[ fun little fact, not from my memoirs ]

  my fifteen minutes of fame happened in 1996. i was at the free tibet concert in golden gate park in san francisco. MTV news was at the show. one of their producers picked me out of the crowd and asked if i would be willing to be interviewed. i politely declined, but my friends said i was an idiot and that i should do it. not one to back down, i said fuckit. honestly, i assumed it would end up on the cutting room floor. cameras rolled, the interviewer—i can’t remember whether it was a woman or a man…i was sober at the time, but booze or no booze, my memory is shit—asked me meaningful questions about the issues in tibet and what i thought about the monks meditating in the tent. i bs’d my way through (as i often do), and wouldn’t you know it, i ended up on an MTV news soundbite every hour for a week! here’s how it went: interviews with serious questions, serious people, and serious answers, and then me at the end of the clip in my white ___ jacket and baby clips in my hair. i say, “i’m happy my money went to a good cause, but i’m just here to see the beastie boys”. 


It’s good being a pervy girl. Men are always willing to send you jack off videos and dicque pics (my special spelling for them). A pervy guy, however, is sometimes standing alone in the dunes with his dick in his hand—nothing but seagulls and sand. Meaning, he may find it difficult to find a non-working girl in which to share his wares and naughty thoughts with. Not sure sand is the best analogy when referencing a man’s penis in the wind, but you get my gist. It’s not that I’m a lone female in this category, it’s just that men outnumber us a thousand to one, whereas I’d be hard-pressed to find a guy who’d turn down a boob shot. As I wrote that I realized one of my ex’s wasn’t really into that type of sexual exchange. He loved sex, just not in a text. My point is, most men love getting clit pics. It’s also good being a pervy girl because, hmmm, how do I put this…it’s hard to rape the willing. I know, I know, I just used the R-word. What I’m saying is, if I’m a bigger dirtbag than most men, where’s the sexual joy in trying to freak me out? I’m nonplussed. Oh lord, what am I doing? What kind of freakish nutshell am I opening? I think you know what I mean. I hope you do. My twisted mind is often misunderstood. I’m not condoning rape or posting a missing bulletin. I guess I’m saying I have an equal hand when it comes to sex. My dirty nature isn’t an act or shtick. I’ve always been this girl, long before “dicque pics”. It’s one of the reasons for my longevity in the sex industry. Come on, you gotta be a little bit of a degenerate to do what I do, and especially to do it for twenty-three years. I’m basically a dude with tits…except I don’t get morning wood (or any wood). The list of men I’ve wanted to have morning sex with is very short. By the way, I don’t think morning wood is a sexual manifestation. I think it feels sexual because your dick is hard, but I believe it’s the body’s way of keeping men from wetting the bed. That’s your uncensored stripper’s medical opinion. Take it or leave it. {cont}


I’m on a plane, and just got sidetracked by my row-mates. We had a super interesting and illuminating conversation. When I ordered two cocktails up front and asked the flight attendant to bring me the bottles instead of mixing them, he said, “I like your style.” A few minutes later, he asked what I did for a living. I blurted out, “I’m a prostitute.” I usually say hooker, not sure why I chose the alternative today, but I did. Perhaps it’s because I’m sick of people poaching our term. Anywho, due to my extreme honesty, the woman confessed that her father ran a brothel in the Caribbean when she was young. This is what I love about people, and why I never pre judge them. I also love that my ridiculously inappropriate exposure leads to people opening up to me.

Ok, back to my being a total pig. I don’t know what I was saying when I started this. Also now I’m a double vodka soda and two whiskeys in, and I haven’t eaten anything today. My head is deliciously fuzzy. Adding to the fuzz, Southwest has reached the dreaded, crank-up-the-brain-damage-heat section of the flight. I suddenly I feel like I’m slipping into a coma. And I just snorted speed in the bathroom! I shouldn’t be sleepy. People around me are dropping like flies. I hate this part of the flight. It’s so incubator-y: the petri dish portion. No wonder I get such bad swamp ass when I fly! These fucks with their mind and body control via temperature. Although I suppose I don’t blame them, I’d push the heat up too if it meant docile humans. Even the sound of that is pleasant. Maybe they’re cranking more than just fart-warm air? Give it to me Southwest! You got nothin’ on me. I just did drugs in your bathroom and ordered my third mini Jack Daniels. Interesting, I seem to be getting paranoid and weirdly valiant at the same time. Fantastic combo as I head into a New Orleans trip with The Texan. Am I off point? What was the point? Oh yes, that I’m a shithead. How doth I forget. Wow, I’m crossing space and time, might be time to put the pen down. I’ll be shocked if I’m able to decipher this handwriting later.


I saw my mother the other day. Sadly, it was only for six hours, but six is better than nothing. We don’t get to see each other often enough (she lives in Oregon). The other unfortunate factor; it was the morning after I got home late from a Texan trip. I was beat, but really looking forward to seeing her. I picked her up from the airport and we grabbed lunch at Soley’s (like two good Jews). Afterwards we waited by a hotel pool in Studio City for my brother—who flew in from Arizona—and his ex-wife, her brother, and my niece, who were visiting from Sweden. The whole group was heading to Carpinteria to stay in a rental by the beach. I was invited, but couldn’t join due to my being a tired ass ho, and the article I had to write for a magazine. My mom and I are such opposites in so many ways, but with each passing breath, I am slowly turning into her. We’ve always been close, and we share the same dry sense of humor, but I would never in a million years expect some of these current changes. I had heard of this phenomenon, turning into your parents, but I never imagined it would happen with me—I mean, look at my crazy life! My mom lives a solitary life. She’s witty and funny, but she’s content living on a minimal scale: few friends and no sex (that I know of). I gave up on trying to get her to date about twenty years ago. In my twenties, I couldn’t fathom not having a partner, but here I am, forty-four and as single as they come. And I couldn’t be happier: No one to answer to, consider, or worry about. I’m pretty sure my mom was around this same age when she ended what was to be her last relationship. I’m staying home alone more often than not, and loving it. I’m my favorite person by far. 

Our growing similarities consist of more than my just being single, and enjoying my own company. While we lounged—fully clothed—by the pool, she told me about this crazy affliction she recently heard about on a podcast called autonomous sensory meridian response (or ASMR): People who enjoy certain sounds to an almost orgasmic level—hair brushing, chopping vegetables, whispering etc. Apparently there are YouTube channels devoted entirely to these sounds, for example, a woman whispering on a loop. We laughed and agreed that every ASMR sound she could recall would put us in a padded cell, not utopia. We discussed this at length. How we’d both prefer silence to almost anything. Her and I both have extremely sensitive hearing. Which is one of the reasons why I think I sometimes bothered her when I was young during our long drives in the van when we worked the carnival circuit. Although I was a fairly aware and conscious kid, I was still a kid, and kids make noise…a lot of noise. Plus, I had a lot to say, imagine that. My sensitivity and hatred of most sounds is getting more pronounced as I get older. So much of every day noise bugs the shit out of me. I’ll give someone the death stare if they’re tapping their nails incessantly on a hard surface, or clicking a pen cap. It’s incredible how much we can assign to genetics. I wonder what other mom-like parallels are coming my way? Hopefully it’s not the way she butters toast. 

this is the second half of my open letter to my customers…the first half still needs tweaking. (keep in mind, this isn’t a story from my life…it’s an open letter; my raw  feelings) 


To The Texan: you and your dumb dick. You are so fucking selfish. You tell me you love me, but you don’t give two shits about me. Recently, I was super sick on our second night in El Paso—due to the garbage meth your illiterate junkie ex hooker sold you—but you still needed me to fuck you and fake a thousand orgasms, even after I reluctantly told you to give me less money and leave me be. But I’m a trooper and would rather have the dough than listen to you moan about it, so I did my job. I put my acting pants on and played the part: while sweating, fighting chills, and feeling nauseous. You’re a fuckin trip. I often wonder if you know I’m faking it, but your ego is so astounding that even the sound of my counterfeit orgasms does it for you. Which is some next level mindfuck. Why does everything have to be on a hundred at all fucking times? And why can’t you shut up for like five seconds? The constant droning is maddening. I never get a silent moment in your presence. Instead, I have to hear (for the millionth time) about the “hot” waitress at the Crab Shack who wants to fuck you. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t give a shit. It doesn’t make me jealous or impressed. Oh, and by the way, your dick is average, and the only girls “jonesing” for it are either getting paid or working for a tip. Lastly, why do you insist on pissing me off the day before I travel to see you? I don’t care how horny you are, or how excited you are to see me, and I definitely don’t want to hear how much “trouble” I’m in because you haven’t cum in whatever. No hooker wants to hear that shit. You know what I want to hear? That you’ve got extra cash for me, and you’re behind on sleep and want a spa day, THAT would make my panties wet. Here’s the thing, I know what I’m hired for/why you pay me, hence why you’ll never hear these things (actually, some of this you have heard from my lips and in Texan form, you promptly ignored), but I wish you’d be more mindful of the fact that I’m a human being with needs and a life of my own. And for fucks sake, put your dick down once in a while and go to sleep! 

  Dear ice cream truck, go fuck yourself. Your music grates against my soul. I didn’t even know these trucks existed until I moved to LA. I thought it was only in a Leave It To Beaver world. Actually, I never even saw them in Hollywood it wasn’t until I moved to Silver Lake that the dreaded ice cream truck came into my lifeevery fucking day that stupid truck appears (even in my current neighborhood). The first culprit parked just outside my house—which was in a big, round, cul-du-sac like turn. The first thing I do when I wake up is open all the windows and front door—I like fresh air (not that we have that in LA). Most times I would be recovering from a night at the club, while sitting at my computer either writing or editing images, when the fucker would arrive. That mind-numbing music heard from blocks away. When I first moved there, I complained about it non-stop to friends…who thought I was crazy, “But it’s ice cream.” As if ice cream is heaven personified. I don’t care for ice cream, or at least, it’s not something I crave. I would retort, “If he played Mozart and served pickles or martini’s, I’d be running with cash in hand like an eight year old.” But no, I have to listen to a thirty second murder-inducing jingle on repeat for something I don’t want. It’s the same ten neighbor kids. I could see if he parked outside an airport or a business center, but these kids hear him coming, he could have that music play for five seconds and then turn it off. At one point I joked that I was going to buy a year supply of ice cream from Costco, and make these little fat fuckwhistle’s dream come true. {cont next post}

  Then, one day, I broke. I threw on tennis shoes and stomped over to the evil ice cream man. I pushed kids out of the way like I was Will Farrell in Old School with the dart gun in his neck. I got to the window, and I started in on the first stages of beratement:

     “Lookit, I live in that house, and this music…”
     (Oh, shit, he’s making full sundaes in there)
     “…Is SO loud. We hear you coming from blocks away…”
     (Is that whip cream and nuts?)
     “…And it’s the same people who buy everyday…”
     (Hot fudge! Is that hot fudge?)
     “…I support you making money, but please, just turn the music off once you’ve parked!” I fumed off. I had no idea he was making sundaes. I thought it was Orangesicles and Rainbow Popsicles. By the time I reached my doorstep, I had devised a plan to wear big sunglasses and a hat, perhaps a wig too, and pay some kid to get me a sundae. I never did though. Simply out of principal…and the fact that I don’t crave those things. He never shut the music off, but he did park facing his giant horn of death the opposite direction. It was about the best I could expect. My current villain parks a little further away, so it’s not as bad, but I still hate hearing that music every day. I was in heaven for a year and a half when Brian and I lived up in the hills. Ice cream trucks can’t make it up steep hills. It’s my life goal to get back up there.   

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I got a strange and unwelcome call from one of my semi-regular’s girlfriend . He’s a tattoo artist, and we figured out on our first meet that he had done work on one of my ex’s. Funny he never mentioned girlfriend during the times we hung out, but why would he need to? I sent him a text about a week or so ago to tell him I was at the club. He responded that he couldn’t make it but that he missed me. I went on with my business. The following day I get a phone call around 2 p.m. I don’t normally pick up unknown numbers, but I did for some reason.


“Is this ____?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hi, you don’t know me but I’m [Mr. Tattoo]’s girlfriend, and you’ve sent him some texts that were unauthorized and I’d appreciate it if you never contacted him again.”

I was instantly annoyed and also confused, “I’m sorry, what’s your boyfriend’s name?” Her voice was rushed so I couldn’t understand her. I had texted a few men recently to hopefully get them to the club.

“[Mr. Tattoo],” she said with a bitchy tone. For another few seconds I still didn’t know who the fuck she was talking about. Then it came to me: the tattoo artist from Japan.

“I don’t know what to say girl. It’s really not my problem. The club is a public place, but I won’t text him anymore.”

“Thanks.” She hung up.

It was surreal, idiotic, and irritating. Mostly I felt bad for him. She obviously checked his phone and probably gave him hell. Or maybe he has no idea, and she’s being strange and sneaky. Whatever. Leave me out of it. I hate when women get mad at the girl when it’s really their cheating man that should be dealt with (although I don’t even think this qualifies as cheating). This guy lives near the club and comes in to let off some steam and have a little fun. Mostly we just chat and play the video game machine on the bar. It’s not scandalous. If I had to choose between my boyfriend playing video games and getting a of couple (innocent) lap dances from a stripper or screw around on me, I’d choose the former. Having a boyfriend who hangs out at strip clubs isn’t optimal, but come on, it’s no contest.

Then, a few days later, she sends me a message via social media. The subject title was “Hello,” and inside she said, “I was the girl who called you a week ago about your inappropriate texts to my boyfriend [Mr. Tattoo]. I want to know if you had sex with him because we have been together for almost two years now, and he recently contracted herpes. I would like to know ASAP. Also, please be aware that if you have Herpes and you are performing lap dances, you can transmit Herpes from a simple touch of skin on ANY part of the body. I encourage you to delete [Mr. Tattoo] from your friends’ list. It’s the least respect you can give from one girl to another.” This is verbatim. What the fuck? Why am I having to deal with this?

My response: “We have never had sex. I do not have herpes. Honestly, we mostly hung out and played the video game thing at my club. [Mr. Tattoo] is a friend, so if he wants to delete me, it’s his call. I am not a threat to your relationship, I am in love with another man and very happy.”

I felt this was pretty nice, considering. I learned a long time ago that it’s best not to engage with crazy people. I prayed that was the end of it, but with nutjobs, you never know. I need to interject here and say that strippers are some of the cleanest girls you’ll ever find. We are hyper aware of our bodies. We touch and look at ourselves a lot. We know how we smell (in some cases, even how we taste). Strippers tend to have strong immune systems, due to the fact that we are rubbing on and in extremely close proximity to hundreds of strangers a week. You build a tolerance. It’s sheer ignorance and jealousy when women say or assume this shit about strippers.