So, as you may recall I tried sleep restriction therapy to cure my insomnia, and as a result became sleep deprived, angry, sick and miserable. I gave up on it after 5 days, deciding that my new plan of action would be to just relax and be more mellow, and see if THAT helped my sleeping. Well, I’m here to tell you — IT WORKED!
I’m not saying my sleep is fabulous, or anywhere near as good as it was back in the day…but it has improved immensely. Now when I wake up in the middle of the night (which still happens at least two or three times), I am able to fall back into a regular sleep! This is a HUGE improvement for me…but at what cost?
The thing that always made my life so much FUN was that I would say YES to anything and everything, often hitting up two or three parties in one night, plus working two or three gigs a day. I was burning the candle at THREE ends, friends — and it was no good. But ever since I started hanging out with Captain Crunch, I spend a lot more time just sitting around, watching DVDs and taking naps and whatnot. It’s not very exciting, but it appears to be helping my sleep.
That sleep restriction really fucked with my health, though — I STILL feel like my system is out of whack from the way it compromised my immune system. My face is broken out, my digestion is totally out of whack, and I only just now got over the yeast infection from hell. I’m cleansing for a couple days to see if that helps — the old Master Cleanse lemonade diet, in which you drink nothing but saltwater and lemonade made from lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It’s gross, that’s for sure…but I’m desperate!
On the bright side, my lingering health problems came in handy the other Friday night. My friend Phil Connors, who writes for the local paper, wanted to take his beautiful, innocent blonde photojournalist colleague out to the legendary Red Rooster swingers’ club — just for fun, not to hook up. She was curious to see what the place was like, and was up for a walk on the wild side, and they invited me along because they know I dig those things and am always good for spicing up a party.
For those who don’t know, the Red Rooster is a local sex club that was started 30 years ago by this awesome swinger couple who are STILL going strong — even though they’re now in their 60s (at LEAST), and kinda look like a dirty Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton!! The club is actually their HOUSE, a sprawling suburban compound that has been added onto over the years to include features like an indoor pool, a dance floor and an orgy room. The crazy thing about this place is that it’s located on a regular, nondescript suburban street, with a real Brady Bunch-type facade, stately cypress trees lining the driveway and all. I wonder what the neighbors think!
Say what you will about the Rooster and its remote location (it’s waaaaay down off Boulder Highway, far from the Strip)…it’s the most popular swingers’ club in Vegas, since it’s been around so long as to become somewhat of a local institution. That place is ALWAYS packed — although it’s not what you’re probably imagining. First off, the median age of the patrons is around 45 or 50…and there are plenty of swinging grannies in there (and I do mean swinging – as in, flapjacks swinging to and fro). The scene can be best described as an Elks Lodge gathering at a nudist bowling alley where the beer has been spiked with ecstasy, as co-written by John Updike and Hunter S. Thompson. Far fucking out!!!!!
I went here once before with Phil Connors, and had a total BLAST. Alas, this time I didn’t have quite as much fun…probably due to the fact that my yeast infection was still bothering me, and also due to the fact that I had to leave Captain Crunch behind (swing clubs aren’t his scene…yet another reason he is vastly superior to Sgt. Peanut).
But seriously, there were just too many damn rules, and they kept getting in the way of my having a good time. First off, the place is BYOB — you bring your booze, then check it at the bar in the main room, where they label it with your name, and then pour drinks for you all night long (and expect tips, of course). We had brought a bunch of champagne minis (cuz I’m a classy bitch, don’t ya know), so I just grabbed one of those — STRIKE ONE! The bartendress grabbed it away from me so she could pour it into a plastic cup, which apparently is the rule. The Rooster –adding to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, one swinger at a time!
Next I headed over to the dance floor, where I got busted again, for taking my drink onto the parquet floor. WTF!!! Apparently you’re not allowed to dance and drink at the same time here – guess they don’t want any grannies to slip and fall. So I had to content myself with sort of dancing off to the side, on the carpet…but the music sucked balls anyway, so who cares. The DJ (who looks like an ex-70s porn star who’s spent the last 30 years working at a Radio Shack) was playing solid hip-hop and Latin music, which I don’t really like dancing to, especially because they have all those bullshit corny line-dance-type things like the Electric Slide or whatever where you’re all supposed to know the steps, and I never do. I’ve said it many a time — I’m the WORLD’S WORST DANCER, and the best I can do is a spastic white-girl go-go pogo freakout…and that shit only really works with EDM (electronic dance music) or butt rock. So I was fucked!
Phil and I gave our innocent friend the grand tour, showing her the pool area (where a black man sat stroking an ENORMOUS erection that stood out in stark relief to his glowing neon-green shirt) and then the orgy room, where an obese white woman around the age and appearance of your Aunt Marge was bent over on all fours, being pounded by a skinny, weaselly-looking cholo. Niiiiice! A crowd of about 10 guys had gathered around to watch, but when me and Blondie showed up the focus shifted to us. I kinda felt bad about just being an observer, like I was leading people on by even being there — but that’s the great thing about the Rooster: they welcome everyone, even if you just wanna come hang out and relax. USUALLY! Last time I went, I remember feeling right at home…but this time, I definitely felt out of place and like an interloper. Boo!
After the orgy room got boring, we all went upstairs to the “couples only” area, where apparently all the REAL action takes place. No singles are allowed up here, and they are EXTREMELY strict about this — the three of went up there for about 3 minutes before they told us one of us had to leave, since it was COUPLES ONLY. I told Phil it was like Sophie’s Choice — he had to choose who would stay, and who would go back down to the wolves on the main floor. Since I had already been to the Rooster once, and had already seen all the wonders it has to offer, I let Blondie stay up there with Phil, and resigned myself to going back downstairs.
By this time, my yeast infection was really bothering me, so I went ahead and took off my jeans, and just danced in my wifebeater and purple panties. When in Rome, ya know…most of the other patrons were in some degree of undress, anyway. Tits were flopping out all over, and none other than Claudia Marie, the Big-Titted Southern MILF was standing by the bar in little more than a 3-pronged shoestring, anyway. So no one even really noticed me!
Well, apparently one dude did, because he came up to me on the dance floor and asked me, “So, you gonna hook up with anyone or what?”
“No,” I replied honestly.
“Because I have a yeast infection!!!!” My trump card worked, and I danced away, leaving him speechless. Saved by my gooooood friend Candida! (Incidentally, is that really what Tony Orlando was singing about?!?!?!?)
After that, I hung out and chatted with some young guys from Tucson, who had come out from the Strip to see if the Rooster was as crazy as they’d heard. So far they’d been sorely disappointed, and after ascertaining that I had no interest in casual sex either, they ended up taking off. I tried to help ‘em, though — I told them I’d go upstairs to the couples’ room with one of them at a time. But when the first guy and I tried, the bouncer kicked us out — apparently you can only go upstairs with the person you CAME with!!!
WTF!!! Rules, rules, rules. Why you would come out to a swingers’ club only to have sex IN A PRIVATE AREA is beyond me, anyway!! Stay the fuck at home, then! Arrrrrrgh.
So, my visit to the Rooster wasn’t all that much fun, but never fear — I plan to visit another swing club, the Power Exchange, with another friend in the near future. And that might be more interesting!
Anyhoo, I had plenty of other wacky shit going on this week. These friends of mine who are into couch surfing were hosting a couple of photojournalists from Montreal on their sofa, and these visiting artistes were doing a book about sex workers around the world. For some reason my friends told them they should interview me, so I met them downtown and took them over to this weird abandoned motel across from the Luxor, where they took photos of me and asked me about my foot fetish modeling. That motel was gross — overrun with feral cats, so the empty swimming pool was full of cat piss and those little porno hooker cards they hand out on the Strip. Very post-apocalyptic!
Then another day I had a sort of Art Party at my house — the very first photo shoot I’ve done at my new place. My friend Michael Maze and his girlfriend came over to photograph me as I was bodypainted by this awesome local artist named Tommy Vinci, as his daughter videotaped the whole thing for her web TV show. It was a BLAST! Except for the fact that Maze likes to drink, but he couldn’t really get his buzz on because he has one of those stupid Breathalyzers on his steering wheel — since his roommate just got her 4th DUI and is considered a serious offender, everyone in the entire household has to have those devices on their ignition. What a royal pain in the ASS!
Then another day I was trying to make a video for this website I write for, AdultSearch.com…but I was having a hard time, because this guy was coming over to shoot some independent movie where he wanted me to play a crack whore, and I was running short on time and having a hard time getting my fucking webcam and microphone to work before he got there. Frustrated, I finally gave up entirely and recorded myself singing this Barbra Streisand song, instead. ENJOY!
After that, my filmmaker friend came over and shot some scenes of me hanging myself in the shower, running around the house half-naked, and basically doing all those crack-whorey things crack whores do…so it all worked out. The only bummer was that halfway through the shoot, we smelled fire!! I started running around the house like an idiot, trying to figure out where it was coming from — come to find out, my air conditioner had blown a fuse, and was smoking like a motherfucker!!! My friend climbed up and unplugged it, while my roommate ran to Lowe’s to get a new fuse…and everything was OK. UNTIL — about a week later, the fuckin’ thing blew again, and this time it was the COMPRESSOR!!!! Oy, vey, this just ain’t my month. I have a home warranty, but it’s a shitty one, and they can’t send anyone out to fix it until tomorrow morning!!! Meanwhile, this is JUNE in LAS VEGAS, and this is the second night I’ve had to go without a/c. WTF!!!!! Fortunately, we had a sort of cold spell blow in, and it’s only been about 90 degrees. But STILL!
Interestingly, the a/c konked out one afternoon in between photo shoots — first I had gone down to the offices of the Las Vegas Weekly (a local alt-weekly), where I posed for a photo shoot with these two other alternative models, Bambu Jessica and Helena Strong, and they interviewed us about our modeling lives. Bambu is mostly a gogo dancer, and Helena does belly fetish that puts my pathetic belly fetish forays to shame!!!!!! It was fun posing for pics with those two nutjobs — look out for the article coming this Thursday in the LV Weekly (or at LVWeekly.com)!
Anyhoo, I had to rush home after that shoot to get ready for another shoot, where I wanted to do a tribute to Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In. Remember Laugh-In??? That hopelessly square ’60s laff-o-rama watched by Valium-and-gin-soaked housewives and their secretary-ass-grabbing husbands?!?? I *LOVE* that show, so I thought it would be fun to dress up like Goldie Hawn in the bikini, with all the body paint. I did this weird makeup to make my eyes look ginormous, like Goldie’s, and then sort of styled my blonde bob wig to semi-resemble her cute little shag. It came out pretty good!
The only bummer was, I couldn’t really relax and enjoy it because I knew my a/c had konked out, and I needed to do something about it. I made the best of the situation, though, and stopped off at the Arts Factory on my way home, where all the local Burning Man types were hanging out having a party, and where the a/c was working loud and clear. The best part is, I was able to waltz right in in my Goldie Hawn bikini and body paint, and no one batted an eyelash. SOCK IT TO ME! I hung out there for awhile, then went home to my hot-ass house.
One other gig I did this week was to host this pool party at the Tropicana hotel. Now, you may remember the dumpy old Trop from days of yore — but I’m here to tell ya, they’ve done WONDERS to that place! Everything has been painted white, and they’re going for a sort of retro Miami Beach chic — which is very cool, they just need to amp it up about 100%, cuz it’s kind of half-assed right now. It has potential, thought! The pool party itself was AWESOME — I had been hired to be the Pool Diva, a sort of Fran Drescher-meets-Bette Midler gal who sashays around with a little cart stocked with breath mints, sunblock, nail polish — all the shit you find in a nightclub ladies’ room, where the attendant brings it all in for tips.
It was a blast!! I trotted around in the 107-degree heat dispensing sunblock and romantic advice, dishing Vegas gossip and painting women’s toenails (well, that part was kinda gross, to be honest). It was fun, but it was a 2-day gig and the weather was over 106 degrees both days, so it was kinda draining. The second day I was so tired that even though it was a SATURDAY NIGHT, I didn’t go out carousing — instead, I went to see the fabulous David Copperfield show in my pajamas, thanks to a friend of mine who works for him and who let me in the back door, so no one would laugh at me. Say what you will about David Copperfield, he’s pretty good — but even better than his magic shtick is his deadpan humor, which can be pretty sarcastic. That’s the best part of the show!
Anyhoo, that was all the fun stuff for this week. The rest of my time was spent trying to get health insurance and trying to get my a/c fixed. BOOOOOOOOOOOOO-RING! Hopefully I’ll have some new adventures to write about soon!
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