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Archive for the ‘privacy’ Category

Sorry this nudie pic of the day sucks; it would have been awesome but after futzing with settings, I noticed motion behind the neighbor’s open blinds and realized it totally looked like I was deliberately flashing her AND looking straight over at her when I was really just trying to just get more light on my face. From her vantage point she wouldn’t have been able to see Delia with the phone taking pictures, only me looking like a weird naked lady opening and closing her robe by the window on Sunday morning. That might have felt very creepy to our neighbor.

Looking disgruntled over presence of neighbor.

I kind of detest people sometimes. I have no reason to detest our neighbor or to think she has a problem with our sometimes-nude ways behind our big open windows, but having to be aware of and considerate of others just makes me want to throw my day-off plans to the wind today in order to work in order to eventually have enough money TO NOT HAVE MOTHERFUCKING NEIGHBORS. I don’t want to see/hear/smell them or be seen/heard/smelled BY them. I feel sorry for her, too, because she might feel as though she needs to keep HER blinds and shades closed so it doesn’t appear that she’s looking over here (or because she’s disgusted by us), and I don’t want anyone to feel that way. I mean, I don’t want someone to sit at their window eating popcorn and staring inside our house either, but I don’t want to embarrass someone or gross someone out/make them uncomfortable or make someone feel pressure to avert her gaze when she’s trying to relax in her home.

I can’t wait for spring and some of the foliage and vines to leaf out and make things SLIGHTLY more private over here.

Delia’s boyfriend is spending the night again, so I volunteered to sleep in the cabin / my loft. Because it’s awesome, because I love sleeping alone, because I want to, because before The Hunter I only spent one or two nights up there, and that was before we even moved into The “Big” House and when Delia was gone on trips.

Part of me enjoys acting put-out and bothered by having my routine upset and not having Delia to myself all night long. Another part of me longs for this restorative solitude and to be able to get it without leaving Delia alone or feeling guilty about wanting to be in my own bed doing everything MY way, without disrupting anybody or being disrupted by them.

I have my Kindle that Delia bought me, I have my pills and other sleepy-time supplements, I have Hearts of Space, I have my amazing comforter that for some reason only feels awesome when I’m the only person underneath it. I have my notebooks and fountain pen and plenty of pillows. It’s a small triangular-envelope I fit into that’s just right for leaving me room around the edges.

The only bad thing is if I have to pee in the night, I have to climb down and back up the ladder.

We are really lucky to have a set-up that allows for this kind of flexibility and time-to-ourselves. It’s easy to forget how awesome it is by noticing the parts that aren’t 100% perfect, so I’m working on wallowing in being grateful and celebrating how we have it pretty fucking good.

Restraining myself from spying on them.

Yeah. Round-the-clock voyeur cams on our sites/in our home does add another unusual/challenging/interesting element to these overlapping relationships.

It was really nice of Delia and The Hunter to let me interrupt them to have her come and take this picture of me.

I’ve got some awesomely cute pictures to post for members if/as soon as my main machine can be salvaged.

Last week my google search got all hijacked by adware that was SO SMART it disabled two anti-virus programs I used. I thought I had it all cleaned up with combofix but then I visited the same site where I think I got the first dose and it messed my machine up BUT GOOD. To the point where I asked the only person in town who I know for sure knows about our sites if she knew a good IT-type person we could trust to help us out at our house with our porn-laden computers.

SHE TOTALLY RECOMMENDED THE PERFECT PERSON!! In about two seconds flat after messaging her!! You could even have seen him on our lifecams if you’re a member and were watching.

He is trying to fix it the slow way (by backing everything up, getting rid of the crazy malware and updating all of my shit rather than wiping everything out and starting over, which would make more sense but I balked because I don’t want to have to reinstall all of the millions of pieces of software I use to be a webwhore: photo-editing, video-editing, content-processing & creation things, multiple hunks of cam software, project management & to-do software and like dozens of other things).

Sometimes bad shit happens for good reasons – I’m really grateful that being recognized in town by this one person years ago has only resulted in awesomeness and sometimes I just want to hug her super tight for her discretion and helpfulness.

Of course, my productivity has been down along with my main machine. I did edit and post a pretty funny/potentially sexy video for members and I did write a blog entry that I did not post because the formatting got all messed up, but processing some of my other porno is having to wait while a billion scans and fixes take place on my super-stuffed hard drive.

I’m pretty excited about having someone local help us with tech stuff who we’re comfortable with and I can talk to about Star Trek. I think our secret porno lives are as safe as they can be with him so we’re going to put our entire array of machines at his mercy to maintain and improve our network and systems, etc.

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.

I often fantasize about having a windowless closet with a narrow cozy built-in bunk to sleep and daydream on. Where nobody can see me, cut off and curtained-in by dark, heavy layers of hanging clothes. Or of being in a fantasy sleeper-car on a train on a comfortably narrow berth, dark wood paneling all around with chugging train sounds and gentle rocking. Or of being in an even-smaller, quieter version of this cabin, this time with a built-in little bed. No electricity, no webcams. Or of having my bookwormhole.

Sometimes I close my eyes in bed and time-travel back to the best drugless, not-sick sleep I ever had. I went on a women’s retreat with a bunch of gals I really didn’t know. Upon arrival I half-assedly engaged in the crafts they’d set out, then went to the cabin. There were a handful of these cabins on the lake, a BIG lake with no motorized boats allowed. QUIET. The other women complained about the cabins – the uncomfortable bunks something they were only tolerating for the coolness of the Retreat. In the middle of the day while the cabins were completely deserted I climbed onto my little wooden shelf, nestled down into Delia’s perfectly awesome sleeping bag, faced the wall, and fell asleep for hours. Undisturbed, unseen, far removed, not missed. I absented myself from everywhere else except my private cocoon.

I got up for a late dinner, and that night slept again in a completely heavy, renewing, needy, guiltless way. Even with the women sharing the cabin with me, I felt alone with my earplugs in and my lack of intimacy with them. There was a woman on the shelf above me, two shelves holding a woman-each perpendicular to my head, and two shelves parallel to me across a tiny open space. I was the first person to go to bed, and the last one to wake up. I liked having the shelves of women around me, being in a small hibernating hive, quietly together without any of them knowing me. Not talking.

I was reading Strangers on a Train that trip. I accidentally left it at the lodge so I never finished it, but it was good to have it when I did. A sugar daddy sent it to me off my wishlist so I feel a little guilty over losing it, but my possession of the memories of that trip are so clear the book is still one of my treasures even though I don’t have it anymore.

*****

The opportunity to rent a small cabin/shed space came up this week, synchronous to a handful of needs/desires/opportunities converging on me/us. It’s the kind of thing I would never seek out because I don’t think I deserve it, but under the circumstances and upon careful thought and discussion we both recognize we’re way overdue for what it will offer. It is just THE THING. It’s not in a remote location — in fact it’s on very shared space minutes away — but because we’ve been there and know the person really well who’s renting it I’m familiar with the setting, comfortable with the people who might be around, and aware of the benefits of its location. I haven’t actually been inside this cabin on the property, but I’m going to check it out soon.

Yes, I’m worried about how we’re going to afford it, but the with the house and the cabin/shed we’ll be paying the same amount we were paying for rent on individual houses before we moved into this place with its cheaper rent. I’m pretty sure it will be worth the relatively small investment in terms of providing space and opportunity for more creative content creation for our porn sites, too.

It’s not a done deal but if it works out I will be healthier with a space to be solitary and invisible, to write without obligation or interruption (I know, we don’t have kids and we work at home, but there are SO MANY INTERRUPTIONS mostly named THE INTERNET and webcams and too much space with all of it messy with cables and overwhelming work things everywhere), to sleep with complete cozy abandon, and most excitingly for our fans this might give us the kind of space and convenience we need to have more sexual adventures with other people. I will have someplace to go if Delia wants someone over for fooling around, and vice versa (though I mainly anticipate fooling around with mySELF, dreams, and pages and pages of watery blue words). We’ll have a convenient place to go away together, away from work. Because working at home with 24/7 voyeur cams on you means never getting a break unless you leave, and when we leave work I want to relax, not wander around a mall or drive hours to see a movie, or blow money to sit on uncomfortable chairs in a restaurant, or wander around in the woods being scared of cougars wondering how we’ll get home when our car breaks down (I still need to blog about that).

I’m also really excited about sharing the dreaminess of a little place like that and the things I do in it. But not having to share it WHILE I’m there.

I’m grateful to a number of people and strangely-timed messages for helping me decide to seize this opportunity. Two of those people are Heather and Libby, so thanks for the inspirations.

I wish I’d have appreciated my 18-year old body and taken care of it when it was close to perfectible.

That’s what I was ABOUT to tweet, until I realized it’s a lie. I *did* appreciate my eighteen year old body. I’d been appreciating my maturing body for years in front of the mirror, naked. Or in this one awesome pair of yellow string bikini panties, very eighties style, with the tiny triangle and the extreme V sitting up high on the hips. I remember the brand was “Eve” and I got them at Lamont’s. I danced around in those and fondled myself . . . admired myself from all angles.

When I finally got my own room at eighteen I took it to a whole other level. With privacy, I could light candles and make a whole elaborate masturbation ritual out of it. I’d put music on the stereo I bought myself, one component at a time from Crutchfield, and stand in front of my white mirrored dresser (an antique handed down to me from my mom) rifling through my panty drawer and meager selection of “sexy” stuff.

I almost always wound up pulling on a hot little ivory Christian Dior thong: lace in the back and satin in front with, again, a sweet dip down in the front punctuated with a tiny circle of faux-pearls. Then I’d have to choose between my two pairs of elbow-length gloves: white satin or white lace. You have no idea how much gloves turn me on. It’s not so much the wearing them (though I do like that, too), but looking at them on someone else.

So I would look at myself in the mirror but from a vast distance. I so wanted my gloved hands to be like other teenaged girls’ gloved hands: hot, with the satin stretched TIGHT and their soft, fleshy girl hands emanating sweaty uncomfortable heat. The other girls didn’t like to wear gloves, but FUCK I *loved* them and I wanted to be able to squeeze their hands and never let them go and stroke up and down their arms with my own satin gloves, or bare-handed, and have them squeeze me ALL OVER. Hot, fat, filled-out shiny satin arms and fingers over rustling dresses.

Anyway, my hands never looked that sexy in gloves — they looked thin and insubstantial like flat playing cards. But my arms looked delicious with the satin pushed down just enough to make wrinkles. In addition to being extremely turned on by gloves, I’m also extremely turned on by tight, wrinkled fabrics on long, slender girl arms or legs. Or fat girl arms or legs. WHATEVER. Point is, I still got very, very excited putting on my gloves and admiring myself in the candlelight.

I often switched back and forth between the two pairs of gloves. The lace ones reminded me of the Billy Idol White Wedding video and THAT brought to mind long-festering taboo fantasies of someone who looked (to me) just like him, but better . . . and worse. Rebel Yell, Eyes Without a Face, Sweet Sixteen, White Wedding, Dancing with Myself . . . yeah. Billy Idol fetish planted when I was way too little and he was way too recognizable for me to think it was silly or to resist it or analyze it.

Not that I thought about him when I masturbated. Not very much anyway. I mean, it would only have taken a few seconds of thought allowed to stray in that direction. What I would do, though, in the buildup, is I would arrange the candles in such a way that my shadow was projected on the wall. I’d inflate my chest to highlight a profile of my breast, then I’d have my hand come at it from an unnatural direction, like my boob belonged to someone else. I’d reach in and trace the silhouette of my breast. I’d pull away and reach back to touch and fondle it, over and over again, spying on this other person’s boob being teased and stroked. It’s always been WATCHING my breasts being touched that really initially arouses me. Without watching the hands on my boobs, the sensation of having my breasts touched is actually pretty boring a lot of the time.

I’d mount the corner of my mattress then, again with the candles arranged so I could spy on my shadow, and hump the edge of my bed until I came, over and over again. Sometimes I could just drag myself against the flat of my mattress and that would work, too. I’d watch the shadow of my boob hovering there, and dip myself down to make my nipple touch the mattress. It wasn’t part of the position that made me come, but the sight of that woman’s body touching and being touched made me very excited.

At that age I did feel lonely and wish I could do some of these things with a guy (which kind of doesn’t even make sense when I think about it). More than that, though, I felt a sense of loss that I was young and the only person who was admiring my body. I did feel very strongly that it should be worshipped and felt like the time to do that, the ripe teenaged time, would be over before anyone did.

Many times I felt like someone was standing outside spying on me. I even felt like I could hear them. But I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid and not to worry about it, because every time I tried to catch them, there was no one there.

As it turned out, of course there WAS someone there. Many different people at different times. Everyone from the guy I lost my virginity to, to the village idiot, to the felon who supplied the highest cop with pot (at least, that’s what we figured when we did eventually catch him outside my window and the cop said it was no big deal — he was just standing on cinder blocks he’d stacked up to peer through my blinds “to get high”). It was horribly embarrassing to think about, so I tried not to because there was nothing I could do about it. They’d already seen everything (even more than the masturbating) and knew all of my secrets. Except for the Billy Idol guy that was only in my head. I mean, they knew him too, but not that I thought about him that way.

*****

If I could go back I would nail up a billion blankets over those crappy fucking blinds. I would find a way to make it fair, to make myself paid and worshiped. For me to be the one in control. I know that because of the other things they saw me do, I was like a weird freak show to them, but they were total fucking freaks too and somehow that means I have a weird bond with them for the rest of my life.

I can still remember one of them, the one I had sex with, laughing at me when I was humping his leg without me knowing why he was laughing except that I guessed I was doing everything wrong, even though that was what was going to make me come. It wasn’t until later that I realized he was one of them and all the things he saw. It makes no sense how humiliated I still feel remembering him mocking me when I know now what a dangerously fucked-up individual he was/is. He had such an unfair advantage over me, but he probably thought the same thing of me just by default since he couldn’t last more than twelve pumps. Which of course I actually enjoyed, or WOULD HAVE enjoyed if he’d have gone again. But he never did. Of course, he DID go down on me, but I totally didn’t get that — it was such a foreign sensation that I’d never planned for even though I’d masturbated so often to images of other women’s pussies being licked. I don’t think I understood that I was more interested in going down on chicks than having anyone go down on me.

When I was young, the only true pleasure I experienced on my own terms was by myself. I guess I wish I would have accepted that, made myself more powerful (both physically and . . . spiritually?), and found the confidence and the people to negotiate those terms for myself. I know it’s shallow, but now that I’m older and I can see my body starting to disintegrate and loosen into loose flesh and little balls of fat and poison, I wish I would have ran as fast as I could for miles and taken dance classes and learned how to stretch and spent many many MORE hours in front of not just one mirror, but a fucking roomful of mirrors.

I wish I’d have known about getting paid to stomp on men. I wish I’d have had sex with women sooner. Like that hot Belgian pharmacist with the leather skirt I worked with.

SO MANY MISSED OPPORTUNITIES.

Once upon a time in the eighties I read a story in Cosmo about a woman who got stuck on a plane sitting next to a guy who whipped out a porn magazine in flight, putting her in a Very Uncomfortable Position.

There was a pretty good piece in The Washington Post about the same thing happening with porn on mobile devices (stupid WP makes you have a login to read, sorry). Normally most coverage of publicly-consumed porn is really biased and weird, but they did an okay job of it: TECHNOLOGY INCREASES CHANCES TO SEE PORN IN PUBLIC.

Listen. I will defend every adult’s right to buy porn, to make porn, and to think whatever taboo sexual thoughts they want, but when you shove it into someone else’s face, you’re sexually assaulting them. You are forcing them to engage in a sexual encounter with you and your fucking porn without their consent. Is it to the same degree as actually jacking off on them on a plane or frottaging(sp?) them on a train or taking your own dick out and shaking it at them? Of course not (and I totally understand FANTASIZING about doing all of those things or FANTASIZING about those things happening to you), but I personally would press charges against someone who did that next to me. It’s unacceptable.

Of course, I say these things having been resentful at times when I wanted to pull up a NSFW blog or my own site when we’ve been on the road and in internet cafes and had to limit myself or do a lot of alt+tabbing, but that’s a far cry from the guy in the story who started watching hardcore, audible porn with not only the woman right next to him, but HER KIDS, too. The thought of it honestly makes my blood boil and my imagination to immediately go to a place in my head where I’m kicking this man’s teeth in and beating him about the head with his fucking laptop.

The shocking part to me is how many people (let’s face it, mostly MEN) think they’re entitled to publicly entertain their dicks wherever and whenever they want. How can you POSSIBLY think that’s okay? AND WHY ARE THEY GETTING AWAY WITH IT? Frankly I think we’re all obligated to publicly humiliate (to an extent that goes beyond what some of them are probably after in the first place) and legally dog these idiots.

Is there a grey area where I’d be more forgiving? Yeah. I know sometimes when you’re rowdy with another person at dinner or something you might flash some pictures on your cell phone at your buddy and someone might see it from a distance, but when your bubble is touching a stranger’s bubble either physically or audibly, you just do NOT insert sex into said stranger’s bubble. If you’re many seats away from anybody and nobody can HEAR your porn, I think that’s less of a big deal. If you make a valiant effort to hide it when someone approaches, I think that’s okay. And personally I wouldn’t care if someone masturbated next to me on a plane as long as they didn’t expose themselves or touch me or make eye contact with me and they did their best to hide it.

I think that I’ve masturbated under a blanket on a plane just to relax so I don’t know . . . maybe I’m drawing my lines in very subjective ways. I know I’ve had conversations in restaurants that were really graphic, loud, and could easily have made people uncomfortable but I think I’ve never done that with kids around. I hope not, anyway. Plus, I *love* listening to other people have conversations like that. UNLESS it’s guys talking trash about women or anybody calling people names. I have been known to ream people out for that. But it’s still different to talk about a sexual encounter and have people overhear you than start HAVING a sexual encounter with your porn and force people near you to have it with you, whether you intend to or not. And when your loud conversation disparages and insults people it’s kind of the same thing; you’ve drawn total strangers into your bullshit in a hurtful way.

I’ve also been known to have very noisy sex in apartments and not been modest at all about closing curtains when I’m naked or fucking in my own home to the point where I’ve been chastised by property managers and I don’t think people should have to be quiet in the summer when they’re fucking with the windows open to let in cool air at night (god, I love that sound). But I still think that’s different — there are walls, even though they’re penetrable and rendered mostly symbolic, that symbolism is something every civilized person should be able to recognize that establishes distance and literally marks the boundaries of what’s inside and private and what’s out. It’s an entirely different thing, however, if you stand in your window or  your yard making eye contact with schoolgirls as you’re masturbating. That is ENGAGING people and forcing them to participate in your scene. NOT OKAY. Same with listening to loud extreme porn where a neighbor or passerby could hear the sounds of people in pain or engaging in kinky roleplays (I wish I could find the link to a story about someone calling the police on his neighbor because it sounded like he was raping/killing a woman when in actuality he was “just” watching violent porn for hours at high volume). On the other hand, I think it’s perfectly allright for people to masturbate in their cars on their lunch breaks or whatever, with or without porn, as long as they’re not standing up through their sunroof and ejaculating on their windshield or making whatever they’re doing and/or watching visible to people close by.

Then of course I have to admit I’ve exposed myself in public places, mostly for pictures but sometimes just for the pure fun of it. Again, I’m worried that I have a double standard even though I’m 99% *convinced* that when I’ve done it it was DIFFERENT . . . safe and wholesome even when sexually suggestive. Somehow I just don’t believe a nude Trixie is threatening or dangerous or harmful, and I especially don’t think anything is “assault” if you are in a park or something but attempting to be discreet and someone stumbles upon you. If you’re lurking in some bushes, though, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to come along so you can expose yourself to them, then THAT is fucked up. I have masturbated in a library, but I didn’t *want* to be caught, so that makes it okay, right? I mean, I would have been mortified if I’d gotten caught! But for some reason I feel perfectly content telling everyone about it, even my friends only an hour after the fact.

So what about the way I have explicit nudity and sometimes sex acts on the front page of some of my sites (like this blog) without a warning page? Is that just as bad? Of course, I still think that’s different. Is it just because it’s ME and what I want to do? I don’t think so. People who don’t want to see porn can block my sites and I have also added metatags to make it easy for my pages to be identified as adult. Also, I’m not SITTING DOWN next to strangers in public places and making them watch and listen to movies of me masturbating and fucking. Anyone who sees me online still has the control to close their browser.

Then again, I’ve taken my top off on a hot day when driving in heavy traffic. I still had my bra on, but I *so* wanted to take it off and felt very irritated that I could get in trouble for that. I still do. I don’t know how anyone could have a problem with rush hour boobs. Or rush hour masturbating. Just don’t LEER at people, you know?

*****

The whole time I’ve been writing this, comparing these different scenarios, I’ve been torn. I want to be honest with myself and challenge myself to think critically about whether or not my boundaries and judgments are consistent, correct and safe BUT I wonder if by doing that publicly, I’m letting everyone off the hook and confusing issues that are actually very clear.

I could mull this over all night, about how it’s different to shove sex in someone’s unwilling face in a confined space versus being off-trail in a state park giving a pal a handjob when someone stumbles upon you and you quickly try to cover up and the other people are easily able to turn around and go the other way. I could sit here and list all of the reasons why it’s BEYOND inconsiderate to make other people watch/listen to porn (and why it’s especially wrong, I’m afraid to admit [and simultaneously uncomfortable with my hesitation to boldly say], when a MAN does this to a WOMAN and/or kids).

*****

Confession: some of the phone sex calls I’ve taken and gotten off to hardest were from guys with this “problem”, or who at least fantasized about acting on those urges. Guys jerking off in their apartments watching the girls walk home from school in short skirts. Guys jacking off in the parking lot and exposing themselves to their coworkers and other ladies just trying to drive away. Guys sitting in internet cafes with hardons.  I mean, pretty much all of the stuff I get off to hardest is taboo stuff I’d never want to happen in real life.

So how do I feel (almost) completely comfortable saying that if I caught somebody doing these things in real life I’d kick in their teeth, BUT when someone confesses it to me on the phone I just coyly call them naughty, FEIGN shock and disgust, and furiously masturbate myself to orgasm?

I don’t think I’m (a big) part of the problem, but I know a lot of people would beg to differ.

*****

The Washington Post article kind of blows off this behavior as just “too much information” or “socially inappropriate” or shaped by our mobile device culture making people self-absorbed, inconsiderate shitholes (TRUE), but I still think it’s much more sinister and criminal than that in ways that the men MIGHT not get (or totally DO get and that’s part of the thrill). And fuck if I have the patience to explain it right now. Let me know if you want me to, though, and/or if you have some links to people who already have and/or if you want to take a stab at it yourself.

It boggles my mind how I can peck out this many words and still leave so many dangerous gaps.

Today we went to a protest against civil rights abuses and I realized THAT’S THE FIRST ORGANIZED PROTEST I’VE EVER ATTENDED! Which seems nuts, that as a thirty-six year old woman who is opposed to SO many things and has lived near Seattle my whole life, I have never been out in the streets with my floppy tits wrapped loosely in a shredded flag, armpit hair fluttering in the breeze as I pump my fist shouting a determined message even as I’m hoisted over the bulky shoulder of an armed man in riot gear.

Sorry to disappoint, but today was nothing like that.

Still, it was important and I’m glad we went. I’d love to be more specific and share the details with most everyone but as my webwhoring years have added up I’ve realized that sometimes I need to withhold some information for the sake of privacy and safety. What I will say, though, is it isn’t connected to porn or sex work which in a way is sad because I’d like to be a better activist when it comes to civil rights issues related to the sex industry. This, though, is more local and I feel like I can more safely make a difference by being involved in it which is not something I can do locally (meeting up with people face-to-face) as a webwhore.

Delia actually sat this one out in the car because she has a soul-patch-like burn on her chin from her first overzealous laser hair removal treatment (she’s been going through the process for years now and this is the first time she’s gotten burned like that) and she didn’t want to be out in the sun. This left me open to being approached by a cute ewok-looking fellow with a jaunty chipped front tooth who appeared to be about seven to ten years my junior. I almost told him I have a girlfriend, but then decided if he really was “interested” maybe it would lure him into getting involved. See, deep freckled cleavage can really win support for a cause. And I like bearded little roly poly guys.

I was actually a little concerned about the location of this protest because it’s right next to an ultra-conservative hangout but they didn’t come streaming out to scare us away or even mount a counter-protest. Instead I only saw about three people give us the thumbs-down and everybody else who responded as they drove by seemed happy to see us and honked, waved, hollered, etc. in support. That’s a good feeling, but scary knowing this shit is going on even with so much outspoken criticism.

*****

The past few days have been pretty windy here (I could barely hang onto my sign today) so it wasn’t a big surprise when we lost power for a few seconds tonight. Could throw a monkey wrench into our spycam transmissions and Delia’s update which she’s trying to get uploaded and posted tonight, though. After the protest we had to drive all the way back to suburban hell to have them remove the inky security tag on a pair of jeans Delia bought on Thursday that they forgot to remove. Sometimes living so far from a real city is inconvenient. And sometimes it’s just kind of scary (see above: there is some bullshit that wouldn’t be tolerated in Seattle but in rural and small-town areas it’s commonplace). But of course so is living near or IN a city, just for different reasons.

I remember working swing shift as one of the very best times in my life. I’d get off work between midnight and two in the morning and drive home in the dark experiencing the magic of RIGHTNESS, of everything having fallen into place and a lifelong problem being solved. That schedule didn’t make everything perfect, of course, but it was a magical gift that explained part of my life and who I am to me and let me know that things CAN fall into place. It’s one thing to complain vociferously about not being a morning person and another thing to be lucky enough to NOT HAVE TO BE. To experience yourself operating at maximum efficiency and enjoy your favorite parts of the day and night, skipping the parts that have never worked for you. To function so much better that you’ve got PROOF that this “night person” thing is real.

I’m at a point in my life where I need a new swing shift. My gears have been out of sync for years now and I keep looking for some little twinkly adjustment I can make that will fix things. I’ve given myself a bunch of tuneups and they’ve been eye-opening and helpful, but I’m desperate to feel something like the smooth, peaceful rightness of driving home on a nearly-empty freeway with the windows rolled down in the summer, smelling everything asleep and reveling in being awake, ready to go home and make a simple dinner for myself. The answer isn’t making myself work from four to midnight now, either – I don’t live alone anymore and I don’t want to; I want to go to bed WITH Delia (not a night person, so we compromise). I feel like I’ve tried everything and suspect the answer is that I need more time to be completely alone with myself, without the sounds of anybody else, without being seen or heard by anyone watching . . . just totally removed from everybody’s sounds and presence.

Last week I allowed myself the luxury of staying up all night long playing with TrixieRadio – listening to music, downloading new stuff and uploading it to the station . . . amusing myself and accomplishing something that has no monetary pay-off in the near future and is absolutely NOT what I should be spending huge blocks of time doing. But I miss listening to music. REALLY MISS IT. I am not someone who can work AND listen to music with words, so it’s not an option for me to multitask. Besides, I don’t want to. I want to do nothing but listen. NOTHING BUT. So I did, all night long, and organized my .mp3’s and made lists of cd’s I still need to rip and read about music and made a blog entry begging for money to justify doing it more. Being up all night doing that made me feel a little more like myself. And I finally bought an adaptor that provides phantom power for my months-old new microphone so I can personalize things more and potentially make more sales through the “radio” thing and podcasting. If I can figure out the perfect settings for recording with this microphone (one of those detail-oriented time-sucking tasks that annoys the shit out of me that I usually invest a couple of hours in then decide it’s not worth it / I should wait for a better time to do it / I have more important things to do).

I’ve been retreating a lot more into our guest room, off cam and alone, which has been helpful but maybe I’m still not committed enough to it to really reap the benefits of it. I feel guilty about it and still can’t get enough. I haven’t figured out how to integrate my need for solitude with work and my relationship with Delia. She’s really tolerant and understanding of my limitations in this area so it’s me that needs to work out the kinks alone along with continuing to figure out how to succeed at being my own boss. You’d think after seven years I’d be an expert, but I’m still an amateur (both at working for myself and being in a relationship). A lot of things have changed for the better in the past year but I’m still struggling to find daily “rightness”. I get glimmers of it, but very inconsistently; for everything I resolve to do better, something else falls by the wayside. It’s like there’s a never-ending rotation of things I do well and things I fuck up — every day, every week, every month, every quarter, every year the same fucking challenges just trade places with each other. I make progress but only temporarily before regressing. I feel like I haven’t CONQUERED anything in years and I’m pretty fucking sick of it. I try to be patient with myself, recognizing I’ve had some really fucked-up health problems and am still fine-tuning “curing” myself. Recognizing the economy sucks so it’s not entirely my fault that we’re on this debt merry-go-round.

The shitty thing is that having a positive attitude means feeling empowered and taking responsibility to fix stuff — believing it’s POSSIBLE to make things better; I’m just really really REALLY tired of the burden. Sometimes I just wish I could drive home and let my boss figure it out in the morning and tell me what to do when I go to work and know that it’s not my fault if that was the wrong thing. Part of me loves how I’ve complicated my life and that I *don’t* have a boss, but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST sometimes I miss having things be simple. I miss having someone else to blame. I miss not really caring about my job. That used to make me feel trapped, having to go to work for a certain number of hours and not doing anything even remotely creative. Now? I feel trapped because I *do* care about my job(s). Because it’s rare that I get to establish a rhythm doing something simple for 6-8 hours. I can’t quit because I love my work, but I have no idea when (if ever) I’ll be able to do my job BETTER and not just feel like I’m running on a treadmill. A treadmill that lurches and changes speeds unpredictably and is just like . . . possessed with multiple personalities. There’s no water-cooler where I can stand around bitching about my boss and how if I ran things I’d do them differently/better. I mean, I can do that, but it’s not really good for my self-esteem. I am my own worst boss/enemy and I’m so. TIRED of it.

I keep slogging along, promising myself that if we just get rid of our debt we’ll be able to AFFORD to establish some rhythms and magic swing shifts but right now we seriously do not have the money to do anything efficiently. Not shooting, not marketing, not exercising . . . not even fucking GROCERY shopping. Every day is a schizo fucking mess and I’m just so sleeeeeeeeeeeeeepy. Not as bad as I was before, but still . . . some days are pretty bad while I’m fine tuning different birth control pills, supplements, figuring out just how much fucking with my blood sugar I can get away with, etc.

Fuck it. I am going to order a pizza.

Sorry for the downer of a post. Things are good, I just needed to whine a little bit.