My Very Own Darwin Award

Eddie is now free, phew. But if you want a taste of the naughty dirty things the Republicans are up to during the convention, read this awesome blog by a woman who works as a cocktail waitress in a strip club that has been seeing a lot of Repub. action in the past week… (Thanks Daze).

Am I a candidate for a Darwin Award? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I am. Cruising around ErosBlog, I stumbled across a link to "Autoerotic Fatalities With Power Hydraulics," and immediately had to send it to my SRL pals. I received an instant reply: "…says the girl covered in "motor oil" posed next to the running machine. 😉 I’m pretty sure our little calendar has raised a few eyebrows in academia across the country. I can only imagine the pools regarding the next Darwin Award."

To my delight, AdultFriendFinder reviewed my Ultimate Guide to Adult Videos. Hooray!

I was approached a while back by a British TV Network for an interview — it seems they’re working on a new reality-TV comedy show about sex, and when they told me what it is, and what I would do in it, I was thrilled. Especially because I would go to London for the gig — but to my dismay, I introduced them to too many exciting people here in SF, and now they’re coming here. So next Thursday I get to be on a cool comedy show — now *that’s* the kind of stuff I want to be doing. But no London, boo-hoo. I really wanted to meet a few people I’ve connected with through this blog; maybe airfares will plummet and I’ll escape for a weekend. At any rate, I set the UK TV folks up with the PornOrchestra misfits, and while I somehow ended up on their mailing list, I discovered that I am now in the orchestra. I do not play an instrument, unless you count the skin flute. Okay, I confess to sometimes putting on my favorite Theremin albums really loud and playing air Theremin in my underwear. But I think someone in PornOrchestra is having fun. I got the email and scanned the list of musicians/performers, and down at the very bottom was "Violet Blue: Color Commentary." Sweet. I’m just glad no one saw my Theremin/Risky Business routine.

So many people ask me about sweetening or improving the taste of male ejaculate — and yes, you really can sweeten a man’s come. Check out my recipe for a Super Spunk Smoothie.

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Chaka!

Oh, Fleshbot, how I love you for giving me the Olympic Bulge Awards, the only thing that made me wish I’d watched the Olympics. Ahhh!

Random bits:

The biggest clit I’ve ever seen (not work safe; thanks to a reader).

The dangerous and risky sport of shooting a chicken with a rocket launcher.

The New York Times timidly ponders porn for women in What Women Want to Watch. Note they reference a book about women’s fantasies that is over 30 years old… sigh.

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/29/arts/television/29DOMI.html

Today I got this great email:

I meant to tell you that your latest blog entry about Sex Educator Fear Factor had me rolling with laughter. It’s so genius because you manage to skewer sex educator bravado, the crappy adult novelty industry and bad reality TV all at once. So basically, you’re every woman, it’s all in you. Just like Chaka Khan!

That rocks. But meanwhile, where have I been? Prepping for the Sex Ed FF? Making a fort in my living room out of plank-like Paris Hilton Love Dolls? No, actually, I’ve been working my buns off, writing like a fiend on a few secret projects. That’s one of things I hate most about big-deal writing projects — they consume chunks of my life that I’d love to ponder blogistically but I can’t even mention them to my friends, because people make us writers sign all these legal non-disclosure agreements. Which I understand, but still… Let’s just say that after being sick, I returned to the fray to write for an average of 10 hours a day. Not possible you say? Indeed it is. I have a pseudonym I write under, too.

How do I stay fresh and interesting? A) Bergamot bath gel, and B) I never duplicate projects so I don’t get bored writing about the same topic over and over. I know other erotica writers who are even more insane than I am with creative drive and workload — Thomas Roche, Alison Tyler, M. Christian, Sage Vivant. These authors write unbelievable amounts, and it’s good stuff, too. Yes, they have pseudonyms too, and no, I’m not telling. We’re in the crazy sex writers club together. But after two weeks of 80+ hour workweeks, my arms hurt like hell, as if I had been tossing a heavy medicine ball around all day. So last weekend I took a break from the com-pooter, and organized my hall closet. Oh, and I went to a sex party.

A sex party! Yes. And it was good. No, I didn’t have sex at it — bok bok, I’m still a big chicken, though this sex machine almost got me off the couch for a spin. I’m still to timid to have sex in front of people, but hopefully someday I’ll change that. I *did* skip wearing panties and wore a short BeBe fringe dress and super-stacked fetish heels, so I felt naughty underneath it all. I even spread my legs on the couch a few times after a few glasses of wine, but I don’t know if anyone noticed. The party itself was really awesome, a very low-key house party affair where I actually knew no one except my date — and I liked that very much. Lots of bisexuality, kinky couples gay and straight, and overall lots of people my age with similar sensibilities, so we’re talking 25-35 range, young-ish, whimsical, slightly bent folks. Lots of rubber outfits, much spanking and whipping, spontaneous public fucking and oral sex, sexy girls aplenty. Hornboy and I took a prime seat on a couch, drank wine, and just watched the rich pageant float by.

I did, however, object to the elf. Yes, there was a guy there dressed as an adult, longhaired elf. In tight olive green Lycra, with a little loincloth and fake pointy ears. He looked like that Peter Pan dude (but with a mullet). He found a victim, er, I mean a girl that was alone at the party, and gave her one of those icky-guy, massage-turns-into-grope-session, then they spanked each other. Hornboy and I decided that nothing turned us off more than elf spanks. Bleah.

On other fronts I’m miffed at a certain porn magazine. They asked me to write an article about teledildonics (computer-interfaced sex toys), and I did. I wrote a huge piece about the history of cybersex and teledildonics up to the present, interviewed inventors and mechanics from all over the US, researched patents and interviewed patent holders and licensees, and wrote a darn fine piece. Then I turned it in. And never heard back. At all. Nothing. Not a peep. Which is sadly typical of the porn industry, to be flaky and unprofessional, that is. Maybe the piece sucked, maybe they ran out of budget — but they could have told me something. The piece is still mine, and I might develop it into a presentation for Dorkbot SF, much like my Sex and Electricity lecture, which was a hell of a lot of fun.

I plan on returning to a regular blog posting schedule now, with less of that icky work stuff getting in the way. That is, while I work on the books I have due soon. Ducky Doolittle says I can do it — I say I want to use her boobies as an oxygen mask.

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Free Eddie

My dear SRL friend Eddie, a sweet computer genius, has been arrested for filming protesters in New York. In a twist, you can bid on his bail on eBay. Whatta world.

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Alive!

I’m alive again! I had what is now being called at Good Vibes "The Evil" – a flu of devastating proportions. Like a hurricane eats trailer homes, it’s now wending its way though the Mail Order department. I survived on well wishes from you, dear readers, (Thank you! Sniff!), Hornboy’s loving ministrations of barley soup (my favorite), Ricola tea, some antibiotics, the Daily Show, and my gigantic cat’s gift of an enormous live bird. Maybe he thought I needed some protein and that catching it myself would do me some good. Regardless, I caught it (quickly — on the spot I removed my shirt and threw it on the bird) and let it go. I ran to the door as the bird wiggled out, tried to peck me, and made it to the back porch as it tweeted and flew away. Leaving me half-naked in front of the neighbors, probably wondering if I was doing some weird animal sacrifice that had gone wrong. Except, that I then yelled, "bad kitty!"

All my neighbors are gay men, so my porn reviewing lifestyle is just a comedy show to them anyway. But I’m pleased to return to Fthe Vote, a wonderful campaign to exchange primitive instincts with — primitive politics. And someone wanting to make sure I got my daily dose of healthy veg sent me Veg Porn, showcasing the sexiest vegans I’ve ever seen.

I had the strangest flu dreams. They were related to the top three selections in my top ten porn picks for this month. I’ve been having anxiety because I wanted to write reviews for them — they’re really really good porn films, the best I’ve seen in a long time. So not being able to write (or breathe, or think clearly enough to leave the house) gave me anxiety that made me have porn dreams. I had dreams with Seymore Butts in them, though I can’t remember much, just that I loaded my gun (a .45) and shot the engine in his SUV (through the hood) because he was stealing my precious porn art book collection. I’ve never even met the man and here I am ruining his vehicle. The only time I ever really hurt someone’s car was when I was working on an SRL show and accidentally backed a forklift into a side panel (we surreptitiously removed the panel, tapped it flat again and put it back on the car). I’ve moved parked cars with a forklift, too, but the cars were fine.

The other dream was about Suze Randall’s Dark Side, which is now one of my all-time favorite pornos. But I had these crazy dreams about Victoria Zdrok’s clit — really! In my dreams her clitoris was like some strange William Burroughs or Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch plant creature. It was articulated, on a stalk, and it was growing out of her legs and had its own consciousness. It was seriously wacked, but I was freaked out yet not scared. I think I had the dream because in real life she really does have a hugemongous clit. In a bonus scene for Dark Side, she masturbates and it grows very large — astoundingly large. I mean, I thought I had a big clit, though I know from looking at porn my clit isn’t so huge. But hers is like a thumb, but like a small penis thumb with a foreskin hood over it, and the hood slides up and down her erect glans as she masturbates. I learn so much about female anatomy from porn — seeing her clit reminded me of the first time I saw a real female ejaculation close up (Screaming Orgasms) where I saw the whole business pulsing with orgasm and the urethral sponge pushing the come out. Porn is often like a PBS Nature show.

At any rate, I had some really weird dreams, but I guess they come from a rich enough palette.

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Flu

I have the flu and promise I’ll be back to blog sexily when the fever breaks. Hopefully I’ll have some weird dreams, like when you eat pizza before going to bed. Meanwhile, these are neat because you can watch all three at once.

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Privacy, Jazzfest And My First Lapdance – From A Girl Named Apple

Eee-yikes. Xeni emailed me this morning, about the Alabama sex toy case ruling setting the precedent that *the Constitution does not include the right to sexual privacy.* This is really bad. All this about a vibrator — and a vibrator sales sting operation, nonetheless! I wonder, was it called “Operation: Barefoot, Pregnant and in the Kitchen.”

But last night is what I really want to tell you about. After work, a friend and I swung by Good Vibes and we whisked over to North Beach, SF’s famous Italian district. Last night was the kickoff of the Jazz festival, which I think is the best Jazz festival in the world. It’s totally free, whereas other Jazzfests charge you $50 or what have you, and the music happens in bars, clubs, galleries, doorways, everywhere all over the neighborhood’s restaurant area. And the music is incredible, it always is, and last night I heard the straitlaced Marcus Shelby Orchestra, randomly discovered a smokin’ trio called Jilool (sounded like hip 60s movie music with jungle beats), and finished off the night with my favorite SF band (sorry EA), the 19-piece Realistic Orchestra. A trip to SF is complete when you see Realistic; with four trombones, four trumpets, a fat handful of saxophones, vibes, a DJ and a rapper, there’s nothing like them.

But though I had a blast hearing incredible live music for free, and my dinner at my favorite sidewalk cafe (cafe Prague) was terrific, the true highlight of my evening was the moment I finally lost my lapdance virginity. I may never be the same. (I don’t count my trip to the Mitchell Bros. as a lap dance — having a hard-titted stripper hump my belt buckle really fast and then jump up to say how weird it is to dance "for a girl" *so* doesn’t count.)

My friend and I were going from bar to bar, band to band, cocktail to cocktail, when we found ourselves walking by a club called the hungry i. We stopped and remarked that neither of us had been in this famous club, where Lenny Bruce made his name in 1959 — and with the promise of more cocktails and topless girls inside, I was compelled. I’ve always wanted to hang in a cheesy bar with scantily clad girls dancing in the background; it’s the influence of all those Russ Meyer films and the best worst movie of all time, Showgirls.

And I got the cheese I hoped for. Comfy, stained chairs beckoned inside the small club that was the size of the Good Vibes store, but with a stage along the side backed by mirrors and flanked by two brass poles. As we sat in the second row of chairs I realized that there were more women than men in the club — then I noticed that none of the women were porn Barbies, but a gorgeous array of sexy regular women. No silicone. It was a big surprise, and I noted that many of the women looked like Suicide Girls models, but without the tattoos and piercings; there were Goths, a rockabilly… was this for real? The fake smoke and garish lights only enhanced the atmosphere as I watched a very bored brunette lazily dance around the stage chewing gum while lackluster male patrons tossed a dollar or two on the stage. She was boring, but it was perfect, know what I mean?

Every once in a while a girl would come by and sit on my lap, or my male friend’s, and chat with us, but there was little pressure to buy anything. We were just hanging out, and the women were really nice to me. Way different than the all-business attitude at the Mitchell brothel, or when I got ignored at the Musty Lady.

We watched a bunch of different girls hit the stage, some were really fun to watch, some were not. Then one girl came on, and she was magnetic. Her body was a lot like mine, so I was instantly attracted to her, and under her schoolgirl attire she wore cute little hip-hugger boy shorts. Her dancing was slow and outrageously sensual; she closed her eyes and knew what felt good to show the audience.

She made eye contact with me, and held poses that looked like erotic photographs. I don’t even remember the music, but I’ll never forget the way her breasts looked when she pressed her chest to the stage floor and coiled her back up like an “S” Not explicit dancing, but very arousing nonetheless.

After, she came over and sat next to me and asked if I wanted a dance, or if we wanted one together. My friend offered to pay for me, but he had to get funds; the dancer — named Apple — sat with me. Apple! Her name was Apple.

She leaned in close, and we talked about a lot of things, including Lenny Bruce (“when guys are rude, I channel Lenny”). Apple was very excited to be my first lap dance, and moved me to the little half-couches in the back hall, directing my friend to sit away from us, but still within sight. Then she asked me about what brought my in, what my experiences with strip clubs had been like. After talking with me for a while to relax me, she told me to keep my hands at my sides and started. It was like I was the stage, and she slowly moved all over me, wrapping around me and touching the small of my back; pulling down my bra straps; leaning back on me and kissing my face, my neck. I bit my lip as she ground her beautiful, round ass into my crotch, and I fantasized that I was wearing a strap-on under my clothes — and about fucking her with a strap-on.

She did this for several songs, then slid over to sit by me again, ending the lapdance. I thanked her. Then we talked for a long time, about all kinds of things, from porn and filmmaking to dating girls and guys. She got prompted several times by staff to move on; I don’t know why she stayed to talk with me but I really enjoyed it. Then she walked me back over to my friend, told us she’d be happy to dance more, and off she went to work the room. The bartender brought me another beer, on the house. I was really worked up, and regrouped with my friend and my beer before heading over to the Velvet Lounge to see Realistic. And they were incredible, like Apple.

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