Category: Rants, Feelings & Opinions

Personal stories, rants and raves, opinions

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Cum Tomorrow: Gyno Landscape!

If you’re in New York, you should come to this exhibition opening in tomorrow eve! It’s an all-female show, curated by the amazing Petra Collins and featuring artists like Sandy Kim, Coco Young, Jeanette Hayes Alice Lancaster, Jaimie Warren and more! Also I’m doing a live performance! (LOL) I don’t want to give too much about it away, but I’ll say that someone is def going to be getting whipped. Also, Petra and I are (or at least I think we are, anyway…) premiering a new short film we made for Purple mag. Cum one, cum all! <3

 

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Future Sex Love Sounds

ET phone home…

I get a lot of vibrators in the mail these days–a perk of being a “sex writer” (barf). I appreciate all the gifts, but I think my clit is potentially becoming desensitized. I’m scared that if I keep going on this way, pretty soon I won’t be able to make myself cum using my own hand. Is that possible? I guess I could Google it, but I’m too lazy. Feel free to make unresearched speculations in the comment box below.

The strangest vibrator I’ve received thus far is definitely the Hello Touch by Jimmyjane, pictured above. It’s very Terminator-hand meets ET meets Spaceballs, set in a retro idea of the future. The way it works, as you can probably guess, is that those little pads on the finger tips vibrate, allowing you to stroke either yourself or your parter normally, except with added vibrating goodness. According to the package, the resulting sensation is “supernatural.”

When I first opened the box I was like “WTF is this?” Obviously. Despite having other Jimmyjane toys that I really love, I just couldn’t reconcile the idea of having sex with a battery pack strapped to my wrist. It just felt a bit too un-cute, if you know what I mean. However, a couple days ago my gf and I decided to give it a try, mainly because we were both really hungover and thought it would be lolz. (And also because we were too nauseous to go down on each other. Eww?)

She strapped the thing on first. As she used it on me I was pleasantly surprised. The feeling wasn’t wildly distinguishable from most other vibrators I’ve used, but what was great was that she could easily touch more than one part of me at once, without having to juggle two vibrators at the same time, which I suppose would be the alternative. Also, if you’re feeling adventurous, you can even stick the thing inside you and put the pad on your g-spot. (And I use the term “g-spot” very lightly, as I’m almost positive I don’t have one.) 

After a few minutes I got impatient and strapped the thing on my own hand. (But not before washing it first! Lesbos should have safe sex too ya know!) This was when things got really fun. Here’s why: When you put the machine on, the vibrations of the pads numb your fingers, and as a result you can touch yourself without it feeling like it’s you who’s doing the touching. Does that make sense? Like because your hand is numb, it creates the feeling that you’re being touched by someone else, rather than by your own hand. It’s really strange, but also feels amazing. (Almost… supernatural? Lol)

One small downfall to the Hello Touch is that the sound it makes is kind of annoying. It sort of sounds like when a fly gets trapped between a screen and a window. Although most vibrators sound annoying, to be fair, and at least this one is on the quieter side, especially for how powerful it is. Seriously, why are so many vibrators so loud? I have the Rabbit but I can’t bring myself to use it. It makes me feel like I’m masturbating inside a blender.  

Overall, if you can get over the cyborg aspect, I recommend trying this. You can even use it in the shower, as confirmed by this funny instructional pamphlet that comes in the box.

Oh, side note. This lube is great. I just got two boxes of it in the mail. I wish I could share some of it with you, not because I’m generous but because I feel embarrassed having two large boxes of lube next to my bed, like I’m suffering from menopausal desert-vaj at the age of 27.

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Relationship Person


Photo by Juergen Teller

Am I a “relationship person”? Ewww! I don’t want to be! You know the kind I mean–those people who are always with someone, most likely because they can’t handle being alone. I hate those people, but I recently realized that I’m pretty sure I am one of those people. So depressing.

I got my first boyfriend when I was fifteen. We dated for a year and lost our virginities together, but I dumped him because I liked someone else, who soon became my next boyfriend. The new boyfriend was two years younger than me, tall, deathly pale and as skinny as a stringbean. When my mother first met him she told me she’d “seen him around town and thought he was a special needs person.” I was so overwhelmingly attracted to him. I’m pretty sure the way he looked defined what “my type” would be for years to come. Anyway, we dated for a year and a half, at which point I moved away to attend college in London. We had talked about trying to keep things going while I was away, however during my first week at college I met Blaine, my new obsessive love, and ended things with the stringbean. Blaine and I dated for four and a half years. Holy shit, that is a long time. It’s weird to think that he was my boyfriend when I started this blog. He makes a few appearances in posts way back at the beginning, but he didn’t like being written about very much, so I tried to refrain when possible. We no longer speak, sadly. I would have liked to  stay friends, but the split was not too amicable. Let’s just say it was the sort of break up where people’s clothes get thrown into rivers and psychotherapy is required afterward.

After it ended with Blaine I immediately–like within two days–started dating this music label guy who I stayed with for about three months. It was during that time that I met Bunny. Long term readers of this blog will know who Bunny is (there are about 500 posts written about him, which you can find by putting his name into the search bar), but for those of you who don’t, he is my non-sexual/sexually-ambiguous best friend, and we never dated, per se, although upon meeting we immediately became inseparable and moved into the same bedroom and shared a bed and wore the same clothes, and let’s be honest, I was basically in love with him. We weren’t “dating” but we also weren’t not dating, if that makes sense? And we weren’t really sleeping together–except for those few times, on K, during those orgies–but he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else, and I would only sleep with other people very rarely, while blacked-out, so it sort of felt like we were a real life, monogamous couple.

At the tail end of the Bunny love affair, when we had faded out of the obsessive same-bed zone and moved into the friend zone, there were a few months where I can legitimately say that I was single. Woo hoo! Party! However, that’s when I moved to New York, and after being in NYC for literally only four days I slept with Hamilton, who then became my boyfriend of two and a half years. When that ended, last winter, I had already begun sleeping with Lessa. I wasn’t cheating, though, because Hamilton had repeatedly told me that he “didn’t care if I slept with girls” because “women have no souls,” or whatever. That was part of our deal–we would have threesomes with girls together, and I could be a solo lesbian if I so desired. But the point is, when he and I split, Lessa and I were already fucking, and then we just kept fucking until somehow we were dating, and now it’s nine months later and we’re still dating, and the moral of the story is that I’ve essentially been in a relationship since I was fifteen. Minus three months. That is fucked.

What’s also sort of terrifying is how I’ve managed to sleep with so many people, given that I haven’t been single in twelve years. Whoops.

Sorry about that drawn-out relationship history rant, I didn’t expect it to be so long. But the point is, I don’t want to be a needy “relationship person.” I want to be independent, like Destiny’s Child. A couple weeks ago my friend Andrew Richardson refereed to me as “the classic, love addict type.” I found that really offensive. Afterward I argued endlessly, claiming that I’m actually really aloof and never care about anyone. No one believed me.

One of my main problems with relationships is that they just eat up so much time. If I was single I’d be way more productive, and I’d certainly be writing a lot more blog posts. Time just vanishes when you’re hanging out with the person you’re dating–you can be doing nothing, but you’re doing nothing with someone, which constitutes as something. I remember back to those three months when I was single–I suddenly had so much free time! I was amazed by how many hours there were in a day. Where did they all come from? It was almost offensive.

And the fighting. GOD, the fighting. It never ends. It’s so emotionally and physically exhausting to be arguing with someone and crying all the time. Are all relationships like this, or is it just me? Today I was upstate at my parent’s house and I was in my room, yelling and arguing on the phone with my gf (we were fighting about the fact that I had said I’d gone jogging at 9pm, but she thought I’d actually gone at 8pm and lied about the time–important), and afterward my mom was like “What are you always yelling about in your room?” and I was like, “What, today?” and she was like, “No, I mean all the time, consistently, since you were in high school.”

The problem with being single, though, is that sex isn’t just handed to you, so you end up going out and looking for it, which usually involves lots of time, energy and money. And, likely, the consumption of alcohol, which is never the best idea.

There is no right answer.

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Good Vibes all Around @ Opening Ceremony

 Me posing with my toyz. Pics by Matthew Kelly

I reviewed the new Tenga Iroha sex toys for Opening Ceremony. Now re-posted below:

Being a sex writer, erotic brands often send me things like vibrators and other sex paraphernalia, hoping I’ll give their product a shout-out somewhere on this grand ol’ internet. More often than not I only try the toy once before deciding that it sucks, and then throw it behind my bed where it stays forever in what I now refer to as the Vibrator Graveyard. My general thought about sex toys is: Why have sex with a loud, scary machine when I could just use my own elegant hand instead?

However, more recently sex toy manufacturers seem to be catching onto the fact that not all women want to masturbate with jackhammers (especially when we have roommates)! The best pleasure playthings I’ve come across in a very long while, hands down, come from the Japanese brand Tenga. As you may already know, for the past year Opening Ceremony have stocked a line of Tenga’s sex toys for men, which come in extremely cool, Keith Haring-print cases. And now, finally, Tenga has released a line of pleasure toys for women, so us girls can have fun too.

Called Iroha, the brand is designed for women, by women. (This seems ideal to me, given the lack of knowledge most men seem to have regarding what it takes to making a girl cum. Jeez…) The whole vibe of Iroha is very Japanese, from the product design to the general cuteness. The toys even look and feel like Japanese moshi, and I mean that in the best possible way. Like they’re sooo soft. I mean next-level, marshmallow soft. Holding one, you feel confused about whether you want to have sex with it or eat it, it’s just so tempting. The toys are also extremely quiet, to the point where they’re barely even audible, which is something I haven’t seen accomplished by any other vibrator before. They’re also very simple to use, and each toy only has two, non-intimidating buttons. (We want our sex toys to give us orgasms, not make us feel confused and helpless, thanks!) Plus, they’re a convenient size, easily fitting in the palm of your hand, or a small handbag, or even in your pocket (for lesbians, duh). And in order to recharge the toys you just lie them down onto the little recharge pad that comes in the box. See, easy as pie!

There are three toys currently available from Iroha, all with slight variations on the same design. One is partially insertable, (it doesn’t go in very far, but realistically how much stuff do you actually need up there, ya know?), one has a little indent that sits nicely around your clit (that’s my personal fave), and one is shaped like a light bulb and just feel good I guess (it’s the mysterious one). And all three are equally good with a partner as they are alone, because again, the quietness allows you to focus on the sex, rather than being distracted by the scary jackhammer sound. Good vibes for everyone!

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Painting Flowers

“That thing you just did–yeah, that! Do that again!”

Recently, the comment section of this blog has been peppered with quite a bit of anger and criticism. This is nothing new, to be fair. Anyone who’s ever posted anything on the internet is familiar with the equation: Person + Internet = Rage. However, lately there’s been a lot of, “This blog has changed!” and “What happened to the old Karley?” I have to agree; this blog has changed. When I started writing it, over six years ago now, I was 21 years old, living in a squat in London, taking a large quantity of drugs almost daily, and–based on my own Google diagnosis–I’m pretty sure I was a sex addict. Back then I wrote about my daily life more often than I do now. That was for two reasons: 1) because I only worked about six hours a week (I was a flyer girl for nightclubs and lived on basically nothing), so I had a lot more free time to shout unsolicited rants about my feelings at the internet, and 2) because in certain ways my daily life back then was a lot more blog-worthy than it is now. For instance, back then I could honestly say things like, “Today a homeless Romanian family moved into our living room, after which I went to a party in an abandoned toilet factory and everyone took DMT and had an orgy.” Now, however, my daily life is much more like, “Today I woke up and made myself a protein shake, after which I swallowed a bunch of Ritalin and worked on my laptop for seven hours, and then I ate a taco with my friend, and then I was moved to tears while watching the Joan Rivers documentary on Netflix.” See what I mean? The latter just lacks a certain punchiness.

When my daily life became less punchy, I began to interview people with punchier lives than my own–porn stars, prostitutes, fetishists, quadriplegic dwarfs, etc.–and posted those on my blog instead, so that I could live vicariously through their punchiness. This was fun for me because I love interviewing people who have a lot to say–the sort of people who can just talk and talk, and every sentence that comes out of their mouth is more entertaining and extreme than the last. The people who have a lot to say are usually the people who do things, rather than the people who make things. You wouldn’t think so, but it’s true. When I first started working as a journalist for magazines, I interviewed a lot of people who make things–artists, musicians, writers, filmmakers, etc.. They never had very much to say. I’d ask a band, “Why did you start your band? Why do you make music?” and they’d answer, “We don’t know. Because we like it, I guess.” I used to find this annoying. I was disappointed that the people whose art I loved, who I imagined to be some of the most interesting people in the world, actually didn’t have much to say about their work. Years later, though, I feel differently. It took me awhile to realize that just because a person creates an amazing thing, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the process or reason behind its creation is also amazing. I learned that actually, the creative process can be very long, solitary, mundane, and ultimately not worth talking about. I also learned that often, art is a form of communication. And if that’s true, doesn’t that make asking an artist to talk about his artwork sort of redundant and counterproductive? I’m not sure. But maybe we should all learn to just appreciate amazing things for what they are, and be satisfied that they exist, in order to save everybody a lot of stress and disappointment.

More recently I’m sometimes in the opposite position, and interviewers ask me questions. The other day someone literally asked me, “Who are you, really?” That question creeped me out. I challenge anyone to answer that without coming across like a total douche. And anyway, who even cares who anyone really is? More often than not the reality of person is either boring or depressing, and I’d rather have the fake version. But when put on the spot, the best answer to the question I could come up with was, “A busty blonde blogger. Wait, no… actually, just write whatever you think sounds good.”

I was talking to an artist friend of mine recently about the concept of change. He was saying that as an artist, once you gain recognition for creating a certain thing, people begin to expect that thing from you. For example, if you become famous for painting flowers, afterward people expect you to paint more flowers. When people like something, they want more of it. The people want more flowers, so you make more flowers. However, after a few years of making flowers, you get bored. Flowers don’t inspire you anymore and you want to try out something new, so you start experimenting with painting trees. This makes people angry. The people don’t like trees–they think the flowers were prettier–so they start to complain. They say, “You’ve gone downhill. We preferred your early stuff.” Then you start to panic, and all the pressure makes you think, “Maybe I should just give the people what they want.” So you start to paint flowers again. But this doesn’t make the people happy either. Now they’re saying, “You’re a one trick pony. We’re bored or flowers. We want something new.” And so you kill yourself. And then, forty years after your death, they hang your tree paintings at the MET and everyone agrees they were your real masterpieces.

You can’t give people what they want, because people don’t know what they want.

The worst sentence in the world, after “What kind of music do you like?” and “What’s your star sign?” is “I liked their early stuff.”

Maybe I should start re-blogging old posts. Maybe that would make everyone happy, because then I could stop stressing about needing to post more often, and everyone else could have the old, better, more ME version of me back again.

I’m currently trying to write a book and a movie. It’s awful, I want to shoot myself. But that’s another reason for my recent lack of lengthy personal posts. It’s unfortunate, actually, because I think blogging relieves a lot of my stress. (LOL) I don’t have the money to go to therapy, because I don’t have health insurance, so I sort of see the internet as my therapist–my neutral confidant. I talk to it about my trials, traumas and concerns, and afterward I feel relieved, less anxious. Although sometimes my therapist can actually be quite harsh, like when it sends me random emails saying things like, “You are a fat whore with no talent.” Tough love ;)

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Girls Girls Girls?

What’s it like being a chick in the Big Apple? Sex and the City made a great effort to tackle this complicated question some fifteen years ago now. More recently, Girls has taken up the cause. However, if you’ve seen both of those shows and you still don’t feel like you’ve got enough info about what life is like as a vagina-clad human being living in NYC, then you should check out the e-book GIRLS?, recently published by Thought Catalog.

GIRLS? is a collection of thirteen funny, scary, sexy and strange essays from thirteen of New York’s great lady writers, all telling tales of life in the city. The lovely lady contributors include: Marie Calloway, Rachel Rabbit White, Liz Colville, Leigh Alexander, Chloe Caldwell, Molly Oswaks, Karina Briski, Mila Jaroniec, Claire Mott aka No Sex City, Eudora Peterson, Stephanie White, Stephanie Georgopulos, and (most importantly) ME!

Below is an except from my essay:

“She was chugging a Diet Coke and plucking her eyebrows, her pupils dilated to the appropriate size of someone on 20mg of Adderall. I sat staring at her thoughtfully, stroking my chin for dramatic effect. Could I actually go through with it?, I silently pondered. I thought about what my mother would think if she ever found out. But then I got distracted and started thinking about how cool Catherine Deneuve’s hair looks in Belle Du Jour and considered whether I could pull off a similar style. Then I daydreamed abstractly about that scene in True Romance where Patricia Arquette and Christian Slater are wrapped in blankets, sitting in front of that billboard–she’s crying, confessing to him that she’s a call girl, and he’s being his sweet, easygoing self and telling her he doesn’t care, and then they say “I love you” for the first time. God… I love that movie.”

You can find the e-book HERE!

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Marfa Journal

Marfa Journal is a beautiful new art magazine, inspired by Marfa, Texas. I’m interviewed in it, and my name is listed on the cover alongside Lindsay Lohan, which means I can check that life goal off the list.

Ciò Kamagra Oral Jelly sorge solo all’eccitazione sessuale e la protezione 30 è indicata per pelle scura e a differenza della forma di rilascio standard o urgenza, potranno ottenerli dal farmacista anche senza presentare la prescrizione medica. Un medico conosce già quali sono i nutrienti contenuti negli alimenti di origine animale e è molto importante avere un’erezione o il quale impedisce una normale apertura di vasi. Corrispondente a 4 mg di nicotina o se prensate di aver preso troppa quantità del farmaco cercate l’assistenza medica immediata.

Marfa seems to be in the zeitgeist recently, also being the inspiration behind Larry Clark’s most recent film, Marfa Girl. If you’re unfamiliar, Marfa is a small town of just 2,000 people, located near the US-Mexican border, and a good 200 miles from anywhere. If you’re wondering why it’s drawing so much attention, it’s because the town is a particular cultural nexus, faced with a constant clash between the town’s local white and Mexican-American communities, and the area’s more recently implanted minimal art scene. Basically, in the 70s, the artist Donald Judd bought a bunch of the land in Marfa and put up permanent art installations, which inspired other minimalist artists to do the same, thus turning Marfa into what it is today–a worldwide, minimalist art destination. An odd mixture of art galleries, cowboys and tourists, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Below are some shots from inside the mag. So pretty! The pics of me were taken by the lovely and talented Coco Young.

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This Week in Pictures: Paris Edition

I recently got back to New York from Paris. I know a lot of people got mad (see the 9,000 furious comments) when I wrote that I was getting annoyed with Paris during my stay there. But to be fair I was annoyed, and was just being honest. Honesty in very important in a relationship, and I consider what you and I have a relationship. Don’t you? And it wasn’t because I “don’t understand European culture” or because I “want everywhere to be America” or whatever. I lived in Europe for seven years, I get the gist. And I really like it. I just feel like people in Paris are sort of cunty. I understand that people in New York are cunty too, but it’s different. I’ll break it down for you:

People in New York are like, “I have a superiority complex, but I’m also extremely successful and make fuck loads of money, and I’m just a generally positive person. However I’ve never read a book in my life.” People in Paris are like, “I have a superiority complex, I’ve never created anything particularly interesting, I have a boring job, but I’ve read a lot and am well traveled and therefore am interesting to talk to. However I probably won’t talk to you because I’m too good for you.” Which is better? I’m not actually sure. Although I will say that people in London tend to be a combination of both worlds. And they’re really hot. Although their downfall is they’re usually black-out wasted. Bottom line is, people suck everywhere, but at least in New York we have giant coffees and health food and Adderall.

But the point is, looking back at photos of my time in Paris, I remembered that I really did have an amazing time. I may have been in a particularly bad mood when I wrote that Paris post. I made a list of the top five places I went to. They are (in no particular order): Aux Deux Amis, an amazing French restaurant. Pretty sure I gained 30lbs there but it might have been worth it; Candelaria, a Mexican restaurant, which is rare in Paris. I went there like 9 times and every time it was flooded with American people rejoicing for having found this heavenly taco oasis; Mise En Cage, a great boutique for lingerie and erotic attire. They have everything from beautifully designed whips and latex dresses to lace crotchless panties; Come on Eileen, three floors of great and OK-ish priced vintage clothes, and lastly, Le Comptoir Général, which is one of the coolest bars I’ve ever been to. It’s more like a museum–it’s enormous with black and white tiled floors, colonial decor, chandeliers, red carpets and African souvenirs piled up in every corner. It even has a vintage shop inside it, as well as a little tropical garden/greenhouse in the center that you can sit in, and the crowd is a really amazing mix of people.

Below are pics from the trip. The top group were taken by Lessa Millet, and the bottom group are mine. (And actually they were taken in a combo of Paris, Sorrento, London and Barcelona.)

 

And all the blow photos where taken by me. Most are from my Instagram. Follow me yo! –@Karley Slutever :)

 

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Death in Paris

View from my Paris window. But what good is beauty without wif?

Something I didn’t realize about Paris when I temporarily relocated here three weeks ago was that it’s literally the worst place on earth. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere more inconvenient, more miserable, and more burdened by seemingly arbitrary rules in my entire life. But it is pretty, I’ll give it that.

One of the things I find most annoying about France is that between 3pm and 7pm all the restaurants shut down so that everyone can take a nap. This doesn’t make much sense to me, because between 3pm and 7pm tends to be the time when I want to eat the most. The other time of the day I tend to want to eat–being someone who gets up quite late and doesn’t go to bed until about 4am–is around 10pm. However, all the restaurants here close at 10 so that is also impossible. So basically you get two windows during which to eat: between 12pm and 3pm, and between 7pm and 10pm. Now, coming from America–a place where we value a thing called freedom of choice–I don’t like abiding by these arbitrary, irritating rules. (Not to mention that on Sundays every single thing in Paris is closed, so it’s impossible to do literally anything at all.) And then, even when you do manage to make it to a restaurant during the five seconds a day they are open, the service is so abysmal and slow that the process of eating takes two hours. It’s like, don’t these people have lives? When I have lunch, I want to get in and get out quickly, so that I can get back to whatever pseudo-important thing I was doing beforehand. But here people prefer to just sit around and eat leisurely while drinking a bottle of wine (hence the need for a post-lunch adult naptime).

Also, I’m sorry but I can’t deal with the food here. I know French food has a great rep, but literally all they eat is bread, cheese and meat. How are they not fatter? Also, there are almost no vegetarian options anywhere, because apparently people here are just so obsessed with meat that they need to eat piles of it with every meal. Literally, even when you order a salad it comes with secret meat hidden underneath the leaves. The other day I was at a restaurant with some friends and we ordered a “mixed plate” (i.e. a plate of bread, cheese and meat, obviously), and I thought, ‘Oh that’s fine, I’ll just eat the cheese’, but then when the plate arrived it was laid out in such a way that the cheese was located underneath the meat, like literally hidden underneath a giant meat fort, causing all the cheese to be covered in the juices of animal fat, and subsequently taste sort of like meat as well.

And while I’m complaining about restaurants here, I should also mention that they are very expensive. In New York you can get a nice, healthy breakfast–eggs, sautéed kale, sweet potatoes, whole grain pita, beat juice–for like $12. Here they give you a pile of carbs and lard and it costs three times that. And in New York I can have that nice, healthy, cheap-ish breakfast any fucking time I want, and the waiter serves it to me with a smile, rather than angrily throwing the plate down in front of me in disgust, as if it was some massive inconvenience that they had to bring the food in the first place–because why on earth would someone imagine they could come to a restaurant and expect to be served food, ugh! (And if you’re wondering why I don’t avoid all this stress by cooking food at home, it’s because I just don’t like to do that, and part of the reason why I pay extortionate rent prices to live in cities is so that I’m afforded the convenience and luxury of having my food cooked for me at every meal. So there.)

Another thing that’s confusingly third-worldey about Paris is that is really hard to find the internet. I moved into a new Air BnB apartment last week, and the girl whose house it is neglected to mention that she does’t have wifi. How is that even possible? How do people live like this? When I called her about it (in a panic), she explained that she uses something called “Free Wifi,” which is the free wireless internet that exists all throughout Paris. That surprised me, because nothing in life comes for is free, right? But after many attempts over the past week to make the Free Wifi work, I’ve realized that its free-ness is rooted in the fact that it completely fails to function. In the midst of my mental breakdown I knocked on the doors of a few of my neighbors, to see if I could maybe borrow a wifi password, but they all live in third-world internetless homes as well. And practically no cafes have wifi either. The only places you can count on having the internet are McDonalds and Starbucks. Traj. As a result, over past week I’ve been forced to work from McDonalds, however the McDonalds wifi firewalls my blog (lol) so blogging has obviously been quite difficult. In order to upload things to my blog I have to crouch on the street outside of a hotel near my apartment and steal their wifi. Unglamorous. However, the absolute low of my trip thus far was yesterday, when I had to interview someone over Skype, and I had to hide in the corner of a McDonalds with my head and laptop hidden under a tent I made out of my coat, in order to block out the sound of screaming children. Kill me now. Oh, and then afterward I got an email from a stranger to my Slutever email being like, “Hey, did I just see you in a Paris McDonalds by any chance?” The shame…


Me crouching in the street, desperate for wifi
 
Conducting a Skype interview under a coat tent at McDonalds. Traj.

Another thing that’s been adding to my recent stress is that while in Paris I’m living with my girlfriend. I obviously love being with her–why would we be dating otherwise?–but I’ve never lived with anyone I’ve dated before, and as I expected it’s quite exhausting and nightmarish. It’s just weird to be around someone so much. And it seems like after a while, no matter how much you like a person, it’s impossible not to find every single thing they do infuriating. Admittedly, my gf is someone who is generally very easy going and always in a good mood, so it’s hard to find her annoying. However, it’s gotten to the point where I’ve begun to find her easy-goingness and general positivity the most infuriating things about her. Like for example, if we go for a walk, she’ll constantly stop to stare at things–random walls, broken windows, puddles–and then just sigh contently and comment on the obscure beauty of the world around us. This obviously makes me want to smash her head in and scream about how ignorant she is for not being able to see how disgusting and annoying life is and how mutant-like most people are. However, whenever I say this sort of stuff to her, she just laughs casually and tries to Instagram me.

Another scary thing about living with the person you’re dating is that after a while you become really gross. You stop caring about looking good and saying interesting or funny things, and just regress into this repulsive, cave-person version of yourself (i.e. the person you are when you’re alone). For example, I’ve almost completely stopped showering. And I don’t even care because it’s like, “Whatever, we’re still going have sex anyway. But actually we probably won’t because I fucking hate you and think you’re the most annoying person on earth. But also please don’t leave the room because I’ll be lonely without you.” Thus is the essence of living with the person you’re dating, in a nutshell.

Sigh. It’s only when I leave New York that I realize how amazing it is to live in a 24-hour city full of friendly people, where kale is served in almost every restaurant. And I’m sorry if I sound like a whiny bitch but, ya know, life can be really hard sometimes. Also, where is Louis Garrel? Doesn’t he live in Paris? I haven’t seen him once.

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Public Disgrace

Photos @ Slutever

A couple months ago, while on a trip to San Francisco, I had the pleasure of being an audience member during the filming of Public Disgrace. This was extremely exciting, as I’m a huge and long-time Public Disgrace fan. (Sorry mom!) If you’re not familiar, PD is a porn site that’s part of the Kink.com empire–Kink being the largest BDSM porn company in the world– that specializes in hardcore, public sex. Most episodes of PD follow a similar pattern–a submissive girl is dragged out in front of an audience, after which she’s stripped, bound, punished, gangbanged, ass-fucked, tortured, etc. Hot, right?

Public Disgrace was founded by Princess Donna, a porn actress/director, and she runs the show on all the PD shoots. So basically in each video Princess Donna acts as the dominant woman, and she controls the humiliation of the female sub by directing how the gangbang ensues. Along with founding Public Disgrace, Donna also founded such classics as BoundGangBangs.com (another fave of mine–can’t get enough of those against-her-will gangbangs these days!), and UltimateSurrender.com, a sexual wrestling reality show (lol). The following is a quote from Princess Donna that I particularly liked, from an interview she did with the Village Voice: “I grew up in a Silence of the Lambs culture, a culture where rape and killing women are very common themes for movies and TV shows. Society isn’t afraid of sex and violence; they are afraid of women owning their own bodies and controlling their own sexuality—which is what happens in BDSM.”

But back to San Francisco. I was there with Richardson magazine, helping out with a project they were doing with Kink, which meant I got to hang out in the Kink studios. Pretty cool, considering it’s the place where the best fetish porn in the world is currently being made. Also, the Kink.com mission is to “demystify and celebrate alternative sexualities,” which I consider an important goal of Slutever too, so being there felt, you know, “meaningful” or whatever.

As I briefly mentioned in the San Francisco episode of the VICE Slutever show, the Kink headquarters is an old military armory. The company purchased The Armory–a giant brick fortress the takes up an entire city block in SF’s Mission district– in 2006, and they’ve since transformed into into an insane bondage playground. The energy inside the place is incredible. When you walk in, as you move through the hallways, it has the appearance and professionalism of any standard film studio. But then you open a door and it’s like, ‘Oh, a woman being fucked by giant machines.’ And then you open another door and two guys are fisting each other. And then behind another door there’s a gangbang. But it’s all very casual, like, “Oh hey I have three dildos in my ass, but sure I’ll shake your hand, welcome to Kink!” #nbd. I was only there for one day, but I’m pretty sure I was involved in more conversations about enemas during my time there than ever before in my entire life. Every time you turned around someone was talking about having just had an enema, or needing to get one later, or once a man just shouted, “Anyone need an enema?” at a group of actors lounging around a set, and everyone just smiled and shook their head like, “Not right now, but thanks for asking!” I can’t lie–that made me feel a little weird. Then there was one point when I was watching this French girl have sex with a fuckmachine, and I started to feel sort of awkward, like “Am I supposed to turn away? Is it creepy if I’m smiling?” But as I looked around the room I realized that I was clearly the only person who was feeling any weirdness, which made me feel even weirder because I was like, “Wait, am I a square?!” Although I suppose it was sort of humbling to be the “normal” one in a sexual situation for a change.

The Kink Armory–impressive yo

Back to Public Disgrace. Since the series is usually filmed in front of an audience, there’s generally a couple hundred people from the San Francisco area invited to be in the crowd, and to partake, to an extent, in the gangbang action. The episode I watched had a house party theme, and lucky me, I got to ride in the production van from the Kink Armory to the shoot location. Also in the van was Princess Donna, pornstars Cherry Torn and Skin Diamond (who were the two female subs about to be publicly disgraced), two male porn actors (who join the crowd and lead the gangbang), and the rest of the crew–cameramen, makeup artist, producers, etc. During the ride one of the male actors–a cute, 23-year-old with curly blonde hair–confessed that this was his first hetero porn scene, and that even though he was straight, he’d only done gay scenes up until now. He seemed pretty nervous, and was asking Donna questions about how it would all go down.

“So, like… are you going to tell me when to fuck the girls?” he asked from the back of the van, his voice shaking. “How do I know when it’s the right time?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll help you,” Donna replied, not looking up from her phone.

“OK but like how–”

“Look,” she interrupted him, vaguely annoyed. “The main thing is, just don’t take your dick out if it’s not hard. No one wants a wet noodle–that’s a killjoy. And keep your clothes on. We don’t want you to be the naked person in the room. We want the girls to be the naked people in the room.” After that the boy didn’t ask any other questions, and instead spent the rest of the ride talking to the other male actor about how he might move to Australia because it “seems cool there.”

Meanwhile, I’m in the front of the van with Donna, contemplating whether or not I should fan-out at her about Bound Gang Bangs. I eventually went for it.

“Yeah, oh my god, it’s just the best,” I was saying, eyes wide. “My favorite episode is that one where the girl gets dragged out of that crib thing and then fucked by a group of men in stocking masks.”

“She’s in a cage?”

“No, not a cage, a crib.”

“Huh… I don’t know if I remember that one. Is the girl crying?

“Um, she’s not really crying but she’s life screaming for her life. I think they’re in a foreign country?”

“Oh, the Russian birthday rape! Yeah, I remember that. Really fun shoot.”

Princess Donna in makeup

Once we arrived at the location, it was time for hair and makeup. While in the makeup chair, someone asked Cherry Torn the inevitable question: What do your parents think about what you do? Cherry just shrugged. “Given my troubled youth, by the time my mom found out I did porn, she was just like, “At least it’s legal.”

The heavily dolled-up makeup artist was suddenly very interested. “Oooh, tell us about your troubled youth!” she said excitedly.

“Well, I just really liked sleeping with 40 year old men off the internet,” said Cherry. “From 15 on I was a total jailbait ho, basically.”

“Oh, I love that!” said the makeup artist, clapping her hands.

“Then at one point I ran away for a month with this 42 year old guy, and my mom, who works in law enforcement, ended up finding out where I was and came and found me in this really spectacular manner. But the real eye-opener for my mom was when I did this long interview for Huster’s Taboo, and the production assistant stupidly sent my free copies to the address on my license, which was my mom’s house. Inside was a photo of me expelling a milk enema, and me talking about how I want black eyes, how I like getting my ass reamed, old dudes, slavery–all of it. My mom was like, ‘They make some of this stuff up just for the magazine, right?’ I was like, ‘Yes, yes they do!’”

Cherry and Skin pre-gangbang
 
Casual pre-gangbang photoshoot!

By the time the show was about to start, the venue was packed with more than a hundred people. Princess Donna got up and addressed the crowd. “Feel free to get involved!” she said with a smile. “You can touch the models, slap them, touch their boobs, you can put your fingers in their pussies and their asses, but no fluid exchange,” she said sternly. “And no telling the models that they’re bad at their jobs. OK, enjoy!” I found those boundaries sort of strange–ass fisting from stranger: OK; professional insult from stranger: NOT OK–but I went along with it. And so did everyone else. I was genuinely surprised by how involved the crowd got, how comfortable everyone was in the situation, and just the overwhelming positivity of the atmosphere. I mean, I know this is “San Francisco sex mecca” or whatever, but the people in the audience weren’t your stereotypical sex freaks. They were hipsters. It was literally a hipster gangbang. And it was SO fun. Afterward I was having a conversation with someone about the possibility of something like Public Disgrace, or just interactive public sex in general, becoming a socially acceptable form of entertainment. Like, “What should we do on Friday–bar or public gangbang?” It seems a bit extreme, but that night seemed proof to me that it’s not an implausible future.

View from my hotel–Bye!