second book

  [2012]: I’m in Idyllwild. Writing and thinking. I’ve been here for four days. I’m staying fourteen total. I’m in a beautiful vacation house on the hill facing Mount San Jacinto; a generous treat paid for by Beamer. And although this is one of my favorite places in Southern California, I’m already feeling a bit lacklust and a tad bored. I’m happy my mom is coming to stay with me soon. I wouldn’t be very much fun for any of my girlfriends, what with the non-drinking and the hefty baby decision. My life took a very sudden dramatic turn. The weird thing is, I like being pregnant (so far). I haven’t had any morning sickness. I don’t miss booze that much, and drugs not at all. It’s the conclusion that’s killing me. A week ago, I was thinking no. For about thirty-four hours. Today, I’m leaning towards yes. This morning I was reading about older single moms—I don’t normally Google my problems (with the exception of pill identification), this alone confirms the gravity of my situation. I’m looking for anything and everything to help me make this impossible decision. What I read gave me courage. Not courage as much as hope. Courage, I have, I know I can do it, I just don’t know if I’ll like it. The fact that I haven’t had any children has been a conscious one. I’m good with kids, and know I’ll be a loving mother, but I also recognize what an awesome responsibility is, which I do not take lightly. Such a strange dilemma. I’ve never wanted to be a parent, never had the biological calling, but here the universe is, giving me a baby at forty-two. If there are no accidents, it does seem like a sign. I’ve done all the rest. But…the big BUT. The, it-will-effect-the-rest-of-my-life, but. This is the worst sort of judgement call for someone like me: it takes me twenty minutes to pick out the perfect birthday card, for fucks sake! I can weigh the pros and cons of this child for twenty years. I’m fucked. And driving myself crazy. And the clock is ticking. 

i haven’t posted a ton of non-work excerpts from my second book—which takes place over just one year—because it’s involved and intense, but i thought i would post three cliffhanger pieces. a departure from my sex worker life. 

  No Tyler, I don’t understand. Not this time. You are behaving like an utter ass. This isn’t how you treat someone you care about, and dare I say, love (an impossible hurdle for you to admit). I’m embarrassed to tell my friends, who already hold you in shaky regard. It saddens me deeply that you didn’t want to see me last night; to hug me, be my friend and lover. You dodged me instead. And later, when we finally made a date—you carved out a window of your precious time—you cancelled at 8:30 p.m., knowing I was getting ready. It’s bullshit. On top of this, you know I’m going out of town. Are you really not going to see me before I leave? I’m blown away by your callousness. I’m not saying this is great news, and I get that it’s heavy, but it’s undeniable, and deserves a conversation and tenderness. We are in a relationship, although admittedly, not a conventional one. You’re acting like a selfish brat. No matter what I decide, it’ll be harder on me. I’m truly at a loss. No one I’ve been intimately involved with has ever regarded me so poorly. I thought more of you, even in times when I shouldn’t have. You’re lucky I’m a strong woman. I’ll get through this no matter what I decide, but it doesn’t make it acceptable to treat me like something stuck to the bottom of your shoe—an inconvenience. I deserve love and kindness at a time like this. Especially at a time like this! But no, you’re only concerned for yourself, and how this will affect your already messy life. I’m forty-two-years-old with a second heartbeat inside my body for the first time in my life, and my (whatever the fuck you are) hasn’t made an effort to see me and/or console me since hearing this unbelievable news. I’m leaving for the mountains without even holding you. Which is all I want to do. Instead, I’m crying, pregnant with your child, facing the toughest decision I will ever have to make. My displeasure and disappointment is one hundred percent warranted, yet you’re acting as if I planned this, as if I’m being unreasonable. How could I have planned this? I didn’t think it was even possible. I’m not saying you aren’t entitled to your own feelings, of course you are, but shutting me out is juvenile.

third book

So, do you remember my first Tinder date? The guy who failed to mention that he practices withholding? The one I left after fucking it out for two hours? With no happy ending on his part. Well, he works in the porn industry. As far as he’s told me anyway. He manages a few girls (both for film and private clients), and does, who knows what else in the industry. A couple months after our night together, he sent me a text message, and it somehow came up that he could help me in the hooker department. I’ve never had a pimp before, but he said that he already has a vetted clientele list, and the thought of someone else finding work for me sounded appealing. I could definitely use one or two new, part-time clients, so I said “Sure, let’s do it!” Our initial communication (all via text) on the subject was a bit strange…the guy’s no myth buster. He doesn’t seem terribly bright. Or he’s just bad at texting. Anyway, we finally got it to a place resembling an agreement: how much I charge and what I’m willing to do, etc. I emailed him a bunch of photos he could send to his client list. When we spoke of his fee, he said that he would take his cut in the form of a blowjob. At first I thought this was hilarious…so cliché that I actually found the idea novel. Although I did say that no way in hell was I going to give him a three-hour blowjob. A couple weeks went by, nothing. At some point, after further rumination, I said that I’d prefer to give him 10%, or that we should add his fee to the client’s end. More time went by without him sending me out. Then, about a month ago, he said he really needed to come, and would I consider helping him for a “family discount”. I said of course. I’ve already slept with the guy, I know he’s nice, it was a win win in my book.

We settled on a price for ninety minutes—which would include a drink or three, maybe some blow…I didn’t know he partied, but honestly, I don’t really know dick about this guy. My only concern with the cocaine was his ability to ejaculate while on it. Anyway, we made a date to meet late on a Saturday night. I was going to a friend’s birthday party, so I knew I’d be dressed up, it was perfect. I was a little nervous. It’s one thing to fuck a guy on a Tinder date, and another entirely when there’s money involved. Especially with his tantric track record, but I’m a professional and was willing to give it the ol’ college try. I was just hoping that perhaps he was trying to impress me all those months ago, and now he’d hopefully be on a mission to jizz. But I wouldn’t have the pleasure of finding out. I stayed at my friend’s party as long as I could muster, still waiting for his text, I left to have a cocktail on my way home, giving Tinder Pimp a last chance. He finally text around midnight saying that his event was running late and we’d have to reschedule. On one hand I was relieved, but I was also bummed about the money…and that I had shaved. Cut to a couple weeks later. He text: “I’m back in town, we still need to meet up and work this out and you need to blow me please.”

Me: “Cool! How about this Friday or Saturday?”

Tinder Pimp: “Saturday, no, maybe Friday.”

Me: “Sounds good.”

Tinder Pimp: “Now tease me.”

Me: “I’m with my mom, it’ll have to wait. Have a good day!”

Tinder Pimp: angry emoticon and blushing emoticon.

Me: blowing a kiss emoticon.

This time I waited to shower and shave, I wanted confirmation on our plans. I sent him a text him around 4 p.m. that Friday, and asked if we were still on. I think he had mentioned me coming over around 8:30 p.m. He responded that he was moving later. Moving? On a Friday night? A night we spoke of just five days previous? People are so weird. He also didn’t mention or acknowledge the fact that a move would probably effect our evening’s plans, no: “Hey doll, I know we have plans tonight, but I may or may not be able to keep them…I’m moving tonight”. I responded, “Moving?”

TP: “To a new place.”

Me: “What part of town? Sounds like we should wait. I have Sunday and Monday night free.”

TP: “Kk but soon I need to be sucked. p”

Is that “p” for please? I don’t even know what Kk stands for. Why can’t people just spell shit out?! Fucker’s forcing me to Google their lazy, idiotic shorthand.

Me: “Totally. You can still hit me up later, but I can’t “host” and I’ll need at least 1.5 hours to shower and get cute. I hope you’re not moving to the west side.”

TP: “If I’m parting later you wanna chill?”

Me: “At your new place?”

TP: “Y”

Me: “Still our arrangement?”

TP: “Cost?”

This annoyed this shit out of me. Fuck off, dude, you remember how much we said. Such horseshit. Do men really think a woman doesn’t know or remember the exact price she put on her body, her sexual services? Guys do this a lot. I guess they’re hoping I did forget and that I’ll lowball myself. I could have responded with a higher price, but I hate games.

Me: “We settled on ___”

TP: “For ___ I break the ass.”

Me: “Have you lost your mind?” This guy’s dick would make me bleed for a fucking month! Hello no.

TP: “Ha”

Then radio silence. Forty-five minutes later…

TP: “Beg me.”

Are you fucking kidding me? Beg you? No, darling. I think you’ve got this twisted. Not that I need him to plead for me either, but this is an arrangement, and I don’t need the money that bad. I’m not some crack-smokin’ ho on the street. Yes, the money would been a nice addition, but I’m too old for this shit. Why do people insist on getting in their own damn way? It’s a bad trait. His text didn’t deserve a response. I think I’m done. The communicating issues regarding the pimp shit, and now this? Fuckit. Even if he was being cheeky, it’s just irritating. I loathe irritating. Especially irritating men. Life would be so much better for them if they just shut the fuck up. He coulda been balls deep in my throat, surrounded by moving boxes, had he ignored his instinct to be “cute”. It’s one thing to say “beg me” in a flirty tone after clothes have been shed. A whole different egg when it’s in a text…out of context…and sent to a working girl.

third book: a parody (but also true)



There are still a few aspects of society that don’t get discussed. Thousands of women suffer from a condition that causes them to feel alone, and can lead to some bizarre behavior. However, history and Oprah, have proven that talking about the issue—coming out of the dark—has positive, long-lasting effects. The affliction I want to address today is Post Stripping Stress Disorder. After years of performing naked for cash, women often find a void in their lives after they quit: The rush that stripping gave them. Women who suffer from PSSD often find themselves groping their breasts at the grocery store, or staring longingly at the subway musician and his bucket of ones. This stress can also put undo pressure on their mates, who, in no way can duplicate the hundreds of eager men she danced for on a nightly basis. I have spoken with women who suffer from PSSD, and they tell me that in addition to the money, they miss the dancers. The camaraderie, openness, and like-minded, naughty women. The have tried, and devastatingly failed, to duplicate this type of talk with the soccer moms. No one prepares strippers for this void, and how to fill it. There’s so much pressure to quit the sex biz, that when a dancer finally does find a way out, she’s left empty. Then the shame sets in. Shouldn’t my husband be enough? Am I a horrible person for needing more? I wish my kids would leave the house so I can blast Aerosmith and gyrate on the floor. These women find themselves flirting in situations they never would have while they were dancing. One woman told me of an embarrassing moment when the chair broke in an unfortunate lap dance for her partner. How could she explain that she used to be really good at it? Who would understand her frustration, let alone relate to it? There are no groups or meetings for retired strippers. No other women to share the common stripper dream: the DJ has started your song, but you can’t find your matching heel. These women feel widowed and somehow defective. I’m hoping we can shed some light on this issue so ex-strippers know they are not alone. It’s OK that they want the mailman to look at their cleavage (or shove a hundred dollar bill in it).       
 

an open letter to all the men I’ve slept with



Yes, you. Shame on you…for not telling me exactly why you liked fucking me—specifically what you loved about my pussy, and why it was unique. A few of you said how good I felt, you used words like; incredible, tight, you talked about an intense pulse, but you never adequately described how it actually felt to you. Some of you may not have had the words (you adorable dummies), but the others who did, I call bullshit. My friends have joked for years about my “magic vagina” (men coming back over long periods of time, and others getting stuck on it like Velcro or huffing glue), but it wasn’t until Bull Durham, who had the presence of mind, backbone, and impressive vocabulary, to finally tell me exactly why I have a charmed muffin. And although I’m grateful to have this mystery solved, it mostly pissed me off about the [fill in the number] of you who didn’t have the nuts to communicate this. In addition to the plethora of descriptives Bull Durham used, he also gave me a demonstration! He took two of my fingers in his fist and showed me exactly what my pussy did to his cock! It blew my mind. So simple. Why couldn’t any number one of you fucks have done this? Forty-four years and I finally know what’s so damn special down there. Unless Bull Durham has more nerve endings in his unit than the average man, although I imagine there’s a finite number of nerve endings in a cock. I’m willing to concede that she doesn’t feel exactly the same to everyone, but I knew you coveted her, and I knew you loved it when I would wax poetic about your dongs. If I didn’t, my apologies, but this isn’t about me, it’s about you and my vagina. Frankly, she’s a little hurt…that you didn’t take the time nor the energy to tell her owner why she was distinctive. Shit just got super weird, didn’t it? I better reel this in. Lookit, I hold you in high regard, even the ones I don’t remember. I simply wish you could have explained why my pussy felt different, or why you craved her. That’s it, that’s all I got. I hope life is treating you well, and that you have fond memories of my hoohah.