Wonderhussy - Rants and Raves of Las Vegas Nude Model, Fetish Model and Writer

Zombie With a Yeast Infection!

Posted on May 18, 2012 by wonderhussy

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My name is Wonderhussy, and I. AM. EXHAUSTED!!!!

This exhaustion is mostly due to the bogus program of sleep deprivation I’m engaged in, to combat the chronic insomnia from which I’ve been suffering the past two years. (Basically, by limiting your time in bed to fewer hours a night, you’ll eventually get so sleepy that you’ll SLEEP the whole night through.) As previously mentioned, since May 2nd I’ve been going to bed at 2am and rising at the ungodly hour of 8am every day…sleep or no. It hasn’t worked AT ALL, but I don’t want to give up because I HAVE to beat this fucking insomnia so I can get back to the business of living a fabulous fun-filled life!

As the days went by, I found myself getting tireder and tireder…but still paradoxically unable to sleep well. That’s insomnia for ya — it’s a classic mindfuck!

The tireder I get, the harder it is to stay awake til 2am every night. The insomnia websites recommend reading or watching TV, but I can’t do either of those late at night or I’ll doze off before 2 and ruin my chances of sleeping. I basically have to stand upright to stay awake, no matter how tiring it is. One night I was sooooo tired my eyelids were just drooping like an old man’s ballsac, and the only thing I could think to do was go for a long, lonely walk. I put on my hoodie and iPod and sort of ambled around East Charleston Blvd. in a zombified haze, killing time until 1:45am at which time I could shuffle home to bed.

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 384B web 199x300 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ It was an interesting walk, though. East Charleston is full of crazy Mexican stores — I mean CRAZY — and though they were all closed at that hour, I was able to look in the windows and see some really weird shit. It was almost like being in another country! There were no less than 3 Quinceañera stores in the immediate vicinity of my house, and I spent quite a few minutes drooling over the poufy Barbie-princess style ballgowns they make for those chicks to wear. I have long been OBSESSED with Quinceañeras — I find them such a creepy, bizarre ritual. For those who don’t know, it’s like a sweet sixteen party, but for Mexican girls — and they do it at fifteen, since as we all know those girls mature at a faster rate. Their families ball the fuck out for these parties, with ginormous dresses and hairdos, and then they bring out this super-creepy giant “Last Doll” to symbolize the passing of youth, and then bring out a pair of high heels on a pillow, to symbolize the coming of womanhood. LMFAO!!!!! (Then the next day some dumb homey brings out the First Jism, which leads to the First Teenage Pregnancy, which leads to My First WIC Coupons, which lead to My First Snot Nosed Brat Throwing a Temper Tantrum in the Kotex Aisle at Food-4-Less, which leads to Wonderhussy getting the fuck out of there.) (I’m kidding…..relax!!)

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 276A web 199x300 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ Aaaaaaaaanyhoo, another night I wandered around the Strip, instead — but that was even worse! My intent was to walk from one end clear to the other and back — all the way from the Stratosphere in the north to the Mandalay Bay in the south, and back — a total of about 8 miles. But the sidewalks were so choked with cockroaches, whores and drunk idiots that I had to give up after a mere 4 miles. It was literally making me sick. I hate summertime in Vegas!

Anyhoo, every night I find some way to stay awake til 2am, and then try and sleep til 8…which hasn’t been working, and has led to some serious sleep deprivation, which has led to some serious bad shit. One night, I was driving up to my boyfriend Captain Crunch’s house (he lives waaaay up north), and I got pulled over by the freaking cops!! They thought I was drunk, because I was weaving — but really I was just trying to brush my hair, which I had just washed. It was two officers, a chick and a dude, and they were like “You were weaving pretty badly back there…you wanna explain why?” You could tell they thought they had another juicy DUI on their hands, but sorry fellas, I was sober as a judge. I just pointed at my hairbrush, on the seat beside me, but you could tell they didn’t believe me. Then when I got out my driver’s license they saw my medical marijuana card, and now they were REALLY suspicious: “Is that why you were weaving?!!!!!”

“Sorry officers; I am a classic textbook example of a responsible medical marijuana patient — I do not use it socially or recreationally, only in bed to help me sleep!” You could see the disappointment on their faces, but it was funny, I had a giant prescription vial full of Afghani Kush in my overnight bag, which was open for all to see, right under the guy cop’s nose. Either he didn’t see it, didn’t care, or actually respected my prescription. Who knows!

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 235A web 300x199 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ Anyway, they still made me get out and do a sobriety test, just because they could…and I passed, of course. Still, they ended up giving me TWO traffic tickets, at which point I just broke down weeping. It wasn’t the tickets so much as the sheer exhaustion, and the feeling that everything was just piling the fuck up on me. You could tell they felt sorry for me, but apparently not sorry enough to let me go with a motherfucking warning. Fuckers!

My fatigue only grew worse as the week wore on. Part of my therapy is to listen to this 20-minute relaxation mp3 twice a day in the afternoon, and I usually doze off while listening to it (it’s just a bunch of chimes and gongs, allegedly isochronic tones that will “reprogram” my brainwaves). Well, one afternoon I had a foot fetish photo shoot at 5pm over at the Imperial Palace, in the Penthouse. (If you’ve ever seen what a class-A dump the I.P. is, you can only imagine how fabulously shitty the penthouse was. It looked to be on par with a Motel 6 penthouse…if Motel 6s had penthouses.)

Anyway, before I went over to the photo shoot, I figured I had just enough time to do a quick relaxation session, then powder my nose and head over there. Alas, I was sooooo tired that I passed the fuck out and slept for around 30 minutes, waking up with only 15 minutes to get over there in time!! Fuckin’ insomnia! I didn’t even have time to wash up or powder my nose…so I had to roll over with filthy feet and a shiny face

I jumped in my truck and tried to hurry, but I had just gotten those two tickets and I was loath to speed, so I kinda limited myself to 1 or 2 miles over the speed limit the whole way there. I made it more or less in time, though — and what a freaky scene!!!!

Apparently, this wasn’t for any website — it was a private fetishist from Montreal, some random Quebecois who came to town and hired all these chicks to come up to his room, put on a karate gi, and pose for a series of still photos pretending to kick his frog ass!!! LULZ!!!! He hired one chick to take the photos, and then this other guy was in charge of the remote control for the TV, which displayed a series of photos he wanted to recreate. All I had to do was copy the poses, and pretend to kick his ass. He was a nice looking guy, very soft-spoken and mild-mannered, and at the end of the shoot he gave me a single red rose. Like the Bachelor, LOL! He also gave me $300, which since the shoot only lasted 45 minutes was pretty sweet.

The best part of all this was the chick who was leaving just as I came in (he had models booked one after another…he really spent some coin on this little trip). It was an Asian girl with an odd-sounding New Zealand accent…and come to find out, she has Foreign Accent Syndrome — you know, where you randomly acquire a foreign accent out of nowhere??!!! IT WAS AMAZING! She said she fell off a wall and hit her head when she was a kid, and then gradually developed a Kiwi accent over the years. She said it was very gradual, so that her family didn’t even notice right away…but it has become so pronounced that there’s no escaping it anymore. Crazy!!! I told her she was lucky she didn’t develop a hillbilly twang instead, or something even worse where she said “sorey” and “aboot.” LMFAO!!!!!

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 055A BW web 199x300 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ Then the chick who was photographing the whole thing chimed in. Apparently SHE, too, fell and hit her head once…and it fucked up her pituitary gland so that it stopped secreting HGH, and she gained all this weight. She has to get regular injections from an endocrinologist just to stay normal. But then she got uterine cancer, and had to stop taking the HGH (to inhibit tumor growth) until they gave her a hysterectomy. FUCK! All this medical talk was kinda freaking me the fuck out…but now that I think about it, maybe that’s exactly what I need — maybe if I fall off a wall, I’ll hit my head and reboot my brain so that I can sleep again! Or…maybe not.

Anyhoo, all of that at least kept me awake for awhile. I’m telling you, I need constant diversion to keep my eyelids from falling shut after about 9pm. Some other things I did this week to stay awake were: walk my dog around silent, sleeping neighborhoods; go to this weekly drum circle up in Red Rock Canyon (a bunch of hippies and assorted weirdos gather up there every Sunday for an awesome jam); and hike up Lone Mountain. Let me tell you about this last one in more detail.

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 299A web 199x300 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ So a few months ago, I was on my way back from a photo shoot in the desert, when I passed this random wacko who was pedaling a stationary bike on top of a stack of shipping containers at the side of the freeway. I pulled off immediately and navigated a warren of bizarre back streets and frontage roads to get to him, just to find out what the fuck he was doing up there. Come to find out, he goes up there every day for a few hours to promote his fitness website, 1minuteexercisechallenge.com — this guy is a fitness fiend. He seemed like a genial enough kook, so I gave him my card, and he started reading my blog, and we sort of became friends. He saw on my bucket list that I’ve been meaning to hike up Lone Mountain (a smallish hill in the northwest part of Vegas with amazing views of the city), so every couple weeks or so he would text me, “So when are we gonna hike Lone Mountain?” Well, I’ve been too busy lately with random shit, so I kept blowing him off…but now that I have all these endless hours yawning ahead of me every night before I can go to bed, I finally had the time to do it!

I was kinda worried he was trying to hit on me, but I figured if he reads my blog then he would know I’ve been dating Captain Crunch, and would realize that this was just a friendly, time-killing hike. As it happens, I needn’t have worried, because he himself is a happily married Mormon with five kids!!! We met up at the mountain, and as we hiked we talked of cabbages and kings, and I realized how hardcore this guy is: he works out non-stop, every minute of every day. He works from home, at a treadmill desk, and then does all these high-intensity one-minute workouts using his kids as weights in between…in addition to bicycling atop the shipping containers every day. I was exhausted just talking to him — how does THIS guy not have trouble sleeping?!

He also convinced me it was OK to hike in my flip flops, without a headlamp…even though it was already dusk when we set off, and the trail was covered in all kindsa loose scree and stuff. Fuck! I almost ate it a time or three, but it was actually a great hike and I enjoyed it immensely. On the way back down I mentioned I had a sore throat, and he told me I should gargle with essential oregano oil, which you can find at health food stores. It was already 8:30, and Whole Foods closes at 9, so I was like, “Oh well, I guess I’ll go tomorrow…” But then this amazing guy offered to give me a bottle of his personal supply, if I followed him home!

Now I know what you’re thinking: That’s the oldest ruse in the book, right?! Well, you’re wrong! I followed him to his amazing badass custom house, which is on a half-acre lot in a really cool neighborhood, and he invited me inside and introduced me to his wife and kids — all super-photogenic blond Mormons, right out of a movie! It was crazy!! He said he had told his wife about me and my blog, and I was just shocked that they would invite a hussy like me into their home to hobnob with their impressionable offspring. But they were so fucking cool! He brought me the bottle of oregano oil, which he warned would burn my mouth and throat really badly, and taste really gross. His kids all gathered around to watch, expecting me to puke or something…but I’m here to tell you, for a hussy like me, oregano oil ain’t no thang. I gargled it, put drops directly on my tongue, and then drank some of it mixed with water…and yeah it did taste pretty funky, and burn a little…but it wasn’t bad!

They were all shocked and appalled at my apparent lack of tastebuds, and the guy tried to ascribe it to my consumption of alky-hol having desensitized my tastebuds. That’s where you’re wrong, bro — I have excellent taste buds. It’s more likely due to the fact that I regularly drink cayenne pepper mixed with hot water (for my sinuses)…now THAT burns! Once you’ve drunk cayenne pepper tea, oregano oil ain’t no thang at all.

Anyway, not only did he give me the oil to take home (surprisingly, it works very well…I gargled with it 5 or 6 times over the next couple days, and it really did the trick), but he also gave me a bottle of lavender oil, said to help with sleep. The jury’s still out on that one…but I’m here to tell you, oregano oil is a great homeopathic remedy for a sore throat, people.

So after chatting with his amazing family for a few minutes, I left them to their happy shenanigans and toodled off down the road, with the invitation to come back whenever I wanted for family fun night. How cool is that?! I just LOVE meeting random people like that…especially when they turn out to be so interesting. And to think, it all happened because I took the initiative to exit the freeway. Let that be a lesson to you all…STOP AND SMELL THE ROSES!

Now, the reason I had a sore throat is twofold. One, Captain Crunch had it and likely passed it on to me…and two, since I’m so sleep deprived, my immune system is kinda weakened. I also got a god damn yeast infection, which was a whole other rigamarole — I know damn well when I have one of those, but if you go to the drug store all they’ll sell you is this nasty-ass injection tube full of cream that is messy and time-consuming and just plain GROSS. Meanwhile, if you get a prescription from a doctor they’ll give you ONE SINGLE PILL which fixes it all. ONE PILL!! How the fuck is that fair, I ask you?!

Since I still have insurance until the end of the month, I figured to kill some more endless evening hours by going into the 24-hour Quick Care for an exam after work one night, so I could get the prescription for the pill. But what a fucking farce! I had to go in, wait around, get triaged, wait around, pee in a cup, wait around, see the doctor, wait around, then finally get my prescription and pay FIFTY FUCKING DOLLARS for the privilege! And that’s WITH insurance!!!! WTF!!!!!

Then I had to drive to TWO separate pharmacies to find one that was open 24 hours, and wait around some more with a bunch of cranky old Jewish men who were also at the pharmacy at 1am on a Thursday night, for some reason. They were cool, though — because I only needed one pill, my scrip was filled way before theirs, so when the pharmacist called me up first they mock-grumbled about it not being fair. “Hey guys,” I said, “It’s cuz I only need one pill. One magic pill!” “One pill!” they said, referencing the Jefferson Airplane song “White Rabbit.” “What is it, a magic mushroom?” “Um, yeaaaaaahhhhhh! Something like that,” I said. LOL — a yeast infection really IS a sort of fungus!!!! The joke was totally on them!

The point of this is, I spent $60 and 2.5 hours to get one fucking pill — and when I got it, it was packaged in a cardboard box, in a paper bag, with a paper information booklet stapled to it, inside a plastic bag with a foot-long paper receipt. ALL THIS FOR ONE FUCKING PILL! No wonder our society’s so fucked up!

Aaaaaanyhoo, these were some of the things I did to stay awake this past week. But wait, it gets even worse! One of the readers of this blog emailed me, lambasting me for not going to see a REAL, LEGIT DOCTOR about the insomnia — no more of this sleep restriction quackery, please! I don’t know why I never looked into sleep specialists before — I guess because my experience with my primary care doctor was so shitty, and then with my therapists and psychologists too, that I just sort of gave up on modern medicine. But now that I only have insurance til the end of May, I finally looked up a guy and went to see him.

He was a really cool guy with an affable demeanor, and I told him the whole fucking sob story — how I thought the insomnia was set off by my having eaten LSD and Ecstasy at Burning Man in 2009. Interestingly, he didn’t judge — in fact he said he actually went to the very first Burning Man, LOL! He agreed with my program of sleep restriction, but said I wasn’t tired enough, and that I needed to reduce my time spent in bed to only FOUR hours!!!!! FOUR HOURS!!!!!! So now I can’t go to bed til THREE A.M., and have to get up at 7 — EVERY SINGLE DAY! Oh gosh, now I’m REALLY gonna be a wreck!

What really sucked though, is I was telling him about the jackass psychiatrist who diagnosed me bipolar, and how I didn’t think it was true. He said I did seem manic, which I totally cop to, but I am not really depressive — if anything, I’m MONO-fucking-polar! Meanwhile, I was probably acting extra manic because a) I was soooo tired, but I try to put on a good front; and b) I was trying to be extra engaging and likable, so he might agree to see me at a reduced rate once I lose my insurance. So of course I acted manic!! It’s called a charm offensive, people!

But because I came off so energetic, he said I wasn’t nearly tired enough for the sleep restriction therapy to work, and so for the next 2 weeks I’m supposed to do this 3-7am bullshit and see if it works. When I heard that now I have to stay up even later, my facade crumbled and I broke down weeping. “I’m soooooo tiiiiiiiired,” I sobbed…and guess what, now I REALLY looked bipolar But I’m telling you, people…if you were this fuckin’ tired, you’d cry, too.

Anyway, he sent me on my way with another bullshit plan of action — a sleep diary where I’m supposed to record my sleep patterns for the next 2 weeks, then report back to him. He said he’d work something out with me if I don’t have insurance, so we’ll see. Meanwhile, I’m going to be VERY tired, and have to be careful driving and stuff…which sucks ass, because how the fuck am I supposed to stay up 20 hours a day if I can’t GO anywhere?! Arrgh!

So last night was the first night I tried it. This was right after the whole pharmacy magic pill rigamarole, so I got home around 1:30 and killed time til my 3am bedtime. But when I got in bed, I wasn’t allowed to smoke my “medicine,” so guess what? I DIDN’T SLEEP! I think I may have briefly dozed off very lightly, but I looked at the clock and it was 3:36… and I was wide awake. They say you’re supposed to GET UP out of bed if that happens, and go into another room until you’re sleepy again, so that your brain learns to associate your bed with sleeping only, not with tossing & turning. So I got up and sat in my darkened office for awhile. I tried listening to my relaxation mp3, but it didn’t help this time. I tried getting back in bed with the relaxation thing on, which also failed. Finally I got back up and went in to sit on my living room couch, figuring I might get sleepy there, since every time the Cap’n and I try to watch The Wire I fall asleep…and after awhile that finally worked. Around 5am I crawled back into my bed, and slept for about 90 minutes. That was IT! I am typing this on 90 minutes of sleep…don’t ask me how I’m doing it, and don’t ask me how I’m supposed to stay awake another 15 hours :-/

The worst part of all this is, it’s going to put a serious damper on my relationship with Captain Crunch!!! The sleep doc said I shouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him until I get my sleep back…and who the fuck knows how long THAT’s gonna take!!!! WTF!!!! It freaks me out because I really, really like this guy, and I like sleeping with him…that is, IF I could sleep. I’m afraid he’ll get tired of my bizarre fucking sleeping patterns — he tried to humor me when I was doing the 2am-8am thing, but THIS is beyond anyone’s capabilities. Oh well, I guess we’ll see what happens. If only I hadn’t eaten that fucking Ecstasy — that shit is POISON! I can’t believe all these dumb-ass bean-eaters frying their brains on a regular basis with that shit.

Speaking of Burning Man, another shitty thing that happened to me this week was, some stupid chick rear-ended my truck after work one night when I was on my way to Captain C’s house (hmm, maybe it’s a sign I shouldn’t go up there anymore). So now I had to deal with insurance hassles, but on the plus side I got a shiny new bumper for my truck. The bummer is, I lost my “WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN RARELY MAKE HISTORY” bumper sticker. But whatever; it was kinda corny anyway.

The funny thing was, when I took it into the body shop, I was wearing a bikini since I was on my way to the lake with Captain Crunch to go paddleboarding. The body shop guys thought that was pretty cool (my attire), and we joked about it…and then when I went to pick up my truck the next day, they were like, “Hey, you went to Burning Man?!?!?!” I was like, “Yeah…why do you ask?!” As soon as I said it, I realized how they knew — I have this thing hanging up on my passenger-side visor from Burning Man last year that is a laminated Genital ID Card, with a picture of my vagina and some information about me on the side. (Some stupid camp was making them, basically an excuse for them to photograph twats all day long. Don’t let ANYONE tell you Burning Man isn’t just about sex, drugs and booze — IT IS!)

When I realized the body shop guys had all seen my vag, we all shared a hearty laff…but whatever, it’s not like everyone with a computer hasn’t seen it anyway. What’s the big fuckin’ deal? It’s just skin and hairs, nothing more.

One last thing. As mentioned, I went paddleboarding out at Lake Las Vegas, a pretentious man-made lake surrounded by multi-million dollar homes, peopled by the likes of Sally Dingdong and the Sultan of Brunei. The funny thing is, the lake water is basically treated wastewater from Vegas…so all those rich dumbasses are floating around in a puddle of our shit. Take that, 1%!!!

I had never been paddleboarding before, and I was totally afraid I would suck at it, since I’m TOTALLY uncoordinated and a total klutz…but as it happens, I did all right and didn’t fall into the wastewater once! (Paddleboarding is basically standing on a giant surfboard, paddling around with a canoe oar.) It was really fun and really nice out there. We spent the day hanging out in the fake Italian village on the south shore, and then cruised into Boulder City for the night, where we stayed in one of those run-down old-timey motels like in the movie Leaving Las Vegas, where Nic Cage is an alkie and Elisabeth Shue is a hooker, and they go down there to drink and wallow in each other’s misery. Fun! We basically did the same thing, only without the misery — we had a damn good time! We shut down all the bars in that square ass town, and then had breakfast the next morning at this overrated “dive” coffee shop that’s been on the travel channel or some shit, but in my personal opinion is way overrated.

And then we came home to Vegas…me to my long, lonely nights full of empty sleepless hours. If you see a random zombie stumbling around town at 2am, holla — it’ll doubtless be me, wandering around Vegas in my desperate quest to stay awake, and then to sleep. Wish me luck!

Oh and one other thing. We had a dog show at the neighborhood park down the street from my house…and my dog Stubby took top prize!!! He is now the official Mascot of the Huntridge Neighborhood, LOL! I’ll admit, I went all “Tantrums & Tiaras” on his ass, berating him like poor little JonBenet Ramsey for not performing well enough… but he still won, despite not giving a shit and despite having long-ass toenails and shedding like a motherfucker. I have to go get him groomed before they do his big photo shoot…after all, I myself know a thing or two about photo shoots! Yay, Stubbs!!!

$04 Latex Gloves and Tall Boots Nude 258A web 199x300 Zombie With a Yeast Infection!$ Oh, and one OTHER thing: if you like these latex glove photos, feel free to deposit some cash in my PayPal account (email me for details) so I can go buy the matching panties and the matching dress! I’ll lube ‘em up nice and shiny for ya, and do another photo shoot just for you! xxx!

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Posted in fetish modeling, nude modeling | Tagged black latex gloves, sleep restriction therapy | Leave a comment

A Drugged-Out Desert Party and Another Fake Seizure

Posted on May 9, 2012 by wonderhussy

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What a DAY! It all started much too early, at 8am. My insomnia has gotten worse of late, and I finally decided I’ve had enough, and it’s time to get serious about curing it. For the last 2.5 years, the only way I’ve been able to get a decent night’s sleep is by eating a heavy-duty-dose marijuana cookie before bed (I have a medical marijuana prescription), and then hitting my bong as needed when I wake during the night. But I’m sick of being a nasty-ass stoner! I want to be able to SLEEP ON MY OWN — withOUT drugs!!!

One of the most effective therapies for insomnia is called cognitive behavioral therapy — basically, you re-train your brain to associate bed with sleep. Only use your bed for sleeping and sex, keep the room dark and cool, no TV, and get up at the same time every day, no matter what. They also recommend creating a “sleep debt” by limiting the number of hours spent in bed to the amount usually slept — you’re not supposed to lie there dozing, or trying to sleep a little bit longer, no matter HOW tired you are. Since I used to get about 6 hours total when I clobbered myself with marijuana, I decided to set 6 hours as my nightly time spent in bed — I’ve been going to bed at 2am, and getting up at 8 every day. I haven’t been sleeping well at all, and I am EXHAUSTED…but I’m desperate, and all accounts swear that this approach is the most effective way to cure insomnia. It’s hard with my crazy life to be in bed by 2am every night, but by golly I’m trying my damndest. I’m on day 7 or so, and it’s not really getting any better…but I’m not giving up. I’m staying with it for at least a month, just to see if it works. The idea is, eventually you will create such a huge sleep debt that you eventually start sleeping the entire 6 hours straight through.

One problem I’ve been having is that I started dating this guy, and whenever we sleep in the same bed, I sleep TERRIBLY. The first night I slept in the same bed with him, I didn’t sleep AT ALL I guess maybe I was nervous…I dunno. The poor guy has been a good sport about keeping my shitty bedtime schedule, but it’s a royal pain in the ass.

Now you may be wondering, who is this guy that has tamed the legendary Wonderhussy? Well first off, I haven’t been tamed (read on for more evidence of that)…and second, you may be shocked and appalled to learn that he is a very normal person, no weird fetishes or blue hair or dreadlocks or whatever. Ironically, he works at the same air force base as the last jackass I dated (Sgt. Peanut, you may recall)…and in fact, is also a pilot who sits in a darkened trailer all day blowing shit up 5,000 miles away. What a small world! He doesn’t know Peanut, though…I asked him.

Anyhoo, we’ll call this guy Captain Crunch, and he is awesome. I never expected to date a military guy (let alone two in a row)…but he’s really good people. I spent quite a bit of time hanging out with him this week, but I also had plenty of time for random hi-jinks…to wit:

As I was saying…WHAT A DAY! It started at 8am, I went to breakfast with Captain Crunch, and then went over to do a focus group on AAA Roadside Assistance. If you don’t know, focus groups are when they pay consumers for their honest opinions on the products and services they use — I know a lot of freelancers who do them to make extra cash, and some of these people are SHAMELESS! They lie and say they use everything from lite beer to tampons to goat cheese, just so they qualify for more groups.

Worse, the companies that STAFF the focus groups are just as crooked! They get a commission for bringing in qualified participants, so when they call to ask you if you can do a study, they pretty much shamelessly coach you on what answers to give. I remember I did one about slot machines once — I RARELY gamble, usually only when my friend J.R. is in town, and I told the lady at the staffing agency a perverted version of the truth, that I gamble “on average” about $40 a month. “Well, couldn’t you say you sometimes gamble $40 a WEEK?” she asked. “Uhhhh…I guess so…sometimes.” I HATE lying! But I qualified for the group, and spent an afternoon designing my “dream” video slot machine with a roomful of other lying degenerates. WTF! How are marketers supposed to figure out what the fuck people really want, if everyone’s just lying to get a paycheck?!!

Anyhoo, the group today was pretty straightforward, since I really DO use AAA roadside assistance — a LOT! My truck is always getting flat tires and whatnot, due to my desert traveling, and I am a huge fan of the AAA service. I would get my car insurance through them, too…but alas, my driving record is waaaay too abysmal to qualify

After the focus group, I went home to meditate (part of my relaxation therapy for the insomnia shit), and then I lifted weights and ran some errands. Then I came home and rigged up a nun costume for this photo shoot I did at this creepy Catholic church on Las Vegas Blvd. between the Wynn and the Riviera…and then I did another bachelor party prank!

You may recall how I pranked that bachelor party last month, pretending to have a seizure from too many drugs and all that. Well, one of my Facebook friends saw a posting on craigslist for a similar gig, and forwarded it to me…and the bachelor’s pranking pals hired me based on my extensive experience! I ended up doing the same basic shtick, only I went up to their room and pretended to be a stripper doing a room call. I made the bachelor, a shy young nerdy kid from Rhode Island, sit in a chair while I gave him the world’s most awkward lap dance (I SUCK at dancing and being seductive). Then I went over to snort some “drugs” from a little baggie (again, it was cornstarch)…and ended up having a fake seizure all over the poor kid’s lap!

It was priceless — he TOTALLY fell for it! He started yelling “Call 911! I gotta do CPR!” (I rolled over onto my stomach so that he couldn’t start in with any chest compressions — I don’t have a death wish, ya know). But he was checking my pulse and yelling “Stay with me!” and all this shit like you see on E.R. Meanwhile, his buddies pretended to call 911, then ran out of the room all skeered-like…leaving the panicked bachelor with my foaming body (I used 1.5 Alka-Seltzer tablets again, just like last time…I put them in my mouth when I went to take a hit of my “drugs”).

Finally, his boys came back in, like all “Surprise!!! It’s all a joke!” and I spewed a frothy fountain of Alka-Seltzer at the bachelor, like ha ha ha just kidding! But that kid was PISSED! He was so mad he got up and ran out of the room, and his friends were kinda weirded out. I grabbed my cash and got the hell out of there before he came back, so I don’t know what ended up happening…but all’s well that ends well, and now I can pay my internet bill!

So now I have Alka-Seltzer crusted up on my face, but I’m still writing this. That’s DEDICATION, yo!

Another night, I planned to just lay low and stay in…but a friend texted me that some bikers he knew needed babes to do a bikini bike wash, and would I come down to their clubhouse to meet with them? I’ve never been to a biker clubhouse, so I said sure thing! It was in this creepy kind of industrial area behind the Rio, in this warehouse-type building that had been converted into biker party central, with a stripper pole and a bar and a reggae band, and a big fat Samoan biker out front barbecueing burgers. Come to find out, it was an interracial bike club — which I thought was really cool! Most of the members were black, Samoan or Puerto Rican…with a few whiteys thrown in the mix for good measure. They were cool people!

Meanwhile, I arrived at the same time as these other 3 chicks: a sort of rockabilly/meth-chic Bette Midler lookalike, and two big fat zaftig babes in minidresses…one of whom was Bette’s “wife,” and all three of whom were escorts, hired to service the bikers at this big rendezvous they’re having in June!!! I was like, “Waitaminute, I’m just here to wash bikes!!!!” but the head biker, this compact little dude with a really quiet, raspy voice, took a shine to me and assured me I need not engage in any hanky-panky. Whew — for a minute there, I thought I’d wandered onto the set of a Russ Meyers movie, and was about to get gang-banged and forced into white slavery under the aegis of Madam Midler!!!

After everything was ironed out — me and some of my “sorority sisters” will be washing bikes at the event, while the other chicks will be working the “VIP” area — we all relaxed with a drink and I chatted with Madam Midler — and found her to be QUITE fascinating! Most notably… she has a glow-in-the-dark vagina!!! I’ll be darned….what the fuck will these kids think of next?! She had a bull’s-eye tattooed around her pubis in ultraviolet ink, and intimated that she climaxed when the tattoo artist inked the outline. But when he filled in the ultraviolet coloring….it hurt like a motherfucker. Still, I suppose it was worth it…I mean, who WOULDN’T want a glow-in-the-dark vagina?! I know I would!

So anyhoo, now I gotta round up 6 or 7 other chicks to be my “sorority sisters,” and help me warsh bikes. The head biker wanted me to come up with a name and a logo, so I picked Alpha Sigma Sigma…or ASS for short!!!! It should be a fun event, and great to write about…and in fact, they might also use me for these foxy wrestling events they’re about to set up out there in the lot behind their warehouse! No telling WHAT kind of hi-jinks I’ll get up to with these crazy bikers!!!

Anyhoos, another night I went downtown for this big cholo party some guy was having at the Beauty Bar. For those who don’t know, a cholo is a Mexican gang-banger — you know the type: khakis, Nike Cortez, Pendleton buttoned only at the top button. His female counterpart, the chola, is perhaps better known due to her crazy Sharpie eyebrows and hideous brown lip-liner…so I put together my best chola outfit and headed downtown! I ended up looking more like a guera Gwen Stefani-type poseur chola, but it was all good — I put about half a can of Aqua Net on my pompadour, and decided to ride my bike down there since it was such a nice night, and it’s easier than trying to find a place to park. So there I was, pedaling furiously down the street at 10:30pm on my crazy-ass, pink-duct-tape-covered Burning Man bike…and I’m here to tell you, my hair did not move AT ALL! I arrived at the party with my mighty pompadour still perfectly intact, and enjoyed some vodka cranberries while mingling with other cholos and cholas to the sounds of the Geto Boyz and other classic East-L.A. tunes.

The only bummer was, it wasn’t so much of a costume party as a REAL cholo party….so I was kinda afraid of getting my ass kicked. Back in high school, I went to a school with a LOT of Mexicans, and this one cholo had a crush on me, and used to walk up behind me on my way home from school to pull my skirt up, exposing my 14-year-old-girl panties. Trouble was, this one chola had a crush on him, and was so jealous of me that one day she jumped me and beat the holy living crap out of me in front of all her chola friends! Ever since then I’ve had a deathly fear of cholas…but I’m all about facing my fears, so I soldiered on and went to this party, rubbing elbows with the likes of the girls who beat my ass in high school Yay, me!!

I didn’t have much time to relish my victory, however, because the very next day I was heading down to Arizona for this big Burning Man campout near Snowflake (a tiny town near Show Low, somewhere in central B.F.E. a few hours south of Flagstaff). A friend from L.A. had invited me to come down and work as the mistress of this maze he was building there…but at the last minute he had to cancel, so I just cruised down there with a couple girlfriends, neither of whom I really knew at ALL! We all sort of caravaned down there, and what was supposed to be a 6-hour trip somehow ended up taking NINE HOURS! We got there in the dark, set up camp (I had my trusty pop-up camper with me), and then proceeded to booze and party for three days straight.

The one chick was named Button — so named because she lost a ton of weight one time, and had her excess stomach skin trimmed off. When the doctor asked where she wanted him to place her new belly button, she told him she didn’t want one at all — and ended up

having a tattoo of an old-fashioned button inked where her belly button used to be!!!! LMFAO, what a great idea! I want to get my nipples removed and tattooed…and see if I can go topless THEN!

The other chick was this little 21-year old I met at the blood-wrestling match I did a few weeks back — a fiesty little nutcase who ended up being a TON of fun! We were all three into nudism, so we basically ran around naked most of the time, like a camp of crazy naked Amazon ladies. It was awesome! I participated in a drum circle, a lengthy Balinese monkey-chant session, and a good old-fashioned rave in which I danced with a man in a Civil War jacket and a rubber horse head…but by far the most fun thing I did was march in Mr. Chow’s Birthday Parade. Mr. Chow was a dog belonging to this gray-bearded traveling vagabond, and to honor his faithful companion’s birthday, he organized a parade for all the dogs at the event (there were 500 people there, and quite a few brought dogs…you know hippies!).

Alas, my campmates and I didn’t have a dog, but the little 21-year-old chick reeeeally wanted to participate. At first we were gonna try and make one out of felt (she had brought a bunch of crafting supplies along)…but then she had the idea of being the dog HERSELF! I painted a dog nose and whiskers on her, she made a leash and collar out of one of her backpack straps, and then she bounded along naked while I walked her in the parade. She was SO FUCKING FUNNY, sniffing other dogs’ asses and lifting her leg on bushes…and at the end of the parade, we all ended up back at the traveling vagabond’s trailer for treats — margaritas for the people, and Pupperoni for the dogs. I’m here to tell you, that girl even ate two Pupperoni sticks — although another dog came up and ate half out of her mouth, Lady and the Tramp-style. LOL!!!!!!!!!

Then the vagabond gave me a tour of his fabulous Scamp trailer — Scamp being the brand name for a certain type of white fiberglass trailer on which I’ve had a lustful eye for quite some time. His rig was SICK — solar panel on the roof powering his fridge and ham radio equipment, propane stove, and even a little swamp cooler to help keep Mr. Chow cool. I swear, if I had a trailer like that I would travel around the country having adventures that would make this blog look like a PBS pledge drive. If anyone wants to buy me one, feel free — I just want the little 10-footer, nothing fancy

I had a lot of fun during the day at this desert party…but at night, it was the same story as Burning Man: everyone ate ecstasy, put on a big furry coat, and got stupid. BO-RING! I did stumble into a very intriguing, creepy tent across the way from our camp that was doing all these sadistic S&M rituals — and of course, I had to volunteer. Thus it was that I was lit on fire (hair mousse sprayed onto my chest, then lit aflame) and electrified with a violet wand (this creepy fucking device that gives you a mild static electricity charge). It was pretty interesting, but definitely not a turn-on. I’m pretty vanilla when it comes to that stuff – you won’t see ME shoving a cattle prod up my asshole anytime soon!

Anyhoo, I had a pretty good time at Saguaro Man (as that campout was known), but I was definitely ready to cruise back to Vegas on Sunday morning. Ten fucking hours later, I rolled into town…but I have to say, I have the summer camping bug now, and can’t WAIT to get back out and go on the next adventure! Who’s with me?????!

Also, I stopped along the way back to Vegas at some very cheesy tourist attractions…most notably, a corner in the blighted town of Winslow, Arizona that has become a shrine to that godawful Eagles song “Take it Easy.” You know, “I’m a-standin’ on the corner in Winslow, Arizona… such a fine sight to see…it’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowin’ down to take a look at meeeee…” Apparently, this town’s economy is so trashed that they spent their entire annual budget on a statue of a hippie on the corner, and a flatbed Ford on the street in front of him, hoping to lure in tourist dollars. It worked — I stopped; but astonishingly, there were no establishments anywhere nearby to spend any money at!!! Come on, Winslow, what the fuck?! At least have a burger joint that plays Eagles music 24/7…don’t you WANT to make any money?!?!?!?! I personally would have DEFINITELY had lunch there!

facebook ico1 A Drugged Out Desert Party and Another Fake Seizure

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Arizona Eagles statue, bachelor party prank, burning man, how to fake a seizure, saguaro man, vegas bachelor party idea, winslow | 8 Comments

I Need a Clone!!!

Posted on April 28, 2012 by wonderhussy

facebook ico1 I Need a Clone!!!

I NEED A CLONE!!!

Many’s the time I’m confronted with a terrible dilemma that would confound even Solomon: which event to attend? One time I had to choose between a rave and a renaissance faire afterparty (guess which I chose?!), and now this weekend it’s happening again: I *REALLY* want to march in the protest against the War on Women this Saturday, but dress as my male alter ego, Johnny Areola, and march topless!! Alas, it coincides EXACTLY with a gig I’m doing as a giant stuffed dog at some Mexican kids’ event at the Springs Preserve. In the interest of paying my phone bill, I’m forgoing the protest march in favor of sweating my balls off in a dog suit, surrounded by screaming children. D’OH!!! Eloi, eloi…lama sabachthani?!!!!!!!! When will Science catch up to the demands of Wonderhussy?!!!

The ironic thing is, I don’t understand why everything’s happening NOW, when it’s been a slow week in wonderhussyland. By that, I mean no molestations or weird perverts trying to shoot photos of my cervix or anything. Gee! Must be time to hit up craigslist again! I did do one skeeeeeevy gig, but it ended up sucking (more on that below).

Mostly, I was busy working. BLECHH! A chunk of my week was consumed with this recycling convention, where I was hired to play Anti-Virus Girl for this company that makes software for recycling centers. I didn’t know bupkis about recycling — I mean, I put in on the curb, and they take it away. I’ve seen the episode of Penn & Teller’s “Bullshit” where they lambaste recycling as a liberal conspiracy, but apparently there’s BIG MONEY in it ‘cuz that trade show was jam-packed with greedy bastards. I doubt anyone there was in it for the Earth’s benefit.

Over the course of the show I learned all about the industry, and it was actually pretty interesting. They had all this gigantic equipment on display, like these 2-story-high bulldozers and claws and whatnot…very cool. But I was mostly confined to our booth, where they had me wearing this Green Lantern costume which they had customized to be the AntiVirus Girl outfit. They made an AVG logo, but unfortunately for me, the “A” was so prominent that it almost read “VAG…” which, in conjunction with the permanent camel toe that Green Lantern bodysuit afforded, made me look more like Super Vag! (Which, incidentally, I *AM*! )

After the convention, I rested a day and then it was back to work. This time it was an all-day photo shoot all over the desert outside Vegas. A photographer from Minnesota had hired me to take him to some of my favorite secret desert shooting spots, and we spent something like 10 HOURS driving around and shooting. It was fun, but exhausting! It was a hot day, and the sweat mixed with the desert dust in my asscrack made for a mighty fine cement. But after the sun went down, we did this really cool night shoot out among these red rock cliffs, and the photos came out REALLY cool.

I got back into town around midnight, and changed clothes real quik to meet a friend down at Cheetahs strip club — I’m still working on reviewing all the titty bars in Vegas, so whenever anyone invites me to one, I jump at the opportunity. This time, one of my Facebook friends had invited me to come down to Cheetahs and then check out Cover Girls (a new club that just opened in the old Rick’s Cabaret building). I had never met this guy in person before, so when I got to the club I sat on a bench out front and waited for him. While I waited, this random weird midwestern dude sat down next to me and started telling me all this fabulous gossip about local strip clubs. He was very interesting, but I didn’t want my friend to think I was blowing him off, so I kinda kept one eye on my phone the whole time. We must have sat there chatting for a half hour, and finally I was like, “Jeez!” and texted “Where the hell are you?!” to my friend. The guy sitting next to me’s phone vibrated — it was him! I felt like a royal idiot for not realizing who I was talking to all that time, but he didn’t seem offended. I chalk it up to exhaustion.

Anyhoo, we went in the club for awhile, but the air conditioning was broken and I was reeeeally tired, so after watching this AMAZING woman named Dragon dance onstage (she danced better/more dramatically than any stripper I’ve ever seen), we bailed and went over to Cover Girls. Cover Girls used to be Rick’s Cabaret, and before that it was Scores, and before that Jaguars. It’s one of those cursed buildings that never seems to harbor a popular club…let’s hope the 4th time is the charm, because this club is BEAUTIFUL! Three stories, very elegantly appointed, sort of like a Barbie Dream Whorehouse Mansion. But we only stayed a little while, because I was falling asleep on my feet.

Speaking of whorehouses, another night I went downtown to the fabulous Plaza to see the new production of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas that they’re putting on there. It was fantastic! I’m a huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge fan of the movie — I must have watched the VHS tape 100 times growing up. Well, OK, I was around 20…but I still lived at home, and I roped my poor little brother into watching it with me, so much so that he got into it, too! We used to sing those Dolly Parton/Burt Reynolds duets all the time…we loved it! (I can’t believe my brother didn’t grow up to be gay). Anyhoo, the Plaza is doing the Broadway version, which is different from the movie version, so I missed a couple of my favorite songs (the aforementioned Burt/Dolly duet)…but other than that they did a pretty good job. Too bad the theater was full of bluehairs — that place needs some livening up, already! What we need are a bunch of drag queens in Dolly Parton costumes, singing along a la “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Now, THAT would be a show!

Actually, speaking of freaks, the last time I was in that showroom was when I ate mushrooms and went to that Burning Man First Friday afterparty in March. They had turned the Plaza showroom into a mini Burning Man, and me and my friends partied there until like 6am. Totally different crowd than the Best Little Whorehouse people!

Well anyhoo, I also worked taking souvenir photos at the show of a legendary gay British pianist, which was OK, and then I did another photo shoot over at the Palazzo, in one of the rooms. They are all suites over there, and they are NICE! It was probably one of the nicest hotel rooms I’ve ever done a photo shoot in — photographers, take note! Lots of artsy decor, and the lighting was cool, too. Now that it’s starting to get HOT, most of my photo shoots will be hotel rooms instead of desert Which is easier in a way, but not as fun.

One of the most interesting gigs I did this week was write a review of the Mob Attraction at the Tropicana. I had gone to the Mob Museum last month, so this website hired me to write a review comparing the two. I went in thinking there was no way the Mob Museum could be beaten…but I’m here to tell ya, the Mob Attraction was actually way cooler!!! They have these live actors strolling around in costume, acting like badass goombahs and whatnot, messing with you. I REALLY enjoyed it! The Mob Museum (even though it’s TOTALLY badass) comes off a little stuffy…but the Mob Attraction revels in the lowbrow, even featuring a bar in the middle. Ha!!! Both are super cool, though, and should be checked out by all.

Then it was time for the big Earth Day Blinking Man Bike Ride Pub Crawl! About 100 crazies from all over town cruised over to the dive bar by my house, and we all got liquored up for a night of riding around Vegas. Everyone had covered his bike in flashing lights and glowy stuff, so it was quite the parade once we got going. We cruised around to about 5 or 6 different bars, and it was a BLAST! I met one of my neighbors, this guy who thought everyone on his street hated him because he plays the drums too loudly. But I introduced him to the chick who’s president of the neighborhood association, and she assured him that no one hates him! Yay!!!

The next stop was at this gross dive bar called the 5th Street Pub — a real dive, with wood-paneled walls, pool tables, and a bunch of people sitting around driving Hennessey and playing video poker. I became friendly with the owner, and he took me into his office (also wood-paneled) to show me something. Shockingly, it was not his penis — just photos of his wife and mom and all the famous people he’d met over the years. FUN! That guy was a real character.

Then a friend of mine showed up, this guy I’ve been hanging out with here and there, but he brought his bike and was thus able to join the fray. We cruised around boozing until about 1am, then went to Tacos El Gordo, some divey little Mexican taco place down the street from my house. He was telling me I “had” to try this pork-covered french fry dish they serve, and drunk as I was I snarfed it up in no time. GROSS! Normally I *HATE* pork…especially when it’s glistening in sizzling fat…but when drunk, all bets are off. I lapped that shit up like a cumguzzling pornstar!

I atoned for my sins by going for a MONSTER hike in Red Rock Canyon with that same guy a few days later. We hiked to the top of Bridge Mountain, around 14 miles round trip, with something like 3500 feet elevation gain. It was EXHAUSTING! Normally I can hike with the best of ‘em, but my ass was KICKED by this hike. I highly recommend it — the views at the top are amazing. There’s supposed to be a natural stone bridge up there (hence its name), but we never found it, and got tired of looking. Then we hiked down, drove back to town, and sat in his car listening to music for about an hour. He has VERY eclectic taste in music, and he introduced me to the magic of Wesley Willis, this amazing schizophrenic black man from Chicago who used to record all these awful songs like “Suck a Caribou’s Asshole” and stuff. Call me immature, but I was DYING! That guy was a NUT! Apparently, because of his schizophrenia, he thought he could chase away the demons in his head by singing really awful, gross stuff…so that’s just what he did, backed by the cheesiest canned Casio music you’ve ever heard. It’s FABULOUS!

Anyhoo, after listening to music for awhile, I was STARVING and cruised over to In-N-Out Burger. So sue me — I just hiked 14 miles and burned 14.5 billion calories!!!!! I was halfway through my delicious Double Double when I saw on the news that there was a new Mad Cow Disease outbreak in California — d’oh!!!!!!!! I didn’t feel like stopping eating, though, so I went ahead and inhaled the rest of my burger. Yum!!

So anyway, onto the one skeevy gig I did this week: there’s a foot fetish party held every month down in this ghetto-ass swingers’ club in the Commercial Center, and I used to go all the time (I’m sure I’ve written about it before). Guys pay to get in, and girls sell 10-minute “sessions” with their feet for $20. The guys are allowed to lick, suck, sniff, massage, whatever — but there is no nudity nor any sexual contact allowed, and they’re pretty strict about it! I quit going after awhile because I wasn’t making any money — the guys were tired of me, or my feet aren’t smelly enough, or more likely, I just don’t hustle hard enough. But, seriously — the day I wheedle guys into sucking my toes is the day I get a REAL job! Seriously, this is why I can never be a stripper — I *SUCK* at getting money out of guys. My style is to sit back and wait for them to approach me….and it doesn’t work!

Last night at the foot party, I rolled in around 8pm after stopping at the gay bar next door for a fortifying cocktail. I chatted with one of my girlfriends for a while — this beautiful blonde, super-cool promo model I know who is not too proud to go to parties like this; she’s ALL about making money, moreso than any promo model I know! But then some guy took her back for a session, and she was pretty busy the rest of the night. I sat there chatting with this one asshat time-waster for a while, and FINALLY this big Jeff Bridges-lookalike came along and gave me $20 to suck my toes back in this one room that’s decorated to look like a gynecologist’s office. FUN!! In between slurping on my toes, he informed me that next to feet, he LOVES golden showers more than anything. Now, I don’t draw many lines…but that is one I refuse to cross!!!!! GROSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! Other than that, he was a cool enough dude. I’m telling you, it really is just plain folks at those parties — you’d be surprised! I’ve had my toes sucked by teachers, prison guards, police lieutenants and even a middle-aged husband-and-wife team…EVERYONE goes there!

But, last night I was reminded of why I quit going: it’s too hard to make money, and too demeaning. Oh well! On to the next gig….which happens to be ANOTHER bachelor party that hired me off craigslist to prank the bachelor. This time, the setup is pretty weak — they just want to get him soooooo drunk that he passes out, and then have him wake up in a bed at Circus Circus with me beside him, looking all skanky and saying, “Wow, last night was AMAAAAAZING!” My idea was to at least add in a busted condom and some herpes sores or something, just to liven it up….I’m open to suggestions, people! This isn’t going down til May 6th or so, so if you have ideas, feel free to post them in the comments section below!!

On a final note, I occasionally get fan mail asking for a signed 8×10, and I am happy to oblige! However, when making such a request, the CLASSY thing to do is deposit a few bucks in my PayPal account to cover costs — I mean, come on! I gotta print out the picture, get an envelope, and mail it…the least ya can do it throw a few beans my way. End of Rant!

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Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged blinking man bike ride, nude modeling in vegas, vegas | Leave a comment

Peeps, Puke and Seizures

Posted on April 18, 2012 by wonderhussy

facebook ico1 Peeps, Puke and Seizures

Last weekend was the big annual Viva Las Vegas rockabilly festival — a yearly event at one of the shittier local hotel dives that attracts legions of fanatical greaser-types from around the world. German rockabillies, Japanese rockabillies, but mostly East L.A. rockabillies (for whatever reason, cholas and cholos loooooove them some rockabilly style).

If you’re unaware, rockabilly is sort of a throwback style to the 1950s, but with a modern edge — i.e. tattoos. As in, you’ll see tons of beautiful, voluptuous honeys with elaborately styled, lacquered black pinup hairdos, fantastic vintage dresses and maximum heaving cleavage…but everything is covered in ink. I personally am not a fan of tattoos, and cannot fathom why chicks do this to themselves…but I totally dig the rockabilly style because I dig anyone who’s into an EXTREME look. And these kids totally are!

Anyhoo, they descend on Vegas every Easter weekend for a big beer-fueled weekend-long party, and they bring their hot rods, swing bands and cases and cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon with them. It’s a hoot and a half! I try to stop in every year and check out the scene, but the last couple of years I pussed out because I was kinda over it. I mean, how many times can you dress up like Bettie-Page-meets-Marilyn-Manson before it gets old?? I mean, REALLY!

But this year, I had an idea. One thing on my Bucket List is to go to a Star Trek convention sometime dressed in a Star Wars outfit (the oldtime Star Wars is the ONLY sci-fi I can stomach). The idea would be to pretend I didn’t get the difference — “Star Wars, Star Trek…same difference!” — and watch the Trekkies go ballistic! I just loooooooooooove fuckin’ with people, and that would be the ultimate fuckeroo.

So, I had a similar idea with Viva Las Vegas. It’s a rockabilly festival, which generally means people are wearing clothing from the period 1940-1960…but all in the greaser/Elvis/Bettie Page vein. Now, I had just bought a FABULOUS 1965 mod minidress from the estate of a local hippie veterinarian who had just committed suicide…so I decided to go all Mary Quant and see if the rockabillies got pissed at my anachronistic dress.

Alas, the rockabillies are already sooooo hopelessly anachronistic themselves (I told you, their style spans a

20-year period…plus the fact that tattoos and body piercing weren’t mainstream back then) that no one even noticed I was afraid of getting my ass beat by a vicious East L.A. chola…but they were all too drunk to even notice. Boo!! Thankfully, some friends invited me to bail and cruise down the street to a local dive bar called Money Plays, where an outlaw country band called Cletus and the Mexican Sweat were playing. Now, THAT was awesome! The band kicked MAJOR ass (they have a pedal steel guitar player, yo, and they cover all kinds of nasty Southern rock) and my mod outfit was TOTALLY out of place in that dive bar.

I didn’t stay out tooooo late, though, because I had an awesome Easter photo shoot planned the next day. I’ve always hated Easter — I’m an atheist, and was raised an atheist, and I hate ham and chocolate so what’s the point?! The only fun Easter I ever had was this one year when my family and I dressed up in 1930s Great Depression clothes and had an old-fashioned baptizin’ tent revival, up in the mountains in California by this creek that was PERFECT for baptizin’. My sis made a baptismal gown and found this old chalice at Goodwill that had “Terry”engraved on it, and after we had all been “baptized” we sang old-time hymns and picnicked on fried chicken and whatnot as my sister read a sermon, and then we bashed the fuck out of a Jesus piñata full of candy (it was a fairy princess piñata that we painted to look like Jesus). Now, THAT was a fun Easter!

But that was like 10 years ago, and it was time for something new. Fortunately, my friend Jeff G. invited me out to the desert for an Easter-themed photo shoot. Thankfully, he shares my same warped sense of humor when it comes to these things….as you can doubtless see in the pics! I had a blast shooting with him, although I got Peeps dust in EVERY crevice, and had to take a quick Puerto Rican bath when I got home.

After wiping the Peeps dust from my crevices, I went downtown to the Bar+Bistro, a lcoal artsy hangout, for dinner with a friend. We ordered all this delicious vegan food, and drank a bunch of wine…and then after dinner he suggested we go down to Fremont Street and party some more. BAD idea! We wandered around drinking, and he kept buying me shots (I *HATE* shots; please don’t EVER offer me one) until I finally puked all over his car in the Golden Nugget valet. Which serves those assholes right, anyway — back in the day I used to park there all the time when I came downtown, but now they’re super-greedy and will only let hotel guests park there. They won’t even let you VALET there sometimes, the fuckers! The last time I went down there, I had to basically LIE and say I was working there before they let me park. WTF!

So after puking up all that delicious vegan food (the second time in 4 months that’s happened to me, incidentally), my friend drove me home and I passed out in puky splendor. Blah. Unfortunately, I couldn’t loll around in bed all day because I had a TON of shit to do — you may recall that I was hired to go around Vegas and write reviews of all the porno stores for an adult version of Yelp!, and I had about 5 more shops to visit. I dragged my miserable ass around town alllllll afternoon, poking my nose into places that would have turned my stomach even under optimal conditions (including one place that has a punch-card for their porno theater — buy 9 tickets, get one free…like Costco for jackers-off!). It was rough! At one shop, I mentioned my hangover to the man at the front counter, and he handed me a little bottle from the shelf: “Here, drink this! It’ll take that hangover away in 20 minutes! Compliments of the house.”

Wow, I probably should think twice before accepting a bottle of mystery liquid from a strange pervert working in a shitty little adult store with a bare concrete floor…but I wasn’t in my right mind, so I chugged it in the desperate hope that it would work. Thankfully it wasn’t roofied or anything…but either way, it didn’t work. It was just one of those bullshit vitamin shots they sell at smoke shops and places like that — total B.S. In fact, after an entire day of detoxing, drinking water and trying to get down plain oatmeal…the only thing that made me feel better was freaking JACK IN THE BOX! Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it…but that greasy-ass chicken sourdough club did the trick where nothing else did.

My hangover ended not a moment too soon, because right after that I headed out to Lake Mead for a midnight cruise in my friend’s boat. He had some out-of-town friends along, so we cruised out in the dark, and just drifted and listened to music and looked at the stars and stuff. It was fun, but I had SO MUCH STUFF I should have been doing at home that it was hard to enjoy myself. Still, I can’t turn down a boat trip…I’m obsessed!

So anyhoo, the next day it was back to business. I still had one or two porno stores to visit, and I ended up at this FANTASTIC German Fetish shop near downtown that carries the best selection of latex wear in town. I’d never worn latex, but a cross-dressing, BDSM-obsessed friend of mine (who has a socially prominent position by day, but is a secret freak at night) recommended I check it out. Boy, am I glad I did!

This wonderful transsexual Irish saleswoman helped fit me into a latex dress, which fit LIKE A DREAM but was, alas, at $80 out of my price range. Instead, I bought a pair of fabulous black latex opera gloves…and then hung out listening to the fabulously garrulous saleslady’s scandalous tales. She’s had sex with EVERYONE — celebrities you would never in a million years believe! Not only that, but she used to dance (as a woman) in a very prominent Vegas show…and not only THAT, she told me allllll about her trips to the gynecologist (I never realized trans women had to go to the ob/gyn, but as she said in her wonderful lilting Irish brogue, “I haven’t got a uterus, but I could still get cancer on the walls o’ me vagina!”) and her robust ability to orgasm. IT! WAS! FABULOUS! That woman has THE BEST attitude and demeanor of anyone I’ve ever met…and that’s saying A LOT! I’ve never really met a post-op transsexual before, let alone one with such a great manner (“I haven’t got a Mickey” being one of her colloquial gems). Thank CHRIST I made friends with everyone in that shop, and hope to be doing some modeling for them soon! They are WONDERFUL people!

After finishing up reviewing all the porno stores in Vegas (all 30 of ‘em) and receiving payment, it was now time for me to move on to the strip clubs. Strip clubs are a little harder to do, because for the most part I have to bring a guy with me (many clubs won’t let a single chick in the door, for worry she’s an angry wife or girlfriend on the rampage). So I went on Facebook and put out a call for chaperones. I had more takers than I could handle in no time!

My fist stop was this dingy, smoky little neighborhood titty joint called Play It Again, Sam. I met a couple of militant redneck friends over there — the one guy is a sort of Hunter-S.-Thompson-meets-Toby Keith kind of loveable wacko filmmaker — and we whiled away the entire afternoon drinking and talking, with me taking notes on the sly. Actually, I’m pleased to report that the quality of titty at that club far exceeded my expectations — I was there during day shift, too!

Then that night was the grand opening of Vince Neil (from Mötley Crüe)’s new titty bar, “Girls, Girls, Girls…” so after working my souvenir photo shtick, I went over there to check it out. Talk about a madhouse! The place was jam-packed with 80s relics — wall-to-wall mullets, mustaches and raspy-voiced, fake-titted cougars. Nice! I hung out for about 2 minutes, watched Vince “Puffy-Faced” Neil arrive with his retinue of bimbos, and then I got the fuck out of there. Titty bars depress me — especially if I go to two in one day! But it was a really nice club…and GREAT people watching! Also, if you like rock music, it’s the only club in town that plays all rock — no hip hop. Keep that in mind for your next Vegas titty bar adventure!

Now aside from reviewing porno stores and strip clubs, I also indulged my artistic side this week with a crazy cross-dressing photo shoot. I wanted to see if I could convincingly make myself up to look like a man — and I pretty well did! My friend Randy, from Shutterbug-Studio, took the shots….and they came out GREAT! I almost die laughing every time I look at ‘em! My point with all this was to take a topless shot in man makeup, and since my chest is already so flat…try to post it on Facebook and see what happens! I’m posting a few shots ths week, and the rest next week…so look out!

The best part was, I structured the shoot to be like a 3-part thing: first I’d shoot as a man, then I would remove half my man makeup and do that side up like a woman, so I was half-and-half…and lastly shoot my new latex gloves. Well, I meant to get some long red fake nails for the “woman” half in the half-and-half pic…but like a dumbass, I forgot to stop at the drugstore. I REALLY wanted this pic to be killer, so even though I had already removed half my man-makeup and had already done over-the-top lady makeup on the other side…I ventured out to buy some nails. Now, the closest place to Randy’s house was Wal-Mart…but ain’t no way I’m going in Wal-Mart with a half-man, half-woman face!! That’s a surefire way to end up on Peopleof WalMart.com… ya know?!?! Instead, I went an extra mile or so to Walgreens, where I didn’t have to worry about all that. The checkout chick looked at me funny, but I explained everything to her and she seemed OK with it.

Then after all THAT, I went and did this radio interview for a local internet radio show called Two Girls and a Microphone (I think they should change it to “Two Girls, One Mic,” personally). The Two Girls in question are two renegade feminist types who started a radio show to interview empowered, nutty women…and I was their first guest! It was pretty cool (you can hear the interview here), but the best part was a few days prior, when we all three met up at Starbucks to discuss the show. A guy at a nearby table overheard us, and recognized me from a party I crashed at Planet Hollywood a couple years ago…and invited me to the premiere of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, a live show downtown at the Plaza. Wooo-hooooooo!!!! I freakin’ *LOVE* that movie — I made my poor brother watch the VHS tape about a million times growing up (well, he was growing up…I was already in my 20s at that time, shamefully!!). Anyhoo, I couldn’t make the premiere (stupid work, grrr)…but I’m going on Sunday, instead.

The rest of the week was crammed full o’ hum-drum lameness, like taxes. I went to see my accountant, and found that I owe the gov’ment $2300…which is fine by me; I look at it as dues to belong to the world’s greatest country club: the USA. If I have to pay $2300 a year to use our roads and libraries and shit…so be it! It’s a fucking bargain as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else, ya know? That being said, he admonished me for not having enough write-offs…so from now on, every drink I buy, every vegan meal I puke up…I’m getting a motherfucking receipt, yo!

Then I did a couple of random gigs, including a photo shoot for an Israeli lingerie website and a gig at a recycling convention, where I was hired to dress in a Green Lantern costume and play Anti-Virus Girl — a sort of superheroine reminding people to use good antivirus protection on the networks at their recycling centers. It was a fun gig, but I still have one more day to go…so I won’t write about it yet.

But far and away the BEST gig I did all week was this craaaaaay-zaaaaaay bachelor party I pranked at the request of a friend. You know how I do those wacky corporate scavenger hunt gigs now and then, where I dress up as a bawling bride or Secret Agent Hotpants or whatever? Well, one of the guys who works for them contacted me, and asked if I could arrange an elaborate hoax. Me and this other chick were supposed to be pretend to be drunken Vegas party girls wandering around Fremont Street, who “happen” to meet up with the bachelor party, and sort of latch onto them for the rest of the night, riding around the ghetto in their limo, taking them to sketchy clubs in between snorts of mystery party drugs before my character finally suffers a drug-induced seizure, to freak out the bachelor…at which point my “friend” pulls out a fake syringe, a la Pulp Fiction: “Not again! This happens every time we go out!”She plunges it into my chest, at which point I spring up all “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!”-like…and hilarity ensues.

It sounded like an OVERWHELMING task, but I made myself say yes, I’ll do it. I put together a slutty party girl outfit, and made up this whole back story about how me and my girlfriend met at a strip club, where I was a stripper and she was a cocktail waitress. In the meantime, she moved on and got a job as a sexy blackjack dealer, and now she convinced me to get out of stripping and try blackjack dealing instead. I wanted to get out of stripping anyway, since I had a 2-year old son back in Texas, who was living with the baby daddy because I was deemed an unfit mother by the court….so now I gotta become a successful blackjack dealer in time for my custody hearing back in Texas next month, so I can prove to the judge that I’m fit and get little Damon back. (I even downloaded a shitty blurry snapshot of some unfortunate snot-nosed mixed-race toddler and put it as the screensaver on my phone.)

But MEANWHILE, in my story, it also happened to be my son’s 2nd birthday that day…so I was depressed, and my “girlfriend” took me out for a night of drinking and partying to get my mind off it. That gave me the excuse to be a total WRECK, and also explained why I kept sneaking off behind the limo to sniff little bits of white powder from a little baggie I had in my purse (it was cornstarch, FYI!). I mean, I was a hot mess!!!!!

Now, this bachelor party consisted of about 10 or 12 Stanford alumni, all earnest young intellectual types, and about half of them were in on the joke — but the other half had no idea! The guys who were in on it helped out by making sure the guys who weren’t in on it were niiiiiice and plastered, so that my antics (in particular my fake seizure) were more believable. And I’m proud to say….it went SMASHINGLY well!!!!!!

We “met” the guys down on Fremont Street, where they were clowning around with the bachelor, making him do all these cheesy stunts and challenges. We goofed around with them for awhile and they “invited” us to come party with them in their limo, which we “grudgingly” did, “sniffing drugs” along the way and being generally obnoxious and drunk.

Once in the limo (even better, it was one of those douchey Hummer limos, LOL), I told them I’d take them to a reeeeeeeel good strip club — then I crawled forward and told the driver to take us to Showgirl Video, that ghetto-ass porn store I wrote about last week that has the peepshow in the back. The driver played along like a champ, buying us more time to get drunk by driving around the ghetto for about 15 minutes, even though Showgirl was right down the street. By the time he dropped us off, they were all wasted. We made the bachelor and the other guys go in and watch the peepshow (remember, you have to put a dollar in a turnstile just to get in…and then it’s $5 or so for a few minutes of peep, so not very exciting) and then I convinced the peepshow dancers to let me go backstage and pop out to surprise the guys mid-jerk.

IT WAS FABULOUS! I busted into the peepshow stage room all crazed, swung wildly around the pole slapping my ass and whatnot (I had on my “Ready For Anything” underwear, LOL), and generally freaked the fuck out of those nice Jewish Stanford boys. AWESOME! It was weird, though — I couldn’t see them through the 2-way glass windows. I don’t know how the peepshow dancers can tell which booths to play to, unless I was doing something wrong. Maybe I forgot to wear my X-ray peepshow glasses or something!!

Anyhoo, after a few minutes I ran outside to “sniff more drugs,” and the guys came out behind me bitching and moaning about how lame that place was, and how they wanted to go to a REAL strip club. “Ohhhhhh, you want to go to a striiiip cluuuub,” I said. “I got a great place I’ll take ya, right down the street!” Back in the limo, I told the driver to take another circuitous route thru the ghetto for about 15 minutes until we got to the Talk of the Town, this über-düber skanky nude club on Las Vegas Blvd North whose parking lot is filled with creepy, decrepit mannequins arranged in a bizarre tableau involving a swingset, a kiddie pool and a mechanical bull.

Back in the day, they used to pay a Russian chick $7 an hour to swing on the swings (which hang from a towering, sun-baked sign blaring “STRIPPERS” in peeling, faded paint) and wave at passers-by…ostensibly to draw in traffic. But now…thanks to the economy, the Russian chick’s job was outsourced to these mannequins. And these mannequins need to form a union, because they take some serious abuse! One is strapped to the back of the mechanical bull, which is permanently set on low speed, and bucks around in disturbing slow motion allllllllllllllll niiiiiiiiiiiiiiight looooooooooong, 24/7/365. Creepy!

Another mannequin is dressed like Marilyn Monroe, but….like Marilyn Monroe after the apocalypse, when all her teeth were blown out by a bomb. Some homeless woman stole her dress one time, but they recovered it with only a few new snot-stains. And it looks like someone took a baseball bat to the third mannequin.

The best part is, there is a warning sign on the mechanical bull warning that trespassing might cause injury, and that the Talk of the Town assumes no liability. But it doesn’t explicitly say NOT to trespass! It’s basically an open invite to drunk frat boys and cracked-out homeless people to hop on and go for a

ride! Nice!!! I swung on the swings, turned the mechanical bull up to HIGH so that it started bucking wildly, almost throwing the busty mannequin off its back, and then when that mannequin lost an arm, I swung that around like a baseball bat…all in all, generally freaking out the bachelor party, who by this time were way over me and my loser “strip clubs.” They tried to ditch my “friend” and me, but we caught up with them just as their limo was pulling away…and that’s when I had my “seizure.”

The guys were yelling at us about how lame we were, and my “friend” was bitching at THEM because they were reading trivia questions from the Economist (I told you these were nice Stanford boys)…and I dipped into my purse for another sniff of my “part drugs,” but also secretly stuffed my mouth full of Alka-Seltzer tablets…which shortly began to foam, as I “fell back,” began jerking, and then banged my head on the console. Ouch!!!

It was worth it though, because they TOTALLY fell for it!!! Everything went as planned, with my “girlfriend” pulling out her syringe and all that…I popped up, like “SURPRISE!!!” and hilarity totally ensued. We all cruised along laughing hysterically at how well it had gone down, and the guys invited us to accompany them to Sapphire, the World’s Largest Gentlemen’s Club (TM), where the REAL bachelor party was to go down. Since I have to review all those fucking clubs anyway, I went along…and had a pretty good time, all in all. But after a couple hours of THAT, they invited us back for more partying in their sick-ass suite at Palms Place, which had a Jacuzzi on the balcony, overlooking the whole Strip. Nice! It was one of those infinity-edge Jacuzzis, with just a thin sheet of Plexiglas separating you from the void. Yikes!!!

I stayed for quite a while, but then they invited this Midwestern bachelorette party up to join us, and by then the guys were getting kinda snarky, so I sort of developed a case of melancholia and left. I hate to see the sun rise, but even more than that I felt kinda embarrassed…like, here were all these young professional guys laughing at me, while I was monkeying around like a halfwit, reinforcing every negative stereotype about Vegas women. I mean, it was method acting…but still. Worse, when I got downstairs I realized they’d unintentionally stiffed me $20 of my $150 fee…but was too embarrassed and tired to go all the way back up there and bang on the door for my $20. Instead, I went and ate a cheeseburger for breakfast and then went home to sleep all day. Crazy!

Anyhoo, this was the second bachelor party prank I’ve arranged (the last one involved my finding a male stripper and a dominatrix as well as another party girl)…so I was thinking I should totally go into business doing this! Ever since the Hangover, there is apparently an unquenchable demand for disastrous mookish hi-jinks that end badly…so it might actually be a good business plan! Hmm……….

facebook ico1 Peeps, Puke and Seizures

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged bachelor party adventure, bachelor party prank, drag king makeup, easter bunny pinup, easter pinup, vegas bachelor party adventure, vegas bachelor party prank | 2 Comments

Porn Shops and Blood Wrestling

Posted on April 8, 2012 by wonderhussy

facebook ico1 Porn Shops and Blood Wrestling

Finally, a week without anything shitty to gripe about! IT’S ABOUT FUCKIN’ TIME!

It all started last Friday, when I volunteered for this Blood Wrestling event some local wackos had cooked up over at the Sci-Fi Center, a grungy little comic book shop over in the fabulous Commercial Center.

You may remember my mentioning the Commercial Center in past blogs — it’s a derelict old strip mall that was the swankiest place in town back around 1970, but is now a bombed-out wasteland of asphalt and empty storefronts, peppered with a few stubbornly surviving establishments. Since only the hardiest, most recession-proof businesses survived the decline and fall of the Commercial Center, it’s mostly wig shops, gay bars, sex clubs and gay bathhouses. In other words…better than Disneyland!

Truth be told, I’m getting a little tired of my beloved Downtown Vegas — it’s too hard to park, and there’s too many hipsters. (Check out this article I just wrote for one of the local papers on that very subject.) So I was more than happy to volunteer to blood wrestle at the Sci Fi Center, since it meant a fabulous Friday night at the Commercial Center, instead!

The wrestling match was the brainchild of the Vamp Girls — a couple of gore-core fangirls who stage all kinds of weird events around town. The Blood Wrestling match was part of a cannibal movie night they were hosting in the back room of the Sci-Fi Center, which has been converted to a little theater. The seats were packed with bearded, bespectacled sci-fi/gore/vagina aficionados training their iPhones at the inflatable kiddie pool filled with a mixture of chocolate syrup, cranberry juice and corn syrup in the front of the room, where me and 5 other chicks were to duke it out for the prize — a PHOTO SHOOT!

Now, I need another photo shoot like a fish needs a bicycle, but it wasn’t even about the prize — it was about WINNING! I am very competitive when it comes to stupid stuff like this, so I was determined to win. I spent a good half-hour making a robe to wear into the ring — I took an old pink bathrobe and put a big, silver “W” for the back…and then I filled the pockets with wonderhussy.com stickers, which I threw out into the audience upon my entrance. I made a big fuckin’ production out of my entrance, because to me, that’s what rasslin’ is all about: the histrionics!

Alas, my opponents were all much younger and spryer than I, so I had to pull out a secret weapon: my scream. For those who haven’t heard me scream, I do this weird, primitive kind of primal shriek/scream thing that is UNBELIEVABLY loud and hair-raising (see video below)…and I used it to my advantage in the ring, successfully freaking out my competition enough to win the entire match!

Never mind that I was sore for 3 days afterward, and covered in NASTY bruises…I won! I celebrated my victory by going home and showering off all the Karo/cran/choco, then changing into my Wonder Woman costume and heading back to the Commercial Center to check out the Balloon Master Show, a sort of monthly adult variety show held in this janky little theatre down there. After the show, I drank the night away with a friend at the venerable Badlands saloon — a western-themed gay bar that also serves as a drinking spot for nervous swingers (it’s neighbored by swingers’ clubs on both sides, neither of which are permitted to serve alkyhol).

Now as mentioned, the wrestling match left me sore and badly bruised…which was a real bitch, considering I had a nude photo shoot lined up, and I hate using body makeup!! Fortunately, the bruises had mostly faded by the day of the shoot, and besides, the photographer turned out to be cool as hell…so even if he noticed, he didn’t say anything. He was more interested in getting me to wear this creepy alien mask for some of the shots — FUN!

The only bummer about our shoot was, he wanted to shoot out at Valley of Fire, a *B*E*A*U*T*I*F*U*L* state park about an hour north of here featuring the most dramatic, red rock cliffs and caves you’ve ever seen. I love V of F, but it can be tricky to shoot there because the park ranger is a real hardass and won’t allow any “professional” shooting out there without a permit — and NEVER any nudes. Still, I’ve shot out there a handful of times without incident — ya just gotta keep a low profile, and hike back off into the backcountry before shooting anything.

Even then, though, I’ve had problems! One time, me and this Spanish photographer drove out with another model, and we hiked waaaay back into a slot canyon to shoot some nudes. Somehow, the ranger sniffed us out — he actually hiked 1/4 mile down this slot canyon to find us, and proceeded to lecture the photographer and the other model: “Young lady, put your clothes on! Sir, come with me! You can’t shoot these kinds of pictures here. What would happen if a couple of cowboys came along, put a bullet in YOUR head [the photographer] and then had his way with you [the other model]?!”

I thought he was being a WEE bit melodramatic, but at the time I was hidden out of sight behind a boulder, and I decided to stay hidden in case he the fine for two vaginas was higher than the fine for just one. I scrambled along in the brush, naked as a jaybird, about 50 feet behind the ranger as he marched my friends back to the car. Then I squatted behind a bush like a deranged naked Manson family member until the ranger FINALLY finished reading them the riot act and let them go. But it wasn’t over yet! Thinking that canny bastard was probably parked somewhere waiting for us to leave, I had to sit bent over the entire way out of the park, so he wouldn’t see me through the windows of my truck. FUCKER!

Aaaaanyhoo, that was a year ago, but I’m still a bit apprehensive about shooting out there — especially when I know of similar, less-troubled areas to shoot. But this particular photographer was really set on V of F, so I agreed to go out and try it anyway. Sure as sugar, that motherfuckin’ ranger followed me from the minute I went through the gates! I drove verrrrrrrrry carefully, adhering to the speed limit and whistling nonchalantly, but that fucker followed me across the entire park. Finally, I turned off at an overlook, and he kept going…but it was a close call, and very reminiscent of the coyote and the roadrunner from the cartoons! Try and catch me, sucka…meep meep!

I left Valley of Fire and headed back into town for a total waste of time — a/k/a this casting call for Playboy TV they were doing at Planet Hollywood. I know I’m not the Playboy type, but this wasn’t for Playboy-Playboy, it was for Playboy TV…which as we all know has looser standards. I think they were just looking for naked chicks to be in the background of stuff, so I figured why the hell not. The casting agent kept emailing me, so I finally buckled and went over with about 100 other sad hopefuls with bad extensions and muffin tops wedged into cheap corsets. It’s a sad fuckin’ commentary on the state of our shitty society that the epitome of success for most American chicks is to be a fat-assed geriatric-dick-sucker in a bunny costume. I guarantee you, if they had a casting call for social workers or Peace Corps volunteers…none of ‘em would have showed up.

Moreover, one of the requirements for this audition was nudity (HELLO!!!), but you’d be surprised how stupid chicks can be…one girl sat in there wishy-washying with the poor P.A. in charge of the audition: “Can I just put a question mark? I’m not sure I feel comfortable being nude on camera.” LOL! Dumbass. You’d suck Hugh Hefner’s balls in a hot minute, and you’re waffling about flopping your tits out in a conference room? Meanwhile, I went in, dropped trou like it was nothing, and was on my way in 60 seconds. Might as well waste as little time as possible, ya know?

After that, I spent most of the rest of the week cruising around the less-genteel parts of Vegas, reviewing adult stores for this website I was hired to write for that’s like the XXX version of Yelp! What an adventure. I’m supposed to go in and have a look around, noting whether or not there’s a movie theater or an arcade, etc. and then go home and write up my findings. FUN! Let me tell you, there are some REALLY freaky places in Vegas.

Besides all the mainstream Adult stores, which are like Wal-Mart…there are a bunch of really seedy, nasty little joints tucked away in the various crevices of Vegas. Concrete floors, hand-lettered signs warning against jerking off in public, walls of shame with photos of the unfortunate pervs who were busted in flagrante delicto… it was a real anthropological adventure. The worst was probably Adult World, a pink warehouse in a run-down, working class part of town populated mostly by illegal immigrants (indeed, I saw a pocket pussy marketed toward Hispanics, a/k/a un bolsillo de panochita)…but a close second was the Adult Mega Outlet, out by the Air Force base, which was depressingly neat and tidy in a “bounce a quarter off your jizz stain” kind of way. Just thinking about those poor Iran-bound fools jerking off to videos of cum-guzzling high school dropouts was enough to cause my chronic Weltschmerz to flare up again. This is what you’re fighting for, boys…God, apple pie, and cum-guzzlers. Git ‘er done!

But my #1 FAVORITE spot was this awful, ghetto joint called Showgirl Video, downtown on Vegas Blvd. not far from my house (and right next door to that dumb pawn shop from the Discovery Channel show, which always has a line around the block of fat TV-watchers trying to get in). I’ve long been a fan of Showgirl Video for several reasons: 1.) It’s reeeeeally ghetto 2.) It has ass- and tit-prints of various famous porn stars, like the footprints out front of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and 3.) It has a live peepshow in the back, where you can watch a live Russian chick gyrate behind a sheet of Plexiglas…and if you’re REALLY into her, you can pay extra to watch her in a PRIVATE booth, where it’s just you and her, and she’ll do WHATEVER you want. There’s even a menu of services posted on the wall: anal w/toy $80, “everything” for $100. Wow!

The manager was extremely friendly toward me, and offered me a job dancing in the peepshow. He really worked me over, selling me on the fact that unlike strip clubs, at the peepshow you don’t even have to get a Sheriff’s card to work (because there is no contact with the patrons…why that makes any difference to the Sheriff, I have no idea). Why, just last week a couple of broke co-eds from Denver came in and asked to work — they had lost all their money gambling downtown, and needed money to get home! After just a few days of dancing in the peepshow, they had earned bus fare back to Colorado. BUS fare! This tells me one of two things: either bus fare is more expensive than I thought…or there ain’t much money dancing at Showgirl Video’s peepshow. I’m inclined to bank on the latter!

The manager either didn’t notice or chose to ignore my skeptical expression, and gave me a “backstage” tour (!!!!!) of the peepshow area… which was fascinatingly depressing. On my way out, a big fat slob of a customer in a stained polo shirt reassured me: “Don’t be shy, honey; you’ll do fine!” Uhhhh, yeah! Next time I need to earn bus fare to anywhere, I’ll let ya know, boys…

Speaking of porn, one of my Facebook friends forwarded me the link to this AWESOME Nightline special on Porn: When the Fun Stops (or something tsk-tsky like that). The reason he forwarded it is, I was in it!!! Just for 2 seconds, but I thought it was funny — it was footage from the Adult Entertainment Expo in 2010, when I worked as a booth babe for a condom manufacturer. But now I was made to look like a porn star on national TV…if I gave a shit, I’d be pretty upset! But as they say, my Give-a-Damn’s busted…so I just thought it was funny. In the background of this pic, you can see the rich-kid stoner from Beverly Hills who hired me, and his long-suffering dad. Lolz! What a couple of characters.

After all that gnarliness, it was nice to take a night off and relax with my fellow Vegas artsy types at the monthly First Friday arts festival. This month was nowhere near as cool as last month’s, and there were far too many kiddies around for my taste — it looked more like a fuckin’ church picnic than a counterculture festival. I mean, they had a bouncy castle! Thankfully, I had a bottle of champagne in my purse, so it didn’t bother me tooooo badly. I met up with two guys I barely know, and ended up having a fine old time hanging out boozing and eating late-nite nastiness at the Gold Spike with them, before adjourning to the lounge to watch a 3-piece classic rock cover band. My last memory was singing “Hotel California” with a biker who looked like Willie Nelson, before my guy friends finally dragged me away back to my car. Gooooooooooooood times!

Well, now I gotta go onto the next adventure. I still have 15 porno stores to review (there are a LOT of them in Vegas), plus I want to go over and check out the annual rockabilly convention. I was thinking it might be fun to go over there dressed COMPLETELY inappropriately, like a 1960s Andy Williams Show castmember or something, just to piss ‘em off. We’ll see!!!

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Posted in nude modeling | Tagged blood wrestling, cannibal chicks, scream queens, vegas porn shops, vegas porn stores, vegas porno shops, vegas porno stores | 4 Comments

Nips and Lips

Posted on March 30, 2012 by wonderhussy

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So the Supreme Court is debating the constitutionality of universal healthcare, and all over the news you see throngs of people protesting the Affordable Healthcare Act.

WHY???

As an UNINSURABLE AMERICAN, let me tell you my side of the story. (Skip this rant if you must…nakey pix and whatnot below.)

I have a job I DESPISE, at which I make less and less money every year. Even though it is hardly cost-effective to keep the job, I hang onto it…because I get health insurance through my employer. It costs me around $170 a month, with hefty co-pays…but I keep it anyway, just in case I get in a car wreck or I get cancer or something. I’m TRYING to be RESPONSIBLE!

However, this particular line of work has been in steady decline for the last few years. I’ve been working at it for 12 years, but the money has declined so badly (it’s a dying industry) that about a year ago, I decided I’d be better off quitting and just freelancing, buying my own private health insurance thru Blue Cross Blue Shield or one of those companies. I’m young(ish), I work out religiously, I eat right, I don’t smoke, I have no genetic/hereditary diseases….I figured it would be cake.

WRONG!

To all you assholes raging about Obamacare, let me tell you how terrifying this is. I feel like I woke up in a Kafka story.

I AM UNINSURABLE! WTF?!!

When you apply for individual insurance, the insurer scours your medical records and deducts points for every little thing you’ve ever gone to the doctor for. You’re allowed a grand total of somewhere around 70 points before they deny you — but I’m here to tell you, that shit adds up! I felt like a TOTAL LOSER looking at my rejection letter. They dock you points for EVERYTHING, from hemorrhoids to sinus infections. Still, I would have been OK if it weren’t for two things.

1. I was docked 100 POINTS for having been diagnosed as bipolar. This is an outrageous fucking scam — I do NOT consider myself bipolar. I was diagnosed by a young jackass doctor because I had (and still have) terrible insomnia. At the time of my diagnosis, I had just broken up with a longtime boyfriend, and I was losing my house. YA THINK????!!! OF COURSE I couldn’t sleep, asshole!! But the doc said, after FIVE MINUTES of talking to me (yes, literally FIVE minutes), that he could tell it was all because I’m bipolar.

I beg to differ with this diagnosis — I admit to being manic and hyper, but I do not have serious mood swings, nor do I engage in risky behavior and all the other shit they say in the DSM-IV. (OK, I know I engage in risky stuff like photo shoots with strange men in the middle of the desert…but I don’t do so compulsively; only to pay my bills.)

“Bipolar” is a totally subjective diagnosis. Can you PROVE I’m bipolar, asswad? And what the fuck ever happened to people just being sad sometimes?! Why does everything have to be a fuckin’ disease now?

Anyhoo, being bipolar added 100 points to my score — enough to automatically disqualify me from this particular insurer. But wait, there’s more!

2. I was also docked 150 POINTS for having had a DUI (a fantastic story that I will share with you soon)! That counts as substance abuse. I’ll bet you didn’t realize a DUI could have such far-reaching consequences!!

Between the bipolar diagnosis and the DUI, I was docked 250 points of a max allowed 69.9. HAH!!!!!! What a fucking joke.

So, for the past year I’ve stayed in a job I hate, making less and less money, because I’m too scared to leave for fear I’ll get cancer and die for lack of insurance. WTF is wrong with our shitty fucking society???

Now that my house mess has been settled, I finally had time to pick up where I left off and try to figure this insurance clusterfuck out. It CAN’T be true that a healthy, young(ish) person like me isn’t even able to PAY for insurance! I’m basically doomed to die because I got a DUI and I get sad sometimes. (I’d argue both of those diagnoses are related to my losing battle to save my house…they took my house, and they took my insurability on top of it!! FUCKERS!)

In my research, I found something called the Pre-existing Condition Insurance Plan (pcip.gov), a part of “Obamacare” that has been instituted to help the uninsurable get insurance. Through this program, I can get insurance for around $250 a month — the only catch is, you have to have been uninsured for 6 months before you’re eligible to apply.

So I faced a quandary. Should I quit now, wait six months, and then apply for PCIP? Or should I wait until after my annual OB/GYN appointment? I have a history of abnormal Pap test results, and I was afraid that if I got another bad result, and it turned out to be cancer, then I would REALLY be uninsurable, and I’d be stuck working my shitty job until I died of the cancer!!!

In the end, I decided to go through with my OB/GYN appointment. If it comes back as cancer, I guess I’ll quit my job that same day…surely cervical cancer can’t grow THAT fast in 6 months! Once the 6 months elapses, if I’m still alive, I’ll apply for PCIP, and then get treatment.

Hope it works!!

All in all, it’s a sad fucking day when you have to calculate shit like that before quitting a job. This shitty society’s all fucked up!

***END OF RANT****

OK, now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

To pick up from my last blog, it was St. Patrick’s Day, and despite feeling kinda sick and run-down, and despite a cold front having blown in from someplace shitty, I almost felt obligated to go out. This despite the fact that I’ve always despised St. Patrick’s Day — I hate beer, I hate drunk mooks, and for some reason I’ve always hated Irish music and Irish pubs. But the local Burning Man group was doing a crazy leprechaun-themed pub crawl, and I do love me some dress-up…so I put together and ensemble and went downtown to join in the revelry. My mood was soured right away, though, when I couldn’t find a place to fucking park — downtown Vegas has gotten waaaaay too big for its britches, with all these pretentious parking meters and parallel parking and shit. THIS IS VEGAS! We have nothing BUT wide, open spaces. Why the fuck should it be such a rigamarole to park?!?! I used to park in the Golden Nugget garage all the time when I went downtown, but now they only let hotel guests park there :/ They wouldn’t even let me valet park! I finally had to sort of lie, and imply that I was working at the nightclub there, before the valet ass finally took my car. By then, my mood was soured, and it was cold, and I felt shitty, and the party kinda sucked…but I couldn’t leave right away because I’d told that asswad in valet that I was working. I had to stay at least 2 hours (which is the length of a typical booze-promo-model shift, which was my backup story — “I’m doing a gig for Jameson’s!”). So I wandered around Fremont St in the cold, then finally went home. LAME!

After that, I was sick for a few days, and just kinda laid low. I actually watched some movies for the first time in MONTHS — normally I despise movies; they’ve given me nothing but false hopes and expectations for life. In real life, there are no corny happy endings — why would I want to subject myself to that crap?! I gritted my teeth through the lamesness of Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (lame happy ending), then rolled my eyes through The Help. Finally I got to the new Charlize Theron movie Young Adult, which does NOT have a happy ending — FINALLY! A realistic fucking movie! And, sadly……I saw much of myself in that flick

After a few days of resting, I got back out and about in the thick of things. A friend of mine hired me as props/wardrobe mistress on a corporate video shoot for a super-high-end watch company that wanted its sales force (they call them “ambassadors,” LOL) to make some fake James Bond commercials, as a sort of team-building thing. He knew I have a ton of costumes, so he subcontracted me to gather together all my James Bond-ish-type props and bring them down to this uber-pretentious hotel conference center, and help these watch ambassadors act out their commercials. FUN! The best part was working with the company’s super-anal, uptight European corporate brass — they were a RIOT!

Then it was out to the desert for some artistic nude modeling — this is the PERFECT time of year for outdoor shooting in the desert; not too hot, not too cold, not too many Germans wandering around. I did a few shoots, and for some reason, the guys lately were all about shooting straight up my crotch. I state clearly on my modeling site that I don’t do spread-eagles or clinical shots, but that didn’t stop these guys from trying!! It was exhausting, trying to keep my knees together in artsy poses, when the photogs kept nudging me to spread ‘em. ARRRGH!! I SAID NO!

One shoot in particular was a DOOZY! A friend texted me late one night, saying a friend of his had someone who needed a model for a topless shoot, and they wanted to hire me. I said sure, but to let them know I don’t have much tits to speak of. That was not an issue — it was for a website called JustNips, which features photos of nothing but nipples — ALL types of nipples, from mosquito bites to dugs, puffies to crunchberries to pencil erasers to hubcaps. I went to the website (justnips.com) and just about DIED looking at all the random types of boobs out there — saggy, perky, flapjacks, apples, bazongas, etc.

So I went over for the shoot, and it was the same story — the guy WOULDN’T STOP trying to shoot up my crack!!! “Why the fuck is your site called ‘JUST NIPS’ if you’re also trying to shoot my vagina?!” I finally asked. He muttered something about site members being disappointed if he didn’t get some bottom shots in there, too. Whatever! The 2 hour shoot only paid $150!!!!!! GIVE ME A BREAK! I felt really skeevy after shooting with those people…they have some NASTY stuff on that site — pregnant girls with dildos, etc. Blecchh!

After that, I decided to steer clear of the adult world for awhile…so I busied myself with other activities: hiking around Bonnie Springs (this fake little old-timey Western town on the outskirts of Vegas) with my tranny friend; going to see the FABULOUS vintage-Vegas shtick of Art Vargas (varjazz.com) with my girlfriend from Arkansas, who’s in town for a trade show; and even cruising waaaaaay out to the edge of town, by Sunrise Mountain, to check out a horticulturist friend’s amazing desert garden. He gave me some tips and advice for my own yard, which sadly amounts to little more than a cinderblock square full of lava rock and dog shit…but I seriously doubt I’ll ever see the day my garden looks anything like his. I love plants and flowers, but I just don’t have enough TIME to cultivate ‘em! I barely have time to do all the shit I already do, let alone plant stuff…but I plan to try anyway, since it seems like it would be very therapeutic.

I couldn’t avoid the adult world for very long, though — I was recently hired to write reviews for this new site that’s sort of like a XXX version of Yelp!, so they are having me go around to all the porno stores in town and review them. I did all this a couple years ago, when I was working for the local paper, but stuff changes pretty quikly in Vegas so I figured I’d better go around and check them all out again.

My first stop was this place over in the southwest part of town that has ambitions of being the World’s Biggest Adult Store — they are planning to expand to 10,000 feet spread out over two stories, with an indoor waterfall (!), but for now the economy has them stymied, so it’s just a regular old-fashioned adult novelty store with an attached arcade (what they call the little booths where men watch porn and jerk off) and an attached LIVE PEEPSHOW! Now THAT was interesting!!

In my experience, these kinds of places don’t like nosy reporters coming in asking all kinds of questions…so my cover story was that I was possibly interested in applying for a job as a peepshow dancer. The manager was totally excited, and gave me a job application and told me they’d hire me “on the spot…” but also gave me two free tokens to go in and check out the peepshow first, so I’d be able to get an idea of what I’d be doing.

I went into one of the booths, put the two tokens in the slots, and the shade on the window lifted up to reveal an unfortunate specimen with long, greasy hair and a wall-eyed stare, all trussed up in ripped fishnets and an old denim skirt. She danced fairly enthusiastically for me, but she could tell I wasn’t really getting off on it so she didn’t do anything over the top. I put $5 in the tip slot just to be polite, at which she whipped out her titties and sort of half-heartedly mooshed them together a few times. Meanwhile, I could see the room behind the Plexiglas panel separating us: a tiny shag-carpeted cubicle containing nothing but a bar stool, her purse and a dildo. No book, no TV, no magazines….how the hell does this poor bitch stay occupied between customers?!

The two tokens bought me five minutes of show, and JUST as the shade was finally, mercifully lowering…she reached for her dildo. Cliffhanger!! I assume she was trying to get me to put in two more tokens…but instead, I went around to the side and knocked on her door to ask her some questions. Again, pretending I was possibly interested in the job, I asked her a bunch of questions which I was actually sorry to get the answers to:

“So do you like working here?”

“Yeah!! Before this I was…well I was never a street walker or nothin’, but I was an escort on craigslist…” She went on to tell me about how she was raped and abused, and felt safer dancing in a little Plexiglas vestibule.

“But….is the money good???”

“Oh, yeah…one day I made $120…but it depends; it’s slow…one day alls I made was $20.”

“$20!! How long is a shift?”

“Eight hours.”

EIGHT HOURS!!! For $20 OR $120….either way, no thanks!!!

I thanked her and wished her luck, and got the fuck outta there. DEPRESSING! But the worst part is, there’s a second peepshow here in town…and that place is EVEN WORSE! I plan to go check that one out later this week. Fun!!!!!

Meanwhile, I finally went back to work as a souvenir photographer — the showroom where I work has been closed for awhile because the main headliner got bronchitis or something, but now they managed to lure back one of the other headliners, a spiky-haired British rocker known for his predilection for blondes one-third his age. Business has totally sucked for me personally, but at least I met a lot of interesting people — mostly Southern cougars, for some reason, with hair even bigger than mine. I’m not sure why Southern women love this guy so much…but they do, and it’s annoying.

Then one night my Arkansas girlfriend invited me over to LAVO, this lame, uber-douchey nightclub that was having an ’80s party hosted by none other than Debbie Gibson. I got there too late for the real party, though, because I was photographing fat Southern cougars…so I missed everything. In fact, the douchebag asswad at the door wouldn’t even let me in — he made me wait in line for about 20 minutes, til I got fed up and bailed, going over to the lounge to watch an ’80s headbanger cover band instead. And that was MUCH more fun, anyway! Fuck LAVO — if you are coming to Vegas and want to party, skip that place. It’s lame.

One other thing I did this week was check out a comedy hypnotist show with my trapeze artist friend. Now, these comedy hypnotists are a really big thing in Vegas — you know, they pull you up on stage and hypnotize you, making you do all kinds of embarrassing stuff like hump chairs, etc. There are several comedy hypnotists in town, and I’ve seen (and enjoyed) them all. I got the idea to befriend some hypnotists last year, hoping one of them might be able to cure my insomnia, so I hit the main guy up on Facebook, and he invited me to come see his show. It was great, and next he invited me over to his house for drinks. I was all excited — this man is known for giving people orgasms by simply shaking their hands, but I was slightly apprehensive about going to his house… would he hypnotize me into blowing him?! But he was way cool; he just mixed us drinks, and we went outside to play “Truth or Dare…” until he passed out naked on his patio. The last thing I saw was his wrinkly, slumbering ballsac as I quietly let myself out the gate, back to my truck and my insomnia. Fuck!!!!

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NASCAR and Toegate

Posted on March 17, 2012 by wonderhussy

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Well gee, this past week or so has been nothing but a whirlwind of fun. But even a FUN whirlwind is a whirlwind…and it can be exhausting. Many’s the night I just wanted to STAY HOME and blog or read or just be mellow….but I kept getting invited out to all this awesome stuff, and I couldn’t say no. I blame my insomnia on this fortune I got back in 2010, inside a cookie from TAO: “Those who say YES have more fun.” Ever since then, I’ve said “YES” to just about all takers….and it’s wearing me the fuck out!!! If I wasn’t having dinner with a puppeteer friend, I was cruising around Lake Mead with another friend, ambling around Bonnie Springs Ranch with my tranny friend, or hanging out at a comedy club with a circus friend who moved here to start a trapeze school! FUCK!

I tried to put on the brakes last Monday, and went to a meditation class at a local Buddhist center. One of the lamas lives on my street — a cool-ass Tibetan dude with a long silver ponytail, who doesn’t speak any English but wanders around town in a robe and a ski parka, with this bespectacled bald hipster dude as his translator. I saw them at the 99cent store once, and it was awesome — a Tibetan buying up cheap Chinese junk. Anyhoo, the meditation class was OK, but it was really aimed at substance abusers, and focused on overcoming addiction…which was kind of a bummer when I went home afterward and wanted a glass of wine :-/

Since I wasn’t able to commit to Buddhism, I went to the NASCAR finals instead. Normally, I just WORK the races as one of the promo babes, but this year, a friend took me as a spectator….and it was AWESOME! Let me give you a little background on NASCAR weekend in Vegas.

NASCAR weekend is the most magical weekend of the year, when somewhere around 300,000 toothless, redneck speed freaks (ahem) descend upon the valley to watch their favorite drivers careen around the Speedway and hopefully crash and burn to death in a blaze of red-blooded, all-American glory. Every year the big race is on a Sunday, but the entire weekend leading up to it is one big tailgate party out in the vast, sun-baked moonscape of the Speedway parking lot way north of town. Vendors fry up corn dogs and spamburgers, and corporate sponsors set up booths and hire all manner of bimbos to pass out freebies to the hordes of unwashed race fans who save their Wal-Mart wages all year long so they can drive their RVs out, camp in the infield, and then get up at 6am to come amble around the “fan zone.” Much like the county faires of medieval Europe, the Fan Zone is a place where chubby, pasty young maidens with stretch-marked ass-antler tattoos come to mingle, flirt and mate with the pimply, buck-toothed future liberators of Eye-rack. Meanwhile, last year’s crop of fertile maids have become brood sows in their own right, with their own piglets either suckling at the teat or being dragged along by their sticky, grubby hands. MEANWHILE, the eagle-eyed crones and toothless matrons of the previous generation weave through the crowds, ever on the lookout for a proffered freebie of any sort, toward which they snake out a tobacco-stained claw while disingenuously asking the bimbo handing out the item, “How much dez it cawst?” When told, as they always are, “It’s free — compliments of Billy Bob’s Toe Jam Thinner!” they seize the item, no matter how insignificant or useless, and slip it into their bag of holding, much like a greedy child shoves his Halloween candy into his pillowcase, to be spread out on the living room floor and counted later on that night — only in this case, to be spread out on the trailer floor and pieced out in piles for Granny Johnson back in Arkansas, Uncle Clem over in Anbar Province and Cousin Buford down at the State Pen.

Anyhoo, I worked this fantastic event one year for a certain well-known deodorant/ shaving cream company that sponsors one of the major drivers, and it was a real hoot and a half!!! They had about 20 models in red short-shorts and track jackets, and our job was to hand out samples and apply rub-on logo tattoos. Normally, when working an event like a convention or trade show, no one really wants your shitty give-a-ways — tchotchkes like stress balls and pens with corporate logos. But at NASCAR, they’ll take ANYTHING! We handed out sorely-needed stuff like mini deodorant sticks and cologne samples, but even when we burned through all that (after about 30 seconds) and got down to the cheesy bikini pinup posters, even those went like hotcakes! The rub-on tattoos were even more fun — I applied tattoos to all manner of fat, freckled shoulders, arms, décolletages and sweaty, red necks. I remember one man asked me if the tattoo would stick to any arm, even one as hairy as his. “Sure!” I said, “They’ll stick to anything!” “Even THIS?” he bellowed jovially, pulling up his t-shirt to reveal a thickly matted, hairy chest. “Uh, I don’t see why not!” I then proceeded to apply the tattoo to his fur, pressing a damp towel over it and applying pressure for 10 looooong seconds. When I lifted the backing paper, the tattoo was floating perfectly atop his mat of hair — a full inch from his chest wall! Jesu!

Another year, I worked for a certain search engine that was trying to lure in the race demographic. They had hired about 20 models to wear racing suits and approach race fans as they meandered around the track and Fan Zone. We were supposed to hand out more godawful tchotchkes, only this time it was a super pain in the ass because the company had actually shelled out quite a bit of coin on the giveaways — USB zip drives in the form of mini race cars. They cost $4 a pop to manufacture, which is very expensive for a freebie, so the marketing firm we were working for was very insistent that we not just hand ’em out like candy to the grabbing paws of the hillbillies. We had to sit there and explain the whole concept of a search engine, and what made our search engine better than “other” search engines, and how the zip drive could be used to install a customized NASCAR toolbar on one’s browser, which conveniently contained a search box for our search engine so that next time you needed to find out Jimmy John Toejam’s best time in the Daytona 500, you could look it up using us!

All that is much easier said than done. Half the people out there didn’t even know what a computer was, let alone a “browser,” “search engine” or “zip drive.” But that didn’t stop them from standing there, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, flinty eyes darting nervously from my earnestly jabbering lips to the mini race car that would hopefully soon be theirs if only they somehow made it through this interminable spiel of incomprehensible technical gobbledygook! You could smell the relief mingled with the body odor and stale beer when I finally did finish my spiel and hand them the precious tchotchke. It was excruciating, but kinda fun. I enjoy making greedy rednecks squirm! Sometimes I would drag my spiel out exxxxxxxtra long, throwing in all kinds of needless extraneous information about search engine algorhythms and internet advertisers, just see how long I could make ‘em wait… but they always waited, no matter how long I prattled on. Their eyes were on the prize!

Aaaaaaaaaanyhoo, that was all in the past. These days, I don’t do many shittily-paying promotional gigs anymore, so I went as a guest of my friend, who is a NASCAR bigwig, and who has this super-special credential called a Hard Card that allows him basically all-access to the pits and whatnot. He took me to a truck race once back in 2010, and I was unceremoniously KICKED OUT of the pits for violating the dress code. Violating the NASCAR dress code!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now that’s saying something!!! I had on jeans, boots and a little blousey-thing with cap sleeves….well, apparently the sleeves weren’t long enough, and I was kicked out of the pit!!! Meanwhile, there were pit lizards (what they call race groupies) standing around in little more than toenail polish and frosted lipstick…and no one messed with them…probably ’cause they were sucking Jimbo Jones Junior’s johnson or something. Arrgh!

Well, after Tweeting extensively about that debacle — and having a tweet show up on nascar.com — they loosened up the dress code considerably. Still, I was taking no chances: I suited up in my tightest jeggings (stretchy leggings printed to look like jeans) and teased my hair to EPIC proportions, just to make sure I’d be OK. For good measure, I also covered up my “Obama 2012″ tattoo. And it worked!!!

The friend who took me to the race doesn’t fuck around — he knew that with 300,000 people out there, traffic was gonna be a nightmare. So he hired a helicopter to take us! LOL!!! It was awesome — what is normally (even in optimal traffic conditions) a 45-minute drive (which stretches to 2 hours, post-race) was now a sweet ten-minute jaunt. NICE! I’ve only ever flown in a chopper once, to the Grand Canyon…but this was even better. It was really cool to fly so low over Vegas, just barely missing the Stratosphere. Fun!!!

My friend had money on Dale Earnhardt, Jr. (or “Junior,” as they call him in fan parlance) and also on Kyle Busch, who was driving the #18 M&Ms car (my friend’s flight had landed at Gate 18, and he had seat #18, so he figured it was destiny). Alas, neither one o’them hillbillies amounted to a hill of beans at that race…so he lost all his money But there was still an INORDINATE amount of fabulous pageantry to enjoy!

The rumor was that Todd and Sarah Palin were around somewhere, but they were probably hobnobbing with the bigwigs up in the suites somewhere. Meanwhile, my friend and I hung out down on Pit Road, where the cars come racing in for their pit stops — it was really something to watch them changing the tires and stuff in 30 seconds flat. One of the pit crew guys asked me if I was on TV, LOL — but it was probably just based on the assumption that any non-fatassed person at a NASCAR race is a celebrity of some sort! Interestingly, I noted that the vast majority of women at the track were lard-assed heifers — except down in the pits, where the drivers’ wives and girlfriends and the pit lizards hang out, cruising for race cock. So apparently, you have to have money to be thin nowadays. Crazy! It used to be just the opposite. Imagine that……….and me being a broke-ass hack!

I have never been a NASCAR fan, so I didn’t know much about what was going on. But I DID notice one thing — how teeny-tiny those drivers are! They’re like jockeys — TINY! I guess it makes them more aerodynamic. This one driver, Kasey Kahne (god I love their names), came strutting along like a li’l banty rooster…and all the chicks swooned! (He’s the ladies’ favorite these days, I guess….blechh.) Then the guy who won, Tony Stewart, came out….and he wasn’t much bigger. Crazy!!!

My friend and I had a few drinks, and then I passed out in the bleachers for awhile towards the end…but rallied for the final few laps, when Tony Stewart won and everyone went apeshit. Then we got the hell out of Dodge, heading straight for the heliport and our chopper back to the Strip. It was like the evacuation of the Americans from Saigon…we ran, screaming, as the chopper lifted us from the fray. Back to civilization at last!

That night I had NASCAR on the brain, and started thinking about these godawful NASCAR-themed Harlequin romances I used to read. You know those cheesy Harlequin paperbacks — where the guy is always a hot cowboy, Viking, rancher or cop, and the chick is a kindergarten teacher or some other innocuous, virginal shit. Well, now they have a whole series where the guy is a NASCAR driver! LOL! I tried to look them up online, but instead I found something even better….. NASCAR FANFIC!!!!!!!!!!!!

For those who don’t know, fanfic is short for “fan fiction” — i.e., amateur stories about famous characters, written by fans who just can’t get enough of their favorite literary heroes. It’s usually about shit like Harry Potter, Star Wars, Twilight and the like…anything with obsessive fans, basically. These stories almost invariably serve as shittily-written setups to LONG, PORNOGRAPHICALLY DETAILED SEX SCENES — the sex is basically the reason these stories are written in the first place! The worst I’ve seen was gay Star Trek fanfic (Captain Kirk fucking Spock up the ass is an image I will never erase from my mind)…but now I’ve got a new contender for MOST OBSCENELY AWFUL FANFIC: NASCAR!!!

I found this one website with a whole bunch of fanfic stories written by lonely grannies in Alabama — one lady in particular was writing a fine literary masterpiece in installments. Each time she uploads a new chapter, she adds a little bit of commentary like, “Sorry this chapter is so late, my grandkids were staying with me and I was real busy.” LOL! Meanwhile, the paper-thin plot involved Dale Earnhardt Jr’s sister, unlucky in love, who ended up fucking Dale’s best friend, another driver named Keselowski. While they were going at it, Dale Jr. ended up getting his dick sucked by KESELOWSKI’s girlfriend! The old switcheroo! Anyhoo, the writing was terrible and the details were so shockingly graphic that I actually had to take several hits of my medicine via water pipe to get through them. Seriously — I actually got embarrassed! More for the poor quality of the writing, but also from the sheer tawdriness. I wonder if these good Christian drivers know what the fuck is being written by their nice, Christian granny fans!!!!! If you’re curious, here’s the link to the site (WARNING! Very obscene material ahead!!): http://www.fanficnation.net/

<– P.S. I did take away one fantastic souvenir from the race: one of Dale Jr’s nuts!!!! It’s pink…shore is purty, huh?!

After the excitement of the NASCAR race, my friend and I decided to do an old-Vegas night, and went downtown to the newly opened Mob Museum. I’m here to tell you, that place is BAD-ASSSSSSS! It’s in the old Federal building downtown, which was the actual location of the Kefauver anti-racketeering hearings back in the day, so it was extra-authentic. The top floor is all about old Vegas history and the beginnings of gambling, Prohibition and prostitution. The 2nd floor is more about Rat Pack-era Vegas and the Goodfellas/Casino days, and then the bottom floor is all modern stuff like the Sopranos and John Gotti. FASCINATING! And HIGHLY recommended….check it out!

After the museum, we went down the street to the new-ish Oscar’s Beef, Booze and Broads, which is the steakhouse they just opened at the fabulous Plaza Hotel, in that fantastic glass dome looking down over Fremont Street. They filmed one of the scenes in “Casino” there, and my friend and I were lucky enough to have the very booth where Robert DeNiro and Sharon Stone sat in that scene — fantastic! The restaurant is all mob-shtick: the owner is ex-mayor and ex-mob attorney Oscar Goodman, the waiters all wear cheeseball gangster costumes, and there is supposedly a bevy of “Broads” that walk around and sit and talk to you about Vegas history and whatnot. I had heard that you could “hire” them to sit with you, so I was really curious to see what it was all about…in case I need a new job one of these days! Alas, however, there was only one lonely Broad on duty that night, a faded blonde in a crappy Marilyn Monroe costume who sort of swished by once or twice but wouldn’t stay to chat very long. Boo! Still, overall I give the place a good review — it’s fun! A little pricey considering it’s NOT a gourmet room…and the decor is kinda shitty, like a 1988 Howard Johnson restaurant…but still. Give it a chance, guys!

After dinner, my friend and I walked down to the Golden Nugget where we happened upon a lounge where an Elvis impersonator was rocking out — and then, inexplicably, a Rod Stewart impersonator got up and sang a Buck Owens song! I think the only reason the Elvis impersonator let the Rod Stewart impersonator take the stage is, he wanted to horn in on the two Spring Break co-eds Rod had been chatting up at the bar!! But the second Rod Stewart finished his song, he made a beeline back to the bar, elbowing Elvis aside so he could get back to what he apparently does best: schmoozing drunken ladies! And THAT’s why I love Vegas!!!!! Git ‘em, Rod!!

Anyhoo, that was a great weekend, but it was over all too soon and it was back to work for me. The headliner in the showroom where I normally work (the legendary Quebecoise, Sally Dingdong) has bronchitis or a vocal chord infection or something, so I haven’t been taking souvenir photos lately — but I’ve been super busy modeling and doing other random gigs. A photographer friend from Atlanta came to town, and wanted me to come over and discuss a new business venture he’s thinking of launching: an escort agency for LEGIT escorts — i.e., nice, clean college-type girls who do not have sex with clients, only go to dinner with them.

My first reaction was, yeah, right – no one’s gonna pay for that!!! But he had met some young chippy at a strip club who supposedly does exactly that, and he wanted me to meet her as a potential business partner: “She’s really smart, she reminds me of you.” Needless to say, I was extremely skeptical! But I went over to meet with them, and lo and behold, this chick was actually super cool!

I won’t give toooo many details, because I don’t want to blow her cover, but she’s basically a beautiful young blonde Mormon farmer’s daughter who got pregnant and was basically cast out of her town. Hell-bent on making it without help from her parents, she at first lived in a basement apartment in a nameless Western cowtown, going to school and working at a Sizzler to make ends meet, until some pervert tried to break into her apartment, which freaked her out and sent her packing to the Big City, where a girlfriend turned her on to stripping. I’m here to tell you, this chick is BEAUTIFUL — no tattoos, no fake tits, no weird skankiness, just 100% USDA Prime Cut All-American Wholesomeness. Before long, she had a few regulars who would take her on trips to Mexico and Miami and shit — and pay her a wage for the honor! She said she makes it perfectly clear up front that there is to be NO hanky-panky, and the guys are OK with that. One shy young hedge-fund manager even bought her a $100,000 Porsche for Valentine’s Day! Holy crap — I saw the car, so I know it’s true!

Meanwhile, she also happens to be a SUPER-NICE, super-well-spoken, intelligent chick…so I liked her right away, although I don’t think I could do what she does. We had a fun day hanging out by the pool with the photographer, and the next day we all drove out to the desert for some amazingly cool photos by this old abandoned horse corral. It was so nice to feel the sun on my skin after that long, cold, shitty, miserable winter…..I felt like a flower, slowly blossoming in the warmth of spring. Then I saw the photos — and realized I was more like a fishbelly-white fat-ass, covered in bruises. Yikes — time to hit the gym!!!

The only thing I DIDN’T like about that chick, and the photographer as well, for that matter, is that they gave me some bogus advice. A week or so ago, a reader of this blog had emailed me, saying he was going to be in town for his bachelor party, and that he had a huge foot fetish and wanted to hire me for a one-hour foot-worship session. He assured me he was young, classy, attractive and respectful, and just wanted to lick, suck and sniff my feet while we exchanged some witty banter (he especially mentioned he liked my sarcastic style). Also, his fiancee was the one putting him up to this, and she wanted to watch via Skype — so how much would I charge??

I thought about it, and asked several of my friends what they thought. My personal opinion was, I would do it for around $200 — after all, it’s ONE HOUR of sitting in a chair having your toes sucked. Big fuckin’ deal! I’ve done similar things before, and that’s about the amount of money I made. But all my friends were in an uproar: “Charge him $5k!! Tell him you’ll only do it if you can bring a bodyguard!” etc. Some advised me not to do it at all — “Too creepy!”

One chick I know told me she actually used to do sessions like that fairly regularly, and she generally charged $200-$300…and she assured me not to worry, that LOTS of people have a foot fetish, and they are by and large harmless. That made me feel a lot better, so I was just getting ready to answer the guy and tell him $300…when I made the mistake of asking this Atlanta photographer and the blonde chick their advice.

They both told me I was being STUPID, and I should charge him AT LEAST $750. They went on and on as to why I deserved that amount of money, and Blondie went on about how she would never do it for less, blah blah blah. So I felt stupid, and compromised: I emailed the guy back asking for $500.

Well, when he finally answered me, he said he was sorry but $500 was WAAAAAY more than he could pay — he had been thinking more like $150!!! D’oh — if I had gone with my first instinct, and asked for $200-300, I probably would have closed the deal. But because I listened to all these greedy fucking Vegas gougers, I lost the whole deal. D’OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This got me thinking about my ethos in general: I live in Vegas, where we supposedly make our living off tourism, but at the same time GOUGE THEM MERCILESSLY the entire time they’re here. $10 for a beer, $6 for a cup of coffee, $45 for a photo, $60 for a steak. Cab drivers take you the long way to get extra fare, strippers scam you, prostitutes rob you…it makes me sick, and ashamed to live here.

At my photo job, I’ve had countless opportunities to scam people over the years, and have worked with girls who had zero compunction about doing just that: add in a tip after the fact, overcharge people, tip hustle (“Did you need your change??”), etc. I am proud to say that I have NEVER engaged in that sort of shittiness, and I never will. To me, it feels like begging — and my mama raised me better than that (stop laughing)!!!!!!!!!!!

So, I may be broker than some, and carry a cheap purse, and drive a beat-up old truck……but guess what? I earn my money the honest way. Nevermind that I get it from toe-suckers and perverts and assorted other fringe-dwellers — I work hard, and I only ask for what I honestly think I’m worth. HONESTLY, what is so god-damn holy about my fucking toes that they’re too good to let some poor sap suck on ‘em for $150 an hour???? Meanwhile, there are people in China making less than that a MONTH, making iPods and shit in Dickensian conditions! Am I really that fucking special? NO!

Uh-oh…..now my inbox is gonna be flooded with requests from bargain-hunting toe-suckers! YIKES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Posted in nude modeling, Uncategorized | Tagged fanfic, mob museum vegas, nascar, nascar fanfic, nascar hillbillies, nascar rednecks, nascar white trash, oscar's beef booze and broads | 4 Comments

Burning Vegas

Posted on March 5, 2012 by wonderhussy

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Yesterday I blogged about all the shittiness in my life of late. Today I’ll tell ya about the GOOD stuff!

A few weeks ago, I got a wild hair up my ass (more likely I was drinking wine and surfing Facebook, which always gets me into trouble) and volunteered to help out with this big project the local Burning Man community was working on: a festival to celebrate the Burnal Equinox, which is the halfway point between Burning Man 2011 and BM 2012. They decided to hold it in conjunction with this cool street festival/art walk kinda thing called First Friday (so called because it’s always held the 1st Friday of the month). They close off all the streets in this one section of downtown Vegas (the so-called Arts District), and all these artists and vendors and food trucks and stuff set up…and it’s generally a pretty good time. They’ve been doing it since 2003 or so, but I didn’t start going til 2010, because I’m a total hater and I thought it was gonna be lame — you know, one of those things where people are TRYING too hard to be cool.

But it actually IS really cool! It has become slightly corporate — I don’t know exactly what happened, but the lady who originally started it had to bail out, and supposedly it was “in danger” of dying out until Tony Hsieh, the CEO of Zappos/Savior of Downtown Vegas™ stepped in and Saved The Day. (If you haven’t heard, Tony Hsieh has decided to singlehandedly save downtown Vegas from itself. Bye bye crackheads and derelict motels, hello hipster bars and family-friendly First Fridays. Grumble.)

Anyhoo, the local Burners got permission from the First Friday brass (it just seems wrong that a “counterculture” festival should even have brass) to host a mini-Burning Man celebration in an empty lot downtown, near where the street fair takes place. Local artists spent weeks building a 20-foot tall wooden showgirl named Lucky Lady Lucy, which was to be burned after a sort of carnivalesque stage extravaganza featuring fire dancers, fire hoopers, fire spinners, fire belchers and fire farters (can you tell I find the fire arts overrated?! Nevertheless, I plan to learn fire spinning myself…a friend has graciously offered to teach me!).

Aside from the flame-brains, the revue was also to include performances by the Burning Opera, a sort of “Jesus Christ, Superstar”-type rock opera all about Burning Man. After the opera, right before they lit Lucky Lady Lucy on fire, there was to be a sort of Burning Man fashion show featuring Lady Lucy’s bra, panties and feather boa…and they put out a call for volunteers to help out. I offered to model in the fashion show, but…before ya know it, I had been suckered in to RUNNING the fashion show! I guess I was OK with that — I’ve been wanting to get more involved with the community — but next thing you know, I was not only in charge of finding five models to create outfits for…but now I was in charge of MAKING THE BRA AND PANTIES! How the fuck does one fashion a metal bra for a 20-foot-tall wooden showgirl that hasn’t even been constructed yet?! It was insanity!!

To make matters even WORSE, I went to what I thought was a rehearsal meeting for the fashion show…but it turned out to be a rehearsal for the Burning Opera cast! Somehow, I got suckered in to performing as a member of the Tribe — a sort of dancing Greek chorus that prances around the stage while the principal performers sing. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t for the fact that we had to learn CHOREOGRAPHY — when I tell you I am one of the world’s worst dancers, I ain’t lying. It was REALLY TOUGH!

Still, I’m totally glad I did it…now that it’s over!! At the time, it was totally stressful. I was dealing with my extorting roommates, I still hadn’t fully moved into my new place, I had to work, and somehow I was supposed to devote 40 hours a week to these Opera rehearsals and Lucy bra-making activities. INSANITY! But I met some reeeeeeally cool people, so I’m TOTALLY glad to have done it.

Most of the cast came down from San Francisco to perform, and they were a colorful crew of bad-asses. The director was this hardcore bad-ass Opera Artiste with a Vision, but sadly all he had to work with were Vegas losers who either never showed up for rehearsal, or else had no imagination beyond tutus and furry boots. It was so ”Waiting for Guffman…” I really felt for the poor guy. Still, a ragtag gang of locals slowly came together, and thanks to many hours of rehearsing, Herr Direktor sloooowly got us into shape.

Meanwhile, as the “team lead” for the “fashion show” part of the revue, I had to attend all these crazy meetings with the local Burning Man muckety-mucks, who actually turned out to be a REALLY cool group of people. Finally, some Burners who actually DO SOMETHING other than eat ecstasy and hula-hoop!!! It’s about fuckin’ time — I was starting to lose faith!!! Back when I first attended Burning Man, I expected it to be a life-altering experience full of amazing art, hardcore artists and counterculture superheroes. Sadly, I found it to be little more than a bunch of drunk frat boys and high 40-somethings in furry boots, hula hooping to dubstep. I suspected there was more to it, and that I just wasn’t looking in the right places….and this past week confirmed it!

Aaaaanyhoo, the First Friday brass was totally skittish, wanting to make sure the event was “family friendly” (are there two more offensive words in the English language?!), since they’ve spent “a lot of money” trying to get families to come down and enjoy First Fridays. Poor Herr Direktor had to censor the shit out of his libretto, removing all references to drugs, alcohol, nudity, cusswords and paganism (seriously, they had to change a line about “pagans and Wiccans…” WTF!!!!)…and by the time he was done, it was looking pretty fucking sad. It’s a testament to the awesomeness of the cast that the whole thing didn’t end up being Disney on Ice (with tutus and furry boots).

Meanwhile, the First Friday brass and the local BM bigwigs stroked each other into a cautious détente, determined to make this work. Some of the First Friday people (Tony “Savior” Hsieh among them) had gone to Burning Man last year for the first time, and were “amazed” and “impressed.” They wanted everyone to know that Burning Man wasn’t just about drugs and nudity — it’s about so much more. Uhhh…..did you guys stay in your air-conditioned RVs watching Disney videos the whole week?!?! HELLO!!!

Aaaaanyway, the First Friday people had a vision, and the local Burners had no choice but to conform to that vision… so we did. The Opera cast had to cover up their tits and whatnot, and there was to be no talk of drugs or alcohol. My character was supposed to be a drunken alien party girl named Saturnalia…but even that was called into question, because the mayor was gonna be there, and families were gonna be there…and is that the kinda image we want to portray???

Uh…

YES! Yes, it is the image I want to portray! Look, the mayor’s HUSBAND (our ex-mayor, Oscar Goodman) is a notorious boozer whose shtick is martinis and showgirls. Is a drunken alien party girl really going to offend his wife?! (The answer is NO — when the Mayor and the ex-Mayor showed up, Oscar grabbed my glowing green bottle of alien booze (Palmolive with glow sticks inside) and pretended to chug it. That settles that stupid argument). Ha!!!

I almost wanted to quit the whole thing after First Friday came down with all these bogus rules…but I soldiered on. I briefly considered an intentional “wardrobe malfunction,” just to make my point (look, my nipples are fucking harmless, people! GET OVER IT!)…but I gritted my teeth and chafed under the yoke of the Man for the greater good of the local Burner community. And I’m glad I did, because as lame as it sounded, it actually ended up being super cool.

Almost every single person who said they’d help with the fashion show FLAKED on me, so I concentrated more on my Opera rehearsing, and let the fashion show part fall by the wayside. I did spend about 8 hours making a light-up bra and panties for Lady Lucy out of wire and LED blinkies, but the rest of the time was spent rehearsing dance steps and trying to come up with an alien costume. I already had an alien costume, from this space disco I went to back in 2010, but Herr Direktor wanted something badass, so I felt all this pressure to come up with a Hollywood-quality costume with appendages and all whatnot. Alas, I was short on time, so at the last minute, I showed up in my old space disco costume….and they all loved it!!! So I freaked out for nothing, as usual.

A couple days before the show, the principal cast members came down from San Fran to rehearse, and it was the coolest band of gypsies. The actors were a colorful crew of hardcore counterculturists, including some super-hot hipppie dudes and this one amazingly badass Sparkly Hippie Starshine Superheroine named Dr. Deb who was unbelieveably amazing and made me want to be her. There was a live band playing all the music, and they were AMAZING, too — I guess back in S.F. they are members of a band called Battlehooch, so if you live in that area, check ‘em out! The bass player was an exceptionally cool guy who looked like an Amish David Koresh…he had an unforgettable look — but the rest of the band was amazing, too. And they were all super friendly and cool.

After a couple days rehearsing with them, we were good to go — or at least as good as we were gonna get. I don’t know how Herr Direktor didn’t pull out all his hair over us and our pathetically inept dancing — we missed all our cues, and mostly stumbled around like a rag-tag band of spastic drunken vaudevillians. Good times! Despite our unrefined ways, I gotta give my fellow Vegas performers mad props for at least trying — no one else even bothered to show up!!! There are hundreds of Burners in Vegas, but as previously mentioned, many are the high, hula-hooping kind. Thank goodness there were at least a few hardcore types out there who sacked up and dove in. I became pretty good friends with a few of them…now I know who the cool people are!

Besides me there was this super cool mother-daughter duo (who also helped with the fashion show, dog bless ‘em), this amazing kooky Piratess who used to be a US Forestry firefighter (!!), a good-spirited young fellow in a furry cat costume, and these two blonde Polish chicks who showed up in blinky rave wear at the last minute and barely learned the dance steps in time. A motley crew to say the least, but we made it happen with the help of Herr Direktor and the other cast members, whose moves we pretty much followed onstage.

The day of the show, my sister came to town with her crazy Israeli husband — he was in town for a bachelor party with some of his crazy Israeli Burner friends, so we all planned to meet up after the show and party. My sis came to the show with me, and helped out backstage with costumes and whatnot, and generally had a blast. Once the final show was over (we did three performances, at 6, 7 and 8pm), they lit the showgirl on fire and it was PARTY TIME! All that hard work was behind me, so I reeeeeally let loose. I mean, REALLY let loose! I ate a friendly fungus, drank some wine, and wandered around the festival area for awhile as Lucy burned (I’m not much on watching fires; I get bored). This crew of party animals from Santa Cruz called the Dancetronauts were there in their giant spaceship (seriously; they built a huge spaceship out of an RV, and it jacks up on a scissorlift) with a bunch of scantily-clad Dancetrohotties go-go-ing wildly atop their 100,000-watt sound system, as the Dancetronauts themselves (a bunch of hot mooks in NASA flight suits) ran around blowing giant smoke rings into the huge mass of writhing, dancing people before them. It was INSANE!

The Dancetronauts played until around 10:30pm, by which time Lucy had burned down to the ground in a neat pile of ashes (much to the dismay of the waiting phalanx of firemen, who were eagerly expecting a disaster…sorry boys) — and then the real party began! A bunch of local Burners had trucked their art cars and mutant vehicles downtown, and the police very graciously allowed us to have an Art Car parade down the city streets to the Plaza hotel, where the Dancetronauts were having a huge street party. My sis and I wanted to ride the Soul Train (a friend of mine’s amazing neon choo-choo train), but he was already full, so we hopped on board the Pedal Pub instead, which is probably my #1 all-time favorite art car of them all — it’s an 8-seater bike, with four seats on each side, all facing inward to a bar. The bartender stands in the middle on the checkered floor, and steers as the people sitting at the bar all pedal. It’s NUTS!!!!!! I don’t know how the fuck it works, but it does — and it’s AWESOME!

We pedaled all the way down to the Plaza, then got off and proceeded to dance like mad people in the valet area out front, in the shadow of the Dancetronauts’ spaceship. Fantastic!! I’ve rarely had that much fun in Vegas — I danced like a madwoman. I ran into a lot of people I knew, and it was just a fabulous time all around. About 2am they brought the party indoors, to the showroom, which had been converted into a sort of fake Burning Man with lasers and smoke and signposts like you see out at the actual Burn. Really fun! I’m here to tell you, I danced more or less non-stop from 2pm til 5am (!!!!!!!) — FIFTEEN STRAIGHT HOURS! When I wasn’t dancing, I was pedaling that Pedal Pub…which wasn’t exactly slacking off. I figure I burned about 900,000 calories — nice! Around 5am my sis fell asleep at the table, and some fucknut spilled a beer all over my fur coat (ASSSS! I *HATE* beer, more than anything!), so we left, and went across the street for breakfast at DuPar’s coffee shop. Then we took a cab back to my car, and from there drove the short 5 minutes or less to my new house, which is conveniently located downtown in the heart of all the action. Once home, we passed out cold and slept all day, til it was time to take my sis back to the airport. Fun!

After I took her to the airport, I pretty much felt like I’d been run over by a giant, blinking, furry bus. I intended to stay home all night, but the Dancetronauts were having a second street party down by the El Cortez…and being as I live so freaking close by, I figured I might as well stop by for a few hours. The problem was, I didn’t feel like putting on all my makeup and stuff (it was already 10pm by that time)…so I came up with an ingenious idea: wear my fantastic, beloved Second Skin bodysuit, which covers my ENTIRE body and face, so no makeup is required. PROBLEM SOLVED! I put together a fabulous outfit and went down to dance a little more, but the party totally sucked — everyone was either exhausted from the night before, or at the other shows in town that night. (The hippies were all at Mickey Hart at the Hard Rock Cafe, and the bean-eaters were all at Bassnectar over at the Palms… the tribe was fractured.) I left after a couple hours — the vibe was lame. Just a bunch of aggro teenagers and middle-aged people standing around staring at the Dancetrohotties…I totally wasted a badass costume on that jive-ass crap. Boo!

So now the party’s over, but it totally whetted my appetite for all things Burning Man. I’m really in a bind this year — as you may have heard, the event sold out for the first time ever last year, and this year they had such overwhelming demand that they instituted this whack-ass lottery system for tickets. Me and everyone I know entered the lottery, but no one I know won tickets! Whaaaaa?????! Even the freaking Dancetronauts only “won” two tickets — out of forty Dancetronauts!!! The majority of the ticket winners (well, 40% anyway) are said to be first-time attendees….which has caused a lot of tension in the Burning Man community.

On the one hand, I feel like first timers (especially square first-timers…people who are not wacky at all in everyday life) are the ones who really get the most out of Burning Man. People like me, who wear crazy costumes every day and live their entire lives like it’s Burning Man, don’t have as much to learn, or have as much expanding to do, as some random frat idiot who needs an eye-opener. So is it really fair to let us wacky types monopolize the event, when there are clearly people who need it more than we do???

On the OTHER, MORE IMPORTANT HAND, Burning Man is gonna be lame as hell if all the hardworking regulars aren’t able to attend!! Who’s gonna bring all the fabulous art? All the amazing mutant vehicles and art cars?!?! All the large-scale interactive camps and experiences?!?!?!?!?!?!????? If 40% of the attendees are newbies, it’s not going to be the same at all.

But, what can really be done? The BLM (gov’ment) caps the attendance at 50,000…and since every asshole (myself included) comes back from Burning Man telling all their friends “OMG you gotta go to this sometime!” it was bound to get too big for its furry britches. It just sucks being on the outside — my sis and her husband were able to buy two tickets in this stupid resale program they instituted, but what about meeeee?? I was able to at least get on the resale LIST, but that doesn’t even come close to guaranteeing that I’ll actually get a ticket. There will likely not be enough people reselling their extra tickets, and I’ll be shit outta luck.

Meanwhile, the whole reason behind this bullshit lottery is that they didn’t want “scalpers” to buy the tickets, then mark ‘em up and sell ‘em on eBay. Well, guess what?!?!?! There are ALREADY a shit ton of tickets on eBay and StubHub and the like, going for upwards of $5,000 each!! FUCK! What’s a girl to do????

If you’re reading this blog and you have an extra ticket, please let me know. I will pay face value, cash, and you’ll be helping out a poor battered soul who has just lived through a really shitty year. C’mon, guys!!!

I’ll leave you on a slightly more upbeat note: one night, after Opera rehearsal, I had to run to WalMart…even though I was wearing my kooky silver fur coat and wacky black pleather pants and Frankenstein boots. I knew I was running the risk of winding up on PeopleOfWalMart.com, but I had to go — I have this weird rash thing on my eyelids, where they get all red and dry and scaly and make me look like I’m about 60 years old. I’ve had this problem on and off for years, but it got a lot worse recently, and I somehow got the idea it might be caused by a fungus. I went online and Googled “eyelid fungus” and all these message boards turned up where people were saying they had cured it with yeast infection cream! So, when I went to WalMart in my crazy outfit, I was buying all kinds of yeast infection meds — creams, pills, etc. I must’ve looked like a REAL piece of work, ha ha ha!!!!! But whatever — IT WORKED! I’m pleased to report that by applying vaginal cream to my eyelids each morning and night, I have more or less cured my problem. Hooray for Google!!!

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Posted in burning man | Tagged burning man, burning opera, first fridays las vegas, las vegas burn, lucky lady lucy | 4 Comments

The Colonel Crusty Caper, and Censorship For the Sake of Insurance

Posted on March 4, 2012 by wonderhussy

facebook ico1 The Colonel Crusty Caper, and Censorship For the Sake of Insurance

All right, time to put alllllll this negativity and nonsense behind me. So I lost my house and then was gouged out of $2,500 by my unemployed leech roommate…big deal! I get knocked down, but I get up again…you’re never gonna keep me down!!! Still, I’m posting this one last photo that was taken of me back in October, when a visiting photographer who was doing a story on foreclosures in Vegas interviewed me for this AWESOMELY depressing slideshow: http://inmotion.magnumphotos.com/essay/foreclosures-las-vegas-reno. Check it out! There is a voiceover by me, swearing like a sailor, that really adds to the depressing, Diane Arbus-y vibe. I’m glad to have gotten some photographic mementos of that whole fiasco…I had planned on asking one of my photographer friends to come over and document my actual move for posterity’s sake, but I was just too busy weeping and being gouged by my bitch-ass loser roommates…but these awsome Magnum pics will do!

Aaaaanyhoo, I finally got all moved into my new place, when the shit hit the fan AGAIN! I called the DMV to have my address changed on my license…and come to find out, my license was REVOKED! Dog knows HOW long I’ve been driving around like this — I had a DUI back in August 2010, for which my license was suspended for 90 days and the whole rigamarole. I paid the fines, attended the classes, learned my lesson and bought a Breathalyzer (which was stolen from my truck in January)…but apparently, my attorney neglected to mention the little fact that I was supposed to RE-APPLY for a driver’s license after all was said and done!

So now I had to go to the DMV and re-take the whole fuckin’ test — the written AND the driving parts! I passed the written part easily — I studied the handbook for a few hours and was good to go. So they gave me an appointment for a drive test on Monday morning at 11:30. I gathered up all my papers related to my DUI, including my new insurance statement, my birth certificate and my Social Security card, and had them in a folder on the the kitchen counter, ready to go.

My friend Guy agreed to give me a ride over there, and he came over to my house around 10:45 before I was ready. I tried to hurry, but my face was all puffy and weird from this eyelid rash I had, so it took me FOREVER to get my makeup right, and I couldn’t concentrate because I felt bad making him wait. We ended up running out the door around 11:15, which was fine because the DMV is just around the corner from my new place. But I was supposed to BE there at 11:15 (you have to arrive 15 minutes early), so by the time we got there it was like 11:25, and I had to RUN inside.

Just as I was getting out of the truck…I realized I had left my folder at home on my kitchen counter. FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!! I really needed to get my license THAT DAY — I had a MILLION things to do, and needed to be able to drive. My friend graciously agreed to race back to my house and get the stuff while I tried to stall the DMV people…while I RAN inside to check in for my appointment. The lady at the counter glared at the clock, which read 11:24, but begrudgingly let me check in anyway: “I need to see your registration and proof of insurance.”

DOUBLE FUCK! I had left them in the truck! “Let me go get them!” I shouted over my shoulder, racing out the door, hoping to catch my friend before he had left the parking lot. Miraculously, he hadn’t left yet (he wasn’t used to driving my truck, and didn’t know the neighborhood at all) so I ran up to him, banging on the window, til he opened the passenger door. I grabbed the stuff from the glove box and admonished him to “PLEASE HURRY!!!!! The stuff is in a yellow folder on my kitchen counter!!” Nevermind the fact that he had only been to my new place ONCE, and had no idea how to get there….I was banking on the fact that I’d be able to stall the DMV long enough for him to find it and hurry back.

So I dragged ass, getting back to the counter by 11:29, and handed the lady my stuff. She gave me a baleful glare and checked me in, then gave me a vision test…which I took S…L…O…W…L…Y: “Uhhhhhh……siiiiiiiix………eiiiiiiiiight…….fiiiiiiiiiive……threeeee……….” They must have thought I was half blind, but I got a perfect score anyway, and she told me to have a seat and they would call me.

Perfect! Anytime you have to wait at the DMV, it takes FOREVER…so I figured I was gold. Not this time!! The drive test instructor was already standing there, waiting. Before he could say anything, I asked if I could use the restroom first, thinking to stall some more. The instructor very begrudgingly agreed, if I “hurried,” but I went in and pretended to have diahhrea/cramps/nerves and dragged my ass as long as possible in that bathroom. It was really gross because this is the most ghetto DMV in Vegas and it was literally OVERFLOWING with the unwashed masses spilling out in the streets, screaming at their babies, smacking their snot-stained toddlers and all being yelled at in turn by security guards. In other words…hell on Earth!

Still, I loitered around in the bathroom as long as possible with my “nervous diahhrea/vomiting” and then trudged slowly back over to the drive test instructor. In the bathroom, I had called my friend and he said he wasn’t even at my house yet….so I figured I had to somehow stall waaaaay longer. This I accomplished by talking up a blue streak: as I approached the crusty old ex-military hawk assigned to me, I launched into a chattering monologue about how nervous I was, and how I couldn’t believe how nervous I was! I mean, I’ve been driving for twelve years – you wouldn’t expect me to be so nervous! I milked a few more precious minutes thusly as the crusty old General stared at me in grouchy bemusement, but I thought I saw him “smising” (that’s when you “smile” with your eyes only…great word, huh?) and finally he interrupted me: “OK, let’s go out to your vehicle.”

“Uhhhhh………….sure!” I led him outside, spewing forth a nonstop stream of chatter and funny stories, pausing every few feet to stop and touch his arm to make a point, just to buy more time. I led him to the back parking lot, where I pretended to “look around” for my truck (which I knew damn well wasn’t there). “Hmmmm! Maybe it’s in the front, after all…I’m sorry!” So now I led him BACK out to the front, still chattering and trying to distract him from the fact that my car was nowhere in sight. This went on for several minutes: “Gosh, I don’t see it anywhere….I wonder where he is! Let me call him and find out!”

General McCrusty was really glaring at me now as I called my friend: “Hey, where ya at?” He told me he had the stuff and was headed back, about 5 minutes away. If I could just stall them a few more minutes, I was golden! But the General’s patience was wearing thin. “Where is he?!?!?” he demanded. “Uhhhhh….sorry, I felt bad for imposing on him to give me a ride here, and he needed cigarettes so I told him to go ahead and run to 7-Eleven real quick while I was waiting for you. He should be back any minute! He had a nicotine fit…ya know????”

“7-Eleven?!?!” the General said suspiciously. “That’s pretty far from here.” “Oh, uhhh, well maybe not 7-eleven…Idk, whatever the little quickie mart over there is,” I bluffed. That was not enough for the General: “Well, you had an 11:30 appointment and it’s now 11:45, and we have no vehicle. This is a BIG PROBLEM!”

“Ummmmmmm….” Fortunately, at that very moment, my friend screeched into the parking lot: “Wahoooooo!!! THERE HE IS!”

Whew — talk about a close call. The General grumpily followed me to the truck, and checked my turn signals and all that crap before getting in and sitting beside me in stoic, crusty silence. Awkward!! He made me parallel park, which I suck at (who the fuck parallel parks in Vegas?! It’s the land of free parking and free valet!!!), so I failed that part miserably. Then he had me drive around the neighborhood, which I did VERRRRRY CAUTIOUSLY, keeping my hands on 10 and 2 on the wheel, stopping at every stop sign and keeping below the speed limit. In other words…nothing like how I usually drive. And STILL, the fucker failed me!!!!

The reason he gave was that I did not stop fully at a stop sign — which is an automatic fail!!! Bullshit — I STOPPED at every fuckin’ stop sign there was; I’m not that stupid! I think he was just pissed at me for stalling him so long, and therefore was extra critical of me: he said I stopped too close to the intersection, whereas I SHOULD have stopped 5 feet before the actual sign. WHAT-THE-FUCK-EVER, ASSHOLE!

So I slumped back into the DMV and made another appointment for Wednesday morning. Fuck!!! I had such an insanely busy week, I really didn’t have time for all this. But to thank my friend for his crazy efforts, I took him to lunch at a trendy new restaurant in downtown Vegas called Le Thai. All the hipsters drool over it, and it does have a cool atmo…but it’s no better or worse, food-wise, than any other Thai restaurant, IMO. I ordered the “Red, Yellow and Green” curry in honor of my failed drive test, and soldiered on with my life.

My new roommate took me back to the DMV on Wednesday, and I made sure to get there 15 minutes early, with all the needed documents. Whew! They assigned me a different instructor this time — a younger male. Score!! I passed with no further ado, and got a new license at last. FINALLY!!!

Now, while all this was going on, MORE shit hit the fan!! Right after I found out my license had been revoked, I get a call from my boss at the souvenir photo company: “We need you to come in right away.” Oh shit…NOW what?! I’m always getting into trouble there for my “negative attitude” and “inappropriate behavior,” so I figured I was about to be fired. The manager of our photo lab was sent to jail for a week or two for failing to pay HIS DUI fine, so in the meantime they got this other little prick to be the interim manager, and he HATES me. I figured he must have complained about me, and now I was about to lose my job. WHATEVER! I was actually OK with that, except for the fact that I have an upcoming gynecology appointment and my Pap smears always come back abnormal, and I have to have follow-up stuff donw…and if I lose my insurance, I might not be able to afford it. I don’t want to die of cervical cancer — but I can’t get private insurance on account of this jackass psychiatrist who diagnosed me bipolar (because I was upset over losing my house!), and now i have a pre-existing condition >:-(

Anyhoo, I didn’t want to drive over there on a revoked license, so I tried to get my boss to just tell me on the phone or via email…but he refused. I asked if it could wait til Monday (thinking by then I’d have a license again), but he said it was a MAJOR crisis and they needed to see me ASAP! FUCK!!!!! Well, now I was really curious, so I sarcastically told him I’d “get a ride over there,” and drove over myself, verrrrrrrrrrrrry cautiously, to see what they had to say.

What it turned out to be was HILARIOUS, in a sad way. Apparently, there’s this new steakhouse in town at one of the hotels, and I had taken my friend there for dinner a few weeks ago. They treated us VERY poorly, despite it being a $350 dinner, and the staff was so rude/inept that I wrote a very scathing review on yelp.com to assuage my humiliation (I really was super humiliated by the way they treated me).

Well, my boss, and his boss, and the wife of the guy who owns the photo company were all there…and they asked if I would please take down this review. It seems they are trying to get into the good graces of that restaurant, so they can send photographers in there to shoot photos of the diners, and they don’t want anything negative out there that could be traced back to their company. Because I had mentioned in the review that I worked in the showroom near that restaurant, my bosses figured the steakhouse people might put two and two together and figure out it was a photo lab employee — and then out of spite, they wouldn’t allow photographers in the restaurant.

SRSLY! They even said that if I didn’t remove the review, they might lose their operations at the ENTIRE HOTEL, and “You wouldn’t want to hurt the company like that, would you???”

I found it ludicrous that a single, honest review of my dining experience at a pretentious, overpriced steakhouse (that already had several similar bad reviews posted) would sink the “entire company…” and I said as much. But they just kept “asking” me if I would just please take it down.

“What if I just remove the line about working in the showroom?”

“We’d prefer if you just took the whole thing down.”

“So, you;re saying if I don’t remove the review, I’m fired?”

“No no no! We can’t do that legally — we’re just asking you to take it down.
“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll keep asking you to.”

HAH! I could see I was fucked, so I VERY BEGRUDGINGLY agreed to go home and censor myself for the sake of their bottom line. Furthermore, they told me that I was not to write any negative reviews of ANY property/venue/show/restaurant that they have operations at!!! Seriously?!?!?!? I like warning people about shitty shows and shitty service! But I don’t like dying of cervical cancer, either — so what’s an outspoken girl to do??? ADVICE, PLEASE!!!

I saved the bad steakhouse review in a Word doc, so I can re-post it in the event that they finally fire me or I quit — I’m putting that shit RIGHT BACK UP! I don’t care what anyone says — that steakhouse SUCKS ASS and no one but an uncultured rube would subject himself to dining there. Fuck ‘em!!! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhh!!!!!!!!

Meanwhile, I had all this other crazy shit going on — the local Burning Man community had this HUGE party planned for the Burnal Equinox (the half-way point between Burning Man 2011 and 2012), and I had volunteered to be a cast member in this revue they had planned, plus also to help design a costume for this 20-foot tall wooden effigy of a showgirl they had built to burn at the end of the performance. Fun — but a LOT of work, and kinda stressful. We had all these rehearsals, and it was really time consuming.

Meanwhile, some German friends were in town and wanted to meet up, so I had to hang with them one night. We went to the Cosmopolitan for drinks, but I had to leave around 11 to pick up another friend from the airport. On the way out, I noticed that the front window of the Cosmopolitan had been changed — it used to be a really expensive modern art design furniture store, but now it was this thing called the Pop-Up Wedding Chapel — where for $80, you get a really cool fake Vegas wedding ceremony, complete with a minister, ceremony, two toy rings, two cans of champagne and a photo booth strip. FUN! For an extra $150, they’ll even make it legally binding!! Meanwhile, since it’s in the front window of the Cosmopolitan, right on the Strip, anyone walking past can stop in and sit down to watch — they have pews, just like a real wedding chapel!!! The night I was there, this super cute black couple was getting married — legally — and all these random passers-by had stopped to watch and take photos. It was so surreal — but so cool!

I immediately put out the call on Facebook: “WHO WANTS TO GET MARRIED?!?!?!” I thought it would be a RIOT to have a big fake wedding ceremony — since I doubt I’ll ever marry for reals, I thought it would be a fun party. But I got too many responses, and didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings…so I didn’t go through with it. And now, the chapel is closed — it was just a temporary thing. But so cool — I hope they bring it back!! I’ll totally go over there all the time for a free show!!!

Anyhoo, I picked up my other friend at the airport — this chick I know who’s a full-time traveling nude model. She’s super cool, so I had her stay over at my new place, and she told me all about this creeeeeeeeeeeepy website she had just shot for out in Oregon, where they guy pays you to play dead. I checked the site, and it’s photos and videos of models pretending to be dead, while men give them fake autopsies and otherwise manhandle them. I found it far too creepy for even me — although I’d love a free trip to Oregon, and the money for shooting, I gotta draw the line somewhere. I won’t post the link here, to preserve the guy’s privacy..but it was CREEPY SHIT. I’m trying to cultivate some standards here — another photographer just contacted me about a bondage shoot, and I turned that down, too. I don’t want to shoot anything demeaning or objectifying women like that! A lot of my pics are already borderline…I don’t want to go any farther!!!

Anyhoo, the rest of my week was TOTALLY DEVOTED to preparing for the Vegas Burning Man extravaganza…which turned out to be SUPER AWESOME and TOTALLY WORTH ALL THE EFFORT! I am going to stop here, and write about that in a seperate blog…because it was SOOOO AWESOME, it deserves its own thing. Watch for that coming sooooooooon!!!

facebook ico1 The Colonel Crusty Caper, and Censorship For the Sake of Insurance

Posted in burning man, fetish modeling, nude modeling | Tagged burning man, dmv, failing a driver's test, vegas, vegas burn | 1 Comment

Betrayal :-(

Posted on February 23, 2012 by wonderhussy

facebook ico1 Betrayal : (

So as you may recall, last time I was talking about how Seterus had JUST BARELY approved my short sale…literally hours before my house was to be auctioned off as a foreclosure. Whew…. right?

WRONG.

I feel like I keep getting punched in the gut, HARD, and sooner or later the next punch will be the last, and I will give up and die from a broken and bleeding spirit. What happened next took me SO COMPLETELY BY SURPRISE that it literally made me sick to my stomach.

As mentioned last time, the new buyer of my house, a Mexican ball-buster we’ll call Loopy, was riding my ass: “When are you guys gonna be out of the house?!” The sale closed on Monday, Feb. 13th at 4:47pm; she wanted me and my roommates out by 4:48pm that same day. If we didn’t get out, she was going to charge us $50 a day in rent.

SERIOUSLY?!

Have a heart, you fucking bitch. I lost everything in this deal — and you basically bought my everything for $112,000. How do you think that made me feel? Now you’re trying to charge me rent in my own (ex)house?!

Still, I understood her point of view — she won, fair and square, and I needed to get out. As mentioned, I had a new place lined up, and I had been moving stuff here and there since January. I didn’t want to move anything vital, though, because I had no idea how long this short sale was gonna drag on, and I didn’t wanna have half my shit across town — you know? Also, I wasn’t even sure the sale would go through — there was a very real possibility that it would end up going to auction, in which case I’d have 30 days to get out. So, most of my stuff was still at the old house.

Meanwhile, the situation at my old house was getting awkward. I had two roommates, about whom I haven’t spoken much, so let me fill you in. The girl, a 40-ish woman I knew from the local Burning Man scene, had moved into my basement about a year ago. Prior to that, I had been renting the basement to a toothless hillbilly and his one-legged girlfriend (seriously; that’s a whole blog entry of its own, which I must get to ASAP because it’s fucking priceless).

When the hillbilly and his one-legged girlfriend moved out, I cleaned it out and repainted it and this chick, we’ll call her Susie, moved in. It worked out GREAT — she worked all day from 8am-5pm at an office job, and I usually work from 5-11pm, so we were never in each other’s way. She was a very neat and clean person, and decorated the basement really, really nicely — she has great taste in decor. She sort of turned it into this little bohemian hideaway, and was constantly telling me how much she loved living there.

We were never really chummy, because there was always this sort of weird disconnect between us. But we got along fine, and she was a GREAT roommate.

She had been living with this older Persian guy whom we’ll call Mo, but their relationship was kinda rocky so she moved out of his apartment to take my basement. But, wouldn’t ya know it, before long Mo started coming over…and in late summer, they asked if I minded if he moved in.

I didn’t mind at all — Mo was cool, and a very good cook who was constantly whipping up all this amazing Persian food, which he always shared. He also brought over a huge load of firewood for my fire pit, and he made some repairs to my trailer for me after Burning Man…so I considered him good people. They didn’t want to pay me extra rent, but offered to pay “all” the utilites (power, water and internet…I still took care of sewer, trash, yard maintenance and pest control) plus the rent Susie was already paying me.

I’m a puss, so I caved in and said yes. Mo moved in around July or August, and everything was great…until Susie quit her job. She hated it so much she just couldn’t stand it anymore, and Mo was supposedly going to hire her to do the books at his auto body shop…but all I ever saw her do was sleep til noon and drink all my vodka. I swear, I’ve never seen two people drink so much vodka — I’d get a bottle, and it would be gone in two days. They’d always promise to replenish it…but then they’d drink what they’d bought me within another two days! Nuts!

Still, all was well. Mo and Susie sat around drinking, smoking pot and watching TV in between cooking fabulous meals in my gourmet kitchen. I’m a private person, so I mostly stayed in my bedroom — when I was home at all (I’m usually out and about, hustling and working). So they basically had the entire house to themselves, for $500 a month.

All this time, I was working diligently on my loan modification. At the time, Chase was still stringing me along, leading me to believe they WOULD help me if I would just fax this, that and the other every two minutes. But at my mediation hearing in October, they came out and told me they would not be able to write down my principal or offer me any real help. This was when I realized I could not keep the house.

It was a painful and traumatic decision to make, and I wept EVERY DAY for about two weeks straight. It’s tough to admit that all the work you’ve done for the last four years was for nothing, and you are admitting defeat. But I finally decided to short sell…so I went into the kitchen one night and told Mo and Susie that they needn’t pay any more rent; I was short selling.

They were totally supportive: “Honey, we’ve heard you crying…we’re so sorry, we’re here for you. Do what you have to do.” Mo told me, “You’re not just a roommate, you’re our friend — our family.” I felt a lot better after that. They kicked me some money for bills now and then, but from November on I did not charge them rent. I felt that I couldn’t take money from them if I wasn’t paying the mortgage myself; and besides, I had all manner of prospective buyers tramping thru the house for two days, which I felt bad about on their account.

As any reader of this blog knows, it was a long period of limbo. I accepted an offer right away — Loopy (the aforementioned Mexican ball-breaker) came out on top, and I accepted her offer right around Thanksgiving. I told my roommates this, but also warned them that it could drag on for a looooong time. They had already mentioned to me that they were looking into buying their own house, so I figured we were all on the same page.

Meanwhile, I started looking for a new place. I found a cute little house in fabulous downtown Las Vegas that had an ideal roommate setup, and offered Mo and Susie the master bedroom if they wanted it. They declined, saying they were tired of moving, and preferred to stay in the old house “for free” as long as possible. They seemed to think it would be six months or more — Mo in particular is one of those guys who “knows” the law, and he had it in his head that this would drag on for six months. I told him REPEATEDLY that no, it probably wouldn’t drag on that long, because I was already so deep into the foreclosure process that I had to get this short sale thru in 90 days max. But every time I talked to him he was high and/or drunk, so I don’t think he believed me. He kept telling me not to worry so much, everything would be fiiiiiine, “there are laws in this country to protect us.” He also offered me all this super-shady advice on how to stay in the house indefinitely — to which I told him POINT-BLANK that I was NOT interested in dragging this out any longer — I wanted to get it OVER with!

Still, I have a sneaking suspicion he wanted the house to foreclose — either so he could stay there for free longer, or so that one of his Persian investor friends could buy it at auction for cheap, then rent it back to him. My suspicion was confirmed one day when I was sitting at my desk and looked out the window to see Mo and Susie and a well-dressed Realtor-type walking around my yard — supposedly she was a “friend” of theirs who wanted to see the house out of curiosity. I’m not fucking dumb; I know what they were up to. They probably wanted her to see how nice it was so she could bid on it at the auction!

Now it got really awkward. Mo and Susie had always had a rocky relationship, but now they really got into a fight, and one day Susie asked me if I minded her moving her bed up to my guest bedroom — she didn’t want to share the basement with Mo anymore, because he was being a dick, drinking too much and talking shit to her. Of course I said yes, and even helped her move her mattress upstairs. She asked if I still had that bedroom available at my new place, because her and Mo weren’t going to make it as a couple.

Well, I had already found a new roommate at the new place — a nutty beefcake with long blond hair whom I also knew from the local Burning Man community. He’s a very eccentric person, but I’ve known him for years and I like him OK, so I offered him the extra room. So I told Susie that sorry, it was too late for her. But I felt sorry for her, so even thought it was a severe inconvenience, I offered her the guest bedroom at the new house — a tiny room I had planned to use as my closet (I had a HUGE walk-in closet at my old place, and the new place only had shitty little regular-sized closets). I had already assembled all my guest bedroom furniture in there, but I offered to dis-assemble it and clear it out for her — and let her stay there FOR FREE until the end of February, by which time she could have found a better place. I offered her half the garage for her storage, too.

Susie waffled back and forth EVERY SINGLE DAY. The first day: “Oh girl, that would be awesome; thank you so much.” The second day: “Never mind; I’m gonna get my own apartment.” The next day: “Girl, is that room still available? I can’t find an apartment I can afford.” (She’s been unemployed since July or so.) The next day: “Never mind, Mo and I are getting a place.”

ARRRRRGH! All this nonsense while I was trying to move all my OWN stuff! I was patient with her though, because I felt sorry for her — it’s not her fault she’s an addle-brained sad sack co-dependent. There are plenty of chicks out there addicted to loser guys who treat them like shit — glad I’m not one of ‘em! I did what I could to help her, even emptying my boxes at the new house and bringing them back for her to use. I even found her an apartment for super-cheap, but she didn’t like it because it didn’t have a washer/dryer in the unit. I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU: an unemployed alkie can’t be so choosy!!

So this went on through the first couple weeks of February, and then the sale finally closed on Monday, Feb. 13th. As mentioned, Loopy and her broker were on my ass immediately, trying to get us out. I spoke with my lawyer, and he reminded me that in my sale contract, he had stipulated that we were to have seven days after closing to vacate the premises. So, we had a full week to get out.

I told Mo and Susie about this, but they kept dragging ass. They thought they could work out a deal with Loopy for rent, but she wanted $50/day or $1600/month, which was way more than they wanted to spend (hello; they were spoiled after having the whole place to themselves for $500!!). So then Mo got drunk one night (big fuckin’ surprise; that’s basically all he does), and called Loopy, ranting and raving and rambling incoherently about his “rights.” They were under the impression that they legally had six months to vacate — but that’s with a FORECLOSURE! This was a SHORT SALE! I told him OVER and OVER that, despite his secret backstabbing wishes, the SHORT SALE HAD GONE THRU AND HE HAD TO GET OUT.

He refused.

Now, this man is 60 fucking years old (I think), but he acted like a fucking baby. He basically threatened to squat in the house and ruin the sale! I was freaked out. I worked SO HARD on this sale, and managed to squeak it in under the door…only to be ruined by an alcoholic Persian loser with a pot belly and an overinflated sense of entitlement?! NO WAY.

Keep in mind, they are LOSERS. As mentioned, they mostly lay in bed and watch TV while eating and boozing. They were on my ass about the government’s “Cash For Keys” program, in which the Feds sometimes pay homeowners a fee to get them to move out without damaging the house. I told them if I got any, I’d share it. So, I offered them $500 each.

It wasn’t enough!

I moved out that Monday, and the next night I got a long email from Susie demanding $2,500 from me, or they wouldn’t move. She said I’d been unfair, and hadn’t explained what was going on, and that their “heads were spinning” from the confusion of short sale vs. foreclosure vs. short sale.

BITCH! I WAS AS CONFUSED AS YOU! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!

Basically, she said it was only fair that I pay them $2500 for the “inconvenience” of having to move in seven days. FIRST OF ALL, I told you two fucking losers BACK IN OCTOBER this was happening. And I told you in November that I had accepted an offer. It’s not my fault your loser fat ass sat around drinking vodka instead of GETTING THE FUCK UP AND LOOKING FOR A NEW PLACE! Look at what the fuck I was doing!! I’VE BEEN BUSTING MY FUCKING ASS NON-STOP since NOVEMBER looking for a new place and moving!!!

Secondly, who the fuck is truly being inconvenienced here?! I lost EVERYTHING after an exhausting four-year battle. You want to talk about inconvenience?!

It was an extremely hurtful email, and it felt like someone had punched me, HARD, right in the stomach. Or heart. These people were supposedly my friends! Remember, Mo had called me “family.” REALLY? The kicked me when I was at my absolute lowest, and gouged my broken body out of EVEN MORE MONEY.

I’ve never cried so hard in my entire life — it was weird! As mentioned, we were never really friends, but I lived with this girl for a year and had been helping her through as best I could. Now, apparently, she was back with Mo, and he had turned her against me.

My lawyer advised that I didn’t legally have to pay them anything, but I was afraid they would trash the house if I didn’t. I was terrified they would do something to fuck up my sale. I had everything riding on this sale — my fucking FREEDOM! If they punched holes in the walls or flooded the rooms, it would come back on me as breach of contract, since I had agreed to leave the house in move-in condition. Not that I really thought they would do that — but then, I never in my wildest dreams imagined they’d extort $2,500 from me, either.

So, I spoke with Loopy’s broker, who was also on my ass demanding that I get them out. She told me to draw up a Notice to Vacate, and have them sign it, agreeing to vacate the premises by Feb. 19th in exchange for $2,500, to be paid upon their leaving the house in move-in condition. I gritted my teeth, drew up a contract, and went over to have them sign it one evening.

I meant to go in completely calm, have them sign it, and leave. But when I saw them standing there in my kitchen (OK, it wasn’t my kitchen anymore, it was Loopy’s…but still), I just broke down. I was crying, asking them why they were doing this to me?! Mo told me to stop yelling at him, and that really set me off. “I LOST EVERYTHING!!!! HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I FEEL ABOUT ALL THIS! I DIDN’T DO THIS ON PURPOSE!!!” Mo refused to sign anything unless I paid them up front — but I insisted that I had to cover my ass somehow, and make sure they left the place in decent shape.

Finally Susie butted in — “Just sign it, Mo — I want her out of here. She’s out of control.”

SAY WHAT?! You want me out of MY OWN FUCKING KITCHEN?! OK, again, it was Loopy’s kitchen now…but still, it was as much mine as it was that fat fucking brainless bitch’s. She threw me out of my own kitchen. Talk about humiliating.

They finally signed, and we agreed to meet at the house at 2pm on the 19th so I could hand the keys to Loopy and pay them their blood money at that time. And I left, and sat in my (ex)driveway….and wept. I just bawled my fucking heart, soul and eyes out. Not only had I lost everything…now I was being stabbed in the back by a couple of pathetic, shady leeches. I finally got in my truck and drove away, to bawl some more at my new place. It was heartbreaking.

I sacked up and went about my life, unpacking at my new place and trying to settle in whilst working and dealing with brokers, lawyers and tax people. Then, on the 19th, I went over to my old place one last time. I had left my curtains up for Mo and Susie’s privacy, and had left them my trash can and welcome mat and stuff so they wouldn’t feel weird — not my fucking concern any more! I got my stuff, gave the keys to Loopy, showed her around the property, and then gave Mo the cash (Susie was too chickenshit to show up). To his credit, Mo tried to give me $500 back, but I insisted he take it, as per the contract we’d signed. I was over it. Any amount of money to get those two sad leeches out of my life forever.

Even Loopy felt bad for me. I went out in the front yard, dug up my statue of St. Joseph (the ritual calls for him to be given a place of honor in my new place, for having facilitated the sale), and drove away.

But, it’s over. I guess I learned a valuable lesson:

Never. Trust. Anyone.

Especially not a 40-year old alkie with furry boots and a hula hoop!

facebook ico1 Betrayal : (

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