The Shortest Day in Seattle

Seattle, solstice, 13:07

A photo posted by Trixie Fontaine (@tastytrixie) on


Our first winter with our Seattle apartment, living in two places.

I spent winter solstice there, alone with the camera, and did one of my favorite things: I just WALKED. Under the viaduct — always a fixture in my idea of Seattle — knowing it will be gone. South towards where my dad worked at Western Union in the seventies, where I loved all of that grey old-fashioned industry that always looked too old and tired to bustle and has never ever looked like it should last.

I wonder how it will all crumble, and hope I’m not there when it does. In the meantime I love/hate it, just like this.

alaskan way viaduct

The portable office-shelters tucked in between concrete pillars and under ramps and roads remind me of model train layouts with little lights glowing inside.


Seattle solstice sleeping bag

I felt at home — comfortable like I rarely feel in the city — with tiny little cold drops of water accumulating on my face and hands and the plastic baggie I had over the camera.

On the way back “home” I stopped for Yankee pot roast and mashed potatoes and gravy somewhere I swore to myself I would never patronize. I asked the host to seat me at their LEAST FESTIVE TABLE. He understood.

When I got back, dozens of drunk Santas were milling around and I wished I had a budget to proposition a few of them to make porn.

Friday Night Alone in Winter

It’s Friday night, and I have myself all to myself.

#DeliveryTruck in the #moonlight. #notforme #tistheseason #December #coldnight #holidays

A photo posted by Trixie Fontaine (@tastytrixie) on

When the weekend starts I get to feel invisible, the way I do when I’m up all night. Independent of other people’s expectations and standardized routines. Normal people go their way, and I untether myself from any semblance of connection to the majority, drifting into a continuity of creative solitary work that makes me glad nobody cares what I’m doing tonight, or if they do care, they know that I want to be left alone.

Like our friends who left a message about a party invitation for tomorrow. That I’m glad I didn’t hear until tonight when it’s too late, even though they already acknowledged on the message that they know I’m not too big on gatherings. I will tell them that if I were going to go to any holiday party this year, it would be that one. And it’s true. Just being invited is good enough for me, and being invited too late to actually go is the cherry-of-relief on top.

I don’t know. Maybe I’d go just for a few hugs and a couple of tamales if I could somehow look pretty without washing my hair. Or if I knew I’d meet somebody with a big dick there who’d take me into the woods and fuck me. But I do have to wash my hair and even if I did, there wouldn’t be some big-dick no-problems stranger there, and even if there were, I’d come back from the woods with my clean hair all fucked up and everybody would feel sorry for me for being such a slut.

Everybody always feels sorry for me for the wrong fucking reasons. I’m so fucking bored by normal-people interactions I want to rip my dirty-clean hair out and my clothes off just so we all have something to talk about.

The phone rings with a name I don’t recognize. So I pick it up. If it was somebody I actually knew, I wouldn’t want to talk and would have just sat there, cringing and guilty, waiting for the ringing to stop.

A man’s voice demands to know who I am.

Dude, you called me … who are YOU?

He’s frustrated and insists that *I* called *him*, but I didn’t. I didn’t call anyone. But I’m compelled to help him get to the bottom of it. A woman’s voice breaks in every so often to balance out the guy’s tension; she’s really sorry to bother me. She thanks me for my time.

YOU CALLED ME! I MISSED YOUR CALL! I’M JUST CALLING YOU BACK! AT NUMBER (not my area code) (not my phone number at all). I tell them my area code (not the one he said called him at all) and we’re all flummoxed. How could this be? So I suggest they try calling “me” back again to see if the same thing happens. AND IT DOES! They call a number that’s not mine at all, and my phone rings!

We’re united in this intrusive, totally mundane mystery.

She apologizes again. I say it’s fine and that I’m totally bored anyway. And it’s true. Whatever normal conversations I could be having with people I actually know sound like boring torture compared to this meaningless interruption (that would bore most normal people) that’s like random chat roulette, trying to untangle some absurd crossed wires that we’ll never make sense of. I roll out hypotheses about google voice and call forwarding, I ask who his carrier is … I think in my head of someone who might be fucking with me because he likes fucking with people from a distance. But it’s probably none of these things. We’ll never know who each other is and why we wound up talking to each other.

Those were the only people I felt excited to be verbally engaged with today. On Friday. When normal people get off work and do normal “fun” things.

blue moonlight lily

Strangers are the only ones you can say anything to. You don’t know each other so you can start from anywhere. Your entire reason for interacting is random, so whatever you say to each other can be random, too. You can pick the most important thing or share something real and observable happening right now. You’re not building on a relationship and have nothing to lose. You have no obligations to each other. Whatever and where and who you are RIGHT NOW at that moment is what you have in common, and RIGHT NOW is what I want to explore most closely. The observable things, the creation of connection starting from “zero” where there’s so much detail to explore without any memories of each other from any past time or any fear of we’ll break our friendship or future together. With strangers you get to be anybody, and still stay safely alone. You can teach each other magic and give each other keys you could never get from people you know. With people you know, you have to waste time asking about yesterday and planning tomorrow and wondering if they’re sick of you yet and how to manage yourself and your time together.

My spiritual advisor says “stay close” and “call anytime”. And he means it, but I don’t know how.

People say call somebody when you need to talk and “that’s what friends are for”. I don’t believe that. If you’re friends with somebody you know that they’re busy. You know they don’t have time. You know they’re going to worry and want to fix it all. You know you’re going to owe them afterwards, and you don’t want to owe anybody anything, especially not a harrowingly dull session listening to them tell you the whole entire plot of a movie you don’t fucking want to see LET ALONE HEAR SOMEONE DESCRIBE blow-by-blow, or shopping trip where they had to return something but then they forgot the receipt and then you won’t believe who they ran into. What’s worse for me is if the conversation is actually GOOD because I don’t know when the conversation should be over, or how I’m supposed to end it. So I just keep talking until my ear gets hot and my brain is jangled and nothing I say makes any sense and I just want to scream I LOVE YOU BYE BYE!!!!!! Instead you know the ending will be planning to see each other and I want to see each other but I don’t actually want to plan on it or commit to it and I don’t believe it anyway and just get off the phone and eat 3,000 calories because I don’t have xanax so I just have to eat my way into a tunnel of calm.

You can’t call people who care about you and just be as fucking weird or sad as you feel. It’s fucking unsettling, and I don’t want to unsettle people I love; that’s extremely counterproductive and I do enough of it already. I would rather call the prayer line of a televangelist or the sex toy infomercial line that has sex-specific numbers (I called the one that’s supposed to be for men because I figured they are used to hearing it all, but they insisted I call the line for women but it didn’t make sense because all of the operators were women).

What is the weird-feeling or sad-feeling equivalent for hitting the punching bag or pillow when you’re angry-feeling? For awhile it was the internet, but I think that internet is gone.

Sometimes you just want to hear somebody else’s weird voice in your ear, and that’s all. Somebody saying goodnight just to you and only you. And sometimes the only (or the best) way to get that is to pay a stranger for it.

Call for a cozy (not phone sex) recording I made late last night while it was raining
Call for a cozy 6 minute recording

Note: all is well here, and Delia puts up with talking to me every day if I want, and makes it so I get to be alone a lot without every being really *alone* or having to stay that way. Which is so fucking awesome that I continue to feel self-conscious and guilty about it and am still learning how to embrace it.


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.


Where I sat all day working on our clip store:

Delia & Trixie working

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.

Trixie's 41-year-old breasts.

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.

Morning Show

Delia put on a little show for me this morning to get warmed up. While I kicked back on the bed eating my breakfast bar, she slowly took off her pink robe and bra and underwear. Then we DID IT!

Trixie Loves Delia's Cum

On top of my wife, post-orgasms.

Now I’m back home and have calculated that according to my new Introvert’s Sanity Formula I need to spend twelve nights alone and have 35 waking hours OFF alone to recuperate after activities of the past week. SO THERE. Not necessarily to be served sequentially, but yeah. I doubt I’ll do that (can’t really afford to, for one thing, plus I don’t really WANT to), but I need to make very concerted efforts to keep and restore my solitary vs. social balance, so I’ll attempt to AT LEAST minimize working with or socializing with anybody besides Delia until I’ve had at least a week to work in solitude and a couple free days to myself. I almost started crying in Trader Joe’s yesterday, I was so overwhelmed. TOO MANY FUCKING PEOPLE.

Using my Formula means I might actually start reading again. The Formula is still in its experimental phase of development, so we’ll see if I need to tweak it.

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