Monthly Archives: May 2010

“Bother,” said Pooh.

Well, pits.

So that’s it for Mischief, the 26-year-old Goth Biscuit.

I guess I’m starting in the middle of the story. For the record, this weekend had ups and downs. Let’s get the maudlin out of the way so we can end on a high note (for once). In addition to the money strains, the aforementioned knuckle-rapping for this very blog, and the inability to solve the truck problems from earlier in the week (fucking holidays), my friend Amber has been having a major relationship meltdown.

Which segues into Mischief.

Understand, I’ve known this girl for less than two weeks, ya’all. We’ve seen each other exactly four times. We haven’t fucked (for reasons she explained to me on our first date, having to do with a promise made to a long-distance conquest who was incoming in June), but we’ve indulged in just about everything else.

This weekend, in a whirlwind of (to my mind) wanton manipulation, her most recent ex, whom Mischief is far from even beginning to get over, appeared like a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky to propose. And she’s going for it.

I know, that was my reaction. But you can’t live people’s lives for them.

I’m not crushed or heartbroken… four dates, y’know? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She’s smart, funny, sexy & dirty. You can smell it on her, feel it in her skin. There was potential there, a big, heavy, potent aura of it that both of us were keenly aware of. It’s a shame, but I missed the train this time, and wish her good luck.

Vaya con huevos, kiddo. Go with eggs.

On the plus side, Adrianna & I went to see Prince of Persia on Saturday night, which was really, awfully, hysterically bad. Just soooooo bad.

I’ll get a full review up once Rob & I record our new podcast tomorrow night.

The point is spending time with Adrianna is fucking great. We ate, walked a little to kill time, prowled bookstores, almost missed the movie (what a crime that would have been). We had fun. But. I’m just not sure what the hell we’re doing. I’m not sure she’s sure.

Not that there necessarily has to be a point. We’ve known each other for years, so it might be that, for Adrianna, I’ve gotten wedged into the “friend” drawer next to the stripy socks. For my part, I want to lick the sweat out of her navel. I would drag my dick through a mile of broken glass just to jack off in her shadow.

Too much?

Of course, I’ve always felt that way about Adrianna. Most men — hell, most people — feel that way about her. She just oozes sexuality, even when she isn’t doing anything. Even when she dresses down and tries to hide it. Must be kind of a pain in the ass.

If she gives me an indication she feels anything similar, I’ll send up a flare, have it advertised on the side of the Goodyear Blimp, and print up T-shirts. Watch this space for details.

If not, I’m perfectly happy being her occasional partner-in-crime. She’s a great companion.

Otherwise, tomorrow is a busy day; errands to do in the morning since the entire country closed up shop over the weekend, a new podcast to shoot with Rob in the evening, and somewhere in there, editing before the whole Naughty America machine rolls up again Wednesday.

Maybe I can get to sleep before 5 a.m…?

In the meantime, here is a little gift Mischief turned me onto. A great song about relationships by British comedian Tim Minchin…

Okay, this is inane enough to be completely safe from controversy:

So, yeah… 3-D Deodorant. Is it specifically formulated for the Na’avi? Do I need special glasses to use it?

I suppose it’s 3-D in the sense that it has mass and occupies space…

On the aforementioned controversy front, I’ve been asked to avoid certain topics that are pretty important to me right now. In deference to the feelings of people I care about, I’m going to acquiesce, at least until I can find a tricksy way to say precisely what I want without anyone understanding what I mean.

I’m not sure what the exact point of the exercise will be, but I suppose it’s a step in the right direction.


I got smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper this morning for some comments in this blog.

Apparently, “honesty” doesn’t test well.

In the interim, while I try to think of something pointless and innocuous to write about, here’s a picture of a bunny.

I felt like I was living someone else’s life for a bit there on Friday. At the beginning of the week, Friday had been targeted as an editing day, one in which I could have the kind of sustained, uninterrupted focus I need for cutting.

Of course, by mid-week, that was all shot to hell.

When I got word that I had to spend another crapload of money on History’s Most Costly Vacation (will I never stop paying for this trip?) I decided quickly selling off some junk was more sensible.

Incidentally, if anyone is in the market for a killer V1U package, or some 12” Sideshow figures from Episodes I-III, just drop me a line.

Then Ethan Cage asked me if he and Lexi Lamour could shoot content for her site here on Friday as they had lost the location they thought was free. Sure, what the hell. Ain’t gonna interfere with posting crap on Ebay.

I decide, since I’m now not editing Friday, I should stay up Thursday night and work. This might explain some of Friday’s slightly surreal quality. Or maybe it’s a flashback from the acid I’ve never dropped.

K and her Souvenir were out bright and early Friday morning. Lexi, Ethan, Courtney Cummz and webmaster Bill Fox show up around 11:30 to do their thing.

Around 1, Mischief showed up. She’s in San Francisco this weekend, so I invited her to stop by on her way out of town for lunch. We left the porn folk to their own devices and hit the Lost Soul’s Café. Fine, but unremarkable food. The same excellent company. She’s incredibly easy to be around, this girl. Smart, sexy, warm, and so very, very familiar.

Good for the ego, too. I figured she would be anxious to hit the road, holiday traffic being in full ass-suck by the time we got back from lunch. Not so. She was anxious to find a relatively private spot to get naked and make out instead.

Which we managed to do. Briefly. Until Amelia June — a friend of 20 years who I was expecting around noon and had written off as a no-show — came up to the second level looking for us around 3.

Conceding defeat, Mischief and I got dressed. I walked her to her car, necked in front of the cold storage guys, and sent her on her way.

Amy, who worked for me at The Castle adult store in Arizona back before it was a chain, hung out until 5:30 talking relationships and break-ups and catching up and falling apart. She likes the Goth Biscuit a lot, but can’t imagine dating someone 16 years younger. Amelia June skews older in her relationships, and is just breaking up (2010: The Year We Break Contact) with a woman 15 years her senior.

By the time I fed cats, caught up with Ben Hoffman, the Photographer in the Attic, and made dinner for myself, I was sitting down to post things at 9:30.

I was still awake at 3 a.m. when Amber Rayne texted, having a meltdown (see the previous post). Finally got to sleep around 5.

Today, I’ve had other distractions. Errands to run. French photographers. Temporarily abandoned Andy San Dimases.

In a few minutes, I’m headed out to door for dinner and a movie and I dunno what with the stunning Adrianna Nicole. I’ve gotten fuck-all done again today.

And I’m okay with it.

It’s 3:19 a.m. I’ve been texting with a friend for the last 20 minutes, a friend who, like me, like so many of us this year (and what is it about this year?!?) has had first her heart, and then her guts, stomped out by someone she loved. She texted me because she knew I would not tell her “get over it,” or “move on,” or any variation on that theme.

Do people really do that?

I offered to meet her for brekafast, but she begged off. A sobbing mess, exhausted, going to bed. I understand. When I’m in the deepest pit of my blackest despair, I don’t really want anyone to try to help, either. I just want to wallow. I’m sure she was surprised to find me awake at 3 a.m. Or perhaps not. I’m often awake at 3 a.m.

We have plans to meet for dinner on Sunday, and if she follows through — follow-through is her weak spot — I have a lot to tell her about not closing down, not shutting out, not killing off. Not doing any of the things I’ve done myself over the years. She talks the talk already. “I’m never going to do x, y or z ever again.”

Except, she’s 24. She’s got a long way to go yet.

Is there an upside to that kind of self-preservation? Sure. Having killed a lot of those switches has allowed me to ride out this most recent gut-stomping (the loss of a woman I’ve been with for 8 years, whom I expected to spend the rest of them with) while maintaining a shred of my dignity, a hard thing for a man to do when dumped.


I know I’m hiding. I’m trying to duck out of the path of a big, heavy, angry wall of cold, dark, roiling water and if the crest of that tide ever catches me, I’m not completely certain I’ll survive it. I’ve sewn the wind. If I can dissuade her from going down this path, I think I’ll be doing her a favor.

I’m going to share with you the poem I intend to share with her; a poem I’ve found great comfort in over the last couple months.

Failing and Flying

by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph


I think that’s the greatest post-break-up poem of all time. I will likely pick a line or two from this and make it my next tattoo. I just have to decide if it would be an act of bravery, or something else to hide behind.

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