And a Pound of Bananas for Stephen Colbert

I was at the second of three Thanksgiving parties last night with Chriso and Hornboy, discussing that I was not, in fact, able to give thanks this year for having a threesome of any kind, unless you count the imaginary kind. Chriso, so adorable you could just put him in your pocket and take him anywhere, loudly proclaimed to Hornboy and I, "Oh my god, if I wasn’t gay and had any interest in pussy at all I’d TOTALLY have sex with you two." At which moment, a man fishing around the kitchen table for, perhaps, an innocent olive or lemon twist, jerked his head around to stare at whoever the hell was propositioning the gay man in the kitchen. And maybe to see if Chriso was a lunatic, though Chriso did not notice and continued, moving on to a discussion of men with tiny balls vs. men with big balls. "Baby balls" are definitely out this year. It was a robust holiday evening.

So no, my threesome didn’t happen, not at the superhero party, nor the next evening when Hornboy and I went hot tubbing with wine and candles and Minx, whose idea it was, declined to call. The superhero party was perhaps the anticlimactic buzzkill of the whole setup — while the last party from this host was fantastic, the open to the public, no playspace party turned into a rager where few were in costume, and there was much "super puke" in the bathrooms. I was relieved to spend time with a couple that I adore, who both work for San Francisco Sex Information. While I was with the fabulously costumed Hornboy as Harvey Birdman, they won my personal prize for high-concept superhero scenario — he was the nefarious Dr. Cyclops, and she was a tough-girl heroine who had to break into his lab to steal a secret formula. Of course, she would get caught and have to be tortured for hours. Sadly, the party setup had their hours’ worth of role-play fun shelved for later, and their nearly 75-lb. bag of S/M gear and sex toys unceremoniously dumped in coat check. As Cyclops put it, "Absent a place to tie up and spank the crap out of cute girls, what’s the point of leaving the house?" We drank, complained and made up superhero identities for everyone we saw not in superhero garb, which kept us pretty busy. By the way, a shiny dress and stripper shoes is not a superhero costume, and clowns are definitely not superheroes. Clowns are just creepy and remind me of child murderers.

I am no longer trying to have a threesome. Too much administrative work, and it feels like I’m applying for a holiday job at Crate and Barrel, except it’s a Crate and Barrel where you hope no one has herpes and no one accidentally swallows any piercings by accident. Nope, I quit trying, officially, as of 8pm tonight I no longer "work" to have sexual adventures, I’m packing up my dildos, turning in my keys, handing in my notice, cleaning out the contents of my snatch, and waiting for the security guard to escort me out of the building. And you know, going to these sex parties, strip clubs, fetish events, all lose their luster when you go to them on a date and find out they’re boring compared to the time you could spend one-on-one-on-one — less guilty pleasure and more of an exercise in superior parking spot seeking abilities and parallel parking skills. I mean, I’m getting pretty good at finding secret parking spots all over town to go to these damn sex parties, but sex events don’t break the ice very well, and I’m not exactly the most experienced person when it comes to all the vagaries of threesomes and dating. I think getting drunk and falling into bed together would be much easier. See, I am filled with hope. I am looking at the bright side. I know that next week, at my book release party, or at the very exciting Good Vibes Holiday Ball, my fantasy will become reality. Within minutes of arrival the Ball, I will be handed a glamorous cocktail, whisked off to a quiet corner with Hornboy, Stephen Colbert and Eliza Dushku, where we will sit and sip, and Stephen Colbert will eat bananas while Hornboy feeds Eliza cherries and each of them take turns painting warmed Cabaret chocolate (which will actually be there) onto my bare shoulders and nibbling it off. Eliza is the most daring of our little foursome, dipping my fingers in chocolate and sucking it off with her hot little mouth, while I talk dirty to Colbert and he puts my other hand on his crotch, and then Hornboy lays me over his lap for a simultaneous spanking, my face pushed in Eliza’s lap and hands in Colbert’s. Oh, the many combinations and sexual positions we create — we watch the sun come up from my bed, sticky with chocolate, lube, smashed inflatable animals and thousands of dollars’ worth of sex toys ruined from heat and friction.

(photo of my pal Carol Queen and me from last year’s Ball)

But instead I am home on a Friday night, nursing a hangover and contemplating a trip to Superstar video, the big gay porn store in the Castro. They have some really hot bi porn, and I get some amusing stares from the gay patrons when I go in there. But at least I don’t get hassled perusing porn by guys looking for a hookup; the guys there are checking out my jacket and shoes — not my tits.


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Superhero Threeway Angst

I have threesome anxiety. I wish I had a blog like DeeGee Girl, where a sexy vixen writes totally anonymously about her secret sexual adventures and no one knows who she is at all. You see, I am a sex writer, sex educator, and therein lies this giant subtextual assumption that I have done and seen all things sex. Not true. In fact, compared to my coworkers and cohorts, I still have much left to experience. And I plan to take my time about it. Yet though I have much knowledge through some experience, countless interviews, polls, anonymous postings and responses, querying professionals in the field, and other ways of gathering information, I try my very best to make conscious decisions about new sexual experiences and how they shape me and my relationships.

I recently had a friend ask me how I can still enjoy sex after all the porn, the sex toy testing, the writing about sex all the time. It seemed rude at first, but it is really a valid question — and the answer is that first and foremost, I make a very strong distinction between sexual fantasy and reality. The second is that I refuse to try anything until I am mentally ready, physically turned on, and know it’s cool for everyone involved.

Well, "everyone" is a new concept. I’ve been "a couple" all my relationship life. I mean, I’ve fantasized about sex with more than one person at a time, like A LOT, in every combination. Two girls, or a guy and girl, or two guys (who are into each other as much as they are into me — no boring homophobic porn BS). And it’s come kinda close I think, with Hornboy and Minx. Maybe not very close, as we are all totally nervous, but last weekend the three of us had a date where Hornboy played a gig with the Marching Band, and the three of us did some very sexy dancing and flirting. You have to understand — he is hot, hot hot, and she is so fucking sexy — glasses, short hair, tattoos, lithe fetish model body, young boys’ superman underwear (dear god she *flashed* and humped me)… and we all three have a date this Saturday to go to the Kinky Salon superhero party, which I have been excited about for about a month. I have a rubber Batgirl outfit, courtesy of Stormy Leather, and a fantasy I think I want to make reality. A guy, a girl, a rubber Batgirl, and bizarre, odd, crazy, delicious, lathery, slippery, foamy, pornographic and fantastic sex acts coated in I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, with armloads of heavy silicone dildos, two leather harnesses, a gallon of Astroglide, three pairs of latex gloves (and lube-slicked forearms), a pair of bunny slippers, two pairs of drenched cotton panties, and a very soiled Harvey Birdman lawyer suit. Oh please, call the Superfriends and give me 40 feet of rope!

I’ve been courting the two for some time — so what’s the problem, you’re asking? Well, it’s strange to be the monogamous type and want to fuck two people at once. How do I be jealous? At first I was jealous of Hornboy, getting two girls at once, then I reminded myself that I’m doing this for me. However, right now I’m gearing up for three events — the Kinky Salon, my big book release party, and the GV Holiday Ball. And I found out that Minx has *another* date for the Ball. I got jealous, I admit. Have I been going too slow? In fact, I thought about placing an ad to find a girl to be my date with Hornboy for the Ball, especially since I’m a VIP and will be hanging out in the lounge with Nina Hartley — though last year I was unceremoniously thrown out by the staff, along with the Extra Action Marching Band and Extreme Elvis. Let me tell you — drinks, watching sex in the bathroom, ripping a girl’s rubber skirt onstage, the Marching Band being lascivious and lubricious — it was a very good time. And no girl-date this year? Hmmm.

I guess we’ll see what happens tomorrow night. I’ll do my best to get pictures.

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Let’s Flush Her From the Universe

I got this letter from an admirer in regards to the porn actress (Ada Mae Woffinden Johnson) who began making films using my name back in November 2001 (my first porn article was published in 1998). Apparently she has been doing interviews. Now, instead of giggling as my friends make fun of her and wishing she’d stop using my name, I am hugging myself and rocking in the corner like a tiny child in horror that anyone might confuse me with her. Here is the email:

Subject: your namesake

Hey VB –
You have a great site and I love reading your comments on things and clicking on your links.

You’ve probably seen some of the comments made by your namesake regarding the rates of STDs among blacks. Apparently, that was nothing compared to the wackiness of some comments she made at another time:

So, just out of curiosity, I was wondering if you have been tossing any ideas around to help casual readers understand that Violet Blue and Violet “Lust” Blue are two different people.

(This is why they are so picky about middle initials and stuff at the Screen Actors Guild. Maybe you could start using your middle name – Indigo?)

Keep up the great work!

“Wackiness” just doesn’t quite cover it, does it? Especially with quotes like these from her SetGo interview:

Setgo: What did you think about the war to free Iraq?

Violet “Lust” Blue [the porn performer – Ada Mae Woffinden Johnson]: I think it was kinda silly but I think we should just kill the entire Middle East. That way we wouldn’t have terrorism any more.

Setgo: Are you bothered that California is being overrun by illegal immigration?

Violet “Lust” Blue [the porn performer – Ada Mae Woffinden]: Yeah, I think they should all go back to where they belong or learn how to speak English. Did you know that there’s no word for ‘maintenance’ in the Mexican language? I know a lot of nice Mexicans but there are a lot of Mexican scum who tend to live off the government and have a bunch of babies. I don’t think we should be that open to immigration from Mexico.

Setgo: Do you think we need more Muslim immigrants?

Violet [the porn performer – Ada Mae Woffinden]: No, they keep buying up all the 7-11s. I think all immigrants should learn how to speak English. If they speak English, I’m happy. I hate when I drive through the Valley and I can’t read any of the billboards because they are in Spanish. That’s why I am going to go back up to Washington where all there are a few American Indians and Koreans. Everybody is white. It’s a wonderful wonderful thing. It’s clean. There aren’t a lot of icky people. If you look at it, most bums are either black or white. I’m surprised there are not more Mexican bums.


Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t believe people like this still exist. What a peculiar nightmare to wake up and find myself in, it’s like a bad movie of the week and I’m being played by Tori Spelling. This woman is even dressing up like me. What if it happened to you — any suggestions?


UPDATE 2011: After years of using my name and occasionally dressing up as me for “appearances” and “signings” at great confusion to press and fans, and doing nothing to eliminate this confusion, when Ada Mae Johnson (nee Woffinden, now NoName Jane) announced her retirement from porn in 2007 and contacted me to tell me. She acknowledged in an email that she had been “using” my name and that I could “have it back.” I offered to buy her website, which had an image of her dressed as me on the front page. She said she still planned to use it as a source of income, and in late 2007 I filed suit against Johnson (then named Woffinden).

Neither indigent (poor) nor unmarried (as she claimed in the press), Johnson lost the suit and a settlement was reached in 2008.

I won the case on facts – and sworn testimony from many publishers, sex educator Carol Queen and others, and not for any other reason (Johnson still claims the loss was from her lack of funding, which was untrue, as we showed the Court she was not as she claimed “indigent” – as can be read in the Jurisnote Formal Summary). The Federal court summary regarding the injunction against Johnson (now NoName Jane) read:

The court granted Blue’s motion for a preliminary injunction, noting that Blue could likely demonstrate continuous use of her mark for many years prior to Johnson’s first use of the stage name “Violet Blue.” Furthermore, Blue could probably prove that prior to December 2000, consumers and readers of online reviews of adult materials and other writings about human sexuality would likely have associated Blue’s name with her brand. Blue was therefore likely to be successful at trial on the question of whether she had a valid trademark. In addition, Blue was likely to succeed in demonstrating a likelihood of confusion. Both parties used the name “Violet Blue” in relationship to goods and services that were extremely similar and, at times, overlapping. Moreover, there was significant evidence of actual confusion.

The case was won based on the Federal Preliminary Injunction. Johnson voluntarily settled and acknowledged explicitly in Federal court and in formal writing that she never had a right to use my name.

All the details can be read here. Fot the record: despite inaccuracies on adult film databases (which were examined in court), Johnson’s first film was “Simon Wolf’s Beauty and the Bitch 2” (distributed November 2001); her website was launched April 2002. My first published work was in 1998, first column 1999, I had several more sex and porn-related columns on websites including in late 2000, my first book was in print December 2000, and this website launched in early 2001.

Prior to the lawsuit, a Federal Trademark was granted for my name. It was not easy, and had to be proven and judged in a manner that would stand up to Federal scrutiny – it was not easy, and was judged and granted upon merit and an impartial Federal Trademark jury assessed its validity against considerations in all fields.

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Survival Research

I turned in my seventh book two weeks ago — and the very next day went into two weeks of production on a sneaky surprise SRL show. Day after day of 12- to 15-hour stints at the machine shop led to a cathartic 30 minutes of explosions, machine mayhem, chilling zaps from a giant Tesla coil and then it was over. Well, for the audience and lightweight volunteers, anyway — then there was cleanup and load out. I’m tired, bruised and happy.

It was a very different show for us — no fire allowed, not open to the public. It felt quite odd. We knew it from the start, that we couldn’t invite the public, and were warned that any gathering crowds would shut down the show, so we had to be especially tight-lipped about the whole thing, which is tough in a sprawling volunteer organization and one where a few members have huge egos and like to brag — and like to make others feel excluded. Not all, but a few, and while SRL is a close-knit family, after eight years I’ve grown irritated with a couple of those family members who act like it’s a high school click — and if you visit the SRL "tribe", you know who I mean.

What kind of people are we, those of us who like to create big machines and run them in events that come across like a major car accident — scary, loud, compellingly beautiful, dangerous and fearful, sexual and exciting like the shock of finding thick scars in intimate places, and then everyone has a different version of what happened afterward. I find the shows and the people behind them most interesting of all the many components that comprise SRL. Mind you, I love to learn; especially considering who my tutor is in everything machine and machine shop (Mark Pauline). But in SRL, there is always another layer.

In SRL, compared to other machine organizations, we have a large number of women engineers, structural welders, forklift drivers, and women in general — having worked for other international machine arts organizations and had horrifying sexist experiences, I can tell you that SRL is the only place that gender does not matter, only ability. In SRL, we have a number of Canadians (you know Canada, our largest national park). I don’t know why this is, but their heads flop around when they talk. Also, we have few card-carrying lesbians and gays, but the largest number of bisexual women and men in one organization I’ve seen outside a bi conference. Also a large number of vegetarians and motorcycle riders. And everyone is brilliant in their own field — women who weld the Golden Gate Bridge, men who collide atoms at the Stanford Linear Accelerator, stagehands at the top of their game, sign makers, programmers, inventors, an author, teachers, women and men who race motorcycles. Try to pin us down, and we blur your categories.

It’s an essential part of my being to escape back-to-back sex writing gigs and completely lose myself in mechanics, fabrication and the world of SRL that I know so well. This past show was a fascinating object lesson in who we are, as we struggled to keep the show under wraps it drew into focus who you can really trust, and how to explain SRL to newcomers. No, we don’t have a "group masseuse," we’re not a party, everything we do has a reason (and if you think otherwise, you’re missing something), and it’s not a pickup situation. If you’re a guy and you act macho, people will make fun of you. Yet in our shows we savor the joy of savagely twisting cultural icons, be they hippies, Martha Stewart, or political correctness.

But it always happens. I’ll be working, and some guy — only around for the day before the show so he can see the show, tell chicks he’s "in SRL" and then leave before cleanup — tries to establish his dominance with me. It happens most frequently with me because I work long days and nights, know much about the machines and shows, and Mark puts me in charge of many tasks. And I’m pretty low-key about it. We were laying a large plywood floor for the machines to drive over, to compensate for a grade and a spongy lawn that would tip machines. The crew ran out of sandbags, and used scrap wood and palates to support some — but not all — areas of the flooring. I asked where the weak points were so I could spray paint the areas and the huge, multi-ton machines could then avoid the areas and not punch through the wood. One macho man, a notorious SF scene leech, argued with me as to whether I need to know this information, and when I persisted, he raised his voice, yelled, and kept talking, drowning me out. He insisted the machines weren’t heavy enough to punch through the flooring. I didn’t even get a chance to explain to him that one machine in the show, the Inchworm, takes *two* forklifts to move, and in fact when I did it two days later, my forklift’s back wheels came dangerously off the ground (it was an 8,000 lb. forklift). And yes, the V-1 rocket engine punched a hole through the wooden flooring.

The V-1 in a pre-show test. (Video and above show photos by Amacker)

I do get sick of guys like that. But not of the rest of the crew, who squeezed me and teased me in front of him, laughing, calling me "little lady," effortlessly going back to work with me around him, ignoring him. The new female volunteers were supportive and humorous, excited at how the interaction unfolded.

What did I do for the show besides work my little butt off? I ran the Air Launcher, a machine I ran in Tokyo. (Air Launcher photo of me on left from ’99 Tokyo show.) Speaking of Tokyo, did you know I am probably the only sex writer in the world detained at an airport as a suspect of acts of international terrorism? It’s kinda sexy. Anyway, the Air Launcher is an extremely exciting machine, modeled on the air cannons used by Canadians to start avalanches. It’s a person-sized, air-powered, mounted gun that shoots soda cans at 300-500 mph, operated by a person suited up in a telerobotic headset. The headset is very cyber — the movements of the wearer move and aim the launcher, and you see what the launcher sees through two small cameras. It feels very cool to move something like this with your body, and takes a moment to adjust to — at first you want to look all cool, but then you realize that the best way to aim the launcher is to forget completely what you look like or what your body is doing, and mimic the abilities of the machine. Interesting human-machine relationship, no? The machine is twitchy, too, running on a system of cranky-pants relay switches and a quirky motherboard. Being in the rig is a bit claustrophobic, because you can only see through the b&w cameras and you need a spotter to make sure nothing falls on your head or a machine runs you over, but it definitely takes someone calm and sensible to run it during the car wreck of an SRL show. And might I add that the claustrophobic feeling of the suit and camera is in direct contradiction to the chaos of the show.

I guess what got me going on this rant was the posts by a couple of SRL volunteers on Tribe that were very exclusionary, bragging about being "in," and about how much work they do (where were they when we needed help with cleanup and unloading, for five full days after the show?). I had hopes in joining the SRl tribe thingie that it could be a cool discussion forum where fans and friends talked about SRL and found out more — not made to feel like they’re not cool enough. Then again, it’s just two idiots being really loud, and they’re never around SRL anyway. It’s not a perfect family, but it’s home.

(pre-show photo by Kevin Mathieu)

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Siegfried and Roy Ate My Brain

First, here are cute pictures from Halloween before the alcohol made us incoherent. At a party thrown by an exquisite local dominatrix, I met up with my pals Thomas Roche, Chriso, and Sexy Hornboy for mayhem and silliness, mostly marked by the punchbowl of cosmopolitan mix and the party’s proximity to the Castro. Over 300,000 people invaded SF to leave litter and vomit in my pretty city, and I got to hang out of a window just above the crowd’s heads and slur drunken heckles at non-costumed gawkers and make homosexual comments at the out-of-town straight boys who roved in pairs screaming "Show us your tits!" I mean, really, ew. Don’t worry, I told them where they could go to get their cocks sucked for free. They did not like me. Oh well. Here is me as Trinity and my gay pal Chriso as a zombie trying to eat my brains:


Meanwhile, back at the porn ranch… I’ve been holed up in a blanket-and-pillows fort trying to weather out George W. Bush’s Protection From Pronography Week. (Thanks Daze) I got a week’s supply of batteries, lube, and of course, porn, and did my best to give myself RSI from the fast-forward buttons, and I’m glad that’s over because I’ve never masturbated so much in my life. I’m also glad our leader is doing his part to protect the rights of porn watchers and masturbators everywhere, because a society without porn would be a dangerous one, indeed. We’d have to make sex toys out of rocks and sticks, and you might get poked or really abraded. But seriously, I have major concerns about anyone, any man, who *doesn’t* find healthy sexual release through explicit imagery and fantasy (porn) — especially the president.

Oh, that reminds me — a friend of mine is the daughter of a member of congress, and I saw her yesterday, and for some reaosn the subject of California’s new governor came up, you know, The Gropenator. My friend salacioasly told me that Arnie has a nickname on Capitol Hill — they call him "Niptuck" for what seems to be some very obvious (in-person) facial surgery… On the topic of surgery, I saw Siegfried and Roy on Halloween, and they are doing just fine. The bulges in their Spandex attested to their robust health.

My arms are sore from working at SRL, where for many hours yesterday I used a wire-brush grinder to buff a gas tank for a V1 rocket engine, grinding paint off to reveal a beautiful shiny galvanized aluminum gleam. No, there’s no show (until February, anyway), but I’ve been in front of the computer way too much over the past few months working on books, and I’ve missed working on the robots and machines. It’s a really great way to clear my head.

Not like going to the Power Exchange. Nope, that didn’t clear my head one bit. On a research mission, I ventured with Naughty Minx and Sexy Hornboy to SF’s "premiere" sex club, a place where no alcohol is served, safer sex is enforced, and the whole huge three-level space is split into theme rooms, most of the themes being beds. Hornboy was pretty disappointed by the atmosphere, and though I thought the pirate room was kinda neat and the jail cells pretty detailed, the rest was just little alcoves with rubber sheets on beds.

Admittedly, we went on a "couples’ night," where couples and single women are admitted only, and there weren’t many of either. I wanted to see what the couples’ things were like, thinking that it would be kinda orgiasitc and wild, but it was really not — I mean, some of the couples had sex, and there was some S/M activity, but many couples were just gawkers and clung very closely to one another. The diversity was nice (not all white), but there was no same-sex contact of any kind. Maybe I live on San Francisco Island, where there are lots of bisexuals, but that seemed weird to me. Not even girl-girl! In fact… In a spontaneous moment, Minx bent over and hopped into a set of stocks (like for punishment) and I couldn’t help myself to her lovely bottom, giving her a few spanks, scratches and squeezes — and found a cool reception from onlookers, who trickled out! We were the only ones who tried anything like that, and felt a little out of place. But unfortunately, the vibe of the club didn’t inspire us three to keep playing, so we ducked out to Martuni’s on Market street for some terrific mixed drinks, and an aging gay male piano bar atmosphere that made the night instantly more fun.

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Tits of Steel

I got my first lap dance the other night. I think.

Regular readers will remember Naughty Minx — the super-sexy leggy fetish model that gave me a hot wax backrub at work one day. Last week she scored a few passes to a local historic and expensive "high class" strip club, and eager to see the inside of a real strip club and do some research, I volunteered myself and my faithful research assistant, Sexy Hornboy from the Extra Action Marching Band. You see, dear readers, while I am a trained sex educator, there are still many things I have not tried in the wide world of sex — I’ve never had a lap dance, been to a strip club, a sex party, seen a dominatrix, had a threesome (or moresome), had public sex… the list goes on. Since I have a book to research, and Minx and Hornboy are eager to help, I have to don the lab coat and rubber gloves, and get out in the field.

At first it was just Minx and I, having Thai food and feeling really nervous about the whole thing, but then we decided to call Hornboy for backup — and because he’d been to a strip club before, at least ten more times than we had. We needed guidance! And a cute boy made us an attractive trio. So off we went, trouble times three, walking down Polk Street on an unusually warm and clear San Francisco fall night, past the tranny hookers of all colors and sizes, to the big brass and glass doors of the club. Amidst a chattering flock of suited Japanese businessmen, we surrendered our passes, had our hands stamped, and wandered in, wide-eyed and laughing to each other at what tourists we were, even though we are each pretty well-versed in the ways of sex.

The club was carpeted and clean, with a maze of halls and little rooms whose purpose was unknown to me but whose subtext was clear — dirty things happened in nooks and crannies, on couches, chairs, and to our surprise, beds (with functional sinks and bowls of condoms). We went into a large, dark main room with a stage, two brass poles, and theater seating all around. We examined the chairs for ickiness before we sat, and Minx and I whispered to each other that we should’ve checked the floor before we set our purses down. A thin, surgically augmented dancer came out on stage, already nude, and danced. I was clearly already with the hottest woman in the whole club — I kept stealing glances at sexy tattooed and bespectacled Minx to remind myself. There was a male-female couple up near the stage, and the dancer paid special attention to her — and to my surprise, the dancer lifted the woman’s shirt and sucked her breasts. I thought there was no contact at strip clubs, save for lap dances, but boy, was I about to be proved mistaken, as least at this establishment.

After watching more dancers come out, naked and disconnected, sans any kind of actual stripteasing, I began to really understand the resurgence of burlesque. I also got the distinct feeling that we three were actually space aliens from another planet, as opposed to the earthlings populating the stages and seats. A sudden flash mob of Japanese businessmen sucked us into their midst, into a weird backroom with thin booths that had individual curtains, opening up to (and surrounding) a stage. Unfortunately all three of us couldn’t fit into one (wotta dream, though), so Minx and I squished in together, mmmm, that was nice. Two blondes came out and did a little fake girl-girl pussylicking, then proceeded to work each booth, disappearing for what looked like bodyrubbing and hand or blow jobs — and though I put money out on the floor and the women saw it, they ignored us and started on the other side of the room.

Minx and I got the hint — and when Minx brattily started dancing and grinding on me, the blondes lost their audience, on our side of the room, at least. Soon bored, the three of us left and went back to the stage area, which was now filled with mingling men and dancers. Minx swore one of them was Gwynneth Paltrow. The high-heeled, topless women worked the crowd, making offers to men, and we were uncomfortably ignored by most of the women, many of who wouldn’t look us in the eye. Because our spaceship was waiting outside. One beautiful brunette was very excited by us, and she offered something very expensive that I didn’t fully understand that sounded very much like sex in a backroom, and like frightened little bunnies, we all retreated to the stage, dingy seats, and guys with jackets on their laps. Ah, safety. Minx and Hornboy are definitely fantasy material, but money and backrooms and sex workers on a first date scared the wet lacy g-string right off me.

Out on the stage came four women, and one got so excited when she saw us she barely did her routine before jumping off the stage and landing in my lap, grabbing my boobs and pulling me into her chest. It was the beginning of what was to be our nonconsensual relationship. She grabbed my head and pushed my face between her tits — of steel. My nose hit her breastbone — bonk! She smashed her boobs together around my face — bonk, bonk! Hard, everything was hard. My nose hurt. I didn’t know what to do — there was no pleasant squishiness, like when you nuzzle a pair of soft, yummy boobies. Suddenly I was covered in perfume, ack. The woman and her blonde coworker summoned us into the other room, with another stage and several padded tables surrounded by chairs. We sat at a table near the stage, (which was on hydraulics and I thought was pretty neato) and after a song the same two women came over to our table, led mostly by the hard-boob lady, who was actually enthusiastic and cute. They threw a blanket over the table, got up on it, and performed cunnilingus for about one minute, with the blonde in my lap and the other with her legs spread in my face and her left high heel hooked around Hornboy’s neck. I was beginning to appreciate subtlety in all its forms. This wasn’t it.

We threw fives on the table in appreciation of their false lesbianism, which only seemed to encourage them. Would giving them more money make me horny? They got off the table and made the rounds, each of them grinding their bare pussies on our legs and crotches, feeling us up and massaging our pussies (and cock) through our pants, deepening our nonconsensual relationship. The hard-boob lady kept putting my hands on her hard hard boobs and squeezing, and as much as I love tits (I really love tits), I felt like I had no idea what to do with her flesh-covered immovable objects. I mean, I knew that fake boobs were hard, but I didn’t know they were like a silicone dildo under the skin. Wow, my first fake boobs really floored me. Then the song ended, and they stopped, started counting money and chatting with us. The hard-boob lady sat on my lap while she counted, and the blonde remarked how weird it was to dance for women, how she didn’t know what to do, that men were "so easy," and that she felt embarrassed dancing for women. How nice. Now our nonconsensual relationship was dysfunctional. When they left, the room emptied and we were sitting there all alone not knowing exactly what to say to each other… "Did she touch your crotch?" "Yeah. It was weird." Minx and I still wanted a real lap dance, but felt like we got a weird experience instead. I wished I had been the one touching Minx’s and Hornboy’s crotches. But I was way to bugged out to say something like that… So we all did what any normal space alien would do after a trip into human weirdland — we fled to Lush, a bar on Polk St. that has awesome cocktails. We drank strange mixtures, flirted, decompressed, and talked about what we’d hoped to have happen, and we decided that we need to visit a real strip club, somewhere outside of San Francisco.

I know, what was I expecting? I fully expected fake boobs, women at work, men behaving badly and strange vibes. In fact, the men never behaved badly, that I could tell. I wasn’t expecting a porn movie and all the cliches, right in my face. I certainly wasn’t expecting a magical experience, but the scene in From Dusk ‘Till Dawn, right before Selma Hayek turns into a vampire would’ve been nice — and I would’ve been really turned on if the dancers did turn into vampires. But that’s just it — there was no irony, no humor, and certainly no mystery or (even sexier) any hint of erotic danger. No bad music to make you feel cheesy in a good and raunchy way, no words spoken below a shout, and no sense of depth or eroticism from anyone. I got totally turned on trying to imagine what was under Minx’s clothing, and nearly fell off my barstool imagining what I might be able to do with Minx and Hornboy. But that would have to wait for our next date — going to a sex club, the Power Exchange.

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Oh no! Blog Neglect!

Finding this in my inbox has drawn me back to the Tiny Log, taking a small break while finishing my seventh book:

"Update! Update!
love Michelle"

Not only is her note cute, but so is her blog, and I’m now a regular of this smart and interesting girl. Another blog I visit lately is the very sexy DeeGee Girl, whose anonymous adventures are very inspiring. Oh, and I can’t leave out the email from my sexy trumpet playing friend in the Marching Band, "CAN WE GET A FUCKIN’ UPDATE PLEASE!!!!!!"

I’ve been lying low, trying to finish another major manuscript. Bunny slippers, piles of sex books, DSL, personal lubricant, and the steady hum of my iBook burning CD’s to iTunes for my iPod have kept me comfort while I’ve stayed home for weeks. I miss the Marching Band, and working at SRL, but soon I’ll be back in the machine shop… I surely wasn’t prepared for meeting Veronica Hart the other night — or anything else that happened at the St. James Infirmary benefit at Good Vibrations last Tuesday. I got an email from VCA, the company she works for, saying that Veronica didn’t have my contact info, but put me on the guest list in hopes that I’d attend the event. I was stunned — after the chilly reception my video book got by the harpy at AVN, I figured that the adult industry wasn’t going to be my friend. Not such a bad thing, anyway, and I’ll admit that my book is critical of the industry, while being supportive of porn viewing.

When I got to the event, I went over to Hart and asked her for an autograph — and when she found out who I was, she went crazy in support of me and my book. Imagine how I felt, this woman who is a legend and a pioneer, standing there telling me my book "kicks major ass" and how much she loves it! I felt like a little kid, or maybe like Mr. Mackie on South Park when he takes drugs and his head turns into this big balloon and floats around the world. Hart talked my ear off, told me she wants to see me in LA, and signed a photo for me reading, "Oh, Violet– Thank you for including me in your most amazing book. Love always, Veronica Hart."

Suddenly I was the popular girl, in a room full of porn stars and strippers, and boy did I feel like running around tables covered in dildos and vibrators in tight little circles laughing until I got dizzy and passed out. But I didn’t. Instead, when I tried to leave, Nina Hartley stopped me and said, who are you? I told her my name, and she gushed, "Oh, Ernest loves your book and everything you wrote in it!" (Ernest Greene is her husband, the publisher of Taboo magazine, and the finest S/M porn director alive, aside from Maria Beatty). I think I wet my pants. She hugged my boy-toy, kept going and said, "When are you coming to LA? You have to come over and have dinner at our house, and play!" A thin, fishing-line filament of drool hung from my mouth as she went on, talking about how much she loves my cunnilingus book, and I can’t believe she reads my books!!!!

After that, I capped off the evening in the best way possible — with a prank. As I was leaving, some wanker came up to me and asked for an autograph — because he’d seen all my movies. Uh-huh. A couple years ago, some porn chick emerged with my same name, long after I’d been published, and it was a bit irritating, though I though it was kinda funny in an ironic way. In fact, my hilarious and cute gay friend Chris insists that she not be called "Violet Blue" in his presence, instead that she be referred to as Miss Mousy Brown (her hair). It’s all a fun joke — but when asked for an autograph as the imposter, I couldn’t help but return the favor. So as the porn chick Violet Blue, I giggled, said, wow, it’s so cool being a porn star, and signed. I wrote, "Thank you for masturbating to my image onscreen. You have pleased me. When I dominate the universe your death will be quick and painless. Signed, Violet Blue (not the author)"

It’s my new favorite hobby.


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