May Ling Su

Years ago my family found my porn site. The news spread like wildfire, freaking out my grandmother, my parents, aunts and uncles. For a while there, no one looked me in the eye. After a while, the shock was over and life went on. I assume my family realized that nothing has changed. I wasn’t about to show up with a boob job, wearing skimpy clothes and talking in a vulgar manner. I was still the same person they knew before they stumbled upon my dirty little secret.

Today my sister asked if my porn site is still up. She said someone told someone about finding my porn, and it seemed to me that my sister was worried about another round of family gossip about me.

I didn’t ask my sister who it was that found my porn site. If you are reading this, whoever you are, I can understand how when you’re searching for porn, you wouldn’t necessarily want to find someone too close for comfort, like a family member. If it’s not what you want to see, close the browser. If you want to look, that’s your prerogative. What you do is your business. I don’t see why anyone needs to know. Talking about me won’t make me stop doing what I do. It may seem like irresistibly juicy gossip at first, but it only hurts the feelings of people like my parents or my grandmother. Let’s not do that.

I suppose with Thinking XXX playing so constantly on HBO, someone I know is bound to find my porn site. That’s fine. My college friends found my site last year after seeing Timothy Greenfield-Sanders’ book XXX: Porn Star Portraits.

I’m not ashamed of my body or my sex. None of this will matter when I’m dead and gone. What has been very revealing to me are the reactions I got from people. My true friends have stayed by my side and forged an even stronger bond with me. The chaff simply blew away in the wind.

From : xxxxx@yahoo.com
Sent : Wednesday, August 30, 2006 3:13 AM
To : maylingsu at onmyperiod.com
Subject : Question
Dear May Ling Su:
I love all of your work. I love the fact that you are so uninhibited. More women should be like you. How can I obtain an autographed photo of you? Please advise. Thank you very much.
Sincerely,
XXX

I have slightly smaller than 4×4 inch prints of this photo:

Our friend Tony D got tons (and I mean tons!) of these prints made and if I don’t get them out, my grandchildren will be inheriting them.

So if you want one of these prints autographed by me, just send a SASE (make sure it’s big enough to fit a 4×4 inch photo) to:

May Ling Su
535 South Shore Center #112
Alameda, CA 94501

I love getting letters, so write a little love note too. It makes signing these prints much more fun if I have a little naughty fantasy about you.

Cheers!

From: XXXXXXXXXXX@aol.com
Sent : Tuesday, August 1, 2006 5:24 PM
To : maylingsu at onmyperiod.com
Subject : On My Period Email
i am 33 male wanting to buy used maxie can u help me it’s for pleasure james

I’m not ashamed to admit that a few years back I obliged a couple of these requests for used period products. I quoted a steep price for what would have wound up in my trash, and twice I’ve gotten takers. Both times I packed all four days worth of tampons, used pads, panty liners and toilet paper wipes in zip lock bags, and sent the discreetly marked package by mail to the customers’ mailing addresses.

Once someone was outraged that I would charge anything at all. That person did not understand why he had to pay to get my trash delivered to his address. I invited him to sift through garbage cans at public toilets instead of wasting my time.

I’m not sure if there are any laws against posting bodily fluids, so the risk of putting something of mine through the mail, marked with my return address is an issue for me. My sci-fi paranoid mind also wanders toward the sicker (than the more likely pleasure-oriented use of my menstrual unmentionables) possibility that the recipient is cloning me. Unlikely, but still a disturbing thought.

I don’t do this anymore. Not for any price. You can only have the two-dimensional me. I’m keeping every little part of my three dimensions to myself.

Once a month PMS comes to me without any warning. Sure, I could look up in the sky and notice that the moon is nowhere to be found. But I am never prepared for how intense I get at this time of the month. I get extremely serious and fixated on a problem, one that perhaps on any other time of the month I wouldn’t have considered an issue at all. I talk incessantly about it, picking at it, demanding that Jay listen to me and see my point, then get mad when he doesn’t see it my way or worse, makes light of it.

Jay never understood this. In fairness to him, I didn’t understand it either, so I couldn’t very well explain how I feel to him. He recognizes the devil when it rears its grumpy head, but has never known how to tame the wild beast. In fact he does the worst thing anyone could ever do when confronted with me on PMS: he laughs and says, “Why don’t you change your tampon?”

It is one thing to feel like I have no one to turn to when I’m feeling blue. It’s another to be made to feel like my concerns have no merit just because it was brought up during the “dark” time of the month.

I’m a bit of a procrastinator and a laid back island girl. Perhaps the kitchen floor needs retiling, or the business needs to be restructured. PMS gives me super-intense energy, that fed up kind of attitude that gets things done. It’s probably why menstruation is considered the “goddess flow,” not only because it is tied to fertility and life-creation, but also because women get more energized as creative/destructive beings. We focus on dissatisfaction in our life and demand change.

I said to Jay, “When I have this much pent up energy, wouldn’t you rather I was tearing linoleum off the kitchen floor than obsessing over your use of the word tampon?” My advice to men who are faced with PMS-ing women is this: Do not draw attention to yourself. Let her rant, let her cry, say “I’m here for you, babe,” but not much more. She’ll figure out what she needs to do and before you know it, life is better for everyone.

I hurt my left pinky finger. I don’t know if I fractured it or sprained it, and I’m not interested in getting an X-ray just to find out. Either way, all I need is a splint so Jay got me one at Walgreens and I’m all set.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t break it. I know because my right pinky finger is broken. I hurt my right pinky finger when I was three. This kid threw a rock at me and it broke my finger. I never told anyone, so I never got any medical attention for it. It’s healed, but I’ve lost the ability to curl it. To make a fist, I use my ring finger to hold it in place.

Not so with the recently injured left pinky finger. I still can’t curl it all the way into a fist, but I can curl it some so I’m happy I still have control over it.

Having a splint made typing on a keyboard frustrating for me, so this past week I read The Art of the Start by Guy Kawasaki. I spent a lot of time writing in my notebook. Yes, I still use the archaic pen and paper once in a great while. I’m right-handed so it was the perfect activity while resting my left pinky. The book renewed my enthusiasm for our other business, the boring one that doesn’t involve porn but pays all our bills, so I’ve been focused on it.

I’ve taken the splint off. It was starting to bug me and get in my way. The swelling has gone down and the bruise is still dark but it doesn’t hurt so I think it’s gotten a lot better.

We saw V for Vendetta tonight. We have a large screen / DLP projector set-up here in our living room and some air-popped popcorn, so it was just like getting to see it in the theaters, only better because I can lay naked on the foof while I watch.

Great film from the makers of The Matrix. After they’ve made such horrible sleeping pills as the Matrix sequels, V for Vendetta wins me back. It’s a romantic movie, excellent action scenes, but this is not a revolutionary film in the political sense. The story, based on the comic book series, parallels what most conspiracy theorists spout of our current political events, and the screenplay is loaded with inspiring one-liners about freedom. But for a film to incite revolution, it cannot have a happy ending.

Happy endings are the opium of today’s masses. Think Bollywood for India’s overpopulated lower caste. It’s all about catharsis. If the audience is satisfied at the end of the movie, then there is nothing left to do. No call to arms. You just get up, go to the bathroom, and then go out to get some more Coca-Cola or Red Bull or whatever? If the audience is left wanting, they leave the theater needing a cathartic release: maybe they’ll come home to blog, but maybe they’ll go out and blow up some buildings and start a riot. I have to admit, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a truly revolutionary movie, one that made me think beyond the rolling of the credits, much less take action toward social change. Okay, Supersize Me was pretty revolutionary, but that’s like preaching to the choir for me, so that doesn’t count.

Natalie Portman is beautiful, as always. It’s hard for me not to still see the gutsy little girl in Leon The Professional, another great film. That was the same block I had watching her in the Star Wars epic, in which she played heroine opposite the pre-masked Darth Vader. It still works, though. She always plays a strong woman, it’s not a big jump to think that little Mathilda grows up to be the elegant Senator Amidala or Evey Hammond.

Hugo Weaving brings the soul of a masked character to life. Unlike Natalie Portman, I can never recognize him in any of his roles. He just becomes the character he plays, and I just instantly buy that he’s the soulless Mr. Smith in The Matrix, or the kitschy Mitzi Del Bra in Priscilla Queen of the Desert. So much fun.

Join the Revolution, pitches Warner Brothers. Ummm… yeah, can I have fries with that?

It was past one in the morning. Down the hall, my parents were asleep. Jay and I crept around the guest bedroom, lit in stripes by streetlights through window shutters. We opened a window and I stuck my head out like a dog in a car, wagging my tail in excitement at the cool desert wind. Jay’s palms slap the cheeks of my ass and spread them for his hard cock. I howled at the moon, heavy and yellow and setting in the horizon.

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