Today is Friday, and so the new column and the Kink Calendar are up.
Last night I took Annie Sprinkle and her partner Beth out to dinner after her reading at Toys In Babeland, and with us were Jake, his friend M, CandyGirl and Rossi, and Jae. Annie and Beth are both super-sweet people, and we had a great time. (Although I think perhaps I shouldn't go back to The Palace Kitchen anytime soon. Jae and I were telling our story about how we met, and it seems we attracted some attention. Hey, it's a little noisy in there, we had to raise our voices some. Get over it, people.)
Other entertaining things...
While the new page style makes for annoying reading, since the column is squeezed down so that it's about three words wide, Dan Savage's column is even more worth reading than usual this week. Dan gives us his take on a question about ethics and social responsibility.
I howled with laughter when I read this, because I can so totally relate. I'm guessing the author doesn't know how much she has in common with me. But I get all those "I wanna be a pro dom, tell me how," emails.... It's the comments, really, that are the funniest part. Make sure you read all the way down, it's hilarious.
This look fascinating - the audio file of her voice on the splash page is quite intriguing - but I can't seem to get the final connection to work. Has anyone successfully controlled the webcam?
Wife wants to charge her husband with adultery. Oh for christ's sake, woman, divorce his ass and get over it. But you will not, single-handedly, drag morality back into the last century. For one thing, do you know how many cops, judges and district attorneys have comitted adultery? And let's not ever get started with the higher-up goverment officials... (via Edifying Spectacle)
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Female Trouble
I hate carrying a purse. I mean, I have one, this square sack on a shoulder-strap, kinda like a messenger bag. But I almost never carry it around with me. Being a non-purse-carrier is one of the not-very-girly things about me that occasionally causes a problem. Like a few days ago…
You see, since I don't carry my purse, I carry stuff in my pockets – money, my keys, my phone, my debit card, lists of errands, other people's business cards, Altoid's tins, all kinds of things. It's easier to do this in the cold weather, when I'm wearing a jacket with capacious pockets. Come summer, I have to consciously pare down a bit, lest I look bulgy.
But it was chilly, late last week, when I was getting ready to leave my dungeon after a session. Just as I was about to walk out my door, I remembered I had a piece of equipment I need to take home to look at, because it wasn't working right. I stepped into the playroom, snatched up the offending toy, and – of course – put it in my jacket pocket. And promptly forgot about it.
So, several days go by, I don't wear the jacket, and I think nothing of it.
Flash to: me in line at QFC, buying those extremely expensive grapes that I'm addicted to – you know, the perfectly round, crisp, tart ones. Love those. Too bad for me they're usually three or even four dollars a pound.
But that QFC Big-Brother-is-monitoring-your-purchases loyalty card gives you some break on the price. So when the checker brightly inquires, "Do you have your QFC advantage card?" I say, "Yes," and thrust my hand into my pocket.
I feel something sort of round, with a little plastic-y thing on it. It must be my key ring with that QFC tag on it, right? So I whip it out and start to give it to the pretty little red-haired cashier, who can't be more than twenty years old.
Only – it's not my key ring. It's this.
Whoops. Now answer me honestly – that looks like something perverted, doesn't it? I mean, even if you didn't know what it was – a PES electro-sex cockhead stimulator – wouldn't you look at that and think, That looks like something dirty?
Yeah. That's what I thought. (It doesn't help that I'm wearing a T-shirt which says, "Good Kitty Gone Bad." )
So I hastily snatched my hand back, stuffed the malfunctioning BDSM toy back into my pocket and found my bona-fide key chain, blushing all the while. When I looked back up at the cashier, she was giving me a curious look. She opened her mouth and took in a small breath, and I thought, Oh, please god, don't ask me what that was. I suck at inventing lies like that on the spot.
And then she just handed me my change and said, "Have a nice day."
I fixed the toy, by the way. But Jesus, I gotta find a purse I can actually stand to carry around with me.
I hate carrying a purse. I mean, I have one, this square sack on a shoulder-strap, kinda like a messenger bag. But I almost never carry it around with me. Being a non-purse-carrier is one of the not-very-girly things about me that occasionally causes a problem. Like a few days ago…
You see, since I don't carry my purse, I carry stuff in my pockets – money, my keys, my phone, my debit card, lists of errands, other people's business cards, Altoid's tins, all kinds of things. It's easier to do this in the cold weather, when I'm wearing a jacket with capacious pockets. Come summer, I have to consciously pare down a bit, lest I look bulgy.
But it was chilly, late last week, when I was getting ready to leave my dungeon after a session. Just as I was about to walk out my door, I remembered I had a piece of equipment I need to take home to look at, because it wasn't working right. I stepped into the playroom, snatched up the offending toy, and – of course – put it in my jacket pocket. And promptly forgot about it.
So, several days go by, I don't wear the jacket, and I think nothing of it.
Flash to: me in line at QFC, buying those extremely expensive grapes that I'm addicted to – you know, the perfectly round, crisp, tart ones. Love those. Too bad for me they're usually three or even four dollars a pound.
But that QFC Big-Brother-is-monitoring-your-purchases loyalty card gives you some break on the price. So when the checker brightly inquires, "Do you have your QFC advantage card?" I say, "Yes," and thrust my hand into my pocket.
I feel something sort of round, with a little plastic-y thing on it. It must be my key ring with that QFC tag on it, right? So I whip it out and start to give it to the pretty little red-haired cashier, who can't be more than twenty years old.
Only – it's not my key ring. It's this.
Whoops. Now answer me honestly – that looks like something perverted, doesn't it? I mean, even if you didn't know what it was – a PES electro-sex cockhead stimulator – wouldn't you look at that and think, That looks like something dirty?
Yeah. That's what I thought. (It doesn't help that I'm wearing a T-shirt which says, "Good Kitty Gone Bad." )
So I hastily snatched my hand back, stuffed the malfunctioning BDSM toy back into my pocket and found my bona-fide key chain, blushing all the while. When I looked back up at the cashier, she was giving me a curious look. She opened her mouth and took in a small breath, and I thought, Oh, please god, don't ask me what that was. I suck at inventing lies like that on the spot.
And then she just handed me my change and said, "Have a nice day."
I fixed the toy, by the way. But Jesus, I gotta find a purse I can actually stand to carry around with me.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Life As Me, This Week…
Well, what I can say about this week so far is that it's a few iotas less crazy than last week. Max and I had erotic photographer Michele Serchuk, from New York, staying with us over the weekend, and that was nice. She was in town to do a show at the Wet Spot. We'd not met her before, but of course, as a photographer, I'd heard of her. I've always admired her work, she shoots great stuff. She turned out to be very cool, I liked her. We talked about me modeling for her sometime, which I'd also like...
It's not uncommon for Max and I to have people we've never met, but whom we've heard of, come stay with us. Since we have a fairly large house with a nice spare bedroom, local sex-positive organizers often ask Max and I to host visitors. We like doing it, because we get to meet interesting folks. And tomorrow, we have another guest arriving - the "Porn Star and Prostitute turned Sex Guru and Performance Artist", Annie Sprinkle.
Yeah, that Annie Sprinkle. The legend of porn Annie Sprinkle. The "40 Reasons Why Whores Are My Heros" Annie Sprinkle. Staying at my house. I have met a fair number of leather/sex-positive celebrities in my time, but still - Annie Sprinkle. Coming to stay at my house. That's amazing.
I did get to meet her and hang out with her the tiniest bit several years ago and I thought she was just the sweetest, nicest person you could imagine. So I'm very pleased to get to see her again, and meet her partner, too.
And I said we have another guest arriving, but in fact - Annie and her partner, Elizabeth, will be staying with just me. Max decided, after we'd already agreed to host Annie, that he really wanted to go to Chicago for Shibaricon. So he flies out of here Thursday morning, missing Annie and Elizabeth completely. Roman's already gone, having hit the road for Chicago Monday. Gee, everybody's going to Shibaricon but me. Bummer, guess I'll have to stay home...all alone...with sex goddess Annie Sprinkle and her cute partner. Wow, that really sucks. Don't you all feel so sorry for me? But listen, don't drop by the house this weekend to keep me company or anything, alright? Especially if you hear shrieks of...no, never mind, just don't.
I'm joking. I don't really think that Annie and Elizabeth are going to jump me. (It's a charming idea, though, isn't it? Roman would be eaten up with envy, he's a big fan of hers.) No, they're here for the Queering Femininity Conference that's happening this weekend. I thought about registering for that, but in spite of the fact that organizer Aiden Key is a very dear old pal of mine and extremely cute, too - no. I've got another writing project I should be working on, and I think I'd rather just have a quiet weekend.
At least, as quiet as one can have, when one is spending said weekend with a sex goddess. Lordy, lordy, lordy...
Well, what I can say about this week so far is that it's a few iotas less crazy than last week. Max and I had erotic photographer Michele Serchuk, from New York, staying with us over the weekend, and that was nice. She was in town to do a show at the Wet Spot. We'd not met her before, but of course, as a photographer, I'd heard of her. I've always admired her work, she shoots great stuff. She turned out to be very cool, I liked her. We talked about me modeling for her sometime, which I'd also like...
It's not uncommon for Max and I to have people we've never met, but whom we've heard of, come stay with us. Since we have a fairly large house with a nice spare bedroom, local sex-positive organizers often ask Max and I to host visitors. We like doing it, because we get to meet interesting folks. And tomorrow, we have another guest arriving - the "Porn Star and Prostitute turned Sex Guru and Performance Artist", Annie Sprinkle.
Yeah, that Annie Sprinkle. The legend of porn Annie Sprinkle. The "40 Reasons Why Whores Are My Heros" Annie Sprinkle. Staying at my house. I have met a fair number of leather/sex-positive celebrities in my time, but still - Annie Sprinkle. Coming to stay at my house. That's amazing.
I did get to meet her and hang out with her the tiniest bit several years ago and I thought she was just the sweetest, nicest person you could imagine. So I'm very pleased to get to see her again, and meet her partner, too.
And I said we have another guest arriving, but in fact - Annie and her partner, Elizabeth, will be staying with just me. Max decided, after we'd already agreed to host Annie, that he really wanted to go to Chicago for Shibaricon. So he flies out of here Thursday morning, missing Annie and Elizabeth completely. Roman's already gone, having hit the road for Chicago Monday. Gee, everybody's going to Shibaricon but me. Bummer, guess I'll have to stay home...all alone...with sex goddess Annie Sprinkle and her cute partner. Wow, that really sucks. Don't you all feel so sorry for me? But listen, don't drop by the house this weekend to keep me company or anything, alright? Especially if you hear shrieks of...no, never mind, just don't.
I'm joking. I don't really think that Annie and Elizabeth are going to jump me. (It's a charming idea, though, isn't it? Roman would be eaten up with envy, he's a big fan of hers.) No, they're here for the Queering Femininity Conference that's happening this weekend. I thought about registering for that, but in spite of the fact that organizer Aiden Key is a very dear old pal of mine and extremely cute, too - no. I've got another writing project I should be working on, and I think I'd rather just have a quiet weekend.
At least, as quiet as one can have, when one is spending said weekend with a sex goddess. Lordy, lordy, lordy...
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Complete text of a recent email....
Okay, let's leave aside the all-caps, and the multiple exclamation points that hurt my eyes to look at. Let's leave aside the fact that he's writing to a woman who describes herself as a dominant, not a submissive, and who has given not even the slightest hint that she's looking to be the (shudder) "roommate/anal sex slave/girlfriend" of someone who's several time zones away. Let's not spend any time attempting to puzzle out what it means, exactly, to be a "hardcore-artist". (A porn set-designer?) And let's try, very hard, not to conjure up a mental image of someone whose anus goes all the way to his core.
Hegelian?
As in, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel? The guy in my Philosophy 101 class? The philosopher whose writings are justly famous for being the most difficult to read? (No mean feat in philosophy texts, I assure you.)
I looked up "Hegelianism" and found this: "The monist, idealist philosophy of Hegel in which the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis is used as an analytic tool in order to approach a higher unity or a new thesis." Oh, well, that makes it all perfectly clear, doesn't it? Right. I think Hegel wrote that definition himself.
You know, I don't mean to be unduly critical of such an obvious heartfelt and sincere plea for my attention. But before I start firing off naked pictures of myself to this so-irresistable gentleman, can someone please tell me just one thing: What the hell does Hegel have to do with ass-fucking?
YOU LOOK HOTTER THAN HELL!!! (deleted) IS MY NAME AND I AM A BIG-FUN, ULTRA-KINKY, DOMINANT, HARDCORE-ARTIST, HEGELIAN, VEGETARIAN (vegan), MILLIONAIRE (self made) , ANAL TO THE CORE, COMMANDER AND FREAK. I OWN A GORGEOUS, DOORMAN BUILDING APARTMENT IN A REALLY NICE PART OF MANHATTAN. I AM LOOKING FOR A NEW ROOMATE/ANAL SEX-SLAVE/GIRLFRIEND AND I THINK THAT YOU LOOK HOTTER THAN HELL SO LET'S CHAT RIGHT NOW!!!!!! MY USER NAME ON THE YAHOO, THE MSN AND ON THE AOL INSTANT MESSENGERS IS (deleted). MY E-MAIL ADDRESS IS ASSFUCKER @(deleted).COM BUT IF YOU'RE GOING TO E-MAIL ME PLEASE INCLUDE A PICTURE OF YOURSELF (clothing is optional). MY PHONE NUMBER IS (212) (deleted) AND/OR YOU CAN GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NUMBER TOGETHER WITH SOME TIMING INSTRUCTIONS SO I CAN CALL YOU . I AM BURNING-HOT FOR WHAT YOU GOT!!!!!!
Okay, let's leave aside the all-caps, and the multiple exclamation points that hurt my eyes to look at. Let's leave aside the fact that he's writing to a woman who describes herself as a dominant, not a submissive, and who has given not even the slightest hint that she's looking to be the (shudder) "roommate/anal sex slave/girlfriend" of someone who's several time zones away. Let's not spend any time attempting to puzzle out what it means, exactly, to be a "hardcore-artist". (A porn set-designer?) And let's try, very hard, not to conjure up a mental image of someone whose anus goes all the way to his core.
Hegelian?
As in, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel? The guy in my Philosophy 101 class? The philosopher whose writings are justly famous for being the most difficult to read? (No mean feat in philosophy texts, I assure you.)
I looked up "Hegelianism" and found this: "The monist, idealist philosophy of Hegel in which the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis is used as an analytic tool in order to approach a higher unity or a new thesis." Oh, well, that makes it all perfectly clear, doesn't it? Right. I think Hegel wrote that definition himself.
You know, I don't mean to be unduly critical of such an obvious heartfelt and sincere plea for my attention. But before I start firing off naked pictures of myself to this so-irresistable gentleman, can someone please tell me just one thing: What the hell does Hegel have to do with ass-fucking?
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