Nan Goldin became obsessed with taking photographs of her friends and classmates at school—she says she became the class photographer. One of her first subjects was her best friend David Armstrong who was into drag. After they graduated from school, Goldin and Armstrong shared an apartment and he introduced her to the world of drag queens. Goldin spent time photographing David and his friends.

After years of experiencing and photographing the struggle of the two genders with their codes and definitions, and their difficulties in relating to each other, it was liberating to meet people who had crossed these gender boundaries.

Most people get scared when they can’t categorize others—by race, by age, and most of all by gender. It takes nerve to walk down the street when you fall between the cracks. Some of my friends shift genders daily from boy to girl and back again.

 

Misty and Jimmy.
 
Goldin was born in 1953 the youngest of four children to a middle class Jewish family in Washington D.C. Not long after she was born, the family moved to the suburbs of Lexington, Boston. She was a rebellious child and ran away from home, and was eventually fostered by several families during her teens. Goldin has said she was “full of raw energy, creativity and sensuality” and found the fifties and early sixties an oppressive, difficult time. Then she discovered photography. First she took Polaroids, then shot Super 8, before taking regular photographs that she had developed at the local drugstore. Her friends would stack the pictures in piles to see who had the most portraits. Though these pictures were her a kind of diary—documenting her life, her relationships, her sexuality and her friends who became family (“We were the world to each other”)—the photographs were created out of her relationships and not observation.
 

Actress, writer and friend Cookie Mueller.
 

The work has always been misunderstood as being about a certain milieu of drugs and parties and the underground. And although I’d say that my family is still marginal and we don’t want to be part of normal society, I don’t think the work has been about that, I think the work has been about the condition of being human—the pain, the ability to survive and how difficult that is.

In this beautiful short film, Nan Goldin discusses her life and career, friends, drug addiction and the “other world” she has documented.
 

 
A selection of Nan Goldin’s beautiful photographs, after the jump…

 
According to this list of “Penalties for Sex Offenses in the United States” published in 1964 by Harry Hay’s pioneering “homophile” rights group, the Mattachine Society, most of us could have been at best fined or at worst imprisoned for a very long time had we had been caught having sex.

Take Connecticut for example, where sodomy (or “the crime against nature” as it is described here) brought a sentence of 30 years; or in Kentucky, where you could be given a 2-5 year sentence; or Maine 10 years; and 20 years in either Massachusetts or Minnesota. The term “sodomy” included:

...a wide variety of “unnatural” sexual activity, with animals or with another person of either sex, both within and outside marriage.

That’s a fairly broad definition.

Fornication in most states brought a fine of between $20-$500 plus 3 months to 6 years jail time. In Alaska you could be fined $300 or given 2 years in prison. This might explain why so many Americans marry rather than live together—as opposed the high incidence of cohabitation in Europe. According to US figures only 8.1 million unmarried Americans were cohabiting in 2011.  Compare this with the 5.9 million (or 11.7%) of the UK population who cohabited in 2012.

If two years jail time didn’t make you twice about sex before marriage, then being caught committing adultery could cost you a minimum of $10 (Rhode Island) up to $500-$1000 and/or six months to one year (Nevada) or five years (Connecticut) or five years/$1000 fine (Maine).

Add to this, your time in jail and/or fine could be doubled for a second conviction—though penalties for women were less being: “$10 to $30 or 1-3 yrs.”
 

 

 
H/T Flashbak

 
Wearables just got a whole lot more practical… and personal.

Pornhub, a website that probably needs no introduction, wants horny folk to “save the planet” with their new wearable, the Wankband (I can’t link to it or else Google will stop our ads, but use Google yourself if you’d like to find out more at their website). It’s a wristband device that recharges smartphones, laptops, digital cameras, tablets, and other tech devices with the motion of masturbation. You know, the hand-shandy. The five-knuckle shuffle. Mother Fist and her five daughters…

Every day, millions of hours of adult content are consumed online, wasting energy in the process and hurting the environment. At Pornhub we decided to do something about it. Introducing The Wankband: The first wearable tech that allows you to love the planet by loving yourself.

Tossers, want to be a beta, er, be(a)ta tester for this thing? I wonder if chronic masturbators can sell their er… excess energy to the utility companies? This could fundamentally transform the entire world!
 

 
“Ladies and gentleman, the power is in your hand,” learn more about this sexy time gadget in their animated video:
 

 
via Gizmodo

 
In the years following the success of her memoir The Happy Hooker and the launch of its film franchise, Xaviera Hollander dabbled fairly widely in merchandising the “Happy Hooker” name. She can hardly be blamed, it’s such a catchy phrase that it’s been cheekily co-opted by everyone from crochet hobbyists to fishermen. Hollander has been involved in drama production, written a long-running advice column (and penned plenty of sex-advice books), and she even had a Happy Hooker board game.
 

Lest you think I was kidding about that, here you go.

Hollander produced a kitsch artifact holy grail with her 1973 LP Xaviera! It’s mostly a spoken-word album, with tracks featuring Hollander detailing her philosophies regarding sex generally and prostitution specifically. There are a few tracks that are basically dramatizations of trysts, but the real money-shot here (sorry) is Hollander’s bonkers cover of the Beatles’ classic “Michelle.” It’s been a mix-CD staple of mine since I found it years ago on April Winchell’s old MP3 page (it’s not on her current page, but don’t let that stop you from heading there anyway to revel in all the marvelously bizarre delights contained therein), and it could not be more out of place, either on that LP, or on planet freakin’ Earth.

I don’t want to mislead, this isn’t anything like full on Mrs. Miller-level self-deuded badness. But it’s still pretty out there, and bad in a way and to a degree that make it truly compelling. At no time is the song ever actually “sung”—it’s moaned in a breathy, overwrought “Happy Birthday Mr. President” way that often out-camps most intentional campifications of sexuality. And when the most famous prostitute on Earth moans “I want you, I want you, I WANT YOU,” should it not maybe feel more believable? Fittingly, the track ended up on the Golden Throats 4: Celebrities Butcher the Beatles compilation, and as far as I know, it would be another ten years before Hollander endeavored to sing on an LP again, for the Dutch-only release Happily Hooked. (See what I mean about that branding? That shit is durable.) And even on that album—or at least the part of it that my DM colleague Amber Frost found—she still basically just talks over music. Not that exceptional singing is the reason you listen to it anyway, it’s all in good fun.

One last trivia nugget for the trainspotters: the Xaviera! LP contains a “special guest” credit to the rockabilly pioneer Ronnie Hawkins, who, apart from his own musical contributions, assembled the musicians who would come to be known as The Band. Whether his guest appearance is as the guitar player on “Michelle,” or as a male voice in one of the performances, or both, I couldn’t say.
 

Xaviera Hollander, “Michelle”
 

 
These delightful scans of the Playboy Club Bunny Manual of 1968 come from “Bunny Regina,” who worked at the Detroit Playboy Club from July 1968 (if her inscription is any indication) to sometime in 1969. Maybe Debbie Harry can dig hers out as well? After all, she was a Bunny at New York City’s Playboy Club from 1968 to 1973. (If you’d like more information about that weird institution of the Playboy Club that was so culturally iconic in the 1960s and 1970s, check out The Bunny Years: The Inside Story of the Playboy Clubs and the Women Who Worked as Bunnies by Kathryn Leigh Scott.)

“The Bunny has become what the Ziegfeld girl was to another generation,” burbles the introduction with evident pride. Here are some of the rules and so forth Bunnies had to master:

No fraternization, either with “other employees of the Club” or with “Keyholders.” ... “She is also not permitted to give her last name, home address or phone number.” No chewing gum or eating while on duty, no alcohol consumption while “in the Club.” No drinking of “soft drinks, lemonade or even water” while one is “in view of keyholders and guests.” (Backstage is OK.) Bunnies get one free meal per day worked.

There’s a whole merit/demerit system that smacks a lot of the military, or at least a military school. You earn merits by working on your day off when the club needs a replacement, working a private party, or transferring to another club when management needs it. (These merits do turn into hard cash, by the way.) There are lots of actions that bring one demerits, including tardiness, failure to attend a “Bunny Meeting,” poor service, untidy lockers, and so forth. The most eye-popping reason for a demerit is “repeated costume offenses,” which include improper positioning of bunny ears (yes, this is totally in there) and “unkept tail,” which while suggestive in that spelling almost certainly was supposed to say “unkempt.”

Then there’s smoking. The rule about smoking is so important that it is set in ALLCAPS: “IN ALL CASES WHEN A BUNNY IS SMOKING WHILE ON DUTY, SHE IS TO ‘TAKE A PUFF’ AND SET THE CIGARETTE IN AN ASHTRAY. BUNNIES ARE NOT TO STAND OR SIT HOLDING A CIGARETTE.”

If you’re a Bunny, all sorts of things are tax-deductible, so keep your receipts! Legitimate tax deductions include “bunny hose,” wigs, cuff links, and cosmetics.

You can get these images in a slightly larger format at the Ex Playboy Bunnies Website.
 

 

 

 
More after the jump…

 
Oh, 1940s anti-VD posters, the only place where a girl’s cooch might be worse than Hitler!

During World War II, propaganda was deployed to spark the purchase of war bonds, to get you to STFU, and to spur the collection of scrap metal. Naturally, the sex lives of “our boys” weren’t exempt from such crusades. The U.S. government enlisted the help of artists, designers, and advertising professionals to create what amounts to the first mass campaign about sex; in so doing they created these eye-popping and surprisingly frank posters.

A researcher named Ryan Mungia has published an excellent collection of VD posters entitled Protect Yourself. Mungia came across the posters entirely by accident while researching a book on wartime Hawaii:
 

My objective was to find photographs, but I came across this file folder peeking out of an open cabinet that said “VD Posters” on it. Inside, I found a stash of 35mm slides of these posters, most of which ended up in the book. I guess you could say the subject chose me, since I didn’t set out to make a book on venereal disease, but became interested in the topic because of the graphic nature of the posters.

 
The images come from the National Archives and the National Library of Medicine. As Mungia points out, the images evoke memories of other beloved graphics: “The designs were really reminiscent of film noir or B-movie posters from the ’40s, those pulpy-style poster designs, and they also reminded me of the Works Progress Administration artwork, which I love.” Mungia also said of the posters: “Women are often portrayed in a negative light,” being associated with Hitler or Hirohito in one attention-getting poster.

Those slogans…. “Worst of the Three,” “A Bag of Trouble” ... methinks they protest too much!
 

 

 

 
More after the jump…

 
Sure, everyone knows Germany’s Scorpions from their 1980’s (thinning) Hair Metal hits “Rock You Like a Hurricane” and “There’s No One Like You,” but The Scorpions career goes back much further. Their first album, 1972’s Lonesome Crow is (surprisingly great) proggy Krautrock. Over the course of the bands next four releases they shifted their approach to more of a hard rocking, proto-metal sound—a sort of Deep Purple on speedball. By the release of 1977’s Taken by Force, The Scorpions were in full-on assault mode.

 
The track we’ll be examining today is so musically (and lyrically, as we’ll see) ahead of its time, that I dare call it proto-thrash. The performance here from a German television show (how did this get on TV?) rocks so unbelievably hard that you can almost forgive Klaus Meine’s interpretive jazz-hands dancing.

What makes 1977’s “He’s a Woman, She’s a Man” so breath-taking is the stark way in which it deals with the subject of transgender that’s light years beyond what The Kinks were ambiguously laying out in 1971’s hit “Lola.” Granted, The Scorpions’ 1977 English-as-a-second-language is not necessarily sensitive to the titular character referred to as “it” throughout the tune; but a breakdown of the lyrics reveals the storyteller encountering a person of indeterminate gender, at first expressing shock and disbelief, but ultimately essentially saying “fuck it, I’m horny and attracted to this person regardless of my Teutonic heavy metal dude confusion.” The first two verses express bewilderment, the second two express acceptance.

I saw it walking lonely down the street
Cool like a cat and like a crazy dream
I’m looking twice again and can’t believe
It turned around and then it looked at me

I thought, “Oh, no”, it really couldn’t be
It was a man and was a woman too
He’s a woman, she’s a man

I think it really came from far away
I’m feeling hypnotized, I have to stay
It takes my hand and says, “Come on, let’s go”
We’re going home there’s nothing more to say

He starts to move, she starts to play
I need a body, why not you?
He’s a woman, she’s a man

The Scorpions were no strangers to being sexually confrontational in their art. The album which preceded this one, Virgin Killer, featured in its shocking original cover art a nude prepubescent girl with slivers of cracked glass just barely covering the area over her pelvic girdle. The cover, which frequently makes “worst LP cover of all time” lists, was banned in the US, as was the Hipgnosis-designed cover for their Lovedrive LP.
 

 
More after the jump…

 
Cynthia Plaster Caster (born Cynthia Albritton) is the famous “super groupie” who, in the late 60’s started using a substance concocted for dental molds to memorialize the Johnsons of celebrity musicians in plaster. On her website, Ms. Plaster Caster describes herself as having been a shy person when she was young. Looking for a way to stand out from the throngs of other groupies swarming around rock star hotel rooms, she created an official sounding “organization” called the Plaster Casters of Chicago and gained access to many a celebrity’s private parts, probably most famously, Jimi Hendrix. 

Legend has it that there were a few complications with the Hendrix “procedure.”

Here’s Cynthia’s tale about the almost botched attempt to cast Hendrix’s apparently prodigious member:

Because this was one of my first shots at plaster casting, the end result came out kind of gnarly. I prematurely cracked the mold open, only to find a still-moist, broken cast inside. So yes, Jimi did in fact, break the mold! But thanks to Elmer’s Glue, I managed to reconnect the head to the shaft to the testicles. Very statuesque and antique-looking; like Grecian art. The Canadian underground paper Georgia Straight called it the “Penis de Milo.” There’s no denying that Jimi towers over most of my collection. His long, thick shaft combined with his disproportionately small head brings a shudder to the spinal cord!

Jimi’s pubes got stuck in the mold because I didn’t lube them enough. I spent the next 15 minutes pulling out each individual hair one by one, while he had intercourse with just the right sized repository — his negative impression! This unexpected delay made him late for his show that evening, where he was seen scratching his crotch a lot onstage.

 

The Plaster Casters of Chicago
 
Despite this early setback of sorts, Cynthia has had years to perfect her technique. In the ensuing decades she’s preserved the pricks of everyone from the MC5’s Wayne Kramer to David Yow of The Jesus Lizard eventually even branching out to breast casts, the only preservation process she seems to prefer these days. She’s cast the dirty pillows of Karen O from The Yeah Yeah Yeahs as well as those of performer/provocateur Peaches among several others. Indeed, for $500 you can have your own bust (whether of the male or female variety) preserved for posterity by the legendary artist herself.

And as if that weren’t stimulating enough, you and your significant other now have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to, as Cynthia Plaster Caster puts it: “Learn to Plaster from the Master!” 

Here’s what she has to say on her website (where you can also find her contact information and a sidebar menu made entirely of animated dicks):

Rather than designing just another do-it-yourself kit, I thought it would be fun to teach people one on one (or, rather one on two) how to cast their significant other’s – significant body parts…

For $3500, I will walk two lovers, gay or straight, start to finish, through the entire process (approximately two days). This would consist of: mixing dental mold, making the plaster cast, cracking it out of the mold and filing off excess plaster. All materials are included. Your city or mine (Chicago). If I have to travel to your town, my round-trip airfare and hotel accommodations would be in addition to the fee. I’ll take notes as per my tradition, and issue a diploma – presuming the course will be passed with flying colors (hey, if I can do it ANYBODY can do it!). Cameras are allowed (but not for commercial purposes).

Just so you know – I won’t be doing any casting or stimulating. I’ll only be the coach on the sidelines. This is not for MY collection. It’s for YOURS! And YOU get to keep the trophies!

More after the jump…

 
In one of the more disturbing yet hilarious feats of crafty design I’ve seen, Peter Jakubik has redefined the term “pony play” with these bondage-inspired rocking horses. You have the option of making your own by downloading a DIY template from Etsy ($22.09), or purchasing one of many completed and painted models($1699.37), each with their own names, unique accessories and backstories. Yes, whether you prefer lace and ruffles, elaborate rope-play or a vinyl facemask, there is a pony girl for you.

Take for example the lovely Gisele, above:

The flexible body of Gisele the Balerina [sic] is firmly tied by a rope maze forming an improvised body harness. She combines her delight in rope tying with a passion for scenic dance. You can transform a classic performance by your bizarre game to a “bondage” Swan Lake.

I’m actually a bit partial to the unfinished wood grain, below. It has a certain… rustic ambiguity.

See more below for an idea of the “variety” that’s offered. Obviously this is all well and good, but I think he’s really limiting himself by sticking to the female form—a pony boy would sell much better, in my opinion. Maybe the purchaser is attracted to men or perhaps they like the idea of sadomasochistic kitsch, but don’t want the antifeminist stigma that might be associated with such a surreal knick-knack?

I say get on it, Jakubik! You’ll have them chomping at the bit!
 

 

“Fille de joie Jacqueline has penchant for burlesque. Her panties, stockings, long gloves and a corset must miss ruffles in any event. At first glance she coquettishly invites you to sit in the saddle and be gently lulled.”
 

“Despite the donkey ears on the harness, Vanda is not as adamant as you would expect from the way she looks. In its wavy-trimmed negligee and eared harness she keeps standing in her place, obediently waiting for the regular evening ride.”
 

“Xenia illustrates real girl next door without any sexual inhibitions. She hides her innocent little face under the hood joining her hair into a thick tail. Cuffs on hands and feet bond up her momentary daftness. It’s just up to you to unleash, and turn a canter to a rodeo.”
 

“Helga gives a clear indication that her haggard appearance of a little beast is really not for a romantic nature. Her semi-transparent lingerie and latex stockings are held in place by a similarly toned garter belt and tightly tied by a body harness. She will definitely stand out from your collection of toys.”

Oh come on dude! At least tidy up a little bit first!
 
John Waters calls it “hilarious.” David Sedaris says it’s “just perfect.” Lurid Digs is quite possibly the greatest design resource on the entire Internet. This brilliant blog doesn’t deconstruct posh flats or stately mansions—my guess is that they dig through Grindr looking for the worst interiors of the erotic selfie genre. You would be shocked at the settings some of these men find appropriate for their boudoir photography, but Lurid Digs is on a mission to educate the masses—you know, in the name of good taste. Queer eye for the gay guy. Somebody had to do it.

From the website:

Interior design began with the first cave dwellers. Most likely it was a gay caveman who decided to paint pictures of running bison and other frolicking animals on the rough walls and low ceilings of his abode. Not only were these flourishes artistic and decorative, they also served as a way to feel more comfortable while living in a hole in the earth.

But, my how times have changed. Gone is the stereotypical association of gay men with good interior design. The Internet has shattered the gay style myth forever with its slew of nude amateur self-portraits that clog bandwidth from New York to Sydney and back again. These Feng Shui-challenged souls have proven over and over again that male homosexuals can be just as color uncoordinated, sloppy and nasty as their straight brethren. Yes, the gap between what defines gay and straight is slowly beginning to zipper shut.

Below I have carefully curated a few safe-for-work excerpts, cropping or censoring the associated photos for modesty, but whatever you do,do not visit the actual site if you aren’t in a gay-sex-friendly and penis-positive employment environment!
 

 

Do you know what drives me crazy about rooms like this? (Warning: this will reveal just how anal I am.)

It’s not the artwork. I mean, yes, the juxtaposition of the vaguely primitivist nude on the right with the large, Thomas Kinkade-y woodland scene (probably entitled “King of the Valley” or “The Forest’s Royal Family” or “Prince Staggerton and His Freaky, Funky Fawns”) is jarring. But at least there’s a theme going on, which is mostly “nature”. Or “naturism”.

It’s not the wallpaper, which is so aggressively neutral, it’s like being mugged in a wheat field by a Sandy Duncan impersonator, wielding a fistful of Triscuits. Plus, my mother had this exact same wallpaper put up in the house that we lived in between my 4th and 9th grade years, so, you know: memories, like the unnecessarily moulded corners of my hallway.

No, it’s the fact that in hanging said artwork upon said papered walls, the decorator didn’t use picture moulding and wire. Instead, s/he punched right through the wallpaper with a couple of lousy nails — possibly several, if there wasn’t a studfinder handy — meaning that s/he is now stuck with this particular arrangement until s/he decides to repaper the place, because patching holes in wallpaper is not for the faint of heart.

And goddess forbid s/he should move out before selling the place. Take down these paintings, and the house will look like the set of The Golden Girls: Sarajevo, 1993. Don’t people think of resale value anymore?

 
PHOTO REMOVED FROM WEBSITE
 

I like lesbianish minimalism. In theory. I like neutral backgrounds. In theory. I like semi-Spartan spaces. In theory.

Then I look at this room. Are they freakin’ kidding me?
This isn’t understated. It’s unfinished.

Do something, already! Hang a painting. Wainscott the tub surround. Put a Scarlett O’Hara toiletpaper cozy on top of the toilet. Optimally place a themed wastebasket. Pick a color, any color, and disperse it anywhere, anywhere.
For the love of Christopher Lowell, just start. And then continue. And then continue some more.

I don’t care how butch you (think you) are, a trashbag is not a design statement. And your panties are not accessories.

And as for those who have the ego to paper the interwebs with naked self-portraits but not the pride to clean the mirror or tidy up the two things in the reflected room?

The Shining ruined a lot of things.

It ruined the idea of winter retreats, proving that anyone dumb enough to lock himself away at a snowbound lodge will eventually start talking to ghost bartenders, taking blood elevators, and slaughtering everyone in sight. It ruined the archetype of the heroic “scream queen”, because for the first time in cinematic history, audiences rooted for the axe-wielding maniac, praying that he would slit Shelley Duvall’s throat so she would JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN. And The Shining ruined Danny Lloyd’s career. Or rather, it prevented Danny Lloyd’s career from ever happening.

The Shining also ruined hallways. Before the movie came out in 1980, many of us had never given hallways much thought. In our 1960s and 1970s ranch homes, hallways were functional, forgettable architectural elements that connected our sunken dens to our rumpus rooms. But The Shining made them something sinister and deadly and full of twins.

So, if you must take a sexpic for Grindr or Growlr or some other app that holds a deep-seated grudge against the letter “e”, please (a) don’t take the photo in a hallway, and (b) if you must do it in a hallway because every other corner of your house is filled with bloodstained corpses, make sure that the hall is wide and attractive and finished and uncluttered. Because seeing vile-colored walls (that merge abruptly into differently hued vile-colored walls), unfinished doorjambs, unpainted plaster, naked lightbulbs, and piles of junk on the floor of a hallway makes viewers feel claustrophobic. Which is fine if you’re looking to pick up spelunkers or Harry Houdini, but otherwise, your axe-wielding right hand may have to do.

The whole site is ridiculously funny, and I strongly suggest you check it out, lest you commit a sexy snapshot Cardinal sin yourself. If you’re already featured on Lurid Digs, you have my deepest sympathy, but maybe consider sending them a revision shot showing what you’ve learned? I’m sure they’d love to know they’re making a difference in the world, one amateur at a time.