Beauty myth, schmeauty myth

December 30, 2004

Yesterday I spent spent part of the afternoon naked with Gracie, in front of a camera. I know, my life is soooo tough. I am giving the modeling thing an earnest go, but I’m not always sure I have “what it takes.” By this I mean, I’m not sure I have the capacity to freak out about my appearance, which is good and bad. For my mental health, it is totally good.

Let’s put it this way: I am inept at applying makeup, in sort of the same way that I am inept at parallel parking. I could be better at it, but I just don’t give enough of a shit to work on it. My level of skill is satisfactory to me - my makeup looks ok when I bother with it and I don’t get parking tickets despite the fact that my parking is never parallel.

Can I be a somewhat successful model (the concept of “success” is ripe for deconstructing, but I’ll leave it alone for now) if I don’t buy into the beauty myth? Sure, I’ll shave my legs and wash my hair and shit, but I’m still going to have chocolate donuts for breakfast before a shoot. Also, I’m not going to tweaze my eyebrows or curl my nostril hairs or whatever. I’m so out of the loop with all that stuff anyway, which part of me thinks is for the best, but I’m also concerned that it will lead to embarassing moments.

Maybe the real issue here is that I’m a bratty girl with an attitude problem.

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And today�s moral dilemma is�

December 29, 2004

Condoms in porn.

As anyone who has been reading along for more than half a second knows, I�m an advocate of safer sex. By safer sex, I don�t just mean slap some latex over some parts and fuck away. In my conceptualization of it, safer sex is more complex. To really rock the safer sex, I believe that people should be as informed as possible about the risks that the activities they like present, and then based on their personal feelings plus up-to-date scientific information they should make decisions about partners, activities and safer sex practices.

This means I am the annoying safer sex educator who when asked a question, says things like, �Well, what do you think?� and won�t take a definitive stance on anything.

I�ve been thinking a good deal about condom use in porn lately. Traditionally, condoms are absent in porn - though not completely, as I have seen condoms (referred to as �fish skins,� a reference to one of the materials �animal bladders- used for condoms) in stag films from the 1920s (it�s true, I have seen a lot of porn). Of course the adult industry has been affected by HIV/AIDS, and within the hetero porn industry (I include girl-girl vids for a straight audience in that category) there have been two publicized HIV outbreaks � one in 1998 and one in the spring of 2004.

As it stands today, some hetero companies require condom use for vaginal and anal penetration on all their sets, some leave it up to the performers, and some discourage condom use. In the gay porn industry (by gay I mean boy-boy action) condom use is essentially required and performers get a lot of shit for barebacking (sex without a condom). In the budding lesbian and queer porn industry, safer sex is often featured, and sometimes includes condoms on toys and the use of dental dams (see the stuff that S.I.R. Productions puts out).

Condom use, however, is only one kind of safer sex � the most visible kind. Spearheaded by the Adult Industry Medical Health Care Foundation (AIM), HIV and STI testing and a clear bill of health is now mandatory for performers. The STIs tested for are HIV, syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia; the test must be performed no more than 30 days prior to a shoot. People who are active in the industry get tested every thirty days. Granted, testing is not a preventative measure like the use of a barrier, but it is a form of safer sex � and a pretty rigorous one if everyone plays by the rules. Of course there are other tests that can be done that are not required, but suggested (like pap smears for women, anal paps, and throat cultures), so that adds another layer of decision-making. I�m obviously not covering every risk in detail, but if you want more detail and debate about STI risk, check out Jane�s lovely post on this topic.

So all that is a way to lead up to a question I�ve been batting around: assuming that a performer is tested and making their own choices about what risks are acceptable to them, does condom use in porn matter?

My knee jerk reaction to this question is of course it matters. Porn performers should set a good example for their fans.

But then I look at that sentence and I shake my head and laugh at myself for getting up on my high horse and thinking that porn performers are role models, or that porn viewers think about the performers that way.

And now, that sentence falls too harshly on the other side of the fence, but its a thing I’m struggling with. I take porn too seriously, that�s for goddamn sure.

What do you all think?

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�I have something to tell you�

December 28, 2004

There was just no other way to begin the conversation.

Until this afternoon, I�ve kept James (my ex, who I only just now am naming) in the dark about what I half-jokingly refer to as �my secret life.�

James and I met when we were both 17, on a retreat for the �gifted and talented� organized by the school district in our home county. We were both editors of our respective high school newspapers, misfits and smart asses: a perfect match. We were together throughout college, lived together, and then woke up in January of 2003, looked at each other and said: �What are we doing? We�re 22. We�re making each other wretched and for no reason other than that we both need to grow into our individual skins.�

So we broke up and both felt lost, but lost in the throes of discovering ourselves. Over the last two years we�ve both found ourselves in a big way, and rediscovered our friendship.

We share lots of things with each other, but though I�ve shared some of my dating stories and my adventures in polyamory with James, I�ve kept certain details from him.

The reason for this is that although we�ve shared so much, there has been a sharp degree to which he has judged me in the past. For instance, as we divided our things during the break up, he tossed a dildo and harness in my direction, and said �I don�t have any use for these, you’re the perverted one.� Not the nicest thing to hear from someone you�ve loved for several years.

There have been other instances too � but recently I�ve been taking stock of these things, and putting forth the question: what is the worst that could happen if I told James? He could disapprove, but he would not stop being my friend.

I got the honesty fetish itch, and today as we drove to the city together, I told him about almost everything: the blog (though not its address), the smut, the writing, the fucking (only a little, as I sensed he didn�t want details). I left out the sex work � it just didn�t feel right at the moment. But that may come in time.

After I fessed up, he said he knew something was up when I changed my voicemail so that it didn�t say my name. He didn�t exactly seem surprised by the whole thing, and he basically let me yammer on about it all. As we sat at a light on Second Avenue, he turned to me and said, �You know there isn�t really anything you could do to make me not be your friend. As long as you are happy, in control of your life and not being exploited, I will support whatever you�re doing.�

A little misty eyed, I had to come back at him with, �What if I killed your family? Would you still be my friend then?�

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Flying solo

December 22, 2004

Last night when I knocked on Jefferson�s door at quarter of seven, he yelled �Just a minute!� and I heard a girl giggling. When he opened the door I caught my first glimpse of Scarlet � running towards the bedroom, presumably to fetch her pants, as she wasn�t wearing any.

This, I thought, will be a good night.

As the party assembled, I surveyed the attendees. For the first time, I was flying solo, since Dirck was home with a fever.* As with the first Jefferson party I went to, girls outnumbered boys, which is fine with me, except that it meant that once more there was no boy-on-boy action (sniff sniff).

We all sat around chatting amicably for a while, but then Bugs (who was my spanker at the last party) and Raven (a feisty, red-headed San Francisco transplant) decided that they should get things started. They disappeared into one of the bedrooms, but emerged again shortly thereafter, claiming that they needed a third. I lept up and followed them to the bedroom. The two of them hungrily stripped me down: �Oooh, you have shiny bits there � oh and there too!� They admired my nipple and hood piercings � with their tongues.

After we rolled around, with the groping and poking of warm wet places, conversation popped up about piercings again. We all laughed when Raven suddenly snapped, �For fuck�s sake � the fucking lesbian dilemma! Here we are, three hot, horny naked women in bed together � and we�re talking instead of fucking!� We decided that the frustration of that moment needed to be taken out on my ass.

I bent over Bugs� lap, strategically placing my tits on her legs and my pigtails in her fists, and Raven went to town on my ass. After a while, Raven surrendered some of the spanking duties to Bugs while she concentrated on finger fucking me. With her well schooled fingers, she could feel what I know about myself � I can be quite the gusher. By the time I squirted, the percussive sound of my ass being slapped combined with my squeals of agony and delight had attracted quite an audience. Raven, who evidently has a flair for the dramatic, cupped her hand as I gushed and then sprinkled the onlookers with my juices.

I needed a break.

And after I got one, I was ready to return the favor to Raven � with my strap on. Let�s just say that strap on fucking is an excellent workout for the abs and thighs. Good cardio too. Something happens to me when I pull that leather harness on and strap my dildo of choice into place: I become more capable of dirty talk and I get a permagrin on my face. Although I don�t come when I fuck someone with a strap on, I really get off on it.

Last night, I loved looking down on Raven, watching my girlcock slide in and out of her engorged pussy lips, seeing her body sweat and shake as I thrust into her, watching her come from the force of our bodies slamming together. Perhaps the best part of not coming while fucking her was that I was fully cognizant of our surroundings � I could feel everyone�s eyes on us, feel them watching our tits jiggle, feel the heat quickly rising (and no, it wasn�t just me). When we gasped our last collective gasp and our bodies fell apart, I really needed to recover from the hotness of it all.

In an effort to soothe my tired muscles while keeping the sex alive, I settled back to watch some orgy-tastic fuck doing unfold in front of me: Jefferson and Scarlet, Jake and Raven, Todd and Marla in a kind of ferocious, palpable hotness that I just can�t get enough of watching or doing.

I ended my evening with a luxurious fuck courtesy of Todd, who�d tag-teamed me with Dirck last time. I couldn�t keep my mouth away from his cock, which seemed to ignite a Pavlovian response in me: I just keep drooling and slobbering and wanting to eat him up. After a while I was able to tear my mouth off of his cock so I could feel him inside me. I hopped on top of him and fucked myself on his cock, as he softly moaned beneath me (I find a moaning man incredibly hot). He kept whispering to me that he�d loved watching me watch him and Marla earlier, so for a finale, we reenacted me as a voyeur, only this time I got come on my tits.

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*Here you may be shaking your head and picturing him being all sick and me running out the door, but we�ve been discussing the possibility of my going to a party solo for a while, so it wasn�t a big deal.

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A short stay in fucksville

December 21, 2004

Whenever I meet up with Seth, its in the middle of the day. Our phone conversations are quick and no-nonsense; we decide on a time and one of our two regular bars.

Its never hard to find him at the bar because he’s the punk guy with the knitted cap pulled down tight over his head (even in the summer). That, and the fact that its noon on a weekday and we’re meeting in a nearly empty bar, where I down some bourbon and he outpaces me with Budweiser. (“How can you drink that stuff?” “Hey, its punk rock because its cheap”)

Seth and I see each other once a month at the very most, usually much less often, so we always have a lot of catching up to do while we’re drinking. We swap stories about work, boy and girl friends, sex we’ve been having, all the good stuff. At some point we get to a natural stopping point and we hop a cab and head to our short stay hotel of choice: cash money, fake names, room key, shower, flop down on the coverless bed (these beds are not made for sleeping).

When I saw him this past Friday, I was boiling over with my newly discovered post-paper completion libido. Our time together is always hot, full of dirty talk and laughter, but this round was extra-hot for some reason.

As soon as the door swung shut at the St. Mark’s Hotel, we were clawing at each other. As I pulled my clothes off I began to coyly apologize, “I know you’re not a huge fan of the thong, and you like something that hints at the ass without showing all, but today I’m wearing a thong that has a cute skirt thing over it…” I pointed my ass toward him to let him examine it.

“You have a mighty fine ass - and you know I don’t say that to all the girls, just the ones with the mighty fine asses,” he smirked.

I let him run his hands up from my ass, across my stomach and to the place where my tits connect to the rest of me, and I shivered my approval.

“Put your hands up against the mirror and spread em, I want you to see the faces you make when I lick your asshole.” Large mirrors are my favorite part of short stay hotels. Okay, second favorite - the fucking gets spot number one.

He pulled my panties to the side in that perfect way, so they’d pull taut against my labia. My pulse began to throb in my pussy as he worked his tongue into my asshole. I felt myself opening up for him; he didn’t give me quite enough to come, but surely enough to make my knees a little weak.

As I pulled his pants down he wiggled his cock at me and said the phrase I’ve learned to long for: “You wanna touch it?” - a phrase that could be creepy said by anyone else, but when mouthed by Seth makes me laugh and get cock hungry.

I spat on his cock and, using my thumb, mixed it with his precum as I delicately sucked his balls, which he proudly announced he’d shaved just for my sucking pleasure.

Pretty soon I couldn’t help but roll a condom smoothly down his cock and leap on top of him. I rocked myself so his cock nuzzled my g-spot, and I came quickly, shuddering on top of him. I paused for a moment and he laughed as I went wide-eyed. I needed more, so I fucked myself into two more orgasms. The last one gave me a foot cramp, so I rolled off of him and onto my back, whimpering (in a bad way).

He wedged a pillow under my ass, pulled my feet into the rubbing and licking zone and began to fuck me. I felt his tongue caressing the arches of my feet and heard his body crashing into mine with that slapping sound only made by two people fucking. He was ready to come, I could feel it. He wanted to know if I wanted to see his come, and I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more (except maybe more orgasms for me, greedy bitch that I am). He pulled out, yanked the condom off and spurted on my tits, distributing his wad nicely between the two.

After another five minutes (and a beer for each of us), we were ready for round two, and I told him that he wasn’t leaving the room until he fucked me hard from behind and gave me the what for with his cock. He did. I was face down, ass up, and as he pounded away I was uttering things ineligible for dictionary status. I felt him slip his fingers between my toes, which sent me into an orgasm that made half of my face go numb.

He told me he was going to come all over my round ass, and he did, though his concentration and come distribution that time wasn’t as accurate as the first time around.

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Either/Or

December 18, 2004

Last night, the Sex Workers Outreach Project hosted a national Day of Rememberance, which the New York Times has covered in a fairly even handed article, which quotes whores and former whores who support the legalization of prostitution and those that don’t.

It also touches on something that I poked at in my post “sex workstyles and class”: “Those who study prostitution say there is a wide range in types, from streetwalkers to high-priced call girls, and in the working conditions they face.”

So this sentence says “wide range in types” - and it could have stopped there, but instead it goes on to name the types at either end of the spectrum, and though the “range” is implied, the either/or gap is drawn.

In popular imagination, there are only these two types. I mean, what could possibly be in between? “Everyone” knows that there are only two reasons to whore, and the sentence following the one I just quoted makes that clear:

“‘Some people are doing very well,’ said Juhu Thukral, a lawyer and director of the Urban Justice Center’s Sex Workers Project in New York City, which offers legal representation to the women and researches the field. ‘Others are really doing it out of desperation.’”

Read between the lines: to be a whore, you must either be wildly rich immediately as a result of it or completely desperate (which implies having a drug habit). Otherwise, sex work is not a legitimate choice of career. But, whether the Times thinks its legit or not, for all those sex workers in the ever-mysterious and unspecified “range,” sex work is a living, like other livings (but sometimes naked).

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Adventures in spa land

December 16, 2004

So I see how it is � I ask politely for readers to introduce themselves, and I get a smattering of replies. Show my set of 36Ds, and everyone�s falling over themselves to say hello. Mmmm hmmm.

This morning, I spent some time at a spa here in Brooklyn, getting a wax and a pedicure.

Let me make this clear: I�m not a spa girl. In fact, I�m not much of a girly girl at all. Being a sex worker has gotten me to explore more girl stuff, but I�m basically a complete ignoramus. For instance, it was only very recently that I learned there is a difference between lip and eye liner pencils. The only time in my life when I�ve ever worn makeup was when I was goth, which means that I�m no master of subtle makeup.

Various friends (Jane) and upstairs neighbors have volunteered to teach me all about makeup, but the only way to do the spa thing is just to do it.

I used to get waxed frequently at a place in Manhattan near a former job, and the ladies there were gruff Russians who had no qualms about putting my legs up above my head and making sure every last hair was gone. Today I had a hard time explaining that I wanted more than a bikini wax but less than a brazilian, and I didn�t really get anywhere with it.

But the real news of the spa day was the pedicure � I�ve never had one before and I really really liked it. I�m gearing up for some foot fetish work, so we�ll see what happens with that. Of course I had to get red toenail polish - I selected one called “fishnet stockings.” Aw yeah.

Although I didn�t rock any leaf baths or healing rocks or whatever it is that people do at spas, when I walked out, I could feel my body reawakening from the grad paper writing slumber. My libido is a-raging!

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Where is my mind?*

I can almost breathe a sigh of relief, because my supercumbersome papers are out of the way, which is all kinds of good.

But I must confess, I have an embarassing story to tell. It is one that proves that I’m becoming a batty intellectual who can’t accomplish basic tasks (like finding things and dressing myself).

Yesterday in a moment of procrastination, I decided that I should find a new parking space for my car, because I had a sudden bout of panic, wondering if it maybe had a ticket on it or one of those godawful stickers. I shrugged off my bathrobe, zipped up my hoodie, pulled on my pajama pants and chuck taylors, and hit the pavement. As soon as I stepped outside, I realized that I had no fucking idea where I’d left my car; in fact I couldn’t even remember when I’d driven it last. I spent the next half hour walking around, checking all the usual spots. After much undue stress and ridiculous sweating, I found it, no tickets or anything, and moved it to a sweet spot right in front of my building.

After this ordeal, I needed some refreshment, so I popped into the deli. It was approximately 7 bajillion degrees in the deli, and as I may have mentioned I was very sweaty (I’m a swarthy I-talian you know).

So I unzipped my hoodie. Yes, its true. I forgot to put a shirt on underneath my hoodie, and in my flustered (sweaty) state, I exposed my bazooms to the staff and customers of my friendly neighborhood deli. Though I felt a wee bit stupid, it was strictly a PG-13 kinda show.

They only wish they’d seen the real thing:

P.S. - I know I had a lot more visitors yesterday than actually wrote to me. I am mad at you non-responders, and I forbid you from looking at my tits more than once or twice until you write me. I have many hit counters and I know where you live. I’m not going to beg, but let’s just say that your silence saddens me.

P.P.S. - Prepare yourselves for some serious fucking blogging, as I am liberated from school obligations and ready to get my blog on with unhindered intensity.

*Yes, I do still have the Pixies on my brain. Especially since the New York Times called them “loud and nasty” which is sooo hot.

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Scapegoat

December 13, 2004

I�ve always had a scapegoat, one person in my life who with no rational cause, I loathe. Usually my scapegoats are people who I don�t know at all or who are tangentially involved in my life, people who I can hate with seething, blinding passion but without really hurting anyone.

This person is never someone who I know very well, and has ranged from the girl with the annoying laugh in one of my classes to a boy my last roommate dated for a while. The existence of this person allows me to channel my frustrations with people in general and concentrate it at one target. Typically the object of my hate isn�t aware of my hate (or sometimes of my existence). Usually I am aware of who this person is and I don�t just direct my hate unaware.

Recently I�ve started to think that maybe I�ve gotten over my hobby of hate, but yesterday I realized full force that the hate is there, and this time it�s burning too close to home.

Saturday night before I went out I paid a visit to my upstairs neighbor, who�d had an emergency appendectomy the night before. She asked me about my plans for the evening and the mix of characters it involved, and I launched into making catty remarks about Dirck�s other girl. Of course I couched it in funny terms, as I�m wont to do, made jokes about scratching her eyes out et cetera, and didn�t think a damn thing of it.

As I set out to walk to Dirck�s place, it hit me: she is the focus of my hate. Why? For stupid reasons, mainly �just because.� And I decided: this ends now, because it�s absurd, damaging and just downright bitchy awful and unfair.

So I�ve vowed to banish that hate (maybe I�ll find a new object of my hatefection*), refocus and try to build a more positive relationship with her � which is to say, any relationship at all. Although typically when I�m around her I act nice, I am definitely acting, and perhaps even overdoing it. As soon as her back is turned I make comments like, �she looks like melted butter.� Why would I say such a thing (and what the fuck does that mean anyway)?

From here on in, I�m trying to rock the genuine niceties. Especially since she�ll be going to the same university as me come spring. If I can get along with exes and handle peculiar situations to the max, I can work at building a relationship with her that doesn�t have to be of the best-friends-forever ilk, but is more than me defensively saying to Dirck at the end of a night, �But I complimented her haircut!�

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*Hatefection: a feeling that utilizes the same sort of emotions that go into affection, except laced with hate, like an infection in my brain.

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We're a happy family

December 12, 2004

I’ve been tempering my excessive paper-writing with fun evenings, which are supposed to keep me sane and get me re-energized for another day of paper-writing. Last night my re-energizing took the form of seeing the Pixies, one of my all-time favorite bands.

But I didn’t just see the Pixies, I also had a very poly-succesful night, except for the part where I got excessively drunk.

In the early part of the evening, I went to Dirck’s house, where he and his roommates were hosting their annual turducken party (yes, that would make two turduckens in the past month for me). Last year’s party went very badly, because Dirck handled things with me and his other date very poorly. He is still dating this girl, albeit very casually, and I just haven’t been able to get over my (somewhat irrational) distaste for her. Before trekking to his house last night, I decided last night would be the night that I get over that, and that I would make conversation with her, and it would be good. To quote her, “Between the two of us, we can make this work.” Were we talking about this V thing we have going on with Dirck? Hell no, we were talking about getting Dirck to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer (but also the relationship stuff by extension).

This sounds perfectly lovely, but what I haven’t mentioned is that I also got completely shitfaced, because Dirck and the girl had been drinking for a while and I wanted to catch up. Why did I think that was a good idea? As a seasoned drinker, I just don’t know.

Lets just say that the turducken didn’t stay in my belly very long, and I threw up like a teenager on the subway platform at 34th street. And this was no 3 a.m. sickness, it was about 9 p.m. at that point. I haven’t thrown up because of drinking since I was 16 - I remember it well because it was the day that I saw the Cure for the first time, and I was hungover.

So after throwing up like a goddamned idiot, with Dirck patting my back all the while, I went to see the Pixies with my friends. In addition to me and Dirck, the other people in our little group were Jane, my ex, Gracie, and one of Dirck’s exes (who I hadn’t met previously). I had been planning on being in good spirits and able to smooth the dynamics between everyone, but alas, I was too shitfaced at that crucial juncture.

As soon as we stepped into the Hammerstein Ballroom and I heard the Pixies, something happened to me - I had this weird feeling of walking into another world, where the Pixies were playing and my beloved were all close by and getting along smashingly. I sobered up quickly and danced with my friends, excited to be there with them and to realize that this other world is actually my reality.

After the show we made our way downtown to Gracie’s place, where we ordered takeout, talked and laughed a lot. It was pretty awesome to have everyone together and getting along. Since Dirck’s ex didn’t know anyone there, she wanted us to go around the room and tell her about ourselves and how we all know each other. This got a little sticky when we got to Gracie’s connection to the group - neither Dirck’s ex nor my ex know about a lot of the sex stuff. I deflected and said I’d met Gracie through Dirck - which is true, because he was a handjob client of hers and then he thought the two of us would get along and/or could work together. Then there was some prying, and Gracie offered up that she and Dirck had had an “encounter,” and that they’d met on the internet. All the while, Jane was laughing harder than I’ve seen her laugh in quite some time.

At the end of the night, we all went our separate ways, and Dirck’s ex came home with me because there was no spare sleepover space at his house. It was weird to say goodbye to him and have her come with me, but it was really nice to get to know her better.

I love the fact that my life is seemingly so complex, but with a lot of caring, honesty, straightforward communication and a good sense of humor, it really isn’t at all.

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Unpacking the mystery boxes

December 08, 2004

So today I’m hanging out in Pornoland, unpacking boxes in our new office.

My best discovery so far was a box that contained the following items: a home pregnancy test, a box of matches, and “The Anal Adventures of Max Hardcore.” There’s a story here, for certain, I just don’t know what it is.

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25 things about me

December 07, 2004

I�m taking a hint from the lovely Ms HeroineGirl and making a list of things you might not otherwise know about me. Some of these deserve to be written about more in depth, but I�m not sure I�m in the right time/place to do that.

One time in college I wrote a 15 page paper about the The Sandlot.
After being a very colorful punk kid, I was a goth for a few years in high school, until one day I was out with a goth friend, and a little kid pointed at us and said to his mom, �Look mommy, clowns. Scary clowns.�
This gothness included possession and wearing of a black ankle-length cape. Homemade thanks very much.
I also still own and maintain a leather jacket that I wore for many years. It has red paint on it, I sewed leopard print fabric to the back of it with dental floss and it has a bunch of pyramid studs on it.
In high school I was obsessed with the younger set of British romantic writers: Lord Byron, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Shelley.
I wrote a paper in high school comparing Percy and Mary�s uses of the Promethean myth in their respective �Prometheus Unbound� and Frankenstein.
This past summer I went on a trip to Europe by myself, with the intention of following the path of Byron and the Shelleys through Switzerland and Italy, especially with regard to the summer of 1816, when Mary Shelley was inspired to write Frankenstein after several nights of ghost stories. The trip was awesome to the max.
For a while last year, I had a streak of boyfriends/dates whose single syllable names all started with the same letter. They all wore Right Guard Sport anti-perspirant in Fresh scent. Also, all of their parents were still married.
I started a literary magazine in high school, which I edited and contributed to. I selected a drawing of a naked woman dancing for the cover of the first issue. The school authorities were not pleased, and so we had to make it a silhouette (nipples are offensive).
As a youth, I was an avid horseback rider. I�ve trained a number of horses and used to travel the country teaching riding. I miss it, but I�m poor.
I loathe condiments. Ketchup, mayo� any of that stuff. Blech.
I also hate pickles.
I lost my virginity at 14 to a man twice my age. I was vacationing with my family in Seattle and made it with this guy Stanley in a van down by the river.
I have lost count of how many sex partners I�ve had. I think it is somewhere between 40 and 50.
I have only had anal sex with three of my partners. I have only �hit it raw� with two partners (after being fully tested of course).
On Christmas Eve of 1994, one of my close friends killed herself. She had turned 15 five days before and had just had her second miscarriage.
During my teenage years, I knew seven people who died. Most of them were not close friends. Five died of heroin overdoses. One died of a heart attack (eating disorder related). One was my friend who killed herself. I had had sex with two of them.
When I was 17 I had to get a restraining order against an ex-boyfriend. He kept showing up wherever I was. One time I freaked out and hit him with my car and then drove away quickly.
I have a small scar near my left eye from being hit by a (different) high school boyfriend. He later tested HIV positive and was the reason I got my first HIV test, the (negative) results of which I received on my 17th birthday.
Uh, this is getting too dark. Let�s go this way: I met my first love (my ex, who I have referred to but not granted a pseudonym) at a retreat for gifted and talented high school seniors. When I saw him for the first time, I knew he was going to be a big part of my life. He was wearing a Skankin� Pickle t-shirt.
I played guitar and bass guitar when I was younger and I was in a few really terrible bands. One of them played at CBGB�s when I was 15.
In 1996, I made a small sign reading: �I hereby boycott the white mugs, on the grounds that they squish my fingers� and affixed it to the inside of the cupboard that my parents keep their coffee mugs in. It is still there.
I grew up on thirty acres of land. I spent a lot of time from ages 8 to 18 alone in the woods, reading and building forts.
I have never been on a rollercoaster.
I will be 25 this coming April. I am a Taurus, and although I totally don�t give a shit about astrology, when people ask my sign I like to make my fingers into horns and make bull noises.

Posted by Dacia at 04:05 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tough day in Pornoland

December 01, 2004

We are preparing for an office move downtown, which will help to further limit my sphere of travel about the city, which is fabulous in my opinion.

Instead of writing or doing much of anything porn related today, I helped to pack. Which means: lots and lots of bubble wrap.

Moving day also means that by 2 pm, I’d consumed 3 Brooklyn Lagers, courtesy of my boss. By 4 pm, I’d also had three hits of a very nice bowl, provided by one of my coworkers.

Dirck complained about the influx of peculiar and non-sensical emails into his inbox. But I say - phooey. It was a good day, and a little mindless, which I was definitely needing.

Posted by Dacia at 11:07 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack