Last weekend, Pride took over The City, as it always does, with swarms of smiling, happy families, horny LGBT tourists from all over the world and bringing out residents ready to party. It’s a big see-and-be-seen event, and the hot sunny weather had everyone out doing something; sexual orientation doesn’t necessarily even matter, it’s just our city festival and everyone goes out to have fun, wear Pride beads and feel all puffed up about how cool and progressive and diverse our city is. That’s definitely what I did, and I have the sunburn to prove it.
Friday night I went down to the Valencia St. Good Vibrations store to help hand out goodies and donated Odwalla juice to the participants of the Trans March. This was the first march of its kind, and especially important because of the horror-movie-like slaying of trans teen Gwen Araujo, and last week’s unjust mistrial ruling that will likely see the boys who did it get off with minimal punishment.
At any rate, I found myself in front of the store, when up walks a celebrity trio of magnitude — Carol Queen, Robert Lawrence… and Betty Dodson! I was floored, to see Betty Dodson just walking up and I nervously introduced myself to her. She’s the most famous of all of us I think, hailed as the "Mother of Masturbation" and she wrote books on female masturbation that changed literally everything in the world of women and sexual education. And at 75, she’s a force of nature. In a few minutes I realized how strong and outspoken a woman she is and just about died listening to her and Robert crack jokes — she dropped a pen and Robert said, “If I wasn’t so old and crippled and such a lazy bastard I’d pick that up for you.” Betty replied, “This old granny can still lift a vibrator, thank you very much!”
To my blushing surprise, Robert and Carol introduced me as “one of the *good* ones,” and Robert immediately started gushing to Betty about my work at SRL as a roboticist and welder. Betty oohed and aahed, and said, “Wow, no shit!?” when I explained a bit of the machine work I do.
Then, the Mother of Masturbation punched me in the boob.
Maybe she meant to hit my chest. I admit, my shoulders are not as manly as Madonna’s, so maybe she missed. My b-cup boobies are not too huge or sticky-outy, but I was wearing a push up and my boobies were feeling sassy, so maybe they jumped in at the last minute like football players intercepting a tackle. I just squeaked, “thank you!”
Betty and company careened wildly around the store admiring vibrators, and gossiping loudly and hilariously about other sex educators like retirees out on a medicated break. I walked up and came into a robust conversation about one female author in particular who was being made fun of for having a ghostwriter and they all took a round imitating Swerengen on the HBO series Deadwood, “SHE’S a COCK-sucker!” while I accidentally shot water out my nose. It’s true; we all talk shit about each other in this business, though there are definitely two camps — the people who genuinely educate and the writers who have marketing backgrounds and celebrity ambitions. And when the worlds clash, it makes for hilarious stories we tell each other over drinks, or whatnot.
Anyway, I clued in on a vibrator that Betty was admiring and snagged one for her, slipped a battery in it and snuck it over to her in the book section of the store, evidently where the party was. They were lamenting the new Eve Ensler show, about how now Ensler has to make peace with her belly by having a big show about it. Betty told me, “Jeezus, I saw that damn ‘Vagina Monologues,’ and all it was was Vuh-GYNA, Vuh-GYNA, Vuh-GYNA, over and over!” She put her hands around my throat, and continued, "If I heard Vuh-GYNA one more time, I was going to strangle someone!" Then, the Mother of Masturbation strangled me a little.
I giggled. Strangled by a legend, that’s me. I held out the vibrator like an orgasmic peace offering, whispered conspiratorially “It’s loaded,” and Betty smiled and said “excellent” like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. I was now her minion. I made a little hopping motion like a kangaroo and asked if she had a pouch to hide it in. She looked salaciously at Carol and grinned. “I dunno!”; She pulled her waistline out on her pants. “Does this look like a pouch!?”
Then, the Mother of Masturbation flashed me her clam.
Carol said, yup that’s a pouch. I laughed hysterically and wished Betty Dodson was my grandma, or at least my eccentric aunt Betty. Which I guess in a way, she is. I stayed and listened to her talk to a full house about her amazing life doing sexual therapy client work teaching masturbation to women and her humble beginnings selling and sending her women’s masturbation books through the mail, carrying over 150,000 copies to the post office in Manhattan. Granted that’s a small drop in the cultural bucket, compared to, say, Shania Twain’s 19 million albums. But hey, I’ll take a Hitachi Magic Wand and a punch in the boob over a tube of “Shania Red” lipstick any day.
