The other day, I got an emergency Tweet from none other than Ms. Taylor St. Claire: she had a pro fitness/porn model coming in for a Lift & Carry shoot the next day, but the other model had flaked. Could I possibly step in last-minute?
Could I ever! First of all, I’d do most anything for Taylor St. Claire — she’s amazing. I’ve mentioned her before: a gorgeous, brainy, bosomy ex-porn starlet who got tired of the game and quit to start her own fetish empire, which she maintains at TaylorMadeClips.com. That site mainly caters to inflation fetishists — weight gain clips, overeating clips, and girls being blown up into giant blueberries, that kind of thing. But Taylor also shoots all kinds of other random shit — anything that sells, which basically means a little bit of everything! I’ve shot superhero stuff for her, sweater fetish, and even pedal-pumping (where you literally sit in a car and press the gas pedal with your foot, over and over… that’s it).
And secondly, if there’e one fetish I loooove to shoot, it’s lift & carry; it’s SO easy! I used to shoot that genre now and then for this crazy Canadian muscle fetish site: basically, it involved a bunch of gorgeous lady weightlifter/fitness model types picking me up and carrying me around like a sack of potatoes, showing off how strong they were. As the one being carried, you really don’t have to do much at all — super easy.
So when Taylor called me over, I knew I was in for an easy shoot. Which was a good thing, because I had an art-nude shoot out in the canyon that same afternoon, and only had one hour to get this shit done. But Taylor is a pro, so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. And the woman I’d be lifted and carried by was also a real pro — none other than the legendary Miss Austin Taylor!!
Basically, we just had to knock out three 10-minute clips: first, Austin and I are working out at the gym…when I notice her amazing muscles, and she offers to pick me up, squat me, lift me, etc. Second, I’m the bratty schoolgirl forced to stay after class for detention: I keep mouthing off until Teacher gets pissed, rips open her frumpy spinster teacher outfit to reveal gleaming muscles and heaving breasts, picks me up over her shoulder and spanks the sass right out of me!! And third, I’m sitting at home minding my own business when out of nowhere, a sexy lady cop busts through the door and arrests me — carrying me off to the station over her shoulder. Warrant?! Austin Taylor don’t need no stinkin’ warrant!!!!
As predicted, it was an easy and very fun shoot, and we were done in no time…allowing plenty of time for my artsy shenanigans in the canyon. But it got me thinking, as I went about my business over the next few days: is there any correlation between effort expended and eventual payout? In my experience…not at all!!! Consider this anecdotal evidence from my last few weeks of work:
- I made more in one hour of being carried around by a sexy porn star than I did in six lamentable hours of handing out flyers in sweltering heat to rednecks at a motocross race
- I made more lolling around a dry lakebed naked for 4 hours than I did “caddying” a golf game with ten rambunctious, drunken Canucks for 8 hours
- If someone ever takes me up on my Model Mayhem vagina photography challenge, I’ll make more money in one hour than I made all week working the Hardware Convention!!!!!
It’s really interesting to think about. And it’s almost to the point where I’d rather just roll over in bed, flash my twat to some slavering perv, collect my money and then go back to sleep…rather than deal with all this other rigamarole. Almost!!!
But, then I’d miss out on all the fun. Right??!
Actually…right! Even doing some of those lowly workaday gigs like the Hardware Show, I had a pretty good time and met a lot of really interesting people. The guys I worked for at the Hardware Show were super cool, and in fact so were the dudes I worked for at the Supercross race (the crowds at that latter event, however, were another story. Nothing but pure, nasty-ass, sunburned-redneck-speed-freak solid white trash. UGH!!!!).
So I guess you could say I’m not ready to hang up my hat and become a lazy prostitute yet. To that end, I decided it was high time I got some new headshots taken — you know, nice photos I can use to submit for “legit” gigs. Sure, as a full-time model I have bazillions of photos….but the sad truth is, I’m naked or wearing a clown wig with an Uzi up my ass or something in all of them. I can hardly submit that to these convention modeling agencies — I needed nice, corporate-looking photos!! So I hit up a few local photographers and arranged to shoot trades with them (meaning “you shoot my boring-ass headshot in trade for whatever type of shots you want of me”).
Now, shooting a “nice” headshot is a tricky thing. It’s kinda like when you’re writing your resume — you want to come off as knowledgeable and experienced, yet still fun and young and innovative…right?? Now, imagine trying to convey all that in a single photo!! You want a photo that says, “I have washboard abs and can crack a walnut in my ass, but I’m also reliable and drama-free, with a decent grasp of the English language, a sparkling wit, and the ability to hand out lanyards and koosh balls to greedy conventioneers!!! But I’m also FUN and SEXY and you MIGHT just get some!!!!!!!!!” 😀
Anyway, every time I try to take a good headshot I totally choke up. I can take a million gorgeous art-nudes or zany concept shots…but when it comes time to looking “marketable,” I always freeze up. Consequently, I’ve been using the same old tired-ass headshots for years….and I hate to say, but they don’t book me much work :-/
So anyway, I did a few shoots…and guess what happened?! The naked, zany part of the shoots yielded amazing photos….but the headshot part, not so much. Witness the following examples:
Now, I’m not blaming the photographers at all — both the aforementioned examples are great photographers. I have no one to blame but myself. I think it all goes back to self-esteem: because I see myself as a D-list model, I don’t feel “interesting” or even noteworthy unless I’m flashing twat or doing something salacious. I feel that my legs aren’t long enough, I’m not tall enough, and my tits aren’t big enough to really catch anyone’s attention in a “normal” shot, so it’s almost like I don’t even try. My inner light only starts to shine when I’m naked, because nudity is basically my Cloak of Invincibility…and only then do I feel worthy of attention!
Anyway, enough psychoanalyzing. Either way, I got around the whole issue by shooting with a new guy who didn’t expect me to get naked or weird — ALL we shot were corporate-type headshots, so failure wasn’t an option:
So, now that I have some new ammo in my arsenal…hopefully I’ll score up many more fabulous, interesting (and well-paying) gigs in the future! (Fingers crossed!)
Now it has recently come to my attention that, if I were like other girls in Vegas, I wouldn’t be worrying so much about earning a living — I’d just be mooching off some idiot! This might come off as catty trash-talking…but I’m here to tell you, it’s the sad truth that I’m living in a city full of bald-faced (and no doubt bald-twatted) whores. ***NOTE: when I use the term “whore,” I mean absolutely NO disrespect toward any woman who is earning an honest living by having sex with men — I’m referring to the lazy half-assers masquerading as “models,” who are really just looking for a well-off moron to sink their talons into. Real prostitutes, I have respect for.
What brings this up, you ask? A good friend was recently in town, and this particular friend is fond of recruiting female companionship on the worst website this side of AshleyMadison…. What’sYourPrice.com. I’ve written about this site before, but for those who don’t know, What’sYourPrice (WYP) is basically a site where “generous” guys bid on dates with “attractive” women…supposedly eliminating time-wasters, and leading straight to true love. HMMMMM!!!!!
I’ve used the site myself, but state explicitly in my profile that I’m only offering my services as a dinner date — I am not interested in a sugar daddy, or in romance of any kind, for that matter. I’m just there to make money, and I state my fee right at the top of the page: $200 for a 3-hour date.
Well, apparently guys like being milked and lied to, because my profile doesn’t get much action — shocker!! Meanwhile, there is a multitude of other Vegas hookers on the site, each with slutty selfies as profile pics and long litanies of demands: they’re all looking for “generous gentlemen” who will treat them “like a lady,” and then they’ll “see what happens.” Let me decode this for you, guys: these bitches are looking for FREE SWAG, after which they will BOUNCE!
As mentioned, my visiting friend is a frequent user of the site, and he let me use his login info to browse the listings (my competition). Thus, I was able to scope out the other hookers — and it was shocking! And HILARIOUS!!!
First off, I recognized more than a few of the “ladies” on that site — you know who you are, ya hookers! Second, NONE of the other gals were offering platonic services like me — they all, without fail, were looking for True Love™ and That Special Someone™ Now I ask you…..who the fuck uses a site called “What’sYourPrice” to find true love????? Only a seriously deluded shmoe….or a seriously disingenuous whore, THAT’S WHO!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, I know firsthand how awful this site is — not because of my own dates (which have been almost without fail surprisingly pleasant), but because of the trials and tribulations of my friend, who as mentioned has gone on several dates with various tattered remnants of raggedy Vegas puss. He comes out here a few times a year, and usually books at least one or two WYP dates while he’s here….and so far he’s been stood up, ignored, lied to and taken advantage of by a succession of shameless, ill-mannered, self-centered hookers. It’s a total disgrace!!!
Things got really bad this trip, because the poor guy finally met someone he thought he really liked. He made a more than generous offer of $400 to have the hag come hang out with him at the pool for the afternoon, and they hit it off so he took her shopping the next day. (He genuinely enjoys buying things for people, so it was his idea.) They went over to the Fashion Show Mall, where of course she dragged him straight into Neiman’s, where of course there was this pair of $1,200 Christian Louboutins that she just had to try on. A $1,200 pair of high heels — can you imagine?! Anyway, my generous friend bought her a dress and jewelry and who knows what all else, but he balked at the shoes — rightfully so!
Anyhoo, now this bitch was allllll fired up to get those shoes. I know, because he kept showing me her text messages: “Did you get my shoes?” LMFAO!!!! What’s really funny is, the three of us were all supposed to go to dinner Friday night, but at the last minute the hooker’s dog twisted its leg or something, so she couldn’t come. My friend and I figured out it was really a case of her being afraid that I’d see right through her shenanigans — my brain isn’t connected to testicles, so I can usually see what’s up with these bitches. I mean, I could already see from her photos that she was not 31, as she claimed to be…nor was she single (the dumbass had on a ring in one of her photos) or childless (as a simple Facebook search revealed…I mean, come on! If you’re gonna lie, at least do it well!!).
So anyhoo, despite this sad hag’s constant nagging, my friend never did buy her the shoes…and consequently, she never did meet up with him again (this despite her tearful avowal that she was starting to have “feelings” for him…”feelings,” apparently, that were directly related to the possibility of scoring Louboutin shoes). What a sad bitch!! You’re 41 years old, lady….buy your own fucking shoes!!!!!
Not to worry, my friend also had a backup date from WYP — some other disingenuous leather-twatted old chippy who had roped him into another one of his $400 poolside escapades. Only this bitch flaked out on him altogether — first she had a “sinus infection,” so they rescheduled for later in the week…but before that could even happen, she texted him that her girlfriend was in town and offered to put on some kind of show for him for an exorbitant price. JEEZUM! They really are all whores on there, just like the name says. My advice for any lonely guys coming to Vegas is to AVOID this site! Unless you enjoy being taken advantage of…which, apparently, plenty of men do, since the site is alive and well and apparently thriving.
I should come out with my own fucking site: Wonderhussy’s Field Guide to Wildlife of the Vegas Strip. I’ll have photos and annotations describing all the various types of gash you encounter out here, with warnings and advice on how to best interact with each species, like so:
- Mutton dressed as lamb — beware! This species of golddigging, Botox-faced Frankenhag haunts upscale lounges and steakhouses, usually in packs of three that are so foul of spirit, they make the witches of MacBeth look like the McGuire Sisters!
- Les B. Friends — with your wallet! This deceptive species will rub up on each other in the most provocative manner possible, causing you to lose track of your credit cards…at which point they abandon all faux-Sapphic affectations and head straight for Neiman Marcus. Beware!
A Field Guide is actually a good idea…but in reality, I’m just jealous, because I’m so bad at playing the game myself. An example came just the other week, when I was hostessing/caddying that “lads’ weekend” golf trip thing with the Canadians. Basically, I was hostess, entertainer, pimp, procurer, golf caddy and model (we did a photo shoot one day) — sort of a one-stop shop! And on the last day of the trip, we were all supposed to go to a pool party together. However, it was raining that day, so plans were scrapped and the guys invited us over to brainstorm and figure out something else fun to do instead.
No one ended up coming up with a fun idea, and by then the weather had cleared somewhat…so the guys decided to go to the hotel pool after all. But now, us girls didn’t have our pool gear with us. Being a terrible Vegas Ho, I always roll around with a spare bikini in my truck — it’s my ugliest old beater, to be sure, but I carry it around just for emergencies like this one, so I was prepared.
However, one of the other gals piped up first: “We didn’t bring our bikinis; you guys will have to buy us new ones!” So now it was off to the pool shop, where all manner of overpriced swimwear is sold, so that the “guys” could “pick out” new bikinis for us gals. On the way to the shop, about half the guys bailed out, not wanting to shell out any extra money…so only the poor suckers who couldn’t dip out got stuck with the bill. By the time we got to the shop, there were only 4 or 5 guys left, and they made a sort of halfhearted judging committee as we gals tried on bikinis.
True to my nature, I picked out the cheapest one I could find…but even still, no one stepped up to pay for it! It was so awkward, like back in the day in gym class when you’re the last spaz standing around waiting to be picked for volleyball, and no one wants you. Finally, one guy sprung for the top….and then finally another guy begrudgingly squeaked open his wallet to pay for the bottom, but by that time the situation was so awkward that I wanted to throw the fuckin’ thing at the wall and go straight back to college!!!!!!!! And grow my armpits out while I’m at it — fuck all y’all!
But instead, I just sacked up and had about six cocktails, and laughed and danced and titillated like a good, if somewhat ineffective, Vegas Ho. Because bikini or no…I was on the payroll. And I always pride myself in doing a good job…whatever the job may be! Let’s just hope the next one allows me to save more face. I mean, I’d rather be spanked and carried around by a porn star any day than be stuck pandering to philandering, overgrown frat boys!
P.S. Here’s a little cannabutter tutorial I made the other day, out in Florida at a friend’s house. Fun!!