To view this protected post, enter the password below:
To view this protected post, enter the password below:
What did you like to do with your free time when you were 3, 7, 12, 16? What was a treat? What did you hate doing? What did you have to keep a secret? What did you want to do TO FEEL GOOD when you grew up? What stuff did you feel was denied you because you were NOT grown-up?
What would you have done if you’d had adult power denied you as a child? Now that you’re an adult do you still want those things? Do you allow yourself to have them, or are they still denied you? What was your favorite place to be? Where did you feel safe? Where were you most yourself, and who were you most yourself with?
What did everybody try to train out of you?
What sacrifices are you making because you want to be good, or you’re trying to be “normal”?
This week I started practicing being something like an eleven-year old me placed in a lucky middle-aged life.
I’ve gone to a couple of “workshops” to learn stuff and be around people in structured settings, and eaten McDonald’s in bed. Eaten LOTS of things in bed. Letting my real priorities rise to the surface. Starting work that is risky.
Learning to not waste energy on guilt or compromise FUCKING RULES!!! But it’s been taking me way too long to plunge into it. Just been dipping my toes in it for the past few years.
Tomorrow my project might be “pretend you’re eleven with a weekend alone at your grandma and grandpa’s. Hump the mattress. Spend an hour with (today’s equivalent of) the tv guide to plan every hour of Friday and Saturday where you have a tv all to yourself. If they leave you alone in the house, go use their back massager for as many orgasms as you can tolerate / until your pants feel like they’re going to catch on fire. Stay up all night. Read naughty books. DO NOT BATHE. Hump the mattress again. Eat lots of watered-down canned chili and a six pack of root beer. You feel like humping the mattress again, don’t you!?!” Unfortunately there is some not-eleven-year-old work I have to do, but if I do it as if, just PRETENDING I’m doing grown-up stuff with money — no consequences, only a detailed game — it will probably be AWESOME.
My pussy is totally slimy right now from masturbating.
I’m going to do things that I love, make things only I can make, and experience things other people are scared to or don’t even know are good. Most of those things aren’t going to be about sex. Most of those things aren’t going to be with other people. But they will be for other people. Weirdos and dorks, mostly. And the people who love them.
As we happily looked at these pictures with Goat immediately after shooting them, it occurred to me:
You know who will really love these pictures? My mom. My mom will love these pictures.
Goat laughed with raised eyebrows, disbelieving. Your mom?!?
Yes. My mom who sent me an email insistently permitting me to get all the sleep I want after reading things like this and this here in my blog. My mom, who at seventy is more than fifteen years older than Goat (who spent many years as a kinky San Franciscan), managed to both shock and delight him just by knowing about my work as a pornographer and sex worker, and by not only accepting it, but actively supporting it and APPRECIATING it.
Although my mom always preferred a Douglas Fir to a Noble Fir for Christmas, those are wooden and yarn ornaments she picked out and I grew up with on our tree. The colors, the real and recognizable guy, the happiness, the upskirt-y flirtatiousness, the old-fashioned warmth, the exuberant joy articulated in my limbs and eyebrows and arches of my feet, the legs I know she considers an asset to be proud of . . . my nostalgia and appreciation and preference for and unashamed knowledge of how to do a lot of these things was inherited from and shaped by my mom. And my job capitalizing on them? There aren’t a lot of people lucky enough to have a mom who not only tolerates that, but is proud of it. She is exceptional, and because of the security (and other privileges, I realize) that has always provided me, I get to be exceptional too.
Delia and I spent Christmas alone and working (and fucking, trying to get pregnant) a little bit rather than spending time with my family (including my mom). I know it bugged my sister and my mom, but they do what they can to tolerate my dis-ease with being around people and high-pressure social situations and being on the road in thick scary drunken holiday traffic. Even though we weren’t with them, I was very aware this holiday season of how extraordinarily fortunate I am to know I am loved and supported by my family without reservation.
I have always known my whole entire life that I was/am loved by my parents (AND my mom’s parents/my grandparents). I was always fed, clothed and cared for, and I’m pretty sure that in the first eighteen years of my life not a single day went by that I was with family that I didn’t hear “I love you” from at least one person: my mom, my dad, my stepdad, my sister, my grandma, my grandpa (and on top of that I had a few close friends & their moms who loved me and told me so, and I got to tell them, too). My mom and dad and the rest of them love(d) me unconditionally, and I have known that absolutely from the beginning of my life, and know it EVEN MORE today. A big part of 2014 for me was reflecting on how much and well and exceptionally luckily I’ve been loved in my life compared to other people who deserve(d) it just as much or more, and who I am and/or should/want to be as a result of it, and the extent to which one can be addicted to love and possibly build up an entitled tolerance to it.
My mom’s support and pride in me (and other people she loves) has always been defiantly counter-culture in a lot of important ways. My mom who is one of those not-a-feminists (and hates the word) and has fond memories of the fifties and would sometimes, I hate to say it, demand that I “PUT SOME GODDAMNED MAKEUP ON BEFORE YOU LEAVE THIS HOUSE” when I was in junior high, is in other ways exceedingly rebellious.
Knowing how anxious and concerned my mom is, it’s a powerful testament to her love for me/us that she is able to restrain and suppress the anxious thoughts and questions she no doubt has when she looks at my blog (understanding it’s one of the few yet best ways to know what’s going on with me since I hate talking on the phone and spend so little time with her or anybody besides Delia), and probably fears for my life (I know she worries about what risks we might be taking with sex and sex work, and has to consciously tamp a lot of that anxiety down) and mental health. I’m sure she’s questioning the wisdom of our trying to get pregnant, and has done a superb job of not once bugging me to ask about it (and didn’t even spill the beans to my sister), managing to create and respect complicated, sticky, inherently-imperfect boundaries between us and around my own privacy that the majority of regular people wouldn’t understand and couldn’t navigate (she’s never, for example, tried to turn my blog into a dialogue between us, and has only left a comment ONCE that I can remember, offering condolences on a relationship that ended), and she has never made me feel guilty for reflecting on and posting things here that might make her feel like less-than an awesome maternal shero. But she IS an awesome maternal shero in so many many ways, and there are hundreds of thousands of sex workers and just regular civilian folks who I’ll bet would give anything to know they could tell their mom anything and still be unwaveringly loved and have her be proud the way I can.
Many years ago my mom told me that when people in my small hometown where she still lives asked about me (like former piano students and their parents, classmates, etc.), she stopped trying to lie about what I do and felt much happier just telling them the truth. That she felt good about it and stopped worrying that it would reflect on her poorly as a parent. Which is awesome, because it should only reflect positively on her as a parent – I wouldn’t be blessed with the extraordinary freedom I enjoy doing stigmatized work that isolates so many people, or the skills, attributes, or resources to do it profitably and well, if it weren’t for my mom.
And if anybody thinks it’s weird that she comes here to my site and quietly checks out what we’re up to (but still discloses it to me so not doing it sneakily) which includes seeing my wife’s and my spunky genitals, I will tell you what she tells me when she comes over and I warn her that my sheets aren’t as clean as I’d like them to be for her, and that the brown spot on them is JUST CHOCOLATE, she hugs me and says, “YOU CAME OUT OF ME, DAUGHTER . . . there isn’t a single thing on your sheets that can bother me.”
Where I sat all day working on our clip store:
Didn’t work on any of the fancy things I “need” to work on (like replacing all of the outdated stuff at the top/bannering the clip store), just the details I could hyperfocus on in our studio with Delia here. It’s nice to use mostly lower-order thinking skills on repetitive tasks sometimes.
I did take a masturbation break for about two minutes, coming with my eroscillator while watching the video we made on this day.
I feel really cranky because I haven’t gotten any exercise today and unhappy with how much time I need to spend alone to get anything done. It felt like a nice day until about half an hour ago and now I just feel like an angry burden, and am having a hard time figuring out how to do whatever I need to do to feel healthy and be productive. I think Delia wants to go to sleep or relax with some tv and I am extremely disinterested in both of those things. And this is one room.
I want to go home but I want to be near my wife. Just not in the same room. I want to go home. I want to be more capable and not feel like I can spend ten hours chipping away at something and have it all be totally fucking meaningless. I’m sad. I hate how hard I have to work to not be sad and how many guidelines I have to follow to have a healthy day and how much bullshit I have to tell myself to just keep going.
I will just blame it on french fries and caffeine and shoddy wiring. And try to remember that life is worth it when I can make my wife laugh at me.
I wonder why we haven’t gotten our insurance cards. I need to use the insurance we have to pay for now to get some mental health care. Again. And go back on the pill. Because a little boost of lady-hormones can make all the difference in the world. This is just chemistry. It’s just chemistry. It’s just chemistry.
My fucking god it’s frightening how much of a stiff hairpin turn a mood can take in less than sixty minutes.
I never could have anticipated how unsettled I would be by seeing my elbows and ankles age. It is ridiculous. A ridiculous thing to be afraid of. But of course mortality is morbidly ridiculous! Intellectually I know this is all very silly. And that knowledge only makes the whole thing more horrifying. I did not anticipate that. I had such a healthy attitude towards aging, but now I see it was born of willful ignorance and youthful invincibility . . . and the mistaken belief that my parents had some kind of fountain-of-youth genes. My “healthy attitude” made me ill-prepared for this time of life. But maybe it’s good that it’s hitting me so hard right now. Maybe that means I’ll immerse myself in midlife panic and get it all out of my system so as to age gracefully and peacefully for the next forty years. Maybe.
I think Delia is trying not to disturb me right now and it’s driving her batshit, pussyfooting around me as I sit here feeling sorry for myself at this stupid fucking computer. I do really like the backlit keys, though. It’s like I’m in my own pathetic movie made for self-centered privileged assholes who have nothing better to do than feel sorry for themselves being lucky enough to AGE with four laptops. It’s a stupid movie. I’m so sick of movies like this. I need to be in a better movie than this. Delia gave up and is doing the dishes now. She’s putting things in the garbage disposal. Garbage disposal!!! I used to think that was something only people in movies had!!!!!
Interesting. I feel better now. Sometimes you just have to let your inner crybaby have free reign to babble until it runs out of steamy air. MUCH better.
It was probably just the french fries. I should have just had a piece of pie instead of meat & bread & potatoes! But then I wouldn’t have had the sausage and french fries to give to the guy on the street. I wish I would have put all of my fries into the box instead of only trying to take a “healthy” amount of them and leaving the rest on the plate. Then the guy could have had more french fries tonight. I wish I would have put some of the ketchup in the box. I wish I didn’t know the meaning of the words “existentialism” and “absurd”.
It’s okay. Earlier today I was working on better movies to be in. It’ll be okay. The movie will be over soon.
Walk. Out. Now.
I never ever thought living in Seattle would mean needing AC in April. It’s a nice surprise … sometimes.
A clean-faced homeless dude saw me in my bright green long johns under my worn old dress with my backpack & dirty suitcase and gently let me know in an island (not Pacific) accent that here under the overpass is where people like us can sleep. Even when I told him thank you I am sleeping indoors (it seemed rude/like it would be rubbing it in to say DUH I have not one BUT TWO roofed homes PLUS family who not only rent but OWN), he let me know where the closest shelters are, including detailed instructions to a women’s shelter.
I think maybe he is new to this weird-ass place and is doing something like practicing a foreign language on people by hospitably passing on recently-acquired Seattle-edition low-income-guidebook-to-street-level-amenities info. And since nobody in Seattle knows how to wear a fucking COLOR (let alone a color with a fucking PRINT) I probably look insanely poor and/or like I come from a warm and friendly place where people speak comfortably to passing strangers as a matter of course. Or I guess just super ready to find and go to bed, which makes sense since I’m clearly not fooling anybody by putting a dress on over my pajama pants. His buddy tried to ignore me like OH NO WE GOT HERE EARLY AND I AM NOT TRYING TO SHARE ANY UNDER-THE-OVERPASS SPACE WITH THIS BITCH IN THE CRAZY-PANTS.
I proceeded to our car where I cried. It makes me mad that there are all these rich people and they can’t even laugh at a joke someone makes in an elevator or spend any of their stupid money on colorful joyful clothes. Instead: expensive greys and blacks and navies (that I never thought I would have a problem with because I love wearing them too BUT COME ON WHAT THE FUCK A WHOLE DOWNTOWN OF AN ALREADY-OVERLY-GREY CITY WITHOUT ANY DECADENT OUTRAGEOUS COLORS?!?). Of course that’s not really exactly why I cried, but I’d rather sound nonsensically ridiculous than offensively, uselessly guilty and maudlin.
I am not cut out to live in a city.
Where AM I that I'm now surrounded by teenaged boys in lacrosse uniforms? This is a strange foreign land. You may fantasize but I'm nervous.
— Trixie Fontaine (@tastytrixie) April 23, 2014
I’m not sure if I even knew what lacrosse was as a teenager.
Seriously though, I had lunch in a trendy restaurant SO PACKED that they run out of gnocchi in an hour of lunch rush and I was one of only TWO people wearing a fucking color. EVERYONE ELSE WAS A SHADE OF CHARCOAL AND ALCOHOL. I and the other were only SHINY LAVENDER which hardly counts as loud, but we might as well have worn bottles of ketchup on our faces, our fashion risk was so bold.