This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
ASK.
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Going through old notebooks, trying to remember what the fuck I was on when I decided to make a character web for the movie He’s Just Not That Into You.
Link reblogged from Electric Asherah: Whorrific with 8 notes
Electric Asherah: Whorrific: heavymetalharlot: I won’t see any client who hasn’t fully read my... →
I won’t see any client who hasn’t fully read my profile, but I’m not particularly surprised when they try to get away without reading it because that’s pretty standard lazy customer bullshit. The customer will always do the least work possible, I get it.
What genuinely…
Considering the number of men out there who can’t read and comprehend a simple fifty-word craigslist post, this doesn’t surpsise me. I blame our schools.
Source: heavymetalharlot
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“When I went to my very first sf convention, which was Worldcon in 1966, I’d already published six or seven novels. A very young man came up to me and said, ‘You wrote a book called Babel-17?’ I said ‘Yes, indeed I did.’ He said, ‘That stuff, where three people get together and they all do it at once … is that possible?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ And he gave an immense sigh of relief and turned around and walked away. At which point I thought, ‘I am doing something right.’”
—Samuel R. Delany
I wish they would have sourced this quote, because I can’t remember where it came from though I remember it clearly.
Source: vintageanchor
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June 20th, I’m going to have to go to Phantom of the Attic, and I’m pissed. I don’t want to have to buy this.
I’ve never loved DC comics, save the occasional Batman graphic novel. I’ve been a lifelong devotee; some of my earliest childhood memories are watching the X-Men on Fox Kids. When I started buying comics, I bought X-Men comics. My highschool years would have been sadder had they not included Ultimate Colossuses and his naive love for Will & Grace.
But then there was the decimation. I conciouslly resist capitializing “decimation”. The Decimation, as it occured in the aftermath of House of M, was not just a plot point, but rather a sad, irrevocable, simplifying death-blow to America’s only truly diverse team of supes. The initial months of the post-apocalypse looked good—Beast traversed nations looking for a cure at the end of issues suffused with true, human emotions. Then San Francisco and vampires happened. They’ve never recovered, and they never will, without a much-needed retcon. My masochistic great-white-hope is that the Disney buy-out will let that happen. Things need despretately to simplefy. For a while, I wanted to write Marvel comics. Right now, I don’t.
I don’t even want to tell you what’s happened to Northstar in recent years, except to say it wasn’t too long ago he was a murderous zombie.
My initial reaction? Was this a response to the recent headline that someone from DC is coming out? (How long does it take to drum up some cover art?)
I’m pretty much done with this entry. I’m breaking off again without trying too hard to make a full, detailed response. I haven’t once used the word “assimilation”. It always will be, it always has been, I’ve realized, about selling books. I feel a little less bad about pirating now. But I’ll buy this book—for the same reason I look for Alpha Flight #106 (Northstar’s coming out, his lengendary duel with Major Mappleleaf), because any representation is, I suppose, good representation in a media which has denied my existentce for most of its life—until my existence became a a selling point.
Do any kids read comics anymore? I don’t think I’d want my child to read this. A gay marriage means a gay honeymoon, right? We’ll see. I’m not holding my breath. If the bulging bustlines are equivalent to the crotch lines in Marvel Comics, I’m looking forward to a 27” post-marital erection. God forbid.
(And mind you, I want all of this commentary to exclude the prescence of Doop on the cover. Any Doop is good Doop. I am and have always been and will always be pro-Doop. Go Doop. Doop 2012. Yes, Doop.)
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This is, I think, what the Ezra Jack Keats award tries to change with picture books. Is there an equivalent for young adult books?
So, so important. And timely, for me!
What the fuck is one “presenting as female”?
I can understand “ambiguous race”. I’ve used the term myself before. Rashida Jones, for example. Only the seven people who watched that episode of NBC’s “Who Do You Think You Are?” know what the fuck she is.
But come on, what fucking politcally correct asshole can decide that 90% of models featured on the cover of YA novels (without, presumabely, knowing the actual models) can decide that the models are white but is unable to make the statement that they “are” female, has to say “presenting as female”?
Apparently, the dominance of the companies of PC War are changing. The Cissphobia Police are more feared than the Racism Police.
I’m not sure I want to live in a world where a model who looks like a female on the cover of a book about a female being marketed to females and written by a female can’t safely be called a female.
(That’s a reaction to the image itself. I’ve clicked-through and read, but I’ve no desire to foment a more cogent response.)
Source: katehart.net
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![vintageanchor:
“ I was telling stories before I could write. I like to tell stories, and I like to talk to things. If you]ve read fairy tales, you know that everything can talk,from trees to chairs to tables to brooms. So I grew up thinking that, and I turned it into stories. ” — J. California Cooper
I’ve never read this woman, but I ought to read this woman because I always see her name when I’m bored and horny at the library and looking for Dennis Cooper’s books.
***Which makes me think, I ought write about why now I only read Dennis Cooper when I’m bored and horny (or more likely, bored and stoned or drunk and horny) and how he was my god of fiction at fifteen.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m42o7u8Hho1qd9a66o1_400.jpg)
“ I was telling stories before I could write. I like to tell stories, and I like to talk to things. If you]ve read fairy tales, you know that everything can talk,from trees to chairs to tables to brooms. So I grew up thinking that, and I turned it into stories. ”
— J. California Cooper
I’ve never read this woman, but I ought to read this woman because I always see her name when I’m bored and horny at the library and looking for Dennis Cooper’s books.
***Which makes me think, I ought write about why now I only read Dennis Cooper when I’m bored and horny (or more likely, bored and stoned or drunk and horny) and how he was my god of fiction at fifteen.
Source: vintageanchor
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I
hate it when you have the poem in your head, and it’s about one thing, and you write it and it’s no good, so you rewrite it, and it’s better, but then it’s about another thing. I hate it because that’s what always happens, what has to happen, but I never see it coming.
Link reblogged from Electric Asherah: Whorrific with 41 notes
The Only Elise Archer Who Counts: sex work and the burden of intimacy →
okay so I wrote this in my head while I was in a booking and it’s late and i’m a bit drunk and i’m watching an HILARIOUS budget horror flick about the US military vs camel spiders (LOL METAPHOR how do u american xenophobic paranoia) and it might not all come out very good or awesome the way it was…
So yeah. Sex work, and intimacy. I will admit to being a pretty stereotypical happy positive sex worker in some ways, especially with all of my white educatedness and stuff.
But for ME the great gift of sex work has been learning about intimacy, and boundaries, finding mine, and setting mine, and routine practice enforcing them. (Hey, I just submitted an essay about this very thing to Ms. Behaved.) And I just kind of can’t imagine going into sex work with the idea that this will be all about offering very special intimacy to all of my clients. And Ms. Everythingbutharleyquinn explains the horror and difficulty and complexity of intimacy with clients really really well.
I hate being the token sex worker in a group and having to play spokeman and saying, “You know, it really isn’t about the sex; it’s about intimacy,”
because as much as I love a man who wants to rub my feet while we watch Ren & Stimpy
or discuss Cavafy and show me his photographs,
sometimes I just want to blow you and go home.
Source: everythingbutharleyquinn
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Who would I be today if I never had sex?
If I waited for someone I loved?
If I waited for someone I was daiting?
If I lost my virginity to another virgin?
If I waited for seventeen, or sixteen?
If I lost it to someone my own age?
If the first time I was on top?
If I’d tried it with a girl?
If I hadn’t used a condom?
(There should be an entry, forthcoming, about the use of condoms. I can count the times I didn’t use condoms. I can’t count the times I’ve had sex.)
If the first time I’d only done oral?
If the first time wasn’t good?
(He was a stranger.)
If it hurt?
(He was big. One of the biggest I’ve had. Does it ever hurt the first time? You hear talk of adrenaline rushes. I was listening to Californication on repeat those days.)
If I’d never pierced my dick?
(The timeline’s hazy here. I know I pierced my dick sometime around my sixteenth birthday, which was sometime around the time I first got fucked. I remember part of the psychological underpinning for piercing my dick was that I’d need a month to recover, that I couldn’t hook-up. Was I delaying a repeat performance or the initial repose? It was probably two months after the first, a month after the first time bareback, when I didn’t know how to say “Yes, but…” When I thought everything was either yes or no.)
If I were uncut, and he wasn’t, or if he was uncut?
(The first uncut dick I sucked. I remember that. He was small, and German born. He told me how on Sesame Street there, the opening number had a bunch of naked kids dancing around. He loved classical music, and he said, “they left you your frenum, and you put a needle through it.”
A year and a half later, he fucked me again, but it was like lifetimes in the future. The first tiime, I hadn’t thought of myself as a sex-worker. When fear, uncertainty are lost, the magic is lost, too. That last time was a transaction.)
I remember now the first man in Philly who paid me to fuck him. He was a regular. I was funny about bottoming that first year. I don’t remember why, but it probably had a lot to do with the shared bathrooms in the dorm. There was nowhere comfortable to douche. He had a parrot and collected firefighter memorablia. I could show you his building. He was a regular, but then he wanted me to bottom, and I asked for more money then and never saw him again. I remember seeing him two years later, which was like lifetimes in the future. He was sitting on the front stoop with a young guy, petting his hair. I was tripping balls; he didn’t notice me. That moment stuck. I’d never thought of myself as replacable.
Who isn’t replacable?
So what are we waiting for?
(If I’d waitied, or if I’d been born years later, I’d have been given Guardasil, I’d have one less thing to worry about. I can’t think of any other identifiable difference.)
The preemminent what-if, of course, is what if that first man, the one I haven’t yet mentioned, is What if that man hadn’t taken me to the Motel 6 and paid me to probe my ass with stiff plastic dildos—i.e., what if I hadn’t been offered money for sex? I’m not ready, right now, to think about that.)
You can’t think about sex without thinking about your first time, but the truth of the matter is I’ve had many first times:
The first time I plaid with myself,
The first time I saw another dick,
The first time I looked at my asshole in a mirror,
The first time I saw a hard dick,
The first time I measured my dick,
The first time I saw porn,
The first time I fingered myself,
The first time I stuck something other than a finger up my ass,
The first time I came,
The first time I took a picture of my dick,
The first time I made an internet hook-up,
The first time I got fucked,
The first time I had bareback sex,
The first time I topped,
The first time I could have had sex but was too afraid to ask for it,
The first time I was paid for sex,
My first toy,
The first time I shaved off all my pubic hair,
The first time I fucked a virgin,
My first boyfriend,
The first time I slept in another guy’s bed,
The first time I had sex while high,
The first time I had sex while drunk,
The first time I had sex while tripping,
The first time I had sex when I didn’t want to,
The first time I had sex without coming,
The first time I engaged in heavy fetish play,
The first time I tried to count how many people I’d had sex with,
The first time I videotaped other people having sex without participating,
The first time I told someone I was sex worker,
And there’s more, but I’m getting bored. What I’m thinking is that there’s so many firsts that a single what-if interogative is inconceivable. The only one that would fit would be, “What if I were a nonsexual being?” That’s like asking, “What if I were a panda?”
(I feel like, now, getting bored with writing, and trying to be conclusive, I’m losing the energy I built up in remembering all this. My drive is to dig out my old notebooks, the records of my behavior, but they won’t satisfy anything. So I’ll just stop Now.)
The poets start the party and dance the longest, but they don’t know how to plug in the audio system, and they have to wait for the prose writers to show them where the on/off switch is. In general, poets do not know where the on/off switch is, anywhere in life. They are usually off unless they are forcibly turned on, and they stay on until they are taken to the emergency room, where they are medicated and turned off again.
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And the last few minutes were graceful.
Really, beautiful.
For what would I give up 30mg of the namebrand shit? Probably not really nice shoes.
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