On James Deen, Darkness and the Erotic

Last night I was reading about porn star James Deen and his multiple accusations of sexual harassment and rape. (See also: Adult Film Star James Deen Labeled The "Bill Cosby of Porn.")

And yes yes, his reported behavior was beyond jerky, violent and pretty fucking creepy. It's some serious %#@#, if the accusations are indeed true. And I tend to believe multiple accusers instead of the dude going, "Whaa...? Liars!"

And yet. There is a vast difference between how the regular, sensible brain and erotic brain perceive the world. I have a huge thing for James Deen. (As does he. Huge thing, that is. Sorry.) As I read, I became somewhat enchanted by one of the complaints in which he came up behind Ashley Fires and pressed his erect cock into her bum.

“I was getting out of the shower of the communal bathroom at Kink, I reach for my towel to dry off, and [Deen] comes up from behind me and pushes himself and his erection into my butt,” said Fires in Daily Beast. “He pushes me against the sink and starts grabbing on me and I was like, ‘No, no, no James, no,’ and he released me from his grasp.”

****

This morning, instead of donating to NOW or supporting my fellow women on social media, I somehow ended up watching James Deen porn .*

And it was insanely hot.

The man is so fucking intense, present and seemingly so into it that he's practically growling. I absolutely love the way that man porn fucks.

So. I tell you this because I have no filter, but also because it reminds me of what Esther Perel writes about eroticism in Mating In Captivity. (If you're feeling settled there and read-y, here's a long but super interesting piece she wrote on erotic intelligence.) "Sexual desire is politically incorrect, often thriving on power plays, role reversals, unfair advantages, imperious demands, seductive manipulations and subtle cruelties," she notes.

The erotic lives--and thrives--in places of darkness and the forbidden. Whether we like it or not.

Adult actress Sydney Leathers said she was told of Deen, "He has boundary issues, basically...he tries to break women." And instead of thinking "What a fuckhead!"--as one should totally totally do, I get that--God help me, I was intrigued. To break a woman....it's just so heavy and dark. What would it take to break a woman? To break me?

I realized that if James Deen showed up at my backside pressing his hard-on into my bum, well, my friend, I would fuck the shit out of him. Still. Maybe even more so now.

Not sure what that might mean for you (or me) today, but I'm putting it there in your brain if you'd like to fidget with it.

xoxo
jill

*New link.  Had accidentally put up a weird clean version. Which. What's the point?

Vagina Cupcakes

Okay, vagina cupcakes, I have
used you.  Now, begone from
my computer!

The other day the cable guy was at our house connecting our Internet and needed to tinker about on my computer. After he left, I went to glory in the sorely-missed wonders of Home Internet, but when I walked over to my computer, I couldn't help but notice the big ol' file sitting right smack in the middle of my computer screen. It's name? "Vagina Cupcakes." Yes, Vagina Cupcakes. Even if Cable Guy was wanting to believe it was a perfectly normal file (and I'm guessing he sorely did), I can't even imagine any file named Vagina Cupcakes that would not be something completely unsavory. (To his credit, Cable Guy didn't bat an eye.)

I am not a packrat in real life (quite the contrary, if you must know), but virtually, I'm a hoarder. I keep things stowed on my computer because I think I might need them someday--just like why your grandma saves those packets of soy sauce from the Chinese restaurant. If anyone has a emergency requiring tiny squirts of low quality soy sauce, well, voila, she saves the day! This is why I had stored a photo of some cupcakes decorated as vaginas front and center on my computer. Months ago, a kind reader had sent the photo suggesting I might use it for...something, so I dutifully kept it. A smarter person would have named the file something benign like "Taxes 1997" or something, but I have a bad memory and can't keep track of such subterfuge. It's a picture of vagina cupcakes, so I named it Vagina Cupcakes, dammit!  

And Vagina Cupcakes are just the beginning--that's the kind of thing I have out on my desktop, for anyone to see. My bookmarks are even worse. It is there that I keep the items that I might one day trot out for you, gentle reader. Among the things that reside there are (and don't say I never warned you):

1. 
   
   An article on MILF porn.
2. A web site for a Fursuit Cleaners. Fursuits, you may recall, are the animal costumes that some folks like to don while banging other folks dressed in fursuits. (Strategically-placed flaps facilitate the process, if you're wondering) The cost of a fursuit cleaning, btw, is $75. I would charge more--WAY more--but that's just me.
3. "A History of the Buttocks."
4. Info on a talking vibrator.
5. Something entitled: "The Pussy Snorkel."
6. Also, a recipe for garlic chicken, but that probably doesn't fit the theme here.

I don't know what I'll do if my computer ever has to go in for service because, after a few months of this blog, my computer is toxic, and should probably taken in for questioning. I mean, my search history alone, what with its weird sex toys, fascination with other people's odd (to me) fetishes and excessive interest in the female condom, is enough to run me and my nasty-ass computer out of town.

Even the blog is pretty iffy--I can barely even look at it in public. For example, right now, I am in a cafe in a small town in Michigan, surrounded by wholesome-looking, pale Michiganians. Whenever I need to sort of park my computer for a minute, I try to stop on an acceptable part of my blog. Naked lady picture at the top of the blog? No--scroll down! Talk of "female penile handling"? No! Picture of a dildo? Anal bleaching? Ice butt reference? Ack! No, no and NO! 

I know it's 2010, I write a sex blog and I should just get over it and be out and proud--get used to it!--but I'm just not there yet. So I'll talk freely with you, Internet Stranger, about such things, but Mrs. White-Haired Lady Over There At The Other Table, I won't be sharing my feelings about fursuits with you today.  And for that, I think we will both be grateful.

How I Became An "Anal Bleaching Expert"

Hey there. Are you busy? Google the phrase "anal bleaching expert" (with the quotes). Go ahead, I'll wait.... Do you see what I mean?

YES, to my horror, I am now the stinkin' top hit for "anal bleaching expert." How can this be? I mean, I only wrote one post about anal bleaching--okay, fine, I wrote two--but that's not the point. The point is that I'm placing the blame for all this squarely on the shoulders of the newly-hateful* Stephenson Billings, writer for parody extremist Christian web site ChristWire. (At least I certainly hope it's a fake site.)

In his post, Anal Bleaching, For the Sodomite Who Wants to Look His Best, Billings warns his readers of the horrors of anal bleaching, citing the In Bed With Married Women post Is Your Anus Looking Its Whitest?, and referring to me as an "anal bleaching expert." When I saw this, I replied something to him like, "Oh great, now I am an anal bleaching 'expert,'" noting that I would need to print up new business cards.

At this point, Billings cruelly referred to me again--in bold letters no less--as Anal Bleaching Expert Jill Hamilton. Well, that did it. ChristWire has a gazillion readers and before I could sputter impotently, "But, wait a minut...", I had become...Anal Bleaching Expert Jill Hamilton. Which, now that I see it in all caps, sounds like a really unhelpful Superhero.

Few things would please me more than seeking revenge on Billings, but I am stymied about what to do.  What could I do, really, that would be worse than linking his name in cyberspace forever to the phrase "anal bleaching expert"? So I guess I have no choice but to embrace Who I Am. So to potential employers, my daughters' future beaus, and others who Google me to check my reliability, character, etc...I say, Yes--hear me loud, hear me proud--I am Anal Bleaching Expert Jill Hamilton and there's not damn thing I can do about it!

(*Note: I do not actually find Stephenson Billings to be hateful. I mean, this has to be the best joke anyone has played on me, ever.)