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.
Yesterday I catalogued our inventory of sex toys in a spreadsheet to try to keep track of which ones we have (and haven't) shot with.
This is the Tantus Sport which I got from their closeout section in a clearance color; I've gotten a lot of spectacular (and low-priced silicone toys) from them. In fact, my favorites are ones they don't make anymore.
We have over fifty sex toys, which is pretty awesome. Really a dream come true, I have to say. There have been others over the years we've thrown away because they were cheap/dangerous jelly or broke/got used-to-death.
Crazily, we have barely shot photos or videos with more than a handful of them. We use a lot of them during our live webcam shows so it seems like we get/have gotten a lot of use from them, but there aren't actually a ton of pics or masturbation-with-toys videos on our sites. Pretty dumb, eh? Hence the spreadsheet.
The Tantus Goddess vibrating dildo (a gift from FurryGirl's Sensual Vegan):
Lately I've been CRAVING new toys in categories we don't have. Example: we don't have any big "realistic" toys in our collection which seems like a SERIOUS oversight, especially considering how few of my close webwhore colleagues seem into those types of things and how TOTALLY into them I am (so it seems like a good niche for me to "fill", hardy har har). Sure, I like the way our "non-representational" dildos FEEL, but I fucking love seeing chicks spreading themselves out with big fat fake pricks and I love the way realistic "dongs" look especially when there are good contrasting colors between the head and the shaft (hello, Black Thunder). I totally want more DONGS.
I can't allow myself to purchase any more sex toys, though, until we've shot more with the ones we already have. Even though I totally want a pussy pump, more stainless steel, DEFINITELY more artistic stuff like carved wooden dildos, art glass, & unique molded silicone insertables. AND BIG DIRTY DICK-SHAPED DILDOS, like I already mentioned. Just can't let myself get them. I'm not sure why we never got on the bus that has sex toy manufacturers constantly sending us unsolicited samples, but that's just never happened to us, I'm sad to say.
I did get a couple of toys to review from the nice folks at Pleasure Me Now, but I stalled out after the glass dildo when I couldn't bring myself to properly review the smart balls I was super excited about trying but was then unsuccessful at enjoying. Not that they asked me to only write positive reviews -- they didn't -- but I felt like I hadn't given those GIGANTIC FUCKING BALLS a fair shake and kept procrastinating on setting aside time to really give them a good trial. Sometimes my anal retentiveness is an obstacle to getting freebies.
One of the problems with our sex toy collection (and pretty much everything we buy to wear or use in photo shoots) is the constant struggle to decide between buying A LOT of cheap and semi-generic things on our limited budget or buying A FEW unique and really marvelous things . . . and not being able to buy anything else for months. Usually I wind up buying more for less rather than investing a bunch of money in a very-few expensive and spectacular items. We buy most of our clothes second-hand or on sale and same goes for the toys, so I rarely spend more than $40 on a single toy. Which is why I have zero "realistic" dildos, since all the good ones are in the $60-$90 range (and are made of questionable, possibly-hazardous and hard-to-clean materials making the investment even LESS sound since Delia and I might not be able to share them or get very many miles out of them or they'll stain if we get lipstick on them, etc.). It doesn't really make sense, since even with these frugal choices designed to give us (and our members) more variety I'm not even using all of the stuff AND I *still* use certain things OVER and OVER again (like my Hitachi Magic Wand).
It's the whole dilemma of "do I buy five crappy Frederick's of Hollywood corsets or one REAL corset?" And then the ultimate challenge of making use of everything, which is where I actually fall down on the job(s). But who wouldn't after exhausting all those brain cells on making these tough shopping decisions? Most members don't give a fuck anyway as long as you're regularly posting something new and hot -- the mileage you can get on one slimline vibe, a little hard work and a cheap pair of pantyhose is pretty remarkable, but in terms of standing out in a crowd with your promo materials and really presenting something SPECIAL that continues to be personally exciting sometimes you want things that are fancy, different, stylish, etc. Well, almost all the time I want those things. And never quite succeed in getting them. Which leaves me with something average which is tiresome.
Even more tiresome? All of this is leading into yet another blog entry about shopping for sexy stuff which I'll try to post soon but I had no idea I was going to spend an hour writing THIS one.
I used to have no beef with Tyra. Before we actually WATCHED her shows. I still think some people get crazy-mean criticizing her, but if they do, this is a perfect example of why. Her double standards and bullshit exploitation of young women is a gross freak show. You can't help wanting to knock her off her high horse. Some of the things I have seen and read about her doing to young women are despicable, mostly because she sees no problem with having malnourished girls get hypothermic modeling in pools of cold water or in violating codes by forcing inexperienced model-wannabes to live more-to-a-room with fewer beds than are allowed by hotel regulations or with promising contracts and money and work that never come through or just plain exploiting these young women's bodies, inexperience, stupidity, etc. BUT she somehow thinks porn is SO BAD while she's some kind of a fucking mother-hen angel rescuer.
Tyra's shows ARE porn. That article illustrates how manipulative, degrading, deceptive, brainwashing, irrational, insulting, and totally FUCKED UP mainstream media and moral standards are and how SHADY the game is of pointing the finger at the skin trade when the skin is the whole reason people are watching your charade. The hypocrisy is grotesque. They lie to guests, twist their words, misrepresent them, costume them in a misleading manner to try to prove their bullshit points and "seduce" audiences with their bullshit and subject people like Sasha who are smarter than Tyra to what amounts to an emotional stoning. That whole scene reminds me of the time a bible-based cult ganged up on me to try to convince me I was possessed by demons, going to hell, my mind was playing crafty tricks on me, etc. Seriously.
But I'm not here to JUDGE you, Tyra. I'm just here to ask you to CONSIDER fucking off and dying. YOU are a pimp, Tyra. YOU.
PS - starving yourself and wearing high heeled shoes that don't fit and falling off runways and crap are probably more unhealthy and more unnatural than buttfucking.
PPS - seduced by money? Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!
PPPS - after watching/reading that I can say I'm a now a Sasha Grey fan (VOD or DVD - yes, I'm pimping, too).
It's pretty rare that we go to them (and we have LOTS of nice ones on reservations in Western Washington where the tribes actually make decent money off of them instead of simply being exploited by outside corporations which is what happens in most states) and the amount of money I spend is trifling, but I still love walking around in them and being absorbed by the noises and orderly rows of tables and machines.
A few nights ago I needed to get out of the house so I went with Delia to her 12-step meeting. Meaning I went along for the ride, dropped her off, and headed to the casino by myself. Delia doesn't like wandering around aimlessly in casinos the way I do so I really got to enjoy spending an hour there with my free Sprite, completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do with myself (but in a good way). Eventually I made a $7 donation to the tribe via penny and nickel slots after I figured out how to get and use their club card.
I allowed myself to be completely unhurried and take as much time as I needed to make and execute the simplest of decisions, like whether or not I should remove my club card from the lanyard so that it wouldn't be dangling across the screen or tying me up by the neck to the machine. Seriously. I spent ten minutes trying to figure that out and get the card OFF the clip. I am not very bright or coordinated, especially when there's a lot of distractions around so it's a huge relief sometimes to be completely alone with nobody (I know) watching and just allow myself to sink into being massively stupid, completely enveloped in the casino atmosphere where you're allowed to publicly do nothing but throw money away while you sit on a stool and look at little pictures of monkeys and fruit and BARBARBAR spinning around. For hours. I suppose that's pathetic, but it relaxes me to feel no pressure. To not have to try to be smart. To be hidden between the slot machines that are all taller than I am.
I love casinos enough that I would throw much more money away in them if I could afford to. Enough that I can envision myself having a serious problem, especially if I ever learned to confidently play cards which is one of those perfect-for-Trixie ways of being around other people, in a completely structured semi-social exchange where the object isn't to chat, but to play and to win. Everybody has a clearly defined role. There are RULES. I like that.
But I don't have money to throw away so after I (ever so slowly) spent my seven dollars I wandered around looking at the steakhouse menu and the cafe menu and the people and the machines and the gift shop. And while I looked at the two pound steak special it occurred to me that it would be very convenient if someone offered me money for sexual favors. That I would DO IT without hesitating, return to consume my blowjob-earned steak, and spend the rest of it on slots.
On the Golden Girls, Blanche referred to buying things with her body as "using nature's credit card". I wonder: what is the percentage of women who 1) want things and 2) immediately scan the room for men who can provide the means for procuring the things that they want. I imagine it's pretty high. It seems perfectly natural. And of that number, how many would use "nature's credit card" to seal the deal?
Of course I wouldn't do that at the casino. Probably not. Unless I did become addicted to gambling.
When the thought first (naturally) crossed my mind it seemed totally logical and if it would've only taken 20 seconds for an opportunity to present itself then YES, I would have done it. But after a minute reality set in and I realized I wouldn't have time to do that before Delia's meeting was over. I don't know enough about the casino to know what the risks are. I have no desire to be publicly humiliated there or never allowed to return. I'm not sure what safety precautions to take. And the whole thing would be so much messier and uncomfortable in real life than in my imagination. Plus the guy would probably offer way less money than would be worth it. Plus I really didn't feel like talking to anybody.
But I didn't look "hot" so I'd have probably performed, for example, a low-priced handjob with my tits out for groping if I knew it was safe and the guy didn't want a big long conversation. Unfortunately, I'm not in a position to ever know for sure that something is safe. And I hate the idea of someone following me around, eyeballing me before they make an approach, or worse, following me around afterward when I'm trying to enjoy the money I earned.
It's much better to be a lone stranger in the casino that the security guys suspect is autistic rather than a prostitute. I didn't feel like smiling at anybody or talking. I veered away from a chunky black guy earlier (before my whore light bulb dinged outside the steakhouse) who seemed to be pursuing me; in hindsight he might have been a perfect mark for that handjob exchange. But at the time I just wanted to sit alone on a stool at a slot machine without being hemmed in by people on both sides.
At the printing company where I used to work there was an autistic guy working in the art department. He scanned logos and cleaned up the artwork. I briefly worked there too on the night shift. Sometimes our boss would look at me working, obsessively sharpening the edges of black, shaving off pixels that shouldn't have been there, and would complain with a laugh that I worked exactly like Bill (the autistic guy). I took it as a compliment even though she didn't mean it that way. Even though she liked Bill better than she liked me, what she meant is that it had been revealed to her that I wasn't so fucking smart; I was actually slow and retarded with no clue how normal people do things.
Everybody liked Bill. So did I, and when someone got in his way when he was headed somewhere or tried to stop him and engage him in conversation and he'd pointedly stare straight past them above their heads and try to GET AROUND THEM, to steamroll straight past them, I totally understood what he felt like. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but very few people respect how we want to go directly from point A to point B without someone interfering with our straight line. GET OUT OF MY WAY.
I think it's that desire to connect the dots (going from *not* having something I want to procuring it) in a very direct way that makes turning a trick in a casino to get money for a steak and more time at the slots seem perfectly logical and also anathema to me. It's not a moral or ethical issue to me at all. It's not natural to me to think about it in those terms. The notion of NOT doing it because it's "wrong" is complete nonsense to me. There are plenty of reasons not to do it, but that's not one of them.
Anyway, I had a good time by myself at the casino. I used to hate public smoking, but now that it's illegal (except on reservations) it's been so long that I actually sort of welcomed the stench and that whole Vegas smell. I was dizzy by the time I left.
I'm struggling under the weight of a lot of things right now. Nothing that should be debilitating, but the end result is that I've been acting almost completely disabled. Money problems, health problems, overwhelming-to-do-list problems, incompetency problems . . . you know, life.
The struggle on my mind right now is trying to figure out how much energy to expend on conservative friends and family who have issues with my work and/or with my partner being a transwoman. Not that they know that word. And I should be patient because how many people DO? It's not THEIR fault, right? And with me being in the kind of relationship where I even USE the term "my partner". My girlfriend. My not-a-man not-a-husband not-a-boyfriend.
My mom has been struggling with how to tell HER mom (my grandma) and her born-again-Christian-asshole brother (my uncle) so I haven't even seen my grandma in way over a year.
God, it makes me tired even trying to blog about this bullshit.
Now one of my step-brothers, the one I WANT to be in touch with a little, is coming out with his family for a visit next month. My mom visited them in Pennsylvania last year before the election and came back so disturbed by his wacko right-wingerism that she doesn't really even want to see them again (AND didn't even want to get into the basics of telling him anything about my controversial-to-them "lifestyle").
Delia's family in the Midwest still doesn't know about her transition. We had a plan for telling them that we cooked up with her therapist who said that ideally you shouldn't break the news in a letter, but face to face. We tried to get them to come out here last year so Delia would meet them at the airport presenting as a male (a concept that now seems totally ludicrous, uncomfortable and weird to me), she'd sit down with them and tell them all about it, the next day she'd present as a woman, and we'd all go see the therapist so they could learn about transgender. A nice idea, but there's no way to lure them out here when the REST of Delia's family is in the Midwest and her dad can't take time off work; it just makes more sense for us to visit them there.
So Delia's parents offered to buy us tickets to come out for a visit, like, RIGHT NOW. It would work out perfectly for the whole coming-out-face-to-face (except we wouldn't be able to take them to our counselor) BUT Delia already changed her name so in order for them to buy a ticket she could actually get on a plane with, she'd need them to know ahead of time her real femme name (or we'd have to buy the tickets ourselves which we can't afford to do right now). So after some soul-searching and discussion she decided to write a letter which she's still working on.
As the word "transition" implies, it's a process. And part of that process is . . . all of this bullshit of informing, educating, explaining, confronting, and dealing with loved ones and not-so-loved ones.
It made me feel sad when my mom said she doesn't know if she wants to see my brother / can't handle his fucked-up views. And I know it makes HER sad, too, but I feel like it will only be a few hours and it would be wrong to shut him out completely. I wouldn't say this about my other stepbrothers or about my ex-stepdad, but this brother? I would. So I wrote him and his wife an email about "my lifestyle" so they wouldn't be hit with surprises and wouldn't ask about my job in person if they aren't comfortable hearing me talk about what it really is (and told them, in short form, that I make adult websites). And the wheels are turning and they're paying lip service to not judging other people, but copping to being "REALLY conservative". And expressing concern over their seven year old daughter. He doesn't want her to have to "learn too much about life" at this tender age. Like, what aspect of life does he feel he needs to shelter her from or that I'm going to so-inappropriately expose her to?
As usual I can't help comparing my apparently depraved lifestyle with other people in our family and in Delia's family. In both of our families there are those who have HUGE problems with my job, yet think nothing of letting the children be around people in the family who've actually sexually molested other family members. Nobody objects to the lifestyle of the family members who worked for the chemical company that made Napalm and Agent Orange and other killers and cancer-causers. When I had a husband who worked for Boeing, it never bothered anybody in the slightest (including me) that a family member worked for a company that makes machines of war. Their job is something to be proud of, but MY job is a big, scary, society-eating disease. Excuse me, but as much as you try to fallaciously connect porn depicting consensual sex and non, I DIDN'T DO THIS TO KIDS. Not even close. My brother doesn't have a problem with his kids being around one of his other brothers who has stolen cars and served in Iraq and laughs with glee at videos of US soldiers beating and kicking the shit out of Iraqis. But oh, GOD!! WHAT will we tell the children about Trixie and her tranny girlfriend or that she has a job making grown-ups feel pleasure?
I know it's hard, but it's not THAT hard. Especially given the truly fucked up things that people are perfectly willing to ignore, live with and even brag about. He's a soldier! He's a chemical engineer! He works for the military industrial complex!! So easy to boast about. And even those other people who have actually HURT people -- kids -- get the benefit of the doubt: He deserves a second chance. But how many people boast about "my daughter, the pornographer!"? Actually, my mom does and my dad did. In small amounts, but still. They are extra ballsy and good. And I guess if all these little things are hard, I still have that to be extra specially grateful for and don't know what I'd do without it.
It would be easier in the short run to just say we're going to be busy. Too busy to see my step-brother and his family. Too busy to fly out to the Midwest. Too busy to communicate on any deeper level with old friends than filling out those email quizzes about what our favorite colors and drinks are and coming up with a different reason than the real one for the last thing that made us cry.
I could do that (and have and still will to some extent), but sometimes you have to TRY. Because they're family or because you really need a better reason than fear and exhaustion to sever ties with them. No, you have to try your hardest to be patient with their ignorance and fears and confusion (thankfully people have been patient with MINE). You have an obligation to make yourself fucking vulnerable to being told that what you do -- whether it's selling pictures of your beaver on the internet or it's defying the status quo of letting your genitals define your gender or it's being in a non-straight relationship -- that you're destroying the moral fibre of the country, tearing families apart, degrading humanity, and damaging our sensitive youngsters and oldsters who shouldn't be EXPOSED to our depravity and perversion in their fragile mental and physical states!
You have to be gentle with them while they insult you and beg for your protection. Oh but mom is just too old to understand . . . oh god, I just don't want to upset Grandma Seriously? These women have televisions and they've all HAD SEX. When I'm in my eighties I hope people don't think I'm too stupid to understand new shit or that I can't handle knowing that some women charge men money to get their dicks hard. I think they can handle it, and if they can't? OH WELL. I wish someone would protect OUR feelings for a change. Like maybe not insulting the girl on the television for having "too masculine of a jaw" right when you're sitting next to my trans girlfriend who might feel self-conscious enough as it is about her OWN masculine jaw. Like maybe not saying that I'm going to warp your seven year old when YOU are the one warping her with your stupid, bigoted views.
I know I'm being a baby to complain about it because so many people have had it so much worse, but I'm *sick* of coming out to people and trying to hold their hands through the process when I just want to scream at them. It feels like such a gigantic waste of time and energy for me, personally, when I don't even LIKE socializing with people. But I know it's not healthy to take the easy way out and be isolated. I know that talking to people makes a difference, not just to us, but in teaching tolerance and understanding on a broader level.
Basically I just feel bogged down. Getting together with family is expensive enough, emotionally & financially, and communicating with old friends that you aren't sure you have anything in common with anymore takes enough of a toll, that having to pay all these extra costs is really draining. It's like walking through a field of land mines every time you connect with someone who doesn't know who you are and what you're doing lately. Are they going to freak out or pat me on the back and laugh? Should I brace myself for them to say something inadvertently hurtful or let myself trust them to be wiser than that?
Once I started writing this blog entry I realized that the most important thing we can do when it comes to friends and family right now is to cultivate our relationships with people who FUCKING GET IT. Our porn friends, our trans friends, our not-so-straight friends. I'm not very socially energetic but there's no way I can cope with some people's bullshit without having the comfort of other people's understanding and similarities. And I can't help sort of resenting the amount of energy I'm putting into the one camp when I could be pouring it into the other. OR WORK.
Jesus, I can't afford this bullshit. Including my own -- all I want to do is sleep and read and eat and listen to music. I feel sort of guilty and wretched and oh-so fucking tired.
I just added Oasis' blog to my links and wanted to point her out to you. If you're interested in knowing all of the groundbreakers in internet porn -- people who had amateur sex sites before there were role models for such things -- read her blog because Oasis is one of a small handful of them.
She's one of those legendary people in *my* circle of do-it-yourself porn people, and has a hands-on, hardcore approach of swinging, fucking fans, flashing, gang bangs, interracial and party girl antics.
I don't know much about her (yet) except that she's doing sex work in Australia. I was introduced to her recently through tweets linking to this post she made -- It's You I'm Afraid Of -- that made me cry because so many parts of it rang so true for me, especially since I've been trying for the past few months to reconnect with family and friends and acquaintances from high school and college, some of them cops, many of them religious, loads of them Republicans, and a few others "liberal" (yes, in quotation marks).
"Folks want to be supportive but sometimes they donít get it and thatís OK. I donít expect people to know everythingóIím still learning too! But you should know that when you donít get it, it can really sting or, Iíll be honest, irritate the shit out of me.
So itís you that I sometimes protect myself from. Itís you who I will avoid or go silent with because I just donít want to deal with how disappointed I feel. Itís you that I write for and to. Itís you that I want on my side. You are the ones whoís judgments, stereotypes, awkward silences and ill-informed questions I watch out for. Itís you Iím afraid of."
Call me superficial, but coming home with much-blonder hair meant so much to me - it boosted my mood and ego a billion points. Our hair-chick ratted and teased it to be tall on top because she has a Rock of Love fetish, so to take advantage of it we did a slutty faux-schoolgirl shoot and I was too in love with myself to stop there, so I snagged some webcam shots:
Just the day before this I went to the mall and wandered around by myself while Delia got a laser treatment. I was in my usual comfortable-slob mode wearing a pair of old black sweats that were falling down (the drawstring broke a long time ago so I try to hold it together by wadding the waist up in front and whipping a ponytail-holder around that wad to cinch it up) so it looked like I had shit in my drawers, nerdy silver tennis shoes, and an old-lady baby-blue polar fleece ladies jacket from LL Bean that was a Christmas present from Delia's mom a few years ago. I looked so old and so tired and so washed out and I felt that way, too. Like I should apologize for looking so shitty.
I had that quintessential "she's given up on herself" look. Theoretically I HATE that criticism and don't care what I look like which is part of why I became a webwhore in the first place; since I rarely feel motivated to dress up and be seen, the thought of being paid to do it and have a visual record of the times I did appealed to me. I'd be off the hook and could always point to those pictures as proof that I CAN look good if I WANT to and have already DONE that. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Why do it EVERY DAY? Of course, there's a slight flaw in my logic since we broadcast spycams and most people paying to see them would like me to look sexy on them all of the time, or at least more often than I do, but whatever. I walked around the mall looking from a respectful distance at clothes and makeup and other ways to improve my appearance, feeling like I wasn't worthy or capable of asking to touch anything expensive and beautiful enough to make a significant change.
The point is that I looked blah and yucky and didn't feel good about it at all. No, that's not the point. The POINT is in the contrast between how I felt that day and the next, when I came home with my hair really blonde and stood in front of the mirror and drew outside of the lines of my lips and filled them in with thick, gooey gloss and frosty highlights and brushed on dark eyeshadow and put on fake lashes.
I felt like magic. Like this is why people want to look like porn stars. Because (sometimes?) it feels a lot better than looking like muted, sloppy shit. And it doesn't matter if I just applied a boundary of fakeness between the plain foundation of myself and what people see, because it felt best when I was the only one looking at myself there in the bathroom mirror or taking self-absorbed pictures of myself.
Why am I hiding the plain truth under all of this bullshit self-criticism and analysis? All I'm trying to say is that looking in the mirror and seeing yourself looking like a hot fucking slut feels VASTLY SUPERIOR to slouching around feeling like an unattractive slob. It's inconvenient, but true. No matter how much I wish my protestations that looking good is a waste of my time and money were true, THEY AREN'T.
It's fucking biology that we want people to want to fuck us on sight, that we want people to be jealous of us, that we want people's eyes to light up when they see us, that we want to advertise our fantastic genes (or that we want to look better than our average ones). If you're a woman (who isn't still shattered by one or more people hurting you because you looked like hot sex and they took it from you) some part of you wants people to look at you with desire and appreciation. Even when it annoys me to be gawked at, it charges my fucking battery. It's absolutely electric.
You want to look so good that you can control a man into paying for dinner just to get a whiff of your hair and stare at your cleavage, that you can render him insensible to paying for everything you need to keep looking so good -- to maintain your value and keep commanding higher and higher prices -- shoes that make your feet arch and sparkly jewelry accentuating all your graceful, slender parts and tight pants and shiny hair and fat, pouting lips and pampering spa treatments performed by undemanding female hands that MIGHT just render you pliant enough to be amenable to saying "thank you" with your soft body. It's an expensive art and time-consuming work to always look like a shiny, animated toy cocksucker and I've never mastered it or even kidded myself that I could compete on that level.
The older I get, the rarer and more exciting it is when I get a taste of what it feels like to BE hot sex. Normally I am the one LOOKING at one of the shiny girls, simply appreciating how they glitter from head to toe, putting so much time and money into tanning, waxing, accessorizing, and accentuating every single morsel of their bodies. Hoping that someone admires and respects it enough to make it worth their while, constantly forgetting that there are intrinsic rewards to looking like honey come to life and taking soft female form and maybe that is enough for them.
My head and body have been so fucked up and bloated and distorted off and on for so many years that now, getting it back on track, I'm at an age where I don't take it for granted anymore that tomorrow I could be riding some strange boy's cock and having him looking up at me in complete amazement and disbelief, moaning about how he can't believe he's really fucking me. That might never happen again, which is fine, but it would still be nice to know that it's POSSIBLE even if I don't want to act on it (it actually feels especially powerful knowing I probably won't). How many years do I have left where I'll be ABLE to turn heads in public? You don't have to be a great beauty to make that happen. Do I really want to waste those opportunities playing the invisible slob?
It's disgusting to admit, but when I pass a mirrored column in a mall I want to make myself wet looking at myself. When I walk by a shiny window of a restaurant I want to see my own reflection on top of people who are WATCHING me and not be able to resist smiling, knowing that they are delighted and mesmerized by what they see. ANY woman can manage if she has time and the desire to advertise herself using resources like bleached hair and juicy lip stains and clothes that highlight your best bounce, wiggle or stride. Resources she can extract from men. It's the OTHER circle of life. It might be a totally fucked up stereotype of gender roles, something progressive men and women want to move away from (or better, switch up for fun -- I do fantasize about being a sugar mama to young women and sometimes men), but sometimes I can't help celebrating it and wanting to WIN at it and enjoy the cheap/expensive thrill of it.
Attempting it often feels awkward and unnatural and hardly-worth-it, but when it works the rewards feed some primal need in me that are so close to my core I can't dismiss them as fake or stupid or unhealthy. There is no pretending we can evolve past this.
Note: originally this entry included more reflection and deeper insight on where my conflicted feelings about making myself up to look "sexy" (or at least presentable) in public (and in general) might have come from but it turned into a total downer so maybe I'll save that for another time. I feel like I should apologize for my undying fascination with mulling over these matters and warn you that they don't end here and I can't unwaveringly commit to any one perspective on them.
I'm already totally embarrassed by this post even though the whole point of it is not to be.
I wish I had more time and brain power to consume other people's blogs because when I do, I come across provocative and revealing entries like these two about class:
Keeping San Francisco Safe From Prostitutes? Melissa wrote this back when SF voters had the chance to decriminalize prostitution. They didn't, of course, and her post explains a lot of reasons why even a supposedly-progressive, liberal, educated population is ignorant and afraid of sex workers running amok:
"The biggest opposition to Prop K isnít anti-prostitution feminist groups. Itís 'neighborhood associations.' Unlike even the most socially conservative feminists, they never say, I donít want sex workers to be raped. They say, I donít want to see sex workers. Donít want to see them on their front steps. Donít want to see their clients or 'pimps'. Donít want to see condoms, or syringes. In short: donít want to see poverty, donít want to see poor people. . . . What K opponents will never say in public, is that itís not prostitutes that are hard to live next to ó itís poverty."
"My mom was a bartender until I was 7 or 8 years old. When Iíd go spend the night at friendsí houses, Iíd take my toiletries in a purple Crown Royal bag (we always had tons of them around the house). We also had a lot of extra beer/liquor T-shirts that I used as nightshirts . . . . it wasnít until I was in my teens that it dawned on me why [my friends'] parents might think itís weird for a 7-year-old to carry a Crown Royal bag and sleep in a Finlandia T-shirt."
Without going into a lot of detail (just because I don't have time to write that book right now), I can't overemphasize how much my socioeconomic background shaped my identity and values. More than being female. More than being white. Even though both of those things are a big huge intrinsic part of it, the money stuff and place my family occupied (pretty low down) in the hierarchy colors the way I see and respond to pretty much everything, I think, and in such insidious ways that I'm constantly chipping away at my lack of awareness at how deep it goes and how far back and how much it continues to effect my options and choices today.
Sometimes I feel like discussions about race and gender are just big polarizing distractions to keep us from addressing the BIGGER, all-encompassing issue of class. They're not, but sometimes I feel that way (and I know some other people do, too).
A related note: right now I resent the way blame is laid for the recession. Instead of saying that banks ass-raped tons of people who probably COULD have made their mortgage payments if not for the usury/deception/inflated interest rates and doubled/trebled payments, every comment seems designed to tell us that banks simply LENT MONEY TO POOR PEOPLE. Like, THAT was the big mistake. As though those borrowers could never have made FAIR payments on mortgages with FAIR terms. As though people wouldn't have felt the need to take out second and third mortgages to be able to pay credit cards with ludicrous, unjustifiably-high, ass-raping interest rates.
The mainstream discussion about it and language referring to sub-prime mortgages, etc. is all backwards; it *pretends* to call the lending institutions and big mucky-mucks greedy while using language that continues to make it sound like the banks' problems were making bad bets on bad people, when really they fucked vulnerable people dry, butt-ramming them straight into the ground. Let's just bleed these people dry. When you make financially troubled people pay exorbitantly high interest rates and double their minimum payments, etc. what the fuck do you THINK will happen? Unless they win the lottery, they'll never be able to keep up or dig themselves out of the deep grave the lenders dug for them.
I'm not making these comments as someone who thinks she has all the answers or understands the complexity of all of it or is well-read on the subject. I'm making them as an average joe butt plumber based on her own experiences with banks and mainstream exposure to superficial news with a little bit of deeper reading here and there. My intention isn't to spark a big-ass discussion about it, just web-log some stuff. The above paragraphs are only a small chunk of reflection, not a complete or coherent argument. I won't publish comments from people assuming I'm claiming to be an expert or assuming that because I haven't written this or that or included another bit or piece, that I must not agree with this or that bit or piece, nor will I publish comments demonstrating a lack of comprehension regarding what I already wrote. HATE that.
For the record, my interest isn't really in "punishing" rich people (even when they DO *deserve* to be hung from the highest tree) or placing limits on how much money people can make, it's on making fair regulations and restrictions on how deeply people can be abused. It's on little things that would change a lot. LIKE NOT LETTING CREDIT CARD COMPANIES MAKE YOUR PAYMENT DUE ON A WEEKEND OR HOLIDAY, THEN CHARGING YOU A LATE FEE AND RAISING YOUR INTEREST RATE BECAUSE YOU FAILED TO PAY ON TIME WHEN YOUR PAYMENT ARRIVES ON THE NEXT BUSINESS DAY FOLLOWING THE DAY THEY DEMANDED YOUR PAYMENT, BUT CAN'T EVEN RECEIVE IT/WON'T EVEN PROCESS IT. It's a pretty fucking simple matter -- we have the technology at this point to automatically reject a date that is a holiday or weekend and chose either an earlier or a later date, or to have a FAIR regulation that doesn't even ALLOW lending institutions to punish you for not delivering a payment on a day when delivery of said payment IS IMPOSSIBLE.
Seriously. I don't understand why everyone isn't talking about things like this. Everyone. All day. Until something happens.
Just one example. I know *some* people are talking about it some of the time, but it's not on headline news, etc. every five seconds the way Chris Brown is. Instead everyone just ignores and skirts around these tangible, obvious bits of fuckery. It just keeps adding up, but I don't hear anything except "bail out". If anyone has links to proposed regulations tightening this shit up, I'd love to read it because as it is right now I'm too busy bitching about it to look the shit up (I know! I'm an ass!). I know awhile back congress was talking about putting an end to the credit card companies burying high interest rate balances under the lower interest rate balances, but I don't know whatever became of that/if they are in fact now forced to automatically apply payments to the balances with the highest interest rates first.
Why am I still sitting here blogging about this? Seriously, all I was going to do was post two links. Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh . . . hate myself for not keeping up with the news on this stuff better.
Just a quick entry to say we're busy getting ready to be gone for a few days trying to shoot something specific. Outside. And it's WINTER. But that's when it needs to be shot. Mostly we're just trying to get ready (much more complicated than you might imagine unless you've done our kind of work and the same way we do it) and it's been snowing (again).
I anticipate having cold fingers, legs, buttocks, etc. a lot on Thursday and Friday. And then we're going to celebrate a late Christmas/early Valentine's day/Friday the 13th dinner with my mom. I'm looking forward to it, but also dreading certain things and am practicing stress management techniques while I'm not actively working.
Yesterday we went shopping for additional costuming for aforementioned shoot and after hours of sifting through second-hand clothing my nasal passages, throat and head already felt invaded by that weird, unsettling thrift-store smell that makes you feel like you're coming down with some old-lady sickness. Then we went to the drugstore where a lady was coughing. AND COUGHING. And hacking.
I'm not the type who's EASILY grossed out by random germs, sneezing or coughing people in public, but my mucous membranes were already feeling vulnerable after searching through three thrift stores and this woman was really projecting her spittle. She made half-assed attempts to cover her mouth with her hand by holding it up six inches from her face and coughing TOWARDS it, not into it, and then she walked around briskly touching every single thing in the store with that hand. On top of that there's something unsettling about this woman; I've seen her around town before and she's like a fascinating fifty-seven year old dolly with long, youthful dark-blonde hair in waves worn in a loose asymmetrical ponytail. Her face is powdered porcelain with spots of rouge on her cheeks. Her lips and eyes are lined and her features are girlish except for the wrinkles around her mouth. Nothing about her says middle-aged, which is probably what she is; instead she's a duality of eleven-year old girl and seventy-nine year old woman. I'd totally follow her around the store to stare if she didn't give off such an aura of contagion.
When we got to the checkstand she got in line behind us and it suddenly started pouring down snow outside. The cashier kept interrupting our transaction to answer the phone and I felt totally hemmed in by winter, like she wasn't going to give up until she infected us with post-nasal slush.
Because I DO NOT want to get sick right when we've got time and money invested in shooting, I came home and started swilling down emergen-c until I was totally high (see this tweet followed by this). I rarely get colds (I think I've averaged maybe one cold or flu every other year, if that, in the past fifteen years) but I'm still paranoid enough to often feel like I'm coming down with one.
So. The goal today is to get a million things done, not get sick, stay calm, and leave as early as possible tomorrow so we can arrive at our destination safely while there's still daylight so we can plot our shooting locations for Thursday and Friday.
I won't be checking email while we're gone, we have webcam shows and chat scheduled when we get back (on Sunday and Monday), and I've only responded to maybe 3% of my email over the past year, so . . . yeah -- if you want to talk to me any time soon you'll probably need to be a member who shows up to one of those live cam events next week. Wish us a productive trip!
Speaking of my limits, two seconds before I hit "publish" on this post, I got a comment on my last blog entry from a guy who has a problem. Here's the comment:
I hope someday that you will reply to my comments. Forever seeking your feedback, Furry Freak Bro, aka4JerryGarcia, Merry Pranksters, etc.
He might be a nice guy (if memory serves he acts normal during camshows), but he is one persistently demanding motherfucker who cannot take a hint. Facebook, twitter, email, blog comments -- they all say basically the same thing: Hi there - respond to me PLEASE; I await your response. Please write back to me. If you commented back it would make my day. Your fan, xoxo blah blah blah WHAT. THE. FUCK!?!?!
First of all, you've said nothing to me that warrants a response. Second, if you're a fan of mine you'll see that I don't engage in a lot of idle chit-chat, particularly the hi/good morning/waving/hugging/emoticons variety and if you have any reading comprehension you can see that I'm KIND OF overwhelmed, constantly talk about not having the time or energy for email, trying to keep my hours at the computer limited to a healthy number and use that time productively, etc. How long would it take if I said "hi" or "good morning" or "YES! I fucking SEE you!!" to every single person I encountered online? I would have no fucking life and no time to respond to people who actually put a lot of thought and effort into writing to me.
So I blocked him on Twitter so I wouldn't be bombarded by his pleas for attention, but now he has the balls to make that comment on a blog entry that essentially says I've been feeling like shit and have barely had the energy to drag myself out of bed and now that I'm feeling better it will take awhile to catch up on everything. But listen; even if I were all caught up and had ample time on my hands, the last thing I would feel like doing is encouraging these incessant, self-absorbed, petulant guilt-trips seeking acknowledgment.
I really try to not be mean and to consider that even wonderful people have blind spots, bad habits, etc. Before I ream someone's ass I sometimes try to imagine the person might be borderline retarded or otherwise lack the skills or comprehension to function at a higher level; maybe all they know is that the internet is a friendly place where you can look at pretty girls and get them to say 'hi' to you. And seriously? There are a lot of pretty girls online who make that their sole job/function in life; collecting myspace friends, saying 'hi' and 'hugs' to everyone, making a name for themselves that way. BUT I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE GIRLS. Get it?
Honestly I try to just ignore this person and others like him (ex. No one's responded to my messages -- I guess no one loves me) because I don't have the time or mental capacity myself to discover a nice way to tell them to STOP ACTING LIKE CREEPY STALKERS (when they're not really even BEING particularly creepy or stalkerish, just obnoxious) and understand that from my perspective I just feel bombarded by people who want think they deserve to have me interrupt my life to instant message them. I don't care if it's only two letters. H. I. Obviously it won't stop there. Next it will be "what's up? Do you like me? How's the weather?"
You wanted my feedback? You've got it, fucker. Try to see things from other people's perspectives. I don't *expect* people to waste their personal time empathizing with me or reading my long-ass blog posts, but if you send me hundreds of messages asking ME to waste my time on YOU, especially by begging for warm fucking fuzzies in the comments on a post where I admitted I felt like I was losing my fucking mind, you've got another thing coming.
An appropriate comment from him would have been, "wow -- I'm so sorry I've been sending you guilt-riddled whiny-posts on virtually every social networking site where you appear asking you to respond to NOTHING when you obviously have a lot of other things going on. What was I thinking?" Or, "man, I know what mental illness is like because I am compelled to pester women online; now we finally have something in common we can talk about if you ever have time; 'til then I totally understand if you don't want respond to me. I mean, sheesh -- if you did that to everyone your whole twitter feed would be, @wanker hi!, @dipshit hi! @asshat I see you there, bugging me! Boy, that would be silly! I'm so sorry for thinking only of myself."
If you're a true fan of mine it should be obvious that my JOB is not to sit around sending individuals empty messages of bullshit for free to verify to you that you exist. Find another way to add meaning and affirmation to your life because your current method is insulting and dehumanizing; I'm not a fucking robot or video game where you press buttons on your keyboards and I do a little puppet dance or a doll with a string on her back that you pull to get her to say one of eight pre-determined messages. I like you! Thanks for being my fan! You're number one! Good morning, sunshine!
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarf!! Seriously, I do not want to insult everyone who sends me thoughtful messages, shares themselves with me, wants me to know they appreciate what I do, etc. What I'm complaining about is a very particular brand of bullshit that fuels the empty "interaction" passing for "socialization" online. It's gross. A total waste of time. Say hi once or twice to me this way if you want, but don't incessantly needle me to respond. I was going to say, "don't needle me to reciprocate" but if reciprocity is what you want, THIS IS IT. Complete and utter selfishness. My little wants and desires trumping yours. I would send virtually the same message every day: Send me ten dollars, please? Hi it's me, Trixie -- still awaiting your dollars. I found you again! When WILL you join my site? It's Friday. Write back with the dollars. Even five would be nice. Say good morning to a good girl with seven dollars? Hello. Do you get these? If so respond with fifteen dollars. Your friend online, needing your dollars. Actually, that would make a billion times better sense than what he's doing, but it would still be way too boring and time-consuming for me to enjoy. I don't want to do data entry, I want to do MY. WORK.
And tweet about picking my nose and pooping. These witticisms don't grow on trees, so don't interrupt me! I'm trying to fucking THINK.
I started taking piano lessons when I was about nine years old. My teacher, Joan, didn't believe in using metronomes and always had long, fancy nails even though pianists aren't supposed to. At some point during the first year of lessons, she told me that music is really all about MATH.
No math = no music. A huge revelation for me as a kid. It's a big truth that's never left me. At first my feelings about it were a little conflicted; it was sort of stressful ("I'm so bad at fractions!"), but realizing that math is the foundation of music (or at least one doorway into building and understanding it) never sucked the romance or beauty out of it. It never made it dry to me. It can be invisible enough that you don't actually NEED to know it or think about it for it to be in there. That lesson primed me to notice as years went by that math and science are built into nature and art and our insides. That the basics of them are intuitive, like rhythm, but the more you know about the math and science of something, the better your music or art or appreciation of those things can be.
Knowing that art is really science has been a solace to me -- art isn't reserved only for a few people who are divinely inspired. It can be orderly: accessed and created systematically. With simple formulas. With a wide variety of tools mixed with individual perspective, personality and tastes to make it seem unique and magical, disguising the numbers in the craft of it.
I shot a set of pictures of Delia wearing some hot Hello Kitty shorts on Friday night and the photos are all jacked up. I'm a long way from understanding the science of photography; I *like* numbers, but they don't stick in my head very well so even though I've read about how cameras work and how OUR camera works I still don't have it committed to memory or know how to manipulate light and settings quickly to achieve what I want. I have to just walk around and fiddle with things until I mostly-accidentally happen onto something lovely. Most of the good pictures I take are the product of luck and shooting A LOT without fully comprehending what I'm doing. I recognize what looks good and beautiful and erotic to me (or at least halfway decent) and what looks bad to me and have a few basic practices for making the former (especially in the "halfway decent" category) and avoiding the latter, but my technical skills are pretty basic.
All of the pics looked dark to me so I bumped the ISO up to 1000 or 2500, I forget now (hence the graininess) and the speed down to 25 or 30 -- they still looked dark for some reason; I was letting the camera auto-focus (selecting the area to focus on myself with these little movable box thingies; I forget what Nikon calls that function but it didn't seem to be working well on this particular night) and adjust the aperture itself until I decided to do a closeup and switched everything to manual (because it balks when we ask it to autofocus macros); suddenly everything was WAY TOO BRIGHT and I had to change the shutter speed. The only thing I can think of is that the camera wasn't doing a good job of automatically adjusting the aperture and when I switched to manual and adjusted it myself then everything changed. It sucked because we wanted these pics to be bright.
The older I get, the more I see that MOST working artists -- writers, photographers, graphic designers, sculptors, painters, musicians, etc. -- are just people who've chosen to do that kind of work. That the only thing that sets them apart from the rest of us is the amount of time they put into their art and confidence they have in devoting themselves to it without worrying whether or not a jury of peers think they deserve to make money on it. Very few artists are people who actually possess something innate that the rest of us don't have; most of it is taking the time to learn and apply information that's available to everyone (or anyone with the resources to do a little research) and then investing money in the right tools and lots of time in practicing. Sometimes I think the most successful artists are the ones who are actually LESS gifted and too stupid/overconfident to recognize that there are other people (usually making zero dollars on their art) who are WAY more talented. Maybe the only way to be a successful "artist" is to NOT be great -- to not complicate shit with too much vision, originality, or diverse techniques and just work from simple formulas to make things that are easily recognizable and accessible to the masses. See also Adaptation. If your work brings other people pleasure does it really NEED to be super duper excellent?
The older I get, the happier I am with shooting for mediocrity. Even mediocrity requires a lot of hard work (for me, at least). Mediocrity is attainable without being a given; you can stand out and make a decent living in a field simply by being one of the relative few to 1) choose that field, 2) commit to it for a number of years, and 3) make yourself known. All the better if you're willing to take emotional and financial risks and make sacrifices for your work/"art". The happier you are with mediocrity the wider your success. I've slowly shifted my focus of "pride" away from "talent" and pinned it on "work"; you can't be proud of having good taste or being born with certain attributes making you better suited than most to doing one job or another. Those are only things you can be THANKFUL for. The things you can actually be PROUD of are hard work, dedication and defying convention to choose happiness. To call yourself an artist as soon as you choose to be one -- to make it your job -- rather than waiting until you imagine other people think you are good enough to deserve that label. Those are the people I admire more and more, the ones who are brave & devoted enough to create some form of art (even if it's just fair to middlin') and are savvy enough to make it a business.
I used to think having to work hard at something or take a lot of time to make something acceptable was something to be ashamed and embarrassed of. If it wasn't easy it meant I wasn't good at it. Now I realize that's total bullshit (even if I still FEEL that way sometimes). The strategic choices and commitments you make to invest work in things that make you happy, better, more skilled, or even just capable of seeing you should make a different choice (I've always believed that quitting is something to be proud of; that whole "quitters never win" line is such a crock of shit). The time you spend allowing yourself to suck ass -- IMMERSING yourself in sucking ass and slowly filling in the void of your ignorance with knowledge -- just so you can become mediocre at something you love and then keep working to try to improve upon that. Beyond mediocrity there are so few people who are actually able to recognize the difference between mediocrity and greatness, there's no reason to beat yourself up if you're not capable of becoming that elite.
Being a "jack of all trades, master of none" ROCKS. It's fun, it's challenging, and I don't love any one thing enough to give up all the other stuff. So I really have to be satisfied with mediocrity, slow progress, and making balanced choices to devoting little bits of time here and there to different things I love. Like making flash cards to learn photography stuff. You're never too old for flash cards. I'm not, anyway.
I am mediocre at so many things, and have managed to balance (with great mediocrity) such a gigantic shitload of different kinds of work that I deserve to be quite proud of myself and my extraordinary mediocrity. I feel so blessed to be in a position to dabble so widely. Lucky lucky lucky, and proud of myself for creating a notable percentage that luck by my choices. For recognizing my luck and exploiting it to the best of my limited ability.
Some of us are able to do our work just because we're lucky enough to have the resources to buy tools, to live in an environment filled with inspiration and/or to be close to people who make beautiful subjects and do most of the art/work for you.
I love arranging forkfuls of food. Ones where I have the perfect ratio of one thing to the other(s). Mashed potatoes to gravy to meat. Raisins to flakes. Heavens to Betsy. It doesn't have to be fancy, the formula just has to be right. Everything pleasingly arranged in relation to each other. I will never be a good cook because I don't want to practice how to be; that's Delia's thing. It's my job just to love eating, every day, tasting and swallowing over and over and saying thank you, honey.. And to figure out how to arrange camera settings like food on a fork, adjusting hole-sizes, timing mechanisms, and digitally tweaking things in perfect relation to the kind of light shining on my girlfriend.
When the economy is in the shitter (the direction it's headed right now) people are MORE judgmental and resentful about how much other people are paid and for what kind of work; that's a recipe for even more violence against sex workers. Lots of perpetrators of violence against sex workers explain that their crimes are justified because they shouldn't have to pay for sex -- the woman (or sometimes man) and the work s/he's charging him for are not worthy of payment and/or should be punished for thinking she is. Check out this guy who said a prostitute put her head in his plastic bag by mistake when he wanted his $100 back. For trying to kill her he'll only get a few months in the slammer.
It's not going too far to say that beating, raping, exploiting, infecting, killing, stealing from sex workers and/or refusing to abide by their boundaries is covertly state-sanctioned -- the government says sex workers don't have the right to charge money for their services in most places. Not only do they not have the right to charge money, they are CRIMINALS if they do so. In some places in the United States you can be arrested simply for carrying too many condoms -- it's intent to sell access to your body (which you have no right to do, and if you intend to flout the law in this way you deserve to expose yourself to disease and pregnancy)! You can be charged with a crime in many places just for advising other sex workers ABOUT sex work. The government might not have a bounty on sex workers and we all might SAY that killing them is going too far, but it's a pretty fucking mixed message.
While most of my own work as a webwhore is legal (I say "most" because some of it could easily fall under the nebulous definition of "obscenity" - that and a couple of other things I can think of could land me in prison if the Department of Justice or other unsavory elements chose to target me) and I feel fairly safe doing this work (not just safe for a whore, but even safer relative to women with straight jobs), there are still more than enough people who resent me and women like me for making our livings this way. People who spew hatred and threaten violence that all falls under the category of, "BITCH! YOU DO NOT DESERVE MONEY FOR WHAT YOU DO & YOU DESERVE TO BE PUNISHED FOR EVEN SUGGESTING ANYONE PAY YOU FOR THIS!! I will *take* by force what you deny me for free." I'm willing to bet these messages will only increase and intensify in the months and years to come as people get poorer, hungrier, and angrier.
There's a march in DC going on right now. FurryGirl is there and taking pictures like this one:
The demand on the banner to "STOP SHAMING US TO DEATH" is powerful, especially in conjunction with the message that "ONLY RIGHTS CAN STOP THE WRONGS". Violence against sex workers is made too easy because of wrongheaded laws that make some people's versions of "immorality" criminal. It's broader than the moral or religious issues, though: it's about class and gender -- specifically denying women (1) ownership of their bodies and (2) the right to charge people to access it (3) within boundaries each woman defines for herself.
Connect the dots in the bigger picture to shaky/compromised abortion rights, our continued unwillingness to recognize parenthood as real work worthy of payment, and our refusal to protect natural resources like WATER (where ownership by one entity should be really fucking hard to claim) from unsustainable corporate exploitation compared to our insistence upon denying individual women opportunities to profit from their own individual bodies (where self-ownership should be pretty fucking OBVIOUS/undeniable, especially when you consider how much money male pro-athletes make abusing their bodies for our entertainment and no laws deny them the RIGHT to exploit their bodies in those damaging ways***) -- it seems pretty obvious that denying rights to sex workers is part of a bigger agenda to deny women opportunities to profit from work that is mostly performed by women because we are at a natural biological ADVANTAGE to perform it. Basically? It's about making sure women are only punished for their gender rather than economically rewarded for it.
It will be a cold day in hell when someone goes violently vigilante on the asses of Wall Street executives and all the corporate fat cats and bankers getting bailed out for fucking us over financially; there are always loopholes to guarantee their "right" to be multi-fucking millionaires at our expense, but there are sure to be plenty of whores killed by men who get the message loud and clear from our government(s) (and all of us who tell them we LIKE our laws just like this) that there IS no loophole for a woman who thinks she's entitled to earning a few bucks for a blowjob. God forbid we put a cap on the exorbitant amount of ill-gotten money men "make"; instead let's keep making sure the whores don't get out of pocket thinking their dirty pussies are worth a thin fucking dime.
Discriminatory laws against sex work and women's work in general don't just encourage and facilitate physical violence, some people would say those laws and their applications are themselves acts of violence -- when you make it next-to-impossible for someone to work, when you take away her income, when you stigmatize someone by slapping a criminal record or a special stripper/whore license on her that will limit her job opportunities in the future, when you eat up her time in court and behind bars, when you make her pay fines, when you make her vulnerable to blackmail by thieves and rapists both in and out of uniform, that can at LEAST be called a hostile and dangerous violence-breeding atmosphere. Whether or not you believe Deborah Jeane Palfrey's death was a suicide, you have to recognize that she (and possibly other women connected to her case) would not be dead now if women had the right to do sex work. Who needs the Green River Killer to cleanse the country of garbage as long as we have the government to ruin and destroy the lives of sex workers? And when I say "government", I don't mean that the rest of us have clean hands. Voters are the ones who had an opportunity in San Francisco last month to decriminalize prostitution and guess what? THEY DIDN'T. We're not talking about old laws no one enforces anymore, we're talking about active BULLSHIT that just keeps on trucking.
Yes, it's impossible for me to calmly deliver a moderate, easy-to-understand argument about sex worker rights and reducing violence perpetrated against sex workers. I'm sorry for that. I feel guilty for not doing more for sex workers as a group -- for not being more of an activist, for not staying better informed, for not being a more coherent educator. As with any minority suffering discrimination and persecution, it's a challenge to have time to earn a living in that discriminatory atmosphere AND be an agent of change. That's why discrimination and marginalization WORK SO WELL; when people are underprivileged and denied rights granted to others, they 1) lack the resources to effectively fight for change, and 2) can't be completely honest or open about their own stories without fear of reprisals and punishment. It's true that I feel relatively safe as a webwhore, but I said RELATIVELY safe, not just-plain-SAFE. I realize I am VERY lucky, but still vulnerable.
I hate that my blog entries on this subject wind up preaching to the choir and are probably ignored or misunderstood by everyone else, but seriously -- this whore needs to spend the rest of the day trying to make money rather than blowing off steam just to hear her head rattle. With the poor economy and my own situation of having gone deeply into credit card debt to finance our business, I do have a heightened awareness of how my own safety and standing in society is threatened even more by the fact that I'm a sex worker and therefore considered disposable and fair game for scapegoating, at the very least. I know from my OWN feelings of jealousy towards people who are economically privileged and resentment towards those protected enough by their gender and class to get away with huge scams that are considered legit ways to fuck people for money that we all can become very, ummmm, mean-spirited when the chips are down.
I wish I could wrap this up with a big Christmas bow that would change the world for sex workers or at least make people WANT to see that happen, but I'm at a loss for how to do that so I will simply say THANK YOU to the people who are out their lobbying for change on behalf of me and other sex workers today.
***there are definitely class (and race) issues at work that allow mostly poor men of color to beat each other senseless in boxing rings and suffer tons of injuries in other pro sports with regulations that do very little to protect them; by bringing this up I'm not saying boxing or other sports should be illegal or even necessarily more heavily regulated -- I only mention it as an interesting comparison to sex work. It illustrates the irrationally contradictory double standards when it comes to women's bodies versus men's bodies and what kind of work they can put them to for how much money.
If you follow my twitter you know I went to Seattle for FootNight on Thursday thanks to AmberLily giving me a heads-up about the event and encouraging me to apply with her to be a "foot model". It was a good opportunity to get out of my nerdy hermit bubble and enjoy having my feet fondled (something I've always enjoyed).
It was also a good excuse for me to get a pedicure: an expense and investment of time I rarely can justify since I don't specialize in foot fetish porn (though we do try to include at least a few shots of my feet in most of my galleries).
99.99% of the sexually stimulating work I've done has been on the internet or over the phone, starting out with private shows on iFriends in 2000. Even though I enjoy private shows and phone, I have almost no time to do one-on-one stuff anymore (especially since the camworld is so much different from when I started) but I *miss* it, so attending FootNight was a way to get back to that a little bit while also experiencing something new in a safe environment with an emphasis on something I love: feet.
The rules were very clear for the event (no nudity, foot worship only, no direct sexual contact, no leaving the party with customers and coming back in, etc.) and all of the women were dressed to attend a nice cocktail party or fine art fetish shoot: black turtleneck dresses, shiny black corsets, etc. In my estimation, I was the only one dressed in a way that said, "it's all for sale, boys! I'm a total hussy!" with my blouse buttons bursting, my skirt way too short and my boobs bouncing all over the place. I was also the most nervous person there, I think, next to many of the guests with my knees practically knocking trying to walk up and down the stairs in my unimpressively practical (but still challenging for me) heels and very unsophisticated sweat stains accumulating under my arms. The truth is that I don't have any classy party garb that's also sexy/leg-baring that I can still fit into.
Besides, I didn't want to go to great lengths to "fit in"; I figured it was better to stand out looking like a tramp than try to blend in. On top of that I love upskirts and panties and have much more of that kind of thing than feet on my site so I was excited by the idea of having men on the ground below me able to see right up my skirt to my hot pink and black panties. Even if it wasn't THEIR thing, it's MY thing; I don't get out much and planned to milk the tease for all it was worth.
I don't actually think I have great feet; the only thing I have going for me is that they're exceptionally small, but at the party there were A LOT of women with small feet. Maybe not quite as small as mine, but there were plenty of size five and six chicks there. All that small-foot competition gave me yet another reason to be glad I had a corner on the market for the super-slutty look.
So WAS there a market for it? Not so much, I don't think, but wearing something less conspicuously trashy wouldn't have made a difference. There were a couple of guys who expressed quite a bit of appreciation for the upskirt action, but as far as I know I didn't have guys waiting in line to spend time with me and my feet at $20 for ten minutes. I kept busy and had fun, but probably only gained one new die-hard fan for the future.
The first guy to give me money wasn't even there because he liked feet. He was there on a mission with a bottle of Scotch to try to get back into Lady Lydia's good graces. He told me he'd been rude to her on the phone so she'd stopped talking to him and all he could hope for is that she would accept his gift, if not his apology.
In the process of relating this to me, he reached into his pocket with defeated contrition, pulled out a twenty and assured me that he KNEW the ONLY reason we ladies were there was to make money. "I know it's all business and I don't want to waste your time." I told him that if he was going to pay me, we should at least retreat to a more private area (ie a different couch farther from the door) so I could make sure to give him the time that he paid for even if he didn't care about my feet or really anything besides Lady Lydia. He and I also agreed that our move and the open exchange of money for time would serve as a model early in the evening for the other guys to take similar steps to secure special attention from the "models".
After forty dollars worth of talking he felt compelled to resume his tortured quest to adequately humble himself to Lady Lydia. Even though it was the first face-to-face transaction I'd made like that, it felt very familiar . . . very natural to the point where I'm sure I'm forgetting a whole lifetime of doing exactly that: being the whore that men pay just to listen. Of course there've been a few other times I've gotten money from men face-to-face for certain things, but the circumstances were less formal and the terms not at all clearcut. No, I don't think I ever blogged about them even though they'd make interesting reading. Much of my limited experience with photographers felt exactly like sex work too, even though they took great pains not to call it that -- not to even call it porn -- and they didn't pay me with money; all factors that made it MORE compromising and awkward than work that's commonly labeled as sex work.
Anyway, Lydia's guy probably only wanted to spend twenty dollars on me out of obligation because I'd practically forced him to tell me his story simply by introducing myself, but my timer's battery wore out making it difficult for me to keep accurate time. I'm still not sure if my unreliable timer worked in my favor or against me; on the one hand I wound up giving people more time than they paid for before I realized the timer had no intention of beeping. On the other, they sometimes paid for more since I would discover this too late for them to turn down the next ten minutes since they were already in progress. We were advised by the party organizers to keep a discreet eye on the time but my timer was NOT discreet AT ALL; I pulled that fucker out at the beginning of every session and beeped in ten or eleven minutes in a very obvious way, nerdily assuring them this would help me NOT be distracted from the fun we could have by worrying about the time while they raised their eyebrows and mumbled that I certainly was . . . prepared. If it had actually worked and sounded an alarm at the end of those minutes, I'm sure it would have annoyed a great many people so maybe it was all for the best.
I felt busy the whole time I was there, but didn't really make enough for the trip to be worth what I put into it between the pedicure, ferry, gas, and time that I could have spent doing more lucrative things (like finishing the years-overdue redesign on my site and Delia's and this blog and . . .). Still, it was worth it to me because it was FUN, super-erotic (I'll elaborate on in another post) and a reminder of how good it feels to connect with customers individually.
It was also worth it to have BigD snap his suspenders at me, "work" with AmberLily to doubleteam a guy with our feet (again, I'll elaborate in another entry), and to meet Lydia (I only realized when I got home that she's the one Ron has told me so much about with so much admiration), Reyja (a fellow Emma Steel), and Mistress Matisse. We women didn't have much time to stand around chatting with each other, but after so many years of reading Matisse's blog and communicating online even the little bit we have via email and blog comments it felt to me like we were cousins at a reunion. You know how there are people that feel like they're in your life -- that you're related to in some way -- even though you only see each other face-to-face a couple times in your life and rarely interact? That's what it was like being in the same room with Matisse: totally uncommon but still irrationally familiar. In fact, that's what being with customers face-to-face is like. There wasn't anything weird or new about it that I didn't recognize as the same as a million other interactions I've had and kinds of work I've done which is probably what made it so hard for me to accept that I couldn't just climb on top of a couple of these guys and fuck them dry for a few dollars more. Not that any of them asked for that (everything was very above-board, no-pressure, polite, and legal), I'm just saying it's hard for me to accept the stigmas, restrictions, and separateness attached to sex work and all the little subtleties built into some of them so that they can avoid being labeled as such.
These pics of me wearing shiny thigh-high boots are from a new set of photos I'm posting for my members soon:
My mom, sister and nephew spent a couple of nights with us so I haven't gotten much work done the past few days, but here are a few posts you might have missed with examples of my masturbation fodder. For those of you who are curious about what I get off on when I have a couple minutes to pursue such things, lately I head to Rude for the homemade masturbation videos guys upload there themselves (I know the ads are annoying, but I'm a member so I don't have to see them):
EXPOSED MEMBERS: As you can tell by the number of videos regular guys post online for free featuring themselves jacking off -- sometimes in the most humiliating of ways -- a lot of men are not only exhibitionists, but get off on the idea of being forced or coerced into exposing themselves in embarrassing ways, being laughed at, having their penises inspected, and being ordered to masturbate for onlookers. There's even a porn niche called "CFNM" (clothed female nude male) featuring men at the mercy of women who make them do these things for their entertainment.
CFNM is one of my favorite types of fetish scenarios because it revolves around the fantasy of women making men perform "against their will" with the balance of power being tipped in women's favor (pretty unusual in porn). I also love role plays with a lot of build-up, which most CFNM scenes have. There's a new site called CFNM Secret which is a fun attempt by one of the big corporate porn giants to exploit this market. I personally prefer Pure CFNM because they seem to "get it" more, but maybe CFNM Secret will appeal to a broader audience. I'm not so much into scenes where the chicks suck and fuck the guys, and I prefer for the men to look psychologically TORMENTED and completely aghast at being unable to control their own sexual response, but pretty much any CFNM scene turns me on way more than generic porn unless it's the bachelorette party scenario where they go wild for male strippers (yawn).
I understand why guys enjoy fantasizing about being male strippers, but as someone who's been to events where they've been hired, even when those dudes are outnumbered and getting paid they still act like they're in charge of us and what happens, and that pisses me off. I will never forget the fucker who came to a bachelorette party and overstayed his welcome for HOURS lecturing us on NAFTA while most of the girls tolerated and even encouraged it while I drunkenly got in his face telling him he was WAY out of line, to shut the fuck up and to leave. Fifteen years later, the memory of it STILL makes me mad. The only time I've seen a male stripper behave properly (submit to women and entertain them, rather than himself) was a black guy with a circus penis (down to his knee, NO JOKE) at a house party with mostly black women. He kept his mouth shut and performed without acting like he needed to intimidate us. He was eager to please and seemed to genuinely get off on being in a submissive position without demanding extra attention. We got to USE him and he seemed to know that was what he was there for.
As I write this I am fully aware that I would freak out if I saw a guy writing about female sex workers this way; I know I have a double standard on this (men who are hired to entertain women should KEEP THEIR YAPS SHUT), but there's still a double standard in the Americas with men doing most of the talking and controlling and women doing most of the submitting and listening. I can't help it that role plays reversing that power imbalance are a turn-on to me both sexually and emotionally. It's like therapy; I get a big charge out of it.
And no, I don't think it's great JUST because I'm profiled in such a warm, fuzzy way in it; it's great because she tells you about a lot of the behind-the-scenes unsexy stuff that get in the way of indie porn being fun. Billing stuff, legal stuff, branding stuff, asshole stuff, relationship stuff, gender stuff, multi-tasking stuff, etc.
Here's a little insight into part of our work for those of you interested in how we get our photos from the camera to our porn site members and blogs:
Every time I post a tweet letting members/voyeurs know they're watching me at the computer "editing pics", I wonder if people are thinking, "what does that entail, anyway?" So here's the process (Delia does hers a little differently than I do, so I'm just saying what I do):
1) We transfer the image files from our camera to a computer where we store all of our full size, unedited image files. We use a usb cable rather than removing the card every time and using a card reader, which seems to be the more popular way that most people do it. Not us, though. I've always used the cable because a) it came with our cameras, but card readers did not, and b) I prefer to avoid handling our memory cards that often; I think it's better not to touch them and expose them to dust, etc. so the only time we remove our memory cards is if we're shooting away from home, fill up a card, and need to put in a new card to take pictures. Estimated time: 5-30 minutes depending on how many pics we took (usually 75-200 per set, and we often shoot multiple sets on one card); it definitely takes longer with our new camera since each pic is 4288x2848 pixels and around five to nine megabytes.
2) At this point we often take a look through the pictures to assess how we did and talk about why the look good or don't. You'll see us doing this with our heads tilting back and forth since pics we took as portraits are laying on their sides in landscape. Estimated time: varies between 2 and 30 minutes
3) We make COPIES of the original files and put them on our working machines. Estimated time: virtually none as long as we aren't having annoying network problems
4) I go through the photos and delete duplicates, ugly pics, pics with bad lighting, etc. Because our sites are homemade with an amateur appeal, I leave in a lot of "bad" pics because even the blurry ones and ones I think are unflattering usually have some redeeming quality (ex. my face looks bad, but my butt looks great, or the light is not technically excellent and the picture's not print-ready, but it still evokes a mood and helps tie the images together so there's some movement from one image to the next). Sometimes I do leave in poses that are nearly identical; the standards for porn sites are very different from artistic photography sites because we aren't trying to exhibit our very best PHOTOGRAPHY, we're trying to give people pictures to arouse them AND meet the quantity expectations porn review sites look for.
Very subtle differences in two like photos can make one jack-worthy to one person while the other is not. Let's say there's an image where I have an enticing expression on my face, but my feet are cut out of the frame. Then there's another nearly identical picture where I my double chin is highlighted, but my feet are all there and looking great. One guy who loves feet will be happy I included the ugly-face, feet-included pic, while another who doesn't care about feet will only be interested in my come-hither look in the other photo. That's why I leave in a lot of less-than-perfect and repetitious images. Still, I sometimes take a lot of time deciding whether or not to keep or toss pictures. Estimated time: 5-20 minutes
5) I open three photos at a time in Photoshop. I use a hotkey I've set up to rotate the image (if necessary) and another hotkey to resize the photo to my specifications. I look at each image more closely than before, adjusting levels to brighten them up if necessary, add more contrast, and adjust the color balance as needed; because we don't use a flash or tons of lights and we often rely on natural light or a combination, there's often a lot of variation in our photos even when we've taken all of them in one location. We might move in and out of different colors and levels of light so it does NOT work to apply a process on a whole batch of photos, I have to look at and edit each image individually.
I also use the bandaid tool to cover up zits or ingrown hairs sometimes. Sometimes I crop and size pictures more creatively if I need more close-ups or really need to get rid of some distraction in the picture to salvage something good about it. Very rarely I will apply filters (soft blur, etc.) to images or just fuck around seeing what those look like without committing to them. We *do not* change color photos into black and white using Photoshop, Well, hardly ever. Almost all of the black and white pictures on our sites were SHOT in black and white.
6) I save each picture WITHOUT optimizing them (making the file size smaller for web suitability) because I want to keep a copies of high quality edited versions of each photo since one picture might be used in a number of places in a number of ways. Sometimes I save duplicates of images I especially like in a "promo" folder at a different size with a border added that I use for posting in our blogs. I have a promo folder inside each edited gallery folder. Estimated time for steps five and six: 30-120 minutes
7) I go through the pictures again to see if there are more I want to delete.
8) Sometimes I rename files so that they will be presented in an order that makes better sense (move pictures we took in the middle to the beginning, etc.). Estimated time for steps seven and eight: 0-10 minutes
After all of that, I build the gallery which is another process entirely.
ESTIMATED TOTAL TIME SPENT ON THIS PROCESS FOR EACH GALLERY: 45 minutes to three and a half hours
I enjoy this process quite a bit (especially if I look halfway decent in the pictures) and appreciate taking the time to really SEE what were making. It's pleasurable, meditative, hot and it makes me feel productive. I also think it's important we do this work (and do it ourselves) because it teaches us what does and doesn't work with posing, lighting, camera settings, framing, etc.
Want to know more behind-the-scenes info regarding our pics? Check out this entry on how much one shoot cost: ARE OUR SHOOTS WORTH IT?
Speaking of social events with a purpose, we're not going to be able to make it to this fundraiser tomorrow, but PLEASE READ about it and consider donating. Keep it on your "worthy causes" bookmarks! It provides perspective a lot of us lack (or have the luxury to not consider often) and is a necessary reminder of the thousands of ways responsible family planning is undermined and right choices are punished or made unavailable to women who are saddled with more than their fair share of costs and scary-ass consequences for getting (and not getting) abortions.
To provide some extra incentive, I will comp you a six week membership to our sites (if you want) if you donate. If you make it like a "gift" in my behalf I'll get an ecard like this (click for a suggestion on how to fill it out so I'll know you want to take me up on this):
Upon receiving the email/e-card it may take me up to 48 hours (or more if we're gone) to manually set you up, but it's a major bargain since normally six weeks of membership would cost over $30 but with this I can't tell how much you donated so you could get it for the minimum donation amount. If you would like to donate more than $30 (please do!) and be personally rewarded for it with more membership time, forward me your receipt and I will set you up with a correspondingly longer amount of time. And if you don't want a membership but you just want to brag, I'll enjoy seeing how much you donated just for fun if you feel like sharing that info.
NOTE: you are not *buying* a membership from me, you are donating money and I am personally rewarding you for it; if you are not happy with a membership to our sites understand that you don't have an opportunity for a refund and I will personally hunt you down and beat you senseless if you do a chargeback. Not that I will have the information to do that, but just pretend. Obviously if you want to buy a membership but NOT donate, you should join our sites the regular way.
There are a lot of reasons why I'd love to help this particular clinic to help women in this way, but one of the semi-senseless reasons is that it's in Tacoma which is like the hometown of my heart; I feel very connected to that place so for selfish reasons it just makes me feel more emotionally invested than if it were Portland or Tulsa or wherever. And I really like the idea of someone I know and love being made happier by helping distribute the money to help women she sees face-to-face at work.
Note: yes, I know that the title of this post could be perceived as tasteless and may not be something people want to be associated with; I am not speaking on behalf of anybody but myself here, so understand that I am in no way affiliated with the clinic, Heather is not in cahoots with me and am only drumming up donations and offering some motivation as a private entity. This message is not endorsed by the people who will benefit from your donations, mkay? If tacky title leads to page views leads to donations, I'm personally all for it, but recognize others might not like it. Also, if you are someone who assumes the porn in my site is all politically-correct and emotionally safe just because I'm pro-choice and identify as a feminist, I want to warn you that you might find some of my porn disturbing and/or offensive, particularly if you do not "consume" a lot of porn already.
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).
An overwrought, incoherent mini-tribute to my favorite periodical and worthy cause, $pread magazine:
Do you know what it's like to go to the newsstand and see business magazines like inc. and then for a second get excited because you see a magazines for WOMEN-run businesses. But it's called something like "PINC." and you buy it even though you know absolutely nothing inside will have anything to do with the one industry that women should dominate. The sex industry (the pinkest industry). Not. One. Word. Of recognition. It's like trying to plan your own funeral in a society that doesn't have a word for death or acknowledge that everyone dies in the end. That's how crazy it seems to refuse to acknowledge the business of sex in general discussions about business, particularly businesses run by women. That's how fucking backwards and NOT progressive we are (but I'm sure most straight business-women think that IS progress, to not associate women in business with the possibility of anything remotely sexual except for harassment and victimization). The new ambitious woman is required not to be in charge of her body or to enjoy it in her off time or to use it to get ahead, but to project a consistently professional asexual image, don't you know? God forbid word leaks out that she even HAS a body underneath those clothes! No, the working woman can only advance in status by keeping her tits and pussy discretely locked away in a witness protection program; showing off our assets only serves to make them a liability. If we show them to anyone on purpose it might make it harder for us to use them to prosecute some guy later who took an uncivilized interest in them.
The world thinks that starting an ebay business selling crocheted kleenex box holders is a better, more legitimate career* for a woman than turning tricks or being a webwhore. This is unbelievably STUPID to me and it's why women who do sex work are pretty motherfucking socially isolated. Because we're not just doing a job that's hard to talk about with other people, like being a paramedic or a soldier or a nurse who attends to the dead and dying and ends and saves lives; those people are considered heroic even if no one wants to hear the truth of their jobs. Those people usually work in teams, teams that don't have to compete against each other for pay; they can talk to EACH OTHER about their work. I'm not denying that there's competition in those fields for promotions (which do equal more money) and status and I'm certainly not denying that those jobs are hard (on the contrary) nor am I trying to say that sex work is harder than those jobs; what I'm trying to say is that doing sex work can be very isolating. Not only are we discouraged by polite society from talking about our work (and even laws against talking about it in some cases), but our work itself is often against the law. Very few sex workers can talk to their family, romantic interests, or non-whore friends about our tough days at the office, and developing a sense of camaraderie with colleagues is often challenging. There's no human relations department where we can file grievances. I'm not saying these circumstances exist for all of us or are necessarily unbearable or even undesirable for a lot of us, I'm just saying that it *can* be pretty fucking lonely in ways that are fairly unique. I am really lucky that I am a hermit to begin with, my partner does the same kind of work I do, and I'm out with my family and can be fairly open with them. Plus, my brand of sex work is really safe, no-(physical)-contact stuff. Still? There are times when I realize that my friends and family have no fucking clue who I am, what I do, or what's important to me . . . and don't WANT to. There are some things that I can only talk about with other people who do the work I do. I'm sure it's the same for lawyers, priests and teachers but they HAVE networks and coffee rooms and church and professional associations. Me? I am still stunned by finding out that my sister (who I'm very close to) assumed I would want my sites taken down if/when I die. Apparently my story is something she thinks I would want erased rather than shared and preserved in all of its grotesquely intimate nakedness.
So is it weird that seeing $pread for sale at a bookstore made my heart skip a beat and a pain dive down through my innards as though I'd just unexpectedly caught sight of someone I have a big crush on? I don't know if I can explain where that intense feeling of recognition comes from and the sense of being on the verge of something life-altering, like standing in a crowd and having a beam of sunlight shine specifically down on just you, singling you out as deserving of solace and renewal. While everyone else just mills around the bookstore, you are aware of being part of a group of people witnessing and breaking through thousands and thousands of years of foul, soul-staining, isolating, life-killing bullshit.
I think it's the sensation of battle (not war) victory upon seeing a visible representation of a long line of stigmatized women's voices finally coming to be recognized and legitimized, our hiserstories written by ourselves and our concerns and specific business needs addressed. Uncensored, not twisted or misappropriated or degradingly pitied by academia and looky-loos and feminism-hoarders. Not perfect, not artsifucked, but really fucking important. Our stories. VALUED in print and for sale in public.
*Note: I mean no offense to crafty crocheters of kleenex box holders; I myself would love to know how to crochet. Plus I would never disrespect someone for honoring tissue boxes since I myself have a major kleenex fetish. I'm just reasonably sure that whoring is a more viable business than hand-crafting tissue cozies.
**Confession: I delayed posting this entry because I let my $pread subscription lapse and felt like it would make me a liar to post this without my money backing it up. Then I realized that's silly since I will resubscribe and order the back-issues I missed. And who would know this if I didn't tell them? Why am I so uptight and guilt-riddled? I also need to finish my site redesign and include more links to things and people I care about.
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?
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).
Right now I'm just pondering how much sex work is specifically about NOT fucking. What's the percentage, I wonder? I'm talking about situations where getting the money relies upon NOT putting out, but the interactions are still all about sex because they're all about not GETTING sex (sometimes by the customer's request and sometimes not).
Some of you won't know what I'm talking about. Others will know precisely and dozens of examples will spring to mind.
I've been very motivated and happily, busily doing my own bunches of happy, busy little things. I've been less-than ambitious, though, when it comes to accomplishing certain other things (exercise, housecleaning, personal hygiene). In other words, I'm doing some things well these days and other things not at all. I'm out of balance, but whatever. Tomorrow is my show day so I'll get all pretty for that, then on Sunday we'll watch the football game AND hang out in our chatroom the whole time so if you've been missing me in chat? Sunday during the game is your chance!
"My last attempt at hooking up with a chick led to her becoming utterly put out with me because I wouldnít take a $40 cab ride to her house to immediately rape her. This, by our second conversation."
*Mistress Matisse on her college education and lack of a degree. It was a blissful moment, realizing that I never wondered for a fucking second what kind of schooling Matisse did or didn't have, and knowing that no one who reads her has to wonder whether or not she is EDUCATED. Schooling can be wonderful, but it's also overrated; I treasure stories from happy, successful, smart people who dropped out of school somewhere along the way.
*Dacia questions Reverse Cowgirl's co-opting of sex workers' stories. It's worth following all of the links, reading the comments and giving it some thought yourself. I think I vaguely recall Reverse Cowgirl's blog going down for a period of time years ago (2003?) after which I abandoned reading it (shortly after discovering it, so I never got really "into" it). I do not relish the idea of someone who deletes blog history or is in the habit of abandoning her blogs compiling a bunch of stories by other people only to have them mysteriously disappear or be gathered up, deleted, and perhaps be republished in a book. Since she *is* a published author/more experienced (and, I assume, more ambitious) with publishing than your average hobbyist blogger, I'm curious if she has plans beyond the blogs for these stories she's collecting and, if so, if she gets permission from the contributors for future/other uses (my guess is no, since the contributions are anonymous). Just thinking out loud and hypothesizing here.
We're back home from our Portland trip and 500 photos richer. Well, 498. And of course we'll delete many of those, too. Not very productive in terms of shooting, but what we DID shoot was great. Besides, we were really there for Delia's doctor appointment and also spent a nice evening visiting with our friends, Torn and Toni of KatVixen.com. I realize you all read me telling you how much I like to avoid people and socializing and all of that jazz, so you probably never conceive of how much I actually *do* like people and talking with them, and how hard it is for me to call it a night once conversation is rolling. I think I deprive myself so much of social stimulation that I become parched for it, which creates a vicious circle because I pretty much know I'll want to overdo it when we meet up with people and then need a week of hermit mode to recover my wits There is often a part of me that *almost* whines to friends, "I wish you/we didn't have to go" at the overdue end of a visit. A lot of my issues with socializing/needing a lot of alone time are less to do with preference and more to do with the way my brain is wired and that I just wind up blowing fuses trying to process the extra stimuli.
So. A small (or literally a large) reason why we didn't shoot more photos is that I didn't recognize in time how overweight I am and that an outfit I packed, THE outfit, the one I was all sexed up to wear and use in a teacher role play, could barely be buttoned/couldn't be zipped. I love it way too much to wear it incorrectly so it put me in a bit of a foul temper. It was slightly more depressing than our Halloween shoot debacle where I actually SPLIT THE SEAMS of the pirate dress I ordered. That was sort of funny and I wish we'd have gotten the splitting on tape. Oh well.
My conflicting feelings/thoughts regarding my level of physical fitness: *I think I look and feel fine -- nay, almost exactly how I've always WANTED to look -- for a normal thirty-four year old *but not a thirty-four year old who sells images of her body and needs to be versatile. *I don't fucking WANT to eat less or exercise more. I just don't WANT to! Okay, I do want to but there are about 567 things on my list of things I WANT TO DO ****WAY MORE**** than exercise. I'd rather be fucking blogging, right? I'd rather be masturbating I'd rather be eating donuts while Delia gets ready for me to take pictures of HER. I would just rather be sitting on my goddamned ass using my motherfucking BRAIN, okay? *but okay, I *do* want to look good in that outfit, darlings. I *do*. It's just too perfect. There are SO MANY perfect little outfits. I pretend not to care, but oh, I *do* care, because I want to look so cute and fit in polka dot blouses and dresses with darts.
None of this matters in any real way and it sickens me to even think about it for a moment, let alone go ON and ON about it, torturing myself and others with this fucking weight loss drivel. What a senseless waste of time. But. I think some of my dramatic feelings right now about my body are connected to bigger things than my bigger body. Like admiring some of the work my more cerebral cohorts do and feeling resentful that I don't have time to do more of what they're doing. That I'm bogged down by my visually body-oriented work that begs me to tend to it in such time-consuming ways. That my body right now is my most valuable natural resource and I'm trashing it (I would say that Delia's body is my most valuable resource, but that would open up a whole other can of worms about possession and pimping and shit). That I want my work to focus more on *other* people's bodies and less on my own. That I want it to fucking WORK PROPERLY but suspect I'm rounding the bend where I can't take it for granted at all and it wants me to know that. I'm full of suspicious lumps, I can't seem to get pregnant, and I'm having a hard time disguising my comical bulges.
I don't like to complain about it or sound pessimistic. It's important to me to say that I don't FEEL as bad as I sound. But I *do* need to process these feelings. And remind myself that the reason I do the work I do is because a) I like it/feel driven to, and b) it is part of a plan that *does* allow me to do *all* of the kinds of work I want to do. Some of it right now/all of the time, and more of it eventually. And all of it really whenever I want if at any time I want to drop any of it that I'm sick of. And that's the big reminder, that I can do whatever I want. I don't WANT to stop doing anything I do right now OR I WOULD. I just really crave to do MORE of the millions of things I want to do. Making choices pains me because sometimes choosing to do one thing means choosing NOT to do other things I really really DO want to do (refer to above: socializing).
Sorry if that is all incoherent and vague. It makes sense to me, though. FYI: comments reassuring me about my weight or arguing about it will not be published; it's not the real issue here: the real issue is what I want to concentrate on more than my body. Love to chat about it more, but again, this is more of a reflective post for myself than an informative or conversational post for others; once I post this I want to be dumped of it and move on.
I don't know if I can describe how satisfying it is to look at these photos we've shot, the ones that are beautiful. Since it's difficult to describe without being redundant or obnoxious, you wind up reading more angst about dumb things like body image than daily thanksgiving about important things like how splendid I feel about what we make. I feel wrong even taking that much credit for just being lucky enough to have a camera, a moderately good eye and an appreciation for the beauty of certain things that never get old no matter how many times you duplicate them: black nylons against a blonde wood floor. Red patent leather. My girlfriend's ass. Her willingness to get on the floor for me. The way the pictures I capture can keep getting better regardless of how fat I eventually may get or whether or not I can bear children or whether or not I ever lose a breast to cancer. I will still always know and deeply appreciate a billion and one things that are beautiful and exquisite and erotic and are not too hard for me to point out and celebrate. That I WANT to point out and celebrate.
Violence against sex workers boils down to two things: a woman who demands money for sex is a woman who is saying NO to sex without money. For all of our fancy talk and progress, our society STILL does not wholly support women's right to say NO. Our problem is not just with women charging money for sex, our problem is with women SAYING NO to sex with men unless the men meet conditions set by women.
We still do not wholeheartedly agree that women own their own bodies. We still do not wholeheartedly agree that women should have the right to determine the circumstances under which we choose to allow people access to our bodies. We still think that one woman's individual sexuality is responsible for wreaking havoc on men's behavior, on other women's happiness, and on children everywhere. We still blame individual women's sexual agency for bringing about the downfall of all that's good for the Christians' cause, for the feminists' cause and for unraveling the the moral fabric of society. We still believe women shouldn't be allowed to capitalize on natural resources the way that men do -- we fear the complete disintegration of order in our society if women are allowed to openly capitalize on and dominate the biggest demand in the marketplace.
Violence against sex workers is all about refusing women the right to NOT consent to sex; this refusal is RAPE. We're all (as a society) accessories to rape by not supporting sex worker rights.
Violence against sex workers is violence against women. Violence against sex workers is often an act of angry insistence that women are of no value except what men, their brainwashed handmaidens, certain hysterically irrational feminists, and society place on them or allow them to be, and that a woman who values her body enough to deny someone access to it unless they provide her with money or material compensation is a woman who has stepped so far out of line that she deserves to be punished or committed to the care of Concerned Women who insist no woman in her right and undamaged mind could have chosen sex work willingly.
Gary Ridgeway, The Green River Killer, did not just target prostitutes because he knew crimes against people who work the streets are harder to solve; that makes it sound like he would have been happy killing just about ANYbody when that's not the whole truth. He didn't want to and never did kill homeless veterans or women who consented to having sex with him for free. Gary Ridgeway said, "I picked prostitutes as my victims because I hate most prostitutes and I did not want to pay them for sex." That hatred of sex workers and the belief that charging money for sex is loathsome, unjustifiable, immoral, indecent, "devalues" women (the most absurd charge of all), and/or somehow dirties or corrupts a society that would otherwise be asexual outside of the bonds of married love or male ownership permeates our culture and is not unique to serial killers. Gary Ridgeway was able to talk openly with his neighbors about his desire to exterminate prostitutes without them batting a fucking eyelash; chances are you yourself have tolerated similar hate speech without objection when you would certainly have responded differently had the target of the hatred been twelve year old Catholic schoolgirls or boy scouts or soccer moms.
When people say that women's bodies and sex are SO VALUABLE and precious that it's taboo to put a real dollar amount on sex acts, they are talking irrational, brainwashed rubbish, pure and simple. Violence against sex workers is not so much about women charging money for sex as it is about women having the right to WITHHOLD sex and to define the terms under which they will CONSENT to sex. Any of us who deny sex workers the right to set the terms of consent is effectively denying ALL WOMEN their right to consent or not consent to sex. Do not tell me or any other woman that she can only have sex when she loves someone or is attracted to someone or is sex-positively horny for someone or is in the politely prized possession of a husband. Do not tell me or any other woman that she is "too good" to work in the one industry that women naturally should dominate. Do not tell me or any other woman that it's more respectable to do ANYTHING for money other than turn a trick. All of that bullshit is part of the the same belief system that claps people on the back who perpetrate violence against sex workers and says, "what you did to her? SHE'S A PIECE OF GARBAGE AND SHE FUCKING ASKED FOR IT." And that? That's part of the same belief system that enables violence against ALL women. It's also part of the same belief system that leaves women in helping professions like teaching, nursing, and mothering grossly underpaid and overworked: because women should not do the most important jobs in the world for MONEY, we should do them for LOVE. You know what that I call that? A BIG FAT CROCK OF SHIT.
If that's not enough for you to think about, here are some suggestions for behavior I think would go a long way in changing this mindset that promotes violence against all women via endorsing violence against sex workers/subverting sex workers' rights:
*Don't sit in mute and complicit witness when your friends, coworkers, acquaintances, partners, etc. use hateful speech against women and sex workers. Use peer pressure by expressing disapproval of expressions of hostility towards sex workers. Challenge them to rethink their prejudices. Tell them they sound like crazy fucking assholes. Tell them you don't want to hear that shit and walk away from them. Just do *something* instead of accepting that it's okay. Even if they respond initially with belligerence or defensiveness, it will give them food for thought and make them think twice the next time they feel like saying that. Anything you can do to break down the assumption that prostitutes and sex workers are "fair game" is a step in the right direction.
*Never, EVER, shortchange a sex worker, refuse to pay a sex worker after receiving service, demand or force a sex worker provide services she doesn't want or hasn't agreed to, or tolerate someone bragging who does any of those things. Stealing service from a sex worker IS RAPE. Also, make sure our justice system knows that assaulting or forcing a sex worker to perform or endure sex acts without meeting her (or his) terms and conditions IS RAPE, not some lesser charge (read this story for an example).
*Buy time with a sex worker. Pay your sex worker with the same respect and appreciation you give any other person who provides you with service. Hell, pay your sex worker with GREATER respect and appreciation than you'd give other service providers because sex workers do their work at greater social costs and legal risks. Act as proud of supporting your favorite sex workers as you are proud of supporting your favorite record store, restaurant, mechanic, or chiropractor.
*Let people know you support sex workers, and have the balls to say that you proudly patronize sex workers (if you do). Be vocal in your support for sex workers' rights. Let people know you think sex work is a valuable service and that women own their own bodies, are capable of making their own decisions about what to do with them, and should not be denied the right to set the conditions (and prices) to access them under their own terms. Insist that NO ONE -- not the government, not other women, not their husbands or boyfriends or jealous stalkers, and not their customers -- should tell a woman what she can or cannot do with her own body, either for free or for money.
*Think critically about sex work and prevailing attitudes towards sex workers. Question media portrayals of sex work, and do so OUT LOUD to get other people thinking and talking about it too. Ask yourself whether or not your positions on sex worker rights are consistent with your other positions on women and women's rights (example: if you believe no one should interfere in a woman's right to an abortion, why is it okay to interfere with her right to charge someone money to touch or be touched by her?).
*Recognize and publicize that not all sex work is the same while also acknowledging sex work for what it is, wherever it is (in many marriages, for example). DO NOT equate sexual slavery with sex work performed by consent. Feminists: don't get all hysterical and irrational by insisting that all sex work is intrinsically bad; it's horrible when women and girls are kidnapped, forced to act as sex slaves, are raped, assaulted and killed but you just sound like fucking morons with your inability to separate those crimes from sex work done by women who CHOOSE to do it on their own terms. EVERYTHING A WOMAN DOES WITH HER BODY OR INVITES SOMEONE ELSE TO DO WITH HER BODY SHOULD BE DONE ON HER OWN INDIVIDUAL TERMS. It is unacceptable for anyone, man or woman, to set those terms for another woman (or man).
*Read about sex work, sex worker rights, womens' rights and feminism (from as many sources/voices as possible). Be open-minded. Be rational. Decide what's right for you and let other people decide what is right for themselves. Understand that sex worker rights are a gender issue and educate yourself about other gender issues. Do what you can to understand and prevent rape (that's right, ESPECIALLY if you are a guy).
*Let your elected representatives, local law enforcement and government agencies know that you support sex worker rights and that discrimination against sex workers is intolerable and counterproductive. Have arguments handy that illustrate the perverse double standards used to regulate socially acceptable industries vs. the sex industry. Learn what a "victimless crime" is and do not tolerate people trying to turn bullshit abstractions into crime. Write to the media and complain when you read or hear biased reporting on sex work-related stories.
*Demand higher wages for ALL work traditionally viewed as "women's" work: mothering, caretaking, nursing, teaching and WHORING.
*Support womens' right to reject men. It is crucial to women's right to choose that they be allowed to choose other women as mates and be given the same rights and privileges that heterosexual partners enjoy. Women should not have to insist that they didn't "choose" to be queer and that it was all decided biologically. Lesbians should not be obligated to soothe ruffled feathers by promising that they really love and appreciate men, just not in that "special" way (even if it's true). Stopping violence against women mostly means stopping men from perpetrating that violence, and the first step in doing that is insisting that men are not ENTITLED to our bodies. The second step is making everyone believe it. We do not need to make excuses for saying no and those of us who DO say no (whether by not having sex with men, not shacking up with men, or by specifying the conditions under which they will have sex and/or specify the TYPE of sex they will have with men) should not be punished for it.
I wanted to be able to lay someone down on their stomach and still get access to the fun parts. Sometimes I lie on the floor and do CBT on boys from that angle. Itís more scary for them when not only can they not see whatís coming, they canít even see me. Once I draped the bottom with fabric and had Jae hiding underneath there like an evil little sprite under a bridge. Wasnít that boy startled when he saw me standing several feet away and feltÖsomeone/somethingÖ touching his bits. It was delightful.
. . . . a fat old Boss Hog man in a three-piece suit asked me upstairs to a private room . . . . When I leaned towards him, his put his hand on my pussy. Then he worked his hand under my g-string. He fingered me. I smiled. I repeat: I didnít know what was expected of me.
He played with my clit. I danced as though unaware, but hell, it felt good. It did. One of my fantasies was for an ugly old fat man to finger me in the Champagne Room. Iíd masturbated to that fantasy for years, as there was something so hot and so ugly and so wrong and so good about it.
I came in less than a minute.
Part of me wants to remind people reading this that it should not be assumed that those of us who have this fantasy are issuing open free-for-all invitations to have it fulfilled, just that every so often under the "right" circumstances fantasy and reality can intersect. I just really don't want Stefanie to be bombarded with emailed photos of ugly fat men offering to fingerbang her, because I don't think that's the point of her telling the story (or of me saying that reading it aroused me a whole bunch).
Not much time to blog, so here's the rundown of events:
Yesterday we went to Delia's therapist for the first time (and kind of mine, too, since we're doing a lot of it as a couple, so I guess she is OUR therapist, which is very cool). I'm really excited about her and looking forward to Delia's next appointment next week. The biggest coolest thing about Dr. P is her sex positivity, and her positivity in general; she doesn't approach things in a "let's figure out what's wrong and broken with you and try to fix it" but more of a "let's figure out what you want to celebrate about yourselves and in life and make that happen". That's a cheesy and shallow sounding summary, but I'm really happy to be seeing her and EXTREMELY RELIEVED that she's not only okay with sex work, but seems to think it's fucking awesome. She's a little unconventional as a counselor in her willingness to express congratulations and "good for you" messages, but that coachy/mentor vibe is something I really like. I came away from the first visit with lots of blog fodder, so I hope to follow up on a few of those ideas later.
After the appointment with Dr. P we brought a jar of change to a store with a Coinstar machine that does a straight no-fee exchange if you get an Amazon gift certificate instead of cash (thanks, Matisse, for letting your readers know about that; fyi everyone: not every coinstar machine has that capability so you should look it up on their site before you get too excited). We got exactly enough money to buy exactly what we need: an electric water kettle (and thanks to MY readers who tipped me off that such things exist and are splendid). Now that Delia stopped drinking coffee and switched to green tea it will benefit both of us. Anyway, I had WAY too much fun feeding the coins into the machine and listening to them being sorted in its guts. It felt like Christmas with the best new toy in the world -- I totally love shit like that.
Today we went to Delia's first laser hair removal appointment and did a little bit of book shopping. We've been cleaning house since we got home and really enjoying it; we are gradually improving our housekeeping habits and I'm starting to love it. The washer and dryer help a lot, and tonight the coolest part about cleaning up has been using it as a time to really look at and appreciate the things we have. Since we're not in a hurry for visitors to come over and are just tidying for fun, I am really SEEING the things I'm touching, and I'm feeling blessed noticing how much cool stuff I have. I have pretty socks and pretty dresses and pretty colors and pretty books and interesting magazines and pretty jewelry and things that smell good and pretty shiny things. In a tiny red box we have our wedding rings from our previous marriages nestled next to each other. They are pretty and special.
Anyway, it's been a long couple of days with a lot of time spent on the road so we're going to watch some television and have some quiet time before I come back into my office to work on my update for members.
An anonymous person left a couple of comments saying, "hi Trixie! I was wondering if you knew what ever happened to Betty?"
The short answer is "yes". Yes, I know what happened to Betty. Yes, I know why her site isn't up anymore. But what the inquirer probably meant to ask is, "will you tell me what happened to Betty (if you happen to know the answer)?" And since the answer to THAT is "no", I chose not to publish those comments since any response I give would have to be sort of complex and never really answer the question.
I understand that people are curious when webwhores leave the internet, especially since they usually do so very mysteriously with no explanation; one day a chick's site is up and the next day . . . poof, it's gone! If a girl's done her job well, people are going to miss her when she's gone so it's kind of a compliment when people ask, "what happened to X?" On the other hand, none of us really has a RIGHT to know why she disappeared (unless of course she made off with someone's money or shut down her members-only area without a word or without offering refunds to those with time remaining).
I myself used to be completely flabbergasted by the frequent disappearances of women from the web, to the point of even being mad at them, these chicks I didn't even know personally who probably had good reasons for jumping ship. I would ask myself WHY wouldn't they leave their sites up even if they couldn't update anymore when they could just lower the price of membership, explaining they moved on to other projects but were leaving their site up for posterity? WHY would they DELETE EVERYTHING from their sites? WHY couldn't they just post a somewhat sensible brief message explaining their departure? WHY would they want to give up something they made for a new boyfriend who disagreed with their porn life (most girls who DID offer brief and, I thought, really fucking STUPID explanations said that the new men in their lives wanted them to give up the porn so they happily agreed to sacrifice their internet sex work to save their boyfriends' fragile egos, because "love" is more important than owning your own business, apparently). Oh gosh . . . I'm getting judgemental again, aren't I?!
It's so easy to do, though, when you really don't know anything about someone except that she tried running a business online and then changed her mind.
Over the past six years I've seen a whole lot of chicks come and go; some of them had very good reasons for quitting their sites. Some of them eventually returned, some of them under new aliases while others just picked up where they left off.
There was the chick who had a seizure one day while she was wearing an angora sweater and cooking. The burns were devastating, I heard, and as far as I know she hasn't returned to the web. There was the Romanian camgirl I and some of my cohorts had a crush on who was one of the most popular and visible performers on the network until the day when a totally different girl started performing under her name; I never heard what happened to Violeta Number 1. There were those who didn't set their domain names to auto-renew and lost all of their traffic and branding when their dot coms were snatched out from under them; some of them started back up under new names, but others just gave up the ghost. There was the hottie who was rumoured to have started escorting and then shut down her main site and took down her ads; I heard through the grapevine it was because of a "fan"atic that was stalking her, but eventually she came back with a newer, even-cooler site. I've no idea whether or not the stalker still plagues her or if he truly did exist in the first place to the extreme where he had an effect on her web presence.
There were many who landed straight jobs that paid better and were more fulfilling than what they did online; they had no motivation to jeopardize their careers by leaving content up that could compromise them and never made them much money anyway. Some of them left for good, but some of them are back. There were many who took time off for surgeries and reinvention or to carry and have babies and they didn't want to explain or share that with fans. There were many whose x-rated lives became targets for jealous ex's and judgemental family members who used their porn sites as leverage in custody battles. There were some who divorced the person that helped them make porn, and because the husbands (usually) were the ones who photographed the pictures they were also the ones who legally held the copyright on all the material so they were basically left owning nothing or half of something that wasn't worth bargaining for or buying out.
But mostly there were people who just didn't want to run their sites anymore (or keep doing camshows or keep taking phone calls). It didn't make them enough money or it wasn't fun anymore or whatever . . . they didn't want to keep doing it, or they wanted to take a break, or they didn't know if it was worth it anymore. Maybe some people reading this are thinking, "aha! They were only in it for the money!" Of course, I don't think that makes a woman evil, if she does something only because someone pays her to, but seriously -- that's really not the whole story on any of the people I know who've abandoned their sites or jobs as camgirls. What is usually the case is that they never actually got paid enough in the first place, but enjoyed it enough that they invested tons of time and money and personal risk in building and maintaining their sites but never actually made them profitable; they genuinely couldn't afford to keep trying. Some camgirls just got older and burned out and bored with sticking things in their cunts for strangers. Some people had some fun online but it was really just an exploratory phase so they quit when the newness and excitement wore off or when the networks they were part of changed the rules and the terms of working on their sites (lowering chathost payouts from 50% to 35%, just as one example). Some people made a lot of money in the beginning, years ago when there was less competition, and they never got accustomed to the number of players on the new field; those who didn't want to work harder for less left, quit or let their sites languish. Some girls got out of bad deals (or what they THOUGHT were bad deals) with big companies who promised to make them lots of money and never delivered (or were never given a chance to deliver) and their sites wound up redirecting to some other girl on some other site.
I honestly do wish more people would offer an explanation for why they left the industry, and actually most of them do but then the word doesn't always get around to everybody or they don't want to keep paying for a domain and hosting just to keep informing someone that they're gone for "personal reasons". On the other hand, many many people honestly CANNOT provide any explanation in anything other than the vaguest of terms. There could be legal reasons or safety issues or who-knows-what that's totally private and not necessary for anyone to ever know about or could even be DANGEROUS to them or their family if they disclosed.
So. Whatever happened to Betty? That is not my business to share. I'm assuming the people who really supported and admired her were probably aware of her blog, I would think, and I hope would have read her explanation here a long time ago, along with this follow-up post indicating that she was alive and missed porn enough that she hoped she'd be able to return to it, and if she wanted to disclose more she would have. Hell, maybe she'll read this and post a comment, but again . . . if she wanted to publicly talk about why she took down her site then she WOULD, but since she doesn't/can't, she shouldn't be pestered about it and people shouldn't try to get the inside skinny from her friends. They *especially* shouldn't try this without signing a name to their question -- anonymously asking for private information on someone doesn't come across as very well-intentioned (though it may have been -- I don't know, since I have no clue who the person was who asked). I'm pretty sure they're just curious and figure it doesn't hurt to ask, but it kind of makes me feel uncomfortable because Betty is my friend so I have a sort of rabid desire to defend her from attacks on her privacy. Whoever is asking obviously knows we're pals, so it's kind of rude to try to get me to betray her confidence.
All I can do is assure that Betty is STILL alive, she's still awesome, and she deserves to have her privacy respected. My personal hope is that we will get rich enough to hire her to do special nonsexual things for us and our sites, and that she will want to do those things, and that we will see her often. My even bigger hope is that nothing stand between her and happiness and that everyone who appreciated her web presence feels the same way.
I hope I don't sound harsh because I honestly can relate to simply wanting to know if a disappeared-webwhore is still alive and kicking; it would be embarrassing if I told you how affected I've been by Olympia's (aka Postmodern Courtesan's) blog's disappearance. I emailed her two or three times since her blog has been down but haven't gotten any replies. I genuinely am a little worried that something unpleasant might have prompted its removal, but even if that's true, publicizing that unpleasantness would probably make a bad situation even worse. And if it's not true, and she just didn't want to keep it up or continue taking the risk of writing about escorting then it's still none of my business. I have to remind myself that I got a lot out of reading her blog, entirely as a free blessing, and that makes her LESS obligated (not more) to explain her absence to me or anyone else.
I was going to reflect more on the feeling of being "abandoned" by our favorite webwhores and the strangeness of that (which I can relate to, having felt it myself), but I think I'll save that for some other time.
Today Tucker and I got in a couple of photo shoots, took the dog for a walk, and I spent time in the chatroom. I got a lot of little tasks accomplished, and am now pretty exhausted since I didn't get enough sleep last night and I'm on the rag.
Breakfast in Bed Chat happening again tomorrow . . . see you there?
I lucked out with a couple of book choices perfect for cozy winter reading:
The Historian Fun and readable without being insultingly stupid (ahem, Anne Rice); richly-detailed escapist fun for grown-ups. I enjoyed almost every bit of it.
The Crimson Petal and the White Yes, I love reading books about smelly Victorian whores. While this one initially put me off with its contrived narrative style, by the time I got halfway through I elevated it to a position right next to Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All for being too-damned-compelling-of-a-story-about-women-to-have-been-written-by-a-fucking-man.
I also had to reread The Shipping News. Because reading about Really Cold Places is so so much fun when you're tucked into bed with a hot water bottle on your feet and a steamy mug of tea in your hand. I might not read this book again, though, because it seemed almost too sappy this time around and I don't want to totally suck all of the magic out of it.
I'm getting bored with fiction but, for a good long while now, I've resisted reading most nonfiction that interests me. Why? Because the amount of reading time I have right now is meant to relax me and take my mind off work. If I read nonfiction I wind up working instead of escaping, and also feeling like I'm not doing enough; I should be taking notes! I should be writing! I should be remembering every detail! I should be making flash cards (seriously)! I should be smarter! I should read MORE! I should blah blah blah blah blah. When I read nonfiction it doesn't help me fall asleep, it just sends my brain on hyperactive adventures following intriguingly twisted trains of thought. And I totally don't have time for that. It's like I have to save all of that for when I have more time/money, or I think that I do because I'm not able to read books straight through without feeling compelled to DO SOMETHING ABOUT WHAT I'M READING and remember way more than I inevitably do (which is not very much in terms of details; the ideas stick with me but most of the details -- names especially -- just don't). I worry that if I don't take notes I'll forget where I learned these ideas and someday won't give proper credit to their sources. Yes, I am totally anal and riddled with anxiety over silly things.
So. My plan is to find some nonfiction that doesn't EXCITE me -- subjects that don't focus on things that totally fascinate me a whole lot or that I don't find super-relevant to what I do now, what I might do in the future, or have done in the past. But I'll try not to avoid those things like the plague, too. It's very sad that I have so many books on my shelves that I'm "saving" because I don't think I have time or energy or even just the brain-power to enjoy reading them. But you would be amazed at the way I can make virtually EVERYTHING seem super-relevant to things I care about.
The other problem is I really need to start learning new things again. Because I need to learn more useless trivia so I can perform better at solving crossword puzzles. Since I left college I have learned a lot, sure, but it's been practical stuff, stuff about my body, stuff about how to be happier, stuff about people -- on-the-job training type of stuff. I think I'm stagnating!!!
Anyway -- if you have any recs for intriguing (yet totally useless) nonfiction (especially if it could enhance crossword puzzle performance without keeping me up at night), make your suggestions in comments. I'm thinking more biographies are in order since they usually have a story about one person set against a backdrop of jolly historical details that I really don't *need* to remember (but if I *do* those details could, you know, help me with crossword puzzles).
Here in the Pacific Northwest I feel like I've grown up in Serial Killer/Sex Predator central in between Bundy, Ridgeway, Yates, Duncan, Shriner and other super-notorious criminals. One of these piece-of-shit-guys was up in Vancouver, another guy like Ridgeway who killed lots and lots of streetwalkers and then ground up their bodies and fed them to his pigs. I didn't realize that he hasn't even been "brought to justice" yet until I read this entry in Audacia's blog. The wheels of justice turn slowly, while the flesh-grinders spin quickly out of control.
Last night we watched part of this Frontline special on women from the Ukraine and other poor countries who are sold into sexual slavery, raped, beaten, and held prisoners without payment for turning tricks. Of course the stories were horrifying (though not quite as bad as the one I heard on NPR once of an Albanian woman who'd been so severely beaten so many times by her pimp that she no longer had arms or legs: thrown out of a moving car a few too many times).
Not a good bedtime story, anyway. Not good.
I wound up having horrible nightmares. I was being held captive by the guy I lost my virginity to. He was crazy and going to torture and kill me. The look in his eyes was totally insane and no matter where I went, he was there. Everything was locked up but eventually I somehow made it out onto the roof but realized that even if I flew away he would follow me.
I woke up panting and sweating. I *hate* that shit.
Yesterday I had my yearly "well-woman" exam with my lovely doctor. For those of you who don't know what strange things happen to women during these exams, you get your breasts methodically checked for lumps and looked at for dimples (and questioned as to whether or not you are performing these examinations yourself at home on a monthly basis) and then they jack-up your vagina with a speculum to take a gander at your cervix which they then swab with a tiny bottle-brush type of thing to collect some cell samples to see if you have cancer or pre-cancerous cells. They might also test you for STD's, but I didn't do that part this year (I feel tempted to explain all the reasons why I didn't spring for that extra expense, but I'll spare you the details and assume you know that I'm a responsible person in that arena and that it just wasn't necessary this time around).
My doctor complimented me on my socks and the vigorously healthy appearance of my cervix, and during most of the exam I chatted with the nurse about the pros and cons of the Instead Cup. I left the office lubed and slightly bloody (some people spot after a pap test, and I'm one of them most of the time).
I *also* left with various prescriptions for migraine remedies. I talked to him about my headaches which I have been blowing off a little bit, mostly because I HAD classic migraines as a kid and teenager and these headaches I've been getting are NOTHING compared to those ones. My doctor seemed to think that having a headache for two days is nothing to blow off, though, so I'm going to be trying out some different things if/when another strikes AND am going to get magnesium injections (inexpensive) to try to help prevent them. And refresh my awareness of the food triggers and possibly cut back on some of the things I've been eating that have been linked to migraines. And maybe think on my stress level and ways to lower it.
Tomorrow (Super Bowl Sunday) we'll be in bed watching the game WITH (old, barely-functioning) laptop. I'll be logged in to chat with our voyeurs during commercials, and we won't record the game -- we'll watch it live with everyone else. If that sounds like fun to you, hope to see you there. We're really only watching it to see Prince.
I finally updated my free-area updates page; I haven't done so in three months and I'm sure I lost sales because of it since it looked like I hadn't added anything new during that time (though I *did*, I just didn't post them on that free-area page). The whole page needs a redesign and it's scrolling like a son-of-a-bitch because I need to split up the pages, but whatever . . . at least people will see that I'm updating all of the time. Now if I can just maintain that every week things will be good. Anyway -- it's worth a look if you're a non-member because there are a bunch of free pics.
In other good news, we took both of our vehicles to the shop(s) (again) recently and now they are BOTH running smooth. Yay!
We have seven cams running most of the time again, and my new computer only has a few essentials left to install before it's up to par PLUS the old one is working again now that I unplugged the new mouse and plugged in THE ONLY MOUSE MY OLD COMPUTER WILL PLAY WITH without insisting on safe mode. Bizarre.
I know it's been boring in my blog lately, but things always get worse before they get better. I've just been hyperfocused on meeting some other goals; once we meet those I'll do better with things that have taken a backseat to content production.
If any of you voyeurs saw me looking flushed while I slouched in my chair and/or heard the sound of buzzing and wondered what I might have been watching while I masturbated with my magic wand, it was a video of Tucker jacking off that I was editing for his update tonight.
Then again, you probably didn't see or hear it because it only lasted for about four minutes and I didn't take off any clothes or start moaning or anything. Wand over pants watching cockstroking = quick orgasm for Trixie.
When we started watching the Seahawks vs. Bears football game this morning I honestly didn't think we'd be watching long, assuming Chicago would take an early and pronounced lead and we'd just turn off the rest of a boring game. If you watched it, though, you know it didn't turn out that way. It was an entertaining waste of time and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Watching Matt Hasselbeck (Seattle's quarterback aka "the guy who throws the ball", I should tell you, since this isn't a sports blog) doubled over in pain from his broken fingers while he kept on playing made me wonder how people would respond if I as a webwhore/camgirl, for instance, did a masturbation show with broken fingers and kept wincing in pain, and then had an announcer reminding everyone in the viewing audience of all of the injuries I'd suffered while doing explicit sex shows and masturbation.
Trixie's back today and it looks like she's still favoring her right ankle; no one really knew last month that she sprained that ankle when she twisted it wearing five inch fetish heels because she kept her game face on and kept doing her show but wound up having to stay off her feet and on her back for the past three weeks to give that time to mend, really REDUCING her versatility on the playing field. She looks to be in fine form tonight, though, with no traces of that rectal tear giving her any problem, but I wouldn't be surprised if we saw that ripped asshole FLARE UP in the second half.
Wouldn't the anti-porn, anti-whore people be mortified? And wouldn't they be even MORE mortified if a whore suffered those kinds of injuries and actually got paid as much as a pro football player?
Yeah, that's what I thought. You know what I'm talking about.
On Tuesday we shot a hot POV (point of view) blowjob video culminating in many jets of spooge being shot in the air right in front of my face and tongue. To make it a GOOD video, we made sure the BJ lasted a nice long while (fifteen or twenty minutes?). By the time Tucker came, I was so wet and so excited from playing with his cock I wondered why we don't shoot videos like that more often.
There's only one reason we don't shoot more hardcore: because we're lazy. Oh, I sometimes beg out of it using the excuse that I want our sex to be natural and not staged for the camera with a bunch of lights shining on us because that detracts from the fun of having real sex, but that's a lie because I've enjoyed every single sex scene we've shot. Sure, it's a nuisance setting up the lights and your range of motion becomes limited and there are professional considerations to make and a certain amount of self-consciousness to contend with, but overall they usually wind up being a pretty good time.
It's true that making porn and doing camshows can often drain us of recreational sexual energy, but sometimes it actually amps up our sex drives. I almost hate to admit it, but being semi-obligated and professionally-motivated to shoot hardcore porn for our members is a really good thing for our relationship, especially at this point. THIS point, where we've been living together, 99% monogamous, for over four years and fucking each other (almost exclusively) for five.
We have always had great sex since the very beginning -- really steamy stuff. As the years have progressed we've perfected sex to something that requires really minimal effort and has lost some of its old creative ambition. For example, I hardly ever give him head even though I love having his cock in my mouth -- it's just not efficient though since I, well -- since I sort of like having quickies and I orgasm quickly by riding him. Over the years we've started defaulting to the most-efficient position and haven't been talking as dirty to each other. The sex is still great, it's just not as varied or all-consuming as it used to be on a regular basis.
I shudder to think how our sex would decline and grow even more stale if we weren't motivated by porn to liven things up every so often and remind ourselves how gratifying an episode of oral sex with the lights on can be.
We are not so different from all the other couples out there with regular jobs and regular lives. I mean, everything about us is regular except that we have porn sites. Sometimes guys say how much they wish their wives were like me and I remind them that I am not as different from their wives as they imagine me to be -- the only difference is that I get PAID to be sexy. Maybe if their wives were paid to have sex on camera and could justify spending money on the lingerie and shoes I buy then they would be just like I am.
Even with all of the motivation and freedom I have to lead a hypersexual super-stimulating life, "regularity" has set in for us, too. It's not a complaint, it's natural -- when things are perfect and cozy and wonderful you get lazy and complacent and take everything for granted. Sometimes you have to remember that keeping a relationship vital and exciting IS WORK. We are lucky that our relationships (to each other and to ourselves) IS our work, our sole source of income, and it forces us to spice things up in ways that I think we'd probably neglect even more if we had normal jobs.
Food and television encourage us to spend so much time not looking at each other and getting pleasure from stuffing our faces it really does take a concerted effort to get turned on when we are so used to each other. It's not like the old days where we only had one day a week with each other to get all fucked-out with each other's still-unfamiliar bodies. Shooting porn and scheduling sex can actually be a blessed exercise in looking at each other from fresh angles and reminding ourselves that we *are* sexy (to each other and to ourselves) and there is a whole audience of people eager to masturbate to whatever we produce and they aren't tired of us yet. I don't want to make it sound like Tucker "bores" me now that we've been together for a handful of years; that's not what I'm saying (though I do think it's really natural for people to be less-easily aroused by long-term partners the longer long-term they are; let's be realistic AND let's not forget I've put on a few pounds -- I do think it makes a difference, at least to me -- or forget to consider poor Tucker who endures my toxic gaseous emissions on a daily basis). I adore Tucker and love him more and more all the time and I still never stop being amazed at how gorgeous and beautiful he is. I think as your love for someone expands and deepens, the sexual part of that love becomes a relatively smaller, less-obvious factor and hey -- I'd be a liar if I pretended we don't have a couple of "issues" we both need to work on; things do pop up in long-term relationships that need some attention and distract you from 24/7 fuck marathons.
A couple of hours after we shot that video we wound up fucking; I was still wet from the excitement of giving him head. We did it with the lights off but people could still hear us on our spycams. We did it the same way we always do but somehow it was more exciting and charged up just because we stepped out of our routine earlier that day to make some blowjob porn.
I hesitate to post this entry because it feels almost too-private and too-easily misunderstood, but I think it's a good reality check for non-porn people to realize that we are not insatiable nymphomaniacs; we actually struggle with many of the same challenges other couples deal with and people should be wary of the temptation to judge or criticize their own relationships or partners by comparing them to people who are entertainers, especially if the entertainment they offer is pornography. It's not a fair comparison if all you're looking at is the pretty pictures, hour-long shows, and little video clips.
I should also emphasize that I don't think a relationship is going down the toilet just because there's less sex in it than there was in the beginning, or even if you go through dry spells. I'm also not here to judge people who don't really care about sex all that much and have based their relationships (or solitude) on de-emphasizing sex. I just usually like life a lot more when I'm getting laid regularly and am just reminding myself and other people that sometimes you have to make a conscious EFFORT to put on your sex-hat.
Shit -- I should also clarify that working on a relationship means more than working on the SEX part of a relationship. I'm pretty sure that working on the other parts usually indirectly lead to more and better sex, but anyway -- I was supposed to be writing a "sexy" blog entry, not a therapeutic cuddlefest for couples. Leave it to me to make even a simple sex entry into a huge brain dump full of caveats.
I'm ready for bed - my morning started out with a tragic nightmare regarding my sister's health and pregnancy; I woke up on the verge of tears which really cast a nasty pall over the first part of my day.
Things did improve; I got some work done and we managed to get to one of the few local showings of Kinky Boots. It was a totally old-fashioned story and I loved almost everything about it . . . everything except that Lola didn't get the girl (when the two of them danced it was ELECTRIC), instead taking the usual friendly-freak role by being the facilitator of romance rather than its recipient. It was nice to see a guy in good drag on the big screen with a mostly unmitigated masculine voice. I'm also a huge sucker for "saving dad's factory through resourcefulness and the inspiring intervention of an unlikely hero" stories (Mousehunt comes to mind). I blame Mr. Rogers' Picture-Picture (and the opening sequence of Laverne and Shirley) for my abiding love of scenes shot in factories -- I *love* anything with yellowed conveyor belts and special machines tooled to do special things. LOVE it. I could watch that shit for hours. I wonder if there's a DVD collection of Picture-Picture does Factories . . . if there's not, there should be.
Honestly though, I love stories about entrepreneurs, small businesses, or people leaving the safety of society to take up an adventurous career. People on the brink of losing everything, barely making it, struggling to stay alive but still refusing to do something more conventional. It's probably what drew me to stories of streetwalkers and other whores as a teenager and I just didn't CARE that they were cautionary tales, what I cared about is that they seemed to be independent and on any day they could make $10 or $1000 while having to dodge all sorts of obstacles and dangers. I like anything where people are making a living by their own rules and their own schedule, or are flouting conventional wisdom. Another whore-like story that appeals to me is the type found in The Tattooed Man -- I love the whole, "I'm going to make money and have adventure on the high seas!" thing. It's just good old American-dream boot-strap stuff with a little more of an unsafe fringe element that appeals to me. It's what I like about hard-boiled detective stories - they so often are barely eeking out a living, but THEY LIVE BY THEIR OWN RULES dammit. They are always just teetering on the brink. I love the tension and the uncertainty of that kind of lifestyle, so much so that I've established a similar existence for myself.
There is a thrill of uncertainty and danger as a webwhore that feeds on itself in an addictive way. It really is a gamble from both a financial and legal perspective, and the payoffs come in unpredictable ways. On the one hand, you have nearly-unlimited potential, but on a day-to-day basis a lot of times (at the stage I'm at now and have been for years) it really seems like the luck of the draw when it comes to how much money you pocket. It's quite possible that I like teetering on the edge so much and living the fantasy life of the scrappy entrepreneur just barely making a living that I probably hold myself back because it's just feels more fun and romantic this way than it would to have financial security. I love not knowing what will happen next, but feeling that a breakthrough could be just around the corner . . .
DIVERSIONS Tucker hooked up our television antenna today so we could watch the Superbowl (and so I could supply myself with new and disgusting bits of pop culture to mortify, shock and offend my own old-fashioned ideals). What the fuck is up with that disgusting Jessica Simpson Pizza Slut popper commercial where she suggestively "pops" the adolescent boy? What the fuck!?! Would they make a commercial like that featuring an adult male "popping" a twelve year old girl? It really got me in a lather.
The hypocrisy in our culture sickens me; it's totally okay when a mainstream corporation colludes with broadcasters to air sexually suggestive advertisements on a Sunday afternoon depicting pedo relationships between goody-two-shoes Republican whores and little boys, but the FBI and Department of Justice censor, destroy and criminalize businesses that clearly label the same fantasies (even presented only in text format) as pornography. Every time I turn on the television I am bombarded with whores of all types peddling their wares and exposed to all kinds of pornography, and yet it's only the honest whores and smut peddlers like myself who call a spade a spade who are considered criminals.
I felt a little guilty watching football today and couldn't stop thinking about what Noam Chomsky says about sports. That they are served up to us to fill our heads with irrelevant bullshit and divert our attention from absorbing and processing news and information that really MATTER in life-altering ways. I also can't help wondering how these whores on the field, these men who are destroying their bodies doing nothing of more (or even equal) genuine import than a janitor or a garbage man or a paralegal or a streetwalker does -- these athletes are presented to us as virtuous noblemen, celebrities (people to be "celebrated"), patriots, heroes, icons, and role models. Some of these men do not even choose (or know how) to put their baseball caps on straight!! But we've all helped create (or consented to the creation of) this $213 billion sports industry elevating these completely inane games to epic proportions.
Think about it: the sports industry is worth "far more than twice the size of the U.S. auto industry and seven times the size of the movie industry." Just the sports INJURY industry alone is worth over ten billion dollars!!! We pay to watch them get hurt, and then the doctors get paid to fix them. Go go gladiators!! Tell me again how prostitution is illegal for the protection of women. If we're so concerned about people's bodies, why are sports legal if they result in these kinds of injuries? If we can mass-consume sports injuries (and yes, I love watching a man writhing in pain on the field or punch-drunk in the boxing ring) and heroize the players for taking the battering ram like men, it seems like we could legalize prostitution (which would only make it SAFER for us). The obvious answer is that we really don't give a flying FUCK about women's bodies OR men's bodies; when it comes to good clean sportin' entertainment and fuel for our SUV's we're more than happy to let the body parts fall where they may. We keep prostitution illegal because we'd rather see scores of whores killed than actually allow that women should be able to safely charge access fees to their bodies and be protected in doing so the way any other low skill capitalist athlete is allowed to do. It's so funny the way sports programs are seen as brilliant opportunities for underprivileged youth and how the boys who make it out of the ghetto to go onto BIG SPORTS INJURIES (or exciting military careers and possible death!) are jolly success stories; I'm not suggesting after-school streetwalking programs, but there's definitely a weird double standard.
I don't like agreeing with theories that say we're a bunch of mind-numbed pawns in some enormous brainwashing conspiracy, but when I look at those statistics that say that even the STORIES we want to be told on film are of less importance than sports I have to agree that the powers that be are undoubtedly very VERY happy we are so busy consuming, both financially and intellectually, these ridiculously trivial GAMES.
Another thing that gets my goat is the culture theft. The way that the football people can buy off Dr. Seuss' money-grubbing traitorous widow into letting them turn one of his stories into a pro-Super Bowl poem read by fucking Harrison Ford, but they won't let bars advertise "Super Bowl" parties because the NFL doesn't want to tarnish their image (or let anyone capitalize off of their game who doesn't PAY for the privilege of uttering the sanctified game name). Seriously, the NFL has sent people cease and desist letters for violating their copyright (thanks Doc Holly for the tip on that).
It INFURIATES me when corporations infiltrate our lives and weave themselves into the thread of our culture and then try to govern and control and profit off of every single mention of their precious fucking names. Either you want to be embraced by society or you don't. Either you want free advertising or you don't. We shouldn't have to PAY you a licensing fee for barging into our lives and making us like you, even if we then make money off of the way you've foisted yourselves into our homes and businesses.
Speaking of culture theft, if you care about this issue at all or are simply curious, check out WillfulInfringement.com.
On a more personal level, I resent seeing athletes portrayed as noble heroes and role models when they are just well paid whores who get the best surgeries possible when their pimps push them to blow out their knees, rip their groins, and dislocate their limbs. It's not that I resent the athletes themselves or that I am "jealous" of them or that I don't think they deserve good treatment, I just think it's really "funny" that real whores aren't allowed even a trifling of that kind of respect and we're really doing extremely similar jobs, we whores and athletes. In truth, the athletes are the ones who are participating in a much more evil scheme that doesn't even bother to meet any basic needs the way prostitutes do (and if you listen to Noam Chomsky, sports actually suppresses our drive and ability to take care of ourselves and act human because it's not participatory; we're only passively WATCHING the competition rather than engaging in it).
I hate demonizing an entire industry and everyone in it -- I really am NOT trying to say that I want athletes to be paid less. I am NOT trying to say that I think Paul Allen is part of a plot to make all of us stupid sports-watching zombies via his ownership of the Seahawks. I'm not trying to say that. I'm just saying that if the sports industry can have all of that, why can't sex workers and pornographers have ANYTHING? And if mainstream media can shove violence and sex down everyone's throats on television to sell everything from pesticides to war to hormone-riddled milk to burgers made of cow eyeballs to gas-guzzling suburban tanks to alcohol, why can't I sell my own motherfucking body if I want to? I don't understand how all the sweet Mommies in our country think *I* am the enemy and thief of their children's innocence with my porn website, but twelve beer commercials (plus more subtle advertisements like their Daddy drinking and driving the family home from the stadium) during a football game are a matter of American pride. Again, it's not exactly that I think all alcohol commercials should be pulled (and it's certainly not that I think pornography should be advertised during a football game). I'm just sick of the scapegoating and the overall stupidity.
But hey, I'm part of it too. I drank beer, I ate chips, and I wasted about five hours waiting for "my" team to lose. And I felt angry at the referees and full of certainty that they were against "us". And I understand how that is so much easier for a country to swallow than thinking about the bad calls our "president" has made and how he and his cronies are buttfucking almost all of us as hard as they can.
I'm in a much better mood than at the time of my last entry; I might just be sick of being stressed out and now, having indulged myself, am ready to toss the stress over my shoulder. I'm also feeling really excited about the prospect of shooting content. We haven't shot much since we got back from our vacation, and the break has been great for renewing my enthusiasm and giving me unhurried time to fantasize about cool ideas rather than worrying about all the time- and money-consuming practicalities that go into shooting.
Last night we watched The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou; halfway through it we decided to augment the experience with some herb. And then we went to bed and fucked like cummy monkeys. And *then* . . . I slept like a baby (except for the endless bizarre dreams, some of which included a Tyson/Ali/Foremanesque character who morphed quite a bit).
Speaking of fucking, I just have to mention that Tucker's and my sexual compatibility is unparalleled by anyone else in my roster of past sex partners. I can murmur incomplete lines hinting at the fantasy playing in my head, and I know he knows exactly what I'm talking about but to any other person it would probably just sound like some bizarre uncrackable code.
As far as the movie went, it really didn't thrill me. In fact, the only reason I even finished watching it is because I was high (and because Cate Blanchett's swollen belly and jugs looked so luscious). But what's this? Wes Anderson is making The Fantastic Mr. Fox? Oh my god!!! I LOVED that book!! I read it about a billion times (even after I had totally "outgrown" it), and think it could be a fantastic movie in Anderson's hands. Speaking of Roald Dahl books made into movies, I'm not as excited as you might expect about Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Maybe because that wasn't one of my favorite Dahl books (Danny, the Champion of the World is probably my favorite).
Okay . . . I'm now going to finish Tucker's weekly update.
OPEN ME UP??? Well, another week, another members' update published. This time there's a new link to KSex Radio's live shows which were just added to the Camz network, and almost a half hour of video from the show Tucker and I did on Christmas day which most people didn't get to see.
My favorite part of the show is when someone in the chatroom commanded Tucker to "open her up", to which I responded, "open me up? What do I look like, a fucking can of spaghettios?"
Someday I'd love to do a video compilation of me reaming people out, but I'm not sure I could afford the bandwidth for such a gigantic movie. It would be great fun for a dvd, whenever I learn how to make one of those and have the proper hardware and software.
During the same show, I wore one of my favorite pairs of underwear: white cotton brief panties edged with red lace and a tiny red satin bow. Some guy in the chatroom named "Camron" kept remarking on them, suggesting, "you should invest in a thong" and "need to lose the granny panties". If I had time to properly school him, I'd have let him know the following:
#1) I only change my attire for people who pay me by the minute to field their personal requests.
#2) If I am wearing a certain pair of panties during a show, chances are it's because I like them and find them sexy myself which means that if he isn't paying me by the minute, I couldn't care less what his personal preference is, because mine is all that matters.
#3) INVEST in a thong? As though because during one hour of one day of one week of one month I am wearing one pair of underwear, it must mean I do not posess any others; very stupid assumption.
#4) Let's pretend I don't own a thong: if there is an article of clothing I do not own but someone wants me to wear, the appropriate thing to do is to ask for my mailing address so he can send me whatever it is.
#5) Anyone who doesn't appreciate the appeal of modest white cotton panties probably will not appreciate me, my site, my shows, or most of what I have to offer. White cotton panties rock my fucking world. I'm sure there are people I have much in common with who could care less about white cotton panties, but anyone who would ADVERTISE that while I'm wearing them, stupidly assuming I could only be wearing them out of a lack of options or ignorance regarding what is "sexy", is himself mentally incompetent and has really really really bad taste.
Speaking of shows, I have one tomorrow (Tuesday). 1 pm Pacific Time. After that I'll be webwhoring for a couple of hours, then Tucker has a show at 5 pm. If you come in, don't joke about my panties, because I won't get it and will just sigh with the exhaustion of a bored whore who has put up with entirely too much bullshit, and you'll be tempted to point out what a humourless bitch I am.
I'm not sure if that sounds bitter, so let me just say I really like the whore I've grown into and somehow my cranky, fatigued whore routine is more entertaining to lots of people then the boringly spritely, over-enthusiastic, and fakey whore routine other camgirls have going on.
BEATING MY BUTTON The past couple of days I've been inordinately horny, maybe because I'm ovulating but more likely because of this:
I've had countless -- fucking COUNTLESS -- strangers ask me to entertain them in various chatrooms with descriptions of what turns me on. "What turns you on baby?" "What do you like sexually?" This is their version of sexual equity and feigning interest in my pleasure and needs. I try to empathize with them as they have never been on the receiving end of such a repetitive, ceaseless hammering of questions. Sometimes I tell them they can find some of that information by reading my journal, checking out my site, or paying for a private phone call or video show with me. Blah blah blah. Other times I tell them the truth and I do so with a vengeance: "I like guy-on-guy action, macho buddies jacking off with each other, guys who will fuck anything and everything from couch cushions to blowup dolls to pvc pipes to microwaved liver. I like easily-dominated big dumb mouth-breathing hulks of guys who stand around drooling with their mouths open. I like guys who can suck their own cocks or at least give it a desperate yearning neck-breaking attempt." Of course, I also like women with hispanic accents, but I don't tell them that part. Anyway, they usually shuttup after that, or try to prompt me towards a direction they find more palatable, "but don't you also like licking your girlfriends' bald pussies?" Snort. Not as much as I'd like to walk in on a guy doing a little up and over dousing his own face with spunk.
Wil Wheaton (of Stand By Me and Star Trek fame) says he never gets tired of answering the same old questions from fans "because even if it's the thousandth time I've been asked a question, it's the first time the person asking it has ever heard the answer." Well folks that's commendable, but I am no Wil Wheaton. I get bored. Quickly.
Dishing out canned answers to every Tom, Dick and Hairy Dick that comes into my chatroom makes me feel like a cafeteria whore slapping green jello with bananas onto an assembly line of anonymous brown lunchroom trays. Oh boy -- look at it jiggle!! But it's so cold and jello green is so not a sexy color. :(
Part of the allure of logging, photographing, and sharing so much stuff on my websites is this delusion I have that once I say something . . . I'll never have to say it again because it's already out there, somewhere, even though I can't remember saying it or where it is and certainly no one ELSE could remember it, but no matter . . . it's my delusion and I'm sticking to it. Another way this delusion operates: I have a few pictures where I look pretty damned good and deep down I feel like . . . okay, I've got the proof that I've looked sexy once or twice, I feel great about it, now where's my flannel robe, the potato chips and is there really a reason why I should brush my hair ever again? Let Tucker be the sexy one in our duo, I much prefer the role of the fat bastard pimp.
But I digress. What I really meant to say was that I've been horny as hell the past couple of days because of a self-sucking site I found. If you want to read more from me about it, check here.
Oh, and tomorrow is my show day, so check here for the times. I won't be doing a tubtime and chat beforehand this time around, but I do have a couple other chats scheduled this week that I hope will be fun for all concerned, so don't be afraid of dragonlady webwhore . . . just be prepared to contribute more to the conversation than predictabe questions.
I started out the day feeling cute but bitchy. I'm ending the day feeling ugly and bitchy . . . but more sure of who I am.
After my second photo shoot with Tommy Edwards I am positive that a) I do not take very good pictures unless I can see myself in a mirror, b) my tits have seen better days, and c) my face is not meant to be passive and . . . passive. And I'm fucking glad. I look horrible trying to look like a still life. I am not a model, I am not a bowl of fruit. I am just a regular average almost-thirty year old woman and the *good* pictures of me are something intimate because . . . well, they're rare.
Or maybe I just need to make sure someone who knows and loves me photographs me . . . how is it that out of the 203 pictures houseboy shot of me a couple weeks ago, 172 of them turned out to be beautiful, but out of the 255 pictures a professional took today, only about 50 look halfway decent?? The trouble is, Tommy keeps putting my worried-forehead double-chinned face into the most unflattering positions (with chin tucked down and eyes projected in gazes that I think he aims to be "smoldering"). I look like the waggly-jowled title character in "Throw Momma From the Train". I shit you not. Tommy is truly skilled and a master of working with light -- I am just not a good "model".
Other notes of the day: I missed the ferry going over by a mere four minutes and then spent 40 minutes in the passenger loading area watching a spindly-legged crab being eaten alive by a sharp-beaked seagull. I also observed two teenage girls exhibiting the hallmarks of vain feminine stupidity in the form of inappropriate dress for the season. It's fucking February chickies: put on a motherfucking coat over your midriff-baring t-shirt and please DON'T expose your feet to the cold puddles by wearing platform thongs, you nitwit embarrassments to our gender!
On the ferry ride home a good-old-boy type sat down by me and asked if I was antisocial. To boil down a 30 minute conversation into bloggable format, I eventually decided to disclose to him what I do for a living and handed him my card. I could write a short book about the conversation, but let me instead just share with you the question he asked me with genuine curious ignorance as opposed to a deliberate urge to be offensive and insulting, "so do you think you have any ethics or morals or standards??"
What I should have said (but didn't): No. I don't. In fact I could, without remorse, happily knife you in the face and then proceed to disembowel you for displeasing me with your idiocy. And then I would proceed to take video shots of me sodomizing you with my fist.
What I did say: Yeah. Yeah I *do* have morals and ethics and values -- I have a very strong work ethic and believe I provide a service to people while also challenging stereotypes people have of women and people in the sex industry. For example, the stereotype that you obviously have. Would you have asked someone in another industry (like the timber industry) that same question? I don't think so.
Anyway, I proceeded to my car only to find out that in my haste to be late to the ferry this morning, I left my lights on. Perfect. Just like a dumbass woman I called my boyfriend to come and get me instead of HELLO calling AAA to jumpstart my car. Fortunately houseboy had the sense to ask me "don't you have triple A?" instead of him driving two hours round trip just to give my car a jump and having us both waste gas driving home in separate cars. It was odd and eye-opening that I acted so helpless.
Good thing I have values and morals and ethics or I would make a terribly helpless eviscerater of men. I can see it now, "honey -- this guy made me mad and I have PMS so I want to kill him . . . could you come quick?"
Knowing I have so much to share about the Vegas trip, I've been withholding more current events. Like the great phone sex I had the night we came back; houseboy stuffed my mouth with his cock while my phone sex guy told me how much "Daddy" wants me to suck it. I came using my hitachi magic wand (vibrator) with houseboy jiggling the knob of his cock in my wet mouth. I haven't been doing enough private shows and phone sex . . . that little episode was a reminder of how fun and fulfilling it can be. Having houseboy around when I'm doing phone sex makes me feel extra shy and self-conscious -- but somehow the couple times it's happened I've wound up demanding he get in on the action. It's like having a very safe threesome and/or mixing up your fantasy with reality in the most sublime/surreal manner. The best part about it is that I'm the one getting paid to have the MOST stimulation (the auditory stimulation coming from my client AND the real life stimulation coming from houseboy and whatever other toys I rustle up).
Night before last houseboy took about 130 pictures of me (along with some self-timed shots of us together). I'm starting to feel a lot more comfortable "posing" for him. The best part about it is that he seems to enjoy it -- he totally motivates me to do the shoot and helps hook up the voyeurcams, move computer, lights, etc. around -- all those tedious things that are so time consuming.
Full Gallery appearing in my Members-Only area with tonight's Sunday 1/12 update JOIN NOW for access to the entire gallery!
In sad news, since I moved from Tacoma I have been reading The Irish Think Tank's email every so often (it's amazing that a pathological liar feels safe telling everyone his hotmail password when he should realize that will give us the opportunity to more clearly see his inconsistent stories and lies). Now that he is no longer a threat to me it distressed me to find out he is homeless. He finally got kicked out of his apartment and everybody seems to be discovering that he's a soul-sucking opportunistic bad person. One person told him, "Its scavengers like you who leach off of caring hard working people AND think its OK ..that gave me the inspiration for my Scavenger series of seagull compositions".
On one hand I don't feel sorry that he's getting what he deserves. On the other hand I hate thinking about someone who is not completely evil and *does* have good qualities (fun, good sense of humour, when he *does* have money he's extremely generous with it) living on the streets in fucking cold rainy-ass January. I hope that this makes him a better person or that he just dies. Otherwise his destitution could make him even more of a liar and psycho.