Monday, January 31, 2005


i have a pseudo-date with a possibly straight girl tonight. i fed her pound cake at a party. she called me the next day. did i mention that she may not be 21?

what the hell am i doing?!?


she just postponed for thursday. cold feet, perhaps? but she was very eager to reschedule.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

ask jane - birth control

So, i have received several awesome questions today. thought some of you might be interested in this particular inquiry.

*what is the best form of non-hormonal birth control?*

non-hormonal or non-combined-hormonal?

non-hormonal leaves you with the copper iud, diaphragm, caps, shields, and condoms. not to mention abstinence and "the rhythm method" (if i find out you're doing the rhythm method, i will personally spank you and your inevitable babies). the iud and condoms are the most effective of the bunch, condoms' efficacy increasing with lube and withdrawal. diaphragms, caps, and shields all require spermicidal lubricant to work (gross and bad for cunt).

non-combined-hormonal, aka progestin-only has a few more options. there's a progestin-only iud (which i'm getting this spring), the shot (i veto because it thins your bones if you use for more than two years), and progestin-only pills (POPs). now, pops have far less side-effects than combined hormone pills. but you have to take them at the same time every day. seriously. you miss one dose by three hours and you have to use a back-up method (condoms) for the next 48 hours. no fun.

yes, we need another option. but until one shows up, there you go.

for more precise stats, check out facts about birth control and your contraceptive choices are two good brochures they have posted. they also have method-specific brochures.

smooch, darling. i hope this helps.

better-ing myself

So i originally just replied to this comment, but dacia suggested i re-post as a blog entry, you know, for educational purposes.

vj responded to a recent post:
I'd be intrigued to know what you might be studying, but I think you've indicated a number of options that you were interested in. But I heartily concur that among the better options that we could hope for from anyone in a similar situation 'in the life', is the continuation on in their education to meet some higher life goals that will bring you into a better and more rewarding professional service to the public and yourself. This can be teaching, (gee you've already got a good start there), or the example of the woman lawyer might be instructive. But those would be my queries, about how you might be able to integrate this experience into something you might be able to do without going out on a cold night when you're 45 or 50. You know, some comfortable indoor work where you can occasionally develop some real mature relationships, be of service and possibly teach people useful things.OK, OK, alright how about some slightly less hazardous work in the same vein, right? Good Luck in your studies!--VJ

So, my reply:
hey, vj.

while i appreciate your support, i was a little offended by some of your phrasing. maybe i'm being overly sensitive/analytical. anyways, let's discuss.

"the continuation on in their education to meet some higher life goals that will bring you into a better and more rewarding professional service to the public and yourself."

honestly, my life goal of helping people understand and explore their sexuality in an informed and supportive environment is well-supported by my current sex work. one of the reasons my therapist believes this is a positive choice for me right now is that it is in line with my goals. i feel i am already providing a rewarding professional service to the public and myself, both through my direct work with clients and through my blog. just because i'm considering changing my approach, does not devalue my current work. future educational efforts, such as the more traditional class-room workshop setting, may reach a wider audience, but may not have as deep an impact upon them as one-on-one sex work.

"how you might be able to integrate this experience into something you might be able to do without going out on a cold night when you're 45 or 50. You know, some comfortable indoor work where you can occasionally develop some real mature relationships, be of service and possibly teach people useful things."

three prongs.

first the aging sex worker stigma. many sex workers who chose to stay "in the life" build up loyal client bases and hone their services so that those still providing in their later years (although they may appear to have lower market value) can be making a comfortable living. they are not necessarily stumbling out to the corner to give blow jobs without their dentures.

indoor-work vs outdoor-work. sex workers who provide in-call do not have any commute. they can live in their apartment/studio/office, have food delivered, have clients come to them, and only have to expose themselves to the elements for personal entertainment (ex. going to a class or a concert). sex work is not always an outside job.

the phrase "real mature relationships" sets my teeth on edge. do you mean with clients and co-workers or are you referring to my personal life outside of sex work? because i feel a sex worker can have "real mature relationships" of all kinds. dacia over at is just one shining example. what would make a sex worker's relationships any less real or mature than a lawyer's?

"slightly less hazardous work in the same vein"

every job has its hazards. i am not pretending sex work is risk free. but working as a gynecologist who provides abortions or teaching sex-ed in an abstinence-only district or doing sexual diversity outreach in a homophobic community carry some extreme risks of their own (all options i am considering).

sex work is a part of my life. when i choose to make a career change (such as pursuing my masters in public health), it will not be because i believe sex work is not a valuable profession. it's not better or worse, but different.

Friday, January 28, 2005

the joys of sex toys

i thought this topic deserved some in depth exploration (no pun intended, hee hee).

My first exposure to a sex toy was in john irving’s the son of the circus. I was reading it in my eighth grade algebra class (I had finished a quiz early) and I started the chapter entitled “the dildo”. “ewww!” corey dunmead shrieked. “what kind of a book are you reading?!?”
“it’s a good book!” I defended, not understanding his objection, as I had no idea what a dildo was. But by the end of the chapter, I had figured it out. The dildo in this particular irving novel was rather large and hard plastic and used to smuggle drugs. But it was clearly a sexual tool.

After this chapter, I began experimenting with makeshift penetrative objects. Vegetables (I broke my hymen with a banana on the bathroom floor at three am on a school night), flashlights, candles, writing utensils, bottles (teachable moment: never insert an open bottle into a bodily orifice like a rectum or vagina. The open mouth can lead to a suction that is rather hard to detach, at times resulting in injury and/or embarrassing trips to emergency rooms. This one is not a personal experience, but rather a friend’s.), and anything else vaguely phallic. I was trying to understand why something up there was supposed to feel good. Although the psychological thrill was a rush (between the guilt and the shame and the risk of being caught), the penetration itself was not particularly exciting.

At this time, I was also hitting the point of the “everything but” where my sexual experience would plateau from 13 to 18. I liked making out and giving blowjobs. Fingering was great and fun, as were handjobs. But I did not like guys (cause of course there were only guys at this point) going down on me. Too much pressure to perform. The first time a guy went down on me (in the movie theatre during Contact) I had a lovely time, but then he asked me if a “came”. I said sure. Up until that point, I thought only guys could “cum”. So now there was something else wrong with me. I couldn’t come. Frigid at fourteen. But I took solace in the fact that orgasm would obviously come when I finally “had sex” (cause none of the above was sex. When I started attending sex conferences and researchers were sitting around with their cocktails discussing how contemporary adolescents do not consider oral sex to be sex, quite a few were shocked when I admitted that until I started studying and teaching sex, neither did I.)

Anyways, when the time came, in that cheap super eight off of highway six after I got off my shift at ihop and he had a five am physical to join the coast guard reserves in the morning, I didn’t come. I didn’t come the second time. Or the third. Or with the second guy. Or the third. Or the fourth. The fifth was nonconsensual, so an entirely different realm of sensations, orgasm not being among them.

After that particular moment, I swore off sex. A more comprehensive definition this time. I dated a wonderful woman, the first I had fallen in love with back in high school, but could not sleep with her. I dated an eccentric musician from Washington Square Park who didn’t believe in sex (not premarital, all sex. Even masturbation. The guy had issues. And he was dating me).

When new year’s came around, I made a resolution to heal and celebrate my sexuality, for myself. The first step was to have an orgasm already. I had seen Betty Dodson and Tristan Taormino speak (not to mention Leslie Feinberg). I had decided to be a sex educator. I was about to start leading workshops on sexual pleasure, and I still couldn’t pleasure myself. I felt like a total fraud. But a fraud with a mission.

I wanted to buy a vibrator. I had tried to buy one the previous spring. I tore an ad from the village voice for $10 pocket rockets. A male friend escorted me down to the sixth avenue sex shop. We walked in and were confronted with humongous black and tan jelly cocks. They were huge and they were everywhere. By the time we found the vibrators to discover the pocket rockets had sold out, my hair had braided itself into pigtails and I was ready to sprint. Not exactly a positive experience.

The second time, I was going to do it right. I researched online a and . The customer and staff reviews at babeland were particularly helpful. I knew penetration wasn’t what I needed (I had had plenty and look where it had gotten me), so I focused on the clitoral vibes. I wanted something small and non-threatening but strong and adjustable. And reasonably priced. I settled on the honey bear ( I recruited my roommate, who still isn’t exactly sex positive but has made steps, to escort me to Toys in Babeland on rivington between orchard and Ludlow. She hugged the wall by the books while I shyly ventured around the center table of vibrators. A staff person approached and asked if she could help out. I pulled out my notes and said I was looking for the honey bear. She found it right away, his arms raised like a clit hugging ballerina. She also pointed out the honey dog, which looked more like an anteater to me, with two dainty vibrating tongues. The honey bear fit discreetly in the palm on my hand. The remote was also palm length, the two connected by a white cord. I bought him without exploring the rest of the store. I took him home and named him Albert.

I had read enough Betty Dodson at this point not to pressure myself too much. For our first date, Albert and I got to know each other. I could feel something building stronger and stronger, as he gripped my clit, his body hugged by my labia. At the last minute I turned him off. I thought I was going to pee the bed or scream or something to let the building know what I was doing.

On our second date, both of my roommates were out. I took a bath (cause I’m in to super cheesy sexual firsts, just look at my virginity loss above). First I played with Albert on my breasts, pinching each nibble. I licked my left middle finger and started to stroke my clit. Then I moved Albert down. I settled him into place with the vibrations turned off. I stroked Albert as he pinched my clit, his body stimulating the legs of my clitoris and rubbing against my urethra. I then turned him on low. I made sure to breath, watching my diaphragm rise and fall like theatre vocal warm-ups. I started having little shivers and jumps. I turned him up higher. I was breathing fairly hard at this point. I remembered Betty Dodson talking about kegel exercises. I clenched my vaginal muscles, tight, tight, tight, in time with my quick gasps of inhalations. I could feel it building again. My right hand raking my thigh started moving towards the controls to turn it down. I moved it to y breast and squeezed full palmed (in the same rough awkward grasp of so many jr high and high school conquests). When I came I stopped breathing for two minutes. My body shook and my neck froze, head thrust back like a seizure victim. My toes curled and my fingers locked in their double jointed akimbo. Albert purred. I had made a new friend.

Since that first orgasm, I have been an advocate of sex toys. I took the next boy I slept with down to toys in babeland for a vibrating buttplug after our first night together. We later invested in a nexus and harness (named them henry and june). When we broke up he kept henry and I kept june, so I bought her a new cock. And I haven’t stopped collecting.

What I have learned in my three years of orgasms and sex toys. I like hard toys. Hard plastic and stainless steel and pyrex (and glass if I could afford it) are my friends. I like vibration outside and pressure inside (except in my ass where I like both). The double headed toys like the rabbit and the koi fish (kicks the rabbit’s ass) with a clit tickler and rotating shaft with pearls and such can easily be outdone by a slimline and a nubby-g. the rotating shaft does nothing for me vaginally, but I love rotating toys in my butt. Silicone is the best material ever made because it conducts heat and vibration and you can boil it and it comes in so many pretty pretty colors (but is not cheap). The most expensive toys are not the best toys. The best toys are rarely cheap.

If I could only have three toys for the rest of my life (providing their life matched mine and would not short out or be eaten by neighbors dogs or something), I would choose my new hummingbird, the medium severin butt plug, and the classic Hitachi magic wand (this girl is my long term committed relationship).

In terms of first toys, start with the clit or something small with a wide rim if its for the ass. focus on sensation first, orgasm second, penetration third (for boys and girls). i love the honeybear and the bullet toys (make sure the toy is adjustable, i like scrolling speeds as opposed to low/medium/high or, even worse, on/off). slim lines are very versatile for girls, but under no circumstances are allowed up the ass. don't pay $80 for your first sex toy. start cheap and work your way up once you know what you like. always use condoms on your toys. again, wrap up your toys. i'm sure i'll think of more tips later.

If you are interested in purchasing or exploring sex toys, I highly suggest blowfish and, as well as good vibrations. If you are in the new york area, my second favorite sex toy shop (toys in babeland being my primary store) is fantasy world on 13th and 7th (24 hours and they sell sliquid h2o lube, my fave). Have fun and happy orgasms.


for completing my applications, i bought myself two rewards.
the first, a chia herb garden. super cool.
second, a new vibrator. check it out. it makes me happy.

Thursday, January 27, 2005


there are three primary questions i have been receiving since the voice article was published two weeks ago.

1. how can i be a whore?
2. what exactly do you do?
3. can i be your john?

now, question one deserves a post all its own. in fact, i'll write one. just not right now when i'm borrowing my neighbor's computer.

question two - depends on the client, the ad, the day, and the donation originally agreed upon. i don't believe in the on-site upsell. if we meet for pussy worship, you will not be fucking my ass for an extra $100 (in the immortal words of cher, as in clueless not sonny and..., "as if!") however, my services don't really matter right now because (see below)

question three - i am not taking on new clients at this time. my office job has currently taken over my life. i thought a semester without school would allow for quality whoring, but that has not proven to be the case. when my current projects end, in march, i may be back in the game. at that time, i'm sure i'll muse about rejoining the working world in my blog. so then, if any would-be johns are still around, you are welcome to email me with your wildest fantasies. but until then, i have closed shop for the season.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

applications, away!

my grad school applications are in the mail. a whole six days early, i might add. see what undergrad taught me?
could this mean the end of the educated slut's new york years? we'll see, sometime in mid-may. argh.

Monday, January 24, 2005

waddle scootch

somewhere between quasimodo and the penguin, is me doing the waddle-scootch acroos the stingily salted sidewalks and crawling over snowbanks to cross the street. i feel like a kid in an overstuffed snow suit, only in burgundy fishnets (cause this kid has style). i hope you all manage to stay upright while you're up and about this week.

Friday, January 21, 2005


There is a fascinating discussion over at regarding the recent voice article. They raise some valid points. However, a few I would like to rebuttal (cause I’m a debate nerd).

The majority of the discussion centers on the race and class biases of the article, the media, and the blogs, and glamorizing the sex industry. Now, I think the article, which is hardly an exhaustive investigation (no offence, rkb) is reflective of a few sex workers’ individual experiences, not representative of the variety of sex work as a whole. The author does not hide our race and class but rather acknowledges it as part of our experience. Yes, we are middle-class, white, and college educated. We are also whores. This does not make our experiences more valid than the lower class person of color without a degree walking the street. But neither are our experiences less valid.

The discussion argues that the media primarily represents sex workers as the “young, white, and college-educated happy-hooker schtick” and marginalized sex workers (streetwalkers and victims of sex trafficking, for example) are neglected. However, in terms of newspaper coverage, radio, and television, it is my experience that streetwalkers and the occasional call girl are the primary focus of sex work themed stories. The newspaper articles and tv specials (HBO’s Atlantic City Hookers) directly referenced in the comments are examples of this coverage. Sadly, this is due to the nature of atrocities survived (or too often not) being a sensational sell. Sitcom and evening dramas cast sex workers as comic relief, hookers with hearts of gold, or victims.

Then there is the research. The majority of research done to date focuses on streetwalkers and/or sex trafficking. This is due to the nature of grants and methodology. It is easier to justify outreach and research of underserved and marginalized populations than more privileged sex workers. This is reflected in the data that is published. Some sexologists argue that the bottom of the sex work hierarchy is over-represented.

The exception to the media representation is books, magazines, and the internet. At one point (before I started whoring) I developed an exhaustively research paper on the power dynamics and identity politics of upper class call-based escorts in contemporary manhattan utilizing first person narratives as a primary source. This highly specialized focus was necessary. I could not have done a similar paper on victims of sex trafficking or child prostitutes because the first person accounts are not as readily available. Privilege is necessary for access to publishing (self or otherwise).

The internet provides a unique opportunity for sex workers who are not super-rich madams or scandal queens to also publish via websites and blogs. It is increasing the experiences represented. Although it is hardly universal, it is a wider spectrum. I heart audacia’s eloquent phrasing that “the combination of talking, writing, and doing is really the only way to destigmatize sex work and diverse sexualities generally.”

And in personal defense:*Why does Jane Vincent feel the need to point out that she's "educated" in her blog title?*
“The Educated Slut” is a multi-pronged moniker. First, slut is my personal sex-positive identity. This references more than my sex work, but rather my entire sexual life. I am slut-identified (and have been since 7th grade). I think this is a good thing. The “educated” phrasing references the amount of research and information I have encountered through studying sexuality at the university level, teaching sexuality education with a variety of health agencies, and the experiences of my friends and my self. Additionally, “the educated slut” is homage to the early snl days of jane curtain and dan ackroyd (“jane, you ignorant slut!”)

And now, my favorite comment for those who don’t make the link.

***I'm always tempted to say everything is a spectrum, but with sex work, I think that is not really descriptive. I think it is more useful to say that sex work is two spectra. There are the women (and men) for whom it is at least superficially consensual, and those for whom it is compulsory, whether through the threat or use of force or just strong circumstantial pressure.

It makes no sense to talk about self-discovery and empowerment when speaking of a sixteen year old runaway supporting a meth habit. At one end of this spectrum are the dead and mangled and the cases that make me want to throw up, and at the other are the merely depressing and sad. These are compelled sex workers; they have not really chosen sex work at all. Patriarchy has imposed it on them.

Then, there's the other spectrum. At one end, women and some men do various kinds of sex work because they have other options, but not attractive ones. They can get out, and may -- but they are not happy where they are and it takes a toll. I don't deny these womens' agency, though I do criticize the circumstances that reduce their options. At the other end of this spectrum are the happy sex workers. When talking about these women, we are talking about choices (without, of course, ignoring the context).***

Thursday, January 20, 2005

third date

On Saturday, the lusty lady and I had our third date. Now, you may be shocked that this was only the third date in as many months. However, we are both over-worked over-stressed over-booked sexperts who know the value of a nap and alone time over social obligations (even when those obligations have a great set of knockers). But we made it happen.

Although there was talk of seeing a play or going to a movie or a diner or a bar, she ended up coming over to my apartment (I can hear my close friends gasping in shock. I never have people I’m dating and/or sleeping with in my space. I’m a very territorial slut. I need my room free from sex other than the self-love and fuck buddy kinds. I’m working on my boundaries with my therapist, but until then, stay out of my room!). When I walked down to pick her up from the train station she was wearing fishnets with sparkly seams, open toed strappy 1940s pin-up shoes, and a jacket that was only waist length (she also had impressive cleavage, but that was under the coat). I remarked that she was too pretty to be standing on that corner (ah, sex worker humor) and flagged a gypsy cab to take us back to my apartment (only five avenue blocks but it was snowing and I could see her toes).

We ordered sushi. I let her have my miso. Then we decided to pick out a movie to watch. She had brought over Chutney Popcorn, which I also happened to own. We compared covers and decided to watch something else. She chose Keeping the Faith (I heart Edward, but I like him better in pseudo-psycho roles). We didn’t watch the movie for long (blush).


*Her face and little whimper squirms as I nibbled her nipples. So hot!

*Struggling for access to her tender bits I joke that I may have to rip off her fish nets. When they still aren’t off a couple of minutes later I say, “Seriously, do you plan on wearing these again? Cause I will rip them off you.”

*I giggle. A lot. Just part of an aroused jane. She comments that it’s refreshing to be with someone who isn’t so serious about sex. But then gets a little disconcerted about my tiny outbursts. Felt like she was missing a joke. She got over it and I burst out in happy laughter the first time she made me come.

*At one point I was straddling her, riding her fingers while the back of her hand ground against her clit. Throwing my head down my long curly hair trailed across her face. I tried to swing it out of the way but she resisted, draping my girls across her cheeks and forehead.

And then, we went to sleep (another gasp! Yes, I had a sleepover. In my own apartment, no less. What has become of my inhibitions?) In the morning we rolled around, trading my robe for bathroom breaks, and timing the sex so that she could make her brunch on time (which the trains sabotaged) and I could get some work done before knitting. It was lovely.

So, I am no longer allowed to make fun of audacia for her heteronormative no-sex-until-the-third-date seduction patterns. Because, this time, it worked.

kinky knitter

Amongst other things, I am an avid knitter. I have made two and a half blankets, eight or nine bags, and dozens of hats and scarves (no sweaters yet, although I did knit an oven mitt once).

When I was a student at NYU, I only belonged to two clubs: the knitting club and the bdsm club. And their meetings were held on the same night. Consequently, I would be sprinting up and down the stairs with sharp objects every Thursday evening. I tried to organize joint events (as there were quite a few knitters in the bdsm crowd, and a number of kinksters, in and out of the closet, amongst the knitters) but never got it together.

A recent acquisition to my cluttered schedule has been the monthly dyke knitting circle at bluestockings books ( The third Sunday of the month, I spend my late afternoon knitting in the company of lovely ladies. Before I leave, I am sure to stock up on books for the next month (I heart seal press’s “live girls” series, and have been on an autobiographical sex-themed memoir kick as of late). Then I stop by toys in babeland ( on my way back to the subway. Once I get home I am refreshed and rejuvenated. Consequently, Sunday evenings have become increasingly productive.

One of the nice things about the group is that it is not a huge investment of time or energy or cash ($5 suggested donation) and no one rags on you if you can’t come or show up late or haven’t touched your scarf since the last meeting. Also, it is not a large investment of self. It’s a casual atmosphere. Almost everyone is an acquaintance, with a few close friends scattered throughout. Consequently, I’m not entirely “out” to the group (nor do I think I need to be). Occasionally we’ll discuss sex ed or gender politics or things of that nature, but the personal is rarely addressed. We discuss childhood pets, but not former lovers. And although I feel comfortable talking about my office job, I’m not about to announce my whore status.

Not to say it isn’t tempting. Or complicated. The coordinator of the group inquired if my name was jane or ___. “Your email says jane but you always sign ___. I’m always afraid to call you by the wrong name.” I explained that jane is a pseudonym I use for various purposes and that I respond to either name. She didn’t pry further. However, will she make the link to the voice article? And will there be a reaction? We shall see.

Friday, January 14, 2005

time for a trim

my girl down below is craving a new hair do. we've been rocking the long flowing furry feminist (accented by the recently hirsute legs and pits) since mid-summer. time for a change.

so the dilemma arises. do i try and turn this into cash? i could set up a date with a client specifically to trim bush. or i could sell the trimmings on craigslist or ebanned or another web site. or i could at least take before and after shots for posterity. or i could let the little hairs flow down the drain (although that seems like a waste).

the tricky thing about whoring (no pun intended) is the temptation to turn all bodily and especially sexual functions into cash. with proper marketing i could be making money off my toenail clippings. however, there comes a time when one needs to turn it off and just shave their twat for cunt's sake. that time is approaching.


so audacia and i are featured in the super sexy rachel kramer bussel's lusty lady voice column this week,bussel,60079,24.html. and yes, she is the lovely woman that has made me giggle and fed me cupcakes from my cleavage at a comedy show (try to say that five times fast) over the past few months.

it was weird to see a conversation held months ago suddenly present itself as current. i had flash back to my eighth grade newspaper journalist days when (between my investigative reporting comparing the sexual discrimination present in the discrepancies of the boys and girls locker room facilities and the battle of the sexes ultimate basketball showdown) i attempted a gossip column. it was a small school and i was in the loop so had quite a few scoops in my four paragraphs of initials and innuendo. and i handed it in fresh. but not everyone on staff turned in their assignments in as timely a manner. consequently, when my column appeared almost two months later, it was stale. those who had crushed moved on. those hooking up now hated each other. and others who had hounded me to include them were pissed about the content implied.

but i have a feeling this lusty lady experience will fare better than jr. high. for one thing it got me two dates (and a third this saturday, if we can tame our schedules enough to breath in each other's presence). i'm just hoping it won't bite me in the ass (not in that good way).

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

save the boobies

i most often use "tits", although my friend has "bodacious tatas", and it's pretty easy to refer to someone's "boobs". when i started puberty (at the ripe ole' age of nine) i would covertly ask my friends about changes to their circles (tits) or triangle (twat).

i was 5'6'' and a 34B at 11, with a 22'' waist and 36" hips. everyone else was short, flat, and looked like kids. even those "blossoming" had more of an innocent lolita thing going compared to the undeniable womanhood of my body. i wore baggy clothes and continued on my geeky antisocial path through 6th grade. aside from bra snaps and comments/glares in gym class, i was able to get by without too much attention.

that summer we moved from the houston suburbs to a very small town in michigan. i was forced to change my tactics. i was the most physically mature girl in the school (including the older eighth graders). this garnered quite a bit of attention. i milked it. i didn't wear a shirt with a high collar for three years, blaming my resistance to turtlenecks on my texas roots.

my tits held power, whether they were being felt up behind the school, or awkwardly brushed by my youth minister as he helped me with the collar of my choir robe.

then i moved again. i decided to take some time off from my sex life (recognizing that i was using relationships to bolster my then non-existent sense of self worth). and the rest of the world caught up. although i still garnered a great deal of attention, it was primarily from older men, no longer my obnoxious peers who were busy oogling the other girls with bigger boobs.

but over the last few years, things have changed. i have grown. and so have they. i swear the last twenty pounds went straight to my tits. suddenly i have a crevice in my cleavage. a pretty girl first mentioned me to a mutual friend in the context of "she has the most beautiful breasts!" and i love them. they feel great to hold (many can concur). now i'm afraid to make conscious effort to loose weight, because i don't want them to go away. i love my body and it's comfy, but if i grow much larger it could become awkward. body angst.

and there is also the knowledge of the strong family history of breast cancer (one dead grandmother and a younger sister, 16!, who has already had two surgeries). i grew up anticipating a masectomy. i even have sketches of potential tattoos for the scars. worrying about size or sag seems petty in light of their potential to turn against me.

but aside from the angst, the girls are doing fine. flashing and/or boldly grabbing my boobs as a show of the power of my sex (with a snarky laugh, of course) have become a regular sight for my nearest and dearest. i think i may need to buy them some jewelry.

(not) passing

Unlike Dacia (, I do not have a passing fetish. In fact, it makes me feel yucky.

However, I often find myself (voluntarily and involuntarily) in situations in which full disclosure is not an option. Yes, we all must practice restraint at one point or another. No big deal. Except, I sometimes feel compelled to subject myself to the scenarios in which I must remain closeted.

For example, this past halloween. I could attend a norm-filled college student/brooklyn-dweller keg & costume party OR i could go to a sex party of my nearest and dearest, all of who know that I'm a whore & love me for it. And I was having an exceptionally hard time deciding what I wanted! This should have been a no-brainer, but this little voice in the back of my head keeps emphasizing that one day soon i will be stuck in a world of norms and I have to learn to cope sooner or later (great sex guilt, perhaps?).

Example numero duo: my tendency to develop inexplicable crushes on norms. i have this horrible habit of developing crushes on the innocents. folks (almost always boys) that would be horrified if they knew "the real me." i spent the past semester crushing on the cute skinny education-major, 4-year-old teaching, two past sexual partners, vca porn watching, hesitant to swear, spanish classmate. instead of conjugating in the past indicative, i was fantasizing about dragging the poor little boy into the bathroom one floor below currently under construction and riding his cock on the cold dusty tiles.

on the flip side, this fall i found my self initially reticent to date another full-out sex-person because had this crazy notion that sex people are obligated to recruit through our romantic and sexual maneuvers. dating another sex-person is like preaching to the choir, fun and loud and fabulous, but there could be a greater impact elsewhere. but i'm over it. dating another sex person allows me to be the kinky dork i am without worrying about enlightening or scaring some fragile concept of innocence that society celebrates for no particular reason than tradition.

so, i proudly drink my peppermint tea from my slut mug. three cheers to sex people.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005


my computer is back!
and working!

although the two did not occur simultaneously. my dell was returned with a new motherboard the week of christmas. only the problem accessing the internet (little strobing error messages) was still raging. but i've been working my ass off (unfortunately not selling my ass) and needed the other functions that were still working.

i took today off of the office job to visit the psychiatrist and my lovely therapist and eat hotdogs and read john irving and sleep. but before i left the house, i woke up early to call tech support again.

after twenty minutes on hold, i was able to speak to a human. this human made it clear that since it was more than 21 days past the invoice date, i could not return or exchange my computer (although it was prior to 21 days that i had to send it in for the first set of repairs). i am now a strong advocate of computer lemon legislation. long and short, i reset my comp & wiped out the hardrive to day of delivery. but it works again.

so i'm back. really and truly this time.