I'm gonna be honest. This elusive review has been pleasantly haunting me for a year now! GeekySexToys very kindly sent me this amazing RIP paddle that looks like a freaking gravestone, and I packed it away somewhere, figuring I'd get to it. That was last Halloween, and the ghost of the RIP Paddle has been hovering just out of my peripheral vision, whispering "why hast thou forsaken meeeeeeeee".

I'm sorry it took so long, dear reader, because this paddle is really cool. My "I love all things Halloween" side and my "I'm an undead vampire slash Juggalo and will never die" side both are totally obsessed with it. Not only is it pretty hefty (it's made of silicone) but it's sterilizable (it's made of silicone, *wink*). At 11" long and 4" wide, it's gonna pack a mighty wallop that will wake the dead. And it's just so terribly cute!

It's 100% silicone which means that it is flexible. Not overly so, but you can definitely let the paddle do a lot of the

work in terms of movement, which might be good if you have wrist issues. This baby can slap for you, no problem! I used it on my thigh when I first got it and marveled at how it managed to be thuddy and slappy at the same time. It's quite the toy, and perfect for any horror movie fans or Victorians traipsing about your house. 

When you look into the RIP Paddle, also check out the other offerings at GeekySexToys, especially if you have a nerd fandom. My D&D playing self loves the D20 ballgag, for example, and my Pokemon Go playing self loves the various Pokemon themed toys. Christmas is coming, after all, and you (or your partner!) could be coming, too. Just saying. 

Here's a guide to the 5 top escort agencies!

So you're here because you've considered booking an escort, and you want to know how to do it in an ethical, polite way. Good! Like with any service provider, you are way more likely to have a good experience if you treat your worker with respect and professionalism. But when sex work is stigmatized, it can be difficult to find good advice and information on how to accomplish that. How much should you tip? Is it a bad idea to bring wine or chocolates? What should you wear?

Fear not, my questioning friend. I've got you.

Read Their Site
Sex workers will typically have all the information they're legally able to give you right there on the website - what their rates are, their proportions, their age, their location. Don't reach out to a worker to ask this information again if it's on their site, because that will make you look like a time waster! By doing your research, you can start your booking on a positive foot, demonstrating that you are considerate. This is also a great way to learn some things that you could do to delight the sex worker you book - perhaps she's really interested in Scotch, or she likes sexy lingerie. By looking through what she says about herself and her interests, you show her that you care about what she says even before you're chatting with each other. We like that.

Know The Laws

Having worked in the US and the UK, the laws are *vastly* different. In the US, any even vague discussion of sex for compensation was potentially going to land me in jail, so most negotiation had to happen after we met (something that can be super dangerous for workers, btw). This was also true in Scotland when I worked up there. In London, however, I was able to be far more upfront about what my sexual and intimate limits were, alongside my likes, which made me feel safer and the client feel more heard. Whenever a client wasn't aware of the laws and would try to get me to be more specific, I would immediately assume they were a cop and cut them off. Know what the laws are and word your request accordingly. 

Respect Boundaries

Don't ever try to negotiate someone's rates. Imagine if someone called you to hire you for your skills and expertise, and then tried to pay you half for that experience and your time? It'd be insulting. The same holds true for sex work, my friend! Respect the person you're chatting with's boundaries, whether that be when it's ok to contact them, how much their rates are, or what kind of session they're willing to do. By respecting boundaries from the jump, you're demonstrating that you know what boundaries are, and that you respect me as a person enough to listen to them without whining or pushing. I wish I didn't have to underline this one, but from what I hear, it still happens far too often. This is not a haggling business.

Dress to Impress

This is an arrangement, sure, but it's also a strange ground between a business meeting and a date. Dress appropriately, from head to toe and all the way down to your socks and skivvies! How you dress is up to you - certainly wear something that feels comfortable - but wear something you'd wear on a first date or at a business casual party. I'm going to show up looking my best, and I want to meet you at your best too. Comb that hair, trim the beard, scrub beneath your fingernails. We will absolutely notice if you don't. 

Pay Like A Gentleman

The ritual of payment can be an awkward one - giving your sex worker the money, him checking in in whatever way he's comfortable - but it doesn't really have to be. I personally preferred it when my clients would give me my payment upfront in a card, usually a thank you card of a friendship card. That way it wasn't super obvious, but it was also a nice gesture that made it feel like an endearing ritual instead of a cold transaction. Every sex worker has their own preferences, so it's good to figure out what those are and follow those instructions. Definitely pay upfront, and definitely pay the entire amount. I had to march one guy to an atm during our session before we could do anything, and that ate into his time while also making me feel a bit resentful and suspicious. Don't do it.

I hope these 5 tips for your first time booking an escort helps you traverse the experience. It can be a little scary the first time, but with some common sense under your belt, you'll be just fine! You can check out more useful information here. 

With Chanel Miller coming out about being raped by Brock Turner, Aaron Carter coming out as a survivor, the Kavanaugh hearings, #MeToo, Bill Cosby’s conviction, cops being called out for sending sexual abuse victims lewd messages, and on, and on, and on… there’s been an overwhelming amount of talk about consent, particularly sexual consent, over the last couple of years. More often than not, the people accused of rape and abuse end up seeing little or no consequences, so every success, however minor, feels huge. There’s a lot of calls to action, protests, people speaking up online and in their communities about flushing out rapists and having some actual consequences. Which is great! Sorely needed, and long overdue.

However, while it’s easy to weigh in when it comes to situations on a national scale, all of these same issues have existed in our social circles, and many of us don’t really know how best to handle them. Do we banish people? Do we attack them? Do we report them to the police? Do we share our stories amongst ourselves?

Any of these responses can be useful, or could make the trauma worse. Unfortunately, there’s no one-size-fits-all for dealing with abusers in our community. But there are some things we can keep in mind when engaging with all this information to help guide us on how best to handle things in our own lives. None of the information I’m offering here is a fix — it’s also not the best or only way, just the way I’ve learned to work with people in my activism as the editor of the anthology “Ask: Building Consent Culture”.

Anyone Can Be An Abuser

One thing I hear a lot of is “but they seemed so nice!” Often abusers do seem really nice. Some even go out of their way to seem like a good ally to marginalized people. They also surround themselves with people who believe wholeheartedly in their “niceness”, as a way to camouflage themselves. They can then use these people to support them and harass the survivor speaking up into silence. Many times these people have repeatedly done the shitty behavior, and they get away with it because so many people are willing to defend them as being “a good person”.

Whenever I do a workshop on consent culture, I like to ask who has ever violated someone’s consent. Often people are very hesitant to raise their hands, because we like to think of ourselves as good people who would never cross a boundary. I strongly believe, however, that being in a white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy means that we are consciously and subconsciously crossing each other’s boundaries all the time, not necessarily with bad intentions, but because we’re taught that assertively pushing for what we want is ok, praised, even. If we accept that anyone is capable of abusive behavior, we can be better situated to not only be less defensive when a friend is held accountable, but also when we ourselves need to be held accountable.

What Does Restorative Justice Look Like?

The prison industrial complex often fails rape victims (see Brock Turner, though he’s not the only example in recent years) and focuses more on accountability through punishment rather than reformation. In fact, it actively works against taking ownership for behavior, as that would be an admission of guilt. Therefore, many activists and survivors have turned to community-driven alternatives like restorative justice, wherein the focus is on creating a container for tough love and growth instead of isolation. Groups like the Bay Area Transformative Justice Collective are pulling together resources to try and consolidate work on making a template for this process. The hope is that community engagement will help the survivor not feel alone while also creating an expectation that the abuser will reflect, create an action plan for accountability, and be held to not doing it again. Since many rapists are repeat offenders, the hope is that this will transparently warn the community of their behavior as well as demand that behavior changes. Additionally, rapists who feel remorse tend to be less likely to assault again, while those who blame the victim are more likely to reoffend — restorative justice can be a way for the survivor to affirm their personhood to their abuser, helping them heal.

That said, restorative justice has also been under a lot of fire recently. There aren’t many public examples of how a community can create this process for themselves, so a lot can go wrong, especially when it comes to community follow through. Social capital can warp a restorative justice process and make it more damaging to the survivor than it is healing. Many times the survivor doesn’t want to participate in the process due to trauma, which is understandable, and they may feel anger at restorative justice being the path chosen, as some see it as “cheap justice” instead of a real punishment. In my experience, how much of an impact restorative justice can have depends a lot on the situation, the community involved, and if that community does walk the walk when it comes to being accountable to each other. If the community isn’t interesting in holding an abuser to their plan of action and rehabilitation, then the whole thing falls apart.

Center the Survivor’s Needs

If someone comes to you and discloses that they’re the survivor of abuse, it can be really intense. It’s important to remember that you’re not a trained professional! You can ask what you can do to help them feel safe right now, and you can refer them to resources with professionals more capable of offering specialized help. It isn’t your responsibility to figure out guilt. Believe the survivor’s experience. Statistically, it’s more likely that their consent was violated than that the survivor is making a false accusation.

But maybe the person coming to you says it’s a friend of yours who caused them harm. What then? It’s useful to remember that part of being in a community is helping each other, and part of helping each other includes mutual accountability. You might be asked to be part of a mediation process, helping to hold your friend to an agreed on plan of action to prevent that harm being done again. Most importantly, don’t discuss what the survivor tells you with your friend unless they specifically consent. Respect their agency.

How To Help Someone Reflect and Grow

I’ve found that the best way to help someone else reflect and grow is to model the behavior I want to see from them. Be pensive instead of defensive, center the survivor instead of your own feelings, and recognize that being called out is a signal of trust that you will work on your behavior. It’s a work in progress, of course, but it’s valuable to remember that our relationship to and understanding of consent is a living thing.

That said, when people around you say something reflective of rape culture or misogyny — push back against it. I’ve found that when my friends tell a joke that leans on punching down at more marginalized people, asking them why the joke is funny often gets them reflecting on the stereotypes involved. This is especially vital when you’re in community with someone accused of rape or abuse, because it demonstrates that these attitudes aren’t going to be brushed under the rug, no matter how innocuous the person with the attitude is claiming to be.

Also… suggest sober hang outs. Studies have suggested that if men are drunk or high, they don’t tend to view sexual assault as such (men were specifically used for this study, but it is not absurd to believe this would be true across the board--men are not the only ones who rape, after all). They also often use being intoxicated as an excuse for their entitled behavior. One of the most supportive things you can do is not give them the opportunity to use that excuse. Added benefit? It’ll give your sober friends more things to do, as many social activities revolve around alcohol… and don’t need to.

Holding People Accountable VS Emotional Labor

All of this, of course, is a lot of work. No one said community was easy! While it’s vital to hold your friends and yourself accountable (and to see that as a form of self care) it’s also important to give yourself some space to see where you’re at. How are you feeling? Are you eating enough, drinking enough water, remembering to take your meds?

Sometimes doing this sort of work can feel never ending, and a lot of people burn out, thus not only feeling terrible but also leaving the community at large one person short for helping build something better. Taking care of yourself is important for you to help take care of others. Be honest with yourself, though — avoidance isn’t self care, after all.

Sometimes, It’s Not Enough

You might do everything in your power to hold your friend accountable for their actions past and present, and they don’t take the steps to learn and grow. It’s unfortunate when that happens, but it’s also not uncommon. You may find yourself reconsidering if this person is someone you want to continue to be close to — being close to them can imply to outside observers that you condone their behavior, and you may feel unable to give them any more of your energy.

It’s worth remembering that sometimes the friends of an abuser can provide the best tough love when it comes to getting someone they’re close with to reflect. Still, you can’t make someone change, either. You may need to distance yourself if you feel like your attempts to help this person take ownership aren’t going anywhere, and that’s ok. They may not be ready to change. But hopefully, with this guide, you’ve been able to change and grow yourself.

Further Resources:

INCITE! on community accountability
Critical Resistance with resources for addressing harm

A few years back, I had a terrible breakup and was an absolute and total mess. My friends, well meaning as they were, suggested I soothe my pain by going out into the woods to meditate and get in touch with myself. Anyone who has known me for any length of time will know that I am not woo enough for that to be a good idea, especially when I’m feeling wrecked. Communing with nature is not my idea of soothing most of the time, and even if I’m on shrooms or something (which makes that communing easier) it’s probably not a good idea for me to wander by myself.

So I did what effectively works like communing with nature, Kitty-style - I ran away to Vegas.

In order to fund my escapism trip, I still had to work, so I put up an ad on Craigslist to try and scoop up a couple of sex work clients to help me buy food and gas while I was there. Slixa Las Vegas didn’t yet exist for escort ads, so I had to make do - and wow, did I get some strange clients from that ad.

There was the guy who asked me to come gamble with him at a bar at like, 4 am, and he got upset when I turned $5 into $100 and then stopped gambling. I guess I was missing the point by not continuing until I lost my gains? While I struggled to cut my losses with dating, though, I knew when to do it as it pertained to money. I left our “date” regretting nothing.

Or there was the woman who hit me up and said I should meet her at a strip club where she worked. Assuming she was a stripper, I showed up with ones to tip her. She was a cute butch who worked dispatch in the back. She thought the mistake was hilarious, and we had a nice night of making out and talking about queer culture.

There was the guy who had me pretend to be his girlfriend, with a whole scenario that involved me showing up and saying certain phrases, like he was reliving something. I enjoyed him, and understood the desire to replay a scenario and try different things until it worked out right. He was also a great cuddler, and tipped well.

My friend and host was working as a stripper at the time, and I liked to try to go see her at work. However, being a woman proved to be a difficulty- in order to get into the club, I needed male accompaniment to prove I wasn’t on the prowl for clients. I worked around this by finding men at nightclubs and offering to teach them how to be good strip club clients if they’d be my companion for the evening. I met some rad people this way, and it was kind of a fun challenge!

Working off of Craigslist was always touch and go, frankly. I think if I was out in Vegas now, I would probably use a site like Slixa to advertise, both for the quality of the clients and frankly for my safety. I’m lucky that the time I spent out there was at worst, kind of weird, and at best actually genuinely fun.

When Lodbrock contacted me asking if I wanted to review their gorgeous Pillory Set, I was beyond excited. Lodbrock's site is filled with luxurious BDSM equipment that manages to look both medieval and elegant. The Pillory Set is the empress at the top, in my opinion, with a full kit that not only includes the pillory itself and various accessories to install it from your ceiling (if so inclined), but also a blindfold, flogger, and paddle, all in a beautiful brown leather. 

When I received the box, the packaging was so subtle I initially believed it was the pantry shelving my housemate and I had ordered for our kitchen. Imagine my surprise when I pulled out a wooden box made of sweet-smelling cedar instead of 5 shelves! Worth noting, though, that the wooden box, while very securely packaged to avoid damage, was very very difficult to free from its packaging. I really wish it had straps or handles of some kind, because something this heavy and bulky will be difficult to move around without them. Leather belts would work in a pinch, and make it more possible to tuck this under a bed or couch when company comes over.

I mean, unless you have the kind of company who is coming over specifically to check out this equipment, in which case...

That's pretty much what happened with Shodan, a gorgeous cosplay model I know who was very interested to check out the Pillory Set and take some photos for me. I know, what great friends I have, right? She offered to take the Pillory Set with her for a photo shoot with Jason Scragz (and patronize her on Patreon if you wanna see the whole set, which you probably do, because yowza). 

The pillory itself comes with a set of magnetized leather padded bits that fit inside the neck and wrist holes, which both works to offer some softness and also to make the holes a little harder for small wristed filks to wiggle out of. I like that they're magnetized, which makes it easier to apply them smoothly. It also comes with chains and fittings, forged by Lodbrock, to make it easy to install this unit on the ceiling if you so desire. I thought that was a nice touch.

Shodan did agree with me that the box could use some handles for ease of carrying. While the box is made of cedar, the pillory is made with New Zealand pine. Both smell incredible, but also are heavy! 

Also cool is that the Pillory Set comes with a flogger, two-sided paddle, and blindfold, making this a cute kinky collection. All are a pretty brown leather, sort of a blend between steampunk and like something from the Sleeping Beauty series by A. N. Roquelaure.

I did wish the flogger was braided instead of wrapped, as I think it would hold up better to use over time if it had the added structure, but it's a nice addition to any kinkster's toy collection. The paddle, which has rivets on one side and not the other, is lovely and something I can imagine packing for a weekend trip - it has a nice sting without being too sharp. And the blindfold, while simply cut out of leather with a cord to bind it on, works well to keep the light out so your play partner can anticipate the next impact. 

What's really exciting is that Lodbrock offered me one of these Pillory Sets to give away. That's right! So go to my Twitter or my Facebook to learn how you can enter to win one of these sets for yourself - an almost $500 value! It's a gorgeous set and any kinky person into bondage would be delighted to have it around, I suspect.

Thanks Lodbrock for the opportunity to try out this beautiful set, and to Shodan for demonstrating it so well!  

When my buddy posted a call for folks who would try out his new lube, I immediately volunteered. I know Jerome from his blog, LTASEX, where I had done an interview around the release of Hard Femme. He writes great sex ed stuff from a Black, gay, poly and kinky perspective (among other things), does a podcast covering mental illness, and does video interviews (and hey you should go sponsor him on Patreon!)

As someone who is possibly perpetually dehydrated and who tends to not produce a lot of natural lubrication anyway, I'm always on the lookout for something that will be a nice alternative. I'm sensitive to a lot of things in lube - flavours and glycerin in particular, but I also have preferences on gel vs liquid, and how easy it is to get it off when sexytimes are over. I was excited to check out this new lube.

What made me laugh when I went to the site to grab a sample I saw it was called "The Butters". Now, I dunno if you saw this video, but in 2011 this white lady went viral for posting a rant about how Black folks were hiding "the butters" from white folks - cocoa butter, shea butter, etc. I don't know what rock she's been living under, because I've been using coconut oil and shea butter for everything under the sun for years. But it lead to an interesting discussion online about the white supremacist construct of the "magical Negro" who has secret mystical potions for self care, and unpicking why that is. Why is it that white folks don't tend to know about how amazing cocoa butter is?

Anyway I got sent a sample in a little tub. I'm hoping as this lube takes off there will be a slightly more secure transportable container (I worry this one might leak in transit?) and my one complaint would be that you have to make sure you don't double dip and get intimate fluids into the tub (which is really an issue with all butter consistency lubes).

BUT. The lube itself is magical. It's so, so smooth, has a faint but pleasant smell, next to no taste, and it stays slippery for so, so long! I used it for masturbation and it was still slippery and lovely after 45 minutes with a hitachi, and I used it for sex with a sweetie, and it definitely took the sex up a notch from the lube we used the night before. He appreciated the lack of drippiness - the lube stayed where we put it - and I appreciated that it didn't taste funky so we could switch between PIV and oral without a nasty taste ruining the mood.

Now, that said, it isn't condom safe - oils break condoms - but it is fabulous for bareback (which, of course, do responsibly, etc). I expect it would also be an amazing anal lube and jack off cream. The best part is that it had most of the advantages of silicone while also eventually absorbing into my body... and I had one or two little cuts on my labia that were completely healed the next day.

(edited to note: I was made aware that actually non latex polyisoprene condoms like Lifestyle Skyns will have synthetic latex in them, and as such are still a bad idea to use with oil based lubes. Instead, you can use polyurethane condoms like the Trojan Bareskin ones.)

But that's not all. This lube is multipurpose! For traveling this is SUCH a practical formula. You can use it as a makeup remover, as a lotion, as a deep hair conditioner, as a leather conditioner, to take care of beards, to shave, to heal your tattoo... it's really all purpose in a way I really like. Did I also mention that it's vegan, pH balanced, and doesn't feel oily at all? Yeah. "The Butters" is a fucking fantastic lube and I plan to bring it with me everywhere.

AND most importantly? It's under $9 for a cup, which, considering how long this stuff lasts and how little of it you need, will last you a good long time.

Wanna try it for yourself? Order it at LTASEX, and while you're over there, check out the blog!

Thank you Jerome for sending me this in exchange for an honest review. You've directly improved my sex life. <3

Thanks to to support of my Patreon patrons, I was able to hire someone to redesign my site so I could take a step back from porn as my main focus and begin to rebrand myself. I am so excited for the site to be done- its so much cleaner now, and easier to navigate, and I got to keep my pretty colours and my rococo meets shabby chic aesthetic!

Because I'm making a huge step back from the adult industry. Formally, I've quit sex work- after 14 years in this field, I'm pretty done with being a performer in it. I'm overall happy with my experiences in XXX but frankly it's become less fun and more emotional labour than I wanted, and if I'm going to have a lot of emotions, I'd rather be writing about them and just make erotic art for fun.Honestly, I'm scared. I've been a sex worker for my entire adult life, and I don't really know who I am if I'm not identifying as an active sex worker anymore.  And can I ever really not be a sex worker? How many years from my last paid for blow job does it take to not be a sex worker anymore? Is it like sobriety, where I might fall off the wagon and start over? Is it fucked up to relate sex work to sobriety? In some ways I find myself reaching for booze and sex work for similar unhealthy reasons- it's easy and available, even if I feel unhappy with it.

Will I never do porn again? Nah, I love making erotic film! I might direct more than perform, and it will probably all be weird storylines and themes from now on, because that's what juices me up. And I'll still take sexy photos and write smut because as a person I'm a reasonably sexual being. The reason I needed to stop leading with my sex worker brand is because I recognized how often I disassociated around sex. I value my sexuality and pleasure and missed it when it was gone, but didn't know what else to do. I felt stuck.

Frankly, Patreon has made it possible for me to quit sex work and not be terrified about how I would pay rent or feed myself. I'm so grateful.

So I'm redoing my website, and redoing my Patreon. I want to be able to not be marked NSFW anymore so I can be searched for on here, so I will likely be hosting any sort of visual adult content through passwords on another site, so my patrons can still have access to it without hosting it on Patreon itself.

I'm hoping as of September 15th, when I'll be fully moved into my new apartment with my fiancee,  I'll have a lot more time for writing and pitching and maybe even making a podcast or something. We'll see! It's been a tough few months but it's looking up and I can't wait to find out who I am when I'm not trying to market my sexuality first. I hope you'll come along for the ride, and maybe even invite your friends. <3

Hotel: $500
Ticket/booth for the con: $135
Banner: $50 design + $50 printed
Zines: $37 printed
DVDs: $200 printed
Prep: $40 manicure, $25 haircut
Lingerie to shoot in: $75
Gas: $150
Mucinex when I got sick: $20
Food when the banquet wasn’t enough: $20

The experience of being around fat femme women who hate other fat femme women: ...incredibly emotionally expensive

***

I went to the porn convention with my eyes open, to be fair.

I had heard the rumors that because one company put it all together, the only models who got recognized were models for that company. I had raised my brows at the number of nominations that the one organizing company had, especially with a lack of transparency to accompany it, but I shrugged it off. I accepted that my nominations were very unlikely to amount to anything, as an indie queer performer that BBW companies don’t approach to shoot because my breasts, a mere 38E, aren’t seen as big enough to justify my belly and hips.

I had also beared witness to the extended drama prior to the event, which ranged in my mind from somewhat reasonable to absurd self centeredness and lack of professionalism. For the most part I thought I had stayed out of it - I was under the impression that I had managed to stay Switzerland in the various girl vs girl catfights that had popped up.

Well, except for one- the PR person for the event had been pretty much ignoring me in all the promo leading up to the event. It was something I chalked up to her being resentful because I had said in a review years earlier that her glittery, strawberry flavored analingus spray was one of the worst things I had ever encountered. We had gotten into it again when she offered to get interviews and press attention to girls who paid her an extra $100, something I felt strongly was a manipulation of her position and the newness of some of the performers who may not know better.

I figured, “eh, it’s drama, I’m used to that, it’ll be fine” but I didn’t anticipate just how segmented the various porn performers would be, or how saccharine the saltiness of those still-ongoing catfights would seem. Unaware that performers I thought were friendly were actually being mean girls behind my back, I began to sense there would be a lot more tension than I anticipated. I was relieved to be a part of my own, Bay area clique, who felt just as alienated and confused as I did. We also had matching denim vests, which is important, reader.

But even with all that in mind I tried so hard to be optimistic. I had been told that there were loads of fans coming, that events had been planned and would be fun, that this was shaping up to be the best porn con. I packed multiple outfits expecting to have chances to shoot, or at the very least to do some dirty photos with fans at the booth.

I did, and had, none of these things.

***

We arrived at the hotel and femme-sploded while preparing for the strip night only to find our room was a probable death trap. It had broken air conditioning (in over 100 degree heat), the shower refused to give us cold water, and the boiler was very likely to explode at any time judging from the racket (like a walrus dying slowly). My friends and I puzzled out how likely it would be to get maintenance to fix the multiple issues, and decided to move to another room instead the next day. My cold was going from bad to worse, and the room was like a dry sauna. Every time I stepped outside, it was so dry my throat would send me into a painful coughing fit.

Hell is Las Vegas in July, I’m sure of it.

Two of us were dancing that night, and it was one of the highlights of the trip even if I did burn myself on a cigarette and give myself two massive blisters. While it was a struggle to persuade people to go up on stage before the strip contest happened, when someone did it was exciting to watch. I gave my girlfriend and a friend some money to tip the strippers, encouraging them to spread the wealth. I flirted with men, a rarity anymore, and the energy I got back felt flattering rather than predatory. After all the drama I had seen online, the club felt full of people supporting each other and being lovely to each other, a welcome change.

We got home tired, with our friend as the strip contest winner, and smiling. Photos were taken of them showered in their earnings as we celebrated our raised spirits. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all! We were ready for the con after seeing sexy fat naked femmes dancing… or so we thought.

***

THE CON

The night before the con began had felt somewhat hopeful, even if the party hadn’t been my kind of atmosphere. There had been a lot of fans who came out for the meet-n-greet, and while I wasn’t feeling much like dancing, I did get a drink from one lovely fellow who wanted to talk Pokemon Go and politics, two of my favourite things. I certainly had a chilly reception from the PR person for the con, who apparently left the next day and was gone for the entire weekend… an interesting choice for the person managing the con’s social media, but hey, not my circus.

My denim vest queer gang of femmes decided to ditch the party to go to the Old Strip to check out the Gold Spike, an adult playground that even made me reconsider ageplay for a second. We got drunk and played with huge LEGO, giant Jenga, and Connect Four while listening to a live band accompanying karaoke on stage. It was basically like my heaven. We eventually took off to check out Glitter Gulch, which was sadly closed, and the Golden Nugget, where we played penny slots until the smoke made it impossible to see anymore. We crashed into bed, grateful that we had been able to move into an air conditioned room even closer to the pool. Things were looking up.

And then it was the con.

I showed up bright eyed and bushy tailed with my brand new banner, table dressing, handmade zines and laptop to screen some of my work. The one room set up with tables looked a bit small, but I figured with 70 performers slated to come and the booths being all sold out, it would fill up quickly. I discovered that we weren’t assigned tables, like at AVN, so it was a first-come, first-served kind of deal. I picked a table about halfway between the doors and the bar, figuring it was as good a place to set up shop as any.

I had never put up my banner before, and my fake nails that I had gotten for all the porn I expected to be doing made putting the damn thing together difficult. I struggled for about a half an hour, desperately texting my girlfriend to come help me, blinking back tears as I realized that I was still feeling pretty sick and this con was very likely going to be an expensive waste of my time. After all, I didn’t work with any of the “big boys” of the BBW adult industry, and at least some of the other models whispered about me in the backchannels - I was too political, too tattooed, too queer, too much.

I’m always too much. I was never particularly good at being “feminine” - sexy and sweet, friendly and flirty. Even when I’m dressed like a 5 year old’s birthday cupcake, I’m still too salty and bitter for some tastes. I’m not much for sugarcoating. It makes the adult industry, one where we all say it’s empowering for women but try to ignore that at the end of the day we still have to cater a lot to misogynist men (producers, distributors, co-stars and consumers), a challenge for someone like me.

When someone says they like “real” sex and “genuine” porn stars… they’re not exactly lying, but they’re not exactly telling the truth.

***

Anyway. I got my table set up, finally figured my banner out, and scanned the room. Doors opened at noon. It was already past that, and yet ⅔ of the tables were still empty. I sighed, texted my girlfriend to bring me a beer, and settled in for what would end up being hours of watching my own porn. I took some time to read through the anti-Prop 60 pamphlets the Free Speech Coalition had sent my way to display at the booth, mastering my talking points on why porn fans should be rallying against this measure. I glanced around the room, feeling a bit like a nerd at a school dance, shy, unsure if anyone wanted to talk to me. Many of the other performers seemed to know each other already, and frankly I couldn’t remember who hated who anymore, so I retreated to my booth.

The fans, all 10 of them, were really solid, to be fair. In my experience, they asked for photos before they took them, they talked to me about my zine, and the adult industry, and I felt really seen and respected as a person. We talked extensively about Prop 60 and the dangers it would pose to the adult industry and those within it. I got to give out a ton of flyers and stickers and I felt really good about being able to talk about the important politics of porn.

Even so, I sold one book, one zine, and one photo. $60 total, which covered half my banner costs. Many of the other performers I spoke to had similar issues with fan engagement. One of my friends won a raffle because they were the only person who signed up. Performers outnumbered fans 4 to 1, and that’s with half the performers who were slated to have booths not showing up. Media coverage was spotty - as of today, Friday July 29, there’s nothing in the news about the con at all. The only thing with any coverage was the awards (more on that in part 3). Oh, and whatever my girlfriend ends up writing.

If a porn star goes to Vegas and doesn’t document it on Snapchat, was she ever even there?

***

I tried really hard to stay positive. I really did. I offered suggestions for improvement for months before the event on how to make it feel good for the performers. I was reassured that there would be a ton of fans, that the drama would be minimal. Instead, I showed up to find that as models, we weren’t given any sort of schedule, everything was very ad hoc, and while we were being asked to show up to parties to entertain the fans, we couldn’t even drink beer for free. The VIP poker night was reported to lack air conditioning - great for the fact it was strip poker, but kind of awful for a group of fat people. Chub rub is real, you guys, and when most of the performers were there to shoot content, you can’t afford redness between the thighs.

The saving grace was the pool. Or, pools, really, as there were three of them. Had it not been for the pools, I think we would’ve just gone right back home. But there was something that felt like an actual vacation when I was floating on a giant donut with my girlfriend next to me. In retrospect, my favourite parts of the con were when I wasn’t doing things relating to the con. Had I just allowed myself to have a vacation, I would’ve had a much better time. I’m sure if I had been shooting, it would’ve been a much better time. But it felt like a strategy game I didn’t know the rules to.

All I wanted was fun, playful experiences with cute fat femmes. Instead, I found myself tiptoeing awkwardly between worrying about people misgendering my girlfriend, or not being sure how to take BBWs saying that they hated women, especially fat women, or navigating men trying to flirt with me. I found myself wavering. I felt incredibly thirsty, wanting to make out with someone new, to get fucked by someone cute and nice who would help me forget my ex boyfriend who didn’t want to touch me for most of our relationship. And yet I also felt sick from my cold, and suspicious, like everyone who approached me had an agenda and my best interests were not on that list. I kept getting snippets from the backchannel that made me wonder if any of the other women there even liked me. I wondered why I was even there.

I came into this weekend fully expecting to love my body, and left feeling both shriveled and bloated, like I was both a husk of who I thought I was and yet I was also taking up too much space. My boobs weren’t big enough. My body was bruised and battered from daily living. My hair was too butch, my thighs too thick, my feet too callused.

Being a BBW porn performer has taught me that as much as I fight against the idea of there being a “good” fat and a “bad” fat, those categories exist. I am bad fat. My breasts are not proportionate to my hips and ass. I don’t do feeder porn, or fetishize my fatness by weighing myself on camera - my eating disorder would have a field day with that kind of content. My belly is large, and round, and hangs over my pubic mound, so those who are into BBW porn don’t want me. Yet I am apparently too active and mobile to be considered a “good” SSBBW either. So while fans, and even other performers, might find me intriguing for my brain and my brand, I’m not exactly a hot commodity to be seen with.

Normally, that’s ok with me, but over the last couple months I’ve lost my home and my job. I’ve been left adrift, wondering about my purpose. I thought this con was going to help me reaffirm that I do have a community, and that I am desired, and worthy. I wanted to fall in love with porn again.

I found myself reaching for it, and finding that it had moved on to someone else.

***

THE AWARDS

There’s a saying that participation is its own reward, and for many things that may be true. But after two days of seeing the same ten fans, and realizing that the models were expected to make the VIPs feel like VIPs for free… I wasn’t feeling too keen on singing cum-bay-ya anymore, let’s just say.

The day of the awards, I was willing to put my discomfort aside because I wanted to have fun so badly at this point. Also, honestly, I was very excited about my outfit, an ice cream themed confection that was more lingerie than red carpet. I even allowed myself a moment of hope that I might actually win an award. It was unlikely, as very few people know who I am in the industry, but I was certain it couldn’t possibly be as corrupt as people had been saying bitterly for months.

See, the thing is, while mainstream porn has organized reviewers who judge on categories for their big events, niche porn’s awards are almost always given out by a company in the business of that niche porn. One notable exception would be the Feminist Porn Awards, which was run by a sex toy company and not a porn studio awarding almost exclusively their own work. But trans porn and BBW porn are not that lucky. I had been warned in advance that if I didn’t work for the BBW company hosting the event, then I wasn’t going to win (in fact, there were plenty of rumours that the way to a trophy was sucking someone’s dick, but I have no actual proof of that).

All of this smoke and mirrors would have been ok, frankly, if there had been more fans there. I had almost decided to cancel my appearance, but was told that there were loads of fans signing up every day, and figured at the very least it would be a good opportunity to connect with people who had never encountered my work before. But instead, I found 40 models fighting for the attention and dollars of the same, far outnumbered fans. Maybe it was a good time to be a fan, and get lots of attention, but the fans I spoke to could taste the disappointment of the models.

So I closed down my booth early. I spent hours getting ready with my friends, as we tried on dresses and did our makeup. One lovely model gave me a set of false eyelashes, which I loved so much I didn’t want to sleep so I could wear them all the time. Putting my fluffy strawberry ice cream robe on made me feel like a princess - and frankly, walking around in that outfit was a highlight of the entire weekend. I loved how magical I felt, floating to the red carpet.

The magic ended there, though.

***

The red carpet was a small scrap in front of an event backdrop. You walked onto the carpet, had some photos taken, and walked off. That was it. No media to ask questions, few fans to gush and wave. Just a brisk, professional moment with as few bells and whistles as possible, which, now that I think of it, could be an expression of the entire event. Now, sure, I know this isn’t AVN, where you parade through a sparkling casino and people are shouting at you and excited to see you. But even small awards shows gave you some props to play with, or some champagne to drink.

We got champagne glasses at our table, stamped with the logo, and nothing to put in them.

My friends and I sat down at a table which, thankfully, was not assigned. We waited for coffee to fill our mugs (never happened) or any type of alcohol (also never happened but thankfully we brought our own). We did get unsweetened iced tea, which was so memetastic as a summary for the slow trainwreck that was this event I snarked about it on Twitter.

***

Let me tell you about the buffet.

When you think about a buffet, you think about a variety of foods, right? And you think about a buffet specifically for BBWs, many of whom are known for feeder porn, you’d expect that food to be decent, yeah?

This would disappoint you to your very core.

Nothing was labeled, for a start, leading my girlfriend to almost eat pasta salad with black olives which could kill her. Cool story. There was one other variety of pasta salad, steamed and unseasoned broccoli, salmon with a creamy sauce, chicken with a creamy sauce, and some sort of casserole I didn’t dare try because I had no idea what it was. And stale rolls. That was it, our luxurious award show buffet. And for dessert, there was mousse that left a film on my tongue, and cheesecake that was still frozen. Lovely.

Waiting for champagne that never comes is pretty much the best metaphor for this entire event.

***

Honestly I was expecting the award show’s comedian to be racist, sexist and awful. He surprised me by not being all that bad for most of his set… until he started joking about weight loss. See, he had lost a significant amount of weight, and he felt that this struggle was something a room full of fat women who made money off marketing their rolls was something we could relate to/wanted to hear about.

Deep, deep breaths.

That was the last organized moment of the awards. It became clear that there was no rehearsal, and that while the presenters did the best they could, they were working with no information at all. The PR person won an award for social media personality despite having started multiple fights with models and storming off from the event itself, because “it was a fan award” (I mean, with no transparency, who knows? She might’ve just written her own name in and no one would be the wiser). The company who ran the event, unsurprisingly, won a significant number of the trophies. One woman (who is a fantastic model, mind, and a lovely person) won an award for best site, which surprised even her as her site wasn’t up at the time.

It became clear that there were vanity awards, and then there was this shitshow. We weren’t here to be honored, we were here to line the pockets of the men who already profited off us.

***

We sat in our room, grumpy in our finery, eating pot noodles and Oreos. We didn’t even know what to say to each other about what we had experienced. We felt so cheated. I, personally, felt terribly guilty, as I believed the organizer when he told me that there would be lots of fans, that there would be awesome parties, that we would feel honored and cared for. I felt like a fool and an asshole, who had wasted my money and that of other poor queers who struggled to pay rent.

One of my friends offered to set up a shoot in my cute outfit, and I agreed. Thank goodness as it’s been several weeks and still no official photos from the event have crossed my timeline. We shot a bunch of pictures, and began to unwind, laughing, doing something together that we love with people who love us. We filmed me smashing one of the logo glasses for the event, threatening the camera with it like a shank, and I began to feel a little bit less angry.

We all vowed to never do an event like this again. We deserve better than to be used as bait, for money and trophies we’ll never see. We deserve transparency on where the money gets spent, money we help earn. We deserve a board of judges who aren’t influenced by any one company, who recognize indie porn studios alongside the bigger ones. We deserve PR that is offered equally to all of us, from someone who genuinely wants to see all of us succeed and get recognition. We deserve food that fills our bellies and an environment that fills our hearts. We deserve workshops to expand our businesses, time to relax and network, and fans who honor us.

It’s hard to be a niche performer. You have to fight twice as hard to be seen, and you get twice the stigma for being a sex worker and whatever your niche is. But we’re not in the 90s anymore. This is the age of internet porn, where performers are branching out into Hollywood again, where all different bodies have a chance to be worshipped. Porn companies need to get with the times, rather than staying mired in the past, or, quite frankly, they’re going to be left behind. Maybe that’s part of the idea of these awards, is a frantic grasping as relevance in industries where the talent is learning how to do it themselves.

Well, I can tell you, it only costs $15 to have a trophy made.

***

As we drove away from Vegas, we got an alert that we were driving into a firestorm of sand and smoke.

We exchanged a glance.

I floored it.

This piece was written for Write Club SF

I wanted to be invincible, so I put my armor on.

When I was 7, it was a karate gi. My parents took me to competitions where I won silver medals, and to Model Mugging, where I learned how to defend myself against a rapist. I was a child who knew how to kill a man. I remember when my dad and I were sparring once, as we often did, and he told me to “take my best shot” — I kicked him in the balls and he dropped to the floor like a stone. I thought I had killed him. My dad, gasping from pain, gave me a thumbs up. I felt I was prepared for anything.

No one ever told me that the one most likely to hit me would be a lover.

I wanted to be invincible, so I put my armor on.

When I was 16, it was black eyeliner and combat boots. It wasn’t easy being out as queer in my school, but the Goth aesthetic kept people from bullying me too much. I wrote dark poetry and painted myself as Ophelia drowning. There were whispers I drank blood, but I think they were really afraid that I was going to be the next school shooter. I basked in being weird and untouchable, because I felt that I would be safer that way.

I didn’t realize my graduating class didn’t invite me to the reunion because they assumed I had killed myself.

I wanted to be invincible, so I put my armor on.

I was 19 when I whipped a man for money for the first time. The Head Mistress at the dungeon I worked for insisted I wear black thigh highs, black lingerie, and pumps for every session. I didn’t know how to walk in heels so I would blindfold my clients as quickly as possible, kicking them off for the rest of the session. I took on a new name, a new life. I fashioned myself into a nanocelebrity, going to the right parties, making the right friends, doing the right drugs.

There’s no corset that constrained me like my desire to be “likeable”.

I wanted to be like Xena, like Buffy, like She-Ra. They were all tough women, warriors, with fierce loyalties and fiercer fashion. They were witty, passionate, beautiful, with a core of steel. I was a wreck of feelings, told so often that I was too much, too fat, too femme, too emotional, too intense.

All I desired was to be cool and strong. Invincible.

So I hardened my heart. Because that’s how we become tough, right, we wrap our hearts in leather and steel, build ourselves a wall that even Trump would find overkill. Feelings are vulnerable, and vulnerability is death. So I hid the softest pieces of my bleeding heart deep within and locked it away. I thought I was invincible, then. Untouchable. If I was going to be put on a pedestal than goddamn I was going to build a moat around it and fill that moat with crocodiles. I put my armor on, and I welded it shut.

But pedestals topple. Crocodiles grow old, and weary. Moats dry up. We’re in a drought after all. And armor, well, armor rusts. All these wards and spells I used to shroud myself in a cloak of being “intimidating” didn’t make me stronger. It just underlined my fragility, my heart, atrophying. This type of invincibility isn’t invincible at all, it’s rigid and it drags us down like a cement brick.

Humpty Dumpty fell off her wall and nothing could put her back together, no self help book, no casual encounter on Tinder, no epiphany brought about by a drug-fuelled bender.

I was told over and over how invincible I was and it shattered me into a thousand pieces.

I have been trained, as all women have, to heal, to excuse, to forgive. And I taught myself to fossilize rather than feel, a velvet fist in an iron gauntlet. To be tender, I thought, was to be devoured alive. I walked the streets afraid, went on dates afraid, went to sleep afraid. So I became a feral cat, all hissing and scars, not letting anyone near me because to trust was to be weak.

But then I shattered. I had a breakdown. It was public, and embarrassing, and my facade was scattered to the wind.

It was then I realized destruction is an act of creation. This is something I never believed, really, until it settled into my chest and I realized I was made new every time I fell apart. So I tattooed my heart on my sleeve and I let myself be radically vulnerable. I loved, and broke up, broke down, and loved again and will continue, on and on and on, because I can — hearts are made to be broken, and made to mend. Tears become diamonds on cheeks of satin.

There is no such thing as infinity. No promises of forever. There is now. And now. And now.

Real talk- I wrote this after being dumped. He told me that he loved me and we should run off to the woods together and let’s be fluidbonded… and then he dumped me the next day via text because I asked him to wear a suit to a gala and he’d rather wear motorcycle leathers. I may have left my heart in San Francisco, but here romance is a startup and angel investors are hard to come by. Impermanence has become my bedfellow in the last few years and while the heartache is strong, I am able to cry and let go more easily now. An emotional gymnast.

I can spend my life staring across the sea wishing for his return, or I can pack up and head home. I keep the seashells from those times but let the sand fall through the cracks. I allow myself to be a piece of ocean glass, tumbled and smooth, worn down but not broken.

Now I unpick the knotwork, the neurosis I tangled around my heart because suffocation was better than breathing as long as I had control. I can breathe again, and it hurts, oh fuck it hurts. But it’s better than being dragged under by armor too heavy to carry.

People talk about “survival of the fittest”. But Darwin told us that those who survive aren’t the biggest, or the strongest, or the toughest. They’re the most adaptable. Invincibility doesn’t come from having the best weapons, or the snazziest exoskeleton. It comes from baring my belly and trusting that the world won’t rip my guts out… and that even if the world approaches, teeth bared and growling, I will get through it, and I will survive. It’s staring the complete death of my ego in the face and saying “come at me bro”.

I wanted to be invincible, so I lay my armor down, and I let you in.