Month: April 2012

I Need a Clone!!!

I NEED A CLONE!!!

Many’s the time I’m confronted with a terrible dilemma that would confound even Solomon: which event to attend? One time I had to choose between a rave and a renaissance faire afterparty (guess which I chose?!), and now this weekend it’s happening again: I *REALLY* want to march in the protest against the War on Women this Saturday, but dress as my male alter ego, Johnny Areola, and march topless!! Alas, it coincides EXACTLY with a gig I’m doing as a giant stuffed dog at some Mexican kids’ event at the Springs Preserve. In the interest of paying my phone bill, I’m forgoing the protest march in favor of sweating my balls off in a dog suit, surrounded by screaming children. D’OH!!! 🙁 Eloi, eloi…lama sabachthani?!!!!!!!! When will Science catch up to the demands of Wonderhussy?!!!

The ironic thing is, I don’t understand why everything’s happening NOW, when it’s been a slow week in wonderhussyland. By that, I mean no molestations or weird perverts trying to shoot photos of my cervix or anything. Gee! Must be time to hit up craigslist again! I did do one skeeeeeevy gig, but it ended up sucking (more on that below).

Mostly, I was busy working. BLECHH! A chunk of my week was consumed with this recycling convention, where I was hired to play Anti-Virus Girl for this company that makes software for recycling centers. I didn’t know bupkis about recycling — I mean, I put in on the curb, and they take it away. I’ve seen the episode of Penn & Teller’s “Bullshit” where they lambaste recycling as a liberal conspiracy, but apparently there’s BIG MONEY in it ‘cuz that trade show was jam-packed with greedy bastards. I doubt anyone there was in it for the Earth’s benefit.

 

Over the course of the show I learned all about the industry, and it was actually pretty interesting. They had all this gigantic equipment on display, like these 2-story-high bulldozers and claws and whatnot…very cool. But I was mostly confined to our booth, where they had me wearing this Green Lantern costume which they had customized to be the AntiVirus Girl outfit. They made an AVG logo, but unfortunately for me, the “A” was so prominent that it almost read “VAG…” which, in conjunction with the permanent camel toe that Green Lantern bodysuit afforded, made me look more like Super Vag! (Which, incidentally, I *AM*! :D)

After the convention, I rested a day and then it was back to work. This time it was an all-day photo shoot all over the desert outside Vegas. A photographer from Minnesota had hired me to take him to some of my favorite secret desert shooting spots, and we spent something like 10 HOURS driving around and shooting. It was fun, but exhausting! It was a hot day, and the sweat mixed with the desert dust in my asscrack made for a mighty fine cement. But after the sun went down, we did this really cool night shoot out among these red rock cliffs, and the photos came out REALLY cool.

I got back into town around midnight, and changed clothes real quik to meet a friend down at Cheetahs strip club — I’m still working on reviewing all the titty bars in Vegas, so whenever anyone invites me to one, I jump at the opportunity. This time, one of my Facebook friends had invited me to come down to Cheetahs and then check out Cover Girls (a new club that just opened in the old Rick’s Cabaret building). I had never met this guy in person before, so when I got to the club I sat on a bench out front and waited for him. While I waited, this random weird midwestern dude sat down next to me and started telling me all this fabulous gossip about local strip clubs. He was very interesting, but I didn’t want my friend to think I was blowing him off, so I kinda kept one eye on my phone the whole time. We must have sat there chatting for a half hour, and finally I was like, “Jeez!” and texted “Where the hell are you?!” to my friend. The guy sitting next to me’s phone vibrated — it was him! I felt like a royal idiot for not realizing who I was talking to all that time, but he didn’t seem offended. I chalk it up to exhaustion.

Anyhoo, we went in the club for awhile, but the air conditioning was broken and I was reeeeally tired, so after watching this AMAZING woman named Dragon dance onstage (she danced better/more dramatically than any stripper I’ve ever seen), we bailed and went over to Cover Girls. Cover Girls used to be Rick’s Cabaret, and before that it was Scores, and before that Jaguars. It’s one of those cursed buildings that never seems to harbor a popular club…let’s hope the 4th time is the charm, because this club is BEAUTIFUL! Three stories, very elegantly appointed, sort of like a Barbie Dream Whorehouse Mansion. But we only stayed a little while, because I was falling asleep on my feet.

Speaking of whorehouses, another night I went downtown to the fabulous Plaza to see the new production of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas that they’re putting on there. It was fantastic! I’m a huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge fan of the movie — I must have watched the VHS tape 100 times growing up. Well, OK, I was around 20…but I still lived at home, and I roped my poor little brother into watching it with me, so much so that he got into it, too! We used to sing those Dolly Parton/Burt Reynolds duets all the time…we loved it! (I can’t believe my brother didn’t grow up to be gay). Anyhoo, the Plaza is doing the Broadway version, which is different from the movie version, so I missed a couple of my favorite songs (the aforementioned Burt/Dolly duet)…but other than that they did a pretty good job. Too bad the theater was full of bluehairs — that place needs some livening up, already! What we need are a bunch of drag queens in Dolly Parton costumes, singing along a la “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Now, THAT would be a show!

Actually, speaking of freaks, the last time I was in that showroom was when I ate mushrooms and went to that Burning Man First Friday afterparty in March. They had turned the Plaza showroom into a mini Burning Man, and me and my friends partied there until like 6am. Totally different crowd than the Best Little Whorehouse people!

Well anyhoo, I also worked taking souvenir photos at the show of a legendary gay British pianist, which was OK, and then I did another photo shoot over at the Palazzo, in one of the rooms. They are all suites over there, and they are NICE! It was probably one of the nicest hotel rooms I’ve ever done a photo shoot in — photographers, take note! Lots of artsy decor, and the lighting was cool, too. Now that it’s starting to get HOT, most of my photo shoots will be hotel rooms instead of desert 🙁 Which is easier in a way, but not as fun.

One of the most interesting gigs I did this week was write a review of the Mob Attraction at the Tropicana. I had gone to the Mob Museum last month, so this website hired me to write a review comparing the two. I went in thinking there was no way the Mob Museum could be beaten…but I’m here to tell ya, the Mob Attraction was actually way cooler!!! They have these live actors strolling around in costume, acting like badass goombahs and whatnot, messing with you. I REALLY enjoyed it! The Mob Museum (even though it’s TOTALLY badass) comes off a little stuffy…but the Mob Attraction revels in the lowbrow, even featuring a bar in the middle. Ha!!! Both are super cool, though, and should be checked out by all.

Then it was time for the big Earth Day Blinking Man Bike Ride Pub Crawl! About 100 crazies from all over town cruised over to the dive bar by my house, and we all got liquored up for a night of riding around Vegas. Everyone had covered his bike in flashing lights and glowy stuff, so it was quite the parade once we got going. We cruised around to about 5 or 6 different bars, and it was a BLAST! I met one of my neighbors, this guy who thought everyone on his street hated him because he plays the drums too loudly. But I introduced him to the chick who’s president of the neighborhood association, and she assured him that no one hates him! Yay!!!

The next stop was at this gross dive bar called the 5th Street Pub — a real dive, with wood-paneled walls, pool tables, and a bunch of people sitting around driving Hennessey and playing video poker. I became friendly with the owner, and he took me into his office (also wood-paneled) to show me something. Shockingly, it was not his penis — just photos of his wife and mom and all the famous people he’d met over the years. FUN! That guy was a real character.

Then a friend of mine showed up, this guy I’ve been hanging out with here and there, but he brought his bike and was thus able to join the fray. We cruised around boozing until about 1am, then went to Tacos El Gordo, some divey little Mexican taco place down the street from my house. He was telling me I “had” to try this pork-covered french fry dish they serve, and drunk as I was I snarfed it up in no time. GROSS! Normally I *HATE* pork…especially when it’s glistening in sizzling fat…but when drunk, all bets are off. I lapped that shit up like a cumguzzling pornstar!

I atoned for my sins by going for a MONSTER hike in Red Rock Canyon with that same guy a few days later. We hiked to the top of Bridge Mountain, around 14 miles round trip, with something like 3500 feet elevation gain. It was EXHAUSTING! Normally I can hike with the best of ’em, but my ass was KICKED by this hike. I highly recommend it — the views at the top are amazing. There’s supposed to be a natural stone bridge up there (hence its name), but we never found it, and got tired of looking. Then we hiked down, drove back to town, and sat in his car listening to music for about an hour. He has VERY eclectic taste in music, and he introduced me to the magic of Wesley Willis, this amazing schizophrenic black man from Chicago who used to record all these awful songs like “Suck a Caribou’s Asshole” and stuff. Call me immature, but I was DYING! That guy was a NUT! Apparently, because of his schizophrenia, he thought he could chase away the demons in his head by singing really awful, gross stuff…so that’s just what he did, backed by the cheesiest canned Casio music you’ve ever heard. It’s FABULOUS!

Anyhoo, after listening to music for awhile, I was STARVING and cruised over to In-N-Out Burger. So sue me — I just hiked 14 miles and burned 14.5 billion calories!!!!! I was halfway through my delicious Double Double when I saw on the news that there was a new Mad Cow Disease outbreak in California — d’oh!!!!!!!! I didn’t feel like stopping eating, though, so I went ahead and inhaled the rest of my burger. Yum!!

So anyway, onto the one skeevy gig I did this week: there’s a foot fetish party held every month down in this ghetto-ass swingers’ club in the Commercial Center, and I used to go all the time (I’m sure I’ve written about it before). Guys pay to get in, and girls sell 10-minute “sessions” with their feet for $20. The guys are allowed to lick, suck, sniff, massage, whatever — but there is no nudity nor any sexual contact allowed, and they’re pretty strict about it! I quit going after awhile because I wasn’t making any money — the guys were tired of me, or my feet aren’t smelly enough, or more likely, I just don’t hustle hard enough. But, seriously — the day I wheedle guys into sucking my toes is the day I get a REAL job! Seriously, this is why I can never be a stripper — I *SUCK* at getting money out of guys. My style is to sit back and wait for them to approach me….and it doesn’t work!

Last night at the foot party, I rolled in around 8pm after stopping at the gay bar next door for a fortifying cocktail. I chatted with one of my girlfriends for a while — this beautiful blonde, super-cool promo model I know who is not too proud to go to parties like this; she’s ALL about making money, moreso than any promo model I know! But then some guy took her back for a session, and she was pretty busy the rest of the night. I sat there chatting with this one asshat time-waster for a while, and FINALLY this big Jeff Bridges-lookalike came along and gave me $20 to suck my toes back in this one room that’s decorated to look like a gynecologist’s office. FUN!! In between slurping on my toes, he informed me that next to feet, he LOVES golden showers more than anything. Now, I don’t draw many lines…but that is one I refuse to cross!!!!! GROSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! Other than that, he was a cool enough dude. I’m telling you, it really is just plain folks at those parties — you’d be surprised! I’ve had my toes sucked by teachers, prison guards, police lieutenants and even a middle-aged husband-and-wife team…EVERYONE goes there!

But, last night I was reminded of why I quit going: it’s too hard to make money, and too demeaning. Oh well! On to the next gig….which happens to be ANOTHER bachelor party that hired me off craigslist to prank the bachelor. This time, the setup is pretty weak — they just want to get him soooooo drunk that he passes out, and then have him wake up in a bed at Circus Circus with me beside him, looking all skanky and saying, “Wow, last night was AMAAAAAZING!” My idea was to at least add in a busted condom and some herpes sores or something, just to liven it up….I’m open to suggestions, people! This isn’t going down til May 6th or so, so if you have ideas, feel free to post them in the comments section below!!

On a final note, I occasionally get fan mail asking for a signed 8×10, and I am happy to oblige! However, when making such a request, the CLASSY thing to do is deposit a few bucks in my PayPal account to cover costs — I mean, come on! I gotta print out the picture, get an envelope, and mail it…the least ya can do it throw a few beans my way. End of Rant!

Peeps, Puke and Seizures

Last weekend was the big annual Viva Las Vegas rockabilly festival — a yearly event at one of the shittier local hotel dives that attracts legions of fanatical greaser-types from around the world. German rockabillies, Japanese rockabillies, but mostly East L.A. rockabillies (for whatever reason, cholas and cholos loooooove them some rockabilly style).

If you’re unaware, rockabilly is sort of a throwback style to the 1950s, but with a modern edge — i.e. tattoos. As in, you’ll see tons of beautiful, voluptuous honeys with elaborately styled, lacquered black pinup hairdos, fantastic vintage dresses and maximum heaving cleavage…but everything is covered in ink. I personally am not a fan of tattoos, and cannot fathom why chicks do this to themselves…but I totally dig the rockabilly style because I dig anyone who’s into an EXTREME look. And these kids totally are!

Anyhoo, they descend on Vegas every Easter weekend for a big beer-fueled weekend-long party, and they bring their hot rods, swing bands and cases and cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon with them. It’s a hoot and a half! I try to stop in every year and check out the scene, but the last couple of years I pussed out because I was kinda over it. I mean, how many times can you dress up like Bettie-Page-meets-Marilyn-Manson before it gets old?? I mean, REALLY!

But this year, I had an idea. One thing on my Bucket List is to go to a Star Trek convention sometime dressed in a Star Wars outfit (the oldtime Star Wars is the ONLY sci-fi I can stomach). The idea would be to pretend I didn’t get the difference — “Star Wars, Star Trek…same difference!” — and watch the Trekkies go ballistic! I just loooooooooooove fuckin’ with people, and that would be the ultimate fuckeroo.

So, I had a similar idea with Viva Las Vegas. It’s a rockabilly festival, which generally means people are wearing clothing from the period 1940-1960…but all in the greaser/Elvis/Bettie Page vein. Now, I had just bought a FABULOUS 1965 mod minidress from the estate of a local hippie veterinarian who had just committed suicide…so I decided to go all Mary Quant and see if the rockabillies got pissed at my anachronistic dress.

Alas, the rockabillies are already sooooo hopelessly anachronistic themselves (I told you, their style spans a

20-year period…plus the fact that tattoos and body piercing weren’t mainstream back then) that no one even noticed 🙁  I was afraid of getting my ass beat by a vicious East L.A. chola…but they were all too drunk to even notice. Boo!! Thankfully, some friends invited me to bail and cruise down the street to a local dive bar called Money Plays, where an outlaw country band called Cletus and the Mexican Sweat were playing. Now, THAT was awesome! The band kicked MAJOR ass (they have a pedal steel guitar player, yo, and they cover all kinds of nasty Southern rock) and my mod outfit was TOTALLY out of place in that dive bar.

I didn’t stay out tooooo late, though, because I had an awesome Easter photo shoot planned the next day. I’ve always hated Easter — I’m an atheist, and was raised an atheist, and I hate ham and chocolate so what’s the point?! The only fun Easter I ever had was this one year when my family and I dressed up in 1930s Great Depression clothes and had an old-fashioned baptizin’ tent revival, up in the mountains in California by this creek that was PERFECT for baptizin’. My sis made a baptismal gown and found this old chalice at Goodwill that had “Terry”engraved on it, and after we had all been “baptized” we sang old-time hymns and picnicked on fried chicken and whatnot as my sister read a sermon, and then we bashed the fuck out of a Jesus piñata full of candy (it was a fairy princess piñata that we painted to look like Jesus). Now, THAT was a fun Easter!

But that was like 10 years ago, and it was time for something new. Fortunately, my friend Jeff G. invited me out to the desert for an Easter-themed photo shoot. Thankfully, he shares my same warped sense of humor when it comes to these things….as you can doubtless see in the pics! I had a blast shooting with him, although I got Peeps dust in EVERY crevice, and had to take a quick Puerto Rican bath when I got home.

After wiping the Peeps dust from my crevices, I went downtown to the Bar+Bistro, a lcoal artsy hangout, for dinner with a friend. We ordered all this delicious vegan food, and drank a bunch of wine…and then after dinner he suggested we go down to Fremont Street and party some more. BAD idea! We wandered around drinking, and he kept buying me shots (I *HATE* shots; please don’t EVER offer me one) until I finally puked all over his car in the Golden Nugget valet. Which serves those assholes right, anyway — back in the day I used to park there all the time when I came downtown, but now they’re super-greedy and will only let hotel guests park there. They won’t even let you VALET there sometimes, the fuckers! The last time I went down there, I had to basically LIE and say I was working there before they let me park. WTF!

So after puking up all that delicious vegan food (the second time in 4 months that’s happened to me, incidentally), my friend drove me home and I passed out in puky splendor. Blah. Unfortunately, I couldn’t loll around in bed all day because I had a TON of shit to do — you may recall that I was hired to go around Vegas and write reviews of all the porno stores for an adult version of Yelp!, and I had about 5 more shops to visit. I dragged my miserable ass around town alllllll afternoon, poking my nose into places that would have turned my stomach even under optimal conditions (including one place that has a punch-card for their porno theater — buy 9 tickets, get one free…like Costco for jackers-off!). It was rough! At one shop, I mentioned my hangover to the man at the front counter, and he handed me a little bottle from the shelf: “Here, drink this! It’ll take that hangover away in 20 minutes! Compliments of the house.”

Wow, I probably should think twice before accepting a bottle of mystery liquid from a strange pervert working in a shitty little adult store with a bare concrete floor…but I wasn’t in my right mind, so I chugged it in the desperate hope that it would work. Thankfully it wasn’t roofied or anything…but either way, it didn’t work. It was just one of those bullshit vitamin shots they sell at smoke shops and places like that — total B.S. In fact, after an entire day of detoxing, drinking water and trying to get down plain oatmeal…the only thing that made me feel better was freaking JACK IN THE BOX! Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it…but that greasy-ass chicken sourdough club did the trick where nothing else did.

My hangover ended not a moment too soon, because right after that I headed out to Lake Mead for a midnight cruise in my friend’s boat. He had some out-of-town friends along, so we cruised out in the dark, and just drifted and listened to music and looked at the stars and stuff. It was fun, but I had SO MUCH STUFF I should have been doing at home that it was hard to enjoy myself. Still, I can’t turn down a boat trip…I’m obsessed!

So anyhoo, the next day it was back to business. I still had one or two porno stores to visit, and I ended up at this FANTASTIC German Fetish shop near downtown that carries the best selection of latex wear in town. I’d never worn latex, but a cross-dressing, BDSM-obsessed friend of mine (who has a socially prominent position by day, but is a secret freak at night) recommended I check it out. Boy, am I glad I did!

This wonderful transsexual Irish saleswoman helped fit me into a latex dress, which fit LIKE A DREAM but was, alas, at $80 out of my price range. Instead, I bought a pair of fabulous black latex opera gloves…and then hung out listening to the fabulously garrulous saleslady’s scandalous tales. She’s had sex with EVERYONE — celebrities you would never in a million years believe! Not only that, but she used to dance (as a woman) in a very prominent Vegas show…and not only THAT, she told me allllll about her trips to the gynecologist (I never realized trans women had to go to the ob/gyn, but as she said in her wonderful lilting Irish brogue, “I haven’t got a uterus, but I could still get cancer on the walls o’ me vagina!”) and her robust ability to orgasm. IT! WAS! FABULOUS! That woman has THE BEST attitude and demeanor of anyone I’ve ever met…and that’s saying A LOT! I’ve never really met a post-op transsexual before, let alone one with such a great manner (“I haven’t got a Mickey” being one of her colloquial gems). Thank CHRIST I made friends with everyone in that shop, and hope to be doing some modeling for them soon! 😀 They are WONDERFUL people!

After finishing up reviewing all the porno stores in Vegas (all 30 of ’em) and receiving payment, it was now time for me to move on to the strip clubs. Strip clubs are a little harder to do, because for the most part I have to bring a guy with me (many clubs won’t let a single chick in the door, for worry she’s an angry wife or girlfriend on the rampage). So I went on Facebook and put out a call for chaperones. I had more takers than I could handle in no time!

My fist stop was this dingy, smoky little neighborhood titty joint called Play It Again, Sam. I met a couple of militant redneck friends over there — the one guy is a sort of Hunter-S.-Thompson-meets-Toby Keith kind of loveable wacko filmmaker — and we whiled away the entire afternoon drinking and talking, with me taking notes on the sly. Actually, I’m pleased to report that the quality of titty at that club far exceeded my expectations — I was there during day shift, too!

Then that night was the grand opening of Vince Neil (from Mötley Crüe)’s new titty bar, “Girls, Girls, Girls…” so after working my souvenir photo shtick, I went over there to check it out. Talk about a madhouse! The place was jam-packed with 80s relics — wall-to-wall mullets, mustaches and raspy-voiced, fake-titted cougars. Nice! I hung out for about 2 minutes, watched Vince “Puffy-Faced” Neil arrive with his retinue of bimbos, and then I got the fuck out of there. Titty bars depress me — especially if I go to two in one day! But it was a really nice club…and GREAT people watching! Also, if you like rock music, it’s the only club in town that plays all rock — no hip hop. Keep that in mind for your next Vegas titty bar adventure!

Now aside from reviewing porno stores and strip clubs, I also indulged my artistic side this week with a crazy cross-dressing photo shoot. I wanted to see if I could convincingly make myself up to look like a man — and I pretty well did! My friend Randy, from Shutterbug-Studio, took the shots….and they came out GREAT! I almost die laughing every time I look at ’em! My point with all this was to take a topless shot in man makeup, and since my chest is already so flat…try to post it on Facebook and see what happens! I’m posting a few shots ths week, and the rest next week…so look out!

The best part was, I structured the shoot to be like a 3-part thing: first I’d shoot as a man, then I would remove half my man makeup and do that side up like a woman, so I was half-and-half…and lastly shoot my new latex gloves. Well, I meant to get some long red fake nails for the “woman” half in the half-and-half pic…but like a dumbass, I forgot to stop at the drugstore. I REALLY wanted this pic to be killer, so even though I had already removed half my man-makeup and had already done over-the-top lady makeup on the other side…I ventured out to buy some nails. Now, the closest place to Randy’s house was Wal-Mart…but ain’t no way I’m going in Wal-Mart with a half-man, half-woman face!! That’s a surefire way to end up on Peopleof WalMart.com… ya know?!?! Instead, I went an extra mile or so to Walgreens, where I didn’t have to worry about all that. The checkout chick looked at me funny, but I explained everything to her and she seemed OK with it.

Then after all THAT, I went and did this radio interview for a local internet radio show called Two Girls and a Microphone (I think they should change it to “Two Girls, One Mic,” personally). The Two Girls in question are two renegade feminist types who started a radio show to interview empowered, nutty women…and I was their first guest! It was pretty cool (you can hear the interview here), but the best part was a few days prior, when we all three met up at Starbucks to discuss the show. A guy at a nearby table overheard us, and recognized me from a party I crashed at Planet Hollywood a couple years ago…and invited me to the premiere of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, a live show downtown at the Plaza. Wooo-hooooooo!!!! I freakin’ *LOVE* that movie — I made my poor brother watch the VHS tape about a million times growing up (well, he was growing up…I was already in my 20s at that time, shamefully!!). Anyhoo, I couldn’t make the premiere (stupid work, grrr)…but I’m going on Sunday, instead.

The rest of the week was crammed full o’ hum-drum lameness, like taxes. I went to see my accountant, and found that I owe the gov’ment $2300…which is fine by me; I look at it as dues to belong to the world’s greatest country club: the USA. If I have to pay $2300 a year to use our roads and libraries and shit…so be it! It’s a fucking bargain as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else, ya know? That being said, he admonished me for not having enough write-offs…so from now on, every drink I buy, every vegan meal I puke up…I’m getting a motherfucking receipt, yo!

Then I did a couple of random gigs, including a photo shoot for an Israeli lingerie website and a gig at a recycling convention, where I was hired to dress in a Green Lantern costume and play Anti-Virus Girl — a sort of superheroine reminding people to use good antivirus protection on the networks at their recycling centers. It was a fun gig, but I still have one more day to go…so I won’t write about it yet.

But far and away the BEST gig I did all week was this craaaaaay-zaaaaaay bachelor party I pranked at the request of a friend. You know how I do those wacky corporate scavenger hunt gigs now and then, where I dress up as a bawling bride or Secret Agent Hotpants or whatever? Well, one of the guys who works for them contacted me, and asked if I could arrange an elaborate hoax. Me and this other chick were supposed to be pretend to be drunken Vegas party girls wandering around Fremont Street, who “happen” to meet up with the bachelor party, and sort of latch onto them for the rest of the night, riding around the ghetto in their limo, taking them to sketchy clubs in between snorts of mystery party drugs before my character finally suffers a drug-induced seizure, to freak out the bachelor…at which point my “friend” pulls out a fake syringe, a la Pulp Fiction: “Not again! This happens every time we go out!”She plunges it into my chest, at which point I spring up all “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!”-like…and hilarity ensues.

It sounded like an OVERWHELMING task, but I made myself say yes, I’ll do it. I put together a slutty party girl outfit, and made up this whole back story about how me and my girlfriend met at a strip club, where I was a stripper and she was a cocktail waitress. In the meantime, she moved on and got a job as a sexy blackjack dealer, and now she convinced me to get out of stripping and try blackjack dealing instead. I wanted to get out of stripping anyway, since I had a 2-year old son back in Texas, who was living with the baby daddy because I was deemed an unfit mother by the court….so now I gotta become a successful blackjack dealer in time for my custody hearing back in Texas next month, so I can prove to the judge that I’m fit and get little Damon back. (I even downloaded a shitty blurry snapshot of some unfortunate snot-nosed mixed-race toddler and put it as the screensaver on my phone.)

But MEANWHILE, in my story, it also happened to be my son’s 2nd birthday that day…so I was depressed, and my “girlfriend” took me out for a night of drinking and partying to get my mind off it. That gave me the excuse to be a total WRECK, and also explained why I kept sneaking off behind the limo to sniff little bits of white powder from a little baggie I had in my purse (it was cornstarch, FYI!). I mean, I was a hot mess!!!!!

Now, this bachelor party consisted of about 10 or 12 Stanford alumni, all earnest young intellectual types, and about half of them were in on the joke — but the other half had no idea! The guys who were in on it helped out by making sure the guys who weren’t in on it were niiiiiice and plastered, so that my antics (in particular my fake seizure) were more believable. And I’m proud to say….it went SMASHINGLY well!!!!!!

We “met” the guys down on Fremont Street, where they were clowning around with the bachelor, making him do all these cheesy stunts and challenges. We goofed around with them for awhile and they “invited” us to come party with them in their limo, which we “grudgingly” did, “sniffing drugs” along the way and being generally obnoxious and drunk.

Once in the limo (even better, it was one of those douchey Hummer limos, LOL), I told them I’d take them to a reeeeeeeel good strip club — then I crawled forward and told the driver to take us to Showgirl Video, that ghetto-ass porn store I wrote about last week that has the peepshow in the back. The driver played along like a champ, buying us more time to get drunk by driving around the ghetto for about 15 minutes, even though Showgirl was right down the street. By the time he dropped us off, they were all wasted. We made the bachelor and the other guys go in and watch the peepshow (remember, you have to put a dollar in a turnstile just to get in…and then it’s $5 or so for a few minutes of peep, so not very exciting) and then I convinced the peepshow dancers to let me go backstage and pop out to surprise the guys mid-jerk.

IT WAS FABULOUS! I busted into the peepshow stage room all crazed, swung wildly around the pole slapping my ass and whatnot (I had on my “Ready For Anything” underwear, LOL), and generally freaked the fuck out of those nice Jewish Stanford boys. AWESOME! It was weird, though — I couldn’t see them through the 2-way glass windows. I don’t know how the peepshow dancers can tell which booths to play to, unless I was doing something wrong. Maybe I forgot to wear my X-ray peepshow glasses or something!!

Anyhoo, after a few minutes I ran outside to “sniff more drugs,” and the guys came out behind me bitching and moaning about how lame that place was, and how they wanted to go to a REAL strip club. “Ohhhhhh, you want to go to a striiiip cluuuub,” I said. “I got a great place I’ll take ya, right down the street!” Back in the limo, I told the driver to take another circuitous route thru the ghetto for about 15 minutes until we got to the Talk of the Town, this über-düber skanky nude club on Las Vegas Blvd North whose parking lot is filled with creepy, decrepit mannequins arranged in a bizarre tableau involving a swingset, a kiddie pool and a mechanical bull.

Back in the day, they used to pay a Russian chick $7 an hour to swing on the swings (which hang from a towering, sun-baked sign blaring “STRIPPERS” in peeling, faded paint) and wave at passers-by…ostensibly to draw in traffic. But now…thanks to the economy, the Russian chick’s job was outsourced to these mannequins. And these mannequins need to form a union, because they take some serious abuse! One is strapped to the back of the mechanical bull, which is permanently set on low speed, and bucks around in disturbing slow motion allllllllllllllll niiiiiiiiiiiiiiight looooooooooong, 24/7/365. Creepy!

Another mannequin is dressed like Marilyn Monroe, but….like Marilyn Monroe after the apocalypse, when all her teeth were blown out by a bomb. Some homeless woman stole her dress one time, but they recovered it with only a few new snot-stains. And it looks like someone took a  baseball bat to the third mannequin.

The best part is, there is a warning sign on the mechanical bull warning that trespassing might cause injury, and that the Talk of the Town assumes no liability. But it doesn’t explicitly say NOT to trespass! It’s basically an open invite to drunk frat boys and cracked-out homeless people to hop on and go for a

ride! Nice!!! I swung on the swings, turned the mechanical bull up to HIGH so that it started bucking wildly, almost throwing the busty mannequin off its back, and then when that mannequin lost an arm, I swung that around like a baseball bat…all in all, generally freaking out the bachelor party, who by this time were way over me and my loser “strip clubs.” They tried to ditch my “friend” and me, but we caught up with them just as their limo was pulling away…and that’s when I had my “seizure.”

The guys were yelling at us about how lame we were, and my “friend” was bitching at THEM because they were reading trivia questions from the Economist (I told you these were nice Stanford boys)…and I dipped into my purse for another sniff of my “part drugs,” but also secretly stuffed my mouth full of Alka-Seltzer tablets…which shortly began to foam, as I “fell back,” began jerking, and then banged my head on the console. Ouch!!!

It was worth it though, because they TOTALLY fell for it!!! Everything went as planned, with my “girlfriend” pulling out her syringe and all that…I popped up, like “SURPRISE!!!” and hilarity totally ensued. We all cruised along laughing hysterically at how well it had gone down, and the guys invited us to accompany them to Sapphire, the World’s Largest Gentlemen’s Club (TM), where the REAL bachelor party was to go down. Since I have to review all those fucking clubs anyway, I went along…and had a pretty good time, all in all. But after a couple hours of THAT, they invited us back for more partying in their sick-ass suite at Palms Place, which had a Jacuzzi on the balcony, overlooking the whole Strip. Nice! It was one of those infinity-edge Jacuzzis, with just a thin sheet of Plexiglas separating you from the void. Yikes!!!

I stayed for quite a while, but then they invited this Midwestern bachelorette party up to join us, and by then the guys were getting kinda snarky, so I sort of developed a case of melancholia and left. I hate to see the sun rise, but even more than that I felt kinda embarrassed…like, here were all these young professional guys laughing at me, while I was monkeying around like a halfwit, reinforcing every negative stereotype about Vegas women. I mean, it was method acting…but still. Worse, when I got downstairs I realized they’d unintentionally stiffed me $20 of my $150 fee…but was too embarrassed and tired to go all the way back up there and bang on the door for my $20. Instead, I went and ate a cheeseburger for breakfast and then went home to sleep all day. Crazy!

Anyhoo, this was the second bachelor party prank I’ve arranged (the last one involved my finding a male stripper and a dominatrix as well as another party girl)…so I was thinking I should totally go into business doing this! Ever since the Hangover, there is apparently an unquenchable demand for disastrous mookish hi-jinks that end badly…so it might actually be a good business plan! Hmm……….

Porn Shops and Blood Wrestling

Finally, a week without anything shitty to gripe about! IT’S ABOUT FUCKIN’ TIME!

It all started last Friday, when I volunteered for this Blood Wrestling event some local wackos had cooked up over at the Sci-Fi Center, a grungy little comic book shop over in the fabulous Commercial Center.

You may remember my mentioning the Commercial Center in past blogs — it’s a derelict old strip mall that was the swankiest place in town back around 1970, but is now a bombed-out wasteland of asphalt and empty storefronts, peppered with a few stubbornly surviving establishments. Since only the hardiest, most recession-proof businesses survived the decline and fall of the Commercial Center, it’s mostly wig shops, gay bars, sex clubs and gay bathhouses. In other words…better than Disneyland!

Truth be told, I’m getting a little tired of my beloved Downtown Vegas — it’s too hard to park, and there’s too many hipsters. (Check out this article I just wrote for one of the local papers on that very subject.) So I was more than happy to volunteer to blood wrestle at the Sci Fi Center, since it meant a fabulous Friday night at the Commercial Center, instead!

 

The wrestling match was the brainchild of the Vamp Girls — a couple of gore-core fangirls who stage all kinds of weird events around town. The Blood Wrestling match was part of a cannibal movie night they were hosting in the back room of the Sci-Fi Center, which has been converted to a little theater. The seats were packed with bearded, bespectacled sci-fi/gore/vagina aficionados training their iPhones at the inflatable kiddie pool filled with a mixture of chocolate syrup, cranberry juice and corn syrup in the front of the room, where me and 5 other chicks were to duke it out for the prize — a PHOTO SHOOT!

Now, I need another photo shoot like a fish needs a bicycle, but it wasn’t even about the prize — it was about WINNING! I am very competitive when it comes to stupid stuff like this, so I was determined to win. I spent a good half-hour making a robe to wear into the ring — I took an old pink bathrobe and put a big, silver “W” for the back…and then I filled the pockets with wonderhussy.com stickers, which I threw out into the audience upon my entrance. I made a big fuckin’ production out of my entrance, because to me, that’s what rasslin’ is all about: the histrionics!

 

Alas, my opponents were all much younger and spryer than I, so I had to pull out a secret weapon: my scream. For those who haven’t heard me scream, I do this weird, primitive kind of primal shriek/scream thing that is UNBELIEVABLY loud and hair-raising (see video below)…and I used it to my advantage in the ring, successfully freaking out my competition enough to win the entire match!

Never mind that I was sore for 3 days afterward, and covered in NASTY bruises…I won! I celebrated my victory by going home and showering off all the Karo/cran/choco, then changing into my Wonder Woman costume and heading back to the Commercial Center to check out the Balloon Master Show, a sort of monthly adult variety show held in this janky little theatre down there. After the show, I drank the night away with a friend at the venerable Badlands saloon — a western-themed gay bar that also serves as a drinking spot for nervous swingers (it’s neighbored by swingers’ clubs on both sides, neither of which are permitted to serve alkyhol).

Now as mentioned, the wrestling match left me sore and badly bruised…which was a real bitch, considering I had a nude photo shoot lined up, and I hate using body makeup!! Fortunately, the bruises had mostly faded by the day of the shoot, and besides, the photographer turned out to be cool as hell…so even if he noticed, he didn’t say anything. He was more interested in getting me to wear this creepy alien mask for some of the shots — FUN!

The only bummer about our shoot was, he wanted to shoot out at Valley of Fire, a *B*E*A*U*T*I*F*U*L* state park about an hour north of here featuring the most dramatic, red rock cliffs and caves you’ve ever seen. I love V of F, but it can be tricky to shoot there because the park ranger is a real hardass and won’t allow any “professional” shooting out there without a permit — and NEVER any nudes. Still, I’ve shot out there a handful of times without incident — ya just gotta keep a low profile, and hike back off into the backcountry before shooting anything.

Even then, though, I’ve had problems! One time, me and this Spanish photographer drove out with another model, and we hiked waaaay back into a slot canyon to shoot some nudes. Somehow, the ranger sniffed us out — he actually hiked 1/4 mile down this slot canyon to find us, and proceeded to lecture the photographer and the other model: “Young lady, put your clothes on! Sir, come with me! You can’t shoot these kinds of pictures here. What would happen if a couple of cowboys came along, put a bullet in YOUR head [the photographer] and then had his way with you [the other model]?!”

I thought he was being a WEE bit melodramatic, but at the time I was hidden out of sight behind a boulder, and I decided to stay hidden in case he the fine for two vaginas was higher than the fine for just one. I scrambled along in the brush, naked as a jaybird, about 50 feet behind the ranger as he marched my friends back to the car. Then I squatted behind a bush like a deranged naked Manson family member until the ranger FINALLY finished reading them the riot act and let them go. But it wasn’t over yet! Thinking that canny bastard was probably parked somewhere waiting for us to leave, I had to sit bent over the entire way out of the park, so he wouldn’t see me through the windows of my truck. FUCKER!

Aaaaanyhoo, that was a year ago, but I’m still a bit apprehensive about shooting out there — especially when I know of similar, less-troubled areas to shoot. But this particular photographer was really set on V of F, so I agreed to go out and try it anyway. Sure as sugar, that motherfuckin’ ranger followed me from the minute I went through the gates! I drove verrrrrrrrry carefully, adhering to the speed limit and whistling nonchalantly, but that fucker followed me across the entire park. Finally, I turned off at an overlook, and he kept going…but it was a close call, and very reminiscent of the coyote and the roadrunner from the cartoons! Try and catch me, sucka…meep meep!

I left Valley of Fire and headed back into town for a total waste of time — a/k/a this casting call for Playboy TV they were doing at Planet Hollywood. I know I’m not the Playboy type, but this wasn’t for Playboy-Playboy, it was for Playboy TV…which as we all know has looser standards. I think they were just looking for naked chicks to be in the background of stuff, so I figured why the hell not. The casting agent kept emailing me, so I finally buckled and went over with about 100 other sad hopefuls with bad extensions and muffin tops wedged into cheap corsets. It’s a sad fuckin’ commentary on the state of our shitty society that the epitome of success for most American chicks is to be a fat-assed geriatric-dick-sucker in a bunny costume. I guarantee you, if they had a casting call for social workers or Peace Corps volunteers…none of ’em would have showed up.

Moreover, one of the requirements for this audition was nudity (HELLO!!!), but you’d be surprised how stupid chicks can be…one girl sat in there wishy-washying with the poor P.A. in charge of the audition: “Can I just put a question mark? I’m not sure I feel comfortable being nude on camera.” LOL! Dumbass. You’d suck Hugh Hefner’s balls in a hot minute, and you’re waffling about flopping your tits out in a conference room? Meanwhile, I went in, dropped trou like it was nothing, and was on my way in 60 seconds. Might as well waste as little time as possible, ya know?

After that, I spent most of the rest of the week cruising around the less-genteel parts of Vegas, reviewing adult stores for this website I was hired to write for that’s like the XXX version of Yelp! What an adventure. I’m supposed to go in and have a look around, noting whether or not there’s a movie theater or an arcade, etc. and then go home and write up my findings. FUN! Let me tell you, there are some REALLY freaky places in Vegas.

Besides all the mainstream Adult stores, which are like Wal-Mart…there are a bunch of really seedy, nasty little joints tucked away in the various crevices of Vegas. Concrete floors, hand-lettered signs warning against jerking off in public, walls of shame with photos of the unfortunate pervs who were busted in flagrante delicto… it was a real anthropological adventure. The worst was probably Adult World, a pink warehouse in a run-down, working class part of town populated mostly by illegal immigrants (indeed, I saw a pocket pussy marketed toward Hispanics, a/k/a un bolsillo de panochita)…but a close second was the Adult Mega Outlet, out by the Air Force base, which was depressingly neat and tidy in a “bounce a quarter off your jizz stain” kind of way. Just thinking about those poor Iran-bound fools jerking off to videos of cum-guzzling high school dropouts was enough to cause my chronic Weltschmerz to flare up again. This is what you’re fighting for, boys…God, apple pie, and cum-guzzlers. Git ‘er done!

But my #1 FAVORITE spot was this awful, ghetto joint called Showgirl Video, downtown on Vegas Blvd. not far from my house (and right next door to that dumb pawn shop from the Discovery Channel show, which always has a line around the block of fat TV-watchers trying to get in). I’ve long been a fan of Showgirl Video for several reasons: 1.) It’s reeeeeally ghetto 2.) It has ass- and tit-prints of various famous porn stars, like the footprints out front of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and 3.) It has a live peepshow in the back, where you can watch a live Russian chick gyrate behind a sheet of Plexiglas…and if you’re REALLY into her, you can pay extra to watch her in a PRIVATE booth, where it’s just you and her, and she’ll do WHATEVER you want. There’s even a menu of services posted on the wall: anal w/toy $80, “everything” for $100. Wow!

The manager was extremely friendly toward me, and offered me a job dancing in the peepshow. He really worked me over, selling me on the fact that unlike strip clubs, at the peepshow you don’t even have to get a Sheriff’s card to work (because there is no contact with the patrons…why that makes any difference to the Sheriff, I have no idea). Why, just last week a couple of broke co-eds from Denver came in and asked to work — they had lost all their money gambling downtown, and needed money to get home! After just a few days of dancing in the peepshow, they had earned bus fare back to Colorado. BUS fare! This tells me one of two things: either bus fare is more expensive than I thought…or there ain’t much money dancing at Showgirl Video’s peepshow. I’m inclined to bank on the latter!

The manager either didn’t notice or chose to ignore my skeptical expression, and gave me a “backstage” tour (!!!!!) of the peepshow area… which was fascinatingly depressing. On my way out, a big fat slob of a customer in a stained polo shirt reassured me: “Don’t be shy, honey; you’ll do fine!” Uhhhh, yeah! Next time I need to earn bus fare to anywhere, I’ll let ya know, boys…

Speaking of porn, one of my Facebook friends forwarded me the link to this AWESOME Nightline special on Porn: When the Fun Stops (or something tsk-tsky like that). The reason he forwarded it is, I was in it!!! Just for 2 seconds, but I thought it was funny — it was footage from the Adult Entertainment Expo in 2010, when I worked as a booth babe for a condom manufacturer. But now I was made to look like a porn star on national TV…if I gave a shit, I’d be pretty upset! But as they say, my Give-a-Damn’s busted…so I just thought it was funny. In the background of this pic, you can see the rich-kid stoner from Beverly Hills who hired me, and his long-suffering dad. Lolz! What a couple of characters.

After all that gnarliness, it was nice to take a night off and relax with my fellow Vegas artsy types at the monthly First Friday arts festival. This month was nowhere near as cool as last month’s, and there were far too many kiddies around for my taste — it looked more like a fuckin’ church picnic than a counterculture festival. I mean, they had a bouncy castle! Thankfully, I had a bottle of champagne in my purse, so it didn’t bother me tooooo badly. I met up with two guys I barely know, and ended up having a fine old time hanging out boozing and eating late-nite nastiness at the Gold Spike with them, before adjourning to the lounge to watch a 3-piece classic rock cover band. My last memory was singing “Hotel California” with a biker who looked like Willie Nelson, before my guy friends finally dragged me away back to my car. Gooooooooooooood times!

Well, now I gotta go onto the next adventure. I still have 15 porno stores to review (there are a LOT of them in Vegas), plus I want to go over and check out the annual rockabilly convention. I was thinking it might be fun to go over there dressed COMPLETELY inappropriately, like a 1960s Andy Williams Show castmember or something, just to piss ’em off. We’ll see!!!

 

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