Derek and Romaine yesterday; BBC today, wow. I am misquoted here. Molested by Tanya, the flag girl in my Marching Band story: check (it was sexy, she whipped and spanked me with a red rose). David Byrne at the show: check. (he saw the whole molestation!)

A proper blog entry (with photos and video) is forthcoming, I promise.

More Sexy Podcasts at Odeo.com!

I’m #3 in iTunes podcasts, and Softpedia (not the Wall Street Journal) calls my podcast, Open Source Sex, “the podcast that disturbs the most”.

Who is Softpeida?

I just did another interview about this whole thing.

I have to go get on a plane now. Yay!

It’s almost like furniture porn, but actually it’s Antiques Roadshow smut by Dante Davidson, and my thoughts on all the sex and podcasting hoo-hah: Open Source Sex 15 (MP3).

I said “hoo-hah”. Heh. Okay, right now I need to pack for my trip to New York tomorrow to meet up with the Extra Action Marching Band, and I’ll also be making an in studio apprearance on the Derek and Romaine show friday night at 8pm Eastern Time; listen in for free on the Sirius website. Or, busy yourself with these great videos — apparently the drummer in David Byrne’s band wears a camera on his head (helmet?) and he took these great videos of the Marching Band, one from the Fillmore and the other from the Hollywood Bowl. Runor has it that Byrne and his gang are excited to see Extra Action again in New York, unofficially, so things could get interesting…

Podcasting: Talking Dirty on Your iPod

Quote: “You don’t need big breasts or big advertisers,” says Violet Blue, the host of “Open Source Sex.” “It’s the ultimate democratic tool for sex education.”

Hells, yeah! I actually said that.

Okay, and here’s the thing: I’m #9 in podcasts in iTunes (and totally freaking out about it), above ESPN and Adam Curry (who will spank me, I’m sure). So if I’m in the top ten podcasts in iTunes, why won’t they put up my “album” artwork? It’s just a picture of my lips and a microphone. Sex ghetto, I’m telling you. Sex will never be treated normally or seen in a healthy light until these outdated ways of thinking about it die like the dinosaurs. They just toss it all in the “porn” dustbin, without even realizing that to do a porn podcast, you need to have substance and good writing, you need to entertain and keep an audience, two things that porn utterly lacks. Like, when was the last time you saw a well-written porn film, or heard porn movie dialogue that didn’t make you cringe? Podcasting is a whole new genre, and until iPod syncs photos and video with pictures, thus creating a visually distracting medium, we’ll have quality sex content in adult podcasts. Until then, anyway…

Odeo.com is the rockin’ podcast resource (and what a gorgeous site — that makes all the difference in the world to me); I had the pleasure of being interviewed at their offices last wednesday for their podcast. Next week I’ll be doing a brand-new sexy podcast roundup on their site, and I’ll be featuring some hot new erotic podcasts. Listen to my odeo.com interview here.

In between Fleshbot posts and pinching myself about all the podcast attention I’m getting today, I did a little craft project: I pimped out my iPod Shuffle. With one of those little “Bling It!” kits from Amazon (marketed to teens for use on cell phones), I sat with a small pair of scissors and applied tiny light blue and white “ice” rhinestones. How sexy will it look buried in my cleavage? Way. Total craft time: 20 minutes. Satisfaction: absolute. Jealousy when I shop in the Castro: insurmountable.

More Shuffle bling pics start here (click ‘next’ for more).

Now Playing on Apple’s iTunes: Adult-Oriented Podcasts

Wow! Freaking out while posting to Fleshbot today…

* Update: I had no idea I was in the print verison, too! I totally started hyperventilating in the coffee shop an hour ago when I saw my color photo on the front of the “Marketplace” section…

Today my column for SFist: Every Inch Counts (about a seriously revolutionary sex toy material) and an interview with Newsweek (!!!next week’s issue!!!), yesterday I did an interview at the very cool Odeo.com offices for their podcast (more on that soon), and tomorrow I take over Fleshbot for a day of grrrl-powered porn mayhem. I promise to return with a roundup of the odd EFF Panel, where we didn’t talk about important stuff like 2257 and I got bitch-sniped by a fellow panelist who was like, all jealous that I was prettier than him. But it did bring up important issues I want to cover, like sex blogging and privacy issues, and yes, I want to explain 2257 a bit more here — it’s a law that censors the use of images like the Abu Ghraib photos and not *just* porn, you know…

Love and strength to my friends in London.

When I did the Teledildonics presentation, I had the joy of co-presenting with the dangerously cute (or cutely dangerous) members of Simnuke — we shared microphones, got drunk enough to slur, good times, people. I was sad I missed the Simnuke detonation, but there’s a great account of it here, and sexy alien from the future Xeni covered it here and on NPR.

It was a “holiday in other people’s misery.” (at least when outside the sanctuary of London Boy’s house). And back, I seem to be busy as usual, but it’s not the kind of busy that’s resulting in income, which is something I’m going to have to give more serious thought (especially when the credit card bill from my uber-costly UK trip shows up). And the way I’m feeling about the sex book biz, I’m looking at going back to working in a cafe with romance in my eyes, even if in the past two days I’ve done interviews with the Chicago Tribune, Wired, the Wall Street Journal… Starbucks *does* have benefits for part-time workers… I mean seriously — I’m shopping for an agent right now, and with as many books as I’ve sold, and top ten sales lists my books live on, I got this response from a mainstream agent today:

“I’m going to be frank with you and let you know that personally, I love this kind of stuff, but I know that it would never fly with the particular agency I work for … I wish I could recommend an agency that is hipper and more open to what you do, and if I can come up with one, I’ll let you know.”

In other words, welcome to the insanely popular sex writing ghetto. I have six contracts waiting to be signed and more offers. What the fuck do these lit business people think is going on in sex writing these days? That attitude is so dead.

More stuff on my mind:
* Tomorrow night I’ll be on a bloggers’ rights panel for the EFF here in San Francisco (7pm).
* New podcast: Open Source Sex 14, where I rant about iTunes and sex podcasts, talk about London and read erotica.
* Don’t miss my last two columns for SFist, Fantastic Foreskin and Porn by the Bay (the latter I wrote on my laptop in SFO).
* While I was gone, stuff kept happening at home. Which totally ruins my theories about reality only happening when you notice it. The big thing that happened was that iTunes yanked a bunch of adult podcasts (mine included; you can get all the details in my latest podcast). They relisted it fairly quickly, only because friends and colleagues made noise about it in blogs, which is awesome and amazing. And I know that iTunes would never have responded to any of our complaints, nor would they ever consider adult podcasts a viable, respectable medium that anyone might want to actually listen to. I mean, they’ve got most of us in the “health” ghetto, as sex could *never* have its own “entertainment” category, because sex is either dirty and evil or clinical and medical. Right? Again with the outdated attitudes about sex. Anyway, these posts got my (according to my podcast host 280,000 subscribers and growing) podcast re-listed in iTunes: iTunes Prudery: The iTipper, Flap over adult podcasts and iTunes, Sexy Podcasts on iTunes. Still dropped from iTunes are: Gay Sexcapades, MXL: Spice Up Your Sex Life and Rubber Canada.
* I’ll be in New York on the last weekend of this month — for fun! I’m determined to have a good getaway this summer, and the delightful Tony Comstock is letting me crash in his apartment so my budget won’t get crushed; even more exciting is that I’m going to NY with Extra Action, and they have lots of crazy/fun gigs planned. It’ll be a trip chock full of rubber panties, sock garters and huge eyelashes — I’ll also be doing an in-studio appearance on the Derek and Romaine Show on the 29th; I’ll post details when they’re final if you want to listen in and hear me try to get spanked on the air…

I have to blog about the wonderfulness of San Francisco for a minute. Coming home has been full of perspective and release. I actually cried in my yoga class on Friday, which sounds really yuppie and lame, but felt really fucking good, like a total release and appreciation for everything I have, however fleeting, and the beauty I’m finding in moments that are so great they just can’t be held onto. The art of release, just like archery (I do shoot a bow and arrow though haven’t in a while). I’m even glad for all the difficulties I’ve been dealing with lately, as they seem to be showing me where I need to stretch a little bit more. On saturday Hornboy and I woke up and went to the Farmer’s Market, where we got coffee and croissants and sat on the pier, looking around the bay and back at the “Port of San Francisco” letters above the Ferry Building. We spent hours snacking and buying fruits and vegetables from local farmers.

Then we meandered home, where we made afternoon cocktails and put all the produce and fresh bread into a picnic basket and headed off to Golden Gate Park. We spread out a packing blanket I stole a few SRL shows ago and sat in the trees, on grass and little tiny white flowers, along a secluded stretch of winding duck pond. For a few minutes a couple and a photographer wandered through out little corner of bliss, taking their engagement photos. We sipped Campari and soda with lemon, and nibbled on everything in and out of the picnic basket. At one point, I even took dessert in the form of a quick and nasty blowjob while Hornboy writhed on the blanket — a very daring thing for me, to do this in public. A first. Such a huge turn-on, too; but how can a girl resist seeing a nice hard knob in a pair of pants and not want to take a sample? A girl just can’t.

That evening we went to see my friends at the Fire Arts Festival, which is a great and lame thing all rolled into one experience. The fire art sculptures are incredible, but sadly the festival and Burning Man are the same thing, so you see really cool fire art but have to deal with snotty boho hippies and clowns. Plus, you know they’re all these rich posers because it’s like $75 to get in. We snuck in, and it was as easy as being totally ignored by staff and security at the door. So rude; we stood for several minutes (I thought I might be on the guest list, was planning to talk my way in, I don’t have that kind of money to *burn*) and waited, and waited… and just blended into the crowd, split up for a minute, then found each other again. Highlight: meeting Monochrom, who I’ll go see do their Dorkbot on wednesday night. Highlight 2: seeing my friend Rosanna’s incredible fire and metal sculptures in real life (she’s also an SRL grrrl).

Anyway, my friend’s pictures are cool.

But not on the computer until tomorrow. I’d like to formally thank my guardian spirits, at the very least for sending a drag queen to the airport to greet me to remind me about a) the important things in life, and b) why San Francisco is my spiritual and intellectual home. Okay, so the tall blonde/white boa combo wans’t there to greet *me* but you get my drift.

In the meantime, visit the pics of London street art I shot on my last night, in the district where Jack the Ripper hacked his way into our hearts and minds.

It’s the little things about corporate culture I’m grateful for in situations like this; right now I’m sitting in Heathrow airport (London) suckiing up the wifi at the Starbucks. It’s about 8am here; 12am at home in San Francisco, and I’ve had about three hours of sleep. The transportation is so fucked here that it’s impossible to get to the airport by tube (remember when I landed it had been blown up?), and it seems that people are reserving the cabs to get to work — which meant it took me five cab companies at 1am to find one that would come get me and take me to the airport, and then only at 5am.

On monday I sat down with a map of the Underground and my laptop, mapping out all the unusable tube service so I could try to figure out a plan to see some sights. I sat with a black pen and drew lines over all the suspended/removed lines and stops, until I realized I’d drawn a huge black ring around the center of London. Ring around the rosy. So I just walked out and got on a bus headed randomly toward the city center.

I got off in Soho, the same neighborhood I’d gone bar-hopping with London Boy, the gay neighborhood. It was hot, sunny, full of green leafy trees and just lovely; I wandered around the businesses and shops until I was sweaty and my feet hurt. I had iced coffee, ate weird curry quiche and chatted with Hare Krishnas, took pictures and shopped at the Skin Two shops. The Krishna guy offered me a pamphlet, I declined, he asked where I was from and then profusely apologized about the “sitation” in London, assuring me that it was only once and would never happen again. I felt like I needed to comfort him somehow, it was strange, perhaps because he was feeling like as a tourist, everyone I met (such as him) represented London.

I bought myself two comfort souvenirs: a crystal eyepatch and a jeweled buttplug.

It took hours to get back to the house.

The next day, my last in London (yesterday) I made a big plan to visit the Highgate Cemetery, supposedly where the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula came from. Half the cemetery is open to the public, half is by tour appointemy only, so I booked a walking tour. I called the cab over an hour ahead of time to visit a district only about 25 minutes away from where I was staying, but of course the cab driver got lost, had to use my guidebook map, and then I just got out and walked — over an hour of driving, and I ran through the cemetary to try and catch the tour, to which I was late.

Pause for a minute to imagine me running through the old cemetery with my long black hair, big sunglasses, black shoes and socks and skirt (and sock garters). Now try it in slow motion.

I got to the huge locked iron gates, and an old verison of Lurch stood there. “I’m late for the tour.” No response. “I ran. I called to tell the receptioist was late.” No response. “She said she’d let me in. My whole trip to London has been like this…” Finally, he moved toward the gates, very slowly, and unlocked them using a huge skeleton key. “I’ll get her.”

I ran to catch up with the tour, and the cemetary was really green and gorgeous — check out my photos here. After the too-short tour through what seemed to be only a small section, I went across the street to the big public cemetery, which I found more fun and entertaining. I sat on a bench and read among the graves, in the shade. I took pictures. I wandered over to Karl Marx’s grave because Jackson wouldn’t forgive me otherwise. Then I meandered out of the graveyard to a nearby French cafe for cold beer and salad; it was my best afternoon by far, and I read at the cafe for a while. Then I tried to get a cab back; an hour and a half wait (I was *not* in a remote area, mind you). Once in the cab, I was trapped in traffic with a lifelong Londoner, who told me he’s “never seen it like this.” I told him that’s pretty much what I’d been hearing since I landed, and he laughed. We talked politics; people here know more about Bush than the average American, but that really isn’t a surprise. We talked about the bombings; he grew up when the IRA was bombing London so he had a world-weary prepective on it, which I suppose many Londoners do — and I think it’s incorrectly interpreted in the press right now as the iconic “stiff upper lip.” Interstingly, in the press here they’re not comparing the tragedy and their reactions to 9/11, which is what I expected, but instead they’re comparing themselves and their reactions to the Spanish.

The “stiff upper lip” is being talked about a lot — on talk radio they’re openly asking if they should be grieving more. Spanish TV crews were wandering around memorial sites and asking anyone who would talk to them why they weren’t crying or openly showing grief. Are the Brits seen as being cold, like their stereotype? I’ve certainly seen a lot of angry reaction in the blogs, and “let’s move on”, but no sadness, hurt, or pain. They’re definitely defensive about questions such as the Spanish are asking; is expressing loss seen as weakness in this culture? I read through my 200+ blog rounds, and it was very interesting to see really only these two reactions in the UK blogs.

Oh, and I haven’t met a single Londoner who likes our president; they can’t believe we’re about to gamble our social security away. Quel suprise. Neither can I.

Sorry if there are any typos; I need to wrap up and head toward my gate. Off to the Barf Vader and Puke Skywalker convenience bags…

On saturday night London Boy and I went to the Torture Garden party, after our day of walking around the tourists sights (and all the sirens, and the cops, and the trains being stopped for suspicious packages, etc.). The highlight of the day was a trip to Coco de Mer, which I think is pretty much the most awesome sex boutique I’ve ever been in; it’s like a kinky and sweet sex museum but everything is for sale (pics). Just gorgeous, with amazing toys and lingerie… I bought Hornboy a kinky souvenir (I’m in major trouble when I get back, tho).

We were pretty tired from all the walking and the stress, so we went out pretty late; luckily the club party was from 8pm-5am. The club was right around the corner from a tube station where they’re still digging bodies out of and so the taxis aren’t allowed to stop anywhere along there…

The club was really cool inside; Morroccan style decor and with two dance floors, balconies, bondage cages and most of the upstairs rooms decked out with dungeon furniture. The outfits were really amazing; truly what you’d expect at a British fetish party, with lots of outrageous rubber and costumes from adult baby to…. Nazi. Unfortunately the only folks that I met were in rubber Nazi uniforms (there were a signifigant number of Nazi fetish outfits), and the only girl that wanted to play with me (that I knew of) was in a rubber SS outfit, which is like, so not a turn-on. We ended up just leaving after two drinks. We hung out upstiars for a bit first, people-watching while a couple had sex with each other next to me, however we mostly watched the videos on the screen above the bar — videos of people I know like Stelarc and my dear, dear departed friend Tim North. Overall, I was surprised at the diversity in the fetish scene at that club; lots of different body sizes, skin colors, dykes, gay men — though there were very few trans people.

I’d have photos, except there were no photos allowed — unless you had a press pass, which they wouldn’t give me. I asked, but they didn’t think “Fleshbot was a site club goers would look at,” though it seemed like the staff and their pals had plenty of cameras… typical clique mentality among fetish people, I think.

Yesterday (sunday), we slept in and then went to the supermarket which I have to admit was a pretty neat experience as a foreigner. (Walking to the market: “That’s the 30, the bus line that was blown up.”) I’m staying in a neighborhood called “the murder mile” because of all the stabbings and shootings that center at a club and park one block from the house; it’s a diverse but poor neighborhood, like most I’ve seen so far. I hear a lot of languages, even African dialects I think. We walked in the 80 degree heat to the market — in the parking lot there were people selling pirated DVDs, just like at home in Hunter’s Point. I’m such a cooking dork, I bought spices at the supermarket as my souveniers. On the way back we cut through the cemetary, where they’ve moved the headstones off to the sides to make it into a park, though they left the bodies… while we walked through all these military planes flew overhead: biplanes, seaplanes, all because this weekend is the WWII anniversary, which has the city full of old vets in full dress and dripping with medals. All such weird timing.

Walking back, I learned that this neighborhood — the murder mile — used to be wealthy until WWII, which is when it got bombed to pieces, and it’s easy to see the difference between old buildings and the newer ones built to replace bombed ones.

We hung out around the house and garden and I worked on the Sex Blog Roundup, at which point I sent an email off to Girl With a One Track Mind, and to my surprise she emailed me back right away and said, hey let’s get a drink. She wanted me to meet her in a district about 20 min. away by car, but by public transit and the tube stations that are missing, that meant likely over an hour to get there. London is so big that it already takes an hour to get anywhere, but with trains unreliable and stations removed completely from service, it’s more than daunting to take a trip. It’s totally confusing, and the tube maps online are not to scale, nor does the trip planner take into account the bombed-out stations.

So I figured, fuck it, I’m only here three more days so I’ll take a cab. Here, there are basically three kinds of cabs as far as I can tell. One is the black cabs with the drivers whose knowledge of London streets are legendary. These cabs are not around late at night. Next are fairly legit minicabs, basically guys driving cars (their own) through a service. After that are the minicabs which are guys driving their own cars that are much less legit, I think, as everyone seems to want to avoid these. Add to this the very VERY real problem here of single women getting abducted by these minicab drivers. Oh, and the minicab drivers know fuck-all about the streets of London.

I took a minicab from a legit service that I called from the house. Still, he was late because he couldn’t find the house even though the numbers are clearly above the door. On the drive to Camden, he went on and on about how quiet the streets of London are and how no one is going out, how it’s been quiet all weekend. He motioned to empty places as we drove by and told me how they were usually full of people. I asked him why, he said he through people were staying in because they are scared. I asked how long he’d been a London cab driver and he said 15 years. I asked if he’d ever seen it this quiet before and he said, yea, once in 1985. “Brixton.”

He dropped me in Camden and in less than a second guys on the street were approaching me. Luckily GWOTM was there to meet me, and looking insanely sexy in a low-cut dress. In case you’re wondering, she’s gorgeous, built like there’s no tomorrow and smart as a whip. We walked around to bars drinking and getting kicked out as they shut down (weird drinking hours here), and getting followed around by creepy guys. In the last bar a bottle-over-the-head fight between five guys nearly landed on us… London charm? Regardless, I had a really great time with her, and it was cool to meet and chat with a blogger from the UK about sex, writing, politics and the delicate balance of having a sex blog but still having a life. She wouldn’t tell me her name, though, which left me feeling a little more of London’s mistrust in a weird way — I realized when I finally made it back to the house how odd it was to spend an evening with someone who won’t tell you their name (though totally I understand GWOTM’s personal needs for privacy). It just adds to my feelings of unbalance and disconnect. (”Who did you go out with last night?” “Um, I don’t know.”)

We had to walk ten blocks to get me a legitimate cab ride back, one where I would be safe. I can’t tell you how glad I am that she made sure I was okay. On the way to the cab office I watched a group of taggers hit a building, then cops chase them around the corner. The cab driver got lost on the way back to London Boy’s house and I had to call (and wake) my host. $24 each way, fucking ouch.

Today I’m packing so I’ll be ready to leave on wednesday morning; I’m hoping tonight to meet up with one of the Londoinst guys for friendly faces and drinks.

New pics.

“London Calling”

London calling to the faraway towns
Now war is declared, and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls
London calling, now don’t look to us
Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain’t got no swing
‘Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

The ice age is coming, the sun’s zooming in
Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running, but I have no fear
‘Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

London calling to the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, you can go it alone
London calling to the zombies of death
Quit holding out, and draw another breath
London calling, and I don’t wanna shout
But when we were talking, I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain’t got no high
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

The ice age is coming, the sun’s zooming in
Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear era, but I have no fear
‘Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

Now get this

London calling, yes, I was there, too
An’ you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
After all this, won’t you give me a smile?
London calling

I never felt so much ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE

Last night there was bomb threat half a block from the house and no one could go in or out of their houses. Today I got out and saw all the sights, but with cops everywhere, sirens literally every five minutes, I waited in line at an ATM and all these police cars and sirens went through and cops running on foot — some asshole skinhead in line in front of me made fun of the cops yelling “they’re over here” like it was a joke and the cop came back and practically beat the shit out of the guy in front of me. I’ve never seen naked rage as was on the cop’s face. The skinhead deserved it, I wanted to hit him. I wanted to tell him to take a walk a few blocks away and go help dig bodies out of an Undergound station. Anti-Arab (read: brown people) violence is crazy, crazy, crazy, and I keep overhearing Indians talking to each other about it. After the ATM incident I got on an Underground line, then changed to another line, and right after I got off they took my train out of service because of a suspicious package. Tonight 20,000 people were evacuated out of the Birmingham city center. There is no moment when something freaky isn’t happening. It’s extra scary because the British are so reserved; I feel like I never really know what’s going on.

On the other hand, London Boy is very cool and we hit the gay bars last night after they cleared the bomb threat, then ended the evening around 3-4 in the craziest seedy little strip club ever. Just a 5 by 5 square of wood floor and a tiny disco ball and ten dollar beers. The women really paid attention to me; fully nude, too.

But other than that it is very tense here, and the public transport is unreliable, and half the service is down. I don’t feel safe and I’ve tried to get an early flight home but the airports are jammed. Virgin (which is the best airline, ever) got me out a day early with no extra charges because of the situation. I’ll be home Wednesday.

Here is my growing London photo album. It’s disjointed because I feel so strange. Fucking sirens again outside now. I want to go home.

First I want to thank everyone for emailng me and making sure I’m alright. Extra smooches to Coop and Ruth, who arrived in New York *right* after the WTC attacks. I’ll start with a few realizations.

Realization #1: If I’d been on the earlier plane, I’d have been in the Underground in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am by no means the only person in London thinking about this.

Realization #2: London Boy almost got killed coming to meet me at the airport. Instead he whisked me out of Heathrow and into a taxi, then to his house where he made me breakfast and we got to chat for the first time, but in a state of shock.

Realization #3: I’ve seen London looking a lot like 28 Days Later. When the bus service was restored last night we hopped one to get to a pub, and all bus service was free. Not many people were out.

But don’t just listen to me: read my sweet host’s account below, stolen (with permission) from an email he sent to his friends:

“I’m still a bit in shock actually. The more I read about it the more I think that I narrowly avoided being on one of those trains.

“I bought a ticket at 8:17 yesterday morning. I’m not THAT dull as to
remember that, it’s stamped on the ticket and now stamped on my mind. I was going out to the airport to pick up Violet. She was arriving on a 10:20 flight from San Francisco. Even with all the time she’d take in baggage claim and passport control I figured that it’s was best to get there early.

“One 25-30 minute bus ride to Finsbury Park later, I arrived to find the Piccadilly line (Dark Blue line) was out due to power failure.
Uninterestingly, but for the sake of a context which will become apparent later, it was down from Arnos Grove (north of Finsbury Park) to Caledonian Rd station (just before Kings Cross) to the south of Finsbury Park.

“So, I couldn’t catch the Piccadilly as planned, instead - plan b - I caught the Victoria Line (Light Blue line). Front carriage, through the first two double doors as it happens. This meant nothing at the time.

“When we went through King’s Cross the train wasn’t allowed to let passengers off and two station staff were the only people on the platform. Normally you get a warning about this kind of thing at the station before, like “This train will not be stopping at the next station.” I don’t remember hearing that. The driver got out, which is strange, and was talking to them for ten seconds or so. I now have the feeling that I was there about 1-2 minutes after its 8:56 bomb, and 8-9 minutes after the bomb at Aldgate. The King’s Cross bomb was in the front carriage in the standing area between the two front double-doors.

“So if I had have been a bit earlier, or on the bus before the one I took to Finsbury Park, and changed for the Piccadilly at Kings Cross, or the Piccadilly line hadn’t had problems… If, if, if

“The train continued to Green Park. I had no idea a couple of the bombs had gone off, I got off at Green Park thinking the power supply issue was the problem at Kings Cross - these closures always creep as trains get banked up. The station announced that the Piccadilly line was now closed all the way west to Hammersmith. An attendent suggested I stay on that platform and get the next train to go one stop to Victoria Station, then the District (Green line) out to Acton Town and take the Piccadilly from there. Oh, cool, sounds fun. I’m starting to get a bit worried about being late now.

“Five minutes later, Victoria Station. The platform was quite full and
station staff were holding us all on the platform, not allowing us to leave. They said that the District and Circle (Yellow) Lines were closed and that we had to make our way to the street and use buses. Up the escalator we all trudge. When I got to the top, some people went out the exits and others, uh, including me, performed a commuter rebellion and went to the District Line platform. Lo and behold a train was arriving in one minute and it was going through Acton Town. Saved!!

“I remember thinking “hmph, last time I listen to them”. We got four stops to Earls Court and the driver asked us to leave the train. The station announcement kept on saying something like “Please leave the station, this is due to an Emergency” over and over again. I remember someone speaking to the station staff and the staff member saying “I’m sorry, I can’t answer questions at the moment sir, I have to make sure that everyone leaves as quickly as possible”. It was all very calm though. Like a thick, wide conveyor belt of people forced, toothpaste-like, out into the street

“By now I was bit pissed off, a bit confused and incredibly concerned about getting to Heathrow. The plane was to land at 10:20, it was now about 9:20 I think. So the Edgware Rd bomb had just gone off. That must have been when someone senior said “Fuck it, get ‘em all off the trains”

“I don’t think they said the whole tube network was shut down, because I walked to a mini-cab office toying with the idea of getting a car to Acton Town and going from there.

“Time was starting to slow down now. Lots of information rushed in. When I got to the cab office there was 1 person waiting. Over the next five minutes it became more frenetic. About 20 people showed up, phones ringing, people wondering how they were going to get to work, people unhappy at the inconvenience of it all. I was evesdropping to pick up scraps of the story. Pretty soon I didn’t have to. Strangers just started talking to each other. There’s a bus blown up? What do you mean? They’re saying it’s a power surge… How does a power surge affect a bus?

“Fuck. It stared to dawn on people. Like light rain turning to heavy
droplets.

“It took about half an hour but I got a cab and shared it with an American woman needing to get a flight out of London. Lucky bitch. In the spirit of High Capitalism the cab office said “It’s normally £25 to the airport, but seeing that there’s two of you… £20 each”. What a piece of shit, but with no time to twat him I left the cries of “outrageous!” from my fellow strandees and just got in the fucking car. Feeling very anxious by now. Lateness, bombs, confused.

“The driver took a call from a friend who was telling him about Aldgate. The ambulances and the police cars and the wounded. The radio was telling us about the power surges, oh… and a bus had exploded. The cab driver looked sadly at us both in the rear-view mirror and gestured loosely in the air, palm up. “Well, this is it. Our turn.” his gesture said. Police cars from a couple of different police forces raced by on the other side of the motorway. Some expert on the radio says that power surges may affect a small area, but there’s no way that the Aldgate one could affect King’s Cross, let alone Edgware.

“They know what it is. We know what it is. “Please don’t panic” they said. We arrived at the airport at 10:30. The plane had touched down on time, just ten minutes before, so unless Heathrow had suddenly become speedy and efficient, it was fine.

“I took a breath, and a slash *phew*, and called my brother to ask him to call my Mum and my Dad to let them know I was alright. I got as far as “Hi” and my steely resolve rusted and crumbled. “Could you ring Mum and Dad” - voice starts to crackle and break - “tell them I’m OK?”.

“What are you talking about?”
“Um”
“Ad? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Hang on” - took a breath - “Turn on the news.”

“The rest is a bit of a blur actually. Just kept on wiping my eyes and trying to form words with a trembling bottom lip. And my voice went up an octave. I don’t know how I did that but it was probably a good time to hit the higher notes in “Living On A Prayer”. If I’d ever wanted to that is. Which, of course, I never have. No. Never.

“I hung up from him. I wanted to ring everyone I knew and check they were ok, tell them I’m ok. I couldn’t face another phone call though.

“I walked back to the arrivals and waited for Violet. I thought about how I was going to tell her. How we were going to get out of Heathrow. How I was really soft as shite.

“It was about 45 minutes later she came through the doors and I hugged her and we went for a coffee. I think I mentioned the tube being out. I think that’s all I could say. I formulated sentences in my mind and each time the words came near my lips some kind of orange heat came to the back of my eyes. And a metallic taste in my mouth. Must have been the remnants of my steely resolve. So we talked about normal things and drank a coffee. Actually, when she went to leave her bags to help me carry the coffees I almost said it then. Almost said “People have been killed in such an awful, awful way this morning”. Instead I said, “You better stay with your bags, they’re really edgy about that today” or something. I told her I was feeling “tired and emotional” because I wasn’t sure that I could hold it in for much longer. I thought they may have mentioned something on the plane and that she would ask more about it and then I’d lose it again.

“Coffee finished, we joined the biblical-style queue for the cabs. Not that I remember people queueing for cabs in the bible. It was still playing on my mind though, how do I mention it? During a brief lull in the conversation I casually blurt out “This is because of a bomb” and quickly turn away. She asked me whether this happened often. “No”, I replied. Orange heat. Steely taste. Wet eyes.

“We eventually got a cab and took a complicated route through choked and then, as we went through the top of Central London, wide empty streets. As the enormity of the situation became more apparent Violet thanked me for making such an effort to be at the airport. Mr Soft-as-shite had to look away really quickly then too. I coughed a few times to hide the little gasping sob sounds I couldn’t stop myself from making. Any feeling of emotion, even heartfelt appreciation, was much too much to bear. I had done nothing really. I just went out to the airport. I just did a regular day-to-day thing. Like the people who were torn apart.

“I saw buildings being evacuated near Paddington Station. More police cars. Streets taped off. We turned away from Central London near Euston and headed North East for a bit. I think I accidently tipped the driver about £40. This on top of his £80 fare meant that he could go home for the day. And buy a yacht.

“But we were home, and alive. There’s really something to be said for that.

It’s about 4pm here now in London, and I’ve arrived at London Boy’s house in safety; London was bombed shortly before my plane touched down. About the time I was getting off the plane, the officials were changing their story about a “power surge” in the Underground to state that there had been seven explosions in the Underground and on one (above ground) bus. Currently BBC breaking has the death toll at 33 and the injured at over 300 (current blast map). There is no Underground running anywhere, nor bus service. My sweet host had a hell of a time meeting me at the airport; he kept getting kicked off the Underground at various stops, not knowing why he was being diverted save for a “power surge,” and he criss-crossed stops to arrive at Heathrow before the system was shut down completely — I can’t even express how relieved I am that he’s okay. We waited in a huge line for a taxi (which I’m sure got even worse as news spread of the actual events). The ride cost around $160, as entire sections of London have been closed to *all* traffic; London is at a standstill. My host peered out the window of the taxi saying it was a “ghost town.” Eerie. Awful. We listened to reports on the taxi radio from witnesses talking about business’ walls outside the exploded bus being “covered with blood.”

Excellent post to pictures and coverage @ Boing Boing.

Update: Heathrow (the airport I landed at) has been closed and evacuated. This blog by a London EMT, “Random Acts of Reality” is one to watch.

The phone messages are getting more desperate, the emails impatient, my friends are giving up on me… I haven’t been arrested for anything, but my life has been so insane I’m off the map. And tomorrow I’ll literally be off the US map — I’ll be on a plane to London, where hopefully I’ll just be drinking pints and staring at British people and catching up on all my correspondance and work. If you want to see what I’ve been up to for the most part, read the past, oh, couple dozen Fleshbot posts (with the V. Blue signature) to see where I’ve been…

But speaking of getting arrested, remember the lovely brass knuckle handbags made by James Piatt at Sundae Best (original post here by ultravixen Xeni)? Read this: “Handbag featured on BB lands woman in airport security hell” Anyone want to bet it ends up on eBay?

I also decided to avoid work for one minute and get very drunk this weekend with some very kinky sex educators (and you know how they are in their off hours). I didn’t have hot sex with them (or any sex with them, for that matter), but I got to rub minty lotion on a cute girl’s butt after she’d been spanked (pics NSFW and offensive to most religious groups). At a certain point they said, “we’re all going to probably have sex in a few minutes and you can join us or not,” and Hornboy and I were a little stunned, so we adjourned somewhere else for backrubs and delicious inebriants. I dunno why I miss these opportunities when I have such raging fantasies. It just seemed a little too abrupt for me, or I’m a chicken, or both.

And pride — I never scored as I’d hoped to. I met a cute gay couple, and flirted with hot gayboys all weekend who pawed me pleasingly and bought me drinks, but nada. Having sex with two gay men has got to be the most hopeless fantasy a girl can have, which is why I have it. But then again, fantasies are often much better than reality.

My double dis: Morford ripping my erotic podcast top 20 list as not being “diverse” and too short (that’s why it was called a sample) and instead touting one podcast on Nerve. Hmmm. He writes for Nerve. The podcast isn’t free (mine were all free — all porn should be free). And diversity? Don’t even start with me. My list was not only free podcasts (as they should be, dammit) but were gay, str8, lesbian, trans, S/M, conservative, city/urban, cast from rural farmhouses… But no, I didn’t screen for race or class backgrounds. And I know that the “SF Gate Culture Blog” is all like totally brand new to blogging, so they probably don’t have a grasp of link ettequitte, but as I understand it, you typically don’t link to someone when you mention them within a post *only* if you don’t like them, or they do not have a site.

Dis #2: At the AS event, after all the sex educators got lab coats except for me (no explanation), I depressedly went inside to talk to the staff, who were happy to see me. After a while, AS came in and asked if I was coming out to the table. I said I was caught up chatting and was on my way.

AS (to me): I heard you had a bestseller once.
GV Store Manager: Violet has several bestsellers. You can see quite a few of them on this “top ten bestselling books” display (motions to wall). You can also see them over there, next to your book.
AS: Oh. (to me) Will you show them to me?
Me: Sure. Here’s the series for couples, then these guides are being translated into French, Spanish, Russian…
AS: So when did they become bestsellers? Like right away, or did it take a while? Did you watch your Google numbers?
Me: Uh… it took about six months for the first one to hit number one on Amazon…
AS: ‘Cause I keep watching my Google numbers and one day they’re really high, and the next day they’re low, it’s so strange…
Me (walking us toward the door): Well, it didn’t happen overnight. It takes a while.
AS: How did they become bestsellers?
Me: I think the people that bought them liked them and told their friends.
AS: Ohhh.

I may never do an event again, I’ve just had it. Now I am tired and rambling, and must go finish packing. I am so excited to get away; London Boy (my host) has purchased us tickets for Torture Garden and I am oh-so-stoked. I’m also going to meet up with Emily, Saskia, and possibly this guy.