american dream music.

I woke up wondering why Carol Queen interrupted the threesome I was about to join, the two ready and waiting bodies being Madonna and the boy my brain shaped up to be her much younger lover. They were calling to me and Carol was in the red white and blue latex outfit she wore to the Erotic Exotic Ball when I worked the booth with her for GV, years ago (I went to bed last night after having looked at the pictures buried in my computer of that event, and others).
“Jameson,” she said, top hat moving to the side as her head tilted with the question, “why are you doing this? Is this what you really want? Look at me, not at them,” as my gaze drifted to Madonna giving head to her well hung and dark haired man. “You need to think about what you’re doing. Don’t lose sight of what you really want, of what matters.” She looked concerned. Her funky Carol Queen glasses caught the light in their rhinestones and threw it in jumps and jolts across the room.
I woke up excited, then woke up further, confused. Remembered a piece I had forgotten about grabbing some woman’s hips as she straddled mine. Got excited again, then confused more. Madonna? And Carol Queen? In the same dream?
I think the guy was paid to be there, I remember, and there may have been two of them.

And what it means, to me; my guess:
Parts of my life feel like selling out, giving up on what I want to do and where I want to be for what I’m doing well and what I could continue to do well. I create a dichotomy, quickly, in my head, of corporate world vs. sex world, and in that contrast the sex world is where I belong and the corporate world is where I am.
But that dichotomy, like all dichotomies, holds little truth. Madonna –to me– is as grossly corporate sex as you could get, like ten marketing and PR people at the top of their game meet once a week and decide what her next move will be to keep her reign supreme. And Carol Queen, dear sweet idolized-by-yours-truly-for-years, Carol Queen is as uncorporate sex as you could get. Both are technically a part of the sex world, but are so different from each other.
The sex world is big and wide, and I don’t fit well in some parts of that world, just as I don’t fit entirely in the corporate segment I’m in now. Perhaps the corporate world deserves room for variance. Perhaps there is an in between that would let me do what makes me happy and push further what I’m already doing well. Maybe I don’t need to sell out the part of myself that’s good at being smart-business-pants the same way that I’ve sold out bits and pieces of being smart-sex-pants.
Lessons for me: recover what I’ve lost, relearn what I’ve forgotten, remember what’s important. Write, love, read, cook, fuck. Don’t be afraid to succeed, don’t be afraid to let go of successes I might not want.
Lessons for everyone: Remember what makes you happy. Love, read, feed yourself what nourishes you most. Don’t have a threesome with Madonna. Remember your dreams.

have sweet ones tonight,
jameson.

that girl, with the long hair.

My ten year high school reunion is this summer. I hate that I’m excited about it, nervous about it, already regretting the drunk sentences that I know will fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You always got more attention than you deserved, but that’s okay now because it’s obvious you’re not getting it anymore.” “I never understood why you didn’t like me.” “I always thought you were a bitch and knew that someday that bitchiness would catch up to you. I’m glad it finally has.” “I have missed you so much.”

I know I’ll end up talking more about what I’ve done than what I’m doing now. “For three and a half years I sold sex toys and porn and helped people feel okay feeling dirty,” instead of “I take dealer calls and manage an order file for a messenger bag company.” To my former classmates, I will look just like I did (plus about 25 pounds) when we spent every day together in the Middle Of Nowhere, Maine. They won’t know that for a minute I had really short blond hair, or that I went through a long black skirt phase in college. They won’t know that I have long hair now because I stopped being afraid of not looking gay enough, of not being visible. I grew it out with the knowledge that the long hair might make me invisible to those I want most to notice me. High school classmates won’t know this, and if they did know, they might not understand or care. They will just see that I have long hair now, just like I did then.

And I will see their children and their spouses, and I will not know the details that make their normal hetero lives not so normal, and maybe not so hetero. I will not know who got married against the wishes of their parents, who is currently cheating on their partner, who has a kid they don’t understand in the slightest and don’t know why. I will not know what has happened in their lives from then til now, and they will not know what has happened in mine.

And I will remember that I didn’t really know any of them that well back in high school. Who knew or cared that I didn’t eat much if at all my junior year, or that my parents forgot to pick me up after every lacrosse game, or that I had an abortion halfway through my senior year? These experiences affected my life more than fourth period study hall or the party at Sam’s cabin. What happened to you, then? What did I miss while I was trying not to hate my body, trying to love my family, and trying to feel something, anything, about going from pregnant to not pregnant in ten minutes on an exam table?

So why then do I want to go and see again people that knew as little about me as I knew about them, people who have lived as much as I have in the ten years since we’ve been in the same room, and who will know just as little about where to start their stories? Why am I going to spend money to fly out and rent a car and most likely a hotel room?

Maybe because there was a point in time when these people mattered to me. I wanted to be liked and to be listened to. We all did. We all still do. Maybe I feel lost as to what I am doing now, in my life now, and remembering who I was then will help me remember parts of myself I may have forgotten. Maybe I just want context for my memories; to see the places and people that I know exist only because there are still pictures of them in my head. I want to validate my own history to myself.

Why ever I go, and how ever I get there, I will be there nonetheless.

Here’s to the potential awkwardness and laughter,

jameson.

with confidence.

When I worked at Good Vibes, I sat in on an after hours class taught by Midori. The class was called something like Fierce Femmes or Tapping into Female Sexuality or something like that, with the basic aim of teaching women how to be more confident in their sexuality, specifically in their topping-ness (I use the big words, I know).

I won’t detail all that Midori discussed –you should take any class she offers, she’s amazing, and tiny, and powerful– but I do want to share one lesson I got from that after hours class that has proved quite useful. At one point in the night, Midori had us write down our favorite female characters, from movies and books and songs and real life. She wanted us to list the women we thought were strong. Needless to say, most people in the room had vastly different versions of what female strength was, and thus had quite different lists. Mine included Scarlett O’Hara and the mean cloud girl in Rainbow Brite. Other participants had politicians, and their mothers, or Angelina Jolie. After reading our lists aloud, Midori asked us to think about what connected the women on our individual lists, and for us to use the women we chose as our examples of power and female sexuality. Instead of needing to be the porn star or the movie star, practice embodying the traits you already connected with fierce femininity.

I liked this exercise because it basically validated the tiny mean streak I have, and helped me let go of a value system that didn’t do what I needed it to. The whole “coy = sexy” thing doesn’t work for me. I’m sure it works for some people, but I feel fake when I’m not being direct. And I don’t feel sexy when I feel fake. As much as Scarlett used her coyness to dance around an issue, when push came to shove, she stood up and pushed back. Yes, I can do that.

And, in the spirit of topping-ness (don’t you love just slapping suffixes onto words whenever you feel like it?), a friend recently brought up the question of how to look like you know what you’re doing when you’re really nervous and might not really know what you’re doing. This is such a great question because it applies to everyone, not just little tops or big ‘ol bottoms. Most people have a nervous phase of sex. Whether that’s when they’re just starting, or just starting something new, or just starting someone new. Or even doing something they’ve done a million times before, but in a different way or with a different person. Nervous is natural.

So how to be un-nervous (prefixes, suffixes, I use what I want). The easy answer is to read about what you want to do. Some activities require actual prep and research (many things that fall under the BDSM umbrella), and some activities have books with tips and tricks and maps (Ultimate Guide to Fill In The Blanks by Violet Blue). But in addition to reading, you could also practice by yourself. And by this I mean:

Be hella sexy while you’re at home alone. Seduce yourself in the mirror. Know what your face looks like, and fucking love it. Wear your fuck me heels doing the dishes. Practice your lines in the shower. “When I say bend over, I mean bend over, now.” If you want to sound like you mean it, you have to mean it, which means taking any nervousness out of the sentence. Words are words and can be practiced all the time. Driving to work. “If I let you suck me off, what will you do for me?”

More than words:

Checking in during sex can be really boring and mood killing. Unless it’s not. There are a million different ways to say “does this feel good” without saying “does this feel good, cause I’m not sure if I’m doing it right and I’m really nervous and what if you’re afraid to tell me cause you know I’m nervous and shit that makes me even more nervous cause now I have to pretend to be cool. Fuck.” If you’ve practiced being sexy, and you own your sexy badass self, then you can say things like “I want you to move my hand to make you come. Then I want you to fuck me.” Or ” If you don’t say yes, please, when this feels good, I will stop, and I will pleasure myself. And you will not be allowed to watch.” Or “Our goal tonight is to get you as wet as possible.”

Personally, I think watching your partner masturbate is a) hot, and b) a great way to learn how they get off. If they’re nervous and can’t handle watching you watch them, you could hide in the closet (this would be rad) and they would feel like they were alone and would know that they weren’t, and there could be this whole “someone’s in the house” fantasy thing goin’ on, and you could feel all pervy and peeping tom and be totally diddling yourself and….I love this game. Sex is fun.

And yes, the answer always begins with “talk to your partner”. But after the talk? Own being hot. Sex mistakes are less noticed when they’re made by someone fucking sexy fucking you. I know this isn’t a complete answer to “how to be sexy and know what to do”, but it’s a start.

It’s raining now, and I’m gonna nap,

jameson.

flags and rings.

Our Thanksgiving started at 5:15 am. Woke up, got dressed, drove to pick up four of our friends, went to Glide. None of us regularly attend services; we were there that morning to help prepare and serve the 5-7,000 people that would be waiting in line for food that day. After de-meat-ing 3.5 turkey carcasses each, we went home, showered, cooked a dish for our meal that night, then headed to the east bay for dinner with her family.

Last year on Thanksgiving and Christmas we volunteered at the church (which is one of the most positive, accepting places I have ever been in, just like you saw in The Pursuit of Happyness). The year before that we spent a week working with Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans, building houses in 95-degrees-at-six-in-the-morning weather. We’ve helped our friends move. We pick up the mail for our neighbors when they leave town. We listen to our siblings when they’re upset. We love each other and the people in our lives really, really well.

And yet according to my girlfriend’s mother and the church to which she belongs, we will not be going to heaven. And, thanks to a good number of Californians and Americans (real, hardworking, tax paying Americans), my girlfriend and I will not be getting married any time soon.

I get confused when I hear people who voted Yes on 8 talk about how “It’s not about civil rights; civil unions are almost the same thing; you have the rights, just leave marriage alone,” or how “We have a few really close friends who are gay, and we love them. We just don’t want gay marriage to be taught in schools”. The sentences don’t work, the pieces don’t come together to form a whole. It’s not about civil rights? Funny that, because actually, it is. You have close gay friends, but don’t want your kids to know those gay friends exist? I don’t get it.

Here’s the deal: You cannot both care about your gay friend (me) as a person (a living breathing caring honest human being), and say that their love (my love) is not worthy of the same status as yours. This is what it boils down to. The worth of people, and the worth of their love.

On the night of the election, I was so proud of America for electing Barack Obama to the presidency. For the first time since I was maybe ten, I wanted to hang an American flag in my window. I felt like this was my country, too, like I didn’t have to change who I was to feel like I belonged here. The country changed. Tens of thousands of people like me created a place where both the tree huggers and the gun lovers will be protected and can be proud.

I have a friend who was very, very against gay marriage. “But Jameson, why would you want to be a part of such a hetero-normative, patriarchal, historically oppressive institution?!” She took issue with our community, our queer-ass, radical, feminist, sex-loving, gender-fucking community wanting to take part in a process that was so very un-everything we were and are. But now? Now he marches with me and my girlfriend for equal rights.

I’m not going to lie.  I do want to change traditional marriage.  I want to adjust it so that my girlfriend and I can fit inside. I also want to change it so that more people are joining for love and family instead of money and fear. I want to change traditional marriage into something that is more about happiness and less about divorce. I want Marriage to change like America did. I want my flag and my ring, damnit.

and another day begins,

jameson.

how to plan b. or, how not to get pregnant after one of the many situations that might leave a woman all pregnant-like.

(first, quick side note: of all the people who stumble upon my blog, most do so by searching “horse cock” or “canine sex” or “animal dildo”. I’m a little proud of this, a little surprised, and a lot wondering “Am I the only one who’s written about animal dildos? Really?”. Moving on…)

Plan B.

Watching tv on another random night with my very not-so-random girlfriend, I almost jumped out of my seat when I saw a commercial for Plan B. I could go on for days about how extraordinary this is (how long did it take the FDA to approve Emergency Contraception (EC) for over the counter status?), but instead, I’ve decided to give a brief tutorial on what Plan B is and how it works.

Let us begin with a basic question: Why Plan B?

answer: There are many, many reasons a woman would choose to take emergency contraception. My guess is the most common reason given to doctors is “The condom broke”, but the most common actual reason is more like “I didn’t use a condom.” Both are fantastic scenarios for Plan B.

Other situations that could lead to a female seeking EC:

-She was raped.

-She was intoxicated and doesn’t remember if she used protection or not.

-She is on birth control, but often forgets to take the pill.

-She just started taking birth control and knows the hormones might not be doing their thing yet.

-Her boyfriend came on her pussy and she’s nervous some might have gotten inside.

-She didn’t plan on having sex/is afraid of her parents finding her birth control/believed her boyfriend when he said “you can’t get pregnant the first time, baby” and then realized he’s a liar and needs to fix things, fast.

-Her friend told her about being in one of the above situations, and is afraid to go to the doctor or pharmacist herself.

-Any other situation that could leave a woman feeling like she needs post-sex contraception.

So now that we know the why, let’s get down to the how.

How does Plan B work?

answer: Just like birth control, only faster and stronger. Most hormonal types of birth control do three things: 1. Thicken the cervical mucus so no sperms can get up through into the uterus and fallopian tubes. If that doesn’t work, and sperms do get through, you’re all good because birth control also 2. Prevents an egg from leaving the ovary. Sperm can’t penetrate an egg if there’s no egg too dig into. But, if step 1 & 2 don’t work, birth control also 3. Makes the lining of the uterus inhospitable to a fertilized egg.

Emergency Contraception does all 3 things superfast. It clogs up your cervix so any remaining sperm can’t get through, stops an egg from leaving the ovaries, and makes the wall of the uterus an unhappy place for the potentially sperm-injected egg to rest. Result: staying unpregnant.

More good questions:

What’s the difference between emergency contraception and the abortion pill?

answer: Everything! The abortion pill (RU-486) works in conjunction with another medication to abort a pregnancy. You have to already be pregnant for the abortion pill to work. In contrast, if you are already pregnant, EC will not work; it will do nothing to an egg that’s already met its sperm and lodged itself all snug into your uterus. EC/Plan B prevents the pregnancy from happening, whereas the abortion pill prevents an already existing pregnancy from being carried to term.

Does Plan B protect me against std’s?

answer: Nope. Not at all. Not even one tiny little bit.

Isn’t Plan B the same thing as having an abortion if it kills a fertilized egg by not letting it attach to the uterine wall?

answer: That’s up to you. If you believe that life begins at conception, then yes, Plan B has the potential to stop a conceived life. However, there’s no way of telling where along the path o’ pregnancy a woman might be. Maybe the EC stopped the sperm and that was that. Maybe it stopped the egg. Maybe the egg and sperm met, and maybe that egg and sperm would have spontaneously aborted without the use of emergency contraception (from Wikipedia with sources: Prospective studies using very sensitive early pregnancy tests have found that 25% of pregnancies are miscarried by the sixth week LMP (since the woman’s Last Menstrual Period).^[27][28]). You cannot tell where/when the emergency contraception worked.

Where can I get Plan B:

answer: Your local pharmacy (type in your zip code on this site, and they’ll tell you where that rad local pharmacist is). Planned Parenthood. A cool friend who got some extras when she went for her annual pap.

Is it safe?

answer: Yes.

and that’s it for tonight, folks.

take care of yourself and each other.

jameson.

domesticity.

When I lived by myself I kept my Hitachi in the living room, plugged in behind the futon. Toys out in the open meant I didn’t have a lot of visitors, and I really liked masturbating. Always ready when I was, my power tool waited for me to get home, like a puppy. Or like a kitten, ready to purr.

Only three channels made it to the tv in my tiny apartment. I stole the internet from my neighbors. The girl upstairs (who had a buzzcut and wore combat boots and had a small leather pride flag on her truck) would make fun of my sex moans by mimicking them through her window after my fucking was done. When she moved out a new woman moved in, and the new woman’s boyfriend threw her around the apartment one night, and she kept screaming at him to get the fuck out and I could hear her body slam into the ground, and I stood there frozen with my phone in my hand. I didn’t call the cops. I felt sick the next day, like a bad bad person, an awful woman, a terrible feminist. A negligent participant in this world where we need to take care of each other. She ended up chasing him out into the street, screaming at him to give her back the fucking rent money.

The bathtub in that apartment was tiled in yellow, and there was a tiny barred window at the top of the wall beside the tub. I would close the curtain and turn off the light and sit in the dark, in the water, quiet. Sometimes I could see the moon. Sometimes ants crawled in through gaps in the caulking and grout, and I’d stuff wet toilet paper in the holes. The ants always found a way to get out of the wall, through from the outside to the inside. My toilet paper barricades only worked until the insects saw light in another tiny tiny crack.

The first time I tried taking a bath in my newest apartment I laid there, naked, in the tub, frustrated and sad. The water slowly dribbled into the basin; I started getting goosebumps as the water already under my back cooled. No water pressure, no moon, no ants, no quiet. No tension releasing into the warmth.

The new neighbors at the new apartment are are mother and son. A yoga-loving lesbian and her teenager. He yells a lot, Mom! God!, and she yells back, and both voices get louder and louder. I never think to call the cops, he’s young and easily upset, they’re doing what parents and teenagers do. But every now and then I stop, and listen. In case maybe there’s another, stronger man in the house. I don’t want to be frozen again. I have lived here for three years.

Although there are still few visitors to my house, which I share with my girlfriend, I moved the Hitachi from behind the couch to deep within a locker in the bedroom. I have a dog who howls at firetrucks if I do first. My lady curls up to me in the morning, and can’t sleep if my body is touching hers. We have cable.

And I still absolutely love to masturbate.

In frozen and in warm

In house and home

jameson.

what i know i don’t know.

What I know:

I know that I love sex. I love fucking, thinking about fucking, theorizing about why I love thinking about fucking, imagining why other people don’t think about (or theorize about) fucking as much as I do, and wondering what the world would be like if so many people weren’t ashamed about the fucks they had and the fucks they wanted. Would there be fewer wars if more people were okay with sex? I say yes. Would as many people be depressed and lonely and angry if sex weren’t so complicated and shame-inducing? I say no, no but these things (depression and loneliness and anger) exist with and without anything to do with sex, but sex does affect all of the above (and cause all of the above in some people, not all).

I know that having a partner that enjoys sex as much as you do is crucial. Last night ladyfriend asked me if I felt satisfied, if I felt bored or wandering. And I told her this: If I had any doubts that she would do (or seriously consider doing) whatever I wanted her to, in bed, then I would reconsider the potential length of our relationship. Because right now that potential length is pretty much forever. But if I thought she’d say no when I said, “Hon, I need you to wear a blond wig tonight because I’ve been fantasizing about fucking a blond up the ass and you’ve got to be the blond for me”, if I had any reason to think that she’d have reason to say no, I’d think about who else would say yes.

Because long term relationships take flexibility. They take adaptation. They take blond wigs and sex toys and fingers and lube. Relationships in general require both people meeting at some place where they both want to be. If she asked me to watch her fucking some guy, I would say no, and she knows that I’d say no, because I don’t want to be there. But I know she wouldn’t ask. And she knows that my blond thing doesn’t exist (she already has the dark hair I fantasize about).

What I know I don’t know?

I don’t know what I would do with a partner who didn’t fit me sexually. I am a complicated, highly sexual person. And there aren’t many bodies out there that would fit with mine. But hers does. And I love it.

be good.

jameson.

conversations, real and imagined.

Recently, I had a conversation entirely in my head with a woman who works at a high class sex toy company. The woman was wearing an outfit she found in Lucky, or saw on Lipstick Jungle, and tapped her manicured nails on the counter that we were both standing in front of as we mixed our coffee in the morning. In this fake conversation (with a woman I’ve never met, at a company I would love to work for), we were discussing sex toys (because, in addition to being a marketing assistant at said company, she was a liberated woman who bought the Rabbit after she saw it on tv; the bunny has since burrowed in its box under her bed). I take the lead in pushing boundaries when I say “You know what toys I think are truly at the cusp of being revolutionary while still being hot in a dirty, happy, filthy way? The ones that are somewhat animal shaped.” and she says “you mean like the Rabbit?” and I say “No, like the horse cock or tentacle arm“, and she says something to the effect of:

“That is fucking disgusting. I can’t believe people get off on that shit. Why would anyone want to put something that looks like a horse’s penis up inside them?! Ew! People who are into that must be Messed Up. Why can’t people just have normal sex?”

to which I say, in my imaginary conversation, with real conviction:

“You know what pisses me off about people like you? Besides the fact that you’re being massively hypocritical when you shit on the animal toys while your favorite orgasms come from a jelly rubber rabbit’s ears drumming away at your clit while mushroom head with a smiley face rotates in your pussy, besides that, I can’t believe how you don’t even realize that the perverts are the ones who you should be thanking! We’ve taken years of abuse so you can rent your damn Misty Beethoven, been laughed at so you can buy your Screaming O Ring, and endured generations of condemnation so your boyfriend could tie you up with fur lined handcuffs. Oh, and that strip aerobics class you’re taking? We get credit for that, too. Normal sex? You want normal sex? What about birth control? Normal sex didn’t include birth control until we, the people at the front of the sex lines, pushed for it. Normal sex didn’t include lube, or porn, Good Vibrations, or anything battery operated! Fuck, normal sex didn’t include a woman’s pleasure until the perverts of the time started asking for it. You want normal sex? Go have your normal sex, and then thank the rest of us when you’re done.”

And then, of course, I walk calmly away as she stands there, wanting to ask me about porn and handcuffs and lube. Because there’s a pervert in everyone, kids, all it needs is a little confidence and education.

That having been said, I have my SFSI interview/orientation tomorrow. Wish me luck.

tentacle-y yours,

jameson.

addictions and assholes.

In case you’ve missed them, some headlines:

1. David Duchovny, who I’d watch in Red Shoe Diaries on mute in my bedroom before I was old enough to be watching softcore porn on cable while the rest of my family was sleeping, has gone to rehab for sex addiction. Definition of sex addiction, as stolen from Wikipedia:

• The Mayo Clinic uses compulsive sexual behavior for sexual addiction, and identifies characteristics of the sex addict as “an overwhelming need for sex and are so intensely preoccupied with this need that it interferes with your job and your relationships. [...] You may spend inordinate amounts of time in sexually related activities and neglect important aspects of your day-to-day life in social, occupational and recreational areas. You may find yourself failing repeatedly at attempts to reduce or control your sexual activities or desires.”^[6]

Getting help for any addiction is commendable. Personally, I think rehab for sex addiction is more legitimate (not that there’s an addiction scale of legitimacy that I manage on an everyday basis or anything, but, if there were, I’d place sex addiction as a more legitimate addiction for which to seek treatment) than exhaustion (paging the past of Britney Spears).

2. VP nominee Sarah Palin is to feminism what George Bush is to intelligence: a terrible pretender. He’s not smart, and she’s an asshole. Sorry, I’m sorry, maybe she’s not an asshole, maybe she just wants to force me to have a baby when I don’t want to. Maybe she just thinks that controversial books should be banned. Maybe she forgot to check out the Guttmacher site when she absentmindedly decided that abstinence only education in any way does justice to the future our children deserve to live. Maybe she’s become the darling of the conservative asshole right by accident, and therefore is not an asshole herself.

Maybe not.

Here’s how I see it: Conservative values are sexist, homophobic, racist, and classist. Thus, they should not be treated as “hey, we have different opinions and I should respect yours and you should respect mine.” No. I do not respect the view that I, as a dirty little homo, am less of a person and less worthy of rights as anyone else. No, I do not respect the view that poverty is a choice that poor people make and if they maybe got a job they wouldn’t complain so much. I do not respect the view that I do not own my own body. I hate that these assholes (no sorry this time. Assholes are what they are, assholes is what they will be until they get some human compassion and common sense) are given as much time on news shows as people who have both brains and hearts.

I will be very, very, very disappointed in American women if Sarah Palin gets elected. We need to stand up for ourselves, our bodies, our children, and our fucking intelligence and not elect this woman. Yes, she has a vagina, and a vagina has never had power in such a high White House position. But I will not give up my own vagina for the position hers could be in.

I like sex too much to let her (and those who support her) make decisions about what sex I should be having and what rights I should and shouldn’t get because of where I stick my fingers when I want to.

yours in hope of a rational democracy that won’t let Fox News dictate who wins this election,

jameson.

dirty mtv circles.

What I’ve learned from the VMA’s so far:

1. I’m getting old. Watching the 11:00PM showing, I am tired as shit and should probably be sleeping right now.

2. I want to do dirty things to the Jonas Brothers. I remember reading in Savage Love some scenario about how Dan Savage thought terribly dirty rotten thoughts about (or understood thinking terribly dirty thoughts about) the Jesus boys who came to his door. There’s something so deeply appealing about staining something clean, like maybe fucking the Jonas Brothers would feel like the first time I saw a porno mag, like that kind of first-orgasm-before-you-even-know-what-an-orgasm-is feeling. Or maybe it would feel like you won something, like doing what no one thought could be done at the same time you’re saying “I told you so.”

3. Lil’ Wayne neds to pull up his damn pants.

4. Can’t anyone else tell that Katie Perry can’t sing?

5. I hate this video, but:

Unlike Katie, on a live stage the Paramore girl can sing. She’s no Beth Ditto, however:

6. (sorry for the all caps, but) PINK IS A DYKE. In case you missed it, in case you’ve been sleeping in “All hetero all the time” land, it’s time to wake up and admit that the girl’s a homo. Even if her hair is a little more Joan Crawford than Joan Jet.

7. I think I want to do dirty things to Miley Cyrus, too. Or maybe I want Miley to do things to the Jonas brothers. Or! Ooh! I want Pink to direct Miley how to do dirty things to the Jonas brothers. That completes the circle in ways that only the most stained part of my little heart could even wish for.

time for bed, and dreams of teen pop stars getting defiled by hot closeted lesbians,

jameson.