Fabulous New Photos!

The pen is mightier than the sword! As the author of this groundbreaking, life-changing blog, I can certainly attest to the veracity of this old saw. Whether by Bic or by kick, I will fuuuuuuck you up!

I did a fabulous photo shoot today with one of my all-time favorite photographers, Randy Fosth of Shutterbug-Studio. He knows what’s UP — unlike many hobbyists and perverts I shoot with, he learned photography the old-fashioned way, growing up on a farm in Michigan with no one to talk to but the crazy old photographer on the next farm over, who taught him everything he knew about light, exposure and composition. This was in the film days, so every shot counted…and with Shutterbug, it still does!

Now I’d like to tell you about the 2nd Amendment — I fully support the right to keep and bear arms, as you can see in the photo! Har har, but seriously, folks…I do own a handgun, and I was an NRA member until their jingoistic posturing annoyed me enough to quit. I’ve been to my fair share of gun shows, mostly to marvel at the rednecks, kooks and conspiracy theorists…mostly under the aegis of my ex-brother-in-law, who is a cop and who fostered my fledgling interest in weaponry. He convinced me to buy a Sig Sauer .9mm, which I fondly refer to as “Rutger Hauer der Sig Sauer,” and which I keep nearby in a handy hidey hole. Don’t fuck with me, I said! If you’re interested, here’s an article I wrote about the Vegas gun show for one of the local alt-weeklies.

Now here’s one of the seven wigs I bought the other week from my #1 all-time favorite website, ElectriqueBoutique.com. Shhhh…I want to keep this site a secret! They have all kinds of cool shit for dirt cheap!

The labia purse I got around 10 years ago as a Christmas gift from my stepmom…always wanted to use it in a shoot, and now I finally did! The boots I bought around 12 years ago at Nordstrom in California. While I was trying them on, some  middle-aged perv watched me with lust in his eyes from across the store, then followed me across the mall until he worked up the courage to invite me for a drink at Chili’s.

Over drinks, this man I had known for all of 5 minutes invited me to come to Vegas with him! I said no, but moved here myself about a month later. Who needs a perv to take you when you can pack up and move yourself, creating a fabulous new life along the way??

Did I mention not to fuck with me? I’m on Day 13 of my sleep restriction therapy, which means I haven’t gotten more than 5 hours sleep in two weeks. YAWN! Poor Shutterbug had to Photoshop the hell out of these pics just to get rid of the bags and broken-out, worn down skin on my poor, exhausted face. Fuckin’ insomnia!

Speaking of insomnia, here is a list of everything I’ve tried thus far in my 16-month battle:

  • sleep restriction
  • meditation
  • accupuncture
  • sex
  • just not worrying about it
  • vaporizing
  • smoking
  • tincture
  • Valium
  • Ambien
  • Lunesta
  • Trazodone
  • Seroquel
  • Temazepam
  • Melatonin
  • Lysine
  • Valerian
  • Kava-kava
  • VERY STRICT sleep hygiene
  • Neuro Sleep
  • Rescue Remedy
  • Xanax
  • yoga breathing
  • Bikram yoga
  • strenuous exercise
  • weeping
  • gnashing teeth
  • praying
  • cutting out alcohol and caffeine
  • therapy
  • Tylenol PM
  • antihistamine
  • catnip tea

So far, I am batting a big, fat zero. Nothing seems to help, but I have to keep trying. Next up: edibles…I’m gonna make a big batch of Rice Krispie treats tomorrow and see if that helps. They say that the effects from edibles are longer-lasting than other ways of medicating, so we’ll see.

After that, my only other idea is biofeedback…which costs $1700, but I AM DESPERATE! They say Michael Jackson was a terrible insomniac, and would have spent any amount of money to get a good night’s sleep. That’s how come he ended up taking Propofol, and dying from it 🙁 Other famous insomniacs include Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Heath Ledger, Drew Barrymore and Eminem…most of whom died young as a result of abusing anti-insomnia pills. YIKES!

You can see why I’m loath to keep taking pills. None of ’em work well, anyway, so I figure I’m not losing much by quitting ’em. As mentioned I’m on Day 13 of my sleep restriction therapy course, but I’m not sure how much longer I can/should continue. It doesn’t seem to be helping, and I’m getting REALLY worn down. The way it works is, you only allow yourself to stay in bed for a minimum period of time, until your body ends up so tired that you start sleeping that whole period. I chose a 6-hour  period from 2:30am-8:30am, and it’s TORTURE! I’m blathering on right now on this blog just because I have to do something to stay awake — otherwise I’d nod off, and fuck up the whole experiment.

That’s the irony — I am soooooo sleepy at night, and I fall asleep right away — within minutes. My problem is, I then wake up between 1-4 hours later, and am unable to sink back down into deep sleep — the best I can do is a sort of half-assed stage 1 doze that is NOT very restful. It’s not that my mind is racing with thoughts and worries…it’s just on, like a TV set turned to a static channel. And I CAN’T SHUT IT OFF!

This all kicked in out of the blue after I went to Burning Man two years ago. At the time, I felt that my brain was like a faulty hard drive, skipping and skipping and unable to get back into the groove of sleep. I don’t know if it’s caused by my unstable financial situation or what, but it makes this trying time in my life EVEN MORE TRYING!

I’m hoping that it will resolve itself on its own, after my problems all work themselves out. But who knows if that will even happen?

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my all-American hero friend, with whom I went on a good old-fashioned dinner-&-a-movie date the other night. I really like this guy! We went and saw the awesome movie “Beginners,” which is about two aimless sort of confused 30-somethings, and it totally spoke to me. At dinner afterward, my date asked me how my memoir writing was coming along, and I told him that I was almost done…which is a big problem, because I didn’t know how to end it. What do I do to wrap it up, when there has been no epiphany or resolution in my life?? I suppose I could make up a happy ending, I mused…

“Well, what would your happy ending be?” my date asked.

“Uhhhh….I dunno…”

I felt so clueless and adrift — I don’t even know what a happy ending would BE for me! Now, that’s pathetic.

I suppose I could write that the bank modified my loan to a manageable sum, and my insomnia went away, and I developed the determination to learn to write music and wrote a hit song, toured the world, wrote a critically-acclaimed best-selling memoir about my adventures, had it made into a fabulous movie, and became the toast of the town.

But I’d probably still be adrift. Some people are NEVER happy!

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Industrial Espionage and Medical Fetish

All my cool gigs cancelled this week 🙁 I was supposed to play Secret Agent Hotpants again in another scavenger hunt, and that fell through…but even worse, this other super-intriguing industrial espionage gig I booked didn’t pan out, either.

The espionage assignment was on craigslist as an “atmosphere modeling” gig. Normally, atmosphere modeling is where they hire a bunch of hot chicks to attend a party, to improve the guy-girl ratio. I’ve done them before, and while it is slightly awkward to have no job duties other than to mingle… it’s easy work. Once I was paid to hang out at Bare topless pool all day (with open bar…yahoo). Another time I was hired to party at Gold Lounge (that place sucks so bad they have to hire chicks to party there). The best was the time I was paid to mingle in a sexy scientist costume while pouring samples of Sparks alcoholic energy drink at a beer distributors’ convention. We had these little heat-sensitive stickers we were supposed to rub onto guys’ foreheads, and when they warmed up, the little thermometer printed on them would read “NEED MORE SPARKS!”

Anyway, this latest gig was different: they were looking for a smart, sexy model to go to dinner with some guy in the online-medical-record-biz. I guess someone was trying to close a deal with this guy, and wanted to get details on his life, the better to schmooze him and close the deal. My duties would be to meet him for dinner, flirt and make chit-chat with him about his life, and then go home and bang out a detailed email back to the agency with all the info. They just wanted random stuff like his favorite color and his favorite sports team — easy stuff for a practiced conversationalist like me!

After about 10 emails back and forth with this agency, trying to convince them I was smart enough and had a slutty enough dress to wear, they finally booked me for the gig. But alas, after all that….the deal fell through at the last minute 🙁 Bummer, because I was really looking forward to doing it — it was so Anna Chapman!

Thankfully, I had other stuff to occupy my time. That swinger couple from Georgia (the MILF and her wealthy husband, with whom I did the nude photo shoot at Nelson last week) was still in town, and they invited me back to TAO Beach one afternoon to discuss “future work.” Yeah, right! I assumed it was a ploy to get in my pants…but I went anyway, just for fun. And it turned out to be legit — the husband was already planning his wife’s next photo shoot, and had decided to do a whitewater rafting shot with a raft full of naked chicks going over a Class-4 rapid somewhere in Arkansas!!!

At first I said no — I’m a terrible swimmer, and I’m not about to go over a class-4 rapid with no life vest. But the more he talked about it, the more I decided I should do it. It’s like the sex seminar thing — even if I’m not into something, I feel like I should do it anyway, just for the experience! (I wonder if I’ll get a million emails telling me not to do this gig, like I did with the sex seminar.) So I changed my mind, and agreed to have him fly me out there in October for this crazy outdoorsy shoot. We’ll see if it actually comes to fruition!

On a side note, I was at TAO Beach on a Monday afternoon…and they were letting women go into the pool topless. When I had been there the previous Thursday, they were making you put on your top when you went in the water…according to one of the hosts, a health code regulation to prevent women from inadvertently lactating in the pool. Well, I guess that guy was full of shit or pulling my leg…because why would the health code change from a Thursday to a Monday? I’m guessing they just have different rules for the weekends. Whatever! I still stand by my endorsement of Moorea over TAO…over at Moorea, it’s all topless, all the time.

Speaking of toplessness, I just discovered the Topfreedom movement and Topless.org…two groups devoted to protesting the asinine, unconstitutional laws in this country that force me to wear two triangles of cloth on my chest while a fat-assed man with tits bigger than mine is free to bounce in the breeze. WTF! I’ve been obsessing about this for a long time, and I think I finally found something I can get passionate about.

Topless.org is even organizing a series of topless protest marches on August 21st, in cities across the U.S. The closest one is in Venice Beach, so I was thinking of going out there for it…but then I noticed that topless.org is sponsored by the Raelians!! Really?! That totally discredits the entire movement 🙁

What’s up with these Raelians, anyway? They also have a big billboard here in town that says “GOD IS A MYTH!” It’s right across the freeway from one of those Jebus billboards, and I was totally digging it until  I saw the “rael.org” at the bottom. D’oh!! How can an organization so nutty be into two such un-nutty things?

So then I thought maybe I should just stage my own topless protest march here in Vegas. Problem is, I doubt I could find many chicks in town who’d be willing to do it with me. I would probably just end up standing on the corner alone, with yard-long-daiquiri-toting passers-by laughing at me and my flat chest. What I need are some BIG-TITTED women to protest with me! Who’s in?

A lawyer friend of mine has advised that female toplessness is considered a lewd act, and is a gross misdemeanor here in Nevada. I’m actually down to go to jail for something like this…but if you’re not, you can still come to the protest wearing Nipsies — these awesome latex pasties that look just like nipples. How meta! I love it!

In the meantime, I’m just going about my bizness. I’m still doing my sleep restriction therapy, whereby I only sleep around 5 hours a night. It’s really wearing on me, but I feel like I have to keep with it for a few more weeks, just to give it a shot — I refuse to be a slave to Big Pharma and medical marijuana the rest of my life! I WILL sleep again without their help, dammit…but it’s rough going.

Despite my fatigue, I managed to get back into the fetish biz this week. My medical fetish/breath-holding site, divinelyssa.com, is back up and running after a 6-month hiatus. Let me tell you about this fabulous fetish, and my equally fabbo site.

There’s a guy in town who runs a network of medical fetish/underwater/breath-holding websites for a bunch of chicks, and one day he contacted me about working together. He stumbled into this weird niche years ago, when he posted some artsy underwater photos he’d taken of a model…and immediately a bunch of guys emailed him, asking for any behind-the-scenes photos from that shoot. Upon investigation, he discovered that there was a huge, under-served community of underwater fetishists who get off on watching chicks float around underwater. Until then, the only outlet they had was some beat-up hag in Pahrump whose husband would videotape her floating around in their above-ground pool, then sell the VHS tapes online for $40 a pop.

My friend decided he could do better, and ended up starting his own site with clips of hot women floating around in a giant fish tank he bought at a pet store. The site did so well that he’s since upgraded to a McMansion in Seven Hills (a ritzy suburb of Vegas) with a huge swimming pool full of saline water in the backyard (saline being better to float around in with your eyes open).

Meanwhile, he figured out that the underwater fetishists’ main turn-on was the breath-holding aspect — so he also started filming clips of chicks holding their breath as long as they could. The point is to try and hold your breath until your stomach starts flip-flopping up and down, trying to force air into your lungs. These “contractions” can be prolonged with practice, and the more you relax and let them go, the better the fans like it — and the more of your videos they buy!

When it came to the breath-holding clips, he found that many fans also wanted to see explicit details of what was going on in the model’s body while she’s holding her breath — so he started hooking them up to a heart-rate monitor that also displays the oxygen level in the bloodstream. The longer you hold your breath, the lower the oxygen level readout plummets…and the more turned-on the fans get! In addition, he also learned that many fans wanted to hear the model’s heart beating…and see it, if possible. So he ended up investing a ton of money in ultrasound machines, EKGs and assorted other medical equipment…and business is booming!

The clientele for these websites are an odd lot. Every time someone downloads a video, their credit card billing info is sent to you in an email receipt, so you can keep track of your sales and your best customers. My friend ended up googling some of the most prolific customers, and learned that the guy who buys the most underwater clips actually owns a water park in the midwest! He’s probably jerking off to security footage at his water park right now! Similarly, some of the best heartbeat customers are cardiologists — including a doctor in East Germany named Lothar, who mailed my friend his old Soviet-era stethoscope to be used in future clips… and also including one pervert right here in Vegas! (*Note: I use the term “pervert” affectionately — I’m not judging anyone.) It’s creepy to think that when you go to the doctor, he might secretly be getting off on examining you…but whatever!

Anyhoo, before my hiatus I used to get tons of orders from around the world. My best customers were in Russia, Portugal, Italy and Japan…and the very first clip I ever sold was to some guy on an Army base in Alaska. Todd Palin — BUSTED!

After awhile, I got tired of driving all the way out to Seven Hills to film new clips to update my site, and I let it lapse. But last week, my friend texted me to see if I wanted to get back in the game. Since all my other gigs cancelled this week, I said sure…why not? So I drove allllll the way out to the edge of the world (literally, his is one of the last subdivisions in town), checked in with the stone-faced guard at the gate (that guy must wonder what the hell’s going on in that house…all these different skanks driving in day and night), and dove back into the wacky and wonderful world of medical fetish.

Since I was last at his house, my friend had gotten some fancy new equipment, including a new $3400 ultrasound machine that captures a full-color image of the heart beating…so we put that to good use first. I just lay there on the exam table (he has a full doctor’s office set up in his dining room) and let him slop ultrasound goo all over my chest, and go to town. Easy peasy!

Then I ran up and down the stairs a few times, to get my heart rate up, and we did it again. Then, my friend donned a doctor’s white lab coat and did a fake “medical checkup” on me, where he checked my vitals for extended periods and then palpated my heart…all under the watchful eye of the camera, which was set up on a tripod recording everything. WEIRD!

After filming a few clips in the “doctor’s office,” we went into the living room to do a belly noise clip. Some guys get off listening in to the sounds of a girl’s stomach growling and churning, and this is my favorite type of clip to shoot — you just lay there on the sofa with a stethoscope on your belly, amplifying the sounds it makes. I usually eat something like Pop Rocks and soda, or milk (I’m lactose-intolerant) and raw veggies, just to get it churning good and loud. This day, I ate a Fuji apple and some root beer…but my belly just wasn’t making enough noise, so we gave up.

The last video we filmed for the day was in the pool — for these clips, you basically just float around underwater, stroking your face and running your fingers through your hair like a mermaid. Occasionally you blow bubbles, and again you try to hold your breath long enough to start your stomach flip-flopping…because that’s what the fans dig.

So I did all that, and boy was I exhausted! As mentioned I’m a terrible swimmer, so all that underwater stuff is really tough for me. But I made it through, and hopefully as soon as my friend gets the stuff edited and online, the fans will start buying them up. I make about 35% commission on every clip I sell, and they usually go for around $9.99 each. When you consider that weirdos from all over the world are buying them…it adds up! My accountant can vouch for that — that poor, wholesome Mormon blushes ten shades of pink when I bring in all my weird receipts and check stubs every April.

Anyway…that’s my life. See you soon with more updates!


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Am I a Prostitute? You Decide!

While I was trying to decide whether or not to do that sex seminar gig, I got a lot of input from friends and  Facebook “friends.” Almost every single person advised me not to do it, and one of the main reasons given was that it sounded like prostitution.

Why the big fuss about/taboo against prostitution?! I have no moral or ethical opposition to that storied profession…in fact, the only reason I’m not raking it in as an escort is that I couldn’t stomach having sex with physically repulsive men. I’m fairly easy once you get some wine in me… but even I have my standards! I don’t know how the Las Vegas Courtesan does it.

I am very cynical about matters of romance, and I posit that most women use sex as a bargaining chip in one way or another — our vag is our collateral, even in relationships and marriages. An uninterested wife tolerating the joyless rutting of a horny husband just to keep him from going somewhere else for sex is basically trading gash for stability. And many a girlfriend has treated her man to a home-cooked steak and a blowjob with an ulterior motive in mind. Don’t say you’ve never done it!

We’re all prostituting ourselves in one way or another — creatively, financially, whatever. Hookers just do it in a more straightforward manner than the rest of us. God bless ’em for it!

Anyhoo, what I’m really interested in is the exact definition of prostitution. According to the law, it is “the commission by a person of any natural or unnatural sexual act, deviate sexual intercourse, or sexual contact for monetary consideration or other thing of value.”

By this definition, aren’t all porn stars prostitutes? I don’t get what makes it different if it’s on camera. By that logic, couldn’t a prostitute just film her sessions to get around the law? She could say she’s not charging the client for the sex itself — she’s charging him for the video.

I think I actually might already be a prostitute, according to this definition. Most of the wacky fetish things I’ve done were sexual in nature — even if the guy didn’t bust his nut in my presence, but waited until after I’d left. So I wonder if seed must be spilled for it to become illegal. Consider the following examples from my personal history, and decide for yourself: Prostitute or Not a Prostitute?

A couple months ago I posted a blog about this foot fetish photo shoot I did in a guy’s room at an off-Strip hotel. I sat in a chair, fully clothed, watching Jersey Shore while he photographed my feet in various pairs of shoes, and then at his request I videotaped him sucking all the dirt and grime off my bare feet. Then he asked me to kick him in the nuts a few times, which I did with relish, and he paid me $200. Both of us were clothed through all of this, but I’m sure he jerked off after I left…if not right then and there, I’m sure at some point. Was that an act of prostitution?

Another time, I got involved with some female bodybuilders who do fantasy wrestling sessions with guys who pay upwards of $300/hour for the privilege of wrestling with strong women. This one chick referred me to one of her regulars, and he hired me to do a “Strength Challenge Session” in his motel room across from the Hard Rock. I wore workout shorts and a sports bra, but he offered me extra money if I would wrestle topless. Meanwhile, he left the curtains to the motel room open, so anyone walking by would have seen me grappling topless on the bed with this weird little old man (he was a mathematics professor from England, a verrrrrry strange fellow with wire-rimmed glasses, Einstein hair and terrible garlic breath). It was legitimate wrestling — he did not go easy on me or try to molest me, just wrestled. But I’m assuming he must have jerked off or something after I left…otherwise why spend all that money wrestling a woman? So, though no seed was spilled during our session…was THAT an act of prostitution?

And how about this one: every month there’s a big foot fetish party here in town, where foot fetishists pay $60 to come into this swingers’ club filled with models, and then purchase ten-minute sessions with the various models’ feet for $20. Nudity and sexual contact are prohibited, so the contact is limited to toe-sucking and foot-rubbing. But it’s as obvious as a bunion that the guys are paying for something that sexually arouses them…and indeed sometimes after a session they go out to the parking lot to “get some air,” which I’m assuming is code for “jerking off.” If I allow a random perv to suck my toes, is that prostitution? What if I were to smush my feet on a guy’s face and let him sniff them as I laid back and daydreamed, while unbeknownst to me he started jerking off? After awhile I may have noticed he was doing it, but say I felt sorry for him and didn’t have the heart to cut him off. Seed was spilled (not on me), but no genital contact was made. Was THAT prostitution?

Speaking of the foot fetish party, one well-heeled, professional partygoer once offered to hire me for a private session in his high-rise condo, wherein he would pay me to come over and let him sniff my feet for one hour, then stand by while he jerked off. He stressed that I would not be required to touch him or have anything to do with his nutbusting…but it sounded a little too freaky for me, so I never did it. If I had, would that have been prostitution?

I also had an offer once to go over to this guy’s room at vacuum his entire body with a vacuum-cleaner attachment. Seriously. Nothing sexual, just attacking his back, crack and sac with a vac. I didn’t do it (I was too shy at the time)…but if I had, how about that one?

I’ve also had my share of older men who wanted to “take care of me” and buy me stuff, help with my bills, etc. in exchange for sex — what you would call a sugar daddy arrangement. Sounds like prostitution to me! Even though you’re not being paid a specific amount for a specific action, it’s all the same.

What it all boils down to is, I guess I don’t sanctify sex…to me, it’s just another thing you do, like eating a cheeseburger or brushing your teeth. The only difference is it can create life — which since I’m an atheist, I don’t so much see the holiness of anyway.

Now, about that sex seminar: Ari (the guy running it) was very disappointed that I decided not to participate, but there were no hard feelings on his part. In fact, he offered to let me come peek in on one of the sessions, so I could see for myself that it’s legit, and maybe change my mind and work for him at some point in the future! I can’t wait, because despite the hysterics of my friends and “friends,” my gut feeling is that it was a totally legit (although unconventional) gig, and I am excruciatingly curious to find out more about it.

He also offered to compensate me for my time spent auditioning with him the other night…which I declined.

Becuz that would be prostitution!




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The Sex Seminar

Uh oh, I was drinking wine and surfing craigslist again. This time I applied for a gig as a live demonstration model at a sex seminar.

The ad didn’t give too many details except for the only detail that counts: it pays $130/hour for 6 days of work. That sounded good to me, and since I’ve already modeled nude for roomfuls of people, I figured this was just one step further.

The guy who runs these seminars finally called me for a brief phone interview yesterday, as I was headed into Lowe’s to buy some sprinkler heads. People are always glaring at me for having inappropriate phone conversations in public (just last week, some a**hole on the airport shuttle bus admonished me to “use your indoor voice” because I was talking about my vagina on the phone), so I very considerately stayed outside the store to have this conversation — treating two Lowe’s workers on a smoke break to some verrrrrry interesting eavesdropping.

The guy explained how he runs these exclusive seminars for wealthy couples who are looking to improve their sex lives. These seminars are not advertised anywhere and keep a very low profile — no cameras allowed. What I would be doing is demonstrating different techniques on a platform in the middle of a darkened hotel suite, while no more than three couples at a time sit around and watch. Supposedly they do these seminars in New York all the time, but this is the first one in Vegas. Many of the New York models are coming out to do the seminar, but they also needed to hire some local talent to round out the crew.

He stressed over and over how it’s not “porn” and it’s not an “orgy.” Supposedly, it’s sensual and classy, with rose petals on the bed, music playing and mood lighting. Then he asked me if I would be comfortable in various scenarios, ranging from doing a solo show (masturbation) to girl-girl to ménage à trois. My end of this conversation must have been particularly interesting to those eavesdropping Lowe’s employees.

Honestly, I am not comfortable doing any of those things in front of an audience…if I were, I’d have started my own webcam site looooong ago, and would be raking it in playing with myself instead of subjecting myself to the torture of photographing mentally unstable Canadians every night.

But I had to ask myself why I’m not comfortable doing so. I consider myself an open-minded libertine and free-spirited Bohemian — so why does the thought of doing a live sex demo skeeve me out? If someone offered me $130/hour to eat donuts until I puked, I would. If someone offered me $130/hour to fart into a jar full of cockroaches, I probably would. So why the mental block about sex? I make such a big deal about living La Vida Sinvergüenza… but it looks like I’m not totally without shame, after all 🙁

Most importantly…do I have the right call myself Wonderhussy if I’m too scared to have sex on a platform in front of a roomful of tycoons and trophy wives? It almost seems like this is something I need to do, to prove to myself that I truly am free of society’s bullshit constraints.

All this was running through my mind as I talked on the phone outside Lowe’s. I was interested, but hesitant — and then the seminar guy (I’ll call him Ari) asked me if I would be able to do a live audition in his hotel room.


Ari said he needed to see how sensually I can move and react and touch and stuff. Well, I guess that makes sense…but it was still pretty weird. Also, he informed me that in addition to being the brains behind these seminars, he also just happens to be one of the performers — so if I wanted, I could use him as an audition partner. HMMM!!! The alternative would be to audition with one of the other applicants.

Ari offered to meet with me first,so I could ask questions and think about it before deciding whether or not to audition… so I decided to go over and at least suss out his vibe and see what was up. However, the only time I was available was after work that night…. so around 10:30pm I went over to his room at a certain upscale-douche-infested property.

I met him in the lobby and he seemed nice enough: a professionally dressed, well-groomed Middle-Eastern-ish-looking bald guy in his late 30s. He did have a faint whiff of the perverted libertine about him, so I kept myself on guard as we went up to his room, making polite chit-chat, and sat down to discuss the details.

The seminar runs from 10am-5pm on Friday, Saturday and Sunday for two consecutive weekends. My job duties would be to perform only four or five 30-minute demonstrations a day, but I still get paid for all the time I’m there. So basically I am looking at a substantial payday…all for laying around having sex. Also, if I decide to proceed, I could also model for their seminars in New York…which would be verrrrry interesting indeed.

Throughout all this Ari was professional, but definitely pervy. He kept offering to let me use his bathtub (room was really nice and had a giant tub) or shower, so I could “relax.” HMMM!!! My inclination was to thank him for his time and leave to “think about it” overnight, then decline…but the longer I sat there, the more I grew comfortable with the idea of doing this. I kept thinking of this documentary I saw once about a sex therapist (Private Practices, on Netflix — check it out) who was the coolest lady ever — just totally straightforward and open about sex. Her job was to help dysfunctional men feel more comfortable with women, so she had sex with her clients to show them how it should be.

Finally I just got tired of thinking about it, and allowed Ari to give me a sensual massage. A very sensual massage! He enjoyed it more than I did, if you know what I mean…I was just acting, anyway, because I was not attracted to him in the slightest (bald guys aren’t my thing). It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, however — until he asked if he could bust a nut on my face!!! Supposedly this was one of the techniques they demonstrate in the class.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!!! When you’re paying me $130/hour you can jizz on my face — but this is an unpaid audition. I’m not giving any FREEBIES!”

So he did his business elsewhere, and then offered me the job. I guess I passed the audition!! He also offered to hire me as his assistant when he conducts interviews and auditions with the other prospective models, and to help him out with setting up the materials and props and whatnot for the seminar (they have books and handouts and stuff, just like in high school biology class).

I told him I would call him today and let him know what I decided…and I’m still not sure. I’m leaning toward saying yes — I’ve never had sex with a woman, nor any interest in having sex with a woman…but I have no moral opposition to doing so, so why not? The same goes with all the other scenarios — I told him I was open to anything except anal sex. That, my friends, is a one-way street.

I feel like I should do it because it would be character-building, horizon expanding, boundary-pushing…and GREAT BLOG FODDER!

The only reason I have for not doing it is shame and embarrassment.

What say you, dear reader?

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Bacon & Donuts & Naked Cowgirls

I’ve been operating in a fog all week as a result of my trying a new insomnia cure called Sleep Restriction Therapy.

I have had terrible insomnia for over a year, and have tried every pill, tincture, vitamin and herb, as well as acupuncture, meditation, yoga, sex, and therapy. Nothing really works, so as a last-ditch resort I am doing this miserable regimen of sleep restriction, whereby you only spend 6 hours in bed. Normally, I need at LEAST 8 hours to function…and  to make matters worse, since I’m not taking any pills, I’m not even sleeping the full 6 hours — usually more like 4. The idea is that you’ll eventually get so tired that you’ll end up sleeping the entire 6 hours…and once you’ve done that for a few consecutive nights, you can start increasing your time in bed by increments of 15 minutes. So far, I’m on day 6 and haven’t noticed much improvement. But I’m giving it a full 2 weeks before I give up and go back to my special herb blend and Lunesta/Ambien/whatever my doc prescribes next.

So anyhoo, my adventures this week were sort of weirdly enhanced by a somnambulent dreaminess brought on by extreme fatigue. Only some of the time, it felt more like I was having a nightmare!

First, I scored an invite to this freaky skeptics’ convention party. Skeptics are basically a group of science-obsessed know-it-alls, nerds and in-your-face atheists devoted to debunking myths and exposing New Age fakery. Avowedly anti-God, they instead worship at the altar of James Randi, a tiny, wizened little old man who heads a big skeptics’ foundation that has fronted a million dollar reward to anyone who can prove they have supernatural/psychic/paranormal abilities. He used to be a magician himself by the name of The Amazing Randi, so I guess he knows from charlatanism.

On the last night of their convention, the skeptics had this blowout bash hosted by none other than Penn Jilette (the tall, loud, obnoxious one from Penn & Teller — an avowed atheist, skeptic, and host of Showtime’s “Bullshit!”) called “Penn’s Bacon & Doughnut Party,” held in a ballroom upstairs at the South Point casino. It was basically a roomful of bearded nerds, with free bacon and Krispy Kreme donuts for all (I guess skpeticism extends to not believing in healthy eating or arteriosclerosis).

Entertainment was provided by the No God Band, Penn Jilette’s side project that features him bellowing confrontational atheist bromides while rocking out with a group of like-minded musicians. The band was actually pretty good, and played an interesting variety of music, from my all-time favorite jam “Fuck You” to obscure, iconoclastic tracks by Patti Smith, Jonathan Richman and the Plastic Ono Band.

99% of the partygoes were hardcore nerds — science nerds, computer nerds, skeptic nerds, girl nerds — and 99% of them had some sort of facial hair (even the girl nerds). I’m here to tell you that you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a roomful of bearded nerds jerking arrhythmically to “Gimme Three Steps.” GOOOOOOOD TIMES!

Now, a little-known secret about me is that I’m OBSESSED with nerds — I find myself oddly attracted to MIT types. So I was in hog heaven! While getting ready for the party, I fretted over what to wear for about 5 minutes before deciding on a pair of pink short-shorts. Since I couldn’t blind them with science (my background is sorely lacking…I never even took chemistry, let alone physics, in school), I decided to blind them with a flash of my white ass, instead!

The party was great, and I met all kinds of kooky skeptics, including the Amazing Randi himself, some super-smart famous physicist named Lawrence Krauss, and some Slavic skeptress from Romania who apparently has some kind of skeptic-porn vlog all the science nerds go apeshit over (pic at right).

I wouldn’t have known any of these people from Adam, but thankfully I was in the company of a seasoned skeptic/forward-thinking polyamorist who filled me in on the who’s-who of the skeptic world. So thanks to him, I was able to navigate the room full of snidely nerdy know-it-alls with ease.

Now, I consider myself both an atheist and a skeptic, but apparently I lack the moral fiber necessary to be a card-carrying member of either — it seems that to be a good atheist, you have to be willing and able to bray assertively in the faces of those you don’t agree with…and I’m just too nice to do that. Even when confronted with a bass-ackwards-thinking, Bible-thumping, Jebus-loving Creationist…I always sort of puss out and just keep my mouth shut. I’m really bad at arguing and debating, so I usually take the coward’s way out, and just shut up until I can go home and write snarky stuff in my blog about how lame bass-ackwards-thinking, Bible-thumping, Jebus-loving Creationists are.

But there I was, in a ballroom full of crazed nerds hopped up on donuts screaming “FUCK GOD!” and singing along to a Penn-penned song whose refrain ended with “in a river of shit, you cunt!” Such hostility on a Friday night in Vegas! It was like “Revenge of the Nerds” meets “The Hangover.” Truly good times, and I must give a special shout-out of thanks to my Twitter friend Kefox for inviting me 🙂

Now, aside from mingling with the brilliant and smug, I also hung out with some real dumb-asses this week. A photographer friend of mine — this extremely nutty guy whose garage is full of weird wheeled contraptions he designed to carry himself around Vegas, like motorized Rollerblade-attached Pegasus Wings and a homemade recumbent bike with a sidecar that he uses to get to work at Caesars Palace — was hired by this wealthy Atlanta couple who was visiting Vegas, to do some nude photos of the MILF-cougar wife. They also hired three other models, myself included, to go out to the desert and do a nude group shot at this nearby ghost town. The Atlanta husband, who was bankrolling everything, had the artistic vision of four naked cowgirls in a shed, to be blown up to poster-size and tastefully displayed in his in-home bar.

Out of all the models in Vegas, he ended up with a couple of real doozies. One of them was a beat-up tattoo-and-stretch-mark-covered stripper with nappy extensions, a potbelly, no chin and a fouler mouth than even me. The other was that rarest of all mythical beings — a hot, young swinger!!! Of alllllll the swing clubs and swing parties I’ve been to, I have never once seen a truly HOT young chick at ANY of them, and I sort of thought they were like Santa Claus — a marketing ploy devised to suck dollars from the wallets of men. But I’m here to tell you, this chick was 22, blonde, trim and HOT. Who knew?

So we all piled into an SUV — me, MILF, skank, swinger hottie and nutty photog, with rich husband at the wheel — and drove out to Nelson’s Landing, this weird little fake ghost town out by Lake Mead. A lot of photographers like to shoot out there because it’s  a collection of antique junk piled up in and around a bunch of sheds and barns, with rusted-out old-timey cars and crashed airplanes and stuff… but I personally find it lame in the extreme. First of all, it’s corny as hell…and secondly, they won’t let you shoot nudes there. The guy who owns it (a Norman Bates look-alike and act-alike) allows you to shoot regular photos (for a fee, of course)… but there are too many tourists and families out there to do nudes.

So we shot our nude group thing at a little wooden shack right outside Nelson — at the side of the highway, in plain sight of the tour-bus full of Asians that came rolling through, gawking unrepentantly at our motley crew of naked chicks in cowboy hats and boots. FUN!

Now, the MILF cougar wife was actually pretty hot — she was in excellent shape, and had a fairly classy look about her. Her wealthy financier husband basically sponsors her as a model, paying for photographers and whatnot so that she can have a bitchin’ portfolio, and so that HE has something to brag about at swingers’ parties (they didn’t overtly come out and SAY they were swingers, but they mentioned going to the Hedonism resort down in Jamaica, and took a special shine to me…so I put two and two together).

They liked me so much that they invited me back the second day, to shoot some private nudes with the wife in their timeshare suite at the Marriott Grand Chateau. We did some cheesy bubble-bath stuff, and they had me put soap on her ginormous fake titties and tug on her nipples (?!?!?)…and then they invited me to join them at the pool for an afternoon of sun and booze at TAO Beach, a “European-Style” dayclub at the Venetian which is basically an outdoor nightclub that allows topless sunbathing.

There are several of these “European-style” dayclubs around town now, and I’ve been to most of them. TAO Beach is OK — secluded and rather tropical, with a barely tolerable amount of douchebags in attendance — but they have the LAMEST policy of all the topless pools in town: you can sunbathe topless, but if you want to get in the actual pool, you have to put your top on. When I asked the club host why, he said it was a Health Code regulation to prevent women from lactating in the water!

PLEASE!  Like the water in those dayclub pools isn’t already a primordial bacterial soup of sweat, precum, vaginal secretions and inadvertently-leaked amniotic fluid and endometrium. You mean to tell me that a bikini top is going to prevent anything else from being added to that foul brew?! None of the other dayclubs have this bizarre policy….so if you’re coming to Vegas and want to chill at a topless pool, I recommend Bare or Moorea instead.

Speaking of Moorea, a wealthy furrier/horseman/bon vivant friend of mine who goes by the moniker the Ambassador came to town this week as well, and invited me to join him poolside at Moorea with his entourage, which included a ballerina and an equine attorney. He always hangs out with the most interesting people — all this guy does is party, from his home in east-coast horse country to Vegas, Maui, Miami and Ibiza. I don’t know when he finds time to attend to his fur business… this guy gets around!

I met him about two years ago, when I was performing as a plant in a 1930s-themed scavenger hunt. I’ve mentioned before that I work for these two companies that stage elaborate scavenger hunts on the Strip (thegogame.com and venturevegas.com) — usually I play a bride abandoned at the altar, and sometimes a character called Secret Agent Hotpants. For this one, I was supposed to dress up all 1930s and hang out at the awesome Commmie-themed bar Red Square, at Mandalay Bay, and wait for the teams to find me so I could give them a clue.

While sitting at the bar, I met the Ambassador, and we hit it off immediately. We shared the same birthday, and while bonding over that we found that we also shared a love of shallow, meaningless relationships! In fact, I hooked up with him that very night — one of a shamefully alarming number of casual encounters I’ve had (they don’t call me Wonderhussy for nothing). He’s fairly hot, funny and oozing with Southern charm, so I didn’t feel too badly about it…but these days he’s in love with a nice woman back in horse country, so now we’re just platonic friends.

Anyway, I spent a few hours catching up with the Ambassador at Moorea, enjoying the fact that I was able to go into the pool without a top on…and discussing equine law with the attorney, who was very interesting to talk to. I didn’t realize horse racing was so litigious — but come to find out, it is! The jockeys are always getting suspended for bullshit reasons, and this guy defends them against the racing officials.

After that, I had to schlep across the street to work, taking souvenir photos at a certain French topless revue that is billed as “art” but is mostly frequented by dirty old men dragging their wives along for a “romantic date.” (Sally Dingdong is at Botox camp again, so they made me go do this other show…thankfully just for one night.) I only made $45 all the livelong, miserable night…and boy was I pissed! I could have been partying with the Ambassador and his crew…but whatevs; a girl’s gotta pay the bills.

The rest of the week was a foggy blur because of my sleepiness. I felt bad about it, because I like to live life to the fullest — not half-ass it like a drugged zombie :-/ I had a hiking date up on Mount Charleston one day with my all-American hero friend (the one from the amateur porn party), and I almost fell down the mountain five times because I was so groggy and discombobulated! Then, when we got home, the poor guy had to sit around for 20 minutes digging splinters out of my fingers because I grabbed so many trees trying to keep my balance. Normally I’m used to scrambling up boulders in the nude, sure-footed as a mountain goat…but not this week!

Then another night, a fan of mine from Austin, TX was in town and really wanted to meet up. This woman is a total bad-ass, so even though I was exhausted from partying with the swinger couple at the topless pool all day, I sacked up and put on my Wonderhussy game face, and went over to meet her and her girlfriend down on the Strip. They were both super cool, super-independent women (of which there is a paucity in Vegas), so I’m glad I made the effort! The one woman (at left) is a nurse, adventuress and outdoorswoman who blows up cockroaches with matches and Aqua Net but refuses to kill a spider, and her daughter is running for Miss Texas on some kind of Tea Party platform! She’s the only other person I’ve met beside me who brings nail polish and a heated eyelash curler camping. Good stuff!

The other woman is a ballsy hottie who just decided one day to move from Texas to Manhattan, and packed up all her belongings in a U-Haul and then moved across the country all by herself, and now lives in a 300-sq-foot apartment next door to the Chelsea hotel. I always secretly wanted to try living in Manhattan for awhile, but it always seemed overwhelming. This woman confirmed that moving there was overwhelming at first — but ended up being so totally worth it. Hmmm…. the Adventures of Wonderhussy, Part II: Nude Madwoman of Manhattan has a nice ring to it, don’t you think???

Anyhoo, the two superwomen and I roamed the Strip for awhile, watching these three drunk chicks who were tottering along in matching bebe dresses, bickering with each other, crying and almost falling into the gutter on more than one occasion. Then we ran into one of the myriad street performers who clot the Strip these days — mostly you find musicians and people dressed as Darth Vader or Elvis, but this night we lucked out and stumbled upon a performance artist named Francisco, who comes down to the Strip after his “yob” (his accent) and does a weird sort of pantomime in a mariachi outfit with a blowup doll and a ray gun. It’s bizarre as it sounds — and as awesome! If you see him, give him a buck — he’s totally worth it!

Anyway, I’d write more but I’ve been invited back to TAO Beach to talk “business” with the Atlanta couple. I can’t wait to find out what that‘s all about! Tell you soon…..

P.S. all the old-timey Polaroids in this post are from a shoot I did about a month ago with an obese Hawaiian man who had a black eye and a quivering pannus flopped over the waistband of his shorts, all the way down to his knees. I had doubts about his skills…but the photos turned out pretty good!

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The Costume Cop-Out

Friends, I have not updated lately because I’ve been suffering a spiritual malaise. I won’t go into detail, though, because last time I mentioned I was feeling anything other than hunky-dory, this punk-ass psychiatrist diagnosed me as bipolar, and totally fucked up my chances of ever getting my own health insurance plan (bipolar is a pre-existing condition and basis for declination of coverage, come to find out. I’m devoting an entire blog to this later. GRRR!).

This malaise started back in June, around the time I had a photo shoot scheduled at Circus Circus. I was really looking forward to it because not only have I always adored Circus Circus and its Coney Island-meets-midwestern-truck-stop aesthetic…but this shoot wasn’t even to take place in the hotel; it was to be in one of the motel rooms out back, in what they call “Circus Circus Manor” — a low-budget place for those who find Circus Circus a bit too ritzy.

Unfortunately, for the first time in my modeling life the photographer FLAKED on me! I waited around outside Circus Circus Manor for 45 minutes — the Circus Circus RV park was nearby, so  I went over and had an RC Cola while waiting on the grass next to the laundry room. Incidentally, the Circus Circus RV park is a KOA-certified kampground, and is actually pretty damn nice! Lots of trees, grass and a little camp store in the middle, with a laundromat, game room and pool…just like real camping, only in the middle of the Vegas Strip! Weird.

The best part is, they have these classic Airstream trailers you can rent for the night…something I’ve always wanted to do. It would be such a blast to have a white trash trailer park party — booze it up inside Circus Circus at the Merry-Go-Round bar while watching FREE circus acts, then stumble outside to the trailer park and play cards and drink more in the Airstream. Who’s with me????

Anyway, the flaky photographer set me off into a downward spiral, which I battled valiantly by keeping busy as usual. I went to a 4th of July pool party at the home of a noted hypnotist (whom I befriended in the hopes that he could hypnotize me to sleep, since I have terrible insomnia). But I just didn’t feel like boozing and partying, so I left early. Then one night I went kitten hunting with my little 18-year-old friend, who wants to be an animal rescue worker and who had discovered some feral kittens living on her street. We crawled around in the dirt and cockroaches for 2 hours, to no avail…the kittens were hiding in the mass of overgrown bushes in the backyard of an abandoned house, and I wasn’t about to go back there among the roaches, rats and meth labs.

Then another day I went over to help out with the local Burning Man art project — this year at Burning Man, all the different regions of Burners are building giant statues to represent their areas, to be set aflame during the festival. The local Burners are building this fabulous 30 foot showgirl, but to be honest I thought it was gonna be kind of lame, so I never went to help out. Well, in truth it’s actually really cool! I didn’t do much, just helped paint some poker chips that are to be piled at her feet…but at least I felt like  I added something. And it was very heartening to see the community all working together like busy bees…well, they were buzzing, anyway 🙂

Then I went to California for this big party my family was having to celebrate the college graduation of my little brother — the last of the family to get his degree. Unlike the rest of us, his is in something useful (computer engineering or something)…but we decided to make it a catch-all party for all of us, since my sisters and I never had parties when we graduated in Art, Humanities and Psychology (stop laughing).

One thing about my family is we loooove to play dress-up, so our parties usually have a theme. One year we had an awesome Arabian Nights Christmas party, and another year we played Dungeons & Dragons and dressed up as elves and shit. This time, the theme was gypsies.

Now before you accuse me of being anti-gypsy, know that we have also had white trash, Jewish, Irish, Arabian and jook joint parties. We’re just lonely white-bread Bohemians longing for an ethnic identity…and since we have none, we have to adopt the guise of others on occasion. The gypsy guise was especially great, though, since we bought all this Bulgarian and Hungarian food (couldn’t find anything Romanian, alas) and downloaded all this awesome Roma music to dance to. Goooooooooooooooood times!

Anyway, I admit that I have a problem/obsession with playing dress-up…probably because it helps me escape the problems of my own miserable reality. My closet is the size of a Tokyo apartment, and it is stuffed to the gills with wigs, furs, hats and sparkly spandex stuff. I can dress up like just about anything with the stuff I have.

So what do I do? What else can a girl do when she’s directionless, ambitionless, un-insurable, facing foreclosure and can’t sleep? BUY MORE WIGS, of course! I just got a shipment of six new wigs in every color of the rainbow. As my roommate said… happiness in a box! Thanks, Mr. Postman…maybe everything is gonna be allllll right, after all 🙂

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Scenes from a Casino

Ahhhh, Fourth of July Weekend in Vegas.

One night at work, we were treated to the sight of a young party girl in one of those skin-tight mini-dresses, barefoot and totally wasted at 10pm, puking her guts up all over the casino floor while her girlfriend held her shoes and her boyfriend tried to pick her up and carry her out over his shoulder, in the process scrunching her dress all the way up so that her bare ass was hanging out for all to see. Vegas!

Another night I ran into an Elvis impersonator on the casino floor, and stopped to pose for a pic with him, to add to my growing collection of photos-with-Elvis-impersonators. He obliged, and then said, “Hey, you look familiar!”

“Well, a lot of people tell me I resemble Lisa Marie or Priscilla Presley.” (They do!)

But he had my number: “Wait a minute…do you go by the name Brandi? I’ve seen your videos on YouTube!” Brandi Bottoms is my nom de fetish…a goofy alias I came up with for my nude and fetish work. And then I recognized who this guy was!

I had answered an ad on craigslist for a foot fetish video, and some lady had emailed me back saying she had this one client who really liked my photos and who wanted a private session with me. She sent me his photo, and advised me to contact him…which I never did, because come on. But lo and behold….that strange perv was this Elvis!!!

Smalllllll world.

And on yet another night (the fun never stops where I work), I was slaving away, shooting souvenir photos of tourists with this godawful creepy/tacky/disturbing life-size wax mannequin of Sally Dingdong that they have set up in the lobby. Photo sales are supposed to raise money for Miss Dingdong’s charitable foundation, but around 75% of all showgoers just walk past, snickering snarkily (can’t say I blame them). Another 20% are totally creeped out, and won’t go near it (can’t say I blame them, either). Still another 4.9% of the crowd are hardcore, devoted fans…and they looooooooooove that mannequin. And then, there’s that last special .1%…

I’ve seen some unhinged fans in my day, but this poor middle-aged Québécoise the other night really took the cake. This was probably this poor woman’s first trip off the farm, and she was evidently a huge fan of Sally Dingdong…because when she saw the mannequin, she freaked out.

Not a bad freakout. And not a shrieking, “OMG” kind of freakout. It was a silent, trembling sort of enchanted rapture. She approached the dummy with a beatific look of worship in her eyes, and as she reached out with a shaking hand to touch it, tears of overwhelming joy and adoration welled up in her eyes and rolled down her beaming cheeks. STRANGE! I hate to see what would have happened to her if she met the real Sally Dingdong!

So the showroom and casino floor have been a laugh-a-minute lately…but what goes on up in the rooms is even more interesting. Unfortunately, I can’t bear witness to every scene of debauchery and prostitution that goes on in the thousands of rooms at the hotel where I work…but I can tell you about one episode in which I personally participated. And it was a doozy! It was also really gross… so be advised.

I have this friend, J.R., a lonely oilman from Tennessee whom I met whilst taking souvenir photos at a Bob Dylan show. He’s a super nice man, and we have become really good friends over the year I’ve known him. He wanted to be my sugar daddy, but I’ve outgrown that phase of my life, alas, so he begrudgingly consented to be “just friends,” and now regards me with a sort of avuncular fondness…the kind of avuncular fondness which can only be found in Vegas.

Anyhoo, whenever he comes to town, I run weird errands for him. My most interesting responsibility I can’t discuss (alas, because it’s reeeeally weird and fascinating — but not sexual, in case that’s what you’re thinking)…but I also do stuff like look into vasectomy clinics for him, and make sure his in-room fridge is stocked with Grey Goose, ginger beer and lime juice (he loves Moscow Mules). You know, the usual.

But mostly, I sit around and play therapist. His beloved long-time therapist back in Tennessee recently retired, so for a while he took to using me as a sounding board for his lengthy litany of complaints: his oil well isn’t producing, his wife won’t give him a divorce, everyone’s always asking him for money, he can’t find a girlfriend, etc. I’m a good listener!

But the last time I saw him, he had an even bigger favor to ask. And this was something only a true friend would do!

J.R. has always had skin tags — little nubbies of skin or cartilage that grow off the body in weird places. He has a small one on his shoulder…and another, larger one at the top of his butt crack. This one was the size of a pencil eraser, and though he’s had it his entire life, I guess it finally started bothering him…and he asked me if I would tie it off for him!

Apparently, his doctor back in Tennessee had advised him to just tie a thread around the base of the tag, and after a week or two it would “fall right off.” J.R. just couldn’t reach his butt crack…so that’s where I came in.

Now I know what you’re thinking: ah, the old “I’m gonna take off my pants so you can tie off my skin tag” ruse. Well, that was not the case! He legitimately needed me to perform this minor surgical procedure…so I did. That’s what friends are for!

So after slugging down 3 or 4 Moscow Mules one night, I bent over his naked ass and tied a doubled-up thread around the base of the tag, knotting it tightly. Now all he had to do was wait.

After returning to Tennessee, J.R. kept me informed as to the state of the tag. Nothing happened at first…but then I guess it swelled up really big, to the size of his thumb!! He sent me all these gross, detailed emails telling me how it appeared to be full of fluid, and how he tried to lance it, but nothing came out except one or two drops of blood. Thanks for sharing, J.R.!!

This went on for weeks…the damn thing just wouldn’t fall off! A friend of mine here in Vegas advised putting a piece of duct tape over it — a home remedy which supposedly works for warts. But that didn’t help, either.

Finally, one night he’d had enough. He had a stiff drink, sat on the edge of his bathtub, and snipped it off himself with a pair of sharp hair-cutting scissors. Only apparently, “snip” wasn’t the appropriate word — “saw” was more like it. He said that little thing was tough as hell to cut through!!

Thoughtfully, J.R. sent me plenty of photos of this gross procedure. What a friend! I’m not even gonna post most of them, because they’re so gross. There was blood everywhere, and it was too much for even iron-stomached me to look at. But he got it off…and now, several weeks later, the scab has dried up to nothing. Mission accomplished!

So there you go…it’s not all sex and debauchery up in those Vegas hotel rooms. There’s a lot of other, grosser stuff going on, too!

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Happy Birthday, Jesus!

I am hereby formally announcing my candidacy for Tea Bag Hag 2012!

My platform is Lucite and my issues are many-fold. As a know-nothing hack, I understand the needs of the American People better than those Washington insiders…




Michael Jackson’s House and the Shuttered Sahara Hotel

Ever since I found out my memoir doesn’t have to be finished until July 31, I’ve been doing alllllllllll kinds of crazy stuff other than write. Writing is for losers…or for those who have no actual LIVING to do! (This blog notwithstanding, of course.)

One afternoon, I went over to Michael Jackson’s old house. It was the 2nd anniversary of his death, so they opened the place up for fans to tour. Fun!

Back in 2008, Michael Jackson and his kids rented this weird old dilapidated sort of “mansion” in a really old neighborhood of Vegas…which happens to be right down the street from my own estate, Villa Sinvergüenza. While they were living there, I used to walk my dog down there all the time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive superstar. Alas, I never did see him…but I ran into all kinds of crazy kids from all over the world, who would camp out across the street from his house 24/7, just in case he came out. It was insane!

This was during a very lonely period of my life — I had just broken up with my boyfriend of two years, and he abandoned me with this albatross of an upside-down mortgage to pay on my own. It was a very trying time — not just financially, but emotionally! I was so lonely — I went from having someone to talk to every single day, to having no one. So I used to walk my poor dog around Michael Jackson’s neighborhood, singing melancholy Aimee Mann songs and hoping to make a new friend.

After awhile, I made some new friends and got on with my life. Then Michael Jackson died, and the house has just sort of just sat there ever since, growing weedy and Miss Havisham-y. I still drive by every once in a while…but no one lives there now. Still, it’s a BAD ASS house, with a bell tower, expansive grounds and a sort of Spanish Mission vibe. I’d totally buy it myself if I weren’t already balls-deep into one bad mortgage!

I have been a HUGE Michael Jackson fan for around 15 years, but I only met him once, when I was called backstage at the Sally Dingdong show to take photos of him and Ms. Dingdong together. It was fan-fuckin’-tastic! I didn’t really get to chit-chat with him, but he was so polite and cute and well-put-together (his nose looked fine, not like it was falling off at all) that I became an even bigger fan. They even ended up running my photo on Entertainment Tonight, but of course I didn’t get a photo credit, being as I am just a lowly camera girl 🙁

Mijac was supposed to come in and take over the Colosseum after Sally’s old show ended…but he died, so they ended up just having to recycle Sally Dingdong’s show again. In her new show, she does this big, treacly, overblown tribute to him where she dresses up in a Michael Jackson costume and sings some of his worst songs, like “Ben” and “Man in the Mirror.” YAWN!

But I saw on Oprah’s show where Michael Jackson’s daughter, Paris, recalled climbing onto the roof of their Vegas home with her dad, eating candy and looking at the lights of the Strip. Now THAT’s cute.

Then, later in the week I went over to check out the liquidation sale at the Sahara. This legendary hotel-casino finally shut its creaky doors in May, and ever since then they’ve been selling off everything they can to make a buck off the treasure-hunting public. All the cool stuff — ashtrays, camel lamps, and anything branded “Sahara” — was snapped up within the first couple of days. By the time I got there, there wasn’t much left but junk. 

Most of the shit there was junk to begin with, since that was one dumpy-ass old hotel…but my friend and I were determined to find something cool. Unfortunately, everything was ridiculously overpriced — even a battered old trashcan was going for $85. But my intrepid friend and I ignored the signs and explored every single back hallway of that hotel, from the employee dining room to the cocktail waitresses’ locker room to the old dressing rooms behind the theatre. In our explorations, we stumbled upon a couple of storage rooms that had some semi-cool stuff in them…so I may have jacked a few items 🙂

The main thing we wanted to look at were the rooms where Elvis and the Beatles stayed, back in the day before the Sahara was a 5th-class dump. The Beatles only played Vegas once, back in 1964, and while in town they stayed in a suite on the 23rd floor. It was here that John Lennon was supposedly busted with two thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girls in his room. Bad Peacenik! This being before our current litigious era, he was able to pay off the girls’ mom sufficiently that she never filed an official complaint.

Then we went up another two floors to the Presidential Suite, where Elvis and Ann-Margret were said to have holed up during the filming of Viva Las Vegas. Who knows what sort of sexy shenanigans those two got up to while ensconced in this luxurious suite?? Did Ann-Margret lick peanut butter from Elvis’s banana? We may never know…


All I can say is, this suite was RETRO FABULOUS! It would have been an awesome spot for a photo shoot, had I known about it before it was too late. Still… it’s only cool on an ironic level. If I was a legit high roller, and the Sahara tried to put me up in these campy digs… I would get the hell out and go gamble somewhere else!


After wandering around every inch of the Sahara for a few hours, I went back downstairs and paid $4 for a votive candle holder and some Sahara-branded shot glasses. Gotta have some souvenirs! As I left, I bid adieu to the fabulous Sahara… it was without a doubt the last time I’ll set foot in that dive again. I’m sure they’ll be imploding her as soon as the economy turns around…meanwhile, here are a few more photos from the last days of this raggedy Grand Dame.


Left: a bunch of labels from the buffet, for gross, old-fashioned dishes like Broc Normandy and Giblet Gravy. YUK!




Right: the once-fabulously swanky House of Lords restaurant…




Left: Newsflash!! According to the service elevator, Marty is a Fag! Call him!!