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Taken after my shower today, here are some of the red welts and engravings and rashy areas that appear on me for seemingly no reason:

In the past couple of years my skin has become very . . . expressive.  To the point of being really inexplicably and sometimes unbearably itchy and rashy and/or just freaking out when hot water touches it (not itchy or painful, just looks like I’ve been scratched and/or rubbed in places I can’t even REACH to have accidentally sandpapered myself or scraped nails across my skin).

I’ve eliminated some of the possible triggers, but have wasted a neurotic amount of time googling stuff like dermatographic urticaria. I think it’s like a mild version of that, so unfortunately I don’t have that exciting ability to make myself look scarified with lettering just by gently writing words across my body, but the way I look sometimes reminds me of Michelle Remembers, and how the trauma of satanic ritual abuse made her body recall these events years later with physical manifestations, such as clearly(!) visible welts in the shape of forked devil tails on her skin or whatever.

I read that book on a field trip to the Seattle Public Library that our English teacher took us on in high school, hoping to expand our small-town horizons. Obviously he did not succeed in my case, since I was magically drawn STRAIGHT to this sensational and informative book (and a homeless dude with a porn magazine “hidden” in the center of a more respectable book). I have no idea what we were really there for, but maybe I should make up some stories about some repressed memories that my body is trying to tell me about.

Like maybe I was kidnapped as a child and held for a year by a bizarre, EXTREMELY WEALTHY couple who gave me a whole closet full of tutus in every color imaginable and let me SLEEP in them.

Baby blue, lilac, bubblegum pink, fuschia, soft pastel princess pink. White satin with rhinestones, matte white, white satin WITHOUT rhinestones. Emerald green with sparkly green beads and glossy black bows.

After so many days, weeks and months of wearing and lying upon flipped-up tulle skirts and shiny, scratchy little sequins, it did in fact irritate my skin. That’s why I hate musicals so much but somehow know all their words. You should have seen me in Safeway last night when Whatever Lola Wants came on . . . I immediately started sashaying and singing along. And don’t think I didn’t also know the words to that Phantom of the Opera number that came on right afterwards. It hurts me, but I can’t stop myself.

Someday my abductors’ names will appear in a wedding invitation font on my back and I’ll be able to find and blackmail them into paying me large sums of money for not sending those tutus along when they returned me to my parents. All because I cried that one time at the pageant and ripped off one of my false eyelashes. Of course I’ve repressed these memories, but my body will never forget the sensation of 24/7 tulle.

*****

Here’s an example (also from today) of the more irritating itchy belly-rash I get:

Last week I got it on my left forearm. Just as a way of saying, “I couldn’t possibly be more localized and seemingly random!”

It’s fucking bullshit, or maybe not always because a lot of times it happens when my body gets really hot from excitement. Not sexual excitement, but emotional: frustration, agitation, anxiety, stress, over-enthusiasm, manic thinking, etc. And maybe from eating too much carbs and simple sugars. I don’t really fucking know. But I should stop fantasizing about a closet full of tutus and passing out with cake batter all over my face because it’s really getting me wound up.

This blooper Heather Corinna shot totally epitomizes who I am – who I feel myself to be at my best and worst and truest:

Institution escapee Trixie used bedsheet to sneak out!

Lest you think Heather only takes pictures of me acting wacky, here is another of My Favorite Pictures EVER that she photographed:

A most beautiful image of me staring into an utopian FEWTCHA!!

That one also feels like my truest self.

Oh my shiny spaceships and farting dualities, am I not a study in contradictions?!? Being a webwhore is such sweet narcissism!

So! Tomorrow I’m taking a day off for myself and spending most of it alone. I am not going to let Solstice go the way of May Day and Easter when I should never have looked at the internet at all, so if you see me approaching any of our computers tomorrow, you’re allowed to send me forty lashes by email, okay?

My plan is to take one or two walks and to read some books. Maybe I shouldn’t be throwing bookmarks between any new covers, but I did just begin a couple more good ones. I look forward to at least partially consuming one or both of these tomorrow: The Scar (thanks nugget!) and Stolen World: a Tale of Reptiles, Smugglers, and Skulduggery (thanks shrdlu!).

If you would like to connect with me over books, here is my GoodReads profile: http://www.goodreads.com/trixiefontaine. If you would like to connect with me for webcam-based sex play and/or chat, here is my webcam profile. And/or if you’d just like to see all of my spycams, videos and nudey pictures RIGHT NOW, join here!

I just posted the full set of pictures Heather shot of Delia and I together for members, so enjoy (and please do check out Heather’s site to see more of her beautiful work)!

Me and Delia

May Day marked the ninth anniversary of my TastyTrixie.com members-only area opening and the third year of commemorating the event with photos shot by a flowering fruit tree. I love that we were able to make them sort of retro-spooky and shadowy to contrast with everything so seemingly innocent and sunshine-y about being under an umbrella of white cherry blossoms:

Reading The Once and Future King Outside

The deep intellectual fantasy cleavage of a bookworm in the grass.

Like a lot of nerds, I grew up feeling sort of ashamed of loving books and wanting to spend as much time alone with them as I did. There’s still a shadow side associated with solitude-loving escapists who spend hours lost in stories, and of course people from my generation and earlier turned to them as a source of porno-stimuli. Our public librarian even ratted me out to my mom when I was in fourth grade for checking out books with explicit adult content.

Moody bookworm nestled into shadows with tales of King Arthur.

For this photo set I packed a book-picnic consisting of three very differently-told versions of Arthurian Legend: The Mists of Avalon (best ever), Le Morte d’Arthur (which I have almost no desire to read, but I love to smell its leather binding), and my seventh grade copy of The Once and Future King which I feel so sentimental about it almost makes me cry. Okay, it DOES make me cry.

What is betwixt mine legs? Tis a mystery of dark, hairy proportions!

I think I’m only now starting to come to terms with how much time I desire to spend with books and strive to actually make stories an important high-priority part of my life without feeling they’re just a guilty indulgence I don’t deserve and something my dad frittered away time and money on. I’m not a fast reader anymore now that I let my mind wander, I don’t retain much of what I read, and I think finishing books is overrated. But if I would have acknowledged and planned to make book-enjoyment as much of a priority as I should have back when I started webwhoring, I think I might be in a very humble but healthier and more-satisfying position than I am now.

Tickling my big natural breast with a cherry blossom.

Oh well. You can’t learn everything in books even when they give you the recipe for happiness. Some of us just have to get older and less stupid in small increments. Here’s to learning, regardless of the pace!

Happy late flower-blossoming May Day & anniversary to myself!

9/3/2010 Cabin Day #1: 0 (zero) words

Loading stuff up in the van to take to the cabin I worried that the neighbors would think I was moving out and leaving Delia. Maybe that worry was just a projection of my own discomfort over making time alone/away a priority. Because there aren’t good models affirming pursuing time alone away from home unless it’s to do regular work that regular people do in the midst of whole bunches of other regular people. People who desire as much time alone as I do are widely regarded as unhealthy freaks or suspected of having other motives besides a simple need for solitude. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep running back inside to hug Delia and get reassurance that whatever I‘m doing it‘s not what it might look like to the neighbors.

*****

At the cabin the wind blew and I wondered how come the skinny tall trees here don’t fall down. I amazed myself by not being annoyed that there’s a daycare with kid sounds a block away. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I gazed at the crescent moon with breakfast around noon. I scratched up my arm and the back of my thigh on blackberry bush thorns. I figured out where I can stand and lie in the cabin with the blinds open without being seen by the girl in the big house or the people next door. I made a note to buy a couple of curtains to further hide myself when desired in those couple of places where I can be seen. I caught up on all of the pooping I didn’t get done while we were away from home for three nights.

I started to stop thinking about how to get down the ladder from the loft  (how do I mount it under the slant of roof? Do I turn around and climb it back down or just walk straight forward like I’m going down stairs?). I lit a candle. Then I blew it out when we left to get gas, but only $15 worth because we’re almost out of money until Tuesday so we didn’t reset the mileage on the odometer because our fuel gauge is broken/stuck on full.

*****

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, meaning I didn’t have time to plan to make things perfectly prepared.

Want to read more about Day One at The Cabin? I’m hiding the minute details after a break so as not to bore or overwhelm folks who don’t want to read about my zero word count day:

Read the rest of this entry »

An affirming read (one of many lately) on recognizing that trying to do it all is TOO MUCH, and making a goal of doing less:

. . . they have decided to not work at the limit of their ability. they are not interested in finding the line that is their maximum output except to be sure that they are much below it. they have decided not to do everything that they could.

“and so” she said “we’re going to see what comes out of the space we’re allowing for”.

this has sat well with me. it is a breath before i eat. it is the light splayed across my wood walls in the morning. it is not trying to do everything i can. even though i’m excited by all the permutations, it’s about looking inside myself to decide the next movement rather than thinking about every possible way i could do everything all the time.

i think i have probably let people down. i still struggle with guilt. i freak out and bolt for maximization at least once a day.

but i’m trying to give my life wiggle room. just barely.

Last night we stayed up until four watched the last four available episodes of Mad Men and today I am reading for pleasure and having my period and thinking inspired thoughts about videos I could make but probably won’t. My hands smell like sweet and salty foods and stiff girly hair products and thick royal jelly eye cream. This feels a lot better than a week ago when I was wound up (again) thinking I had to do everything and all of it had to be perfect.

Every so often (but not today) I get a whiff of a cosmetic scent that reminds me of some little-girl-science-meets-makeup product where you “mixed” your own lip gloss, creme blush, etc. with tiny white spatulas. It reminds me of how exciting it was to go to World of Toys in Bellevue (where rich people lived!) in the seventies and how much crap Daddy compulsively bought us.

I simultaneously long for my childhood sense of entitlement when it came to pressuring him to buy us stuff and am HORRIFIED by the memory of it. It was pretty cool to actually believe that I could have anything I wanted as long as I could convince him to buy it for me and that everything else could be checked out at the library. I’ll bet if I could put my finger on the smell of that toy-makeup stuff or just remember the name of it I might be one step closer to dominating the world, or at least feeling like all of my time belongs entirely to my own pleasure.

Sooner or later I am going to have to detach from the things I want to do a lot, but less than the things I want to do most and am made to be better at than the rest of it. Sooner or later I’m going to have to recognize the futility of guilt. But today I am still just pretending I don’t feel like a failure because I’m enjoying myself.

Tomorrow I should go on a walk by myself and take pictures of apple blossoms on old trees planted by the wives of dead soldiers.

We took a night off yesterday so I’m going to post this gallery tomorrow for members:

Hiding My Nakedness

We’re beginning a new tradition of taking one night off of work and the dog a month. For us, to get away from work, we actually have to leave the house, the webcams, the computers and the big camera. We board the dog at a nice farm-y kennel, and we get a room. Last month wasn’t as fun as this month because last time we did work while we were away and had to pack to shoot, get up early, etc.  / just one of the nights was “off”.

This time we didn’t have to pack ANYTHING except cozy clothes so getting out of the house was a lot easier and no-stress. We got a room at the Suquamish casino and arrived right before dusk with everything looking spooky and beautiful outside of the big windows of the hotel. We put on our bathing suits right away to take advantage of the swimming pool and hot tub.

Delia lounging by the pool

It was SO NICE! One of the benefits of staying at a casino in Washington (where it’s not really a destination for anything BUT gambling, unlike Vegas) must be that everyone else is at the tables and slot machines while the pool is totally EMPTY. We had the place all to ourselves, allowing Delia to shoot this upskirt shot while I read Wizard’s First Rule (as soon as I finish it we’re going to start watching Legend of the Seeker which I’ve been DYING to see; I’ve caught little pieces of it here and there, but wanted to watch it from the beginning with the background of having read the book):

Flashing my fantasy-loving twat by the pool.

We swam and we soaked, totally loving the big sunken hot tub outside. It was perfect with the cold winter air and rain in the dark, watching the drops fall in the water up to our chins. The only thing that sucked was not being able to be naked. It felt criminal, really — so unnatural and weird. How can you be outside in hot water at night breathing in all of that mist and wear a constricting swimsuit without feeling like a law is being broken? I don’t know. But it was worth it. I did consider taking my suit off, but it would have sucked to have gotten the boot with our evening barely started and I know I would’ve been nervous, looking around trying to be ready to frantically pull the fucker back on if anybody approached.

We totally overate while we were gone. The best thing we got was at Tizley’s Europub in Poulsbo this afternoon: their warm mustard-y German potato salad was delicious as fuck, and perfect with our bratwurst.

We were more than ready to come home and get back to work after barely being gone 24 hours, but the fucking bridge opened (meaning it CLOSED to vehicle traffic) right as we were about to head back so we went to “the fish park” to wait it out. I’m pretty sure that’s what the sign said, just “the fish park”. We enjoyed our little low tide stroll:

Romantic carvings at The Fish Park

Winter sky at The Fish Park

We Love Bats and Bat Houses!

I’m looking forward to whatever we decide to do on our February night off . . . maybe something involving less food and some museums or something like that. Or, better yet, some place with a hot tub outside where we’re allowed to be naked.

I wish I had the time and focus to say I read 357 books in 2009, but the truth is I only actually FINISHED around 35 and I don’t think any of them were really “new” books. Here are my six+ favorites:

The New York Trilogy

The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster

Sheer fucking perfection. Sidewalking stories that spiral inward and out, mirroring slightly fractured selves all with the feeling of noir detective stories, but . . . not.

Stardust

Stardust by Neil Gaiman

I know, I’m totally behind the times. And this is only the second of his books I’ve read (the other one being American Gods, parts of which I enjoyed immensely). Basically felt like the PERFECT grown-up bedtime book. I adored it. It’s the kind of book you recognize as something you’ve been longing for (in this case, a fairy tale) a long time and finally found. Note: I felt the same way about The New York Trilogy, but it answered a different longing.

The Abhorsen Trilogy

The Abhorsen Trilogy (Sabriel, Lirael, and Abhorsen) by Garth Nix

Magic, adventure, strong female leads on journeys/missions.

I prefer Philip Pullman’s and Garth Nix’s heroines to Harry Potter. Nothing against J.K. Rowling – I admire her and of course ENJOYED her books and think they’re worth celebrating as a phenom/something we can all (mostly) love in common, but the Harry Potter series didn’t take me to the places His Dark Materials and The Abhorsen Trilogy have, or move me the way those did (and STILL do when I think of them). What I’m trying to say is that if Harry Potter is the be all, end all for you then maybe my book recs won’t work for you.

The Road to Damietta

The Road to Damietta by Scott O’Dell

Historical fiction by the guy we all love for writing Island of the Blue Dolphins. Here’s what I said about it on GoodReads:

Outstanding; I’m so glad I ran across this book that I’d never HEARD of before and wouldn’t have bought if it weren’t for vaguely recalling how hard Island of the Blue Dolphins rocked. I’m not someone who’s into reading about saints or the crusades or Italy or any of that; it’s just a frank, well-researched story of a girl’s infatuation that doesn’t resemble any other cliched overtold version of same. Pulls in so many provocative issues (but in a simply-told, objective way) but most of all is ju…more Outstanding; I’m so glad I ran across this book that I’d never HEARD of before and wouldn’t have bought if it weren’t for vaguely recalling how hard Island of the Blue Dolphins rocked. I’m not someone who’s into reading about saints or the crusades or Italy or any of that; it’s just a frank, well-researched story of a girl’s infatuation that doesn’t resemble any other cliched overtold version of same. Pulls in so many provocative issues (but in a simply-told, objective way) but most of all is just a perfectly told STORY, or story blanketing other stories.

I’m so glad I didn’t know anything about this book or expect anything or see any of it coming. Just beautifully done in a well balanced, simply-stated way (but still very sensually told). I really appreciated this one; it read totally differently from anything else I’ve had my nose in lately.

Especially interesting to read as an alternative YA “romance”/adventure to Twilight, et al. ESPECIALLY considering the criticisms of the religious “agenda” of those books, this is a pretty healthy alternative.

Note: if you’re afraid of reading anything to DO with religion assuming it will be religious itself, you don’t have to worry with this one. Unless you’re one of those people who breaks out in hives at the mere mention of Jesus.

The Motel Life

The Motel Life: A Novel by Willy Vlautin

A book about brothers, it felt close to me. Not because I recognized myself in them in literal ways, but . . . something(s) else. Maybe that part of me that gets sick and fucking tired of most books being about (or written by) people living on the East Coast (specifically the NORTHeast) or in London or fucking California. Maybe it’s just a class thing, I don’t know, but it’s one of the few books I read this year with characters who seemed like people I would actually meet in real life (I suppose after listing so much fantasy you’re like, “DUH, because the other shit you read takes place in the land of fey!”). Again, here’s what I posted on Good Reads:

I couldn’t help hearing most people’s voices in this book sounding like Moe’s voice on The Simpsons. Moe is my fave Simpson character, so maybe that partially explains my love for this beautiful, sad fucking book. The other part of the explanation is just that it’s a pretty special book. I was afraid going into it that it would be unbearably depressing, but it wasn’t. Depressing, yes . . . but just squeaks by as BARELY bearable. I did find myself with tears dripping down my face a few times, but…more I couldn’t help hearing most people’s voices in this book sounding like Moe’s voice on The Simpsons. Moe is my fave Simpson character, so maybe that partially explains my love for this beautiful, sad fucking book. The other part of the explanation is just that it’s a pretty special book. I was afraid going into it that it would be unbearably depressing, but it wasn’t. Depressing, yes . . . but just squeaks by as BARELY bearable. I did find myself with tears dripping down my face a few times, but they were gritty and slow and tiredly sweet, not headache-inducing wailers.

It felt very American, very WESTERN American and like it could have taken place any time between 1930 and the present (even though there are real events that place it in one specific time period).

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

I know!! Another book for kids!! And I totally should’ve read it when I was in fourth grade or whatever, but didn’t, and I’m GLAD because it was so awesome to read new as an adult. And hey, aren’t you glad something written by a woman made my favorites list? Phew! Me too . . .

*****

I mostly just read for pleasure these days, so sorry I don’t have nonfiction in my list. It’s just not relaxing for me to read about things that matter, and I have enough “mattering” in my life for now. Mostly I just want to lose myself in someone else’s story and not feel like I have to DO something about it or commit a bunch of facts to memory. But wait, I actually *did* read some nonfiction . . . it was light stuff, though, that couldn’t come close to edging out my faves.

You can see what I’m reading (and have already read) by visiting my GoodReads profile or checking the badge in my right sidebar (over there >>> to the right and down). My ratings are pretty much meaningless (aren’t those star systems ALWAYS meaningless??) and I’m not good at “reviewing” books, but I enjoy that site a lot and like to see what other people are reading.

The past week was filled with concentrated efforts on the mundane things in life, namely preparing and filing our very-late taxes, making a long trek to suburban mall-land for Delia’s laser hair removal appointment (which didn’t happen because they mysteriously stopped doing laser and, also mysteriously, disappeared Delia’s appointment right off their computer) and shoot-shopping, cleaning house in a big way for our landlords to visit, and just trying to stay on top of our usual load of tasks to keep things going.

Last night it started raining. HARD. Our first big rain of the season. In no time at all we heard drips in our bathroom; there’s a vent in the ceiling where water always leaks when the wood is dry/not swelled up. Usually it doesn’t leak much and stops once the wood around the opening swells back up to seal the cracks, but it was still raining like a son-of-a-bitch AND leaking like a sieve this morning when we woke to our alarm set early (for us, or most people on a Saturday morning). Delia climbed up into the attic to fix it and did some other stuff so by the time the owners got here all was remedied. I know, most renters would think of this as perfect timing, for the owners to see a problem and get someone else to come over and fix it, but for us? Working at home? With porn and webcams and stuff? I do not want the interruptions and invasion of privacy. It is bad enough knowing they have friends that they send to drive by the house to spy on its condition. Of course, if I were a landlord, I’d do the same thing, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy being on the receiving end of it. As it is, they want to make some (understandable, and nice for us) fixes to some things, but I feel totally stressed out about the idea of strangers being in our space when we totally cannot afford the intrusion, especially since it’s impossible for me to use that time to relax. Jesus, I’m about to give myself a panic attack right now just thinking about some handyman coming over on his own schedule, doing shit piece by piece, never knowing when he’ll arrive or leave, not being able to schedule shoots or shows . . . yes, I feel very pessimistic about it.

Anyway, the rest of today I tried to stay awake and just enjoyed our fresher, tidier house. I finished a couple of books (the Lauren Bacall autobiography and the first Trixie Belden book), stared vacantly at nothing and stayed warm. We also watched television (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Dollhouse, Jeopardy) and stretched in our very dimly lit parlor listening to new age music with the stars shining bright outside (yes, it finally it stopped raining). I keep getting many-days-long headaches because my shoulders are so bunched up and my neck so stiff.

So. Our shows that we *were* going to do Friday and today are happening tomorrow (Sunday) and Monday. Members: you should go here for our schedule & group shows, and here for our spycams and members-only chat session.

I took the last pill in my birth control pack on Tuesday so I’m not sure why my period hasn’t started yet, but it won’t be a big shock if it happens around showtime.

My birthday last week was filled with ding dongs and dildos and a deep sigh of gratitude that a few people treated me to a trip to the salon tomorrow to go back to being a blonde.

I sort of stretched out my own personal celebration, doing shows on my birthday proper, then attempting to watch an engrossing movie, selecting Changeling which was sort of a big fat mistake. YES, it was engrossing. In a horrible, harrowing, gut-wrenching way. And even though I knew I was being totally emotionally manipulated by the film industry, I couldn’t just TURN IT OFF the way I did with Titanic (you heard me — I shut that melodramatic motherfucker off and refused to watch it past halfway).

Changeling pretty much ruined our plan to go see The Reader the last night it was playing in town. Instead we opted for something a little more uplifting to balance out the trauma of Changeling: we moved the Playstation (a birthday present from years back) into the bedroom and played a snowboarding video game (SSX3) for hours. And ate ding dongs. Well, *I* ate ding dongs. Delia didn’t.

And then I threw the rest of the ding dongs away. Because a) my birthday was OVER, and b) I have a goal to lose 15 pounds by June 1st (or less if I’m satisfied/feel good before I get there; since I’ve already lost four since I made the goal, I only have 11 to go). I definitely don’t want to lose TOO much of this action:

I continued celebrating a couple days ago when I noticed our friend had a two-for-one print sale going on and since I hadn’t bought any of her art yet, I treated myself! It was affordable and made me happy.

But what I *really* wanted to do for my birthday was spend some more time reading Paul Auster’s The New York Trilogy which is SO FUCKING AWESOME I set it aside because I seriously couldn’t stand for it to end knowing there would be a big gaping emptiness without having more of it to look forward to. So today? I went to the used bookstore and picked up the only two Auster paperbacks they had on the shelf (Oracle Night and The Brooklyn Follies). Now I can finish The NY Trilogy and still feel like there’s a reason to live.

I also looked for the second and third books in the Abhorsen series, but they only had Sabriel (which I finished months ago and want to hurry up and continue before I forget everything). I grabbed a couple other titles (ex. Codex) plus some appealing books in the “free box” (ex. The Tommyknockers) and guiltily made my way home with a satisfying stack of stories to chew on. Sometimes I leave the books I buy in the car or somewhere Delia won’t see them right away because I feel so bad about spending the money on them when I don’t even read most of them right away (if ever) and I refuse to GET RID of any of them unless they really suck total ass, so they’ll all be living with us forever.

The thing is, I need to have CHOICES. Because there are some moments on the toilet where I’m after a very specific kind of book to lull myself into a comfortable shit. Or the weather demands a certain genre. Or I’m emotionally craving a story that delivers total escapism. And fuck . . . when it only costs $25 to buy a big armful of pleasure, how wrong can it be? Plehhhhhhhszhoooooooor . . . is in the booooooooooks.

Maybe tomorrow after I endure the torture of getting my hair colored, I’ll continue celebrating my birthday with some Paul Auster and a sweet mug of Russian Caravan tea.