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.
Today we went to a protest against civil rights abuses and I realized THAT'S THE FIRST ORGANIZED PROTEST I'VE EVER ATTENDED! Which seems nuts, that as a thirty-six year old woman who is opposed to SO many things and has lived near Seattle my whole life, I have never been out in the streets with my floppy tits wrapped loosely in a shredded flag, armpit hair fluttering in the breeze as I pump my fist shouting a determined message even as I'm hoisted over the bulky shoulder of an armed man in riot gear.
Sorry to disappoint, but today was nothing like that.
Still, it was important and I'm glad we went. I'd love to be more specific and share the details with most everyone but as my webwhoring years have added up I've realized that sometimes I need to withhold some information for the sake of privacy and safety. What I will say, though, is it isn't connected to porn or sex work which in a way is sad because I'd like to be a better activist when it comes to civil rights issues related to the sex industry. This, though, is more local and I feel like I can more safely make a difference by being involved in it which is not something I can do locally (meeting up with people face-to-face) as a webwhore.
Delia actually sat this one out in the car because she has a soul-patch-like burn on her chin from her first overzealous laser hair removal treatment (she's been going through the process for years now and this is the first time she's gotten burned like that) and she didn't want to be out in the sun. This left me open to being approached by a cute ewok-looking fellow with a jaunty chipped front tooth who appeared to be about seven to ten years my junior. I almost told him I have a girlfriend, but then decided if he really was "interested" maybe it would lure him into getting involved. See, deep freckled cleavage can really win support for a cause. And I like bearded little roly poly guys.
I was actually a little concerned about the location of this protest because it's right next to an ultra-conservative hangout but they didn't come streaming out to scare us away or even mount a counter-protest. Instead I only saw about three people give us the thumbs-down and everybody else who responded as they drove by seemed happy to see us and honked, waved, hollered, etc. in support. That's a good feeling, but scary knowing this shit is going on even with so much outspoken criticism.
The past few days have been pretty windy here (I could barely hang onto my sign today) so it wasn't a big surprise when we lost power for a few seconds tonight. Could throw a monkey wrench into our spycam transmissions and Delia's update which she's trying to get uploaded and posted tonight, though. After the protest we had to drive all the way back to suburban hell to have them remove the inky security tag on a pair of jeans Delia bought on Thursday that they forgot to remove. Sometimes living so far from a real city is inconvenient. And sometimes it's just kind of scary (see above: there is some bullshit that wouldn't be tolerated in Seattle but in rural and small-town areas it's commonplace). But of course so is living near or IN a city, just for different reasons.
I remember working swing shift as one of the very best times in my life. I'd get off work between midnight and two in the morning and drive home in the dark experiencing the magic of RIGHTNESS, of everything having fallen into place and a lifelong problem being solved. That schedule didn't make everything perfect, of course, but it was a magical gift that explained part of my life and who I am to me and let me know that things CAN fall into place. It's one thing to complain vociferously about not being a morning person and another thing to be lucky enough to NOT HAVE TO BE. To experience yourself operating at maximum efficiency and enjoy your favorite parts of the day and night, skipping the parts that have never worked for you. To function so much better that you've got PROOF that this "night person" thing is real.
I'm at a point in my life where I need a new swing shift. My gears have been out of sync for years now and I keep looking for some little twinkly adjustment I can make that will fix things. I've given myself a bunch of tuneups and they've been eye-opening and helpful, but I'm desperate to feel something like the smooth, peaceful rightness of driving home on a nearly-empty freeway with the windows rolled down in the summer, smelling everything asleep and reveling in being awake, ready to go home and make a simple dinner for myself. The answer isn't making myself work from four to midnight now, either - I don't live alone anymore and I don't want to; I want to go to bed WITH Delia (not a night person, so we compromise). I feel like I've tried everything and suspect the answer is that I need more time to be completely alone with myself, without the sounds of anybody else, without being seen or heard by anyone watching . . . just totally removed from everybody's sounds and presence.
Last week I allowed myself the luxury of staying up all night long playing with TrixieRadio - listening to music, downloading new stuff and uploading it to the station . . . amusing myself and accomplishing something that has no monetary pay-off in the near future and is absolutely NOT what I should be spending huge blocks of time doing. But I miss listening to music. REALLY MISS IT. I am not someone who can work AND listen to music with words, so it's not an option for me to multitask. Besides, I don't want to. I want to do nothing but listen. NOTHING BUT. So I did, all night long, and organized my .mp3's and made lists of cd's I still need to rip and read about music and made a blog entry begging for money to justify doing it more. Being up all night doing that made me feel a little more like myself. And I finally bought an adaptor that provides phantom power for my months-old new microphone so I can personalize things more and potentially make more sales through the "radio" thing and podcasting. If I can figure out the perfect settings for recording with this microphone (one of those detail-oriented time-sucking tasks that annoys the shit out of me that I usually invest a couple of hours in then decide it's not worth it / I should wait for a better time to do it / I have more important things to do).
I've been retreating a lot more into our guest room, off cam and alone, which has been helpful but maybe I'm still not committed enough to it to really reap the benefits of it. I feel guilty about it and still can't get enough. I haven't figured out how to integrate my need for solitude with work and my relationship with Delia. She's really tolerant and understanding of my limitations in this area so it's me that needs to work out the kinks alone along with continuing to figure out how to succeed at being my own boss. You'd think after seven years I'd be an expert, but I'm still an amateur (both at working for myself and being in a relationship). A lot of things have changed for the better in the past year but I'm still struggling to find daily "rightness". I get glimmers of it, but very inconsistently; for everything I resolve to do better, something else falls by the wayside. It's like there's a never-ending rotation of things I do well and things I fuck up -- every day, every week, every month, every quarter, every year the same fucking challenges just trade places with each other. I make progress but only temporarily before regressing. I feel like I haven't CONQUERED anything in years and I'm pretty fucking sick of it. I try to be patient with myself, recognizing I've had some really fucked-up health problems and am still fine-tuning "curing" myself. Recognizing the economy sucks so it's not entirely my fault that we're on this debt merry-go-round.
The shitty thing is that having a positive attitude means feeling empowered and taking responsibility to fix stuff -- believing it's POSSIBLE to make things better; I'm just really really REALLY tired of the burden. Sometimes I just wish I could drive home and let my boss figure it out in the morning and tell me what to do when I go to work and know that it's not my fault if that was the wrong thing. Part of me loves how I've complicated my life and that I *don't* have a boss, but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST sometimes I miss having things be simple. I miss having someone else to blame. I miss not really caring about my job. That used to make me feel trapped, having to go to work for a certain number of hours and not doing anything even remotely creative. Now? I feel trapped because I *do* care about my job(s). Because it's rare that I get to establish a rhythm doing something simple for 6-8 hours. I can't quit because I love my work, but I have no idea when (if ever) I'll be able to do my job BETTER and not just feel like I'm running on a treadmill. A treadmill that lurches and changes speeds unpredictably and is just like . . . possessed with multiple personalities. There's no water-cooler where I can stand around bitching about my boss and how if I ran things I'd do them differently/better. I mean, I can do that, but it's not really good for my self-esteem. I am my own worst boss/enemy and I'm so. TIRED of it.
I keep slogging along, promising myself that if we just get rid of our debt we'll be able to AFFORD to establish some rhythms and magic swing shifts but right now we seriously do not have the money to do anything efficiently. Not shooting, not marketing, not exercising . . . not even fucking GROCERY shopping. Every day is a schizo fucking mess and I'm just so sleeeeeeeeeeeeeepy. Not as bad as I was before, but still . . . some days are pretty bad while I'm fine tuning different birth control pills, supplements, figuring out just how much fucking with my blood sugar I can get away with, etc.
Fuck it. I am going to order a pizza.
Sorry for the downer of a post. Things are good, I just needed to whine a little bit.
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?
Tonight while Delia was at her AA meeting I really wanted to play piano and sing, but as usual having the audio on the cams makes me feel totally self-conscious. I know I shouldn't be, that even if I suck ass it's entertaining, but that doesn't matter; I want to be alone.
It's not that hard to turn the audio off on the cams, but I feel guilty about it and worry that people just joining for the first time will check the cams, not hear anything, and think I lied about broadcasting audio. On the other hand, I feel guilty about not doing something I enjoy and value (making music for the sheer pleasure of it AND to practice/improve) so I think I'm going to start setting that time aside when Delia's at her meetings for alone time at the piano and just turn the audio off on the cams. I might even log in a special silent cam since I don't mind people WATCHING from a voyeuristic angle, I just don't want to be heard, critiqued, etc.
Maybe if I keep that up we'll start having monthly or weekly "performances" or something so the mystery can be revealed and to motivate me to focus on doing more than just noodling around.
I have a feeling I'm going to regret posting these little video rants with my thoughts and reactions to the whole "Letters from Working Girls" debate. And you may very well regret listening to them; honestly, they probably won't make sense to you unless you read the back story here:
Can I just apologize in advance for being a sputtering asshole? Oh, and I realize by posting this I'm probably just driving my own little slice of traffic to her; in spite of how my blustering sounds, that's more than fine with me. Also, I am NOT speaking for anybody or on the behalf of anybody but myself.
Oh, you know how I said I couldn't find a picture of Susannah Breslin? I *did* find a video of her:
She reminds me of Selma Blair (hot!) which makes me even MORE interested in finding out exactly what type of sex work I can hire her to perform. Watching her talk about a book of short stories she wrote and hearing her blur the line between truth and fiction to the point where I can't tell if the book is, indeed, short (fictional) STORIES she wrote about "aberrants" like "midget porn stars" OR nonfictional essays about real people. Does anyone know? The promo piece reinforces my sense of her as someone who's less interested in being true to people's real stories in the sex industry and more interested in harnessing our curiosity about them to market entertaining tales of our perceived deviance for her own gain. Again, I don't so much mind someone exploiting a resource (I'm not someone who thinks there's no room in the world for pimps) as I mind someone bullshitting everyone about that being their primary objective.
And hey, I don't want to make it sound like my own hands are clean; I've used a lot of the same tactics (or would if I could unclutter my mind long enough to APPLY the techniques of efficient exploitation), just not very well. So go on, everybody! GET that publicity! GET that traffic!! USE WHAT YOU'RE GIVEN!!! Wankers send you material? THAT IS BLOG FODDER! Someone wants to give you content without getting anything in return except the pleasure of putting it before an audience? TAKE it and USE it! Let Susannah Breslin be your guide!
Oh, and I wouldn't argue with her about Susie Bright being a sex worker. The quickest reason I can give (which still probably doesn't make sense)? She has confessed to her own personal fantasies that are so taboo as to be considered obscene by our government just to talk about them. Maybe Breslin has, too, though and I'm just not familiar enough with her (sex?) work to know.
Note: with the amount of time and energy I've wasted on this compared to the MAJOR stuff I ignore in my blog, you might think engaging in this little brouhaha is somehow more important to me than other things; it's not. It's just one of the few "discussions" I've been involved in lately and enjoyed, probably because it was mostly smart women doing the discussing (and yeah, Breslin is one of those women, too).
I got a girly foot job today. Because there was a special half-off deal going on. And because we rented a nice room to shoot in tomorrow and really, what's the point in blowing money on a fancy room to shoot swank nudey pics if your toes look nasty?
My "nail technician" was a cute heavy-set blonde with her hair done up in Bjorkesque knots. She was not much taller than I am so her arms were pretty short in comparison to her boobs which stuck out a lot. As a result, my toes patted and prodded her fluffy pillows of breastage. During the massage portion, my feet (one at a time) were even engulfed in her cleavage.
I know you all think I'm a total fucking pervert who couldn't help but get off on this sexually, but honestly I kept my thoughts pure in spite of the pleasant feeling of my feet touching a cute-looking woman's breasts. I *do* love touching people with my feet on both a sensual and sexual level, but I got the feeling that this girl was fairly new to her craft; she seemed very preoccupied, as though she were trying to follow a script she learned at beauty school or was handed by the salon owner.
I'm guessing it's probably difficult to have her body invaded like that when she's trying to work and that she has to do some mental and emotional work-arounds to deal with having strangers' feet jabbing and patting and smushing against her tits. My feet are really small so I can only imagine that people with normal or large feet REALLY press up against her. Given her inexperience and her personality I just felt sort of awkward on her behalf. Awkward in a way that would be hot if it were fiction, but that any decent woman could resist eroticizing (at the time, anyway). My nail technician seemed to hold her cards close to her chest when I tried to get her to talk trash about our respective towns; she avoided say anything very personal or in a familiar tone.
She was pleasant, but clearly had her guard up. I chalk it up to the boobs and being new to her trade, but it might also have been because her boss could hear us. Regardless, I felt it was NOT the time to be getting all horny over the feet-on-boobs action. Even when I saw my little toeprints-made-of-lotion dotting the front of her black shirt. Even when she said, "you're still wet so I'm going to keep you here a little longer." Even then, I did not allow myself to indulge in x-rated fantasies.
"But Trixie, it's not like she could read your mind! Why censor your thoughts?"
BECAUSE. Sometimes dirty thoughts leak out like bad gas and fill a room with discomfort. I believe they do, anyway. Some people can intuitively pick up on someone else's hard-on, even if it's purely mental and poses no physical threat. I have no desire to victimize a professional nail technician even if the victimization is only happening in my head. It's just disrespectful . . . sometimes you have to rise above your baser instincts. Without acting rigid and readably uncomfortable, you have to detach yourself, particularly when you see that the other person is sending signals that detachment is what she needs.
People who touch other people for a living without actually doing sex work -- therapeutic massage, nails, hair, facials (haha), etc. -- still provide very intimate services that are supposed to make customers feel good, physically and emotionally. I think they go home feeling similarly emotionally exhausted by the shifty boundaries they've dealt with all day, touching people's sweatiest places, hearing their stories, trying to be receptive to chat while not annoying clients by talking TOO much themselves (or entertaining clients who like that sort of thing). I think they deserve a lot of respect (and good tips) for that and deserve to preserve some boundaries; I would just feel wrong about violating that, even in my head. Especially when my feet are already on her boobs.
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".
Yesterday I accidentally spoke my legal name (first AND last) aloud over our spycams when I forgot to turn the audio off before making a phone call. Fittingly, the phone call was to our cable company in hopes of fattening our internet pipe so that we can broadcast MORE spycams, faster (so people can overhear even more of the goings-on in our house).
FYI: though I'm not super-uptight about a few voyeurs knowing my legal names, it's not an invitation for people who know me as Trixie to address me as anything other than Trixie (or "Trix" OR even "stupid ugly cunthole" - even that would be preferable to people puncturing my webwhore bubble by assuming a level of familiarity I've not expressly solicited). There are actually quite a few members, past and present, who know my "real" name, and they've done a great job of earning my trust by respecting that Trixie is my chosen name for my webwhore-related interactions.
Having said that, there *have* been a couple of times where people used my birth name online to put me in an uncomfortable place trying to show me that they knew something they weren't supposed to. It was like they wanted me to know I couldn't get away with "fooling" them. Also, there have been people who are hell-bent on knowing my "real" name, repeatedly trying to drag it out of me; anyone who seems to think he NEEDS to know my birth name is someone I don't want to have that information. For one thing, "Trixie" is just as real a name to me as the one my parents gave me because I gave mySELF this name. I really detest anyone who acts like the name I gave myself is inherently fake or phony. Plus, someone who doggedly refuses to acknowledge the importance of having a stage name just for privacy's sake in this industry is someone I don't want to deal with -- they are the people who give whores good reason to protect their identities and keep them separate from their family lives.
Someone trying to convince me to tell him my real name once tried to appeal to my sense of fairness by saying, "but if I join your site, then you'll know *MY* name and personal information so I should know yours, too!" Wow -- and by his logic, when he joins my site and gets to see and hear inside MY HOME, it would only be fair for me to see and hear inside HIS home. Using his rationale I would apparently be justified in using the name and address associated with his credit card to go to his house and spy on him and his family and maybe google his name to find out where he works since, after all, he gets to spy on ME while I am working, right?
Of course not. That way of thinking is ALL WRONG. Anyway, the product I sell isn't "fairness" -- it's FANTASY. Sure, I pride myself on offering a more authentic and less fictionalized version of the porn fantasy, but I don't enter into a reciprocal relationship with my customers. It's not like, "you show me your credit card, I'll show you mine." No, it's an exchange and I set the terms. If private information like my birth name were to be for sale, I would SELL it as such. For like, five million dollars since it would pretty much be a one-time deal because anyone who thinks that information is too juicy for me to deserve to keep it under wraps would probably post it all over the internet anyway and I wouldn't be able to sell that information again. And because I would want to make the point that YES, I DO think my private information is worth more than yours, and if you're hell bent on stalking me to get more out of me than I offer professionally, you owe me the kind of money that will afford bodyguards, a nice home security system and a really lovely arsenal.
It's not that I don't understand being curious and it's not that I think that kind of curiosity is pathologically dangerous -- it's not the curiosity that bothers me, it's the disrespect shown in trying to SATISFY that curiosity. In the example of the guy who thought that since I could look up his real name in my system that he should get to know mine, it's like he was trying to take me down a peg by getting me to say something like, "gosh, you're right! What, do I think I'm *better* than you? No, I'm just an untrustworthy whore trying to exploit you with my fake identity and shouldn't be trusted with your personal information without handing over an even more literal pound of flesh than the ones on display in my members-area. Who do I think I am, using my fraudulent porn persona to extract your personal information? Before you waste twenty dollars to see my life's work since 2002 I need to make sure we're even-Steven and I've been properly subjugated by your superior will."These guys with their sense of entitlement scare me, but not enough that I won't confirm their worst nightmare: YES, I NOT ONLY *THINK* I AM BETTER THAN YOU, I *KNOW* THAT I AM BETTER THAN YOU. How do I know? By your horribly ill-mannered invasiveness, that's how I know. Oh, and I ALSO KNOW THAT THE VAST MAJORITY OF MY CUSTOMERS ARE BETTER THAN YOU, TOO, BECAUSE THEY DON'T PESTER ME IN THIS SOCIALLY RETARDED MANNER AND EVEN IF THEY DO KNOW SOME OF MY "SECRETS" THEY DON'T TRY TO RUB MY NOSE IN IT.
T I D B I T S
*Good news: Nico (our dog) doesn't have a tumor; she had weed seeds that burrowed into her skin and became infected and swollen. Apparently this is a fairly common thing that happens to outside-dogs in the summer. The vet extracted the little buggers and prescribed some antibiotics, so all is well!
*Good news: I recently lost a few pounds. Bad news: I think I lost them off of my boobs. I guess that's what happens when you go off the pill.
*We bought a new printer last week and I still haven't had a chance to figure out where to put it or even just unpack it and smell it's new-machine smell. It's a photo printer, so maybe now we'll be able to sell 8x10's (there seems to be a niche demand for autographed 8x10's of webwhores, fyi).
We're going to be gone for three days / a couple of nights in a rental shooting as big of a buttload of photos as we possibly can. Normally we don't do a great job of taking care of our fingernails and toenails as we should given our line of work, so I scheduled a manicure for Tucker and a pedicure for myself today. I think the asian guy doing my feet tickled them on purpose with his pumice stone and got a big jolt of pleasure out of making me squirm and giggle.
So. I did do the brunette thing again and even a shade darker than last time. I LOVE IT!
Anyway, there won't be any action on our spycams while we're gone since there's no internet access where we're going. I know, it sounds like we're living in some kind of a time warp, but we tend to rent places that are in rural locations for our shoots so modern amenities like internet access can't be taken for granted and honestly, I'm kind of glad. We like to get away from the spycams and just immerse ourselves in shooting and then having bedtime all to ourselves with no computers humming or peepers peeping.
WAUKESHA - An Oconomowoc man who thought he heard a woman being raped allegedly busted through a neighbor’s door, carrying a sword, only to find the neighbor watching pornography.
James Van Iveren, 39, was released last week on a $5,000 signature bond and is scheduled to appear in court again March 9, court records show. He was charged with criminal trespass to a dwelling, criminal damage to property and disorderly conduct - all while allegedly carrying a dangerous weapon.
According to a criminal complaint in the case, a neighbor of Van Iveren’s reported Feb. 11 that Van Iveren kicked in his door and threatened him with a sword, demanding, "Where is she?" Van Iveren allegedly forced the man to open a closet in his apartment.
"After finding no one, the person upstairs indicated he’d been watching a pornographic move and as a result Van Iveren left the apartment," the complaint alleged. "Van Iveren complained that the ‘rape’ had been occurring for several hours but after finding out it was only a movie, stated the whole incident was a mistake."
I love this story. LOVE IT. It's a perfect example of how blurry the line is between "harmless" porn consumption, and how freaky it would be to hear or see or experience in real life some of the things depicted in porn.
Of course, maybe the "rescuer" was just a nutso, otherwise why didn't he call the police and do so much sooner? Oh well. If more people stepped up and intervened when they heard someone in pain or being abused maybe we'd see a lot more people rescued from horrible situations.
I wish the reporter disclosed the content of the porn the guy was watching, because seriously -- if you have the volume cranked up on a traumatic-sounding sex scene or something full of degrading language and your neighbors can hear it, you should have charges pressed against you. Maybe. Same goes for having CSI turned up too loud, or Law & Order: SVU. Fucking sick shit.
The night before the game we decided to watch Invincible. Overall I enjoyed it more than I enjoyed Dreamgirls, but it was difficult for me to root for the guy. Not two minutes into the movie HE LITTERS!!!! How can I root for someone WHO LITTERS??? I thought this movie was supposed to be wholesome and Disneyfied! Whatever.
I can't get behind a movie built around a character who's not allowed to cuss but is depicted LITTERING with impunity!! Then we see him unable to manage his anger, vandalizing his own apartment!!!! Vandalism and littering, those are two behaviors I just canNOT abide. To top it all off he and his buddies are total retards, playing neighborhood tackle football with full contact and no protection. How am I supposed to cheer for such an idiot? How can Disney glorify such incredible stupidity? What a poor POOR example this character sets for children and impressionable dumb men everywhere.
Oh, and don't even let me get started on the way he balked at trying out for the team -- what a dumbass. You'll take the risk of having your body battered with serious injuries to impress your moron buddies, but you won't risk being rejected at a tryout? Lame!! That shit is WAY worse than porn, and Disney peddles it as a heart-warmer. DESPICABLE!! Let me tell you, I would never tolerate a littering vandal of a lunkhead for a boyfriend if he went so far as to risk life and limb playing tackle football with a bunch of angry, repressed, unemployed, bitter and resentful fartknockers in Philadelphia. I'd totally break up with him (but not the way his wife did, just because he got fired and stuff). And I totally wouldn't write that mean note to him, but at the point where he wouldn't try out for the team? I'd have pinned him to the wall, gotten in his face, and started hissing, "listen here you stupid shithead; if you like football enough to risk hurting yourself when we don't have insurance, you better like it enough to get your pussy ass down there and TRY OUT, you senseless intolerable nitwit! And if you don't go and I ever hear you touched a football again with your buddies I'm going to throw your shit into the street, piss all over it, and change the locks on the doors!" Yeah, that's the way you handle that!! Too bad doing that might be construed as littering and vandalism, but I'd have had damn good REASON, see?
Anyway, it was an okay movie. We enjoyed it.
Confession: I totally didn't get why they named the movie "Invincible" until the moment I typed it in this blog entry. NOW look who's the stupid lunkhead, right?
I doubt we'd have even finished watching the game if it weren't for being in the chatroom and talking about it (and other things) with a few voyeurs. Prince was fantastic at half-time, and so daringly gender-defiant with his Aunt Jemima do-rag; we were thrilled by his performance and talent, as usual. It's about time they picked someone suitable for the halftime performance. I loved that the only thing naughty about it was that lovely phallic silhouette of his guitar jutting away from his shadow-body.
After the game I spent a lot of time on the phone with Ron and my wanker (not at the same time), and also had a couple of long phone calls today. It's unusual for me to spend so much time on the phone, but they were all good chats so it was worth it. FYI voyeurs: the reason the audio on WebWhoreHQ Cam went on and off today and last night was because of those phone conversations and the need to keep some topics of discussion private. Sorry about that.
1. I don't like those blue m&m's. I liked the old seventies colors. Red looked so pretty with the two colors of brown. Blue is ALL WRONG.
2. I believe that space colonization will save humankind -- that ONLY space colonization CAN save us. It's not something I think about often so it's not like I'm revealing some bizarre secret of mine. Or wait, maybe I am. This is something I've believed for a long time, maybe because the space station was such a big deal when I was a kid. Still, it wasn't something I had any detailed exposure to -- it just slid into my belief system.
Why does this nugget of belief appeal to me? I don't know -- probably because science barely-fiction captured my imagination somehow from an early age. I'm not very literate in the sci-fi genre in general, but my dad bought enough graphic sci-fi stuff (a huge Buck Rogers collection in giant-book form which I never read, but leafed through every so often, a couple of captivating books with spaceship blueprints, and a subscription to Omni) that it wiggled into my consciousness as something real. Star Wars was the first movie I remember seeing, and that in a drive-in theater with my dad after a fight with my mom so it made a big impression on me. I didn't study or immerse myself in science, science fiction, or technology but I saw and read enough that was so beautiful, believable, provocative and richly detailed that it planted seeds in my brain.
Maybe that's why I didn't like Star Trek: not very beautiful, believable, or richly detailed. My first exposure to Star Trek was the original series during reruns and I was too little to understand its provocative content, only to recognize its visual inferiority to Star Wars and the other pictures I saw. The only thing I liked about the original series were the short dresses on the hot chicks. Of course, in the past couple of years I've become a Next Gen fan but it didn't contribute to the formation of my belief system, only reinforced it.
I think space colonization is part of my faith; I have faith that a few smart, persistent, creative people will save us and we will endure thanks to scientists and technology. When I say "we" I don't mean "I" since I believe this will happen after I'm dead and gone, but not by much. The idea of space colonization comforts me even though it's completely irrelevant to my life and even though it will be fraught with tragedies and scary things.
I suppose I like knowing that the struggle will go on and that there are new frontiers to explore. Or maybe it comforts me to imagine that people in general won't become too much more advanced than I had a chance to be any time soon. I can't believe Firefly only lasted one motherfucking season because that show perfectly captured what I think a lot of us imagine as the not-so-distant future of humankind.
Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time specifically thinking about space colonization as a cornerstone of my belief system. I have, however, spent quite a bit of time over the past few years reflecting on science fiction in general as the best contemporary vehicle for exploring spiritual, moral, and ethical issues. Science fiction is one of the most authentic ways I feel like I can "get religion". It's not fixed or as dogmatic as science itself so there is still room for faith (and when I say "faith" I mean faith in something -- ANYTHING -- wiggly and uncertain, not faith in any of the gods of religions we're so familiar with today), and it's not completely insane or irrational (again, like so many of the religions we're familiar with today). There's room for soaring idealism in science fiction, and for bitter cynical social commentary. I love it.
Anyway, even though I don't give daily deep thought to space colonization, I guess I do feel pretty anxious about this planet and sad about what we're doing to it. The amount of destruction I've seen in my short life, and the carelessness people have towards the "environment" leads me to believe (another part of my faith) that we aren't going to be able to live here naturally much longer without lots of artificial intervention. Much of what is most beautiful will be utterly fucking destroyed -- any of it that's saved will be via small-scale Jurassic Park type measures.
I didn't grow up in a city. Many days I actually got to wade in creeks, see big trees, smell clean air, enjoy darkness at night, have complete privacy/solitude . . . things like that. I've spent all of my thirty three years loving ferns and moss and the smell of rotting wood.
I didn't grow up in a city, but I grew up close enough to the city of Seattle to see major MAJOR changes in western Washington every single year for the past thirty-three. It's nothing against cities, because I love those too, but we are mowing good things down and paving over it so fast and furiously and on such grand scale that you have to have your head stuffed straight up your cornucopian ass to not recognize that we're shitting all over the planet; it cannot sustain these levels of "growth" and resource-rape. I wasn't raised to be an "environmentalist"; my grandpa was a logger and most people I knew were pretty conservative and hostile towards "tree-huggers". Really, my sentiments are fueled only by the gift of sight -- you have to be fucking blind to not see the destruction and life out of balance.
So. I guess I comfort myself with the fact that science will create new wonders, preserve and transplant some old ones, and life will go on. It really breaks my heart, though, imagining the world introduced to my nephew (or my own children if I ever have any) and trying to show them as many things as possible before they're bulldozed down. If my own lifetime has been marred by observable decimation of natural resources and beauty I can only imagine how depressingly ugly and destructive the world will become over the next three generations. And hey, it's not all about "nature" -- privacy and solitude are becoming relics of the past (or at least luxuries only the very richest of the rich can afford). If I ever have grandchildren I'm pretty certain their notion of these concepts (privacy and solitude) will be reduced to tiny fragments of what they should be.
It makes me fucking shudder, but I thank my lucky fucking stars to be alive in this time and place rather than somewhere else, or sometime long ago, or sometime in the near future. That brings me back to faith; who or what should I "thank"? Science fiction hasn't answered that question for me yet so sometimes I fall back on the old-fashioned stuff because really, I do need to give thanks even if it's primitive, superstitious and nonsensical.