(Imagine this is a staticky, broken radio transmission...)
So busy... can't blog... too much going on... will update... soon....
(End transmission)
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 28, 2010
A Note About Winter Sex
I have some very serious issues I'd like to blog about, but I'm having trouble typing. Why? Because winter is finally setting in on the great city of New York, and I am in the midst of a something's-wrong-with-the-gas crisis in my building. Although the landlord took the time to tell us that there might be a gas leak and that we were perfectly safe but asked not to use candles or incense until the location of the leak had been detected, he did not mention that he would be turning off the heat until further notice. I have been sitting in my thickest sweats and socks, under a blanket, for most of the day, drinking tea and shivering. I have been wanting to have sex, since my male partner is here and we don't get the opportunity to rip off our clothes and indulge ourselves very often these days. I was even thinking I'd work in some new sex toys/lube/something so I could give this blog its very first fantastic sex product review this weekend!
But it can't be more than 55 degrees in my damn apartment. Who wants to have sex when they can't stop shivering! We tried in-bed sex last night, and it was nice and all, but when you have to keep the covers up or risk contracting hypothermia, you just can't get into the same positions or calisthenic configurations you'd like to. It ends up being "nice" sex, but never "great" sex. And I'd really like to have some "great" sex. There's always the option of shower sex, too, which is guaranteed to be nice and warm and slightly more position-change-friendly than in-bed sex, but there's always the risk of slipping and falling, and maintaining the right sort of lubrication can be difficult. Plus, sooner or later the water always gets too hot and you have to either stop, turn around, change the setting, and try to get back into it after your ass has been scalded, or you have to get out of the shower to finish and then you're back to square-freezing-one.
I'm pretty annoyed. But it's made me think more about sex locations, and that's interesting because, after pondering my options here, I've realized I almost never have sex in bed. It happens, obviously, from time to time, but since I got my own apartment I'd say the sex-in-bed to sex-elsewhere ratio is easily a 1:8. I mean, the bed is nice and all, but it's so uniform. You can bend over the side of it or kneel on it, or come up with any number of positions on it, but why do that when, just on the other side of the bedroom door, there's a whole world of couches, chairs, ottomans, coffee tables, rugs, wood floors, kitchen tables, countertops, and radiators to be sat upon, bent over, leaned up against, crushed into, and generally copulated upon? Why stick to that one surface when you could venereally violate so many?
I guess I could look at this ridiculously cold weekend as an excuse to have bed-sex, and maybe see it as more of an exotic, rarely-tried experience than a boring one. After all, since I do most of my fucking in the living room/kitchen area, I guess the bed is something new-ish and different-like. But. It's so expected, so trite. And even though it's got a comforter and sheets and fleece, it's still frickin' freezing in there until you've gotten yourself all comfortable, at which point sleeping just seems like so much more logical a choice...
Anyway, this is a long explanation for my complete lack of anything interesting or porn-y to say today, but it's at least brought on some reflection about my sex tendencies. Hopefully my partner and I will battle valiantly on and try some of those toys regardless of the chill, and I'll have a product review for you soon. But no promises!
Check back tomorrow; you'll get a full report of... SOMETHING.
But it can't be more than 55 degrees in my damn apartment. Who wants to have sex when they can't stop shivering! We tried in-bed sex last night, and it was nice and all, but when you have to keep the covers up or risk contracting hypothermia, you just can't get into the same positions or calisthenic configurations you'd like to. It ends up being "nice" sex, but never "great" sex. And I'd really like to have some "great" sex. There's always the option of shower sex, too, which is guaranteed to be nice and warm and slightly more position-change-friendly than in-bed sex, but there's always the risk of slipping and falling, and maintaining the right sort of lubrication can be difficult. Plus, sooner or later the water always gets too hot and you have to either stop, turn around, change the setting, and try to get back into it after your ass has been scalded, or you have to get out of the shower to finish and then you're back to square-freezing-one.
I'm pretty annoyed. But it's made me think more about sex locations, and that's interesting because, after pondering my options here, I've realized I almost never have sex in bed. It happens, obviously, from time to time, but since I got my own apartment I'd say the sex-in-bed to sex-elsewhere ratio is easily a 1:8. I mean, the bed is nice and all, but it's so uniform. You can bend over the side of it or kneel on it, or come up with any number of positions on it, but why do that when, just on the other side of the bedroom door, there's a whole world of couches, chairs, ottomans, coffee tables, rugs, wood floors, kitchen tables, countertops, and radiators to be sat upon, bent over, leaned up against, crushed into, and generally copulated upon? Why stick to that one surface when you could venereally violate so many?
I guess I could look at this ridiculously cold weekend as an excuse to have bed-sex, and maybe see it as more of an exotic, rarely-tried experience than a boring one. After all, since I do most of my fucking in the living room/kitchen area, I guess the bed is something new-ish and different-like. But. It's so expected, so trite. And even though it's got a comforter and sheets and fleece, it's still frickin' freezing in there until you've gotten yourself all comfortable, at which point sleeping just seems like so much more logical a choice...
Anyway, this is a long explanation for my complete lack of anything interesting or porn-y to say today, but it's at least brought on some reflection about my sex tendencies. Hopefully my partner and I will battle valiantly on and try some of those toys regardless of the chill, and I'll have a product review for you soon. But no promises!
Check back tomorrow; you'll get a full report of... SOMETHING.
Nov 27, 2010
The Not-Doctor Is In
I've decided that as a public service, I should probably apply my discerning judgment, my wide knowledge of many things sex- and porn- and dating-related, and my undeniable awesomeness to the betterment of this world and the lives of those in it. That's right, readers, I want to do a sexpert column. I've been thinking of approaching several publications to perform this valuable service for them, but then I'd probably have to toe some sort of company line and only talk about PC topics, or non-PC topics, or something, depending on the publication. So why not try it out here? I'll take any and all questions, and try to answer then once or twice a week as Not-Dr. Lags, your resident know-it-all.
And I mean that. I do tend to know what I'm talking about when it comes to the topics of pornography (almost any kind), sexuality, sex itself, sexual relationships, and even evolutionary biology as it relates to sex. If I can't answer a particularly interesting question, I've got friends and/or colleagues who can. And, here's the thing: I'm always right. No, seriously, I mean that. People have trouble believing this because I'm a tiny woman who looks younger than her age (according to many; I'm not sure I agree with this assessment), but when people ask for my advice and don't take it, they almost always come back later and say they wish they had. I often sit back and watch people screw things up as a result of not listening to my directions while traveling or hiking, and laugh. I am, I swear it's true, always right. But few people listen to little old me. So I've decided to open this up to a public test: send me your questions about anything sex-related. I may not be able to answer them all, or right away, but I will do my best, and I bet you'll be impressed with my answers.
Send them to me! Either leave them in the comments section below, or email me at misslagsalot@gmail.com.
Bring it on.
Nov 26, 2010
Family Time in LaLaLand
Sitting around the table trying not to be too obviously the black sheep yesterday (by which I mean pretending that the perverted and inappropriate half of my brain wasn't running on high as I sat across from my grandmother), I started thinking about family and what it means in the larger world versus the porn world.
Later in the day, as I tried to roll over my engorged belly to fall asleep, I got to considering how there are trends in porn performer names. We go through periods where every new girl is named "Veronica" or "Lexi" or "Shyla," and it's strange how the names eventually pile up as some of these new performers stick around and some fall by the wayside. And last names are even more ubiquitous in the porn community. There have to be more "Loves" and "Presleys" and "Roses" out there than there are Smiths, at least relatively speaking.
These two different thought progressions came together in a shocking moment where I began to wonder; does the massive overlap in some porn names imply incest? Think about it: just going through my "following" list on Twitter (PS, follow me, cause I'm awesome: twitter.com/misslagsalot) and my own mental rolodex of porn performers, I can think of tons of surname overlaps: Lexi Love, Isis Love, the Love Twins; Keny Styles, Shyla Stylez; Jenna Presley, Teagan Presley; Jenna Haze, Shyla Haze, Allie Haze, Ashley Haze, Autumn Haze; Kristina Rose, Addison Rose, Mia Rose... Not to mention the plethora of pseudo-last-names like "Lee" and "Le" and "Lynn" that get applied to every other budding starlet.
I wonder, if you pair these performers up with one another (and despite my somewhat inadequate list, this can happen in hetero- or homosexual porn because even the male performers fall into some of the same naming traps, though of course I can't think of any who do at the moment) in one-on-one or in group scenes... Does anyone on the set even think of the incestuous implications? It seems unlikely, given that all these monikers are just stage names, but then again, given that porn's business is busting open taboos and letting us enjoy our deepest of perversions, maybe the idea that in LaLaland, these people are "family" is part of the fun.
Take, for instance, the Love Twins, who are purportedly identical twins who perform as a team. Lacey and Lyndsey (yes, it does make me a tad uncomfortable that she spells it almost like I do) market themselves as an incestuous duo and make huge money for it. I personally doubt that they're related; they look similar, but if you ask me they're not even close to being identical. But that's not the point at all. The point is that you're supposed to assume and imagine that they're sisters and they get it on for the camera all the time. And though incest is one of the most widely dispersed of basic human taboos, though almost every culture and country outlaws it and most of us shudder to think of its implications, it's such a deeply rooted taboo that most of us kind of have a dark part of ourselves somewhere deep down underneath the rock we keep firmly placed over it, that want to see what it looks like.
The porn industry is only too willing to provide us with a sneak peak into a fictional but functional vision of our weirdest fantasies, and if that means pairing Kristina Rose with Mia Rose and Addison Rose (which I don't think has ever actually happened), not mentioning that they all have the last name but letting the discerning viewer's mind wander a bit, and showing them in a threeway all-girl fuck fest, then so be it. If we really want to, we can imagine them all sitting down later for a lesbian triplet Thanksgiving dinner and giving thanks for their ability to leave behind social mores in favor of sexual pleasure.
Kind of makes me squirm in my turkey-besotted post-Thanksgiving haze, but then again, those taboos that go entirely unexplored by our brains or our blue films industry can fester and grow into much, much worse and more twisted variations of real-life scenarios, right? Isn't that how serial killers and weird holiday rapists get their start? By suppressing their interest in universal taboos until that interest explodes into a completely unhealthy set of behaviors designed to explore the taboo in a very, very unacceptable way? So, though the Love Twins and their incestuously sexy ilk make me uncomfortable and I really can't condone the idea of pairing Jenna and Teagan Presley on screen in a purposeful way, I can kind of nod a little bit at the fact that my brain came up with this weird question and then answered it, kind of vaguely, in its "I-ate-too-much-to-have-coherent-thoughts-today" kind of way. Porn is one of those things you have to kind of let fly, or else god knows where we'd be.
Anyway, let it be noted that I was not thinking about this while actually at the dinner table yesterday. It only occurred to me as I pondered what kind of blog post to write and if there was any way to apply the idea of a family holiday to a porn- and sex-oriented blog. Rather than bitching about how my career and writing material are scorned at the dinner table, I thought bringing up an entirely different set of porn family (and make no mistake, the porn community is a large, twenty-first century extended family in its own weird way) values might be an interesting side trip for your minds to take while digesting and not thinking too hard this weekend. Enjoy!
Later in the day, as I tried to roll over my engorged belly to fall asleep, I got to considering how there are trends in porn performer names. We go through periods where every new girl is named "Veronica" or "Lexi" or "Shyla," and it's strange how the names eventually pile up as some of these new performers stick around and some fall by the wayside. And last names are even more ubiquitous in the porn community. There have to be more "Loves" and "Presleys" and "Roses" out there than there are Smiths, at least relatively speaking.
These two different thought progressions came together in a shocking moment where I began to wonder; does the massive overlap in some porn names imply incest? Think about it: just going through my "following" list on Twitter (PS, follow me, cause I'm awesome: twitter.com/misslagsalot) and my own mental rolodex of porn performers, I can think of tons of surname overlaps: Lexi Love, Isis Love, the Love Twins; Keny Styles, Shyla Stylez; Jenna Presley, Teagan Presley; Jenna Haze, Shyla Haze, Allie Haze, Ashley Haze, Autumn Haze; Kristina Rose, Addison Rose, Mia Rose... Not to mention the plethora of pseudo-last-names like "Lee" and "Le" and "Lynn" that get applied to every other budding starlet.
I wonder, if you pair these performers up with one another (and despite my somewhat inadequate list, this can happen in hetero- or homosexual porn because even the male performers fall into some of the same naming traps, though of course I can't think of any who do at the moment) in one-on-one or in group scenes... Does anyone on the set even think of the incestuous implications? It seems unlikely, given that all these monikers are just stage names, but then again, given that porn's business is busting open taboos and letting us enjoy our deepest of perversions, maybe the idea that in LaLaland, these people are "family" is part of the fun.
Take, for instance, the Love Twins, who are purportedly identical twins who perform as a team. Lacey and Lyndsey (yes, it does make me a tad uncomfortable that she spells it almost like I do) market themselves as an incestuous duo and make huge money for it. I personally doubt that they're related; they look similar, but if you ask me they're not even close to being identical. But that's not the point at all. The point is that you're supposed to assume and imagine that they're sisters and they get it on for the camera all the time. And though incest is one of the most widely dispersed of basic human taboos, though almost every culture and country outlaws it and most of us shudder to think of its implications, it's such a deeply rooted taboo that most of us kind of have a dark part of ourselves somewhere deep down underneath the rock we keep firmly placed over it, that want to see what it looks like.
The porn industry is only too willing to provide us with a sneak peak into a fictional but functional vision of our weirdest fantasies, and if that means pairing Kristina Rose with Mia Rose and Addison Rose (which I don't think has ever actually happened), not mentioning that they all have the last name but letting the discerning viewer's mind wander a bit, and showing them in a threeway all-girl fuck fest, then so be it. If we really want to, we can imagine them all sitting down later for a lesbian triplet Thanksgiving dinner and giving thanks for their ability to leave behind social mores in favor of sexual pleasure.
Kind of makes me squirm in my turkey-besotted post-Thanksgiving haze, but then again, those taboos that go entirely unexplored by our brains or our blue films industry can fester and grow into much, much worse and more twisted variations of real-life scenarios, right? Isn't that how serial killers and weird holiday rapists get their start? By suppressing their interest in universal taboos until that interest explodes into a completely unhealthy set of behaviors designed to explore the taboo in a very, very unacceptable way? So, though the Love Twins and their incestuously sexy ilk make me uncomfortable and I really can't condone the idea of pairing Jenna and Teagan Presley on screen in a purposeful way, I can kind of nod a little bit at the fact that my brain came up with this weird question and then answered it, kind of vaguely, in its "I-ate-too-much-to-have-coherent-thoughts-today" kind of way. Porn is one of those things you have to kind of let fly, or else god knows where we'd be.
Anyway, let it be noted that I was not thinking about this while actually at the dinner table yesterday. It only occurred to me as I pondered what kind of blog post to write and if there was any way to apply the idea of a family holiday to a porn- and sex-oriented blog. Rather than bitching about how my career and writing material are scorned at the dinner table, I thought bringing up an entirely different set of porn family (and make no mistake, the porn community is a large, twenty-first century extended family in its own weird way) values might be an interesting side trip for your minds to take while digesting and not thinking too hard this weekend. Enjoy!
Nov 24, 2010
PS: Concerning BOLs
Just an FYI, I'll be heading to the country to stuff my face full of turkey and pie so I won't be posting for the next few days. But I wanted to alert any of you hip to the BOL situation that a version of my original blog post about Boobs Only Lesbians will be published in WHACK! Magazine on Friday. I wrote and submitted it around the same time I wrote the blog post, and though my position as such has not changed since then, my mind has opened somewhat. Yet the article was written before your thoughtful comments, and as such it will reflect no change of mind. Publishing schedules are a drag.
Happy Stuff-Your-Face Day!
Happy Stuff-Your-Face Day!
Nov 23, 2010
The Pope is Reading my Blog!
Hold the presses, people! I think the Pope read my post from a few days ago about pregnancy being a disease and women using condoms to prevent catching it! Seriously! It's been revealed that, when he said that condoms could be acceptable in some cases, "when used by male prostitutes" to prevent the spread of disease, the Pope maintains he didn't mean anything by saying "male" rather than "female."
When Reverand asked the Pope, he says, whether he chose to remark on male versus female prostitutes, the estimable pontiff said no. According to Lombardi, the Pope think that, "The problem is this.... It's the first step of taking responsibility, of taking into consideration the risk of the life of another with whom you have a relationship.... This is if you're a woman, a man, or a transsexual. We're at the same point."
Holy jeez! I'm not sure how to feel about this. First of all, this is still just the Pope's personal thoughts we're discussing; it's not as if the Catholic Church has read the writing on the wall and realized as a whole that condoms can be good. Secondly, this clarification from Rev. Lombardi, or behalf of the Pope, seems suspiciously like a PR ploy. His first remark was pretty inflammatory, hence my rant about pregnancy and the rants of many others, and only now we're hearing that he meant women, too? You know how not to confuse people about your meaning when you're referring to all sexes? Just don't assign a sex to your comment. Just say "prostitutes," not "male prostitutes." Something seems fishy in the idea of the Pope "clarifying" a very specific statement so it means something broader than what he started out with.
But then again, it has to be noted that somebody who speaks to the Pope regularly said the word "transsexual"! To reporters! If you'd asked me yesterday, I wouldn't have guessed anyone near the Vatican even knew what a transsexual was. Which of course isn't to say that the Pope actually does know; he's 83, for crying out loud, and he's been a priest for most of his adult life. It's entirely possible that Lombardi put that word in his mouth, especially if we'll note that what Lombardi said was not a direct quote from His Holiness, but paraphrasing. Seems like he easily could have stuck a few of those extras in himself for the edification of crazy leftist sex-positive whack-jobs like me.
But still, hey, I won't get too bitchy about it. This is a huge step toward a 21st-century point of view inside the Catholic Church. And though I scorn it for its maleficent effects upon the world we live in today and condescend mightily to its back-assward ways, when the Pope says something, I can't deny that the word goes out to millions, maybe even billions. And at least a few dozen of those billions take him seriously. So, hey, dozens, guess what! There are transsexuals! And they can use condoms too!
Also, I shouldn't get too snarky. After all, the Pope's a pretty powerful guy, and if he's reading my blog I guess I should show a little respect. He may be a creepy old German dude, but he's actually showing himself--maybe, possibly--to be kind of cool.
Nov 22, 2010
Bully to Capri Anderson for Having Balls of Steel
Charlie Sheen makes me want to vomit. Really. The man has displayed, from what I've seen, little to no acting ability in the many years of his storied career, yet has managed to land the highest-paying TV contract in America, evade arrest god only knows how many times, be outed for drug use and apparently repeated abuse against women, and he continues to float on the top of the scum pond that is America's celebrity heap.
Capri Anderson went on Good Morning America yesterday to talk about her ordeal last month, during which she alleges that Sheen, drunk and coked-up, tried to choke her, verbally abused her, and threw hard objects are until she sought refuge in the Plaza Hotel suite bathroom and waited for the police to arrive. She was to be paid $3,500 for attending a dinner with Sheen, she says, but even after the night turned ugly and she was led away, dazed and terrified by one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood, she never received payment or so much as an apology. (She denies, btw, the allegations of Sheen's lawyer that she was to be paid $12,000 for sex that night; I'd say that Mr. Sheen's lawyer is unfamiliar with the prices that adult entertainers who also escort require for sexual favors. Granted, I don't know what those numbers look like, but $12,000 seems a bit steep, no? Maybe I'm wrong? Anyone?)
Adding to the trauma of that night and her harrowing experience at the hands of a man who seems at this point to literally be so famous he can do no wrong in the eyes of the public, Anderson has endured a month of public taunting from a media that can't seem to imagine that she's not a plain and simple prostitute, much less the fact that her career in the adult entertainment industry doesn't automatically disqualify every statement that comes out of her mouth. After all, she does have sex for money, and ON CAMERA most of the time! She couldn't possibly be telling the truth about her frightening experiences, even though the room had been trashed by a similarly trashed Sheen by the time the police arrived to find the woman hiding in the bathroom. A woman who has sex on camera, the logic seems to go, couldn't possibly be upset by being choked and threatened by a drug-fueled madman. She must see it all the time in, ha ha, wink wink nudge nudge, her line of work.
Sheen's manager summed up the reasons we shouldn't believe Anderson succinctly: "This is a woman who, for the right amount of money, sleeps with strangers." Well, obviously she couldn't manage to tell the truth about that night then, could she? After all, people who have willing sex with strangers (which I'm sure Mr. Sheen, in all his glory, has never done, much less after having paid a stranger to engage in the act with him) don't know how to tell the truth.
It is simply mind-boggling to me that after having endured this kind of incredulity from the media and the public in general, that when Capri Anderson decided to publicly stand up for herself in the face of one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, who undeniably had terrified her enough to make her flee to the bathroom and allegedly physically assaulted her, as well, she had to deal with this.
The commentator, despite the fact that Ms. Anderson is visibly choked up by retelling her terrifying tale, hounds her about whether she was to be paid for sex and says that, if that were true, it would "say something about" her. He demands to know why she told the police she was fine instead of telling them she'd been choked and threatened--but her reasonable defense that she was shaken up and embarrassed that she was in her underwear obviously can't hold true for someone who has sex for money. But, the commentator berates, she hasn't pressed criminal charges! She must be lying!
Never mind that she went through a terrifying experience of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of a man she hardly knew, but knew enough to fear. Never mind that she wasn't expecting this to happen when she went to the hotel because nobody should expect that kind of insanity to happen. Never mind that she was understandably shaken and intimidated when the police arrived, and very likely confused for weeks afterward about what to do. No doubt she's been told by many people to leave it alone: after all, he's the big, bad Charlie motherfuckin' Sheen, and she's just little old porn star Capri Anderson. What kind of chance does she have to take him down?
...the sad truth is that she probably has very little chance of winning a criminal case against him. She probably can't afford lawyers nearly as smooth, and she obviously has no support from the public, much less the media, which is far more concerned with printing the words "ESCORT" and "PORN STAR" in large print headlines than in reporting what the out-of-his-gourd actor did to that escort/porn star. I say good for her! She may not have much of a chance, but Capri Anderson deserves any paltry pennies she gets for granting interviews to media outlets about her experience and any damages she's awarded. She deserves, at the very least, from our seemingly very small bag of human kindness, to be heard. Kudos to her for being willing to stand up and say that what happened was wrong, regardless of her career choice. Bully to Ms. Anderson for raising her voice against the incredibly still-deafening cacophony of voices saying that sex workers don't have rights. Whether she was acting in a sex worker capacity that night or not is almost irrelevant to me: she was there because she chose to be, and what happened to her could not possibly be justified, even if she were there to have sex with him, even for far less than the rumored $12,000. Nobody deserves to be treated like that, by the lowest scum or the highest scumbag in Hollywood. You've got balls of thunder, Ms. Anderson. My hat's off to you, and I hope you get his sorry ass thrown in the kind of prison where he can learn how, "For the right amount of money," having sex with someone can be well worth it.
Capri Anderson went on Good Morning America yesterday to talk about her ordeal last month, during which she alleges that Sheen, drunk and coked-up, tried to choke her, verbally abused her, and threw hard objects are until she sought refuge in the Plaza Hotel suite bathroom and waited for the police to arrive. She was to be paid $3,500 for attending a dinner with Sheen, she says, but even after the night turned ugly and she was led away, dazed and terrified by one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood, she never received payment or so much as an apology. (She denies, btw, the allegations of Sheen's lawyer that she was to be paid $12,000 for sex that night; I'd say that Mr. Sheen's lawyer is unfamiliar with the prices that adult entertainers who also escort require for sexual favors. Granted, I don't know what those numbers look like, but $12,000 seems a bit steep, no? Maybe I'm wrong? Anyone?)
Adding to the trauma of that night and her harrowing experience at the hands of a man who seems at this point to literally be so famous he can do no wrong in the eyes of the public, Anderson has endured a month of public taunting from a media that can't seem to imagine that she's not a plain and simple prostitute, much less the fact that her career in the adult entertainment industry doesn't automatically disqualify every statement that comes out of her mouth. After all, she does have sex for money, and ON CAMERA most of the time! She couldn't possibly be telling the truth about her frightening experiences, even though the room had been trashed by a similarly trashed Sheen by the time the police arrived to find the woman hiding in the bathroom. A woman who has sex on camera, the logic seems to go, couldn't possibly be upset by being choked and threatened by a drug-fueled madman. She must see it all the time in, ha ha, wink wink nudge nudge, her line of work.
Sheen's manager summed up the reasons we shouldn't believe Anderson succinctly: "This is a woman who, for the right amount of money, sleeps with strangers." Well, obviously she couldn't manage to tell the truth about that night then, could she? After all, people who have willing sex with strangers (which I'm sure Mr. Sheen, in all his glory, has never done, much less after having paid a stranger to engage in the act with him) don't know how to tell the truth.
It is simply mind-boggling to me that after having endured this kind of incredulity from the media and the public in general, that when Capri Anderson decided to publicly stand up for herself in the face of one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, who undeniably had terrified her enough to make her flee to the bathroom and allegedly physically assaulted her, as well, she had to deal with this.
The commentator, despite the fact that Ms. Anderson is visibly choked up by retelling her terrifying tale, hounds her about whether she was to be paid for sex and says that, if that were true, it would "say something about" her. He demands to know why she told the police she was fine instead of telling them she'd been choked and threatened--but her reasonable defense that she was shaken up and embarrassed that she was in her underwear obviously can't hold true for someone who has sex for money. But, the commentator berates, she hasn't pressed criminal charges! She must be lying!
Never mind that she went through a terrifying experience of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of a man she hardly knew, but knew enough to fear. Never mind that she wasn't expecting this to happen when she went to the hotel because nobody should expect that kind of insanity to happen. Never mind that she was understandably shaken and intimidated when the police arrived, and very likely confused for weeks afterward about what to do. No doubt she's been told by many people to leave it alone: after all, he's the big, bad Charlie motherfuckin' Sheen, and she's just little old porn star Capri Anderson. What kind of chance does she have to take him down?
...the sad truth is that she probably has very little chance of winning a criminal case against him. She probably can't afford lawyers nearly as smooth, and she obviously has no support from the public, much less the media, which is far more concerned with printing the words "ESCORT" and "PORN STAR" in large print headlines than in reporting what the out-of-his-gourd actor did to that escort/porn star. I say good for her! She may not have much of a chance, but Capri Anderson deserves any paltry pennies she gets for granting interviews to media outlets about her experience and any damages she's awarded. She deserves, at the very least, from our seemingly very small bag of human kindness, to be heard. Kudos to her for being willing to stand up and say that what happened was wrong, regardless of her career choice. Bully to Ms. Anderson for raising her voice against the incredibly still-deafening cacophony of voices saying that sex workers don't have rights. Whether she was acting in a sex worker capacity that night or not is almost irrelevant to me: she was there because she chose to be, and what happened to her could not possibly be justified, even if she were there to have sex with him, even for far less than the rumored $12,000. Nobody deserves to be treated like that, by the lowest scum or the highest scumbag in Hollywood. You've got balls of thunder, Ms. Anderson. My hat's off to you, and I hope you get his sorry ass thrown in the kind of prison where he can learn how, "For the right amount of money," having sex with someone can be well worth it.
Nov 21, 2010
An Open Letter to the Pope
Get this, folks! The Pope says condoms are ok! Well, kind of. He says they can be sometimes ok, but not great. And only when they're protecting male prostitutes from AIDS. So... well... Hey, it's something, right? The same guy who told us last year, while on a trip to Africa, that condoms were only making the AIDS epidemic worse (And this guy supposedly has a direct line to the Almighty? Heaven help us...) has now made a personal statement to a writer that in certain cases, men using condoms to prevent the spread of aids could be a step toward "moralization" and "responsibility" for those men.
I guess I could start lauding the progressive agenda of this Pope, who's breaking line with Vatican policy by making these statements. I could start singing the praises of the new, UFO-positive Vatican. I could be banging the gongs in excitement that such a huge religious leader is thinking more liberally than ridiculously... But then again... No. Because his statements are still ridiculous.
Only male prostitutes can use them? Sometimes? And even then it'll only slow them down on their way to hell for being prostitutes? What kind of moral succour is that, Pope Benedict? What kind of thing is that to say in a world where over thirty-four million people have died from AIDS? In a world where women are being raped and blamed for it, where the population is absolutely out of control, where resources are being eaten up, where venereal diseases of all kinds are plagues upon the face of the earth? Women can't use condoms ever still, because they're women, and it's their job to risk being infection with one of the most deadly diseases known to man just so they won't not get pregnant?
Ok. Ok, yeah. He didn't say exactly that, but extrapolating only a tiny bit gets any intelligent reader to this place. And at that point, I just lose all respect for the situation. Allow me to illuminate the absurdity of this sexist, myopic attempt at progressive religious thought via the age-old tool of satire:
Given that the only excusable use for condoms is "in the intention of reducing the risk of infection" with a nefarious disease that kills many of its victims, let us take a look at the idea of disease itself. While diseases certainly come in many forms and from many places, even from inside the body itself, one of the most common symptoms of disease is the rapid multiplying of disease cells within the human body. In the case of HIV/AIDS, the human immunodeficiency virus lives and multiplies in the human body and infects immune cells, thus weakening the body. You get the idea. In the case of cancer, the cells are the body's own, but they multiply at an alarming rate and live off the body's own resources.
Let us then look at another wildly successful and yet oft-overlooked disease: pregnancy. Ah, reader, before you attack me with wild allegations about how pregnancy is a divine miracle and not a disease, and how could I be so callous, consider this: pregnancy occurs when millions of alien cells enter the human body and one of those cells invades the ovum of the human female. This cell and the ovum mutate into an entirely new set of cells which, much like a cancerous tumor, proceed to multiply within the body at an alarming rate and which live off the resources of the host body. At the time this was written, the WorldClock estimated that so far this year, STDs including HIV/AIDS had killed 1,929,342 people so far this year. Perinatal conditions and maternal conditions (I'm not sure if this includes death during childbirth), however, had been responsible for an estimated 3,298,674 deaths. If that's not a disease, I'll eat my hat. (Actually I'm not wearing a hat, so that's a hyperbolic statement.)
Given that the idea behind using condoms in a Catholic-endorsed, responsible, and moral way must be the prevention, not of God's will, but of the spread of disease and to ultimately prolong the trip so many of us are merrily taking toward hell, I think it would be wise for the Pope to acknowledge that pregnancy, a far more widespread and obviously often-fatal disease in its own write, is just as solid a reason to use condoms as HIV. And given that women are by far the most likely demographic to succumb to this mortal terror, it is perhaps best if he also extends his personal (not Papal--his comments were not made in an official capacity, so the Catholic Church still officially thinks safe sex is evil) approbation to the use of condoms by the fairer sex as well, lest he appear dreadfully sexist. After all, women seeking to avoid infection can always use a little "moralization," too.
Fin
I guess I could start lauding the progressive agenda of this Pope, who's breaking line with Vatican policy by making these statements. I could start singing the praises of the new, UFO-positive Vatican. I could be banging the gongs in excitement that such a huge religious leader is thinking more liberally than ridiculously... But then again... No. Because his statements are still ridiculous.
Only male prostitutes can use them? Sometimes? And even then it'll only slow them down on their way to hell for being prostitutes? What kind of moral succour is that, Pope Benedict? What kind of thing is that to say in a world where over thirty-four million people have died from AIDS? In a world where women are being raped and blamed for it, where the population is absolutely out of control, where resources are being eaten up, where venereal diseases of all kinds are plagues upon the face of the earth? Women can't use condoms ever still, because they're women, and it's their job to risk being infection with one of the most deadly diseases known to man just so they won't not get pregnant?
Ok. Ok, yeah. He didn't say exactly that, but extrapolating only a tiny bit gets any intelligent reader to this place. And at that point, I just lose all respect for the situation. Allow me to illuminate the absurdity of this sexist, myopic attempt at progressive religious thought via the age-old tool of satire:
Given that the only excusable use for condoms is "in the intention of reducing the risk of infection" with a nefarious disease that kills many of its victims, let us take a look at the idea of disease itself. While diseases certainly come in many forms and from many places, even from inside the body itself, one of the most common symptoms of disease is the rapid multiplying of disease cells within the human body. In the case of HIV/AIDS, the human immunodeficiency virus lives and multiplies in the human body and infects immune cells, thus weakening the body. You get the idea. In the case of cancer, the cells are the body's own, but they multiply at an alarming rate and live off the body's own resources.
Let us then look at another wildly successful and yet oft-overlooked disease: pregnancy. Ah, reader, before you attack me with wild allegations about how pregnancy is a divine miracle and not a disease, and how could I be so callous, consider this: pregnancy occurs when millions of alien cells enter the human body and one of those cells invades the ovum of the human female. This cell and the ovum mutate into an entirely new set of cells which, much like a cancerous tumor, proceed to multiply within the body at an alarming rate and which live off the resources of the host body. At the time this was written, the WorldClock estimated that so far this year, STDs including HIV/AIDS had killed 1,929,342 people so far this year. Perinatal conditions and maternal conditions (I'm not sure if this includes death during childbirth), however, had been responsible for an estimated 3,298,674 deaths. If that's not a disease, I'll eat my hat. (Actually I'm not wearing a hat, so that's a hyperbolic statement.)
Given that the idea behind using condoms in a Catholic-endorsed, responsible, and moral way must be the prevention, not of God's will, but of the spread of disease and to ultimately prolong the trip so many of us are merrily taking toward hell, I think it would be wise for the Pope to acknowledge that pregnancy, a far more widespread and obviously often-fatal disease in its own write, is just as solid a reason to use condoms as HIV. And given that women are by far the most likely demographic to succumb to this mortal terror, it is perhaps best if he also extends his personal (not Papal--his comments were not made in an official capacity, so the Catholic Church still officially thinks safe sex is evil) approbation to the use of condoms by the fairer sex as well, lest he appear dreadfully sexist. After all, women seeking to avoid infection can always use a little "moralization," too.
Fin
Nov 18, 2010
BOLs or BEWBS
Image copied from the site in question; let me know if you mind, ladies!
Well, since I'm on the topic of boobs, and before that I was on the topic of lady love, this little slice of sexiness, courtesy of Fleshbot, caught my interest. It's a site called "Boobs Only Lesbians," and it's about a "fourth" sexuality its creators believe exists for women. We shouldn't be limited, they say, to the standard "lesbian," "straight," and "bisexual" labels! As ladies we should have a fourth option for "women who appreciate the company of women, the beauty of women, but with an aversion to the vag." This would be the "Boobs Only Lesbian," or BOL, classification, which the creators of the site champion in their "Boobifesto."
...huh.
Now, far be it from me to deride anyone for loving boobs. As I've already mentioned several times in several posts, and as I'm sure I'll go on to rhapsodize about in the future, I love boobs. Big ones, small ones, perky ones, droopy ones, big nipples, little nipples... you name it. I'm a fan. And it's kind of funny, you know, because as a woman with boobs I'm sometimes a little mystified by their appeal. I mean, after all, they're just these rather inanimate things that hang out on our chests, not really doing anything for the majority of their lives, unless their being sucked on in an erotic or life-giving manner.
But then again, they bounce so beautifully when women run. And they feel so nice to squeeze in the hand. And to snuggle your head up against. And to kiss and to... Ok, getting off topic here... Focus...
Ok, right, but the thing is, despite the fact that I am as big a fan of boobs as the next "gay," "bisexual," or "BOL" woman, and just as much in favor of fluffy fleshbags as most straight and even many gay men... I'm not buying the BOL thing. My first response when I read about the idea was this: "Bullshit! Pure, unadulterated bullshit! If you love women, you love WOMEN. Vag and all! If you want boobs and no vag, find a transsexual with boobs and a cock!"
Now, this may be intolerant of me. I may just be reacting strongly, in a fearful tone, to something new and different that threatens my ideas of sexuality. I do not want to be the next wave of bigotry against fringe sexualities! So I'm trying to examine my bemusement about this idea carefully to be certain there's no prejudicial attitudes lurking in my brain or lodged in my heart. And so far I don't think I've found any. But who knows, maybe this new way of thinking, this "Boobilosophy" is simply too new, too groundbreaking, too avant-garde, for little old me to wrap my limited brain around.
But I just... I don't know. I mean, if you want to call yourself a "lesbian," then it seems to me that the vag should be part of the parcel. How can you be a lesbian, a gay woman, if you're not into the most defining physical parts of the female sex? If you thinks boobs are lovely and you kind of want to play with them, but you're turned off by the idea of the under-parts because of their mysterious dark interiors; widely varied exteriors; unpredictable (if you don't know what you're doing) variations between dry, moist, and wet; possible hairiness; musky odor... Then are you a "lesbian"? Or just a woman who likes boobs? I'm leaning toward the latter. Couldn't they call themselves "Female Boob Appreciators"--FBAs? Or "Boob Enthusiasts With Boobs"--which would appropriately be shortened to BEWBs?
I get that this isn't maybe the most serious sexuality statement in the world: they'd probably have called them "breasts" instead of "boobs" if they really wanted to be militant about it. So I'm not gonna get too worked up. But seems to me, if you're scared off by the scent and feel of the down-theres, but you like the up-tops, you shouldn't be trying to take the hard-won and still-fought-for title of a woman who really loves other women. Lesbians--real lesbians who like pussy--still get enough shit for having "fluid sexuality" and going through "phases" when they announce their preference. They still get weird looks in public. They still get discriminated against all the damn time. So maybe trying to take their mantle and wear it around your privates so none of the other BOLs will have to look at your vag, which they have an "aversion" to, isn't so polite. Maybe being a woman who sometimes drunkenly makes out with other chicks at the bar so guys can watch and then calling yourself bisexual is along the same lines as calling yourself a BOL.
But, then again, this world sure can use more openness about sexuality, and maybe I'm just being prejudiced against people who are trying to jump the gun on terms that still have prejudice swirling around them. And maybe I just have a grudge against those straight girls who made out with me at the bar just so they could open their eyes and see a bunch of drunk coeds ogling us...
Ah well, hey, this site has lots of artistic pictures of beautiful bazongas all over it, so... I'm gonna go look at it. Peace!
Topless Protests in Ukraine (PHOTOS, PHOTOS, PHOTOS!)
I just read a story about a feminist group of Ukrainian women going topless in public to protest the diminished role they play in their nation's culture. Over there, they say, women are nothing more than baby makers with hands to do the cooking and the cleaning. Which, I agree, is not cool, and it's absolutely right that they're standing up to protest. ...not so sure about the open-air hooters, though.
While on the one hand I think it's great that they are willing to do something so very un-Ukrainian and wild to get their cause noticed, on the other hand, I'm a little worried. Obviously, boobs in public (in the fall in Eastern Europe, where I'm sure it's cold, especially) are a fail-safe method to getting you noticed, but not necessarily because they're signs of fighting the establishment. More likely, it's because people love to look at, and sexualize, boobs. The article, or lack thereof, in the Huffington Post plainly demonstrates that people are more likely to pay attention to the protest because of the bawdiness of bared nipples than because they give a damn about what the ladies were trying to say.
The headline in this Western, "forward-thinking," popular publication reads: "Femen, Ukraine Topless Women's Rights Group, Causes Stir in Protests (PHOTOS)"--note the capitalized "PHOTOS." The article goes on to describe the women's goals to garner attention for their cause by "letting down their bra straps. (Scroll down for photos.)"Note the bold reference to the photos, not the article's content. This panting hint to hurry on down to the 10-photo slide show featuring suspiciously thin, perky-breasted, attractive young women (did they choose not to publish photos of less-attractive women, or are all Ukrainian ladies really that gorgeous?) holding up signs we Westerners can't even read and yelling in Ukranian in the presence of grim-faced police officers is encouragement to skip over the scant four paragraphs of broad-strokes journalism about Femen and the government's mostly condescending reaction to their outbursts. After all, who'd want to shut this protest down? There are BOOBIES involved. Let's look at the boobies!
It's a catch 22. Of course, I love boobies. I think they're a beautiful testament to the love of whoever or whatever created us, and I love looking at them. But the gazongas in this case are supposed to the bait in the trap of getting people to listen to what these young women have to say, not the focus and point of the trap in themselves (though in the cold weather I'm sure they were rather pointed, heh). But, as a woman in a former Russian block country where men are supposed to be the guardians and safekeepers of meek, hard-working, baby-making women, just opening your mouth is probably not enough to get any attention. Opening your bra--now that will win some hard looks. But you know what I mean by hard, and if these women want anyone to take them seriously, this may not be the best way to do it.
What's a young, angry, Ukrainian feminist to do? I don't know, ladies, but perhaps some more brain work should go into your next protest. If you want men to treat you as more than sex objects in a part of the world where that's been the tradition for thousands of years, showing them your sexiest of objects may not do the trick. It's certainly a worthy cause and I'd love to help you fight for it, but I am not going to take off my top in public in November in New York, and I don't think it would help all that much anyway.
Nov 17, 2010
The Crash Pad Series: Episode 21
The Crash Pad Series: Episode 21
Starring: Princess Donna, Lorelei Lee, Jake
Because I am a total badass and because I happen to absolutely love good lesbian porn (which, in this sad Y-chromosomally-centric world, is a rare and precious commodity), I have managed to nab myself a press pass to CrashPadSeries.com, and I am going to make damn good use of it. But not just for my own pleasure! Oh no, I am far too dedicated a journalist to selfishly horde my horny prize! Also, I really like gloating over my free fap fare. For those of you not in the know, The Crash Pad Series is a runaway hit of a website and DVD series started a few years back by Pink and White Productions, a San Francisco queer studio obsessed with showing off how endlessly variable and scaldingly hot the experience of queer sex can be. The Crash Pad Series, as I've noted in other publications, is neither for the faint of heart, nor the vanilla of taste, nor the narrow of mind; the performers in these scenes run the gamut from male-identifying trans people who sport permanent, synthetic hard-ons beneath their jeans to super-femme lipstick lesbians to bisexual babes with a passing craving for cooch, and with a rich representation of just about every variation in between. These scenes feature a lot of sex acts that most mainstream, hetero porn simply doesn't dare to film for fear of the ever-nebulous obscenity laws that hover over the heads of most of the LA adult industry (think fisting, double-fisting, lesbian DPs, squirting, and so on). What's portrayed--an honest depiction of sex that rarely gets talked about or even acknowledged--can be far and away more hardcore than what your average Adult DVD Emporium's "extreme" rack has to offer, and it's not dumbed down with airbrushing, tons of makeup, Hollywood lighting, or the expectations of a heterocentric director. The sex in this series is raw, real (many of the performers are actually lovers off camera), and--as far as I'm concerned--blazingly hot in a way that the carefully arranged, formulaic fornication of mainstream porn rarely achieves. While the visuals can be shocking at first, the passion behind them is stunning throughout, and it's the level of intensity these performers bring out that gets me almost every time.
Anyway. The review. Right...
I decided to dive into this dyke fest with Episode 21, a "hot and sweaty" threesome between the raven haired ravishing beauty Princess Donna, the beautifully breasted blonde Lorelei Lee, and the super-butch and super-sexy Jake (who identifies as male, so he'll be referred to as such throughout this review). After getting off to a somewhat slow, nervous start, the three loosen up and go at it in almost every imaginable combination and using just about every technique in the book: strap-on, vibrator, fingering, cunnilingus, smothering, fisting, double-fisting, dirty talk, asphyxiation, and even mild slap play. It's hardcore. But don't let the scary f- and s- words intimidate you! All three of them have smiles on their faces almost the whole way through, especially when, as Lorelei rides Jake's face and Donna rides his cock, their eyes lock and their ecstasy mingles with shocked laughter at what a fucking great time their having. There are several moments like that throughout this scene: while Jake takes it mostly upon himself to see the other two ladies satisfied, all three of them share looks of intense connection, wide smiles of uninhibited pleasure, and the best of all, screaming orgasms.
I don't think I've seen orgasms this intense since... Hm... I don't know. Maybe the last time I watched some Crash Pad Series scenes. I'm not being obsequious. The great thing about good girl-on-girl action is that it's virtually unimpeded by the breaks that men need to take. No offense, guys, it's just how you're built; after orgasm number one, you have to take some time off. It's cool. We understand. But for pure viewing pleasure and constant sexual intensity, hardcore lesbian sex is almost always the way to go because these women don't need to stop after orgasm number one, or number two, or really after any, unless they want to or unless they pass out from exhaustion. And when Jake spent a good five minutes with one fist in each co-star's pussy simultaneously, while those two costars stared into each other's wide-open faces, despite the fact that she'd already come at least twice, Princess Donna came so hard she uttered a scream so melodic it was almost a song. And I mean a scream. The neighbors definitely heard. The people outside probably did, too. This is the kind of pleasure that women reach when they've been worked on for a while, mercilessly prevented from calming their genitals until their faces contort, their eyes squeeze shut, their chests go bright red, and their throats open to let out a ululation of unadulterated, almost violent, ecstasy.
This is when I creamed my pants for the first time. I mean, how often does a porn viewer get to see this kind of pleasure? Sure, we get to see lots of pounding and fingering and fucking, and hear lots of "Oohs" and "Aahs" and "Oh yeah that's it right there"s, but how many times, in your porn-viewing life, have you seen a woman throw her head back and just let herself go completely? I bet you can count it on one hand.
I recommend this scene for many reasons (for instance, Lorelei Lee's whimpers and moans sound very much like she's crying, but she's smiling the whole time; I find Jake's clothed, quiet determination to bring the other two to orgasm intriguing; I realized that the only orgasmic sound that comes close to the primal scream in awesomeness is that moan muffled by the ass and cooch of the woman who's sitting on the orgasmer's face; Lorelei and Donna both have absolutely beautiful breasts; double fisting is kind of scary but really amazing to watch ["I didn't know I could fit that much inside of me," says Lorelei in the BTS footage]; Jake actually gets his fist stuck inside Lorelei and much laughter ensues...), but that one orgasm alone is worth two thumbs way up.
The scene, and several others I've seen on CrashPadSeries.com, and JuicyPinkBox.com, and in other queer lesbian porn, raise some questions that may be naive of me if I want to call myself a dyke porn lover, but I am curious... I'm going to try to track me down some masculine female/male-identifying performers and interview them... I'll report back, ladies and gents! In the meantime
Starring: Princess Donna, Lorelei Lee, Jake
Because I am a total badass and because I happen to absolutely love good lesbian porn (which, in this sad Y-chromosomally-centric world, is a rare and precious commodity), I have managed to nab myself a press pass to CrashPadSeries.com, and I am going to make damn good use of it. But not just for my own pleasure! Oh no, I am far too dedicated a journalist to selfishly horde my horny prize! Also, I really like gloating over my free fap fare. For those of you not in the know, The Crash Pad Series is a runaway hit of a website and DVD series started a few years back by Pink and White Productions, a San Francisco queer studio obsessed with showing off how endlessly variable and scaldingly hot the experience of queer sex can be. The Crash Pad Series, as I've noted in other publications, is neither for the faint of heart, nor the vanilla of taste, nor the narrow of mind; the performers in these scenes run the gamut from male-identifying trans people who sport permanent, synthetic hard-ons beneath their jeans to super-femme lipstick lesbians to bisexual babes with a passing craving for cooch, and with a rich representation of just about every variation in between. These scenes feature a lot of sex acts that most mainstream, hetero porn simply doesn't dare to film for fear of the ever-nebulous obscenity laws that hover over the heads of most of the LA adult industry (think fisting, double-fisting, lesbian DPs, squirting, and so on). What's portrayed--an honest depiction of sex that rarely gets talked about or even acknowledged--can be far and away more hardcore than what your average Adult DVD Emporium's "extreme" rack has to offer, and it's not dumbed down with airbrushing, tons of makeup, Hollywood lighting, or the expectations of a heterocentric director. The sex in this series is raw, real (many of the performers are actually lovers off camera), and--as far as I'm concerned--blazingly hot in a way that the carefully arranged, formulaic fornication of mainstream porn rarely achieves. While the visuals can be shocking at first, the passion behind them is stunning throughout, and it's the level of intensity these performers bring out that gets me almost every time.
Anyway. The review. Right...
I decided to dive into this dyke fest with Episode 21, a "hot and sweaty" threesome between the raven haired ravishing beauty Princess Donna, the beautifully breasted blonde Lorelei Lee, and the super-butch and super-sexy Jake (who identifies as male, so he'll be referred to as such throughout this review). After getting off to a somewhat slow, nervous start, the three loosen up and go at it in almost every imaginable combination and using just about every technique in the book: strap-on, vibrator, fingering, cunnilingus, smothering, fisting, double-fisting, dirty talk, asphyxiation, and even mild slap play. It's hardcore. But don't let the scary f- and s- words intimidate you! All three of them have smiles on their faces almost the whole way through, especially when, as Lorelei rides Jake's face and Donna rides his cock, their eyes lock and their ecstasy mingles with shocked laughter at what a fucking great time their having. There are several moments like that throughout this scene: while Jake takes it mostly upon himself to see the other two ladies satisfied, all three of them share looks of intense connection, wide smiles of uninhibited pleasure, and the best of all, screaming orgasms.
I don't think I've seen orgasms this intense since... Hm... I don't know. Maybe the last time I watched some Crash Pad Series scenes. I'm not being obsequious. The great thing about good girl-on-girl action is that it's virtually unimpeded by the breaks that men need to take. No offense, guys, it's just how you're built; after orgasm number one, you have to take some time off. It's cool. We understand. But for pure viewing pleasure and constant sexual intensity, hardcore lesbian sex is almost always the way to go because these women don't need to stop after orgasm number one, or number two, or really after any, unless they want to or unless they pass out from exhaustion. And when Jake spent a good five minutes with one fist in each co-star's pussy simultaneously, while those two costars stared into each other's wide-open faces, despite the fact that she'd already come at least twice, Princess Donna came so hard she uttered a scream so melodic it was almost a song. And I mean a scream. The neighbors definitely heard. The people outside probably did, too. This is the kind of pleasure that women reach when they've been worked on for a while, mercilessly prevented from calming their genitals until their faces contort, their eyes squeeze shut, their chests go bright red, and their throats open to let out a ululation of unadulterated, almost violent, ecstasy.
This is when I creamed my pants for the first time. I mean, how often does a porn viewer get to see this kind of pleasure? Sure, we get to see lots of pounding and fingering and fucking, and hear lots of "Oohs" and "Aahs" and "Oh yeah that's it right there"s, but how many times, in your porn-viewing life, have you seen a woman throw her head back and just let herself go completely? I bet you can count it on one hand.
I recommend this scene for many reasons (for instance, Lorelei Lee's whimpers and moans sound very much like she's crying, but she's smiling the whole time; I find Jake's clothed, quiet determination to bring the other two to orgasm intriguing; I realized that the only orgasmic sound that comes close to the primal scream in awesomeness is that moan muffled by the ass and cooch of the woman who's sitting on the orgasmer's face; Lorelei and Donna both have absolutely beautiful breasts; double fisting is kind of scary but really amazing to watch ["I didn't know I could fit that much inside of me," says Lorelei in the BTS footage]; Jake actually gets his fist stuck inside Lorelei and much laughter ensues...), but that one orgasm alone is worth two thumbs way up.
The scene, and several others I've seen on CrashPadSeries.com, and JuicyPinkBox.com, and in other queer lesbian porn, raise some questions that may be naive of me if I want to call myself a dyke porn lover, but I am curious... I'm going to try to track me down some masculine female/male-identifying performers and interview them... I'll report back, ladies and gents! In the meantime
Nov 15, 2010
Pondering Load-Dropping
Image borrowed from 123nonstop.com--thanks, guys!
I'm not sure how well-acquainted all of you out there are with Nick Manning. I don't want to insult anyone's porn-telligence by assuming complete ignorance, so suffice it to say he is the male porn performer of "dropping loads" fame. That is to say, when he... er... blows his wad, usually on somebody's face, in one of his scenes, he almost always grunts/screams/growls a variation of his infamous catchphrase: "Droppin' loads!!!" And yes, yes it does need that many exclamation points.
Don't believe me? Google it. I dare you.
Anyway, I recently watched a themed movie starring said Mr. Manning, in which he played "The Bat," aka "Batfuck," aka a pornified version of The Dark Knight. As the first sex scene was starting to reach a fever pitch, it suddenly occurred to me that in his caped crusader outfit (only the pants and cape had been removed, and he was sweating disconcertingly all over his two female costars from under his rubber hood), he would almost have to take one of two routes when he reached his climax: 1) not say, "Droppin' loads," because it wouldn't fit the setting, or 2) tailor the phrase to fit the setting.
In true seasoned-performer form, he took the second option, bellowing, "Aaaaahhhh, droppin' fuckin' bat-loads all over your face! Eat my bat-cum!" as he bust his nut. (That may not be verbatim but it's pretty close, I assure you. Feel free to watch the scene to be sure.) I'll admit, as distasteful as the phrasing is when it's written down, it was pretty funny at the time to see him take his character so far and to hear a new spin on the beloved old classic.
But it got me to thinking. And I know many people don't think quite so much while watching the epic peak of a threesome, but I've been doing this for a while... What must be the psychological impact of making oneself the king of the cum-catchphrase? He's sure made a name for himself on it; he told me when I last interviewed him that he's releasing a line of his own movies with the "Droppin' Loads" theme as their centerpiece. There are compilations out there of him screaming out his ecstasy in uncouth syntax. He's done a whole series of Halloween-themed load drops on Howard Stern. He's one of the most revered names and one of the very few easily recognizable faces in the heterosexual male porn star world. He's definitely got a good thing going.
But I wonder, when he's having sex in his private life, or masturbating alone at home (which I doubt he actually does that often, given what he does for a living, but still...), does he still get the urge to bawl, "Droppin' loads"? Does he have to suppress the urge, hold in his ecstasy, to avoid feeling like he's at work? Or, conversely, does he feel silly when he does it on set? Is it forced and awkward, but expected, so he just keeps doing it to keep up his persona? Or is it some unpleasant combination of the two? Has his experience of orgasm been irreparably diminished by the long-term focus on vociferating his pleasure? Is it now more of a chore to ejaculate, knowing that when he does he'd better have a zinger planned? Or is it maybe better? Perhaps he glories in his ability to turn his splooge into celebrity merely by christening it with the magical Manning treatment?
I can't really speak for any of these options being better than any others, although I hope for his sake that his orgasm is enhanced by its status as pop-culture icon, as opposed to one more climax in a parade of almost endless spews. For most of us, there will only be a few monumental orgasms, spaced out over the course of our lives, that will stand out in memory as we go to meet our maker. A few that were so explosive, or so perfect, or so... well... orgasmic (what other adjective could encapsulate it so well), that we will always cherish as spiritual and mystical events. But the majority will be forgotten, if we've had them with any frequency at all, alone or with a partner or numerous partners. But Nick Manning's orgasms will remain memorable to him, and to the thousands of people who have seen and heard them. Maybe he's got the right idea.
I'd like to say I'm going to come up with my own catchphrase and try it out, then document the results for your benefit, dear reader, but I just don't think I'm up to it. If the "cheapening the experience" hypothesis is correct, I'll be a very sad porn writer who can hardly enjoy her work or her sex life at all anymore. If it turns out to be as great as Nick seems to find it, my neighbors will be intensely unhappy with me. And anyway, what does a woman get to say? My orgasm is so elusive and so variable, I can never predict it with any degree of certainty, and when I think it's around the corner I often find that focusing on it scares it away, like a spotty nebula in the night sky. It's shy. If I were to start shrieking, "Spasming Vaginal Muscles!" every time I thought one was on the horizon, I'd just scare my partner and my climax both away permanently. And, as if the preceding "catchphrase" weren't enough of a clue, I'm not exactly witty or succinct, so catchphrases are probably not my next big career turn anyway.
But still, readers, I invite you to ponder this question in the comments, or try it out yourselves are report back... I'll be interested to hear the results. Or the sound clips.
Nov 14, 2010
Lazy Weekends in the Life of a Porn Writer
So here I am. It's Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, it's an unnaturally warm day for November in New York. My girlfriend just spent the night and we had a long, languorous brunch and tea, and now I'm back home. I know what I SHOULD do. I SHOULD pop in one of the porno DVDs I got in the mail this week and start watching it. I feel like that would be a lovely, indulgent afternoon for most people. Watching some porn, masturbating, drinking tea, masturbating some more... Really a perfect, lovely, rarely beautiful day.
But... God. I've watched more porn in the past few months, written more about porn, thought more about porn... I'm just porned out. I could probably watch a really great fuck flick right now, complete with actual female orgasms, a plotline that makes a semblance of sense, beautiful lighting, and hot male performers, and still be left cold. I just do not want any porn today.
But you know what? It's my JOB. To watch it and review it and think about it and write about it and so... dear reader... for thee... I shall.
But... God. I've watched more porn in the past few months, written more about porn, thought more about porn... I'm just porned out. I could probably watch a really great fuck flick right now, complete with actual female orgasms, a plotline that makes a semblance of sense, beautiful lighting, and hot male performers, and still be left cold. I just do not want any porn today.
But you know what? It's my JOB. To watch it and review it and think about it and write about it and so... dear reader... for thee... I shall.
Nov 13, 2010
Porn Star Stalker?
So one thing about doing interviews with porn stars a lot is that you meet tons of them, and you learn, over time, that porn stars really are like everyone else. In the adult entertainment industry, you get the same cross-section of personality types as you get anywhere else. The only difference, really, is sex drive. As Francesca Le put it to one of my co-writers at WHACK! a few weeks ago, the only thing you need to be a porn star "Is to want the dick every time." I know I couldn't do that, but the people who can, and who are in porn, have simply chosen the right profession.
So when I go into an interview with porn people, whether it be via e-mail, over the phone, or in-person and on video, I approach them like I would anyone else, just bearing in mind that they're hornier than your average bear. No biggie.
Well, a few weeks ago I went to a Manhattan hotel to do an in-person video interview with a particular star who's earned her name not by performing in tons of filmed sex scenes with fellow porn performers, but somehow else entirely. Don't get me wrong, she does the sex scenes with other performers thing, but her claim to fame is her willingness, and very real, abiding desire, to have sex with her fans. She does this on world tours, where she has one-on-one, unfilmed, group, filmed, gangbang, bukkake... really EVERY type of sex she can, with her fans after screening them thoroughly for STDs. She loves fucking her fans. She loves, very very very much loves, to have sex.
And good for her! It's always enchanting to meet people who really love what they do for a living, and that happiness, that satisfaction with life, radiated off of her as we sat on her hotel bed and chatted in front of a rolling camera. I'm a very perceptive person, and I pride myself on being able to reflect the mood of anybody in my own speech, body language, and excitement level. Given that this lady was loving life, I soon found myself deep in conversation with her while we both giggled, beamed, and generally had a great time. At one point, when I asked her if she ever had sex with women or if she only liked men, she laughed and asked if I was hitting on her.
I wasn't. But, in the mood of the moment, I playfully grinned at the camera and said, "Of COURSE not" in my most "I'm-totally-lying" voice. We went on with the interview.
At the end, I made a joke about how we had to end the interview so we could move on to the lingerie-wearing pillow-fight we were about to have, since that's what all women do when left alone together in a bedroom. It was, as far as I could tell, an innocuous statement. After all, here I was with a woman who has sex for a living. How could she possibly take the off-the-cuff, playful statements of one interviewer to heart?
After bidding her and her husband a fond farewell (and after he'd commented on my breasts several times), my camera man and I took our leave. We posted the interview online a week later and sent the link to both porn performer and husband.
And shortly thereafter came a parade of bizarre Twitter messages and tweets to the general public that shocked me. She privately messaged me asking for my phone number. She asked if I wanted to go out for drinks. She tried several times to coax me out, to get to know me privately. And then she tweeted to her followers that I was so hot she'd almost fucked me during the interview. And THEN she tweeted to her followers that they should follow me because they could then imagine me and her kissing "while they lined up to unload on our faces."
I'm not sure that this qualifies as stalking. She's pretty much let it go. I have a feeling she may have been drinking that night. So actually, I know it's not stalking. She's just hornier than your average bear. And she likes me. So that's great. But it certainly makes me hesitate to ever see her in person again, because though I'm flattered by her regard... I have no desire, whatsoever--and this is why I'm not a porn star--to have a lineup of unknown men "unload" on my face. Or to kiss her, for that matter.
Ah, the joys of being a porn writer.
So when I go into an interview with porn people, whether it be via e-mail, over the phone, or in-person and on video, I approach them like I would anyone else, just bearing in mind that they're hornier than your average bear. No biggie.
Well, a few weeks ago I went to a Manhattan hotel to do an in-person video interview with a particular star who's earned her name not by performing in tons of filmed sex scenes with fellow porn performers, but somehow else entirely. Don't get me wrong, she does the sex scenes with other performers thing, but her claim to fame is her willingness, and very real, abiding desire, to have sex with her fans. She does this on world tours, where she has one-on-one, unfilmed, group, filmed, gangbang, bukkake... really EVERY type of sex she can, with her fans after screening them thoroughly for STDs. She loves fucking her fans. She loves, very very very much loves, to have sex.
And good for her! It's always enchanting to meet people who really love what they do for a living, and that happiness, that satisfaction with life, radiated off of her as we sat on her hotel bed and chatted in front of a rolling camera. I'm a very perceptive person, and I pride myself on being able to reflect the mood of anybody in my own speech, body language, and excitement level. Given that this lady was loving life, I soon found myself deep in conversation with her while we both giggled, beamed, and generally had a great time. At one point, when I asked her if she ever had sex with women or if she only liked men, she laughed and asked if I was hitting on her.
I wasn't. But, in the mood of the moment, I playfully grinned at the camera and said, "Of COURSE not" in my most "I'm-totally-lying" voice. We went on with the interview.
At the end, I made a joke about how we had to end the interview so we could move on to the lingerie-wearing pillow-fight we were about to have, since that's what all women do when left alone together in a bedroom. It was, as far as I could tell, an innocuous statement. After all, here I was with a woman who has sex for a living. How could she possibly take the off-the-cuff, playful statements of one interviewer to heart?
After bidding her and her husband a fond farewell (and after he'd commented on my breasts several times), my camera man and I took our leave. We posted the interview online a week later and sent the link to both porn performer and husband.
And shortly thereafter came a parade of bizarre Twitter messages and tweets to the general public that shocked me. She privately messaged me asking for my phone number. She asked if I wanted to go out for drinks. She tried several times to coax me out, to get to know me privately. And then she tweeted to her followers that I was so hot she'd almost fucked me during the interview. And THEN she tweeted to her followers that they should follow me because they could then imagine me and her kissing "while they lined up to unload on our faces."
I'm not sure that this qualifies as stalking. She's pretty much let it go. I have a feeling she may have been drinking that night. So actually, I know it's not stalking. She's just hornier than your average bear. And she likes me. So that's great. But it certainly makes me hesitate to ever see her in person again, because though I'm flattered by her regard... I have no desire, whatsoever--and this is why I'm not a porn star--to have a lineup of unknown men "unload" on my face. Or to kiss her, for that matter.
Ah, the joys of being a porn writer.
Nov 11, 2010
Welcome to My World
Hello, world. Hello, new blog. Hello, writing what I want, when I want about the weird world I live in, which is dominated by the watching of, thinking about, writing about, talking about, and constant preoccupation with sex, mostly through the lens of modern American pornography.
You may know me already. I started my rants over a year ago on McSweeney's Internet Tendency under the heading, "The Conflicted Existence of a Female Porn Writer," and I've been penning for several porn magazines for going on three years now (some in print, one online) as a DVD reviewer, interviewer, journalist, and editor. I'm known to some as Lynsey G, to others as Miss Lagsalot, and to the near and dear as Lags; each of these names/personas writes in a different way and about different aspects of my life as practical third-wave (or post?) feminist, bisexual young woman in New York, porn aficionado, and budding human sexuality scholar. And, well, it's weird. I've always been a highly sexual and intensely curious person, and when you match those qualities with my tendency to become fiercely devoted to any person, project, or job I undertake, you end up with a serious sex writer.
Thing is, I come from a red county in a rural area. I was raised by non-religious yet extremely traditional parents who were raised during the time of first-wave anti-porn feminism one the one hand, and hippies and free love on the other. My parents thought the hippies were "weird," and they never got into feminism, but the ideas their more-religious parents had nested in them, combined with the bra-burning (actually, that never really happened, but it's a damn good metaphor) radical femme-bots really got into their heads. I was taught that sex is a shameful secret, an unspoken evil that one may choose to engage in only within the confines of a legally recognized marriage between a man and a woman, end of discussion, the end, don't-ask-any-questions. I was told at the age of fourteen, when the boys started coming around my place, that if I were ever discovered to be "acting in an adult manner" with boys before I was married or completely financially independent, I would be disowned.
As a very impressionable and sensitive, yet willful and hard-headedly independent child, I took all this to heart. I was also born, it seems, with a hyperactive sex drive: from the time I was four the only books I wanted to be read at bedtime were either way above my comprehension level, or the "How Babies Are Made" kind of books. My mom got sick of reading the ones about babies, and probably freaked out by my innate perversion, and started reading me Lord of the Rings.
I realized sometime around the age of eight that I liked the idea of sex and didn't see it the same way my parents did, and though I was a precocious child who started dating and experimenting early, I was quite well behaved until well after the age of eighteen. I'd already developed a strange double-standard in my own mind: I loved sex, the idea of sex, the things that sex can say about a person and a society... but I was terrified of it. Terrified that I would become, as my parents feared, a moral degenerate, a slut, a disparate soul who'd never live up to her potential, a heathen, a damned pervert.
And yet, I couldn't keep away from it. I had many lovers as I grew up, men and women, monogamous and open, one night stands and long relationships, love affairs and trysts. But I was always quiet about them. Conflicted.
When I moved back to New York in my mid-twenties after a brief hiatus elsewhere, I was desperate for a job and was lucky to find freelance work at a porn magazine run by a friend of a friend. I started reviewing porno DVDs from such companies as Zero Tolerance, Red Light District, JM Productions, and others. And while my horizons expanded in tangles of tanned skin and confusingly over-inflated breasts, my fears about my own morality likewise exploded.
I believe that sex, and the way we think about it, record it, watch it, talk about or don't talk about it, can tell us more about ourselves than probably anything else we do. Sex is universal, basic, instinctual, sublime, and problematized at every level. I come from a background that many don't share: a natural sex lover with a very real terror of her own love. In the past three or so years I've gotten to know the world of porn intimately, though from the remove of a New Yorker in an LA-based industry. I've interviewed dozens of porn stars, read dozens of books on the subjects of pornography, human sexuality, evolutionary psychology and anatomy, and even some critical theory. I've dug myself into the sex culture, made some friends and some enemies, and I'm going to bring my personal spin on it, avoiding the company line, to you. I love to write, ramble, talk, and think... I hope you all love to read!
Join me as I rant, rave, review, interview, consider, and relate the craziness of the life of a conflicted porn writer, a female fapper, a XX-chromosomed commentator in a XXX world.
You may know me already. I started my rants over a year ago on McSweeney's Internet Tendency under the heading, "The Conflicted Existence of a Female Porn Writer," and I've been penning for several porn magazines for going on three years now (some in print, one online) as a DVD reviewer, interviewer, journalist, and editor. I'm known to some as Lynsey G, to others as Miss Lagsalot, and to the near and dear as Lags; each of these names/personas writes in a different way and about different aspects of my life as practical third-wave (or post?) feminist, bisexual young woman in New York, porn aficionado, and budding human sexuality scholar. And, well, it's weird. I've always been a highly sexual and intensely curious person, and when you match those qualities with my tendency to become fiercely devoted to any person, project, or job I undertake, you end up with a serious sex writer.
Thing is, I come from a red county in a rural area. I was raised by non-religious yet extremely traditional parents who were raised during the time of first-wave anti-porn feminism one the one hand, and hippies and free love on the other. My parents thought the hippies were "weird," and they never got into feminism, but the ideas their more-religious parents had nested in them, combined with the bra-burning (actually, that never really happened, but it's a damn good metaphor) radical femme-bots really got into their heads. I was taught that sex is a shameful secret, an unspoken evil that one may choose to engage in only within the confines of a legally recognized marriage between a man and a woman, end of discussion, the end, don't-ask-any-questions. I was told at the age of fourteen, when the boys started coming around my place, that if I were ever discovered to be "acting in an adult manner" with boys before I was married or completely financially independent, I would be disowned.
As a very impressionable and sensitive, yet willful and hard-headedly independent child, I took all this to heart. I was also born, it seems, with a hyperactive sex drive: from the time I was four the only books I wanted to be read at bedtime were either way above my comprehension level, or the "How Babies Are Made" kind of books. My mom got sick of reading the ones about babies, and probably freaked out by my innate perversion, and started reading me Lord of the Rings.
I realized sometime around the age of eight that I liked the idea of sex and didn't see it the same way my parents did, and though I was a precocious child who started dating and experimenting early, I was quite well behaved until well after the age of eighteen. I'd already developed a strange double-standard in my own mind: I loved sex, the idea of sex, the things that sex can say about a person and a society... but I was terrified of it. Terrified that I would become, as my parents feared, a moral degenerate, a slut, a disparate soul who'd never live up to her potential, a heathen, a damned pervert.
And yet, I couldn't keep away from it. I had many lovers as I grew up, men and women, monogamous and open, one night stands and long relationships, love affairs and trysts. But I was always quiet about them. Conflicted.
When I moved back to New York in my mid-twenties after a brief hiatus elsewhere, I was desperate for a job and was lucky to find freelance work at a porn magazine run by a friend of a friend. I started reviewing porno DVDs from such companies as Zero Tolerance, Red Light District, JM Productions, and others. And while my horizons expanded in tangles of tanned skin and confusingly over-inflated breasts, my fears about my own morality likewise exploded.
I believe that sex, and the way we think about it, record it, watch it, talk about or don't talk about it, can tell us more about ourselves than probably anything else we do. Sex is universal, basic, instinctual, sublime, and problematized at every level. I come from a background that many don't share: a natural sex lover with a very real terror of her own love. In the past three or so years I've gotten to know the world of porn intimately, though from the remove of a New Yorker in an LA-based industry. I've interviewed dozens of porn stars, read dozens of books on the subjects of pornography, human sexuality, evolutionary psychology and anatomy, and even some critical theory. I've dug myself into the sex culture, made some friends and some enemies, and I'm going to bring my personal spin on it, avoiding the company line, to you. I love to write, ramble, talk, and think... I hope you all love to read!
Join me as I rant, rave, review, interview, consider, and relate the craziness of the life of a conflicted porn writer, a female fapper, a XX-chromosomed commentator in a XXX world.
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