These challenges are getting strange.

This time, Christi (EditMoi) asked us to tell her something she doesn’t know – about herself!

In 100 words.


This is way out of my comfort zone. I write 2000 word posts, and I’m NOT a fiction writer.

But this Alliance is forcing me to stretch my writing muscles.

Here’s a great illustration of why I keep on keeping on with the Alliance:



I’m going for Magic. One day.


We’re over at Christi’s (EditMoi) blog. I love her writing. I can’t get a handle on this girl. But her unpredictability is precisely what intrigues me.

Her cute little gravatar did not prepare me for the stuff her mind generates.

Like this story, narrated by a man – and a skeevy one at that.

Christi writes non fiction as well. I particularly love this post which I believe describes a healthy alternative to divorce.


So, click over and see what everyone came up with.

There’s something about Christi…



Dear Open Letter Writer:

I’m writing this open letter to you because I’ve never met you.

Typically, people who write letters know one another. But this grandiose literary device known as the “Open Letter” requires no actual communication. It gives the illusion that I’m genuinely giving exceptional advice, while actually just driven by my own need to be heard. The New Millenium cyberized version of the old-fangled “epizootics of the blowhole.”

And who am I to buck a trend? I want IN. Like omitting verbs and prepositions. The Bloggess writes, “Because… WINE.” And now everyone blogs without prepositions. It’s a pandemic grammatical anarchy on the blogosphere! Because…trendy.

Open Letters follow a formula.

There’s a “You see” paragraph near the beginning, so that it sounds like I’m an earnest motherfucker who was really in the metaphorical trenches, and I’m going to do my best to sound empathetic and concerned.

Then comes the “But what we need to remember is” paragraph. That’s where I dazzle you with how much of an expert I am on the topic. Invariably, I’ve managed to make a natural disaster-level hot mess of whatever it is I’m writing about and in hindsight, I have all the answers.

Then, we have the grand finale of the “I really don’t know if” paragraph to demonstrate humanity. Vulnerability. And to be used as a disclaimer, in case somewhat gets hurt actually following the bizarre tomfuckery I’ve just published.

You see, the open letter has a lofty history. And my “Open Letter to the Sweat On My Nutsack” belongs right up there with Emile Zola’s “J’accuse.” I have just as much to offer the world as a Nobel Prize-nominated literary giant calling out France on its anti-Semitism.

My “Open Letter To My 20-Year-old Self Because I’m a Narcissist Who Believes the Entire World is Fascinated By My Journey of Self Discovery” – let’s juxtapose that with Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail

You may not be a historical figure penning the benchmark text for the American Civil Rights movement, but why not write a letter to an abstract concept? I for one am perfectly willing to embrace the incorrigible douchery of composing letters to entities that lack relevance, societal significance, or even a postal address.

What we need to remember is that open letters have come a long way. We no longer have to honor the glorious tradition of the Open Letter from historical figures who changed the world’s perspective.

You’re an IMPORTANT PERSON whose personal take on life should not be limited to pedestrian blogging of an online opinion.

‘Divorced Person’, you’re as much of an authority as Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon, who wrote an Open Letter on the survival of the media when he purchased the Washington Post.

Who better to pen “Open Letters to Bad Spouses” than someone who is crawling from the wreckage of their own stupidy? And it makes perfect sense to get validated by a built-in applause machine – your followers. People even more fucked up than you are; anxious, fearful and desperate for answers when the great cosmic joke is that THERE AREN’T ANY. HAHAHAHA

And celebrities have every right to want to air their stank, moldy laundry in the public eye. Why shouldn’t Dylan Farrow use the New York Times in an Open Letter publicly denouncing Woody Allen as a pedophile? It’s probably slipped all our minds that that he bedded and then eventually married his de facto step daughter, in some surreal scene from a Viagra commercial gone terribly wrong.

I can understand that his getting honored by Hollywood with a Golden Globe Lifetime Achievement Award compelled you to come forward and gain mass attention for a private matter. What with Hollywood being the moral compass for ethical behavior it is, it must have seemed SO hypocritical.

Open Letter as shaming mechanism is really en vogue, which is French for “spreads like a yeast infection.” Sinead O’Connor has an issue with Miley Cyrus. Several issues, as a matter of fact.

Frankly, I don’t see what all the brouhaha is about. Miley’s a whole lot more compelling as a full-blown hose beast than she ever was when she was part of her Achy Breaky annoying hillbilly family. Her career has skyrocketed, now that she’s gotten naked enough times to earn a recurring role on Game of Thrones. And her ludicrous antics certainly unite the nation, if not the world – and how many things do that?

But then Amanda Palmer, blogger extraordinaire (that’s Amanda Fucking Palmer, to you!), musician, writer of love poems dedicated to the Boston bomber and all around good time gal, decides SHE has an issue with Sinead having an issue with Miley. Stay with me, here. This is multilayered, like a croissant. If croissants were the food of the ASSOSAURAS.

Amanda Palmer’s letter was a real eye opener. I especially loved, her compassionate ‘Gurrllll, we’re in this together’ appeal to Sinead O’Connor:

“You and I know it – being a female musician/rockstar/whatever is a pretty fucking impossible and mind-bendingly frustrating job.”

Really? I can understand why you would put yourself and Sinead in the same category; after all, she’s a brilliant musician whose been nominated and won Grammy awards several times over, and you, Amanda - why YOU were named 13th of Paste Magazine‘s 20 Best Cover Songs of 2010, for your cover of Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees. Doesn’t your ukulele-playing ass have a plane to catch?

I should really have penned an open letter to Amanda Palmer regarding her open letter to Sinead O’Connor regarding Miley Cyrus. Then we can all tweet about the letters, and blog about the tweets, write more letters about the blogs, and write letters to those letters.

Eventually we’ll all go mad, stumbling in a funhouse maze of this self perpetuating camel snot. Maybe at that point, we’ll rent a school gymnasium and have a dance off, like in West Side Story! Or perhaps bludgeon each other to death with our own inflated egos.


I really don’t know if we’ve reached a complete low in communication yet. We’ve not yet fully diluted the impact of the illustrious Open Letter. We can go smaller and even less significant in subject matter.

We can continue to think that the writers of these letter actually give a flying shit waffle about their audience, rather than just needing to spout their opinions where the largest number of people can see them.

We can find more ways to utilize the Open Letter in the generalized spread of negativity on the Internet, since they’re all about shame, and blame, and how badly we’ve fucked up. Why should we write Open Letters to positive forces in society? Wouldn’t it be silly to write “Open Letter to Fabulous Parents”? Why would we want to acknowledge people who do things RIGHT in the world?

We can continue to use the Open Letter to forfeit any chance for real communication and understanding.

Because if there ever was a way to dehumanize communication on the Internet, it’s with an Open Letter, about nothing, addressed to everyone.


Yours truly,



P.S. Next, I’m writing “10 Reasons Why I Hate List Posts.”

But not until I finish “15 Things I Learned From Reading Open Letters to Miley Cyrus.”

Because… whine.



*Author’s note: This post is dedicated to Deanna Herrmann, one of my amazing Sister Wives. While commenting on her latest blog post, I may have committed myself to writing a post about “ball sweat.” Deanna, does it count that I used it as an example?


How do you feel about these letters to Miley? Sinead? 
Or the Open Letter in general? 
Is there anything on the Internet that seems to be trending to the point of cliche?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 



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The most inaccurate depiction of prostitution in the history of the world

The most inaccurate depiction of prostitution in the history of the world


The job of a phone girl in a brothel is basically a sort of sub-madam.

Clients, either established or new, would call. Once they arrived, I would let them in, pour them a drink, and seat them in main lounge, where they could chat for a few minutes before deciding who they would like to have a session with.

We called them “parties.”

I also had to keep the place stocked with alcohol, make sure all the laundry was picked up and delivered daily, collect weekly doctor’s notices from the girls, make sure the supply closet was stocked with tissues, baby oil, condoms, etc.

The clients, were normal, run-of-the-mill men. They weren’t unsanitary freaks incapable of attracting women. They were pleasant. Some were extremely handsome.

They were men who did not wish to ask their wives or girlfriends to fulfill some of their kinky fantasies.

It’s complicated to go home to the wife in Scarsdale and say, “honey, tonight I’d like you to pee on me. Afterwards, please dress me up in a giant diaper and spank me.”

I did find some of their predilections unnerving at first. We had a couple of dominatrixes on the premises, and I could never fathom the male masochistic inclination.


I occasionally got ensnared into a party.  Strictly as a voyeur, and reluctantly. If it was an “emergency” and everyone else was occupied.

“He wants you to watch while I stick my stiletto heel up his ass. PLEASE! He’ll pay you $50. There’s no one else available.”

The first few times, I was completely freaked out.

Then, it just seemed absurd.


Once, one of the dominatrix’s was running late. Her client had already arrived, and he was getting antsy. She insisted I “get him started.”

Even on the phone, she scared the snot out of me.

I looked in the closet where she kept her sadistic accoutrement. And shut it, quickly.

I ended up making him crawl around the room with a garbage pail on his head.

That was the best I could come up with.


I knew what I was doing was illegal. It appealed to my sense of non-conformity.

At least, it was an honest admission of being dishonest, as opposed to more covertly dishonest professions. Like being a car salesman.

Having grown up in a house with all brothers, I also enjoyed the sense of female solidarity. I gradually bonded with the girls, and became close with four of them.

Nikki was Queen Bee of 51st Street. She was in her mid 40′s. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes; a kind of luminous sensuality.

Men of all ages desired her. I never quite understood why guys in their 20′s wanted a woman in her 40′s.

Now that I’m her age, I…kind of understand.

She was married to Joe, who accepted her profession. Some husbands were like that.

They had a gorgeous apartment on the Upper East Side, where I spent a lot of time.

Their favorite hobby was doing massive amounts of cocaine all night while playing bizarre porno movies in the background.

Our all-time favorite was “I Spit On Your Grave.” One of the characters wore glasses, and when he was pounding away at women, closeups of his face showed there was no glass in the glasses.

This seemed hilarious at 5 am on an 8-ball of cocaine.

“No expense was spared in the making of this movie.”


Kathy was a big, voluptuous, 25-year old brunette.  She lived on Long Island, and was working her way through college.

Gail was very tall but model-thin; fair skinned, auburn hair with a pretty, girl-next-door look. She was my age, and lived near me in the East Village. She was also working her way through graphic design school. We frequently went out together after work.

And then there was Debby.


Barbie doll body, unbelievably full, pouty lips, huge brown eyes and artfully tousled blonde locks.


Debby was a reigning queen of the East Village punk scene. She’d run away from home at 13, and had been on the scene since the late 70′s.


She was a musician. A painter. A writer. A vagabond. A free spirit. Brilliant, talented, tormented, fragile, tough…


At first, she was aloof and scornful. She’d mock how I was dressed when I was heading out with Gail.

Little by little, she let me into her world.

I realize now, she saw in me her younger self. Before she’d become so damaged and lost her innocence.

And was somehow trying to regain it through me, by osmosis.

Instead, the reverse happened.


Yes, I was impressed with the fact that she knew and hung out with all the punk icons I worshipped. What can I say? I was a kid.

She’d had a tumultuous on and off again romance with Johnny Thunders, and although he was now married, she completely lost it when he died.

I loved her particular habit of referring to rock musicians by their real names. It spoke of a true familiarity with them that I envied and craved.

She’d see Richard Hell – whose album Blank Generation I worshipped – at a downtown bar and command him, “Meyers – get me a drink!”

Much later, when she finally introduced me to them, I picked up the habit.

It wasn’t the only habit of hers I picked up.


Debby was a world-class junkie. I was so naive, I thought she was just frequently stoned on weed, like other girls at work.

I saved all my money and acquired a nice apartment on 2nd Avenue. East of where I lived was known as “Alphabet City” – it still is.

Debby was living in a “squat” – an abandoned building on Avenue B.

I didn’t connect that she was earning money at the brothel, but still couldn’t afford an apartment.

Alphabet City was a seedy place in the early 90′s.


Our friendship began with her sharing my taxi home from work. I always paid.

She’d critique my look. Make a few adjustments in the cab.

“Here – belt this.”

“You can’t draw a good cat eye with pencil- you need liquid liner.”

“Is that…glitter on your face? Where are you going, a fucking Bowie concert?”

Then, she began inviting me to go out with her after work.


The minute she entered the room – a bar, a club – she OWNED it.

I had a boyfriend at the time.

I was feeling things for Debby that I had never felt before, but I didn’t identify what they were.

I wanted to crawl up inside her and live IN her. I was besotted.

It wasn’t that she knew everyone.

It was the way she smelled. The way her lips looked when she was making an exasperated face at me.

Her walk. The sexy way she flowed through a room.

I could never imitate it. I tried for years.


Fridays were always busy on 51st street. People get paid on Fridays, which creates an illusion of abundance.

We all made a lot of money on Fridays.

Debby and I usually started our night at a popular bar, like the semi-subterranean Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark’s.

This time, she told me she had to make a stop first.

We drove to a sketchy part of the East Village.

In the early 90′s, Avenue D was run down and filthy. A barren urban wasteland of empty storefronts and abandoned buildings.

I said nothing as we got out of the cab. Debby had taken me to some squalid places before, and I learned to just keep my mouth shut.


The streets were littered with junkies and freaks.

Men, mostly Hispanic, wearing carpenters aprons, were walking around, announcing their brands.

“Pac-Man!” “Nynex!” “Fire!”

Two men were herding people in lines, and bringing them over to a burnt out laundromat.

It was my first visit to an “open air” heroin market.


We crunched across the lot in our heels, across broken bricks and trash and weeds. When she found the man calling out, “Terminator,” she made her purchase.

By now, I knew she was buying heroin. I tried to act as nonchalant as possible, but I was taken aback. And worried.

And extremely curious.


We made our way back through this perverse street bazaar to Avenue A, which was more civilized.

Debby wanted to go to the Park Inn Tavern for a drink. It was one of her favorite dive bars; pitch black walls and skinheads loitering outside.

It was a locals only place that would never attract the “Bridge and Tunnel” crowd – people from New Jersey, or the boroughs.

We walked in, and she nodded hello to the bartender.

She said, “You wanna wait here? Or come with me?”

“Where are we going?”

She laughed and ordered two shots, two beers. Took my hand and we went into the filthy bathroom.

Junkies shoot up wherever they can, as soon as they can.


I wanted to try it.

She insisted I go first.

“If I go first, I’m gonna be too high. I’ll fuck it up.”


Debby pulled all sorts of paraphernalia out of her bag.

She tore open a package and took out a syringe. She mixed the heroin with water, and put it in a spoon. Added heat from her lighter. She took a tic-tac sized ball of cotton from a Q-tip to filter it.  She dipped the needle into the cotton and sucked-up the heroin mixture.

She sterilized my arm with an alcohol wipe. Tied a black band around my upper arm.

She tapped hard on my upper bicep.

“Your veins are so tiny,” she crooned at me.

And then-  she found what she was looking for.

I felt an almost imperceptible prick.

There was a buzzing sound,.

For about 30 seconds, my brain felt like it was orgasming.

I got a metallic taste in my mouth that drove down my throat.

The sound of my own breath became echo-y, like I was under water.


And then I got violently ill. I RETCHED. For what seemed like an eternity.

When I finally finished, I looked up. Debby was leaning against the wall, stoned.

She looked at me and said,

“You look so beautiful with vomit on your face.”


She went to the bar and got paper towels and cleaned up my face. Handed me gum.

We sat at the bar for hours.

Or maybe not. I have no clue.

My entire life felt like it was in a bath, at the perfect temperature.

We ended up back at my apartment.


That night, I found out who puts what where in lesbian sex.


She took her time with me, and that, coupled with the heroin, made the experience euphoric.

She knew exactly how fast and slow to move, exactly where on my body to focus more of her attention;  knew what was going to curl my toes and just make my entire body tremble.

When we finished the first time, she just laid next to me and ran her fingers through my hair until my heart rate came back to normal.

The next day, she pushed her shopping cart over from the squat on Avenue B and moved in with me.

I didn’t know what I was getting into.


Next week: Part Three! The Conclusion. 

Part One Starts Here


Have you ever gotten involved with someone you shouldn’t have?
Or had a job you knew was a terrible idea?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 



“I’d like everyone to write a super-exciting, riveting, ball-obliderating story……in 200 words,” he said.

He, being End Kwote, the Official Duppy Conqueror of the Alliance.

Although to me, he’s just Pancho.


Yikes! 200 words?

Challenge Accepted!

We were warned – If you go over the 200 word limit, you will be smitten by the hell-demon Gorlak.

I don’t even write fiction. My posts are all closer to 2000 words. And I’m in no mood to deal with Gorlak.

Anyway, we’re all over End Kwote’s place for this challenge, if you’d like to see how we did.

And take a look at his Freshly Pressed post – while you’re there!


(By the way, someone’s in trouble with Gorlak…)


You are NOT Special

March 26, 2014

not special 2


Worthiness was not my birthright.

The light, the heart of me that could illuminate the world got shrouded in doubt.

When you are


you are alone. You trust no one, because to trust is to risk. You build walls.


As a child, I fought hard to be worthy, but I was just


I wanted to use my life to serve the world, but made terrible choices. Stifled my blessings.

More reminders of unworthiness. Undeserving of joy.


It was time to take responsibility.

All life is energy.

We beam our signals like radio frequencies, transmitting responsibility for our own lives.

And it was time for me to put aside that I was


Your life is speaking to you. What is it saying?

It told me to

Breathe Again.


Just because you deeply desire an exceptional life.

And he was the first person to feel that breath.

Just because he was lonely

And you were there,


And he used phrases like “kindred spirit,”

And words like “brilliant,”


Those are words.

This is what writers do.

Use words to elicit feelings.

Just because he wrote things that made you feel special,



You’re just someone he wrote to. That week.

In the middle of who he wrote. Last week. And next week.



You were just New.


Those who feel unworthy habitually relate to our inner life

in the same way that others attended to us.

We disconnect and banish parts of ourselves.

You never completely rid yourself of this, but in good times,

you allow yourself to dance with it.

And there is joy.


But then -

Someone shows up to remind you, and take you back

To the place where the pain and memory of old experiences reside.

And, past reality IS present.

The emotional self does not live in linear time. “Then” becomes “now.”



I kept trying to rewrite this script

So that you would not become a filter through which I saw the world.

And set myself up to be reminded repeatedly. That I was


I only know now how bad it was

By how hard it is for me to breathe while I write this.

“I don’t treat you the way I treat my real friends.”

And now I clench my fists just to feel my fingertips

To make sure I exist.



Now, when I interact with others,

I rarely see the potential for love, only for hurt and rejection.

How ironic that you are healed.

The conscienceless of the Internet was the perfect way

to not hear the pain in my voice.

I’m building walls again.

I’m raw and broken.

Even the slightest touch can trigger waves and waves of overwhelming pain

from your ‘Hit and Run’ blog attack.

Yes. Roadkill.

The perfect description of what this feels like.


I was strong, but my strength was in my empathy. Once I was not allowed to feel, I became weak.

I was beautiful, but not allowed to heal. I became filled with emotional waste. Ugly and sick.

I had purpose; to breathe and reflect feelings. My purpose was invalidated. I am unimportant, superfluous, diminished.

I was powerful, but my power was guided by my purpose. Once that was gone, my power became self-destructive.

I was capable of great love. I was not allowed to be heard. My love got lost in the maze of my subconscious, buried under piles of unhealed pain.



I understand the manifestation of grace and God, so I know that there are no coincidences.

I was meant to be reminded

That I am



Don’t ever believe that it is only our “choice” to feel;

That others cannot make you feel a certain way.

Maya Angelou, one of the great writers of contemporary literature, said:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did,

but people will never forget how you made them feel.”


I live out of that place everyday.

So many months where I was made to feel


A lesson I won’t soon forget.





In my heart, I’m listening. 

But comments on this one are closed.

Things are never what they seem.  Please be careful,

A little more clothing than this. A little.

A little more clothing than this. A little.



Only someone impossibly young would answer an ad that has “$$$” in it.

Especially when it’s in the Village Voice, not even Backstage magazine. But I had been back in New York a half hour and was impatient for Stardom.

I called, set up the audition, and off I went to a…

Townhouse in the East 50’s?

A very posh one, tucked in between Sutton Place and Lenox Hill.

The location was odd – a townhouse? in the east 50′s – but did I mention I was young? And probably hung over?

In Manhattan’s East Village, I could walk 50 feet in any direction from the lobby of my building and end up in a bar. Most nights, I did.


First sign something was amiss – not too many auditions take place in townhouses.

Well, they do.

I just walked out of those. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be blogging, that’s for sure.


I announced myself to the disembodied voice on the intercom, waited patiently for a surveillance camera to scrutinize me, and entered a posh hallway.

Surveillance camera?

I suddenly became hyper aware that this was a MOST unusual setting for an audition.

I climbed a flight of thickly carpeted steps anyway, and was met at the door by a tall brunette who introduced herself as “Katherine” and led me inside.


It was a luxurious apartment. Decorated in that cliched 90′s mauve/grey color scheme. Plush carpeting, tasteful artwork. Two long couches adjacent to one another, and atop, lounged 5 women.

“Lounging” is the only word I can use to describe the way they were artfully arranged on those couches.

And they were dressed in outfits that were a little too sexy for the standard audition. Not completely sluttish – maybe a few degrees south of slut.

My instincts told me something was not right there.

My curiosity got the better of me.


Katherine led me down a hallway into a  beautiful, albeit sparsely furnished bedroom. Platform bed, nightstand, fishtank. A vaguely impressionist painting on the wall.

I started to ask questions, but she cut me off gently.

“Make yourself completely comfortable.” And with those words, she left the room.

I sat back on the bed. Kicked off my shoes. Listened to the fish tank gurgle.


Moments later, Katherine came back in. Her eyes swept over me.

“You need to be completely comfortable before we can talk.”

“I am. I’m as comfy as can be.” I gestured towards the fish.

“Nice fish tank.”

“No, I meant COMPLETELY comfortable.”

And now, she used sweeping hand motions to gesture completely down the length of her body.



What the hell?


“Is this a voiceover audition, or WHAT? I’m not taking my clothes off.”

“I can’t speak to you until you’re (again with the gestures) completely comfortable.”

That was enough.

I hightailed it out of there.


On my way out, a beautiful blonde with pouty red lips – A Debby Harry look alike – made eye contact with me.

She gave me a sultry look of half come-hither, half disdain, and half challenging.

(Yes, I know that doesn’t add up, but when a hot blonde gives you a look like that, you forget fractions).

“Another one bites the dust.”

“Excuse me?”

“Run along, little girl. Phone girls make a lot more money than office temps, but you just keep walking.”

“What’s a phone girl?”

Then it dawned on me exactly what a phone girl was. I hadn’t been reading the Village Voice all those months for naught.

“Is this a whore house?”

She and the other 4 women looked at me.

“Well, we prefer in-house escort service, but sure. We say ‘tomato’ you say ‘whorehouse’.”

They burst into peals of laughter.


I ended up taking the job.


Getting naked is a prerequisite to ensure you’re not a police officer. Apparently, if you take all of your clothes off, you cannot be accused of entrapment.

This is not really a correct interpretation of the law, as I later found out.


Katherine loved my youth, my innocence, and especially my inexperience. No bad habits to untrain.

The gentleman callers appreciated seeing a young innocent girl when they entered the establishment.

She valued that my college education allowed me to sound articulate and artful on the telephone.

Best of all, I was adept at handling large quantities of money, balancing out cash and credit card receipts at the end of each shift and was never off – not even by a penny.


I took the job for 2 reasons.

First – the money was extraordinary.

I was paid $10 an hour, and worked a 12 hour shift – noon to midnight.

In addition, I was paid $5 for every “session” booked. On a good day, I walked out of there with $300 in my pocket. In the 90′s, this was a FORTUNE.


Of course, the girls made 3 times as much, but that was to be expected.

In a 12 hour day, they could see a dozen clients a day – sometimes more.

They didn’t have intercourse with all of these clients, and if they did, it was often quick. These women were very skillful with certain things–manual sex, for example. They know how to finish up a client in well under the hour.

Or, how to “extend” because his hour is almost up and he’s  having such a good time (read: she hasn’t let him actually fuck her yet) he wants to stay for another hour. She’d show up at the front desk wrapped in a towel, looking like a triumphant hot mess, his credit card in hand.

And I’d write in a big fat tip for her, because, well, by this time he’s just crazy about her.

The girls got to keep half of what the house charged for hour ($100 was her split).

They also hustituted the bejeezus out of these men. Even though it was technically against the rules, there were a thousand extras the girls could charge for. You want anal? An extra $300. You want to cuddle? It’ll cost you. Kissing?

Not likely, but some girls might. The other girls hated the “kissers.” They were considered “scabs.” They broke an unwritten rule.

Like Elizabeth, a girl who only worked on Fridays. She did EVERYTHING. And was booked, a week in advance, every week.

The other women despised her for treating the johns like real lovers. But she only worked once a week, saw 20 customers, and walked out of their with $3000 in her pocket.


The truth is, as much as the customers wanted to think the girls were really enjoying themselves –  sometimes it was good for the girl, sometimes it was bad – but in reality, it was work. Work is work.

I’m sorry. Every man I ever told this to looked like a kid who just found out there was no Santa Claus.

All the women created figurative barriers from letting the client come too close, for keeping a sense of themselves. They avoided eye contact, faked orgasms, or used condoms when giving blowjobs. They didn’t use their real names or ages.


Even though they made bank, I was never tempted to “jump the counter.” Not ever.

This is not, in any way, a reflection of my feelings towards sex workers, but more a reflection of how clearly I understand myself. How much I revere sex, and its role in human relationships.


Besides, I was fantastic on the phone. Phone girls had this robotic spiel we were instructed to deliver – what was included in the hour (French, straight, 69, etc).

I improvised. The girls loved it. I lured in a lot of business this way.

“Is she a natural blonde? Hold on, sweetie. Let me check.”


“Oh, God, yes. Yum.”

I was still fairly innocent at this stage of my life, so I have no idea where all these hijinks came from. Reading a lot of William S. Burroughs, perhaps?


It was the house policy to call the women “girls,” even though most of them were older than me. Nikki, the “Queen Bee” and highest earner, was well into her 40′s.

As much as it was discouraged, I eventually became friends with some of the girls. After all, they had twelve-hour shifts, and often there was down time.

There’s only so much sitting, smoking, ordering food and watching TV you can do.

Besides, the large television screen in the main living room played music videos so repetitively that no one really noticed them anymore.


If you recall, I said I had two reasons for taking the job.

The other reason was Debby, the blonde who mocked me when I first showed up at East 51st street.

She was close to 30, and was the epitome of NY punk. She toned down this look for the job, but I could tell by her tousled blonde locks, smokey lined eyes, and screaming red lips that she had a rock and roll edge.

She had a little girl face and an incredibly sexy body, The combo was deadly.

Half the customers were in love with her.

Eventually, so was I.


Katherine saw me getting that starry-eyed look whenever Debby was around. She was not happy about it.

“Can I give you a piece of advice? You need to learn not to be taken in by these girls. They’re smart. They’ll chew you up and spit you out. Don’t get close to them. It’s fatal. Trust me. I’ve been in this game a long time and I know what I’m talking about.”

Her advice fell on deaf ears.

By the time she got around to saying this to me, I was already smitten with the first woman I would ever fall in love with.


And as it turned out, Debby would be the least of my problems…


Next week:

Tune in for Part 2 of New York Stories: Phone Girl In A Whorehouse


What was your strangest job?
Have you ever known anyone who worked in a brothel? 
Anybody feel like (ahem) sharing their brothel experiences? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 




Let me qualify.

In the state of New Jersey, we still have antiquated laws that require the payor (typically the husband) to pay LIFE LONG alimony to the payee. (typically the wife).

They were established in the 1940’s and 1950’s – when virtually all women were stay-at-home mothers and men the family breadwinner. Few career opportunities existed for women.

Today, women currently make up half the workforce in America.

Yet, a woman who has chosen to be a stay at home mother often walks away from a divorce with a lifetime meal ticket.

Even Powerball winnings end after 20 years.


FIRST: I’m an opponent of alimony grants in no-fault divorces initiated by the non-breadwinning spouse.

No fault, meaning one spouse just “got tired” of the other. He chewed too loudly. Left the toilet seat up.

And now, this chicken hoe can just hang out while her ex-husband busts his ass supporting her in the style to which her chicken hoe ass got accustomed.


I have a friend. Let’s call her Jennifer. Because that’s her name.

She decided she was more attracted to the 27-year-old meathead trainer at the gym than to her 40-year-old husband (duh!)  And divorced him, after 9 years of marriage.

But she gets to ride that gravy train forevah.

Her ex has to keep her in her house, and her Jaguar. She complains when there isn’t enough money for her Botox.

I’m tempted to cut open a rusty can and inject her face with the botulism to shut her up.


A lot of women around here choose to stay home with the kids – just because of that pot of alimony at the end of the rainbow.

Trust me, they have motherly instincts like Medea.  There’s an especially nauseating subdivision of parasite who stays at home with the dog even after their kids go off to college.

Often, it’s against the wishes of their spouse, and it’s ALWAYS so they can later collect lifetime alimony.


There are sometimes good reasons for a spouse to receive permanent alimony, such as having a disability.

I’ve personally never witnessed this – unless being a complete selfish bitch is considered a disability.

They set up a life-long imbalance with profound adverse effects on the others affected by the “agreement”: their children, their ex, and any new family he should have.

This continues until the demise of either party or the remarriage of the recipient.

The payor dies by working TO DEATH because his wife will NEVER remarry her live-in boyfriend.

Several states have passed laws that allow for the modification or termination of alimony if the recipient is living with another person.

Here in New Jersey, my friend gets to travel to the Caribbean with her muscle-bound live-in boy-toy on her ex-husband’s dime.

I’m in favor of Rehabilitative Support/alimony.

This is awarded for a short period and is meant to help a spouse “rehabilitate” himself/herself.

YES. This is what I’m talking about. Cap this shit off after a few years, and we’re good.

The courts really need to evaluate all of these divorces carefully on a case by case basis. But they don’t.

In New Jersey, vague alimony guidelines and interpretations only promote lucrative litigation to the multibillion dollar divorce industry and use court resources that are paid for by taxpayers.

There are other states which still grant spouses lifetime alimony.


I’m primarily concerned with my home state, where these Draconian laws are the legal equivalent of a sociopathic serial killer.

They’re killing people who are married to heartless opportunists.

They’re killing people who are forced to remain in loveless marriages.

They’re killing the concept of marriage altogether – and helping far too many young men swallow the red pill of the manosphere, and reject the idea of marriage altogether.

They’re killing the spirits of the children who get to bounce between savagely hostile parents embroiled in their own materially-driven War of the Roses.

The worst crime?

Girl, where’s your pride? We fought hard to be considered equal to men. Where’s your self respect? What kind of example are you setting for your children?

You’re killing the entire feminist ideal of the empowered woman who can take care of herself on her own.



I know many women sacrificed their education and careers to raise families.

I know that women feel they can’t just transition to the workforce after being out of it for so many years.

Here’s the thing.


1. Go back to school. Vocational, preferably, since a college degree is the equivalent to a big honking nothing these days.

2. Start the transition before you get the divorce. Even if you’re happily married, once your kids are a little older, and in school all day – don’t you WANT to work part-time? Or take some classes?

The SAHM where I live play tennis and shop an awful lot. They could work a college class or two in between lip injections and hair extensions.

3. Do anything. I don’t mean, go on the stroll. But the women who clean houses drive cars nicer than mine. Are you above home health care, house cleaning, babysitting? Be resourceful.

The woman who watched my son when I went back to work never went past high school. She watched 4 kids in her home, and made bank.

Some people are just “above” jobs like housecleaning. I went to a prestigious college, and I would work at Mickey D’s to put food on the table if I had to.

Money is money. It’s called a work ethic, women.

I’m not suggesting that a minimum wage job will pay all your bills. But it’s something. Stop acting like you’re incapable of work just because you think you’re all that and a bag of Skittles.


Recently, my friend argued a real-life example with me, against alimony reform.

Her friend was married for 25 years and was 55 years old when her spouse filed for divorce. She had devoted the “prime” years of her life to her family.  Based on the new alimony proposal, permanent alimony could stop at a retirement age of 65 or 67.

It could mean she would only receive alimony for 10 years.  After retirement, doesn’t she have the right to maintain a certain lifestyle? What is she supposed to do?

MY answer:

First – You’re 55, not DEAD.

If you were married for 25 years - could you not have begun to re-enter the workforce at some point in your marriage?

I’m not suggesting that the mom simply disappear into a full-time job when her children are teenagers.

In fact, I don’t like what I see in homes where both parents are away full-time and teenagers are left completely unattended.

Teens need guidance, and someone needs to be “minding the store.” But at some point, you must start re-building your life for when your kids leave for college.

You won’t be a SAHM then. You’ll just be a sloth.

Second - Your lifestyle will change. I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich is nicer. But life is life. Roll with it.

Third – There are men who have to re-invent themselves at 55.

My son’s school has just informed us that starting next year, there will be no more hard copy textbooks. Only online.

That smells like an entire industry out of work to me. And a lot of men, many of whom are in their 50′s, are going to have to figure out how to feed their families.

I’m sure it will be hard for a woman to re-enter the workforce at 55.



Let’s play Devil’s Advocate, shall we?

Let’s say, the husband totally wants out of the marriage because he’s decided he’s no longer in love.

Should he then be forced to keep her in her pre-marriage lifestyle simply as a function of a now-defunct union?

What if the woman is an alcoholic psycho bitch? What if she’s abusive and unfaithful?


Let’s say she’s none of those things.

If a man has to pay a woman to maintain the creature comforts he provided for her while they were married, shouldn’t the reverse be instituted? He was the breadwinner, he’ll keep winning that bread.

You were the homemaker. Go to his house every week, clean it, do his laundry, cook some meals,

And have sex with him.

I think that’s fair.


Currently, there are many people who are working hard to change the laws in New Jersey. Good luck with that.

It took until  April 2009 for Jon Corzine, then-governor of NJ, to sign into law changes in the alimony statutes which would bar alimony payments to parents who kill, abuse, or abandon their children.


In case you’re wondering why I’m so passionate about this subject -


I’m not divorced. My Ex and I have been separated - over 3 years now. And ALIMONY is one of the factors that has been preventing me from finalizing my divorce.

I was the breadwinner in our marriage.

Ladies, girls – Do yourselves a favor. Learn from my mistake.

I don’t care if right now, if you don’t have one red cent. I have 2 very important words for you:


Make sure that there will be an equitable split of assets based on what was earned, and most importantly, eliminate spousal support.

You amazing, talented women are going to write best sellers. Or start a company. Or Invent something cool. Have a huge hit song.

I believe in you.

And after you’ve put all your blood, sweat and tears into something like that, there is NO reason why you should be punished for your diligence, sacrifice and success by having to support an ex husband.


And ladies – have respect for that hard-working husband of yours. It’s a lot of pressure on a man to support a family.

Remember, it turned this:



Into this:



How do you feel about alimony?  Has it impacted your life, or the life of someone close to you?
Do you know any women who are paying or have to pay alimony?
Talk to me. I’m listening.



Last week, Aussa asked at the end of her post, “Have you ever received an unsolicited or unattractive selfie?

And I practically leapt into her comment section with a resounding “YES!”

There’s a very specific kind of unsolicited selfie that has become the scourge of 21st century communication. If you’re a woman, you’ve probably experienced this.


When I clicked on the “it was great having coffee with you” email,

I did not expect that



From someone I barely knew.

Why do men send unsolicited dick pics? It’s an epidemic. It’s the Bubonic plague of the technological era.


1. First of all, they’re not attractive.

I’m quite fond of the way penises look. In person.

But if you’re playing “win a date with Samara,”

then sending me a detached, disembodied penis is NOT going to make you intriguing enough for me to want to get to know the men attached to it.

Do all men attend the same school? Dick Pic U School of Genitalia Photography?

Because give or take various degrees of manscaping, they’re all pretty much the same.

That one-dick pony shot of your faceless raging boner showcased against a backdrop of upper thigh.

No imagination. Next time, dress him up a little. Draw a smiley face. Maybe put a fetching little hat atop his mushroom cap. Knit him an outfit.

I'm TOTALLY making these as Christmas gifts.

I’m TOTALLY making these as Christmas gifts.


2. Women are less visually stimulated than men. So while a man might get all hot and bothered over a breast or pussy shot, we don’t respond the same way.

Actually, I’d be more turned on by a breast or pussy shot than by a dick pic.

(please don’t start spamming my inbox – no pun intended – with pics of your pootie tang.)

If, in fact, we want to see you in an intimate setting, PAN OUT. PAN OUT. PAN OUT.

Women like chests. We like abs. We love that V-shaped muscle that leads into the groin area. You know – those lower abs. Technically, it’s 3 muscle groups, the transverse abdominal, and the internal and external obliques blah blah blah.

Nobody cares, Samara. It’s the “V” that leads right down into the money shot.

Would you really like a huge close up of a VULVA?

Well, you’re a freak.

The point is, sending me a dick pic is not a one-way ticket to Pound Town.

No one enjoys the art of masturbation as much as I; but I can assure that receiving a dick pic does not automatically make me want to stroke my smush mitten. Do you really think women receive an unsolicited pic and go:



And then fan ourselves feverishly with one hand while we polish the pearl with other?

No. We giggle, and tell or (even better) show our girlfriends.


3. These pics always come at the most inopportune time.

Did you really think I’m going to drool over pictures of your unsheathed johnson right before a parent-teacher conference?

Great. I’m at my grandmother’s, I get a text, and now “big Dick and the twins” just show up.

I’m out having lunch with my kid; I want to check my bank account online, and

Womp! your man muscle is in my face.

And not in a good way. In a completely unwanted, creepyish way

It’s like the digital equivalent of a sex offender in a stained, wrinkled trench coat.

And when they catch you off guard, and you get this blown up member with his jaunty one-eyed smile,

it can be damn FRIGHTENING.

“What is that? Is that a yam? With hair?”


“Why would I get a picture of a squid?”

*peers closer*

“What the actual FUCK!”

Now the PTO meeting you’re running just got verrryyy awkward.


4. Those camera angles aren’t fooling ANYBODY.

The same way online dating photos can be misleading, which is how you ended up on a date with a trannie you thought was a woman?

We’re onto the whole “Rear View Mirror Dick Pic” syndrome.  You know, the old “objects may appear larger than they are.”

Even a man hung like a hamster can showcase his family jewels so that his Timex dick looks like a Rolex.

If you must, at least put your hand on it so we have a size referrent.

Please don’t get too creative. Don’t position little army men around your cock. That’s disrespectful to the military.


5. A solicited dick pic is a whole different story.

If you’re sexting, and a woman asks you for that, fine.

if you’re in a relationship, and your partner knows you enjoy receiving those pics, fine. Especially helpful in long distance relationships.

You don’t even necessarily have to be sexting.  Sometimes, if you’re having playful sexual banter with someone you’re in a relationship with, a dick pic is appropriate.

Once, my Ex and I were texting snarkily back and forth. At one point, he texted, “blow me.” And attached a picture of his member.

Not only was it acceptable, it was downright hunky dory. I drove to his office and did.



This epidemic is just another tell tale symptom that speaks volumes about how communication has taken a giant step backward rather than evolving.

We live in a Mad Max Dystopian society, where rogue cyber communication lacks any real consequences or repercussions.

The same guy who randomly sent you a dick pic would never just pull his junk out and start flapping it at you over a Vanilla Latte at Starbucks.

In the real world, people behave with a conscience – no one wants to be exposed as inappropriate. Cruel. Insensitive.

But over the Internet – all bets are off.

There’s no eye contact. No tone of voice. No way to express hurt, shock, disgust, pain or disappointment.

One may say that the virtual world increases sociopathic behavior. Certainly people are less inclined to feel responsible for any outcome of their interactions with others.

Or lack thereof.

The worst part about receiving one of these from a man you are not interested in sexually, or have not yet reached the stage where the relationship warrants this exchange, is that

You can’t UNSEE a dick pic.

The only recourse is to delete, delete, delete.

And respond with my standard line when I receive one:

“Go Fuck Your Selfie!”


*Authors note: This is Part One of series of posts regarding the rogue nature of Internet communication.
Next, I will resurrect an early post, “The Hit and Run Blogger,” and hopefully increase awareness so other female bloggers can protect themselves from this kind of experience.


Have you ever received an unsolicited picture like this? Or know someone single who gets them? 
Why has this become such a ridiculous epidemic?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


There are quite a few list posts going around.

So here are is a list of 21 Things I Irrationally Love.

I try to explain them. Which is paradoxical, because, by definition, they are irrational.


1. Patti Smith.  She melded poetry with kick ass rock and roll, helping to define the punk/underground rock scene. My brother put her debut record, a 45-rpm single, “Hey Joe” with “Piss Factory” on the B side, in my hand when I was 11. This is why I am the way I am

2. Advanced Math.  Give me ridiculously hard math problems and my brain lights up like a pinball machine. Numbers make sense in a way that life does not.

3. Movie Previews.  If I’m at the movies with Little Dude, we have this thing we do where we rate them. Loudly. I love the stuff he’ll say. “A Must-See!” “Coming to a Cable Box near you!”  “Emotionally manipulative!”

4. Yoga.  We start chanting at the beginning of a class and I feel like I’m in a cult. Next they’re going to ask me to leave all my worldly possessions at the door. And the teachers say crazy shit. “Trust issues are stored in the hips.” The most irrational thing is loving Hot Yoga. It’s like playing Twister in a sauna. I feel like I’m being punked. Did I really pay to lay in a crumpled heap of my own sweat? Yes.

5. Rock Tee shirts.  Especially concert ones. My collection is irrationally important to me. The CBGB’s shirt I’m wearing in my Twitter profile pic is 25 years old. I’ll die before I stop wearing that. As a matter of fact, I’d like to be buried in that.

6. CBGBs.  I mourn its passing like a dead relative. It had, hands down, the BEST sound system on the New York club scene. It was a dive bar with cheap drinks, and my all-time favorite club. And I loved Hilly Krystal (the owner). I don’t give a flying fuck what everyone thought of him, because:

A. That club was the birthplace of New York punk rock and
B. That man covered my passed-out ass with a blanket on more than one occasion. So have some respect, yo.

7. Dancing.  If there’s no excuse to do it, like being at a club or a wedding, I’ll make one up. At parties even when no one else is. Store aisles if a really good song comes on. My kid goes bonkers with embarrassment. Too bad. Payback for all those times he did embarrassing shit in stores when he was a toddler.

8. Fender Guitars.  The sexiest guitars ever made. The Guitar of Rock Stars (okay, argue with me, Les Paul fans!) Whispering “Stratocaster,” “Telecaster,” in my ear practically constitutes foreplay. Looking at pictures of Fender guitars online is almost as good as porn. I said almost.

9. Teenagers.  I’m a teenager locked inside a grown woman’s body. It’s High School Revisionist History. Because now I’m so cool, they all want to be/dress/act like me. I’m finally at the cool lunch table. I’m the fucking QUEEN of the cool lunch table.

10. Louis C.K.  Not just his stand up. I adored his first show - “Lucky Louie.” It ran on HBO about 8 years ago and was cancelled after one season. But that was a great mistake, like Columbus getting lost and accidentally discovering America. Because after that, he went back on tour, and from there he had his ascendancy to stardom.

11. Black leather clothing.  The standard fare – jackets, vests, pants. But I have a black leather hat that my friends call my “gay man’s hat.” And – black leather shorts. Don’t judge. The last time I wore them, my son told me I looked like a “bad Girl Scout.” He has no idea what that even connotes. Out of the mouths of babes.

12. New York City.  I’m a die-hard New Yorker. It’s my identity regardless of my zip code. My 10-year-old already knows the NYC subway system. He believes himself to be a New Yorker, although I’m not sure if this can be genetically passed on?

13. My son. Little Dude.  This kind of love is so irrational, it’s hard to articulate.
He’s hilarious. Weird. So smart. Feisty. Lovable.

He’s multi-talented. He can play the recorder worse than anyone you EVER heard. He also drinks soda with his eyes.

Oh, shit. He’s sitting here, kicking my ass at Jeopardy, and just saw the part about the recorder. He wants me to change it, and is now demanding $1.00 from me. He made me sign a contract which stipulates that every time I mention him on my blog, I have to pay him $1.00.

14. Baked good.  All kinds. Cookies, cupcakes, doughnuts. I could go into a diabetic coma from eating an entire cake. One cookie is like a gateway drug to the whole box.

15. The Misery Index at the gym.  This is my nickname for how miserable you can make yourself while working out. Ever do a leg workout that made you want to yak? That’s a High Misery Index. I love pushing myself to where I feel like I might actually vomit. It’s a Thing.

16.  Very muscular arms with ink. This has led me to do other irrational things.

17. Seasons changing.  It’s a symbol to me that all things change, all the time. That I am capable of change.

18. The feel of a book.  I just don’t enjoy holding a Kindle or a Nook. They lack the visceral sensation of holding the real thing in your hand.

It’s like – a dildo will do the job. But it’s not the same as a penis. You feel me?

19. The sound M&Ms make in a dish.  I’ll pick them up in a bowl, and let them fall back down, just to hear that sound that they make. It’s like the foreplay leading up to eating them.

20. Indian Food.  Specifically, on 6th street in NYC. The whole street is one long block of Indian restaurants. You walk down the street and smell cardamom and hear sitars. And you’re not even high.

21. The movie “The Graduate.”  A great movie. An incredibly well written script. Some really amazing camera angles and shots. Phenomenal acting.

The back story is inspiring. The main character is a handsome blonde jock, like a Robert Redford type. And against all odds, Dustin Hoffman is cast in his first movie role. Totally against type. And he rocks that shit.
After the premiere, an older woman sees him in the lobby and tells him, “Young man, your life will never be the same again.” And it wasn’t.

I had trouble stopping at 21 things.  I wanted to add a whole bunch of your names, too.

What are some of the things you love irrationally? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

This is Patti’s cover of “Hey Joe.” She melds her interpretation of what she believes kidnapped heiress Patty Hearst went through, with the rock classic, “Hey Joe.” Un-fucking-believable.

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March 7, 2014 — 166 Comments


The number ONE search term for my blog: SLUT MOM.

Everyone has bizarre search terms for their blogs.

But why, every day, every week, is that always the NUMBER ONE search term?


I wrote one post using those words – in which I defended a fellow bloggers‘ First Amendment right to use the words “slutty whore” to describe herself.

And now I’m forever defined as s “slut mom.”


I don’t FEEL like a slut mom.

Now, Cartman’s Mom is a Dirty Slut. She banged some rando at the 12th annual “Drunken Barn Dance” and has no clue who poor Cartman’s father is.

And when Mr. Garrison admits that he slept with Mrs. Cartman, he declares, “But who here didn’t!?” Now she might qualify as a Slut Mom.


Although I object to this word as a misogynistic slur used to oppress me because I choose to do whatever I want with my pussy, I will take back that word to embrace my own unabashed sexuality.


And since this is the


let’s explore this.


Can I be a slut AND a mom?

While I think a warm chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven washed down with a cold glass of milk is a somewhat sensual experience, I can assure you – to my son and his friends, it is not. It’s a refueling pit stop before they eagerly asking me to smell their Jar of Farts.


But this is the




I’m a single mom living in an area I detest. The people are wealthy and entitled. The divorced men are bitter and horny.

I’m financially independent.

Which means I don’t have to tolerate some smug ass monkey to pay my bills.

The divorced women here are put out by having to lower their standards of living just a wee bit. Perhaps they can no longer afford to get their assholes bleached. Some of them actually have had to get part time court-mandated jobs – working as receptionists at nail salons 9 hours a week. What a grind.

But their real job? Is landing a man to support them. Quickly.

These thirsty bitches will do anything to nail a husband. I’m sorry; I’m not competing in that arena. I don’t have to.

I’m not gonna go all Cirque Du Soleil on your cock and hang from curtain rods on a first date. I don’t need to end up in the ER so someone can pay my mortgage. These suburban mavens are accumulating body counts faster than John Wayne Gacy.


And the men think because they just spent $200 on an overpriced steak house that they’re gonna get to pound my punani pavement, and that’s not happening.

“Yo, playa – here’s $100. A crisp new fake looking one at that. That’s my half of the bill. Now you can go to the Asian Massage place on Route 80 and get a Rub and Tug.

Cause quite frankly – you’re a douchecanoe. And since I never fucked my way to the top, I’m not likely to fuck my way to the bottom.”


But, since this is the


If you happen to date me, and eventually make it onto my list of VIPs (Very Important Penises), let’s go over some basics.

We’re all older now; mostly divorced; we’ve got kids. Everyone has busy hectic lives. We can’t do the pootie tang all weekend like 20-year-old college kids. The game has changed, and you need to change yours, too.

A few little suggestions.



I’m here for sex, not lies.

I’m not saying that we can’t care about each other. Actually, there’s a lot of love involved. I love making you feel good physically, I love making you feel good about yourself. There’s always something about the experience that I love, or I wouldn’t be here.

But if you’re going to start making a bunch of promises you can’t deliver on, then I’m going to invoke the Twitter rule because I just lose interest after 140 characters.



I do not condone a “wham bam thank you ma’m” but I am paying an overpriced babysitter AND I probably have a ton of stuff to do the next day. So if you’re not pulling my hair and saying nasty shit to me by the second hour, there’s not gonna be a third. Tick Tock.



YES. As long as you don’t sound like a serial killer. Don’t tell me you’re going to “nail my stink tube.” I want you to call me your Dirty Cowgirl Slut (here is where it’s okay). Feedback, please. I’m riding you using my quadriceps and my hammies.

If you can’t dirty talk, then you need to moan, or yell, or something. I’m flying around up here like a fucked-out Tinkerbelle, and I need you to start clapping for me or I’m gonna DIE up here.



Yes. All of them.

Just don’t jam it in and bangarang until you finish.

Speaking of which, if we’re doing it doggie, then:



I’m a little older than I was when I was dating before; I’ve pushed out a kid. When I was pregnant my legs blew up like the Hindenburg. And leg curls do not repair connective tissue. There’s only so much moonlight can camouflage, you know?

So if you’re behind me, help a girl out. Use your knees and do the old “nudge-nudge” to my right leg, and then my left leg, and widen my legs apart.

Bang! Smooth as hospital corners!

Actually you can add the POP! to the “nudge-nudge” and push my face down and my butt automatically comes up and DAMN! We got ourselves a Penthouse centerfold! THANK you!



No, it’s not okay if I don’t cum. I’m not that self-actualized. You’re a grown-ass man; you should have skillz by now!

Yes, you’ll know. A woman having a legit orgasm is like the price tag on a pair of Gucci stiletto heels. If you have to ask, back your ass out of the store, Bozo.



I already covered blow jays . And even if I enjoy giving them, it is a job to make sure that you get to feel like Christmas morning in my mouth.

So, you need to learn how to deliver a box lunch. Pussies are more confusing than penises. And every woman likes it differently. But here are a few starter ideas:

1. Don’t be skittish about it. Dig in like it’s Thanksgiving dinner.

2. Shave. I wouldn’t rub sandpaper on your taint while slurpin’ the gherkin.

3. No teeth during an Egg McMuff. If I have to explain that, then go back to masturbating.

4. The “St. Bernard lick” is okay for a warm up, but you’re going to have to vary things up a little. And don’t come at me with your tongue all pointy-like. No stalagmites up in this cave.

5. It’s a clitoris, not the Second Congo War, so don’t attack, okay, killer? Work up to that. You wouldn’t want me to stick the tip of your dick in a vacuum, would you?

6. Yeah, sure, do the alphabet on me, whatever, write your whole fucking blog down there.

7. Women over 30 are multiorgasmic. So be prepared to get a little Tongue Tendinitis. Pack a lunch; stay a while. We’re a nation of women running around with TMJ; you’re just going to have to cope.



What are we talking about here? Spanking? Handcuffs? This could be fun. Choking – not so much. Then again, I didn’t enjoy getting a salmon bone stuck in my esophagus and almost blacking out. But hey – no judgment. To each her own.

Please don’t rub on my vajizzle like you’re trying to get a stain out. And you don’t need to finger bang me in the middle of a restaurant to prove you’re a he-man.

Although if some of you ladies are into exhibitionism, all I can say is, hay gurl hay.



Well since we Crossed the Rubicon, let’s just continue our journey the back way, shall we?

I can’t speak for everyone. Yes I can. It’s my blog. Here are the rules.

1. You either get to have a huge dick OR anal. Sorry.

2. Unlike the vag, the butt hole is NOT a self lubricating organ. And SPIT is not a lube.

3. A woman needs to be incredibly turned on for this to work, like feverish fuckfest porno turned on.

4. The height of douchewafflery is to “accidentally” let it slip in there. It fucking hurts. Yes. It DOES. And then it feels good. So no “oopsies.” And go slow at first.

5. Nothing teaches you more about teamwork, persistence, and humility than doing the Milli Buttfilli. It should be a part of all high school sports training seasons. It probably is.

6. Be prepared for sounds both of us never knew existed to be coming out of my mouth during butt sex.

7. It is, after all, an exit. Not an entrance. Nothing so wrong ever felt so right. It’s Planet Bizarro sex, crazy hot and primal, and saved for special occasions. Or until they start manufacturing Methaqualone again.


So, since this is the


stayed tuned for the next installment. I’ll be discussing some of the more advanced moves, like the “Triple Crown”: Middle finger in the butt, index finger on the G-spot, and tongue on the clit, simultaneously. I’ll leave you with that image.


At this point in my life, I’ve transcended societal misogyny. I feel empowered because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly.

The physical pleasure of sex, the freedom of it, connects two human beings in a way that lets them endure the pains and losses of being human.

I’ll live free. I’ll write free.


So, can a woman be a slut and a mom?

YES. Just not at the same time.


Can a woman embrace being a “slut” or is this a misogynistic slur? Is it hard for you to combine the different elements of your life?
What are some of the weird search terms that come up for your blog?
Talk to me. I’m listening.


(thanks to Chowderhead \m/ for “Write Free”)