Creepy Utah, the Crack Motels of Fremont, and a Visit to Sheri’s Ranch Brothel

Well everyone, the Vegas literati have spoken….and I am pleased to announce that I, Wonderhussy, am the winner of the Las Vegas Weekly’s 2012 Best Blogger award! I woke up the other morning to all these congratulatory text messages, which I first thought were in reference to the Supreme Court’s passing of the Affordable Healthcare Act — which in itself was an amazingly happy shocker. The news about winning best blogger was just icing on the cake. I don’t get a prize or anything, just recognition…which is fine by me!

So now the pressure’s on to keep writing titillating, salacious stuff. And since I only write about stuff I personally DO, that means the pressure is on to keep hitting up all the seedy shit in town. Thankfully, I’m up to the task!

My activities of late didn’t really bode well for salaciousness at first, however. I took a few days off and went up to Cedar City, Utah, with my boyfriend Captain Crunch. Captain Crunch is OBSESSED with mountain biking, and he figured we could do some quality hiking and biking in the mountains up there, which are staggeringly beautiful. I was all for it, as I am an avid outdoorswoman myself, so I took a day off from shooting photos of the wax Sally Dingdong mannequin to head up there with him. We got a room in town, and set out for some hardcore exploring.

Now, one of my favorite things about Captain Crunch is, he likes to celebrate a good workout with a drink or three — just my style. The only problem was, it stayed light out until about 9pm up there, so we never really got back into town til closer to 10pm — by which time the liquor stores were long closed. If you’ve never been to Utah, it’s a really, really creepy, fucked-up place that only sells liquor at these weird state-owned Alcoholic Beverage Control stores that close at 7PM!!!

The problem is, the State of Utah is owned and operated by a cabal of aggressively wholesome Mormons, and they don’t take kindly to boozing…or anything else that goes against the writings on the golden plates found by Joseph Smith on a hill in upstate New York back in 1823. Driving around Utah is a weeeeeeeeeird and unsettling experience — all around you is astounding natural beauty, dotted with picturesque little towns full of white-picket-fenced houses with well-maintained gardens and lawns. Everything is so squeaky-clean and wholesome it just makes you want to puke!!!

For boozers like Captain Crunch and me, there ain’t much to do after the sun goes down. Everything shutters up pretty early in that state, but thanks to Yelp! we were able to find the only two bars in the entire town of Cedar City (aside from the local Applebee’s, which we also shamefully patronized one night). Our first night in town we checked out Toadz, a sort of college watering hole that was completely deserted this time of year. We were literally the only two patrons in the bar, so we chatted up the poor lonely bartender, a likely young buck with flair-bartending ambitions who could not wait to get out of Utah and move to Vegas. I despise flair bartending, but everyone’s gotta have a dream…and there was something touching about his earnest juggling of Smirnoff bottles as he demonstrated his skills to us big-city judgmental types.

The next night we ventured over to Mike’s Tavern, said to be more of a rough-and-tumble biker bar with what must be the only stripper pole in the entire state of Utah. This place too was totally deserted. We bellied up to the bar nonetheless, but Cap’n Crunch got off to a bad start by ordering a double vodka tonic — BY LAW, they are not allowed to pour doubles in Utah!!! The bartender’s liquor gun even had some sort of fucked-up locking mechanism on it, to ensure that the law was abidden by!! WTF — what the hell was to stop her from pouring two separate shots into two separate glasses, then dumping one into the other? Answer: nothing! She didn’t do it, though — we just sat there and ordered multiple rounds, until we FINALLY got a buzz (I think the amount of liquor in a shot is less up there, too…and the proof of the alcohol might even be less, too. That’s Utah for ya — doing whatever they can to cockblock you from getting a buzz. That should be the inscription on their license plates!!!).

I felt as if we had stumbled onto the set of that stupid-ass movie Footloose: two big-city boozers come to the country and show the square-ass natives how to par-taaaay. But that would be assuming that the natives were square — WRONG! According to the local news, which we watched in our hotel room, there is all KINDS of fucked-up shit going on up there — on the day of our arrival, they found the body of some molested 6-year-old girl in a ditch! This in addition to the crazy shenanigans down in Colorado City, where the polygamists are marrying 13-year-olds to 80-year-olds…and the fabulously fabulous fact that Utah downloads more online pornography than any other state in the nation. I’m telling you, that place might LOOK nice and wholesome…but they’re a bunch of fucking perverts behind blue eyes!!!! Don’t let all those Jell-O salads fake you out.

Aside from the alcohol situation, we had a fantastic time, and actually met some super cool people. Besides being obsessed with mountain biking, Cap’n Crunch is also a hardcore indie music fanboy, so before leaving town we stopped to check out this BAD ASS local independent music store called Groovacious, run by a really cool oldtimer from Portland, OR. They have a fantastic selection of new and used tapes/LPs/CDs/8 tracks, plus a bunch of other wacky counterculture paraphernalia, which I browsed as Cap’n Crunch and the proprietor circle-jerked over Nick Lowe and Modest Mouse and all these weird indie bands I’ve never heard of. Good times!! Come to find out, we just missed this big music festival they have every year out there — 50,000 hippies and weirdos came to town for it, so apparently there IS cool stuff to do up in Utah, after all!

Before heading back to Vegas, we also stopped at a local thrift shop. I love going to thrift stores in other cities, just to see what kinds of crazy crap the locals throw out. In Cedar City, I got an autoharp and a single maraca — I’m obsessed with music and musical instruments, and have a growing pile of shit that I can’t really play, ranging from a steel drum to a ukulele. Well, now I also have an autoharp (already tried and failed to play it) and a single maraca. The maraca intrigues me, as it is inscribed “Melissa and Doug,” and I was wondering if it might have been a relic of some South-of-the-Border-themed wedding, where the couple ended up divorcing and splitting up the set of maracas. Who knows, in Utah???

Anyhoo, we came back into Vegas and it was straight back into the thick of things, Sin City-wise. The very next day, I was hired to do one of the MOST FUCKED-UP photo shoots I’ve ever been party to! A local artist who goes by the name Barfing Rainbows wanted to shoot some mega-disturbing scenes in a crack motel, so he rented a room at the venerable Desert Moon on Fremont Street, then had me come down in a miniskirt and an “I ♥ Vegas” shirt, put on a melting-face mask, and watch pornography on the TV while eating a melting ice-cream cone. It was SICK!

Now, I’ve been in some shitty motels in my day, but this place really took the cake: torn, stained carpet, dead roaches in the bathroom, saggy mattress and cinderblock walls. And they had the chutzpah to charge $44 a night!! WTF — you can stay at the freakin’ LUXOR for that much! I guess it makes sense if you want to be down in the heart of the crack district though, near all the best suppliers and crack hos…but still! Although now that I think about it, this place did have FREE unlimited XXX movies on the TV, so I guess that’s a big part of its allure, too. Come to find out, you have to have a special license to be able to show unlimited porn…so it’s a pretty big deal in some circles.

Speaking of unlimited porn, we made good use of that in the photos — the photographer had the TV screen in the shot, and most fortuitously it happened to be showing a scene involving a circus clown fingerbanging an Asian girl with a ginormous 1980s bush! The clown even shot Silly String all over her bush, LOL! Talk about a money shot!!!

Of course, I couldn’t see much of what was going on, due to the fact that I had a full-face latex mask with no eyeholes covering my visage…and after we finished shooting in the room, we trekked out front to do some establishing shots on the corner of Fremont Street. I stood there in my melting-face mask and “I ♥ Vegas” shirt, flashing my own grossly overgrown 1970s bush to the passing traffic. Astonishingly, no one honked or whistled or even noticed!!! That’s Fremont Street for ya…they’re pretty jaded down there. It takes a lot to impress those bums.

Speaking of Fremont Street, it’s a short jog from where I live, so when it wasn’t so fucking hot out I used to go running down there. It’s a great neighborhood, full of quaint old motels that have since become flophouses, crack houses and hooker havens — all in the great trajectory of Vegas. The history of these motels parallels the story of Vegas in general: back in the 40s and 50s they were family-oriented motor courts, where parents could leave their kids with a sitter while they walked down Fremont St to gamble at Binion’s or the El Cortez. Over time, urban decay set in (the Desert Moon itself even became one of those hourly rental spots for awhile)…but now a wave of hipsters are coming in, buying up the ghetto one block at a time, and gentrifying it. Before you know it, the place will be wall-to-wall Whole Foods and yoga studios…a crying shame for those of us who enjoy a little colorful grime!

After my shoot, I cruised down Fremont Street photographing all the great old motel signage that still stands crumbling in the unrelenting desert sun. Fabulous! The hipster redevelopment wave that is taking over East Fremont Street hasn’t quite made it down this far yet, so this is a rare pocket of old-tyme Vegas — a fragile ecosystem of bums, winos, crackheads and whores whose native habitat is severely threatened by the impending development boom. Check it out before it’s too late!! Already, the benevolent shining beacon of downtown, the Blue Angel Motel, is slated for demolition…soon to be turned into an arts center of some sort. Let’s just hope they keep the fabulous Blue Angel herself — she is WAY too creepy and cool to throw away!

Aside from lollygagging nude in crack motels, I also worked like a fiend the rest of the week, doing a couple of scavenger hunts in between my regular shifts at the Sally Dingdong show. Business at the show has been reeeeeeeally slow of late, so to fill my extra time at work I’ve taken to climbing the fire escape stairwell of the tallest hotel tower I could find — about 28 flights, which I usually manage to scale twice on my nightly break. I found this stairwell by wandering around the endless subterranean tunnels at the hotel where I work — one of the biggest and oldest mega-resorts on the Strip. This place was added onto piecemeal over the years, so the byzantine labyrinth of hallways and tunnels underneath it goes on for miles. It’s a trip!

I also did a fair amount of writing this week. City Life, the alt-weekly for which I freelance on and off, was doing an issue all about Vice…something about which I know a thing or two!! I wrote one piece about my experience in the drunk tank (as chronicled here the other week), and another piece on the lunchroom out at Sheri’s Ranch brothel in Pahrump.

Now as everyone knows, prostitution is legal in any Nevada county with fewer than 400,000 residents. Most of our brothels are shitty trailer-park affairs, located off the side of U.S. 95 in the middle of nowhere (the better to service the long-haul truckers who make up the bulk of their clientele). But there are also a few brothels close enough to Vegas to attract tourists, including Sheri’s. And many people don’t realize that Sheri’s is a full-on resort, with a hotel and a spa and a sports bar and grill, in addition to being a whorehouse.

Their sports bar & grill is open to the public, and I enjoy going out there for lunch now and then — it’s about an hour’s drive out into the manufactured-housing hinterlands of Nye County (the neighboring county to Clark County, wherein lies Vegas). The drinks are cheap ($5 wells), the food is actually pretty good (burgers and stuff like that) and the ambiance is unparalleled — kind of a down-homey Midwestern local-bar vibe, with prostitutes hanging out at the bar playing video poker. They are more than happy to give you a tour of the brothel, too.

I hadn’t been out there for a couple of years, so I figured I should revisit the place and make sure nothing had changed before I wrote my piece. Captain Crunch came with me, and we enjoyed a fabulous lunch and an entertaining tour of the premises from one of the working women — who was really good-looking. That’s the thing that would probably surprise you most about this brothel: the women are HOT! And friendly! This chick gave us the exact same tour I’d gotten on my previous visit — nothing had changed, except that now the Budweiser room (Sheri’s is the only brothel to have a corporate sponsor, LOL) had been remade into the Landshark room (Landshark being Jimmy Buffett’s Budweiser offshoot).

But everything else was exactly the same: you go in through the grand parlor, a big, airy room with a fancy faux-Victorian settee where the client sits while making his selection from the line-up of working girls. The girls are not allowed to say anything more than their names — any more is considered “dirty hustling” (not sure why; that’s just the way it is). The girls are summoned to the line-up by flashing red lights located throughout the premises — while working at Sheri’s, the women have to live onsite 24/7 for at least two weeks, and aren’t allowed to leave. They have a gym, a mess hall, a TV room and a computer room; outdoors they also have a pool, tennis courts and a volleyball court. They can use any of these facilities whenever they want, but when the red light flashes, they have to drop whatever they’re doing and come down to the parlor for the line-up.

Once the client makes his selection from the line-up, he can take the girl back to her room (they do all their business out of their private dorm rooms) or spring for a theme room. There are extravagant themed villas for those for whom money is no object…or there are also smaller theme areas, like the aforementioned Budweiser/Landshark jacuzzi room, the S&M dungeon, and a fake “gourmet restaurant” room with an elegantly appointed table for two (with a knee pillow on the floor for “dessert,” ha ha). Since the women can’t leave the brothel grounds, this is where you take them if you want to have a classy dinner — they serve you steak and lobster, and you’d never know you weren’t at Ruth’s Chris…except for the little sign on the sideboard blaring “CONDOMS REQUIRED AT ALL TIMES.”

Anyhoo, to his credit, Captain Crunch was unfazed by all this…so after tipping our tour guide $20 we headed back home, so I could begin my next adventure: sitting my fat ass on the sofa for 24 hours straight. This was my editor’s idea — since the issue was all about Vice, he thought it would be a nice commentary on Sloth if I could manage to stay on the couch all day, and write about the experience.

Now, as you know I am an extremely active person, so this was no easy feat. I prepped for it the day before by stocking up on books and DVDs at the library, so I had plenty of shit to entertain me. Of course, out of all the DVDs I rented, I chose the shittiest one of all to watch: Top Gun. I’d never seen it, and I figured since I’m dating a pilot I should check it out and see what the lifestyle is all aboot. OMG, it was miserably awful!!!!!!!!! I only watched it with one eye, as I was busy uploading music to my laptop…but still, holy shit. People WATCH that garbage?!?! Captain Crunch laughed at me when I told him, but how was I supposed to know? I guess I should have taken a hint from the fact that it stars Tom Cruise…most anything he’s in is bound to suck. Anyhoo, I spent the rest of my couch time reading and messing around on my laptop…so screw it. But suffice it to say…I won’t be sitting around on the sofa again anytime soon…I’VE HAD MY FILL!!!





















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Electric Daisy Clusterfuck, Wonder Woman Fetish and Wino Santa

So last weekend (June 8-10) was EDC Weekend in Vegas. EDC officially stands for Electric Daisy Clusterfuck…because that’s what it was this year, no kidding!

For those who haven’t heard, EDC (really Electric Daisy Carnival) is a huge rave, with DJs and amusement rides and crazy Burning Man art installations, which they used to have out in California until an underage girl died due to ecstasy-related complications a couple years ago. Ever since, they’ve held it in Vegas, out at the NASCAR Speedway — I went last year, and it was fabulous!

Now, tickets to this party are $250, and you know my broke ass can’t afford that kind of mess. Last year, one of my sisters hooked me up with free passes…but she’s no longer dating the guy with the hookup, so this year I was on my own. About a week out from the event, I posted on my Facebook page: “I need an EDC ticket, but I only wanna pay $50 tops!! Just putting it out there…” Well, shockingly, one of my fabulous friends came through, selling me a Saturday AND Sunday night pass for $60 total! I decided to go Saturday night, and sell the Sunday portion to another friend for $40, which means my net cost was only $20. Hehehe…let it never be said I’m not a canny businesswoman.

I put together a FABULOUS custom-made outfit for the party, and cruised up there Saturday night after stupid-ass work. My plan was to meet my friend Phil Connors, who was covering it for the local paper, hang out with him for awhile, then eat some shrooms and party til dawn. It worked for me last year! But this year, everything was stacked against me.

Even though I tried to be slick and take a back road to the event, I STILL got stuck in horrendous gridlocked traffic on the way, and it took TWO HOURS to get there. The route I took wound through a really shitty, blighted part of town, and the crackheads were sitting out on their trailer stoops watching the bean-eating bass-heads crawl past. Seriously! I guess that’s what passes for entertainment out that way…it was probably the most action that neighborhood has ever seen.

Anyhoo, TWO FUCKIN’ HOURS LATER, I rolled into the Speedway parking lot, parked, and made my way into the event. It was SO FREAKING WINDY that my giant white Afro wig almost blew off, and in fact I myself almost blew over because I was kind of unstable in my giant Frankenstein platform boots (I told you my outfit was fabulous). Garbage was whirling around in the mad desert winds, and dust and grit kept getting in my eyes, and it wasn’t very much fun at all. Still, I soldiered on, figuring that a drink would cure my ills.

But as soon as I walked into the Speedway, the music all shut off, and they were evacuating the stage areas!! A loudspeaker was blaring “PLEASE MOVE TO THE GRANDSTANDS FOR YOUR SAFETY,” and it was a real buzzkill. I made it to one of the bars to get a drink, where I met up with a group of middle-aged (50s) douchebag Tommy Bahama-type guys who started hitting on me, telling me I should be in their show, which they claimed was the Folies Bergere at the Tropicana. Give me a break — that lame-ass show closed in 2009!!! Then they told me my tits were too small anyway, but offered to buy me a drink if I showed them my nipple. Well, everyone under the sun has seen my nips anyway, so I gave them a quick flash — but just then, one of the guys realized they had a private table (supposedly) with FREE VODKA waiting on them in the VIP area, and that we should just all head up there instead. FUCKERS! I wasn’t about to follow them all the way up there — odds are I’d be turned away anyway, since I didn’t have a VIP wristband…and besides, I just wanted my free motherfucking drink so I could go meet Phil Connors!!! But those assholes were already on their way, so I flashed them my middle finger and walked away. I had given them wonderhussy stickers while we were chatting, so I can only hope they are reading this blog right now. If you’re reading, guys: FUCK YOU! Thanks for lying to me!

Anyway, after that I spent $10 fucking dollars on a SHITTY, weak-ass drink, and met up with Phil Connors to have a look around. But it was WEIRD — they shut down all the stages, because of the wind (they didn’t want a tragedy like the thing at the Indiana State Fair, where the stage done blew over and killed all them Sugarland fans) and there was NO MUSIC playing! You’d think they could have at least piped in some canned DJ music over the loudspeakers or something — but it was just eerie silence everywhere you went. Meanwhile, all the high kids in their tutus and stupid lens-less sunglasses were wandering around in a dazed sort of confusion, not sure what to do once the oonce-oonce-oonce that drives them stopped. It was like someone had shut off their life support machine, and now their ecstasy-addled little hearts were no longer beating. Sorry, fools!

Phil Connors and I actually had a great time watching the weird, post-apocalyptic scene: almost like a refugee camp in some country where neon fishnets and fairy wings are the national uniform. Half-naked chicks were huddled together for warmth, and everywhere you looked were masses of balls-tripping kids sitting in silent masses on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened to their party. These kids were totally at a loss without their oonce-oonce-oonce…it was a RIOT!

FINALLY, some craftsy kids turned over a bunch of garbage cans and started a sort of drum circle, and some chicks filled empty water bottles with rocks to make sort of primitive maracas. NICE! A social experiment in group music-making — when the power gets cut off, PEOPLE POWER creates new music! I got all fired up and started dancing (you know I love me a drum circle)…but I’m here to tell you, for a bunch of kids who claim to worship BEATS, these kids had THE WORST FUCKING RHYTHM I’ve EVER HEARD!!! It was excruciating — they COULD NOT KEEP A BEAT TO SAVE THEIR LIVES! Listening to them flounder and bang away arrhythmically was like watching the chimpanzees at the zoo when they get all riled up and start banging on their cages with empty cans. Hilarious…but LAME!

At first I thought it would be like the thing where they say 1,000 monkeys in a room with 1,000 typewriters for 1,000 years will eventually produce a Hamlet manuscript — eventually, ONE of these bozos would start thumping out something resembling a beat, and an organic dance hit would be born. WRONG! It just got worse and worse, until finally Phil Connors and I could take no more, and left.

We headed up to the media center to see what the official word was regarding the event: would it be shut down, or what? The PR lady wouldn’t tell us, but because Phil Connors is a journalist of no little repute here in town, she did let us know that they would be “making an announcement” in 5 minutes. We figured from her facial expression that she meant they would be announcing the festival was being evacuated — and if it had taken me TWO HOURS to get in, imagine how long it would take to get out if all 100,000 people left at once! So we hightailed the fuck out of there, and by some miracle I found my truck in a jiffy and was home in 30 minutes. Poor Phil Connors, however, got stuck in traffic until FIVE A.M.!!!! Fuck!

Well, I was salty as hell over the whole thing because I had already promised my Sunday night ticket to my friend, so I was shit out of luck. FUCK EDC!!! Burning Man is way cooler, anyway…less garbage, less thugs, and less fat chicks in tutus. Well, maybe not the last one…but as MeatLoaf said, two out of three ain’t bad.

Anyhoo, I didn’t have time to fret because I had an extremely busy week ahead of me. Almost every day this past week, I worked two if not THREE gigs — it was insane! The main thing was the Licensing Expo, which I worked last year as well — a big convention where they needed a bunch of losers to dress up in mascot costumes and walk around gladhanding people. Last year I played some weird South American princess character, and this year I was a weird kind of Japanese Anime fox/squirrel/rabbit/???. The costume was VERY unwieldy, with extremely limited visibility and a SUPER-HEAVY head, but thank dog I only had to wear it for 30 minutes at a stretch, so it wasn’t too bad. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to wear one of those costumes, I made a short video from my perspective inside the mascot costume. Check it out!

Anyhoos, I did that for three 8-hour days, in addition to working at night, taking souvenir photos at a showroom here in town. I was busy, I tells ya! I also squeezed in a nude photo shoot out in the desert, which was a bad idea because it was HOT AS BALLS and I really tore up my butt cheeks scooting around artsily on rocks. I’m serious people — my ass is really scratched up!! I need someone to massage it with lotion, cuz I’m too lazy!

After the Licensing Expo was finally done, I was able to get back to my usual scandalous shenanigans…and Friday was a perfect example of just the kind of fucked-up life I lead. It started with a morning video shoot at the house of Tomiko, a beautiful half-Japanese/half-German local fetish model and wrestler I’ve been wanting to work with for quite some time. She hired me to film some clips for her website, so I cruised over there first thing in the morning…and BOY, was it ever WEIRD!!

The first clip we filmed, I played a drunken schoolgirl who gets picked up at a bar by this gorgeous woman (Tomiko), who buys me drinks til I get wasted, then brings me home, dumps me on the couch, bastes me with spices and herbs, and then feeds me to her giant furry pet worm. !!!!! The craftsy Tomiko made this fantastic giant fur-covered worm/monster thing that she uses for her shoots, and I screamed and kicked and scrabbled around as it “ate” me. FUN!!!

Next, it got even weirder. For starters, I forgot to mention that there was another chick there — Dragonlily, whom you might remember from a few weeks back as this gorgeous Asian chick who has adult-onset accent syndrome, where she mysteriously acquired an Australian accent after falling off a wall as a child. (!!!!) You may recall I met her at another shoot, and now we ended up working together again — the Vegas fetish scene is a cozy group, let me tell you!

Anyhoos, in the next clip, Dragonlily played an evil gypsy named Voodoo, who wants to capture WonderTomi (Tomiko’s superhero character) and get all her secrets. So she creates a clone, called WonderHussy (me, in my trusty Wonder Woman costume…boy that thing sure has paid for itself by now, LOL), and uses me to capture WonderTomi (also wearing a custom-made Wonder Woman costume, haha). The two of us tie her up with her Lasso of Truth, strip off all her clothes, and then torture her with a vibrator! Every time she gets close to having an orgasm, I put a chloroform rag over her face til she passes out…and then we do it again. It went on and on until WonderTomi finally gave up her secrets. I TOLD YOU IT WAS WEIRD!!!

Meanwhile, this was all going on in a nice, normal-looking suburban house in a nice, quiet Vegas suburb. That’s what I love about this city: you never know what the fuck is going on right next door! The weirdest thing of all is that this was a custom-made clip per the request of a fan, who explicitly outlined all the plot points for us. LMFAO!!!

Anyway, I really enjoyed shooting with Dragonlily and Tomiko, and I hope to shoot with them many more times. But after this shoot was over, I had to hightail it across town to another shoot, for, where I again donned my Wonder Woman outfit and kicked some more ass. GOOD TIMES! It was a fun (and lucrative) day for me…and it wasn’t over yet!!

You may recall I made friends with the staff at a local fetishwear shoppe here in town, The Black Room, which sells hardcore German fetish gear and latex clothing. Well, the fantastic saleswoman Tara texted me one night to ask if I’d be in a fashion show for them at one of the local strip clubs — so of course I said yes! It turned out to be less of a fashion show than a mix-n-mingle — me and four other girls were dressed up in the finest fetishwear The Black Room has to offer, and they drove us all over to Vince Neil’s new strip club Girls, Girls, Girls where we attended a party for StripLV magazine. All we really did was booze it up and walk around whapping people with our riding crops, but it was goooooood times! I met some fabulous people, including a fire marshal from back East who also happens to be an avid cross-dresser when he’s away from home. Vegas brings out the REAL YOU, let me tell ya. You can really be yourself here — sometimes (most of the time) it’s kind of ugly and gross, but sometimes, as with this man, it’s really really cool!

Now, aside from all that backbreaking labor, I did have a few laffs this week. Monday was my boyfriend Captain Crunch’s day off, so after my desert photo shoot (the one where I scratched up my ass so badly) I met up with him for some fun in the sun at the Artisan Hotel pool. This pool needs to be discussed!!!

I’ve long been a fan of sneaking into hotel pools to sunbathe — Vegas has some of the most beautiful pools in the world, ya know. I used to go to Caesars Palace, but that joint is always so fucking crowded that you can’t find a fucking chaise to save your motherfucking life anymore! They have daybeds and cabanas, but they cost hundreds of dollars a day to rent, so I don’t even bother hitting that loser-ass joint up anymore.

Instead, I decided to try the Artisan — a small, funky boutique hotel sort of halfway between downtown and the Strip that is known to be sort of an artists’ hangout. It used to be a really shitty Travelodge, but some forward-thinking freakazoid painted the walls black and filled the place with creepy antiques and gold-framed paintings and mirrors — all over the walls and ceilings! It looks like the Addams Family’s house or something — truly bizarre. There’s a fantastic lounge there that is one of my all-time favorite places to have a drink — it’s just so weird! The grounds are also very lushly landscaped, and they have a small topless pool area that is open to the public…so I decided to go over there and check it out.

I was REALLY impressed with this pool!! It’s small and intimate, surrounded with lush tropical plants and daybeds and cabanas and stuff, but the daybeds are FREE, and there is NO CHARGE to enter the pool! There’s not even a douchebag bouncer at the door being an asshole — VERY un-Vegas! You just walk right in, sit right down and take your top off — it’s called the Naked Pool, but I’m pretty sure you have to keep your bottoms on. FANTASTIC!!!!!

I think there might be a DJ there on weekends, and I think there might be a cover charge then as well, but on Monday afternoon it was faaaaaaabulously deserted, with only a few hotel guests hanging out. Captain Crunch and I hung out in the pool chatting with a cattle baron from California and his surgically-enhanced trophy wife, and everything was going great until I went in to get us some drinks. That’s the only downside to the Naked Pool — there’s no cocktail waitress; you have to put your top on and go into the hotel lounge to buy drinks.

Now, Captain Crunch doesn’t fuck around when it comes to booze, so I ordered two double-vodka-grapefruits at the bar — it was Happy Hour, so well pours were $6 apiece. It should have been $12 per drink, but the asshole bartender charged me $40!!! I was too big a pussy to say anything, though, but when I went back out to the pool and told everyone, they were enraged! Captain Crunch ended up going back in and getting us our next round for free, but I must say to you, dear readers: Caveat Emptor at the Artisan! I’ve heard similar stories from friends about this place — it’s a cool spot to hang out, but you really gotta watch yourself around the staff. They’re shady as hell!

Speaking of Captain Crunch and liquor, apparently the military’s culture of frat-boy machismo and binge drinking swept him up the other day during an initiation rite, causing him to have an unfortunate accident involving Bacardi 151 and an open flame, so he’s kinda out of commission for awhile. Ouch!!!

On a final note, I had the triumphant distinction this past week of appearing in ALL THREE of our local alt-weekly magazines here in Vegas. I wrote a piece about naked yoga for City Life (read it here); I was interviewed and photographed for a piece on alternative models in the rival Las Vegas Weekly (read it here); and I even got a shout-out in highbrow Seven magazine, in this column they do on various interesting websites you should check out (read this amazing ode to my fabulousness STAT!!). What can I say; I’m moving on up! Watch out people…I even had lunch with the editor of City Life to discuss potentially writing my own regular column for them! If that happens, lock up your daughters for sure…Wonderhussy won’t be stopped!!!!!

P.S. I almost forgot!!! One night I went into work to take photos at the showroom, but I accidentally forgot there was no show, so found myself with nothing to do on a Friday night! So I went down to Fremont Street to take photos of the lights and stuff, and ran into this AWESOMELY DEPRESSING WINO who dresses up as sort of a half-assed Santa Claus and poses for pics with tourists in exchange for beer money. He’s not really one of those costumed street performers; he’s just a bum who wears red pants and a t-shirt printed to look like Santa’s jacket. I see him shuffling around the neighborhood allllll the time, at all hours of the morning and afternoon, and he’s always wearing his Santa outfit. It can’t possibly be clean! Anyhoo I think he lives in a shitty apartment off Maryland Pkwy, because I see him over that way a lot…but whatevs! He adds color to the neighborhood, and Wino Santa is just ONE MORE REASON I LOVE LIVING DOWNTOWN! If Tony Hsieh and his Zappos crew have their way redeveloping downtown Vegas, they’ll drive all these colorful characters out, leaving nothing but ding-a-ling hipsters and assholes. DON’T DO IT, TONY!!!

Speaking of hipsters, I ride my bike down there so often, and always park it at the same bike rack, that I decided to put some stickers on it and reserve my own private parking spot. HAH!

A Visit to the Red Rooster

So, as you may recall I tried sleep restriction therapy to cure my insomnia, and as a result became sleep deprived, angry, sick and miserable. I gave up on it after 5 days, deciding that my new plan of action would be to just relax and be more mellow, and see if THAT helped my sleeping. Well, I’m here to tell you — IT WORKED! 😀

I’m not saying my sleep is fabulous, or anywhere near as good as it was back in the day…but it has improved immensely. Now when I wake up in the middle of the night (which still happens at least two or three times), I am able to fall back into a regular sleep! This is a HUGE improvement for me…but at what cost?

The thing that always made my life so much FUN was that I would say YES to anything and everything, often hitting up two or three parties in one night, plus working two or three gigs a day. I was burning the candle at THREE ends, friends — and it was no good. But ever since I started hanging out with Captain Crunch, I spend a lot more time just sitting around, watching DVDs and taking naps and whatnot. It’s not very exciting, but it appears to be helping my sleep.

That sleep restriction really fucked with my health, though — I STILL feel like my system is out of whack from the way it compromised my immune system. My face is broken out, my digestion is totally out of whack, and I only just now got over the yeast infection from hell. I’m cleansing for a couple days to see if that helps — the old Master Cleanse lemonade diet, in which you drink nothing but saltwater and lemonade made from lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It’s gross, that’s for sure…but I’m desperate!

On the bright side, my lingering health problems came in handy the other Friday night. My friend Phil Connors, who writes for the local paper, wanted to take his beautiful, innocent blonde photojournalist colleague out to the legendary Red Rooster swingers’ club — just for fun, not to hook up. She was curious to see what the place was like, and was up for a walk on the wild side, and they invited me along because they know I dig those things and am always good for spicing up a party.

For those who don’t know, the Red Rooster is a local sex club that was started 30 years ago by this awesome swinger couple who are STILL going strong — even though they’re now in their 60s (at LEAST), and kinda look like a dirty Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton!! The club is actually their HOUSE, a sprawling suburban compound that has been added onto over the years to include features like an indoor pool, a dance floor and an orgy room. The crazy thing about this place is that it’s located on a regular, nondescript suburban street, with a real Brady Bunch-type facade, stately cypress trees lining the driveway and all. I wonder what the neighbors think!

Say what you will about the Rooster and its remote location (it’s waaaaay down off Boulder Highway, far from the Strip)…it’s the most popular swingers’ club in Vegas, since it’s been around so long as to become somewhat of a local institution. That place is ALWAYS packed — although it’s not what you’re probably imagining. First off, the median age of the patrons is around 45 or 50…and there are plenty of swinging grannies in there (and I do mean swinging — as in, flapjacks swinging to and fro). The scene can be best described as an Elks Lodge gathering at a nudist bowling alley where the beer has been spiked with ecstasy, as co-written by John Updike and Hunter S. Thompson.  Far fucking out!!!!!

I went here once before with Phil Connors, and had a total BLAST. Alas, this time I didn’t have quite as much fun…probably due to the fact that my yeast infection was still bothering me, and also due to the fact that I had to leave Captain Crunch behind (swing clubs aren’t his scene…yet another reason he is vastly superior to Sgt. Peanut).

But seriously, there were just too many damn rules, and they kept getting in the way of my having a good time. First off, the place is BYOB — you bring your booze, then check it at the bar in the main room, where they label it with your name, and then pour drinks for you all night long (and expect tips, of course). We had brought a bunch of champagne minis (cuz I’m a classy bitch, don’t ya know), so I just grabbed one of those — STRIKE ONE! The bartendress grabbed it away from me so she could pour it into a plastic cup, which apparently is the rule. The Rooster –adding to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, one swinger at a time!

Next I headed over to the dance floor, where I got busted again, for taking my drink onto the parquet floor. WTF!!! Apparently you’re not allowed to dance and drink at the same time here – guess they don’t want any grannies to slip and fall. So I had to content myself with sort of dancing off to the side, on the carpet…but the music sucked balls anyway, so who cares. The DJ (who looks like an ex-70s porn star who’s spent the last 30 years working at a Radio Shack) was playing solid hip-hop and Latin music, which I don’t really like dancing to, especially because they have all those bullshit corny line-dance-type things like the Electric Slide or whatever where you’re all supposed to know the steps, and I never do. I’ve said it many a time — I’m the WORLD’S WORST DANCER, and the best I can do is a spastic white-girl go-go pogo freakout…and that shit only really works with EDM (electronic dance music) or butt rock. So I was fucked!

Phil and I gave our innocent friend the grand tour, showing her the pool area (where a black man sat stroking an ENORMOUS erection that stood out in stark relief to his glowing neon-green shirt) and then the orgy room, where an obese white woman around the age and appearance of your Aunt Marge was bent over on all fours, being pounded by a skinny, weaselly-looking cholo. Niiiiice! A crowd of about 10 guys had gathered around to watch, but when me and Blondie showed up the focus shifted to us. I kinda felt bad about just being an observer, like I was leading people on by even being there — but that’s the great thing about the Rooster: they welcome everyone, even if you just wanna come hang out and relax. USUALLY! Last time I went, I remember feeling right at home…but this time, I definitely felt out of place and like an interloper. Boo!

After the orgy room got boring, we all went upstairs to the “couples only” area, where apparently all the REAL action takes place. No singles are allowed up here, and they are EXTREMELY strict about this — the three of went up there for about 3 minutes before they told us one of us had to leave, since it was COUPLES ONLY. I told Phil it was like Sophie’s Choice — he had to choose who would stay, and who would go back down to the wolves on the main floor. Since I had already been to the Rooster once, and had already seen all the wonders it has to offer, I let Blondie stay up there with Phil, and resigned myself to going back downstairs.

By this time, my yeast infection was really bothering me, so I went ahead and took off my jeans, and just danced in my wifebeater and purple panties. When in Rome, ya know…most of the other patrons were in some degree of undress, anyway. Tits were flopping out all over, and none other than Claudia Marie, the Big-Titted Southern MILF was standing by the bar in little more than a 3-pronged shoestring, anyway. So no one even really noticed me!

Well, apparently one dude did, because he came up to me on the dance floor and asked me, “So, you gonna hook up with anyone or what?”

“No,” I replied honestly.

“Why not?”

“Because I have a yeast infection!!!!” My trump card worked, and I danced away, leaving him speechless. Saved by my gooooood friend Candida! (Incidentally, is that really what Tony Orlando was singing about?!?!?!?)

After that, I hung out and chatted with some young guys from Tucson, who had come out from the Strip to see if the Rooster was as crazy as they’d heard. So far they’d been sorely disappointed, and after ascertaining that I had no interest in casual sex either, they ended up taking off. I tried to help ’em, though — I told them I’d go upstairs to the couples’ room with one of them at a time. But when the first guy and I tried, the bouncer kicked us out — apparently you can only go upstairs with the person you CAME with!!!

WTF!!! Rules, rules, rules. Why you would come out to a swingers’ club only to have sex IN A PRIVATE AREA is beyond me, anyway!! Stay the fuck at home, then! Arrrrrrgh.

So, my visit to the Rooster wasn’t all that much fun, but never fear — I plan to visit another swing club, the Power Exchange, with another friend in the near future. And that might be more interesting!

Anyhoo, I had plenty of other wacky shit going on this week. These friends of mine who are into couch surfing were hosting a couple of photojournalists from Montreal on their sofa, and these visiting artistes were doing a book about sex workers around the world. For some reason my friends told them they should interview me, so I met them downtown and took them over to this weird abandoned motel across from the Luxor, where they took photos of me and asked me about my foot fetish modeling. That motel was gross — overrun with feral cats, so the empty swimming pool was full of cat piss and those little porno hooker cards they hand out on the Strip. Very post-apocalyptic!

Then another day I had a sort of Art Party at my house — the very first photo shoot I’ve done at my new place. My friend Michael Maze and his girlfriend came over to photograph me as I was bodypainted by this awesome local artist named Tommy Vinci, as his daughter videotaped the whole thing for her web TV show. It was a BLAST! Except for the fact that Maze likes to drink, but he couldn’t really get his buzz on because he has one of those stupid Breathalyzers on his steering wheel — since his roommate just got her 4th DUI and is considered a serious offender, everyone in the entire household has to have those devices on their ignition. What a royal pain in the ASS!

Then another day I was trying to make a video for this website I write for,…but I was having a hard time, because this guy was coming over to shoot some independent movie where he wanted me to play a crack whore, and I was running short on time and having a hard time getting my fucking webcam and microphone to work before he got there. Frustrated, I finally gave up entirely and recorded myself singing this Barbra Streisand song, instead. ENJOY!


After that, my filmmaker friend came over and shot some scenes of me hanging myself in the shower, running around the house half-naked, and basically doing all those crack-whorey things crack whores do…so it all worked out. The only bummer was that halfway through the shoot, we smelled fire!! I started running around the house like an idiot, trying to figure out where it was coming from — come to find out, my air conditioner had blown a fuse, and was smoking like a motherfucker!!! My friend climbed up and unplugged it, while my roommate ran to Lowe’s to get a new fuse…and everything was OK. UNTIL — about a week later, the fuckin’ thing blew again, and this time it was the COMPRESSOR!!!! Oy, vey, this just ain’t my month. I have a home warranty, but it’s a shitty one, and they can’t send anyone out to fix it until tomorrow morning!!! Meanwhile, this is JUNE in LAS VEGAS, and this is the second night I’ve had to go without a/c. WTF!!!!! Fortunately, we had a sort of cold spell blow in, and it’s only been about 90 degrees. But STILL!

Interestingly, the a/c konked out one afternoon in between photo shoots — first I had gone down to the offices of the Las Vegas Weekly (a local alt-weekly), where I posed for a photo shoot with these two other alternative models, Bambu Jessica and Helena Strong, and they interviewed us about our modeling lives. Bambu is mostly a gogo dancer, and Helena does belly fetish that puts my pathetic belly fetish forays to shame!!!!!! It was fun posing for pics with those two nutjobs — look out for the article coming this Thursday in the LV Weekly (or at!

Anyhoo, I had to rush home after that shoot to get ready for another shoot, where I wanted to do a tribute to Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In. Remember Laugh-In??? That hopelessly square ’60s laff-o-rama watched by Valium-and-gin-soaked housewives and their secretary-ass-grabbing husbands?!?? I *LOVE* that show, so I thought it would be fun to dress up like Goldie Hawn in the bikini, with all the body paint. I did this weird makeup to make my eyes look ginormous, like Goldie’s, and then sort of styled my blonde bob wig to semi-resemble her cute little shag. It came out pretty good!


The only bummer was, I couldn’t really relax and enjoy it because I knew my a/c had konked out, and I needed to do something about it. I made the best of the situation, though, and stopped off at the Arts Factory on my way home, where all the local Burning Man types were hanging out having a party, and where the a/c was working loud and clear. The best part is, I was able to waltz right in in my Goldie Hawn bikini and body paint, and no one batted an eyelash. SOCK IT TO ME!  I hung out there for awhile, then went home to my hot-ass house.



One other gig I did this week was to host this pool party at the Tropicana hotel. Now, you may remember the dumpy old Trop from days of yore — but I’m here to tell ya, they’ve done WONDERS to that place! Everything has been painted white, and they’re going for a sort of retro Miami Beach chic — which is very cool, they just need to amp it up about 100%, cuz it’s kind of half-assed right now. It has potential, thought! The pool party itself was AWESOME — I had been hired to be the Pool Diva, a sort of Fran Drescher-meets-Bette Midler gal who sashays around with a little cart stocked with breath mints, sunblock, nail polish — all the shit you find in a nightclub ladies’ room, where the attendant brings it all in for tips.

It was a blast!! I trotted around in the 107-degree heat dispensing sunblock and romantic advice, dishing Vegas gossip and painting women’s toenails (well, that part was kinda gross, to be honest). It was fun, but it was a 2-day gig and the weather was over 106 degrees both days, so it was kinda draining. The second day I was so tired that even though it was a SATURDAY NIGHT, I didn’t go out carousing — instead, I went to see the fabulous David Copperfield show in my pajamas, thanks to a friend of mine who works for him and who let me in the back door, so no one would laugh at me. Say what you will about David Copperfield, he’s pretty good — but even better than his magic shtick is his deadpan humor, which can be pretty sarcastic. That’s the best part of the show!

Anyhoo, that was all the fun stuff for this week. The rest of my time was spent trying to get health insurance and trying to get my a/c fixed. BOOOOOOOOOOOOO-RING! Hopefully I’ll have some new adventures to write about soon!


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