No Sleep But For The Nightmares

"Was it a dream? Was it the dream of a somnambulist, a dream within a dream, and hence more real than a real dream, since it cannot be measured against waking, since it cannot be measured by consciousness, because it is a dream from which one awakens into another dream? Or was it a god-like dream, a dream of time and eternity? A dream without illusions and doubts, a dream with its own languages and senses, a dream of both soul and body, a dream of consciousness and corporality both, a dream with clear-cut boundaries, with its own language and sound, a dream that is palpable, that can be explored with taste, smell, and hearing, a dream stronger than waking, a dream such as only the dead perhaps can dream, a dream that cannot be denied by a blade nicking the chin, for blood flows at once, and everything one does is but a proof of reality and waking; the skin bleeds in the dream as does the heart, the body rejoices in the dream as does the soul, there are no miracles in the dream other than life; the only way out of the dream is to awaken into death." -- Danilo Kiš, The Encyclopedia of the Dead

Yeah, But What If It Was Just A Shitty Piece?

Re this: Spin it how you want--hey, page views is groceries when you work for Gawker Media--but the fact of the matter is that this was just a shitty piece. So hyperbolic as to be suspected to be fake by those who should know, it was a too long by several thousand words feature that consisted of a pair of first-person slices of Wonderbread for a lot of anonymous sloppy meat interviews. In the end, the author balked. She didn't deliver the premise upon which her story was based. Running with the big dogs, she fell into the ditches. Fine. Whatever. You're a crappy reporter. The fact of the matter is that wasn't her fault--she is what she is. The blame lies with her editor, who should have killed the piece when Pilot pulled the pussy she'd promised to put on the line in the name of her, um, story. Of course, Radar knew the story would sell as is, which, as one can see by this online trail, it is, sort of, I guess. Note to editors: Next time, try an expert, instead of a hack.

The Art of Anthony Ventura

Artist Anthony Ventura is a friend of mine, and he dropped me a note recently to let me know that some of his amazing prints are now available for purchase online for the first time. I first met Anth several years ago, online, and for a time we worked on a project together. It was called The Fetish Alphabet. I'd create flash fictions about strange fetishes--for example, the jaw-droppingly awesome panel you see here was for a short entitled "A Is for Anthropophagy"--and he'd create the art. It was a wonderful thing. Now, he's made available a limited edition series of a select number of his works, including some from the fetish series, through Sexy Art Gallery in London. "The majority of images for sale have never been available for purchase, and I am only doing a very limited run of each image," Anth writes. "When they're gone, they're gone." Kentucky Fried Woman is one of my favorites. Other standouts include the wonderfully freaky B Is for Bukkake, the King Kong-esque O Is for Octopus, and the super-cool Major H. You can also visit Anth's website or check out his blog. And support an artist today, because underneath the clothes, we're all mutants.

Did You Know?

Did you know a bunch of chicks in Paris got ahold of Rasputin's penis and worshiped it? Did you know Frank Sinatra had to have his underpants special-made? Did you know a dead New York urologist had Napoleon's dick in a box?

Find out more about these and other notorious penises in my latest Frisky post: "Seven Famous Penises in History."

It's hard work, but somebody's got to do it.

The Hardyman en Español

A few weeks ago, I got an email from Felix E. Guerrero, who said he was working on a Spanish translation of a story I wrote, "The Hardyman."

It's a story about a man who finds an exoskeletal suit, restores it, and falls in love. Suffice to say, his robot suit gets in the way. The story was inspired by the Hardiman, a real 1965 exoskeleton project by GE.

Originally, I wrote the story some six years ago, but over the years I was never able to find a publisher for it. So, late last year, I published the story in full on this blog. I did so under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 license and encouraged anybody who wanted to do anything with the story to do so. Matthew McClintock at Manybooks.net turned it into an ebook and made it available to cellphone readers.

In any case, Felix said he had read the story some time ago and begun working on the Spanish translation with a woman named Marisol. Previously, the two had collaborated on a Spanish translation of Cory Doctorow's "Scroogled." "She is a professional translator and I'm familiar with the sci-fi/tech jargon so that's how we work. Summing up our knowledges," he explained. Along the way, the project had gotten sidelined, but now they were back working on it. He'd let me know when they were finished.

Now, they are. If you're interested in reading "The Hardyman" in Spanish as translated by Felix and Marisol, it's here.

Thank you so much to Felix and Marisol for helping to spread the story of "The Hardyman" around the world.

Spiked

I wrote a post for the Frisky about the return of SM in fashion.

"Back in the 90s, Versace paved the way with bondage gear that borrowed heavily from the underground fetish scene. Now that kink has gone mainstream, more designers are finding their influences in the SM scene."

It's "They're Bringing Kinky Back."

I'm so jealous of the Pleasurist's golden CK cuffs.

(Secretly, I want to be a fashion writer.)

Oh, the Glory of It All

The last three days I spent in New York were probably the best three days of my life. It's hard to explain why, but if you've been reading this blog for several years, thank you, and you know I went through some hard times, during which, I suppose one could say, I "fractured," and out of which, I found in New York, at the risk of sounding like someone who runs around like a hippie in fields, I felt whole. A long time ago, someone said something to the effect of wishing the worst thing possible on me, so that, I no longer recall, I could, I would say now, reformulate, and I suppose that is what has happened. So, thank you, universe, for totally destroying me. Those years I spent crawling across a bed of broken glass were worth it.

New York is my size. I would like to move there immediately. I just need a job in the city and the finances to make it happen, really. It isn't any more complicated than that. I would like to live in Brooklyn. The city itself is so very large, but being somewhat skyscraper-sized myself, it suits me. I've long had a long distance love affair with New York--my much idolized father grew up in Brooklyn, Flatbush to be exact, back when, you know, it was white. So, I've longed to be there. Now, I am ready. I'd like to make that happen by the end of the year.

I loved everything about being there. The view from the corner office, the bowels of the subway, the women in shock-colored dresses, the men in million dollar suits. I was walking by a park, and there was a tower being built, and I could see through the upward arcing limbs of the trees projected against the endless glass stories that this was Man at his height. My heart said: I am. I am. I am.

I saw Big Pussy.

While I was there, I met her and him and her. While we were all together, sitting near the floor in a place that was fabulous, he declared none of us could speak of what had happened when we were together. Something about the first rule of blog club. Oh, my heart shattered! The writer muted. All I can say is that it was an awesome roundabout, the likes of which I had not experienced previously, a Davos of haute-pervurists, really, and I loved every minute of it.

I took the subway yesterday, descended into those dirty, smelly steambaths, looked out across the rails, and thought: How odd that heaven looks so much like hell.

As a surprise, I met RKB, who I find endearing beyond explanation.

I worked. I walked. I ate terrific sushi that melted in my mouth like ice.

I met these nice headhunters. Allison Hemming is the object of my latest girl crush. I love chicks with balls. She has them in spades. At one point, she howled to someone else: "The way she writes about porn is MAGICAL." If she were a man, I would have married her.

When I left the city, I cried. Appropriate? Gay? Psychotic? You be the judge. I couldn't stop turning around to look at the skyline disappearing into the distance. I did not want to go. It broke my heart a bit. But when you fall in love, I suppose that's how it goes.

Flying out over the lights, I assembled the final chapter of my novel in my head. I'm not there yet. But I've got it in my sights.

Hipster Hookers Are the New Black

At the Frisky, I weigh in on the Great Hipster Hooker debate.

"They’re high-rent, professional, Carrie Bradshaw doppelgangers--who have a lot more sex and cash."

It's "The Happy Hooker?"

Empire

I'm in New York. It is awesome. I never want to leave.

Who Reads Jezebel?

Who reads Gawker Media's Jezebel.com? According to Quantcast, the predominant Jezebel reader is... a middle-aged white guy. Hilarious.

Twist

It's not Friday, it's Saturday.

In my head, I'm there, not here.

How much longer until I get where?

Meat

Next week, when I'm in New York, I'm going to meet my friend Clayton Cubitt for the first time. We have known one another for years, and I have written about him several times over those years, but we have never met each other in meat space in all these years. So, this will be interesting.

Last night, on a whim, I called someone I hadn't spoken with in a long time. A man in LA who was always very nice to me. He was the executive producer of the very first TV show I was on, lo' those many years ago. Back then, I remember him telling me, right before it was time to go out and do it, "You have twenty-two minutes..." The idea was: Do it now. This is your chance. Go for it.

Earlier today, someone asked me why I wanted to do something, and I gave an answer I didn't really like. I guess at the time I wasn't sure what the answer was. It's hard to explain. All I know is that sometimes things fall out of the sky, and sometimes they're meteors, and sometimes they're gifts, and maybe sometimes you just bend down and pick them up, and that's it.

I haven't been to New York City in years. Maybe five. I love it there. My father was from Brooklyn. Flatbush. I am happy there.

Beginning? End? Middle? Who knows what's around the corner. Some days, you just keep running.

Recitativo Obbligato

Last night, it was twilight, and it had been a long day, and I got up, and I moved towards the window, and I pulled up the blinds, and I pushed back the curtain, and I tied the rope of it around a thumbtack in the wall. The sky outside was an exploding riot of after sunset colors--the fractured clouds all fluorescent pinks, deep persimmons, reflected golds. In the air outside this second floor, there were big, fat dragonflies swooping and whirring in the falling darkness. There wasn't any sound but the night. I thought, I should write about this, but I didn't.

Lately, I've been going through boxes of things because of something I have to do. Afterwards, I wrote an email to someone that read, in part, "Looking through these papers is like being forced to look at a map of where I went wrong." Later, he wrote back, in part, "...the bottom line is, you were in the grips of both god and the devil and the results of that STRUGGLE are in those boxes..." And, he was right.

This week, I started doing yoga every morning and then shoving myself out the door to take a walk, to move, to get out of here. I walk through a park. I walk by a body of water. I walk through the neighborhood. The other day, I was walking by a very tall tree. I thought about all the hurricanes and the years and the forevers it has withstood. Its great arcing branches. Its incomprehensible architecture. I thought: Nature is what art aspires to be.

Letters from Johns: I've Never Told Anyone This Story Before

I've posted a new letter from a john.

It's "I've Never Told Anyone This Story Before."

"I'm trying to understand why I do what I do--part of it is for the sex (though I have an obliging if unenthusiastic wife), but also because having sex with other women makes me feel sexy and respected. I've worked hard for years to provide for my family and to do all the right things--sometimes I just want to be appreciated as a man and to have my inner needs met, to feel wanted instead of just accommodated."

Chick Clicks 'n' Shit

I think this is because on the internet, no one can see your vagina.

Love for Sale

The other day, a photographer emailed me this photograph.

I love it. (Click on the image to see it bigger.)

The photographer's name is Greg Watermann.

Thank you for letting me publish the photo, Greg.

It's beautiful.

Fox News Does Kinky Sex

I wrote a new post for The Frisky.

"Ah, Fox News. We hardly knew ye! Most Americans know the Fox News Channel as the home of some of this country’s most famously conservative pundits, Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity among them—and Roger Ailes, a former Nixon adviser, is the network’s president. But, as it turns out, FOXNews.com aims to take a more hardcore approach to reporting the news. On the website, Dr. Yvonne Kristin Fulbright is the network’s in-house 'FOXSexpert.' In her column, Fulbright offers conservative news-mongers sex tips and advice that are downright raunchy. From sado-masochism to premature ejaculation, celebrity sex tapes to transcendental orgasms, it’s Fox gone wild. After the jump, the best of the sex that Fox News has to offer."

Read "Fox News Does Kinky Sex."

Save Your Soul

Watch Gnarls Barkley's awesome new video: "Who's Gonna Save My Soul?" I wrote a story like this once. Now, I don't know where it is.

New York City [Udated]

Next week, I'm going to New York.

It's for work.

I can't wait.

Update: Week after next, actually.

Hollywood Stars' Secret Porn Pasts

I wrote a post for The Frisky.

"In the September issue of Best Life, 'Mad Men' star Jon Hamm, who plays ad exec Don Draper on the show, reveals that before he hit it big in Hollywood, he worked as a set dresser on soft-core porn movies. 'It seemed like a wonderful way to spend 12 hours a day, five days a week for $150 a day ... nonunion, no benefits. ... Hollywood, baby!' he recalls. Nowadays, Hamm’s not alone. More than a few Hollywood players got their start working in the X-rated industry--and they aren’t ashamed to admit it. After the jump, find out who made their mark in Porn Valley."

Jump!