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Throughout this tour, whenever people have asked us about our itinerary, we've run through the list of cities, and always ended with Raleigh, our last official stop (at least for now). And these people (even the ones from Raleigh) have invariably responded with perplexed looks: "Why Raleigh?" or "What the hell's in Raleigh?" or "Good luck finding anything to do in Raleigh!" Well, apparently, there's nothing to do in Raleigh. Which would explain why everyone seems to be doing each other! Of the fifteen cities we visited, Raleigh was by far the most insanely sexually debauched and exuberant.
We left Atlanta, a little worse for wear, and drove 8 hours straight to the parking garage across the street from our Raleigh venue, where we proceeded to freshen up by changing our pants, applying some chapstick and sucking down a squirt of toothpaste. This was our last official event and we were exhausted. We figured, "Hey this is Raleigh, nobody's gonna show" and were, admittedly, not terribly saddened at the prospect. But when we got to April & George, the fabulous wine bar/art gallery run by two charming and eponymous ladies, we discovered a roomful of interested parties. Or should we say interesting parties?
Tim, a soft-spoken young man, sat down and said he had a special request: "I'd like you to sign my book, but could you please just make it really, really mean?" We struggled with this for about a minute before coming up with this: "You're a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, pathetic excuse for a human being (but we mean that in the most loving way). Fuck you! --Em & Lo." Then we gave him a spank as a bonus prize.
A young, sweet woman who looked like she might be a student at one of the local universities asked Em to sign her copy of the BB to "Johnny Goodthrust and Layla Wilde." Em, ever so naively, asks, "Oh, are they friends of yours?" And she, ever so coyly, responds, "No, they're, uh, pet names."
A whole group approached Lo's side of the table as one unified unit and a dude (who we surmised was their ring-leader from the big mouth and the leather pants) admitted proudly, "Everyone here's had sex with everyone else, almost. 'Friends'...'lovers'... we're not real good with definitions. Someone learned us the wrong way." He kept petting the head of one of the younger, meeker-looking attendees, and the significance of her choker necklace slowly dawned on Lo, who was only slightly quicker on the uptake than Em that night. (The tip-off should have come earlier in the evening, when they had us sign a book for a friend named nomi -- "all lower case" -- who was "tied up" and couldn't make it.) When the little sub handed over her book to be signed and Lo asked if there was anything in particular she wanted written, she just shrugged her shoulders. Of course she did. So Lo just wrote, "Thanks for coming out to April & George's (not like you had any choice). Have fun on your knees!"
Alicia and her husband Bill had very particular ideas about what should be signed in their book: "Dedicate page 106 to us. And call us when you turn that chapter into a whole book -- we'll give you some tips!" Alicia was high on either life or Ecstasy, laughing and twirling around the bar with unbridled enthusiasm. Her hands were everywhere and on everyone. And at one point, Lo could have sworn she was the recipient of a "bad touch." A few minutes later Bill leaned in and whispered in Lo's ear, "You two are hot," as if to make an indecent proposal. True to form, Lo just said "Thanks!" innocently and enthusiastically, and made a bee-line for the bathroom.
Joey, who was sitting on the sidelines with a clear view of one end of the bar, had the good fortune of espying a little public nudity. He was talking love and war with one of the locals, a distinguished gentleman and self-described nerd named Charles ("The only people in Raleigh are nerds and debutantes"). During their conversation, Joey noticed a drunk woman chatting up a tall dude at the end of the bar: "This couple was getting progressively friskier and more animated. They were laughing, but also sexed up. Then she just pulled her low-cut top down and a boob popped out. The guy ran his hand over her nipple, kinda tested it the way you'd test to see if baking bread was ready. I think I stopped mid sentence and was like 'Hello, booby in public.' And Charles turned to look, and said, completely unfazed, 'Oh. Yeah. That's Raleigh for ya.' Then the couple just laughed and she put her tit away and they kissed. I saw them leave together not three minutes later." Damn! Did we mention this was a classy joint, serving wine, cheese, and olives?
Then there were the people who mistook us for professionals. Jonathan, another soft-spoken young man with a visible case of the blues, plopped down in one of the chairs and proceeded to tell us the story of his recent break-up. He had caught his girlfriend with another guy, and wanted to know if it was okay to cut loose, sexually speaking. ("Um? as long as you? you know, don't take out your anger out on any new lucky ladies?? Yeah, that's the ticket!") Next came a woman (who shall remain nameless) who told us the saddest tale of frustration and woe, in Seurat-like detail. Apparently, her live-in boyfriend who she's been with forever (they're like practically married) has become completely asexual. The man is just not into it (and no, she doesn't suspect him of getting any on the side). She tries and tries, but he won't respond, won't go down on her and -- get this -- won't let her go down on him. We were at a loss. We mustered a heartfelt, "Wow, what a bummer." And that was pretty much the extent of our words of wisdom.
Another woman named Anonymous told us she once had an orgasm just from listening to music. ("Get the fuck outta here, you lucky bitch!") During her first year in college, she went to the live concert of tenor saxaphonist James Carter with a few of her friends. She was a saxophonist herself, and was so moved by his music, she found herself gripping the arm rests of her seat. "My friends were staring in shock and horror at the look on my face. I was a virgin at the time, I don't think I'd even hand an orgasm before, but this was definitely the real thing." After the show she felt compelled to share the good news. She found Carter in the dressing room and in front of 20 people said, "I absolutely loved your music. You're not going to believe me but your last piece gave me an orgasm." Everyone's jaw dropped. And Carter said, "Glad to hear it."
Throughout the evening, one mysterious young gentleman named Daniel kept hinting at how he had "something to show us," saying he wanted to "do a trade," but that he was going to wait until he could have our full attention. Once the crowd died down a bit, he settled in one of the chairs next to our table and gave us the spiel: Daniel's the proprietor of the glass dildos shop GlassFantasy.com; he sells high quality Pyrex pleasers that are non-porous, can be warmed or chilled, clean up easy, and last a lifetime; he works with artists and glass blowers to create unique shapes that double as interesting coffee table art. After he gave us the low-down, he whipped it out: a beautiful custom-made 15-incher whose head contained a miniature aquarium of tropical fish images. The detail was incredible. To prove its strength, he held it several feet off the ground and dropped it on the hard cement floor. We only had the audacity to try to convince him to give it to us as an "I care" gift when we didn't know how much it cost. He hesitated, as if making peace with his decision, then handed it over solemnly, like he was sending off his first born to college. Turns out, this baby's worth like $800 bucks - we know! We told him we didn't want the responsibility of having to do him any favors later, but he said it was cool. Score! Now, bribes aside, we gotta say this thing rocks. As proponents of investing a little more in your sex life than you do on your Manolos, we'd say his site is worth checking out; if you can get past the cheesy pictures of the Penthouse chicks licking them on the homepage, his endearing entrepreneurial enthusiasm shines through. And they certainly aren't all that pricey: you can get a clear "anal binky" for 50 bucks.
The only people we encountered who weren't at April & George specifically to meet us (can you imagine?) were two gay guys named Jim and Tim, and one allegedly straight Parisian by the name of Bixente (say "Bee-shon-tay"). Jim and Tim are neighbors who swear they swap nothing more than cups of sugar; their gaydar was thrown for a loop by the swarthy Bixente, whom they'd never met before. Bixente opened up the conversation by asking Jim and Tim why they think it might be that gay guys always hit on him (which bears an uncanny resemblance to a pick-up line, if you ask us). After explaining that it had something to do with B's extended eye contact, Tim finally decided that Bixente passed the "Southern straight test" ("I put off as much I could put off, and he didn't bite") while Jim remained suspicious of Bixente's intimate knowledge of San Francisco gay life. To which Bixente responded, "Ah, in Pareese, there is no such worry of gay, straight, you see, it is just peeple." How very French. Meanwhile, Bixente declared the entire scene at April & George "so American. Look at it -- everyone is lining up to tell you about my mother said this, or my boyfriend said that." We resisted the temptation to tell him that his very French name means "yappy fluffy overly-manicured miniature poodle" in America.
Our last copies of The Big Bang that night went to a couple of preppy Duke law students named Howard and Scott. Belatedly catching on to the Raleigh scene, we wondered if their conservative khakis concealed kinky latex undies. What deep dark fetish would these sweet young future lawyers of America reveal to us? In the most shocking revelation of the evening, it turned out they were exactly what they seemed: 22-year-old straight boys with tips such as "Please post a picture on your personal," and "If you're going to stop halfway through a blowjob, at least follow up with some handwork," and "Don't discount the younger guys." When we tried to dig a little deeper, convinced they had to be hiding something, Howard declared himself (as both a lawyer and an engineer) "the least hip person" in the house. We guess we'll never know what, if anything, comes between him and his Calvins.
But the award for "Best 'Big Sex Drive' Sex Tip...Ever!" goes to Kristy and Greta, a charming couple who met through Hooksexup Personals and have been together a month. (FYI: This was the first time either of them had used online personals -- count it!) When we asked for a tip, Greta said, "Your book is good for spanking. It's just the right size!" To which Kristy quickly added, "And it makes a nice sound."
What we thought would be a half-hour signing turned into a three-hour whirlwind of sexual enlightenment-slash-oversharing. When we finally got back to our hotel room, we thought we'd unwind, wash off some of that sin, and celebrate our last event of the tour. What a long strange trip it's been (and we don't even like the Dead).
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Really Love Your Peaches, Wanna Shake Your Tree
Expect nothing and you'll find immense joy in small surprises. Take Atlanta, for example. After reading Let's Go's top pick for the city ("a guided tour of the CNN world headquarters!") and learning from a few natives that our hotel was situated in Meathead Central (a drive past the Buckhead neighborhood's hotspots quickly confirmed this), we were prepared to be underwhelmed. What a joy, then, to discover a drive-thru Starbucks across the street from our hotel! (Hey, you'd be happy too if you'd been getting up at 5 a.m. for radio interviews all summer, fueled only on a mouthful of toothpaste.) We happened to arrive in Hotlanta just in time for the first day back at school, causing the local Fox morning show "Good Day Atlanta" to cancel our TV appearance (do people stop having sex once school starts up again?), proving once again that we're TOO HOT FOR FOX. Fortunately, we weren't too hot for CNN Headline News. Not only did we get a free insiders' tour of CNN's world headquarters and the chance to plug our book to millions of Americans in departure lounges across the country, but the make-up ladies gave us a sneak preview of what we'd look like as 45-year-old soccer moms on a night out! Either that, or cheap crack whores.
Scanning the local papers for something anything to do, Joey (who had joined us for the last leg of the trip) discovered that not only was Hillary Rodham Clinton in town to promote her new book, but that oh, serendipity! the signing was taking place at a bookstore just two blocks from our hotel. We came up with a cunning plan to buy Hillary's book and get on line at the signing, then at the last minute we'd whip out our book and sign it to her. We even knew what we'd write: "Dear Hillary, Please run for President! Love, Em & Lo." At the very least, we figured we could get our photo taken with Hill and sneakily hold a copy of The Big Bang in the frame. Unfortunately, as it turns out, senators and ex first ladies are a little trickier to snag on camera than your average lady mullet in a biker bar (see Santa Fe entry, below). We waited online for a while (okay, for, like, two minutes it was hot out and we were hungry) before we faced the fact that Hill's people weren't going to allow either photos or gifts, and that we were so far back in the line that we had scant chance of even getting our copy of Living History signed. Bummer. After noting the two secret service dudes posted on the roof of the Barnes & Noble, we figured it was prudent to accept defeat and make do with this photo instead.
We had no event planned for Atlanta, but we figured that as long as we were out drinking (as we are wont to do), we may as well invite along local readers so we could sign a few books, score a few free drinks, and maybe even pick up a few sex tips, too. (It's true, we are the hardest working sex gypsies in show biz.) The above-mentioned locals directed us to Virginia Highlands, a neighborhood much more our pace, and we set up shop at a bar called the Righteous Room (which, like everything in Atlanta, is found by taking a right on Peachtree Road, a left on Peachtree Blvd, then another left on Peachtree Avenue, all the way down to Peachtree Plaza). Manj was one of our first visitors. He began innocuously enough, dishing numerous road trip tips, before dropping the bomb: His lady love is twenty years his senior a post-menopausal grandmother! Manj figures she's just in it for the sex. And we figure Manj deserves a Golden Dildo Award for dedication to the cause. We're not quite sure of the cause yet, but he's definitely on our side. (And yes, his name does sound delightfully "kind of like a nice euphemism for the vagina," as Em noted, causing Joey to cry out, "That's so mean! You can't put that in the blog!" before adding, a minute later, "Actually, it's more like a euphemism for cunnilingus.")
(he's the one on the left)
Sarah, who starred in a recent edition of Dirt, said that "lots of red wine" is one of her favorite sex tips. Matt asked if were accepting "don'ts" as well as "do's" before intoning, "Don't whistle the Andy Griffith theme song during sex." Is that a euphemism for something, we inquired? "No, it's a real tip," he said. Based on experience? "You could say that." Doesn't it make you kind of want to try it? Not to be outdone, Robbie wished to note that "Cherries are dangerous. I read that Hershey's tip [in the Fargo entry] and I think that cherries are worse." Huh? "Down there, you know. Can't they give you a staph infection?" We were unable to either confirm or deny this rumor, but we signed his copy of The Big Bang, "Stay away from strange cherries," just in case.
Though we were not at the Righteous Room on official business, we did sell one book to a random patron to help cover our bar tab. He'd read about us in Time magazine and claimed he was buying The Big Bang "for a friend I'm meeting at the Whitesnake concert later this week." Which is pretty much the best excuse we've heard yet. After that it was time to head down the road to the Local for some you guessed it karaoke. The crowd was so too-cool-for-school, they'd have made Williamsburg hipsters feel dorky, which was all the more reason for us to spaz out further. Manj dedicated Garth Brooks' "Two Pina Coladas" song "to all the ladies in the bar who write sex books" and then Damon and Matt dedicated "Islands in the Stream" by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton "to the Middle East." Damon also wished to share a "don't" tip: "The only time I've ever been turned off during a sexual moment, I was going down on a girl and she screamed, 'Drink me dry!' Something about the phrasing just threw me. It was our first time together, too first time out of the gate, that was a bit much. All I could think was, I haven't met your family yet. I don't even know your mom." We're pretty sure another "don't" is thinking about a chick's mom while going down on her.
The rest of the evening is a little fuzzy the scrawl in our trusty reporter's notebook became increasingly illegible as the hours (and the tequila shots) wore on. Sample late-night notes include such helpful entries as "Tattoo guy = Luke. Southern dude. Said we should sell book [mystery phrase]." Did Tattoo Luke dish mad knowledge about how we could become best-selling authors? We'll never know. Other late-night new best friends included Jordan and Chris, two 22-year-old local students. Jordan wished to share this tip with all the ladies out there: "Handjobs are unnecessary and annoying most of the time." Buddy Chris chimed in, "Unless they're in an alley way or a public place." When we suggested that perhaps the ladies of their recent acquaintance simply weren't using enough lube, Jordan begged to differ: "If all I've done for the past ten years is paint, and you come up to me and you're like, 'Let's paint!'? Well, you know what I mean." Yes Jordan, we do. (Did we mention they were both 22?) Jordan had one more tip for the co-ed set: "Those condoms and lubes with numbing ingredients? They aren't to be used when drunk. When you're sober, they're great! But if you're drunk, you lose your erection, and then you can't get it back, for, like, the whole night!" Which, we have to admit, is pretty much as bad as it gets in college. We disappeared for a few minutes to storm the karaoke stage, and when we returned, Jordan claimed he had thought of something really juicy for our notebook.
Jordan: Okay, so this is really graphic?
Us: That's okay: shoot.
Chris [suddenly figures out which anecdote Jordan's about to share]: Don't include me in your story, I wasn't there!
Jordan: Okay, so a couple of months ago, I was hooking up with two bisexual girls, and one of them gave me a tip. Are you sure?? This is really graphic.
Us: We think we can probably handle it.
Jordan: Okay, so she tells me, 'When going down on a girl, take the lips, and spread them apart with your fingers, then begin.' [Looks pleased with himself]
Us: That's the graphic bit?
Jordan: Well, you know, she showed me.
Us: But still?
Jordan: Okay, so it was at a party that it happened. Well, a 'party,' you know. On a bunch of futons. There were five people, and we pushed the futons together, like so. [Draws diagram in our notebook of futons in upper-case-N-shaped formation]
Chris: But I wasn't there. I have a girlfriend.
Jordan: And then someone walked in on us, see? Here's the door. [Adds door to corner of diagram]
Chris: But it wasn't me.
Ah, college. We miss it about as much as we miss Atlanta.
The Atlanta Index
Military personnel with big guns on the roof of the bookstore outside Hillary's reading: 2
Blocks of Hillary fans waiting in line to get a book signed: 4
Blocks of Em & Lo fans that waited in line to get a book signed at our lat event: 0.17
Hillary fans in line who dedicated Garth Brooks songs to the former first lady: 0
Em & Lo fans who wrote their sex tips in our notebook themselves after correctly surmising we were too tipsy to take legible notes: 3
People who have questioned us on our "Television should never take priority over sex" tip (featured on our Big Bang calling cards): 6
Times we have responded, "It's all about Tivo, baby!": 6
Dollars we receive for each Tivo plug: 0
Names we can't remember of the people whose asses we've spanked: 1 (If you are the owner of this ass, please contact us so we can put a face and a name to the tush.)
Next stop: Raleigh
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Closing time? We don't need no stinking closing time!
In the French Quarter, wrought-iron balconies line the narrow streets, music fills the air, stuffed alligators hang from the ceilings of stores, voodoo shops dot every other corner, willows weep and stray cats slink in the spooky alleyways. It's everything Anne Rice said it would be! Here, you can take your Hurricanes to go and drink as you stroll down the sidewalk. Some bars don't have locks because they never close. Hell, some don't even have doors. People come for a week and end up staying a lifetime; they get stuck -- maybe it's because it's so laid back. Or maybe it's because of the crack.
The Maison Dupuy, our French Quarter hotel, was another quaint joint with lots of character: our room's balcony overlooked a courtyard with a huge water fountain and a pool with striped cushioned lounge chairs, and classic jazz was piped into the ether. Siona from the Times-Picayune came to visit us here; there's something so rock-star (however imaginary) about doing an interview on a hotel bed. Later that night, she came to check out our gig at a wood-paneled bar called DBA on Frenchman Street right outside the Quarter (brother to the bar in New York with the same name). With a plug for our event in the special events section of the local alternative paper, The Gambit, and a few business cards shoved into the hands of passersby on the street, we were able to fill the bar. Not too shabby for a Thursday at 9pm, considering things don't usually get started until well after midnight in this town. There we met two boisterous grey-haired men named Bob and Uncle Bill who had never heard of Hooksexup but saw the bit in the Gambit; Bob had faxed the mention to his friend Bill and said "We have to check this out." They left the two missus at home and by the end of the evening, they were converts, buying copies of the book for their wives (at least, we hope they were for their wives). Two other guests identified themselves as the "Curious Couple in New Orleans." For those of you who have been paying close attention to our advice column (it took us a few minutes to catch their drift), they are utterly charming and still very, very curious...
We also met Christine, a cool woman who works for the local Planned Parenthood chapter. After talking with her, she reaffirmed our belief that sex and sexual health is not just a matter of instinct but of quality information and education. "The state of Louisiana is rated last in terms of reproductive health care," she informed us. "New Orleans has a sex-positive culture but that isn't translated into policy. It's a big party town but politically it's very conservative, controlled by the Catholic Church and the Christian Coalition. People here are not enjoying sex; there's a lot of shame and guilt and misinformation around sex and sexuality. So we get a lot of unwanted pregnancies and cases of STDs and no access to abortion, especially for the poor. But what you're doing is great, because whether you're rich or poor, you can enjoy sex and do it safely. The Hooksexup culture could exist here, it just needs to be promoted." On a lighter note, she said of our anal sex lecture, "I feel like you were talking directly to my asshole."
The rest of the weekend (which we took off) was a bit of a blurry whirlwind. We rode the streetcar through the Garden District and looked at all the huge old mansions while sticking to the wooden seats of the trolley. Got a lesson in how absinthe is prepared at Pirate's Alley Cafe, one of only two places in New Orleans that serves Absente, a wormwood-free liqueur modeled after absinthe. Opted instead for a less intense G&T at one of their outside alley tables next to the Faulkner Bookstore, which is housed in the very building where he wrote his first novel. Made the horrible mistake of watching Old School on pay per view while we recovered from the heat after a long afternoon on the sun-soaked streets. Hung out with an old friend of Lo's she hasn't seen in five years who's been shaving his balls and ass for years -- way before it was trendy. Took a sunset cruise down the Mississippi on the Natchez, the city's only working steamboat, and listened to a five piece brass band on deck (we also very maturely screamed at the top of our lungs "I'm gay!" and "I like to stick things up my butt!" whenever the boat's extremely loud horn was sounded). Got taken for a ride by a cab driver who was so charmingly giddy -- he started singing in his thick Spanish accent "If you like it, lick it, if you don't, stick it" -- that we didn't even care. Squeezed in the tiny Preservation Hall, frozen in time from 70 years ago, and listened to some old school jazz masters kick out the tunes as two slow, overhead fans stirred the heat in that crowded room (a sign on the wall indicated that requests cost $2 -- except for "The Saints," which will set you back $10). Inhaled the inescapable scent of fresh vomit on crowded Bourbon Street. Drank a frozen margarita dispensed out of a washing-machine-sized automatic mixer and served in a plastic cup so big you could use to bathe a small child. Walked in El Matador, a hipster bar you might expect to find in the East Village of New York, encouraged the young band from Houston that had just finished playing to perform another set, and realized when they did why no one else had been encouraging them. Discovered Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, one of the oldest bars in the United States (built in the 1730s) and lit only by candlelight, with a grand piano stuck in the back and a dude belting out jazzed-up versions of 70s classics in his scratchy voice; he sang Billy Joel's "Piano Man" and repeated the line "put bread in my jar" over and over until all the drunks (including us) sitting on bar stools around the edge of the piano realized that that was our cue to tip him. Found a "veggie" burger at 2am at a bar so dark you could hardly see their "pet" rat scurrying in the corner. Sang karaoke at 4am to the stragglers at a bar so meat-heady, it's surely been highlighted on "Girls Gone Wild." And pretty much had a blast.
Our place of constant recuperation and rejuvenation was Old Dog New Trick, the one vegetarian restaurant in all of craw-daddy Nawlins. We became fast friends with William, the sweet manager, especially after he served us the best (the only?) vegan desserts in the South. We ate there on our first day, ate there again and sold him a book on the second, and by the third day when we came back yet again, he was a die-hard Hooksexup fan. When we asked William for a tip, his rosy cheeks got even rosier. He made an attempt to lower his voice out of earshot of a nearby customer before realizing she probably wasn't going to tip him, so he spoke up loudly and proudly, "My boyfriend knew you were looking for tips and suggested 'Romance is the biggest turn on.' I told him he was full of shit." He paused, searching for his own tip. "Does it have to be witty? I'm trying to think of something that rhymes.... Well, my boyfriend likes it when I moisten the center of my palm and rub just the tip of his penis counter-clockwise while holding the base. I guess it would feel the same if you were to go clockwise, but I always go counter-clockwise." Make it your own, Wills!
When we finally dragged ourselves away, the funky sights of New Orleans were quickly replaced by the slightly scary sights of Alabama: camo tees, long scraggly beards, swamp lands, Baptist church after Babtist church, homemade monster trucks, teenagers on ATVs crossing the highway, and a car on the side of the road that was about to blow up.
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A reader named Todd Halterman sent us the following note and graphic:
I highly recommend a stop in Grand Rapids, Michigan for a Friday Happy Hour at The Clique Lanes where you're sure to get your 'Big Lebowski's' tickled by some relatively sophisticated farm boys.
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The drive from Santa Fe to Austin was too long to complete in one stretch, so we bunked overnight in Lubbock, Texas, a depressing town surrounded by a whole lot of flat, brownish-green fields, oil pumps, and Cracker Barrels ("where comfort meets food"). Apparently, there are only two kinds of music on the radio in Texas country and Jesus. Or, if you're lucky, Jesus country. Em whose parents went through a country music period when she was a kid, and who's always had a bit of a Jesus thing was in her element. Lo counted "Life's short, hunt hard" bumper stickers to make the miles pass faster. After turning the dial for a while, she thought she had finally found a top 40 pop station (not a great improvement, but still), only to realize that it was actually Jesus pop.
It's de rigeur for New York hipsters to claim they're "big fans of Austin," despite never having set foot in Texas. Like PBR and bedhead, Austin is understood to be perennially cool, especially for serious music snobs. Having both recently entered our thirties (definitely less hip than the twenties), our hipster quotient was in serious need of a booster shot. So we were delighted to find that our Austin hosts prime among them longtime reader Tom, a.k.a. "Soibois" from old school HooksexupCenter were serious music snobs. And me mean that in the nicest possible way.
Our first night in Austin, Tom and his friend Adam (formerly of Poi Dog Pondering fame) took us to see their city's famous Mexican free-tail bats, marking the first time on this trip we actually acted on something we read in Let's Go. (Mostly we've been so busy that whoever's riding shotgun skims the chapter while navigating, and randomly calls out things like "There went the art museum!" and "I think this really long bridge is famous for something.") Austin boasts the largest urban population of bats in the country (about 1.5 million at this time of year), and every night at dusk they all emerge from Austin's Congress Avenue Bridge to dine on mosquitoes.
After agreeing that Let's Go was indeed correct ("That's a lot of bats"), we headed back to Tom's place to dine on something slightly more festive a five-course, mostly vegan (if you don't count the pork), home-cooked gourmet feast, to be precise. There was even a truffle! Tom's friend and co-chef Jeremy had been manning the stove while Tom played tour guide. At least, five courses was as far as we made it before asking politely to be excused. We were too tired even to lift our forks for another dish, and were fearful that our exhaustion-induced conversational catatonia would do irreparable damage to our reps as international sex advice goddess. Even the sight of two men in aprons couldn't keep us up. Now that's exhaustion.
The next day we stopped by Barton Springs a spring-fed swimming pool with concrete walls and a soft, mossy bottom for a quick dip. (Let's Go comes through again!) We ran through our anal sex lines for our event later that night on the grass as we watched local teens loop around the pool again and again, just hoping for something interesting to happen. It was like any middle American town on a hot summer day, except for the "Don't touch bats on the ground" sign.
A few hours later we made it to our big event at Austin's super-cool indie book store BookPeople. One-time Hooksexup contributor and friend of Em's Spike Gillespie was our charming emcee for the evening (check out her new book Surrender
(But Don't Give Yourself Away) at SpikeG.com), and The Polished Skull of Jackie Collins (comprising Tom on double bass, Adam on guitar, and two other dudes) played what Tom described as "highbrow porno tunes," a.k.a. the musical equivalent of Hooksexup. We stocked up on Lone Star Beer from the adjoining Whole Foods store, figuring that everything is funnier when the beer is free. (By the way, if you ever want to confuse some hippies, go into a Whole Foods store and buy nothing but a shopping cart full of beer.) We performed our anal sex safety lecture (once again they laughed, cried, said it was better than "Cats"), signed a bunch of books, screened the Hooksexup video shorts, and, most importantly, got directions to some of Austin's best late-night karaoke joints.
On our way out, BookPeople's awesome manager Alex agreed to give us his best "spread 'em" pose (see below). In those fabulous purple pants, he gives The Ass a serious run for his money.
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After BookPeople, we headed over to a bar called Ego's with Tom, Adam, Mike (a.k.a. "Erasrhed" from HooksexupCenter of old), and our volunteer projectionist for the evening, T.Rey. The place is so legitimately hip, you have to enter through a parking garage. The boys attempted to teach us how to two-step to the tunes of country guitarist Redd Volkaert, and we decided that if southern boys screw like they cook and dance, then we're moving down there for good.
Having successfully made asses of ourselves by acting and dancing in public, we resolved to make it a "triple threat" evening by heading over to Club DeVille's karaoke garden. The competition was stiff actual actor Michael Rapaport got up and sang soon after we arrived. Fortunately, the drinks were stiffer. Even more fortunately, Club DeVille's's mistress of karaoke ceremonies turned out to be a big fan of Hooksexup she announced to the hipster crowd that "these girls know anal" and let us plug The Big Bang before we launched into a heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, from-the-soul rendition of "Hopelessly Devoted to You."
We had very sensibly planned to take it easy that night and hit the sack early in preparation for our long haul to New Orleans the following day. We figured on getting up at 7 to log a couple of hours of work before the drive. Needless to say, we rocked Austin ?til the wee hours (at least, we acted like two chicks who think they're rocking Austin) and finally dragged our hungover asses out of bed sometime after eleven. We eventually hit the road around three, though it remains unclear to us how we managed to spend four hours checking out and packing up the Taurus. Our timing was perfect we found ourselves driving through downtown Houston at rush hour. Happily, Houston drivers all "drive friendly, the Texan way," just like the road signs politely suggest (even the water coolers there are decorated with smiley faces). We temporarily forgot our hangovers while Houston's rush hour crowd smiled, waved, and honked at our graffitted sexy Ford Taurus. Of course, the reception might have been somewhat more subdued had the slogans on our car hinted at the book's contents. Next time, we're going to rock the Deep South with a "honk if you like sticking things up your butt" bumper sticker.
The Austin Index
Times we have been told we should add "bumper nuts" to our sexy Ford Taurus: 3
Readers who made us feel like rock stars by telling us to "go ahead and mingle" while they bought us drinks: 1
Readers who made us feel like rock stars by offering some "medical grade marijuana" if we joined them at an intimate after-party: 1
Free drinks we accepted: 5 each (fortunately just enough to get us too drunk to recall the location of aforementioned intimate after-party)
Miles out of Austin that we both developed a serious hangover-induced veggie burger craving: 1.5
Texas restaurants listed in Let's Go we called to inquire as to their veggie offerings: 17
Texas restaurants listed in Let's Go on our route offering veggie burgers: 0
Time elapsed since the chef at Denny's last cooked a Boca burger for a customer: "It's been so long, I had to come out from the kitchen to see for myself who ordered them!"
Religious billboards we saw before Texas: 0
Religious billboards we saw in Texas and beyond: 23
Next stop: New Orleans
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Two weeks ago in L.A., we met a virgin with aspirations who wrote us a few days later to tell us how The Big Bang helped him make a big splash with the lady he was hoping to lose it to. (See the L.A. entry below.) While his hymen was still intact then, he was nevertheless having a great time. Here's his latest update on the matter.
Hey gals, I thought I'd tell you (hell, I'm telling everybody) that last night I finally turned in my V-card. I guess now there are a couple chapters of The Big Bang I should pay some closer attention to...Seriously though, talking to you gals a couple weeks ago really helped me get in the right mindset. She and I talked about it beforehand. As Lo advised, I was expecting to be a little underwhelmed (Hooksexups + adrenaline + "is this really happening?" = frazzled Hooksexups). But each time we tried it got better and better. I'm beginning to see what all the hubbub is about...Thanks again. For everything.
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Where We Discover the Eighth Wonder of the World
[Please note: Entries read from bottom to top. You'll find the previous two stops Phoenix and a little town we like to call Po Dunk below this entry.]
We decided to take the scenic route to Santa Fe. It was another glorious drive through the southwest. We were moved to commune with nature.
We found Santa Fe with its small, labyrinth-like, clean-swept streets, its endless string of cute trinket shops, and its pink and sand-colored adobe two story structures not unlike Adventureland in Disney World. Except there was an eerie, quiet calm over the town, as if everyone there was protecting some deep dark secret, and we were the only ones out of the loop.
We were supposed to set up shop at the Plaza, an endless string of cute trinket shops (just in tents instead of pink adobe structures), but the majority of the area had been taken over by the Girls Club of America damn them! We figured it would be a tad inappropriate to start pushing the book, especially considering all the cops crawling the area and the rain about to dump on everyone. We bagged it and just handed out cards to anyone we thought could handle tips like "Drinking and Japanese rope bondage don't mix."
That evening we had dinner with Hooksexup's old office manager, Erik Murnighan (Naughty Bit Jack's brother), his wife Hillary and their one-month-old babydoll, Lola. Erik, a master of the culinary arts, whipped us up a feast of authentic Mexican food and served us PBRs to wash it all down. (Please note: he's been drinking PBR long before it became trendy, and will drink it long after it becomes passe.)
The three of us said goodnight to the ladies of the house, and went back into town for a guided tour of Santa Fe's dive bars. First stop was The Cowgirl Hall of Fame, where we listened to a country band led by a guy with an eye patch and handed out the rest of our business cards. Then we made our way to a biker bar with no irony (i.e. no twenty-two-year-old hipsters in trucker caps). Grown men were wearing head to toe leather and weren't gay. Almost everyone was over 40 and either dancing to the cover band or making out. Mullets abounded. We were mesmerized by one in particular: two chicken wings of feathered hair on either side of this woman's face that gave way to a waterfall of waistlength waviness in the back. We needed to document it, but couldn't think of a polite way to ask her to pose for a picture. So when we saw her head for the ladies room, we positioned ourselves outside the door and pretended to take a portrait shot of Em when she exited. It was the most impressive sight we saw in Santa Fe.
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On our way out of Phoenix, we drove through a dink little Arizona town where we met two delightful ladies in their seventies, Maxine and Marty. They man the barbecue trailer right outside the local grocery store. Em got a brisket sandwich which she hoped was home cooked with grandmotherly love, but turned out was made in bulk by the supermarket.
As "relationship" writers, we asked them about their situations and if they had any advice. Turns out Maxine, who's got two daughters, two grandkids, and one "readymade" grandson (i.e. a grandson by her son-in-law before he married her daughter), just celebrated her 54th wedding anniversary: "A long-lasting successful marriage comes from communication, understanding each other's feelings, and learning how to both give and take." Marty, who was married for 43 years and has been widowed for 8 with one homemade son and one ready-made one, agreed: "Respect each other. Learn to listen to each other. And laugh a lot." Maxine gave her kids lots of this advice, but it "went right out of the window." She said, "Kids today don't want to commit themselves to the tragedies and responsibilities of a marriage. I believe in abstinence until marriage save everything. I was engaged for a year and still waited. We held hands. My husband taught me everything I know. He waited, at least I think he did: he was in the Navy, but we never discussed it, I just assumed. We encouraged out daughters and granddaughters to wait, but none of them did." Both of her daughters have been divorced twice.
When we pushed the envelope and asked Marty about sex, she said very solemnly (if not a little enviously) about her friend, "Maxine's marriage has been blessed." As far as she goes, Marty said, "I told God if He was to send me another guy, please make it work the first time I don't want to date a lot. But no one's turned my fancy yet."
These two have been friends for years, and we couldn't help but see ourselves in them (sans the whole saving yourself thing). Marty is a germaphobe (like Lo), while Maxine doesn't even notice the mess she's making (like Em). They finish each other's sentences and poke fun at one another (Marty: "Excuse me, I was talking." Maxine: "What else is new?") They both insisted on applying some lipstick before we snapped their photo, just as we once ran all the way back to our hotel the time a radio event turned out to actually be a TV spot. After asking us if we were still getting along after two weeks stuck in a car together, they laughed and said after eight years working side by side in the bbq trailer they've never had a fight. As we said our goodbyes, they said "Take care, watch out for all the wild ones." Men or bears? We'll never know.
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After a radio interview in San Diego in which we couldn't mention the book or Hooksexup "because of all the soccer Moms listening" (hey, soccer moms deserve good sex too!), we hit the road for Phoenix. And what a road: first we drove on the windy interstate through what looked like huge piles of rocks, as if a giant were keeping a gravel collection or eating a bunch of heaping bowls of Kix cereal; a bit further on the rocks turned into sand dunes and we were forced to use our A/C Max button for the first time; then we saw our very first cactus, followed by a seemingly endless field of them. The sky turned an ominous grey with just a hint of sun peeking through in the distance and we road alongside a train with various colored cars that accented the topography: rust red, grey blue, dirt brown, sunset orange. Naturally, we forgot to capture this majestic beauty on film.
In Yuma, right near the edge of Mexico, we had to drive through a border patrol check point. As we rolled up to the uniformed officers in our garishly decorated car, one officer leaned in and asked, "So what's the Big Bang?" When we enthusiastically told her and her partners it was a sex manual, they all said in unison, "Well, pull over, let's take a look!" While the lady cop kept traffic moving, the two dude officers moseyed over to the car; we got out and handed them a book. Naturally, the first page they turned to was the one with the hardcore masturbation photo the only picture in the book that makes us blush. But not a single bad joke escaped their lips. In fact they seemed to get it right away: "This would make a great gift?maybe not for my grandmother, but?" When we tried to get them to buy a copy they told us it was strictly against government rules we couldn't even give one to them as a gift, since it could be misconstrued as bribery, especially if, say, we had contraband butt plugs hidden somewhere that we were trying to sneak in. "We can't even accept free cupcakes when the Hostess truck driver passes through!" They also weren't allowed to pose for a picture without getting in trouble, so we tried to secretly snap one as we drove away. All we got was this:
Having rushed through only one day in San Diego with two bar events and several press stops, only to have to do the same thing in Phoenix, we kind of hit the wall when we showed up at Devil's Martini, a huge bar doing it's best impression of the L.A. Sunset Strip scene. They were having a 20th Anniversary party for Risky Business and all the bartenders were supposed to be dressed like Tom Cruise, but we didn't see one authentic pair of tighty whities they all chickened out with either boxers or boxer-briefs. Fortunately for us, the bar thought us selling books and offering five cent sex advice would cramp their Ray Ban style, so we just had to show up in our Hooksexup T's, let the five people who came for us find us, and try not to fall asleep. Everyone we met that night was incredibly gracious and patient when we kept yawing, especially Mohamed, an grad student who gave us this advice: "Massages are the way to go I'm talking about a real proper massage no props, no oils, all you neesd is TLC and patience and a sincere love of doing the job right. Then you're set. In fact, a proper massage is way better than hours of oral. To get specific, there's a bone where the thigh meets the crease of your ass, like little nubs, one on either side. If you massage them gently, that spells sex. That's better than sex. Rub them in a circular fashion. I prefer to use my thumbs. Have your partner lie down on their stomach, so you're out of the scenario. It creates the sensation of disembodied hands so it feels like all the attention is on them, or like they're being serviced by multiple people."
Besides the nice people we met, the only really good thing about the bar was that it was in walking distance of our hotel. On our way home we ran into a gang of Harley bikers at one of the cross walks. As we crossed the street we handed them cards, and they all started revving their engines, inching forward, shouting "I want one!" and "Get on, let's go for a ride!" Again, stupidly, we didn't even think to get a picture. After kicking ourselves when we got home, we vowed to take more photos, starting the next morning. We had a five-freaking-am phone interview that aired live in Boston three time-zones away. Lo talked about vaginal Hooksexup endings while Lo's Dad just happened to be listening as he worked out at his Beantown gym. The horror...
An hour later, we drove past the mini mountains of Phoenix they look like spilled boxes of chocolate cake mix and made it to our first TV appearance, a local Fox morning show. We were supposed to talk about the stupid men-are-from-mars and women-are-from-venus differences between the sexes, but weren't allowed to use the words foreplay (say "intimacy") or kinky (say "spicy"). And yet the visual teaser they used for our spot was the scene from Eyes Wide Shut with Tom and Nicole getting it on in front of the mirror, her skinny little wrists the only thing covering her skinny little nipples. Hello, sexual schizophrenia! On a positive note, the hosts were totally laid back, running around the set, doing improv on air: When we wanted to get a shot of the set after our bit, the young stage manager hooked us up; he was so nice that we told him to get in the picture with us, at which point the camera man cut to us as the hosts made fun of the stage-hand live on air for trying to hit on the sex writers.
Between TV gigs, we stopped off for breakfast and noticed a table of macho guys all in matching baseball caps. We thought they'd be good candidates for our poll of the day "What do you think of George Bush's push to ban gay marriage?" but chickened out at the last minute and quietly made our way to the Good Day Phoenix show. But who do we see in the lobby when we walk in? Turns out they're marketing dudes there to push a virtual NASCAR ride sponsored by a monster corporation that would surely fire their asses if they were caught talking about sex while on the job (hence the hidden shirt logos in the photo below). When we explained our situation and asked if they had any sex tips for us, they said they couldn't possibly contribute, at least not this early in the morning, and not sober. We asked them if their uniforms and the free shit they get to hand out gets them laid. "Are you kidding? We hang out at NASCAR. Fifty-five-year-old ladies show up in leather bikinis and miniskirts with their favorite racecar driver's face tattooed on their boobs. We give them free T-shirts just so they'll keep their clothes on." We decided we shouldn't pass up the second opportunity to ask them about gay marriage and, bless them, they all said it didn't affect them personally but to each his own so it should be legal. There is a god!
"The Guys with No Sex Tips"
Unlike Fox, the Good Day Phoenix show had no idea who we were, what hooksexup.com was, or what our book was about which meant unlimited publicity. They even aired a shot of the cover of the book. Suckers. We sprinted off the set after our bit before the calls of complaints started pouring in.
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What's Your Sign?
[Note: The most recent blog entry appears at the top of this page, so to read all entries in chronological order, start from the bottom.]
The front desk attendant at our San Diego hotel was reduced to giggles by the purpose of our visit to his home town. When we asked him if he could check on a package delivery for us, telling him it was copies of The Big Bang and a promotional poster for our event that evening, he requested permission to share that news with the mailroom, before calling down, "Yo, I need you to bring up some sex manual pa-ra-pher-nal-ia for the two ladies at reception!" He tried to access our blog from the front desk but received a "site blocked" notice. We hope you didn't get fired for that, dude.
We had grand plans to chill out in San Diego and embrace our inner surfer chicks. A long-time reader named Jason had promised us a free surfing lesson (he even emailed us a photo of himself to prove he wasn't sketchy), and we were "stoked" to try it. Sadly, we ended up being too busy to catch a single wave, though we did score a few sex tips, drink more than enough free cocktails, and meet two guys in the Navy. Hey, you take what you can get.
Our first advice pit stop of the night was at Chive, a super-hip, super-sleek lounge (though we heard a rumor that Chive is "so five minutes ago"), where we filmed a segment for a local 11 O'clock News show. Michelle, the incredibly sweet manager, kept us well-stocked in olives and cocktails while we sweet-talked the happy hour crowd into dishing on camera. "Cannonball" (see pic) wanted to tell all the men out there to "Take your time. When you think you're done with foreplay, take a deep breath and go back in for another ten minutes." Apparently it was a heartfelt sentiment and not just a line to get into our blog (or into our pants), because when his friends read what we wrote in his copy of The Big Bang ("You set a great example for all the men out there!") they agreed that he is indeed an exemplary gentleman. Rock on, Cannonball. His friend Stewart requested something "flattering and untrue" in his book, so we wrote, "Yours is the biggest we've ever seen!" We aim to please. Also at Chive, we met "Cousin Bobby" (the cousin of an area barfly too cheap and annoying to quote here), an amateur astrologer whose hair looked suspiciously highlighted and whose tan looked suspiciously even. After asking us our signs (for reals), Cousin Bobby intoned that "sex is ten percent of a good relationship, and ninety percent of a bad relationship." Which would have sounded a lot deeper had he bought a book.
Which one of these is not like the other?
After Chive, we moved onto Side Bar, which according to the same rumor mill is "so now," despite the Side Bar hipster trucker caps we were given (which we can all agree are so twenty-five minutes ago). Regardless, we raked in the sex tips at Side Bar. A charming old gentleman who wished to remain anonymous due to his rather public local standing (now aren't you curious?), and who bore a distinct resemblance to Bearl Ives, told us a lot about love and respect before getting to the nitty-gritty: "Most body oils use grape seed oil as the base -- it's very viscous as well as being edible. Use it as a body lotion, massage lotion, and a lubricant. I buy it at Middle Eastern stores and add aromatic oils to it to enhance the smell and flavor. I cook with it too! Just add garlic, bay leaves, rosemary or thyme, and use it to fry with. It's great, especially for your cholesterol!"
We met Vince, a pizza delivery guy in a Hooters T (which we could only hope was being worn ironically), whom we were so taken with that we forgot to take his photo. He dubbed us "sex gypsies," which we'll take over "sexperts" any day. He wished to remind everyone out there to give the twin boys some lovin': "Seriously, don't be afraid to play with the testicles!" When his first request -- for our phone number -- was denied, he made a second one, which we gladly granted: To sign the brim of his baseball cap, "It's all about the clit! Kiss noise, Em & Lo." He swore his boss would be cool with him delivering 'za while wearing it, and we swore he'd make a fortune one day by selling it on eBay. Meanwhile, Hilary, a self-proclaimed "odd" dude and longtime Hooksexup reader (with a daughter named Lorelei) recommended "putting your oddness out front" during a pick-up: "When I was single, I'd do the most oddball thing to see if they could deal with me. If they couldn't talk to me, they couldn't sleep with me." If the pick-up is successful, he suggested combining champagne with dark chocolate for a seductive afternoon sesh -- "the caffeine in the latter off-sets the post-nooner snooze." He bought a book for he and his wife's anniversary.
Some of our favorite tips of the night came from a young New York type named Jason (see pic), who showed up with his wife Barbara. In fact, he was so freakin' smart about relationships that we're just going to quote him here verbatim: "This friend of mine has been dating a woman for three years, and he complains to me that they've stopped having sex and fight all the time. But that's really exciting, because it means they're heading for either a major breakthrough or a break-up, which is a good thing." Break-ups a good thing? But bear with him, this is where it gets really good: "Bad parts are always temporary. Once you decide the problems you have are your problems (i.e. "our problem") it's good -- the problems are uniquely yours. People who have problems have something together. It's a different way to look at conflict. Conflict means you have a future. If you can make it through bad times, you can make it together. No one wants to look at it like that -- when they have a problem, they want to vent and wallow, but you've got look at it like building blocks. You can't tame each other, it's about learning how to work together as a couple. Old couples fight, but that's why they're together. I'm a total dick to my wife and she's a total bitch to me. That's great! It's hard to be mean to the person you love, but it's also necessary. (I'm talking being mean, not being hurtful.) Once you see the ugly side, you can better see the pretty side." Somebody give this guy a talk show! In the meantime, he gets our second Golden Dildo Award of the road trip. It's the "Advice We Wish We'd Given" award.
We sold our last book of the night to a dear lady in her fifties or sixties who was mysteriously accompanying her son to the animators' conference that was being held in San Diego. When we started channeling the spirit of J. Lo and told her son and his friend that we really needed a full-time assistant, publicist, and masseuse on this tour he responded, "Well, I can help you out with one of those...my friend is a freelance publicist." At which point his friend leapt in with, "DUDE! They said they needed a massueuse!" Mystery solved, perhaps? But our favorite quote by far that night came from Matt and Peter, two guys in the Navy. As we took their photo, they asked if the caption could please state that they are "clearly not gay." Uh huh, we promised, at which point they chased after us to add, "With no irony, please."
San Diego Index
People who asked us, in all seriousness, what our signs were: 3
Total people who have asked thus far if we're sisters: 15
Complimentary novelty trucker hats received: 2
Time we spent looking for an actual truck stop for a "trucker cap at truck stop" blog photo opp: 1 hour
Flies that have taken up permanent residence in the Clit-Taurus: 1
Times we've been out of range of a Clear Channel radio station: 0
Luna bars bought at the San Diego Whole Foods store in preparation for our vegan-hostile drive through the Deep South: 37
Next stop: Phoenix, AZ
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Getting Lucky in La La Land.
The windy road of the Pacific Coast Highway is not unlike the windy road of the rectum -- it's got a lot of sharp turns, but if you prep right, it can be breathtaking and beautiful to travel. We took it from San Fran about halfway down to Los Angeles before getting back on the freeway, stopping for dinner in Cambria, a quaint coastal town with main street shops so small and picturesque they resemble those miniature Christmas-themed villages people collect. For a second we thought when we got out of the car that we might be giants. Joey chauffeured us the rest of the way via I-5, which meant Em didn't need to drive or navigate -- two very good things, if you ask Lo.
We arrived in La La Land at 1 a.m. on Friday, exhausted and smelly. We weren't quite ready for the hopping scene in the lobby bar of our hotel, but felt we deserved a drink to celebrate our arrival. On the small caged-in sidewalk patio primarily reserved for bar smokers, we sipped our drinks, slightly comatose, and watched the scenesters go by. All the tight clothes, ironed hair, fake tans (if you can believe that), plastic body parts, and hair product made us both feel a twinge of nostalgia for our New Jersey days. But while our hotel, the Grafton, was a nice place to visit, we wouldn't want to live there on the Strip.
Saturday afternoon was spent on the Venice Beach boardwalk dishing five-cent sex advice. When we tried to set up shop at our predetermined location, a very stubborn and belligerent glass walker refused to let us take up even a few feet of the sidewalk next to him, arguing that our tiny card table would cramp his audience's style (not a single member of which had yet materialized). When our humble attempt to appeal to his good side was met with a macho "I'm not gonna take this sitting down," we decided to move on. A few blocks down, we found an unassuming little spot from which we figured we'd get booted by the infamous LA robocops within minutes (having had no time to procure the necessary permit). We also figured no one would be interested in our small potatoes, home-spun sex advice -- not in this town, where everyone's there to make it big at something and the guy a block over was canoodling with a live snake. We weren't even a triple threat -- how could we compete? But happily we got a great response from passersby (not all of whom were hash-smoking hippies). And we weren't bothered once by the coppers during the two and half hours we chatted up the locals, got sunburnt, and received an unrequested and slightly perturbing footrub from one of the aforementioned hash-smoking hippies.
Max, a funky, 33-year old rocker sporting a beard bouillon, regaled us with his tale of "The Jiggler." Despite an aversion to blowjobs and totally annoying women, Max found himself one late night about to be fellated by a particularly heinous whiner: "Yo, check this out: I meet this crazy girl, annoying as fuck. She talks me into going home with her. There comes a point when you know a woman is about to go down ? right when she passes the clavicle of your neck with kisses. And I thought, 'Okay, here we go, this is going to do nothing for me.' But this woman was 32 ? you know, upper demo ? and she knew what she was doing. She starts working the checklist: Mouth: check one. Hand following mouth: check two. Playing with the balls: check three. But then she whips out the big guns and starts jiggling my balls back and forth from left to right, over and over, and with increasing vigor. Then suddenly from the depths of my soul erupted the most amazing orgasm ever...I thought my dick and balls were going to shoot off my body!"
To our amazement, two outspoken women in their late twenties approached our table and without any shame -- indeed, with something resembling pride -- admitted to two unbelievable sexual atrocities. One had never masturbated: she thought it was "nasty," and should not be practiced by women or men. The other said, with her boyfriend of five years in tow, that never in her life had she given, or ever planned to give, a blowjob . . . ever. This sad, sad lady said the thought of ejaculate was "disgusting." When asked if she liked having her boyfriend orally pleasure her, she replied, "Only if he doesn't kiss me afterwards." Needless to say, we worked on chipping away at the foundations of these irrational and antiquated convictions for a good fifteen minutes. We think we may have succeeded in planting a seed of self-doubt in each of them. Forget about the nickel, the boyfriend of the BJ-phobic chick owes us a medal.
A group of theater majors from Arizona State University (who were on their own road trip) stopped by, bought some books, and posed for our sauciest photo yet (it was their idea, we swear -- we just told them to do something "dramatic"). They told us about their "Family Porn Night" back on campus -- regularly scheduled group viewings of titles such as Skits and Tits (wherein the female star makes her ass talk, a la Jim Carey). As we autographed their books, we pleaded with them to ignore all the theater major jokes we make in the BDSM chapter. They must have heeded our request, because a few days later, Keith (see photo) wrote us the nicest letter: "I wanted to tell you that the entire car ride back from LA to Phoenix, all we did was sit with the radio off while Corey read your book aloud to the car. We went from front to back and almost finished in 6 hours! We had just finished the STD section when we got back in to Phoenix (by the way, that chapter reminded me to go get checked, so I did and I'm clean! Cheers). We've told all our friends how amazing your book is." Aw, shucks!
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The next morning we met up with Brian Battjer from Spring Street Networks (who was in L.A. on business) and all went out to brunch with Hooksexup's former poetry editor/VP of TV, Ross Martin, his wife Jordana, and the seed of their loins, Dashiel (the baby with the biggest, cutest, most scrumptious cheeks we've ever seen). Afterwards, the two of us parted ways for the first time during this trip -- Lo was off to meet Joey's parents for the first time, and Em was off to hang out with Battjer on the rooftop pool at his swank hotel, The Standard. We both felt a little verklempt at the bittersweet break-up, but managed to pry ourselves apart. While Lo had a delightful, wholesome time with Joey's family, celebrating his Dad's birthday (somewhat surreally) in party hats and Groucho masks, Em was treated (if you can call it that) to the exhibitionistic tendencies of one incredibly drunk nympho who gyrated suggestively to the poolside DJ's tunes while Em attempted to mind her own business and finish the New York Times crossword. The hussy in question kept pulling her shorts up to create an unpleasant frontal thong, then pulled them all the way down to fully expose her cookie to Em, over and over, all the while maintaining eye contact with her. It's the most action Em's had on the trip so far.
The next evening was our scheduled bar event at Belly, which was being recorded for a TV show. While giving face-to-face advice on the spot to a total stranger can be challenging enough for two sometimes shy sex writers, giving it over and over and over again to the same stranger in an attempt to sound spontaneous and witty for the camera is downright painful -- like, root-canal painful. The lights were bright, the bar music was turned off, and the filming took about four hours longer than expected, which meant the troopers who showed up were forced to mill about patiently in awkward silence. But once we "wrapped" and could start drinking heavily, all was right with the world. We met a charming young virgin and Hooksexup fan who told us he hoped to cash in his V-card at the end of the week. A few days later he sent us a note that warmed the cockles of our hearts. We'd like share an excerpt here:
My date and I had a great time, but didn't wind up having sex. Next time we hang out we'll have a conversation about sex... I want to make sure we're on the same page before/if we decide to have sex. Regardless, it's looking like a possibility that she'll become my first girlfriend, which I'd take over sex any day. Before I go, I thought you'd enjoy this... So, we're hooking up last night, and I'm putting into practice some of the techniques you suggest in the chapters "Heading South" and "Can I Get A Hand Here?" She's really enjoying herself, and after her third orgasm she looks me straight in the eyes:
"You really haven't had sex before?"
"Nope."
"How'd you learn how to do that?"
"I read."
Pause.
"Well, keep reading."
Indeed I shall. Thanks again for all your great work. I assure you, it is
not going unappreciated.
Lindsay and Richard, a fun local couple who were recently married, also showed up at Belly (see photo below). Joey and Lo had met them the previous day at a Malibu beach when the newly-weds spotted our Taurus love-mobile and, being Hooksexup fans, recognized the URL scrawled across the side of the car in red glass-chalk. Richard used to be an editor at Hustler and learned a lot about the world from readers' letters to the editor. To this day, Lindsay and Richard keep their favorite under a magnet on the refrigerator: a 22-page epic from a man claiming his mother used to torture his testicles with a switch when he was a child, until one of them developed an infection and had to be surgically removed, which messed up his testosterone levels and created an urge in him to fuck horses, so much so that he ended up at an institution where the doctors there filmed him having sex with a horse, and could the good people at Hustler please help him track down this long-lost footage since it was the most satisfying sexual experience of his life? They also keep a collection of rejects from the charmingly named "Beaver Hunt" (i.e. amateur porn submissions) on their fridge. Apparently Christmas trees and Confederate Flags are a popular background for these pics of naked housewives.
The next day, having realized we could actually function without being in the same room for more than a few hours, we went our separate ways again for our second day off from smut peddling the entire trip. Em hung out with some old friends in Venice and managed to go a full eighteen hours without checking our book's Amazon sales rank. Meanwhile, Lo and Joey rode the kickass rollercoasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain and then had a sesh that, as Nick Hornby might say, ranked as one of their top five. We figured it was about time someone on the Big Sex Drive got laid properly.
The Los Angeles Index
Times Lo has had sex on the Big Sex Drive: 5
Times Em has had sex on the Big Sex Drive: O
Occasions on this trip we have each remarked, "This is better than sex!": 4
Amazon sales rank of Hillary Rodham Clinton's Living History as of 11 a.m. on August 6, 2003: 32
Amazon sales rank of The Big Bang as of 11 a.m. on August 6, 2003: 28!
Next stop: San Diego
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What's Hot: Karma. What's Not: Masturbation?
On the road to San Francisco, the inevitable erosion of in-car etiquette began. Our Ford Taurus is now strewn with half-eaten bags of Veggie Booty, old coffee cups, and about 53 empty water bottles; scintillating conversation has given way to Harry Potter on cd and whatever local radio station the behemoth cable company Clear Channel happens to own (another town, another day of "the hits of the '80s, '90s, and today"); and impolite emissions out of Lo's mouth and Em's bum have become commonplace. Our home for the summer more closely resembles a frat house on wheels than the travelling love den the Big Bang-mobile deserves to be.
Our visit to California did not begin well. Em's normally atrocious sense of direction is even worse before breakfast -- as is Lo's patience with it, especially when she's driving through morning rush hour -- and thus it took us a very tense three and a half hours to find our way from our downtown San Francisco accomodations (the Hotel Diva, natch) to San Jose for an obnoxiously early in-studio radio interview. The very patient folks at Mix 106.5 (which plays Em's favorite kind of music -- everything from today's hits to today's hits) nevertheless managed to squeeze us in, unperturbed by our frazzled demeanor. An EmLo trial separation was narrowly averted when Chuck, a dear man in a florescent vest, knocked on our car window outside the station. "I heard you guys were coming to town, but I didn't think I'd actually run into you!" he said excitedly. Turns out Chuck (who takes care of traffic signals for the city and is a part-time community college counselor) is a long-time Hooksexup reader. "My wife's going to love this -- she and I read your column all the time!" he said as we took his photo. Sadly we had to rush off to our next three interviews -- but not before making Chuck promise to buy a copy of The Big Bang for his son, who was getting married that weekend. But check out what professionals we are -- when this all-smiles picture was taken, we were still not on speaking terms. If you look closely, you can see the hatred brewing beneath Emma's happy visage.
Later that day we headed over to Crunch to dish advice while we gawked at men shaved head-to-toe who were contorting their bodies on the stretching mat in ways we've only ever written about. The advice session was a total bust (who wants sex advice for five cents when it's free to watch the cardio strip class through the glass walls?) until Qian (say "Chin") showed up. Qian wins the first Golden Dildo Award of this trip for being our indisputable number one fan ? and a total sweetie-pie to boot (okay, so the two are not entirely unrelated). Qian, who moved here from China eleven years ago, wooed us by gushing that we were her heroes, if you can believe that. "Reading your columns has been a great way to learn English!" she said. "What you're doing is so important for this new century." But the clincher -- take note, gentle readers -- was this: "You guys look so much younger in person!"
The following afternoon Lo's boyfriend Joey came up from L.A. and the three of us headed over to San Francisco's Justin Herman Plaza to set up our five-cent advice table, aiming to catch the yuppie lunch break. One cop eyed us suspiciously as we tried to casually scope the joint before picking a spot (at least, as "casually" as is possible while lugging a card table, two collapsible chairs, and thirty copies of The Big Bang). But apparently advising love-lorn (or perhaps sex-starved) suits in broad daylight is well within our rights, because the cop left us alone. At the Plaza, we discovered that we do, in fact, have a few principles when it comes to hawking our book. Okay, so we know we have at least one principle. Check it out: After telling us three atrocious and long-winded jokes (all variations on the "men think with their dick and women suck" theme), Paul, who is originally from Romania, gave us a sob story about only having fifteen bucks on him. We agreed to cut him a deal and sell our baby for the rock-bottom price of $15. But when he opened his wallet and accidentally displayed a wad of twenties, we rescinded our offer, beer money be damned.
Business didn't get much better that day, but we did meet some interesting people -- even if some of them were too shy to actually approach the table. "I get my advice from the man upstairs!" said one guy from a safe, thirty-foot distance. Three macho meatheads with super short hair and moustaches giggled in a manly kind of fashion before shouting over, "Yo, are there pictures of the Volvo [sic] in that thing?" A preppy-looking dude in his early forties slammed down a nickel on the table and asked, "Is it okay to go through life unmarried?" When we responded in unison with a succinct but enthusiastic "Yes!" he laughed and said, "That was definitely worth a nickel!" before jogging off as quickly as he appeared. (If only everyone's problems were so easily solved.) Our "Here's your nickel back, now go buy a clue" award for the afternoon goes to a gentleman on a blind date ("Introductions by Marsha"), who approached our table on a dare from his date while she hung back out of earshot. He confided in us that his ex-wife still lives in his house, despite the divorce being finalized and there being no kids involved. When he asked if it was a bad idea to bring a date home, even the very stoned and dirty dude sitting next to us couldn't help blurting out, "That's a terrible idea!" Actually, our favorite sex tip of the day came from the very same dude: "I used to manage an adult bookstore," he announced. "I've read them all. And I think?" at which point he walked away, only to show up half an hour later and finish his sentence where he left off "?people need to broaden their sexual horizons. May I suggest the McDonald's bathroom?" Finally, our "Sting Lover" award for the day goes to a gentleman who lectured us for half an hour on esoteric sexuality, sex as a means of spiritual development, and the inherent evil of masturbation. We kind of lost track of his message after the first fifteen minutes, but it definitely had something to do with sex being neither fun nor funny. The Sting Lover refused to have his photo taken for our blog due to fears of bad karma, i.e., his message being associated with our message, which he strongly disapproved of (despite refusing to crack the spine on The Big Bang). When we asked him how the whole esoteric thing was working out for him, he replied curtly, "I don't have a girlfriend right now." Instant karma.
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Later that day we swung by the Good Vibrations store (the new one on Polk) to meet one of our favorite sexperts Carol Queen (see photo below), of "Bend Over Boyfriend" fame. She was getting ready for a fisting workshop she was teaching that evening, which was to involve a real-live couple learning how to anally fist for the first time in front of the audience. Our five-cent advice table suddenly seemed terribly prudish ? not to mention uninvasive. Good Vibrations' awesome publicist Andrea gave us a pad of paper and pen and told us to write down "anything in the store we wanted." It was like we had each won a Golden Ticket. Only later when Lo recounted her list to Em, did Em rue in total seriousness, "Oh man, I should have asked for a butt plug."
Our main evening event took place at Artists' Television Access in the Mission, thanks to our friend and patron of the arts, Gilbert. There we performed our anal sex lecture in flight attendant garb, screened a couple of Hooksexup shorts (a short film Lo and Joey made based on a story published on Hooksexup and a short documentary of Grant "I Did It for Science" Stoddard being made into a woman by yours truly), signed some books, drank cheap bear from Trader Joe's, picked up a ton of great sex tips, almost picked up a date for Em, and generally felt like rock stars for five too-short hours. People packed the place and some even had to wait outside, since ATA was in danger of breaking the fire code. These were our people: They knew Hooksexup, they laughed at our jokes and, most importantly, they had all probably had anal sex.
One of our favorite tips came from Page, who showed up with a gang from her book club (The Big Bang is their chosen title for the month). She calls it "The Squeegee." To wit: "When going down on someone (or even when manually stimulating them), "squeegee" the area between their navel and pubic bone with the side of your hand, firmly and repeatedly, pulling downward." [At which point she demonstrated on our forearms, using the pinkie side of her hand, holding it stiff and straight like she was about to chop something.] Page explained, "This draws energy, blood flow, attention, focus, whatever, down south. And it makes anyone come twice as fast! If that's what you're looking for, of course." Jon, who drove in from UC Davis to catch our show, wished to alert everyone to two frequently overlooked erogenous zones: the Adam's Apple and the chin. Apparently you're supposed to suck on one (gently, gently) and nibble on the other, respectively. Apparently Jon has yet to meet a dude who didn't like having his Adam's Apple tongued ? it has something to do with control and the hint of suffocation or strangling, he explained. Proceed with caution. The chin nibbling is a unisex move that is less likely to offend; if your partner is male, Jon recommends moving from one zone to the other for "a great double whammy effect."
After the show we headed over to a dive bar with an outdoor beer garden called Zeitgeist for drinks with a bunch of Em's old friends from her Tripod.com days (including Michelle and her brand new Hooksexup Personals fiance!), plus the aforementioned book club gang and some other long-time Hooksexup readers. There we scored another great tip with a catchy nickname from Graham (a.k.a. HooksexupCenter member "Gram" from the super-early days of Hooksexup). Graham, who is in a band called Rogue Wave, said he picked up the tip while dating a lesbian. It's called "The Six-Pack," because the grip is the same one you use for carrying a six-pack (see us demonstrating in photo, on left below). Except you're not carrying a six-pack, you're manually stimulating your ladyfriend: Thumb on the clit, one or two fingers in the front door, and another finger chilling on the back porch. Aw yeah. Lo and her boyfriend Joey both took a bit of a shine to Graham and decided he should be Em's party favor. Unfortunately, Em is a little averse to hipster moustaches (and, as Lo would say, to totally cool, nice guys). Fortunately, the deli across the street from Zeitgeist sold disposable razors and shaving foam. Unfortunately, even clean-shaven, Graham was more Lo's type (skinny indie rocker) than Em's (macho mountain man). Sorry Graham. But hey, we'll always have The Six-Pack.
The San Francisco Index
People who talked to us about karma: 2
People on the trip thus far who have told us masturbation is wrong: 2
Estimated total pounds of GORP consumed between the two of us thus far: 15.5
Em's impolite emissions in the Ford Taurus after consuming an entire bag of cherries: 73
Amazon.com sales rank of The Big Bang, as of August 2, 2003: 84
Amazon.com sales rank of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Tantric Sex, as of August 2, 2003: 7,668
Amazon.com sales rank of Shape Of My Heart by Sting, as of August 2, 2003: 41,473
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A mere four hours down the west coast lies Portland, the little brother of Seattle: Portland talks a big game about being able to beat up Seattle, but Seattle doesn't even notice. Portland's like a bustling suburb's a little touched in the head. Our first night there we ate dinner at an outdoor café with Lo's college friend Andra (who works for Planned Parenthood, right on!) and her fiance Jeb, and during the salad course alone we saw two drag queens parading down the street, a barefoot tranny getting in a souped-up pick up truck driven by two scary-looking macho dudes, a man trying to scale the outside of a building, and a man running down the street with a large refrigerator box covering not only his head, but his entire body. The most normal thing about Portland was our hotel: 5th Avenue Suites. We don't know who fucked up and booked us at this luxury spot, but we weren't going to complain.
The scheduled book event in Portland at the new bar called 820 was much more our pace than Watertown (even though one reader -- who gave us a nickel not for sex advice, but for tips on the best dive bars in New York City -- proclaimed the slightly arty spot "too chi-chi" for our Portland fanbase). A few regular readers showed up to buy books, a few strangers bought more books, and we soon ran out of books altogether. But that didn't stop us from hitting Dante's late night to promote The Big Bang some more, especially since it was "Karaoke from Hell" night. Paul, the stage manager for Dante's Sunday night burlesque show "Sinferno" and organizer of a new fetish play party called "Roughly Every Six Weeks," had stopped by 820 earlier to invite us out and then called 820 to make sure we were coming down. He bought us drinks, and seemed a little embarrassed by his Hooksexup fandom. Then the owner bought us more drinks. When we told our table-mate, the winner of the BMX event at last year's X Games, that we wrote a book, he said, "So you're famous like me." It seems everyone was mistaking us for actual celebrities at Dante's, but we weren't going to be the ones to correct them. After a few more drinks on the house, Lo got up to sing Pat's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," promote the book, and take a picture of the unimpressed crowd. As she handed out Big Bang calling cards on her way back to her seat, one audience member inquired as to whether she wrote better than she sang. Tough crowd.
We woke up early and hungover the next morning and made our way to the studio of the small potatoes Portland version of "Live with Regis and Kathy Lee." We were slotted between a segment on salad bar survival tips and a piece on rabbit advocates. The producers said we weren't allowed to mention our book or hooksexup.com or sex; apparently, those topics are all too racy and would get their viewers' (or, perhaps, their advertisers') panties in a twist. So we just sat there with our thumbs up our butts, zoning out on the ridiculous amount of makeup "Kathy" had on her face, while giving half-assed answers to questions like, "My boyfriend and I have been dating for five years but I still don't have a ring. What should I do?" Finally, "Regis" wrapped up the interview by saying, "And you can find Em & Lo?[long, awkward pause]?online."
Before embarking on our eleven-hour drive from Portland to San Francisco, we stopped by Powell's, the mac daddy of independent booksellers. We marched up to the information desk, confirmed they had copies of The Big Bang, said that we were the authors, and asked if we could sign them. The chick behind the counter didn't even check our IDs, just handed us a pen and some "autographed copy" stickers and said to go to town. We were tempted to start signing Who Moved My Cheese? and Tuesdays with Morrie, but decided to stay professional and proceeded to crack ourselves up in the sexuality aisle by attempting to create an authentic looking high-five on film in front of our book. So mature.
The Portland Index
Speeding tickets Em has gotten so far: 2
Movies we've had time to watch in our hotel room: 0
Times we've been asked if we were sisters: 5 (If you spend enough time with someone, we guess you start to look alike. Maybe it has something to do with our matching track suits.)
Times Lo has been mistaken for Alanis Morrisette: 1
Total people thus far on this tour who have told us, "You're living the dream": 3
Strangers we showed the Time magazine article to and said, "That's us!": 17
Next stop: San Francisco
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Stop # 5: SEATTLE, WA
Nobody Likes Us, Everybody Hates Us, Guess We'll Go Eat Worms
After our trip to Old Faithful (see Stop #3 below), you might think we'd make a beeline for Seattle's phallic Space Needle. But we opted for the other big tourist trap, Pike Place Fish Market, instead. (Don't even go there.) We set up shop on a bit of grass behind one of the flower shops: card table, two small collapsible chairs, homemade "5 Cent Dating Advice" sign, sun screen, Big Bang calling cards with various sex tips printed on the back (e.g. "Never underestimate the simple joy of sticking something manmade up your bum"), books, and a pen for autographing. The response was immediate and, while not overwhelming, respectably steady.
When we asked Rachel, our first Seattlite book buyer, for a sex tip, she recommended engaging in intellectual conversation while knocking boots: "My best orgasm ever was when we were talking about civil war history and differential calculus while we were doing it. Engaging this other part of your brain that normally doesn't get stimulated during sex somehow intensifies everything else." One sketchy dude with a shaggy red moustache and half-closed eyelids gave us a nickel and said, "I just want to smoke crack and get my dick sucked." Who doesn't?! When we politely informed him that it wasn't phrased in the form of a question, he thought for a moment and then asked, "How do I find acceptable women to do that with?" We gave him back his nickel and explained that crack-whores weren't our area of expertise. Next, a blond, thirty-something woman dragged her boyfriend up to the table, slapped down a quarter, and said, "Tell him everything he needs to know." We also got some innovative dating ideas from a group of 18-year-old church choir members from Texas who had all taken vows of chastity until marriage: Blindfold your date and drive them to a private picnic spot; just sit on the dock and look at the stars together; make the date themed (e.g. play catch, go to the batting cages, and then to a baseball game); do something your date is really into (e.g. if he or she likes cheesecake, take them to the Cheesecake Factory). While we hate to give it up for the anti-masturbation brigade, these kids were the most down-to-earth, well-spoken, enthusiastic, polite, and delightful bunch we have met so far. They even pooled their resources to buy a copy of The Big Bang for a newly wed couple at their church in Texas, promising not to crack the spine themselves on the trip back.
Business was brisk until a punk squatter with a toothpick through his septum set up shop next to us and started making passersby an offer they couldn't refuse: for a dollar, he'd eat a live worm from the extensive collection in his plastic container. Needless to say, our meager little sex book couldn't compete and we called it a day. A few minutes later, packing up in the parking lot, we felt redeemed when the parking attendant bought a book and said, "Come back, I give you discount. And maybe I marry you, too!"
When we told Lo's Seattle friend Karen that we were hosting a book signing at the Watertown lounge later that night and she cracked up hysterically, we should have taken that as a sign. Yes, the Watertown crowd was definitely bridge and tunnel, but we figured those are the people who need our book the most. Of course, those who need it the most are naturally going to be the least receptive. While a handful of our loyal readers swallowed their pride and good taste and showed up to buy a book, the majority of the patrons were there to get laid, not to learn how to get laid well. In an effort to unburden ourselves of our heavy bookload, we traversed the sea of gold-chained, hair-gelled meatheads on the dance floor. Not one of them bit. Though we did get two half-brothers, both wider than they were tall, to remove their sweaters and pose for our first beefcake shot.
On our way out of town we stopped by the vegetarian restaurant Café Flora for the third time during our stay in Seattle. Lo had fallen in love with the food (especially after a week in buffalo burger country) and we had both fallen in love with one of the waiters. Brian is a straight-talking ex-New Yorker who gave us the lowdown on the odd utility kilts (thick skirts with lots of pockets and zippers) that we had seen on a few Seattle men, including a fellow diner."They're the staple of a small group of sensitive mountain men who happen to live in the city. They wear them to prove that they're so secure in their masculinity they don't need to wear pants. They usually have beards, but not gay city beards like mine, more scraggly." Turns out back in New York Brian knew (not biblically) Alex Chee, as in "The Alex Chee Inverted Plum Roll" handjob technique in the handwork chapter of The Big Bang. We really liked Brian because he bought a book, kept us well fed, told us his life story but refused to give us a sex tip, and was fond of saying, "You guys are funny."
The Seattle Index
People who asked us, "So, do you two, like, dyke out?": 1
Free drinks scored: 2 (At last! Thank you Mike from Seattle for ending the dry spell!)
People who called into the Seattle rock station we were speaking on to ask us a sex question: 0
People who called into the Seattle rock station we were speaking on to ask what the name of the Tool song they had just played was: 15
Total Pearl Jam songs we heard during our two-day stay in Seattle: 12
Amazon sales rank of The Big Bang as of Saturday morning, July 26th: 101
Amazon sales rank of Living History by Hillary Rodham Clinton as of Saturday morning, July 26th: 21
Copies of Living History in the window of Bailey/Coy Books in Seattle: 1
Copies of The Big Bang in the window of Bailey/Coy Books in Seattle: 2
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Satisfied with the number of tourists we had talked dirty to at Old Faithful (see entry #3 below), we headed back into Gardiner, MT, for our guided raft trip at the Flying Pig Rafting Company. We were delighted to discover we were the only two rafters signed up for the 2 pm trip. We were even more delighted when the hottie owner of the Flying Pig, Geoff, introduced us to our hottie guide for the afternoon, his old pal Woody. Ah, Woody (see photo below*), you can run your river through us any day. Needless to say, we both immediately developed giggly, school-girl crushes on this Thor-like blond beauty and only vaguely recall his tips on what to do if we capsized. It definitely had something to do with watching Woody very closely and grabbing onto his big, long oar in case of emergency. We were slightly less delighted when Woody handed us each our own oar and began to instruct us in paddling techniques. No one had mentioned anything about "work." However, it turned out the oars were mostly for photo opps -- we pretty much just had to sit there and float down the river while Woody expertly navigated the currents and regaled us with tales of his life as a one-time Junior Olympics gymnastics star, a welder in the off-season, and an occasional Norse God.
After the three of us took a dip in the shallow waters of a hot spring on the side of the river and took in the majestic view of Steve Jobs' mountaintop estate, Woody, bless him, tried to convince us to stick around 'til Thursday for the Flying Pig's weekly bluegrass jam session on their porch -- the Withdrawals from Albuquerque (see below) were that week's featured band. Tempting as it was to hang out and watch Woody "noodle along on a guitar," as he put it, we managed to drag ourselves away, professional-sex-writers-on-tour 'til the end. Besides, we'd already seen about as much of the Withdrawals as we could handle. So we handed him our sandy water-booties, gave him a copy of The Big Bang signed with a trademark double-entendre ("Thanks for washing our booties!"), and took our leave.
has been blacked out to protect her rep.
On our way out of town we swung back by the Silvertip bookstore for another of Jaimi's famous burritos, and met our second self-proclaimed "real" cowboy that week, complete with "real" (rather than "hipster") cowboy hat and boots. Turns out a real cowboy's duties these days include impersonating a cowboy for Yellowstone tourists as well as actually chopping down trees and riding horses. As we were finishing our dinner, Paul swung by our table to say goodbye and give us a new slogan for the book: "The Big Bang: It's not about astronomy, but it'll make you see stars." If only every stop was as warm and welcoming as Gardiner. We didn't want to leave, but it really was time to hit the road. We dug deep for our last reserve of authorly responsibility and got back in our bug-encrusted Ford Taurus, promising Silvertip owner Debra that we'd return in 2004 with our second book, Hooksexup's Guide to Sex Etiquette. And she promised to host another Gardiner Jell-O Wrestling Match in our honor.
The Montana Index, Part II
People who referred to us as "geniuses": 2
People who referred to us (fondly) as "perverts": 1
People who asked us if we were "together": 3
People who asked us if we were "bah-sex-u-al": 1
People who offered us a free "spare" room for the night: 2
Total free drinks scored so far: 0
Glowing reviews of The Big Bang in Time magazine: 1 (holy crap!)
Next stop: Seattle
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Believe it or not, we don't see sex everywhere we look. Tall buildings don't always make us think of stiffies and we can eat bananas without giggling. But when nature spurts liquid to the sky? We can't help but think of ejaculation. So much so that we use "Old Faithful," the name of the famous geyser at Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming, as a euphemism for ejaculation -- both the male and female variety -- in The Big Bang. So how could we resist visiting this national treasure and asking people (albeit delicately) their thoughts on female ejaculation while they waited for the next spurt? (The geyser shoots its load every hour or two, kind of like a teenage boy.) Being a major tourist mecca, the place was crawling with families, and as the moment of truth grew closer, a quiet calm of reverent anticipation swept over the crowd. Thus, we found ourselves leaning into complete strangers and whispering the words "sex manual" and "female ejaculation." Amazingly, only one young woman politely but firmly refused to answer our impertinent poll, after her male companion answered "I guess so" to each of our questions. Below are some of the tourists who were kind enough to go with the flow, as it were, and tell us their thoughts on ladies who can impersonate Old Faithful.
Have you heard of female ejaculation? Maybe. Yes. I think so.
Do you know what it is? No.
Well, what do you think it might be? I wouldn't even guess.
But you believe it exists? I believe almost anything exists.
Do you have a sex tip you'd like to share with our readers? It's about being nice to the person, not grumpy, hassled or frazzled. You have to be a decent person before you can even get to the sex. Our society is so messed up, we're such workaholics, and it's all about money and jobs. But how can you get in the mood when you're so stressed about money or work? The Europeans have it right.
Lori, have you heard of female ejaculation? Yes.
Do you know what it is? Yes.
Have you ever experienced it? Yes. I didn't know what it was at first, but I read up on it later.
Matt, what did you think when it first happened? I didn't know what it was when I witnessed it, and thought "Woah!"
Did you think it was pee? No, I didn't. And I didn't think it was a big deal.
We just wrote a sex manual. Do you mind if we ask you some personal questions? Are you going to ask me if I associate Old Faithful with sex? Because I don't.
You will now. Have you heard of female ejaculation? Yes.
Have you ever witnessed it? Not in huge spurts, no.
How would you describe it? Erotic.
Did you know what it was? Yes.
How? From "movies."
How often have you witnessed it? Not real often, it just kind of happened and I figured I was doing something right.
Thanks so much! Sure. I'll never look at Old Faithful the same way again.
Have you heard of female ejaculation? Yes. [grins broadly]
Have you ever witnessed it? No. [still grinning]
Do you believe it exists? Yeah, I'm a believer! [grins even more broadly]
Do you know what it is? I don't know how to answer that, but I think it's great! [still grinning]
Have you guys heard of female ejaculation? [They all look at each other before answering] Uh, yeah, we've heard of it.
Have you ever witnessed it? [They all look at each other again] Uh, no.
Do you believe it exists? Exists? Don't see why not. But we were never taught that in school.
Is it something you're looking forward to witnessing? Don't care either way.
Next stop: Back to Gardiner, MT, to visit with our new best friends. (See entry #4 above)
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We hit 90 West with Fargo (see entry below) in our rear view mirror, our car newly emblazoned and a monster bag of trail mix from Wal-mart sitting between us. It was time for the Big Sex Drive to begin for reals. Emboldened by our successful sale at the auto parts center back in Fargo, we decided to hawk the book to everyone we came in contact with. Our first attempt, at a gas station in Montana, was a less than auspicious start to our rest-stop-to-rest-stop sales blitz. The two local high school boys behind the counter agreed to take a look at the book, but handed it back, hot-potato-style, when they glimpsed the male-on-male action. "I don't read," one of them explained. We figured at the next convenience store called the "Kum & Go" (no joke), we'd be in like Flynn. But when Lo asked the attendant if he got a lot of jokes about the name, he replied, "No," in a tone suggesting that polite chit-chat was not on the menu at the Kum & Go. It wasn't until our overnight stop at the Best Western in Billings, MT, that we found our next buyers: Larry and Toy. It's one thing to make a seventeen-year-old blush, but quite another to show the book to people your parents' age. "It's a little racy?" we started to explain as we handed over a copy of The Big Bang. "Ah, we've been around," said Larry. And after only a few seconds of scanning the book, he proclaimed "We'll take it!" If only Best Western offered rooms with waterbeds.
We left for Yellowstone feeling a whole lot better, drove through Livingston, MT, where some of A River Runs Through It was filmed, listened to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on CD, and before we knew it, found ourselves in the quaint little town of Gardiner (pop: 700), right on the outskirts of Yellowstone's northern entrance. Though it was already late in the day and we were on a mission to catch Old Faithful in action, we couldn't resist pulling over at Silvertip, the town's cozy bookstore/coffee shop/massage parlor, and asking oh-so-casually if they had The Big Bang in stock. (They didn't, but they do now -- and all are adorned with "autographed copy" and "staff pick" stickers.) Three hours later we were still in the shop trading sex tips with the incredibly friendly locals.
"Foreplay takes all day," said Missy, the massage therapist. "If my husband's crabby with me during the day, there's no way he's getting laid that night." "My husband would say foreplay takes days," added Jaimi, the young woman who runs a burrito stand off the front porch of the bookstore. "He'll often make me wait for a few days, building things up with lots of lovey-doveyness and little pinches," she said as she pinched Missy's side a few times in demonstration. "Then he'll just leave. He can really hold out." Missy also advised against trying to hide your body during sex: "If you're worried about how you look naked or your cottage cheese thighs, that's just no fun." Paul, a dead ringer for the author of Erroneous Zones, chimed in from behind the counter: "Besides, guys don't care about the 'cottage cheese' anyway. That's not what they're looking at." "Speaking of looking: Mirrors!" exclaimed Missy. "Or if you're not totally comfortable with your body or using mirrors," suggested Jaimi, "then use the TV screen so you can just see the outline." Now that's a sex tip! It was only a matter of time before the conversation turned to penises. "The penis has got a bad name," said Jaimi. "It's got a lot of names," countered Paul. Jaimi continued, "But I think it's awesome. I want one of my very own! If a woman can love her man and love his penis, then they've both got it made." (Photo, L to R: Paul, Jaimi, Missy with their copies of The Big Bang.)
It may not have been entirely coincidental that the conversation turned from penises to the camping store two doors down called the Flying Pig. "It's full of totally hot guys who will love your book." She had us at "hot guys" and we were already halfway out the door when Paul added, "They need your book."
Jaimi was not exaggerating. And Old Faithful was going to have to wait for another day. We talked the mountain men into buying our sex manual and they talked us into a rafting trip the next day. Though we should state for the record that at least one citizen of Gardiner remained steadfastly immune to our charms. Thomas at the Flying Pig, who resembles the lead singer of the Spin Doctors during his nappy beard phase (and therefore is not exactly the poster child for the Flying Pig's hot guy factor), offered up this sex tip for our collection: "Do what comes naturally, not what comes out of a book." Spoken like a man who has not gotten laid in a really long time.
The sun was beginning to set, so we headed over the Montana/Wyoming border into Yellowstone to book a room for the night. In the hotel lobby, we picked up another quick sex tip from Alabama Johnny, who makes espressos for hotel guests: "Masturbation should be like going to the bathroom: You have to do it at least once a day." He also recommended we take a dip in the Boiling River, where hot springs flow into the cold creek creating a natural jacuzzi. There we met The Withdrawals, a "jam band" from Albuquerque who were on their own cross-country tour. After we convinced the most inebriated band member to buy a copy, we signed the book and -- upon request -- his ass. Authorship has its privileges.
The Montana Index
Speeding tickets Em has gotten so far: 1 (when she overtook a cop car in the fast lane)
Times the word "testicles," "testes" or "testi" appears on the outside of the Montana bar-slash-gas station apparently known for its "Testicle Festival": 11
Bear sightings: 0
"Bear sightings" that turned out to be tree shadows: 2
People who said, "So you're, like, the real Carrie Bradshaws!": 3
Yellowstone employees who swore they'd buy the book if we came back on pay day: 12
Yellowstone employees who bought the book: 0
Young men we met who took Sexology classes in college: 2
Young men we met who knocked on our door at 2 am asking if we had any weed: 2
Drinks bought for us: still 0
Up next: Old Faithful (see entry #3 above)
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The Big Sex Drive began with a plane ride to Fargo, North Dakota. Why Fargo? Having spent the past weekend there, we realize that's a bigger, cosmic question. But we were there for the wedding of our friend and ex-Hooksexup editor Jessica Baumgardner, who spent her formative years in this "city" and still managed to turn out cool (or perhaps turned out cool because of it). At the reception we got sauced and boogied with several Hooksexup alums: Co-founder of Hooksexup, Genevieve Field, is now heading up the editorial side of things at Seventeen.com (with Jessica) and working on her forthcoming book, Sex and Sensibility, a collection of original personal essays from sundry single ladies (including yours truly). Jack Murnighan of Naughty Bits fame is in the middle of a cross-country tour on Greyhound by choice. He'll be compiling some of his saucier trip notes about the goings on in the back of the bus for a piece in Hooksexup's upcoming Road Trip Issue. Debbie Grossman, one-time photo editor of Hooksexup and tough-talking city chick, packed it all in for a summer working on an organic farm in Tennessee (we know: crazy shit). She's working the fields (for $100 dollars a month), drinking moonshine, smoking $2 packs of cigarettes, and taking lots of photos. Her housemate actually plays the banjo. (Photo, L to R: Em, Debbie, Jack, Jessica, Genevieve, Lo.)
At the wedding, we met Dr. Bob, one of the groomsmen (see photo of dude with our big bang calling card in his mouth). Bob is an orthopedic surgeon at the New England Medical Center and a bit of a spaz. He told us that when he used to work in the E.R. he always insisted on performing rectal exams on patients complaining of back pain: apparently, not only does that help rule out serious spinal problems, it deters all the fakers looking to score some Vicodin from ever coming back. When we asked him to be the first contributor to our collection of sex tips from across America, he remained anally fixated: "When first going in with a finger up someone's butt, don't stimulate other erogenous zones, because doing so causes an involuntary reflex called the bulbocavernosus, or what we doctors like to call the "anal wink." Once your finger's in, however, all tender bits are fair game. (See the "Doing the Butt" chapter of the Big Bang for instructions on how to actually enjoy your own anal wink.
The day after the wedding, we heard there was a festival going on featuring "cowboy poetry" and western music. Imagining comely young men in tight Levis and cowboy boots, we headed on over there with our card table and a box of books, with a plan to offer five-cent sex advice and maybe sell some signed copies of The Big Bang. Alas, it was strictly a family affair -- the main attractions being free rides on the dinky train and dollar hot dogs. And the only men in boots were pushing eighty. We decided that if were going to get arrested and/or run out of town, it should be for a cause more worthy than selling porn to midwestern grade school kids. Instead, we took a picture for the cover of our first indie rock album (see below).
On the way back to the hotel, we stopped by an auto shop and borrowed some glass chalk to scrawl "JUST PUBLISHED!" on the back of our sweet, souped-up ride -- a beige Ford Taurus, aw yeah (see photo). We explained our tour and book to the three guys behind the counter, two of whom were teenaged, pimply, and giggly. They asked if it had pictures. When we said "Naughty pictures," they suddenly became amenable to taking a look at a copy from the trunk of our car. It was like giving crack to a crack whore. Our first on-the-road copy: SOLD! We signed it, "Thanks for the use of your stick! Kisses, Em & Lo" Hey, we've never met a double-entendre we didn't like.
On our way out of town we stopped by the Fargo AAA office to sign up for a membership and score some TripTiks. There, we met a kindred spirit by the name of Amber (see photo) who endeared herself to us forever when she told us, "You're living the dream of thousands!" while she mapped out our Big Sex Drive. A mere whippersnapper at 23, Amber started dropping mad science when we asked her for some sex tips: Stuff like, Guys should understand that a woman's orgasm can come in many shapes and sizes so sometimes there's no black and white answer to the question, "Did you come?"; and, You should never be embarrassed to ask for something you want; and, It's not all about the penetration, boys. A woman after our own hearts! But our favorite by far: Don't use Hershey's syrup, ever. Once, she and her boyfriend rubbed it all over their bodies and then started rubbing against each other. Soon the chocolate sauce became so thick and sticky, they got stuck ?- and had to pull each other apart in a manner that was not unlike ripping off a Band-aid.
The Fargo Index
Trips to Wal-mart: 2
Restaurants open after 8 pm on a Sunday: 1 (The Fryn' Pan)
Number of vegan options for Lo on all menus in the state of North Dakota: 0 (see photo of The Fryn' Pan's desolate chicken stir fry minus the chicken)
Stoned middle-aged miscreants just off the Greyhound bus, begging for beer money: 2
Free drinks scored due to position as sex writers on the run: 0
Number of times Emma's nipple accidentally popped out of her outfit: 2 (that's two separate outfits)
Next Stop: Montana (see entry above)
Check HERE for upcoming announcements on where and when we'll be in specific spots so you can come and say hi, buy us a drink, maybe buy a book.
You can still email us while we're on the road at .
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