Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 143
October 17, 2011
Why You Should Care That Alexis Stewart Has Sex on the First Date, and is Proud of It
This is a post about sex on the first date...and it isn't. It is in the sense that it was inspired by the chapter "Should Sex Ever Involve Food?" in
Whateverland: Learning to Live Here
by Alexis Stewart and Jennifer Koppelman Hutt, which opens with sex on the first date, but the broader topic is about whether you should have sex to please yourself or whether you should have sex to please a host of other people and entities you want to impress: your partner, your friends, your parents, your religion, your employer, your society.
I'm pretty sure a hell of a lot of people privilege one of the latter over the former, because as someone who's tried my best to follow what I've felt was right, whether that involved my heart or my libido or my mind or actually none of those, I've senses, explicitly and implicitly, the questions of "But shouldn't you be worried about ___?" or, basically, you're doing it wrong. There is so much judgment and shaming around sex, and it doesn't take much to scratch the surface of our facade of live and let live. Don't use condoms (or any birth control)? Have sex on the first date? Like almost any kind of kinky sex, especially if you're a woman, especially if you're submissive? Like cross-dressing? Dare to question the gender binary? Wear inappropriate clothing? Are a sex worker, or in any way mix sex and money (cue my mom telling me she'd "support me if I needed help leaving the porn industry" - hi, hours of therapy). I could go on. There is also a tendency to be utterly narcissistic readers, to look at any first-person statements about sex, whether it's my "Uncut cocks don't look sexual or arousing to me" (see Jewcy) or questioning whether facials (aka, someone coming on your face) are demeaning or posting a photo post-facial or an admission of not being utterly perfect with birth control and make it all about them. "But you should ____" Because I say so, is basically the "reasoning," and I find it sad that many people are on a mission to make sex so boring that it is exactly the same in every home.
The point is, I'm so glad that someone prominent is gutsy enough to simply own liking, preferring, having sex on the first date and that her friend and co-author, Jennifer Koppelman Hutt (who is married to a man) deliberately didn't have sex on the first date, but is not shaming Alexis Stewart in the book. Alexis Stewart writes, "To me, if you're not going to have sex on a first date, then I don't understand the point of the date. What better way is there to get to know someone than by having sex? If you don't have sex on the first date, it means you don't like the person enough to have sex And having sex on the first date doesn't mean the relationship won't last. Every single guy I've ever dated I've slept with (or the equivalent) on the first date." Then Jennifer Koppelman Hunt writes that she couldn't have sex on the first date (she's married now) "because I couldn't separate sex from love...If sex isn't a big deal for you, then have sex as often and as much as you want. But if you're someone who can't disconnect sex from emotional attachment, then you have to be careful, and maybe it's better to wait. Not because he's not going to want to be in a relationship with you now that he's slept with you, but because it's not something you can handle." She later writes about slut shaming and while this isn't about sex on the first date, I think it's an important message: "I didn't have sex with a lot of guys when I was dating because I didn't want to, and it took years before I had great sex and felt liberated and able to own my sexuality. You need that kind of experience before you get married, because if you've never experienced great sexual chemistry with someone, then how do you know?"
They are agreeing to have different approaches and not privileging one over the other. It's not the differing approaches I object to, it's the privileging, shaming, judging. It makes me cringe because not only is it so mightier-than-thou, it's not helpful if your true goal is to get people to change their ways (which I would hope your true goal isn't, but still). And while the examples I wrote about above are coming from the dominant culture's view of sexuality, I must add that it's not only the dominant culture that can assert its sexual hierarchies. I wrote in my column "The Non-Consensual Play Party Voyeur," about attending a play party where I felt pressured to engage in sexual activity, was simply handed a rope and became part of a BDSM scene that I in no way whatsoever wanted any part of (and wasn't even told exactly what was happening, thereby creating an unsafe environment for the woman whose leg the rope was attached to), "Despite the supposedly laissez-faire, anything-goes, no-pressure attitude, there are people who do think you're fair game if you even set foot in such an event."
I'm not saying I'm immune to it either. There have been times in my life when I abstained from first date sex on purpose because I had enjoyed it and thought I was building something with someone only to have them never talk to me again. As I headed into 2006 I wrote the Village Voice column "New Year's Sexolutions" and wrote:
4. Save sex for date two, or later. Much as the outspoken, sex-positive, feminist side of me wants to say that girls can be just as voracious as guys, I've noticed that hopping into bed on the first date hasn't brought success for me. It's not inevitable, but especially when drinking's involved, it seems to jump-start the nascent relationship too early. The sex may still be awesome, but it's the next few days of "Should I contact him? What does he mean by 'busy'?" post-hookup confusion that makes first-date sex more trouble than it's worth. There's a line in the band Sarge's song "Clearer" that goes, "Now I mark each new morning by whose bed I climbed out of last," and every time I hear it, I remember what that was like, when I got off more on the fact of bedding new partners than on what I actually did with them. I'd rather go for quality over quantity; hopefully, waiting, even just one night, will be worth it.
But I think there's a difference between making your own informed choice and only doing something because it's what's expected. My reasons have differed over the years, and trying to parse that line of your own choice vs. what others expect is challenging, but worth it. Which brings me to a book that will help you examine those forces and make those choices...
In her excellent new book What You Really Really Want: The Smart Girl's Shame-Free Guide to Sex and Safety, which I highly recommend, Jaclyn Friedman encourages readers to write a mission statement and talks about the "Terrible Trio" of "shame, blame, and fear" and how we often react to them by pulling away from our own desires and kowtowing to what others want and expect of us. She writes:
It's important to know that we all want "wrong" things at one point or another. Our cultusre's standard of what's acceptable sexual behavior for women is so narrow it's impossible to live up to. So if you find yourself fearing your own desires because you think they're "wrong," the best thing to do is take the time to figure out which kind of "wrong" they are. Specifically, you want to ask yourself: If I acted on this desire, would anyone get hurt? If so, who and why?
That is an intelligent, sensible, self-centered (not in the obnoxious way, in the taking-care-of-yourself way) approach to the topic, and any time you have someone dictating from on high how long you should wait before having sex or how many partners is too few or too many or what kinds of sex acts are right or wrong, you have a problem. In the wake of What's Your Number? there's been both criticism of the concept as well as these "whatever number you have is okay" type pieces, and yet there is still an idea that, especially for women, you can have a number that's too high, that means there's something wrong with you.
So the point is not what you personally think about sex on a first date, facials, play parties, etc., but whether you assume everyone should act the way you do. It doesn't mean you have to want to date or sleep with or even be friends with someone who does something you're not into, but that you don't assume that your opinion is better than someone else's opinion. It's not.
I'm pretty sure a hell of a lot of people privilege one of the latter over the former, because as someone who's tried my best to follow what I've felt was right, whether that involved my heart or my libido or my mind or actually none of those, I've senses, explicitly and implicitly, the questions of "But shouldn't you be worried about ___?" or, basically, you're doing it wrong. There is so much judgment and shaming around sex, and it doesn't take much to scratch the surface of our facade of live and let live. Don't use condoms (or any birth control)? Have sex on the first date? Like almost any kind of kinky sex, especially if you're a woman, especially if you're submissive? Like cross-dressing? Dare to question the gender binary? Wear inappropriate clothing? Are a sex worker, or in any way mix sex and money (cue my mom telling me she'd "support me if I needed help leaving the porn industry" - hi, hours of therapy). I could go on. There is also a tendency to be utterly narcissistic readers, to look at any first-person statements about sex, whether it's my "Uncut cocks don't look sexual or arousing to me" (see Jewcy) or questioning whether facials (aka, someone coming on your face) are demeaning or posting a photo post-facial or an admission of not being utterly perfect with birth control and make it all about them. "But you should ____" Because I say so, is basically the "reasoning," and I find it sad that many people are on a mission to make sex so boring that it is exactly the same in every home.
The point is, I'm so glad that someone prominent is gutsy enough to simply own liking, preferring, having sex on the first date and that her friend and co-author, Jennifer Koppelman Hutt (who is married to a man) deliberately didn't have sex on the first date, but is not shaming Alexis Stewart in the book. Alexis Stewart writes, "To me, if you're not going to have sex on a first date, then I don't understand the point of the date. What better way is there to get to know someone than by having sex? If you don't have sex on the first date, it means you don't like the person enough to have sex And having sex on the first date doesn't mean the relationship won't last. Every single guy I've ever dated I've slept with (or the equivalent) on the first date." Then Jennifer Koppelman Hunt writes that she couldn't have sex on the first date (she's married now) "because I couldn't separate sex from love...If sex isn't a big deal for you, then have sex as often and as much as you want. But if you're someone who can't disconnect sex from emotional attachment, then you have to be careful, and maybe it's better to wait. Not because he's not going to want to be in a relationship with you now that he's slept with you, but because it's not something you can handle." She later writes about slut shaming and while this isn't about sex on the first date, I think it's an important message: "I didn't have sex with a lot of guys when I was dating because I didn't want to, and it took years before I had great sex and felt liberated and able to own my sexuality. You need that kind of experience before you get married, because if you've never experienced great sexual chemistry with someone, then how do you know?"
They are agreeing to have different approaches and not privileging one over the other. It's not the differing approaches I object to, it's the privileging, shaming, judging. It makes me cringe because not only is it so mightier-than-thou, it's not helpful if your true goal is to get people to change their ways (which I would hope your true goal isn't, but still). And while the examples I wrote about above are coming from the dominant culture's view of sexuality, I must add that it's not only the dominant culture that can assert its sexual hierarchies. I wrote in my column "The Non-Consensual Play Party Voyeur," about attending a play party where I felt pressured to engage in sexual activity, was simply handed a rope and became part of a BDSM scene that I in no way whatsoever wanted any part of (and wasn't even told exactly what was happening, thereby creating an unsafe environment for the woman whose leg the rope was attached to), "Despite the supposedly laissez-faire, anything-goes, no-pressure attitude, there are people who do think you're fair game if you even set foot in such an event."
I'm not saying I'm immune to it either. There have been times in my life when I abstained from first date sex on purpose because I had enjoyed it and thought I was building something with someone only to have them never talk to me again. As I headed into 2006 I wrote the Village Voice column "New Year's Sexolutions" and wrote:
4. Save sex for date two, or later. Much as the outspoken, sex-positive, feminist side of me wants to say that girls can be just as voracious as guys, I've noticed that hopping into bed on the first date hasn't brought success for me. It's not inevitable, but especially when drinking's involved, it seems to jump-start the nascent relationship too early. The sex may still be awesome, but it's the next few days of "Should I contact him? What does he mean by 'busy'?" post-hookup confusion that makes first-date sex more trouble than it's worth. There's a line in the band Sarge's song "Clearer" that goes, "Now I mark each new morning by whose bed I climbed out of last," and every time I hear it, I remember what that was like, when I got off more on the fact of bedding new partners than on what I actually did with them. I'd rather go for quality over quantity; hopefully, waiting, even just one night, will be worth it.
But I think there's a difference between making your own informed choice and only doing something because it's what's expected. My reasons have differed over the years, and trying to parse that line of your own choice vs. what others expect is challenging, but worth it. Which brings me to a book that will help you examine those forces and make those choices...
In her excellent new book What You Really Really Want: The Smart Girl's Shame-Free Guide to Sex and Safety, which I highly recommend, Jaclyn Friedman encourages readers to write a mission statement and talks about the "Terrible Trio" of "shame, blame, and fear" and how we often react to them by pulling away from our own desires and kowtowing to what others want and expect of us. She writes:
It's important to know that we all want "wrong" things at one point or another. Our cultusre's standard of what's acceptable sexual behavior for women is so narrow it's impossible to live up to. So if you find yourself fearing your own desires because you think they're "wrong," the best thing to do is take the time to figure out which kind of "wrong" they are. Specifically, you want to ask yourself: If I acted on this desire, would anyone get hurt? If so, who and why?
That is an intelligent, sensible, self-centered (not in the obnoxious way, in the taking-care-of-yourself way) approach to the topic, and any time you have someone dictating from on high how long you should wait before having sex or how many partners is too few or too many or what kinds of sex acts are right or wrong, you have a problem. In the wake of What's Your Number? there's been both criticism of the concept as well as these "whatever number you have is okay" type pieces, and yet there is still an idea that, especially for women, you can have a number that's too high, that means there's something wrong with you.
So the point is not what you personally think about sex on a first date, facials, play parties, etc., but whether you assume everyone should act the way you do. It doesn't mean you have to want to date or sleep with or even be friends with someone who does something you're not into, but that you don't assume that your opinion is better than someone else's opinion. It's not.
October 16, 2011
5 Things I've Given Up Since Becoming Self-Employed
My next post will be about 5 things I've continued to invest in, that are worth it to me in this age of belt-tightening, but here are 5 things I've given up since becoming self-employed:
Therapy: One of the first people I contacted was my therapist, to cancel that week's upcoming appointment, and all subsequent ones. I was barely affording the out of pocket $150/week as it was, but I was loath to find someone in my insurance's network because I clicked with my therapist and had already shared and been through so much with her. The idea of starting over was daunting to the point of not being worth it. Funnily enough, I knew I'd be seeing family members and others I'd discussed in therapy for a while, and it felt like an opportunity to learn how to be a grownup, to learn how to handle possible adversity with grace, and I think I did, to the best of my abilities. It will take a little getting used to, and I in all likelihood will return when I am able, but I think I'm making pretty good strides on my own, which is an accomplishment for me in and of itself. This also means, unless I find I can't function without them, giving up the Ritalin I'd been using, since I can't afford another pricey doctor visit. It's possible I could find someone using whatever insurance I now have, but I am terrible with all forms of paperwork and don't think I'd have the time or energy at the moment to wade through that. I still have some Wellbutrin left and am hoping it's not a giant hassle to get more. If it is, I would consider springing for a doctor visit since I do need that to keep me earning money by writing and editing and generally getting out of bed.
Personal training: I had a few more training sessions left that I'd purchased from New York Sports Club, with a trainer I've enjoyed but I wasn't sure I'd continue with anyway. I've found that for me, measuring my BMI only leads me to either become obsessive and depressed about its numbers, neither of which help encourage me in a healthy way to eat more wholesomely or exercise further. I simply cannot afford the indulgence of pricey training, though I am thinking of looking into working out in a park with some friends who recommend the classes there. I do like the individual attention, but have found an inner resource of discipline I didn't have before, and have been running more consistently, in part to get my money's worth out of my gym membership, and in part to relieve stress and tension.
Travel (mostly): I love traveling; it's what keeps me sane when NYC gets to be too much for me, which is all the time, and gives me a chance to see old friends, make new ones, discover deliciousness like Sweet Iron Waffles in Seattle, and contemplate whether I could actually live in whatever city I'm visiting. I find that I see more art and explore more and just look around in a different way when I'm out of my home environment. I would still like to go to Iceland and Korea in 2012, in addition to our Cupcake Cruise to Bermuda, but for now those plans are on hold. I already have a ticket to Scottsdale for two weeks from now, and I'm hoping to still go to Portland, Maine, since it's cheap and I could use a little escape, and my uncle may get me a ticket to LA for Thanksgiving, but other than that, I'm using this extended time at home to work on clearing out my home. Perhaps if it was more livable of a space I wouldn't feel the desire to travel so much; or maybe it'll be a way to incorporate writing into my traveling and find a way to sell stories and thus support my travel habit. I'm not ruling out travel entirely but I feel extremely foolish for having, say, gone to London this year and wasted oodles of money, supposedly in the name of readings but I handled that extremely poorly. I know I cannot afford to fly anywhere just for readings or book events, because my money would be much, much better spent on promotions that reach more people. I will have to see if I can afford to visit the Bay Area as I'd planned in the spring to meet with my publishers in person and do some events, but it will have to be much more considered than my previous wasteful, haphazard arrangements.
Theater: Save for a ticket I had already bought, I'm forgoing the membership I was going to buy to The Rattlestick (mainly because I want to see Jesse Eisenberg's Asuncion, but also because I like being exposed to things I wouldn't otherwise see because I've committed to them, even when it turns out, like at Second Stage this last season, I'm not overly impressed). I do still want to continue trying to go to at least one theater show per month (hopefully going to The Lyons with my mom as a birthday present next month, but we're aiming for rush tickets), but I can't afford to pay more than $25/show. Hopefully if my finances improve this will change, as I've been lucky enough to see shows at Berkeley Rep, Seattle Rep, ACT, Rattlestick, The Public Theater, Second Stage (both theaters) and perhaps somewhere I'm forgetting this year. I love that New York has so much free and cheap comedy and other entertainment
Birth control: I know this is a hot topic this week, and will probably address is separately, but my new financial circumstances solidified my decision to forgo wasting $50/month on birth control. Why "wasting?" Well, on the rare occasion I might be having possibly procreative sex these days, I plan to use condoms. I had already decided to go off NuvaRing; my doctor said if I don't need the hormones, there's no point in adding them to my body. I did like the regulation of my period NuvaRing provided, and the added backup, and in the crazy wackadoo chance I wind up engaging in ongoing sexual activity where this might be an issue, I could conceivably (ha!) afford the $50 a month, but I'd really rather not. And while some argue that a manfriend should pay for birth control, I don't think I'd feel comfortable with that. Condoms, yes, but my birth control, not so much.
Therapy: One of the first people I contacted was my therapist, to cancel that week's upcoming appointment, and all subsequent ones. I was barely affording the out of pocket $150/week as it was, but I was loath to find someone in my insurance's network because I clicked with my therapist and had already shared and been through so much with her. The idea of starting over was daunting to the point of not being worth it. Funnily enough, I knew I'd be seeing family members and others I'd discussed in therapy for a while, and it felt like an opportunity to learn how to be a grownup, to learn how to handle possible adversity with grace, and I think I did, to the best of my abilities. It will take a little getting used to, and I in all likelihood will return when I am able, but I think I'm making pretty good strides on my own, which is an accomplishment for me in and of itself. This also means, unless I find I can't function without them, giving up the Ritalin I'd been using, since I can't afford another pricey doctor visit. It's possible I could find someone using whatever insurance I now have, but I am terrible with all forms of paperwork and don't think I'd have the time or energy at the moment to wade through that. I still have some Wellbutrin left and am hoping it's not a giant hassle to get more. If it is, I would consider springing for a doctor visit since I do need that to keep me earning money by writing and editing and generally getting out of bed.
Personal training: I had a few more training sessions left that I'd purchased from New York Sports Club, with a trainer I've enjoyed but I wasn't sure I'd continue with anyway. I've found that for me, measuring my BMI only leads me to either become obsessive and depressed about its numbers, neither of which help encourage me in a healthy way to eat more wholesomely or exercise further. I simply cannot afford the indulgence of pricey training, though I am thinking of looking into working out in a park with some friends who recommend the classes there. I do like the individual attention, but have found an inner resource of discipline I didn't have before, and have been running more consistently, in part to get my money's worth out of my gym membership, and in part to relieve stress and tension.
Travel (mostly): I love traveling; it's what keeps me sane when NYC gets to be too much for me, which is all the time, and gives me a chance to see old friends, make new ones, discover deliciousness like Sweet Iron Waffles in Seattle, and contemplate whether I could actually live in whatever city I'm visiting. I find that I see more art and explore more and just look around in a different way when I'm out of my home environment. I would still like to go to Iceland and Korea in 2012, in addition to our Cupcake Cruise to Bermuda, but for now those plans are on hold. I already have a ticket to Scottsdale for two weeks from now, and I'm hoping to still go to Portland, Maine, since it's cheap and I could use a little escape, and my uncle may get me a ticket to LA for Thanksgiving, but other than that, I'm using this extended time at home to work on clearing out my home. Perhaps if it was more livable of a space I wouldn't feel the desire to travel so much; or maybe it'll be a way to incorporate writing into my traveling and find a way to sell stories and thus support my travel habit. I'm not ruling out travel entirely but I feel extremely foolish for having, say, gone to London this year and wasted oodles of money, supposedly in the name of readings but I handled that extremely poorly. I know I cannot afford to fly anywhere just for readings or book events, because my money would be much, much better spent on promotions that reach more people. I will have to see if I can afford to visit the Bay Area as I'd planned in the spring to meet with my publishers in person and do some events, but it will have to be much more considered than my previous wasteful, haphazard arrangements.
Theater: Save for a ticket I had already bought, I'm forgoing the membership I was going to buy to The Rattlestick (mainly because I want to see Jesse Eisenberg's Asuncion, but also because I like being exposed to things I wouldn't otherwise see because I've committed to them, even when it turns out, like at Second Stage this last season, I'm not overly impressed). I do still want to continue trying to go to at least one theater show per month (hopefully going to The Lyons with my mom as a birthday present next month, but we're aiming for rush tickets), but I can't afford to pay more than $25/show. Hopefully if my finances improve this will change, as I've been lucky enough to see shows at Berkeley Rep, Seattle Rep, ACT, Rattlestick, The Public Theater, Second Stage (both theaters) and perhaps somewhere I'm forgetting this year. I love that New York has so much free and cheap comedy and other entertainment
Birth control: I know this is a hot topic this week, and will probably address is separately, but my new financial circumstances solidified my decision to forgo wasting $50/month on birth control. Why "wasting?" Well, on the rare occasion I might be having possibly procreative sex these days, I plan to use condoms. I had already decided to go off NuvaRing; my doctor said if I don't need the hormones, there's no point in adding them to my body. I did like the regulation of my period NuvaRing provided, and the added backup, and in the crazy wackadoo chance I wind up engaging in ongoing sexual activity where this might be an issue, I could conceivably (ha!) afford the $50 a month, but I'd really rather not. And while some argue that a manfriend should pay for birth control, I don't think I'd feel comfortable with that. Condoms, yes, but my birth control, not so much.
October 15, 2011
Some thoughts on seeing The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs for the second time
photo by Robert Cheng/CNET
I saw this sign posted in a CNET News live blog about the new iPhone, and I couldn't help but think that 34 hours is the same amount of hours a worker at Foxconn worked in a row before dying, as discussed by Mike Daisey, who was in China while this occurred, in The Agony and The Exstasy of Steve Jobs, which I saw on Thursday at The Public Theater. And I think that's exactly the connection is meant to be making in the wake of seeing the show. First let me say that I'm in now way a theater critic and am just sharing my own highly subjective thoughts on seeing the piece on two random nights in two different cities, Berkeley, and New York, and, in what I believe are two slightly different climates.
The connection to me seems especially apt because one of the sub-themes of the show, next to Steve Jobs' career ascent and Apple's rise and fall and rise, and the working conditions as Foxconn, is the culture of fandom Apple created, as evidenced by Daisey's personal story and, if anyone's been reading any of the gushing tributes to Jobs, many, many fans. It's hard to look at the 14-year-old girl in my People magazine and not think of the 14-year-olds described in the show.
I barely knew a thing about Steve Jobs' life and am not all that interested; the most irksome aspect of the coverage I've seen is the disgusting, outdated use of "illegitimate child" by mainstream media to describe his daughter Lisa Brennan-Jobs, as if we are not living in 2011, which solidified for me the extremely central place heterosexual marriage continues to have in determining who is worthwhile, and who isn't.
I'm also not one of the aforementioned Apple fans; I use Apple products, namely my MacBook Pro, which I purchased in January in Emeryville one day after seeing the show, so that I could use Skype, and my iPhone, but I would certainly call myself more an Apple user than an Apple fan. I was curious to see the show again both to see how it had changed and to perhaps instill in myself some sense of what I can do in terms of this issue. We bought our tickets several weeks ago, so before Steve Jobs died, and that certainly added a different twist to the show. I would also recommend attending with someone who's been to China and Shenzhen, as I did, just for a little extra detail, not necessarily related to the labor issue.
So there were two major things I noted that were different, and again, these may or may not be what anyone else took away as the salient points, but they struck me. I don't have the world's best memory so the things that stand out for me after a performance are usually either overall impressions or precise lines, and two that I remember from the first performance were Daisey asking, "Do you really think they don't know?" (or perhaps it was "Apple doesn't know," but that is indeed the "they" he is talking about). To my recollection, in January it was delivered not so much as a question but rather an extremely angry taunt to the audience, after we'd just heard about some of the horrors of the working conditions. If anything it was almost rhetorical, as if anyone who could legitimately answer "No, I don't think they know" were simply ignoring the obvious. This time, the question was asked more softly, but no less genuinely. It turned the query back onto the audience, prompting us to genuinely consider whether a company so careful about every other detail could have overlooked things like its own supplier responsibility reports. The question took on added weight now, with even more press in the subsequent nine months about these working conditions. Both deliveries were effective, but I think the quieter tone, one similar to the one used in the new ending I saw, about Jobs' death, is more eerie, more haunting. It's perhaps more weary, but it is a question I think is at the heart of the show and this issue, with the next unasked question being if Apple does know, what, if anything, they plan to do about it, whether they plan to think differently than their business peers who've also set up shop in China (or Brazil, or wherever, though the show is focused on China), or not.
Speaking of which, another target of the show that obviously didn't exist in January was Wired's Joel Johnson March 2011 cover story on Foxconn, which, while noting the suicides, generally summed up the issue by saying that it sucks to work at a factory, but this factory not so much more than any other (my summary). I vaguely recall the tech press coming in for a bit more scrutiny in January, but I can't say that for sure.
The other line that I recall extremely clearly from Berkeley was Daisey telling us that if he shared everything he heard in Shenzhen, we would close our ears. That too was delivered with ire, almost as if he were upset about suppressing whatever he was holding back, and I think that statement is something that can apply to almost any injustice being spoken about. There is a limit to our being able to take in this kind of information, and I don't think that is all down to greed or indifference. I think there are many reasons we, and I'm speaking beyond a theatrical audience but to we as humans, would close our eyes and ears. I don't say that to absolve myself from all that I'm not doing, but simply to say that there is a point where we all have to choose to focus on either a single set of issues or one particular issue or our immediate lives to the exclusion of even issues we care about.
But still that line stayed with me, and the question of whether Steve Jobs "closed his ears," whether he either didn't know, or knew some things, or knew and didn't do anything about it, or some other option that hasn't been publicly revealed yet, is a question, though perhaps the more relevant question is what Apple and other electronics companies will now do. One criticism I've seen repeatedly is that Apple is not the only huge corporation in China utilizing workers under such conditions and that people are lining up for and eager for these jobs. Both of those statements may be true but I don't think that even if they are they negate the issues of people dying of overwork or committing public suicides or being unable to claim their overtime. The show is an exploration of how these products are made, literally, in factories, as well as how they are dreamt up, at some of the vision behind their creation, and connects the two, and asks its audience to connect the two as well.
Regarding the "they'd close their ears," I wrote the above and then checked my post on that show to find that what I remember hearing is actually "you'd close your fucking ears" and I think my summary then is an apt summary for my thoughts know, except that I obviously did want to know more than I didn't want to, because I've been reading and following the story since then. I don't have much to say beyond that, but I do highly recommend seeing it, Apple fan or not (but especially for the Apple fans).
Coming on the heels of a story about a worker whose hand was fused together building an iPad, yeah, that's pretty chilling. It made me want to know and, I will fully admit, not want to know. I'm still pretty awed by the fact that there were no photos shown, nothing but words, but the images I was left with were frightening and sad and again, that dichotomy, that reality that even the LED screens lighting up the stage were likely made in the places being talked about.
October 13, 2011
difficult conversations
You're sitting in the front row, listening raptly, when the author mentions a tattoo and suddenly, you are no longer there. There are tears threatening the corners of your eyes; you'd thought those days were over. The word has transported you back into a hallway, your hallway. You're wearing this same lacy dress and facing the wall as it's unzipped, flapping open, the air rushing in. You'd changed out of the dress with the scoop neck and scoop back you bought during cherry blossom season at the last minute, wanting to make the night special.
You are there in your heels and you are close, so close you can almost taste it, to going farther. You don't have time to wonder what will happen if you do, plus you've already spent more than enough time picturing that. You are suspended there, waiting to see what you will do, wanting to both rewind and fast forward. Instead you burst into tears, ones you can't hide like the ones you did earlier, wiping them away with the sleeve of your arm. They are there between you and the one promise you'd made to yourself is gone. You wish you were better at hiding.
Actually, no; it's not the only promise, just the only one you've betrayed. You'd promised yourself there'd be no difficult conversations, so instead, there were tepid, tiptoeing ones. You get your wish only to find that maybe you should've been more careful. This promise you manage to keep into infinity, as if difficult conversations, not silence, equaled death. You hate that you cannot control yourself perhaps more than you hate anything else about yourself, and yet after, when you turn around, your face betraying you, is, perversely, a moment you wish you could return to.
You think about another hallway, one where you stood in a magenta blouse and leather skirt and bare legs and you did hold it together, meeting icy chilly calm with your own brand of precise hollow neutrality. That is not a difficult conversation; it is barely a conversation at all. You were so proud then, to be able to stand and smile and nod like a stranger, and you wonder if you will again, if that's what you are now, strangers, and if not, how you can get there.
And then you are back, as best you can be, startled into the now, longing to leap far, far into the future, into a better brain, a smarter heart. For those moments, you forget about the names that have haunted you for weeks, the genius you know you will never possess, all the ways you wish you could compete, but will never be able to. You've tried to push that girl in those hallways into a corner, store her away in a box like all the rest of your discarded belongings. You hate dragging her around inside you like a naïve ghost waiting to reveal herself at only the most inopportune moments. You hope she will die a quick death, and fast. You wonder about the best way to make her expire, wish you could hold her up to a flame and burn her before your eyes, watch as she vanishes into smoke. Masochistic, perhaps, but satisfying. You know, though, that she will move at her own pace, and you must simply be prepared as you sit, legs crossed, head up, and wait.
You are there in your heels and you are close, so close you can almost taste it, to going farther. You don't have time to wonder what will happen if you do, plus you've already spent more than enough time picturing that. You are suspended there, waiting to see what you will do, wanting to both rewind and fast forward. Instead you burst into tears, ones you can't hide like the ones you did earlier, wiping them away with the sleeve of your arm. They are there between you and the one promise you'd made to yourself is gone. You wish you were better at hiding.
Actually, no; it's not the only promise, just the only one you've betrayed. You'd promised yourself there'd be no difficult conversations, so instead, there were tepid, tiptoeing ones. You get your wish only to find that maybe you should've been more careful. This promise you manage to keep into infinity, as if difficult conversations, not silence, equaled death. You hate that you cannot control yourself perhaps more than you hate anything else about yourself, and yet after, when you turn around, your face betraying you, is, perversely, a moment you wish you could return to.
You think about another hallway, one where you stood in a magenta blouse and leather skirt and bare legs and you did hold it together, meeting icy chilly calm with your own brand of precise hollow neutrality. That is not a difficult conversation; it is barely a conversation at all. You were so proud then, to be able to stand and smile and nod like a stranger, and you wonder if you will again, if that's what you are now, strangers, and if not, how you can get there.
And then you are back, as best you can be, startled into the now, longing to leap far, far into the future, into a better brain, a smarter heart. For those moments, you forget about the names that have haunted you for weeks, the genius you know you will never possess, all the ways you wish you could compete, but will never be able to. You've tried to push that girl in those hallways into a corner, store her away in a box like all the rest of your discarded belongings. You hate dragging her around inside you like a naïve ghost waiting to reveal herself at only the most inopportune moments. You hope she will die a quick death, and fast. You wonder about the best way to make her expire, wish you could hold her up to a flame and burn her before your eyes, watch as she vanishes into smoke. Masochistic, perhaps, but satisfying. You know, though, that she will move at her own pace, and you must simply be prepared as you sit, legs crossed, head up, and wait.
October 12, 2011
Why I Turned Down $3,000 To Be on a Reality TV Show
In August, I wrote about hoarding in a personal essay for Salon's Mortifying Disclosures section. I'd been debating between cyberstalking and hoarding as my most mortifying disclosures, and went with what I considered the mosre unusual and the more treacherous for me. I received mostly positive feedback to the piece, including some from people I greatly admire (no, I did not read the comments, but a friend read a few aloud to me, including the ones about, sadly and predictably, people who wanted to spank me).
I wound up going on a radio show based on that article and then I was contacted by a reality show, expressing interest in having me on as a guest. I was honored, and intrigued by the fact that I could've made a significant amount more than I was commissioned for the essay, not to mention received organizing services (something I've been paying for piecemeal when I can afford it) something that I think signifies a lot about our media consumption. I eagerly answered their questions, rounded up a friend who might appear to give an assessment, and started to think about what it might really be like to have my every stray pair of underwear, towering stack of books, sex toys, dust bunnies and whatever other detritus I own beamed into conceivably millions of homes.
I don't own a TV and watch very few shows. The ones I do watch are mainly via Netflix rentals, hotel visits, airplane rides and visits to friends. For me, being published at an esteemed site like Salon, which I've been reading for a very long time, was a huge honor. Being on TV would be exciting but also felt a little removed; since I don't watch TV, I have little sense of how many people do watch. It seemed to me like something that happens in some tucked-away corner of the world, even though that equation is actually hugely distorted. Sad as it is to admit, I know it's us readers who are in the minority.
Last year, I flew on my own dime to Los Angeles to appear as a judge on a cooking show. It was a little nervewracking but mostly excited, and it was over almost before it started. I didn't have to worry as much about "being myself" because all I was doing was smiling at the camera and tasting some mini cupcakes (although I did get one of my favorite pieces of hate mail ever calling me "piggish" for licking my fingers after I ate).
The irony of turning down this show about hoarding was that a little while later I found myself without the cushion of a full-time job. Would I have made a different decision if I'd known how that would turn out? I'm not sure. It's very tempting, because turning down money, wherever its source, feels like telling the universe I don't care about paying off my gigantic debts or any kind of financial security. It feels like hubris of the highest order; who am I to be picky, to write for a very small fraction of that fee, or, ahem, blog here for free, but turn down something lucrative?
Many friends and advisers had strong, anti-reality TV reactions. "You won't have any control," the said. "It's exploitative." "They can make you seem any way they want." All true, but those were not reasons that seemed convincing to me. Of course reality TV has an angle; don't we all? Yes, it's edited, but don't we all edit ourselves, presenting our best, or sometimes our worst, selves, or some part of a persona to person X, another part to person Y? That seems to me part of being human. I get that the difference is that when we do it, we are in control of what side of ourselves to show, while an editor can manipulate even the parts of you that you've chosen to present and twist the context. I still think that the risks would have been worth it, for me. Some people are extremely private about most aspects of their lives, but I'm not one of them. For me the catharsis of admitting my biggest flaws and then connecting with others who either share them, as happened with my hoarding essay, or have something useful to offer, outweighs the specter of judgment.
Ultimately, my reasoning was about a much more basic level of self-preservation. I didn't want to have to ask my landlord to sign a legal release that, despite seeming innocuous, was still something I'd have been hesitant to sign myself., and thereby reveal something that might jeopardize my housing. I don't have a Plan B about where to live, and because of my possessions, it would take a few months to even get everything boxed up, unless I were to toss it all in a dumpster.
But back to the legal form…There's something about saying "I promise not to ____" that makes even the least skeptical person, who had never even suspected ____ was possible, read a phrase like that and immediately think "I wonder if they will actually do ____ and if they do, what will happen." Despite having attended three years of law school, contracts make me nervous. The formality of their language is by its nature intimidating. It's not the way we naturally speak, and sometimes seems deliberately designed to obfuscate the truth, requiring a translation. Don't get me wrong; I sign contracts all the time, but I am aware of their limitations.
I'm not a fan of flowery, academic or overly wordy language. I've started reading books and put them down in part because they were over my head, and in part because I felt like they were trying to reach a limited audience simply by their highfalutin language. Me? My dream is to write a novel that is sold in airport bookstores. While much of what I write is also not going to appeal to the masses (bondage and spanking erotica, anyone?), the language itself is not trying to hide anything.
I don't know what would have happened if I'd agreed to take part in the show, aside from having two months' worth of rent in my pocket and a cleaner home. Would I have gotten recognized on the street as "that girl with the messy apartment?" Would I have somehow placed myself out of another opportunity waiting in the wings? Would it have led to a memoir about being a (former) hoarder?
Soon after, I was approached by another show, this one a tattoo reality show. I had already decided to get a second tattoo sometime in November to celebrate my birthday, so I expressed interest. However, on this show, there not only isn't any payment, participants pay for their own tattoos, in effect coughing up cash for the chance to be on television and be inked by a famous, and presumably more expensive than average, tattoo artist. No thank you.
Don't get me wrong, reality TV producers of America: I'd love to be on TV, partly because I am, after all, an attention whore, and partly because I think that the very process of giving up control would be a major lesson for someone who's as much of a control freak as it's possible to be in this world. There are moments in my life when I can step back from being my typically vain, self-conscious self and think, That would be funny, like when I struggle to get on the subway with four gargantuan bags and have to either maneuver sideways to get my backpack in or slip some of them under the turnstile. Other moments are darker but no less dramatic, like looking up at a subway marquee and seeing the name of the one person I'm trying to get over, as if to remind me that they are forever and always ubiquitous and my efforts in moving on will always be futile.
I'm not above laughing at myself—at least, I don't think I am. Being on a reality show would be a great chance to find out if that's really true, or just one of the lies I tell myself, the persona I put on to face the girl in the mirror. I don't see that huge of a difference between opening my life up for cameras and the deliberate acts of self-disclosure about everything from my trouble having orgasms to my declaring bankruptcy to being a daughter of an alcoholic. To parse that seems like those who want to endlessly argue the difference between porn and erotica. I don't have issues with revealing my weaknesses and faults; I'm trying to get to a place where I don't have so much trouble celebrating my successes either and not think that's the path to instant overinflated hubris.
Lastly, and maybe my snobbery is showing here, but the fact is, if I were to go on a reality show and people were to judge me for what they saw on their screens to the exclusion of everything else about me, more pity them for not being able to acknowledge how not only media works, but how life works. We can never present every single aspect of ourselves to the world, even if we are on a 24-hour webcam. Humans are more complex than that. At least, I hope so.
To conclude: I'm ready for my closeup. You know where to find me.
I wound up going on a radio show based on that article and then I was contacted by a reality show, expressing interest in having me on as a guest. I was honored, and intrigued by the fact that I could've made a significant amount more than I was commissioned for the essay, not to mention received organizing services (something I've been paying for piecemeal when I can afford it) something that I think signifies a lot about our media consumption. I eagerly answered their questions, rounded up a friend who might appear to give an assessment, and started to think about what it might really be like to have my every stray pair of underwear, towering stack of books, sex toys, dust bunnies and whatever other detritus I own beamed into conceivably millions of homes.
I don't own a TV and watch very few shows. The ones I do watch are mainly via Netflix rentals, hotel visits, airplane rides and visits to friends. For me, being published at an esteemed site like Salon, which I've been reading for a very long time, was a huge honor. Being on TV would be exciting but also felt a little removed; since I don't watch TV, I have little sense of how many people do watch. It seemed to me like something that happens in some tucked-away corner of the world, even though that equation is actually hugely distorted. Sad as it is to admit, I know it's us readers who are in the minority.
Last year, I flew on my own dime to Los Angeles to appear as a judge on a cooking show. It was a little nervewracking but mostly excited, and it was over almost before it started. I didn't have to worry as much about "being myself" because all I was doing was smiling at the camera and tasting some mini cupcakes (although I did get one of my favorite pieces of hate mail ever calling me "piggish" for licking my fingers after I ate).
The irony of turning down this show about hoarding was that a little while later I found myself without the cushion of a full-time job. Would I have made a different decision if I'd known how that would turn out? I'm not sure. It's very tempting, because turning down money, wherever its source, feels like telling the universe I don't care about paying off my gigantic debts or any kind of financial security. It feels like hubris of the highest order; who am I to be picky, to write for a very small fraction of that fee, or, ahem, blog here for free, but turn down something lucrative?
Many friends and advisers had strong, anti-reality TV reactions. "You won't have any control," the said. "It's exploitative." "They can make you seem any way they want." All true, but those were not reasons that seemed convincing to me. Of course reality TV has an angle; don't we all? Yes, it's edited, but don't we all edit ourselves, presenting our best, or sometimes our worst, selves, or some part of a persona to person X, another part to person Y? That seems to me part of being human. I get that the difference is that when we do it, we are in control of what side of ourselves to show, while an editor can manipulate even the parts of you that you've chosen to present and twist the context. I still think that the risks would have been worth it, for me. Some people are extremely private about most aspects of their lives, but I'm not one of them. For me the catharsis of admitting my biggest flaws and then connecting with others who either share them, as happened with my hoarding essay, or have something useful to offer, outweighs the specter of judgment.
Ultimately, my reasoning was about a much more basic level of self-preservation. I didn't want to have to ask my landlord to sign a legal release that, despite seeming innocuous, was still something I'd have been hesitant to sign myself., and thereby reveal something that might jeopardize my housing. I don't have a Plan B about where to live, and because of my possessions, it would take a few months to even get everything boxed up, unless I were to toss it all in a dumpster.
But back to the legal form…There's something about saying "I promise not to ____" that makes even the least skeptical person, who had never even suspected ____ was possible, read a phrase like that and immediately think "I wonder if they will actually do ____ and if they do, what will happen." Despite having attended three years of law school, contracts make me nervous. The formality of their language is by its nature intimidating. It's not the way we naturally speak, and sometimes seems deliberately designed to obfuscate the truth, requiring a translation. Don't get me wrong; I sign contracts all the time, but I am aware of their limitations.
I'm not a fan of flowery, academic or overly wordy language. I've started reading books and put them down in part because they were over my head, and in part because I felt like they were trying to reach a limited audience simply by their highfalutin language. Me? My dream is to write a novel that is sold in airport bookstores. While much of what I write is also not going to appeal to the masses (bondage and spanking erotica, anyone?), the language itself is not trying to hide anything.
I don't know what would have happened if I'd agreed to take part in the show, aside from having two months' worth of rent in my pocket and a cleaner home. Would I have gotten recognized on the street as "that girl with the messy apartment?" Would I have somehow placed myself out of another opportunity waiting in the wings? Would it have led to a memoir about being a (former) hoarder?
Soon after, I was approached by another show, this one a tattoo reality show. I had already decided to get a second tattoo sometime in November to celebrate my birthday, so I expressed interest. However, on this show, there not only isn't any payment, participants pay for their own tattoos, in effect coughing up cash for the chance to be on television and be inked by a famous, and presumably more expensive than average, tattoo artist. No thank you.
Don't get me wrong, reality TV producers of America: I'd love to be on TV, partly because I am, after all, an attention whore, and partly because I think that the very process of giving up control would be a major lesson for someone who's as much of a control freak as it's possible to be in this world. There are moments in my life when I can step back from being my typically vain, self-conscious self and think, That would be funny, like when I struggle to get on the subway with four gargantuan bags and have to either maneuver sideways to get my backpack in or slip some of them under the turnstile. Other moments are darker but no less dramatic, like looking up at a subway marquee and seeing the name of the one person I'm trying to get over, as if to remind me that they are forever and always ubiquitous and my efforts in moving on will always be futile.
I'm not above laughing at myself—at least, I don't think I am. Being on a reality show would be a great chance to find out if that's really true, or just one of the lies I tell myself, the persona I put on to face the girl in the mirror. I don't see that huge of a difference between opening my life up for cameras and the deliberate acts of self-disclosure about everything from my trouble having orgasms to my declaring bankruptcy to being a daughter of an alcoholic. To parse that seems like those who want to endlessly argue the difference between porn and erotica. I don't have issues with revealing my weaknesses and faults; I'm trying to get to a place where I don't have so much trouble celebrating my successes either and not think that's the path to instant overinflated hubris.
Lastly, and maybe my snobbery is showing here, but the fact is, if I were to go on a reality show and people were to judge me for what they saw on their screens to the exclusion of everything else about me, more pity them for not being able to acknowledge how not only media works, but how life works. We can never present every single aspect of ourselves to the world, even if we are on a 24-hour webcam. Humans are more complex than that. At least, I hope so.
To conclude: I'm ready for my closeup. You know where to find me.
Freewriting is sometimes the best I can do
In my effort to have fewer days like yesterday where I feel like I have "nothing to show for myself," I'm trying to freewrite and get over all those fears and perfectionist instincts by shoving my sloppy writing onto the internet. Isn't that what blogs are for? Kidding, kindof. I'm starting to see that not every day will be as productive as the last, and trying not to berate myself for that. I won't promise to do these every day, as that's the instant formula for failure in my life. I'm still adjusting to working out of cafes and constantly brainstorming and trying to force myself out of the lifelong self-sabotaging patterns I've developed into a smarter, better me. I've been gunning for 236 to get here already, deeming 35 an abject failure, but maybe it has its ups and downs, just like every day, or even any hour. We shall see. One day at a time, baby, one fucking day at a time. See next post for something my brain barfed up.
October 11, 2011
Happy early birthday to me: Women in Lust is here and it's HOT!!!
My editor copies of my 40th and hottest covered anthology,
Women in Lust
, arrived yesterday, a one-month-early birthday present.
I'm sending them off to my trusty Amazon.com reviewers, who make me super super grateful with their enthusiasm (THANK YOU to everyone who signed up, stay tuned to @raquelita on Twitter and my Tumblr for what will be more limited free book offers for Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and such in future) today and am very excited about this book, not just because I hope the cover will make it sell like crazy, but because it's so varied. I've been posting (and will catch up on all the stories this week) excerpts at womeninlust.wordpress.com and November 1-30 features 30 bloggers taking part in the virtual book tour. Here's a bit from my story "Hot for Teacher." I'll post when it's available on Kindle (and hopefully Nook too!).
This book makes a very sexy gift and is a milestone for me, especially at a time when I'm reflecting on what I do, and what I want to be doing. I'm awaiting my quarterly royalty statement and part of me tends to think, If these books don't sell, I'll find something more lucrative to do. That's what a smart person does, after all, finds the most lucrative thing and pursues it. Except that I gave up on the lucrative law career in 1999 to stumble down the path toward where I am now, and editing anthologies for me is the perfect counterpoint to writing. It's social, the way running my reading series was; it means bringing people together and learning about different ways of writing and approaching sexuality, ways I never could've conceived of on my own.
If you'd told me then I'd go on to edit 40 anthologies, with a dozen more on the way, I'd never have believed it. So I am pausing to savor this beautiful box of books, the glossy cover, the lovely words inside. I've learned a lot in this process, but there is always an infinite amount to learn, about how to actually make the stories I love reach the hands of readers, about how to stay afloat when bookstores are going out of business left and right, about trying to do things like postcards and also pay my rent. I'm looking forward to keeping on learning, and pushing myself to my limits in this new professional phase of my life.
He turned and beamed his full attention, not to mention two rows of extremely even white teeth, right at her. "If you ever have any questions, Meredith, you are more than welcome to visit me in my office during office hours. It's totally confidential," he said, and she wondered if she was imagining that his voice got low and intimate somehow on that last word. Were they still talking about homework?
"I think that might be helpful," she said, meaning, in fact, I'd love to dress up for you and bend over your desk. "Well, I'll see you soon," she said.
"I hope so," he said quietly, unless she'd imagined that too.
She went home and for the first time in who knows how long, she stripped down to her birthday suit and simply walked around every room enjoying the feel of the air against her bare skin. She took baths, of course, and even got massages, but those were merely utilitarian reasons for nudity. This afternoon was about her picturing herself prancing around for Professor Arthur, showing him her pendulous, large breasts, her sizeable ass, the curve of her belly, the dusting of red fuzz covering her pussy. She dyed her hair a very shiny brown, trying to fool the world into thinking her a brunette, but inside her lurked the soul of a redhead, one whose innate passion had been put on hold for far too long. Instead of taking a bath, Meredith stood in her bathroom and began touching herself the way she wanted Professor Arthur—"Ralph," she said aloud to herself—to touch her. She began with her breasts, tweaking each one, holding up the nipples and tugging and twisting until the sight caused a corresponding tug in her pussy.
Then, staring at herself in the mirror, Meredith lifted her right breast and tucked her head down so she could suck on her own nipple. The flood of emotion and arousal was so intense she had to lean her left hand against the counter. She spread her legs, wondering if Professor Arthur was circumcised, picturing his cock as big and thick and aching just for her. She kept going, making sure to watch her every move, so that when she did go to her hot professor's office hours, it wouldn't be as a true schoolgirl, skittish and nervous, relying on her youthful charm and giggly giddiness, but as a mature woman who could tap into that spirit, but also had something more to offer. For all her pleated-skirt fantasies, what Meredith wanted was to be treated like a woman⎯a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to be manhandled by a younger nerdy man who just so happened to hold her academic future in his hands.
and a little spanking teaser (this weekend I wrote a 4,000-word spanking story for my next spanking anthology called "Marks" that I'm also pleased with, and a few others are in the works, because I just can't seem to stay away from the topic in my fiction):
"When was the last time your ass got spanked, Meredith?"
She was quiet, and now tears rose to her eyes. "Never," she whispered, and felt him again grab her ass, this time with both hands, holding her open.
Order Women in Lust from:
Amazon
Kindle edition (ebook) TK
Barnes & Noble
Nook (ebook) TK
Powells
IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)
Cleis Press
I'm sending them off to my trusty Amazon.com reviewers, who make me super super grateful with their enthusiasm (THANK YOU to everyone who signed up, stay tuned to @raquelita on Twitter and my Tumblr for what will be more limited free book offers for Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and such in future) today and am very excited about this book, not just because I hope the cover will make it sell like crazy, but because it's so varied. I've been posting (and will catch up on all the stories this week) excerpts at womeninlust.wordpress.com and November 1-30 features 30 bloggers taking part in the virtual book tour. Here's a bit from my story "Hot for Teacher." I'll post when it's available on Kindle (and hopefully Nook too!).
This book makes a very sexy gift and is a milestone for me, especially at a time when I'm reflecting on what I do, and what I want to be doing. I'm awaiting my quarterly royalty statement and part of me tends to think, If these books don't sell, I'll find something more lucrative to do. That's what a smart person does, after all, finds the most lucrative thing and pursues it. Except that I gave up on the lucrative law career in 1999 to stumble down the path toward where I am now, and editing anthologies for me is the perfect counterpoint to writing. It's social, the way running my reading series was; it means bringing people together and learning about different ways of writing and approaching sexuality, ways I never could've conceived of on my own.
If you'd told me then I'd go on to edit 40 anthologies, with a dozen more on the way, I'd never have believed it. So I am pausing to savor this beautiful box of books, the glossy cover, the lovely words inside. I've learned a lot in this process, but there is always an infinite amount to learn, about how to actually make the stories I love reach the hands of readers, about how to stay afloat when bookstores are going out of business left and right, about trying to do things like postcards and also pay my rent. I'm looking forward to keeping on learning, and pushing myself to my limits in this new professional phase of my life.
He turned and beamed his full attention, not to mention two rows of extremely even white teeth, right at her. "If you ever have any questions, Meredith, you are more than welcome to visit me in my office during office hours. It's totally confidential," he said, and she wondered if she was imagining that his voice got low and intimate somehow on that last word. Were they still talking about homework?
"I think that might be helpful," she said, meaning, in fact, I'd love to dress up for you and bend over your desk. "Well, I'll see you soon," she said.
"I hope so," he said quietly, unless she'd imagined that too.
She went home and for the first time in who knows how long, she stripped down to her birthday suit and simply walked around every room enjoying the feel of the air against her bare skin. She took baths, of course, and even got massages, but those were merely utilitarian reasons for nudity. This afternoon was about her picturing herself prancing around for Professor Arthur, showing him her pendulous, large breasts, her sizeable ass, the curve of her belly, the dusting of red fuzz covering her pussy. She dyed her hair a very shiny brown, trying to fool the world into thinking her a brunette, but inside her lurked the soul of a redhead, one whose innate passion had been put on hold for far too long. Instead of taking a bath, Meredith stood in her bathroom and began touching herself the way she wanted Professor Arthur—"Ralph," she said aloud to herself—to touch her. She began with her breasts, tweaking each one, holding up the nipples and tugging and twisting until the sight caused a corresponding tug in her pussy.
Then, staring at herself in the mirror, Meredith lifted her right breast and tucked her head down so she could suck on her own nipple. The flood of emotion and arousal was so intense she had to lean her left hand against the counter. She spread her legs, wondering if Professor Arthur was circumcised, picturing his cock as big and thick and aching just for her. She kept going, making sure to watch her every move, so that when she did go to her hot professor's office hours, it wouldn't be as a true schoolgirl, skittish and nervous, relying on her youthful charm and giggly giddiness, but as a mature woman who could tap into that spirit, but also had something more to offer. For all her pleated-skirt fantasies, what Meredith wanted was to be treated like a woman⎯a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to be manhandled by a younger nerdy man who just so happened to hold her academic future in his hands.
and a little spanking teaser (this weekend I wrote a 4,000-word spanking story for my next spanking anthology called "Marks" that I'm also pleased with, and a few others are in the works, because I just can't seem to stay away from the topic in my fiction):
"When was the last time your ass got spanked, Meredith?"
She was quiet, and now tears rose to her eyes. "Never," she whispered, and felt him again grab her ass, this time with both hands, holding her open.
Order Women in Lust from:
Amazon
Kindle edition (ebook) TK
Barnes & Noble
Nook (ebook) TK
Powells
IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)
Cleis Press
October 10, 2011
I want your sex diary!
After you've read a few of the weekly Sex Diaries I edit, if you think you have an interesting story and want to write one (and remember, it's quality and what your take is on your sex life, not just how much sex you're having), email me at sexdiaries at nymag.com and tell me a little about why you'd be a good diarist, along with your age, location, occupation, gender, sexual orientation and relationship status, and I'll be in touch with details. Please pass this on to anyone who might want to write one (it pays). I'd especially love to see an Occupy Wall Street sex diary, but we are always looking for diaries across the sexual spectrum (especially if you don't think you/your peer group's been represented thus far in the diaries). Thank you!
October 9, 2011
Sexy Nerds and Dad readings tonight in NYC
I'm sure there's also some crossover between those two groups!
Barring my ability to be in two places at once, I think my nerd/bingo loving side will win out over my baby fever side tonight, but I strongly endorse both these events. I also recommend the new novel Fathermucker by Greg Olear to celebrity gossip fans, those who want to read about suburban affairs and snarky parenting tidbits. Greg is an editor at The Nervous Breakdown, which I write for, even though I don't always take my own advice), and awesome guy. More on Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! once I've read it (soon!), but check out the 3D book trailer Mike Edison cooked up for it!
* SEXY NERDS & DIRTY WORDS *
You're invited to this one-time-only comedy-variety show where erotica meets neurotica, where the obscene meets the obscure, it's comedy for geeks, by geeks, it's.... Sexy Nerds and Dirty Words.
Host KEVIN MAHER (from the long-running series Kevin Geeks Out) presents a line-up of performers guaranteed to delight nerds of all ages.
Burlesque Performer IRIS EXPLOSION performs a racy dance designed especially for video-game fans.
Internet super-star MARK DOUGLAS (The Key of Awesome) delivers some R-rated geeky comedy.
Author MIKE EDISON reads from his new book, Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!, chronicling the history of America's greatest girlie magazines.
M. SWEENEY LAWLESS uncovers a secret conspiracy in comic book covers.
Performance Poet JARED SINGER shares some "Spoken Nerd" poetry.
Plus a game of GEEK BINGO will help determine who's the biggest geek in the audience.
Plus: Dramatic reading of fan fiction, un-censored tweets and a special video-taping for a segment that will be screened at New York Comic Con.
Sunday, October 9: New York
The famed KGB Sunday Night Reading Series, curated by the great Suzanne Dottino, presents "Dad's Night Out: An Evening of Readings by Literary Fathers."
We get to chill in one of my old haunts—and still one of my favorite bars in all the world—with my fellow dad-scribes Matthew Norman (Domestic Violets), James P. Othmer (The Futurist and Holy Water) and Darin Strauss (More Than It Hurts You, Chang & Eng, The Real McCoy, Half a Life). I'm psyched to share the stage with three of my faves.
KGB Bar, 85 E 4th St, New York, NY, 7pm
Barring my ability to be in two places at once, I think my nerd/bingo loving side will win out over my baby fever side tonight, but I strongly endorse both these events. I also recommend the new novel Fathermucker by Greg Olear to celebrity gossip fans, those who want to read about suburban affairs and snarky parenting tidbits. Greg is an editor at The Nervous Breakdown, which I write for, even though I don't always take my own advice), and awesome guy. More on Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! once I've read it (soon!), but check out the 3D book trailer Mike Edison cooked up for it!
* SEXY NERDS & DIRTY WORDS *
You're invited to this one-time-only comedy-variety show where erotica meets neurotica, where the obscene meets the obscure, it's comedy for geeks, by geeks, it's.... Sexy Nerds and Dirty Words.
Host KEVIN MAHER (from the long-running series Kevin Geeks Out) presents a line-up of performers guaranteed to delight nerds of all ages.
Burlesque Performer IRIS EXPLOSION performs a racy dance designed especially for video-game fans.
Internet super-star MARK DOUGLAS (The Key of Awesome) delivers some R-rated geeky comedy.
Author MIKE EDISON reads from his new book, Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!, chronicling the history of America's greatest girlie magazines.
M. SWEENEY LAWLESS uncovers a secret conspiracy in comic book covers.
Performance Poet JARED SINGER shares some "Spoken Nerd" poetry.
Plus a game of GEEK BINGO will help determine who's the biggest geek in the audience.
Plus: Dramatic reading of fan fiction, un-censored tweets and a special video-taping for a segment that will be screened at New York Comic Con.
Sunday, October 9: New York
The famed KGB Sunday Night Reading Series, curated by the great Suzanne Dottino, presents "Dad's Night Out: An Evening of Readings by Literary Fathers."
We get to chill in one of my old haunts—and still one of my favorite bars in all the world—with my fellow dad-scribes Matthew Norman (Domestic Violets), James P. Othmer (The Futurist and Holy Water) and Darin Strauss (More Than It Hurts You, Chang & Eng, The Real McCoy, Half a Life). I'm psyched to share the stage with three of my faves.
KGB Bar, 85 E 4th St, New York, NY, 7pm
10 Cupcakes Take the Cake posts you should read
Cupcakes Take the Cake is my blogging pride and joy, my baby, the longest project I've worked on continuously, not counting this blog (and will outlast my previously held longest job), and it's funny because as I'm brainstorming pitches, cupcakes leap out at me at every turn. We will celebrate our 7th anniversary with a party in December (stay tuned!), are heading to New Paltz on October 22nd, I'm going to Scottsdale to judge Cupcake Love-In at the end of the month, and next August we'll be hosting a Cupcake Cruise. All very exciting. Cupcakes Take the Cake is also a large portion of my income, so if you like the blog, I'd love it if you'd pass it on to someone, Tweet it, like it on Facebook, etc. We are also on Tumblr. And if you have a local bakery that would like some postcards of ours, email me at cupcakestakethecake at gmail.com with "Postcards" in the subject, how many you want, and where to send them (US only), and I'll get them right out.
I love that my favorite new local cafe, where I've been working a lot, asked me to help them find a cupcake supplier. Cupcakes have taught me so much and while there is much to learn about how to blog better and more often and more successfully, I want to remember how much the blog, the umpteen people I've met because of it, and the neverending source material, mean to me. Yesterday I spent seemingly forever writing one little erotica story, which turned out to be not so little. I have no idea if it works; that'll be for my publisher to decide, but by the time I got to the end, my brain was tired. My brain gets excited about cupcake blogging, and while I don't have time to post all the ideas I have, it's not exhausting in that same way.
So, I present you with 10 recent cupcake posts I think are worth your time:
RIP Steve Jobs: Apple, iPod touch and iPhone cupcakes
Owl, dinosaur, bird, turtle, Hello Kitty and other cute cupcake toppers from Etsy
The cutest Cookie Monster cupcake I've ever seen
Cupcakes in A Very Babymouse Christmas (I cannot possibly recommend the Babymouse series more, and it's my go-to gift to every parent of young children I know. Also, there's Hannukah in here too!)
Cupcake violence captured in photographs
My friend Rebecca's adorable 3-year-old daughter celebrates her birthday with cupcakes
Halloween cupcake cuteness alert: mummy, zombie and vampire cupcake toppers on Etsy!
Rubik's Cube and Angry Birds cake pops
Halloween monster cupcakes
Henna-inspired wedding cupcake tower
I love that my favorite new local cafe, where I've been working a lot, asked me to help them find a cupcake supplier. Cupcakes have taught me so much and while there is much to learn about how to blog better and more often and more successfully, I want to remember how much the blog, the umpteen people I've met because of it, and the neverending source material, mean to me. Yesterday I spent seemingly forever writing one little erotica story, which turned out to be not so little. I have no idea if it works; that'll be for my publisher to decide, but by the time I got to the end, my brain was tired. My brain gets excited about cupcake blogging, and while I don't have time to post all the ideas I have, it's not exhausting in that same way.
So, I present you with 10 recent cupcake posts I think are worth your time:
RIP Steve Jobs: Apple, iPod touch and iPhone cupcakes
Owl, dinosaur, bird, turtle, Hello Kitty and other cute cupcake toppers from Etsy
The cutest Cookie Monster cupcake I've ever seen
Cupcakes in A Very Babymouse Christmas (I cannot possibly recommend the Babymouse series more, and it's my go-to gift to every parent of young children I know. Also, there's Hannukah in here too!)
Cupcake violence captured in photographs
My friend Rebecca's adorable 3-year-old daughter celebrates her birthday with cupcakes
Halloween cupcake cuteness alert: mummy, zombie and vampire cupcake toppers on Etsy!
Rubik's Cube and Angry Birds cake pops
Halloween monster cupcakes
Henna-inspired wedding cupcake tower
