mollycrabapple:

Clayton Cubitt shoots me drawing on Stoya.  For Stoyaville

…is happening. May 18th - 20th, to be precise.

I’ll be performing on my hoop and signing at the Club Spotlight booth. Stage times are here. Signing times do not appear to have been posted yet. I rarely stick to the schedule anyway because I’m chronically early, something inconvenient like hunger or a serious need to pee combined with a half hour wait for the bathroom comes up in the middle of the afternoon, and then I end up getting swarmed on the way out and staying until closing. 

I do really enjoy meeting people who think I’m awesome and the merch sales are a large part of my rhinestone budget for the year, but this time I’m mostly excited about the oil wrestling that’s supposed to go down early Saturday evening. Why is oil wrestling so entertaining to watch?

Press can contact mike.m@manwin.com if they’d like to schedule interviews. 

Edit: Here are my scheduled times for signing at the Club booth, which I will do my best to stick to…

Fri 5-9pm

Sat 1-7pm

Sun 1-4pm, 6-7pm

What do you think about when you’re having an orgasm?

Nothing. 

Maybe you’re thinking, but I know I’m not thinking. My mind is clear. My mouth goes on autopilot, the sounds coming out of it may occasionally be words but they have no intellectual thought behind them. The “oh god”s and “fuck”s are almost a mantra. I am a blank puddle of nerve endings, completely open to sensation. I have no control over my rapidly contracting lower abdomen or my flailing limbs. My back arches, dragging my shoulders over the now damp sheets, pushing my hips down into the mattress. Warm inner forearm skin pressing into my hip bone and leg hair gently crunching against the back of my thigh. 

What’s going on here is pure haptic sensation. Touch. 

Touch is a basic human need. My go-to example for this is the post-Ceasecu situation in Romania’s orphanages. We need physical contact with each other. We need to touch and to be touched. Both sexual and non-sexual snuggles produce Oxytocin, which scientists say appears to stimulate bonding and might do things like help our bodies heal faster. I’m not a scientist, but I know anecdotally that skin-on-skin contact relaxes people. A good hug really does help. Laying around with each other like a pile of kittens is so delightful that Jess and I’s couch for years was an almost non-stop cuddle-puddle of whatever friends happened to be over at the time. 

Yes, I am going directly from a paragraph that starts with abused orphans into a paragraph about sex.

The process of peeling my clothing off with another consenting adult and finding the most enjoyable ways to fit our naked bodies together is something I think of as my inalienable right as a person. It might be one of the main points of being human and alive. When I share my body with someone, I’m sharing more than the purely physical. When everyone involved allows themselves to be truly open, we all come away with more of something (amazing and indefinable) than we started with. Putting someone’s appendage into one of your orifices and opening yourself in a personal and emotional way are two different things. When they happen simultaneously, that is where sex becomes so wonderful that poets start to make sense and you lose the ability to pronounce ‘fine motor skills’ much less make use of them.

What do you think about when you’re having an orgasm? 

I’m too busy feeling.

Moscow, to be precise. In the same way that some people may think of the USA as the place where Hollywood movies and McDonald’s come from, I think of Russia as a cold, snowy place that produces the most amazing dancers and acrobats in the world. It may not be entirely accurate all of the time, and (not to mention the rest of the huge Russian Federation) there is far more to Moscow than just those four qualities, but they would be my elevator pitch for Russia if I ever had to give one.

The baggage claim looked like something out of the 70s. All harvest golds and deep browns. Customs was easy to navigate and I felt right at home in my giant fur coat. Some people rescue animals from the humane society. I rescue aesthetically pleasing dead ones from thrift stores in Connecticut. I stood in Red Square at 4am and had a friend take a picture with my cell phone.

Look at the snow falling! Look at my giant smile!

Later in the week, some very nice men arranged for me to train at one of the government circus schools. I won’t give any identifying details because they may not want to be associated with porn on the internet, but they do have my gratitude and appreciation. Upon arriving at the training facility I was told that I wasn’t actual going to be able to train because I wasn’t Russian. Then I was going to be able to train but only after a physical and some blood samples. At some point an older man poked his head into the office where this was being discussed, looked me up and down, and declared me healthy. The subject of a physical was dropped and I was taken into the actual training area. 

There are no pictures because at that point I wasn’t about to risk blowing the deal. Instead, please enjoy this picture of my hand petting a random puppy at a bar.

If puppies aren’t your thing, here is a humorous napkin from the same bar.

The hoop/lyra’s diameter was a good six inches smaller than I’m used to working on, there was a bar across the top-middle, and a steel cable meant to hook onto a safety harness was wrapped around the top at the place my right hand usually goes. The coach didn’t speak a word of English, I don’t speak any useful Russian, and the interpreter didn’t know anything about acrobatics. Circus doesn’t have much of a standard vocabulary anyway… a back flag is a side planche is a “this thing” depending on who you’re talking to. So we threw words out the window. He had me run through a couple of tricks, tapped a knee to indicate it wasn’t entirely straight, pushed on a hip to say it was out of alignment. This is how my ballet instructors worked when I was younger, I know this language. 

Also, no one needed to translate his laughter when I smacked my head on that damn middle bar for the third time. 

Once we were communicating effectively and he’d evaluated my abilities and strength, he started moving my limbs around into new positions. At one point he had me dangling from one armpit. My arm felt like might actually just fall off and the only reason I wasn’t panicking was trust in this man’s abilities as a trainer and coach. Then he squished my mouth into a smile and spun me. Yep… physically moved my face into the expression he wanted, turn-that-frown-upside-down style, and then started spinning the apparatus I was hanging from. Adding the spin makes things much more interesting. It wasn’t as pretty as it could have been, but I hung on and eventually got down in one piece. If he’d told me with words before hand what the plan was, I would have refused to even try it.

The key thing here is trust. There’s a lot of wiggle room between my perceived limitations and my actual limitations. I am amazed by the things that I am capable of when I trust someone to push me past my perceived limits. This was really supposed to segue into a discussion about the value of trust in sex and James Deen’s ability to pleasurably get his dick in my ass at 1am towards the end of a long day on set, but it just isn’t going to happen. I really wanted those organic-transition-into-shameless-Digital-Playground-product-promotion bonus points. Oh well. Instead, here is a mediocre camera phone picture of the Kremlin at night in the snow. 

…alternately, just bang ‘em until their vulva needs to be iced.

it amazes me how much i’m able to love someone simply because they accept that i want to be alone to work.
that, in the true ironic twists and turns of love, is the ultimate turn-on for me. 
the ultimate turn-off? clinginess. neediness. damnation.

-Amanda Palmer on her blog.

A long long time ago, way before I started taking my clothes off on the internet, I had this boyfriend who was pretty filthy. By pretty filthy, I mean he liked a healthy dose of kink in his sex. At some point he introduced me to the concept of tease and denial (which I’ve also seen referred to as edging). Tease and denial is still one of my favorite games. 

It’s a fun way to play with control. Sometimes I find it entertaining to watch/make someone squirm. My sexual partners have generally seemed to enjoy watching me squirm, being responsible for and in control of it. My favorite part is the element of surprise. Like most sexually active people I know, I can feel when I’m about to have an orgasm, and usually having an orgasm comes right after feeling like I’m about to have one. Still immensely fun, but predictable. However, when someone slightly evil is in charge you never quite know what is going to happen. They could dole them out slowly, bringing you right back to the edge after every one and keeping you wriggling around in their lap with their dick buried in your asscrack. They could keep you on the brink for eight minutes (which feels like *forever* in the moment) and then make you come so many times you loose count. Also, they could theoretically wander away and not get you off at all. It would be really mean, but the possibility makes every single orgasm a pleasant surprise.

More widely applicable is the the core idea that when I want something and can’t have it right then, I want it more. Which brings me to Amanda Palmer’s quote.

I can’t miss someone unless they let me miss them. There’s this behavioral science thing tied in with lab rat studies (aren’t all behavioral science things tied into studies of rats somehow?) that says that any reward becomes mundane when it is constant. If people won money every time they pulled the arm of a slot machine, they probably wouldn’t develop addictions to gambling. If you eat a gallon of ice cream every day for the entire summer, ice cream isn’t super delicious again until October. Yes, I am speaking from experience on that one. If your live-in girlfriend makes you coffee every morning, it becomes habitual and you stop appreciating it. If you metaphorically crawl so far up a partner’s butt that they never get any distance from you, they can’t miss you… and getting things you’ve had the chance to want is so very delightful.

…and sent them to Warren Ellis. He then posted them on his website. Not that I’m a squealing fan-girl or anything, but EEEEE! 

You should consider clicking the link and reading them.

Thanks,

Stoya

This happened.

Photo by Steve Prue.

Nifty boobs that aren’t mine by Arden Leigh.

This week I went from Upstate NY to NYC to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Ft. Lauderdale, Ft. Lauderdale to NYC to Upstate NY, and am off to the city again tomorrow to get my blood drawn, pee in a cup, and board a plane to Moscow.

I am a pro at getting through airport security. I am also having strange nightmares about my hair turning white blonde from too much time spent in those Advanced Imaging Technology machines. It makes absolutely no sense, but dreams rarely do.

Meanwhile, Jessie Andrews took this picture of the two of us in Florida. She’s incredibly adorable.

Yay for camera phone pictures! One of these days I will spend less time packing and unpacking suitcases and write something substantial again.

-Stoya

Because porn stars and indie-lit absolutely make sense together.

so I looked at the internet. Not the girlswithslingshots.com/questionablecontent.net internet. Not the Gawker media internet. The stuff people say about me internet.

I try to avoid that. I think it’s unhealthy. I tend to let the judgements, good and bad, that people spout when they think they’re talking behind my back or about someone who isn’t a real person roll around in my head for days afterwards and make me self-conscious. When I see those gifs that you guys love so much of my sex faces, I actually worry about looking crazy the next time I have sex.

Today though, my mind is blown by the stupidity of one particular comment. Someone expressed surprise at the fact that I look older in photographs taken in 2011 than I do in scenes shot in 2007. Apparently this person lives in a magical world where human beings are not affected by the passage of time. Call the newspaper: “Woman ages after age 18, begins to look like adult.”

This makes me really grateful for the 63,000+ of you that display functioning logic and  critical thinking skills. So. Freaking. Grateful.

Thanks for not being stupid,

Stoya