Pounding Pudenda and Anal Canadians

I’m going to continue to subject you to more of Pride weekend because these movies from Glen Bachmann of the amazing scene in the alley of the Extra Action Marching Band playing vs. the Cal Aggies (where you can see how naked and drunk and oversexed Extra Action was, and how peppy and cute the Cal Aggies were) are really terrific. Here’s a picture, too.

My weekend was a mix of frustration and satisfying explosions. I’m under contract for four more books right now, and two are due in a couple of months, so I spent a good part of the weekend squeezing out chapters and editing stories. Lemme tell ya, I pretty much would rather pull out my eye teeth than write about masturbation ever ever again — it’s important to include in every book, because our annoying culture doesn’t think it’s okay to jerk off. Arcades and porn use are seen as shameful, while still only 40% of women masturbate, it’s all agonizing — but being a writer and keeping the same material fresh and new is a challenge. Granted, I’m definitely doing my part to make up for the other 60% of women who don’t masturbate. Still, I’m living in fear and dread of next year’s Masturbation Month, when my fiery passion for postulating praise about pounding your pudenda will surely be puddles of anticlimactic puke.

Friday I got out to watch fireworks down at the docks by Pier 39, though well away from the tourists at a friend’s machine shop. I met up with a bunch of SRL crew late, and we might’ve done some naughty fireworks enjoyment on our own, or maybe we saw someone else doing it. Mark Pauline is getting married, and he asked me that night to be his best woman — which is really a big deal, and I’m rather stunned and honored. Can’t tell if it makes me feel grown up, or like a kid. Maybe both. Standing around, amidst the smoke and explosions, someone asked me how Good Vibes was reacting to the sodomy ruling, and I of course replied, "Oh, we’re embracing it." Which made me realize that the right to plunder booty had not at all been discussed here on the Tiny Log, which is funny since I’m such a big fan of sodomy. I mean, I love anal everything, from the extremes of Buttman Magazine all the way to the tiniest plugs. I like to sodomize women and men alike, and I’ve even been known to sodomize myself. Though the media would have you think that only gay men are sodomites, it’s a misnomer from the American media which only likes to fixate on gay male anal sex, leaving out all us kinky bi chicks who love straight boys that like us to wield our strap-ons with style, glamour and menace. What about the Canadians, I wonder? In fact I often wonder about the Canadians, but are they safe from sodomy? I considered making some extra money by smuggling straight American guys to Canada, saving their behinds as it were, and I think I can fit three in my trunk, but if they touch each other it’s all a wash. And what if you’re half-Canadian and half American? I guess the American half is the back half.

PETA — no not People Eatin’ Them Animals, it’s that PETA, the ones that throw fake blood on Joan Rivers and tell her to stop wearing lizard skin even though she’s in a spandex bikini — is having a sexy vegetarians contest. Which I think is pretty cool, since I’m almost a vegetarian, and if you go to their web site you can vote for your favorite sexy vegetable-murdering celebrity. It’s mostly entertaining to see who’s a veggie, and though the obvious pleather-pushin’ winner will be Pam Anderson, no animal products on her, inside or out, I think the winner should be adult star Serenity. Hot little all-natural number Serenity is yummy yummy goodness, and I bet she tastes great, being a veggie and all.

New sex term I heard this weekend: Diesel Dick. No, not a hard-on while shopping in the Diesel store, a blowjob in their dressing room, or snipey staff. It’s a noun, a term for the involuntary hard-ons truckers get from the constant vibration of the truck cab. Immediately squashed by the trucker speed, I’ll assume.

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Blow-Up Dolls and My New Guide to Pinching a Loaf

On the day of blowing things up, I think of dolls. Those big, plastic, hard seamed, open-mouthed freaky looking things that adult stores sell. Learn everything you need to know about the unsexy world of blow-up dolls here. We don’t carry them at Good Vibes, and I just can’t believe we’re depriving our customers of this untapped resource of healthy sexual release and miracle of modern man. And they’re so realistic. I mean, some of them even come with repair kits, like for bicycle tires. Oops, I popped Dolly again. Maybe I should stop sitting on her tiny inflatable head and screaming at her to "lick my pussy you airheaded doorstop!" If you filled them with sand, could you build a fort with them, or shore up against natural disasters? Filled with helium, could they be tied together en masse with bedsheets allowing Martha Stewart to escape from prison? Refrigerated and filled with lime Jello, marshmallows and pineapple rings, could their skins be removed for a bizarre fetish dessert? Can you fill them with smoke and pop them with a cigarette? So many questions. Clearly I need a grant for research.

Yesterday I worked at the dildo hut, AKA Good Vibrations, with that big happy family of smarmy coworkers. Everything gets made fun of at Good Vibes, no sex toy, book or video is exempt from fun and games, just like any other workplace where after a while you go a little nuts selling pink plastic vaginas, floppy purple dicks and videos with titles like The Hills Have Bi’s. Maybe that doesn’t happen in every retail store, but I like to imagine the staff of Williams Sonoma trading places with all of us for like a month. Soon we’d be explaining which festive summer patio serving sets were okay for anal play, while they’d be trying to create gourmet crepe recipes to go with Tit Tax and Gummy Boobs, making lovely windchimes out of strings of anal beads, and realizing that everything they carry is totally perverse and we’re the normal ones.

Anyway, we make fun of everything. Yesterday I was one of the everythings, with the high sales of my books making the receivers nutty having to check them all in, they were teasing me when I was in the bathroom saying, "Fifty copies of Violet Blue’s Ultimate Guide to Pinching a Loaf." Or catching me with my hands full and drawing a heart on my arm with a "P" in the center, as in "I heart pee." Right where the customers can see it. Oh, the joy and the love.

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My Wild, Wild Weekend

Okay, I’m really not sitting here at my desk cruising loonerz.com. Maybe I am. Now I’m not — I’m back behind the wheel of the Tiny Log, after a week of abject neglect, while I somehow survived Pride week. A recap:

Last Thursday I went to the St. James Infirmary’s anniversary party. This clinic that caters to San Francisco sex workers had the best fetish party I’ve ever been to, ever ever ever. It was what I’d wished the SF Fetish Ball had been, what Exotic Erotic only has sweaty latex dreams about becoming. This was the real deal, with fetishes of all stripes on display, hosted by the gorgeous Mistress Morgana, and I made it in time to catch performances by my new favorite cutest-ever burlesque group in the world, The Hot Pink Feathers. Fakir Musafar hoisted a trapeze artist with only his nipples; the eloquent Cleo DuBois did an amazing medical-fetish-themed piercing performance (where the woman ripped out of her pierces, wow!) and so much more. On top of all this, the heat was a record 95 degrees that night, with no breeze — very rare for San Francisco — so you could smell the rubber dresses, my skimpy schoolgirl uniform was way too hot, the cosmos went down way too easily, and everyone was half-naked. In the dark bar, it was an outrageous atmosphere.

Friday was the She-Rotic reading at the Polk St. store, featuring myself, Carol Queen, Cara Bruce and Felice Newman. The place was packed, the atmosphere casual, and the readings blisteringly hot! Cara Bruce, a longtime friend and a woman who I adore, lust after and respect highly, read my favorite piece of the night, a short story about a stripper who gets face-fucked by a businesswoman on her lunch hour. Cara can really cook ’em up… Out in the audience was Joe Gallant, telling us where we could all go and anally fist a porn starlet at shows starting 5, 7, 9, and 11pm, and also where to find anal fisting videos in New York city — ah, Joe.

Saturday was the holiday here in SF known as Pink Saturday, and the City was crowded with tourists of every orientation, all here to celebrate Pride. I did a book signing in the Castro, overflowing with happy people, dirty dancing beefcakes wearing pink G-strings in shop windows and it was sunny and warm. At the signing I was lucky to be seated with Matt (Matilda) Bernstein Sycamore, editor of Tricks and Treats, a collection of writings from sex workers (all kinds — prostitutes, porn stars, more) on their most poignant trick experience. I LOVE this book, it’s gritty, real, dirty, arousing and extremely educational — and I got him to sign a copy for me. Plus, in his frilly pink panties and with his very handsome face, I just had to flirt a little… Hey, flirting with gay men is fun!

Sunday, the pride parade was an absolutely incredible experience. Last year was a lot of fun, but this year was like a Fellini film. Good Vibrations partnered with the Extra Action Marching Band, sort of like Freddy vs. Jason (where a whole bunch of college kids get caught in the middle and no one will die). The band looked amazing, with their explicitly dressed flag team, two fully-costumed pony girls as stanchion (SIC?) bearers, kinky cheerleader pep squad, and the sexy, sexy band. Good Vibes mostly dressed as GV cheerleaders, but of course no one told me about this plan, but I could care less because I had a sexy fetish Supergirl outfit — and we had SF Drag King Rusty Hips with us, who, if you remember "Blue Steel" from Zoolander, you will understand. We started late, I found out later due to a phoned-in bomb threat along the parade route and an attack on a city supervisor, but rocked Market Street hard — especially when the band played Black Sabbath covers, those dykes in the crowd went wild!!! Right at the parade’s end they forced the band to stop playing, threatening a $5000 fine, and they stopped, but not until we rounded a corner a few blocks away. By that time I was the only GV person with the band, leading them to a nearby bar where I had planned some post-parade snacks and drinks. They walked slowly, playing a beautiful, moody dirge, like a funeral procession or an Eastern European song of sadness, all the way down the shady alley. The area around the parade route is one of the roughest neighborhoods in SF — in the dot-com era it was flashy SOMA for just a few seconds, but it’s always been the real home of hundreds of homeless junkies, the largest collection of crack whores, and always is the filthiest neighborhood in SF, fraught with violence, laced throughout with despair and poverty. It’s been this way since I was a kid, and since I work in GV’s SOMA offices a couple days a week, I see stabbings, whores and tricks and junkies sleeping with needles hanging out of their arms on a weekly basis. It was down one of these alleyways that the band played on with their eerie dirge, bringing the denizens of SOMA — shopping carts, talking to themselves, waiting for tricks — out to watch as we passed by.

At the bar it was a huge, fun party. Eating, drinking, dancing — even spanking. (I got to spank a drummer — with his own drumstick — fun!) At some point, one of the band members smoking outside saw a rival marching band going by a few blocks away, likely on their way home after the parade, and chased after them. They came over to the bar and challenged Extra Action to a Drumline-style play-off! Turns out it was the UC Davis Cal Aggie Marching Band, and I remember that at last year’s Pride parade Extra Action paused in front of them as we went by on the way to the parade and played a song at them, almost challengingly — was it time to even the score? It was — right there outside the bar, in the alley intersections! The squeaky-clean and extra peppy Cal Aggies played their swingin’-est tunes, trading songs with EA, each band choosing a more complex, tighter song to throw back at the other band. Cal didn’t have any nearly-naked flag girls dancing routines and spreading their legs on the ground, or sexy flag boys doing lap dances on nearby parked cars, but they were incredibly tight, fluid and very skilled. They couldn’t come in the bar (not old enough?), but I brought them out a case of sodas!< It seemed like everyone had a good time, which made me happy I arranged the band marching with GV, and arranged the party afterward -- and I paid the tab for it, too, ouch, it cost a lot. I'm not at all rich, (in fact I lived on the streets as a kid/teen) but I feel strongly that you only live once, and as I've seen this year (way too dearly), you can go at any time, no? And what an experience of a lifetime -- I wouldn't trade the credit card bill for anything. Too bad when I got to work today one woman called me over to her desk to really let into me about how she was unhappy with the way "some members" of the band behaved at the party, that someone stole her drink tickets, they were bad tippers, etc. Which was all utter bullshit, and I told her that (here I go, in another fight at work again with one of the thankfully few overly-critical negative staffers of GV). I bought all the beer -- it was all free for anyone in the bar, tickets or no. I stayed after with several members of the band to help clean the bar, and spoke openly with the staff about tipping, no problems. Obviously her complaints were false, and I also saw her chatting amiably with several members of the band that day. Perhaps this woman was upset about something else -- not enough attention, she wished the party was her idea, she doesn't understand how people behave at bars, whatever. It really smarts to go to all this work, fully know and witness that Extra Action truly poured their hearts and souls into this performance, and get shit for it. Well, most of us had the time of our lives. The next day my brain was cooked -- there was no way I could work on my next two books (call for submissions on one of them here), deadlines approaching fast. I saw 28 Days Later, the scariest movie I've ever seen -- I can't recommend it highly enough.

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Porn Parade

A colleague is in town right now, Joe Gallant of Black Mirror Productions. He’s hanging out and getting ready to shoot a porn film, and is looking for people who want to be in it. I’ve been taking him around and introducing him to people, having great conversations about porn and art, and somehow simultaneously working under a tremendous deadline on a book. Joe wants me to shoot a film-within-a-film in his feature, a walk-on where I appear with a camera and present myself as a documentarian, then I film a girl-girl scene while I’m being filmed (in a nonsex role). So fun! I think I have two volunteers, very sexy tomboy femme lesbians. I’ll keep the updates coming, but either way I’m excited to see how independent porn is shot, and I’ll get to hang out on the sets during filming and see what it’s all like.

Meanwhile I’m steeling myself for Gay Pride. Tonight I’m going to Carol Queen‘s opening party for the re-release of her bestseller, The Leather Daddy and The Femme, at Good Vibes on Valencia St. — an evening that kicks off a busy week. Thursday at the DNA Lounge is the Naughty Nurses benefit/anniversary party for the St. James Infirmary, a health clinic that exclusively serves sex workers. It’s their fourth year in business, they’ve even delivered a baby, and they are ready to party! It’ll be interesting to see what happens when all those sex workers let their hair down…!

Friday is the She-Rotic reading at the Polk St. store (come by if you’re in town — I’ll be reading from my upcoming video book and just generally hanging around making fun of everything). Saturday is an appearance at A Different Light bookstore on Castro St. at 4pm, and then Sunday is the parade — phew! I’ve got the sexiest Supergirl outfit ready for the march, the Marching Band is practicing new routines tonight, and we’re all psyched! Watch for us on TV — we’ll be marching around 10:45am, and KRON will be filming us.

Books I love: Lapdancer by Juliana Beasley. I love Sticky Fingers by Alison Tyler. I love Sex Games by Linda Sonntag.

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PornOrchestra and Midnight Mischeif

There’s an awful lot going on in Tinyland. Last week I saw PornOrchestra and the whole performance was like a big dream come true. First, you’ve never lived until you’ve seen not one, but three full professional orchestras with conductors improvise music to porn being shown on the big screen. Amazing; the conductors watched the screen and directed each set of the 20-30 musicians — who were all grinning ear to ear — to create fantastic scores to the giant cocks and pussies undulating and pounding onscreen. I had also never seen porn on the really big screen like that, and those dicks must’ve been at least ten feet tall! The Moekestra! was astounding, and they brought their own porn, hilarious vintage footage of mating squid, snails and turtles (who are incredibly nasty, I discovered — Rocco’s got nothing on the turtles). Then the Punk Rock Orchestra took the stage, all eyeliner and zippers, to deliver flawless covers of Orgasm Addict and Stick it In to the classic porn onstage. Then the PornOrchestra finished us off (like a massage parlor sex worker) with thirty musicians playing to scenes from The Hills Have Bi’s, chosen both for the grammatical error and the horrible music that is actually in the film. Wow. If you can ever see this ensemble, drop everything, grab a beer and go.

Okay, so you know I’m an employee of Good Vibes, but now they’re making not an honest woman out of me, but a big ol’ ho — last week forty ads went up all over town with my name on them! It’s kinda weird seeing my name everywhere, it’s like the voices are on the outside, on every street corner. But really, that’s a lot of ads. They’re promoting all of our Pride weekend festivities, namely the She-Rotic reading on Friday June 27 at the Polk Street store. I’m shy about getting up in front of people (really!), so at first I said I’d do it if I didn’t have to actually say anything, plus all my other girl writer pals will be there. However, I’m stir-crazy — I’ve spent the past week doing the final edits on a book I’ve been working on for almost a year, The Ultimate Guide to Adult Videos (September), and so I asked my publisher if I could read from it before it’s out, which is kind of unheard-of, but they said yes! Yay! So I’ll dress up, read something I’m really proud of, then have a cocktail! (Or maybe the cocktail first…) Then the rest of the busy, busy weekend — much of which is coordinating Good Vibes’ Pride contingent with the Extra Action Marching Band, which will be like herding cats, but well worth the spectacle. Plus I have a kinky superhero outfit to wear.

It’s nice to be pretty much done with the book. After I finished all the major work on Sunday night, I decided to go help some SRL friends move something very big and heavy down at the piers. One guy had rented two big forklifts to move a giant trailer up onto a shipping container, and I happen to be experienced in forklifts, sneaking around at night, directing drivers, wrenching and moving really large objects. I jumped in my car, slapped some security company magnets on the sides, and drove down to the docks… It felt nice to be outside, it was very warm and the docks were haunting, dark, picturesque. There were rats and puddles, stars, Coit Tower, and us with our forklifts and black clothes. My favorite part of the evening came when we were moving our item down a very long, dark, covered pier, and I was on foot, so one of my friends said, "get my bike, ride it along and help direct." His bike was a small dirt bike, a Honda XR100. I found the tiny motorcycle leaned up against the building outside (they’re small and light as a heavy mountain bike, I swear). I got on it, and to my delight I kicked it over on the first try, spun it around, and rode helmetless down the pier, riding around the forklift and load, helping direct. When we got our load to its destination, I took off on the bike, racing it down the pier in utter darkness without a helmet, seeing what I could make it do. It was kind of scary, and I’ve never ridden a bike so new, or small. I think now that a small dirt bike is the ultimate girl’s accessory.

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Tales From the Crypt: Fantasy Realdoll Orgy — entry held over

If you’re into links of the sexually strange, then you are no doubt familiar with the Realdoll company. They make life-like, life-sized porn-star-bodied female fuck dolls out of silicone, complete with internal skeleton, posable bodies, pubic hair, eyelashes and more creepy-yet-fascinating details than I can include here. Check out their web site, where you can see the myriad options for creating your ideal girlykin, which may be what making babies will be like in 2050. (Honey, do we want head #5 with blue eyes or head #8 with green? Pubic hair or bare?) They have a new male doll, and especially unintentionally hilarious are the pics of him lounging in the tub, slack-jawed and unblinking, ready for action. I would absolutely love the opportunity to violate this doll ten ways until Sunday, and see just what silicone boy was really made of. Okay, I guess that would be silicone.

But still, if it weren’t for the hugenormous price tag, I’d love to roll around with both a male and female Realdoll for a weekend, even with an added real live person, and if anyone wants to sponsor me doing the deed and writing an article about this scenario (and will ship screener dolls), I’m up for the challenge. Hell, if people can get rubes to pay their ridiculous charge card debts via their web sites, and solicit donations to help them get dates or boob jobs (pop-ups, no pun), then there’s hope for my "Pervert Porn Reviewer Has Realdoll Orgy Article Fund."

At AVN in January, my publisher’s booth was across from the Realdoll booth, and damn if those people aren’t just super-nice. Plus it was fun to go over and chat with them about how they make the dolls and methodically squeeze a pair of dismembered silicone boobies at the same time with no one blinking an eye. I found it strangely calming.

The whole Realdoll idea can’t help but be macabre, yet arousing at the same time (though I find lesbian vampire erotic horror movies particularly compelling — an acquired taste, I admit). It was exciting, for instance, to find out that the dolls are made in these big cases that resemble coffins, lid and all, and also are trundled around in wheelchairs as they go from hair to makeup, to body paint, etc. The display at AVN was several dolls in a bar scene, which in the already surreal atmosphere was unnervingly real out of the corner of my eye, and in pictures I took the dolls look like real porn performers standing in the background, which isn’t surprising given how porn performers look so real.

But there’s creepy, and then there’s "Is anyone going to make a Realdoll horror movie?" Of course, I’d love to work on a porn film that was only acted by Realdolls. But since discovering the web site of the guy who performs surgery on Real Dolls, my mind is reeling. How do the dolls get injured? Then I found his Blue doll, and my imagination went into overdrive. Now what I want is a Realdoll made to look like Yvonne Craig as the green bitch in that old episode of Star Trek, where she does that dance for Captain Kirk.

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Manginas and Shenises

Whew. I have barely had a moment to sleep, let alone write entries, and that’s tough when I have entries piling up in my brain like the piles of my panties next to my closet that need to be washed.

The art show last Tuesday was great, though I worked a 13-hour day to make it happen. The Valencia store was packed until 10:30 pm, and many beer-drinking revelers listened to Extra Action music, watched their videos, and had dueling matches with sex toys. The band’s favorite sex toy by far was the Audi-Oh, the sound-controlled vibe, and they wanted to be official promoters of the toy, or maybe sponsored by the makers or something. That’s kind of perfect — skaters are sponsored by skate companies, snowboarders by snowboard companies, the Extra Action Marching Band sponsored by a sex toy company. Oh wait, that’s what my company is doing.

I went to a terrific party last weekend where I had an actual drunken exercise in anger management. Every year we have an unofficial SRL party in Oakland at the warehouse/shop belonging to two of our members, a female and male blacksmithing duo (who are not a couple). It’s not really an "SRL party," but lots of us attend and do what we do at parties, which is drink a lot and play with fire. Fireworks that is. This year there was a theme, a high school theme, which was really a transparent excuse for us all to dress like schoolgirls, teachers, school nurses, principals, janitors, cheerleaders, jocks and nerds. We all had to get "shots" (jello) and build homemade rockets, which were lit off and went in every imaginable direction. My thumb is still numb from getting it too close to a fuse. I dressed as a cheerleader with a really rotten attitude. I got to pester the very sexy nurse with questions like, "Can you get pregnant if you blow the football team?" I faked SARS to get more shots.

My attitude came to the fore when I went to pee in the unisex bathroom (for the second time that day). I was in there alone, did my business and was standing at the mirror fixing my lipstick when these two older guys walked in. They saw me and shouted, "whoah," and went out, slamming the door shut. They started talking about me outside the door and I could hear every word they were saying. They remarked about me being there, how they just can’t "do it" with a girl right there, because "it’s not like they’re handing out Viagra at the door or anything." I felt my anger rising — what the fuck does that mean, anyway? I mean, duh, what fucking dinosaurs with 1950’s mentalities still only see women as nonhuman sex objects? Who invited them? Clearly all the irony of the party was lost on them. So I slowed down my lipstick fixing and pretty soon they started pounding on the door. I told them to come in, that they were waiting for nothing, there was no line. That they could pee with me in there unless they had some kind of a problem. They came in and one rushed into a stall while the other stood in front of the urinal staring at the wall. I said, "I heard what you guys were saying out there, heard what you said about needing Viagra." Urinal guy said, "What!?" "I said, I heard you talking out there about needing Viagra. It’s not like when you come in to pee in here anyone’s going to be looking at your dick or anything." He said what again, so I repeated myself and left. Then I realized I had just berated a scared man with his dick in his hand while I was wearing a cheerleader outfit, pom-poms, pigtails and all. Next time I hope those guys barge in while I’m in a cheerleader outfit standing peeing at the urinal with my pee shooter. Then I can punch them both in the eye and run around them in tight little circles with my pom-poms shrieking "someone get the Viagra, these guys have to pee!"

I took my pee shooter to work at the Good Vibes store so that all could marvel at the wonders of urinary technology. It was clean and in plastic so no one would get hyper about germs. There was much excitement and exchanging of knowing looks, and someone asked me if I had bought a "shenis." What a gross name, I thought, then I said, "What a gross name. What’s a shenis?" Mother Mary in a sparkly rubber thong — they showed me. Then they made me look at a mangina. Then I found out that all the floor staff surveys had been turned in (see entry from 5/22), and I did not win the stupid prize for the stupid survey, and that someone else did, and I wanted to find the goody-two-shoes who won the prize and give them a wedgie while they wore latex panties.

There is a very underground group of boys and girls my age here in SF that have a very underground sex club. They have a secret mailing list that is absolutely hard as hell to get on, and their sex parties happen sporadically every few months at undisclosed locations and you can never find out where they are until you actually end up there (nor are they free). It’s pretty cool when you think about it, and it’s a nice way of keeping out gawkers and guys who are freaked out about peeing in front of women, and also creating a safe atmosphere. I called in a favor about a year ago to get on the list, and I’ve been on the list for some time but have never gone to a party, sort of being a virtual email list voyeur. From reading posts on the list I know that they’ve been making porn for a while at their parties, then showing the footage at the next party as loops. This is all done in the spirit of sexual adventure, affectionate pleasure seeking, equality and respect. I know this from reading everyone’s intelligent, mature, thoughtful and heartfelt posts on the list. It has made me feel really good about people seeking higher, smarter and more fun ways to express themselves sexually, which I really needed to be reminded of while I was researching my next book about the porn industry. Because sometimes during my research over the past year I saw things that made me upset, made me question my ability to honestly tell people that porn was a place where people with a brain and integrity could explore their sexuality, or at least feel good about jacking off to it. I got in a discussion that went sour with a close colleague in which I realized that she still sees women (especially women in porn) as sexual victims, not as wholly sexually autonomous people, and I realized that the minute everyone stops seeing women that way (and treating them that way), women will stop believing it. I went to porn conventions where I saw that the "mainstream" porn industry was suffocatingly conservative and homophobic, racist and sexist. I saw men and women at their worst, at the heart of which they all relied on the notion that sex is bad and shameful. That men are sexually simplistic. That women are sexual marionettes. C’mon people, what are we, ten years old? I had the hard hard job of seeing all this, clashing with my peers, and still telling people from my heart that porn is a fucking fantastic sex toy, which I actually believe because I still love to use it, and enjoy watching it. When it’s good, that is.

I saw some really hot porn tonight. I finally decided that I had to see why I’m still on this super-secret mailing list, so I went to a screening of scenes from several of their parties. And I have to say, I was astounded at the high quality, superior camerawork and incredible sex I saw onscreen. You could say it surpassed my expectations, which it did by far. I thought it would be spycam kind of stuff, and though one or two scenes were obviously in a room with other people around, it was excellently edited, storyboarded, had music that fit the mood perfectly and the people were laughing, playing, kissing, smiling, loving each other like nothing I’ve ever seen. It put all other amateur porn to shame, especially the porn made by my own company, which I think sucks by the way. The atmosphere of the screening was casual, lots of people, but they were all friendly and relaxed. I left early to come home and work, and when I left I noticed that I was walking through several of the people I had seen onscreen, who smiled politely at me as I thought "wow, I just saw you do that to him, and they did that to you, and…" I left with a smile on my face that brought me all the way home, one happy rotten cheerleader for porn.

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