Last week was one of the epic adventures of my life! And if you know anything about my life…you know that’s a strong statement!!

It was, of course, the week of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally…something I’ve always wanted to attend, and which I can now check off my Bucket List 🙂 As I mentioned last week, I was originally supposed to go with a friend, and ride on the back of his motorcycle for a week of drinking, partying and carrying on…but he got sick, so I ended up just finding a job there on craigslist, and flying out. It turned out to be pretty fucking awesome!

A word to all you craigslist-bashers: SUCK A BIG ONE! My love affair with craigslist continues unabated after this last adventure!! You see, I had originally answered an ad in the “talent” gigs section looking for promo models to work the rally — placed by some random dude in South Dakota who ended up hiring me and five other Vegas models to fly out and work in various capacities. He also put us all up for free in his condo in nearby Spearfish.

Now, you might think it a bit risky to fly halfway across the country and stay at some random guy from craigslist’s apartment…but guess what? It turned out GREAT! We weren’t total strangers — I did add him on Facebook and exchange a few messages with him beforehand…and we did talk on the phone once or twice. But still, he could have turned out to be a real psycho. As it happened, he only turned out to be a super fucking cool dude who also happened to be a glutton for punishment…I mean, who else in his right mind would invite six Vegas models to spend an entire week in his one-bathroom apartment?!!

I had no idea what to expect from this adventure. All I knew was, I was supposedly working as a shot girl, and they wanted me to wear a “costume.” Hmmmmmmm!! I went through my closet and picked out every single black pleather, studded, Harley-Davidson-themed item of clothing I owned…and then I blew about $250 on a stripper website ordering sexy chaps and some Frankenstripper platform boots. I also picked up some Daisy Dukes and a new jeans miniskirt (I left my old one in some fucking pervert “photographer”‘s hotel room) at Savers. At the last minute, I also threw a toy riding crop in my suitcase. Just in case!!!

Thankfully, one of the other models had bailed out at the last minute, so Mr. Craigslist (we’ll call him Craig) asked me for a referral to replace her — and one of my model girlfriends ended up coming along, so at least I knew someone. This was a chick I’d worked with off and on at various promotions for about 8 years; we weren’t exactly close friends, but we were pretty friendly. I was just glad to have someone along who I already knew, since I didn’t really know any of the other chicks! We’ll call her “Blondie.” She’s younger than me, and very quiet…but you know that saying “Still waters run deep?” That’s her. She’s cool as fuck!

Anyway, all six of us models flew out of Vegas on Friday afternoon, August 2nd, on cheapo Allegiant Airways — they only have two flights a week to Rapid City, South Dakota, so that flight was chock-a-block with hookers and hustlers and every other Vegas bimbo who wanted a piece of the action. Sturgis is legendary in that respect!!

Blondie and I ran into a couple of the other girls at the airport, but we didn’t really all meet up until we landed in Rapid City and met up with our host, the masochistic Craig. Meanwhile, my month-long sobriety streak was finally over, so I’d had a Bacardi & Coke on the flight and was feeling pretty good. The other girls, not so much. They qvetched and bitched about this and that until we finally had all our luggage loaded up into Craig’s car, and he drove us all out to see Mount Rushmore, since we’d be working all week and this would pretty much be our only chance to do any sight-seeing.

It was already dark by the time we got there, but it was still cool as hell — full of patriotic shtick and Griswold Family vacationers and whatnot. Craig wanted to buy us all ice cream as a welcoming gift, but one of the girls — a 20-year old pregnant wife and mother — bitched that “ice cream gives you cellulite.” So we ended up having to drive all over the Black Hills in search of a deli, where the dumb bitches ended up ordering greasy burgers anyway!! WTF!

Now, four of the girls had been hired on by a local modeling agency to work as bikini bike wash girls and promo models…but Blondie and I had been hired on as waitresses at a local saloon, independent of the agency. Blondie is a bonafide workaholic, and had asked to work double shifts all week so as to maximize her earnings — well, as it happens, I ended up matching her hours, since we were all staying at Craig’s place in Spearfish, which is 20 minutes away from Sturgis, and he wanted to minimize his trips into town. He ended up ferrying the bikini bike wash girls into town at 9am, and then me and Blondie at noon. Bondie’s shift went from 1pm – 1am every single day that week, and I matched it — meaning we worked almost 100 hours in eight days!! Exhausting!!!

Poor Craig had to come pick us up at 1am every night, and it was really wearing on him, you could tell. In addition, some drama was starting to brew with the other girls — two of them were underage (19 and 20), and were really just there to party (despite the fact that one of them was married and pregnant!!!). One of the other girls had a urinary tract infection, and was thinking of bailing early to go home. And the other girl was complaining about her promo modeling shifts. Besides all of that, they were basically slobs, and

made an utter mess of poor Craig’s condo. He had gone out and bought air mattresses and bedding and stuff for all of us, but these witches made a complete and utter fucking mess of the place. Somebody — I’m not sure who — even left her nasty-ass pantyliner laying face-up in the bathroom. GROSS!!!

Blondie and I were pretty quiet and kept to ourselves — we were working most of the time, anyway. We got home from work so late we barely had time to shower and fall into bed, waking up just in time to get ready for the next day’s work. But the others were there to party — even though that was the one thing Craig insisted we not do. He had opened up his home to us, and volunteered his time and gas money as a shuttle driver, and the only thing he asked in return was that none of us get on the back of some strange dude’s bike one day and ride off. I think he felt responsible for us, and didn’t want us to come to any harm. After all, there are all kinds of crazies at Sturgis!

Well, sure enough, it was bound to happen and it did — a couple of the other girls ended up meeting some stupid skeevy biker punks, getting drunk, and going for a ride. When Craig found out, he went ballistic!!! It was actually awkward as fuck — he picked the other girls up the same time as Blondie and me, at the end of our shift at 1am, and then really lit into them on the ride home. Me and Blondie sat there pretending not to listen as he tore them new assholes and ended up evicting them from his condo the next day. They all went to stay with the lady who ran the modeling agency after that, so now it was just Blondie and Craig and me. Three’s Company!!!! We actually ended up getting along really well and having a ton of fun — well, at least I did. I hope Craig wasn’t just being polite!!!

For the rest of the week, our days went like this: Up around 10am, shower and coffee and get ready. Leave for Sturgis around noon, then work from 1pm-1am solid. Come home around 1:30-2am, shower, and fall into bed in a dead exhaustion (yes I took two showers a day…read on to find out why). No time for partying or anything, just work. But work is what I came to do, and besides….the work was so much fun, I didn’t really mind it!

The first day we went in, I dressed fairly conservatively. Craig had mentioned that the owner of this particular saloon was on the conservative side, and besides, Blondie (who has worked a LOT of biker gigs) said in her experience, bikers appreciated a gal who was more modestly dressed — all innocent-like, ya know? I mean, there are already so many half-naked biker bitches running around with their tits flopping willy-nilly, that a wholesome girl is more appreciated. So we both wore Daisy Dukes and halter tops on                                                                                       the way in that first day.

But after about 15 minutes, I could see we were woefully overdressed. The other cocktail waitress had on a slutty nun costume, and the bartenders were all wearing lingerie and stuff, so after about an hour I went into the bathroom and changed into some pleather panties. Now, I was basically wearing a black pleather bikini, cowgirl hat and Frankenstripper boots. Muuuuuch better!

Blondie’s job was cocktail waitress, so she went around the saloon taking drink orders all day. My job was different — I was the shot girl, so my gig was to carry a tray of Wet Pussies or Mustache Rides or some other salaciously-named mixed-alcohol shots around, and try to sell them to the already drunken revelers. This wasn’t so easy to do at 1pm, when

most of these drunken fuckers were still hungover from the night before. In addition, the owner of the bar had a HUGE backstock of those stupid pre-packaged Tooters shots that come in luridly colored test tubes, and are full of shit like Appletini and Berry Punch liqueur. Girly drinks!!!! But he wanted me to sell the shit out of them, to all these burly bikers :-/

Thank DOG I had thrown that toy riding crop into my suitcase at the last minute!!!

I ended up putting together a winning ensemble of cowgirl hat, pleather bra, scrunch-butt panties and assless chaps over Frankenhooker boots…which along with my riding crop gave me the appearance of

a sort of S&M cowgirl. Those fucking bikers ate it up!!!! I swear to you, I must have spanked at least 700 bikers’ asses that week — it was the only way I could get them to buy a fucking Tooter: “It comes with a free spanking!!!!” Those leathery-assed bikers just loooooved to be whipped, and had me do it harder and harder. I’m surprised my crop never really broke! (Although I did end buying a backup at the local “adult shoppe,” Dick and Jane’s…LOL!)

Of course, they all wanted photos as well, so I devised a clever shtick to make tip money off them: I made a little sign reading “TIPS,” with an arrow pointing down into my asscrack, which I placed on the waistband of my chaps just above the space where the chaps ended and my low-rider panties began. There was just enough asscrack showing to make a pleasant tip slot, and boy did I ever make some tips! “Just the tip, though!!!!”

The way it worked was, some

asshole would ask me if he could take my picture, and I’d agree — then immediately turn around and do the looking-back-over-the-shoulder pose, with my ass jutted out so that the “TIPS” sign was right in their fucking faces. Probably 4 out of 5 times, the guy would see it and start laughing, then have his buddy or girlfriend or long-suffering wife take a photo of him inserting a $1, $5 or $10 bill into my crack. I made a LOT of money this way. Alas, it also caused me to literally flush money down the toilet — one dollar bill had accidentally gotten stuck to my asscheek with sweat, and when I went pee it fell into the toilet bowl and I noticed it too late: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” It swirled away into oblivion, awash in piss and regret…a symbol of my life.

In my defense, I pretty much had to be that blatant about hustling for tips — if I hadn’t, I’d have gone broke with all the dirty fuckers covertly snapping photos of my ass from across the room. It was worse than the porn expo — literally every time you turned around, there were 5 old men with the DTs, flip phones wavering in the direction of your ass, trying to take a grainy shitty photo of it for their personal collection. What they did with these shitty, blurry photos is beyond my comprehension — most of

them were so out-of-focus as to be unrecognizable. But, snap them they did — constantly. I’m not kidding — you couldn’t take two fucking steps without some pervert snapping 50 photos of your ass! So I basically had to demand recompense.

Aside from tip-hustling, I did sell an ass-ton of shots. Let me tell you, those fucking bikers really know how to party!! I guess a lot of guys save their money all year long to come to Sturgis, which is like the Vegas of the Midwest for that one week a year. The rest of the year, it’s a sleepy little farm town, pop. less than 7,000. But during the rally, it’s a ZOO: bars and saloons every three feet, and every hot chick from Minneapolis to Denver comes to town for a piece of the action, wearing their sluttiest outfits for the occasion. The whole town becomes like a giant Vegas Strip, only you can’t carry your booze with you.

The streets are choked with bikers: both the stereotypical bearded, blue collar, tattooed sweaty hairy beast variety…but also the Weekend Warrior Tommy Bahama type, who are really doctors and lawyers and such by day, and just come to Sturgis to blow off steam and have a little fun. I met bikers from all over the world — New York and California, but also New Zealand and Russia and Brazil. Then there’s also the thousands of biker babes — all ages, all body types…ALL TOPLESS. I’ve never seen so many pasties and bodypainted tits in my life. It was AMAZING!!!!!

But it’s not just bikers — there were also a lot of locals around: cowboys, rednecks, Natives from the nearby reservation, oil workers and miners from

lonely outposts up in North Dakota. Sturgis was the biggest party around, and everyone wanted to come see what was up.

The saloon where I was working had a huge sort of indoor stage area with cover bands playing tired-ass classic rock all day and all night — I swear, if I ever hear “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” “Rock of Ages ,” or “Born to be Wild” again, I’m going to scream!!!!! But even better, from

6-9pm every day they erected an MMA fighting ring in the middle of the dancefloor, and opened it up to anyone who wanted to fight each other. ANYONE!!!!!!!!!

It was incredible. I saw farm bitches beating the shit out of each other, big fat good ole boys pounding one another, and scary ropey meth-addled tattoo freaks going at it in that ring. I’ve never seen anything like it. Then, after the fight was over, the throngs of drunken whackos in

the bleachers (stacked up to the rafters) would throw down wads of money on the fighters, so that they were at least assured a night of free drinks for their suffering.

This one drunken redneck told me to whip his friend, so I did — but when the friend turned to look at me with a delighted grin, I saw that the whole right side of his face was swollen up from being punched — he was one of the fighters! “Oooh, I’m sorry…that’s gotta hurt,” I said.

“Nahhh….I’m drunk, I cain’t feel a thang.”

“Ahh, well….you’re gonna be in some major pain tomorrow, then.”

“Not really…I’m gonna be drunk tomorrow, too.”

Nice to know he had a plan…LOL!!!

I mean, these people drank. I thought Vegas was a party town; I stand corrected. Now I know why it’s so crazy on the Strip during Rodeo and NASCAR and whatnot — it’s all these fucking country folk and their astoundingly hard-partying ways!!! I’ve never seen the like in all my days, I tell you. Guys would order a round of drinks from Blondie, then while they were waiting for those they’d have another round from the slutty nun waitress….and THEN they’d order shots from me! Half the time, they didn’t even care what I was serving: “Are those shots?” “Yes, they’re–” “We’ll take three!!” One poor fucker bought my entire tray off me, then pounded all eight of them before fumbling in his pocket, dropping wads of crumpled-up bills all over the ground, scooping them up and dumping massive amounts on my tray.

Another lady saw me coming with my tray, which had Jägermeister logos all over it: “Aw honey, look! Let’s get some Jägenheimer shots!!!!” LOL.  But another guy eyeballed my Alabama Slamma Tooters suspiciously: “Obama? NO, THANKS!!!!”

When I wasn’t selling those gad-damn endless boxes of Tooters, the bartender would make me up a bottle of mixed alcohol to sell. I bought the bottle from her for $40, then sold the individual shots for $5 each…making a tidy profit. She made me standard stuff like Redheaded Sluts (cranberry and Crown Royal) and Kamikazes, but also some far-out weird shit like this green drink called a Mustache Ride, which was kinda hard to sell to bikers: “Want a Mustache Ride?” This one biker told me, “I don’t have a mustache, but it’s OK cuz I bet yer pussy’s bald anyway!” Think again, Classy Biker — I didn’t bother to shave anything all week; as wasted as these fuckers were, why bother?! Hell, I ended up farting on most of ’em while they were sticking dollar bills in my asscrack — I ate a lot of cheeseburgers for lunch that week, and I’m pretty lactose-intolerant!!!

Anyway, Mustache Rides were kinda hard to sell, so I took the liberty of changing the name to “Horny Blonde,” telling people they’d named it after Blondie, and then they bought ’em!! I had to get pretty creative with some of the shit they had me sell. I mean, did you know there’s a shot called a Duck Fart??? Or a drink called a Chuck Norris??! Are these redneck drinks, or what?!?!?!

Either way, the later it got, the more wasted everyone got, and we made our best money between the hours of 10pm-1am. By that time, it was just ridiculous how completely shitfaced blotto these fuckers were — swaying to and fro on the dancefloor, tits a-flopping, eyes closed in a sort of alcohol-induced reverie. No matter how many times the band played “Wanted: Dead or Alive,” people still got to their feet and went buck fucking wild. This one band even came in and did more of a Top 40 set, and I’m here to tell you that you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a roomful of wasted bikers jamming to Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” Even an extended Madonna medley had them out on the floor. It was NUTS!!!

Of course, the drunker they got, they more guys hit on us. But I’m astonished to report that not once during the entire week did anyone get out of line with me — but then, I do have an extremely high tolerance for guys groping me and making shockingly dirty remarks. This one old man in particular took a shine to me, buying many shots off my tray and sticking many dollars in my asscrack, all while showing me photos of his multi-million-dollar ranch up in some godforsaken mining town in North Dakota. He showed me photos of his toy hauler, his pontoon boat, and photos of each one of his bazillion quarter horses, along with helpful biographical commentary on each of them. Meanwhile, his friend kept going “Be nice to him; he’s a millionaire!!” He was a nice enough man, but I gotta be honest with you…it’s hard to take a guy seriously who’s wearing a leather vest with a patch that reads “SEX INSTRUCTOR: FIRST LESSON FREE.”

So, you can see why it was such exhausting work: we basically had to dance around for 12 hours, staying juuuuust out of reach of groping hands, but close enough to collect money and sell booze. It was no wonder all we had the energy to do was fall into bed at the end of the night. The owner of the saloon ran a pretty tight ship and tolerated NO drinking on the job, so we were mostly sober, too 🙁

About halfway through the week the stress got to me, and I got pretty sick with a sore throat and fever and whatnot. Thank dog there was a grocery store right across the street, so I was able to stock up on orange juice and Vitamin C and stuff, and I eventually got better. Having the grocery store there was certainly handy, but we didn’t really need to buy any food since the saloon gave us our meals for free — we ate pretty well while working there, since they served cheeseburgers and awesome Greek salads and stuff. Also, this one crackhead lady in the kitchen offered to bring in Monster energy drinks every day, and we could just pay her $3 apiece for them whenever we wanted one: “You girls just come in here, and I’ll have them right here in this red bag for you! Right here in this red bag, you girls just come in any time and I’ll have them for you every day! Right here in this red bag!” Well, I did hit her up every day until the last day — I went looking for her in the kitchen three or four times, but she was never there. Come to find out…she was in jail!!!! That’s the kind of place this was.

By the eighth and final day of our gig, we were totally exhausted — physically and mentally. We had heard that on the last day of the rally, most of the bikers would already be headed out of town, and the crowd in the saloon would mostly be locals…so we expected it to be kind of a slow night, like in Vegas whenever cheap-ass locals come out. WRONG!!! Those South Dakota locals were animals — I mean, FUCKING ANIMALS!!! They drank and partied even harder than the out-of-towners, and were very generous with their tips, too — although not many bothered to stick them in my ass. They drank so fucking much that around midnight, I felt morally unable to serve them any more alcohol…so I quit an hour early, had a drink, and joined in the dancing.

It was one of the best party memories I’ve ever had, of all times: me in a sort of open-air barn, dancing to “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places” with bikers, rednecks, cowboys, a midget, a drunk lady in a fishnet dress and pasties and all the staff of the bar, drinking and celebrating the fact that they’d made it through another Rally week. YEE-HAW! The feeling of drunken camaraderie in there was amazing. In fact, I witnessed not one single fight the entire week I was there (except the MMA ones) and I saw a fair number of black bikers, lesbians, Indians, and even a gay biker on a leopard-print bike. WOW!

Anyway, at 1am on Sunday the 11th we crawled out to the curb in front of the saloon for the last time — our week was finally over! Craig picked us up, and

we went back to his place and passed out like zombies on his comfy air mattresses, ready to sleep for around 100 years. But Craig had offered to take us sight-seeing the next day, so we ended up waking before noon so he could drive us around the Black Hills, showing us stuff like Deadwood and Crazy Horse and the Needles Highway and a bunch of other amazingly beautiful stuff. I had no idea that part of the country was so gorgeous — I have to go back sometime!! I have it on good authority that Cheyenne, WY in particular is a spectacularly fucked-up redneck/trucker/tranny fuckfest…so maybe I can do a road trip out that way one of these days soon.

As it happened, our Black Hills sightseeing day was kind of foggy and rainy…which was perfect for our zombie-like state of half-awakeness. But then, it started to pour down golf-ball-sized hail!! We had to duck into a biker bar back in the boondocks to escape it, and it was really

incredible. A tornado even touched down right near where we were, tearing up a bunch of trees and stuff. Yikes! I’m not used to weather like that here in Vegas, let me tell you.

After that, Blondie and I treated Craig to a steak dinner at the Red Garter Saloon in Keystone, SD, to thank him for all he’d done for us…and then we all went home to pass out again. This time, we were able to sleep in since Craig had to work…and then around 5pm he took us into Rapid City to

the airport, where we flew back to Vegas.

I got back just in time to basically clean up, unpack, check my emails and stuff and then turn around and pack for Burning Man — I’m leaving tomorrow for a few days’ camping at Lake Tahoe with my family, and then heading to Burning Man straight from there. That’s the life of an adventuress!!

P.S. That entire month of sobriety was for naught. My sleep was as shitty as ever once I left the safety of my own bed, and my old-lady schedule…I think the only reason I was sleeping well was that I had a routine and a quiet, dull life. Well, if you know me at all you know I won’t stand for that — I need adventure! So I guess I won’t be sleeping well, after all :-/ I didn’t really drink much in Sturgis, so I know it wasn’t the booze — it was the excitement, being in an unfamiliar setting, with strangers sleeping in the same room, and having weird hours. Thankfully, my doctor prescribed me some Ambien to get me through, so I slept OK…but I had to take 15 freaking mg per night, and even THAT only got me about 6 hours.

So, basically, I have to say that the brain training/neurofeedback did not work for me, after all. I mean, it did cause me to start dreaming again after 3 years, but…….did I really just pay someone $1,750 just to be able to dream about dumb stuff like selling shots to hairy bikers??! HARDLY! And I followed the brain trainer’s advice to a tee, and did everything by the book…so if you’re thinking of trying it, BE ADVISED!

P.P.S. For more photos from my Sturgis trip, check out my Facebook page! And “like” it while you’re at it!!!

 

 

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