42 is Just a Number (and not even the right one)

Note: I was in a bad mood when I started this post, but writing it adjusted my attitude to CRAZY INVINCIBILITY by the end!


My mid-life crisis anxiety has been so revved up over money challenges, fear of failure, our biological clocks ticking, overwhelming necessary work transitions/reinventions, social/interpersonal sadness, and feelings of incompetence that I got fixated on how I’m about to turn 42 . . . to the point where I started thinking I already *am* 42, and was telling people I’m 42, and about to turn 43.

But I’m still 41! For a couple more days.

The whole trying-to-get-pregnant thing (with doctors who are younger than I am looking at me like, “lady you better HURRY UP if you’re serious about this, because you are fucking OLD! Do you know how old you are? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re REALLY PUSHING IT, Grandma”) amped up my fear to the point where all I could think is that I’m too old . . . and just getting older. That it’s too late for alllllll of the good things I want, and all the good things I want to be. That tons of doors are shutting all around me. My time is up – I squandered it. Wasted my youth, my privilege, my health, my IDENTITY. Now I just have to figure out how to make do really fast and SAVE us from all of our debt.


Guessing I need to not work myself up into having more attachments to big dreams, but to surrendering to just being happy with what IS, right now; I have white hairs sprouting up in my pubes, and I don’t actually just LIKE having text on my kindle enlarged to hugeness . . . I need bifocals or reading glasses to wear with my contacts because I’m becoming farsighted in addition to my already-deeply blurred life with this astigmatism and near-sightedness.

And my neck. My motherfucking NECK! How did I not see these ghastly loose flabby neck wrinkles coming?!? They’re in my genes and I made it worse by gaining and losing so much weight. Yes, forty extra pounds is MUCH WEIGHT. I’ll tell you more about that in more explicit pictures one of these days.

I hate it when people bitch about shit like this. I hate how much I’m doing and saying stuff that I hate.

I don’t want to be pretty. I never really did. What I wanted was to be immortal.

Apparently I don’t know how to make realistic goals.

But wait, THAT’S NOT TRUE!! I mean, it’s true many of my goals and dreams are unrealistic, but FUCK IT – our lives are awesome because we do shit most realistic people don’t have the balls to do.

I used to be 5’2″ until I made it a goal to be 5’3″ in my thirties. GUESS WHAT?? I’m an inch taller! I made myself taller. IT’S THE TRUTH!!

And speaking of even more fantastical transformations: this is my wife, Delia, now:

Sexy TS Cougar Delia in Vegas

Delia showing off her tits in Vegas.


This was my wife twelve years ago:

Houseboy in coveralls drinking beer

There was so much more to her transition than gender presentation.

Fuck “reality”. What a stupid cage. I’m going for immortal.

And thanking Delia (who NEVER complains about getting older, or any of the myriad challenges much bigger than mine that she meets with sweetness and serenity) for it. And remembering that there are a lot of people who can’t just *think* themselves into being healthier and happier. I want to get rid of our debts so we can do more to help other people.

My birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day / Tuesday the 17th … there’s a 42% chance I’ll be on cam if you want to say happy birthday (and look at my big boobs)! I may even do a very affordable gold show, so keep an eye on my twitter feed to see if/when I might log in.

Only Lovers

Weeks later, I’m still smacking my lips over the pleasure of seeing Only Lovers Left Alive.

Trixie with Only Lovers Light & Hair

One of the uniquely beautiful and unusually relateable-to-us twists the movie takes on romance is that Adam and Eve live alone (like we have kinda started doing part-time though both our spaces are still jointly ours, Delia works better in Seattle & I work better at home), separate from each other . . . many time zones apart:

They live apart because they can, because it doesn’t deprive them of time together. “If you live that long, separation for a year might feel like a weekend,” says Jarmusch, his voice a spacey drawl. “It’s not an obligation, it’s an emotional connection.” -in The Guardian

It didn’t seem like it only felt like a weekend to them, though . . . otherwise they wouldn’t have been asked by their dearest fellow-vampire friend WHY they didn’t live together. Their living arrangement seems like an alternative lifestyle choice even by immortal standards, and it’s pretty clear that they can’t take each other’s lives for granted.

I think some people need time to brood and compose funeral music. Some people need to walk alone through old cities at night listening to music from the outside in. Those kinds of people don’t always thrive on being eternally joined at the hip to someone, day in and day out. They like quietly finding treasures to store up and share with each other later.

When you have the gift and obligation of enormous freedom, you should be able to use it to craft a lifestyle and environment that meet your creative and aesthetic needs and support the development of whatever rare thing you’re meant to make, even if it’s just an odd life well-lived. It isn’t perfect, and sometimes it’s lonely . . . but not the same kind of lonely it would be without your Adam or Eve to call or come visit and see how you’re holding up. To *know* you inside and out and that you’re brooding, and to not freak out too much about the single bullet you had custom-made even though the threat of that kind of loss would bring utter desolation to the other. They just know you’re not capable of traveling to them, so they better come to you because they are the more stable and competent one.


This month we signed a lease to keep our Seattle studio apartment / second home for another year+. We’re not sure whether it was the right thing to do or not. It’s only been in the past few months that we’ve spent longer stretches (almost a week sometimes) apart and I’ve started to remember what it feels like to be lonely without her. A few times it’s actually really fucking sucked, but I think it’s a good and necessary challenge towards building the kind of work life I can function best with, and a model for what we eventually want our dream home-and-work-spaces-and-schedules to be like.

Having a mid-life crisis for me isn’t just about grappling with my mortality — that alone would be hard enough — but I’m lucky enough that it’s also been a pretty fucking big identity crisis. As a product of good fortune, many things I’ve built my identity around for the past fourteen years have been slowly stripped away in the past two or three — that is actually PROGRESS. I’m being forced to see how little of it — how little of my”self” — is essential. When Delia isn’t with me all day every day, all night every night, I’m given an even deeper opportunity to face myself, and sometimes my “self” feels less solid and more empty than I ever imagined it could.

Most people define themselves by their families and/or their work; I’m super lucky to be taking a step back to refine and reshape my work, but it’s scary – I feel like I have a narrow window of time to plot the best and most fruitful course to 1) rescue us from debt, 2) provide us with some security (like a home and well-equipped work spaces) and all the resources we need to continue working healthily in some ways without having to do work that relies on our QUICKLY FADING YOUTH, and 3) shape the rest of my life, and I’m afraid I’m going to fuck it up or hear the TIME’S UP buzzer or miss out on the kind of magic I won’t be able to experience in ten or twenty years (which is total fucking bullshit).

Trixie & Delia: Lovers

(Happily) childless, without my partner or any family with me many days, and without the illusion that any one element of my old job(s) is necessary on a daily basis I kind of struggle to feel valuable. Every day that passes during what has almost become one part personal rehab and another part a glimmering invitation to sabbatical (if only I would mindfully TREAT it as such instead of wallowing in cycles of depression and anxiety and paralyzing indecision and practical-hopelessness) I recognize how much I really need to deal with basic fundamental shit like WHO AM I and WHAT DO *I* LIKE AND VALUE ABOUT MYSELF and HOW CAN I BE A BETTER PERSON AND PARTNER AND CONTRIBUTING MEMBER OF HUMANKIND.

I thought by now I would have built some sort of legacy I’d be proud of. But now that I’m here, my standards are higher and my behavior and productivity is lower. I don’t feel like I have something solid and coherent to show for myself that I’m really really proud of except the basic semi-odds-defying survival of our business this far . . . without any guarantee it will continue since the odds get harder to beat with every passing year. But hahaha even as I type that I recognize I do have a pretty fucking insane level of confidence in my ability to make money since I argued with myself over that line, like “NO WORRIES – I WILL **ALWAYS** FIND A WAY TO MAKE MONEY.” So there’s that, which has always served me well and kept me much more independent than most people – it is one part privilege, one part type-A first-born entitled overconfidence, and another part a gambler’s compulsive comfort with taking financial, legal and social risks other people would consider foolhardy. Unfortunately, at this point a major part of my identity crisis is that MY WIFE’S WORK is what’s bringing in most of the dough these days. WHAT HAVE I BECOME???????

In many ways things are pretty fucking awesome for us right now, but they aren’t going to stay that way and they DEFINITELY aren’t going to get better (which they must at this stage in our lives) unless I make some big changes. And I feel like they need to be DRAMATIC.


But I keep wasting(?) time pondering things like using the space we made to dance and exercise downstairs by giving up normal furniture to GET MY PIANO BACK. Even though there’s no place to put it except in the middle of the fucking room. But now seems like the perfect time to get my piano back. I’m not going to compose brilliant funeral music, but I’m having a hard time understanding who I am and believing I can sustain the rest of my life just by sitting in front of computers. And because we have this space from each other — because we have a foundation of years of knowing and loving and being safe with each other — it’s possible for us to stay up all night if we want to making noises without disturbing each other.

In Bed with Ray Bradbury

Throughout his life, Bradbury liked to recount the story of meeting a carnival magician, Mr. Electrico, in 1932. At the end of his performance Electrico reached out to the twelve-year-old Bradbury, touched the boy with his sword, and commanded, Live forever! Bradbury later said, I decided that was the greatest idea I had ever heard. I started writing every day. I never stopped.


The patch on my back is to try to help my headache go away from spending too many hours working at the computer yesterday.

His stories are alive in my head often. I read him as fantasy and western more than sci fi, starting out in eighth grade with Dandelion Wine which I failed to finish for a book report (so I faked it) but what I *did* read of it stuck so deep in me and was so new to me genre-wise that I kept thinking about it and remembering the magic parts I’d absorbed until I read the whole thing and more.

When we moved into this smaller house I actually forced myself to part with a couple of duplicate copies I had of The Illustrated Man and Dandelion Wine (they had different artwork on the covers!) and all the others except the ones I’m in bed with here are in storage.

Not sure, but I think Ray Bradbury was the first author . . . oh no, wait. Judy Blume was probably the first author I thought of as a person whose work I wanted to specifically seek out and read more of. But anyway, LOVE RAY BRADBURY and am glad he left behind so so so many stories, and so many different KINDS of stories, and that (wow, I’m tearing up now thinking of how important this is to me) he wrote such rich and loved and amazing older women. It’s been a long time since I read those, so I don’t know how they’d read to me now, but I know that they had a profound influence on me. Those characters and their big roles in stories are missing in most of American culture. It was a blessing to read old women as important.

I didn’t grow up with Data or David . . . I was a kid in the seventies, when we had The Electric Grandmother:

Sweet Jesus, watching that again is weird . . . the librarians at our public library showed it a dozen times, I swear, and it felt like a really grown-up movie to cry to as a child in the seventies.

Grey Day Nudie Pic

It’s a grey afternoon, above and on my body. The vine maple behind me likes it:


I’m wearing my new cozy birthday-present sweats that stevi got me – thank you for picking out the most unglamorous thing on my wishlist that I really really needed!


These kinds of sweat-pants are part of my daily do-everything uniform and I think people in town will be glad I have a pair now that doesn’t include a hole in the crotch. Also: they’re super soft inside!


Note: I’m sorry that I haven’t made a blog entry and/or posted pics of everything people have gifted me – it’s not something I promise to do, but it IS something I *like* to do.

If I haven’t gotten around to you or one/some of the things you’ve lavished me with, it’s not because I don’t appreciate it or you. It’s also not because I tackle them in a prioritized/ranked list of who sent the bestest or most expensive present or is most-loved. It *is* often because I have grand (sometimes undoable) plans to take pictures and/or write something that will really do the goodies justice, and that takes time & resources I rarely have right away upon receipt. Sometimes it even depends on the weather. Example: Shrdlu bought me an awesome pair of coveralls – I love them BIG TIME. I love them SO MUCH I want any/all pictures I take wearing them to be super duper awesome, which requires the right place, the right time, and the right complimentary accoutrements. That’s kind of ridiculous, but that’s who I am. There are gifts that wound up in pictures in my members-only area many months and even YEARS after I received them. I think it’s been at least a year since I got the coveralls, and many other fine things.

I’m sorry to say that there are also many gifts people have sent me that I’ve loved very much and never acknowledged at all. But there are ZERO gifts I’ve gotten that didn’t touch me or make me feel special or that I just tossed to the side as though they were meaningless or without value (though if I were more “famous” and got more gifts, I can imagine it becoming that way). I’m sorry if you’ve sent me something and you wound up feeling that way; I know that is disappointing even if you weren’t asking for or expecting anything in return. It might not seem like it, but I do know what that feels like!

I often contemplate what the best “policy” is on gifts and how best to communicate it. I haven’t come up with a perfect solution, but it’s a part of life, sex work, modes of expression, and the human experience in general that I’m endlessly fascinated by. I don’t think there’s a perfect or guaranteed-emotionally-safe-and-rewarding-and-realistic-for-everybody approach to giving and receiving gifts. Even if there were, I think you’d have to make it your full-time job to perfectly execute it (and some people DO, and my hat goes off to them).

I know that it’s impolite/bad form to take over a year (or sometimes even YEARS) to thank somebody. I also know I didn’t even call my mom on Mother’s Day (or SINCE then, even) or get her anything so in that regard and with work in general (oh my god how outdated is SpyOnUs.com?!? etc. to infinity), I do have to prioritize and most things I want to or should do can’t possibly make it onto my TOP priority for each day list.

I also know that I’ve done my best (and will keep trying to do better) to not promise to do things or lead people to expect things I can’t deliver. And I cringe inside at things I *have* promised or led people to look forward to and didn’t/haven’t delivered. Not because I wasn’t/am not sincere, but because I am over-enthusiastic and unrealistic about how much time and brains and ability I do/don’t have (and how much time in a day/week needs to be devoted to life-and-sanity-maintenance endeavors), so some stuff gets squeezed out. If I forget something I said I wanted to do, it’s not because I didn’t/don’t want to do it, it’s because it got elbowed into the sidelines by a constantly-refreshing jumble of tons and tons of things I want to do. And that should be part of why you like me in the first place!!

One of my special traits is that I actually DO pull out and use the ideas and stuff and to-do’s I hoard. I maintain internal enthusiasm and love (and guilt and anxiety) for a fuck ton of stuff and people and concepts. I am pretty inaccessible and appear unresponsive and to not be making progress by  normal social terms, but I have and continue to mine resources (both tangible and internal ones).

It’s hard to predict when they’ll materialize, but I press and poop out that mined stuff into little golden nuggets of variable value from time to time that would have been lost or not even processed by most people’s machines. Their wonderfully efficient, productive, reliable machines.

At the end of my life, I’d love to have a time-lapse movie depicting the conveyor belt at the end of my brain’s assembly line. There are huge spans of time where the belt just loops and loops and loops with no product being conveyed (and maybe you get glimpses of me and my crazed clones building and jamming up and scratching our heads looking at and feeding materials into and retooling all the other machines in the plant), but in totally unpredictable fashions, little things plop out. Made out of funny stuff where I’ve synthesized things other people don’t usually mix together. Usually for good reason, and the plops on the conveyor belt aren’t in a form that’s suitable for shipment.

IT’S HARD TO FIND THINGS IN MY WAREHOUSE but there’s a lot of variety in there. Not enough stock to meet demand when demand arises (also unpredictably), though (plus I forget to even go in there because I have MACHINES to attend to and INGREDIENTS to mix and sometimes I just stand there and look at all of the parts spinning or get sidetracked making minute adjustments). But I like to think that if I’m lucky enough to keep going, that some interesting stuff will plop out onto the conveyor belt at the end of my line. I totally like the movies where everything runs smoothly on the line and everything that plops out is perfect and uniformly made exactly to spec. But I think it would be fun to watch movies like mine, too.  And actually in my movie if you put it all on the line, we’re plopping out some lumpy cookies and colored doohickies on a pretty regular basis, too. AND MY SHIT IS RUNNING ALL NIGHT, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK – there’s always someone in there working, something at least being tinkered with, some machines going.

I’m actually really really disappointed that I can’t see this movie of my life and other’s lives. I’m also kind of embarrassed wondering what this blog entry would look like on the line and if Quality Control would just roll her eyes, chuck it, and resume filing her nails and snapping her gum waiting for the next random gooey turd or stale fortuneless glitter-cookie to be transmitted via dull black rubber to her in a week or three months. I would totally run down there right now and tell her it was a mistake so sorry still fine tuning didn’t know she was down here “you should clock out and take a day off, honey” while I fished it out of the garbage with  tongs and put it into a shoebox.

I also think if you were watching this/my assembly line movie you wouldn’t fuck with me or interfere with my machines or ask me silly questions like “when will it be done” or “how does it all work” when you could see with your own eyes that this shit is custom and complex. AND I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO HEAR YOU ANYWAY. And some of the machines are held together with rubber bands and shoelaces – if you distract me with some dumbass advice about how I could get it all to conform to normal factory standards, sharp pieces of metal are liable to hurtle out and shave off your face before I even got done saying, “are you fucking kidding me?!”.

That’s okay if you can’t answer with your face shaved off like that. It was a rhetorical question, anyway.

Spider Season (PICS)

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

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.

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.

Dirtier BLONDER Blonde (PICS)

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:

blonde rock slut in fingerless black leather gloves

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.

mini upskirt shaved cameltoe

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.

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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.


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