Take the flamboyance out of futbol, and you have nothing. The game is all about artistry and passion and, dare we say it, unbridled eroticism. A culture that can't reconcile those qualities with masculinity will always have a hard time at the World Cup.
I'm not sure what that says about the U.S. and its early departure, but I do know that watching the World Cup feels intoxicatingly different from following traditional American sports. I particularly love the operatic deathbed scenes that accompany even minor injuries, with none of the shame that boys here are taught to feel if they flinch when a fastball clips them viciously on the elbow. In futbol, stoicism hurts; it won't elicit a yellow card of sympathy. Drama queens get all the breaks.
So says Gwen Knapp, sportswriter for the SF Chronicle, in what has got to be the most penetrating sports story of the year for the mainstream press. Read the whole thing here— what a great think piece!
I don't watch team sports, but yet— I know who all the most gorgeous soccer players are— because as Knapp suggests, their image, drama, and sex appeal travels far off the field into everyone's consciousness. I can't think of an NFL star with that kind of appeal since Broadway Joe!
Thanks to Greta Christina for the tip!
I first picked up SGGTSWC because I was so outraged by the title— how dare this het-heathen get her jollies making fun of dykes!
But I was so captivated by Miss Thing, I invited her to appear on my radio show last fall, which I'm rerunning this week.
In Bed with Susie Bright, Encore Edition 223: Straight Girls' Guide with Jen Sincero
Here's the first chapter, which you can read in full at the jump:
I think my first sexual encounter with a member of the same sex happened when I was seven.
My friend Wendy and I would spend hours playing with these little plastic Fisher-Price people who came with cars and houses and villages and stuff.
We'd make up stories about them, have them go to work and cook dinner, and when they were bad we'd send them off to "The Big Ween."
"Uh-oh, Sally didn't do her homework again," Wendy would say, kicking off her panties and lying on the floor.
She'd hold terrified little plastic Sally up in the air and announce to the entire Fisher-Price community that "Sally was bad and must go to The Big Ween," then slowly lower the toy between her legs.
I'd watch mesmerized as Wendy rubbed Sally around and around, stopping only when Wendy's My First Pussy had gotten its fill.
Inevitably, moments later, my own Mr. Smith would wind up telling a lie or robbing the Fisher-Price bank and my panties would go flying across the room. "Uhhhh-ohhhhhh!"
I'm not sure if this counts as sex, since there were actually two The Big Weens, Wendy overseeing operations at hers and me at mine, but I do know that for me it wasn't all innocent play. I was a really sexual kid who started masturbating at around five years old, and who was constantly getting sent to my room for greeting company with my hand down my pants.
So I find it kind of surprising, since I was such an early enthusiast and a curious person in general, that it took me until my thirties to really get down and dirty with another woman.
I'd done my fair share of dabbling, made out with a few drunk friends, and groped the occasional boob here and there, but nothing all that intimate ever happened. It was usually the result of being wasted and figuring that if there were no cute guys around I might as well pin Sharon to the couch. And it never went beyond that until my thirties.
Maybe I was too uptight or too immature, or maybe all my friends were just uglier back then -- whatever the reason, it took me a couple decades before I found myself face to face with The Big Ween again. And much to my surprise, just like little plastic Sally, I got sucked in by it...
Don't forget, you can send your feedback and confidential questions to email@example.com. (Episode 223). If you'd like a free introduction to my show (one month/no charge) send me an email, with the subject line: Girly Card, and I'll get some free coupon cards in the mail to you.
First, I spoke to women. I responded to the needs of the unheard minority— the gals who have had it up to here with tips on sexual enhancement and would rather find the perfect recipe for sexual renunciation.
I called my new path "erotic contrarianism," and it's a philosophy guaranteed to set you free from all desire in no time at all. But, as many of my new followers pointed out, my original manifesto for a sex-free existence was geared solely toward female devotees.
"What about men?" you ask. "Aren't they also entitled to break the bonds of fleshly rapture?" Well, of course they are! Yet, taking into account how important gender stereotypes are in ruining anyone's sex life, we must approach the male animal with an entirely different strategy from the one we use for the fairer sex.
First of all, no real man can brag that he wants to rid himself of sexual desire, unless he is considering a career in a monastery. Whereas the mature woman can freely boast that she doesn't care if she never has sex again, with almost complete social acceptance the manly man must at least appear to be effortlessly, and inexhaustibly, horny.
Many men are already ambivalent about sexually intimacy, or feel burned out from erotic heartbreak. But to maintain a sufficient masculine image, they must appear to be perpetually on the make. As a result of this ugly form of schizophrenia, we have legions of men who despise women, but will chase skirts into eternity. Here we have the makings of a superb erotic breakdown.
Some of you may be saying, "But Susie, I'm such a cream puff— when I'm between a woman's thighs, and savor her soft body in my arms, I turn into a big love bunny."
Well, my little pet, we must put you on a special regimen. Our goal is to shrink those pesky emotions like a set of hemorrhoids. In no time at all you'll find that you can't get laid to save your life.
Ready to hit bottom? Here we go:
1) Faking it isn't just for girls anymore.
It's not your money shot you should fake— it's the so-called emotional connection that so many pansies insist is simultaneous with orgasm. Say “No” to the that soft center melting in the center of your chest. Disconnect as quickly as possible. Don't let the odd second or two of vulnerability bewilder you!— Get it in and get it off. You'll be thinking about carving the next notch in your belt before you can say Casa-fucking-nova.
2) Accelerate your sexual dysfunction by pretending that you want to score all the time.
Variety may be the spice of life, but mass quantities are where the real bargains and bragging rights become yours forever! The more people you touch only with your penis, the harder it will be to arouse the little fellow— and what an elite company you'll be in. Live for conquest, and soon you’ll be living alone!
3) Obsess about your inadequate dick size.
Measure it; fret over it daily. Bite your lips bloody while you scrutinize those compelling penis-enlargement ads. Sure, they say that the operation is dangerous, and disfiguring— but that's just what all the big-cock guys say to keep the franchise to themselves!
Whether you elect surgery or not, the key is dedicating yourself to relentless feelings of inadequacy. Clearly, your penis is not as big as it should be. And, as everyone knows, it's virtually the only thing women are concerned about. You can hardly open the personal ad section of a newspaper without seeing another long list of chicks advertising their demands: "Single Female seeks penniless, carefree dude with gigantic member."
4) When in public, avoid eye contact.
This is the geek-master's shortcut to never having to worry about unwanted casual connections.
5) If you do find yourself in a "conversation" with a potential partner, make sure it's a one-way dialogue.
You do the talking— all the talking. If she seems about to interrupt you, it's time to cut her off. Take out your cell phone for a nice flourish— accentuate the fact that you don't have the time to listen. Obviously you won't have time to eat her pussy, either.
6) Set an impossible standard for your dream girl; women will be too bamboozled by their own insecurities to question it.
Why should you cast your balls before swine? You know that the only person who could truly appreciate you is last year's Miss September centerfold, and she's probably an old hag by now.
7) Get married.
When I asked real men for suggestions on how best to ruin a guy's sex life, this is the first thing that pops out of their mouths. Not a bad idea! But it only works if you make sure that your bride is someone who was never into sex very much from the first day you met. You want to marry a naif who has no grip on what turns her on in the first place. That way, you can blame your inhibitions on her. She'll be the one who put your sex life on ice, and you'll never have to take the rap. This one stroke alone will also help you to achieve the next step:
8) Hold on to that double standard.
Remember: When choosing a serious partner, avoid those slutty girls who enjoy orgasms and bodily fluids. Find yourself a girl whose "virtue" is beyond compare— literally. Obviously, a woman who likes sex as much as you do will never be good enough to be the mother of your children— save those bad girls for times when you need a guilty little secret.
9) Listen to your peers.
When well-meaning buddies tell you to conform, to avoid sexual and emotional risk, or to doubt your lovers and to expect the worst in love— buy them another drink. Engrave their warnings on your heart. (You may have so-called “friends” who are actually encouraging you to open your heart— they’re obviously losers you want to avoid.)
10) Whoever has the most toys wins the Viagra prescription.
Nothing makes sex more irrelevant than a healthy appetite for material goods. Here you've been worrying about love, when all you needed was a new SUV! A faster hard drive and a precision audio system could make you happy— really. Who needs an ugly erection when you have a beautiful high-yield portfolio?
11) Stay in touch with your masculine side, 24-7.
Big boys don't cry, so don't go all soft on me on a bad day. If you start getting mushy again about your "feelings," we're going to have to remind you that if you're going to feel, you're going to get hurt, and we'll have none of that!
You’re all set! By the time you've finished this amazing program, I promise you, you'll be hard as rock, inside and out. Some of you may indeed be fortunate enough to have cut yourself off from most of humanity. What a relief.
And for those of you who can't cut it— you big silly love bunnies with a rocket in your pants— give me a ring and leave me your phone number. You obviously need the personal attention that only a trained expert can lavish— excuse me, I mean lash you with.
From Mommy's Little Girl: Susie Bright on Sex, Motherhood, Porn and Cherry Pie. Why do all those Hot Pants Homos get all the girls? I'm sure you've noticed that I love pulp covers. If you have any paperback covers of note you'd like to share, shoot me an email!
Whew— ever since I made the decision to post every weekday, come hell or high ejaculation waters, I've been impressed with my self-discipline but also terrified about how I'm supposed to take a day off.
For example, I have to drive up to the SheShamans gathering this week, and who knows what condition I'll be in when I return!
For my immediate strategy, I'll post a couple of past favorite stories for the next couple days.
I worry about reprints, because I don't want to bore you. From my small tests in this regard, it seems like most of of my readers here are encountering my "old" stories for the first time. I haven't heard yet from my "fantasy complainer": the person who's read everything I've published in the past twenty-five years and is ready to bust a gut over my laziness.
What are your thoughts about posting stories that first appeared on paper, but have never been on the web?
Some of my friends have asked, why did I decide to post everyday? Because it makes such a huge difference in the traffic. And the traffic adds to a much livelier conversation, the attention of a few advertisers and donations, and an sense of overall community that is inspiring to me.
As we discussed here before, there's no blueprint, not even a rough sketch, for how a writer is supposed to make a living on the web, or in the blogosphere.
All that's clear is that the old blueprint, the standards for how to make a living as a freelance periodical writer, or book author, is in shreds. The strength I get from doing this, creatively, will eventually allow me to hoist myself over the ledge and see the other side.
How much do I want, what is fair? Well, if you've read a few things here and enjoyed them, found it thought-provoking, fun, sympathetic, stimulating, I think you should press that button and put some coins in my hat.
$2 for a week or two? $5 for a month? $10 for a few months, $20 for a year? An Amazon wish list item, a BlogAd for something you want to sell or promote?
My comparison is that I think of how much more interesting my blog has been the past week than the average copy of US Weekly, more penetrating than my local newspaper, more filling than flax.
The way one is supposed to solicit donations is to regularly run pledge drives and reminders, like public radio does. But I need a hardier spinner to run my pledge drive, because I find it nerve-racking to bring up the subject at all. I meant to post a donation request every month, but I keep cringing.
What do you think? How often should I post a reminder, so it isn't an annoying pain in the ass? Is there a clever "design" way of handling solicitations that are effective but less bothersome to the regulars?
While I'm asking, please do comment here if you wish I would do more of one thing— or less of another— or if you know about some brilliant blog tool that I should employ. I know many of you are more experience than I, and at least as opinionated!
Onto the acid tests,
Photo by Cookie Andrews Hunt, of Susie at Living in Leather founding convention. If you were there, write me! A mutual friend is writing a book about the whole history of the NLA.
It's only fitting that I should run a tribute to class warfare this week. This is the week that the State of Louisiana— yeah, that place— follows South Dakota in outlawing abortion.
The abortion bans recently enacted in South Dakota and Louisiana seem to have taken a lot of people by surprise.
A bill emerges suddenly from some statehouse packed with ornery right-wingers, some mediocre governor signs it, and progressives spend the morning after wondering what the hell happened, or simply dismiss the state as a distant redoubt of fundamentalism.
Analysis of the long-term strategy that made it possible for such draconian bills to become law is hard to come by. And without an understanding of the origins and history of this kind of legislation, it is difficult to map out a way to stifle it. Meanwhile, more and more states seem poised to pass bans of their own.
With Louisiana in particular, it kinda takes "fiddling while Rome burns" to a whole new level, doesn't it? It's not just fiddlin', it's orchestrating a beligerent attack on the few resources you have left.
Paul Krugman's current essay posted at the New York Times is a must-read review of why we so often find ourselves in these insane positions these days, where the nation is obsessed with pulling other people's panties down while everything else goes to hell.
Some of you know that Paul's column doesn't get read as much these days because the Times charges for it. However, if you are a patron of your local public library, you can read it online for free— just ask. Or enjoy my extract here:
In case you haven't noticed, modern American politics is marked by vicious partisanship, with the great bulk of the viciousness coming from the right. It's clear that the Republican plan for the 2006 election is, once again, to question Democrats' patriotism.
So what's our bitter partisan divide really about? In two words: class warfare. That's the lesson of an important new book, Polarized America: The Dance of Ideology and Unequal Riches.
What the book shows, using a sophisticated analysis of Congressional votes and other data, is that for the past century, political polarization and economic inequality have moved hand in hand.
Politics during the Gilded Age, an era of huge income gaps, was a nasty business— as nasty as it is today.
The era of bipartisanship, which lasted for roughly a generation after World War II, corresponded to the high tide of America's middle class.
That high tide began receding in the late 1970's, as middle-class incomes grew slowly at best while incomes at the top soared; and as income gaps widened, a deep partisan divide re-emerged.
Both the decline of partisanship after World War II and its return in recent decades mainly reflected the changing position of the Republican Party on economic issues.
Before the 1940's, the Republican Party relied financially on the support of a wealthy elite, and most Republican politicians firmly defended that elite's privileges. But the rich became a lot poorer during and after World War II, while the middle class prospered.
And many Republicans accommodated themselves to the new situation, accepting the legitimacy and desirability of institutions that helped limit economic inequality, such as a strongly progressive tax system. (The top rate during the Eisenhower years was 91 percent.)
When the elite once again pulled away from the middle class, however, Republicans turned their back on the legacy of Dwight Eisenhower and returned to a focus on the interests of the wealthy. Tax cuts at the top -- including repeal of the estate tax -- became the party's highest priority.
But if the real source of today's bitter partisanship is a Republican move to the right on economic issues, why have the last three elections been dominated by talk of terrorism, with a bit of religion on the side?
Because a party whose economic policies favor a narrow elite needs to focus the public's attention elsewhere. And there's no better way to do that than accusing the other party of being unpatriotic and godless.
Thus in 2004, President Bush basically ran as America's defender against gay married terrorists. He waited until after the election to reveal that what he really wanted to do was privatize Social Security.
Pre-New Deal G.O.P. operatives followed the same strategy. Republican politicians won elections by ''waving the bloody shirt'' -- invoking the memory of the Civil War -- long after the G.O.P. had ceased to be the party of Lincoln and become the party of robber barons instead. Al Smith, the 1928 Democratic presidential candidate, was defeated in part by a smear campaign -- burning crosses and all -- that exploited the heartland's prejudice against Catholics.
So what should we do about all this? I won't offer the Democrats advice right now, except to say that tough talk on national security and affirmations of personal faith won't help: the other side will smear you anyway.
But I would like to offer some advice to my fellow pundits: face reality. There are some commentators who long for the bipartisan days of yore, and flock eagerly to any politician who looks ''centrist.'' But there isn't any center in modern American politics. And the center won't return until we have a new New Deal, and rebuild our middle class.
Pie Chart: Arthur B. Kennickell, A Rolling Tide: Changes in the Distribution of Wealth in the U.S.
A few weeks ago, my friend Jared Rutter, editor at AVN, asked me if I would look at a series of porn movies about prodigious female "squirters"— wall to wall girl-flooding features. He said he had a hard time believing they were real, and he wanted my expert opinion. I decided to devote my new radio show to the discovery process!
In Bed With Susie Bright #254: G-Spot Fraud Detection Squad
I quickly assembled a screening in my living room, inviting my pals Jackie and Shar from SIR Video to be part of my examination team.
So why did Jared think I'd be so proficient at discovering a hoax? I'd love to brag that I was "The Queen of the G.," but personally, I'm not. However, when I edited On Our Backs, we broke the G-spot story, twenty+ years ago, with a series of articles and book reviews in the 80s that redefined the clitoris. My, how time flies.
My publishing partner, Debi Sundahl, discovered her own shooting abilities during a shift at the Ultra Room, and was so excited about the whole thing that my ex, Honey Lee Cottrell, shot Debi's tsunami orgasm in one of the first movies we made, Clips. We were shocked to find that porn distributors across the country refused our video, because they said it was "water sports," illegal by their community standards.
The female ejaculation became a feminist cause for us: this is how women come, buddy, not some fetish sport for you to make legal decisions about about whether it's an "obscenity."
Meanwhile, the Mitchell Bros. made a widely seen spoofing comedy about the whole phenomenon, called The Grafenberg Spot, which DID use turkey baster bulbs to simulate ejaculation, and Debi and I were both extras in the film.
Jim and Art show you their little bit of "stage magic" in the special features at the end of the movie— it's all a goof. The movie promoted mega-porn stars Ginger Lynn and Traci Lords at the time, (Traci's stuff is now excised b/c she was underage) but none of the actual juicy women in the Mitchell's strip club, who jacked off every night on stage, were part of the footage!
In other words, the dykes were the only ones promoting it for real, and everyone else was questioning its authenticity or having a laugh at the whole notion. But that was the 80s, and in the twenty years since, the debunking crap fell by the wayside, women are squeezing out Kegels like there's no tomorrow, and heterosexual porn now looks upon "rain-women" as a hot fetish.
It's this latter trend that has a whole series of super-squirter movies coming out from a company called Elegant Angel, which has as one of its company mottoes: "letting the girls cum too."
"Letting?" Ugh. Carpe Diem with a gusher is more my style. Their patronizing sentiment gave me the willies.
I don't even like the term, "squirt," because it reminds me of "Little Squirt". Do we talk about men porn stars dribbling, squirting, leaking, holding up teaspoons? Swallow My Dribble! No, if you're going to promote women's jacking talent, call it a flood, call in Moses, prepare the ark!
So, with all my doubts and outrage, I settled in with my giant projection screen to watch "Swallow My Squirt 3." [If you type "squirt" in E.A.'s search box, you'll see all their titles on the subject).
Holy Hellcat! Yes, this is real. It is also extraordinary. These women are on a mission, and they keep themselves pumped up, pulsating their clits and masturbating with "no fake about it" intensity, coming again and again and again and again. And again.
(You can see the preview on the link I provided. You have to register with a name and password first, but no big deal. The preview shows a lot more cock and blow job action than are actually in the movie. It's 80% women getting themselves off).
Their clits are so engorged that their whole pelvic area swells up with definition. The room is soaked. They roar like lions and shoot like geysers. Camille Paglia with her "arc of transcendence" notion about male pissing contests really needs to see this.
Now, before you watch the clip, let me tell you: this is not fancy-pantsy, Playboy-Channel porn. No fashion models here. The men who function as "stunt cocks" are homely and look like they're going to have a red-faced heart attack from all the Viagra they're on. There's a kitchen funnel involved at one point... It's "tasteless," in-your-face porno, without the slightest middle-class affectation.
They also have no intention of being feminist, yet the very nature of this soak-a-thon, with women running the fuck, is a spectacle that kinda gives new meaning to the tired phrase "women doin' it for themselves."
You know, femmes have often criticized the amount of goo men shoot off in typical porn movies. The whole plot is about the guys climaxing. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's been comically one-sided, and dyke-made porn was the first to challenge that paradigm.
But what I observed with the Swallow My Squirt, is that yes, indeed, watching women come repeatedly, with force and authenticity, made me want to come— it made all of us totally aware of our cunts. My g-spot is permanently enlarged from the experience. It was that visceral a viewing— even at the same time that we were laughing and criticizing various details.
Jared told me that the mastermind behind these tapes is not the directors listed, but a woman named Tiana Lynn, who starred in all the girl-jack features and is now Elegant Angel's Sales Manager, behind the scenes. She was born the year before we published On Our Backs' first issue!
TL: I usually build up my juice by using a pocket rocket [vibrator] at least for a half an hour before a scene. I use it to get almost to my peak and then contract my muscles to control my orgasm.
SB: I noticed that some of your actresses used their hands on the outside of their clit to keep hard and jack off, and others needed to have something inside them to squirt...
TL: Well usually, it's best to stimulate the clit, then get some good hard lovin' inside, and soon as you're ready to release, stimulate the clit to pulsate the muscle and to keep stimulated for a longer, harder orgasm.
SB: For you, what's the difference in how you feel between ejaculating WITH an orgasm, and ejaculating without one?
TL: Ejaculating during orgasm is more like a rough romp sort of reaction. When you do the whole thing nice and slow, you feel like you want to blow, but you have enough time to let it seep out— as opposed to blowing it as quick as you can—to get to the next one.
SB: The guys you worked with made me laugh a lot of times, b/c they were so red, or sometimes they were completely off camera, and it was just so NOT about a romance or interaction with them. What kind of guy likes to work in these pictures?
TL: I like to work with guys that are submissive to my needs, the ones who dive for the girl juice, and furiously work hard at making me explode over again. The guys I choose for my films, get excited when I'm excited.
SB: Does it help if they're a bottom? [I recognized one of the fellows from several S/M movies]. Is there a certain kind of guy who wouldn't do this sort of picture?
TL: There are guys who are intimidated, and there's even girls who aren't okay with letting their sexuality overcome them.
SB: Would it have been easier, for the movie, to use hands and dildos?
TL: Sometimes it is easier to just stop and stimulate yourself, but if you can find a nice, warm and hard to do it for you, (so your hand doesn't cramp) I say, go for it.
SB: How did you discover your own jacking capacities?
TL: I honestly just practiced. I based it on what I felt when others did it to me. I focused on finding that same feeling, and once I did, I didn't let it go.
SB: Everyone was really vocal in the movie, which added to the sense of intensity.... was that all for the entertainment of the movie, to make it more exciting, or do you think jacking off is impossible to do quietly?
TL: It's pretty impossible to do quietly. Even being next to it you find yourself groaning just in the thought.
SB: What would you say to women who come, but don't ejaculate and wouldn't know where to begin?
TL: Get a Kegelmaster [dildo-like toy you squeeze your kegel muscle on]. Go to the bathroom first so there is no bladder pressure, nor confusion. Take yourself to another level, starting with your mind, because once you let your mind go, the juices will flow.
SB: The Kegelmaster?? I'm always dubious about stuff that's expensive and tries to make you feel like you need some esoteric initiation...does this PARTICULAR toy do something that you can't do just squeezing your PC muscle on its own, or any old dildo you might like to put inside you?
TL: That works too, the only thing special about this toy is it measures your strength, so as you get stronger PC muscles you can see the progress.
SB: How the hell did you get everyone (both women and the man) to come at the same time? Did you really shoot that at the end?
TL: Actually it seems to be easier to do it all together. You can feed off of the others' orgasmic energy which speeds things up, or even cause a simultaneous eruption. All of it is filmed as it goes, no order. The second one person might feel pooped, the other person's energy brings you back up.
SB: One last thing: I love that you perform wearing your glasses.
TL: Well, I do need them to see, otherwise I just kind of aim to the black blur. Once the action gets started, I can see what's in front of my face. Most of it I can do better with my eyes closed anyways ;-).
Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests to get Susie's "girly card" to introduce your friends to my show for free— by writing firstname.lastname@example.org. (Episode 254, June 16, 2006)
This story is one of our Top-10 most popular posts!
Thank you so much... Susie
I finally have a bunch more "free tickets" to listen to my In Bed radio show on Audible.com.
These ones are much cuter, 'cause they have a fetching picture of me on them and the name of my show. I call them my "Girly Cards."
If you want some, send me an email— susie at susiebright dot com— with your SNAIL MAIL address, and I'll post them right away. (Put "Girly" in the subject line)!
...Have you seen the Al Gore movie? If I'm already are an ardent ecologist and need "no convincing," should I see it anyway?
...Meanwhile, I'm hooked on previous DVD seasons of Rescue Me. Denis Leary? Yes. Franco? Yes. "New Mike"? Yes. But I think the new woman firefighter (remember, I'm only on season 1) is a snooze. Does she get better?
...Now that the CDC has approved the HPV vaccine, when will we be seeing it in our local doctor's office?
...Bitch | Lab, one of our beloved commenters here, has a brilliant blog of her own. She'll be hosting the 17th Carnival of Feminists on June 21. The deadline for submissions is June 20. You can use the form at the Carnival of Feminists blog or send them to BL at email@example.com. Themes for this Carnival include today's definition of "the personal is political," militant mouthiness, and a dessert of sex-positive feminism.
What else is going on? I'm getting ready to go to SheShamans next week.
The Boardwalk is our local California groove daydream of Coney Island, with the giant wooden roller coaster, legendary surf babes, and pop concerts in the sand.
Seeing Nancy Sinatra in white go-go boots singing in front of a crowd of sunburned drag queens a few years ago was one of the best Boardwalk memories of my life.
This place has been running since 1915. My grandparents had memories of playing here! The 1911 Looff Carousel with its original 342-pipe organ, and the Giant Dipper are still beloved attractions. Plus, the family that owns the Boardwalk just bought Laughing Sal, the Playland icon, who you can watch in the Ducky-video below.
Many of you will end up in Santa Cruz at some point in your life, if you have not already settled here. It's an all-ages, all-types affair where people really DO get along and have a bloody good time at it!
1. Surf City Grill for the french-fried artichokes and the heart-melting photographs of the Miss California beauty pageant winners who used to compete on the beach from the 20s to the 50s.
2. The summer free concerts, Friday nights. This year I'm going to go see The Family Stone (everyone except Sly, and my god, they're awesome), The Fixx, The English Beat, and then my old-school Boardwalk favorite, Herman and the Hermits. Peter Noone can work you into a debauched frenzy like no one else.
3. The totally homegrown salsa dance party that happens every Sunday afternoon on the sidewalk leading to the arcade. Someone brings a boombox and cranks it.
4. The oldtimey stuff in the Casino Arcade. They have all the modern games and thrills, but I like the weird antiques: peep show boxes, 60s sports-car postcards, and the Western Dress-Up photo parlor where you can look Drop-Deadwood in minutes.
5. I have been known to go a little crazy in the Pirate Store. Ducky got a "Release Your Booty" hat on our latest trip.
6. The Boardwalk is cheap. Go nuts on $20! One of the best things about this place is that it isn't a gated community. This is not like Disneyland or Six Flags. Online, they have a zillion coupons for things like half-price deep-fried Twinkies— and you could easily share one of them with five people. There are also "locals nights," usually Monday or Tuesday, where everything is 1900s prices. You have to call about that, though.
7. Step down a flight of wooden stairs, and you are on the most beautiful white sandy beach. Bring your blanket, park it, leave it. Yes, it is legal to sunbathe naked on our beaches. But you can't smoke. So you have to have your clambake back in the car.
8. Best Ride to Voyeurize Other People Being Terrified: The Double Shot
9. Best Ride for Sissies Like Me Who Want to Have Fun Anyway: Loggers' Revenge
10. So Lame It's Funny: The Cave Train. Built in 1961, it's perfect for cranky babies, making out in the dark, and cooling off.
Dress for success for your Boardwalk visit— and by that I mean as if you were cruising for a good time.
As far as I'm concerned, the hottest ride there is people-watching. Young and old, fat and scrawny, are all working it. Your neon platforms, gold chains, hot pants, leathers, titty shirts, filthy bikinis, and offensive belt buckles are all WELCOME here. Do not wash the sand off.
I just discovered the most amazing erotic blogger. Her journal's name is Pretty Dumb Things, and and although she might be pretty (that part is left to your imagination) she is certainly not dumb; she is an incredible wordsmith and erotic storyteller. To wit:
Sometimes when I’m lying under Donny, one or both thighs resting on his shoulders, or when I’m on my hands and knees in front of him, his hands spreading the halves of my cling peach ass, and his cock is drilling my pussy with pile-driver precision— sometimes at those moments, I think to myself, why am I doing this?
Why, I wonder, do I give him my body, my pussy mostly, though I suppose he enjoys the other bits and parts too—the shakey-shake of my ass when he drives into me from behind, those subtle and seismic movements like jostling pudding under plastic wrap, the swing and release of my breasts when he fucks me on top—why, I wonder, do I do it?
And speaking of Donny... Marie Osmond's teenage daughters are self-proclaimed, unrepentant bisexual "sluts," according to their myspace declarations. The girls' bawdy pages are much to their mother's dismay, who had her own dicey turn as The Female Mormon Paragon of Virtue. Remember her post-partum freakout? Osmond is now blaming Internet porn for the whole mess. I blame her sexually repressed doll collection. More here.
If only Marie had read Good Girls And Wicked Witches: Changing Representations of Women in Disney's Feature Animation, 1937-2001. It's a new book by Amy Davis. I haven't read it yet, but I'm so intrigued! The blurb says: "...Davis re-examines the notion that Disney heroines are rewarded for passivity."
I always said, Tinkerbell rocks! I've put my copy on reserve at the library.
My last link of the day for you is "How to Take Better Dirty Pictures" by Mike and Mandy, which is subtitled "Mikey’s Guide to Photographing Naked Babes." —Some darn helpful quick 'n' easy technical advice.
As you can tell by Mikey's subtitle, it does have the air of the well-intentioned but not exactly radical feminist male photographer... yet I sympathize with his good intentions and appreciation for all bodies female!
What I found myself thinking, however, was how you would change his wording if the subject was the male nude, and the shooter was female? Or, what if a woman is photographing herself, or it was the same gender on both sides of the camera? The tone changes, and it makes you realize the underlying sex role vibe.
The patronizing tone that can come into traditional photo-tips manuals is not all sexism, though. Here's the unspoken secret of shooting an erotic pictorial, or any portrait: the photographer, by necessity, often has to deal with the model as a kind of prop, as unkind as that might seem on first impression.
The model has to submit to certain requirements, that's just the way it is. Still, there's a degree of intimacy and respect to collaborating with subjects as equals, that takes more time but delivers remarkable results. In some cases, the model may be leading the shoot, too, but that would be a someone who would be equally comfortable on either side of the camera.
A lot of models aren't up for it, they just want a pretty picture, a flattering likeness. I mean, we all do, sometimes, eh? But the best photo shoots I ever did were more demanding!
Does anyone know of a quick dirty guide to turning your camera on yourself? I'm always trying to take photos of myself with mostly silly results.
Susie's Primary Sources on Vintage Erotica Before the Internet