ah, parrotheads


Jimmy Buffett shows were second in line as my most hated shows to work. The Grateful Dead being the first. Hated might be a little strong, I didn’t drink back then, so perhaps that accounts for at least sixty percent of my grumpiness. Had I been lubricated on Chablis—like the rest of them—I would have had more fun. The whole, pseudo-laid-back-this-is-our-only-time-to-let-loose attitude was just sad to me. It had such a forced chill feeling. These middle-aged workin’ stiffs pretending they’re on vacation on a tropical island, rather than the Sacramento fairgrounds. Granted, I myself am now middle-aged, this residual judgment and impression is from the seventeen-year-old version of me. The point is, I was dead sober, and they seemed to be faking it: a strange display of forced relaxation. Those crazy “Parrotheads”. Come on, his music isn’t that great. How is this STILL a thing? I worked at his shows in the 80’s, yet I just heard an announcement on the radio about someone winning tickets to his concert. Which is exactly when this thought ran through my mind: Who gives a fuck about Jimmy Buffet? It’s not that I don’t like happy people, or begrudge folks a good time, it was the obvious irony: the Hawaiian shirts, warm white wine, long-term couples who had seen happier days, and the oppressively flat, oven-like city of Sacramento. It was the same thing when he played at The Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View. The venue (or state I imagine) didn’t make a difference. The crowd was exactly the same. But when I think of Jimmy Buffett, I picture working at Cal Expo, selling official concert swag to drunk, pod-like Parrotheads.

Here’s the thing. This girl was pretty hot. Early twenties. Super sexy body: thin waist, flat stomach, heart-shaped ass and fake tits (not my cup of tea, but I liked the rest). She had brunette hair that hung just above her shoulders. Her face was average, but she oozed sex and moved well on stage. She rarely smiled though, she had that vacant shark stare. Or starfish maybe. She didn’t look terribly bright…and then she opened her mouth. She said something equally as absurd a couple days later (but I’d have to look through my notes to remember). Anyway, my point is (hell, who knows what my point is)…she was sweet. She was my epitome of the term “sweet”. I use this word as a nice way of saying; my cat is smarter than you. 

note: this is not a photo of “yeasty”

tales from my sex life…Anything But a Wasted Life

I once had a very drunk, one-night stand in Chicago. I had been out drinking with Hattie, around midnight her cousin and his cutie-pie friend joined us. The four of us closed the bars out (4 a.m.), and then hit the famous Weiner Circle. After our hot dogs, I went home with the friend. I was trashed. I thought he lived just outside of the city, but the cab ride was longer than I expected. He was a tall, handsome Midwest all-American corn-fed boy with a great body and penis to go with. We fucked until dawn. At one point I was on top of him riding his dong and drinking champagne out of the bottle. I hate champagne. Lord knows what else I had been drinking that night. Whiskey, I think—a horrible combination. What an idiot. No surprise I felt like death when I woke up. I could barely open my eyes without stabbing pain. I definitely couldn’t deal with what’s-his-name. He was pretty chipper and going on and on about how incredible I was and some shit about marriage. I made him call a taxi while I kept my head hidden under my jacket until it arrived…which took forever. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and crawl into a dark hole. The cab finally came and I painfully jumped up, gave the kid a peck on the cheek, and made my exit. I think I let him shove his number in my pocket, but I don’t think I made any promises.


second book

I auditioned at a new club. Actually, I got gussied up, wore my best whore-y outfit and drove to Carson to try to get hired at a club a friend had told me about. I got lost and showed up about fifty minutes later than I had planned, which was no matter, because they weren’t expecting me. 

[At the club] 

I took a deep breath and walked in the club. Which, like most strip clubs, is in the middle of fuckin nowhere. The door dude tells me to talk to the bartender (who was outside smoking when I walked up). She enters the club and walks me to the bar. The club is small but nice. It has just one main stage in the center of the room. No pole. A first I think. This works for me in the I-don’t-do-pole-tricks department, but not with my I-need-something-to-hang-on-to. I’ll just crawl around and play with myself like I am apt to do. {cont}

second book

My audition appointment now “set” (he didn’t write it down), he shooed me away. I’m not sure why I couldn’t just go on stage right then, perhaps it’s a test of sorts. To see if I’m responsible. Or how willing I am to take abuse and humiliation. Fine. Fuckin strip clubs, so much hoop jumping, you’d think they were the CIA. Ten minutes after I drove away I wish I had said Saturday. Oh well. The Body Shop has been fucking nuts. So much drama and I guess they’ve started filming for a reality show, and unless you are willing to be in it, you are shit out of luck. My friend had to leave last night. They didn’t even try to get releases from anyone! They told her not to worry, that they’d blur her out. She laughed and said, “Right, what about my boobs and my puss?” Fuck that. Like her, I wouldn’t trust my privacy to some reality hacks. The lighting in the dressing room isn’t remotely flattering, all bright and florescent, I really don’t need cameras catching me bending over half-naked shifting through my bag. If the film crew is there when I go in tonight, I’m turning on my heel. Words are one thing. High definition video is another. I’m the only one authorized to document my job.

since today is the opening of 50 Shades of (Shit), I thought i would post a sex story about a grown-ass woman.


Bull Durham came over last night to watch a marathon of Game of Thrones. The moon was super bright (a lunar eclipse occurred at some point, I later found out). The house was cozy. All the windows open and a gentle breeze. He’s the perfect non-commitment, part-time sex partner I was looking for. The man is quite good at listening to my body. What am I saying? He’s fucking fantastic, best I’ve ever had at listening to my body. Knows it better than myself. Each orgasm I have with him is better than the last. It’s crazy. I joked last night (after an orgasm ripped through me) that I might just die from coming at some point. It would be a good death. So, we’re on the couch, watching my version of soft porn, I was wearing shorts and a thin sleeveless shirt that is barely a shirt. Not to be worn in public. Easy access. I was lying against him on a pillow, my breasts up. He started playing with my nipple, and within milliseconds, they could have cut glass. It’s as if he dips his fingertips in liquid Spanish fly. By the end of the show, my body was so sexually charged I could have come if I straddled the arm of the couch. We took it to the bedroom. His cock had been throbbing under the pillow for the better part of twenty minutes. We skipped our usual oral. I needed him inside me, and visa versa. He teased me momentarily with the head of his very stiff cock, and then pushed it in so deliciously. My pussy grabbed him, and pulled him in deeper. He could barely move, my suction cup pussy was holding onto him. I used to hate the fact that I’m not the dripping wet kind of gal. I’m always wet on the inside, but my lips don’t have glands apparently or whatever, because I almost always have to use a little saliva just on the outside. However, with Bull Durham, who likes it, he thrusts into me slow and deep and within minutes, we have all the personal gel we need. I skip the spit, and he doesn’t make me feel like I’m broken, in fact, it’s hot as hell. He tells me in great detail what he likes about my body, my pussy, and how it feels around his cock, he makes me feel like the sexiest woman on earth. It’s probably why my orgasms are so intense with him. I reached for my new, uber thin vibrator on the side table and slid it in-between us, resting  it on my clit. He was rocking my pussy, deep-dicking, and within minutes I came so fucking hard. Titanic muscle spasms that gripped and massaged his iron-rod dick. I grunted and moaned. What felt like an hour later, when it started to die down, he let his go. I drew my hands up and played with his chest, which threw him over the edge. After his five-minute orgasm, he put his full weight on me and kissed my neck. I let him lay there for exactly three minutes before I gave him the tap. No one has ever accused me of being super cuddly post coitus. I jumped up and peed. When I came back, I threw on some panties and said, “Let’s watch another episode!” The perfect night in my book.