I am writing a story for a national women’s magazine about the female experience of using Omegle or Chatroulette specifically for sexing. I will be talking about my own experiences (which I wrote about here initially…) but I will also talk to lots of women about their stories, exploring how they are similar or different, etc. If you ever hit up these sites, I would love to chat with you for the story! You can be anonymous in the piece, and we can come up ways to secure your identity (changing name, where you live, etc.) Inbox me or e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org
Where I talk with performance artists Ann Hirsh and Angela Washko about my armpit hair, selfies, skinny mini speed dating, writing and my feminism. Listen here: http://radiohive.org/data/ACUPS-6-24-13.mp3
This week on A Cups, Ann and Angela will talk with writer and self proclaimed sex journalist Rachel Rabbit White to discuss some of her recent writing. Rachel’s work can be found on Thought Catalog, Jezebel, the New York Observer, New York Magazine, Cosmopolitan Magazine, VICE, The Frisky and Buzzfeed among others. You should check out her recent essay “I Went To ‘Skinny Mini’ Speed Dating”- we love it. We will also talk hairy jeggings, not wearing make up, speed dating for skinny girls, writing/working directly from personal experiences and lots more!
Tune in live at 9pm Monday June 24th here! (Or you can wait for the podcast :P)
with Ed. M, Ph.D Jackson Katz
Here’s an eBook I put together with stories from:
Rachel Rabbit White
Karley Sciortino aka Slutever
Claire Mott aka No Sex City
AND ME, STEPH GEORGOPULOS.
Preorder it, it’s good, promise.
Now we are in the window between late night and early morning when the air takes on an eerie quality, which to my sleep-deprived mind feels meaningful. On the bathroom floor next to a roll of toilet paper and a book about writing are the stems of those grapes from earlier. I peek into Lin’s shower, which holds five thick bars of Dr. Bronner’s soap and nothing else.
Lin has twisted a blanket like a snake and wrapped it around his head. He is telling me about a time he and his girlfriend took too much heroin and then lost each other in public. “I saw her randomly, outside of like CVS or Duane Reade. She had bought shampoo and seemed confused, throwing the shampoo as she walked away.” Lin talks about other times on the drug, being in line at the post office and ‘”nodding out,” vomiting in trash cans, going to restaurants then asking for the meal to be boxed up instead, throwing it away outside, puking. A moment later, talking about Adderall, Lin tells me he doesn’t view himself as addicted because he has no measurable definition for “addicted.”
The light in Lin’s room is pinkish; outside birds begin to chirp but the curtains are still drawn. Lin says he used to believe that nothing happens when you die, but now thinks there might be other possibilities, like you could be isolated somewhere. (A line from Taipei: “Death would seal them into their own private afterlives.”) When my alarm goes off — 8 a.m. — it scares us.
Excerpt from my profile on Tao Lin. Read at NYMag.com
“I’m shocked that it’s all like, sorority girls in the audience,” she shouts over the music.
I look at the candlelit women with long brown hair, and am surprised at the number of bachelorette parties. One table have fairy penis wands, they wave and bop one and other on the head with them.
The show is impressive. There are women expertly hanging from aerial scarves, peeling out of rhinestone mesh, from behind opulent feathers. On stage, a performer grabs a pile of money and rubs it over her body, bills with their faces of old presidents and all-seeing eye pyramids, mouth open in ecstasy. She twirls a five dollar bill a into a rosebud, and with the kick of a heel, slips it in her g-string, it’s a beautiful image, really: Money raining all around her, money growing from her ass.
“When did this start happening, do you think?” Nichole asks.
“Neo-burlesque?” I say, sipping a Basil Haydens, neat.
“I mean,” she says, “Women objectifying other women…”
“I guess… porn wars. I think it happened when feminism split into pro- and anti-porn,” I say, evenly.
“From a feminist perspective, yeah it’s reclaiming,” says Nichole. “But I am curious, what about it from a Marxist perspective?”
“It’s…just another industry, I guess.”
Nichole nods, and we go tip the woman on stage.
I stuff bills into her lacey rosette bra, and let my hand slide along her torso, which is brown and oiled with glitter. I wonder, as I am doing it, if this is fucked up.
Excerpt from new Thought Catalog piece about having sex on omegle, porn, subversion and dominance. Read here.
Photos I have taken of Marie Calloway, in honor of Marie Calloway’s book launch tomorrow at St. Marks Bookshop, 7 pm in NYC. I am a ‘special guest’ at the launch… come watch Marie read new fiction and me read… something.
I am at a sports bar waiting for “Skinny Mini Speed Dating” to start. I am here “undercover” as a journalist and should be mingling with the men who are here to meet “women under size 8 only,” but instead I am staring, sort of detachedly, at sports on TV; men are jumping together in a huddle which must create friction, I think, the spandex rubbing together.
I scan the crowd of speed daters but instinctively look down at my phone whenever one of them makes eye contact.
“Oh my god,” the woman running the event says to me — who, maybe it should be noted, is not a size small or whatever – “I almost forgot! I have to put your size on your nametags. What size do you wear?”
I tell her, nervously, that I am a four or sometimes a six and sometimes a two, although that’s in, like, really stretchy things.
She stops each of the women at the bar and does this, putting a number on their chests with red sharpie.
Read at Thought Catalog