These boots were made for walking: Fluevogs, Sex, Divorce and San Francisco.

I moved to California in 2004, from a homestead in the backwoods of the North Carolina mountains where I literally baked my own bread each week. I could never have imagined all the ways San Francisco would infiltrate my skin, my soul, and my sex.  It ended my marriage, and brought me into my true partnership.  It turned me queerer than I’d ever dared to express before.  It radicalized my life. San Francisco has been, and continues to be, my totally  hot transformative lover, like no other.

Today I’ve been pondering what it is that my child self wants.  Making room for the desires of that girl, and trying to give her space for play and trust.  This afternoon, she has called out for dress up. Boots, in particular.

And although it feels incredibly vulnerable to share, here’s a little post-holiday gift for you.  I wrote this poem in 2005 about the pair of Fluevogs I bought that eventually changed my life. When I wrote the poem, I didn’t know all that would happen, but you’ll notice that somewhere I had a strong inkling, or at least some forshadowing.

As it turns out, I’ve ridden those boots home to a sexuality that continuously expands and furthers my expression of my deep, animal nature.

Back in 2005, my then-partner told me I looked like a prostitute (he didn’t mean in a good way) the very first time I wore the boots.  I was heartbroken.  But something raw and powerful inside insisted I wear them anyway. Ultimately, that moment informed my decision to leave my marriage and reclaim myself.  I felt a distinctive “fuck you” to those threatened by my sexuality.  I continue to feel that way.

In the post-capitalist-frenzy of the holidays, may my humble offering remind you that we can always travel home again, and sometimes the ticket is even for sale.

Buying the Boots on Haight Street, 2005

These boots are San Francisco.

As the striding, heel-crushing totems work their black magic,

supple black leather, long lines, heels curving up like city streets,

I tell my companion I am not ready to ride these.

As the striding, heel-crushing totems work their black magic,

my fingers trace these routes.

I tell my companion I am not ready to ride these

She says I will not wear these boots until I wear these boots.

My fingers trace these routes

like streetcars of desire.

She says I will not wear these boots until I wear these boots,

and there is longing, coveting, desiring.

Like streetcars of desire

carrying a bad-ass passenger,

There is longing, coveting, desiring

to be the woman who owns these boots.

Carrying a bad-ass passenger

Up, up, up, up

Oh, to be the woman who owns these boots,

pouring my legs into the casings, making me taller, badder, readier.

Up, up, up, up,

supple black leather, long lines, heels curving up like city streets,

and pouring my legs into the casings, I am taller, badder, readier.

These boots are San Francisco.

The Day I bought my Fluevogs (looking a little apprehensive.)
The Day I bought my Fluevogs (looking a little apprehensive.)
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So you wanna be a porn star?

Masturbation

Joseph Kramer, my mentor and teacher, says that if you want to change your life, change the way you masturbate.  I want to tell you a story about how I have learned to masturbate better.

I’ve written before about how this sexual liberation stuff has been quite the journey for me.   I’m from Cleveland, Ohio.  We did NOT talk about masturbation as I was growing up.  None of my friends admitted to ever doing it.  I thought I was freaky and perverse (well, okay, maybe I still think that) until I moved to San Francisco.  (I find it COMPLETELY ironic that I now coach people in masturbation!)

But, there was this one time… when I wasn’t here yet, and somehow I got it into my head that I could videotape myself masturbating.  Revolutionary, I know.  So, I did.  And when I watched it, I was completely stunned by how sensual and beautiful I looked as I touched my body, and aroused my pleasure.  Unfortunately, I had a HUGE shame response, and not only erased the scene, I then DESTROYED the tape.  (Pre-digital.)  Yeah, I know, sooo sad!

So fast forward to now, years later.  I now record my sessions with some degree of regularity.  What I find is that they are very instructive.  When someone tells you to ‘masturbate better,’ it can be daunting.  What does that even mean?  How do you know what to do?  Are you doing something wrong?

So what do I pay attention to when I watch my video masturbation sessions?  When I look at the videos, I pay attention to the signs of arousal I see myself displaying.  If I watch it soon enough, I may be able to remember that particular moment, and connect what I am seeing on the outside with the memory of my internal experience.  I notice how much time I am taking (or not) and the quality of the touch I am giving myself.  I pay attention to my breath, and also especially focus on any points I notice that I may be constricting.  Just like athletes watch tapes of their performance to gain insight, masturbators can do the same.

I invite you, in honor of National Masturbation Month, to videotape yourself doing yourself.  Take your time.  Turn yourself on.

When you watch it, (hopefully soon after) notice how you feel, seeing yourself in your arousal.  Notice what feelings come up.

Wash… Rinse… and….. Repeat!  Try it again, and this time touch yourself for the camera.  Play it up.  And also pay attention to the quality of your own touch.  It’s kind of like the mirror, only a different format which you can use to change up the ways in which you touch yourself.

And, keep it!  Don’t erase it.  Try again in 6 months, a year.  Compare technique.  It’ll be like an erotic journal of your pleasure journey.  I’m guessing you’ll be surprised by what you notice.

And by the way: there is no wrong way to masturbate.