This remarkable bonobo-human hybrid, born to an idealistic human mother and a lovable bonobo dad as part of a pygmy chimp preservation project gone awry, is named Sage, and she is the shining star of an exciting new first novel, Primal Tears by Truthout’s environmental editor Kelpie Wilson.

Wilson seems to have chosen the highly endangered bonobo, as opposed to the common chimp or gorilla, for Sage’s ape side, at least in part because of the pygmy chimp’s amazingly peaceful, highly sexual society. Bonobo males would rather screw than fight, and bonobo females keep the males in line through their almost-constant receptivity to sex. Everybody is bisexual. For the males, this means that battles are often resolved with orgasms instead of casualties. For the bonobo gals, it translates into a kind *female solidarity* built upon intense sexual relationships involving what the primatologists call "genito-genital rubbing" or "GG Rubbing." The local Mogandu people have a much more appealing, expressive name for this act of rapidly rubbing their large sensitive clitorises and labia against each other: hoka-hoka. Sounds like a sexy sort of dance, doesn’t it? That’s what it looks like, the bonobo tango, but it’s quick vulva-to-vulva action rather than slow cheek-to-cheek. Bonobo females grow closer to each other as they do the hoka-hoka, consolidating their social connections along with their orgasms. These highly sexed females are also far more likely to initiate sex with the males than any other great ape females (including humans!). So the bonobo guys get a pretty good deal: Give the ladies some respect, and get plenty of sex, all year ‘round.  This helps bonobo females maintain somewhat equal power with the guys, and keep the peace for all.

The idea of a bonobo-human hybrid might seem crazy, immoral or downright impossible. But scientists have long known that humans can probably interbreed with apes. As far back as 1977, Researcher J. Michael Bedford discovered that human sperm could penetrate the protective outer membranes of a gibbon egg. Chimps and bonobos are much closer to humans than gibbons. So why couldn’t a human and chimp get together to produce a chuman, or humanzee, or Sage?

Why not, indeed. Let’s just say that, for various practical and ethical reasons, though experts generally agree that a human-ape hybrid is quite possible, no such specimen has ever been confirmed. This hasn’t stopped science fiction writers and artists from imagining human-chimp creatures like Bassou of Morocco, or apes with human qualities like King Kong.

Out of this fertile ground rises our heroine, Sage, a *normal* American girl except for the fine hair all over her arms, legs, back and butt, her jutting brow ridge, her long powerful arms, her decidedly unintellectual mentality, her “endless” craving for sex, and a few other pygmy chimpish characteristics. Sage grows up happily, albeit a bit awkwardly, in a back-to-the-land community in the wilds of Oregon with her biological mother, adoptive father and a bunch of friends and neighbors who pretty much accept her for who she is, even if they don’t quite understand what she is. She has some harrowing scrapes with the law as well as some militant creationists and right-wing religious nuts determined to destroy her or put her behind bars. So runs away to live off the land for a couple of years, communing with bears and generally getting in touch with her *wild* side. Eventually, an older and wiser Sage makes her way back to her human family where she is cherished and soon sponsored by a friendly, environmentally conscious billionaire whose backing not only protects her from anti-evolution human predators, but transforms her into an international superstar. She goes on Oprah-like talk shows and dances onstage with rock stars, swinging from the rafters and spreading her message of peace, love and understanding all over the world, from Middle American soccer moms to African villagers to the Pope who, ironically enough, tries to convert this avid birth control activist to Catholicism.

Though strong on its messages of nonviolence, environmental protection, bonobo preservation, female empowerment and population control, Primal Tears never gets overly preachy, and the story is always compelling. So are the characters, especially Sage herself. We care about what happens to this uniquely empathetic half-human creature. Naturally, being half-bonobo, Sage is pretty sexual, and Wilson doesn’t shy away from her star’s amped up erotic nature, like so many others who write about bonobos. Primal Tears contains some fantastic sex passages with erotic scenes between Sage and human males and females. Actually, I could have used even more sex (but then I could always use more sex). Primal Tears is very cinematic, and would make a great film, much more interesting than another remake of Planet of the Apes.

 

Last night, for instance, I found it so delicious to touch, kiss and suck his freshly showered body (now slimmed down to a very sexy build since he quit drinking). Touching him even seems to kill my pains for a little while. I’ve always known that sex is a natural painkiller. But I thought it was mainly about having orgasms and receiving pleasure. Turns out that giving pleasure is also almost as good as a Vicodin (hear that, Rush?). Erotic touch releases painkilling chemicals (oxytocin instead of OxyContin), whether you’re the toucher or the touchee.

Another natural painkiller: Talking about my illness to people who can help me understand it better. This has its good and its bad sides. It can easily devolve into simple complaining, which will soon irritate everyone, including me. But it can be very enlightening, opening up new windows in my soul and lightening the load of pain.

Yesterday, I talked with Ari, whom I’ve known since high school. Ari came to see me in the hospital during my first week there, when I was pretty much at my worst: unconscious, heart, kidneys and other vitals unable to function on their own, body blown up with edema to sumo-wrestler proportions, my temperature bouncing from high fever to shivering cold. “They said you had less than a 50% chance of surviving,” Ari recalled. “From what I could see, I’d have put it at 20%. Of course, I knew you’d pull through, but only because it’s you. Anyone else, I wouldn’t have bet on...It was funny though – your eyebrows and hair looked great [this was because I had just done a show two nights before, and a good thing too, as no one does your eyebrows or hair in ICU]. Otherwise, you were in really terrible shape.”

Maybe it would make some people feel sicker, but hearing about how bad I was makes me feel better now, more grateful to be alive and less vexed by my current pains and weaknesses. If I’ve come this far up the mountain, I can certainly go the distance to the top.

First up on the Island is stunning, super-leggy, pin-up porn princess Bethany Sweet. Next, out bounces irresistibly delicious, super-busty, ultra-MILF va-va-voom, it's Vicki Vette! Then kinky Russian fetish model Victoria Lane, and smoking hot Spanish pop star (Funk Her Like An Animal!) ORGASMICAL. The “one very special brunette” is lovely Zorthian Nymph and artist's model Lisa Ann Davis in her first dazzling appearance on the show. Cameos include sultry Avy Lee Roth (David Lee Roth’s porn star daughter), the incorrigible Mistress Genevieve and hyper-exhibitionist Luccia of Brazil crying "Jesus is in me now!" as she thrusts the Jesus Jackhammer deep inside her sanctuary. . Embedding himself into this wild Island of Pleasure is Major Network War Correspondent Rob (“It Doesn’t Get Better Than This”) Williams, a shipwrecked sailor just stateside after being embedding among 1000 smelly marines in the Sea of War, that ocean of sand and wasted blood, BushCo’s catastrophe, Iraq. Thank goddess he washed up on Blonde Island's sensuous shores before a car bomb blew him to smithereens!

So, what are you waiting for? Come, soldiers and dictators, troops and dupes, presidents and terrorists, throw your guns and your bombs and your war plans overboard and swim up between the golden arms and silky legs of the sexiest blondes in the sea. Embed yourself, baby. Come to Me.

Come to Blonde Island and escape into the pleasure of luscious wet-on-wet cunnilingus and major mouth-stretching fellatio performed with panache by uninhibited lemon-haired beauties “born for porn” and ready for sex. Plus outrageous facials, golden showers, foot fetish, boob fetish, butt fetish, blonde fetish, art fetish, comedy fetish, teasing up a tropical storm, sex on the front – and from behind(!), two guys on one girl and six girls on one lucky war correspondent. And that’s just the eye candy. There’s also really sexy music (unlike most porn films), lots of hot nasty talk, AND my inimitable mix of enlightening conversation about sex and religion, sex and childhood, sex and politics, sex and war.

And already, it’s making waves. Actually, a small tsunami at a major news network. Rob, an old friend who really is a network correspondent (The Dr. Susan Block Show is the original Reality TV, after all!), was called on the carpet by same network, threatening to fire him, blackball him and send him to Guantánamo, when the suits found out he'd taken his leave on Blonde Island. Rob begged me to remove the call letters of this network. But it was too late; the DVDs were already printed and out the door. Just to be *nice,* I took the telltale letters out of some of the advertising and this bloggamy. But I’ll give you a hint: It starts with a C and ends with an S. If you still can't figure it out (too many meds?), just get the DVD or the download or watch the stream; it's all spelled out for you right there. Hey, don't you want to know which major network war correspondent likes to hang out on Blonde Island when he's not embedded with the marines?

Rob’s segment is actually great. C_S should be proud. It’s hilarious to watch him try to keep it in his pants as the blondes rub their huge boobs against him and cover his crotch with a big Bill Clinton dildo. Through it all, Rob is the perfect network spokesman, and neither his pants nor his Hawaiian shirt ever actually leave his body (are you listening, C_S suits?). It is also a meaningful segment on several levels, as we contrast the peace and beauty of Blonde Island with the horrors of the War in Iraq. There's tension in the tropics when Rob turns to the frolicking blondes and says, "This is what we are fighting for," to which I gently but firmly coounter, " This is what we should be doing instead of fighting."

Speaking of fighting, here's a quick note on my convalescence: Very slowly but surely, painfully but gratefully, I am fighting my way back to health, moving farther from my Dance with Death, moving back into the Land of the Living, where I will soon create more Islands of Pleasure at the Speakeasy or wherever BlockStudios washes ashore. Thank you again for all your cards, letters, comments, prayers and gifts (don't be shy about sending money!). I appreciate it all, and I hope to see you here soon, sipping a tropical drink, clad in nothing but a lei and a smile.

  

Thank you, Vern, for all of your tremendous pioneering work in sexology, sex history and sexual freedom. Thank you for reaching out to me several years ago, supporting my work and becoming my friend. Your work lives on in schools and libraries, and in the laws you fought for that let more and more people live their sexual lives in peace. Your love lives on in our hearts.

When I was a kid, the sexiest holiday of the year was the 4th of July, smack in the center of a Philly summer, hot and steamy enough to go out at night in shorts and thin cotton shirts. We'd all go out to the playground and spread our blankets on the ground, then lay on our backs, looking up at the stars, dizzy and drunk on the enormity of it all. And some of us (the science nerds) knew that those lights in the endless sky above us were from fires burning long before America even existed. The rest of us liberal arts types just hung out or made out on the blankets and waited for the pseudo starbursts to start - promethean gifts to heavenly bodies - streaking the night sky with blasts of red, blue, silver bullets bursting in our ears, shining in our eyes, orgasming in our hearts, then falling so exquisitely, so deliciously, like the end of an ejaculation, showering our spirits in celebration. Celebration of what? Not of culture; American culture is just a mishmash of other cultures. Not of government; most of us tend to have pretty mixed feelings about government. But celebration of an idea, simple and yet incredible, the idea of freedom, the greatest aphrodisiac of all.

Let freedom reign, brothers and sisters! More than just about anything, people want to feel free. Feeling free is almost as important as feeling love, sometimes more important; lots of us give up love to be free. We seek, we cherish, we fight for our freedom, and yet...it's sooo slippery... I mean, how free are you? Are you freer now than you used to be, or less free? What imprisons you? Your job? Your school? Your marriage? Your parents? Your children? Your fears? Your neighbors? Your president? Does the War imprison you? If you’re in the reserve, I bet it does. How about the Terror? Does the Patriot Act imprison you? Is your religion a prison? Do your aspirations for political office imprison you? Maybe your body imprisons you. Your weight? Your age? Your guilty conscience? Your expectations? Do you expect someday someone will come along and give you your freedom? Like on a silver platter? Like that big break you’ve been waiting for? Or maybe like a bomb? Maybe somebody will bomb you free! Liberate your soul from your bomb-pulverized body; that’s Bush-style freedom for the Iraqis. Yes indeed. And the sign over Auschwitz said “Work sets you free” Lord and Lady save us from that freedom.

Of course, the other side of the coin of freedom is restraint. Which isn’t so bad if you enjoy it. Yes, freedom is a great aphrodisiac. But restraint is a close second. If that’s your thing. There are different kinds of restraint, control, bondage, or as they say en français, “ligottage,” the gentle art of tying up your sex partner, with anything from bondage cross handcuffs to putting a hood over your head to the invisible shackles of your mind over your partner’s matter, the purpose being to enhance excitement, not to overcome reluctance. Consensuality is the key to this delicate erotic art, the sensual science of restraint. Without consensuality, well, then it’s called torture, and there you have it: Operation Iraqi Freedom. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. Are we’re losing it, here in Bush's America’s, on our 230th 4th of July?

Well, we’ve always got fireworks. But don't be popping off those amateur firecrackers now; or you could be popping off some fingers. And how you gonna finger anybody with no fingers?