Sequential hermaphrodites!

I'll do anything for a man with a bullhorn

I don't really have a problem getting naked in front of people, at least when everyone else is getting naked too, so the whole public nudity thing wasn't an issue for me. I was concerned about the cold and I was kind of hoping to be somewhere in the middle of the pack (I didn't want my sandy tits front and center, but it would be cool to be able to pick myself out of the great texture of human skin), but other than that, I was more excited than anything else. I always wanted to be in a Spencer Tunick photo. Friends of mine did the shoot in Grand Central Station and it seemed like a hoot and one of those things that one should just do at some point in their life if given the opportunity.

So, after a 3 hour trip on the Long Island Rail Road (arriving at midnight), a desperate attempt to grab a couple of hours of sleep (unsuccessfully), and a 30 minute cab ride from Amaganset, Lynsey and I and 298 other people gathered in the pre-dawn darkness, next to the Montauk Point Lighthouse getting ready to get naked for art.

People were wandering around or sitting in their cars waiting for instructions when finally we heard a voice from a bullhorn. A small cheer rose up from the crowd and we gathered closer, ready to do pretty much whatever this guy wanted us to do. We would have about an hour to wait until 5:15 when the sun came up and while we waited in line to get release forms, I turned to Lynsey and said, "It's getting chilly isn't it?" When we first got there, the temperature was surprisingly mild and thankfully it was not raining. But as the sun was coming up, the temperature seemed to be dropping and the wind was picking up. I pulled the hoodie over my head and wished for gloves. This might kind of suck, I thought.

Finally as the light crept up, Spencer climbed a ladder and bullhorn in hand, thanked us all for doing this, thanked his team and led us down to the beach. He warned that if he yells at us, it's not because he's mad, he's just trying to get as much done in the least amount of time. He ran through the poses he wanted to do: standing looking at the ocean, standing looking at the lighthouse, curled up in a ball… the "crab walk."

He walked off into the distance to set up and when he gave the signal, suddenly the big crowd of just people transformed into a big crowd of naked people.

My first thought was that the temperature was quite comfortable. It wasn't as windy as it was on the hill. I didn't even have goose bumps. The second thought was, holy god this is a very rocky beach. Oh yeah, this is Montauk. Tentatively, I maneuvered my way around the rocks and shards and twigs and landed on a relatively clear sandy bit.

Pose 1: stare into the ocean. It was really quite lovely. The cool air on my skin, the only sound was the roar of the waves and the occasional screams from those folks brave enough to actually get in or near the water. The guy in front of me was shivering. We were then told to lie down facing up. Then we curled up like ball, our faces to the sand. Every once in a while he would shout for somone to get down or to stop looking into the camera.

When the signal was given to stand, a cheer rang out. We'd done it! We're awesome! We're naked and we're awesome!

We're not done?

He wanted some shots further down among the rocks. The rocks, those horrible, horrible rocks. I inched along, each step a little more painful than the next. Then we sat facing the water on the rocks, then we laid on our backs (on the rocks) and arched ourselves up into the crab pose and the distant groans of muscle strain matched the squeals from the folks down by the water. Then we laid down on our backs, then on our sides with our arms draped over the person to our left. I carefully rested my arm on the sandy buttock of the woman next to me and closed my eyes while rocks jabbed into my side. Then face down and I closed my eyes to the scurrying bugs just underneath my face and thought about my friends who only had to contend with the clean, cool flat marble surface of the floor of Grand Central Station.

It is amazing the amount of power someone with a megaphone and a camera can yield.

When we were indeed done, I sighed with relief and cursed my soft, modern feet as we made our way past the two confused (and I hoped pleased) looking fishermen back to where we dropped our clothes. I have never been so grateful to put on shoes in my entire life.

I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Ease on down the road.

You can't win - Michael Jackson - The wiz
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I always had an irrational crush on the "sleeveless" crow.

Woman on Wire

We were fucking like we normally do, which is to say kind of frantically, a little painfully, a bit desperate and highly improvisational. I never know what to expect with him. The last time we were together he managed somehow to have a multiple orgasms, which I didn't even think was possible for a man.

We've sometimes planned thing out, had goals for a particular evening, but for the most part we tend to fuck like neither of us has had sex in years and may never have sex again. The calm, civilized conversation ends, the beast comes out along with his cock, my eyes glaze over and all I can think is, "That should go somewhere inside of me." And the more urgent and aching for it he is, the more I am. I like it when someone is desperate for me, when someone can't wait a second longer to touch me. I like that glaze over the eyes. It's probably why I like rape fantasies.

So we're fucking, when rather abruptly he pulls his cock out of me and climbs over my body to reach the open top drawer of my bedside table, the one with the condoms and lube and my trusty pocket vibe. He grabbed the vibe, twisted it on and half lying on top of me, pressed the vibe to my clit as he pressed his body on top of mine. I was close already and with the sudden over stimulation it didn't take me long to come. I thrust my hips up to meet the vibe and he held me tight, his back to me, his arms wrapped tight around my body. I groaned and shuddered and felt my heartbeat start to slow down. I shifted my hips away from the vibe, or tried to rather as I came down from the orgasm, but he tightened his grip like a boa constrictor and kept the vibe fixed on my clit. I wriggled my legs, trying to get away when they next orgasm came... and the next, and the next…

I was crying at this point, the pleasure was shifting into, not pain exactly, but just... too much. I fought him, pounded on his back and tried to shove him off me, but he was too strong and way too determined. Then just I gave up. I whimpered and moaned and brought the back of my hand to my forehead like a damsel in distress, which I kind of was. There was a constant flow of fluid from my cunt and I just went limp thinking how long could this go on? Would my clit eventually just go numb like a leg that had fallen asleep? Would I pass out? Could you die from this?

I saw Man on Wire a while ago and there's an incredible shot of Philippe Petit taking that first step on the wire between the towers, that very first step between solid ground and nothingness.

I feel like I always have one foot on the wire and one foot on roof. I want to take my other foot off of the roof.

I've taken the nose dive a couple of times. Once was with someone I care very much for, who cares very much for me. The other time was a one-night stand who's last name I never caught.

I don't play as much as I'd like to. It's not because I haven't wanted to, I'm just a lot more selective of who I play with these days. I don't have much interest in the occasional pick-up scene or demo-bottoming. I only want people who like me to hurt me. But more than that I want someone who loves me to push me off the roof.

When he finally let go of me and turned off the vibe, I shuddered and gasped for breath and wiped my eyes. He pulled me up close to his chest and wrapped his arms around me, not quite as tight this time. We cuddled like that for a while, catching our breath and soon we were talking about politics and the economy. My cunt kept making those gasping spasms and my clit kept pulsing like it was reaching out for more, still not completely satisfied.

Beyond the main course

I recently bought a copy of the original 1972 Joy of Sex from one of those guys selling used books and porn magazines along Sixth Avenue. Walking towards the table, I recognized the cover immediately and nabbed it for $4.00, hardly breaking my stride. My favorite thing about it, besides those great line illustrations of hairy hippie chicks in knee high boots, is the terminology. So if we have sex at some point and I shout out "You like buttered buns* don't you, baby!" you should know what it means. There's also…

feuille de rose: tongue stimulation of the anus
mouth music: extended pussy-kissing (also known as gamahuche)
goldfish: two naked people tied and put on a mattress together to make love fish-fashion, i.e. no hands
postillionage: putting a finger in or on your partner's anus just before orgasm
Serbian intercourse: mock rape (kind of sounds like a bad joke)
motorcycle: considered a "venue" for sex. It "combines the symbolism of the horse (which also has an entry) with leather gear, danger and acceleration."
viennese oyster: woman lies on her back and crosses her feet behind her head
cassolette: the natural perfume of a clean woman

There's also this very complicated garment developed by the Scandinavians called a grope suit. I don't know where I can get one, but I want it.



* a woman who has recently had relations with another man.

Toy Review: Hello Kitty Vibrator

Hello Kitty is an icon that doesn't stand for anything at all. Hello Kitty never has been, and never will be, anything. She's pure license; you can even get a Hello Kitty car! The branding thing is completely out of control, but it started as nothing and maintains its nothingness. It's not about the ego, and in that way it's very Japanese. — Tom Sachs


Bronze Collection / Lever House, New York City / 2008
Artist Tom Sachs often references contemporary icons of popular culture and consumerism in his work: McDonald's, Prada, Hello Kitty. I saw him speak at a conference years ago with Ikuko Shimizu, the original creator of Hello Kitty (let me tell you, when she took the stage the whole audience stood up and roared with applause. She's a rock star). She had never seen any of his work and was genuinely surprised that her creation had such a huge cultural impact. She said humbly, "Well, I knew it was a very popular character."

I was a fan of Hello Kitty back when I was a 3rd grader collecting stickers and miniature colored pencil sets and I love her to this day. "Teen Angst Hello Kitty" (I'm not making that up, that's what it's called) hangs above my computer:




On my wall is a piece from artist Michael Paulus who draws skeletal systems of cartoon characters:



I love Hello Kitty for her minimalist lines, her over-sized head, her expressionless, speechless gaze (She has no mouth, but there's no deep meaning behind this. When asked, Shimizu said she could never get the drawings right so she said, forget it!). Her adorable blank stare is like a template inviting you apply anything you want to her surface. And Hello Kitty is most definitely a she. You don't need DD sized boobs or long blond hair and a dream house. She's got that sweet, little bow placed at a cocky angle just below her left ear. And, or course, the name. How can you resist? The awkward, broken English name that is both generic and completely unique. You can not help but love her.

So we want her little face on anything and everything that can be bought instantly transforming the most mundane, utilitarian, "grown-up" object into something kitschy, fun and cute taking us back to a more innocent time in our lives when we carried Lego pieces, secret notes, and glitter glue in our little purses instead of iPhones, credit cards and tampons.

So along with the obligatory and age appropriate tiny purses and diaries, you can buy Hello Kitty kitchen timers, license plate frames, toasters, stainless steel sauce pans, golf bags, digital cameras, coffee makers, diamond jewelry, a Fender guitar and makeup . Then you can fly to Japan on a Hello Kitty jet.



















So why not a vibrator? It's marketed as a "shoulder massager" (so is the Hitachi and all those hand vibes you get at Brookstone) maintaining the illusion of respectability. Sanrio has always maintained that it is a "health-care product". It was their best selling novelty item before it was discontinued when it ended up being sold in sex shops next to much more obviously adult toys. But since it's back, perhaps the company has loosened up, re-evaluated it's consumer and decided to innocently look the other way.

After all, anything that vibrates is a vibrator: an electric toothbrush, the dryer, Tickle Me Elmo. I remember, while vacuuming the living room rug as a youngster, curiously pressing the buzzing handle to my crotch. Part of the fun is the pervertability of the object, the sacrilege of taking a beloved childhood character and using it to get off.

But long story short, it's basically a "Pocket Rocket" with a Hello Kitty head on top. So I started with her little face respectfully turned away from my clitoris. The back of her head is round and smooth, with just the slightest, embossement: © '76/97 SANRIO MADE IN CHINA. But I was curious about all those bumps of her cocky pink bow, her yellow button nose, and that little teddy bear nestled safely between her legs. So, with a little hesitation, I turned her over rubbing her face over my clit until I came. Then I lifted her up from between my damp thighs and looked into those tiny, little black eyes that seemed to be looking into mine saying, Why Tilda? Why?

And it takes one AA battery.

The birds and the bees

First published in France in 1973, Good Sex Illustrated gleefully deciphers the subtext of a popular sex education manual for children produced during that period. In so doing, Duvert mounts a scabrous and scathing critique of how deftly the "sex-positive" ethos was harnessed to promote the ideal of the nuclear family.






I've been reading this book and it's been it's been interesting to see what was considered "sex-positive" in 1973 versus what we consider the term to mean now (whatever that term means now). But the book is an angry exploration of how even when trying to be forward thinking, open and honest with children about sex, they still end up teaching that masturbating too much is bad, female orgasms aren't worth mentioning, homosexuals aren't normal, you aren't really a woman until you have had a baby and no one needs to know what a vulva looks like.

It's also interesting how the same discussions happening now about gender stereotypes, patriarchal privilege and heteronormativity were happening 36 years ago.

Two of my best friends have recently had kids and I've been thinking a lot about pregnancy (like a lot) and I remembered how I first learned about the birds and the bees. I technically never had the "talk" with my mom. She handed me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and said "Let me know if you have any questions." I also recall a hippie book on natural childbirth that included a recipe for Placenta Stew. Between that and sneaking peeks at my mom's Joy of Sex, my dad's copies of Juggs, and lying next to Zac during nap-time (Zac liked to spontaneously stand up and take off all his clothes. Zac was awesome.) I pretty much figured it out on my own. I also recall a book called Them (or maybe it was Us?) by Anonymous that was always by my mother's bedside table, in which I learned dicks can be put in ladies' butts.

But before all the visual aids and stories about affairs with tanned pool boys, my first understanding of sex started with a man and a woman getting married and in my head it went a little something like this:

A man and a woman lie side by side on a bed. The woman is wearing a wedding dress and the man is wearing a tuxedo with a top hat. Then the man puts his penis in the woman's vagina. Somehow.

I hadn't yet figured out the logistics of how this would work. The whole, lying on top of each other concept didn't occur to me, so I didn't have a clear idea of how he got his penis all the way over there. Did it grow really, really long and kind of bend over to it? How did it get through all the clothes? Did it go up underneath the dress? I think my concept was that a penis was a lot like a plumber's snake.

If only...

I found this old book my folks must have given me when I was little. Or maybe it was the lamer book my older sister got stuck with. This was from 1953. They spend more time talking about how the small-mouthed black bass gets knocked-up than how people do. There's lots of information about what happens once the baby's in there, but before? The actual mechanics of intercourse (Chapter 3: The sperm and how it finds the egg) takes up about a page and describes how horses and dogs and lions get it on. What, you want to talk about humans? Well, it's kind of like how horses do it, only "more lovingly" and you can lie face to face.

I haven't seen the 2009 equivalent of these books. I'm guessing there are additional chapters on deep throating, female ejaculation and how to supplement your allowance with a webcam.