The Electric Daisy Carnival

I am able to write this post because of a fabulous last-minute stay of execution — as mentioned in my last post, I’m engaged in a literary death match with my friend Mojave Phonebooth, wherein we both have to finish rough drafts of our respective memoirs by a certain date. Well, I thought the deadline was the end of June…so I’ve been getting up at 9am every day and banging out upwards of 5,000 words per session, trying to get it done by Thursday (the penalty for failure is going to church for 8 weeks…no, thanks!). But come to find out, I misread the contract….and the deadline isn’t til the end of JULY! Whew!! Now I can get back to my busy schedule of booze, drugs and parties!

This news came just in time for the booziest, druggiest party of them all — the Electric Daisy Carnival. If you haven’t heard of it, the EDC is this huuuuuge rave put on every year by Insomniac Events. For the past 13 years or so, it was held in Southern California…but after the Ecstasy overdose of a 15-year old girl last year, they were kicked out of L.A. and had to set up camp in Vegas, instead.

I remember seeing the billboards for it last year, on the freeway to L.A….but I never really looked into it. I’m not a raver, so I figured it wasn’t my scene…although my trips to Burning Man have given me an appreciation for a little oontz-oontz-oontz music now and then. All things in moderation, ya know?

So this year, since the EDC was going on right down the street, I figured I should probably check it out in the interest of living life to the fullest. I’m way too miserly to cough up the $200 for a ticket, though, so decided to trust in the Playa Gods and just wait for a ticket to manifest itself. (JUST KIDDING! I *hate* when lazy, unemployed hippies say that about Burning Man…get a f*ckin’ job and buy a ticket like the rest of us, man!!!!!)

Anyhoo, it so happened that my little sister is dating some guy who knows the mastermind behind Insomniac Events, and he got free VIP passes for the weekend. They drove all the way down here from the Bay Area, and partied hard Friday and Saturday night. But they had to drive back on Sunday…so they gave me their tickets for the third and final night. Woo hoo!!


I took my little 18-year old friend from work with me, and we headed over there after work Sunday night, rolling in around midnight. But even at midnight on the last night of the rave, the place was jam-packed and the traffic was craaaaazy. According to the news, nearly 200,000 ravers descended on Vegas for this event — but I’m not sure how much of a boon this was to our local economy, since at least half of them were under 21 and couldn’t do much in Vegas, anyway.

For the last week or so, the local news has been all atwitter over the demonic, ecstasy-fueled ravers and the havoc they were likely to wreak. Every cop in Nevada seemed to be working the event, which was held at the Las Vegas Speedway…normally home to the NASCAR races. But this crowd was a FAR cry from the usual NASCAR folks, that’s for sure!!! If Dale Earnhardt could have seen what was going on at his track, he’d have choked on his chaw.

The heavy police presence was a total joke, anyway — they were ostensibly there to keep anyone from doing drugs, but…it seemed to me like 99% of the attendees were high as kites anyway. Despite the security checkpoint at the gate, where guards patted you down to make sure you weren’t smuggling in any contraband — you couldn’t even bring in Chapstick or teddy bears, and they made me take off my wig to make sure I didn’t have a mountain of coke hidden under there — there was evidently some sort of loophole that everyone was climbing through. I think a lot of people simply hid their drugs in their bloodstream!

But maybe that’s just my warped, inebriated perspective — a reporter friend of mine who visited the EDC both Saturday and Sunday nights stone-cold sober said he thought only about 20% of the attendees were high. According to him, the higher you yourself are…the higher everyone else seems. But idk….people were coming up to me all night long wanting to stroke my pink Afro wig. If that’s not Ecstasy, I don’t know what is!

Whether or not everyone was high (I still stand by my original assessment), I was shocked at the number of young ravers in attendance. I thought raves were a relic of the ’90s, attended only by old Burners and druggies. How wrong I was! As mentioned, a good half of the crowd at EDC was under 21, and they were hardcore into the rave lifestyle, with furry boots, skimpy costumes and crazy jewelry being the order of the day. Everyone was running around spouting “PLUR!” which come to find out is like the rave version of “Namaste!” — it stands for “Peace, Love, Unity and Respect.” (I learned this from my 18-year-old friend, who had written a paper about rave culture back in 10th grade, and was a fount of information.)

Overall, I was totally impressed by the EDC. I had expected a run-of-the-mill rave, with DJs and a Ferris wheel off to the side…but it turned out be more like Burning Man meets a real live carnival! There were flaming skydivers, fireworks, and TONS of rides — everything from bumper cars and Ferris wheels to the Tilt-A-Whirl and a verrrrrry engaging Fun House that was even Funner when inebriated. I’ve never gone to a carnival in an altered state of consciousness…but I WHOLEHEARTEDLY endorse doing so! IT WAS A BLAST!

Picture your average carnival, staffed by bemused, semi-literate carnies…only with thundering house music shaking the ground, and tens of thousands of half-naked wackos running around in furry hats and platform boots. And THAT’s the EDC in a nutshell. FUN!

My friend and I wandered around in a state of vegetable-induced wonderment, riding all the rides and checking out all the light-up art installations — many of which I recognized from Burning Men past. The only bummer was that it was FILTHY — the whole thing was held basically in a parking lot and on a NASCAR race track, so the ground was really dirty. You didn’t really notice it, what with all the flashing lights and distractions…but then around 5am the sun started to come up, revealing melted makeup mixed with sooty grime on the shining faces of one and all. 

Once the sun started to rise, my friend and I took one last ride on the Ferris wheel and then got the hell out of there about a half hour before the official end of the rave, in order to beat the horrendous traffic. It worked like a charm — I was in bed by 7am, and this after a pit stop for hashbrowns at Carl’s Jr., followed by a scalding hot shower. I snoozed the rest of the day away, waking up around 1pm, and wasn’t much the worse for wear. Gooooood times!
















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The Literary Death-Match and the Yoni Massage

My apologies… I haven’t been doing anything scurrilous or titillating lately because I’ve been engaged in a literary death match.

Back around Christmas, my friend Mojave Phonebooth from challenged me to a literary duel. We’ve both been working on books for a looooooooooong time…well, he has anyway; I’ve just been thinking about and meaning to write a memoir about my crazy Vegas adventures for a looooooooooooooong time. But every time I sit down to actually write it, I totally choke!

It’s a bizarre phenomenon. I can bang away at blog posts all the livelong day, without ever running out of stuff to talk about. But when I sit down to “WRITE A BOOK,” I get hung up. Too much pressure!

And…honestly, I do have an overwhelmingly extensive collection of witty and salacious anecdotes. How to cram them all in? And in what order?! It just seems hopeless.

Also, it’s hard to write about My Fabulous Adventures when More Fabulous Adventures keep getting in the way! I don’t want to miss out anything, ya know? I’m burning the candle at both ends, already!

Well, now I’m shopping around for a 3-ended candle, because Mojave Phonebooth and I agreed to a contract, back around New Year’s, that we would each finish a first draft of our respective books by June 30. If one party doesn’t finish his/her draft…that party must attend a church of the winner’s choosing, EVERY SUNDAY for EIGHT WEEKS! Moreover, it must be eight consecutive weeks at the same church, so that the congregants all get to know ya and start bringin’ ya casseroles and tryin’ to save ya from the degenerate life of a nude model. Ya heard?!!!!

Now, I know Mojave Phonebooth is just the hard-assed type of fucker to hold someone to a deal like that. And I’ve intended alllllllll along to start writing sometime in June, because I’m a better last-minute crammer. Plus, if I’m rushing, I won’t have any time for self-doubt and forty rewrites of the first sentence.

Still, I should have started a little earlier. Like I said, though…life got in the way! How could I pass up a fabulous Harley trip to Arizona? Or a photoshoot at the legendarily fabulous Vegas Vision Studios???

I shot at Vegas Vision with the owner, Bobby Deal. When I first started modeling, waaaaaaaay back in 2008, I once modeled for a lighting seminar there. I was a totally green model, so didn’t really know what I was doing, and haven’t shot there since. Meanwhile, I was sort of a modeling protege of this other photographer who had bad blood with Vegas Vision, and Bobby Deal was for some reason his arch-nemesis. So we didn’t really mix much.

I loooove bringing up various photographers I’ve shot with to other photographers I’m shooting with…most of them give these sort of snarky, back-handed compliments, like, “Oh, you shot with that guy? His work is really improving…” Or sometimes they just flat-out diss the other guy: “I heard he was a pervert. Did he try to grab you?”

For the record, I’ve only been molested by a photographer once…that was sort of semi-mutual. It was this hippy-dippy artsy type down in Santa Cruz, CA. Halfway through the shoot, he said my legs looked dry, so please let him put some lotion on them. OK, sure.

So as he’s lotioning my legs… and thighs… and ass…he starts telling me all about how he’s a Tantric Massage practitioner, and how the body has Seven Sacred Chakras, and that the Most Holiest of all the Sacred Chakras is the Yoni…aka the TWAT!

Sure as sugar, he was soon massaging my Yoni!!! He asked me if what he was doing made me uncomfortable, to which I replied “Yes!” To his credit, he laid off, apologizing, and we continued with the shoot….and got some BAD-ASS photos out of it! They are among some of my all-time favorite photos, but I won’t post any here to preserve the identity of The Yoniator.

I don’t know why I give a fuck about preserving his identity, though — I ran into him at Burning Man one year, and he took some awesome photos of me and my sister on his fancy-schmancy camera (he’s one of those guys at Burning Man!!!). But when I emailed him, months later, to ask if he’d send me the pics…he replied back that he was a very busy man with a lot of photos to go through, and that if I were to make a “donation,” he might be inspired to dig through them for mine. SERIOUSLY?! I should blow your cover right here and now, pervert! I got your Chakra right here!!!!

Well anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, at Vegas Vision Studios. The pics came out great (this blog’s pics are all from that shoot), and it was a particularly fortuitously-timed shoot because I had finally put the finishing touches on my home-made showgirl costume. It ended costing me a little over $100 in supplies, because I couldn’t figure out a way to make a sequined thong, and had to go to a stripperwear store and buy a ready-made bottom.

As a somewhat gross aside, I went into this little boutique on West Sahara Ave. that sells custom-made “dancewear” (what they politely call stripperwear). The little old man working there advised me to try on a few pair to see which fit best, but I told him I couldn’t as I wasn’t wearing any underwear (commando being my preferred mode in the summertime).

“It’s OK honey, I have a tissues in there, you can a try them on!”

WTF! I guess it makes sense — you can’t really try on a G-string if you’re wearing underwear. But…yuck!!!! And by the way, I think he meant for the Kleenex to be used as a defensive tactic, and not as offense…if you know what I mean!

Anyhoo, the costume came out great, and I am now available to be hired as a showgirl for your party or event. Rates are negotiable…email me for more info at!

But there will no showgirling at least for the next 6 days — remember, I only have until midnight on June 30th to submit this rough draft of my book! So far I’ve been writing about 4,000 words a day, which puts me on track for a 40,000-word novella. There was no word-count stipulation in my agreement with Mojave Phonebooth, so I suppose I could have cheesed out and written a pamphlet…but I’m not like that.

Besides…..I’ve had enough adventures to fill the entire fuckin’ Oxford English Deictionary!!!

Better get writing…

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Riding Bitch

I’ve always felt an affinity for bikers. I think this has to do with low self-esteem issues: when I hang around hipsters, or artists, or Young Professionals, I feel inadequate, weird and immature. But bikers…they don’t judge! (At least not if you’re a white woman of childbearing age.)

I’ve had a few biker friends over the years, and for awhile I even worked for Harley-Davidson, doing promotions. It’s fun, playing biker bitch! I am a total girly-girl intellectual, but I find it very cathartic to put on some old jeans, boots and a skimpy top, then go carousing around the desert or local biker bars, chasing the ideal of the Biker Woman: long, scraggly hair, sunkissed, leathery skin, squinty eyes, flapjacks and a buzz at 10:30 on a Sunday morning.

Thankfully, my good friend Muscles Manischewitz is a Harley rider…so I get to ride along on a lot of adventures. The first ride we took was out to the brothels in Pahrump, for lunch at Sheri’s Ranch. (They have a friendly sports bar there that is open to the public, and one of the prostitutes will give you a free tour of the brothel if you want. I highly recommend it!)

Aside from Pahrump, we’ve also ridden around the surrounding desert to weird places like Searchlight (home of Senator Harry Reid), Nipton (creepy desert outpost where we met some friendly Goth kids), Crystal (suburb of Pahrump that is home to the SHITTY brothels, and the “Brothel Art Museum”), Tecopa (home of the fabulous Pastels Bistro) and good old Rosie’s Den, a biker hangout along U.S. 93 South in AZ.

Well, this past week Muscles invited me on a longer trip, down into Arizona to the mystical, spiritual, hippy-dippy New-Age mecca of Sedona. This was a 3-day trip, and I was suppposed to jam all my needs into one measly saddlebag. HA! I overflowed into a hot pink lamé duffel bag, which Muscles begrudgingly allowed me to bungee to the back of the bike. NOT very hardcore…but super cool!

So on Thursday morning we cruised south from Vegas to Kingman, AZ where we had lunch at the old-time Flyover Country Grill, aka Cracker Barrel. I was trying to watch my girlish figure, and Muscles eats A LOT, so I really had to pace myself on this trip!

From there, we went south through some beautiful forests and mountains to Sedona, which is basically a tourist-trap town for the

well-heeled and addle-brained. It’s all about crystals, auras and psychic force fields — in fact, they have these certain areas outside town called Vortices (plural of vortex) where the magnetic power of the Earth somehow supposedly whips around in a spiral of positive energy that can cure cancer, prolong life and guarantee anal sex with seventy virgins! Unfortunately, Muscles wasn’t interested in exploring any of these Vortices, so after walking around awhile we took off to neighboring Cottonwood, where we had dinner and spent the night.

Things were just getting interesting in the Best Western jacuzzi — I was sipping a bitch beer and talking to a New Age physician about minerals and “non-traditional” medicine — when the front desk made us shut down and go inside. Boo! But it was all good, because we had to get up and move along the next morning to uber-kooky Jerome, AZ… another little artists’ town up in the hills.

After exploring every weird back alley and souvenir shoppe in Jerome (including the world’s biggest kaleidoscope store…FUN!), we had lunch at the Asylum, which used to be a hospital back in old-timey miner days.  After lunch, I dropped $25 on a pair of studded leather pasties and then we blew town, cruising further along to Prescott, AZ…which is statistically 93% white, and bills itself as “Everybody’s Home Town” (if you’re white).

Feeling that Prescott would be a nice, safe place for two white people to spend the night, we hit the Springhill Suites, but unfortunately there were no New Age doctors in the jacuzzi here, so we went to bed early. The next morning it was back to Vegas. I had to be at work by 6pm, so we took the scenic route along Old Route 66, stopping at the Roadkill Cafe for lunch and then coming into Kingman from the back…through some verrrrrry depressing country. I don’t know how anyone handles living in Kingman — I’d go nuts!

Anyhoo, it was very refreshing to get out of town for a few days, and just blow along on the open road…although when I got home, I was coated in dead bugs and road grime, with a worse case of swamp ass than I got even working the mascot convention!

But I’m back now, and promise to have some salacious adventures soon. Ta-ta!


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The Truth About Terry Fator

Censored again!! CURSES!!!

This time, I had a review removed from Yelp!, for “inappropriate” content. Since the bulk of my many reviews on that site contain equally “inappropriate content” (so much so that they elevated me to Elite status), I’m guessing some redneck idiot Terry Fator fan couldn’t handle my telling the truth about that smarmy, pandering hillbilly and his joyless, tired shtick.

Well, the truth can’t be kept down forever! NOW IT CAN BE TOLD! I am hereby starting a new feature on “BANNED FROM YELP!” Here’s the first installment.

Review of “Terry Fator & His Cast of Thousands”

I had little interest in seeing Terry Fator, though his big fat smarmy redneck mug has been leering at me from local billboards for years. Ventriloquism? Puh-leaze! I’m *WAY* too highbrow for that.

Then he dumped his wife to shack up with his 20-year-old assistant. NOW I wanna see his show — I gotta see the Hawaiian ho-bag that broke up a God-fearing, Jebus-lovin,’ cancer-kid-tribute-song-writin’ all-American-hero’s 20 year marriage! That must be SOME gash!

A friend got free tickets, so I went to check it out for shits and giggles. I wasn’t expecting much, but I should have been warned by the fact that I had two extra tickets, and I couldn’t even GIVE them away. I approached several people on the Strip on my way to the show: “Hey, would you like some free Terry Fator tickets?” “Terry WHO?”

My bad; I should have known better to approach anyone younger than 95 or with more than 4 teeth in their mouth. Because that’s the only people who dig his lame, white-bread, borderline-racist, sexist, homophobic, obscenely pandering shtick. Seriously; I looked around the theater when I got there, and it looked like a trailer park church social in Rustbucket, USA. Depresssssssssing!

Terry himself is a great ventriloquist, but his puppets and shtick are SO lame and tired that it’s not even fun to get drunk and laugh at. His puppets cover every stereotype known to Flyover Country: the funny fag, the jiving Nigra, the horny old woman, the slutty young homewrecking assistant — oh wait, that wasn’t a puppet, that was his WIFE! Who, incidentally, is built like a brick shithouse, and whose apparent purpose in the show is to wear a succession of slutty costumes and be leered at by Terry.

Each puppet was onstage for about 5 minutes of shtick, which consists of singing along to a live band. The fag sings fag songs, the Nigra sings Nigra music, the horny old lady sings horny old lady songs. The Hawaiian hoochie doesn’t sing (or speak a single word, for that matter) — it’s too hard to sing with a mouth full of cock.

Apropos of NOTHING, Terry takes two breaks from his racist/sexist/homophobic shtick: “I’d like to be serious for a moment, folks.” UH-OH!!!

The first time Terry gets serious, it’s to sing a self-penned piece of uber-schlock called “Horses in Heaven,” all about Little Timmy the Cancer Kid. All Little Timmy wants to know is if there are horses in heaven, presumably so that when he dies, he can suck horsecock for the rest of all eternity under the watchful eye of Jebus.

The second time Terry gets serious is when he asks all the “folks” (I hate that word, it’s a Flyover Country Alert signal) in the audience who have “served our country” to stand up and be applauded. All the poor old WWII vets in the room creak to a semi-erect position: Yaaaaaay! God Bless Amurrica! Thank you for giving up years of your life to serve your corporate masters! So glad you escaped being blown to smithereens so that you could be here tonight in Vegas, listening to this racist, sexist, homophobic pabulum! I KNEW WE FOUGHT THOSE WARS FOR A REASON!

But aside from those two brief intermissions, it’s non-stop yuks. When Terry’s not onstage, this funny wacky Nigra kid comes out and does funny Nigra dancin’ to keep the audience from nodding off. THAT’s the kind of show this is.

In sum: if some random bitch comes at you on the Las Vegas Strip, trying to pawn off two free tickets to see Terry Fator….


The Swingers’ Party and the Mascot Expo

Last Friday, a guy I’ve been dating invited me to a party. But of course, this being Vegas, it wasn’t just any party — it was a pool party hosted by the members of an amateur porn website…one of which members, come to find out, was my date!

You know those amateur porn sites: just plain folks like Mom, Dad, Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill, getting it on in all their flabby, sunburned glory. I guess the impossible silicone ideals of commercial porn just don’t do it for some people…so they go the DIY route instead.

Now at first, I’ll admit I was slightly taken aback that my date — whom I hold in high esteem — was a member of such a site. But then I remembered how I kicked some random Dago in the nuts for money the other week, and I realized I have no right to judge. So I accepted his invite, and that’s how I found myself naked in a hot tub full of wild-n-crazy Midwestern suburbanites.

This was billed as a “mixer,” but I pretty much assumed it was a swingers’ party…of which I’ve been to a few, and which I without exception have found depressingly bourgeois and without a doubt the UNSEXIEST places I’ve ever been. In my experience, these parties are full of drunk, sunburned, middle-aged, middle-brow, middle-income naked people. The women all go nude to show off their freckled, baloney-nippled implants, and the men all sit around in swim trunks and gold chains ogling the ladies. Frosted hair, C-section scars and beer bellies are the norm, and everyone fancies themselves the ultimate libertine for being naked among strangers.


A quick rundown of my swinger party experiences:

  • a party at a nudist resort in Northern CA (exactly as described above, except the men were nude as well)
  • a night at the legendary Power Exchange swing club in San Francisco (slightly more deviant, but basically the same scene…just with better lighting)
  • a night at the Red Rooster here in Vegas (exactly as described above…only TIMES 100!)
  • a night at the Green Door here in Vegas (I went on an off-night, so it was creepily deserted except for a handful of shadowy single men shuffling around 10 feet behind me everywhere I went)
  • a visit to the Power Exchange here in Vegas (again, on an off-night, so it was totally deserted except for a tranny or two…which I’m told is the norm)
  • a backyard pool party hosted by swing website (exactly as described above)

So…it goes without saying that I am not a swinger. The idea of sex with strangers is only appealing to me if I’m in the dressing room of the Thunder From Down Under, or possibly in the Physics department at MIT. But I DO enjoy me some people-watching…and swingers parties are the ULTIMATE in people-watching!

Also, most swingers are really friendly, down-to-Earth, just-plain-folks…so I figured I had nothing to lose by accompanying my date to this party. We showed up around 7, and in the spirit of fitting in I was topless by 7:15 and naked by 7:30. When in Rome…!

This party was in a beautiful resort-style backyard pool setting, on a beautiful summer’s evening at twilight. The kitchen was stocked with Boone’s Farm and pizza, and the conversation ran the gamut from sex to sex to sex (although, surprisingly, no one actually had sex). Good times!

I can’t imagine how, but my date and I ended up staying for SIX AND A HALF HOURS! I don’t even remember what I talked to these people about for that long…but I do remember drinking lots of delicious Boone’s Farm, and I do remember sitting in a hot tub full of naked strangers who were talking about cruise ships and strip clubs and pet names for one’s vagina. My date had his arm around me, rubbing my back in a not-unpleasant way…and as I relaxed into the lukewarm mix of chlorine and bodily fluids, I happened to notice that his OTHER arm had wandered between the legs of a battered Kentucky milk cow.


Anyhoo, it was an interesting night…to say the least! I did meet some really nice people, and learned an interesting thing or two about the strip club industry from the point of view of a 42-year-old stripper (who was actually super cool). But swingers’ parties just aren’t really my thing. Although I’m down for a trip to the Red Rooster on a Saturday night just about ANY time — that place is NUTS!

Anyway, I went home and scoured my skin in a scalding hot shower to get off the milky film, and chalked it up as another interesting adventure. Of course, that wasn’t the ONLY adventure I had this week…I’m still trying to make a buck, ya know!

So in that spirit, this week’s random gig was as a corporate mascot at the Licensing Expo. Basically, this was a huge convention hall full of brands that are available to be licensed, and celebrity names available to be pimped out onto cereal boxes and tennis shoes and stuff. Exhibitors at this fine show included NASCAR, Disney, the NRA and Janet Jackson…just to give a random sampling. For a price, you too can have Elvis’s face on your Kotex wrapper!

The company I was working for was contracted to provide mascot characters for many of the booths. Our staging area was a chaotic mess of Care Bears, Smurfs, Strawberry Shortcakes and weird Japanese cartoon characters I’ve never heard of like Yo Gabba Gabba (WTF?!?), all in one state of undress or another. We were supposed to get into costume, walk around the convention floor for 30 minutes, and then break for 20 minutes…on and off all day. I thought it would be MUCH MORE FUN if we mixed up the body parts, like in that game where you fold a piece of paper into thirds and one person draws the head, the next the body, and the last the legs…without anyone seeing what the others have drawn! Imagine a Felix-the-Cat head on a Cookie Monster body with Strawberry Shortcake’s legs. LOL!

I myself was saddled with some obscure South American princess character who had a ginormous foam head that afforded very limited visibility…and four layers of padded clothing that afforded a raging case of swamp-ass! Still, I can’t complain — it was easy work, and everyone marveled at the fact that my makeup remained in place the entire time, no matter how sweaty it was inside that head (I don’t fuck around when it comes to makeup… I use some industrial-grade shit!).

Besides, the swamp-ass induced by that costume was nothing compared to some of the other cases of swamp-ass I’ve suffered in my career as a corporate mascot. Here’s a brief run-down:

My first mascot gig was as an Oreo Cookie at a Wal-Mart grand opening back in January ’05. I had never worn a mascot costume and thus was unfamiliar with the inflation mechanism…and as a result, stumbled about in a half-inflated, wrinkly stupor, terrifying children and making babies cry. “Say hello to the Oreo, Tyler!” one trailer-park mom exhorted her sniveling white-trashling, shoving his bawling face towards my crazed cookie-smile. That kid is probably either in therapy or on kiddie drugs to this day, if he isn’t already in kiddie jail.

My next foray was as the Peanut M&M at a convenience store owners’ convention. I was on a sea voyage up in the Arctic Circle at the time I got the job offer, but I spent $30/minute in the ship’s internet room to reply back with a wholehearted “YES!” That actually turned out to be the easiest of all my mascot gigs, since it was an inflatable costume, not a hard, furry one — much lighter, airier and cooler inside. And besides that, we were indoors the whole time…so the comfort level was great.

The only bummer was, the girl the agency hired as my “guide” was a real embarrassment! I know we were just staffing a mascot costume and its guide, but this was still booked through a modeling agency…and the girl they hired as my guide was a squat Vietnamee with 2nd-degree burns all over her face and an extremely ratty rabbit-fur coat she insisted on wearing over her uniform because it was cold. When she wasn’t sitting on the floor barking “Free candy!” and throwing bags of M&Ms at convention-goers, she was hauling ass around all the vendor tables, collecting free samples of corn dogs, pretzels, Slim Jims and all other manner of nasty-ass convenience store “food.” Ai-yi-yi!

Then came the WORST EVER mascot gig, as a giant soda cup at a shopping center owners’ convention. This agency had hired 20 “models” (they use this term verrrry loosely) to play the soda cups, and 20 guides to assist them. The idea was that you and your guide were supposed to switch on and off every 20 minutes, so one person didn’t get stuck wearing the outfit all day (did I mention they had us outdoors, on the corner of Convention Center Dr. and Paradise Rd., in 105-degree heat?!).

Unfortunately for me, the friend who was supposed to work with me flaked, so just like in middle-school P.E. class I got stuck with the leftover that nobody else wanted — a bitch named Barbara (yes that was her real name — BITCH) who straightaway informed me that “I don’t wear costumes; it’s in my contract, so you’ll have to wear it the whole time.” SAY WHAT??? I got soooooo hot inside that f*ckin’ costume that I ended up breaking down and bawling my eyes out. The guy running the promotion noticed my distress and understood my situation with Barbara, so he took me aside and gave me extra money for my suffering. Eagle-eye Barbara, that bitch, didn’t miss a thing: “What were you talking to Chris about over there?!” I made up some story about him hiring me for another gig, but you could tell she didn’t believe me. Fuckin’ bizzz-atch! I ended up having to work with her again later that year at the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding expo, and she acted sweet as sugar…but I knew better by then.

Anyhoo, after that I SWORE I’d never do another mascot gig…but then I got this fairly sweet job promoting a certain well-known mattress company that uses a sheep in its commercials. I did three different promotions for them, and one time they shipped me the costume over a holiday weekend, so I had it for a few extra days. Well, you know me and my photo shoots — I couldn’t very well let a perfectly good sheep costume sit around unused…not when I happen to have a perfectly good Bo Peep costume to go with it!

The only problem was, you had to be 5’8″ or shorter to fit in the sheep outfit…but thankfully, a palsied photographer I knew at the time who had no social life was able to come over on short notice and don the costume, while I got dressed in my Bo Peep getup (which is actually a 1980s bridesmaid’s dress I bought at a thrift store long ago). My roommate at the time, another squat, toothless, palsied photographer, snapped the pics in my front yard that night. NO WONDER my neighbors hate me!

Anyhoo… that has been my life thus far as a corporate whore aka professional mascot. Who knows if I’ll ever do it again….especially after writing this tell-all expose! But if I do….it’s guaranteed to be gooooooooooood times!


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My First “Artistic” Nude Photo Shoot

This past Sunday I went out on a photo shoot/exploratory foray into the desert near Pahrump with one of my all-time favorite photographers, Randy Fosth aka Shutterbug Studio. 

Why is he one of my faves? Well, aside from his excellent eye for light, and his amazingly subtle editing skills…he was the first ever photographer I shot nudes with!

This was back in the summer of 2008. I had been modeling for about 6 months, but was super shy about doing anything risque or sexy — let alone any nakeys! Then, two things happened: first, I broke up with my long-time live-in boyfriend, who was very square about such things. After we broke up, I basically went buck wild and started running around like a madwoman, doing all the crazy stuff I felt I couldn’t do when I was with him.

Right around that time, I was chatting with a photographer friend about various photogs in town, and Shutterbug came up. “He won’t shoot with you unless you’re 5’10” and have double Ds,” my friend claimed (this is a kind of negative friend who often says shit like that to bring me down…but still a friend).

“Oh yeah?!” I took that as a challenge, and went straight home to my computer to look up Shutterbug’s site. On it, he had a casting call posted looking for nude models. I figured he might deign to shoot little old flat-chested me if I was NAKED…so I submitted my info.

He had me come over to his home studio and shoot some test shots…and I’ll admit, I was a little apprehensive. I was still fairly new to modeling, so going up into some guy’s house and getting naked was a big deal. Still, I’d been to a nudist resort before, and had actually posed for one shitty implied nude photo back in the day (2000)…so I wasn’t *that* freaked out.

Basically, all he wanted to do at this test shoot was make sure I didn’t have three nipples or any weird birthmarks, tattoos or scars. Upon confirming the virginal nature of my skin, he agreed to shoot me for a coffee table book he’s working on, and we made plans to travel out to a secret location of his in the desert south of Vegas.

Now that I’ve been modeling nude for a few years, I’ve gotten lazy — but back before that first shoot I was on TOP of it! I didn’t eat ANYTHING for two days before the shoot, so my stomach would be nice and flat…and I washed the hair on my head, and shaved all other hairs from my person. Then, the morning of the shoot, I did 300 crunches to tighten up my abs just an extra bit more. Whew!!

So the day of the shoot, I went over to the photog’s house — and I must admit, I was still a bit apprehensive about traveling into the desert with a virtual stranger — especially a 6-foot-plus, steely-eyed, crew-cut militia-man-type who looks like he’s about to go postal at any moment!! Seriously! I have since become really good friends with him, and have come to learn that he’s a softie and a true artist…but going by looks alone, he’s kind of a scary badass!

Anyhoo, we packed up all our equipment (camera gear, Pepsi and cigarettes for him; not much needed for me) into his Jeep and headed out to one of his secret locations. The thing with Shutterbug is, he could shoot you in a Motel 6 dumpster and make it look beautiful — he’s THAT good with light. So this “secret location” wouldn’t strike you as anything special if you saw it yourself…it just turns out to photograph extremely well!

I was still kinda nervous and not sure what to do, but Shutterbug helped with my posing and stance: “Suck it in HARD!” “Pop the butt out!” “Stretch on your toes as high as you can!” Shooting nude is a LOT harder than shooting clothed…because there’s nothing to hide any flaws. All you can do to look good is flex and twist in just the right way, using your musculature to shape your body… just like a lump of clay.

At this first shoot, I hadn’t realized the importance of tanning in the nude…so I had a really bad tan line on my butt. Worse, it was crooked…my bikini bottom had ridden up my asscrack on one side, so the tanline was uneven, which Shutterbug gave me no end of grief about. I learned my lesson and from that point forward I have always tanned in the nude….but still, the crooked tanline didn’t seem to stop that from being one of my most popular photos! (See below left.)

Anyhoo, we got a lot of really cool shots that day…and I have since shot with him on several occasions. He enjoys exploring the desert, and has the 4WD Jeep to do it in, so we make a good team. One time we went on a 2-day expedition out into the Mojave Desert, just taking weird turns and seeing what was at the end of different lonely roads. We discovered a LOT of strange stuff out there, including this compound built from old tractor-trailers and shipping containers that was only reached by driving waaaaaaay out down this road that runs through a shooting range (yikes). We drove up to the compound, which had a big “NO TRESPASSING” sign in front, but that didn’t stop my militia-man friend from cruising into the yard to see what was up. A toothless Native American crackhead came shambling up, surrounded by no fewer than FIFTY pit bull puppies, at which point we turned around pretty quick and got the hell out of there! Who KNOWS what that guy was up to way out there?! Meth was likely involved, and we weren’t trying to get mixed up in all that!

Anyway, this past Sunday we just went out in the desert near Pahrump, out to this weird old abandoned religious shrine in a canyon. We shot there for awhile, and then went exploring in the surrounding desert, which form a distance looks flat and boring. But up close, we found all kinds of cool stuff!




An abandoned airfield, a little community of trailers, a mannequin’s arm and a bunch of burned-out, busted up houses… that desert was better than Disneyland! We shot in and among the houses for awhile, until three rednecks rolled up in a pickup truck with a bunch of shotguns, and started blasting away doing target practice RIGHT NEXT TO US. Really, guys?!?! There’s a whole big desert out there, and you have to do your shooting right next to us??? It was kinda cool though, because the staccato noise from their shotguns synced up perfectly with the clicking of the shutter…so it sounded like Shutterbug was literally blasting away!

Anyhoo, as mentioned Shutterbug is one of my all-time faves…but since him, there’ve been many more. But BEFORE him, as mentioned, there was only one time I ever posed for a nude photo…back in 2000, when I was toiling as a data entry droid at Adobe Systems back in San Jose, CA, right before I blew town and moved to Vegas.

I used to share an office with this young perv from Mexico City who was ALWAYS trying to get in my pants. We’d ride the elevator together, and the second the doors shut he’d be grabbing at me, moaning “Me encanta esto culito” and demanding “besitos.” Well, I took it in stride and actually thought it was kind of funny, and we became pretty good friends. I used to go over to his apartment on our lunch break and watch his extensive library of UFO sightings on VHS tapes, which apparently he (and the rest of Mexico City) are obsessed with. Good times!

Then I started my old blog — only this was 2000, before the word “blog” was even in use! I used to call it my “web diary” and it was great… but I needed some salacious photos to put up, so people would actually read it. My pervy officemate was only too happy to shoot some amateur pics of me in various slutty getups…and then he cajoled me into posing for one implied nude, which I am publishing here for the very first time in history!!

Now remember, this was 2000 technology, so the resolution is SORELY lacking… but here it is:

Shortly after this photoshoot I got fed up with the stupid, boring corporate life and quit my job, bought a pink 1986 Lincoln Town Car, packed up all my clothes and martini glasses and moved to Vegas. And I’ve been here ever since… it just took me another 8 years to get into modeling 🙂

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Bad Brandi Bottoms Gets a Spanking From Principal Skinner

By now you may know that my alter-ego is an aspiring fetish model named Brandi Bottoms. I use this “nom de fetish” for all my video work, and most of my nude modeling too. I chose the name as a cheeky double-entendre reference to my butt and the soles of my feet, since the first fetish stuff I did was in the foot field.

But it actually turned out to be kind of a crappy name, because most of the fetish work I do is as a Domme. FemDom, humiliation, trampling…all that stuff is done by a TOP, not a BOTTOM! But I like the name so much that I just sort of muddle through anyway. In fact, I had around 3,000 slaves on my Brandi Bottoms Facebook page… until the haters at FB deleted my profile (for not being a “real” person’s).

Anyway, this blog is a blast from the past — a photographer I shot with TWO YEARS ago finally got around to sending me photos from our shoot, and I am sharing them with you today.

We did a regular photo shoot out in the desert during the day, but then that night he asked me if I’d come to his room at the Hampton Inn down in Hendertucky to shoot some “bad schoolgirl” stuff. Come to find out, this photog is a real ass-man and is obsessed with spanking and asses… and what he REALLY wanted to shoot was a video of him spanking me! But he had no idea how to go about it as to plot, pacing and dialogue.

Fortunately for him, I have a great sense of humor and a fair amount of fetish video experience, so I stepped in and helped him out. Together, we created this AWESOME tongue-in-cheek masterpiece that up until today has lain dormant in his spank-bank. But now….it can be told!

Incidentally, despite his voice and his ass predilections, this photographer is not creepy or skeevy at all. In fact, we actually became very good friends, and almost camped together at Burning Man last year. So despite what you’re thinking, this shoot was all in good fun.

After looking through the photos, be sure to watch the 3-part video at the end. There is no nudity or sexual content in the video…it’s totally safe to watch anywhere, especially church. And it’s FUCKING HILARIOUS!

Our little masterpiece begins with bad schoolgirl Brandi Bottoms getting her report card…and it’s all Fs…except for a D+ in Sex Ed. So Prinicpal Skinner calls her into his office….er, motel room…to give her a talking-to!

Of course Principal Skinner ends up doing more than talk to bratty Brandi… he advises her to look at the coffee table, upon which is laid a selection of spanking tools, and tell her in a creepily quiet, Norman Bates-ish voice to “choose an implement.”


Brandi chooses her “implement,” and Principal Skinner goes to town, whaling on her ass with a his hand, a paddle and a cat-o-nine tails. Mehtinks Principal Skinner was reeeeeeeally enjoying this punishment, as you can tell when watching the video!

Anyway, the photos are kinda funny…but the videos are the best part. Check ’em out! Remember, these were totally unscripted and we’re just ad-libbing…so don’t judge! And especially dig on Principal Skinner’s creeeeeeepy, deadpan voice and my inability to keep a straight face! Gooooooooooooooooood times….


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The Girl’s Guide to Being A Fetish Model

This week, Queen Sally Dingdong made her triumphant return to the showroom at the hotel where I work, back from her palatial estate in Florida, or Botox camp, or wherever the hell she was. All I care about is the fact that I FINALLY got to get off the Carousel of the Damned, and stop working all these awful little nickel-and-dime shows around town where I’ve been making $30-$40 per night. Say what you will about Madame Dingdong — she has a rabid fanbase and they don’t mind spending their hard-earned francs on souvenir photos. So I’ve actually been making decent money at my camera girl job lately!

Unfortunately for this blog, that means I haven’t had to hustle quite as hard for random odd gigs. Still, I did spend one DOOZY of a day shooting videos for a sock-worship website on Monday…and this alone was interesting enough to fill a whole blog.

Now, some of you have already heard me blather on and on about the various types of fetish videos I’ve shot, and you’re probably sick to death of hearing about it. But for many others, this is new and exciting…so I’m going to make this blog “The Girl’s Guide to Being a Fetish Model.” Ready? OK!

Basically, fetish modeling involves shooting soft-core (often fully-clothed) niche pornography catering to various splinter kinks, ranging from foot fetish to FemDom to farting. Everyone has their hot buttons, and I’ve come to find out that people are turned on by some VERRRY strange things. But who am I to judge? My motto is, as long as no one’s being hurt (unless it’s someone who WANTS to be hurt), there is no moral wrong in shooting these types of content. It’s allllll in good fun!

I first got involved in fetish modeling back in October of ’08. I had just broken up with a long-time boyfriend, with whom I had bought a house (at the worst possible time, during the real estate bubble here in Vegas). Well, he bailed on me and the house, which was in my name, so now I had to bust my ass to make my obscene mortgage payment every month. As you know by now, my camera girl job just ain’t gonna cut it…so I had to explore other avenues.

I was surfing craigslist in a rather disconsolate mood, despairing at the lack of tradeshow hostessing and promo modeling gigs (this was the depths of the Recession, and such gigs no longer flowed as freely) when I made the leap. Back in those days, craigslist had a separate section for Adult Gigs (since shut down due to some unfortunate murders). Now, normally I would just check the Event, Talent, Marketing/PR and TV/Film gigs…but on this day I was soooo despondent (and probably tipsy) that I decided to check out the Adult Gigs as well. And there I saw an ad looking for “girls with no tattoos and nice asses for non-nude fetish work.”

Well, that’s more or less me, so I submitted my photos and was soon chatting with an affable pornographer named Luke, who operated out of Phoenix but happened to be in Vegas scouting for talent. I met him at Caesars for drinks, and he was a likeable guy with a sort of earnest frat-house vibe — if the Island of Broken Toys had a fraternity, he was their houseboy. I called him Luke the Mook, and he explained the whole business to me: he used to be in the business himself as a fetish actor, but had graduated to shooting and directing his own video clips — 5-10 minute mini-dramas which were posted for download on his various websites for a fee of $5-$10. Guys from all over the world ordered his clips around the clock, and he made a decent living at it.

Anyhoo, he hired me on the spot, so the next weekend he flew me down to Phoenix to shoot content for his facesitting site. Now I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong — facesitting is TOTALLY different from face-sitting. Face-sitting (with the hyphen) is what you do in a 69 scenario — straight porno. FACESITTING (sans hyphen) is when a big-assed woman sits on a man’s face, effectively smothering him so that he can’t breathe. It’s not so much about the vagina as it is about the mounds of suffocating flesh — and indeed, many of these videos are non-nude, so there’s no vag either way (although I did see a video once of a hugely obese black woman’s naked ass smothering a white man, as she exhorted him to “Sniff my ass, Honky!”).

I was pretty nervous, since I’d never done ANYTHING like this, but Luke was very accommodating. He had found a sub (submissive; i.e. the guy I’d be smothering) who was willing to shoot for free out at his house in the suburbs, so we drove out there after making a quick pit stop at Panda Express, since for the first clip Luke wanted me to sit on the sub’s face while eating an entire meal — ignoring him and basically treating him like a piece of furniture, which is apparently what gets these guys off.

So we got to the sub’s nondescript tract house out in the hinterlands, and as Luke bustled about setting up the lights, I sat in the living room and made awkward chit-chat with the shy, bespectacled lord of the manor — a tech-industry uber-geek with an intense smother fetish. By volunteering to appear in these videos, he was sparing himself the expense and hassle of going to a strip club, wherein the strippers might laugh in his face at his odd request. So it was a win-win.

Still, he was SUPER nervous and would hardly look me in the eye, so I let my gaze wander around his home, which was filled with hundreds of sci-fi DVDs, countless Lord of the Rings memorabilia, a Playstation 3 with full Rock Band setup, and (inexplicably) Norman Rockwell prints on the walls. It all added up to a touchingly depressing scene, especially when the lighting was finally ready and the sub assumed his prone position on the living room carpet, hands folded expectantly across his belly. Luke set the coffee table with my Panda Express meal, and I sat down to eat, planting my camouflage-pants-clad ass squarely on the sub’s face. “Aaaaaaand….action!”

I relaxed and let my full weight crush his face, as per Luke’s strong exhortation: “I don’t want to see your quads engaged at all! Just ignore him completely, like he is a piece of furniture.”  So despite the meek protests and weak struggling of the sub, I relaxed and enjoyed my fried rice, chow mein, orange chicken and kung pao chicken.  Normally, I would huff down a meal like that in about 4.5 minutes.  But since the clip had to be at least 11 minutes long (to allow for editing), I ate at a more reasonable pace than normal, stopping frequently to take a sip of water and to dab at my lips with a napkin — all niceties for which I normally have little or no time.

Well, that clip went well enough, and we proceeded to shoot nine more 10-minute masterpieces featuring my ass in spandex, panties, shorts and jeans, all squashing the face of the hapless uber-geek. As the shoot went on, the sub started complaining that I was hurting him — and indeed, his face was flushed with broken capillaries (and probably arousal). But Luke took me aside and told me not to listen to him, that he was just being a “pussy” and that I was doing a great job. It was awkward for me because I honestly don’t LIKE hurting people…and this whole sado-masochistic scene was new to me. But I played along and recited my lines, and at the end of the day everyone was happy.

Speaking of “lines,” these videos were for the most part unscripted, but with laughablyhalf-assed plot setups…like in one, the sub was sitting on the bed when I came in and said, “Wanna hear a secret?” And then BAM, I knocked him down and sat on his face for 10 minutes. In another, he was sitting in the hallway staring at the wall when I came in: “What the hell are YOU looking at?! I’ll give you something to look at!” BAM! Squash!

The last scene of the night was the most dramatic, a scenario in which the sub was trussed up in rope, and I entered wearing a Soviet officer’s getup: “So, they tell me you won’t talk….I’ll get you to talk, American!” Bam, squash, repeat. How he was supposed to divulge American military secrets with a face full of my ass, I have no idea. It’s fetish, people!

Meanwhile, it was pouring rain outside — one of those monsoonal thunderstorms they get down there, with lighting and thunder cracking in the background. Very dramatic! We packed up the lights, bid adieu to the thoroughly flustered, red-faced sub, and left him alone to… uhhh, do whatever it was he did when he was alone after spending three hours with some bimbo’s ass on his face. Ahem. Luke and I went back to Luke’s condo, and stayed up far into the night chatting about the fetish industry.

I had no idea about any of this, and I was totally fascinated! Luke had himself attained a measure of fame in the smother fetish community as an in-demand sub back in the day, but had graduated to filming/directing him own clips because it was far more profitable. As mentioned, he posted the clips on his various fetish sites and then sat back and collected royalities as perverts the world over placed their orders, night and day. Even as we sat there chatting, orders came rolling in from Europe, Canada, India, Japan and Saudi Arabia (two of his biggest markets used to be Russia and China, but due to widespread fraud, he was no longer able to accept credit cards from those countries). With each order, Luke made a tidy profit. It all added up!

By this time my mind was reeling, and I retired to his guest bedroom to rest up for the second day’s shoot, which was to be for one of his other websites: “How do you feel about farting on camera?” he asked me…and I replied that I’d give it my best try! So in the morning, I chugged a half-gallon of milk (I admit to being slightly lactose-intolerant, and I figured that would work) and we started filming.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t really able to produce more than one loud fart…so we made an emergency run to Taco Bell for a bean burrito, which I ate and then tried again: still nothing! By this time, my belly was bloated up like a zeppelin, but the gas would not pass. Even when I laid on the floor and had Luke step gingerly on my stomach, pressing with his foot, I could not produce an audible fart. I guess I was raised to be a lady, and not fart on camera for strangers! (N.B. I have since been advised that eating an entire pack of sugar-free Mentos the night before a shoot is GUARANTEED to produce lots of loud farts…haven’t had occasion to try this yet, but I heard it from a reliable source.)

By this time it was almost time to head for the airport, so Luke paid me anyway for my efforts and packed me off back to Vegas. But this was only the beginning of my long, storied career as a fetish model.

One thing led to another, and by word of mouth and referrals from Luke I was introduced to others in the fetish community here in Vegas, and began shooting for many other sites. Here is a brief rundown of some of the fetishes I’ve shot:

  • Trampling, in which a woman in high heels walks up and down the prone body of a man. Many trample-ees take pride in their ability to withstand the weight of up to 7 women at once, all wearing stiletto heels! Some especially get off if you trample their nipples and balls, LOL!
  • Tickling, in which the girl is tied up or otherwise restrained and then tickle-tortured as she giggles and screams (I shot my first one of these in a hotel room at Excalibur…a VERY weird scene which you must remind me to tell you about sometime)
  • Foot worship, in which you sit there and let some “foot slave” (sub) suck your toes and massage your feet (I’ve done these for videos and also at live events, which you must also remind me to tell you about sometime). These can be barefoot or in socks, stockings or heels (each is its own niche fetish)
  • Wet & Messy, in which you sit in a kiddie pool and pour brightly-colored goo all over yourself while having pies tossed at you and cake batter dumped on you, then rub it around and let it slop into your granny panties so that it looks like you have a diaper full of nastiness. The money shot here is to let the goo slowly slop out the leg holes…that’s the thing that sends the wet & messies over the edge!
  • Inflation, in which you don an inflatable sumo costume underneath some regular-looking XXXL clothing, and then slowly blow up until you “explode” (the money shot here was when the buttons popped off my shirt). (I also did one where my boobs blew up…remind me to tell you about THAT one some other time, too!)
  • Overeating, in which you pig out and rub your swollen belly and moan and groan about how full you are
  • Belly button (just laid there playing with my belly button, poking my finger in it and stretching it out
  • Spitting, sneezing, hocking loogies (self explanatory)
  • Giantess, in which you torture and torment a little action figure or Ken doll with your ginormous ass or feet
  • Vore, in which you pretend to eat one of those tiny figurines from a model train set — basically you pop it in your mouth, tease it with your tongue and teeth, and talk about how you’re going to digest him and your stomach acid is going to eat him alive and then you’re gonna poop him out
  • Piggy faces (just making weird faces)
  • Ear-twisting (grabbing another girl’s earlobe and twisting it, or also just putting on various pairs of long, dangly earrings)
  • Burping (root beer is best to get loud, bassy burps)
  • Humiliation, in which you talk to the camera P.O.V.-style about how lame “you” (the viewer, who is supposed to imagine he’s your slave) are, and how tiny “your” penis is
  • Breath holding, in which you hold your breath as long as possible while hooked up to an EKG and a heart-rate monitor, so the fans can watch your vitals go nuts as the oxygen level in your blood goes down. The money shot here is at the end, when your stomach starts flip-flopping in these weird spasms, trying to force air into your lungs. 
  • Underwater breath holding, in which you float around like a mermaid, stroking your face and combing your hair until your stomach starts flip-flopping
  • Heartbeat, in which you do jumping jacks or whatever to get your heart rate up, then hook yourself up to an EKG and heart rate monitor, or even to an ultrasound so the fans can watch your heart beating (many of these fans are cardiologists, oddly enough!). Once I even did one where I just laid there with a toothpick jammed into a piece of gum on my sternum — when my heart beat, the toothpick vibrated. And another time, I laid in a bathtub with a puddle of chocolate syrup pooled on my chest, rippling with each heart beat.
  • Stomach noises (my favorite), in which you eat something that makes your stomach loud (Pop Rocks and soda, or raw fruits and veggies worked particularly well for me) and then lay back on a pillow with a stethoscope and record the sounds your stomach makes as it                                                                                      digests the food
  • Balloon fetish — I’ve shot two types: one is breath related, where you inflate a balloon and then inhale the stale air from it back into your lungs, as many times as you can before running out of oxygen. The other is blowing up balloons and then sitting on them til they pop!
  • Hairy armpits, in which you stroke your nasty-ass Euro-pits and maybe shave them
  • Coughing, in which the money shot (or money sound, I guess) is if you can produce a harsh “barking” sound when you cough (this can be cheated by laying on your stomach on a sofa, with your head hanging down off the side)
  • Wrestling, in which a big, muscular female bodybuilder wrestles you into submission
  • Flex Appeal, in which you flex your biceps and show off how strong you are by lifting other women (I have squatted and carried 6-foot, 175-pound female Amazons, and in turn been picked up and carried around like a baby by them)
  • CBT, or cock & ball torture — I haven’t really shot this, except for that one shoot the other week where I kicked the guy in the nuts repeatedly…but apparently, there are sites where chicks jam their stiletto heels into guys’ ballsacks and whatnot
  • Crushing, in which you mash up stuff (food, plastic objects, whatever) with your feet or high heels
  • Ponyplay, in which you ride a guy like a horse and beat him to go faster
  • Damsel In Distress, in which you are bound and gagged and tormented (my LEAST favorite type of shoot…I *HATE* it

In addition to all those freaky fetishes, there are MANY more that I haven’t yet shot. Some of the others on my list include spandex (I have so many pairs of colorful spandex pants, I don’t know WHY I haven’t been hired to shoot this stuff yet), bubble gum-blowing, spanking (despite the massive spankability of my ass, I prefer to be the spanker, not the spankee) and hair (I have a LOT of hair, and I know there’s a fetish for it…just haven’t figured it out yet).

Some of the other fetishes that are NOT on my list — that are just TOO creepy for even me — include peeing, pooping, chloroform (where you pretend to be passed out while someone undresses and chokes you), drowning, pretend-incest and bug crushing (many of these are actually illegal, anyway).

So anyhoo, this past Monday I did a shoot for a sock-worship site, in which I wore various types and pairs of sox and allowed a slave to suck and worship my socked feet, before forcing him to remove the sox with his teeth and then worship my bare feet with his tongue. Gooooooooood times! We even did one outside, in a mud puddle, where he had to lick all the dirt and grime from the socks…which he did with relish! Crazy.

What was really crazy was that the sub for this shoot was someone I actually already know socially! I just didn’t realize he was into foot worship. It just goes to show…I have met all kinds of subs on these shoots, from all walks of life. I shot a whole day once with a cop from Las Vegas Metro, slapping him and trampling him and riding him around like a horsey — and he LOVED it! He was a big, tall, strapping good-looking guy, and he said that he got tired of people fearing and respecting him all the livelong day — sometimes, he found it therapeutic to be abused!

But nothing beats the time I went over to a friend’s house to shoot some trampling/humiliation videos, and the sub turned out to be this pompous ass-bag local actor I happened to know from shooting commercials and stuff around town. He had been pretty rude to me in the past, so I THOROUGHLY ENJOYED beating his ass black and blue for this video!! Worse, he had supposedly just filmed a national commercial for a certain credit card company (yet was somehow broke enough to necessitate filming fetish videos), so he had to wear a Zorro mask in the clips so as not to be recognized! LOSER! Let me tell you, I gave that guy HELL, and relished every minute of it 🙂





P.S. If you’re wondering, I get paid an hourly wage for these gigs, ranging from $50-100. The real money is in residuals from clip sales, but I find it too time-consuming to operate my own site (I’ve tried it, to varying degrees of success…it takes a LOT of promotion). So nowadays I prefer to hire (you might say whore) myself out to other peoples’ sites…easier for me that way!

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Overeating soup, promoting medical marijuana cultivation, and posing as a Paparazzo

This week I had no strange in-room encounters — no ball-busting, no foot worship, and not even any regular nudie photo shoots. But for old times’ sake, I’m including this oldie-but-goodie from 2008, which was taken by a total perv GWC who managed to get himself into the shot!

For those not in the know, “GWC” is a modeling term for “Guy With Camera” — a half-assed amateur with nothing but a camera and a desire to take pix of naked chicks. It is mainly used derisively…but I don’t discriminate. Pros, amateurs, GWCs…all are welcome to photograph me nude! I’ve even shot with a GWOC — a Guy WithOUT a Camera! Yes, it’s true — one guy wanted to photograph me nude but had no equipment, so I had to let him borrow my Nikon D80 for the shoot! I had to show him how to use it and everything — he was totally clueless. But guess what? His money was green. So, GWCs…don’t hesitate to book me!

The remainder of this blog will be sprinkled with photos from my badass shoot with Michael Quan last week…the one where I had to run out and buy a broom last-minute. Now you see why!

My gigs this week were an especially nutty assortment. It all started when a girlfriend referred me to a guy who was looking for promo models for his medical marijuana grow school here in town. If you don’t know, a promo (promotional) model is a sort of half-assed model who whores herself out to various corporate masters for pay — passing out flyers at an event, handing out free samples at a trade show, pouring free samples of booze at a liquor store. Most chicks in Vegas who call themselves “models” mean they do this kind of work…which is why you have so many skanky, nappy-extensioned, fat, pimply “models” in town. Most companies book off heavily-Photoshopped photos, and the actual chick is a trainwreck. Still….I know a lot of trainwrecks who get a LOT of work! I guess with promotional modeling, personality counts more than looks. Still….I know a lot of sour-pussed bitchy divas who somehow get work. Go figure!

Anyway, I went to meet up with this legal grow school guy, and he is super cool. We met up at a PT’s Pub near the airport to discuss his business over a few drinks.

A word about PT’s — it is a huge chain of local bars in Vegas that are for the most part dark, depressing dens filled with cigarette smoke and service-industry-bots wallowing in post-shift malaise. Not very much fun! This location, however, is their flagship location — clean, spacious, light and airy due to the fact that it has actual WINDOWS looking out at the airport runway across the street. There’s an awesome outdoor patio facing the runway, and you can sit there with a drink and some of their excellent food, watching planes take off and land (which I find oddly meditative…and I’ve been hanging out with this hot pilot lately, so I have a newfound appreciation for aviation).

Anyway, my meeting with the grow-school guy went well, and he hired me to do some promotions at First Friday, which is a big arts festival we have downtown the first Friday of every month. They close off the streets, and there’s bands and street musicians and all kinds of art galleries and bars….really a fun event. This guy had me and another model follow him around all night in matching “” wifebeaters and Daisy Dukes…just walking around, looking hot, attracting attention for his business. Cake!

While we were downtown, we stopped into the new Artifice Bar & Lounge to check out the fabulous photo of me hanging on the wall. This was taken a couple months ago by my friend Curtis Joe Walker ( (the guy who owns Charlie, the ventriloquist’s dummy). Another photo he took of me, titled “Adventure,” was hanging in the Brett Wesley Gallery across the street…but someone bought it! Woo hoo — to think that a pic of me is hanging on someone’s wall, and not just residing in a digital spank-bank. Legitimacy at last!

I also met up with the owner of the grow school one afternoon for a private, one-on-one lesson on the cultivation of medical marijuana. IT WAS FASCINATING! I’ve never had much interest in botany — I have somewhat of a black thumb, and my only attempts at keeping houseplants are a few cacti and a mint plant (for mojitos, of course). But I learned a ton that afternoon, and I really enjoyed it. I love learning about new stuff! In fact, if I could go back to college and just be a student for the rest of my life, I’d be perfectly content.

Aside from learning about and promoting the cultivation of medical marijuana, I also did a good old-fashioned fetish shoot for the good people at I love shooting for them because it’s a BLAST — you get paid to do all kinds of awful stuff like burp, make pig-faces and hawk loogies onto a glass tabletop. (Guys pay to download the clips… and I guess jerk off to them.) Good times!

In addition to all the aforementioned ladylike activities, I also did an overeating clip…which is my favorite type of clip to shoot! Usually, they have me eat all kinds of awful nastiness like McDonald’s hamburgers, hot dogs, Twinkies, pizza… something gross and fattening that leaves me feeling bloated and miserable, because unlike other overeating models, I actually digest the food instead of puking it up.

This time, thankfully, she just had me eat 3 jumbo-size cans of soup (all dumped into one huge mixing bowl) and two boxes of Pepperidge Farm cookies. I managed to finish all the soup and one entire box of cookies…plus one cookie from the second box. BLEH!!!! I was soooooo full after…but that’s OK, because after the actual eating clips, they always film a second clip of me just rolling around, moaning and groaning and stroking my distended belly. Yes, apparently there is a special class of guy who gets off watching THAT, too. Hey — I’m not here to judge!

I also did one more really weird clip of me wearing these nasty old purple satin bridesmaid pumps from the 1980s. Some guy had sent in a special request for me to spit on my feet and spit in the shoes and then slide my feet into the spit-filled shoes and squelch ’em around. Yuck!! But again….who the hell am I to judge? I just kicked someone in the nuts for money!

So after the shoot was over, I went home to sort of relax and digest for awhile before my next gig, which didn’t start until midnight. This was a real craigslist special — some lady was looking to pay 10 photographers $120 each to pose as paparazzi in front of TAO nightclub that night. Apparently, some newlywed couple was coming to the club, and the husband wanted the bride to feel special with all these paps clamoring to get her photo.

Well, I submitted my info for the job, but didn’t really expect to get it — by the time I woke up and went online and saw the ad, it had already been up for 12 hours…and those kinda gigs go FAST on craigslist. But I submitted anyway, and they ended up hiring me as the token chick paparazzo! Affirmative action, working in my favor at looooong last.

So I grabbed my D80 and went down to the Venetian at midnight, where I joined a gaggle of real (well, B-list-Vegas) paparazzi as the token chick. We were prepped by the event planner who was running the whole thing: apparently, this couple had had a quickie wedding, but now the guy wanted to give his new bride a real luxury Vegas Experience, complete with a stretch Hummer limo and a crowd of paparazzi shouting her name in the valet area.

Whoever this guy was, he apparently had some major coin! The entourage rolled up in their limo, and disembarked to a crowd of us fake paps yelling “Laci! Over here! Look this way!” “Laci” (not her real name) was a young silicone-breasted chippy in a totally see-though  black minidress. She must have had flesh-colored pasties on, because try as I might I couldn’t make out her nips…even though her dress was TOTALLY see-thru. Anyhoo, we paps followed the entourage from the valet area to the packed mess in front of the nightclub, blasting our flashes all the way. Once they entered the club, we were done — 15 minutes, easy-peasy. The easiest $120 (cash) I ever made! I was home in my jammies by 12:45. Nice!

The other weird gig I did this week was as part of a focus group on slot machines. This consumer research company paid us $100 each to come in for 4 hours and talk about what we like and don’t like about playing penny slots — you know, the ones with cartoon graphics and 50 payout lines, like “Cleopatra,” “Texas Tea” and “Hexbreaker.” HEY — I’ll do ANYTHING it takes to make a buck, ya heard?!

During the course of the focus group they fed us breakfast and lunch, and had us design our dream video slot machine. It was kinda fun, but also pretty depressing — you can imagine what kind of toothless, witless degenerate troglodytes qualify for a study like that. It was a true cross-section of Vegas….and altogether somewhat disheartening.

I didn’t let it get me down, though, because I had a date to hang out at the pool with my friend Muscles Manischewitz…and I was able to drown my sorrows in a frosty pina colada poolside at the M Resort. After that, we went and pigged out on Mediterranean food at Almaza hookah lounge…and then I had to roll my fat ass into work, to shoot souvenir photos at the English ex-boy-band show.

I only worked my camera girl job two nights this week — once at the adult circus, where I made $37, and then this shift at the ex-boy-band show, where I made a whopping $62. Woo-hooo! Drinks on me! Unfortunately, I had an hour-long break during the show, in which I wandered into the Forum Shops and spent $60 on a bra ($60!!!!!!!) that is supposedly guaranteed to increase your cup size by 2. I figured it would be a good thing to wear on promotions, when they kinda want someone with at least a B-cup…so I suppose it was a sound investment. Still….$60?! Really?!!

After I bought the bra, I went back into the showroom to shoot the meet & greet with the ex-boy-band star. Boy, was THAT ever a fiasco! He usually comes out after the show to pose for photos and autograph these 8 x 10s they sell for that express purpose…well, this night he had another obligation, and never showed up. His rabid fans were FURIOUS! I had to stand there while this drunk lady with wine breath bawled in my face about how she’d just flown in from Australia and had been awake for 30 HOURS and all she wanted was an autograph…blah blah blah…boo hoo hoo. I understood her anger and frustration….but really. I’m just some bimbo in hot pants and fishnet stockings. Do I really LOOK like I have any influence over an ex-boy-band star???

Ugh, anyway…..Sally Dingdong is FINALLY returning from Botox camp next week, so THANK GOD that means the end of all this adult circus/boy band/ minimum wage nonsense. But… also means the return of cheap-ass French and Quebecois showgoers…and the return of my nemesis, the Sally Dingdong mannequin. So it won’t be all sunshine and roses. Stay tuned!

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Ball-busting on Memorial Day

I didn’t intend to update this blog so often…but strange shit keeps happening to me!

First, here’s a pic from the shoot I did at the Monte Carlo last week with the really quiet, shy kid — the one I ran into later at the Kylie Minogue show.

Next, here’s a leftover from my shoot with Michael Maze last week:


Finally, I’m going to sprinkle this EXTRAORDINARILY titillating blog entry with photos from my Caesars Palace shoot with the amazing Jeremy Pollack. You know, the American Psycho coffee table guy! He sent me a whole bunch of shots from our session, and they came out great.

But enough about the past — the present is waaaaay more interesting! Since starting this blog, my modeling has picked up quite a bit. Today I went on an all-day photo safari in the desert with a photographer from L.A. who had read my guide to shooting nudes around Vegas. He wanted to shoot at a couple of different locations, so last night I got out my trusty pink Samsonite and started piling in outfits, props and assorted scraps of lingerie. You’d think that with as many photo shoots as I do, I’d run out of ideas — but you haven’t seen my closet! I have an obscene amount of clothing.

Even so, I’ve been shooting SO much lately that I’ve been having to scrape around the bottom of the barrel for stuff I haven’t already worn to death. I found this little apron that a friend gave me once that says “Cherry Pie” on it, and one thing led to another…next thing you know I had this really cool idea for a conceptual photo of me in my apron and curlers, smoking a cig and sweeping the desert floor.

My only problem was that my broom is yellow…and that just didn’t match the red Cherry Pie motif. So even though I was running late, I made time to stop at the Dollar Store by my house to get a red broom. Yes, I’m a perfectionist!

While at the Dollar Store, I also picked up a red bra for the same shot…and a pair of jeggings! I’ve been wanting a pair of jeggings for AGES: I find the concept a half-assed, fat-assed, shudderingly slothful sign of our times… i.e. AWESOME! Can’t wait to do a shoot in them! I also picked up a smokin’ hot pair of zebra print leggings and some big clip-on flowers for my hair. Gotta love the Dollar Store! It’s the only place a perpetually broke hustler like me can afford to shop!

Then I busted ass over to the Cosmopolitan to meet the photographer for the drive out to the desert. We had agreed to meet up in the lobby, so I ran in with my suitcase and broom in tow like a true Beverly Hillbilly. Those trendy hipsters at the Cosmo were definitely shooting me an askance glance or two from behind their pretentious big black plastic-framed nerd glasses. WHATEVS! I have a love/hate relationship with that place.

Anyway, the shoot went great and we got some fabulous shots (soon to be posted here), but time kinda got away from us and the photographer ended up having to haul ass back into town, just barely in time to drop me off at work. I was so crunched for time that I had to change into my bra and panties at a stoplight, and had to leave my car at the Cosmo.

On my break, I had to walk back over to the Cosmo to get my car, and I tried to take a shortcut through the maze of subterranean tunnels beneath Caesars Palace. I figured there had to be a way I could cut underground and come up somewhere near the south side of Caesars, from which it would just be a hop, skip and a jump to the Cosmo.

But those tunnels under Caesars really are a maze! I swear, you could walk around for days and not find your way out. That’s what happens when you build a mega-resort piecemeal over a  40-year period…I LOVE IT! I ended up following my intuition, and taking a turn here and a turn there until  I wound up in an elevator that let me out in….the middle of PURE nightclub! It wasn’t open yet, so the place was brightly lit, quiet and strangely douche-bag-free. There wasn’t even any piss, puke or amniotic fluid on the floors yet.

“Wow, how did I end up HERE?” I asked aloud, feeling even more Beverly Hillbilly-ish in my flip-flops and shorts as some guy in a suit glared at me witheringly and replied…”I don’t know, but I’ll show you how to get out!”

Jeez! Good day, Sir — it’s not MY fault your doucher club is on the outs and none of the cool kids like to party there anymore. Used to be PURE was the shit, and the mooks and bachelorettes were piled up forty deep trying to get in. Now, it’s strictly Chub City. And yes…I am being a hater here. I have a LONG memory, and I remember QUITE WELL the unspeakably rude way the doormen there treated me many a time. Fuck ’em all! I wish the IRS would raid them AGAIN!

Well anyway, enough about that looong and tiring day. That’s not even what I really wanted to tell you about! I had a MUCH more interesting photo shoot on Memorial Day. But this one didn’t come from Model Mayhem…it came from FetLife!

FetLife is like the Facebook for the fetish community, and I created a profile on there long ago in a misguided attempt at becoming a Dominatrix. I still have a profile up, and pervs email me now and then with random proposals: Will you beat me, Mistress? Will you humiliate me? How much would you charge to come to my room and vacuum me head-to-toe with a vacuum attachment?? (This last one REALLY HAPPENED…but alas I pussed out and didn’t do it).

Well, now some guy advised me that he was coming to town from NYC and was looking to hire foot models for a photo shoot in his room. I replied that I was available, at which he inquired as to the cleanliness of my feet: “Are they dirty? Do you go barefoot a lot?”

I figured that if he was asking, he must dig dirty feet…so I replied (truthfully) that yes, I enjoy going barefoot, and yes, my feet were dirty. So we agreed to shoot in his room at an off-Strip hotel at 2pm. Before I left, I ran 3 miles in a pair of sweaty old gym sox and then wallowed around in a mud puddle in my front yard, just for good measure. I aim to please!

So I rolled into this guy’s hotel room with my trusty pink Samsonite full of outfits and different types of sandals (per his request), and we began. The guy was not bad to look at; a young, sort of mookish cross between Ricky Ricardo and the guys from Jersey Shore. Interestingly, he had Jersey Shore re-runs playing on the TV the entire time, which was incidentally the first time I’ve seen the show.

We had agreed on a 2-hour shoot, so for the first hour I just sat in an armchair watching Jersey Shore as he shot pictures of my feet from every conceivable angle. Cake! The second hour, things got a little weirder as he handed me a video camera and asked me to record him “worshipping” my feet; i.e. licking and sucking every particle of dirt and grime off them!! He went to town, even going so far as to deep-throat my entire foot (he especially enjoyed my high arches and long, “beautiful” toes). By the time he was done, they were squeaky clean again (if not a bit slobbery).

Now, you might find the prospect of having your toes sucked by a strange man repulsive, but I’ve been going to these monthly foot fetish parties (…more on which in a subsequent blog) for years…and while I don’t exactly ENJOY it, the squeamishness has long ago worn off. So I just laid back and watched some more Jersey Shore while he did his thing. Who the hell am I to judge?!

The last five minutes of the shoot, however, were the strangest of all. He had asked me to bring an all-black outfit, into which he now had me change for a little light ball-busting! Yes that’s right — he had me kick him in the nuts, REPEATEDLY, for five minutes! He was clothed, and was not aroused (the toe of my high heel can attest to that)…but he seemed to enjoy being kicked square in the balls. Again, I aim to please…so I aimed high and gave him quite a few good whacks.

I never thought I’d enjoy causing someone pain…but it was actually kinda fun. I think I ruined the Domme effect, though, by pausing to ask with genuine concern if he was OK when he keeled over in agony. D’oh!!

Anyhooz, I did such a good job that he gave me a 25% tip on top of the hourly rate we’d agreed upon. Not bad for an afternoon’s work! And, he asked me if I would consider having a slave…as in, would I belittle, humiliate and ball-bust him on a regular basis when he comes out from NYC!

I told him I’d think about it…but honestly, that’s a little too weird, even for me. And besides… I already have a new, even freakier gig lined up!!

I was surfing craigslist when I saw an ad for “Atmosphere Models.” Usually, that’s when they pay you to dress up all hot and go hang out at a party full of stuffed-shirt conventioneers…you know, to add a little spice to the mix. But THIS gig went one better! After I submitted my pics and bio, they emailed me back with the full story: their client had hired them to provide a model to go to dinner with one of the client’s potential business partners (this potential business partner is involved in an emerging industry that’s all over the news these days). The client is trying to get an inside edge on the potential business partner, and lure him into a multi-million-dollar deal… so over the course of a 3-hour dinner, the model is to flirt and chit-chat and find out as much information as possible about the potential business partner and his business — without giving away that she was hired — and then go home and write up a dossier with all the info gleaned, for the client. FUN!!!

I emailed them back RIGHT AWAY saying that yes, I was interested…so hopefully they book me for it! It sounds very Anna Chapman…just the kind of thing I dig, and muuuuuch more fun than hanging out at a party full of beer distributors (which was one lamentable atmosphere modeling gig I did). If they do book me, it’ll make a great blog entry…so stay tuned!

P.S. Lest you think I’m a freak…I did go on a couple super-nice, wholesome dates this past week with a very nice, normal, All-American Hero. We did stuff like hike and play pinball and eat pancakes…so don’t worry about my soul. I’m just trying to pay my mortgage 🙂



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