Feelings. I Have Them. Sometimes. But Not Often.

If I hear the word "sex-positive" one more time, I'm going to fucking vomit. Are you kidding me? What the fuck does that even mean? First of all, it's not 1998 anymore. Deeming crap "sex-positive" or "sex-negative" is not only totally over, it's totally boring. And what are you saying when you say that? That you are "pro-sex"? Really? Are you really pro-sex? Wow. Because I have yet to meet anyone who is "anti-sex." So, really, it's kind of redundant. "I'm sex-positive" is most often used to passive-aggressively indicate someone else is being "sex-negative." And what are you even talking about at that point? I am flummoxed to the point of seizure. Is this some kind of throwback to mawking on endlessly about the patriarchy? Because I'm, like, so over that, too. Also? I'm totally over "sex-positive" people yapping on endlessly about how the MSM (is that like the FBI???), a.k.a. the "mainstream media," is "sex-negative." The media is fucking obsessed with sex. Just like everyone else. The bottom line is that what we're all covering here is fucking. So fucking get over it. And yourselves.

Village Voice Does Reverse Cowgirl

Thanks so much to Bonnie Ruberg for mentioning this blog, Letters from Working Girls, and Letters from Johns in her Village Voice column, "Heroine Sheik," where she studies the intersection of sex and technology.

"Add another site to the official Heroine Sheik recommendation list: writer Susannah Breslin’s sex and culture blog Reverse Cowgirl. Frank, insightful, and fun, Reverse Cowgirl covers everything from relationship art (virtual girlfriend, anyone?) to high heels for strippers."

Thanks, Bonnie!

Swing

I spent the whole last week or so working on something, and now I'm about done with it, and now I'm beat. I am not sleeping well, working myself up into some kind of state, ready to c-r-a-s-h. This morning, I had a dream that included a motorized fuck-dog and a field of trees that ate people. I woke up in a kind of fever state. Over the last six weeks, this blog and the letters blogs have gotten more attention than anything else I've done in the last three years combined, with the mentions in Time, Newsweek, the LA Times, interest from the New York Post, and mentions on various high-profile blogs. Yesterday, someone sent me some interview questions about prostitution, which I suppose I will answer. Sometimes, I wonder about the difference between porn stars and prostitutes. Because of some random law, porn is legal, but prostitution is not. They share common themes: fucking, performing, sex for money, fame, stilettos, hot chicks, dudes with issues, people trying to get it on while everybody watches. The context is what's different. That prostitution breaks the law while porn does not means the former gets beat up while the latter gets glorified--or is it the other way around? The end result is porn is America's punchline, and prostitutes are the new black. It's hard to know what to make of it. Either way, people who fuck for a living bear the consequences of a cosmic misunderstanding. I need to get back to working on my novel, which I relegated to the sidelines while I focused on this other project. Remember, we're trading in peonies here, not daisies. Sometimes I think I'm crazy. Sometimes I don't. These days, I've begun to suspect it really doesn't matter either way.

I wasn't sure whether this, too, was for effect, another mock punch, another flourish for the ever-present camera in T. T. Boy's head, or whether his father's violence was the inheritance that he did receive. Then again, maybe it was just the loud clamorings of a young man alone, trying to beat back the tundra silence of an apartment where the table was always set for a family of four, and no one was coming home. -- "Waiting for Wood," Stiffed, Susan Faludi