drsuzy's blog

One of the sexiest, most powerful, progressive, open-minded and inspirational characters in American history was a freethinking businesswoman named Victoria Claflin Woodhull. Newspaper publisher extraordinaire, mediumistic hypnotherapist and fearless advocate of “Free Love,” an important precursor to the feminist and sexual revolutions, as well as ethical hedonism, Woodhull was also America’s first lady broker on Wall Street (along with her sister Tennessee Claflin, mistress to Cornelius Vanderbilt). And in 1872, the first female U.S. Presidential candidate, before women even had the right to vote.

Woodhull’s independent thinking, dazzling personal success, journalistic “outings” of powerful sexual hypocrites like the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher and open advocacy of sexual freedom earned her multiple enemies in both conservative America and the sex-averse suffragist movement. Some of Woodhull’s stronger enemies managed to squelch her once-powerful voice in her own lifetime, as well as in the history books. Over the course of the 20th century, Woodhull was almost forgotten. American schoolbooks don’t tend to mention her along with Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, though Woodhull was at least as important a figure in the history of women’s rights.

It started when she was seen going into the lab, but wasn’t seen going out. Yale graduate student Annie Le (MED '13) entered Yale’s 10 Amistad Street medical building after leaving her keys, purse and phone in her office at the Sterling Hall of Medicine. For a few days, this beautiful, sexy, “sweet, spunky and smart,” 24-year-old, 4’11”, 90-lb pharmacology doctoral candidate whose parents had immigrated to California from Vietnam, was considered “missing.” Then, on Sunday, the day she was supposed to wed her college sweetheart, Le’s lifeless, strangled body was discovered stuffed behind a wall in the basement of the lab in which she worked.

The murder of Annie Le is fascinating, horrifying and perplexing people around the world. Maybe because I was once a young Yalie myself running around campus at odd hours, I feel a personal connection to this rare tragedy; the first killing of a Yale student since 1998. My heart goes out to Le’s family, friends and her young fiancé Jonathan Widawsky. The world has lost so much untapped potential in Le whose work at Yale involved experiments on mice that were part of research into enzymes that could have implications for the treatment of cancer, diabetes and muscular dystrophy.

Sex is playtime for adults. At least, when it's good, it is. Like children enjoy playing with toys, many adults enjoy playing with sex toys.

They don't have to be elaborate or electrical. Fruits and vegetables will do the trick, especially if they are long and firm, like cucumbers or zucchinis. If you're a size queen, you might try an eggplant. I call these organic sex toys "nature's own dildos."

For guys, it's a little more challenging. Some guys swear by the Banana Method which involves microwaving a firm banana skin with about half the banana inside for around 12 seconds. Then voila, you have "nature's own pocket pussy."

You can also use household objects. For instance, a flat-sided wooden hairbrush or an oversized spatula make very nice paddles. Any object that gives you or your partner pleasure can be utilized as a sex toy.

First Sex Toy: The Sprinkler

Many are the mysteries of the heart. The heart of the soul and the heart of the body. The human body and the body politic. My Max and our cardiac culture.

What happened to Max could happen to me, or maybe even you. One day, you’re walking around, shopping, dancing, having sex, producing shows and making pesto, free and blissfully ignorant of the ticking time bomb behind your ribs. Then, for whatever reason, you take a “stress test” which reveals that your arteries are clogged with extreme “blockage” (no relation to me!). Next thing you know, you’re on the fast track to a quadruple coronary artery bypass, a prisoner of western medicine, in quite literal bondage to the masters and mistresses of cardiology. These are the high priests of modern society, the highly trained and esteemed men and women in the monogrammed white coats, wielding their stethoscopes, their angiograms and their very sharp knives.

Upon consulting your charts like educated gypsies reading high tech tea leaves, they bless and curse you with their holy diagnosis. The cardiologists talk to you like talmudic scholars, weaving scientific facts with emotional considerations, matters of the heart. Then there are the cardiovascular thoracic surgeons whose power lies in their hands. They're the car mechanics of cardio and, having performed “thousands” of these human valve changes before, they’re quite confident in their ability to fix whatever’s under your hood, or ribcage, as the case may be.

Like millions around the world, I was shocked when the news of Michael Jackson’s death hit me harder than I’d ever imagined it would. True, I grew up on MJ, enjoyed my first make-out session to the guiding notes of “ABC,” slow-danced to “I’ll Be There,” moonwalked to “Billie Jean,” jilled-off to “Beat It” and opened my heart to “We Are The World.” But throughout our lives, I had no problem taking Jackson’s music, his moves, his scandals and paraphilias in moderation. I always liked to dance – and make out – to his tunes (who doesn’t?), but I was never a huge fan, never even went to a live concert. He seemed so, well…commercial. And then there was his tacky taste in art, not to mention those bizarre pajama parties with boys the age that he was when he taught me my ABCs.

That all changed on the afternoon of June 25, 2009. As soon as I got the news, I caught the wave. Where were you when MJ died? Like millions, I was on Twitter. Within seconds of TMZ’s scoop, “RIP MJ” hit #1 on Twitter’s trending topics with “Michael Jackson,” “Jacko,” “Gloved One” and other nicknames occupying almost all the other top spots. From Farrah Fawcett to the Iran Election, all other news was kicked to the curb. Make way for the King of Pop!

There are often fireworks at the Speakeasy. But since America’s Birthday fell on a Saturday night this year, we worked that fire inside and out, climaxing with panoramic pyrotechnics on the roof, sparkling golden showers on RadioSuzy1 and an explosive Star-Spangled Banner aria in the bar sung acapella by magnificent Malena wearing nothing but Old Glory wrapped around her voluptuous form.

We started our 4th, like most Americans, with a BBQ. We called it “Porn & Hot Dogs.” My own darling Chef Max cooked up a scrumptious, saucily grilled buffet of hamburgers, salmon burgers, chicken burgers, cheeseburgers, veggie burgers, and of course, dozens of succulent, phallic franks of all kinds and sizes. Mmm… We just love those big beefy sausages, especially between warm fresh buns.

Much as we enjoyed frolicking nude and sharing simultaneous orgasms in the desert, we were eager to return to our own hedonistic oasis here in the Soul of Downtown LA. To better understand why, check out this video of opera star/fetish couture designer Malena Teves welcoming us home with an impromptu rendition of “Come Rain or Come Shine,” first a cappella, then accompanied by Kozmic the Klown on my great grandmom’s (untuned) 1926 Steinway:

Isn’t Malena awesome? When stuff like this happens in your *living room,* why would you want to leave home? This is why I hardly ever leave the Speakeasy/Institute. But contrary to rumors, I'm not agoraphobic. In fact, I came back from Sea Mountain just in time to go out again to Erotica LA!

Follow the Bouncing Boobs

I’ve always wanted to spend my birthday in my birthday suit. Usually I do some kind of b-day show or soirée with clothing (albeit skimpy clothing), but since June 10th fell on a Wednesday – not a great party night – this year, Max and I decided to get away from “it all,” including all of our clothes. So we took a trip to a place we’d never been called Sea Mountain Resort, even though it’s nowhere near the sea. Nor is it in the mountains, though it’s nestled at the dusty toes of the Santa Rosa foothills.

But how to get there from here? We weren’t about to drive from Downtown LA to Desert Hot Springs. Nor did we want to pay someone else hundreds of dollars to chauffeur us. Having one of our friends drive seemed to defeat the purpose of “getting away from it all.” Trains only run every other day, and not the days we wanted to travel. As for flying, the security lines and drive to the airport would have taken just as long as driving directly to Desert Hot Springs. So…what about the bus? Our Westside friends cringed at the thought. How could we take a Greyhound bus? Well, we did. And it was awesome.

As the efficacy of nonconsensual torture is debated around the world, consensual torture found a home right here at Block Studios, a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy,” last Saturday night, in the name of "safe, sane," but intensely passionate BDSM. Shock & Awe filled the gallery, the studios, the Womb Room and even some of the rest rooms, but it didn't come from a bomb, exploding in death and destruction. It came from a few whips, some rope and a violet wand, climaxing in communal joy, emotional release and deep multiple orgasms.

Words can’t convey the kinky camaraderie and ineffable ecstasy of the evening. Photos do it some justice, as you can see by clicking on some of the amazing images of pain, pleasure and rapture to the right of this bloggamy. But you can only view the really hot XXX-rated photos when you join.

So I’ll try to put together a few inadequate words to describe how the Speakeasy was transformed into a underground palace worthy of the Marquis de Sade and Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch combined with a strong streak of Anne Rice, as the Broken Door LA and dozens of striking Mistresses, commanding Masters and sexy sensual slaves gathered together within our burgundy velvet walls to tie up, spank, flog, whip, smother, strip, shock, paddle, diddle and make each other cum in the most elegant, intimate B&D Gala I imagine that LA has ever known.

We are swinging into Show Mode here at the Studios, sorting the whips, untangling the chains, shining up the crosses and scrubbing the dildos in preparation for our pre-Bondage Ball Gala this Saturday night, May 23, with the swashbuckling sponsors of this year’s one and only LA Bondage Ball, The Broken Door. Though the Pre-Bondage Ball Gala will be a very exclusive soirée/show to be filmed by Ladybirds Films for a European TV documentary, Block Studios members might be able to snag one or two of a small number of available spots on The List...if they hurry up and make reservations now.