Wonderhussy

I counted once, and I have 112 pairs of shoes (!!). But photo shoots aside, I only really wear two of them: flip-flops and furry boots. Flip flops are my preferred footwear — I like my toes to be as free as my spirit, and *hate* having them cramped up in socks and shoes. But each year, there comes a time when I finally have to shove my frostbitten toes into my off-brand Uggs and call it a day. That day, alas, has arrived 🙁

To prepare, I spent the past few weeks savoring the last vestiges of summer, like the dregs of a happytini that I just couldn’t bear to see the bottom of. I had a few outdoor photo shoots booked, and after the cold bullshit I suffered at Halloween, I expected to freeze my ass off and be miserable. But the first part of November was pretty warm here in Vegas, so it wasn’t bad; one day, I spent a super-pleasant afternoon out near Valley of Fire with a traveling photographer from New Mexico, who had me pose in the Shortest Daisy Dukes of All Time (see above), which he had crafted himself — apparently aside from being a Fine Artist, he’s also quite the fashion designer!

Another day, I dragged some friends back out to that abandoned brothel I first investigated back in September with my grouchy lady friend, up near Goldfield. We made a day of it, packing snacks and drinks and stopping here and there to snap random pics along the way, including on this busted-up old plane in front of Angel’s Ladies (still operational) brothel outside Beatty.

 

My friend Blondie came along as a model/partner in crime, with my friend Randy (Shutterbug Studio on Model Mayhem) gamely photographing our slatternly hijinks as we frolicked about on mounds of broken glass, rat shit and stained mattresses. Gooooooooood times! I’m pleased to report that the ol’ abandoned brothel is still in pretty good shape since my last visit — I was afraid it would turn out like that abandoned water park I shot at last winter; since my shoot, that place has since been defaced by hideous black tagging, and has been pretty much ruined as a decent location 🙁 Stupid cholos!! The graffiti at the time of my shoots there was colorful and politically-inspired…this new stuff is just ugly.

 

After the shooting our fill at the abandoned brothel, we headed up the road to Goldfield and shot a bit at the junk car forest, too — I’m telling you, the desert around here is just packed with scenic backgrounds for cheesecake T&A! Goldfield is a bit far afield (about 3 hours from Vegas), but even in the area immediately surrounding town, there are a lot of cool spots. You just have to know where to look!

To that end, another day I was hired for an all-day shoot by this traveling foreign guy who wanted me to take him out and about into the desert around Vegas and show him some of my favorite locations. Now, this guy was a rank amateur — no experience shooting models whatsoever — but as I advertise on my Model Mayhem portfolio, I am happy to shoot with all experience levels! Who cares?! These other chicks I see blathering on and on about how they’ll never shoot with a GWC (modeling term for Guy With Camera, a/k/a Amateur Perv) make me laugh…all the way to the bank! Go ahead and delude yourselves, ya hags — you’re a big time model, and you ain’t got time for nobody but Demarchelier. Meanwhile, your fat ass is covered in shitty tattoos and you’re go-go dancing in the party pit at Harrahs. Good luck with that!

Moreover, what exactly separates the “amateurs” from the “pros” when it comes to men paying women and girls to pose naked except for a roll of caution tape and a fake machine gun? Is it the cost of the photographer’s gear? The presence/size of a watermark on his finished photos? The fact that he’s been “published” in some shitty web-only “magazine” that no one but true dorks and assholes reads?? Get real, people! This business we’re in is patently ridiculous…have a sense of humor about it, for Chrissakes!!!

Aaaaaanyway, I am nothing if not realistic about my options, and am more than happy to shoot with just about anyone (I’ve mentioned before how I’ve even shot with GWOCs — that’s Guys WithOUT Cameras, i.e., I have to lend them my own personal DSLR to use for the shoot). And it oftentimes turns out to be a fun experience, as it was with this foreign guy.

Come to find out, he was legally blind — which he let me know up front in the email, and which I did find a bit disconcerting, at first. I mean, what — I’m so hot, even a blind man can’t resist me?? Or maybe the poor fucker just couldn’t see what kind of B-grade gash he was getting himself into!! But it turns out he actually could see, he just had extremely limited vision due to a genetic condition. I actually think half the reason he hired me was just so I could drive him around the desert, to all these beautiful scenic locations.

Speaking of which, allow me a moment of shameless self-promotion! If you’ve ever wanted to shoot a model in the desert, and can get your ass to Vegas, I offer this amazing value: for $500, I will drive you to the beautiful desert locations shown in this photo, where you can experience for yourself the unbridled artistic fulfillment of shooting a nude model (me) cavorting about among the sandstone and sagebrush. Did I mention I also do my own hair and makeup? What a deal! Call now; supplies are extremely limited!!

And guess what?! The next 30 callers get a FREE BONUS: in addition to getting a tour guide, chauffeur and model, you’ll also get a confidant/therapist — I can’t tell you how many photographers have confided their problems to me on these long desert drives. Many photographers are going through midlife crises, or suffering from boring lives, and need an outlet — someone who understands the perils of Life with an Artistic Temperament. Like me!

I’ve always been a really good listener, but sometimes it surprises even me the things guys will tell me after having just met me. This foreign guy really opened up to me, in fact, about his partial paralysis (unrelated to his vision problem)…and about certain lower-body functions he was unable to perform. As a connoisseur of the Vegas demimonde, he wondered if I might be able to help him find an outlet for his carnal desires — more specifically, how he might find a “chocolate-colored girl” to sit on his face. (If you’re reading this, anonymous photographer, I hope you’re not offended…I just HAD to include that line because I found its bluntness so refreshing.)

Anyway, ain’t no thang — I was more than happy to give him some advice regarding strip clubs, swingers’ clubs and escort services (which, I felt, offered the best opportunity for him to get what he wanted). What can I say; I love helping people (and this guy was exceptionally cool)! But really, I do pride myself on my ability to put people at ease…and open them up, so to speak.

But not all my shoots are sunshine and happiness. A couple days later, I did this freaky fuckin’ fetish shoot that was so bizarre, it almost turned me off fetish modeling for life!

The shoot was for a website that sells video clips of chicks dressed as superheroines getting tied up, molested and stripped by a series of nefarious villains. There was no overt sexual content — you just get knocked out, tied up, and stripped, and the camera pans over your nude body while the villain slavers over you, with the actual raping implied to occur after the clip ends — but it was still pretty creepy because I mean, who beats off to that??? I have a longstanding policy of not shooting bondage, partly because it’s physically painful, and partly because the idea of some guy jerking off to a picture of a hogtied, terrified girl-next-door is too Ted Bundyish for my comfort zone. I got into a real shitshow on the Model Mayhem forums over this whole subject last year, so I won’t belabor the point — I get it, bondage is allegedly a power trip for the submissive, as well (!)…so, to each his own. But my own ain’t bondage, so I don’t enjoy shooting it!!!!

But this superheroine thing seemed really tongue-in-cheek and cartoonish, like the old Batman TV show, so I thought I’d give it a try. The guy doesn’t even use real bondage ties or anything — it’s all very fake and goofy. So I packed up my Batgirl costume, my Wonder Woman costume and my gold lamé bodysuit, and headed on over to the shoot.

Now, the guy who runs the site is a true nut (and I mean that in the most complimentary sense possible — he was very nice, and a total professional): a mild-mannered government employee by day, and a fetish impresario by night, fulfilling fiendish fantasies by dressing up asa diabolical characters who capture and molest sassy superheroines (he appears in the clips himself as the villain, and personally does the molesting). And BOY has he come up with some freaky fuckin’ villains!!!! There was the Evil Scientist, the Gasser (who gasses superheroines to knock them out)…and then, most horrifying of all, Albert the Dirty Old Man. When playing Albert, he dons this super-freaky realistic-looking latex old-man mask, with gray hairs sprouting from the ears and nostrils, and cackles such astonishing obscenities as, “I’ll fuck ye like yer granpaw used to fuck ye!” Heh heh heh!!! Horror!!!!!!!

The scenario in that clip was that I, Batgirl, was just leaving the old-folks’ home after my weekly volunteer session, when the director of the home asked me for a favor: “Batgirl, I know you’re on your way out the door, and you’re busy fighting crime and all, but could you stop in on your way out to see this one poor old guy who never gets any visitors?” “Awwww, sure! I just love old people…they remind my of my beloved Grandpa, rest his soul!” (This is why I like doing fetish videos; I love the cheesy acting shtick involved).

Well, I go in and talk to the “poor old guy,” who turns out to be Albert, and he starts telling me how he used to be a magician, and would I like to see one of his tricks? So he ties me up…but instead of making the rope disappear as promised, he ends up pawing me through my bodysuit, then knocking me out with his cane, undressing me, and drooling over my naked form. The clip ends with him hovering over me in his old-man jammies, delivering the aforementioned classic line of dialogue referencing my “granpaw.” SHUDDER!

But as horrifying as Albert was, the worst was yet to come. For the last clip, he dressed up at the diabolically creepy Bopo the Clown!!! Y I K E S !!!

Aside from his full-body clown suit, hat and full-face latex clown mask (!!!), when playing Bopo this guy also affects a super creeeeeepy clowny-clown voice that’s even worse than Albert’s voice (he’s really good at doing voices and accents, LOL). The premise of this clip was, Bopo usually uses chloroform to knock out Superheroines…but now he’s come up with something even better: Hornyform!! Once a Superheroine gets a whiff of that, it’s all over — she’s putty in his hands. He even broke out this super-creepy old vibrator to torture me with, and I was supposed to look like I was getting off, against my will.

I mean, REALLY. Are there seriously guys out there who fantasize about this shit?!?!?!?! The prospect is unsettling, to say the least! I don’t care how many vibrators you prod me with — if I’m hogtied against my will, I’m not getting off, no matter WHAT! To believe otherwise is to assume that women are weak-willed idiots at the mercy of their fickle, overactive clitorides…and that sounds suspiciously like medieval religious hokum, to me.

But hey, I’m just a lazy hyprocrite trying to make a buck, so I went with the program and pretended that Bopo’s Hornyform and made vibrator skills got me off. Then I collected my paycheck and got the fuck out of there!!!

Man, that shoot was so unsettlingly freaky that it made me question my life choices as few other shoots have done. Although as mentioned the guy in charge was REALLY nice, and the utmost professional about his work…by participating, I was still basically glamorizing rape. Cartoony and goofy or no, some guy somewhere is still beating off to the idea of molesting me while I’m tied up and helpless…and that feels pretty dirty. Shooting for that site was an interesting experience for sure, but I won’t do it again.

Then when I got home, I realized I’d left my cape behind…but I wrote it off as a loss, cuz there was NO WAY I was going back to get it! But wouldn’t you know, the guy texted me first thing in the morning: “Hey, you forgot your cape!!” So I had to go back across town to get it — but I tried to make it quick, as he was in the middle of another shoot, with another half-naked chick tied up on a chair. He seemed offended, like he wanted me to stay and chat…but it just didn’t seem like a good time!!!

I honestly really didn’t have time, anyway– my dear old buddy J.R. was in town, and I had to bring his usual suitcase full of water, vodka, wine and weed over to his hotel (I stock his room for him whenever he comes to town). You might remember J.R. from my blogs back in the day — a lovesick Tennessee oilman who was going through a divorce and a midlife crisis, right around the time I got a DUI and was losing my house. The two of us together were worse than George Jones and Tammy Wynette!!! We’ve remained close friends over the years, but I hadn’t seen him in quite a while, so I headed down to spend some quality time hanging out with him.

J.R. was in town for a few days, so we went to dinner a couple times, hit up a cigar convention at the Mirage, and then one night we finally went and rode that fucking Ferris Wheel that’s been looming over the Strip since March. I hadn’t gotten around to riding it yet because I’m cheap, and didn’t want to shell out $40 — but apparently no one else did, either, and because business was so shitty they finally lowered the price.

How was it, you ask? OK, but honestly kinda depressing — to get on board you have to file through all these endless Disneyland-style rope mazes, designed to handle the huuuuge crowds they were apparently expecting…but in reality, no one was there, and we basically walked right in and sat down. Now, this might have been due to the fact that it was a Sunday night…but it was a holiday weekend! More accurately I’d say no one wants to ride the fuckin’ thing cuz it sucks — they built it in the alley behind Ballys, so for around 75% of the ride, you’re just looking at the ass-end of various shitty downmarket hotels. You only see the lights of the Strip and the Bellagio fountains and whatnot at the very tippy-top. Worse, I thought nighttime would be the right time to ride because of the lights and stuff — but in actuality sunset would be better, as then you could at least see the mountains and the desert in the distance when you get tired of looking at the hotel parking garages. At night, it’s just parking garages or pitch black suburban nothingness.

Meanwhile, to even get to the damn thing you have to traverse this awful fake shopping alley full of stupid bars and restaurants — but actually, that fake-ass alleyway contains one true gem that was, in my estimation, more fun than the Ferris Wheel itself: the Polaroid store! This gimmicky gift shop is dedicated to all things Polaroid, with many fun interactive photo ops and goofy tchotchkes for sale — and upstairs, there’s an awesome free museum dedicated to the history of Polaroid and its old-time advertising. Fantastic!!! There’s even a life-size wax mannequin of my #1 favorite kook of all-time, Andy Warhol, that you can fuck around with — and a bunch of his famous Polaroid portraits on display. J.R. and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at that museum, since we’re both photography buffs. I highly recommend it! (We were high, now that I think about it…but even that didn’t make the Ferris wheel fun!)

Anyway, after J.R. left, the weather started to get cold. Thankfully, I only had one more gig (pranking some douchebag, pretending to assault him one midnight on his way out of the comedy club at the Tropicana as part of a Las Vegas: The Game prank) before I was off for a fun-filled seven day cruise to Mexico — where it never gets cold!!!

A friend had gotten some free Carnival cruise tickets to the Mexican Riviera, but when his Plan A fell thru (his girlfriend couldn’t get the time off) he invited me along instead. Why the hell not? Cabo Wabo, Mazatlán and Puerto Vallarta; margaritas, shuffleboard and hijinks with Gopher and Isaac, ahoy!!

Alas, cruising has changed a lot since the days of the Love Boat; I’d been on a cruise once before (with J.R., to the Caribbean) but had somehow forgotten the raging case of David Foster Wallaceitis I’d suffered on that previous experience. Moreover, this was Carnival — the Everyman’s cruise line: nothing but aspirational-bourgeois tradesmen and Avon ladies waddling onboard for the Funnest Time of Their (nasty, brutish and short) Lives™.

There’s really nothing I can add to what David Foster Wallace already said about cruising — you wake up, waddle to the buffet, avail yourself of dozens of chafing dishes loaded with bland, hospital-cafeteria-type slop, stuff your greasy piehole until you begin to involuntarily regurgitate, then go crap into a vat of thousands of gallons of other peoples’ sewage already sloshing merrily about belowdecks…then strap on a swimsuit, sprawl by the pool and guzzle a hurricane glass of 180-proof hi-fructose corn syrup before passing out with your maw ajar, until it’s time to wake up and repeat the process for lunch and dinner. Once or twice throughout the week you encase your girth in a cheap, stretchy polyester-blend gown scattered with flecks of glitter and glue and a few remaining rhinestones for “elegant” night, at which time you tease your shitty highlighted hair to mammoth proportions and sway uneasily down to the photographer like a knock-kneed calf at the Manatee Prom, to pose for a soul-crushingly lamentable series of Olan-Mills-in-the-headlights Portraits that are as heartbreaking as they are laughable. Then you go in the dining room, fill up on food-industry-grade refined chum, and afterward stop off at the Piano Bar for a few more rounds of hi-fructose corn syrup while bawling “Sweet Caroline” with an assortment of rust belters, assembly-line workers and K-Mart cashiers before toddling barefoot back to your cabin to be inseminated by an empty-eyed, desperate walrus who you only too late recognize to be your sister’s husband.

The humanity!!!

 

But don’t get me wrong; the cruise wasn’t a total bummer. They did have some pretty good oatmeal for breakfast, and then one magical evening in the karaoke lounge I did witness the incredible spectacle of a guy with Down Syndrome singing “O Holy Night” — all six, excruciating minutes of it. It was vastly more entertaining than the schlock on deck in the ship showroom (which was a fun-for-the-whole-family, Technicolor tap-dancing tribute to the music of the Beatles)(!).

 

The constant immersion in this human comedy left me disheartened and literally sick — whether from some door-handle virus or David Foster Wallaceitis I cannot say, but for the last few days of the voyage I had a raging fever and was coughing up my guts, one lung at a time. I ended up just staying in bed, and my poor friend must have rued the day he invited me; my senses are apparently much too refined for cruising. I tried to send him on his way and encourage him to have fun without me…but I think I accidentally crushed his spirit, too; when we’d set sail from Long Beach, he was all a-twinkle with plans of hooking up with swinger couples onboard…but the longer he was stuck with me and my buzzkilling reminders of his poor, innocent girlfriend back home (who does not swing)…the less fun the poor fucker had. He made a couple half-hearted attempts at putting the moves on a few heifers…but I think I truly had killed his spirit, and he never really pursued anything. He ended up just buying some Mexican Viagra in Cabo, and saving his lust for when he got home. Yep, you can call me the Relationship Saver — his girlfriend was probably sweating balls about him being on that cruise with me, when in reality I was the only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow!!!

Aaaaaanyway, once we got back I basically crawled off the ship straight into bed, and slept for a couple days straight before dragging my ass back into my truck and driving for 10 hours straight up to the redwoods in Northern California, where I am spending Thanksgiving. When I got here, I bought a brand new pair of fuzzy pajamas…and guess what? I’m not taking them off til December!!!

See ya then…….

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