Comstock Video Podcast!

Not only is my pal Tony Comstock causing trouble with his HOT, free trailer of Damon and Hunter, and offering free shipping through the holidays, but now he’s launched a video podcast of explicit bits from his films. He says it’s all my fault: “Just saw your new sexy podcasts post in Fleshbot, and wanted to let you know that you’ve inspired me to get on the video podcast tip. We’ve started off by serializing “Marie and Jack: A Hardcore Love Story“; weekly installments of 4-6 minutes. I just published M&J, Episode 2 this morning!”

It’s all guaranteed to give me RSI in *both* arms by the holidays.

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Little podcasting update

Podcast listeners: Do not panic if you notice that Open Source Sex 21 video disappears off my feed: the file is still available and accessible through my audio page and my Libsyn page. I’m making changes in the way I do video podcasts, and making them optional for listeners, rather than an automatic download. I don’t want to be anyone’s bandwidth or storage pig. Unless, of course, you buy me one of these.

Oh, and now my podcast is sponsored by my host, Libsyn! Thanks, guys (and gals); it’s cool to have costs offset by people I really like and admire.

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Lecture notes


Turns out I gave two talks last weekend for SFSI students; on saturday I talked about sex toys and lube, on sunday I talked about fetish dressing. As in, fetishes for things worn on the body, *not* what you put on a salad. It’s always hectic — rush to be to the UCSF building on time, arrive and there’s another lecture in progress, I see lots of fellow sex educators that I want to chat with but can’t (or do so in a whisper until glared at), and then I leave after my talk to make way for the next lesson. It was the first time I’d seen my dear, close friend Thomas in ages. We hugged, then the first thing he said to me was (pointing at the energy drink in my hand), “That stuff makes me SPEW!” He gestured in a wide, illustrative arc. Nice to see you, too! This is what our friendship is like. Pro sex edcucators who make ass booger jokes.

Thomas and I co-presented the talk on sex toys and lube; I love lecturing with Thomas. He gets all nervous and I giggle a lot, especially when he uses words like “persnickety” in reference to pubic hairs.

Usually the fetish talks are done as a panel; 7 or 8 different educators talk about a particular and common fetish, each presenter is chosen because they have personal real-life experience with the fetish they’re explaining. Not all of the presenters are pro educators, sometimes they’re pro-dommes (educators in their own right), sometimes just plain old ponygirls or bootblacks. It’s an important distinction to make, I think, and I really love the San Francisco school of thought on how sex ed is presented, from Good Vibes staff to SFSI and The Center and beyond: there is educating, and there is personal sharing, and there’s a big difference between the two. The way we teach sex here (and in this case, teach others about teaching sex) is that it’s “just the facts, ma’am”. We use terms like ‘some’, ‘many’ and ‘most’, rather than ‘everyone’ or ‘no one’ or ‘normal’, because these terms are impractical and judgemental when it comes to sex. It’s not prescriptive or proscriptive, we just give people the info they need to make decisions for themselves and to be safe, and to enjoy sex. Pleasure-based education, with a clear distinction between information and opinion.

So for the fetish dressing talk, I tell the students that I’m going to give info on the practices and details and they can take notes, and then afterward, I’ll give a “personal share”, indicating that I’ll share my own experiences so they can hear from someone who actually does the fetish, and why, and how it makes one (me) feel.

Which is partly why it’s so fun to tease Thomas about his fetish lecture; his topic is necrophilia. I’ve done this panel countless times now, and I’ve heard others give the necro rap, and no one does it like Thomas. It’s…. eerie. I’ve told him that. Before we went on, I told him I’d recently written about his uncanny presentation on necrophilia, but that I pointed out how much I liked that he addresses the practicalities of necrophilia — rather than in other people’s lectures, where they don’t give out any info on how or why, but act as though it never really happens. Obviously it’s a fantasy, but someone with the fantasy might want realistic details. At any rate I told Thomas I didn’t name him in what I wrote, because it’s so *weird* that he knows so much about it. He said, “Ha! I don’t care, I’m not a corpse fucker!” Students glanced nervously. And I whispered, “Thomas, the first step is admitting the problem…”

Of course, they scheduled me to go on *after* Thomas. Ever try to follow up a lecture on the practicalities of corpse fucking with a discussion of corsets? I had to do my best. So I gave an overview on fetish dressing, and then had a few minutes for my “personal share.” I told the story about my first corset — but I felt really nervous, exposed, excited. I confessed to the class that I stole the corset. How I hid it in my closet so my then-boyfriend wouldn’t find it — he thought fetish and S/M was “sick”. When he was out, I struggled into it, got it as tight as I could. And then I blurted out to the whole class, probably with a really red face, how I had an instant hard-on, right then and there and I had to jack off as fast and as hard as I could.

I think I left the stage area a little sheepishly. I went to the back of the room and sat next to Thomas, who didn’t even look up from his laptop. In a whiny whisper, still fixed on the screen he flipped his head back and forth and mimicked, “I just *had* to jack off!” I looked at him sideways and whispered tersely, “So Thomas, when are *you* going to do your ‘personal share’ about corpse fucking!?” Still fixed on the laptop (displaying necrobabes.com), he quickly whispered, “As soon as I kill you!”

(Photo from saturday night.)

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Tropic of Cancer

Let me tell you about last night.

Their nipples were hard dark bellicose peaks perched atop surgically perfected breasts, clearly visible through the filmy cheap pastel colored fabrics. Advertising designed to strike anyone within sight better than any sweaty American ad-man’s wet dreams; stock in trade for the Mexican whores that swarmed around me in a clausterphobic cloud of perfume, cigarette smoke and fetid smoke machine exhaust. I couldn’t tell if it was the air conditioning in the ratty strip joint that made their nipples so fucking pointy and mesmerizing — no doubt cranked to a few degrees cold enough to keep the goods perky — or if it was the chemical perfection of this club’s even-numbered cheap Mexican boob jobs that held me rapt to their bounceless missiles. More likely, the $3 diazepam I’d bought outside the club and swallowed with a Pacifico in the toilet was kicking in. Finally, the fucking drugs were kicking in. Because as usual, the strippers and whores were ignoring me.

Mermaids is a strip joint and bar in Cabo San Lucas; the ugliest, tackiest tourist pit — a town that’s a lot like a cold sore on the lovely mouth of the prettiest bay in Baja California. Being white makes you a target par none for hawkers, pickpockets, timeshare shillers and everyone else looking to rip off a gringo, and there’s an unending stream of gringoes seeping into it daily like Montezuma’s revenge from Carnival cruise ships and spring break bachelor party destination bullshit vacation packages. So the fact that I was even allowed into Mermaids as a female patron was (to me) a surprise ($5 for men). Through a weathered, badly painted metal rollup door that featured festively illustrated namesakes with seashell nipples and up the rickety wooden stairs, and you’re in. First a greeting from a bouncer with deep facial pock mark scarring, and then obligatory $7 beers, a bargain compared to American strip clubs. Seated at a table near the stage gave me a terrific view; grimy stripper pole, dull and bored women taking their turns tossing their purses on the stage to do a few listless dances to Mexican rock or Metallica, all trying in vain to get those frozen titties to move.

Each man that walked in was descended upon by one woman after another, trying to get the gringoes to stop sucking on those phallic Cuban cigars long enough for a private dance behind cloying red lipstick-kiss patterend white curtains that hid booths surrounding the entire room. In my own apparently untouchable world I watched the Mexican girls hustle and simultaneously avoid eye contact with me, although I admired their luscious hips and bellies (this to me was most exotic; no boy-hipped Barbies here). They’d take the men behind the curtains. The men’s clothes would get tossed over the curtain rods. The curtains would move in rythym this way and that; then, job done, out comes the girl with maybe a quick hair toss or a strap adjustment, and behind her a sheepish white dude would emerge and rejoin his buddies, or leave. My last night in Mexico and all I wanted was to have one of these women in my lap, drinking with Hornboy and I, and maybe I’d try to tell her in my crippled Spanish about our week. I’d tip her better than grandpa frat boy, for sure.


I wanted to tell some fragrant, soft Mexican mermaid about how I came to Baja to surf but it was so covered in garbage from the highway to the water, from Todos Santos to Cabo, that it fucking broke my heart. That the beaches were so trashed I cut my toe on glass. That at night the beaches smell like human waste treatment plants and surely the resorts and shantytowns near rivers are dumping their shit into the water — my cuts didn’t heal in the water, and every surfer knows that’s a bad sign. I wanted to explain that I thanked my lucky stars for my Hepatitis A and tetanus shots. If my stripper cared, or was still interested in hearing my drug and pisswater beer induced ramble, I’d have told her about what I think will happen to the coral reef off Cabo in ten years or less. The reef is a huge draw for tourists; nestled at the base of a stunning rock formation at the very end of California and where Highway 1 fades into a sunset, brightly colored fish bring day trippers and snorkelers to the warm, easy waters. It’s so pretty and perfect it’s almost like a dream. But every day, with the same relentlessness as the hot rising sun, at dawn the bay turns into a boiling cauldron of parasailers, waverunners, jetskis, cruise ships, and a bevy of ripoff water taxis, all hemmorhaging fuel and twostroke premix into the water. And a quick snorkel gets you such a snootful of carbon monoxide that the beach reels like a drunk’s worst bedspins the minute you exit the water. This will kill the coral very soon. The fish will all leave. Beauty dies. Coral can’t get a boob job, and the fish won’t hang around to soothe their woes with easily scored diazepam. Ask Kauai or Belize how long it takes for the coral and fish to come back. You’ll be waiting a long time for an answer.

* My camera went “tits up” the second day out. Another reason to be mad at Sony.


Is my lovely sugically altered import from La Paz still with me? Yes, I’ll give her another tip, and maybe then she’d wrap those big warm thighs around my waist so I can feel her hot pussy on my stomach. Mmmm. Another 200 pesos and maybe she can lean back so Hornboy can do a bodyshot off those hard, hard titties while I hold onto her. Then I’d tell her how I said fuck this and went to crazy places in Baja, to cowboy country where fields of cactus stretch to the horizon, hours down the most fucked up washed out white knuckle tooth-chattering dirt roads imaginable, and opposite the catus were the most beautiful sapphire inlets and white sand beaches I’d ever seen. How the road ended once so abruptly at the “future site of Jack Nicklaus golf course” that we sat stunned and marveled that the last shanty town we passed through had no electricity. How Mexican bikers drove up right then and sat there just as confused, saying “We har es confused es joo.” We all laughed and the Mexican bikers gave us these crazy directions down more dirt roads, through more blue-tarp toppped tin shack towns with dogs and dirty children in the streets and no power and only well water, to drive and drive and drive endlessly to beach ourselves at a marine reserve on the other side of the world. The only living coral reef in the Western Hemisphere. Another shack town, but a peculiar one full of friendly Mexicans and extremely odd American ex-pats. A shack town run entirely on solar power. Here, I’d tell her, here is where we landed.

Cabo Pulmo. Books were read. Roosters and chickens stared, cats claimed us as their own. The wind blew the palm frond roof of our shack, and girl, have you ever seen more stars at night in your life? So many stars it nearly frightened me. Meals, all organic and vegetarian. Papaya and kiwi over pasta with fesh basil — aeons away from the rest of Mexico’s cuisine, a mass of processed fright and sugar.


Now in my fantasy, my girl shifts into reverse cowgirl of sorts for the end of my story; with her ass in my lap she leans back on my chest, resting her head back on my shoulder so I can whisper into her ear my secret of deep secrets. I can smell her hair. Our soft cheeks touch. I can tell her the most personal thing, my holy of holies. This: It was in the water that I finally felt okay again. Emerald green and aqua blue, away from the boats, and in the sanctuary I floated weightless and watched. I hoped death would be like this. Rays of sunlight through warm aquamarine. Just watched and breathed and listened to the crackling of the coral; it sounds a lot like high pitched popcorn. Immobile, the fish always hang around me, and this time in Mexico was no different. They nudged and shoved me and every time I looked again, I saw another beautiful fish. This, I’d whisper, this is as close as I get to religion. The sea. Alone in the water, I find something so beautiful, both in front of me and within my own sense of wonder that it rocks me to the core in the most graceful way. It’s how I feel after fixing a machine at SRL, too, and the exhilaration I’ve felt after hitting the ground during an SRL show to avoid a very dangerous blast of flame or a surprisingly strong explosion. Oops, it’s beautiful, and look how beautiful and strong and lucky I am to still be here.

Another 200 pesos in my mermaid’s G-string and I’ve got a few minutes more with a beautiful girl who really feels it, too. She shares my secrets. Because the truth is, I needed a vacation for sure, but I needed so much more than a vacation and I don’t know if I’ll ever find it. I always feel like pieces of me are missing, and it’s nothing to do with my past or my orphan status; I have friends that love me. Chosen family for me is fierce, loving, a true home. But I am relentlessly consumed with ideas, they make me crazy, they make me disappear. I’m angry a lot; I want to save everyone. But I don’t know what I want to be, or who, and I don’t want to do anything except have fun with others, and not ever get bored. I want to change the way people think about sex in every possible way, I want to fuck up everyone who tries to make sex in all its beautiful crazy painful delicious frightening awesome permuations into a bad thing. I want to be Kali to Focus on the Family, know what I mean? And intelligent design, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me — go to a museum and get a clue. I want to destroy, I want to create. I want good porn. I don’t want to be a celebrity but I want to talk to everyone. And my memories, fuck, I tried to read J.T. LeRoy’s “The Heart is Decetiful Above All Things” and had to stop at chapter 3 because it was just way way way too fucking close to home. It was like being that scared little blonde girl all over again. My hell comes from inside, and I want to write it all down, but who will read it and who cares? And what’s the rationale behind an empty penniless effort like that when I just found out (welcome home) that I owe the IRS thousands of dollars because my fucking accountant fucked up royally, even though I might be able to weep out a book of words that might give me peace and make me stop thinking all the time about how easy it would be to go back to working in a cafe, which is really all I feel qualified to do sometimes. And I miss talking to strangers about the weather while eeking out a few tips sometimes, I really do. But here I am. I have no plans; I’ll float on okay. Forgive me, I’m drinking wine and blogging.

But there was no brown eyed beauty in my lap last night; it was *just great* to be ignored in a Mexican strip club cum whorehouse just like back at home, like when I went to Mitchell Brother(s). It’s a fantasy, and for the hour that Hornboy and I sat like turds in a swimming pool in the middle of Mermaids, we came to the conclusion that they either didn’t know what to do with us, literally didn’t know what to do with me, or we were getting a dose of good old Catholic same-sex homophobia. No matter — it’s good to be home. I didn’t find myself or figure anything out but I had a nice break. Jackson West was the ultimate housesitter; I came home to fat noisy felines and clean sheets, and even a rearranged living room thanks to Jackson’s overly dramatic gay party guests who just *knew* my chairs were all wrong. Saturday I lecture at the UCSF extension to human sexuality students; that’s a nice homecoming, too.

Inbox tidbits: my pal Russ Kick‘s new blog Rare Erotica, Regan Books is trying to find a shill to write a book about sex machines but isn’t asking anyone whose written about the topic before (that’s gossip, yo), and did anyone here in SF save a copy of last week’s Guardian with this article in it? Jackson drank my bar dry and kinda forgot… I think there’s a picture of me in it in iPod bondage that I’d really like to see…

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Gone Surfin’


Literally. If you email me, I won’t even read it until December 1. If you call me, I won’t get the message until December 1. I *might* post pictures here.

But here are some awesome emails I’ve received this week, a kiss before leaving:

“Neo Pornographia Vol. 2
also….much more vapidity where that came from:
Holiday Gift Guide DVD Reviews”

*

“I just listened to your podcast (through Itunes) and I wanted to thank you for all of the helpful information. Half way through I called my wife in tears to tell her about the show, and we’re going to listen to it together soon. You answered a lot of questions and helped clarify some of the things we’re going through regarding my sexuality. What a great resource! Thanks so much!”
(male)

*

“Panties 3 has moved! Well, mostly. We’ve moved to brettandhiromi.com .. just letting you know!”
(Brett and Hiromi)

*

“Dear Violet,
I’m not quite sure how to even start this but I have wanted to email you for quite some time. One day I stumbled upon the porn stash of my husband and I completely Freaked out. That night was horrible. … What really turned my feelings around was when we both started listening to Podcasts and when he started to share websites he thought I’d like. … At first he listened to you and a few others… but he didn’t tell me about them until we had a Huge conversation. Since then we’re listening all the time and it’s bringing us closer because we have this new topic to discuss. Now, I’m exploring – in books, on the web, through Podcasts…


I’m sorry for rambling. I’m sure you get a million emails like this but, I am really appreciative of your work, your openness and your advice. I think you may have saved my marriage from serious troubl! e.
So, Thank You!!!!!!!!!!
Please keep up your great work and we’ll be listening.”
(female)

*

> Thank you Violet for your mention of my work in your recent Fleshbot review.
>
> The attention received was unexpected & greatly appreciated.
>
> On your next cyber-travel to The Great White North if so inclined,
> feel free to stop by
> Faces by B. Jonathan Michaels – The Personal Reflections of A
> Shootartist
> here http:shootartist.blogspot.com
> It is my behind-the-scenes view of my work.

*

“..you’re my friend no matter how busy you get and how often you have to duck out of the world to tend to all the awesome things you do. Unlike flakey friends I have who make-n-break plans like it was their job, you actually do stuff that matters. You’re rad, smart and inspiring. I know how much it gets you down when people in your life don’t understand how busy you get. But know this: their jealous. You’re busy doing what you’re passionate about while they work 9 to 5 and want you to come over for pizza and warm beer.

Okay, so I am being a bit hyperbolic. But I saw your latest blog entry and I just always wanna give you encouragement. I may not get to see you as often as I’d like. I am currently downloading some of your podcasts so I can check out the audio/visual action. Yay Violet!”
(male, friend)

*


(in response an email I sent him, and after his offer to paint my portrait) Michael Hussar print of Daddy’s Girl now for sale.

*

From SRL exchanges this week:
me: Let’s got to Croatia!
repsonses, multiple: Tesla Society, birthplace, Tesla, Croatia info, “why can’t we have cool money, too” one two

Photos thanks to Tony Comstock.

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A late night call with Nina Hartley


Here’s the text for my latest podcast, where I interview Nina Hartley via Skype and the video version features some really tasty photographs… (Yes, that’s the yummy, well-restrained Randy Spears she’s caressing in the photo.)

With an accompanying video slideshow featuring nearly 50 stills from her latest video “Nina Hartley’s Guide to Erotic Bondage“, I have a late night call with adult film legend and pro-sex, pro-porn sex educator Nina Hartley. It’s my first adventure with phone service Skype and in the beginning you can tell how nervous I am talking with Nina! We discuss how US obscenity laws are like organized crime tactics; her delicious new film that bends the rules of romance, bondage and sex; her amazing upcoming book and the roads that led her to becoming a pleasure activist; how she deals with detractors and much much more.

Open Source Sex 21: (video post with link to audio; .m4v file)

Click here to launch iTunes: Open Source Sex

I linked to Adam and Eve in the posts to buy the video, though I can’t account for their embarrasing typos in the blurb. (Ugh.) If anyone finds a reputable retailer with more care for their products, let me know and I’ll change the links asap.

After this, I’m going surfing. No, really. I found a cheap deal on Orbitz and I’m bailing out for the holiday to go surfing in Baja for a week — a diet of no computers or cellphones. I leave Wednesday morning and I can’t wait; my first real break in over a year. Of course I haven’t surfed in a looong time, so hopefully I won’t crack a tooth because I don’t have/can’t afford dental insurance…! But I’ll be back around December 1, I’ll maybe post photos to my photo albums while I’m gone (if I can find a wifi cafe that serves maragritas), and I’ve got another incredible podcast interview ready to happen when I get back. I hope someone remembers to save me a copy of the SF Bay Guardian set to come out this week — I’m in a podcasting article for their pirate radio issue and they might run a photo of me, yay! Too bad the article doesn’t mention my pirate radio shows (three pirate radio to podcast: 1 2 3) that I did with NPR, but c’est la vie…

Update — Adam and Eve responds to my comment:

For the sake of clarity, my comment was in regards to the typos in this blurb, formerly direct linked above:

Taboo Magazine loves this video and you will to! “Randy’s new…but perfectly game as Nina cuffs and chains him…then teases him mercilessly…they demonstrate…that shackled wrists are no obstacle to ****ing a motivated girl in the ass.” As her student, Carmen Luvana obeys Nina and performs the hands-tied blow-job of her XXX career! See how bondage stimulates the mind…and body! 80 X-rated minutes.

Incomprehensible text for a video that is so much more than an ordinary video, and one with a true star in it. I had a difficult time linking to it because of the typos, so I expressed my opinion about them. Here is Adam and Eve’s response to me in an email this afternoon:

> I read your interview with Nina, and saw your comments about our site (adameve.com). I’m not sure which typos or blurbs you’re referring to; if you can let me know I’ll make sure those typos get changed.

> Also, the link you posted doesn’t look like the link I found when I searched for Nina’s bondage video:
http://www.adameve.com/p-10060-nina-hartleys-guide-to-erotic-bondage.aspx

> Although I always appreciate your opinions, your remark about ” If anyone finds a reputable retailer with more care for their products, let me know and I’ll change the links asap.” seems a bit uncalled for. In the world of Adult retail, I think Adam & Eve is a lot more trustworthy and and credible than the majority of both online and direct retailers.

> I was very much looking forward to working with you on the [redacted] project we’d discussed, and was disappointed that you never bothered to email me back, even to let me know you were no longer interested. That was unprofessional. I know you’re busy, and I love what you do, but slamming Adam & Eve after we approached you to create a project that would have probably been fantastic is both rude and short-sighted. I don’t get it.

> Anyway, next time you find something that bothers you on our site, all you have to do is let me know what the issue is and I’ll address it. That seems a better plan than needlessly slamming us, even if you think we’re the Wal-Mart of porn.

> Cheers,
[redacted]

* I removed the links and changed them to Adult DVD Talk, whom I really like; I broke my own rules by linking to a site (adameve) that sells anal/penile numbing creams anyway so I’m glad to have a good reason not to link (and “Tight Stuff Oriental Oil”). As for not responding to them, or anyone offering new projects or TV appearances: They approached me about a project Aug. 15 and we had a phone conversation the same day; they followed up with an email Sept. 12 — start at the bottom to see what was happening to me up to and after September 12. I haven’t responded to non-urgent emails in months for several very good reasons. Like a hurricane, *multiple* book deadlines, a friend in chemotherapy, money going out and not in… Well, I guess I better get my “rude”, “unprofessional”, “short-sighted” bloggy ass to Mexico.

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For the love of unintentional hilarity

evil.jpgFor the love of typos:

* Mobile Porn Dangerously on the Rise

For the love of ridiculous bullshit:

* Parents Beware: Porn-Casts Available For Kids (No one talked to me for this article, I am quoted without my permission and they snagged the quote from another article.)

For the love of god:

* Bathroom Moment Ends in Tragedy

bad.jpgFor the love of Disney “Narnia” trailers at christian events:

* The Manly Men of God

Update:

* Carnival in Rio with Arnold Schwarzenegger “Arnold spends some time ogling and groping beautiful models in the Club Oba Oba, as well as uncomfortably sucking carrots with a woman at a local restaurant.”

And you made it this far — new, delicious videos on the Burning Angel ‘free videos’ page. Also, don’t miss Altporn.net’s spanking new podcast.

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