How I spent my holiday

Let’s talk about that sex machine. A couple of weeks ago, I got one of those out-of-the blue, amazing gifts from the universe — actually it was a gift from Joy Rider, Inc. I blogged recently about a sex machine I saw at a party that looked really fun, but that I was too shy to try. It was the Joy Rider, and when I linked to the site, they got a flood of traffic that prompted them to thank me — in a most profound way. But the machine isn’t just a thank-you gift; instead the designer has endeavored to pick the mechanical side of my brain and provided me not just the machine, but also some interesting modifications to make the machine… I think, better.

(The photos you see are in my kitchen.) The way it works: the user sits on the seat with the dildo just inside their orifice of choice. Then they rock their hips back and forth (with feet on the floor, using the handle, whatever), and as they move back and forth the dildo rises up and down, in and out. The user controls the speed and motion absolutely, and hands-free. The machine typically comes with the Doc Johnson Vac-U-Lock system for dildo attachment — not out of any alliance with the toy manufacturer, I found out, but simply from reasoning that they wanted people to be able to find dildos for the machine easily. But the problem is that this attachment system isn’t the greatest, and the bigger problem is that the company’s dildos are only available in unhygienic, porous materials. The materials (most notably jelly rubber) cause irritation in many women, cannot be thoroughly cleaned due to pores in the material, and people who have latex sensitivities have adverse reactions. Personally, the shit makes me stingy and raw inside — I use most of these toys with a condom. But the makes of the Joy Rider, inspired by my (!) blogly wishes for machines that could use silicone dildos (can be sterilized, extremely hygienic), wanted to have me help them come up with a way to easily use silicone dils on their machine. It’s really a dream come true!

The adaption system they left with me really worked well, and I’ve only begin to scratch the surface of how many ways I can distract myself with this device. Basically, I unscrewed the Vac-U-Lock connection system and put on the thoughtfully included straps: two leather straps with Velcro on one side, and snaps on the other. Three o-rings can be changed out depending on what dildo I’m in the mood for. Vibrating silicone dildos! A range of sizes! Hours of fun, alone and with a friend. So far, it works really well for simultaneous penetration and blowjobs, but tonight I’m going to try a longer dildo so I don’t have to grind much to get the in-out action going, and I’ll watch some porn while I’m at it (John Leslie’s Crack Her Jack 3; it drives me crazy right now). Maybe tonight I’ll take a few holiday pictures…

That is, after my late night cocktail with Carol, Robert — and Nina Hartley and Ernest Greene! This foursome is very close and usually has a holiday dinner together, but want to come over to my house for nightcaps, lucky me! I think it’s mostly that Carol and Robert worry that I’m lonely over the holidays, and I am. So thank you, my friends, for rescuing me from struggling with my next book, Best American Sex Essays, while all my friends are out of town, and spending too much money at the iTunes store.

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Tonight’s podcast will be all about sexual fantasies, very exciting. I think I’ve got my microphone issues worked out better, but then again my first broadcast was in my kitchen, an echo chamber if ever there was one.

But the podcast will come after my dinner date with Carol and Robert, and after that we’re going to go see the Henry Darger movie. Last night I had tea with Mark Pritchard, and that was really fun. You see, I’m trying to make sure I don’t *just* work over the holidays, because everyone is gone, with family or hunkered down for the apocalypse or something. Being from San Francisco means that everyone leaves for the holidays and I just kind of have to find more work to do, more porn to watch and more sex toys to amuse myself with.

I’d much rather do that than put myself through another awkward holiday with someone else’s family. First of all, Christmas doesn’t really do anything for me. The last one I celebrated with what was left of my family was 21 years ago. So I love all the lights and the tress, and definitely the gifts (I seldom get any, but that’s okay) and I like the gay porn stars in skimpy Santa g-strings on the corners in the Castro freezing their huge bulges off in the yearly Toys for Tots drive. But my feelings are pretty neutral about the whole thing. Every couple of years I spend a little too much time looking at my reflection in the mirror and think I should spend the day or evening of Christmas with a family. I go to a house, and eat a lot of mashed potatoes because I’m a vegetarian. The question is inevitable, and I always hope it doesn’t come. "Where is your family?" It’s a lot like when people ask me what I’m doing over the holidays, but it’s easier to explain to friends — and I can lie more easily to strangers.

The question sits in the air while my brain clicks into a rare moment of stillness. I want to say, "Will you make me a salad?" There is an enormous amount of tension in being with strangers, in their house, on a day that is important to them, and having a reply sitting in my throat that would be a torrential nightmare to unleash. But I just want it over with. It’s really hard to lie. Telling the truth is a long, harrowing story that requires a lot of explanation. Not just the story, but not many people know what it means to be at all-night coke parties with your mom at age 9, or how a 12-year old can cook coke into rock for mom, how a 13-year-old decides that she’ll stay alive easier on the streets. Forget explaining four years of sleeping on park benches, in squats, in abandoned cars, on rooftops. Getting food from dumpsters, restaurants after hours, begging for change, sometimes selling drugs. A family that wanted nothing to do with a lying, cheating drug addict of a mother or her daughter, a father who never returned from Vietnam, and a huge question mark every time the mother explained another contradictory piece of information about a family I never knew, names I don’t even know. No, it requires too much explanation over family dinner tables. It’s a story that gets told here, where you won’t look at me for the rest of the evening like a sad orphan, make unhappy faces and say, "awww, poor thing." It’s the same freakish feeling I get, like somehow I got sucked backward through life while everone else moved forward, like when people talk about high school, or proms. I don’t know what that is. But here, instead of me feeling like a freak, you and I sit in a different kind of silence. The odd vacuum of acceptance that I can only find with my blog.

That’s why hanging out with Carol is so nice, too. She knows a lot of my story and she doesn’t need to even bring anything up about my holiday plans. We’ll go out to dinner, gossip like queens, see a twisted movie about a twisted-up artist that makes collaged little girls with penises do Civil War re-enactments, and I’ll come home glowing and ready to podcast.

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Bicycle powered sex

Got this great email from my best pal Thomas:

"You are programming an AI sex educator? That fascinates and terrifies me. You are one weird kitten, Violet Blue.

Panama sucks. I can’t wait to go home, even if it’s to Detroit. I’m sure even Detroit will feel like home. At least there the cab drivers won’t try to hook me up with Colombian prostitutes. Very much."

Ah, what weird problems we all have. Case in point is my much-dreaded upcoming business trip to the AVN awards and convention. I really don’t want to go. But I have to for two really good (well, now several) reasons, the most important being my friend Carly who was absolutely the deciding persuading factor, and the other being all the business I need to do there. Namely, I’m being flown there by a very large and powerful company whose name I cannot disclose, and when I asked about a place to stay put me up in my own suite (!) in the Venetian. Oddly, they are not the only company that has arranged a suite for me at the Venetian and now I need to make a choice between the two. What’s more is that this is an all-expenses paid trip, if I get to pay for anything, as dinner offers are already lining up, yikes. And on top of all that, I’ve been given full press access — and to say the least, I am absolutely humbled by every single development. Good Vibes is not sending me to AVN, and I know others from the company are going, which is odd and confusing, but I have to say that I no longer worry about it.

It’s a long way since my first (and last visit) to this particular self-congratulatory spectacle. I vowed I would not return unless there were very strong animal tranquilizers involved. I guess friendship and money are two powerful drugs. My term for the experience is "boot camp for the female ego," and that isn’t necessarily good, though I guess it could be. I plan on being an observant ghost, if that means anything. Last time I went, I floated around and watched the spectacle — though I was interviewing and researching my video book, few people from "the industry" would talk to me, though I spoke with many outsiders and my friends, differently minded people like Nina Hartley, Veronica Hart, Joe Gallant and Sean Michaels. The general vibe was that you were either industry or a shill, or a possible threat, and sexually inappropriate behavior from the thousands and thousands of men streaming in to shove their cameras up a girls ass every time she bends over, or thinking they could possibly "bang a porn star" — was encouraged. Which may be normal for strip clubs and porn parties, but is truly a psychological car wreck if you’re mentally unprepared for it at a "convention." Wandering around it’s hard not to soak up that naked male aggression that feels like a strip club full of soldiers at closing time. Plus, there are so many bad boob jobs that it’s like a haunted house full of pods that you know are just going to burst open with alien face-huggers. It makes me want to grab my own boobs when I see them, like when guys see another man on TV get kicked in the balls. After the convention I sent my book to one of the female editors for a read before it went to print and she told me the whole book was a huge mistake and marketing porn to women was doomed to fail. Years later the book has not sold like hotcakes, true, but has landed me in interviews with major news networks, print magazines and college lectures, and admiration from people like Hartley, Hart, Greene and many more. Now I’m the moderator and founder of an online porn club for women that’s up to 257 members.

Just taking a look at what’s changed gives me perspective. Not just for me, but the porn world in general. When I attended, I told big-name female porn stars that I was a big fan of their work and got a lot of freaked-out looks and uncomfortable moments. In a different venue two years later, telling Belladonna I love her work got me a warm hug. But then again, she’s cool.

Last week I had a great phone conversation. A man representing a porn company called my office at Good Vibes wanting me to pick up titles from his company, and while on the phone he directed me to his website. Talking to him, I looked over titles like "Hot Twats in Uniform" and "Spicy Kung Pao Pussy" (names only slightly changed) and said, "You know, the titles really won’t work for us." I explained further telling him that our porn-buying customers are slightly over half male, the rest female and couples. "Oh," he said, "so you need softer stuff for the ladies." I said, no, we didn’t want softer porn at all. I explained that John Leslie’s all-sex series like Voyeur do really well for us. There was confused silence at the other end. I said, "Women want porn. They just don’t want to be demeaned by it." Same goes for many men, I think, but that would’ve been information overload and I just wanted to get off the phone.

I was at a dinner on Sunday night with a very wealthy adult entrepreneur and his wife and a few other people. His wife really loves the work I’m doing with women viewership and porn, but asked me, "Don’t you think that certain hardcore magazines exploit the women in them?" I told her that’s the question I usually get asked on the air, live, and everyone laughed. But I continued, because it’s true — what I answer never gets aired or used. I never have a soundbite on this topic, because the answer isn’t neat and clean, like, "are barns usually red?" It’s absolutely subjective, I told the table, in both the eye of the beholder and the performer. Nina Hartley isn’t exploited and lectures around the country from a pro-porn feminist (and very personal sex-positive) perspective. But I’ve also seen tapes where the female performers ask repeatedly to stop and then have to physically move the dick out of their ass, or wherever. And there are far worse, and far more positive stories, too. The truth is, yes it does, and no it doesn’t. The problem is that the media, government and religious agenda organizations want to paint the female porn experience as black, while the porn industry wants to paint it as all white. And the reality is that it’s gray, and that’s what makes it interesting.

I forgot to tell you about a couple of fun things that happened to me at the GV party. One is that I had the sexy Michael Soldier hug and hang out with his arm around me, which led me to find out that a certain group of sex educators have a betting pool going on him — if, when and who will be the female he has sex with. He’s as gay as an Easter basket, so hell might freeze over in the meantime, but it’s pretty exciting to know that I’m in the betting zone. The other great thing was that at the end of the night a cute young motorcycle boy, all geared up in his leathers and glasses, came over to me before he left. He told me he really wanted to compliment me on my boots. I thanked him and told him they were my favorite pair. He said that sometimes with people he knows, he asks if he can kiss their boots. I knew where this was leading, and it was awfully adorable, and he was actually blushing. I told him he could kiss my boots if he wanted to. And he reverently kneeled and politely kissed and nuzzled my right boot, for just a minute. Not sloppy, or for too long. He stood and thanked me, and gave me a sticker of a boot he made (which looked quite a lot like the boots I was wearing), and told me it was a very special sticker. I thanked him for the sticker and he left — and when I told Hornboy, he was bummed he didn’t get to see the whole thing, especially because the boots were my birthday present from last September.

Okay, I’m in a café and I really have to pee. But I posted more pictures from the crazy weekend, where you’ll see I kept with the "doll" theme in my holiday outfits and was a candy cane dolly Saturday night, complete with sexy sock garters. Nothing beats getting ready for parties with a bunch of burlesque dancers hanging out and drinking in your kitchen; I had the biggest lashes and felt like a million bucks. Also on Saturday we made our last party stop with Miss Satanica in tow to a late-night sex party, where the main attraction was the rumor of a bicycle-powered sex machine. It was quite large, perhaps 10-15 feet long, with a low seat at one end equipped with bicycle pedals and handgrips (facing forward), and an elevated seat at the other end (facing left) with stirrups and a hole in the seat where a dildo when up and down when you pedaled. I was in quite a mood, and wanted to make the night a memorable one. I got in the pedaling seat and started pedaling, making an enticing seat for any guy or gal who wanted to go for a ride. "I’m in training," I announced to the room. "I need to get ready for the big ride. Can anyone help me get my heart rate up?" One of the party hosts told me not to pedal too fast or I might break the machine. I took it under advisement. A creepy guy in a white suit came and stood too close to me. "Hey," he said, "why don’t you get on it?" He started stroking my arm. I smacked his hand away, "No, and *no*. Why don’t *you* go get on it?" He moved away — just in time for a sexy, voluptuous vixen to walk up with blue glitter Hebrew letters painted on her naked body. She asked if I would stay while she got a condom, and I did, and she came back. Then she got on, and with her direction, I pedaled in exactly the ways she needed to have a loud, thundering orgasm. Wow, it was intense! There was a large mirror behind the machine, so while I couldn’t see the front of the woman (major bummer) I still had a great view. The machine really wasn’t built for speed, though, and every time it met resistance (insertion) it made a stressful squeak. This clearly was not a load-bearing machine. It was put to the test moments later as another incredibly sexy young girl climbed on, and with assistance of her boyfriend’s roaming hands, directed me to pedal her to a squirting orgasm! It took a lot of pedaling really fast for a very long time, and people were cheering us on, and saying, "Look at Violet glow!" (I got my heart rate up.) She looked like an R. Crumb or Buttman model, and turned to straddle the seat facing me, so I could watch — it wasn’t only my collar that was getting hot and wet watching her. After, she thanked me and dropped a chocolate coin down my top and said, "Thanks for just getting me warmed up, darling!" Her boyfriend said as he passed, "Welcome to *my* life!"

Okay, really must pee now. I may not blog for a day or two as I get my podcasting going and see Hornboy off for the holidays — he’s off to see family. I’m going to hang out in cyberspace and spend my holidays with *you* dear readers, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’m stoked about my podcasting setup — I think I might dump my efforts with Type Pad, as I don’t want to do a potentially Google-fatal redirect to the Type Pad blog, and I found an all-in-one podcasting service that’ll do my broadcasting and bandwidth *and* comes with a free phone podcasting account so I can call in podcasts from AVN (and interviews!).

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Panic in outfit park

Alright, so I just made eros boutique refund all my money on the schoolgirl outfit, and I couldn’t be any angrier about it. As you all know I placed the order a week ago Monday, and was supposed to receive it this Monday. I waited and waited, and finally called them (at the behest of my hot houseguest Miss Satanica) to get a tracking number yesterday. I was forlorn as I made the call — I knew that there was no way I’d have the outfit for the party, but still wanted it regardless. I spoke with a woman who told me that the outfit had been delayed at customs, and she was really sorry, but that she’s overnight it to me on Friday morning — and that I should call her on Friday. She assured me I’d have it by Saturday, which was disappointing, but I could wear it for a few parties this Saturday night. So all night at the GV party, where many people were hoping to see the outfit voted by you, the readers, the jokes were that my outfit was detained because it was obviously a threat to national security. Then today I call eros boutique, and the same woman tells me that "they no loner make that outfit." What the fuck? I knew instantly that something was a lie, and I was steamed. She told me that she tried to call me last night "three times but your phone was busy" (a, not possible; b, then why didn’t she leave a message). But I figured, why argue, I should just hope to get my money back. So I won’t be recommending that anyone shops there anytime soon.

So what am I going to do without a fabulous new outfit for the weekend parties — and how did I cope last night? Luckily Miss Satanica is a burlesque and performance queen, and she gave me a great idea: I went to the party as a glamorous, pink satin "broken doll." And it was a huge hit — so huge that Hornboy had to strong-arm a man who was forcibly harassing me, who then of course turned to fight with Hornboy, but luckily the whole thing was being watched by security who were already on their way over and took the guy away.

But the party was a lot of fun anyway, and I’ll post pictures as they come in. No sex was had by me, and so there are few savory details to post (except that Miss S went to a sex party afterward and made two guys suck each other’s cocks while she snacked on h’ors d’ourves, you know, just a regular day for her).

Now I need to go, because today is Miss S’s birthday and it’s almost happy hour — tonight a party at a dominatrix’s house and the Last Gasp company party. And I swear, after this weekend I’ll be telling you all about this really amazing sex machine I now own. The inventor/manufacturer wants to modify it and take it in a very cool direction, and so him (and his sweet wife) delivered one to my house (!) with a bunch of hardware and modifying equipment to see how I would experiment with it. Appeal to my geeky robotic urges and my sexual experimentation urges — and I’m in heaven!

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Hey — I was on the Derek and Romaine show tonight with Victoria Zdrok. She is very cool. I was also interviewed by Wired today, yay for me!

Sometimes I write crazy things here and it seems like no one notices. And then sometimes I get totally busted for something I wrote. The worst was when a bitchy glossy women’s magazine demanded I retract something I wrote, and the upshot is that I’ll never have to come up with "ten of the same old sex tricks that aren’t too creative or explicit" for that rag again. But not this time. And no — it wasn’t the drug references in my last post, though a reader wrote me "The accidental ingestion — it wasn’t a horrible date-rape drug!?" No, it was pot, smoked close enough to me to have an effect on me (I can’t smoke the stuff, makes me paranoid and forgetful).

I’ll tell you. Remember that hilarious gay guy from the sperm bank? Well, I was at a graduation party for the SFSI graduates and there he was, looking sharp, making funny jokes. He came over to me and said something like, "I read your website, about the sperm bank party and the gay guy." My heart sank. This opening always means I did something stupid. He continued, "Well, I’m not gay." My stomach flipped, though I did notice that he had a bit of a sparkle in his eyes. I realized right then and there that my gaydar is seriously broken. Then I realized that I had a very sexy, very funny, un-selfconscious, well-dressed straight boy on my hands — a rare treat. "Um," I stammered, "that means you’re hot." True, that.

But what the hell happened to me last weekend? Check out the pictures. The Marching Band, an entire band I have a crush on, were being filmed by Lonely Planet on Friday night and decided to make an event out of it — and boy, did they. A double-decker bus with no roof and a keg installed in the upstairs (and all the chairs ripped out of it) sailed the band (and me!) around town, starting in the Mission, crashing Seth Malice’s book signing, went to the Castro, landed in Chinatown where we were actually chased out by police, then wound up at the Lusty Lady holiday party.

It was a blurry night, a much-needed release of drinking and dancing for me — though the memories are still coming back and I have a mild cold from kissing multiple girls. I remember a drummer pretending to "wipe off" my boobs, like, a lot (I was giggling like a hyena). When we got to the Lusty party, the minute Hornboy left my side to get ready for the show I was accosted by Nina, who led me to the curtained-off lap dance area and gave me an outrageous body-rubbing. She had on a gorgeous patent leather corset, and every time she ground her pussy on my leg I thought the heat would burn me, wow. That is an amazing sensation. Then later, when the band started to play, I was led to the middle of the dance area by a beautiful trumpet player, sandwiched by another hot Goth girl, then another hot Goth girl. After, I was sitting upstairs by myself, with no one talking to me for a long time, and I wanted to leave. Back came the trumpet girl, who sat behind me and started kissing my neck, face, lips — and running her hands all over my face, neck, and into my t-shirt, where her fingers tentatively explored and pulled on my nipples.

People were staring. Hornboy was sitting next to me, and he put my hand in his lap, right on his very hard cock. "I’m glad you didn’t leave," she said, and then wandered off. Hornboy (now living up to his name in every way) and I went downstairs to leave, where Nina demanded a kiss goodbye — all soft lips and tongue, all girl. When I got in the taxi I looked like J.G. Ballard’s Crash at the Macy’s makeup counter.

The whole thing with the girls — I’m still reeling. Did it happen to me? I’m not a girl magnet. I fantasize about women often, I’ve had a few female lovers (one even long-term), but I’ve never been that kind of girl — or so I thought. I mean, it is fairly typical for me to bring a girl to a party as my date, and have her wind up on someone else’s lap within twenty minutes. I feel shy, awkward, strange and alien around beautiful women. Gawky and geeky, like I should be wearing glasses and striped socks. Oh wait, I do.

Anyway, the next day I got delivery of the sex machine, but that’s the next post. Think positive thoughts for me in the meantime that my rubber schoolgirl outfit arrives on time for the party tomorrow — it was supposed to be here Monday, rrrrgh. Also, I’m having a hell of a time configuring my Type Pad blog to my Tiny Nibbles site. I decided to go with Type Pad because the interface is a breeze and I can use it for mobile blogging easily, but now I’ve discovered that my service doesn’t do DNS mapping so I can’t domain map, which would keep my blog URL the same — a very vital thing as it is a major part of my search rankings. Anyone know any good hacks? I could do a redirect, but that might screw up my rankings, too…

A few links: hot hip replacement sex, wackadoo alert, a great article about Kinsey, a really very cool online fetish magazine.

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Hot off the SRL wires

Why read this when you can have your portrait drawn by a robot, or better yet, take a visit to the robot-run tickle salon?

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