My first piece for the Daily Beast, "Sex Wars: Sluts vs. Losers," in which I virtually mud wrestle with Grant Stoddard over the current state of the sexual double standard, is online.
"Over the years, the mainstreaming of pornography, the rise of the Internet, and the single-handed crotch-flashing efforts of Britney Spears have brought sex to the forefront of public discourse like never before. Yet, despite all this so-called 'progress,' I’ve found that it’s women who remain subjected to the sexual double-standard. The evidence is written across the Internet."
"Instead, a rupture occurred, a violence was done to each of us, an act or acts that were outside our ability to avoid or manage or even understand--the kind of thing that wasn't supposed to happen, didn't happen, could not happen." -- While They Slept
My old pal Hugh McLeod, who created the image you see here, sent me a shout out on Twitter: "Hurrah! My favorite pornographer is blogging again." Well, Hugh, it has been a couple years now. ;) Yesterday, I saw this card that he created, and I liked it a lot, so there you have it: electronic synchronicity or something like it. I like Hugh's blog because he always returns to the subject of creativity, and how to do what you want to do, and how to do what you want to do and survive at it: "It just kinda sorta happened, one random event at a time." It's a struggle, a real battle, to be a creative type: whether you're a writer, or a thinker, or a photographer. E. L. Doctorow: "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." Somebody who is related to my novel sent me a letter, and he included a note in it, and the note is written on very beautiful paper with his name embossed beautifully on it near the top in that way where if you run your finger across it you can feel the letters, and the paper is in the shape of a bright white rectangle, or, say, a tiny, shining gravestone, and the note reads: "Can't wait to read the rest! Here's to a ton of success in the future!" I took the other piece of paper in the envelope and tacked it to my bulletin board between two photographs: this one and this one. And I took the note, and I propped it up on my desk, so it would be right there, every time I sat down to write. So. So! So? Now it's time to write.
The Comics Reporter has a terrific interview with Lynda Barry that is about a lot of things, but perhaps mostly about the creative process. What makes the creative process "work" is pretty fucking enigmatic, but Barry gets at some of the marrow of it here. "There is a specific feeling, a state of mind that happens when the strip starts to roll." She also writes about being rejected by editors, and struggling to do what she wants to do, and what it's like when you have been doing what you do forever and you still aren't sure it's right. It's hard. I haven't been doing what I do for as long as Barry, but it's been a pretty long time, a dozen years, and I'm fucking exhausted. Sometimes I think it's easier to do what I do, and sometimes I think it's harder. It is exceptionally difficult for me to find a place to do what I want to do and keep afloat. And right now? Right now, I feel like I'm drowning. Last night I had a dream I was touring a prison for midgets, and I don't think I even want to know what that means. What's tough is not knowing if you've come so far or if you've crawled a few feet. Yesterday someone I don't know wrote me an email and near the end it said: "Please keep writing your book. After reading your blog for this long, I know how important that book is to you. Your readers are rooting for you." And I am. I am I am I am. I am really fucking trying.
Writing isn't easy. Probably, I could write that line a million times, and that would say better whatever it is I'm trying to say. I'm working on my novel. The title is Happy. It was born out of my experiences in Porn Valley. It isn't easy. Not only is it hard to write, but I don't know what to say about it, so I say not a lot. Writing is crazy-making. Writing about these things made me crazy in the past. At this point in the story, my main character is going crazy, and that means it's like he and I are on a seesaw, and sometimes I'm up and he's down, and sometimes I'm down and he's up, and it's a lot like a battle, and nobody knows who wins in the end.
It's about pink salons, soaplands, and geisha bars. It's psycho-noir, apocalyptic tomorrows, dogs in nightmares. It's the story of waterboarders and whales, IEDs and pornography, Happy and Chance. I read an interview in I can't remember where with an author who had written a mystery, and the interviewer asked about the ending of the story, and the writer said something to the effect of why would he have written the book if he'd known what was going to happen in the end? Writing is like walking down the street blindfolded, and you're being led by a blind man.
Did you know Faulkner wrote As I Lay Dying in six weeks? On a turned over wheelbarrow? Working nights at a power plant? True or false? Does it really matter? When it comes to putting words on paper, what's made up is more true than what's real. Faulkner: "Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain." When you write blind, the words spill out on the page, and you can't help but see yourself.
What's this book about? The more I write, the less I know. Porn? I doubt it. Death? Maybe. PTSD? Suicide? Insanity? Yes, all that, too. But I don't know. In a way, I guess you have to turn a blind eye to it while you do it. Otherwise, you trip yourself up on your own psychoanalysis, the blind man leaves, and there's nothing left but you and the yawning chasm of the white page.
I am sure of one thing. Writing is lonely. The loneliest.
"He says people only care about who I fucked. All I’m saying is people care about furry puppies more than my dick. So, how about a chapter on my work with PETA?"
Considering how many people visit this blog every day while searching "ron jeremy penis," I'm dubious about that point.
A long time ago, I had a pretty bitchy boss when I worked as a book publicist for an imprint of Simon & Schuster. (Near the end of my tenure there, she started listening in on my phone calls, including one where I was elaborating to a friend on just how sucky that job was.) This woman had a theory that people write about what they're bad at. I can't think of any good examples right now, but maybe you know what I'm getting at.
I can't help but wonder why I write about porn. (And by "wonder," I mean "obsess.") What porn is not about is love, and yet I am beginning to suspect that porn is so not about love as to actually be about nothing but love. Or the lack thereof. If you have ever been on the set of a porn movie, you may understand there is not a lot of love in the room. Or you may not. I suppose it depends on where your head's at.
All of this is becoming more apparent to me as I write my novel. Because I think the novel isn't about porn at all. It's about love.
And that, if you haven't figured it out yet, is what I'm bad at.
I'm written the first 40 pages of my porn novel, Happy, and it's coming along. I've been calling it a "porn novel"--even though it isn't, not really, anyway. I guess that's my shorthand way of saying "a novel based on my experiences in Porn Valley."
The first section focuses primarily on Xerxes Xavier, the novel's main character. He's 34. He was born and raised in Arlington, Virginia. I've been redacting his occupation, although if you read this blog you may be able to figure out what he does from previous ruminations. Suffice to say, he lives in Virginia for a reason. Of course, the story takes him to Porn Valley, which is another world, and story, altogether.
In the second section, the lens pulls back a bit, beginning to interweave the stories of other characters, among them William Randolph Hearst IV, who is the editor in chief of the San Francisco Times, and Lucy, who is a reporter. Lucy, I suppose, is me. But Xerxes is me, too. So it's hard to say.
Sometimes, I think the novel is about the death of my father. Sometimes, I think it's about love. Sometimes, I think it's about madness. All I know is that the scene I wrote today stars a French midget chanteuse. And what is one to make of that?
I've got more to write--about waterboardings, flashpoints, suicides.
Earlier today, New York's culture blog, Vulture, ran an item about running into porn legend Ron Jeremy at BookExpo America. Jeremy expounded at length upon his best-selling autobiography, Ron Jeremy: The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz, now in paperback, particularly that it was a bestseller.
Jeremy opines book publishing is a harder business to understand than porn, declares he beat Jenna Jameson in European book sales, and disses his ghostwriter: "[Jenna Jameson] gets Neil Strauss, and I get Eric Spitznagel. He got a lot of stuff wrong. We were delayed by one year, the things he got wrong."
Spitznagel is a Reverse Cowgirl pal, so I shot him on email on the matter. His response follows.
"I don't recall the book being delayed for a year because of factual errors. From my memory, it was delayed because Ron was too busy hosting wet t-shirt contests and signing tits at strip clubs to meet with his ghostwriter. He was also unamused that I decided to write the book rather than, say, just transcribe his long, rambling monologues word for word, directly from the tape.
I do remember that he wasn't pleased with my first draft. He thought my version of events placed a little too much emphasis on his porn career.
'Every page is just sex, sex, sex,' he yelled at me. 'Why does it all have to be about sex?'
'Well, you're a porn star, Ron," I reminded him. 'I'm pretty sure that's what people are expecting.'
'What about my work with PETA?' He suggested. 'Can't we include a chapter about that?'
'Unless you fucked a sheep, I don't think anybody cares.'
I sincerely apologize to Ron for not being Neil Strauss. But honestly, I suspect that even Strauss would've been flummoxed with instructions like 'less stories about the Golden Age of porn, more stories about hanging out with Mickey Rourke and Frank Stallone.' I stand by my decisions, even if they weren't popular at the time. If I didn't argue with Ron, there would've been no mention of his ability to self-fellate, or that he was once involved in a 14 women gangbang and somehow didn't have a heart attack. Instead, the book would've had at least sixteen more stories about how Slash is a close, personal friend of his and, like, totally respects him. Ron may feel like he was shafted, but I like to believe I made the world a better place."
For the last month or month and a half, I've been working on a project that I can't talk about quite yet, but it involves sending out another book proposal, which is where it's at right now. (Hi, editors!)
In any case, the point of mentioning that is to say that between that and the blogging and the freelancing, I had gotten a bit sidetracked on the novel I am supposed to be writing, which is based on my experiences in Porn Valley. Which is to say I hadn't worked on it at all.
After all that time, I finally looked at it for the first time in a long time a few days ago, and it was messy. Very, very messy. I was mistrustful of this state of affairs, as I am not much of a drafter. When it comes out messy, it tends to be wrong. I would say that my approach to the novel that time around was ambitious: a big novel, broad in scope, lots of sturm with a side-helping of drang. But it was a mess, which I find to be... odious. In my defense, this attitude is genetic, I insist! My father was like this. Since then, I'd been thinking that perhaps I needed one character, one plot, one movement. Not Altman on crystal.
When I moved to New Orleans in September of 2003, I set out to write this novel. And at that time the central character was Xerxes Xavier. At that time, he was a writer. I mean, I think he was. What with everything that happened since, I have a hard time remembering. In any case, I've wondered since then if the first way was the right way. So I started wondering if I should toss what I'd written thus far and start over again with Xerxes as the main character, but a different Xerxes, in a way. Somebody hates it when I do this. I know this.
But I watched the truly beautiful video you see here (via Kottke), and I read this inspiring piece of writing about the creative process, and then I opened up a new Word document and started writing it.
"One clear day in May, Xerxes Xavier Jr. drives to the top of the Hollywood Hills. At the peak of the range, he stops by the side of the road, just past Mulholland Drive. Next to a redwood tree, he stands facing north, and the San Fernando Valley spreads out before him like a woman. From here, he surveys the great landscape: a 400-square-mile, pastoral valley floor bound by a series of dramatic mountain ranges. The Verdugo Mountains to the east. The San Gabriel Mountains to the northeast. The Santa Monica Mountains to the south. The Simi Hills to the west. The Santa Susana Mountains to the northwest. More than a century ago, California State Senator Charles Maclay overlooked this place and proclaimed: 'This is the garden of Eden!' Now, where conquistadores Californianos once galloped across wide-open ranges as cattle grazed serenely under Oak trees, there lies suburban America: tract homes, backyard pools, mini-malls. He has come a long way to get to this place. In the midday heat, the [redacted] stands in the dirt, not far from a road where no one is, bows his head, places one hand on his chest, says a prayer under his breath so no one can hear it, and dives in, headfirst."
I'm going to be reviewing Chuck Palahniuk's new novel, Snuff, for Radar Online, and I'm really looking forward to it. I've been interested in the book since word of it broke--oh, I don't know when, a year or so ago, maybe. For those of you who are not aware, it takes place on the set of a World's Biggest Gangbang movie of which an adult actress named Cassie Wright is the porn star looking to set a sexual world record. Apparently, and I can't imagine this is a spoiler given the title, she dies in the end. In any case, the publicist at Doubleday, the publisher, sent it to me in the mail yesterday, and I eagerly await it. I'm interested in Snuff because I was on the set of a World's Biggest Gangbang movie years ago. To be exact, it was "The World's Biggest Gang Bang III: The Houston 620." I'd moved to LA and started writing about the porn industry only about a year or so before, and this was the first time I'd experienced an event that I would refer to in my write up of it for Detour magazine as an "apocalyptic fuck." (That article also included the line: "The hole's name is Houston.") To say the experience was impactful would be a catastrophic understatement. In addition to writing about it, I was also covering it for a Playboy TV show that I was on at the time. Highlights of that experience included me saying to camera: "It smells like a sperm bank in here." Classy it wasn't. We, the crew and I, that is, were nervous going into it, but I'll never forget when we rounded the corner to the giant soundstage where it was taking place, and the line of men waiting to get inside snaked through the parking lot, and my jaw fell open, literally. We spent the next eleven hours in there, and I don't know that I emerged from that building the same. There were the ringers at the beginning. There was the Lazy Susan upon which Houston lay while the men descended upon her. There was the dorky Asian guy in glasses and a T-shirt and nothing else who freaked out because he wasn't getting his turn. There were the two middle-aged guys who looked like they were somebody's dad who double-teamed Houston and high-fived each other over her body. There was the plain and simple, undeniable fact that when Houston emerged for more after a break midway through, she had clearly been crying, but she did the rest of the guys anyway. There was the way the digital counter on the wall climbed higher and higher, even though there was no way there were 600 guys in there, although the number of men she had sex with that day was nothing to sneeze at. There was how it changed at a certain point, and it was like being in the jungle only the people were the animals. There was the guy with the Frankenpenis from the botched penile enlargement surgery. There was the moment I opened the bathroom door, hoping, I suppose, to get away from it all for a minute, and there was a guy in there filming two girls on the toilet. Today I would have to say that I can't say that I've been the same since. Only, that was a long time ago. And in the scope of everything that happened in terms of me and Porn Valley, that was only the beginning, really. So, I'm very interested to see how Palahniuk represents it. And find out what got Doubleday behind a gangbang snuff porn movie and compelled them to give its dead porn star her own Myspace page to promote it.
Late last week, after Deborah Jeane Palfrey, aka "the D.C. Madam," killed herself, an editor at Salon contacted me and asked if I would write a story on the subject. That story, "Death and the D.C. Madam," is now online. Special thanks to Melissa Gira, Bree Daniels, and the Anonymous Call Girl for letting me interview you. If you'd like to hear more from working girls and johns in their own words, you can visit my related project: Letters from Working Girls & Letters from Johns.
Update: Details of Palfrey's suicide notes released. [via Radar]
On May 1, Deborah Jeane Palfrey, better known as "the D.C. Madam," was found dead in a shed located behind her mother's Tarpon Springs, Fla., mobile home. Apparently, Palfrey, 52, hanged herself from a metal beam with a length of nylon rope. When her 76-year-old mother, Blanche Palfrey, called 911 just before 11 a.m., the emergency operator asked if her daughter was still hanging from the rafter. "Yes," said the madam's weeping mother, who had regularly accompanied her daughter to court the month previous, "I can't move her. I'm 76 years old."
The other day, a writer for the LA Times interviewed me for a story about a new book by Melanie Abrams, the wife of novelist Vikram Chandra--both teach at my alma mater--and the author of Playing, a novel in which the central character explores her inner-submissive by getting spanked. I wouldn't have known the book existed, but this journalist was calling to ask me about it, so I weighed in with some commentary about how nobody writes about sex in literature--except, you know, for the time Joyce called his wife "fuckbird." I yammered on about not liking erotica, said this book looked like erotica with a pedigree to me, and pondered the pending cultural significance of Snuff. The piece, "Literary Fiction Gets Kinky," ran in the paper today, and they got the URL of my blog wrong. They directed LA Times readers to ReverseCowgirl.com, which redirects to Condom Country. I just really hope that someone buys the Trojan Her Pleasure Vibrating Touch Massager because of me. While several other sites run by so-called sex writers were linked to not only correctly but directly in the article, my blog was not, continuing a legendary history of such incidents that began years ago with MSNBC.com and, I thought, had ended recently with Time.com. I'm not surprised, and the bottom line is that I don't really care, but it underscores that when it comes to publishing and sex, they never get it right. In other news, Bookslut Jessa Crispin attended the London Book Fair and wrote a very funny piece about what happens when people who write try and get sexy.
Update: So, later I went back to the LA Times website to see if they'd corrected the URL. And they had. They'd even linked it. To a new wrong URL. The link goes to ReverseCowgirl.blogspot.com, which would be great if you were looking for a fake blog entitled "Florida Lifestyle," filled with non sequitors and written by "faizal." Sigh.
Update #2: The link has been fixed. Hello, Hollywood. You're hot.
We are gathered here together in the conference center at 9:30 a.m. to “start a conversation on how to make publishing sexy.” At least that is how the London Book Fair Daily explains a panel titled “The Publishers Association Keynote: The Value of Publishing to Society.” And when the panelists shuffle in — some government wonks, a physicist, and the head of Random House, the least sexy conglomerate publisher I can think of — it’s clear I should have gone to the panel on the Romanian book market instead.
(via) Yesterday, my pal Xeni posted on Boing Boing about my renewed call for letters from johns and letters from working girls. Right now, I have about three times as many letters from johns as from working girls, so I'm very interested in hearing from more women. To clarify, working girls includes dancers, call girls, phone sex operators, porn stars, dominatrixes, and the like. If you've got a story to tell, or you think you have a story to tell but you're not sure, feel free to email me. One thing I've noticed is that men tend to write a letter and send it, while women are far more likely to contact me first and then write a letter. I'm not sure why this is the case. Yesterday, I received what is probably the most powerful letter from a john thus far. It's from John 30: "I Had Also Done Many Things During Two Deployments I Never Wanted To Do." In the comments on Boing Boing, Jacquilynne wrote: "I have to kind of wonder how much editing those letters are getting." The answer is very, very little. Generally, I do little more than fix punctuation in service of clarity: insert a comma there, stop a run on here, fix the spelling. To change the content of the letters would be contradictory to the nature of the project. But at times I do wonder if I should do anything to the letters at all. After all, I could simply do nothing to them and post them as they are. I do, though, wonder if that would hinder reader comprehension of what the letter writer is trying to say. And part of the point in all this is to bridge the gap between the unsaid and the unheard. Either way, I've posted the original version of John 30's letter here alongside the edited version. If you've got an opinion on the letter editing issue, let me know.
Update: Jacquilynne followed up again on the matter here. I'll take her remarks into consideration; she makes a good point, and yet also recognizes the conflict either way. Also, I suppose it bears mentioning that even without proofreading or editing, the letters are still "edited" in that they are selected at all. So, the great letters debate continues.
I HAD ALSO DONE MANY THING DURING TWO DEPLOYMENTS I NEVER WANTED TO DO (UNEDITED)
where to begin
Im a mid twenty something currently in the military. I have a stable girlfriend and several unstable yet available female friends. I am vastly overeducated for my job and am generally a well respected person. Im not too shabby in the looks department and am very seldom ridiculed. Generally being gone for a year at a time overseas is a terrible experience, every time ive gone its been a miserable series of events that makes suicide seem palatable. One day i decided to visit Toronto with some friends. After a complete failure at the bar scene i decided i could part with some money for some stress release. I had never bothered to resort to prostitution but i had also done many things during two deployments i never wanted to do. After the concierge at the hotel was appalled by my request for female companionship i hailed a cab and asked the best place to find a professional. He suggested the intersection of two streets named church and college respectively, this was very comical to me but i was eager to begin the adventure. Upon arriving i found a gaggle of women who were wearing what could only be described as whore uniforms. I decided on a young blond who seemed to fit the part. Negotiating the price during the cab ride back to the hotel we eventually made our way to my room finding many odd stares from hotel guests and the staff. This part was actually very exciting for some reason. In the room things began very fast and while thrilling it was obvious she was doing her job, which in a way was more arousing. After a seemingly endless 35 minutes of nervous thrusting I managed to complete my task which seemed the most satisfactory part of the evening to her. Pleasantries were exchanged and I handed over her garish clothing and sent her on her way. After a cigarette and some self soothe saying i managed to convince myself somewhat that the money was well spent and that I had a "good time". I would possibly seek companionship in this manner again but honestly it was a frightening act of depravity fueled by a complete loss of morals related to my murder for hire status in the military.
I HAD ALSO DONE MANY THINGS DURING TWO DEPLOYMENTS I NEVER WANTED TO DO (EDITED)
Where to begin.
I'm a mid-twenty-something, currently in the military. I have a stable girlfriend and several unstable yet available female friends. I am vastly overeducated for my job and am generally a well-respected person. I'm not too shabby in the looks department and am very seldom ridiculed. Generally being gone for a year at a time overseas is a terrible experience. Every time I've gone it's been a miserable series of events that makes suicide seem palatable. One day I decided to visit Toronto with some friends. After a complete failure at the bar scene I decided I could part with some money for some stress release. I had never bothered to resort to prostitution, but I had also done many things during two deployments I never wanted to do. After the concierge at the hotel was appalled by my request for female companionship, I hailed a cab and asked the best place to find a professional. He suggested the intersection of two streets named Church and College respectively. This was very comical to me, but I was eager to begin the adventure. Upon arriving I found a gaggle of women who were wearing what could only be described as whore uniforms. I decided on a young blond who seemed to fit the part. Negotiating the price during the cab ride back to the hotel, we eventually made our way to my room, finding many odd stares from hotel guests and the staff. This part was actually very exciting for some reason. In the room things began very fast, and while thrilling it was obvious she was doing her job, which in a way was more arousing. After a seemingly endless 35 minutes of nervous thrusting, I managed to complete my task, which seemed the most satisfactory part of the evening to her. Pleasantries were exchanged, and I handed over her garish clothing and sent her on her way. After a cigarette and some self soothe saying, I managed to convince myself somewhat that the money was well spent and that I had a "good time." I would possibly seek companionship in this manner again, but honestly it was a frightening act of depravity fueled by a complete loss of morals related to my murder for hire status in the military.
In "Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough," Lori Gottlieb's controversial polemic on what the hell love has to do with marriage (not a lot, she says), Gottlieb opines: "Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business." Maybe she's right. Maybe she isn't. I don't know. But I will say that the same could be said of writing. My paraphrase: "Writing isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a series of very small, mundane, and often boring acts undertaken in service of a business that rarely turns a profit." Maybe writing is like a marriage, one in which you can never quite make out what your spouse looks like. Or maybe writing is like a religion, one in which the true believer waits for a god who shows himself only through inscrutable signs. Yesterday, I had a fit over my novel-in-progress, Happy. I suppose this was inevitable. I am nothing if not an undoer. Luckily, the Harpoonist, a writer and book doctor, was there to help. Like an expert surgeon, she grabbed a scalpel and began slashing at the book on the operating table before her. Happy thanks her for the intervention that brought it back from the dead. If you are a writer whose book needs doctoring, I recommend the Harpoonist highly.
--"...[M]ost of the stuff that people write is shit." -- literary agent Ira Silverberg, "Shelf Esteem," Time Out New York
Yesterday, this blog's inclusion in Time.com's First Annual Blog Index, as well as mentions on Valleywag, del.icio.us, and various other venues, sent 10,000 visitors here. Originally, I launched the Reverse Cowgirl 1.0 in 2002. Back then, it was one of a handful of blogs devoted to sex in those days in which Daze Reader reigned supreme. Now, sex blogs are everywhere, some of the most popular ones little more than high-profile links portals to porn sites, and the most high-profile sex writer of the moment simply cannot write. In late 2003, I tore down the original version of the Reverse Cowgirl. Why? It's hard to say. I moved across the country. I wanted to put everything else I'd done behind me. Everything I'd said on that blog was something I no longer wanted to remember. So, I disappeared it--and me. I became the Invisible Cowgirl. Two years ago, I launched the Reverse Cowgirl 2.0, the one you are reading now. It's been a long road. For a long time, I didn't know what to say. Over time, I started blogging about things that were more personal. Now, I'm writing my novel, Happy. It's based on my experiences in Porn Valley. It's like coming full circle. I thought it would make me feel better. And it does. But sometimes it makes me wonder. Who would want to read it? After all, you can't unread what you've read. Once upon a time, I asked a porn writer why he thought people in Porn Valley do the things they do, and he replied: "Because they can." In Porn Valley, you see what anyone would do, given half a chance. Porn is truth. The rest? Lies.
Barry: I'm lookin' at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna fuckin' smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You're so pretty.
Lena: I want to chew your face, and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them and chew them and suck on them.
I'm a freelance journalist. I've written for Details, Harper's Bazaar, Newsweek,
Radar, Women's Health, Salon, Slate, The Guardian, The Daily Beast, The LA Weekly, The San Francisco Chronicle, Variety, Inc., Esquire, The Atlantic, and I'm a Forbes contributor. In 2008, TIME named me one of the best bloggers of the year. I've appeared on CNN, NPR, and "Politically Incorrect." [EMAIL]
My first piece for the Daily Beast, "Sex Wars: Sluts vs. Losers," in which I virtually mud wrestle with Grant Stoddard over the current state of the sexual double standard, is online.
