What happened after this last night:
Today, where I was invited to be “normal”:
We watched Othello at Volunteer Park. As a pornographer subject to ridiculous censorship and potential federal lawsuits for doing things like silly taboo roleplays, it struck me as weird to see family-friendly domestic violence & delightfully-choreographed murder played out on a Sunday afternoon in a super public unbounded space with no trigger warnings and the word WHORE shouted over and over in the same park where you can get arrested for having consensual sex. There are some crazy inconsistencies in how we approach this shit (violence, sex and misogyny in pop culture vs. the sex trades). It’s always interesting to feel these weird tugs-of-war in my guts in response to what is and isn’t considered acceptable and healthy and lawful. Being a middle-aged sex worker and pornographer has kind of made me a conservative scold in a lot of ways. I don’t know how much of it comes from a simple resentful “NO FAIR!” mentality.
Bruise tonight from a sudden playful(?) snap attack last week:
I’m extremely insecure about my limited capacity to be “normal”. I can really only fake it for about forty-five highly-structured minutes, so after around ten sweaty sunbaked hours I’m pretty much ready to go for a brisk walk where I pull at my leash before being kenneled with a really thick soft-towel lining, a bowl of soft warm salty meats in gravy, a sedative and a blanket thrown over my cage. Preferably after some quiet reassuring cuddle time. I think it’s a lot worse after having been told by the last one that I’m totally boring for wanting to spend so much time in bed and he was sick of hearing me say that so many (normal) things are EXHAUSTING to me. Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if they weren’t completely understandable complaints any normal person would have about me.
I’m going to have to grow my bangs back out; I look way too much like my mom.
Looking like my mom is not a terrible thing, but it’s freaking me out that every time I see my reflection when passing a window or turn on my front-facing camera, I get a jolt like HOW DID MY MOM GET HERE? WHY IS MY MOM ON MY FACE? It’s fucking unnerving to keep seeing my mom instead of myself.
When I asked Delia how she feels about the bangs, she confessed she doesn’t like them on me. She said the hair is covering up my expressive face. Which honestly sounds like a reason to KEEP the bangs because I think it exhausts most people to see all of that melodrama playing out like I’m wearing my heart on my forehead and my heart is about to THROW UP.
On my walk to the library today EVERY SINGLE MAN I PASSED said hello to me, and I know it’s because the wind had blown all of my hair all over my face, adding just the correct amount of mystery and intrigue and youthful shaggy camouflage. Of course I only passed two men so my sample size may have been too small to draw any conclusions. It’s also possible they just wanted to alert me to their presence so I wouldn’t walk into them since it looked like I couldn’t see anything or had my head on backwards or something.
I also forgot how much I dislike having hair in my face. I’m one of those people who’s distracted by the sensation of AIR touching her skin, so having a fringe of hair tickling my cheeks and forehead while I’m trying to THINK sucks. I can’t even wear earrings or necklaces or headbands or hats (all things I LOVE) without my energy levels being depleted ~five times faster than (my) normal and often triggering a headache.
Yesterday we had that Color IQ thing done at Sephora and the girl put (light! moistorizing! barely-there!) makeup on me; within three minutes I wanted to shave off that heavy layer coating my skin. It felt like someone was pressing the bottom of a waxed frying pan on my face. So . . . yeah. Bangs be gone. I shouldn’t have them. Or maybe I’ll just keep doing what I have been: holding them out of the way with a nerdy baby barrette.
I’m sick of my armpit hair too, but reluctant for some reason to shave it off. I feel like I haven’t capitalized on it enough and should give it a little more time to thicken and darken and spread out now that my hormones are getting back to crazy after going off the pill at the beginning of the year.
*totally worth doing and the makeup folks there are not paid on commission so you don’t feel like you have to buy something to pay them back for their time and expertise. The girl who did us downtown was very knowledgeable and informative and patient. Sorry I can’t remember her name.
Delia is a 4Y06 and I’m a 1R05. I love having such neutral coloring and a more precise idea of what foundation to get so I won’t have to waste so much money to get something to help even things out when we’re shooting HD video stuff. I haven’t worn foundation for a shoot for YEARS because I think bad makeup looks worse than zits and blotchiness and prominent pores.
I would love to be blogging more. Having a very difficult time concentrating in our Seattle studio because I have no filters and am overstimulated from even limited socializing, so even when Delia tries her hardest to pussyfoot around me, I still know I’m not alone and can’t think straight. I can’t even relax enough to want to eat.
So instead . . . I need to fuck.
Am I relieved afterwards? Slightly.
Sorry this is shot & posted late because, well, THIS:
But this was a nice sunny day and the taxes got done and mailed (though not fully paid) and I’m revisiting a productivity tool especially recommended for folks with Attention Deficit Disorder (wish I could find the useful web page I got it from years ago) that sort of worked for me before:
Of course, I’ve got WAY too much to do to explain how the system works, but as you can see . . . it involves post-it notes. 😉
So Delia‘s driving us to get food and chuckles at something as we round a corner.
me: WHAT’S FUNNY? WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? WHAT DID I MISS?!?
Delia: Ohhhh . . . a crow. . . . Taking a bath.
me: ahhhhh . . . I didn’t get to see that crow.
. . . Four and a half seconds later Delia suddenly swerves the car into a blackberry bush so the vines hit the windshield in front of and next to my face.
me: AGGHHHHHHH!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!
::Delia chuckles some more::
me: So what was funnier to you: crow taking a bath or me flinching at blackberry bush?
Delia, still chuckling: You flinching. Definitely.
It’s a grey afternoon, above and on my body. The vine maple behind me likes it:
I’m wearing my new cozy birthday-present sweats that stevi got me – thank you for picking out the most unglamorous thing on my wishlist that I really really needed!
These kinds of sweat-pants are part of my daily do-everything uniform and I think people in town will be glad I have a pair now that doesn’t include a hole in the crotch. Also: they’re super soft inside!
Note: I’m sorry that I haven’t made a blog entry and/or posted pics of everything people have gifted me – it’s not something I promise to do, but it IS something I *like* to do.
If I haven’t gotten around to you or one/some of the things you’ve lavished me with, it’s not because I don’t appreciate it or you. It’s also not because I tackle them in a prioritized/ranked list of who sent the bestest or most expensive present or is most-loved. It *is* often because I have grand (sometimes undoable) plans to take pictures and/or write something that will really do the goodies justice, and that takes time & resources I rarely have right away upon receipt. Sometimes it even depends on the weather. Example: Shrdlu bought me an awesome pair of coveralls – I love them BIG TIME. I love them SO MUCH I want any/all pictures I take wearing them to be super duper awesome, which requires the right place, the right time, and the right complimentary accoutrements. That’s kind of ridiculous, but that’s who I am. There are gifts that wound up in pictures in my members-only area many months and even YEARS after I received them. I think it’s been at least a year since I got the coveralls, and many other fine things.
I’m sorry to say that there are also many gifts people have sent me that I’ve loved very much and never acknowledged at all. But there are ZERO gifts I’ve gotten that didn’t touch me or make me feel special or that I just tossed to the side as though they were meaningless or without value (though if I were more “famous” and got more gifts, I can imagine it becoming that way). I’m sorry if you’ve sent me something and you wound up feeling that way; I know that is disappointing even if you weren’t asking for or expecting anything in return. It might not seem like it, but I do know what that feels like!
I often contemplate what the best “policy” is on gifts and how best to communicate it. I haven’t come up with a perfect solution, but it’s a part of life, sex work, modes of expression, and the human experience in general that I’m endlessly fascinated by. I don’t think there’s a perfect or guaranteed-emotionally-safe-and-rewarding-and-realistic-for-everybody approach to giving and receiving gifts. Even if there were, I think you’d have to make it your full-time job to perfectly execute it (and some people DO, and my hat goes off to them).
I know that it’s impolite/bad form to take over a year (or sometimes even YEARS) to thank somebody. I also know I didn’t even call my mom on Mother’s Day (or SINCE then, even) or get her anything so in that regard and with work in general (oh my god how outdated is SpyOnUs.com?!? etc. to infinity), I do have to prioritize and most things I want to or should do can’t possibly make it onto my TOP priority for each day list.
I also know that I’ve done my best (and will keep trying to do better) to not promise to do things or lead people to expect things I can’t deliver. And I cringe inside at things I *have* promised or led people to look forward to and didn’t/haven’t delivered. Not because I wasn’t/am not sincere, but because I am over-enthusiastic and unrealistic about how much time and brains and ability I do/don’t have (and how much time in a day/week needs to be devoted to life-and-sanity-maintenance endeavors), so some stuff gets squeezed out. If I forget something I said I wanted to do, it’s not because I didn’t/don’t want to do it, it’s because it got elbowed into the sidelines by a constantly-refreshing jumble of tons and tons of things I want to do. And that should be part of why you like me in the first place!!
One of my special traits is that I actually DO pull out and use the ideas and stuff and to-do’s I hoard. I maintain internal enthusiasm and love (and guilt and anxiety) for a fuck ton of stuff and people and concepts. I am pretty inaccessible and appear unresponsive and to not be making progress by normal social terms, but I have and continue to mine resources (both tangible and internal ones).
It’s hard to predict when they’ll materialize, but I press and poop out that mined stuff into little golden nuggets of variable value from time to time that would have been lost or not even processed by most people’s machines. Their wonderfully efficient, productive, reliable machines.
At the end of my life, I’d love to have a time-lapse movie depicting the conveyor belt at the end of my brain’s assembly line. There are huge spans of time where the belt just loops and loops and loops with no product being conveyed (and maybe you get glimpses of me and my crazed clones building and jamming up and scratching our heads looking at and feeding materials into and retooling all the other machines in the plant), but in totally unpredictable fashions, little things plop out. Made out of funny stuff where I’ve synthesized things other people don’t usually mix together. Usually for good reason, and the plops on the conveyor belt aren’t in a form that’s suitable for shipment.
IT’S HARD TO FIND THINGS IN MY WAREHOUSE but there’s a lot of variety in there. Not enough stock to meet demand when demand arises (also unpredictably), though (plus I forget to even go in there because I have MACHINES to attend to and INGREDIENTS to mix and sometimes I just stand there and look at all of the parts spinning or get sidetracked making minute adjustments). But I like to think that if I’m lucky enough to keep going, that some interesting stuff will plop out onto the conveyor belt at the end of my line. I totally like the movies where everything runs smoothly on the line and everything that plops out is perfect and uniformly made exactly to spec. But I think it would be fun to watch movies like mine, too. And actually in my movie if you put it all on the line, we’re plopping out some lumpy cookies and colored doohickies on a pretty regular basis, too. AND MY SHIT IS RUNNING ALL NIGHT, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK – there’s always someone in there working, something at least being tinkered with, some machines going.
I’m actually really really disappointed that I can’t see this movie of my life and other’s lives. I’m also kind of embarrassed wondering what this blog entry would look like on the line and if Quality Control would just roll her eyes, chuck it, and resume filing her nails and snapping her gum waiting for the next random gooey turd or stale fortuneless glitter-cookie to be transmitted via dull black rubber to her in a week or three months. I would totally run down there right now and tell her it was a mistake so sorry still fine tuning didn’t know she was down here “you should clock out and take a day off, honey” while I fished it out of the garbage with tongs and put it into a shoebox.
I also think if you were watching this/my assembly line movie you wouldn’t fuck with me or interfere with my machines or ask me silly questions like “when will it be done” or “how does it all work” when you could see with your own eyes that this shit is custom and complex. AND I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO HEAR YOU ANYWAY. And some of the machines are held together with rubber bands and shoelaces – if you distract me with some dumbass advice about how I could get it all to conform to normal factory standards, sharp pieces of metal are liable to hurtle out and shave off your face before I even got done saying, “are you fucking kidding me?!”.
That’s okay if you can’t answer with your face shaved off like that. It was a rhetorical question, anyway.