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 went on a google adventure and discovered a guy who loves enormous clits and uses the word "hermaphrodite" to describe women endowed with them. That's his definition of hermaphrodite: women with prominent clits. It was all worth being exposed to his weird-ass opinion, though, because I got to see a photo of Linda Might, "The Queen of Clits", who I'd never heard of before.
Jesus, I'd love to have myself a three-inch clitoris.
Anyway, I can't stop thinking about all of this hermaphrodite bullshit and wishing I could grasp EXACTLY what is so fucked up about these rumours (and people's responses to them) and articulate that fucked-upedness accurately.
I can't stop thinking about being in our local candle store and hearing three people engaged in a discussion about Ann Coulter in which one person "informed" the other two that Coulter was "born a man". Yeah, she's a tranny! The two women gasped, one declared she'd always SUSPECTED as much, the other asked if he was SURE . . . and he WAS. He was SO FUCKING SURE. He insisted it was true. He backed it up with things he'd heard on Air America.
I wanted to interrupt and tell them they were wrong, but went home to check JUST IN CASE. Because there also seems to be something wrong with just ASSUMING those tales are false. Is it a growing acceptance/awareness (or heightened fear/paranoia/continued ignorance) of transgender that fuels these bullshit stories? Is it just a contemporary expression of misogyny / new way to express or justify hatred and disgust of genetic women people find contemptible or disturbingly sexy (ex. Jamie Lee Curtis)? Maybe, but there's a weird ambiguity about the way a lot of people talk about these urban legends, like teenagers who WANT to believe in ghosts. One part wishful thinking, one part pure bullshit, and another part pure fear.
Standing in the store I mostly just listened even though they said some stupid shit that made me want to say, "HEY -- my girlfriend is transsexual; maybe you should watch what kind of moronic crap you let stream out of your mouth in front of strangers." Instead I called the store after I got home and verified that the Ann Coulter as Tranny story IS INDEED a myth, told them WRONG. But that seemed to miss the point, too. Even if she HAD been born with a dick, that doesn't explain her away or make sense of her. That knowledge, if it were true and we could attain it, wouldn't somehow put her in her place the way people seem to want it to.
Oh well. I'm sure more brilliant minds than mine have got this sorted out and published somewhere with a lot of fancy words and complicated double-talk that will never do anything to help make the average American get it. Someday maybe it will all get straightened out, but in the meantime women-who-confuse-us are the new Richard Geres and Rod Stewarts, with bellies full of cow semen and hamsters up the ass. The tabloids have proof that Obama's birth certificate is a fake, and we think if only someone would publish that photo of an infant Ann Coulter sporting a pre-op malignant penis, we could win this argument!.
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.
The other night we heard Martin Short ask Conan O'Brien if it's okay to say "penis" on television. Conesy assured him that if it's a "medical" word you can say it on tv. So they said it, "PENIS", over and over. Martin also said, "ding dong", "my unit" and a whole bunch of other terms as he used his hands to indicate EXACTLY what part of his body he was talking about.
Guess what happens if you do a search for "clitoris"? BIG FAT ZERO.
I only learned of this reading Susie Bright's post about this twisted double standard. Of course, to be fair, "vagina" doesn't seem to be considered a dirty word since I just turned on strict filtering and did a search for that term and came up with (considerably fewer than penis) results so . . . yeah.
It IS upsetting and there's clearly a weird double standard; it's hilarious (in a very dark way) that anyone would think a clitoris is more dangerous than a penis, and "dangerous" IS the opposite of "safe", isn't it? Still, I don't know that I feel exactly the same way about it that Susie does, though I think hers is an important perspective full of many truths and that we should all be pissed off about this kind of bullshit. But part of the hate, shame, and willful ignorance of women and women's bodies is wrapped up in the shame and disgust men feel (and women AND MANY *FEMINISTS* REINFORCE AND ENCOURAGE) over straight men's sexual response to women. If it's a part of the body that makes a straight man's dick hard -- something they want to see and touch and lick and talk about and see pictures of -- then it needs to be censored to save those crazed pudwhackers from themselves and the women from the damage that is wrought when men think of women in a sexual way!
I'm not sure "the giant obscene 'F' word in Internet censorship is feminism". Yes, I think this is a feminist issue, for sure, but I don't think the sole or even the primary motive for/cause of banning a word like "clitoris" from google's safe search is a clear desire to silence feminists and shroud women and their bodies in a reinforced veil of ignorance. Sure, that's one of many RESULTS (and there are plenty of places where plenty of people DO make silencing feminists and campaigning against women and knowledge of women's bodies number one on their agenda) and it's easy to see why Susie would feel especially pissed about it when she's not one of the sex-negative feminists who thinks that every boner sprung is a rape waiting to happen (a way of thinking that, combined with the conservative, supposedly apolitical woman's belief that every time a man masturbates to pictures of women who aren't his wife that a family is destroyed, has made the men who are still in charge very eager to PRETEND to try to disapprove along with us of their dirty habit of jacking off over images of our bodies) . . . and when you turn safe search off to find "clitoris", the seventh page-one result is her post on the internal clitoris, etc. Obviously safe search filters could make it harder for Susie to sell books.
A little diversion: laughably, the retarded UNfactual "ask men dating and love tip" page on "understanding the clitoris" ranks higher than Susie's or Scarleteen's pages, but that's probably because a site like AskMen works a lot harder on search engine optimization than educators, artists, writers, political activists, etc.). The web used to be more of a woman, but now it's poorly micromanaged by algorithms cooked up by men. Are their little mathematical formulas conscious attempts to censor feminist obscenities (like truth)? No. I don't think so.
There are so many more pointed ways that women and the truths about our bodies told from our own perspectives are smacked down by corporate censors that the banned google clitoris isn't at the top of my list of things to use as an example. It's the more obvious and uncomplicated stuff I've had to deal with as a pornographer (one of those "commercial porn-makers" Susie identifies as someone who she thinks doesn't suffer from bans and censorship the way artists, writers, educators and political activists do, which is an annoying and probably unintentional slap in the face I've felt delivered from the latter group and their "poor, starving, I-do-it-for-love-not-money mentality" before -- I guess they always think we'll know that they don't mean pornographers like Tony Comstock who of course get to be included as ARTISTES) that really chap my hide as clear-cut cases of misogyny combined with the anti-sex backlash perpetrated by the feminists who deign to speak for all of us. Again, it's not that Susie is one of those people, it's just that I see feminism as one of many complex contributors to internet censorship, not just a victim of it.
So what IS a clear cut case of anti-woman, ignorance-enforcing internet censorship? When credit card companies and their processors tell me my body (and yours, if you're a woman) is OBSCENE when I'm menstruating and I'm not allowed to talk about it or show pictures of it or have sex with myself or other people while I'm having my period on any domain where I make money selling my porn. When they spider our sites looking for banned words, take them out of context and threaten to take away our ability to be paid for our work even when it IS political, educational, artistic, etc. Guess what? Google is not the entity afraid of my bloody pussy. Google is not the entity hiding or demanding I delete blog entries discussing political, legal and ethical issues containing banned words. I just have to cross my fingers when I make posts like this one that they won't come fuck with me, but technically I am defying their terms of service right now by posting this and could have my business shut down because of it. And it's not just "the man" who's against me, it's the (other) feminists, too.
Censorship isn't something you can blame all on men and their holy penises and their desire to stamp out feminism. And I'm starting to rethink that great old joke she mentioned; "if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament." It's totally true, but I'll bet if that were the case today, feminists would quickly become the new pro-lifers. The gender wars are far from one-sided and I've been hit by a whole fucking lot of "friendly fire" over here on "our" side.
I know I'm being oversensitive and carelessly lobbing my own grenades in the wrong direction at people who are my allies, but oversimplifying everything as "anti-feminist" undermines all of our arguments and neglects to acknowledge the ways that some of feminism's "successes" have led to these failures along the way. There's a bit Bill Maher does that annoys the FUCK out of me to listen to (off-topic sidenote: I didn't like much about "Religulous", fyi), but I can't help thinking of it right now because some of it's true and applicable:
My guess is that banning "clitoris" has very little (if anything) to do with a campaign to censor feminist thought and information and women's bodies, and a whole lot more to do with thoughtlessness along with this thing Bill Maher talks about, with men trained to bow to "feminized"/feminINE values that anything that makes them erect is BAD. When you layer that onto the big problems that we SHOULD be focusing on like a) the people that make decisions in big companies being men, and b) men assuming everyone who uses their tools (like search engines) ARE men, and c) all men are straight, you wind up with guys jumping to the conclusion that any search for a clitoris is one that's going to make someone bust a nut and is therefore unsafe. Or maybe a whole lot of confused and retarded thought WAS put into it (with a, b and c still factored in) and they decided that since, as feminists will proudly point out to you, they've heard that clitoris is the only organ with the sole function of PLEASURE, and MEN HAVE BEEN TAUGHT THAT THEIR PLEASURE IS BAD if they experience it themselves, especially by objectifying women in pictures or on the internet, that it should be banned. Or maybe it's totally ridiculous to imagine ANY THOUGHT WHATSOEVER went into this arbitrary "decision". I highly doubt that a bunch of people came together in a room with a picture of a cock on one side of the chalkboard and a vulva on the other, and came to a consensus that CLITORIS is a dirty word but PENIS isn't, and high-fived each other on the way out the door saying, "right on, man! Another way to stick it to feminism!!"
Ultimately I think it's paranoid to say, "it's been clear for a long time that the giant obscene "F" word in Internet censorship is feminism." And untrue. And I say that as someone who believes it IS true that feminism (and accurate information about women) is censored, misrepresented, considered obscene and something to quash and oppose on a very large, grand scale. I just don't think that's the case here with google and the clitoris, and if you want to point at double standards, the more glaring one is ignoring how much power and influence feminists and women in general have had and continue to wield in censoring the internet, art, and women who capitalize (the first offense) on men's desires by selling them access to their bodies (second offense). It's wrong to imply that feminist writers, artists, etc. have suffered more from internet censorship than pornographers.
Sure, feminist writers, artists, etc. make less money than smut peddlers as a whole, but that disparity has nothing to do with censorship - porn makes money in SPITE of censorship that FAVORS women writers and artists (who don't create graphic material that is VISUAL), and is DEMANDED by the tag team duo of feminists and conservative women. You want to know why most women don't make money on the internet? BECAUSE THEY DON'T WANT TO. Because they don't even try. Because they are content sitting around bitching and blogging and crying on each other's shoulders feeling superior because they aren't whores motivated by money, no they care about PRINCIPLES and getting warm fuzzies commiserating with each other and expect the "community" to take care of them rather than creating something marketable and making enough money to buy influence and support their causes themselves. Because they rely on the man to pay them just enough that they can bitch about it being unfair and that they only do it because they HAVE to, rather than BECOMING the man long enough and with enough success that they can subvert the system. Women don't make money because they love just scraping by and they think that makes them superior to men, because they don't think big except in terms of imagining some big plot designed to keep them barefoot and pregnant.
Whatever. Enough of this baloney -- I need to stop being a hypocrite and make me some fucking money.
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.
We're back home from our Portland trip and 500 photos richer. Well, 498. And of course we'll delete many of those, too. Not very productive in terms of shooting, but what we DID shoot was great. Besides, we were really there for Delia's doctor appointment and also spent a nice evening visiting with our friends, Torn and Toni of KatVixen.com. I realize you all read me telling you how much I like to avoid people and socializing and all of that jazz, so you probably never conceive of how much I actually *do* like people and talking with them, and how hard it is for me to call it a night once conversation is rolling. I think I deprive myself so much of social stimulation that I become parched for it, which creates a vicious circle because I pretty much know I'll want to overdo it when we meet up with people and then need a week of hermit mode to recover my wits There is often a part of me that *almost* whines to friends, "I wish you/we didn't have to go" at the overdue end of a visit. A lot of my issues with socializing/needing a lot of alone time are less to do with preference and more to do with the way my brain is wired and that I just wind up blowing fuses trying to process the extra stimuli.
So. A small (or literally a large) reason why we didn't shoot more photos is that I didn't recognize in time how overweight I am and that an outfit I packed, THE outfit, the one I was all sexed up to wear and use in a teacher role play, could barely be buttoned/couldn't be zipped. I love it way too much to wear it incorrectly so it put me in a bit of a foul temper. It was slightly more depressing than our Halloween shoot debacle where I actually SPLIT THE SEAMS of the pirate dress I ordered. That was sort of funny and I wish we'd have gotten the splitting on tape. Oh well.
My conflicting feelings/thoughts regarding my level of physical fitness: *I think I look and feel fine -- nay, almost exactly how I've always WANTED to look -- for a normal thirty-four year old *but not a thirty-four year old who sells images of her body and needs to be versatile. *I don't fucking WANT to eat less or exercise more. I just don't WANT to! Okay, I do want to but there are about 567 things on my list of things I WANT TO DO ****WAY MORE**** than exercise. I'd rather be fucking blogging, right? I'd rather be masturbating I'd rather be eating donuts while Delia gets ready for me to take pictures of HER. I would just rather be sitting on my goddamned ass using my motherfucking BRAIN, okay? *but okay, I *do* want to look good in that outfit, darlings. I *do*. It's just too perfect. There are SO MANY perfect little outfits. I pretend not to care, but oh, I *do* care, because I want to look so cute and fit in polka dot blouses and dresses with darts.
None of this matters in any real way and it sickens me to even think about it for a moment, let alone go ON and ON about it, torturing myself and others with this fucking weight loss drivel. What a senseless waste of time. But. I think some of my dramatic feelings right now about my body are connected to bigger things than my bigger body. Like admiring some of the work my more cerebral cohorts do and feeling resentful that I don't have time to do more of what they're doing. That I'm bogged down by my visually body-oriented work that begs me to tend to it in such time-consuming ways. That my body right now is my most valuable natural resource and I'm trashing it (I would say that Delia's body is my most valuable resource, but that would open up a whole other can of worms about possession and pimping and shit). That I want my work to focus more on *other* people's bodies and less on my own. That I want it to fucking WORK PROPERLY but suspect I'm rounding the bend where I can't take it for granted at all and it wants me to know that. I'm full of suspicious lumps, I can't seem to get pregnant, and I'm having a hard time disguising my comical bulges.
I don't like to complain about it or sound pessimistic. It's important to me to say that I don't FEEL as bad as I sound. But I *do* need to process these feelings. And remind myself that the reason I do the work I do is because a) I like it/feel driven to, and b) it is part of a plan that *does* allow me to do *all* of the kinds of work I want to do. Some of it right now/all of the time, and more of it eventually. And all of it really whenever I want if at any time I want to drop any of it that I'm sick of. And that's the big reminder, that I can do whatever I want. I don't WANT to stop doing anything I do right now OR I WOULD. I just really crave to do MORE of the millions of things I want to do. Making choices pains me because sometimes choosing to do one thing means choosing NOT to do other things I really really DO want to do (refer to above: socializing).
Sorry if that is all incoherent and vague. It makes sense to me, though. FYI: comments reassuring me about my weight or arguing about it will not be published; it's not the real issue here: the real issue is what I want to concentrate on more than my body. Love to chat about it more, but again, this is more of a reflective post for myself than an informative or conversational post for others; once I post this I want to be dumped of it and move on.
I don't know if I can describe how satisfying it is to look at these photos we've shot, the ones that are beautiful. Since it's difficult to describe without being redundant or obnoxious, you wind up reading more angst about dumb things like body image than daily thanksgiving about important things like how splendid I feel about what we make. I feel wrong even taking that much credit for just being lucky enough to have a camera, a moderately good eye and an appreciation for the beauty of certain things that never get old no matter how many times you duplicate them: black nylons against a blonde wood floor. Red patent leather. My girlfriend's ass. Her willingness to get on the floor for me. The way the pictures I capture can keep getting better regardless of how fat I eventually may get or whether or not I can bear children or whether or not I ever lose a breast to cancer. I will still always know and deeply appreciate a billion and one things that are beautiful and exquisite and erotic and are not too hard for me to point out and celebrate. That I WANT to point out and celebrate.
During my shows today I got the usual questions I get when I'm wearing a tampon and haven't bothered to cut the string. Namely, "what she got hangin out of her pussy?" I feel it's my moral obligation to continue flaunting my string time if only to educate these sheltered ignoramuses.
After my last orgasm I returned my focus to the chatroom only to read a new question, one I'd never fielded before:
"Why is your pussy so flat?"
Ummmmmm . . . flat? Well, here is what he was looking at:
I had to ask him what he meant. FLAT? He couldn't bring himself to elaborate. And maybe it does look relatively flat, especially without any hair on it (a recent change). Regardless, I couldn't tell you WHY mine is that way. It just IS. I was born with a (now) stylishly cute vulva that could almost be mistaken for fake if not for the vulgar coloring, pimples, and hair (when I have it, which is almost always). And as I've gotten older it's gotten more of a pinched pie dough look, but it still has its flat days, I guess. I should start marketing myself that way. STEP RIGHT UP AND SEE TRIXIE'S FLAT PUSSY! Actually, my pussy is not as flat as it looks, though. It's just the quality of the webcam show action and lighting that fucks up the dimensions.
Speaking of the hair removal, I still got a handful of "compliments" on my supposedly still-hairy pussy, even though the actual vulva is now shaved. Seriously? That pussy looks hairy? Color me confused. That is like confusing a mustache with a beard. No, it's like confusing SIDEBURNS with a beard.
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".
I'm editing a gallery of Delia's pictures; usually she picks through and touches up her own photos so this is a rare treat for me. There's not a lot involved in our editing process (adjusting light levels, contrast, erasing hot pixels and ingrown hairs, etc. all as needed, so on many photos we don't do anything) but we do go through every single photo individually to make these minor adjustments or to delete super-repetitive or totally worthless shots with no jack-off appeal. For me this is often a time to enjoy our work, especially when they're photos I shot rather than photos I'm *in*.
The reason I'm editing this gallery? Because Delia didn't think she wanted it on her site and thought it would be better on the houseboy site. I disagree wholeheartedly, but am glad it means the photos are in my hands now.
I guess she thinks they look too masculine; one problem with black and white photos is that they often dramatize jawbones, wrinkles, veins, hair, and all sorts of things that don't lend themselves to soft femininity. Also, she's naked in a most of the pictures and since she's not on hormones yet, her body is moderately masculine. I say that her members will still adore them. For now, her site is still marketed and named as a crossdressing site (she'll be developing a DeliaTS.com or DeliaTG.com site eventually which we'll add to our network) so we know at least some of her members ARE crossdressers who fantasize about being LIKE Delia as much as or more than they do fucking her. I'm just guessing, but I imagine it's reassuring to see her nude and occupying that grey area of gender, engaging in the familiar ritual of shaving, one of the few things a closeted guy can do regularly with minimal risk of raising suspicions. And all of those mirrors? Come on -- so loaded with a billion familiar themes.
It's amazing how much long hair or a simple bra communicates to us about someone's gender identity. Actually, it's more amazing how little is communicated by nudity and how much we "need" clues in the form of clothing to inform us whether we should relate to someone as a woman or a man. We actually don't have a lot of full nudity on any of our sites except the houseboy site, so that makes this gallery unusual since normally we focus on striptease-style sets with emphasis on familiar fetish attire like panties, tight sweaters, stockings, etc.
I'm fascinated by this transitional period we're in, Delia changing her name legally and about to go on hormones, us hoping to get pregnant. I love photos like these ones that will be reference points everyone can use to gauge her body's progress. These are before pictures (though not the beginning by any stretch of the imagination). We'll be able to look at her muscles, her jawline, her breasts, her balls, her hips, her hands, and her ass in these photos and compare them to a year or two from now when she'll have more fat.
Today we're going to try to do an outdoor shoot of Delia, and tomorrow an outdoor shoot of me. FYI: my period started yesterday and I feel GREAT. All is well and lovely. We were actually going to try to take a whole day off today, but that's not happening (though we *are* going to have a nice lunch out), nor will it happen at all this week. As a result I feel okay about watching pure buttloads of television throughout the week. Last night we developed an outline of some of the things we need to get done for/in October and I'm looking forward to tackling those things.
Anyway, I *think* Delia is coming around and will post the full set represented in these sample pictures soon. They are so not boy pictures.
The heavenly spa was BUSY on Thursday and I had at least three unaccompanied hours to myself to simply gaze at the naked babes, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty, as they roamed from one vat of water to others.
So many, MANY boobies. All so exquisitely perfect and naturally crafted. All different nipple colors, shapes, sizes, and degrees of firmness and size. Every time I thought I'd spotted the perfect pair, a new set would quiver into view and I could barely contain my amazement and deep appreciation for the artistry of the human body, particularly in the chest area of females (though there were buttloads of beautiful ass and thigh that made it hard for me to keep myself from quaking and speaking in tongues of worship).
The most amazing rack I saw was on the oldest woman there. Her rear end was shot all to hell, as you'd expect on an elderly woman: atrophied, dimpled, etc. The rest of her body was regular, though, and her big-ass titties? THEY WERE THE BREASTS OF A HEALTHY WELL-PRESERVED 40 YEAR OLD. I swear to God, I'd have swapped knockers with her -- they were NICE. And no, they were absolutely not fake; they definitely hung fairly low, but they still seemed plump and defiantly youthful.
Anyway, you just don't see that kind of overwhelmingly delicious VARIETY of body types and differently-goddess-like attributes in any place at one time. Unless you're a chick at the spa. I hope they don't ban me for saying this, but it's like a STEAL getting an all day pass to to stare at that for only thirty bucks!!!
Yesterday I accidentally spoke my legal name (first AND last) aloud over our spycams when I forgot to turn the audio off before making a phone call. Fittingly, the phone call was to our cable company in hopes of fattening our internet pipe so that we can broadcast MORE spycams, faster (so people can overhear even more of the goings-on in our house).
FYI: though I'm not super-uptight about a few voyeurs knowing my legal names, it's not an invitation for people who know me as Trixie to address me as anything other than Trixie (or "Trix" OR even "stupid ugly cunthole" - even that would be preferable to people puncturing my webwhore bubble by assuming a level of familiarity I've not expressly solicited). There are actually quite a few members, past and present, who know my "real" name, and they've done a great job of earning my trust by respecting that Trixie is my chosen name for my webwhore-related interactions.
Having said that, there *have* been a couple of times where people used my birth name online to put me in an uncomfortable place trying to show me that they knew something they weren't supposed to. It was like they wanted me to know I couldn't get away with "fooling" them. Also, there have been people who are hell-bent on knowing my "real" name, repeatedly trying to drag it out of me; anyone who seems to think he NEEDS to know my birth name is someone I don't want to have that information. For one thing, "Trixie" is just as real a name to me as the one my parents gave me because I gave mySELF this name. I really detest anyone who acts like the name I gave myself is inherently fake or phony. Plus, someone who doggedly refuses to acknowledge the importance of having a stage name just for privacy's sake in this industry is someone I don't want to deal with -- they are the people who give whores good reason to protect their identities and keep them separate from their family lives.
Someone trying to convince me to tell him my real name once tried to appeal to my sense of fairness by saying, "but if I join your site, then you'll know *MY* name and personal information so I should know yours, too!" Wow -- and by his logic, when he joins my site and gets to see and hear inside MY HOME, it would only be fair for me to see and hear inside HIS home. Using his rationale I would apparently be justified in using the name and address associated with his credit card to go to his house and spy on him and his family and maybe google his name to find out where he works since, after all, he gets to spy on ME while I am working, right?
Of course not. That way of thinking is ALL WRONG. Anyway, the product I sell isn't "fairness" -- it's FANTASY. Sure, I pride myself on offering a more authentic and less fictionalized version of the porn fantasy, but I don't enter into a reciprocal relationship with my customers. It's not like, "you show me your credit card, I'll show you mine." No, it's an exchange and I set the terms. If private information like my birth name were to be for sale, I would SELL it as such. For like, five million dollars since it would pretty much be a one-time deal because anyone who thinks that information is too juicy for me to deserve to keep it under wraps would probably post it all over the internet anyway and I wouldn't be able to sell that information again. And because I would want to make the point that YES, I DO think my private information is worth more than yours, and if you're hell bent on stalking me to get more out of me than I offer professionally, you owe me the kind of money that will afford bodyguards, a nice home security system and a really lovely arsenal.
It's not that I don't understand being curious and it's not that I think that kind of curiosity is pathologically dangerous -- it's not the curiosity that bothers me, it's the disrespect shown in trying to SATISFY that curiosity. In the example of the guy who thought that since I could look up his real name in my system that he should get to know mine, it's like he was trying to take me down a peg by getting me to say something like, "gosh, you're right! What, do I think I'm *better* than you? No, I'm just an untrustworthy whore trying to exploit you with my fake identity and shouldn't be trusted with your personal information without handing over an even more literal pound of flesh than the ones on display in my members-area. Who do I think I am, using my fraudulent porn persona to extract your personal information? Before you waste twenty dollars to see my life's work since 2002 I need to make sure we're even-Steven and I've been properly subjugated by your superior will."These guys with their sense of entitlement scare me, but not enough that I won't confirm their worst nightmare: YES, I NOT ONLY *THINK* I AM BETTER THAN YOU, I *KNOW* THAT I AM BETTER THAN YOU. How do I know? By your horribly ill-mannered invasiveness, that's how I know. Oh, and I ALSO KNOW THAT THE VAST MAJORITY OF MY CUSTOMERS ARE BETTER THAN YOU, TOO, BECAUSE THEY DON'T PESTER ME IN THIS SOCIALLY RETARDED MANNER AND EVEN IF THEY DO KNOW SOME OF MY "SECRETS" THEY DON'T TRY TO RUB MY NOSE IN IT.
T I D B I T S
*Good news: Nico (our dog) doesn't have a tumor; she had weed seeds that burrowed into her skin and became infected and swollen. Apparently this is a fairly common thing that happens to outside-dogs in the summer. The vet extracted the little buggers and prescribed some antibiotics, so all is well!
*Good news: I recently lost a few pounds. Bad news: I think I lost them off of my boobs. I guess that's what happens when you go off the pill.
*We bought a new printer last week and I still haven't had a chance to figure out where to put it or even just unpack it and smell it's new-machine smell. It's a photo printer, so maybe now we'll be able to sell 8x10's (there seems to be a niche demand for autographed 8x10's of webwhores, fyi).
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.
I wrote the following "blog" entry for our affiliates to plug into their own blogs to try to get people interested in a membership to Delia's site:
Some people's idea of heaven is a hot chick with a dick, someone like Delia, a devilish angel with a she-cock:
Full Gallery appearing now in Delia's Members-Only area . JOIN NOW for ALL of her pics, vids & spycams!
If there's a God, s/he surely must have populated the fluffy clouds of our afterlife with dreamy companions fusing the anatomical wonders of both genders, defying the restrictive binary categories of our earthly lives and elevating us to a place where true transcendence is exhibited everywhere. You know what would be even cooler? If upon entering heaven we got to construct our own hodge-podge anatomy, like plugging parts onto a Mr/Mrs Potato Head. I'll take the milky DD breasts, a very tight hairless sphincter, a vagina hole and a gigantic uncut cock placed directly atop said vagina hole. And really well-developed biceps so they won't be dwarved by my extra large wings. I hope they're also passing out non-scratchy elasticized rhinestone cockrings and fuckable eye-sockets. Wouldn't it be great to see a shemale's cock coming right for your eyeball, getting bigger and bigger, and then, like, penetrating it?? And then when she starts fucking your brain you hear music, like heavenly voices, like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing inside your head.
I'll admit I didn't write this blog entry; Delia's crazy-ass girlfriend Trixie wrote it and asked me to post it here. She's a total wingnut, but Delia is hot.
This is the kind of thing I wouldn't post in our own blogs (err, well I guess I just did but not without explaining myself), but I *love* writing anyway. For all of the complaining I do about the stupid ways people try to sell our porn, I actually enjoy joining that fray myself because it allows me to feel totally uninhibited; I feel that there's no real standard to meet, subtle soft-selling is discouraged, and I can revel in objectifying us in ways that I know should probably politically and emotionally disgust me. Oversimplifications are welcome as long as they catch people's attention quickly and I genuinely amuse myself in the process of writing promotional text. It's just FUN. I suppose it's hypocritical or at least oddly contradictory on the surface for our own site personas to be what they are and for the promotional text I write for them to be so ridiculously shallow, but I still get a huge kick out of it. Part of the fun is knowing that if I can lure someone to our sites on shallow pretenses, they'll unwittingly become ensnared in webs of the complex realities of our personalities and lives and we'll have subverted the porn "thing".
God that sounds TOTALLY FUCKING EGOMANIACAL. I hope I didn't make you barf. Please, take none of this too seriously. This is only a test.
I admit it: sometimes I'm mesmerized by images of my own breasts. I love the shapes, colors, and textures in this little screen grab from a video I posted today. It's a flattering image; they look pretty near perfect to me. Okay, I'm lying. They look totally fucking perfect to me as far as big ones go.
We just got home from a long day of shopping in preparation for a conference we're going to next week. It's for transgendered people and their significant others. I'm excited about it; I like structured events with classes and stuff, and I can't wait to find out how to refine my "identi-T". It's not a swingers' convention or a porn conference or any of that, though, so don't expect us to come home with any wild or crazy stories; in fact, we're both a little apprehensive about how we'll be perceived as a couple with porn sites. There's a distinct probability that a lot of people there will have issues with that or be suspicious of us because of it so we'll not be wearing t-shirts with our domain names printed on them, but our sites ARE part of our "identi-T's" so we're also not going to avoid talking about what we do.
Two favorites enjoyed today: hot sex and Lu's "little schoolboy" extra dark chocolate cookies. FUCK YES.
Today during my show someone asked if my boobs are getting bigger; the answer is "yes". They're getting bigger because I'm gaining weight. Even though I joined the gym and have been exercising more the past month, I've also been going hog wild with junk food, and I put all of that weight on my torso (boobs and belly) and face. Honestly I've been anxious and tense a lot and not dealing with it very well; my quick stress fix is salty carbs -- chips, buttery white pasta, buttered and salted tortillas, etc. It's not that I have any major stressors in my life right now, I'm just not coping well with the small things. I am working on it, though.
I know that there is nothing except myself preventing me from improving circumstances that dissatisfy me (debt load, mediocre quality of work, living hours from family, etc.). I do have it pretty fucking good, but my "job"/jobs constantly morph and evolve so that I always have to rebalance and recalibrate. For example, right now my job involves more shopping and costume/shoot planning and location-hunting than I ever imagined in my life. I know it sounds like fun, and sometimes it is, but it's also extremely time-consuming, detail-oriented, and stressful because our budget is limited. I'm not the kind of girl who just LOVES shopping (unless it's shopping for books or music) so it's really just pretty fucking weird and exhausting for me.
I know, it sounds like such a prissy shithead thing to bitch about: Oh god!! All of this SHOPPING is making me so WEARY! I'm just working my FINGERS to the BONE!! And actually, I'm sure a lot of our members would be happier if we just shot basic amateur-looking hardcore at our house and didn't worry about finding cute little cottages to rent and fancy nylon stockings to wear. When I acknowledge that, then I feel discouraged and confused about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it and how I'm doing it and I don't bother to take the time to remind myself that what we do makes sense and is good (example: Delia's hose and hosiery "look" sets her apart from other sites in her niche).
Anyway, I regret bitching about this stuff and should start setting money aside to talk to a professional because I think I just need to vent and spend more time getting to the heart of whatever it is I want most. It's not that I don't like what I do, it's that I get frustrated when doing one thing means that I'm not doing another. I want to do more (and do ALL of it BETTER), but at the same time I feel exhausted, hypercritical, depressed, anxious and overwhelmed.
Oh well, I need to finish my members-only update right now and pack for a shoot we're doing at my mom's house Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. I had to wait for the video to upload anyway so this entry wasn't a *total* waste of time.
Treating myself to a massage this morning and time to read has definitely calmed me down a bit. My period starts tomorrow so wish us luck at being productive during a time that I usually set aside for pure laziness.
Thank you, members (past and current) who tolerate my mood swings and support what I do.
While Delia is webwhoring today/tonight, I'm driving her crazy with cam issues and complaining that she's not in the spycam chat. I'm sure she loves that. When I'm not busy doing that, I've been working on other stuff, eating, DDRing, and READING.
An engrossing book, finally! I was trying to take a break from true crime, but this true story of James Ellroy's mother's murder beckoned to me: My Dark Places. Yeah, the guy who wrote L.A. Confidential and The Black Dahlia, neither of which I've read (but did digest in movie form).
Having just opened the book today, I'm not too far into it yet but as a woman and sex worker (and true crime story hobbyist) I'm intrigued by the perspective of a boy who lost his mother in a brutal sex crime and then became a man making his living creating popular entertainment out of stories of -- you know -- brutal sex crimes. I suppose it's nothing new, these stories told by men of raped and murdered women, but Ellroy is a good storyteller and this particular story is incredibly personal so it's fascinating the way he starts out with such a depersonalized narrative maintaining a giant distance between his adult self, the little boy he was at the time, and his mother. I can't wait to see how it progresses.
You know how people like to point at sex workers and label them damaged goods, drawn into the sordid skin trade never by choice but always by some history of past and present victimhood? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. We do our jobs because we were sexually abused or because we've been brainwashed by pop culture into thinking we're only valuable as sex objects, blah blah blah. And we need to be rescued.
You don't hear people saying that about the James Ellroys or the cops, though, do you? Because men are not victims, they are HEROES. They turn it around and do something PRODUCTIVE with their lives, right? But sex work . . . THAT'S not productive. No, but if I were to write books with pictures of dead swollen-headed mommies that would be okay -- not damaged at all! Talented . . . rich . . . respected and admired. You can respectably write stories which are made into movies featuring mutilated skin-flick actresses and you don't have women trying to adopt you out of your life of crime and rehabilitate you into a humble-but-DECENT job (ex. flipping burgers at McDonalds, helping at a daycare in an inner city, or maybe teaching if you're smart enough) the way they would if you were a sex worker. Funny how that works, eh?
*FurryGirl is going to be on Night Calls! I don't have an actual link to it, but here's a quote from her members-only area:
I've been invited to be a call-in guest on "I've been invited to be a call-in guest on Playboy Radio's Night Calls with Ginger Lynn and Christy Canyon. (If you have Sirius satellite radio, I hope you'll be able to tune in!) They'd like to talk to me about Veg Porn and the Veg Sex Shop for Earth Day, which is Friday the 20th. It's really cool to get that level of media attention for my sites, and I'm excited about it.
Follow-up analysis: See, for some reason I can't imagine anyone thinking that these people would be healthier or more productive if they were writing books about savage woman-killings instead of making porn. It just doesn't make sense to me.
Last night we went out for a movie and people seemed NICER than I usually perceive them to be. Everyone (the girl at the ticket booth, the boys at the popcorn stand, the managerial-types manning the ticket-taking stand) seemed so friendly and happy and somewhat sedated, as though they'd just finished eating a really satisfying meal. When I went to the bathroom and got a load of myself in the mirror I decided it was all because I was showing off about six inches of cleavage; people like looking at big titties, that's all there is to it. Or maybe all of the people working there were high, I don't know, but I've decided to attribute it to my boobs.
Overall I looked like a dumpy middle-aged broad who has "let herself go" -- pasty-faced, semi-haggard, wearing too-long-in-the-crotch unstylish sweat pants paired with a baby blue fleece jacket that looks EXACTLY like something a geriatric woman would wear to a bingo parlour. But in the middle of it all was that shining beacon of hope: deep cleavage pointing down to my tight pink tank top.
I have a sneaking suspicion that if I were a younger woman who looked like the total hot package that people wouldn't have been so nice, but you just can't resent a chesty lady who looks all worn out. I guess it's cute, in a way. Still, I was a little embarrassed about how much boob I was showing off so I zipped up my elder-wear when I realized I could almost be considered indecent.
My theory is that there's just something about blondes and big tits that catch people's attention; if you want people to look at you warmly, you should experiment with one or the other. People love that shit, men and women alike. Of course, I'm not *endorsing* superficiality, but you can't deny that there are certain characteristics in people that catch other people's eyes (and some of them more than others). All I'm saying is that blondeness and bustiness are two of those certain characteristics that rank WAY UP THERE along with "great smile" and "nude-in-public".
Speaking of superficiality, one of the reasons I loved Blades of Glory were the COSTUMES. The little princess in me didn't even GET the joke of Jon Heder's outfits; I thought his off-ice ensembles were SO fetching and sparkly that they made me feel all twinkly inside. It was refreshing to acknowledge there's a nine-year old inside me who wants to grow up to look AND ACT just like Jimmy MacElroy.
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.
SOME GIRLS LOOK GOOD SUCKING COCK . . . . . . other girls? Not so much.
While I edited a POV blowjob video (shot from Tucker's "point-of-view" looking down at me ) I was once again disappointed by how alien my face looks from that angle. Alien as in "different" because I don't ever look at myself from the scalp downwards, but also alien as in "of the giant forehead and great big eyes". Like the greys, you know what I mean? Since the camera is closer to my forehead than any other facial feature, of course that is what looks biggest. Next, eyes. And then my nose, which isn't tiny and doesn't really benefit from enlargement. On top of that, I have a heart shaped face so it just looks like I'm this giant upper-half of a face, with a miniature jaw. I frequently look bizarre, like a praying mantis. And when I'm really going down on the cock and have as much of it as I can in my mouth? I look like a sunken-cheeked crack whore.
But I'll stop complaining since, you know, it's still really hot. And I snagged a lot of stills from it that I actually love. And even my crooked teeth looked sexy to me, reminding me that the Japanese actually have some kind of a fetish for crooked teeth; I don't remember the term for it, but apparently they think it's really cute. Of course you can't really give too much credit to the Japanese aesthetic when they're the ones who freed and made a celebrity artiste out of Issei Sagawa, a guy who cannibalized a big strong creamy-skinned Dutch lady.
While it would be most entertaining for me to show you lots of samples of me looking like a pale bug-eyed martian, it's probably better for business if I show you some of my favorite cocksucking (well, licking, etc.) snags with only one image of my totally-distended face:
Anyway, not all people really prefer to see a "pretty" face sucking cock. Sure, there are lots who *do* hold the prettiest cocksuckers in high esteem, but there are others who think the stretched-out features of a sexy-ugly face deep in hungry concentration are the best. You might also be surprised at how many guys fetishize tongues and open, empty mouths; lots of guys will specifically request (in porn and camshows) that you pose for them with your mouth open wide and your tongue sticking out. They will jack off to you just rolling your tongue out and laying it as flat as you can for them to imagine shooting their loads. This can be a difficult pose to maintain for more than a minute, but it really does the trick for some people.
But back to the most important topics at hand: me and my vanity! When I see my wrinkled forehead in photos and videos it REALLY makes me want an injection of botox more than a gloppy load of cum on my tongue.
I've got a thing for girls and bubblegum . . . and boobs. Anyone sharing my appreciation of these elements will probably enjoy the gallery and video we shot today. Above is my favorite photo, one I loved so much that I have two versions of it in the gallery: one portrait and one landscape because I love looking at the bumps and colors and angel-in-need-of-bubblegum-oxygen-mask. And the way that my mouth looks SO much like a pussy (do you see that broken hymen up there?) and the gum splatters sometimes look like *another* layer of pussy and/or remind you of cum splatters, but yummy watermelon-flavored cum and sticky pink messes. I like things that *remind* me of sex and genitals but aren't. And I love the silliness and tacky-bored attitude gum-chewing and bubble-blowing convey.
Sometimes when we shoot stuff it's because we have to shoot *something* and it is kind of a bore; other times I really love what we're doing and the finished product. This bubblegum stuff is something I *love* that's fun and provocative (to me).
The video is not nearly as "sweet" -- there is some crazy-ass natural-titty action in it with my boobs flopping and whirling and swinging and swaying . . . all while I chomp on gum and try to blow bubbles as I'm getting fucked by Tucker. Good stuff.
OPEN ME UP??? Well, another week, another members' update published. This time there's a new link to KSex Radio's live shows which were just added to the Camz network, and almost a half hour of video from the show Tucker and I did on Christmas day which most people didn't get to see.
My favorite part of the show is when someone in the chatroom commanded Tucker to "open her up", to which I responded, "open me up? What do I look like, a fucking can of spaghettios?"
Someday I'd love to do a video compilation of me reaming people out, but I'm not sure I could afford the bandwidth for such a gigantic movie. It would be great fun for a dvd, whenever I learn how to make one of those and have the proper hardware and software.
During the same show, I wore one of my favorite pairs of underwear: white cotton brief panties edged with red lace and a tiny red satin bow. Some guy in the chatroom named "Camron" kept remarking on them, suggesting, "you should invest in a thong" and "need to lose the granny panties". If I had time to properly school him, I'd have let him know the following:
#1) I only change my attire for people who pay me by the minute to field their personal requests.
#2) If I am wearing a certain pair of panties during a show, chances are it's because I like them and find them sexy myself which means that if he isn't paying me by the minute, I couldn't care less what his personal preference is, because mine is all that matters.
#3) INVEST in a thong? As though because during one hour of one day of one week of one month I am wearing one pair of underwear, it must mean I do not posess any others; very stupid assumption.
#4) Let's pretend I don't own a thong: if there is an article of clothing I do not own but someone wants me to wear, the appropriate thing to do is to ask for my mailing address so he can send me whatever it is.
#5) Anyone who doesn't appreciate the appeal of modest white cotton panties probably will not appreciate me, my site, my shows, or most of what I have to offer. White cotton panties rock my fucking world. I'm sure there are people I have much in common with who could care less about white cotton panties, but anyone who would ADVERTISE that while I'm wearing them, stupidly assuming I could only be wearing them out of a lack of options or ignorance regarding what is "sexy", is himself mentally incompetent and has really really really bad taste.
Speaking of shows, I have one tomorrow (Tuesday). 1 pm Pacific Time. After that I'll be webwhoring for a couple of hours, then Tucker has a show at 5 pm. If you come in, don't joke about my panties, because I won't get it and will just sigh with the exhaustion of a bored whore who has put up with entirely too much bullshit, and you'll be tempted to point out what a humourless bitch I am.
I'm not sure if that sounds bitter, so let me just say I really like the whore I've grown into and somehow my cranky, fatigued whore routine is more entertaining to lots of people then the boringly spritely, over-enthusiastic, and fakey whore routine other camgirls have going on.
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I love the way this gallery turned out . . . very wintery. I especially love my pink SOCKS . . . it's like having pink cable knit racing stripes being painted up my legs. It feels like such a fantastic decoration to highlight the curves of calves, the bend of knees, and the plump smile of the calf rounding up under said bent knee.
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.
100 MILES OF BAD ROAD Today's "interesting" observation, made by viewer "Bob" during my group show while my legs were spread:
"That pussy looks like its had a lotta miles put on it."
Awwww, now ain't that sweet? You've got to wonder what the odomoter looks like on Bob's smart-ass mouth, or on his jerking hand because I'd venture to guess he hasn't gotten much pussy in his life.
But hey, could he have meant it as a compliment? I mean, I shouldn't be hasty and assume that the guy has a preference for tight, hairless, underage twat just because he thinks my pussy looks all broke-in like an antique jalopy. I mean, what's more welcoming than a soft, hairy, wet wrinkled snatch? My pussy *has* had a lot of miles put on it. I've used my hot pocket and then some. Why should I assume he meant to be insulting? And even if that was his intention, what the fuck do I care?
Who knows what this specific guy meant by his little anatomical observation (not that I think my pussy looks all that different than it did ten years ago); all I know is that I cannot stand guys who critique a woman's genitalia as though there's a right kind or a wrong kind, or as though the color, shape, or size of anything down there is any guaranteed indicator of what it's been used for and how often.
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Actually I guess it's hard to see those long, soft, downy brown hairs that adorn my asscrack unless you actually join my site for the high-res views.
Part of me feels compelled to stop publishing explicit nudes (like the one above) in free areas of my websites. But MOST of me feels compelled to keep it out there, mostly because I DO NOT THINK IT IS OBSCENE or damaging for anyone to see it. If you're a long time reader you may remember that I have very little concern for respecting people's "work safe" boundaries because if it's okay for an employee to be wasting time reading blogs, it should be okay to see my hairy fucking crack (my point being that it's WASTING TIME at work that should be the issue, not HOW you're wasting it).
Another reason I resist posting only censored or non-nude stuff in my free areas is that when I look at one picture at a time, I don't necessarily see them as pornographic. Even that picture of the guy licking his own cockhead. Frankly, they all have more redeeming and artistic value than most of the images I see in mainstream media.
Don't get me wrong, I do not have an entirely liberal view of what should be broadcast on tv and on the airwaves. I actually have very conservative standards for what should be seen and heard on tv: I for one thought the WHOLE infamous Janet Jackson superbowl display was obscenely inappropriate and the nipple expose was just the frosting on the inappropriate cake. There are standards on television that we have grown up with and they deliberately chose to flout those standards. It's not that I think the sight of a bare breast is "damaging" to children (or anybody); I don't. The preceding Kid Rock song was inappropriate and I just think it's unacceptable for people to choreograph a dance with a theme of sexual victimization and forced exposure, then bare a breast, all with the knowledge of a) the accepted standards on television which do not permit nudity, and b) the mid-day family audience viewing the superbowl. My problem is not with breasts, it's with the flagrant disregard for accepted standards and the audience of families. It wasn't just a titty, it was the context and the WAY it was exposed (ripping off her clothes in a rape-like scenario).
The other day we watched the third season finale of Alias (warning: spoiler ahead). I've enjoyed the show a ton in spite of the fact that almost all of the women in the series play the role of the stereotypical deceptive, traitorous, duplicitous Eve but with this finale, I fucking lost it. Vaughan, the male love interest and one of the main protagonists in the series, is advised by Jack (another prominent male protagonist) to KILL HIS WIFE to "get closure" after it turns out she's a double agent for the bad guys. Vaughan takes Jack's advise, hunts down his wife, hangs her by her wrists in a warehouse where she begs, cries, and pleads for her life, while he details his plans to "erase" her with hydrochloric acid.
This is a show on network television, okay? I think they have it rated PG-14 or some wacky tv thing like that. There are a lot of things on the show I object to (the characterization of women, the preoccupation with marital fidelity/monogamy, etc.) and it's EXCESSIVELY violent (a torture scene in practically every episode) but hey, I've enjoyed the hell out of it anyway but this just took it WAY too far. For me, the episode I'm talking about above was more offensive to me than porn, even humiliation porn. If it's okay for a 14 year old to watch that scene, frankly I don't know how anyone can bitch about the same kid seeing a plumbing shot on the web.
I guess what it boils down to is that I recognize there are (and should be) different standards for television and the internet, as there are different standards for mainstream entertainment and porn. There are different expectations for what you will encounter, there are different levels of belief and disbelief that viewers or surfers bring to the experience, and there are different tools for tailoring your experience to your own comfort level. What *I* see is that television and radio trespass on people's expectations and mow over standards of decency much more often than the internet does. Maybe I'm getting too abstract for anyone to follow me now and too tired to make a persuasive argument for my opinions so I'll just leave it at that; my opinion is that my and my boyfriend's naked bods on the internet are appropriate as presented, while much of what I see in mainstream media is dangerously INappropriate. That reminds me, did anyone see that Dianne Sawyer (sp) special on women in prison??? Talk about pornography!!! Talk about exploitation!!! Sheesh!! Oh, I did love every minute of it, but as long as a little warning after the commercial break about "graphic language ahead" is sufficient on television (which does NOTHING to warn people who are channel surfing), then I think my sites' warnings are sufficient (although I'll soon be labelling all of them to insure people using filters will never see them if they don't want to).
Again, maybe my problem is just that I am too old (see Justin Timberlake entry from earlier today) and am applying my old-fashioned standards to the media. Not sure.