Personal Statement

Sorry y'all! I've disappeared the last couple months, focusing my energy into getting this law school underway, but it's all coming together now and I thought I would publicly share my personal statement. This is probably my second to last draft, so I anticipate feedback!  

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              As an undergraduate history student at San Francisco State University, I was always drawn to stories of labor action, progressive social change and communities flourishing despite facing seemingly insurmountable adversity. Stories of people actively shaping and reshaping the world in which they live to provide a better future for themselves and their families ingrained themselves into my psyche more so than the important survey knowledge of dates and locations, a crux for any serious history student. Since graduation, my interest in stories of change has only grown and I am hoping to earn a law degree to not only continue learning from these kinds of stories, but to also add myself to them, taking strides to make positive changes in the world around me, especially in the realm of labor and the sex industry.

While doing research in the campus Labor Archives my junior year of college, I happened across stacks of articles about the radical unionization of the Lusty Lady peepshow theater in 1997 and their momentous move to become a co-operative business in 2003, changing my unforeseeable future. That summer I became a dancer at the Lusty Lady, the world’s only unionized and worker-owned adult entertainment facility, consistently working until 3am, when needed, throughout my graduating year. As soon as I passed my probationary period I became an active member of both the SEIU local 1021 and the co-operative, filling some of the most crucial administrative positions.

In my mere two-and-a-half-years as a sex-worker, working for some of the safest, most independent, and feminist-minded places, I have still personally experienced and witnessed others grapple with social and judicial challenges I would not wish upon anyone. As a sex-worker, stigmatization from friends, family members, potential employers, school administrators, landlords and social workers is a constant reminder that sex-work, even in its most legal forms, is not seen as a moral or legitimate profession, resulting in fear, isolation, lost jobs, lost children, closed doors and fewer opportunities. In my experience, the psychological and, unfortunately sometimes, physical harm, would not be so pervasive if the work were seen as equal to that of a retail clerk, banker or another professional, like a lawyer.

Six months ago, I started working with the Bay Area chapter of SWOP (Sex Worker Outreach Project), a national social justice network dedicated to the end of sex industry stigma, harm and inequality through peer support, education and advocacy. With SWOP, I have learned to work on a team to reach out to others in need of health services, legal resources and, sometimes most importantly, a simple friendly ally to a sex-worker, former sex-worker or family member of someone in the business. I have had the honor of speaking on panels, representing sex-workers in school lecture halls and creating public events that bring the voices of sex-workers to academics, other activists and each other. With them I have realized that change, however small, can be accomplished with passion and dedication to hard work.

As my disgruntled grandma likes to remind me, getting into this line of work has been completely my choice and, according to her, delving into sex-work activism is a “nice thing to do,” but relegated to “those people,” unworthy of my or anyone else’s attention. Part of what my grandma says is true: though I grew up in a lower-middle class family, I am fortunate enough to have an education and enough work experience that I can do anything to pay my expenses. However, I cannot disagree more with her insistence of tolerance for the existing social conditions. As I have learned from studying the trajectory of other movements in this country, including civil rights, gay rights, feminist and labor, modification of and innovation upon the status quo only occurs when people from all walks of life, marginalized and privileged, come together and act for equality, not only in their own interest, but in that of others’ as well.

             

Dear High School Drama Teacher

Dear Mr. Mills (my high school's drama teacher):

You always knew I was never drama geek material, but I'm thankful you never gave up trying to force it down my throat. Tricks for line memorization, improv, costume, and serious role play, though ineffectual at the time, have seemed to have reestablish themselves into my person and are actually revealing to be quite useful. As an adult entertainer, these things are more than necessary.

Yes, playing Juliet in our class's contmporary version of "Romeo and Juliet" was a complete failure, having forgotten (ie not actually memorized) most of the lines in my scene, awkwardly sputtering out "Oh happy dagger, here's thy sheath. There rest and let me die," peaking at you through half-closed eyelids while trying to appear dead. Who knew that this would only be the beginning?

At the time I know I thought your idea of using the dramatic arts as a means to stimulate creativity in problem solving, to inspire kinesthetic and empathetic understanding of other people and environments, and to make us all team players was a bunch of hogwash that my anti-social self just didn't want to acclimate to. Well sir, now I am ever so grateful and I wish I could take back all the times I chose to build sets instead of auditioning for the lead. You must be so disappointed so many of your leading ladies and gentlemen have left the theater and turned to more 'stable' jobs, foregoing song and dance, homemade bustles and pompadours for suits and ties and regular paychecks (and not the small one's given to high school drama teachers.)

I hope that my renewed interest in the dramatic arts will make you proud. Without you and your overwhelming dedication to the stage I never would have been able to become a convincing adult baby girl, believable bi-curious college co-ed, hypnotic bratty princess, or overbearing MILF. Ok, you might be a little disappointed that these are porn personas, but hey, they're legitimate paid gigs and a hell of a lot more interesting than most of your most dedicated students careers.

I'd direct you to my work so you can see proof of my utilization of theatrical elements, but, for reasons that should be obvious, I think that would be highly inappropriate. With that you'll just have to take the results of your good efforts at my word and my gratitude from afar.

Sincerely,
Sandy Bottoms

(Dear readers I won't hide things from you! I'll post links to my newest porn adventures as soon as I can!)

Law School Saga

The law school saga continues...

Tomorrow I get the results of the LSATs and I can start plugging away information into all the online electric application forms, a suprisingly tedious and momentous task. According to LSAC graphs and charts my high GPA and, what I hope to be, a high LSAT score still isn't going to cut it for the competitive Bay Area law schools. As I stand now I am average. Boring. Easily passable for other, more groomed applicants, people who have had the idea of "law school" drilled into their heads even before leaving the womb and professional guidance ever since.

Though lacking the grooming other applicants have certainly had, I think I can make up for it, or rather, I NEED to make up for my unexceptional academic prep by writing a kick ass personal statement. Banking on my experiences as a sex-worker and sex-work advocate, I am providing full discloser of my work history, painting a full picture of what I hope to accomplish with a law degree. I understand that this move can totally work to my disadvantage, ensuring that I don't get accepted into top notch schools whose application review panel may be loaded with topnotch, conservative law professors. If it does indeed turn out to be the case that I am barred because of my politics then my response is simply this: I don't want to go to your school anyway (and you WILL know me as someone who forces a change in your standards later :) ).

Now the sticky part of the application process is gathering letters of recommendation. Like anyone who is returning to school after having been out of the academic loop for a while it takes some finagling to get the appropriate content. Schools recommend getting applications by reconnecting with old professors and hitting up employers, which brings up two problems: the first being I was a Middle Eastern history major. "Hello Muslim/Iranian professor whose politics, I'm pretty sure, are super conservative when it comes to sex-work. I need you to write me a letter praising what I have been doing for the past 2 years." I just don't think it's going to happen. The second is I've been in lead administrative positions at the Lusty and we are a cooperative. Who exactly is going to be a "legitimate" reference?

As frustrated and scared that I am I do have faith that it will all come together in the end and I will be able to get into at least one of my preferred schools. Until then I am just going to keep plugging along and will keep interested parties posted!

Writing It Up for SF Weekly

Guess what guys! I've been invited to start writing for SF Weekly's Exhibitionist blog and my first post came out this morning! Since it's been a super hectic week my Exhibitionist post is going to take the place of my regular post, but I pinkie promise I'll post more real soon.

Want to check it out?

International Fisting Day: Courtney Trouble Says Put Your Dukes Up (and IN!) Against Censorship

And, even more importantly, happy International Fisting Day everybody! I can't stress enough how into the hard work Courtney Trouble, Jiz Lee, and all other bloggers/tweeters/porn-lovers/porn-consumers have put into making Fisting Day the phenomenon it is. Jeeze Louise, who wouldn't want to celebrate? You know I will.

Lusty Lady schedule for the week of October 24th

Tuesday 10/25: In Private Pleasures 9 to 1045 am, on stage (and available for VIP) until 3pm.

Friday 10/28: In Private Pleasures 11am to 1245pm, on stage (and available for VIP) until 3pm.

Bye-Bye Braces

My orthodontist recently told me that my juvenile looking braces should be ready to come off sometime around Thanksgiving. As embarrassed as I am to be an adult with braces, being the only person over age 16 in the Disney-themed office fit with bubblegum flavored gloves and wooden nickels as rewards for a good brushing regimen (to be cashed in for such awesome prizes like Gameboy games and toys, no less), getting repeatedly asked at bars and movie theaters for my identification, keeping my mouth shut for photos during my college graduation, I am actually kind of sad to have them go. Instead of being excited about all the candied apples and beef jerky I will now be able to consume without breaking brackets I am having an identity crisis; who is Sandy Bottoms without her braces?

The 'Sandy Bottoms' persona's existance, running parallel to that of the braces, has been good to me. If you scroll through adult entertainers ads you find that there are a lot of girls that match my description: white, curvy, dark hair and eyes, "girl-next-door" kind of look. As accessories these pain's in the gums have set me apart (aren't I witty, friends?). Braces, being unmovable props for "youth" fantasies, have helped me bring out a naive, giddy, and girly sexual projection of my real self that probably would not have come out otherwise. They've made me different. Without them, I feel I lose the novelty of my character and get lost in the crowd.

So now what? I'm too partial to 'Sandy' to give her up, but she's going to have to go through some sort of chick-flick style make-over. Pin-up goddess? Too high maintenance. Goth vamp? I don't think anyone would take that seriously. Barbie as opposed to Skipper? Maybe. I suppose the montage of possibilities is endless.

Predictably this crisis is extending itself into the real world as I reshape my goals and priorities, seeking a clearer sense of self and roles in the larger picture. Drastic changes in my romantic and familial relationships, Lusty Lady positions, involvement in different kinds of sex-worker activism, and a head-first dive into my career is all happening at the same time. Utterly overwhelming and taxing, yet exhilerating. The braces are coming off and everything is going to be straight, shiny, and new.

Grounding Exercise

Sometimes I forget I have interests beyond sex-work and that I am indeed a dynamic human being that doesn't have to be serious all the time. This is my 5 year old selves's grounding exercise. Apologies for sharing with you.

My name is *Sandy*. I have a pet tortoise names Tuga, enough dresses to clothe a drag football team, and brown eyes. My favorite foods are lasagna and pickles. And if I'm in a Thai restaurant I only order one thing: pad see ew with tofu.

I can't go anywhere near a pole - vertical water pipe, overhang support - without forgetting where I am, clinging to it, and dancing like I'm at work. Inappropriate, I know.

My partner is a math major and I can never decipher the complicated squiggles on his white board. Regardless of my lack of understanding I like to show off his work to anyone that comes to my apartment. Visitors have learned to tolerate this proud partner tendency.

I like to make crap out of other crap and I have more DIY craft sites saved in my bookmarks than anything else. Gluten-free baking sites are a close second.

These boob cakes were not gluten-free:

But these cupcakes were:

When I am not working I am reading: when my partner leaves my side to go to the bathroom, during movie previews, and sometimes even while walking. Its a terrible habit I've had since the tender age of 4.

I've come to grips with the fact that playing dress-up is not something I do just to make money or an indulgence for important holidays like Halloween and Rosh Hashanah, but is truly a way of life. (Enter cheese-ball claims about how looking good makes me feel good etc etc.) Coordinating a hiking costume or "studying at the cafe" outfit, complete with sweater-vest and red think-rimmed non-prescription glasses, has become my reality.

When I was a child I collected rocks, Barbies, and stamps. As an adult I've moved onto scary-looking antique medical supplies, vintage hats, and sex-toys. Tom-Ay-toe - Tom-ahh-toe.

I used to have favorite colors, but I've learned over the years its rude to be discriminatory.

Grievances

Some may call me a sexual health hypochondriac. Others may label me paranoid as every single bump in the night leads to me frantically calling the nurse's hotline in the morning and running to my local gyno office. I, however, think of it as necessary maintenance for my lifestyles as both a proud slut and sex-worker. My doctors, products of a private health care system, don't quite know what to do with an anomaly such as me.

Some of the time I get helpful, genuine responses from nurses and physicians. Most of the time my candidness about my sexual status is responded to with facts and care dished with a side of awkwardness (apparently they don't prepare interns to actually hear the truth about their patients in med school.) Every now and then I confront a medical professional who goes above and beyond their duty to answer medical questions and to treat ailments, choosing to (obviously) let their personal opinions creep into my health care.

The last chapter in this saga was just last week (this may very well be tmi. By all means skip ahead if you'd like to not hear about the health of my cooch.) when I called the Kaiser Permanente advice nurse to ask about a prescription for a normal bacterial or yeast infection, things most women regardless of profession and relationship status get all the time. At first she was friendly and patient then (thinking, like always, it is best to divulge as much information about myself so I can get the best health care I can) I told her my sexual history (including the fact that I use condoms and gloves regularly) and got erratic, unsettling behavior. She swore I had herpes and probably some other STIs too and that I was jeopardizing the health of my future babies by my actions, making me an appointment for my gyno the next morning.

(Let me pause here: this is ANOTHER big thing that is crappy about dealing with health care providers. They assume since I have a uterus I want and will have children. Big news for you KP: I don't want any, nor do I plan on having any so you can please take your patriarchal head out of my ovaries.)

I went to my appointment a nervous wreck, knowing that I had been treated poorly, but actually convinced that I needed to seek medical attention. My doctor took a quick look between my legs and said no one in their right mind would have diagnosed me as having herpes or any other STI, though she did a full screening just to pacify my still worried and confused expressions. Owning my original concerns to regular female biochemistry (what I had thought in the first place!) she inferred again that had the advice nurse actually listened to me the night before the appointment and my night of worrying about my life choices would have been avoided entirely.

In the past I have swept such negative interactions under the rug, whining and woe-ing to friends and co-workers about the BS sex-workers and sluts have to go through dealing with doctors and nurses while never actually doing anything about it. I'm tired of whining to the choir and listening to others preach about how they've had terrible experiences with their doctors and their nurses too. This time I'm going to do more than whine -- I'm going to encourage others to whine too. AND to whine loudly.

Do you have stories to share? Please do!

Do you have resources for others to submit grievances and feedback to health care providers? Please share!

What You Need to Know About Auditions

Weeks leading to an audition I receive a mountain of applications, emails and phone from prospect auditionees. Monthly this tends to be around 30 people. About 10 (give or take a few) actually show up for the audition. To keep the scheduling balance (to not take away shifts from tenured dancers, but have enough as back up) we hire about 3-4 of these auditionees, keeping in mind that some may change their minds about sex-work or will quit for some other reason, max out on points, or will have to be fired for being crazy/solicitation etc etc. Fortunately, we have been able to keep the vast majority of the newly hired babes the last few rounds and will be accepting some as co-op members in the very near future, which is, of course, one of the best parts of working at the Lusty Lady.

Ladies we decide to hire are judged upon the following things:

-appearance (are they/will they femme up? do they have a look our patrons will like? are they energetic and flirty? etc *Note this does NOT mean weight/height/ethnicity/sexual-orientation/experience-level specifications. We have dancers of all makes and models.)

-performance (do they dance well/can they learn quickly to dance better? are they having a positive experience? are they afraid to approach the windows? etc)

-availability (do they have an availability that match our needs as a business? are they auditioning for props in a women's studies class (ie only want 1 shift a week)? If not available Fri/Sat night and on-call forget it)

-interview (are they easy to get along with? are they interested in the co-op/union? are they easy to communicate with?)

As everyone can imagine making decisions about auditions is not easy and as a madam team we cannot and we do not let our personal feelings about an individual or a group of people get ahead of what we feel is right for our business. Whether the auditionee is a friend/relative/partner of one of us or of a co-op member we judge everyone equally.

If you are interested in auditioning at the Lusty Lady here are some tips:

-Study for your test! Your most important resource is the live show, both Private Pleasures and the main stage, and talking with the girls (please understand you are taking their time and focus so please tip accordingly.) Supplementary study material can include porn, our documentary Live Nude Girls Unite, and Lusty Lady events outside of our Kearny address.

-Practice! Put on your tallest heels, strip down to your birthday suit and dance like you've got a room full of happy customers watching.

-Have fun playing dress-up! Remember you want to bring a make-up and hairspray enhanced fierce and sexy you to the audition. The stage lights tend to wash us out so don't be afraid to go a little heavier with the make-up and to try new things like false eyelashes and glitter.

-Put on a good face! Confidence is everything. Though you may be having the time of your life on stage, if we can't read sexy confidence on your face most likely our patrons can't either and that just doesn't work. No one is comfortable watching an angry/upset/on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown stripper.

-Bring us some OOOMFFF in your interview! MAKE us remember you. We will ask you general and logistical questions, but feel free to push it further. Have you been carrying around your copy of the Lusty Lady zine, reading like the Bible? Tell us! If you're obsessed with us, we will be obsessed with you.

If you've auditioned before and you didn't get a call back and you can't find a reason in the above passage feel free to ask for feedback and audition again. I, like many of our most established dancers at the Lusty, did not get hired at my first audition (believe me, I can tell you everything this hot little mess did wrong.)

All Work and No Play Makes Sandy A Very Horny Girl

I'm not sure if it is because I need to release the extra tension and stress that studying and work have caused me or if the Bay Area's Indian summer just has me in heat, but I've been watching a lot of porn lately. And I mean A LOT of porn. Like twice a day of dirty streaming alone time "must have an orgasm now" porn sessions on top of wrangling my partners into bed. While probably half of the time I can't recall what I got off to even minutes after clearing my computer's history (I think I'm part goldfish, what can I say?), I have noticed that I have a pretty wide range in porn tastes.

(Again, this is half-assed bullet time since I'm really procrastinating with my studies more than anything.)

-gay dude porn: I probably watch more dude on dude porn than anything which I attribute to the audio. Most girl/girl, girl/dude porn sounds sooooooo fake. I can't stand the exaggerated screams and "oh babys" that runneth out of the mouths of the girls in these videos, no matter how hot the action actually is. Gay porn (without music) has real grunts that always do it for me.

-throat fuck: Again, my preference goes back to the sounds. I like the choking, gagging, and gasps for air.

-arty scenes (straight and queer): As long as there is no music or too obvious plastic surgery in expensive and tastefully shot scenes I am into them. These may include: fancy backlighting, crisp-clean sheets, velvet curtains, long-caresses, and shots of couples staring into each other's eyes.

-Kink.com's Public Disgrace: Mmmm I love me some hardcore public gangbangs and humiliating BDSM.

-masturbation clips: You'd think I've be desensitized considering my current profession is to watch people jack off for a living, but I'm really into it. 

-age play (sshhhh, I haven't told my sex-partners this, but sometimes even incest play): Yup, sometimes I think the whole dirty old man neighbor spying on the young girl next door thing is hot or unsuspecting babysitter or ...

-outside amateur scenes: Did you just whip out your iphone and film your experimental little selves doing it out in the woods during your camping trip? You totally did and I totally liked it.

I'd like to think of myself as an equal opportunity viewer and, while I only listed my favorites, I think I've perused (if not whacked it to) pretty much everything from clown porn to BBW to foot fetish to masturbation instruction. 

Gym Fantasies

I can see you, you know? Swarming around me like hungry sharks after a lonely kill. Sauntering up next to me at the free weights, using the treadmill to my immediate left and right even though there are at least 20 other cardio machines not being used, adding more speed, more resistance to your contraptions so you can show off your big manly-man muscles for me. Your huffing and puffing at the gym is flattering, really, and lets loose all kinds of kinky fantasies that are trapped in my head, but perhaps you would rather not like to know about them.

Oh sure, one or two of you macho guys might be into my naughty notions momentarily, but I hardly feel that they are quite what you have in mind. It doesn't take a third eye to see what you are thinking: hot sweaty, Lycra swathed sex on top of the giant inflatable work-out ball, where we bounce and our grunts and pants ring off the cement and mirrored surfaces. Heck, I even bet you'd be into having your spot guy join in every once in a while, though if I asked you to describe your fantasy aloud you might leave that part out.

A glimmer of pride sparkles in your pretty blue eyes as I casually size you up. You're probably thinking I'm swooning over your hard pecks, your bulging arms, or taunt sinewy back, but sorry boys, what I'm really trying to figure is just how much jump rope it would take to tie you up to that smelly padded bench you're sitting on. I'm measuring you up like you do me, though in addition to imagining what you look like naked and hot out of a shower, I'm trying to figure out what amount of weight would I have to lay over your wrists and ankles to have you immobile and star-fished on that yoga mat (and if it would be possible for me to physically drag the weights from across the room to do it.)

Don't worry, I'd play with you a little bit so the whole scene isn't too homoerotic for you. Maybe I'd strip down to my sports bra and undershorts, stepping close so you can smell the pheromones I've worked up during my 3 mile stationary bike ride and 10 flights of stairs. I'd grab a spare resistance cable and play with your bits, getting your cock rigid with my plastic touch, leaving only a few lash marks across those chiseled ass cheeks.

We can play fitness trainer. You'll be outfitted only in running shoes and yellow sweat bands as I give you my version of circuit training. I'll start you on the treadmill with 5 minutes of intense jogging and masturbation. Don't you dare cum or lose that erection or its off to nipple weight jumping jacks if you do. After, it will be 100 sit-ups with me standing over you, counting the reps each time you bury your face into my crotch. Followed by me sitting on your sculpted back for 3 minutes of planks, anal plug dead-lifts, and finishing with some mellow stretches and the adoption of your new mantra "I'm a big boy now with big boy muscles." If you've done well following orders (maybe) I'll reward you with a steam room throat fuck (please don't take more than 5 minutes to cum because I truly hate the heat.)

Granted, I know better than most to judge a book by its cover or, rather, a jock by his basketball shorts, but I hardly feel like our fantasies are aligning, so please don't bother to bustle up the courage to ask me out to dinner or coffee or a casual dip in the whirlpool to play the machismo card in front of all of your tough boyfriends, disturbing me from my grueling half hour of self-care. Unless, that is, you are as much of a Eric Stanton fan as I am.

Stripper Trip Update

Homesick and sick with a cold I am back in New Mexico dancing with Crush at the club I dubbed "stripper paradise" some months ago. Busy as I have been with work and studying back in SF I couldn't stay away when Crush asked if I wanted to go back. So here I am, grinding and booty-bumping for another  week in the nicely AC'd titty bar I am slowly becoming familiar with. While some of my experiences and the characters this time around have been pretty intense (and I'd like to add unfortunately normalized in the strip club atmosphere) I have run into some positive notables as well.

(Dear readers, I apologize for the jumbled mess that is this blog. Cold meds and exhaustion aren't conducive to clear writing. Hence, bullet points.)

-"Pervert Corner," the darkest, most isolated part of the club that isn't in the VIP or champagne room, is a sure place to get money, as the inhabitants are always ready for a dancers, though dancer beware, this customer will ALWAYS be creepy, overly touchy, and mentally exhausting.

-Patrons wearing basketball shorts and sweat pants come to strip clubs for a clear purpose: to get off in their pants. Again, these guys are sure money. As sure as the cum on your thighs.

-Fake tits=more money. Asian ancestry=more money. It doesn't matter how busted the dancer looks (the fake tits can even be facing different directions) or how unengaged (erg dumb) they are.

-Guys with a "thing" may not always be big spenders, but they can awful entertaining. I wasn't able to do any dances for "fake tattoo guy," but I have a sweet dinosaur on my bicep. 

-Although dressing room relationship advice may sometimes be so-so, it al always sincere and heartfelt. 

-Phony phone numbers and false "real" names are an important part of the stripper persona. Sorry boys (and sometimes ladies), you make us do it. 

-Meeting awesome, intelligent, and cute patrons, though rare, totally happens. I am so very thankful when the happy chance occurs (and kick myself sometimes for having hard boundaries against dating them.)

-If you ask a guy what he does for work and he responds "independent contractor" it means he is a drug dealer. 

That's all I have for now! I'll add more to the list over the next few days.

Faking It

Yes boys and girls I fake it. I will deny it, and I will be so very good at denying it, but its true. I fake it all the time. Not with YOU, of course. Just with everyone else.

Don't get me wrong the sex is G-R-E-A-T and I do cum. And when I do cum I come like redwood hard, making me sweat and moan, quake and shake just like you're used to, leaving me to fight back the urge to grin like an idiot from ear to ear. Oh, I tell sweet baby Jesus, it is nearly Biblical good.

But, you know, sometimes it is so very good I hit a plateau -- not the bad kind at the bottom of some terrible cavern, but the kind nearly at the peak of some mighty mountain range and I damn near see the tippy-top of the precipice, however my mind just won't let me get pushed over the edge.

This is the juncture you, taking personal offense at potentially having me fake it on you or thinking back along your own sex track record you wonder if any other ladies and gents have given you a spectacular show, cross your arms and say that I don't have to fake it for you. Of course I know I don't have to fake it for you. If the sex was dreadful, believe me, I'd tell you. Passive and submissive as I may be, I'm still not into shutting my trap and sticking with some bad sex.

So lets steer away from the "what you could be doing better" talk and your unnecessarily hurt ego.

Call me narcissistic, but my peals of ecstasy are not to protect your feelings. Faking it is all about me: about me not being able to go over that ledge, which can certainly be frustrating sometimes, causing figurative blue balls and the desperate need for a cold shower (which, I would like to point out, sometimes happens even after the most knee-shattering of orgasms.): about me actually becoming more aroused as my fake big O sounds trick my head into releasing a real one: about me wanting to finish the grand scene with a dramatic ending for my own spank-bank: and, only once in a blue moon, about me feeling embarrassed about my own sexual inadequacy.

So I lied before, I probably have pulled a fast one on you (and everyone else) a time or two and, though I have explained myself thoroughly, you probably will still sulk and question whenever you hear those familiar "ooohs" and "ahhhhs" escape my lips. But never fear, though I may replicate Kat'z Delicatessen every once in a while, I still come back for more.

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Want to see me at the Lusty Lady?
This Wednesday 8/3 I will be in Private Pleasures 11am to 1245pm and on stage 1 to 3pm
Thursday 8/4 I will be on stage until 230pm and having some double trouble action with newbie Tania in Private Pleasures 3 to 445pm!!

Going Back

Its that time of year again. Summer is here, and while most people I know my age have finished up their semesters and are free at least for the summer, I start blowing off the layer of dust coating my stack of LSAT prep books and flattening out crumpled scan trons. Although I knew this time last year I would have to buckle down and get back to academic work this July the feelings of constriction and uncertainty have somehow snuck up on me.

Part of me is so ready to go back to school, to step away from the irregularity that has become my life, and immerse myself in law dictionaries, libraries, and mid-term test anxiety. Familiar and safe, school is something I know I am good at, something I can tell the grandparents all about, who will then declare their much coveted pride about their sweet granddaughter -a future lawyer!-to all their friends.

*Gag*

As much luke-warm fuzziness as these images give me they also mean radical upheaval in my life, necessitating change I am not quite sure I am ready for: limiting my time for the Lusty Lady and other sex-work, my emotional bandwidth for friends and partners, and energies for my projects and passions. I want to be able to do it all! Alas, I know that can't be how it goes.

To stay motivated I've been trying to do little things: placing sticky note reminders that I am going to law school for my own satisfaction and not that of my family all around my apartment, buying myself awesome feminist law books to read, and touching base with people who have already gone through the process and survived. Only three months of LSAT studying, three months of applications, and three years of law school...it can't be as bad as I'm thinking it will be, can it?

Velvet SF - Queer Play Party

I am joining forces with the amazing Ms. Bix and doing promotions for Velvet SF, the ONLY queer dance party in the Bay Area where you can do the dirty. Yes, finally a queer play party! And you know you should go and get involved because I only back projects I truly love <3

The next Velvet will be Friday July 22nd from 9 to 2 am!

Don't miss writer Allison Moon's pre-party workshop GIRL SEX 101 (8 to 9pm) and special performances by queer femme-inist CHLOE CAMILLA! DJ Rapid Fire (Stay Gold) will be spinning and Crashpad porn will be playing all night long!

For lovely ladies, transmen, fierce femmes, bois, genderqueer, badass butches, and intersex queers.

$20 at the door. BYOB.

Mission Control is community operated. For more details about their space and charter visit their website.

Want to get in free? Volunteer! Other questions? Contact me at velvetsfpromo@gmail.com for more details.

Out of the Bubble

Nights out are usually spent dancing, drinking, dining, and gabbing with my sex-worker friends. With them I know I am in a safe space where it doesn't matter if I mix up real names with porn names, joke about the often hilarious things our patrons do, and slip in and out of our personal dialect. In this bubble, this glorious bubble I can only wish could expand to encompass everyone in my life, I don't have to guard myself from other's judging eyes and unapproving tongues, insatiable appetites for justifications and hurried exits. With them, with my community, I sometimes forget that the bubble exists at all, but when socializing with others I remain anxious and vigilant, even in the most relaxed settings.

Outside my bubble, though I will gladly charge the field in oral combat if I am attacked directly or see others assaulted by someone being ignorant just for the sake of being so, my first instinct is protectionism: to not bring focus to my work or goals unless I know it is socially safe to do so. When asked the standard "So, what do you do?" question I'll make things up, claiming to work in an office or some menial retail situation, foregoing the explanation of my pride in working for causes I care intimately about. I hunker down and build a wall, making necessary snap assumptions about the new acquaintances, relying on the fact I will probably never see them again, passively deciding not to make anyone, including myself, unnecessarily uncomfortable by the truth.

Wanting desperately to connect to another person, establish a new friendship, I'll test the waters by telling the truth: I dance naked and am the current lead madam of the Lusty Lady peepshow (among other things), I care passionately about sex-worker rights, and have every intention of dedicating my future career, whatever it may be, to establishing the legitimacy of sex-work as work socially and, specifically, under the law. The results are mixed. Sometimes I have been pleasantly surprised by acceptance and easy conversation. More often people do all the negative things I have come to expect, including the most recent reaction: "That is why you are dressed like THAT!"

(Dear reader: I was wearing a polka dot dress that nearly reached my knees and didn't even reveal an inch of cleavage-not a small feat with DD tits,-stockings, and tennis shoes. Please tell me what the hell that is supposed to mean.)

Occasionally I feel I bring these situations upon myself by choosing to do the work I do and choosing to talk about it, kicking myself for making things harder than they really need to be. I let myself be isolated by the stigmatization and lumped with the stereotypes, fearing the difficult futures naysayers believe I am headed towards. Thankfully these moments are few and far between, never lasting long, but they do happen, despite all my rallying and inspiring friends and co-workers. Someday I hope to live in a world where the secrecy and sensitivity won't be needed and the awkward, hurtful moments won't exist, but I fear that time won't be anytime soon.

Relationship Maps

Immersed in the dating sea again for nearly two years one would think I'd know how to navigate, but sometimes I really don't feel like I do. Embarrassingly, I peruse the dating section at my local bookstore, but beyond the titles like "How To Date After Divorce" nothing really seems to acknowledge any of my "what's to be expected" dating questions (and even that one is a stretch.) Asides from pop culture, which obviously caters to traditional monogamous relationships, I have no real gauge for relationship landmarks and, more often than not, feel like I wander aimlessly through a course of mountains and mole-hills without ever knowing whats-what.

Pop culture has taught me the traditional relationship road map goes something like this: first date, second date, first kiss, DTR (defining the relationship aka deciding to stop seeing other people), first vacation, first "I love you's," meeting the parents, holidays together, a proposal leading to the final destination of a "happily ever after"  filled with white tulle and children. Movies and TV shows play with these common themes (search Netflix for any romantic comedy and you will see what I mean), sometimes pushing some of the more taboo subjects (a couple flirting with each other's friends or a possible threesome, gasp!), but mostly parodying the mainstream landmarks, large and small, for the sake of extracting a stronger emotion from their audience. Although I've been an avid pop-culture consumer all of my life, those stronger reactions are usually lost on me.

Knowing that it is not necessary to have landmarks at all, I still fall into the routine of trying to figure out what counts given the number of X factors anyways. I attribute value to what other's may see as silly things: like the first use of a pet name, a key exchange, the first time more than one partner is in the same social space, and the location of my toothbrush (my rule of thumb is it doesn't hit the toothbrush holder until its been invited. Thank you TV sitcoms.) Perhaps small and insignificant they are all duly noted and filed away with other, more mainstream, moments of significance that have tugged on my heart strings to await even more unknown territory.

My maps (yes, multiple to accommodate different relationships) look more like connect-the-dots rather than the traditional course and none have a clear trajectory. While some of the traditional landmarks are similar to what I experience with people I am dating, others are totally off the grid, and some, meeting the parents as an example, I don't even know if they would be possibilities even if I wanted them to be. Given that these relationships are not bound to the rigors of an end goal of marriage and children their existence, purpose, and expectations are now free to change to match the personalities, logistics, and sentiments of those involved explicitly.

Rather than give me assistance in navigating my relationships, my landmarks tend to show me what I already know - that the wonderful happenstances with the people in my life must be viewed subjectively and cannot be taken for granted, there are lots of things other's may be seeing as mountain ranges that I may not have even noted, and landmarks are not static, gaining and losing significance as the rest of the map and relationship changes shape.

Updates

I've been included in some fabulous writer's awesome work within the last month and I totally slacked on posting their links!

SF Guardian SexSF blogger Amber Schadewald dished out my secrets in her post Clean Secrets Revealed: The Lusty Ladies

My interview with scandelous sex blogger Fleur De Lis can be found here: Bottoms Up With Sandy Bottoms

Also!

I hereby swear to post my Lusty Lady availability weekly! Just in case anyone wants to get a little more up close and personal with me.

This week:

-Monday June, 13th starting at 830pm til close. Private Pleasures 11pm to 1245am.
-Wednesday June 15th Private Pleasures 9am to 1045am. Live Stage early afternoon.
-Sunday June 19th starting at 830pm til close. Private Pleasures 11pm to 1245am.

Toys, Toys, Toys!

I have to say I don't use sex toys nearly as often as I would like to. Sure I whip out a select few of my work essentials to give naughty shows in the Private Pleasures booth at the Lusty Lady, but the toy chest general stays closed and tucked away at home. With enough plugs to dam up the Colorado River and vibrators that span the colors of the rainbow, I feel ashamed of my hoarding and lack of indulgence in their pleasure potential.

Fantasizing about expanding my toy collection may not be something I do all the time, but my addiction to pleasure products comes in third only behind dresses and lingerie (I know I'm such a girl!). Walking into a sex shop, Good Vibes being my candy shop of choice, my eyes widen and I can't help going about the floor ogling all the shiny new toys I haven't claimed as my own. While I try to make thoughtful shopping lists ahead of time, sticking to only the necessities (yes, a pink rechargeable Hitachi IS a necessity), sometimes I slip up, filling my basket with all kinds of "just in case" items and bringing them home only to place them next to their older, often forgotten, toy friends.

As much as I love my toy collection I just never seem to reach for them in the heat of the moment. Whether I am participating in a little solo play or play with others, when the dress comes off and the pants unzip I usually get so caught in the moment I forget that my bounty exists at all, only thinking of bringing out a treasured buzzing, rotating, or clamping item or two after the last ooh and ahhh. Sigh. All those beautiful objects going to waste...

Sometimes I think increasing their visibility might inspire more appearances, mounting a 'toy shelf' above the bed or leaving them in my overnight bag so they go where ever I go, but the thought of forgetting to put them away before having guests over to my apartment or accidentally spilling them on public transportation makes me think there must be another way. Less risky and more effective would be to simply tell my partners of my wishes and ask that they help incorporating my treasures into our already awesome sexy time.

Never Have I Ever

My big project of the day...erotica! Not *quite* finished, but feeling the need to post the work in progress....

Ten fingers remained in the air: 7 for him, 3 for her. Sheepishly Dee sucks in his bottom lip while thinking up his next statement.

            “Come on.” Emma groans in mock exasperation. “You’re such a baby. This should be easy!”

            They sit across from each other, bare knees touching. The TV screen still playing the final scenes of 10 Things I Hate About You, muted and forgotten in the background. They’ve played this game before, but never just the two of them.

            “Alright, never have I ever lived in a room painted yellow.” Dee announces with a triumphant smirk on his face, dark brown eyes glittering with the reflection of Heath Ledger’s image and pride.

            Emma pouts, looking around her room, “Not fair!” She leans in closer to whisper in Dee’s ear, feigning modesty, “They’re supposed to be scandalous.”

            With two fingers left Emma must think of a good one. She always loses. Her free hand twirls her long black hair as she sizes him up: tight white crew cut t-shirt, faded blue jeans sagging just enough to show the top of his royal blue boxers, shaggy dark hair covering his soft brow and startling stare. Oh gosh, that stare…

            “I might be going out on a limb here, but never have I ever been fisted,” Emma says looking over at Dee expectantly. After a moment Dee’s ring finger disappears into the palm of his hand. “Oh really, sir!” Emma squeals in delight. “I was convinced I was the only slutty one.”

            “Give me some credit, I’m not quite as inexperienced as you may think I am. Now its my turn.” This game has always been hard for Dee. Not because he has any shortage of things he hasn’t done like Emma, but because of how revealing it all is, telling everyone his most intimate chronicles through a showy finger display, deducing all his sexual encounters to a simple folded hand. The idea of being an exhibitionist certainly excited him, but he was usually too nervous to be so forward.

            Though something about Emma made him somehow not care so much and when she was around he’d play the silly game. Emma was bold, sometimes even obtrusive, flaunting her femininity and sexual prowess to an extent none of their mutual friends would dare. Her dresses were always way too short and her tops way too low, revealing every prominent and not so prominent curve of her body. Feminist theory classes taught him not to objectify women as sexual objects, especially his friends, but sometimes he’d get wet just thinking about her creeping skirt and fleshy thigh.

            “Erm, Dee?”

            Dee’s head snapped up from where his eyes had been glued to the space between Emma’s crossed bare legs for God knows how long.

            “I was just, uh, thinking of my next ‘never have I ever’,” Dee stammers, totally caught perving. He had planned to hit on Emma sometime in the near future, perhaps get up the courage to ask her out on a proper date, but this day was supposed to be platonic, a regular friend date like they had had a dozen times before.

            “Right.”

            “Really!”

            Emma smiled. She knew what that look meant, having seen it flitter across Dee’s face on more than a couple occasions. Dee wanted her, that was plain as day. She also knew that Dee, timid as he is, would never act on. She had already decided she wanted to taste those sweet smiling lips and run her fingers through his unruly mop, to fuck him and show him how to loosen up. Now Emma knew she is going to fuck him. Today. Now.

            “Alright, well then go ahead.”

            “Never have I ever fisted.” Dee’s heart raced.

            Their eyes locked and neither of them shifted. Clearly and sweetly Emma quips, “Come here.”

            “Um, what?” Dee, taken aback, ran a thousand simultaneous thoughts: “She can’t be serious. Jesus, Emma’s so fucking pretty! I was being way too forward and now she wants to ‘process’ things before kicking me out of her house.”

            She arches sideways, leaning over the edge of her bed pulling out gloves and lube. “I’m now down to one finger and I am going to lose this game. I like you and you like me. With your explicit permission I’d like to fuck you and perhaps make this game a bit more of a competition the next time.” Emma kisses Dee on the cheek. “Will you let me fuck you or what?”

            Dee pushed forward, kissing Emma hard on the mouth. “Only if you let me fuck you first.”

            Placing his hand on her delicate chest Dee shoves Emma back on the bed, running his hot, no longer so nervous, hands up the length of her left leg and up her skirt. Dee moves on top of her, forcing his knee between her legs, exposing her cream-colored panties. Their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like a century: hers filled with surprise and anticipation, his, a strength and greediness he forgot he possessed.  Dee first peels off Emma’s top, unfastening her bra while eagerly kissing and nipping at her goose-fleshed neck. Emma moans. She should have known it was going to be this good – the quiet ones usually are.

            Dee’s lips creep lower, between her breasts, under her ribcage, grazing the top of her skirt. He lifts Emma’s skirt, bunching the light blue fabric around her waist, pressing his face into her crotch. Rubbing her clothe-covered clit with his closed mouth he can feel how swollen she’s getting. He teases her with his nose, flicking the tip up and down her hidden slit, pressing the bridge into where she is starting to get wet.

            Lifting herself into a sitting position under Dee Emma grabs his belt, releasing the clasp and unzipping his fly all in the same motion. Pulling on the sides of his jeans she asks, “Can we take these off?” Dee nods yes.

            Emma wraps her hands around him, leaving little red scratch trails from her nails on his lower back. Looking up at him with a devious smile she throws his shirt up and over his head, ready to run her hands under his black binder to pull that off too. Grabbing hold of one of her wrists, Dee shakes his head from side to side, falling slowly on top of Emma as he says, “no, that stays on.”

            Both of them breathe heavy. Dee leaning into Emma’s body, feels her soft skin under his. He pushes his hip into her mound, moving his pelvis into hers and rubbing his clit on her naked leg. Grinding harder, faster, as Emma’s breathing hastens and soft cries escape her lips. Without stopping Dee slips on a glove, rubs a handful of lube between his fingers and shoves his hands down the front of her panties, squeezing her clit between his fingers.

            Looking into her face as she gyrates into is hand, her eyes closed, mouth open moaning and sighing, Dee can tell she’s ready for more. Emma’s eyes open and her sighs cease as he pulls off her soaking underwear. Gripping Emma’s hip in his bare hand he pulls her body closer towards his, slipping two fingers slowly into her expectant cunt. “Oh god,” Emma says, her eyes shutting once again.

            Starting slow and shallow Dee fucks her, gaining speed and depth as her pussy relaxes and opens for him. He shoves in a third finger, watching her body arch to the added pressure. Dee knows he can’t rush it but he senses Emma can take it.

            Slowing again Dee slips his pinkie finger in with the first three. Emma moans, but not out of protest. Her slick cunt is eager, hungry for his persistent hand. Dee pushes his hand deep, feeling her lips on his palm. He fucks her harder and deeper as he runs his tongue under her breast. “Rub your clit,” Dee demands as he reaches across the bed to grab the lube. “Don’t stop,” squirting a stream of slick liquid onto his fingers as they continue to pull in and out of Emma.

            Pulling nearly all the way out and closing his fingers tighter together Dee adds his thumb, almost forgetting he’s never fisted before, he’s never fucked Emma before, knowing only that his body is reading hers and the story was a good one. Responding with an “oh, yes, oh please fuck me” Dee shoves his hand deeper, her pussy dripping, enveloping him with warmth. He fucks Emma faster, feeling her muscles start to contract, hearing her getting louder and louder, filling the little yellow room with screams and deep moans. “I want to feel you cum. I want to feel you cum on my hand.”

            Emma’s eyes snap open and she clutches Dee to her chest, rubbing her clit fiercely as she rocks onto his hand. She moans louder yet and moves her hand away. She’s coming. She’s coming hard. 

Stripper Trip

Each time I sit to write about my stripper trip I get consumed by writing about the structure and the general stripper experience. I backspace, erasing paragraph after paragraph of information because volumes already exist about the subject. What I really want to write about, what I actually NEED to write about, is how I fit into the new world. And yes, I am referring to the strip club as a new world since it came with an entirely new set of laws: of motion, attraction, exponents etc that don't exist in the world I'm used to.

I went naive. Sure I've read a mountain of literature on the subject of stripping, partake in other forms of sex-work, and had an excellent stripper mama at my side, but really, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And really, I was getting myself 'into' it. For seven days Crush and I worked the club, leaving only to eat fast food and sleep. I can't quite say I'm a veteran stripper (these ol' knees aren't quite creaky enough), but I think I interacted with pretty much every kind of patron, manager, and dancer there is, which in one compacted week, is a whole hell of a lot.

On stage at the Lusty Lady peepshow we don't have stripping routines. We might take off a superfluous item of clothing or two but we are essentially naked from the time we start our shifts to the end, continuing our swaying and sache-ing, booty-bumping and grinding from start to finish, pausing only when all the windows are closed and we know no one is looking. At the club everyone is watching like a hawk and I had to learn to walk, talk, and dance sexy and put together from the time I walk into the pit of club until the time I leave, hours later. Most of the time I didn't even try to do the sexy bit, considering I had to incorporate my obvious Bambi standing and near-tumbles, sticking to toothy grins, talking up my newness and my seemingly alien interests and pursuits, and giving more in my lapdances through eye contact and giggling than all the headstands and crotch-to-face splits other girls chose to give.

I'm not much of a hustler. Half the time patrons threw money at me just because I told them as much, choosing to reward my easy dialogue and willingness to just take it all in. Granted, that too is a role that I learned to manipulate to some extent, but overall just being myself seemed to be what it took to pay my expenses and then some. I learned, not so quickly, that being honest and real left me vulnerable to making some real and occasionally intense connections I still don't know what to do with. Making friends with the awkward kid whose friends always left him for dates, experiencing deep seated projections from a solo-woman patron (the only one I met and whom none of the dancers aside from Crush and myself would approach) who wanted to take me home and who I wanted to release wild into San Francisco kink culture, guiltily taking wads of cash and poetic compliments from a hard working Navajo family man who was forced by his wife to go release some steam (though probably not their savings.) After receiving a totally rad bracelet off the wrist of a particularly soulful individual I swore I needed no more mementos from my trip.

While I know I will go back to the club again I can't imagine myself stripping full time. Without the safe barriers of the glass its harder to keep up the fantasy, the always on, always open for business attitude. Though the naivety is less of a hindrance I'm afraid of what may result of my overwhelming openness. Crush taught me to lie about just about everything: my age, my hometown, what I do for work, why I was in town, my sexual fluidity, politics etc. Some things I fudged as safety precautions, but I could not play a different person. I am what I am and I am thankful to those I connected with who were appreciative of that, however there is lots of room to develop the bitter stripper stereotype when everyone  you talk to for hours and hours measures your worth fiscally, even if they are checking out the insides in addition to the exterior. I love sex-work and I don't want to burnout just yet.

To Do List:

- make more clips4sale videos
- finish writing a dirty story
- find songs and work on burlesque act (puppets, crotch, flower hat...)
- get femme parties going
- finish costume for Beer Circus
- set my rat frienemies free
- work on social networking site
- buy more panties
- raise $2000 for Lusty PRIDE float
- do more porn
- crack open the LSAT prep books
- invest in pink typewriter
- organize my boxes of fabric and costumes
- start Queer Pitch
- help more with Velvet
- volunteer somewhere

What I am

I'm the kind of girl that wears my skirts way too high
and my necklines way too low
I wear pink and paisley like I'm off to church
(or getting off at church?)
I wear red lipstick on my lips, my teeth, and sometimes on your cock
I wear high heels for the sound
and boots just to shake, rattle, and roll

I'm the kind of girl who can use a hammer
but gets hot and bothered watching you do it for me
I can play demure or stoic or coy
(read: emphasis on 'play')
I can ride in a car backwards, on curvy roads, with my head in a book
I can do this while not getting motion sickness
and this is kinda the story of my life

I'm the kind of girl that gets caught with my eyes closed
often with my pants down and the flash still burning
I get caught up, tangled in my calendar
(desperately trying to schedule some spontaneity)
I get torn up by the little things, worn out by the big
I get goose flesh fingering textured fabric
and ache for clean cool sheets and soft arms

I'm the kind of girl you can take home to mom
as long as she won't be angry with your choice of girl
You can bring me flowers and other pretty things
(Ill only bemoan my disempowerment a little)
You can fuel my obsessions with what was, what is, what can be
You can give me space to be publicly inappropriate
and room to be someone different tomorrow

"No Rest for the Wicked"

Before leaving for Stripper Paradise I had every intention of writing like mad, sharing story after story about my first experiences in a real strip club. Alas, after working 8+ hour shifts (by choice), leaving in the evening tired, smelly, hungry, both myself and Crush desperately needing to vent to each other about the day's profits and losses, endearing patrons and creeps, and wanting to do nothing more than take a hot bath to sooth our swollen knees and overstimulated minds, I just couldn't physically do it.

Today was my least profitable, least memorable, shortest, and last day in the New Mexican strip club. The game is now old hat, today a blur of yays and nays, grinding and whining, and, surprisingly, I was even approached by a fresh dancer for the strip club low-down. I have certainly learned a lot in the last 7 days, for which I must forever be thankful to my travel companion Crush and my incredible good luck. I boarded a plane, landing in a new city without a money-making back-up plan and hoping to get hired at my audition, going all or nothing.

After a few days of recovery and relaxation I will write more about what I have seen, felt, heard, and inferred within the four dark walls of the typical Southwestern club, but I promise it will take some time. I am exhausted both physically and emotionally, battered and bolstered in ways I never thought possible and now it is time to fly back to my regular crazy life and hope to find some time to process everything I have experienced. As I heard Cage The Elephant sing a thousands times over the past week, "there ain't no rest for the wicked."

Relationship By Choice

For all of you who know me in real life I'm really not into the "hippy-dippy infinite love and world peace for all" zeitgeist, but this is one warm and fuzzy concept I do dig.

Sometimes I think people forget that their commitment to their relationships is a choice. Instigating a relationship does not mean that there is no room for change in its form or appearance and if the relationship no longer works for either parties, whether it be romantic or platonic (and I would even extend this to familial relationships as well but obviously there are other layers going on there too), they have the choice to dissolve the connection.  I am thankful to have met and made connections with many amazing people, to whom I make a conscious effort to acknowledge their graciousness in choosing me to be their partner, lover, or friend, and I hope they do the same for me.

Prior to becoming polyamorous (about this time last year actually!) this concept hadn't even crossed my mind. My partner and I had been together since we were 14 and we both assumed that's how it was and would always be. We locked ourselves into routines, patterns of communication, and ultimatums based upon the "fact" that we had certainly made the choice to get together in the first place, but we never thought of our relationships continuation and the model we followed to be anything more. As I've become more conscious of my own relationships I can't help but notice how other's treat theirs as static, immovable, unquestionable, unbending and overwhelmingly above their own personal growth and independence.

While the human capacity for healthy and loving connections may or may not have a ceiling, we certainly do have logistical limits like time. As a busy woman I have to budget my schedule day-by-day between work, family, friends, and my more intimate relations. I treat my time as precious, which it is as is yours, and only give it to people and projects that I feel are deserving of it and have learned to appropriately and unselfishly drop hindering projects and people out of my budgeting process. Assuming that other's do this at least to some extent I treat other's allowance of their time to me as a special connection, one that they consciously chose, as I have.

Made of Words Questionnaire!

*Spank Spank* Bad Sandy!

I've been meaning to post a link to the questionnaire I filled out for Ali Oh's amazing blog Made of Words! Queer and sex-positivity focused, her blog is super sexy and rad just like her.

Made of Words!



If smarts aren't enough to entice you I promise she's also included a super scandalous photo of model Kitty McMuffin and I.

Going Home

Sometimes I get hungry for "home." Sometimes I get so starved for it that I make believe one exists and I head back to my East Bay home town to visit my family. In my absence my brain likes to create this fictitious place. A place of structure, free and unconditional love, mutual understanding, real "mom" and "dad" relationships that I truly forget never existed in my lifetime.

Weeks away always diminish the reality, which I have to admit isn't all bad or terrible and, considering the extreme conditions other people live in, maybe I shouldn't complain. Time makes me forget the horrible ways my mom and step-dad communicate, the mental hell my mom is experiencing and refusing help for, my brother's obvious need for positive encouragement and stability, their isolation from one another, their continued cohabitation in a house that is no longer a home if it ever was one. They've even given away the dining room table in the last few months.

Driving to my parent's house I pass my old high school (my parent's high school too) where my brother now goes. I pass by restaurants I used to frequent, stores I used to buy school clothes at, hills I used to sit on with friends watching the happenings of the suburb below. When I drive by these things I can't be anything but thankful to be out of this place, but I often feel guilty leaving my parent's house the way it is - empty, loveless, charged. I know there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, but sometimes I get so hungry, so ravenous, that I make believe there once was something palatable.

Hollie Stevens-Breast Cancer Support!

My co-worker Hollie Stevens is kinda amazing. A young porn star, writer, artist, and a kick-boxer among many other things, Hollie is subverted yet able to blend herself into the mainstream and I'm always fascinated by her stories of personal and professional trysts. When I first heard through the grapevine she was making appointments for a growing lump in her breast a couple months ago I couldn't believe that cancer could even be an option given her age and blonde-goddess appeal, but alas, the initial appointment turned into many and breast cancer was finally diagnosed.

As of now I don't know what treatment is going to look like for Hollie Stevens or how much treatment will affect her ability to work. With her permission I am posting links to her blog, so friends and fans can keep themselves updated and send her love directly. I intended to also post a link to Hollie's Breast Cancer Fund, but blogspot won't let me paste the long link into this post (stupid blogspot!): if you go to her blog page all it takes is a simple click to get to her fund. We all know health care is expensive even for not so involved maladies and ailments so PLEASE support -- even small donations add up and can pay for prescriptions, co-payments etc!

The Lusty Lady Makes Me Think of...

1. sexy, smart ladies. Never before have I surrounded myself by so many beautiful, level-headed, intelligent chicks.

2. semen. Really.

3. the most awkward song transitions. Yes, we dance sexy to the Ghost Busters theme, Frank Sinatra, Lil' Kim, and Black Sabbath back-to-back.

4. porn. I swear there is at least one dancer on stage at a time that has done some sort of porn.

5. forced family gatherings. Sometimes our meetings can turn out like big, chaotic family Thanksgivings: sibling rivalry, crazy uncle drunkenly rambling, grandma giving wisdom to the younger generations ... but we all respect each other all the same.

6. whack-a-mole. Friday and Saturday nights, when North Beach gets drunk and rowdy, windows pop up and down, patrons switch windows, and occasionally cause mayhem and we get to try to cover them all.


...this list is never ending. Have anything to add?

Sex-Worker Social Networking

Working in the sex-industry I hear time and again people expressing a desire for some sort of fellowship with other sex-workers for both professional insight and camaraderie. This kind of work can be isolating, with fear of exposure and prejudice keeping many from sharing major parts of their life from even their closest friends and family. Many, like myself and others at the Lusty Lady, create second social networking profiles on websites like facebook and twitter to connect with the outside world and other sex-workers, however the hypersexualization understandably overshadows the persons deeper persona and many are ever mindful of posting too true information, timid of giving patrons too much.


So what about our own social networking site?


While there are a plethora of sex-worker advocacy specialty groups (COYOTE, St. James Infirmary, BAYSWAN etc), they are often disjointed and there is absolutely nothing in terms of mutual social support. The site would allow members (who would be screened for authenticity) to create profiles revealing as little or as much true information about themselves as they would like without fear of discrimination, persecution, unwanted sexual advancements, exposure etc, form groups based around background, interests, and experiences, promote events (social, activist, kink etc), start discussions on public forums, and have private chats with each other.

I believe that having a social networking site like this would build unity in the local sex-worker community across the various profession, age, sexual identity, gender, and race spectrums and will be a valid and useful tool in forming and boosting social and personal identity, increasing sex-worker companionship and support, and holding space for sex-worker activist groups and resources.

Recently speaking with one of the leaders of SWOP (Sex Worker Outreach Project) Bay Area chapter I found that once upon a time there once was a social networking site catering to SWOP members on a national level. While I believe their attempts at a national unity are ambitious and awe inspiring I feel like the only way to successfully build such an intricate forum is to go another route, basing the membership first on location, as opposed to whether or not the person is affiliated with that specific group (whose work or ideals an individual may not claim), gender, or type of sex-work (like another national site does), prompting people to form tangible and lasting connections in a more grassroots way.

Within the nest couple of weeks I will be meeting up with the Bay Area SWOP membership again soon and will start the process of applying for grants.

Anyone with any interest, fears, advice, or questions please message me! All of our voices are important.