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.