The L.A. Times
has an interview with Derrick Burts, the 24-year-old male porn star who contracted HIV recently. Burts, who has worked in gay and straight porn, as Derek Chambers and Cameron Reid respectively, discovered in early October through the adult industry’s AIM Healthcare Foundation that he had contracted the virus. Burts believes that he was infected by a fellow performer on the Florida set of a gay porn movie while AIM has previously stated that Burts was believed to have been infected through personal sexual contact and not while working in the porn industry. Whatever the case, Burts is speaking out now in an attempt to bring attention to the fact that most porn sets do not require condom use during sex scenes. “It’s very dangerous,” he stated of working in porn. “It should be required that you wear a condom on the set.” [L.A. Times
] Keep reading »
I’m not going to lie: I’m in post-breakup emotional triage mode. This means I notice more than ever when other people are wearing wedding rings, and whether or not their Facebook status says “single” or “in a relationship.” I guess it’s because my heart is feeling so raw and scarred that I am especially attune to these things. Something awful I have to admit: It makes me feel slightly better when I learn that a couple I know has broken up. I’m not talking close friends — of course I feel horrible for them and want to do everything in my power to make them feel better. I mean those friends who are more acquaintances — who I know more about through their random Facebook status updates than anything else. I wouldn’t wish relationship problems on anyone, of course, but when I see that someone else is going through a breakup I feel less alone.
Why is this? Keep reading »
“TISSUE PLEASE!” That’s Oprah — a rare one to raise her voice — at some lackey off-camera when she starts to cry during an interview with Barbara Walters. Babs had just asked Oprah about her super-duper-close friendship with Gayle King, which sent the tears a-flowin’. Said the big O:
“She’s the mother I never had. She is the sister everybody would want. She is the friend that everybody deserves. I don’t know a better person.”
Then klassy Barbara asks about the “dumb rumors” — [stage whisper] you know, the lesbian ones! Keep reading »
Usually I love Hadley Freedman, the style writer at the London Guardian. First, because she’s in London, so I automatically assume everything she writes is more cultured and posh. But second, because she writes about style in a way that’s intelligent and thoughtful without the usual “LOVE ZOMG I’M DYING” tripe that passes for “criticism” these days.
But now you’re on my bad side, Hadley: You’ve gone after mittens. Keep reading »
I first heard the word “labiaplasty” three years ago. Immediately, my interest was piqued. My unruly butterfly wings — otherwise known as my labia — interfered with my sexual activities. Riding a bike for more than 15 minutes? Painful. Camel toe? Obvious. Intercourse? Lube did little to relieve all that smooshing, pulling, stretching, especially when condoms were involved.
And then there were the unsolicited anatomical editorials that I’d received over the years, ranging from the respectfully observant, “You’re very floral,” to the horrifying, “Damn, girl. You got a fat p***y!,” to the complimentary, “Actually, I like it full and lippy … That’s my thing.” Keep reading »