appeared out of thin air when Microsoft, Pearl Jam, and Starbucks put us on the map. I am oddly proud to have grown up in a town with enough personality, poverty and pathos that people still have sex with farm animals.
Oh, and I should mention that I don't recognize Taylor Hicks AT ALL as one of my kind, despite the way his name sounds; he is a moron who didn't even know the words to "Country Roads" (among other things) and that sickens me to the core. Sex with farm animals also sickens me to the core, but not as much. I just felt like making sure you know that I don't ENDORSE such bestial acts, nor do I ENDORSE Taylor Hicks. Both Taylor Hicks and bestiality should be avoided. Unless this provides him the release he needs, sparing some poor woman from being soul patrolled.
So far my favorites during the auditions are the Indian brother and sister and the girl who sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" (retch!) and reminded me of Inara. Of course I'll be rooting hardest for the human beatbox from Bothell - I hope he makes it.
I really should take a nap before we go pick our van (a simple loose connection with the ignition, but also holes in the radiator) and run errands.
BLACK 'PUS Last night I dreamt of a beautiful giant black octopus. He was so big he lived on top of a building being renovated by an oil rig company and was employed by them as a sort of mascot. He frightened the neighbors until they realized what a sensitive, intelligent creature he was. He became quite depressed when no one would interact with him. He was gigantic velvet-y black with perfectly contrasting pink undersides -- incredibly beautiful, and watching him move was mesmerizing.
I suppose I had this dream because of watching Pirates yesterday, but I have always loved the octopus (and the owl and the bat and the snake).
There's a perfect gentle rain falling outside my open window, the kind that provides a layer of noise to new agey music.
1. I don't like those blue m&m's. I liked the old seventies colors. Red looked so pretty with the two colors of brown. Blue is ALL WRONG.
2. I believe that space colonization will save humankind -- that ONLY space colonization CAN save us. It's not something I think about often so it's not like I'm revealing some bizarre secret of mine. Or wait, maybe I am. This is something I've believed for a long time, maybe because the space station was such a big deal when I was a kid. Still, it wasn't something I had any detailed exposure to -- it just slid into my belief system.
Why does this nugget of belief appeal to me? I don't know -- probably because science barely-fiction captured my imagination somehow from an early age. I'm not very literate in the sci-fi genre in general, but my dad bought enough graphic sci-fi stuff (a huge Buck Rogers collection in giant-book form which I never read, but leafed through every so often, a couple of captivating books with spaceship blueprints, and a subscription to Omni) that it wiggled into my consciousness as something real. Star Wars was the first movie I remember seeing, and that in a drive-in theater with my dad after a fight with my mom so it made a big impression on me. I didn't study or immerse myself in science, science fiction, or technology but I saw and read enough that was so beautiful, believable, provocative and richly detailed that it planted seeds in my brain.
Maybe that's why I didn't like Star Trek: not very beautiful, believable, or richly detailed. My first exposure to Star Trek was the original series during reruns and I was too little to understand its provocative content, only to recognize its visual inferiority to Star Wars and the other pictures I saw. The only thing I liked about the original series were the short dresses on the hot chicks. Of course, in the past couple of years I've become a Next Gen fan but it didn't contribute to the formation of my belief system, only reinforced it.
I think space colonization is part of my faith; I have faith that a few smart, persistent, creative people will save us and we will endure thanks to scientists and technology. When I say "we" I don't mean "I" since I believe this will happen after I'm dead and gone, but not by much. The idea of space colonization comforts me even though it's completely irrelevant to my life and even though it will be fraught with tragedies and scary things.
I suppose I like knowing that the struggle will go on and that there are new frontiers to explore. Or maybe it comforts me to imagine that people in general won't become too much more advanced than I had a chance to be any time soon. I can't believe Firefly only lasted one motherfucking season because that show perfectly captured what I think a lot of us imagine as the not-so-distant future of humankind.
Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time specifically thinking about space colonization as a cornerstone of my belief system. I have, however, spent quite a bit of time over the past few years reflecting on science fiction in general as the best contemporary vehicle for exploring spiritual, moral, and ethical issues. Science fiction is one of the most authentic ways I feel like I can "get religion". It's not fixed or as dogmatic as science itself so there is still room for faith (and when I say "faith" I mean faith in something -- ANYTHING -- wiggly and uncertain, not faith in any of the gods of religions we're so familiar with today), and it's not completely insane or irrational (again, like so many of the religions we're familiar with today). There's room for soaring idealism in science fiction, and for bitter cynical social commentary. I love it.
Anyway, even though I don't give daily deep thought to space colonization, I guess I do feel pretty anxious about this planet and sad about what we're doing to it. The amount of destruction I've seen in my short life, and the carelessness people have towards the "environment" leads me to believe (another part of my faith) that we aren't going to be able to live here naturally much longer without lots of artificial intervention. Much of what is most beautiful will be utterly fucking destroyed -- any of it that's saved will be via small-scale Jurassic Park type measures.
I didn't grow up in a city. Many days I actually got to wade in creeks, see big trees, smell clean air, enjoy darkness at night, have complete privacy/solitude . . . things like that. I've spent all of my thirty three years loving ferns and moss and the smell of rotting wood.
I didn't grow up in a city, but I grew up close enough to the city of Seattle to see major MAJOR changes in western Washington every single year for the past thirty-three. It's nothing against cities, because I love those too, but we are mowing good things down and paving over it so fast and furiously and on such grand scale that you have to have your head stuffed straight up your cornucopian ass to not recognize that we're shitting all over the planet; it cannot sustain these levels of "growth" and resource-rape. I wasn't raised to be an "environmentalist"; my grandpa was a logger and most people I knew were pretty conservative and hostile towards "tree-huggers". Really, my sentiments are fueled only by the gift of sight -- you have to be fucking blind to not see the destruction and life out of balance.
So. I guess I comfort myself with the fact that science will create new wonders, preserve and transplant some old ones, and life will go on. It really breaks my heart, though, imagining the world introduced to my nephew (or my own children if I ever have any) and trying to show them as many things as possible before they're bulldozed down. If my own lifetime has been marred by observable decimation of natural resources and beauty I can only imagine how depressingly ugly and destructive the world will become over the next three generations. And hey, it's not all about "nature" -- privacy and solitude are becoming relics of the past (or at least luxuries only the very richest of the rich can afford). If I ever have grandchildren I'm pretty certain their notion of these concepts (privacy and solitude) will be reduced to tiny fragments of what they should be.
It makes me fucking shudder, but I thank my lucky fucking stars to be alive in this time and place rather than somewhere else, or sometime long ago, or sometime in the near future. That brings me back to faith; who or what should I "thank"? Science fiction hasn't answered that question for me yet so sometimes I fall back on the old-fashioned stuff because really, I do need to give thanks even if it's primitive, superstitious and nonsensical.
HOT! HORNY! HAHAHA*HA*! I feel *so* good. The more sex we have, the more sex I want . . . the more sex I get.
I smell *so* good. A black velour boa made spicy with the smell of Tucker's sweat from hanging on a hook next to his worn clothes. The small of my back enriched by his cum; I slept with it squished between my skin and our flannel sheets. My own hot, demanding cunt smell on my fingers and steaming under my open skirt . . . from in between my black opaque ass-highs that sometimes roll down unevenly on my thighs when I'm walking.
We fucked on the couch yesterday, then I stayed up late blogging and he was already restlessly asleep when I came to bed, trying not to wake him. Even though it was dark and my eyes were closed, I could see my own soft white thighs and ass melting into the spoon of his thighs, groin, and belly when I tucked myself into him. I could see our soft hot whiteness coming together in the dark because we felt so fleshy against each other. I smiled and tried to go to sleep, because I thought he just wanted to sleep. When I felt his flesh inflating against my ass I marvelled at its tirelessness . . . its pattern of waking and sleeping so independent of his. I tried to be still instead of immediately responding to it, but I may have wiggled against it just a bit, just to test it. I swear he strained towards me at the same exact moment I wiggled against him, and through my earplugs I could hear him gasp, sounding almost like he was protesting against a fever or audibly aching for a glass of water.
More wiggling and straining.
Throughout the whole thing I kept seeing our bodies as white hot, but bluish and ghostly in the cold dark room . . . like warm slabs of fat and muscle softly patting against and penetrating each other, swallowing and slapping. Everything felt so silky, soft, white and creamy. Like butter without that fake yellow coloring -- firm, white and vulnerable.
Tonight we went out and had DRINKS! Both of us had drinks!! I hardly ever imbibe, but tonight was perfect . . . rainy and slate blue, early enough in the bar that it was quiet enough to hear rain falling on the window next to us. Or maybe I just imagined that sound, like I imagined the whiteness of my hips in Tucker's jacknife under the blankets last night.
I started out the day feeling cute but bitchy. I'm ending the day feeling ugly and bitchy . . . but more sure of who I am.
After my second photo shoot with Tommy Edwards I am positive that a) I do not take very good pictures unless I can see myself in a mirror, b) my tits have seen better days, and c) my face is not meant to be passive and . . . passive. And I'm fucking glad. I look horrible trying to look like a still life. I am not a model, I am not a bowl of fruit. I am just a regular average almost-thirty year old woman and the *good* pictures of me are something intimate because . . . well, they're rare.
Or maybe I just need to make sure someone who knows and loves me photographs me . . . how is it that out of the 203 pictures houseboy shot of me a couple weeks ago, 172 of them turned out to be beautiful, but out of the 255 pictures a professional took today, only about 50 look halfway decent?? The trouble is, Tommy keeps putting my worried-forehead double-chinned face into the most unflattering positions (with chin tucked down and eyes projected in gazes that I think he aims to be "smoldering"). I look like the waggly-jowled title character in "Throw Momma From the Train". I shit you not. Tommy is truly skilled and a master of working with light -- I am just not a good "model".
Other notes of the day: I missed the ferry going over by a mere four minutes and then spent 40 minutes in the passenger loading area watching a spindly-legged crab being eaten alive by a sharp-beaked seagull. I also observed two teenage girls exhibiting the hallmarks of vain feminine stupidity in the form of inappropriate dress for the season. It's fucking February chickies: put on a motherfucking coat over your midriff-baring t-shirt and please DON'T expose your feet to the cold puddles by wearing platform thongs, you nitwit embarrassments to our gender!
On the ferry ride home a good-old-boy type sat down by me and asked if I was antisocial. To boil down a 30 minute conversation into bloggable format, I eventually decided to disclose to him what I do for a living and handed him my card. I could write a short book about the conversation, but let me instead just share with you the question he asked me with genuine curious ignorance as opposed to a deliberate urge to be offensive and insulting, "so do you think you have any ethics or morals or standards??"
What I should have said (but didn't): No. I don't. In fact I could, without remorse, happily knife you in the face and then proceed to disembowel you for displeasing me with your idiocy. And then I would proceed to take video shots of me sodomizing you with my fist.
What I did say: Yeah. Yeah I *do* have morals and ethics and values -- I have a very strong work ethic and believe I provide a service to people while also challenging stereotypes people have of women and people in the sex industry. For example, the stereotype that you obviously have. Would you have asked someone in another industry (like the timber industry) that same question? I don't think so.
Anyway, I proceeded to my car only to find out that in my haste to be late to the ferry this morning, I left my lights on. Perfect. Just like a dumbass woman I called my boyfriend to come and get me instead of HELLO calling AAA to jumpstart my car. Fortunately houseboy had the sense to ask me "don't you have triple A?" instead of him driving two hours round trip just to give my car a jump and having us both waste gas driving home in separate cars. It was odd and eye-opening that I acted so helpless.
Good thing I have values and morals and ethics or I would make a terribly helpless eviscerater of men. I can see it now, "honey -- this guy made me mad and I have PMS so I want to kill him . . . could you come quick?"