Does the title of this post make you uncomfortable? How about the photo?

I bet the answer to both is “yes,” and that’s part of what’s wrong with this fucked-up society. Neither the photo, nor the word “vagina,” are overtly sexual…but because the subject is pussy, people freak out. WHY?

(Note: if you’re freaked out by the photo because it’s bald, you have a semi-valid concern. The fact that I shaved it (for a body paint session) DOES kinda make it pedophilic-creepy. But I’m well over 18, and it’s still just skin.)

I’m as guilty of this as anyone. As a nude model, I have what we in the industry call “limitations:” on my Model Mayhem portfolio, I state that I am willing to shoot anything up to “Playboy-style” nudes — which basically means closed-leg, as opposed to “Hustler-style” open-leg shots.

Why??

I consider myself a real free-thinking bohemian-type — what’s so bad about nudity, nipples, etc.? I’m comfortable running around naked all day, every day…but if a photographer wants to photograph my vag, I freak out. It seems like an invasion of a very “private” area.

But WHY? What is so fucking private about the vagina? If someone wanted me to open my mouth as wide as possible, to photograph my uvula and tonsils, I’d have no qualms. What’s so magical about the vagina?

To me, it’s just a fount of piss, blood and unpleasant secretions — the most unpleasant of which potentially being the mucous-covered head of a crowning fetus (a catastrophe miracle which, thankfully, has never been visited upon my particular vagina) (yet). But the vagina seems to symbolize a lot more for many people.

To wit: despite the clearly-stated limitations on my Model Mayhem profile, photographers are always trying to get me to SHOW MORE VAGINA. It’s like a fucked-up game with some of these guys, and sometimes it gets so exhausting/tiresome that I give in, in the interest of getting the fucking shoot over with faster: OK fine, have at it. You wanna see some pussy? Here ya go, motherfucker. It’s a relief in a lot of ways — I can stop sucking in my gut, pointing my toes and smiling, and just flop back without having to worry about my facial expression or anything else — because you know they’re already in Macro mode, with no time for anything above the 33rd parallel. It’s easy!!

I finally had enough of this cat-and-mouse and amended my Model Mayhem bio to read as follows:

“…if you REALLY want to photograph my labia minora and other innards, be advised that my rate for clinical, up-close spread vag shots is $700/hour. So go ahead; bust out your most powerful telephoto lens, jeweler’s loupe, what-the-fuck-EVER, and blast away! I’ve been told I do have a very shapely vagina  For $700, you too could have 60 wondrous minutes of staring at/photographing it. Although why you would want to, I have no idea! “

I got the idea from a stripper I once I knew, who told me that some Japanese guy once paid her $5,000 (or some ridiculous sum of money) to simply stare at her vagina up-close, like within a couple of inches, for an hour. Are men really that fascinated by the vagina? Apparently so! Do you guys want to crawl back in, or what?

Alas, however, since modifying my MM bio I haven’t had any takers. Maybe it’s because the pervy photographers on there are too cheap; or maybe they’re just not as interested as I thought. Or maybe they think I’m being facetious. But the truth is, I’m serious!

I will gladly lay down and let you photograph my vagina for an hour — labia majora, minora, clitoral glans, urethra…ALL of it! As long as you don’t touch it/poke anything in it/harass it, I’m fine (I will part the curtains myself, at your direction, in a strictly clinical fashion.

My reasons for doing this are manifold; first, I’d genuinely like to clear up some of the bullshit mystique surrounding La Vagine. Keeping shit under wraps is what leads to all kinds of retarded superstitions — nothing kills bullshit like the blasting rays of the mid-day sun.  In this, I’m inspired by Annie Sprinkle and her “Public Cervix Announcement,” a performance art piece in which she lay back and spread open her vagina with a speculum, then let all comers have a look inside (Google it; it’s awesome). (And will ya check out the expressions and body language on the men looking at her…priceless!)

Second, I’d like to make a buck. If I can get anyone to pay me $700 for one hour, that would be awesome. I hereby solemnly swear to donate $100 of any such bookings to Planned Parenthood [amending my Model Mayhem page to reflect this as we speak]!

Third, I’d like to get over my own vestigial hang-ups regarding having my vagina photographed. If it is, as I say, truly just another body part…then I should have no problem putting it on display, a la Sprinkle. Just not in a dumbass cheesy “Come and plow me, Big Boy!” kind of way…more in a “Here it is, what you always dreamed of: the dank, fleshy portal to my uterus.”

Is that a boner-killer? Sorry!

 

 

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Now that CityLife (the paper I wrote for) has folded, Vegas was in dire need of a new cultural outlet….so I stepped in and started my own literary web show!

Be sure and subscribe to my channel for the latest episodes!

I’ve been saying it for years, people…the bush is back!! The topic of pubic hair has been all over the news lately due to these American Apparel mannequins…which have set off a great, sniggering debate about female grooming patterns.

As someone who makes my living being nude much of the time, pubic hair is an important issue to me. When I first started out as a nude model, I shaved everything bald…I assumed that was what most photographers wanted.

It was a real pain in the ass, because the skin of the labia majora and mons pubis is pretty delicate, so you can’t just go shaving it every day, or even every other day, without getting pretty sore and irritated. Everyone is different, but as a brunette I have pretty coarse pubes…and I can only comfortably shave maybe once a week, at most. I get about two or three days of pre-pubescent baldness before the stubble starts to become noticeable…and then I’m in that awkward in-between stage until I either shave again, or until my pubes grow out enough to be sculpted into a passable landing strip.

Either way, that basically means I could only shoot for a few days each week. If I had back-to-back bookings, it was awkward — I was forever tearing up my poor delicate bikini area, trying to keep clean.

What’s that you say? There are options other than shaving?? Why yes, I could allow a stranger to spackle hot wax on my junk and then rip the hairs out by the roots. I did this twice, and not only is the waxing itself insanely painful, but so are the ingrown hairs I got when the pubes started to grow back. One ingrown hair got infected, and caused a very unsightly welt that took forever to heal.

And yes, I could allow someone to zap my most delicate area with a laser…but, seriously!! WHY?!

Once I’d been modeling a bit, I actually found that most photographers actually prefer at least a bit of pubic hair on a nude model. Reasons I’ve heard include: it looks more “artistic,” it proves that the model is old enough, it provides just enough cover for open-leg shots without them becoming clinical, and it adds an air of mystique/taboo. Whatever the reason, 95% of photographers I’ve shot with were absolutely fine with my rocking a modest, well-manicured bush. (The other 5% ask me to shave, which I generally accommodate if possible.) (And of the other 95%, about 10% ask me to grow my bush out even BIGGER!)

Even if I weren’t a nude model, I’d probably still keep my pubes the same: short and neatly trimmed. A huge bush is kind of messy…who has time to clean all those stray pubes off the bathroom floor? Not me! And I do like to wear bikinis and whatnot on occasion, without worrying about hairs hanging out from the edges….like those American Apparel mannequins!

Meanwhile, it’s not only American Apparel’s mannequins — their catalog models have been sporting pubes of late as well! To add to the debate, Cameron Diaz just caused a minor kerfluffle herself by advocating the growth of pubes in her new beauty handbook…and her bestie Gwyneth Paltrow has long rocked what she herself calls a “’70s bush.” So there you have it…us hairy hippies are coming out of the closet 🙂

Anyhoo, like I said, I generally keep my bush trimmed up pretty neatly…but even that sometimes confuses photographers. See Exhibit A…this poor guy wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, and photoshopped it into a sort of fur Kotex!

 

Fortunately for my beleaguered pubic area, I haven’t had to pay it much mind lately, as I haven’t been shooting much. I had a ton of shoots the first week of January, and then everything kinda of dried up, nakey-wise. I did spend an enjoyable afternoon in one of the Flamingo’s fabulous Go Suites shooting with a guy from Atlanta, and an enjoyable evening at the Treasure Island with a guy from Seattle….and then another interesting evening at the Hard Rock, being photographed by two older guys in town for the AVN show (they brought a slutty schoolgirl costume for me to pose in…of course). But other than that, my work lately has been pleasantly clothed!

 

I know, shocking — someone actually hired me for something requiring clothing!! Well, it’s true…I actually did three such gigs lately  — two Go Game scavenger hunts and a convention. In the first Go Game I played Secret Agent HotPants, and just hung out at a bar in the Cosmopolitan as the players tried out their best pickup lines on me. In the second, I played a bride who had been abandoned at the altar, and had to loiter around in front of the Bellagio fountains as the players tried to woo me back. Can I just say that these scavenger hunts are the MOST fun of any gigs I do?! I only wish I could do more of them!

Now, about that convention gig I worked…that’s right, it was the dreaded C.E.S. (Consumer Electronics Show). Convention gigs can go either way — if they hire you to wear a sexy/goofy outfit and just hang around adding atmosphere, it can be fun! But this wasn’t one of those…I actually had to work, and wear a business suit, no less 🙁 Booo!!

The client was a tech industry behemoth who must remain nameless…but suffice it to say, they had a HUGE exhibit space with TONS of staff. I was actually working for a third-party, conducting interviews with show-goers about their impressions of/experiences in the booth. Don’t ask me why they needed “models” to do this…seems to me they could just use a staffing agency, but whatever! I had to apply for around 20-30 CES gigs before I finally got hired for this one, so I was happy to have a job.

Incidentally, I was starting to feel a bit like chopped liver after applying for all those gigs and not getting hired — what the fuck?! If you’ve ever been to CES, you know that there are a thousand bimbos at every booth, and not all of them are that good-looking — why was I having such a hard time?? Well, I’ll tell you — many of these convention models came from out of town to work the show!!! I worked with girls from L.A., Phoenix and Chicago…damn foreigners, coming here to Vegas and stealing our jobs!!! Why, I oughta build a fence, to keep them bimbos away from our local gigs. Grrrr!!! The ones from L.A. are the worst, always talking about their “career” and what pathetic B-movie their agent is getting them an audition for. Meanwhile they’re so broke and desperate, they come all the way to Vegas to work a stupid tradeshow just for a few bucks! I saw this one particularly pathetic old hag I remembered from CES 2006 (!!!) — an “actress” and ex-NFL cheerleader, who even back then was talking about how she needed to get a “real’ job. Well, here it was 8 years later….and she was still up to the same old shit. Sobering!

Anyway, as mentioned, my gig was mind-numbingly boring…but the people-watching was the BEST! Hordes of nerds, geeks and dorks, strutting up and down the aisles in their Google glasses (I learned an awesome new term for them: glassholes!) and Dr. Who t-shirts. Meanwhile, every exhibitor in the convention center tried to lure them into their booth with bells, whistles, dancers, DJs and scantily-clad all-purpose bimbos. It was like a circus!

My own gig was disappointingly staid — the client was pretty conservative. But watching their booth staff hustle was priceless — you could tell they were all under a lot of pressure from corporate to sell, sell, SELL!!!! They made everyone wear these awful company-branded tracksuits, so that they resembled nothing so much as a team of state-owned Soviet gymnasts, slaving for Mother Widget. They probably made them bunk up twelve to a room, with a $2 per diem! Even funnier, they made all the blonde female employees stand on the perimeter of the booth, like in-house booth babes, trying to lure in more shlubs and nebbishes. Ha!!! Welcome to my world, ladies…aren’t you glad you got that M.B.A.?!

Now, most of the booth staff were fairly young, so you might argue that they were just paying their dues on the way up…but even better/sadder was watching the older staff try and out-hustle the young’uns, for fear they’d be put out to pasture in a youth-worshiping labor market. Towards the end of the day, you could see it written in the lines on their tired faces — did I sell enough widgets to keep wifey in Lululemon, junior in college and little Susie in ballet?! FUCK!

Seriously though, I am so glad I am not stuck on that corporate treadmill — I’ve seen the way it grinds people up! You work your entire life away for The Man, and then when you get too old they throw you out on your ass. No, thanks! I know I can’t model forever, but I still like being self-employed…and I’ll gladly take whatever steadily deteriorating gigs I can get for the rest of my life rather than kow-tow to some bourgeois suited motherfucker dangling a 401(k) on a stick. Ugh!

So meanwhile, I was pretty bored during that convention, to say the least….but I figured out a way to make it interesting for myself, on the last day. The booth I was at featured a display of some bullshit shtick they called “augmented reality,” whereby you can overlay animated cartoon shit over live streaming video…and that gave me an idea. I decided to augment my own reality, with a little help from a friendly fungus…and it was the best decision I ever made!!! 

Talk about Fear and Loathing — I wandered around that convention center on my lunch break in a state of blissed-out awe, staring open-mouthed at all the lights and dancers and weird costumed booth babes, navigating my way through a sea of identical glassholes, until arriving at the most amazing thing ever: a three-story-tall 3D HDTV in the LG booth, which was playing a non-stop reel of 3D videos featuring orcas, butterflies, mushrooms and more all flying out straight into your face! I put on a pair of glasses and sat there on the carpet watching it for about 30minutes straight, completely entranced — it was just like being at Burning Man, just with corporate logos! I got so swept up in it that I turned to the guy next to me: “This shit is a trip!!!” Then I realized he was some uptight motherfucker in a suit and tie, cautiously edging away from me. D’oh!!!

After that I wandered over to a sort of lounge area, where some boring-ass speaker was giving a talk about some stupid new widget, and I just sat there in a chair and marveled. It was just like being at Center Camp at Burning Man, half-listening to some bozo rant and rave on the stage while you sit there and enjoy your trip. Really, the parallels between CES and Burning Man were astonishing!

Anyway, one thing I noticed while wandering around was that not every booth babe had a lame gig — there was one booth that had their models dressed like Austin Powers babes, and another had their girls costumed as slutty nurses. Still another booth had a guy in a giant gnome outfit, and then there were the hula babes out in the lobby, hanging out in a Margaritaville-branded Jeep blaring Beach Boys songs. I wish I could make a vow to never do another boring-ass gig again, and only agree to accept fun ones like that — but I’m afraid I’d go broke! For some reason, I hardly ever get the fun jobs when it comes to trade shows. (Although now that I think about it, I am playing a giant piece of candy next week at the Convenience Store Owners’ show.)

So now that CES is over, “convention season” is in full swing — every week there’s some new show coming to town. Last week was an especially kooky convergence — the SHOT show (guns, hunting accessories and lots of stone-faced Russians) and the AVN show (porn, dildoes and high-school-dropouts). It made for a really freaky mix!!

My Arkansas girlfriends were in town for the SHOT show, exhibiting their stun guns and other personal protection devices — as mentioned, they all work for a man who has the distinction of holding more patents than any man in the State of Arkansas history; he just keeps coming up with new ways to zap attackers! His latest invention was the “Hike ‘n’ Strike,” a hiking stick with a stun gun cleverly concealed in the handle — that way, if attacked by a bear, mountain lion or rapist while hiking, you can defend yourself! LOLZ!

Meanwhile, my photographer friend Ben was also at the show, working on a TV project that sprang from his excellent and well-received book on gun culture, Gods, Guns & Guts (in which I am featured, being as I am a handgun owner). So even though I wasn’t working the SHOT show, I went over anyways to check it out…because it’s SO freaking fascinating!! Unfortunately I got there right at the end of the show, so I didn’t get to see much…and even though after the whole Sandy Hook thing I vowed not to pose for any more gratuitous gun pics, I just couldn’t resist posing with one or two of the insane monstrosities on display…for anthropological purposes, ya know?

My girlfriends were in town all week, so I spent some time hanging out with them after-hours as well. One night we went to Hyde nightclub at the Bellagio…YAWN!!! BO-ring! The one thing I found interesting about the evening was, my girlfriend had booked a table for us using this new app called PartyPetition, where you basically state your budget and then nightclubs “bid” on your business. It asks you for your age, your budget, and the number of guys/girls in your group…and it has the option for you to add a photo, I guess so they can see how “hot” you are, and bid accordingly. Scandalous!!!!! That kinda shit is exactly why I abhor the nightlife scene. Apparently, my girlfriend failed the application process because all we got was a $700 offer — $700 for one bottle of vodka, that’s it. Say what?! According to the people who run this app, that’s a bangin’ deal — sure, most clubs charge $350-400 for a bottle, but that’s not including tax & tip, which makes $700 (allegedly) a bargain. I’m no mathematician, but that doesn’t make sense to me: say the bottle was $400, and they charged 10% entertainment tax [as per NRS 368A.2009(a)]…that brings you to $440. Add a generous 20% gratuity to that (gratuity calculated on the base price of $400), and you’re at $520. Sooo…$700 is a deal how, exactly??!?!!?

If you do want to try this app, my advice is to: a) have a female book it on her credit card, b) have her say she’s 21, c) say there are 6 other females in your group, and d) do a Google Image search for a Girls-Gone-Wild bachelorette party, then attach that to your petition. THEN see what kind of offers you get!!!!! I would have tried this out for myself just to see if it worked…but the app isn’t available for Android yet.

Anyway, another night we all went out to the Hard Rock, to watch all the porn industry people hanging out the night before their big awards show. It was amazing!!! I took a small dose of shrooms beforehand, and it really made the scene dreamlike and surreal — everyone talking ridiculous lines of bullshit, drinking, smoking, eyeballing porn “stars” and swaggering mightily. I love watching the porn actresses at these events — it’s their time to shine, and they walk around all dressed up like it’s Slutty Prom, with slavering hordes of guys following them around with cameras and Sharpies. Meanwhile, come Monday it’s back to the grind — they’re nothing but a piece of meat, ready to have dicks poked in every orifice like cloves in an Easter ham. Ahh, Fortuna!

Meanwhile, during all of this fun, tragedy struck! The local alt-weekly that I’ve been writing a column for the last year or so, Las Vegas CityLife, is going out of business….the way of all other print media 🙁 So, I’m once again out of a job. It wasn’t like I made all that much money writing for them…but it gave me an air of legitimacy, being a print columnist…ya know? Unless I get some other amazing offer, my plan is to finally figure out a way to monetize this blog, but I have less than zero idea how to use WordPress, so it’s gonna be a tough slog. I did sign up for a WordPress meetup.com group, and I’m going to their meeting in a few days to see if I can get some tips. We’ll see!

Now on a final note, I had to go renew my medical marijuana card (you have to do this every year, at considerable expense). As previously mentioned, the kind people at Dr. Reefer helped me out quite bit with the application process and whatnot, but no matter how many friends you have, you still end up having to go to the damn-ass DMV to get the actual card. Arrrgh!

Having done this several times in the past, I remembered that at least they consider you “handicapped” because you have a medical condition…so you don’t have to wait quite as long, since the handicap line is way shorter. Because of this, I decided not to drive all the way up north to the suburban DMV I usually use (it’s waaaaaay up north…they built it back during the construction boom, when tons of housing developments were expected up there. When the recession hit, the construction stopped…and now no one goes there, so it’s usually a pretty quick in and out).

No, because I had handicap status, I thought I’d take a shortcut and just go to the DMV branch by my house — mid-town Vegas. BIG MISTAKE!!!! First, the sour-faced fat-ass at the Information desk refused to give me a Handicap number, so I got a General one — something like G560, when they were only on G400. Arrrrrgh!!! Second, because this DMV is right in the middle of Vegas, all the poor people who don’t have cars or gas money go there — so it’s always a clusterfuck. Third, the place was especially jam-packed the day I went because it was the first day undocumented immigrants were allowed to apply for a driving permit!! That place was WALL-to-WALL with tired huddled masses!! Fuck!!

Not a problem, I said to myself — I’ll just go run some errands, and be back by 4:59pm, when they close the doors. Surely they won’t have gotten to my number by then! So I went out and did my thing, and even checked back around 4pm to see that they were still only on G480. Arrrgh! Meanwhile, I was in the middle of a home-improvement project, so I went home and worked on that for awhile before heading back to the DMV at 4:59.

Sure enough, wouldn’t you know it — they had already called my number!!! WTF!!!!! You tell me — how does it take 2 hours to get from G420 to G480….then 45 minutes to go from G480 to G560?!! I’ll tell you how — those lazy government fuckers take their sweet-ass time all day long…but once 5 o’clock hits, they wanna go home. Since they have to serve everyone in the building who already has a number, they finally fire up the engines and start moving!! Of course they always tell you to get to the DMV first thing in the morning for fastest service…but I’m here to tell you, that’s total bullshit. If you live in Vegas, and you REALLY want to blow thru the DMV quickly, here’s my advice: head way up to the North Decatur DMV and get there around 4:30pm (on a Friday is even better, since they all really wanna get home). By the time you go through the Information line and get a number, you’ll only have to wait an hour or less.

Meanwhile, since I missed my number I was shit out of luck, and had to give up and go home. Once you miss your number, that’s it. But when I went back a few days later, I took my own advice and went up north around 4:30pm — on a Friday. The woman up there knew what the fuck was up, and gave me a Handicap number (I knew that other bitch was wrong, but there’s no arguing with government employees), and I was in and out in less than an hour. SO THERE!!! Fuck you, Sahara DMV….you suck fucking ass, and you smell even worse!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wow, talk about a shitty Xmas! I was sick as fuck the whole time, and my dog died. Could this be divine retribution for all my anti-Jebus atheist talk? It’d be just like that bearded fucker to celebrate his “birthday” by smiting a poor rescue mutt with liver cancer, all to prove a point to a godless heathen libertine. Either way, Jebus….I don’t give a fuck and I’m STILL an atheist!

Seriously, it all began right before Xmas, as I fell ill with a nasty ear infection due to my nightly earplug-wearing. The infection spread all through my head , and next thing you know I had a miserable cold…just in time for my 9-hour drive to CA for the holidays.

Whatevs; I was on top of it. Thanks to a doctor friend, I had some eardrops prescribed to me, and I stopped every few hours on my drive to put them in, requiring me to park at various truck stops so I could tilt my head to the side for 5 minutes and let them soak in. Alas, no trucker rapists tried to molest me as I did so…so I was unable to use Li’l Castrater (my pocketknife that is cunningly concealed in a fake lipstick tube).

But also, the night before I left Vegas I noticed that my poor little dog was all bloated and swollen up. I asked my roommate to keep an eye on him, and went on my way. I got to my sister’s house in San Jose and passed out cold, trying to sleep off my illness…but alas, I was woken at an ungodly hour by my veterinarian, informing me that they had to drain 2 liters of fluid from my dog’s abdomen, and that it was going to cost me $765.

MERRY XMAS!

I had to get up anyway, because I had a photo shoot booked about an hour away, in Alameda…so I somehow sacked up, spackled on some makeup, and cruised up to this guy’s house where the shoot was to be held. He turned out to be a super-cool dude, and I really enjoyed meeting him and shooting with him…but I was so fucking sick the whole time, it was hard to get into it. My eyes and nose were running like faucets, and I was freezing fucking cold, being as I was naked…but what are ya gonna do?! It’s not like a model can “call in sick” or anything — you just have to sack the fuck up and do your thing! So I did.

Then I went back to my sister’s house, like, “YES! Finally, I can zonk the fuck out for 12 hours.” I ate a pot brownie and drank a quart of NyQuil, then passed out into blissful slumber…until I was woken, again at an ungodly hour, by the veterinarian…who had even worse news this time! My dog had a tumor on his liver!!

Now, I rescued that poor little fucker from the pound back in ’08, and had by this point given him 5.5 extra years of comfort, food and the good life. Plus, I was already facing a $765 bill just for diagnosing him…was I really supposed to cough up more cash to put him through an operation…or chemo…or whatever??? It’s a DOG!!!

Thankfully, the vet said the dog seemed fine now that they had drained that fluid out of him….and they were sending him home, and I should just “keep an eye on him,” because he would swell up again sooner or later, at which time I could have him drained again…although the drainings would become more and more frequent. I figured the poor little fucker would be OK for at least another month or so, and I knew my roommate would take good care of him…so I tried to just go about my business getting well and enjoying the holidays with my family.

So, I tried. I smoked a lot of weed and drank a lot of wine, and just barely managed to squelch the voices in my head that were admonishing me to go home and be with my dog. My roommate was feeding him cheeseburgers and fried eggs all day, every day, so I guess he was OK. Meanwhile, I was high as a kite jamming to WAR with my family (we had a kind of makeshift drum circle with homemade instruments one night, playing along to some amazing old WAR videos on YouTube) (WAR is the most awesome band, ever).

Another night, we had this crazy costume party where we each had to dress up as something we hate — it was done Secret-Santa-style, where another family member assigned your costume. I had to be that fucking annoying “Bliss Dance” statue from Burning Man (!$@%$#&%!!!!), and my bro had to be Kim Kardashian. Another family member had to be a drug test lab tech, and this family member also happened to have just gotten their medical card in CA…so they brought plenty of weed for

everyone!!! The weed was dosed out in those little pill boxes old people use…awesome! This family member also had some real at-home drug test kits with them, so we tried those out to see if they were accurate. Another family member, who has done lots of drugs recently, tested it out…and I am sad to report, those at-home kits are inaccurate (or at least they don’t test for hallucinogens, which is what the other family member has been into lately). Anyway, it was a fun diversion from the pain and misery of life.

Alas, life was waiting for me when the buzz wore off. The day before I was to head back to Vegas, I had another photo shoot at a hotel in Milpitas…and just as I finished, my roommate messaged me that the dog was doing really poorly, and I’d likely have to euthanize him as soon as I got home. Damn!!!!!

Meanwhile, that night I also had a date planned with this guy who went to my high school back in the day. I never knew this guy — he was a couple years ahead of me — but he’s been on my jock on Facebook lately, badgering me for a date, so I went out with him back when I was out there for Thanksgiving, and he seemed cool, so I had agreed to meet up with him again. We went out for dinner and drinks, and I’m afraid I wasn’t very good company because I was inexplicably morose about my dog!

I say inexplicably because I’ve always had a weird relationship with the dog. I adopted him back when I was living with this other guy, and the dog bonded to the guy more than to me. Meanwhile, the guy and I broke up shortly after getting the dog…so the guy moved out, and left me and the dog sort of eyeballing each other warily. “You’re stuck with me now, fucker,” I remember telling him (yes, I talked to him all the time like a real person).

This was also the time my whole financial shit-storm started — that same guy had also left me with a $340,000 mortgage, which I had to figure out a way to deal with. I went through all kinds of headaches and misery with asshole bankers, shady lawyers and FUCKING WEIRDO roommates, and I used to come home from work every night and just weep. Meanwhile, at the first sign of tears, my asshole little dog would turn tail and leave the room — every time. So I didn’t have that great a relationship with him.

But, apparently, I did have some kind of feelings for him…because I was pretty worried about the little fucker, and couldn’t wait to get home to him. I left CA on the 28th, intending to leave bright and early so as to spend some extra hours with the dog before putting him down. But meanwhile, the guy I went out with the night before wanted me to stop by and kiss him before I left — we hadn’t kissed on either of our dates, and I guess he was bummed that he hadn’t made a move, so I told him to meet me at the gas station on my way out of town and I’d kiss him before I left. Totally rom-com — I kissed him at the gas station, then floored it down I-5 toward Vegas.

Meanwhile, I always stop off in Bakersfield to see my one friend, Dr. Zhivago, who lives there — since Bakersburg is halfway between the Bay Area and Vegas, it makes a nice stopping-off point. We always go to the Elephant Bar for dinner, and last time I was there we met this awesome nutty drunken Scotsman, who in the interim had become pretty good friends with Dr. Zhivago, since they’re both Elephant Bar regulars who enjoy commiserating about life in godforsaken Bakersburg. Well this time, we hadn’t heard from the Scotsman for quite awhile…but halfway through dinner he came stumbling in, all stubble-faced and looking pretty grim, and he ordered a club soda — very unusual for him. It transpired that he’d just gotten out of jail for his fourth DUI (!!!)…so he was in a pretty miserable mood, too. Come to find out, he’d been sleeping off his drunk in his car on the side of the road the night before, when a cop busted him — you can still get a DUI, just for being in your car with the keys in arm’s reach!!! FUCK! All in all, we made a pretty grim bunch. I guess it was a shitty Christmas for a lot of people.

Anyhoo, after dinner I raced home the rest of the 4.5 hours, and found my poor bloated dog all doped up on pain meds, but looking semi-coherent and not totally miserable. I pet him a little and gave him another painkiller, then went to bed. I knew I’d have to take him in to be euthanized in the morning, so I got hiiiiiigh as fuck to distract myself from the heartache. I was secretly hoping he would last another day or two, since I wanted to have him taxidermied — I’d called a local taxidermist on the way to Vegas, and they had quoted me $900 (!!!!!!!) to have him fully stuffed and mounted. Well, I can’t afford that, so I asked how much for a shoulder mount (you know, where it’s just the head mounted on a plaque), and they said that for whatever reason, they don’t do shoulder mounts for pets. So then I asked how much it would be just to have his hide tanned, and made into a little rug (he had a really nice coat of fur)…but the lady said she wasn’t sure of the price, and wouldn’t be able to tell me til Monday, when she was back in the office.  So I was hoping my dog would make it to at least Monday, so I could maybe at least do that.

But in the morning, the poor dog was looking pretty bad. He was all swole up, and couldn’t even control his pee leaking onto the carpet 🙁 So pretty much as soon as I woke up, I gave him another painkiller, put on his leash, and loaded him into my truck for the last ride of his life 🙁 The irony of it all was, I was bawling my eyes out, but trying not to, since I knew how much the dog hated it when I cried. So I tried to be cool for his sake, since he couldn’t escape my truck, and I wanted his last moments of life to be as misery-free as possible.

It took about 15 minutes to get to the vet, and then I let him sort of sniff around outside for awhile…the poor little fucker didn’t suspect a thing! But I just wanted to get it over with, ya know? So I finally took him in, and started bawling all over again. They give you the option of either being with the pet when they euthanize it, or letting them do it themselves…but it’s $4 cheaper to be with the pet, and I’m a cheap ass, so I said I’d be there with him when they did it. I was really torn, because like I said the dog hated it when I cried, and I didn’t want his last moments on Earth to be even more miserable for him…but it just seemed like it would be too cold-blooded to leave him there alone to be killed, so I went in with him.

OMG it was the saddest thing I have ever done. I don’t know how these vets do it — the guy who did my dog was young, and adorable, and so nice about it…but jebus christ I would bawl my eyes out every day if I had to do that job! Thank dog there’s people in this world like him, who can handle shit like this. He let me pet the dog while he injected him with a muscle relaxer first, to chill him out. The poor little guy went limp, and his legs collapsed, and his eyes closed, and I kept petting him while the doctor administered the second shot, which was to stop his heart. He died pretty quick, and then the doctor gave him a third shot, which he didn’t exactly tell me what it was for but I’m really curious…and then that was it. I asked the doctor if I could take a photo of the dog, like one of those creepy old Victorian death portraits they used to take of babies and whatnot….and here it is:

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!! I still bawl my eyes out every time I look at that pic. My biggest regret is that was too big a cheapass to have him taxidermied….he was so cute! 🙁

After that, I paid up another $113 and went out to my truck to bawl some more. To make matters worse, I was expecting my period any day…so the tears were extra-copious. I bawled on and off all the rest of the next two days, which I spent cleaning my house and grounds to try and take my mind off it. I guess I liked that poor little fucker more than I let on 🙁 R.I.P., Stubby!

Then, of course, it was New Year’s Eve — party tiiiiiime!! What the fuck! I’ve always hated New Year’s Eve, and I really didn’t feel like partying at all…but this was the first New Year’s Eve since I moved to Vegas that I didn’t have to work, so I felt obligated to go out and par-taaaay. Ugh. I had two choices: an acquaintance had invited me to a “psychedelic” New Year’s party at some random Burning Man acid-eater’s “mansion,” so I could go out there and trip on mushrooms all night in the company of strangers……or, my attorney had invited me to a small gathering downtown. I ended up choosing to party with  my attorney, and it was cool because we spent most of the night at one of my all-time favorite bars, Atomic Liquors, eating mushrooms and hanging out with the most amazing assortment of characters there (yes I ate mushrooms with my attorney…it was very “Fear and Loathing”). I met the most amazingly cool German man at the bar, and ended up having a pretty good time, after all. Best of all, Atomic Liquors is close enough to my house that I was able to walk home at 1:30am, and not worry about a(nother) DUI…unlike that poor Scotsman in Bakersfield :-/

The second I got home my period started, so I pretty much stayed in bed all day, except I did get up around 10am to ride my bike over and get my truck, since I had left it parked in uncertain circumstances downtown. But I went straight back to bed, and slept until 5pm or so, at which time I had to get up for my first gig of the New Year…shooting strip-poker videos at the Luxor, for some fantasy gambling website. I spackled on my happy face and took care o’business, and then went straight back home to bed…but after that, I was pretty much back on the hamster wheel.

Thankfully, 2014 has been pretty busy for me thus far — I’ve worked almost every day, which has been good for taking my mind off my dog-related sadness. In addition to the fantasy poker shoot, I also did another art-nude shoot in a Go Suite at the Flamingo (the photographer read this blog and took my advice…and boy did he love that room!)…and then I did not one, but two shoots with balloons!

The first balloon shoot I did was a pretty straightforward cheesecake-type glamour shoot, except at the end I noticed my tampon string was hanging out, so I decided to tie a balloon to it for laffs. Yuk Yuk! Goooooooood times. The second balloon shoot was for a balloon-popping fetish site, so this time I had to sit on balloons and pop them with my ass, all while talking to the camera about how much I love popping balloons with my ass. This was a custom clip, requested by a fan (I think they call them “‘looners”), so there was very specific dialogue I had to recite — interesting!! It went OK, except I got a bunch of painful welts on my inner thighs from the balloons popping — I’d have to say balloon-popping is not one of my favorite fetishes, for this reason. But it really wasn’t that bad, considering. I’d still rather have inner-thigh-welts than have to kiss the ass of some pathetic middle-manager at a miserable desk job, 5 days a week from 8-5. YA HEARD???!

Then after that, the same guy paid me to wash my hair while he filmed me doing it, so I made a few more bucks doing something I was already gonna do anyway, LOL. Gotta love the fetish world…ya know?!! Dog?? What dog?!?!?

Then another night, I was hired to model at this group shoot/photo party they recently started up at a local studio, which was really pretty cool — they have 6 or 7 different backdrops, several models, and then a bunch of photographers pay to come in and shoot photos of the girls, using the studio’s lighting equipment. Really fun! There’s music, and an open bar, and snacks, and it turned out to be really amazing. Except I didn’t realize there were going to be other models there, so I rolled in at the last minute, strode into the studio and tore my clothes off, like, “Let’s shoot!!” Meanwhile, I was the only nude model there, but there were 6 or 7 other clothed models standing by looking at me very askance, like, “Who the hell is this hussy?!” Haven’t you girls heard??? It’s Wonderhussy, bitches!!!

Seriously though, it was amateur hour with some of them other models — these were PG-style Model Mayhem girls who thought they knew what was up. One of the organizers was filming some footage to use for promotional purposes, and this one hag with stringy blond hair and jailhouse tattoos was all, “I can’t be in any videos unless you clear it with my manager.” Bitch, please! What does your manager have to say about those nappy-ass brown roots??! Tell your manager to send your ass to Supercuts!!!

For reals though, it was a pretty cool set-up, although I only got paid $100 for 3 hours of shooting with every Tom, Dick and Harry who had signed up for the party. I didn’t think that was fair, considering the other models got the same amount and didn’t have to get naked. I guess the idea was, the photographers were supposed to tip out the models….but nobody tipped me, so I just got the hell out of there. Oh, well! It was still fun and easy, and I’d still do it again. Check it out, if you get the chance…they have these parties every few weeks: http://www.vegasphoto.org/

 

 

Aaaaanyhoo, after all that grief and hustling, I thought I should take a night off, so I went out with a visiting journalist friend from New York. This guy gets all the hookups, and this time he invited me to accompany him to this far-out new “social experiment” called Rose.Rabbit.Lie. at the Cosmopolitan, which I guess he was writing a piece on because the PR people really laid it on thick for us. PR snowjob or not, though, that place is super fucking cool!!!!

It’s kind of the same vibe as The Act nightclub, where I used to work — dark burlesque/creepy/sophisticated/cabaret, with all these amazingly decorated little rooms, with weird performers doing weird shit in every corner as you sip $16 craft cocktails (that are, admittedly, amazing) and eat “updated” versions of classic, old-school Vegas fare like rack of lamb and beef Wellington. Three times a night, they put on an actual show, with acrobats and shit, but you have to buy special tickets for that in addition to dinner and drinks. And then after the last show, the showroom turns into a nightclub…and you can par-taaaaaay late into the night!

Since my friend was being so heavily schmoozed, everything was comped, and it was fabulous. I had brought some weed with me, so we had gotten high first on the balcony of his suite, and when we went downstairs to dinner it was amazing!!! I mean, AMAZING. Like being at Burning Man, with all these different rooms and performers and weird music and weird art everywhere — they have a whole Hieronymous Bosch mural in the dining room and everything.

The best and most surreal part of the evening was, since my friend was being so heavily schmoozed, we were accompanied all night by a boozy PR lady from the hotel, and one of the owner/managers of the club — a smart young hipster-type in a velveteen jacket and Morrissey glasses, with the most astonishingly earnest stream of P.R.B.S. flowing effortlessly from his mouth all night long. I don’t mean to make him sound insincere or lame — he was amazing in that he was totally earnest about every overblown adjective he used, and in addition to that he had the most amazing vocabulary of anyone I’ve ever met! He was incredible and enviable, to me, because he had that one thing I’ve always lacked — gravitas. Words like “mixologist,” “craft bitters” and “ice chef” rolled effortlessly and completely irony-free off his gilded tongue, and with every word he spoke I found myself more and more spellbound, as if caught up in his magical web of public relations.

Now, it’s true that Rose.Rabbit.Lie. is twee and pretentious to a fault (hello! Excessively dramatic punctuation!) — but somehow, that’s part of its charm. It’s also not for the feint of wallet– those fabulous craft cocktails will set you back $16 or more apiece…but astonishingly, it’s worth it! They were some of the best drinks I’ve ever tasted — and I’ve tasted ’em all! I supposed it helps that they’re heavy into the bitters thing over there, and use my all-time favorite spirit Campari liberally (I had a cocktail containing Campari jelly!!! YUM!)…but even aside from the drinks, the ambiance and atmosphere are totally worth ponying up the cash for. Besides, the drinks really are that fabulous — the aforementioned ice chef is responsible for carving giant chunks of ice into various shapes, like diamonds (!!!), that sit so prettily in your drink you wish they’d never melt.

After drinks in the fabulously-appointed “study,” we went onto dinner in the dining room…which was a succession of small plates featuring updated old-school Vegas food, as previously mentioned. Our gracious host ordered a huge feast of just about one of everything, and it was truly exceptional in the details — the menus are sealed with wax (so you can keep yours as a souvenir, as they make new ones daily), plus there are all manner of weird tableware accouterments like animal-shaped silverware-rests, filigreed forks and swan-shaped pewter sea-salt dishes with tiny spoons. Basically, this place is Burning Man for the 1% Foodie. Be warned!

After stuffing ourselves with foie gras, caviar, lobster and champagne, our host next escorted us into the showroom, where we watched the last of the three nightly performances of Vegas Nocturne — basically, an Absinthe-style sort of burlesque carnival running about an hour in length, after which the showroom turned into a nightclub, and a Sexy Lady DJ came out and played club music while everyone danced. Maybe I’m just jaded, or maybe it’s just that I’m not a club person, but I found the whole showroom component of the evening boring. The show itself was nothing you can’t see elsewhere, and I just felt it wasn’t cool/creative/freaky enough to live up to the rest of the place.

Personally, if I were to return to Rose.Rabbit.Lie., I would dress to the nines and spend the whole night in the Study having cocktails, with maybe a few small bites here and there to soak up all that Campari. Our host mentioned something about the study having an old-fashioned record player with records that can be played at will by guests, so I think it would be much more fun to just get genteelly sloshed in there while doing the Charleston to Al Jolson or some such, late into the wee hours. Smoking weed was great, and mushrooms would also greatly enhance the experience. Overall, as pretentious and expensive as it is, I have to wholeheartedly recommend Rose.Rabbit.Lie. as one of my favorite new places to party — I’ve already made plans, in fact, to come back with some friends next month! See you there…..

Oh and P.S., I almost forgot I also spent one fabulously sunny day out at the all-natural Tecopa Hot Springs on the eastern edge of Death Valley, with a bunch of fun hippies I know from around town. On my previous trips to Tecopa, I always soaked in the developed hot springs (where you have to pay)…but this time, the hippies and I soaked FOR FREE in the FABULOUS hot mudhole outside of town. It was a wonderful experience, and I can’t wait to go back and do it again!!! It’s fairly clean, for a mudhole, and you could have a bad ass campfire and night soak. Who’s in?!?!?!?!