A Girl’s Thoughts on the Oldest Profession

What makes some people amenable to things like sex work being legalized, homosexuality, and the concept that people have the right to do whatever kinky shit floats their boat? Why are other people walking around with brains that find these concepts so vulgar and threatening to their way of life that they go on anti-(insert name of abhorrent behavior here) crusades? Genetics vs. environment? I saw Trading Places, I know the argument. Could humans be born with a tolerance gene, and others with an I-Feel-Threatened-So-I-Must-Destroy-You-All gene? Thus far I have believed it was all environment; that the way you are raised and the things you are exposed to will determine your stance on that which is different from you. It is a demonstrated fact that people who have spent time around someone who is gay as a picnic basket will tend to have a more relaxed view of gay folks than a person who has only seen The Gays from afar, if at all. (Or so they think, but they just don’t know that their Uncle Joey, he of monster truck fame, loves to fuck the lithe young gas station attendant in town every Tuesday afternoon while his kids are at soccer practice.)

What has brought this on, you ask? Well, let me I tell you. Between doing a great number of actual work-like activities at the office (shocking, I know), I have been spending every available moment reading the blog archives of Belle de Jour, a London prostitute who has been writing about her life since 2003. Her blog, Diary of a London Call Girl, won a writing award, much to the dismay of those who consider themselves “real” writers (pompous fuckers, every one), and then she was offered a book deal. The results can be purchased here, if you so desire. I know I will need the book for my collection, because her blog is fantastic, and I am hooked. It will go on the shelf right next to I Was a Teenage Dominatrix.

I am fascinated by call girls, dominatrices, and the like. It has always been so and I cannot tell you why (genetic? Not!). I think they are wonderful, and that they do terribly important work. I’m serious! Imagine if their services suddenly stopped. Can you imagine the anger and pent-up emotion that would spew forth (pun intended) from much of the population and the horrid, horrid results? Perish the thought. There are certain services that need to be constantly provided to humanity, and it will always be so. And ladies, wouldn’t you rather find out that your man has been hiring a respectable call girl than find out he has been seeing his secretary and has fallen in love with the little minx? I sure as hell would. Of course, you don’t want the guy picking up streetwalkers, cuz of the disease factor and the legal/safety risks, but if you had to make the choice, wouldn’t you wanna know that he really truly was just getting sex? Maybe the professional is doing all the things you refused to do after you got the marriage license, like blow jobs and anal.

It happens all the time, right guys? Chicks do the “free introductory offer” thing. They pretend to love giving you blowjobs, then once they officially have you, the blowjob incident rate starts dropping like clothes off an overdressed whore in the Mississippi heat. (Just made that one up on the fly. Where’s my damn book deal, huh?! I am wicked talented, you bastards!) Because the truth is, not too many women LOVE blowing cock. Many do, and they do it for their own gratification, this I know. (If ya go gay, you will have all sorts of boys jump into the game for the love of blowing the almighty cock... just something to keep in mind) But by far, the majority of women pretend to love it in order to lure and hook the man they want. Then bye-bye blow me. So this is a place where the professional whore is helping you out most sincerely. She probably blows him, then happily takes it up the ass, then you get another month of not being bothered about such things. Everybody is happy. (Obviously there are dire consequences of such behavior that could dramatically affect a couple’s finances and whatnot, but that is realistic and boring, and therefore does not serve my current off-the-cuff bloggity mindset.)

This is the part where I admit things that might destroy me later when I try and do something respectable. But what the fuck; I will never go into politics. No, I was never a call girl. But many people, after seeing me in a corset and heels that put me at a lofty 6’5” and hearing how much I like weapons, would comment that I should be a dominatrix because I would make bank.

I heard that so many times that I seriously looked into it. My close friends know this already and are sick of hearing about it. I researched doms, talked to friends who had dated doms/call girls in the past, read blogs/web sites/books, asked many questions of a friend that used to run a dungeon, etc. I am a crazy good researcher and I learned a lot. I paid attention to the central themes.

First, the best doms said only get into this business for the love of the game, not for the money. Strike one: I was really only interested in the money, flexible hours, and a good reason to spend an obscene amount of money on custom corsets and sexy shoes. Besides, I would get off on making some big brute of a straight boy wail on my client while I watched; I tend to think clients would expect me to do the actual work. I just wanna fuck with their head is all it comes down to. I would wanna come up with all sorts of arcane shit that they would have to memorize and do, then punishments would be meted out based on how well they performed these ridiculously impractical tasks. Good times! Two, they said that if you went into the biz, you had to make peace with the fact that at some point, the police will harass you, and maybe even arrest you. Strike two: I conduct myself in a way designed to keep me out of the clutches of the police because I am have an irrational fear of being arrested or prosecuted or being hauled into court for any reason. (1/2009 update: In NYC, all sorts of doms are being arrested and prosecuted, which supports my point.) Three, the doms said to realize that being in the business changes you. Your personal relationships change, your view of men certainly changes, and you become more immersed in that world. Strike three: That don’t sound too good to the me, so I am saying no, thank you. I will just buy a corset now and then, and occasionally dream about how I might of made $400-600 an hour for being really hella mean to some squidly little CEO who makes more in a month than most people make in a lifetime.

I remember telling the ex-dungeon-master that I didn’t think I fit the personality type of a dom, because I don't usually like men who want me to be the dominant one in bed. My friend totally laughs, and says that is exactly the personality of the doms he has known: Bossy out of bed, passive in it. Interesting. At best, I am moody and particular, and at worst I can be a very controlling, bossy bitch. But still it was not enough to convince me. I genuinely like men and enjoy their company, and did not want my view of them to shift in a way that might negatively impact my intimate relationships.

(On the extremely rare chance that a dom might actually read my blog (not likely, since I only have three loyal non-dom readers), please post comments with your views and feel free to tell me I am thoroughly misguided. Or just offer me a job at $400 an hour.)

Tangents are my specialty, for feck’s sake, cuz I started this rant somewhere else entirely, didn’t I? Intolerance and rigidity, and genes versus environment. Right. People baffle me, and occasionally make me want to bludgeon them or run them through with one of my lovely titanium arrows. Previous rants in this blog have covered off on the fact that the most uptight, conservative Republican wanks have the most serious inclinations to kink and dirty, crazy sexual perversions. It is documented. These are the sorts of things that many call girls won’t even participate in. And these are the people who are most often on crusades against the very industries that serve their kink, because it pleases the constituency. They better be careful, because Thailand is cracking down on sex tourism, and these wanks will have no place left to go to rape 9-year-old Asian boys while sucking off a goat. Oh, people really piss me off.

I know my three loyal readers (bless you, every one) are a bunch of open-minded buggers, so I feel safe in positing a happy little fantasy world: imagine a place where prostitution, in all its flavors, is legal, taxed, and secure. Sex workers have health insurance, get tested all the time like porn stars do, and they have real government protection so they are safe as they work, and they have law enforcement agencies that will actively prosecute anyone who messes with them. This industry includes every last option you could think of: trannies, and gay-as-a-picnic-basket menfolk, lezzies of all sorts, some fattie boom booms (thank you Ali G, for that one), and everything else. The whole farm animal thing is still up in the air, and I will have to get back to you on that one. (Stop worryin' the sheep, lad!) Oh, I get the warm fuzzies just thinking about it. There is always a small percentage of the population that genuinely enjoys this sort of work, so there would never be a problem finding workers. It’s when the industry operates fully underground that people can easily be forced into it, manipulated, etc. As Belle de Jour said, “I think what consenting adults want to do should be their business, and the way to crack down on traffickers, pimps and abusers is not to put the girls out of sight of the public.”

So I have read about one year’s worth of Belle’s blog (midway through 2004 now), and am so enjoying her and her lovely ways, and I highly recommend that you do the same. Sure, the details of client interactions are titillating and enjoyable, but this woman is just funny, well-read, and quick on her stiletto-clad feet. When she won the writing award in 2004, people began assuming it was all a ruse, and that it was written by some well-known writer who was in it for a book deal. Whatever, fuckwits. Maybe you just cannot accept that a smart, sassy woman is a good writer AND able to make her way through the world of sex work in a happy, unapologetic way. For everyone accusing this chick of lying, there are credible people who assert that she is genuine. Both sides claim to have solid evidence supporting their opinion. Here is one article about that debate. I choose to believe that she is real because that is what makes me happy, and because there is a feel to the blog that is extremely genuine to me. My intuition has never failed me when it comes to judging people, so I am gonna go with that feeling. Her responses to her detractors are great, making for a very amusing read.

What if we isolated the Intolerance Gene? We could alter it by pumping constant, low voltage into it (the way they treat Parkinson’s), and maybe that would turn these folks into happy-go-lucky sensualists who think everyone is groovy and why can’t we all just get along? What a thought. But it would not play out that way, of course. The Intolerant Ones would lobby Congress and the fuckwit we call a president to promote the reverse brain procedure, so that us tolerant, loose morals types would be forced to get lobotomies to remove the offending bit of brain. Bugger. The bastards win again, even in this hypothetical world of mine. Not even my daydreams escape the evil and cynical RealityScope™ treatment.

In the meantime, I will eat cake, and have sex, and rail against the stupid, uptight system we call the U.S. of A., and write wordy blogs for my three dedicated readers. Your loyalty is appreciated. No, I will not give you blow jobs. I’m too busy applying for a patent of my fabulously glorious technique.

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Addition 12pm, 4.5.06: Read all of Belle's blog, and must report that the US editors of her book made her take out all sorts of references that make it a general twat-fest (not in a good way), and therefore, a purchase of the UK version is advised. She was made to remove her reference to Spinal Tap (noises of shock, indignation, and general disapointment). And the Simpsons! WTF? Makes no sense. She was pissed. And even worse, they made her take out cool shit, like referring to anal sex as A-Levels. Anyone familiar with the British educational system? Doy! This is why we Americans have ridiculous reputations abroad: One, we like to invade other people's countries, steal their resources while insulting their culture, and two, there are those among us that ruin everything by being prudish, incredibely stupid, and basically, just acting like American wankers. Bloody hell.

Other blogs my smut-minded readers might enjoy as much as I do: Jet Set Lara, Postmodern Courtesan, and the classic porn-ish Fleshbot.

And yes, I think Belle de Jour is a real person. So there.

Irish Car Bombs at the Uptown

Irish Car Bombs. The kind you drink, dumbass. 2/3 pint of Guinness, and you drop in a shot glass that is half full of Jameson Whiskey, half Bailey’s Irish Cream. Sounds disgusting, tastes divine. You drink it in one long draught as fast as you can, which is, unfortunately, way too easy. I downed one last night, and am proud to say that I did not lose in a drinking game that I myself suggested.

Okay, so I decide to check out Oakland’s newest bar and club, the Uptown (Telegraph between 19th and 20th). This place is the shit. A big, gorgeous bar, and a whole separate room for bands, dancing, whatever. Even a huge outdoor smoking/lounging area. The main room is outfitted with the most amazing old bar and accoutrements you could ever wish for. Huge carved wood edifice against the back wall, about twelve feet high. Brass lion’s heads hold the bar rail in place. Big arched mirrors all over. Fresh flower arrangements. Soft lighting, red velvet curtains, well, you get the picture. They did things right, and it shows. Just opened three months ago, and they have the best damned neon sign I have ever seen. It’s the upper part of a guitar (the neck, frets and headstock), with “UPTOWN” spelled vertically down the neck. There is no way to drive past it and not notice. Talked to the owner for awhile, and it turns out that all of the wooden bar fixtures came from the Old Spaghetti Factory that used to be in Jack London Square. At least something good came of that place, cuz god knows that no good food ever came out of their kitchens. Lawd have mercy, they are a big step below Olive Garden, and that ain’t Italian food either. So the Uptown has this great vibe. It’s classy, but you could walk in scruffy, talk too loud, and they would still be nice to you in a genuine, nonjudgmental way. There was a weird mix of people there last night, which is always a good sign. A bar has to appeal to lots of groups of people if it is going to earn its keep. It’s a crazy nice space for bands to perform, that’s for sure (rock, blues, and jazz). Old rock posters on the walls. The live music room is painted black. Seriously old school. I like it. The fact that the bar sits across from the gorgeous, much beloved old Fox Theater is a big selling point. Last night the Fox’s neon was a’flashin’ and the Uptown sign was a’glowin’ and I couldn’t help but feel festive in the cold winter air.

All right, so I meet a friend there, we hang out, have a good time, laugh a lot. We see the guy next to us having an Irish car bomb with the bartender. We all get to talking, and this guy happily buys us a couple of bombs. Well, of course I can’t just drink the drink, cuz I’m a spaz. I challenge my buddy to see who can slam it first. Well, dear reader, it was Game On. Shot glasses dropped, Guinness foamed, and gullets opened wide. I have a talent for drinking very fast, and I held my own. But dangit if those pint glasses didn’t hit the bar at exactly the same instant! My friend was, quite frankly, surprised that he did not win. But he took it well, and a tie was agreed upon.

It is criminal that an Irish Car Bomb is so fucking tasty. Criminal. Dangerous. Diabolical. And oh so delicious. Mother’s milk for the thirsty soul. I wanted about three more, all in quick succession, but bloody hell, I had to drive. I drank not one more, sadly. But I sense more of those wicked concoctions in my future, and yes, I’ll be swinging by the Uptown to get ‘em.

So to all my East Bay homies: Please to be frequenting the gorgeous Uptown, where the drinks are big and well-mixed, the bartenders are smiley, the owner (Bobby) is happy to chat with ya, and there’s lots of pretty details to look at as you pound bad-ass drinks with scary names. Prices aren’t too bad either. Plus, they are just a block from Van Cleef’s so you can wander down there if you feel the need for kitsch and close quarters.

Geek Fu: Watching Star Wars with a Pro

Somehow I got it stuck in my craw that I needed to see the original Star Wars, cuz I had not watched the whole thing since I was a kid. When it finally showed up from Netflix, I knew exactly who I had to call. The Star Wars Junkie, the Man Who Knows His [Star Wars] Shit, my Local Font of Star Wars Goodness, The Geek Who Owns Star Wars Monopoly: Lawr-, er, I mean, Darth Law. Yeah Darth Law. That’s it. Darth showed up at my house with proof of his Geek Fu; he had a pristine in-the-box Princess Leia doll with the slave girl costume. Yeah, baby! We were off to a good start. I resisted the urge to take her out of the box and see what her punani looked like under the skimpy costume. Prolly nothing there, like with other dollies. Disturbing, really. I used to make GI Joe hump my Princess Leia doll. Really, I did. He had a Kung Fu Grip that she was rather fond of. Allrighty then, moving on.

Watching a movie with a complete freak of a fan is a great thing, cuz you get all the cool behind-the-scenes crap without having to endure the entire director commentary version of the DVD. I learned a lot from the Master (Darth Law, not Lucas). But little did I know that I did NOT get the original Star Wars movie from Netflix, but I got the Lucasified original, with all sorts of animated creatures added and a couple new scenes. Bastard. Why? Why? It was like a bad mash-up, where the DJ just does not get it right, and the result is painful and slightly retarded. The high-end digital effects and new creature skin textures were all wrong when they appeared so close to the deliciously hokey bar scene. Bad Lucas! No touchy! No more yanky my wanky!

Okay, so anyway. Watching continued, with occasional pauses and explanations. I had forgotten just how handy R2D2 was. Talk about the right tool for the right job! After he put out a fire with a hidden fire extinguisher, I was like, “Dang, R2D2 got everything. He got a flame thrower in there too?” And Darth Law is all, “Well, whatever you need, R2’s got it. He’s got the George Foreman grill in there, and he makes a mean funnel cake.” I almost pissed myself I was laughing so hard. I mean, funnel cake? Oh, and I bet there is a Hello Kitty vibrator hidden under there for Leia’s personal use. Every girl needs a working droid! Oh, good times.

Just like the first time I saw it, I got all amped up during the flight scenes where the X-wings go into the Death Star to knock that shit out. That kind of stuff gets me going. The Pod race in Episode One almost gave me an aneurism it was so exciting in that driver’s seat kind of way. It’s that frustrated part of me that never got to fly helicopters or jets.

My second kvetch: in the big final scene I felt cheated when Princess Leia placed the medals around the necks of Luke and Han Solo. Just as she was getting to the nice cleavage-reveal spot of the lean forward, her bosom dipped down below camera level. Blast! (Ohmigod, did anyone else used to watch the old Captain and Mrs. Muir TV show???) So unfair. Lucas cheated us out of the cleavage reveal. I remember how after that movie came out, lots of chicks were wearing those big chunky necklaces made of metal, like a bunch of pieces strung together. And dare I say that Leia’s big metal hip belt, worn low, was perhaps the start of the 80s low/big belt craze? Just a thought, but I may be talking out my arse, which happens a lot.

Okay, so anyway, Darth Law makes one fatal error that night. He tells me about a site that has all sorts of Star Wars film shorts that are hella good. The next day I started watching films and suddenly I was all geeked up. Bad. I still am. If I weren’t so excited about it I would be mightily embarrassed. This site, Atom Films, has all of the SW fan films, and they have a competition every year that Lucas gets involved in. Some of these films are so impressive. People went to some trouble, and it shows. So now I share my list of faves thus far, and hope that you will partake of the goodness that is STAR WARS!

Star Wars Gangsta Rap is top of the list for making people laugh hella loud. “It’s not the North or the South Side…It’s the DARK SIDE!” And “Why you gotta be a Vader Hater???”

Do you love Napoleon Dynamite as much as I do? Then please to be watching Anikin Dynamite. Anikin has skills: light saber skills, levitation skills… He spent three hours doing the shading on Padma’s upper lip, but she is not impressed. I will admit to having watched this five times now.

Anyone ever watched The Crocodile Hunter? Then you gotta see Boba Fett as The Jedi Hunter. Crikey, that Jedi is a feisty fella! Two of this film’s best bits are great cross-over moments, with a line of my fave Princess Bride dialogue.

Remember the annoying little blue guy who hovered in the air and worked young Anikin half to death in SW Episode One? Yeah, Wattoo. If you knew that, then YOUR Geek Fu is stronger than mine, Grasshopper. Well, it’s not surprising that Wattoo has his own commercial, with all the used car tackiness one would expect; selling used speeders, aircraft from discontinued sci-fi series, and whatnot. Crazy Wattoo will not be undersold!

Next up is the Sith Apprentice. You think Trump is tough? Imagine sitting across the table from the scary-ass Emperor. This one starts out a bit slow, but Jar Jar gets killed pretty quickly, which made my day (Jar Jar? WTF was Lucas thinking?), and then it has some hilarious cross-reference dialogue that Vader does not really appreciate.

Now for you creative types, please to be looking at Bamboo Bush, which is exceptionally wonderful and hard to explain. Imagine Japanese wood block designs of bamboo, flowers, etc. Okay, now shape them into Star Wars ships and stuff, and animate them as moving 3D objects to great music. Keep it black and white. Act out some of the best scenes in the original Star Wars, and impress all your friends. I know it sounds boring, but really, this is the shit.

Oh man, the fun never ends. There are so many SW films, that you could easily waste a month on them. Then there are all of the non-SW films on that site! Another two months maybe. But will some of you please watch these SW films so you will understand all of my new jokes? Please? I’ll give you a dollar! Now if you will excuse me, I gotta go watch the SW Gangsta Rap again.

P.S. For those of you who loved the Princess Bride, word on boing boing is that a musical is in the works. I’m not a big fan of musicals, because dang, they’re hella gay. But I bet it would translate well. There is a long tradition of sword fighting on stage, no?

The Date From Hell

The worst date on record. Blind date at that. This was many, many years ago, but it seems like it was yesterday cuz it was so bloody awful. I recount it now for your amusement because I love you so, sweet reader. Enough time has passed that I can now see the humor, but telling it still sends a shudder through me.

I know dude is tall and plays basketball. That’s about it. Okay, great. I’m 6’2” so it’s rare to be the actual shorty in the room. The shortest shorty, if you will. Well, he walks into the place and has to duck to get in the door. He is 7’ tall. 10” above me. Holy fucking crap. Now if he were Shaq, that 10” difference would not have been so shocking, but he was more in the Larry Bird category. You know, those tall-ass dudes that look like someone stretched their bodies on a rack till they got thinner and longer and thinner and longer. Standing up, their shoulders are so damn high up its painful to even think about it. Altitude changes for feck’s sake. I am not really sure how I could even put my arms around his neck, to be honest. Nothing fit together in the proper places, if you see what I mean.

And horror of horrors he has a stuffed animal in his hand. Oh god, I wanna bolt from the room. Somehow that powerful Mother-instilled training keeps my big white ass cemented in the chair with a painfully polite smile plastered to my face. He is giving me the little teddy bear. Oh. My. God. He collapses his crazy tall praying mantis body down into the chair, and happily tells me that he wrote a poem for me. Oh. My. God. People, my absolute worstest idea of a man is one who gives a girl cute little stuffed animals and bad poems. Mother’s training vs. an urge to hurl. He read me his poem. It was long. Somehow I was present enuf to gather that he thought we were gonna be hella special, really meaningful-like, and that he couldn’t wait to get on with the future with me. Geez, talk about a boner kill. Although there was no boner present, at least not on my end. Oh! But wait! It gets better! Truly!

Next came the interview. He basically interviewed me for the wifey position. Swear to fucking god. His primary concern was whether or not I could cook really well. The question was, could I throw down?! For real do.’ Oh, gentle reader, I was in such hell. He kept asking me these inappropriate questions, then staring at me keenly with an expectant look on his face. What the fuck? This was new territory. Aside from achieving the surprising feat of remaining in my seat (thank you for that, Mother), I had no idea how to react. My only true response was to bolt, or to at least duck, cover, and hold, and preferably duck into a bar at the other end of the street. But there I was, making nice with Mister-Stretch-Soon-To-Be-Husband-Stuffed-Animal-Bad- Poetry-Man. And, oh yes, there was something making it worse. I knew the bartender and he was watching this heinous scenario play out. How great to have him act as witness! All we needed was a Justice of the Peace, for feck’s sake. Jeez, I think I was even wearing a creamy white kind of sweatery thing, so at least I was dressed appropriately. Again, probably my Mother’s influence at a subconscious level. At this stage there was a loud buzzing in my head, so I am not totally sure of all that he said. I think he asked how often I cleaned house. Yeah, I know.

THEN… yes there’s more. I had to suffer through it in person, so the least you can do is grin and bear it. Stay with me here. Next dude is telling me the saddest thing ever: all of his immediate family had died in a car crash a few years prior. I have no idea how to respond to this. Holy crap, what can you say when you hear something like that, a thing which requires great compassion and understanding, but you are in a state of shock from teddy bear fluff and bad poetry foof and cooking question crap? And remember, there was that loud buzzing in my head, so clarity was not really an option. I am sure that I murmured something fairly understanding and articulate because, as we know, my Mother raised me right. Now, in retrospect, I understand that I was actually being interviewed for the position of HIS Mother. Although I doubt he was very clear about that fact. Oh man, it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.

So I can’t even feel bad date contempt for him because…well…he suffered this horrible tragic loss and was obviously emotionally scarred at a very deep level and needed saving and help and surely I was the woman with solid child-bearing hips and great cooking skills who loved fluff-n-puff little bears and sweet little icky poems about ever-lasting love and togetherness and of course I was that one who could pull him from the wreckage that was his life and make him feel better and erase all those years of pain and loss. Apparently, I was his savior. Finally, my life purpose had been revealed to me.

But I was having none of it. Bless him in his quest, but I was scared out of my mind and officially feeling panicky as I tried to figure out how to escape. The truth is that I have no idea how I made my exit. Next thing I know, I am in my car, breathing heavily cuz I ran, and I have the little bear and poem in my hand. Oh god, does it never end, I thought to myself and I shifted into gear and got the hell out of Dodge. Of course now, I wished I had saved that awful poem, just as a relic of my almost-savior status.

Dreadful. Truly. And that is the story of my worst date ever. But I will see you and raise you the worst-ever sex story because it is just too deliciously awful not to mention. And it is real. This one isn’t mine though, it’s Johnny Boy’s. You may remember Johnny, sweet Johnny, the baddest lesbian boi on the planet. JB, as we’ll call her, was fucking this chick for the first time. We’ll call this chick TA, for reasons which will soon because quite apparent. Okay, so fucking is happening in that hottie girl-on-girl action kind of way, cuz everyone knows JB got some skills. JB begins fisting this girl. Well. You know how most people moan, or do a sexy whimper, or call your name when they get going? This TA chick starts singing Tori Amos. Swear to fucking god. Now that is one hell of a boner kill, ladies and gentleman. I don’t care if you are a butch daddy or the straightest hetero bloke around; a Tori Amos song trumpeted during the hottest part of sex will knock any thrill to the ground and pound it into the carpet till it disappears into a pitiful little puff of smoke. Tori Amos song. I kid you not. I could not even make this up! And now let me tell you why I love Johnny Boy. What does s/he do when bitch starts singing that crap? Stops dead in her tracks, yanks her fist out of that girly’s nether regions, and leaves. Yes, leaves. She just kissed TA on the cheek and walked out. Without a word. Now that is one smart kid there, folks. Because where can it go from there? Will she move on to Indigo Girls when you strap one on and fuck her in the ass? Tracy Chapman while you spank her? Oh, it’s all bad. Johnny Boy did the right thing by just bolting with her hand still wet. Exit, stage left!

See? I told you it was good. I have made Johnny tell me that story a few times, cuz it makes me just chortle with glee, especially since there are very explicit hand gestures that accompany the telling. Truth is always stranger than fiction, right? Right.

I am gonna start collecting these kind of stories. Delicious, every one. Painful, but delicious.

Fall Back

It happened about ten days ago. Maybe two weeks. The feel of the air shifted, the breeze changed its personality, and I stopped walking and breathed deep. Fall is here. How is it so distinct? East Coast people laugh at the West Coast folks when they discuss the seasons. Rarely obvious to the extremists, California weather can be soft around the edges. Here it is all about subtleties. But it is so distinct when you pay attention. And that same day I stopped in my tracks as I walked down the street, realizing Fall had arrived, Miss M called me and said New York had gone cold. That the wind had picked up and everything felt like Fall. Same day, different coasts. Subtle. Funny.

It makes me realize that Fall is where most of my heart lives, as far as seasons go. There is a soft longing that accompanies the season. A longing that is so hard to identify, so hard to place. But it is always present, and the deeper into Fall we go, the stronger it gets. It’s that sweet melancholy that only creative people understand fully. Its part of the artistic temperament and non-creative folks will never grasp how deep it goes. They think they do, but then will say things like, “well, just snap out of it,” or “think about something else and you will feel better.” Yes, certainly. Thank you for playing.

Fall is when Nature understands me best, when we are in sync with each other.

The melancholia can be so nurturing to the creative impulse; becoming the dark and lovely fertile place where the ideas filter up from. Or it can just as easily shut you down a little at a time till you realize you are thinking too much, that you may be leaning to the depressive end of the scale, making nice with your bed and pillows a few too many hours of the day.

Fall is when I question myself more, but it is also when more of my puzzle pieces fit into place. It’s when I listen to The Shins or Turin Brakes, and it fits. Fall is right now, and the introspection is tenfold. You may have already noticed. But I am on Day Four of being stuck in my apartment cuz of a sprained knee. Before then, work was too busy, I was tired of it, and wished things would slow down for a minute so I just THINK for a damn minute. Well. Are we capable of manufacturing our circumstances so quickly and distinctly? I wonder. I had been thinking more of a little getaway. Some quiet moment in a place where the ocean meets the land and there is a whole lot of sky. But instead I am here, gimping about on the same little circuit, scared of the four flights of stairs that must be dealt with to exit the building.

Me and this knee go way back. We started our distrusting relationship one afternoon when forced to play a rather vicious game of co-ed football for PE. Dreaded PE. The bane of the bookworm’s existence. Being tackled by two big guys, one of whom pushes your knee backwards, is not the way to develop a loving relationship with a knee. I hadn’t realized that you could be young and strong and be injured so quickly and badly. So I deal with the consequences now and then, in the here and now. I am the only thirty-something I know who has had an orthopedist seriously talk to them about knee replacement. I ignore him. I try not to feel older than I am. Sometimes it works. Fucking mandatory PE and goddamn stupid-ass football.

Breathe.

So although I am indoors, Fall seems more intimate because me and these introspective Fall-ish thoughts keep bumping up against each other in this one-bedroom apartment, usually as we both round the corner at the same time. He and I keep the same hours. He is partial to the Persian tea with cardamom that I so treasure. He nods knowingly when I bathe just before going to bed, knowing how it makes one sleep more deeply. Fall is a quiet fellow; the sort that puts a heavy throw blanket over his legs while he reads, even though he is not an old man. (He just likes the cozy feel of it.) He keeps an eye on me as a trusted therapist might: quiet but observant, giving warm smiles at opportune moments. He is smart and quirky in that academic way that makes discussions deep and long lasting.

We get along, me and Fall. We go way back. I always know when he comes to town, and he is always happy to see me. I pick him up at the airport, give him a cup of Persian tea, and ask him how his time away was. He inquires as to my thoughts, asks if I have been lost in those thoughts since his plane touched down. I smile knowingly at him over the rim of my glass. Me and Fall, we understand each other. We get along just fine.

Fun With The Coochie Pop

My favorite lesbian is the dirtiest guy I ever met. Which is why we get along perfectly. I’ve noticed certain commonalities in all of my friends: a dirty mind, happy obsessions with sex, a love of porn, and a certain free-flowing, twisted outlook on subjects that would make a right wing conservative twitch uncontrollably. We can talk about pretty much any topic and turn it sexual in a very juvenile Beavis and Butthead way. Me and my friend Huey have been making pussy jokes about my cat Delta for years, and we still think it’s deeply funny. Think pubescent boy humor: I’m gonna go home and pet my pussy. Or, be careful you don't rub your pussy the wrong way! And, my pussy’s all worked up tonight; it’s totally out of control. You get the idea. My best buddy Miss M said that yesterday she pulled a four-wine-bottle carton out from under her airplane seat and announced, “Hey, there’s lint on my box!” then dissolved into a fit of laughter with her friends. Yes, I love her dearly. The first time I knew I loved her? We worked together at this alternative newspaper where people tended to be uptight in a PC, self-righteous, lefty, Berkeley-ish kind of way. Miss M was working the front desk and she was a breath of fresh air. I was standing there talking to her and she put on this gorgeous dark lipstick. I complimented her on it, and she said, “Yeah, and it leaves a nice ring around the base of a guy’s cock when you suck his dick.” Oh, what a girl. If I were a dude I woulda married her years ago. Instead I just stick my finger in her luscious cleavage now and then.

Any time I meet up with my homies we talk smut, or porn, or something in that arena. It’s inevitable. A couple days ago I finished reading Box Lunch: The Layperson’s Guide to Cunnilingus, by Diana Cage, a local area sexpert and former editor of On Our Backs, etc. You see, this is what happens when you hang out with lesbians. You end up picking up books at their house, you end up reading said books, and you end up learning all sorts of things about your cunt, which you then feel compelled to bring up in conversation with your friends. It’s a funny, informative read, if you go in for that sort of thing, and who doesn’t?

What did I Iearn? Well, found out about the things that change internally in an aroused woman that make fisting possible (aka “tenting”). Always wondered about that. Johnny Boy, the afore-mentioned lesbo friend of mine, assures me that she could insert anything that she wants to insert into a girl’s pussy, and I believe her. And ladies, she is one well-endowed lesbian: she’s got some seriously big hands with long fingers.

Okay class, what else did we learn about eating out? Learned about a great lube called Liquid Silk, which is tasteless, so you can lube her up, fuck the shit out of her, and then still go down on her without getting some weird chemical taste in your mouth. Sounds like a must-have for the goody drawer.

I think my very favorite part of Box Lunch is the break-down of all the plastic surgery procedures that porn stars (or any other girl) can have done on their box. So fucking interesting. I only knew of one, but now I know several. Now THAT'S good cocktail party conversation material! I mentioned Diana Cage to my friend Jesse, and he totally knew of her, her work, had read Box Lunch, etc. What a guy. I can see why his wife always looks satisfied. At one point, this crazy high fetishy black stripper shoe fell out of their bedroom closet. Jesse picked it up, turned it over, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, carefully pointed out to me that there was absolutely no wear on the sole whatsoever. His wife just laughed knowingly. Oh happy day! Years ago I had a lover who suggested I wear some red stiletto heels. I was like, “Honey, I am 6’2” and there is no way I can walk in those things cuz I would be 6’7”!” His response? “You don’t have to walk in them, girl, you just have to keep them on.” Well shut my mouth. I have several pair of high heels nowadays, and there is one pair in particular that just totally turns me on. Just seeing them on my own feet makes me purr. Black strappy numbers with maybe a 4” heel, and I’ve never worn them out in the world. Jesse would be so proud!

So is there any big difference between the straight folks and the gay folks I know? Not a hell of a lot. It’s just all about pussy, dick, and getting fucked good and proper, right? We all wanna walk a little funny the next day and smile when we remember why. We all wanna kiss till our lips get puffy and swoon for the one that makes our blood boil. Jesse, a hetero guy, was the one who turned me on to the strange goodness of the full-length porn film The Fashionistas, and yet it’s Johnny Boy, Lesbianus Extremus, who is one of the biggest fans of that film that I know. We all love Belladonna in any way, shape, or form…no question. She is the best thing going in The Fashionistas, and we all want to fuck her senseless AND have her baby. Oh jeez, just thinking about her gets me riled up. When I mentioned her to my friend G, he smiled happily and said simply, “Oh, she’s a very dirty girl.” Yes, exactly.

The moral of this story? Going down applies to all colors and creeds, because c’mon, who wouldn’t want to have their face buried in all that goodness? Just don’t forget to put the dark lipstick on first so you’ll leave your mark. *wink*

Black Cowboys, or, How The West Was Really Won

Folks get surprised when I talk about black cowboys of the Old West, and some don’t even believe me. Dumbasses. These guys (and some gals) played a big role as cowboys, marshals, ranchers, business owners, land owners, and all-around rowdy citizens of the best kind. You had to be rowdy and full of gumption to even survive those hard times. Some were escaped slaves, some were born free, others received their freedom with the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863. Very few jobs were open to former slaves, or black folks in general, but the booming cattle industry out West was hiring. And so the trek began. Aapproximately five thousand black cowboys rode the cattle trails in the 19th century. They have great stories, and I love talking about ‘em. I can feel a Texas accent comin' on as I speak. It's a thrill to see black cowboys and cowgirls in the saddle in the here and now, as I have on a few happy occasions, although I cannot claim to have been ridden by one myself. But hey, the night’s still young!

So here I go. Can you see me? I’m stepping up onto my Black-Cowboys-Rock Soapbox. I am now even taller, which you probably thought was not even possible.

We’ll start with the most famous: Bill Pickett. Bill was such a bad ass. Holy crap. Lemme tell you why. Stray steers are very hard for a lone horseman to catch. So cowboys used to have dogs that they used to help retrieve steers that had wandered away from the herd. These “bulldogs” would lunge at the bull, sinking their teeth into the bull’s upper nose/lip area, which is one of the few sensitive areas on a steer. The other is his nuts, but good luck dodging the hooves to reach those. This brought the bull to the ground right quick, and the cowboy could rope it and bring it back in. Well Mr. Pickett got it into his head one day that if the dogs could do it, why couldn’t he? Maybe he had a wayward steer and no bulldog handy on one of his runs; it’s hard to say. But he developed this technique where he would launch himself from his running horse onto the bull, grabbing him by the horns, twisting till the steer went down to the ground. Then he would bite the bull in the nose just as the dogs did, leaning backwards till he had one very submissive steer holding very still. Boom bam goddamn! You see what I mean? Bill Pickett was the shit. Word got out that he has doing this crazy shit, and they started calling him the “Bulldogger.” Later he joined up with his four cowboy brothers and started The Pickett Brothers Bronco Busters and Rough Riders Association, performing his bulldogging trick for crowds all over Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona, and Wyoming. Later he traveled to Europe with the 101 Wild West Shows group, as the only black man among 90 white performers. Frequently he competed in competitions where he was not allowed to collect the prize money if we won. Goddamn honkies. But Bill’s the one laughing now, cuz The Bill Pickett Rodeo is the most successful US rodeo, as well as the only traveling and black-owned rodeo, going on two decades now. I have wanted to go to that thing for years, but I have a knack for figuring out its in town about two weeks after its left. Dangit, stupid honky!

Nat Love is a pretty cool name. But Deadwood Dick is hella cool, right? Sounds like an Old West porn star. Well, Nat Love was a star in his day, cuz he was one amazing bronc rider and sharpshooter. That's his picture up above. The Emancipation Proclamation set him free when he was 15, and he made his way west. He got his first cowboy job based on the fact that one of the most notorious broncos around just couldn’t budge Love from his back. In 1876 he entered the roping, shooting, and wild horseback competitions of a special July 4th event. He won all three, and his 12.5 minutes on their craziest bronc earned him the nickname “Deadwood Dick.” Not totally sure what the connection was. I guess the Deadwood part cuz he was like a bump on a log on that horse’s back (I shall not be moved!). But where does the Dick part fit in? (*snicker* somehow the dick always fits in…). Prolly just cuz it sounded good; but then, dick always sounds good, don’t it? Sorry, I’ll stop. I get the feeling that if you were still going by your given name in ye Old West, you had not done anything noteworthy yet. Do something to get noticed, and you got yourself a crazy new nickname. Look at his picture again; didn't that guy have some serious flair? Not the Office Space movie kind of flair, but more the “I’m-wicked-talented-in-a-bad-ass-way” kind of flair. Dude wore his hair all long (unusual for that period, when most men cultivated enormous mustaches instead), and had a great cocky air that comes through in his photo. If he were around today, he’d be a gazillionaire sports/movie star known for his high fashion and his way with the ladies. Just a guess. Mister Love also wrote his own biography when he got older. Take that, illiterate honkies!

Not all the black cowboys of the West played by the rules. A few were hustling cattle and horses, much to the chagrin of the local constabulary, because they tended to be good at it. And some African-Americans of the time lived pretty much within the law, but had run-ins now and then. Which brings us to Stagecoach Mary. This chick did not mess around. And methinks that if she lived in the here and now, she would be one serious butch dyke. The kind you don’t mess with cuz she will fuck your shit up. First of all, she was a solid build, about 6’ tall (that’s one for my team), and weighed over 200 lbs. Second, she meant what she said and didn’t take kindly to being shafted (in more ways than one! *snicker*). For instance, she ran a laundry business when she was in her 70s and too old to run the stagecoaches. One male client refused to pay his bill, but took his clean clothes anyway. (Yeah, he was a honky, what else?) When Mary next saw him at the saloon, she clocked him right in the face, knocking him out. She then announced that… “NOW his laundry bill is paid.” I guess so! And please note, gentle reader, that Mary was the only female allowed into the all-male saloon. Prolly cuz she dressed in men’s clothes, carried two six shooters and a rifle, smoked cigars that she rolled herself, and drank like a pro. Nobody noticed she wasn't a dude! I’m betting she could piss her name on the wall if she felt like it. Stagecoach Mary once almost shot a man after a verbal insult led to a fistfight between them. Wonder what he said? She worked in many different professions in her life, with many of them facilitated by her relationship with a certain Mother Amadeus, the leader of a bunch of nuns, and uh, maybe an admirer of Mary’s outlandishly bold behavior? I bet the Mother Superior just loved having someone else be a top once in awhile! Mother A helped her get the mail-carrier stagecoach route that earned Mary her nickname (See? That nickname thing again!), among other jobs. You just gotta love a big ol’ lesbian who knows how to use a bull whip. Yee ha!

So you see, this is a topic comprised of amazing stories. And even better, folks are still carrying on the tradition. Not sure anyone really wants to bite into the snotty nostrils of a steer anymore, but there’s one fella, Fred Whitfield, who is a three-time world champion calf roper with rodeo earnings of over one million dollars. How ‘bout them apples? And how about a black rodeo in Harlem?

If you really wanna know more, here’s a book that might make ya happy. And how can you talk about cowboys without talking about country music? But no, I will resist, and do a separate blog on that one, cuz it's too good to do quickly. But I will tell you that I just listened to the following awesome songs: "All the Gold in California" (Gatlin Brothers), Devil Woman (Marty Robbins), and "Missing You" (Charley Pride), and oh yes, "The Gambler" (Kenny Rogers). That song is the shiznit! My coworkers hate me now, but do I give a damn? Hellz no, punk ass mutha fuckas! Country music is in the hiz-ouse!

Goddamn honkies.