A couple months ago I recorded a guest spot on a friend’s Human Sexuality lecture.

She brought up an interesting point: It is just as taboo to talk about money as it is about sex. (Which is why I think it’s great fun to bring money into your sex — but that’s another story.)

Whatever I make, it’s at once too little and too much. Too much to feel comfortable discussing, and never enough to justify it.

I talk a lot about limits: please-do’s and do’s, but mostly the don’t-do’s. On a good shoot, I like most of the activities and none exceed my limits. On a mediocre shoot, I’m bored, but at least I can perform well.

I’d never had a bad shoot before.

Much of this responsibility as a model is mine. I need to select the shoot accordingly and to articulate my limits once there. But much of it is also theirs. A good top understands that not all the models are kinky, and not all kinky models are into all kinks. He or she is considerate, concerned, and proactive.

I am often told I take too much of the responsibility upon myself. Harrumph.

On my first bad shoot, I learned the difference between “Your limits are absolute and you can always use your safeword”, and “I’ll use my best judgement as to what’s good for you, and I suppose you can use your safeword. If you must. Although you’re neurotic and overreacting if you ever think you need to.”

To their credit they always came running, but … lord!

I am not a submissive and I am not seeking a submissive experience on my shoot. I seek professional encounters free of manipulation. Of course I can do X or Z — there are few things I think I could not do, and I do not count branding or sewing my pussy shut in that category — but if I don’t want to, that has to be okay. No one gets an all-access pass to my body.

In the end, the top didn’t cross my stated limit. Why did I stress out so much? Why was I so messed up about having encountered the possibility? Why did I break down and cry for hours? What was my stupid feminist consent problem?

And all for something harmless, but that I didn’t want it. I felt like a pouty child.

I kept telling myself, reasonably or not, that the bad experience was my own failure to keep my shit together. If only I were more trusting, more flexible, a better model, more … submissive. After all, no physical harm was going to come to me. I am never (well, rarely) worried about harm. I am worried about — about — I don’t even know. Hurt? Violation? Intangibles?

Shh. Shut up. I know better. You’ll like it. I can’t tell you why, but these words are antithetical to everything I am. They make my teeth grind and every hair on my body stand on end.

It bothers you because you let it, the Lawyer used to say when I’d argue issues of principle. Why do you let it? Who are you doing this for? And I see his point, although he certainly never meant it to apply to this. I’ve no interest in martyrdom. But I cannot let people define me because it’s easy or comfortable — not in terms of principles, and not in terms of my sexual tastes or range. I have to hold on to something. Don’t I?

I was pretty fucked up by the time I got back to New York.

The Lawyer gave me his copy of a slightly mawkish self-help book called “Controlling People“. I think it had been gifted to him as a hint. I read “Controlling People” cover to cover while we chatted and he massaged my feet with baby oil. This sort of behavior from him melts me, makes me feel bad for my ambivalence about dating a dominant man in the first place.

“Do you want to have sex?” he asked me later.

I looked at him.

“First time I’ve asked you.” (Your agency, let me loan you it.)

I considered. Getting off would feel good, but I was still too broken upset for the process. “I don’t know if I want to be touched,” I told him.

“I can always jerk off.”

I perked up. “Ooh, can I watch?”

He looked just surprised enough at the request to turn me on, and then suddenly I was interested after all. We piled into the bedroom. An episode of mutual masturbation ensued, and then fucking (of course), and then he was jerking off with his fingers in my ass. Or maybe it was the other way around. I lost track.

When I went to the shower to clean myself off, I found that my cunt was so wet it formed viscous strings, clinging to my fingers. I don’t always enjoy the anal sex we have while we’re having it — but I get wetter for it than anything else. And as much as I believe I hate something, my body acts otherwise.

Yeah, I don’t know who to trust.

____________________________

Before you comment: This post is about a single problem, not the whole of my experiences with these folks. Let’s all be grown-ups. Any names will be deleted.

As always, if you are a model who needs a reference or is considering working with someone I’ve worked with, please email me. It’s misscalico (at) gmail (dot) com. If I am reluctant to throw dirt here, please know I am happy in equal measure to discuss it with you, honestly and privately. I want everyone to be safe and informed, and we know how I love to give (un)solicited advice!

I’ve found the Lawyer’s comic strip!

My next FAQ should be about enemas. Next week. I’m still deep (heh) in product testing.

In my last post on hair removal, I forgot all about epilating. Tolerances vary, but, well, no one’s ever told me they napped while having it done.

Is there something wrong with using oils on the vulva? We all know no oil-based lubes in the vagina, as it can promote bacterial infection and degrade latex condoms. But what about externally, as for shaving? I don’t want to give up my cocoa butter! I’m only suspicious of petroleum-based products like Vaseline, baby oil and ointments because they clog pores — and we use those on babies.

There are medicinal oils for your parts, too! Tea tree oil is a natural antifungal that can be useful in treating/preventing yeast infections, and there’s a whole range of essential oils (including Vitamin E) said to promote health and ease vaginal dryness.

I have a bunch of heavy posts in the pipelines: a bad shoot, limits and professionalism, my waning enthusiasm for submissive video. I don’t like posting depressing stuff but I want to move them, since they’re clogging up the flow of posts.

Also upcoming this week — in pictorial form! — a Highly Scientific Experiment on the efficacy of topical arnica for bruises. Stay tuned.

3. What do you do about your hair? You know, down there?

I think my bits would be happiest neatly trimmed, but it is not to be.

Natural is a niche market in porn. We will not examine this phenomenon today, lest I get bogged down in discussion of beauty standards, but I do want to acknowledge that one could find… issues with it.

If you wish to join the ranks of the hairless, here are your options as I know them:

1. Chemical depilatories. Nair, etc. The potential for disaster far outweighs the possibility of success. Just… don’t. I was driven to try it on my legs after a surgery, at the only time in my life when teenage social phobias and limited mobility could have collided to compel me to such follies. The aftermath of Nair is hairless, but oddly tacky and moist, rather like you’ve had your epidermis chemically removed.

On the upside, I hear not everybody blisters and peels.

2. Permanent. Electrolysis works: slowly, painfully, but it works. I hear from some people that laser works, and from others that it doesn’t. Opinions are strongly polarized because of the price.

I’d consider it, but file this under “maybe when I have a sugar daddy”.

3. Shaving. It’s cheap, it’s easy, and oh God it’s prickly. If I have to shave more than a couple times a week, I get awful razor bumps and ingrown hairs — and if I’m shooting, I really have to shave every day. I hate the pricklies. My pants hurt me. My underwear hurts me. Oral sex hurts me, and probably my partners, although they’ve had the good grace not to say anything.

Use the best razor you can afford and a nice thick shaving cream. Soak the area in hot water, or put a hot washcloth over it. Supposedly going against the hair grain is what causes ingrowns, but a dark-haired girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

I’m getting itchy just thinking about it.

4. Wax. Making an appointment with my Brazilian waxer is the most masochistic thing I do in a given week. Yup, it hurts. They always start on my left side, where I have some nerve damage from aforementioned childhood surgery, so the first rip is deceptively painless. Thankfully they always finish just at the point I’ve resolved to leave.

Everything stays perfectly smooth for about a week, a state I have achieved with no other method of depilation. Just when I begin to spin dreams of a life without hair removal, my bits begin a slow progression back to fuzz. Many people do experience ingrowns as the hairs reassert themselves under the skin. It’s not the most comfortable couple of days for me, but nothing a loofah can’t fix.

At about the 4-6 week mark I can get waxed again. I don’t know whose wax job lasts for 8-10 weeks, as commonly claimed, but I would like to meet them and after asking their secret, punch them in the face.

The pain gets better with every successive wax — less pain, less (gulp) swelling. If you skip and shave, it’s right back to pain and you’ll be sitting on an ice pack wondering why you thought waiting was too hard. It is not just a ploy to sell more Brazilians.

Unfortunately, there are few of us who need to wax who can cope with one hair-free week out of four.

Things I have not yet tried:
Sugaring
Electric razors
Prayer to a divine mercy

If you’ve had success with any of the above, please leave a comment!

2. What about my zits/scars/stretch marks/bruises?

No one on set cares about your flaws and customers have better things to look at. We all have flaws, including your favorite porn stars. The difference is that they have confidence and enthusiasm. Don’t go on a bender and show up with barked shins and a black eye, but short of that, don’t apologize.

There, I’m done preaching. On to the makeup tips!

Regular readers will know that historically, I haven’t been great with bruises. I feel guilty about getting them, I feel guilty about having them, and then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. Now, all that has changed, and the reason is Dermablend.

Their salespeople may try to sell you a lot of product. All this might be nice, but it’s not strictly necessary. Don’t buy the Leg & Body product alone, even if you wish to use it on your legs or body; it has fewer shades and less coverage. Make sure you do leave with the little white-and-black pot that is the One and True Concealer. Whether you splurge on their branded setting powder is up to you.

The stuff is really incredible. With patience and blending, I covered up a gruesome purple bruise nearly the size of my thigh. It didn’t look invisible to me, but it passed the true test: no one noticed it on set, and they picked on all my little bruises and scars. When I covered up those, I lost track of them by the time I went back to powder them. I know of no other makeup that can do this.

Does it last? Pretty well. You’re supposed to use the special setting powder, and I use regular face powder. Perhaps this would make a difference. Even with face powder it will stay put for a regular day of wear under loose-fitting clothes.

On the other hand, beware of white and black clothes and sheets. (This may just be my powder, but I don’t know.) When I wear tight jeans the Dermablend rubs off at the seam, and a heavy flogging did take it off my ass.

It washes right off with soap and water. Unfortunately, this ease of removal means it will start to come off if you get wet. Yes, this includes squirting. Yes, I tested this out for you.

While you can use it on your face, I prefer the MAC concealer-in-a-pot. Between the two of them, you should be able to cover up anything short of death and dismemberment.

UPDATE: My genius commenters say that the setting powder is really worth the money — and that it can be obtained from the cheap makeup tents at New York street fairs for around $6.  (Anyone who finds me one, I will trade you a cane from the batch I’m making.  Or two.  Or six.  I have a lot.)

They also remind me that Dermablend is excellent for covering up tattoos, should you want to do such a thing.

1. What do you do when you have your period?

Today’s front-line arbiters of pornographic morality, the billing companies, won’t process content with blood. As such, they’ve outlawed the display of play piercing, Goth chicks with fake blood, and … menstruation!

God, how dangerous is that menstruation business? Personally, I know I always consider it an act of deliberate sexual violence when I’m on the rag.

The best option is (literally) prophylactic. Use hormonal birth control (HBC) to skip your periods. If you use pills, skip the placebo week and go straight into the next pack of active pills. (It is not necessary to go the entire next month if that freaks you out, just until you can bleed again.) If you use the patch or the ring, put another one on or in.

What if you aren’t on HBC, miss a pill and get your period unexpectedly, or have breakthrough bleeding? You have a number of options, none good. As recommended by a prostitute, you can insert a piece of a sea sponge; or as recommended by a porn star, a regular makeup sponge. Every couple hours of work, depending on the strength of your flow, rinse or replace the sponge. I cannot in good conscience recommend either of these, as I have no way of knowing whether they will give you a yeast infection or kill you slowly through chemical leaching.  They do work, though.

Instead makes menstrual cups that one can supposedly wear during “clean, comfortable” intercourse. I’ve tried to use ‘em a couple times, but I never got the hang of them. One sat strangely and blocked my G-spot during fucking; I fail to see how it could not. One got dislodged by a toy (to be fair, it was a badly designed toy) and several have leaked. These are much more likely to hurt you than sponges, as they are firm plastic and substantial. I don’t recommend them if you’re doing bondage or gags, where only you would know what was wrong.

All these solutions are less than ideal. Frankly, there is nothing more uncomfortable than having foreign objects in your cunt while getting fucked. But while the porn industry is getting fucked by our government, we’re the ones who are going to have to suck it up.

First, the bad: My main frustration about TESFest was that it was impossible to get off-site without a car. If you attend Floating World without a car, I strongly recommend that you make sure your room has a fridge, and bring food for the weekend.

Next, the entertaining: This event created its own vocabulary.

High-class problem: A complication arising from, and attesting to, one’s good fortune. The phrase derives from Tim Gunn in “Guide to Style”. Ex: “I’m too thin to wear off-the-rack clothes.” “I have bites on my thighs exactly where they rub together.” “If I take this corset off to play, I’ll never be able to get it back on.” “I can’t get whipped any more over these bruises.” “He intimidates me so much, I can barely aim.”

We had a lot of high-class problems.

Please note, I don’t think that being thin — or being “high class” — is necessarily good fortune but it was the example I was given.

Happy hamburger: the product of a well-targeted bullwhip. “You may be hamburger, but you’re happy hamburger.”

Bruise play: exploiting bruises, especially those left by other people, to your own ends. Of course we all do this but in the theory that massaging them would make them go away faster, I discovered that a Hitachi on a bruise is agonizing. They’d better be going away. Fuckers.

(Yes, I finally have a Hitachi! “Impressive,” said the Lawyer, after I used it the first time. “Glad I believed you about the towel.”)

I came home and tapped around my room for beams, wishing for a hardpoint for suspension. I’m unexpectedly bondage crazy this week; I even tied up the Lawyer, which worked because I called it a demo. I’m climbing the walls, folks. It will be good to get back to work.

After a long hiatus, Naked Loft Party is back and I am glad.

Lex and I have a long, if one-sided, history. I read his blog long before I moved to New York City or had an inkling about the swing scene. He struck a good balance between raunchy and philosophical, and I liked him. As with the best bloggers, I had a relationship with Lex the Writer: if we were to meet, I was sure, he would be the perfect mixture of dorky and dashing, and it would involve either a burlesque show, a dive bar, or an intense whiskey-fueled conversation about Vonnegut.

Some of my favorite posts of his lately: sound advice for men who want open relationships, and a threesome story that touched me.

Also, Leslie and Lex are recently married. How freakin’ cute is that?

Pickup artists came up in conversation last night, and Lex’s latest post (after which mine is titled) seemed an antidote to the lingering sliminess I feel.

Lex has this to say about picking up:

…[T]here really is no such thing as rejection. The concept of sex as a competition to be won or lost was foisted upon us, in biblical times, by the evil corporation that owns Just For Men, aided and abetted by the beer, nightclub and automobile industries, and, in more recent times, by irritatingly nasal guys posing as pickup artists.

Rejection is for loan applications. In seduction you can only lead the way. It does not reflect poorly upon you as a man or a human being if a woman cannot or will not walk the path with you. Seduction is a mutually pleasurable and often unpredictable set of escalations. The question isn’t where is this going next but am I having fun right now?

What does rejection even mean?

Naked Loft Party, “There is no such thing as rejection“

Bless you, Lex. If we ever run into each other, I want to buy you a drink.

Here is the $pread magazine crew at Pride.  While I am not affiliated with $pread, there appears to be a lot of overlap between SWOP-NYC and SWANK (which may or may not involve the SWP of the Urban Justice Center) and all these weird radical sex workers in bright pink.  Organization aside, how hot is Conrad?  Oh my God.

Tonight I’m talking about fetish modeling at TES with Nix Nepenthe and Dov.  I think we’re just going to shoot the shit about the business and call it a panel, but if you’ve ever been curious about any of the work we’ve done or have other questions about the business, please come and feed us questions.

Thursday I’ll be at “Grind the Vote“, a burlesque show and voter awareness drive (?) at the Slipper Room.  I’m attending in no small part because I am still (and here I hang my head in shame) a Massachusetts voter.  If you too need to register to vote, naked girls and $5 could make you a better person.

Friday I leave for TESFest.  Who’s excited?  I’m excited.

In the meantime, I’m off to Coney Island for some sunburn.  I’d love to see some of you out this week!