As mentioned, I've been in a scramble all summer long to make $14,000 (it was $13,000, but some more unexpected expenses came up the other week…grrr). Never one to just sit around and ask the Lord to rain manna down upon me, I instead sat around on my fat ass and beat up the Craigslist and Model Mayhem job postings, to see about making my nut the old-fashioned way — $100 at a time.
Alas, there wasn't much available this week — just the usual array of grossly underpaying come-ons from perverts and losers. One photographer hit me up to do a bondage shoot — one of those photo shoots where I'd be sexily clothed in heels and all, tied up and gagged and struggling to get free. WHAAAAAAAAAAT kind of person gets off on that shit, I ask you?? Ted Bundy?? I've said it before and I'll say it again — I just don't see the allure of bondage modeling. Why would I want to be trussed up and hogtied, totally helpless — what am I, a pork roast???
As I've mentioned before, I shot a few times with this one bondage photographer, and I found it humiliating and dehumanizing. Now I realize this is coming from a gal who makes a living doing humiliating and dehumanizing stuff on camera…but come on, enough is enough!! I don't mind someone jerking off to a video of me stuffing my face with Twinkies, or of me having my toes sucked. But anyone who gets off watching me or any other model struggle around while tied up is a SICK MOTHERFUCKER with serial killer fantasies! No? Please tell me why I'm wrong!
I know, I know — I already heard ALL about it from my BDSM Facebook friends: you see, in the bondage arts, the sub (the tied-up one) is the one who's REALLY in charge of the situation. But I find it hard to understand how someone who is totally immobile and silenced with a ball gag can be in charge of anything at all. I guess maybe if you're in a committed BDSM relationship with someone who's on the same page as you, and who understands that you get off on being powerless, then yeah, maybe you're "in control," as your partner, being someone who really cares about you, would not really want to hurt you and would let you call the shots. But we're talking about my being tied up by a random stranger, so RANDOM STRANGERS can get off to the images! There's ZERO control on my part in that scenario, friends!!!
The sorry thing is, I consider myself a sort of feminist. STOP LAUGHING! I KNOW, I'm a lazy fuckin' hack who makes milk money by posing nude and reinforcing all KINDS of negative sterotypes about women, so what kind of feminist can I possibly be?? Every fuckin' thing I do basically plays right into the hands of the oppressive patricarchy.
But I can't help it — in my own weird way, I consider myself stridently feminist. I have my own bizarre code when it comes to modeling — I try to do only the kinds of shoots where I'm in control, or at least shown in a flattering position of power or as the object of half-baked goddess-worship. As long as I'm not being debased or degraded toooo much, I feel OK about my work — although as mentioned, I DO REALIZE that by even being party to the modeling industry I am basically selling out my sex.
It's becoming a troubling personal conflict — I feel bad that I'm not making a living based solely off my intellect or my physical capabilities. But the embarrassing truth is, a) I'm too lazy to get one of those jobs, and b) I have an insatiable ego and I love to be complimented on my looks, as stupid and short-sighted as that is. I was one of those dorky kids who got teased in high school and all that pathetic crap, so now I'm STARVING for attention, compliments and adoration. Hey, at least I'm honest!
Aaaanyhhoo, I can feel more or less comfortable with myself if I decline certain types of shoots — like ones where I am tied up and struggling like a helpless housefly caught up in a macrame plant hanger. So I tried to keep my shoots this week limited to scenarios that I felt were at least a 2.5 on the Debasement Scale (5 being Goddess, 1 being Garbage). Here's how it went:
First, I did a recurring gig for Footmode.com, a foot fetish site that for the most part portrays women as ass-kicking goddesses. (I did do a set for them once that showed a guy fake-beating me up, but that was a one-time thing that I felt bad about afterward. Yeah, right…I know, I know.) Footmode mostly shows us kicking a bad guy's ass and making him lick our feet…but it also shows us girls kicking each OTHER's asses, and forcing each other to lick one another's feet. For some reason I don't feel so degraded if another woman is pretending to beat me up and make me lick her feet — I'm not saying that makes any sense, since it's all still at the behest of the paying male clientele…but for me personally, it doesn't feel like I'm selling myself out quite as badly when it's another woman.
Next, I did a kooky artistic shoot with my friend Barfing Rainbows — the guy with the custom-made latex mask that looks like a melting face. This time he had me wear the mask with a blond wig, some crazy panties, and ice-cream cones on my boobs…then he handed me an aluminum baseball bat and had me smear melty ice cream all over myself. Again, I'm sure some sick misogynist somewhere got off on it, so I guess I should have felt bad about that shoot, too….but I had a BLAST doing it! I looooove weird, artsy crap like that…so I had no misgivings. The only real misgiving I had was the fact that I was on a strict no-sugar diet all week, so I couldn't eat any of the delicious ice cream that was running down my belly. D'OH!!!
But then I did a third shoot for this nylon stocking fetish website, and THAT one I felt pretty shitty about. The ad on Model Mayhem said it was a nylon fetish shoot with "some" nudity that paid $100 for 2-3 hours of work…which didn't sound too bad, although it was pretty far below my normal modeling pay rate. But I'm here to tell you, what those guys had me do was worth WAY more than $100. I had to put on an entire (self-supplied) outfit of bra, panties, blouse, pencil skirt, heels and pantyhose (they did supply the hose, at least)…then slowly strip down to my pantyhose while two photographers blasted away. This took about 30 minutes. Next, I had to put everything back on and do it all over again, this time while a videographer recorded me. The hardest part was, I had to blather on for FIFTEEN solid minutes about my pantyhose — how I love wearing them, how they're so silky and smooth, blah blah blah. If you've never ad-libbed dumb shit like that before, let me tell you — it ain't easy!!
So that went on for another 20-30 minutes, and then I had to go in and put on ANOTHER entire outfit, and do the entire fucking process over again! The worst part was, they kept dicking with the sound and lighting (come on, guys…it's a fuckin' fetish video; do you think anyone CARES about the fucking production values?!?!?!) and wasting even MORE of my time. But the WORST part was, the photographer (a supercilious Brit who doubtless thought me a total twit) kept trying to get me to flash my beav in the still photos!!! THE POST SAID "SOME" NUDITY!!! Seriously — ALL THAT RIGAMAROLE FOR $100????????????????! Get real! At the end of it all, I grabbed my check and got the fuck out of there, thoroughly disgusted with myself…mostly because I'd been too big a wuss to stick up for myself and refuse to flash my beaver. (Instead, I just sort of half-assed it, keeping my legs about 3/4 way closed, with a very unflattering, uneasy expression on my face that doubtless turned those fucking perverts on even more.)
I don't know, I think a lot of this existential self-doubt and self-loathing was due to PMS, as I am about to get my damn period. I do genuinely enjoy modeling, for the most part….I just wish I could make a living doing the kinds of shoots I LOVE. Alas, however, about 90% of my paid work plays directly into stereotypical male fantasies. And all of that is even OK, as long as they aren't serial killer fantasies of rape and murder. Ya know??!
Since modeling wasn't exactly raking in the big bucks for me this week, I tried another avenue, and auditioned for this new game show that's about to come out in the fall. It's a trivia show that is entirely conducted via Skype, so I didn't have to go to L.A. or anything to audition — I did it right from the comfort of my fat ass at my desk. Everything was going well, except the fact that my damn laptop microphone kept cutting in and out, and I couldn't figure out what was wrong until it was too late. Still, the P.A. who conducted the audition seemed to think it went OK, so we'll see. (Incidentally, it was my mixer levels that needed to be adjusted…thanks to my Facebook friends for solving that problem for me!) (They also solved my problem the next day of how to clean the hardened resin and ash from my FILTHY water pipe — rubbing alcohol & Epsom salts, shaken vigorously for two minutes. Works AMAZINGLY!)
After than, I kinda just sat back and had some fun while I waited for the money to come rolling in. One night I went downtown to this bimonthly storytelling event called The Tell, where people get up and tell amusing stories about crazy shit that's happened to them in life. I always secretly kinda wanted to participate…until I actually watched the show, and saw how freaking POLISHED and AMAZING these storytellers were!!! I'd look like a damn FOOL up there! I'm very good with the written word, and I can tell a funny story when drunk at a bar…..but THAT shit was a whole different level :-/
Then another night, I participated in these sort of half-baked Fetish Olympics at the BalloonMaster Show down at the Onyx Theatre. The BalloonMaster Show is a sort of weird adult variety show — other acts included burlesque dancers, a ventriloquist, and a Steampunk Nerf Battle…just to give you an idea. Well, my inital concept was to wear one of those giant cones you put around a dog's head when it's sick and you want to stop it from licking its balls or whatever, and then try to eat a bowl of Jell-O without using my hands. That somehow got transmuted into these half-baked Foot Fetish Olypics, where me and another chick sat at the back of the stage mashing stuff up with our toes and feet while the other shenanigans went on farther upstage. It was fun, but I had to leave early anyway because it was the same night as the Santa Rampage, which is usually one of my favorite parties.
I think I've written about the Santa Rampage before — twice a year, in July and December, between 100-200 whackos dress up as Santa Claus and descend on Fremont Street for a drug & booze-fueled melee/pub crawl. I personally find the July Rampage even more fun, because it's more unexpected to see 200 Santa Clauses out and about in the summertime. This year, I wasn't able to get down there til almost midnight, but I still had a pretty good time carousing with my fellow freaks.
Now about this diet I mentioned earlier — I know it doesn't SOUND like I cut sugar out of my diet, what with all this boozing. But the truth is, right after the Santa Rampage I felt sooooo nasty and boozy that I immediately hopped on the wagon, and did not drink or eat any refined sugar, bread, rice or fruit for six straight days!! It was TOUGH! I mostly subsisted on millet, quinoa, avocados and chicken breast…with the occasional Greek yogurt to stave off any encroaching yeast infection recurrences. I actually had to go out to the grocery store and buy food and stuff, and cooking supplies and whatnot, and I even started using my dishwasher for the first time EVER since I moved out of my mom's house!!! I'm a big girl now, I tells ya! I even sauteed onions and stuff a time or three. This coming from someone who prided herself on keeping nothing more in the freezer than vodka and eyeliner. It's a big change! I do like the results, and I have actually come to enjoy cooking (sort of)…it's just VERY time-consuming. I guess I'll faster with practice, eh?
So my miserable diet went on allllllllll week until Friday, which was First Friday — the monthly arts festival we have here in downtown Vegas. A friend of mine had driven up from Laughlin to celebrate his birthday, so we went to dinner at the always delicious Bar + Bistro where I TOTALLY fell face-first off the wagon. I had three glasses of wine and a ton of semi-healthy food (it's mostly vegan-type fusion stuff over there, though we did order off the
meat menu, too)…and then my friend ordered FIVE DIFFERENT DESSERTS TO SHARE!!!! This, coming after a week with no sugar (not even fructose)!!!! Friends, I am ashamed to say I went ape shit. I had another cocktail after dinner, and took a short jaunt down Fremont Street to try and walk off some of the calories…but I felt pretty bloated after all that, and went back to quinoa the very next day 🙂
That night, however, I was back to my old boozing ways: it was the annual Midsummer's Lingerie Masquerade at the Palms Hotel, and my friend Phil Connors had invited me and my friend Trixxie to come along and check it out. I have a spotty record when it comes to this annual party: in 2010 I was in jail for a DUI, and missed the entire fucking thing…even though I'd spent all week creating a fabulous costume for it 🙁 Then in 2011, I went for a little while, but Phil had to leave halfway through to go interview one of the Jonas Brothers, so I went with him rather than hang around alone.
This year however, I vowed that the third time would be the charm! I dug out the old costume I'd bought for the 2010 party, and refashioned it as a sort of sexy Marie Antoinette getup, with a strategically-placed cupcake pasted on the crotch of my panties: "Let them eat MY cake!" (What was I blathering on about earlier, about being a feminist???!) The cupcake was really more of an afterthough to conceal the darkness of my rampant 1970s bush, which in a small concession to feminism I flatly refused to shave, despite the fact that my pink lace thong was pretty much totally see-thru. For decorum's sake, I fashioned a cupcake out of craft foam, and stuck it to my twat to hide the offending pubes.
I rolled into the party feeling fab and looking great…but alas, since the Palms had disaffiliated itself from the Playboy brand (the Playboy Club over there closed earlier this year), the party kinda sucked. Attendance was really low, and the vibe was pretty sad, honestly. There were some pretty cool costumes, and the decorations and dancers and stuff were nice…but the energy just wasn't there. WORSE, I had stuck a couple of those fake silicone boobies into the cups of my camisole to give my double-As a little boost…but one of them started slipping out without my noticing, and thus ruined almost ALL the photos I took, as you could clearly mark its progress slipping down my belly the entire night!!! Spy On Vegas didn't even POST the pics they took of me — probably for that very reason! LOL!
Clearly, I need better fake titties. I'm not talking about those "chicken cutlet" things you hear about — they're too heavy and sweaty, and also prone to slippage. What I really want are these old-school fake foam fillers I used to have, that a friend got me at a drag queen store somewhere in Hollywood back in 2002. I used to wear those little fuckers ALL THE TIME — they got all sweaty and discolored, and little bits of the foam kept crumbling off so that they looked like nasty-ass fungus-covered leprosy-eaten abominations. I didn't give a fuck — I STILL wore them everywhere, until I finally lost them somewhere. Where, I have no idea….but I would have LOVED to see the look on the face of whoever found them!!! Eeeeeeew!!!
If anyone can find these foam fillers for me, I'd be eternally grateful. The brand name was Nearly Me, but the ones I had are ***NOT*** on their current website. They were sort of triangular/teardrop shaped, made of
cheap-ass foam rubber (like upholstery foam rubber), and they had fake nipples modled into them. I think the item number was something like 17-624-918 (it's hard to read the packaging, which I still have, but is all wrinkled up and old). I'm telling you, I have looked EVERYWHERE for those little fuckers, to no avail 🙁 If you find a link that you think might be what I'm looking for, please send it to firstname.lastname@example.org. Thanks in advance for your support….yuk yuk!!!
Anyhoo, that's it for now. I'm headed to California to visit my mom, who just moved into a fabulous hippie house up in the forest north of San Francisco, and I'm going to help her settle in and unpack all her stuff. I can't WAIT! Oh, and speaking of hippies…….I FINALLY found out that my Burning Man ticket was returned to the fuckin' ticketing agent by the numb-nutted USPS…so I have to pick it up at Will Call when I get there. But I think my friend got me an early arrival pass (to help
him with his art project), so the line shouldn't be TOOOOO bad. Arrrgh!