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Archive for Sidewalk Smut

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 14, 2014 (New Orleans)

SMUT WHILE U WAIT, OOPS

SMUT WHILE U WAIT, OOPS

WHEN: 4 hours (9:45pm-1:45am), Oct 14, 2014. WHERE: mural fence next to the Art Market, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans. OUTPUT: 6 custom works, including a fast, rough blowjob leading to a belt-wielding smack-down; a gay three-way that started with a two-player Rusty Trombone; and another straight scene that involved doggy style but had to "be connected, somehow".

I do not mind saying that I was feeling a little fragile as I was heading to Sidewalk Smut last night. A challenging personal situation had emerged, and although my billet hosts had been very kind when I leaned my forehead against the kitchen wall and started crying—they brought me a whisky and ginger ale from the bar around the corner and sat and talked me through—I was not feeling at all sexy. Not that I need to BE sexy when I write this stuff, but I need to feel like the bits in my psyche that are sexy and confident are at least somewhere near the surface, in order to meet my clients halfway and interact with them on the right level. Also, when I'm tired, physically or emotionally, it is just much more difficult to bring the necessary focus for the consultation. I don't know what it is I am picking up when I do those interviews, but I need focus to do it. BUT. I generally subscribe to a "fake it 'til you make it" approach to life, and I also know from experience that the process of just doing it, you know, chopping wood and carrying water, needs to happen. I have no time for downward spirals. So I dragged my ass out, and let me tell you: I am very glad I went. Oh, the healing powers of sharing filth with strangers!

The flow of the street usually brings me a nicely varied stream of customers, and last night was no exception. I guess I just felt it more strongly than usually last night, like, I needed to remind myself of the extraordinary range of human sexuality and personalities, that there is beauty in all the differences. (Am I sounding a little woo? Maybe. I don't care. I take my comfort where I can get it.)

I love the different styles that people have in communicating with me. Some step up, rip open their ribs, and just dump their libido out in a giant sticky heap on my desk; no hesitation, all "here ya go, make something out of that, please!" Other people start out shy, or more pedestrian, but as we get to questions that really tap into their pleasure, or their awareness of things that are going on in their sex lives now, they just open up, like sensual flower-people, and even in the dim streetlight, I can see their faces flush and the smiles get a little softer around the edges, and they start to hold my eye contact better, and it's BEAUTIFUL. Last night I got a tough-ish guy and his slightly biker momma-ish lady, and they opened up to the experience by the end like WHOA.

Often with couples, one person starts out guarded and skeptical, with their partner bringing the enthusiasm. My one gay male piece was like that last night. I got more information from the man initiating the commission, while his partner stood there vaping away, a slightly superior tilt to his eyebrows. When that partner walked off after the last question, the primary customer leaned in and said, "I don't know if it's helpful, but he and I met through mutual friends at a threesome." Um, YES, that is helpful information! I do group sex stories rarely; I don't like to do them, mostly because my policy against using proper names makes pronouns particularly tricky in scenes involving more than two people. For these guys, I went straight into it, rimming and Rusty Trombones and a show-offy doggy moment, and the skeptical partner was so impressed that he tipped me another $20 on top of the commission.

The final client of the night was one of the more open ones, a youngish off-duty taxi driver. First of all, he had witnessed two other customers receive their smut, readings and all, and had seen their pleasure, so he really wanted that for himself. Secondly, he was stoned and feeling the serendipity of finding me there. He was supposed to have been on duty that night, but "something told me not to," so he just called out sick and got stoned and wandered Frenchmen Street until he ran across me. He was feeling the seductive hand of Fate, was the idea, I guess, and who's to say?

He mentioned, as an addendum to the interview, that he had stopped watching porn 10 weeks before, and was finding sex to be different like WHOA. He was noticeably more interested in the personality of a girl than before, he said, and he craved chill emotional connection. Doggy style and mysticism are not incompatible, apparently.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 11-12, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 6.5 hours (8:30pm-3am), Oct 11, and 4.5 hours (8:30pm-1am), Oct 12, 2014. WHERE: mural fence next to the Art Market, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans. OUTPUT: 13 custom works and one piece of microsmut over the course of two nights, including a sweet girl-on-top ride with lots of structural reinforcement; two exhibitionist outdoor sex vignettes that DIDN'T involve an alley (and one that did, I'll be honest, what? alleys are fun!); and my favorite kind of buttsex scene, the kind that has emotional connection underneath.

I'll be honest, keeping up with the Smut Stand report is a bit of a trick in New Orleans, when I'm out there almost every night, and the shifts are really long (5-6 hours, versus the three-hour sessions I usually put in at festivals), and JEEZUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER, so much shit just keeps HAPPENING and I meet all kinds of amazing people. Each night would be its own goddamn novella, and some nights I'm just too wiped to get on it when I come home, and too tired the next day, and then WHOOOSH, three days have passed. I'm going to try to get better at it, but until then, I just wanted to give a few highlights from this past weekend.

  • Another redditor sighted me out there, and he was leading a bachelor party of stone-cold geeks. "OHMIGOD I SAW YOU ON REDDIT, YOU WERE ON REDDIT WEREN'T YOU, GUYS, GUYS, HEY GUYS, THIS WAS THE SMUT LADY ON REDDIT, WE HAVE TO DO THIS. " Okay, son, it's okay, I'm available for a consultation. Please chill.
  • My last client on Saturday night was a persistent but polite woman with a Southern accent of some sort. She missed her time window twice, kept coming back slightly more drunk than before, and the funny thing was, the more drunk she got, the more she sounded, to my ear, like Dolly Parton. So when we finally got down to the consultation, at 2:30 in the morning, damned if I didn't mind how late I ended up staying for her, because she was polite and forthcoming and it felt like I was totally talking with Dolly Parton about butt sex.
  • A lovely rockabilly couple from Miami swung by and really dug down deep for me. I gave them a face-sitting scene with some pillow-soaking squirt action that they won't forget anytime soon. In exchange, they shared with me a sex act that I would like to try, with the best name ever. It's a handjob, with lots of lotion, where the hands are just squeezed down over the cock, one hand at a time, over and over and over and over. The couple called this "The Infinite Vagina." MIND. BLOWN. Mostly by that perfect name.
  • My last client on Sunday night was an out-of-town doctor and the woman he picked up for the night from a strip club somewhere in the French Quarter. During my pitch, I mentioned that I was a phone sex operator; she held up her hand for a high-five and said, "Get it girl! I do cam work and stripping!" Sex worker solidarity, I like it. During the interview, it became clear that they were both dominant types in sex, and exhibitionists as well, so I just put them in a swingers' club with a brick wall and let them fuck-fight it out.

The clients that made me happiest of all this weekend was the straight married couple from Indiana. They have been together nearly 29 years, after having practically grown up with each other as part of an immigrant community from a former Soviet republic. She wore a big cross around her neck, which made me a little nervous at first, but she came back when she said she would, with a big smile on her slightly sweaty face and her grey-mustachioed husband in tow. THEY WERE AMAZING. From the very beginning of their relationship they have been experimenting: watching porn together, sending dirty care packages to each other during periods of separation, trying different positions. She goes to a sex toy shop once a month and just… picks something out! Unlike 95 percent of my clients, they were able to answer my question about a recent or vivid pleasant sexual discovery! (Prostate stimulation, w00t!) The woman said, "One of my biggest fears is that we'll get bored with each other." Feeling a little dazed by how fucking awesome and creative they obviously were together, I looked at her and said, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 9, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5.75 hours (8:15pm-2am), Oct 9, 2014. WHERE: mural fence next to the Art Market, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans. OUTPUT: five custom works, including a sweaty softcore cowgirl scene; a strap-on getting tossed to the floor to make room for some clit-on-clit scissoring; and some rough alley sex (including choking) for a couple that wasn't "really a couple", but had been together for the past week and clearly were just getting out of their hotel room for a couple hours to air out the sex stink before they suffocated. (So they brought it out onto the street, YAY!)

Last night's smutting experience could not have been a more amazing contrast to the Night of the Living Dead two nights ago, not even if someone had written it.

First of all, I got my first commission within 10 minutes after taping my signs up, before I even got to get my stationery supply organized. And the client was… it was beautiful. The woman was on a girls'-only vacation with her friends, and this piece was to be a birthday present for her husband, who she had married as an arranged marriage a year or so ago. When she mentioned the arranged marriage, it seemed that she was expecting me to be shocked in some way; when I wasn't, she leaned in a little, wide-eyed and joyful, and said, "But you know, we actually fell in love! I wasn't expecting that!" She had an answer to my question, about a recent or vivid discovery in sex, but ended up being too shy to tell me. Now I will forever wonder what it was.

Another customer gave me such good feels, when she asked for a piece to send to her new-ish lover. She wanted something as much cerebral as physical, which, fine, I can dig, but that's not what made me so happy to do her piece. She and her lover are both technicians in big-budget traveling theatre, and so their paths criss-cross each other all over the US. It used to be they could meet up every couple of weeks; now it's up to once a month. Please, if there is a patron saint for long-distance lovers and work-driven wanderers, let me be your channel for commissions like this. Let that story bring whatever love dust and magic they need right now.

In spot of occasional low-grade dodginess from one of the fence-dwellers (he kept trying to chat me up while I was working), I have made a couple of tentative acquaintances over there. I met the Art Market manager, who was VERY enthusiastic about the Smut Stand. She immediately understood and approved of the red-light visual metaphor, and even offered some suggestions about ways to beef it up. I think she will like the sign I made. Oh, and I made friends with an illustrator over there against the fence, who showed up a couple of hours after I set up. I asked if I would be stepping on his toes by being on that side of the street, and he laughed and said, "No, man, it's not my sidewalk! I'm happy to have you over here, I like your style!" At the end of the night, we traded wares, one piece of cock-sucking microsmut for a slightly fantastical sketch of a guy with a big dick and a peacock feather. I feel that was one of the most appropriate swaps I've ever made with a fellow street vendor.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 8, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 4 hours (8pm-midnight), Oct 8, 2014. WHERE: mural fence next to the Art Market, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans.  OUTPUT: one custom work, a hardcore doin'-it-standing-while-no-one's watching piece in a nightclub. (I wonder how often that particular scene actually unfolds. Some clubs get really crowded.)

This was one of those nights that I knew would happen, even here, when the crowd was just not buying smut. Few people stopped, even fewer had legit questions about the process. The only commission I got was two hours after I started, and while her interview and response to the piece was gratifying—her husband's birthday is on Sunday, and he "always wants to fuck!"—it was not enough to carry my mood past midnight. I actually rejected one piece soon after that, because it was two members of a stag party wanting something for their soon-to-be-married friends. That goes against both policy and good practice. I only do consensual smut.

On nights like this, I never know how much of it is really the crowd, and how much is the new location—I decided to just stay set up in front of the mural fence, across from Michael's Bicycle—and how much is my mood. Because I hadn't drunk nearly as much coffee as usual right before setting out the stand (normally I'm getting a large coffee in the hour beforehand), and it was SO FUCKING MUGGY that I could not stop sweating, and I was sitting with some personal shit that was really distracting, and it was the gushiest day of my period so I was anxious about that, and it's possible that all of those things were just messing with the vibe that I put out.

Never mind. Today I make a sign for the fence behind me, something to hang over my head, red lettering on white background, with lots of red lights: SMUT WHILE U WAIT. And I get another red bike light for the other corner of my typewriter table. And I drink lots of coffee, and I bring enough water, and I do it all again.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 4, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5.5 hours (8:30pm-2am), Oct 4, 2014. WHERE: in front of Michael's Bicycle, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans.  OUTPUT: two pieces of microsmut and five full-length works, including a lazy morning blowjob; a desperate fuck in the restroom of a bar, complete with the doorknob rattling; and a good thorough eating-out with strong overtones of cuckolding.

I need to remember to write these reports up within a day, max, following the smut session in question. I take pictures of all the custom pieces that I write, but it's not always easy to recall my customers, on that busy busy street.

This night continued the trend of referrals. One middle-aged woman came sweeping up earlier in the evening; her young friends had gotten their two pieces done the night before, and nothing would do but having her own done. She was able to be marvelously articulate about the positions and sensations that she really enjoyed—sleepy slow morning sex—and she actually said, "My fantasy is something that we do often anyway." Would that everyone could say that about their own sex lives!

Closing out the night were two dueling parties, both related to weddings. A fellow who had just been a groomsman in a wedding that day wanted to get a piece for himself. He talked too much during the interview, and used the word "consensual" too often for my comfort, like he had memorized a vocabulary word of the day and was using it just to show that he knew it, but he was otherwise nice and had the cash. Not 30 seconds after I had tucked his money away, a stag party came up. This was the second time this group had come by, in fact. They had stopped in front of me an hour earlier, but when I had suggested getting someone's cell phone and texting when a spot was available, no one had taken me up on it. So they had taken their chances and somebody else had grabbed the next spot.

At this point, the groom-to-be turned to my actual customer, the extremely consensual groomsman, and began begging with him, loudly, please, he needed some smut, could he go first. My customer took it in good cheer, but argued back loudly. Things were starting to get very loud, and I lost my patience. SHUT UP. SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU, I yelled to the mob in front of my stand. My command rang across the sidewalk; the mob quieted, all except the two principles, who were still talking to each other. I SAID SHUT UP, I MEAN YOU AND YOU, and pointed at both of them. The overwhelming vibe of the space at that moment was, "Yes, ma'am." It felt good.

We got it sorted to everyone's satisfaction, how things were going to go. At the end of the night, I couldn't reach the bridegroom-to-be for his interview, and wrote it off as a lost cause. But one of his friends happened to show up, and asked if I could do something for the groom, even without the interview. I was like, well, what do you know about his sex life? "A little." I can swing something on an index card, I said. Rather than charging $5 up front for it, as I would for a normal piece of microsmut, I said I would treat this transaction as the poets do, and he pay me what it's worth after he got it. I knew he was desperate to get something from the smut lady, so I knew he was going to come back, and I was counting on his guilt on behalf of the stag party, for putting me through so much hassle. He would pay handsomely for this little piece, I guessed. And he did: $20 for four lines about his friend, his friend's fiancée, and a drunken blow-job in the mirror.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct. 3, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5.5 hours (8:30pm-2am), Oct 3, 2014. WHERE: in front of Michael's Bicycle, Frenchmen Street, New Orleans.  OUTPUT: one piece of microsmut and six custom works, including a quasi-spiritual beachside scene with cowgirl and crashing waves; a softcore, just-made-it-to-the-house piece where the proper gentleman becomes a pussy-craving maniac; and one that included so many elements of kink that it's shorter to just give you its working title: Human Zoo.

Last night I experienced again the power of both positive peer pressure and word of mouth. Four of the five full-length commissions came in pairs, and of those, two were referrals from last night's end-of-shift customers. This is  a thing that happens, even in sidewalk literary pursuits.

Last night had a couple of hours of waitlisting, and then a lot of hours of waiting. A few of the pieces were definitely worth considering for the next Bang It Out volume, and I even did up a couple of non-com pieces based on my lover's prompts and emailed them off to him (and received enthusiastic praise for them this morning, yes, I might let you see). Thank you, Spotted Cat Club, for your wireless signal! Matt-the-Poet and one other poet were there; Matt wasn't very talkative, but he was working on a piece in his notebook, so I left him alone.

In short, it felt like a fine evening until the very end. I was packing up the stand, and Matt turned to me and said, "We need to talk."

That is never a good sentence.

What followed is this: he loves what I do, admires me for it, he loves working next to me, but he cannot continue to work next to me every time he's out there. "The brightest star dims the others around it," he said, or something like that. Poetry cannot compete with pornography, and on the last three nights he's been out and sitting next to me, he has made either zero dollars or as close to that as makes no difference when paying his bills. Normally he makes bank on Tuesdays and Thursdays, in particular, but this week nothing.

This is stuff that I don't deal with anyplace else, because there are no other literary buskers, anywhere else I've been. Here I have to sit with this situation all the time, when I'm doing smut next to the poets-for-hire. I mentioned it in yesterday's smut report, that I notice a decent demand for smut many nights, but I remember other nights last year when poetry was the big seller. That has not happened yet this year. I regularly draw more attention than the poets; I normally shrug and figure, well, I put in my time doing lonely stints out in Cincinnati or Houston or wherever. I put in a lot of hours there on Frenchmen Street. I am always polite to other typists. I came up with the signage. It is not my fault that smut is my peculiar talent. But my presence was having a deleterious effect on Matt's livelihood.

Gah.

I am actually confused about why this pattern is happening this year and not in years past. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it's a result of the Bourbonization of Frenchmen Street, that is, the people who like the style of Bourbon Street, but are freaked out by the crime there, are coming in droves to Frenchmen Street and they may be less the poetry types.

Which all makes for a very interesting discussion about social trends and street-level capitalism and blah blah blah, but in the end it just comes down to the fact that I am not willing to lose Matt's friendship over this. We talked, or mostly, he talked and I listened and tried really hard to keep from crying, and then we came to the following agreement: I will set up somewhere else on the street on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which are historically his moneymakers. If people ask, "where's the smut lady?", he will point them in my direction. And he would walk with me, right then, after we packed up our shit, and scope out the street for likely alternative spots for me.

Well, there are many reasons why in front of Michael's Bicycle is the historical gathering spot for the typists. No other spot is nearly as suited, with the flow of traffic and good lighting and the shelter from the elements. In the end, I settled on across the street, in front of the mural fence. That's where I first set up my stand in New Orleans, in fall of 2011. It is badly lit--I might get a battery-powered clip-on lamp--and there is no cover. If it rains, I'm fucked. But that's really the only option, unless I want to take Tuesday and Thursday nights off.

I feel resentful. I know I am doing the right thing with regard to Matt, but … look, I know it seems like I'm rolling in it, with some of these Sidewalk Smut reports, but that shit is GAS MONEY to get back to Montreal and fucking RENT when I get there, for at least another couple of months until I've been back on call for 16 hours a day for a couple of months and that income stream levels out. That shit is GROCERY MONEY, in an autumn where performances are sparsely scheduled and ticket sales have been less than inspired. My survival instincts, my anxiety around food availability, is at a constant background hum when I tour, and during and after yesterday's conversation with Matt, that anxiety spiked into moderate panic. I remind myself that I did all right in that alternate spot in 2011, but still.

I feel sadness, that I don't get to sit with Matt on those nights. His company is precious to me, and he says mine is too him, but not more precious than paying his bills. I hate that our time together has to be sacrificed to that.

And I feel shame, for needing that money so bad. I feel guilt for pursuing my work, even though it is having, has always had, a noticeable impact on the local street poets' trade. I only care about Matt, but it affects all of them. There is nothing dodgy about being a traveling busker, and there is no rota system for this, the poets generally co-exist fine amongst themselves. But right now I feel like I am an invasive species, destroying the natural ecosystem for a month, and then moving on.

My lover, the one who gave me the writing prompts last night, emphasized that the situation it is no one's fault, and says that I am doing the right and good thing by making the concessions. Maybe. But I wouldn't do them for anyone else. And I still feel really, complicatedly bad.

SMUT STAND REPORT: Sept. 30, 2014 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5.5 hours (8:30pm-2am), Sept 30, 2014. WHERE: Frenchmen Street, New Orleans. OUTPUT: one piece of microsmut and three custom works, including a surprise picnic lunch out on a remote hiking trail and a structurally unsound reverse-cowgirl scene where a thumb in her ass was the only thing keeping her from falling over.

The night before last was slow-ish and boring and not very lucrative—$60 for the four-hour session. LAST NIGHT was slightly better on the money side and INFINITELY more interesting.

First of all, Matt-the-Poet came out for the first time since I've been back. I will say it again, for the people who have joined this party since last October: Matt is the one person who I have found in the world to be a true friend and colleague in the realm of literary busking. I know there are other street poets in the world, and I work next to some of them some nights here, but he is the only one I've met so far who I really like and respect. I respect his attitude, toward the work and the passersby; I respect his process; and I respect the material that he produces. In turn, he is the only poet there who a) really gets the value of the work that I do, and b) doesn't look down on me in the slightest. I love it when we are out there together--we converse easily, but also seem to know when we need to work—and also, and not insignificantly, I have someone to watch my stuff while I run off for a pee break in d.b.a.

My first couple of commissions were pretty standard and good, for their type. First one was a young German man, out to party with some friends, who clearly thought it was a joke at first, but as the interview progressed he sobered up. The second one was a lovely straight couple, clearly still in love and in lust with each other, totally ready to step up and lean in. The fact that the woman listed "receiving anal" as one of her favorite activities, that was just the icing on the cake. Yay, butt-sex sisterhood!

The third and final commission came at the witching hour, around midnight, when, as Matt has observed, things can start picking up and getting weird. On first read, this would be a fairly straightforward consultation: straight couple, mid- to late-30s, husband considerably more drunk than the wife, but she's buzzing, too, and they're both into it. She had mentioned being curious about some of the stuff in Fifty Shades of Grey; okay, I can work with that. However, as the conversation continued, I found myself wanting to lean further and further away. This was the most dysfunctional relationship that I have ever had the misfortune to write smut for, BY FAR. I don't know the details, I don't know how they got to be that way, I'm sure there was a lot going on behind the scenes. but I found myself blaming the man, his actions were the asshole ones, right there in front of me. Hear me out:

He kept jumping all over her answers, interrupting her to explain something further about his shit, egging her on to be more open with me. He clearly had a few more ideas rolling through his head, but godDAMMIT, his aggressiveness and jumping around and grandstanding was working against any amount of trust that I could build with her. The real kicker was the way he used a not-really-stage whisper in telling me, several times, that she was "sexually retarded." First of all, NO, NOT THAT WORD, NOT EVEN THAT CONCEPT. Second of all, SHE'S RIGHT THERE YOUR WIFE OF 15 YEARS IS RIGHT FUCKING THERE SHE CAN HEAR YOU EVERYONE PASSING BY CAN HEAR YOU AND BY YOUR OWN ADMISSION YOU ARE TRYING TO GET HER TO TRY NEW THINGS AND THIS IS HOW YOU DO THIS INSULT HER SEXUALITY FUCKING FUCK FUCK WHY ARE YOU EVEN TOGETHER ANYMORE. She finally walked off while he was answering the last question, she actually walked off. I took the twenty dollars and his cell number, and was so profoundly relieved when he walked away. That was a challenging piece to write; I tried to give them each a little of what they wanted, but the lingering bitterness of their toxic life made it very difficult to focus. They never came back for the piece. (I will text them again today.)

My host pointed out that New Orleans can be a relationship catalyst like that, as people drink and get drawn in by the anything-goes atmosphere. People let loose and see other options, or just feel a certain kind of freedom, for the first time in a long while, maybe ever, and if a couple's dynamic is already weak, that kind of experience can do serious damage to the facade. I have seen people having wonderful and powerful healing and joy and love connections as result of my work. I don't think I've ever catalyzed a breakdown, though. It was terrifying.

FORTUNATELY, the night picked up after that. I was ready to pack it in, but I'm glad I stuck around to hang out with Matt. First, a balding older man, who I had seen passing and circling us as part of a group of other men (a convention, I'm guessing), he approached. I had been tracking him for about a half-hour; I was sure he was going to pull out something sleazy. Instead, he said, to both of us, "I'm from Australia and I've never seen anything like this, poetry and smut right here on the street. Can I take your picture? I'll give you money." I was, like, "we'll take your money," and Matt laughs. The guy takes his pictures, and then takes out his wallet, and I'm thinking, maybe a fiver. Nope. He hands me a 20 and asks me to split it between us. Suh-WEEET.

And then, maybe 15 minutes later, a young man in a maroon patterned dinner jacket stands before us swaying, points at Matt and says, "Bourbon." Matt and I blink at each other. What? He then points to me and says, "Gin." Ohhhhhh. You want to buy us drinks! "Yes." In that case, I will have a rum and coke. Matt says any kind of whisky is good. The well-dressed drunk comes back in five minutes, somehow managing to carry six cups of booze without spilling anything. He then asks us each to write something short in our respective genres for $5. Fair enough. He's respectful, and he just bought us drinks. He surprised me a little during our mini-intake interview, by requesting softcore, and something to do with water. I was pleased with the result, and so was he, so much so that he gave me another dollar. Then… he just stood there, or sat in front of us and talked. About writing, about a girl that he never got over, about doing food service in this town, about what we're doing is really real.

Toward the end of the conversation he was fumbling around with his phone, and Matt's poem for him fell out on the sidewalk and was about to blow away. I felt myself getting suddenly maternal and said, here let me. So I reached right into his inside jacket pocket where I had seen him put my microsmut, pulled it out, nipped the poem out of his fingers, put both works into one of the letter-sized envelopes that I bring out to the stand now, sealed it up, and slipped the envelope into his outer pocket. There, I said, patting the pocket. Now reaching for your phone isn't going to endanger the literature.

He walked away, weaving from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. What is that called, I asked Matt, in a sine wave, the height and depth of the wave? "Amplitude," he said. I pointed at the receding figure of the patron, who was very nearly bouncing off walls and garbage cans, and Matt laughed. "Yes, that is a high-amplitude drunk."

SMUT STAND REPORT: Sept. 26, 2014 (Houston, TX)

WHEN: 4 hours (8pm-midnight), Sept 26, 2014. WHERE: On Brazos Street near Little Woodrow's (Midtown), Houston, TX. OUTPUT: one hardcore threesome for a basically nice guy, who nonetheless could not stop talking about threesomes in his interview, so I gave him a fucking threesome already.

I had chosen this location after driving through it on Thursday night with Bill, my host. It had been hopping on Thursday, just swarmed with people at 12:30 in the morning, with seven or eight major clubs in a three-block stretch, and I had thought, fuck, if it's this busy on Thursday, imagine what it's like on Friday. These are people coming for a good time. This is the spot.

But I made that decision from the safety and isolation of a car. I let greed make that decision for me, instead of actually getting out and wandering in the crowd and feeling the vibe. Ten minutes of hanging around outside the food truck would have told me what I needed to know: oh, my lovelies, this was the wrong place for me to be last night, absolutely the wrong place.

These were not my people. These were very young adults (average age 22) who were bent on getting laid, and insufficiently literary to appreciate that a gift of erotica can TOTALLY enhance your sex life better than alcohol. It was an almost toxic concentration of drunk or getting-there dude-bros, and the girls who want to get with them. Which, I mean, these folks are there in most neighborhoods that I smut in, but if I've chosen my spot right, the indifference, if not outright hostility are cut with the right blend of other, more interested/excitable/polite demographics.

Last night was PURE toxic party people. Well, almost pure. I won't say that my one custom piece made up for the rest, but it was kind of inevitable and awesome: "Wait. You were on Comedy Central. I saw you a couple of nights ago. Oh my god, I totally have to do this." The gentleman was easily 15 years older than anyone else in the neighborhood, and ended up being a bit racist and fetishizing in his sexuality (banging on about the ethnicities of EVERY GIRL HE TALKED ABOUT), but I will always love him a little bit for being the first person to recognize me out on the street from my "appearance" on @midnight (look for me at about the 14-minute mark).

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