I love you. I love you always. I love you with force and I love you softness and I love you with the little beats in between. I love your flaws and your perfections. I love the span of you. I love you tomorrow and now and yesterday. I love your body and the way it fits. I love your mind. And your soul. And the way they fit. I love them collectively with all of my being, collectively, and with the individual fibers that make me up. I love you in my heart and in my gut. I love your person. I love you as a person and as a lover and as a friend--as a human being--but more than that as the human being that my human being wants most to be with at the end of each day. I love you to the day's end. And tomorrow's. I love you to the moon and back and with all of the cliche across the ages. And beyond that I love you originally. Singly. Unrestrainingly. I love you and always you.
It is hard for me to imagine a world in which you are reading this blog and are unfamiliar with the Internet storm surrounding the now multiple allegations made against James Deen. According to the long list of email inquiries from major press stations around the world, I have been “outspoken” about my support of Stoya. This claim, likely, can be attributed to my first response, which read, “I support Stoya.”
There are things one learns. The pads of the fingertips, for example. That each one matters at every depth and that a mark should be left but not much. One learns how to press them into flesh. To roll them up to leave the nails off. To squeeze the teeth down with lips along the ridge. To knead. To slap soundly with a cupped hand. To not pull the skin too far to the side; that it will dimple. That smaller things will complicate their force. That a body is stronger than what is manmade, that the cushions collapse at the back, that brass-railed beds will break, that wall fixtures don’t hold human weight but two palms impressing on another’s forearms make a sturdy base. That eyeliner amplifies age. That the bluer the vein the more the sperm burns, that it digs in the skin and breaks the membranes. That sweating will soothe it. One learns to prime by leading with the heel of the hand in short movements and arc out. To prime over everything. To ask first and question later. To spit from the right side of the mouth to adjust the thickness. To roll it from the back of the tongue and over the top before a downward plunge. To breathe. To breathe in great big breaths before it. To go slack to ask for the air back. That any movement of the mouth on the teeth looks menacing from the top. That toes are collective and fingers are not; that they take different treatments from the tongue. Raw on the knees is okay but not on the face. That it looks bad. That blood drawn on the back is the best place. That fucking the ass is never the same pushing in as pulling away. That a kiss should stick. Cuts mark harder as they travel south, that they fade out fastest on the underside. That throats are best grabbed when the lungs expand; friction best slickened with spit. That everything starts with the eyes and how they meet. That hits shouldn’t strike sideways. Hair should be moved through curled hands in thick centered grips at the base. Molars are dull and incisors will nick at the foreskin. Tilting the chin down can get more length in. Two hands are better than one. A body with bruises will take more and one without scars will quit. That ‘taking more’ is a measure of worth. That the scream rings different when it’s meant. That sex is a performance. That by extension there is a chance to outlast, to sear sickly into memory, to be revived in the private actions of an audience again and again, that it will be done as a unit or not at all, that to reach it there are rules. That they are fixed. That they are the rules of Improv, that it is understood by the bodies involved that any action will be impulsively met and incited in form with Yes, and—.
Salon.com just posted an edited version of this. This is the full version.
When I was 18 I began working at a local strip club that had four walls and a stage. It was not fancy, but there was no plywood exposed and the sound booth was top notch. Part of the reason I am where I am today is I took too easily to that job back then. Or, rather, it took too easily to me. From the first night I was the top earner in that club. It wasn’t ridiculous money. This wasn’t Vegas or Miami or New York. It was Sacramento, in a warehouse district. My top earnings only netted me $500-$800 per shift. That’s $500-$800 per day for an eighteen-year-old, though. Previously, my take home was about $800 in a month, working full time.
Strip clubs can be shark tanks. They are four tight walls teeming with girls who often had been the hottest in high school and best at getting attention. Now those girls have grown up and the competition is stronger. There is a cash prize. It is the greatest popularity contest of their lives. Not all of the girls fit this mold, of course. Not even most. But enough do. Enough fit it that they will have their troops when it comes time to run out another contestant. Think “Mean Girls,” with teeth.
At first I was coddled by the other dancers and treated as the new girl. There were encouraging smiles and notes on where to shop, help with names. When the new girl period expired, though, it became clear that I wasn’t just sailing on beginner’s luck. All too quickly I’d built up a roster of regulars, a game plan, and a catchy hook. I knew when to ask for the money.
Oh, Putin. I come to you today because you are Russia, as much as anyone in recent memory could be said to have been “Russia”, collectively, as a people, as an idea, as a vast and deeply interesting place. After all, what is Russia in our hearts and minds if not a brute force who handles bears and tigers with bare hands, takes winters on shirtless, and walks coolly away from all manner of things that are only seen in backgrounds as they alight in pillars of flame and smoke, detonated. Russia is a badass in a tailored suit.
You don't know me but one day I'll be curled into the sweep of your arm, laying my face on the moist part of your skin where you're still damp with sweat and the light will be glistening in the place of your nakedness and it will be electrified with a thick bright glow of sunlight reflecting where my wetness is still on yours. The light is one I'll only see when you exhale, my eyes fixed downwards on your feet. Beginning with the length of you I will learn to know your shapes. It will be the artist’s golden hour and well past lunch. We'll order room service and not care whether it comes.