I got my first lap dance the other night. I think.

Regular readers will remember Naughty Minx -- the super-sexy leggy fetish model that gave me a hot wax backrub at work one day. Last week she scored a few passes to a local historic and expensive "high class" strip club, and eager to see the inside of a real strip club and do some research, I volunteered myself and my faithful research assistant, Sexy Hornboy from the Extra Action Marching Band. You see, dear readers, while I am a trained sex educator, there are still many things I have not tried in the wide world of sex -- I've never had a lap dance, been to a strip club, a sex party, seen a dominatrix, had a threesome (or moresome), had public sex... the list goes on. Since I have a book to research, and Minx and Hornboy are eager to help, I have to don the lab coat and rubber gloves, and get out in the field.

At first it was just Minx and I, having Thai food and feeling really nervous about the whole thing, but then we decided to call Hornboy for backup -- and because he'd been to a strip club before, at least ten more times than we had. We needed guidance! And a cute boy made us an attractive trio. So off we went, trouble times three, walking down Polk Street on an unusually warm and clear San Francisco fall night, past the tranny hookers of all colors and sizes, to the big brass and glass doors of the club. Amidst a chattering flock of suited Japanese businessmen, we surrendered our passes, had our hands stamped, and wandered in, wide-eyed and laughing to each other at what tourists we were, even though we are each pretty well-versed in the ways of sex.

The club was carpeted and clean, with a maze of halls and little rooms whose purpose was unknown to me but whose subtext was clear -- dirty things happened in nooks and crannies, on couches, chairs, and to our surprise, beds (with functional sinks and bowls of condoms). We went into a large, dark main room with a stage, two brass poles, and theater seating all around. We examined the chairs for ickiness before we sat, and Minx and I whispered to each other that we should've checked the floor before we set our purses down. A thin, surgically augmented dancer came out on stage, already nude, and danced. I was clearly already with the hottest woman in the whole club -- I kept stealing glances at sexy tattooed and bespectacled Minx to remind myself. There was a male-female couple up near the stage, and the dancer paid special attention to her -- and to my surprise, the dancer lifted the woman's shirt and sucked her breasts. I thought there was no contact at strip clubs, save for lap dances, but boy, was I about to be proved mistaken, as least at this establishment.

After watching more dancers come out, naked and disconnected, sans any kind of actual stripteasing, I began to really understand the resurgence of burlesque. I also got the distinct feeling that we three were actually space aliens from another planet, as opposed to the earthlings populating the stages and seats. A sudden flash mob of Japanese businessmen sucked us into their midst, into a weird backroom with thin booths that had individual curtains, opening up to (and surrounding) a stage. Unfortunately all three of us couldn't fit into one (wotta dream, though), so Minx and I squished in together, mmmm, that was nice. Two blondes came out and did a little fake girl-girl pussylicking, then proceeded to work each booth, disappearing for what looked like bodyrubbing and hand or blow jobs -- and though I put money out on the floor and the women saw it, they ignored us and started on the other side of the room.

Minx and I got the hint -- and when Minx brattily started dancing and grinding on me, the blondes lost their audience, on our side of the room, at least. Soon bored, the three of us left and went back to the stage area, which was now filled with mingling men and dancers. Minx swore one of them was Gwynneth Paltrow. The high-heeled, topless women worked the crowd, making offers to men, and we were uncomfortably ignored by most of the women, many of who wouldn't look us in the eye. Because our spaceship was waiting outside. One beautiful brunette was very excited by us, and she offered something very expensive that I didn't fully understand that sounded very much like sex in a backroom, and like frightened little bunnies, we all retreated to the stage, dingy seats, and guys with jackets on their laps. Ah, safety. Minx and Hornboy are definitely fantasy material, but money and backrooms and sex workers on a first date scared the wet lacy g-string right off me.

Out on the stage came four women, and one got so excited when she saw us she barely did her routine before jumping off the stage and landing in my lap, grabbing my boobs and pulling me into her chest. It was the beginning of what was to be our nonconsensual relationship. She grabbed my head and pushed my face between her tits -- of steel. My nose hit her breastbone -- bonk! She smashed her boobs together around my face -- bonk, bonk! Hard, everything was hard. My nose hurt. I didn’t know what to do -- there was no pleasant squishiness, like when you nuzzle a pair of soft, yummy boobies. Suddenly I was covered in perfume, ack. The woman and her blonde coworker summoned us into the other room, with another stage and several padded tables surrounded by chairs. We sat at a table near the stage, (which was on hydraulics and I thought was pretty neato) and after a song the same two women came over to our table, led mostly by the hard-boob lady, who was actually enthusiastic and cute. They threw a blanket over the table, got up on it, and performed cunnilingus for about one minute, with the blonde in my lap and the other with her legs spread in my face and her left high heel hooked around Hornboy's neck. I was beginning to appreciate subtlety in all its forms. This wasn't it.

We threw fives on the table in appreciation of their false lesbianism, which only seemed to encourage them. Would giving them more money make me horny? They got off the table and made the rounds, each of them grinding their bare pussies on our legs and crotches, feeling us up and massaging our pussies (and cock) through our pants, deepening our nonconsensual relationship. The hard-boob lady kept putting my hands on her hard hard boobs and squeezing, and as much as I love tits (I really love tits), I felt like I had no idea what to do with her flesh-covered immovable objects. I mean, I knew that fake boobs were hard, but I didn’t know they were like a silicone dildo under the skin. Wow, my first fake boobs really floored me. Then the song ended, and they stopped, started counting money and chatting with us. The hard-boob lady sat on my lap while she counted, and the blonde remarked how weird it was to dance for women, how she didn’t know what to do, that men were "so easy," and that she felt embarrassed dancing for women. How nice. Now our nonconsensual relationship was dysfunctional. When they left, the room emptied and we were sitting there all alone not knowing exactly what to say to each other... "Did she touch your crotch?" "Yeah. It was weird." Minx and I still wanted a real lap dance, but felt like we got a weird experience instead. I wished I had been the one touching Minx's and Hornboy's crotches. But I was way to bugged out to say something like that... So we all did what any normal space alien would do after a trip into human weirdland -- we fled to Lush, a bar on Polk St. that has awesome cocktails. We drank strange mixtures, flirted, decompressed, and talked about what we'd hoped to have happen, and we decided that we need to visit a real strip club, somewhere outside of San Francisco.

I know, what was I expecting? I fully expected fake boobs, women at work, men behaving badly and strange vibes. In fact, the men never behaved badly, that I could tell. I wasn't expecting a porn movie and all the cliches, right in my face. I certainly wasn't expecting a magical experience, but the scene in From Dusk 'Till Dawn, right before Selma Hayek turns into a vampire would've been nice -- and I would've been really turned on if the dancers did turn into vampires. But that's just it -- there was no irony, no humor, and certainly no mystery or (even sexier) any hint of erotic danger. No bad music to make you feel cheesy in a good and raunchy way, no words spoken below a shout, and no sense of depth or eroticism from anyone. I got totally turned on trying to imagine what was under Minx's clothing, and nearly fell off my barstool imagining what I might be able to do with Minx and Hornboy. But that would have to wait for our next date -- going to a sex club, the Power Exchange.

Finding this in my inbox has drawn me back to the Tiny Log, taking a small break while finishing my seventh book:

"Update! Update!
love Michelle"

Not only is her note cute, but so is her blog, and I'm now a regular of this smart and interesting girl. Another blog I visit lately is the very sexy DeeGee Girl, whose anonymous adventures are very inspiring. Oh, and I can't leave out the email from my sexy trumpet playing friend in the Marching Band, "CAN WE GET A FUCKIN' UPDATE PLEASE!!!!!!"

I've been lying low, trying to finish another major manuscript. Bunny slippers, piles of sex books, DSL, personal lubricant, and the steady hum of my iBook burning CD's to iTunes for my iPod have kept me comfort while I've stayed home for weeks. I miss the Marching Band, and working at SRL, but soon I'll be back in the machine shop... I surely wasn't prepared for meeting Veronica Hart the other night -- or anything else that happened at the St. James Infirmary benefit at Good Vibrations last Tuesday. I got an email from VCA, the company she works for, saying that Veronica didn’t have my contact info, but put me on the guest list in hopes that I'd attend the event. I was stunned -- after the chilly reception my video book got by the harpy at AVN, I figured that the adult industry wasn't going to be my friend. Not such a bad thing, anyway, and I'll admit that my book is critical of the industry, while being supportive of porn viewing.

When I got to the event, I went over to Hart and asked her for an autograph -- and when she found out who I was, she went crazy in support of me and my book. Imagine how I felt, this woman who is a legend and a pioneer, standing there telling me my book "kicks major ass" and how much she loves it! I felt like a little kid, or maybe like Mr. Mackie on South Park when he takes drugs and his head turns into this big balloon and floats around the world. Hart talked my ear off, told me she wants to see me in LA, and signed a photo for me reading, "Oh, Violet-- Thank you for including me in your most amazing book. Love always, Veronica Hart."

Suddenly I was the popular girl, in a room full of porn stars and strippers, and boy did I feel like running around tables covered in dildos and vibrators in tight little circles laughing until I got dizzy and passed out. But I didn't. Instead, when I tried to leave, Nina Hartley stopped me and said, who are you? I told her my name, and she gushed, "Oh, Ernest loves your book and everything you wrote in it!" (Ernest Greene is her husband, the publisher of Taboo magazine, and the finest S/M porn director alive, aside from Maria Beatty). I think I wet my pants. She hugged my boy-toy, kept going and said, "When are you coming to LA? You have to come over and have dinner at our house, and play!" A thin, fishing-line filament of drool hung from my mouth as she went on, talking about how much she loves my cunnilingus book, and I can't believe she reads my books!!!!

After that, I capped off the evening in the best way possible -- with a prank. As I was leaving, some wanker came up to me and asked for an autograph -- because he'd seen all my movies. Uh-huh. A couple years ago, some porn chick emerged with my same name, long after I'd been published, and it was a bit irritating, though I though it was kinda funny in an ironic way. In fact, my hilarious and cute gay friend Chris insists that she not be called "Violet Blue" in his presence, instead that she be referred to as Miss Mousy Brown (her hair). It's all a fun joke -- but when asked for an autograph as the imposter, I couldn’t help but return the favor. So as the porn chick Violet Blue, I giggled, said, wow, it's so cool being a porn star, and signed. I wrote, "Thank you for masturbating to my image onscreen. You have pleased me. When I dominate the universe your death will be quick and painless. Signed, Violet Blue (not the author)"

It's my new favorite hobby.

I'd like to begin this entry with a few shouts out to folks who I've recently discovered are regular Tiny Log lurkers -- hey Coop! Smooches to Anthony. Little cooing noises to members in the Marching Band. I don't know her, but Jane at Jane's Guide really likes my new video book. Oh, and I almost forgot -- not only is he doing his best to buy a seat in the Governor's mansion here in California, Arnold is also a fan. Just check out the review he left on Amazon.com for my fellatio book. Truly a man of many surprises. Should I send him an autographed copy?

Meanwhile, the research for my next book rages onward. I've been a little under the weather so forward motion has been slow, but while I have on my list a) a session with a pro domme, b) sex with a professional escort, and c), attending many different types of sex parties, I think I need to pace myself. I did, however, being researching unintentionally on Folsom weekend, after our city's celebrated S/M street event, the Folsom St. Fair. There were possibly hundreds of thousands of people in the crowd, in all states of kinky dress and undress, and even the police officers laughed, relaxed and blended right in with their already-kinky uniforms. It has all the community and true decadence and debauchery that the Adult Video News convention wished it had, and without all the homophobia. I briefly met up with a newlywed couple I know through SRL, who were just the happiest little sex tourists you've ever seen. The male partner had just returned form being stationed in Baghdad, and was clearly happy to be back home, celebrating at the fair, and both of them were running around cheekily getting charity floggings and shoe-shines. "Look at our matching whip marks!"

As the fair wound down, my sexy date and I made our way to a side door on 9th street, as place I'd gotten an email about saying there was a "fetish salon" (not the real name) happening there that evening. I'd long been curious about their events but never gone, and as we came to the entrance were stopped by a drunken rubber-clad drag queen who asked us the secret password. I stammered, made one up, and in we went! At the top of the stairs we had to explain how we heard about it to get the rest of the way in, paid our money, and were set free inside a big, many-roomed SOMA Victorian house decked out with two bars (one rooftop), a hookah lounge, a "plushy" lounge, an S/M playspace, a theater, a dance floor, and many other places to hang out. There were snacks, bowls of peanuts, and bowls of towelettes printed with "Facial Cum Remover" on the front, with the back reading: "Moral Minority facial cum removers are the convenient way to get rid of excess facial cum after sucking cock, and/or muff diving, leaving your skin feeling fresh, soft and protected against drying..." We ran into a few friends, such as Charles Gatewood who was snapping pics of the friendly fetishwear-clad crowd, and were surprised at how nice all these rubber-festooned folks were. But what really blew my mind was that there were more women than men, dykes and femmes, straight couples (the majority -- I think), gayboys and trannies, and just about every stripe you could imagine. Not your uncle's creepy swinger's parties, no ma'am.

It was exciting, and my very first play/sex party. It was interesting how the party went from party to sex playland, really kind of gradually. My date and I circulated the rooms observing the incredibly attractive crowd, though my favorite funny moment was watching a ponyboy, wearing no doubt thousands of dollars in pony gear, struggle with his handcuffs after his inexperienced mistress lost the key. These newbies seemed to be the hallmark of Folsom -- they got the fancy SUV, but crash it into other people's cars when they try to parallel park. An exasperated trannygirl finally took pity on them and dug a handcuff master key from her purse, rolling her eyes at me and making me giggle. Later, the S/M playspace filled up with couples and triples tying each other up and spanking and kissing, and as we passed by the plushy room, I heard my date exclaim, "whoah." We stopped to see a male butt executing a familiar up-and-down motion over a blonde's spread legs, and another man kneeling next to her face -- while they laughed and teased each other. Next to them, another man calmly stroked his cock while he watched them, and on the other side of the room a beautiful brunette started going down on her date. We were both transfixed -- and turned on, but way too shy to do anything, especially with the gathering crowd of onlookers and others starting their own participation. It was a great party, an amazing representation of sexual expression without hang-ups and stereotypes (and no hippies), and I'm looking forward to the next one. Will I do anything at the next one? I don't know, but I probably should -- all in the name of research, of course!