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 couldn't resist looking at the beautiful man-body chopping wood next door so I did something I think (I thought?) is really, REALLY wrong: I took sneaky pictures of him without his knowledge or consent. And now I'm doing something even MORE wrong: I'm posting one of them here:
He's not our neighbor, he just delivers and chops wood for our neighbor. And I HAVE to watch him do it, because the guy is incredibly beautiful. Not his face, just his whole old-fashioned working-man's body with that wedge-hourglass shape. The thick pants with the shiny metal details, the gloves, the white tank top, the cap, the scraggly mullet and those pale muscles built up in the shade and from working outside when it's raining, because it rains all the time where he works. He's like an 80's version of the guys in old propaganda posters like these:
I have always been in love with watching men do physical labor. Even though I felt sort of dreadful about it, I was compelled to run and get the camera. I stood in the kitchen and snapped a few pictures where he could have turned around and seen me. But before that happened, I ran into the bedroom and took pictures of him through the crack between two panels in our shoji screen so he couldn't catch me watching him through the magnifying lens of our camera. My desire to capture his image forever outweighed the voice in my head reminding me I was doing something wrong. Something I've seen/heard of other people (men) doing that sickened me, but that memory didn't stop me from doing it myself.
You shouldn't spend time on fetish-oriented forums online if non-consensual voyeuristic photography (and other stuff) bothers you. You'll find out things that you just don't want to know and see things you weren't meant to see. Like pictures of used maxi pads guys steal out of public restrooms or photos a foot fetishist surreptitiously took of his neighbor's niece's bare feet while their family unwittingly enjoyed a barbecue in their driveway. The woman was probably in her twenties and the guy who took and shared the pictures described his sneaky method for capturing them and the type of camera and settings he used and how he managed to not get caught.
The freaky part is the way these people usually don't even acknowledge the line they're crossing, or worse, act like they're ENTITLED to snagging these things that belong to other people. Of course, half the time someone with common sense will challenge these people or point out the err of their ways, but most people don't bother to post any opposition, instead just showing their appreciation for what the voyeur-thief has "created"/salvaged for the members of the board. Or they will critique the spoils, like the guy who complained that the neighbor chick with the bare feet was so fat, how in the world could the spy-photographer possibly think anyone would be interested in seeing her or be aroused by her himself? So not only is this woman with the arched foot and a BBQ rib in her mouth being displayed on the internet without her knowledge or consent, she's ALSO having her weight criticized. AWESOME, right?
I pretend that I'm not quite as bad as these sociopaths because I know what I'm doing is wrong. But I guess that actually makes me worse because I know it's wrong and I'm doing it anyway (and those guys on the forums might know it's wrong too, they just don't waste time making a big show of acting guilty about it the way I am in all of my gross hypocrisy).
I can pretend I'm conducting an experiment or research. That I'm a writer. That the end result of provoking thought about these important issues of privacy, consent, and all SORTS of interesting things is worth the negligible or nonexistent "damage" I'm doing. And after all, it's a really REALLY grey area, right? I mean, how many people would even think me taking and posting the picture of the axe man is wrong if I didn't tell you that *I* think it's (maybe) wrong? And this isn't really a blog entry about that guy, it's about me or the collective us and the image is actually a snapshot of me -- the voyeur -- and my thoughts, not him. It's entirely possible to intellectualize it that way. He could be anybody. You can't see his face. No one will ever know who he is. Probably not, anyway.
And would he care if people DID know? Maybe he'd WANT to be credited and known far and wide as The Woodsman Who Got Trixie Hot. Of course, that brings me back to the obvious trespass of not asking for his permission to photograph him in the first place, but speaking of consequences, *I* certainly don't want to pay them. I don't want *him* to know he was chopping wood next to TASTYTRIXIE and therefore knows about our websites and where I live and can tell everyone how to find me (I'd have to tell him about our sites in order for him to give INFORMED consent, though that disclosure would be out of ethical, not legal obligation; you don't have to specify where or when something will published on a consent form, just that you as the photographer have all rights to the photos which legally you don't REALLY need to do anyway since in our country the photographer automatically owns the photos, not the model). I don't want to tell a big strong stranger with an axe and a cock that he gives me a boner and I want to take pictures of him -- LOTS of pictures. Well, I do sort of want to tell him that, but I know it's not such a good idea/could cause problems. He might be weird or scary or even if he isn't, then our neighbor (a decent neighbor, not our scary neighbor) would know about us and that would make everyone on the block uncomfortable. Most of all us.
If it were my actual neighbor out there making me hot chopping wood, I wouldn't have taken the pictures. Because that would be violating the good neighbor code of pretending each other doesn't exist. And I certainly wouldn't take pictures of his young daughter! Even if it were to record how she trespasses on OUR property, walking just three feet past me sitting in our window. Well, maybe I would (for proof of trespass only!), but I wouldn't post them on the internet. But maybe only because I'm a pornographer and could get in trouble for it just by virtue of that fact.
When I pondered these things aloud to Delia, she doubted my assertion that if it were a woman out there, hanging laundry or washing a car, I totally wouldn't have taken the pictures. She's probably right. After all, I took this picture (without her knowledge/consent) of a hot redhead fishing because she had a really great ass:
It's the kind of picture you can get away with taking in public and even sell prints of in local galleries that don't have any artistic standards. It's the kind of picture no one (except other wankers) would bat an eye at as long as you keep up the appearance of it being completely innocent. Even though I know that I took it purely out of sexual/sensual interest. And I know that any straight man with a camera would have taken it for exactly the same reason (or to prove to himself that he wasn't) whether he would admit it or not, and there are tens of thousands of men with cameras with hobbies or professions doing exactly that. I know a lot of people who take completely g-rated innocent-looking pictures and jack off to them later even if they didn't intend to when they snapped them.
Part of me feels justified in posting this because there are so many writers and artists and reporters and network television stations getting away with doing so much worse with absolutely no compunction. It's only people like me who openly call ourselves pornographers who are recognized for exploiting and objectifying others even though we play be much stricter rules and are faced with much harsher penalties for violating them than any other industry would be. But that train of thought is just another diversion from asking myself how *I* would feel if my neighbor were peeping through a crack in the blinds taking pictures of ME doing yardwork or thinking he's not home when I sunbathe naked on our deck when actually he's hidden behind a tree and rubbing his crotch against its bark. Of course, I'd feel totally different about it if I had a teenage son or daughter being spied on. But the guy chopping wood is clearly an adult. And he wasn't sunbathing naked. And again, I don't think I'd care if my neighbor secretly stood in his kitchen taking pictures of me as I walk around OUR kitchen at night topless (which I do sometimes with the blinds open, not because I'm an exhibitionist but because I just don't care) as long as he didn't hang them in the post office with our address printed on them or something.
Meh. Now that I think about it, I really don't care. As long as someone stays on their own property (not sneaking onto mine or a stranger actually stalking into the neighborhood to spy on us or putting on an obscene display of masturbating and shooting cum into our yard) and is only taking pictures of what I do outside or with the windows open then who cares. It's kind of fucked up, but not a huge deal. It's not like I'm lying in wait every day, conducting surveillance on everything that our neighbors and their visitors do.
After completely overthinking this, I absolve myself from guilt. It's harmless and legal. But I guess if I give myself permission to be an opportunistic voyeur-perv-photographer that means I have to stop being shocked and offended by other people who do the same thing. I'm reluctant to do that.
Here's a couple with a sleeping bag and no picnic basket that I shot entirely because I knew they were setting out to lie down together and *do things*:
If I hadn't admitted that and had posted the picture somewhere else, like on a stock photo site using woman-approved keywords like "young love" and "spring romance" (and cropped out our cracked windshield & wipers giving away that I'm like a dirty old man doing a drive-by) it would probably be perceived in a totally different way. It would just be a bad snapshot. But because of who I am and what my site is and my confession that I'm a voyeuristic pervert who sees sexual potential everywhere, it seems more DIRTY and exploitative than it really is. What if a local television station were doing one of those weather "stories" about how people were still going to the beach even though it's overcast, and those two lovebirds were in the background? Would the station be committing an evil deed? If not, why does it seem so evil when I do it and admit that I see erotic potential? And why would it seem so much grosser and more evil if I were a man instead of a woman?
After taking swimming lessons as a kid, I haven't spent much time in pools, but I want to get in the water more often so I dusted off my old rubber swim cap (barely used), bought a new one (the purple one below) and replaced the old broken rubber strap on my goggles. I tried everything on during one of my webcam chats last week and was extremely pleased with the results:
I can't tell you how much I love wearing my swim caps -- it has all the pleasure of a corset without the hassle and expense. A corset for your BRAINS! They're snappy, squeaky, thick and delicious and wearing them reminds me how glamorous I thought women were who wore do-rags and turbans when I was very young. LOVE! I am INCHES away from shaving off my hair and wearing swim caps full time (and paired with earplugs it would be delicious deprivation of auditory perception). Except without the hair I don't know if it would be as pleasurable to remove the swim cap after thirty minutes or more of wear; there would be less hair-pulling, but too much cold to enjoy the slow expansion of the head and hair-floof back to maximum size.
And don't even get me started on goggles . . . this is my LOOK! I think it's totally cool when there's a reflection on just one lens.
Swimming was fun, but I went alone and was actually nervous about doing something new: would they have lockers and if so, would they provide locks and keys and something to hold onto the key while I'm swimming? Would I have to pay for each scheduled event I stayed for or only the first thing I showed up for? Would I be horribly slow and block faster, fitter people from enjoying their laps?
I managed to go despite these nagging anxieties and enjoyed myself, even if I can't seem to swim in a straight line and kept kicking the wall during my sidestroke and wound up with a scraped foot. I love being immersed in the water. I love the colors and sounds of an indoor pool. I love everything being muffled and wet and full of vapor. I love floating and turning and being thick and mobile.
I felt calm and heavy afterwards. It's good stuff. In fact, I went back for more and posted a confession/fantasy today for members that I had about myself and the nerdy lifeguard.
On my walk to the bank I found a pair of dirty panties laying on the street by the elementary school in the crosswalk.
They weren't dirty in a way that indicated a struggle took place while someone was wearing them, just dirty in a way that any discarded fabric would be if it spent time laying in the road. They were pink Hanes Her Way, definitely grown-up panties. A twig was ensnared in them and they were bunched up.
I walked past them quickly in a kind of shock, knowing I wouldn't want anyone to catch me looking at them, but wanting to just the same. I left them behind, wishing I'd had my camera. I left them behind, but couldn't stop considering picking them up and putting them in my backpack. I could use the twig to pick them up without touching them, or at least I could say that's what I did so people wouldn't know that it doesn't really freak me out to pick up dead panties out of the street with my bare hands. I could bring them home and justify my strange behavior because I'm a pornographer and some people would like to see these panties I found. Because some of the people who read me online are exactly the people who WOULD have found a way to snatch those panties off the street, or would be jealous of my wild and crazy ability to defy convention and do so.
I'm always fascinated by the private things that are abandoned in public places. Grocery lists, for example. But it's especially strange and fascinatingly intimate when underwear is discarded. Socks in parking lots. Panties used as toilet paper and dropped in conspicuous store locations. Shoes thrown over telephone wires. Panties on the street. I'm drawn to these things and wonder how they got there, just like I wonder why half the bad boys and girls on COPS are driving and wandering around the streets barefoot (not wearing shoes on the street is a much more significant sign to me that these people's lives are totally fucked up than the drugs in their cars or their desire to run from the police). Are they leaving their clothes behind to mark their territory? Is it like movable pheromone-filled graffiti? Are they trying to fuck with me/people like me? Or are they just getting rid of things they don't want anymore?
On the way back home I thought about the place where I left the panties behind and whether or not they'd still be there. They were, and this time I actually stopped and peered down at them. There was blood on them. Not crime scene blood, but natural period-type spots. Did she buy new clean panties? Did she just decide to go without? Did she wonder what people would think when they saw them right there in the crosswalk? Was she laughing when she threw them? Was she alone? Did she get rid of them because she was proud to show them off rather than wash them after they'd already served their purpose? Or did she get rid of them because they disgusted her and she just wanted to leave them behind?
Or maybe someone's son or younger brother stole them out of the laundry and brought them to the playground to show to all of his friends and they all laughed and threw them around after passing them to each other with grubby fingers wondering what it all meant. Or maybe someone sat in his car by the school late at night and jacked off into them, then threw them out. If he would have been caught he could have to register as a sex offender for committing that act within so many feet of a school. Even though it's summer and school's not in session. What was he thinking, throwing them out right there? What is anybody thinking?
Maybe they were just on the top of someone's laundry basket in the car with the windows down and just flew out on accident.
The panties will be gone the next time I go by there, and I'll wonder who took them. A concerned mother picking them up with a plastic bag between her hand and the cotton like she's picking up dog poop? The guy I've seen at the playground with a metal detector, scavenging for treasure? The same person who put them there? A lonely teenager in a trench coat taking a midnight stroll? I wish I could watch them do it without anyone seeing me.
Attending our county convention yesterday as an Obama delegate counted as my social event for 2008; so what if I only struck up conversations with three people? That's more action than this hermit usually sees.
Because socializing both bores and overwhelms me, I love getting my social time doing things with an agenda where there are rules guiding behavior and people in charge of reinforcing those rules. Parliamentary procedure definitely fills that need, and the lady I complained about here did an awesome job of keeping people in line, pushing them closer to the microphones, speaking coherently and just being generally awesome. She only used one acronym demanding clarification from an audience member which she explained without apology; you've no idea how much I admire that in a woman. While the acronym thing bugs me, I love her unapologetic down-to-business attitude.
It was both a relief and a disappointment discovering that the next caucus happens at the same time we'll be attending the transgender conference where we're on a panel so I couldn't even try to get elected to move on; you wouldn't believe how many people couldn't grasp the concept of a thirty second speech, couldn't keep their name tags swiveled around so people could see their names, and didn't even understand why the timekeeper was waving her arms at them after they'd been droning on in a disorganized fashion for upwards of 90 seconds!
Anyway, it was fun being surrounded by liberal people getting a charge out of showing off their familiarity with Robert's Rules of Order. I loved every minute of it, including the annoying parts/people. The Kucinich fanatics even made wonderful hyper-idealistic points and invited us to join in their futile, counterproductive bid to send as many "undecided" delegates on as possible. It was inspiring, it really was; in addition to preferring structured social events, I also like people-time that has an inspirational and/or change-making purpose, so I loved being in a crowd of people who are all excited about the positive changes our next president can bring and empowered to be part of that.
I wound up bonding with a lady who of course asked me what I do for a living. As usual, I first responded with the deliberately vague "webmaster". With her lovely shining smile she probed deeper, asking, "so what does that mean exactly?"
I liked her and felt like she was a relaxed person, so I told her; "I make porn sites."
Her smile stayed on, bright white and wide and her eyebrows perked up naughtily while she asked me to repeat myself. I laughed and teased her, "you heard me: PORN!"
She loved it, responded with fascinating disclosures about herself, and thanked me for making her day.
Yesterday during one of my chat & masturbation webcam shows, a viewer asked me if I prefer a large or a small audience. I tried to be diplomatic about it, partly because I myself am uncomfortable with the true answer, so I said that there are pros and cons of each (which *is* true, but is not the answer).
The truth is that I prefer big audiences over small ones for group camshows. I either want to do a private show for just ONE person who pays me by the minute OR I want to do a group show for as many people as possible. Even though smaller crowds are almost always more polite, there is still a bigger thrill associated with having lots and lots and lots of people watching me at once.
I know this answer probably sounds contradictory given some of the complaints I have made about doing shows for big groups along with the enjoyment I've told you I experience doing shows for smaller crowds; I'm not invalidating anything I've said before -- those complaints and acknowledgments still stand. But I've *also* told you how I love the feeling of immortality provided by having my life/living enlarged by being watched:
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.
I know it sounds more like cancer of the ego than immortality, but regardless of whether its source is mental illness or the actual attainment of mythological proportions, I *feel* superhuman because of all the people watching me going about life in my bubble.
This feeling isn't something I experience on a conscious level, it's primal (which is funny since it happens because of technology). I'm pretty sure it's the same feeling that drove Evil Men throughout History to invade and conquer neighboring and distant nations and peoples: to have legions of men lined up and standing erect before you, assimilated and saluting you, compelled to stand mutely before you and powerless to leave unless you expel them. It is heady stuff, and you feel it most when you have either *one* person ensnared OR impressively large numbers of them.
This morning when we fucked we were being watched by people on three different spycam networks. I like that. I cannot tell exactly how many people were watching and I wasn't interacting with any of those people, but I *did* like logging into one of those networks afterwards to find that 84 people were still watching there even after we had been done for ten minutes. I liked seeing that we had more viewers than any other houses. The numbers are small compared to the glory days back when I started exhibiting spycams, but still . . . fucking is even better somehow when there is a number attached to it of anonymous people who witnessed it. The bigger the number, the better it is (as long as those people had to pay an entrance fee of some sort to see it, otherwise it loses its charm).
The same is true of the group shows that do have interaction; I confess it excites me more to see 500-1500 people watching than it does 50. It's nothing personal; on the contrary -- it's something very IMpersonal. There's safety in numbers, even though there are always more assholes in big audiences and they have said some terrifyingly offensive shit to me; I feel less of an obligation to each individual person because I think of them more as a *mass* of people. I don't feel as awkward or self-conscious because there's a lot of static washing over me in the chatroom. There are also more people to play off of and time passes quickly; even though I find much of what is said is repetitive and obnoxious, it's just more entertaining than having a few people being really nice to me. And? There's a massive thrill in NOT doing what A LOT of people WANT me to do. Most of those people come to shows not to chat or to see a striptease, but for immediate graphic sexual stimulation. I spend about 40 minutes chatting and not being sexually graphic. And then when I am masturbating? It's, ummm, actually pretty boring to watch, I think. I do it virtually the same way in the same position every show without variation except in toys and occasionally asshole versus pussy. I'm not saying my shows are BAD -- I think they're relaxing, funny, genuine, and sexy -- but there are other women putting on much more wank-worthy shows: the kinds most people are *expecting* to see. When I don't give them that and it angers them, I feel flooded with power. I love telling them that if they want to tell me how to masturbate they'll have to get a private show where they pay me by the minute. If they are good guys, they'll ask how they can make that happen (and then I thrill at the opportunity to deny them, since I rarely ever do private shows anymore). THE MORE PEOPLE I DENY (or whose expectations I defy), THE MORE I'M THRILLED.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't love it when people love my shows and express their appreciation or that I don't love civilized conversation -- I *do*, it's just that there is a special thrill that comes with making hundreds of men horny and mad and unable to make me do what they want; I think this might be the only almost-safe platform for deliberately sexually provoking men/"leading them on" where saying no won't lead to a physical assault or gang rape, and it is BECAUSE I know that what some of those guys are feeling and saying is precisely what many men (maybe even some of the same ones) have said and felt that led them to hurt women in real life that I feel thrilled; maybe a part of me feels that I'm standing at a unique point in history on a unique technological platform that allows me to magically elude the violent attacks I would suffer were I to say the things I say (and do the things I do) in any other place and time; it's probably the closest I can come to defying death. Oh, and of course there's also a thrill that comes with hearing a lot of guys tell me they've jerked themselves into a creamy frenzy during my shows. It's the idea of hundreds (preferably thousands) of CRAZED MEN going apeshit bonkers that gets me so psychologically worked up.
Oh, I know those of you who attend my shows are remembering all the times I've dismissed the question I'm asked every show of, "how does it make you feel that 457 (or however many people are present in the chatroom) men are jerking off to you?" but the only reason I act disinterested is because it's technically inaccurate since I know that not *everyone* watching is male and not everyone is watching the show with one hand on their genitals. My problem with the question is mostly the way that it's worded along with the hope they have that I'll say something about how WET it makes me; it's not that I do not get aroused by these thoughts, however I don't have time or enough stimulation during my shows (especially at the beginning of them, which is usually when someone asks that question) to really fantasize about that. No, the natural excitement I feel regarding those numbers is POWER.
The times I've gotten aroused by viewers in group shows have been when guys say something kinky about themselves like the unusual way they're masturbating (Oh Trixie, I'm just about to cum in my roommate's shoe watching you!) or confessing something like my best friend Brad and I have been jack-off buddies since we were 12; I'm imagining he's here now & we're watching you together, beating off! or just a number of simple status report like Oh, Trixie! I had to stop stroking my pole and pinch it because I almost came at the sight of your hairy butthole! or even just good old, Unnhhhhhhhjuscameonmykeyboard!. Unfortunately I get way too few of these kinds of remarks during my shows to really rely on viewer input for arousal and the other stuff I *do* hear regularly is often funny, but rarely a turn-on: Do you want my cum? Tell me you want my cum!! Doesn't work from a random stranger in a crowded room; in a private show or phone sex? That has potential. Will you marry me? I'll get you pregnant! The ultimate turn-off. Shuttup Bitch! I didn't come here to listen to you talk philosophy! While I enjoy this for the element of power, it doesn't arouse me sexually. I know this sounds sick, but it's an incredible feeling, knowing there are men SEETHING with hatred and contempt for me but they CAN'T make me shut up. Part of me enjoys hearing all of the predictable ugly insults (fat, ugly, old, stupid, etc.), because I know it is a very VERY special thing to sit here and be safe even when faced with confirmation that women are still loathed and victimized in very scary, gender-specific ways.
If asked what size audience DOES sexually arouse me most, I'd refer you back to private shows: ONE viewer arouses me most, one that I'm interacting with who is paying me by the minute to talk to me, tell me what to do and/or to expose himself to me. Private shows and phone sex are extremely sexually exciting to me (because they're hot, not because I feel like I'm flirting with danger). You want to know a big reason why I don't do them much anymore? Because they aren't as private as they used to be when I started camming and doing phone sex. It used to be just me and one other person: the viewer. Now my circumstances and the camsites have changed so much that I have way too many audiences to really get off on it the way I used to; there are people watching me on our spycams, the cam networks have sneak peeks running and archives being captured, I feel self-conscious with Delia in the house, etc. It's too much exposure for something that used to be hot because it was SO private. That's actually a subject for another blog entry I've been meaning to write for a long time, but I bring it up to illustrate how many different factors there are and yardsticks for measuring what kinds of shows I like doing best and how many people I like watching them (which is why the diplomatic answer IS TRUE; there are pluses and minuses to all of the different kinds of camming I do).
A few people who've had phone sex with me or chatted with me extensively are probably aware how much the numbers mean to me on many different levels; it *is* a big turn on to contemplate the numbers and the gallons, the spurts and the jerks of a large population. But the most instant reaction I have to the numbers DURING my shows is a surge of omnipotence more than arousal. The more people watching, the more power I have (and the more I feel I'm cheating death, I suppose).
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?
If you're looking for good spontaneous conversation, ALWAYS LOOK FOR THE MAN WITH THE TOOTHPICK. He's a conversationalist. You will know his interest in your conversation was reciprocated if, at the end of the conversation, he tosses away the toothpick. If he THROWS the toothpick and says, "aw, to HELL with you" while he walks away then it means you've found a debate partner for life.
I say all this after we walked home from our precinct caucus yesterday and had the best roadside political conversation with a guy with a toothpick and silver braid, wearing a Carhartt jacket over a Harley t-shirt. He stopped us as he got out of his pickup to ask what the caucus was like.
It was interesting. It's only the second time we've attended one, but today's was MUCH more exciting since there seemed to be more Democrats with some fucking common sense (last time the hyper-idealistic simpletons all threw their shit away on Kucinich; those folks were still there yesterday, I kid you not, providing the dictionary illustration for the word "futility"). Judging from what we saw in our precinct and the one next to us, Obama had a huge lead over Clinton in our town (and of course the entire state of Washington).
Both Delia and I felt sad that now that we HAVE to vote by mail, the caucus is really our only opportunity to gather together with other voters en masse to publicly participate in the process. Oh, I know there are other opportunities to get together and be all civic-minded, but those are usually just a handful of people with very specific interests. It's just not the same and now they're trying to get rid of THIS, too, and simplify things with a regular primary. I know voting by mail is cool because it's so easy and convenient (and a way to avoid the nightmare of electronic voting machines), it's just sad that we lose the sense of doing it socially as a community, and in some cases as a nation. Voting seems like even more of a farce by mail. It leaves me feeling disenfranchised as a citizen. It's like using the free address labels The March of Dimes sends you without bothering to send them a donation. If I don't have to leave my house and mill around with strangers in a location I would never otherwise visit I might as well be voting for American Idol; devoid of the common ritual, the process feels trivialized. Actually, voting for American Idol probably feels LESS trivial because at least people have a limited window of time to cast their votes (so are voting TOGETHER) and enjoying the ritual of tuning in next time to see the results.
All we have left is going to see fireworks together or sports in a stadium, and that's just not the same because we attend games and fireworks displays and concerts as observers, not participants. I suppose we still have rallies and parades and protests to participate in, but that's almost TOO much participation. Besides, for all of the work people put into it, there's no official record of what you've done unless you get arrested or win a trophy and nobody in the general population cares about the outcome regardless. I would say at least we still have the pledge of allegiance and singing the national anthem together, but nobody except conservative automatons seem to appreciate the bliss of joining into rituals of mass brainwashing the way I do. Oh well. I suppose there's always traffic court.
Since socializing is not a high priority for me and I tend to enjoy it more in structured environments, losing the opportunity to vote the old-fashioned way is a pretty big blow to my human experience. I loved sitting in the bleachers yesterday with strangers chuckling and criticizing our disorganized party, laughing as they moved their lips unintelligibly with their predictable head-in-the-clouds lack of awareness that nobody could hear their brainy soft-spoken voices while the rest of us in our typical passive Democratic style failed to speak up and point out that WE COULDN'T HEAR THEM. If we'd been Republicans, someone would have immediately stood up and cupped her hand around her ear or made the "up! up!" motion or screamed, "LOUDER!" Those gentle hippies, our brethren. How I wished we could import some of the audible obnoxiousness of our enemies, the loud-mouthed Republicans who know how to ORGANIZE an event and properly strategize.
At some point I realized it might be easy to become a delegate to the county convention, so we stuck around for me to push through the small cluster of other hopefuls and sign up to go. I felt a little cheated that it was all left up to chance (whichever people grabbed a paper and signed up first are going, apparently) instead of competition. I imagined if I were a Republican I would have had to FIGHT with some fat-ass in a red sweatshirt to EARN my spot. That would have been more fun. Perhaps the competition will be stiffer to move from county to the district caucus, though.
I am picking out outfits now, plotting an escalation of attractiveness to try to get to the state convention. If my sordid porn career prevents moving that far along I can console myself with the knowledge that at least I won't have to go to Spokane in August June, which is a nasty hellhole.
Delia had a sperm deposit to make in Seattle on Thursday. On our way to catch the ferry, we stopped for Chicken McNuggets on Bainbridge Island. I went inside quickly while Delia waited in the car and thought I saw an old familiar face of someone I fucked (and adored) years ago: Brian the Cop. I only saw him briefly out of the corner of my eye sitting at a table in back with some other men and dismissed the feeling of recognition to hurry and fill up our pop and get on our way so we wouldn't miss our boat. When I went back outside and noticed a police car with K-9 Unit written all over it, I realized it really must have been him and became GIDDY remembering how senselessly attracted I was to him.
This past year I've thought a lot about my promiscuous post-divorce adventures and the guys I met through a mutual interest in sex. I've thought about how they were all pretty decent fellows and that I was lucky to cross paths with them. I've thought about how unfairly mean and dismissive I was to some of them in my retarded early blog posts. I didn't have much in common with most of them, but I did like them and I feel even more fond of them now that they're cute little memories I can wonder about and wish well from a distance.
As I get older, I also feel guiltier and more conscious of some things I've done (or failed to do) that were idiotic, insensitive, unforgivably horrid, self-indulgent and/or just plain embarrassing. In fact, just the day or two before the Brian sighting I was spanking myself internally with mortification over the memory of how my retarded and unjustifiable infatuation with Brian the Cop led me to make my sorta-girlfriend at the time cry. I was inexcusably mean and stupid, and I enjoyed the whole fantastically dramatic mess.
Seeing him again, albeit fleetingly, made me forgive myself. He's stupid, I'm stupid -- we're all stupid. And beautiful. It doesn't matter what a goon the guy was, it WORKED for me and it's just not human to deny that some people electrify your insides in spite of how wrong they are for you. I'm thankful I never got the chance to completely ruin my life over someone like that and feel blessed that I got to enjoy the silly thrill of it all.
He was 6'4" and his penis was on the small side. He was a premature ejaculator and he had this song playing on his website. He was big and hairy and ridiculous and I loved every lie he told me. When I expressed interest in humping his assault rifle, he followed through and brought it over for me. Though I loved seeing its sexy blackness laying on my bed, I had to admit with disappointment that it wasn't designed for humping and that his hand and small penis were much better suited to my genitals.
I grinned like an idiot all the way to the ferry terminal and chuckled to myself over the bad fucking joke of it all. While we waited for the boat to arrive, Delia left the car to go to the bathroom and I looked around the holding area wondering if I'd see Brian jump out with one of his big German Shepherds to sniff out drugs and terrorists. I wanted to see him again without him seeing me.
I got distracted from thoughts of Brian when I saw a beautiful brunette woman in the distance and immediately felt a pang of attraction, that "WHO is THAT?!?" moment, before realizing a split second later that I actually knew her, too!
It was Delia coming back from the bathroom. Lucky, lucky, lucky times three (billion) because that woman in the distance is my girlfriend and it's no accident she's walking towards me.
I am grateful for having been forced to take more than a couple courses in human relations and for having been taught better ways of communication, even if I can't seem to properly apply those lessons in their entirety.
The problem I run across sometimes is that I don't *want* to be mature when I'm talking about my feelings. I want my descriptions of my feelings to make sense, but still acknowledge that the feelings themselves are irrational and exist in a place that's separate from careful thought and planning. "I-messages" are sweet, and I try to use them, but my delivery? It's so NOT textbook.
There's something totally fucking ridiculous about talking in a mature way about totally immature feelings like jealousy and selfishness. I think I'm afraid that if I go that extra mile and speak as though I'm in control of those feelings and am able to supervise them in an adult way that I'm making even more of an ass of myself than if I sputter and betray my dejected spirit through my mannerisms. Yes, I'm petty and easily-annoyed; I don't think it will make me a better person to admit this in a tone that suggests I'm above-it-all. Squinty-eyed, spitting madness is more appropriate, or at least an awkward inability to make eye-contact when confessing it.
This has been a public service announcement from the board of unfuckingbalanced hormones.
I almost did something crazy just now . . . I started filling out an application to work in a grocery store.
Oh my god! Is money REALLY that tight for Trixie? Or is she quitting webwhoring? Errr . . . what the fuck?
It's nothing like that. It's actually more embarrassing than that; I don't NEED another job, I just really like cashiering. Sometimes when I go to the store I am jealous, and I just think it would be fun to pick up a Saturday or holiday shift or a busy dinner rush now and again. Sometimes I just want to get out of the house and do something regular, normal . . . something with a rhythm and set of rules. Something with clearly defined boundaries. Something where I pick things up, move them only a couple feet, then set them down in a bag. Something that doesn't require a lot of complex thought. Something that doesn't involve planning for the future. Someplace where I'm never asked to make big decisions.
Sometimes I'm just tired of being in our house, and I don't want to socialize exactly, but I want to interact (in very predictable, regimented ways) with people. I guess normal people would go out and have a drink with friends in my situation, but that is SO INTENSELY BORING AND COUNTERPRODUCTIVE TO ME. The thought of sitting in a bar drinking to relax just bores me STIFF. But the thought of having a mundane, repetitive job sounds relaxing and wonderful to me. I like counting money and typing on little keypads and scanning things. I would be standing up and lifting things! I would feel so efficient and pleasantly robotic.
I know I have a college education and I don't *have* to get a job like "that", but how can I explain how much I want one sometimes? Sometimes I just want things to be simple, rote. Cashiering is like a video game job.
I can't really afford to take time off from our sites to have a smiling robot job, though. Part of me seductively whispers that maybe it would REFRESH me for my real job here in internet porn. If I knew I wouldn't be pressured to work when I couldn't and I knew I wouldn't have to wash toilets or face product or, god forbid, MOP anything, and I could just work at a checkstand, like, once a week or something . . . I would totally do it.
I feel like I shouldn't be admitting this.
I feel embarrassed about this desire, but today isn't the first time I've felt this way. Lately I have been fantasizing about getting a temporary job doing data entry (there's nothing like that available in our town so it really is just a fantasy). I enjoy the world of what-other-people-consider to-be menial labor. I enjoy the structure of it. And I really like typing. Do you know that? I REALLY LIKE TYPING. I like the sound of it, the feeling of it. I like the cadence of data entry. I like escaping into work that only requires lower-level thinking. I have told myself that I could pretend in my head that I'm only getting a job like that as research for a book, but that would be a lie. I just like learning the little subcultures of wage-earners.
People who've never had normal jobs like this, I'll bet they don't know how fascinating they can be and how interesting the people you work with are. There are the people who are surprisingly interesting, and there are the people who are predictably dull. And I usually like them all. I would never want to feel stuck in a job like that, but those kinds of jobs can be extremely SATISFYING. They're mechanical, manageable, and fun to master.
My job(s) right now? I will never "master" any of them. Sometimes that's really cool and exciting and sometimes it just makes me feel tired and want to cry.
Sometimes I just want to have a stack of work and see it visibly reduced as I complete each piece, one at a time. Sometimes I just want to know when my shift is over. Sometimes I just want to be faster than someone else. Sometimes I just want things to be simple, and to go home and spend the whole night reading a book or watching tv without feeling guilty about it because I should be doing something creative and productive and special. Sometimes I don't feel like I can be productively creative and sometimes I don't want to be special. Sometimes I just want to be a worker bee and enjoy being a well-oiled piece in a bigger machine. Sometimes I want to be able to blame corporate or upper management or just some dickwad above me for my problems and limited range of motion. Sometimes I am just so tired of not having anyone to blame but myself.
Sometimes I just want to know exactly what the people in charge of my paycheck want from me, and to be able to ask them that point blank if I don't. What do you want from me? Sometimes I just want to know who those people are, and have there only be one or two of them. With my job(s) right now, it really is cool and almost divine to be able to make so many people happy in so many different ways, but it makes repeated success complicated and unpredictable. Everyone wants something different and everyone is so many people in so many different time zones. Who are they? What do they want from me NOW? This is not easy, and the only way to make it easy is to only care about yourself in a way that requires turning inward too far.
Sometimes I want to know that I can quit, but the problem is that I can't. I can never and will never quit this job I have now. This is my work and it's what I'm supposed to do with most of my life. Sometimes it's boring to have found your life's work and know that you're never actually going to be GREAT at it. It (in all of the different forms it does and will take) will be special, but it won't be GREAT. The best I can hope for and work towards is that someday it will be more profitable, but money is not as great a motivator as greatness, so these days I move forward very slowly.
Sometimes I'm depressed, and that sometime is now (especially without the wonderful, magical, mood-stabilizing happiness that is hormonal birth control). Sometimes I feel like a failure for being a regular person, and sometimes I feel like I'm about to really EMBRACE being average and become crazily happy with that. Sometimes I am.
I'm slightly ashamed and totally shocked that this hair color choice thing has become the most DIFFICULT series of decisions I've made in my entire adult life. It's totally unimportant, yet I am tortured daily by whether I'm a blonde or a brunette at heart, and whether one is significantly better than the other for business and if so, if that is enough to override whatever my most heartfelt hair-color personality is. Snort! I'm disgusted with myself, truly.
Here's the thing: I *AM* THE DECIDER. I have always made life-altering decisions quickly and confidently. I do not agonize over whether or not to do things. BIG things, even. The kinds of things other people spend significant amounts of time carefully weighing risks and benefits over, pros and cons. I do those things too (sometimes) but in very short order. And I tend not to consult other people over them, or if I do I really don't give a shit about their input and ask merely out of curiosity's sake because my mind is usually already made up. I know they might not be the BEST choices, but I'm ready to go ahead with them anyway.
Major and minor in college; quickly decided. Whether or not to leave my husband; instantly, as soon as opportunity arose - out of house in one week's time. Buy a house? Waiting a couple of months to sign the papers seemed WAY too long. Become a webwhore? SIGNED UP AS SOON AS I HEARD ABOUT IT. Quitting jobs, school, friendships: without hesitation.
But whether or not to continue bleaching or switch to darkening my hair? Practically paralyzed. It makes no sense. None at all. I'm absolutely baffled by it and deeply disturbed by my whining requests for feedback from people.
Fortunately I can still look possessed by the sad librarian spirit of indoorsy introversion as an ash blonde:
Now that I've experienced about nine months as a brunette, I can say that blondes DO attract more immediate attention. As a brunette I felt more invisible than I have ever been in my life. I've decided blondes are more ATTRACTIVE while brunettes are more beautiful, or at least prettier than most blondes. I felt pretty as a brunette, but I command more attention as a blonde. Heads turn for blondes, especially blondes with big hooters. Apparently it has something to do with blonde being a rare genetic trait and therefore more appealing to potential mates (at least, that's what I read in Vogue at the gym when I was supposed to be working out). I think it's just because blonde hair is SHINY and shiny things catch the eye. It doesn't matter if your face is a muddled hunk of ugly as long as you've got bright, shiny hair: the boys' heads will spin.
On the other hand, a lot of porn consumers like jerking off to women who remind them of former girlfriends or women they've known in their lives, and many of those women were brunettes. The real girl next door? She tends to be a brunette. Also, the kinds of customers who tend to be attracted to my personality also tend to have a preference for brunettes (if they have or express a preference at all). The dominating (or at least assertive) Mommy nerd know-it-all archetype has dark brown hair, I think. But clearly these folks have found me acceptable as a blonde, so why limit my powers of attraction with dark hair? Oh yes, because this has gone down in the history of my website as my absolute favorite set of photos because I felt FANTASTICALLY beautiful on my first day as a brunette.
And hey, there were practical matters, too; my hair was so much healthier, silkier, and glossier when it was dyed dark. The blonding process is really hard on your hair; I actually have a tweety-bird tuft of broken hair on top of my head that got so fried by my last lightening that it just busted the fuck off. Of course, this was worse than it ever had been in my past permanently-blonde days because they had to bleach out all of the brunette so that was pretty harsh; apparently it's not too good to do this back-and-forth bullshit.
After ranting about the need to protect my identity with a stage name, I just discovered I accidentally used the real name of a guy I fooled around with. Here is the beginning of the story, with his name consistently changed (in the story I used a fake name 75% of the time, but his real name the other 25%):
All of the girls in our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over Treat, the Hawaiian guy who lived on my floor. Hell, all of the girls OUTside of our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over him. I thought he was an idiot, but as time went on I confess to creaming my panties over him too. I distinctly remember staring at the bump under his white towel as he roamed our floor after a shower, and wanting some of whatever he had under there. Wanting to get a load of it, both figuratively and literally speaking.
Once my friend and I spent a casual evening in her room with Treat, interrogating him as to WHY IN THE WORLD so many girls seemed powerless to his charms. What was his secret? How did he weave his cheesy spell over them? After feigning modesty for awhile (part of his signature appeal), he revealed with intense seriousness that he learned everything from his favorite television show in junior high: Beauty and the Beast, starring Linda Hamilton as the beauty and Ron Perlman as the Beast. Yes, you read the plot description correctly: "The adventures and romance of a sensitive and cultured lion-man and a crusading District Attorney assistant".
Here are a/the few books on my recently-finished stack:
SHE'S NOT THERE - Jennifer Finney Boylan If you saw me burst into tears in the past two days, it was because I was so touched by some of the stories in this book about a male-to-female transsexual author/professor. It's nice to read a book revolving around a personal "special interest" story and have the person writing actually be, ummm, a writer rather than some chick with no background in writing who just has a unique tale to tell. I'm not saying it's a brilliant or utterly flawless book, just that it's very good, highly readable, and transcends its subject matter. Maybe, though, I'm not qualified to convincingly say it's relevant to people with no interest in gender issues or personal experience with trans people, but I think it's a solid book with characters and challenges recognizable to everybody: worth recommending to anyone (but especially people who are star-struck by and interested in authors).
A GUIDE TO QUALITY, TASTE & STYLE - Tim Gunn with Kate Moloney I've firmly been in woman (as opposed to girl) territory for a few years now and am becoming more concerned with the way I present myself (and more righteously justified in focusing more effort on my style since I am, after all, an "entertainer" of the (supposedly) sexy visual kind. I'm beginning to recognize that having a website with pictures of me dressed up doesn't give me a free pass to be a constant slob off-camera (or make me feel good about being a slob) so I picked up this book for inspiration AND because WE LOVE TIM GUNN and Project Runway. It was the first reality show to hook us when we finally got television and has remained the unsurpassed best, partly because the contestants have to actually exhibit both talent and skill to try to create beautiful things, and partly because it prominently features a kind, articulate person with an expansive vocabulary: Tim Gunn. The book was a fun, old-fashioned read with timeless, budget-conscious advice and his delightful personality shines out of every page. I had no idea who or what he was talking about some of the time, but whatever -- fun.
SEAROAD: CHRONICLES OF KLATSAND - Ursula K. Le Guin Another one that had me in tears a few times, but this one actually IS brilliant. And out of print. Which is fucking lame. The title sounds kind of hokey, old-fashioned, and fantasy-oriented but the book is none of those things. Every voice in it sounds real and every story feels like the truth.
I'm starting to lose my commitment to trying to finish books. Not that I was ever good at finishing every book I started to read or even half of them, but I'm getting to the point where I realize it's okay to leave books unfinished. After almost thirty years of reading I've learned that putting an unfinished book down isn't a failure, it's just an opportunity to start another book that might be more engaging. You can get a lot of insight and entertainment out of half-read books without wasting time slogging through them just for the sake of "finishing". I'm starting to realize that nagging compulsion to finish a book I'm no longer enjoying is almost as obnoxious as a guy who keeps saying, "cum for me baby!" over and over again.
Trixie answers pressing questions from her audience, including whether or not she likes younger men, black men, etc. She also talks about her most recent TOY purchases and the annoying obligation to be nice during her webcam shows.