It’s official: Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, as of Friday August 1, has filed paperwork and paid registration fees to run for California governor.
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It’s been a while, and you’d think that I’ve been busy, and while I have, sitting at the computer writing on deadline doesn’t really feel like I’ve been doing much of anything. No wild marching band parties, no porn screenings in local bars, no experiments with crazy sex toys (though I have clocked some quality time with my new pal Woody, and have updated other parts of Tiny Nibbles extensively). I did get out last Sunday for brunch with the sexy, smart and super-prolific Alison Tyler. I work with her publishing her stories in the Good Vibes Magazine and in my books, but have only met her in person once before. She’s like the nicest person in the world, and we share a lot of the same goals with our sex writing: to make books for people that are sex- and pleasure-positive, show sexy and kinky situations that have happy endings, to inspire others with these happy endings to try it at home, and to work on projects mainly because they’re fun and we have lots of ideas. Working with as many other writers as Alison and I do, we see all kinds of motives, and though we’ll probably never make a million bucks or be famous, we were both happy to find kindred spirits in each other. I also know that her and I write as much as we do because we just can’t help it. Plus, I know how incredibly talented she is, and shaping stories with her is a blast. And a turn-on.
Last night we had one of our Continuing Education nights at Good Vibes; CE nights are quarterly classes that supplement the ongoing trainings, required reading and viewing lists and 21-hour training program that is all required for sales associates. The CE nights cover current sex issues (the first one I attended 5 years ago was on Viagra) and feature speakers from outside the company, so they can be incredibly educational. Last night’s topic was transgender issues, and covered pretty much everything you’d ever need to know about both male-to-female and female-to-male trans issues surrounding sexual response and sex identity. Wow, what an eye opener. The speakers were amazing, the drop-dead gorgeous female speaker was from LYRIC, and the funny, smart man who spoke teaches at SF State. I learned about the different surgeries, their effects on sexual response, hormones (testosterone and estrogen programs as prescribed by doctors), how trans people see their bodies sexually before and after transition, and what sex toys trans people might want to use. I also learned that language and political correctness is a moving target among the trans community, because definitions change constantly (and are hotly contested).
But the basic rules of thumb seem to be pretty obvious and common-sensical — refer to the person as the gender they prefer, no matter what they look like. If you’re in doubt, ask. I think that confidentially asking "what pronoun do you prefer" is way better than the scene I witnessed several months ago at Berkeley’s Tilden Park Little Farm Petting Zoo. I love animals, so I trekked up there on my Honda GB500 to check out the new litter of piglets, and pet them right alongside Berkeley’s notoriously obnoxious yuppie moms and a couple of indeterminate gender. One of the blonde highlighted, Starbucks-swillin’ moms loudly said to the nearest in the couple, "excuse me sir, but you should give the rest of us a chance." I witnessed a scene that undoubtedly happens to the people in the couple somewhat regularly, where the person addressed summoned strength in the crowd and said, "I am a woman." A few minutes later over by the bunnies and far away from the crowd, I found the woman who was not a "sir" sobbing into her hands while her partner comforted her. Granted, situations like these may not happen as often as they do in major cites, especially the Bay Area, but when 15% percent of queer kids at centers like LYRIC identify as trans or trans-questioning, it’s high time for a wake-up call as far as how everyone defines gender and sexual identity. It’s time to get loose, and get tolerant of self-defined healthy sexuality.
Final notes: I didn’t win the local weekly’s "Best of the Bay" award for Best Local Erotic Website, but ErosGuide did, and that’s where my pal sweet-pea Cara Bruce works, so that’s just as cool. Still, it doesn’t seem fair, Erosguide being a huge commercial sprawling commerce site and all, serving all sorts of non-local communities, but those SF Bay Guardian "Best Of" categories are pretty bogus anyway. If you haven’t read this article about porn being mainstream, you should. My favorite little book this week is How to be A Villian, and I love the show Nip Tuck. Now, off to the lab to create an army of femmebots.
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After a grueling weekend hunched over my desk and squinting at the computer working on three books on deadline (yes I am crazy), and one night of careless abandon go-go dancing on a chair at 2am in SoMa bar Butter while around twenty members of the Extra Action Marching Band played atop every other spare piece of real estate, I decided to relax in a different way last night, in front of the TV.
But I forbade myself from TV-working (watching porn, as opposed to recreational porn use which invariably happens when I "work"). I flipped channels. I watched Animal Cops, and determined that the guys and gals who save kittens and puppies on TV might be in the only non-porn profession that gets laid more than firefighters. Then my remote landed me on TNN, "The First Network for Men."
What the fuck? What’s with the segregation? What, exactly, are they categorically saying about men, and specifically, I’m sure, male sexuality? Their website is all sex, babes and sports — as if to say that women don’t want babes and sex and lowbrow humor too. Thanks a fucking lot for the stereotypes, TNN, and condemning women to the entertainment staus of children. All the guys I asked about the "For Men" title say that the name/title makes them not want to watch it, that it "sounds fishy," that they don’t like it. Which says that the men I’ve asked about it are all suspicious about the marketing ploy, and are likely bracing themselves for rapid-fire intelligence insulting jokes about fat women, sports euphemisms for sex, and fart jokes. (Not that I don’t love South Park, which features really refined fart jokes.)
Do we really need this to be able to watch Stripperella — a fucking great show, by the way. Better yet, do I need a male chaperone to watch TNN now, to explain why Kid Rock and Dita Von Teese are in the same commercial? Can anyone? But I really wanted to watch Stripperella (I really like Pam Anderson, though she is a christian), I was dying to see the new Ren and Stimpeys (I trade R and S invectives with a rocket scientist I work with in SRL), and I wanted to see what TNN thinks of men — and what they think women wouldn’t want to see.
So I donned my rubber strap-on harness, and a brand new silicone dildo that just came in last week at Good Vibes (the Woody — ahh!). Wearing a wife beater, I cinched up my harness, tucked my dick into a pair of red see-through panties (w/black lace trim), then, dick popping out of my panties, slid into a pair of tight jeans. I grabbed a beer, the remote, and I was ready.
The thing that not many people know about strap-ons — especially the two-strap kind I prefer — is that they are very arousing to wear. Sure, mentally it’s way hot to be packing a woody, but it’s little known that physiologically a harness presses and binds in all the right places. The clitoris isn’t just that little nub of flesh in the front, it’s got miles of underground real estate, well, okay, inches, which split like a wishbone and travel along the sides of the vaginal opening, all the way to the anus. A snug harness not only puts pressure on the pubic bone (and if worn low, the clit), but also on the clitoral legs, making anything — sitting, standing, "jacking off," dildo cocksucking, penetration, watching Stripperella — an arousing experience.
In fact, I loved Stripperella, but then I’m a sucker for sexy babes who kick ass and save kittens — as well as any good writer’s self-parodying bathroom humor, which the show exudes. I only caught the last part of the episode, where the buxom stripper-cum-superhero runs around in her superhero costume and a cheerleader disguise (!) looking for the evil mastermind behind a series of robberies — and for a lost, unneutered cat. She races around town on her motorcycle (like me!), fights with a superhero’s skill, faces off with a madman and an evil machine, trades witty lines with everyone, and finishes her day back at the strip club, melons intact (yet all the dancer’s nipples are sadly pixilated).
My conclusions: TNN thinks men are sexually simple and dumb, though Stripperella is an exception. TNN would be way more provocative and get a lot more attention if their network was called "The First Network For He-Bitches." Also: The "First Network for Men" can suck my (silicone) dick — Stripperella was made for women (and men) like me. What I wish TNN knew: After Stripperella, I put on a porn DVD and jacked off. End of story, and sleep tight.
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** 7/30 update: Amazon investigated "Jim" and removed his review!
Aargh, I am so incredibly blocked right now. I have piles of work to do, pressing deadlines, friends who think I hate them because I’m not returning phone calls, and I find myself balancing my checkbook when I should be writing chapters. Unlike other people, who seem to have way too much time on their hands. Procrastinating, I surfed Amazon.com to see what people are writing about my books, and found something that probably won’t be up for very long. It’s a very nice review from someone who claims their grandfather learned how to fist them by reading The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio. Wow, I am touching people in way’s I’d certainly never imagined. Amazon yanks this stuff off their site pretty fast, so here it is:
fist-o-rific, July 14, 2003
Reviewer: A reader from oklahomo back before the war (i don’t recall which one)i would go to my grandfather’s farm every weekend. he would take me on hay-rides and we would eat watermelon and spit the seeds into the garden for the birds. i remember the first time he fisted me. we were in a field of sunny golden wheat with a cool breeze blowing. he fisted me under the lone oak tree that stood in the center of the field. it wasn’t until later that i learned from my grandma that grandpa learned his technique from this book. even though grandpa past on may years ago i still remember those summers.
Ahh, life’s tender pasttimes. I read it out loud to my friend Thomas Roche on the phone (he’s also trying to write right now) and we both laughed so hard we had to stop and breathe. It’s a pretty awesome review. But I’m glad my Fellatio book is having an impact on the sanity-challenged. On the whole, my reviews are positive, which is happy-making. But there is this one huge review on The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus by some dude who clearly is a master on all aspects of sexuality, yet faces serious challenges when it comes to spelling, grammar and the shift key. "Jim" from Chicago tells us all about his "ladyfriend" (that’s how my mom’s hippie friends used to refer to their "old ladies" on the 1970s) and what she taught him, disses my book, and then says how these three other products can make you a master of pussy, too.
What gets me isn’t that Jim dissed my book, because it doesn’t seem like he read it. Jim evidently can use a keyboard, so it’s possible he can read, too. My book covers all the topics he claims it lacks, and c’mon, you guys all know my writing, it’s light years away from the two books he compared me to, Cattrall’s Satisfaction (awful) and Paget’s How to Give Her Absolute Pleasure (pretty good). No, what bothers me is that Jim takes up valuable space that could be used by smart people with constructive comments and criticisms with his preposterous claims about female sexuality, promises about how to get ahead in business using your sexual power, and how to have a sexually spiritual relationship with god! Is this Stan’s uncle Jimbo from South Park? Or Jimbo from The Simpsons? What’s more, Jimbo’s whole pitch is annoyingly hetero-centric. Does he mention any of the groundbreaking lesbian sex manuals? Nope. Only the top three selling books on female sex techniques.
So I checked out Jim’s recommendations. I found out on Amazon that the video, Goddess Worship stars the person who wrote Jim’s second recommendation, a fellow named "Arte." My spider senses started tingling, so I tracked down Jim’s second recommendation on Amazon, an audio sex instruction CD by Arte — "from the founder of the New Sex Institute." I thought, wow, what a dynamic fellow this Arte is, and why haven’t I heard of this institute? So I Googled the institute (in quotes to get the exact words), and lo, it was risen. And then it went flaccid. I found the full money-making enterprise, a site that reads like an "as seen on TV" version of sex ed — nauseating, and rife with impossible promises about sex. To my great, great surprise, everything Jim recommended was for sale here. Wow! How cool! Except that the whole site is copyright the author of Jim’s third and final recommendation — Clint Arthur.
Will Amazon ever contend with the clearly unethical practices of people like Jim, er, I mean Clint Arthur? Too bad he’s not a local, if you know what I mean. Feel free to email Mr. Clint Artie Arthur Jim and tell him what you think of how he conducts his business — or anything at all — at Information@NewSex.org
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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