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.
My sister came over this weekend with our nephews to spend a couple of nights. I figured we'd still be able to get work done when they went out on Saturday for a community event, which of course I would NOT go to. Because work is SO much more important, sitting here in front of the computer, working while I can literally feel the muscles and skin and hold-it-together-stuff in my thighs and ass breaking down into gobs of useless jello while I workworkwork.
But when my three year old nephew looked at me and asked in that hopeful and slightly anxiety-riddled voice if I was coming WITH them to the fair, I COULD NOT SAY NO. Even though I got about four hours less sleep than I usually do, waking up at 6:30ish which is unheard of for me (yeah, I know, you're like, "cry me a river" but I also often stay up working until midnight, one, two am . . . anyway).
So I put some clothes on and we went and immediately I was glad I came with them when I heard the band warming up. A very filled-out community marching-type of band! We got there just in time and everything turned to magic for me, because it's all about the kids and the music and being able to walk around the people playing their instruments and look at them from all angles and point to all of it, naming the instruments and using my Excited Kindergarten Teacher Voice! I have one of those, believe it or not, that comes very naturally to me.
We got behind the band, next to the lady drummers, and I picked him up so he could see the conductor, and I marched and danced and swayed with him in my arms to Sousa marches and Blue Moon. They were old people and little kids and a bagpiper a block away and I remembered how much I love being around regular people making music, how vital it is to dance and make noise.
I love doing new or not-done-lately things that make my body make sense. There are lots of those things: running really fast when you're in decent shape and feeling yourself turn into an almost-flying machine, fucking, getting massages . . . and holding a baby or a child. Everything that's soft and loose and floppy about me makes perfect SENSE. I felt so grounded and connected, and so sad when Mr. Squishypants was too shy to try to hula hoop on the street in front of everyone, but because I was an auntie on an excursion with them I didn't exist the way I would have if we'd gone there alone, so *I* hooped and finally got to feel exactly how awesome those weighted hula hoops I've been coveting are.
Because I'm not used to picking up and holding anything heavier than the stupid ideas in my head, I went to bed last night with sore, cramping arms and a feeling in my torso like the rocking sensation when you get off a boat after a day of sailing; I could still feel baby Skywalker snuffling against and squirming and pawing at my chest, the embodiment of the word "dimples", like a round gelatinous ghost-bubble encasing the IDEA of grinning-baby-kicking-in-shallow-bath and cute-baby-kittens-at-play was against me.
On the same day as all the fun, we also had some crazy stuff happen. Our dog got all tangled up and stuck on her rope down the hill IN THE MIDDLE OF A YELLOW JACKET'S NEST. It was crazy-scary and I'm so glad it wasn't worse AND that my sister was here to help. Poor Mr. Squish was semi-traumatized by all the hubbub with us telling him to STAY INSIDE AND NOT MOVE while we ran around like crazy with the bees swarming in in clouds. It was horrifying seeing our dog trying to get away from them, not able to let her into the house while they stung and stung and stung her around the muzzle. I'm really surprised that Delia, who rescued the dog, didn't get it worse (amazingly, no stings on her face or neck, but her arm is swollen up and we won't be shooting pics of her ass until the stings she got there are gone).
Later, while we waited for a parade, a guy came down the street trying to get signatures for a petition (which I doubt will do any good) for the public insurance option. An asshole next to us got up in the guy's face about it, and my sister (who is a nurse) in turn got up in HIS face. So we spent about twenty minutes doing our civic duty, fighting with this stranger. While we ganged up on him, tears welled up in poor Mr. Squishypants' eyes just from watching the angry exchange.
It probably was all for nothing, but I hope we gave that guy something to think about.
For the record, even though I voted for him I never thought Obama would do anything to fix health care. I still don't, and suspect whatever half-assed efforts are made will only be counterproductive to eventually getting real universal health care in this country. And no, I don't want to have a big argument about it in the comments, thank you very much. But here's a news flash: EVERYONE NEEDS HEALTH CARE, and "insurance" isn't an effective way of taking care of people's basic health care needs. And personally? I believe EVERYBODY deserves quality health care and that it's inexcusable for a wealthy country like ours not to make sure EVERYBODY has it. A non-profit public insurance plan isn't my idea of the perfect solution, but I do think it's better than nothing. I don't think the way they're trying to go about it is equitable, but whatever.
As happy as I am to see my sister and the kids, I'm always relieved (though sad) to see them go.
We're now going back to normal, logging all our spycams back in (we pretty much only have our office cams up when they're here), turning the audio back on, and, as usual, wishing we all lived closer so I could get smaller doses of that on a more regular basis. I need to do some push-ups so I'm stronger next time, because our nephews are only going to get bigger and I want to be able to dance with them in my arms and pick them up and cuddle them as long as possible.
If my "porn" were standing before the judges on American Idol, Simon would totally call it self-indulgent nonsense. Like shooting almost entirely non-nude sets of pictures with a ren-fairish flavor just because I REALLY LIKE WEARING LONG VELVET DRESSES AND THIS IS MY FAVORITE NECKLACE AND I LIKE PRANCING AROUND IN THE FOREST!! From my latest members-only update:
Most people don't "get" non-nude or softcore porn, and I do think there's a bigger market for straightforward explicit hardcore sex (and I myself prefer to masturbate to fairly explicit, genital-oriented content, though not the generic kind), but make no mistake . . . there's definitely a market for the soft stuff. I'm not sure, but I'm *guessing* that its appeal diminishes the older the model gets, but I could be wrong. I *hope* I'm wrong. Because I will proceed as though I *am* wrong about that. Because I'm totally a self-indulgent softcore kind of lady. Well, not totally. Which is what makes my site difficult to categorize since I love hardcore stuff, too.
Running a personality site means I'm selling myself -- intimate access to WHO I am -- as much as jack-off material (which is everywhere nowadays for free), but maintaining a balance can be a challenge particularly since the balance other people want to see really varies. There are a lot of people who think the porno stuff is boring and others who think the "self-indulgent" softcore/personally revealing stuff is boring. I don't get that information from my own members (who I guess usually know it's futile/counter-productive to complain about what I do/don't do), but from surfing around and reading the variety of opinions/assumptions on this matter. I gave up on trying to please "everybody" a long time ago, but still feel self-conscious sometimes KNOWING that people will look at some of what I put out there, particularly something they paid for, and will be dissatisfied. Even when you know you can't please everybody, you still feel crappy sometimes that you can't. That you know someone will be distinctly UNhappy because you're older, because you're too nasty, because you're not nasty enough, because you're shaved, because you're hairy, because you're too quiet or not quiet enough. It's a constant challenge to silence that chatter in your head of what other people might be thinking and listen only to what you yourself want and think. But when I do, I hear that I want more cheap, stretchy, crushed-velvet dresses from the thrift store. I want more of the scenery I love that is home to me. I want more cleavage and swooning and vulgar meaty thighs.
I like being suggestive without fully delivering. I wonder how much of that's a (mostly) chick thing -- enjoying having a scene set and characters drawn and then using your own imagination to fill in the blanks to your own liking whereas (most) men want all of the blanks filled in for them in explicit, glossy detail. I have actually been thinking about duplicating and reformatting the way I present some of my softcore picture sets in order to fill in some of those blanks, or ramp up to the nudity in a way that makes it feel more like a money shot once you get to it, but I'm not sure I'll ever have time for that project. I think it would be very effective, though.
Lately I feel a little tempted to stop updating my site as frequently and focus more on marketing Delia's site. Financially, that would make a lot of sense, but I don't want to do that. The fact that Delia's site significantly outsells mine does free me up to think of her site as the bread and butter that allows me to totally fuck around on mine and do whatever I want without worrying that we'll lose our main source of income when I alienate all of my members. Not that this would happen, but the appeal of Delia's site compared to mine does give me a sense of freedom that it's not all about me. It doesn't all rely upon me. That's a huge relief that allows me to end these annoying trains of insecure thought on a positive note and go back to indulging in my own flights of fancy. In the forest! Twirling around in a long dress! Wearing a gypsy necklace with amethysts! And what more do people want than my boobies, anyway?
Tonight's ending on a very positive note that could even be viewed as a metaphor for other things going on in our lives; we finally installed a second hard drive for storage on my main work machine so I'm moving big files off my weighted-down C drive. It feels like a fresh start! Right now I'm filling up some of that space by transferring non-work photos over to this machine so I can enjoy playing with shots we've taken for fun/to learn about our camera.
November 20th: a buck Delia spotted in our neighbor's backyard:
Our "new" camera (Nikon D300) has been therapeutic for me, making me stop and take time out to really LOOK and lose myself in details outside of myself. I'm not the kind of person who tries to capture EVERYTHING with a camera -- I definitely appreciate being in the moment with family, friends and on vacation -- but when we're at home (which is the same as being at work unless we make a really concerted effort for it not to be) doing the daily grind it's a big challenge for me to get out of my head. But now, when something mundane and beautiful captures my attention I feel justified in grabbing the camera, ostensibly to learn to take better photographs, and spending 5-20 minutes to really SEE and try to understand what I'm seeing: the light, the textures, the motion . . . challenging myself over what's real and not real because it can look so different viewed with my eyes compared to how it's captured by the camera. Immersing myself in all those different versions of truth and light and darkness and the stories we instantly create and details we insert after pulling them out of our asses when we think we're looking at our surroundings.
Looking out our window a few hours ago:
We actually bought three 500 GB hard drives months ago for three different machines and up until today, had only installed ONE of them because of little nuisances like not having Dell's annoying little drive "caddies", not having serial ATA cables with the 90 to 180 degree corner jobbies so the case will close properly, me despising crawling around on the floor fucking with all the cables and cords tangled around dust bunnies, etc. If you heard me screaming last night it was when I bashed my elbow into the corner of my desk during that process. Anyway, we finally took care of it and I ordered everything we need to install a couple more on other machines.
The past couple of days I had the alarm set for 8:30 in the morning to try to get us back into a groove of semi-normalcy; at least I *thought* I set the alarm for 8:30. Turns out I forgot to adjust the ipod when the time changed so we were actually being woken up at 7:30 which just didn't feel right. We'll try again tomorrow. Maybe I'll even start my day by going outside with the camera.
*Last night I enjoyed a conversation with my wanker in which I wasted lots of time raving about this Teddy Thompson fellow and a performance we saw on Later with Jools Holland. Here it is, and it slays me:
I've only downloaded one of his songs (a cover of "She Thinks I Still Care", one of my all-time faves) because there's no way I can narrow it down so I'm trying to hold out to be able to buy some of his albums, though I will probably download his cover of Leonard Cohen's "Tonight Will Be Fine":
I don't know why I assumed my dad would be buried with his Masonic ring since I knew it was a family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his dad, so it was both a blessing AND a surprise when my aunt, mom and sister all agreed I should have it. Normally I keep it on my "altar" with other trinkets and items of greater and lesser power. Here it is (upside down; sorry):
I have no idea what the monetary value is of this ring (nothing extraordinary), but it was the fanciest piece of jewelry anyone had in my family and the only diamond I ever felt familiar with. It was ALWAYS present on my dad's hand and seemed imbued with secret, mystical powers.
It's totally against the rules for me to wear it since I'm not a Mason and not a man, but sometimes I do it anyway to have my dad present. I wore it on a chain to my sister's wedding, and sometimes I wear it on my finger when I want to have him near me. I've put it on at times when I needed to be reminded of the depth of his values, patience, kindness and boundless love for others. His vehement opposition to hatred and distaste for petty anger, mean-spirited criticism and silly conflicts. When I need a reminder to be a better person and my dad isn't here to do it for me, I put on his ring. I should do it more often.
I wear it pointed at me so I can look at it the way I saw it on his finger, pointed out because he was a past Master. I'm wearing it today because I know how excited and happy he would have been to vote for Obama. I know how he would celebrate the progress being made and be proud to be part of these positive steps forward in history. One of the things that bothered my dad about Masonry was the segregation (white lodges and black lodges) and the really ugly, racist history and associations a lot of Masonic groups and individuals have.
During my dad's life they'd at least gotten to the point where they recognized each other's lodges and visited each other, but it was still really . . . ummmm . . . old-fashioned. When my dad was still mobile he took to visiting a black lodge in Seattle regularly and petitioned for membership there -- the first white guy to do that (how welcome that idea was to the Prince Hall Masons I don't know; if they were opposed to it my dad was totally oblivious to that). It was our state's white Masons, though, who made up some bullshit to block him having a dual membership (I can't remember the details and only happened upon them when I was going through his papers; if I remember correctly they lied and said he wasn't a member in good standing with the state; of course there may have been a lot more to it behind the scenes that I don't know about). My dad just contented himself with his honorary membership and waved off my protestations as stupid politics when I asked him "what the fuck??"
My dad is the one I went with the first time I voted for a president. We were SO excited about Clinton and I was SO young and optimistic I really felt hope in the marrow of my bones. I was positively WIGGY with optimism! Like a lot of people, I've naturally lost that feeling as I've gotten older and seen how even the good guys, when they're ALLOWED to do their jobs, aren't really all for progress and the last two presidential elections have been enough to seal me permanently in cynicism. I'm not even sure I will be able to feel anything more exciting than RELIEF if/when Obama wins. Not relief that everything or even most things will get better, but just a small assurance that I'm not living in a country dominated by the hopelessly brainwashed and criminally selfish. Relief that we can at least be proud of doing SOMETHING right.
I wish my dad could be here for this because his enthusiasm wouldn't be tempered by my black-spirited pessimism. I really wish my whole family were together for this and there would be hugs all around and crying and hysterical joy that we would always remember sharing together. Maybe we can get together on Inauguration Day. But today, tonight, and tomorrow I'm wearing my dad's ring and inviting him to be present when Delia and I celebrate here at home together. I hope.
I can't even describe how much joy a couple pots of pansies have given me. We rarely spend money on yard-stuff since we rent, but damn . . . just having a reason to go outside and water a couple bowls of flowers and inspect their tiny, perfect faces makes me so fucking happy. It did suck when we were gone last week and came home to find the deer had eaten half of them in our absence, but since pansies are so cheap it didn't feel like a major loss:
We took most of the day off on Wednesday, AND IT WAS GOOD. We took the dog for a walk on the beach when we got up, then we came home for breakfast: eggs scrambled up with onions and softened apples (that Delia picked from the tree in our yard). It's pretty rare that I cook any of the food we eat together (Delia takes care of all the housewifey things here), so it made me feel good to contribute in that way for once.
We also spent time outside pruning the Camellia, meaning Delia pruned while I stood there and watched, enjoying the rain that started to fall while I picked up the branches. Or maybe that was yesterday, I don't know. I also got a headache on our day off, but since we didn't have anything planned it felt SO GOOD to not worry about what I wasn't going to get done and just nap instead. I'm redoubling my efforts to avoid migraine triggers, for real! I just had a minor lapse Tuesday night when I had some processed meat. Bad, Trixie!
Tonight while Delia was at her AA meeting I really wanted to play piano and sing, but as usual having the audio on the cams makes me feel totally self-conscious. I know I shouldn't be, that even if I suck ass it's entertaining, but that doesn't matter; I want to be alone.
It's not that hard to turn the audio off on the cams, but I feel guilty about it and worry that people just joining for the first time will check the cams, not hear anything, and think I lied about broadcasting audio. On the other hand, I feel guilty about not doing something I enjoy and value (making music for the sheer pleasure of it AND to practice/improve) so I think I'm going to start setting that time aside when Delia's at her meetings for alone time at the piano and just turn the audio off on the cams. I might even log in a special silent cam since I don't mind people WATCHING from a voyeuristic angle, I just don't want to be heard, critiqued, etc.
Maybe if I keep that up we'll start having monthly or weekly "performances" or something so the mystery can be revealed and to motivate me to focus on doing more than just noodling around.
After taking swimming lessons as a kid, I haven't spent much time in pools, but I want to get in the water more often so I dusted off my old rubber swim cap (barely used), bought a new one (the purple one below) and replaced the old broken rubber strap on my goggles. I tried everything on during one of my webcam chats last week and was extremely pleased with the results:
I can't tell you how much I love wearing my swim caps -- it has all the pleasure of a corset without the hassle and expense. A corset for your BRAINS! They're snappy, squeaky, thick and delicious and wearing them reminds me how glamorous I thought women were who wore do-rags and turbans when I was very young. LOVE! I am INCHES away from shaving off my hair and wearing swim caps full time (and paired with earplugs it would be delicious deprivation of auditory perception). Except without the hair I don't know if it would be as pleasurable to remove the swim cap after thirty minutes or more of wear; there would be less hair-pulling, but too much cold to enjoy the slow expansion of the head and hair-floof back to maximum size.
And don't even get me started on goggles . . . this is my LOOK! I think it's totally cool when there's a reflection on just one lens.
Swimming was fun, but I went alone and was actually nervous about doing something new: would they have lockers and if so, would they provide locks and keys and something to hold onto the key while I'm swimming? Would I have to pay for each scheduled event I stayed for or only the first thing I showed up for? Would I be horribly slow and block faster, fitter people from enjoying their laps?
I managed to go despite these nagging anxieties and enjoyed myself, even if I can't seem to swim in a straight line and kept kicking the wall during my sidestroke and wound up with a scraped foot. I love being immersed in the water. I love the colors and sounds of an indoor pool. I love everything being muffled and wet and full of vapor. I love floating and turning and being thick and mobile.
I felt calm and heavy afterwards. It's good stuff. In fact, I went back for more and posted a confession/fantasy today for members that I had about myself and the nerdy lifeguard.
Today I spotted a really good deal for webmasters on a huge stash of hot Russian fetish porn so I bought it and decided to use it to start building a bonus site for our members. Tonight I'll post a gallery of fifty of my favorites; the following are samples from that gallery:
I bought this package not only because it was cheap, but because it contains so many things I love: gloves, inflatables, peeing, smiling natural-looking girls, outdoor nudity, white panties & socks, and a host of other naughty things. It's hard to believe the content broker advertised it as his "ugly girls package". Snort. There's some insight into the porn industry mentality (in case you need any, which I doubt).
My hope is to make this bonus site to house bought content (non-exclusive stuff I like, but we didn't shoot ourselves) and be more of a story site with my own little fantasy narrative to accompany my favorite images from each set. I know! WHY am I starting another project? It's not really a big thing to do, though, and not something I need to crank out or "complete" any time soon; it's more like adding another feature to our sites and inspiration for me to write more porno stories which are conspicuously small in number on our sites as it stands. I like riffing off of strangers in content other people have shot. It's fun/hot, plus I feel the need to bulk up on the stories because a) the types of people who dig our sites also seem to dig stories, b) it offers insight into my own turn-ons which is part of the personality people expect from me, and c) to offer a little more of the type of content women gravitate towards (IN GENERAL; of course not all women like their porn in story form, but a whole lot DO rely upon the written word for masturbation fodder and think huge sets of 200 pics are totally fucking boring). Stories are pretty cool because they don't require a bunch of money or extra people to produce outrageous scenarios; you just need time (which IS money, I know) and a pervy imagination.
Speaking of stories, here's the latest on the "Red Rose"/Karen Fletcher case in which a woman was prosecuted by the federal government for OBSCENITY. She was convicted of a thought crime right here in AMERICA! I don't know how to explain this if you don't already know it, but it should not be acceptable to any of us that the government thinks WRITING about criminal behavior and publishing it IS a crime in itself, no matter how unsavory the subject matter. Even if people are jacking off to it. Especially when there are shows on television like Law & Order: Special Victims Unit which is big corporate porn of exactly the same stripe as Karen Fletcher's, only maybe it's worse because people delude themselves into thinking they're watching those fictions not out of "prurient interest" (which is the language the law uses to say certain media is used as jack-off material rather than some more socially-acceptable form of entertainment - I call it the pornography of abuse and it's how Oprah MADE her fortune) but because it's somehow good for society. What a crock of shit. You cannot flip past that show for ten seconds without some Daddy creeping into a family bedroom he shouldn't be in or seeing a child shivering naked in a bathtub or hearing the word RAPE. People obviously get off on that shit in many different ways. Let me clarify, I'm not condemning human nature here (most of us are drawn in one way or another to the horrifyingly sick, scary and macabre), I'm condemning the double standards that criminalize speech that SHOULD be protected by the First Amendment while giving the entertainment industry fucking Golden Globe awards for the same shit wrapped in a different package and set of excuses.
If Karen Fletcher was DOING the things she wrote about or printing the stories up on fliers and distributing them at elementary schools, well OF COURSE she should be not just prosecuted, but locked up for life. But she wasn't. That's not what the Department of Justice went after her for. They went after her for sitting at home in complete isolation, putting words on a computer and then onto the internet. WORDS. She thought about bad things and shared those bad thoughts with a whopping audience of twenty-nine people who sought out and chose to read them. Would I want to be her friend or have her over to babysit? Of course fucking not. What I want is for us all to prosecute and put people in prison WHO ACTUALLY COMMIT CRIMES. Not just imagine crimes in their heads.
On my simple softcore porn photo shoot to-do list I've resolved to wear more REAL clothes. You know, stuff that can be (and is) worn in public: no stripper shoes, no Leg Avenue costumes, no fishnets.
I just posted this gallery last night with me wearing a bunch of things I love: my all-time favorite hoody with embroidered black flowers (I've been wearing that thing for about eight years), a t-shirt my sister loaned me the last time we went to the spa, a knit cap that actually belongs to Delia's ex-wife but has lived with us for years. I wore the pants in another shoot, but I love them so much and they're even softer now than they were then. They totally represent love to me because my sister bought them for me when she was out shopping. Buying pants for people is hard! I would never risk buying anyone a pair of pants, not even my sister, but she clothed me in soft, cozy legwear.
This picture here makes me want to do a Rosie the Riveter style shoot (won't be any time soon though -- we don't have the time or money to pull off something that good/important to me right now, not to mention I need bigger muscles):
Anyway, I really love this set of pictures -- I think they're adorable and I look palpably fleshy and real.
This week I've got a lot of chat sessions scheduled for any members who want a chance to talk to me. I'm actually in our chatroom right now . . . alone. Which is why I was able to make this post! Think how easy it could be for you to have an awkward one-on-one conversation with me by becoming a member. You could be moving your moist hands back and forth from your genitals to the keyboard while you talk to me about music and toggle back and forth between the chatroom, my desk cam, and these photos without being able to explain the appeal because I totally don't even look sexy, at least not in a mainstream media or porno way.
Delia and I are trying not to eat out so often; we've actually done pretty well with that this year. It's not that I mind spending the money on it because we don't go totally crazy with it, it supports local business people and I need to get out of the house SOME time, but we aren't even enjoying it that much anymore and do it more for comfort than anything else.
Anyway, we're now motivating ourselves not to eat out by listing frivolous things we want that are in the eat-out price range and focusing on those when we feel tempted. $20-$25 is our average lately since we usually split something, so at the end of every week we manage not to eat out we're rewarding ourselves with $25 each. Is that dorky? Whatever.
Since we didn't eat out for a week, I used my money plus some other in my phone sex money stash to buy her:
I feel good about my purchase, partly because it's something beautiful (way prettier than leftover mexican food) and partly because I bought it from some awesome bus-dwelling people. It's always interesting to me when I compare what other people charge for their arts/crafts/work to what *I* charge for access to my porn, stories, shows and spycams. In many ways they're incomparable, but at first glance I have to gasp at how relatively inexpensive it was to buy something as gorgeous as this doll, something that must have taken hours to make -- something I myself can't fathom having the time, talent, skill or patience to to make. It's amazing to think about all of the life that goes into something like that from the sheep to the person collecting the wool to all of the steps in making the doll: shaping, dying and whatever else I'm clueless about.
It makes me wonder why I don't buy MORE beautiful, handmade things. I love them, but it always strikes me as a luxury/something I'll do LATER, when I don't have debt; that way of thinking is pure fucking nonsense, though. And it really seems RIGHT for me to cycle the money people spend on me as luxury/entertainment/personal support by doling some of it out to other small-business people and artists, right? On top of that I think I feel more inspired to do better work when I spend time looking at and touching other people's beautiful work. I spend most of my money on plastics and electronics and such, justifying it as being "for work", but forgetting that I need personal/spiritual juice for my work to be worth doing.
On Saturday I'm doing my civic duty at our county convention as an Obama delegate; I've canceled my shows that day rather than rescheduling them; there was no way I could get my other work (shoots, webmastering, etc.) done this week if I crammed show day into another slot. What I *have* done, though, is put a chat session at 9 pm Saturday night. I know that's probably going to make it unattendable for some people, but I'm not sure when I'll be home from the thing and want to have dinner and a break in between (my social juices being in always short supply).
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.
On my birthday (Saint Patrick's Day) we went for a walk in the woods with our dog. We've gotten more rain in the past week than we normally do in our Western Washington "banana belt" location, so the moss and everything seemed a brighter green edging the path.
One of my favorite things about being in the woods with Delia is the way she will point out pretty things, first using their common names and then (if I'm lucky) their Latin names. Was it a flowering quince she pointed out? I can't remember what it was, only that it had pink buds and the water was behind Delia when she said it. I can hear the sound of the comma between the English and the Latin, even if I can't remember the words.
As we wandered off the beaten path, Delia notified me that she found a morel:
For the rest of our walk she kept her eyes peeled for more while I just grinned feeling that fortune had smiled upon us. On me, especially.
Today she fried it up in butter and soy sauce and we shared that one small, delicious mushroom. It was better than a birthday cake. The kiss afterwards was salty and slick with grease.
Delia had a sperm deposit to make in Seattle on Thursday. On our way to catch the ferry, we stopped for Chicken McNuggets on Bainbridge Island. I went inside quickly while Delia waited in the car and thought I saw an old familiar face of someone I fucked (and adored) years ago: Brian the Cop. I only saw him briefly out of the corner of my eye sitting at a table in back with some other men and dismissed the feeling of recognition to hurry and fill up our pop and get on our way so we wouldn't miss our boat. When I went back outside and noticed a police car with K-9 Unit written all over it, I realized it really must have been him and became GIDDY remembering how senselessly attracted I was to him.
This past year I've thought a lot about my promiscuous post-divorce adventures and the guys I met through a mutual interest in sex. I've thought about how they were all pretty decent fellows and that I was lucky to cross paths with them. I've thought about how unfairly mean and dismissive I was to some of them in my retarded early blog posts. I didn't have much in common with most of them, but I did like them and I feel even more fond of them now that they're cute little memories I can wonder about and wish well from a distance.
As I get older, I also feel guiltier and more conscious of some things I've done (or failed to do) that were idiotic, insensitive, unforgivably horrid, self-indulgent and/or just plain embarrassing. In fact, just the day or two before the Brian sighting I was spanking myself internally with mortification over the memory of how my retarded and unjustifiable infatuation with Brian the Cop led me to make my sorta-girlfriend at the time cry. I was inexcusably mean and stupid, and I enjoyed the whole fantastically dramatic mess.
Seeing him again, albeit fleetingly, made me forgive myself. He's stupid, I'm stupid -- we're all stupid. And beautiful. It doesn't matter what a goon the guy was, it WORKED for me and it's just not human to deny that some people electrify your insides in spite of how wrong they are for you. I'm thankful I never got the chance to completely ruin my life over someone like that and feel blessed that I got to enjoy the silly thrill of it all.
He was 6'4" and his penis was on the small side. He was a premature ejaculator and he had this song playing on his website. He was big and hairy and ridiculous and I loved every lie he told me. When I expressed interest in humping his assault rifle, he followed through and brought it over for me. Though I loved seeing its sexy blackness laying on my bed, I had to admit with disappointment that it wasn't designed for humping and that his hand and small penis were much better suited to my genitals.
I grinned like an idiot all the way to the ferry terminal and chuckled to myself over the bad fucking joke of it all. While we waited for the boat to arrive, Delia left the car to go to the bathroom and I looked around the holding area wondering if I'd see Brian jump out with one of his big German Shepherds to sniff out drugs and terrorists. I wanted to see him again without him seeing me.
I got distracted from thoughts of Brian when I saw a beautiful brunette woman in the distance and immediately felt a pang of attraction, that "WHO is THAT?!?" moment, before realizing a split second later that I actually knew her, too!
It was Delia coming back from the bathroom. Lucky, lucky, lucky times three (billion) because that woman in the distance is my girlfriend and it's no accident she's walking towards me.
Every sex toy connoisseur should have a glass toy. If my video (see below) doesn't convince you, perhaps this review of my first glass toy, Blue G-Spot Pleasure Swirl, will.
A lot of people love glass toys just because they're so pretty; there's a reason for the note on this one that it won't stand up on it's own: because people love to display them like they're Chihulys. Mine reminds me how much I loved marbles when I was little, not to shoot, but to hold and inspect. I would project myself into those little spheres like they were snowglobes of other planets or little mermaid shelters. The weight of the glass and the colorful ribbons and swirls inside are so pleasurable to hold and peer into.
The sexiest reason to love glass toys is that they're HARD: when you're stimulating your g-spot or prostate, you want something firm with no give, and something that gives you enough leverage to put a high level of pressure on the right spot; this toy does that with the glass and a nice amount of length to get a good grip and really grind. I've found that it also helps to have a toy with a pronounced curve if you want to really work on your g-spot and unfortunately, my first glass toy doesn't have enough of an angle for me to say it's absolutely PERFECT for that task. I still made it work, of course, because I'm a pro (haha), but for vaginal penetration and g-spot stimulation, I think I'd prefer something like THIS (with full curve) or this beauty (in a delicious large).
Not only do those toys have more pronounced curves, they have bigger, more bulbous heads which I also prefer for working over my g-spot; it's not that I need or want a huge phallus (in my next toy review you'll see that just a little bit bigger can be TOO big) but I do like a little more popping action from a dildo when I'm masturbating and more surface area for stimulating my g-spot.
After trying it out on my pussy, I decided this toy is actually the perfect size for my ass. Here, let me show you:
Video taken from webcam show archive, hence the low quality.
As many of you know, I'm not a big double penetration fanatic, but this dildo would be perfect for reaching around and sliding up my butt while Delia's cock fucks my pussy; the shaft is long enough to not require too much contortion and the straightness of the toy means she'd probably be able to feel it really well while she's inside of me.
I feel compelled to mention some of the "boring", practical reasons people (especially women) love glass toys: they're non-porous, easy to thoroughly clean, great for people with allergies, shifty pH balances, or sensitivities to chemicals (which most cheap sex toys have), and they're compatible with all lubes (unlike many silicone toys which go gloopy if you use them with silicone lubes). Glass toys are on the expensive side, but they have a long life: they won't get discolored, they won't melt in the sun, they won't tear or get bent out of shape and I have never heard of anyone chipping, breaking or shattering a glass toy either; that is saying something since I'm in an industry where people share this kind of information and talk to each other about their favorite toys, their biggest toy failures, and their sex toy accidents. We really USE our toys often and put them through a lot of abuse -- we've all dropped toys during webcam shows and shoots so none of us want anything even remotely fragile. In fact, I know a couple of chicks with their own sites who use glass toys almost exclusively -- not just because they're pretty but because they prefer the way they feel and that they're made with a safe material that doesn't give them a chemical burn.
You might wonder why I haven't reviewed my first glass toy's efficacy for clitoral stimulation; that's because I mostly use vibrators when I masturbate my clit (which means the ENTIRE network of nerves; as you saw in the video I can put my magic wand above the head of my clit and get a trickle-down effect). If I weren't so lazy, though, I'd say a glass toy of any kind would be great all lubed up and stroking a clit, especially if you were watching yourself in a mirror (yes, I like watching myself, specifically my pussy, while I masturbate); if I still lived alone, I'm sure I'd do exactly that. I would hold the glass dildo by the shaft, aim the lube-heavy head downwards, placing it just above my clit, then I'd slide the head down over my clit and up, down and up, repeatedly. I think this would work especially well with legs closed, and in this case the smaller girth and less bulbous head would work perfectly nestled between chubby labia, sliding up and down over my clit. The smooth surface of the glass is great because there's no drag with lube and you can also heat and chill glass toys.
Long story short: I can't wait to add more glass to my toybox!
They had crabs and even octopuses, but I chose this one for the colors (and because the octopus looked too cramped and large for her little ball and it made me feel claustrophobic seeing her miniature plastic form that way):
Maybe you've heard me mention how therapeutic bouncing a rubber ball can be, or maybe you've seen me doing it on cam. It's something I've only discovered recently, and I should do it more often -- it's very meditative and extremely useful for a person with my kind of brain wiring.
It soothes me and allows me to focus; there's not enough time in between bounces for me to daydream much. It's rhythmic, tactile, beautiful to watch and even lovely to hear when you're the one making the bouncing noises happen. I can physically measure gallons of tension and stress draining out of my pores and my focus getting sharper. It's like each bounce clears away some fog and dispels blobs of blur.
I love the big glitter and the old-fashioned blue. The simple, effective depth conveyed in this small, palmable sphere. I love how resilient it feels and how defiantly plucky it sounds. It bounces off the floor in wildly unpredictable directions.
I didn't take a picture of it, but there's a whole other look on the other side of the ball with the starfish showing a pale underbelly against a murkier background. It's like the intimate morning-after without-makeup look, nude, inside the starfish bedroom.
Watering a tender, fuzzy little plant you've neglected until its dirt dried out, then seeing it spring back to wet-rooted life in an hour to the point where it looks as though its leaves and stems are levitating and dancing in midair -- that feels like forgiveness.
You can fuck up so bad, and still there is someone or something alive that's resilient enough to endure you, thank you and forgive you.
Delia brought home this little pincushion plant as a present for ME even though it's HER birthday. Even though I was the one being an asshole.
The witch in the background was also a gift from her to me.
I think I burned through a ton of personal energy yesterday because today I feel like I could sleep for twenty-four hours. This morning I had some crazy hot sex dreams, but couldn't really sleep soundly for worrying about finances and repeatedly waking up to immediately begin thinking of ways to ease the current situation.
I know I should probably make it sound like spending ten thousand dollars is no big deal for us, but . . . it is. Tucker took a giant jar of change to the coinstar machine so we'll have money for food and so I could try to avoid incurring an overlimit charge on one of my credit cards. He did it early this morning since we woke up at six accidentally and of course the first thing out of my mouth was, "we need to take that change in TODAY and get it to my bank before it closes at noon".
I'm thinking of pawning my old wedding/engagement ring; the only thing delaying this act is that there's no pawn shop in town. I like my ring a lot, but I never wear it and it's really not that important to me. I've never pawned anything before, either, so I'm kind of curious about the process and like the idea of being part of an old white trash tradition. I like the idea of sacrificing something tangible and precious, of doing something ritualistic to commemorate this event and burn it even deeper into my brain. I don't think I've ever even been INSIDE a pawn shop, to tell you the truth.
I should confess that the only reason I'm in this current precarious situation is a lack of planning; I could have cammed my ass off for a month prior and paid for Trixie.com with no problem. But I didn't. I honestly didn't even consider making a goal of raising or saving a certain amount, partly because there was no way of guessing how much it would sell for and partly out of sheer optimism and faith that everything would turn out for the best. And it did. It does. It will. I trust "it". I trust myself.
1. I don't like those blue m&m's. I liked the old seventies colors. Red looked so pretty with the two colors of brown. Blue is ALL WRONG.
2. I believe that space colonization will save humankind -- that ONLY space colonization CAN save us. It's not something I think about often so it's not like I'm revealing some bizarre secret of mine. Or wait, maybe I am. This is something I've believed for a long time, maybe because the space station was such a big deal when I was a kid. Still, it wasn't something I had any detailed exposure to -- it just slid into my belief system.
Why does this nugget of belief appeal to me? I don't know -- probably because science barely-fiction captured my imagination somehow from an early age. I'm not very literate in the sci-fi genre in general, but my dad bought enough graphic sci-fi stuff (a huge Buck Rogers collection in giant-book form which I never read, but leafed through every so often, a couple of captivating books with spaceship blueprints, and a subscription to Omni) that it wiggled into my consciousness as something real. Star Wars was the first movie I remember seeing, and that in a drive-in theater with my dad after a fight with my mom so it made a big impression on me. I didn't study or immerse myself in science, science fiction, or technology but I saw and read enough that was so beautiful, believable, provocative and richly detailed that it planted seeds in my brain.
Maybe that's why I didn't like Star Trek: not very beautiful, believable, or richly detailed. My first exposure to Star Trek was the original series during reruns and I was too little to understand its provocative content, only to recognize its visual inferiority to Star Wars and the other pictures I saw. The only thing I liked about the original series were the short dresses on the hot chicks. Of course, in the past couple of years I've become a Next Gen fan but it didn't contribute to the formation of my belief system, only reinforced it.
I think space colonization is part of my faith; I have faith that a few smart, persistent, creative people will save us and we will endure thanks to scientists and technology. When I say "we" I don't mean "I" since I believe this will happen after I'm dead and gone, but not by much. The idea of space colonization comforts me even though it's completely irrelevant to my life and even though it will be fraught with tragedies and scary things.
I suppose I like knowing that the struggle will go on and that there are new frontiers to explore. Or maybe it comforts me to imagine that people in general won't become too much more advanced than I had a chance to be any time soon. I can't believe Firefly only lasted one motherfucking season because that show perfectly captured what I think a lot of us imagine as the not-so-distant future of humankind.
Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time specifically thinking about space colonization as a cornerstone of my belief system. I have, however, spent quite a bit of time over the past few years reflecting on science fiction in general as the best contemporary vehicle for exploring spiritual, moral, and ethical issues. Science fiction is one of the most authentic ways I feel like I can "get religion". It's not fixed or as dogmatic as science itself so there is still room for faith (and when I say "faith" I mean faith in something -- ANYTHING -- wiggly and uncertain, not faith in any of the gods of religions we're so familiar with today), and it's not completely insane or irrational (again, like so many of the religions we're familiar with today). There's room for soaring idealism in science fiction, and for bitter cynical social commentary. I love it.
Anyway, even though I don't give daily deep thought to space colonization, I guess I do feel pretty anxious about this planet and sad about what we're doing to it. The amount of destruction I've seen in my short life, and the carelessness people have towards the "environment" leads me to believe (another part of my faith) that we aren't going to be able to live here naturally much longer without lots of artificial intervention. Much of what is most beautiful will be utterly fucking destroyed -- any of it that's saved will be via small-scale Jurassic Park type measures.
I didn't grow up in a city. Many days I actually got to wade in creeks, see big trees, smell clean air, enjoy darkness at night, have complete privacy/solitude . . . things like that. I've spent all of my thirty three years loving ferns and moss and the smell of rotting wood.
I didn't grow up in a city, but I grew up close enough to the city of Seattle to see major MAJOR changes in western Washington every single year for the past thirty-three. It's nothing against cities, because I love those too, but we are mowing good things down and paving over it so fast and furiously and on such grand scale that you have to have your head stuffed straight up your cornucopian ass to not recognize that we're shitting all over the planet; it cannot sustain these levels of "growth" and resource-rape. I wasn't raised to be an "environmentalist"; my grandpa was a logger and most people I knew were pretty conservative and hostile towards "tree-huggers". Really, my sentiments are fueled only by the gift of sight -- you have to be fucking blind to not see the destruction and life out of balance.
So. I guess I comfort myself with the fact that science will create new wonders, preserve and transplant some old ones, and life will go on. It really breaks my heart, though, imagining the world introduced to my nephew (or my own children if I ever have any) and trying to show them as many things as possible before they're bulldozed down. If my own lifetime has been marred by observable decimation of natural resources and beauty I can only imagine how depressingly ugly and destructive the world will become over the next three generations. And hey, it's not all about "nature" -- privacy and solitude are becoming relics of the past (or at least luxuries only the very richest of the rich can afford). If I ever have grandchildren I'm pretty certain their notion of these concepts (privacy and solitude) will be reduced to tiny fragments of what they should be.
It makes me fucking shudder, but I thank my lucky fucking stars to be alive in this time and place rather than somewhere else, or sometime long ago, or sometime in the near future. That brings me back to faith; who or what should I "thank"? Science fiction hasn't answered that question for me yet so sometimes I fall back on the old-fashioned stuff because really, I do need to give thanks even if it's primitive, superstitious and nonsensical.