Mail. Lots of mail. I’m getting so much mail from readers that I’m buried in it. Here’s a good one:
> Violet,I keep hearing about a position called "Dirty Sanchez" What is this position and how do you feel about it? Thanks for all the information you share, I feel you make this world a better place!
Me: Not a position! At the bottom of the page — a South Park page, but
the definitions are correct. See #4 Filthy Sanchez, which is actually
the most common name for the act.
http://www.spscriptorium.com/Season5/E507secrets.htm
and here:
http://askthecouch.com/slang.asp
And another email with nice linkage:
> vedroerende psychocandy 3, saa tjek den her:
http://wakingvixen.blogspot.com/2005/01/figure-study-in-red-and-black.html
And from an SRL member, this ad. And robots that kill. (Photo from the Ballerina Pie Fight Friday night.)
Speaking of killing, I didn’t die exactly how I wanted to last weekend. I’m sure that’s what a lot of people think, or maybe they don’t get to think it. But I wanted blood, gore, screaming, and a pathetic struggle against supernatural forces, or something. Nudity. Gratuitousness. Zombie Marching Band gang bang. French vampire lesbian trumpet players. But that didn’t seem to be what the movie was like. I mean, I showed up early as requested, but then ended up leaving after a few hours (I went home to take a nap), then came back when I knew the band would be there — the only people I knew. Then we started drinking beer. One of the trumpet players gave me a hard time, asking why I wasn’t just jumping in front of the camera. I was feeling out of sorts, a little shy actually. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do; I got in my meter maid outfit to look cool and hopefully be included in a death scene. It was really cold out and I hoped to get blood on me; there were puddles of fake blood everywhere. Eventually the band shot their scene — leading the revolt against the zombie meter maids. There was only a small group of us, about 20 or so, and it seemed like they all knew each other. Then the director told us we were going to charge out of the building, we had to defend the DPT (actually the Speakeasy Brewery). We were to charge the Marching Band, the band attacks us, we all die, the crowd cheers. But we didn’t have any zombie makeup on, or blood. I was confused. We charged, the band smacked us with instruments (I am no stranger to this; I have been accidentally hit with almost every instrument in the band) and we "died." I fell on a redhead and my hand landed on her boob by accident. She got really mad at me. I know there are girls out there that might like my hand on their boob — where were they then?
Anyway, my fantasy is unfulfilled. In the meantime I have a lot of porn to watch; I’m "doing" the Derek and Romaine show on Wednesday (yay!) and I’ll be reviewing porn… That’s at 5:15 PST on Sirius OutQ if you want to listen on your compooter. But, happily, I turned in my Best American Sex Essays book yesterday… phew. Now two more books to turn in by the summer and I can relax a bit. Except I’ve already got more book offers, and another (new) publisher calling me. But I’m feeling very slow and deliberate about what I’m working on next, and looking at the mainstream publishers’ veritable bloodbath of sex titles coming out this year, it will have to be a very worthwhile project to get me to put down the robots and the podcasting and the erotic antho editing. I have to read like a million stories for the Cleis Book of Erotica and get rights to reprint, and I have more submissions for Best Women’s Erotica ’06 that I’ve ever seen for a single erotica book in my career. The competition is, well, fierce. Wow! The fun part is getting to read all that erotica, and for the Cleis book I get to comb through their extensive office library — kind of like being a kid in a candy store, if you’re an erotica lover — which I definitely am.
