The Goombah Squad and Lesbian Prom


The other night at work, as I photographed the 100,000th quivering Quebecois quaking with desire beside that godawful Sally Dingdong mannequin, I finally snapped. “THIS LEVEL OF HUBRIS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO GO UNCHECKED!!!!” I screeched, wild-eyed and hanging on to sanity by the barest of threads. I grabbed my phone, called in my goombah squad and we took the fuckin’ thing out to the desert, where it will never traumatize another Vegas showgoer. You can thank me later!

After bashing in the mannequin’s face with a baseball bat and then unceremoniously burying it in a pit north of town, I ran off down the road with an American flag waving behind me: “FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST! THANK DOG ALMIGHTY, I HAVE FINALLY DRIVEN THE FRENCH FROM NEVADA!”

Then I woke up 🙁

Actually, I’ve  been TRYING to have wacky adventures lately, but it’s tough because I am also in the middle of a big ole fucked-up mess that I can’t talk about. Nothing life-threatening, but a mess nonetheless that’s been taking up pretty much every waking moment of my life since around Christmas. I left the lesbians in those hot springs and basically dove straight into a pit of shit, in which I’ve been struggling/wallowing/scuba diving for the last 4 weeks. If I could only TALK about it, I’d feel better…but this is one of those rare things in my life that must wait to be shared.

In the meantime, I just sorta hung around Vegas, photographing tourists at the show and doing odd modeling gigs on the side. I did a few scavenger hunts, and then a photographer friend of mine came to town and hired me for two days of shooting out in the desert. Always good times!


This photographer had a really cool idea for a sort of prom-night shoot out in the desert. He had me rent a tux for one of my model girlfriends and then we all drove out to a secret location and shot this sort of surreal sequence he’d dreamed up. The weather actually cooperated, so it was around 65 degrees and mostly sunny that day…a bonus for me, as he also shot some nudes of me, and it’s never fun to sit around naked outside when it’s cold!

I posted a fake lesbian-wedding announcement on my Facebook page, just to see how many I could fool…but the only comment I really got was, “Black dress! How edgy!” (Really……do you expect me to qualify for a WHITE one?! I’m so sooty with sin that black is the only color I could wear without the church being smitten by a wrath-infused lightning bolt thrown by the hand of Jebus.)

Anyhoo, we shot all afternoon and it was a great day. The photographer was a guy I shot with once back at that nude ghost town thing I did last July. At the time, I had gotten the impression that he and his wife (a fellow model) were swingers…but now I think they’re just cool people. I felt bad, because the poor guy had booked three or four other models for shoots while he was in town…and they ALL FLAKED!

I just don’t get it, girls — this is a really nice, classy guy who is willing to PAY YOU for modeling…and you flake?! Must be nice to have that kind of financial freedom. I hear this over and over from photographers — models are soooo flaky, that even with a paid assignment half the time they’re no-shows. WEIRD!

Not me. I’m a pro! Even though I woke up at 7AM (!!!that’s my only beef with this photog; he insisted on an 8:30am call time) the next morning to a blustery, rainy day with winds up to 60mph…I still plastered on makeup and readied myself for a FREEZING shoot up on Mount Charleston. Thankfully, the other model flaked (another one!), so the photog decided to bail on the mountain and just shoot arty stuff in his hotel room. Muuuuuuch easier!

Meanwhile, speaking of modeling, I got embroiled in a holy mess with one of my good photographer friends. This is the first guy I really shot with, and I was the first model HE had really shot with one-on-one , so we kinda bonded. I have modeled for him many, many times for FREE — we were both learning, you know? He very graciously gave me a Nikon D-80 for my time, which was really generous of him (at the time he was flying high financially…one of those guys who decides to become a photographer, then goes out and buys every piece of expensive gear he can find….in the intervening few years, he ended up filing BK and is basically destitute, to hear him talk). And he paid me twice for shoots (once up at Zion, when he literally threw the money at me across the table because he was grumpy that our shoot hadn’t gone well…he’s a grumpy kinda guy, but I learned to just kinda take it with a grain of salt, because otherwise he’s pretty cool).

Anyhoo, a lot of models around town (and photogs, too) can’t handle this guy’s personality, but I am a pretty passive person and can take quite a bit of verbal abuse. Besides, like I told you this guy can be suuuuper cool, and takes great photos, too. But he definitely has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to models — he’s been flaked on a time or ten, so it’s understandable to an extent. But one of his beefs is that models are the only ones benefiting from photography — we use the pics to get work at conventions and whatnot, but meanwhile the photogs hardly ever get ANY work. It’s true, too — there are something like 10 photographers to every person in Vegas, and you can’t expect there to be enough weddings and Valentine’s boudoir shoots for ALL of them to make a living.

My personal belief is that Model Mayhem (the site we all use, a photography networking site) is basically for amateurs. A photographer can find amateur models (like myself) on there, as opposed to going to an agency and hiring Gisele Bundchen for $30,000 a day. Meanwhile, a model can get good quality photos for free, by collaborating with the photographers on the site…but you ain’t gonna get discovered by Francesco Scavullo or anything.

Basically, neither party is gonna make much money off Model Mayhem. But at least with modeling, you can make SOME money posing for hobbyists and the occasional traveling photog who actually knows what he’s doing. I do a fair amount of shoots, but realistically I probably only make around $3000 a year from modeling. The rest comes from writing, shooting fetish videos, dumbass promotions…and photographing creepy mannequins. The fact of the matter is, I am NOT Gisele Bundchen…but I feel like I’m a great value for what I do charge.

I tried to explain to my photog friend that his customer base shouldn’t be models — I’ve seen a lot of guys get into shooting so they can charge models for headshots and whatnot. In my experience, most models don’t pay…there’s too much TF (trade) work out there. If they DO pay, it’s usually to an established guy who’s often on retainer with an agency. IMO, my photog friend’s REAL customer base is civilians, so to speak — non-models who just want glamour shots, family portraits, pet photos, boudoir pics, etc. This might sound piss poor, but again — MY customer base isn’t professional fashion photographers, either! You don’t hear me sitting around bitching that Helmut Newton won’t pay me… I just sack up and eat a jar of pickles, or whatever whoever’s paying me wants me to do (as in the pic below…do you really think Cindy Crawford would do this shit?!).

It’s a contentious subject with many photographers, and my friend was bent out of shape over it…plus, his dire financial situation has doubtless been bothering him, so he was extra-grumpy. On top of it all, he found some bozo using one of his pics of me to sell comic books online, and he got in a royal tizzy over it. (The pic has since been taken down due to his lawsuit threats.) He let me know in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that any and all photos he’s taken of me belong to HIM, and I can only use them for self-promotional purposes. Indeed, he always had me sign a “Limited-Use Agreement” release, but my dumb ass assumed that if MY usage rights were limited, then so were his. Apparently not — he told me that his release provides for HIM to do whatever he wants with the pics, but I can’t.

My understanding of this was all wrong. I thought that if a photographer PAID me, I relinquished rights. Likewise, if I were to pay a photographer, then I would have the rights. I assumed that in a collaboration scenario, where both parties are working for free, then both parties have the same rights. WRONG!!!

Several photographers told me that no matter what, THE PHOTOGRAPHER HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT to the photo. So unless I get photographers to sign off the rights to me, I can never, ever make any money off my photos. D’OH!!!!!

This sucks for many reasons, mostly because I’m a broke hack who needs cash. I don’t mind shooting with photogs who PAY me — I will gladly pose nude for you all day long, and happily surrender all rights to you if I am being PAID. But if I’m donating my time (not just shooting time — an average of 2 hours prep, plus travel time, makeup and hair costs, countless hours at the gym and use of my extensive wardrobe)…I feel like it’s kind of assy to insist that I can’t use the pics for anything more than posting on my MM page and here. It truly sucks that I have sooooo many bad-ass photos, but I can’t do anything with them 🙁

Since I can’t afford to pay photogs, I guess my only option is to figure out a way to do self-portraits — like Cindy Sherman. Then I own everything about the G.D. image. My other option is to collaborate with an individual photographer, and come out with a calendar or book or something of pics taken by him alone. Then we can split the proceeds. I’ve actually discussed this with my friend Randy, a/k/a Shutterbug-Studio…and we’re planning to do it! I’d also like to do one with my friend Michael Maze. So watch out… never know!

BURGLED! Plus gross endometrium pics!

Well, hell week is over. And it really was hell week – especially because at the end of it all, my truck was broken into, and the fruits of the entire fuckin’ week were stolen 🙁

As mentioned last week, CES was in town (the Consumer Electronics Show, a/k/a NerdCon 2012). This show has been coming to Vegas for over 30 years, and it’s the biggest trade show of the year – just about every bimbo in Vegas gets a gig working in one booth or another. As previously mentioned, I despise working trade shows, and the last couple of years I bailed on CES in favor of working the Adult Expo, which is held the same weekend and is way more fun.

This year, however, they scheduled the Adult Expo for the following weekend…so I was free to pimp myself out at CES L I really didn’t want to, but I need the cash pretty bad, so I took a gig working for a high-end audio company. I got the job through a photographer I once shot with, who was friends with these guys and arranged for me to work their exhibit.

The good news was, the high-end audio exhibits weren’t in the main convention center (which was a total zoo and a parking nightmare) but in some suites up at the Venetian. So instead of battling traffic, I was able to cruise right in every morning and head up to the 30th floor with relative ease. The bad news was, I was stuck standing in the hallway on the 30th floor…ALL DAY LONG, for 4 days. BOOOO-RING!

I was supposed to greet all the conference attendees as they walked by, and lure them into our suite with the promise of hearing some “really great tube audio.” WTF?! Tube Which? I had no idea what I was talking about, but over the course of the show I learned more about audio than I ever wanted to know. Apparently there are two types of amplifiers, tube and solid state (transistor)…and any audiophile worth his salt prefers the sound of the former to the latter. Trouble is, most equipment nowadays uses solid state technology, and tube amp systems are really expensive and pretty much the exclusive domain of audio snobs and old-time fanboys – which is what I dealt with all week. You know that nerdy comic book store guy on the Simpsons?! That’s the kind of guy who came to this part of the show.

The client had requested that I dress business-sexy, so I’d gone to the mall and bought a few things in preparation – but then at the last minute I was told to channel Pippa Middleton, of all people, from the royal wedding (for those of you with a life, Pippa is the sister of Kate Middleton, who just married Prince William, and at their wedding she wore a very prim-yet-form-fitting dress that accentuated her “perfect” ass, and it was all over the tabloids for some dumb reason): “What was right about her dress? Nothing. What was wrong about her dress? Everything!”

Using these inexact guidelines, I cobbled together a few sexy-yet-classy-ish outfits, and was thusly positioned in front of the suite to lure in passing audio geeks. It was pretty easy work, since many of these guys had probably never spoken to a woman, and a simple, “Hey, come here” worked wonders on their submissive psyches.  Or maybe they were just genuinely intrigued by my promise of “high-end tube audio that sounds amazing!” Either way, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

The company I was working for designs super-duper –mega-high-end tube audio gear; so high-end that the system they were displaying at the show cost something like $60,000! They make a $25,000 turntable, for Chrissake. Everything was designed by the founder, a kooky eccentric Englishman who has done audio systems for many British rock stars. This guy was a NUT! Super-tall, super-skinny, balding and liver-spotted, with a wispy gray Amish-style beard and the finest decaying English grill I’ve ever seen. He was/is SUPER smart and SUPER eccentric, and he was one of those really smart, kooky types who just don’t give a fuck. Apparently he’s a legend in the audio biz, so all week long star-struck apostles would stop by to shake his hand and kiss his ass. Meanwhile he stood around picking his nose without a care in the world, politely thanking them but not really giving a shit. He was AWESOME!

Anyhoo, I posted up outside the door to the suite allllll weeeeeek loooooong, until I thought surely my brain would atrophy and my feet would fall off from standing in high heels all day, every day. Even worse, my hours were 10am-6pm, and then I had to be at my photographer job across the street at another hotel by 6:15. I had to literally RUN down 30 flights of stairs to the casino level, then dodge and weave, Frogger-style, through hordes of conventioneers and drunks in the casino to the parking garage, then speed around the back way to Caesars Palace, where I then had to run down to THAT basement, get changed into my uniform, and go back up to work taking photos til 11pm. IT. WAS. EXHAUSTING!

To make matters worse, my sister was in town for the same convention (she has a legit job working for a tech company that exhibits at CES every year), and her husband came along because he’s never been to Vegas, so they wanted to hang out. At the same time, these crazy girlfriends of mine from Arkansas were also here for another show (they sell stun guns and bear spray, and were exhibiting at a hunting show that came in after CES), and they wanted to go out as well. And at the SAME time, a Spanish photographer friend had invited us all to dinner and a nightclub with him and his Swedish colleagues – but he wasn’t able to get dinner reservations until 10PM!!! So even though by Friday I was basically dead on my feet (seriously, I almost physically couldn’t get out of bed by Friday morning), I had to sack up, put on my happy face, and go party.

I finished the convention at 4pm on Friday, then met up with my sis and brother-in-law for some drinks and chit-chat over at the Cosmopolitan. They left to go to a show around 9pm, and I sort of hung around until 10pm, when I met up with the Spaniard, the Swedes and the Arkansawyers at TAO, this trendy, douchey Asian restaurant back at the Venetian. Everyone hit it off swimmingly, a good time was had by all, and afterward we all went over to one of the douchebaggiest nighclubs of them all, XS at the Wynn.

Now, as you probably know by now, I despise nightclubs. XS is a particular non-favorite, because they’re such exceptional assholes over there – the door staff is insufferably rude, the drink prices are exceptionally extortionary, and the clientele consists of hordes of desperate white guys hitting on whorey Asian girls. Before you accuse me of being racist, I’m just stating a fact: at least 70% of that club’s client base is Asian girls…and on this night, they were all wearing identical skintight bebe dresses, barefooted and sloppy drunk. Asian, white, whatever — I despise that club not for its clientele so much as its staff and its lameness. One time they yelled at us for even standing in front of the nightclub, as we dithered over whether or not we should pay the $20 cover to go in (I’m a walking vagina – you should be paying me to go into your club, assholes ! You’re just using me to attract guys anyway!!!). “You can’t stand here,” they told us – so we left. Fuck you, XS!

Aaaaaanyhoo, I was dragged back into this shithole last Friday, and it was OK at first – the Swedes had a table, so at least we were able to sit down. Sit?! I was basically forced into Party Mode, since I had to make sure my Arkansas girls were having fun, and the Swedes were having fun, and the Spaniard was having fun, and everyone was having FUNFUNFUN!  So even though it felt as though my feet were about to rot off at the ankle from fatigue and edema, I made myself get up on the table and dance, dance, dance on this lame stripper pole they had up there, just to set the mood and show everyone how much FUN I was having!

Meanwhile, I had to be up at 6:30am the next morning to meet these electricians I’d hired to do some work for me, so I was miserable. I just wanted to GO HOME TO BED! But every time I tried to leave, my one girlfriend started sulking, “Come on!! STAY! All you have to do is take photos tomorrow, big deal!” So I gritted my teeth and stayed — I felt obligated to party hearty. I hate that about myself – I’m a fucking people pleaser, even when it’s to the detriment of my health!

Finally, around 3am I had had ENOUGH, and left, despite the pleading and whining of my girlfriend. They ended up staying out til 6:30am, swilling Dom Perignon and shoving Adderall pills into the face of one of the poor Swedes. Listen people, I FUCKING LIVE HERE! DO YOU SERIOUSLY THINK I WANT TO BE PARTY TO YOUR DESPERATE EXCESSES?!?!?!?! (Well, sometimes, maybe… 🙂

So I dragged myself home and was unable to sleep as I awaited the electricians – who STOOD ME UP ANYWAY!!!!! Apparently they were sick, but the dispatcher forgot to call and tell me they weren’t coming. So I got up early for nothing L

Meanwhile through all this, I’m still on pins and needles waiting for my fucking bank to approve my short sale, so I can get the fuck out of my house! I found a new place to live (hence the electricians), but I don’t really wanna move until I’m free and clear of the other place. So it’s been a VERY stressful few weeks, and I haven’t been able to sleep for shit. My eyes are so swollen, wrinkly and puckered up they look like two assholes, and my face broke out like a 13-year old. It’s bad. I have never lived through a period like this.

THEN, to make matters worse, I was ROBBED! This was the icing on the cake, and I’ll admit I sobbed like a little bitch when it happened – it was the final straw, and it was too much to handle.

I had been out running errands all day, preparing for my eventual move, and I ended up having to go straight to work from there. I had a bunch of crap I was carrying around with me, so before I went in to work I cleaned out my bag and left some stuff in my truck, rather than carry it around with me all night. I took out my sweaty gym shoes and socks, stuffed them in a cardboard box on my passenger seat,  and also left behind an old notebook I had rubber-banded together with some receipts and stuff. Then I went in to work.

That night it was a special benefit show to raise money for Sickle Cell Anemia research, so the show started and hour late and I didn’t get out til midnight. When I went out to my truck in the parking garage, I found that someone had broken in and stolen my stuff!!!

Now, if you’ve ever seen the Caesars Palace parking garage, you know that it’s ginormous and nasty. Other garages, like those of the Wynn, Bellagio, and other upscale properties get regularly power-washed, and are policed or patrolled. Well, I don’t think the Caesars garage has ever been power-washed — the floors are filthy, coated in piss, vomit, motor oil and amniotic fluids. There have been shootings in there, and I’m sure more than one baby has been conceived within its hallowed confines. Nevertheless, I’ve been parking there for 8 years without incident, so I never really think twice about it.

But this night, some FUCKING ASSWAD had gotten into my truck (due to my insane stress levels, I must have left the door unlocked – or maybe they jimmied it open, I don’t know; there was no damage). At first, all I found missing was my Breathalyzer (which cost $300, dammit!!!! I bought it because I got a DUI last year, and I’m not taking any chances) and this old 1940s Samsonite overnight case I carry around in my truck with spare panties, bikini, flip-flops, etc. Whatever – I was pissed about the Breathalyzer, but could definitely live without the suitcase.

But then I realized my notebook was missing, too – and then it hit me. I had over $1100 in cash in that fucking notebook!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’d stashed all the money I’d earned working all those miserable gigs all week in between the pages, because I hadn’t had time to get to the bank yet. I NEVER carry that much cash around with me, but if I do, I keep it on my person – I certainly don’t leave it in my car. But I’ve been so tired and stressed lately, I forgot – and some fucking asshole took advantage of me and STOLE IT ALL L L L

So I basically worked my fucking feet down to the nubs all week for nothing.  It’s allllllllllll gone.

I broke down weeping, from fatigue, desperation, sadness and hopelessness. Will I ever get ahead in this fucked-up world?! I drove around the parking garage in a panic, tears streaming down my face as I searched all the trash cans and dumpsters in the area. My hope was that, once they’d seen there was nothing but dirty old clothes in the suitcase, maybe they’d chucked it along with the beat-up old rubber-banded notebook.

No such luck. I looked ALL OVER the place, even across the street and in the alley by the train tracks – nothing. I went back and filed an incident report with Caesars security, but they were no help – of course there were no security cameras in that shitty garage. It was hopeless.

The next day I woke up with my eyes so swollen shut from crying, I looked like I had Down’s Syndrome. Still, I glopped on some makeup and went down to the police station to report the burglary…just in case they find something out. I doubt it, but whatever. I’m supposed to call back in ten days and follow up, but I’m sure nothing will come of it. I’ll never get my Breathalyzer or my money back, and that’s a sad fuckin’ fact.

My only hope is that at least the stolen money went to a good cause – maybe someone needed to feed their kids or something. Probably not, though – I’ll bet it was some half-witted cholo thug who used it to buy Playstation games, weed and Olde Engligh. ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If I ever find out who did this, I am going to tie the motherfucker down and FLAY HIS BALLS. I will peel back the delicate skin on the nutsack, pin it to his groin like I’m dissecting a frog in high school biology class, then go in with an X-acto knife and carve the Ten Commandments into his gonads. I realize his testes will be far too small to contain all this text, and will probably get shredded like carnitas in the process, so when that happens I’ll scoop the mess out, mush it up like pate and spread it on toast…and make him eat it! Then I’ll stuff decaying dollar-store tuna fish into the empty cavities, sew him back up, tie him to a tree and call in a pack of hungry pit bulls to finish him off.


The worst part is, last week as I was rushing around town running moving-related errands, some old lady ran right into the side of my truck! I roll around in a beat-up old landscaping truck, which is already so banged up and dented that I don’t really care if I hit something or someone hits me. I got out of my truck, assessed the damage, and waved her away: “Don’t worry about it! Just do a good deed for someone else down the road. And maybe I’ll get some good karma from this.”

HAH! There’s no fuckin’ thing as karma…it’s just a crutch, to help people get through the misery of our nasty, brutish and short lives…somewhat akin to the whole Christian thing about the meek and the poor. IT’S ALL BULLSHIT, PEOPLE – fed to you by your oppressive overlords, so you won’t complain while they’re fucking your wife and taking the food from your children’s mouths. They promise you a bullshit afterlife, or a divine system of checks and balances that is TOTALLY FAKE. Wake up! I’m an atheist myself, but I still live my life by the Golden Rule: treat others as you’d be treated. I do this not because I’m afraid I’ll roast in hell or end up reincarnated as a turd…I do it because that’s how I roll. I don’t need an excuse…I’m just good for goodness’s sake. Which is more than I can say for the half-baked twat who broke into my truck – I’m willing to bet it was a gang banger or some other superstitious thug who doubtless considers himself a believer. The irony!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, I’m trying to get over it, because a) I have no choice, b) I have another busy week ahead. I was supposed to work the Adult Expo, but that fell through — a friend of mine (well OK, really a half-assed lounge singer/jackass/ne’er-do-well who’s been storing shit in my garage for YEARS without paying me more than $20, and who had the BALLS to write on my garage door “KEEP DOOR LOCKED” [I had a habit of leaving my side door unlocked, since I store nothing of value in there, and apparently he didn’t like that, since he has all this extremely valuable CRAP in there like papers and 1980s Dave Coulier-type shirts])…anyway, THAT guy called me a few weeks ago saying he was hired by some “big time” porn producer from L.A. to film some kind of stupid amateur webcam stuff, and the guy needed a couple girls to walk around the Expo handing out fliers. Because I know a lot of models, my friend asked if I could round up a few more girls to submit to his “big time porn producer” so he could pick who he liked. Well, he ended up picking some of my referrals…and not me!!!! WTF! He’ll be fucking sorry when those beat-up hags roll in. Caveat Emptor, douchebag!

It doesn’t matter anyway – I’m already booked for photo shoots on Friday and Saturday, and then on Sunday I have another gig anyway. So fuck it! I’ll make that stolen $1100 back in no time…without the help of an unemployed asshole in an Uncle Joey shirt.

One last thing: through all this, to make matters worse, I was on my period! I was bitching about having to hide my tampon string for a nude photo shoot, when one of my friends suggested I try the Instead cup – a little plastic cup you jam up your junk to catch the effluvia sloughing off the walls of your uterus. It can be worn up to 12 hours, and most are washable and re-usable. And to think, all this time I’ve been stuffing a piece of cotton bleached with carcinogens up there… these cups are supposedly made of medical-grade silicone, so they are a safe alternative.

I had some free samples from last year’s Adult Expo, but I’d been too weirded out to try them until now. The ones I got are called Instead SoftCups, and they are designed to be worn during sex, so that porn stars don’t have to take time off when they’re on their periods. I guess it fits up under your cervix, out of harm’s way even when a 15” cock is ramming your innards like a chocolate molcajete. Nice!

In the interest of science, I tried one out the second day of my period. And I’m here to tell you: it works exactly as advertised! I didn’t try the sex part (I haven’t had sex since the Sgt. Peanut fiasco back in September), but I wore it all day, for around 12 hours, and it was great. Very easy to insert, and no mess to remove…although it was kinda weird having to reach up inside my vagina to fish it out. But definitely doable – the samples I had were meant to be disposable, so I plan to go online and get a Luna Cup or one of the reusable brands. Let’s hear it for innovation!!!!!!!!!!

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Booth Babe Season and Crazy Corporate Shenanigans

I don’t have a whole lot  to report, because I’ve been sick with a cold and have had to stay home and lay low, instead of running around the sewers naked in the middle of the night, like last week (could there be a correlation?). But speaking of that, here are a few awesome pics from the shoot.

Vagina Dentata, baby!!! This was SO worth getting sick over 🙂 I love the way she painted my Yoni to look like the vicious, cock-biting monster it truly is. Uh oh, my secret’s out — there goes my sex life! Anyway, this was the first time I’ve had my clitoris painted…and
I must say, it was interesting!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, the fun and games are all over — this past week was all about packing for my move (boo!), and the upcoming week’s all about work. Aside from my souvenir photography gig, next week I am also working as a booth hostess for some super-high-end audio company (they sell a $25,000 turntable, LOL) at my most loathed of all conventions, CES (that’s the Consumer Electronics Show, for those of you who actually have a life).

I despise working conventions. If you’ve never been to one, it’s basically a cavernous room, chilled to about minus 25 degress Celsius, blasted with harsh fluorescent light and lined with temporary booths staffed by Willy Loman types desperately hawking some shitty product or service to the hordes of badge-wearing industry-folk ambling blindly up and and down the aisles. DEPRESSING!

Sometime in the last 30 or 40 years, some genius came up with the idea of hiring hot gash to stand in front of his booth, thus attracting ten times more bored convention-goers than his cheap Chinese widgets would on their own. An industry model was born, and now you can’t hardly go to a trade show without being accosted by all manner of bleach-brained bimbos in slutty businesswoman costumes at every corner. It’s ridiculous!

I lived in Vegas for 6 years before I worked up the balls to try my hand at being a “booth model.” Before that, I assumed that to be a “model,” one had to be tall, big-titted and drop-dead gorgeous. I didn’t realize that any half-baked hag with a vagina and a waist-cincher could do it! I swear, some of the girls I’ve worked with at these things were beasts (externally…internally, they were almost ALL beasts). I myself only get booked for about one out of 5 shows I apply for…so I have to wonder how these nasty-ass ho’s are getting these gigs. I assume they have expertly PhotoShopped pictures (most of the hiring is done through agencies, based off photos). Caveat Emptor, convention clients! Meet your model in person before hiring!!!

To be a convention model/booth babe/tradeshow hostess, you need 3 things: the aforementioned flattering headshot, a slutty business costume, and a high tolerance for drudgery, sexual harassment and bullshit. If you’re still with me, your next step is to sign up with as many local modeling agencies as possible — here in Vegas, all agency contracts are non-exclusive, meaning you can sign on with as many as you wish. Sometimes a certain agency has the contract for an entire show — meaning that all models hired must come from their books…which is good news for D-listers like me, who finally get some scrapings after the agency exhausts their A-roster. But usually, it’s a free-for-all.

If you don’t feel like joining an agency (they negotiate your breaks and pay, but they also sometimes take 10-20% of your day rate), you can freelance. I’ve gotten quite a few gigs on craigslist, One Model Place and Model Mayhem. When craigslist first launched in Vegas, no one really used it, so there was virtually no competition for gigs. But now, everyone goes on craigslist…and it’s driven down the rates! All your average douche-kit wholesaler need do is post a semi-literate ad on craigslist offering $10 an hour “plus free lunch,” and his inbox will be flooded within 24 hours with photos of scraggly-extensioned, orange-complected whores, all vying for his magnificent paycheck. PLEASE!

It’s really funny what these bargain-basement A-holes ask for, too: “MUST BE BILINGUAL IN FRENCH AND KAZAKH, 7’5″ OR TALLER WITH A MINIMUM GGG CUP. $9 per hour plus free gropes.” Seriously! I wonder who these idiots end up hiring. $9/hour?!

Now, I know it sounds exceedingly petulant to grip about making $9/hour when there are Chinese peasants making 1000 iPods a day for 33cents.  But let’s just consider the market here. First of all, I know exhibitors at these expos are shelling out beaucoup bucks already — the convention hall charges them for everything from floor space to carpet to chairs and even the wastebasket. But hiring a booth model actually SAVES them money, because now they have to pay to fly one less employee out, pay for one less hotel room, etc. So you wouldn’t think they’d begrudge paying a little more than minimum wage — especially when they’re demanding “model” looks.

So, what is an appropriate wage? The average is between $250-400 for an 8 hour day. At least, that used to be the average before the cheapasses and dumbasses on Craigslist fucked it up for everyone. Now you see plenty of ads offering $100 or $125/8 hours. But most respectable agencies pay in the $250-400 range. And clients, if you’re THAT fuckin’ cheap…Sapphire strip club offers FREE booth models (seriously, they send over some of their dancers in “businesswear” to work your booth — for FREE! But again, Caveat Emptor…there’s a reason those strip clubs aren’t lit with bright fluorescent lights).

For this upcoming CES, I got the gig through a photographer I shot with once, and it’s paying only $200/day. Weak! I almost turned it down, because I can make that flashing my beaver for 2 hours, and have a lot more fun. But I’m kinda hard up for money right now, so I said yes. I’ll be sorry I did when I’m getting up at 6am every day next week! Bah!!!

It’s not just the getting up early, it’s the freezing your tits off because it’s 40 degrees in there and you’re wearing little more than a pinstriped thong. It’s the draining effect of standing on your feet under fluorescent lights all day, listening to dead-eyed salarymen bleat corporate-speak platitudes…and then having to smile and respond wittily to their half-baked come-ons. And it’s having to do all this in HIGH HEELS! Did I mention these shows run for 8 or 9 HOURS?!

Now to be fair, there were one or two shows I worked that were pretty sweet. One CES I worked for Netgear, and they let me wear a little Netgear sweater and sit on my fat ass behind a little Netgear desk all day. Another year I worked the Nightclub & Bar show for some media company, but all we did was cruise around and get free samples of booze all day, every day. But the best was this one time I worked the Adult Entertainment Expo.

The AEE (or porn convention, as it’s more commonly called) is usually held at the same time as CES, so that all the tech dorks can sneak a peek before going back home to Mommy, Junior and Little Susie. For the last two years, I bailed on CES in favor of AEE (this year for some reason, they moved AEE to the weekend following CES…so I can work both). Anyhoo, the first year I worked AEE I got the gig on craigslist — it was for Christian Audigier Condoms — a line of ultra-premium condoms made from the finest Malaysian latex (come to find out, there really is a latex tree, and it grows best in Malaysia). The guy running the company was a Beverly Hills rich kid stoner who basically just licensed the Christian Audigier name — the condoms had nothing to do with Ed Hardy or anything.

The Beverly Hills Stoner (or BHS) wasn’t even really interested in selling condoms — I think he just started the company to get booth space at the porn show. What he was REALLY interested in was this screenplay he was writing, which he kept in one of those old-time composition books. I peeked in it once when he went to the bathroom, and it was excruciating! Anyway, I think he hired me because of my ass — he was obsessed with asses, and every afternoon after we got high we would go over to the Elegant Angel booth to stare at Alexis Texas, the ginormous-assed porn star who was signing autographs over there. Yes that’s right, I said after we got high — every afternoon, after lunch, he would invite me out behind the convention center to smoke a joint. We’d be standing there on the corner of Koval Lane and Sands Ave, puffing away, me in a bikini and platforms. Nice! Who was watching over the booth during all this, you ask? Why, Mom and Dad, of course — inexplicably, his ancient Jewish Mother and Father had come along to the show, and were constantly fussing with him.

When not getting high on the streetcorner, my job duties were limited to lying on this bed they had set up in the booth, and posing for photos with showgoers. Every once in awhile, if I wanted to, I could hand out some condom samples and tell people about how ultra-premium the Malaysian latex was…but it wasn’t really necessary. Now, THAT was a sweet gig! The BHS even introduced me to Larry Flynt, plus I got my photo taken with Evan Stone and Corey Feldman. Gooooooooooood times.

That was one of the best shows I ever worked…well OK, it was pretty much the ONLY show I ever worked that was awesome. The rest of ’em were more or less interminable days of TORTURE (as I’m sure this upcoming week will be)! Thus, I present for your reading pleasure…

My Top Five Worst Tradeshow Gigs:

1. First place goes to the first trade show I ever worked, a scrapbooking convention (basically, a show for matrons and other Michaels craft store denizens). This was before I realized I could be a booth “model,” so I was just hired as a regular sales assistant for $125/day by this little old Jewish couple from Yonkers. They were very nice, but bickered constantly and the show was super boring.

2. One of the first tradeshows I booked as a booth model was the Waste Expo. Everyone who’s ANYONE in the garbage industry goes to this show, and I had a gig working for a dumpster manufacturer. They had hired me and this other chick to run this cheesy putting challenge they’d set up in their booth, and the other chick was scandalous. She was kinda homely and on the wrong side of 40, so I think she was extra flirtatious to make up for it — any time a guy came up to try the putting challenge, she would grab his club and back her ass up into his crotch to demonstrate how he should be holding it. Then she’d run over to the end of the putting green: “Now put your ball in the little hole between my legs!” Yuk, HYUK! The Waste people ate it up, though, and she even scored us each a $100 tip, by giving the dumpster manufacturer a sob story about how the “agency” takes 20% of our pay…boo hoo hoo…

3. Speaking of scandalous, the SEMA (auto accesories) show is always a good one for slutty models. The convention authority supposedly has a code of conduct when it comes to models’ outfits at shows, but apparently their standards are lax — one year, a floormat manufacturer had his models dressed in nothing more than two floormats and some string! I was fortunate enough to have scored a classy gig, doing product demos for this crazy German inwentor who lived in a Bavarian castle, where he dreamed up this light-up LED gear shift knob that uses an accelerometer to show you what gear you’re in. The had a sample gear shift mounted on a pedestal, and my job was to demo it all day long by shifting. After a few hours of my deft maneuvering, one of the guys in the booth across the aisle came over: “Honey, you’re killin’ us!” Yuk, HYUK!

3. Another year, I worked the auto show for this WEIRD company that had to sit me down over breakfast at the Cheesecake Factory to explain what they did — it was that complicated. To this day, I don’t really get it — they “provide solutions for problematic excess inventory,” but I was NOT under any circumstances to say “barter…” although it sounded to me like that’s exactly what they did. I guess they would buy a bunch of out-of-season panties from Victoria’s Secret, then trade them to some guy wanting to unload 50,000 floppy disks of the Oregon Trail. Something like that! Anyhoo, the gig was suuuuuuper boring because they left me alone all day long, every day. If anyone came by, I was to tell them “We Provide Solutions For Problematic Excess Inventory” and then give them a pen, stress ball, or other promotional tchotchke. (Speaking of that, I *HATE* when people are greedy at trade shows, and run around collecting as much free shit as they can…they always try to be sneaky, and get more than one: “Could I git one for my cousin, too?” “Have to get one for BOTH kids, you know…Dad can’t just bring home one, or it’ll be ugly!” I always lie and make up some excuse why I’m so sorry, but I can’t…it drives me NUTS!

Anyway, back to the Auto Show…it was so boring, that the highlight of the show was when this creepy member of the Saudi Automotive Industry Delegation showed up and spent an hour trying to convince me to come to Saudi Arabia sometime. Yeah, RIGHT! Do I LQQK like I’d fit in in Saudi Arabia?!?!?!?!?!?!

4. Another shitty show I worked was a convenience store owners’ powwow. Basically, all these awful “food” vendors were there passing out free samples of their nasty-ass crap: corn dogs, 5-Hour Energy drinks, etc. The bad part wasn’t the work itself (I was playing the Peanut M&M for M&M Mars…so I was inside a costume, out of harm’s way)…it was the food, which I was soooo bored that I ate at least one of everything there. Hot dogs, corn dogs, Twizzlers, Slim Jims, nachos, Twinkies…ugh, I get sick even remembering it. The name of that show shoulda been CancerCon!!

5. I worked the shoe show a couple of times for this *W*E*I*R*D* company out of Miami that made a sneaker with an implanted tracking device, so that you could keep track of your kids and demented parents. As a bonus, if you were kidnapped or got lost, all you had to do was push the panic button on the side, and the 911 call center was alerted. The shoes were overpriced and clearly a novelty, yet the company staff was overflowing with thug-glam Miamians in expensive clothes, all bitching about one another behind everyone’s backs. I personally think it was all a front for some shady drug operation…they couldn’t possibly have been real!

Anyhoo, that’s why I hate working conventions….but as you can see, they’re also kinda interesting and fun, in weird ways. Also, the bonus with the bigger shows like CES is that among the 100,000 or so attendees will be many amateur photographers…I’ve already been hit up several times on my Model Mayhem page by guys wanting to shoot during CES week. Unfortunately I’m already working day and night, so I had to turn some of them down…but I did find time to squeeze in one quickie earlier today at the Cosmopolitan.

The photographer was a guy I’ve shot with many times — a businessman from California who got tired of the corporate life and took a year’s hiatus to travel the world, photographing beautiful women. His little hiatus cost him $150,000 (he is very lavish — he pays very generously and provides luxury lingerie for the models), plus he got tangled up with one of his models (who was 20, and he’s 60)…so now his break’s over and he’s had to go back to work. He and a colleague shot me up in their CEO’s suite; the CEO hadn’t arrived yet, but everything was set up for a week of meetings — banners and signage and crap. Very depressing! My friend is still a baller, and ordered up champagne for the shoot…so I was basically lounging around on the balcony, in the sun (it was beautiful weather today), swilling champers…and getting paid for it. Life’s a bitch!

Then they wanted to play a trick on the CEO, who is apparently a very handsome but very shy Swede. I guess one time in Stockholm the three of them shared a prostitute, and the CEO went last and made an unholy mess. As revenge, they paid me $20 for a pair of my panties and left it hidden in the pillows on his bed. They also had me smear a little lipstick on his pillow for good measure!. Those craaaaaaaaaaaaazy corporate hijinks… It makes me SO GLAD I don’t work in an office, bottling up my inner freak until it’s packed so tightly it comes exploding out on every business trip! For me, every is Shenanigans Day…and that’s the way I likes it!

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The Shitty Update (Fun Update to Come on Wednesday)

Ho, ho, ho… BAH! This is without question the shittiest Xmas I’ve ever suffered through. I couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree, and had to settle for painting my pubes green 🙁

This is a 2-part entry, because I waited soooo long to update that I did a million interesting things, and it would take too long to write it all at once. So first, I’m just going to tell you about how fucking miserable I’ve been! Seriously, I’ve been weeping, bawling, sobbing and screaming most every night…only taking the occasional breather to guzzle alcohol and inhale medicine to dull the pain. It sucked!

Anyhoo, I’ve never been a big Christmas fan, and I’m certainly no believer…but I generally enjoy the season anyway, what with all the hot boozy drinks, parties and time spent with my nutty family. Corny as it may sound, it’s a time of year for being cozy and loved and pleasantly buzzed in front of the fire.

But this year, it’s been shit. As you’ll recall, I can’t afford the mortgage on my insanely underwater house, and my bank won’t write down my principal…so I’ve decided to short sell it. My attorney listed it the day before Thanksgiving, so all weekend (including on the holiday itself) I was getting calls from all kinds of Realtors, wanting to come check the place out. I was at my mom’s house in California, so I told everyone to come by when I got back to Vegas on Monday.

So on Monday, starting at the UNDOGLY hour of 9:30am, a constant stream of Realtors and potential buyers passed through my house. The first guy showed up at 9:30 am (!!!), and from there one it was one after the other, sometimes two at a time, all…day….long. It was exhausting! Do you have any idea how demoralizing it is to have total strangers tramping through your home, poking into your closets and drawers and looking askance at your wigs and oddities?! I felt like I was running a fuckin’ museum! (I should have opened up a gift shop, to sell my panties!)

All types of people crossed my threshold — it  seemed that all of Vegas wanted a piece of the action! Rightly so, since it was listed at $109,000 — a steal! I mean, a ridiculous steal — all day long people were asking me suspiciously, “So why are you selling this place?” as if I was hiding some awful secret, like, “Oh, because there was a mass murder here and the place is haunted by a thousand ghosts,” or, “Oh, there’s a mad plumbing problem.” The sad truth is, I’m selling it because I HAVE to! I don’t WANT to — I just can’t afford it. I LOVE my house, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life paying off a bum loan on it.

Of course I didn’t say all that to my potential buyers — I was trying to sell the fuckin’ joint, not freak people out. I even took care to cover up the ginormous DDD-size tits on my porn-shop mannequin — normally, as you know, I refuse to kow-tow to the bourgeois moral code of the day…but for propriety’s sake, I did cover her up with a scarf. And good thing– not one but TWO Orthodox Jewish families came in to look! One mother was pregnant with a toddler in tow — can’t have little Ari traumatized by titties at the crazy godless shiksa’s house! (Even though that little bastard Ari toddled into MY kitchen, and opened MY cupboard door, and took out one of MY Capri-Suns and put his drooly crumby lips all over it. Fucker!)

Yes that’s right, not one but TWO Orthodox families came to look — one of them even submitted an offer, mentioning on the offer that I should sell to them because their Rabbi lives down the street and my little side patio would be the perfect spot for them to build a Sukkot hut on Passover. Hmm! Wicca World is also down the block…maybe if I’d have mentioned that in the listing, I could have sold to a wizard!

I showed to several other parties, including a young Mexican couple in a Jarritos van (which probably freaked my neighbors out), an old Filipino couple, a trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil and a wacky pink-haired drummer wearing those Vibram 5-toe shoes. All in all, your typical Vegas house-buying crowd. This went on and on and on until the last party left around 6:30pm…and by day’s end, I had eight offers. Not bad!

My attorney advised me on which offer to accept (the Mexicans in the Jarritos van, hahahahaha — they had straight cash, yo), so then I had to go back and fill out about 50 pages of paperwork, attesting to my broke-ass financial state and basically pleading with Friendly Mr. Banker the Buttfucking, Bloodsucking Ass Pirate to let me off the hook. *HOPEFULLY* they accept the offer and waive the remainder of my debt… but who knows? Even if they do (which I REALLY hope they do), it could be months before it’s all said and done! And meanwhile…I can’t make any plans for my own future. It SUCKS!

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even stomach the sound of Xmas music — I’ll be driving around town on my miserable rounds, glaring at other people’s cozy houses with lit trees and decorations in the windows, and some dumb fuckin’ Peace on Earth Silent Night shit comes on the radio, and I start bawling my eyes out in anger, fear and JEALOUSY. Why did I fuck up so badly?! Arrrrrrrgh! I go home to “my” house, which isn’t even MINE, and half the shit is already in boxes, and I didn’t even bother putting up any decorations. What’s the point?

All I want is a cute little bungalow in a shitty neighborhood — so long as it’s MINE! I just want a place, however humble, that is ALL MINE, that no fucking banker will ever be able to gouge excess money from me for. Is that too much to ask? Out of idle curiosity, I did a search of the real estate listings in Vegas for all single family homes under $50,000 — and nearly 4,000 listings came up! Seriously!

NOW HEAR THIS: there has to be somebody reading this who can help me. I’m guessing that bastard Jamie Dimon didn’t read my last post (although, frighteningly, after I emailed him…someone actually called me the very next day! It was just a secretary, and she didn’t offer much more than a half-assed vow to “look into” my fraudulent mortgage…but still. After three years of banging my head on the wall, to finally get an answer totally blew my mind!).

Anyhoo, as I was saying, there has to be SOMEBODY among my readership with $50,000 to spare. If you’re out there, please buy me this house:

If you don’t care for this house in particular, there are many more on my list, which I’ll gladly share with you. And I promise to pay you back in a timely manner, at 2% interest…or, if you prefer, you could just gift it to me out of the generosity of your heart. Or we could work out a trade where I write for you, model for you or vacuum your balls for you….or whatever!

All I’m saying is, because of my predicament, I won’t be able to buy a house myself, in my own name, for quite some time. And I’m gonna be forced out of my current joint sooooon…in the dead of winter, no less. Have a heart! Otherwise, I’m gonna end up living at one of those shitty weekly motels with all the hookers and drug dealers (seriously! I already have it planned out).

I fell like one of those unbearable sappy Xmas story characters: [spoken in a thick baby voice] “Dear Jebus [or Santa, whatever], all I want for Christmas is a home of my own.” I just wanna lay in MY OWN BED, under MY OWN roof, and not have to fucking worry anymore! Why, once I get my own home at last, I’ll even take a page from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and give my porno mannequin a name. All these years I’ve had her, I never bothered naming her, because as Holly Golightly said:

“Poor slob without a name! The way I see it, I haven’t got the right to give [her] one. We don’t belong to each other. We just took up one day…I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s.”

Well, that’s where me and the fake-ass, bullshitting, false-hope-giving movies part ways: I would NEVER want to live at a place like Tiffany’s.

Unless you’re talking about Tiffany’s Cafe at the White Cross Drugstore in downtown Vegas. I’d live there anytime!

Part Two soon to come….stay tuned!

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The Silver Slurper Gets Eaten by a Giant Frog


Boring part first, fun part later. Although the boring part is so fucked-up and Byzantine, it might interest you despite its being about (what else) my mortgage mess.

Most of my week was taken up with bawling and gut-churning indecision over this fiasco. Those who have been following along know that I was approved for an extremely ill-advised loan back in 2007, and despite the fact that I never earn more than $35,00 per year, was somehow offered a $340,000 mortgage…which, despite the fact that I’ve already paid $125,000 toward it, has now ballooned to $375,000 thanks to interest, late fees and penalties). Meanwhile, the house is now worth $90k. Go figure!

For the last few years I’ve been doggedly pursuing a loan modification. Over the three years, many people told me I was being foolish, and that it would never work out and I might as well just “walk away” (let the bank foreclose and take my house). Well, for once in my life I was actually OPTIMISTIC, and wrote off those people as negative haters. I figured if I just stuck to my guns, and faxed, scanned & emailed endless reams of documents as per the bank’s demands…in the end, it would pay off and they would work with me. I figured I was doing the right thing by not just abandoning the house and thus creating more residential blight…but BOY, was I ever wrong!

I stuck to my guns for 3 years, finally getting a trial loan modification and then a mediation hearing, where my bank was supposed to offer me a workable deal. But the deal they offered me was terrible: all they would do was extend the term of my loan from 30 to 40 years, and bring my interest rate down from 6.25% to 5%. BIG FRIGGIN’ DEAL! They flat-out refused to reduce my principal… so I finally had to give up and admit defeat 🙁

After three years of struggling, it is a bitter pill to swallow…but after crying for around 30 hours, I figured that finally coming to this realization would actually be liberating; for the past 3 years I’ve been stressed, miserable, confused and have suffered debilitating depression and insomnia. I figured finally just letting go, giving in, letting them win and take my house back would initially suck, but…I’d get over it in time, and would actually be better off. WRONG AGAIN!

Listen up, all of who say I should “just walk away.” They always say “just” walk away…like it’s the easy answer; a walk in the park. I’m here to tell you: IT ISN’T!

These fuckers make it NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE to ever be free. They’re not satisfied with taking my house back — they want to pursue me into the ground and get every last drop of my blood. I’m serious! I already offered to give ’em the house back if they would just write off my debt (what’s called a Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure)…but of course they wouldn’t take it. They want me to try and short sell it first, which is fine and I don’t mind doing it…except for the fact that EVEN if I’m able to find a short sale buyer, I’m still not guaranteed that they’ll sign a waiver releasing me from the rest of the debt. And in a short sale, they have SIX YEARS to come after you for the money you owe them!

I’m also afraid those greedy fucking bloodsuckers won’t even accept a short sale in the first place — they look at your financials and then decide if they should “let” you short sell. I would think that looking at my own financials (I make around $2000 per month, and my mortgage payment is $2300), that it would be a no-brainer. But you’d be surprised…especially considering the fact that I’ve just spent THREE YEARS trying to convince them I’m in good enough financial health to make a loan modification worthwhile to them. It’s a fucking nightmare!

Another thing hampering my case is the fact that my foreclosure proceedings actually started back on March 29…so I’m pretty far along in the process. My attorney thinks I have about 3 months before they sell my house at auction, so I’m in a race against the clock to find a buyer in time. If I don’t, they take my house (which is fine with me)…but then they have 6 months to come after me for the money I owe them! And according to my attorney, they really are starting to come after people — and not just the big fish. Regular pissant peasants, like me, are now being sued by multi-billion-dollar banks for their mortgage debt — they want their pound of flesh, and by God they’ll get it! Even if they have to drive you into the poorhouse/insane asylum/off a bridge to try and get it.

Soooooo….I’m basically panicking, and in a state of constant agony. My eyes are a puffy, swollen mess, my stomach feels like it’s eating itself alive, and I’ve been drinking myself into a stupor every night just to try and sleep to forget about it for a few hours. I just want to be free. ATTN CHASE BANK: you can HAVE the $125,000 I’ve already given you — and you can have the house back, in perfect condition! DO YOU REALLY NEED MORE? Do you really need to hunt me down and ruin my life over this? Are you that fuckin’ greedy, assholes? Apparently, yes!

My best-case scenario is if I can find a short sale buyer ASAP. Sooooooo…. with that in mind, I present you the Deal of a Lifetime: Who Wants to Buy My House?! If interested, click on the link below to see photos and specs of the property. I expect it to be appraised at between $90k-$110…so someone will be getting a REAL STEAL on a badass historical house that’s oooooozing with character. Look for yourself:

Who Wants to Buy My House?

The worst part of all this is, I have at least one friend and a few family members who have offered to buy the house for me, then sell or simply gift it back to me. Unfortunately, this is illegal — as part of a short sale, you have to sign an “Arm’s Length Affidavit,” which basically affirms that the buyer is not a family member or a business associate, and that you will never, ever buy the house back from them or from anyone else, EVER. Even 50 years from now! They want to make sure they’re fucking you good and hard, tearing your perineum as badly as possible. If you dare lie on this affidavit, they can come after you for the very serious offense of mortgage fraud.


You wanna talk about mortgage fraud? I bought my house in 2008, when comparable properties in the area were going for around $250,000. I paid $380,000! Why? Because the appraiser assured me it was really worth $380,000! And why did he do that? Let’s speculate: the woman I bought the house from was a Realtor herself, and she owed $500,000 on the house…so she was trying to short sell it for $400,000. We offered $320k, she came back with $380k. And conveniently, she had an appraiser all lined up and ready to go “if” we needed one. Of course, they were probably in cahoots, and he deliberately over-appraised the house so that she could get the bank off her back…meanwhile leaving me on the hook to pay for it for the rest of my miserable life. THANKS A LOT, BITCH! Then some crookedy-ass fucker at the bank approved my no-doc loan, undoubtedly knowing full well I’d end up foreclosing…and they still got $125,000 out of me plus a huge write-off for the foreclosure. THAT’S MORTGAGE FRAUD!

It makes me so mad I can hardly breathe…but what really makes me mad is the fact that THERE IS NOWHERE I CAN TURN! NO ONE CARES that I was a victim of mortgage fraud — but God forbid I try to sell the fuckin’ place to a family member. They can perpetrate all the fraud they want…but the minute I try and do it, forget about it. I could sue Chase, but I ask you….how far would I get with that?!?! I’m a fucking peon peasant — I can’t afford to sue the King. They’d grind me into the dirt. So…all I can do is sit here and seethe, and pray that someone comes along with cash to buy my house tomorrow. It’s a nightmare!

I did come up with one idea to get back at ’em, though. If they refuse to approve the short sale, or if they refuse to waive my deficiency in the event of a short sale, I AM GOING DOWN TO THE #OCCUPYLASVEGAS ENCAMPMENT (which is in a shitty little parking lot across from the airport) AND INVITING THEM ALL TO CAMP IN MY YARD!!! As mentioned I have a huge lot — plenty of room for all those tents and bullhorns. We’ll occupy the FUCK out of my house, and make it next to impossible for those fuckers at Chase to take it back! LOLZ!!!!! My neighbors will hate me…but guess what? They ain’t gonna be my neighbors for very much longer, anyway.

Anyhoo, ENOUGH mortgage talk. Now for the fun half of my blog. I was so miserable about all of this all week that it was extremely difficult to have a good time — but somehow, I still managed! No thanks to work, though –the headliner in the showroom where I do my souvenir photo job has rotated again, and this fucking Mullet McWartface has been playing all month. It’s terrible! The problem stems from the fact that his fanbase consists of crinkly old cougars, most of them from down South, all of them with big blonde hair and too many crow’s feet to ever want to buy a souvenir photo. All they wanna do is jump onstage and rape Mullet McWarftface — seriously! Even at his advanced age (67), the women are crawling at his feet. It’s hilarious!

Not so hilarious is the fact that I’ve been making piss-poor money as a result of these miserable hags — only $30-60 a night! Thankfully I don’t count on that job to support me anymore, and was able to scare up some other work to make ends meet. One day I went over and filmed new videos for my medical/breath-holding fetish website — we did the usual heartbeat stuff, including a clip of me underwater in the bathtub having my heartbeat recorded (?!?!???), and then did some belly-noise clips. For these videos, the fans like it when you have lots of growling and churning noises in your belly, so usually I’ll eat something weird and fucked-up before filming one. Well, this time I didn’t need to worry about it — all the worry and stress has made my belly a permanently roiling bog of terror and acid reflux…and it went bananas on camera! Talk about making lemonade…I’ve already sold several of these clips! The fans love it!

Then I did a shoot for the awesomest website in the world,, in which I did the usual burping, farting, sneezing and overeating shtick. It was great, especially the overeating part because it was ice cream (!!!!!Yay!!!!!) — and the director, this awesome young chick named Claire, told me to fart or whatever as needed while eating. So….I farted — a pretty loud one, too, but because I’m lactose intolerant it was soooooo foul that Claire almost dropped the camera! And she’s one to talk — she does the grossest stuff on that site (look it up if you don’t believe me).

But the best video we filmed that day was this custom request from a fan who wanted to see a girl get eaten by a giant frog! Claire brought over this frog-shaped clothes hamper, and we filmed a mini-epic in which I get undressed to get in the shower, leaving my clothes on the counter next to the frog. After I get in the shower, the frog sticks out his tongue and eats all my clothes, gobbling them up with relish (Claire was hiding in the hamper, with a long pink sock covering her arm to look like a tongue, LOL). I get out of the shower and look around for my clothes: “What the fuck?! I just put them down right here!” I eyeball the hamper suspiciously…then open it up and reach my arm in to get my clothes back out — at which time the “frog” sucks me down and gobbles me up! I scream and struggle around for ten minutes as the frog eats more and more of me (this was achieved through many cuts and many creative camera angles), and then finally, after the tips of my toes disappear into the frog’s mouth, the frog licks his lips and burps out my panties. LOLZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As far as trying to understand the psychology behind this particular request…the best I could figure is that it’s basically a form of vore. Vore is a fetish in which the guy dreams of being eated and digested by a giant woman — apparently reverse vore is when a guy dreams of a WOMAN being eaten and digested by a monster or frog (one popular vore model just covers her boyfriend with a blanket and calls him a “monster…” Talk about shitty production values!). Well, Claire and the good people at GirlsGoneRude will not settle for shitty production values, so she is working on building a full-size monster that can actually “eat” women whole. LMFAO!!!!! I can’t wait to see it! And shoot with it!!

Now aside from fetish, I also did a couple regular old-fashioned photo shoots this week. One was with this traveling Bohemian art nude model I know (the one from my hot lesbo photos a few months back, the ones that got me deleted from Google+) who had arranged a shoot with a photographer in a room at Harrahs. Never the most exciting place to shoot…but interestingly, this was the same location and same photographer I shot with for my very first paid nude shoot! Ah, memories… that was back in November 2008. I’ve come a long way, baby!


My other shoot was a creative funfest with Randy Fosth a/k/a Shutterbug Studio. I havethis long black wig I bought for $3 at a thrift store (a real steal, considering it was originally TEN DOLLARS at WalMart)…so you can imagine what a shitty-quality wig it is. Still, I used it for those Dia de Los Muertos photos I did back around Halloween, and it looked pretty good on camera. So I decided we should do a Cher photoshoot in it!

First, I put out the call on Facebook: “Does anyone have an Indian headdress I can borrow for a photo shoot?” Out of alllllllll my 1,000+ “friends,” most of whom are artsy costume-type people…NOT ONE PERSON responded 🙁 So I went to my favorite costume store, HalloweenMart, but all they had was a deluxe $35 model…and I didn’t want to spend $35 for a one-off photo. But I checked all over town, and that was the only thing I could find…so I just went ahead and bought it. Fuck it, I’m losing my house anyway…might as well spend a few bucks and have some fun.

I looked up some drag queen tutorials on YouTube, to see how professional female impersonators make their features look like Cher. Thanks to a couple of extremely fabulous videos (shout out to Misty Valley Paramount and Breathless in Wonderland), I was able to recreate Cher’s hooded eyelids, loooooong face and high cheekbones….sort of. Well enough, anyway!

Then I figured, since I had the wig on anyway, might as well do some Toke-a-hontas shtick with it (at right). Alas, I didn’t have a real peace pipe with me….just my friend J.R.’s regular glass pipe.

Then I went from one kind of Indian to the other, doing a look I’ve always wanted to recreate: Bollywood!!! I find everything about Bollywood fabulous (well, except for this one time in Fed. 2010 when I was an extra in a Bollywood movie filming out at Lake Las Vegas, for which I STILL haven’t been paid for), and I’ve always wanted to dress up like a Bollywood starlet. I put on this Nepalese wedding jewelry my mom gave me for my birthday one year, and went to town. Randy’s idea was to make it look like I was enslaved in a Calcutta brothel, so he wanted me to cry…but unfortunately, my tear ducts were exhausted from having been sobbing allllll week long, so I remained dry-eyed. D’oh!

Anyway, after all that the wig was basically trashed…but I still hung onto it. Because… you never know 🙂

Now meanwhile, through all this my friend J.R. was in town, having a mental breakdown of his own. He says he’s under a lot of stress because of all his money, and everyone wanting a piece of him, and a bunch of other stuff going on in his life (including a severe midlife crisis), so he ended up staying in Vegas WAY past his original departure date. He delayed his departure date twice, the second time after I had already dropped him off at the airport! He ended up taking a cab to a “shitty dive” motel near the airport, which I’m sure couldn’t have been that bad (although he made it sound like the worst fleabag dump in Mogadishu)…but apparently it was bad enough that he ended up moving to the Luxor, where he ran into some trouble with a Lady of the Night.

Apparently, he was hanging around the casino at Planet Hollywood (why on Earth anyone would do that, I have no idea…I despise that facility) when he ran into this tall, beautiful big-titted blonde. Just his type — although as mentioned many times, he has a weakness for all hot girls, no matter the specs. Anyway, after negotiating a “party” fee, she drove him to the Luxor in her shitty old beater car, and proceeded to blow him and then rob him of $2000! He sent me some pics of her, in case I ever run into her (I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do…kick her ass? Puncture her implants?)…and I found them faaaaaascinatingly depressing and evocative of Diane Arbus. Lesson learned, J.R….although you’d think he would have already learned his lesson, since this has already happened to him once!!! LOLZ! Even now, he’s in Miami with that fake blonde bitch Bobbi Jo (one of the mean whores he brought to dinner with me one night in Vegas)…better watch yourself, J.R.!

After J.R. left, I busied myself with more mortgage-related hell….but took one short break to participate in the Sons of Italy’s heralded Spaghetti-Eating Contest down at the South Point casino. I was driving home from my medical fetish shoot earlier in the week when I saw the contest advertised on their marquee…and knew I had to enter! I’ve dabbled in competitive eating for a few years now, having beat my ex-brother-in-law at an ice-cream eating contest once, but I’ve had mixed results. I failed miserably in the Nathan’s Hot Dog qualifying round here in Vegas (I placed 6th out of 12, but they were all men), and then another time my friend Boris and I tried to complete the pizza challenge at MoonDoggie’s (a local bar), but we failed at that too — and now our photo is up forever on their Wall of Shame 🙁

Anyway, for this spaghetti contest, the prize was $1,000 for whoever could eat the most 1-pound plates of spaghetti in seven minutes. I didn’t really expect to win, but I figured you never know….all the big-time competitive eaters might not enter because of the piddly prize money, so I might have a chance. With that in mind, I created a persona, dressed all in glittering silver: The Silver Slurper. At the Nathan’s hot dog contest (and all other competitive eating events sponsored by the IFOCE — International Federation of Competitive Eaters), the participants all had funny names and backstories and entrance music and stuff, so I figured I’d join in. Alas, this contest wasn’t an officially IFOCE-sanctioned event….so the emcee just looked at me like I was weird. (The IFOCE’s emcee is an AMAZING silver-tongued, garrulous carny with a straw boater and a seersucker suit…he is a GENIUS! See pic at left.) This spaghetti contest emcee was just some local goombah, though…and he didn’t know what to make of me.

There were sooo many people at this contest (apparently $1,000 IS a good prize amount for this type of thing…d’oh) that they broke it down into 3 heats. After watching the first two heats, I knew I had no chance: in the first round, this little old man named Rich “the Locust” LeFevre crammed 10 POUNDS of spaghetti down his gullet! This man is nothing short of amazing: at the age of 67, this wizened little sprite is a full-time pro competitive eater who can put away ASTONISHING amounts of food…without gaining an ounce. He trains for this stuff very methodically, and the best part is that his wife is ALSO a competitive eater! I don’t remember her name, but she’s one of those slim, perfectly-coiffed glamorous grandma types with oversized sunglasses and pearls and stuff. TOO COOL! She comes to all his eating matches to cheer him on (when she’s not doing her own eating, at which she is also amazingly good). Anyway, I remember her well because back in the day at that hot dog contest, as I was the only female contestant, she cheered for me very lustily. Sweet!

Anyway, once I saw the Locust was in the game, I knew it was all over. Then, ANOTHER contestant — one of the amateurs, no less — ate ELEVEN pounds! So at that point, I settled on just being the top female eater. But even THAT goal was demolished when this little tiny gal in round 2 ate TWELVE POUNDS of spaghetti!! Come to find out, she is actually a pro as well…oh well.

Anyway, by Round 3 I knew I had zero chance of setting ANY sort of record…so I settled for just not getting sick. I ended up eating 3 pounds, 4 ounces of spaghetti (which I don’t even LIKE)…and then later that night, I went home and ate a bunch of leftover P.F. Chang’s and half a carton of ice cream 🙁 (I was depressed, dammit!)


Anyhoo, thanks to my friends Guy and Jen for coming along and taking these awesome photos. My face was stained bright orange for the rest of the day from the grease in that nasty-ass sauce (now I know why I hate spaghetti!).







OK, now I gotta go get ready for my foot fetish photo shoot with….time to kick some more ass, yay!!! And after that, I have a hot date with my drag queen friend, Jennifer (a/k/a Jenny Bunny)! We’re going to the Heart Attack Grill so I can FINALLY indulge in one of their Quadruple Bypass Burgers (plus of course fries and a butterfat shake). All this overeating is good preparation for Thanksgiving, ya know!

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The Goddess vs. the Grape

This week, I got an exciting new gig as a model for…one of the Internet’s oldest foot fetish websites! I’m particularly stoked about this gig because a) it’s ongoing — they shoot twice a month, every month and b) it’s EASY! All I did was pose for a series of still photos, pretending to kick another chick’s ass, and then making her worship my feet (i.e. suck my toes and lick my soles, etc.). Easy! Because I was new, they didn’t make me do any of the toe-sucking…just the ass-kicking. But next month, I’ll probably have to do both :-/ Still….I’ll gladly suck a freshly-washed toe or two if it means being able to eventually quit my job.

Because, you see, that’s my plan. Lately it seems like my dumb-ass job has been getting in the way of all kinds of fun stuff I want to do, namely travel, party and booze — so I’ve formulated a plan to permanently ditch the rat race in favor of going full-bore Bohemian. It’s a Five-Point Plan:

1. Get rid of my house                                   I’ve been working on a loan modification on my fabulous estate for THREE YEARS, and I’ve finally come to the reluctant realization that it’s not worth it. I don’t want to be chained to a mortgage, even on a badass house like mine 🙁 I have a mediation hearing tomorrow, so we’ll see what happens…


2. Move into a shitty apartment                This part sucks, because I really don’t want to live cheek-to-jowl with hookers and crackheads…but I have no choice. I have to wait 6 months after surrendering my old house before I can buy a new one.

3. Buy a cheap shitbox in downtown Vegas   Anyone who’s read this blog knows how much I love downtown Vegas, so I might as well live closer to the action. Once I quit my job, I won’t even need to acknowledge the lame-ass tired old douchefest known as the Strip…except for the occasional mushroom-fueled nighttime barhopping foray!


4. Buy a new trailer                                           My pop-up camper has served me well through 2 Burning Mans, but if I’m serious about becoming a traveling gypsy, I need an upgrade. With a Casita or Scamp fiberglass trailer, I can go anywhere, and make money modeling along the way! I can’t afford not to buy one!

5. QUIT MY JOB                                               The only bummer about this is, I won’t have health insurance. Because some jackass psychiatrist diagnosed me as bipolar, it counts as a pre-existing condition that prevents me from buying personal coverage…but I figure by eliminating the SHIT and TORTURE I endure on a nightly basis, I won’t need a doctor anymore, anyway! I can scare up enough cash to finance my adventures by modeling and doing assorted gigs around town.

So anyhoo, look out: the adventures of Wonderhussy will only get better over the next year! Meanwhile, I tried to distract myself from my current shitty situation by keeping busy as follows:

After my Footmode shoot, I went down to check out the monthly Wonderground event over at the Olive Mediterranean restaurant. Wonderground is sort of a Happening involving artists, dancers and magicians, plus lots of food and booze. It’s good times! I’ve met a lot of cool people there, and have even been bodypainted at the event a time or two (as in the pic at left, when I was painted by Suzanne Lugano for a benefit they did for Japanese tsunami victims).

Anyhoo, everyone at Wonderground was all a-buzz talking about the upcoming annual Bonedance ritual out at this fertility temple in the desert. I remember wanting to go last year, but was unsure as to whether or not I’d be welcome — it’s a real ceremony, with no booze or electronic music, for people who identify as Goddess-worshippers, Wiccans and whatnot (they make up a sizeable percentage of the Wonderground crew). I realized how serious they were about it at the annual Witches’ & Wizards’ Ball last year — the annual W&W Ball is also held at the Olive, the day after the October Wonderground. I looooove a good costume party, so last year I went with some friends and dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, since I didn’t have a regular witch costume (shocking, I know). Well, imagine my embarrassment when I arrived at the party to find that it wasn’t that kind of witches’ & wizards’ ball…it was full of people who seriously believe themselves to be witches and wizards!! Can we say faux pas??

So anyhoo, I decided that this year, I must attend the Bonedance…Wiccan or no, booze or no. One of my photographer friends gave me the info, and after work on Saturday night I raced out to the desert to join in the revelry. IT………WAS…….AWESOME!

First of all, it’s at this kooky little fertility shrine way out in the desert north of Vegas, out in the middle of nowhere. The only thing nearby is Creech Air Force Base, a/k/a the place Sgt. Peanut blows people up with remote-controlled airplanes. It’s about an hour out of Vegas, so it was almost midnight by the time I made it out there…but I was totally glad I made the trip! In addition to their “no alcohol” policy (WTF!!!), they also had a “no photos” policy. If there’s one thing I HATE more than a “no alcohol” policy, it’s a “no photos” policy. FYI guys: at my house — and indeed anywhere else I happen to be — booze and photos are ENCOURAGED! Nay, MANDATED!

Anyhoo, I didn’t want to piss off any witches, so I didn’t take photos of the action…except from a respectful distance.  I’m including a few daytime pics I took once on a Harley ride with Muscles Manischewitz, so you can see what it looks like (it’s TOTALLY badass!), but try and imagine how DOUBLE-badass it was at night, under a million bazillion stars, lit only by firelight. Truly magical! Because I wasn’t able to take pics,

you’ll have to use your imagination — like the old days. But it’s worth it, I promise!!

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I brought along my drum just in case they had some tribal beats going on. And just in case I had misunderstood the booze policy, I brought a flask of wine. Having learned my lesson at last year’s W&W Ball, I dressed in a sort of neo-tribal Burning-Man-meets-Mexican-Funeral ensemble… but it was pretty cold out that night, so I also rummaged through my closet for my witchiest-looking hoodie…which was this:

I got it from a hippie nutcase I worked for one year at MAGIC (the fashion tradeshow)…he had a line of funky hippie clothes and he let me buy what I wanted from him at wholesale. I bought this hoodie in both red and black, and thought nothing of wearing it around town until one of my friends asked me if I was in the Klan. WHAT??! Nooooo! I never thought of it as a Klan thing — it looks like a Wizard hat to me. Does the KKK have the exclusive rights to pointy headgear? I mean, it’s BLACK, for Pete’s sake — if anything, it’s the ANTI-Klan! But my friend made me paranoid — I don’t want to piss off any black people, so nowadays when I wear it, I kind of bend the top point over — TOTALLY LAME, but less offensive, I guess. What do you think, reader??

So anyhoo, I donned my carefully bent hoodie, hid my wine flask in my bag and grabbed my drum…and headed out to the desert. Like I said, I was kinda hesitant…but as soon as I saw all the cars and tents camped out near the temple, saw the glow of a bonfire through the trees, and heard the sound of drumming, I knew I’d made the right call! I crunched up the gravel path and entered through a sort of canopied gate-type structure they’d erected, where a wizard waved a handful of smoldering sage across my body to sort of bless me or anoint me or whatever. I crossed through the gateway and found myself in an open area before the temple, where a hundred or more people were chanting and dancing counterclockwise around a huge bonfire, while a group of drummers beat a furious tribal tattoo off to one side. I joined the drummers and proceeded to BEAT the FUCK out of my drum — I loooooooooooooove me a drum circle, and this was one of the all-time best! They had all these drums and gongs and weird percussion instruments laid out for everyone to share, and it was REALLY cool. The only thing that would have made it even cooler is if I’d had a buzz…but as it was, I only managed a few furtive swigs from my flask 🙁 Hardly enough to get a good buzz going!

Behind us was the temple itself, which had another, more contemplative fire going inside where you could just sit and be mellow and reflect on the Goddess and the Blood of Your Ancestors and whatnot. About 100 feet away there was a secondary fire area, where witches and wizards were gathered to nosh on Doritos and drink water ($@%*#^!!!!).

Then, off to one side there was also this amazing beautiful red pavilion with an altar inside, where you could write messages to the departed on pieces of red fabric (I left a message for my dad). All in all it was a very serious affair, not really a party but not really somber, either.

In between bouts of drumming, I joined the caped masses in circling the bonfire, chanting and singing stuff like “Die to be Reborn!” and “I am Bones, I am Fire!” (Not exact quotes, but you get the idea: Manson Family meets Bilbo Baggins.) Every once in a while the chanting would stop and random revelers would extemporaneously spout stream-of-consciousness gibberish about the Goddess, the Fire, and the Spirits. One fur-clad reveler with the light of either religious ecstasy or insanity in his eyes told a sort of rambling, Castaneda-esque fable that reminded me of the Boring Prophet from Monty Python’s Life of Brian, and various Priestess-type women got up and sang/chanted prayers and the like.

Then, this old couple came out who were like the Elders of the local Witches and Wizards: a ginormous woman swaddled in quilts watched through glowing, narrowed eyes as her husband, a wizened old man with a long white beard, skull-printed fleece jammie pants and a glowing LED wizard’s staff, came forward to address the gathering. He waved a little book around and gave an impassioned incantation about Samhain and the Blood of our Ancestors, then flicked the book open so that it belched flames!!! Dramatic!!!!

After awhile the Wizard Elder went back and changed into one of those one-piece skeleton bodysuit costumes, and then danced around the fire waving around a huge scythe (I’m pretty sure it was the same man; I saw tie-dye and long grey hair peeking out the back of his bodysuit). Meanwhile, at least a hundred other people danced around in their furry, sequined, mirrored, feathered tribal best, and it was FABULOUS! The only downside was that one of the Steampunk-infused Priestesses kept yelling at the drummers that we weren’t drumming appropriately lugubriously…apparently she wanted something more funereal and dirge-like to accompany her Goddess-droning.

After about 3 hours I started to get cold (even my witchy hoodie wasn’t enough) and tired of all the spiritual mumbo-jumbo, so I packed up my stuff and drove home for a 4am glass of wine. So sue me — I prefer to worship the grape, not the Goddess. But all in all it was a FANTASTIC time, and I definitely plan on going again next year. I guess the real point of it is to drum and chant til sunrise…and it would have felt more healing and therapeutic if I’d done so, but I had no idea, and came underprepared. Next year for sure!!!

So after Bonedance, I pretty much slept all day and then went in to work Captain Fantastic’s last show of the year — his engagement is over, so now I’m looking at four weeks of a performer I’ll call Mullet McWartface — a gravelly-voiced legendary Scots womanizer who is popular with cougars and various other know-nothing Baby-Boomers. Seriously, where the fuck do they drag all these old zombies out of?! It’s ridiculous!

In between Captain Fantastic and Mullet McWartface, we had one solitary night of REAL music in the showroom — none other than Paul Simon came in to do a concert! I’m a huuuuge Paul Simon fan, so even though I knew I wouldn’t make any money off that room full of musty old Prius-driving intellectuals, I was totally stoked. I figured I could do like I did when Bob Dylan and Captain Fantastic first played, and find someone with an extra ticket who would let me sit with them (that’s how I met my friend J.R….at the Bob Dylan show). Accordingly, I loitered around the front orchestra section, chatting up single people and hoping for an invite that never came. Thankfully, one of my usher friends hooked it up for me and I was able to sit in one of the box seats, sandwiched between two grumping and grousing old couples, and watch the entire show. My friend even gave me a free drink ticket for a glass of wine, so it was allll good…and the show was great! I just loooove Paul Simon, but even better was watching the crowd: a room full of old white people getting down. I was particularly enamored of one portly, bearded old man, who looked to be a cardiologist or surgeon in real life, who’d had a few to drink and was jamming in the aisles to “Cecilia.” Too cute!!

So anyhoo, now I gotta go and get ready for my date tonight…I’m meeting up with a kook who used to work in the photo lab with me about 10 years ago. He was the manager, and he was one of those people who’s always full of these amazing, unbelievable stories that you just figure are B.S…but then improbably turn out to be true! Like he was always bragging about how he used to be a concert violinist, blah blah blah….until one night I came in and he was playing the violin (beautifully, I might add) in the squalor of the photo lab in the basement at the MGM Grand. We’ll see if any of his other stories are true…..

Channeling My Inner Man, Name That Tune Redux, and Mixing Garlic Olives with Blueberry Yogurt

Halloween is almost here, and it’s a very stressful time of year for me. Which costumes to choose? And which parties to attend??! I can’t BEAR the thought of missing anything really cool, so please let me know if there’s anything I should know about. My only solid plan so far is to make the 2nd Annual Las Vegas Halloween Parade downtown…everything else, I’m open. (And DON’T say Fetish & Fantasy Ball…I went last year, and that thing sucked balls. Highly overrated!)

Anyhoo, in keeping with the spirit of the season I decided to do a “Día de los Muertos” photo shoot with my dear friend Randy Fosth a/k/a Shutterbug-Studio. If you don’t know, Día de los Muertos is a Mexican celebration on the day after Halloween, where they remember their dead by painting crazy and colorful skulls…kinda like my makeup in the above pic. (Side note: I TOTALLY dig the crazy Mexican aesthetic…all the crazy colors and creepy religious iconography is right up my alley!)

Anyhoo, I underestimated the time it would take me to do the makeup, so I was around 2 hours late to our shoot. But thankfully, Randy was so taken with my look that he didn’t mind. We shot a few different looks for a couple hours, and it was fabulous. It always is!

But that wasn’t the only photo shoot I did this week. I also went downtown Sunday night to the Brass Lounge, which is right across the street from my new favorite hangout, the Heart Attack Grill (more on that later). Anyhoo, every Sunday night there’s a big modeling party at Brass Lounge, and they invite a bunch of scantily-clad “models” and put up lighting equipment and a stage on the balcony overlooking the Fremont Street Experience (the covered pedestrian mall area).

Anyhoo, you know how it is: it was Sunday night, I was tired from a long day, and I had just eaten a ginormous burrito for dinner. I did NOT feel like strapping myself into a sexy outfit and going down there! But I really like the people who run Brass Sundays and I wanted to support them, so I made myself get up and go in my closet and rummage around for something to wear. As you can see, I came up with this sexy Slash ensemble. Back in the day I was a huuuuge Guns ‘N’ Roses fan — my poor, long-suffering mom had to take my sister and I to see them play one time at the Oakland (CA) Coliseum, along with Metallica and Body Count (I was only 15; it was my first concert, LOL).

Anyhoo, my enjoyment of Slash in particular has been tempered somewhat over the years, especially since I saw him at the freaking CELINE DION show one time about 7 years ago. Slash, no!!!!! You just killed your rock-n-roll cred! But I still dig his look, and thought it would make for some cool pics. So I slapped it together and headed downtown.

The way it works, is they have some scantily-glad go go dancers bouncing around on the stage on the balcony, and while photographers blast away taking pics, the others wave and holler at passers-by, trying to get them to come up and do a photo shoot. All are welcome, and it’s a genuinely fun time! They’re having a Halloween party on Sunday the 30th…guess I should attend that, too!

Anyhoo, I channeled my inner Man for this shoot and asked all the go go babes to come up and pose with me. Now I know what it feels like to be a man — and I LIKE IT! Fuck that subservient weaker sex shit — I’m changing teams…when I save up enough money, that is.

Meantime, I’m still a woman…and alllllll woman, at that. I haven’t shaved or even groomed my bush since returning from Burning Man…and boy is it ever gnarly! Any photographers who wanna shoot some old-school 70s porn nudes, hit me up! It looks FANTASTIC! So fantastic, in fact, that the other day some random guy invited me to an ABC party, to be held at the “sick” mansion of some local porn producer. I didn’t know what “ABC” stood for, but after I’d already left the house I learned that it means “Anything But Clothes…” as in, costumes. Since I’d already left my house for the day, I figured I’d just borrow a pair of giant 70s sunglasses from work (we use prop glasses when we shoot the Captain Fantastic show)  and go nude, as a 1970s porn star. Boy would THAT have freaked out those porn poseurs!!! Alas, however, the flaky douchebag who invited me never texted me back with the address…until I had already gone home, eaten a medicinal cookie and changed into my PJs. There’s no WAY I’m going out after that! WARNING: if you want me to attend your party, GIVE ME THE DETAILS IN A TIMELY MANNER! I’m a busy woman; I don’t have time to sit around waiting.

Anyway, back to the highjinks at the Brass Lounge. Since I was down there anyway, I stopped in at the Heart Attack Grill to say hello to Dr. Jon and Nurse Tracy, two of my new favorite people. Their restaurant has been open almost a week now, and they hired all these young waitresses in slutty nurse dresses…but not to be outdone, Nurse Tracy (the head nurse) altered her own comfy scrubs into short-shorts!! LOL! She’s got the legs for it, too.

Anyhoo, business was booming, but that didn’t stop Doktor Jon from inviting me in for some shots and conversation. He’s a great host! He also invited me to the Today Show’s live taping down there Wednesday morning at 4am…he said I should dress in one of his nurse costumes or something and just be crazy in the background. As much as I want to be on the Today Show (America needs me), 4am is a brutal calltime. Still, I told him I’d do it if he really wants me to. I will sack up for that!

I hung out with Doktor Jon for quite awhile, but around 1am I had to head out — I’d had a loooong day! It started with me rolling my groggy over-medicated ass out of bed around 11am to head out to suburbia, to film new videos for my medical fetish website. I’ve spoken of this site before — it’s insane! The work is fairly easy, but to get to the guy’s house I have to drive ALLLLLLLLLL the way to the edge of the world — he lives way the fuck out on the southern edge of town, nearly in California, in this super-upscale gated community of McMansions and golf courses. Driving there is like riding the Stepford Wives ride at Univeral Studios — everything is overly manicured and well-kept, totally at odds with my beloved downtown Vegas. But it’s interesting all the same — and if the neighbors only know what was going on, it would be a scandal! And I looooooooooooooove me some scandal!!

Anyhoo, this time we filmed some stuff with me hooked up to all kinds of EKG electrodes (see pic above), doing sit-ups and holding my breath and whatnot. WEIRD! Then, for the belly-noise fans, we did a clip of me recording my stomach gurgles. For these clips, the more growling and gurgling the better…so the webmaster/videographer/silent partner in the site offered me the contents of his fridge. I decided to eat a couple of garlic-stuffed olives, which I figured would digest loudly when paired with a carton of blueberry yogurt and washed down with a cherry Coke Zero. Success!! My stomach went BALLISTIC!!! Can’t wait for the downloads to start rolling in….

After updating the medical fetish site, I next cruised clear across the valley over to the far western reaches of Red Rock Canyon, where every Sunday afternoon a bunch of local hippies hold a drum circle — excuse me, a “spiritual music circle” — in this little grove of trees near Oak Creek. I *LOVE* me a good drum circle, and I’ve been to some doozies! The best was probably that one I participated in at Burning Man this past summer (it was held at the Temple, at sunset on Friday night; if anyone has pics and/or video, please let me know)! I also went to a REALLY cool one on Baker Beach in San Francisco one time about 10 years ago. But this Vegas drum circle is pretty freaking sweet, too!

To get there, you drive allllll the way out west past the last casinos, out past Red Rock National Conservation Area (an area of astonishing natural beauty; if you happen to be visiting Vegas you should definitely check it out). You park at the side of the highway and then hike down a gravel trail toward this grove of oak trees in the shadow of the towering red rock mountains. The scenery is mind-blowingly beautiful, like a movie or something. But the best part is the SOUND — at first, all you hear is the crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel underfoot…but as you get closer, the drumming gets louder and louder… until you finally come upon a gathering of kooks and bohemians banging away on various percussion devices, in a circle under a tree. There’s usually a few didgeridoos, flutes and shakers floating around adding to the din, and without fail some half-baked weed-addled hippie will get up at some point and start chanting/moaning/throat singing/wailing. IT’S GOOOOOOOOOOOOD TIMES!!!! I have a video of the action, but I couldn’t find it on my hard drive and I couldn’t figure out how to upload it from my Facebook page…so you’ll just have to take my word for it that this is BAD ASS. Anyone ever wants to go, hit me up…I’ll take you!

So anyhoo, after breath-holding and drumming all day, I went and ate the aforementioned ginormous burrito (I <3 Chipotle!), drank a bunch of wine, and was ready to pass out…but I MADE myself get up and go do that Brass Lounge and Heart Attack Grill stuff! So you can see why I was so tired that day. And even then, I missed out on a bunch of fun stuff I wanted to do. There’s only one of me, but so many parties…. 🙁

Now speaking of busy days, I had another one last week, with one of my all-time best friends, my journalist pal Phil Connors! You might recall how a few months ago I went on “Name That Tune” at the Imperial Palace, a live stage version of the old game show where you can actually win $10,000. As you may recall, I came THISCLOSE to winning, having beaten everyone else in the theater to be the final contestant, at which point they give you 60 seconds to correctly identify 15 songs. But thanks to some bum advice from the audience, I lost 🙁

Well, a transvestite friend of mine gave me some free passes for the show, so I could go back and try again. I waited a suitable length of time, so they wouldn’t remember me, and even considered wearing a disguise…but then someone told me that it doesn’t matter; you can play as many times as you want! So I asked Phil, who is usually up for wacky shit like that, if he would accompany me. He used to be a rock music critic, so he knows music more than most people I know — I figured he could play, too, or at least be a solid lifeline in the event that I became stumped again. Thank dog, Phil agreed at once!

Well, everything went according to plan. We got there and signed up, and the P.A. in charge of the waivers remembered me right away and wished me luck. Then, when the hosts of the show came onstage (Zowie Bowie and Marley Taylor), singing their schlocky little intro song, Zowie Bowie saw me out there and busted up laughing in the middle of his song! He broke character to welcome me back, saying that I made his day by being there. Woohoo! (As you may recall, I ended up flipping everyone off at the end of the last time I played…evidently very memorable!) They were also totally stoked to see Phil Connors, as they have been interviewed by him before for his column in the paper…and they are ALWAYS on the lookout for more publicity!

Anyhoo, like I said, everything went according to plan. I blew through all the rounds, vanquishing the opposition with a carefully calculated combination of strategy and knowledge, and then it was me again, alone onstage facing a huge 60-second timer. The pressure was on! This time, you could tell the game show peeps were totally rooting for me — they really WANTED me to win that $10,000! So far, since they’ve started doing the show, only ONE person has won — so they reeeeeally wanted to give me that ca$h! I got the first 4 or 5 songs right off the bat, but the 5th or 6th one was tricksy — I had no idea, so I asked the audience again. THIS time they were more reliable — one guy said it was “Sentimental Lady” by Joe Walsh…but ANOTHER guy said with an equal degree of certainty that it was “Sentimental Woman” by Joe Walsh. Arrrrrrrgh!!! I vacillated back and forth, biting my nails in agony…but finally went with “Sentimental Lady” because it just sounded more 70s.

CORRECT!!! WOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOOO! I screamed and yelled and made a general ass of myself, and the game went on. I ended up having to use my “pass” on the 8th or 9th song (some Justin Timberlake b.s.), but amazingly (and with the help of the game show staff) I kept getting right answers! I even pulled a Hail-Mary Moody Blues song out of my ass at the 11th hour — I had to grab the mic from Zowie Bowie and sing the entire first verse to remember how the chorus went, and then the title came to me: “The Story in Your EYES!!!!!” CORRECT!!!!!!

But alas, I finally tripped up on the 12th song — some shitty shit by some shit-ass band of shitsters called 30 Seconds to Mars (?!?!?! WTF!). I was desperate, looking out into the audience for clues — but even Phil Connors had no idea. Fuck! So I lost, AGAIN, with only 3 more songs to go! ARRRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Everyone was freaking out from the excitement, though, and it was a lot of fun. After the show, Zowie Bowie asked me when I’m coming down to party and “sing” with them at the lounge show they do every weekend at another casino…I said, “Sing?! Are you NUTS? I’ll clear out the entire lounge!” So he amended his invite to simply “party,” and I told Phil Connors we should totally go! But Phil covers the nightclub beat nowadays, so his nights are mostly taken up trolling the depths of endless lame-ass douchey clubs down on the Strip. Boo!

Anyhoo, after the excitement of Name That Tune, Phil and I went next door to the Flamingo, where Jimmy Buffet just happened to be celebrating the grand opening of his brand new Margaritaville Casino (not to be confused with his Margaritaville restaurant, which has been here for years). Now they’ve built an entire CASINO around his laid-back barefoot boozer shtick.

To celebrate, some PR genius decided Jimmy should pour the World’s Largest Margarita into a giant novelty cup in an alleyway between O’Shea’s and Margaritaville, which they block off every year for the Jimmy Buffett block party. Thanks to Phil Connors’s media juice, we got a sweet spot atop the press dais, overlooking all the hijinks. It was crazy! I’m not a huge Buffett fan…but I do dig his fans. They sure know how to party!

Anyway, after that Phil and I went next door to O’Shea’s, this shitty little dive bar/casino that caters to the college crowd and is somehow centrally located at the Four Corners of the Vegas Strip, right next to the Flamingo and across from Caesars Palace. Such prime real estate can’t be wasted on Beer Pong, cheap drinks and punk rock lounge bands forEVER…so of course, the dumbass Caesars corp. is tearing it down to make way for some stupid new retail/dining promenade with the re-cock-ulous name of Linq. WTF?! I LOVE O’Shea’s!!! I’m not big on frat mooks and beer pong, but I AM big on cheap drinks and unpretentious atmo — and O’Shea’s has ’em both in shades! My friend Brian, the #1 Little Person in Vegas, works out front as a leprechaun, and there’s a badass punk rock lounge band with a SMOKING HOT bass player (yoo hoo!) in the bar area. In sum, it’s a fan-fuckin-tastic place to party…so if you’ve never been, get thee there ASAP before it’s gone!

I’m so fired up over the impending loss of O’Shea’s, in fact, that I Tweeted about it: something to the effect of “I’ve had it with corporate greed! We must stop the corporations from tearing down my favorite dive bar… #occupyosheas!” Of course, that just pissed off the serious Occupy Wall Street protesters, who gave me some flack on Twitter over it…but the good people of O’Shea’s appreciated it, and even re-Tweeted it for me! I think it’s a GREAT idea…all us hippies ain’t changing shit down on Wall Street, so we might as well form a human chain around a dive bar.

Now, speaking of the #Occupy movement, they had another protest down here on Saturday afternoon. You might recall that last week I went to the big Occupy Las Vegas protest march on the Strip…and felt mixed emotions. Well, this time they took the protest to my beloved Fremont Street downtown (!!), so of course I suited up and dragged out my sign again. This time, instead of dressing down in jeans, I decided to strike back at claims of anti-Americanism among the protesters by wearing an American flag halter and snow-white Daisy Dukes. What could be more patriotic than THAT? I called it my Ass Offensive — ya can’t reason with ’em, but maybe they can be swayed by succulent asscheeks.

Anyhoo, this protest was a LOT more fun than the one on the Strip — the crowd of tourists down there is more blue-collar/trailer park, so they weren’t as hostile toward our anti-Man ranting. Plus, the setting was 100X more surreal — I’ve seen the news footage of the protests in New York, Rome, Santiago, etc….but did any of THOSE protesters carry plastic footballs full of piña colada? And did any of THOSE protesters have to weave and dodge wackos in Elvis costumes, while fat tourists whizzed overhead on a zip line? I didn’t think so!!

The best part was marching past Glitter Gulch, the tacky topless bar down there that always stations one or two beat-up Eastern European whores out front to lure in customers. One of the whores was leaning on the doorjamb in her corset, chatting bemusedly with one of the big, beefy security guards as they watched us pass. It was like a scene straight out of Deadwood!

The march went on and was pretty powerful — moreso than last week’s effort on the Strip, for sure. Some nutty drummers from the drum circle crowd brought a big-ass bass drum, which they pushed on a cart, beating in time as we all chanted “Banks got bailed out — we got SOLD out!” (I did join in the chanting this time, as that aforementioned slogan is one I can more or less endorse without laughing.) Anyhoo, everything was going along swimmingly until the Fremont Street Experience (TM) cops had enough, and drowned us out by blaring “Funkytown” on the PA. People come downtown to party, not to politic!

The best part of the march was this one über-hot young Commie stud marching next to me, Che Guevara pins on his backpack as he fiercely strummed a ukulele covered in anti-Man stickers. He was like the downsized Bob Dylan, LOL!!! Occasionally, he would pull an air horn out of his back pocket, and give everyone a wake-up blast…but I was already wide awake, and drunk on his pheromones. Anyone knows who he was, let me know!

So anyhoo, lest you think ALL I did this week was party, there you have it — I protested, too! Also, one afternoon I went down to the Las Vegas Museum of Natural History, where a friend who works there gave me a personal tour of the amazing grounds and collections. That’s actually a BAD ASS museum! It’s one of those musty-smelling old places full of taxidermied wild animals and stuff, and it would be reeeeeeeeally fun to get baked one rainy day and go down there. The best part was the new Egyptian wing, cobbled together out of leftovers from when the Luxor hotel de-Egyptified itself (how does a pyramid un-theme itself, I ask you? Nonetheless, they tried to re-brand themselves in a hipper, more anti-family vein. Arrrrrgh).

The tour was awesome, but I had to leave after a couple hours because I had a hot date at the tiki bar with another writer I just met on a dating site. We had some drinks and shot the shit until it was time for me to go shoot the real shit, at the Captain Fantastic show, where I’ve been toiling all week taking souvenir photos, in between all this other stuff. No wonder I can’t sleep — I do too much fun stuff!!!! But I can’t HELP it! How can I turn this shit down?!

Oh, and one other thing. In my travels this week, someone invited me to be their dominatrix! I won’t say who, but a prominent local figure told me that he was tired of being the boss and telling everyone ELSE what to do…so he more or less invited me to abuse him and boss him around! Nice! This isn’t the first time that’s happened to me — I once did a fetish shoot with a lieutenant from Metro, who said the same thing: he’s respected and feared all day, so he finds a little belittlement therapeutic now and then. Weird! Domming is big business, though…I even thought about building a dungeon in my basement once, and taking clients. But then I realized I wouldn’t want these people knowing where I lived…so I gave up. Maybe I should get back into my boots and rethink it!






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My Jerry Springer Moment: Confronted By My Date’s GIRLFRIEND!!!

My birthday was this past week, and what a fuckin’ disaster it turned out to be. I didn’t even want to get out of bed this morning — it felt as though I was buried under an avalanche of shit that was so heavy, it didn’t seem worthwhile or even possible get out from under.

An embarrassing fact about me: I have never in my entire life had a birthday party. Growing up, I always wanted to have a party…but we were poor, and lived really far from town, and it was just never feasible. Then when I grew up, I never had enough friends anyway…so I have gone my whole life never having had a party. Which is a real bummer, because I could throw one HELL of a party!

My friend J.R. (the lonesome Tennessee oilman) wanted to throw me a party this year, and invite all my “friends.” I say “friends” with quotes, because although I have 950 “friends” on Facebook…I have very few people I can really count on. I thanked him for the thought, but nixed the idea…it just sounded like too much of a headache. None of my very few girl “friends” probably would have come anyway…so it would have just been a room full of random dudes hoping to see me pop out of the cake or something. AWKward!

J.R. advised me that he was coming out to Vegas to take me out for my birthday, party or no…and I was stoked. He’s a fun, friendly guy and I always have a blast hanging out with him. The trouble is, he has an unrequited crush on me, which provokes occasional temper tantrums if I don’t spend enough time with him while he’s in town.

Meanwhile, one of my few girlfriends came out to visit me. “Lolita” used to work at the photo company with me, and we had a lot of fun back in the day — she’s one of the few people I’ve met who’s rowdier and kookier than I am! I invited her to stay at my house for the week, and since she just started modeling, I also planned a few photo shoots with her so she wouldn’t get bored. I figured she and J.R. would get along swimmingly, so I could hang out with both of them and have a fine old time in Vegas Towne, and make everyone happy.

Well, anyone who knows me, knows that I live my life under a crushing amount of debt — a burden that I shoulder most precariously by flitting about town from one gig to another in a desperate, Sisyphean quest to pay my mortgage. You all know Sisyphus — every time he pushed that boulder up the hill, it rolled right the fuck back down to the bottom, and he had to start all over. Well, so it is with me: no sooner do I scrape together enough cash from toe-sucking perverts and lascivious photographers to satiate the needs of Mr. J.P.MorganChase and his twittering coterie of champagne-swilling plutocrats…then it’s already time for me to turn right back around and start doing it alllll over again. It’s EXHAUSTING!

Anyhoo, I’ll address my mortgage concerns in a future blog (there have been many new developments there, and I need your advice). Meanwhile, I brought it up to illustrate just how hard I have to hustle each and every day, just to make ends meet. I can’t take a week off because Lolita or J.R. are visiting — although J.R. has made it clear on several occasions that he would be my sugar daddy, if I’d only say the word. I told him in no uncertain terms that I don’t want a sugar daddy…but that doesn’t stop him from leaving me little piles of money every time he leaves town. He justifies this expenditure by having me run weird errands for him…for which he overpays me obscenely. But at the end of the day, I feel weird taking his money, and so I continue to hustle and work stupid gigs even when he’s in town…just to salvage my pride (stop laughing!).

Another thing about J.R. is that he’s suuuuuper jealous about any guy I happen to be dating — especially the one I’ve referred to here as the All-American Hero. In the interest of brevity, I’ll call him Sgt. Peanut from now on. Well, I’ve been seeing Sgt. Peanut on and off since May or so — I originally met him back in March, but it wasn’t until May that we started sleeping together and more or less dating. I say “more or less” because we only ever saw each other once a week or less — his schedule being at total odds with my own. I’m a night owl and party girl, and he holds a top-secret position at one of the local military bases, which means he has to be up at the crack of ass every day to go play remote-control war games in a darkened trailer, blowing shit up that’s 8,000 miles away. So our schedules never meshed enough for a real relationship to develop — we were more or less fuck buddies, although I was secretly growing alarmingly fond of him. He’s super-intelligent, fit, good-looking and very liberal (despite being a military badass). I knew he was a bit of a pervert, with a fondness for swinger parties and amateur porn sites…but hell, look at the shit I do! I figured I was in no position to judge.

Anyhoo, J.R. was always extremely jealous of Peanut…and being the über-paranoid technophile that he is, the first thing he did upon learning of my relationship with him was order up a bunch of background checks on him. Hardcore background checks, done by a buddy of his who used to work for the Department of Homeland Security. These exhaustive checks turned up everything from speeding tickets to underwater mortgages, and uncovered his entire family history going back to a farm in 1850s Illinois…but nothing untoward came up (much to J.R.’s chagrin, I’m sure). So I continued to date him, on and off, all summer long…and it was fabulous!

One thing about Peanut is that he’s very quiet — and very inscrutable. I kinda liked that about him, since I’m a high-energy blabbermouth — he sort of balanced me out. He didn’t pry into my personal affairs, and I didn’t pry into his. A few times I did sort of wonder/despair as to why he didn’t seem more interested in me (I’m used to guys being slavishly devoted to my every witty nipple-flash)…but he offered up enough compliments and flattery to keep my concerns at bay. I figured he was just one of those silent, stoic military types.

Aaaaaaaaanyhoo, Peanut’s birthday is the same week as mine, so a while back we talked about going on a little road trip around the desert to celebrate. I even took the days off work (at my camera girl job), to be sure I’d be available. But then, at the last minute, he told me he was going out of town that weekend instead. I figured it was no big deal, since between Lolita and J.R. I’d have plenty to keep me busy. But then he changed his tune again, and offered to take me out to dinner for my birthday…so I accepted, and Thursday night we went out for a nice quiet dinner.

When J.R. found out I was going out with him on my b-day, the shit really hit the fan: “I came all the way out here to take you out for your birthday! And now you’re blowing me off for Peanut?!” Never mind the fact that I spent Wednesday, Friday, Sunday and Monday with J.R….if he couldn’t be with me on my birthday, it wasn’t worth it. Arrrgh!

J.R. eventually got over it, and didn’t even bat an eye when I told him I was taking Peanut out for his birthday on Saturday. But Lolita was a different story — apparently she, too, was pissed off that I wasn’t spending enough time with her. Never mind the fact that I gave her full use of my guest bedroom, my bar, and my extensive wardrobe (wigs, makeup and props…anything she wanted)…plus I let her have my iPad for the week . That wasn’t enough for her, either — she wanted me all to herself.

Now, granted, I did have to work quite a bit while she was in town: Saturday and Sunday I had to work the annual Luis Miguel Mexican Independence Day concert (an affair which attracts thousands of wealthy Mexicans and is generally very lucrative). And Tuesday I had to drive out to Summerlin to do a faux-lesbo photo shoot with an aspiring Playboy photographer and another nude model (I have ZERO lesbian tendencies, so don’t even ask…I was doing it strictly for the ca$h). Then, Wednesday I had to drive out to Seven Hills to update my breath-holding/medical fetish website…so I was busy part of the time, but I still did a bunch of fun stuff with Lolita. To wit:

Monday night I invited my dear friend Michael Maze over to do a craaazy dress-up photo shoot party with us. Occasionally he’ll come over for an evening, and we’ll just go through my closet, coming up with bizarre outfits and shit to shoot…and I knew Lolita would love it. Indeed, we three spent a good 7 hours shooting, and then went out for late-night breakfast at the Peppermill afterwards.

The following day, my good friend Phil Connors (a writer for the local paper) and his friend Joe (the #1 Little Person in Vegas…he gets most of the work because the others are said to be alcoholics) invited us to come to the anniversary party for this awful topless revue. I thought it would be fun to a)guzzle free booze, b)nosh on free eats, and c)see the show for free. I figured Lolita would enjoy it, and indeed she did — in fact there was this ex-boy-band star at the party, and she seemed like she was having a pretty good time chatting with him.

Then Wednesday and Friday, we went out with J.R. for food, drinks and karaoke. All this time, J.R. paid for everything, so I didn’t see how Lolita could complain. But apparently J.R.’s slavish devotion to me rubbed her the wrong way…and who can blame her, really?

We started out Friday night eating some special cookies in J.R.’s room, and then went over to Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar” at Harrahs — a Red-State-Cholesterol-a-torium chain restaurant featuring delicacies like fried mac & cheese balls, fried baloney sammiches (with Miracle Whip) and fried Twinkies. After gorging on cheesburgers and sweet tea vodka out of a Mason jar, we limped next door to this karaoke bar at the Imperial Palace, where I blew everyone away with an extremely energetic rendition of KT Tunstall’s “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree.” Really, I actually brought the house down — I’m not the best singer, but I put on a great show.

Well, J.R. just couldn’t stop going on and on about how I was the best singer there, and I guess Lolita got sick of listening to him (like I said, who can blame her?!). But still, we all had a pretty good time..or so I thought.

The next day was Saturday, my date night with Peanut. J.R. busied himself gambling and boozing, and I arranged for Lolita to model for another friend’s fashion show, so they wouldn’t just be sitting around waiting for me. Peanut picked me up in the late afternoon, and we went to the movies and then dinner downtown at this artsy-fartsy little place called Bar+Bistro that has an awesome open-mic jam on Saturdays where all the artists and loonies get up and recite poetry and whatnot.

All through dinner he was distracted, dealing with a barrage of incoming text messages — for which he apologized repeatedly, but I don’t really take offense to that kind of behavior, being as I am addicted to my own CrackBerry anyway, and it just me more time to check my own Facebook and Twitter stuff! It WAS out of character for Sgt. Peanut, though, because he’s normally not a phone person at all — in fact he has this old-school, super-low-tech flip phone…which J.R.’s background checks revealed to be one of those untraceable, pay-as-you-go deals. But I didn’t think too much of it, as it was a beautiful evening, and we were sitting outdoors, drinking wine and enjoying dramatic readings from Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends” to the accompaniment of a jazz trio.

I wasn’t sure where the evening was headed — normally Peanut poops out very early, due to his early-bird lifestyle. He had mentioned maybe going to a party at the Kasidie Mansion (this private swingers’ party they have in Vegas), but then changed his mind and suggested hanging out at Bar+Bistro a while longer, then going back to my house to watch a movie. I was fine with that — even though it was Saturday night, I was FUCKING TIRED from keeping up with J.R. and Lolita all week, and an early night in sounded pretty good.

So I got a second glass of wine at the bar, and headed back outside to sit with Peanut and watch the open-mic shenanigans. He was still texting away, very out of character for him, and finally he said by way of explanation, “Sorry, my friend is having a life-or-death crisis…” to which out of politeness I replied, “Oh, well if you need to go be with him…go ahead, I don’t mind!”

I said this to be polite — really I was somewhat slighted that I had just taken him to a movie and dinner, and he appeared to be bailing on me already. But part of me also really didn’t care if he took off — as I said it was Saturday night, which I RARELY have off, and I had a few friends at the open mic jam that I wouldn’t have minded partying with. Plus, I figured I could use the opportunity to hang out with Lolita and have some one-on-one time with her — we’d been meaning to get dressed up in costume and go down to Fremont St. to hustle for tips!

Still, I was taken aback by how quickly Peanut jumped on the offer: “Are you sure?”

“Uhh…yeah! Yeah, totally!”

“Do you have a way to get home? I can give you a ride…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” I reassured him. I figured Lolita or my roommate could give me a ride…or worst case, I could simply walk; my house is only about a mile from Bar+Bistro.

“OK, well, I feel really bad about this, but…we’re still going out Monday, right? I have something really cool planned.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure! No problem!” I gave him a hug and he took off, and I settled back with my wine to enjoy the show. I texted Lolita and she said she was on her way, so I figured everything was going to work out. Until…

This random Asian chick came up to me: “Are you Sarah?”

Now, people ask me that all the time, mostly because they’re Facebook “friends” who I’ve never actually met in person…so I wasn’t surprised. “Yes, I am! How did you know?!”

“I’m Peanut’s GIRLFRIEND!”


I was shocked, and immediately expected some kind of Jerry Springer confrontation involving slapping, scratching and gouging. But this chick just looked sad…so I got up and sort of hemmed and hawed: “Holy shit! I’m so sorry…I had no idea!

She gave me this giant bear hug and started crying, so I sort of led her away from the crowd, outside the bar area to the parking lot so we could talk. She told me she’d been dating him for 2 and a half years, but had recently suspected something was afoot, and had been texting him all night to find out where he was. Supposedly he told her he was “downtown” with some people she didn’t know — at first he told her they were hipsters, which since she hates hipsters he didn’t bother inviting her. Then he changed his story to say he was with some enlisted people from the military, with whom he wasn’t supposed to be consorting…which is why he didn’t tell her. She pumped him for details, and he came up with all these weird names: “Oh, I’m with Walter Jones and Barry Landis and Jane Kowalski (well, she’s about to get married so her name’s changing to Jane Nelson…” Blah blah blah, etc. etc. I guess she finally became suspicious enough that she got dressed and drove downtown to find him. Mysteriously, despite the fact that there are a TON of bars in downtown Vegas, she somehow picked the right one first, and was just walking into the bar when he came rushing out.

Supposedly she confronted him: “So are you going to introduce me to your ‘friends’?” To which he replied, “It’s no one you know! This is stupid…I’m not talking about this here!” He went and got in his car, and she followed, leaning her head in the passenger-side window to argue with him. He wouldn’t talk, though, insisting that they go back to her house and discuss the situation in private, “like adults.” So she faked him out by reaching for his keys in the ignition, and with his attention thus distracted, she grabbed his cell phone off the center console! He got mad and told her she was acting stupid, and that she should meet him back at her house to talk. He drove off, and she came into the bar and found me.

For the next 30 minutes or so we sat there commiserating — I’ll admit to shedding a few most un-wonderhussy-esque tears (hey, I really liked this guy!), but after her initial breakdown, the girlfriend became eerily calm, and began effusively praising and complimenting me: “If it makes you feel any better, I went straight to the best-looking girl in the room.” “You’re an amazing person!” “I’m so sorry you had to be involved in this!” I was taken a bit aback, since if I were in her shoes, I don’t think I’d be lavishing praise on the Other Woman. Still, everyone deals with crises differently…so I continued to sit and talk with her.

She told me that they’d met on a dating site, and he had really helped her through some dark hours — she’s been abused as a kid, and had all kinds of emotional trauma, and was suicidal for most of the time they dated, but he talked her through it all and now they were in couples counseling at a place right down the street from my house! They had even started talking about getting married and having kids, and Peanut was going to a doctor to get his sperm count checked because he’s “older” (44) and they wanted to be sure they could do it. Then she started telling me about her stripper past, and how she worked her way through law school to become a bankruptcy attorney…and she kept hugging me, and I started wondering why a virtual stranger would confide all this in a presumed enemy. I guess some people deal with stress that way?

Meanwhile, Lolita arrived, and I told her I was in the middle of something really bad and could she wait? She was mid-way through a cheeseburger anyway, so she parked her car and waited while I tried to wrap up the awkward situation I was in — I couldn’t just bail on this poor chick; despite her calmness she was pretty shaken up. To be honest, I had never allowed myself to become too emotionally invested in Sgt. Peanut, so after about 5 minutes I was pretty much already over him, and had decided to go home, put on my new Wonder Woman costume, and go downtown to booze and party all night with Lolita. I was just waiting for the right moment to break away.

Well, apparently it took too long, because by the time I finally managed to break away from my new best friend (seriously, we exchanged numbers because she could “tell” I was an amazing person and the only good thing to come out of this whole mess)…Lolita had left. I was still pretty shaken up, so I took this as another abandonment, and when I called her to see where she was, and she said “I got tired of waiting for you, so I went down to Fremont Street,” I FLIPPED OUT and cursed her out on the phone, and then hung up and started walking home.

She called me back and cursed me out in return for hanging up on her, and then told me she had “other things” she’d been wanting to talk to me about….so she came back, picked me up and started bitching me out for ignoring her all week. I couldn’t handle this on top of everything else that had just happened, so I just completely lost it and bawled her out, and even tried to hit her!! I NEVER hit anyone — it was totally out of character for me. But I guess I was more upset about the Peanut fiasco than I thought.

Anyhoo, I ended up getting out of the car, slamming the door, screaming “Fuck you!” and then I never saw her again — she came over sometime when I was gone and packed up all her shit and left. Arrrgh! This kind of Jerry Springer shit never happens to me…it was really embarrassing.

Fortunately, my new BFF texted me just then, to make sure I was OK. Again, I found it odd that she was so concerned with my well-being…but I told her my friend had just bailed on me, so she offered to come get me and drive me home. We ended up sitting in a 7-Eleven parking lot for around an hour, talking about Peanut while she went through his cell phone and found all these incriminating texts. She also found a bunch of naked pictures on there, which I didn’t think was such a big deal (obviously)…and one text message he had sent to another ex-girlfriend a day prior that said “My personal life is a shambles….it’s hilarious.” INDEED!

Then she started giving me legal advice on my house situation — apparently she’s a bankruptcy attorney, and has helped with many home loan modification mediation sessions, so she knew exactly what I should do — and that was walk away from the house, declare bankruptcy, and then buy a new house 6 months later. Sounds easy enough, but there’s a lot of other shit involved…and on top of what had just happened to me (remember, this was one of the very few guys I’ve dated that I really liked…so I was pretty disheartened), it made me just bawl my eyes out. Too much! I can’t handle all this shit at the same time!

Finally she drove me home, all the while chattering about what a great person I am, with so much integrity, and how she’ll help me with my house for free. It was kinda weird. We ended up parting ways with the vague intention to “get together over coffee” sometime, and then she drove off and I went inside, poured a plastic cup of wine, and headed out to walk around the neighborhood, think things over, and cry about the mess my life was in.

Honestly, I would have been OK if Lolita hadn’t bailed on me — I would have already been downtown, yukking it up in a Wonder Woman costume! But her abandoning me, and then all this house talk on top of it, had really put me into a desperate funk. I wanted to be alone and cry, so I ended up sitting in the alleyway behind this nearby church, drinking wine and crying and just sort of feeling sorry for myself. I Tweeted and Facebooked about my misery, and I guess Peanut read the update because he Facebooked me a few times: “Are you OK? You want me to come get you?” “Did my ex find you? This is insane!” I just deleted his messages.

The girlfriend and I had been comparing him to Christian Bale in “American Psycho –” good-looking, smart, calm and collected…but with a weird sex addiction and a double life. We figured him to be a total sociopath, and the more I think about it, I think he is! He’s very neat and organized, with a huge music collection of very anal-retentively organized CDs, and a log book in his car that he writes in every time he gets gas and changes his oil. Nothing wrong with that, of course (this coming from someone whose pantyhose are all individually bagged and labeled) — but when coupled with his crazy libido and cheating lifestyle, just seems kinda weird.

The girlfriend kept texting me throughout the night — supposedly he tried to break down her door, but she called the police, and she sent me a picture of the “broken down” door, which to my eye looked totally untouched. The more I thought about the whole thing, it all seemed weird…maybe she really was an ex-girlfriend who refused to let go. Either way, I found them both weird and creepy and unsettling, and I was kinda sorry she now knew where I lived! Oh, well.

I finally exhausted my tear ducts, went home and passed out — and, ironically, slept pretty well, despite all the stress and my personal history of insomnia! When I woke up, he had left my sweater on the front porch, neatly folded with a handwritten note inside: “I’m so sorry I involved you in all this. There’s an explanation, although I’d be surprised if you were remotely interested. You’re a unique and wonderful person and I hope you follow your dreams. It was a pleasure knowing you, even for such a short time.”

Well, sir! Good day to you, too! If there really was an “explanation,” you’d think he’d be frantically trying to contact me in every way possible to “explain….” To me, this just sounds like “Good bye, nice knowing you.” Aw, snap 🙁

Still, I’ve never been one to wallow in misery — I just got back into the Wonderhussy grind, heading up to Mount Charleston for a hike with J.R. (who, incidentally, didn’t gloat nearly as much as I’d expected). Mt. Charleston is just a 30-minute drive from Vegas, but it’s a world apart — 20 degrees cooler, totally Alpine and awesome. Check it out sometime — the lodge up there got a new chef, and the food is MUCH better than it used to be! After some nachos and a Nutty Irishman, I was feeling like my old self again. Pea-WHO?

I’m still sad, because as mentioned too many times already, I really liked this guy. I’ve always been wary with my emotions, and I expect I’ll be even moreso from now on, since nothing like this has ever happened to me! But, out with the old and in with the new. Wonderhussy’s back on the prowl, boys…lock up your sons.

Now, before I sign off, you’re probably wondering about this faux-lesbo photo shoot I mentioned earlier. I was contacted by this really cool traveling art-nude model named Jillian, a kind of spacey Bohemian-type blonde chick who asked me if we could work together sometime. I said sure, and before you know it she had booked us a gig with this aspiring Playboy photographer — an ex-military hardass who has taken many classes and seminars at Playboy Studios and has studied under Arnie Freytag (the guy who shoots the centerfolds for Playboy), and thus has all these tricks up his sleeve. It was supposed to be a lesbo shoot, but I told them both beforehand that I’m not comfortable doing anything erotic or pornographic…and they pretty much respected my limits. We shot a bunch of girl-girl caressing-type softcore, but it was still a little too porn-y for my taste. Still, he paid me ca$h money at the end of the shoot…and as long as Mr. JPMorganChase is happy, my personal discomfort means little.

The photos actually came out pretty damn good — the lighting and editing were really well done (kudos to you, Steve Ruegnitz!)…so naturally I wanted to share them with all my online friends. Since I didn’t have time to update my blog with all this other shit going down, I decided to post a couple on Google+ instead. I already knew they wouldn’t pass muster on Facebook (my Facebook profile has already been deleted TWICE for containing “inappropriate” material), so I figured I’d turn to the new frontier and test the waters.

Well, guess what: I’m officially ALREADY deleted from Google+!! I have to be one of the first people to have gotten suspended from there…which I guess is a badge of honor, of sorts. I’M SO SICK OF SOCIAL MEDIA CENSORING ME!  That was one of the reasons I started this site, in fact — as an UNCENSORED alternative to my beleaguered Facebook page. Unfortunately, I’m a total dumbass when it comes to web design, and I can’t seem to get this page looking the way I really want it. But fortunately, since my friend dumped me, my boyfriend disappeared and J.R. went home…I’ll have pleeeeeeenty of time to figure it out over the next few weeks. So be on the lookout for that!

One other thing I wanted to mention was my breath-holding/medical site update session — as mentioned, I went out there on Wednesday to film some new videos for the site (I get paid every time someone orders a clip, so it’s in my interest to update as often as possible). The guy who runs the site also runs sites for a buncha other chicks, so he’s got a full-on doctor’s office set up in his house, complete with super-expensive ultra-sound equipment and whatnot. Based on fan feedback, he comes up with new ideas from time to time for different scenarios to shoot, and this time he was shooting videos of fake doctor exams, where he puts on a white lab coat and pretends to “examine” the girls, who are all experiencing heart problems. I was supposed to act like I was having a heart attack, so that he could palpate me, listen in with a stethoscope, and look at my heart with his ultrasound device.

After that, he had another video idea for a different subset of his fans, who are into belly noises. Mostly those guys just buy the clips that show us recording our belly noises and stuff, but the new idea was to do a fake doctor’s exam like the heart-attack one, only this time pretending that I had a really bad stomachache. He did the same thing as the heart clip, only this time he ultrasounded my belly — and he told me that the previous week, he’d been doing this to one of the other chicks, and had discovered a fetus!!! She refused to believe him at first, but he pointed it out to her there on the screen — a little thing waving its little flipper arms, which means she had to have been at least a few months along…and I ask you, how the hell do you get THAT far along without realizing something’s up??? Denial!!!

Supposedly, he made her go out and get a pregnancy test…and then she refused to show him the results. He said she’s a full-time art-nude model, so she can’t afford to be pregnant and is probably just doing to deny everything… all the way to Planned Parenthood. Wow! I asked him if he saw anything unusual in my belly, and he said no…so at least I don’t have to worry about Sgt. Peanut having left me that legacy! A mini Christian Bale is allllllll I need to make my life more complicated!

Still…if I ever do get knocked up, I’ll be heading over to the medical fetish guy’s house at least once a week for a free peek at my fetus. That’s an invaluable tool to have at one’s disposal, eh??

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Horses and Whores

Well, the Midsummer Night’s Dream party at the Palms turned out to be a pretty big MEH. I guess once you’ve been to Burning Man, nothing can compare…although I must say they did a great job with the decorations, costumed stiltwalkers and bodypainted hussies wandering around the Palms pool under a full moon. But aside from all that…it was basically just another night at a Vegas club full of douchebags and whores in slutty costumes — myself included.

I wasted soooo much time and energy trying to come up with a badass costume — I cut the fuck out of my thumb making that mask the night before, and I wasted hours running around town to costume shops and dollar stores. And all so I could molested by a girl on ecstasy (see below) and endure the come-ons of countless douchebags?! Oh, well. At least I know now that I didn’t miss much last year, when I was in jail for DUI during the event (see my review of the Clark County Detention Center here).

But despite the disheartening inanity of the actual party, I ended up having a faaaaantastic time anyway, because of the awesome friends I met up with there — an entertainment journalist friend and one of his photographer colleagues from the local paper. They are both witty, intelligent and FUN…so the night was not a total wash! We partied with a well-known local gossip columnist and his wife, and ended up having a pretty good time.

My journalist friend had to leave early, to go over to another nightclub to interview a certain member of an annoying Christian boy band that gets the tween set all hot and bothered — we’ll call him Bo Bonas. He invited us to come along with him and watch, but first I had to figure out a way to make my extremely slutty “costume” into suitable club attire. I couldn’t just walk into this upscale nightclub dressed like a slutty evil fairy, ya know. Especially with wholesome little Bo Bonas there and all — I wouldn’t want him becoming an atheist on MY account!

Thankfully, I always roll around town with a few extras in an overnight bag in my truck, so I was able to cobble together a semi-decent outfit out of my work uniform shirt and a scarf wrapped around my ass. Classy!

The interview ended up being a bust — my friend just asked Bo a few Qs out on the red carpet in front of the club, and nothing exciting transpired. AFTER the fact, my friend asked me why I didn’t try to molest Bo and hump his leg or something! Well, gee — I was trying to be professional and not get in the way of your job! If I’d have known it was socially acceptable to molest young religious boys, I would have jumped him in two seconds — he was kinda hot, like a little Mormon Elvis. Oh, well.

After that we went into the nightclub in question — Haze, at Aria — for around 3 minutes before bailing on it. There is absolutely NOTHING to recommend this nightclub over others in Vegas. NOTHING! I found it completely uninteresting, visually, musically and crowd-wise. If I have to go to a nightclub, at least let it be someplace fun-ish and different, like XS, which is outdoor, or TAO, which is decorated cool and has half-naked models in bathtubs and stuff. Haze has absolutely N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to set it apart from the crowd. It was dark, dreary and depressing. My advice: SKIP IT!

After we bailed on Haze, we went next door to the good old Cosmopolitan, where you can always have a good time. My friend was hungry, so first we headed up to the much-overhyped “secret” pizza place on the 3rd floor, “hidden” down a hallway and only noticeable if you happen to see the huge mass of trendy hipster douchebags spilling out. Secret, my ass! You can read my review of this pizza place here — all I’ll say now is that the pizza was OK (pretty good, actually) but the wine was GREAT! Not that it was that high-quality, but it was only $6 for a ginormous plastic cup-full. Nice! I fueled myself for another 3 hours of partying off just that one cup — we headed downstairs to the ever-fabulous Bond lounge, where we danced and carried on with a bevy of pimps from Scottsdale, until they shut the place down at 4am. Then it was back out on the streets for me 🙁

 So that was my Saturday night. I spent all day Sunday recuperating on the sofa with my all-American hero friend, but then Monday rolled around and it was time to party again. My day started early with a photo shoot out in Pahrump, a sort of cow-town about an hour northwest of Vegas — it’s mostly famous for being the home of several legal brothels, but it’s also home to this fabulous little barrel-racing 18-year-old cowgirl named Michelle who wants to get into modeling, so a mutual friend (a vegan hippie biker chick I met through my friend Muscles Manischewitz) introduced us on Facebook.

I had been wanting to do a nude photo shoot on a horse for a loooong time (Lady Godiva — hello!), but didn’t know anyone with horses. Well, this little barrel racer was more than happy to lend me a couple of her horses in exchange for me bringing one of my photographer friends out there to shoot a few pics of her for her nascent portfolio. We shot some glamour-type shots for her, then she loaded up two of her gentlest horses and we cruised out to these awesome little sand dunes right behind the Chicken Ranch brothel. It was faaaaaaaaaantastic! The horses were very mild-tempered, and I was able to roll around naked on their backs with no fuss. I’m not sure the pix came out very good, though, because I wasn’t in the mood — I had a case of the uglies that day; I was really tired and my face was all puffy. Plus, it was hot as hell and really windy, and I got sand and horsehair in every crevice. BUT…having said all that, it was a fantastically fun experience, and I made a really cool new friend out of it. Any photographers reading this, Michelle Reese is a fantastic model and she needs more TF photos…check her out on Model Mayhem!

I did feel like a bit of a city slicker out there — I was sitting on one of the horses, and Michelle told me to ride it down the hill. “How do I get it to go?” I asked, like a total dumbass. Meanwhile, she was backing up her trailer like a pro — it takes me at least 20 minutes to back my pop-up camper into my freaking driveway, and here’s this 18-year-old backing up a trailer full of horses on a sand dune. Fuck!

But hell, I am a city slicker…and I had to get back to the city stat, in time for dinner with my friend J.R. (the wealthy oilman from Tennessee I told you about). He was in town for the week with one of his NASCAR honeys — a bartender he met at the race in Daytona, one of those beautiful Southern blonde belles you see in the movies. One of her good friends happens to be a local party whore/Playboy Playmate of no little local renown, who is also supposedly good buddies with Holly Madison…so we were all supposed to go out together.

I washed the sand and horsehair out of my ass just in time for J.R. to come pick me up in his limo, and then we all went over to the Cosmopolitan, where he had gotten a room for the girls. We picked up the NASCAR honey — we’ll call her Bobbi Jo — and her skank-bag Playmate friend, who we’ll call Skanki Sue, and then we all headed downstairs for dinner at an unbearably pretentious restaurant that shall remain unnamed (you can read my review of it here). I have never been party to such an obscene display of soullessness as I was at that dinner, let me tell you.

A word about my friend J.R.: he’s a genuinely nice man, goodhearted to a fault, Christian and polite and hardworking. His Achilles heel, however, is slutty whores — he can’t pass one by without giving her a wink and a $100 tip. Hmm, maybe that’s why he’s friends with me! Anyhoo, I’ve seen him suckered by many a pretty girl with malicious intent -he’s been known to fly all kinds of skanks out to Vegas, all expenses paid, and this one mega-whore who works at a local cigar shop once talked him into buying a $40,000 lighter (it is gold, and encrusted in diamonds). I think he actually enjoys being taken advantage of, and it is to his eternal consternation that I refuse to be party to this type of behavior. We’re just friends!

Anyhoo, he speaks very highly of Bobbi Jo (the NASCAR bartender), so I gave her a chance, though I had severe reservations. I didn’t get to talk to her much at dinner, so I will politely refrain from judging her based on her appearance, clothing and demeanor. Skanki Sue, on the other hand…WOW! That girl is a HOT FUCKING MESS!

Let me reiterate that this is a legit Playboy Playmate, very well known in Vegas…so I expected somewhat more. I mean, Playboy is the gold standard, right? Even MY photos don’t meet their standards!! (Yes, I was drinking wine one night and submitted some pics out of drunken curiosity.) So any gash good enough for Playboy has got to be attached to a classy, wholesome young lady, right? Not in this case! Aside from her hair extensions, acne, wall-eyed stare and gaping swollen lips (I think she was wearing lip-plumper with bee venom in it…whatever the case, she looked like a monkfish), her personality was insufferably atrocious! Now, I have an extremely high tolerance for idiots, and I will gladly suffer a fool if it makes for interesting conversation, or a good blog entry. But this woman was simply soul-searingly inane and utterly devoid of a single redeeming characteristic!

In a bizarre sort of half-brained, dead-eyed drawl, she droned on and on throughout dinner about all the MDMA she drank the day before, and how she’d gotten kicked out of every nightclub in Vegas, and how she’d gone to dinner with this person and that person and partied with so-and-so and douche-and-douche, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, she kept demanding more champagne — she asked for “Veuve” (she’s on a first-name basis, don’t you know), but to impress the girls, J.R. ordered Dom Perignon — so much so that the tab ended up being $1100 for 24 oysters, two cheeseburgers and enough booze to put out the last flickering embers in the smoldering wreckage of this whore’s soul! It was astonishing.

J.R. was very impressed with the two of them (or with the idea of being seen with the two of them), so he kept ordering more champagne and laughing at their asinine stories. Meanwhile, I sat in the corner, getting genteelly sloshed and taking notes on my BlackBerry…not fully unamused, but not really having fun, either! Mostly because you could tell the other two chicks didn’t like me, and kept ignoring me and excluding me from their conversation. Whatevs, bitches! Here’s the kind of poseurs they were: I ordered a cheeseburger, but they had soup and some kind of weird fishy thing (probably trying to stay thin, the desperate bitches). But when they saw me devouring my burger, they sort of picked listlessly as the fishy nastiness on their plate (they shared an entree) and finally sent it back for being too fishy — and ordered a burger! Hahahahahahahaha! I’m sooooo glad I’m not that kind of a desperate man-pleasing dick-sucking ass-kissing lip-plumping MDMA-drinking brainless party whore!

Finally, after Skanki’s liver reached saturation point, J.R. paid the tab and then took us all back over to Caesars Palace, where he gambles. He bankrolled the girls and they all played blackjack for awhile, until I got tired and took my leave around 1am. After I left, I guess they really did go over to some nightclub and party with Holly Madison. It would have been interesting to stick around for that, but as I said I got the distinct vibe that the girls didn’t much care for me, so I just took a cab home and went to bed. I spoke to J.R. the morning after, and he apologized profusely…and agreed with me that Skanki Sue was horrible. But he insists that Bobbi Jo is actually really nice — so we’ll see; I guess I’ll give her another chance.

Now meanwhile, all this is going on and some random pervert photographer I shot with a few times is in town, blowing up my phone wanting to shoot. This guy runs what he calls a “damsel in distress” website, which is basically just videos of hot chicks tied up, gagged and struggling to get free. SICK, right? What kind of rapist/serial killer/pervert gets off on watching that?!

I have shot with him in the past out of sheer financial desperation (I’m one to talk about desperate, money-grubbing skanks), but it was miserable — he always stays at the Palace Station (a real dump, the one where O.J. Simpson was arrested breaking into one of the rooms a few years back), and he ties you up really tightly in these complicated Japanese bondage knots that hurt really badly. Plus, he wears sweatpants when he shoots, and I’m always afraid to look too closely and see if he’s sporting wood — yuck! But the worst part is that he plays the part of the aggressor in the videos — one time he was Little Timmy and I was the Babysitter, and he tied me up and gagged me and teased me in an extremely annoying nasal voice for around 20 minutes, while exhorting me to squirm around more like I was trying to escape. TORTURE! I actually started crying once while we shot, though I hid it from the camera.

Despite all that, I shot with him about 3 or 4 times — he keeps offering me more money to do it, so it’s hard to say no. But this time, I did — I’m not that desperate for cash! I mean, I went to college, for chrissakes — surely I can find a better way to pay the bills. Hmmmm…


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The Traveling Nude Model, the Pregnant Arkansawyer, the Fabulous Gay Houseguest and Michael Mondavi

This week, I had friends descend on me from all corners of the globe. You know how it is — when you live in Vegas, everyone wants a piece of you when they’re in town. Especially when you have a name like Wonderhussy.

First off, my pregnant girlfriend from Arkansas was in town for a trade show. We’ll call her Tina — we used to be best friends back in 8th grade, when her family moved to California for a couple years. When I met her, I was a misguided little dweeb in a New Kids on the Block t-shirt and hot pink Wet-n-Wild lipstick — I was just trying to fit in, ya know? Meanwhile, she was like this bad-ass rocker chick who wore Slayer t-shirts and ripped jeans with stuff like “DEATH ANGEL” and “METAL CHURCH” written on them. It was all a front, because she really only ever listened to pussy shit like Poison and Motley Crue…but still. She got me into hair metal and shoplifting — we used to go to K-mart and steal heavy metal cassettes and hot pink Wet-n-Wild lipstick, until one day her and this other chick we used to hang out with got busted in the act, and the other chick ratted me out, too. After that, my mom wouldn’t let me hang out with them anymore, so we kinda drifted apart. I went on to college, and she ended up moving back to Arkansas, where she now works for a company that sells stun guns, bear repellent, tasers and all other kinds of crazy self-defense crap.

The company is owned by a nutty redneck who has the distinction of having filed more patents than any other man in Arkansas history — a smart and savvy man who hires all these hot chicks to sell his products. They all come out to Vegas a few times a year for trade shows, and it’s like the redneck Charlie’s Angels. Yeeeeeee haw! Git ‘R’ DONE!


Anyway, Tina’s a haaaaaaaaaard partying woman, even being 7 months pregnant — she still wanted to go out and pound O’Doul’s til all hours of the night! I always hang out with her when she’s in town, so we made plans to go to dinner one night. But meanwhile, I had another friend in town — this traveling nude model I met on a photo shoot last year. This little bitch is amazing — only 21 years old, but a true bohemian, with a huge, gnarly ’70s bush and an open-minded attitude. She travels around the U.S. staying in hostels and in her car, modeling here and there to pay her way around. How fucking fun does THAT sound?! I wish I was doing it!

Anyhoo, she wanted to meet up, too, so I had to come up with a spot that would please both a traveling nudist and a pregnant Christian Republican from Arkansas. Hmmmm! We ended up at Bar + Bistro in the Arts District of downtown Vegas, which turned out to be a very cool place full of art and artsy people — and the food was great! Our waiter was super cool, too, and ended up joining us for drinks after dinner. He really hit it off with the nude model chick, so much so that we ran into them two nights later at Planet Hollywood, of all places — the redneck Charlie’s Angels’ boss is a high roller there, so I met them after work for some free cocktails in the high limit room. After her boss left, we went out into the casino for more drinks (O’Doul’s for Tina, of course) and ran into the nude model and the waiter. Smaaaaaaall world!

While at Planet Hollywood (a casino I loathe and normally avoid at all costs), I noticed that I happen to have the exact same outfit that the go-go dancers wear (Planet Ho has taken the “party pit” idea to the extreme, and features hot babes gyrating on pedestals throughout the entire casino). Now, I am the WORLD’S WORST DANCER…so how funny would it be if I pranked Planet Ho — just showed up in a go-go outfit, got up on a pedestal, and just spazzed the fuck out? Like danced really, really badly…and then vomited on my boots or something?! I’ll need to work up some balls first…but I think it would be awesome!

Anyhoo, the nude model and the pregnant Arkansawyer weren’t the only two friends I had in town — I also had a gay actor/singer/dancer friend from London stay with me at my house. This was totally random — I met this guy one night while taking photos at a Lionel Richie concert (of all things), and we sort of hit it off and became Facebook friends. Now he was coming back to Vegas for a birthday party, so I met up with him and some of his fantastic gay friends for drinks one night after work. They were all suuuuuper fabulous, and all very good-looking and buff — so much so that these middle-aged women came up to us and asked if they were in a show! I told them they should have lied and said yes, they were Chippendales…but alas, they were much too modest.

Anyhoo, my London friend stayed the night at my house, Villa Sinvergüenza, and like all other visitors to my fabulous estate he was bowled over by its beauty and uniqueness. He brought me these fabulous GaGa Spice sunglasses as a housewarming gift, and in the morning, we Skyped with his mum and brother in England. Gooooood times!

So with all these fucking people in town wanting a piece of me, I barely had time to turn around…let alone start preparing for Burning Man, which is what I really need to do! I have a hula hoop that needs decorating, a fur coat that needs dyeing, playlists that need arranging — and on top of all that, I need to rig up some kind of cool fairy costume for the Playboy Midsummer Night’s Eve party next weekend at the Palms. With all that going on, you’d think I would have set aside some time to get ‘er done. Well, I did…but then more fabulous adventures got in the way!!

I had set aside Friday night to be my crafting night, when I made the mistake of going on Facebook and seeing the status update of a food critic friend, who needed a last-minute date for dinner that night at Aureole (a fabulously swanky gourmet restaurant at Mandalay Bay). Now, even tho I had a MILLION things to do…I have this unfortunate inability to say “No” to anything…so before I knew what I was doing, I had replied to his status update and was on my way to Mandalay.

Now, this guy is a food & wine critic for a bunch of different websites and publications, and I’ve accompanied him to a few fabulous dinners in the past — he doesn’t like to go alone, so he always invites some chippy or another along…and it’s great fun! I loooooove going out to free dinners at fancy restaurants, especially when it’s with a food critic who warrants all manner of insane ass-kissing from the staff. I’ve had some amazing dinners with him! And this one was no exception.

I thought we were just having a regular dinner at Aureole, but it turned out to be this suuuuper swanky wine-tasting event for a bunch of wealthy, pretentious oenophiles — Michael Mondavi was even there (and boy, did he get his ass kissed). My food critic friend had told me to wear a dress, but I didn’t feel like going balls-out so I just threw on this $7 number I picked up at Fallas Paredes (a cheap-ass Mexican clothes store I simply adore). Since I didn’t bother with bra or panties, the total cost of my outfit was $9 (I had two flowers in my hair from the Dollar Store) — and then I spent the evening drinking ridiculously expensive wine in the company of meticulously dressed, upscale winos. This from someone who recently abandoned Charles Shaw, aka Two Buck Chuck, because Trader Joe’s starting selling an even cheaper wine called Vola (my new BFF). What can I say?!

The wines were paired with all this crazy food like jellied oysters, frogs’ legs, sweetbreads and morels… totally pretentious. Worse, it was a white wine tasting — and I abhor white wine. But I’m here to tell you — I sure gained an appreciation for it at that dinner! Nothing will get you to guzzle spirits faster than being stuck at a table full of soused baby-boomers spouting nonsense about “character,” “nose,” “bouquet” and “body.” After developing an appreciation for Chablis, Chardonnay and Mâconnais, I ended up having a fine time listening to the drunken chit-chat of my tablemates. This one couple in particular was fantastic: some kind of nouveau-riche poseurs from Laguna Beach, and the German husband had lost his glasses and thus had to wear his prescription sunglasses at dinner. Meawhile, the loosie-goosie wife got progressively soused and started talking about the “acrylic alphabet” (we were wondering what the word for “cock-a-doodle-doo” is in Russian). Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous!

So I basically pissed away the entire night, and consequently my Burning Man list is piled up and threatening to overtake me. No wonder I can’t sleep!!

Now, speaking of THAT…I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about it anymore, but I simply have to tell you about the latest crazy miracle cure I tried in my quest to finally get a good night’s sleep again. One of my readers, a chiropractor from Wisconsin, thoughtfully emailed me to say that he had successfully treated people for insomnia using chiropractic techniques…and that maybe I should consider seeing a local chiropractor. This genteel reader even went so far as to research local doctors for me, and recommended this one old kook who has been practicing in Vegas for 40 YEARS!! I went to see him, and he busted out all these crazy, kooky tools that looked like something out of Frankenstein’s Laboratory — first he attacked me with what looked like a hybrid ray gun/staple gun, which he used to thwack my backbone and neck; next he laid me on a weird sort of vibrating, oscillating table that turned me upside down; then he rolled a little metal pizza-cutter wheelie thing down my arms; then he applied little 24K gold-tipped stickers to my calves, to stimulate my meridians; and then he applied some kind of weird ultrasound massage, with copious amounts of warm goo.

WEIRD! And, alas, ineffective thus far…although I agreed to come back once a week for the next few weeks because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Seriously — I’m already out another $200+, but I agreed to come back out of politeness. Am I sucker, or WHAT?! I’m just desperate to sleep, is all…

Then I discovered this new sleep software, and shelled out another $70 to download it. It’s basically tracks of isochronic tones that you listen to before bed and while sleeping, and they supposedly train your brain waves to go into deeper, Delta wave sleep. The guy behind all this is this freaky French Canadian with a bizarre accent that gives me bad flashbacks to my photo job at the Sally Dingdong show (which attracts nothing but gimps and Québécois), but I’m giving it a shot anyway. So every afternoon I have to go lie down in my closet for 20 minutes and listen to this “Insomnia Buster” track…and then later I go back again and lie down and do ANOTHER 20 minutes of these lame relaxation exercises prescribed by my therapist. Do I LOOK like a girl who has 40 minutes to spare laying down in my closet every day?!?!?!?!!!!!! Fuck! Not only am I going broke trying to find a cure, but it’s eating up my social life!

Speaking of my closet, check out this awesome shot taken by Michael Maze during our photo shoot last week. I saw this photo of Elton John in his closet back in the day (when he was still in the closet)…and with the help of Maze, I re-created it, Wonderhussy-style! I counted something like 112 pairs of shoes and 1,112 costumes…which means I definitely have a problem. And it’s getting worse — the other night on my way home from dinner with the nude model and the pregnant Arkansawyer, at 1am, I spotted a fabulous new boutique on Las Vegas Blvd. down by the Talk of the Town strip club, and screeched to a halt to investigate. Alex Presley’s Unique Boutique is run by Leroy Lopez, the “Gay Elvis,” and offers all manner of insanely fabulous furnishings, decor and clothing — I walked out with nothing less than a Wonder Woman costume, which I’ve been wanting for ages…and which he gave me a very good deal on! Check this place out!

So anyhoo, between combating insomnia, mingling with Mondavi and partying with an assortment of international friends, I also squeezed in a gig as Secret Agent Hotpants up at the Red Rock Resort pool (a bunch of awesome computer hackers had hired us; there’s some big hacker convention in town right now!!) and an audition for the newest “What Happens in Vegas, STAYS in Vegas” commercial (a total waste of time, because every hot bitch in Vegas was there…but the new script is very clever and I figured I might as well try out!).

And, I also found time to go over and chill with my all-American hero friend at his house, where we just relaxed and watched a movie. While there, his little French Bulldog was all excited, running around and jumping up on my legs and basically just going ape-shit, as dogs do. To quiet her down, my friend got down and put her in a chokehold — basically holding her neck down on the floor so that she couldn’t move, while sternly admonishing her to “STOP.” And that’s when it hit me — I NEED SOMEONE TO DO THIS TO ME!!!! Otherwise, I’ll never stop running around and overextending myself at all these crazy social engagements….and I will never be able to sleep. I NEED A DOG WHISPERER! Or better yet…a Wonderhussy Whisperer!

If you’re qualified, hit me up — and make it quick! Burning Man is in 22 days, and I’ve already agreed to do a nude photoshoot on a horse at a ranch in Pahrump, AND to make a quick trip to New York City in the meantime. Someone stop me, before I hurt myself!!!

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