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Archive for the ‘confessions’ Category

My favorite Christmas present was having Juno come to our town’s theatre and getting to watch it with Kris, and seeing Diablo Cody win an Oscar last night for writing Juno was like an early birthday present.

Here’s a video of Kris and I at the movies GUSHING over Diablo:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9hpT-R0pA4]

For me, Diablo represents the very best of what the blogosphere and web voyeurism/exhibitionism offer: the opportunity to watch another human’s story unfold and experience success along the way. To develop high hopes for someone and cheer for them when things go well. To recognize someone’s talent, observe that recognition snowballing, and see her REWARDED for it. It’s very fulfilling, and not in a vicarious I-can-now-imagine-it-happening-to-me way, but just in the basic sense of caring about someone and being extremely happy for her.

Of course, she *is* also a symbol to me, too (on top of just being an awesome human); seeing a woman on that stage who has stripped and worked the peeps doing hardcore masturbation shows for money now getting respect for her non-sex work while everyone knows about her stint in sex work is Pretty Fucking Cool.

Anyway, we have (one of) her shining moment(s) recorded on our DVR now and have watched it about 35 times in the past 23 hours; I have cried every single time. And can I just say that she looked fucking fabulous, too?

If you’re looking for good spontaneous conversation, ALWAYS LOOK FOR THE MAN WITH THE TOOTHPICK. He’s a conversationalist. You will know his interest in your conversation was reciprocated if, at the end of the conversation, he tosses away the toothpick. If he THROWS the toothpick and says, “aw, to HELL with you” while he walks away then it means you’ve found a debate partner for life.

I say all this after we walked home from our precinct caucus yesterday and had the best roadside political conversation with a guy with a toothpick and silver braid, wearing a Carhartt jacket over a Harley t-shirt. He stopped us as he got out of his pickup to ask what the caucus was like.

It was interesting. It’s only the second time we’ve attended one, but today’s was MUCH more exciting since there seemed to be more Democrats with some fucking common sense (last time the hyper-idealistic simpletons all threw their shit away on Kucinich; those folks were still there yesterday, I kid you not, providing the dictionary illustration for the word “futility”). Judging from what we saw in our precinct and the one next to us, Obama had a huge lead over Clinton in our town (and of course the entire state of Washington).

Both Delia and I felt sad that now that we HAVE to vote by mail, the caucus is really our only opportunity to gather together with other voters en masse to publicly participate in the process. Oh, I know there are other opportunities to get together and be all civic-minded, but those are usually just a handful of people with very specific interests. It’s just not the same and now they’re trying to get rid of THIS, too, and simplify things with a regular primary. I know voting by mail is cool because it’s so easy and convenient (and a way to avoid the nightmare of electronic voting machines), it’s just sad that we lose the sense of doing it socially as a community, and in some cases as a nation. Voting seems like even more of a farce by mail. It leaves me feeling disenfranchised as a citizen. It’s like using the free address labels The March of Dimes sends you without bothering to send them a donation. If I don’t have to leave my house and mill around with strangers in a location I would never otherwise visit I might as well be voting for American Idol; devoid of the common ritual, the process feels trivialized. Actually, voting for American Idol probably feels LESS trivial because at least people have a limited window of time to cast their votes (so are voting TOGETHER) and enjoying the ritual of tuning in next time to see the results.

All we have left is going to see fireworks together or sports in a stadium, and that’s just not the same because we attend games and fireworks displays and concerts as observers, not participants. I suppose we still have rallies and parades and protests to participate in, but that’s almost TOO much participation. Besides, for all of the work people put into it, there’s no official record of what you’ve done unless you get arrested or win a trophy and nobody in the general population cares about the outcome regardless. I would say at least we still have the pledge of allegiance and singing the national anthem together, but nobody except conservative automatons seem to appreciate the bliss of joining into rituals of mass brainwashing the way I do. Oh well. I suppose there’s always traffic court.

Since socializing is not a high priority for me and I tend to enjoy it more in structured environments, losing the opportunity to vote the old-fashioned way is a pretty big blow to my human experience. I loved sitting in the bleachers yesterday with strangers chuckling and criticizing our disorganized party, laughing as they moved their lips unintelligibly with their predictable head-in-the-clouds lack of awareness that nobody could hear their brainy soft-spoken voices while the rest of us in our typical passive Democratic style failed to speak up and point out that WE COULDN’T HEAR THEM. If we’d been Republicans, someone would have immediately stood up and cupped her hand around her ear or made the “up! up!” motion or screamed, “LOUDER!” Those gentle hippies, our brethren. How I wished we could import some of the audible obnoxiousness of our enemies, the loud-mouthed Republicans who know how to ORGANIZE an event and properly strategize.

At some point I realized it might be easy to become a delegate to the county convention, so we stuck around for me to push through the small cluster of other hopefuls and sign up to go. I felt a little cheated that it was all left up to chance (whichever people grabbed a paper and signed up first are going, apparently) instead of competition. I imagined if I were a Republican I would have had to FIGHT with some fat-ass in a red sweatshirt to EARN my spot. That would have been more fun. Perhaps the competition will be stiffer to move from county to the district caucus, though.

I am picking out outfits now, plotting an escalation of attractiveness to try to get to the state convention. If my sordid porn career prevents moving that far along I can console myself with the knowledge that at least I won’t have to go to Spokane in August June, which is a nasty hellhole.

Delia had a sperm deposit to make in Seattle on Thursday. On our way to catch the ferry, we stopped for Chicken McNuggets on Bainbridge Island. I went inside quickly while Delia waited in the car and thought I saw an old familiar face of someone I fucked (and adored) years ago: Brian the Cop. I only saw him briefly out of the corner of my eye sitting at a table in back with some other men and dismissed the feeling of recognition to hurry and fill up our pop and get on our way so we wouldn’t miss our boat. When I went back outside and noticed a police car with K-9 Unit written all over it, I realized it really must have been him and became GIDDY remembering how senselessly attracted I was to him.

This past year I’ve thought a lot about my promiscuous post-divorce adventures and the guys I met through a mutual interest in sex. I’ve thought about how they were all pretty decent fellows and that I was lucky to cross paths with them. I’ve thought about how unfairly mean and dismissive I was to some of them in my retarded early blog posts. I didn’t have much in common with most of them, but I did like them and I feel even more fond of them now that they’re cute little memories I can wonder about and wish well from a distance.

As I get older, I also feel guiltier and more conscious of some things I’ve done (or failed to do) that were idiotic, insensitive, unforgivably horrid, self-indulgent and/or just plain embarrassing. In fact, just the day or two before the Brian sighting I was spanking myself internally with mortification over the memory of how my retarded and unjustifiable infatuation with Brian the Cop led me to make my sorta-girlfriend at the time cry. I was inexcusably mean and stupid, and I enjoyed the whole fantastically dramatic mess.

Seeing him again, albeit fleetingly, made me forgive myself. He’s stupid, I’m stupid — we’re all stupid. And beautiful. It doesn’t matter what a goon the guy was, it WORKED for me and it’s just not human to deny that some people electrify your insides in spite of how wrong they are for you. I’m thankful I never got the chance to completely ruin my life over someone like that and feel blessed that I got to enjoy the silly thrill of it all.

He was 6′4″ and his penis was on the small side. He was a premature ejaculator and he had this song playing on his website. He was big and hairy and ridiculous and I loved every lie he told me. When I expressed interest in humping his assault rifle, he followed through and brought it over for me. Though I loved seeing its sexy blackness laying on my bed, I had to admit with disappointment that it wasn’t designed for humping and that his hand and small penis were much better suited to my genitals.

I grinned like an idiot all the way to the ferry terminal and chuckled to myself over the bad fucking joke of it all. While we waited for the boat to arrive, Delia left the car to go to the bathroom and I looked around the holding area wondering if I’d see Brian jump out with one of his big German Shepherds to sniff out drugs and terrorists. I wanted to see him again without him seeing me.

I got distracted from thoughts of Brian when I saw a beautiful brunette woman in the distance and immediately felt a pang of attraction, that “WHO is THAT?!?” moment, before realizing a split second later that I actually knew her, too!

It was Delia coming back from the bathroom. Lucky, lucky, lucky times three (billion) because that woman in the distance is my girlfriend and it’s no accident she’s walking towards me.

I am grateful for having been forced to take more than a couple courses in human relations and for having been taught better ways of communication, even if I can’t seem to properly apply those lessons in their entirety.

The problem I run across sometimes is that I don’t *want* to be mature when I’m talking about my feelings. I want my descriptions of my feelings to make sense, but still acknowledge that the feelings themselves are irrational and exist in a place that’s separate from careful thought and planning. “I-messages” are sweet, and I try to use them, but my delivery? It’s so NOT textbook.

There’s something totally fucking ridiculous about talking in a mature way about totally immature feelings like jealousy and selfishness. I think I’m afraid that if I go that extra mile and speak as though I’m in control of those feelings and am able to supervise them in an adult way that I’m making even more of an ass of myself than if I sputter and betray my dejected spirit through my mannerisms. Yes, I’m petty and easily-annoyed; I don’t think it will make me a better person to admit this in a tone that suggests I’m above-it-all. Squinty-eyed, spitting madness is more appropriate, or at least an awkward inability to make eye-contact when confessing it.

This has been a public service announcement from the board of unfuckingbalanced hormones.

Baby Jesus: I really miss my birth control pills.

I almost did something crazy just now . . . I started filling out an application to work in a grocery store.

Oh my god! Is money REALLY that tight for Trixie? Or is she quitting webwhoring? Errr . . . what the fuck?

It’s nothing like that. It’s actually more embarrassing than that; I don’t NEED another job, I just really like cashiering. Sometimes when I go to the store I am jealous, and I just think it would be fun to pick up a Saturday or holiday shift or a busy dinner rush now and again. Sometimes I just want to get out of the house and do something regular, normal . . . something with a rhythm and set of rules. Something with clearly defined boundaries. Something where I pick things up, move them only a couple feet, then set them down in a bag. Something that doesn’t require a lot of complex thought. Something that doesn’t involve planning for the future. Someplace where I’m never asked to make big decisions.

Sometimes I’m just tired of being in our house, and I don’t want to socialize exactly, but I want to interact (in very predictable, regimented ways) with people. I guess normal people would go out and have a drink with friends in my situation, but that is SO INTENSELY BORING AND COUNTERPRODUCTIVE TO ME. The thought of sitting in a bar drinking to relax just bores me STIFF. But the thought of having a mundane, repetitive job sounds relaxing and wonderful to me. I like counting money and typing on little keypads and scanning things. I would be standing up and lifting things! I would feel so efficient and pleasantly robotic.

I know I have a college education and I don’t *have* to get a job like “that”, but how can I explain how much I want one sometimes? Sometimes I just want things to be simple, rote. Cashiering is like a video game job.

I can’t really afford to take time off from our sites to have a smiling robot job, though. Part of me seductively whispers that maybe it would REFRESH me for my real job here in internet porn. If I knew I wouldn’t be pressured to work when I couldn’t and I knew I wouldn’t have to wash toilets or face product or, god forbid, MOP anything, and I could just work at a checkstand, like, once a week or something . . . I would totally do it.

I feel like I shouldn’t be admitting this.

I feel embarrassed about this desire, but today isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. Lately I have been fantasizing about getting a temporary job doing data entry (there’s nothing like that available in our town so it really is just a fantasy). I enjoy the world of what-other-people-consider to-be menial labor. I enjoy the structure of it. And I really like typing. Do you know that? I REALLY LIKE TYPING. I like the sound of it, the feeling of it. I like the cadence of data entry. I like escaping into work that only requires lower-level thinking. I have told myself that I could pretend in my head that I’m only getting a job like that as research for a book, but that would be a lie. I just like learning the little subcultures of wage-earners.

People who’ve never had normal jobs like this, I’ll bet they don’t know how fascinating they can be and how interesting the people you work with are. There are the people who are surprisingly interesting, and there are the people who are predictably dull. And I usually like them all. I would never want to feel stuck in a job like that, but those kinds of jobs can be extremely SATISFYING. They’re mechanical, manageable, and fun to master.

My job(s) right now? I will never “master” any of them. Sometimes that’s really cool and exciting and sometimes it just makes me feel tired and want to cry.

Sometimes I just want to have a stack of work and see it visibly reduced as I complete each piece, one at a time. Sometimes I just want to know when my shift is over. Sometimes I just want to be faster than someone else. Sometimes I just want things to be simple, and to go home and spend the whole night reading a book or watching tv without feeling guilty about it because I should be doing something creative and productive and special. Sometimes I don’t feel like I can be productively creative and sometimes I don’t want to be special. Sometimes I just want to be a worker bee and enjoy being a well-oiled piece in a bigger machine. Sometimes I want to be able to blame corporate or upper management or just some dickwad above me for my problems and limited range of motion. Sometimes I am just so tired of not having anyone to blame but myself.

Sometimes I just want to know exactly what the people in charge of my paycheck want from me, and to be able to ask them that point blank if I don’t. What do you want from me? Sometimes I just want to know who those people are, and have there only be one or two of them. With my job(s) right now, it really is cool and almost divine to be able to make so many people happy in so many different ways, but it makes repeated success complicated and unpredictable. Everyone wants something different and everyone is so many people in so many different time zones. Who are they? What do they want from me NOW? This is not easy, and the only way to make it easy is to only care about yourself in a way that requires turning inward too far.

Sometimes I want to know that I can quit, but the problem is that I can’t. I can never and will never quit this job I have now. This is my work and it’s what I’m supposed to do with most of my life. Sometimes it’s boring to have found your life’s work and know that you’re never actually going to be GREAT at it. It (in all of the different forms it does and will take) will be special, but it won’t be GREAT. The best I can hope for and work towards is that someday it will be more profitable, but money is not as great a motivator as greatness, so these days I move forward very slowly.

Sometimes I’m depressed, and that sometime is now (especially without the wonderful, magical, mood-stabilizing happiness that is hormonal birth control). Sometimes I feel like a failure for being a regular person, and sometimes I feel like I’m about to really EMBRACE being average and become crazily happy with that. Sometimes I am.

RE-BLONDE

Note: if you have anything tragic going on in your life or in your mind, please don’t annoy yourself by reading this extremely trivial post:

I got my dirty blonde back today:

Spycam view of me at my machine

I’m slightly ashamed and totally shocked that this hair color choice thing has become the most DIFFICULT series of decisions I’ve made in my entire adult life. It’s totally unimportant, yet I am tortured daily by whether I’m a blonde or a brunette at heart, and whether one is significantly better than the other for business and if so, if that is enough to override whatever my most heartfelt hair-color personality is. Snort! I’m disgusted with myself, truly.

Here’s the thing: I *AM* THE DECIDER. I have always made life-altering decisions quickly and confidently. I do not agonize over whether or not to do things. BIG things, even. The kinds of things other people spend significant amounts of time carefully weighing risks and benefits over, pros and cons. I do those things too (sometimes) but in very short order. And I tend not to consult other people over them, or if I do I really don’t give a shit about their input and ask merely out of curiosity’s sake because my mind is usually already made up. I know they might not be the BEST choices, but I’m ready to go ahead with them anyway.

Major and minor in college; quickly decided. Whether or not to leave my husband; instantly, as soon as opportunity arose – out of house in one week’s time. Buy a house? Waiting a couple of months to sign the papers seemed WAY too long. Become a webwhore? SIGNED UP AS SOON AS I HEARD ABOUT IT. Quitting jobs, school, friendships: without hesitation.

But whether or not to continue bleaching or switch to darkening my hair? Practically paralyzed. It makes no sense. None at all. I’m absolutely baffled by it and deeply disturbed by my whining requests for feedback from people.

Fortunately I can still look possessed by the sad librarian spirit of indoorsy introversion as an ash blonde:

Now that I’ve experienced about nine months as a brunette, I can say that blondes DO attract more immediate attention. As a brunette I felt more invisible than I have ever been in my life. I’ve decided blondes are more ATTRACTIVE while brunettes are more beautiful, or at least prettier than most blondes. I felt pretty as a brunette, but I command more attention as a blonde. Heads turn for blondes, especially blondes with big hooters. Apparently it has something to do with blonde being a rare genetic trait and therefore more appealing to potential mates (at least, that’s what I read in Vogue at the gym when I was supposed to be working out). I think it’s just because blonde hair is SHINY and shiny things catch the eye. It doesn’t matter if your face is a muddled hunk of ugly as long as you’ve got bright, shiny hair: the boys’ heads will spin.

On the other hand, a lot of porn consumers like jerking off to women who remind them of former girlfriends or women they’ve known in their lives, and many of those women were brunettes. The real girl next door? She tends to be a brunette. Also, the kinds of customers who tend to be attracted to my personality also tend to have a preference for brunettes (if they have or express a preference at all). The dominating (or at least assertive) Mommy nerd know-it-all archetype has dark brown hair, I think. But clearly these folks have found me acceptable as a blonde, so why limit my powers of attraction with dark hair? Oh yes, because this has gone down in the history of my website as my absolute favorite set of photos because I felt FANTASTICALLY beautiful on my first day as a brunette.

And hey, there were practical matters, too; my hair was so much healthier, silkier, and glossier when it was dyed dark. The blonding process is really hard on your hair; I actually have a tweety-bird tuft of broken hair on top of my head that got so fried by my last lightening that it just busted the fuck off. Of course, this was worse than it ever had been in my past permanently-blonde days because they had to bleach out all of the brunette so that was pretty harsh; apparently it’s not too good to do this back-and-forth bullshit.

Fluck. This is some stupid shit.

OOPS!

After ranting about the need to protect my identity with a stage name, I just discovered I accidentally used the real name of a guy I fooled around with. Here is the beginning of the story, with his name consistently changed (in the story I used a fake name 75% of the time, but his real name the other 25%):

All of the girls in our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over Treat, the Hawaiian guy who lived on my floor. Hell, all of the girls OUTside of our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over him. I thought he was an idiot, but as time went on I confess to creaming my panties over him too. I distinctly remember staring at the bump under his white towel as he roamed our floor after a shower, and wanting some of whatever he had under there. Wanting to get a load of it, both figuratively and literally speaking.

Once my friend and I spent a casual evening in her room with Treat, interrogating him as to WHY IN THE WORLD so many girls seemed powerless to his charms. What was his secret? How did he weave his cheesy spell over them? After feigning modesty for awhile (part of his signature appeal), he revealed with intense seriousness that he learned everything from his favorite television show in junior high: Beauty and the Beast, starring Linda Hamilton as the beauty and Ron Perlman as the Beast. Yes, you read the plot description correctly: “The adventures and romance of a sensitive and cultured lion-man and a crusading District Attorney assistant”.

If you want to read the rest of it, it’s here in the members-only area.

RECENT READING

Here are a/the few books on my recently-finished stack:

SHE’S NOT THERE – Jennifer Finney Boylan
If you saw me burst into tears in the past two days, it was because I was so touched by some of the stories in this book about a male-to-female transsexual author/professor. It’s nice to read a book revolving around a personal “special interest” story and have the person writing actually be, ummm, a writer rather than some chick with no background in writing who just has a unique tale to tell. I’m not saying it’s a brilliant or utterly flawless book, just that it’s very good, highly readable, and transcends its subject matter. Maybe, though, I’m not qualified to convincingly say it’s relevant to people with no interest in gender issues or personal experience with trans people, but I think it’s a solid book with characters and challenges recognizable to everybody: worth recommending to anyone (but especially people who are star-struck by and interested in authors).

A GUIDE TO QUALITY, TASTE & STYLE – Tim Gunn with Kate Moloney
I’ve firmly been in woman (as opposed to girl) territory for a few years now and am becoming more concerned with the way I present myself (and more righteously justified in focusing more effort on my style since I am, after all, an “entertainer” of the (supposedly) sexy visual kind. I’m beginning to recognize that having a website with pictures of me dressed up doesn’t give me a free pass to be a constant slob off-camera (or make me feel good about being a slob) so I picked up this book for inspiration AND because WE LOVE TIM GUNN and Project Runway. It was the first reality show to hook us when we finally got television and has remained the unsurpassed best, partly because the contestants have to actually exhibit both talent and skill to try to create beautiful things, and partly because it prominently features a kind, articulate person with an expansive vocabulary: Tim Gunn. The book was a fun, old-fashioned read with timeless, budget-conscious advice and his delightful personality shines out of every page. I had no idea who or what he was talking about some of the time, but whatever — fun.

SEAROAD: CHRONICLES OF KLATSAND – Ursula K. Le Guin
Another one that had me in tears a few times, but this one actually IS brilliant. And out of print. Which is fucking lame. The title sounds kind of hokey, old-fashioned, and fantasy-oriented but the book is none of those things. Every voice in it sounds real and every story feels like the truth.

*****

I’m starting to lose my commitment to trying to finish books. Not that I was ever good at finishing every book I started to read or even half of them, but I’m getting to the point where I realize it’s okay to leave books unfinished. After almost thirty years of reading I’ve learned that putting an unfinished book down isn’t a failure, it’s just an opportunity to start another book that might be more engaging. You can get a lot of insight and entertainment out of half-read books without wasting time slogging through them just for the sake of “finishing”. I’m starting to realize that nagging compulsion to finish a book I’m no longer enjoying is almost as obnoxious as a guy who keeps saying, “cum for me baby!” over and over again.

Trixie answers pressing questions from her audience, including whether or not she likes younger men, black men, etc. She also talks about her most recent TOY purchases and the annoying obligation to be nice during her webcam shows.

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Note: I WAS ONLY TALKING ABOUT *COOKIES*, OKAY?