Cabana Pony

Right now, my best friend Thomas is driving to LA. Which means it’s time for me to face the music and blog about some news I got last week, news that I’ve been in total denial about.

Thomas is my closest writing pal, the one who (years ago) published my first article ever and encouraged me to write books — and as a professional technical copyeditor and copywriter, and a guy who has written over twenty published novels (mostly under pseudonyms), he’s helped me with advice every step of the way. I repaid him by helping him get a job a Good Vibes, in fact he’s the only person I’ve ever been able to help get a job there, and I don’t think you can exactly call that a favor. In fact, right when he got the job I was once again at the center of a political shitstorm and I called him and told him *not* to work there, if he had any sense of reason as a human being, he’d stay far, far away.

But like when you tell a kid not to put a bean in their nose, he defied me, and the past few years at GV have been very cool indeed with Thomas as GV’s Marketing Manager, my supervisor, and black humor co-conspirator in all things overly politically correct. But then, last week, that bastard had to go and get himself offered a job. A fucking sweet job.

He broke the news to me last Thursday, in the junkie-infested alley behind our offices. I actually had to choke back tears, except I was also laughing like a crazy beeyatch at the outrageousness of his new life. For his "interview," they flew him down to Los Angeles (!) with the full red carpet treatment. He was picked up by their "personal assistant," a stacked Finnish blonde wearing a half-shirt tank top and low-rise jeans, in a mini-Cooper with two yippy microdogs, named Boris and Gepetto, respectively. Can you get anymore LA porn industry than that? Thomas will work one week out of each month in Panama, where they will fly him for who knows what shady website operations, in addition to the fact that they are paying to relocate him. I though only Microsoft did that. And if that’s all not crazy enough, his predecessor made seven figures a year, and quit to take a year to write screenplays. I’ll say it outright — he’s working for the gay mafia, an empire that owns over 70,000 gay websites. But the even weirder twist is that the owners themselves aren’t gay.

Sheesh, flown all around and paid well. Ummm, okay, I’m really looking forward to going back to the office next week, with the bordering alley and all its acrid piss smell, shit-strewn walls, and puddles of blood on the sidewalk from the junkies. I don’t wear sandals to work, ever, because of all the needles in Mary Alley and Natoma Street — and Thomas gets a cabana boy, or at least a tropical stable for his girlfriend, Ponygirl. She’ll be clop-clop-clopping around the world. Globe-clopping. I told Thomas he’s going to walk in on his bosses cutting up a body and boiling eyeballs, and they’ll make him swear an oath of silence on his mother. Know what I mean?

How can Thomas be my friend if he lives in LA?

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Vagina Twain, SF Pride, Meeting Betty Dodson

Violet Blue with Betty Dodson

Last weekend, Pride took over The City, as it always does, with swarms of smiling, happy families, horny LGBT tourists from all over the world and bringing out residents ready to party. It’s a big see-and-be-seen event, and the hot sunny weather had everyone out doing something; sexual orientation doesn’t necessarily even matter, it’s just our city festival and everyone goes out to have fun, wear Pride beads and feel all puffed up about how cool and progressive and diverse our city is. That’s definitely what I did, and I have the sunburn to prove it.

Friday night I went down to the Valencia St. Good Vibrations store to help hand out goodies and donated Odwalla juice to the participants of the Trans March. This was the first march of its kind, and especially important because of the horror-movie-like slaying of trans teen Gwen Araujo, and last week’s unjust mistrial ruling that will likely see the boys who did it get off with minimal punishment.

At any rate, I found myself in front of the store, when up walks a celebrity trio of magnitude — Carol Queen, Robert Lawrence… and Betty Dodson! I was floored, to see Betty Dodson just walking up and I nervously introduced myself to her. She’s the most famous of all of us I think, hailed as the "Mother of Masturbation" and she wrote books on female masturbation that changed literally everything in the world of women and sexual education. And at 75, she’s a force of nature. In a few minutes I realized how strong and outspoken a woman she is and just about died listening to her and Robert crack jokes — she dropped a pen and Robert said, “If I wasn’t so old and crippled and such a lazy bastard I’d pick that up for you.” Betty replied, “This old granny can still lift a vibrator, thank you very much!”

To my blushing surprise, Robert and Carol introduced me as “one of the *good* ones,” and Robert immediately started gushing to Betty about my work at SRL as a roboticist and welder. Betty oohed and aahed, and said, “Wow, no shit!?” when I explained a bit of the machine work I do.

Then, the Mother of Masturbation punched me in the boob.

Maybe she meant to hit my chest. I admit, my shoulders are not as manly as Madonna’s, so maybe she missed. My b-cup boobies are not too huge or sticky-outy, but I was wearing a push up and my boobies were feeling sassy, so maybe they jumped in at the last minute like football players intercepting a tackle. I just squeaked, “thank you!”

Betty and company careened wildly around the store admiring vibrators, and gossiping loudly and hilariously about other sex educators like retirees out on a medicated break. I walked up and came into a robust conversation about one female author in particular who was being made fun of for having a ghostwriter and they all took a round imitating Swerengen on the HBO series Deadwood, “SHE’S a COCK-sucker!” while I accidentally shot water out my nose. It’s true; we all talk shit about each other in this business, though there are definitely two camps — the people who genuinely educate and the writers who have marketing backgrounds and celebrity ambitions. And when the worlds clash, it makes for hilarious stories we tell each other over drinks, or whatnot.

Anyway, I clued in on a vibrator that Betty was admiring and snagged one for her, slipped a battery in it and snuck it over to her in the book section of the store, evidently where the party was. They were lamenting the new Eve Ensler show, about how now Ensler has to make peace with her belly by having a big show about it. Betty told me, “Jeezus, I saw that damn ‘Vagina Monologues,’ and all it was was Vuh-GYNA, Vuh-GYNA, Vuh-GYNA, over and over!” She put her hands around my throat, and continued, "If I heard Vuh-GYNA one more time, I was going to strangle someone!" Then, the Mother of Masturbation strangled me a little.

I giggled. Strangled by a legend, that’s me. I held out the vibrator like an orgasmic peace offering, whispered conspiratorially “It’s loaded,” and Betty smiled and said “excellent” like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. I was now her minion. I made a little hopping motion like a kangaroo and asked if she had a pouch to hide it in. She looked salaciously at Carol and grinned. “I dunno!”; She pulled her waistline out on her pants. “Does this look like a pouch!?”

Then, the Mother of Masturbation flashed me her clam.

Carol said, yup that’s a pouch. I laughed hysterically and wished Betty Dodson was my grandma, or at least my eccentric aunt Betty. Which I guess in a way, she is. I stayed and listened to her talk to a full house about her amazing life doing sexual therapy client work teaching masturbation to women and her humble beginnings selling and sending her women’s masturbation books through the mail, carrying over 150,000 copies to the post office in Manhattan. Granted that’s a small drop in the cultural bucket, compared to, say, Shania Twain’s 19 million albums. But hey, I’ll take a Hitachi Magic Wand and a punch in the boob over a tube of “Shania Red” lipstick any day.

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The Other Hollywood Expo

Xeni Jardin emailed me a special secret link to her pictures form the Erotica LA Expo. Boy did I feel lucky; her photos told a photojournalistic story of the experience that really had me spellbound. Like a photoblog. They also recalled all my strange disconnected and hypnotic feelings I experienced at the AVN porn expo over a year ago. Kind of like when a smell triggers a memory. Now she’s letting me share them with you, so do take a minute to investigate the "other" Hollywood expo through the eyes of Xeni. Beautiful, ghastly, chilling, shiny, distracting, American. Each piece is moody and compelling, and they’re my favorite photo set from her to date.

She also investigated the cybersex toy, the Hi-Joy.


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Bend Over Boyfriend With the Stars

The email keeps pouring in. Got this, made me feel like a 13-year-old-girl (or Mr. Garrison from South Park) at a Ricky Martin concert: "You just made my tool bar. Love your site and have always enjoyed your writings at Good Vibrations. Most enjoyable site on the web." This morning another reader told me I was in his dream: "Unfortunately, there is nothing interesting to report. The dream had me opening my wallet to discover that my driver’s license was missing.
I did awaken this AM and checked my billfold to see if my driver’s license was there."

My dream state was oddly active this morning, too. I was in a giant wooden hot tub with Leonard Nimoy, William Shatner, DeForest Kelley and Walter Koenig. That’s right, the cast of the original Star Trek. Nimoy looked terrific. We were all naked (!) and discussing Leonard’s upcoming gubernatorial campaign — yes, he was running for governor and, for some mysterious reason, it was making him younger and more Spock-like by the minute.

But really, if I were to rifle through any of your belongings while you slept, dear readers, I would not take your drivers licenses. I already have one. I would only take things I need, like snacks. Or a few sips of decent Scotch. It’s possible I might try on your underwear. If you’re cute, maybe your undie drawer would get a good sniff. I would never do anything sexual to you in your sleep, but I might do something sexual to myself in your sleep. For instance, if you were sleeping, the Crisco would be fair game. Playing with strangers’ sex toys is unsanitary, but your kitchen utensils may go "around the world" within a few hours, if you know what I mean. And chances are very, very high that I would put your underwear on my head, open your blinds, strip down and disco for your neighbors. The beauty is that if I got caught, I could write off the legal fines as "research." Good thing my publisher doesn’t read my blog, eh?

Speaking of unwanted surprises, I think the woman making a desperate bid for fame by publicizing a bout of male-receptive anal sex she had with Alec Baldwin should really be slapped hard with a big stinky used dildo. If it is true, lameness abounds. I think it’s very hot and cool that Mr. Baldwin has metrosex, and it even makes me kinda like him, though I still would never consciously or knowingly watch a Baldwin movie. Indeed, I cheered loudly during the South Park movie when Canada declared war on the US and bombed the Baldwin mansion. And I saw the movie three times. I would never play "bend over boyfriend" with Mr. Baldwin, he’s far, far from my type, though I don’t think he should be shamed for playing with his P-spot (or for not having a wife/girlfriend who can do it, dig it, and keep her mouth shut). The situation did compel me to make a list of celebrities I *would* play "bend over boyfriend" with:

1. Steven Colbert. He’s just so straight and so damn funny. His voice, oh that voice. I’d make him talk while I did it; he could read a soup can label’s ingredients list and I’d be living the fantasy.

2. Cary Grant. I know, typical. But still, he was openly bisexual and dropped acid with Groucho Marx. How cool is that?

3. David Bowie. Again, I must get in line for this one. Every living creature of every gender wants this man, and I’ll openly admit to three-way fantasies about me, Iman, David and lots of dildos. And Iman’s makeup collection.

4. Ian MacShane. Before you question my judgement, watch Deadwood. Yes, I want to play "Oz" with Swerengen.

5. Hugh Jackman. Okay, all the way up until he was in that turd of a vampire movie. Maybe it’s just Wolverine I want to butt-bang.

6. Chuck D. Because he’s still so damn sexy. He could also say any stupid thing to me while I pillaged his village and stormed his shores; maybe I’d make him read the dirty parts from Clinton’s new book.

7. Ron Perlman. Not that he needs it, but because he might like it. I sure would. It would be like climbing a mountain but I think I could handle it.

8. Billy Bob Thornton. Because if his ass is good enough for Angelina, it’s good enough for me.

9. Ben Stiller. No, I don’t think he’s hot, but maybe if someone plugged him real good he’d be funny again. He may not even like it but it would be for his own good. I would have to be gentle but firm. "Just breathe Mr. Stiller, and try to relax your sphincter… I know it’s been a really, really long time…"

10. Johnny Depp. Repeat of #3, but younger and tougher.

Addendum: If I discover any of these celebrities are Scientologists they will be removed post haste. Scientologists need an ass-reaming of a different kind altogether.

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Love Mail

Nothing makes you appreciate the finer things in life than a oozy, scary piece of hate mail. I got one this weekend, from a "good Christian" who went on about the "faggot marching band," how I’m "living in sin," and how I desecrate things with "homosexuality, sex toys and who knows what else." So please indulge me, dear readers, as I engage in a little auto-cunnilingus and publish a few emails I’ve received in the past two weeks.

"Dear Violet,
Thank you for such a great website. As I attempt to navigate the world of information out there to increase my pleasure and pleasure-giving, I find that there are many more sites that are icky and uninformative (not to mention that have worms attached, etc.). So you need to receive continual praise for creating and maintaining such a legible and ‘clean’ resource for all of our curious minds.
I’ll keep reading. :)"


(in regards to the author of She Comes First, who a reader informed me, graduated from an online sexology course the same month his book came out

"I don’t know how much education you have and to be honest, I could care less. You’re a really good writer and it’s obvious you’re passionate about the topic you write about. You probably just learn as much as you can from as many people as you can and then pour that into your books. I’d much rather learn from someone like you than some prick with a lot of initials after his name. I understand the anger about his being backed by a big publishing house, but I’d like to point out something. One of my favorite authors is H.P. Lovecraft. He was not a success during his lifetime and never received any positive reviews. I read a piece about him that talked about the authors that did receive good reviews who have been forgotten. He’s still remembered. Your work is quality and that’s what lasts."


(regarding my post about She Comes First)

"The article did remind me of where I’ve gotten some of my best advice about sex and relationships, from female friends, gay or straight. I’m one of those guys who’s everybody’s buddy, the one no one wanted to date for a long, long time. I did, and do, have a lot of female friends and I guess you could call me something of a dyke hag too. My friends would talk to me about their relationships and more than a few of them talked to me about sex. Did I pay attention? Shit, I almost sat there and took notes! Your point that a gay man or lesbian often knows more about pleasing a sex partner because of their familiarity! with the equipment is very, very true.
I’m happy to say that all that listening has paid off big time. I don’t like this guy’s attitude, Violet, and when it comes down to it, I’ll refer to sexperts like you who collect information from every useful source. I guess what I’m saying is, screw this guy. Keep up the good work and take care."


(from Paul Joannides, the author of the fabulous The Guide to Getting it On!)

"…Have you ever considered writing a general book on sex, with chapters instead of whole books on subjects like oral sex and the like?"


"Dear Violet,
I know how busy you must be so I’ll be as brief as possible. I just found your website yesterday and it seems as if I’ve done nothing else but read all kinds of great, interesting stuff, with still tons more to explore. I am so impressed with your writing.
Your website is refreshing and you have opinions I can relate to, information that I can learn from and for crying out loud, no over-the-top dramatics. Did I mention laughing my ass off at your columns? Well, I should because your humor is very much appreciated by me. I don’t get slammed with phoniness and pop-up ads, the pictures and graphics are just the right touch and I have a pleasant experience surfing your site.
Alright, enough dribble. You have a restricted Paypal account and I want to help support your website. What can I do? Perhaps the answer could show up in one of your columns. I want to be supportive to someone who does not cater to advertisers and offers this wealth of information to the public.
Please carry on with all of the great stuff you are writing. I think you’re just terrific!
With much admiration,"

So, what do you think, folks? Should I set up an accessible Amazon wish list? I could really use some good summer book recommendations!

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You never know the true agenda of anyone, and though the woman I worked with on the CNN segment was very cool, smart and supportive, still, while the tape was running she threw in a surprise question about porn and exploitation of women. I think that is the one time I smiled; it sounds weird to have smiled at that moment, but I had a feeling it would happen. I think I answered okay on the spot, it’s just the same tired old stereotypical questions about porn, anyway. If I go on to the CNN bonus round for a point/counterpoint debate, which has been talked about, then I’m sure I’ll get all sorts of lovely leftover-from-the-1950s questions about porn and rape, and child exploitation and animal porn. You know, the stuff those conservatives stay up all night hoping really exists.

We’ll see. I stressed about this interview, and studied CNN beforehand to see how everyone looks and behaves. First, everyone looks like their panties are painfully pinching off circulation to their tender bits. No problem: the shooting pain in my back and neck gave me the perfect glassy rectal-thermometer-made-of-ice look. I observed that yellow and blue look terrible on TV; I solved this with a fitted pinstripe suit and white wifebeater. I noted that on MSNBC, everyone’s hair and makeup is the same as in 1989; my hip hired-gun gay stylist, who looks like a sexy Mr. Clean, gave me a romantic 60s look. On a side note, I also observed that on CNN, it is absolutely okay to look totally baked if you are Donald Trump. I probably look a bit baked right now as I write this, but lemme tell ya, I got nothin’ and no interns to fire.

The interview took all of ten minutes when all was said and done. I did have fun going into the studio, and upon seeing the fake illuminated panorama of San Francisco on the wall behind my chair, I chirped, "Cool! This is just like the Daily Show!" They did not think that was as funny as I did. But I was stoked. I *love* fake news, and am thrilled to be part of it all.

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Nervous Squeaks

I may not get to post very much this week as things have gotten a little crazy. I feel like that scene in The Jerk (actually I feel like most of the scenes in The Jerk most of the time) where Steve Martin sees his name in the phone book and says "Things are going to start happening to me *now*!" I had a long interview with Glamour magazine because they did a sex survey about what women are experimenting with sexually, and it turns out that more women use/consume/experiment with porn than with anal sex, threesomes or even sex toys. Wow — of course I had a lot to say. And then, as it turns out, CNN is serious in their intentions and are taping me this week. So I’m pretty much just holding myself and rocking in the corner, and when I’m not doing that I’m alphabetizing my entire porn collection in ten different bizarre ways, or folding and re-folding all my panties and socks, or organizing my sex toy collection by color, size and creating special categories like "space alien buttplugs." You know, the usual, but with occasional nervous squeaks. Then this morning, a troublemaker in LA sends me this email:

> On page 125 of the July issue of Esquire Magazine (this month’s, which has a picture of Lance Armstrong on the cover) there’s a supposedly funny humor piece that’s a spoof of the page for Bill Clinton’s new autobiography. And in the section that’s called "Customers who bought this book also bought:" the first book listed is "The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio….by Violet Blue."

Yay! Now some tea, a shower (it’s hot here in SF), and back to my Star Trek buttplugs. In the meantime, check out this totally awesome new blog, God’s Wife.

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