I’ve been having the strangest dreams lately. In one, I was in my bedroom and I had a TV on my dresser, where a really bad porn movie was playing (no big stretch of the subconscious there), except Evan Stone was lying on my bed. I wanted him to go away, which would be true to real life, too. If you know who this porn actor is, you’ll understand why — he might be a nice guy in real life, I have no idea, but the best way to describe him is as a refugee from a Chippendale’s male stripper concentration camp, circa 1980. Anyway, in this dream I had to try out this porn-star branded lingerie (like how they brand sex toys, a la "Devinn Lane’s Creepy Dismembered Pulsing Pink Pussy") for Good Vibes. Except the lingerie was "Traci Lords’ Bunny Suit." I gave up trying to eject Evan and tried on the suit’s bottoms, which were much like a big knit-fabric sock monkey outfit, complete with feet and a big knit tail. In the next dream I was in Mexico (where I’ve never been) and pornographer Seymore Butts was being interviewed, unhappily, and when he was done we decided to get some food (though I’ve never met him, or even thought much about meeting him, we were pals in the dream). He was always Seymore but sometimes he looked like the character Dadi from one of my favorite films of all time, Emir Kusturica‘s Black Cat White Cat. While we were having dinner Tristan Taormino showed up, all hot for Seymore, trying to seduce him and interrupting our conversation to talk about her latest projects. She was wearing this pink knit sweater dress with nothing underneath, and it was the world’s ugliest 1980’s dress ever. I escaped by diving into the ocean. What does it all mean?
Meanwhile in the real world, tonight I’m up to no good, after a hard and slippery week of work. This was a week of much Good Vibes word spanking (I hate Masturbation Month) and joyous dildo slinging at the store. I also bought a Violet Ray on eBay for an upcoming appearance on cable channel Tech TV in early June, where this show wants a condensed version of my Sex and Electricity presentation. And, I donated $50 to Susannah Breslin’s latest project "You’re A Bad Man, Aren’t You?", a collection of her amazing fiction, which I’m eagerly awaiting, being a huge fan of tall, sexy loquacious Susannah and her tall, sexy mind-blowing writing. Also last week I picked up a tripod and a wide-angle lens for my digital camera, so there will now be pictures of me on this site that include both of my arms. I really have a right arm, you’ll see. Then, through a series of indescribable circumstances I ended up with a baby tuba at my house, and you can see what happens when I get a horn and a tripod in the room at the same time — the clothes come off, and the shutter snaps. But I can’t play an instrument to save my life except I might be able to play air Theremin if it was an emergency, and I know for a fact, that through much practice and love of the instrument, I’m pretty good on the skin flute.
That leads me to tonight. I found out about a very secret gig that the Extra Action Marching Band is playing tonight here in San Francisco, and while I’m waiting for them to explode onto the scene in all their underdressed sexually ecstatic noisiness, I’ve decided to make a little solo side trip to the strip club, The Lusty Lady. Why? Well, once a year they do this thing called "Play Day," where the notoriously sexy (and notoriously bored-looking) strippers emerge from behind the glass and entertain the patrons face-to-face. Normally for Play Day the workers get to keep all the money made that night, but the workers are banding together and taking over the club (literally), forming a worker-owned co-op strip club, and the Play Day money from all three Play Days is funding the start of their groundbreaking enterprise.
But here’s the surprising admission on my part — I’m a strip club virgin. I know, I’m supposed to be an experienced "sexpert" and I know a LOT of strippers and assorted sex workers, but I’ve never done it, gone in a club. On Play Day, women and couples are allegedly welcome. But I’m nervous. I’m hoping to get a lap dance or something, but I don’t even really know how it all works. I’m really worried that they’ll ignore me (my friend Carol Queen assures me they won’t), or that they’ll think I’m there for a job (I’ll be in a fetish outfit as I always am for Marching Band gigs). I’m definitely having a drink before I go in. Part of me thinks I should call a bisexual gal-pal and ask for camaraderie, but part of me wonders what will happen if I’m on my own. Dressed as a schoolgirl tonight, will I get danced upon until my lap is worn out, smacked upside the head by weighty mammaries until I’m flat broke, attacked by other schoolgirls and spanked for being bad? I hope. Tossed out by bouncers for touching the girls? Perhaps. Ignored by pretty girls and propositioned by scary swingers from Contra Costa County? Highly likely.
