Today is My Birthday! Viva Me!

After being duly chastised by a trumpet player from the Extra Action Marching Band for not updating my blog ("Just let us know you’re alive!"), I’m back after a couple of weeks of hellish workload, crazy playload, and my best friend’s wedding. First, I received some interesting emails in response to the women and porn article, and here is a choice pick, addressed to the journalist and CC’d to me:

I was right with you all the way in your article until you used Jewel De’Nyle as an example of a female porn director.
She and Platinum-X primarily target the male market, in particular gonzo. Take a look at this thread on the message board of Adult DVD Talk to see what women think of gonzo
Here’s another thread about what women think porn directors should be doing to appeal to them
Dirty Girlz may be her best selling movie, but it’s really not targeted at the female demographic. Here is a review of the movie (written by a married woman who considers herself 85% lesbian)
All the best,"

I agree with the guy who wrote this — I was confused about the female director the journalist included in the article, especially when there are many women directors who are truly trying to appeal to a female audience. Hmmm. Anyway, Adult DVD Talk is a fascinating forum, and has discussions that include plenty of very articulate female porn viewers (and a good dose of lame chicks, too). It’s a nice spectrum.

Where the hell have I been? Here are some highlights:

* hosted a Pleasure Party for my best friend’s wife-to-be, the now-Mrs.-Mark-Pauline. The picture is the party getting out of hand, after the anatomy lessons and sex toy tour, and before the guys raided us. Which I was truly grateful for, actually, because it’s an odd feeling being from the groom’s side and then having the weird traditional gender-separated parties, and feeling like I should be with the boys racing cars and shooting guns, instead of with a bunch of nice ladies sipping martinis and talking about having babies. I managed to have fun giving them a 2-hour sex seminar, because roomfuls of women and sex toys always make for giddy mayhem. Still, I think we should tear down that gender fence — Pleasure Parties for all!

* I wrote five chapters for my next book. Whew! Next round of research takes me to the gorgeous (pant, pant) Mistress Morgana‘s dungeon for a session with a lucky boy!

* I have been completely overtaken by Mark‘s wedding. Dinners, parties, phew. Being the kind of "best man" in a wedding is truly like being the person getting married, except I don’t get blenders or a trip to Hawaii when it’s over. But talk about the honor of a lifetime. The man is my hero, has taught me so much, and is the closest thing to a family member I have on this earth — and as I found out this month, the meaning is mutual. Wow. I feel like the daughter of SRL.

* The finest corset couture makers on the planet made me an outfit to die for to wear in the wedding. Dark Garden made me an incredible corset and astounding matching full-length fetish skirt in the wedding colors, custom-made just for me. They dress Fetish Diva Midori, Dita and me –among others. Good god, I felt like royalty — and I was compared to a Tim Burton character. The minute I get pictures, I’ll post them.

* Things that have made me laugh: the upcoming recall election Official Voter Information Guide, and the 55 new condom sizes recently launched by Condomania. Working in the Good Vibes store last week, we stood surrounded by pocket pussies and dick tax, and read selections from the election handbook aloud to each other until we cried laughing. One man promises that a vote for him will open the seventh portal of hell. No, really. But I’m jazzed by the 55 sizes of condoms, so much that I downloaded their very cool measuring guide. So far I’ve just admired their nonjudgmental sizing codes.

* I pulled some muscles when I accidentally ended up at a Marching Band gig and found myself in a SF fire station at one in the morning on a weeknight dancing and showing off my panties on top of a fire truck. I dropped a cute horn player off at the Sun Microsystems conference gig (an overblown, big moneyed affair), and as I was attempting to leave to go home and work, I was greeted, hugged, and then found myself covered in backstage passes and handed many beers. It was a long, crazy night that found me soaking wet from pom-poms that had been dipped in a fountain swimming with flag girls, dancing for happy firefighters, then dancing on a table in a SOMA bar to finish the night. No wonder I was sore.

Okay, back to my birthday. How am I celebrating? I slept until noon!

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Penis Enlargement Mafia Vandalism

First, drop everything and read this article about women who watch porn.

On Wednesday morning I woke up — early, eech — to go to a Good Vibes meeting and found my car window smashed and my stereo gone. Needless to say, I missed the meeting. The stereo was worth much less than the window, but what I found most fascinating about the whole situation is the very careful — courteous — job the burglars did extracting my stereo. They knew my alarm system well enough to figure out how to avoid setting it off. Nothing else was disturbed in my car; my dash was unmolested, the wires had been carefully unplugged, all my change was still in my ashtray. Kind of polite thieves. Definitely not like San Fran’s notorious crackhead thieves, who’ll smash your window, do drugs in your car, take your change and anything else, and leave your stereo. I just wish they’d bring back the new CD I just bought that was still in the player, because I was really excited to finally trade in CD’s so I could get some new ones, notably Lamb’s What Sound (now gone), the new DJ Shadow, and Massive Attack’s 100th Window.

I’m convinced it’s the penis-enlargement pill mafia that did it. It’s obvious. They are my enemies. I’m running two stories on my front page about these placebo-proffering thugs getting busted for fraud, how they pack the pills with animal feces and probably the body parts of competitors, and Wednesday when I wrote the GV email newsletter I included these links and another one to a man who is taking penis enlargement pills and is blogging the whole experience. (I think he should post pictures!) Then just yesterday I waited on a customer who asked if we carried penis enlargement pills or enlargement pumps, and I told him that we carry pumps for pleasure and any results they provide are temporary, and that pills have never, ever been tested or approved as safe or effective. I wanted to tell him that I’d never work for a company that would prey on people’s insecurities to make a buck, and that his dick was probably fine. I wanted to tell him that pumps make you temporarily bigger but semi-soft, and that daily and extended use damages your penis and the damage usually results in loss of length (think suction = hickeys, which are exploded capillaries and you’ve got the premise). But mostly I wanted to ask him why, why!? Because a) he heard that all chicks (or guys) like big dicks, b) that he thinks it makes him more of a man, c) all that Maxim or porn has gone to his head, d) he wants to be in porn.

Lemme tell ya, big dicks, like big tits, are overhyped. Who’s telling everyone that all chicks like big dicks? It’s true that some women like larger objects — big dicks, dildos, many fingers, fists. But it’s equally true that this isn’t true all the time, and that this isn’t true for all women or men. Sometimes big is fun, but sometimes it’s just too much. I dated two guys in my life that had big, huge, porn-star style dicks, and I remember taking one look at their dicks and thinking, if I’m not totally turned on, like out of my mind, that’s really going to hurt. I never had intercourse with either of them because of their overly large dicks — though with partners I’m comfy and really horny with, I’ll gleefully ask for more fingers, the bigger dildo. For me at least, it’s all about the orgasms, and contrary to popular myths, women’s orgasms don’t revolve around huge horse cocks.

Porn may be a big culprit — it sure seems like all those starlets like the big dicks, or at least they’re paid to. But it’s a job, people — and those guys are hired because they are abnormal. They occupy the small end of the gene pool with their larger cocks, ability to have a hard-on for hours and not come (while screwing in difficult positions under hot lights and in front of a camera crew), then come on command, with a big load that shoots far. And you have to behave professionally. To be in porn, you’ve either got these qualities or you don’t, and to be like a porn stud, you need to be dating someone who’d rather be dating a porn stud — know what I mean? And as far as a big dick making someone feel more like a man, well, I’m not a man so I can’t speak to what makes someone feel more like their own gender — except that deep down, I think being a man comes from the inside, not the outside.

But my stereo is still gone, in the hands of the penis enlargement pill mafia’s henchmen. I know that in the middle of the night they snuck up to my car, tent-pole erections leading the way, and smashed my window with their baseball-bat dicks. Dressed like 70s porn stars — or the Disco Boys in Mystery Men — they wore tight light blue and white polyester pantsuits to accentuate their bulges, stepped gingerly in glittery platform shoes, wore big sunglasses at night, had big fuzzy moustaches and sideburns. Their breaths reeked of animal feces, and they shook with the jitters of so many consumed herbal supplements. They traded the deed with their penis-obsessed bosses and long-schlonged dons for more penis enlargement pills. I wonder what happens when I piss off the breast-enlargement ladies — surely it’ll be an attack worthy of Russ Meyer’s Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!

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My Head is Huge

Wow — one of my recent favorite discoveries, Freddy and Eddy are running a front-page tribute to… me! Check it out!



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Hail Fellatio!

Okay, I’m sick and I can’t concentrate, which is a writer’s nightmare, so I decide to go trolling around Amazon to read reader reviews — and to my lucky surprise, this gem was waiting for me in the reviews for The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio:

(one star) The marriage bed is undefiled
After 18 years of marriage, I sought an appropriate book that might help me become more pleasing to my husband. I could find no detailed explanations in christian literature, although I knew that the Bible explicity tells the "older women to teach the younger women HOW to love their husbands"…so I sought a book that might not violate my conscious. I bought this book because I thought the author might be sympathetic to women who are turned off and feel violated by explicit pornographic photos. This book had no photos but it does take unexpected turns that does violate the consciouses 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.
The only redeeming factor was the complete description of the male anatomy and a few sporatic suggestions about technique.
I just felt that all the accolades this book has received, someone needs to warn those who are wanting to perserve the sanctity of the marriage bed, this book is not for them.

Indeed — if you want an undefiled bed of any kind, certainly do not buy my books! Like something scary waiting in the woods to devour the devout conscience of the subjugated moralistically religious housewife, my books will not only defile that bed, but I guarantee they’ll burn holes in your sheets, make your sanctified bed into a blazing bonfire of orgiastic lesbian strap-on homosexual sex-with-strangers lust, and you and your lover, whoever they might be, will be transformed into raging orally fixated sex bunnies who know what to do when they travel south, know what I mean? I am sorry if this poor lady feels violated by my book. And I am sorry that she thinks I am an older woman (ahem!). I am also sorry that she managed to totally miss all the illustrations (?). But mostly I’m amused to watch her morals collide with her desires, like a car wreck in slow motion.

But I mean, come on. She bought a book on cocksucking. Besides, I hear the bible’s pretty dirty all on its own. What does she need my book for?

Oh, and some sad news: I killed my favorite dildo. Here is my ode to Woody:

Woody R.I.P 8/7/2003 – 8/27/2003
Woody was a firm man. Sometimes he was a firm woman. Woody didn’t care what gender I made him, as long as I made him. The ten girls writhing in Crisco-smeared knots onscreen never made Woody jealous, nor did the much larger phalluses on the TV he was prone to imitate. When Woody first arrived at Good Vibes, my eyes locked on his one single staring, unblinking eye, and our lube-drenched destiny was sealed. I loved Woody not because he was he was a giant among dildos — though he was in stamina. Woody was a silicone everyman. A non-porous bitch who lived to please me. Marbled, with a flared base, a nice fat head and the adventurousness of Laura Croft.

I didn’t kill Woody because he made me jealous — no, no. We had an open agreement — as long as we both shared, boys or girls, Woody and I were a modern pair. It was an accident. A crime of passion. Okay, a crime of raging lust. The video was cued up. My pajamas were off, panties dangling from an ankle. My parts were all slicked up, and now it was Woody’s turn. I poured the fateful handful — of silicone lube, and rubbed it all over Woody, just the way he and I liked it (sniff). Everything seemed fine, and then — Woody started to absorb the lube. And grow strangely sticky. My blood ran cold. I knew right then — but only then, I swear! I knew that Woody was one of those silicone dildos incompatible with silicone lube. Dammit — I had heard about this phenomenon from Shar and Jackie, but now I knew the facts, the hard way. All worked up, and no Woody. So it was all an accident, see? No dame in her right mind would off her Woody just when she needed him most. That’s my story, anyway — and I’m stickin’ to it.

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My Yearly Headcold

My pal Thomas Roche (who now has his own hilarious online journal so you too can share his Gothic-tinged pain) sent me this link but it was eaten by monsters. That makes me happy, and happy has been far from me lately as I have been suffering through the most voluptuous headcold I have ever had. I have one this time every year. Lots of sleeping, lots of missing work, lots of blown deadlines. Somehow in the midst of all the sleep and Kleenex, I managed to do a big interview with a journalist from the San Jose Mercury News about women as porn consumers (yay!), and bulked up on cold medicine last night to go out to sushi with Anh from WantedList, who’s in town making the rounds for the weekend. Dinner was fun — he’s way cool, and I’m such a geek, I love talking about couples and women’s porn, and now I’m really into their site, and their mission. They’re the only "Netflix" of porn who is actively seeking to provide porn outside the box, aimed at couples, female viewers and including all the usual stuff, too — I know, because I’ve been trying to find a site like this for a long time. I just didn’t know how committed they are to providing a welcome place for everyone to get their porn, and I think I like them a lot. I’m sick of my regular source, which only seems to pick up gangbang titles — I had hoped they’d expand and pick up non-typical stuff that me and my Tiny Nibbles readers like. Anyway, enough about finding the right online rental shop. I’m currently trying to track down a reputable source for buying adult magazines online for a reader — she doesn’t want to go to her local sleazy adult stores for books or magazines, and I don’t blame her. I did discover that Last Gasp has the best online selection of adult books, hands down. And while they’re not the cheapest, you at least support a small business with a great history. If anyone knows where to find magazines (not subscriptions), email me at and let me know.

Meanwhile, the deadline for Mark Pauline‘s wedding approaches. I need to find a gift. What do you get the guy who owns a human skin? What do you get the gal who can borrow her fiancée’s Kevlar vest anytime she likes? I’m stumped. I got them a cheese grater for their housewarming, so that great gift idea is off the list. How about a remote-internet-controlled, fire-spewing, sideways-crawling, extremely loud blender made from two jet engines, augers from post-hole drillers and parts from industrial bucketloaders and old farm equipment? Good idea, but I’m running out of time. Next week is the bachelorette party, which I’ve both been invited to and been asked to be the entertainment. That’s right — I’m the entertainment. No, I’m not stripping or lap dancing (oh, scratch that if you read about last month’s bachelorette party). But that might be fun considering the attendees are likely the smartest women in the Bay Area — creators of the most complex code and computer interfaces, masterminds behind the Webby Awards, Cupcake, etc. I’ve been asked to host a Pleasure Party for my friends — a Good Vibes party where the hosts (me and another GV educator, my pal Daphne) literally give the party-goers a store tour in their own home. I don’t usually do these, but this is a special request, and I think it’ll be a blast. What will these brianiac, super-hot geekettes do with boxes of sex toys, drinks, and me? What have I gotten myself into? I don’t know, but it’ll be fun to give a "sex toys 101" to a group of my closest friends.

Now I’m going back to blankets, tissues and books. Friends are offering to bring me chicken soup and porn. What good friends I have. Better yet, I’ll spend the weekend trading vapor rubdowns with the hot new couple in my life, Freddy and Eddy. In my online dreams, anyway — I’m not getting far with anyone in my bunny slippers, flannel pajamas, cotton Barbie panties, and incessant sniffles. Argh!

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Man Seeks Inflatable Sheep

I know, this picture looks really freaky. I was cruising through the Exotic Erotic website looking at last year’s pictures — I was there last year on a lark, snuck in, and also snuck backstage — and found this bizarre photo. But what’s even stranger (than me going to Exotic Neurotic?) is that when I was at my gym last Friday, this woman was there too. I was stretching, watching this tiny Asian woman do these insane pretzel stretches, laying her head on her ass, and effortlessly doing a variety of poses standing on her hands, and thought, she looks familiar. That’s not all I thought, like, how does she have sex, and does she have a trapeze above her bed, and can she eat cereal using her feet, and… She became the nexus of a surreal moment in an already surreal environment, not just by her mesmerizing Stretch Armstrong abilities, but also because she was in full going-out makeup (and lipstick), and every time she leaned over onto her hands and slowly brought her legs up in the air, she let out a little high-pitched "wheeee!" Then last night I came across this picture again, and realized it was her. And no, she’s not wearing panties.

San Francisco is a strange and beautiful place. Especially now that all the get-rich-quick dot-com halfwits have emptied out and made room for the arts scene to grow back. Last week was a great example of that, not just for my Asian contortionist close encounter, but because I got out a little. On Tuesday evening I went to my favorite café in SF, a place I’ve been going to since I was a kid, the Blue Front. They have the best hummus in the universe, and I’ve known the family that runs it forever. After a yummy salad and a pint of local microbrew, I bought some hummus and bagels to go, and found myself in nearby Golden Gate Park, at Stow Lake. Stow is less of a lake and more of a doughnut of water with a forested island in the center that you can walk around, and I did just that, feeding the wary mallards my bagels. Feeding ducks makes me very happy, like a little kid; I do not know why. It was warm, and the sunset in the park through the trees was beautiful. On Wednesday I sat through a tedious 8-hour Good Vibes meeting (during which I etched a broken line and "cut here" across my left wrist in ink). But it was at the famed Women’s Building in the Mission, covered in a colorful mural that brings tourists far and wide to photograph it, and at the break I walked over to another great deli and bought cheese, bread and Pellegrino water. The weather was nice in the evening, so I walked over to the Lower Haight to meet with my publisher and they took me out to a fancy dinner at the Slanted Door to celebrate my video book going to press. They also told me that a certain bookseller (we’ll call them "Buns and Noodles") got very freaked out and nervous about my book, especially the cover, and cut their presale order by a twelfth! I knew we were taking a risk with the nipples on the cover, but really — well, it’s good news for everyone else who’ll carry it. But we did resolve to change the cover to a plain cover, which I’m fine with, because then it’s congruent with their "Ultimate Guide" series — and has a good chance of being placed in windows, on displays, etc. Hey, the content is still the same. Enjoy the banned bookcover that still lives here on my site.

Thursday I worked at one of the Good Vibes stores, and for some reason I felt like dressing really sexy. Tight black jeans, low-cut polka-dot halter top, long black hair down my back. It made for a very interesting workday, which culminated in an instance where one of the very sexy women who works there did something, quite naughty to me. She is a fetish model, outrageously leggy and attractive, and I’ve seen some jaw-dropping pictures of her in bondage and encased in rubber. She flirted with me all day, then, while we were standing by the S/M display, she picked up a massage candle and said she’d like to try it — on me. These candles melt into wax that can be used as massage oil, and I found out for real when she turned me around, lit the candle and dripped hot wax onto my back and shoulders. It wasn’t as hot as a regular candle, and I did tell her I like the sensation of hot wax, so it was all consensual. It was a huge turn-on, especially in public. Then she massaged the melted oil in, with a massage that was at once relaxing and exciting. Needless to say, I bought a massage candle that day, and hope to pursue further wax studies with this naughty minx, hopefully in front of a camera.

After work I went to two amazing art shows. The first one was a show that included the works of former SRL member and dear old friend of mine — and boyfriend of the amazing Susannah BreslinChristian Ristow. It was in the scenic Tenderloin, one of the worst neighborhoods in SF, though still not worse than SOMA, where the Good Vibes offices are. The show was incredible, and I believe that Christian is one of the foremost machine artists today — his work has evolved, matured and blows others with similar work out of the water, or out of the machine shop. Christian looked great, Susannah looked even better. What a beautiful, hot hot hot woman she is — plus you know that big brain of hers is in there, wow. I only get to see her about once or twice a year at machine art shows (SRL’s or Christian’s), and I enjoyed shouting at her in the gallery over the din of machines, which is how we usually communicate in person. She shouted at me too, and that made me happy, though after the years I’ve known her, I don’t know what her normal voice sounds like. Lots of SRL people were there, and I wore my voice out talking with a very cool blogger, Cupcake, Mr. Laughing Squid, caught a glimpse of my dear friend Jack Napier, and more. Photo of Christian and his big snapping "Mouth" by Karen Marcelo. Next, it was off to the Cellspace Gallery to see a big art show of stencil artists, which was some of the best — and most culturally relevant — art I’ve seen in a long time. Friday I went to see a movie at the Red Vic in Upper Haight, the movie theater with couches and the best popcorn in town (a popcorn seasoning bar, wow!). I went with a very cute horn player from the Marching Band, and it’s a good thing I did because Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses was one of the scariest movies I’ve ever seen and I spent much of the movie up on the couch and clutching his arm. If you liked The Texas Chainsaw Massacre theme, you’ll love this movie. A super-scary double feature would be 1000 Corpses and 28 Days Later.

The weekend was spent battling the fucking evil email viruses attacking my server and mailbox, and trying to wrap up my next anthology, a collection of forbidden fantasies for couples. There are a handful of stories I’ve received that are well written yet totally unpublishable due to their content — lurid fantasies that are serious taboos. Nothing illegal, technically, but still way the fuck out there, ironically containing loving couples. I wish I could do something with them, simply because they’re such curiosities. Speaking of curiosities, I’ll end with this lovely email found in my inbox this morning. Enjoy the visuals:

Hello I am a ‘generously proportioned’ male (375 pounds) with a less than
generous penile length (4 inches erect). I seek a vendor of quality
inflatable sheep who can give away free samples as I am unemployed.

Best regards

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Synesthesia Interview — Coming In Color

I love the adorable retro sex site, Lippy Imp — and Lippy loves me back! No more lonely nights, ahhh. Check out the big, fat and happy interview with me on Lippy Imp, which is actually my favorite interview to date. I’ve been interviewed by places as far and wide as Esquire magazine and the Discovery Channel, but this one’s my favorite because I feel like I finally got a chance to comment on how I think our culture is affected by what people like me are doing. Yay!

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