Oh, Fleshbot, how I love you for giving me the Olympic Bulge Awards, the only thing that made me wish I’d watched the Olympics. Ahhh!
Random bits:
The biggest clit I’ve ever seen (not work safe; thanks to a reader).
The dangerous and risky sport of shooting a chicken with a rocket launcher.
The New York Times timidly ponders porn for women in What Women Want to Watch. Note they reference a book about women’s fantasies that is over 30 years old… sigh.
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/29/arts/television/29DOMI.html
Today I got this great email:
I meant to tell you that your latest blog entry about Sex Educator Fear Factor had me rolling with laughter. It’s so genius because you manage to skewer sex educator bravado, the crappy adult novelty industry and bad reality TV all at once. So basically, you’re every woman, it’s all in you. Just like Chaka Khan!
That rocks. But meanwhile, where have I been? Prepping for the Sex Ed FF? Making a fort in my living room out of plank-like Paris Hilton Love Dolls? No, actually, I’ve been working my buns off, writing like a fiend on a few secret projects. That’s one of things I hate most about big-deal writing projects — they consume chunks of my life that I’d love to ponder blogistically but I can’t even mention them to my friends, because people make us writers sign all these legal non-disclosure agreements. Which I understand, but still… Let’s just say that after being sick, I returned to the fray to write for an average of 10 hours a day. Not possible you say? Indeed it is. I have a pseudonym I write under, too.
How do I stay fresh and interesting? A) Bergamot bath gel, and B) I never duplicate projects so I don’t get bored writing about the same topic over and over. I know other erotica writers who are even more insane than I am with creative drive and workload — Thomas Roche, Alison Tyler, M. Christian, Sage Vivant. These authors write unbelievable amounts, and it’s good stuff, too. Yes, they have pseudonyms too, and no, I’m not telling. We’re in the crazy sex writers club together. But after two weeks of 80+ hour workweeks, my arms hurt like hell, as if I had been tossing a heavy medicine ball around all day. So last weekend I took a break from the com-pooter, and organized my hall closet. Oh, and I went to a sex party.
A sex party! Yes. And it was good. No, I didn’t have sex at it — bok bok, I’m still a big chicken, though this sex machine almost got me off the couch for a spin. I’m still to timid to have sex in front of people, but hopefully someday I’ll change that. I *did* skip wearing panties and wore a short BeBe fringe dress and super-stacked fetish heels, so I felt naughty underneath it all. I even spread my legs on the couch a few times after a few glasses of wine, but I don’t know if anyone noticed. The party itself was really awesome, a very low-key house party affair where I actually knew no one except my date — and I liked that very much. Lots of bisexuality, kinky couples gay and straight, and overall lots of people my age with similar sensibilities, so we’re talking 25-35 range, young-ish, whimsical, slightly bent folks. Lots of rubber outfits, much spanking and whipping, spontaneous public fucking and oral sex, sexy girls aplenty. Hornboy and I took a prime seat on a couch, drank wine, and just watched the rich pageant float by.
I did, however, object to the elf. Yes, there was a guy there dressed as an adult, longhaired elf. In tight olive green Lycra, with a little loincloth and fake pointy ears. He looked like that Peter Pan dude (but with a mullet). He found a victim, er, I mean a girl that was alone at the party, and gave her one of those icky-guy, massage-turns-into-grope-session, then they spanked each other. Hornboy and I decided that nothing turned us off more than elf spanks. Bleah.
On other fronts I’m miffed at a certain porn magazine. They asked me to write an article about teledildonics (computer-interfaced sex toys), and I did. I wrote a huge piece about the history of cybersex and teledildonics up to the present, interviewed inventors and mechanics from all over the US, researched patents and interviewed patent holders and licensees, and wrote a darn fine piece. Then I turned it in. And never heard back. At all. Nothing. Not a peep. Which is sadly typical of the porn industry, to be flaky and unprofessional, that is. Maybe the piece sucked, maybe they ran out of budget — but they could have told me something. The piece is still mine, and I might develop it into a presentation for Dorkbot SF, much like my Sex and Electricity lecture, which was a hell of a lot of fun.
I plan on returning to a regular blog posting schedule now, with less of that icky work stuff getting in the way. That is, while I work on the books I have due soon. Ducky Doolittle says I can do it — I say I want to use her boobies as an oxygen mask.
