I often get questions from writers who want to get into the erotic writing market; I typically send them to the virtual think tank for erotica writers, ER&WA. Now I can direct them to this post at Lapsed Optimist. I find *all kinds* of cool things when I investigate who links to me… Now back to my submission pile…

I’m so excited; tonight I’ll be chatting about porn on Sirius Q’s Derek and Romaine show at 6:15 PST, 9:15 EST (listen free here; reg req’d). I’ve been flirting with, I mean, I’ve been a guest on D and R’s show pretty regularly for almost a year now, and it’s the fun-est radio show, ever. Plus we take calls from listeners which is random and often hilarious…

I am swamped. Buried under a tide of erotica. Not a bad place to be; in fact it’s a pretty damn fine place to be. Really, it’s an extremely arousing place to inhabit, langourously reading through over 200 (!!!!!) submissions for Best Women’s Erotica 2006. It’s overwhelming, and I’m taking it nice and slow, like a slippery hot afternoon fuck on sweaty sheets, when you don’t want to eat… food. Anyway, some of the submissions are so pivoting that I find myself carrying them with me for the rest of the day, like sense memories. Like the Buttercream Frosting I bought this morning and wore behind my ears all day; a whiff of a particularly memorable story will catch up with me while I’m waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change, and I’ll wish I was in that story I read before I had to fold up my iBook and flee the cafe, too aroused to sit still.

Too much information? Well, anyway, for me it’s a good sign to have so many good stories to choose among, and The City isn’t a bad place to meander from wifi to wifi with an iBook, among Victorians and comminuty gardens, especially when you’ve got erotica freshly coursing through your veins. Not that the stories all as sublime as I described; I did reach a point of frustration a few days ago when I read the eleventh story that started out hot and sweet, then had a breakup, or a death, or a depressed main character… and, what the fuck? It’s a head-scratcher I’ve been scratching about for several years. Why do some people think that “women’s erotica” needs to be black in order to be… Taken seriously? “Edgy”? “Women’s”? I don’t know, but I have to say that I’ve noticed a huge difference in the way that previous generations of women have edited erotic anthologies in comparison to my generations’ attitudes about sex. We don’t think that “literary” erotica, especially women’s erotica, needs to be somehow qualified by sadness, anguish, pain or suffering (unless you mean a tidy spanking). I think that’s a holdover from older generations’ beliefs that because the writing is about sex, it needs to be something more, or less, to be taken seriously as literature. Which of course has a totally different meaning now in the world of blogs, which I see as living, breathing books. A message to the publishers and editors (and filmmakers) who imbue the hot fuck with a moral: you’re not relevant anymore. Our erotica is alive. Girls like me, emotional pain and gender stereotyping hinders our hot fucks. We do crazy things and get off like screaming tattooed banshees doing them. We get hard-ons. We suck, we lick, we conquer, we cut and bleed, we cuddle. Our erotica is edgy, yes, but it is joyful. You can wank to it. You want it to happen to you. Its edge comes from authenticity of experience; I get the feeling that a lot of erotica editors try *too* hard to capture that hunger, that drive that comes from being a real woman on the street, feet on the ground, looking for sex with lips like sugar and a view of the world that’s slightly askew, like a familiar puzzle all rearranged to make a new picture. It’s a feeling that you experience, like a scent.

So, no. I’m running totally sexually fucking amok with BWE ‘06. I’m tossing OUT all the fucking depressing submissions I’m getting. I want erotica that totally turns my head around, and makes me want to fuck. Erotica for girls like me.

Okay, so I had a bit of nigori with dinner. Which goes perfectly with this crazy clip (nsfw) that makes me want to go back to Tokyo really bad.

Also do check out my most recent crushes: allison inge trembly, Miss Deja Vu, John John Jesse, Queen of Pink, Rob Clarke, and, as always, forever yours, Body Collector

New podcast — Open Source Sex 11 (MP3). Hot three-way action interview with Dr. Carol Queen and indy porn filmmaker Tony Comstock; last of the pirate radio series. the pirates: http://www.conceptualart.org/npr/ Carol Queen: http://www.carolqueen.com Tony Comstock: http://www.comstockfilms.com

Phase 1: Collect underpants.

Phase 2: Remove ball pouch.

Phase 3: ????

Phase 4: Profit!

I got an email from an East Coast friend saying he’d just heard me on NPR, being interviewed at the SRL LA show by velvet-voiced Xeni Jardin on Xeni Tech! Check it out, and if you miss it here is the link where you can listen to it (stream) later: Eyeing Robots at Survival Research Labs. Even more about her experience with us at BoingBoing, including video of me operating one of our lethal machines. Yay!

Just stumbled across this wild S/M furniture concept in my Fleshbot trollings: from the same man who created the lovely brass knuckle handbags (my white one is on order), the Pillory Dinette.

http://www.googletutor.com/2005/04/15/voyeur-heaven (via sexblo.gs)

And an after-hours solution to that nagging iPod problem: le rip

There are many things I need in my daily routines. I thought Pornblography and Unscathed Corpse were blogs I needed every single day, but I guess I’m going to have to somehow go on without them. I will miss you both so very, very much. Even the penis of a low-level, but well hung celebrity in a skintight gold monotard will not ease the pain.

Urban Dictionary, on the other hand, I have no idea how I survived without you. Ditto for PantiesPantiesPanties.

I accidentally attended a swingers’ party last weekend. Even I didn’t know that was possible. I mean, sure, in Hollywood movies, where everything about sexual subcultures is totally misinformed, one might see an unsuspecting Owen Wilson open the wrong door and walk into a wife-swapping orgy. But me?

Let me back up for a minute, to tell you how I got there, at the wife-swap fiesta, before I tell you what transpired. I had a long week working for Fleshbot, culminating in me running the whole ‘bot Friday for a hot! naked! boobies! rampage on my part, and much giggling and spinning to myself in my office chair while Jonno was off enjoying his sexy self around New Orleans. Unfortunately the week also culminated in finding out that a sex toy dot com startup sleazebag I did freelance writing for is not going to pay me; I asked for the thousands of dollars he owes me, he told me I’d have to sign a legal document to get my money. I told him I wouldn’t sign anything and just wanted my money, and he threatened to sue me, and sent me the craziest, most belligerent and abusive email I’ve received in a long time, with him even excerpting long portions of my blog to prove that I’m out to get him and how I used him to get to work for Fleshbot (?!?) or something. It really kinda scared me, because this guy has my phone number and home address, and it’s a really psycho reaction to have when all I asked for was to get paid. It really makes me never want to work for any sleazy sex toy people again, and is a good cautionary tale about the people in the adult business — especially start-up people who think the adult biz is where they can make piles of money and fuck people over because it’s about sex, so less worthy of normal human business ethics. If it wasn’t for Fleshbot, I’d be feeling really like the whole sex business is full of liars, cheats and sleazy men who bully women around when they owe them money. What sucks is that now he’s got a month’s worth of my work, my writing, and I’m left with abusive emails and a really creepy feeling. All this for writing sales copy for vibrators? So not worth it.

So friday was a lot of fun for me, and set me up for a pleasant weekend. Saturday I lectured twice to SFSI human sexuality students, one rap about oral sex and one rap about sex toys, and seeing the educators and admin people at SFSI was like a return to family — kinky, dirty, potty mouthed family. In case you were wondering, sex educators like these are really funny, smart and energizing to spend time with, and educating is rejuvinating. I forgot how much I knew until I opened my mouth, and I had fun with the students, using words like “poon-tang” to make them laugh.

Before I hopped on my motorcycle to go down to the SF State building for my lectures, I got a nervous phone call from a horn-playing boy I know (not my Hornboy); we’ll call him Trumpetboy. He was wondering if I would want to go with him to a sex party that night. I told him I’d need to call him after my lectures, and of course, after seeing what Hornboy thought. You see, Hornboy and I are committed to each other, yet we are also committed to having fun and enjoying being young while we can, and having adventures. We’re not swingers, “poly”, have an open relationship, or any of those things that people much older than us seem to do, but we do enjoy life and sex on a case-by-case basis. It’s hard to explain, but we love sex, and each other, and don’t fit into any relationship models we’ve seen so far. So we’re making it up as we go along, and talking a lot. But also not talking about things too much. See? Hard to explain, maybe kinda gay. At any rate, when I asked Hornboy what he thought about me getting dressed up and going to a sex party with Trumpetboy, he said he didn’t care.

But Trumpetboy isn’t just some random sexy horn player; like Hornboy he’s also in SRL. We all just did a show together in LA, and while Hornboy ran the telerobotic Air Launcher, Trumpetboy (in his first show as an operator), ran the Inchworm with me. I selected him as my co-operator, based on his hard work on other shows, alertness, ability to excel under pressure, and excitement about SRL and everything that comes with it. And as per other SRL shows, we saved each other from *serious* harm at least twice during the show, each. Almost getting my legs mangled by a machine that came out of the smoke while I was focused operating my machine; both of us (and Mark Pauline) getting a full on blast of fire in our faces from the mobile jet engine, with nowhere to run (we just hit the ground). Anyway, I couldn’t resist posting my second favorite show picture of me (above) in my full riot gear with my remote control, after the show. This one is still my absolute favorite (from the first LA show two years ago).

And yes, SRL and the intensity of the shows that go along with it do become hotbeds of attraction; in fact plenty of steam was blown off after the show in couplings that defy the macho stereotypes: boy-boy, girl-boy, girl-girl, boy-boy-girl-boy… I made out with a *really* hot girl that night (she still melts me, but is famous, so I will not brag unnecessarily), so even I wasn’t exempt. But my point is that there is a lot of trust built here, and so, we trust each other.

I called back Trumpetboy after my lectures to say yes, and he was thrilled. This was a very special sex party, an invitation-only deal that he’d been invited to, in a place where I’ve been to secret sex parties before. But even I wasn’t aware of this party, so I was like, wow, cool.

Trumpetboy showed up at the door an hour late (reefer’d Hornboy: “He’s not making a very good impression on you!”). But wow. Over six feet of boy in black; shiny dress shoes, black slacks, tailored leather coat, glasses, blue eyes and a nice smile, on my doorstep, for me. I was in cocktail fetish with touseled hair; I remembered that he’d only seen me sweaty, grease-covered, in ill-fitting work clothes, with no makeup and probably smelly for the past few weeks. Shouting orders and making fun of people. Later, he told me he thought that was just as hot as my sock garters and 8″ heels, nice.

We entered the party and he covered the sixty! dollar! door fee, then seeing the place mostly vacant at 11pm, we took a seat on a couch to drink beer and chat about everything. Trumpetboy took the opportunity to change into a silk smoking jacket and high heels with his boy clothes; a nice combination, subtle kink: I like. After a beer and more conversation, we noticed that the people floating by us in the room all looked… the same. The women were in almost-stripperwear (lots of “naughty schoolgirls”), a good number of fake boobs, and the guys looked, as I put it “like a Hollywood sex party.” We remarked how straight everyone looked, and it seemed like the non-queerest place I’d been since AVN, except even at AVN there were infiltrators. No rubber, no tattoos — odd for the space and the kind of parties usually thrown there. Trumpetboy said, “You know I’m the only slightly kinky boy here — I’m feeling really uncomfortable. Would you mind if I put my boy shoes back on?” Of course not, but I was starting to get the vibe he was feeling. Like a football barbecue in a gated community, but with the wives dressed “slutty.” He said, “I need some air, want to go out?” I really did, so we went out on the smoking patio. On the patio we encountered a chatty man and a glum-looking woman. Th guy started chatting us up, “So, wow, you two are in The Lifestyle? Lifestyle Lounge?” Trumpetboy and I looked at each other, smiling. “Um, no.” The guy followed up, “…but you’re married.” Uh, no, we’re friends. “My wife feels sick,” he explained and changed the subject. Then she stood and ran out the door. “Uh, I should go check on her.”

A flood of married couples came outside, and we decided to go back in; I went to pee and listened to wife #1 vomit in the toilet next to me. When I came out, Trumpetboy almost squealed with glee (I think) when I said I wanted to leave the party. He went to get our stuff and I wandered over to the dance floor to watch the swingers “get down.” In tightly paired couples they sat or danced, and the women “sexy danced” with some of the worst moves I’ve seen. Elbows tightly at sides. Butts: left, right, left, right. Then a couple of wives decided to sexy dance together; a tight circle of men closed around them until I couldn’t see the women anymore. I had wanted to come to this party, spend time with Trumpetboy, find another girl like me, and put Trumpetboy through the ringer at the hands of merciless sexy girls; sexual “torture” (read; pleasure) for being a naughty slut-boy in heels. Looking around the room, not a single one of these women looked like they could even come close to pulling a scenario like this off. They looked like it might fry their circuits. And this type — my type — of light-hearted sex play might be met with more than disapproval. I watched one woman dance with her husband; she was pretty, she watched me back, and I felt like a sexual predator of some sort. I wouldn’t fake lesbian tongue-kiss her for her husband to watch. I would make her lick my patent leather stilettoes. I would do all kinds of things the non-kink, homophobic crowd would hate, I’d wipe the floor with her sexually, literally. I wanted to top the fuck out of her, then and there… I’d — “Sure not the usual crowd, eh?” interrupted one of the proprietors. “Definitely not,” I smiled, glad to be yanked out of party-crasher sexual vulture mode. He continued, “Yeah, it was an idea to host a party for these folks here, and it seems to be successful, they seem to be having, uh, fun! I mean, it’s not what we usually do here and they’re pretty straight but I have to say that it’s awfully nice to have people compliment the decor. I spend so much fucking time around jaded hipsters that they come in here and no one even notices how the place looks. These people were like, ‘are you artists, oooo!’ and it was a nice change.” I laughed; that explained everything. While I waited a minute more, I overheard a guy saying, “You met my sexy wife? She’s the bait, man!” That explained everything, too.

Which still meant that Trumpetboy and I were relieved to get the hell out of there. Him more than me, I think — I always underestimate how bad someone can be made to feel simply by being uncomfortable in a room where who you are isn’t acceptable, might even make people hostile. A pair of women’s shoes on a handsome man. I was particularly moved to write this all out after I read this post about porn and sexual healing by the talented Sexual Awakening of a 30-Something Wife, whose blog I really enjoy.

Trumpetboy wrote me a beautiful email after the ill-fated, but still fun evening. His feelings are, I think, universal, so I have to quote: “That “scene” has actually got me thinking. Especially about the “why” I kept my sexuality private for so long. The boys ALL fit into one version of male sexuality. The girls ALL fit into one version of female sexuality. And neither were even close to my version. Walking in the door, I was ready to flaunt and celebrate my sexuality. And then as I became aware of the “vibe” and “uniformity” of the crowd. I was amazed how quickly I shut that door. How quickly, these things that I’m learning to share, once again became something to keep to myself.”

Needless to say, I’m taking Trumpetboy high-heel shopping, soon.

I’ve told Carly that before, but now I can do so once more, and with feeling. Especially since today she sent me pictures of nice spice and shoe racks ingeniously re-purposed as sex toy organizers, found over at homemade-sex-toys.com/organize. Of course, I just had to show you mine (heh); an IKEA kitchen utensil rack I long ago bought extra hooks for (three small bags), installed in my bedroom behind the door (inconspicuous), and now it is where I hang my whips, cuffs, paddles, leashes, blindfolds, fly swatters and other nummy goodies. ‘Cause that IKEA shit is just begging for it.

And yes, I know that’s not proper storage for a stethescope. But it’s oh-so-handy for emergency exams…

Check out my new podcast Open Source Sex 10 (MP3), where I interview uber-hottie porn star Michael Soldier. This is the second of three “Porn Chat With Violet Blue” shows, when about a month ago Neighborhood Public Radio pirated a local frequency, and since they were calling it their “NPR Indecency Series” they asked me to come on and host my own show for a few weekends. To make it as indecent as possible I interviewed Best Gay Male Porn Performer 2004 Michael Soldier — and it was dirty, dirty, and fun. I asked this multi-award winning sex performer what you need to do to get ready to “do” porn, how to shoot the biggest loads, all about his weird experiences as a gay male erotic masseuse and much, much more.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about your sex blog. You love your sex blog. It’s your favorite pet, if a pet could walk upright and log into Movable Type and tell the whole world every sweaty, humpy detail about your sex life (and in our black little hearts we all know it’s a good thing they don’t have thumbs for this very reason).

About that sex blog. I’ve been house wenching at Fleshbot in a very specialized capacity lately, namely I’ve been doing the Sex Blog Roundup, a now-twice-weekly installment where I excerpt six of the tastiest, most recent posts on any given sex blog, every Monday and Thursday. (What did you think my new specialized capacity was, you naughty reader?) So I’m reading around 100 excellent, personal sex blogs (often more), twice a week. Until Uncle Bacchus comes home, anyway.

But wait — did you just look at my link list? You probably noticed a few things. One, that there are no sex news blogs, sex culture blogs or babelogs (porn pic blogs); this particular link collection is all personal sex blogs — no news or picture porn, though I do look at several of those sites every day. You’ll also notice a dearth of queer sites; for now I’ve been instructed to focus on mostly straight stuff, though I read a handful or queer blogs as a matter of staying informed, entertained, stalking friends, etc.

So maybe you’re asking, “Why isn’t my sex blog in your list?” I might not know about it (email me; I’m just ranting, I won’t bite). Your blog might be more about politics or culture and less about your personal sexual arena. Or, maybe you haven’t updated it since January. Perhaps you have a troubling relationship with spell check — no one has an excuse for bad spelling anymore, ever. Deal. Or, you could be mistakenly posting all of your entries with “caps lock” on — let me break it to you gently; ALL CAPS MEANS YOU’RE SHOUTING. See — that’s doesn’t feel nice, does it? You made me do it.

Maybe your blog is so painfully romance-novel fugly that few can bear to look upon it, let alone pass the link around like the cheap tart we all want it to be. Has it been redesigned since 1999? Time for a makeover, dearie. And do take a look at other sex blogs — everyone is using the same three Blogger templates these days, so unless you want to be confused with “cumsucker99: diary of a demure ding-dong escort,” see what isn’t being done and do that instead. Perhaps it’s clear that your “sex blog” is just a front for you to sell your affiliate’s products — really, nothing is tackier than a thinly veiled “sex toy review post” that links to your affiliate. Have a separate page for that business, and give us some sexy substance instead. It’s a blog, blogs don’t pay, and so many sex blogs wind up begging for money (and never get any) that it’s just tragic. I miss the good old days when washed-up actors would end up as skid row rummies instead of anti-aging infommercials and reality shows about being fat. Get it?

Okay, maybe blogging your romance novel and calling it a sex blog is tackier. Also, have you considered that the world might not need another BDSM submissive blog? I digress.

Why else would someone shy from your sex blog? Well, are you writing about sex? If you have a sex blog, do us all a favor and don’t write about doing the dishes, taking the kids to school, what you had for dinner, your computer problems — unless it’s sex-related. Get a life blog instead, not a sex blog, if you just want to tell us how depressed you are, or what you hate about your job — unless it’s sex-related. Stumped for ideas? Describe your genitals. Invent a new position, even for masturbating. Tell us about a sex dream, or a fantasy, or your ideal porn movie. A photo, a memory. Write from the heart, via the groin, of course. I love doing Sex Blog Roundup; it’s like editing an anthology but so much more visceral and authentic, and I’m discovering loads of talented writers. Just write anything about sex, please. Lastly, do not have a cool sex blog if you can’t handle a bandwidth spike. Just do not be cool at all — be boring. Lame out and flame out. Do *not* have hot sex, whatever you do. Write about washing spinach, not how you tried the “helicopter fuck” and broke a lamp. Sites like Fleshbot and BoingBoing are like high-pressure hoses for traffic; whatever they are aimed at gets a huge, huge spike, and nothing makes me more weepy than when a cool site goes down for exceeding bandwidth, or, worse, a blogger whines about getting a buttload of traffic because they posted something interesting. (Note: a buttload is different than a pantload.)

Because blogging, above all, is about wasting bandwidth. Revel in it. And don’t tease me; please, please talk dirty to me.

Nose porn. It’s the new black. No, really — I came across some facial bondage videos and turned them over to Fleshbot a while back, and since then I seem to keep finding nose-related porn. So today there’s this BB post about a woman who got a leech stuck in her nasal cavity, and I have to wonder, if she was into nasal penetration/bondage would she have noticed it sooner? Like those anal queens who can eject easter eggs like potato gun projectiles, whereas a mere mortal would have to face the most embarrasing Richard Gere trip to the ER ever to have said huevos removed at the hands of a smirking intern? Wait a minute, you say — back up. “Nasal penetration/bondage”? Really. It’s one of the weirdest/coolest/funniest/creepiest things I’ve ever seen: hardcore Japanese nose bondage and nasal fucking animations. My dear friend Mandi; thank you for loving me with this link. You’ve made me hit the sauce a few hours early this fine Saturday…

I’m back and plowing through the emails, and trying to get back up to speed with Fleshbot. Until the machines are completely unloaded, listen to my newest podcast Open Source Sex #9 (MP3), where I interview Gay Porn Blog’s all-around cutie and GayVN Best Screenplay winner Jack Shamama. We talk about all kinds of dirty things, and most interestingly he talks about what it takes to write a porn script. A porn script? What’s that? I know, I know…

Curious readers can check out the many photos and videos taken of the SRL show off of our SRL Dangerous Curve page, plus a bunch of cool bloggings and writings by not so innocent bystanders. It was one of the best shows we’ve ever done, everything went as planned (even the fire department and police showing up), my friends came out, and I even got interviewed by my ultimate crush super-uber-hottie Xeni for NPR (the real NPR), and sexy Jenny Shimizu for an upcoming series on women mechanics called Tu Tu’s Motorworld.

Oh and about that alarm clock I told you about: I actually got out of my sleeping bag, grabbed my camera and walked outside — here’s the video. (photo on right by Xeni)

I woke up today with the boeing jet engine test… what an alarm clock! Yesterday I woke up and went on an illicit pallet run; daytime crime before coffee is quite a rush. Then my friend Coop came to see me, and my other friend Benny has been helping out. Xeni is coming to visit me today, too! I’m having a blast — check out the SRL show blogging that my pal Scott Beale is doing on Laughing Squid. Lots of fun photos! The show is tonight and I’m running the inchworm, a huge destroyer of a machine, which is good — the more I destroy, the less we have to bring home!