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Archive for the ‘stains’ Category

After months of not using the cabin “properly” because all I had was a tiny wooden tv tray downstairs (so I spent most of my time up in the loft which is really only suitable for cozy lie-down tasks), I finally spotted the perfect table and bought it with a small portion of one generous philanthropist’s donation(s) to the cause:

Price of my new table for the cabin.

It looked pretty wrecked, but then the guy came out, said he hadn’t even washed it off yet . . . I scratched at a fault with my fingernail and it crumbled right off!

Dirty, DIRTY table!! Goooood Girl, table . . .

So I bought it. I’d been lazily keeping my eye open for a desk or table that would fit, be serviceable and feel lovely but it took all these months to drive by the perfect table sitting on a sidewalk for sale. I couldn’t have found it on purpose or known this was exactly what I wanted. And I wouldn’t have wanted a new, reproduction version of this table.

Delia and I brought it to the cabin, inserted it into place, and I cleaned it. Almost all of this rusty stain disappeared:

I'll bet I can clean this off completely with vinegar & elbow grease.

The white apron around the edge of the table won’t ever be close to pristine, but Delia told me to rub the rusty legs with aluminum foil and they’ll get better:

Contrast rusty pole on left w/ shiny pole on right (scrubbed with foil).

I haven’t scrubbed much more than that, but I have spent a few good hours sitting at the table since then, feeling it’s perfectly faded and mildly scratched smooth cool top.

I think it’s pretty hard to find a formica table with chrome AND a leaf AND with the gingham top. The ones I see online with a gingham pattern all have wooden legs (and definitely no leaf). Not that I care about making great antiquing finds, but I do like to know a little about my tools and things I like. For all I know this IS a reproduction, but an older one than the styles they make now. Definitely leave comments if you know more about these tables or have some memories of these kinds of tables you feel like sharing. We could stuff a whole little family into the cabin for Thanksgiving dinner or Chinese takeout or something!

Look at my table leaf (& me in my shiny kettle)!

‘Tis clean! But still so touched and used.

Look at how clean my new old table is now!

Right now I’m doing a bunch of time-consuming windows updates on the laptop so that I can install windows live writer as an offline blog editor, but now I’m not so sure I want to do that. Really I just want to get over there to the cabin RIGHT NOW and sit at my table.

Stay tuned for more rhapsodizing about My Perfect Table (and all of the things it is perfect FOR).

Have you been waiting for hot stories about our trip to Portland? While I did feel like I was in a perpetual state of arousal (shooting Delia always does that to me), the most action I got was from listening to the people fucking in the room next to ours.

At first I was nervous when they arrived while we were dirty-talking during a Delia-as-schoolgirl video and felt like they and the bellboy must have heard everything we were saying. I imagined the words “slut” and “cum” and “stop teasing me and show me what you’ve got in your panties!” echoing down the hallway.

Half an hour later I realized it was all good and maybe an appreciated dose of inspiration when I heard what sounded like crying on the other side of the wall. Of course, being the weird little voyeur I am, I hopped out of bed and ran to the wall to listen to a chick’s rhythmic whimpers and a man moaning quietly. And “oh yeah, yeah”s.

The next day we wound up leaving our rooms at the same time they did. For some reason I’d imagined the woman was going to be an Asian girl in her early twenties — I pictured her looking like Sierra on Dollhouse and the guy fucking her as a puffy white guy in his early thirties. Of course they didn’t look like that at all. They were about five years older than we are, the woman short with dark curly hair and sharp, smart features and the guy tall and dopey with shaggy hair and a bandana.

It’s weird how we populate our default images of “couples who enjoy fucking”; I’d never have conjured those two up in my imagination, but seeing them it did make sense. It was also weird riding ten flights down in the elevator with them, never acknowledging how we’d heard each other’s intimate moments. I know it wasn’t the kinkiest thing they’d done and it wasn’t the kinkiest thing we’ve done, but still . . . it seems pretty kinky the way people check into hotel rooms and fuck in them and hear each other fucking in them just a few feet away, overlapping sex sounds and depositing DNA in all sorts of places that housekeeping might miss. All those boxes of hotel rooms and all the cum dumped in them by strangers. There were visible food stains on our comforter — it looked like barbecue sauce — and I can’t help thinking about all of the remnants of human fluids from total strangers inhabiting the room. Layers and layers of spunk.

You never hear people acknowledge this weirdness of paying money to sleep and fuck where thousands of other people have fucked and jacked off. I find that very bizarre in a country where people are obsessed with sanitizing everything and showering once or twice or three times a day, but they think going to a nice hotel is like sitting in the lap of luxury instead of a germ and sperm depository. Like the people next door — before they fucked, one or both of them took a shower. To be clean for fucking and letting total strangers listen in. It’s not that I personally think hotels are disgusting cesspools of nastiness — I realize the bedding and towels in nicer establishments are hypercleansed for our protection and I embrace germs up to a certain point — I just think the double standards are weird with so many people being OCD about supercleaning everything and protecting themselves from germs that they never talk about hotel rooms as cum dumps.

Do you really think they sanitize the television remotes and all the little things you touch that traveling businessmen sully with semen? And how about all of those decorator pillows (especially in bed and breakfasts) that you yourself have stuffed under your bare ass during or after a fuck? Am I the only one and other people just don’t fuck in bed and breakfasts or make sure to say, “no honey, not on the decorator pillow — it will be hard for them to wash”? Personally I just think, “I wonder how many other people have gotten their fluids on this thing with the brocade upholstery.” Other times I just count all the stains that remain, visible to the naked eye, like the semi-washed-out spots of blood on the bedspread at the LAST place we stayed and the crusty spots on the carpet. Or how about the blood on this wooden toilet seat (which DID totally gross me out)?

On top of the illusion of cleanliness, I’m fascinated by the illusions we have of privacy, or maybe the willingness Americans have to accept and embrace a total LACK of privacy not just in hotels but in general. I knew exactly when the people in the room next door woke up — I could hear him draw up the mechanical shades and give her a wake-up spanking. Why don’t we demand thicker walls? I’ll never understand that. And security recording camera feeds of the four of us in the elevator together, pretending we didn’t know how we used each other’s genitals the night before.

I wonder how the couple next door expected us to look and if they were surprised by the reality of us.

*****

Unfortunately our friend Krissy came down with a sore throat last week so we’ve postponed Delia’s shoot with her. It will probably be better on a longer trip anyway. I do not understand how people can travel and shoot and get to appointments on time and tan and get all their nails and hair done AND visit with friends and go out and have fun — we didn’t do anything except walk around Portland and try to find reasonably-priced yet delicious places to eat (we failed most days, except I did love a certain sandwich shop in an office building with a delightfully surly cashier).

I also spent an extended amount of time lurking in the aisles of Rite Aid eavesdropping on a not-at-ALL-surly cashier being extraordinarily kind for at least ten minutes to a mentally-ill homeless woman who had a lot of questions that weren’t altogether unreasonable:

Sir? Listen, sir — you can probably tell I’m missing a lot of teeth and my mouth hurts . . . do you think this food is soft? Because that’s a lot of money and I’ll just be throwing it away if I can’t eat it because it’s too hard . . .

The guy seriously fondled the bag she handed to him and tried to explain that he couldn’t make that determination because it was entirely subjective. She also had a lot of questions about pickles and cucumbers and tried to engage the man behind the counter in that age-old debate pitting sweet pickles against dill. It was heartwarming. Unfortunately I missed out on seeing someone steal a couple cases of beer the next day — Delia was the only one who got to enjoy that scene.

Anyway, we had great weather for traveling, bought some new ponytail-holders and shot some good content. We did not go to Powell’s or down the street to Mary’s or visit any friends or enter any sensory deprivation tanks, though. Maybe next time.

*****

Here’s Delia’s post with sample images from our little trip.

On my walk to the bank I found a pair of dirty panties laying on the street by the elementary school in the crosswalk.

They weren’t dirty in a way that indicated a struggle took place while someone was wearing them, just dirty in a way that any discarded fabric would be if it spent time laying in the road. They were pink Hanes Her Way, definitely grown-up panties. A twig was ensnared in them and they were bunched up.

I walked past them quickly in a kind of shock, knowing I wouldn’t want anyone to catch me looking at them, but wanting to just the same. I left them behind, wishing I’d had my camera. I left them behind, but couldn’t stop considering picking them up and putting them in my backpack. I could use the twig to pick them up without touching them, or at least I could say that’s what I did so people wouldn’t know that it doesn’t really freak me out to pick up dead panties out of the street with my bare hands. I could bring them home and justify my strange behavior because I’m a pornographer and some people would like to see these panties I found. Because some of the people who read me online are exactly the people who WOULD have found a way to snatch those panties off the street, or would be jealous of my wild and crazy ability to defy convention and do so.

I’m always fascinated by the private things that are abandoned in public places. Grocery lists, for example. But it’s especially strange and fascinatingly intimate when underwear is discarded. Socks in parking lots. Panties used as toilet paper and dropped in conspicuous store locations. Shoes thrown over telephone wires. Panties on the street. I’m drawn to these things and wonder how they got there, just like I wonder why half the bad boys and girls on COPS are driving and wandering around the streets barefoot (not wearing shoes on the street is a much more significant sign to me that these people’s lives are totally fucked up than the drugs in their cars or their desire to run from the police). Are they leaving their clothes behind to mark their territory? Is it like movable pheromone-filled graffiti? Are they trying to fuck with me/people like me? Or are they just getting rid of things they don’t want anymore?

*****

On the way back home I thought about the place where I left the panties behind and whether or not they’d still be there. They were, and this time I actually stopped and peered down at them. There was blood on them. Not crime scene blood, but natural period-type spots. Did she buy new clean panties? Did she just decide to go without? Did she wonder what people would think when they saw them right there in the crosswalk? Was she laughing when she threw them? Was she alone? Did she get rid of them because she was proud to show them off rather than wash them after they’d already served their purpose? Or did she get rid of them because they disgusted her and she just wanted to leave them behind?

Or maybe someone’s son or younger brother stole them out of the laundry and brought them to the playground to show to all of his friends and they all laughed and threw them around after passing them to each other with grubby fingers wondering what it all meant. Or maybe someone sat in his car by the school late at night and jacked off into them, then threw them out. If he would have been caught he could have to register as a sex offender for committing that act within so many feet of a school. Even though it’s summer and school’s not in session. What was he thinking, throwing them out right there? What is anybody thinking?

Maybe they were just on the top of someone’s laundry basket in the car with the windows down and just flew out on accident.

*****

The panties will be gone the next time I go by there, and I’ll wonder who took them. A concerned mother picking them up with a plastic bag between her hand and the cotton like she’s picking up dog poop? The guy I’ve seen at the playground with a metal detector, scavenging for treasure? The same person who put them there? A lonely teenager in a trench coat taking a midnight stroll? I wish I could watch them do it without anyone seeing me.

*****

There’s a mystery just north of us of severed feet washing up on shore (see story: Retracing the Steps of the Severed Feet). I don’t know why, but I just happened to think of it.

One of them turned out to be a hoax.

*****

Here are a few more blog entries I posted recently:

What Failure Looks Like: Exhibit A

What Failure Looks Like: Exhibit B (in lieu of pics of the street panties)

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