If you want to appeal to a person from another culture, it’s usually a good idea to learn something about that culture and then demonstrate in some way that you took the time and effort to do the research. Speaking their language is of course, the best way but there are others less time-consuming but still effective. And when it comes to Korean girls, checking out their pop starlets would be a good way. South Korea is a very modern country and like us, they love their singing sensations.

So anyway…and quite by mistake…I was on You Tube searching for a Mariah Carey song with a title I didn’t remember. So I typed in “Touch My Body” as I knew that was one of Mariah’s biggest hits to then find the tune I wanted and instead discovered this little piece of Korean pop culture.

Later in the day, I was up at DREAM GIRL and asked the 40 or 50-something phone girl if she knew anything about SISTAR expecting that she wouldn’t. Guess again! She went on and on about how popular and talented they are and how she loves the lead singer. You’d have thought the phone girl was a teenage bobby-soxer or something. It was crazy!

To the point…if you want to engage a Korean girl in a discussion that is actually of interest to her, try talking about how excellent that group SISTAR is and I guarantee you that a) she’ll know who they are, b) she’ll think you’re cool for knowing about them, and c) she’ll be much more enthusiastic about your hour together. Ya see…that’s why you come to this site and read my bull shit: ‘Cause ya learn good and useful stuff!

Let us wait no longer nor waste any more time reading this crap. Here’s two versions of “Touch My Body”  from SISTAR. One is a live lip synch and the other the very stylized official video for Korean MTV. The girls are cute (though certainly not slutty like American pop tarts)…their music is modern and very well produced…the videos are shot beautifully…the girls can harmonize..and the song is actually melodic. I’m impressed. But sorry…no badonkadonks. What can you do?

And here’s a sexier one I just found. It’s amazing what makeup and outfits can do for a woman!



Considering the memories are from such a long time ago, I have vivid recollections of the first few songs I ever heard. Like “That’s Amore” by Dean Martin,  “Mommie Gimme a Drink of Water” by Danny Kaye, and “The Nagger” by Jerry Lewis. “The Nagger” was not a tune that caught my ear. But it was a record which both my parents played for me not-very-subtlely letting me know that I myself was a little fucking nagger…and they’d had enough!

I reminded myself of that way back song recently while describing an escort for whom I’m actually developing a special fondness. And I know she likes me as well. But there’s one negative that comes with all the positives: She’s a fucking nagger!

Just a few months back I went over to the place where she works specifically planning to see her. But when I arrived the girl began busting my chops! A few days before she’d asked me to change her picture on the house site – which I did. But when I got there on the aforementioned night, she began with “that picture’s not doing anything for me! And my face isn’t blurred enough. What if my boyfriend sees that?” Her tone was very off-putting.

“Oh no!” I thought to myself and turned around to whisper to the manager “on second thought, let me see so-and-so.” And I went with a different girl. It was such an easy out I counted myself lucky. What if that were my wife or girlfriend? It wouldn’t have been so easy to extricate myself! Good thing I’m single.

Well anyway…the next time I ran into the girl she was all peaches and cream and I was once again intoxicated…or intoxicated enough to choose her. And our friendship continued. But she still nags at me. Now it’s about my taking a beer to the room. She just hates that! So I asked what was the big deal. I’m just some silly customer. And I’m not drunk or unruly. Who cares? It turns out her father was (or is) a big drinker. Uh oh! I didn’t interrogate any further. Not really my business!

Whatever…the point to this entry is this: When guys go to one of these places, they’re supposed to be getting away from all the needling and nagging that their real lives hold. The kids nag, the wife nags, mama nags, the in-laws nag. But when they get to their favorite incall? No fucking nagging allowed! That’s part of what you’re paying for. Yet there I find a nagger where a nagger isn’t supposed to be.

But ya know what? The next time I go there, I’m not going to bring a beer into the room. She wins! Just so I can see that little crinkle in her forehead…that will be better than the beer. Am I a sap or what? So much for my heart of stone!

Anyway…here’s Jerry!


Just got a call from BLUE ANGEL (917-615-3281) to inform me that they have a new girl named CINDY who looks amazing…and that yet another goddess named CANDY (whose picture rings a bell though I don’t think she was named Candy previously because nothing came up on my search) arriving next week. And without further hype or bull shit…here they are!

cindy1a_fs copy

A long time ago, I learned the value of guide listings in a publication (or in this case, a website). OK! What’s a guide listing? The guide listings were the section of a magazine in which each advertiser was described in words. You’d have a page (or many) for incalls…then outcalls…then dungeons…then trannies…then strip clubs…then book stores and on and on. You get the idea. There were no pictures…just a worded guide directing you to where you might want to visit.

I knew these guide listings were valuable because while at Action, I had this nightmare of a client…a pimp who lived with his one girl at 220 East 52nd Street…insisting on having two guide listings in the magazine even though he only purchased one measly quarter page ad. And he would drive me crazy tweaking those two listings every issue! (God! I hated that guy! Scott…if you’re out there…go fuck yourself!) And if there were any doubt about the worthiness of that section, the number of places that were willing to give free sessions to the Editors at Screw in exchange for guide listings removed all doubt. The guide listings worked. It was a wrap!

So anyway…I mention this today because a couple of my sidebar buddies decided to change their number literally 2 hours after I’d posted their particulars all over this blog. So I went into the dashboard to edit everything – or so I thought. But I missed one change…and for weeks I kept getting messages from the manager telling me they were still getting calls on the original number. I assured her I’d changed everything yet the calls kept coming on the old number. And finally it occurred to me to check the guide listings (the $ Bill Roundup button on top of this blog – which are the modern day equivalent of the old print guide listings) because I know they work regardless of whether the venue is print or the Internet. And sure enough…there it was. The old number was still there.

So it’s been changed and I can call them up to say “now you know my blog works! That number lived in those listings only and is just a fraction of the response you’re getting from me!” Aha! So all’s well that ends well. Nobody on the sidebar pays for that roundup button. In fact, it’s an afterthought I included for the guys because I knew it would be of value. And now I am validated. Go figure!

Just yesterday, a reader posted (in the comment section) a voluminous treatise on the do’s and don’ts of dating escorts. I won’t repost it here because you can find it in the entry “The Lost Track” (why he put it there I have no idea) but it gave me something to write about today.

A lot of what he wrote was lost on me…while actually, some of it made sense – especially the part about escorts getting jealous of you seeing other girls or especially…other girls in the same house if you’re a regular somewhere and in the habit of visiting multiple girls. Just a few days ago, a girl threw in my face “I heard that so-and-so is your favorite girl!” Oh, please! Everybody is my favorite girl while I’m with them. What did you think?

Anyway…what I want to add to his lengthy analysis would be this:  Never date an escort if you fall in love with the girl. Really bad idea. You want to follow a path to destruction? That’s a good way! If you’re not in love with the woman herself and just in it for the physical gratification, you can’t really get your heart (or wallet) broken. Yeah, you might be disappointed. And you could jones for the workout. But you’re not gonna lose any sleep in the deal. It may be easy for me to say all this because I’ve never fallen in love with an escort…but the reality remains.

But I’ll tell y’all what I have heard a few times in the recent past that leads me to believe there’s a better way to relate with the girls. “Wow! I feel like you’re my friend!” Friend, hmm! But when you think about it…it’s a good way to go. Friendship connotes comfort and a rare connection between females and males in any venue (be it pro or amateur). And it means you might be able to convince two “friends” to hang out with you. And you know what that means – especially if they’re bi! Becoming an escort’s friend makes so much more sense. If your’e dating, she sees you as somebody to be used. If you’re her friend, you’re somebody to hang out with. Enough said there. You like a girl? Become her friend. Much better strategy.

While I’m a hoarder to a certain degree, I do not have copies of every music track I ever produced – though sometimes I wish I did. Anyway, yesterday’s snail mail included a package from Japan which contained 5 CD’s of the album I recently licensed to a record company in that country. I did have some of the tracks which were released on vinyl in the States but there was one I remembered as being the best which never made it into the Atlantic deal and thus, existed only in my mind for over 30 years.

Well apparently…my musical tastes haven’t changed as in my opinion, it is by far the best track on the album. Unfortunately the artist had a hard head and as he was the financier of the operation, my opinion went just so far. As a result, the mix sucks. But his vocal is actually very good and I’m proud of the horn chart I wrote. Whatever…30 + years later this sounds like a Stax Volt track from Memphis. And via the wonders of modern technology…here it is (hopefully)!

Way back when I was a chair boy at Westbury Beach Club, I had a boss who used to ask me if I was a Roman. When I answered no, he’d then ask “so why you roamin’ around?” Ha ha! That was his way of saying “stop slacking off and get to work.” It didn’t matter if I was working or not. He just liked to tell the joke over and over again.

Anyway…I was roamin’ around last night to a few places and guess what! They were all busy – though each claimed it had been slow up until 5 minutes before I arrived. I guess I must be a good luck charm.

Down to what matters…ASIAN MODELS (347-256-7143) has a pretty impressive trio on staff. SARAH especially caught my eye. She’s a tall, slinky cutie sporting the usual impressive lingerie that Korean girls are becoming famous for. Actually fyi…they often buy Victoria’s Secret stuff and then customize it themselves with glitter and stuff. That’s why their outfits are so amazing. Whatever…along with ALICIA and EVE, “Models” has entered the house A-list!

Moving over to GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723), it was “Ireland lad” night! I should explain that whenever I used to go out drinking with my Irish taxi-driving buddies, we’d generally declare “Ireland lad” in an exaggerated Irish brogue before we hoisted one to the dissolution of the Taxi and Limousine Commission.

Well there were no Irishmen (or fake Irishmen like me) drinking last night…but there was BRIELLA, a new Irish cutie with the best set of legs this side of Dublin.

And now that I might be able to make the bus to Bear Mountain…here are the aforementioned girls!


Observing all the hullaballoo about the recent police-inflicted deaths of two black men, I can’t help but offer my two cents. For starters, let me say that there’s nobody in my family who’s in law enforcement…and I myself was the victim of police brutality in my teens so you would think I’d be 100% behind the demonstrators who would have the heads of the two police officers who killed the two black men. But I’m not. And here’s why:

What is often ignored by the demonstrators is the simple fact that like Rodney King before them, both of the recently-murdered brought this upon themselves. That’s not to say that they deserved to die. I’m just maintaining that if they’d actually not been up to no good…and/or submitted to authority at the outset, they’d be alive today.

Take Eric Garner. Clearly, he was a low-level petty criminal who would still be alive if he hadn’t been selling loosies in the first place. But for the sake of argument, let’s say the cops were mistaken and he actually wasn’t selling loosies when they thought he was. Refusing to be handcuffed is what brought on the choke hold. If he’d just done all the “yes sir” and “no sir” stuff that I myself have done the five times I’ve met the vice squad on my job, he’d be alive today. Having said that, I’d still prosecute the cop who decided it was appropriate to apply a choke hold to Garner. The man wasn’t a threat at that point. Clearly the  officer overstepped his bounds and needs to pay for his indiscretion. After all…he did kill the guy!

In the case of Michael Brown, we don’t know what really happened – except that he did not have a weapon and was still turned into a big hunk of Swiss cheese by a police officer. But the tape of him stealing and then bullying and pushing a convenience store clerk when apprehended is completely appropriate to the story. It demonstrates an attitude and body language I’m sure the cop who shot him sensed at the time of the killing. People who say that tape is irrelevant have their heads up their asses. The fucking kid was wise-guying it up big time at the store and I have no doubt that the officer picked up on that horse-shit bravado. Was the officer at fault? We don’t know yet. Could the kid have saved his life by doing what he was told out in the street? We don’t know that either. But I don’t like that convenience store tape. It tells me he was a thug-wannabe and no fucking boy scout. When his mama says what a great kid he was, I’m not buyin’ it.

Maybe worst of all is…we get Al Sharpton (one of the biggest assholes ever)…always inserting himself into situations like these. Leave us not forget that Sharpton defamed and allegedly attempted to frame two innocent white men (one a cop and one a DA) in the Tawana Brawley case many years ago just to advance his own fame and agenda. And he claims to be on the side of justice. What a sham! What a douchebag demagogue. You just know Funky Al is gonna be  muckraking his dumb ass off whenever a black men gets shot by a cop whether that black man deserved a bullet or not. Only the most ignorant in our community could follow that dickhead after the Brawley case. It stunk to high heaven and I entertain little doubt in Sharpton’s alleged role.

And ya know…Sharpton was sued and lost the ensuing slander case after that trial was over…and somebody picked up the $100,000 tab! Just great. That’s like patting your teenage son on the head and saying “that’s all right” after he got behind the wheel drunk and wrecked his parent’s car! It sends a message that  he can go do it all over again and still not pay the price! That’s why every time a black guy gets wronged we get Sharpton nauseating anybody with a brain with his pedantic dog shit!

Whatever…the point is this: Whether you’re wrong or right…don’t sass the police. It will get you nowhere and accomplish nothing. There’s a reason why I’ve met the vice squad 5 times and went to jail no times as a result. That’s because I was respectful. And there’s your bottom line.


I’m a fan of those crazy Travel Channel food shows…ya know…where these knuckleheads go to the far corners of the world and eat some of the most God-awful shit you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to consume. There’s a gay chef on one of the those shows who somehow appears to enjoy the taste of this crap. Who the fuck is he kidding? Anyway…I traveled to 32nd St. again last Thursday to join a Korean friend for lunch at a super-crowded Korean restaurant at 9 West 32nd St. I don’t know its name but man, is that joint packed! Not only that…the place has these long tables where you’re essentially seated like one foot from a person you don’t even know. And you can barely have a conversation the air is so filled with shouting patrons.

Well, if you haven’t been to a real Korean restaurant, they serve you like 20 little appetizers with the main meal. And it’s not exactly Americanized Korean food. It’s more like the wild stuff from half way around the world you see on those crazy exotic food shows. Feeling adventurous (euphemism for stupid), I took a hit off a plate my friend told me was sting ray! Sting ray! Holy crap! Isn’t that the fish that killed that crazy Aussie animal guy? Isn’t that that star wars lookin’ mother fucker we used to catch out in Coney Island and throw back to the drink in disgust? How disturbed do you have to be to actually eat that alien?

So…the schmuck (that’s me) took a taste (what the fuck?) and it was just about as repulsive as you would imagine. Man! Gamey….salty…and in a super-spicy sauce? Ycccch! Blcccch! Gross!

Via my friendships with Korean women, I’ve sampled a lot of their native cuisine – and again – not the commercial stuff edited for American consumption. Sometimes it’s bearable – and sometimes it’s even good. But sting ray? Who was I kidding?

While I’m on the Asian kick…an anecdote from the soup kitchen: Yesterday, I arrived to find that an entire clique of Asian people had been recruited for volunteer duty by the day’s Asian boss and I was not to be the meat loaf guy! Instead, I was tasked the job of Officer Bill…policing the pantry line so nobody would grab more than they were allowed. Hmm!

So here’s what they could have: A pear, an orange, a can of green beans, a roll, a can of applesauce, a bag of pasta, a can of spaghetti sauce, a bag of either brown or white rice, a six pack of mini-size boxes of raisins, a 12 ounce can of concentrated cranberry juice which could make about a quart when water is added, and a 7 pound can of peach slices or fruit salad mix if they were strong enough to handle it. All in all…a pretty good deal considering the “guests” were also being fed a meat loaf meal complete with beans, veggies, salad, a roll, a banana, and a piece of chocolate cake.

I’d been warned by my buddy Crystal who’d done this duty before that it isn’t fun. In a fouler mood, she would have been right. But I took it as a challenge and I’ll tell ya…I could have used a ruler to smack all the hands that tried to steal stuff while I wasn’t looking. It was preposterous. These people had no shame.

But here’s the curious part: The crowd who ate meat loaf were not the same people who got on the pantry line – though they were allowed to be on both! The meat loaf people are predominantly black and hispanic males while the pantry people are almost all Chinese women! The few black and hispanic males  who got on the pantry line were mellow and appreciative – while the Chinese women were absolute sticky-fingered bulldozers. The gall of these ladies!  The very first woman who got on line was the worst of all. She just lingered and lingered until I looked away so she could steal.

And of course, once the girls had gotten their haul and stashed it wherever…they returned to the line and did a second round with no regard for anybody who would go without because they’d hustled way more than their fair share. It was crazy!

Anyway…enough for today. And the answer to the question: How much stuff did you take home, Dollar?…goes like this. Nothing.

A few days ago, one of my house-owning customers asked me exactly why I’ve spent virtually every sunny Saturday this summer dishing out food to the homeless in a basement on Avenue A. In response, I related a quick story about a couple of girls I met a few weeks back.

The way the program works at the soup kitchen involves a 15 minute orientation speech by the boss (which I miss at this point as I’ve heard it too many times before) followed by the volunteers eating before anyone else the idea being that we should show those on line that if the food is good enough for us, it’s good enough for them, too. I think the conceivers feel that we as the “haves” should be humble and present ourselves as equals to those unfortunates who will stand in line for a free meal.

Whatever…the before-work meal gives the volunteers an opportunity to socialize. So on this day, I was seated across the table from two girls. The first is a FEMA worker who is paid a nominal stipend to travel around the country with a crew in a van, dispatched to help whomever is in need. And how does she spend her Saturdays off in New York? Feeding the homeless for no monetary compensation. Enough said right there. There’s not a lot of money in working for FEMA  I assure you. But a happier and (as I found out when she was put on my crew) a more productive worker you could not find.

After hearing her story, I could only respond “if I were in human resources and you applied for a job, I’d put you right at the head of the list. It’s a great thing for your resume in case you ever want to switch gears and pursue the golden idol.”

Girl #2 was a twenty-something Jewish woman (I could just tell) wearing a Brooklyn College t-shirt. I opened our conversation by asking if she’s a student at Brooklyn College to which she answered in the affirmative whereupon I observed “well at least, you didn’t go into debt for the rest of your life attending some fancy private school.”

A whimsical smile broke across her face as she answered “actually, I did my undergrad at NYU”…which by the way…is like the world’s most expensive college. And she then went on to say “my generation will never own the houses we live in because we’ll be spending our entire lives paying off that debt.” It turns out she’s getting her graduate degree in speech pathology and will then enter a career helping speech-challenged people, a life which dictates she’ll never get rich monetarily. Even though I didn’t know the girl and probably had no business saying it, I responded “I can tell from talking to you for five minutes you’re already rich in ways against which monetary gain can’t be compared.”

Maybe it was small consolation for her but it sure worked for me being in the presence of unpretentious “dirt road” individuals the likes of the two girls I’ve just described. The women I know in the escort business ride the autobahn in their Beamers speeding at 120 mph but going nowhere while these two volunteers travel the dirt road at a considerably slower pace – but toward a destination too worthy for words. The world may be overpopulated in my view but still, we need more people like those who volunteer at the shelter…and fewer who live to make as much money as they can just to spend it on nothing while contributing zero to the world.

And that right there is why I serve food in a hot basement every sunny Saturday. Ya know…just to be in the company of meaningful people. It would be excellent if girls in the escort biz held the same world view as those two girls with whom I spent that lunchtime. But that’s just not the way it is. So every Saturday, I step out to mingle with the meaningful. The fact that it doesn’t pay is irrelevant. Doing God’s (or whomever’s) work is the payoff. And that’s why I do it.

I’m a big believer in global warming and climate change all being caused by a world overpopulated by human beings who either don’t care or can’t see what the future holds. But you sure wouldn’t know it by this summer. This morning I awakened with a shiver. I was under a blanket – yet still cold! And I didn’t have the air conditioner running. Having an open window was enough to freeze the joint. What the fuck happened to summer this year? Must be global cooling.

So anyway…I was over at ASIAN BARBIE DOLLS (917-664-7879) two days ago on a mission whose futility I can’t even begin to describe. Yikes! Let’s just say that nobody there graduated from Stanford with an MBA. Whatever…I did meet LEAH and I’m here to tell y’all that her picture doesn’t really do her justice.

So I pulled the manager aside to ask “do you have any other photos of this girl? She’s really pretty and has a quality absent in all her photos?” So out came the phone whereupon she showed me three amazing shots none of which were on their site. Two were of Leah…and the other of CRYSTAL (who wasn’t there). I told them to send me the pix immediately but they alternatively promised that the images would be up on the site in a few hours. God forbid they should just e-mail them! And guess what! Two days later, one of the shots actually made it. Which is surprising considering the number of mistakes these people have made starting their business.

But that’s not the point. As I implied before, nobody expects escorts to be CEO types. The important thing is that Leah is really cute…and they did manage to get one of the hot pix up on their site. And here it is!


Moving on…duty called over at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723) yesterday. There was a new girl who needed photographs. Recognizing all but one of the ladies in attendance, I sat down next to who I knew was my photo subject to be and introduced myself explaining that I’m the house photographer (or picture taker) and that I was there to take photos of her. Response? Nothing! I mean…absolutely nothing. The girls seemed incredibly timid.

So I turned to AMANDA and asked “how does this girl go in the room? She seems petrified.” For five minutes I talked with Amanda and then alternatively pitched the new girl on the value of photos to no avail until finally, somebody explained to me that the she doesn’t speak English! Duh! Aha! I whipped out my Spanish and by the time it was over, we were fast and smitten friends. Turns out she’s not just super cute…but friendly as well.

And apparently, I wasn’t the only one of that opinion. She had 6 customers on her first day shift. But before I post VANESSA’S pix (the new girl), I have to say that I had really excellent verbal intercourse with Amanda. The best in a long time! The girl is totally normal and exceptionally communicative. I was truly impressed. And I liked TARA as well.

To keep it real…one of the girls at GC was totally wasted, obnoxious and fucked-up. The manager was trying to get her out but she just wouldn’t budge. The girl was like a human fucking sand bag. I called the boss after arriving home and told her “you should never let so-and-so back in your place. I haven’t seen a hot mess like that in a long time.”

Anyway…here’s VANESSA and AMANDA. TARA’s pic ran just a few days ago so no need to post her.


“Me so ho-nee” is an expression that the hip hop world has adopted in song a couple of times. But its inception comes from a film called FULL METAL JACKET, directed by Quentin Tarantino’s idol, Stanley Kubrick. If you’ve never seen the original “Me so Ho-nee,” here it is courtesy of You Tube.

Kubrick truly catches the essence of the Vietnam War hooker experience in this scene. I myself did not serve in Vietnam thanks to a high lottery number. But drinking friends from the East Village who were over there told me that the scene was very authentic. Kudos to Kubrick. I don’t know where or how he found this girl for the scene but she’s just too perfect in the role. Too slutty for words. Check it out. Truly classic.

And if that ain’t enough…I include yet another clip from the movie in which a pimp rides up to the barracks on a motor scooter with his girl on the back and tells the troops ” she fucky, sucky, smoke cigarette with the pussy” and again…”she love you long time.”

Stanley Kubrick is clearly a sick mother fucker. No doubt about that. But I have to admit…these two scenes are remarkable moviemaking despite their depravity. Enjoy!


I was watching REAL SPORTS the other day on HBO and came to discover via a segment about the demise of the game that in fact, golf’s popularity is on the wane. Courses are closing all over the country and the community is struggling to find an answer. Me myself…I couldn’t help but applaud the situation. Finally, somebody figured out that golf is bull shit. What a stupid fucking game! Trying to control the flight of a tiny ball so you eventually hit it into a tiny cup hundreds of yards away is a futile pursuit bound to frustrate and infuriate even the calmest participant.

My mother introduced me to golf when I was young, and I instantly realized that hitting homers at a driving range was fun but trying to actually control the flight of the ball was for knuckleheads. It was no sale for this guy – a person who used to fling ping pong paddles and tennis rackets in frustration. I knew right away to not even “go there” with golf. If I couldn’t control my anger, I at least knew not to embark on a “sport” that would cultivate my temper. And by the way…that personality trait (or flaw) runs in the family.

Funny story: Somehow during their marriage, my mother convinced my father to play golf. One day, he threw a club into the woods after muffing a shot. And when pops went to retrieve the club, he got stung by a swarm of bees whose hive he’d scored a direct hit on with the flung club. Ouch! Result? He never picked up a golf club again! Dad had some common sense after all!

There’s another thing about golf that few people mention. It’s a really expensive hobby! Ya wanna be a golfer…and hang with the swells? You pay through the nose. That’s ok if you have a lot of money you don’t know what to do with and you’re hell bent on spending it on an activity which will put you in a foul mood. Now here’s where I have a dog in this fight (so to speak).

My mother (even at 93) is an avid golfer who was always a shitty player. Bad form…crappy swing? You name it. She also talked about her golf came constantly even though she knew it was of absolutely no interest to me. So here’s the thing: Despite me suggesting that she get into shooting pool or playing tiddly-winks, mom insisted on moving to Florida – to a gated community with two golf courses as the social center. The price of the condo…the maintenance fees…and the yearly membership so she could (and can) play golf  are exorbitant. Unfortunately, my mother did not have the money for all this. But that didn’t stop her.

And now at age 93, she’s broke and dependent on me and my brother (mostly my brother) for support. I knew it would happen. I saw it coming. But I was powerless to stop her! What are ya gonna do? It’s just not something you bitch about to the woman who gave you life. But at least, it’s fair game here.

Anyway…to the point. Golf sucks! Fuck the Scots for inventing such a stupid game. Think of the number of  people in the US to whom it’s like heroin…nothing but a costly and brutal addiction. So I say “hurray” to golf’s current demise. May the world come to its senses and look elsewhere for diversion. Ya know…like seeing escorts would be a good substitute. But then again…I’m biased.

Fucking golf! Did I mention I think it’s bull shit? Yeah, I think I did!


Here’s an oldie while I figure out something to write today.

$ Bill’s Most Excellent Toilet Bowl Reader (this site) isn’t gonna win a Nobel or Pulitzer Prize anytime soon. That’s pretty much a given. But compared to the big boys in the escort realm (with the possible exception of Eros.com which does have a blog article about how girls should plan for a future after escorting), I have one thing on everybody: A little redeeming value!

Look at any of the leaders where you habitually go to check out girls and the common thread is (again) no redeeming value. It’s all grind. Nothing but ad after ad after ad. The owners have no facade. They’re simply about taking girls’ money and stuffing it in their pockets. That’s it. Give them a choice: “I’ll offer you the recitation of a a spirtually-uplifting poem which will answer the question ‘Who Am I and what am I doing here?’ versus a brand new/shiny penny.” And they’ll take the penny every fucking time. No heart…and no soul. Just capitalists worshipping at the feet of The Golden Idol.

But here in $ Billville? You get insight into what makes the purchaser and provider tick. Ya get insider info on how the business works. Ya hear wild and crazy stories and then get to guess who I’m really talking about. And hopefully, ya get moments when you bust out laughing…and moments that bring a tear to your eye. 

And the reason is this: I was not born to sell widgets and accumulate material things. I do not worship the almighty dollar. You offer me a ride in your $100,000 car…or a joke that makes me laugh while speaking to the human condition? I’ll take the latter every time. 

When I was a musician, there was a reason I became token honky in so many bands. Because when I played the guitar, I gave black musicians something they could feel. And having a white boy in the band who sounded almost black sent all kinds of positive signals to the audience. So why not?

I’ll tell ya a funny story from years ago. Every day, I’d hop the subway to 1650 Broadway to write songs with Rose Marie McCoy, an established BMI cited songwriter who knew everybody from George Benson to Bernard Purdy to Kenny Burrel to Big Maybelle and on and on. And for the three or four years we wrote together, I would occasionally meet some of these music biz legends.

One day, Rose and I took a three block walk to visit Screamin’ Jay Hawkins in the modest SRO where he was living. Jay was a big, friendly guy who clearly did not judge Rosie for working with a white boy half her age. Rose used to hustle me around to all her associates and then take 15% of whatever I made when she convinced somebody to hire me as a guitar player. She did this with a lot of people but stuck with me more than anyone else because I actually paid her when she got me work – while too many others didn’t!

Well anyway…Rose whipped out her new record which had just been released on Brunswick…and played the B-side which was a sophisticated blues number. After the song was over – and Jay clearly liked what he heard – Rose asked “So how you like me white guitar-playin’ son?” 

And how did Jay respond? “White son my ass! He plays like a nigger!” Now I was pretty much living hand to mouth at the time. But if you’d offered me $1000 in cash..or that compliment…I think I’d have taken the compliment. Money can be earned – or stolen for that matter. But to have Screamin’ Jay Hawkins put a spell on me with the ultimate adulation? It was a Mastercard commercial moment all the way.

Back to the issue! The reason this blog has some redeeming value while the leaders don’t is because I have a heart and soul. Expressing myself is primary. Making money takes a back seat! I did not create this blog to get rich. I just wanted to play the blues – which is exactly what this blog is in between the commercials. The sidebar pix came at the request of my Voice customers. For those long time readers, you might remember that the first incarnation of this site had no girls on the sidebar. It was just me ranting and raging!

And when you get a lost soul wailing the blues…you get a little redeeming value. So let the leaders buy their fancy cars…and play golf at their ritzy country clubs. I’ll ride my bike and shoot pool in a shithole and oh yeah…give y’all a little redeeming value when I sit down to write this blog.

P.S I just googled Rose and found this classic recorded when she was 31 years old and I was 2. It’s a bizarre duet with Big Maybelle in which Rose is cracking wise in answer to Maybelle’s verses. Following in that oldie’s wake are two records Rose and I wrote together.

Once upon a time, women of class and distinction exercised a little discretion. If you asked what they look for in a man, they would respond that he should be handsome, or compassionate, or they’d like a good provider. Only golddiggers would say they want a rich man…or sluts would be looking for a big dick!

Well apparently, discretion is no longer the order of the day. If I didn’t already know that, I’d have found out last night while watching of all shows…The Family Feud during which time the moderator posed the following question to the opposing players: “Fill in this blank. One hundred women were asked ‘When it comes to the perfect man, short is ok just so he’s blank.’”

The black female contestant (one was white and one black) hit the buzzer first and blurted out “just so he’s packin’.” Now this is a response you’d expect in a porn flick. And the exclamation would be followed by the contestant dropping to her knees to blow the mod. But in a family quiz show setting, it was bizarre.

Mortified at what she’d just said in front of her entire family and a national viewing audience, the woman turned beet red and covered her face as everybody cascaded into gales of laughter. And guess what! “Good in bed/nine inches” was the number one answer on the board…and they accepted her answer. Yup! One hundred regular middle American women responded that basically a short guy would be ok if he has a big dick! And all’s I can say is babes have come a long way.

This shit was hush hush and stuff girls only talked about at sorority parties and the like. But now? Women from all walks of life have no problem expressing their size predilection. (In their defense, some women responded “rich,” and a few even answered “funny.” So not every woman is a size queen. Or maybe some just won’t admit it.) Whatever…I’ve finally figured out how to make my dick 12 inches long. Just fold it in half (ba dump).

Anyway…it got me to thinking…what if 100 men were asked “flat-chested is ok…just so she’s…fill in the blank.” I’m guessing that the answer wouldn’t be “a good mother” or a gourmet chef.” Number 1 would probably be “she’s got a phat booty.” Fair is fair I guess.

Speaking of packin’, I offer KYMBERLY of GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723)  as the female version of “packin’” in that she’s juicy and curvy from head to toe as evidenced by the following completely unphotshopped (except for smoothing) pictures I took of her last night. She’s all natural, too. I guess with women you have to include the adjective “naturally” packin’ when she’s surgery-free as in this day and age, so many women are enhanced.

And finally…the subject of yesterday’s entry sent me an e-mail this morning requesting that I come take pictures of her sporting a recently-purchased set of handcuffs. Hmm! Could be an ambush. And I could go over there to snap a photo and end up bound to a bed post with a cattle prod up my ass. I tell y’all…these women are getting too powerful what with their paraphernalia and big dick-loving attitudes. But I cut them some slack because whatever I got between my legs is way bigger than theirs. And gently reminding them of this reality is what keeps the species going. That’s the bottom line.


It’s late and who wants to leave the house or wait for a girl to arrive when video chat with this and many other girls is just a few seconds away? Check it out! And every time you hit the refresh button, you’ll see a different girl. Or click the girl’s pic and the sound comes on.

I’ve written about the reverse double standard before. It occurs when a sex worker (my new term) hooks up with a guy and expects him to remain monogamous while she “works” – essentially declaring that it’s ok for her to have as many partners as she wants (she’s “working” being the excuse) while he must be with her and her only! And I’ve maintained that any guy with a backbone is going to play around just to assert his manhood. It’s inevitable. So anyway…a couple of weeks ago I encountered an updated version of this…reverse double standard 2.0 if you will.

Feeling the urge, I paid a visit to a girl I’ve seen on multiple occasions before – but had laid off (pardon the pun) for a while. When I arrived, the woman asked me where I’d been for so long to which I answered the truth – sort of: “I fractured a vertebrae in a bike accident and have been out of commission for a while.” But I left out the part about me feeling that during our past visit or two she seemed indifferent and not engaged so I moved on.

Well anyway…she was engaged on this occasion…which is a good thing. (We’re all well aware that her occupation being what it is, practitioners of the trade are often on the sidelines mentally. It just comes with the territory.)

After the fun/mutually beneficial workout was over, the girl commented “I hope I don’t find out you came back during the night shift.” WTF?!?! Can you imagine if I’d said something like “well I guess you’re done for the day. You can go home now,” implying that her release was so devastating that she was totaled from my performance! I would never say anything like that. I’d be embarrassed to act so full of myself!

Now while I consider this girl a friend and we do have a kind of mutual admiration society, I don’t entertain the notion that she likes me in “that” way. And I wonder why the hell she would make a comment like that when the girl certainly knows the nature of our relationship and clearly, doesn’t have “feelings” for me. Was she experiencing a pang of jealousy?

After careful consideration, I decided her motivation was ego-driven. I figured she was thinking “he really busted good; I turned the guy out. I’d be disappointed if he recovered enough to repeat that performance for somebody else within a few hours.”

Whatever she was thinking, the fact remains that my buddy was reversing the double standard on me. Her shift wasn’t over and the girl was almost sure to see one more guy at a minimum. Yet she felt that at least for a day, I should stay true to her – which it turned out I did. But certainly not out of any deference to her. Not that I don’t like the woman…it’s just that I expect that under the circumstances, I can do whatever I want after leaving her workplace – her feelings or ego notwithstanding. It’s not always fun living alone. But at least I should derive some benefits. And coming and going as I please should be one of those benefits.


The first time I ever heard the expression “sex worker” it came out of the mouth of a Village Voice editor. She was assigned the job of cleaning up my wild prose and proposed using the term in my article. At the time, I thought it was a weak/tepid description I didn’t want anywhere near my incendiary prose. Regardless, it went in. Editors have that power.

To my recollection, it was a term I never heard again until last week via my involvement in a television production. I was watching the producer ask a Korean phone girl some question or other when once again out of her mouth came the term “sex worker.” The funny thing was that this time, I liked what I’d heard. So what happened?

The words whore and prostitute – what we usually use to describe a “sex worker” – both have a bad connotation. There’s a lot of judgement implied when you use either term. But sex worker? Not so bad. It has the word “work” in there. And work is a good thing. It connotes discipline, skill and responsibility. Moreover, the term describes exactly what that person does for a living. He or she sells sex! Period. Somebody wants to buy it…and that person is willing to sell it…much like somebody needs their house painted…and somebody paints it. Or somebody needs a haircut…and somebody’s willing to cut that hair for a fee.

Conversely, the word “whore” or “prostitute” has a much wider interpretation which doesn’t necessarily accurately portray a sex worker. Those two words define somebody who does something odious for money not caring about anything or anyone who might be adversely affected. The end justifies the means. And that makes it all OK.

Let’s say a guy or even a financial institution sells a bogus secondary mortgage fully aware that the person to whom they originally sold that mortgage had no business signing on in the first place. The likelihood that that person would ever finish paying off the loan was minimal, yet he or she sells that financial instrument for his or her own personal profit in the knowledge that if everybody in his or her field did the same thing, it just might tank the entire economy. Now that’s a fucking whore (or prostitute) right there.

Now let’s say a girl sees a horny guy who wants a good sexual experience. He hasn’t had any for a while and feels in need. He hands her however much money and the girl proceeds to go the extra mile and show him a really good time. He’s completely satisfied feeling his money was well spent, and vows to return again. How is that girl a prostitute? What is it about that shithead banker that makes him better than the sex worker?

In my mind, nothing! The banker’s a fucking scum bag who should be strung up (not literally) while the girl should be awarded a merit point at the Better Business Bureau. She did her job well while the banker subverted the system and put everybody in jeopardy by doing so just for a commission.

And that’s why I now like the term “sex worker.” It describes exactly what it is. Words like whore or prostitute should be reserved for auto mechanics who charge you $500 for an oil change pretending you need a new transmission…and not for someone who gives you an excellent blow job at a reasonable rate. Hey, listen. if a girl shortchanges you on time and gives you a lackluster performance, she is a whore! I’ll grant you that. But let’s define our terms with a little more vigilance and responsibility and stop calling good sex workers prostitutes or whores. It’s judgmental and unfair.

The world needs good sex workers. They keep the sexual assault and rape stats down. What the fuck does selling a bogus mortgage or faking an automotive malady do for anybody but the whore who’s fattening his wallet at everybody else’s expense? Nothing! I appeal to the religious right! Get your head out of your asses! Sex workers perform a much need and sought-after service. Get over yourselves!

Moving on…I just got a text from ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) that they have a new girl named YUKI. And here she is!


A while back I wrote an entry in which I described discovering that girls check out your “o” face. They’ll look at you at the moment of orgasm as if to peer into your soul and/or read your mind. It was a disconcerting moment for sure. I felt like I had to keep myself in check at all times with women. Even when I’m about to unload!

So anyway…I was describing a girl I recently had sex with to a friend and began with the usual fodder…ya know…her tits…ass…skin. And then I surprised myself when without any forethought, I added “she has a really pretty sex face.” I’m not sure I ever included that facet of a partner’s being before. And it made me think.

Can an ugly face get pretty (or prettier) during sex? And conversely, can a pretty face get ugly under the throes? Well…I have to say from experience that the answer is yes! The latter’s best example happened several years ago when I was with a really cute Asian girl. I mean…she was the apple of everybody’s eye! At some point I opened my eyes to look down and all I could think was “wow! She looks a a little alien or something. Weird.” I didn’t go soft or anything tragic like that. But I never saw her again carnally. It wasn’t a total deal breaker. But it was close.

With the former girl (the one who I recently described as having a pretty sex face), I can actually say that she’s prettier during intercourse than she is otherwise (though she is pretty to begin with). I know that sounds ridiculous but yet…it’s true…at least in my eyes. Her sex face was not scrunched and tight like with the Asian girl. In fact, she looked very comfortable, content and serene…like she’d be fine with staying in that position for the rest of her life. Ya know…just enjoying the moment and hoping it would go on and on.

Whatever…the point is…if it’s in your power, you might want to control your sex face if you want your partner to see the side of you you’d like to  portray. The problem is that it’s really difficult to calculate how you’re going to project in nature’s most primal moment. You can mostly only hope you have a cute sex face naturally, as basically all this is what it is and can’t be altered unless you’re so self-conscious that you’ll diminish your favorite experience in the interest of “putting on your best face.” And who wants to do that? Better that you just be yourself and hope for the best. Always a good policy.

Just a few minutes ago, a reader left a comment asking what ever happened to a girl named MANDY who worked at RED VELVET LATINAS. Coincidentally, I’d been considering writing a post about girls who disappear without explanation and you can thank his comment for reminding me what to write about in today’s entry.

We’re all well aware that escorts can be flighty and thus, are often here one day and completely gone the next. It kind of comes with the territory. But when you’re developing a personal relationship with one of the girls…have no precipitating event which might alienate her…and then she’s gone with a poof like in a second rate magician’s trick, it makes you wonder.

Mandy was one of those girls. One minute we were hanging out with the lady actually interested in joining me on one of my country vacations and then all of a sudden? Completely gone. Phone still on but after 10 calls, I got the message. Whatever was happening in her life…it no longer involved me. Nothing that I was aware of caused the separation. I just never found out why.

And then recently there was a girl named SOLANGE who told me I inspired her to the extent that she actually invited me to her apartment to have sex! One day I was on the phone with her just chatting away when Solange told me she had a new roommate and was being rude to her (she was in the room) and had to get off. And that was it. She never answered her phone again. Completely gone just like that.

Well anyway…it’s not like I lost any sleep over either girl as clearly, escorts come…and then they go. And I have enough experience in the industry to carpe diem whatever opportunities arise as they may never avail themselves again.

So the point is…if ever an escort offers you a free session in the future, don’t try to take a rain check. There are no rain checks in the escort freebe arena – and you must drop everything and seize the moment when opportunity knocks. Fortunately, with the two aforementioned girls, I knew…and did.

Moving on…check out TARA at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723). I’ve seen her in person. She’s pretty hot – and all natural! Great pic!



It should come as no surprise that hip hop is the favorite music genre of American escorts. You need only look at the videos American girls post on Backpage or ghetto twerk videos on You Tube to discover that almost all have hip hop in the background. And the boyfriends of American escorts are often wannabe rappers/thugs. It’s the modern day equivalent of disenfranchised girls going for 50′s greasers who rode souped up cars and motorcycles back then and were called juvenile delinquents.

Well just recently, it’s been brought to my attention that not one…but two girls who readers of this blog might recognize are aspiring rap stars themselves. And as you might have guessed…those artistic endeavors reflect their dissatisfaction with mainstream values. Thanks to You Tube, these videos are available for all to see.

I can’t remember the first girl’s video title so I can’t publish it here. But girl #2 has two videos as the female lead of a group called “Ratchet By Nature.” Googling the term, I found that the Urban Dictionary defines the word as a ghetto diva who thinks she’s the apple of every man’s eye when in fact, she isn’t! Why anybody would want to name their group “Ratchet By Nature” is beyond me. I’m probably missing something here because I’m old and the last time I checked busted chicks were whack – and not ratchet.

Anyway…I’m not going to review the following two videos. Whether I think they’re ground-breaking or simply utter horse shit produced by people who need to keep their day jobs isn’t the point today. I’m just making a sociological observation about the nature of American escorts. For whatever reason, Sinatra isn’t their thing. And now…here are the aspiring rapper’s videos. Feel free to comment.


Blogging is kind of like stepping up to the plate as a baseball player. If you write something good 30% of the time, you’re doin’ pretty good! When I read through the archives to find something old that could be something new again…I don’t bat .300. Most of what I write on this blog is either time-sensitive or just lousy. It can be difficult to find something worth republishing. Whatever…here’s one I’ve chosen.

Growing up on Long Island – in a school district demographically comprised of 85% Jews…and 15% “other,” I didn’t exactly get a culturally rich view of the world. I knew NO hispanics, NO Asians, and just a handful of black people who were the housekeepers and nannies that took care of me while my mother went to work.

When I shipped off to college, it was pretty much the same – except for a very militant black 15% segment of the student body, almost all of whom were inner city Cleveland students on scholarship…who didn’t study…and mostly posted signs the likes of “Honkies ain’t shit” around the dormitories while nobody was looking. Still…not a diverse view of the world I’m sure we can all agree.

Finally, after leaving graduate school, moving to Manhattan for a short period of time, and then going on the road for a year in a band, I got to see a little more of the world’s diverse racial and ethnic makeup. But being an East Village guy, the only hispanic culture I became familiar with was Puerto Rican. And that was mostly welfare cases sponging off the system while they sold drugs on my block. Not a fabulous view of hispanic culture.

Then came cab-driving, which introduced me to Mexicans. Habitually, three or four dishwashers would flag a yellow cab from their restaurant on The Upper East Side, and go to three or four different stops in Corona, and Jackson Heights. It wasn’t a great ride from a profitability standpoint – but I didn’t mind that much. I knew they were working a tough job for low wages. And yes, they were friendly, courteous and always tipped even if they made shit money for all their work. Viva Mexico as far I was concerned! And I still feel that way to this day.

Then I got my job at Action Magazine! As a basically native New Yorker – and a cabby who’d been to all the Queens neighborhoods a million times…I knew the geography of Queens. And as almost all the previous employees were native Philadelphians who a) didn’t know Queens…b) didn’t speak Spanish…and c) didn’t want to deal with the small to medium size advertisers in the boro, nobody wanted to bother. So when the boss discovered that I actually spoke Spanish, knew Queens, and was more than willing to go out there…he was smitten.

A couple of owners had called in for ads….and there were a few already in the paper. So I hopped the #7 train and it was off to Corona, Jackson Heights, Woodside and Flushing to sell some ads. And THIS…was my introduction to South America. All the clients were either Colombian or Venezuelan. And they couldn’t have been more different from the boriquas and boriquos in The East Village.

For starters, I understood what they were saying. For those who speak SOME Spanish (as opposed to being totally fluent), I’m sure you all agree that Puerto Ricans and Dominicans are very difficult to understand. Their dialect is slurry, slangy and just incomprehensible to anybody who studied schoolboy Spanish on Long Island. Conversely, the girls in Queens sounded like aristocracy. The language flowed from their tongues almost musically.

And because everybody from owner to floor girl got a kick out of my studied school boy Spanish – and the fact that I made the effort – and the fact that the paper brought them good customers – I became their gringo mascot. I was constantly greeted with big smiles, food from the culture, and occasional free sessions and marriage proposals.

With the exception of one house which had a cold taskmaster of an owner whose very own daughter was the top girl, I found them to be women of class and refinement – despite their dubious career choice. Whether it was Inez, or Carolina, or Nicole or Sonia, I liked them all. But Dolly was my favorite.

For me, Dolly was very beautiful. Yeah, she was cheap and always behind on her payments…but we had a friendship. We never had sex (she wasn’t feeling me that way), but that didn’t stand in the way of me enjoying her company and learning about who she was as a person.

Dolly had this funny story about her childhood. She said that when her mother took her to the park (in Colombia), she would point at the hookers and the gay crew and tell Dolly and her brother “you never want to be like those people!” And so what happened? Dolly grew up to be an escort – and her brother is gay! So much for the joy of parenthood and the offspring realizing all their parents’ aspirations.

One day Dolly and I were driving from Queens into the city. She’d decided to open a place in Manhattan to see what riches the endeavor might bring. Dolly and I had known each other for years by then and as always, she felt very comfortable confiding in me about anything that was on her mind. And on this day, Dolly complained that she never got horny anymore. She had a boyfriend but he was grousing about her lack of libido. And she was concerned.

At the time, there was this over-the-counter dietary supplement available at most bodega check-out counters called Stamina RX. It was in fact (among other ingredients) CIALIS, available for like 75 cents per dose. A client of mine (male) had recommended it to me and though it did kind of give me what I called haunch-ache, it was clearly an effective hard-on inducer that lasted and lasted. At the time, there was no cialis on the market so nobody but scientists really knew what it was about the pill. They just knew it worked. And …there was a pink-colored FEMALE stamina pac as well.

So when we got to the city, I ran into the nearest bodega and bought Dolly a couple of female stamina pax and made her a present of them. “Try these, baby and call me in the morning,” I played the doctor routine as I gifted her with the magical pills. And guess what! The next day she called to say “Ay, papito!” The shit jump-started her libido.

The only girl I speak to from those days of yore (13 years ago) is in fact Dolly. And characteristically, she owes me a few dollars which I would never chase her for. She’ll call eventually and fill me in on what’s up with the crew and I’ll harken back to those carefree days when I wasn’t glued to a computer posting those infernal web ads that go to the top and slip down the page at the speed of light only to need refreshing way too often. To think I used to ride the subway – and even ride the bike – to all those South American neighborhoods in Queens at least once every week! And now? I don’t think I’ve been out to Queens in YEARS. I get my dose of Colombians and Venezuelans right here in the city! But it’s not the same.

The Spanish houses in Manhattan are smack-dab in the middle of New York’s mostly gringo culture. When you go out to Queens – under the L – and soak in the ambience…it’s almost like traveling to a foreign country by train.

I have this one shirt I bought for ten bucks under the L years ago. It’s like this Tex-Mex deal with all kinds of embroidered cacti and Southwestern stuff. Whenever I wear it, everybody has something complimentary to say. Maybe it’s because I give off a positive vibe when I wear it…because it makes me reminisce about the old days…and how much I liked the South Americans in Queens.

As promised two days ago, a new dynamic duo has joined the Dollar Bill roster…but not before I climbed aboard the good old #7 train and rode out to Flushing for one of the best Chinese meals I’ve eaten in a long time. (The girls enticed me out to Flushing rather than come to Manhattan and the food was the prize if I did the commuting.)

So wIthout further ado I Introduce y’all to ASIAN BARBIE DOLLS (917-664-7879) which in fact are just two outstanding Korean cuties awaiting your patronage (Midtown East 50′s). Check out LEAH and CRYSTAL, both of whom want to be your girlfriends. I’m sure you’ll agree that they’re A-listers right off the bat (so to speak). Here are their photos.



…or in my case, the only thing we have to fear is beer itself! In a quirky twist of fate, it turns out that drinking a few beers…eating a meal…and passing out (which is what I usually do at the end of the day) turns out badly. Three hours after falling out I awaken in a lot of back pain! And it’s off to a burning hot shower and those weak ass meds that cut rate doctor prescribed me. It’s too bad there are so many assholes who abuse painkillers because now, doctors are hesitant to prescribe the real stuff. Years ago you could get oxycodone for a hang nail. But now? You break your back and they give you some bull shit that doesn’t work! Regardless, the point is…I wake up in much better shape (everything is relative) if I don’t drink beer before i go to bed than if I do.

And thus…I’ve decided to lay off beer unless I know I’m gonna get laid. I’m just not that much of an alchy that I have to drink beer daily when I know I’ll wake up a mess if I do. On the other hand, with the prospect of good sex…it’s worth the fall out occasionally. Overall, the experience is therapeutic. Oy! What a fucked up life I lead.

With each Saturday I volunteer at the Soup Kitchen, I find the big boss delegating me more and more responsibility. Check it out. I have a new label. I’m a crew chief. Fancy that! I’m the boss of the main distribution line. This week was really busy. Them homeless mother fuckers just kept coming and coming! Good thing my team was comprised mostly of volunteers from a Peace Corps type philanthropic organization. If I’d had last week’s crew of slackers and featherbedders, I’d have been fucked. It’s amazing how one person can perform a simple task so efficiently and easily while another looks like she’s working in molasses. Good thing I’m not anybody’s boss in real life. I’d probably fire people summarily at the first whiff of their inefficiency.

I came up with what I thought was a brilliant money-making and self-actualizing pursuit recently. Why not start a taxi blog? There’s a radio show and industry periodical I could use to advertise the site. And with that boost, I could go out and solicit every broker, grease pit and taxi dealership in the business for sidebar ads. Not a bad idea, right?

Intent on checking out the competition (if there is any), I googled “taxi blog” + New York City” and actually found two of note already in existence. The funny thing is that both are worthy (one for the anecdotes and the other for taxi news and issues)…but neither has any advertisers! And that means that the entities who spend north of 15 grand per month to advertise in the taxi newspaper aren’t ready to drop a few bucks on the Internet medium. That or the owners of these 2 blogs just aren’t salesmen or don’t care about making any money from their effort.

Maybe revving up my already-existing though dormant tranny blog (dbstrannybeat.blogspot.com) would be a better idea. Trannies are almost completely out of the Voice at this point. And if they can’t show their stuff on Eros or Backpage like they used to in Screw, maybe I could adjust mine to let them do just that! So there’s a market there! The downside is that I’d have to deal with all those freaks! Been there and done that! It’s not that I’m trans-phobic. It’s just that they’re high maintenance and low profit and can tend to be bipolar what with all those opposing hormones raging against each other in their bloodstream. (By the way…that statement is medical fact and not a stereotypical observation. Trannies by their own admission get wild right after shooting estrogen.)

Whatever…let me pull the plug on this stream-of-consciousness rant. CBS Sunday  Morning is about to start.



A couple of days ago, I rode over to GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE to take a few shots of a new girl named TARA and witnessed yet again one of the girls at the house (not Tara) displaying an attitude of outright contempt and superiority. I’ve seen her a few times now and never have I witnessed her conversing with anybody let alone reaching her hand out to introduce herself to me. In addition, Ms. Honey has already garnered several reviews which more or less reflect my observation. She’s apparently too good for everybody.

In truth, the girl looks great. Just like Pamela Anderson. And I believe she’s been in a rap video or two as well! But here’s the thing. Clearly, everything on her body is augmented. Or at least her tits and ass are. I’m always amazed when a woman lords herself over everybody all while being so insecure that she has to spend thousands of dollars to enhance not one – but two strategic girl parts. Like…what the fuck is that?!?!

After these visits, the boss wants me to let her know how I feel about the staff. She doesn’t meet all of them and trusts me to convey information about how the girls look, speak, act and basically, handle themselves. And when it comes to this girl, my feedback is always the same. “She looks great…but it’s obvious her body is totally fake. I would never want to go in the room with her owing to the girl’s air of superiority – and all those fake body parts. I hate squeezing up on plastic. It makes me feel stupid! What would I squeeze on with this girl?”

By their own admission, the girls acknowledge that a big part of their job is acting. And if you act like you’re not into it – and better than everybody…maybe you should find a new job! Some guys will adjourn with a good-looking girl even if he knows she’s a condescending douchebag. But it wouldn’t be me. If every guy was like $ Bill, she’d spend the entire shift sitting on the couch watching all the Academy Award nominees making all the money.

Anyway…no mission was accomplished that day as TARA (the photo subject) refused to take pictures on the usual grounds: boyfriends and family! But she does handle herself in a genuine fashion, has a big, natural chest, a pretty face, and speaks like a news anchor woman. I thought she was pretty hot myself.

Continuing with the ball game metaphor associated with my back problems, I decided after three weeks on injured reserve, it was time to insert myself into the ball game once more. I wasn’t really sure how much I could do for the team (or myself) but I figured it would be good for my state of mind – unless I was totally unable to perform. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. While I did experience some pain, it wasn’t so bad that I had to take myself out. As long as I didn’t have to do any gut twisters (lifting both legs at the same time with lying on my back)…and maybe a few other exercises, I was good. But that doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods yet. It still hurts to be alive and I fear I’ll be in pain for months to come. It’s just a matter of playing and living through the pain. What are ya gonna do? I’m not old enough to simply shut down and wait for the end. So I hit the comeback trail…and last night was a big step in that direction.


Yesterday, a reader brought up an interesting and what I consider to be an under-discussed point not only in the escort world – but in the world at large. Many (actually most) whites and blacks cannot distinguish among yellow-skinned people. And that is to say…a significant percentage of guys who go to visit Asian women really can’t tell the difference among Chinese, Korean, Thai, Japanese or Philippine women. They all look more or less the same – at least as far as national origin goes.

But not so for Asians themselves. They can not only distinguish among nationalities – but also tend to stereotype and/or condescend to others of their own race – but of different origins. I’ll give you a perfect example: On two different occasions, I designed ads for Korean agencies both of whom frowned when they looked at the designs and said they looked “Chinese.” It wasn’t until I delved further (on the second occasion) that I found out that Koreans think they’re better than “Chinese” and that their saying an ad looked Chinese was equivalent to a black girl telling me my ad looked “whack.” In their parlance, “Chinese” equaled “whack” in a black girl’s world. The implication was clear. Koreans hold themselves above people from China…and that if a Korean told me my ad looked Chinese, they meant it looked like shit.

I find this curious as I for one cannot tell the difference between Koreans and Chinese. But a Korean sure can. It’s like night and day to them! To my credit, I can distinguish among Vietnamese, Philippines, and Thais. And I’m starting to recognize Japanese on sight. But still, the Chinese/Korean difference baffles me. I just can’t see it.

FYI…when it comes to this blog…every Asian girl on the sidebar is Korean with one exception. Can you tell  who she is?It’s TAMI from HIYAKO. I was with the owner and Tami the day they met and marveled that the two struggled to communicate in their broken English to the point where I asked why they were conversing in my language. Was it on my account? And if it was, there was no need. The answer was (obviously)…that one speaks Korean and the other Chinese and the only common language they had between them was English.

To answer the next question (why are there so many Koreans on this blog?)…there was a time when I had several Chinese clients. But through random machinations of the business (like an agency stealing my big Chinese clients with lower prices many years back), I lost them all. Another reason would be that Chinese girls don’t take real pictures, a fact which eliminates them from this site. And the third reason is that compared to other Asian nationalities, the number of Koreans in New York’s escort world dwarfs the population of the others. In truth, there are only a handful of Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese and Philippine girls escorting in New York and as a result, easily 90% of the time you see an Asian ad, the girl will be either Korean or Chinese..and more likely to be Koran at that.

Why that is might have something to do with the affluence of the South Korean nation compared to others in the region. Affluence means mobility. And that means Koreans are more likely to seek their fortunes in the good old US of A than others from the same area. They have money to get here while others don’t…though that doesn’t account for why there are so few Japanese girls…as Japan has a high standard of living as well.

Anyway…I had a conversation with an American owner recently during which she lamented the number of black girls on one shift citing that there were too many. My answer to that was “don’t worry about the race, color or creed of the girls on shift. Worry about their physical attractiveness and service level.” And what I was saying was that in this day and age, a guy’s libido differentiates among all the racial and national differences less and less. Hot is hot…and not is not. And having an ugly white girl on shift rather than an attractive black girl just because you feel the balance is lopsided is pure folly. Good-looking is good-looking…and ugly is ugly in the 21st century’s escort world. Race is secondary. And that’s probably a good thing on balance. Korean? Japanese? Chinese or whatever? Who cares? Does the girl turn you on? That’s what matters.


Normally, if somebody asks me a question about the escort biz, it’s usually along the lines of how much do the girls really make – or who’s the best-looking escort I know? Ya know…the obvious. But recently, one curious guy posed the following inquiry. And it’s such a good question, I thought I’d turn it into an entry today.

“So given what an insulated community the Asians surely are…how did you ever become their trusted friend – being a white guy and stuff?” Obviously – from looking at the sidebar of this blog – you’ll notice there are an inordinate number of Asians considering it’s a white guy who runs the site.

The answer is pretty organic. When I was first hired by Action Magazine, we had 3 or 4 full page ads being run by big Asian house owners. The places all boasted a large waiting area filled with 8 to 10 not-so-gorgeous Asian girls all bathed in pink track lighting to make them look that much more fetching. Howard was the guy who’d broken through and convinced this demographic to advertise with the boss…and it became my job to make Howard’s collections so he could spend more of his time drumming up new business.

Collecting from these girls was not fun! They were dodgy, shady, drug-addled and essentially full of crap. Paying on time for their advertising was seemingly against their religion. And I was the guy who had to break that bad habit! As a result, I don’t think one Asian looked me in the eye for the first year of our tenuous relationship. They didn’t like paying….and they couldn’t give a crap about me.

Then one day I arrived at a moment when the girls were passing a wig around. In turn, they handed the wig to me whereupon I put it on my head and started rocking and rolling like a headbanger with pinky and forefinger in the air and head rocking back and forth flipping my new hair to and fro. The girls broke into gales of laughter and the ice was broken. I was in. And before too long, all the Asians were calling me for their ads. It was as simple as that. Word of mouth. That’s all it was.

Even better, it became apparent that Asians spent a lot more money on advertising than a lot of other national or ethnic groups so it followed that I spent most of my time courting and servicing them. Look at it this way: If you’re an escort with a roster of several regulars who pay anywhere from $100 – $500 per hour, who are ya gonna prioritize?  It’s a no-brainer. And that’s the way it evolved with me.

I’m happy to say that the new age Asians are much better-looking and better-paying than the girls from the old school. Maybe they’re just better people – or maybe I trained them. Probably the former. Whatever…if you want to know how I got into the inner clique in the first place, you now know. Months of plowing through frowns and being treated like a buck private – and then one impromptu moment when I became the entertainment. Easy as pie. And that’s it. Basically…dumb luck!

Anybody who runs a web site is well aware that a myriad of organizations offer easily-installable and free tracking software which reveals all types of information about people who visit that site. Not only do you get the raw visitor numbers as well as page views, but gender, locations, interests, operating systems and browsers (among many other things) can all be discovered via this software.

The leader in the field is not surprisingly…google analytics…a software I’ve used before and just recently installed on this blog.  So of course as a guy with no life, I’ve been delving into the numbers and the conclusion I’ve come to is that a lot of it is bull shit. For example, I don’t believe that 27% of my site’s visitors are 18 – 24 years old – and that 60% are under 36 years of age. There’s no way I appeal to a demographic that young.

On the gender front, google says that 45% of this site’s visitors are female. What?!?! I’m sorry; the girls don’t read my blog like that although it is true that a few weeks ago, one of the houses had two separate requests from women who wanted to pay for the hour with one of the girls. So who knows? But still…I really doubt it. This is a site for horn dogs of the male variety mainly.

The location and browser information seems like it would be much easier to track accurately and as a result, those numbers make sense. Almost all my viewers (97.46%) are American. I believe that as well as the numbers which say that 73% are New Yorkers and 11% live in New Jersey. In the first 3 days of tracking, readers from 37 of our 50 states have logged in.

Most interesting (and believable) are the numbers concerning what type of hardware guys are using to access this site. Fully half are from mobile devices with the iphone way in the lead and different Samsung units occupying the rest of the top 10 of 99 mobile devices that were tracked in the first 3 days. And 10% of all viewers are logging on from an ipad!

With all this information I am happy to report to the paranoid that ip addresses are not accessible. I don’t know who’s logging on so fear not. You won’t get into trouble for checking this site out.

Whatever…it’s cute to check out all these numbers in some sort of masturbatory exercise about my widespread fame. But in the end what really counts is how many people advertise here and whether they stick around or not. And I report with ambivalence that what you see on this site is just a tiny tip of New York’s escort iceberg. But at the same time…those who do advertise tend to stay – which is a good thing. I don’t really need all these numbers to tell me if this site is worth its weight in genitals. I can tell old school. But it’s still fun to fool around on google analytics.

P.S. For those interested, the two softwares I use for this site differ as to the raw numbers. Statcounter says weekday unique visits are at about 1200- 1300. Google analytics says about 1000. I believe the latter. But it goes to show that all these number should be taken with a grain of salt as you’d think each software uses a similar tracking cookie. Yet the stats differ.

Enough with the MSNBC stuff! I got a call from BLUE ANGEL (917-615-3281) a few minutes ago informing me that they have two brand new girls on staff starting today. Meet MIMI and BUNNY. Here they are! Not only are they all natural…but every girl at Blue Angel is unenhanced as well! BA is probably the only place that can make that statement with any veracity.

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I’m always curious abut how a network executive’s mind works when it comes to programming. Obviously, he or she thinks there’s a demographic interested in a variety of presentations. Gossips and people with no lives live for soap operas. Students and intellectuals go for the History Channel, Nat Geo or Discovery. Knuckleheads who love violence and have an IQ of 70 watch Springer. That’s pretty obvious.

But who watches these sex slave marathons? Tricks? Ho’s? Horny housewives? Do-gooders? Or just plain horny guys who like to eyeball the girls on the street corners during the intermittent scenes when they’re filmed in all their glory on the stroll? I’m not really sure about all that. Even I who’s been part of the business for going on 18 years wouldn’t bother unless I was flat on my back as I am now most of the day.

Well anyway…I took in 3 hours of this stuff last night when MSNBC ran what I call the MSNBC Sex Slave Marathon. And while I have to admit that the network got a lot of it right, I still feel obliged to add my two cents this morning.

First, a lot of the presentations centered around the sexual abuse girls endure during their formative years as a rite of passage into the profession. I for one, agree with that theory. I have an old joke I used to tell: There are two kinds of escorts…the ones who admit that they were sexually abused as children…and the ones who don’t…the implication being that all escorts were victimized. Some girls would say I’m an asshole who knows nothing. And others would nod their head in agreement. Whatever…I’m entitled to my opinion.

Maybe I agree with that take but there are other statements that just seem “out of left field.” One of the shows quoted the FBI as saying that 90% of prostitutes in the United States have pimps. That’s crazy! Even if you count an escort service owner as a pimp, that stat is way too high. Backpage is full of independent girls and in fact, the Internet has made the business much more indy-friendly. Running ads and owning a phone is relatively cheap. That stat needs to be corrected – as it’s very misleading to the outsider/housewife who chooses to watch the network circus.

In a few of the interviews with underage girls, I was amazed with their naivete! I know there’s a sucker born every minute – and ten hustlers lurking to take advantage of the wide-eyed. But at some point, you have to take responsibility for your own stupidity. If you’re a 16 year-old girl at a bus stop who’s accosted by someone claiming she or he runs a modeling agency – and that you’re a perfect candidate for stardom, you’d have to be suspicious if you have on ounce of gray matter between your ears. And if you went for the bait and then accepted that you have to sexually service men until your lucky break comes along…you gotta be a moron! It’s not like the television (which is the Great Educator in our day and age) doesn’t feature a myriad of shows on this very subject. I mean…come on! Don’t tell me these girls never heard of a pimp before. They inhabit BET videos ubiquitously and if nothing else, those videos should educate young girls on the realities.

And there’s another nuance that none of these shows addresses. Escorts – and especially foreigners – are prone to assessing blame for their situations on someone else. Law enforcement is looking for people who are trafficked – and views them as victims rather than felons. So wouldn’t it make sense that if you were caught between a rock and a hard place that you’d tell the authorities that you were forced into the business…especially if you know that’s what they want to hear. A big, multi-agency initiative is always considered more successful when it finds girls who are trafficked rather than girls who work of their own volition. So do the math. In fact, a major complaint of Asian girls in the business who’ve never known anybody in their years in the business who’s been hoodwinked or coerced into the trade centers around this issue and how their apprehended sisters sell out their entire segment of the industry with bull shit tales of trafficking.

Whatever…the marathon was good viewing for an injured schmuck like me on a Sunday evening. But I’m not sure I’d take it that seriously if I were an outsider looking to gain insight into the escort business. While it does have some value educationally, I see these shows more as entertainment than anything else. The programmers and producers deliver a product that they think the consumer will watch…and where prospective corporations will want to advertise. We live in a capitalistic society and thus, these shows are profit rather than truth-driven. If the truth brought an audience and advertising dollars, you’d see the truth. But too often, it doesn’t and as a result, some bastardization of the facts is what you get regardless of the show’s genre.

Reading through old posts in the archives recently, I’ve found myself reliving ancient moments in time some of which are precious – while others are painful. And a few of the uncomfortable moments came courtesy of command performances with girls for whom I had no interest.

Yup! It’s one thing to get a free session in this business. It’s what we used to live for when I slaved at Action Magazine. But it’s another when the session is with the wrong girl! As a guy whose job it was to write 9 stories each month for our paper, there were times that the advertiser would offer a free session to ensure the best story. That was the good part. The bad part was that client usually knew who her preferred subject would be. But what if I found that subject ugly? That was a conundrum! I certainly didn’t want to say something like “that chick is a dog! Got anybody else?” The advertiser could go back to my boss and report my insult whereupon I’d get in trouble.

And so…on more than one occasion, I found myself in the room with somebody who registered zero on my peter meter. I even remember one night reporting this predicament to a tranny customer…relating that I was pounding a few beers hoping to turn a prospective tepid rendezvous into a sizzling one. Her answer? “Not to worry, girlfriend! Beauty is in the eye of the beerholder!” Ha ha!

Well anywyay…years later I’m happy to report that I’ve graduated from that phase in my life and generally sleep with women who interest me exclusively. That’s not to say they’re interesting as people. That could cut the roster severely. I’m just sayin’ that at least I find them sexually attractive. So in one way…I’ve moved on up and now choose my quarry – as opposed to being handed it as part of my job.

In retrospect, I really didn’t like seeing girls who left me flaccid both literally and figuratively. And I can relate to the plight of escorts who work for bosses and thus are faced with the same dilemma. Just like it is for them now…it was part of my job many years ago. And I’m glad I can truly say that is in my past. If I were an escort, I’m sure I’d go independent for the one very significant reason that being self-employed means that I could pick and choose my customers.

I’d like to think that I understand escorts more than the average guy by virtue of all my previous employment in the business. And seeing girls in the room who I wouldn’t think twice about hitting on at a bar was one good way to relate to their lives. If nothing else, I understand one indignity an escort suffers as she reaches for the pot of gold at the end of her stainbow.

First, for those unaware…yesterday’s post was an old repeat…and the picture is not me! It’s just an image from google of a guy holding a black fish (tautog), a species which lives in the waters around New York City. As you might be able to figure out, I’ve recovered almost the entire content of the blog. The problem was (or is) that when importing the huge xml file that is all the content (including comments), only 15 megs can be recovered. And since the entire file is way bigger than that, it’s the newest posts that get imported while the older ones are cut off at the 15 meg mark. But the old ones are retrievable. I’m sure there’s a way to split the files and eventually include everything in archives accessible to the reader. But that’s not something I’m worried about for the moment. There’s still plenty to look back on.

The learning curve associated with having a new host turned out to be more of a small hill than a steep grade. Everything is more or less the same and I managed to install two tracking softwares….something I’m not sure I would have been able to do with just wordpress alone. It’s funny how the numbers on statcounter and google analytics differ. But I’m not really worried about the absolute number of visitors who come here. It’s just nice to know whether it’s a busy day or slow day. And I can tell that from the software.

On the physical injury front, I’m seeing some light at the end of the tunnel with my busted vertebra. Though I’m still hurting significantly, getting out of bed is no longer the ordeal that it was…and I was well enough to do laundry yesterday which trust me…I really needed to do!

As far as summer activity goes…this season has seen nothing in the way of travel or even dips in the Asser Levy Pool. No Bear Mountain…no Phoenicia. Absolutely nothing. And only one ride to Staten…and one to the GWB along the Hudson. Pretty pitiful for a country boy at heart like me. But there’s still time. It’s only the end of July.

For fans of baseball (which I am not), I highly recommend an author named Dirk Hayhurst. Gayhurst, as his locker room bullies used to call him, was a marginal pitcher who spent 6 years in the minors – and a few up in the show – before his retirement. A less noteworthy career in baseball would be hard to imagine. But Dirk had a talent very few of his teammates or coaches understood. He’s a great writer! And by his last year in baseball, his first book appeared on the New York Times bestseller list and based on its success, earned him a $350,000 advance for two more! Go figure.

If you want to hear some excellent back stories about baseball (especially the huge difference between playing in triple a versus the majors), these books are very entertaining. Of course, while he was writing them and still playing, there were several coaches and teammates uncomfortable with him peeling back the layers to reveal inside baseball. Something I could relate to for sure! Whatever…if you liked Ball Four by Jim Bouton, you’ll find Hayhurst’s takes just as entertaining.

Well…the sun is out…and the stores are open. So it’s time to buy some milk for my morning cereal and then off to the soup kitchen to feed the less fortunate.


Often when I go back in the archives for a repeat, I’m impressed with how unimpressive most of what I write truly is. But just when I’m about to get depressed with my utter lack of writing skills, I’ll find a (relative) winner to drive me back from the brink. And this is one of my faves. I hope you agree! Ignore the first line, though. It was written before my retirement. I am no longer chained to my computer!

More or less chained to my computer like it’s some kind of dialysis machine or something, I harken back to my former life…one which did NOT revolve around escorts. Back then, I not only worked with immigrants – but I worked LIKE an immigrant as well. It’s like this:

The easiest, most care-free and least-involved way to drive a cab was simply to show up at the garage unannounced at 4 PM on any given day. The boss put the freelancers at the back of the line and the few of us who worked that way didn’t always get a taxi. But over time, Victor, Isaac, Maury, Moise, Abie and whichever Israeli owner I worked for at which moment became my friends. I was working for the taxi paper….writing for The Daily News and The Times and most of all…didn’t beat them for their lease fee or crack up the cars. So within a reasonable period of time, I almost always got a cab whenever I wanted one.

Once I got that cab…it was on! When I leased a taxi for 12 hours, I drove for like 13 of them. I almost never got out of the cab or stopped searching for fares once I’d paid for the shift. And I had that hustle filleted like a mother fucker. I knew every light series…every late night haunt….just everything! The Publisher of the taxi paper used to call me The Tai Chi Cabby!

But sometimes 12 straight hours of bouncing around dodging potholes, traffic and danger wasn’t enough stimulation. At 5 AM after 12 hours of driving, I’d go home to pick up my bucket and fishing pole…drop the cab off at the garage…and take the subway out to Sheepshead Bay to go fishing on The Sea Wolf, one of the many commercial boats docked in Brooklyn. 

The Sea Wolf was the crappiest boat in the entire fleet. But the Captain and his First Mate were a show unto themselves. They’d constantly fight about “wind versus tide” and where to anchor…and just anything. When we’d finally set on the wreck and begin fishing, Captain Ed would open the pages of Screw Magazine and from his position at the helm flash me his favorite pictures. “Hey, Billy! Catch me one of these!” he’d plead showing me a photo of a big-breasted slut! And then when the fisherman started pulling them up, he’d do a play by play like he was Marv Albert or something! “Whoa! I’m seein’ double” he’d cry as two fish got yanked over the rails.

Too much fun! After an entire night of fighting the city what could be better than a day on the water? Not only that, the demographic of The Sea Wolf’s fishermen was basically (with the exception of me) one of Afro-American retirees. I only went fishing on weekdays to avoid the crowds so who goes fishing during the week? Hello! Retirees – and a cab driver. Those guys were the best. No pretense and no designer threads on these dudes – although occasionally, you’d see a geezer wearing a cap that said “Fishermen have longer poles.” Everybody was so mellow. If lines got tangled, nobody got a fucking attitude. We’d just unsnarl the lines and go back to fishing again.

Then there was “the pool.” For those unfamiliar….at the beginning of the trip, all participants would throw 3 bucks into the kitty…and the guy who caught the biggest fish got the money. At the outset, I didn’t go in the pool because I’m cheap…and knew a lot of these guys would outfish me. But over time, I became a pretty good goddamned fisherman and came to realize that betting on myself would be a wise choice.

So I won a couple of pools and then one day there was a different mate on the boat. Artie and Ed had fought so badly that the former quit and there was a new guy. Anyway…I go in the pool and at the end of the day, figured I’d won when out of nowhere, somebody’s got a bigger fish than mine! Hmmm! But there was something hinky in the deal. First, guys usually made a a lot of noise when a big fish came over the rail. That hadn’t happened. Second, big fish usually live for a while after they’re caught – especially if you put them in a water-filled bucket. This biggy was as dead as a doornail. And third, the guy who won the pool paid me 3 bucks to clean his fish – which I presumed was his way of saying “I’m sorry. You won the pool but I had a dirty deal going with the mate. We split the pool money and he gives me a ringer while nobody’s looking.” Ya see! There’s graft and corruption at every level of society. So much for my mellow fishing buddies.

The next time I went on the boat, Artie, the old mate, was back. I told him the story whereupon he made the same arrangement with me that I assumed the previous mate had made with the other guy. And sho’ nuff…I won the pool and Artie and I split the money. Nuthin’ like passing on the love, right? The funny thing was…I actually DID catch the biggest fish. Artie didn’t have to surreptitiously dig up a ringer and risk getting caught!

Eventually, Captain Ed asked me if I wanted to work for him as Artie’s substitute. The guy wanted me to be his mate! That was a supreme compliment. I could fish free, make 25 bucks AND sell my fish right from the deck of the boat when we came back to the dock! I felt like I’d arrived! But I didn’t take the job. That was right about the time I got a full time job at Action Magazine and effectively left the taxi and fishing worlds.

I think about Ed and Artie and wonder are they still fishing on that flea bag boat? And does Ed have a lap top with wifi now that SCREW is gone? Most people considered me a loser back then. After all, what self-respecting American would drive a fucking cab? But in retrospect, I’m not so sure. I had so much freedom – and so many choices. I’d wake up in the morning and ponder “What am I gonna do today? Ya feel like fishing, driving, lap dancing or writing an op-ed that some ‘real’ paper might publish?” And ya know…all four look like better alternatives than sitting in front of a computer all day!

I guess society’s yardstick for who’s a winner and who’s a loser doesn’t necessarily apply. And I’m not so sure I wasn’t doing better then than I am now. But then again…sitting in the private room at Asian Paradise yesterday…surrounded by Asian cuties in bikinis streaming Korean TV on their laptops and primping for the next visitor could be viewed as a pretty good deal also. So I guess it’s all subjective. Regardless, I find that my favorite television show currently is “Wicked Tuna” and not “Cathouse!” And that oughtta tell ya something right there!

…with the emphasis on the number 64! So lately with the constant pain…and the reality that just getting dressed is a major undertaking…I try to exercise mind over matter to get out and do something every day. Reading is out for the moment as it seems to exacerbate the pain so it can get pretty boring watching television all day. Thus, even a trip to the supermarket or fruit stand is a welcome diversion. I know…how pitiful is that?

Well anyway…I noticed that GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723) had a new girl listed on their blog so I called over to see if the boss was in need of my photographic services. Once upon a time they had a guy who called himself a professional photographer. But while he did bring lights and expensive equipment, I wasn’t crazy for his photography. The dude had a penchant for shooting the girls up close and cutting off body parts in the process. And worse…he couldn’t separate business from pleasure…which is to say he wanted to get paid and laid…and do the latter while he was shooting (so to speak). Plus he was “creeping” the girls out…making them uncomfortable and what not. And that’s something that’s not that easy to do! Bottom line: Me being cheaper and much more laid back with the girls gave me the gig…even if he’s a pro and I’m an amateur.

Getting back to the point…the answer was yes (to the photography) and I suited up (which means got dressed) and rode over ready to immortalize AMANDA (the new girl) on celluloid (or digitoid as it were).

After maybe 10 minutes of wait time (during which I caught up on local news with the manager who I hadn’t seen for a while), Amanda and I adjourned upstairs to take the pictures. Dressed in a not-too-revealing outfit, it was hard to immediately ascertain what would work until halfway into the job, I asked Amanda to lift her dress so I could view the assets with a mind toward accentuating the positive. That’s when I discovered that she’s a PAWG.

I thought everybody knows what a PAWG is by now but surprisingly, nobody in the house did and all in attendance were tickled to discover that PAWG is an acronym for phat ass white girl…which AMANDA definitely is! Once apprised of her major asset, the rest of the shoot went easily. Amanda had the goods; I needed only to show them!

In the middle of all this..in walked GINGER and NINA, the Bobbsey Twins of the escort business. “Billy! You don’t mind if we eat, right?” asked the dynamic duo. This was more or less a rhetorical question as they knew the answer would be “no problem.” I know these girls from 3 different places. They’re hardly strangers to me. Plus…my photography sessions never have a closed door to anybody who wants to watch – unless it’s a meddlesome owner hell bent on fucking the entire deal up.

And so…the girls chowed while I shot. And when Amanda and I were done, she excused herself leaving me alone with Frick and Frack at which point I let them know the reason I’d been so scarce of late was owing to my current injured reserve status when it comes to “indoor sports.” Offhandedly, I added that at 64, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to participate in those games even after my back gets better.

With no hesitation, Ginger responded that she’d been pondering that situation as well! Call me silly…but I was supremely complimented. To think that one of these princesses of predation would actually take the time to consider my expiration date in an incredibly idle moment took me by surprise. I expect that none of these girls thinks about me at all once we leave the room. Go figure!

Nina went on to hypothesize exactly how my denouement  would go…which in her crystal ball included a slow and graceful segue to black. Wow! Talk about future-oriented. I haven’t even thought about that myself …yet these two girls had apparently discussed the issue at length without me present!

And there’s your “64″ thousand dollar question: At age 64 how much longer can I interface meaningfully with girls 1/2 my age? As if I can now!

Well…I’m not gonna worry about all that. I just want to get better in the short term. Pain is not the constant companion I’m looking for! So first things first. I’ll work on that!

Anyway…NINA vogued for the lens as well. So here’s Amanda and Nina from yesterday.


No, this isn’t about the first tranny I ever sold an ad to. It’s about the first time I ever SAW a tranny! Ya know…back when she males weren’t in vogue and most people didn’t even know that trannies existed! The year was 1974. And the place was Richmond, Virginia. The circumstances? Let me dial back those 40 years to explain.

After graduating from college with honors and attending graduate school for a hot minute, I decided to punt the academic world – and my fellowship – to pursue a career in music. But being young and dumb and having no clear picture of exactly how to succeed in my new pursuit, all I really wanted to do was go on the road with a band…see the world…and hopefully, eke out a living in the process.

And so every Wednesday, I would pick up The Village Voice and cull through the “public notice music” ads looking to somehow hook up with a road band – or at least some kind of work to pay the rent. Initially, I found dribs and drabs of junk to tide me over but eventually through dogged determination, finally hit the road about a year and a half later with “The Jamissohn Scott Revue,” what was called a “show band” back then.

Though it got a little better as my year with the outfit went by, at the outset, the band would travel by car on a moment’s notice wherever our agent sent us. The jobs entailed playing six nights per week…four or five sets per night..for the lofty sum of $180 for each band member! Once having found the club in whichever city to where we’d been dispatched, we then had to hustle up some rooms at the local flea bag. That usually cost $30 per man for the week! And it was at The Capitol Hotel, the dump we found in Richmond, that I glimpsed my first tranny!

Upon hearing our next destination (Richmond), I was totally stoked. Being a big Civil War buff at the time, the prospect of playing in the capital of The Confederacy was much more appealing than working in Rochester and Syracuse NY, Springfield, Mass., and South Amboy, NJ…our four previous locations.

The engagement was at The Jester Club, an irony for sure given that the clown who owned the joint wrote us rubber checks, and that week stood as the only occasion during which we actually NEVER got paid. But that’s not the point. The week was certainly not a total loss in retrospect. I dragged my roommate around to all the museums…and the girl who fronted the band ran into a carny who invited us to HIS little piece of road heaven. And THAT carny was something from another world.

They had the clown sitting atop the big tub of water baiting people with insults so they’d buy balls to try to hit the target and dunk him! They had actual bear rasslin’ (though the bear was declawed), and a funky strip show with nasty black girls with attitudes and a bunch of old black musicians playing “The Stripper” as the skanks gyrated for the crowd (though they didn’t actually strip). And they even had a couple of freaks, too!

Well anyway…back at the flea bag, Ravioli (my roommate) and I were listening to the latest tunes of the day one afternoon. If you wanna know how long ago this was…I gotta describe the scene. Way back then, cassette players were brand new. And while the drummer had one for his own entertainment, Rav and I were still old school vinyl. Hence, we actually travelled with a milk crate full of our favorite albums, a turntable, a pre-amp and a Fender Champ practice amp. I gerry-rigged all the components together and BAM! We had tunes! I know it sounds ridiculous but that’s what it was! All the elements had vacuum tubes and the unit actually had a clear crisp sound.

I can remember that at the time, our favorite cut was “Only So Much Oil In the Ground,” by Tower of Power. Ironic to ponder that given the current state of affairs. Talk about a band ahead of its time! Whatever…one afternoon, I ducked out of the hotel to score a little food and there she was! MY FIRST TRANNY… a black he/she inhabiting the room next to ours. So I got the sandwiches and came back to tell Ravioli what I’d just seen.

It really was NOT a very momentous occasion. We both knew the hotel was full of geezers and welfare cases and what not. So it came as very little surprise that some androgynous freak of nature would be mixed in with all the miscellaneous nuts and bolts. Nobody lost any sleep or jerked off to the thought of that very first tranny. Or at least, I didn’t!

To finish the story…on the last night of our gig, the clown of an owner handed us each a check for the week. The rest of the band split on that Saturday night, but I convinced Rav to stay in town till Monday morning to cash our fucking checks. And of course, the checks were worthless as I’d suspected all along and we never got paid. But it wasn’t a total loss. Instead of heading back to NY (we had our first week off in two months) on I 95, Rav and I went back on The Skyline Drive, a very beautiful glimpse at nature. Plus I went to all the museums in Richmond…attended a real live country carny AND saw my first tranny.

I remember each and every stop we made that year I stayed with that band, and thinking back, Richmond was NOT one I’d rather we’d missed even though we got ripped off. In fact, it was the single most culturally enriching experience of the year. So who gives a crap if I never got paid? That week made for a lifetime memory.

As you probably noticed, I was so mired in tech hell today that I didn’t have time to post anything. But all’s well that ends well hopefully. I’ve climbed yet another learning curve effectively hiring a site host who won’t delete me without notice – or at all. So I trust that today was the last time you’ll ever log on to find a deleted blog – or at least that’s what they’re telling me. We shall see. Whatever…this wordpress platform is the one I’ll be using for better or worse. And really…it’s not that bad. Blogger has its advantages and disadvantages – just as WordPress does. I’m just happy to be out of the woods and not constantly worrying about the blog disappearing.

In the process, I did lose a huge amount of content which I may or may not be able to restore. That will be the next mountain to climb. Oh joy! Time to lie down and rest my weary back. Until tomorrow.

A few weeks back, I invoked the old adage about youth being wasted on the young. How original! Not! Pretty much all geezers are of that opinion. If only we’d understood at the time…maybe we’d have enjoyed life if we’d only realized.

Well anyway… I was watching CBS Sunday Morning as usual when on came a segment about a wilderness Henry David Thoreau wrote about many many years ago…and how it essentially hasn’t changed in all the years since. Parking lots…high rises…and all that kind of stuff go up to ruin our old pristine youthful hangouts…but the Allagash Wilderness has stayed the same. 

On the screen came the images of old guys canoeing down a river which looks exactly the same now as it did a century and a half ago. It was nice and everything…but what struck me was that I myself had explored that wilderness 50 years ago when I was but 14 years old…thanks to my mother’s program designed for her boys’ summer enlightenment.

The kids in my neighborhood all went away to coed sleepaway camp at that time in my life. But not me! My mother’s mantra at the time was that we needed to “summer” meaningfully. And she had no intention of sending us away so we could learn to “feel up girls.” Thus, instead of grabbing my first handfuls of female flesh, I ended up in military school type camps…or on wilderness trips biking all over Nova Scotia or caoneing through the wilds of Maine.

That summer in the Allagash Wilderness was a bear for sure. We rowed, portaged and got dunked on a daily basis. Rarely did I have dry clothes, dry bedding or enough to eat. We saw nothing but deer, bear and moose. No budding female buds for this guy! And the fact that we were humping though Henry David Thoreau’s pristine wilderness never for one second entered our minds. If there was a lesson to be learned it was that Eric Moskowitz was willing to pay me ten times the store price tag for my Yankee Doodle cupcakes three days into the trip.

At the time, I had little to no appreciation for what I was experiencing, Henry David Who? I didn’t give a crap. All I knew was I was on another of my old lady’s hair-brained excursions when I could have been squeezing coed tits like my homies. I was not happy!

Obviously, I’ve made up for lost time on the tit and ass-squeezing front – and in spades. But when it comes to humping in the wilderness, I can’t seem to ever get my fill. It’s a funny thing that those mom-mandated trips now make up some of my fondest childhood memories. Like at Camp All-America (where I spent one summer)…I opted for a basketball clinic one morning instead of my usual baseball routine…and didn’t particularly like it. Coach was a slave driver whose named happened to be Red Auerbach! I never went back and spent the rest of the summer playing baseball every AM. Schmuck! Youth wasted on the young.

If only I hadn’t been such an asshole, I might have known about these invaluable moments. But I was too young and headstrong to understand the old adage. And it’s now some 50 years later that I’ve finally come to understand.

Speaking of youth, I intend to begin reliving mine this week…as my back continues to improve. While there might be snow on the roof…there’s still some heat in the furnace. And I’m not one to let that heat go to waste. What remains of my youth will not go unappreciated anymore! It’s a promise I’ve made to myself.

There’s nothing quite like getting a promotion at a job for which you don’t get paid in the first place. But there it was regardless. “OK! Everybody on the food production line. Follow Billy. He’s your boss today!” And so I got to lord over a homeless lady…an old lady…a middle aged lady…and two Indian chicks who work at Morgan Stanley. Who da man? Dollar Bill da man!!

Anyway…as you can tell…I dragged my ass off to the Soup Kitchen brokeback notwithstanding and did what I had to do. I figure it’s better to be out doing something than to be home constantly shifting my position in a vain search for one in which I’m not in pain. That Tramadol crap has become “pain killer light” as far as I’m concerned. It’s not getting me high nor relieving my pain anymore. But on the plus side…I can see some light at the end of the tunnel. I’m better than I was a week ago.

Whatever….as promised…here’s the pic of ALISHA at ASIAN MODELS (347-256-7143). Happy Sunday.

Up and running regardless, “Brokeback Bill” (minus the gay cocksucking) hit the road today when the phone girl over at ASIAN MODELS/PARADISE (347-256-7143) called to invite me over so I could check out their 2 new girls.

First was TARA, a flirtatious cutie I’d met before…and second was ALICIA, a brand-new and very fetching young lass with a flawless physique from head to toe. Based on her physical appearance, Alicia could make the A-list. She’s that perfect. As far as service goes? Only time will tell…but I can say unequivocally, Alicia’s a natural beauty who will not disappoint visually. Pix coming soon. Here’s Tara.

 I’ve written about girls and their phones…and girls and their orgasms…and girls and their false sense of entitlement. But I’ve neglected to talk about girls and their photos…or at least girls who insist on using pictures that won’t work as well as others. And now today I feel obliged to broach the last topic because a few ladies made requests today which in my view will ensure that they sit around not making money when other images on hand would work better.
So I’ve decided on my policy with these individuals. I’ll use the pictures they want…but hang up when they call to complain they’re not making money. The problem is that girls don’t understand what a guy will like because they’re not guys! They think what they like is what will make them money. And I think they’re wrong!
Take girl #1. Her #1 asset is her chest. Displaying her cleavage is what will bring the school boys to the yard. We have a halfway decent photo of her featuring deep cleavage, but she now has a different hair style. So the girl had her friend shoot a grainy photo with the head cut off and her breasts covered in favor of accentuating her midriff which is not her best asset! What the fuck is the point of that?
Then she in turn took a picture of her friend who actually has a couple of very good shots from a couple of years ago. But now she’s had a certain body part  augmented – and she wants to show it off. The problem is that body part looks fake. I can see it…and I assume other guys will notice as well. Guaranteed she won’t do as well with the new pictures.
And finally…another individual requested a booty shot taken with her in full dress rather than the front pic which featured her booming cleavage. There’s no way anybody is going to ask for her based on the former. What are ya gonna do?
I’ll tell ya what. I honored everybody’s request and posted what they wanted. It’s kind of like being a car salesman and telling the customer in all honesty that “this Buick is a good car and that Oldsmobile is a piece of shit. I know I sell these cars”…only to have the customer insist on the Olds. So what do you do? You sell the client the fucking Olds. Then when they come back to say “hey! You sold me a piece of crap” you simply answer “you sold yourself that piece of crap. I told you which one to buy but you wouldn’t listen.”
Anyway…and fortunately (come to think of it)…they all work at houses so I probably won’t have to hear it directly. It will come from the boss who will no doubt sympathize so who cares? I’ll just do what they tell me to do and leave my two cents for this blog.

Blog looking a little different today? Don’t ask. Too boring! Anyway…rebuilding everything is usually a good time to contact everybody to see what’s new. And the answer to that is check out ASIAN FLOWER (646-639-1195) and GOLDEN ASIAN (646-391-2639) for some fresh cuties. You’ll find NANA and MAY at the former (Flower) and ANA and LUCY at the latter (Golden). All look worthy to me and I hear that they’re reasonably young and pretty.

“…and break your mother’s back”…is an expression with which every child is familiar. In my case, that old adage has morphed into “get your bike tire stuck on a crack and break your own mother fucking back!” Yesterday morning I got the message from the doctor. The x-rays show that I have a compression fracture of vertebra L3. I had a feeling I’d done something more than strain my back at the very moment after the accident.
Strain or fracture notwithstanding…the treatment is the same. Take the drugs…and grin and bear it. The owner of GC dispatched her boyfriend to my door with an elastic back brace. Now right there is a friend. Many years ago she did some gardening in high heels and experienced a similar painful episode. She could relate.

Anyway…hell bent on carrying on…I actually hopped on my iron steed yesterday and rode  5 miles with 4 stops. And really, it wasn’t that terrible. The worst part was locking the bike – which requires bending over with a heavy chain. I quickly realized that I need to drop to one knee to get that job done. I’m not sure the doctor would have approved but I figure getting out and living is preferable to sitting at home and thinking about how much my back fucking hurts. One commenter suggested that episodes like this are character builders. If they are…I must have a lot of character as this isn’t the first time I fell off my tricycle and experienced a long period of painful recovery.

Sorry to say that with all 4 stops yesterday I saw only owners and phone girls – and have no anecdotes to relate about the girls of interest to most readers. That’s a sad fact which has nothing to do with my injury. I just didn’t see anybody. What can I say…except that the phone girl at HOT LIPS and I have a running gag about her being my girlfriend. Every time we talk I ask “so you still love me?” When I arrived yesterday she wanted to know “where’s my ring?”  Ever since I met her at BUNNY GIRLS there’s been something I like about her. She’s got Korean soul.

At LOVELY ASIAN I was happy to reunite with Yoon, another phone girl I like who’s been off the scene for a couple of years. The super cutie who works behind the desk at NY SPA was not in attendance yesterday…but the two girls who were weren’t bad themselves. And of course…that place is immaculate and spacious.That’s enough for the moment. I just don’t have a lot of news.
Riding a bike in New York is a great thing – until you have an accident. Then? Not so good! My mishap was caused by rubbish on a ramp right where there’s a slight lip in the concrete. And all in a 180 degree turnaround. Talk about a perfect storm!
Anyway…lest you think I made all this up to elicit sympathy from my readers, I offer this selfie of my elbow. This part of the injury is currently causing about 1% of my discomfort. Alone, this is nothing. It’s the torn-up back muscles that are killing me. In 2 hours, I’m going to see the doctor who I assume will put me in the ozone for a couple of weeks when he sees the kind of shape I’m in.
I was scheduled to do some visiting today but I’ve already postponed the whole deal until tomorrow when hopefully, drugs will miraculously put me back in a state of mind in which I don’t feel like sleeping for the next 3 months. We shall see. Witnesseth!

I received several e-mails from HIYAKO (212-679-3681) this morning so here goes with the 411:

1. AIMEE is on vacation for 2 months. If you missed her (and she was pretty cute), you’ll have to wait for a while.

2. NANA is gone for the foreseeable future and JOY is now part time.

3. A girl named SUNNY (36D but I don’t think it’s that Sunny – you’ll have to call) is there today.

4. A busty Japanese girl named AIKO started recently – pix on the way.

5. And finally…AMY is new and here’s her pic.

Call for more info.

Wow! For a guy who doesn’t take pills, getting prescribed Super Strength Tylenol, Motrin, and an opiate called Tramadol at the same time has rendered me unrecognizable in the mirror. I feel like one of the zombies in Night of the Living Dead. I can’t say I like the feeling but I can now stand to be alive – though I’m still in a lot of pain. Just not quite as badly as I was. Why they gave me tramadol instead of oxycodone was difficult to understand until the doctor explained to me the harsh reality of people like my old drug addict “buddy” abusing that drug so egregiously  that doctors are hesitant in prescribing oxy because of all the junkies out there.

Initially, I was disappointed that she (the doctor) didn’t prescribe the big stuff for me but let me tell y’all…this tramadol is plenty heavy. I am truly in an altered state of mind. Asked the customary question “you don’t operate any heavy machinery do you?” I couldn’t help but think to answer “ya mean besides the heavy machinery between my legs?”  Ha ha! I wish. Whatever…I don’t think I’ll be putting that machinery – whether heavy, light or in between – anytime soon.

To be serious, I did ride my bike to the doctor’s office yesterday and found it less taxing than walking. So starting today, I’ll be back on the horse – albeit at a reduced speed and a lowered seat. And I think I’ll be ok. Just not my usual 20-something acting self. Life goes on.

I assume that readers of this blog are beginning to think “we sympathize with you Bill but when do we get back to something worth reading?” Starting tonight…I promise. Just let me get used to my new personality. And now I think I’ll pull out my old Jimi Hendrix album and listen to Purple Haze. I’m out.

I awakened early this morning…turned on the tv…and started channel surfing until I found a “Bootybangerz” hour on MTV. Figuring “what’s better than a little bootycentric softcore porn in the morning (which I knew was what the show would amount to), I decided to sit through the hour with the mindset of a music critic. And a few things struck me immediately.

First, I couldn’t help but notice that all the artists and almost all the video vixens were women of color. Yo! Where my PAWGS at, fellaz? (For those unenlightened, PAWG is an acronym for phat ass white girl.) You could have found at least one or two! Dat’s racist! Second…where my melody at? Answer: There are no melodies in booty music. It’s all rhythm, rap and bump and grind. Ya want melody? Try Tony Bennett!

Because this was MTV and not BET…and the presentation was just one hour long…the content was essentially a greatest hits hour. I know that because I actually recognized most of the songs – if not the videos themselves. And if I who doesn’t follow hip-hop knows most of the tunes, these were obviously the biggest hits in the genre.

If I were to give out awards based on what I’d seen, I’d give the grammy to SIR MIXALOT for “Baby Got Back.” Best Sense of Humor would go to LL COOL J for “Big Ole Butt.” And for the video with the biggest and juiciest butts? “Twerk It” by BUSTA RHYMES and NICKIE MINAJ who incidentally does have a big ole butt herself.

So more important…where would you find a bangin’ booty on this blog? Unfortunately, there aren’t that many as they tend to be the assets of latin or black girls neither of which predominate the sidebar.
Regardless…for the biggest and  most solid butt…the award goes to SAPPHIRE at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE. Big, round and like a rock hers surely is. And if you like your girls thick, bango! Check out Sapphire.

For roundness and jiggle…it’s a tie. IMAN and KAYLA of GC (again) are your go-to-girls. And in the latina category…check out RUTH and RED VELVET LATINAS (212-752-1796). She surely got a big ole butt! And let’s not forget TATIANA (917-284-4308) yet another astounding latina with a solid round booty!

In an ironic twist of fate, it turns out that the one position in which I have almost no back pain since my accident is on all fours…in the tub…with hot water gushing onto my lower back. Not a pretty or bootylicious sight I’m quite certain (though I haven’t checked in a  mirror). Who cares? Just a couple of seconds of relief feels like the ultimate blow job. That’s how fucked up I am!

Hopefully, I’ll get to see the doctor today and he or she will give me something to knock me out. And now that I’ve sat in pain and written today’s entry, I think I’ll hit the shower and do my own geezer version of “Body Too Bootylicious”…in the tub…where hopefully, there are no hidden cameras. I’m out.

So I had a itty bitty mishap on my bike yesterday courtesy of a ramp over the FDR with a slight bump on a turnaround, and I am now crippled. I mean…seriously crippled. Ya gotta see me get out of bed. It’s a process which takes a couple of minutes and inevitably includes at least one spasm during which I cry out in pain. Good thing I have food and drink around. I don’t think I can make it to the store.  And forget about sex on top. I don’t picture that happening for months. As I’ve said before…living alone is cute until you get sick or injured. Not that anybody can do anything for the pain.

Anyway…I’m on ibuprofen…but I actually wish I had my old drug addict girlfriend who used to take 14 percosets every day. I could use one about now…though I absolutely hate taking that stuff. It upsets my stomach and makes my head feel like it weighs 50 pounds. And sitting and typing right now is significantly uncomfortable. But I couldn’t do it at all yesterday so there’s hope.

On to a little news…YOYO (the up and down girl) has moved 20 or so blocks downtown to ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305).  Here’s her pic. I’m debating as to whether to hit the emergency room to get checked out. It’s going to be very painful getting there – and sitting until I see a doctor who won’t be able to do anything for me that I’m not already doing for myself already.