TastyTrixie.com

Archive for the ‘fears’ Category

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

*****

So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Delia knows exactly what kind of thoughtful presents to give me; she brought home the most awesome present for me:

Scorpion gift box

Nevermind what’s inside . . . the box is super cool!

Opening my little bug box

Look at the shiny, iridescent beetle necklace my girlfriend got me!!

A symbol of true love!

There is a special reason why this pendant made Delia think of me; once upon a time I was a beetle breeder.

In elementary school I was always interested but totally lost and intimidated when teachers sprang special projects on us like building rockets, making volcanoes or constructing cameras out of milk cartons. It’s like I was always absent on the days that the secret instructions were handed out telling us to bring money for those brown motors or maybe it was always the OTHER class that got to do those things. I think the mealworm project studying beetle life cycles was one of those things the OTHER class got to do that I was totally jealous of.

So I did the mealworm project at home. Purely for fun.

My mom would never let me have a pet snake so I guess bugs were the next best thing. Not that I was ever totally unafraid of spiders and such, and I *hated* moths, but I was also fascinated by insects and all the little dark nooks and crannies and tunnels they could explore.

I consulted with my friend Ruth (she was in the OTHER class) to determine what supplies I needed: jars with airholes, oatmeal, apple chunks. I captured my own beetles from the base of our old apple tree in the backyard. It grossed my out a little, the way they skittered around so quickly, but I viewed overcoming this fear as a healthy challenge and soon grew to enjoy the tiny tickles of their little black legs scurrying up my arm.

I thought my ability to unflinchingly let bugs crawl on me was an enviable trait to cultivate that would impress people, like when nobody else in my class wanted to hold and stroke a small, velvety black slug during a field trip to the zoo. I don’t remember why the fuck this zookeeper was teaching us about slugs, but I do remember feeling that I’d found a niche where I could jump straight to the top. So what if I failed at rockets and wanted to cry on field day? I could save face by being an imperturbable slug and bug handler! Plus I kind of liked making girls scream and giggle.

In no time I was observing beetle life in all of its stages. The alien-looking pupae were the most disturbingly mesmerizing. I had to increase my containers to hold all of my grubs, pupae and mature beetles. I didn’t have enough covered jars so I just used different bowls from our kitchen and loosely covered them with plastic. Pretty soon the bedroom I shared with my sister started to smell like dusty oatmeal and decomposing apples, but in my role as omnipotent overlord of the beetles I could watch the beetles’ frenzied mating. They were exposed and vulnerable, driven by instinct to procreate in the open on beds of Quaker Oats.

They were also developing genetic defects because of inbreeding. This was a lesson the limited research of the OTHER class never got around to learning! I tried introducing new beetles to the population, but the rate of abnormalities increased. Soon there were albino beetles, pupae with black lesions, slow-moving beetles that failed to thrive and aggressive, kamikaze beetles hell-bent on escaping the bowls of oatmeal.

One day I looked at the bowls full of beetles spread all over my desk so close to our beds and was suddenly horrified by them. I could learn no more from them and they were on the verge of mutiny.

I had to get rid of them FAST before they overran the bowls and poured out in black waves (dotted with albino white) all over our bedroom. I pushed open a window and started flinging beetles and oatmeal outside. I couldn’t dump them quickly enough . . . they were trying to climb back up the wall outside to get in and seek revenge! I kept throwing bowl after bowl of beetles in various stages of life out of the window, shrieking when they clung to the bowl and started climbing up my arm. I cruelly flicked them off with my fingernails, trying to launch them as far away from the window as possible.

It would have been perfect if I could’ve graduated to snakes or lizards because then I could have fed my beetles to them instead of wasting them all like that. Once, when I was a little older, my mom got mad at me when I screamed after reaching into a bag of potatoes in our dark pantry and pulling out a few maggots on a damp spud. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to point out her hypocrisy, having the balls to chastise me for reacting to a handful of maggots on our food when she had a snake phobia precluding me from having the best pet of all: a beautiful legless reptile to hang around my neck while reading.

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Believe it or not, this is not my only story about bug-keeping. I’ll try to tell you about my other bug endeavors one of these days. . .

Last night my wanker played a major part in one of my dreams. We met in real life in a waterfront hotel room with furniture around the edges and a large amount of space in the middle. He was chuckling and delighted when I made him put on women’s clothes: shiny low-heeled patent pumps, almost-frumpy suiting (loose pencil skirts, blouses and polyester jackets) and wigs that all came from my own (imaginary) collection.

Crossdressing is not his thing, but he looked very cute, donning one outfit after another, handing money over to me with each costume change, and not at all as silly as I expected. I was surprised and excited both by how coyly he looked at me in his lady garb through the strands of fake hair hanging over his glasses AND by the stack of twenties growing fatter and fatter in my hand.

I walked across the room — quite a distance — to count the money with my back to him, looking over my shoulder to shoot smiles of encouragement at him. Just as I noticed with pleasure that he’d made a handwritten notation on each $20 bill — his name, the date, and a charming code indicating his humiliated status in relation to my status of financial and sexual dominance — the dangerous wharf gang boys were about to bust in to disrupt me taking control of two new modem/router combos I desperately needed for my networks. They intended to sell them on the black market. If they would rough me up for this pedestrian technology I knew they would rest this thick, hard wad of personalized cash from me in a second and I just couldn’t bear to part with it.

The hotel was located in the same building as a weird FedX/UPS warehouse. Before I knew it I was running through the warehouse between forklifts trying to sign shipping receipts and get my modem/router combos before the wharf gang boys did. I don’t know what happened to my money, but I think I saw my wanker walking away from me down a shady dirt road in a red skirt.

I’m guessing it was about $5,000 but I’m not sure since I’ve never held that many twenties in my hand before in my life and I couldn’t concentrate to finish counting them in my dream.

I’m getting better at recording ideas as they come to me, developing a system.

We know a guy in town who nearly wrapped up writing his novel and also had a system for compiling all of his stacks of inspiration-containing idea-notes weekly. His novel and many years’-worth of weekly compilations were stored on his computer at the offices of the non-profit he ran saving seeds of native and/or rare plants.

One night the building burned down. He had no back ups of his his novel or his notes.

He and his wife sold his car to someone we know, who then gave the car to us for free. I wonder if it’s bad luck to drive it. I feel like I need to compile years of stacks of notes-on-envelopes now, back them all up and store them in three different places.

Until I get a fireproof system in place there’s no point in even STARTING to write a novel. But maybe since I would never say “novel”, only “I’m writing a book” (and would never even say that to anyone even if I WERE writing one), maybe that would protect me.

I’m not sure, but I think a lot of the seeds were duplicated elsewhere so all was not lost in that department. I can’t remember what he called his note-compilation ritual, but I think I have it written down somewhere on the back of an envelope. Lately I’ve had to stop myself from searching for that because I don’t really need to know what he called it. I could email him or even call, but I don’t know him that well so to my mind searching through shitloads of scribbled-on papers seems the more sensible thing to do, but obviously not sensible enough that I’ll allow myself to do it.

His wife collects the jokers from decks of playing cards. That’s almost everything I know about them.

Note: I really am not writing a book, and most of my ideas aren’t FOR books. This post isn’t a hint of any kind, it’s more of a confession  about my idea-hoarding compulsion.

I’ve got a new thing on our spycam and chat schedule: playing piano for half an hour on our spycams the last Sunday night of the month (tonight!) and chatting afterward.

It’s not a “concert” or a “show” and as with everything on our cams that’s not pay-by-the-minute, I won’t be taking requests. I probably won’t expose my genitals or fondle myself in an erotic manner, however it will be intimate. To me.

Members click here and head to SpyOnYou to watch/listen/chat. Stardust Piano Hour starts at 7 pm Pacific.

If you aren’t a member, but want to become one, JOIN HERE.

Note: the audio is via spycam broadcast, so not high fidelity / stereo/cd quality.

*****

We went to a Christmas party last month, new attendants in the middle of an old crowd where it’s traditional to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas and other songs and carols. Our friend was getting fed up with trying to accompany on the hosts’ keyboard, so I stepped in,  sat down and enjoyed it. It’s been SO LONG since I played piano in a room full of people.

I’m no virtuoso at playing piano and am really not good by pianist standards but I realized something at that party: I  am good ENOUGH that I shouldn’t avoid playing just because I know that I could be better or because people are better than I am or because there are so many beautiful and amazing things I *can’t* do or haven’t learned or practiced.

I have focused so much energy on cringing with shame over the things I can’t do that I *should* be able to do; I should be able to play by ear better, I should be able to sit down with a band and jam, I should have a whole repertoire of songs that I know by heart (actually, I should be embarrassed that I actually have never learned one. SINGLE. song by heart), all of my fingers should be equally strong and skilled, I should stop using the pedal so much to compensate for having small hands,  I make mistakes that hurt my ears, blah blah fucking blah. Oh god I would suck as a piano duelist!!

Here’s the thing, though. I was still the best piano player at that party. And unless every party I went to was a party for musicians only, that would frequently be the case.

How many people really know how to play piano? How many people in the world can actually play *better* than I can? What percentage of humans do I actually play *better* than? Why do I focus on the wrong things?

I don’t think the problem is that I really that I want to be the best at anything (I believe in the healing power of crystals and that Jesus Christ rose from the dead more than I believe it’s possible for me to come within sight of being the best at anything), but when I compare myself to people who do things excellently, what I can do with mediocrity seems useless. If there are lots of people doing something better than I do it, what’s the point of me wasting time on it? What can I contribute with my half-assedness? I guess the answer has always felt obvious to me: NOTHING. All that can be accomplished is embarrassment and time wasted on me that would’ve been better spent listening to someone do it better.

What a crock of negative shit!

I’m practicing to undo that crappy mindset of mine that’s plagued me with pretty much everything I do, that feeling that if I can’t excel at something and be in the top 5% at it, that I’m only be humiliating myself to spend time on it. As I get older I realize it’s asinine to think that *ANYthing* a person does can be more than mediocre. The only thing most of us can excel at is being ourselves, which is really only unique in a small very random sample so even “being myself” is a field with competition because we really are not so individually special. Except to ourselves. And our loved ones. And our communities that need our work and for us to try and to be where we’re at so maybe someone else can be the best in your own small circle.  So yeah. I’m going to let myself be special to myself. I want to tell my stories and use my voice and play songs and dance and stuff. And not throw away what I already know which is more than a whole lot of other people, even if it’s less than others. I want to stop thinking about who is better and who is worse. Instead I want to care about what I want, what makes me happy, what resources I have in the form of skills and interest and love. I want to care about what I what I want to get lost in and what is important. Music is one of those things.

So I’m going to play piano more, and even dare to let people hear me do it.

I need to stop thinking I should pick up the theremin so I don’t have to worry about the millions of people who are better at theramin playing than I am. I already know a lot about how to play the piano! If I want to play the theremin it should be because it’s totally fucking cool (and I want to make people fall in love with my hands), not because I’m afraid what I can already do (play piano) isn’t good enough.

How long can I feel this super groovy? I hope a looooong time! The memory/deja vu/hopeful-excited-magic feelings I mentioned last week are still here and I feel GREAT. So great that I’m almost worried that I’m losing my marbles and trying to figure out what to attribute these good feelings to.

Is it the B vitamins? The D’s? The pressure being lifted from IRS after being forced to resign myself to accepting and even embracing whatever bad things might happen? Our deliciously mild winter (that could fuck up the winter olympics in Vancouver if the Pacific Northwest doesn’t get more snow)? Getting rid of DirecTV and reading more and enjoying each other more? Our new sound therapy machine with the delta wave inducing sounds (I usually dream so much that I don’t get deep dreamless sleep: a symptom of low serotonin levels/depression)? Is it that I’ve lost some weight? Is it going to twelve-step meetings? Is it just that I’m reading more and I FUCKING LOVE TO READ?!?

I don’t know, but IT IS GOOD! So I’m going to try to enjoy it and not worry that there’s something wrong with me. Goes to show how unhealthy I’ve been for so long that when I feel terrific for more than three hours I think maybe the sky is falling.

*****

I picked up my new weighted hula hoop today for more high jinks on the spycams! I also have a bollycardio dvd that we rented which I’ve only gone through once and am looking forward to doing more of. It’s jolly/silly camwatching goodness.

Speaking of camwatching goodness, we enjoyed some fucking yesterday and I hope our voyeurs did, too.

*****

On Friday and Saturday we had a great visit with my sister, brother-in-law and nephews which contributed to my heightened sense of awareness and positivity. Hanging around a three year old and an easily-delighted baby with a huge grin and dimples is like bathing in a clarifying happiness. Music sounds better, everything looks newer and more interesting and mysterious, and I have an excuse to read books aloud that were read to ME when I was little.

And hey, on top of that there is all of this boundless LOVE. On top of just loving those little guys to pieces, the amount of unconditional love I get from them is totally amazing. I’m forced to love myself more just being around them, in part because they do not see flaws but also because I want to always model un-self-conscious confidence to them; they make me love  myself more.

Maybe that’s what’s going on with me lately . . . better brain chemistry. Getting better sleep. Getting rid of the television — maybe having more oxytocin like from being around my nephews and my sister, but also from cuddling Delia and really being TOGETHER in bed instead of just staring at the tube all of the time. Maybe I’m just being flooded with a lot of girl juice: the loving, bonding chemicals, not necessarily the sexy ones.

Cuddling never used to help me fall asleep — it was more something I liked to do for a few minutes BEFORE unsticking bodies and going to sleep on my own side of the bed. Bizarrely enough, I’m actually finally starting to understand how great if feels to fall asleep nestled up to Delia. If I get in her armpit with her arm around me and my nose on her upper tit, I now get an instant jolt of SOMETHING I’ve never had with anybody else. Seriously, it’s some kind of a drug injection that I do think has something to do with oxytocin. Whatever it is, it’s BLISS. Tranquilizing and emotionally/sensually stimulating all at the same time.

It’s still sort of weird and foreign to me so I mostly continue my years-entrenched habit of nestling into my own don’t-touch-me space to sleep, but I think I’m going to try to get more of that business more often. I might need to work on my initiation technique though which consists of awkwardly trying to lift her arm up and demanding she “let me in”.