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Archive for April, 2009

Have you been waiting for hot stories about our trip to Portland? While I did feel like I was in a perpetual state of arousal (shooting Delia always does that to me), the most action I got was from listening to the people fucking in the room next to ours.

At first I was nervous when they arrived while we were dirty-talking during a Delia-as-schoolgirl video and felt like they and the bellboy must have heard everything we were saying. I imagined the words “slut” and “cum” and “stop teasing me and show me what you’ve got in your panties!” echoing down the hallway.

Half an hour later I realized it was all good and maybe an appreciated dose of inspiration when I heard what sounded like crying on the other side of the wall. Of course, being the weird little voyeur I am, I hopped out of bed and ran to the wall to listen to a chick’s rhythmic whimpers and a man moaning quietly. And “oh yeah, yeah”s.

The next day we wound up leaving our rooms at the same time they did. For some reason I’d imagined the woman was going to be an Asian girl in her early twenties — I pictured her looking like Sierra on Dollhouse and the guy fucking her as a puffy white guy in his early thirties. Of course they didn’t look like that at all. They were about five years older than we are, the woman short with dark curly hair and sharp, smart features and the guy tall and dopey with shaggy hair and a bandana.

It’s weird how we populate our default images of “couples who enjoy fucking”; I’d never have conjured those two up in my imagination, but seeing them it did make sense. It was also weird riding ten flights down in the elevator with them, never acknowledging how we’d heard each other’s intimate moments. I know it wasn’t the kinkiest thing they’d done and it wasn’t the kinkiest thing we’ve done, but still . . . it seems pretty kinky the way people check into hotel rooms and fuck in them and hear each other fucking in them just a few feet away, overlapping sex sounds and depositing DNA in all sorts of places that housekeeping might miss. All those boxes of hotel rooms and all the cum dumped in them by strangers. There were visible food stains on our comforter — it looked like barbecue sauce — and I can’t help thinking about all of the remnants of human fluids from total strangers inhabiting the room. Layers and layers of spunk.

You never hear people acknowledge this weirdness of paying money to sleep and fuck where thousands of other people have fucked and jacked off. I find that very bizarre in a country where people are obsessed with sanitizing everything and showering once or twice or three times a day, but they think going to a nice hotel is like sitting in the lap of luxury instead of a germ and sperm depository. Like the people next door — before they fucked, one or both of them took a shower. To be clean for fucking and letting total strangers listen in. It’s not that I personally think hotels are disgusting cesspools of nastiness — I realize the bedding and towels in nicer establishments are hypercleansed for our protection and I embrace germs up to a certain point — I just think the double standards are weird with so many people being OCD about supercleaning everything and protecting themselves from germs that they never talk about hotel rooms as cum dumps.

Do you really think they sanitize the television remotes and all the little things you touch that traveling businessmen sully with semen? And how about all of those decorator pillows (especially in bed and breakfasts) that you yourself have stuffed under your bare ass during or after a fuck? Am I the only one and other people just don’t fuck in bed and breakfasts or make sure to say, “no honey, not on the decorator pillow — it will be hard for them to wash”? Personally I just think, “I wonder how many other people have gotten their fluids on this thing with the brocade upholstery.” Other times I just count all the stains that remain, visible to the naked eye, like the semi-washed-out spots of blood on the bedspread at the LAST place we stayed and the crusty spots on the carpet. Or how about the blood on this wooden toilet seat (which DID totally gross me out)?

On top of the illusion of cleanliness, I’m fascinated by the illusions we have of privacy, or maybe the willingness Americans have to accept and embrace a total LACK of privacy not just in hotels but in general. I knew exactly when the people in the room next door woke up — I could hear him draw up the mechanical shades and give her a wake-up spanking. Why don’t we demand thicker walls? I’ll never understand that. And security recording camera feeds of the four of us in the elevator together, pretending we didn’t know how we used each other’s genitals the night before.

I wonder how the couple next door expected us to look and if they were surprised by the reality of us.

*****

Unfortunately our friend Krissy came down with a sore throat last week so we’ve postponed Delia’s shoot with her. It will probably be better on a longer trip anyway. I do not understand how people can travel and shoot and get to appointments on time and tan and get all their nails and hair done AND visit with friends and go out and have fun — we didn’t do anything except walk around Portland and try to find reasonably-priced yet delicious places to eat (we failed most days, except I did love a certain sandwich shop in an office building with a delightfully surly cashier).

I also spent an extended amount of time lurking in the aisles of Rite Aid eavesdropping on a not-at-ALL-surly cashier being extraordinarily kind for at least ten minutes to a mentally-ill homeless woman who had a lot of questions that weren’t altogether unreasonable:

Sir? Listen, sir — you can probably tell I’m missing a lot of teeth and my mouth hurts . . . do you think this food is soft? Because that’s a lot of money and I’ll just be throwing it away if I can’t eat it because it’s too hard . . .

The guy seriously fondled the bag she handed to him and tried to explain that he couldn’t make that determination because it was entirely subjective. She also had a lot of questions about pickles and cucumbers and tried to engage the man behind the counter in that age-old debate pitting sweet pickles against dill. It was heartwarming. Unfortunately I missed out on seeing someone steal a couple cases of beer the next day — Delia was the only one who got to enjoy that scene.

Anyway, we had great weather for traveling, bought some new ponytail-holders and shot some good content. We did not go to Powell’s or down the street to Mary’s or visit any friends or enter any sensory deprivation tanks, though. Maybe next time.

*****

Here’s Delia’s post with sample images from our little trip.

Call me superficial, but coming home with much-blonder hair meant so much to me – it boosted my mood and ego a billion points. Our hair-chick ratted and teased it to be tall on top because she has a Rock of Love fetish, so to take advantage of it we did a slutty faux-schoolgirl shoot and I was too in love with myself to stop there, so I snagged some webcam shots:

Just the day before this I went to the mall and wandered around by myself while Delia got a laser treatment. I was in my usual comfortable-slob mode wearing a pair of old black sweats that were falling down (the drawstring broke a long time ago so I try to hold it together by wadding the waist up in front and whipping a ponytail-holder around that wad to cinch it up) so it looked like I had shit in my drawers, nerdy silver tennis shoes, and an old-lady baby-blue polar fleece ladies jacket from LL Bean that was a Christmas present from Delia’s mom a few years ago. I looked so old and so tired and so washed out and I felt that way, too. Like I should apologize for looking so shitty.

I had that quintessential “she’s given up on herself” look. Theoretically I HATE that criticism and don’t care what I look like which is part of why I became a webwhore in the first place; since I rarely feel motivated to dress up and be seen, the thought of being paid to do it and have a visual record of the times I did appealed to me. I’d be off the hook and could always point to those pictures as proof that I CAN look good if I WANT to and have already DONE that. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Why do it EVERY DAY? Of course, there’s a slight flaw in my logic since we broadcast spycams and most people paying to see them would like me to look sexy on them all of the time, or at least more often than I do, but whatever. I walked around the mall looking from a respectful distance at clothes and makeup and other ways to improve my appearance, feeling like I wasn’t worthy or capable of asking to touch anything expensive and beautiful enough to make a significant change.

The point is that I looked blah and yucky and didn’t feel good about it at all. No, that’s not the point. The POINT is in the contrast between how I felt that day and the next, when I came home with my hair really blonde and stood in front of the mirror and drew outside of the lines of my lips and filled them in with thick, gooey gloss and frosty highlights and brushed on dark eyeshadow and put on fake lashes.

I felt like magic. Like this is why people want to look like porn stars. Because (sometimes?) it feels a lot better than looking like muted, sloppy shit. And it doesn’t matter if I just applied a boundary of fakeness between the plain foundation of myself and what people see, because it felt best when I was the only one looking at myself there in the bathroom mirror or taking self-absorbed pictures of myself.

Why am I hiding the plain truth under all of this bullshit self-criticism and analysis? All I’m trying to say is that looking in the mirror and seeing yourself looking like a hot fucking slut feels VASTLY SUPERIOR to slouching around feeling like an unattractive slob. It’s inconvenient, but true. No matter how much I wish my protestations that looking good is a waste of my time and money were true, THEY AREN’T.

It’s fucking biology that we want people to want to fuck us on sight, that we want people to be jealous of us, that we want people’s eyes to light up when they see us, that we want to advertise our fantastic genes (or that we want to look better than our average ones). If you’re a woman (who isn’t still shattered by one or more people hurting you because you looked like hot sex and they took it from you) some part of you wants people to look at you with desire and appreciation. Even when it annoys me to be gawked at, it charges my fucking battery. It’s absolutely electric.

You want to look so good that you can control a man into paying for dinner just to get a whiff of your hair and stare at your cleavage, that you can render him insensible to paying for everything you need to keep looking so good — to maintain your value and keep commanding higher and higher prices — shoes that make your feet arch and sparkly jewelry accentuating all your graceful, slender parts and tight pants and shiny hair and fat, pouting lips and pampering spa treatments performed by undemanding female hands that MIGHT just render you pliant enough to be amenable to saying “thank you” with your soft body. It’s an expensive art and time-consuming work to always look like a shiny, animated toy cocksucker and I’ve never mastered it or even kidded myself that I could compete on that level.

The older I get, the rarer and more exciting it is when I get a taste of what it feels like to BE hot sex. Normally I am the one LOOKING at one of the shiny girls, simply appreciating how they glitter from head to toe, putting so much time and money into tanning, waxing, accessorizing, and accentuating every single morsel of their bodies. Hoping that someone admires and respects it enough to make it worth their while, constantly forgetting that there are intrinsic rewards to looking like honey come to life and taking soft female form and maybe that is enough for them.

My head and body have been so fucked up and bloated and distorted off and on for so many years that now, getting it back on track, I’m at an age where I don’t take it for granted anymore that tomorrow I could be riding some strange boy’s cock and having him looking up at me in complete amazement and disbelief, moaning about how he can’t believe he’s really fucking me. That might never happen again, which is fine, but it would still be nice to know that it’s POSSIBLE even if I don’t want to act on it (it actually feels especially powerful knowing I probably won’t). How many years do I have left where I’ll be ABLE to turn heads in public? You don’t have to be a great beauty to make that happen. Do I really want to waste those opportunities playing the invisible slob?

It’s disgusting to admit, but when I pass a mirrored column in a mall I want to make myself wet looking at myself. When I walk by a shiny window of a restaurant I want to see my own reflection on top of people who are WATCHING me and not be able to resist smiling, knowing that they are delighted and mesmerized by what they see. ANY woman can manage if she has time and the desire to advertise herself using resources like bleached hair and juicy lip stains and clothes that highlight your best bounce, wiggle or stride. Resources she can extract from men. It’s the OTHER circle of life. It might be a totally fucked up stereotype of gender roles, something progressive men and women want to move away from (or better, switch up for fun — I do fantasize about being a sugar mama to young women and sometimes men), but sometimes I can’t help celebrating it and wanting to WIN at it and enjoy the cheap/expensive thrill of it.

Attempting it often feels awkward and unnatural and hardly-worth-it, but when it works the rewards feed some primal need in me that are so close to my core I can’t dismiss them as fake or stupid or unhealthy. There is no pretending we can evolve past this.

Note: originally this entry included more reflection and deeper insight on where my confli
cted feelings about making myself up to look “sexy” (or at least presentable) in public (and in general) might have come from but it turned into a total downer so maybe I’ll save that for another time. I feel like I should apologize for my undying fascination with mulling over these matters and warn you that they don’t end here and I can’t unwaveringly commit to any one perspective on them.

I’m already totally embarrassed by this post even though the whole point of it is not to be.

GROSS.

We’re getting ready to spend a couple of nights shooting in one of our favorite local places so our spycams at home will be mostly-dead except when we come home to let the dog out, pick up things we forgot, etc.

I made an appointment for next week to make my hair blonde FOR REAL and this time I will leave no room for any misinterpretation. EVERY SINGLE STRAND OF HAIR ON MY HEAD MUST BE BLONDE. Not all the same shade, but all unambiguously blonde.

The week after that we’re going to be gone for four days traveling, shooting, seeing Delia’s doctor, and maybe taking a day off for ourselves, too. We’re only making plans to see one person while we’re gone, someone we’re shooting with/haven’t shot with before. I have a hard time balancing socializing, shooting, and staying sane so usually I sacrifice the socializing when I know I can’t handle it all. I honestly do not understand how other people are able to squeeze in so much time with other people. It’s beyond me, but still I hate all the missed opportunities to see people we like/love.

I’m reserving my scanty social juices for two things over the next six weeks or so: spending time with AmberLily and BigD before they move away from us, and spending time with family when my second nephew is born next month (during an extremely inopportune time; the H00d Canal Bridg3 will be closed, severing our most direct route to Seattle.

Between that and the usual stuff, I’ll try to post more interesting blog entries. For really real!

Here it is (kinda)! Wider and fleshier in 2009.

The main thing I want to point out is in the left sidebar: a contact form for bloggers who want to exchange links (or who’ve been linking to me forever and want to bring it to my attention). I know my blogroll is outdated and there are tons of people who are linking to me (or were, until they gave up on me) but since I so rarely check my stats (and the site I used for years to track stats took a dive last year so I kind of gave up completely at that point) I just don’t know about it. Now I have a more systematic way of being notified and following through. I hope my bloggy colleagues will make use of it!

I still have a work to do (updating the FAQs, adding and subtracting links, updating the blogroll, etc.), the code is REALLY ugly (I don’t have any plans to fix that any time soon), and it doesn’t look at all “web 2.0″, but all I care about is that it works and is slight improvement over the old blue blog. I actually REALLY hate three column layouts with the content in the middle because I’m totally distracted by the shit in the sidebars. Unfortunately I didn’t want to spend more than eight hours on this so I just kept it simple and assumed most people aren’t as easily distracted as I am (and most people are using feedreaders now anyway – maybe).

After I clean this up some more I need to move onto redesigning the whole free area of my site. I’m feeling overwhelmed by the task(s), but it has to be done. I might end up going with A LOT of white space which will be effective for surfers and a good challenge for me (should be simpler, but with my tendency to stack one mess on top of another, maybe not).

There’s so much outdated & missing stuff here on my blog, I’m WAY overdue to redesign it, or at least spiff it up a little. So that’s what I’m working on today (and possibly tomorrow and ummm . . . whenever).

Because of the half-assed and amateurish ways I’m doing it, you might see little changes happening, shit being shifted/fucked up, incomplete crap, swearing in the sidebars, and more. Or less. For a while. Please bear with me.

If you have suggestions for things I should add/fix, please comment (already on the list are: link to “home” page, updated faq’s, link exchange form for fellow bloggers, slow-loading stuff like twitter in a sidebar to the RIGHT, etc.). I’m not really trying to do anything fancy at this point nor do I want to switch this particular blog to wordpress so that does limit me in many ways (categories/tags will continue to suck ass, etc.)

Thanks for your patience with me.

The other day I treated myself to a trip to the spa as a reward for being 33% of the way to my June 1st weight loss goal. I decided to get a body wrap for health reasons (it helps you detox) and out of curiosity since I’d never done it.

I knew going into it that I *might* really hate being wrapped up like a mummy and mostly-immobilized for forty minutes, but I also knew I *might* really enjoy it and, at the very least, could endure it without feeling as though I’d been placed in a straitjacket.

By the time my appointment rolled around at 4 pm I’d been soaking, sweating, reading, and steaming at the spa since 10 am (I should’ve made my body wrap & massage appointment beforehand but was afraid to in case I couldn’t figure out how to pay for it or wanted to do something else instead so 4 pm was the earliest they could get me in) and was GIDDY with anticipation.

The girl explained what was in the mud (mugwort, seaweed and a bunch of other stuff I can’t recall), instructed me to disrobe and sit on the massage table (on top of a sheet of plastic on top of a metallic emergency blanket on top of MORE blankets) with my back to her. She warned me to expect the mud to be fairly “warm” because it cools off so quickly, then she started slathering hot goop on my shoulders, back, and arms. She had me lie down after that so she could apply it to the rest of my body. Right before she smeared it on my boobs, she prepared me to anticipate the touch in a nursey-kindergarten voice: I’ll just apply some to your breasts now . . . (circle, circle).

After she got it all over me except RIGHT between my legs, the soles of my feet and my face, she closed the plastic around me, then the reflective blanket, then the other blankets and towels until I was thoroughly cocooned with only my head sticking out. She asked if I wanted a pillow or for her to bring water or tea when she came back to check on me in ten minutes. Then she turned out the lights (as I requested) and left me alone in the dark, unable to move. AND TRAPPED WITH A TERRIBLE CD OF ROMANTIC/NEW-AGEY GUITAR MUSIC CRAP.

The first ten minutes were pleasant (except for the hideous music). I didn’t even attempt to move, afraid I would make myself itchy and be unable to scratch myself. I could see how easily I could become panicked if the slightest carnival-ride twist had been added to it (it WAS April Fool’s Day, after all). Like if she’d laughed maniacally before she left and I could hear the door being locked from the outside. Or if weird scrubby things began to descend from the ceiling towards me. Or if the walls just started shrinking inwards. I kept my eyes closed JUST IN CASE so I wouldn’t have to see anything like that happening. Or if a man with a bunch of surgical tools were to simply walk in, bend over my face and start whispering at me you can’t move you can’t move you can’t get away from me or my tools! and just put his hands heavily on my chest.

So yeah . . . this might help explain to you PART of why I’m not interested in being bound. Because it would be way too fucking easy for someone to scare me psycho. I can happily lie motionless for hours, but FORCE me to — restrict my mobility — and I might freak the fuck out. Part of me can appreciate the appeal, imagine experimenting with it under very specific conditions, and be tempted by the psychological challenge of it and another part of me just thinks the (psychological) risk is not at all worth the scariness. I feel the same way about LSD. It sounds really interesting but I think I might be a little too vulnerable to bad side effects. The body wrap at the women-only spa is about as far as I can go.

One time I did let someone bind my hands behind my back with his leather belt (a natural outgrowth to him of my spanking and man’s-leather-belt fetish, but to me it was just not the direction I was interested in going once I was face down on his bed — it was crazily exciting, but the fear of having my arms locked behind me that way and of him possibly being able to put his weight on me and smother me was just too fucking freaky for me and I begged for mercy so it didn’t last long. I was far more interested in being whipped with the belt (but not to the point of bruising or bleeding), but he wasn’t so much into that so that little experiment didn’t last very long. I know that some of you are thinking I just didn’t do it with the RIGHT person, someone I TRUST. But the point is a) my imagination doesn’t trust ANYBODY, and b) testing my boundaries on this is NOT as important to me as preserving them. For a whole lot of reasons. Thinking about it is provocative, but I am (and always have been) more interested in having force applied to me in a psychological way (and even more so applying it to others) in ridiculous role plays. I like being bound by RULES and structure. I like things that happen inside my HEAD way more than things that happen to my body. Or maybe I’m just lazy. I don’t know. Woops. Now that I’ve written this I can recall a few different instances where I’ve been bound in different ways and liked it. Hmmmm . . . still, not exactly my “thing”.

Back to the spa.

The first time the girl came in to check on me she brought me tea with a straw that she lowered to my mouth. I wasn’t prepared for it and giggled because THAT is totally hot to me, being treated like an invalid. I wasn’t prepared and dribbled tea down the side of my face, then I got her to change the CD to a variety of new agey music I enjoy — Shamanic Dreams or something like that. She asked if the level of heat was okay (yes – warm and cozy) and again if I wanted a pillow (this time? yes).

When she left I decided to try to sleep since I’d only gotten three hours the night before. And sleep I did, for a few minutes. Let me tell you, it was NOT pleasant waking up mummified, sweating like a pig in a strange dark room with weird pagan drum music going on. I decided not to go to sleep again and couldn’t wait for her to come back. When she did I asked for the heat to be turned down. She did, and blotted the sweat from my forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth (yummmmm . . . more pampered-invalid feelings). I wanted to ask her if anybody had ever lost control of their bowels while getting a wrap but decided against it, fearing she’d think I was planning something disgusting. Still, the thought was entertaining. I know SOMEONE, somewhere has done that on accident or on purpose, and I’d really love to hear about it.

Note: I’m far more likely to experiment with and enjoy shitting in a warm, plastic-wrapped bed than with being tied up. Just an FYI. I don’t PLAN on doing either, but a warm bed of crap seriously sounds more fun to me than letting someone tie me up. Maybe I’m just a loner with a short attention span, though, and wallowing in my own poop is an experience I could live fully in five to ten minutes by myself whereas the whole bondage scene requires time and at least one other person. I guess there are some things I could do to myself, but again, I’m too lazy and disinterested for that. Plus, scat is just a whole lot edgier than bondage and I like the idea of being able to make people think by gleefully confessing I’ve shat myself for the pure, HAMRLESS fun of it. It’s stupid, but poop is so much more taboo (and illegal/obscene) than bondage these days. Again, I HAVE NO PLANS TO DO THAT. I’m just comparing/contrasting. For fun.

Anyway, I survived the last twenty minutes without losing my mind, going back and forth between feeling blissed-out and on-the-verge of screaming, “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!” I kept reminding myself of what good “exercise” it was for me and how much healthier I’d be afterwards. I worried that I’d be so sick of lying there that I wouldn’t enjoy my massage afterwards (but it actually worked the other way, mad
e the massage seem longer and way better). Basically I endured the procedure a little bit more than I enjoyed it. If I get a body wrap again I will definitely bring my own cd with guided meditations or something so my mind won’t wander to torture scenes.

Finally she came in to unwrap me and I went down the hall naked to the shower with the glass-door making my clean-up efforts visible to anyone who walked by. I decided to pee in the shower instead of wasting my massage time putting on a robe and traipsing down to the restroom, but I worried about it, wondering how many other people do/don’t pee in the post-wrap shower, worrying that there’d be some way they’d know I did and would talk about that disgusting customer with the long toenails who peed in the shower. Silly fears, but still. I have them. Which goes to show you just how very VERY far away I am from ever pooping in a plastic-wrap cocoon.

*****

After the anxiety of the day BEFORE the spa and the super-extended stay I had there, I was in recovery mode all day yesterday, totally drained and exhausted and verging on a big fat headache. If you’ve never gotten body work, steamed, soaked, detoxed, etc. then you probably thing I sound like a fucking crybaby asshole, complaining about how TIRED I am after spending a day doing something that sounds like pure luxury to most Americans but that shit is MEDICINE. My throat and eyes burn after all the gunk inside me is dislodged and stirred up and swirled around and sucked out. It feels like preparation to go into hibernation, like the final step in this cleansing/healing process is to go into an induced coma for two days.

The spa experience is totally my cup of tea, though. The front desk lady seemed to think I was crazy for wanting to stay there for more than eight hours, but since I go so rarely it hardly seems excessive. It takes me awhile to really turn my brain off and melt into it, so that cuts down on the time I’m really benefiting from it, but it’s exactly my idea of the perfect mini-vacation. Alone, not talking to anybody, with scads of naked ladies walking around, walking from one hot room to another, from one pool to another, being ministered to by talented, paid hands, smelling good things, and trying to become invisible to myself.