This week, we announce the SaSi, Babeland's new cunnilingus machine, but I also had a friend try it out. My "friend-with-benefits."

She was more than happy to be a little experimental with it. The toy certainly looks intriguing, and comes in an elaborate, three-sectioned black box with its name embossed in a silvery-pink on the lid. Open that, and there’s the SaSi itself, about the size of a cell phone. On one side are the controls, while at the front, the "tongue" protrudes slightly. This SaSi was purple, but it also comes in pink and black. There’s a natty carry case, and the charger comes with adapters, lest you find yourself in need of it in Europe or elsewhere.

The SaSi has two modes: “Favorites” and “Customize.” The first mode takes you through five different movements (up and down, side to side, and others less easily describable.) Users can chose from three different speeds and six levels of vibration. But the customizing mode is the really natty part. It also has some kind of artificial intelligence (the designer explained it to me, but I’m an English graduate); the machine "learns" what you like and what you don’t. SaSi will take you through the different movements – if you like one, you can hit the ‘don’t stop’ button until you’re, er, done. When you turn it off, the SaSi will store the movements you liked best for use in favorites the next time you turn it on. If that wasn’t enough, there’s also the option to make the whole thing vibrate.

In hindsight, I recommend sitting down with the instruction manual for five minutes. In our eagerness, we kept turning the thing off accidentally, or slowing it down too much. Unlike real oral sex, it’s harder (but possible) to bring the right amount of pressure to bear. Also, the next SaSi model should try and emulate the feeling of breath on flesh. All in all though, it’s good weapon to have in your clitoral stimulation arsenal: follow it up with a Trojan fingertip massager or a Lelo.

Penis-shaped toys, it seems, are on the way out. Walk into any Babeland,  Pleasure Chest or Pink Pussycat, and the veiny penis-shaped dildos are now tucked at the back, out of sight. At the new Babeland, which opened in Park Slope last month, there’s a sleek row of toys of various shapes – balls, cones, curvy pebbles – but no rods.  The Lelo is a shiny black stone of a toy, with an Aubrey Beardsley-esque picture of a stem of pink flowers set against the black. Like ipods and the SaSi, it comes with a charger. This sets it apart from older vibrators that need their batteries changed or, like the wand, have to be plugged in, leaving your pleasure at the whim of your extension cord.

Je Joue, the company who designed the SaSi, decided to design a toy that “rather than just vibrate, should be more like foreplay,”  said Duncan Taylor, a member of the team that designed the toy. Like an iPod, the SaSi has a kind of playlist function. Using the “Customize” setting, you can list one movement after another, building up to your (literal) crescendo and finale.  The “Favorite” mode, said Taylor, “is more like putting it on shuffle.”

Unlike the vibrators of the Manhattan Electrical Co., this one does not promise to cure anything: “do not use SaSi as a substitute for medical attention,” the instruction manual warns. Je Joue has picked Babeland to be the sole distributor of the SaSi in the U.S. Taylor said that his company was impressed by Babeland’s track record: “they’re female run, big on education. They’re the future for how sex toy shops should be.” He said that the industry has “moved away from seedy sex toys behind closed doors – the products don’t look like hideous black phallic objects.”


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A bustle of BDSM aficionados (a gaggle? a passel?) gathered at the Cutting Room in the Flatiron district last night to celebrate all things lusty and heinous with Domme Deitrich during Penthouse's Cat ‘O Nine event. Cutting Room co-owner Chris Noth (aka Mr. Big of Sex in the City fame) was also there, ostensibly fixing the jukebox (according to event organizer Aerik Von, who admitted he didn't even realize who Noth was.)

Noth also found time to hang out and admire two women in action. One was topless and enjoying a good swish of cat-o'-nine-tails from her attractive dominatrix. Von, who said his aim was to make the BDSM scene in New York sexy again, was having a grand time. His events, he said, were also designed to reunite two things so long torn asunder in the city: bondage and booze.

He has plans to stage his next party at Folsom Fair, the infamous SF street party where all things leathery and fetish are on display, but then he'll return to Manhattan. In the meantime, the Cutting Room, normally known as a rock venue, gradually filled up with a BDSM crowd. The first punter to arrive in costume looked like a German soldier, although he sensibly opted to go sans swastika. Then came a devil, not wearing Prada but a pair of rubber shorts and little red horns, with a matching ball-gag.  A cutie in a silver dress called Sarina Suno hopped up on stage and started playing her red violin, and the whipping and flogging began in earnest.

A man in a leather hood came up to me to ask if he could be my slave, and handed me a piece of paper that read: "Goddess, may I serve you?" It listed things that he was willing to do: be my footstool or my ashtray, massage my feet and even clean my apartment. The last one was tempting, but I declined, as I did another offer to road test a new pair of nipple clamps. At around midnight, a bevy of beautiful dommes from Hidden Eye led by Mistress Avalon pulled up in a limo. As it drove away, a cop car slowed down for a better look, and obligingly stopped long enough for a woman in a full body gimp suit to run up to them and mug for the crowd.


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Last night Obama rolled into New York City as part of a campaign to raise funds for his presidential race—as well as to help the Hillary Clinton for President debt retirement fund (estimates put that bill somewhere in the region of $23 million.) Obama started out at a fundraising event at the Grand Hyatt, where Caroline Kennedy introduced him. This morning, he moved on to the Hilton, where he spoke at the Women for Obama breakfast with Sen. Clinton.

Since the two appeared together in Unity, PA, when Clinton suspended her campaign and announced her support for her Democratic competitor, they’ve been working to join their supporters. Obama’s tone at the Hyatt was relaxed. He was quick to point out his ties to New York, where he lived for five years, lamenting that he “can’t just go walking in Central Park anymore – the secret service tell me, ‘No.’” During his talk, he again outlined his position on issues that have dominated the primaries: the question of universal healthcare, Iraq, education, energy and climate change. He clarified his stance on Iraq, in the face of recent rumors that he’s altered his views. “Is Obama backing off of pulling out of Iraq? I understand why people were skeptical, despite the fact that I hadn’t said anything that would show that I’d changed my position,” he said.

At the Women for Obama event, Clinton (who was introduced by Obama’s sister) appealed for “unity in the Democratic party.” The two senators certainly appeared on friendly terms. Talking of a conversation they’d had earlier, Clinton said that Obama had said to her, ‘You look kinda rested.’” Clinton said that she’s spending some of her newly found free time going to the gym, something she couldn’t do before. “Barack would get up faithfully every morning and go to the gym,” she said. “I would get up, and have my hair done. It’s one of those Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire things.”

With their battle decided, it was time for Clinton to take aim at their common enemy: “We have seen in a very painful way what happens when an American president leads us in the wrong direction, making decisions not premised on our values or who we really are.” The digging at Dubya continued; Clinton poked fun at the president for only recently discovering the climate change problem “four months before he’s about to leave office, at a meeting in Japan…all of a sudden he says ‘gosh, this is a problem, I sure hope the next president does something about it.’”

Then she introduced Obama, who thanked her, and referred to their common path, referring to himself as “someone who took the same historic journey as Senator Clinton, although I didn’t do it in heels.” After reiterating some of the points he’d made the previous evening, he joined Clinton’s attack on the Republicans. This being a crowd of (mostly) women, he had a shot at the opposing party’s track record on issues regarding the family.  “Some politicians in Washington make a lot of noise about family values, but when it comes to what people actually need to support their families…these same politicians get awfully quiet.” Obama, who received the endorsement of Planned Parenthood on Wednesday, criticized McCain’s hopes of seeing Roe vs. Wade overturned.

He ended his speech by referring once again to his and Clinton’s “common experience of shattering barriers that have stood firm since the founding of this nation.” Whether Clinton becomes Obama’s vice president or not, it was clear from his words this morning that she’ll have a fundamental role to play.

Photo by Anna King



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Last week, a female performer named Creamy Stevens, all glittery skin and vampy makeup, could be found on St. Marks Place, taking a well-earned cigarette break. “Whoah, what’s going on?” said one guy as he passed, mouth agape. Worth considerably more than the paltry $20 admission fee it demands, the neo-burlesque show "Revealed" offers up a substantial helping of coquetry, comedy and camp, along with other, pinker, softer words beginning with the letter C. Yup, these stripping lasses show the full Monty.

"Revealed" is the brainchild of one Doc Wasabassco (aka Bill Morton), and burlesque performer GiGi La Femme, who looks like a healthy version of Amy Winehouse. Although she displayed the same penchant for self-harm as the burnt-out chanteuse, she did so with a wink and a shiny black paddle, rather than a crack pipe. The host for the evening, Bastard Keith, was an affable fellow who, between sips of the finest rotgut whisky from Philly, even managed to get a laugh out of mentioning 9/11. No mean feat.

As well as all-American girls Creamy Stevens and Ruby Valentine, an international contingent was present in the form of the British Ms. Tickle (a “natural pinkhead,” said Bastard Keith) and Kobayashi Maru from Japan. According to Keith’s introduction, she was born in a little place called Okoge, located in the Okayama prefecture on the island of Honsu. A quick Internet search reveals that Okoge is also the Japanese word used to describe the crust of burned rice left at the bottom of a rice-cooker, and is the slang term for a fag hag. 

If that wasn’t enough wordplay, “Kobayashi Maru” is the name of the spacecraft that appears in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, and is the term used by Trekkies to describe a no-win situation. Given her lexical origins, it was no surprise to find that Maru’s performance was more than a sci-fi spoof. Without spoiling the surprise, suffice to say that Maru’s act involves a pair of scissors and the final conversation from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Spookier than The Ring, but a whole lot sexier.



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Going to Anita Cookie's Underground burlesque game show is a lot like hot boxing (the art of getting stoned in an enclosed space.) Anita's comedy fest takes place in a cellar-like space below St. Marks Place and, much like smoking a joint, it induces a silly amount of mirth.  Burlesque aficionados can gather on the second Thursday of every month and, after handing over $10 at the door, watch Anita Cookie take off her clothes and challenge audience members to guess the price of the various kitschy, edible and (most importantly) drinkable artifacts she produces from backstage.

Last Thursday, Cookie's band, the Kindergarteners (Ariel Levine and Zach Abramson) twanged their guitars alongside the banter as Cookie introduced her guest star of the month, Peekaboo Pointe, a member of the "World Famous Pontani Sisters" burlesque troupe (who can currently be found in Murray Hill's neo-burlesque show at Corio in Soho.)  Throughout Cookie's show, Pointe sits calmly in the corner, hand-crafting a pair of nipple concealing pasties with a pastel-pink glue gun.

These pasties were the grand prize of Anita?s fleshly version of The Price is Right. Cookie picked on three audience members to guess the prices of, among other things, a bottle of vodka (only $4—surely coma-inducing,) and a box of mac & cheese. Part of Cookie's shtick is that she acts like she's a little tipsy as she performs. You kind of figured that the drink she was sipping was just colored water, though, until one of the contestants, Megan, took a gulp and looked visibly shocked as she swallowed a mix of backwash and tequila.

Cookie's a pretty hot woman, and (praise the Lord) she does a lot of bending down as she arranges objects for the game show, and a lot of tassel-twirling and flirting. She's also very touchy-feely with the contestants, a fact that was shamefully wasted on two of them (Megan and a guy called Chris, whose wedding ring may have been the reason he was on his best behavior.) Both looked to the side and gave Cookie a chaste pat on the back as she embraced them. Only the winner, Isaac had the good sense to look Cookie firmly in the pasties instead of her eyes, and grasp her firmly as he took his victory hug.


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As part of its “Come out and Play” series—which continues until tomorrow—Apexart (the non-profit art institution a few blocks south of Canal Street) screened over 100 movie shorts under the general theme of “exhibitionism” on Wednesday. Interestingly, the screening was all-inclusive, a kind of open mic for local artists. Titles included such gems as “limb constricting exercise 3,” (Corinne Mynatt) “iPod bra for living sculpture,” (Holly Lester) and “A video of someone taking a powerful psychoactive substance ordered online, uploaded to YouTube, 2007” (Kevin Regan)

To finish up the day’s events, ex-dominatrix turned baby-boomer granny, Sheree Rose, gave a talk entitled “Supermasochist.” She was introduced as “the widow of Bob Flanagan,” which might lead the uninitiated in the audience to believe that some act of S&M involving the aforementioned Flanagan had gone horribly wrong. But no, Flanagan, the man best known in S&M circles for nailing his penis to a wooden board, died in 1996 of cystic fibrosis, at the age of 43.  He had “it’s fun to be dead” inscribed on his tombstone. They married, Rose said, “on his deathbed,” after she’d spent many years as his dominatrix, companion and artistic collaborator.

An audience member commented that she seemed very much in love with Flanagan, and then asked in a round about way if she was still a dominatrix. It might have been a come-on. Rose replied that she’d retired when Flanagan died; it seemed that her life now consisted of reliving the past and remembering her time in the S&M spotlight.

Rose said that she met Flanagan, who was born in New York, at a Halloween party. “He looked like a dead person without the makeup,” she said, smiling. “We had a date, and he told me he was a masochist. I didn’t know what that was.” So, he explained it to her: “I want to be someone’s slave.” She agreed, she said, as long as they didn’t have to do it “behind closed doors.” He, she said, “was a little chagrined, because he never did tell his mother.”

It was odd to watch the baby-boomer Rose sit below the gallery’s movie-screen, watching her watching the young Rose as she performed a mock autopsy on Bob’s living, mock-dead body (a body that is now really dead.)  The old Rose took sips of fruit juice, while 1980s Rose clamped black clothes pegs to Flanagan’s reddening flesh and shoved a large silver ball up his sphincter with one white-gloved hand. Some audience members groaned. A man who looked to be in his twenties sitting to my right loosened his left shoe, pushed it partially off, and began to massage his ankle.

A woman asked Rose if there was any conflict between her role as caretaker for a terminally ill man and her role as his dominatrix. Rose said there wasn’t; on the contrary, she argued that “it kept him alive. It gave him something to do everyday.” She said it in a way that suggested that masochism was a hobby like anything else, like stamp collecting or tending a vegetable patch.  Rose also offered her own theories on why people become sadists, or masochists. “Masochists have to climb Mount Everest, even if it kills them,” she said. “It’s spiritual…this is very different than raping someone.” The woman to my left nodded in agreement.

Rose then showed a clip from Flanagan’s movie, Sick, where he hammers a nail through his penis onto a board. There were groans from the audience; whether they were of empathetic pain, or pleasure, it was hard to tell. As Flanagan pulled the nail out, a shower of blood hit the camera screen. Old Rose laughed, and said “he’d done it before as a teenager.” A man in the audience asked how he knew where to hammer the nail so it did avoided any major arteries. According to Rose, he didn’t. He just hammered it in. “I hope I’m not embarrassing anyone,” she said. It seemed an odd question to ask a room full of people who’d come out to hear a talk about sadomasochism. She talked about an earlier scene. “Lots of men, not just Bob, put things up their urethras.” The foot-massaging man nodded in agreement.

As a finale, Rose showed two music videos: the Nine Inch Nails’ “Happiness in Slavery,” which shows Flanagan hooking himself up to a machine that then tortures and kills him, while he makes faces of pleasure and pain. A small black dog started barking from the third row, causing a ripple of laughter from the audience. Finally, she showed Danzig’s “It’s Coming Down,” where Flanagan’s penis appears again, along with an assortment of Rose’s friends from her L.A. days. “Is that Dirk?” a man behind me asked. “Yeah, somebody know them?” said Rose.

People filed out, or assembled in groups at the front of the gallery. Some fans (including the guy who knew Dirk) waited to talk to Rose. A couple of questions lingered in my head about the evening: First, what makes someone a sadist; second, how did Sheree Rose earn a living? They can’t have made enough money from their S&M performance art alone. Clearly another audience member had similar thoughts. She asked a question, to which Rose replied, “I’m retired. I’m a grandmother.” The answer mustn’t have satisfied the questioner. She asked something else, which answered both my questions. “I used to work for the Federal Government,” Rose replied. “I used to work for FEMA.” They carried on chatting.




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Yes! Yes! Yes!

Sex toys have changed from the do-it-yourself days when a kitchen appliance could, with a little improvisation, be used as a vibrator to a billion-dollar industry. Babeland, best known for giving the Rabbit to the masses (via Sex & the City), has been bringing city dwellers in New York, L.A. and Seattle the latest innovations in orgasm-inducing pleasure for nigh-on 15 years. And, as of last week, women-owned Babeland has officially made its next move and crossed the river to Brooklyn. 

Nestled next to a maternity store on the edge of baby-stroller-ville in Park Slope, the shop’s shelves were filled with sleek objects that looked more like Apple products than the G-spot seeking devices they were. Back in the day, most toys bore more than a passing resemblance to a penis, complete with wobbly bits, fleshy tones and even the odd blue vein or two. While Babeland still stocks a few dildos of this ilk, pride of place in the store was given over to rows of vibrators with dainty names like Le Petit Ami, Gigi, Delight, and Iris. This being Park Slope, Babeland also stocks eco-friendly toys made out of sustainable wood, covered with a special eco-varnish to avoid any nasty splinters. At the back, there’s an impressive range of harnesses, and some lite-bondage gear, including something every New Yorker probably needs: Under the bed harness straps (because seriously, who has bed posts anymore?)

Babeland also carries a few unusual-looking tricks. If the phallic-shaped toys don’t appeal, then it offers the Tuyo (a vibrating ball), the Cone (you sit on it, or stick it to the wall and, er, reverse your ass into it), and the SaSi. The last of these is a brand new creation by a British company with the distinctly un-British sounding name Je Joue. The Sasi is battery-operated and shaped like a curvy iPhone. Turn it on, and a little nubby thing starts to move under the surface of the latex skin, up and down, up and down, left and right, or in circular motions.  It’s cunnilingus, with an artificial tongue: A major breakthrough in the world of female orgasms.  It has five speeds, five different motions, and, most importantly, some kind of artificial intelligence thing going on: In “Learn Mode”, it remembers what you like, and what you don’t. It even has a button labeled “Don’t Stop.” This sounds priceless, but unlimited oral sex can be had for the bargain price of $180 (and it comes in pink, purple or black.) But you can’t get it yet; Babeland are making you wait a week or two more before they start selling the things. What a tease.

Last week, a maternity class was going on in the shop next door; one woman, who had attended to help a friend, had escaped to Babeland, and was refreshing herself with a glass of red wine. Apparently the class was about the different cab companies you could use in Brooklyn to take you to hospital when your waters broke. No wonder she needed sex toys, and a drink. A few moms were scanning the aisles with their young kids, reminding us of the occasional end-product of some sex, while a couple of female college friends were reunited at the cash register. One greeted the other with the observation that they hadn’t seen each other in years, and now here they were at a sex shop. The fact that it wasn’t super-awkward speaks volumes for the kind of relaxed atmosphere Babeland seems to be trying to cultivate. As the two left the store together, a woman in a black business suit and toting a Saks bag walked past, stopped, and peeked in the window. Here comes the neighborhood. 



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It’s time to dust off your rainbow flags, feather boas and multicolored Mardi Gras beads: June is gay month in NYC. Gay Pride starts June 22, kicking off with a rally in Bryant Park, followed by a street fair and dancing on Pier 54, and ending with the march the following Sunday. By way of foreplay, New Fest, the annual celebration of gay movie making continues through June 15.
 
To mark the 20th anniversary of LGBT film festivals in the city, New Fest promises to showcase a bunch of burgeoning talent in gay cinema. Bright wannabe Rose Troche and Kimberly Peirce-type directors will be offering up their latest celluloid and digital masterpieces—in fact, Peirce (Boys Don’t Cry) is one of the advisers to the festival).

Movies will be showing at BAM Rose Cinemas, Brooklyn, and the IFC Center in the Village. Of particular note is Italian director Guido Santi’s (Concertino) documentary Chris & Don, an exploration of the relationship between British writer Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, the American artist. Chris & Don includes footage of the couple unearthed by Santi, along with an interview with the queen of camp, Liza Minnelli.

For the girls, there’s Kyle Schickner’s (Strange Fruit) feature film, Steam (June 14), about female bonding in a Turkish bath. Despite the setting, it looks like the bonding is entirely platonic, but look out for some steamy romance between college freshman Elizabeth (Kate Siegel) and a girl at school who turns her on to the ways of Sapphic love. 

Other movies worthy of notice include Johnny Symons’ cleverly titled Ask Not, a documentary about the crappy “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy of the U.S. military, and Clapham Junction, Adrian Shergold’s feature based on the true story of a hate crime perpetrated against a gay man in London in 2005.

To cheer yourself up after these two, try Another Gay Sequel: Gays Gone Wild! as antidote. The man who gave the world Another Gay Movie, director Todd Stevens, takes the piss once again, with a spring break saga that includes evil frat boys and nasty venereal diseases (pictured above). Bring sun block—and condoms.


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Jason D’Aquino is the perfect artist for New Yorkers. As the title of his new exhibition, Delicate Execution: The Miniature Drawings of Jason D’Aquino suggests, his artwork would fit comfortably on the walls of the smallest studio apartment.

Like artists who used to carve whole panoramas on a tiny piece of ivory, Brooklynite D’Aquino uses small items, such as vintage matchbooks, on which to sketch his graphite line drawings of voluptuous women, aliens, devils, monkeys, pistols and motorbikes. He even sketched a portrait of the late Hunter S. Thompson on the tip of a Good Humor ice-cream spoon, and one of Edgar Allan Poe on a packet of seeds. Sometimes being small has its downside, though: Apparently one of the pocket-sized pieces of art went missing at the closing reception of a recent D’Aquino exhibition in Detroit.

D’Aquino’s work is on display through July 5 at Fuse (93 Second Ave., betw. Fifth & Sixth Sts.) from Wednesdays through Saturdays from 3-8pm. Gallery goers can grab a beer at Lit next door, and then squint at the D’Aquino exhibition. Or perhaps it’s better to leave the boozing until after the art.


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Fantasize no more: There will be a room full of beautiful women whacking each other with pillows on Bleecker Street tonight and, for $25, you can watch. Tonight's event is a fundraiser to preview the First Pillowfight Theatre Festival, which kicks off this Saturday.

As well as cavorting with pillows, they’ll be offering a sample of their stand-up routines (covering such topics as bridesmaids, prostitution, queens and feminazis), and auctioning themselves off. To see them in action, have a look at their MySpace page, where they strip down to their underwear and jump into the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.

Gay and lesbian icon Lesley Gore will also be in attendance to promote the workshop of her new one-woman show, “It’s my party…yeah, right!” which promises to be an autobiographical account of her life as a pop legend in the '60s and beyond. Even though she’s no doubt sick of it by now, she might let out a quick burst of her feminist ditty, “You Don’t Own Me,” a song about wanting to date more than just one boy at a time, which she used to sing a lot—at least until she started dating girls.



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