Ah — I’m back! To my delight I’ve returned to two interviews (of me) up and live, one at Adult Friend Finder and the other at Cleis Press. I’m also in the October issue of Oprah’s O Magazine, and I found out that I’ll be signing books at the Exotic Erotic Ball in a couple weeks. Funny that — the last and only time I was at Exotic Erotic was when I snuck in with the Extra Action Marching Band in a Batgirl costume (carry a horn and act stoned). I got drunk and stole a wheelchair; band members took turns riding in it and giving/getting lap dances, we painted unibrows on all the guys. The band did their entire set in the men’s bathroom, and when the rubber chickens filled with blood came out, all bets were off and I found myself thrown out of Exotic Erotic around four in the morning with a bunch of very fucked up half-naked and bloody musicians. One of the other highlights was running into Robert and Carol, who snuck me backstage to Nina Hartley’s dressing room where we drank crappy margaritas and watched Nina fondle and undress her entourage. My souvenirs of the night were two disposable cameras that I found on the dance floor; the photos were of pasty suburbanites “stepping out” with limos and champagne and bad stripper wear. I plan on hunting for cameras again this year.

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.
He: I never watched that show. Just a bunch a women whorin’ themselves out.

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.

I had a big entry planned but Hornboy is whisking me away for my birthday! There won’t be any blogging until (WOW!) the 29th, as I spend a week away from deadlines, computers and out of cell phone range, and accumulate as many birthday spankings as I can. (I know it’s tropical, it’s beachy…) In the meantime, if you miss the Tiny Blog, do spank someone sexy and naughty on Wednesday, my big day. How many spanks? As many as they deserve! I got a doozy on Saturday night that I’ll tell all about when I get back — in addition to some musings on the state of spanking in the U.S. these days…
Smooches, Violet

California officials fined companies over $30K each! www.sfgate.com

I’ve been on pins and needles a bit this week because of the hurricane. First, is it my best friend’s birthday (Thomas Roche). He is far away and I’m terribly lonely at work without him to talk to. Foremost, his girlfriend (Ponygirl) lives in New Orleans, and it’s been seriously touch-and-go about her situation. I finally heard it took her ten hours to get out of NO, and Thomas was freaking out because they were saying that anyone stuck on the highways might be killed, and she was having an extra difficult time getting out because she has many pets, and a cat that just had kittens. Where’s Hellboy when you need him?

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?

After updating my blog on 9/9, I take a shower, and notice the irregular calico patterns of sunburn settling into my skin. I see the outline of my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose, stripes on my shoulders from my shirt and a white ring around my neck from my scarf. A perfect "cut here" line on my neck, in white. How long had I stood on that pier answering interview questions for the camera, how long had I talked about why I wrote my oral sex books, how long had I fielded the usual inevitable comparison to my life and Carrie Bradshaw, someone who isn’t even real?

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.

I’ve been out with a British TV crew all day filming for that sex/reality/comedy TV show I mentioned in previous posts. They are hilarious — and though there is a bit of a language barrier, I have learned to work around words like "knackered" and "gobsmacked." They’re off filming SF stuff now, and later we’ll meet up for drinks. Booze is indeed the universal language, after love and sex of course. I’m especially excited because tomorrow I get to meet my favorite gay porn star ever, the gorgeous Michael Soldier. I adored him in A Porn Star is Born; he works for local porn studio Raging Stallion. I’m beat, and I got home just in time to do a phone interview with a major TV network, so now I guess you could say I’m knickered. Here are a few pics from today’s shoot. They put me in front of Alcatraz because I made a crack about "that’s where I’ll end up," (me and my big mouth) and they got lots of footage of me saying dumb things like "I don’t have a real job, these guys just found me at the Embarcadero. Can I have my dollar now?" Of course, we were interrupted during filming by young teeneage girls yelling, "Pick me! I’m America’s Top Model!" and the sounds of sirens. "Sounds of the City," I told them. "Totally natural."

Wow — today Tiny Nibbles and I got a way cool write up in my favorite source for local SF news and information, sfist.com. Seriously, I love this site, with its smart, sassy and sharp local contributors. Thanks, SFist!

This is a shout out to male sex workers: If you are a male sex worker in the Bay Area and would be interested in speaking to a group of students for about 15 minutes about what you do, please contact me. I’ll be speaking to the same students on a few topics as well… Interested parties please email me at: violet @ tinynibbles . com

It’s still hot here in San Francisco. We’ve had a sweltering heat wave for the past five days or so, and this is essentially our summer. Tonight it’s finally cooling down, and I had the sheer joy of seeing the Dutch film, Yes Nurse, No Nurse at the Castro. It was truly a wonder, and managed to be extremely naughty and playful without being explicit at all — and my face still hurts from smiling and laughing.

Two links of particular note: Mariah’s X-Rated Hell "This place is built for perverts like us to abuse,humilate and degrade that beautiful slutty whore Mariah Carey in every way imaginable!"
And this beautiful house for sale, with a fabulous view in the backyard (third photo down) — if it is a prank, hooray!

Thank you to everyone who has emailed me in the past few days regarding my last post — wow. Interestingly, there were a significant number of emails from Scotland. Hornboy and I celebrated the departure of his relative and non-relative by drinking many beers, and going to a "men of Hooters wet t-shirt contest" at a gay bar where the proceeds went to the AIDS Emergency Fund. And while I was one of three women in an all-leatherdaddy gay bar, I got my ass grabbed! Hornboy was getting us drinks and I felt a hand slide across one cheek, and pause for a little fondle on the other. I thought, now I’m wearing a dress, and obviously a girl, so someone can’t be making a mistake. And I don’t know anyone here… and normally, this action would cause a reaction from me, such as an elbow-check to the stranger’s stomach, or a quick spin around with a deflection. But it was a leather bar full of the gayest men imaginable… so I turned, and met eyes with a handsome leatherdaddy — who smiled and sort of shrugged, as if to say, "well… it was there…" I grinned back at him, and he made his way over to the wet towel-whipping frenzy behind the makeshift Hooters Men stage.

For the next few days I’ll be working with the British TV crew as one of the subjects for their sex/reality/comedy TV show. They want to film me in Golden Gate Park, and I have no idea what they have planned…

Meanwhile, I don’t have a sex advice column, but I might as well for all the emails I get from people desperately seeking reasonable, useful advice. I am, however a Virgo, represented with no small amount of irony in the Zodiac as a virgin. That irony took a little twist in the beginning of the Virgo cycle over a week ago when I received an email from a young woman through a social networking message board who had just lost her virginity in a painful way, was still bleeding a bit, and quite worried. I realized that I hadn’t read advice on this topic for anyone, at least not in a way that wasn’t shameful or brief, and certainly not from a woman who could relate. We really need this information out there in a supportive manner — hear that, sex advice authors? Anyway, here was my answer to her, for anyone else who might want to know:

"Tearing is normal, yes, but not so much tearing that you continue to bleed or have tearing on the perineum (the skin between the vagina and anus). How bad is it? Does it feel sore and sometimes a bit sharp, or is it throbbing all the time? Soreness and occasional sharpness is fine; constant throbbing is a concern.

If the bleeding is excessive, as in you need to change panties once a day or still see blood when you wipe after peeing, then you should see a doctor. Also talk to a doc if it feels infected (hot, itchy, discharge), or if there was indeed tearing on your perineum. I know that seeing a doctor about sex sucks — maybe go see a practitioner at Planned Parenthood where they will be more normal about sex (and you’ll be anonymous).

Keeping it clean is a good idea, but don’t overdo it. There is a high concentration of blood vessels in the vagina, and this helps cuts and wounds to heal faster than on other parts of the body. Plus, the vagina is typically naturally self-healing, and cleaning too much might give you a secondary infection such as a yeast infection. Don’t use perfumed cleansers or douches. So you’ll want to clean it once a day, but no more than that. Swab the vaginal opening lightly with a q-tip and Neosporin ointment to prevent infection and speed healing. Don’t have penetrative sex until you feel healed. And believe it or not, clitoral masturbation will speed healing by bringing more blood to the muscles and erectile tissues in your pubic area, so orgasms are good (if you can even get in the mood!).

As for your next phase of penetrative sex, you might want to get yourself a thin, smooth dildo and practice on your own a few times before taking the big plunge again. Get yourself aroused, and practice orgsaming around something say, as slender as a finger or two. Then get a dildo close to the size of the guy you like, and practice on that a few times. Use condoms on the dildos for cleanliness. This will gently stretch the hymenal tissue. Even still, the next time or two that you have sex, you will experience a bit of discomfort and a bit of bleeding. Eventually the discomfort goes away, and you can concentrate on feeling pleasure and exploring the whole new array of sensations from partnered penetration.

And don’t panic if as time goes by, you notice that you have little irregular flaps of skin just inside your vaginal opening. These are called "hymenal tags," and all women have them. *Not* having them is not normal. You just seldom ever see these tags on major porn starlets who typically get them removed with labiaplasty (plastic surgery).

Please write me back and let me know what’s going on, and if you have any more questions.
Hugs,
Violet"

She did write me back, and said that no one knew what to tell her, so my long-winded response was a welcome relief. She’s just fine. Welcome, Virgo.

This is a somewhat personal entry; if you want fun sex stuff and pranks and porn, come back in a day or two and we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Labor Day weekend turned out to be the weekend that my lover’s father and stepmother came to town for a visit. I got all prepared to be a San Francisco tour guide and number-one supporter of the man in my life for a pair of Christians who were coming to the city of sin to see some family — this means I knew I’d need to give the family version of SF history, etc. We started out great; on the way from the airport we chatted and I interjected things like "this is where they filmed the freeway scenes from The Matrix," and "those big cranes are where George Lucas got his inspiration for the big walkers in The Empire Strikes Back." They seemed to be humoring me, but I didn’t think much of it.

Next stop, the SRL compound, where I gave a tour of the shop and machines, and they met Mark Pauline. I didn’t show them the adult male tattooed human skin we have, or explain that it’s turning green from mold and is being eaten away by rats, or even dare to explain that it was from the Modern Primitives show we did, or what that means. The stepmonster seemed to be uninterested in all of it, while the dad was pretty excited. As we were leaving he told Mark, "I’m going to tell Violet how belt drives work later." I don’t think he meant it to sound condescending, or seem like a "little lady, between us guys" comment. But there it was. As he continued, Mark got a bemused smirk on his face and looked at me the whole time, both of us making eye contact. It was one of those moments. We both know that I’m an 8-year veteran, a mechanic and roboticist. So I did something I rarely do — I smiled, and secretly winked at Mark, prompting him to break into a full toothy smile.

One thing the dad did say that stuck with me was when I was showing him one of the many nooks and crannies we have machine tools stashed in he said, "Wow, you really could get lost in here — I bet the whole world just fades away when you’re in here." I said, "Yes. That’s exactly why I come here."

Little did I know it was one of the last times I’d be able to get a full sentence out, or make a comment without being interrupted or having the subject changed every time I said something — for the rest of the weekend. The stepmonster wanted to go to Fisherman’s Wharf, which is gross, but we smiled and took them there next. The stepmonster could not be made happy. She stopped talking to me directly. When I’d ask her how she was doing, or suggested we could stop and rest with some iced tea, she just waved me away and kept walking. After the third or fourth time, I gave up. Left alone with her, she did not respond when I would start a conversation. A couple of times over the weekend, when left alone, she would simply walk away from me and go somewhere else. Everyone talked about the weather, the family, their dogs, their cars, but no one really talked to me. Even my supportive conversational comments were interrupted. Was it my breath? My tattoos?

We took them to dinner at a cheerful Italian restaurant, and I was feeling dejected so I ordered a beer. The stepmonster was rude to the wait staff. I was embarrassed. I gave up trying to start conversations, or even join in, and the beer made it easier to just sit there and keep my mouth shut. Their flight experience came up, and the stepmonster told us in a hushed tone, "There was an Iraqi on the plane." (to her husband) "I was so scared, when I saw that turban." (to me) "Do you have them here?"

WHAT!? Do we have what here, exactly? I was totally freaked out by the naked racism of the question, one that I was now expected to answer. I was dying to ask her, just how did you know they were from Iraq — please tell me, and take your time. This woman works for the correctional system (she later said, "you don’t need a degree to work with criminals."). Instead, as if to a child I said, "San Francisco is a very international city. We are home to a very diverse population, including many people (and families) from the Middle East." (See — dealing with TV interviews and shock jock radio hosts *has* given me a real-life skill.) That was the end of her dinner conversation with me, and I was okay with that. A few minutes later a big African-American man came into the room, and the stepmonster halted mid-sentence to glare. Then I got it — it wasn’t just me, after all.

After dinner we came back to the apartment I share with my lover. Our house, though mostly my stuff in it. They sat on my couch, my knockoff designer chairs, drank out of my glasses. They didn’t care to leave the living room, though I really wanted them to see the pictures of me and Hornboy all over the house smooching in various California locations. I especially wanted them to see the picture I keep behind my office chair of the Bible next to a can of Coca-Cola. So after over 8 hours of time together, the stepmonster asked me, "Violet, what is it you do for work?" I thought about the bookshelves full of books behind me, one shelf with seven titles bearing my name. "I am an author." "Oh!" she said. "For my day job I am the staff writer for a woman-run sex toy store that has been in operation for over 25 years. I write book and video reviews, and help write educational materials that our outreach educators take to give workshops to all kinds of people, from colleges to Planned Parenthood, to teaching high school students and developmentally disabled adults about safer sex." The dad stared at the floor, my lover did too — but he was smiling.

The stepmonster was shocked, so I continued. "In my personal life I have over seven books out, most are books I’ve written about sex education. The seventh one just came out last week and I’m very excited about it. You can find my books on Amazon, in Barnes and Noble, everywhere. A couple are even best sellers." (you could hear crickets, so I went on) "I’ve been in dozens of major magazines, interviewed by news media and next month I’m in Oprah’s magazine." She asked, "Oh, which magazines can we read your articles in?" I said, "I don’t write for these magazines — I am interviewed as an expert." Then they said something nice about picking up O Magazine next month, and changed the subject to the dad’s other son. I knew that even though I was stating facts, it probably sounded incredibly vain. But I knew it was my only chance to try to share who I am. And I was right. I was never spoken to again about my job, what I do, what I care about, and spent the rest of the weekend being ignored or interrupted when I spoke. My lover was in pain. After I had given my big speech in the living room, and the subject changed, I went to the kitchen to get everyone water and popped a Vicodin.

I have an unusual concept of family. I don’t really know how to behave around family, and I am trying, through my lover, to understand traditions and hanging around people that you have nothing in common with. My mother had an engineering degree from Stanford, but fell in love with cocaine when I was 8 or 9. By the time I was thirteen she was a crackhead, and had taught me how to cook her rock. She was a drug dealer for most of the time I knew her, and I was a straight-A student with a freakishly high IQ (I started in 4th grade reading classes instead of kindergarten). I knew my grandmother, an aunt, and an uncle for only a very short time (my memories are dim) because they didn’t want anything to do with my mother.

Until I was ten she told me my father died in Vietnam, then she told me he was actually alive somewhere. I never knew any of my family, only my mother, and I ran away from home when I turned fourteen because I was worried for my life living with her — I knew I’d be safer on the streets, and I was.* I slept in squats, in the park, in abandoned cars and on rooftops. I got food from begging, stealing, going through garbage, and later, doing a few hours of work for restaurants in exchange for a meal. Two gay men who ran a cafe helped me (and a bunch of other kids) get off the streets just before I turned eighteen. I worked in restaurants and took a proficiency test to get into college, on state funding (I sucked at math). I met with my mother again when I was 20, and she was still doing and dealing, and "borrowed" the money I had saved for books, and disappeared (thank the gods). I hunted down and met my father when I was 23, but when I found him in person, he told me to leave and never come back. I was really glad I met him as an adult, and not as a young girl.

The gay couple who helped me off the streets were my family, as were the other kids. SRL is my family, and not only have we been through death-defying (and arrest-risking) situations together, they’re so proud of me it’s sometimes embarrassing. So I’m still trying to figure it out, and it’s especially confusing after this weekend. Is that how family is? If so, I’m happy to keep my holidays to myself.

* Contrary to stereotypes about people in the sex biz, I was never molested or abused.

Eddie is now free, phew. But if you want a taste of the naughty dirty things the Republicans are up to during the convention, read this awesome blog by a woman who works as a cocktail waitress in a strip club that has been seeing a lot of Repub. action in the past week… (Thanks Daze).

Am I a candidate for a Darwin Award? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I am. Cruising around ErosBlog, I stumbled across a link to "Autoerotic Fatalities With Power Hydraulics," and immediately had to send it to my SRL pals. I received an instant reply: "…says the girl covered in "motor oil" posed next to the running machine. ;) I’m pretty sure our little calendar has raised a few eyebrows in academia across the country. I can only imagine the pools regarding the next Darwin Award."

To my delight, AdultFriendFinder reviewed my Ultimate Guide to Adult Videos. Hooray!

I was approached a while back by a British TV Network for an interview — it seems they’re working on a new reality-TV comedy show about sex, and when they told me what it is, and what I would do in it, I was thrilled. Especially because I would go to London for the gig — but to my dismay, I introduced them to too many exciting people here in SF, and now they’re coming here. So next Thursday I get to be on a cool comedy show — now *that’s* the kind of stuff I want to be doing. But no London, boo-hoo. I really wanted to meet a few people I’ve connected with through this blog; maybe airfares will plummet and I’ll escape for a weekend. At any rate, I set the UK TV folks up with the PornOrchestra misfits, and while I somehow ended up on their mailing list, I discovered that I am now in the orchestra. I do not play an instrument, unless you count the skin flute. Okay, I confess to sometimes putting on my favorite Theremin albums really loud and playing air Theremin in my underwear. But I think someone in PornOrchestra is having fun. I got the email and scanned the list of musicians/performers, and down at the very bottom was "Violet Blue: Color Commentary." Sweet. I’m just glad no one saw my Theremin/Risky Business routine.

So many people ask me about sweetening or improving the taste of male ejaculate — and yes, you really can sweeten a man’s come. Check out my recipe for a Super Spunk Smoothie.

My dear SRL friend Eddie, a sweet computer genius, has been arrested for filming protesters in New York. In a twist, you can bid on his bail on eBay. Whatta world.

Oh, Fleshbot, how I love you for giving me the Olympic Bulge Awards, the only thing that made me wish I’d watched the Olympics. Ahhh!

Random bits:
The biggest clit I’ve ever seen (not work safe; thanks to a reader).
The dangerous and risky sport of shooting a chicken with a rocket launcher.
The New York Times timidly ponders porn for women in What Women Want to Watch. Note they reference a book about women’s fantasies that is over 30 years old… sigh.
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/29/arts/television/29DOMI.html

Today I got this great email:
> I meant to tell you that your latest blog entry about
Sex Educator Fear Factor had me rolling with laughter. It’s so
genius because you manage to skewer sex educator bravado, the crappy
adult novelty industry and bad reality TV all at once. So basically,
you’re every woman, it’s all in you. Just like Chaka Khan!

That rocks. But meanwhile, where have I been? Prepping for the Sex Ed FF? Making a fort in my living room out of plank-like Paris Hilton Love Dolls? No, actually, I’ve been working my buns off, writing like a fiend on a few secret projects. That’s one of things I hate most about big-deal writing projects — they consume chunks of my life that I’d love to ponder blogistically but I can’t even mention them to my friends, because people make us writers sign all these legal non-disclosure agreements. Which I understand, but still… Let’s just say that after being sick, I returned to the fray to write for an average of 10 hours a day. Not possible you say? Indeed it is. I have a pseudonym I write under, too.

How do I stay fresh and interesting? A) Bergamot bath gel, and B) I never duplicate projects so I don’t get bored writing about the same topic over and over. I know other erotica writers who are even more insane than I am with creative drive and workload — Thomas Roche, Alison Tyler, M. Christian, Sage Vivant. These authors write unbelievable amounts, and it’s good stuff, too. Yes, they have pseudonyms too, and no, I’m not telling. We’re in the crazy sex writers club together. But after two weeks of 80+ hour workweeks, my arms hurt like hell, as if I had been tossing a heavy medicine ball around all day. So last weekend I took a break from the com-pooter, and organized my hall closet. Oh, and I went to a sex party.

A sex party! Yes. And it was good. No, I didn’t have sex at it — bok bok, I’m still a big chicken, though this sex machine almost got me off the couch for a spin. I’m still to timid to have sex in front of people, but hopefully someday I’ll change that. I *did* skip wearing panties and wore a short BeBe fringe dress and super-stacked fetish heels, so I felt naughty underneath it all. I even spread my legs on the couch a few times after a few glasses of wine, but I don’t know if anyone noticed. The party itself was really awesome, a very low-key house party affair where I actually knew no one except my date — and I liked that very much. Lots of bisexuality, kinky couples gay and straight, and overall lots of people my age with similar sensibilities, so we’re talking 25-35 range, young-ish, whimsical, slightly bent folks. Lots of rubber outfits, much spanking and whipping, spontaneous public fucking and oral sex, sexy girls aplenty. Hornboy and I took a prime seat on a couch, drank wine, and just watched the rich pageant float by.

I did, however, object to the elf. Yes, there was a guy there dressed as an adult, longhaired elf. In tight olive green Lycra, with a little loincloth and fake pointy ears. He looked like that Peter Pan dude (but with a mullet). He found a victim, er, I mean a girl that was alone at the party, and gave her one of those icky-guy, massage-turns-into-grope-session, then they spanked each other. Hornboy and I decided that nothing turned us off more than elf spanks. Bleah.

On other fronts I’m miffed at a certain porn magazine. They asked me to write an article about teledildonics (computer-interfaced sex toys), and I did. I wrote a huge piece about the history of cybersex and teledildonics up to the present, interviewed inventors and mechanics from all over the US, researched patents and interviewed patent holders and licensees, and wrote a darn fine piece. Then I turned it in. And never heard back. At all. Nothing. Not a peep. Which is sadly typical of the porn industry, to be flaky and unprofessional, that is. Maybe the piece sucked, maybe they ran out of budget — but they could have told me something. The piece is still mine, and I might develop it into a presentation for Dorkbot SF, much like my Sex and Electricity lecture, which was a hell of a lot of fun.

I plan on returning to a regular blog posting schedule now, with less of that icky work stuff getting in the way. That is, while I work on the books I have due soon. Ducky Doolittle says I can do it — I say I want to use her boobies as an oxygen mask.