me: John Locke is strangely sexy.
carnivalesq: He kinda is. I like, wanna do things he says.
me: John Locke is strangely sexy.
carnivalesq: He kinda is. I like, wanna do things he says.
carnivalesq: Ok, I’ll follow you to the cave. Sure.
carnivalesq: NO SHAME HERE. You killed everyone? Alright, let’s go together and get off the island.
me: What’s that, whiny emo Jack? You’re gonna go make slashfic with the man who can’t keep his shirt on? Okay. I’ll be with this dommy dude with the knives over here.
carnivalesq: SLASHFIC. Piph and I were pairing them up a while back. We wanna see Ben/Sawyer. ADMIT IT. It’s hot.
carnivalesq: Ben would be like, a cool, even tempered, yet loud top/dom if need be. And Sawyer would be a mouthy bottom. Like I can see him just stern and very serious and with his commanding voice
Till Sawyer is bad, then he’d go APESHIT.
carnivalesq: Not like I think about this shit or anything.
I’ve dated a lot of people. Some of those, I mean dating in the dinner-and-a-movie sense, others I mean in the “nice to meet you, here’s my bra” sense. I’ve cared for each person in my own ways, some very deeply, and each way is completely different than another. The people I have dated are like insightful quotes on the title page of each chapter of my life; they defined and shaped the edges of who I was when I came to them, but never the core.
One night, with about 20 years of life to my name, I was at the local Rocky Horror Picture Show in a very lonely state of mind. The person I was meeting for the evening (not a date, just a friendly get-together) turned out to be something other than I expected and I felt slightly unsettled when he invited me back to his house. Somehow, a guy and his girlfriend ended up sort of taking me under their wing after I began to look uncomfortable. After sitting near each other and talking, I grew fond of them. The conversation turned from playful and joking to gradually flirtatious, and I was vastly confused but decided to let it be. Poly was not a word in my vocabulary yet, but I was not so naive and unskilled that I didn’t know what a threesome was.
I ended up going home with this pair, this couple I felt safe with. They fawned on me, both increasingly flattering and physically closer as we reached the wee hours of the morning. That watery, wavery pre-sex banter barrier gave way like walking through a waterfall, and the tension flowed away as they pulled me into them. The next morning I woke up beside the sleeping woman, and hesitantly ventured to get up and wander into the kitchen, where the man was waiting with sliced fruit for me. We sat and talked, he murmuring highlights of the evening that made me blush. I was enamored of this strange new dynamic – here in the kitchen, it was he-and-I, but a scant thirty feet behind us, the dynamic was she-and-I when I woke. I felt like I was pleasantly drifting between spheres of connection, each one different but still connected. I mentally opened and examined these gleefully over and over, like a child with a toy at Christmas. The one thing I never felt, that morning or any morning after, was shame or regret. It literally never even occured to me. If you could care for one person, why not two?
Naturally, it did have its own challenges, and the one that finally dissolved the union was the fact I wanted children and they did not. However, we still talk and are still friends – we all had a good time, even if it wasn’t a forever-thing. It lasted six months of my essentially living with them, sharing clothes and the man that would become her fiance, of breakfasts together and shared triumphs and heartbreaks. The dinners out, the work parties that we’d show off our unusual arrangement with pride, the meeting and explanation to family, the excursions and discoveries. Strangely enough, more than the man who took my virginity and gave me a nervous breakdown in return, more than the man that coaxed me away from home for the first time, more than any other relationship, this one shaped a lot of the personality I hold today. It taught me that jealousy poisons faster than arsenic, that keeping things bottled up or misdirected does nothing but undermine a foundation. It gave me strength – when I have trouble in my current relationship with my fiance, I sometimes think to myself…I made this work with two people at once, I can do this. It’s only half of what I used to do!
I strongly – very strongly – support the rights of people to have plural arrangements, of any sort. Why? Because I feel that, while they are definitely not for everyone, they are a visible representation of the power of the human heart. They prove that we do, in fact, have enough love for many – be it romantic love for several partners, platonic love for a big family, or the love we all ought to have for the world around us. If you support interracial partnerships, gay or lesbian partnerships, or even May-December romances, you support Poly, at least on some level. In the end, it’s our differences, not our similarities, that will help make stronger connections.
The death knell has been sounded, dear readers, for Chilldils. A great idea, which still prevailed even when faced with numerous bumps in the road, a concept that I loved not only because it was my ‘baby’, but also because it was people like YOU who gave it life, has been barred from moving any further.
A company had a manmade-shell gel-pack-filled “pocket”, where Chilldils is cotton, flannel, and flaxseed with a removable sleeve this company did not have in theirs. This company’s product was intended for use with their own toys, which they attempted to publicize back in 2006 via a trade magazine. There was a short piece about the product, which was listed as patent pending. This product was unknown to me when I started Chilldils, and only brought to my attention by the head of this company when Chilldils funding had reached its goal. In his message, he immediately accused me of copyright infringement, and went on to say they would be willing to license the product concept to me – all I needed to do was provide them with the unspecified royalty fees for 25,000 Chilldils up front. I asked for his patent number, but never received a reply or the cease-and-desist that was also threatened to be sent in the same missive within 10 days.
Three months later, upon soliciting public opinion on some Chilldils banners, this gentleman popped up again. They had been “gracious” and “reasonable” and I was “incredibly unprofessional” for not responding (apparently they didn’t receive my initial email) . Some might argue that holding one’s hand out for 25,000 units of unspecified royalty fees to a company that needed to fundraise to even begin operation might be considered neither gracious or reasonable. Those same people might also go on to say that expecting payment for a product one had not even establish one had patented is also a bit out of sorts. That a little skepticism might be in order when faced with a product that had, yes, been announced in 2006 and had not been available in any major online outlets – including the maker’s own store – since that time.
Further, imagine my surprise when this gentleman knew some information about me, personally, that he should not have known, given that I guard it rather closely. It all became very apparent when someone sent me a link shortly after to a place where this many-years dormant product suddenly appeared in the last few days.
You see, dear readers, I used to work for a company. I loved my job beyond imagining, I loved (most of) my co-workers, and I did not, despite many attempts to, like my bosses at all. I worked, from day one, countless hours of unpaid overtime because I was A.) naive and stupid and B.) passionate about seeing the business succeed. I went to places I wasn’t required to, made connections I wasn’t expected to, and passed out business cards like a fiend. I plotted, I planned, I got tapped for helping in all aspects of the business I conceivably could. I thought – and the key word here is thought – I was an irreplaceable member, at the heart of the living, breathing business.
Things changed, as they are wont to do. I realized that rather than having my opinions valued, I was being opened like a spigot whenever anyone needed anything, and still expected to do my own work besides. My pay, along with the pay of everyone else, was reduced due to “economic hardships” that never seemed to (outwardly, anyway) touch the ones that handed them down. The stress of having a constantly-at-war couple in charge, complete with the completely unprofessional screaming fights, flying objects, and slamming doors during the work day, began to wear on me. When I was told an issue that had nothing to do with me or my job would recoup itself via my paycheck, I finally decided the time had come to leave.
I was forced to file with the state to receive money that was owed to me. The owner, someone who is (in my personal opinion) incredibly misogynistic, said something so sexist and offensive to the investigator that she excused herself from the case. Her (male) supervisor called me and explained to me he was taking over the case, expressing his sympathy that I ever had to work under such a person and assuring me that he personally would get me what was owed. I won the case and received my pay. Later, the not-inconsiderable balance of my commission account would be completely erased and my profile deleted in seeming retaliation when I requested to cash it out.
In order to sidestep additional legal snafus, I have neglected to name these companies. Those that you that have been following this saga are familiar with who I am referring to. Maybe the people currently in their employ are happy – I can say that a few prominent sex bloggers and two other non-bloggers that I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with through email most decidedly were not. I don’t wish ill on anyone, but I hope that maybe this will cause people to take another, deeper look at these ubiquitous companies before slapping banners on blogs, penning reviews, and otherwise lending one’s talents to companies that have acted in bad faith for so many peers.
So, these are the banners that will be used in advertising chilldils – I just need to know which you guys think is better! I got my first shipment in today and I’m very happy with them…I can’t wait to launch them! I want to get a second batch waiting in the wings so I don’t sell out too quickly, but Chilldils will be live and able for purchase in the next two weeks…exciting!
Please leave a comment and let me know what version you think is more awesome and why…it’d help a bunch!
Okay, so I apolgize because this isn’t very sexy, but it was so hilarious I needed to share it with the interwebz.
Yesterday, we (my mom, aunt, uncle, my-age cousin and a 40-something 2nd cousin) decide to have a mini family reunion in Atlantic City. It was already ill-advised, because I had laser surgery the day before and apparently the sun, lonely for blinding me due to my constant refuge in World of Warcraft, decided to make up for lost time. I squinted my way uncomfortably up and down the boardwalk with my family, hidden behind two pairs of sunglasses on top of my regular glasses like I was either crazy or insanely hungover; a fitting assumption since we abruptly found ourselves unexpectedly in the middle of a late St. Pat’s/Beerfest parade.
Fast forward a few hours, everyone’s gone home, mom and I are staying to play some penny slots. After dropping seven bucks each, we decide to turn in some free drink coupons we stumbled upon, sipping on $12.50 estrogen-laced martinis that were made with unicorn spit and rainbows or some crap like that. Sufficently buzzed, we wandered over to the ridiculously-priced $25-a-head buffet, and decided against it. While we were trying to give away the coupon we had for half-off one dinner, someone up and hands up $50 worth of food vouchers. So, in we went.
The buffet was the saddest excuse for food I’d ever seen, with desserts that made me reflexively adopt what mom and I affectionately call the “dead squirrel face”. Mildy pissy at the quality and fueled by unicorn-spit martini fumes, we decide that no, damnit, we would get our money’s worth. I slipped out to go to the bathroom and stopped in a candy shop to get some bags. While ringing up my purchase, the nice guy behind the counter and I heard a crew hollering for their friend Britney. He frowned, sighed dramatically, and wished out loud someone would call for him. I asked what his name was, and he said “Brenton”. I patted his shoulder and assured him that maybe, someday, he could be Britney too.
I returned. Two plastic baggies and some clandestine plate-scraping later, my mother’s purse doubled in volume with a furtive surf-and-turf of london broil and butterfly breaded shrimp. We swaggered out. Yes, we are mildly white-trashy. On the way out, I briefed my mother in the Brenton situation. We snuck in the store behind an aisle, popped out, and screamed “WOO! BRENTON!” before running out. I looked behind us and saw him grinning wildly. I hope we made his night more tolerable.
So, we decide to head out and THAT’S when things get interesting. We’re about five miles outside A.C. when the car starts pulling wildly to the right and making noises fit for no beast or man. We struggle to get it in the first possible place, a nightclub. Only, it wasn’t a night club, as those of you who follow my twitterstream already know. It was a strip club. Because, of course, I summon illicit places, people, and objects wherever I roam. My mom, who is mid-menopause and thus had no coat with her, was only able to dig up a dayglo yellow mickey mouse poncho from the backseat to stand between her and the cold. She made me turn it inside-out because she hates mickey.
So, here we are, at 2am, in the parking lot of an Atlantic City strip club, me wearing sunglasses like a Horatio-Caine fangirl in the dead of night, my mother in an inside-out neon yellow poncho when there’s not a cloud in the sky, holding a purse full of stolen surf and turf. We finally got home some two hours later at a cost of nearly $500 for towing. Free $50 Food + Free $25 Drinks + Winning $20 in Slots = $95
We came out of A.C. $95 up, and physically left the town over $400 down. The house always fuckin wins.
Here we have an assortment of toys that made even my seasoned toychick brow raise a bit. (This is in response to the readers that have accused me of favoriting Topco by their lack of presence in my WSTOTW pieces.)
…really? Outside of D/s, who buys this? I mean, as a joke, maybe, but if some dude whipped out a belt when he’s lucky enough to be getting oral from me…let me tell ya, around the back of my head would be the LAST place that thing would end up.
Even for those of you that do NOT have a parent in the dental profession, I would imagine that you’d realize that propping a rigid protrusion with your jaw/teeth as a stabilizer and, presumably, using it rather vigorously, would be a bad idea. It might be hot in the short term, but….ow.
I’ve got no problem with Mr. Steele (though, in the realm of delightfully attractive male performers, I’m afraid Mr. Marcus wins in the Toychick arena), nor with penis extensions, but this seems like an embarrasment of riches. I mean, that’s a LOT of half-faux-penises to be lying around. Trying to smoothly work in an extension can be difficult, but trying five different sizes on like you’re in a Haberdashery mid-bedroom-antics has to be awkward.
You may have noticed that there has been far less toychickery on twitter lately. While the world careens closer to devastation without my 140-character guidance, I have been super insane busy behind the scenes.
1.) Chilldils. This project started out with a bang and has a frustratingly long fuse until the next one. For those that aren’t aware of the backstory, I came up with an idea for a natural, USA-made, woman-crafted sleeve to fit certain non-porous toys and imbue them with heat or cold. The idea is great, the prototypes worked and were fantastic, and I had my manufacturer committed to a small first run. I brainstormed in bed at night, with a flashlight and notebook under the covers like I was a kid sneaking a detective novel. I thought I had all my t’s crossed…and my manufacturer very suddenly went MIA. She abruptly had to drop off the project, leaving me without the first run that I needed for those that supported me in getting the whole thing going. After frantically sending out feelers, I at last found another manufacturer that was able to work within my specifications and price range, and I’ve recently gotten pictures of the first run. They’re being filled as we speak, after which time they’ll be en route to me. So, hopefully, crisis averted and Chilldils is full speed ahead.
2.) UnderBedToys. This is a website that I’m helping to build and stock, and will be a full partner in. I’m very excited, because for once I’ll get to stock a store only with toys I consider safe and/or friends recommend. I’ll have the power to yank down any that get consistent bad ratings, bucking the disturbing retail trend of selectively posting positive or heavily edited ratings. Reviews are about honesty, and I’d like to bring it back to that, and kick out the jelly, anal desensitizers, and mystery “erection pills” that are taking up room that hot n’ sexy silicone or other body-friendly toys could be filling (har!). I also don’t want to have separate gay and lesbian sections – a sexual being is a sexual being, and people get labeled enough without having to endure it while supposedly shopping for fun.
3.) Me. I’m struggling with this wonky vision in my right eye – and more than scared, more than apprehension, I’m pissed off. It’s getting in the way of writing! I’ll be glad to get my vitrectomy and hopefully be on the mend. I have an appointment Friday where they’re gonna poke at me one last time to be sure the first surgery was made of fail before booking the second.
To the slew of fetishists the blog title is bound to drag in from google: no, this is not about fucking actual eyeballs. Try a tenga egg.
For those that don’t follow me on twitter, I unfortunately found out on Wednesday that my original eye surgery on New Years Day hasn’t fully “taken” as it was supposed to, and I’m going to have to go in for another, more invasive surgery called a vitrectomy. I’m not scared, the doctors that are seeing to me are all excellent surgeons, but the whole ordeal has made me consider how much of my body I take for granted.
As it stands, I have a black shadow over about a quarter of the vision in my right eye, among other problems. I see the world in a dream-like half fuzziness, an effect that would be almost nice if it weren’t for the constant nausea and headaches – imagine seeing the blair witch project with half a pair of 3D glasses and you have a general idea of my worldview.
However, I’m not writing this to bitch about my health problems – folks have it far worse, and in fact an old friend is waiting on a cancer biopsy as I type. I’m writing this to beg all of you out there – if you have a black spot in your vision, don’t wait. Go to the doctor’s immediately. I put mine off a week, and what might have been a $2000, 15 minute laser surgery ended up escalating to what now stands to be three major surgeries, $100k of medical bills, and what will be almost a year to full recovery. It’s just not worth it – a retinal specialist costs maybe $200 for an office visit, and that’s a hell of a lot more affordable than the mess I’m trudging through. Please take care of yourselves, take care of your eyes – step away from the computer every few hours and give your eyes a break. This craziness has taught me to value the vision I have, and to understand that sight is something I should be grateful for, not take for granted.
I had a great, stable childhood until about eleven, when my parents split and all hell broke loose. Multiple moves, ducking county tax collectors, living in condemned houses, chasing off drunk suitors of my mother’s, and constantly being on the run from DYFS agents were the events that studded my life just prior to puberty. Add that to the fact that the vast majority of my sentimental belongings vanished in an uncanny trifecta of a robbery, major flood, and a storage unit catching on fire and you have one twitchy kid. In the ruckus, I mentally imbued the area around the house I grew up in with a mystical quality, a sort of transitory Avalonic Isle in the middle of the tiniest tip of southern New Jersey. It’s been ten years since I last set foot there, mostly because I’m terrified of the heartbreak that facing that change – and all the condo development that went with it – can bring. I have always sought out sanctuaries. It’s my first thought when travelling or setting down roots somewhere new; often I care less about the habitation itself and more that there must be a forest-like place nearby to abscond to if the walls feel a little too close.
About nine years ago, I met a guy on a personals site right around New Years. He ended up inviting me to his New Year’s party, I ended up going, and I ended up staying. His room was big, wide, and sparse, and so was the bed in it. A few metal band posters dotted the broad expanses of walls, and his bed had a lot of mismatched pillows. I was expecting he’d want to have sex, and I was alright with that, with protection in my purse at the ready. I was single and in between any real prospects, so a fling sounded like just the thing to kick off the new year with. We were absent, however, the lightning-charged franticness that usually accompanies pre-sex..instead there was a soft, comfortable feel of old friends that had been-there-done-that and had no real need to revisit. And so it was, with no real talking, we ended up stripping down to our underthings, crawling into bed together, and holding one another like he was getting deployed in the morning. Never before or since has a man held me through the night like that – an embrace born of absolutely nothing but wanting to give and receive comfort and companionship.
Perhaps unique but unremarkable as it’s own event, it actually became one that repeated throughout the months afterward, now and again. I’d call, he would pull up to my house in his beat-up Skylark and honk twice, and we’d go back to his place. We’d sometimes watch a Terminator movie with his friends before trudging upstairs with peaceful hearts, knowing we wouldn’t sleep without companionship tonight. His roommates elbowed and smirked when we were down in the living room, driven by social norms make the usual good-natured jokes, but we never bothered to correct them…we were literally sleeping together, and it was enough that we knew. It was a hard time in my life, a lonely time, and an unsure time…but I’d close my eyes and think about that wide bed in the wide, quiet room, and my nerves would settle.
I heard, years later, he was dating and infatuated with a girl named Summer, so told by his joking, jostling roommates. He was never mine, but I felt a little sadness, knowing settling into those mismatched pillows alongside him was no longer a possibility. Still, of all the things I felt when I’d heard he moved on after we drifted apart, the most powerful was gratitude. He gave me peace without expectation, love without lust, and most of all, he gave me sanctuary.
To be clear – we all engage in back and forth banter sometimes, internet puffery where we beat our metaphorical chests. I always feel a little ashamed when I’m baited into it, because I know I should know better. It’s digital words in a digital format, and at the end of the day, it’s all a “I just shot you, nuh-uh I have super armor, nuh-uh you don’t” kind of childhood throwback; nothing is solved and everyone’s all riled up about it. It should be avoided whenever possible, and if you feel it can’t, read what you’re about to say out loud before posting it…this is actually quite an effective deterrent to being drawn into drama.
Also, the internet is not, and never will be, anonymous. The very nature of the world wide web is its interconnectedness; the reason we can pull so much relevant information up so quickly is BECAUSE of those lines, those strings that draw a digital highway between A and B. It may be a little more trouble to find some people than others, and you might not be able to do certain searches unless you are a law enforcement officer, but you’d better believe that if someone wants to find you badly enough or for the right reasons, they can. You’re not safe, you’re not anonymous, and you shouldn’t put anything publically out there you wouldn’t be okay writing on your T-shirt.
Once you’ve got those two down, this last one’s important – don’t say something in a preservable digital format if you wouldn’t say it to their face, with figures of authority within earshot. Logs can be saved, screenshots can be snapped, ISPs can be subpoenaed in extreme cases. This goes doubly for threats of physical violence, and triply for threats that call out where and when they will occur. I tangled with an unfortunately misguided person this morning who felt he was protected from retribution – by his incomprehensible grammar, his X-box live, or his general obliviousness I don’t know – but he said a few things that constituted a threat to an industry person of note I happen to know. This was unacceptable, not only for Sinnamon, but for the sake of all the performers out there…by performing, you are only agreeing to show your body to those that purchase your videos, pictures, or subscriptions – you are NOT agreeing or expected to endure harrassment, unwanted advances, or physical threats. Ever.
If this is happening to you on twitter, performer or not, don’t stand for it. People like the harassing tweeter who are not nipped in the proverbial bud will only get more vocal…and it may escalate to something worse and much more real if left unchecked.