She can't even read that! It's facing away from her! Stop looking so shocked!

I recently had a discussion with a friend of mine, Rose, about pornography and acting. She is involved in the sex industry, has worked as a prostitute and escort, and occasionally does both photographic and film pornography. She mentioned she’d recently finished a shoot where she had earned more in five hours than I’ve yet to earn in all of January.

Curious about her experiences, I asked what being in porn was like. Specifically, whether she viewed it as a sexual experience or a ‘this is an action I’m doing because I’m getting paid’ experience. Rose said that it was the latter: really not much more enjoyable than serving coffee or collating copies, just quite a bit more lucrative.

The conversation got me thinking about what we – as audience members – ask of actors. Because going to a play almost always involves some suspension of disbelief.  Perhaps Chicago’s Neofuturists toe the line  of theatre which requires no suspension of disbelief, but they’re in the minority. For the most part, going to a show involves allowing ourselves to believe that the actors are their characters. That they’re falling in love, planning for battle, forging alliances, destroying relationships, and on and on and on. When I go to a play I could sit there the entire time thinking, “Well, she’s not really in love with him. He doesn’t really find what she says so funny as to laugh out loud.” But that would make me miserable, so I suspend my disbelief and allow their actions to read as true.

That’s not how viewing porn seems to work, however. For whatever reason, audiences want to believe the people they’re watching are really attracted to each other (even if only on a physical level) and do reach a real, satisfying, climactic (natch) orgasm.

Why is that?

This isn’t true for every porn. There’s a great movement of feminist porn that attempts to portray actual, pleasurable, orgasmic, sex (links obviously NSFW): Crash Pad, No Fauxxx, and Doing It Ourselves, to name a few. (Please share more in the comments if you know of any.) But those are the minority. Most porn is filmed the same way any other film would be: actors are told what to do, and they do it. Regardless of whether or not they really cum. That’s what I’m talking about when I use the word ‘porn’ in this post, even though I know it’s a subset of all porn.

I’m also talking from my own cultural understandings and assumptions about porn and American gender dynamics. This is a topic for a 300+ page thesis, not a little blog post, so I’ll be making a lot of unsubstantiated and unresearched claims about why people (mainly men) watch porn, and what they think while doing it. I’m also not focusing on kink or fetish porn. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m way off base at any point.

PORN!

The place to start in answering this question may be the perceived audience. This type of porn is primarily produced by men, for men. There are cultural expectations and understandings around the ease of the male orgasm and the difficulty of the female. Porn feeds into the first, but somewhat contradicts the second: a woman is going to get off because that’s how the audience wants to be projected into the story. The (male) viewer wants to imagine himself with the woman in the porn, easily and handily getting her off.

So there’s no desire for examination of the actors’ ability to portray getting off. Someone might come out of a theatrical production saying, “Wow, you could really feel the emotion on stage.” But – if they stop to think about it – they don’t assume the actors were all actually mad at each other, or in love with each other, or whatever. In porn, though, similar examination leads to questioning one’s own partners: If that porn actress was faking that orgasm, how do I know my own partner wasn’t doing the same?

There also seems to be a parallel with the use of stunt doubles in Hollywood. Audiences are impressed when there aren’t any stunt doubles. “She does all her own stunts” is a high compliment to pay an actress. Because we know what they’re doing is fake. There isn’t really a Nazi chasing Indiana Jones. Salt wasn’t really running from those assassins. And for sex scenes, the love interests aren’t really having sex.

In porn, though, there is actual sex happening. Someone is being penetrated, and someone is penetrating. Or licked/licking. Sucked/sucking. You get the idea. But why go that far if you can’t go the step further? Why aren’t they actually achieving orgasm? It seems more difficult to separate the fiction from the reality. Or to even want to separate the two.

Porn also generally serves a different, more (ahem) utilitarian purpose than non-sexual film or theatre. While audiences certainly view actors to evoke an emotional response, the expectations are generally more open ended. When I go to a comedy, I may laugh at the actors or with them. Likewise, a drama may evoke my pity or tears at love-lost or happiness at love-found-at-last. I don’t always know going in, except in the broadest of fashions. Porn, though, is different. The viewer is expecting a specific physical response.

Justifying any of these assumptions would take research that I don’t foresee doing anytime soon. But thinking about when and why I’ve watched porn, all of the above makes sense. I don’t watch much porn these days, but when I have I wanted where the women looked like they were enjoying themselves. Something I could imagine participating in, either causing the woman’s reaction or having the woman’s reaction (a whole different topic). And if pressed, I’d admit most of those women – perhaps all – weren’t actually enjoying what I was watching as much as they portrayed enjoying it. As much as they acted like they were enjoying it.

I guess my final thought is about whether or not this – the shared desire to believe women in porn are actually cumming – is a good thing. No one says “Dexter sucks! He’s not really killing people!” At the same time, women faking orgasms in porn seems to feed into all of the second wave feminist ideas of why all porn is inherently bad for women and creating unrealistic and overly-sexualized expectations around women. And – both as an occasional viewer of porn and a friend of people who work in porn – I don’t buy into that.

So I’m left not knowing what to think. I’d love to see a move toward more actual orgasms in porn, but some fantasies viewers want to see may simply not evoke an orgasm in the actor participating. And I’m hesitant to say that there should never again be porn of Situation X simply because they can’t find an actress who cums from it. But I don’t know how to balance that with encouraging healthier views of female sexuality. And male sexuality, for that matter.

Any thoughts?

On behalf of myself, and on behalf of all non-normatively-gendered individuals, I apologize. I am sorry for being confusing. For being scary. For being strange. For being icky. I am sorry for raising awkward questions about what female and male means. I am sorry for not fitting into one box or the other. I’m sorry for questioning the need for boxes at all. I’m sorry for androgyny and ambiguity and flexibility and spectra and rainbows of infinite possibilities.

I’m sorry for my body. I’m sorry for having breasts that are the result of orally-taken hormones and not of gonadally produced hormones. For having skin that is smooth due to those hormones and thousands of dollars of hair removal. I’m sorry for having a penis between my legs, being able to pee standing up, being an outie instead of an innie. I’m sorry shopping is such a chore, that I can’t wear those yoga pants or that ever-so-cute dress without tucking my cock up between my legs and securing it with medical tape, I’m sorry my boobs are nice and perky because they came in at 23 instead of 13. I’m sorry for my physical strength, something I’ll always doubt it’s from working out and assume it was from the testosterone coursing through my system for twenty-plus years. I’m sorry for my wide shoulders, my big feet, my hairy toes. I’m sorry for my occasionally ambiguous voice, for still occasionally getting “sir”ed on the phone, for causing double-takes. 

I’m sorry for being a sexual person. For enjoying to fuck and be fucked. In my mouth, between my legs, up my ass. For bending partners over and being bent over. I’m sorry that the sex is better than it ever was before transitioning, that my moans might keep you up at night, that the drawer next to my bed is filled with lube and vibrators and straps and butt-plugs. I’m sorry that I know my sexual topography better than you will ever know yours, because I’ve been forced to explore mine, blessed to explore mine, like a brave adventurer entering a strange new land. I’m sorry that my nipples grow like my cock grows like my need grows until it makes me want to scream and orgasms wreak my body until I vibrate like a tuning fork. I’m sorry for turning you on, making you wet, making you hard, for confusing your sense of sexuality and your sense of your self. I’m sorry you have to “figure some things out,” that you “aren’t sure what this means,” that you’ve “never been with someone like me before.”

I’m sorry for being so insistent. For refusing to use the private, single-stall bathroom and demanding to use the women’s room. For making a stink about names and pronouns. For calling you out when you get it wrong, over and over and over again. For being a voice of frustration and angst and depression.

I’m sorry for being so angry. For letting it boil and bubble and spill out of my mouth and onto the page and the stage and into my voice and through my spine. For standing tall and walking down the street. I’m sorry for my bitter tone, my condescending look, my frustrated sigh. I’m sorry my anger has crept up my body and through my veins and into my hair and my fingernails and my tear ducts until, like play-doh being squeezed through a tube, every pore of my body exudes my rage.

I’m sorry for wanting more. Legal protection, medical coverage, equal rights, safe bathrooms, safe jails, safe treatment from police and teachers and students and peers and strangers on the street. I’m sorry that I won’t step back, step aside, step down. I’m sorry, but that isn’t enough, it’s not good enough, I don’t see your point, I can’t compromise. I’m sorry that I’m tired (exhausted, really) of explaining at great length to you what seems so obvious to me.

I’m sorry, but I lied. I’m not sorry at all.

Yum!

Way back September, I won a gift package from Early to Bed as part of their anniversary giveaway. Since I’ve been making such good use of my prizes, I figured I should share the love with all of you. The best part of the prize pack was undoubtedly the rechargable Vibratex Mystic Wand. Now i realize it looks a whole lot like the Luxe Magic Massager I reviewed back in 2010. And the general size and form factor are about the same. But where the Luxe was a poor-quality, loud, non-silicone, un-sexy toy, the Mystic Wand is awesome.

Lets start with build quality. The Mystic Wand has a removable silicone head, which allows for better cleaning and for the head to be replaced with other attachments that Vibratex makes. EDIT: I misread something somewhere. The rechargeable Mystic Wand does not have a removable anything. That said, it’s all silicone so easily cleaned with soap-and-water. END EDIT. The head is firmly attached to the body by a flexy-bendy neck, giving good control without feeling like the vibrating part is going to snap off. The body is coated with what feels like the same silicone as the head, but I’m not positive enough to want to stick it in my body. But you wouldn’t want to, so no worries.

The body is easy to hold, and feels well-made and not too heavy. There are two buttons – one to turn on and one to cycle through the 6 different vibration patterns: three that are a solid vibration at various strengths, and three that are different patterns of on and off. There’s also a blue light, which is a little bright, but I’m not looking at it while I’m using it… The version I got is rechargeable, and there’s a little rubber nub at the bottom to cover the charging port. Vibratex says it’s “splash resistent,” but I’m not going to risk trying it in the shower. It does feel pretty watertight, though. All in all, it feels like a good piece of equipment in ways the similarly-shaped Luxe never did.

Not my hand...

But how does it feel? Quite good, thankyouverymuch. The different vibration options offered enough variety for me, without being overwhelming. I particularly liked the mnn-mnn-mnnnnn setting. It’s also quite enough that I didn’t feel like an airplane was taking off under my covers, or that my roommates were going to burst in at any moment to check why I had a blender in my room. The rechargeable batteries inside also last for quite a while. I’ve recharged it a few times since September, but with regular use I’m still not having to plug it in every week. Which is good, since it can’t be used while plugged in, a real bummer.  The battery compartment isn’t user-accessible, as far as I can tell, so hopefully whatever battery it has will last a good long while.

All in all, this has become my go-to toy. I haven’t had a chance to try it with anyone else, so this is all my opinion. But it’s a high opinion, and I’d definitely recommend this to anyone out there. Early to Bed doesn’t carry the rechargeable (yet?) but has the standard Mystic Wand for $60, and if you’re looking for a vibrator that isn’t also a dildo I say it’s a great buy.

I do like my pink one, though. The non-rechargeable colors just don’t do it for me. ::grin::

No one looks like they're enjoying this situation, to be honest

In Which A Question Is Asked

What does it mean to be a sexual trans person? A sexual trans woman?

Sidenote: I’m looking for my copy of Fucking Trans Women, an awesome e-zine available at http://fuckingtranswomen.com/. I know I bought and downloaded it, but am having trouble finding it. I emailed the site owners, tho, and hopefully they’ll be willing to send me another copy. At the very worst, I can spare another $5 for their great project.

Back on topic, I think being trans and sexual is tough for me (gonna try to use ‘I’ statements in this post, and not make generalizations) in part due to the huge variety of mixed messages I’ve received over the last 27 years. I’m sure I’m missing some categories, but here’s what I’ve come up with:

• Messages about male sexuality, even though I didn’t identify as male
• Messages about female sexuality, which I picked up even though I wasn’t yet presenting as female
• Messages about heterosexual sexuality, mainly from when I was presenting as a straight male
• Messages about queer sexuality, both before and after I came out
• Messages about specifically lesbian sexuality, again from both before and after I came out
• And last-but-never-least, messages about specifically trans sexuality, limited primarily to ‘chicks with dicks’ and ‘she-male’ porn

Again, I want to clarify that this post is going to be about my experiences. I’d love for people to chime in, but I’m not attempting to speak for anyone else, of any sexual orientation, gender identity, personal experience, etc, etc, etc. On the way I may make some wider generalizations about The Trans Sexual Experience, but my goal is much more to bring some clarity to my sexual experience, identity, and so on. So there.

I also think this is a good time to link to the these three posts I did on sex and the effects of hormones, back in late 2009. (Wow, two years ago?) Those used to be password protected, but are now public. Funny how my attitudes on privacy have changed in two years…hopefully posting all that stuff won’t come back to haunt me, but I gotsta say what I gotsta say.

Things I Wish I’d Known

TERRIFYING SEX ED DOLLS

I just re-read all three of those posts, and everything about them still stands as it relates to my early experience with sex and sexuality. Looking back now, I do think I was a lot more awkward than I thought I was at the time. That’s probably true for lots of people’s budding sexuality. But I think I owe my first major girlfriend an apology for what I can only imagine was a mediocre experience for her. I wish she’d spoken up, but I also wish I’d known how to ask what she wanted.

I also wish I’d come to an earlier realization that I don’t like being the penetrator in penetrative, penis-in-vagina sex. I don’t know if it’s the mental aspect of how I relate to my body, or the physical size of my ‘equipment,’ but I’ve never really enjoyed that kind of penetrative sex. I’ll do it, and – to clarify – I enjoy it enough that I’d rather do that than nothing… Mediocre sex is better than no sex, in my mind. I’m not totally sure – from my admittedly limited sample size – that the experience was great for my partners, either.

That’s perhaps the biggest thing I can point to and say “this was a lesson I learned being socialized as male, in a primarily heterosexual society.” I simply didn’t have a concept of sex outside of penis-in-vagina. Foreplay, fooling around, hooking up – there were lots of other ways to be sexual, but only one way to have sex.

Likewise, I imagine my (now mostly faded) hangups about anal sex and anal play came from being told – implicitly by culture, if never explicitly by anyone – that anal play was dirty, unpleasant, something for the penetrator and not the penetratee. That it was gay.

Fortunately, I’ve been honest enough with myself and with my body to realize that A) it’s not tooooo dirty if you do it right, and B) it (at least for me) it feels really good.

There’s still some lumped in baggage I possess, swirling around the ideas I picked up concerning male and female heterosexual, cisgender sexuality – basically my first three bullet points – which I’m going to lump together and call heteronormative : Who is supposed to initiate a sexual experience, how power dynamics are supposed to work between partners, all that stuff above about penetrative sex and anal sex and the definition of ‘real sex.’

As I become aware of those lingering hangups, I try to address them and think them through. Something I think I’ve really managed to turn around is my definition of sex: It’s not a specific act, it’s an experiential thing. My straight friends sometimes laugh when I call them out on this, but in my mind a blowjob or mutual masturbation or whatever is just as much sex (or, at least, can be just as much “sex”) as penetrative, penis-in-vagina, “real sex.”

Last Friday Night

Friday was a good friend’s birthday. A bunch of mutual friends had dinner, came back to my apartment for some drinks, and went out to a club. Usually I don’t join for that last part (something I’ve mentioned before). But this weekend, for whatever reason, the stars aligned and I was ready to go out. So we all headed down to The Apartment, a bar/club in Chicago near the wealthy Lincoln Park neighborhood. The dancing was kind of ridiculous (as dancing tends to be) but the music wasn’t horribly obnoxious, I had my first experience taking a drink from an ice luge, and was generally having a good time.

I'd like to imagine we looked something like this

Our group was dancing in a little clump, and whenever a stranger would come up and start to dance with me I’d politely (I hope!) turn or move away to make it clear I wasn’t interested. I’m realizing that in and of itself probably would have freaked me out a few years ago, so it’s a sign of how far I’ve come in my comfort presenting as a woman that it didn’t phase me.

But I was a few (more) drinks in and feeling loose when I felt someone’s hands – a stranger’s hands – on my hips from behind.

A pause to say that nothing bad happens. I feel like this story is progressing to the point where it seems everything will end badly, but it doesn’t: I’m not raped or sexually assaulted, my friends don’t abandon me, nothing bad happens. This is just about my processing a new experience, and my emotional reactions to it. So you are absolved from worrying about my safety for the remainder of this story.

We continue dancing, this strange man pressed up behind me. His hands go up and down my hips, and I gently move them when I feel they’re getting too frisky. I’m still facing my group of friends, regularly making eye contact with them and non-verbally communicating that I’m OK. (They kept doing the raised-eyebrow checkin, to which I’d smile and shrug.)

After a few minutes dancing, I decided I was done and turn to the guy (much shorter than I expected, but then I’m already tall and was in heels) and said I was going to the bathroom. He actually asked if he could join, which I think is kind of hilarious, but I declined and we parted ways.

Two of my friends followed me to the bathroom to check on me, for which I was grateful but didn’t think I needed. But then while I was in the bathroom (actually in a stall; I don’t think either of them know this part) I had a mini panic attack. Suddenly, those two big worries I’d pushed aside came to the forefront:

• What if he found out I was trans?
• What did my enjoying dancing with a (presumably) straight cis man mean about my own sexuality?

Questions Beget Questions

The first question is more pragmatic. I was in a very public place, surrounded by friends (including some large men who look intimidating) and wasn’t reeeeaaalllyyy concerned for my physical safety. I could have been emotionally hurt, quite severely in fact, if he’d moved his hands a little too far south and subsequently freaked out. But I don’t think there’s a realistic chance I could have ended up as an other Trans Day of Remembrance statistic. Which feels kind of good, that my friends were providing that (literal) safety net.

The second question is a lot more difficult to tease out.

I'm going to recommend AGAINST performing a Google Image Search on 'transgender sex' with SafeSearch disabled

I have lots of straight, cis, female friends who enjoy dancing with other straight, cis, females. (Some of them were doing so at this bar on Friday.) But no straight, cis, male friends who enjoy dancing with other straight, cis, males except when being silly. But I don’t think simply enjoying male attention inherently “breaks” my lesbianism. At the same time, there’s a different between being ideologically OK with some action, and then finding yourself in a situation where you have to evaluate how it actually makes you feel.

What I’m leaning more and more is that I simply enjoy attention. Period. I’m not sure how to respond to male attention, what to do about it, where I want it to go, but if I’m being honest with myself I do enjoy it. But there’s something scary, for me, to be on the receiving end of it. First is all that trans baggage of physical safety and stories of rape and beatings and death. Something which is also true for cis women in many ways, but I don’t think there’s quite the same cultural acceptance of violence and sexual assault against cis women as there is against trans women At least not so explicitly: You can find talking heads on news stories to cast doubt on the inherent sanctity of a trans woman’s body in a way that few are willing to do (publicly) about cis women’s bodies.

So what do I do with that male attention?

Coupled in with that is my continuing surprise and delight at being perceived as a ‘real’ woman, let alone an attractive one. I’m still so doubting go my appearance, in spite of all reassurances to the contrary, that there’s an aspect of shock that some random dude at a club would want to dance with me.

More importantly, though, is that bullet-point list of baggage from the beginning of this post. There’s still some hindbrain part of my psyche which thinks of me as male, as dancing with “another” man as a (male) gay act. Which is bullshit, and something I was able to drink myself out of believing, when my inhibitions were down and I wasn’t over-thinking every little thing. On the flip side, I’ve invested quite a bit of emotional energy into defining my sexuality as ‘lesbian,’ and while I’ve been recently question that for the more open-ended ‘queer’ I’m still not totally sure what that means for me.

That Whole Surgery Thing

Then there’s the final bit of this post’s title: Surgery. I’m still doing my research, but have basically narrowed down my selection to Drs Bowers (San Fran), McGinn (Philly), and Brassard (Montreal). I’m moving right now to schedule consultations with all three.

But what does surgery mean? There’s a part of me that – only somewhat jokingly – thinks that I’ll feel permission to slut it up, with my major worry of being ‘discovered’ as trans inverted up inside me. There’s exploration many people do in high school and college that I feel I missed out on.

At the same time, surgery becomes one more terrifying (and awesome and exciting, but also terrifying) ‘virginity’ to lose, both metaphorically and literally.

So, returning to my initial question, what does it mean to be a sexual trans woman? Hell if I know. I think it means all of this: this discovery, this forging my own path. Not only do I not want to follow a prescribed path to my sexuality, I don’ think there is one. There aren’t enough trans narratives to feel like I have the ability to find many ‘just like me’ role models out there. That isn’t to say I haven’t drawn from the experiences of others. Whipping Girl, Yes Means Yes, The Ethical Slut, How To Get What You Really Really Want, Cunt; these books (and authors) have all heavily impacted how I think of myself as a sexual being.

But I think I have to find the rest of the way myself.

REBECCA KLING: For how long has this book been bouncing around in your mind? In the introduction to WYRRW, you talk about an interview surrounding the release of Yes Means Yes (released in 2008) which you co-edited with Jessica Valenti. In that interview, a reporter asked how women are supposed “to figure out what we want to say ‘yes’ to in the first place.” Would you place the creation of this book around that time, or further back?

JACLYN FRIEDMAN: That was definitely the question that first planted the seed. Honestly, I didn’t give a very complete answer at the time. I think I said, basically, you have to try things, and follow your intuition as to which things to try and who to try them with, and then learn from your experiments. And that it had taken me, personally, a long time to figure things out, and that in some ways I still was, and might always be. Which I still stand by, but is wildly oversimple. And then when I started hearing it over and over from different women as I toured for Yes Means Yes, I realized that I had a lot to share about what I’d learned along my own sexual journey, through personal experience, reading and talking with other people, all kinds of things. That’s when I realized that the answer to this crucial, recurring question was really a book.

RK: WYRRW is by no means aimed exclusively at young women, but throughout the book you discuss the cultural messages aimed at young women. How has what you “really really want” when it comes to sex changed from when you were growing up to now?

JF: I long ago stopped faking orgasms, so that’s a big change! In a funny way, I behave less “certainly” in my sexual interactions now than I did when I was first dipping my toe in those waters. Back then, I thought I needed to be “good at” sex in order to please my partners – and as much as I enjoyed sex when I was younger (and I really did, that’s for sure), I was heavily invested in pleasing at the expense of my own satisfaction. In some ways, I got lucky — my early sexual partners were decent people who also cared about pleasing, and honestly, everything about sex was so exciting then that I was getting a lot out of it without having to do much self-centering or self-reflection. But I’ve also just stopped caring so much about being magically, seamlessly “good” at sex, because I’ve learned two key things. The first is that that’s a meaningless concept to begin with: everybody likes different things, so the only real way to be a good lover is to get better at communicating with your partner(s) about needs, desires, preferences and boundaries. It’s really all about learning how to pay attention to yourselves and each other. Well, and it’s all about the other big thing I’ve learned since then, which is that the experimentation and discovery that you can only enjoy if you come to sex clear that there aren’t “answers,” and even if there were, you don’t know them, that sense of playfulness and co-creation is one of the best parts of sex. I wouldn’t trade it for all the certainty in the world.

RK: There have been a number of books in recent years attempting to tip sex and sexuality on their head. Your co-edited Yes Means Yes would top my list, along with others such as The Ethical Slut and the more anthropologically-focused Sex At Dawn. How do you see WYRRW fitting in with this trend?

JF: Well, Ethical Slut has been out for 14 years, so I don’t think it can be counted as part of any current trend. I’m not sure there really is one – I wish there were! I think a lot of our cultural beliefs about sexuality need to be upended, obviously.

RK: What areas of sex/sexuality/gender still need their own books?

JF: Oh, gosh, so many. This book itself should also exist in a version for folks who are on the male-identified side of things. I’d love to see a shame-free workbook for younger folks who are just discovering the idea of their sexuality, too. There are very few books that get published explicitly about women of color and sexuality, and that’s an area that sorely needs the space for a more productive conversation. I’d love to see a book about sexual “mistakes” and experimentation, demystifying (and taking the terror and shame out of) that whole very normal ongoing process. I hear that there’s a trans* Our Bodies, Ourselves in the works, which I very much hope and expect will have a lot about trans* experiences of sexuality. I could go on and on. For a subject that people seem to fixate on so much, it’s woefully under-explored in smart, helpful ways.

RK: I just finished reading The Ethical Slut, so the politics of the word ‘slut’ has been on my mind. You’ve been a big supporter of the Slut Walk movement, and ‘slut’ appears as early as page 3 of WYRRW. How would you define ‘slut’ as an identity?

JF: I don’t. I claim it sometimes politically as a shorthand for “unapologetically sexual woman,” and sometimes for “I’ve had a lot of casual sex, and I don’t give a shit what you want to say about that.” And the original definition, which [is] “untidy woman.” Ultimately, I’d like to see it used infinity ways until it becomes meaningless, and therefore harmless.

RK: As a followup, would you consider yourself a slut? Why or why not? Or, at least, is ‘slut’ part of your larger identity?

JF: Eh. I don’t think these things are as fixed as the wider culture imagines them to be. As many people know (because I wrote about it), I recently enjoyed a period of my life in which I behaved in ways that could be described as “slutty” by many definitions. At the moment, I’m in a monogamous relationship. Is “sluttiness” a behavior, or an attitude, or an immutable characteristic? Again, I’m in favor of all definitions, as long as they’re not used to hurt or “other” anyone, because I ultimately want there to be no definitions. So, sure. I’m a slut. And also, no. I’m not.

RK: Shifting gears slightly, I was fortunate enough to participate in some of the group discussions and activities surrounding the creation of that book. Did anything about that process surprise you? On the whole, would you say it did more solidifying of preexisting outlines, or did we muck everything up and make you go back to the drawing board?

JF: Your group really breathed life into the the whole process, and therefore, the book. I connected the group to help make sure that the exercises worked, to make sure that the book was helpful in the ways I wanted it to be. But I got so much more out of the experience. First of all, as a writer, y’all kept me so grounded. I could never really spin off into “oh, god, why am I even doing this, this is worthless,” you know, that self-indulgent place that lurks at the edges of the creative process. Any time I felt myself slipping over there, I would just remember, no, I am doing this for eleven real actual human beings who are counting on me to guide them through a process I asked them to start with me, who are working hard on this and are counting on me to do the same, and who have actual challenges that I want to help them with. Being accountable to you was the best thing that could have happened to the book.

Even more, the group of you really did shape the book. I created two chapters (“Freaks and Geeks” and “Do Unto Others”) that I hadn’t originally planned, purely due to what issues kept coming up in our discussions. And including your voices throughout the book are also such a gift – I think of all the people using the book who won’t have access to a supportive group like ours, and I’m so comforted that those readers will have the support of all of you — your honesty, your vulnerability, your anger, your humor, your hope — along their journey.

RK: da Vinci apocryphally said “Works of art aren’t finished, they’re abandoned.” In any creative process, it seems there’s always more to tweak, to add, to expand upon. What didn’t find its way into this book? What was hard to leave out? Put another way, what are things you think you might want to revisit for the second edition? (Sorry! I know you just finish one thing, and I’m already asking you about the next!)

JF: I was very sorry that the chapter that Thomas MacAulay Millary wrote for readers to give the men in their lives got cut for space — it’s on the web at wyrrw.com/just-for-men, but I wish it was in the book proper. I also wish there had been more space to talk about how to deal with the sexual attitudes of all the people in our lives who are important to us or who influence us, but who aren’t our actual sexual partners. And how to pass on positive messages to the next generation. And…

RK: In WYRRW you talk about many of the conflicting messages about female sexuality: don’t be a slut or a whore, but don’t be frigid or a prude, and so on. What are some conflicting messages you think men receive?

JF: I think men get a lot of limiting messages. Primary among them is the idea that men always want whatever sex they can get, and they prefer their sex without emotional intimacy. Also that they’re supposed to know — without even asking — what their lovers want in bed, more than their lovers even know. And of course the sick double-bind that says a) all they have to do is be “nice” and all women (and it’s always women, of course) owe them sex, and b) women don’t want to sleep with nice guys, so they should be assholes in order to “get laid.”

RK: And to finish it off with a somewhat silly question… Why two “Really”s in the title? Why not three? Or seven? Or none?

JF: Blame the Spice Girls. I can’t resist a cheesy pop culture reference to save my life.

Thanks so much to Jaclyn Friedman for taking the time to speak with me, and for all her hard work. Check her out on the web at http://www.jaclynfriedman.com/

Hello,

During a recent review of your account we found that you are currently
displaying Google ads in a manner that is not compliant with our program
policies
(https://www.google.com/support/adsense/bin/answer.py?answer=48182&stc=aspe-1pp-en).

————————————————–
EXAMPLE PAGE:
http://fridaythang.com/blog/2010/12/22/review-amante-remoted-controlled-vibrator/

Please note that this URL is an example and that the same violations may
exist on other pages of this website or other sites in your network.

VIOLATION(S) FOUND:

ADULT/SEXUAL AIDS and FETISHES: As stated in our program policies, AdSense
publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or
mature content. This includes any content that is sexual in intent or may
not be considered family-safe, such as sexual aids, devices and fetishes.
More information about this policy can be found in our help center
(https://www.google.com/adsense/support/bin/answer.py?hl=en&answer=105957).

I’m in no way arguing the terms violation (although, ironically, Google’s help page isn’t working well in Chrome) I’m more annoyed that the policy exists at all.

From the policy (the second link above):

he AdSense network is considered family-safe, which means that publishers aren’t permitted to place Google ads on sites which contain adult content. In addition to photos and videos which contain nudity or sexual activities, here are some other examples of unacceptable content:

• Lewd or provocative images
• Crude or indecent language, including adult stories
• Sexual tips or advice
• Sexual fetish sites (e.g. foot fetish content)
• Adult toys or products
• Ads or links to external sites containing adult content

If your site has content which you wouldn’t be comfortable viewing at work or with family members around, then it probably isn’t an appropriate site to place Google ads upon.

Google is obviously allowed to make whatever policies they want (within legal limits) but I’m really disappointed they’ve chosen to take this route. One of the reason I like Android over iOS is the openness of the market, and the ability to distribute whatever the hell you want. Likewise, the very first of Google’s goals is to keep the user in mind. Google has no problem taking money from sex toy advertisers (a quick Google search for ‘sex toys’ shows that along the side bar) so why not for folks who are discussing sex on their site?

Yes, the packaging is kinda stupid.

My last two sex toy reviews were, alas, of sub-par products. Too expensive, too loud, too battery-eating, too ridiculous. But at last, with the Bum Buddies Tease My Tush (hereafter referred to as the BB) I think we have a winner!

I gotta say, I was skeptical when the BB arrived at my doorstep. The name, the packaging, the color – none filled me with a sense of confidence. (Not that “confidence” is what a sex toy should fill you with, ifyouknowwhatimean.) But the MSRP, $16-18, isn’t too bad and – unlike some other toys I’ve tested – the front and back oft he packaging note that it’s made of silicone, is phthalate free, can be cleaned with soap and water and/or boiled and/or placed on the top rack of the dishwasher. (My roommates have yet to let me do that last one…)

So while the color and packaging were kinda silly, the actual information on the packaging was reassuring. Imagine that! And the package was easy to open!

The BB feels nice and silicone-y to the touch. You can see the small manufacturing seam running down the middle if you look, but it seems to be pretty well made and I wasn’t worried about it falling apart. Honestly, I was more worried about not feeling a thing, or having it slip out right away. But, thinking happy thoughts, I lubed up and got to work.

Sex toy lineup

The BB slipped right in, with the rounded tip making for easy insertion. The…I dunno, flange? Nub? Rib? Is there a sex toy linguist in the house? The flared bit near the base was also easy to insert, and the wide base (CRUCIAL FOR ANAL TOYS UNLESS YOU WANT TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL) did – as the package promised – “fit comfortably between [my] cheeks.

The BB comes in three sizes, Beginner, Intermediate, and (presumably) XTREEEM. (Or maybe just Large. Or Skilled. Anal Princess, perhaps?) I received a Beginner, the smallest size, and wondered before I began if my tush needed more material in a sex toy for adequate teasing.

Fortunately, my tush WAS adequately teased with the beginner Bum Buddy! I’d love to get my hands on a larger size, but it was actually yummy having a successfully non-slipping toy for use with sex play. Go Bum Buddy!

This review seems pretty short, because I have mostly good things to say. The package is silly, the color isn’t my favorite, but the price and the toy itself were both great. So I’d definitely recommend this toy, for novice and more experience anal players alike. If you know you only like really big things teasing your tush, it probably won’t do much for you. But if, like myself, you’re fine with a smaller tush teasing experience (and for under $20) this toy seems pretty hard to beat.

(Hard to beat. Get it? It’s a masturbation joke. Hard to…oh, nevermind.)

And, of course, if you’re going to purchase this or any other sex toy, go to Early to Bed, provider of this test Bum Buddy, to shop. (Thanks ETB!) Now go have some (safe) fun!

[1] Burlesque classes are definitely something I want to do as soon as I have the time/money, I promise. No, really, this isn’t an excuse! I’m going to take the classes!

[2] I’m not (yet?) up for talking about that on this blog, beyond the fact that it happened with lots of enthusiastic consent, is not a long-term relationship, and was lots of fun. Questions about that single sentence of this entire post will not be appreciated. I’m not up for talking about in this public forum, please don’t ask. If you really are interested, email me (as specified on my About page) for the password to the previous post.

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