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Archives 9/12 to 10/5/2004 The San Francisco Dr. Phil Smackdown (10/5)
The Elegant Spanking (10/4) I've never really experienced a moment like that since -- that is until the weekend before my birthday. Hornboy and I have been voyeuristically visiting these sex parties -- high fetish fashion (yet somehow casual), very private, invite only, a totally pansexual crowd. Couches and bondage racks, BYO beer and wine, part speakeasy, part S/M play party. We go, and we watch. The we go home and turn into rabid sex bunnies. Too shy to play, too curious to look away. But something in me finally broke when we attended the soiree before last September 22. It's a birthday thing, you must understand -- something about getting a little bit older and feeling like there are just some things that must be tried before everything sags unforgivably, or a digit gets lost in a machine, or the world ends or something. We were sitting on the couch at the party, watching the many couples paddle, bind, spank, finger, lick, suck... Hornboy looked impressive in a toned-down black uniform, and I was in a mod mood: go-go boots, extreme mini dress with geometric patterns, short-billed cap, dramatic eyes and pale lips -- and no panties. We sipped wine and watched, and then performances were announced in another room and everyone cleared out. We'd seen the performances last time and found the S/M play space to be a far more entertaining view. Sitting there, I looked around the room and there were only four other people there besides us. I felt like it was now or never. I blurted, "Maybe you could spank me for my birthday." Hornboy blushed and smiled,"I'd love to." I set my wine glass down. "No one's here. Maybe we could use that leather bench." I motioned to a high spanking bench in the middle of the room. Hornboy gulped, "Um, you mean now?" I grinned, feeling shaky, "yes, no one's here." Hornboy sat perfectly still, perched on the edge of the couch. He was as nervous as I was. I stood up, and he stood. We smiled like teenagers. I led the way to the bench. The bench was high, and had weird metal legs in front that required me to stand with my legs askew, spread wide, and lean far over at the waist. This was an extremely compromising position, though my back (and my exposed backside!) was on display to any spectators -- I couldn't see the rest of the room. It was scary, even though everyone at the party was a total stranger. I felt Hornboy's hands on my waist; his feet nudged my feet even wider apart. He firmly pushed me all the way down onto the bench. I could feel the cool air on my hot bits, with no pubic hair to impede even the slightest draft. Than it came -- thwack! Hornboy's big, rough hand spanked my bottom. He continued to knead my cheeks and massage my outer labia, interspersing with gentle and firm spanks. I held on tight to the bench. The pain, heat and arousal all clouded my mind; I couldn’t tell if there were more people in the room now, or no one. The minute I started to worry that someone would see me, see my dress hiked up over my round and red bottom, another hard, hot spank would jolt me back into my body. "Are you counting?" Hornboy asked after several minutes. "Um, no" I giggled. He leaned over me, nuzzled my neck and cheek, kissed me and smiled. "Start counting." I did. Well, kind of. I started counting the *good* ones, the ones I really liked. Hornboy would lean over, smooch me and ask, "what number are we on?" and I'd reply "twenty!" Several spanks later he'd ask, and I'd giggle, "twenty-two!" He'd laugh and keep spanking. I got wetter and wetter, and soon the spanking number almost reached my birthday age. Darn, I thought -- but then I just repeated the same number! Finally, I was really aroused, and I could tell Hornboy was too, but my bottom had reached its limit. And we hadn't discussed any of this, so going further was too huge of a step. I finally said the magic number to end the glorious, elegant spanking. Hornboy helped me up -- my ass was on fire! We hugged and kissed, and retired to the couch and our wine. Hornboy liked that I was in control of the spanking limit; he knew I could finish the count at any time. We decided with a clink of our wine glasses that we'd use that nifty trick again. And if my face wasn't red enough, we got compliments on the spanking! Happy birthday to me.
Take for instance the new fact I learned that spanking your child is prosecutable in Wisconsin and 27 other states. And in protest, there are sites dedicated to upholding the need to spank children, sites instructing in detail the proper way to spank, that you should never use your hand (use an implement). And of course, since it's prosecutable, they explain how to hit your child and not leave marks. Praise the lord. Don't forget World Corporal Punishment Research. Yet, while these sites are unsettling, indulge your imagination for a minute. Just take out the horrifying underage aspects, remove the children and insert consenting adults... well, think about it. Also: I put up photos from my elegant vacation. Jane's Guide did a side-by-side cunnilingus book review. Boobie-A-Thon (10/3) Also, check out my front page updates with plenty of spooky ooky Halloween porn and erotica picks, perfect for my favorite holiday. Dirty Banana (9/29) I am refreshed from an incredible week in Belize, spent completely ignoring my birthday and away from phones, computers and cars (the only way to get around was by boat). Photos are forthcoming; right now I’m wending my way through 274 new emails. I’ve never been to Central America before, nor seen jungles, Mayan ruins or a Barrier Reef. I saw monkeys (baby monkeys!), toucans, and crocs; snorkeled around big sea turtles, dolphins, nurse sharks (they have tough skin) and got pushed around by nosy manta rays (they’re smooth and silky). I also drank from coconuts right off the tree. We arrived just in time for their national Independence Day celebration, which was entirely eye opening -- they are a young country who is proud of their heritage and eager to embrace their future while preserving their natural resources (most of the country is a reserve or preserve of some kind, and they plan on making this their country’s backbone). Snorkeling is done everywhere; I found out that I’m an exceptionally strong swimmer (so if I die from drowning, suspect foul play) and I found out more of what I already know in that I am like a delicious mobile snack bar for mosquitoes. I am, in fact, like a yummy cheeseburger for these awful pests. They bit me on the soles of my feet, argh. And it was cheap, cheap, cheap, with $2 BZE to the dollar. It was my first vacation in several years -- I had no idea how to fill out the paperwork at Good Vibes, or what to do with it. Oh, and a Dirty Banana is a drink comprised of a blended banana, ice, Kailua, Irish cream and vodka. And it’s Hornboy’s new nickname. Big Gay Al was our hotel’s activities coordinator -- seriously! There were quite a few lesbian couples about and a few gay male tourists, though homosexuality is still illegal there (Al told us over many cocktails that he goes to Cuba for action). I mention this because the American tourists all around us (with a few cool exceptions) were shockingly bigoted in all number of ways. For instance, one couple in the swimming pool: She: I heard they filmed Temptation Island here. What winners, eh? Hornboy and I were determined to avoid friendly conversation with human chum such as these, so I started a little game of Invented Occupations. The idea is to come up with a daily job that is so vile, freaky or gross that no one wants to talk to you anymore. So for instance, when someone asked what I did for a living, I would reply, “Horse inseminator. It’s pretty good money. The secret is long gloves. It’s just like milking a cow.” The more convincing you are, the more points you score. I made Hornboy a “Feminine hygiene products odor tester. Mostly Massengil.” He added, brilliantly, for the kill, “It’s alright, but some times we have to test old ladies. We advertise in the papers.” Another winner was “Adult diaper tester.” I wanted to add that it’s tough to shit your pants standing up, but I knew I would break down on the spot. My favorite IO was for the drunk Christian at the bar who wouldn’t shut up to the newlywed husbands about Jesus, the Mel Gibson movie, and how they need to be “the masters of their house.” Listening in for a while I realized that he was full of shit and lied about his age, told people different stories about his “fortune” and then argued with the bartender about his tab. I gleaned that he was from Florida. My job? “Fraud investigator, federal division, Dade County. I’m here for business and pleasure, never off the clock, you know!” But Big Gay Al knew what I really do for a living, and we bonded fiercely. He’ll be getting a naughty care package soon! My next entry will be about my grand birthday spanking. I’ll close now with the computer of the future, 2004 imagined in the 1950s. Also, things I loved on vacation: The Daily Show book on my iPod, Carl Hiaasen’s Strip Tease, Dan Brown’s Deception Point, Emma Donoghue’s Slammerkin and A.M. Holmes’ Things You Should Know. Spontaneous Escape! (9/20) Adult companies fined for unprotected sex! (9/17)
Monday night is whiskey night with SRL friends; this Monday we merged slightly with my SFSI friends and joked about pooling our funds to get Thomas a horse trailer that floats. (One whiskey night a few weeks back I spent substantial drinking time with a man who had defected from the human genome project. He has been working with a team of researchers to build genes. They've gotten further than anyone, but the HGP snubs them for taking a rather punk approach -- rather than fighting the fight against patenting genes, this guy and his researchers want to "open source" genes, the Linux approach. Interestingly, we had a lot to talk about. Even though I'm in the sex info biz, I get a surprising amount of criticism and shit for my all-orientations approach. Him and I decided to call it, "open source sex ed.") Thomas wrote me just now to say that Ponygirl made it to dry ground, which is much better for her hooves. Links for fun: Finally, thanks to my SRL pals -- I know who I'm voting for in the election (work safe). And: dear Jesus in a sparkly rubber thong you have to see these huge silicone butt toys (not work safe). Puppy Tail video. Click "group" (frames, scroll down) to see how they compare to beer bottles! Let's hope that it's the idea of Big Bill, more than an actual spleen massage, that gets folks off, shall we? Sleepwalking (9/12) Showered, I get the call from the sex celebrity, saying the TV crew was up for the drinks I had suggested we all get when they were through. I suggest a semi-upscale cocktail bar with food; I know the crew is famished, I saw their breakfast of Red Bull and Ritz. Hornboy and I arrive first, even though we are late. The celebrity shows up, with her male partner in tow, and the film crew and an extra, a woman who looks like a glammed-up diva. It's a constant wonder to me why this local celeb isn't a bigger celeb; I am constantly in awe of her knowledge and ability to talk on camera. Over dinner, her lover wonders aloud about whether some of the new metal vibrating toys at GV wouldn't fit up his urethra. I want to talk about London, and what it's like there. The celebrity mentions that my new book came out last week and that I'm a busy girl. I say, "I'm hemorrhaging books." All day I have been thinking about my deadlines. I drive the crew back to their hotel, and we joke about "too much information." It feels like letting air out a balloon so it could finally relax, but too late for us to have a regular conversation. In the morning I drive to the East Bay to meet the crew and PornOrchestra. There is a stalled car on the bridge, delaying my trip by nearly an hour. When I get to the stall it is a white car in the middle lane; there is an old man with glasses on at the wheel. In the second I look at the car I see his hands gripping the steering wheel and he is leaning forward, watching the traffic stream around him with wide eyes. I am too late when I get to the gallery, they are shooting the final footage, and I missed the performance. Shannon greets me warmly with a hug and tells me she is sad I didn't provide color commentary. I don't know what that means. There are long minutes where I stand by myself and watch everyone else. The film crew says hi, but they are busy. I see the porn star outside. I make my way outside to speak more with Shannon. She asks if I will provide color commentary for the next performance, and I ask what she means. "You know, where we'll stop the music and you talk about the socio-political relevance of the porn scene on the screen. Like an academic breakdown." I smile, "Yes." "You'd like that. It's what you've been waiting to do, right?" "Yes, it is. I'd love to." Introductions are made to the porn star. I tell him how much I like his films. He looks uncomfortable and says nothing, as if I'd said something more personal than what I'd actually said. He excuses himself and walks away. As I talk to the film crew to get information about sending them SRL videos, a man pulls up in front of the gallery; he is an SRL volunteer who brags about his importance in SRL but never volunteers when it doesn't look glamorous. He comes to shows and flings macho and ego, and many members don't like him but no one wants to get in a fight. A few months ago I stood up to his bullying and he threatened me, called me a bitch and verbally abused me, repeatedly. I saved his emails and every bit of abuse that was in writing. Just in case. Once I was stalked by an ex-boyfriend. He stole my belongings out of my house, underwear and paintings, and made friends with my friends. When I fled town in fear of his insanity and his gun, he told my friends that I owed him money, and they gave him all the information about me they had. They were never my friends. He followed me to Oregon, where police discovered him sleeping in his car. He pulled a gun on the officers, and the officers panicked. They could have been shot, they flailed. Upon my return to SF I was contacted by the police who told me that they would personally deliver my restraining order to him, and they were really, really serious. A few years later I found out he had been arrested doing an armed robbery of a liquor store while wearing women's clothing, and was going to be in jail for a long time. More guns: once when I was thirteen, I pointed my mother's gun at a man who was trying to come into my bedroom; he was a cokehead buddy of hers and they had all been up for several days. The door was locked but he unlocked it. I had been sleeping with the gun under my pillow. He saw the gun, and closed the door quietly. I take threats and abusive behavior from men very seriously. At the gallery, the man who called me names gets out of his truck, sees me, and makes a beeline past me into the gallery. I'm relieved. I decide to leave. I want to go home. I make a point of saying goodbye to the porn star and tell him that I love to talk about his films when I'm on my monthly radio spot, a porn review show. He gives me a hug. Home. I write eight video reviews and two book reviews. The book is hard to write about because it has images of sex, and images of children, in the same book. But it is not child pornography. There is no language for this in our culture. I go over the first two chapters in book #2 of the four books I have due in December and make minor rewrites. When the phone rings I realize that it's 10pm and I have been writing for a very long time. The call is from my pals at SFSI; they are forcing me to leave the house and see live lounge music. Hornboy and I are tired, but we go, and we all have a really really great time. I see one of the best live music shows this year, the local band Harold Ray, who plays the most smokin' blue-eyed soul I've ever seen in my life. I'd swear I was watching The Yardbirds at their craziest, and Hornboy buys a CD. We drink and dance, and my face hurts from smiling. I check my mail on Saturday afternoon and read messages with congratulations for making it into a book about celebrity sex bloggers. I had no idea, but am very excited, and enjoy explaining to Hornboy that the author is someone whose books I've bought and enjoyed for over ten years. I write an entire chapter over the course of the day. Late at night, there is an email from the sex blog book author telling me that my name is a mistake; the publisher put it on the cover to garner advanced sales, but that I do not "fit" in the book. I want to feel comfortable in my own skin. My neighbor's car alarm goes off for the 12th time; I have been counting its shrill shrieks all day, it has punctuated my concentration as I have tried to write, tried to organize sex techniques, present them in a fun and useful way. Hornboy is already in bed when I exit my mail program and shut down my G4. I only want things in my life that really matter from now on. I feel rebellious about talking to journalists and reporters, I don't give a fuck about publicity and celebrity. Hornboy looks like an angel in my bed. I ask if we can take off our shirts and rub our chests together; this is definitely not a problem. I slide between his broad shoulders, feel his chest hair on my nipples. We kiss for a very long time. We use Eros lube, three stretchy cock rings, and a latex glove. The cat sleeps through the whole disturbance, at the foot of the bed, in a pile of discarded blankets and sheets. I sleep for twelve hours.
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