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Archive for the ‘human nature’ Category

I juiced my panties waiting in line to pay for my birth control pills at the drugstore yesterday.

This guy walked through the door, about 20 years old, 6′5″-ish, flannel shirt, jeans. He was alone and awkward, his shoulders hunched. He had that straight-ahead stare and his whole posture was that of a kid who just tried to get from one class to the other in high school without being picked on, or without letting on that he could hear people picking on him. A tall kid adults thought should play basketball but who absolutely couldn’t.

He was pale and slightly Edward Cullen-like without knowing it and when he walked by me I just wanted to fucking JUMP ON HIM. To be transported to the back of a van with the doors open on a dead end gravel road in the woods, smelling him and feeling him and being under him and on top of him FUCKING OUR BRAINS OUT with him grunting and moaning quietly, wordlessly, and looking slightly scared like the whole situation is just out of his hands . . . beyond his control.

I wanted to touch him all over and bury my nose in his armpits while dragging my slimy cunt up and down on his thigh before using it to devour his pecker.

*****

It’s probably important to emphasize the whole “waiting to pay for my birth control” bit: during my week off of the extra estrogen I get MAD with fucklust. But beyond that there’s just the whole excitement of smelling a man and seeing him and immediately knowing exactly what it would feel like to be pressed up hard against him. Being suddenly, spontaneously immersed in a vivid sex fantasy in a public place, surrounded by people while your imagination is completely captured by the presence of one man (or sometimes two men or a whole crew of men who just got off work or left football practice or whatever the fuck).

*****

The other day I mentioned an attractive young man volunteering to be my houseboy/porn stud. And for once having it really sound extremely exciting to me to the point where my mind kept conjuring up the sensation of a tan, wiry 15-years-younger-than-me kid ramming me with his vigorous young boner.

I know, those words are just insanely obnoxious but that’s how insanely horny the thoughts made me, that instead of turning me off all of those tacky concepts thrilled me to the point where my cervix puckered with anxious anticipation. Again, normally the idea of someone banging at my cervix makes me want to vomit, but once these thoughts take hold an enormous gulf separates me from the world of good taste and common sense.

It’s only recently, perhaps in the past year or two, that the thought of fucking barely-legal boys has become a turn-on for me. Not to the extent that it’s displaced being turned-on by guys my age and older – far from it; normally it’s the grizzled dockworkers and loggers and boatbuilders and painters and dirty dirty dirty fully-matured MEN who capture my attention. BUT. As the distance between me and fresh-out-of-high-school grows and the difference between me and them becomes more pronounced I feel more and more turned-on by the idea of having a roster of boys in my little black book to call upon and service me.

Part of it might also be the way people respond to this fantasy online; knowing how many people want to jerk off watching me fucking a fresh-faced, ruddy-cheeked 19 year old with a crazy little prick that never gets soft and is used to shooting buckets of cum every week from his own tugging at home or wherever he can unload is REALLY FUCKING HOT TO ME. Knowing how many people would want to be that boy so bad that it would make their nuts cry makes me want to induce that state of agonizing stiffness.

*****

I know, you’re all “what about girls and Delia and stuff?!?” I am with a girl, I am WITH Delia, and have been to the exclusion of all others for many years so have been denied men (not denied as in not allowed, but denied for all practical purposes, not by the structure of our relationship but just by circumstance and my own unwillingness to pursue outside interests or cultivate new “hobbies”). And so much of our sexual energy and her cum is diverted by her doing shows and solo shoots that there’s not a lot left over for private banging.

I’m not complaining, this is just a status report. I enjoy the way my lust for other people has swollen over the years. It’s not something I want to act on right now, but is something I’m enjoying being tortured by and look forward to indulging in.

Later, though.

*****

I want to show my members and blog readers pictures of random dudes I want to fuck and the guys who catch my eye on the streets. I want to make the people who jerk off to me start jerking off to my fantasies and for their gaze to turn from my pussy to the cocks they want to fill me, for them to be less interested in their own fantasies of fondling my tits and MORE interested in my own fantasies of dragging my boobs over the chests and faces of young fellows who don’t know what the fuck to do with themselves, let alone with me, except to just hump and pump away at whatever they can stick it into or shake it at but for me to make. Them. WAIT. Until they just shoot their loads on their bellies. Hands free. I want people online to be even more obsessed than I am with the possibilities of who I might wind up seducing or seduced by, and for those people online to not even want it to be themselves. For them to want it to be someone else totally removed and entirely part of my meatworld. And all you get to do is watch and YOU JUST CAN’T WAIT.

It makes me fucking CRAZY.

*****

I need to go take my girl hormones now.

Normally I love fall, but it took so long for winter to go away this year that I’ve actually been apprehensive about letting go of the summer. Fortunately, we’ve had an extended Indian summer. Last week I *thought* it was over one night when I found myself craving heat, but this week it’s back. Sunny yesterday, sunny today . . . and clear for viewing the full moon last night and crone moon tonight.

It’s also been spider season with one lady in residence in our line of vision from bed in the corner of our sliding glass door:

Spider Lady & Half Moon

She’s been there every day and I know we should get rid of her big egg sac or we’ll have shitloads of spiders in our bedroom, but I haven’t been able to do that to her. I love seeing her there at least once a day and/or night. It doesn’t seem like the best place to have a web with us sliding the door open and closed and some of her anchors being attached to it. But I guess there’s no spot to weave a web that is completely invulnerable.

Lamp-lit spider on web.

Our dog’s much better after her trip to the vet’s. The x-rays didn’t show any arthritis but part of her spine had some degeneration, probably from aging in an area of past trauma which Delia thinks must have been from a time when she was a young dog and made a quick break out of the door of their house straight into the side of a moving car on a busy road, bounced off said car, then ran back inside never appearing any worse for the wear.

There have been times in the past nine months where Nico has seemed so old and uncomfortable and tired — and she IS old. Fourteen, I think. Everyone thinks she’s a puppy because she’s a runt of a husky and looks so young, up until recently when you see her walk, especially watching her from behind and her whole hind end just takes so much awkward effort to move. SOMETIMES. But if she’s excited? She’ll still bound and bounce and run around the house like crazy, even though, to me, her yips of excitement sound tinged with pain. I don’t think anything but the most debilitating pain can stop a husky from doing her husky things, so when we started noticing her having real problems has been at night when she can barely lie down and whimpers/cries like a squeaky wheel, circling around and around before painfully lowering herself down.

Anyway, the vet put her on prednisone, a steroid, which seems to be helping quite a bit. We took her on walks in the woods the past couple of days, which she loved even if she’s slowed down a lot since I met her and Delia seven years ago. Now her pace is really pleasant and companionable. She still runs ahead a little bit, but there are times when she actually walks right beside us, or takes breaks so she’s always close by.

Watching her yesterday on the trail looking so much better than she has in a couple of months I thought about how long it took for my dad to die and how unprepared I was for that. How there were so many times where I was impatient for it to happen already, for all of us to be put out of our misery of waiting, and then having days where he was present and I was so happy he was still around and it didn’t seem possible he was anywhere NEAR ready. At least, not nearly as ready as I recently had been. I feel that way a lot with Nico where I can’t help contemplating the convenience of her death one day when she seems uncomfortable, lethargic, and droopy-faced, then feeling overjoyed the next with how well she’s doing — how alert and happy she is, how it’s so not time yet — how YOUNG (for her age) she looks.

My ninth grade (and seventh grade) English teacher did something pretty fucking progressive and unheard-of for kids as young as we were in a public school: she taught us a section on Death and Dying. Practical planning stuff about funerals and wills, the Kubler Ross stages of grief, and of course literature like some story about a brave young man  with a brain tumor (title escapes me, but not the memory of how much I disliked that book) and one I’m forever grateful for being exposed to and having TAUGHT to me (not just read on my own), The Plague.

I remember all of us talking about what we wanted to happen to our bodies after we died and everyone laughing when I said I wanted to be dressed up like the Chiquita Banana Lady and thrown into the woods to rot and be scavenged by animals. Since then I’ve changed my mind, partly because I loved my dad’s funeral including seeing him all dressed up in his coffin that we picked out with special things tucked in to go with him, including stuffed animals that were ours, but that he kept after we outgrew them. I was shocked by how much I did not want his eyes to be plucked out for harvesting; I’d assumed he was ineligible for donating because of his glaucoma (which he was, but they weren’t aware of it so the question was posed to me anyway) and I was just totally unprepared by the topic even coming up even though of course we are all listed as organ donors, but MORE unprepared by how viscerally opposed I was to having his body — especially his eyes — taken out of him when I’d been looking into them MINUTES before that.

So. Aside from it being illegal to throw costumed dead women into the woods, I realize people have emotional, albeit irrational, attachments to the bodies of loved ones and I’ve even become attached the IDEA of my own dead body and perhaps want a more traditional type of ritual to accompany me to my final resting spot. Plus I’m extremely fond of coffins.

I asked Delia if she knows if people can come to our house to put Nico to sleep when the time comes so she can be at home and we can bury her. Delia said she’d prefer to take her to the vet’s. When I heard that I experienced another one of those irrational, emotional reactions (especially since Nico is really DELIA’S dog, not mine) of not being able to bear the thought of taking her to a place she’s afraid of and have to die there. I know it’s over fast, but having done that (thankfully only once and with a kitten we’d hardly had for any time at all) the drive there is just too fucking sad and crying your heart out in a clinic standing around in that sterile setting is just not the ideal to me. I am so glad my dad died in hospice where we got to hang out with his dead body for a few hours afterward (I probably wouldn’t have understood it before, but that is incredibly comforting and helpful, not to have to be seperated physically from each other right away), but obviously a seventy year old parent is pretty different from a fourteen year old pet.

We’re all smart enough to know that television and movies are inaccurate and unrealistic, but I personally never realized how much until my dad took years to die, and then again especially during the days and hours surrounding his actual death. I felt and still feel very unprepared for the process of death by aging and protracted illness. My mind is still boggled by the concept that all of us, if we are lucky, have to watch our parents die. I don’t feel like I was taught to expect that or how to process that even though I’ve probably been given more tools and experiences to deal with that than most post-baby-boom American kids have. I’d had friends who lost parents way too young and I knew it was devastating to them and in some cases they even talked about it a little, but not nearly enough to ever intimate exactly how huge that loss was. I and my dad were not too young, it wasn’t a tragedy, and it’s still hard and has taken SO LONG. I mean, it’s still not over for me. I’m still shocked by the revelation that death is never over or never not coming and that it’s VISIBLE and active for So. Many. Years. I’m trying to accept that with Nico . . . even to use her as practice and I am flummoxed at how ill-prepared I still am . . . how disbelieving, impatient, sad, and scared I am in spite of feeling that’s not really in my nature. I feel like I’m the kind of person who should be able to embrace aging-towards-death gracefully, with serenity instead of blubbering.

I don’t even know how my mom has handled the past thirteen years, seeing her own dad’s decline and death, living with and taking care of my dad/her ex-husband (they continued to have a fond and extremely helpful dysfunctional relationship even after his death), packing up the house she grew up in and moving her mom out of it and into first one home, then another, and now a third offering an even higher level of care. I really do not fucking know. I don’t think she really knows either, but I know it’s a lot harder for her than she’s gotten help for, and my distance from her doesn’t help. What I still idiotically fail to GRASP is how this is THIS LARGE a part of life. Because tv never taught me that and even though my family has always talked openly about these things and plans for when we die, I still can’t remember exactly what I’m supposed to do with my mom’s ashes and I still can’t believe that IF I AM *LUCKY*, I will live through many more loved ones’ deaths. I read so many young adult books about death — GOOD books about a girl whose dad was shot about a kid with Lou Gehrig’s disease about drug addicted kids . . . about pretty much every kind of unanticipated death you or someone you know could have but not so much about the deaths we all aspire to without any proper planning.

What is the life span of a spider? I have no clue. I am still trying to brace myself for the day this season when I look out the window and in the cracks around the sides and she’s not there and doesn’t come back.

I love casinos.

It’s pretty rare that we go to them (and we have LOTS of nice ones on reservations in Western Washington where the tribes actually make decent money off of them instead of simply being exploited by outside corporations which is what happens in most states) and the amount of money I spend is trifling, but I still love walking around in them and being absorbed by the noises and orderly rows of tables and machines.

A few nights ago I needed to get out of the house so I went with Delia to her 12-step meeting. Meaning I went along for the ride, dropped her off, and headed to the casino by myself. Delia doesn’t like wandering around aimlessly in casinos the way I do so I really got to enjoy spending an hour there with my free Sprite, completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do with myself (but in a good way). Eventually I made a $7 donation to the tribe via penny and nickel slots after I figured out how to get and use their club card.

I allowed myself to be completely unhurried and take as much time as I needed to make and execute the simplest of decisions, like whether or not I should remove my club card from the lanyard so that it wouldn’t be dangling across the screen or tying me up by the neck to the machine. Seriously. I spent ten minutes trying to figure that out and get the card OFF the clip. I am not very bright or coordinated, especially when there’s a lot of distractions around so it’s a huge relief sometimes to be completely alone with nobody (I know) watching and just allow myself to sink into being massively stupid, completely enveloped in the casino atmosphere where you’re allowed to publicly do nothing but throw money away while you sit on a stool and look at little pictures of monkeys and fruit and BARBARBAR spinning around. For hours. I suppose that’s pathetic, but it relaxes me to feel no pressure. To not have to try to be smart. To be hidden between the slot machines that are all taller than I am.

I love casinos enough that I would throw much more money away in them if I could afford to. Enough that I can envision myself having a serious problem, especially if I ever learned to confidently play cards which is one of those perfect-for-Trixie ways of being around other people, in a completely structured semi-social exchange where the object isn’t to chat, but to play and to win. Everybody has a clearly defined role. There are RULES. I like that.

But I don’t have money to throw away so after I (ever so slowly) spent my seven dollars I wandered around looking at the steakhouse menu and the cafe menu and the people and the machines and the gift shop. And while I looked at the two pound steak special it occurred to me that it would be very convenient if someone offered me money for sexual favors. That I would DO IT without hesitating, return to consume my blowjob-earned steak, and spend the rest of it on slots.

On the Golden Girls, Blanche referred to buying things with her body as “using nature’s credit card”. I wonder: what is the percentage of women who 1) want things and 2) immediately scan the room for men who can provide the means for procuring the things that they want. I imagine it’s pretty high. It seems perfectly natural. And of that number, how many would use “nature’s credit card” to seal the deal?

Of course I wouldn’t do that at the casino. Probably not. Unless I did become addicted to gambling.

When the thought first (naturally) crossed my mind it seemed totally logical and if it would’ve only taken 20 seconds for an opportunity to present itself then YES, I would have done it. But after a minute reality set in and I realized I wouldn’t have time to do that before Delia’s meeting was over. I don’t know enough about the casino to know what the risks are. I have no desire to be publicly humiliated there or never allowed to return. I’m not sure what safety precautions to take. And the whole thing would be so much messier and uncomfortable in real life than in my imagination. Plus the guy would probably offer way less money than would be worth it. Plus I really didn’t feel like talking to anybody.

But I didn’t look “hot” so I’d have probably performed, for example, a low-priced handjob with my tits out for groping if I knew it was safe and the guy didn’t want a big long conversation. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to ever know for sure that something is safe. And I hate the idea of someone following me around, eyeballing me before they make an approach, or worse, following me around afterward when I’m trying to enjoy the money I earned.

It’s much better to be a lone stranger in the casino that the security guys suspect is autistic rather than a prostitute. I didn’t feel like smiling at anybody or talking. I veered away from a chunky black guy earlier (before my whore light bulb dinged outside the steakhouse) who seemed to be pursuing me; in hindsight he might have been a perfect mark for that handjob exchange. But at the time I just wanted to sit alone on a stool at a slot machine without being hemmed in by people on both sides.

At the printing company where I used to work there was an autistic guy working in the art department. He scanned logos and cleaned up the artwork. I briefly worked there too on the night shift. Sometimes our boss would look at me working, obsessively sharpening the edges of black, shaving off pixels that shouldn’t have been there, and would complain with a laugh that I worked exactly like Bill (the autistic guy). I took it as a compliment even though she didn’t mean it that way. Even though she liked Bill better than she liked me, what she meant is that it had been revealed to her that I wasn’t so fucking smart; I was actually slow and retarded with no clue how normal people do things.

Everybody liked Bill. So did I, and when someone got in his way when he was headed somewhere or tried to stop him and engage him in conversation and he’d pointedly stare straight past them above their heads and try to GET AROUND THEM, to steamroll straight past them, I totally understood what he felt like. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but very few people respect how we want to go directly from point A to point B without someone interfering with our straight line. GET OUT OF MY WAY.

I think it’s that desire to connect the dots (going from *not* having something I want to procuring it) in a very direct way that makes turning a trick in a casino to get money for a steak and more time at the slots seem perfectly logical and also anathema to me. It’s not a moral or ethical issue to me at all. It’s not natural to me to think about it in those terms. The notion of NOT doing it because it’s “wrong” is complete nonsense to me. There are plenty of reasons not to do it, but that’s not one of them.

Anyway, I had a good time by myself at the casino. I used to hate public smoking, but now that it’s illegal (except on reservations) it’s been so long that I actually sort of welcomed the stench and that whole Vegas smell. I was dizzy by the time I left.

Call me superficial, but coming home with much-blonder hair meant so much to me – it boosted my mood and ego a billion points. Our hair-chick ratted and teased it to be tall on top because she has a Rock of Love fetish, so to take advantage of it we did a slutty faux-schoolgirl shoot and I was too in love with myself to stop there, so I snagged some webcam shots:

Just the day before this I went to the mall and wandered around by myself while Delia got a laser treatment. I was in my usual comfortable-slob mode wearing a pair of old black sweats that were falling down (the drawstring broke a long time ago so I try to hold it together by wadding the waist up in front and whipping a ponytail-holder around that wad to cinch it up) so it looked like I had shit in my drawers, nerdy silver tennis shoes, and an old-lady baby-blue polar fleece ladies jacket from LL Bean that was a Christmas present from Delia’s mom a few years ago. I looked so old and so tired and so washed out and I felt that way, too. Like I should apologize for looking so shitty.

I had that quintessential “she’s given up on herself” look. Theoretically I HATE that criticism and don’t care what I look like which is part of why I became a webwhore in the first place; since I rarely feel motivated to dress up and be seen, the thought of being paid to do it and have a visual record of the times I did appealed to me. I’d be off the hook and could always point to those pictures as proof that I CAN look good if I WANT to and have already DONE that. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Why do it EVERY DAY? Of course, there’s a slight flaw in my logic since we broadcast spycams and most people paying to see them would like me to look sexy on them all of the time, or at least more often than I do, but whatever. I walked around the mall looking from a respectful distance at clothes and makeup and other ways to improve my appearance, feeling like I wasn’t worthy or capable of asking to touch anything expensive and beautiful enough to make a significant change.

The point is that I looked blah and yucky and didn’t feel good about it at all. No, that’s not the point. The POINT is in the contrast between how I felt that day and the next, when I came home with my hair really blonde and stood in front of the mirror and drew outside of the lines of my lips and filled them in with thick, gooey gloss and frosty highlights and brushed on dark eyeshadow and put on fake lashes.

I felt like magic. Like this is why people want to look like porn stars. Because (sometimes?) it feels a lot better than looking like muted, sloppy shit. And it doesn’t matter if I just applied a boundary of fakeness between the plain foundation of myself and what people see, because it felt best when I was the only one looking at myself there in the bathroom mirror or taking self-absorbed pictures of myself.

Why am I hiding the plain truth under all of this bullshit self-criticism and analysis? All I’m trying to say is that looking in the mirror and seeing yourself looking like a hot fucking slut feels VASTLY SUPERIOR to slouching around feeling like an unattractive slob. It’s inconvenient, but true. No matter how much I wish my protestations that looking good is a waste of my time and money were true, THEY AREN’T.

It’s fucking biology that we want people to want to fuck us on sight, that we want people to be jealous of us, that we want people’s eyes to light up when they see us, that we want to advertise our fantastic genes (or that we want to look better than our average ones). If you’re a woman (who isn’t still shattered by one or more people hurting you because you looked like hot sex and they took it from you) some part of you wants people to look at you with desire and appreciation. Even when it annoys me to be gawked at, it charges my fucking battery. It’s absolutely electric.

You want to look so good that you can control a man into paying for dinner just to get a whiff of your hair and stare at your cleavage, that you can render him insensible to paying for everything you need to keep looking so good — to maintain your value and keep commanding higher and higher prices — shoes that make your feet arch and sparkly jewelry accentuating all your graceful, slender parts and tight pants and shiny hair and fat, pouting lips and pampering spa treatments performed by undemanding female hands that MIGHT just render you pliant enough to be amenable to saying “thank you” with your soft body. It’s an expensive art and time-consuming work to always look like a shiny, animated toy cocksucker and I’ve never mastered it or even kidded myself that I could compete on that level.

The older I get, the rarer and more exciting it is when I get a taste of what it feels like to BE hot sex. Normally I am the one LOOKING at one of the shiny girls, simply appreciating how they glitter from head to toe, putting so much time and money into tanning, waxing, accessorizing, and accentuating every single morsel of their bodies. Hoping that someone admires and respects it enough to make it worth their while, constantly forgetting that there are intrinsic rewards to looking like honey come to life and taking soft female form and maybe that is enough for them.

My head and body have been so fucked up and bloated and distorted off and on for so many years that now, getting it back on track, I’m at an age where I don’t take it for granted anymore that tomorrow I could be riding some strange boy’s cock and having him looking up at me in complete amazement and disbelief, moaning about how he can’t believe he’s really fucking me. That might never happen again, which is fine, but it would still be nice to know that it’s POSSIBLE even if I don’t want to act on it (it actually feels especially powerful knowing I probably won’t). How many years do I have left where I’ll be ABLE to turn heads in public? You don’t have to be a great beauty to make that happen. Do I really want to waste those opportunities playing the invisible slob?

It’s disgusting to admit, but when I pass a mirrored column in a mall I want to make myself wet looking at myself. When I walk by a shiny window of a restaurant I want to see my own reflection on top of people who are WATCHING me and not be able to resist smiling, knowing that they are delighted and mesmerized by what they see. ANY woman can manage if she has time and the desire to advertise herself using resources like bleached hair and juicy lip stains and clothes that highlight your best bounce, wiggle or stride. Resources she can extract from men. It’s the OTHER circle of life. It might be a totally fucked up stereotype of gender roles, something progressive men and women want to move away from (or better, switch up for fun — I do fantasize about being a sugar mama to young women and sometimes men), but sometimes I can’t help celebrating it and wanting to WIN at it and enjoy the cheap/expensive thrill of it.

Attempting it often feels awkward and unnatural and hardly-worth-it, but when it works the rewards feed some primal need in me that are so close to my core I can’t dismiss them as fake or stupid or unhealthy. There is no pretending we can evolve past this.

Note: originally this entry included more reflection and deeper insight on where my confli
cted feelings about making myself up to look “sexy” (or at least presentable) in public (and in general) might have come from but it turned into a total downer so maybe I’ll save that for another time. I feel like I should apologize for my undying fascination with mulling over these matters and warn you that they don’t end here and I can’t unwaveringly commit to any one perspective on them.

I’m already totally embarrassed by this post even though the whole point of it is not to be.

GROSS.

Did you see the chick who kept mispronouncing “larynx” and “trachea” on American Idol?

Yeah, well I *loved* her. Because I could relate to her so much. Her seriousness and convictions and reaching for the right words (but getting them all wrong) and insisting upon precision with her responses to questions and bewilderment over the rules of the interview at the end. I loved her voice and she was the kind of smarT I recognize as my own.

I hate myself for watching that show, but almost feel like it’s my duty to know how we’re being taught about our own and other people’s value. If you have bad teeth, if you’re mentally ill, if you’re overweight, if you’re an aspie (see above), if you’re overweight AND wear tight or revealing clothing, if you’re borderline retarded, you’re fair game for the Idol freak show. All of America joins together not just to laugh at you, but to FEEL GOOD about laughing at you without compunction. It’s a family show! Everybody’s watching! It’s okay to laugh in someone’s face, punctuate every gaffe with sound effects, play songs like “Weird Science” when you walk into your audition if you’re a nerd (two scores I’d personally be pleased with — that song is googlyicious GOODNESS and that one nerd with bad teeth could have played Patrick Bateman’s long lost hillbilly cousin!). You can laugh right in someone’s face and still be considered kind as long as you chuckle “good lookin’ out!” and say, “awwww, you should never sing again but I can tell you’re a real sweetie!” as they exit.

They pretend American Idol is a competition only one person wins at the end, but the real reason it’s popular is because we ALL get to be winners at home each and every time they show us another fucking loser. The same people who’ve been targets of cruelty and ostracism for centuries — sissy boys with lisps, fat girls whose pants split, ugly people who dare to smile wide, and village idiots whose ears stick out and eyes are too close-set — willingly subject themselves to torment. Compared to them, the rest of us come out so far ahead! We are smarter, prettier, stronger and more likely to fit in than THOSE Americans. We wouldn’t make their stupid mistakes!

We just watched an episode (Yokel Chords) of The Simpsons that made fun of this phenomenon with Homer demonstrating exactly the behavior I’m talking about, pointing at the inbred hicks on tv, calling them stupid and feeling so good about himself in the process. I totally understand the appeal; in the internet porn industry I’m surrounded by people I subconsciously think of as easy targets (mostly my male “colleagues”); I feel like it’s my duty to be mean and ream them out, but maybe I actually waste time around them on webmaster boards because I’m a small person who wants to pretend she’s an advanced and sophisticated thinker. How petty and embarrassing is that?

It’s taking me a long time to put it into practice, but I really want to stop doing that. Awhile back we heard a comedian on the radio asking why it’s not okay to make fun of retarded people but people who are just plain STUPID are totally fair game. It kind of blew my mind because I like to think I’m one of those defenders of political correctness and sensitivity, but I totally have that double standard that I should be empathetic towards people who are developmentally delayed or have other identifiable REASONS for not being great intellectual thinkers, but it’s not only acceptable to mock and hate on stupid people — it’s like I sometimes feel it’s my fucking DUTY to be mean, angry and impatient with stupid and/or ignorant people. Like they have no excuse for being so dumb or lacking information. Granted, most of the time when I feel that way it’s because they’re acting like judgmental know-it-alls themselves or because they’re idiots writing to me with offensive demands, but it doesn’t really accomplish anything or make me a better person to behave the same way. I feel especially gross about it considering that under other circumstances — if I were in a different role doing a different kind of job (teaching, for example) — I would never allow myself to act that way and would be horrified by other people doing it. There are a bunch of ways I defend my behavior and even as I write this think it’s the RIGHT thing to do in certain circumstances. What I want is to understand what *I* get emotionally out of being an asshole to stupid people and decide whether or not it can accomplish anything positive next time I feel like calling someone a moron. It’s gotten so reflexive that nary a day goes by that I’m not screaming at someone for being a dumb-ass. Dumb fuck, dumb ass, crazy bitch, stupid shit, crazy SON-of-a-bitch, cocksucking moron . . . apparently they’re everywhere I look and it doesn’t really make me feel good to label people that way everywhere I look, even if I only do it in my head or muttering under my breath at the grocery store, “MOVE, you stupid shit-for-brains, MOVE!!”

I wonder why I’ve gotten worse about this as I’ve gotten older. Is it because I’m more socially isolated and feel less connected to other people? Is it because I’m more and more aware of my own limitations and am just projecting my own feelings of inferiority? Is it because I have some hormonal stuff going on that’s making me more of an asshole than I really am? Is it because I know that I’m actually one of those stupid hillbilly nerds they make fun of on television? Whatever it is, I’m going to try to be less of a shithead and recognize that the only person I am in competition with is myself.

Just a quick post to say that we have family visiting today and tomorrow so some of our cams and audio will be down. It’s been too long since we’ve seen our nephew and we haven’t even given my sister her present for her birthday which was a month ago. It’s a hot pair of peeptoe sandals so in the back of my mind I’m hoping I can get a set of foot-focused pics out of her while she’s wearing them, too. Is that so wrong? PROBABLY!

Some snaps of me from the last time we had company over:

My psychiatrist’s office finally called back so I made an appointment to get back on Ritalin. I got a huge headache yesterday because I’ve been trying to use caffeine instead of prescription stimulants and caffeine? It’s pure fucking evil. I don’t have to consume much over the course of three or four days to suffer nasty consequences.

Even though I was almost totally out of commission yesterday with the headache, I did manage to write and post for members a sicko masturbation fantasy I had. I’m not sure if other people will jack off to it, but it’s an interesting peek into the mind of a woman and how the threat of violence from men is a constantly disturbing companion that can’t be safely separated from sex in our subconscious minds. Our brains are diseased with scary men.

Reading Rachel Kramer Bussel’s piece contemplating how many partner makes you promiscuous I finally started work on something I’ve wanted to post for members for a long time: a numbered list of all the people I’ve fucked or had some sort of sex with.

There are so many layers I’d like to explore that I haven’t finished it yet: why I feel compelled to maintain such lists, how I feel about the numbers (and the possibilities of adding to them), the different ways such a list may be fetishized, whether less data presented in very simple form is more erotic than more data presented in detail with complete sentences in story form or even captured on video or in pictures, how making indie porn and being with Delia since 2002 has effected the numbers, how my list may or may not be different from a man’s, etc.

I also wanted to dig through some of my old photos to find images of some of the people on the list which led me into the frustrating chore of trying to recover corrupted data off of a cd I burned ages ago (most of our photos are backed up in numerous places with different kinds of storage, but not these images which have sentimental value to me now). None of the photos are pornographic and I own the rights to them since I took them, but of course I’m struggling with the ethical dilemma of whether or not to share some of these images (and if so, which ones and whether or not to blur parts of them) and all of the different ways I’m justifying doing it while still feeling like it’s wrong. But wanting to anyway. For the record. Which is a huge compulsion for me, wanting everything to be recorded and saved for posterity. Which I feel is very RIGHT which is part of why I follow trains of thought and say offensive things, many times at my own expense and/or the expense of others, because it represents something interesting or is an example of something that fascinates me and is thought-provoking. I am one of those assholes who acts like ideas are more important than people and that gets nasty and squats on boundaries when the ideas I like are ABOUT people.

Anyway, for those of you who are members and have been looking forward to reading the list, I apologize for underestimating how long it would take for me to get it done. I could post it now, but not without some of the context and thought I want to put in it.

*****

My random thoughts on/responses to Rachel’s piece about promiscuity:

This is SO TRUE: “Your number of partners and how “special” the sex is are not necessarily related.”

Not that I think sex has to be “special” for someone to deserve to have it and be exempt from moral judgment, but it IS a way of connecting with other people, yourself and even the divine and sacred (if you’re into that). It’s a basic human need. A core drive. Anyway, is every meal you have “special”? No, but you still need to eat and are programmed to do it at regular intervals.

It cracks me up when many of the people who are judgmental about sex are the same people who put really bad food in their bodies every day. Food that is unhealthy, that they aren’t mindful or thankful of when they eat, that they waste, that was unethically and/or immorally produced. That’s WAY worse than choosing to enjoy putting a stranger’s cock in your mouth. Anyone who scarfs down corn syrup, meat, chemical-laden and genetically modified food is in NO position to judge a woman for what she puts in her vagina.

*What does promiscuous mean, anyway? To me, it just means having many partners in a short time span and that’s a meaningless definition since “many partners” and “short time span” are so subjective. I think promiscuity can be very healthy and don’t think there should be a value judgment attached to it though I recognize THERE IS.

*15 partners is not a lot, in my book. If you’re not in a long-term monogamous relationship your entire adult life (and I don’t think that is more morally right than NOT being in a monogamous relationship, I’m just acknowledging that most people consider them ideal, rightly or wrongly, and you have more opportunities to fuck) and you’re only averaging one new sex partner a year then . . . that pretty much sucks ass for the average human and you’re definitely NOT a “slut”. Its healthy to have sex at least 1-3 times a week, and if you aren’t in a relationship of course you will probably have multiple partners. The UNhealthy/wrong thing to do is get into or stay in a relationship just so you can have access to socially acceptable sex. Even if you’re only hooking up with a new person to have sex once a month (which is pretty fucking DRY) you’d still have twelve new partners a year.

*I agree that the double standard does still exist and the pressure for women to not be openly promiscuous (and the response to those who are or are perceived to be) is FUCKED UP and has really scary repercussions. Namely that your worth decreases and ownership of yourself disappears the more people you fuck, making you a target for all sorts of abuse. I think its a representation of our (society’s) feeling that women do not own themselves, or are only permitted to temporarily own themselves if certain conditions are met. People think that every time a woman’s body is accessed by someone else that she’s transferring some ownership of it, having part of her soul and dignity sucked out of her, and losing her ability to have “meaningful” relationships with other people (like her all-important future husband, the final titleholder!). Like she’s becoming less human and more animal, “degrading” herself from personhood to a piece of meat, and we’re told that once she “does that to herself” (fails to/refuses to meet the requirements to be human which are different for women than men and designed to make her fail because doing so would make her NOT human) it is OPEN SEASON ON HER ASS — she asked for it. If she doesn’t care about herself (and “caring for herself” actually means denying herself what she wants), why should anyone else?

It’s uhhhh . . . pretty fucking crazy and yeah, I do totally believe that extreme misogyny is the foundation for all of the anti-slut sentiment (and the way most people use the word “slut”).

*I don’t think most people who are intimate with more than three people in their lives can actually remember who and exactly how many people they’ve screwed around with. Having kept track of it myself, I am positive that if I hadn’t logged the information I would not remember most of the people on my list (especially since I can’t easily recall a lot of the people that are on it, even with their names right there). I interact with far fewer people than most do, so if *I* can’t remember people I’ve fucked, I’m sure people who are actually normal social creatures drop a lot of interaction, even if its sexual, from their quickly-recalled memories.

You have to be a bit of a freak of nature to know exactly how many people you’ve had sex with. On top of that, so many people don’t qualify a lot of sexual behavior as “sex” (the whole “blowjobs don’t count” thing, or “he only went down on me but we didn’t actually have sex”). I just don’t think you can trust most people’s numbers, not only because they will lie about them on purpose but because they honestly don’t remember everything or don’t think of all kinds of sexual intimacy as “SEX”.