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BBWCon 2016: The Long Con

kittybbwcon-6146Hotel: $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.

Categories: advice, angry, awards, best of, capitalism, community, fat is fit, feminism, male privilege, mistakes were made

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The Gendered Implications of the Word “Manipulative”

1-ZUvCxdW7gSrYa1vL98bsIA“I feel like you were being manipulative,” his email read, “and I cannot tolerate that.”

He had dumped me, as far as I could tell, because I was hurt he canceled two dates in one week.We had just had a long conversation about how I needed to see more investment from him, that I needed to trust that he was in this relationship because he wanted to be. He reassured me, told me how glad he was that I felt safe talking about my feelings so openly, sent me home with a kiss and a wave.

Then he canceled two dates in a row, with plans to have his ex sleep over instead.

We had been dating for almost 9 months. Every text, every date, every time he held my hand I felt like I was deciphering some cryptic text bound tight in the worn leather of toxic masculinity. He said he loved my body, but wouldn’t touch me unless it was to tickle me, something I hated.He said he loved me, but wouldn’t introduce me to his friends. I had read this writing on the wall before and refused to believe it to my detriment, so this time, I felt exhausted.

He never asked me to read his mind, exactly, but he also didn’t offer anything up. When I asked him to tell me what was going on if there was trouble, his response would be, “I probably won’t”. I would tell him, over and over again, for months, that I didn’t want to do the emotional labour of dragging his feelings and needs out of him, but I did it anyway, because that’s what women and femmes are taught to do, because at the end of the day no amount of feminist critique shields us from the overarching expectation that women are here to nurture men. Including at their own expense. Perhaps particularly when it’s at their own expense.

Frankly, it got too expensive for me.

During our texting conversation where he pulled out on one date, then the next, I said “you know, you can just drop my stuff off at my house.” It was a declaration of defeat, an acceptance of distance that he was clearly asking for even if he never used those words. I had fought to stay with a lover the year before and it caused nothing but heartache. If this one wanted to go, and was too cowardly to straight up tell me, then I’d give him an out.

And then I was accused of being manipulative.

I’ve been accused of being manipulative before. Always by fit, white, cis men who identify as queer and almost exclusively date queer femmes. Men who almost seem like they’ve got some intersectional framework but then you realize that maybe they just went to a feminist 101 class to try and get laid.These men almost seem like allies- until you ask them to give 50%, to stop expecting you to carry the relationship on your back like a burden. They’re allies until you put your foot down and say “what you are doing is hurting me and it’s not ok”.

What kills me, and the reason I wanted to write this out, is that it’sthese men who are being manipulative.

They never see it that way, of course. They don’t see the way they play both sides of the coin, that they’re socially aware and reject toxic masculinity, but also that they’re still wrapped up in it, leaving the women who love them to make excuses for their childish and selfish behaviour. “Oh,” we rush to say, “he knows this is hurtful, but he’s still unlearning old habits.” “Oh,” we say, “it’s not him, it’s society.”

We make so many excuses for these men that when they tell us that we’re manipulating them for snapping at their ridiculous expectations for constant emotional coddling, we almost believe that we might be.

This is my third white cis man to accuse me of being manipulative for having a boundary around being their mystical manic pixie therapist mother. The third lover to accuse me of disappointing their high expectations of me because I got tired of reading their minds. The third patronizing scolding for expecting them to give back the same amount they took.

Guess what, ex boyfriend? “I cannot tolerate that” either. I cannot tolerate being called a “filly” in your “stable”, or having you refuse to touch me or even TALK to me about intimacy while showing off other women you’re fucking.

I didn’t even notice how you manipulated me all along… while making me apologize.

Categories: angry, boundaries, boys, breakups, communication, dating, fake it til you make it, gender

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To Be Invincible

1-zppHtV77cIdj29KcvR5f7QThis 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.

Categories: best of, don't tell me how to live, fake it til you make it, femme, personal

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"It's Just Porn"... Right? A Critical Insider's Response to the Call for Inclusion at XRCO

When trans porn superstar Venus Lux posted up a petition asking forXRCO to consider wider genre inclusion in their annual awards, I signed right up. In part, sure, because as a niche performer myself (BBW), I have a cock in this fight, shall we say. In part, because I trust in Venus, who is a performer, producer, winner of multiple industry awards, and a shrewd businesswoman to boot. And in part because I love porn, and I know that it’s long past time for us to take a good, hard look at the adult industry through a social and critical lens.

I read this piece asking if the petition was a “narcissistic bark”, a fancy way of saying “is it just a cry for attention”. While yes, part of the purpose of a petition is to bring attention to an issue, to think that taking a political stance in the world of porn is a career move is absurd, particularly for a performer who already benefits from mainstream acknowledgement. As I don’t necessarily expect Elaine Costellano to understand the ins and outs of… well, the ol’ in-and-out industry,  I wanted to chime in with an alternative view.

I’ve been in the industry for 6 years now, though I mostly make queer, indie porn. I’ve been on 8 DVDs. All of them have been reviewed by only 3 people on Xcritic, because there are very, very few reviewers who take on BBW content. In fact, there are only 3, and only 2 of them review it regularly. If it wasn’t for Rob Perez, Apache Warrior and Sex Reed? I doubt I’d be nominated for 2 Biggie Awards this year, because no one would have any idea who I was. Reviews are vital for the success of porn companies and performers, but many reviewers aren’t interested in covering niche porn… or, at least, they’re not willing to cop to fapping to it.

That’s the thing. It’s not like people aren’t watching BBW porn. Ask Pornhub, who put out data specifically about the niche last year. A 47% increase in searches is nothing to sneeze at (which is good, cause you probably have other uses in mind for those tissues!) AVN recently added a BBW category to their awards. Penthouse featured a BBW for the first time ever. Places like Mic.com, Cosmo, and Bustle are talking about the niche. So why are people (men, mostly, let’s be honest) so afraid to come forward about something they’re obviously buying into?

I agree that part of the issue around recognition by these award shows is getting reviewers to speak up and show up. The main reason I started writing for Xcritic was to address that very real problem, thanks in part to Rob’s urging and Don’s support. But I realized pretty quickly I needed to take on trans porn as well, because there’s also only 3 people reviewing that, and only 2 doing it consistently.

Trans women in the porn industry have had a difficult time of it too. Even though the market has been embraced by big porn companies since the 1990s, AVN only allowed performers to accept their award on stage in 2012 after outcry from trans women. The last AVN Awards saw a gender nonconforming person kicked out of the women’s bathroom by Hard Rock security… while the trans performer of the year accepted her award on stage. The hypocrisy is real.

It’s not just the award shows, mind. I mean, North Carolina recently passed HB2, a bill banning trans people from using certain bathrooms... yet they’re also heavy consumers of trans porn. Sure, XHamster decided to declare it was banning access to the site in North Carolina because of the bill, but that feels hypocritical considering their copious use of slurs to refer to trans people (even if that’s in keeping with the industry at large). As genderqueer performer and editor of “Coming Out Like a Porn Star”, Jiz Lee,points out on Twitter, “Hey tubesites, want to actually support trans rights? Stop stealing, segregating, and slurring trans porn on your site.” More to the point, Chris Lowrence, who lives in North Carolina, pointed out that no, actually, it wasn’t blocked after all. Whoops.

Elaine asks where the sponsors come into all this. Now, I don’t feel that a company should be expected to buy in to being included in an award show- that seems pretty shady to me. That strategy is certainly a rumor I hear about niche award shows like the TEA Awards and the Biggie Awards - that if you don’t work with Grooby you’re unlikely to have a chance at the TEAs, and similarly, if you don’t work at Plumperpass you’ll likely be passed over at the Biggies. I don’t have enough data to know whether that’s based in fact or not.

I do know that as award shows have embraced different niches, performers from those niches have been more inclined to buy a booth, sign at other booths, perform, and otherwise participate in AVN. Sponsoring companies aren’t going to bother giving money to an award show that won’t even notice their performers. I believe it’s in the best interest of these award shows to demonstrate that there is a place for trans and BBW performers in order to attract that patronage.

One of the things that came up in the discussion was why have a separate category? Trans women and BBWs can be nominated for female performer of the year, after all. In response, I would look towards the ways in which racism also impacts porn award shows. While yes, Blacked.com (a site specializing in interracial porn) had 15 nominations and took home 11 of them, 5 of those identified their work as “ethnic”, “interracial” or “niche/specialty”.

The ways in which the industry has begun to recognize interracial porn as not “taboo” gives me some hope for BBW and trans porn. I feel as society shifts, so does porn, and as porn drops slurs and normalizes sexual behaviour, society is encouraged to follow suit. While I do not believe porn SHOULD be educational, I do believe we have a responsibility to acknowledge how, in a country that lacks comprehensive sex ed, porn often stands in as the first place we learn about sex. When Elaine asks how this petition could possibly be about ethics, I can only respond - when it’s about the politics of representation, especially as it pertains to sex and the workplace, how can it not be about ethics?

We need to recognize the ways in which porn legitimizes some while casting aside others, and begin to address that disparity... before anti-porn activists do it for us. Part of that means we need to be on our game, doing our research, and citing our information. Before we dismiss criticisms coming from successful members of the industry, let’s do our due diligence.

I think that it's long past time for the porn industry, from reviewers to consumers to producers to performers, to embrace the diversity of talent that has allowed it to survive and thrive over the last 10 years. Porn is no longer some secret, shady industry, but is increasingly acknowledging it is, among other things, a legit workplace. This means acknowledging *all* its workers! Just as fashion modeling is expanding with the times, so should porn. I love being a part of this industry, as a consumer and as a performer/producer, and because I love it, I want to see it evolve and continue to get better. And we all need to be in this together.

What can you do?

-Become a reviewer of niche porn at Xcritic or other spaces! You can be as real as you like in your reviews (see mine as an example) and you'll get loads of porn to watch. Whether you have a hand down your pants or you're getting your academia on, we need more reviewers.

-Pay for your porn, helping your fave companies demonstrate the desire and market for their products

-Sponsor or help sponsor smaller niche companies having a presence at award shows

-Sign (and share!) petitions about changes in the industry you support, especially when spearheaded by the performers themselves

Happy fapping!

Categories: activism, best of, community, feminism, personal, politics, porn

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Review: IMTOY Piu

-font-b-IMTOY-b-font-PIU-automatic-electric-male-masturbator-oral-sex-masturbation-cup-retractableI was offered the chance to review the IMTOY Piu, which is always fun because it means I have to then encourage my lovers with penises to let me watch them masturbate while I sit there and take notes on a clipboard. As someone who has a complex relationship to my libido, this can be a fun way for us to have a sexual interaction without the pressure of having to perform. Also I kind of dig medical play and watching people do sexual things, so, it's got some perks, doing toy reviews for penises.

I called in my cis male lover C and my trans girlfriend J to put their dicks into this toy for Science. Don't worry, I washed and sterilized it in between. That's only respectful, after all.

I want to break this down into two parts- part one will be for the app that the toy interacts with, and part two for the toy itself.

PART ONE: THE APP

First I brought this over to C's house when we had a date. I figured we could connect the app really quickly, watch some porn together and jerk off, and snuggle afterwards, a nice way to spend a rainy afternoon.

That is not how this went.

We probably spent a good 45 minutes to an hour trying to get the toy to connect to the phone. We had to log in multiple times, as well, which made the process even more frustrating. But I was determined to see the porn that was promised that worked alongside the toy, something that sounded really cool to me after I heard about the Realtouch. This seemed like a sleeker version of that idea, and I wanted to know if it worked.

After about 45 minutes and a beer, we finally got the app to connect to the toy and started going through the porn. We were startled to discover... it was all pixelated. And contrary to what I was led to believe, we didn't have free access to a video library... we had 1000 credits to spend on what's available, which is mostly Asian porn (fair enough) and is all pixelated even after purchase (really??) It also lists categories with nothing in it... like, for example, there is a category for Black performers, but we didn't see much in it. You can upload your own porn, which is a nice feature, but I wonder if it would interact with it well or if you'd basically have to program it yourself to get a good wank.

Our credit allowance went towards two clips, which were decently shot, well lit, and had some great communication- I mean, the scenes were certainly decent quality porn! But the censorship was distracting and frankly it didn't seem like the toy really corresponded with the porn in any real way. It seemed like a good idea that needed to go back and try again, with an expanded video library that actually shows you genitals and more communication between the visuals and the stimulation.

J didn't try to use the app at all. Her patience wore out after about 5 minutes of trying.

PART TWO: THE TOY

It's beautifully packaged. Like, it comes in a box that has a tiny drawer that contains the instructions and the power cord. It's already presented in such a way that it would make an excellent gift. In fact, that was the thing J loved the most about it, saying, "The box with drawers is tasteful and gives masturbating with a cock an air of class and indulgence, which AMAB people need space to have." I think C liked it too, though maybe liked it a bit less because I made him put everything back the way he found it so J could have the same unwrapping experience.

Unfortunately, it was just too shallow for either of my lovers to really enjoy the experience. C, who is a deep throat kinda guy, found himself bashing the head of his cock at the back of the toy. Considering he's more of a shaft stimulation sort, I thought J might have a better time with it, as she prefers the sensation of a hitachi and she doesn't have as large of a cock. Well... she described it as the worst kind of tease and denial scene, in part because the off switch was right where her hand comfortably settled to hold the toy. "I found myself just wishing it was a hitachi", she said mournfully.

I feel like this might be a great toy if you are smaller than average and really enjoy sensation on the head of your cock. You might even get some nice suction out of it. As a whole, though, this needed to be able to be longer and have the ability to be clenched tighter for my lovers to really enjoy it.

Thank you, IMTOY, for sending me the Piu in exchange for an honest review!

Categories: intimacy, review, toys, toys for boys, vibrator

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I've made a teeshirt

I've been meaning to make teeshirts for a while, so here is my first one. It's only available til next Sunday, so don't miss out!

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 7.32.43 PMIt's pretty simple, but after doing a shitton of emotional labor, it's long overdue. Hope you buy one, maybe encourage other folks to buy one too! Proceeds will go to taking Foucault to the vet to see if he has a kidney issue, and anything extra will go to BBWCon.

[Image Description: a mint green teeshirt with a wide neckline that says "emotional labor" across the top, each letter in a black heart. Underneath that is a black heart symbol with a dollar symbol inside it. Underneath that is black text saying "$5.99 per minute".)

Also you can make a bigger order of it if you wanna pick up some politically similar shirts from Harlot! https://teespring.com/stores/harlotmedia

 

Categories: activism, communication, feminism

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Why I'm Turning My Office into a Mermaid Grotto

Art by Erin Zerbe

Ok, so, fair critique- mermaids and fat femmes go together like salt and seawater. It is, perhaps, a bit cliche, therefore, that when my housemate was recommending I fix up the office, I decided what I really wanted to turn it into is a fanciful mermaid grotto. As a fat femme, it's pretty much on brand- a mystical, beautiful, seductive creature who sings men to their slow, drowning deaths. I mean, what's not to like?

It's more than just how trendy mermaids are, though. I mean, yes, I watched "The Little Mermaid" when I was a headstrong teenager who rebelled against my parents in the name of "but daddy I love him" nonsense. And of course Ursula, with her beautiful fat purple body, her butch hair, and her tentacles! "You can't get something for nothing, you know," she said, and it was an important lesson to learn. Always read the fine print. It was the first Disney movie I related to in any real way. But even that's not what drew me to them.

I think it's that when I'm in water I am weightless. As someone who often feels weighed down, the emotional labour of being seen as a "pillar of the community" or "famous" is like an anchor dragging me to the bottom of the sea. In the water, though, I float, I shimmy, I am graceful and light. I am the things I am told to be as a femme, and it is effortless. I feel powerful. As long as I'm in the water, I feel wild, free, beautiful.

1220b45ac7926048a460014261e8f1a2It is easy to love my body when it's not at odds with me. When my knees don't ache from years of undiagnosed injuries, where the only medical advice I could get was "lose weight". When the breasts that everyone else compliments and wants to motorboat don't make my lower back feel like I can't breathe when I lay down, because it's that tight. When the way my belly hangs isn't causing my skin to break out. In the water, nothing chafes, everything is slippery smooth.

At the same time, the mermaid life isn't one that comes easily to me the way it does for more slender women. Finding bodysuits and leggings in scale print that fit my ample thighs and ass is not easy to do. Seashell bikini tops? Don't make me laugh, putting those on my 36E sized boobs is just not gonna work out. And as much as I long for a custom silicone tail, I'm afraid that finding someone to make one for a fat mermaid like me is going to be next to impossible. I mean, shit, I get looks when I dare to wear a bikini!

As for something like diving, which I would love to do, it's often frowned upon for obese people like myself. I've noticed this of a lot of fun exercise activities - climbing, diving, circus arts, pole dancing, trampolining. While fat folks are told we need to exercise a lot, we're also often left out from doing many fun exercise activities, no matter how fit we are. We're stuck with running, treadmills, aerobics, etc, all things that put extra impact on our knees and ankles.

Lacking the access to being a mermaid outside of the house, I wanted to create an underwater sanctuary inside it. So I'm buying bits of mermaid art, photos of squids, diagrams of mermaid anatomy. I'm making plans for shelves to hang up all my fanciful wigs, like anemones on the wall. I haven't had an office that felt comfy to me before, but this one is sunny, and has a bed to lounge on. The cats tend to sleep next to me as I type. It feels cozy.

It's been a rough year, one that felt often devoid of magic. There's been a lot of times where I felt I sold my voice to follow my passion, times when I thought that maybe I would end up becoming seafoam. But I'm still swimming, and I'm starting to find pleasure in making the flat I live in a home I want to come back to. I may never get that silicone tail, but at least I'll have a grotto to rest my fins in.

Categories: best of, body stuff, diy, fake it til you make it, fat is fit, femme, identity, personal

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The Healing Nature of Domesticity

cinbread1It had been a long time since I had sat down to bake a loaf of bread. I have a rough time making myself dinner, never mind a multi-stage process that takes multiple hours to complete. Bread requires patience, something I often don't have while juggling several hustles to make ends meet.

I had a recipe for cinnamon swirl bread that is incredibly tasty. I had only made it one other time, with an ex, and it had taken us most of the day to be able to bite into that sweet, spicy deliciousness. There was a craving for cinnamon swirl bread deep in my heart and gut, even while there was a pang in my chest as I got the ingredients together a few days ago. It's strange, the things that spur on the wistfulness for a relationship withered and gone. For me, it was the smell of yeast, the burst of heat from the oven. It was cutting into that loaf and inhaling the warmth of the bread.

It was a sense of home that I couldn't go back to.

One of the things I'm trying to do more of now that my life is starting to settle into more of a routine is cooking more. So far this week I actually made two meals, which is two more than I normally make in multiple weeks. Putting together a sandwich can feel daunting sometimes. I have a lot of food anxiety, what I can eat, what I should eat, what's available, how to prepare it. Sometimes it's easier to make a sandwich than it is to deal.

But this week I made a pork, apple and sweet potato stew, and I made some spicy black beans that became the main ingredient in some pretty delicious soft tacos. Being as this is also the week before launch of Harlot Magazine, the online startup that has taken over my life for the time being, I wonder if maybe the rash decision to cook food was in part informed by a desire to step away from the computer and do something more with my hands other than type.

Regardless of why I settled down to do it, I found myself more comforted than worried about the results. I used a slow cooker for both, and perhaps that's part of it, knowing that you have to leave it to cook for hours after just throwing things into a pot. It's not very time sensitive, you can do some labour and then leave it. And I don't have to worry about getting too creative, just basic recipes and then add whatever spices I want. Easy enough for even me to do it.

After baking that cinnamon bread I reached out to my ex, because I missed him very quickly and suddenly after a couple of months too busy to really reflect on it. He responded with kindness and understanding, and though I don't know if we're ready to be friends, I'm glad we've at least agreed to let go of grudges. I don't want to tear up every time I smell cinnamon bread, even if he never makes it with me again.

I have been afraid of domesticity for so long. I've been afraid of cooking, of owning furniture, of painting walls and nesting. My life has been so nomadic and tumultuous that settling down felt like something that was beyond reach. When I think about living with a partner, I feel a clench in my gut that whispers "that's not for you". I don't know that I know how to not be a feral cat, rarely letting someone pet them, never staying too long in any one place.

My life is hectic. I'm working for a startup. I just signed the contract for my first book. I'm traveling to the NCSF Consent Summit they're doing, which is an idea I threw over to Susan maybe a year or so ago and I'm so overjoyed they're doing it. My porn is taking off- I'm going to BBWCON this summer and will actually have DVDs of my own, self produced, to sell. I'm dating three incredibly lovely and patient people who understand my wariness and sadness. This year has been remarkably good to me so far, and yet I still find it hard to buy a rug for my apartment.

But I'm starting to try to settle. I'm fixing up the sewing room in my place, making it feel like mine with mermaid and manatee pictures, pillows of whales and giant squid. I'm starting to invest in my life here as if it's something I can actually have. I'm buying veg boxes and canned food and not living off spoonrocket as often anymore. I'm trying to learn how to trust, and how to feel safe.

It's a learning process. But with every crockpot meal I make, I feel a little more stable, a little more adult, a little more home.

Categories: anxiety, best of, boundaries, breakups, fake it til you make it, loss, memories, reflection, self care

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Dick's Big PR Problem

tumblr_inline_nnzpizoAKo1rj019z_400

ETA: I just saw the AXE body spray ad that just came out that displays different masculinities, a far cry from their usual abs and babes. Heading in the right direction? Maybe. Let's hope!

One of the most popular posts ever written on this blog was my illustrated guide to dick pics. With the popularity of Critique My Dick Pic and Magic Mike XXL, it seems like culturally we have begun to acknowledge that some women may, in fact, erotically enjoy looking at men. Naked men, even. Though, this goes beyond just men, and to penises, in particular.

I wanted to both cheer those women on. I also wanted to help the average cis dude in particular learn how to take photos of his junk that women would be more likely to appreciate receiving (and only after specifically requesting such).

So I'm not terribly surprised that a lot of people sent me the link to the woman who is taking cis male dick pics professionally and selling them for $10,000. And good for her! I was excited to see what she was doing, because after years of penises (male and otherwise) being mostly photographed for the male gaze, it was refreshing to hear about something different.

I have to admit I was a little disappointed to find out her angle was dressing up penises in comedic outfits.

I mean, quoting Cosmo, "she wondered what a dick pic might look like if a woman — not a thirsty dude — were behind the lens." This is it? This is the kind of genital selfie she thinks women want? I'm... confused. Because I like my dick pics to be well lit, well composed, and, well, showing a beautiful cock that I want inside my hands, mouth and/or cunt.

I don't have that reaction to a dick dressed up like a cop.

It led me to ask... why is it that the only three ways the media shows the erotic male is as threatening, hilarious, or gay? And regardless of gender, why is a penis so often either reduced to being comedic or a weapon? Does this perhaps lead to the toxic masculinity that permeates our culture, where so often men feel this need to come off as threatening to women in how they display sexual interest, because otherwise I guess we would laugh at them? Is this why we're culturally so afraid of trans women that we need to paint them either as villains or comic relief? Why are women not seen as having any sexual agency of their own?

This is how toxic masculinity ends up poisoning the waters of everything else, whether or not you identify as masculine, or as a man.

Screen Shot 2016-01-15 at 6.48.01 PMThis is something I've found frustrating before, for example, with the Hawkeye Initiative. Initially started to show the ridiculousness of the poses comics artists put female characters in, I found the images of Hawkeye and other superheroes displayed in an objectifying way to be... kind of hot, actually. And I kept feeling alienated that so often these images insisted on captions or dialogue meant to make the viewer laugh, because they're not supposed to be sexy, they're supposed to be silly.

But why?

I'm super into seeing fit men having their clothes torn off by snakes. Or, in the case of these pinups featuring cis men doing stereotypically cis men things but in a feminine pinup style, why did they have to ruin it by making little o-faces? Why couldn't they have cute smirks instead? I mean I think this artist has his finger on the issue more than some others, but goddamn it, I just want to see the fact that yeah, some women actually ARE visual and DO like looking at naked men, validated.

Because here's what concerns me. If we don't validate that opinion, and continue to show male sexuality as either dangerous/frightening or ridiculous/not to be taken seriously, while exclaiming that women's bodies are just "inherently" more attractive, I believe we are feeding the issue of predatory masculine behaviour and the feminine being seen as prey. When we argue that objectification is "bad" and we shouldn't do it to men if we don't think it should be done to women, we ignore that men have a lot more power and agency than women do, that male desire is seen as valid/marketable/worthwhile more often than women's is. I do think that for equality to happen, yes, we should cut back on the objectification of women in every fucking aspect of life, totally.

But I also feel there's something important to increasing the objectification of men, validating the buying power of the female gaze. I remember when I was working on the Andro Aperture project a few years back, there weren't many options for erotic magazines/porn sites focused on women who wanted to look at naked cis men. There honestly weren't many options for women into trans men, either, but there were some. Still, on both counts, the type of male bodies that were considered "marketable" or worth photographing/filming were limited. Able-bodied. Slender/fit. Tall. Often white. Often cis. Often masculine in a very specific, all-American jock sort of way. This is still often the case. And it sucks, not just because I like drooling over hot dudes, but because I feel it ends up underlining and making worse the sexist objectifying bullshit I have to deal with all the time. And frankly, because it makes the men that fit that really narrow ideal of acceptable masculine beauty into egotistical asshats.

I have to say that I appreciate the dick pics I've gotten from not-cis-men have been appreciably better composed, and are rarely presented in such a way that I either am expected to laugh at them or alternately be nervous if I reply with anything but enthusiasm. And I don't think that dick pics are the sole way forward in toppling the patriarchy. But damn it, it's not the worst place to start to push forward, either.

PS: I plan on restarting Andro Aperture this year, probably in the summer, at least as a photo project. Wanna support it? Wanna get involved?

Categories: androaperture, best of, boys, female gaze, feminism, male objectification (or lack thereof)

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Sloppy Seconds

71So normally, these stories I write for ShipwreckSF are exclusive to my Patreon readers (and if you're the kind of sicko who likes this there's two more if you give me $$)...

But it's my birthday so fuck it, why not give you a questionable present?

You'll thank me later.

Maybe.

(Probably not)

***

Sloppy Seconds

a Charlotte's Web slashfic for ShipwreckSF

Templeton the rat was a big fan of slop. There was something about the way it slipped and slid over his greasy fur, the way it clung to his whiskers, that just did something to him, deep inside.
He was wallowing in a particularly good batch, eating scraps, rubbing the wet mess all over his fur, not a care in the world. He was a loner, was Templeton. But on this fateful day, when he looked up from the long, thick, juicy carrot covered in coffee grounds he was gnawing on, he found himself instantly, hopelessly in love.

She was pale and expressionless as he stared at her. In a rare moment of embarrassment, Templeton flushed and looked away. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just haven’t seen anything as beautiful as you in some time.”

She remained where she was, unmoving and unmoved. Templeton ran one paw through his greasy fur. “What’s your name, gorgeous?” he tried, attempting to sound a bit more suave than he felt. He wondered what he’d need to do to crack her shell, get a reaction from her.

“S...s...s...hould we t….t….t...tell him it’s a rotten egg?” the Goose whispered to her partner, Gander.

Gander shook his head.

“What, you think I’m not good enough for her?” he demanded, pulling himself upright. A bit of coffee ground was stuck to a whisker, his fur matted with slop and grease, but, like many male creatures, he still considered himself quite a catch. “I have a hole of my own, a questionable career in marketing a pig, and enough food for a family, thank you VERY much.”

Gander shrugged his feathers. “You’re right, T...T….Templeton,” he said mildly. “Perhaps we’re being too harsh. You have to f...f….forgive a parent being protective.”

Templeton, feeling bold, crept up to his crush and put his arm around it, glaring at Gander. “Sweetheart, you can come with me if you want, I know how to treat a lady.” The egg, knocked off its center of gravity, rolled into his arms. He took it as a sign, gave the geese couple a middle finger, and gently nudged it down into his rat hole, safe with all his other precious possessions.

The thing is, a loved one is a terrible thing to try to possess. A week went by, then two. Templeton, prone to talking endlessly about himself, didn’t notice that his darling was, in fact, a rotten egg, and not just terribly and mysteriously aloof. Love makes it easy to ignore red flags.

But paradise must always come to an end.

The sheep had been stampeding around the barn all morning, and Templeton awoke with a start when his prized love shook a bit in its cradle of string. “What is all the racket,” he mumbled, opening, then closing one eye to settle back to sleep.

With a big BANG! everything in his home rattled, bottlecaps and safety pins tumbling to the floor. Templeton jumped out of bed, grumbling, ready to unleash a stream of profanities on the sheep that would not be appropriate for a children’s book.

And that’s when he saw, as if in slow motion, the strings holding the egg like a little hammock snap.

His precious darling hit the dirt floor, cracking slightly and oozing a bit. The stench that slammed into Templeton was overwhelming, and at first he gagged at the intensity of it. But soon, his pink nose twitched, his whiskers stiffened.

So did his little rat cock.

Templeton reached one paw towards the ooze, gently caressing the cracked shell. “Oh…. oh my dear,” he said huskily. “I had no idea you contained such…. perfume within you.” He let a tentative claw dip into the yolk dripping out of the egg. “Your juices are so… pungent,” he licked his claw clean, “and so…. delicious.” His tongue flicked up and down the cracked shell, lapping at the spillage of white and yolk. The intensity of his administrations led another piece of shell to break off, causing a sudden outpouring of rotten egg into Templeton’s waiting and eager mouth—a gush of putrid pleasure.

He gasped with excitement, and used his tongue to knock another bit of shell loose. The fetid flood overflowed from his mouth, over his furry and matted chest, over his straining cock, pooling between his toes. The cold, stringy slime dripped from the tip of his cock, mingling with his precum.

Templeton had never been so deeply and intensely in love or lust.

With a moan, he pushed his cock into the hole in the egg, not minding how the sharp edges of the shell cut at his shaft. Love was pain, after all, right? And his dick felt so good plunging into that viscous core, waves of stench and splashes of sticky goo washing over him as he thrust back and forth. He wrapped his arms around the smooth white shell, fucking the egg’s hole harder and harder, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes watering in part with pleasure and in part because of the rank smell of the sulphur.

One thrust was too hard, though, and with a snap, the shell shattered, bits cutting into Templeton’s aroused flesh as the egg dissolved into a puddle of rancid mess. With a cry of anguish and delight, Templeton flung himself onto the ground, rolling in what was left, his paws grabbing big mucus-y globs of egg and rubbing it on his chest, his flanks, his cock. He closed his eyes in bliss and could feel the remains of the yolk squishing between his ass cheeks and his tail, lubricating his taint and balls with thick slickness.

As he slithered in the ooze, he suddenly found something firm pressing insistently below his scaly tail. Templeton reached behind him to find what looked suspiciously like a chicken beak floating in the remains of the egg. Thoughtfully, he examined the beak. There was one thing that would make this intimate moment complete…

In an audience pleasing move, Templeton scooped up some yolk, dripped it onto the beak which he gripped in his tail, and slowly inserted it into his slimy butthole. With his tail pushing the makeshift dildo in and out, the rat grabbed his cock with one paw and smeared more eggy mess onto his head and whiskers with the other. Groaning faster, the stimulation of the hard beak with his slippery wanking, the rotten stench, and the egg white drooling its way through his sensitive whiskers pushed him over the edge.

All he could think of as he approached climax were the words he kept being sent to find for that damn spider’s web work. But what word could sum up how he felt? He scrunched his eyes shut, pulled the beak out of his ass, and summoned up the best word he could think of.

“TERRIFIC” he gasped, as spurt after spurt of cum drizzled and dissolved into the mess on the floor.

That floor would stay muddy, a mix of rotten egg and rat ejaculate, for weeks.

Templeton didn’t mind.

He was a dirty rat.

Categories: best of, erotica