After Last Tuesday

Whew, I’m recovering from the Tim benefit. I staffed the SRL Nudie Calendar table all night, signing calendars and chatting folks up about out super-cute calendar and the very hot boys and girls I work with in Survival Research Labs. Mark Pauline blew up three huge images from the calendar into big glossy posters — and because he loves to tease me, he blew up the one of me and put it right next to the table! I blushed a lot, but had a great time, and we sold quite a few calendars. But we didn’t sell them all, and the rest will be on sale on the SRL web site soon until they’re all gone — I’ll post the link for interested parties when it’s ready.

I got smooched a lot, felt like a nudie cutie star signing autographs, and got away from the table to boogie down with the incredibly talented Extra Action Marching Band. What an amazing phenomenon they are — horns, drums, undulating half-naked flag boys and girls — and everyone danced. Except Tim, of course — he was in a wheelchair but the band played all over and around and to him! I didn’t get home until four and dragged my butt into Good Vibrations by ten, to write with bloodshot eyes and sit through two hours of meetings about ad content… eesh. I came home early and watched some porn, then wrote our email newsletter the GV Spot, edited new erotic fiction for the Good Vibes magazine — and collapsed into bed with my phone to make some calls. But the highlight of my day was an email from a fan who wrote to tell me I was sexy — because I use a G4! You bet — I think all Mac users are hotties!

Tonight when I get home from work, a review of PornOrchestra.

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Fly the Big, Squishy Skies

The restaurant chain Hooters — what a throwback to the dinosaur era! This sports bar/celebration of artery-clogging bar food has made its name for over 20 years by providing a respite from the world for the guy who wants his beer, boobs and touchdowns all in one spot. Men who can only be with men. Actually, while Hooters has been an employer for a few of my gal pals who don’t mind making a little more money but don’t want to be strippers, I kind of like the concept.

Not for the sexist stereotypes — and those stereotypes include the male patrons. But because I like beautiful women too, and would love to spend an evening in a bar being served by a cute girl with nice boobies, and it’s okay for me to stare openly at the boobies. Except I wouldn’t want to hang out in a Hooters. I’m sure the patrons would be really crass, and the worst part would be that the waitresses probably wouldn’t be into flirting with other girls. I still think it’s a pretty funny cliché, though, even better that it’s a living piece of retro-sexist Americana. Besides, the role-reversed version would probably be lame.

Which is why I’m having fantasies about the new Hooters airline (beware, their graphics take about 100 years to load).

You read it right — Hooters has bought an ailing (one of many, I’m sure) airline on the East Coast, and has created their own flight service. The imagination runs wild, no? Packs of top-heavy stewardesses in little uniforms, unable to fit two to an aisle (or one to a restroom). Beverage service that includes inadvertent smacks upside the head by a mammoth bobbling breast as the window-seated passenger gets his scotch. Weight limit requirements for each boob. Equal numbers of flight attendants in front and rear of plane required for balanced takeoff. The snacks are Gummy Boobs. The drinks are Slippery Nipples. The drop-down oxygen masks are nestled in huge plastic D-cups. Flotation vests are two enormous inflatable pink breasts (what if only one inflates? Oh no!).

Okay, maybe it’s not that fun. In truth, Hooters’ lone plane has been re-styled to reflect the restaurant’s beach theme atmosphere, and only two Hooters girls will be on each flight — in skimpy Hooters restaurant uniforms, "just to be friendly." Sadly, there are only a few flights selected with male golfers in mind, to and from Atlanta/Myrtle Beach. It looks as though the chances of contact with actual boobage — real or gummy — are nil. It’s more like the old days, when airline hostesses were dressed to thrill male passengers, as depicted in the unintentionally sexy book, Airline. I guess I’ll have to nurture my sexy 1960’s flight attendant fantasies on my own time.

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Boot Camp for the Female Ego

Every month or so here in SF there is an informal get-together called Dorkbot where a small group of extremely smart computer geeks, machine makers and high tech artists gather to watch informal presentations by peers. It’s where we all learn about new stuff and what each other are up to, and the loose tagline is "people doing strange things with electricity." I was a presenter once, and my topic with demonstrations was "Bizarre but True Tales of Sex and Electricity (with demonstration)." I did a lengthy Power Point presentation chronicling the birth of electricity and its immediate use to cure "hysteria" all the way to the modern vibrator, electricity and S/M and fantasy and fact about modern sex machines. Then a demo, with volunteers from the audience. It was a blast! James Brown — will the real sex machine please stand up?

But I went to the last one and ended up walking out. Here is the text from an email I sent a friend about the evening:

But you know, I didn’t stay to see the (name withheld) thing — I walked out when he was saying how hot chicks get when they "ride" his machines, and "how wet" the Dutch journalist got. Ugh! Oh — I mean, what a man, that (name withheld). Plus it was after he couldn’t tell me how his machines are controlled. I mean, I already knew (name withheld’s) deal, that he doesn’t make his stuff but uses it as a booty magnet. But that bullshit — especially in such an enlightened room and atmosphere — just made me realize that I was spending time listening to it when I really needed to dye my hair, you know?

Besides, I had to have perfect hair for this party I went to last night. I’ve always wanted to "pack." That’s a queer term for when a woman (a dyke or a male FTM) wears a strap-on under her jeans. They usually use softies made of silicone to give the effect of having a man’s bulge. But not me! I thought it would be fun to twist even that genderfuck, and so I went as a femmed up punk girl, and had a semi-hard big boy snaking down my leg. Shiny red lipstick, tight black jeans, dog collar — firm dick! Way fun. I danced until four in the morning while the Extra Action Marching Band played in its entire Dionysian splendor. A full horn section, sexy, dirty flag girls (and boys) hanging from scaffolding… It was like being in a decadent scene in a Fellini film, all very sexual and La Dolce Vita

So now I am hungover. But I had to end this email on a high sex-gender-queer positive note, being the Pollyanna of porn and all…

His reply was: now this is an email from my ol pal violet, not that cloistered pornwatching, ink-stained wretch I haven’t been hearing from for way way too long!

So, it’s weird when someone you know acts lame and says sexist stuff like the "artist" I mentioned above. It just reminded me of the creepy guys I saw at the Adult Video News Awards convention I attended in January. Not the pornographers — though many were very smart and funny, some were extremely freaky (in a soulless way) — I mean the "fans." It was intense to see literally hoards of guys pressing their cameras literally into women’s asscracks when the women would bend over to pick up a pen. I took a lot of pictures of these guys, I was fascinated by them in the same way you slow down to look at a car crash. They didn’t even notice me.

Okay, one mullet-head saw me.

I did have a lot of fun at AVN, though. I saw some amazing mullets.I saw people who were living caricatures of themselves in ways that Hollywood could never imitate. I wore my mechanic’s clothes and talked to everyone. There were three gay men there, and they were very nice. I found a cool Tiki bar with no gambling in it. Harrah’s charged me for my room three times and I’ll never stay there again. I met a cool freaky extreme art pornographer named Joe Gallant, who is a big SRL fan.

My coworkers at Good Vibes from the video department were very rude to me. Bridgette Kerkove put her arm around me and her boobs are very hard. I hung out with the Real Doll people and their dolls a lot, and they (the humans) were funny and cool. They said that they make the dolls (out of silicone) in big human-sized boxes with lids — like coffins (my words — they concurred).

I stuck my fingers in many weird fake orifices and took pictures of other people doing the same thing — and laughing. I met some big-timers, Juli Ashton kissed my sock monkey (insert your "touch my monkey" jokes here), and I met a lot of incredible and extremely smart women. By the same token, I met a lot of women who looked shell-shocked, had undergone freakish surgical alterations, and looked like they didn’t want to be there. Boot camp for the female ego? Perhaps. I did a lot of research for the book I was finishing and had a glimpse of humanity that was the most interesting I’ve ever seen. I think porn isn’t as simple as heroes or victims — it’s both, and more. Next year my publisher will want me to "make an appearance" because by then my book about porn will have been out for a while, but I think I’d rather just walk around and take interesting pictures.

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