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.
My sister came over this weekend with our nephews to spend a couple of nights. I figured we'd still be able to get work done when they went out on Saturday for a community event, which of course I would NOT go to. Because work is SO much more important, sitting here in front of the computer, working while I can literally feel the muscles and skin and hold-it-together-stuff in my thighs and ass breaking down into gobs of useless jello while I workworkwork.
But when my three year old nephew looked at me and asked in that hopeful and slightly anxiety-riddled voice if I was coming WITH them to the fair, I COULD NOT SAY NO. Even though I got about four hours less sleep than I usually do, waking up at 6:30ish which is unheard of for me (yeah, I know, you're like, "cry me a river" but I also often stay up working until midnight, one, two am . . . anyway).
So I put some clothes on and we went and immediately I was glad I came with them when I heard the band warming up. A very filled-out community marching-type of band! We got there just in time and everything turned to magic for me, because it's all about the kids and the music and being able to walk around the people playing their instruments and look at them from all angles and point to all of it, naming the instruments and using my Excited Kindergarten Teacher Voice! I have one of those, believe it or not, that comes very naturally to me.
We got behind the band, next to the lady drummers, and I picked him up so he could see the conductor, and I marched and danced and swayed with him in my arms to Sousa marches and Blue Moon. They were old people and little kids and a bagpiper a block away and I remembered how much I love being around regular people making music, how vital it is to dance and make noise.
I love doing new or not-done-lately things that make my body make sense. There are lots of those things: running really fast when you're in decent shape and feeling yourself turn into an almost-flying machine, fucking, getting massages . . . and holding a baby or a child. Everything that's soft and loose and floppy about me makes perfect SENSE. I felt so grounded and connected, and so sad when Mr. Squishypants was too shy to try to hula hoop on the street in front of everyone, but because I was an auntie on an excursion with them I didn't exist the way I would have if we'd gone there alone, so *I* hooped and finally got to feel exactly how awesome those weighted hula hoops I've been coveting are.
Because I'm not used to picking up and holding anything heavier than the stupid ideas in my head, I went to bed last night with sore, cramping arms and a feeling in my torso like the rocking sensation when you get off a boat after a day of sailing; I could still feel baby Skywalker snuffling against and squirming and pawing at my chest, the embodiment of the word "dimples", like a round gelatinous ghost-bubble encasing the IDEA of grinning-baby-kicking-in-shallow-bath and cute-baby-kittens-at-play was against me.
On the same day as all the fun, we also had some crazy stuff happen. Our dog got all tangled up and stuck on her rope down the hill IN THE MIDDLE OF A YELLOW JACKET'S NEST. It was crazy-scary and I'm so glad it wasn't worse AND that my sister was here to help. Poor Mr. Squish was semi-traumatized by all the hubbub with us telling him to STAY INSIDE AND NOT MOVE while we ran around like crazy with the bees swarming in in clouds. It was horrifying seeing our dog trying to get away from them, not able to let her into the house while they stung and stung and stung her around the muzzle. I'm really surprised that Delia, who rescued the dog, didn't get it worse (amazingly, no stings on her face or neck, but her arm is swollen up and we won't be shooting pics of her ass until the stings she got there are gone).
Later, while we waited for a parade, a guy came down the street trying to get signatures for a petition (which I doubt will do any good) for the public insurance option. An asshole next to us got up in the guy's face about it, and my sister (who is a nurse) in turn got up in HIS face. So we spent about twenty minutes doing our civic duty, fighting with this stranger. While we ganged up on him, tears welled up in poor Mr. Squishypants' eyes just from watching the angry exchange.
It probably was all for nothing, but I hope we gave that guy something to think about.
For the record, even though I voted for him I never thought Obama would do anything to fix health care. I still don't, and suspect whatever half-assed efforts are made will only be counterproductive to eventually getting real universal health care in this country. And no, I don't want to have a big argument about it in the comments, thank you very much. But here's a news flash: EVERYONE NEEDS HEALTH CARE, and "insurance" isn't an effective way of taking care of people's basic health care needs. And personally? I believe EVERYBODY deserves quality health care and that it's inexcusable for a wealthy country like ours not to make sure EVERYBODY has it. A non-profit public insurance plan isn't my idea of the perfect solution, but I do think it's better than nothing. I don't think the way they're trying to go about it is equitable, but whatever.
As happy as I am to see my sister and the kids, I'm always relieved (though sad) to see them go.
We're now going back to normal, logging all our spycams back in (we pretty much only have our office cams up when they're here), turning the audio back on, and, as usual, wishing we all lived closer so I could get smaller doses of that on a more regular basis. I need to do some push-ups so I'm stronger next time, because our nephews are only going to get bigger and I want to be able to dance with them in my arms and pick them up and cuddle them as long as possible.
The other day I treated myself to a trip to the spa as a reward for being 33% of the way to my June 1st weight loss goal. I decided to get a body wrap for health reasons (it helps you detox) and out of curiosity since I'd never done it.
I knew going into it that I *might* really hate being wrapped up like a mummy and mostly-immobilized for forty minutes, but I also knew I *might* really enjoy it and, at the very least, could endure it without feeling as though I'd been placed in a straitjacket.
By the time my appointment rolled around at 4 pm I'd been soaking, sweating, reading, and steaming at the spa since 10 am (I should've made my body wrap & massage appointment beforehand but was afraid to in case I couldn't figure out how to pay for it or wanted to do something else instead so 4 pm was the earliest they could get me in) and was GIDDY with anticipation.
The girl explained what was in the mud (mugwort, seaweed and a bunch of other stuff I can't recall), instructed me to disrobe and sit on the massage table (on top of a sheet of plastic on top of a metallic emergency blanket on top of MORE blankets) with my back to her. She warned me to expect the mud to be fairly "warm" because it cools off so quickly, then she started slathering hot goop on my shoulders, back, and arms. She had me lie down after that so she could apply it to the rest of my body. Right before she smeared it on my boobs, she prepared me to anticipate the touch in a nursey-kindergarten voice: I'll just apply some to your breasts now . . . (circle, circle).
After she got it all over me except RIGHT between my legs, the soles of my feet and my face, she closed the plastic around me, then the reflective blanket, then the other blankets and towels until I was thoroughly cocooned with only my head sticking out. She asked if I wanted a pillow or for her to bring water or tea when she came back to check on me in ten minutes. Then she turned out the lights (as I requested) and left me alone in the dark, unable to move. AND TRAPPED WITH A TERRIBLE CD OF ROMANTIC/NEW-AGEY GUITAR MUSIC CRAP.
The first ten minutes were pleasant (except for the hideous music). I didn't even attempt to move, afraid I would make myself itchy and be unable to scratch myself. I could see how easily I could become panicked if the slightest carnival-ride twist had been added to it (it WAS April Fool's Day, after all). Like if she'd laughed maniacally before she left and I could hear the door being locked from the outside. Or if weird scrubby things began to descend from the ceiling towards me. Or if the walls just started shrinking inwards. I kept my eyes closed JUST IN CASE so I wouldn't have to see anything like that happening. Or if a man with a bunch of surgical tools were to simply walk in, bend over my face and start whispering at me you can't move you can't move you can't get away from me or my tools! and just put his hands heavily on my chest.
So yeah . . . this might help explain to you PART of why I'm not interested in being bound. Because it would be way too fucking easy for someone to scare me psycho. I can happily lie motionless for hours, but FORCE me to -- restrict my mobility -- and I might freak the fuck out. Part of me can appreciate the appeal, imagine experimenting with it under very specific conditions, and be tempted by the psychological challenge of it and another part of me just thinks the (psychological) risk is not at all worth the scariness. I feel the same way about LSD. It sounds really interesting but I think I might be a little too vulnerable to bad side effects. The body wrap at the women-only spa is about as far as I can go.
One time I did let someone bind my hands behind my back with his leather belt (a natural outgrowth to him of my spanking and man's-leather-belt fetish, but to me it was just not the direction I was interested in going once I was face down on his bed -- it was crazily exciting, but the fear of having my arms locked behind me that way and of him possibly being able to put his weight on me and smother me was just too fucking freaky for me and I begged for mercy so it didn't last long. I was far more interested in being whipped with the belt (but not to the point of bruising or bleeding), but he wasn't so much into that so that little experiment didn't last very long. I know that some of you are thinking I just didn't do it with the RIGHT person, someone I TRUST. But the point is a) my imagination doesn't trust ANYBODY, and b) testing my boundaries on this is NOT as important to me as preserving them. For a whole lot of reasons. Thinking about it is provocative, but I am (and always have been) more interested in having force applied to me in a psychological way (and even more so applying it to others) in ridiculous role plays. I like being bound by RULES and structure. I like things that happen inside my HEAD way more than things that happen to my body. Or maybe I'm just lazy. I don't know. Woops. Now that I've written this I can recall a few different instances where I've been bound in different ways and liked it. Hmmmm . . . still, not exactly my "thing".
Back to the spa.
The first time the girl came in to check on me she brought me tea with a straw that she lowered to my mouth. I wasn't prepared for it and giggled because THAT is totally hot to me, being treated like an invalid. I wasn't prepared and dribbled tea down the side of my face, then I got her to change the CD to a variety of new agey music I enjoy -- Shamanic Dreams or something like that. She asked if the level of heat was okay (yes - warm and cozy) and again if I wanted a pillow (this time? yes).
When she left I decided to try to sleep since I'd only gotten three hours the night before. And sleep I did, for a few minutes. Let me tell you, it was NOT pleasant waking up mummified, sweating like a pig in a strange dark room with weird pagan drum music going on. I decided not to go to sleep again and couldn't wait for her to come back. When she did I asked for the heat to be turned down. She did, and blotted the sweat from my forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth (yummmmm . . . more pampered-invalid feelings). I wanted to ask her if anybody had ever lost control of their bowels while getting a wrap but decided against it, fearing she'd think I was planning something disgusting. Still, the thought was entertaining. I know SOMEONE, somewhere has done that on accident or on purpose, and I'd really love to hear about it.
Note: I'm far more likely to experiment with and enjoy shitting in a warm, plastic-wrapped bed than with being tied up. Just an FYI. I don't PLAN on doing either, but a warm bed of crap seriously sounds more fun to me than letting someone tie me up. Maybe I'm just a loner with a short attention span, though, and wallowing in my own poop is an experience I could live fully in five to ten minutes by myself whereas the whole bondage scene requires time and at least one other person. I guess there are some things I could do to myself, but again, I'm too lazy and disinterested for that. Plus, scat is just a whole lot edgier than bondage and I like the idea of being able to make people think by gleefully confessing I've shat myself for the pure, HAMRLESS fun of it. It's stupid, but poop is so much more taboo (and illegal/obscene) than bondage these days. Again, I HAVE NO PLANS TO DO THAT. I'm just comparing/contrasting. For fun.
Anyway, I survived the last twenty minutes without losing my mind, going back and forth between feeling blissed-out and on-the-verge of screaming, "GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!" I kept reminding myself of what good "exercise" it was for me and how much healthier I'd be afterwards. I worried that I'd be so sick of lying there that I wouldn't enjoy my massage afterwards (but it actually worked the other way, made the massage seem longer and way better). Basically I endured the procedure a little bit more than I enjoyed it. If I get a body wrap again I will definitely bring my own cd with guided meditations or something so my mind won't wander to torture scenes.
Finally she came in to unwrap me and I went down the hall naked to the shower with the glass-door making my clean-up efforts visible to anyone who walked by. I decided to pee in the shower instead of wasting my massage time putting on a robe and traipsing down to the restroom, but I worried about it, wondering how many other people do/don't pee in the post-wrap shower, worrying that there'd be some way they'd know I did and would talk about that disgusting customer with the long toenails who peed in the shower. Silly fears, but still. I have them. Which goes to show you just how very VERY far away I am from ever pooping in a plastic-wrap cocoon.
After the anxiety of the day BEFORE the spa and the super-extended stay I had there, I was in recovery mode all day yesterday, totally drained and exhausted and verging on a big fat headache. If you've never gotten body work, steamed, soaked, detoxed, etc. then you probably thing I sound like a fucking crybaby asshole, complaining about how TIRED I am after spending a day doing something that sounds like pure luxury to most Americans but that shit is MEDICINE. My throat and eyes burn after all the gunk inside me is dislodged and stirred up and swirled around and sucked out. It feels like preparation to go into hibernation, like the final step in this cleansing/healing process is to go into an induced coma for two days.
The spa experience is totally my cup of tea, though. The front desk lady seemed to think I was crazy for wanting to stay there for more than eight hours, but since I go so rarely it hardly seems excessive. It takes me awhile to really turn my brain off and melt into it, so that cuts down on the time I'm really benefiting from it, but it's exactly my idea of the perfect mini-vacation. Alone, not talking to anybody, with scads of naked ladies walking around, walking from one hot room to another, from one pool to another, being ministered to by talented, paid hands, smelling good things, and trying to become invisible to myself.
I want to pay more attention to seasonal holidays, the weather, rituals and nature so for the past six months or so a lot of our shoots have reflected my focus on integrating those things into our lives. Tomorrow is Fat Tuesday, a day I would never have had any awareness of if it weren't for having a magnificent pen pal from Baton Rouge when I was a teenager (if he sees this link and then these pictures I'm sure his eyes will melt in their sockets and dribble down his face in tears of horror -- I don't want to do this to you, really I don't -- I only want your Daily Preciousness to get the attention it deserves!) so here are some of my Mardi Gra-tesque pictures from a set I posted for my members today:
It's hard to procure a lot of beads when you're already totally naked:
The photo set might not win any prizes for creativity or eroticism, but for me it was a major achievement -- couldn't have been better. We shot them last night and I edited and uploaded them within two hours and actually HAD FUN doing it. My mind is still blown by how awesome life is when you don't feel like crap from fucked-up hormone imbalances. I'm not sure how apparent it is in pictures or on cam, but I feel 500% better than I did a couple months ago when getting ready for a shoot was TORTURE, to say nothing of actually doing the shooting itself. My face and neck were all bizarrely fat (even more than is normal for me -- seriously, ONE double chin is cute . . . six rolls are not), my lips were thin, there were terrifying dark puffy circles under my eyes . . . it was sheer fucking painful hell. All I can say is THREE CHEERS FOR ESTROGEN!
When I have a few more shoots I like posted, I will post a putrid gallery I've been sitting on that epitomizes how wretched and disgusting I felt. Sort of a before and after kind of thing.
Last night after we did all of that, Delia was "in the mood". After I spent about ten minutes rambling about my curiosity regarding hemorrhoids and whether or not I have one, she politely asked if I would like to engage in sexual intercourse (probably as a counter to my repeated invitations to her to inspect my anus). I clapped my hands together and cried, "get the lube!"
After that it was actually sexy. You might not be able to imagine how, but you don't have to. That's our private joy . . . just between the two of us. And our voyeur cams, of course.
Yesterday we did a bunch of housecleaning with special attention on two of our most important rooms: our bedroom and the parlor where we do all of our indoor-exercising and sun-catching. After a week of smelling not-so-fresh places (the thrift stores, our van, the smokey-smelling motel room with the "no smoking" sign) it feels so good to be able to walk through our house and have it smell like lavender and other fresh things.
All I want to do is walk around in our house, picking stuff up, folding laundry, stretching, lighting candles, and daydreaming. That's not all I *have* done, but that's how I feel. Like right now I want to take a small container of polished rocks into bed and just pass them back and forth with Delia, inspecting their colors and feeling their contours, holding them up to lamplight, listening to dorky new age music.
I feel great. Maybe it's the four anti-inflammatories I took for my period cramps today. I don't know. But it's pretty fucking rad. Maybe it was the sunshine we had the past couple of days and the exercise we got with it shining on us. Maybe it was being able to get work done even while I had to spend time on hold with the phone company. Maybe it's all of the clarifying and focusing I've been doing lately.
If I didn't know any better, I'd think maybe I'd been hitting one of these sweet pussy pipes too hard. Or not. Since 40% of the few times I've smoked it's given me major anxiety attacks. Yes, few enough that I could count each of them and calculate the percentage. And right now I feel nothing but peace.
I'm noticing physical changes this time around in my cunt. Aside from the usual increased lubrication extra estrogen gives you, it *looks* really puffy and fat and smooth and pink. I hesitate to say this, but it looks younger.
The really awesome part is I think it's making my g-spot and perineum spongier, more sensitive and erotically charged. During my shows today and yesterday my orgasms were really thick, rocking cunt-focused things instead of little pointy tip-of-the-clit climaxes. I love all kinds of orgasms, but it's always thrilling to experience a variety of them or notice a recognizable shift in sensation.
One of the downsides is the visible part of my clit is shrinking. I was really disappointed to look down last week and notice how much smaller it is than a month ago in spite of having so much less hair. I really like it when it sticks out more and am intrigued, shall we say, by women who have large knuckle-like clits.
Delia's therapist isn't a fan of hormonal birth control and the way it can flatline some women's sex drives, but the benefits of having more chick hormones is such a huge relief to me on so many levels I can only look at the bright sides and wonder how many of them there are. Like, has anyone done any research into the hormone balances of women who squirt versus those of us who don't or rarely do? I wouldn't be surprised to find out that squirters are more estrogen dominant.
Guess what gets the most play on our satellite? It's the XM channel called Audio Visions playing new age music. We have it on almost all of the time; our dog LOVES it, curls up right next to the speakers and trances out. During the day they sometimes play annoying cheesy crap, but at night they start up with "Night Visions" and this creepy woman with a vampire accent practically whispers interjections like, "in the TOETull dahknessss of nighyyt you sseeeee nahthing but ah beeelliyawn starssss . . . NAHthing but peeeeeeeeace, sweeet peeeeeeeeeissssssse. This is oddyo veezhuns, and you haf nighyyt veezhuns."
So yeah, we totally love it and daily mimic her pronunciation of Audio Visions, like when we see the longing look in the dog's eyes and ask, "awwww, do you want your awwjoveezhuns?"
Audio Visions rocks at night when they play spookier, spacier new age music, including delicious programs from Hearts of Space (note: only new age nerds would be oblivious enough to the world to waste an excellent three-letter domain like hos.com on music that once had such a limited audience it could only find space on public radio, but I digress). I've bought a lot of new age mp3's based on play they've gotten on Audio Visions that I never would have heard otherwise.
Because Audio Visions, Night Visions and Hearts of Space have been cheap auditory therapy for our household I'm pretty fucking attached to the channel which is why I'm freaking out today upon seeing the channel name has changed to read, "Spa (replaces Audio Visions)". Does this mean no more Hearts of Space? No more vampires reading poetry accompanied by the sounds of trickling streams, heartbeats and twittering birds?
Of course, it's possible that it won't change, or that if it DOES change it will be for the better, though I doubt it if their recent broadcast of a muzak-styled saccharine rendition of a sickly sweet piano tinkling the precious Beatles' melody "In My Life" layered over ocean waves is any indication of what's to come. Apparently there's some kind of Sirius / XM merger going on which I haven't taken the time to read about but is fucking up almost all of the music we've been enjoying via Directv.
This is even more upsetting to me than when Court TV changed their channel name to the criminally deceptive "TruTV" and amped up their programming with even more super-dramatized crime and disaster "documentaries" with titles like, "Most Shocking" cops and robbers high speed chases with fake sound effects dubbed in. I pray for media literacy to be taught in this country, but I don't hold my breath. Don't get me wrong, I love watching all of that shit, but it pisses me off when mainstream media gets away with passing skewed misrepresentations of real events as "truth" without disclosing how they've distorted it with artifice, bias, and added "production value".
"TRU" my ass! Maybe they think the stupid spelling is enough to act as a disclaimer: TRU! Not true in any boring conventional sense of the word. TRU! Because you don't have time to squeeze in all of those letters, much less all the pesky facts! TRU! As much truth as we can squeeze in between ads from our sponsors! TRU! For people who don't believe in accuracy of reporting OR spelling! I know, I shouldn't take the misuse of words like "reality" so seriously. I guess I'm just old-fashioned that way, especially when I suffer from the double standards that allow television giants to distort and shit all over essential words in our vocabulary while I am threatened with federal obscenity prosecution and having my payment processing taken away if I dare to tell the TRUTH about my body (that blood comes out of my pussy and that's totally healthy and I can and should be able to have sex with myself and others while that's happening). Instead I am forced to misrepresent myself, women's bodies and sexuality by hiding my period on my porn sites.
Seriously, is my bloody cunt more dangerous than using words like "truth" so loosely? How irresponsible is it to degrade the meaning of words that are supposed to be the cornerstones of civilized ethics? I do not trust that all people will intuitively recognize the difference between "TRU" and "true", "reality show" and "reality", or porn pussy and real pussy.
How did this post arrive here? This is why most of my blog entries wallow in draft mode. I'm going to have to start advertising myself as The Naked Non Sequitur. Except it's not really true that I'm naked right now or even most of the time just because I'm a webwhore, but I guess it's TRU enough.
Sorry I haven't posted anything the past few days; all you've missed is a giant broiling vat of premenstrual syndrome symptoms. It's been almost seven weeks since my last period started. I'm guessing I probably didn't ovulate this cycle for whatever reason. And all of the pregnancy tests are negative. I mentioned I have really horrid PMS, too, right?
If you want to see a little of what my days have been like check out my Daily Trixie blog (imports all of my twitter posts from the previous day). I personally thinks it's quite readable, but that might just be my narcissism speaking.
I've got my second show of the day coming up in half an hour. My face is tear-stained because of afore-mentioned hormonal problems. Nothing to worry about, it's just what's going on for me.
Going to pick a big fucking dildo to use because those skinny ones do NOT cut it when I'm in a mood like this one. And if anyone in the chatroom prods me for DEEP penetration I will scream bloody murder. Look up "G-spot" and have your eyes opened, ye Philistines.
I'm in the process of posting a Valentiney gallery for members with pictures like this (only bigger):
Right now I'm huffing down a bowl of cereal and sorting through a to-do list of about fifty (not exaggerating) things I need to do before we leave for an overnighter. Just the two of us in a suburban hotel room; we're planning to shoot a little porn, too, but the main goal of the evening is to have fun and celebrate a form of Valentine's day with each other before the actual calendar day of the 14th which we will spend with our members. We'll be back home tomorrow after Delia's laser treatment.
Okay, much packing and quick webwhoring to be done. Oh, and it won't surprise me if my period starts while we're supposed to be having romance-time. Not that I mind having my period (obviously, since I made a whole site about it) it's just annoying not knowing, especially when we are hoping to be pregnant. I've no desire to test for pregnancy at this point, though, until AFTER the 6th week of my unpredictably stretched-out cycle starts. Tomorrow is only five weeks (about the average time it takes for my period to start again).
Here's what we're doing today. We'll be gone all day since we have to trek to Seattle and will make use of that to visit family. I'm sort of hoping to come back sooner than later, though, because of how frosty and potentially icy the roads could get.
In the absence of real blogging, you can check my Daily Trixie blog for the rundown(s) on what's been keeping me busy, including a brown rundown last night. Gross!
Man, this is EXACTLY one of the big reasons I hate that I finally bought health insurance: it doesn't cover MY doctor, the one I love. The one who just sent a newsletter entitled, "Love Your Colon: Honor Your Anus".
As some of you know, I've become addicted to twitter as a mini-blogging tool, a way to see what my colleagues and buddies are doing, and method of letting friends, fans and members know what *I* am doing.
It's also had the adverse effect of reducing my real blog time; my compulsion to blog about the daily and mundane has dwindled so it seems like I'm neglecting my blog for days on end. Here's a sample of daily posts that will cure the problem (from now on 24 hours of my tweets will automatically post at 3:30 in the morning, Pacific, every night):
Fair warning: I tend to tweet about pooping a lot. Oh, and I would love to see more of my blog buddies, fellow webwhores and fans on twitter. I don't like it for sending messages or engaging in mini-conversations, though, I prefer to use it in a more voyeuristic way. Here's my profile if you want to follow me or see what some of my buddies are twittering about.
17:15 Capturing video. Feeling stiff and exhausted for no reason whatsoever. Thinking I need some fresh air. #
18:00 Dizzy. Delia's fixing dinner. Searching online for plugin to make members contents indexed, categorized & searchable w/o major overhaul. #
19:38 Still dizzy & also nauseous now. Have to get ready for news flash. Really just want to sleep. #
20:08 Ugh. Got up for nothing; there's a glitch with my rude shows-I start my cam, wait in chat, no one comes in & I find I'm not on schedule. #
21:25 In the immortal words of Hank Williams, I'm so bloated I could die. Taking my fat ass back to bed with a book. SO MANY books, I *love*! #
01:34 A midtown Manhattan craiglister stole a Delia pic for his personal ad. Oh well, he left her url on it so I guess it's free advertising! #
10:43 Going to have some alone time with breakfast, then get ready for my show. Then DO my show. #
I know I already have the twitter "badge" in my sidebar so maybe this is redundant, but I don't like the way the flash badge doesn't have hyperlinks, messes up formatting, and seems to not have the most recent tweet displayed.
It's very strange to walk through a bookstore and have my eyes captured by so many familiar authors and editors: people I know through the blogosphere, people with whom I've exchanged emails and links, people I've met in "real" life, and even people who have or are about to send me contracts and checks to put my own work in their volumes. It's not the least bit glamorous, but it feels that way anyway because I know OTHER people (horny nineteen year old college girls with sensitive nipples, I hope) might think it's dreamy and impressive because they don't know any better. Right now it feels super cool to me because I feel like it happened to me by accident, without intent I'm a dork and it's COOL to look at names on the spines of books and think to myself, "talked to HIM on the phone, met HER on porn set, commiserated with HER regarding obnoxious blog fans, was stark naked at HER house, am quoted in THAT book, blah blah blah".
I can whittle the vanity down to something even simpler, though; it's delightful knowing some of those book people know who I am. It's neat-o to be in a public place surrounded by people who think books and the people who write them are really cool, and to feel "special" because some of those people whose names are on books because they're responsible for the content inside of them, SOME OF THOSE PEOPLE KNOW WHO *I* AM!!
Through my porn sites I have attained a degree of immortality. It sounds crazy, but it's true and it fascinates me. So much of the work I do amplifies and extends my living; I do feel like I'm more alive because so many people KNOW that I'm living, WATCH me living, READ me living, etc. It's heady, powerful stuff that overfeeds my most basic, primitive survival instincts. Maybe my own instincts have gone off the rails or I'm unwittingly describing the hallmarks of some kind of pathology, but whatever. Some people cheat death through extreme sports to feel more alive, some people have kids, some people perform acts of heroism . . . but I feel more alive simply because a few bloggy book people (along with thousands of men who've become erect and spilled seed over my web-graven images) know who I am.
The idea of low-level celebrity is becoming more and more intriguing to me as it becomes more common in our world and as I attain some of it in a barely-measurable way. If Kathy Griffin is D-list, I guess I'm somewhere around Y, which as you know is right next to nothing; it may not be much, but it's an eye-opening position granting me a zillion unblocked views into the various phenomena associated with fame and its varying degrees. Even if you are decidedly NOT famous, if there are a dozen people in the world who assume you must be and they communicate that assumption to you in a prone position of worship you DO learn something about the condition. Most of the time you just snicker to yourself because the concept of YOU being FAMOUS is ludicrous and hysterical, but you still have to recognize that you're experiencing something that most people don't and in that way you are exceptional. You are, for example, the exception in the bookstore, not the rule.
Fucking has been a daily event for the past few days, and will continue to be for the next couple of weeks as we continue trying to get pregnant. Thanks to some good timing with Netflix and some splendid hand-me-downs from a blog reader (thank you very much for Mr. Beaver and Squirm Sockets, which I especially like), we have some hot movies to accompany our wholesome procreative sex efforts. WARNING TO VOYEURS: if you're expecting wild, nonstop sex in a variety of positions during our baby-making attempts you're bound to be disappointed. We don't want to overdo it, and we're aiming to finish in the missionary position every time for maximum spooge retention.
I'm now going to go poop. The reason I'm telling you this is because it makes me feel so ALIVE when I talk about pooping. If I pooped and nobody knew about it, I would feel half-dead, but knowing that my stinky essential ritual of daily life is haunting strangers around the world? I feel like a god. Like a god who doesn't carelessly use his divinity to give up on pooping, because a true god knows that it feels so pleasurable when the poop stretches the anus.
There is almost nothing more satisfying than dislodging and extricating a long, tough, thick booger that's had its heels set in for a week. When you can feel the tug deep inside your nostril, way back in your brain and you hope that it will just keep coming, like a series of magician's hankies coming out of a hat. That *pulling* sensation that makes you wish you could see what all of this looks like inside. It's extremely fulfilling on a visceral level and makes you think about all of the magical potential trapped deep inside your tubes and wires. It tickles so good.
Tonight I discovered something almost as fun: dislodging pipe clogs using CLR Power Plumber (the video is SO delightful!). Here's how it works: "CLR Power Plumber is a compressed gas. When the formula in the can is released and comes in contact with water in your drain, it expands rapidly, creating a standing wave. It uses the water in your pipe as a battering ram pushing the blockage through and cleaning the walls of your pipes."
Our bathroom sink has been clogged or at least draining slowly for the past whole-entire-time-we've-lived-here. After staring at standing water in the sink all day today, Delia decided to give CLR a try and asked for my assistance in covering one of two holes. On the first plunge, I could hear the magic happening and drainage beginning. On the second plunge I got really excited. On the third plunge I was so distracted with anticipation that I didn't keep the overflow hole firmly covered and dirty, muddy water sprayed all over the bathroom; it was orgasmic!! And the sink began to drain!! It was all over much too quickly. I actually had fun wiping the diarrhea-like spatter from the walls.
I enjoyed it so much I watched the video/advertisement on their site and continued to think about this marvelous experience. I thought about how much I love seeing clogged-pipe graphics and videos in commercials where they have those clear pipes and you can SEE the problem being dislodged and whisked away. I know I sound over-enthused about this, but honestly, doesn't the sight of see-through pipes with problems being solved appeal to everyone on some strangely primitive level? I don't know what it is exactly, but it's hypnotic, reassuring, and bizarrely exciting. I suppose anything that reminds us subliminally of pooping and orgasm are just naturally appealing and gratifying.
I think I know what I'm getting everyone for Christmas . . . .
If you've never been to one of my hour-long camshows with a group audience, here's the type of chatty performance you are missing:
How'd you like that? I have a show scheduled in 2.5 hours so you can get in on the real live action or even ask me pesky questions yourself that will make me groan with impatience and respond with condescension. If you're patient you might also hear me talk about a variety of bodily functions. If you're *really* patient you will certainly see my nude boobies and me having an orgasm with my hitachi magic wand.
That's also the first video I've ever posted on YouTube. Part of me would love to make weird videos for YouTube, but another part of me really detests editing video (which is why it's taking me days and days to finish the video compilation I'll finally be posting for members today). I *hate* watching footage OVER and OVER again and doing all the little time-wasting things you have to do just to produce something completely amateurish and mediocre. Fortunately I like amateurish, mediocre videos as long as they have a wee bit of personality so I don't feel totally bad about My Crappy Videos -- as long as they're getting a few people off and/or eliciting a few giggles I'm happy.
I'm also going to be posting the first in a series of questionnaires/forms for members to fill out so we can get to know them better. This is yet another task that sounds deceptively simple (just type out a few questions, Trixie -- you're a fast typist!) but took shitloads of time to concoct even after I bought a subscription to a site that does the hardest parts of the server-side coding for me. I actually enjoy doing this kind of work, though, much more than I enjoy editing video because the video stuff requires a lot of waiting around (for things to encode) and watching things over and over . . . you aren't actively working or thinking all of the time so it really makes me want to slit my throat with boredom and aggravation. The form thing actually feels much more creative to me and I actually enjoy repetitively fucking with the little details to make it work.
We've had a full day today, but nothing too exciting except for my CLIT THROBBING LIKE AN ANGRY CARTOON THUMB THAT'S BEEN BLUDGEONED BY A HAMMER.
Seriously, my pussy has been on red alert (and with my period starting today I mean that in more ways than one). It's really been achingly demanding. Last night at the movie for the whole first hour all I could think about was how much I wished Delia could reach over and give me a handjob. As far as the movie went, all of my excitement was over Calypso and Davy Jones. Orlando and Kiera make me want to barf -- what was up with that body double for the closing thigh-worship scene? Fucking lame.
Here are the boring details of our day:
*went to the gym *got my period *posted to that blog and this one and moved little things around in the sidebar *checked stats *wrote back and forth with Kris *researched stuff for the pregnancy site *watched an episode of The Deadliest Catch while we ate lunch (one of the few meals I'll step up to the stove to cook: fried eggs, turkey bacon and toast) *did dishes, laundry and other cleanup *grocery shopped *watched another episode of The Deadliest Catch while we ate dinner (Delia took care of this one: a delicious garlicky quinoa concoction with stir-fried shiitake mushrooms) *shot photos and video of Tucker *tried to follow along with some instructional bellydance dvd's *walked the dog together at dusk
It's been a full day for me considering that I only got around seven hours of sleep which is usually not nearly enough for me. I've enjoyed the entire day, though, and now am looking forward to climbing into bed with some toast to watch So You Think You Can Dance and going to sleep.
If someone knows how to put stuff (like my borane [borane = boring+mundane] what-i-did-today bullshit) behind a cut using blogger so it doesn't soak up the brain cells of people who'd rather not waste them reading such trivia, I'd love to hear how.
If you've been watching my spycams the past couple of days and noticed an unusual silence, it's because I decided to try Ritalin again. No loud, angry outbursts of swearing! Isn't that refreshing?
I'm still noisy in the fart arena, though. Yesterday I sat down at my desk and ripped the craziest-sounding fart with a squeaker on the end; I burst out laughing, it was so cute. THAT IS WHY WE HAVE AUDIO ON OUR SPYCAMS! Also, last night I posted a short fart video in the behind-the-scenes section of SpyOnUs. Here's a picture of me farting from my favorite gallery we shot last week:
I've enjoyed a fantastic week and a fantastic birthday, so fantastic, in fact, that I'm in worn-out hermit mode. THIS is also a contributing factor in my fatigue.
I think I might also be a little bit depressed; getting to spend so much time with family this week was so pleasant that I feel frustrated we live hours away from each other. My face still hurts from grinning at my nephew. It bothers me that I can't see him whenever I want to at the drop of a hat, and I blame myself. I blame myself for not making enough money to have more reliable transportation to make visiting easier. I blame myself for not making enough money to have a bigger television so we could all watch Borat without eyestrain. I blame myself for not making enough money to have a house where everyone can stay and be comfortable and stretch out for days and weeks and months at a time. I blame myself for not making enough money to help out my family with their own financial woes. I blame myself for not getting ahead on work stuff so that I could hang out without having to think about what I needed to accomplish.
Being around a nine-month old child carrying portions of my DNA alters my perspective on a lot of things, too. My perspective on what I do for work, for example, and the stand I take on certain free speech issues. The maternal instinct is really one of emotional hysteria, I think, which overwhelms my family-unfriendly intellectualizations of certain issues. I'm being vague, I know, but my point is just to share that I feel a little tipped-over and unsteady, and yes -- I do have a maternal instinct. It's been pretty easy for me to deny it since I've not been around little kids for extended periods of time for the past thirteen years, but I was never one of those people who totally didn't understand wanting kids (I just wanted NOT to have them more, or to have foster kids which is out of the question now for me: my only real regret about entering this line of work and being so open about it). I'm also just worn out from the crazy emotions of the intense joy (observing my nephew, hearing him, feeling him, smelling him, making him laugh and smile) combined with intense anxiety (irrationally fearing for his life when he's sleeping, crying, wobbling, etc.). And it's not just my nephew, but seeing my sister. My little sister as a mom. My little sister and her son, who shapeshifts between her, her husband/his dad, my grandpa, my uncle, my grandma . . . I've always been close to my sister so combining the enormity of love and awe and protectiveness I feel for her with the enormity of love and awe and protectiveness I feel for her child / my nephew is just SO BIG that it's a shock to my system once Tucker and I are alone in the house again.
This morning I watched morning television on the networks (the "news" and The View) and that made me feel strange, too. I never watch that stuff in the morning (I think I've only watched The View a few times with my mom) and I felt like I was on another planet or had entered a parallel universe or something. The whole thing felt totally surreal. There was Rosie and Barbara and Joy and what's-her-stupid-face, all talking about their children and partners and family . . . talking to one another like they are "real people" having a normal conversation but they're on a stage entertaining hoardes of strangers, totally detached and disconnected from their children and families and real friends. And there I was, lying alone in bed, mouth unmoving except to chew food. My arms sore and heavy repairing from the unaccustomed lifting of my nephew's weight earlier this week. Conspicuously empty.
Our house smells faintly of Lapsang Souchong. Mmmm. . . . if you're a fan of that smokey tea, I'm in love with the Russian Caravan we can get at our local hippy store (not sure if this is the same brand we've gotten, but it's worth checking out if you're into tea).
I'm a little hyperaware of the scent of our house right now because Kris Madison is coming over to stay with us for a few days; I'm afraid the dominant notes in our domestic bouquet won't be smokey tea leaves, but instead will be damp, sweaty, unwashed laundry, wet dog, and heated vomit from our vaccuum cleaner which our brother-in-law used to clean up after our Nico puked while we were gone when she ate a chicken carcass.
Speaking of aromas, we ate a lot of refried beans last night; I'm on the verge of becoming the first human hovercraft. I wonder how many people cancel their memberships to my site after hearing me moan, fart and giggle over the spycam audio one too many times? Or is that part of my distinctive charm?
We're home. I have cramps. Our internet connection has been going up and down (apparently my cable company is still doing upgrades, from what the woman on the phone said, but she seemed somewhat disoriented after eight minutes on the phone with me). Anyway, it's making it very difficult to keep our cams logged in (not that it's mattered over the past couple of days since we weren't home anyway, but now that we are I hope that I won't have to keep leaving my hot water bottle behind in bed just to make sure our connection hasn't nosedived again.
Am I TAD grumpy? Good reading on that. Happy thoughts to come later . . .
GONE AGAIN We're doing another two-night shooting spree (last night and tonight) so I'm just home to post my members-only update, check on the dog, etc.
Our efficiency today has literally gone down the toilet: last night we must have eaten something bad because we both suffered nausea and explosive D (I can't spell that word and it's probably better if I don't anyway). I think the last time I had this much force behind my liquid shit was when I visited Albania in 1994.
Anyway, we had to catch up on some sleep and are off to a slow start today. My asshole is on FIRE. Be home tomorrow.