3D SexVilla 2


pubes, politics, pop and words, words, words

The crickets chirping on this blog wouldn’t make you suspect it, but I actually have been kind of busy the last few months. For one thing, I’ve been enjoying a simply crushing melancholy, one that has come complete with a charming shame spiral and the consumption many big blocks of cheese. It has been simply fabulous trying to get out of bed in the morning (and usually succeeding). Fortunately for those who love me, or even those who love to loathe me, it remains as difficult now as it ever has been to find a guillotine on EBay, and [...]

she was a young american

Sorry to those of you who enjoy the sound of my voice. There's no audio for this piece because I don't do accents.

So, I ask him, how does it feel to be written about?

He narrows his eyes at me and does that thing with his shoulders and his mouth, that particularly Italian gesture where his lower lip and his shoulders make this twin parabolic arc, two parentheses echoing one another. He sets his fork down on his plate next to the brown bits and blubs of rabbit.

“You want to know?” He asks. He’s got these blue eyes. [...]

not fade away

I went to only one Grateful Dead show. It was such a perfect experience that despite having chances to go again, and despite trying to prolong that perfect Dead-space by driving around in my '80 Sirocco and listening only to bogarted tapes from some Red Rocks concert that I didn’t even attend, I never went to another. It was at SPAC, this natural outdoor amphitheater a few miles outside of the bucolic town of Saratoga, and I had gone with this other boyfriend and a few friends. We’d all piled in someone’s car, and we’d all dropped acid, everyone except [...]

in praise of roman men

For those of you who like it aural, I made a voice recording of this post. Forgive the vocal stumbles toward the end; I couldn't bear to read the whole thing again.

4_3_11 9_36 PM

 If walking through Rome doesn’t make you want to divide and conquer, you need to take a look at your testosterone. Those hills undulate around you like a heaving bosom, like parted thighs, like dimpled buttocks. The cypresses stand proud and erect like so many martial pricks. The river runs through it, wet and mossy smelling. I have spent the past two decades in New [...]

my name is me

I wrote something for My Name Is Me, the campaign against requiring "real names" on social media, a recent requirement by both Facebook and Google+. I wrote obliquely about my experience because my silence wasn't helping to protect anyone–least of all myself. Everyone who knows me knows my pseudonymic identity, and, frankly, my stalkers had made sure that anyone who Googled me could put my "real" name with the one I had chosen to write under. I decided to make a stand against this charade that somehow "real names" protect people or keep them honest.

They don't. 

Long-time readers [...]

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