Real dolls, real men, real Erin

Once in a wax museum, I got separated from my group and suddenly found myself alone in the gallery of dignitaries. Hillary and Bill, Desmond Tutu, Tony Blair and the likes were frozen all around me.

Each figure possessed a silent and unique point of view.

I looked from one to the next as a vague fear of the unknown washed over me. I shuddered against the eerie sensation; then hurried off to find other living people.

After I shook the chill, an epiphany bloomed: the lifelike nature of the wax figures imbued them with a presence that bordered on mystical. A new belief akin to superstition settled in me, and on that day my paradigm moved one click closer to the realm of voodoo.

Now shift gears.

If a room full of fully-clothed waxen people could cast a spell on me, what power does a beautiful photo have? Or what about a lovely doll? And if that doll is life-sized and anatomically correct, if she is a RealDoll, then what?

I had to find out.

Much has been written about RealDoll and her owner, but most of it is flat and predictable. Guys screwing big Barbies. Har-dee-har-har. Anyone can write that snarky story, including all the obvious one-liners that go with it.

"So, buddy, does that doll feel like the real thing?"

"What real thing?"

Or you can go the other easy route: Disgusted Feminist. This piece that ran in Salon* for instance, wherein the doll owners are depicted as sad social misfits or sickoes.

Nothing is ever that pat. Nothing. I knew there had to be more.

So for a few weeks, I immersed myself in a huge online doll community, the Doll Forum, in order to write something fresh and unique. The ordeal was stunning and exhausting. After a couple of drafts and discussions, my editor thought that my online experience was more interesting than the dolls, so that's what I wrote up.

Here is a link to the Free Times article.

As soon as I started asking questions, a hundred stories bloomed, some surprised the hell out of me. There were sympathetic stories amongst the doll owners, none of which were represented in the Salon story. My Free Times story is also insufficient. There were so many other things I could not cover: all the different kinds of dolls (including those not designed for sex), the range of attitudes towards real women, and the difficult logistics associated with sex with the dolls. That's just to name a few of the things that didn't make it into my final cut. Hence my article is not all-encompassing, but it is honest and (hopefully) balanced. It also talks about my emotions and reactions, yes, but it does not judge.


You can read the exhaustive discussion I had with the doll owners here. You might wonder why some of the quotes and references in the Free Times article are not there.

Simple.

Members and administrators were constantly going back to edit and delete comments, although nearly everything I quoted survived--at least since the last time I checked.

I took one hell of a beating at the Doll Forum (most of the bullying comments have been deleted--only after they were up for about ten days--plenty of time to do what they intended), but I stand by my method. I could have gleaned quotes from all over the forum and shaped the doll owners any way I wanted. But I didn't because that is manipulative at best and dishonest at worst. Instead, I stepped into the light, introduced myself with my real name and links, and solicited comments about dolls. Everyone knew they were "on the record."

To close, a few anonymous (and edited) comments from the Doll Forum:

"(My dolls) are respected companions. Because of my mystical beliefs, my dolls are also "spirit guides" or "guardian angels" who are always with me. This is a wonderful feeling. They often help me with important things. If I were ever to lose the dolls themselves, their spirits would still very much be with me."

"The body seven doll was molded from a real woman and I find access to Dolly's fudge shoot to be very easy from a standing position. I had to enlarge both the anal and vaginal openings by leaving in a wooden phallus for one week. I guess they could have moved the asshole after making the mold."**

"We all have thresholds beyond which we will not explore. Love dolls cross so many boundaries for a lot of people."

Every doll picture on this post was taken by the doll's owner. And yes, every pic includes dolls and only dolls. Here is another photo that is NSFW.

*That story was a mangled version of Meghan Laslocky's longer and more even-handed piece that ran in Salt Magazine. I have no idea how she felt about it, but when the longer article was pointed out to me, I was shocked and dumbfounded at how Laslocky was edited in Salon.

**This comment was part of an older post, one in which I had no participation.

I encourage letters to the Free Times editor Frank Lewis. Here is the email link. Be sure to include your full name and city.

Poodle soap and I love it

John Sheppard and his wife Helen Mansfield came to my house for dinner this weekend and it so rocked my face off. They gave me soaps that are shaped like poodles and I love it.

No one can touch my poodle soaps ever! I am going to name them Norlene and Grape. and take them with me wherever I go.

The artwork behind Helen and John is an original acrylic on canvas by Grant Bailie and it is my favoritest thing ever. It hangs in my office and that is like Bailie hanging out with me all the time and that is a rockout.

Helen and John are totally in love and I love them and everything is way cool.

John and Bailie and I are all going to be in a really cool book together and you so have to be down with that.

I love everything. Hello. I am Erin.

Me me me me me me me. Me.

Hello. Erin O'Brien here.

I googled Erin O'Brien Naked. That was interesting.

I opened a Facebook account because PDD told me too. Then I find that "Divana" has started The Official Erin O'Brien Fan Club. They even made me president!

woot!

I do not understand Facebook, but I'm trying. If you want to come and join my fan club, open up a Facebook account and search around for me. Add me as a friend and I will invite you to the fan club. It will be fun with Kool-Aid and noisemakers and dental floss!

Steve McQueen

Steve McQueen digs young naked babes and he has a great big dick but I think he ought to have a little respect for a good solid middle-aged housewife.

Righteous living

I love Sumo wrestlers cause they are fat guys hugging each other in giant g-strings with fancy hair-do's.

I am a sensitive artist

This is me singing along to King Missile. I don't know why the soundtrack is off. Sorry.

Go here to read about just how sensitive I am or if you've seen my undies (the ones with the zipper).

Wishing upon a star and a flying cave

Here is an essay on writing, Erin-style. And if you are in Cleveland this weekend, don't miss this.

Despite my absence in the comment section, I am here, loving all your notes. They keep me going.

The Big Lebowski Redux

I slide the Big Lebowski VHS cassette into the player, which accepts and draws the tape into itself politely. I take pleasure at this perfect insert-tab-A-into-slot-B policy. I smile.

Earlier in the day, a great commotion took place in the field next to my home. He who owned the field had taken advantage of a lax new Ohio law that allows drilling for oil and gas in residential areas regardless of municipal law. So much for home rule.

Hence, a towering oil derrick stands erect in the otherwise pristine meadow approximately 500 feet from my television and VHS machine, the mechanical heads of which have begun to whir. The drilling operation is replete with wildcatters, klieg lights and stentorian diesel generators.

He who owned the field, ironically, died one week ago and is not present to see his Giant dream come to fruition. No matter. Contracts were in place and the show must indeed go on.

I fast forward through the “Coming Soon” segments and settle into the movie, trying to ignore the atrocious noise associated with the drilling. Surely when the clock strikes 10 p.m., it will stop per a local ordinance. On the little screen, The Dude takes a slug of his white Russian, leaving a creamy white residue around his mouth and mustache. I absentmindedly finger my pearl necklace.

Fortified myself with a bit of cheap Canadian, I call the cops to report the racket at quarter after ten. I am promptly told that nothing can be done by anyone.

Horse shit.

If Bunny Lebowski can charge $1,000 for performing fellatio, something can be effing done! I check my aggression then call Every. Single. Councilperson. As. Well. As. The. Mayor. At. Home. I swear. I implore. I espouse my disbelief, my indignation, my outrage.

Nothing is done.

The generators generate. The drill pounds relentlessly into the earth as I note that, above the Dude’s modest home bar, there hangs a photo of Richard Nixon frozen in the ejaculatory moment just before bowling ball hits bowling lane. I meet and admire Jesus and his tongue and admit to myself that I probably shouldn’t have allowed nine years to transpire before seeing this movie.

What is wrong with me?

The film concludes. I retire. In order to muffle the noise, I sandwich my head between pillows much in the same manner I did when my college roommate entertained gentlemen in the bunk below me some 20 odd years ago. Just as was the case then, the pillows are not much help. Hence, as Mother Earth endures ceaseless penetration throughout the night, I sleep alone and poorly, fractured dreams of Sam Eliot’s extraordinary mustache floating in my head.

Miraculously, at 7:01 a.m., the drilling stops and the beautiful quiet to which I am accustomed blooms. At 7:04 a.m., my husband returns home fresh off the midnight shift. I stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen. He beholds my dark circles and poor coloring while blinking quizzically.

“Life does not stop and start at your convenience,” I say, then turn to the absolution of the coffee pot.

The preceding post is an edrant simulcast*.

*WARNING: Clicking the associated link may result in learning something cool**.

**WARNING: There actually is no warning associated with the preceding warning, I just felt like acting like there was a warning (which there isn't).

Smart Erin/Dumb Erin, vol. 1

Smart Erin sits alone in the movie theater. She is slim and intelligent and wears clothing that Fits Properly. She eats low-sodium, trans-fat free popcorn (called, ironically, Smart Pop) from a conservatively sized red and white striped paper bag.

Dumb Erin flails on the screen. Men with huge erections are chasing Dumb Erin, who stops, teases them, then drinks heartily from a longneck bottle of beer.

Smart Erin sighs and rolls her eyes. She covers her hand with her face, peering at the screen from between her fingers.

Dumb Erin laughs maniacally. She runs, falls. He laughter turns to sobs. The men chasing her grow horns. Their flesh glows and turns red. Their hands and feet transform into claws. Dumb Erin screams and goes to drink from the bottle. But it is no longer a bottle. It's a gun!

Smart Erin groans.

The creatures chasing Dumb Erin no longer bear any resemblance to men. They are full blown devil monsters, fast and furious and mean.

Smart Erin shakes her head, exhales heavily.

Dumb Erin pants furiously. The devils have somehow fused into one enormous beast and he's gaining on her. She looks between them and the gun with confusion. Dumb Erin bites the fingernails of her shaking hand …

Smart Erin can't stand it anymore. She stands. "No! Don't!" she yells at the screen. "Don't throw the gun at the monster!" It's useless of course. Dumb Erin is already winding up her arm.

Dumb Erin throws the gun at the Godzilla-sized devil. It bounces uselessly against his chest. He rages on and descends on the tiny figure of Dumb Erin. Her screams are muted by his mass as he crushes, smashes and devours her.

"Every single time," says the disgusted Smart Erin to no one as "THE END" blazes from the otherwise black screen.



***

56 seconds of dumbness and the word "cock."

Entertain your lovely selves with this. I'm still over at Ed's place espousing my love for books, men and "cocks."

But I read it in the paper!

I'm babysitting. Drop on by and I'll tell you a few things about my brother and the evil press.

The moon, the writer, his wife and her couch

A huge thanks to fellow writer Dean Cochrane for this review of my first novel, "Harvey & Eck."

Here is a bit of what he had to say:

The book is funny and sad, desperate and uplifting. It is tough and irreverent and full of life, hope, and love. It is a story of growth that is intertwined without being intertwined, if that makes any sense.

The best writing shows us many things: things that could be, or that should be, or that are, but are hidden. “Harvey & Eck” shows us all of these.

For another review and full ordering details, click here.

Dean has much going for him. There is his writing; and then there is his extraordinarily foxy wife.

Oh. Why the moon? There's lots of moon in the book. Plus, the moon's cool.

Hair

You don't fool me

I woke to find that the Fool (who is nobody's fool) had posted a lovely review of my book, "Harvey & Eck."

Here is a little of what he had to say:

It’s a love story…but unlike any other. The voice of Harvey is unique. The intertwining of various themes around the art piece Simple Bond displays a stunning bit of craft. And the secondary characters are so memorable - Captain Crunch, the Hub, Webley, Kate - they will all find a place with you. There is no good person, or bad person in this novel - just people; people being real people. There’s no precedent, and the ending will surprise you.

Thanks Erin – your book is a gift to us all.

I am so taking my pants off.

Read the whole review here.

Here's a sample of the book:



Here's a longer one.

Although it wasn't always the case, you should be able to order the book at any major bookstore. Or it's available on Amazon for about $12.

Or if you'd like a signed copy, send me $20 and I'll send you one, along with a surprise or two.

Erin O'Brien
P. O. Box 470167
Broadview Heights, OH 44147

Rainy Day Woman, vol 14

In my column this week, read up on infomercials. The YouTube video attached herein was just one of the inspirations for this epic love story.

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Be sure to include your full name and city. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Seventh Heaven

Only for Tilde cause she's cute!

I was a-sposed to do seven habits, but I never do memes and when I do do a meme, I never follow the rules.

Toys.

Men.

Chicks.

Naked.

Shopping.

Cleveland.

Writing.

Seven songs I listen to again and again and again and again:

"Wagon Wheel" Old Crow Medecine Show

"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" Madeleine Peyroux

"The Man Comes Around" Johnny Cash

"Oh Caroline" Shaggy

"1952 Vincent Black Lightning" Richard Thompson

"Tear Stained Eye" Son Volt

"My Girl Josephine" Super Cat

For the boys

Brought to my attention by Dr. Douglas Hoffman, I am ecstatic to introduce the Aneros hands-free anal sphincter-assisted prostate stimulator. This revolutionary device allows a man to achieve electrifying, often unsurpassed orgasms (also known as "Super-Os"). Click here to visit the official site.

For the safety and convenience of my readers, below is a video wherein I briefly outline how to use this revolutionary device.

Photographic study of Goat, vol. 1

Erin 2008

If You Elect Me As The Next President Of The United States Of America

Sex Toys will be tax deductible.

The Goat will have a mustache.

All the bad guys will grow their hearts like the Grinch and love on the Who's.

A new nude photo of me will be released every Thursday.

Every American will receive a lifetime supply of Screaming Yellow Zonkers.

Bill Lippincott will be Secretary of Erin. A mysterious person known as Shaina will be Secretary of Bill.

A special committee will be established in order to study reruns of Lost in Space, the Land of the Lost, and that one show where the blond kid in the leotard said "Shazam!"

No one will eff up and overcook steak ever again.

Everyone's ass will look great.

The use of emoticons will be banned.

Admission to amusement parks will be free.

Ghosts will be real.

No one will have body odor.

Taxes will go up, but who cares?

Donald Trump will be forced into an arranged marriage with Rosy O'Donnell.

Clean Sheet Day will be every Saturday (Tough? Yes. But everyone's happier with clean sheets, Screaming Yellow Zonkers or no Screaming Yellow Zonkers).

Everyone can still bear all the arms they want, but bullets will cost $10,000 each and will only be available for sale between the hours of 4 and 4:30 a.m. on the third Wednesday of every month at a remote outpost deep in the heart of Death Valley.

All massage therapists will become employees of the state and get paid tons of money. Every neighborhood will have a free massage clinic.

Chicks will be able to go topless.