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6/10 to 7/12/2003

Sticky Real Doll Fantasies, Redux (7/12)

This has been a long, horny weekend. Ever since ErosBlog enlightened me to the talk about someone actually possibly funding my fantasy about a three (or four) way with a male and female Real Doll, my mind has been absolutely in the gutter contemplating the possibilities. (Scroll down to the original 6/10 entry for my latest sex fantasy weirdness.) A big boy toy, all-silicone, all-man, and all-pliant. Glassy eyes, posable limbs, just begging for it. And a girl, too -- a dense silicone sister to hump like an unblinking, horny little love monkey.

What could happen? You see, I've never had a threesome, which I know, sounds awfully amiss considering my sex-expertness, my proximity to just about every kind of sex toy and sex technology available, and the thoughtful, brazen, sometimes musical perverts I surround myself with. Just like my previous confession (I still haven't been in a bona-fide strip club or had a lap dance), my real-life experiences make me feel kinda like a nervous little sex-toy-collecting bunny.

Watching John Leslie's Voyeur 25 last Friday didn't help matters one bit -- the first scene was an out of control three-way with two sexy, squishy all-natural women and one very sweet (but dirty) man, and they tried all kinds of things I'd like to do with the dolls. There would be lots of lube, and toys, too -- how else will I pillage silicone boy's village and storm his shores? First, I'd have to draw a bath to warm up my new guests, and then I'd enjoy toweling them off, oh yeah, baby. Then I'd drag their heavy bodies to my bedroom, sort of like Igor heading to the lab. Maybe then I'd have my helpful assistant jump in... Oh, it's just too much to think about, but I can tell you that the fantasy ends with everyone covered in gallons of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, wrapped in at least twenty feet of rope, a popped and squashed inflatable St. Bernard, four melted vibrators, a silicone male Real Doll wearing a mullet wig and with "BITCH" tattooed on his ass, a female Real Doll with a big permanent silicone smile, one set each of soiled cheerleader, cop and Hot Dog On A Stick uniforms, and several visits from real officers due to concerned neighbors about the noise.

Okay, back to the porn mine.

Bad Vibes (7/9)

I am a superhero. I have many talents. One of my hidden talents is that I am a painter, as in, brushes and paint and canvases. I keep this fairly hidden, as I don't particularly care about being a successful painter, I really just sometimes need to get my thoughts out in color and visual imagery, as opposed to words and thinking all the time.

A while back I worked on a series of giant portraits of women who practised the occult circa 1900, but in between these portraits I did a series of very large erotic pieces. These were on found pieces of wood, mostly plywood, about four feet tall. I'd scavenge them out of trash piles and dumpsters, then take them home and layer on the paint, and other mixed media, such as nails, staples, images ripped out of fetish magazines and painted onto, etc. They were made about the time I got involved with SRL, and included lots of machinery and S/M overtones.

A few years ago, at the request of coworkers, I brought my erotic pieces to work and hung them in the Marketing department, where I work. They stayed up for years in coworker's cubicles, even surviving regime changes at GV -- when I almost did not. Today, my paintings were taken down and turned around, so no one can see them. They can no longer be displayed. You see, someone complained to the management that they were offended by the images, were made in fact "sexually uncomfortable by the violent sexual imagery" in them. Also today, the art show I put together, pictures of the Extra Action Marching Band from Good Vibes' pride parade 2002 came down from the walls of the Valencia St. store, where they have been happily showing for a month. Many in my department wanted to put these images up too, in the department and possibly in the front office, because we're so proud of the images, the band, and our success. But now, we are not allowed to.

I am beside myself. My artwork is much less graphic than the porn we carry. Much less violent than a walk by the newsstand. I just can't fathom that I work in a place that triumphs freedom of speech, especially freedom of diverse sexuality, anti-censorship, and seeks the freedom to someday be able to sell fisting videos in every state of the union, yet takes down its own employees' artwork for making another employee "sexually uncomfortable." I'd understand (the discomfort, but not the censorship) if there were little kids in the paintings, animals or dripping bloody limbs being inserted into bound puppies, or the worst -- Dick or Lynne Cheney naked. The horror. I might barf.

Does anyone go to museums anymore? Guess what -- it's not safe out there, or anywhere, if you want to avoid seeing something that offends you. Life is a stocking stuffed with candy and hand grenades, my friends. I work in a sex shop, for fuck's sake, and so does the person who was sexually threatened by the images. How is it that so many of the people who get hired to work at a sex toy company are so fucking uptight in one way or another? Maybe take my paintings down because they suck. But not because they're being art in its most effective sense -- provocative, thoughtful, causing feelings of all kinds (including enjoyment -- one member of the department was so saddened the paintings were leaving they offered to buy them all so they could still see them at home). I had to take my paintings home tonight.

It's like politically correct lockdown. Maybe they should just hang an $8000 curtain over them.

Pounding Pudenda and Anal Canadians (7/8)

I'm going to continue to subject you to more of Pride weekend because these movies from Glen Bachmann of the amazing scene in the alley of the Extra Action Marching Band playing vs. the Cal Aggies (where you can see how naked and drunk and oversexed Extra Action was, and how peppy and cute the Cal Aggies were) are really terrific. Here's a picture, too.

We're An American Band
(yes, that's a parked cop car they're dancing on, and a stolen parade sign)
Mary Alley Boogie

My weekend was a mix of frustration and satisfying explosions. I'm under contract for four more books right now, and two are due in a couple of months, so I spent a good part of the weekend squeezing out chapters and editing stories. Lemme tell ya, I pretty much would rather pull out my eye teeth than write about masturbation ever ever again -- it's important to include in every book, because our annoying culture doesn't think it's okay to jerk off. Arcades and porn use are seen as shameful, while still only 40% of women masturbate, it's all agonizing -- but being a writer and keeping the same material fresh and new is a challenge. Granted, I'm definitely doing my part to make up for the other 60% of women who don't masturbate. Still, I'm living in fear and dread of next year's Masturbation Month, when my fiery passion for postulating praise about pounding your pudenda will surely be puddles of anticlimactic puke.

Friday I got out to watch fireworks down at the docks by Pier 39, though well away from the tourists at a friend's machine shop. I met up with a bunch of SRL crew late, and we might've done some naughty fireworks enjoyment on our own, or maybe we saw someone else doing it. Mark Pauline is getting married, and he asked me that night to be his best woman -- which is really a big deal, and I'm rather stunned and honored. Can't tell if it makes me feel grown up, or like a kid. Maybe both. Standing around, amidst the smoke and explosions, someone asked me how Good Vibes was reacting to the sodomy ruling, and I of course replied, "Oh, we're embracing it." Which made me realize that the right to plunder booty had not at all been discussed here on the Tiny Log, which is funny since I'm such a big fan of sodomy. I mean, I love anal everything, from the extremes of Buttman Magazine all the way to the tiniest plugs. I like to sodomize women and men alike, and I've even been known to sodomize myself. Though the media would have you think that only gay men are sodomites, it's a misnomer from the American media which only likes to fixate on gay male anal sex, leaving out all us kinky bi chicks who love straight boys that like us to wield our strap-ons with style, glamour and menace. What about the Canadians, I wonder? In fact I often wonder about the Canadians, but are they safe from sodomy? I considered making some extra money by smuggling straight American guys to Canada, saving their behinds as it were, and I think I can fit three in my trunk, but if they touch each other it's all a wash. And what if you're half-Canadian and half American? I guess the American half is the back half.

PETA -- no not People Eatin' Them Animals, it's that PETA, the ones that throw fake blood on Joan Rivers and tell her to stop wearing lizard skin even though she's in a spandex bikini -- is having a sexy vegetarians contest. Which I think is pretty cool, since I'm almost a vegetarian, and if you go to their web site you can vote for your favorite sexy vegetable-murdering celebrity. It's mostly entertaining to see who's a veggie, and though the obvious pleather-pushin' winner will be Pam Anderson, no animal products on her, inside or out, I think the winner should be adult star Serenity. Hot little all-natural number Serenity is yummy yummy goodness, and I bet she tastes great, being a veggie and all.

New sex term I heard this weekend: Diesel Dick. No, not a hard-on while shopping in the Diesel store, a blowjob in their dressing room, or snipey staff. It's a noun, a term for the involuntary hard-ons truckers get from the constant vibration of the truck cab. Immediately squashed by the trucker speed, I'll assume...

Blow-Up Dolls and My New Guide to Pinching a Loaf (7/4)

On the day of blowing things up, I think of dolls. Those big, plastic, hard seamed, open-mouthed freaky looking things that adult stores sell. Learn everything you need to know about the unsexy world of blow-up dolls here. We don't carry them at Good Vibes, and I just can't believe we're depriving our customers of this untapped resource of healthy sexual release and miracle of modern man. And they're so realistic. I mean, some of them even come with repair kits, like for bicycle tires. Oops, I popped Dolly again. Maybe I should stop sitting on her tiny inflatable head and screaming at her to "lick my pussy you airheaded doorstop!" If you filled them with sand, could you build a fort with them, or shore up against natural disasters? Filled with helium, could they be tied together en masse with bedsheets allowing Martha Stewart to escape from prison? Refrigerated and filled with lime Jello, marshmallows and pineapple rings, could their skins be removed for a bizarre fetish dessert? Can you fill them with smoke and pop them with a cigarette? So many questions. Clearly I need a grant for research.

Yesterday I worked at the dildo hut, AKA Good Vibrations, with that big happy family of smarmy coworkers. Everything gets made fun of at Good Vibes, no sex toy, book or video is exempt from fun and games, just like any other workplace where after a while you go a little nuts selling pink plastic vaginas, floppy purple dicks and videos with titles like The Hills Have Bi's. Maybe that doesn't happen in every retail store, but I like to imagine the staff of Williams Sonoma trading places with all of us for like a month. Soon we'd be explaining which festive summer patio serving sets were okay for anal play, while they'd be trying to create gourmet crepe recipes to go with Tit Tax and Gummy Boobs, making lovely windchimes out of strings of anal beads, and realizing that everything they carry is totally perverse and we're the normal ones.

Anyway, we make fun of everything. Yesterday I was one of the everythings, with the high sales of my books making the receivers nutty having to check them all in, they were teasing me when I was in the bathroom saying, "Fifty copies of Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide to Pinching a Loaf." Or catching me with my hands full and drawing a heart on my arm with a "P" in the center, as in "I heart pee." Right where the customers can see it. Oh, the joy and the love.

My Wild, Wild Weekend (7/1)

Okay, I'm really not sitting here at my desk cruising Maybe I am. Now I'm not -- I'm back behind the wheel of the Tiny Log, after a week of abject neglect, while I somehow survived Pride week. A recap:

Last Thursday I went to the St. James Infirmary's anniversary party. This clinic that caters to San Francisco sex workers had the best fetish party I've ever been to, ever ever ever. It was what I'd wished the SF Fetish Ball had been, what Exotic Erotic only has sweaty latex dreams about becoming. This was the real deal, with fetishes of all stripes on display, hosted by the gorgeous Mistress Morgana, and I made it in time to catch performances by my new favorite cutest-ever burlesque group in the world, The Hot Pink Feathers. Fakir Musafar hoisted a trapeze artist with only his nipples; the eloquent Cleo DuBois did an amazing medical-fetish-themed piercing performance (where the woman ripped out of her pierces, wow!) and so much more. On top of all this, the heat was a record 95 degrees that night, with no breeze -- very rare for San Francisco -- so you could smell the rubber dresses, my skimpy schoolgirl uniform was way too hot, the cosmos went down way too easily, and everyone was half-naked. In the dark bar, it was an outrageous atmosphere.

Friday was the She-Rotic reading at the Polk St. store, featuring myself, Carol Queen, Cara Bruce and Felice Newman. The place was packed, the atmosphere casual, and the readings blisteringly hot! Cara Bruce, a longtime friend and a woman who I adore, lust after and respect highly, read my favorite piece of the night, a short story about a stripper who gets face-fucked by a businesswoman on her lunch hour. Cara can really cook 'em up... Out in the audience was Joe Gallant, telling us where we could all go and anally fist a porn starlet at shows starting 5, 7, 9, and 11pm, and also where to find anal fisting videos in New York city -- ah, Joe.

Saturday was the holiday here in SF known as Pink Saturday, and the City was crowded with tourists of every orientation, all here to celebrate Pride. I did a book signing in the Castro, overflowing with happy people, dirty dancing beefcakes wearing pink G-strings in shop windows and it was sunny and warm. At the signing I was lucky to be seated with Matt (Matilda) Bernstein Sycamore, editor of Tricks and Treats, a collection of writings from sex workers (all kinds -- prostitutes, porn stars, more) on their most poignant trick experience. I LOVE this book, it's gritty, real, dirty, arousing and extremely educational -- and I got him to sign a copy for me. Plus, in his frilly pink panties and with his very handsome face, I just had to flirt a little... Hey, flirting with gay men is fun!

Sunday, the pride parade was an absolutely incredible experience. Last year was a lot of fun, but this year was like a Fellini film. Good Vibrations partnered with the Extra Action Marching Band, sort of like Freddy vs. Jason (where a whole bunch of college kids get caught in the middle and no one will die). The band looked amazing, with their explicitly dressed flag team, two fully-costumed pony girls as stanchion (SIC?) bearers, kinky cheerleader pep squad, and the sexy, sexy band. Good Vibes mostly dressed as GV cheerleaders, but of course no one told me about this plan, but I could care less because I had a sexy fetish Supergirl outfit -- and we had SF Drag King Rusty Hips with us, who, if you remember "Blue Steel" from Zoolander, you will understand. We started late, I found out later due to a phoned-in bomb threat along the parade route and an attack on a city supervisor, but rocked Market Street hard -- especially when the band played Black Sabbath covers, those dykes in the crowd went wild!!! Right at the parade's end they forced the band to stop playing, threatening a $5000 fine, and they stopped, but not until we rounded a corner a few blocks away. By that time I was the only GV person with the band, leading them to a nearby bar where I had planned some post-parade snacks and drinks. They walked slowly, playing a beautiful, moody dirge, like a funeral procession or an Eastern European song of sadness, all the way down the shady alley. The area around the parade route is one of the roughest neighborhoods in SF -- in the dot-com era it was flashy SOMA for just a few seconds, but it's always been the real home of hundreds of homeless junkies, the largest collection of crack whores, and always is the filthiest neighborhood in SF, fraught with violence, laced throughout with despair and poverty. It's been this way since I was a kid, and since I work in GV's SOMA offices a couple days a week, I see stabbings, whores and tricks and junkies sleeping with needles hanging out of their arms on a weekly basis. It was down one of these alleyways that the band played on with their eerie dirge, bringing the denizens of SOMA -- shopping carts, talking to themselves, waiting for tricks -- out to watch as we passed by.

At the bar it was a huge, fun party. Eating, drinking, dancing -- even spanking. (I got to spank a drummer -- with his own drumstick -- fun!) At some point, one of the band members smoking outside saw a rival marching band going by a few blocks away, likely on their way home after the parade, and chased after them. They came over to the bar and challenged Extra Action to a Drumline-style play-off! Turns out it was the UC Davis Cal Aggie Marching Band, and I remember that at last year's Pride parade Extra Action paused in front of them as we went by on the way to the parade and played a song at them, almost challengingly -- was it time to even the score? It was -- right there outside the bar, in the alley intersections! The squeaky-clean and extra peppy Cal Aggies played their swingin'-est tunes, trading songs with EA, each band choosing a more complex, tighter song to throw back at the other band. Cal didn't have any nearly-naked flag girls dancing routines and spreading their legs on the ground, or sexy flag boys doing lap dances on nearby parked cars, but they were incredibly tight, fluid and very skilled. They couldn't come in the bar (not old enough?), but I brought them out a case of sodas!

It seemed like everyone had a good time, which made me happy I arranged the band marching with GV, and arranged the party afterward -- and I paid the tab for it, too, ouch, it cost a lot. I'm not at all rich, (in fact I lived on the streets as a kid/teen) but I feel strongly that you only live once, and as I've seen this year (way too dearly), you can go at any time, no? And what an experience of a lifetime -- I wouldn't trade the credit card bill for anything. Too bad when I got to work today one woman called me over to her desk to really let into me about how she was unhappy with the way "some members" of the band behaved at the party, that someone stole her drink tickets, they were bad tippers, etc. Which was all utter bullshit, and I told her that (here I go, in another fight at work again with one of the thankfully few overly-critical negative staffers of GV). I bought all the beer -- it was all free for anyone in the bar, tickets or no. I stayed after with several members of the band to help clean the bar, and spoke openly with the staff about tipping, no problems. Obviously her complaints were false, and I also saw her chatting amiably with several members of the band that day. Perhaps this woman was upset about something else -- not enough attention, she wished the party was her idea, she doesn't understand how people behave at bars, whatever. It really smarts to go to all this work, fully know and witness that Extra Action truly poured their hearts and souls into this performance, and get shit for it.

Well, most of us had the time of our lives. The next day my brain was cooked -- there was no way I could work on my next two books (call for submissions on one of them here), deadlines approaching fast. I saw 28 Days Later, the scariest movie I've ever seen -- I can't recommend it highly enough.

All Pride photos courtesy of the talented Elisa Galdo.

Tales From the Crypt: Fantasy Realdoll Orgy (6/10 -- entry held over)

If you're into links of the sexually strange, then you are no doubt familiar with the Realdoll company. They make life-like, life-sized porn-star-bodied female fuck dolls out of silicone, complete with internal skeleton, posable bodies, pubic hair, eyelashes and more creepy-yet-fascinating details than I can include here. Check out their web site, where you can see the myriad options for creating your ideal girlykin, which may be what making babies will be like in 2050. (Honey, do we want head #5 with blue eyes or head #8 with green? Pubic hair or bare?) They have a new male doll, and especially unintentionally hilarious are the pics of him lounging in the tub, slack-jawed and unblinking, ready for action. I would absolutely love the opportunity to violate this doll ten ways until Sunday, and see just what silicone boy was really made of. Okay, I guess that would be silicone.

But still, if it weren't for the hugenormous price tag, I'd love to roll around with both a male and female Realdoll for a weekend, even with an added real live person, and if anyone wants to sponsor me doing the deed and writing an article about this scenario (and will ship screener dolls), I'm up for the challenge. Hell, if people can get rubes to pay their ridiculous charge card debts via their web sites, and solicit donations to help them get dates or boob jobs (pop-ups, no pun), then there's hope for my "Pervert Porn Reviewer Has Realdoll Orgy Article Fund."

At AVN in January, my publisher's booth was across from the Realdoll booth, and damn if those people aren't just super-nice. Plus it was fun to go over and chat with them about how they make the dolls and methodically squeeze a pair of dismembered silicone boobies at the same time with no one blinking an eye. I found it strangely calming.

The whole Realdoll idea can’t help but be macabre, yet arousing at the same time (though I find lesbian vampire erotic horror movies particularly compelling -- an acquired taste, I admit). It was exciting, for instance, to find out that the dolls are made in these big cases that resemble coffins, lid and all, and also are trundled around in wheelchairs as they go from hair to makeup, to body paint, etc. The display at AVN was several dolls in a bar scene, which in the already surreal atmosphere was unnervingly real out of the corner of my eye, and in pictures I took the dolls look like real porn performers standing in the background, which isn’t surprising given how porn performers look so real.

But there's creepy, and then there's "Is anyone going to make a Realdoll horror movie?" Of course, I'd love to work on a porn film that was only acted by Realdolls. But since discovering the web site of the guy who performs surgery on Real Dolls, my mind is reeling. How do the dolls get injured? Then I found his Blue doll, and my imagination went into overdrive. Now what I want is a Realdoll made to look like Yvonne Craig as the green bitch in that old episode of Star Trek, where she does that dance for Captain Kirk.