I’m barely back from the artsy-farsty lovey-dovey hippiefest of Burning Man, and the seedy Vegas underworld has gotten her claws into me already. I can’t be in this town two minutes without an Irish transsexual inviting me to a bondage fest at a local titty bar, or a polyamorous fetishmeister hiring me to pop balloons with my ass. As one of my readers suggested I use for a motto… WONDERHUSSY: MY WEEK BEATS YOUR YEAR!
Actually, it all started very unglamorously with my being unceremoniously DUMPED by my erstwhile boyfriend, Captain Crunch. You may have noticed that I haven’t written anything about him for quite some time — though we were still “dating” up through last Saturday, he generally preferred to spend time with his mountain bike, and I guess I was busy with my….well, you know the kind of shit I do. Between that and the fact that we live 30 minutes across town from each other, and rarely had the same nights off…it was a weird relationship all along. Honestly though, I had noticed that he seemed MUCH less interested in me for the past few months…so I guess he just got tired of my shtick, and moved on.
I was slightly miffed that HE was the one to break up with ME, however: I’m the one who does the dumping around here, ya heard?! Truth be known, I knew it was over at least a month ago, when I made my ill-fated trip to San Francisco for that modeling seminar — he didn’t seem to miss me at all, and was standoffish on the phone. I should have sacked up and called him out on it, but I’m a total passive puss, so I just let it slide, with my usual laissez-faire attitude: let’s just wait and see what happens. Well, I guess I found out what happens!! When I got back from California, we had ONE night off in common before I left for Burning Man (and he left for a 2-week mountain biking odyssey) (I told you he was obsessed with his mountain bike). He was supposed to come over to my house on that one night, but at the last minute he called to say he had a lot of homework, and could I just go over to his house instead? Well, I wasn’t feeling well anyway, and didn’t really feel like driving across town to sit around his house watching him do homework (he’s working on his master’s degree from one of those bullshit online diploma mills, so he can get a promotion in the Chair Force)…so I demurred, saying, “Well, I guess we’ll just see each other when we get back from our respective trips.”
So when I got back from Burning Man, we chatted on the phone and made sort of vague plans to get together…and then 20 minutes later he texted me that he just wasn’t feeling it anymore, and how did I feel? I said I felt he wasn’t interested in me anymore, and had felt that way for some time. He was very apologetic and polite about it, saying he felt he’d done me a disservice (he’s very well-spoken)…but honestly, it was no suprise — and truthfully not even much of a disappointment. An ego blow, maybe…but it wasn’t really meant to be, if I’m completely honest with myself. He is a very cool guy and was totally supportive of my lifestyle…but he was bound to get tired of it, sooner or later. They all do!
Anyhoo, my new policy is: NO MORE AIR FORCE DUDES!!! As you may recall, the last guy I dated, Sgt. Peanut, was also a drone pilot…and look how that ended!!! I think I need to date a musician or an artist of some sort — someone who GETS me! But either way, HEAR YE, HEAR YE: CALL OFF YOUR DOGS, I AM NOT READY TO START DATING AGAIN YET! So back the fuck off, boys…I need some me time!
So, aaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, I had just gotten dumped by Cap’n Crunch, but I had little time to cry because I was booked to appear in this fetish fashion show at the Hustler Club, which was having a Fetish Masquerade Ball featuring all the local BDSM aficionados. Me and a few other chicks modeled latexwear from this amazing local German fetish shop, The Black Door, and there were live beatings, spankings and performances by the Genitorturers and the Swing Shift Side Show.
You may remember the Genitorturers from their ’90s Goth heyday — well, I’m here to tell you that they have fallen on positively Spinal Tap-esque times of late. The evening started with a big snafu over the dressing room situation — so as not to be in the way of the REAL working strippers at the Hustler Club, we had been given the men’s dressing room to use as our staging area. Halfway into our latex-lacing, in come the Genitorturers, whose frontwoman, a washed-up hag with bleached blond hair and bad tattoos, starts throwing a hissy fit about how that was “THEIR” dressing room. Ooh, my bad! They moved us down the hall into the manager’s office, so that Gen (as the lead singer calls herself) could strap her fat ass into her corset, boots and wig out of sight of the prying eyes of us lowly models.
Anyhoo, washed-up hag or no, I have to give credit where credit’s due: she is an AMAZING performer, and a great frontwoman. She really rocked the Hustler Club; those perverts never knew what hit ‘em! But even better were the ever-popular Swing Shift SideShow, a local band of tattooed, pierced freaks who perform a sort of twisted mutilation act where they stick corkscrews in their noses and shoot darts out their vaginas, etc. I’ve seen them several times, and they are AMAZING! Li’l Miss Firefly, the midget in the troupe, did a striptease on a pile of broken glass and then swallowed a balloon that was as long as her entire body (!!!)… all of which was very hard for poor Gen of the Genitorturers to live up to, despite the fact that she was desperately flailing a fiberoptic whip around while grinding a chainsaw against her codpiece, sending sparks all over the strip club. Sorry Gen, a glass-trampling midget beats your tired old shtick every time!
As all of this mayhem was going down I was busy being chatted up by the owner of a local uber-kinky swingers’ club. You want to talk about CHARACTERS?? This guy is a character: long blonde curly mullet, deeply tanned leathery complexion, bodybuilder’s physique, and super-earnest manner. He was telling me about his legal woes, and the trials and tribulations of running a sex club empire (he also runs a legendary club in San Francisco)… and as all this was going on, my transsexual friend was being flogged onstage by none other than his lawyer — a huge, bald beast of a man who also happens to be an avid member of the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism…aka those guys who dress up in chain mail and joust in the park) . WOW!
That night really blew my mind, and pretty well put any and all thoughts of Captain Crunch on the back burner. A huge thank you to my fetish friends for helping me through this difficult time. Yay!!!
After that, I got right back into the swing of things, hustling as hard as ever to make up for my income-less time at Burning Man. I did a desert photo shoot with a very sweet (and accomplished) photographer from Biloxi, Miss. one day…then another day I did a shoot for a FANTASTIC new foot fetish product that is going to take the industry by STORM!!! I’m telling you, the guy who invented this thing is a GENIUS. He asked me not to blog about it yet, but I’m DYING to spill the deets — it was THAT cool. And by cool I mean “gross,” “funny,” and “amusing.” Although if you have a foot fetish…you’ll really dig it. Trust me. (I’ll post details as soon as I get the green light from the inventor — stay tuned.)
Then I did the aforementioned balloon-popping videos for this awesome site, Boomhilda.com. Come to find out, balloon fetishists like to see women popping balloons in three different ways: by sitting on them, by stomping on them, and by blowing them up until they burst. That last one was the toughest — hard to keep an alluring expression with the impending threat of exploding latex in your face! But I thoroughly enjoyed the stomp-to-pop clips…and especially the sit-to-pop; I just looooooooove busting stuff with my fat ass! Plus, the guy who runs the site is super cool and very simpatico; we hit it off really well, and I look forward to working with him much more in the future!
Another gig I did for cash was check out this local tourist attraction/class called Stripper 101, at Planet Hollywood. I work for a show-review website that sends me out and about to random shows and attractions so I can write blurbs for their website…but I had long been curious to try out this class for myself, anyway. Stripping seems like the easy answer to my money troubles, only I’m a terrible dancer, and have a hard time being “sexy…” which is what stripping is all about. I thought that maybe by taking this class, I’d pick up a few tricks and get the confidence I need to make the leap into pole-dancing for a living. WRONG!
If Stripper 101 taught me anything, it’s that I would FAIL MISERABLY as a stripper. Not only do I lack the athleticism to strip, but I also lack the gravitas. Yes, I said “gravitas” and “strip” in the same sentence — to be a good stripper, you have to be sultry and sexy and serious about it — not goofy and flippant, like me. That’s why I like doing fetish videos — I can maintain a certain level of gravitas for brief periods — say, 3 minutes; long enough to film a balloon-popping clip, ya know?! If I break character, it’s not so bad; after all, who wouldn’t make a goofy face sitting on balloons til they pop?!! But a six-hour shift in a strip club??? NOT SO MUCH!! I could hardly keep a straight face through the 60 minute class…I felt like a royal idiot swinging spastically around the practice pole. Then we were supposed to give a lap dance to this empty chair…and that was even WORSE! The instructor showed us a routine, and at one point we were supposed to motorboat the guy — now, you tell ME how someone with itty bitty titties like mine is supposed to motorboat ANYONE! It was actually kind of humiliating!
Anyway, you can read my Yelp review on the class here…basically, to sum it up, I felt it was a silly class with little real value; just a bunch of fat Filipinas (bachelorette party) giggling non-stop at the instructor’s coy references to our “cookies” (vaginas). Boring…but very Vegas. This is what chicks from the Midwest come to Vegas to do: learn ho tricks so that they can be ho-ey like the hos on TV. Fun!
Speaking of hos on TV, I myself was a ho on the radio this week! I was cruising around town one afternoon when I got a call from one of the hosts on the local NPR station, a guy who does a show about local and State issues. Usually it’s important stuff like public schools and gaming control board issues…but in the interest of goosing ratings, he was doing a show about local dominatrices and fetish models, and wanted to know if I’d be comfortable talking about my work on the air. Does a bear shit in the woods?!
I referred him to a couple of local dommes, Lady IceQueen and Onya Cox, and we all three ended up going down to the local NPR station for the interview. Shockingly, I had already been to this station before — as a volunteer, LOL, answering phones during one of their pledge drives!!! (Yes, I am a HUUUGE NPR fan, and a current supporter, LMFAO! It takes me a loooong-ass time to put on my makeup, so I listen to NPR to pass the time while I’m drawing on my eyebrows and shit — every day. Some day maybe Terry Gross will interview me on “Fresh Air…” but for now, I had to settle for appearing on “State of Nevada.” Gotta start somewhere!)
Aaaaaanyhoo, Lady IceQueen, Onya Cox and I blathered on for 45 minutes about what we do and why we do it. The other two claimed that domming wasn’t just a job for them, but who they were; I was the lone dissenter, who admitted to doing it solely for the money. I have my doubts about their claims…I mean, if their slaves weren’t paying them, or giving them any sort of tributes (Lady IceQueen had a very nice new Hummer bought for her by one of her slaves)…would they really still do it?
Then the discussion got into feminism; the other two claimed no interest in it, instead preferring to be “pampered,” having doors opened for them and the like. I tried to mount a half-baked defense of my actions, saying that I do consider myself a feminist, but realize that by filming these videos, I’m still playing into a male fantasy and being paid by men in the end…so even though I may be stomping on a guy’s nuts or spitting on his face, he’s still ultimately in control. The other two admitted no such thing — they are in control at all times, FYI. Even when the guy is paying them to castrate him (as Onya Cox claims to have been beseeched to do)…they are the boss, end of story.
Either way, it was an interesting discussion, and you can listen to it here. I wish there had been a live video feed, so you could have seen the three of us in there — it was a riot! The guests before us were stuffed shirts from the local hospital board, and when they got up to leave and saw us coming, you never saw anyone blush so hard. HA! Lady IceQueen was her usual blinged-out, tatted-up, pierced self (she’s the only person I know who has been on Jerry Springer, LOL!)…and Onya Cox was all rockabillied out in her usual sassy style, wearing a cute white dress with a matching fanny pack around her waist. Fabulous!!! I had sort of dressed down in a baseball cap and gym clothes…I mean, WTF! It’s radio!!!
Anyway, the interview went OK, except at one point the engineer came in and bitched us out for using bad language — apparently it was a live show, and he used up all his bleeps when Lady IceQueen said “shit” by mistake, and I made reference to fans “jerking off.” Oy, VEY!! Get over it. After that, we were all very careful to censor our speech and only talk nice, using ladylike language. LOL! I got the hell out of there as soon as we were done — me and Onya Cox went to Denny’s for breakfast, and then I went home to do some yardwork, and to finish cleaning up my shit from Burning Man, which I still hadn’t done.
And then, later that night, I finally returned to work at my souvenir photography job. I hadn’t worked any shifts in like a month, since there hadn’t been a show — but now, since it was Mexican Independence Day week, this certain Latin Lothario who comes in every year was doing a run of shows. This guy, we’ll call him……oh hell, it was Luis Miguel; anyway, Luis Miguel comes to town every year at this time to do a run of shows, and I just looooooooooove working it. He attracts a crowd of the most bedazzled, blinged-out, made-up, expensive-dress-wearing, tits-spilliing-out-the-front, ass-busting-out-the-back filthy rich Mexican women you’ve ever seen. Working his show is like being on the set of a telenovela — gorgeous women everywhere, none with less than 10 pounds of makeup caked on their faces. It’s astonishing — and usually pretty good money, although this year sucked a little more than usual, due to who knows what. I worked three nights of that, and it was insanity — those people drink and party like there’s no tomorrow. You could just tell that most of the men in there had blood on their hands, but all they did was guzzle Chivas and pat their heavily-made-up women on the asses and mill around in the casino after the show singing “Cielito Lindo” over and over and over. Ay, yi, yi, yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii………………..
So, that was pretty much my week. In between all that madness I made time for a few other little shenanigans…nude sunbathing at an eccentric friend’s pool, meeting up with a reader after work for a photo op…but most of the time I sat around thinking of my impending birthday, which is coming up on Sept. 22. Another year older, arrrrrgh. People keep asking me where the party’s at, but astonishingly…for as big a party girl as I am, I have never had a birthday party in my entire life! Not even when I was a little kid! Crazy, but true…I guess I prefer crashing other people’s parties. O.P.P….wasn’t that a song?! Watch out….yours might be next!
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