TastyTrixie.com

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

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So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.

I know, we keep taking pictures in front of these blue velvet curtains and it’s probably getting old, but they always turn out so good with that classic background, especially with my blond hair and shiny red high heels!

If you like this, you should see me from the FRONT!

I’m not a big fan of long fingernails, but mine grow so quickly that I finally decided to take advantage of them; I got them all lacquered up and ran them through my hairy muff (we also shot a finger/nail fetishy hand job video that I think people will love). There’s something about naturally-long nails and a full bush that is so eighties and earlier, and I like that retro feel. Also, it’s hard enough to find porn with pubic hair these days, and a lot of it is more counter-culture than stereotypically feminine; a lot of our members LIKE those stereotypically feminine touches (nylons and such are kind of our specialty, after all) and old-fashioned beavers so I have a feeling they’ll enjoy the long nail stuff. Not that I plan to make it a habit, but every so often it’s probably a good thing to feature.

Long flame-red fingernails and hairy dirty blonde bush.

You can check out other people’s “Half Nekkid Thursday” pics for this week here (links are in the comments). If you like truly amateur / non-porn-pro stuff, you should definitely check it out. And if you want to see the full set of pictures click here for another free preview and links to join my site!

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Tomorrow (Friday) night I’ll be entertaining in a webcam show (Delia has one earlier), and Saturday we have shows scheduled too plus members-only chat so hope to see you there! We may also be doing pay-to-play shows on Streamate that members can spy on out of the corner of our voyeurcams.

I often fantasize about having a windowless closet with a narrow cozy built-in bunk to sleep and daydream on. Where nobody can see me, cut off and curtained-in by dark, heavy layers of hanging clothes. Or of being in a fantasy sleeper-car on a train on a comfortably narrow berth, dark wood paneling all around with chugging train sounds and gentle rocking. Or of being in an even-smaller, quieter version of this cabin, this time with a built-in little bed. No electricity, no webcams. Or of having my bookwormhole.

Sometimes I close my eyes in bed and time-travel back to the best drugless, not-sick sleep I ever had. I went on a women’s retreat with a bunch of gals I really didn’t know. Upon arrival I half-assedly engaged in the crafts they’d set out, then went to the cabin. There were a handful of these cabins on the lake, a BIG lake with no motorized boats allowed. QUIET. The other women complained about the cabins – the uncomfortable bunks something they were only tolerating for the coolness of the Retreat. In the middle of the day while the cabins were completely deserted I climbed onto my little wooden shelf, nestled down into Delia’s perfectly awesome sleeping bag, faced the wall, and fell asleep for hours. Undisturbed, unseen, far removed, not missed. I absented myself from everywhere else except my private cocoon.

I got up for a late dinner, and that night slept again in a completely heavy, renewing, needy, guiltless way. Even with the women sharing the cabin with me, I felt alone with my earplugs in and my lack of intimacy with them. There was a woman on the shelf above me, two shelves holding a woman-each perpendicular to my head, and two shelves parallel to me across a tiny open space. I was the first person to go to bed, and the last one to wake up. I liked having the shelves of women around me, being in a small hibernating hive, quietly together without any of them knowing me. Not talking.

I was reading Strangers on a Train that trip. I accidentally left it at the lodge so I never finished it, but it was good to have it when I did. A sugar daddy sent it to me off my wishlist so I feel a little guilty over losing it, but my possession of the memories of that trip are so clear the book is still one of my treasures even though I don’t have it anymore.

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The opportunity to rent a small cabin/shed space came up this week, synchronous to a handful of needs/desires/opportunities converging on me/us. It’s the kind of thing I would never seek out because I don’t think I deserve it, but under the circumstances and upon careful thought and discussion we both recognize we’re way overdue for what it will offer. It is just THE THING. It’s not in a remote location — in fact it’s on very shared space minutes away — but because we’ve been there and know the person really well who’s renting it I’m familiar with the setting, comfortable with the people who might be around, and aware of the benefits of its location. I haven’t actually been inside this cabin on the property, but I’m going to check it out soon.

Yes, I’m worried about how we’re going to afford it, but the with the house and the cabin/shed we’ll be paying the same amount we were paying for rent on individual houses before we moved into this place with its cheaper rent. I’m pretty sure it will be worth the relatively small investment in terms of providing space and opportunity for more creative content creation for our porn sites, too.

It’s not a done deal but if it works out I will be healthier with a space to be solitary and invisible, to write without obligation or interruption (I know, we don’t have kids and we work at home, but there are SO MANY INTERRUPTIONS mostly named THE INTERNET and webcams and too much space with all of it messy with cables and overwhelming work things everywhere), to sleep with complete cozy abandon, and most excitingly for our fans this might give us the kind of space and convenience we need to have more sexual adventures with other people. I will have someplace to go if Delia wants someone over for fooling around, and vice versa (though I mainly anticipate fooling around with mySELF, dreams, and pages and pages of watery blue words). We’ll have a convenient place to go away together, away from work. Because working at home with 24/7 voyeur cams on you means never getting a break unless you leave, and when we leave work I want to relax, not wander around a mall or drive hours to see a movie, or blow money to sit on uncomfortable chairs in a restaurant, or wander around in the woods being scared of cougars wondering how we’ll get home when our car breaks down (I still need to blog about that).

I’m also really excited about sharing the dreaminess of a little place like that and the things I do in it. But not having to share it WHILE I’m there.

I’m grateful to a number of people and strangely-timed messages for helping me decide to seize this opportunity. Two of those people are Heather and Libby, so thanks for the inspirations.

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Delia knows exactly what kind of thoughtful presents to give me; she brought home the most awesome present for me:

Scorpion gift box

Nevermind what’s inside . . . the box is super cool!

Opening my little bug box

Look at the shiny, iridescent beetle necklace my girlfriend got me!!

A symbol of true love!

There is a special reason why this pendant made Delia think of me; once upon a time I was a beetle breeder.

In elementary school I was always interested but totally lost and intimidated when teachers sprang special projects on us like building rockets, making volcanoes or constructing cameras out of milk cartons. It’s like I was always absent on the days that the secret instructions were handed out telling us to bring money for those brown motors or maybe it was always the OTHER class that got to do those things. I think the mealworm project studying beetle life cycles was one of those things the OTHER class got to do that I was totally jealous of.

So I did the mealworm project at home. Purely for fun.

My mom would never let me have a pet snake so I guess bugs were the next best thing. Not that I was ever totally unafraid of spiders and such, and I *hated* moths, but I was also fascinated by insects and all the little dark nooks and crannies and tunnels they could explore.

I consulted with my friend Ruth (she was in the OTHER class) to determine what supplies I needed: jars with airholes, oatmeal, apple chunks. I captured my own beetles from the base of our old apple tree in the backyard. It grossed my out a little, the way they skittered around so quickly, but I viewed overcoming this fear as a healthy challenge and soon grew to enjoy the tiny tickles of their little black legs scurrying up my arm.

I thought my ability to unflinchingly let bugs crawl on me was an enviable trait to cultivate that would impress people, like when nobody else in my class wanted to hold and stroke a small, velvety black slug during a field trip to the zoo. I don’t remember why the fuck this zookeeper was teaching us about slugs, but I do remember feeling that I’d found a niche where I could jump straight to the top. So what if I failed at rockets and wanted to cry on field day? I could save face by being an imperturbable slug and bug handler! Plus I kind of liked making girls scream and giggle.

In no time I was observing beetle life in all of its stages. The alien-looking pupae were the most disturbingly mesmerizing. I had to increase my containers to hold all of my grubs, pupae and mature beetles. I didn’t have enough covered jars so I just used different bowls from our kitchen and loosely covered them with plastic. Pretty soon the bedroom I shared with my sister started to smell like dusty oatmeal and decomposing apples, but in my role as omnipotent overlord of the beetles I could watch the beetles’ frenzied mating. They were exposed and vulnerable, driven by instinct to procreate in the open on beds of Quaker Oats.

They were also developing genetic defects because of inbreeding. This was a lesson the limited research of the OTHER class never got around to learning! I tried introducing new beetles to the population, but the rate of abnormalities increased. Soon there were albino beetles, pupae with black lesions, slow-moving beetles that failed to thrive and aggressive, kamikaze beetles hell-bent on escaping the bowls of oatmeal.

One day I looked at the bowls full of beetles spread all over my desk so close to our beds and was suddenly horrified by them. I could learn no more from them and they were on the verge of mutiny.

I had to get rid of them FAST before they overran the bowls and poured out in black waves (dotted with albino white) all over our bedroom. I pushed open a window and started flinging beetles and oatmeal outside. I couldn’t dump them quickly enough . . . they were trying to climb back up the wall outside to get in and seek revenge! I kept throwing bowl after bowl of beetles in various stages of life out of the window, shrieking when they clung to the bowl and started climbing up my arm. I cruelly flicked them off with my fingernails, trying to launch them as far away from the window as possible.

It would have been perfect if I could’ve graduated to snakes or lizards because then I could have fed my beetles to them instead of wasting them all like that. Once, when I was a little older, my mom got mad at me when I screamed after reaching into a bag of potatoes in our dark pantry and pulling out a few maggots on a damp spud. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to point out her hypocrisy, having the balls to chastise me for reacting to a handful of maggots on our food when she had a snake phobia precluding me from having the best pet of all: a beautiful legless reptile to hang around my neck while reading.

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Believe it or not, this is not my only story about bug-keeping. I’ll try to tell you about my other bug endeavors one of these days. . .

Would you be surprised to hear that I’m genuinely INSPIRED by some women’s personal stories of swinging and/or just seeing them fucking and sucking? Here are a few on my mind lately:

*Our friend Sabrina’s blog, Swinging in the Suburbs. I’ve mentioned it before, but she’s been posting more frequently lately and has the perfect balance of honest reflection and erotic titillation (hello bad boy cop story!), plus some provocative questions to ponder.

*Janet Mason’s site and blog: Janet Exposed. I’m not sure why I’ve never explored her site before – she’s been around online since 1998. Today I dove in and read a lot of stuff on her site and LOVE what she has to say.

Janet Mason loves big black cock!

Janet loves the way dark skin looks against her white skin.

I think reading her FAQs page is the reason why I got very excited about the fat, long cucumber Delia brought home from the store tonight. Yes, it’s a far cry from the giant black cocks Janet loves, but she got me so tuned into craving the phallus that I couldn’t help it. On top of that it’s good to read personal stories from women our age about the effects of stress on maintaining a sexy web presence for over a decade. I don’t mean that I’m happy other people have challenges, it’s just a relief and comfort to read people being honest about them.

*Angelique XXX (also a swinger): I just posted a guest gallery of her in my members-only area after finding some of her photos from her recent pregnancy.

Angelique XXX in tight white tank top & jeans.

Pregnant Angelique squeezing her swollen breasts.

I’ve always admired her French Canadian brand of beauty and was really happy to see the pregnant stuff after hearing awhile back that she initially hadn’t felt sexy pregnant. Again, it’s not that I celebrate the idea of her doing something that she didn’t enjoy; rather I enjoy thinking about the process she might have gone through to arrive at a place where she DID feel sexy (and of course the resulting porn is just HOT, especially to someone like myself who has always had the hots for her — seeing her transformed and expanded like that is erotic and potent to me).

I know, all of these words are very dorky and old-manlike, but they’re part of the truth. The part of the truth that just wants to share some hot mama porn without overthinking it to death.

It’s interesting how excited I get about these women’s portrayals of their sex lives even though I wouldn’t want to have their experiences myself. Not exactly, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever want to be “filled up” and “stretched” the way some chicks (like Janet) do (I find deep penetration painful; I come faster and more often fucking guys with small cocks), but I do relate completely to being extremely aroused just by the sight of a really REALLY big cock. I’ll never be someone who specifically seeks out “black cock” to fetishize (but yeah, I might have a tiny little bit of an agenda in wanting to have sex with black WOMEN). I don’t think I’ll ever want to invest the amount of time in arranging to meet and fuck so many people (and be all clean and gorgeous and multi-orgasmic while doing it) but I do want a little bit of what they have one of these days, for both Delia and I.

But mostly for Delia. I am more of the husband-with-the-camera type.

Honestly, I *have* meant to write more about the whole open-relationship/swinging thing and my idea of what kind of openness is desirable/ideal to me (and what kinds are NOT). And discuss the whole subject of having stunt cocks/guest “models” to fuck on camera. And what I liked about having multiple sex partners in the past. And why that’s not a big priority for me right now, but I anticipate will be again. Someday . . .

Last night my wanker played a major part in one of my dreams. We met in real life in a waterfront hotel room with furniture around the edges and a large amount of space in the middle. He was chuckling and delighted when I made him put on women’s clothes: shiny low-heeled patent pumps, almost-frumpy suiting (loose pencil skirts, blouses and polyester jackets) and wigs that all came from my own (imaginary) collection.

Crossdressing is not his thing, but he looked very cute, donning one outfit after another, handing money over to me with each costume change, and not at all as silly as I expected. I was surprised and excited both by how coyly he looked at me in his lady garb through the strands of fake hair hanging over his glasses AND by the stack of twenties growing fatter and fatter in my hand.

I walked across the room — quite a distance — to count the money with my back to him, looking over my shoulder to shoot smiles of encouragement at him. Just as I noticed with pleasure that he’d made a handwritten notation on each $20 bill — his name, the date, and a charming code indicating his humiliated status in relation to my status of financial and sexual dominance — the dangerous wharf gang boys were about to bust in to disrupt me taking control of two new modem/router combos I desperately needed for my networks. They intended to sell them on the black market. If they would rough me up for this pedestrian technology I knew they would rest this thick, hard wad of personalized cash from me in a second and I just couldn’t bear to part with it.

The hotel was located in the same building as a weird FedX/UPS warehouse. Before I knew it I was running through the warehouse between forklifts trying to sign shipping receipts and get my modem/router combos before the wharf gang boys did. I don’t know what happened to my money, but I think I saw my wanker walking away from me down a shady dirt road in a red skirt.

I’m guessing it was about $5,000 but I’m not sure since I’ve never held that many twenties in my hand before in my life and I couldn’t concentrate to finish counting them in my dream.

I contemplate which award is a bigger honor. If you were trying to impress people at a party, which award would you rather have bragging rights to?

A more detailed comparison of my girlfriend Delia & her website and chopped pressed meats, along with a fantasy of taking a woman-sized formed pâté to my class reunion. I discuss fillers, green business, added hormones and more.

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We have company for a few days, our dear friends Kris and BeerCanMan, but there is work being done, too. Or at least TALK of work being done. Well, I am officially doing work now actually, not that this is the work you WANT me to be doing (and I’m sure you’re with me and would rather I hadn’t devoted hours to bills and money-juggling today) and some of the work is very behind-the-scenes promotional stuff but anyway. More later!