Sparkle gives me a sensuous whipping at the Exotic Erotic Ball. Photo: Alex

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I don’t know how the internationally notorious Exotic Erotic Ball in San Francisco, “the world’s #1 wildest and sexiest party” according to E! Entertainment TV, slipped our social list for the last 29 years, but it did. So when EEB founder Perry Mann, Producer Howard Mauskopf and PR dynamo Chris Buttner offered me a free booth, VIP treatment and unlimited free tickets for my entourage to participate in EEB’s big 30th Anniversary Blowout, well, let’s just say it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Since the good folks at the Ball didn’t offer to pay for a tricked out pumpkin or First Class air fare for every member of my beloved Bonobo Gang, we decided to transport ourselves in the most economical, wild, crazy and trailer-trashy mode available: Motorhome! We rented a reasonably luxurious Cruise America home on wheels, filled it up with food, feather boas, vibrators, books, whips, DVDs and Agwa Cocoa Leaf Liqueur, and got on our way.

We were a diverse family of sexpots, adventurers and voyagers: Sister Mel, excited to see the Cow Palace of her childhood memories transformed into a barnyard of human exhibitionism, organized the trip with the EEB. Brother Michael, the Institute’s new business developer, music promoter and fellow Yalie (SOM 1995), brought in the Cruiser to pick up the rest of us, including Bloggamy web developer and Speakeasy lounge pianist Nori, Speakeasy photographer/ladies man Alex Filangieri and the beautiful, whimsical Sparkle Sparkle Bang Bang (RadioSUZY1 regular, go-go girl and aspiring DJ). Plus, of course, our own Prince Max, recently freed political prisoner, quadruple bypass survivor and loving husband. We stopped in the Valley to pick up retired architect and Institute patron Jack S, practically backing the Motorhome into his neighbor’s house. Next stop: Camarillo where we retrieved porn star couple Natasha Skinski and Tommy Lei and a ton of BDSM gear, including a leather horse; we were going to the Cow Palace, so of course, we needed a horse.

Read more of this entry... at http://bloggamy.com/2009/12/24/sexy-mayhem-exotic-erotic-ball/

I now commit bloggamy from the eye of a storm of change. Yes, change is good and the changes we are going through right now are all essentially positive, potentially even quite marvelous. Nevertheless, major changes often cause pain to parts of the human body and mind that haven’t hurt since, well, the last time you went through major changes. Like a good spanking, it stings as it stimulates.

So, right now, I am being spanked by the firm hand of fate. Of course, I enjoy a little light spanking, but this is more like a stiff caning or a whopping power-wallop. Which is still kind of arousing, but it hurts.

Kinky CMS


Notice anything different about the bloggamy? Yes, we are transitioning into a new platform or CMS, joining the Word Press Revolution in content management systems. Do I sound like I know what I'm talking about? I don't really know CMS from PMS, but with Norioku's patient help, I'm getting the hang of it. And I'm excited about new features I didn't have on the old system, like multiple private galleries (almost as hot as multiple orgasms)! But migrating everything is tougher than getting a visa to Tibet, so some of the blog entries don't have all their stuff together and none have comments yet. There are other kinks in the system (and I'm not even going to get into all the interpersonal melodrama that has accompanied this transition). While we're migrating, you can always look at the old bloggamies in Drupal, and you can see both the fabulous new Word Press galleries and the old Drupal galleries when you subscribe to the bloggamy. Such a deal.

But such a headache! Within a week or two, we should be full migrated, but in the meantime, my brain is exploding with themes and tools and settings. Where's my vibrator? Where's my husband? I need something to make my body explode so I can get my mind off my brain exploding...

OMG, We’re Moving!
Read more of this entry...

One of the sexiest, most powerful, progressive, open-minded and inspirational characters in American history was a freethinking businesswoman named Victoria Claflin Woodhull. Newspaper publisher extraordinaire, mediumistic hypnotherapist and fearless advocate of “Free Love,” an important precursor to the feminist and sexual revolutions, as well as ethical hedonism, Woodhull was also America’s first lady broker on Wall Street (along with her sister Tennessee Claflin, mistress to Cornelius Vanderbilt). And in 1872, the first female U.S. Presidential candidate, before women even had the right to vote.

Woodhull’s independent thinking, dazzling personal success, journalistic “outings” of powerful sexual hypocrites like the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher and open advocacy of sexual freedom earned her multiple enemies in both conservative America and the sex-averse suffragist movement. Some of Woodhull’s stronger enemies managed to squelch her once-powerful voice in her own lifetime, as well as in the history books. Over the course of the 20th century, Woodhull was almost forgotten. American schoolbooks don’t tend to mention her along with Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, though Woodhull was at least as important a figure in the history of women’s rights.

In recent years, Woodhull has made a posthumous comeback. Scholars have unearthed her story, sex-positive feminists have honored her as a role model and activist groups have taken up her causes. The Woodhull Freedom Foundation (WFF) has recently emerged with a mission “to affirm sexual freedom as a fundamental human right by protecting and advancing freedom of speech and sexual expression [and] promote sexuality as a positive personal, social and moral value through research, advocacy, activism, education and outreach…fighting the political, social and economic forces driving and expanding sexual repression.”

As those of you who know me know, I’ve been fighting that fight for a while; my garter belts, g-strings and push-up bras are my battle fatigues in the War Against Sexual Freedom. This is my kind of battle – peace through pleasure – even though it can be discouraging seeing your husband imprisoned due to sex-based persecution. So it’s great to call in some reinforcements, such as a well-organized, highly focused new group like WFF, to “our side.” And when WFF Secretary Jim Rea, a longtime friend of the Block Institute, invited me to a fundraiser at Mistress Shae Flanigan’s Academy a little while ago, I was delighted to accept.

From the TV Academy to the B&D Academy

First I had a very different Academy soirée to attend; The Academy of Television Arts & Sciences was having a garden party at the Television Costume Design Exhibition in Downtown LA’s fabulous Fashion Institute for Design & Merchandising (FIDM) Museum & Galleries. It was not at all an erotic event (ATAS events rarely are), but I had fun watching our favorite supermodel Malena Teves pose by the Chanel exhibit, and I ran into my old neighbor Dwyer Kilcollin, a cool blonde from Choate who is rapidly becoming a hot production designer in Hollywood. And of course, there were the lovely, flaxen-haired Grey Goose girls plying us with their deliciously addictive cosmos.

As soon as the TV Academy festivities ended, the B&D Academy party began. Cosmo-ed into party-hopping mode, we cruised over to Head Mistress Shae’s elegant and friendly dungeon, where we switched to red wine, listened to Jim and others talk about WFF and watched porn legend Nina Hartley's famous ASSets get spanked, whipped and caned for the cause of sexual freedom. Nina also received other erotic punishments, including an intriguing variety of chopstick nipple torture which made her look like a delicious dish that some very exclusive Little Tokyo sushi bar might serve up in the back room to its prime patrons. Nina is definitely on the front lines in the war against sexual repression, putting her body on the line. And oh, what a body it is. Follow her bouncing bootie throughout the bloggamy…

We also ran into the brilliant and busy Carol Queen, director of San Francisco’s bustling Center for Sex and Culture, who we first met in 1994 when she performed “The Gentle Art of Fisting” on The Dr. Susan Block Show, using her partner Robert Lawrence as the happy fistee. Speaking of which, we have some fabulous, brand new fisting photos - featuring our friend (and star of our new release Eros Day X: Orgy for Obama) Natasha Skinski as the fistee with Tommy Lei as the fister - from later in the evening, which you can see when you Join the Bloggamy.

But back to the Woodhull fundraiser, which was winding up. So, with Jim as our accomplice, we kidnapped Nina and Carol and whisked them over to the Speakeasy just in time for our 11pm live broadcast of RadioSUZY1. Nina and Carol talked about WFF’s mission, and Max talked about being incarcerated for his work in sex publishing, and everyone spoke out against the people and policies that are filling our jails and overflowing prisons with “sex offenders,” many of whom are just Michael Jacksons without the money or talent.

Joining us on the air was April Flores, a.k.a. Fatty D, celebrating her 6th wedding anniversary with talented director/hubby Carlos Batts. Together, April and Carlos beautifully embody the art of "Integration through Sex" (a phenomenon I first identified back in 1999 with The Future Is Sex). April’s marvelous, mountainous, all-natural boobs are as amazing as Nina’s trademark butt. Also on RadioSUZY1 and in the after-party: Mel’s friends exploring the Speakeasy and the Bonobo Way-loving people they found here. Curious Cat got into some hot titty-to-titty play with boobalicious April while Alex became enamored with my snake Evie. Total babe Jamie showed off her hotness, and various explorers played with my dildos and whips. A shy, cute guy named Chris got stripped, tied to the cross, whipped and spanked to the awe and amazement of some of his pals. Funny how our Bondage Cross (created by artist Mario Saucedo) brings out the kinkster in people who seem so demure. Lots more bare-bottom spankings rippled through the evening, inspired by Nina's own ever-so spankable, world-class ass. Funny what instigates the erotic within us to come out and play.

Thank God and the Goddess – and pioneers like Victoria Woodhull -- that we have enough sexual freedom in modern America to be able to play and explore these erotic alternatives without too much fear of losing our lives or our jobs. Support the new Woodhull Freedom Foundation to help us defend these precious, precarious freedoms, as well as expand our erotic horizons. Join the bloggamy to see the kinky after-party pics! And join fellow freedom-lovers on our new community BonoboWay – while it’s still free.

It started when she was seen going into the lab, but wasn’t seen going out. Yale graduate student Annie Le (MED '13) entered Yale’s 10 Amistad Street medical building after leaving her keys, purse and phone in her office at the Sterling Hall of Medicine. For a few days, this beautiful, sexy, “sweet, spunky and smart,” 24-year-old, 4’11”, 90-lb pharmacology doctoral candidate whose parents had immigrated to California from Vietnam, was considered “missing.” Then, on Sunday, the day she was supposed to wed her college sweetheart, Le’s lifeless, strangled body was discovered stuffed behind a wall in the basement of the lab in which she worked.

The murder of Annie Le is fascinating, horrifying and perplexing people around the world. Maybe because I was once a young Yalie myself running around campus at odd hours, I feel a personal connection to this rare tragedy; the first killing of a Yale student since 1998. My heart goes out to Le’s family, friends and her young fiancé Jonathan Widawsky. The world has lost so much untapped potential in Le whose work at Yale involved experiments on mice that were part of research into enzymes that could have implications for the treatment of cancer, diabetes and muscular dystrophy.

Within a few days, the New Haven police arrested a young lab technician, Raymond Clark III, said to be the only suspect, whose DNA was found on Le’s body (and his boots had her DNA on them). At first, the media portrayed this case as a “crime of passion.” But police soon said that there were no signs of sex or attempted sex, and the suspect was already romantically involved with his own fiancée. This doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been a secret affair going on between Le and Clark – who could have become murderously jealous of her impending nuptials. But the police are saying no to that theory, so let’s assume they’re correct and there was no romance between victim and suspect.

The only relevant information Clark’s co-workers could give, as of this writing, is that he was “a control freak” about keeping the lab mice cages clean. What? Could this seemingly sane and “nice” young man have murdered this young woman, ruining his own life and damaging so many others, because she messed up some mouse cages?

Of course, Clark is innocent until proven guilty. Having had friends, lovers and my own husband falsely accused and incarcerated, I am particularly sensitive to this constitutional right that’s at the core of our justice system, which is all too often ignored by the public, the media and (hypocritically) the court itself in the rush to “solve” the case and send the “body” up to prison.

But let’s say Clark did the dirty deed as the “mountains of forensic evidence” indicate. What might his motive have been? Police and pundits are struggling for answers, thus far coming up with nothing but messy mouse cages and a bad attitude.

Having served as an expert witness for a couple of criminal defense attorneys with the Los Angeles Public Defender's Office (Sex Crimes Division), I started to feel like I could, so to speak, smell a rat.

When I heard Clark was a lab technician, I thought about another young man, also a lab technician who worked with mice in a university facility. This young man - I’ll call him Ben (with apologies to Michael Jackson) - called RadioSUZY1 several years ago asking for “dating advice,” saying that he was lonely, working long hours with no company but the mice in his lab. As we talked, Ben gradually admitted that he wasn’t really interested in dating, that he enjoyed his work with the mice, lonely as it was, and that he took pride in keeping his mice as healthy and clean as possible. As anyone familiar with mice knows, they can be very filthy animals when caged and left to their own devices.

Okay, enough about the mice, I said, let’s get back to your love life. I asked Ben how he satisfied his sexual needs, and he replied, “Masturbation.” No surprise there. I inquired as to how often and he said several times a day. I asked how he managed that with such long working hours. Did he take lots of breaks and do it in the rest room? Suddenly, Ben blurted out an outrageous confession. “Actually, I do it with the mice,” he said quietly. “I stick a cardboard tube up my rear and let the rats run up the tube in and out of my rectum. It feels incredible and I usually come in an instant.” I was shocked, to say the least. I’d heard about guys doing stuff like this, and I’d spoken to a few who fantasized about it. There was even the urban legend that a certain Hollywood superstar had been rushed to Cedar Sinai with an asphyxiated gerbil stuck inside his bum. But I’d never actually talked with someone who seriously admitted doing it on a regular basis – and in the workplace, no less! In a lab at a prestigious university.

The Urban Dictionary calls Ben’s mice-up-the-tube trick “feltching,” though there are several other definitions of that word that are also fairly kinky but don’t involve rodents. At the time Ben called, I didn’t know that. I just listened as compassionately as I could to his story, trying not to laugh or throw up. Then I advised him to stop messing with the mice, even if it meant quitting his job, and seek some kind of therapeutic help. Usually, I am very open-minded about people exploring and enjoying their sexual fetishes. I don’t disparage any erotic activity just because it’s “weird,” and I encourage men and women to follow their sexual muses. My philosophy is “ethical hedonism.” I try to help people explore and cultivate the pleasures of life, whether “normal” or out of the ordinary, as long as they are safe and consensual. This one crosses that line in a few respects. For one thing, its animal cruelty, since I can’t imagine the poor rodent enjoys being stuck up some guy’s asshole. At worst, the animal can die of asphyxiation up there, involving death spasms that the Urban Dictionary tells us can feel pleasurable to the human whose rectum the poor mouse is stuck in. Ugh. For another thing, Ben was tampering with university property. I reminded him that he could get himself fired for this, and that he probably would, since he was making his confession on a national radio show that blasted all over his small university town.

My fears for Ben proved more than prophetic. The next week, a couple of students from that college called to tell me that Ben was gone. More precisely, he was hounded out of town. Students who had heard him on my radio show raced to his car, vandalized it and spray-painted “RAT MAN” on the windshield. They did the same to his office door and the walls around his lab. Ben left for parts unknown without giving notice. Of course, I wasn’t on Ben’s “side,” but I was horrified by the mob harassment of this mild-mannered lab technician based on his heartfelt, torturous confession on my radio show. I tried, unsuccessfully, to reach out to Ben, hoping he might call again, hoping I could help him through what had to be a devastating experience. Though I continued to get calls from many outraged and bewildered students in that college (“Rat Man” developed into a bit of a local legend), I never heard from Ben himself again.

But when I read that Clark was a fanatical lab technician who “loved his mice,” it was as if Ben came out of my head waving a flag, or more likely, that cardboard tube. Could Clark have been into what Ben was into? Could this have been a “crime of passion” of a different sort?

I started to formulate a theory about Clark’s motive to kill Annie, though perhaps he didn’t plan to kill her. I mentioned the theory on last Saturday night's RadioSUZY1, and it resonated with my fellow crime-voyeurs. I want to stress that this is only a theory based on what I’ve read in the media. But what if Clark was using his beloved lab mice to indulge in the sort of feltching that Ben described? Ben, like Clark, spent a lot of time obsessing over “his” mice and cleaning their cages. Could it have been something similar for Clark? Could this be why he was so fanatical about cleanliness, because he didn’t want a dirty rat up his butt?

And what about Le? What if she had caught Clark with his pants down, literally, in the lab? What if she’d walked in on him, caught him in the act, and he knew it? Could that be the real reason that Clark texted Le demanding a meeting on the day she vanished, even though he said it was to discuss the cleanliness of the mouse cages in the research labs? Maybe Le had just discovered Clark’s shameful secret, and threatened to report him.

Clark couldn’t just quit. Several members of Clark’s family, including his sister, brother-in-law and fiancée, work for Yale doing the same kind of work he did since 2004. A revelation like this would have devastated his reputation, his dignity: his life. Maybe, in a moment of fearful rage or temporary “insanity,” this seemingly “normal” guy felt it was better to kill than to be outed and utterly humiliated as a mouse feltcher. Or maybe he planned it. Maybe Clark was so scared to death of getting the Rat Man Treatment that anything seemed preferable to that, even committing murder.

Like I said, it’s just a theory. Experts say there is so much forensic evidence against Clark that prosecutors don’t need a motive. But in case they do, they might want to look around the lab for some cardboard tubes with Clark’s DNA on one end.

In the meantime, R.I.P. Annie Le. Regardless of motive, her murder was monstrous. Her life was luminous. May her memory shine a light into our tortured souls.

Sex is playtime for adults. At least, when it's good, it is. Like children enjoy playing with toys, many adults enjoy playing with sex toys.

They don't have to be elaborate or electrical. Fruits and vegetables will do the trick, especially if they are long and firm, like cucumbers or zucchinis. If you're a size queen, you might try an eggplant. I call these organic sex toys "nature's own dildos."

For guys, it's a little more challenging. Some guys swear by the Banana Method which involves microwaving a firm banana skin with about half the banana inside for around 12 seconds. Then voila, you have "nature's own pocket pussy."

You can also use household objects. For instance, a flat-sided wooden hairbrush or an oversized spatula make very nice paddles. Any object that gives you or your partner pleasure can be utilized as a sex toy.

First Sex Toy: The Sprinkler

I discovered my first *sex toy* when I was about four. One hot summer day, I was jumping around the sprinkler on our backyard lawn, when suddenly I realized that the cool water spurting up from the little device felt especially good when I straddled it. I “played” like this over the sprinkler on many more occasions, usually wearing a bathing suit, of course. A few times, I pulled it aside or even all the way down for more direct access to this suburban fountain of pleasure, much to my mom’s chagrin. Of course, I didn't have orgasms at that age. But I loved the feeling of the chilly water titillating my tiny genitals in the sweltering heat of the afternoon. I still love the feeling of water spraying against my clitoris and labia, as do most females. Now I use the showerhead as a sex toy. Though if I ever leave Downtown and have a lawn again, I just might revisit that sprinkler…

From the Venus of Willendorf to the Real Touch

Sex toys are as old as human history. What I believe to be the earliest existing sex toy is also the oldest piece of sculpture known to humankind, the Venus of Willendorf, a small figurine of a voluptuous, naked woman which some experts say surely doubled as a dildo.

And sex toys are also as new as the eerily lifelike Real Touch, the first artificially intelligent robot vagina, which I recently sampled at Erotica LA. Most high-tech sex toys, like Hitachi Magic Wands and Pocket Rockets, are built with a woman’s needs in mind. But there are also sex toys designed for men, several of which we are now offering in Shopping Heaven, from cock rings to butt plugs, and cock-and-ball harnesses to P-spot stimulators, we have all your pleasure points covered. And we just recently started carrying the world-famous, sensation-rich Fleshlight. Guys tell me it's the most life-like and sensuous male masturbator they've ever tried. And much neater than the Banana Method.

Sparkle, Freddy & Eddy Do The Speakeasy

One of my favorite LA couples, Ian and Alisha, a.k.a. Freddy & Eddy, happen to be sex toy experts, as well as the power couple behind Love LA (see more in this bloggamy). A few weeks ago, they joined us on RadioSUZY1 and talked about how toys and games help to keep the lust alive in their long-term, monogamous marriage (child included).

The Sparkle Freddy & Eddy show also introduces model-lingerie-goddess extraordinaire, Sparkle Sparkle Bang Bang to RadioSuzy1. Sparkle kicks off the show by going through a grocery list of illicit drugs (yes, she did ask me for blow at the Bondage Ball. No, I don’t have any), then wowed the Speakeasy with her curvaceous, to Bettie Page-ish, pool-sharking moves. In keeping with the sex toy theme, we also had a dildo-fight (kind of like a sword fight, but with rubber dicks,.

Sex Pot on RadioSUZY1

It was fitting to follow in Miss Bang Bang’s sexpot footsteps for our next show by combining the two; sex and pot, that is. The one thing I could check off from Sparkle’s illicit grocery list was cannabis, though that’s not even considered illicit, at least not here in California where you can get a medical marijuana license that entitles you to possess and even grow small amounts of the green. If you want to learn how to get a medical marijuana license, as well as the best hemp aphrodisiacs (our guests recommend The Truth and White Rhino), listen to Sex Pot. The show features gynecologist and medical marijuana physician Dr. Darryl Harris and Kush LA publisher Michael Lerner, whose pics are also mixed into this bloggamy. Chef Daniel brought us the most luscious white and dark chocolate covered strawberries we’ve ever tasted. Then, inspired by the THC Fairy, he ate them out of Jacklynn’s luscious, quivering bellybutton. What a great food-and-sex combo!

Mae Victoria Bids Adieu for the Bunny Ranch

More spanking, half-nekked fun and sex toyplay with a Pyrexions glass dildo ensued in The Hooker & The Hottie, with porn star, "Hooker" author Mae Victoria just before she farmed herself out to our old friend Dennis Hof’s Moonlight Bunnyranch Bordello. Apparently, hooking in Hollywood ain’t what it used to be. See hot topless Mae when you join the bloggamy.

Haute Hats in Downtown LA

Hats, on the other hand, are more popular than ever, praise the Lord and the Lady, especially the ladies who enjoy the seductive, teasing curves of an elegant chapeau. Max and I strolled around Virginia Postrel’s Hat Exhibition at the Downtown LA Fashion Walk a couple weeks ago. You can check out some fabulous Louise Green and Arturo Rios millinery creations in the right column of this bloggamy, as well as my favorite gold and brown bonnet from the Downtown Fashion District’s own Too-Too Hat Company.

Can a hat be a sex toy? Hmm…Maybe that’s the real purpose of the witch’s peak..

Many are the mysteries of the heart. The heart of the soul and the heart of the body. The human body and the body politic. My Max and our cardiac culture.

What happened to Max could happen to me, or maybe even you. One day, you’re walking around, shopping, dancing, having sex, producing shows and making pesto, free and blissfully ignorant of the ticking time bomb behind your ribs. Then, for whatever reason, you take a “stress test” which reveals that your arteries are clogged with extreme “blockage” (no relation to me!). Next thing you know, you’re on the fast track to a quadruple coronary artery bypass, a prisoner of western medicine, in quite literal bondage to the masters and mistresses of cardiology. These are the high priests of modern society, the highly trained and esteemed men and women in the monogrammed white coats, wielding their stethoscopes, their angiograms and their very sharp knives.

Upon consulting your charts like educated gypsies reading high tech tea leaves, they bless and curse you with their holy diagnosis. The cardiologists talk to you like talmudic scholars, weaving scientific facts with emotional considerations, matters of the heart. Then there are the cardiovascular thoracic surgeons whose power lies in their hands. They're the car mechanics of cardio and, having performed “thousands” of these human valve changes before, they’re quite confident in their ability to fix whatever’s under your hood, or ribcage, as the case may be.

Of course, you don’t have to get their bypass, they assure you; this is your decision. After all, you’re not under arrest! But (and this is probably the biggest BUT of your carb-laced life) if you don’t lay your body down under their educated knives toute suite, you will very possibly drop dead – any moment now – of a massive five alarm heart attack. Whatever you thought and however good you felt before, their foreboding diagnosis now rings in your ears, beating the tom-tom of death in your chest, and only they can save you.

So, are you blessed to have had these scientific soothsayers spot the dreaded “blockage” before it killed you? Or are you cursed to have eaten from this Tree of Cardiovascular Knowledge? Now that the high priests have predicted your imminent coronary, can you just say “thanks but no thanks” and go on with your life as usual? How can you enjoy heart-racing sex when you’ve been informed that your heart is about to give out? The short answer is: you can’t. In fact, high percentages of people who get the news and choose to forego or postpone the bypass have heart attacks in less than a year. Is it because the doctors were right? Or did the diagnosis itself do the dirty deed?

It’s hard to say, some of the cardiologists themselves confess, even as they stroke your growing paranoia with their tender admonitions. In a way, it’s quite a racket, the cardiology biz, especially considering our current crazy health care system. The cardio docs are experts at hard-selling this audacious, expensive, invasive, extremely painful, yet very “routine” operation that just might save your life.

It’s audacious because the bypass itself is surgical intervention at its most unnerving, aggressive and preemptive. And yet it’s oddly natural, involving no implants, stents or transplants. They simply “retire” your heart’s old, blocked arteries, redirecting the blood flow to “new” veins which they “harvest” from other parts of your body, usually your legs. It’s kind of like a promotion for your thigh veins; after decades of hard labor carrying the rest of you around, to corporate headquarters, your heart.

To accomplish this neat feat, the cardiovascular thoracic surgeons simply saw through your sternum and break your ribs. Ouch! They also slice through your thighs to grab your leg veins, but that’s nothing compared to how they open up your chest like a cracked crab. Then they stop your heart, retire the clogged arteries and promote the leg veins, sewing them to your heart with a teeny-tiny sewing needle like seamstresses in a shmata shop. Before they close you up, they jump-start your heart again with an electrical pump. Then there you are, in excruciating pain and with many possible complications, but supposedly better than new.

Yikes! As those of you who know us know, Max and I generally do not favor aggressive interventions into vulnerable places, be it a small foreign country like Iraq or a large human body like Max’s. But what could we do? We’d received the blessing and the curse of the cardiologists. The oracles had spoken, the Death card played.

Bypasses aren’t always a good idea. My Mom suffered terribly from hers, but she was in her eighties and diabetic, not a “good candidate” like Max. We’d heard a few horror stories from friends and family of people who’d attempted to ignore the commandments of the high priests of cardio, trying to pass by the bypass, and get on with their lives, and then dropping dead of the prophesied heart attack a few short weeks or months later. One otherwise healthy 40-year-old guy, who was “feeling fine” despite his angiogram, kicked the bucket on an idyllic beach during a relaxing vacation he figured he’d squeeze in before the surgery. That’s the great coronary mystery: there often aren’t warning signs. At least, you don’t feel them. But the high priests can see them in their cardiological crystal balls.

“One morning, Max could be playing 18 holes of golf without apparent strain,” intoned the doc who performed the cardiac catherization that revealed the blockage. “And that afternoon, he could have a heart attack.”

“Max doesn’t play golf,” I countered feebly, as the high priest narrowed his eyes and nodded grimly.

And so, with frazzled nerves and high hopes, we signed on the dotted lines, promising we wouldn’t sue them if he died. Then we had orgasmic, heart-pumping sex plus two cheeseburgers one last time, before we laid Max – body, mind and soul - on the blood-soaked altar of cardiothoracic surgery.

Miraculously, all has gone amazingly well so far. High priestly parodies aside, the doctors and nurses of USC Hospital’s Keck School of Medicine have been awesome, just as they were when they saved my life three years ago (book coming soon!). Max is a champ. As the Angelus National Forest burned into a gigantic mushroom cloud, looming apocalyptically behind USC, Max began his recovery. It’s only been a little over a week, so we’re not out of the woods by any means, but Max has been a model bypass patient, released from the hospital two days earlier than predicted. All the docs are impressed with his strength and resiliency. And I’m more in love with him than ever, especially with that sexy macho scar down the middle of his chest.

It sucks not being able to have regular sex, of course. But we’re having fun playing naughty naked nurse and horny patient. Plus the white Ben Franklin stockings he has to wear for a few weeks are kinky and look great on his shapely dancer's legs. Most importantly, we keep in touch with each other’s pleasure points, using the power of pleasure to help treat his still excruciating pain. Nothing wrong with a little gentle caressing, licking and even masturbating. And a good massage can be more effective than a Vicodin - though best to take both (unless you’re a masochist and enjoy all the different types of agonizing pain that creep into your post-bypass body).

They talk a lot about “pain management” in hospitals, but rarely do they incorporate pleasure – unless you count the morphine. Okay, maybe they can’t get away with naked nurses diddling patient’s pleasure points (except on the QT). But how about massage? Of course, I would recommend the kind with happy endings, though I realize that won’t happen, let alone be covered by insurance in our sex-phobic society. But even a chaste “therapeutic” massage is pleasurable enough to send healing, pain-reducing endorphins into a patient’s aching post-surgical body. Message to Obama and medical industry leaders: Don’t let our health system neglect the power of pleasure in the treatment of pain.

Back to Captain Max. He is wounded but sailing on, still steering our Ship of Fools of Love. In fact, it looks like, after seven years docked in one fantastic space, we have to move. Double Yikes! I hate moving almost as much as I love orgasms. I see moving as a lifestyle bypass, an aggressive, painful, uncomfortable intervention. But sometimes, you just have to do it. On the other hand, Max adores moving. Bypass or no bypass, he’s a prince who loves to create new castles. And I love him. Also, our current landlord has made renewing our lease outrageously expensive. So, please let us know if you want to help move the Speakeasy. If you can help financially, if you have a nice sexy building or if you’d like to contribute a little good old-fashioned sweat labor (any of which will certainly get you “in” with us, the Speakeasy girls and our porn star friends), email move@blockbooks.com

We’re also going through another kind of bypass, a painful internet surgery, the restructuring of our websites. So, let me take a moment to apologize for various technical problems we’ve been having with our sites these days. We’ve lost our webmistress, so we’re currently looking for someone who knows PHP and/or Drupal to join our merry bonobo band. Could that be you? Email webdev@blockbooks.com.

Despite our bypasses of the heart and business, the show must go on. And RadioSuzy1 keeps getting more and more awesome, erotic, informative and exciting. I’ve posted a bunch of cool and hot pics from a couple of shows that we did post-MJ bloggamy, starting with the show we did after a Hollywood party (with some of Merv Griffin folks currently courting us to do a new TV show), called Mormon Hedonism. Isn’t that an oxymoron? Not on this show, where we suddenly realized that four of the sexiest new Speakeasy girls, Melissa, Malena, Natasha and Rose, were all raised Mormon. This led to yet another show on sex and Mormons featuring Melissa’s Latter-Day friends James and Lindsay, with much ado about garments, vows and how real Mormons feel bigamy is blasphemy, or is that bloggamy? All on Mormon Pioneer Day!

Since that show also stars sultry fetish model Rubber Necro (making her first show-stopping appearance at the Speakeasy on our new Eros Day X: Orgy for Obama DVD and last seen at our Bondage Gala), we call it Rubber Necro and the Mormons. Lots of hot private pics of Rub and her luscious fetish friends Subby Sam and Pet Lauryn being stripped and whipped by The Professor of the Broken Door and a couple of rare and exciting PG pics of the Prof spanking our very own therapy manager, the lovely Lisa V on her birthday!

Of course, this bloggamy also features a few heartwarming and fuzzy iPhone pics of Max recovering, including the Felliniesque ICU visit from the Porn Klown Posse (if you ever want to break into a hospital without having to sign in, wear a clown nose), as well as a macabre shot of some of his post-bypass wounds, which we have prudently placed in the private area. We've also got pics from Prince Max & the King of Pop featuring post-op Max broadcasting live from ICU (just two days after bypass surgery!), as Michael Jackson celebrates his birthday in heaven. The similarities between our Prince & MJ include more than titles. Propofol was the anesthesiologist’s primary drug of choice to put Max under for the six-hour surgery.

“Isn’t that what killed Michael Jackson?” I inquired apprehensively.

“Yes!” the anesthesiologist admitted brightly, “But we can handle it in here.” The key to anesthesia is: Do not try this at home.

Yes, I know, we’ve done several more great shows these past weeks, with Nina Hartley, Carol Queen, Mae Victoria, Sparkle, Freddy & Eddy and more, but I’m exhausted from my new job as naughty naked nurse, so this is all you get for now. Anyway, I feel like teasing you, so you’ll just have to wait to see the other pics in future bloggamies. Its ok, it's good for you. As it is written in my 10 Commandments of Pleasure: Men need to be teased because it makes them slow down. Women need to be teased because it makes us come around.

In the meantime, make like bonobos, not baboons; make love, not war. Make love to someone you love tonight…even if that someone just had a quadruple bypass.

Like millions around the world, I was shocked when the news of Michael Jackson’s death hit me harder than I’d ever imagined it would. True, I grew up on MJ, enjoyed my first make-out session to the guiding notes of “ABC,” slow-danced to “I’ll Be There,” moonwalked to “Billie Jean,” jilled-off to “Beat It” and opened my heart to “We Are The World.” But throughout our lives, I had no problem taking Jackson’s music, his moves, his scandals and paraphilias in moderation. I always liked to dance – and make out – to his tunes (who doesn’t?), but I was never a huge fan, never even went to a live concert. He seemed so, well…commercial. And then there was his tacky taste in art, not to mention those bizarre pajama parties with boys the age that he was when he taught me my ABCs.

That all changed on the afternoon of June 25, 2009. As soon as I got the news, I caught the wave. Where were you when MJ died? Like millions, I was on Twitter. Within seconds of TMZ’s scoop, “RIP MJ” hit #1 on Twitter’s trending topics with “Michael Jackson,” “Jacko,” “Gloved One” and other nicknames occupying almost all the other top spots. From Farrah Fawcett to the Iran Election, all other news was kicked to the curb. Make way for the King of Pop!

Twitter wasn’t the only site infected with MJ fever. News of his demise sent the internet an unprecedented surge of traffic that caused crashes and slowdowns in what many referred to as a major "wake-up call" for internet infrastructure. At first, I didn’t believe the news, assuming it was a Jeff Goldblum-style hoax, or maybe even Jacko’s own amazing scheme. Could he have somehow slipped out of his looming 50-concert tour, then stolen away to some far off palace in Bahrain where he would live as a woman, going out to the local mall in an abaya and watching sales of all his old records soar in his wake? The family could have been in on it too. After all, Saint Michael’s Ascension to Heaven has buoyed the whole Jackson Juggernaut. Unsolved mysteries pervaded the news and didn’t get solved even as facts emerged. Visions of Zombie Michael rose from the grave like a "Thriller" creature in my dreams, maniacally laughing at our tears and quietly raking in the revenues.

That might have made a hot Michael Jackson video, but it wasn’t the cold corpse of reality. With various authorities examining the body, pronouncing it dead as a multi-platinum doornail and even removing MJ’s brain for further study, I put the Elvis-Is-Alive theories to bed, at least for a while. That started my spiral down into the depths of Dead Michael Mania. Forget Swine Flu; I had MJ fever, which is a lot more contagious and sometimes lethal. Supposedly, 12 Michael Jackson fans killed themselves when they heard the news that their idol was gone. Even as I derided their devotions, I joined the zillions already down on their knees worshipping Dead MJ in the interdenominational Church of the World Wide Web, scouring YouTube for scratchy old Jackson 5 videos and “exclusive” interviews with the Gloved One, awaiting breaking news of the autopsies, perusing scholarly assessments of the Pop King’s famously “weird” sexuality, gawking at photos of the freshly unmasked Jackson 3 - Prince, Paris and the MJ-lookalike Blanket - and studying amateur videos of a fourth kid (love child Omer Bhatti whose mom is rumored to have been the Norwegian-Pakistani Billie Jean). The mass hysteria over the “welfare” of these kids is like that over the heirs to a crown.

MJ Backlash

The backlash began before the body was cold. Bill O’Reilly announced that he was “fed up” with the likes of me and my Jacko-inspired brothers and sisters. Of course, O’Reilly is just an old, natal white guy with a loofah up his butt, freaked out by the fact that not only is his President black, but so is the most internationally successful – and internationally mourned - entertainer the world has ever known.

But O’Reilly wasn’t the only one outraged by the mass adulation of this “poor black boy who grew up to be a rich white woman” (thank you, Red Buttons). Over a month after his death, right-wing ranters John Kobylt and Ken Chiampou were still ranting on KFI-AM 640 about the travesty of spending taxpayers’ money on security for a “memorial service for a pedophile.” In the Twitterverse, explosions of MJ backlash constantly roiled - and still roil - the enormous sea of adoration. "Hopefully there are child rape survivors out there shouting down this worship of Michael Jackson," tweeted ConservativeLA. "Infuriating. Unacceptable!"

Unacceptable as it was, there it was – and still is: a tsunami of MJ awareness. Gandhi may have had a bigger funeral, JFK more conspiracy theories, and Princess Di more swag, but no one had more of an instant international outcry of very personal yet universal grief - as well as equally passionate outrage over the grief - as Michael Joseph Jackson in the moment of his death. It was as if his last breath - a final high-pitched “hoo-hoo” - shattered light bulbs in a zillion rooms. The sheer magnitude of the worldwide response was enough to make me feel eminently justified in my newly acquired MJ addiction. How could I help but be swept up in such a tremendous tidal wave of feeling?

I must confess that, at the time, I was plagued by a major web development problem (which is still plaguing me! Drupal experts, please help!), and MJ’s untimely death provided what seemed like the perfect means of escape. Immediately, I stopped focusing on my own problems to stare at the many masks of Michael, the different phases of his face, from little Boy Wonder to Awkward Adolescent to Androgynous Hottie to Peter Pan Man to Diana Ross’ Sister to Whiteface Mime to Creepy Mug Shot to Masked Dad to Dead Head on the Gurney. I played hit after MJ megahit, on and off RadioSuzy1, including at the Star-Spangled Speakeasy, even devoting a whole show to the Gloved One and, of course, "beating it" in his memory. I binged on *pop* salted with tears, stuffing myself with MJ music, moonwalks, celebrity hype, interracial politics, sexual drama, illicit anesthesiology, hints of homicide and toxic cotton candy-textured gossip.

Now, like a pop cultural bulimic, I am purging by writing this voluminous bloggamy. Please excuse my verbosity, my darling reader, but the life and death of the King of Pop is giving me the hiccups. So...how do I really feel about MJ? Like the jewels on his coats of many colors, there are multiple facets to my feelings…

Voice of An Angel: MJ as Castrato

First there is The Voice. Ironically, Jackson’s death pushed the death of Neda, the Iranian “martyr” whose name literally means “the voice,” out of the news. MJ’s was not Neda’s voice of protest; it was a voice of amazing grace, high and sweet from childhood until death, a voice that has both seduced and repelled me since Michael first taught me those ABCs. Unlike Prince and the Temptations, MJ wasn’t singing falsetto when he hit those skyscraper notes. He just had an unusually high voice for a man. His speaking voice - even his laughter - was girlish and sweet, without apparent strain. Of course, most young boys have high counter-tenors, and little Michael’s was one of highest and sweetest of all. But how did he maintain that treble tone which almost all males lose in puberty?

My MJ-feverish thoughts raced back through time to the notorious castrati of Renaissance Italy, adult male counter-tenor sopranos who had been castrated before puberty to preserve their high angelic voices. Some of these boy-men were the Michael Jacksons of their day, wildly adored by fans for their beguiling androgynous voices and flamboyantly sexy manners. I raced to the Internet to find that I was not the only one wondering if Joe Jackson, in addition to notoriously beating his gifted child, also had his son castrated to guarantee Michael’s sweet voice would be preserved and continue ringing in the dough. Was Motown mogul Berry Gordy in on the deed? Was a literal lack of balls the “distinguishing characteristic” of MJ’s genitalia to which young Jordy Chandler was referring in 1993 when he claimed to have been up close and personal with the Pop King? Is that why Jacko thought he could play in bed with the boys - because no penetrative harm could come of it?

Hmm…interesting, but probably no more real than a "Thriller" zombie. After all, how could Joe, Berry and Michael pull off such an outrageous stunt all these tabloid-infested years with no one spilling the beans? Jackson could have been a virtual castrato due to some endocrinological condition. But that too would have hit the tabloids by now. MJ’s high speaking voice may even have been a partial put-on, says Court TV's Diane Dimond in her new book, Be Careful Who You Love. She wrote that Jackson had “a big, deep voice…if you bring him bad news or if you make him mad, his voice gets very, very deep.”

Nevertheless, the image of MJ as Castrato moves through our collective imagination. Many have called him “sexless.” Michael Kinsley alluded to the Castrato Theory 25 years ago when the young adult MJ had just become “bigger than Sinatra, Elvis, the Beatles, Jesus, Beethoven - all of them” in popularity. “What's happened to Michael Jackson isn't too different from what they used to do to young male singers in Europe a few centuries ago, to keep their voices sweet,” he wrote in the New Republic back in 1984.

Kinsley wasn’t just referring to MJ’s Mickey Mouse voice here. He was talking about how Jackson was kept by his handlers – and eventually by himself – in a state of perpetual arrested development “living in a fantasy world…that he thinks is real.” Conventional wisdom is that Michael “never had a childhood.” That’s often said of child stars, and that’s how the singer himself described his life. But perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that, with the help of his immense fortune and formidable talent, MJ managed to make his “childhood” last 50 years.

Whether or not Jackson died with his testicles intact, he exhibited the diva/castrato persona throughout his life. Being a cross between male and female, the castrato can seem to be a kind of god, elevated above mere male or female humans. But of course, the castrato is also a victim, a tragic child sacrifice on the altar of our entertainment.

MJ As Child Sacrifice

Whatever the condition of the Jackson Family Jewels, Michael was a child sacrifice. He was “raised on the stage” for our pleasure. As Agamemnon sacrificed his eldest daughter Iphigenia on the altar of ancient Greek military politics, and as Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac on the altar of God in Genesis, so Joe the Jackson Family Patriarch sacrificed his fifth son Michael on the altar of American showbiz.

I’m not joining the chorus of MJ lovers who hate Papa Joe for his drill sergeant style of raising young musicians. There is no good excuse for using violence against children. But not all parents had read Dr. Spock in the 60s. Whupping kids with a belt was more common than giving time-outs. That doesn't make it right, of course (and it isn't). But f not for mean old Joe, MJ might have become nothing more than a singer in a Gary, Indiana church choir. Then again, he might still be alive.

Katherine Jackson was a Jehovah’s Witnesses, the type of Christian who's supposed to avoid “sinful” music and dance. Michael was more like a Jesus freak, the child star who followed his paternally ordained destiny to “Heal the World,” killing himself in the process. Christ-MJ lived and died for our sins of hypocrisy. He rose up on the wings of our desire, thrived on the gold, frankincense and myrrh of our accolades, suffered from the thorns of our accusations, bled from the spears of our derision, burned in the fires of our commercialism, and choked on our conflicted fantasies, nailed to the cross of his own success. He took advantage this image during concerts, often stretching his arms out into the Orans pose, Christ-like.

When he died for real, we who grew up on MJ felt a collective pang of longing for our own misbegotten childhoods, coupled with communal guilt over our participation in his sacrifice. That was my first reaction to Jackson’s death: We killed him. I tweeted, “Why such a huge orgasmic outpouring of RIP MJ grief? Partly bc #MichaelJackson was a pop genius. But also bc we feel guilty 4 hounding him.” We gave him the greatest honors, and then we charged him with the worst crimes. How could the world’s greatest entertainer also be the world’s most well-known accused child molester? How could our God on Earth and the Devil Incarnate be one and the same?

This stark dichotomy is integral to his mass appeal, an appeal that blossomed into full-fledged worship, iconography, pop sanctification and the gestation of a commercial posthumous enterprise that has just begun. My own MJ Fever is just a tiny flickering particle of this viral frenzy ricocheting around the world, a communal agony bordering on ecstasy. The King is dead! Long live the King!

MJ’s ABCs

The fever then took me down a more personal memory lane when the King started out as the Little Prince. The first Jackson 5 song I ever heard was “I Want You Back,” ironically appropriate for how so many feel about his passing. But the song that really hit me where I lived was “ABC,” the children’s ditty that’s also a love song. Here was Michael, just a kid like me, but wiser and ever so much cooler than me, teaching me that complicated adult feelings like love could be simple as child’s play. With the Little Prince’s irresistible timing, megawatt smile and adorable James Brown imitation, how could I resist that lesson? If I could do my ABC’s and Do-Re-Me’s, I too could master the art of love as little Michael apparently had. Ha! Little Michael sold me a bill of goods. This was the message of pop – love is as simple as carrying a tune – and MJ was the carrier of the message.

I realize now that I was a little jealous of Michael Jackson. I wanted to shake my bootie in crazy colorful outfits with a band of brothers behind following my lead, surrounded by crowds of proud grown-ups and adoring fans. Of course, I wasn’t quite as talented as Michael. And I was a whole lot lazier. Plus, my Dad didn’t beat me, and my Mom made me go to school to actually learn the real ABCs. “They shouldn’t make a child sing and dance for adults like that,” she disparaged. “He should be in school. “ On the surface, I agreed with my moral mom that it was “bad” to make Michael Jackson perform like a monkey for the pleasure of grown-ups. But Mom couldn’t stop that powerful little Peter Pan Voice from infiltrating my head and whisking me off to Neverland “1-2-3 Baby, You and Me...”

Body of MJ

It defied gravity. Light and magical as a marionette, Jackson was skin and bones with soul. So many original signature moves: the moonwalk, the robot, the mime, the lean, the tiptoe stance, the lightening spins, white socks glittering as he goes. Michael was born into a dancing family like circus people are born into circus families, and he danced all of them – and all of us – under the table.

MJ danced like a man on fire. That’s why most fans took it in stride when his hair caught fire during the making of that horrific Pepsi commercial. He never complained about it. And Pepsi made sure we didn’t know how bad it was; only releasing the video of the freaky accident after his death. Supposedly his addiction to painkillers kicked in after this. When you see the video of the man’s head ablaze, you can’t blame him for wanting something stronger than a Tylenol.

Then there’s another, more unsettling aspect of MJ’s Body: Modification. Jackson constantly experimented with music, dance, costuming and performance, usually with awesome results. He also experimented with plastic surgery. Even his own face was a stage, a place to try to create something new. Obviously, in most people’s opinion (including my own), he was more successful with his performance experimentation than he was with his face. Some of his later facial appearances are downright frightening, like one of the desiccating zombies who surround and possess his younger, more supple self in “Thriller.” But sometimes his Kabuki-like visage catches the light at just the right angle, such as in “Ghost” or “Scream,” and it is utterly beautiful in an otherworldly, Pierrot-esque, only-MJ way.

MJ as Integrator

Michael brought black and white together, sometimes in the most politically correct, universally admired ways, such as breaking the racial barrier on MTV or bringing all those mega-stars of different races and musical styles together to warble “We Are The World” for African relief. Other times, he did it in the most politically incorrect, utterly “weird” ways, such as lightening his chocolate skin to paler and paler shades of beige. Whether he did this to combat the skin-mottling effects of vitilago or because he wanted to deliberately produce what I call his “whiteface mime effect,” it was unnerving to see a black man turn white over the course of a few years, especially for people who like to think of race as a fixed factor.

Beyond the bleach, Jackson was an African American icon who married two Caucasian women, the daughter of Elvis and the nurse of his dermatologist. Obviously, he liked white women. A lot of black men do. And vice versa. It’s all part of integration through sex. Not that MJ necessarily had sex with either wife, or anyone else - which wouldn’t make him “sexless,” just not into partner sex (but more on that when we “beat it”).

MJ mainly integrated through his music. “Black or White,” brown or pink, it always reached out to us and made us want to dance, make love, make peace, or just hug someone a little different from ourselves. He also appealed to different generations. An idol to the young, he was not vilified or feared by the middle-aged, because they had known him since he was a child.

If Only MJ Had Seen A Sex Therapist…

Like most of us, Michael Jackson’s sexual life was a rich tapestry of nature and nurture, feelings and experiences. His greatest, most passionate, tempestuous and erotic love affair wasn’t with any individual woman or man, or any particular young boy or chimpanzee. It was with the public. In a sense, Jackson’s sexuality was that of a consensual exhibitionist with the public as his bedazzled voyeurs. The exhibitionist-voyeur relationship between MJ and the public was not always overtly sexual, but when it was – as in his signature crotch grab or those humiliating allegations – it really was.

From pubescent sex symbol to accused sex offender, Michael Jackson’s sexuality has long been objectified by the public. Though MJ’s sexual nature was inherently personal, just like every other human being’s, it was inextricably intertwined with his relationship with the public. Ironically, the public - and certainly the media - never could *get* MJ’s sexuality, and still can’t. So we called him Wacko Jacko, and still do. And some of us called him a pedophile, the worst label to slap on a human being in modern society.

So let’s get one thing straight (so to speak) in the land of labels. There is no evidence – hard or hearsay – that Jackson was a pedophile, meaning that he was turned on by children younger than prepubescent. There is some evidence that he was a hebephile, an adult who is sexually aroused by pubescent youths (10-14). He certainly seems to have been psychologically stuck in pubescence himself, a Puer Eternis, as Marie Louise Von Franz put it, an “Eternal Boy” or Peter Pan. Those fantastic toys and rides in Neverland weren’t built *just* to seduce kids; they were there for Michael himself to enjoy.

Michael was raised as a sex object, groomed to be an exhibitionist, dressed up and made to dance and sing for the pleasure of adults. In his off-stage hours, he observed two very different attitudes towards sex. Performing in strip clubs at age nine, he saw his “strict” father cheating on his mother and his brothers having casual sex with groupies while he hid under the covers, probably scared that these older females would come after him. Maybe some of them did. Maybe some of the guys did. Whatever happened in those seedy venues, eventually little Michael went home to his beloved mother who was strict in a very different way, a devout Jehovah’s Witness, who taught him that “lust in thought or deed” was horribly sinful. No wonder his adorable head explodes into a monstrous werewolf right after a girl embraces him lovingly in the opening scene of “Thriller.”

I don’t think MJ ever talked to a sex therapist about his feelings. No, Deepak Chopra doesn’t count, though he is an endocrinologist in addition to being a “healer.” I’m talking about a sex therapist who wasn’t too starstruck to be able to help Michael to sort out his erotic feelings and memories. Of course, being a sex therapist myself, I’m biased. Though I would never divulge the identities of my clients, I will reveal that MJ was not one of them. And it’s too bad, because he might have greatly benefitted from sex therapy; it could even have prevented his untimely death.

Bi MJ

Young Michael went out with a few high-profile It-Girls like Tatum O’Neal and Brooke Shields, as well as more mature divas like Cher, Liz Taylor and his first “older woman” crush Diana Ross. Of course, he never seemed to be having sex with any of them. Each female was a kind of Wendy to his Peter Pan; she might have had sexual feelings, but he didn’t, though he loved her anyway. Did he break his own Peter Pan mold in marriage? According to his ex-wife Lisa Marie Presley, too wealthy on her own to have been paid off, Michael was a “hot” lover, and they had “normal” hetero sex.

He’s also rumored to have had “hot” homo sex. Another unofficial MJ biographer Ian Halperin, author of Unmasked: The Final Years of Michael Jackson, claims to have spoken to two of MJ’s male lovers, including an actor named Lawrence who told the author: "He was very shy. But when he started to have sex, he was insatiable." With lyrics like “Your butt is mine, gonna take you right” (Bad), the idea of a gay MJ is a natural.

Another unnamed lover supposedly told Halperin, "The very first time he had sex with me he said, “The King of Pop's going to lick your lollipop.” Lollipops are for kids, of course, but at least these alleged male lovers were all grown-ups. Though gay love is bad too, according to Jehovah’s Witness doctrine and Mama Kate who fended off would-be outers in 1983, saying, "Michael isn't gay. It's against his religion. It's against God. The Bible speaks against it."

Paraphiliac MJ

The Bible speaks against crossdressing too. "A woman shall not wear man's clothing, nor shall a man put on a woman's clothing; for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 22:5)

Of course, MJ hadn’t been a practicing Jehovah’s Witness for years. Towards the end of his life, there were rumors that he converted to Islam like his brother Jermaine, and changed his name to Mikaeel. In any case, Islam condemns gay sex as well as crossdressing, pointing to the same Biblical passages (another example of how Islam, Christianity and Judaism are really all the same old-time patriarchal religion with slightly different spins).

Whatever his faith, Michael was often seen in dresses and other feminine attire. He was practically a transvestite or at least, a modern-day dandy. Not that the original, flower-power and sequin-festooned Jackson 5 costumes were what you’d call “masculine.” And performers commonly wear some makeup. But from Thriller on, MJ’s makeup ontop of the plastic surgery and skin-bleaching got more and more extreme. The running joke was that he was trying to look like Diana Ross. What was he doing? Jackson may have had a paraphilia clinically known as “autogynephilia,” sexual arousal at the idea of being a woman.

His autopsy report declared that he had had at least 13 plastic surgeries, the essential objective of which seems to have been to make his face more feminine. But not totally. The general effect of his surgeries was a softer look, but then there are the pointy nose and the cleft in the chin, not conventionally feminine characteristics. According to Northwestern University Professor J. Michael Bailey, MJ was a “homosexual autohebephile” attempting to look like Disney’s version of Peter Pan.

Again, a good sex therapist could certainly have helped Michael to deal with these conflicting feelings, especially as they relate to his private and public lives.

Mortification of MJ

No doubt Michael was obsessed with the elusive Disney-fied Neverland of “childhood” where he and the Lost Boys ran the ranch, sending their dimwitted parents off to get facials, body waxes and new cars. Like Peter Pan, MJ shamelessly proclaimed that he “slept” with pubescent boys in the infamous interview with Martin Bashir, trying to make an incredulous Bashir understand that “the nicest thing you can do for someone is to share your bed” before nonchalantly adding that he actually slept on the floor while the kids slept in the bed.

Neither Halperin’s book nor any other hard evidence has emerged that Jackson had actual sex with anyone on these odd sleepovers. There’s a reason that the Santa Barbara court acquitted him in 2005 of all of District Attorney Thomas Sneddon’s pumped-up charges. Sneddon and his team were hungry to eat MJ alive. They wanted to “make an example” and put that uppity Man in the Mirror behind bars for a long time. But the jury, despite MJ’s loopy behavior, couldn’t find any real proof of lawbreaking, and acquitted him fully.

Jackson’s own statements in the Bashir interview were Sneddon’s most damning “evidence.” So, why did he brag on national TV that pubescent kids slept in his bed? Why did he go so far as to say “It’s good. It’s very loving...”? Why did he allow himself to be filmed in front of that tacky painting of himself as an angel surrounded by doting little boy cupids? Was he crazy? Drugged? Going too far with his exhibitionism? Suffering from sleep deprivation? Or did he somehow think that just as he changed the racist policy of MTV, he could change the dirty minds of a molestation-crazed public? If so, he was in for a hard smack in the face.

Michael Jackson may have been fully acquitted, but just being charged and tried for such a mortifying offense punished him severely - mentally, physically and financially - and poisoned his relationship with his one true love, the voyeuristic public. All in all, it virtually ruined his life, as it does to so many who are similarly accused in our current witch-hunting climate. Some say that Sneddon’s charges were, on a certain level, what really killed MJ. Here is where intensive compassionate sex therapy could have helped Jackson a great deal.

Beat It!

Whatever his sexual orientation, paraphilias or fetishes, there is no doubt that MJ was an avid, though covert, proponent of the art and sport of solo sex. Maybe he wasn’t the greatest sex partner, but he sure knew how to “beat it.” At least he sang like he did. One of his top songs and one of my own personal favorites, “Beat It” manages to be both a catchy paean to non-violence and a joyous celebration of masturbation.

It’s a lot more acceptable as an anti-gang song, of course. But “Beat It” as the ultimate “beat off” anthem is undeniable. The video starts with some Lost Boys of the “young, dumb and full of cum” variety, roaming around, strutting their stuff, looking for trouble. MJ makes his entrance alone in his bed, wearing just a white T shirt before he dons his iconic red leather jacket to penetrate the cold, wet, nasty world and lead the testosterone-pumping Lost Boys into a better, more peaceful and even more potent Neverland. The rumble is on, but MJ is in fine dancing form, so fine he gets two knife-wielding toughs to stop fighting and dance with him. Then he makes an extravagant beat-off gesture with his right hand, blending a long fast stroke with his finger-snapping West Side Story style. It’s kind of corny, but inspiring in a bonobo way that this precocious Child of the 60s who grew up into the Pop King of the 80s turned “Make Love, Not War” into “Don’t Fight, Just Beat It.”

Soon enough, all the chorus boys in both gangs are jacking with Jacko in a giant circle jerk without the circle. At least, that’s what it looks like to me. I admit, it takes a particularly dirty mind, or a sex therapist’s mindset, to see the “beat off” in “Beat It.” But in concert footage, Jackson did even more of these masturbatory stroke movements, enhancing them with some lingering crotch grabs as well as sensuously rubbing his chest, and miming the zipping and unzipping of his fly. The crowd went into an orgiastic frenzy. I wish I could have been there live; I’d probably have creamed my jeans. It was a great moment in exhibitionist-voyeur history.

A more politically historic moment in exhibitionist-voyeur history occurred when Michael’s little sister Janet bared her heavily pierced nipple during half-time on the Super Bowl, stirring up a storm of outrage and censorship. Is there a tendency toward exhibitionism running through the Jackson genes? More likely it’s just that many successful performers are driven exhibitionists. They love the limelight with an erotic, sometimes crazy passion.

Dead MJ

MJ’s untimely death is fraught with as much intrigue as his life, beginning with the Pop King’s own morbid fascination with his impending mortality. Jackson was obsessed with the idea that he would die young “like Elvis,” according to his ex-wife Lisa Marie who just happens to be that other King’s daughter. According to his sister LaToya, MJ was afraid he might be murdered, saying, “They're gonna kill me for my publishing. They want my catalogues and they're gonna kill me for these." Did he have some kind of death fetish? Though he always seemed to be a peaceful guy, his videos are filled with shootings, killings, ghosts and zombies.

Or was he done in by his own exhibitionism? Did he perform himself to death? The accusations of 2005 were a 21st century tar and feathering. Some say MJ wanted to make it up to his fans and his legacy, to do one last P.T. Barnum-esque spectacle of fantastic proportions: This Is It! And it was personal. He wanted to show his own kids that this guy they called Daddy really was Peter Pan.

Or was he being pushed? This time, instead of Papa Joe forcing him to “perform or die,” there was a team of money-driven handlers, doctors and enablers. Was this just business as usual with an aging, debt-plagued pop star? Or are they guilty of homicide? Manslaughter? Is kooky sister LaToya right that "Michael was murdered…in a conspiracy to get his money..."?

He looked pretty good doing those high kicks and spins on that rehearsal tape. I understand how he could be performing like a dynamo one day and dead the next. The same thing almost happened to me. One night I was doing a show and within 36 hours, I was in a coma, almost dead from septic shock. The only thing that saved my life was the speed with which my husband called 911 and the paramedics got me to USC’s Emergency Room. MJ – with all his mega-fame and fortune – somehow didn’t get that kind of care. The King of Pop didn’t even have a phone in his room.

What he did have was his own personal IV drip, several tanks of oxygen and a stash of the powerful drug propofol. When the Pop King said he was “bad” and “dangerous,” he wasn’t just playing. Propofol, commonly known by the brand name Diprivan, isn’t kid’s stuff. It’s a super strong anesthetic, only legally administered for surgery in hospitals. MJ must have had some harrowing insomnia to demand propofol for regular home use. Or maybe he suffered from yet another paraphilia: anesthesia fetishism. Here again, and most critically, a little focused sex therapy might have saved MJ’s life.

The French call orgasm le petit mort, the little death. But a more literal “little death” is general anesthesia. Your consciousness is as good as dead on the stuff. And yes, some individuals, including some of my sex therapy clients, have an erotic craving for the knock-out punch that ultra-strong anesthesia delivers. Sometimes they want a sexy nurse or doctor to “put them to sleep.” Other times it doesn’t matter who delivers the goods, as this type of heavyweight drug is so hard to come by outside of a hospital. Some anesthesia fetishists actually feign or induce medical conditions in an attempt to obtain general anesthesia from medical personnel. This could have been one of the hidden reasons for MJ’s numerous plastic surgeries: He craved entering the blissful, blacked-out Neverland of anesthesia.

Whether he was an anesthesia fetishist or just a misguided, stressed out insomniac, just because the spoiled star demanded propofol doesn’t mean he should have received it, not from a responsible doctor anyway. Most of the medical professionals he begged for the drug refused to get it for him. Eventually, he found Dr. Conrad Murray, a Houston cardiologist who seems to have given him propofol on several occasions, including the day he died. Rumor has it that the $150,000/month cardiologist had fallen asleep while MJ’s pulse was dropping and by the time he woke up, the world's biggest star was already dead. Murray is now the subject of a federal manslaughter probe. Many unsavory possibilities are now being savored all over the Internet, as we the MJ Feverish await the police reports, toxicology results, news of even more beautiful children and zombie sightings.

Whatever comes, it all seems like destiny. Whether his death was a homicide, a trick, an act of astounding criminal negligence or just a simple tragedy, his spirit has taken on the wings of Saint Michael the Archangel of Pop in the hearts of his beloved voyeuristic public. Finally, like Peter Pan, he can really fly.

This bloggamy has been reposted in "America's Best Political Newsletter" Counterpunch. If you would like to repost it, please email MJ@blockbooks.com for permission.

There are often fireworks at the Speakeasy. But since America’s Birthday fell on a Saturday night this year, we worked that fire inside and out, climaxing with panoramic pyrotechnics on the roof, sparkling golden showers on RadioSuzy1 and an explosive Star-Spangled Banner aria in the bar sung acapella by magnificent Malena wearing nothing but Old Glory wrapped around her voluptuous form.



We started our 4th, like most Americans, with a BBQ. We called it “Porn & Hot Dogs.” My own darling Chef Max cooked up a scrumptious, saucily grilled buffet of hamburgers, salmon burgers, chicken burgers, cheeseburgers, veggie burgers, and of course, dozens of succulent, phallic franks of all kinds and sizes. Mmm… We just love those big beefy sausages, especially between warm fresh buns.

Did I mention Felicia’s luscious potato salad? So yum… And for dessert, we scarfed down the finest black and white chocolate drizzled strawberries I’ve ever tasted, courtesy of Chef Daniel’s Flavors with Love. And guess what, bonobos: Chef Daniel’s special Chocolate Aphrodisiacs will soon be available in Shopping Heaven…

Speaking of aphrodisiacs, the evening’s drink of choice was Agavero and Perrier with a squeeze of lemon. First introduced to us by Professor Mel Gordon on Weimar Love, Agavero Tequila Liqueur is considered an aphrodisiac because it contains damiana flower, a traditional aphrodisiac used by the ancient Mayans and Aztecs to enhance lovemaking. Also known as the Wild Bride Drink, Mexican grandmothers give Agavero to their virgin granddaughters on their wedding night to make them wet. And if the damiana doesn’t do the trick, there’s always the 64 proof tequila.

It was fitting for us to have a Mexican drink on America’s Birthday, considering how large portions of America, including Southern California, are slowly but surely becoming Mexican again. We stuck a few Mexican flags in amongst all the Stars and Stripes, to show our solidarity with our brothers and sisters, lovers and friends south of the current border.

Pleasantly full and lubricated, we climbed up to the roof and watched dozens of fireworks displays, fantastic "rockets red glare" bursting all around LA with views in every direction. Most were far away, but all of a sudden, a volley of roman candles shot like a giant astral ejaculation directly over our heads, courtesy of our crazy new neighbors whose names will be withheld to protect their asses, as well as their assets. Hot porn couple Natasha Skinski and Tommy Lei created some of their own fireworks with “Aunt Debra” the Lawyer-Cum-Porn-Star (see their hot pics when you join the Bloggamy). Master D brought his adorable Broken Door Fetish family from Disneyland to the Speakeasy for a perfect holiday of varied play. Then Malena arrived dressed up as Wonder Woman with ruby heels that made her about 6’6” and a gigantic red, white and blue satin cape billowing behind her. We climbed up on top of an elevator shaft, towering over the party like silly sexpot superheroes, as the wind picked up her cape and my silk robe, with the city at our feet and cherry “bombs bursting in air” all around us.

Amber Waves of Pee

Then it was back downstairs to the studio just in time for RadioSuzy1, opening up with Molinee a.k.a. Miss Piglet (whom you might remember as my lovely assistant at the Bondage Gala and Venus at our Eros Day X Orgy for Obama), Jesse Rhines (Yale, ’84, last seen at the Speakeasy for the Porn ‘n’ Purim Bacchanal), April Flores (a.k.a the fabulous Fatty D), and sultry Sir Nic and slave Sula (also here at the Bondage Gala).

Molinee confessed to having peed on the roof twice during the fireworks, and that got us all rhapsodizing about the Water of Life and the wonders of golden showers. Some of the us had to pee (well, Natasha, Aunt Debra and I peed; Molinee tried but couldn’t, though you can see how sexy she looks *trying* to pee when you join the Bloggamy). The whole experience gave new meaning to those “amber waves of grain” (though no, we weren’t drinking malt liquor). Our golden nectar was collected like royal jelly in a hot pink bucket that was passed around as if it was a sacred chalice. At one point, Sir Nic ceremoniously washed his hands in oit, then slave Larry drank it down like Taittinger's La Française Champagne. Ah, Speakeasy Girls’ Golden Nectar – good to the last drop.

Then we migrated to the bar to hear Malena sing the Star Spangled Banner acapella wearing nothing but an old torn Speakeasy flag, like the American Marianne. She sang so beautifully and with such soaring, erotic, patriotic power, I’m sure Francis Scott Key got hard in heaven. It was an electric moment, *awesome* in the original sense of the word.

Then the party exploded into an MJ 4th of July with some of Jacko’s finest and other crazy rhythms mixed by our talented new in-house DJ Mel. Sir Nic and I commiserated over our mutual shock at how hard the King of Pop’s death affected us (MJ Fever coming soon to this bloggamy). We had another sexual revelation when we realized that three of the hottest current Speakeasy Girls – Malena, Melissa and Natasha – were all raised Mormon (more Mormon Hedonism on last Saturday’s RadioSuzy1 when a 4th lapsed Mormon hottie Rose called the show). Then, we all danced and played until the wee wee hours, when I kicked off my star-spangled heels and retreated to my private boudoir with Chef Max for some private dining – at the Y, of course – and our very own very personal fireworks.

Luscious Regan & Love Junkie Yalie

This wasn’t a big XXX porn night, but as you can see by the free pics to the right, it was filled with fire and fun. And if you JOIN the BLOGGAMY you can get a good look at some of those deliciously nasty Golden Showers and other X-rated play at our Fire & Golden Ice show and others, including “Luscious Regan” with porn stars Regan Reese and Luscious Jackson.

No X pics from our Love Junkie Show with brilliant and sexy Love Junkie author Rachel Resnick (Yale Class of ’85), though it was an intense, introspective interview. None from our Yale Club Luncheon at the Jonathan Club either, of course, though in the free section, you can check me out with my luncheon companions, Jesse, Michael and a trio of ultra-conservative alumni who looked down their Old Blue noses at Sex Week at Yale. They did like my hat though. Well, it takes all kinds to make America.

Breaking News: We've just finished editing a new 2 1/2 hour DVD of our awesome, erotic and very patriotic Eros Day X Orgy for Obama, now on sale at 1/2 price for pre-release orders - only for the next couple of weeks until the official release date of August 15! And support Peace through Pleasure in America and around the World. Join the Bloggamy.

Much as we enjoyed frolicking nude and sharing simultaneous orgasms in the desert, we were eager to return to our own hedonistic oasis here in the Soul of Downtown LA. To better understand why, check out this video of opera star/fetish couture designer Malena Teves welcoming us home with an impromptu rendition of “Come Rain or Come Shine,” first a cappella, then accompanied by Kozmic the Klown on my great grandmom’s (untuned) 1926 Steinway:



Isn’t she awesome? When stuff like this happens in your *living room,* why would you want to leave home? This is why I hardly ever leave the Speakeasy/Institute. But contrary to rumors, I'm not agoraphobic. In fact, I came back from Sea Mountain just in time to go out again to Erotica LA!

Follow the Bouncing Boobs

After all that pure innocent nudity in paradise, it was fun to dress up like a California slut and hang out with the whores at the Convention Center. My nipples still burned from the desert sun and wind, but they actually felt more comfortable tucked into a tight push-up bra than rubbing freely against a loose tank top. Sometimes restraint really is better than freedom. Speaking of which, it felt great to put on five-inch heels after barefooting through paradise for three days.

Max was not about to go to any convention, so I gathered together a small entourage – Lisa, Eric and the two Alexes – and taxied over to Erotica LA. As soon as we strolled in, it was like a high school reunion - if you went to high school with porn stars. Folks I hadn’t seen in ages were coming up and hugging me, kissing my hand, inviting me to make out and challenging me to debate. Though it was unnerving to be recognized in the buff while “getting away from it all” in the desert, it was great to hear my name shouted out on the floor of the LA Convention Center.

There were so many big bouncing boobs at every turn, it felt like a volleyball tournament. But all nipples were kept under wraps, and not to protect them from the sun or wind, but to prevent…what? An orgy? A riot? A Nipple Revolution? There were plenty of naked nips on signs, DVDs and billboard-sized posters, by the way. But not a live bare breast to be found. No genitalia either. Here’s an example of where restraint might not be better than freedom...

Not that I came to see porn; I came to see some porn stars I hadn’t seen in a while. My first blast from the past happened when we entered the door and there was Cleopatra, exotic-erotic Porn Star of the Nile, whom I hadn’t seen since she seduced us all Egyptian-style, on Max’s Birthday Show in ’03. Then there was Amazonian blonde bombshell Darryl Hanah and her hot hardworking hubby Jack Fountain; I hadn’t seen them since Eros Day Ecstasy on The Cross. Turned another corner, and there was my old friend Ron Jeremy, introduced to me way back in the 20th century by America’s first radio psychologist Dr. Toni Grant (whom I'd met through Lynn Redgrave's ex-hubby John Clark). Ron was blinking into the snapping shutters of the paparazzi with his sometime partner-in-crime XXXChurch Pastor Craig Gross whom I hadn’t seen since last year’s Sex Week at Yale. Pastor Craig’s the one who challenged me to a debate, and I accepted! Stay tuned to watch me feed this Christian to the Lions of Logic…

Wedding Bells for the Broken Door

Then I ran into some peeps that I hadn’t seen in, well, a week or two. Master D, Mistress Ice and Slave Bunny of Broken Door Fetish looked just like a regular little family shopping at the mall together, with Mummy, Dada and their big naughty teenage daughter, except that “Daughter” was on a leash, Mummy and Dada were buying whips and sheets, and all of them were smiling. I’d just seen this cozy little threesome at the Speakeasy when they were guests on last week’s RadioSuzy1 show. On this very show, Master D and Mistress Ice announced their impending nuptials, at which yours truly has agreed to officiate. You may recall me ministering the Eros Day Carnaval Wedding of Laura and Jarred. Speaking of which, if you need an Ethical Hedonist Universal Life Church minister for your next wedding (or funeral), you know who to call. And if you join the bloggamy, you can see hot photos of 5’11” and pigtailed, 19-year-old Bunny squealing and squirming as Master D applies big clothespins to her nipples and knees throughout the radio show.

Then whom should I bump into but the other tender torturer of the Broken Door, the Professor with his “Pet” Lauren, last seen at the fabulous Speakeasy Bondage Gala. But before I could say “What’s today’s lesson, Professor?” I was boob-to-boob with Regan Reese wearing nothing but skyscraper heels and a kitten-soft cover-up almost as silky as her skin. We commiserated over each other’s nipple burn, mine from the desert, and hers from Master D’s violet wand. Down the aisle was Regan’s gal pal whom we’d also met at the Gala, Luscious Lopez, showing her xxx-rated movies on a big screen. Later, we stuck our latex-gloved fingers into the Real Touch, the closest thing to a cyberdildonic robot pussy that I’ve ever felt. It’s the first artificially intelligent robot vagina! Though it must be a hell of a pain to clean. Then we hooked up with hot porn stars Eva Angelina, Teagen Presley, Kelly Shibari and Wicked Pictures’ Kirsten Price. What a pulchritudinous pornocopia!

Rock Hard Candy & Burning Angels

I was especially excited to meet powerhouse Punk Rock Porn Queen Joanna Angel, since she recently wowed the Bonobo Gang as a phone-in guest on RadioSuzy1, and is a real-life Queen Esther after my own heart. Also she’s even tinier than me, an adorable Napoleon of hipster hardcore. Moreover, Joanna's artfully decorated, joyously kinky and very colorfully tattooed Burning Angel booth was staffed by some of the hottest hotties in the Convention Center, including Envy Amor, Draven, MistiDawn, Bellavendetta and Brian who made sure to make out with various members of my entourage (not that we complained).

Since Erotica LA felt kind of like a carnival, we decided to get some candy, and I don’t mean the cotton kind. We got us some rock hard Cock Candy from the Adult Candy Shoppe, which sells Cocksicles and Dick & Titty Nibblers, in addition to the multi-colored Cock Suckers we opted for. Nothing like a trio of hot chicks sucking and licking penis-shaped lollipops strolling through the LA Convention Center! We weren’t the only ones. What if cock candy becomes a mainstream craze like the Playboy logo? Will schools have to start banning genital-shaped suckers from the cafeteria? Call in the ACLU!

High on sugar and a little vodka that Alex S managed to smuggle into the Convention Center, we wandered into the Fluffy Bunny Whips booth, where I tried out the merchandise on Alex C’s fetchingly upturned butt. We liked these rubber floggers so much (no animals were harmed to make them!), we invited the good-natured owners Spanky and Boss Lady over to RadioSuzy1 the next night where we had even more fun with their fantastic assortment of whips, floggers, cat o' nine tails and paddles.

The Shahl and Iran's Green Revolution

Which brings us back to the Speakeasy the next night for RadioSuzy1. We invited some porn stars we met at Erotica LA, most of whom said they would come and none of whom did because they either had to go to the official after-party or straight home to soak their aching feet in Epsom salts. I settled in for a nice quiet radio show with the immediate Bonobo Gang, reviewing my nudist adventures and talking to callers.

Even though it was several days before the sprouting of the Green Revolution in Iran, for some mysterious reason, I put on my kooky Shah Shawl. I teamed my "Shahl" with a matching miniskirt made from velvet remnants that were left by an Iranian expatriate neighbor. The wrap features the imperious visage of Iran's late America-sponsored dictator Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, much like a kitchy, velvet painting of Elvis. Only this velvet gives new meaning to "Death to the Dictator," a popular slogan 30 years ago in the streets of Tehran that has made a comeback on those same streets today.

It's eerie for me to look at the photos now and think about the current situation in the land of the Parthians and Queen Esther. Some of those who revolted against the old Shah in their youth have now become the New Shahs, and the new students of Iran are revolting against the current "dictator." The situation is as woven with complexity as a Persian rug. Obama is being shrewdly cautious about it, and some of my Counterpunch friends are pretty sure it's a CIA plot. But I'm just a simple sex therapist with my heart on my sleeve, and right now, my heart is green (as is my Twitter avatar).

Diva Malena & Porn Klown Posse take RadioSuzy1!

But back to this radio show, at which time, the Iranian election hadn't even been held yet, and I was wearing my Shahl not as a political statement, but just for fun. As I began the broadcast, I noticed another returnee from the Bondage Gala in-studio: the multi-talented and gorgeous giantess Malena Teves. O, how to describe Malena? She’s a force of nature, an awesome opera singer, a fabulous fetish couture designer, a engaging actress and a total MILF. When I asked her how tall she was, she replied “5’12”. But her greatest talent is just that she makes you feel good. She sure made me feel good! Even though it had been three days since my birthday suit birthday, she insisted on singing me a special song with that sweet and potent voice of hers. What an excellent present!

Malena wasn’t my only birthday surprise that night on RadioSuzy1. Suddenly, without warning (well, I wasn’t warned), a platoon of colorful, glittery, rubber-chicken-swinging maniacs invaded the Speakeasy. It was the Porn Klown Posse! Our good friends Glenn (FreekBALLthe Klown) and Maya (Tootz the Klown) were out of town, so they sent a Porn Klown Posse envoy. Katnip, Jigi, Kozmic, Cooter, Malice and Cookie rushed to the Speakeasy right after they had klowned up a krazy kolorful storm at Erotica LA, of all places. Of course, they had to give me birthday spankings, and I had to spank them too, with the rubber chicken, as well as a nice solid Fluffy Bunny paddle that packed quite a punch – a real “weapon of ass destruction,” their cat o' nine tails, and their fabulous Mammoth Flogger for the more delicate butt. Everybody donned Obama masks from our Eros Day X “Orgy for Obama” Inaugural Ball (soon to be a major motion picture!). Not that we’re saying Obama’s a clown, but that cute grinning face of his does look good ontop of a ruffled polkadot collar.

The climax of the evening combined the Diva and the Klowns: Malena’s impromptu serenade, accompanied by Kozmic the Klown who had come all the way from Japan to play my great grandmother’s 1926 Steinway baby grand piano. Malena managed to turn Harold Arland & Johnny Mercer’s “Come Rain or Come Shine” into a naughty birthday song, much to the delight of all the klowns, fools and porn stars.

Clowns Vs Porn Stars: A Brief History & Analysis

This got me to thinking about clowns and porn stars. On the surface, they seem to be polar opposites: Clowns are supposed to entertain children, and porn stars are for “adults only.” Yet they have a lot in common. They’re both renegade characters on the fringe of society, beloved and hated, feared and desired by millions. Both put us in touch with our joyously animal, sometimes irrational nature. And both make like bonobos, not baboons!

Both clowns (or klownz) and porn stars are funny and scary, seriously silly, vaguely menacing, crazily colorful and hyper-stimulating. Porn stars and clowns tend to do very physical acrobatic things that “normal” people can’t or won’t do. Both spend a lot of time PLAYING and being what most people would consider naughty. Both clowns and porn stars remind us, as my colleague Camille Paglia says, that for the most part, “Sex is a comedy, not a tragedy.” And yet there are clowns like Pierrot and porn stars like Linda Lovelace who represent the most tragic, romantic and haunting aspects of humanity.

Thousands of years before the Ringling Brothers did their first pratfalls, the ancestors of modern clowns were the very sexual, strap-on phalloi-wearing “satyrs” of ancient Greek comedies. In medieval times, court jesters turned the anti-sex rules of the ultra-powerful Catholic Church upside down with their bawdy songs and erotic antics. The Commedia dell’Arte of Italy incorporated gymnastic and verbal clowning into their adult-themed plays. The burlesque scene that blossomed in the mid-20th century combined clowning around with stripping. Then clowning and erotic performance seemed to go their separate ways. Clowning became something “for kids,” more faux violent than sexual, while erotic performance evolved into the relatively humorless form of hardcore porn that we know so well today. But now, thankfully, the Porn Klown Posse and many modern pornographers (Burning Angel among them) are bringing the two entertainment forms back together again.

Above all, both porn stars and clowns are performers of the “people’s” entertainment. Not opera or fine art, not Oscar-winning movies or morally uplifting theater, clowning and porn are low brow fare, both reviled and beloved, for the people. For these reasons, throughout my life, I have always surrounded myself with clowns and porn stars. They make me laugh and they turn me on. And their fearlessness has always inspired me.

As you might know, post-Yale, I was part of a sexy, politically active, improvisational clowning troupe called New England Commedia, and the eroto-comic light of Commedia d'ell'Arte has guided me every since. When comedy and sex come together at the Speakeasy, whether through klowns, porn stars, professors or the couple-next-door, we call it “Commedia Erotica.” Check out some hot-hot-hot Commedia Erotica, Klown Sex & Clown Porn when you join the conspiratorial bloggamy!

And Viva La Green Revolution!