… before the blood:

I love Halloween — and I’ve got a bunch of pictures forthcoming. But first pull on a costume and treat yourself (or trick out to) Halloween porn:

* listen to Open Source Sex 18, with two hot pieces of Halloween erotica (and plenty of oral sex, yum)
* check out the dee-lish Halloween porn at Fleshbot today: Rated X Halloween Panty Party, Stupid Horror Sex, Dirty Naked Punk Chicks
* Porn Bread never fails to oooh and ahhh (or eeew and ugh) on every holiday: Halloween is no exception
* erotic vampire movie picks at Viviane’s Sex Carnival
* Dacia directs us to pumpkin dildo creations (and how to make them)

Still alive… barely! I wrote over 7,000 words today (that’s about 25 pages, give or take) plus three Fleshbot posts; I feel kinda dizzy. But I can safely say that looking over the book’s content that if Focus on the Family got pissed off about my Ultimate Guide to Fellatio enough to try and ban it (back in 2003), they’re going to assemble the angry mob for this next sex guide, for sure. No, I can’t tell you what it’s about, and I really wish I could, but let’s just say I’ve gone happy-skipping into crazy sex territory (and I’m feeling it).

Friends call me and are mad: I got 14 calls today. I cannot answer my phone when I write like this, I can hardly even feed myself, it’s a bizarre feeling of madness and I don’t know where the writing comes from. I wish they understood. If I have any friends left, they are the only ones who understand deadlines and the intense need to write. I disappear when I write like this, I feel translucent. Ghostwriters must feel like this, but even more ghostly, more invisible; I could never be a ghostwriter, even though I can produce content like one. Reading this, you are more in contact with me than my close friends. It really is like dating me, in so many ways; I’m inconsistent but still yours. Reading me is intimacy. I’ll answer my phone saturday, after I lecture to human sexuality students at the UCSF annex in the afternoon about oral sex, and before the dancing, drinking and Halloween parties at night… I’ll be back to my normal bloggy self soon.

My costume this year is most fitting. You’ll see. In the meantime, enjoy Machine Animal Collages.

No, I have not rushed out to buy a video iPod so I can watch underfed starlets appear to be 1/8″ thick and gulp down penises shrunk to the size of a sunflower seed. No, I’m saving my money for the USB Volkswagen so I can be the first customer service call about how to get the tentacle porn off my car’s hard drive… “Uh, my Jetta is acting *really* weird…”

Actually, no shopping of any kind has occurred since my last post, unless you count my date (Campari) for Saturday’s straight male amateur strip night, “For the Ladies” — and my other dates, bought and paid for in $1 bills. Dancing boys cost money. It’s a lament about modern society. But toss a bill at a boy, and you get some action.

Look at the photos; better yet, watch this delicious QuickTime video of one of the hotties in action. Literally — he and most of the 8 men I saw strip are from Extra Action. Another is a real-life carpenter, one a naked poet from Spain, and the other was delicious Ben, back in town for a bit. Two of the acts were just for me: the hawt Harvey Birdman striptease (I’m a rabid Birdman fan), and the homoerotic arrest scene, yummy! Every time I look at those photos I throw a dollar bill at Hornboy; usually he’s sitting right next to me so it’s getting a little awkward.

I’m overworked, a little depressed and behind in my podcasts… So blogging has been erratic, which I don’t like. And no time off for SRL makes me very unhappy. I’m taking time off from Fleshbot for the next month (and maybe permanently; I’ve been writing, editing and running the site since the hurricane) to get back on my happy porny track. I really enjoy the type of blogging I do for Fleshbot, but the sheer volume and back end work of the daily workload is intense, especially when it’s pretty much a labor of love. Love won’t buy me a new dirt bike, or write my books for me, for that matter.

Wow, I just found out that Hornboy once threw a burrito at Bon Jovi, and missed. That’s hilarious.

Photos: Samatha Wolov

I really did sleep for 12 hours, yikes. That is, after going out to see Cronenberg’s “History of Violence”, which has sex scenes in it that are hotter than any porn I’ve seen in a long time; when was the last time I saw 69, or people having sex with their clothes on — not to mention sex with such violent heat? Just an incredible film all around, and I’m now a sweaty-palmed Viggo Mortensen fan.

Here are photos from the fun part of my LA trip, especially check them out if you’re a Coop fan; more details coming soon. Now I have to get ready to go to a crazy event being put on by several of the men in Extra Action — an all male-stripper event called “For the Ladies”. It’s Hornboy’s stripping/lapdancing debut! Oh yes, I’m taking lots of one dollar bills and my camera… !

21 hours in LA, a lot to share after I get some rest; 3 hours of sleep Wednesday; a little over 4 hours last night… I’m a zombie. Perfect for Halloween.

But the ultra-cool thing I waiting for me when I got back was that sexblo.gs asked me to do a self-interview — seriously, check it out (boobie alert).

* Last night’s event in the Porn Valley Dispatch.
* Extremely cool and interesting update about iPod porn from my friend Ed over at Altporn.
* Rumor control, in reply to several emails: No, “Ben” isn’t Adam Curry. And the girl that emailed me in the last post wasn’t Joanna Angel. (But I can still taste email girl on my lips from last night…. sublime. She drives me crazy. If she lived in San Francisco I’d be *too busy* to blog right now, and even less rested.)

One of those hot Apple boys — Mark — sent me this *incredibly* hilarious version of “Baby Got Back”.

“Even white boys got to shout”. Come on, sing along, you know the words…

http://www.jonathancoulton.com/music/thingaweek/BabyGotBack.mp3

Blind item guessing game: I’m on my way out of town to do this thing. There’s a girl there I’m going to hang out with, I told her I’m bringing her a present. Her reply, which I’ve now read five times in two minutes, was:

“ohhhh, wait. let me guess.

(1) your velvety-soft mouth?
(2) your deadly, perfect breasts?
(3) (…) mmm. whatever. the whole package is good.”

Ulp!

Just in case you haven’t seen it, I just want to point out how much I love/admire/lust/dryhump the new design my friends have whipped up (!) over at sexblo.gs. So excellent.

I was sitting in the huge Apple lobby, past security, in a big overstuffed chair next to my host. We’d just gotten lattes from the little Apple cafe, after a big lunch in the huge Apple cafe across the green, tree-dotted campus, and a tour of Apple Computer. Across the room were two Emmys under glass. Above me yawned a great white crescent-shaped open space with exposed white beam catwalks, going at least three stories up.

“So, what made you contact me in the first place?”
“Well, when the podcasting app launched, a lot of us started listening to your podcast. And then I found your blog; I read that you were having troubles with iTunes. And I just wanted you to know that we were listening.”

That’s how I found myself on a particualrly warm and sunny October Friday afternoon, away from Fleshbot and my computer for the first time in days. A few weeks ago I got an email with a subject line, “At Apple, we think you rock!” I thought it was spam, and had to have it read by Hornboy for confirmation that no, this wasn’t a prank, and yes, it really was a big-shot from Apple sounding cute and adorable and cool, and offering me a tour of the Mothership. I jumped at the chance (names and titles of Apple contacts have been changed).

So after a round of giddy emailing, Mark (not his real name) and I finally picked a time for me to make a trip to Cupertino. We had to wiggle around my insane porn blogging and book writing schedule and his super-secret product launches — our date was preceeded by “after Wednesday I’ll be human again; watch the news to see what I’ve been working on”. (It was the iPod video and new iMacG5. Hello — iMac G-fucking-5!) Mark is essentially the face of Apple; I was so nervous before my trip I had horrible insomnia and slept for only four hours.

When I got there, I found Mark to be so much like one of my friends it was unsettling; cute, cool, hilarious, down to earth — totally not the Borg. In fact, as we nochalantly processed through security and into the white-building’d complex that looks a bit like Logan’s Run or some other Star Trek utopia (where Spock gets emotions), I was surprised to see, well, a diverse range of cool looking folks. And they all seemed to be smiling, like all the time, making me ask about the Soylent Green in the food. At the cafe — lunch was out first stop — it was clear that the food had at least something to do with it. Floor to ceiling windows ushered in light, greenery and sky, and outside tables were parked near lawn and tress if employees wanted fresh air with their fresh food. The selection of amazing-looking food prepared by chefs on the spot was mind-boggling; we chose sushi. “Steve had the chefs flown in from Japan,” my guide told me. There was a startling amount of vegan items on every menu (yay!), including the sushi because “Steve is a vegan.” I was all cool about it and said, “Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do, fly in my own chefs. When I’m, like…” My host actually giggled. I finished, “Steve.”

We sat and ate and chatted like crazy; I asked all about Apple and where they did the animal sacrifices (”Ever scrubbed goat’s blood out of a white iPod?”), and we talked about my writing and work, and of course, about podcasting. We did talk about lots of stuff that won’t get blogged, and the part about the gaot I made up, but I walked away with a few interesting tidbits:

* My host did some investigating; ‘censorship’ of my podcast was never intentional.
* Apple is beyond cool with my podcast and those like it.
* Everyone likes having choice now when it comes to radio.
* I got lots of questions about my opinions on podcasting.

After, I got a great tour and met lots of really cool people who do stuff you see all the time; the people who are literally the voice and look of Apple. Walking across campus a *hot* boy ran up and asked if I was me; I still was. He wanted to make a point of meeting me. “I just listened to four of your podcasts in a row! I had to wait a minute before getting up, though,” he smiled. I was totally dying. They knew how to break me. Later I met the woman who wrote the famous “Do not chew” text; totally hot, funny, smart. Why were they all so cute? Just what kind of hiring policy did that Steve guy have? *My* kind, for sure.

We continued on through the buildings; one man smiled to me in the hall, “Don’t believe a word he says,” indicating my host. I met the smiling QuickTime man in the hall; “He *is* QuickTime,” I was told. He didn’t have a big blue “Q” on his chest; does he have it tattooed somewhere then, I wonder? I found out that Steve Jobs really does wear turtlenecks all the time; I’m convinced it’s to hide the gang tattoos as well. Or maybe embarrasing old Apple logo tattoos on his neck. I plied my host for hours, trying to get dirt and gossip out of him; I wanted to know about Steve’s Vaseline Slip ‘N Slide in his office, who the campus streakers were, when were the podcast beer bash key parties? Where can I get my Apple logo crotchless panties? Where did the stripper poles go in the conference rooms? Can I bring the Marching Band next time? Who’s the perviest celebrity Apple groupie? (Al Gore, I was told; he always asks about the bathroom at every event. That’s the best I could do.)

Well, I wasn’t invited to any employee human pony shows, but I had an awesome time at Apple anyway — not only did it make every crap job I’ve ever had look even crappier (they have free candy sprinkles in the cafe, dammit), but I got lots of answers to my podcasting questions and found out that Apple kinda digs me. Like, we’re friends with benefits.

Best conversation thread:
Me:”I guess my Apple fetish is pretty serious, I mean, when I order a new product from you, I immediately want to pose with it naked.”
Him: (looks thoughtful for a minute) “Well, I guess that’s okay. I mean, the logo — we just can’t have it used the wrong way.”
Me: “Oh, I know. I *did* make a photo with the logo on my butt.”
Him: “No, I mean… it’s fine. You just can’t use the logo to sell any goods or services. So you just can’t use the, uh, ass, for commercial services or profit.”
Me: “No problem there.”

I hope to visit again soon. Saturday I read in LitQuake, which was awesome, especially since I got to share the stage with one of my favorte writers and greatest inspirations, Mark Pritchard. Mark was *amazing*. Wonderfully, I ran into Charles Gatewood afterward and made a plan to do sone fetish pics this month, yay! And of course, I tied several on with Hornboy, a sexy SRL boy and sweet Jackson West, who I think passed out on my couch with a copy of Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.

Hot pic of Hornboy here.

I’m convinced I’d be better off dead than famous. Let me explain.

I love music. My penchant for horn players is obvious; if not by my continuous line of posts for the past several years involving Hornboy and other brass boys (and smoochable brass girls, and flag team members), then at the very least by my 3+ year relationship with the Extra Action Marching Band. But it’s my love for music and what I think music is about that attracts me the most to this alcohol-soaked, underdressed, oversexed and music-obsessed train wreck on crack. It is their inherent understanding that music and experience are beautifully and painfully intertwined; like their gypsy brass forefathers, whose music was exclusively for weddings and funerals, they’ve always reminded listeners that music is life and revelry, even when the band itself feels like it’s imploding. Or it just implodes in the unpretty, unprofessional ways that fragile human relationships do; these are things that can never be confined by Sony.

I went to the US version of the Download Festival this weekend; let me tell you that it sucked some major ass (and not in the way I like). I tried my honest best to get a media pass for the event; I knew my friends Extra Action were going to play, and I was totally thrilled that they were playing with my favorite band Modest Mouse. I was really prepared to do anything to see the show, but seeing as that I have valid press credentials, I figured the thing to do was to attend as press. I scoured the Download site, the Bill Graham Presents site, and the Clear Channel site; suspiciously, there were no ways for press to register for the event. I hit up a few media friends and got the phone number of the BGP press contact, Aaron Siuda and gave him a call. He told me to email him with my press info and he’d take care of it; of course, he emailed me back and lied to me, saying the press list was final. The modern icon known as the Corporate Douche. You see, my friend gave me a copy of the press list; only media representing corporate press interests were on the list, in addition to people from sponsors like AIM, Dentyne, MySpace and some cronie hippie called icecreamman.com (among others like Spin and Rolling Stone). It was pretty clear that like the other Bill Graham Presents events I’d been to, only corporate media and cronies were allowed, who would no doubt always churn out favorable formula spin on the event, and would look for trim (easy pussy to our UK readers), free food and free booze along the way. Yay music media.

I cruised the ticket situation and quickly realized that this was *not* the way for anyone to see their favorite band. Overpriced tickets to a stadium where you’d get searched and can’t even bring in your own water, then no area at the main stage for anyone who hadn’t purchased $100+ seating for the first (practically) quarter mile from the stage. This was corporate music, baby — musicians and fans are not part of the plan.

I gave up thinking I’d see the comingling of my two favorite things: Extra Action pissing on a corporate music event, and finally seeing Modest Mouse. What I didn’t expect was for Extra Action to practically kidnap me off the streets of San Francisco and take me to the event in their biodiesel powered bus (complete with keg ‘o beer). They did; and if the ride up wasn’t enough to get me in the mood to have fun no matter what the rules were, joking about the sequence of events for the corporate stage (drink; throw up; play; shit pants onstage; cry onstage), then I knew I was in for a ride when I was given a “talent” pass and became the “flag hag” for the event, hauling around pom-poms and taking photos every chance I got. I quickly realized that the talent pass had a lot more going on for it than the media pass, and it showed me what a total joke ANY media passes are — in fact I got to see just how controlled even the corporate media whores are at music events. Let me tell you firsthand, everything you read about your favorite bands is contrived, as all are the photos *and* the music you hear. For instance, media wasn’t allowed in even the b-level areas where the talent ate shitty steam table chow; in fact, in the front area of the stage, the media were herded in and allowed to take photos (with flash) for the first three songs *only*; then herded out like so much cattle. Meanwhile, I took photos anywhere I wanted; too bad everywhere the Marching Band *wasn’t* was totally boring.

I hauled pom-poms. I helped the flag team black out their mouths. It’s way better if, when their tits and asses are being ogled by creepy nearly-hostile dudes, that their eyes are seeping blood or their mouths look like disgusting chasms of rot; trust me. They played their first set, entering the crowd — and the crowd had no fucking idea what to do with them, in mostly a good way. Lots of smiles, spontaneous dancing, much humping of audience and band… The media filming and taking photos were shocked, thrilled. One photographer remarked to me with wide eyes, “This is INCREDIBLE!” I thought, wow, this is kind of a slow day around here. As the band played through the crowd and flag boys randomly grabbed audience members for grope and hump fests (I watched one of the boys violently shoved by a couple very homophobic men at least once), then a side trip to the women’s restroom. They played back out the front of Shoreline, more insanity ensued, then back to the bus. The women (us women) were ogled and hit on incessantly by second stage performers but it was hilarious — GameTap DJ’s aksing me if I was in the flag team, I lied yes and they said, “That is so hottt.” … I wordlessly walked away. A trumpet player pointed them out to me a minute later and said “Zey are tryink to steel our wimmen!” I laughed so hard I snorted. My horn-playing best pal Margaret came out of the backstage bathrooms to be greeted by girls who were like, “Who are you here to see?” She was disgusted; “I’m talent.” Music is still a man’s world, and I was to see more of this later.

But first, the Marching Band had to implode. We all went off to the backstage food zone to eat the awful food, and I realized that I had no idea if I was seeing anyone famous (or not) around me. I kind of didn’t care anymore, it was all so unimpressive. And while I love their music I have no idea what Modest Mouse looks like or what their names are; I figured I’d learn that if I was actually mistaken for media, and I had all kinds of questions ready for them like “Can I take a picture of you pretending to choke-fuck your bandmates?”

It was obvious that by the time the nearly 30 of us in our state of undress and insanity sat down to eat that all the performers (whoever they were) wanted to watch us, yet also stay far away from the boys in blonde wigs and girls with blacked-out teeth (thanks, Sharpie). I saw my eternal crush (and friend) Roky Roulette sitting with a few friends and sat down with him — he excitedly turned to me and said, “Oh Violet! I want you to meet my friends from Modest Mouse.” I could see them recoil upon mention of the name. I told them they were my favorite band, and watched them recoil further. I felt palpable resentment, dread and resignation seep from the drummer. I resolved to leave them alone — except the horn player was so nice, he said, hey we love you guys (thinking I was in the Marching Band) and we’d love it if you want to collaborate with us on our last song. At that point my friend Margaret was next to me (she’s actually in the band) and I turned to her. We both turned back to Modest Mouse boy who said, yes, the horn parts on “The Good Times (Are Killing Me)” are simple. He explained how to play it to Margaret, and I kind of freaked out that the one song I listen to while thinking of the Marching Band was going to be one they might play together. Then someone in EA wanted to take a picture of me with the MM guys and I didn’t want to because that’s not what I wanted to be (know what I mean?). But I did ask them if I could take the choke-fucking picture and they sounded excited, but other EA members descended on the table and whipped cream came out… And I think anyone with a “no venue damage” and “guilt by association” stipulation in thier contract fled. Including us. But by the time we got back to the bus, a fight had broken out between a drummer (who’d been looking for a fight all day) and the cymbal player; the implosion had occured.

I tried not to be the last one left behind as the fight dragged on, but I almost was; I was nabbed by another drummer and taken away from the scary scene (security was called, punches thrown) to the backstage area.

EA went onstage and finished Arcade Fire’s set with them; it was obvious that Shoreline staff had distaste for all performers universally, and especially the Marching Band, as they began breaking down the Arcade Fire set while the band played, shoving players and dancers out of the way to move gear around. I stood behind a curtain watching the rudeness unfold; hell, EA was invited by AF to play. But then the little guy in charge of the backstage area jumped up in my face; though not in anyone’s way, he told me, smiling, “You better get out of the way, little girl. You might get hurt.” I instantly knew what kind of prick he was. I looked down at him and smiled, “Gosh, THANK YOU.” I’ve operated heavier equipment than he’s ever seen; it was no surprise to me later that when the Marching Band was out in the poor-people’s ticket section (the lawn) having the best performance of the day and I was backstage watching pom-poms, I overheard the guy saying things to his staff about “Go get yourself a half-naked Marching Band chick.” *I* heard him; *I* knew what he was saying about them. I fended off his staff hitting on me for the next 20 minutes while I fumed, trying to stay incognito so I could see my favorite band, dammit.

Extra Action eventually came back. I was chatting with a few EA members about, I dunno, stuff, and some girl was hanging out with us, listening — I realized I’d seen her around all day. And I looked down, and noticed a digital recorder in her hand, and that she seemed annoyed that I was actually talking to the person she was recording (my best friend, Margaret). I looked at her tag — it said “talent”. I interrupted, “Who are you with? You’re talent?” “Oh, this…” she demurred. I said, “You’re media aren’t you? Did you have a media pass?” She was doing a bad job of playing me off, and I noticed she shut off the recorder. “I traded up,” she laughed. I repeated, “Who are you with?” She said, “I’m freelance.” I countered, “Oh. Who are you freelancing for?” She said, “Oh, I’m pitching a piece for Spin.” Yeah right, you get Spin credentials for a pitch… little liar, I thought. “Oh yeah,” I said, “I had to deal with one of your writers once when we did the Austin SRL show.” She laughed, but then asked, “Who was it?” Me: “I don’t remember.” She: “What was his name?” Me: “Um, I’m bad with names, but he was pretty useless.” She asked, “What did he look like?” I thought I should say something like, wow, you Spin freelancers sure are tight, especially considering that SRL show was in 1999, but I felt like I’d made her MO out well enough. Maybe she’d write a good piece on the band, maybe not, but I learned that she was an example of the press having shitty access to bands, and that honesty is always the best policy of you want a good story — don’t lie to your subjects, and don’t ever think anyone doesn’t matter enough to be one of your subjects for fuck’s sake (especially if they’re scantily clad in an effort to hide their enormous brains) — they might just write about you later.

Modest Mouse took the stage. I hid behind a curtain and for the first song felt the glee of a girl seeing her favorite band for the first time but from behind the stage! I’m special, I thought. But reality, no matter how much beer and vicodin you throw at it, has a way of seeping in. I could barely hear the band; I was standing behind the sound guy and had a great view, but was struggling to make out the songs — songs I know every word to. The sound guy was on his white iBook, compulsively checking his mail throughout the entire set (Outlook Express, pah!). I found a few familiar lyrics in the air and hung on to them, dancing by myself at the tiny opening in the black curtain, floating for a minute and watching the lead singer… and I looked out at the audience. The area in front of the stage was all press and cameras, standing stiff as boards. Beyond that, the audience was seated, or standing on chairs. Then the press was ushered out and there was this wide blank space between the band and people in their seats.

I felt very, very sad. This one gig the Marching Band played once, at a local bar called 12 Galaxies; the band was on top of all available surfaces, the audience was dancing until they had to peel their clothes off in heat and sweat; people were totally fucking freaking out at how loud and fun and alive the music made them feel, you could tell they *had* to dance because tomorrow they might just die, and the band felt it, too. That is my favorite band; that is my favorite musical experience. Uncontrolled, sexy, happy, alive, breathing, and yes, dangerous because it’s just music and listeners and there’s no control, the car’s speeding and the brakes are out, just like when you fall in love or just have to fuck someone’s brains out right then and there.

My moment of epiphany was like when you realize that porn sets are all business. That the business of music is the most unerotic thing, the most unsexy, the most unartistic, the most dead, un-music like thing in the world. And the musicians know it; they don’t seem to want to be there. I wondered, what in the hell was all the life, the love, the heart-breaking, nose-punching, fan-licking passion and humanity of the Marching Band doing there? We all crowded together on the side of the stage and watched Modest Mouse play. EA waited for their cue; I wondered if they were wondering if I’d tell them when the song started, as they all knew how thrilled I was to see them, and was the only one familiar with their music. But they didn’t know how sad I was feeling for music and art, and in how much more love with EA and the unpretty beauty of life I felt at the moment. I thought, being famous really looks like it sucks. I never, ever want to be that. When sex is a job, when music is a job, you should get as far away as you can, as fast as you can, like your life depends on it. Because it does. That is my new philosophy.

Then, the staff came through and told us all to (literally) get the hell out of the way: Modest Mouse was done and us riff-raff had to get out of the way so they didn’t have to see/touch us as they left the stage. I walked away fast, not wanting to see it all happen. I fled alone back to the pom-poms; the boy from Modest Mouse came over for an awkward minute to say “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. They cut us off.” “That’s okay,” I said, thinking that I felt like one hell of an impostor, too. The staff was already moving stuff off the stage for the “real” stars, and to cement the gravity of this fake (and no doubt momentary) oncoming stardom, they kicked everyone out, forcibly, as in grab that horn on your way out because it belongs to someone, and BGP doesn’t want their stars sullied by the sight of other musicians. At least that’s what it felt like.

We all piled up on the bus, curled up like kittens and dozed all the way home. Here are my photos.

I still love Modest Mouse. It’s music to listen to when your boyfriend or girlfriend is inside at the party kissing someone else and you’re on the lawn laying on your back looking at the stars feeling like a skin-covered sack full of air and water holes, or when you were so gloriously fucked last night you never want to go to work again. Watch their videos.

I’m researching right now, and just found this amazing full rubber enclosure tiger man outfit, complete with cock and ball encasement. Wow.

From an email I got an hour ago, “I can still feel the imprint of your knee on my back. Yum.”

Fever dreams comprise a strange collage of desires, archetypes, memories, fears and wishes; mine began on Friday night at the Center for Sex and Cuture, for the Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong reading. Nervous as usual before getting up in front of people, I flitted around the room and checked out the hot guy as unobtrusively as possible; turns out it was a startlingly handsome Mark Morford, who has an excellent writeup of the reading here. Hornboy and I had thought we’d go to the reading and leave early, as we’d been put on the guest list for Tease-O-Rama (not linking because I don’t like their sponsor) — and it being a will-call only show beyond the $100 tickets, and my friends Miss Satanica, Roky Roulette and Kitten on the Keys were performing, I didn’t want to miss anything. But as it happened, the reading was small, and one of the readers read early and left to go see a movie (insert big rude WTF here), and the reading was so enjoyable, that we had beers and stayed late. Then, in a cab and off to the burlesque show, where I got this uber-sexy short QT video, saw my friends and wound up going home way too late with a very very drunk burlesque dancer in tow, who I decked with blankets and pillows and inserted into my couch. While she slept, Hornboy and I invented a new game in the bedroom; I call it the “ohgodpleaseno game” and it is simple to play. One person tells the other what they hope never, ever happens to them sexually (wink wink), and then the other ‘forces’ them to do it. Hours of fun — literally, we were up past three with beta testing.

Faced with an impossible list of things to do and see on Saturday night, sacrifices had to be made. We were still on the list for more Tease-O-Rama and had a birthday cocktail date, but both were trumped by my weeks-ago commitment to show my Bad Porn clip fest at the exclusive, members-only Kinky Salon event that night; not having a time for the show skewed my plans into a whatever happens, happens mode; actually one of my favorite ways of shimmying through a weekend. So naturally, the secret sex party I’d been invited to was first on the list; then to Kinky Salon for whatever, whenever.

The secret party had a theme: Mad Science. Fortunately, there is an outfit for every occasion. Tight black rubber, platform boots with stripes, black corset, fishnet sleeves, rubber gloves, SRL facemask, welding/cutting goggles. Evil villianess mad scientist.

Now, the players for the rest of the evening, names changed: Hornboy. Alice (a nationally syndicated columnist and famous writer for magazines you all read). Sean (high-profile rights activist; suit-wearing, and major hotbutton news issues type). And later, Eric (major entertainment events, shows you’ve seen, upcoming TV shows too) and his hot buxom girlfriend Kitty (also entertainment). Also later, Ben (journalist whose name has been everywhere lately). How did I meet up with all of these people whose identities I have to hide? Honestly, it just kind of happened.

Hornboy, dressed sexily as an orderly (smocks drive me crazy; it’s my “ER” fetish) and I walked into the playspace for the first party, swathed with white sheets and impromptu lab tables, a station for electrical play and a wide variety of sex machines scattered around the brick-walled, white tile room. I could hear screams and moans, almost like a creepy low-lit hospital. “There’s Violet,” I heard, and looked up to see Alice wrapped up in blue ethernet cable and with an open shirt front, exposing her generous and lovely breasts. Beneath her splayed out on a lab table was a naked and face-down Sean, who I’ll admit I’d never thought I’d see quite like this, a certainly less formal setting than the official events I’m used to seeing him at. But it looked just too good to pass up. And it made me feel menacing; compared to all the white and lab coats and naked flesh, I must have looked like a shiny black insect with big green kohl-lined eyes and glittery blood-red lips. I had little flesh exposed save for my cleavage sticking out the corseted top. I had a small black leather suitcase, full of tools. I advanced on my prey, naked on the table. He looked too excited, too happy. I wanted to wipe the smile off that trusted, know-your-rights face. I was corporate America in a black rubber corset, and I was here to make him pay.

I set down my case and snapped on my gloves. I pulled on my mask, so only my eyes were visible, then walked over to Sean with a blindfold. I wanted my scary image to be the last thing he saw.

I hoped it wasn’t too loud in the room for him to hear my boots; it would be fun to keep him guessing on my whereabouts. But then, Alice and her playmate were busy stroking and prodding the lucky bastard, so he was probably pretty distracted. I opened my toolbox, humorously stocked with real gear from my SRL bag, but also with a few toys; I pulled out a long leather swatter. A little bite, lots of sound. I knew that Sean was a novice of some sort, but I don’t really know him so I figured he may or may not be more of a novice than I thought. The funny thing about all of this was, I’d never done this before. I’ve only gotten spanked at a sex party once before (a year or so ago), and I’ve never, ever done S/M in public. To be honest, this past year and these past couple of months have unhinged me in a spectacular way; reminded so much of my dangerous and harrowing chidlhood and teen years, I have simply decided to live, and to live a lot of life, before I die.

I stalked over to Sean and lifted his blindfold to show him the implement. Then I set to work on the entire back of his body, working around Alice and her lover. I wanted to hit him hard, but I did not. Instead I grabbed him roughly with my hands on his back, ass, shoulders and yanked on his legs; when he moved out of position I’d try to climb on top of whatever part moved too much; he tried to touch my legs and I smacked his hand away with the spanker. I felt a wild ferocity I had trouble keeping in check; the room kept it in check for me as new people streamed in and I had to watch my backswing as people crowded around to watch. I switched tools to a rubber whip; a mean flogger, but I could play nice with it — although there was no reason to let my captive know that. I lifted his blindfold to show him; he was glassy eyed and in another zone. I lightly whipped from top to bottom, and wished the table was strong enough to climb up on him and straddle as I whipped, to crush, to literally walk on him. I opted instead for a few well-placed rubber encased knees on his back.

After a while, I realized that Alice and her sweetie were moving in for a bit more-hands on experimentation; the increase of people conspired with this to make me slowly move away and stop my interaction. I was thristy; Hornboy, who had watched me with a wicked smile throughout, handed me a water. He’s never seen me like that, never seen me do anything like that. I wondered what he thought about it, about us, about me. I dated a man four years ago, who I was with for a couple of years, whose appetite for being tied up quickly grew into a desire to be physically punished to the limits; at first I was excited yet not sure about hurting someone I loved, but I found I really liked it. Unfortunately, it was all he wanted and he pitched childish fits if I ever asked for anything else. I went unsatisfied for years until I ended the relationship. So now I’m very cautious about my roles in relationships. I need absolute balance of power. And not having been genuinely rough with anyone in a long time, there was something that needed to come out.

But it wasn’t to happen there. For one, it was one of those no-alcohol, no chatting in the playspace parties, which isn’t really my speed. I wanted a beer, conversation, flirting and maybe playing, but I at least wanted to see sex around me if I had to switch gears. Sean, now magically dressed in a doctor’s uniform, came over to chat with Hornboy and I, as we planned to get some refreshments and head over to the Salon for my show. With my medical team, we hopped in a cab and headed over to the other party….

Where we walked into unending scenes of decadence and debauchery, filled with people having sex in a wide variety of ways, clad in rubber, leather and various outfits; there was a Rollergirl just like the one from Boogie Nights, rolling around and lifting her pigtails to give blowjobs. There was a fake camera crew, pretending to film people having sex, which encouraged couples (and triples, and more) to perform more avidly for the fake camera and boom. There was a busty woman with short platinum blonde hair wearing nothing but a fur coat, doing whatever an older, silver-haired man wanted her to do. The three of us parked on a couch and popped open beers, as if we were settled in for a night in front of the TV.

After a bit, in walked Ben. Gorgeous, young, dangerous media troublemaker. He’d been playing phone tag with me all night as we tried to coordinate meeting up so he could see what my weird life was like on the weekends, and because Hornboy and I both think he’s hot; he’s on our newly developed to-do list. Ben came and sat with us, chatting amiably with a friend he’d brought, and after a bit, not missing a beat while we were all talking, reached over and kissed me, hard, grabbed my hand, and thrust it deep into Hornboy’s crotch. Hornboy got a deep kiss as well, and we all returned to talking while Ben massaged my hand over the top of a happy Hornboy. Eventually the beer had us all jockeying around the couches for bathroom breaks (still amidst all the fucking around us), and I wound up on Ben’s lap, where I fended off his grabby hands, which liked to pinch, push, pull, scratch and squeeze at will, though often a bit too hard. It was like sitting on a cute octopus.

Hornboy was now on the adjacent couch, watching and talking, when Eric and Kitty walked in; Sean looked as tired as he said he was and said his goodbyes. The couch rearranged, with Kitty on my left and Hornboy on my right; when Ben took a break from talking to Eric, I said, “we think you’re really cute.” Ben actually blushed a bit. “Who thinks that?” he asked. I replied, and indicated the couch with a sweep of my hand, “All of us.”

Ben’s face lit up like a Menorah (but not as slow); he said “Cool!” and climbed on top of all of us, laying face-up with his head on the armrest near Hornboy and his butt on Kitty’s lap (Ben is tall and lanky-sexy). We talked and talked about everything except what was happening, all the while Ben’s grabby hands tried to touch our breasts and putting our hands on his crotch, smiling, laughing, putting my hand beneath him to squeeze Hornboy, with the ever-mischevious sparkle in Ben’s eyes bringing us along in the game. Ben would occasionally reach up to touch my face, cup my neck and kiss me deep, long and hard, peppering these brief intermissions with a kiss for Hornboy. Eventually Kitty, naughty hot little Kitty with her incredible rack (yes, she gave me boob-envy, but we’ll get to that in a minute), donned rubber gloves, and pulled out Ben’s sizeable cock. She coated it with lube, and I was suddenly really doing something I’d always wanted to do. I was still wearing gloves, and was wondering what it all felt like for Ben.

Hornboy was unable to participate at the bottom of the pile, and switched to the adjacent couch again to watch the scene unfold. Ben would try to pull on my breast, and I’d smack his hand away, yank his tshirt almost to the point of tearing it, and I’d throttle him with it while I hungrily licked, sucked and almost-bit his nipples. He moaned and arched his back, as Kitty pumped and pulled away at his cock; Ben’s hands came up and he curled forward to whisper into my mouth, “You are so fucking beautiful. Please kiss me.” I grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth open, slid a hand up his neck and squeezed and choked him hard, brushing my lips softly across his, then a lick, and another lick of his lips — and a deep, hard kiss. Rough, soft; hard, tender. His eyes always found mine and I’d be back at his lips for more threats and licks and kisses. Everything was spinning, and his hands kept trying to grab and he was trying to get my nipple in his mouth; Kitty kept stroking and lubing him up, and the rougher I got with Ben, the more he liked it. At one point I seized a grabby-handed wrist of his and pinned it, choking him with my other gloved hand under his jaw, telling him squarely, “Don’t *fuck* with me.” He moaned and smiled, “I’d never fuck with you!” Everyone laughed, setting a playful tone to the tension. I have no idea if anyone was watching our little party at the end of the world, which is what it felt like to me; time had stopped. In between making him suck and lick my fingers while my other hand grabbed and pulled on his chest, and sometimes his beautiful cock, I whispered into Ben’s mouth about how hot he looked and how I wanted to kill him in a fit of passion; he whispered gleefully about all the things he wanted to do with Hornboy and I and how he wanted to watch me give Hornboy a blowjob. I told him no, no he couldn’t do those things or watch us, unless he proved himself, unless he was good enough.

Ben looked up (with what can only be described as child-like awe and greedy passion) to Eric and said how much he’d like to watch Kitty and Eric fuck, or have oral sex. This is a couple that is so in love, I swear flowers spontaneously bloom if they get too close, so a request like Ben’s didn’t need executive approval from Paramount. They could wash socks and it would be sexy. Ben propped himself up to watch as Kitty licked and sucked her boyfriend hands-free, or rather hands on Ben. I took the opportunity to explore her breasts, which brought a succession of moans and gasps from between her full lips. I licked and sucked, pulled and nuzzled, and Ben asked, is there more lube? I realized that we’d forgotten about him for a minute, and sticky gloves don’t feel good… so I grabbed the lube packet and realized with a mournful internal groan that free lube is free for a reason, and this crappy liquid that kept drying out resonated in frustration with the name on the package, a name that brought back memories like the bad last foodservice job you had… it was Good Vibrations’ brand lube. Of course. Internally I rolled my eyes to the heavens. Will I ever be free?

Which was, in fact, how I was feeling beneath the writhing mass of Ben, Eric and Kitty, which was heating up. Kitty moved to put a condom on Ben, and in my memory lane turmoil I’d missed a bit of communication, and when I found myself helping Eric take off Kitty’s panties so he could fuck her while she sucked on Ben I realized that a) I didn’t fit here, and b) I was going to get crushed. So I slid out, joined Hornboy on the couch for a beer and a nice view and pulled off my now-ruined corset (it was a cheap one; I need a new one now). In a white tshirt, I snuggled with Hornboy while we watched the action on the other couch and we chatted about what he thought of all of it; it was just plain fun for both of us, and I felt very lucky, indeed. We sat rapt as the trio changed positions; Eric climbed between Kitty’s thighs and fucked her, holding her close and kissing her passionately as Ben’s condomed cock slid between both of their lips, Ben coming with intensity (in the condom) in the confines of Eric’s mouth, while Kitty licked, and licked, and licked.

After the trio had finished and collapsed, we joked about making tshirts that say “I fucked Ben”; unfortunately the irony is that both Ben and Eric were recognized by people at the party who literally came up to meet them and shake their hands afterward. With a quick “let’s get out of here”, it was over, and even though when I got home the clock read 5am, it still felt like there was no time at all. Just bed, and sleep, and exitement at trying so many new things.

The next day, Castro Street Fair and almost getting arrested for amplified girls/boys gone wild antics…

Pics start here, Tease-O-Rama video here. All photos in this post: Roy Stuart.

I’m about to drop off to bed; I just put a post on Fleshbot. My weekend was really amazing and out of control — for those of you following along at home, I didn’t get my birthday wish, but some kind of wish definitely came true. After some rest I’ll follow up with a proper post about how I started the weekend at a book reading, the mid point found me in the middle of a very unusual 3-guy, 2-girl sex pile (once we stopped talking about robots and thermodynamics), and then to the Castro Street Fair where my partner in nasty crimes Miss Jessi (remember the pride kissing contest we won?) made off with a booth’s microphone and we played boys (and girls) gone wild in the street until the police came and forced us to stop. Oops.

My only regret is that a couple people in my weekend sex games are somewhat famous, or at least notorious, so I’ll have to obfuscate details, but no matter. I’m a creative girl… Now, find the cheerleaders in this picture; we’re at Castro and 18th!