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I’ve spent a large portion of my life waging war against my hair.

It’s a nightmare. My hair is curly and frizzy. Not loose lustrous curls –  small, tightly coiled kinky curls.

I grew up being told I had “Black hair.” It was not meant in a pejorative way. I was a white girl in a black housing project. It was just a way to characterize the texture of my hair. Black people told me it was “nappy.”

White people made fun of me and called me “Nigger knots.”

When I was a little girl, every morning was devoted to the taming of this fuzzy tangled mess. For one hour, I stood at the sink, my legs cramping, holding back tears as the the heavy brush banged against my head.

My mother slathered my curls in Dax, and Ultra Sheen, relentlessly pulling and stretching my hair into submission. Finally she would wind it into two long, waxy pigtails

I longed for bone-straight, parted in the middle, 70’s hair. Laurie Partridge hair. My mother was less concerned with the Partridge Family and more concerned that I not run around with a wild mass of frizz jutting out of my head.

By the time I was 8, she was straightening my hair with chemical relaxers. They were foul-smelling products which stung my eyes and nasal passages. The lye dripped onto my neck and burnt my tender skin. But they straightened my hair.

In between chemical processing there were searing hot metal combs used to press and flatten my hair into surrender. They straightened my hair, and burnt it  – as well as accidentally burning my ears and scalp too many times to count.

Curly hair is labor-intensive. It must be wet down and restored every day;  at least, my curl pattern (3C) did.

I didn’t have the time or patience to wear my hair curly every day. When I got older, I no longer had to suffer drugstore lye and scalp burns. I went to black hair salons in Bedford Stuyvesant, where they knew how to deal with my hair.

Today, I still relax my hair. I use organic keratin and go to white people salons in the suburbs.

The last time I let my hair go curly I was pregnant with Little Dude.

I didn’t want chemicals being absorbed through my blood stream, so I let my curls run wild. Pregnancy gave me the best hair I ever had.  It was the only time my curls were thick and smooth.

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2003 – Pregnant with LD

When I was a girl, to keep my hair neat during the summer while giving it a break from harsh chemicals, I got my hair done up in braids. Cornrows.

This is a habit that has stayed with me, on and off, into adulthood.

The ladies who work at the African braiding salons on 126th street in Manhattan work magic. But getting your hair done in braids? Sheer torture.

First, they press and pull on your hair until you’re in tears. Then they begin braiding, and you feel like you’re going to die in that chair. Imagine sitting for 7 hours with your neck turned different ways. And they pull your hair so tight you get a horrific headache. It’s part of getting cornrows. That headache.

I recently found out that these days, if I braid my hair? I am “appropriating a culture.”

Evidently, African Americans are tired of white people adopting black culture – music, hair, style of dress, speech – and neglecting to raise awareness for black issues. It’s not right to take the fun, hip part of being black and leave the bad parts behind. That’s considered “racial appropriation.”

I REJECT THIS.

If white people dress, make music and wear our hair to emulate African Americans, are we not paying homage to them? When did it become offensive to celebrate the aspects of a culture?

Kylie Jenner started a shade war when she posted a sexified picture on Instagram in corn rows and low slung sweats. The disingenuous caption to the photo was “I woke up like disss.”

Is Kylie Jenner an asshole? Absolutely. But not for her cultural misappropriation. She’s an asshole because she was born into a family of assholes who make their livings being assholes.

Amandla Stenberg, the 16-year-old actress from The Hunger Games, decided to call her out by commenting on the photo:

“when u appropriate black features and culture but fail to use ur position of power to help black Americans by directing attention towards ur wigs instead of police brutality or racism #whitegirlsdoitbetter “

I REJECT THIS.

I reject the idea that in order to embrace and celebrate black culture, people are obligated to direct attention towards police brutality and racism. And how does it help anything to publicly chastise Kylie Jenner in front of millions, to humiliate her in an attempt to expose her as racist? It doesn’t.

IT JUST DEEPENS THE DIVIDE.

Cultural appropriation occurs when ignorant white people pick and choose what part of the black experience to adopt into their lives, while simultaneously invalidating the challenges faced by black women who will never have access to white privilege.

We partake of a culture for fashion, all the while purposely disinterested in the adversity faced by that culture.

I REJECT THIS.

I resent the gross generalization that because I am white and choose to braid my hair, that I am unaware of race issues. To declare that by borrowing from a culture, we are, by definition, ignorant of that culture’s historical struggles, is ludicrous. That kind of stock characterization of white philistinism propagates racism and distrust. It invites ridicule; in essence, it’s wearing “white face.”

According to the black community, the history connected to these styles, the context in which they were created, is essential to wearing them. These styles are the contemporary remnants of slavery. A white person who wears these styles cares nothing for that context and turns black hair styles into travesty, empty fashion, mocking the black race.

In fact, by wearing these styles white people are systematically breaking down the rich history of black culture, and continuing to exploit the black race just as slavery and segregation did.

I REJECT THIS.

I am TIRED of being blamed for past generations’ idiocy. If, by association, I am guilty of the crimes of a system by being part of the system, then we are all guilty. Which renders the concept of guilt meaningless.

Stop blaming me for oppression and hate I had nothing to do with.

I just want to get my braids done.

Does anyone really believe that the majority of young black girls getting braided up on 126th street have a CLUE about the historical context of the cornrows?

I am sadly aware that African-American women have been made to alter their appearances to maintain their jobs and their respectability. Many have been forced to give up natural black hair styles in what can only be described as an attempt to force them to adopt a “whiter” look.

This is heinous.

But now, if I put my hair in cornrows, I am accused of using my “white privilege” to exploit black culture’s historical symbols to satisfy my shallow need for self-expression.

I REJECT THIS.

I should be free to wear my hair however I choose.  I cannot change what has happened in the past. I can only fight for a better future. I know that even today, black skin still acts as a mark of negative difference. On many fronts, black America is in crisis.

But restricting MY personal freedom is not going to address racism and economic injustice. Cultural appropriation is just another way to create discord between races.

Am I only allowed to adopt the hairstyles or music genres, of my ancestors? If I am allowed beyond my own heritage, who draws the line, and where is it drawn? Can I enjoy the films of Spike Lee? The music of Miles Davis?

Culture is not black and white. Like many things, it lives in the gray area. It’s borrowed, repurposed, and reformed over and over again. Exchange of culture creates empathy, and tolerance. It’s what makes up the richly woven tapestry of our lives.

I refuse to view my enjoyment of other cultures through the lens of appropriation. If that makes me part of the problem – then so be it. Fling your accusations at me because of my white girl braids.

I’ll be over here, celebrating the beauty of cultural exchange by dancing through life to the music of cultures from all over the world.

Should white people wear cornrows? How do you feel about cultural appropriation?
Does that include doing yoga? Talk to me. I’m listening.

When Cowbells Were Sexy

August 20, 2015 — 68 Comments

 

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who left home at 16. She claimed it was to attend school, but she chose the school based solely on how far away she could get.

She put hundreds of miles between her and where she never wanted to be again, and still they weren’t enough. She wanted to rid herself of that oppressive atmosphere, the pain and violence, the loneliness and sadness.

She carried with her the burden of her virginity, a gift she had been unable to give away.

It no longer felt like a gift; it was a yoke around her neck, binding her to what she knew would soon be the old version of herself. It suffocated her, like a coat of armor that made it impossible for her to dance gracefully through the world.

She had tried to unbind herself of this before, and others had tried with her, but none were succesful. She waited like a princess in a tower but no princes could manage to rescue her.

She was too young and small and strange and smart, and much, much too eager. And they joined her in this eagerness, falling upon her delicate frame, fumbling with clumsy hands.

While she stayed tethered. Turning every prince back into a frog.

And there were always brothers around, violent and shrewd. There were so many of them one was always somewhere she was. Guarding her.

They tried to tell her she couldn’t go away; they insisted she stay home to go to school, but she laughed in their faces. Their home had always been total anarchy and she left to her own devices. They would not tell her what to do now.

She left, and never returned.

 

It was a magical town at a magical time and she turned 17 there. It was a beautiful place with fields and waterfalls and lakes and woods and there she reinvented herself. Here she turned herself from a strange and skinny ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.

But still, there was the matter of her innocence. It was a shackle that dug into the tenderest parts of her soul.

Here, she waited. Because here there was magic.

Here, the weather got warm and she walked around the tiny town in her bare feet, putting out her thumb to get a ride from cars passing by. Driven by strangers who were always just friends she hadn’t yet met.

And in this clean air, she could finally. Breathe.

There was a boy who liked her. He wrote songs for her, which he played for her on guitar while they sat on a blanket by the waterfall and had picnics.

One day he filled her room with hundreds of wild flowers he picked in the woods. “White for purity,” he said, and she laughed and pressed them to her nose.

But this boy would not be The One.

 

 

And one early summer evening she stood on a porch and saw a man who saw her, seeing him.

And she knew he would be The One.

He was 21 and had one year left to her three. He was tall and strong and his eyes were green; the color of the moss next to the waterfall where that other boy had declared his love for her.

They stood on the crowded porch and the laughter of partygoers swirled all around them. But now there was no long any need to be there; in each other, they saw the reason they were both there. They left together as if it had already been decided.

Which it had.

 

And that night the walls of his room shimmered in different shades of gold. On the next night and every night thereafter they were just brown, but that first night she remembered them as gold.

And later she would remember his smile and his moss-green eyes and his strong gentle hands. And his patience.

 

There was wine and music and candles and the walls glowed in prisms of gold.

 

♪♫  Whatever colors you have in your mind,
       I’ll show them to you and you’ll see them shine ♪♫

 

Their rhythms were not in sync and her heart was beating too fast. So he moved very slowly.

And in the morning, as the sun rose over a pastoral country dawn, her face smeared with fatigue and want and need; finally, finally this man took from this girl what she had wanted so badly to give.

Finally, finally.

And she lay next to him, grateful and glad. And brought his hands to her mouth and kissed them.

She looked out the window and saw all the colors of the world opening to her at once.

There was nothing left of who she had been.

Finally, finally.

And she was Free.

 

 

The End

 

(But really, the Beginning)

 

 

Did you ever realize the clip-clopping sound in the beginning of “Lay Lady Lay” was cowbells? What songs remind you of the most incredible moments of your life?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

My Instagram Crush

August 18, 2015 — 106 Comments

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Well, that was bound to happen. After all, I’ve been on Instagram – what, a whole month?

 

What IS it with me and social media? How is it that I can get attracted to someone who I’ve never touched?

I’ve had mad crushes on people I’ve met blogging. Too many.

I fell in love with Jennie Saia after only blogging a few weeks, and only 2 weeks after “meeting” her. I actually declared my love for her in the comment section of a post I felt in every cell of my body. It’s there now, for all eternity – or until she shuts down her blog.

Jennie in real life turned out to be pretty much the same as Jennie on the blog. It’s very disappointing when you have feelings for someone based on how they write, or the personality they portray online, only to find they’re not at all like that when you really get to know them.

The Honoré de Balzac school of “be sexually charming and financially wise in your literary work, while in real life be a complete asshole who dies broke and in debt.”

I suppose I’m guilty of that. My blog persona is much tougher and care free, and way less needy and crazy, than me in real life.

 

I had a pointless, unsatisfying, destructive emotional affair with someone via Facebook. I was ripe for that one.

I’d just spent several months at the receiving end of a vicious hate campaign directed at me because my writing mentor was accused of being a predator and ousted offline. I would have grown attached to Hitler if he contacted me online and acted kind and sympathetic.

Actually, Hitler probably would have been less disingenuous. The whole experience was so bizarre I’m writing a book about it. You’ll have to wait for that one to come out to get those juicy details.

 

I’ve been temped on Twitter. I’ve been direct messaged by some really cute (I guess?) people who wanted to get to know me, but Twitter doesn’t do it for me. It’s like trying to connect with someone in a hippodrome while thousands of people shout to no one in particular “HEY LOOK AT ME HEY LISTEN HEY LOOK AT ME ME ME ME!”

 

I originally opened an Instagram account because I had broken up with Facebook after being booted off. I was told that people connected at BlogHer through instagram.

In the end, anyone I wanted to meet up with I texted, or, if I didn’t know their phone number, we tweeted one another. As a matter of fact, it was fun getting tweets from people like Kitten Holiday so we could announce online in front of all our followers just how awkward we felt at BlogHer:

 

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I like Instagram. I can get in, and get out and catch up with the latest adventures of friends and fellow bloggers. I don’t get sucked into a social media black hole; where I spend 10 minutes that morphs, through cyber alchemy, into 2 hours.

I don’t have much to say on Instagram; most people I follow don’t. A few words to caption your picture, some cool #hastags to encourage people to land on your photo. I have to stop myself from hashtagging every photo I post with “This is how we #fuckshitup.” It would make no sense, but still, the urge is there.

So what do I post? Rock tee shirts of the day, or skull tees of the day, usually. One or two pictures of my face from when I attended BlogHer, the first weekend I had my account.

Because I am a woman, and I don’t post pictures that attest to a husband or boyfriend, I receive direct messages on Instagram from men. I’m always a little surprised. My snarky personality is not at all in evidence; I say very little. I’m not scantily clad; although the very first picture I posted was the infamous one that showed up in the WordPress Reader, me in my bondage bra.

I snapped the pic and posted it because after I checked into the hotel, I realized that walking through the lobby of the Hilton clad in my bra was now off my bucket list, and I felt like commemorating the occasion with photographic evidence.

I ignore the messages.

Usually.

A really good looking English guy with a muscular physique and lots of ink starting “liking” all my rock tees and we followed each other. I say he’s English, but I really don’t know except he called me his “favourite” and I hope he’s not Canadian.

He appears to be traveling the world, or at least Europe, and I believe his home is in England. I’ve no clue. I know very little about him but he’s dead sexy to look at and he has a habit of captioning his photos with rock lyrics.

I’m a nerd with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of rock lyrics. I held back responding to his captions with the next line of the song so I wouldn’t seem like I was being a know-it-all until the day he posted a line from my favorite Patti Smith song, “Rock And Roll Nigger.” He wrote “outside of society” and I responded with “That’s where I want to be.”

He wrote that he couldn’t believe I knew that, and I answered that I couldn’t believe everyone else didn’t. It’s a fucking great song.

Seriously. Stop right this second and listen to it on YouTube. There isn’t one single thing I, or anyone for that matter, has to say that is more important than you listening to this song RIGHT THIS SECOND. I would post the video here but then it will show up in the Reader as my post image (ha, in your FACE WordPress, I am on to your trickery!)

It progressed from there. He would post a picture from where he was in the world, captioning it with a song lyric (“Look at those cavemen go”) and I would respond with the next lyric (“It’s the freakiest show”) and so on.

I got a direct message from him and I was instantly nervous. It’s SUCKS donkey balls when you open up a message from a man you don’t know and it’s a dick pic. And I liked his taste in music as well as his tattoos and muscles, so I did not want a reason to dislike him.

It was just this: “You drive me crazy.”

He’s only seen my covered torso. I don’t say anything flirty or sexy in any of my captions. Why was I driving him crazy? Was this a good thing?

So I asked him “is this a good thing?”
Apparently, it was. And so, it began.

 

Why do I develop crushes on people I’ll likely never meet? Won’t ever touch or hug or probably never even hear?

I suppose everyone who’s everyone had an online crush has a reason. For me, it’s safe. I can invest just a part of me, maybe more than I wanted intentionally, but certainly not the same amount I would invest in a real life person I was involved with.

It’s like having a de facto boyfriend, which is Latin for “my therapist is gonna love hearing about this guy.” You can’t get hurt, although in truth I did get hurt with that Facebook debacle, but that was only because he convinced me that we were having a “real” relationship and I bought it.

I won’t get fooled again.

I’m seeing someone in real life. Is it crazy that, at this moment, I like Instagram Man better?

Don’t answer that.

 

Did you ever have an online crush? (You KNOW you have). Was it fun? Can you talk about it even? 
If you can, then talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Follow me on Instagram so I look popular.

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I am not a calm person.

I suck in a crisis. When my kid is sick, I put on a fake calm facade, smiling bravely while I dial the pediatrician, all the while internally chanting “OMG he’s gonna die, OMG he’s gonna die…”

I barely survived September 11. Was I calm? NOT EVEN A TINY BIT. I cried, lost my shit and just generally acted like it was my last day on earth. Which I thought it was.

Calm? I wish I’d gotten my hands on a Colt M16 assault rifle. I would have gone all “Say hello to my little friend” on those motherfuckers who were trampling me to death while we tried to evacuate a building in midtown Manhattan.

Hurricane Sandy was yet another opportunity to be so NOT calm. To my credit, I started out calm – after all, I have a kid, But by the third day of no power, people began ripping off the little generators that everyone had humming on their front lawns. Now I had to buy an industrial sized chain to secure my generator to the house, that pathetic generator I could barely heat up soup with.

I lost my shit and screamed like a lunatic, “This IS SOME FUCKING GHETTO BULLSHIT! I DID NOT MOVE TO THE SUBURBS FOR PEOPLE TO LOOT MY MOTHERFUCKING LAWN! I HAVE A SICK CHILD! IF YOU COME NEAR MY GENERATOR I WILL KILL YOU!”

 

I’ve just started playing guitar again, for the first time in years, and my fingertips are getting torn up. One of my bestest blogging buddies, who shall go unnamed, although *cough cough* she’s from England and her name rhymes with “frizzy,” suggested I put superglue on them.

Does she not KNOW me? This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.

I have a meditating frog yoga statue thingey in my back yard, and its toe had cracked off. I decided I would be all DIY and repair that, in addition to fortifying my fingertips, since purchasing a tube of Loctite 495 made me a superglue expert.

But I left the glue out without the cap on overnight, and a hard glue booger had ossified at the top. I had to pry that sucker  off with a safety-pin, and when I did, a glue geyser came spurting out like the money shot in a porno flick. Glue went everywhere. I had a frog’s toe glued to my fingertips, some of which got glued together, and I was VERY NOT CALM ABOUT THIS.

It’s really hard to Google “how do you remove superglue” with your nipples. FYI.

 

I’ve had a couple of online friends tell me they didn’t like the way I talk to them.

I’M FROM NEW YORK. Saying “fuck you, motherfucker!” is like saying “hello!” I type “mot” into my phone, and it auto fills in “motherfucker.” Not even “mother.” It goes right to the “fucker.”

When I’m upset, excited, happy, angry, when I’m just about ANYTHING, I go BIG. I don’t know if that’s simply my innate temperament, or a byproduct of growing up in New York. And I’m never just upset. I’m DEVASTATED. I’m not hungry, I’m STARVING. I don’t have a headache, it’s A BRAIN TUMOR AND I’M GOING TO DIE.

People know that about me. Most people are just used to it. In many situations, it can be a fabulous thing. For example, when we were on the birthday party circuit, that parade from hell that never ends, I was a welcome guest. Because I never sat on the sidelines with the other moms. I dove into those ball pits and bouncy castles with the kids. Have you ever read in the news about elementary school children murdering one another in a bouncy castle in New Jersey? Exactly. Your welcome. 

My kid is not even embarrassed anymore. He’s just so used to my exuberance he doesn’t even flinch at karate competitions when I scream “KICK HIS ASS!” He actually asked me to volunteer every year at his school’s field day, because I screamed and hollered until I was hoarse, cheering on all the kids. By name. Especially the ones whose parents weren’t there.

I have a big personality. This is sometimes used as code for “is annoying as fuck,” “freaks out if she isn’t the center of attention,” “has big tits.”

I may fall into the first two categories, but certainly not intentionally. I just tend to experience things very strongly, and express my feelings. I’m passionate about the things I love, the things I hate, and most things in between. I’ll stop the car to throw my kid out if he’s rude, but I’m just as likely to stop and pull over for us to look at a beautiful sunset.

 

My BIG personality does not translate well electronically. If I’m disagreeing with someone via text or messenger, “Fuck you, you’re an asshole! I hate you!” does not bode well with the person on the other end. Those words come off much more aggressively when typed.

In real life, I’ve used the exact same words. But the person can tell, by my body language, my tone, my intonation, that what I’m saying is, “This is getting us nowhere! Can we just agree to disagree? Now let’s go take a shower together. If you’re nice to me, I’ll blow you.”

 

That’s another thing. Do you want a nice calm blowjob,the kind that’s so relaxed I fall asleep doing it? I’ll bet not. And I wonder – do those really calm women, the ones who are so quiet and even tempered and unemotional (wait, are there any women like that?), do they flip a switch and go wild in bed? THAT’S a nice little fantasy. Now just make her a mute with a degree in cooking from Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute while we’re at it. Knock out a few of those pesky teeth that get in the way, and voila! The perfect woman.

 

So DON’T tell me to calm down. I don’t WANT to be calm. As much as I wish for that kind of chill demeanor when to have it would be beneficial, I’d rather be the expressive, passionate, exuberant person I am.

I can always dial myself down a little. But those calm, low-key people with the energy level of potted plants – they’re gonna have a hell of a time trying to dial it UP.

You might think I’m too much. Maybe, you’re not enough?

 

Do you know people who are naturally calm? Are they on something? Is my personality super annoying? Be honest.
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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About 2 am the night after I published my story about breaking up with Facebook, I decided to create a brand new profile. I made 4 friend requests and then fell asleep.

I woke up to over 100 friend requests. New travels face on Facebook! I was added to my old groups and I immediately had forty eleven notifications. I started getting tagged in stuff and I think I peed myself a little.

I had been messaged by Lizzi  – and one minute into my first Messenger conversation SOME RANDOM MAN MESSAGED ME.

He didn’t just message me. He CALLED me through Facebook because he and I have so much to talk about, what with us being COMPLETE STRANGERS and me thinking he was MAYBE A TERRORIST (is that racial profiling?)

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My Facebook friends were incredible, posting a ton of “welcome backs” on my timeline. Maybe Facebook is only some version of reality, but whatever it is, it felt good.

 

In several of my groups, women were discussing being propositioned by Brian the Foot Man. That’s actually how he introduces himself. Brian has been skulking around Facebook on and off for years. He messages women and offers to pay them $50 for pictures of their feet.

Mostly everyone is outraged by him. I haven’t been contacted by him yet, and I’m not saying I would do it, but it certainly doesn’t offend me. I’m not sure how he’d feel about my feet. I have really long toes. They’re so long I can curl them around the bars of a jungle gym and hang from them. Not really. But they’re long and can easily be mistake for monkey toes.

At any rate, Brian the Foot Man just doesn’t get my hackles up.

Maybe it’s because I’ve done some really stupid things for money. When I was young I might have taken a questionable job or two. After making ridiculously easy money at a strip club, it’s hard to break out of that life. I had to bust open the sewer pipes at the club and crawl through five hundred yards of shit and raw sewage out into the rain…

Oh wait, that was the Shawshank Redemption.

 

But there have been some really strange things that people have asked me to do for money.

 

I absolutely DID blow out the candles on a birthday cake for $100 at Morton’s Steak house in lower Manhattan. I was there with a group of friends after work one night, when a man approached me and asked if I would. Are you kidding? For a hundred bucks I would blow just about anything I had no problem blowing out those candles. I wish I could earn a living doing that, but currently, things are slow in the birthday cake candle blower-outer business.

 

Years ago my girlfriend wanted me to go into the dirty panty business with her. Yes. I’m not sure about these days, but soiled panties used to be a booming business! There was an entire section on eBay devoted just to selling crusty used panties. Every woman at some point in her life considers selling her used panties. Um, doesn’t she?

Before you decide to switch professions, think about what this entails. Let’s say you run ads. How many creepy fuckers are you doing to have to talk to before you make a real sale? And you have to buy panties, pay to ship panties, take pictures of you wearing the panties, wear the damn panties – that sounds exhausting to me. I’d rather earn an honest living, selling my plasma.

Not that any of YOU is curious but if you had questions about this tawdry business you can actually go to Reddit’s online University of Panty Selling which so help me God I wish I didn’t know existed.

 

A really pathetic acquaintance tried to persuade me to have sex with his grandfather for $200 so he could steal the old man’s coin collection.  I don’t know which aspect of this story is the most disturbing. The fact that he wanted to steal from his own grandfather, the fact that he was slated to inherit it anyway, his brilliant scheme of having me bump fuzzies with the old man so he could rifle through his belongings, the fact that I actually considered it…

I kid.

I’m not into the octogenarians. Yet. I said I have Daddy issues, not GRANDDADDY issues. I’m supposed to allow an elderly dude to drive the beef bus to tuna town while his grandson robs him of all his worldly goods? It’s a Viagra commercial gone horribly wrong.

 

And now, drumroll please, for the Grand Poobah of them all.

A man once offered to pay me thousands of dollars for kicking him in the head until he was unconscious.

And this didn’t even take place at a seedy strip club or escort service. I was at an upscale restaurant-bar with a girlfriend having drinks, and we were approached by a charming, 40-ish man who proceeded to wine and dine (and vagine) us. We ended up going back to his Upper East Side townhouse because that’s a reasonable thing for two young women to do in New York – go back to some rich guy’s house to drink 20-year-old scotch and watch bestiality porn he got special, from the Bronx.

He starts pitching this idea to us, which at first made me laugh until I realized he was serious. I wish I could tell you that we hightailed it out of there completely freaked out but we stayed and tried to accommodate him. We just couldn’t.

Ohh, not because it was debauched and vile. Because I had on the wrong shoes. You need some serious athletic shoes to get the kind of running start required to kick someone unconscious. You can’t mince across a parquet floor in spiked Jimmy Choos and expect to work up enough momentum to knock a motherfucker out.

The deranged thing is that this man wanted a weekly, ongoing arrangement. I can’t even begin to understand it, and all kidding aside, I just didn’t have it in me. YOU try kicking someone square in the face, someone you’re not married to, and see how easy it is. It’s NOT.

So, Brian the Foot Man seems kind of tame to me. Not that I would sell him pictures of my simian feet. I’ve just been asked to do far more bizarre things.

 

 

Has Brian the Foot Man contacted you yet? What weird things have you done or been asked to do for money?
Talk to me.  I’m listening.