Valentine’s Day, Fifty Years Ago

My mom and dad got married fifty years ago today:

Trixie's mom and dad wedding photo

My mom & dad on their Valentine’s Day wedding in the sixties

Seeing who I come from — thinking about who these people are/were, and who they raised me to be (and loved me INTO being) — is a good reminder to try to be the best of who I *am*, instead of struggling to be better at being more like other people, or trying to give people what I think they want or need instead of what I have and who I really am. I have so many of my parents’ limitations and their gifts – when I look at them with love and realism, I can be kinder: more loving towards myself. More honest with myself.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love as privilege in the past year or so (and privilege and love in general).

I’ve also been circling back to my childhood and young adult years, reflecting on how I experience love and intimacy and connections most profoundly, and where there are gaps and raw little injuries I keep re-experiencing, and accepting that even though I’ve been (and am) really fortunate when it comes to loving and being loved, I still need to puke vomit gag “love myself more” if I’m going to thrive (be the best, happiest, most free, most positive and contributing version of my human self I can be) and make the MOST of my good fortune and unique gifts.

Trixie's mom and dad in black and white 50 years ago

Mommy: 20, Daddy: 32

I’m thinking right now of what it means to be fruitful and multiply. How hard they worked to bring us into being and how they did their very best. Not that any of us believe literally in crazy bible shit like that (or that it has any relevance to us today: OBVIOUSLY NOT), or that they took us to church; they didn’t (though that church they’re standing in is where I was baptized and where my sister’s first wedding was and is a powerfully beautiful place that figures prominently in my values and development – that church is part of my home, even though we didn’t belong to it).

I am meant to bear fruit. I am meant to do things that result in exponential increases of abundance. I believe we ALL are meant for that.
I need to accept with celebratory unapologetic abandon and leaps of faith that I can’t follow off-the-shelf mainstream/normal-person blueprints for that.

I don’t want to love or live a little.

I want to — and I do — love a lot. With fires baptisms feasts famines DEEP QUIET HIBERNATION PERIODS debauchery pestilence dreams deafness sacrifice communion peace oil foot-washing long walks alone VISIONS (hallucinations) long silent walks together temple-building and being laid low over and over and over to be resurrected again and again and again. With trances prayers uncontrollable dancing tics dramatic little speeches blessings levitation transmogrification cave-dwelling and secret walks in the garden, just me and Jesus alone. Just you, and I. With stories and songs delivered especially to/for children. With radiant naked trust and fear-blasted visages and loyal marriage to my own pleasure. And confession and absolute loving forgiveness that we are all just human monster saint angels.

This song is so annoying-sounding, but the lyrics/concept are about having your need for love and attention and comforting acceptance exclusively met all night long:

I believe that I am made in the image of “God” because I don’t know you, but I love you. And I *do* know you. We know each other. The reason you are reading this or anything about people on the internet is to feed an emotional and spiritual hunger. Don’t be shy. I love that about you. We love that about each other.

We believe in magic and bullshit and making babies. Or just masturbating alone on Valentine’s day watching the tubes, like I did today. Together. We are all one body. We are all alone. Happy Valentine’s Day. If it sucks, use your imagination. Get religion. Get a call girl. Or a camgirl. Listen to Hozier all night if you want to. There’s some pretty good stuff in the world. If you can’t find any of it, have a tender conversation talking to your divine little self. Hold your own hand. Do it in earnest.

Crying in Front of a Stranger…

…and on my wife‘s chest.

Trixie was just crying

Being on hormonal birth control makes it a lot easier to cry. So easy that I can burst into tears, cry hard for thirty seconds or less . . . then just stop and go on almost like it didn’t happen. Almost. Except that lately I’ve been putting a lot of my mid-life crisis together and identifying (and putting words to) really basic fundamental emotional needs and losses and fears and bullshit, so on days like today the extra hormones help highlight where my biggest sadnesses are in a way that 1) I can’t ignore them, and 2) separates them from stuff that might just be noise.

Trixie's big titty in black and white

The good news is I’M TOTALLY HUMAN!

And I’ve got my wife . . . and her chest to cry on. And she just cut up some peaches for us to eat in bed, so goodnight.

I recognize that I am lucky to have most of the problems I’ve got. Seriously. You’d be blessed to have many of my problems.

What Do Cats Know? (mostly redacted)

In the backyard waiting for Taurus:

Trixie in green in grass

You should have been watching all of the fun and fingerbanging on the spycams!

We went to sleep early, but not before I had a chance to 1) brazenly FART one of the most noxious rotten eggs ever, 2) make him squeal in protestation, “DO YOU ENJOY MAKING ME SQUIRM?!?” in response to what *I* thought was a brilliant decontamination attempt, and 3) just try to do the things I like to do to get comfortable for bed aka “DRIVING HIM NUTS”.

trixie's bush & pussy selfie outside

Anyhoo . . . yeah, I might repost more of that later for members only, but for now let’s just leave it this way. This is much jollier, and I feel so much better!

Lesson(s) Learned

This day was a sad pathetic fucking relief.

I am so fucking lucky: another bullet dodged, but not without shaving some hair off in the process.

If I forget: remind me not to play with guns or loose cannons anymore. Remind me not to BE one.

If the little tastes of yuck I’ve gotten in life feel this gross to me, I don’t know how people deal with the big yucks. I guess they mostly don’t, which is how we wind up here.


Working backwards through just a few elements of today:

Sleep on it before hitting "send"

Yeah, yeah, YEAH . . . I know. And even if I’d have gotten this reminder earlier I’d have still mouthed off.


Leaning in to kiss Seven of Nine‘s oddly-humongous head:

Trixie loves Seven of Nine

Not nearly as splendid as my fave bathroom kiss after a fight in American Hustle that we saw tonight — sometimes it’s hard when you’re dealing with people who want everything to be all linear and logical and literal and shit. The best characters are either a) the ones who spew crazy emo viciously-heartfelt manipulative bullshit and in so doing spit out shocking truths and compelling half-truths (Jennifer Lawrence was THE STAR of the movie, by the way), or b) are android starman borg types who act all robotically bemused by irrational human emotions, but the subtext is that THEY WOULD TRADE ONE OF THEIR FULLY FUNCTIONAL LIMBS TO EXPERIENCE CRAZY IRRATIONAL VICIOUS BULLSHIT EMOTIONS and imprecise ways of communicating why we’re having them. And to kiss with anger and fear.


I felt much better when I came out of the bathroom in the theater and saw a woman very purposefully carrying someone’s big coat, but letting most of it hang down on the nasty carpet, dragging on the floor getting grimy with every pissed-off step she took. When she got close to the two guys she was with and they noticed her, their mouths dropped open like WHAT IS WRONG YOU CRAZY-ASS BITCH?!? and I felt like a sweet and gentle creature by comparison. Especially when she lit into one of them.

And here’s the part you might actually find interesting; before that, Delia put on some 100% nylon ivory stockings and a slippery satin-like lace-trimmed chemise and I took some sexy pictures and video of her with a spotlight on one of her own fully-functional appendages:

Transsexual Delia in ivory nylon stockings

Just a shot of our camera’s preview screen taken with my phone.

Not sure when she’ll be posting them, but SOON!


I’m planning to get a whole bunch of body hair waxed off, partly in preparation for a shoot that I’m afraid won’t happen or won’t feel right or whatever.

I spent five dollars plus tax on a shitty pretzel at the movie theater and I don’t even know why. I would have gotten a lot more pleasure out of giving that money to a dancing baby on the street to give to the bucket drummer. Except I’d just give it to the bucket drummer so the baby could just keep on dancing.

Big Screen Video Editing

Delia is working in Seattle today with Savannah, so I have the whole spread to myself.

I decided to (finally!) play with our new machine we got for video editing, hooked up to our still-new-to-us big television:


It’s cool to have no interruptions, and good for me to get familiar with this new setup (a new version of our video editing software, new operating system, etc.) alone so I don’t ask Delia stupid questions every five minutes when I get frustrated by a trivial hangup that I can figure out myself if I’m patient.


It’s also super weird and funny to be working from the couch in our living room. Having a big HD television is still really blowing my mind in a lot of ways. I guess that’s the way amateur porn should be rendered these days, but it’s still brand new to me. In the context of editing homemade porn, it magnifies the self-consciousness I already had.


The 40 inch screen makes EVERYTHING seem waaaaaaaaaaaay more intimate.

I feel shy enough watching myself having sex on a tiny screen, so it makes me blush even harder and feel REALLY exposed and even vulnerable seeing myself doing such private stuff on a huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge screen. You know how you (probably, like most people) feel strange and awkward about the way your voice sounds played back to you as a recording? Multiply that feeling by ten, and you might arrive at the place I’m in of watching myself in homemade porn with people I barely know / recently met on the internet.

It’s hot and exciting in many ways, but one of those many ways is from the variety of feelings I have about it, and some of those feelings are of embarrassment and insecurity. Yes, I’m proud of what I do and sex is cool, but part of why I’m proud of what I do is because it actually is STILL flying in the face of social norms; intellectually I know I’m not supposed to be embarrassed BUT I GREW UP IN THIS WORLD. You know, the world that tells you you’re bad if you’re a slut and even worse if you’re a whore? ESPECIALLY if your body and/or age and/or prettiness and/or presentation aren’t whatever the majority supposedly thinks of as ideal? Those conflicting feelings are part of the bundle of reasons why I’ve been procrastinating on processing and posting these hot amateur camera-phone-porn videos on my site.

Those conflicting feelings are also part of the bundle of reasons why I know what I do is always an act of defiance. And the degrading, slut-shaming, resentful, misogynistic, whore-hating message I just happened to get this afternoon on a dating site was a “great” confirmation of that.

I think that’s the next-to-worst part: looking at myself completely exposed and knowing there will be people who see me that way and HATE me for it. With the actual “worst” part being that I’ve grown up enough with those messages that I (and WORLDS of people) have internalized and believed them to the point where I can’t even look at myself having fun naked in a big huge video sometimes without cringing with  . . . fear? Is that what it is? I think so.


I’m leaving out a couple of other big contenders for “worst part”. Like one of them MIGHT be that some of this shame and yuck makes sex and porn EVEN HOTTER sometimes. Or wait . . . is that actually be the BEST part? Or no!!! Vicious circle!!

Note: I do not desire to read advice about how I should “ignore” the haters, focus on the positive, etc. Fortunately, I already know that stuff, otherwise I wouldn’t still be here with a site after eleven years! :) Oh, but do feel free to post compliments and other thoughts (mostly compliments though, right?). Sometimes it’s healthy and good to acknowledge the wide spectrum of emotions and experiences a person can have doing this, though, and that while I’m relatively confident and fortunate and safe and loved, I’m not immune to uncomfortable and contradictory feelings that a lot of people, especially women, have.

It’s normal and healthy to care what people think! I still want to feel safe and protect myself, even if it’s “only” from words or “bad energy”. I know, you say that there IS NO SUCH TANGIBLE MEASURABLE HARMFUL THING AS “BAD ENERGY” but I do think it’s the noxious warning sign and symptom of all of the ugliness that’s STILL happening even today. I would post links and stuff but it’s just too depressing and not even the half of it, so I hope you don’t need me to tell you all about it.

I totally didn’t mean for this post to be such a downer. I considered deleting all of these words or waiting to post them until I worked in more happiness, buoyant inspiration and erotically-charged self-love, but whatever. You’d have stopped reading them by now if you found them too heavy and stupid, right? I can assure you that I feel happy, buoyant and TOTALLY EROTICAL about myself right now, okay? 😉 Truly, I probably wouldn’t see the point in doing any of these porno things if I didn’t feel pinches of discomfort about it sometimes.

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