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Archives 5/7 to 5/30/2004 Sunday Blues (5/30)
Inside a row of regular-looking objects near the sidewalk is an item that opens, and in the shadowy back of it is a button. Pressing that button signals a telephone ring inside the machine shop; there are two other buttons and I know one is for talking. I rang, and bingo! I announced myself (yes, it looks weird talking into this thing on the street but there's usually only crackheads and whores around), and a warm voice said, "we're on our way to get you, Violet!" (This picture is from the last SRL show in Los Angeles July 4, 2003. That's me on the left facing the flame from the Boeing jet engine and holding the controls that operate the Running Machine; Mark in the foreground, click to enlarge). I got a big, big hug at the gate from Eric, and another hug and smooch from Mark. I said I was lonely and sad, and that's why I came down, and both of them concurred. Mark excitedly showed me the new space where he tore out a wall and we can fill it with more machine art junk. Then I got to see the shop's new toy: a wood welder. A giant box on the ground warms up and then through a clunky set of heavy cords and a scary antique-vibrator-looking electrode, it transmits low-level microwaves to cook glue when sandwiched between wood. The glue bubbles and voila -- instant hard seal. And to my childish delight, I found out it can cook a lot of other things too! We conjured four-inch flames and giant arcs out of it by playing it against metal tables and big wrenches. It sets calculators on fire. Metal calculators just smoke. "Will it cook a sandwich?" "I want to cook a hotdog!" Mark demonstrated what it does to bugs by folding his arms, shuddering and rolling his eyes up into his head. Wow! I can't wait to use it on things we really need. I got caught up on the states of various projects, and plugged right into what I need to do; the Inchworm needs to have a new hydro pump put back on, and the shockwave cannon needs some work. I think this coming week I need to spend more time at the shop, and when I left had the same feeling as when I slip into my favorite t-shirt before I get in bed; comforted, like I found a little portable piece of home. Now I'm home and have been working for several hours -- I found a bottle of pinot noir and am hoping that'll relax my back a bit. Well, okay, I did stop to have my own private masturbate-a-thon, with my favorite vibe and some new (rented) John Leslie porn. It's weird that my own company doesn't carry my favorite toys, or the porn I *like* to watch. I wish my company would stop discontinuing sex toys I like -- I'm in an awkward position to buy toys form other companies, but what's a girl to do when she needs to wank? I eschewed the GV work tonight and instead did a lot of updates to Tiny Nibbles, though I admittedly could spend days doing all I want to my little site. I could really use the new version of Dreamweaver. Has anyone out there tried it? I want to add several new sections, photo galleries, and I'd really like to add RSS feed to my blog. I have no idea how to do RSS, so if anyone has opinions on services such as Blogger, please let me know. Oh, and if you're a sex writer who reads this, take a look at the call for submissions for my next book.
Playboy comes calling, heh. I've never even been in a limo. Actually Oprah called me on Thursday. Well, not personally, but O Magazine interviewed my completely out of the blue for a feature on women's erotica and sexual fantasies in October. And after the 20-minute interview, I screamed like a little girl and ran in tight little circles around my kitchen with my fists all balled up and my eyes closed for ten minutes straight. And then a very special thing occurred -- I got a copy of Maxim's Blender Magazine in the mail, with a nice fat quote by me on the first page of their article on porn music. Clark Collis, I would kiss you if it wouldn't start rumors; that is the first time in my six years of magazine interview commentary from Cosmo to Men's Health that anyone has ever sent me a copy of the magazine when the article is published. Miracles do happen. The press hits perk me up after a particularly brutal couple of weeks at my day job. I lost my store shift (no, I did not misplace it in my dildo drawer, yes it sucked), and found out that if I want to keep publishing two articles a week in the magazine I edit, I will now have to do all the web team's magazine work myself (because publishing a web page is a lot of work?). And I was really bummed out that I didn't do the fetish photo shoot with Thomas we had planned, unfortunately because Thomas fell suddenly ill. I was really really worried. He recovered, and sent me and the stylist a *very* Thomas email, reading: "the entire world was filled with simpering monkeys who wanted to wrench my toenails out with their fluorescent pink forceps and put depleted-uranium piercings in my wee-wee with unsterilized instruments. So I hope you'll understand." I knew he was feeling better when he sent me an email with no subject or message, just an attachment that read "The First Time I Shaved." Ah, back to normal. (Thomas Roche and Alison Tyler are my two closest buddies, and we send each other stories and articles several times a week. They are far more prolific than I, though I can hide behind the fact that I write nonfiction.) As this post gradually goes nowhere, I crave Advil and hangover food, and shall sign off with three very interesting links: awesome, hilarious and irreverently hip is Arlo Tolesco's new badsexadvice.com; I don't know if this is hilarious or creepy or both, but my pal Allen's wife just discovered lollipopblowjobs.com. Amusement for all. Good night. Holy cow, I cleaned out my inbox and realized I have over fifty emails from Tiny Nibbles readers I have not responded to -- I'm sorry! Get the paddle. I promise that soon I'll lock myself in my office with a few delicious inebriants and my digital camera, and won't come out until responses are sent. Until then, some questions take precedence -- this one, for example: > In a review of an adult film in an earlier book you Hi (name withheld), this is an excellent question, and my apologies for taking so long to reply. One solution is to slide the vibe into a condom, then insert, and pull it out by the condom. Just know that condoms can break on rare occasions, and oils of any kind will make condoms break *every* time. Another solution is simply to buy a slim vibrating toy made specifically for anal use, or to use something slim and highly pleaurable like the Aneros -- because of its hard material, holding a vibrator against the toy will transmit the vibration nicely. Thanks for your email -- in future editions I'll make sure I include this detailed information as a sidebar. Practical Bestiality (5/19) The interesting part was the panel of speakers I was on and the topic at hand: fetishes. I talked about fetish dressing (no, it doesn't go on your salad), and the other panelists spoke about extreme pony fetish, furry (plushy) fetish, bodily fluids and sex (piss, shit, blood, and yes, vomit and a sentence or two on snot), bestiality, infantilism and necrophilia. Unlike any other forum, book or video, the discussion was about the attraction to these forms of sex, the practicalities involved and things to keep in mind when talking to callers about the subjects -- no judgments involved, no psychoanalyzing, no ghettoizing. It was fascinating to learn the practicalities of necrophilia, for instance; one should avoid cadavers deemed for medical use because of the high amounts of formaldehyde -- ouchy on the genitals. And male cadavers do not get boners after death unless they died having sex, though formaldehyde can make penis skin firm feeling. Also, you cannot catch feline HIV from having sex with a cat (!). In fact, there are few things you can catch from sex with animals, save a jail sentence.
I was the most boring one on the panel, I think. I was there to speak as a fetish dress practitioner, a fetish model and someone who gets turned on by dressing in fetish clothes. I described my first experience trying on a corset. I bought it in a used clothing store in Upper Haight ten years ago -- that I put it on when my boyfriend wasn't around (he thought fetish stuff was for posers). And when I put it on I had a direct, immediate physiological reaction; I became aroused like a light switch had been flipped. And no, I had no experiences with corsets or binding as a kid, grandma never made me wear a corset while she spanked me, or any of that cliché BS. I have no explanation for it; it just is. It just worked for me. Now, it turns me on to wear rubber dresses and high heels -- the outfit becomes a hyperextension of my feminized sexuality, sending a direct message to viewers, making my curves more obvious and jiggly, and the heels make my legs long, butt curvy, and the height gives me a feeling of erotic power. That's what I talked about, and it felt unusual because it was so personal. Anyway, it was a great class, I learned a lot, and afterward I got to entertain everyone with my LA trip descriptions, flapping my arms for emphasis and making faces of disbelief. I bet it would've been funny to watch me tell my story with no sound. It was nice to relate my experience to other sex educators, it felt good to hear their comments like, "was there, perhaps, a guy riding though the house on a unicycle, juggling?" The episode airs in September on Playboy TV, and it's going to be awesome. I really do have some awesome pictures from Wired's Nextfest to post, but I'm too swamped to wrangle the 100 or so photos I shot -- I will. I've been finishing the final edits on my next book The Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasies (due in a few days, release end of July), which has the world's best cover. Okay, I got to pick the cover photo, so I really like it -- but it rules over the covers of my other sex guides, whose covers I don’t really like. But they weren't up to me, so what can you do? I am thrilled with the new book -- it's everything I want in a how-to book on sexual fantasy. I'm not going to go into the details yet, but it's really a practical guide to making sexual fantasies come true, every fantasy you can imagine, all the ones in Sweet Life, etc., and I'm pretty proud. After having writer's block for two days I finally wrote the introduction last night, and now can move on to the other books on my plate... The wonderful hour-long conversation I had yesterday with Tony Comstock surely helped, as did his offer to send me a nice bottle of Scotch -- now *that's* the light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, it'll be the perfect reward; I don’t drink or party when I'm on deadline, and I'm especially not drinking because I'm doing some fetish modeling this weekend. I've been dying to do some modeling, and my pal Thomas Roche has entered into a new phase as an erotic pin-up photographer. And his photos are stunning -- check them out. It's not a paying gig, but will get my ya-ya's out, and I'll be styled by a really cute and sassy gal-pal of mine who teaches at SFSI. I can't wait for this week to be over. My problems never went away at work, they got worse, and now I'm being CC'd on emails as a way of communicating with me -- it's an awful feeling. Maybe it's time to find another sex ed magazine to edit -- or here's a new concept; maybe I could work less? I don’t know if it's physically possible, my brain might explode. I might miss something fun, or have to stop writing and reading and thinking about sex. Gasp!
When I got off the plane, at the gate there was a cute tattooed guy holding a sign with my name on it -- it was as if I stepped off the plane and into a movie. He was the Production Assistant, and we immediately chatted and joked like friends, which was good because he took me straight to the studio and I was plopped in front of the camera for hours of interviewing and a detailed set of questions clearly designed by an oral-sex obsessed sadist. Actually, the producer and cameraman were smart and funny, and we cracked each other up repeatedly while wading through the interview. We all wound up making fun of each other in one way or another and I dorked out as per usual, particularly when the cameraman filmed me when I thought I was having a private moment with the anatomy dildo and accidentally smacked myself in the forehead with it. I really thought no one was looking but at least it let them know the caliber of my grace. I was indeed busted playing "helicopter" with the cyber dick.
* The AIDS "moratorium" has resulted in more work than most of these performers could handle. They each claimed they'd had more porn work than ever since the "halt in production." Enjoy the pictures, and know I absolutely did not touch anyone's genitals -- not even my own for a few days. Today I went to Wired's Nextfest and had a blast -- more pictures coming soon. Countdown to LA (5/11) I couldn't be more delighted, of course. My mind is on fantasy overdrive about what trouble I might be able to get into in 30 hours. I hope Playboy gives me a bunny. In my fantasy, I am a stunning, charismatic, magnetic young sexpert who takes the Playboy sets and mansion by storm. Security guards and silicone-stuffed blondes all whisper about me as I move around the set -- who is she? Everyone wants to sit by me in between takes. They laugh hysterically at all my jokes, causing one mysterious set-visiting celebrity (is it Steven Colbert?) to literally shoot a half-caf nonfat latte out his nose at the sheer hilarity of my caustic wit. Who knew oral sex could be so funny? My clothes are to die for -- straight men even admire my sharp, keen SF fashion sensibilities in an almost-jealous way. "Japanese platform boots with an Extra Action Marching Band sticker stuck on the heel, fishnets, tube socks and liquid paper nail polish -- she's a genius!" Bunnies flock -- hop -- to the mall for tube socks and Office Max for accessories. Word gets back to Hef that there is a funny, sexy oral sex expert in the house whose riotous wit and beauty is keeping everyone from getting their jobs done, and he immediately extends my stay, moves me from the Motel 6 to the mansion, and puts me in charge of teaching oral sex classes to his giggly, jiggly blonde harem. In turn, they give me waxing tips. We all become close girlfriends, a tight-knit family that shops religiously and practices oral sex on each other. Hef becomes jealous; this sassy tattooed brunette with a penchant for robotics and oral sex has upset the warren. And her 40 friends, the Marching Band, have broken all the stemware and peed in the pools. We strike a deal; I get a lucrative deal writing a hip, upbeat accurate sex information column in Playboy and a six-picture porn deal directing porn for couples -- as long as I limit my visits to LA to 30 hours at a time. Oh, and I have to take the Marching Band back to SF with me. Well, it seems likely, don't you think? Wish me luck. I've never done anything like this in my life, and never, ever thought my life would wind up here.
My first wanker was a long, drawn out call from a man who wanted a very realistic dildo to penetrate his wife's ass with while he fucked her pussy -- though he took his time getting to the point, of course. When I realized he was jerking while trying to get me to describe the realistic dildos in detail, I transferred him to a male operator. But today I got a guy asking very odd, specific questions about what sex acts were "legal" to use with the Wahl Coil -- because "the manual that comes with it says not to use it on genitals." Sure, dude. I'm not *that* blonde. I could hear him laboring for breath, and he was definitely *not* in an iron lung, if you know what I mean -- he was moving around too much for that. I grew impatient with him and put him on hold -- and went to lunch. Later in the afternoon, another fellow getting spanky with his cell phone called to ask for descriptions of the toys we carry and how they're used for female stimulation. And you know that when a guy calls a store and asks a salesperson how chicks use vibes, he's got a fistful of Crisco and his mom is at work. Oh, and this picture is just to make Friday a bit sweeter.
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After, the PA drove me to my hotel, a Holiday Inn located in Porn Valley, a neighborhood slapped unceremoniously with a name reminiscent of sanitariums, nursing homes and cemeteries -- Woodland Hills. It was far, far, far from civilization as I know it, and the clerk at the desk promised me that a cafe was "very close -- only a mile and a half up the..." while old ladies meandered around the lobby possibly signifying their availability, or sending a distress signal to anyone flying overhead, sporting thick layers of bright turquoise eyeshadow. Hello, LA. Once in my room I flat-out panicked. Here I am in LA, the nearest bar is the Long's Drugs cough syrup aisle, and I'm all alone. A danger to myself. I called 
