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!.
Last night one of our long-time voyeurs emailed me about how hot Lady Gaga is and how he can't stop watching her Poker Face video and oh yeah, did you know "she has a pussy and a cock"?
No, actually I didn't know that Lady Gaga has a pussy and a cock. And I assumed the guy who told me that had just taking those hideous YouTube comments too seriously (the ones that say "she's a man", "she's a nigger", "she's ugly", "she has no talent" and/or "she's an ugly talentless nigger man"). Note: I don't understand why these record companies WON'T allow you to embed their videos but they'll let any jackass post whatever horrifying, distorted, insulting, ignorant shit they want in comments.
So our fan emailed me back with a recent post on Gawker with a video showing what looks like a flaccid unit between her legs. And apparently she's confirmed the rumors herself. It seems pretty unlikely, but who really knows how many intersex people there are out there? Why would I assume she ISN'T? And on a related note, just because someone looks all-white, doesn't mean they ARE "all" white. Not that I'm defending people hurling racial slurs at someone because that's the worst they can come up with in their unimaginative racist minds to disparage a successful young woman (along with being ugly, being man-like, trannyish, or whatever) -- I'm not defending that, just pointing out that coming back at those slurs with, "nuh-uh! Like, obviously she's TOTALLY WHITE!!" might not be the best response to that stupidity.
Whatever the case may be, I have more interest in her than ever before after watching this video. I assumed it was just a fake weiner/publicity stunt, but she sounds totally serious in this quotation (which I can't help suspecting is fake, too - everyone's quoting it, but no one is citing an original media source):
“It’s not something that I’m ashamed of, just isn’t something that I go around telling everyone,” she said. “Yes. I have both male and female genitalia, but I consider myself a female. It’s just a little bit of a penis and really doesn’t interfere much with my life.
“The reason I haven’t talked about it is that it’s not a big deal to me. Like come on. It’s not like we all go around talking about our vags. I think this is a great opportunity to make other multiple gendered people feel more comfortable with their bodies. I’m sexy, I’m hot. I have both a poon and a peener. Big fucking deal.”
Of course, Delia has known all about this forever now, I guess, because she's always surfing the "tranny" boards but it was news to me. Still can't say I love her music, but after this and her most recent performance on American Idol which indicated she DOES actually have musical talent in addition to being a showman, I guess I have a mini-crush . . . and I hope that she is, in fact, a black hermaphrodite so I can celebrate her breaking boundaries for all the other discofried black hermaphrodites waiting in the wings.
I used to have no beef with Tyra. Before we actually WATCHED her shows. I still think some people get crazy-mean criticizing her, but if they do, this is a perfect example of why. Her double standards and bullshit exploitation of young women is a gross freak show. You can't help wanting to knock her off her high horse. Some of the things I have seen and read about her doing to young women are despicable, mostly because she sees no problem with having malnourished girls get hypothermic modeling in pools of cold water or in violating codes by forcing inexperienced model-wannabes to live more-to-a-room with fewer beds than are allowed by hotel regulations or with promising contracts and money and work that never come through or just plain exploiting these young women's bodies, inexperience, stupidity, etc. BUT she somehow thinks porn is SO BAD while she's some kind of a fucking mother-hen angel rescuer.
Tyra's shows ARE porn. That article illustrates how manipulative, degrading, deceptive, brainwashing, irrational, insulting, and totally FUCKED UP mainstream media and moral standards are and how SHADY the game is of pointing the finger at the skin trade when the skin is the whole reason people are watching your charade. The hypocrisy is grotesque. They lie to guests, twist their words, misrepresent them, costume them in a misleading manner to try to prove their bullshit points and "seduce" audiences with their bullshit and subject people like Sasha who are smarter than Tyra to what amounts to an emotional stoning. That whole scene reminds me of the time a bible-based cult ganged up on me to try to convince me I was possessed by demons, going to hell, my mind was playing crafty tricks on me, etc. Seriously.
But I'm not here to JUDGE you, Tyra. I'm just here to ask you to CONSIDER fucking off and dying. YOU are a pimp, Tyra. YOU.
PS - starving yourself and wearing high heeled shoes that don't fit and falling off runways and crap are probably more unhealthy and more unnatural than buttfucking.
PPS - seduced by money? Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!
PPPS - after watching/reading that I can say I'm a now a Sasha Grey fan (VOD or DVD - yes, I'm pimping, too).
If you don't watch it, go ahead and barf on my blog and move along. Otherwise, here are a few brief thoughts/feelings on the season so far.
My mom is so right that girls do NOT get a fair shake in these coed television competitions. The voting audience and judges definitely judge girls and boys by totally different standards. The standards the chicks have to live up to are WAY higher. So yeah, it's been pretty shitty but hardly a surprise to us watching Allison be in the bottom three so often and kicked off last week. I loved watching and listening to her sing -- she's the one that if *I* were a music mogul I'd want to make a record.
From the beginning we were rooting for Matt, Allison, and Alexis. Matt's whole piano bar experience and beautiful Elvis cheeks won me over, but when he did that Coldplay song, OMG -- I wrote him off as not having a clue what he's good at and how good at it he is. Still, I felt emotionally attached to him throughout the season and rooted for him to do well. I loved Alexis until she fucked up Jolene (one of my absolute favorite songs). Allison I loved pretty much every week even though I agreed that Cry Baby was a bad choice (and I especially hated her changes and that she smiled as she sang it -- that is my biggest Idol pet peeve aside from the lame hand gestures of pointing and come-hereing and counting on their fingers whenever a number is a song lyric, when these kids SMILE inappropriately during sad/pathetic songs like that boy who grinned as he sang Careless Whisper a while back). It was much better the next night when she was actually crying as she sang it. So sad . . . I really wanted her to win.
I enjoyed all of the contestants this year after a few shows EXCEPT Danny Gokey. I can't understand why he's a favorite with his complete lack of humility. He seems totally insincere and sociopathic to me, but maybe he really is just mourning his wife's death and what I'm reading is just him being shell-shocked. Whatever -- I think he's a total ass. I do think, however, that he was better than Lil who was totally overrated (except when she sang that Fourth of July song everyone ripped her apart for doing - I thought that was the best). Her bowing and scraping drove me apeshit and I do not understand why she didn't get called out more often for being "pitchy".
I even enjoyed the blind guy. A LOT, after awhile. He cracked good jokes and made good choices and I hope he makes a wonderful Christian music album. If forced to buy either a Scott MacIntyre album or a Danny Gokey album, I WOULD RELISH BUYING SCOTT'S INSTEAD.
Kris Allen pleasantly surprised me -- I get pissed when I hear stupid criticisms of him. He's by far the most mature contestant with the most diverse array of talents and widest/deepest music appreciation. I feel like he really understands music and loves every aspect of making it even if he's not the strongest singer. Not that he should win, but I imagine him having the skill to be a long-lasting success in other ways. It seems like he gets the meaning of every word in every song, unlike most American Idol contestants.
Adam? God, I just want to see him on his knees with a big thick cock in his ripe mouth and jizz splashed all over his gorgeous bloated face. And he and his partner both have to be wearing cartoon hair and untied high tops with tight pants. And their thick cocks jutting out like big meat-pink cylinders of gayness. At first I was so not a fan of his Rush-like vocal stylings, but I was won over when he did his Jeff Buckley impression. I'll be happy when he wins.
There you have it. My obnoxious Idol entry for this year. You can laugh if you want to. I do.
Feel free to ask me any urgent Idol questions you have like, "who is your favorite judge?" or "would you rather have sex with Anoop or Sanjaya?"
We woke up early to watch the Inauguration yesterday; I turned the television on as fast as I could and pretty much started crying immediately. I'm a sucker in general for ritualized ceremonies, but a lot of things made it extremely emotional for me. There's all the obvious stuff of watching a momentous, proud, hopeful, inspiring piece of history, but other stuff, too. Like remembering watching Reagan's Inauguration with my grandpa when I was a little girl. Like seeing two little girls who love their dad and thinking of my own dad and my sister and I when we were their ages. Seeing the former presidents and vice presidents and first ladies from my lifetime walking (or hobbling) in or not being there at all (like my dad and my grandpa) was like looking at a timeline with my own lifespan clearly marked on it. It's not a long line, even if I'm lucky and only a third of the way through it. I didn't think of it this way on a conscious level until hours later and realize that part of what I cried about was my own mortality.
Then I had a doctor appointment. That made me feel even more like a rusting machine getting ready to be dismissed from operation. It wasn't a good experience and by the end of last night with money stress, the emotions of the morning, sleep deprivation and all of the symptoms I went to the doctor for in the first place, I was really ready for a good night's sleep and too wound up to jump right into it.
Check out my Inauguration Day tweets if you want some more of my reactions to yesterday. Apparently I'm the only person who loved the poem. Other people thought it was robotic -- not a word I'd have chosen to describe it, but even if it was I totally love robots so maybe that's why I liked it. At first I thought her delivery was too contrived, but a few lines into it I just heard the words/saw the moments she captured and thought it was fucking brilliant and spot-on. I burst into tears when she said the last nine words of this chunk:
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
I complained yesterday about not hearing anyone comment on the poem (and felt totally annoyed seeing people walking away from the ceremony before she even started; these must be the same assholes who go to watch fireworks displays but leave before the finale because they want to "beat the traffic" but maybe I'm being unkind and they all just have small bladders and/or diarrhea) but now I'm glad I didn't hear any chatter about it on CNN or online (I know it's out there, I just haven't looked for it or read it). I don't know anything about poetry, but I do know I love Walt Whitman and I do know he loved Lincoln and I do recognize nods to Whitman in yesterday's poem and that all of that fits into the deliciously morbid Lincoln-channeling going on with Obama being the first to use the Lincoln bible and doing all of those other following-in-Lincoln's-footsteps black-cat-crossing things.
We spent most of today shopping since we had to make the journey to suburbia for Delia's laser hair removal appointment. It was so much fun hearing people, especially kids, talking about Obama (kid pointing at books & magazines: "look, Mom! It's Barack Obama!"). I hate that I can't shake the feeling of impending doom, though. I know other people have to be feeling it, too. Still, everything's shimmery and sparkly right now . . . very storybook-like (even with the oath do-over). Watching the ceremony yesterday I did halfway feel like I was watching a pre-pre-pre-prequel to Star Trek Next Gen. Like everything good could really come true someday and all of the buildings and monuments were bad backdrop paintings of futuristic architecture.
I don't regularly fantasize about the White House as a super-glamorous place and never have felt like the people living there were royalty the way people felt about the Kennedy years. It's kind of exciting to experience that now; I can't help it, thinking about those girls moving in there and having slumber parties. I'm totally sucked into it. The allure of a lot of chick things (weddings) escapes me but stories involving orphans, boarding school, or preteen girls spending the night in museums or moving into the White House are always going to capture my imagination. It's almost as good as eating buckets of mashed potatoes and gravy, imagining Sasha and Malia safe and happy, the most famous little girls in the world ensconced in THE WHITE HOUSE with closets full of pink clothes and barbies and books and halls to run in and a prissy nanny who tells them stories and feeds them cucumber sandwiches.
I've got some Obama-themed pictures to post from my latest members-only gallery but haven't had a chance to make promos so it'll have to wait. In the meantime you can check out Delia's samples if you're not a member.
Another sad thought I had yesterday was for our friend whose mom just died. I imagined him and AmberLily dealing with their loss and this Inauguration going on at the same time. How weird it would be to feel like everyone in the world is paying attention to this ceremony while they're distanced from it by having a huge personal transition and ceremonies of their own to attend to. When big events coincide with personal crises it can be so isolating and bizarre. I haven't wanted to call them, but I'm definitely thinking of them and hoping for the best for them.
I'm a latecomer to Star Trek; even though the original series did make an impression on me as a little kid, it was of alien go-go boot sexiness and little else. It was only after Delia and I watched Trekkies that I got drawn in and we watched all of Next Generation from beginning to end. Gene and Majel Roddenberry's work and values have come to mean a lot to me; I'm thankful and inspired by the positive and progressive ways Star Trek depicts gender, sexuality, aging and ethics.
Whenever I see Majel on tv, a burst of love, appreciation and adoration swells up inside of me and I SCREAM it to her.
Her characters are inspirations to me and the work she and Gene Roddenberry did together and legacy they've left behind are models of working relationships, vision, humanitarianism and hope that make me feel richer, happier, and better about myself and other people.
Yesterday I walked across a field with my eyes closed. After the heavy grounded feeling of walking in wet sand for almost an hour, walking blind on hard-packed dirt with sunburned grass felt like flying with the wind in my face, blowing my hair around. Or floating, at least. The only other people in the field were three black-robed figures sparring with each other using long sticks. With my eyes closed they sounded like three people playing football. The field was so big it was easy for me to avoid walking into them even without the benefit of sight.
We've been having some private stress around here (on top of the published stress of trying over and over again to get pregnant) so yesterday Delia canceled her show and we *finally* went to see The Dark Knight. I wasn't nearly as excited going into it as I was Batman Begins and didn't feel the same attachment to this one, maybe because I preferred the more solitary focus on Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins and the whole emphasis on creating and finding an alter ego for himself. The imagery in Batman Begins was also darker and more appealing to me in a sort of Robert Louis Stevenson way than Dark Knight, which everyone keeps describing as "darker" than BB but really was just more hideous, brutal and scary. Yeah, the humour was darker and everything felt more tragic because of Heath Ledger's potent brilliance, but that diverted so much attention from Christian Bale that it wasn't really about Batman or anybody except for Heath Ledger's Joker. Oh yeah, I do love the whole commentary on human nature being a dual thing of dark and light, I'm just saying that it didn't speak to me on a deeply personal level the way Batman Begins did.
As I get older, it's harder and harder for me to watch movies without being bored and annoyed by what seems like derivations from other movies I think are "better" or strike me as more original just because *I* happened to see them when I was younger and was first introduced to certain themes. There were a lot of familiar elements in The Dark Knight, but it really was awesome enough that it didn't annoy me, especially since I recognize that there are *no* original ideas (plus, having no familiarity with comics or specialized movie knowledge I KNOW I'm completely ignorant of where some of these things "originated"). I felt like I recognized stuff from In the Line of Fire and freaky cross-dressing a la Silence of the Lambs. Since I know nothing of the comics and never even saw Jack Nicholson's Joker, I couldn't help totally associating the smile/scar with the Black Dahlia, especially since I just picked up another book (with the ghastly pictures) about the case.
Anyway, I loved the magic trick with the pencil and lines like "whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you... stranger." Favorites aside from Heath's performance? Maggie Gyllenhaal's Rachel Dawes was SO much better than Katie's -- LOVED her, and the chase scene/shootout with the semis. We also loved the political commentary on whether or not the threat of terrorism justifies spying on people, etc. Still, I don't feel compelled to see this one more than that once in the theater (unless we could see it in IMAX). I really wasn't prepared for the violence, and of course it always annoys me when there's no swearing in a movie but there's plenty of freaky brutality (I could not hack the part at the end when the dogs and Batman were being beaten with the pipe) and it gets less than an R rating; just having the knowledge in my head that our government is prosecuting people for "obscenity" even for just writing taboo stories and that they refuse to let COPA die makes me resentful when I see how violence in movies is embraced in America as totally acceptable for young people to watch. I can't watch this stuff without thinking, "so THIS is okay for thirteen year olds to see but the sight of my clitoris will scar them for life?" Whatever. It's not that I want kids to see porn or that I don't appreciate a movie without swearing or that I think violent movies should be boycotted, it's the nonsensical double standards that drive me up a wall.
So does Christian Bale's alleged assault of his mom and sister ruin my appreciation of his acting? Ummm, no. Just like a president cheating on his wife has absolutely zero to do with whether or not he's a good president, whether or not Marky Mark is a homophobe or a racist has nothing to do with my enjoyment when I watch Boogie Nights or Entourage and I still think PYT is a fucking awesome song whether or not Michael Jackson is a pedo. Given the rant I just made, it probably surprises you to hear that I don't relate to people who can't enjoy a celebrity's work because of their crimes and supposed personal flaws (which may or may not be true, but we will never know). It's not that I don't enjoy juicy gossip about famous people, but it's just another form of entertainment to me that is separate from whether or not I enjoy their actual work. Like, is it really a surprise to Christian Bale's fans that he's a freak? The guy wanted to starve himself to 100 pounds only eating an apple and can of tuna a day for The Machinist; were you really not aware that he's fucking mental? Apparently, because I've been reading whining from women who think they can't adore him anymore. YOU ARE WATCHING HIS MOVIES, NOT DATING HIM!
So yeah . . . sometimes I can separate things. Other times? Not so much.
In addition to taking the night off for a movie, I also made emergency reservations for a three night stay at the beach next week, so our Sunday, August 10th and Monday, August 11th shows will be canceled. We will do some shooting while we're there, but mostly we just need to get away. Yes, we have a beach here, but Puget Sound and the Strait aren't the same as the actual ocean. I didn't know it until Delia told me, but the timing is perfect because we'll be out there for the meteor shower. She also just happened to order some things from REI before we made these plans so it all fell into place perfectly since the days I happened to find open rooms and camping spots weren't my first pick before I knew these things, but just happened to be after the REI stuff will arrive and during the meteor shower.
I'm feeling really blessed to have good friends that I love after spending a few days totally spoiled with good company: Kris Madison and Amberlily drove all the way out to our remote locale so we could have a Sex and the City slumber party (Amberlily's fun idea). Seeing the movie was entertaining, but the best part was just spending time together and having the chance to talk. Half the time we were off cam (in other rooms or out of the house) or had the audio off so we could speak freely, so it might not have been a big treat for the voyeurs, but for ME? It was heavenly. I actually feel *rejuvinated*.
We did spend a lot of last night in bed talking (with the audio *on*) which was probably pretty entertaining for voyeurs to listen to (or not, depending on their perspectives); we had insanely heated arguments (I almost lost my voice/damaged my own hearing with my own high pitched protestations) about really inconsequential shit (which is the best kind of thing to debate). Does Holly Madison "deserve" better than Hugh Hefner who tells her she's not photogenic enough to be a centerfold? Do Tim Harrington's (of Les Savy Fav) performances insult/make fun of his audiences or are they a layered casserole of joy? Those two questions, their characters' milieus, and the surrounding issues were the basis of HOURS of delightful discussions.
For once I don't feel like I need a day off to recuperate after socializing (just a little catch-up on sleep), so before bed tonight I'm going to try to plan a couple of good shoots for tomorrow and get them out to my members as soon as possible.
I almost decided to boycott American Idol last night. The only time I've been so disgusted with a television show that I refused to watch it was in response to the Wayne's World skit on Saturday Night Live when they made fun of Chelsea Clinton when she was just a tween.
I know my refusal to watch something on television doesn't lead to positive change, but I reached my boiling point last night with Idol's continued sickening encouragement to viewers to be crazy fucking stalkers when they not only aired that disgusting phone call from some insane woman asking David Cook for a date, but presented it in their typical irresponsible, cutesyfied manner. I cringed watching him forced into the position where he had to act gracious and then they told her to stay on the line so they could get her contact information and make it happen.
I despise the way they display hysterical young people in the audience holding up signs with marriage proposals. The way they forced little twink angel David Archuleta to have physical contact with some random girl in the audience. The way they broadcasted some grabby freak snatching Jason and KISSING him; I'm sorry, that's not funny or cute -- it's assault. Presenting it as something charming, desirable, laughable, and/or welcome is sickeningly irresponsible especially when you know you have an audience of deluded young people. No wonder you find horrible people writing shit like this:
The first question of the evening was for David Cook, who was oh-so-busy wearing a smug expression. The caller entreated Cook to take her on a date, and because he thinks he’s a huge rock star he didn’t ever actually agree. It’s the woman’s birthday, jerk! And to that lady - sweets, you can do better.
Yeah. You must really have an inflated sense of self to not want to go out with a total fucking stranger who's developed an insanely shameless crush on you. Don't you know you owe all the women in the world a date on their birthdays and if you deny them you must be a pompous shitstain? FYI: the first celebrity stalker was a young woman. Oh giggle, titter, hahaha. It's all very cute and harmless until someone gets shot in the chest.
I'm also always left freaked out by the coverage of celebrity stalker cases like the recent crimes against Uma Thurman; they always seem to treat it less-than seriously, like it's all just a gossipy fun little personal tidbit to shove in the entertainment section, not a real crime exposing a peculiarly modern outlet for sickness. We're taught that celebrities have forfeited their humanity, privacy and personal time for fame and money; THEY BELONG TO *US*! They owe us!! Who do they think they are to reject us? Some people might perceive media coverage of this shit as "objective", but given how UNobjective, how obviously biased they are, in covering other stories their lack of overt concern or judgment in discussing celebrity stalkers feels like a chilling omission. Celebrities are presented as products we're never encouraged to empathize with. One of the few times the public is encouraged to sympathize with the severely mentally ill is when they target celebrities for abuse. What do the stars expect? They *asked* for people to love them, hahaha! Adding insult to injury, the stalkers are practically rewarded by getting to enjoy courtroom meetings with their victims. How fucking nasty is that?
My angry reaction to Idol last night might have been partially fueled by this nugget of sickening anti-pornography legislation from some asswipe congressman claiming he's "committed to protecting the constitutional rights of every American":
. . . designed to stem the sale of pornography on military installations. Broun’s legislation, the “Military Honor and Decency Act,” closes a loophole in current law that is allowing the sale of sexually explicit material on American military installations located both within the United States and around the world . . . . “Allowing the sale of pornography on military bases has harmed military men and women by: escalating the number of violent, sexual crimes; feeding a base addiction; eroding the family as the primary building block of society; and denigrating the moral standing of our troops both here and abroad. Our troops should not see their honor sullied so that the moguls behind magazines like Playboy and Penthouse can profit".
Yeah, there's no greater way to honor a soldier than by telling him he's a sick dickless fuck who's too fucking stupid and morally retarded to decide for himself what kinds of pictures he's grown-up enough look at. And GOD FORBID those sleazy moguls should PROFIT from a war! How funny is that when both Playboy and Penthouse have been in dire financial straits for years while the defense contractors and other war profiteers make obscene amounts of money that make Hef's and Flynt's bank accounts look infinitesimally tiny.
I know these laws and regulations are nothing new and there've always been similar restrictions on the military, but lately they seem to be making it even worse, writing new laws against visiting sex workers in foreign countries, etc. It's so contemptibly insane the way these shitheels don't care about killing soldiers or making them kill others, but they're really concerned about how even the tamest jack-off fodder is going to destroy their vulnerable little minds.
My brain never stops being boggled by people defining for us what is decent and what is obscene who throw celebratory parades when real atrocities are committed. And the crazy contention that sex crimes and violence never happened before mass-distributed pornography came along? What the fuck ever. When are people going to see how irrational it is to make porn the scapegoat for men's dick-driven crimes? When are we going to be able to WEIGH indecency in a rational manner?
I feel safer knowing there are heaping loads of bukkake porn on the internet and more women every day getting paid to take gobs of cum on their eyeballs than I do in knowing that millions of children are watching American Idol which teaches them to be so distanced from reality that they could be personally rewarded for stalking someone they see on television. They're *both* dehumanizing but one is intended for ADULTS and features people who were PAID to get cum on their faces; the other is marketed to children and histrionic adolescents who are being enculturated that it's not only acceptable but DESIRABLE to selfishly and unrealistically harass, stalk, and violate anyone they want who's in the public eye.
These kids sign on to be singers and American Idol turns them into their unwitting whores, pimping them out to all the deranged fanatical, hormone-riddled viewers. Give the lady a kiss, David! Isn't that cute? Oh David, don't worry; we'll set up your Philadelphia date for you . . . we'll arrange *everything*! Is it in their contracts that they should expect to be physically mauled and publicly humiliated by total strangers? David Archuleta is underage, but it's okay for Fox to push him into the arms of "adoring" fans. God, can you imagine if it were Joe Francis instead of Ryan Seacrest doing that?
Okay, sex with Jimi Hendrix is definitely the stuff fantasies are made of so I'm definitely curious about seeing his purported sex tape with two chicks. Looking at the preview video, I'm not convinced it's him (the face the guy's making looks like someone doing a comedy skit) but as a chick the mere IDEA or suggestion of fucking Jimi Hendrix is enough to send me into a groovy orgasmic hallucination. I'm almost afraid to watch it and have the fantasy ruined; I'm not the only person to feel that way, either.
I also have mixed feelings about the women in the video who are not identified and if the film *is* authentic/wasn't staged (which I doubt), it's kind of gross that the women apparently haven't been identified meaning they're likely to still be alive but they haven't given consent and won't be compensated, and we in the porn industry will be making money off of them since they're the ones front and center in the video, with "Jimi" only making brief appearances. While their anonymity facilitates fantasizing about sex with him, it makes me uncomfortable the way they're being discusses by the press as non-entities.
Living in Western Washington my whole life, there are basically three Elvises: Elvis (duh), Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. And two of them are the stuff of sex dreams.
Hmmm. . . maybe an Elvis & Jimi threesome? Or would that be too much . . .
Are you surprised that this is a huge turn-on to me?
Seriously -- it makes me HOT. Those of you who know me well can tell I'm being honest because any guy who sounds sort of like Chewbacca is going to get me hot (I never had an eye for Luke Skywalker; it was *all* about Chewie and Han Solo . . . well, and Princess Leia, but anyway); I also dig their disparate heights. I *might* have been even more receptive to it after first enjoying a couple of other la Pequeña Amy Winehouse videos to get me in the mood. They are perfect -- BRILLIANT! Here's one of them:
I wish my porn was that awesome. This goes in the "inspiration" folder.
My favorite Christmas present was having Juno come to our town's theatre and getting to watch it with Kris, and seeing Diablo Cody win an Oscar last night for writing Juno was like an early birthday present.
Here's a video of Kris and I at the movies GUSHING over Diablo:
For me, Diablo represents the very best of what the blogosphere and web voyeurism/exhibitionism offer: the opportunity to watch another human's story unfold and experience success along the way. To develop high hopes for someone and cheer for them when things go well. To recognize someone's talent, observe that recognition snowballing, and see her REWARDED for it. It's very fulfilling, and not in a vicarious I-can-now-imagine-it-happening-to-me way, but just in the basic sense of caring about someone and being extremely happy for her.
Of course, she *is* also a symbol to me, too (on top of just being an awesome human); seeing a woman on that stage who has stripped and worked the peeps doing hardcore masturbation shows for money now getting respect for her non-sex work while everyone knows about her stint in sex work is Pretty Fucking Cool.
Anyway, we have (one of) her shining moment(s) recorded on our DVR now and have watched it about 35 times in the past 23 hours; I have cried every single time. And can I just say that she looked fucking fabulous, too?
Whenever I feel badly for our members watching our spycams seeing us having awkward lazy sex, I can soothe myself by simply watch this video of Gene Simmons and a bored blonde in flip-flops going through the motions of sexual intercourse.
Do celebrities not know how to fuck? I'd hate to see how bad the sex is that they have when they're OFF camera.
Good job on the condom and the candles, though. For a moment when he was unwrapping the rubber I thought maybe he was actually taking out money and counting it for her; losing that glimmer of hope was more disappointing to me than seeing the average-sized penis (which wasn't a big surprise given the overcompensation with the tongue).
I love that most of my outfit was given to me by cool women. My sister bought the pants for me after getting sick of seeing me wear the same pair of jeans for five years, and the strapon dildo and harness were keepers from the filming of Dacia's movie, The Bi Apple (if you're only interested in seeing our scene and want to do it now, check here; our scene together is two, and Tucker's scene with Antonio is three; of course, if you do that you'll miss out on the "behind the scenes" stuff on the dvd which I think are really embarrassing to watch, but I WAS heralded the "star of the BTS" so you might want to check it if you're interested).
Every so often I do get feedback from people who happen across one of my live shows and recognize me enough to ask if I was in The Bi Apple or Sin Cities. It's bizarre to have people ask if I'm REALLY that chick they saw on TV, but considering the roles in question as poorly-acted zombie-wives and ass-licker/fuckers I can only respond with the utmost in humility. You can't let yourself get a swelled head over this stuff, you know? Even though some of the choicest bits were left on the cutting room floor . . .
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.
Okay. So I watched the fucking Paris Hilton interview on Larry King the other night. I know it sounds like I'm unwaveringly harsh and disdainful of these celebrities, but the truth is I always feel compelled to watch interviews with the little tarts I dislike the most BECAUSE I HOPE THEY'LL REDEEM THEMSELVES so I can stop hating them because I don't like hating people -- I think it's mean and unhealthy. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Example: Scarlett Johansson? Has never redeemed herself in any interview I've watched -- she consistently sounds stupid. I don't like how much I can't stand her and I know it's not HER fault that critics are so blinded by her beautiful breasts that they inanely compare her to truly amazing women like Lauren Bacall. So I try not to hate Scarlett and keep hoping something will turn up to make me actually LIKE her.
Anyway, I found my attitude towards Paris softening even while she lied through her teeth to Larry King (has never done drugs? doesn't like alcohol? Honey, I've *read* about you in ex-millennial girl's blog and she is a TRUSTED SOURCE). I found myself giving her credit for using her very average intelligence as deftly as she could to answer each question Very Carefully and in ways that were often endearing. Sure, there were things that made me wince but they made me feel sorry for her instead of hating her.
The coolest thing about Paris in her post-jail Larry King interview was how she didn't seem to try to distance herself at all from jail thing; she kept saying things a regular rich celebrity would try to avoid saying because it just sounded so common, hearing her repeat, "I've served my time" as though she's a hardened ex-con. She didn't sit there protesting that she shouldn't have been in jail at all, she was like, "I tried to follow the motto to not serve the time, but to make the time serve me." It was hysterical!!
I loved the way she sounded like a college kid who just got back from a study abroad program and found out about starving children in Africa. When she talked about wanting to help the women in jail who get out but keep coming back because they have nowhere to go but the streets when they're released, she actually seemed sincere. And when she talked about wanting to speak with a more mature voice? I thought, "good for you, Paris! Maybe Cameron Diaz will make that a goal too!"
Years ago, I actually joined the Hotel Heiress site to watch her sex tapes and I think that was part of what made me dislike her so much because she just seemed so empty and flaccid. At the same time I was able to see the appeal of her face and her bullshit act and her perky little boobs. It was depressing to watch the bad, boring sex and the window into these people's horrid interactions with each other, but it was also reassuring. You can't watch that and envy her at all -- it's just not possible. Who wants to have bad sex, bad conversation, and a totally flat ass? I don't care how rich you are, it's not worth it if you're bored by sex, can't hold a decent conversation with anyone, and can only entertain yourself by trying to look fetching.
Free clips from the scandalous Paris Hilton sex tapes:
Note: I know a lot of people would criticize the fact that I paid money to see those Paris sex videos when she doesn't get a dime from it and I could have found it free somewhere, but it was just simpler to me to join the site and not worry about downloading a virus or something. It was more expedient and I would have felt just as bad to have seen it for free as to have paid money to her exploiters.
For a limited time, the following scent will be available on our Limited Edition page:
PRIVILEGE Polished party-girl sleaze. This is a shameless scent, devoid of caution, regret, or introspection. This perfume reeks of tabloid glamour, and has no substance whatsoever. Armoise, tuberose, white citrus, rose absolute, oakmoss, tiare, tuberose, vanilla, linden, and lemon tree blossom.
Although this scent originated with fine plants and the pure essences, the final result is a grotesque, eerily empty caricature of a debauched, narcissistic would-be debutante.
PRUNO Jailhouse hooch. Distilled in toilets, this vintage is comprised of chow line droppings, including oranges, apples, ketchup, and sugar.
Is it cruel to commemorate someone’s jail sentence with a festive set of fragrances? Maybe. But it is far fouler to drive drunk, endanger the lives of others, and expect to get away with it because your family has cash.
It is our opinion that everyone should be held accountable for their actions. Period.
These scents will be live for as long as Paris Hilton stays in jail.
Money shouldn’t exempt you from basic human decency, and it certainly shouldn’t shelter you from justice.
(By the way… Candy Spelling, we love you!)
In addition to being a celebration of one irresponsible, horrid person’s comeuppance, these scents do go to a good cause… albeit, in BPAL’s crass, snotty fashion. A portion of each sale of Privilege and Pruno will be donated to Southern California women’s shelters.
- In the interests of privacy and at least a sliver of good taste, the specific shelters are staying under a veil of anonymity. We hope you understand.
I confess, I'm a Paris hater, too. I think she's a sociopath who's too stupid and vacuous to come up with any creative way to be criminal. I do like looking at her, though, in spite of her asymmetric eyes (bizarre and unattractive only because people seem blind to it and willing to pay her buttloads to model for them -- I will never forget some of the full page headshots I've seen of her in magazines that seemed to play up that weirdly exaggerated feature of hers). I also have images of her burned in my brain where her head is tipped over to the side and she just looks mentally VOID with her big empty head weighed down by extensions, too heavy to hold up on her weak spindly neck.
I'm super sleepy but trying to crank out some work. We had a long drive today for a two-hour therapy session in Tacoma.
Can someone settle something for me? I've been going around pronouncing Ricky Gervais' name like this: "jurr-VASE". But then someone or sometwo tried to tell me it's "JURR-vuss". I was all set to start saying JURR-vuss, but then I watched a video on youtube where he clearly pronounces his own name as Ricky jurr-VASE (approximately minute 2 and 43 seconds). Is he just kidding around? Who's right? More importantly, who's wrong?
It's vital that I get an answer to this question. After all, I have an inspirational photograph of Ricky Gervais hung on my wall right above my computer monitor where I can look at it everyday. Okay, it's not really on my wall YET, but I have the magazine with the photo that I have every intention of ripping out and sticking to my wall. With Philip Seymour Hoffman's cum for glue. I like them sweaty and chubby.
I knew it would be funny, but having never seen Sin Cities on television I didn't realize the potential for our fifteen minutes of potential tv infamy to mock us so deliciously. And aren't those chopsticks on my boobs HILARIOUS?
I've heard that the whole episode is due to air in April sometime so check your local listings if you're in the UK or one of the many other countries with access to Sin Cities.
Ashley Hames gives serious direction to me and Tucker.
I strip for the vicar.
I think I'm Ricky Gervais' long lost cousin! Seriously, don't I resemble him or am I flattering myself?
FYI: Ashley squirts my face with cum during the making of the "movie" and the always-appreciated Jackhammer Jesus dildo features prominently in the graveyard scene.
We're leaving this afternoon for a two night shooting spree in a local hotel. Sadly, it's not wired for internet access, so you won't be seeing much excitement on our cams for the next couple of days. Maybe you'll catch the dog doing something interesting or spot us checking on her or our email during frequent trips home to let her go pee, etc.
I hope to write more pithy blog entries upon our return now that I am completely saturated with television. I had a nasty dream about Flava Flav last night involving his teeth which were actually three elaborate sets of dentures. Everyone was playing basketball at some rapper's house when Flav decided to show me his teeth since I accidentally pitched a ball at his face, potentially harming his "teeth".
The first row was an intimidating row of predatorial metal jaws which he was able to lift out to reveal a startling inch-thick set of thick white falsies (sort of like game tiles or white dominos). Upon removal of the white ones there was a hideous rotten brown forest of brown stumps and decay like wet cardboard.
Watching MTV (and most specifically MTV Cribs) brought this sordid nightmare upon me and I think I need to pull myself away from the tube if I'm to avoid my brain being invaded by these grotesque visions. So. More good blogging, less tv-watching.
I'm not sure I ever knew that Herve Villechaize killed himself. As a little girl I loved watching Fantasy Island; it was sexy, sinister, and of course totally fantastic. I got to watch all kinds of television shows as a kid at my grandparent's house that my mom would never have permitted me to watch at home; we had a tv in our bedroom there and I was a little night owl even then, so I'd stay up all night to see if any boobs would be on public television and to watch seventies horror flicks. One of my favorite movies was Asylum.
Why does it seem like the seventies and eighties embraced the forlorn, the melancholy, and the macabre so much more than the nineties and the present suck-ass century full of silicone-bloat, young-country "music", and criminally-insane levels of "Christianity" and "patriotism"?
If I remember correctly, there were a lot more scary clowns and freaky ventriloquist dummies back in the seventies and eighties. My first erotic dreams were about me and a grown-up man clown.
BEATING MY BUTTON The past couple of days I've been inordinately horny, maybe because I'm ovulating but more likely because of this:
I've had countless -- fucking COUNTLESS -- strangers ask me to entertain them in various chatrooms with descriptions of what turns me on. "What turns you on baby?" "What do you like sexually?" This is their version of sexual equity and feigning interest in my pleasure and needs. I try to empathize with them as they have never been on the receiving end of such a repetitive, ceaseless hammering of questions. Sometimes I tell them they can find some of that information by reading my journal, checking out my site, or paying for a private phone call or video show with me. Blah blah blah. Other times I tell them the truth and I do so with a vengeance: "I like guy-on-guy action, macho buddies jacking off with each other, guys who will fuck anything and everything from couch cushions to blowup dolls to pvc pipes to microwaved liver. I like easily-dominated big dumb mouth-breathing hulks of guys who stand around drooling with their mouths open. I like guys who can suck their own cocks or at least give it a desperate yearning neck-breaking attempt." Of course, I also like women with hispanic accents, but I don't tell them that part. Anyway, they usually shuttup after that, or try to prompt me towards a direction they find more palatable, "but don't you also like licking your girlfriends' bald pussies?" Snort. Not as much as I'd like to walk in on a guy doing a little up and over dousing his own face with spunk.
Wil Wheaton (of Stand By Me and Star Trek fame) says he never gets tired of answering the same old questions from fans "because even if it's the thousandth time I've been asked a question, it's the first time the person asking it has ever heard the answer." Well folks that's commendable, but I am no Wil Wheaton. I get bored. Quickly.
Dishing out canned answers to every Tom, Dick and Hairy Dick that comes into my chatroom makes me feel like a cafeteria whore slapping green jello with bananas onto an assembly line of anonymous brown lunchroom trays. Oh boy -- look at it jiggle!! But it's so cold and jello green is so not a sexy color. :(
Part of the allure of logging, photographing, and sharing so much stuff on my websites is this delusion I have that once I say something . . . I'll never have to say it again because it's already out there, somewhere, even though I can't remember saying it or where it is and certainly no one ELSE could remember it, but no matter . . . it's my delusion and I'm sticking to it. Another way this delusion operates: I have a few pictures where I look pretty damned good and deep down I feel like . . . okay, I've got the proof that I've looked sexy once or twice, I feel great about it, now where's my flannel robe, the potato chips and is there really a reason why I should brush my hair ever again? Let Tucker be the sexy one in our duo, I much prefer the role of the fat bastard pimp.
But I digress. What I really meant to say was that I've been horny as hell the past couple of days because of a self-sucking site I found. If you want to read more from me about it, check here.
Oh, and tomorrow is my show day, so check here for the times. I won't be doing a tubtime and chat beforehand this time around, but I do have a couple other chats scheduled this week that I hope will be fun for all concerned, so don't be afraid of dragonlady webwhore . . . just be prepared to contribute more to the conversation than predictabe questions.
SLEEPY GOOD I can't think straight right now -- can't decide what things to write about and what things to leave out, what things to do and what things to wait on. So I'll just give you a picture and let you know that the day the picture was taken (yesterday) was one of the horniest I've ever experienced.
Houseboy and I had a frustrating experience the night before with me trying to take pictures of him but initially failing due to my disappointment with myself in not even understanding my own stupid camera. I really wanted to take pictures of him in his spectacles but the fucking lights were reflecting off of them and without the lights shining on him everything was too dark. Anyway, enough of the frustrating part. He kept his good humour and pretty much made it impossible for me to just quit and go to bed . . . so we wound up with a pretty good set of pictures of him and . . . even sexier I got to videotape him jacking off. I cannot even describe how much of a dream come true this is, just getting to watch a guy jack off in real life and not be allowed to do anything about it. Since houseboy's site will be friendly for all audiences (male or female), there's no need to throw me in the mix every single time -- he needs some sexy solo content. Anyway, then yesterday houseboy took pics of me (see above) and I took pics of him . . . and another video. I almost wept from being so excited standing behind the camera while he jacked off. OH god yum. What a perfect tease!!
I absolutely love being the voyeur instead of the performer/participant/exhibitionist. And it's not just because I do it all the time for work . . . it's because the role of voyeur comes much more naturally to me than the role of exhibitionist. Most of my seemingly exhibitionistic behaviors are rooted more in my imaginings of what someone would be feeling by voyeuring me.
One of the most fascinating things happened when houseboy and I were looking through the pictures I took of him . . . looking at beautiful image after beautiful image of him on the monitor somehow he became somebody distant and celebrity-like. Staring at his still smiling/pouting/flirting sultry images I just absolutely marveled at his perfection . . . and I thought about how hysterically women will idolize beautiful sexy men (like Elvis and Tom Jones). I have always been fascinated by that panty-throwing/fainting/screaming phenomenon. I don't know if men are capable of that kind of senseless maddening worship the way women are. Part of it is arousal, sure, but it's much more all-being-encompassing than simple sexual arousal. It's like your mind, body and spirit are completely driven by intense brainwashed excitement. I seriously felt myself approaching that kind of hysteria with him yesterday . . . staring at the computer houseboy pictures for so long then finally turning around and looking at the real houseboy standing before me, SO gorgeous I tried to explain "it" (this wacky celebrity worship thing) to him . . . and just as I was reaching for the words he took a step towards me and was almost touching me and I truly felt my guts dropping and my entire face lighting up as though STAR STRUCK . . . ohmygodohmygod it's really him!!!!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!(insert hair pulling face squishing jumping up and down wetting pants screaming)AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! He's going to touch me oh my god it's HIM!!!!!! I didn't know whether to jump into his arms or take a step back!! It was the wackiest feeling! Silly and totally ridiculous, but I felt it anyway.
Anyway, if you want to see just one of the tame pictures of my the "object" of my hysteria, I think that houseboy is publishing one in his journal momentarily.