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Welcome to "From the Fuckbucket," my newest experiment in blog subseries, in which I respond more fully to anonymous questions deposited in the Fuckbucket at Smut Slams.
When spring rolls around, Smut Slammers’ minds naturally turn to outdoor sex. I was glad to see that even the UK follows the trend, witness the question From the Fuckbucket this week:
“What are you doing when you are getting it on in a playground and suddenly five people are watching you?”
If the Fuckbucketeer was just looking for a definitional response, of course the answer is “you are putting on a free show, when possibly you should be charging and/or live-streaming this shit.” But I took this question to mean “what do you do when this situation happens to you,” like, an advice-seeking question.
What you do depends on a number of factors. What time of day is it? If night time, feel free to keep going, Just know that this is not a sex club, and there is no dungeon monitor wandering around to make sure that spectators are keeping a safe and respectful distance. (If it’s daytime, you should not be on that playground anyway, and those impressionable youths are rightly confused about who is blocking the climbing bridge. Get out of there before the recess monitor shows up.)
It’s up to you whether or not you want to overtly acknowledge the presence of witnesses. Smiling and inviting them over seems like an invitation to disaster; you don't know them! Potential play partners at least warrant the care of a coffee date, in my opinion. And I mean, as fraught with risk as a simple pairing is for sex in a playground—splinters! clanging chains! Cold metal oversize bolts digging into someone’s ass cheeks—I can only imagine the perils multiplying with each additional person thrown into the mix.
Assuming the people watching aren’t cops, which you can’t actually assume, even if they don’t immediately swoop in and bust you (cops are perverts too, probably at a higher rate than the general population)… anyway, assuming that they aren’t going to bust you, and that you were able to keep going under that sort of spectator pressure, I would opt for ignoring them, really acting like you don’t see them. Let them preserve the illusion that they’re just innocent bystanders who happened to stumble into such a shocking scene. They have a good story to tell, you don’t have to say bye or shake hands afterward… it’s just a lot easier all around.
Playground sex pro tips:
- Mandatory checkpoint: Seriously, HOW BADLY DO YOU WANT THIS? Think about this, always, for public sex play that is just Out There in the World. In most jurisdictions, you could wind up as a sex offender for public indecency. Hot is hot, and a criminal record is not.
- Check for cameras, and avoid well-lit spaces. It’s not just the actual eyes you can see that you should be worried about.
- Always bring a jacket, even if it’s 85 degrees outside at midnight. You will want to have something between your ass and a world of splinters.
- Consider the easier sex positions, or just keeping it to dry humping (clothes on, with lots of friction). Not having to adjust your pants leaves you with maximum deniability.
- If you were doing anything required condoms, fucking be a responsible adult and take the used condoms with you. Seriously. Tie a knot in it and put it in your pocket until you get to a bin, otherwise you are the reason that playgrounds get locked up at night, ruining it for the rest of us.
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Welcome to "From the Fuckbucket," my newest experiment in blog subseries, in which I respond more fully to anonymous questions deposited in the Fuckbucket at Smut Slams.
Fuckbucket questions always lack context, but they’re normally a little more specific than this week's: "How deep is too deep?" I could have answered a question about whether women can orgasm from anal sex, but no. I gave my Facebook family a chance to choose between those two questions, and they chose the one that is practically philosophical. <deep breath> So. Here goes:
It’s too deep when you’ve lost your grip on it.
It’s too deep when you have to go to the hospital to get it back.
It’s too deep when you weren’t prepared for how vulnerable you might feel talking with this person about your first love, and you need a few seconds staring in your too-strong party drink to swallow back your tears.
It’s too deep when you feel something pop that doesn’t normally.
It’s too deep when the pressure gauge says it is, and yes, I know you want to go swimming after that beautiful octopus and the water is warm and you’re feeling fine after 30 years of work, here on your first post-retirement vacation, you just want to go for it, I know, but the dive instructor is swimming after you now, so trust me, it’s too deep.
It could be too deep when you go too fast, when you just plunge in with whatever, your cock or your finger or that snazzy new penetrative sex toy, you just go in, even with lube, odds are good that it’s too deep.
It’s too deep when you draw blood and didn’t mean to.
It’s too deep when you can’t see the bottom of the lake and you don’t know how to swim.
It’s too deep when you can see the bottom of the lake and you’re getting dizzy from it.
It’s pretty damn deep, if you feel like you might pass out from how awesome it is, but you don’t because you can lay your head down on someone else’s body and get some grounding before you carry on with the party. Stop before someone passes out, because that’s too deep.
It’s too deep when you put the fencepost in and it’s only sticking out of the ground, like, 14 inches. Put some of that dirt back in, you’re never going to keep the neighbor's sheep out of your yard like that.
It’s too deep when one standard recipe of pie crust, rolled out to the correct thickness, doesn’t line it all the way. You can probably patch it with scraps, but you might have some problems with cooking the filling all the way through. I recommend that you talk to your neighbour and maybe borrow their pie pan, because yours is too deep.
It’s too deep when everyone else’s eyes glaze over. I mean, it’s too deep for them, because they’re all pretty drunk. It’s not too deep, generally. Don’t worry about it, hon, you’ll find a man who can keep up. Maybe we should stop going to bars to look for boyfriends.
It’s too deep when the person you’re trying it with says your mutually agreed-upon safe word, when they say stop, when they say no, when they say, WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT STOP STOP STOP.
If you want to go deep, but not too deep, go slow. Check your progress frequently. Check in with anyone else involved. Edge in, or get someone who’s already done it to tell you enough that you feel safe. There is no shame in not doing something because you’re scared. Going too deep can be painful, weird, awkward, time-consuming, and in a few cases and depending on what you’re doing, fatal.
Going deep, though, that can be amazing.
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I’ve been on the sex-positive train for a long time, as a writer, performer, and sometimes-educator. People out in the world seemed quite happy and ready to pin that tag on me when describing a Smut Slam, for example, and when I looked over my own past, specifically the stuff that had made it into my autobiographical plays, “sex-positive” seemed about right, in an almost literal way. I had emerged from a religiously repressive upbringing, done a lot of exploring, and found that good sex was important and made me happy. Sex? Positive.
That all started to change when I was driving back from a Smut Slam with my lover last spring. It was the first time he had seen a slam—he had cheerfully agreed to be timekeeper for the evening, so he was right at the front, right in the thick of it—and I was eager to hear what he thought of this, one of my cherished artistic babies.
“It was wonderful,” he said, “but I felt left out. Everyone was talking about how good they were, or how many people were at the orgy. I didn’t feel like there was room for less experience, or unhappy endings.”
I wanted to protest, to argue the point, to defend the Smut Slam culture that I had unconsciously been cultivating. In this sex-negative world, those who flock to Smut Slams are drawn to spaces where we can luxuriate in our triumphs and abundance and sexual joy. But I sat with what he had said, and realized the truth pretty quickly: there is more to sex than that. The stories and truths that sex digs up can be infinitely more complicated, more diverse, more broad-ranging than simply a joyful romp. Hell, even a joyful romp will have some crumbs in it.
I needed to make room in my work for all of it.
Somewhere around that time, I arrived at the phrase “sex-aware” as a way to describe the way I wanted my work to be. I don’t know if I read the phrase somewhere, or if I just coined it, but as soon as I began writing it, I could feel the space, not just for the atmosphere that I was trying to create at the Smut Slams, but also for my own dramatic works as well.
My fourth and fifth plays—The Pretty One and nerdfucker—are not autobiographical, and they don’t deal much with the happy sexy fun-times. Some of it is harsh; in nerdfucker, for example, sex mostly just hovers in the background as a unspoken motivator in my character’s often bad decision-making. The sex in these plays represents a whole range of experiences.
The only thing I can say is, the sex is there. I don’t want my audience to look away from it, however it manifests. Nor do I want them to imagine that the work is only about sex. It’s just there, as another experience that can change things or not. It’s not on a pedestal, nor dragged through the gutter. Rather, it could be, in a specific instance or story or memory or action. But generally, sex just is. It is there for many people, and I want my audience to be at least somewhat alert to its influence on relationships, on self, and in society as a whole.
Hence “sex-aware” as the descriptor I want to claim for all the work that I do. It leaves room for a richer exploration of different types and amounts of sexual experience, and it also leaves room for my work to not always explicitly center sex in the action.
Audiences and reviewers still call my stuff “sex-positive,” and I’ll take it, because I think I know what they mean and it's fine. But I'm finding more to strive for as an artist doing sex-aware work.
When I make room for all the kinds of sex, and/or when I don't make it the subject of some kind of Odyssean quest, there's so much more room for life.
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I’m finally getting to the point where I know other artists in my stop-over cities, and by “know” I mean they’ve been a Smut Slam judge or I appeared in one of their gigs and at the very least we’re friends on Facebook. It’s also coming up on Fringe touring season, has been for a month already, actually. This means that the steady trickle of event invitations on FB is starting to become a stream, and when Brighton Fringe hits in three weeks, we’ll all be drowning in the stressful convergence of two vast rivers of theatrical output and social expectations.
In the interest of managing expectations, avoiding hurt feelings, and generally being transparent about how I integrate the arts with my personal network, I would like to share my personal etiquette around EVENT INVITATIONS.
When I have an event…
I will invite you, if you’re in the area. This invitation carries no expectations with it at all. You can decline, mark “interested”, mark “attending” and then not attend, or show up and that’s okay.
If we are friends and I know that you’ve seen my work, I may drop you a private message and ask you to share with your people in the area. I try to ask selectively, making sure that we’re in the same wheelhouse, you know, you’re not a kids’ clown or choral singer.
If we are really good friends and we’ve talked about my show or event before, I may drop you a private message and ask you to come to opening night for moral support, or whatever, and I will offer you a comp. But I will not take it personally if you can’t.
If we are reasonably well acquainted and I know you have an event going on too sometime soon, I may suggest a comp swap. I firmly believe that artists are not each other’s target demographic, and I don’t expect other artists to buy tickets to my shows. We are all broke. I do not expect comps—so please feel free to turn me down!—but I appreciate them.
If I ask to swap comps with you, and you agree, I will make every effort to attend. If you ask to swap comps with me, there is a possibility I may not be able to attend your show. Whoever initiates the comp swap convo needs to be really committed to coming.
When you have an event …
I do read the event listing. I am very assiduous in my attention to invites that come in through Facebook. I will mark “interested” if I’m interested, and will only mark “attending” if I am really planning to attend OR if it’s part of a festival-wide campaign to attend each other’s events and boost the FB algorithm.
If you direct message me with an invite that does not mention a comp, I will politely decline. I may have had other valid reasons, but the sales pitch is one of them. (See the bit about not being each other’s target demographic.)
If you really want me to attend for some particular reason, DM with that comp offer and explain that you really want me there.
I only recommend shows that I have seen, if not the actual show, then something by the performer. Keep that in mind when you’re asking me to promote your show. I’ll need to see it or you in action first.
Out on the Fringe…
I will never knowingly flyer another artist, with the purpose of getting them to buy a ticket to my show. (I may hand them a flyer as a sort of business card, though, if they ask for one.) If I find out mid-pitch that you are a fellow fringe artist, I will hurriedly take my flyer back and apologize, saying something like “let’s save our paper for the punters.” You are welcome to keep an accidentally bestowed flyer if you like it, or you really want a reminder, but please don’t then favour-shark me into taking one of yours. I don’t want it. Tell me the name of your show, and if I want to know more, I will ask. I expect the same in return.
If I ask, “have you seen my show?” it is NEVER meant as pressure to see it. Usually that is me trying to either avoid spoilers OR figuring out what background information you need, if we are talking about our shows or audience responses or whatever.
My hierarchy of interest, separate from any personally connection I may have to anyone involved in the show is as follows:
Solo theatre > storytelling > variety shows with a strong MC > everything else
Fringe festivals are and have always been my chance to study up on my craft informally. I want to see shows that are close to my wheelhouse first. These are my classrooms.
I have given myself permission to not see any shows at festivals, if that’s what I need to stay balanced. My fellow EdFringers know what it is to run a show back to back to fucking back, for a few weeks at a time; even smaller festivals and shorter runs can take their toll. We all have promo to do, and I personally can’t really see a show for two hours before I’m on or for one hour afterward.
Take into account recovering from travels, getting some groceries in, and trying to get some sleep, and you can see that sometimes… we run out of time. That has to be okay: show first, self-care second, then everything else.
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I have spent the last eight years peeling my life open for public scrutiny, through my blogging and the plays and the Smut Slam and the Facebooking… you’d think I’d have no boundaries left, if I had any to begin with.
You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. I’m finding boundaries I didn’t even know existed, thanks to my efforts at relocating to the UK. People who are stuck in the visa and immigration pipeline don’t get to keep boundaries, not in the UK, certainly, and nowhere in the world. You learn right away to set those aside, because you have to answer those questions and you cannot hedge or hesitate.
I keep thinking this shouldn't be a problem for me; I strive for transparency and honesty in my work and personal life. A lot of what I’m doing is building a bridge out in front of me, hacking through the underbrush and not knowing where that path goes. But being honest about not knowing, being real about not having my ducks in a row, that is not the kind of honesty that wins me friends at the borders to countries. They want to know my path, and they will push me right out onto it, onto some path, even if I’m not ready.
They precipitate decisions, these moments in the queue at the airport, and when I still don’t have clarity and still manage to get through, I am left trembling in front of the baggage conveyor, wondering what I am doing with my life.
How did I end up here being lectured by someone whose uniform includes a jumper with epaulets, who in spite of that still has the arbitrary right—which they reminded me of at least seven times during a 20-minute conversation—to restrict my global movement, event though my paperwork matches up?
I guess that’s what makes these people perfect border guards: they see staying-in-placeness as a thing to strive for. They question fluidity and shifting and change. They don’t understand how I could have been married and still fallen in love with someone else (don’t even try talking about polyamory), or if they do understand, they call it something else with a sleazy, disbelieving sneer. They don’t really believe that I make enough on my theatre and emceeing to get by over here; “that’s not a real job,” I can see it in their eyes.
Most challenging of all, in terms of my path, is that they don’t believe that it’s possible to have more than one purpose in being in a place; my being in the UK is suspect because I dare to both have professional ambition AND the love of my life here. I must be using the first to avoid going the marriage-visa route. I am skirting the spirit of law, they said as much, and I have to stand there and flush hot under their scrutiny.
I told them about UK Muse because one doesn’t lie at the border, and I thought for one wild minute, maybe radical honesty is the way through. Yes, I want to be with him, and yes, I am working toward that. At the same time, yes, I want to make it with my performance work, here in the UK, where it’s actually possible. But this transparency of dual purpose becomes a weapon in their hands, and now I am left thinking, why is this not enough for you people? I am bringing you the best I have to offer. I am bringing you whatever skills and passion I have for the work that I do and the life that I live.
I am telling the truth, the whole truth, but it’s messy. Sorry, visa and immigration folks—and you might be reading this—but at this stage in my life there’s no way of making this tidier. My life and my love are sprawling and grand, and there are always going to be some glorious bits that end up straying outside the box.
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WHEN: 4 hours (1-5pm), April 9, 2017. WHERE: Mauerpark, Berlin. OUTPUT: two full-length pieces, including a deliciously wet sit-and-spin session (with a focus on the ass) and a summer afternoon of semi-public pussy eating with the smells of sausage on the barbecue in the background.
I wanted Berlin to go better than this, on my first time out with the Smut Stand here. Better = more stories, more interactions, more money (more people buying me drinks 😀 ). I have long held the idea that Berliners, in general, are massive perverts, and every person I’ve met here who has lived here for a while has disabused me of that notion.
However, this city is no different from any other: the spot has to be right. Multiple people suggest Mauerpark, a big park next to a weekend “fleamarket.” I thought sure, if that’s the only time the weather is going to be good while I’m here, but I better try it.
Well. On a sunny Sunday afternoon the foot traffic is certainly there, but as a friend of mine tentatively pointed out, a lot of people go there because they know they can get in an afternoon of cheap entertainment, e.g. people watching, drinking, and haggling over mass-produced picture frames. “You might want to operate on a sliding scale,” my friend suggested. I don’t think so, I replied to the text message, and spent my subway ride to the park fuming about cheap-ass trust-fund-baby hitchhikers.
(I stopped offering sliding scale to the general public several years ago. The spaces where the Smut Stand operates are not conducive to honesty in self-pricing, and I value my labour too much. I don’t do this to be cute, I do it to earn money, and I know what my work is worth.)
The further problem with daytime Smutting is that I must be in the shade. At night this is not a problem—instead I’m looking for good lighting during those times—but even a partly cloudy afternoon, even with decent sunblock, can leave me a little crispy fried. In this park, there simply was no place where I could take advantage of the stream of sausage grillers and sun-worshippers, be in the shade, AND STILL have my back against a wall.
So I set up on the grass underneath a partially leafed tree, everything at the Smut Stand borrowed, right down to the typewriter and the tape I used to attach the usual signage to the table. (Big thanks to Marc from Sticky Biscuits for lugging the Smut Stand gear out, and to Liliana for letting me use her typewriter.)
And then I waited. Typed a piece or two, to continue getting used to the typewriter. To be honest, that was the most frustrating part of typing yesterday, as the typewriter had several keys that stuck. Also, the z and the y were switched on this German/Czech? Keyboard. All of that slowed my typing speed down considerably.
I persevered, though, and eventually got two customers, neither of whom boggled at the (I thought reasonable) price, and both being strangely vanilla for Berlin. The older Irish expat in particular was just entranced by the whole process, and sat right down on the grass in his pinstriped suit and smoked a cigarette while answering the interview questions.
It could have been really lonely out there for me, but one of Sticky Biscuit’s friend circle, whom I had met at my show of Phone Whore here last Saturday, she came out to visit for a couple of hours, and even brought a cup of coffee like I begged someone to do on the event page.
(Yes, I put up an event page for the Sidewalk Smut, after Marc suggested that I do so he could share it around with his friends. Seems weird, and it’s yet another page on FB that I need to manage, but I’ll give it a shot.)
In short, 6 out of 10, would do again, in the evening on a different street.
Yes, it'll soon be proper Smut Stand weather again, but it all fits into my wheelhouse, as they say, AS DOES your becoming a patron of mine over on Patreon! Do join us, and help me help the world become more sex-aware.
Open mics notoriously happen anywhere that the host can fit them. I’m not even talking about the alcoves and broom closets of Edinburgh Fringe. I have been on multiple open mic shows—comedy, music, variety, whatever—that just unroll in the front room of a bar, dropping crackly static and sweaty punchlines on whatever poor lushes happen to be hunched over their drinks.
I never heard anyone protest this too strenuously, because no one wants to be the squeaky wheel in a scene where performers are a dime a dozen. The venue doesn’t want to alienate its bar flies, er, regulars, and the organizers know that any venue at all is priceless, and because it is generally understood that comedians and musicians and magicians are performers who are going to be playing to drunk and/or hostile crowds for a good chunk of their performing career, it is also generally understood that they might as well get used to weirdness and interruptions and anger and side conversations and possibly thrown beer cans as early and often as possible. Performers just need to toughen up, is the conventional wisdom. It’s part of our training.
Given all this, I think that venues don’t always understand my extreme care when it comes to selecting spaces for Smut Slams. In particular, they don’t always get the privacy factor. I have gotten people saying, “yes, it’s all private space,” or “it’s all yours, we’ll just have a couple of regulars in during that time.” And then when I show up, it’s, you know, it’s the front room of a bar. Or it’s a side room that looks private but isn’t, a fact that everyone becomes acutely aware of when those two regulars break out into an argument during an especially moving story.
Smut Slam space needs to be … I was going to say sacred space. It’s not that exactly, but almost. Smut Slammers aren’t performers; they don’t need to toughen up or get used to bad performing conditions. I don’t want them to have to be tough; that just gets in the way of good, real stuff. Smut Slammers are delicate fucking flowers, and they need a space to bloom, someplace where people feel supported and encouraged in sharing some deeply personal shit. We Smut Slam hosts expend a lot of energy, trying to lay down this foundation, to create the comfortable feel. But we can’t create that feel in a physical space that just isn’t designed to hold it.
Smut Slam venues have to be private. In my tech rider for Smut Slam, I phrase it as “we must control access to the space,” because we are going to sell tickets to everyone going into the room. Almost always, if someone pays for a ticket, they are going to take the show more seriously; after all, they have something invested now. Also, with that single, controlled entry point, we can check everyone who goes into the space: how much have they had to drink, what’s their general attitude, how do they interact with staff/crew? Do we have to assign someone to keep an eye on the person in question over the course of the night? These are the literal security issues that having private, ticketed spaces helps address.
Controlling access to the space is as much about noise as it is about bodies. When audiences in a Smut Slam space can hear external chatter and noise and espresso machines, they understand that Smut Slam noise can travel outward too. Comedians and other professional performer types usually develop a second layer of skin over their eardrums, to help filter out that ambient noise. “Civilians,” as I call them… they don’t have those mental-auditory buffers. Most of them are sensitive, and rightly so.
And then, well, let’s go back to that ineffable quality of space. After a certain point in the proceedings, we have to shut the door on the space. No more folks; catch us the next time around. We guard the perimeter because goddammit, every Smut Slam is basically a roomful of strangers weaving a delicate web of shared vulnerability and trust. We stake out the space to make that web. We are holding some turf where the room can bloom. I don’t want just any randos stomping through that beautiful smutty garden.
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There are many good things about Starbucks: their coffee is pretty much always the same over-roasted blend everywhere (at least you know what you’re getting?), and you can always get free Internet, which is a boon when you’re out and about in a strange city. There are usually power outlets somewhere in the walls, though you might have to hover a bit. And the typical Starbucks is busy enough that nobody will notice you sitting in the corner crying.
I’m doing that right now. I'm totally happy with people ignoring me; I don’t think I could really handle a well-meaning stranger asking me if I’m okay. I’m sure I am okay, intellectually I know I am, but the reasons why I don’t feel okay would take too long to explain.
It’s just international bureaucracy in the end, a mismatch between what the visa processing web site says and what the harried but polite people in the visa-processing office said in person. I had planned to get back into the UK on Monday—with the 3-to-5 day processing window, that was optimistic, but hope thrives like a cactus on very little. But in the office this morning, after waiting an extra half-hour beyond when my appointment was scheduled, they informed me that it was actually five to seven business days for processing, and that did not include the amount of time it would take to courier the passport back to me.
So I will almost certainly be missing both the London and Bristol Smut Slams this month, and maybe even the one in Brighton, and I am a little taken aback by how much that upsets me. I think my co-producers can pull together the show just fine—they’ve been watching my shenanigans for three months now, and the structure is of course easy enough to follow—but I hate being away from the slams at this critical point in their development.
We’re starting to getting regulars at those events, and I think they want to see me, in part, and I know I like seeing those people and knowing that I know people. This is where it starts feeling personal. Do you know how hard it is for me to get to know people? Everyone knows me but I don’t know anyone, and that was just starting to change, in all those different cities, but now there’s this fucking glitch and I have to wait until May.
And then, I didn’t plan to be here in Berlin past April 9, so obviously I didn’t plan anything to DO. I don’t do tourist stuff; I don’t care about architecture. Maybe I’ll try out some baked goods and Turkish kebabs. But really, the thing that I enjoy the most about touring, besides the performing aspect, is meeting people, and I don’t mean in bars. I mean, I want to do the things that I know how to do—performances, Smut Slams, Sidewalk Smut—and then start conversations with people that way, and then we get to talk. My performances are this week, and that’s it, and then I have at least four days hanging empty in front me.
It's not that I have nothing to do. Patreon. Videos. Catching up on social media and all the assorted admin. Sidewalk Smut, I guess, if I can find a useable typewriter and table/chair combo to borrow. It’s still a bit chilly here, but I can wear my Lumberjack Lingerie ™ and find some fingerless gloves and do a few evenings. Hell, I could be really decadent and spend a few hours a day working on my next show ("Cameryn Moore Is HEARTH-CORE").
I’ve got lots of stuff to do, I guess, but it’s not what I had planned, and I was just starting to find my feet, get my routine in the UK. Now I just feel lost and terrified all over again.
Normally I have some fun way of phrasing this, but today I'm drained. I got nothing. Become a patron of mine over on Patreon, and help me build the Cameryn Moore network of heartfelt, sex-aware performance and community. You support my work; I pop you over some exclusive videos every now and then. It's a weird little relationship, but it works.