I think I'm so into anatomical abnormalities like conjoined twins because the nature of their physicality automatically brings up questions about subjects I'm particularly interested in like sex, honesty, bowel movements, and the meanings of privacy and loneliness. That said, I'm way into the Schappell twins (pictured above) for reasons beyond those I listed—which I'll get to in a minute—but let's just start with their country music video:
I have a vast collection of drunken photo booth strips, but the one to the left is by far the drunkest. It was taken in 2003 at Opaline. I was with Rich (obvs) and we were with a bunch of other friends from college that I don't really talk to anymore because they moved away and had babies and stuff. Back then, I was working at BUST for very (very, very, very) little money, so I was forced to economize and cut corners on things, and I would BYOB a lot. I used to buy cheap-ass Georgi vodka, fill up a water bottle, and then just buy soft drinks at bars and spike them with my vodka water.
Well, I'd been doing that all night, but at some point during the evening, there were like two hours of open bar vodka for some reason, so loving anything free, I had little restraint. I was also intermittently stepping outside to smoke weed. Before long, I was like, Anna Nicole Smith-wasted. I was partially on autopilot, with instances of awareness of myself or my surroundings being few and far between. Like in this photo. I walked into the photo booth and plopped myself down on the stool, thinking it was a stall in the ladies room.
Happy 4/20! I've actually never really been the type to like go all out of 4/20, or even remember to celebrate it at all. I don't take getting stoned that seriously—although now it's kind of part of my job, so I guess I sorta do. So, as part of that, we made a special 420 episode of Pot Psychology, featuring Gavin McInnes as Jambi the genie.
I go through phases where I just completely avoid this site. I get caught up in my day job and other freelance stuff, but honestly, I could totally make more time to write here than I have been. The truth is, I've been dealing with something lately that I never really had to before. When I stopped being anonymous, and the people in my life knew that my interactions with them were potential fodder for something I might write, things changed. I began getting requests like, "Please, please don't write about this."
The thing is, no matter what I write, it's never truly about anyone else—it's always about me. (And even when people are shitheads, I still don't name names.) However, when I think it might affect the relationships in my life, or I think the request is super important to a person, I won't write about something they ask me not to, no matter how juicy the subject matter, as with my trip to Peru. I'm not a completely heartless bitch, after all.
Mostly, I respect their wishes because for a long time, I thought (and was told) that this blog is a large part of why my ex-boyfriend and I couldn't make things work, and I wanted to be careful not to similarly destroy other relationships. After we broke up, I was really down on myself, thinking, Christ, if a pornographer can't deal with my crap, who the hell can? Now that I am no longer anonymous, I feared I had screwed myself out of getting fucked ever again, or out of anyone willingly falling in love with me. I had resigned myself to thinking that I'd made my bed, and now I would be sleeping alone in it, for the rest of my whore-y life.
Continue reading "Why I Never Write Here, And Other Things That Are Wrong With Me" »
I just got back from vacation in Peru. I went with a group of people, one of whom—Joven—broke off from the rest of the pack at the beach for a few days to go to Cuzco and Machu Picchu. When he returned, he brought everyone back presents that were really thoughtful and tailored to their personalities. This is what he brought back for me:
He's such a good gift buyer,right? It's appropriately inappropriate. It's some kind of incense burner, although I'm not exactly sure how it works. There's an empty space on the bottom, a hole through the tube at the top and a hole on each of the peeps' butts.
I picked up a bunch of other cool sexually explicit items while I was down there.
That's a chocolate dick pop. I made it from a mold I cast of a real boner. (I also did one of my vulva, but it came out looking like shit—literally.) You can read all about the whole process on Jezebel.
Needless to say, I ended up having sex with that dick (not the chocolate one, but the original that's attached to a 22-year-old who was able to reboot after only 10 or 15 minutes!), and I saved that story for here.
I posted a new installment of Pot Psychology that Rich and I shot over on Jezebel last week, and in typical stoner fashion, I forgot to post it here. Oops. I answered questions about tight vaginas, security deposits, and hooking up with coworkers. Anyways, enjoy!
The best email I've received in months:
Hey I'm ashley and I just found ur website and although I think its a
good website there are some stuff I don't understand. Like are u a porn
star, askin cuz u got to go to those porn parties. Also I think u should
put more pics of penis on tha website...lol
It came from a Tmail account. I'm glad that I'm resonating with the Sidekick generation. And she's right about penis on tha website. Here ya go, kids:
P.S. That's not my hand.
I got my fucking period. It's not like I have solid plans for Valentine's Day, or that I need to have sex to make myself feel better or anything. It's just that if I do hook up with someone I meet while out (that's always the plan, no matter what day of the year), it will be someone new, and it's always a production, or at the very least, a conversation—that frankly, I'm sick of having—in order to assuage any awkwardness or anxiety a boy may have about having sex with me while my body is merely providing some extra, albeit unfortunately colored, lube.
Whatever the case, I'll be at the Duke Spirit show at Mercury Lounge tonight, looking for a boy in the crowd who wouldn't mind dipping his stick in ick, and then I'll certainly be out on the 14th, if only because single people seem to be extra fun and drunk and slutty on Valentine's Day. And since I'd been couped up with the flu since last week and am finally feeling like a human again, my fun and drunk and slutty levels are ready to shoot through the roof.
[Image via Nathan Sawaya.]
Today, I wrote about female ejaculation for Jezebel. It includes the first time I squirted, as well as an explanation of what the fluid is that comes out, and where the hell it's coming from. Check it out here!
OK, so the dude that I wrote about who sent me that series of bizarre and inappropriate MySpace messages is totally freaking out right now. And you know what that means—more messages and emails! He's pissed because I posted a screen shot of one of the messages he sent me. I blurred out his name and picture, but he's like completely bugging because he seems to think that people can see what it says or make out his face. The thing is, the only people who would figure it out are people who know his MySpace page really well. People like his girlfriend I guess? I mean, it's not like future employers or whatever are reading the archives of this blog, looking for blurred out thumbnails that resemble him. Anyway, here is the first of the new batch of messages he sent me:
8:45 AM
Subject: Picture
Can you just take my picture off of your blog? It could really fuck my life up.
I ignored it. And he didn't like that one bit.
So, I have this column on Jezebel called Pot Psychology, in which people send in questions and I answer them while stoned. It had always been a written column before, but this time around Alex Goldberg and I made it into a video, which co-stars Rich. Anyway, go check it out.
Everyone heard about Kokie’s the same way: “Hey, have you been to Kokie’s? It’s a COKE bar called KOKIE’S!”
Vice just published a great oral history on one of my old haunts—Kokie's, a bar on Berry and N. 3rd that served low-grade cocaine out of a "DJ booth," and sometimes, alternately, a utility closet. (The location is now a bar called The Levee.) I mostly went there circa 1999 - 2001. It was about a tenth as classy as the picture above would indicate. I seem to remember dirty walls and folding tables and chairs in the back room. There would usually be Hispanic people dancing to like salsa music or something along those lines. In the front, on the bar, there was a water cooler and little plastic cups for all the people who were there to blow the last of their evening's cash on blow. I actually would never really hang out there. I was always quickly in and out, because I was often by myself, and well aware that I attracted the wrong kind of attention. That was back when I was really into dressing like a party extra from Bachelor Party, so I was usually in fishnets, fake lashes, a ratty rabbit fur coat and a pleather skirt. I looked like a hooker straight outta 1984.
I get some strange emails from people who contact me through this site. None of them really affect me. (Well, except in the case of this one lesbian/tranny crazy druggie weirdo who was harassing me online for a bit before she/he/it was apparently committed to some kind of institution.) For the most part, I tend to be contacted by dudes looking to get laid because they assume that I'm a sure thing since I write about how I like sex. Actually, here's some kind of SMS with a phone number attached that I just got today.
"A tell me wat u think of my dick i need a girls oppinion im 18 i would like it if u could send me a pic of ur pussy im into phone sex if u want to exchange pics"
I mean, this could be spam. It's always kind of difficult to discern between real emails and sex spam, because a lot of the content is totally relevant to me and what I write about. But something about this tells me it's real. Seriously though, for the record, just because I like fucking, doesn't mean that I like fucking everyone.
Anyway, I recently received a thread of messages on MySpace from a guy that I slept with a handful of times seven years ago. He was always socially awkward, to the point where it was kinda painful to experience. And it looks like some things never change!
So I got back from Vegas a few days ago, and I've been trying to readjust. I'm still not getting enough sleep, and my perineum is fucked from, well, too much fucking, while my asshole is all torn up from my unwise, drunken decision to attempt anal with no lube. I'm in pain and I've been walking around my apartment like a cowboy, with my legs kinda bent and wide apart.
To be honest, I had sex the weekend before I left for Vegas with this guy I was seeing briefly like three years ago. He has the fattest dick in the world—to the point where it's uncomfortable—and that sorta messed me up. Then the next day I boned this other guy, which only made the situation worse. So I went to the gyno to get checked out, and he prescribed me this cortisone-type cream to allow it to heal faster. He told me I shouldn't "make love" for a week. In my head I was like, "Uh, I never do."
But really, for a slut, finding out she can't fuck when she's going to Vegas for the porno convention is like a virgin finding out she got her period on her wedding day. It's devastating! So I just threw caution to the wind and did what I normally would. I am paying the price right now.
It was sorta worth it, though. I had so much fun, and made a lot of friends, and learned a thing or two.
I chronicled my adventures over on Jezebel, and also posted my interview with Tristan Taormino, as well as a photo gallery of some of the fashions from the convention. Tomorrow I'll be putting up a sex toy review. Spoiler alert: It sucked! Didn't hold a candle to my Magic Wand. Anyway, check 'em out:
Diary Entry #1:
You Never Forget Your First Time: My Day At The Adult Entertainment Expo
Diary Entry #2:
Last Night I Boned An AVN Award Nominee
Diary Entry #3:
The AVN Convention & Awards: I Came, I Saw, & I Came Again
Convention Fashion:
Fear And Clothing In Las Vegas
Interview:
Tristan Taormino: "Porn Is As Cerebral As It Is Visceral"
Right now I'm in Las Vegas attending the Adult Entertainment Expo and the AVN Awards (the Oscars of porno), covering it for Jezebel. Things have been really tiring—oddly more work than play—but I've been chronicling the whole thing, so check out my first and second Vegas diary entries. The picture above is me and Tommy Pistol at the Village Voice/Babeland party in a suite at the Venetian on Thursday night. That drink later ended up all over me. But I ended up party hopping and eventually boning.
I'm about to leave for the awards show. I'm walking the red carpet. I bought a sorta kinda titty dress, but something tell me I'm still gonna look like a nun in comparison to the rest of the attendees.
I'll be posting more on this later, and I'll provide links to an interview I did with Tristan Taormino, as well as sex toy reviews.
She was eating in Cosi on 13th and Broadway all by herself. I went up to her and asked her about period sex. Read all about it here.
In the photo above, I'm the girl in the middle. You'd think I was wearing lipstick or something, but my lips are actually stained from the countless red jello shots I'd been spoon eating for about six straight hours. It was the only meal I had all day, which essentially made the first half of the night a time I never want to forget, and the second half of the night a time I'm glad I can't remember. (BTW, even though I was blotto by the time this was taken, I still had the wherewithal to smile with my eyes.)
I'm not really one to puke when I get trashed. Usually, I don't even know that I'm drunk until I wake up the next morning with a killer hangover. So it came as a shock to me that just as I was starting to enjoy the middle-of-the-party-not-so-secret sex I was having, I began to feel queasy. I don't know how long that dude was thrusting away on top of me. I couldn't even venture a guess, but I do remember that he started having boner issues again, from being so trashed. I closed my eyes in hopes that it would stop the room from spinning, but it only made matters worse. I think I said something to the effect of, "Are you gonna cum or what?" If he replied, I don't remember, but I got the impression that the answer was invariably no. I pushed him off me, rolled over and sat up. Words may have been exchanged, but the only thing I could focus on was the puke that was winning the fight on its way up from my stomach. I couldn't find my tights anywhere (and I never had any panties on to begin with), so I just tugged my skirt down, and stumbled out of my bedroom.
I have to say that for all the shit that went down at my New Year's Eve party, and the expensive mess that resulted from it, one of the things I regret the most is that this is the closest thing I have of a picture of my outfit that night, which was really, really cute. The shoes aren't even in the shot.
I wasn't planning on writing about my party. I guess I'm more comfortable talking about what goes on inside of my vagina than inside my home. And I know that might seem weird. But anyway, when I woke up on New Year's Day, my house was totally trashed. And I really had expected a mess, but there was some damage, and I'd heard some tales of some shit that went down after I passed out that really pissed me off. Anyway, it's a long, story, but I ended up sending out an email to my party invite list with a hidden link I made on my site that contained pictures of the damages, a link to send me a PayPal payment, and a rant about how disappointed I was that my friends did that in my house, not strangers or party crashers. The email ended up on a couple of different websites and message boards, so now I'm just like, fuck it, lemme just spill the beans. I shouldn't have held back in the first place, like I've been doing for weeks on this site, because I've been nervous that I can't really be as brutally honest as I used to be, now that people know my name and what I look like.
But whatever, I'm over that. I'm over everything, really. So let's get to it. I'll fess up to what I can remember about who showed up, who puked, who got weird, and of course, who I fucked. Oh, and duh, the whole "contest" thing.
Continue reading "If Nothing Else, At Least I Got To Have Sex On New Year's Eve" »
This guy entered my contest. He will not be entering me. This just isn't the kind of physical activity I ever have in mind. Oh, and here he is, wrestling with young boys.
But wait. It gets better.
Continue reading "This Is What Happens When You Look For a Date on the Internet" »
These are my tits.
You'll probably get a chance to touch them if you go out with me on New Year's Eve. Seriously, I don't have a date, and I don't have time to conduct the kind of field work it would take in order to find one. So here's the deal: I'm gonna hold a "contest" to ring in the new year with me, which means you have to kiss me at midnight.
Here are the rules:
Here's how to apply:
Good luck to you!
I've been meaning to discuss this commercial for a long time. It's for Red Hot Dateline, which apparently is a cross between phone sex, an escort service, and casual encounters for men seeking women whose main selling point is that they're local. However, if the commercial is to be believed, it's really for braless immigrant gym bunnies who have nothing better to do than voluntarily meet strange men in a motel room.
Not to get all sappy or whatever, but I really appreciated all of the kind wishes and words of encouragement regarding my last post. I was just venting and didn't realize anyone would give a shit. So thanks. I think my brain has evened out after all the drugs, and I'm doing much better. One day last week, I realized I hadn't cried for two whole days. It was kind of like when I quit smoking with Wellbutrin. It took me a few days to realize I hadn't had a cigarette in a while. I hadn't even noticed I wasn't missing it. I'm still a little sad about the way things went down, and I still kind of miss him, but not nearly as much. And also, I've since remembered that I broke up with him—and I remembered the reasons why.
But enough of that! I'm back to my old self. I still haven't slept with anyone, but now I'm really ready. I'm back on the block, and I'm looking to go around it again, many, many times. Lucky for me, I've already received a bunch of applicants willing to fill the, uh, position. After the jump, check out the pictures this guy sent me of his giant cock.
I've been avoiding posting here for the past few weeks. Mainly because every time I sit down to write about sex, I'm reminded that I haven't actually been having it lately. For the past two weeks I've been extremely emotional. I think it has to do with the amount of ecstasy I took at this party the Saturday before Halloween. I ate six pills throughout the night and then snorted several more (through a tampon applicator, as one incriminating photo would indicate). I hadn't done ecstasy in like seven years, and never so much at one time. The fallout from that was brutal.
The following Tuesday, my mental state was grim, and I wasn't doing too much better physically, either. My head was pounding all day long and in the evening I vomited twice. But what really fucked me up was the incessant sobbing. Hour and hours of sobbing. I don't cry very often. I try to avoid it as much as possible. So when I do cry, it's bad. What's worse is that the sobbing fits were triggered by a recent breakup. With a boy. Whom I loved very much. I had ignored my feelings about it for like a month, always pushing it to the back of my brain, convincing myself that I was too busy to think about it or deal with it. And to be honest, I was, so that was working out for me. But I think the ecstasy uncorked all of the shit I had bottled up, and having been shaken, I exploded.
It may seem as though I'm an open book, since I tend to be frank about a lot of things that, for most people, are unmentionable. But in actuality, I'm really deliberate when it comes to what I choose to disclose. For me, talking about physical stuff is exactly the same as what it involves—it's skin, it's just surface. It's important, but it's not entirely me, only one small part. I've been very careful not to discuss, in depth, the relationship I'd been having, mainly because emotions are a bummer. Even at their best, emotions sorta suck. Right? Like, does anyone really want to hear how absolutely happily in love another person is? It's just irritating.
But now I'm miserable. And my misery is intensified by the fact that I'm finding it difficult to be attracted to other people, and can't bring myself to bring anyone home with me. In the past, I'd always handled my breakups by drowning my sorrows in other dudes' cum.
Continue reading "I Can Feel the Soil Falling Over My Head" »
I'm working on a project this weekend in Williamsburg, for which I need boys who are willing to allow me to film their erect penises.
Do you think you're "up" for it? Then please email me!
