The Riki Lindhome lookalike

Naturally, you will be subjected to photos of Riki alongside Rain DeGrey (a.k.a. Raina Bird). The latter is younger. She was born on August 30 in 1981. She has OCD – the characteristic of the best writers. She has 10,784 friends on FetLife, which are enough people to guarantee the publishing of her memoir (it’s been her pet project for a long time). On Twitter, she has even more followers. At 35.3K, she has way more than another sapphic actress – Clea DuVall, whose followers are currently at 22K (she would definitely have more if herself and Ellen Page didn’t split up). Here is a sample of Rain’s life as posted on the journal of her FetLife profile that isn’t accessible to people who are not members…

Friday, July 3, 2009:

I was a dork when I was a child. You know, the kid who has no friends, actually mastered the art of reading and walking at the same time so I could read while I walked home. Most of all, I wore glasses. They were bifocals, if you must know. My vision was 20/500. I was legally blind. Guess what? I am still a big dork. I have no social skills. I get nervous around people.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010:

Last week took the cake however in terms of how scary men can be when locked in the grips of their sex drive. The Supperclub on Harrison Street has a monthly 4 course meal and entertainment. It’s quite the night and I usually do a suspension performance. This month, the theme was water bondage and I came up with the concept of turning Lilla Katt (my good friend) into a mermaid. It was a simple enough suspension, what made it cool was that I had gotten green rope to tie her legs together into a tail and spray-painted some swim fins green to match. That combined with some starfish shaped pasties made her a pretty convincing mermaid. I was quite pleased at the end result. As we exited my car, a blue mini-van came to a screeching halt next to us. It was 4 middle-aged guys drunk off their @sses. I felt threatened enough that I brought out my canister of mace.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012:

I grew up poor. Single-mother-raising-2-children-on-welfare poor. One winter when the window cracked, we replaced it with cardboard and duct tape because we couldn’t afford to replace it. I thought I knew poverty. Until I went to Mexico. The differences between America and Mexico were many and staggering. The first thing I noticed were the guns. Soldiers were everywhere, lounging on street corners clutching guns. And I am not talking about handguns. The other thing I noticed was all of the prostitutes. They were clustered on almost as many street corners as the soldiers, killing time and making eyes at the cars passing by.

Monday, September 17, 2012:

Have you ever wondered how models, dancers, strippers and porn stars manage to work on their period? After all, your rent has to be paid and you can’t not work for one week out of the month. They use the make-up sponge trick. It can work for you too, even if you aren’t a dancer or a porn star. A $3.50 bag of make-up sponges can last you through six months of periods and are much easier on your pocketbook. Tampons are bleached, processed and you can only use them once before you have to throw them away. All of those tampons from all of those women add up. I like to think how much less I am contributing to a landfill. A make-up sponge is pressed far up enough against the cervix that a penis can’t even tell it is there.

Thursday, December 13, 2012:

As a child, I loved the Nancy Drew series. I read every one of the books I could get my little hands on, and was continually raiding the local library for fresh material. My mother noticed I was plowing going through 3 or more of them in a single day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was only reading the good part in each book before casting it aside. I would flip open to the table of contents, locate the chapter where Nancy Drew gets kidnapped and tied up and eagerly read that chapter before moving on to the next book. Of course I was easily getting through 3 of them daily. Nancy Drew seemed to have a hankering for rough trade. That nubile 16-year-old girl spent a fair amount of her time getting repeatedly captured, kidnapped, tied up, chloroformed and choked out. This happened in almost every book and I would linger over the chapter, stewing in a muddle of “funny feelings” that my eight-year-old self couldn’t properly grasp.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013:

I had always known that I liked the ladies. Sure, almost all young girls play “Doctor” and fool around with each other, but it is an experimental phase that is quickly outgrown in favor of boys. I never outgrew it. Perhaps it helped that I grew up in the incredibly liberal Bay Area, where discrimination is practically non-existent, and I was never made to feel guilty for liking girls “in that way”. I thought girls were beautiful and smooth, shaped so nicely and curved in all the right ways, lacking that harsh boy smell of sweat and macho. When I finally got a chance to act on the urges I had had brewing in me since my childhood doctor games, I did it properly. I had an orgy in the janitor’s broom closet at my high school with 3 of my girl friends. You never forget your first time; particularly if your first time was an orgy with three hot sixteen-year-olds.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013:

I never meant to end up doing porn. It was a total accident. When I was a kid growing up, my fondest desire was to be a librarian until I found out how much librarians got paid. Then I wanted to be a teacher until I found out how much teachers got paid. As a wanton hedonist in open minded San Francisco, I was enjoying everything that the city had to offer me when a friend suggested I apply to model for – I paused for only a moment and then thought “Why the heck not? How cool would it be to get paid to do the the things I love and am already willingly doing for free nightly?”

Friday, September 27, 2013:

I was painfully, brutally bullied as a child. I didn’t have ANY friends. I ate my lunch in the bathroom stall to avoid being picked on. I wouldn’t wish my formative years on anyone. I was so miserable that I developed an ulcer by the age of 12. My exceedingly rough childhood, of always being on the outside looking in, of being so down the ladder of coolness that I couldn’t even see the bottom rung, has kept me rather firmly grounded in reality.

Friday, April 18, 2014:

I only wish that FetLife existed back in the day, but nope. MySpace is what you had to work with. In short order, after some poking around in the darker corners of the world of Myspace, I found someone who would end up becoming my first Dom. Richard was a country music fan, pickup truck-driving, Catholic police officer from Napa. His biggest complaint was that he could not find a nice Republican conservative kinky girl. Coming from such wildly different worlds, the only thing we had in common was our mutual love of BDSM. I was his dirty little secret that he kept in the closet. I now date only liberals and still rock my joke gang tattoo. I can only hope he has found the conservative Republican girl of his dreams to do his dishes with a ballgag in her mouth, it will just never be me. Good thing that I never told him about the 666 tattoo I have hidden in my hair over my left ear. I don’t think his heart could of handled it.

Friday, July 4, 2014:

Imagine having me for a sister-in-law and having NO idea who I am or what I do. Imagine thinking of me as your odd, all-black wearing, vegetarian sister-in-law from California, but having zero clue of the fervor and dedication of my entire life to all things kinky. I met the boy when I was very young. We were both working at a book store and he picked me up in the philosophy section, where we bonded over a mutual distaste of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. I moved in 3 weeks later and the rest is history. We even ended up married and buying a house together, not that I stayed at the house 7 days a week or anything. I am much more of a feral cat as opposed to a lap dog. We make it work. He never let his family know my…proclivities, as far as they knew – I was just one of those wacky CA girls raised by hippies that was not down with the meat eating.

Monday, March 16, 2015:

Try being raised by a mentally ill mother, endless severe physical abuse, a constant stream of touchy stepfathers or boyfriends, grinding poverty, alcoholism and mental illness running rampant through both sides of my family. Try being raised in a cult by hairy-legged hippies that gave you no education because they were so desperately trying to become enlightened past this world of suffering that they couldn’t really be bothered to teach you math. Trying moving out on your own at the age of 16 because your home life was so chaotic that it was no longer a livable situation. Yes, all of that happened and more, this is only the lighter, condensed version.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015:

Opening up the floor for dude-bro dictionary translations…

“Be more open minded” = Have sex with me.

“I am very open minded” = I would like to have sex with you.

“Why are you so uptight?” = Why won’t you have sex with me?

“I am just being nice, what is your problem?!” = Why won’t you do what I want? as in, have sex with me?

“I am down for whatever” = Whatever as long as it is sex.

“I was only joking” = Saying something that was not funny in the slightest.

“Want to hang out?” = Want to have sex?

“You are fat and I never wanted you anyway” = I am sad that you wouldn’t have sex with me.

“I am bored” = I wish I was having sex with someone right now.

“What are you looking for on this site?” = Want to have sex with me?

Generic compliment about face/body/eyes/lips = Can we have sex now?

Sunday, October 25, 2015:

The stepfather – the man that had me backed into a corner, screwdriver in one hand as he used the other other hand to turn up the TV, to muffle the sounds of any potential screaming. The man who sexually assaulted me in broad daylight in the middle of a store with multiple witnesses in the aisle. That one is still working its way through the court system. The flasher that followed me for 8 blocks when I was 12, yanking open his coat and exposing his penis at me over and over as I froze in panic, uncertain what to do but keep walking as he trailed me block after block. The pay phone that I unwittingly picked up as an 11-year-old as the strange voice of a man poured out a jerky gasping story of a woman getting sodomized in a hot tub while he watched. I was too young to know I could hang up, too young to know that the strange gasping sounds meant that he was jacking off as he called, waiting for a female to pick up.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016:

Four places I’ve lived – San Franciso, San Rafael, Novato and Fairfax (Bay Area born and bred, I have never lived anywhere else).

Four things I like to watch – Ocean waves crashing. Cats playing. People who don’t know they’re being watched. Aerial silks.

Four places I have visited – Mexico. Munich. Dublin. Copenhagen.

Four things I love to eat – Mac and cheese. Grilled cheese sandwiches. Milkshakes. Burritos (I obviously would make a horrible vegan).

Four favorite drinks – Hot chocolate. Root beer. Milkshakes. Cider.

Four favorite scents – Chocolate chip cookies. Vanilla perfume. The smell of streets after it rains. Banana bread.

Four favorite things I love to hear – Cats purring. The sound of a partner cumming. Oceans/rivers/fountains. Fires crackling in the fireplace.

Friday, October 13, 2017:

At 16, there was a blood stained mattress and an ignored police report. I didn’t struggle enough to have my report taken seriously was the official consensus – it wasn’t a good case. At 28, a SUV full of drunk middle-aged men screech to a stop in the middle of the street, pinning me next to my car. It was in my 30s that I was grabbed from behind by unfamiliar hands in the middle of a store – hands attached to a strange face. Evidently, their desire to grab my ass outweighed my desire to not have a stranger’s hands on my flesh. I screamed and called the police. As I filed the report, I was asked time and time again if I was sure, really really sure that I wanted to press charges. Boys will be boys, after all. In the end, all the charges were dropped and some community service hours were applied. I had multiple witnesses and the entire incident captured on security cameras.

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