The guy with the funny name doesn't want to have sex with me. Dozens of people would like to have sex with me, and they can't because either I don't have time for them, I'm not choosing them, or they don't know me. Yet he who could have my juices all over his face within seconds of his penetrating gaze is turning me down. Let me add that we had already been fucking for a couple of months.
This is not a complete rejection. He didn't say he doesn't want to date me, or that he doesn't desire me. He just doesn't want to have sex with me. When he first told me this in a nervous rambling of confused logic, I was so thrown off that I temporarily regressed to the self-pitying mentality of a prom-date reject circa 1993. A litany of excuses followed: "There's so much more to life than sex--not that sex isn't enjoyable, it's just not a priority. Something is missing, I feel shitty afterwards, empty. Maybe I don't know you well enough."
These are all valid reasons for wanting to slow down...if he had a pussy. Don't get me wrong--I adore emotionally-liberated men. I'm just not used to a straight man refusing sex from me, or any hot and horny woman for that matter. If he is physically attracted to me, I expect he wants to fuck me, regardless of whether I pay him any attention. If the attraction is mutual, and we connect on many levels (erotically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually), but he does not wish to act on lust, I am one vexed vixen. Unless he is monogamously married / committed to someone else, frightfully religious, ill or paranoid of STD's.
The guy with the funny name is none of the above. Last time I checked, he was passionately into me. "There's fire between us," he said not too long ago. So why the sudden withdrawal?
He who has only had sex within the context of longterm monogamous relationships threw himself into my libertine world for the sake of trying something new, and now he is experiencing emotional backdraft. Apparently the fire of curious desire was depleting the oxygen of his romantic ideals.
So he says he doesn't want to have sex with me. Chaos of impending doom followed initial shock. "Why does it feel like a break-up? What does this mean? You want an old-fashioned courtship? Can we hold hands? I guess we could only meet in public places. But if I see other people, well, I do see other people, and if I'm having sex with them and not you, I'm going to feel closer to them, and consequently I might lose interest in you."
"I know...that's a reality I have to face," he said.
Later that night, he came up to my place to use the bathroom, and we ended up having passionate sex. He slept over, entwined in my perilous arms. The next morning we fucked again like genuine lovers, for old times sake. I refrained from seduction. He couldn't resist his own desire.
We haven't had sex since then. I respected his needs and convinced myself that it might not be such a bad idea to abstain. It could be romantic. I could fantasize that we're living in the 1950's, or that he's my medieval knight aspiring to the purest form of love. We had a few dates and grew closer as he helped me through a recent crisis. I forgot about the sex for a while, and saw the value in his decision. Maybe there is something about getting to know someone before you get to know his body. But he interrupted our sensual flow! Come on, be an optimist. Intentional abstinence can be erotic. Arousing each other with kisses and eye-gazing then refraining from going any further, building up desire and anticipation while space is filled with meaningful mindful connection...think of it as extended foreplay. And if it doesn't work out, I won't be bawling over orgasms never had.
We were progressing nicely, until I read an article: "He's Just Not That Into It" by Em and Lo on Men.Style.com. It was about how men are increasingly rejecting casual sex. I forwarded the article to the guy with the funny name because certain parts resonated with me and I thought he might relate to it on some level, particularly the line: "Putting aside any situation-specific reasons—she's too drunk, she's a stalker, she's got a goiter—some guys are finding they don't like how casual sex makes them feel."
His response was confounding. Despite a few flattering words, it felt bitter and disparaging toward casual sex in a way that negatively reflected onto me. It also had the careless undertones of someone who is drifting away.
I never felt like our sex was casual and I suppose he felt the same, but now it seems that anything but that completely in love soul-connected sex is casual to him. Casual sex means different things to different people. I don't like disconnected sex...so I guess disconnected sex is casual sex for me. And disconnected sex can exist in any context. I'd rather have a one-night stand with someone with whom I feel a really strong lust connection than disconnected sex within a long-term love relationship--(which is worse than a disconnected one-night stand because you can't just forget about it and move on with your life the next day.)
He wrote that casual sex is a "selfish, empty way to live" and that "using people to quench some temporary lust" leaves him cold. Well, I could say that he used me to investigate something he had been curious about. So what? Everyone uses each other. It may as well be for pleasure than for pain. For me, sex is not just about giving. Most of the time it is give and take--an exchange of desire, pleasure, and ultimately love. Other times it's just for the taking. If it's just desire and pleasure, usually it's great. I've also had the experience where it was just pleasure (passively slipping into a sexual situation without much desire for the person), and although that's not my preferred form of sex, part of me still enjoyed it. (I've had this type of one-way sex in long-term relationships as well). In most situations there was no reason to refuse pleasure if someone was willing to give it to me.
Sex is, above all, pleasure wrapped within a biological drive. Of course sharing this biological drive with someone you deeply love is the highest form of sex. But that type of sex is rare. I have slept with dozens and dozens of takers and encountered the highest form of sex only a few times. Most people are lucky to discover it once in a lifetime. Many people never find it. Should they deny themselves the highest form of physical pleasure on account of an elusive feeling? Are they selfish for taking the least of what is offered to them?
Am I selfish for enjoying sex for whatever it's worth, in all its wonderful variety?
But he says I'm different than the rest! I am, but I'm also part of the rest. I don't judge them for using people to quench their temporary lust. I'm no stranger to that motivation.
What is most authentic about the topic in the article is this: "Women, it seems, just aren't used to guys not wanting sex." Especially me. Says "Jeff," a 27-year-old grad student in New York, "We're socially conditioned to feel like pussies if we don't live up to the guys-will-fuck-anything stereotype. And because of this stereotype, women take sexual rejection more personally than men do." This resonated with me as the guy with the funny name doesn't fit the stereotype. And I definitely felt personally rejected when he first expressed his desire to bottle up our sex.
Ironically, we share the same romantic ideals. The difference is that I don't stop eating if I'm not in love with the food.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
Death of a Sex Column Part 1
I saw it coming. It was as nebulously foreboding as an impending break-up, triggered by a single practical change. You know how it is: something's not right, but you're not sure so you convince yourself that they still love you and therefore stay where you are. No, I will not quit, you say to yourself, out of fear of being dumped. I will not race to the end without any specific reason for doing so, or just to avoid a broken heart. And yet your gut is burning with intuition.
The single practical change in this case was when Manhattan Media bought the New York Press. I was not alarmed by this news; actually, my first thought was that I would possibly get paid more than the paltry $100 per column, and if not that, at least get paid on time. (New York Press is notorious for dysfunctional payroll...once I deposited a check that bounced and it took them months to reimburse me for the $10 fee my bank charged).
I visited Jerry Portwood in his new sanitized office then met with the new publisher, Tom Allon, who had nothing but positive things to say about my column. Jerry had prepped me with the news that I was one of the few writers they were keeping. Not only were they keeping me, they didn't want to change a thing. Allon even wanted me to get more involved with the NY Press website; we discussed cultivating reader interaction through sex polls and a blog. Other than the elimination of the sex ads in the back of the paper (I admit I miss those girly Asian asses and She-Male crotch shots) and a few formatting changes, the New York Press was relatively intact after changing ownership. But the offices were too clean, too khaki. And the letters on the wall in the lobby spelling "New York Press" blended eerily with the names of the other publications: The West Side Spirit, New York Family, Our Town.
Everything was cool for about a month. My column, as usual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had completed a "Lust Life" book proposal, and was prepared to write this column every week for at least another year, riding the waves of my inevitable book deal until a few months after publication, when I would appropriately, nobly resign.
That seemed to be the ideal progression, as long as the paper remained an edgy backdrop for my uncompromising style. But I, as well as you readers of the New York Press, saw that "edgy" started to lose its edge when the paper made the ungraceful transition from being "New York's Premier Alternative Weekly" to "New York's Independent Weekly Newspaper."
"Independent." What is independent? Someone or something independent is not influenced by outside authority, opinion, jurisdiction, or corporate sponsorship. I am independent.
As I was independently travelling to Washington D.C. for an independent film festival, I opened that week's "independent" issue of the New York Press (Sept. 12-18) to my independent column, and was horrified that a NYU Cancer Institute ad was placed right in the middle of "Lust Life." A conservative woman posed purse-lipped with the quote "I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life." Now, I have nothing against reaching out to the cancer-stricken population, but why was this ad stuck in the middle of a column about sex at Burning Man? Maybe it had something to do with the title "Burning Desire" (which was the editor's invention after my original title "Erotic Desert"). Mmmm. Burning Desire. That's hot. And that reminds me of my burning intestines. Oh God, maybe I have colon cancer. Now I can't finish reading Lust Life because I'm worried I might have colon cancer. I better call the number in this cancer ad before it's too late. Hey, I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life either--that's why I get colonics.
Wait--there's more! On the editorially devoid page opposite Lust Life / Colon Cancer, were ads for five NYC hospitals, The Conservative Synagogue of Fifth Avenue Family Programs and Tribeca Spa of Traquility (their typo, not mine). Still slackjawed, I turned a few pages and landed upon "Hudson Valley Happenings"--a 10 PAGE promotional guide to regional fall festivities such as organ recitals, Dutch Weekend, Family Day at Constitution Island, and Family Fun Events at Hudson Valley Center for Contemporary Art. It's not that I wouldn't go to Hudson Valley for a pleasant weekend of fucking in the foliage. What disgusted me about these changes was how incongruent they were in relation to my column and New York Press as a whole. New York Press wasn't founded on family values. It was founded on the enlightened cynicism of young liberal urbanites that wouldn't read The West Side Spirit if it was the last free paper in New York.
My lover, who was sitting next to me in the bus, said, "This is not the New York Press. This is something else." We discussed my position in this morass of conservative change. He suggested that the Village Voice might be a better place for my column. For a few moments, the current Voice seemed significantly more appealing than the family-fun filled pages in my hands. Then I remembered that not too long ago, sex writer Rachel Kramer Bussel had her "Lusty Lady" column unceremoniously booted from the other NY alternative paper that used to be cool. "Maybe it's better to stay where I am for now," I said. "The new publisher kept my column; that must mean something."
I saw it coming. After the film festival, I went to an artists community in Vermont to work on my book for two weeks. Alternative Newspaper Suffers a Long, Slow Death, I wrote as a mock headline in a piece about my romantic adventures in DC.
I saw it coming. While in Vermont, I googled myself and found some unflattering comments about me in response to a post on Gawker regarding an offensive rejection letter sent to an aspiring sex columnist for pitching a new column to the Village Voice.
I saw it coming. A couple of days before I finished my column for that week, I received an email from new NY Press editor-in-chief David Blum, saying, "Please call me." I didn't call right away.
I saw it coming. After I emailed my column to Blum and Portwood, I received another email from Blum, saying "Please call me tomorrow morning." I was going to start the column for the following week so I could get it out of the way and focus on my book, but decided to wait until after the conversation with Blum. As if what he had to say would influence my next column. I recalled the comments he inserted into the first column I sent him two weeks earlier (Burning Desire)--he sent the original column back to me with comments like "this is too fantastical to believe" and "what does this mean?" I admit the column I sent was a bit under par--it was late and I was still recovering from the surreal environment of Burning Man. However, in my year and a half of writing this column, I never had a column emailed back to me (occasionally the editor would email me a question or confirm a minor change with me, but this was the first time a column was returned to me with major criticism inserted in capital letters). After my ego revived from the sting, I improved the column and sent it back with some clarifying comments of my own... "two souls connecting in the dust" literally dust of the playa, figuratively magic dust...I trust the intelligent readers of NYPress will get this. He may or may not have appreciated my notes.
The possibility of getting fired did cross my mind.
Meanwhile, the cover story that week was about a publicist's dating debacle with actor Eric Schaeffer...I read Kelly Kreth's article and almost choked at this paragraph: "His particular fascination with excretions spoke to me. Being a woman who is no stranger to poop stories, having published a few of my own on Poopreport.com, I imagined Eric and I someday falling love, showing each other our bowel movements—the most intimate of acts in my estimation. I got butterflies just thinking about it." I thought it was strange that such provocatively disgusting details made it into the cover story of a publication that was steadily moving into a conservative zone. Even more disturbing was that Kreth's article read too much like a sex column.
I called David Blum in the morning. With all the signs leading to this moment, it was not shocking to hear him say that he was discontinuing my column. But even if you expect to be dumped, the words still sting. He said he felt bad, that doing this was the worst part of the job, that he was sorry we never even met. (He wanted to meet me and he even invited me to an editorial meeting, but I was so busy in between my recent trips that we never had the chance.) I had just been rejected, but I wasn't going to let him go so easily. I asked why. "And please be honest. I want to know," I said.
"Well...it's a matter of taste," he said. "Your flowery language obfuscates the clarity--"
"But is it my writing? Is it my style?"
"Obviously, you can put two sentences together..." (well, thank you very much) He claimed he didn't know how else to explain it other than a matter of taste.
"Is it the subject matter? Is it too honest, too edgy?"
He referred again to the flowery language, saying that it "obfuscates the clarity so that the stories don't seem true." He brought up the Burning Desire column as an example. "They are all true," I said. "I don't even embellish." He said he believed me, but that he just didn't believe the stories when he read them.
Well, I couldn't argue with that. If he can't see the truth beyond the lyricism, he doesn't get my column.
I probed further. "Is part of the reason political? I mean, the paper has been moving in a more conservative direction since Manhattan Media bought it."
Allow me to paraphrase his response: It has nothing to do with the sex ads being cut, I don't have a problem with sex in the paper, this week's cover story was about sex...Kelly Kreth...did you see it? Anyway, I just got here a few weeks ago and I have to make some decisions and I guess I just want to do something different. I tried to do something different at the Voice (he alluded to the short-lived sex column by two sexless married women...)
Oh my God, this is the same guy who fired Rachel! I didn't remember his name when that news was unleashed and only now realized the connection.
He admitted the sexless sex column was a bad idea. "Don't think it's political," he said.
"Are you hiring a new sex columnist?"
"Eventually, but not right away. We don't have anyone in mind."
I kept him on the phone for at least 20 minutes. He was kind enough to endure my grilling. It was the least he could do. He also mentioned that he really liked the column I just sent him, and that he was going to publish it. He thought it was clear (unlike the flowery others, apparently), and a nice ending that summed it all up.
"You're right, you're not Carrie Bradshaw," he said.
I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a critical affirmation of where I stand. Maybe both.
We hashed it out a bit more. It was a genuine conversation, or so I thought. He respected me enough to explain that he didn't want to work with me to try to change my column so that it would suit his taste. That's not the role of a columnist. A columnist is autonomous, like the free-spirit who will never change who she is for a lover. "You're a columnist," he said. "I can't change you and I don't want to change you." A columnist cannot write to please an editor. She can only write from her heart.
The single practical change in this case was when Manhattan Media bought the New York Press. I was not alarmed by this news; actually, my first thought was that I would possibly get paid more than the paltry $100 per column, and if not that, at least get paid on time. (New York Press is notorious for dysfunctional payroll...once I deposited a check that bounced and it took them months to reimburse me for the $10 fee my bank charged).
I visited Jerry Portwood in his new sanitized office then met with the new publisher, Tom Allon, who had nothing but positive things to say about my column. Jerry had prepped me with the news that I was one of the few writers they were keeping. Not only were they keeping me, they didn't want to change a thing. Allon even wanted me to get more involved with the NY Press website; we discussed cultivating reader interaction through sex polls and a blog. Other than the elimination of the sex ads in the back of the paper (I admit I miss those girly Asian asses and She-Male crotch shots) and a few formatting changes, the New York Press was relatively intact after changing ownership. But the offices were too clean, too khaki. And the letters on the wall in the lobby spelling "New York Press" blended eerily with the names of the other publications: The West Side Spirit, New York Family, Our Town.
Everything was cool for about a month. My column, as usual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had completed a "Lust Life" book proposal, and was prepared to write this column every week for at least another year, riding the waves of my inevitable book deal until a few months after publication, when I would appropriately, nobly resign.
That seemed to be the ideal progression, as long as the paper remained an edgy backdrop for my uncompromising style. But I, as well as you readers of the New York Press, saw that "edgy" started to lose its edge when the paper made the ungraceful transition from being "New York's Premier Alternative Weekly" to "New York's Independent Weekly Newspaper."
"Independent." What is independent? Someone or something independent is not influenced by outside authority, opinion, jurisdiction, or corporate sponsorship. I am independent.
As I was independently travelling to Washington D.C. for an independent film festival, I opened that week's "independent" issue of the New York Press (Sept. 12-18) to my independent column, and was horrified that a NYU Cancer Institute ad was placed right in the middle of "Lust Life." A conservative woman posed purse-lipped with the quote "I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life." Now, I have nothing against reaching out to the cancer-stricken population, but why was this ad stuck in the middle of a column about sex at Burning Man? Maybe it had something to do with the title "Burning Desire" (which was the editor's invention after my original title "Erotic Desert"). Mmmm. Burning Desire. That's hot. And that reminds me of my burning intestines. Oh God, maybe I have colon cancer. Now I can't finish reading Lust Life because I'm worried I might have colon cancer. I better call the number in this cancer ad before it's too late. Hey, I won't allow colon cancer to take over my life either--that's why I get colonics.
Wait--there's more! On the editorially devoid page opposite Lust Life / Colon Cancer, were ads for five NYC hospitals, The Conservative Synagogue of Fifth Avenue Family Programs and Tribeca Spa of Traquility (their typo, not mine). Still slackjawed, I turned a few pages and landed upon "Hudson Valley Happenings"--a 10 PAGE promotional guide to regional fall festivities such as organ recitals, Dutch Weekend, Family Day at Constitution Island, and Family Fun Events at Hudson Valley Center for Contemporary Art. It's not that I wouldn't go to Hudson Valley for a pleasant weekend of fucking in the foliage. What disgusted me about these changes was how incongruent they were in relation to my column and New York Press as a whole. New York Press wasn't founded on family values. It was founded on the enlightened cynicism of young liberal urbanites that wouldn't read The West Side Spirit if it was the last free paper in New York.
My lover, who was sitting next to me in the bus, said, "This is not the New York Press. This is something else." We discussed my position in this morass of conservative change. He suggested that the Village Voice might be a better place for my column. For a few moments, the current Voice seemed significantly more appealing than the family-fun filled pages in my hands. Then I remembered that not too long ago, sex writer Rachel Kramer Bussel had her "Lusty Lady" column unceremoniously booted from the other NY alternative paper that used to be cool. "Maybe it's better to stay where I am for now," I said. "The new publisher kept my column; that must mean something."
I saw it coming. After the film festival, I went to an artists community in Vermont to work on my book for two weeks. Alternative Newspaper Suffers a Long, Slow Death, I wrote as a mock headline in a piece about my romantic adventures in DC.
I saw it coming. While in Vermont, I googled myself and found some unflattering comments about me in response to a post on Gawker regarding an offensive rejection letter sent to an aspiring sex columnist for pitching a new column to the Village Voice.
I saw it coming. A couple of days before I finished my column for that week, I received an email from new NY Press editor-in-chief David Blum, saying, "Please call me." I didn't call right away.
I saw it coming. After I emailed my column to Blum and Portwood, I received another email from Blum, saying "Please call me tomorrow morning." I was going to start the column for the following week so I could get it out of the way and focus on my book, but decided to wait until after the conversation with Blum. As if what he had to say would influence my next column. I recalled the comments he inserted into the first column I sent him two weeks earlier (Burning Desire)--he sent the original column back to me with comments like "this is too fantastical to believe" and "what does this mean?" I admit the column I sent was a bit under par--it was late and I was still recovering from the surreal environment of Burning Man. However, in my year and a half of writing this column, I never had a column emailed back to me (occasionally the editor would email me a question or confirm a minor change with me, but this was the first time a column was returned to me with major criticism inserted in capital letters). After my ego revived from the sting, I improved the column and sent it back with some clarifying comments of my own... "two souls connecting in the dust" literally dust of the playa, figuratively magic dust...I trust the intelligent readers of NYPress will get this. He may or may not have appreciated my notes.
The possibility of getting fired did cross my mind.
Meanwhile, the cover story that week was about a publicist's dating debacle with actor Eric Schaeffer...I read Kelly Kreth's article and almost choked at this paragraph: "His particular fascination with excretions spoke to me. Being a woman who is no stranger to poop stories, having published a few of my own on Poopreport.com, I imagined Eric and I someday falling love, showing each other our bowel movements—the most intimate of acts in my estimation. I got butterflies just thinking about it." I thought it was strange that such provocatively disgusting details made it into the cover story of a publication that was steadily moving into a conservative zone. Even more disturbing was that Kreth's article read too much like a sex column.
I called David Blum in the morning. With all the signs leading to this moment, it was not shocking to hear him say that he was discontinuing my column. But even if you expect to be dumped, the words still sting. He said he felt bad, that doing this was the worst part of the job, that he was sorry we never even met. (He wanted to meet me and he even invited me to an editorial meeting, but I was so busy in between my recent trips that we never had the chance.) I had just been rejected, but I wasn't going to let him go so easily. I asked why. "And please be honest. I want to know," I said.
"Well...it's a matter of taste," he said. "Your flowery language obfuscates the clarity--"
"But is it my writing? Is it my style?"
"Obviously, you can put two sentences together..." (well, thank you very much) He claimed he didn't know how else to explain it other than a matter of taste.
"Is it the subject matter? Is it too honest, too edgy?"
He referred again to the flowery language, saying that it "obfuscates the clarity so that the stories don't seem true." He brought up the Burning Desire column as an example. "They are all true," I said. "I don't even embellish." He said he believed me, but that he just didn't believe the stories when he read them.
Well, I couldn't argue with that. If he can't see the truth beyond the lyricism, he doesn't get my column.
I probed further. "Is part of the reason political? I mean, the paper has been moving in a more conservative direction since Manhattan Media bought it."
Allow me to paraphrase his response: It has nothing to do with the sex ads being cut, I don't have a problem with sex in the paper, this week's cover story was about sex...Kelly Kreth...did you see it? Anyway, I just got here a few weeks ago and I have to make some decisions and I guess I just want to do something different. I tried to do something different at the Voice (he alluded to the short-lived sex column by two sexless married women...)
Oh my God, this is the same guy who fired Rachel! I didn't remember his name when that news was unleashed and only now realized the connection.
He admitted the sexless sex column was a bad idea. "Don't think it's political," he said.
"Are you hiring a new sex columnist?"
"Eventually, but not right away. We don't have anyone in mind."
I kept him on the phone for at least 20 minutes. He was kind enough to endure my grilling. It was the least he could do. He also mentioned that he really liked the column I just sent him, and that he was going to publish it. He thought it was clear (unlike the flowery others, apparently), and a nice ending that summed it all up.
"You're right, you're not Carrie Bradshaw," he said.
I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a critical affirmation of where I stand. Maybe both.
We hashed it out a bit more. It was a genuine conversation, or so I thought. He respected me enough to explain that he didn't want to work with me to try to change my column so that it would suit his taste. That's not the role of a columnist. A columnist is autonomous, like the free-spirit who will never change who she is for a lover. "You're a columnist," he said. "I can't change you and I don't want to change you." A columnist cannot write to please an editor. She can only write from her heart.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Parker and Poly
Soon I'll divulge how I got fired from the NY Press...until then, I'm performing in a few events this week.
Potable Productions
presents
THE POTABLE DOROTHY PARKER: A LITERARY COCKTAIL
featuring
Celia Bressack
Prudence Heyert
Andy Horan
and Stephanie Sellars as Mrs. Parker
Thursday October 4th, 2007
9:00 pm
Sadie's Lounge at Mo Pitkin's House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
(212) 777-5660
This reading is the first event of PARKERFEST, the annual celebration of the best (and worst) of Dorothy Parker
For more info on Parkerfest, see www.dorothyparker.com
***
SEVENTH ANNUAL POLY PRIDE DAY
Saturday, October 6th, 2007
Noon - 6pm
Great Hill, Central Park, New York City
Enter from Central Park West at 106th Street
You need not be polyamorous to enjoy these festivities...I'm speaking at 2pm and performing at 4:30. SS
We are thrilled to have the amazing Mr. Murray Hill as MC this year. Described by The Village Voice as "a superstar performer" and by New York magazine as "the emcee of choice", he is sure to make the entire day unforgettable. He has garnered unprecedented mainstream recognition and appeal - bringing everyone together and finding the common denominator with all types of people through laughter and his good-guy style.
Speakers & Entertainers
Speakers:
Robyn Trask, from Loving More Magazine
Nan Wise (Poly Expert and Poly psychotherapist)
REiD Mihalko and Marcia Baczynski (Sex Educators/Relationship coaches, founders of Cuddleparty)
Ken Haslam, from the Kinsey Institue
Stephanie Sellars (NY Press sex columnist)
Diana Adams, Esq., Polyamory lawyer
Anita Wagner (Polyamory/Sexual Freedom Activist)
Barbara Foster, Letha Hadady, and Mike Foster (authors of Three In Love)
Julio Cortes
Entertainers:
Hedda Lettuce, Drag Comedienne
The Black and White Cookies, acoustic duo
The Wet Spots
Sean Graham, Comedian
Stephanie Sellars
Robin Renee and Jasmine
Shawna Hamic
Penelope Swales (polyamorous singer/songwriter from Australia)
for more info...
Polyamorous NYC
www.poly-nyc.com
photo by Mark Reay
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