Howdy! Badgerbag here. Darn you to heck, Typepad!
Last night I went down to the party at the Center for Sex and Culture. It's a very cozy place, and I thought it woud be a nice way to connect with people before the Good Vibrations holiday party across the street.
The short version: their art exhibit was by a photographer who, many years ago, took photos of me and during the shoot, started jacking off. I told him to quit it... he stopped... I explained why it wasn't okay... but then he freaked out and started begging me never to tell anyone. Stuff like "I feel so bad... I just couldn't help myself... Please don't tell or my whole standing in the community will be ruined... My wife is upstairs and she would kill me..." Needless to say - I did not "never tell" and in fact told lots of people in the queer sex-positive community. Response was muted. The idea seemed to be that I should not make a fuss.
So anyway I went up to the dude, Michael Rosen, at his own art show and explained to him in public what he did and why it was wrong! And told him not to lie - and not to involve other people in his lies. If you want the long version, it's here. I told the wanking photographer what I wanted to talk about and said this was his opportunity to have a conversation about that incident. He acted like he didn't have a clue what I was talking about, and I yelled at him a bit and walked away. I was very angry.
I made an ass of myself, but at the same time I was glad to stand up for a minute and deny this jerk the ability to get away with his secret jerking. I heard that he was still doing it in his photo shoots - always with women alone and never with the famous ones. You'd think it would be easy to simply walk up to a guy, tell him to go to hell, and walk away. But it was way more difficult and scary than I thought it would be. I wanted not just to yell at him, but to give him the opportunity to respond, explain, and apologize. Writing about it in this public way will likely call down a world of hell on his ass -- also possibly on mine -- and yet it also is an opportunity for him to learn something. You don't get to respond to gossip and rumors directly. But he can respond to this all he wants. I am open to having a conversation about it. Whatever conversation happens, I want it in public.
Today I realized the humor in the situation. At the party. I was wearing leather pants, a fishnet shirt, and an insane purple cowgirl hat. In fact I think as I was walking away, I put on my hat and jammed it down low over my eyes while I was grinding my teeth with my chin in the air. I might as well have puffed the smoke and powder off the barrel of my pistol and leaped out of the window onto my waiting horse! Too bad I wasn't in chaps! Stomping, with my spurs a-jingle! Anyway, it was peculiarly empowering to call this perp on his bullshit while my boobs were hanging out and I was wearing a silly hat. I recommend it to you all. Don't just send a letter to that old date-rapist from college! Go up to him at his workplace and don't forget to wear the most ridiculous hat you can find. Pompoms... cowgirl... maybe a chef hat? The silliness will give you courage!
And afterwards I went dancing with my girlfriend at the Good Vibes party, which started out slow but turned out to be super fun. The go-go dancers were just great. (I love Calvin, the cheerful, muscley wrestler! And the naughty schoolgirls!) The dance routine to "Bad Boys" was worth the entire admission price - as hot james-dean style butches flounced around combing back their hair & smoking while their Leave it to Beaver-style parents protested... It was brilliant! We bounced around for a while. On the way out, I got a goody bag with ... get this... "Exploding Vagina Golf Balls". Technically it should be Exploding Vulva Golf Balls. The packaging and the idea really cross the line of dumbness and foray very far into "incredibly odd" territory. I'm fascinated. Who would think of this? What genius was sitting around in the factory and thought, "I know! Exploding Vulva Golf Balls! The world needs them!"