Men’s Adventure Magazines: Paging Dr. Freud

I’m a fan of Post-War pulp art.  Well, maybe not a fan, I don’t collect it or know any of the artists by name, but I like to study the images when I find them online.   I also get a kick out of awful men’s adventure magazines.  I wish someone would digitize the back issues and sell it as an e-book.  I’d be all over it!

All that I can do for now is enjoy the covers I find online.  Let’s talk about some of the covers in my desktop folder.  What shall we make of these?

Illustrious publication Night and Day revisits the burning questions: ” Should women be manhandled?”  and “Are you mentally disabled?”

“Are you mentally disabled?”

This edition of True Men addresses no fewer than three male anxieties: duplicitous, cheating wives; female sexuality (‘nympho torture girls’); and being made useless or redundant at work.   Extra points for the racism!   The artwork is actually pretty good, though.

What the heck is a “sin-doll race”?  Does anyone know?


Personally, I’m rooting for the tiger here, but you know Buff McDangerpants is going to shoot him (men in these magazine spend a lot of time contending with dangerous animals, as we will see.  Dangerous animals, dangerous women, dangerous Nazis…it’s all danger, all the time):


NOOOOOOO!  Not the monkeys!   At least three of these guys are toast: the one trying to climb back on the raft–those monkeys are going to drag him right down, the guy laying on his back and getting his face clawed, and the one in the water over by the ‘g’ in stag.  Buff McDangerpants in the black vest must be the hero of the story.  I bet it’s told in first person, and he’s the narrator.  Go, Buff, go!  Throw that fucking monkey!  


Here we have two, count em, two attacking animals: weasels and a killer shark!  Kudos to the artist, because I actually cringed at the weasel biting the guy’s neck.  Also: can women justify their need for EXTRA-MARITAL RELATIONS?


Watch out for those giant jungle otters!  Really, though, not too impressed with this one.  The otter’s not doing anything for me and the artwork’s not great, either.


Whoever came up with “Cannibal Crabs to Kill!” deserves a raise!  It doesn’t make much sense, though.  If the crabs were cannibals, they’d be eating one another.   I’d be afraid of crabs, if they were very very large, because they are fucking hideous sea bugs (they do taste delicious, though).

Why marry a virgin?–obviously, so she won’t have any basis of comparison when she experiences your dick and your technique in the sack, of course!  She’ll have no idea whether you’re inadequate.


I love Buff McDangerpant’s face in this one:


Another thing I see in a lot of these magazines is the assertion that there is someplace, somewhere, where women are putting out.  In the issue above, it’s Miami Beach.  Here, it’s San Antonio.

Turtles…I’m not feelin it, Man’s Life.

A crocodile!  Now we’re talking!  “Give me my arm back!”  Plus: sluts in DC and H-bomb anxiety.  Those were the days!  Seriously, when’s the last time you heard anyone say anything about our nukes?  I remember a tiny bit of the Cold War from my early childhood.  We had bomb drills in class–we’d have to crouch under our desks, as if that would do a damn thing to save us if the Soviets, for some bizarre reason, decided to nuke this stupid town.  Remember when our enemies were Europeans, with a navy?  Who could do calculus?  Wasn’t that romantic?

“Blasted off its axis!”

Go, vulture, go!  Get that dude!  Tear his flesh with your curved beak!    And….”American men can’t handle women”?  As opposed to who?



Here they are again!  Those vultures sure get around!  And what could be more titillating than babes in danger?  It never gets old.  This Buff McDangerpants over there is going to be able to save her?

What else do we have in this issue…?  What do you think those “pep pills” are: aphrodisiacs/date-rape drugs for women, or pills to keep your dick hard?



And of course, you can never go wrong with Nazis.  The prevalence of Nazi imagery and as plot device in the stories is interesting to me.  The Germans certainly make handy villains but, at the same time, I would have thought this generation of men would have too much unpleasant personal experience with them to put trivialize them in wank fodder like this.  I have no explanation.


“Scream for my kisses before you die!”  I should have used that one in a session.

Seriously: laugh, or cry?  Laugh, or cry?  I think…laugh, so you don’t have to cry!

gross, on so many levels

Out of all of these covers, this one has the best artwork.  That’s a great image.  It’s visually interesting, and I can feel the movement in her body and the figures behind her.  I wish I knew who the artist was.  I also like how the woman, despite being in imminent danger (by black guys, this time, natch), has a gun, and is pointing it at something.


And, finally, a Western.  This one has good art, too.  Much better than the otter!


Disulfiram (Antabuse) Update: Peripheral Neuropathy

Bad news:  I have to discontinue antabuse treatment.  I’m writing about it on the blog just in case it may be helpful to some worried person googling their side effects on the internet.  I’ve also posted my experience on two of the big drug review websites.

I took 250 mg antabuse for 99 days.  The only side effects were mild headache and a bad metallic taste in my mouth, both of which stopped after about two weeks as my body adjusted to the medication.  Then it was smooth sailing until this week.  I fully intended to take this drug indefinitely as long as my liver stayed healthy.  I like it.  It works for me.  It provides me with a nice fluffy comforting security blanket.  I feel like I might as well be living in a world without ethyl alcohol.

Well, this week I noticed that my lower legs were feeling a somewhat numb below the shin and above my ankle.  I had no idea what it could be, as I’ve never experienced anything like it before.  I’d been writing at my computer for about five hours straight that day, so I figured that maybe it was a circulation issue (?) and I am already starting to get old and decrepit (?).  I went out to get some exercise.

It did not go away and sleeping on it didn’t help.  After a few days, I thought maybe it was something like my carpal tunnel syndrome, only in my legs.  But I’m not typing and using a mouse with my legs and feet, right?

I started researching more about the side effects of antabuse online.  Among the user reviews at webmd (read em and weep.  There but for the grace of God go I…), I found a review by a woman who started feeling numbness in her feet, which eventually spread up her limbs and through her body.  Her symptoms started approx. 90 days after beginning treatment.  Her physician diagnosed her with neuropathy from the antabuse.

Fuck my life.  I made an appointment with my doctor, and, yes, that’s what has happened to me.   Neuropathy is an uncommon but known side effect.   Most people don’t experience it, but I do, and it’s just my bad luck.  🙁 🙁 🙁 🙁 🙁   I’m sitting here now with this weird numb feeling on parts of my legs.  It’s been 6 days now.  It’s not terrible and I don’t even notice it unless I’m paying attention, but it’s there, all right.

I have to stop taking the pills immediately.  The good news is that I reported the symptoms very quickly and the doctor says the nerve damage will probably reverse itself.

I still have access to the medical literature through the university, so spent a few hours studying the research.  This is from an abstract of an article that’s not behind a paywall:

“Disulfiram (Antabuse) can produce neuropathy in daily doses of less than the usually recommended 500 mg. The four recent cases reported in this paper emphasize the need for greater recognition of this condition. Nerve biopsies showed axonal degeneration…Disulfiram neuropathy occurs after a variable latent period (mean 5 to 6 months) and progresses steadily. Slow improvement may occur when the drug’s use is stopped; often there is complete recovery eventually.” *

Neuropathy is serious shit.  If you’re on antabuse and you experience numbness or pins and needles in your legs or hands, get it checked out right away.  Don’t wait.  Some of these poor cases in the articles didn’t seek medical attention until the symptoms were crippling them.

Now what…?  I guess I’ll try Naltrexone.  It’s a completely different type of medication.  The counselor running the therapy classes I attend reports very high patient satisfaction rates.  A pharmacist I know also recommends it.

If anyone reading this has any experience with it, one way or another, please leave a comment or send me an email:


* Watson C.P., Ashby P., and Bilbao J.M. (1980)  “Disulfiram Neuropathy” Canadian Medical Association Journal  Jul 19; 123(2): 123-126

It Only Takes a Second

Three women have written to me about their bad experiences at BDSM play parties.  The last time I got that sort of off-the-record feedback (via email, not comments) from complete strangers was when I wrote about The Worst Session Ever. I decided that I had a few more thoughts on the issue.

The Awful Truth about molestation is that it only takes a second to happen.   This makes it impossible to prevent and difficult to respond to.  The element of surprise is a tremendous advantage to the abuser.   A common reaction is to do nothing, especially if the violation only lasts a second or two.  What do you do?  Tell him to stop, when he’s already stopped?  Tell him he’s a disgusting pig?  By all means, dress him down, but the fact is he’s already done it, and now you have to deal with that.   It can’t be undone.  This asshole has just earned a permanent memory in the data bank.

I’ll give you an example: once I was in session with a domme friend of mine, let’s call her “Mistress Lisa.”  The client was a high maintenance crossdresser (god those guys are a lot of work) who was established in the Studio–he’d been coming in for a long time.

I was going through the lingerie drawers, trying to find something appropriate for him to wear, and I saw what happened reflected in a mirror.  Lisa turned her back on him to pick something up off the dresser, and when she did, the client darted forward and touched her between the legs.   It only took a second.

Now: what do you do?  Do you kick him out and not refund his money (possibly the only thing that might have taught him a lesson)?  Management is not going to support that; he’s not being aggressive or crazy.  Do you do the next best thing and punch him in the eye?  The moment has passed.

We both screamed at him and then Lisa made him give her all the money in his wallet, which was about $160.  She could give a shit about the money, but the fact that he paid was at least an acknowledgement that he’d done something wrong.  She was still upset about it later.  It’s humiliating to be touched without consent like that.

The last time I was molested at a play party was in New York, a few years ago.  I don’t remember the asshole’s name, but I’m recognize him in a heartbeat if I saw him again.  He was about forty, white guy.  He was doing some rope demos–that was the theme of the party.  He was very good.   He could do shibari, suspensions, things like that.

Well, I asked him if he’d tie me up.  I wanted to experience what it felt like (even working at the Studio, I didn’t get many opportunities to experience advanced rope bondage.  It is an uncommon skill).

He tied me to a post with some hemp rope and when he was done, I wasn’t going anywhere–he’d made a sort of corset belt over my clothes and fastened me to the post at six different points, including my knees and my ankles and around my forehead.  He’d asked if he could blindfold me and I said yes.  Normally I’d never agree to be blindfolded around someone I don’t know, but in this case,  I didn’t see the harm: I was there with friends, we were in public, heck, we were only a few feet away from a sofa full of people and the bar area, I was wearing all my clothes (and so was he, and everyone else, for that matter), and this was definitely not a sex party.  Did I negotiate anything?  No.  I didn’t think to.  Tying people up in various configurations was the extent of what was happening around me that evening.

So, what does the man do, when I’m tied up so tightly I can barely move a millimeter?

Unbuttons my blouse and takes my breasts out of my bra.

It only takes a second.  By the time that I realized that he actually had his hand inside my bra, it was already done.

I was completely surprised, as it hadn’t occurred to me that such a thing could happen.  I don’t know, maybe I was naive.  The public nudity didn’t particularly bother me (thank God I didn’t have the shame of violated modesty on top of the other bad feelings), but I did become very concerned that the he was going to put his mouth on my tits (gross!).   And then on the heels of that came the fear that someone was going to put clamps on my nipples, which is a sensation that I absolutely cannot handle.

“Don’t put clamps on me, I’m sensitive!” I said, and now I felt like I’d said the wrong thing.  The first words out of my mouth weren’t Button my shirt back up.  Does the fact that I hadn’t thrown a fit and complained signal that I was somehow okay with this happening?

“You look really hot,” said the guy, with his hands on my breasts.

And what do you do?  I don’t know, but I can tell you what you don’t do:  you don’t start a confrontation with a man when you’re tied up or undressed, and I was one and a half out of two.

I said sweetly that I was ready to be let down, and lied and said that I thought I was developing a cramp in my thigh.

He let me down and I put my boobs back in my shirt, buttoned up, and left the room as quickly as possible.  Did I complain to his face…?  No, I didn’t.  So he completely got away with it, without even a reprimand.  I didn’t even mention it to my friends until after the party, because they were having fun and I didn’t want to affect the mood.  And anyway, what was there to complain about?  It wasn’t like he hurt me, or stuck his fingers in me, or refused to let me go when I asked him to (that’s happened to me once before, and it’s as awful and distressing as you can imagine).   It was a minor incident.

A minor incident, but here I am, writing about it years later.   A minor incident, but I felt angry about it afterward, and I resent that I should have to second-guess myself.    I let a stranger tie me up at a fetish party.   What did I think was going to happen?

The first time I was molested as a play party was a little more severe–it was a spanking scene and the asshole got his hand into my underwear.  I stopped him and confronted him.  But, it still happened.   He did not apologize.  To some of these guys, your just being there means that you consented.  To others, I don’t think that issues like consent or getting permission even enters their minds: it’s irrelevant, a non-issue.  The only thing that matters to them is what they want.  And they are opportunistic.  It’s impossible to distinguish them from non-predators/non-molesters on casual acquaintance.

I have one more story about this.  Maybe I’ll tell it next time.

Whither thou, Weasel?



Have you seen this image…?!  I can’t stop looking at it!  It’s a picture of a weasel riding around on a woodpecker!

When I first saw this, I told myself that maybe they were both having fun, although I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine how this could be happening with the consent of both creatures.  I told myself, maybe it was a freak accident.  Maybe the weasel just accidentally fell on the bird’s back, somehow.

Well, I was listening to NPR in my car en route to campus (yeah yeah yeah, what a cliche I am, I know), and the talk show host was interviewing the photographer.  The photographer said that the weasel was trying to kill the woodpecker.

All of a sudden, the photo stopped being fun to me.  It turned violent and spooky, like a picture of a bloody crime scene, or a car crash.

I’ve looked closely.  I don’t see any blood on the woodpecker.  The weasel doesn’t seem to be biting it.  Why would a weasel attack a bird that big?  Is a woodpecker its natural prey?

What I want to know is, what happened…?  Did the weasel kill the bird?  Did the woodpecker land on a tree, and the weasel jumped off and ran away?  Did the weight of the weasel cause the bird to fall out of the sky and crash?  How high up were they?

What the fuck…?

Play Parties: You Have a Very Good Chance of Being Molested

“Are there any good play parties in the New York area that you recommend?  Or BDSM groups?  I am an inexperienced submissive new to the scene and would like to meet a dom boyfriend.  Friends would be cool, too.”

–Female Random Internet Stranger

I’m not a good person to ask.  I have never been active in the BDSM community and I never got into play parties.  I’ve been to about 20 total, which isn’t a lot, considering it’s spread out over ten years.

My practical advice is pretty simple: if you drink, don’t get drunk.  Wear the most comfortable shoes your outfit will allow, because you might be standing a lot.  “No thanks, I’m just here to watch,” is a perfectly adequate refusal.  People might ask you some questions that you perceive as being very odd; be prepared for that.

Be careful.

Look, I’ll just say it: if you’re a femsub and you play in public with strangers, you have a very good chance of being molested.  I wish it weren’t so, but them’s the breaks, kid.  It’s happened to me twice, and I was a sober experienced player both times.  There’s a ton of blogs talking about problems in consent in the BDSM community–The Pervocracy has good stuff, so does Kitty Stryker.  Here are some links.

(I’d also like to say that you may have a better experience if you go to a party without wearing your power identification on your sleeve, or pretending to be a domme or even a switch.  Dommes get approached sometimes by subs who really want attention, and it can be annoying, but overall male subs are much easier to deal with, and I’ve never had one grab at my tits or underwear.)

I hate to be Debbie Downer.  I really do.  But I’m telling you exactly what I would tell my best friend.  There are guys who are there to admire the people in their outfits and maybe talk about their kinks with real live human beings for once.  There are men who want to meet people for friendship and dating.  And there are men who are there to get theirs–they are there to have sex and get their kinky rocks off.  If you go as a single femsub, you are most likely to meet men in the latter category, just like in any meatmarket bar, because they are there to hunt.  And now that I’m really thinking about it, I do not recommend that you go to a play party as a single femsub unless you are already very comfortable establishing boundaries, dealing with pushy men, and saying NO.

If you think that a friendly submissive girl is chatting you up just so that she can introduce you to her Dom, you are correct.  It is not uncommon for these women to procure for their doms.   And I’m not judging this; I’m just telling you that you should be aware of it and able to recognize it when you see it.  If you meet a Dom at Suspension who has a name like Lord Master Darth Vader Owner of Sluts and he’s huge on Fetlife and there with his harem, well, it looks just like what it is.  Here’s another tip: Fetlife celebrities are not looking for girlfriend subs.  I’ve seen girls get hurt that way.  Don’t let it be you.

A good, earnest dom will be happy to give you his legal name (be sure the guy’s not married, if that’s important to you).  If he’s experienced and wants to play with you outside the party at a later date, he should have references from women who are not presently his girlfriends.  If he’s not experienced, don’t let him to anything dangerous to you.  Don’t get tied up alone.

Writing this really bummed me out.  My experience with play parties has not been good.  The only times I’ve had fun is when I went with female friends, and had absolutely no intention of meeting anyone.  Go to people watch and enjoy the fashion show.  Dance, if that’s your thing.  Try to find a boyfriend online.

If you’re wearing a skirt, wear two pairs of underwear.  Word to the wise.


I spent forever breaking in this new WordPress theme.  Welcome to my 8 readers!  If it’s buggy or looks like crap on your device or browser, please let me know, and I’ll try to fix it.

I probably shouldn’t jinx it, but: it appears I’ve met this week’s publishing goals.  I sold a narrative essay about my experiences drinking and dating (here’s a hint to the plot: almost every sexual encounter I’ve had that I regret, I did inebriated).   For this, I am to be remunerated the princely sum of $70.  I’ll post the check when it arrives and link to the essay when it’s published–the editors told me it would go up in 6-8 weeks.

Another fresh contribution to the blogosphere goes up Friday.  One of my favorite internet friends is letting me publish on her site.

I wanted to post some new images–I’ve got a few photos of myself covered in very impressive rope marks, which is a new addition to my collection–but cropping the pics for modesty takes out all the good stuff, too.  🙁

This is the best I can do.  Next time I’ll put a blindfold on, and that will make it safe.

after rope2



Perils of Publishing

I’ve been writing, just not here.  This is the first week I have to start submitting work for publication.  I’ve pitched four different places (two of them pay their writers). I’ll update the blog with my success, or lack thereof.  Rejected writing that can’t be used anywhere else will probably also end up here.

I am dealing with an issue: what to publish under what name.

Anything that I write about sex work has to be under this pseudonym.  Likewise, anything about my struggle with alcoholism–the last thing I need is a potential employer googleing my legal name and finding out that I have a problematic relationship with drinking.

What about narrative pieces about my family history…?  I don’t want to cause problems with my loved ones by writing about personal things.  I also don’t want to violate their privacy.  What if my mother or brother find my writing insensitive?

On the other hand, I do not give a damn about my father’s privacy, and I do not think it is possible to damage his reputation.  There is not much I could do to make him look worse, even if I wanted to (which I don’t).

This is going to be tricky.  I need to decide what goes where, and I have the sinking suspicion that the only way I’m going to learn is trial and error.

I ended four posts shy of the 30, and no I am definitely not off the hook for them.  I’m facing consequences for it, after I finish posting them plus a penalty.  The punishment is important because it sets a precedent, Heinrich says.  I’d like to post a few pictures taken in Heinrich’s apartment, but, well, his apartment is in the background.

Finally: if anyone has recommendations for places to publish my work, please share.  I have a list of blogs and publications taped to the wall right here by my computer, but I need as many as possible.  Who publishes work about BDSM and the sex industry?  Adult Mag?  Tits and Sass, of course.  Slate, maybe?  xojane runs first-person accounts of sex work.

Not HuffPo, for anything.  I used to really like The Huffington Post back in 2007-2008, but it totally turned to shit.

(23) Scold’s Bridle

This morning, I had a dream that I was traveling over the mountains on horseback.  A man was guiding me.  He’d been sent (by who? I don’t remember) to bring me there.

I don’t remember what he looked like, but he was wearing a brown suede jacket with horn buttons, like the ranchers wear when they dress up for town.  He was wearing a hat.  I think he had dark hair.

I kept asking him questions about who’d sent him and where we were going, but he wouldn’t answer me.  Eventually, he stopped, dismounted, and pulled me off my horse!

Then he put me in a Scold’s Bridle!

the bad old days
the bad old days

In my dream, this didn’t upset me at all, which is interesting because I’m sure it would make me unhappy if it actually happened.

We had to camp in the mountains overnight.  He took it off of me so that I could sleep, but had sex with me first.   I enjoyed it.

That was the end of my dream.

This dream was fun enough (I don’t know about you, but I always like it when I have sex dreams), but I am embarrassed by the content matter.  I am not a very scold-y woman, and even if I was, I am reasonable: nobody would actually have to put a metal cage on my head to shut me up!  Just the threat would be enough to quiet me down.

That’s all for tonight.

(22) How Porn Almost Wrecked My Relationship

Men and porn.

When I sat down to write, I spent more than an hour asking myself how to attack this subject.   I have political opinions about porn, but I’m disinclined to share them because I have nothing to contribute to the discussion (interestingly, these are the only political opinions I have that I don’t like to talk about).  Every critic with strong opinions about porn and a few brain cells to rub together has already written about it, and much of the analysis is superior to anything I have to offer.  My experience in the sex industry has also given me a perspective that I previously lacked.

So, I decided to ditch the analysis and spare you my tiresome complaining.  Instead, I’ll do narrative.  I almost never get grief when I write about my personal experiences, however unlucky or ill-advised they are.

This is the story of How Porn Almost Wrecked My Relationship (maybe “How I Almost Wrecked My Relationship Over Porn” or “How My Boyfriend Almost Wrecked Our Relationship Over Porn” would be more accurate, but, for the life of me, I still can’t decide who or what gets the credit for relationship-wrecking).

I was 23 years old when my then-boyfriend Michael gave me his old computer.

(That’s really all you need to know about the story, right?  All 8 of you readers know exactly where this is going, right?  Did reading that make the male readers groan and shake their heads in sympathy for my hapless boyfriend?)

He transferred all his data and scrubbed the hard drive before giving it to me, of course.  Alas, he didn’t get it completely clean.  A few days later, when I was setting it up in my apartment (CD-ROMS and FLOPPY DISCS!  Remember those awful, unstable pieces of shit?), I found… a cache of his porn.

If this happened today, I would delete it all and never say a word.  I wouldn’t even poke around in it out of curiosity, just to see what he was looking at, or to “make sure” it wasn’t pictures of his ex-girlfriend or men or god-only-knows.  I have matured out of my jealous tendencies, and I have also learned that snooping only causes pain.

But, this didn’t happen to me today.   It happened to me when I was 23.

I freaked out.

If you’re wondering: the porn in question was completely unexceptional.   It wasn’t gay, or about some threatening fetish, or something alarming like pictures of women who didn’t know they were being filmed.  Most of the pictures (yes, I admit: I looked at them all) didn’t even involve sex acts.  It was pictorials of naked babes, like Hustler or Penthouse.  Do they even make porn like that anymore?

I still freaked out.

All that I can say, is that my pain was real.  I was very hurt and upset.  The feelings were not rational, but they were legitimate: a lot of women have exactly the same reaction I did when they Find His Porn.   Why does he look at The Porn when he has me?  Is my sensitive, liberal boyfriend actually some galloping misogynist?  Am I being objectified or fetishized for my youth (I was ten years younger than Michael was)?

There was anger, too.  My male readers might take offense when I say this, but the picture of male sexuality one can discern from mainstream porn, is not exactly complimentary.

Another part of the freakout was that The Porn was concrete evidence that Michael had a private life and a life before & beyond me and our relationship, and that I had nothing to do with it and couldn’t control it.  I was very young at the time, and I had difficulty accepting this concept.  I felt that The Porn was somehow A Big Lie in the relationship.

I called Michael on the phone and instigated the first in a week-long series of confrontations we were going to have over The Porn.

Poor Michael.  I have to hand it to him: he handled it pretty well.  He was a little defensive, and he was miffed that he was being taken to task over a private issue, but he kept his composure and basically said that he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong.

Which is true.  He hadn’t done anything wrong, and he was exactly the same man that I thought he was before I found The Porn.  Buuuuuuut…I still had my feelerz, and I was still hurt and upset.

Eventually, after a few days of fights and fight-y emails, we moved past it.  I ain’t going to lie to you, though: I never totally got over it.  The Porn took a huge piece of my naiveté and, I hate to say it, my idealism.  Losing it was tough.  It really hurt.

In the end, Michael said that he wouldn’t look at porn anymore, and I accepted that, and we put it behind us.  I knew that he was full of shit, but I said that I believed him, and after that, I sure as hell did not go looking for trouble: I didn’t snoop on his computer to try to “catch” him.  Both of us pretended that The Porn did not exist.  In my opinion, this is the very best thing that can happen in a relationship were one partner does not like The Porn: he keeps it locked up so that she never has to see it, and she gives him privacy and doesn’t try to find it.

I never fought over porn in a relationship again.  By the time I was 25 or 26, and had a little more life experience and experience with men, I became more pragmatic.  Men watch internet porn.   I don’t get upset over it for the same reason I don’t get upset over gun control: it will never, ever change, and there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it.  I completely capitulated on that issue, 1000%.

When I was prodomming, some clients used to talk with me about their relationships–their marriages, their divorces, their attempts at internet dating.  “My Wife Is Angry With The Porn” was a common story.  Guys, if you know that your SO doesn’t like porn, lock that shit up.  Don’t be a lazy jerk and leave it on your phone or your open browser.  Get Fort Knox with it.  Leaving it out is disrespectful.  Your half of the deal is pretending like you don’t watch it.  Her half of the deal is to pretend to believe you, and not pry around in your stuff or accuse you of watching.

“Miss Margo, what kind of porn do you like?  Favorite videos?”

–Random Internet Strangers

I’ve gotten this question several times.  I have zero clue why anyone would care.  With guys, is discussing porn like trading baseball cards, or something?  Like discussing favorite TV shows?  Like getting-to-know-you chit-chat?

Answer: I do not watch much porn.  When I watch it, I usually feel aroused and repulsed out at the same time.  I do not enjoy that particular combination of feelings.  If I am trying to get off, I would prefer to feel just aroused, or aroused and scared.  They don’t make porn for me.  I use my imagination.

I do have a few videos that I like, but I do not use them for masturbation material.  They do provoke strong emotional response, which is why I have them.  I study them.  They are fetish videos; sexual but not much sex.  James Mogul has done some excellent work–I’m a fan.  There are also some dommes who make good videos, and I watch those in admiration or to learn how to be better at my job. I really like Claire Adams.  I would hire her to dominate me.  Very impressed by her.

(21) Things I Lost While Drinking

Every hard drinker will tell you: you lose things when you’re drunk.   I am not normally a forgetful person, and if I’m wearing or carrying something expensive, I watch it like a hawk.  The person who leaves their cell phone on the table when they go use the restroom?  Or their Kindle on the control bar of the treadmill at the gym?  That’s not me.

Almost everything I’ve lost in recent memory–say, the last several years–I lost after I’d been drinking.  Some of these I misplaced after two or three glasses of wine and some of them I lost in blackouts.  A few were retrieved, or returned to me later.  A few were abandoned because I was unable or unwilling, for various reasons, to return to the scene of the crime.   Most were just….gone.

  • At least three different earrings, one of which was real gold.  Women who wear earrings inevitably lose them, but nothing will make it happen more often than booze.  Yeah, long hair + winter scarf + drinking = lost earring
  • A brand new pair of prescription eyeglasses.  They were dark pink wire frames in a cat-eye shape, and they were beautiful.  They were lost sometime over the course of a holiday weekend at The Kitano hotel–I think I left them in the pocket of a bathrobe, but I really couldn’t tell you.  I also lost a ring that weekend, which was found and returned by the housekeeping service (I gave them a $50 reward for that), but the glasses were never recovered.
  • Two brand new unopened tubes of Retin-A, a prescription-only skin treatment I’d just purchased from the dermatologist.  What better way to celebrate an expensive doctor’s appointment at 2 PM than a martini?  Bombay Sapphire, dirty, with olives.  I think that I left the Retin-A on the train.
  • One of my student’s midterm exams.  I only lost one exam or paper in my entire teaching career, but, yes, I did lose this one.  Left on the table (I think) at a sidewalk cafe.
  • Contact lenses.  Many, many contact lenses.  Usually at the end of the night, when I was trying to take them out of my eyeballs.  They never made it back in the case, and I’d find them on the floor or the bathroom porcelain the next morning, all sad and dried out.  Not unlike yours truly.
  • A pair of black knee-high Camper boots, lost at the Hotel Wales.  I liked that old-fashioned, stuffy hotel.  It saw a lot of action in 2010.
  • My first Kindle, lost at a bar on the Upper West Side.  I’m not sure which bar.
  • Two Fleck riding crops, each lost at a different location.  I am of the opinion that Fleck makes the best and most attractive crops in the world (but if you have another suggestion, I am willing to listen).   One of them, I sneaked into the Surgeon’s bag as a prank.  He pulled most of it out the next day, in front of his class (Oh boy, was I in trouble for that one.  I consider this crop lost-while-drunk because I hid it when I was drunk, and I never got it back).  The other riding crop was lost at a fetish party in Montclair, New Jersey.
  • Probably a dozen books or magazines.  You know that person who sits by himself at the bar and reads?  That’s me.  Oh God, did I read in bars.  Writing notes to myself in the margins.  Sometimes, the next day, I couldn’t remember what I’d read, but I know that I read it, because I saw the notes.  Off the top of my head, I left my copy of The Forger’s Spell at a bar in Boston.  I remember that one because this dumb Irish doctor kept trying to talk to me.  Hello!  If I wanted to talk, I wouldn’t be reading!
  • A switchblade.  I had to hide it because the police were going to search my bag.  Where I come from, it’s not a huge deal, but in New York I would have been arrested on the spot.  Anyway, I don’t remember what I did with it.
  • Umbrellas.  If you live in NYC and take public transit, you will lose at least one umbrella per year.  If you drink, you will lose four or five.
  • Cigarettes, before I quit smoking.  Marlboro Reds first, then Marlboro Lights. Yes, I smoked the cowboy white trash cigarette brand.  Don’t forget LIGHTERS, because I lost those, too.
  • Two debit cards, left at the bar with the check.  I got both of these back the next day.
  • A bag of treats for Parrot (Parrot RIP).  Lost between the pet store and home.  No idea.
  • The Power of Myth on DVD.   I had to replace it, and it was expensive.
  • A pink lace camisole from Express, lost on a date with Matt, this guy I used to date.  I have absolutely no idea what happened to it, because we tore the place up looking for it in the morning.  Maybe he stole it…?  Men steal clothes sometimes.
  • Money.
  • Metro cards.  Lots and lots of metro cards.
  • My dignity.