Sunday at Folsom

Part of being a pervert - in my opinion - involves some dedication, celebration and support of other perverts. This is why, among other perv duties, I attend the Folsom Street Faire every year even though I know there's no way I'm going to get laid. Yesterday, on Folsom Street, between 7th and 12th Streets, there were more bare balls and pierced penises than even I normally see. There are a few things I love about Folsom: First, I love that one guy who attends as religiously as I do who has a small cardboard sign with the words "Human Urinal" scrawled on it that he hangs over his head. He always has the same hat on. What I find fascinating is that lots of women are willing to pee on him, but he's not into that. He's strictly dickly. Second, I love that when you're sandwiched between 6000 happily queer men, I feel no concern about being groped regardless of how much boob is showing. And third, I love that there are only two types of straight people in the crowd: 1) fag hags *my category* and 2) old Asian guys with cameras creating this evening's masturbation reel. And then, of course, there's the techno and the man kissing and the drag and the free dildo ring toss. I actually performed at the Center for Sex and Culture stage. I decided to enact a dirty story I'd written and ask for a volunteer's help. Let's just say there was a lot of lipstick on my boobs afterward and that I made my lovely volunteer suck on a banana I'd brought along (yum). Anyway, two boobs up for Folsom!
x( . )( . )x,
Virgie

Virgie Tovar is a sex educator and the author of Destination DD: Adventures of a Breast Fetishist with 40DDs. She was recently voted Best Sex Writer by the San Francisco Bay Guardian (www.sfbg.com).

Visit San Francisco's favorite sexpert @ www.myspace.com/thevirgieshow.

angry, blue collar fucks

What stands between a woman and the mythical good ol' fuck? I'm talking the kind of nasty, butt hole licking stranger sex that seem to be the stuff of fairy tales nowadays. Well, I think it's herpes. Some might contend that it's the fervent neo-con battle to bring this nation back to the puritanical days when people like John Kellogg was creating corn flakes as part of a bland diet to counteract sexual desire (totally true story.. this is why I only eat high fiber Kashi products). But I still say it's herpes.

Just the other day I was on the J train, and there was this utterly divine piece of ass enjoying the view that I was providing (curves, curves, and more curves). I mean, he was yummtacular... covered in tattoos, cute face, had definitely done some jail time. Sure I thought about it. I'm sorry, but there is nothing like an angry blue collar fuck. But then the herpes started to sneak between me and our fantasy fun time.

Just yesterday I was talking to an acquaintance, and the subject of the herp came up. She didn't know that you can contract herpes (and, yes, HPV, which is part of the herpes family) even when being a very responsible condom user (such as moi-self). A rubber can stand between me and gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, even HIV, but I'm defenseless against the skin-to-skin risk of herpes.

So, it comes right down to be discriminating. It comes right down to not giving into my every vaginal whim. And this is, admittedly, sucky and difficult. But *sigh* I do it.

No dick for me. No dick for you. What the hell am I supposed to screw?

x( . )( . )x,
v

come see me @ Folsom

Hello Whore Pies!
I'll be reading at the Folsom Street Faire this Sunday around 1pm on the Center for Sex and Culture stage @ 1286 Folsom. Come see me and my boobs. Yay!
x( . )( . )x,
v

Babies: the new SF accessory?

It took me a little over 2 months to commit to a plant. I am - quite staunchly - against motherhood of any kind. Yesterday, it happened. I committed to an 8-inch tall orchid, and I named it Lily.

So, do I think about pregnancy? Yes. How can I not think of pregnancy when everyone in San Francisco is sporting their new favorite accessory: babies. Do I want a little me that I can put in tutus and pass my neuroses and my bad back onto? Umm... err... tempting... but, no.

I think of my uterus and my vagina as very political entities. But, it's not some desire to stave off over-population that motivates my anti-baby stance. My vagina is very scared of the whole idea, like when I see a baby my ovaries go "aww.. 18 years to life wouldn't be that bad, Virg" but my pussy, she cringes. I mean, when I see a baby my life flashes before my eyes. No more pedicures, no more promiscuous sex, no more sleeping in, no more traveling, no more thinking of me, me, me. All the things I love in life would be gone, and I'd have a broken va-j-j to boot + 1 little person who would spend a quarter of their life hating me and another quarter in therapy learning how to forgive me for passing on the fat gene.

And then there comes the issue of the penis that did this, and the man it's attached to. I think about the day after all of it's over and I've got a tear from my ass to my cooch, how can I trust the fool who let this happen to me? How can I look him in the eye and truthfully say, "No, I don't blame you for putting my vagina on the chopping board of life. I don't hate you a even little for standing by while my hole was transformed into a hallway."

I don't think I'd make a bad mother. I just don't want to be a mother. That's all. When I see the mommy meetings at the Dolores Park Cafe, the only thing I'm envious of is that they own a person who sucks on their tits all day.

Virgie's Pick of the Week: Pornogami

I'm no stranger to how paper can be used to make people horny, but in my world it usually requires some paint and some naked boobies (or at least a pen). But it turns out that all you really need is the diligence to master Pornogami. If you can put your lust on hold for 25-30 folds, you can have some real nasty paper porn. Instead of playing with boobs, you can fold your way into a pair. The same is true for sperm and women and dudes in obscene positions. Yum! Who doesn't want their own paper anus to think dirty thoughts about? I give this one a boob and a half. Even though I love this, it's just not intelligent design: You can't get nut of any variety on these creations. Like, wtf?

Virgie Tovar is the author of Destination DD: Adventures of a Breast Fetishist with 40DDs (order it on www.GoodVibes.com). She was recently voted Best Sex Writer by the San Francisco Bay Guardian (www.sfbg.com).

Visit Virgie online @ www.myspace.com/thevirgieshow

Naughty Mango

Mango-eating is a bit like masturbation.

Mangoes make me feel naughty (in that sort of blushing, giggling way, especially when I get the mango naked and it's slippery in my hands) every time I eat one, and this morning that is exactly what happened.

The day before yesterday I had passed a fruit stand in the Mission, and had eyed the mango selection: they are segregated. The cheaper mangoes are, truly, on the brink of mango death, and some have passed onto the irredeemable place where many sad fruits goes. The others are more expensive, but they are in various stages of ripening, varying among bitter and hard, tingly and juicy, and nearly too sweet (I prefer the second variety, for the record). I learned the hard way about this apartheid; once I bought a mango from the wrong side of the fruit partition and set upon it only to discover that it tasted like rotten garbage (ew.. that wasn't sexy).

Anyway, I thought about it for a day, and then settled on going back to the stand with the wary intent of feeling up the fruit.

The secret to feeling up fruit varies from individual to individual. The thing about a mango is it has to give into your touch (just a little). It can be green or yellow with red swirly spots. But I've found that the true indicator of readiness is the smell. You've got to rip the brown tip, the bit that had attached the fruit to its vine, away. Then, you have a tiny eye into the nature of the mango; you get a hint of the stringy texture, and if you put your nose to it, you can smell exactly where that mango is in her evolution.

When the time comes, it always feel a little bit like a secret party, and I often choose to eat mango (is eat even the word you could use for what you do with a mouth and a mango?) just before I take a shower. And I often find that it's best to do it with nothing at all on above the waist. There is no civilized way to eat a mango (at least not to eat a mango the way she deserves to be eaten).

sigh

My pussy is not a delicate flower, dammit!

I have yet to meet a woman who’s told me she gets really good’n’fucked as often as she wants it. In fact, I often meet women who say they’d like some hardcore drilling a lot more of the time. But let’s put these other women aside for a moment, and I’ll just tell you about my relationship with Pounding (and I capitalize Pounding because it’s a truly sacred thing, the way one might capitalize Jesus or Cheesecake).

To be frank, I’d like some good hard fucking a lot more often myself. I’ve been in relationships where I’ve asked for dick with some intention behind it, and my partner - full of love and respect - has said, “I can’t do it. I don’t want to hurt you.” For fucks sake, I thought, where are these dudes getting the idea that they’re going to hurt me? I thought, “they know that babies and other crazy shit comes out of there, right?” And then it occurred to me. Flowers. Fruit. While men’s junk gets compared to serious things from the Table of Elements and rocks, my vagina is likened to orchids and cherries. You don’t seriously screw an orchid or a cherry (with a clean conscience anyway). So, I’ve decided that I want to launch a campaign of truth around my panocha. When I think of my vagina, sure she’s cute and flirtatious, but when it’s time to get down to business, my ruddy little petunia turns into an angry beastess of lust, a hungry orifice. She doesn’t want kid gloves, she wants the big girl treatment.

Just fyi, I’m clenching my teeth right now for effect. Anyway, a bit of advice: if you happen upon my path, you’d better bring your P game.

x( . )( . )x,
v
p.s. Become my friend on myspace: www.myspace/comthevirgieshow