Susie Bright's Journal

The Golden Hardcore and the Shimmering Dyke-Core - The Erotic Screen

I have a new book out, about old-school porn and the erotic video revolution. It's called: 

The Erotic Screen: Volume 1 —

The Golden Hardcore and the Shimmering Dyke-Core 

The book is a "live" history of erotic cinema before the Internet— from the Golden Age of lavish 35mm hardcore, to the video-inspired “Porno Spring,” initiated by none other than punk, feminist, and lesbian video-makers.   

I'm so curious to hear your reactions.

 

Here's the introduction: "Birth of a Blue Movie Critic."

And here's the "Table of Contents."

 

If you are:

Crazy for movies; 

Fascinated with the overlap of Hollywood, Indies, and Blue Cinema; 

An afficionado of porn director and porn star history; or,

Seriously into the nature of sex work on film;

—You'll go cuckoo for the whole thing.

This first volume includes all my stories on blue movies and the porn biz, covering 1967-1989.

There's my original “X-Rated Advisor” columns from Penthouse Forum, my killed story about the history of Jim Crow in the Adult Industry, plus uncommonly candid interviews from the 1980s with legendary artists like Russ Meyer, John Leslie, Sharon Mitchell, Jeannie Pepper, Christopher Rage... and many more.

Chapters include: 

The bizarre beginnings of How-To Sex Videos,

the unexpected taboos of erotic foreign cinema,  

the punk nationalist "Tampon Tango!" from Japan,  

The Last of Traci Lords,

The Eve of John Holmes’ Departure,

the last word on “What Women Want,"

my blue-movie favorites, (both X and R-rated),

the never-spoken realities behind a porn shoot, the invention of the “Blatant Lesbian Image”

— plus dozens of fan questions answered with panache and detail!  

Finally, you might like to watch this video of me recounting the improbable story how I ended up with a notebook in my hand at the Pussycat Theater...  This was the inspiration for the whole saga.

When you finish reading The Erotic Screen, I'd love to hear your review— on your blog, on Amazon, Good-Reads, wherever you write your opinions. Please do send me the link so I can write you back.  And you can always email me any feedback you may have...

All my best, and Clits Up!

Susie

P.S. 
 There is no paperback. The advantage of the e-book is that the chapters are linked to videos, illustrations, and bio material that are ideal for reading on your computer or your e-book reader, iPad, etc. Enjoy! 

You don't need a special device to read a Kindle book; they look great on any normal computer or tablet, ipod, iphons, or cell-phone.... Here's all you need.

 Cover design by Stewart Williams.

Jimi Hendrix, and Why the Little Dykes Understand

 
Teenagers find reasons to live and die in popular music. The aging process grinds this passion to a halt, as we become cynical and cautious. But a former teenager never forgets her first, and my first was Jimi Hendrix.

Hendrix is one of the most compelling legends of the ‘60s. He was a virtuoso musician, and he died at the height of our country’s discontent, an estrangement he described many times in his lyrics. He deliberately commented on society’s rules and wages of war. He was an army veteran who was not a stranger to colonialism. For these reasons, I idolized him, not as a revolutionary guitarist, but as a revolutionary and an ax man.

There was something about Jimi’s sound, rather than the lyrics or the times he lived in, that made young people, (and in particular me), want to be free. No inhibitions, no limits, no authority.

When I talk to men of my generation who revere Hendrix, they often rap about his technical mastery and mysteries. But the largest mystery to me about Hendrix was not how he achieved his outlandish distortion, but how he made my world seem so distorted—why my body responded to his voice, why “If six turned out to be nine," I didn't mind. I’ve been playing Electric Ladyland for thirty years now, but I didn’t examine what Jimi meant to me until I had a very weird flashback of the mid-1980s…

It’s hard to keep track of all the military actions the United States has engaged in since Vietnam. Since Nixon, every Pentagon folly is an incident, a “warette,” and in that vein,  you may recall that in 1986, Reagan bombed Libya.

The night of the the Libyan air strike, I was at a lesbian strip show. It was a Tuesday, and the women of On Our Backs produced a "burlezk show," a night at at a women-only strip club. It was our usual two hundred-plus crowd of leatherdykes, financial-district escapees, and Midwestern tourists. The strippers were all local girls who worked regularly at the downtown sex clubs.

The kind of erotic dancer who plays to a dyke crowd tends to have a bit more spirit, a real desire to connect to the crowd. But their costumes and acts were rarely different from what they’d perform at a regular porn palace, regardless of their sexual orientation.

They all danced to Top Forty, which at the time was a string of tunes by Janet Jackson, Mötley Crüe, Vanity. The last thing I expected to hear any Tuesday was the electrified rattle of a machine gun.

It was the “Machine Gun,” Jimi Hendrix’s song from Band of Gypsys, circa 1970.

The first riffs erupted on a bare stage, and then a yellow spot came up. Out of the darkness, a stripper named Lupé crawled on her belly upstage, in a combat uniform and a gas mask. She was a death spirit; her body contorted and furious,  driven by Hendrix’s ferocious rat a tat tat.

She did her entire set, seventeen minutes, to Hendrix’s anthem, and the gas mask was the one thing that never came off.

I don’t know what the girls at the cocktail tables were thinking; I don’t know if cruising and foreplay came to a halt. Most of the audience was younger than me— I don’t think they remembered Walter Cronkite announcing the number of Vietnam casualties every night. Some of the baby dykes may have been born the year that Hendrix played his disintegrated version of “The Star Spangled Banner” at Woodstock.

Lupe was old for a stripper—almost thirty. When she came off the stage, she was so wet and hollowed out I didn’t know if it was tears dripping off her face or sweat. But when she saw my own tearful face as I hugged her, she began to cry in earnest. “You know why I did it, you know,” she said. When she got a little drier, I asked her how she started listening to Jimi.

We had both listened ”Machine Gun,” as kids, an album  released during the most political and “black” phase of his career. She and I remembered smoking a lot of pot to this album, chewing peyote, making love to both men and women, and cursing the war. It was a time of inverted patriotism, where the very thing that made you hate the Pentagon, Tricky Dick, and how-many-kids-he-killed-that-day, was the same thing that made you think that maybe this country had some greatness after all, if only we could get rid of the bloodsuckers. At that time I considered corporate greed to be a cancer on the body; I still trusted we were born clean.

I have one unusual clue to my feminine Hendrix fascination, which tied my revolutionary interest in him to my sexual interest. Everyone who has read the postmortem Hendrix biographies has heard tell about Jimi’s huge sexual appetite, his big dick, and his "black" erotic presence in a white rocker milieu, a different time and place from his early R&B circuit as a sideman.

In the middle of my lesbian strip show years, I found unexpected pictures and clues in the record of his life. One of Hendrix’s closest running buddies had been a woman he named Devon—his lover, roommate, pimp, dealer, and advisor. She was often called a “super groupie,” linked with Mick Jagger and others.

But the most interesting thing I read about her was that she was a bisexual, a hooker who reputedly only loved women but fucked men for money and advantage. That would describe most of the women I met at our lesbian burlesque.

Devon’s bisexuality is not commented on very much in the typical Hendrix bio except to say that Jimi “straightened Devon out.” I thought that notion was very funny, but my reading of a woman like Devon is that she queered Jimi in...

Contined in Sexwise, "Why The Little Dykes Understand"

Photos Credits,from top to bottom:

Devon, posing on tour with Jimi.

"Dolly Dagger" wasn't released before Hendrix's death, but you can find it on compilations like Experience Hendrix. He sang it as his opener at concerts in the summer of 1970.

You can see Lupé in drag, stripping to Jagger, plus all the other original BurLEZk dancers (including "Sandra Dee" who later became "Tiffany Millions") on BurLEZk I, from Fatale Media. I'm sorry to say she's not with us anymore... it's just not fair.

By the way, even if you've seen Woodstock on screen many times before, the Directors Cut DVD is mouthdropping, and I'm glad I stumbled upon it.

(Sex) Crimes Against Nature: How Lovers Take Revenge With Dildo Abuse

There's a lesbian crime wave sweeping the country and not one local news program has the guts to cover it: sex toy vandalism. My phone has become a hotline of sorts for victims whose harnesses have been hijacked, whose rubber novelties have been mutilated.

Just last night a dear friend called to say that she and her lover had their camping trip ruined when someone entered their tent and snatched their black bag full of sex toys: two hundred dollars worth, she said— not an uncommon price for a vibrator, dildo, harness, and lube.

My friends did the right thing: they indignantly reported their loss to the park ranger. Might he be a suspect? These vicious robberies are underreported, but the problem isn't going to go away by keeping it a secret.

My advice? Especially at the big parks, like Grand Canyon and Yellowstone, keep your dick strapped on at all times, and your vibrator attached to your canteen belt or day pack. You'll have more fun in the forest and you won't have any nagging worries about what's going down at base camp.

The more familiar type of vandalism I hear about is committed by someone you know very well—  an ex or a soon-to-be ex.

I'd like a show of hands as to how many of you have watched in horror as your lover picked up a butcher knife and hacked your rubber dick into a million pieces. Or worse, they do the dirty deed in private and then stuffed the remains into your pillowcase or the soles of your shoes. When you consider the prices we pay for these items, the humor quickly fades.

The partner who had the guts in the first place to walk into a sleazy adult store to buy the precious item is usually not the one who wrecks the toy. It seems that with a lot of couples, one partner stays in the car chewing her nails while the other one attempts to look like she knows what she's doing as she tiptoes into Frenchy’s Fantasy Fun Palace.

There is no reason why you shouldn't get to know your own local novelty store. "Bob" at the Fantasy Palace is no more threatening than the sales clerk at Walgreen's, and no one is going to make a pass at you.

The male customers in the sex store are more afraid of you than you are of them. Watch them cut a wide swath to get out of your way as you head toward the tit clamps. It's an awesome sense of power. I don't know why men can be so rude at a bus stop but then be absolutely speechless in a sex toy store, but that's the way it is.

Back to the problem of inter-relationship dildo abuse. Thwarting such expensive destruction takes more sensitivity and imagination than the vacation rip-off cases.

First off, consider whether you or your lover has a pent-up desire to carve up a rubber cock... 

Contined in Susie Sexpert's Lesbian Sex World, "Sex Crimes Against Nature"

Rape Scenes: Anatomy of Forced Sex Fantasy Vs. Reality

I remember the first time someone stuck his hand down my pants when I didn't want him to.

My roommate and I were mugged and molested on Page and Ashbury while walking home from a movie at the Red Vic. I must have been twenty.

"Rape Scenes" from Susie Bright's Sexual Reality

What I remember most was that my assailant was a full head shorter than me. He looked to be about fourteen, and he had the tip of his knife pushed against my breastbone. I was scared stiff, unable to move, pleading.

Our two mugger boys were so inexperienced that one of them handed my roommate's keyring back to her so he could use both hands to unfasten her pants. She blew the silver whistle that hung off her keys— and as if she had fired a warning shot— the armed and dangerous brats ran like rabbits.

It was over. I felt like shit, and I continued to feel like shit for months. I moved out of the neighborhood.

I  also remember the first time I had a forced-sex fantasy. I was quite young and had gotten my hands on a naughty book, one of those "pseudo-textbooks" in sociology. It featured “true tales of juvenile delinquency,” and I found it in the library, mis-shelved.

I had never seen the word “delinquent” before, and it sounded pornographic to say the word out loud.

One story described a teenage girl pinned to a cross, just like Jesus, on a grassy hill outside her suburb; all the boys in her school had their way with her.

Another story was about a little girl who didn't obey her parents' warnings not to talk to strangers. She was kidnapped walking to school by a couple who sequestered her in their apartment and introduced her, day by day, to various sex acts which she first resisted and then (of course) became addicted to.

I was attending Catholic school at the time and my head was already filled with stories of romantic martyrdom and the wages of sin. The juvenile delinquents' dramas played over and over again in my head at night as I rubbed myself through layers of sheets, pajamas and underwear, always coming very hard. I never left that neighborhood.

I didn’t acknowledge having perilous fantasies until I was in my twenties. In a women’s studies college course, our teacher asked us if we had experienced arousing “rape fantasies.”

One girl tearfully raised her hand and said this was true for her. My heart beat so fast it was all I could do to stay put. I was just as ashamed as she of these fantasies, but I would never have admitted them. Our professor was quite kind to her, if misinformed.

Our professor comforted the girl by saying that, as women, we had been brainwashed by the patriarchy to eroticize our subordination to men. She said these fantasies were very common, which is true, and that we could "overcome" them by exposing our fantasies to feminist analysis and by our increasing self-esteem.

She was wrong on that count. In fact, I knew she was wrong later that same night...

Continued in Sexual Reality, "Rape Scenes"

How to Ruin A Woman’s Sex Life in 30 Days Or Less

I got a phone call from a Cosmo magazine, asking me to contribute a tip for their upcoming feature, "How to Improve Your Sex Life in 30 Days."  The title of such a venture already gave me some doubts. I hated the whole notion of tightening up your libido the way you would a set of abs.

After a fruitless conversation, I hung up the phone, depressed by their orgasm-indifferent attitude towards women’s sexual pleasure. They thought improving your sex life meant impressing a man, rather than making a significant erotic impression on yourself.

To comfort my wounded soul, I logged on to my freelance writer chat-group online.

"I always get asked the same questions by these women's magazines," I wrote, in the "Pissed-Off" topic. "I wish someone would ask me how to RUIN their sex life in 30 days."

One of my colleagues, Mary Elizabeth, quickly posted her response: "Who needs 30 days?"

How right she is! Destroying your sex life is a snap, compared to enjoying it. I've devised a list of a dozen libido-killing strategies that any seeker of the sex-free lifestyle ought to be able to accomplish well before a month is up.

Ready?

1) Don't admit your sexual desire

Single gals, go ahead and play the dating game all you want— the important thing is to never admit that you have a sexual interest at stake. Shop for the perfect marriage, but make sure that all your efforts are for romance, or God's will. Follow the "Cockteaser Manual” page by page, and rest assured that none of it will make you hot, horny or sweaty. If you make the right match in the proper state of sexual ignorance, you may elude the clutches of lust altogether.

Some of you bad girls who have been around the block may have dabbled in sexual pleasure in the past. It's time to straighten up and fly right. You're a wife and mother now— do you want people to think you're some disgusting slut? If you don't have a headache by now, start sniffing glue.

2) Stay indoors

This is one of those subtle but surefire strategies to shut off unwanted outbursts of sensuality. You don't want to feel the sun on your face. Remember: it's cancerous. Flowers will activate your allergies. Fresh air and exercise might wake your clitoris out of its coma. (If you're the type to stand in the middle of a storm singing "It's Raining Men," there's really nothing we can do for you).

3) Throw your diary in the trash

Self-reflection is a one-way ticket to erotic speculation. One moment you're innocently recording your dreams— and the next thing you know, your pen is scribbling an illicit fantasy. There you are, acting sexy without even taking your clothes off! It's time to stop "expressing yourself," and begin expressing a little self-restraint.

4) Blame it on the kids

This is a tip for the parents among you... 

Continued in Mommy's Little Girl, "How To Ruin a Woman's Sex Life in 30 Days or Less"

The Best She Ever Had: Eavesdropping on Polyamory and the Open Relationship

    
I asked Jon to tell me more about Carrie. The wind carried voices from the cafe brunchers onto our beach spot, but I could pull another towel over my head and listen only to him.    

  “Well, she said a lot of nice things about me— she’s... complimentary.”

   “Like what?” I imagined what she might say— “Mister, you have a very nice cock.” That’s what I would say to Jeff if I’d just had a one night stand with him: nice cock, beautiful hair.

   “She said... okay, this is embarrassing— she said, I was the best lover she’d ever had!”

    “You’re kidding!“

    “Yeah, incredible as it may seem...”

    “You know I don’t mean— ”

    We both buried our heads in the beach towel and laughed.

    “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said, and nudged my crotch with his toe.

    I sat up in the sand so I could see him better. We were both struggling with  our straw hats in the wind.

     I decided to speculate. “Maybe what our friend said about her being so sexually inexperienced is true.”

    “But she’s thirty-two!”

   “Thirty-two-year-old sex today is what sixteen-year-old sex was in our day— just creeping out of their egg.”

    “Is it really that bad?”

    “Yeah, well think about it— if she was holding out through high school, and then ‘playing it safe’ in college, that doesn’t leave a lot of time for sodomy and wasted nights.”

    “That’s a shame... but then what about all those blow jobs she talked about? I guess it fits  though, doesn’t it?— She’s afraid of everything else.    

“Tell me that part again, about her first boyfriend.” I dug my toes into the sand until they hit the wet part.

“She said she just broke up with her first real boyfriend, and that when they got together, she promised him a thousand blow jobs. She got up to seven hundred and forty-nine in three years.”

    “Seven hundred and forty-nine!" 

  "Yes!"

    "Now that seems like a magic number. Like, we'll never forget it now, and we've only heard it once. But I don’t see how she managed to keep track... I mean, I tried to do that, when I was first fucking, but every time I went to bed with someone new, I’d change my idea about what good sex was, or what love was, and then my old system didn’t make any sense.”

    “Well, maybe it’s easier with blow jobs, if that’s all you’re doing.”

    “But she didn’t come, going down on you, did she?”

    “No, of course not! It was hard for her to come, she kept trying to block me. She couldn’t believe I wouldn’t try to fuck her, trick her, and afterward she said she didn’t want to do that— and then when I went down on her, she didn’t think I really wanted to eat her— and she kept not believing, not believing, and all that made her orgasm  remote.”

    “I bet the women who actually get off giving head don't count the number... If you want to swallow cock all the time, if that makes you come, you aren’t competitive about it, you’re just hungry, right? I mean, who keeps track of how many times they eat their favorite meal?”

    Jon dropped his voice. “She was kind of rare, you know— she swallowed everything, every drop...”

Continued in Mommy's Little Girl, "The Best She Ever Had"

Strip Tea Party: A Ladies' Literary Salon with Six Naked Silent Slaveboys

You know how hard it is to get good service nowadays. Chivalry is a corpse, discretion is unheard of, and elegance—elegance is currently defined by advertisements for discount furniture.

A wellbred woman might spend her entire maturity never once hearing the words "May I be of service to you?"—although she may spend her life waiting on others, particularly children and men. Such a predicament could make strong women weep and gnash their teeth, but when the going gets tough, the tough throw a party. A very unusual party.

"Strip Tea" from Susie Bright's Sexual Reality

It all started when I received an invitation to attend a salon of women artists. We were offered an occasion to read aloud, sketch, and indulge ourselves in a proper High Tea. Most intriguing of all, the invitation promised we would be served our scones and punch by naked slaveboys who would not speak unless spoken to. The aspect of social nudity was of course titillating, but would ordinary men actually keep their lips buttoned for an approximately five-hour affair? That had to be seen to be believed. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Upon arrival, I was indeed greeted by a nude doorman who took my coat. Alas, he was the only servant in sight, and in the meantime, guests were arriving by the score. What a delightful group of invitees they were, too. If I had been able to get a simple cup of hot Earl Grey, my afternoon would have been complete.

But unfortunately, although the company was sublime and the concept impeccable, only two slaveboys were on hand to provide services, and despite their best intentions, I don't think either of them had ever so much as poured a cup of decaf.

The guests were uneducated in the fine art of being served. Though a couple of us were dressed in literary salon frocks, some came in sweatpants. One lovely woman offered to get up and fetch me a scone, and when I gently reminded her she was a guest, she pleaded with me, "It doesn't matter, I'm a bottom in real life." Ah yes, but real life was what we were trying to escape.

The ultimate affront was the vision, midway through the party, of an attractive girl on her knees, giving a "slaveboy" a neck massage!

I departed with my friend, Laura. We reviewed the afternoon and agreed it had been a wonderful, yet insufficient, experience. Wouldn't it be perfect to have a party like that in a grand mansion, with slaveboys who looked like Greek gods and served like altar boys?

"I'll dream of it," I told her as we parted, but Laura wasted no time in wistfulness.

The very next day, she called me. "My friend Amy has a beautiful home in the Berkeley hills, and she would love to hostess the kind of tea party we have in mind. The living room is Byronic, and there are even special servants' quarters."

I blinked. The first hurdle, getting out of our filthy, tiny, crime-ridden neighborhood apartments, had been overcome in the twinkling of a phone call. Now where on earth would we find the slaveboys?

Laura was an editor of local weekly paper at the time, where personal ads of all persuasions abounded. She agreed to place an ad for four weeks, but I had my doubts about getting much of a response to anything so bizarre. I was more confident that in my Rolodex I would find lots of liberated men who would love to serve us tea.

Little did I know the raw nerves our search would scratch. I got my first glimpse of the reaction during a trip to my mechanic. "Look what I'm up to," I said, pulling into the garage and waving my carefully typed personal ad:

Genteel and Bohemian gathering of women writers requires comely slaveboys to serve at our tea party. You will serve nude and will not speak unless spoken to. Standards are high. Food and beverage experience a must. No sex. Please send photo and qualifications to Madam Tea Party.

"What the fuck do I want with waiting on a bunch of broads?" asked Tom, leaning against his desk. "You're not paying anything for this? No way."

Some little lost feminist emotion in me snapped. "Women have been waiting on you from the time you were born," I said. "And you can't imagine switching sides for a couple of hours?"

The next week, I saw Tom again, and he asked how my search was going. The ad had not yet appeared, and I was getting nowhere.

My gay friends said they wouldn't have any fun waiting on women. "Why not?" I asked. "Whatever happened to your sense of classic theater? This isn't a pickup scene, it's the tea to end all teas!"

My straight friends, even the most sympathetic, went into a panic about penis size and fantasized far more permanent humiliation than anything I had in mind.

All my reassurances were in vain. But fate was about to turn her head. The Wednesday paper hit the streets... 

Continued in Susie Bright's Sexual Reality, "Strip Tea"

 

Photo: Michael Rosen, of the late Tom O'Conner, our chef for the Tea Party, and Susie Bright

Aprés Le Book Tour: Gratitude and New Ideas

Hard to believe, but I've dismounted from my Big Sex Little Death book tour. I am now having a quiet, discreet little nervous breakdown but it's really not that bad— I still have a smile on my face.

It all began in Detroit on March 16th and culiminated with my Grand Marshall cape flying, at the SF Pride Parade on June 26th. 

Here's the reviews my memoir has garnered, if you'd like some critical snap! 

Like any author who undertakes a massive book tour, I relied on the kindess and euphoria of strangers who hosted, promoted, fed, bathed, and delighted me all over the country. And, to all of you who subscribe to my blog— without you, this financially would have been impossible. Thank you so much.

I am so grateful to all of you— please consider yourself welcome at my house anytime. The chili is ON.

Aside from the sheer "animal husbandry" of keeping a touring author alive, the conversations, books, and political insights I shared with all of you are a valuable book in themselves.

*Thank you, ALL OF YOU, so much. 

 

So What's Next?

I'm writing an illustrated guide to the erotic, political, pharmaceutical, and culinary highlights of my tour— details to come. I hope to publish that by August.

 

Upcoming Tour Dates

I'm doing a couple college lecture and book club dates in October this year— I have a two dates left on the calendar if you're interested. I'll post the plans by Labor Day.

There's so many places I didn't get to; like Canada, for instance.

Or Miami, Austin, New Orleans, Portland-Maine, Denver-Boulder, San Diego, Kansas City— I've received all your letters and I am pining as much as you!

My plan is: Let's plan a spring tour, next April-May. This is the time to start scheming, because it takes money, brilliant scheduleing, and willpower to pull it all off. 

 

The E-Book, The Audiobook, The Theme Park

Do I have an e-book of Big Sex Little Death?

Yes! I have editions ready for you on Kindle, Nook, and from indy bookshops, the generic E-book.

Do I have an audio version? Of course! I even have a new page on Audible with all thirty+ my books listed.

 

Sex-Positive Parenting

What about my sex-postive parenting workshops? Well, for those of you who were there, I think we all left in a little bit of a daze— it was unforgettable. You could have heard a pin drop the hours we spent together. I definitely want to write about this: how raising kids changes your sex life and foretells/impacts how their sex lives will develop.

If you were there, I  need your help! If you attended  one of my workshops, can you remember what you said in our discussion? Send it to me!

Do you remember some of the other stories you heard? Email me what stuck in your head!

I tried in vain to remember everyone's history, but as we weren't recording or taking notes (which I'm glad of) my recollections are incomplete. 

Many of you asked if I've written about motherhood and sex before— yes. See "Egg Sex" and pick up a copy of Mommy's Little Girl. 

 

True Grit

The most unexpected inspiration I had on the trail was my night-time comfort. Every evening in a strange bed, to get to sleep, I'd read, or play an audiobook, by Charles Portis.

Portis wrote True Grit, which was remade into a movie by the Coen Brothers last year— a revelation to me!

I listened to Donna Tartt read aloud that glorious prose more times than I can count. I also dived into his other classics like Norwood, Dog of the South, Gringos, and Masters of Atlantis. I can't stop re-reading and re-listening.

I began to daydream my own version of a Portis novel, an homage to his great narrators.

In my pass, the first-person is going to be a cranky bulldagger of the first water— on a great improbable journey, of course.

If you know Portis' work, I can imagine you're cackling with glee at the prospect; if you don't know what I'm talking about, just pick up a copy of anything he's written and hang on to your hat.

I realize I've been living among Portis-heads all my life and didn't know it. I once cared for a quixotic cat named "Norwood" without knowing his credentials. Hunter Thompson used to quote entire Portis passages to me, laughing up his nose, and I didn't realize he wasn't quoting himself! Okay, the jig is up, you sneaks; I'm in all the way now.

 

* My Special Thank You's

Detroit: Mary Lee Hannington, Leopold’s Books, Jane Slaughter, Mimi Gonzales-Barillas

Ann Arbor: David Halperin, Terri Torrko, Rohstem Mesli, Common Language Bookstore

New York: Devera and Michael Witkin, Beth Anderson, *Everyone* at Audible, Veronica Vera and Candida Royalle, Bluestockings, Kate Black, Erica Jong, Doug Henwood, Michael Letwin, Strand Books, Wil Snape and Jennifer Bassuk, Barbara Winslow

San Francisco: Martin Cate and Smuggler’s Cove, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Modern Times, Femina Potens Gallery, Carole Deutch, City Lights Bookstore, Small Press Distribution and The Bee-In

Marin: Book Passage, Jonathan Freiman, Christina Amini

Oakland: Diesel Bookstore, Ari Levenfeld and Leonora Willis

Santa Cruz: My dear neighbors, hometown friends, and Bookshop Santa Cruz

Los Angeles: Richard Olsen, Book Soup

Chicago: Rebecca Weaver-Gill, Jessica Peterson, Women and Children First, Linda Bubon, Driftglass and BlueGal

St. Louis: David Wraith, Blue Jones, Left Bank Books, Sex-Positive St. Louis

D.C./Baltimore: Tristan Taormino and Colten Tagnomino, Holly Fogleboch, Jacqui Deegan, MomentumCon, Bluestockings 

Atlanta: Phillip Rashoon, Outwrite Books, Maital and Anne

Portland: Andi Zeisler, Venae Rodriguez, LiveWire Radio, BITCH, She-Bop, Powell’s Books

Seattle: Babeland, Elliott Bay Book Company, Village Books in Fairhaven

Minneapolis: The Smitten Kitten, Steve Harsin

Tucson: Chris Tanz and Jean-Paul Bierny, The Pima County Library, The Loft Cinema, Antigone Books

Pride Parade, San Francisco: SFPride.org, Marsha Levine, Veronica Garcia, Jay Remick, Honey Lee Cottrell, Closet Capers,  and everyone who voted for me for Grand Marshall, what a great people's parade it was! PHotos here.

Everywhere and At All Times: Eva Zimmerman, Donna Galassi, Brooke Warner, Everyone at Seal Press, Worley-Shoemaker Management, Jon Bailiff, Jennifer Taillac.

 

PHOTOS: Honey Lee Cottrell, SF Pride Parade, 2011. The last photo is me in front of the staff door in City Hall that Dan White used to sneak in and kill George Moscone and Harvey Milk.

 

White Sex: The Erotic Forensics of Race

"White sex,'' I repeated, for the third time. Not right sex or wide sex or a new drug to do it to— which is what everyone imagined when I announced the subject— everyone being white, of course.

So let me spell it out for you: White sex, as in white people, and how they fuck, and is there anything to it?

White sex is commonly referred to as simply "sex." Whenever we hear the results of a new survey about how many males over 45 watch porn videos, or the number of women under 30 who have performed fellatio, we can picture the people behind the statistics clearly enough: white men and women responding to each inquiry, scratching their heads and pressing down hard with their Number-2 pencils.

Perhaps that is our first definition; that white sex is about white people being the erotic yardstick, the arbiters of public taste, the bearers of a terribly self-conscious, but largely unspoken, standard. White sex at its most transparent is the product of white Protestant or Catholic middle/working/no-class, absolutely assimilated, English-first Americans.

Now that we're alone, let's let our hair down, even though as white people that's exactly the thing we find so hard to do. The essence of white sex is sexual blandness and rigidity. Straight white male sexuality in particular is an endless source of folk humor as the bastion of anal retention. An anonymous social critic put it perfectly in the 1960s: "You're nothing but an uptight white asshole.''

But why would anyone be a tightass, especially a white American male? Perhaps, as we've seen in so many tales about unsatisfied rich (white) Americans, there is something about the work ethic and the American Dream that entails paying an erotic and intimate price for material success. "He who has the most toys wins," reads a popular bumper sticker, but the winner may find he can't get it up anymore. Or he comes too soon. In either case, the winner, the man in charge, cannot relax. And if you can't relax, you can't get fucked and enjoy it.

What makes white sexuality so dynamic is that, having been strung up as tight as a racket, white lovers are sensitive to the least little provocation. The high watermark of white sex is the white person who loses his or her head, and becomes a bona-fide sex maniac. As the late cookbook author Ernest Matthew Mickler put it, "I can just hear Raenelle and Betty Sue at every Tupperware party in Rolling Fork saying, `Ernie went from white trash to WHITE TRASH overnight.'''

Yes, the path from repressed nerd to bohemian libertine is one bright white circle, and it can lead from the first persona to the second as quickly as a whirl of J. Edgar Hoover's slip. Let's look at a gallery of some of our most stirring White Sex stereotypes:

YANKEE WHORE: The first time I visited Central America, I had a Spanish instructor who was eager to teach me card games and talk about sex. He told me his last Americana student kept a pet boa constrictor that she used as a dildo...

Contined in Sexwise, "White Sex"

 

Illustration: Robert Crumb, Zap Comix #1

Susie's Spring 2011 American Tour: Big Sex Little Death

 

 

SUSIE BRIGHT AMERICAN TOUR: SPRING 2011

 

Let's Talk About Sex

Let's Talk About Death...

Let's Talk About What's Important—

& What Gets Left Behind

BIG SEX LITTLE DEATH:

A Memoir

A Reckoning

 

Dear Friends,

I've finished my memoir after three years— Big Sex Little Death — and I'm ready to come out of my bat-cave.

 

WHAT'S IT ABOUT?

"Guns, drugs, threesomes, socialist factionalism, a stabbing... all before she got her G.E.D.? —I have a very scary feeling Susie Bright is not making any of this up." 

— Alison Bechdel

 

I'll be touring all over the country, and there's nothing I'd like more than to see you, hug you, and share my baby.  

Details and destinations below.

 

SAMPLES FROM THE BOOK

- Read my Introduction to the strange state of women's memoirs

 

- Check out an excerpt from my high school years, The Bunny Trip.

 

- More photos and mementos I couldn't stuff in the book! 

(Yes, it's available in hardback, e-book, & audio!)

TOUR DESTINATIONS

Ann Arbor, Atlanta, Baltimore/DC, Bay Area,

Chicago, Detroit, Marin County, Los Angeles,

New York, Oakland, Portland-OR,

St. Louis, San Francisco, Santa Cruz, and Tucson.

(For Media Inquiries or interview requests, please contact my publicist at Seal Press, Eva Zimmerman: eva.zimmerman@perseusbooks.com or 510.809.3834)

 If you want to book me, write my booking agent. 

 

TOUR DETAILS

Writing Classes,

Parenthood Sex Workshops,

Readings, Parties, Performances

Listed Alphabetically by City

 

ANN ARBOR

Monday, March 21, 7pm

Lecture, Signing, & Discussion

U of Michigan

Angell Hall, Auditorium B

Books from Common Language

------------------------

ATLANTA

Wednesday, April 27

Reading, Signing, Memoir Discussion

Outwrite Books

991 Piedmont Ave. NE

------------------------

BALTIMORE/DC/MARYLAND

Sunday, April 3, 4-6pm

"Multigen Feminist Pornographers Mouth Off!"  - Susie Bright and Tristan Taormino on Stage, Telling All!

This is part of the Momentum Con, a conference for people interested in sex, feminism, relationships, and new media.

Registration required 

 

Sunday, April 3, 8pm

House Party, Details TK

------------------------

CHICAGO

Friday, April 15th, 7:30pm

Reading, Signing, Discussion

Women and Children First Bookstore

5233 N. Clark St

 

Saturday, April 16, 10- 11:30am

The Erotic Memoir: A Writing Workshop with Susie

Advance Reg required, Call Store

Women and Children First Bookstore

5233 N. Clark St.

------------------------

DETROIT 

Saturday, March 19, 6-9pm

Party and Reading

Rivet Design Studio, 748 Seminole Street, in Indian Village

Bring a bottle and a dish to pass!  RSVP: (313) 822-4056

Books from Leopold's

------------------------

LOS ANGELES - W. HOLLYWOOD

Wednesday, April 13, 7pm

Reading, Signing, Discussion

Book Soup Bookstore

8818 Sunset Blvd.

------------------------

MARIN COUNTY 

Saturday, April 9, 4:30-6pm

Book Passage Bookstore Presents:

The Erotic Memoir: A Writing Workshop with Susie

 Advance Registration Required

 

Saturday, April 9, 7pm

Bookstore Reading, Signing, Discussion, 

51 Tamal Vista Blvd, Corte Madera

------------------------

NEW YORK

Wednesday, March 30, 7 pm

Reading, Signing, Memoir Discussion... and Feh Muh Nism!

Bluestockings Bookstore

172 Allen St.

 

Thursday, March 31, 7pm

Doug Henwood Interviews Susie Bright,

A live taped Audible interview

Strand Bookstore

828 Broadway

------------------------

OAKLAND

Sunday, April 10, 3pm

Reading, Signing, Discussion

Diesel Bookstore

5433 College Ave.

------------------------

PORTLAND, OR

Friday, April 29, Doors open 630, show starts 730

Live Wire Radio Event

Alberta Rose Theater

3000 NE Alberta St.

 

Saturday, April 30, 7-8:30pm

"Mom's Sex Diary: Your Pregnancy to Their Puberty--

How Raising Kids Changes Your Sex Life and Foretells Theirs"

Advance Reg Required, Phone Store 

She Bop

More Info TK

Sunday, May 1, 730pm

Reading, Signing, Memoir Discussion

Powell's Books

1005 W. Burnside

 

Monday, May 2, 7-9pm

"The Erotic Memoir: A Writing Workshop with Susie"

Advance Tix Required

Powells Books

1005 W. Burnside

------------------------

ST. LOUIS

Passover Sunday, April 17th, 4pm

Reading, Signing, Discussion

Left Bank Books

399 N. Euclid Ave.

------------------------

SAN FRANCISCO

Thursday, March 24, 6-9:30

My Birthday Party with Books! I'm turning 53!

Smuggler's Cove Tiki Bar

650 Gough, at McAllister

Master Rum-o-Logist Martin Cate is making me an original cocktail for the occasion: "The Sexpert," of course

 

Thursday, April 7, 7-8 pm

Femina Potens Presents:

"The Erotic Memoir: A Writing Workshop with Susie"

Advance Tix Required

Mission Control, Mission District, register for address

 

Thursday, April 7,  8:30-11

Sizzle - Erotic Lit Panel

Erotic stories from sex-positive moms,including Susie, Shar Rednour, Madison Young, Thea Hillman, & Penny Barber.

Advance Tix Required

Mission Control, Mission District, register for address

 

Wednesday, April 20th, 7pm

Reading, Signing,  Discussion

City Lights Bookstore

261 Columbus Ave

------------------------

SANTA CRUZ

Tuesday, April 5, 7:30pm

Reading, Signing, Discussion

Bookshop Santa Cruz

1520 Pacific Ave.

------------------------

TUCSON

Wednesday, June 15

An Evening with Susie Bright at The Loft Cinema

Sponsored by the Pima County Library

7:00 p.m.
(Doors open at 6:30 p.m.)
FREE ADMISSION
Seating is available on a first-come, first-seated basis / No advance tickets

 

"Susie is a one-woman counterculture...

She recounts a life full of political and erotic adventures and betrayals, a life at once deeply subversive and totally American, defined by the idea that people should be free to express and pursue their own visions of happiness, no matter how uncomfortable it makes the prigs and scolds among us."

— Tom Perrotta

 

 

Photo: Jill Posener, at the beautiful Albany Landfill

Details on How To Purchase Books:

Every independent bookstore you see linked on this page sells my hardback, and many of them do ebooks, too. Amazon has the Kindle version, the hardback, and exclusive audiobook. B&N has a "Nook" version as well as the hardback. In other words, you can find it everywhere, and be able to support the retailers you like.