Every monday, a core group of San Francisco Sex Information training staff get together at a local dive bar and drink beer. Many of us happen to live in the same neighborhood, and I hadn’t joined them in a while, so it seemed like a perfect break from a harrowing weekend. You might wonder what a bunch of hard-drinking, frighteningly dedicated sex educators talk about over beer — I can tell you it’s not PC, it’s highly inappropriate, and my sides hurt from laughing. I did cry laughing once even.
I started with the early crowd: Polly (the sperm bank teller), A (not his real initial) who works at Second Life, and Polly’s boyfriend who I have nicknamed “Brokeback Boyfriend” because he wears a cowboy hat and talks to no one in the group and sits at the bar reading a book until he decides to chime in on your conversation and give you his Advice About Life, which he did to me at least once last night.
But I digress. We started with a fairly serious conversation about necrophilia fetish — one of the lectures I do for them is a fetish rap, often putting me on a panel of fetish experts. So I’ve seen a lot of necrophilia lectures, most done by Thomas, who is excellent at it in a humorous yet creepy way. But while it seems like a hard lecture to fuck up (definition, legalities, consent issues, example cases, why people do it, answering anonymous questions about it, conclusion), I have seen it handled badly. It’s complicated in one particular way: it’s a fantasy that is incedibly rare, but people seeking information on it tend to get tossed into two categories — criminal, or dismissed as fakers.
* Image via my post today at Fleshbot on Realdoll Sidore-Chan.
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I told them that once I saw a bad lecture on necrophilia fetish that based itself on the premise that “no one *really* does this, so we don’t need to get into specifics” and it really bugged me. Polly and A agreed; it’s rare, but you still need to give people accurate sex information, even if something is completely in their heads, which is where fantasy dwells anyway. Of course, we were drinking the whole time so the discussion digressed into Polly and A making a death pact toast and me asking about it and them telling me they’d have to kill me if they told me, and Polly saying that then their necophilia pact would come true even sooner. My repsonse was “Eeeee!”
But then we played Big News Poker, where we compared recent big events in our lives to get caught up. A’s was the funnest, because apparently he just got a title at Second Life after nearly 5 years of working there. Polly and I guessed what his new title was:
she: “Mayor McCheese!”
me: “Emperor Skidmark! You could have like a brown smudge on your business cards!”
she: “Baron Merkin!”
me: “Captain Filthy Sanchez!”
she: “The Duke of Donkey Punch!”
me: “How about Director of Studio Glass Bottom Boat?!”
Everybody stopped laughing. They looked at me. A said, “What the hell is a Glass Bottom Boat?”
me, incredulously: “Omigawd, you don’t know what a Glass Bottom Boat is? (takes big gulp of beer) It’s when one lies under a glass table, like a coffee table, and the other defecates on the glass table over their face.” Polly grinned and said, “Wow, that’s the total harm reduction method of scat play!” A chimed in, “Wow, okay, I could do that.” (beer came out my nose) “No, like if someone’s all, ‘I want to shit on you’ I could be like…. well, okay, but here’s this table. *That* I could handle. But Violet, what’s the difference between a Filthy Sanchez and a Hitler?” This was when I started crying and hyperventilating from the laughing.
More SFSI people arrived. I’d say about half of us make our livings off of sex ed, and the other half works in tech — it is San Francisco, after all. So we talk about sex and tech, and tech and sex. At one point we were listening to our hot butch motorcycle babe co-educator dish a bit about the insanely cool new gadget her company is releasing soon, and we all rambled into the all-too-common platform discussion. A suddenly turned to me and said, “I’m Microsoft as a bed partner.” I looked blankly at him, “What?” He repeated, “I’m Microsoft as a bed partner.”
me: “Okay. You’re Microsoft as a bed partner.”
he: “I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed.”
me: (giggles) “Okay!”
he: “Baby, this is going to be *so good*. I promise. It’s going to be hot. It will be so hot. Sometime soon, this is gonna be sooooo good. I promise. Don’t look down here (covers crotch). Those aren’t bugs. They’re *features*”
me: “Ew, I need virus protection!”
he: “No really, this is going to be incredible. I won’t crash too soon like last time. I promise. Oh — woops. Baby, hold on a minute…”
me: “Ugh, you have to reboot *again*!?”
This was some much-needed fun — then I hopped on the back of K’s BMW for a ride home (she was sober), miniskirt and garters and all, which always looks great on the back of a motorcycle. Yay for friends.
