Susie Bright's Journal

Prius Owner Vandalized by Eco-Terrorists!

Santa Cruz is in the conservative crosshairs again.

The very name of our surf town sends wingnuts into a tofu-foaming, crystal-smashing fit. This past week, I found myself as a mysterious statistic in one of their tempests.

My story starts with the media coverage of a pro-peace student group at U.C. Santa Cruz, "Students Against War." They've had tremendous success pressuring military recruiters off of campus.

They organize to stop the armed forces from showing up at campus job fairs with their "Go To Exotic Places and Kill People" rap. I like their politics. I went to UCSC too, a twenty years ago, and was involved in similiar activities.

UCSC is the biggest employer in our town, the reason we have a sizeable population and traffic snarls most of the year. Ever since they broke ground in 1967, there has been a resentment by "old-timers" that the university brought braless heathens, pot smokers, and liberal politics to an otherwise peaceful (redneck) hamlet. Our local paper, The Sentinel, likes to intensify this town/gown seething at every opportunity.

I don't know if I'm being contrary, but THESE days, it seems like the older generation in "town" is far more New Age and liberal than the students on campus. Gown drinks more beer; Town smokes more weed.

This year, army recruiters declined to come and face the protestors, and their plight aroused outrage from hawks around the country. It became a Drudge Report hysteria item.

I may be cynical, but I don't think the recruiters retreated because satanic communist hippies run the university— if only that were true! If they did, maybe they would do something to alleviate the traffic mess.

No, the bigger issue is that military pitchmen have no prayer of recruiting upper middle class kids from Orange County whose GOP parents are footing the bill for their darling sons to matriculate from Banana Slug U.

The majority of UCSC students today, despite what you've heard, are upper-class, apolitical, sheltered, and vaguely conservative— like every other elite campus in the UC system. They aren't going to Iraq— not because they take a stand— but because mommy and daddy have other plans. The recruiters will do much, much better hassling people at the junior college (which they do) or the working class high schools.

Nevertheless, Michelle Malkin, hippie-hating blogger extraordinare, went ballistic on the Student Against War activists, and published  their home addresses and phone numbers, prompting tidal waves of hate mail and death threats.

I hesitate to link you to Malkin; I'll let you find her on your own. Suffice to say she makes Rush Limbaugh look like a drug-addled old hasbeen. Oh, right...

This all reached fever pitch LAST week, Easter week. On Saturday, I woke up and went out to the car with baskets of eggs, ready to embark to our annual pagan preparations. As we drove off, I changed lanes and realized someone had smashed my passenger side-view mirror.

I got out, looked around, and discovered the passenger door had been dented as well.

SHIT! You know how it is when someone wrecks your car. But I wasn't about to cancel my Easter Egg Hunt. So I decided to deal with it the next day.

Sunday morning I picked up the daily Sentinel with the blazing headline:

Men in Black Vandalize SUVs on Santa Cruz's Westside!

Vandals apparently went wild in my neighborhood— slashing tires, breaking mirrors, keying paint jobs. Some cars with spray-painted with left-wing "politically charged" slogans.

The Sentinel found one "witness," a hopping mad Ms. Andrea Muzzi, who said she saw 30-40 young people in black trenchcoats (Matrix!) riding away on 10-speeds. Muzzi surmised they must be radical Slugs!

She has re-graffittied her own car to read: "Die UCSC."

The Sentinel story, aided by Malkin, has now got everyone in the country thinking that it's the student peace group that ran amok.

I called the police to report my disaster too, and they were quite interested to hear from another victim from the exact same area and time period. 

But I had a new angle for them. I said, "My car is a HYBRID— I drive a Prius." Can the Sentinel explain that?

I wonder how many marauding right and left wing vandals could be working the same block at the same time. With 40 bicycles in the street, it could get chaotic. The police, meanwhile, are flummoxed. Ms. Muzzo is not their star.

Me— I don't think it was the Baader-Meinhof gang. It certainly wasn't Students Against War. I say, it was a bunch of drunk assholes, who along with the desperate junkies, are the two groups who usually vandalze cars in our "historic" neighborhood. 

But now the FBI has been brought in! Gosh, we know how tough they're cracking down on environmental terrorists! I hope they've brought plenty of fax toner! Can they get me a rental while my car's in the shop?

Someone's cute kids... location unknown!

I Have a Dream: Porn, Race, and Reality

When I last talked to sister sex radical Tristan Taormino, she was fresh off her arduous job as the sex consultant on a Spike Lee joint, trying her level best to convince her director that women do indeed have this special thing called a clitoris.

In Bed with Susie Bright 246: House of Ass

But Tristan's new movie is her own, a runway inspiration titled House of Ass. She decided to to make a porn movie-cum-reality show, where as she put it, "people stop being polite and start getting naked."

The actors do get emotionally naked, in addition to the usual displays. Each of the performers are interviewed for their candid opinions throughout the course of  a weekend together in a mountain getaway, far from the Madding Crowd.

The spontaneous and blunt opinions Tristan elicits are what makes the DVD quite extraordinary. I know some will find my behavior bizarre, but I rushed through the sex parts to listen to what the next person had to say.

As an example, one of the young women, Joanna Angel, reviews her decision-making when she auditioned for the shoot. Would she do girl/girl? Sure. Anal? But of course! Double penetration? Not to worry.

But the next question was different: Will you do interracial?

Now this is a most peculiar industry standard question. It is only asked of fair-skinned women, and it only means one thing: will Miss Anne fuck a black guy? Men are not asked this question. Black women are not asked this question. Asian, Polynesian, Chicano, and biracial actors are not given a rag to bite down on. This is the  Mandingo-cliche of the film biz, a throwback  to the notion of "the flower of white womanhood." To see it on casting interviews still makes my eyes cross. It's part of mainstream movies too—  it's just baldfaced in porn casting, for obvious reasons.

Joanna demurs when she gets her interracial challenge. She explains, "I said no! I wouldn't want to do anything I hadn't done already in my personal life."

But afterward, her decision gnaws at her. "Am I racist?" she asks herself, goth eyebrows raised. She considers that it's unfair that she would stick any strange white guy's cock in her mouth, but that a black lover would be beyond the pale.  Her rational mind starts mocking her fears.

Now Joanna is young... her frame of historical reference is still her high school years. So are all the women on the shoot. The men tend to be a little older, in their 20s, or like Mr. Marcus, the 30-something black actor that Joanna eventually makes hay with.

I had the oddest feeling watching this movie, and it's because I haven't sat down to watch a two and a half hour porn movie from front to back in quite some time. I used to review porn for a living, from the time when there wasn't a disclaimer on ever X-rated movie warning you to be monogamous. Ha! Time has passed, and it hit me I have gone from identifying with the girl ON camera, to wondering what her mom is like.

The actresses on House of Ass, like all porn, are my daughter's peers.  A few years older, but the same emotional temperature. They live in that world where agony is whether you're popular or not. Insecurity about your looks is paramount, and adolescent bravado and determination is what pushes you through. 

So many of them are just crawling out of their egg. Joanna hasn't simply foregone a black lover in her history— I doubt she's had COFFEE with a black person before this shoot. You can tell that her life is segregated, like most suburban teens.  It occurred to me that that entering a porn career might be many people's first social encounter of any kind outside their demographic. Hello Amerikka!

Later Tristan interviews Marcus about his experience with racism in the porn business. He's frank, articulate, and a little weary, as you might imagine. This was my favorite interview of all!  After he talked, I wished I could see him get it on with someone his own age who has been around the block, but I guess that's a fetish of another kind.

The only movies I've ever seen where black men played the consorts of middle-aged women are the so-called "fat videos"— where a white woman's "voracious" appetite is further illustrated by her penchant for black men, all young muscular types.

It's as if when you're fat, you finally can go wild and have everything you ever wanted, every taboo wish— without apology. Finally, a relief from White Propriety. More pie? More orgasms? Dig in, Miss Anne!

Tristan Taormino's House of ASS
Starring Joanna Angel, Justine Joli, Sarah Blake, Keeani Lei, Saana, Mr. Marcus, Scott Nails, and Talon.

Check out the trailer at the link... nice music, eh?

Also on this week's radio show, I get a letter from a man who says he hasn't had sex in 13 years. Gosh, what's the rush?  (Episode 246, April 21, 2006).

Hippity Hoppity Easter Boppity

My daughter, supermodel! Behold my favorite Easter bunny.

This detail is from a pastel "Candy" sign that's going to hang in the new Trader Joe's in San Francisco.

All the signs are being drawn by my friend Chance, who is a genius, artist, and graphic designer who I met at the Roxie in SF many years ago. Now, she is my neighbor and inspiration in Santa Cruz.

She asked Aretha if she would pose to do a pastel portrait for the CANDY section. As you know, the candy and chocolate section at Trader Joe's is a very dangerous and exciting place. Chance wanted the sign to be reminiscent of the Haight Ashbury in its heyday. Voila— My mommy's heart is bursting with pride!

I Want to Be Disinhibited— Whether W. Likes It or Not

Our Onward-Christian-Bullshitter administration is on a crusade to crush sex, sensibility, and science.  They don't separate one from the other.

In Bed with Susie Bright 244: Shame Spirals

One of the most outrageous examples of the moment is the Bush campaign against a new vaccine that eradicates the human pampilloma virus (HPV).

HPV causes genital warts, which have never been fun. But in its most deadly strains, it's the primary cause of cervical cancer.

Why are Bush's appointees on the FDA trying to stop a genius medicine that will save thousands of women's lives? 

It's the same reason they're standing in the way of emergency contraception,  or RU486, or developing a vaccine for HIV/AIDS. It's the same argument W.'s henchmen use to try to probibit birth control altogether. 

The White House is against anything that would make sex less of a risk. The fundies believe the HPV vaccine will encourage women to be sexual— that it will "disinhibit" them, if they believe they can fuck without fear.

But they don't put it like that. No, they say crap like this:

"Premarital sex is dangerous, even deadly. Let's not encourage it by vaccinating ten-year-olds so they think they're safe." — Senator Tom Coburn, (R) Oklahoma.

"I never thought that now, in the twenty-first century, we could have a debate about what to do with a vaccine that prevents cancer," says David Baltimore, a Nobel Laureate and president of Cal Tech, speaking to The New Yorker. His interview with Michael Specter, and the accompanying article, is a MUST-read for anyone interested in sex, medicine, or going out of their minds. It's also the topic of my audio show this week.

Baltimore, a short, intense man, has spent much of his life studying the relationship between viruses and cancer. He stood up from the couch and crossed the room to his desk.

"Politics plays a role in all these decisions, and so does belief," he said. "I have no problems with that. But this is religious zealotry masked as politics, and it runs against everything that I as a scientist believe in, that I have devoted my life to.

"We are talking about basic public health now. What moral precepts allow us to think that the risk of death is a price worth paying to encourage abstinence as the only approach to sex?"

Many of us feel whipsawed every time we read about a new story about the fundies' scientific revisionism. They make Stalin's history-book campaign look like child's play.

On Monday, they're trying to keep "evolution" out of the classroom. On Tuesday, it's the law to keep teenagers from kissing in Kansas. By the weekend, they're in NASA claiming that no one's allowed to say "Big Bang" because that's just an odd little theory.

It's a whack-a-mole game, where just as we fire or disgrace one lunatic, another pops up behind us.

Even in the instances where they seem to be concerned about the origins of the world, or the age of the universe— they're still  stoking their favorite fiery propoganda: the sex panic. 

They want to dominate the story of "how things began." They go through the same motions, whether it's seven days to whip up a garden and give that whore Eve a good kick in the butt— or on another occasion,  to determine that "Life Begins When My Zygote Says It Does."

They want their Genesis to be literal because they want to control the scene of authority, the origin of sin, and the trial of retribution. They want to determine women's sexuality from the get-go, whether they're telling Bible myths or confronting a scarlet woman at the pharmacy counter.

Sometimes I don't think there's any need to analyze them, because after all, their base is hypocrisy. If I hear about ONE more child molester in Homeland Security's executive offices, I'm going to choke on my Easter hat!

But still, I keep pressing the question: Why does it all come back to sex? Why the dedication to hold the female captive?

About ten years ago, i wrote a story in my book The Sexual State of the Union, called, "How Safe is Your Daughter?"— a title I took off the back of a milk carton. It was about the origin of sex panics, and it ended this way:

America will boomerang from Fear of a Black Planet, a Youth Planet, and a Genderfuck Planet to the opposite horror: that of a lone man with a big gun— the older,whiter, had-all-the-opportunities guy who now comes equipped with a bomb, no dates, and a pathological self-centered attitude.

Oh, we'll wish he's only been in the Crips! If only he'd been a drag queen, if only he'd just pierced his dick and gotten high on dope! Any of those scenes would have been preferable, a million times more humane.

We could understand a "counter-culture, but what are we suppose to do with a counter-human? We can't stand to look at the cult of  alienated masculinity and wonder how we got here."

And I wrote that before I even knew Dick Cheney's name.

In Bed with Susie Bright 244: Shame Spirals

Also in this episode: How to surf Internet porn with savoir faire, and a letter from a married man who's conflicted about his use of prostitutes.   (Episode 244, April 7, 2006)

The Girl With the Most Cupcakes

I'd like to introduce you to another story from Best American Erotica 2006  called  “The End,” by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Here is an excerpt, followed by my interview with Rachel about the erotics of breaking up.

...As she lies there, so small, so seemingly fragile, her doll's body looks like some alluring creature, one I might break if I handle it improperly. I can easily forget the core of strength and stubbornness she possesses.

Spread out in front of me, she is truly the girl of the dreams I never knew I had. I slide my fingers inside her, pushing deep into her core, knowing just where to curve and bend to get to where I want to be.

I've never known another woman's body quite like this, navigating her pussy as easily as I trace my fingers over her face, reading her like a well-worn page of a beloved book, instantly, easily. 

At this moment, with her hair messy and tangled like an overworked Barbie's, I want to grab it as I've done so many times before, to pull fiercely and then bring her head down into the pillow, to live up to the violent promise of this situation.

I almost pull away, because I am not that kind of girl. I'm still getting used to being the girl who wants to hurt someone else, who feels the most unique kind of awe when I hear the sound of my hand slamming down against her ass, who sometimes wants to slap her across the face. The girl who got the slightest thrill when she cried the other day while I spanked her.

I see the collar next to the bed glittering brightly. It meant everything when I fastened it around her neck those countless weeks ago, transforming the airport bathroom into our own private sexual sanctuary. Now, it is too bright, too accusatory, a mistake in so many ways. Like the sweetest of forbidden fruit, her neck beckons, so white and exposed, pulsing with veins and life and want.

Now when I see her neck, tender and ever needy, I can barely go near it. The pleasure would be a little too great. It would be a little too easy to press a little too hard, to enjoy it for all the wrong reasons, even though I can feel her angling towards it, begging me to obliterate her for a few blessed seconds.

I know what it does to her, and for the first time, I don’t want to know. That's never been the kind of power I've wanted, even though she'd gladly give it to me, give me almost anything except what I need the most...

 

“The End” invokes a I-don't-know-whether-to-cry-or-masturbate feeling that one often has at the painful end of a breakup. What is it about loss, that is erotic?

It’s that raw emotion that you bring to sex with someone you love. Combining that with the imminent loss of a sexual and romantic partner is intense; it’s wrapped into one–love, lust, anger, sadness.

When your sexual response has become so intertwined with that person, and your sense of self, that loss is compounded. Writing my story was cathartic, but I’m glad that there is an erotic element mixed in with the sadness.

Is there something to be understood about the differences in losing a woman, and losing a man?

I can’t say there’s a fundamental difference, but I formed such close relationships, both sexual and platonic, with women— often so rapidly— that it snuck up on me how very tight we were.

In addition to losing a lover and companion, tf you had a situation that was tied up in talking about your feelings and processing— to lose that person as a sounding board, when they know you so well, is traumatic.

Of course, that can happen between men and women too, but I think there is something to the intensity of certain relationships between women that can knock you off your feet, both during and after.

Unlike a lot of lesbian stories these days, this was about two femmes, and their femininity was taken for granted. There were no butches, boi's, or  gender-fucks. How do you reflect on all that?

This was a true story and it happened to be about two femmes, so that’s what came across.

There can be something very over-the-top about femme/femme, which I explore in my new anthology, Glamour Girls: Femme/Femme Erotica.

By over-the-top, I don't just mean looks; I mean energy. Femmes tend to enjoy their time focusing on looks, fashion, etc.— but they can also be over-the-top in terms of how into each other they are.

If they're similar in how they express themselves, it can risk ruining relationships, making rash decisions, and immersing oneself in the other person. Of course this can happen between anyone; but it's a similarity, a buoyancy, an exuberance, that gets expressed in our appearance but can also run deeper.

I think femmes understand what that those outward signals don't necessarily have a singular meaning. They aren't all superficial. We can appreciate the care and nuance that goes into "dressing up,"  knowing that it's artifice on one level, but wanting to do it to both express oneself and impress your lover.

Playing that up in fiction means you can get really creative. In one of the stories in my book, we have two women seducing each other in a bakery after-hours as one makes cupcakes (hint: there's lots of frosting).

Femme/femme also allows women to enter traditionally "girlie" space, like a sorority, then subverting those environments into someplace queer and exciting where it's not about performing for male pleasure, but about discovering a new side of oneself.

This over-the-topness can sometimes backfire, and femmes with femmes can become too intense and just "too much" in some ways. But there's also the thrill of seducing someone who's just like you in so many ways.

P.S.: Obviously this is a generalization based on my experience, and is not true in all cases, before anyone jumps down my throat!

You wear the 'sexpert' hat on some hours, and the fiction writer's cloak on others. What does it feel like moving back and forth between the two?

I try to reject the "sexpert" title at any opportunity, because I see myself more as a professional voyeur and literary exhibitionist.

I love talking to other people about sex and their experiences and comparing those to mine. It’s an honor when people tell me I’ve made them think about their own sexual desires in some new way, but a little daunting because I don’t think I have the answers any more than anyone else. I can share my feelings and observations but that’s about all.

Writing nonfiction, especially my Village Voice column, is like doing a jigsaw puzzle; I’ll have a topic I want to write about, like this recent one on rape fantasies, and go about trying to find the right people to interview for it.

With erotica, it’s more like a light bulb and it’s either on or off; I’m either fired up and I sit down and it all comes pouring out of me, or I just sit and stare at a blank page and write maybe three sentences and give up for the day.

What’s interesting to me is sometimes using the same encounter in a nonfiction setting and then writing about it as erotica; what can sound sort of clinical in the former can sound hot as hell in the latter!

Rachel's blog. She is also hosting what has got to be the best event in NY next week:

IN THE FLESH EROTIC READING SERIES
WEDNESDAY APRIL 19 at 8 PM
AT HAPPY ENDING LOUNGE, 302 BROOME STREET

Featuring comedian Dan Allen, Washingtonienne blogger and novelist Jessica Cutler, Columbia Spectator sex columnist Miriam Datskovsky, memoirist and ex-drag queen Josh Kilmer-Purcell, Dategirl columnist Judy McGuire, sex worker Audacia Ray, and of course, Rachel.

I wish I could be there!

World's Longest Running Wet T-Shirt

It won't stop raining here. it's like the world's longest-running wet T-shirt contest, although I have to say every other item in the closet is drenched too. Umbrellas? I never met an umbrella I couldn't break inside of five minutes.

Best American Erotica 2007 is due in a week. I am: Not Ready.

I've neglected my time with you here terribly, but I promise to ship this big girl off soon, and dry myself off.

In the meantime, my summer plans have been shaping up.

I'm going to be speaking at the L.A. Times Book Festival at the end of April, and I hope I'll see a lot of old friends. I'm on a panel with Dennis Cooper and Karen Finley, called "Pushing the Envelope," although I hope we'll do more than that, with our combined word-shredding power.

Then in June, is SheShamans. Bring your 'shrooms and knitting.

In July, I'm attending a women's blog conference called BlogHer, that I think will be like going to blogging grad school. Any of you bloggers in babeland out there— please, please, meet me at the pool! It's in San Jose, CA, so I'll be driving over the hill.

I'm also giving workshop, on Blog Sex, of course, for Sunday. I'm also like to propose a unofficial workshop on blogging for authors and other "word artists," since I've decided I'm an expert on that, too.

LATimes Book Fest
Fiction— Pushing the Envelope
Susie Bright, Karen Finley, Dennis Cooper, and Craig Ferguson
Saturday, April 29th
12:00 PM
Franz 1178, U.C.L.A

SheShamans
June 23 - 25
Isis Oasis
Geyserville, CA

BlogHer Conference 06
July 28- 29
San Jose, CA

Oslo street art!

Sex on the Margin

Whenever we hear doubts about male bisexuality, I remember a particular moment in time in the mid-80s. I lived in San Francisco. AIDS had affected everyone I knew.

Among friends and lovers, I was struck by the number of men who told me that they felt "lucky" to be equally attracted to men and women, because in the climate of risk they found themselves in, it was easier to pursue women as partners.

They felt a sense of loss and frustration, but they moved to women's beds— and stayed there.

I also talked to a lot of men who were decidedly gay, but said they'd rather withdraw from partner sex, period. Again, they were motivated by their sense of risk.

You didn't hear much about these decisions in public, because the main emphasis in San Francisco's public health policy was to stress safe sex, to stay strong in your queer identity, and not throw yourself off the cliff in despair or self-destructive behavior.

I had lots of worries with my friends, especially the ones who were barricading themselves from the world. I pleaded with my newly "abstinent" comrades to consider condoms instead of vows of celibacy.

I asked my bisexual lovers, "Can a whole side of you just "retire"— is that for real?"

Meanwhile, lesbian sexual adventure was going through the roof, with the debut of On Our Backs, regular lesbian play parties all over town, gay girl burlesque, and the first lesbian erotic movie companies. It was like being on another planet from the rest of the world, the secret sapphic orgy.

No one said, "I"m becoming a dyke after carefully evaluating my "X" risk factor," but in hindsight, it makes you think.

The conversations and arguments we all had about these choices came back to mind when I read a new report from an economist, Andrew Francis, who has figured out that, dollar for dollar, it costs more to sleep with men than with women.

In Bed with Susie Bright 243: Sex on the Margin

I first read this report in my new favorite mind-twister blog, The Marginal Revolution.

They note, "the tendency to greater homosexuality among women and less among men is exactly what the economic theory predicts given how AIDS affects the price of sex."

So, what happened to my pals from 20-years-ago?

The ones who really dug women did, indeed, find partners— in many cases bisexual women— and often settled down with them.

Monogamy— or should I say, feverish attempts at monogamy— was how most of my friends addressed AIDS, whether they were gay, straight, or bi. I hated that strategy the most, not because it didn't reduce risk, but because it fed so much gunpowder into the morality theatrics.

And those who swore they'd never leave their room again?

As I feared, it was the most repressive choice. Many of them had lapses, in which they had unsafe sex, doubled their guilt and self-loathing,  and compromised their health.

A few others— in a trend that no economist has discussed!— discovered that life as a solo sex artist suited them. The post-AIDS explosion in porn, sex toys, and masturbation suited them to a T.

So, Daddy, what did you do in the AIDS wars? Have any of you noticed if your bisexual life has played out one way or another, in response to risk?

In the rest of this week's episode of In Bed, I read an erotic passage from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's new novella, Memories of My Melancholy Whores. It's worth a post in itself, which I will save for later!

Finally, in my Try This at Home mailbag, I listen to one man's defense for why marijuana is the best sex drug of all time. Conflicting testimonies, anyone?

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions and feedback about the show to [email protected]

Heck of a Radio!

Remember my little music box that I was so delighted to discover this winter? Yes, Pandora.

Well, now I have a new trick.

If you look at the bottom of my sidebar on the right, you'll see the "radio stations" I've programmed on Pandora. You'll find out all my craven musical habits. Play them all! I wish they would make a little comment box so I could hear what you think of them.

The way you make a "station" in Pandora, is to begin by picking a certain song to kick it off. The system starts to guess what other songs you might like, based on the original criteria.

Then the real fun begins. You train your stations on Pandora by ruthlessly hitting the "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" button every time a new song plays. Insomnia has never been so productive. Pandora WILL bend to my will.

Here's my radio stations:

Higher Ground was inspired by Stevie, Katrina, and some need for a soulful influx.

Leviticus: Faggot is that throat-gripping song by Me'Shell NdegeOcello, and this selection has been one of my fruitful and unexpected.

Bell Bottom Brew is my attempt to mine anything that reminds me of the Bluesbreakers.

Heck of a Radio! is my favorite station title. It started as Jolene, by Dolly Parton, but I was getting too many square country hits. I'm into the freaky roots side of Dolly, so I threw in a gigantic helping of Gillian Welch, and that got it on the right track.

Monk Please is my newest effort, which I haven't had time to instruct yet. The problem is I may want to listen to Thelonius ONLY, with no deviation.

Finally we have For No One Radio, which was my first experiment on Pandora, and still the most reliably pleasing. The name is from the song on the Beatle's Revolver, although I also cry my eyes out on the Rickie Lee Jones version as well.

If you are a music freak and a big smartypants who thinks you've heard it all, Pandora has you nailed.

Does Pandora have the ability to choose songs with sexy, erotic, or controversial lyrics? I don't think so— although by demanding Dylan, I found that I could conjure up what they call "meaningful" lyrics. I'd love to know how they'd characterize The Wet Spots.

Louise Brooks in Pandora's Box. Yum.

Corsets, Laces, and Stays, Oh MY!

This site seems to have awakened my inner fetishistic dormouse: Antique Corsets.

I want to try them all on, and scrutinize the patterns. All from the comfort of my loose caftan, of course.  Then I want a party where everyone has to wear one, preferably with tippy little slippers.

This isn't a sex site, it's historical fashion, but it's all the same in the end, n'est-ce pas? The one I've pictured is red wool from the 1860s— and don't you dare complain it's itchy!

Thanks to M. Brown for tip.