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Megan Andelloux, a professionally certified sex educator with 8 years experience working as a sex educator for Planned Parenthood affiliates, was looking forward to the grand opening of her not-for-profit Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health in Pawtucket when she suddenly found herself in the middle of a firestorm. On the morning of September 15 she received a phone call from the Pawtucket Police Department telling her that a “concerned citizen” had emailed members of the Pawtucket City Council, alerting them that a “sex center” was coming to Pawtucket, a city of 72,000 located just outside of Providence.

“Hello,” the email began, “A center for “sexual rights” and “sexual pleasure” is opening in Pawtucket.” Included in the email was a link to the center’s website. Short, sweet, and intentionally vague, the email was enough to set off alarms among the city’s elected officials.

The police officer who called Andelloux that morning informed her that without proper zoning approval, the grand opening event, which included noted experts on human sexuality and a short burlesque performance, could not take place and the center itself could not legally operate in the city of Pawtucket.

As soon as Andelloux saw a copy of the email, which was forwarded to her at her request, she knew that the issue at hand was much bigger than her small, not-for-profit health and education center. Andelloux’s center, it seemed, was caught in a broader political maelstrom surrounding the regulation of prostitution and commercialized sexuality in Rhode Island.

The “concerned citizen” behind the email to city councilors was Donna M. Hughes, a professor of women’s studies at the University of Rhode Island and a leading anti-prostitution and anti-sex trafficking advocate. Over the spring and summer months, Hughes was at the forefront of efforts to convince Rhode Island legislators to enact harsher laws aimed at combating sex trafficking and outlawing prostitution, including indoor prostitution, which was decriminalized in Rhode Island in 1980.

Andelloux testified in front of the Rhode Island Legislature in June to speak out against efforts to criminalize prostitution, which many opponents feared would lead to more arrests of women yet do little to address the issue of trafficking. In an op-ed piece published in the Providence Journal following the hearing, Hughes openly disparaged those who had shown up to oppose the legislation. Describing the hearing as a “sordid circus” and a “carnival,” she attacked speakers based on their appearance, the smell of cigarette smoke, and “other odors” allegedly emanating from their bodies, successfully invoking a specter of disgust. She also deployed her penchant for using quotation marks to discredit those whom she perceives as her adversaries, referring to Andelloux as “a tattooed woman, calling herself a ‘sexologist and sex educator.’”

Perhaps it felt like political payback to Hughes when she fired off the email to members of the Pawtucket City Council. Whatever her motivation—genuine concern or something more nefarious—she is an experienced enough political player (by her own account she has testified at hearings in the State House on a number of occasions) to realize that her email would likely result in an alarmist response sure to cause a headache, if not larger problems, for Andelloux and her center.

For those who lived through, or who are familiar with, the feminist sex wars of the 1970s and 80s, Hughes’ strategy of throwing the “enemy” under the bus will ring eerily familiar. Indeed, there are elements of this story that resemble the unsavory tactics employed by anti-pornography feminists at the infamous Barnard Conference on female sexuality in 1982, where ideological divisions resulted in personal attacks on individual women whose positions on pornography, sex work, and other forms of so-called “deviant” sexuality were at odds with the anti-pornography feminist platform, resulting in sharp divisions between supposedly “good” and “bad” feminists.

For Andelloux, the immediate issue was zoning. Zoning ordinances have become an effective strategy for regulating the location of adult businesses and policing public expressions of commercialized sexuality. In New York City, zoning was the lynchpin in the city’s efforts to “clean up” the “seedier” elements of Times Square in preparation for family-friendly Disney’s commercial occupation in the mid-1990s. Zoning ordinances typically require that adult arcades, bookstores, and video stores, for example, cannot be located within several hundred feet of schools, places of worship, or other adult businesses. In many locales, this means that adult businesses are exiled to the most desolate, and very often the most dangerous, fringes of cities and towns.

Unlike typical adult businesses, however, Andelloux’s center is not a retail venture; it is a not-for-profit sexuality education center that she describes as a cross between Planned Parenthood and a feminist sex toy store, a place where she plans to hold educational workshops and maintain a library of sexuality resources. But in contrast to feminist sex toy businesses, such as Good Vibrations and Babeland, which have longstanding missions of sexual education combined with a commercial imperative, Andelloux is not planning on selling any products. As a result, her center falls into a nebulous, gray area when it comes to zoning. If it is not an “adult business,” what is it?

It was precisely this gray area that Andelloux found herself navigating in the days following the phone call from the Pawtucket Police Department. She met with zoning officials and city council members, several of whom toured her space, and she clarified for them that she would not be selling any adult products; she also cancelled the burlesque performance that was to be part of the grand opening, hoping that in doing so she might allay some of the city councilors’ concerns about the kind of establishment she was opening. Despite this, it was unclear to both Andelloux and those working in the zoning office what legal code her enterprise should be zoned under. Many visits to City Hall and many phone calls later, Andelloux was told she should apply for zoning as an “individual educator.” She did. On September 18 she was informed by an official letter from the City of Pawtucket’s Zoning Department that her application had been denied because the building in downtown Pawtucket where she had leased her space was not zoned for “education.”

It remains unclear what will happen next. In a meeting that took place in late September with Mayor James E. Doyle, which was also attended by the head of the Pawtucket’s Zoning Department, Ronald Travers, the Mayor made it clear that he did not think the city of Pawtucket would accept Andelloux’s center. But it is precisely because Andelloux has received so many requests from people in the community for a sexual education and resource center that she moved forward with her plans for the center in the first place.

Andelloux held her grand opening fete on September 26 as planned – albeit at an alternative location. According to her, the event was a success: it was attended by approximately 200 people and there were no protesters. The event also raised $1,000, which will go toward offsetting her legal expenses. Andelloux has retained a lawyer who plans to challenge the city’s zoning decision. It is also highly probable that a public hearing will take place where members of the community can weigh in on how they feel about the center’s presence in their neighborhood.

The irony of all of this is that if Andelloux was in fact opening a feminist sex toy business, or even a more traditional adult business, this brouhaha may have been avoided. For it would have been clear from the outset what kind of zoning she would have needed to move forward with her venture and the city could have responded accordingly. There are few models, however, for what she is attempting to do: a not-for-profit enterprise dedicated to adult sexuality education and health. According to Andelloux, “The city has said to me that they don’t know what to do with me. If I was a retail store, they could zone me or not zone me, but because there is nothing on the books [that reflects the kind of business I am proposing], they don’t know what to do.”

In an era overwhelmingly defined by abstinence-only education, which has created a generation of sexually illiterate adults, there is more need than ever for places like Andelloux’s Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health. But sex education, especially when it addresses questions of sexual pleasure, clearly remains an embattled issue, a cause for concern, and a source of moral panic for many – even, in this case, when the target population is adults.

My hope is that once the powers that be in Pawtucket, and “concerned citizens” such as Professor Hughes, realize that Andelloux’s center is exactly what she says it is – a not-for-profit sexuality resource center with an educational mission – and not a haven for child prostitutes and pimps, this ruckus will be put to rest and Andelloux can get on with the business of educating adults about how to get off in safe, consensual, and pleasurable ways.

Another set of definitions for your reading pleasure.

Mercury in Retrograde, phrase. An astrological term denoting the four times a year when everything is going to hell but it’s not your fault; it’s because Mercury is going backwards. The relief one feels at this news lightens the heart and makes one happy to pay the bearer of the news.

Dispensary, n. A place white people go to buy their drugs.

Intention, n. Your purpose, stated at the beginning of any endeavor, in order to free yourself from the responsibility of the consequences.

Example in conversation:

“I let you crash on my couch and you went and slept with my boyfriend and my therapist.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

Listening, v. The practice of pretending to look deeply concerned while someone else is talking. A misnomer in popular use as almost all people who claim to practice listening are in fact talkers in-waiting.

Present, n.

1. To be with me, and not fantasizing about her.
2. To be here and not there.
3. A state of being invoked when one is not in the space to practice Listening. Note there is an element of shame involved in not being present.

Example in conversation:

“I’m worried about us. Where do you see this relationship going?”

“I’m just trying to be present.”

Weekend Buddhist, n. An ambitious capitalist who meditates on the weekend to better clear the mind in preparation to aggregate more wealth in the coming week. They consider the state of being Present to be really top tier, the Cartier of states of being.

Energy, n.

1. Something people read in lieu of character judgment.
2. A term used to tell someone you don’t like them without having to get specific.

Workshop, n. A class of dubious origin. Most often offered by people who have forgotten they don’t know anything for people who know they don’t know anything. Commonly offered workshops are:

• Whatever’s Wrong With Your Life Is Your Fault
• Cry Now, Cry Later
• Authentic Penis, Authentic Vagina
• Cum Bucket: A Path to Enlightenment

I dj, phrase. Said by nincompoops and nabobs who like to fiddle with knobs, press an earphone to the side of their head and have people watch them as they jump up and down.

Almond, n. A bourgeois peanut.

Nature, n.

1. Any place one hour in any direction without indoor plumbing.
2. A place whose resources one seeks to protect. But only after one has already taken the resources one needs for one’s own comfortable life. These people tend to eat almonds.

Sacred, adj. An attribute often ascribed to a mountain or a meadow where one has:

1. Experienced a particularly awesome acid trip.
2. Completely lost their shit but it turned out OK in the end.

Juicy, adj. Sexy, sexual, sexified, sex-o-rama, sex-sensual. Overt sexuality of a most feminine nature, denoting soft, warm and moist. This word is most often cited by women, usually as they rub their yoni’s up against someone else’s thigh. While rubbing they will say, “I feel juicy.” Or, “Your so juicy.” Or, “This party is so juicy.” The world is split between those who find it a good thing and those who want to send the people who say juicy to Fresno.

Holding Space, phrase.

1. The art of doing nothing and getting credit for it while someone else is having a hard time.
2. The art of pretending that you care, by paradoxically doing nothing and getting credit for it, while someone else is having a hard time.

It should be noted that it is impossible to tell the difference between these two.

Boundaries, n. What you claim you have when you just don’t want to do something.

It all began when I swung my leg over my bike. I heard a small tear happen in the crotch of my very thin, very favorite pants. Whatev, it’s Burning Man. So when Dominic and Reynaldo yanked me from my slumber for our first evening out I put on my slightly torn, very favorite pants.

First we stumbled upon an empty 80’s/90’s dance party. Not a soul. Sensing opportunity, Dominic strutted into the middle of the dance floor clothed in nothing but his signature blue fur shrug, boy shorts, and ankle boots. He struck his best John Travolta pose and within minutes had ignited the dance floor – pure animal magnetism.

We moved on to an art piece made up of large glowing dots arranged in concentric circles. The dots changed colors when you jumped on them. So we jumped, going from one to the other trying not to touch the playa.

As I stretched my legs wide to jump from dot to dot, the tear grew larger and larger. By the time I was done jumping and laughing and bumping into Reynaldo and hearing Dominic exclaim, “Oh God,” the tear ran the entire length of my leg, crotch to ankle.

I was swinging free, open to the world. Oh, what wonder and joy it is to feel the night air on your cock. It was as though the playa was reminding me, or as though I had a large rip in my pants.

The next day Reynaldo borrowed my pants. He stood on the street holding the pants closed waiting for people to pass by. When they looked over Reynaldo would throw the pants open and smile.

At night the air was warm and easy and with nothing better to do I dropped my pants. That’s one of the beauties of Burning Man; often there is nothing better to do than exactly what you are doing.

To be clear, I was not shirt cocking. I took my shirt off as well.  I did, however, have my moccasins on. Thus I invented moccasin cocking. I highly recommend it.

Reynaldo dropped his pants as well. He was straight up boot cocking. Side by side we walked through the desert night, a couple of cocked up angels. Dominic declined to join because he’s self-conscious about his small balls. But our friend Millstein dropped trou with us. Reynaldo complimented him on his large package.

I must admit, I do not know how to tell how big a penis will become when it is in it’s flaccid state. I know there are growers and show-ers. But how much will a grower grow, and how much does a show-er show? I honestly do not know.

When we came to crowds or lights we put our pants back on. That way we could talk to people and hear all the craziness. If we had kept our pants off we would have been the crazies.

At the tripper trap, an art piece of little balls that light up different colors in different patterns thus trapping people who are tripping balls, we appeared normal enough to meet a woman named Wendy. She told us about her two kids, aged 18 and 20.

“I was the cool Mom,” she said. “I let them have the parties at my house. I was the local MILF. My kid’s friends would come over and, you know, I started sleeping with some of the 18-year-olds. They were energetic. That was fun.”

Reynaldo, Dominic, Millstein and I all checked in to be sure we heard right.

Later, on an art car, I passed as normal to have a conversation with a girl done up in a white Grecian dress and sandals. “Oh my god, I’m so high,” she said.

“On what?”

“On life… And a little bit of e.”

She was in love but it was a love that couldn’t be. Why’s that? Because he was in jail. What for? Rape.

“It’s doomed love,” she said. “But it’s romantic.” She was from Sacramento.

We walked past one couple without our pants on but it was dark enough that they didn’t notice. We got to hear them say, “Aren’t we amazing? We are so amazing. I mean, look at all this. None of this would exist without us. We are so amazing. I love being amazing.”

We walked on, Reynaldo and I swinging sexy. Then our drugs went intense and we launched ourselves into the overwrought sexy dancing dome. Millstein was there feeling the buzz. Poor Dominic was on acid and had a look of horror on his face.

High on G Reynaldo and I went and danced in the shadow boxes, projecting as perfect silhouettes. We kept our pants on. It would have a looked a little funny with them down, a silhouette of our bouncing dongs. But with our pants on it was, as Reynaldo put it, like dancing as an idealized self.

With the two of us in the shadow boxes we took our pants-down-cock-out energy and gave it to the dome. At Burning Man that’s a public service.

That night I fell into my tent and tried to fall asleep but my stomach hurt. A while later I was on all fours, head against the bumper of a cargo van, pants on, trying to empty my stomach while listening to the gaiety going on all around me.

I was remembering every loss I’d experienced, feeling lonely, sick, raw, tired, miserable. The Playa had broken me down and spit me out.  And Misty had stayed home this year. I had playa dust under my nails.

The next morning Dominic and Reynaldo listened to me as I talked about all I felt I had lost, about my shadow of loneliness, about trying to survive the night in the dark of the desert. They listened to my tears and how, when I dance at dawn, all of those feelings disappear. I rise with the sun.

And so Dominic and Reynaldo determined to stay awake with me till dawn on our last night. To that end they took copious amounts of drugs. I was still wobbly. It was windy and the night was full of dust. Everywhere we went seemed less than inspired. We couldn’t even take off our pants.

We ended up back at the sexy dance dome. Dancing felt good. Dominic and Reynaldo were chilling on a lounge, watching me. I told them they should go to Comfort and Joy for the party that was happening that night. That’s why were such good Playa mates, no need to stick. I stayed and danced alone. I felt the freedom of moving in all that space and felt alive.

I walked back to camp to get some water. The wind had died down and the night was beautiful. I took down my pants and swung in the air. Walking alone in the desert with my cock out, protected from the revelry by the darkness, it felt peaceful.

I moved across the desert to my favorite dawn spot at Opulent Temple and began to dance. And there was Millstein. We had agreed to meet here but this was the first plan all week that had actually happened. Millstein and I danced through the dawn.

Then we wandered out into the desert, faced the rising sun, and one last time we pulled down our pants. I swear you could feel love at that moment as easily as gravity. Sometimes, the cock saves.

How could a ritual hand sign add sparks to your orgasm? It turns out that the 108 mudrās of Buddhism and Hinduism are an ancient form of electrical engineering. When you extend a finger, it’s like raising an antenna. When you join two fingers, you’re completing a circuit within your bio-electrical field. Add your genitals into the equation to create a “ground”—an absorber of unlimited amounts of current. Imagine your penis or clitoris as a Tesla coil bursting with long, high-frequency discharges. The mudrā could be likened to the coil’s transformer.

A fun mudrā to begin with is horny both figuratively and literally. You might already know it as the “sign of the horns,” a vulgar gesture in Mediterranean countries. The index and pinkie fingers are raised, and the middle and ring fingers are held down by the thumb. Note that the bent fingers create a snug little tunnel. That is, of course, where the penis or clitoris goes. Keep your pinkie and index fingers extended as you rub the mudrā up, down, and all around. In ritual practice, this gesture is called Karana Mudrā, and it is used for warding off obstacles and dissipating wicked thoughts. (That’s wicked in the sense of fiendish as opposed to playfully naughty. If you’re truly a devil in the bedroom, don’t try this at home.)

The Vajra Mudrā brings a true bang to the experience of orgasm. This “thunder mudrā” involves two hands, and it extends your penis or clitoris into a royal-size antenna for receiving erotic vibes. Make a fist with your right hand. Extend your right index finger, pointing upward. Make a fist with your left hand around the right index finger. Now lower your locked hands onto your clitoris or penis and pump away. Allow the energy of your orgasm to flow up through your extended index finger. It’s virtually guaranteed to rock your world.

Another gesture extends the genitals: the Linga Mudrā, named after the divine phallus of Hinduism. Interlace the fingers of both hands, as in prayer. Extend one thumb upward. Encircle it with the index finger and thumb of your other hand. Now cup your genitals and do your thing, keeping the thumb erect. The Linga Mudrā is traditionally used to strengthen the body’s immune system, and when applied to the genitals it’s good for sexual stamina.

Speaking of stamina, the Prana Mudrā is perfect for frequent masturbators who feel depleted and could use a boost of sexual energy. Extend the index and middle fingers into a “peace” sign. Touch the tips of the thumb, pinkie, and ring fingers. The touching fingers create an opening, perfect for encircling the clitoris or sliding up and down the shaft of the penis. Keep the extended fingers rigid during the masturbatory session. They’ll act like a tuning fork to make your orgasm pitch perfect.

Frequent flashers of the middle finger will likely flip over the Mantangi Mudrā. This gesture gives your genitals the trunk of an elephant. Clasp your hands as in prayer, fingers intertwined. Then extend both middle fingers, pointed away from your body. Note that your index fingers and thumbs naturally form a hole. Use this hole to encircle or envelop your genitals. Keep your middle fingers rigidly extended throughout your sex act to experience an energetic “fuckyou.”

The Jnana Mudrā is reminiscent of the “okay” sign. Join the tips of the thumb and index fingers to form a circle. Relax the remaining fingers. Hold your hand so your palm faces the general direction of your heart. This mudrā is traditionally used for fostering knowledge, so why not foster applied body chemistry? A woman can use her relaxed fingers to brush her labia as she surrounds the clitoris with the circle. If the diameter of a man’s penis is smaller than the finger circle, rotate the circle around the shaft like a hula hoop. If the circle is a snug fit, run it up and down the shaft. If the fit is too snug to maintain thumb and index finger contact, stimulate as much of the penis tip as possible without breaking the circle. A somewhat similar gesture is the Vitarka Mudrā, traditionally used to foster the discussion and transmission of spiritual teachings. The tips of the thumb and index fingers form a circle, but the remaining fingers are extended rather than relaxed. Keep the fingers rigid throughout the masturbatory session. Applying this gesture is like having a private tutor for the study of human sexuality.

Nipple pinchers may enjoy putting three different mudrās to use. With the Akash Mudrā, only the middle finger and thumb touch, while all other fingers extend. Use a tit as a junction point between the middle finger and thumb. Traditionally used for centering and nourishing the body, the Akash Mudrā is a terrific nipple stimulator. A similar gesture, the Apana Mudrā, adds another finger into the action. Join the tips of the thumb, middle, and ring fingers. Extend the pinkie and index fingers. Now three fingers can pinch a nipple, with a grounding effect. But keep those pinkie and index fingers rigid throughout. Another three-finger pincer is the Kubera Mudrā. Join the tips of the thumb, index, and middle fingers. Fold and tuck the ring finger and pinkie into the palm. The Kubera Mudrā is traditionally used to foster the attainment of one’s goals. If you have a Midas touch, these mudrās will make your fortune.

There are several books and websites dedicated to mudrās, so it’s easy to continue your education. But these initial tips should keep your hands full for a good, enjoyable while.  (Fingers crossed.)

The shoot was one of the best experiences I have had in a long time, an experience I am still trying to analyze and digest. Often I get approached to work on projects, but people have a tendency to flake, which is why I am always careful about what I get myself involved in. But when you meet the right people collaboration is amazing, allowing each other to feed off of the others creative energies and feel secure and free to create in a safe environment for the good of sexy artistic achievement. WooHoo!

We met a few times prior to the day of filming–to pass ideas, I gave the director full access to any thing on the blog, but beyond that I was unsure of how useful I could actually be to the project, it was nothing I had ever done before, but how could I pass up taking part. I had to be in; I had to be at that filming. The deadline closer and closer, we settled on a shoot date which just happened to fall on Pride Fest weekend, which is both good and bad timing. The sexual energy of the weekend was definitely present and in our favor, but also there was an extreme lack of people needed for extras. Those who did end up helping were the porno angels.

I am not going to spoil the plot, because you will all just have to come the Castro for the big screening. I will say, the only dialogue that was used in the film were from two of my pas posts, The Beg and Grab. When the main actress/model/porn star read my words in her hot Russian accent I nearly melted. When the word “cock” and “thumping pussy” rolled off her tongue I nearly fell out of my chair she sounded so fucking luscious. It was so hot to hear someone else; especially a woman dressed in a tight fitting naughty librarian outfit reading my thoughts.

Night one: The realization that everyone on location was going to have to be on film if we were going to make this thing happen was became very apparent. I had not planned on being in the film, but we had no choice. There goes my City Librarian position. Fuck it. My role was to help grab and capture the author, which included stroking and caressing her body, unbuttoning her blouse and running my hands up and down her half-clothed body. I pinched her nipples through her bra, I stroked her bare belly, and I pressed my fingertips into her pussy through her skirt. Then I helped to lift her on to a desk where she was to be further ravaged.

Observations: What I came to learn is there is a lot of down time on a porn shoots, whether it was getting set up for the next shot, or explaining the set-up for the next shot, getting the actresses to understand the next shot, make-up application, smoke breaks…whatever. It took a great deal time for us all to get there and be working on the same page. Then on top of the time factor– there are the problems, the snafus, the downright disasters. The actress playing our “Johnny Keyes” role was somewhat of mess; she was not really there mentally, kept asking someone to go get her a Red Bull and a beer to chase her hangover away, and kept missing her cues. But the actress playing the author role made up for the others lack of character or ability. She was cute, willing, and had very little boundaries; I love a cute woman with no boundaries.

We finally get to the point in filming when it was time for the group ravage and our main girl on girl action. The tension and anticipation was hanging in the room. That oh my God, I cannot believe I am about to see two women fucking each other with various toys and implements–and I get to help. I get ravage her too. HOLY FUCK!

The director is talking to the girls about what is going to happen and what they want to happen and how the ravage should go down. They pull out the toys; dildos, impellers, strap-ons, ball gags, restraints. Fabulous goodies in which to fuck by. One of the dildos is the suction cup variety, allowing it to stick to various surfaces for fucking and sucking purposes– well it makes that suction cup popping noise every time someone touches it. This become very funny and animated the rest of the shoot. We can all tell when someone has that dildo because they just made that incriminating suction “pop” noise and then they are standing there with that guilty look and the fleshy dildo nervously in their hands. My favorite was the Excalibur style dildo, a nice handle, long black, not too think, not to firm fuck me stick. I had to be at the end of that thing. I wanted to strap it to my hip and pull it from my sheath and fuck her (or anyone) silly with it. But–that’s another movie.

The time comes where we run through the scene and the author is on the table knees up, the crowd gathered for the viewing and group ravage, our female Johnny Keyes is in place. We begin the run through, group ravage–stroke, caresses, suck, lick, pinch, ravage, feed her the Excalibur–as simultaneously the Lady Keyes spreads her legs and rips apart her panty hose from her pounding pussy. Not filming–we begin the practice run–ravaging, rubbing–the tension is unbearable–the other actress slowly begins to spread the authors legs wide, running her hands down the inside of her thighs towards her cunt where she is to rip the nylon from her body. When she gets there she exclaims “oh honey, are you bleeding?”

Oh Fuck!!! The author character got her period. Cut! Spirit crushing news. Wow! It was like a big group dynamic let down, I am surprised the whole room did not let out in unison one big Homer Simpson “D’oh!”

We had to stop for the night and everyone commit to being back there the next day at 6PM–prepared, plugged and ready for action. Apparently these are the pitfalls of porn, the girls had things they could use to take care of the flow and promised to be back there the next day.

The best overheard statements of the night were:

“What’s the best way to make you come?”
“Lets interrupt her by shoving a dildo in her mouth.”
“I can’t get the strap-on on…?”

Chapter Two Day Two: the sunshine of porn

We convene to the film location at 6 PM Sunday, already spent from the previous days festivities–the shoot, the drinking the night before, the Pride Parade that morning. We arrive and we begin the wait, the down time. We wait for the two girls to show up. We need that hot chick on chick.
And we wait.

6:30: the woman playing the author shows up. We are now waiting on our “Johnny Keyes” and still trying to hustle up audience extras. We wrangle a few neighbors and friends. We patiently, impatiently wait for girl number two to show,  hesitating to call because we don’t want to jinx it, and we want to be confident that she is going to show up for what she needs to do. Finally we break down and call–and the porno drama begins. Apparently there are cheating boyfriends involved–a love crisis. She is broken. The director explains to her that the best thing for her to do would be to get away from the situation, clear out for some time and what better place than where she is supposed to be–at the shoot. Not only would she clear her head, eat pussy, but gain some time to analyze her situation without being in it. We wait and we wait.

The hour/s pass and it is very evident our Johnny Keyes is not going to do what she needs to do. She is officially a No Show. Now, like the day before, it is apparent I am going to have to be on film. Our director calls me to the office to discuss the situation. He hints subtly or not so subtly, that I may have to play the role of Johnny Keyes . “No way!” I did not really even anticipate being in the shoot, let alone eating pussy naked. “No, not me, not for the camera at least.”

We negotiate between ourselves then approach our small group of extras and our leading lady. Our director with–humor, empathy and pleading worked magic on one beautiful, free spirited (possibly high either on the day or something else), young ray of sunshine extra–the sunshine of porn. She was dangerously cute, long blond dreads, freckles all over her body–the kind that make you want to connect the dots–tattoos in various locations across her body, wearing a bikini top, a princess crown, crazy mirrored goggles, didn’t mind going topless or eating pussy. She was fucking adorable and willing to take over the part of Johnny Keyes. The show must go on.

And so it did, with the help of some fine sexy porn happy people. We eventually managed to get to the action shots we needed. The woman playing the author was placed on the table by her admirers, her pantie hose ripped from her pussy and her body ravaged. This is when I got to participate. Her body on the table, our hands exploring her nakedness, her tits, nipples pinched the Excalibur prop. I want one. I fed it to her, made her suck on it, my hands wrapped around her face as she choked on it, I shoved it between her tits, and I smacked it on her lips with its firm head. It was hot. Then our second leading lady appeared, in between her legs, she glances at the camera, puts her goggles over her eyes and dove into her pussy. We are all over her, stroking, feeling, having our way with, and enjoying her body. She came. Cut!

I must say I was wet and wondering what would happen if we didn’t have to cut.

Final scene: the author is on all fours, taking a dildo until she comes. Our leading lady number two does not let us down. The camera angle has changed to get the view of her ass and pussy, panties pulled aside. We hear the tale tale sound of the suction cupped thick flesh rubber meat dildo pull off the table (smiles and giggles), lubed poured over the tip. Action! Sunshine fucks her, the rest of us with our hands still all over her, having our way, ravaging, and she herself is rubbing her own pussy and clit–until a nice fuck come is induced within. Cut!

We did it, we had the money shot, we pulled it off, with the kindness of sexy strangers. The shoot was such a great experience; I would love to do it again. From there the director did the rest, editing, and getting it prepped for submission. Look for us at the Good Vibes Independent Film Festival.

I left, but always take my camera with me. Not long ago the requested for some peep shots from inside my car. So I took advantage of this night out to shoot those too. My dress lifted, ass up in the front seat–I took a series of snaps. Close ups, odd angles, spilling cleavage, the pantie patch with its triangle of forming wetness. I took shots while I drove, feeling myself, stroking my full lips over the fabric. I started my night out kittenish, playful, frisky—in the mood.

It was one of those classic strange San Francisco nights–full of carnies, gypsies, misfit cabaret barflies, big thighed broads’ in short short skirts with eyes of glazed glass. The music was off—a weird mix of eccentric gypsy, Eastern Euro, bizarre. I felt like I was stuck in some David Lynch fucks Fellini as seen through the librarian’s glasses.

It was pure oddity. I found myself becoming light-headed on heavy beer, the infamous SF Tamale Lady looked more like a bearded lady, there was a strange dancer that looked like sherpa with a hospital band around his wrist–who claimed not to want to marry, but just dance with us. Dance. The saxophone player from the second band had me wanting my pussy licked and worshiped ferociously like the musical instrument it is. Lapping at my clit like a reed. I felt myself get wet and stay that way, sticky even. He was all oral, a definite pussy worshiper, I imagined his beard covered in my liquid love. The cast was a strange mix of misfits that had wandered in from the streets, but all somehow belonged together.

We, the librarians, fit right in. Misfits of the book, guardians of the strange.

When I got home, I was sort of high on the night; turning the yellow hued light I followed with the blue glow of the computer screen.

I watched your cum spurt out and land on your belly, streaming and streaking in white, landing like electric spittle, dripping from your tip. It made me jealous of something and nothing tangible at the same. I want to fuck you with your glasses on–I want fuck you with my glasses on, two overly educated people fucking like animals with none of that education at work, critical thinking skills have no place here. I lifted my dress, unhooked my stockings from the buckles, pulled them down, spread my thighs wide, and pulled my panties to the side. The smell wafted up into the air, creamy excitement from thinking earlier about my cunt being worshiped. Vanilla yeast. My pussy was full ready to be stroked drained, sapped of it sexual build up of the night. I put the Friday playlist on even though it was Sunday and slid my fingers between my folds, wet pages opened up. Dripped.

Hovering over the record button I hit. One split screen is you stroking your thick cock, coaxing your love and the other, me caressing my pussy. I watched both of us. Watching as your cock grew in girth–creating that ache of longing from the core of my insatiable cunt. Simultaneously we virtually fucked each other. When you sat up, directing your beam at me, inviting my lips to taste, to feel you grow further inside my mouth, for a split second you are really passing my lips and I could smell you, and I can taste you. For a split second you were mine.

Envisioning the way I would slide onto you–your round substantial head teasing my slit, seeping into me. Gradually my cunt devours every inch of you. Spreading myself open–slow grinding onto my fingers, the silver bullet rumbles on my clit, two fingers lost inside, my flesh fully concealing their movement. I am fucking you, arched teetering on that pain consumption of the mind and pussy. Coming, I close my thighs around my hands, fingers and toy.

Sitting up from my orgasm slouch, my hand still slipping in between my pages, I lean forward, my pussy off the chair, but my ass still on it. Fucking myself harder, thinking about you coming inside me, squeezing your cock, draining you. Faster my hands plunge and flick, the bullet circling my button. I thrust and drove onto my already buried fingers and I begin to drip, the camera catches it all, the trickles dropping between my legs to the floor below, the elation of me coming and the gush from inside surrounding my fingers as I come hard for the second time. Stars flash that magnetic white light then fade.

I hit stop, save, and strip my way to bed.

I do not mean this in a negative way, though if you are reading this magazine I understand why you might take it that way. Most popular music has a sexual component. There is a continuum. It looks like this.

Penis ——————-||——————-Vagina

Prince is on the left, right below penis. (The P in Prince actually stands for penis.) I saw him at Madison Square Garden once. He spent two hours teasing the audience with the opening piano bars of Darling Nikki before actually playing it: one man, 20,000 people, two hours of foreplay and the world’s largest simultaneous orgasm.

On the right, just below vagina, is Cat Power. The kitty grown into a pussy, her voice slinky and dark, a life lived in alleys and sex with strays.

What’s that space in the center you may ask? That’s the space carved out by U2.

U2 strives for a kind of holy eros. It’s a, I-look-good-and-god-is-in-the-house-and-ain’t-that-grand kind of thing. But you don’t really want to get it on to U2. Ever try to have sex to “Pride”? Or “Sunday, Bloody Sunday”? It feels blasphemous.

Phish resides on another plane all together. I would liken it to this model.

~~Phish~~

Prince’s Penis————| U2 |————-Cat Power’s Vagina

Phish, those shaggy boys from Vermont, are not testosterone in song. They are not the tear-stained tunes of a woman opening her heart. Nor are they attempting to be rock and roll evangelicals.

The members of Phish do not try on new personas with every tour. 20 years later Trey Anastasio is still sporting a denim button down shirt and a bowl cut and John Fishman is still wearing a dress.

Phish, as “Almost Famous” as this may sound, love music. And it is that word love that has them floating above the pop-sex continuum.

Between any act and their audience there is a relationship. And when it comes to musical acts we almost always just dating.

Most acts create a kind of aural lust. You first hear their song and lust for it. You want to hear the music over and over again. It’s like the sex is great. But then you grow sated. You want something more. The second album comes out and it’s just more of the same. There’s nothing more there. Kind of like when you realize that girl you met last month unloaded every interesting thought she had on that very first night.

With the death of the aural lust we break up with the band. You occasionally listen to their album out of nostalgia, but you move on.

This is not the pattern with Phish. Phish fans are committed to a long-term relationship with their band. For years the band and the fans traveled together, getting to know one another intimately. Phish never seemed to run out of things to say and the audience never tired of listening. Even when the band played an old song they played it in a new way reigniting the love.

This relationship isn’t about the short-term fling of sex but rather about the long-term gain of a loving relationship. The audience communes through the band, they love the band for being the band.

Phish did not utter a single word to the audience the other night. There was no crowd banter, no foreplay mediated by a microphone. Many of their songs lack words except for a phrase or two. In one song they simply repeat the name David Bowie. In another, Divided Sky the wind blows high.

My sister-in-law Katja believes these songs are as zen koans. The band is not trying to say anything but rather put you in a state to simply hear the music and stop all that thinking. And at the end of each set as they bowed deeply and smiled wide, it was easy to see Katja’s point. They were being themselves, no persona, no gamesmanship, no working it.

Phish loves the music they create. Their audience loves the music. And they love Phish for the music. The fans smile at one another and hug and do that kind of silly bouncy sort-of-dance-thing, which is all you can really do once a band has reached the thirty-fifth minute of a jam. (Of course you can always tell the people on drugs because they’re the only ones still dancing at that point.)

Katja has had a profound and loving relationship with Phish for years. She loves the way the communal love of the band brings the whole crowd into harmony. As a wise man once said, a mark of our social evolution is how many people can we bring together and still feel safe? At a Phish show that’s a lot of people.

Yes, there are lots of hippies and white people with dreadlocks and skirts with bells on them and the post-show parking lot scene of veggie burritos and crystals for sale is enough to turn anyone into a Republican.

But the experience of transcending the simple sexual relationship to come to a place where you can catch a glimpse of the world in harmony because of the music of Phish is quite something.

It’s inspired Katja to make a pair of pants for Trey. So Trey, if you see this, please send your measurements to me. Katja has a great vision. It came to her while dancing at Shoreline while not trying to figure out the meaning behind David Bowie.

The older one, her hunky bisexual boyfriend, was sitting on the other’s chest with his knees pressing down on his arms. “Go ahead, say it,” he said, finally hearing the word he was waiting for. Then, “I win.”

The older one leaned down then and covered the mouth of his combatant, taking things to the next level.

She was enjoying this little scuffle of theirs, all the more so since they were both naked, with hard-ons to light up the night sky. What a good idea she’d had to suggest her boyfriend invite one of his clubbing buddies up for a romp. All for her pleasure, plus apparently, more than a little of their own.

She had asked him before how it was different, making love to a man versus a woman. “It’s rougher – more like two animals,” he had said. She wanted to see for herself.

When the younger one had arrived at her loft earlier that night, she knew right away this was inspired. He shimmied out of his jeans and already his thick cock was arching upward. He was slight and a little androgynous, but his cock reminded her of one on a horse, too big for his coltish body. She could imagine making quick work of it but had already been warned that the young one wasn’t interested in girls.

Her boyfriend displayed his elegant, tapering version that looked more like a Roman column.

They started out pulling off each other’s T-shirts, tugging them over their heads with a shake, revealing glistening chests – one lean and toned, the other muscular and bulked up.

Her boyfriend reached around to the back of the younger one’s neck and pulled him to him. He stopped with his face just inches from the other’s for a split second before opening his mouth wide and yanking the other’s mouth to his. It looked more like devouring than kissing.

She went over to turn on some music and hit “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” She wasn’t sure of the choice; it sounded kind of boy-girl. But as the two men started swaying together to the beat, her boyfriend turning the younger one around and pulling that lissome back and ass into the curve of his crotch, she couldn’t help but notice the song’s words:

“Ain’t no doubt about it, we were doubly blessed /’Cause we were barely 17 and we were barely dressed.”

How doubly blessed her boyfriend was – to enjoy the pleasures of both men and women.

From behind, he reached his hands around to the younger one’s chest, grabbing his nipples and tugging them. Then, starting at the nape of his neck, he ran his tongue down the man’s spine, ending in the dewy small of his back. He paused there, caressing the orbs of the younger one’s buttocks.

Who better than a gay guy to be an ass man.

The younger one then pulled away and reached over to his jeans, now crumpled on the floor, pulling out a condom. He placed the package between his teeth and turned to the older one mockingly.

“Oh, now you’re getting cocky, huh?” said the boyfriend. “You’re lucky I even chose you tonight from that crowd. There were a lot of hot guys checking me out. It’s just chance I picked you, you stuck-up prick.”

“Yeah? Then how come I felt your eyes on my ass the whole evening – glued there, every move I made on the dance floor?”

“You think that’s what I was doing, huh,” said the other with a big grin on his face, grabbing the younger one around his narrow hips and tackling him to the floor. “Maybe I’d just never seen someone wiggle their butt so much when they tried to dance.”

Then they were on each other, laughing, legs wrapping every which way, almost crashing into the coffee table as they tumbled together. She had to resist stopping them. After all, no one was going to get hurt.

Then, “Uncle,” and the fighting turned into kissing. She moved to the platform bed nearby to watch.

Her boyfriend looked down at his vanquished foe, bent the younger one’s legs up in the air and pulled them on either side of him. He knelt between them, pausing there a second, and locked eyes with his prey. He grabbed the condom and opened it with his teeth, smoothing it onto his cock with a squeeze of something from a tube as if he were presenting a short piece of performance art.

Then in one motion, he slammed his cock into the younger one, who arched his back and groaned loudly. He barely had time to catch his breath before he was pounded again and again.

She could see the younger one’s engorged fire hose jutting up. She got wet just looking at it, and her cunt throbbed watching the two men slam together. It was all she could do to keep from rubbing herself.

Her boyfriend tilted the younger one’s ass up closer to him and pulled himself further between the other’s legs, thrusting harder and faster. Sweat was dripping from his chin now and the air held the damp scent of men. They were grunting together like a runaway train chugging out of control.

Then, just when she expected a crash, her boyfriend pulled out. He tugged the younger one up and, digging his elbow into the other’s back, flipped him over onto his stomach. They meshed together, two matching curves on the floor. The boyfriend pulled up the other’s hips and maneuvered himself between his cheeks. He resumed the rhythm then, but it was more sensual, a sinuous wave that pulsed through both their bodies at once, rising in frequency until her boyfriend stretched his upper body up and away from the other in a gasp toward the ceiling, while the younger one buried his face in the rug with a moan.

It was over. Before she knew what was happening, the younger one had pulled on his jeans and shirt and was heading to the door. “Next time,” he said on the way out.

Her boyfriend came over to her then – standing at the foot of the bed still naked, still half-erect. He started crawling up her body.

“Take me like you did him,” she said. “Rough, I mean, like an animal.”

“I don’t need to take you like a boy. I want to take you like a woman,” he said.

She spread her legs and lifted them into the air. “How about a little of both?”

There you are right in the heat of it, hand thrashing, dog licking… No, wait, that’s for a different website.

So there you are right in the heat of it, hand thrashing, toes curling, and you can tell this is going to be a good one; especially if you give it that extra little push. So you dig your heels into the back of the BART seat… Wait, that one’s for The Lonely Planet Guide to San Francisco.

So there you are right in the heat of it, hand thrashing, toes curling, giving it that extra little push to be memorable. You dig your heels into the mattress, stretch your shoulders back, pay no mind to the odd way your head is curving against your headboard. You’re almost there; you just need the right image cause orgasming to the wrong image sucks.

No, not that girl! No, not her grandma! Now you wish you had prepared better. It’s always best to go into masturbating with a plan. You’re starting to lose it, that roaring momentum, and that’s no good, you’re going to be off kilter for the rest of the teacher-parent conferences that day.

Ah, there it is, the image of the girl who let you into The Gap dressing room three years ago, random but perfect. You push on, pressing your head sickeningly askew from your body. A passerby could be forgiven for thinking you had broken your neck. But you don’t care. You have returned from the brink. You tense all the muscles in your back in preparation.

And that’s when you here it, the pop. Something, somewhere, usually in the upper middle part of your back, has come undone. A very important muscle has unraveled. But you keep on, breathing through the pain.

We developed this ability so as to keep running across the Savannah away from the saber-toothed tiger even when injured. In a modern twist on this evolutionary advantage you are able to keep masturbating although your back has just come in two.

Hand thrashing, breath held, the roaring in your head crests and breaks open in a wide, beautiful arc. The tension releases and all is good. That is until you try to move.

No one knows why masturbatory injuries are always so centrally located. But the moment you try and right your head you feel it, the searing pain shooting through your back. Oh god, you think, I am going to be trapped here with my pants down forever. Somehow you manage to get up, your head to one side, your arms held as still as possible.

Whatever muscle it is, it’s the one involved in every single movement you make, holding up your head, moving your arms, walking, turning, sitting, pooping. Oh lord, you’re not going to be able to push anything out for weeks.

You better get one of those Toto spray toilets cause you can just forget about reaching around. And now your girlfriend won’t have any interest in having sex with you… Wait, that was for a Japanese scat site.

At work the next day everyone asks what happened. You scroll through the possible responses in your head.

“I was building a rock wall.”
“I saved a nun from drowning.”
“I was yanking my wang so hard it pulled my back out.”

You can’t say that. It’s too ridiculous. You’ve already told your partner and now every time you wince she laughs at you. It’s the sympathy-less injury. There’s something about seeking pleasure to the point of hurting yourself that reeks of indulgence. That popped muscle is a Puritan punishment.

Pulling a muscle is certainly not the only masturbatory hazard. Misty pointed out that you can get jizz in a paper cut. Then you really are rubbing salt in your wound. Misty also said you can fall off the bed which sometimes entails hitting your head. I’m not sure how you would explain that black eye? But Misty certainly seems a vigorous maturbater. Go Misty go.

Once you have healed you tend to masturbate gingerly for a while. That’s never that fun. You have to feel free to really get into it for the full effect. As a preemptive I’ve taken to stretching before masturbating. Below is my list of best practices, in no particular order.

Yanking your wang? Bikram Yoga.
Smothering your schmekel? Try Kundalini Yoga.
Choking the chicken? Ashtanga Yoga!
Head-in-the-pillow-ass-in-the-air-squirting? Come over to my place Yoga

He grabbed my hips and pulled me back into him – his pelvis rubbed against my ass and I could feel the evidence of his arousal through the layers of our clothing.

He was content for the moment to simply rub up against me – reveling in the sensation of closeness – drawing out each moment like a taste of fine wine – each exquisite sip demanding to be savored and enjoyed. It would be a sin not to really; and there was so much other sinning to be done that night.

His hands began moving again – exploring each curve and movement of my form with agonizing slowness and thoroughness.

He began murmuring in my ear. Telling me how sexy I was, how much I turn him on, how he would like to fuck me, but that he was going to make me beg for it. I closed my eyes and sighed with contentment and warmth. Though his words weren’t particularly original or poetic, they still reverberated through me. Making me feel desired and sensual.

I arched my back against him, encouraging him to focus more time and caresses to my now protruding breasts. I do love to have my nipples played with. As if on cue, he began to unbutton my blouse and let it drop to the floor.

His breath on my back caused me to shiver with delicious anticipation. His rough hands reached into my bra to pinch my nipples, which had become increasingly hard and sensitive – the slightest touch eliciting jolts of heat between my legs.

I could hear each article of clothing teasingly fall away. First his tie, which has tantalizingly tickled my legs with before letting it drop. Then his jacket. And then he unbuttoned his shirt with agonizing slowness. I think I could hear each button as it was released, and then finally it too was removed.

He ran his nails up and down my ribs. A gesture both tickling and gentle – almost incongruous with the carnal violation that we both knew was forthcoming. With the other hand he unclipped my bra and threw it with more than a little drama across the room. He pressed his chest against my back and blew into my ear- creating shivers, and an involuntary arching of my back against his torso.

I sensed him backing away slightly, and then felt the unexpected wetness of his tongue trailing up my spine. His hands gripped my hips and clutched me closer to him. I could feel the bulge of his cock – pulsing, straining, willing me to worship and crave it. He rubbed it against my ass- teasing me with what was sure to come.

I reached back to rub his cock- to take some measure of control in the scenario, but he was having none of it. He reached down for his tie, pushed my hands out in front of me and tied them at the wrists. The feeling of utter helplessness and imminent violation was almost unbearable. I could feel my panties becoming increasingly wet by the second and my breath had turned into lust-filled pants. I was completely his slave. His will commanded exactly how far, how hot, and how rough things would get.

I wanted him to consume me. To pull my hair, and bite me and slam himself into me. To take me as his possession. To be used. To perform each carnal act with utter abandon and loss of control. To treat me as a toy whose entire raison d’etre was for his enjoyment.

I heard the soft slip of his pants easing down his legs. He yanked down my skirt with an abrupt motion and I gasped as I felt his nails scrape lightly down my thighs. Tiny little tell-tale marks of passion, too soon faded.

Only the barest wisp of fabric separated us. Thin sheaths of cotton and lace prevented the consummation of our quickening desire. His enlarged cock pressed against me – torturing me with its taunting presence. An inconsequential slip of material rubbing up against me with mischief – denying me the pleasure of being overtaken and consumed by him.

I was caught- agonizingly suspended in an eternal state of lust-filled anticipation. My cunt dripping, nipples hard, my entire body feverish and shaking. He had absolute command of me, and he teased me by appearing to care more about the journey than reaching the destination.

Finally he acquiesced to my silent plea. He slipped my little lace nothing down over my hips and I impatiently kicked them away. He had already finished stripping himself – and continued his delicious teasing of my ass with his penis, rubbing it up and down the crack.

His hand reached between my legs and rubbed my clit softly – but even the slightest touch caused waves of heat to wash over me.

He gently ran his fingers through my hair, then roughly pulled my head back. I nearly came with pleasure in that moment – it was the definition of sublime bliss. To have my hair pulled; to be handled and taken was all I wanted.

He pushed my head down so I was bent over, and pulled my ass closer to him. He was no longer interested in the journey- it seemed we had arrived.

I felt him plunge into me hard and fast. He gripped my hips bruisingly adding to my delirium. He slammed into me without apology or remorse. No doubt the next day my body would be covered in breathtaking reminders of his possession of me.

My head and breasts rocked back and forth in time to my moans and his thrusting. Pure carnal fucking was the only way to describe the experience. No tenderness or romance. No intimate eye contact sharing an erotic moment.

Related Products at Good Vibrations:
“Frenzy: 60 Stories About Sudden Sex” Book
“Penny Flame’s Expert Guide to Rough Sex” DVD