Dita Von Zzzzz’s

Chas Ray Krider

What a gorgeous site. It has many photos from his Motel Fetish book, an all-time fave of mine. It also includes pictures of Dita Von Tease, if you’re into her — lots of people are, but I just can’t get into it. I mean, I like brunettes A LOT, but I just don’t go for fake boobies (even expensive ones like hers), and while I was pretty neutral about her last week, a few days ago I watched a new adult video from S/M purveyors Bizarre, called Slick City. It’s a great S/M fetish flick, with lots of passionate whipping, great fetish costumes and an amusing plot — it has nicely high production values too. The bonus was the uncredited flogging scene between Nina Hartley (whose face was hidden the whole time) and her real-life husband Ernest Greene. Mon deu, it was hot and passionate as all get-out. But the bummer of the film was the main star, Dita herself, who has the emotional projection of a block of wood. Seriously — everything looks sexy until she tries to emote, or act, then it all becomes a theater of mannequin movements, the Stepford Wives of porn. Ah well.

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Party Crasher

Finally, my home office is up and running, and I am rested after a couple of insane work weeks. You all know I work 40 hours a week, right? Then after work I do things like try to work on books to meet the many deadlines I have this year, and I do other non-paying (but fun) work things like radio shows. In fact, last week (after a grueling 7.5-hour meeting at GV) I reappeared on Sirius OutQ Radio, as Derek and Romaine’s "official porn reviewer." Good times, I’m telling you.

Last week (after another long office day) I had the pure pleasure of attending a workshop at GV hosted by celebrity-on-tour, Dr. Ducky Doolittle. The topic was foreplay for lovers, and Ducky was a funny, insightful and excellent presenter. I thought I’d hide at the back of the class, but audience members recognized me and I wound up answering questions throughout the class. I have long wanted to meet Ducky, I have been a fan of hers for years, and in person found her to be sweet, smart and incredibly gorgeous. We took a picture together and I’ll post it the minute she emails it to me.

After the class, many people came over to talk to me. A sweet old man thanked me for my oral sex books — which prompts me to thank everyone who has posted a review to Amazon in light of the Christian/fellatio debacle. And thank folks who wrote in support and gave me your two cents’ worth on the whole thing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

One of the audience members complimented me and asked if I wrote anything outside of sex guides, and I was momentarily stumped. Not because I don’t know what that means, but because I’ve been wanting to do that for years. A whole world opened up in my head when he asked me that, a teeming swirl of ideas and experiences, all of which I’d like to open up and excavate. I’d like to write about the intersection of sex and technology, something I know a lot about from working with the most skilled engineers/coders/fabricators in the world. In SRL I have worked with people who write code for teledildonics, fabricate fucking machines and artists who modify their bodies with technology to change their sensory worlds. I’m dying to write a full kiss-and-tell about my truly strange, disturbing and hilarious experiences working in the sex industry. Like the time I was treated like shit and ignored for two hours by the most famous sex personality in the business and found myself later standing quietly watching them clean dogshit off my engineer boots. Or being stalked by a RealDoll, hostile run-ins with women in the adult industry, the NY pornographer who is into shit and paint enemas and sends me videos, the mysterious Buddhist who lives in a residency hotel here in SF and owns a huge, expanding adult empire but has his meals brought to him because he will not eat in a restaurant… I’d also really like to write about how I got here, from being a child who grew up in a an environment that goes beyond a TV-movie, cooking my mother’s drugs for her at 12, and living on the streets from 13 until age 17, sleeping on rooftops, in parks and in abandoned cars, panhandling for food and money, dumpster diving, stealing, fighting, watching friends kill themselves in different ways, trying over and over to get off the streets, and writing the entire time. I also really want to write about working in the amazing world of SRL. Mark Pauline and I have written together over the years (that’s where I was after work a lot last week) and I’d like to continue that. But no, so far publishers only want me to write sex guides and edit anthologies, which is okay by me because it’s a lot of fun, and a dream job, at that.

And you can’t say all that when a stranger asks you a simple question, and you’re kind of at work, and it’s been almost 12 hours since you’ve been away from work and you’re really tired, and it’s not your workshop. You just smile big and say, "I’d really like to." Then you go home and when you try to fall asleep, your mind races around that little track of experiences and memories, imagining how you’d like to write it. I do, anyway.

Upcoming fun: On April 9 here in SF, RE:Search (the publisher that brought the groundbreaking book Modern Primitives) is hosting a 25-year anniversary retrospective art show for Survival Research Laboratories at The Lab from 7pm-midnight. There will be big, beautiful color prints of photos from historical shows, a few machines, and a couple of discussion panels. I might be on the a panel (still not sure what my role will be — as an eight-year member I might talk, or I might work the event) and the whole thing is going to be really cool and interesting.

Two weeks ago I finally got sick of feeling like an outcast at wedding time — being the female friend of the groom I always end up doing things with the ladies that make me wish I was hanging out with the guys. Never again — not since I crashed my first bachelor party in drag. My pal John Law got married, and dammit if I was going to read poetry and do a "ritual" with a bunch of women I don’t know. I drew on a mustache, packed a nice big dick in my pants, put on a tie and men’s clothes — and had a blast. Some men were not pleased, which gave me a thrill (there were over 100 men in attendance), and my friends punched me in the arm, called me "buddy" and laughed at all my stupid "let’s get some pussy" jokes. In solidarity, a couple guys drew on moustaches, too, and at one point when my hat had to come off and we all had to wear weird hats and funny noses, one guy re-assured me that all the cool guys were "wearing little sparkly barrettes these days." Phew — a metrosexual moment rescued my masculinity.

As if that wasn’t a treat, I got a chance to let out my inner Cindy Sherman at a joint birthday party for Hornboy and Chriso — and true to both of their individual superhero fetishes, the theme was superheroes. But with a condition: you had to come as the superhero you would be, not She-Hulk or any other icon. No problem — I spun around three times and became Roxy Mounds, Foxy Brown’s white sister. Drinking heavily and squawking "I’ll kung-fu your ass" all night was just what the doctor ordered, and I happily strutted around in a skanky blonde mullet wig, stuffed balloons into my tank top, and sported platform boots and gold satin bellbottoms. Sexy Hornboy was the nefarious Superconductor, controlling the tempo of anything that moved for his own sick pleasures. Chriso was Wonder Boy, Wonder Woman’s gay little brother, and he had it all worked out. Powers: flying, super strength, super speed, semi-invulnerable, just like his sister WW. Bracelets: repel bad taste in all its forms. Lasso: makes whoever is bound by it want to have gay sex. Belt: keeps WB fabulous in even the most harrowing of battles. Shoes: make WB just a little taller than he really is. Everyone squeezed my mounds all night, and they later ended up popped on the floor under the snack table.

There were dozens of excellent superheroes, from Super Jew to the PMS Fairy onward. The only one missing was the blonde, big-boobed T-girl I work with at GV, who promised/threatened to come as my arch-nemesis. She already jokes around at being my evil archenemy (she’s the one who thrusts the butt plugs in my ears when I’m on the sales floor and yells "CLEAR! CHARGE!"). She’s perfect for the job, the physical opposite of me: long platinum blonde hair, boobs so big they’re at the other end of the alphabet, and she’s much taller than me. Okay, lots of people are taller than me. But I found out that she had planned on coming to the party as Scarlet Red, enemy and nemesis of Violet Blue, armed with her books that were, in her universe, "total flops" entitled "The Totally Ultrafabulous Guide to Sucking Cock" and "The Incredibly Incredible Guide to Licking Pussy" and "How to Kill Violet Blue." She never made it — but hear this: someday, Scarlet Red, I will defeat you.



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Oral Sex and Mouth Cancer

On Wednesday February 25, 2004, Reuters in London reported findings published in New Scientist Magazine stating a link between oral sex and oral tumors (cancers). The paranoid headline read "Oral Sex Shown to be Linked to Mouth Cancer," and while the opening paragraph explained that the risk is small and more likely linked to smoking and drinking, the fire had been set and flames began to be fanned by media worldwide. Headlines began to run in newspapers, online news services and online journals, over eighty articles to date, titled "Oral Sex Mouth Cancer Link" and "Oral Sex Causes Mouth Cancer." Read my latest article that exposes the facts about the study, and the risks.

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Hunky Jesus Blowjob Contest

As it turns out, not everyone is happy with the image of Jesus getting a blowjob, as I suggested in my most recent post. Sharp-witted blogger Bacchus at Erosblog posted my rant, and if you take a look at the comments, it has sparked the ire of several Christians who feel I have gone too far. Thomas Roche thinks I should be punished.

Interesting, that, considering the dozens of emails I’ve gotten from people who openly identify as Christian, Republican, and even conservative versions of both, who see the points beneath my caustic wit and sacred-cow-poking, and tell me they enjoy what I’m doing. And considering that in the most recent customer survey we did at Good Vibes, the majority of our customers identified as Christian and Republican. I’m not surprised — while I don’t vote or pray like they do, I surely enjoy sex like anyone else. That’s the point. My intention was not to place judgement or shame folks with Christian beliefs. No, my intention was to make fun of the hypocrisy evident in people who post religiously fueled, sexually judgmental opinions about books that provide a guide to a single sex act. That’s sex act, period — a sex act that happens between straights, lesbians, gay men, anyone who wants to learn about fellatio. It’s not "The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio for Only Christian Women."

To think that everyone in the world should be having a particular, proscribed relationship to their sexuality is not only narrow-minded, but also dangerous, and especially from the perspective of a writer. To write about fellatio from the point of view that lesbians and gay men, and sexual fantasies between consenting adult couples of all orientations don’t exist, does a terrible disservice to everyone — and omits information that in some cases, can be physically harmful. And if you expect to criticize human sexuality on the behalf of all the people in your religion, you better expect to get you, and all those people you claim to represent, criticized right back.

They wanted to learn about fellatio to make themselves "more pleasing to their husbands." What about themselves? This is evidently not a question to be asked, though I was initially excited that conservative Christian women, typically (and unfairly) perceived as being sexually disinterested, might explore new ground. The women on Amazon bought a book about fellatio — a book that covers every variation on fellatio in our postmodern world, and claims this in the sales copy. And they found this all-inclusive book to be very upsetting, because it *is* all-inclusive. As one reviewer on Amazon put it, "This book had no photos but it does take unexpected turns that does violate the consciousness of women who have christian character…There are subjects that I just prefer not to know about when I search on enriching our love life! I don’t want to know about lesbian’s with strap ons or descriptions of homosexual men. I don’t want to hear about group sex or surprise sexual encounters with roadside stranger’s." (spelling and grammar intact) How, I beg the question, can you *not* make fun of people who want to learn about fellatio, but not about sex?

Is the book so controversial? Maybe for people who choose not to accept any worldview about sex outside their own. The book is explicit, certainly, so if they were expecting a book that ignored everything but their narrow worldviews on sexual expression, they surely were going to get their petticoats ruffled. The book doesn’t tell you to get kneepads and head down to the nearest gas station restroom (but if someone does after reading the book, email me, okay?). A recent Amazon reviewer summed it up nicely, "Extremely good on the techniques themselves, and (what I liked best) always puts the emphasis on the love, connection and understanding between partners during sex. This is not your average ‘manual’."

As I write this, I’m reflecting on my bus ride to the Good Vibes store yesterday. In front of me sat a big African-American dreadlocked butch dyke, next to a formally dressed Rabbi, and a senior woman on his other side. Across from them sat a big Af-Amer tranny hooker and her boyfriend/agent (?), a lost senior male tourist, and some Asian women who looked like SOMA sweatshop workers (we have a lot of sweatshops south of Market). The tranny and the old woman knew each other and chatted amiably across the aisle, while the Rabbi showed the dyke humorous things on his Palm Pilot. The tranny helped the lost tourist get directions from the bus driver (SF MUNI drivers are notorious assholes), and we drove by SF’s City Hall, which in case you haven’t kept up on the news, is surrounded by a line of same-sex couples waiting to get married, a constant line that goes around the city block back to the beginning. Lots of people on the bus smiled when we drove by, and some commented humorously about the anti-marriage protesters. ("Bullhorns, signs and balloons? Good. They’re on *our* turf now.") Also as I write this, I’m thinking about the yearly "Hunky Jesus" contest that happens in the very gay Castro neighborhood, where raffles and proceeds go to charities, and two years ago, my gal-pal’s hunky husband won — he’s straight, a Special Forces Marine who just got back (thank the gods) from Iraq. And I’m thinking about the local phenom, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, who have raised more money for charity than The GAP through events like their monthly church social Bingo game, "Ba Da Bingo!" I could go on. You see, I have to make fun of hypocrisy. I’m on the front lines. This is not your average manual, and this is not your average time to be alive in America.

Or, you can see how my ever-unshaved pal and fellow porn writer Thomas Roche spends his money.

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On My Knees Again for Jesus

Where oh where the hell have I been, many emails have been asking… A horrible bout of food poisoning (with fever and antibiotics), having my DSL cut off without my consent by SBC, and moving my entire apartment all within one week had me well off the map. Strangely, the week culminated and ended with me moving into my swank new pad on Valentine’s Day and ending up that evening in the most extravagant house I’ve ever been in for Shar and Jackie’s 8-year anniversary party — a house that had an indoor pool and hot tub. It was like I came to after a long bad dream and found myself naked in a faux tropical hot tub/pool with dozens of naked lesbians and Susie Bright, Carol Queen, Annie Sprinkle, Shar Rednour and Jackie Strano, and a wide-eyed Hornboy (one of very few men) who I think pinched himself the entire time to see if it was indeed a dream. It wasn’t, but lemme tell ya, it was quite surreal. And really, really fun.

I’ve missed my site greatly, and my latest pet project, the Smart Girls’ Porn Club discussion group I founded and moderate on Tribe.net. All kinds of women have joined and are filling the message boards on all kinds of porn topics, mostly on the subject of — where can I get some good porn, dammit!? If you’re a woman who wants to join, please do, as it’s turning out to be a great way to get questions answered and get recommendations, or vent complaints, you name it. It’s free of course, and a labor of love (lust) for me, just like this site, but I can interact directly with readers which is really fun for me.

An interesting side note, or a rather sweeeeet benefit of all my labors of love, I was emailed today by a woman in the club who wrote:

"I appreciate your clever, straightforward manner, and am grateful you’ve channelled some of that into creating the smart girls porn club. It’s so lovely and enlightening to read the opinions of such a wide variety of smart, sassy women.
(name withheld) and I saw you at the Monster Ukulele gig (and maybe later at the Sleepytime Gorilla thing at Bottom of the Hill?). We kibbutzed a bit on a plan to convince *you* to come get a massage from us at my studio after the show(s)… but we agreed to wait till he returns from tour.
In the meantime, if you are at all interested, I’d love to make you a gift of a 90-minute massage vacation as thanks for your club (not to mention the fun I’d have discussing porn while you’re completely relaxed and nekkie under my oiled fingertips!). So who says great things don’t come to those who create tribes?"

Should I go for it? As if I needed to ask *you*…

Lastly on my mind is — christ on a stick, why the hell are Christians reading my fellatio book, and even stranger, what unholy ghost possesses them to write bad reviews about it on Amazon? Like, duh — my book is about a very dirty sex act (the dirtier the better) and the content is… offending them! I can only guess that the book was recommended on some Christian messageboard, the ladies thought, well I spend a lot of time on my knees, why not make Jesus a happy man, and bought the book (I’ll take that money, thank you very much. No, no — don’t give it to the Family Values Coalition, give it to the cute girl with glasses who likes to write about sucking cock). Then they read the book and realized that to suck a cock, you need either a) another nice Christian lady with a (preferably huge) black strap-on cock, or b) a real, non-imaginary man (unlike Jesus). But seriously, in the book I don’t judge anyone’s preferences about anything — religion, sexual activity, gender, predisposition to get really wet imagining Mike Ditka throwing that football through the tire swing talking about erections while clutching my fellatio book cleverly camouflaged in a paper bag bookcover with the word "BIBLE" scrawled on the cover and "Jesus is really hot." No, I judge not. Even I think Jesus deserves a really rockin’ blowjob. And doesn’t he have like a million volunteers for the task? But if anyone is reading this and liked the book, feel free to write me something nice on Amazon about the fellatio book and doesn’t say things like "the Bible tells us…"

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Extra Action Marching Band. His sweetie threw the party, and I brought… Jodie Moore!

Well, a blow-up version of her that I got in the Good Vibes staff-only free bin. I love the free bin, the repository of all the crap we won’t carry. Imagine my delight when I saw my date-in-a-box at work, and — bonus! — it’s the "kneeling" version! I really had no idea what an awful joke blow-up dolls are until me and a couple femmes took her out of the box. Of course, Rotten.com can tell you all you never wanted to know about blow-up dolls. But Jodie was my date, and it was tough to look into her flat screenprinted face and laugh hysterically. The worst part was when I probed her orifices and discovered painful seams and impossibly shallow depths. Sadly, Jodie would never be able to experience the female pleasure of orgasm. But like any good date, I poked, licked and prodded her all the same, and let my sexy girlfriends have their way with her. Such are the fates of plastic people.

Today I had two excellent moments working in the store. At one point I was standing at a table on the sales floor waiting to talk to customers when my loveable arch-nemesis, a bleach blonde big-boobed coworker, snuck up behind me, shoved two butt plugs into my ears, yelled "CLEAR!" and then made a loud buzzing noise. It was a little while until any customers wanted to talk to me, so I took a break from explaining to customers why you need to clean anal beads and giving finger puppet demonstrations about finding the G-spot.

The other great moment of my day was being approached by two male customers for help — guys I figured were nervous and reluctant first-time shoppers, but then I found out were… male strippers from a local all-male strip joint (Nob Hill Lingerie)! Wow, waiting on male strippers is fun. They were very funny and unassuming, and were getting together "a doubles act, you know, like the girls do." They were looking for glow-in-the-dark buttplugs and dildos because the club has a blacklight on the stage, and they both wanted to do a body-paint glowing act. My god, it was so cute, I was instantly smitten — and overwhelmed with questions. "Do women go in there?" I asked the one whose stage name is ‘Eric Masters’, knowing that it’s primarily a gay club. "Oh yes, they come in groups, bachelorette parties, and they show up lit. Hey, do you think this (dildo) will glow? Oh, it might be too big (to friend) — is this too big for you? We want to do something kinky, you know, lots of those guys are so vanilla. Quite a few of the guys hide behind the curtains and sort of peek out a little bit, it’s like straight guy peek-a-boo!"

I had to know, "Do women ever come in there alone?" He smiled, "Oh yes! One couple came in and the husband sat across the room like he wasn’t there with her, so he could watch her getting a lap dance from another man. (points to friend) He gave a lap dance to a woman the other night! I really want to, it looks like a lot of fun. They get into it, not like the guys who just sit there like a mannequin. So many guys are like that anyway, even if they’re tricking! Boring." We moved over to the S/M toys, and the guys started trying on the leather cat masks we sell. I told them that now they were in the right section, and that I kind of know someone who danced there. I described the cute gayboy on the Extra Action flag team and told them his name, and they drew a blank. "You know honey, so many guys don’t use their real names, I only know their stage names. One guy wears a silver mask — a real metal mask, not tinfoil — and goes by the name ‘Flash.’ I have never ever seen his face — he wears the mask to the club and no one sees his face." I was enraptured.

I realized at that moment I should not have gone to the stupid Mitchell Brothers club where I was largely ignored and then smacked in the head with big hard titties and groped, then told how weird it was to "do this with another girl." I flashed on my one disappointing strip club experience with a stripper faking it, and fantasized about a roomful of campy gay male strippers, who were excited to dance for women — and were somewhat sexually ambiguous, themselves. As if reading my mind, the one who had done little talking suddenly said, "It’s exciting to dance for girls. But tough having to be hard when we go onstage! The girls (who dance) have it so easy. We have to fluff before we go on–" Right then a coworker asked me to go grab all the jars of Men’s Cream and bring them to the back because they didn’t get taped shut on top, I guess so people don’t unscrew them and scoop out a big load of fake Vaseline, then put the tops back on. But… FLUFF!? I was dying to know, how, where, who…! Images of guys like the ones I was talking to giving each other hand jobs before going out to sit on ladies’ laps was making my mind reel and my vision go blurry. That is, as I walked over to the Men’s Cream, opened up a jar, and scooped out a fingerful. No, really — I taped the jars shut and said goodbye to the nice stripper boys.

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