Here’s the repeat I’ve been promising plus some PAGE SIX stuff at the end.
Once upon a time I had two tranny clients who were lovers. They lived together…fucked each other…and fought constantly! And I don’t mean verbal. I mean knock out/drag out physical altercations. And one always emerged victorious begging the question: Why would the loser even enter into the competition?
These bitches were the fucking worst. I’d travel to 92nd Street to arrange for their ads and they would ALWAYS jew me down on every price every time. Once having established their discounted rate, the two would dive underneath the sink and pull out a cabbage roll of money!
I’d say something like “You whittled me down to the bone and then have the balls to show me all that money?” They’d laugh and respond with “This is for our surgery!” How’s this? Fuck you and your fucking surgery. You’re beasts. You were born that way and you’ll die that way…you fucking whores!
When it came to surgery, these skanks were insane! Like…how many fucking nose jobs do you need? Isn’t one enough? I had to laugh when via the grapevine I heard that one’s penile enlargement surgery went bad and she had to have part of her dick amputated. Hello! Are you getting the message? TOO MUCH SURGERY!
Maybe they needed all the work done just to cover up the injuries they were inflicting on each other. The witch who sold ads at SCREW used to ask me “What the hell is going on with those two? So-and-so had scratches and black and blue marks all over her face?”
I was in their apartment once when the pot was about to boil – actually, a couple of times. Had I not been there, it would have been mayhem! One day, another client on 92nd Street – a female – asked me “What’s with those crazy fucking trannies down the block? Those bitches were smacking the shit out of each other right in the middle of the street the other day!”
Eventually, the two douchebags gave me a royal financial fucking and I stopped taking their ads. They were just too horrible to deal with. And they weren’t alone. I had too many repulsive she males on my elite list of flatbacking receptacles. Now? I’m down to a precious few – and happier for it. I’ve known The Last Mohicans for at least 10 years each, and can depend on them to be rational. And actually, I count them among my best friends in the business. But DEBORAH and KENYA? Blcccch! They’re no longer together but I can assure you that somewhere and somehow…they’re selfishly fucking somebody over! Good riddance to bad rubbish as they say. In a perfect world, those two would get back together and beat each other to death! COOL! Now that’s a show I’d pay a hundred bucks to see! Hey! A guy can fantasize!
Now back to olden times when there were only two genders! SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707) has yet another new girl named JUNE. She’s a natural C…new to New York…and only staying for 10 days. Hurry, hurry! Here she is:
And check out this picture I found of EMMA. Hot! The girls actually take their own photos at Sweet Asian Vixens. And I’m quite sure the bodies are never photoshopped. Just FYI. Whatever…here’s EMMA!
So many things to write about and so little time! Yet, I have my days where I sit for minutes with no clue as to what the fuck am I going to write. Actually, I have a list of oldies all queued up for publication to fill the writers’ block on those mental void days and in consideration of my imminent plans for a vacation.
One of my old cab-driving buddies has moved to the garden mecca of Scranton, PA and has offered to drive me out there and back (he has to come to the City to answer some old tickets as it turns out) simply because he can’t find anybody who’ll go canoeing with him! And thus he called…and I’m stockpiling worthy oldies. While Scranton is not quite the recreational canoeing capital of the world, there are some significant outdoor activities just a few minutes drive away…and John knows when it comes to fucking off in the country, I’m his go-to guy!
Whatever…I’m home today and for some reason I can’t recall, thought back to my first road gig as a musician last night. So that’s what you’ll read about today. And actually, it’s kind of an entertaining story.
Once I’d left the paid-for graduate school program somebody thought I was suited for, it was onward and upward with music. But I was not that enlightened garage band/Steely Dan kind of guy who wrote songs and recorded them. I was just a schmuck who wanted to hit the road…play in a band…eke out enough money to eat…and of course, have sex with girls. I was not a complicated guy.
So after the blues band I was playing with in New Orleans broke up (I went to grad school at Tulane), I packed up the van and moved back to New York. The plan was simple: Answer all Village Voice Public Notice Music ads for which I felt qualified and hopefully, score a gig. Every Wednesday, I’d go to the newsstand, buy the paper, and begin dialing.
Of course, most of the ads were bull shit. But with some persistence and industry, I managed to get a smorgasbord of local work with which I barely paid the rent while living in of all the glamorous neighborhoods – Jackson Heights, Queens. As I said, I was getting some crappy work but somehow, that elusive full time road gig in the sky hadn’t materialized.
Maybe a year after beginning this pursuit, I joined up with yet another rehearsal band hoping to hit the road and finally, this one happened. But it was no cherry pick…not like I made an audition with an established band and suddenly was off to the races.
First we rehearsed part-time at Dangerfield’s (if you remember that place). Then we were evicted and the band leader offered that he knew of a house in Springfield,Massachusetts where we could finish rehearsing. I should mention that he had an agent and once were ready, we would be booked to work 6 nighters at Holiday/Ramada Inns and the like. At least that part, we had covered.
But there was a wrinkle: In fact, our fearless band leader was a gay gigolo! And the house where we rehearsed was owned by the old lady who’d bought him a Corvette, PA and charts with which to start a road show band. Now in 2015, this kind of stuff is pretty tame to me. But back then? S-c-a-n-d-a-l!
While the sexual orientation of each band member wasn’t really a problem, the fact remained that the leader was gay…the trumpet player was gay…and the female singer was bi. There were three heteros in the band (me, the drummer and sax player) and a 7th member (bass) who wasn’t really part of the unit yet (they kept coming and going). Thus there was some political lobbying concerning the 7th member. He would break the tie and presumably have a significant effect on band policy. This is mostly neither here nor there but I do mention the band’s homosexual component for a reason.
After two weeks of rehearsing in the country,, Jamissohn (the leader) announced that we had our first gig! It was a two-nighter in Springfield! This was the jackpot. The dream had become reality! My first road gig. It was as significant as my first vagina! And that’s pretty significant!
Small problem, though. There were no vaginas in the joint. Jamissohn was a gay gigolo (I think I mentioned that) and his networking at home had been at least to some extent, in the gay community! One step into the enclosed and very fragrant foyer area of the club, and even a green horn like me knew what time it was (oy)!
For two nights, the band played…and the heteros made a beeline for the club basement/dressing room on breaks. It wasn’t like we were fag-haters or anything radical like that. But there were no girls…and only the prospect of defending ourselves against homosexual advances. So why bother?
In between sets, one guy got the job of ascending to get us cokes and such. We shared the duty. (“Toad, it’s your turn to get the cokes! Move, swine!” It was kind of like that.)
Back to the hetero/homo politics: We weren’t aware that Lester the trumpet player was gay until Saturday night, when the drummer came back with the drinks to inform us “Guess what! I just saw Lester making out with some guy at the bar! He’s gay! Now we really have to get a full-time hetero bassist!”
Whatever…we survived the weekend with our virginity intact and the sexual orientation deal never presented a problem – though drug abuse did! (One thing I figured out quickly, though! It was a lot easier to get laid as a homosexual than it was as a straight guy. That was for sure!)
Looking back, that experience was symbolic of pretty much all my further accomplishments in the music biz. Every time I climbed another rung I came to realize that the dream wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It seemed like I was always getting fucked out of money, not getting laid, or playing with no-talents who ruined the musical experience.
Still, going on the road had its moments. I saw a lot of places…made a little money…and even got laid occasionally. But sometimes if you were in a bad place or with a bad band, it felt like prison. Remember, a lot of these units were thrown-together and comprised of musicians with different musical interests and different temperaments. Almost like an arranged marriage of sorts. And you know that can make for some uncomfortable circumstances.
I actually have some mementos (pro pix and press) from that band but with no scanner compatible with my current computer, I can’t publish them. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Anyway…you think today’s entry was lame? Wait till tomorrow’s repeat. But before I go…one of my all time favorite rap tunes – even if it’s mindless:
Back when I was 13 years old, the boyz had a simple acid test to determine unequivocally whether a girl was stacked or not. And it went like this: Can she push her tits together and suck on both of her own nipples at the same time? If the answer was yes, the girl was stacked.
In retrospect, it seems like such a one dimensional standard. What about softness…or firmness…or shape? And we haven’t even arrived at “the nipple!” It only took one set of nasty, saggy and gross DD cups – and one corresponding pair of perky and firm B’s to help me see the light about breast size. It wasn’t the be all and end all criterion for judging a woman’s chest.
Now some centuries later, what I call ghetto booty culture and the strip clubs where booty rules have in tandem conjured a different yet similar criterion for judging not a woman’s chest – but her ass, a body part which has come to the fore in recent times. And the modern day test goes like this:
Can she make her two ass cheeks clap together audibly by flexing and shaking the body’s two biggest muscles? If she can (drum roll)…the girl is certified bootylicious. Clearly, not everybody can do that (like me for example.) The fraternal order includes only a very small percentage of the population (most of it female I’d guess).
Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about acid tests in the physical arena. I need only know the subject from the predicate…which is more or less the sole criterion for judging a blogger in the modern era. (Style and substance are secondary as evidenced by the quality of some bloggers’ prose.)
The point is that life is full of acid tests. And there better be at least a few you can pass if you want to make a living or get laid. I know…hardly an observation of profound dimension. Yet it filled the page today. Aha! Yet another acid test for bloggers: Can they think of something to say every day? Clearly, I fail that test! So let’s move on to some cheescake. Can’t miss with that in my chosen venue!
The long holiday weekend has blessed us with two new beauties both of whom pass all manner of acid tests way too numerous to mention at this point (I’m over all that acid test bull shit anyway. It was just something to write about).
First we have a brand new cutie named NICOLE at DREAM GIRL NY (646-276-0229)…and next a breathtaking beauty named MIKI at HIYAKO (212-679-3681). And here they are – along with a booty clapping video (gasp) demonstrating what the star claims are the three “stages” of bootyclapping.
I can’t believe it! My own cousin (who’s like a sister to me) lies like a ho!
So picking up where I left off (does this sound like some lame “Dear Diary” deal? Yup…’cause that’s what it is)…I did not let the flu get the best of me this weekend. Not that I’m not sniffling, coughing, sneezing and feeling crummy…I’m just doing the mind over matter thing.
Anyway…back to lying ho’s. Cuz and I are on the road en route to Bash Bish Falls to commune with nature (along with a division of parents with their noisy kids) when she crosses maybe a foot or two over the double yellow line while gazing out the window at nature’s bounty. Quickly, I admonish her and she makes the appropriate correction. Nothing really…except a state trooper was behind us.
The lights flash and a very nice young cop comes to June’s window letting her know he’d seen what just happened whereupon my cousin comes back with some facocta story about seeing a spider on the visor which caused her momentary freak-out and infringement into oncoming traffic. I was flabbergasted. She was so fast with the bull shit I couldn’t help but think…Damn! June lies like a ho!
OK! A moment. What kind of bull shit prejudicial statement is “she lies like a ho” in the first place? Explanation: Ho’s are exceptional liars if for no other reason than they’re generally living in the closet about their deal. And when you live in the closet about anything (like say when a hobbyist has a wife and he’s going to see ho’s three times a week), the number of lies one has to tell to support the basic lie are so numerous that the veery cat of doing all that fabricating veritably hones the skills of the practitioner to the point where she just lies better than most people. You get it.
Back to June. I almost forgot that back in her youth, my cousin was pretty able at juggling boyfriends. And no doubt, that involved a lot of lying. So it should come as no surprise. Still, I wonder if she does other things as well a a ho, too? Not really. Don’t get excited. She’s always been a sister to me. None of that other bull shit.
Enough! It’s still early (7 AM), Time to hit the East River for a tricycle ride.
Way back when I was just growing hair on my balls, the Great Educators at District 14 on Long Island decided I was an exceptional student and accordingly, placed me in any accelerated or honors class they offered. At first, I was complimented and went along with the program until one day, I arrived at 8th grad Honors Social Studies class with my homework scribbled on both sides of one piece of paper – thinking that would make the grade.
Not quite! The moment that Mr. Harper told the class to pass in their projects changed my life. Somehow, I’d missed that this assignment was of major importance…and imagine my utter embarrassment as all my classmates submitted their voluminous work in bound volumes of colored construction paper.
By lunchtime, I’d made my decision and marched directly into the guidance counselor’s office to say “Get me out of all these smart-ass classes. I’ve had it with these fucking brown-nosers. Put me with the normal kids.” No acknowledgement that some of this might lie in my own lap. But in my defense…I was only 13!
Of course, a conference with my mother ensued – along with an individual IQ test. And though I tested in the 95th percentile, the powers went along with my request as all viewed me as a child who’d been damaged by my parents’ breakup (divorce was much less prevalent in those days) and in need of a comfortable learning environment in which to flourish.
That decision was a harbinger of things to come. Only on very rare occasions did I deal with anybody in the academic or real world who was clearly more intelligent than I (not that that says all that much. Remember…I became a musician, fisherman, cabby, and finally, salesperson for a sex rag – clearly none of which boasts a division of Einstein-like intellectuals).
OK! Enough with the background! Fast forward to yesterday when out of nowhere, my editor buddy at the Daily News gave me a call. If you remember, I cracked on him to hook me up with somebody at The Daily Beast so I can write in the mainstream as I had back when I was a hack. Whether I have any talent for the craft, I’m a writer at heart so of course, I want to work for or with some “real” publications or websites.
So Harry wrote me up what we now call an “e-introduction,” which is simply an e-mail to both parties which addresses both recipients with something along the lines of “Linda Lovelace…meet Ron Jeremy.”
Now ya gotta figure that anybody who works at “The Beast” is a writer of some accomplishment – but not necessarily an academic superstar. After all, my old bud Tony Kornheiser, who turned out to be one of the world’s greatest writers, was a B student who matriculated in a state college. And Bob Costas, who has won numerous awards in various media, went to Syracuse University, a school my high school’s dumbbells attended.
Anyway, after reading the e-troduction (in which Harry was very complimentary), I googled the editor to whom he was introducing me as any internet-savvy dude would to learn more about the person he or she was about to meet. And what I found was more or less Albert Einstein’s daughter.
The person who Harry thinks I can impress with my deadly prose is in fact a Phi Beta Kappa member…a summa cum laude graduate of Columbia University…a Fulbright scholar…and (drum roll) was the valedictorian of her class in the country’s most prestigious program in its field, the Columbia School of Journalism.
OMG! My previous employer didn’t even know to place a space after a comma (even if she’s a legend in her own field which let’s just say centers around pleasures of the flesh)…and now I’m jumping about 100 IQ points to the prospect of dealing with and writing for one of the super-brains in journalism!
Talk about “The Great Chasm!” A dumbbell one day…and a genius the next. Fortunately, my prospective role in this new world is to report on New York’s underbelly in a professional manner (a task which I’m confident I can perform to what is no doubt her exacting standards) and hopefully not to discuss matters of philosophy or advanced mathematics.
Only time will tell how this will shake out. However impressive, her academic resume is secondary. My knowledge of the escort business and how well I can express myself with that information is what matters. But still, I can’t help buy harken back to the 8th grade when I opted out of hanging with “the smarts” and now find myself back in the loop.
Hopefully…fifty some years later and that much wiser, I’ll know to dress up my report in colored construction paper and dime store glitter. Who says an old dog can’t learn new tricks? Like Evil Knievel, I will make it across The Great Chasm…or die trying!
And that’s because I’m catching a cold for the holiday weekend. For a change, I actually had plans – ya know – like a normal member of society. And I know how I got this fucker.
Now I’m no obsessive/compulsive hand washer. But right now, I wish I were. Somebody with a cold handed me money like a week or so ago…and as my years as a cabby taught me, I knew to separate the tainted money…isolate it when I got home…and make sure to wash my hands before I ate anything.
All that went fine but a few days later, I grabbed the cash to buy some new sneakers and didn’t wash my hands afterwards! Cold viruses live on surfaces for a while and that did it. Welcome the feverish and scratchy throat feeling. Drat!
I could go away anyway…and I would. But the person I’m going to see is not somebody I want to infect. And given we’re supposed to be in a car together, there’s no way she won’t get it!
And then there’s the question of whether I want to go bust my ass at the soup kitchen. The weekday St. Bart’s deal is waaay easier than the downtown Saturday soire. But the latter has some cute girls – who’ve been checking me out recently (I know…it sounds like “legend in my own mind time” but it does happen occasionally) and call me crazy…but maybe a square girlfriend wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
So anyway (back to being ill), I tried to sleep it off all day and was quite successful at least on the sleeping front. Finally, I awakened at 4 AM after a lot of sleep looking for something to do. First, I read a little about Davy Crockett and then hit You Tube, when something (which I can’t remember now) popped into my mind and I knew I could find a video on the site.
You know how You Tube goes: You wander around and land in places you never anticipated. And this morning, I ended up scanning through the MIDNIGHT SPECIAL archives. (If you’re too young to know what I’m talking about…it was a national mostly live Friday night TV concert featuring the hit acts of the day.)
Here were my two favorite tapes: Steely Dan because Donald Fagen is a genius…and Thelma Houston for the second verse of “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” I take the time to post them for the 3 guys who give a shit.
I wrote something I really liked earlier today and saved it for “publication.” But a funny thing happened in the course of a few hours. I hated what I’d written when I re-read it! And so…you get a repeat…but a good one from several years ago.
No…this isn’t going to be a story about me and my kinky sexual predilections. I’m normal and totally boring. Nobody’d want to hear about me. But I ran up on a couple of freaks today whose kinks are so noteworthy…I just have to share.
The first was an e-mailer. She answered one of my clients’ ads asking how much the place would charge her and her SON together for a session. Wow! That’s a little strange. I responded as I usually do on behalf of my customer: “Call the place, I’m just the posting slave.”
Despite my redirection, the woman e-mailed again adding that she had a limited window of opportunity, as the dynamic duo would have to sneak away from her husband and daughter while they were all in town as tourists! Ooo! The plot thickens! I don’t even want to think about all the psychosexual shit going on. I wonder if while they’re away being naughty…does daddy have sex with his daughter? Beee…zarre. OK! Let me stop right there.
On to bizarro #2 o’ the day! Remember I talked about the girl who complained bitterly that she was placed next to the she males in her Voice ad? Well, that shit ain’t no joke. Today the complainant got a call from what she thought was a male lawyer, who asked her if she was functional. Clueless as she could be, the girl responded in the affirmative. Yes, of course. All her body parts work. Unfortunately, in this this context, she did not know the alternative meaning of the word.
Anyway…this girl has a window on the street and thus has the luxury of checking out the applicants before deciding if they’re worthy. It’s kind of funny actually. I’ve seen the woman lean out the window as I lock my bike – with her tits and hair overflowing like the actress from Irma La Douce or something. Whatever…when the prospective customer arrived, she looked strangely like a sexy woman in blue jeans..and my client asked the obvious: “You look like a girl! Are you?” And the female lawyer responded “Yes! You said you were functional!”
Nice! I know many female escorts who harbor fantasies about she males. I just didn’t know that there’s at least one female lawyer in that exclusive she male-curious sorority! THAT phone call came with the intro “Billy! I got a girl for you!”…meaning I should turn this trick! I don’t think so!
Regardless…those are my two kinky stories for the day. I hope you enjoyed.
Once upon a time, I used to “date” Korean girls. And I also used to date them – if you get my drift. Some were in-the-room kind of “dates”…and others were girlfriend kind of dates – even if they were in the room. All of which means some were in exchange for free ads or stories…while others had a romantic component aside from a professional quid pro quo.
Whichever…all that stopped several years ago from a combination of me losing interest and/or them feeling that sort of activity was inappropriate. It was hard to argue with the logic. So I went with the flow which essentially meant – no flow! Not a problem.
So today, I was visiting a place I won’t name…where the owner and phone girl asked me if I do reviews. Mind you, I hate doing reviews – and I especially hate doing fake reviews. I’ve written enough erotica for-a-fee for a lifetime. I don’t need to write any more. But I like these girls and offered that I’d do a review of one of the staff (one who’s very cute) and put it in a few places. But only if it was a real review – which meant that the boss would have to pay the girl to see me in the room.
The owner is not cheap – so that $100 wasn’t the problem. Yet still, despite the fact that they’d get their investment back over and over again, it was a no go. First, the phone girl (who I’ve known for years) became all flustered and began sputtering as her face turned red…”Billy-ah! You never do that. I feel uncomfortable. Come when I’m not working! I can’t be here when you go in the room with a girl.” It was almost as if it were she who would be my “date” for the review.
Then the boss chimed in with her own two cents…essentially establishing that the performance anxiety (on her girl’s part) would be overwhelming. What if I didn’t like her in session? To which I responded “You just got finished telling me how everybody loves this girl. Why wouldn’t I like her?” But no sale.
Sensing the tension in the air, I shrugged my shoulders and backed off. I mean…it wasn’t my idea in the first place! But hey…you want a review? Put me in the room with the girl. What’s the big fucking deal (no pun intended)?
So while everybody except me was getting nervous, I simply offered that they find a reviewer and give him a half price session to write the girl up. As in…leave me out of this drama. You want me to write a phony review? Get the fuck outta here.
And so…the streak continues. Ridiculous! But really…it didn’t come as a shock. Korean women are very reserved for whatever reason. On a few occasions I’ve accidentally seen girls buck naked and without exception, they were very embarrassed and quick to run for cover. Conversely, American girls have been known to continue conversations with me as they sit on the toilet and leave the door open so I can hear what they’re saying. It’s an interesting cultural contrast if nothing else.
But really…the continuation of the streak is probably a good thing. My Korean buddies and I have a wonderfully symbiotic relationship. We both make money from each other. Why jeopardize that? Still…for anybody reading…I’m happy – or at least willing – to write a review of a woman I find appealing. But only if the review is for real. Don’t ask me to make some stupid shit up for a fee. I wrote a mountain of that crap for my boss when I worked at Action. It was literally a job requirement (at least in the beginning until I became their #1 salesman)…and I don’t want to do it anymore unless I’m starving. And as an integral part of the volunteer community, I will never starve now that I know 50 places in New York where indigent people can get a good meal. Enough said. Se ya tomorrow!
To wrap up the previous post. I’m happy to report that despite going to the ball game and then traveling to Long Island the next day to visit my old bud Ed (who has ALS if you recall), I did finally make it to the account whose payment was due and successfully collected said payment. At least in this particular case, Joe’s warning was for naught (yahoo)!
And now to the game: While there weren’t a lot of home run visuals to enjoy (batted fly balls were few and far between owing to the effectiveness of both pitchers), the boys and I saw what will probably turn out to be the Mets most exciting game of the season. If you like a pitcher’s duel, Monday night’s game was the one to attend. The Mets won a squeaker 2 to 1 in 14 innings!
But the game itself (and its results) ended up running a far second to what happened once the contest entered extra innings. For the first nine frames of the nip and tuck affair, the boys and I viewed the proceedings from the “nose-bleeds!” (What can I say? Twenty bucks doesn’t put you in a field level seat!) Here’s a shot of us taken by a cute girl who offered to be our photographer:
But once having witnessed the mass exodus of humanity after the bottom of the 9th, we decided to descend from the stratosphere in an attempt to “occupy Wall Street” or in this case, lay claim to seats which would normally be occupied by Wall Street types. For an inning or so, we successfully commandeered a set of seats in the 4th row halfway down the line in left field. But while the boys were smitten with our new viewing position, I was not!
And so…I excused myself to take a leak and decided to make an advance on the $1000 seats. I should mention that Monday night’s game was dedicated to Vietnam vets…and I happened to be wearing my camouflage hat with the eagle emblem and American flag on the front (see photo). Mind you…this is not a hat I purchased because I’m a rabid tea party patriot. In fact, I bought it for $3 at the Orlando bus station simply because I’d left my other hat in my brother’s condo and knew I’d need one to cover my eyes on the bus when it was time to zonk out.
Whatever…having effectively descended to field level (literally), I flashed the peace sign at the security guard who was about to send me back where I came from. And it worked. He gave me a look as if to say “Thank you for your service” and allowed me to sit by my lonesome in the first row right at the corner of the Cardinal dugout. And for the next 4 innings there I stayed with nobody to my left or right as the guard continuously sent everybody who tried to do what I’d just successfully done packing over and over again.
Confident that flashing the peace sign was in keeping with the night’s theme, I once again displayed the old hippy signal at the St. Louis batboy who at the end of the 12th inning, perused the crowd deciding to whom he would flip the ball in his hand. He saw me…and my eagle hat…and my peace sign and whammo! He flipped me the ball! Back to Larry David: Pretty good! Pretty fucking good!!
For the rest of the game I alternately watched the heated battle and checked out the guys directly in front of me, studying them as they did their jobs. The two closest to me were obviously the old-timey print photographers. Each boasted a lens which would have been the envy of Long Dong Silver…if they were male organs. The length, girth and weight of those lenses was so considerable that the photogs needed to use both hands to handle the equipment.
Directly in front of them were the guys who give tv viewers the field level shots. Obviously, those cameras were giant – as they were tv cameras capturing all the action for ESPN! And then there was another guy right in front of me wearing a suit and an earpiece. With each pitch, he made a notation on a clipboard which lay on his lap along with a cell phone which he likewise fired up and tapped into after each pitch. For the life of me, I don’t know what that guy was doing or what his role was. And I still haven’t figured it out.
Because the fans are not allowed to take pictures with anything resembling professional equipment, I was hesitant to take a bunch of shots while sitting in the front row, as I didn’t want to be evicted from my choice seat. But I did get one for posterity. And here it is:
Even my haters would have to admit…pretty cool! There’s nothing like an extra inning game to turn your $20 nose-bleeder into a $1000 VIP joint! But then again..wtf! I’m Dollar Bill. They should have sat me in the fucking dugout! Yo!
Anyway…enough of that bull shit. While the boys and I were out at ALS Ed’s (poor
Eddie. He can only move his eyes at this point), I got a call from my editor friend at the DAILY NEWS to inform me that an e-mail from the editor of The DAILY BEAST awaited me when I got home (or if I checked my phone) And the phone “rang” again this time with the phone girl from LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409) informing me that two new “lovelies” have been added to their staff. Meet BLUE and SERA, both of whom to the best of my knowledge, are new to New York City.
But before we get to the cheesecake…a special prayer for my friend Eddie. There’s zero chance he’ll ever be able to move again but still…may he enjoy his last days…and may his saintly wife Joan stay strong for the duration. Not an easy row to hoe. That’s for sure. And now…to Junior’s (the cheesecake). Enjoy.
Before I got my too-often mentioned full-time job at Action Magazine, I was one of their freelance writers. My assignments were of a varied and decidedly out-of-the-mainstream nature. One month I went to Edelweiss (an infamous tranny club) to watch all the she males “trick” the customers in corners and bathroom stalls (actually I didn’t see them doing their thing in the bathroom stalls…but I knew what was going on by the solicitations I received from girls who did not know my mission) and then report in 1500 words what I’d observed. Another assignment brought me to The Vault, an S & M club on 10th Avenue in the meat-packing district to do the same thing. On a third job, I was dispatched to a strip joint called Wiggles way out in Queens.
And finally, I even wrote a first person female account of what it was like to be a lap dancer. Sounds shillish I know…but I’d been to the Harmony and Melody Burlesk many times as a customer – and became very friendly with the dyke who managed the joints after selling her advertising for of all publications, Taxi Talk Magazine. So really, for all intents and purposes, I knew the life of a lap dancer – even if I wasn’t one myself.
Well anyway…after about a year of “penning” this bull shit (how’s that for a dated expression?), I was hired by Action full time to do more writing and collect ad money from the clients. And one of the first mandates issued by Joe the boss went like this: “Anytime one of the advertisers calls you to pay their bill, you stop everything and go get the money – even if it’s 3 o’clock in the morning!” In fact, Action payers were notoriously shady and fully 25% of the ads went unpaid in that magazine for reasons I won’t go into here.
But Joe wasn’t referring to the whimsy of our clients when it came to paying their bills. Rather, he was referring to the fleeting nature of the here today/gone tomorrow nature of our customers due to the ubiquitous long arm of the law. And on a few occasions he was right.
One super busy Wednesday (back in the Voice days Wednesday was insane), I got a call from a tiny little Korean owner who ran big ads in the Voice and Press. I told her I was in Queens (the truth) and would be by in a few hours after I returned to Manhattan. Seemed reasonable given the deadlines and such but by the time I got to her place of business, there were numerous legal notices taped to her door and a one foot by one foot sticker which read “closed by order of the NYPD.” The girl was in jail and the bill never got paid. What are ya gonna do?
Another time I was sipping a beer on the Upper East Side with a small-time client after I’d already contacted a really big customer a mile and a half southwest who had told me I could come over to pick up the ad money anytime. I finished my beer at a leisurely pace and then exited to discover that my tricycle had a fucking flat. By the time I arrived at the big-timers door, cops with shotguns and vests were busting the place wide open as Fox News looked on.
Frantically, I got on the phone to cancel all his ads! Unfortunately, it was too late for the NY Mag ad which effectively turned that free beer into what I labeled “the $850 lager” – the cost of that NY Mag ad I ate! Drat! Why didn’t I heed Joe’s words? But on the other hand, I could have been caught in the tidal wave! And given the magnitude of the activities, I might well have found myself arrested with the cops dragging everybody on the premises in first and asking questions later. I’ll never know!
Final anecdote: I received a call from yet another uptown customer who was ready to give me the 600 bucks she owed. I was almost home and very tired at the time (I was always suffering from sleep deprivation in my hey day) and responded that I needed to take a nap and would be by in a couple of hours. Bottom line: Ten years later, I still haven’t collected that money. Just the nature of the business. Joe was right. If the money’s there…got get it – like five minutes ago!
I tell you this today because it is now 1:20 PM on Monday. An individual who owes me money said I should come by around 5 or 6 for the payment. Small problem. My high school buddies are in town and we’re going to catch batting practice (like when we were kids) and then watch at least some of the Mets game – which starts at 7 o’clock. You get the idea. So I told her I’d be there at around 10 if that was ok.
I sincerely hope it won’t be a deja vu all over again moment when I arrive. Only time will tell. In the meantime, go Mets! Not that I give two shits if they win or lose. It was the boys’ idea to check out Citifield…and I’m actually looking forward to scoping out the new park and watching the freaks whack a little ball 500 feet during batting practice. As far as beers are concerned, forget that! At $9.50 a throw, I’ll do without! Plus, I don’t drink beer anyway.
Enough! It’s getting time to meet up with the boys. I’m out.
P.S. The game went 14 innings and tomorrow’s another day – that hopefully, i’ll get paid.
But before I go…BLUE ANGEL (917-615-3281) has two new girls…EMMA and BARBIE. I love Barbie’s pic, and Emma has an astonishing booty for an Asian girl. Check it out!
I know…it sounds like the title to some doo wop hit. But what I’m referring to today is the comments that come into this blog. It’s a funny thing. With the old Blogger platform I used up until a year ago, I got more comments very few of which were of the spam variety. And when I say spam, I mean generic comments sent out to thousands of blogs by some asshole trying to generate traffic for his own site.
They could be selling shoes…or sunglasses…or worse, phishing for morons stupid enough to give up personal information so the original commenter can steal his identity and rip him off! It’s a dirty thieving world out there. That’s for sure!
Anyway…back to the comments on my WordPress blog versus comments on my old Blogger blog. The reason this blog receives so many fewer comments has to do with accountability. With Blogger, any asshole with something stupid to say can sign on anonymously and say anything! And you know there’s no shortage of people like that in the cyber world. On WordPress, you can sign on without a handle…but you must submit an e-mail address that works. And that (in most cases) would make you traceable! That reality effectively eliminated the haters and a lot of guys in the closet about their hobby.
But the big difference between the two formats is Blogger’s seeming ability to deflect spammers versus WordPress’s seeming inability. While there was an occasional spammer with Blogger, it was nothing like I experience with WordPress. At the outset, I used to go into the dashboard and periodically purge the system of spam comments. But it was such unrewarding work, I gave it up. Thus, this blog currently boasts 7,778 unpublished comments. Is that crazy or what? Can you imagine what that number would be if this were actually a popular blog? Outrageous!
Whatever…this site isn’t really designed to be a forum the likes of GFE CLUB…so it’s not a big deal. Just so the spammers can’t muck up the entries, I’m cool (relatively). But still, it’s nice to get thoughtful comments every so often. So if you have one, feel free to submit.
One thing that I’ve always found curious is that almost none of my customers go into the comment section shilling away to generate interest in themselves or the girls they employ. It seems like such an intuitive move. Yet I can count on the fingers of one hand how many people have actually taken a few minutes to do just that. Actually, it makes life easier for me so no complaints here. Just an observation.
Time’s up. I gotta go stuff envelopes for the University Soup Kitchen (it’s now 11 AM Sunday). Apparently, they periodically do monstrous snail mail solicitations for contributions and somehow got me to volunteer. Oy! I think Joe said he’d bring us some beer. Great! Except…I don’t drink beer anymore. Maybe he roped in a cute babe in addition to Dan and me. Hey! A guy can still dream.
And for Monday morning, DREAM GIRL NY (646-276-0229) has a new girl named JESSICA. She’s not new to New York (I had her on file), but I love this photo. Check it out!
I assume everybody who reads this blog knows what a Freudian slip is. But just in case…a Freudian slip is defined as an unintentional error regarded as revealing subconscious feelings. Like say…I’m writing about an issue which I contend is more about the principle than the money but I spell the word principle as “principal”…which would mean I’m full of shit. It’s really about the money.
So anyway…I can now tell you a story about somebody who used to advertise here – and a Freudian slip she made which was at once laughable and indicative of something shall we say “on the dark side.” You recall that at some point a few months ago I wrote about conceiving a name and tag line for a “client.” And what I came up with was “Live the dream with the A TEAM.” You could say that was brilliant…or hackneyed…or whatever. I wouldn’t be offended whichever way. That’s not the point.
When I came up with that line, I called the boss to let her know and told her to log on to ateam-ny.com to see what I’d created for her in the way of a website. Now giving people in the escort business a url to log onto is always an adventure – as they’ll insert a back slash instead of a dash and/or misspell simple words…or really make any mindless mistake which will then not lead them to the site. But what this woman did wasn’t just a simple mistake…it was a Freudian slip of the most revealing order.
Not to my surprise (the woman isn’t all that bright), she blew the url on the first round. But it wasn’t misspelling the word “team” or inserting a back slash instead of a dash. She went into the address bar and typed in “eighteen-ny.com.” Mind you…I’d also given her the tag line “live the dream” so this could not have been an error caused by her hearing me wrong. This was what lay in the recesses of her addled mind! I laughed it off…making a joke of her error. But make no mistake about it. I knew where she was “coming from.”
If you asked me of all the people who have ever been on this blog…which one I thought could make this oh-so-revealing Freudian slip, this is the woman I would have picked. I’d say “What a moron” in analyzing “the slip.” But really…it’s much more profound than that.
Of course, the deal I worked out with this woman to have her employees appear on this blog was the stuff of a hobbyist’s wet dream. But there was a price to pay. And that price was dealing with some very damaged people. And they weren’t just damagees! They were damagers as well. Helping damaged people can be rewarding if you actually are of some benefit. But dealing with damagers? That’s very different.
if you want to know why there are so many Koreans on this site…one of the reasons is that they do not damage people…and they themselves aren’t damaged goods. If they have a problem, it’s gambling and smoking tobacco. And call me crazy…but I’d rather deal with people with those kinds of problems than the damagers. In the end, I can live without the damager’s money – which is why there is nobody of that ilk on the sidebar.
Clouds of marijuana smoke under the bridge notwithstanding, there are a few things I remember about my first shift driving a cab. In fact, I can remember a lot of things about that first shift – even though it was 34 years ago. Like just for example, I recall that my first fare was a suit going to La Guardia. He offered me 20 bucks to get him there as fast as I could. Why he offered that much money (the fare was more like $13 at the time) eluded me until I realized I hadn’t even flicked the switch on the “off duty” light before leaving the garage. Duh! That’s why he made his generous offer.
I remember that later that first night, a woman asked me to take her to the Waldorf…to which I responded “Where’s the Waldorf?” Getting a hack license back then didn’t require much more than a guy having 20 bucks and a pulse – obviously. She asked me what kind of cab driver I was if I didn’t even know where the Waldorf was located?!?! I answered “a new one! This is my first night.” She laughed and told me where to go and I got her there like a pro. Hey! I could drive! I just didn’t know where anything was. I even got lost on the Lower East Side! East Broadway? I didn’t know there was an East Broadway! And Madison Street? Get the fuck outta here. There’s no Madison Street – or so I thought!
Moving on…the reason I began driving a cab had nothing to do with my being broke. Now there’s what sounds like a total bull shit story right there. But the real truth was that I’d saved 12 grand as a musician via a run of road work and decided with the “help” of my dentist and mother to become an “investor” in the stock market. Four months later, I’d lost 4 grand of my stash and had essentially become a compulsive gambler. I was not happy!
In a responsible moment, I decided to stop cold turkey and go out to drive a taxi in between musical work until I earned back the 4 grand I’d gambled away. Sounds like bull shit, I know. But it’s completely true. Now here’s where the bull shit gets even deeper!
Two days after I was on the road and had already earned back $130 of the $4000 I’d lost, a funny thing happened. I got a job playing for the at-the-time #1 R & B recording artist in the USA (Stephanie Mills). Of course, I was thrilled to be playing behind a million-selling act. But at the same time, I was conflicted. How could I earn back that 4 grand if I was on the road? Only a schmuck like me would think that way. But that is actually how I thought.
So I did the requisite rehearsals to learn the show and was given an itinerary for the next 6 weeks – the period I would be employed by Ms. Mills. To explain, I was a substitute for their regular guitar player who begged off for that period of time to stay home and record an album with his girlfriend, who had just been signed by United Artists. After the album was recorded, the original guy would return so essentially, I had a six week gig.
Whatever…studying the schedule, I saw that mostly, we’d be playing 3 weekend nights in different cities, a reality that would enable me to continue driving my cab Monday through Thursday – if I didn’t have any musical employment on those days. Now some guys would have been starstruck and chucked the hack license. I mean…I was earning $400/week for just three days work – which was more than I could make driving a cab. But again, that wasn’t me! I was on a mission and I was gonna make back those gambling losses come hell or high water.
So for the next few weeks, I worked for the starlet – flying out of La Guardia every Friday…and then returned to drive a taxi every Monday and Tuesday to continue on my ridiculous quest to recoup my stock market losses.
I believe that it was week 2 Monday night (hence my 3rd all time shift) when I picked up my first stripper. I knew she was a stripper because I’d seen the woman exit the Times Square strip joint where she worked before her arm went up looking for a cab. We got to talking and I heard myself telling her that I was Stephanie Mills’ guitar player – and that I’d be flying to Ft. Lauderdale the next day to play behind her. And I had to smile to (and at) myself. What were the odds that some loser cabbie driving a fleet wreck could be backing a singer who’d just won a Grammy a week before? Talk about a deluded dreamer!
Well…if she didn’t believe me (which I’m sure she didn’t), the girl never let on. And when I offered to send her a post card, she gave me her address! Whether it was a correct address or not was irrelevant. I sent her the post card and never tried to contact the girl again anyway. I was simply in the glow and in the moment. It was late at night…I’d had a busy shift and felt good that I was making inroads in the debt to myself…and the next day I’d be on a flight to Florida. What was not to feel good about?
I also sent a post card to the garage dispatcher explaining my absence. Whether he believed me or not was also irrelevant. When I showed up for work after a ten day absence (the Florida job was actually for ten days and not just a weekend), he fired me! And that’s when I learned a significant lesson about driving a cab. Once you have the hack license, there’s always a job! So virtually the next day, I got hired by Dover Garage – also known as The Sunshine Cab Company – where the exterior shots for the sitcom Taxi were shot. It was closer to my apartment than my previous employer’s garage and…Dover didn’t have “hot seats,” taxis with a sensor in the back seat which turned the meter on automatically ten seconds after the passenger embarked. Hot seats were the worst. With them in the cab, you couldn’t run anybody off the meter, a practice that had become so rampant that some garages actually opted to install the seats (so drivers wouldn’t rob them blind)! Clearly, Dover was where I should have been all along. Nothing lost – and something gained from getting fired! Gotta love driving a cab!
And so anyway…there it is! The world’s biggest bull shit story. Except it was completely true. I could just as easily have said that I was the CEO of IBM and driving a cab just to fill in the cracks and sounded no more full of crap than I did claiming I was backing Stephanie Mills. Yet the fact remained: I wasn’t lying!
And I was good for my word to myself about recouping the stock market losses! My employment with Stephanie ended after five weeks (not six), and whenever I had no musical work, I went out to drive – and quickly became the garage’s number one per shift earner. Another thing I learned about driving a cab: The harder you worked and the smarter you were…the more money you made…unlike in the music business where luck had too much to do with how much you took home at the end of the week. And I definitely liked that part of the job.
Once I’d earned back my 4 grand, I did chuck the license in favor of backing a lounge singer at the Brown’s Hotel in the Jewish Alps (derisive nickname for the Catskills). Did I ever go back into the stock market? Hell, no! Never! But I did I go back to driving a cab a couple of years later. It was mostly out of boredom. By that time, I was all the way down to playing with oldies bands and pretty depressed about it. Musicians had been replaced by synthesizers and everybody was suffering. So I got the license back and started driving again to help my mental state. And that little diversion went on for 16 years – until I was firmly entrenched in the adult ad biz and the TLC implemented a drug test at license renewal time. As I was a pot smoker…and very fully employed in my new career, I let the license expire and drove my last shift 17 years ago. The end! The point? The entire fish story I just related is 100% true though I can’t imagine that the stripper I picked up thought I was anything but completely full of crap – as do many people reading this right now.
So when did it become fashionable to be famous for being famous – and nothing else? Well for me…it never became fashionable. But that’s besides the point. A cultural quirk I now call “The Kardashian Role Model” was is in fact invented by PARIS HILTON. And boy…did she have it down or what? The Profligate Princess had (and still has) quite a reign of power!
Anyway…why would I ponder this bull shit today? I thought I was tryin’ to be a meaningful guy here! Well it just so happens that a lot of escorts do consider Kim Kardashian to be a role model – and they too want to be famous for being famous! One of the sidebar beauties featured on this very blog a few months ago has actually been on the verge of success in her chosen field. Unfortunately, she’s not doing as well in the escort world. And it’s not because she isn’t beautiful. But she is trying to make the money while her body is there…but her mind is someplace else. Never a good combo!
Still, I have to give the girl her props. Hot stuff has a booty shaking video on You Tube with a million views. And I’ve followed posted links to her appearances on an MTV (or maybe WH1) reality show. Girlfriend has made some auditions and garnered a small sliver of the fame pie. Yet there she is (or was – not there anymore)…sitting on the couch at The Factory.
Initially, I found her to be aloof, superior and pretty much a self-absorbed pain in the ass. And the girl’s reviews essentially reflected that. But over time, I began to see our Ziegfield Follies girl as a pathotic figure (talking pathos here). After all, she was just trying to make a living while hoping not to be outed (which she of course was thanks to the guys on those forum sites). It’s not as bad as that congressman – or the country western singer – both of whom were arrested for gay solicitations in public. But still…kind of like a big gulp of grape juice on a hot day (makes ya wince)! And when I think about it, I suffer from the same syndrome myself what with avoiding conversations about what I do for a living at the places where I volunteer – especially when I’m dealing with “church ladies.” Maybe that’s why I feel sorry for her. I can relate.
Having said that, my problem isn’t that big of a deal. I don’t lie about how I turn a buck if asked – and expect the power of my personality and work ethic to prevail. So far so good. It would be nice if everybody in a similar situation could convince people of their worthiness as well. But then again, there aren’t very many married congressman or hunky C & W singers who can go on the record about their gayness without suffering serious repercussions. With me, the threat of losing a job for which I don’t get paid in the first place is barely a predicament.
So let me put a sock in it now and just say to anybody hypnotized by The Kardashian Role Model: If you want to be famous…try being famous for something besides having a phat booty. It’s ok to let the phat booty get you there. But stand for something good when you do. Ya know…wear a PETA shirt…or a thong that says “Do something about global warming” when you’re on the red carpet. You get the idea.
Bad news! Today I’m abandoning all context and have decided to write about whatever comes to mind. And having made that announcement, I feel confident that I can rant with impunity as nobody will be reading anyway.
To start…SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707) is offering a $30 discount in the coming week for anybody who calls to see the new girl NICOLE (and Nicole only)…and mentions Dollar Bill when he calls! Unfortunately, Nicole has no pictures. But I’m assured that she’s young, cute and on the petite side for all you spinner-loving hound dogs. OK! that’s it for anything with escort-related context.
Next…BILL CLINTON’S appearance on David Letterman last night. It was so embarrassingly brutal that I had to change the channel. Somehow, instead of talking about international events (about which Clinton is a true genius), Dave got Bill reminiscing about his appearance playing the saxophone on The Arsenio Hall Show. For those who don’t remember, hipster Bill donned a pair of 99 cent store shades and demonstrated unequivocally that he’s the least talented sax player ever to appear on national tv. And two nights ago some twenty years later, Clinton had the poor judgement to talk about his musicianship as if he actually was a musician.
I couldn’t believe it. Bill thinking he’s a musician is akin to George W. Bush thinking he’s an intellectual. It was almost unwatchable tv. I wanted to scream “Cracker, move on! You can’t play to save your life. Get over yourself!” I just couldn’t believe that an ex-leader of the free world could be so deluded! I couldn’t watch; it was just too painful.
Switching channels, we move on to NASHVILLE, a prime time soap opera I actually watch religiously, less for the story lines than for the music itself – and the inside music biz insights. The only problem is that this season, the songwriting has been extremely weak. I kept waiting for a decent song and had virtually abandoned all hope when tonight in the season finale, not one but two compositions hit the jackpot. I was never a great songwriter. But I know a great song and song title when I hear it and as we used to say about an idea with a title the likes of “There Goes The Last Honest Man,” that’s a song that writes itself. The title is so good that the verses should come with barely any effort.
Another of my favorite tv presentations is THE DEADLIEST CATCH, a reality show about crabbers who risk their lives braving 40 foot waves in the Bering Sea so schmucks like us can eat crab (actually I’m not into seafood and don’t eat crab). The featured captains are fishermen for a reason: None are born show biz types. They aren’t interesting or funny. But one is a drug addict. And the loser gets caught on camera smoking crack as he spirals downward in the middle of the sea unable to do anything but get high while somebody takes over and drives the boat because the asshole can’t get himself straight. Jeez! it’s one thing to get high while you’re answering phones for an incall…and another when you’re the captain of a boat 200 miles off shore in the middle of a storm with 40 foot seas! I thought those shoot-’em-up girls were losers…but this guy is more fucked up than they are. And that’s goin’ some – trust me!
Let’s see if I can end on a positive note. Nope! I’m drawing a blank. And I’m not even in a bad mood. Oh wait! There’s an ex-Jewels alumnus who will be advertising here soon…and a latina place as well. The blog is getting a little homogeneous (as in a lot) and could use s girl or two who isn’t Korean. So hopefully, both will come to fruition. I could go on a telemarketing campaign to generate a little revenue and diversify the sidebar. But telemarketing is fraught with rejection. And in that I don’t drive a Rolls or have a yacht and thus don’t have huge bills, I don’t need to humiliate myself. So no telemarketing, thank you. And now…back to the ball game. I figure I’ve bored everybody enough for one day.
Over the past almost 19 years, I’ve dealt with a lot of escort business owners who ranged from being amazingly competent to totally without a clue…and extremely sympathetic to the coldest humankind has to offer. But today’s “worst owner” gets the accolade not for the manner in which she runs her business…but for her deplorable and horrific political incorrectness.
Check it out: Several months ago, the aforementioned owner asked me what I was doing on a Saturday to which I answered “I’ll be around but unavailable in the afternoon because I feed the homeless.” Her response said it all in one word. With a confused look on her face, she simply asked “why?”…as in why would you waste your time feeding the homeless? I could easily have responded “because it’s the right thing to do…plus I’m tired of hanging out with selfish assholes like you all the time and volunteering affords me the opportunity to meet a much more giving type of person.” But I spared her the indignity and me the headache that response would have brought. And then on another occasion, this same individual asked me why I like black girls! And then before I could even answer, she shuddered at the thought while verbalizing “it’s like making love to a monkey.”
Her partner has explained to me that in reality, this woman hates Americans (not necessarily black people per se)…and holds herself above what she views as a bastardized and infected gene pool . Anyway, she’s out of the picture for the moment and in truth, her fucked up attitudes about race and altruism come as no surprise to me and thus, barely offend. I mean…I’ve known her for 18 years!
But I’ll tell y’all one thing I never liked about this woman: She had the bad habit of fucking ad guys out of their last week’s pay after firing them and would then come back a year later to advertise again with nary a word mentioning she owed us a significant amount of money. And if we brought it up, she’d dismiss the issue with a wave of the hand citing “old business! We start over again!” to excuse her theft.
Talk about an old battle axe! Whatever! The old school Korean owners I met almost two decades ago (of which this person is one) were truly a tough bunch to deal with! Talk about rough around the edges! They were the postergirls. Fortunately, today’s incarnation is much more civilized. In fact, they’re virtually all sweethearts. But then again, I’ve been Korean in their eyes for almost 20 years. And that makes a big difference. (Actually, I should say almost 18 years…because it took two years before anybody of Korean descent would look me in the eye – even when they were giving me ad money for Action.) Tough crowd. But on the other hand, once you’re in – you’re in.
Back to the subject! Yup! I’ve seen them all…the best and the worst in escort service ownership. And this woman if nothing else…was the epitome of insensitivity and racism. But wait a minute! I forgot about the Brooklyn guy who once told me what he hated most about jail was the niggers and the faggots. He had her beat.
My apologies. I just got home from an overnighter and am not really prepared for todays’ post. But I do have some good news. KANA (646-255-3203), my favorite independent Korean cutie has returned from her vacation. As a reminder…here she is!
If there was ever a question as to whether I would make a good escort, that issue was answered several months ago when I was presented with what I can only call “The Gift.” Now periodically over the years, I’ve been given presents along the lines of sneakers, cash (for Christmas or birthdays), backpacks, Amazon gift certificates and free sessions by my customers . And I gladly accepted them all. But The Gift? I had to turn it down.
While the oft mentioned owner of what I now call The Factory is a malignant gossip who surrounds herself with people who let us just say have made some very poor life decisions, there is no denying that the woman is one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. She’s like Ralph Kramden (“easy come – easy go. I got it! I spent it!”). The boss lady mints money and spends every penny of it as soon as it’s in her pocket. Probably not the best monetary policy but given the business she’s in, a prudent decision nonetheless.
Anyway…one day el jefe called to say she wanted to give me a birthday present (even though my birthday had long passed). “Michael (fake name) will bring it over to you on Saturday,” she promised. That Saturday came and went several times (typical of the owner – she can’t remember anything from one minute to the next) but then finally late one Saturday night, Michael was really on his way over.
I thought it was a little strange that they weren’t telling me to go to their place until Michael arrived with my gift – a 50″ Smart TV. The reason she’d decided to give me this extravagant gift was simple: The owner, who is totally into that Netflix show about chicks in prison, wanted me to have a Smart TV so I could see a presentation she so loved. I know…outrageously generous!
Now here’s the part where I found out what a shit escort I would be. Girls I know have often been lavished with expensive gifts by numbskulls who think they can buy their love. And they always take those gifts and laugh at the fools who bought them. No conscience…no nothing. Pure hedonism! But Do The Right Thing Bill? I froze. “Michael! I cannot accept this gift. It’s too much. Plus I have a flat screen HD TV already. And it’s fine. I’ll have to rearrange my entire apartment for this monster. Take it away.”
Michael was like a deer in the headlights. He’d simply never experienced anything like this before. Every person in the owner’s life is a hope-to-die user. They gather around her getting their morsels like baby robins to their mom. Nobody had ever rejected anything from her!
And so…I sent him on his way – with “the gift.” The boss was similarly flummoxed when she found out I rejected her generous present – and harped on it for weeks after (“So-and-so was looking at your tv yesterday hoping I’d give it to him”).
In retrospect and considering the drubbing the woman gave me at the end, I should have accepted her generous gift and sold it on Craigslist the next day. That’s what any escort worth her weight in dog shit would have done! But I made a point! And that was I wasn’t one of her damaged sycophants – and I proved it by not accepting her gift.
At the end, she wrote me an e-mail pointing out that I am one of them – even if I hold myself above the fray. But she was wrong. And rejecting her gift proved it. As I said, nobody in that organization would reject a present like that in a million years. I took the high road because when it all comes out in the wash, I am not one of them. I’m just a writer whose boss convinced him to sell ads for his publication many years ago. And she can’t “turn” everybody she meets (though trust me, she tries). My rejection of her extravagant and generous gift proved that I’m not one of them – and that I would make a lousy escort. Which is really one and the same.
But before I go…SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707) has a new girl named YOYO. And no doubt, she likes to go up and down and up and down. I have it on good authority that Yoyo is a twenty-something spinner who fans of that type will find most appealing. Here’s her pic:
Has anyone ever noticed that many of the foreign-born escorts in New York are of the mature variety? And that if you want a girl in her twenties or teens you have to go American? Ever wonder why that is? There’s actually an explanation for this phenomenon. And it lies with the tastes of our men – versus the tastes of foreign men. It goes like this:
Many cultures outside the USA are even more youth-oriented than ours. Once a girl hits the age of say…25, she’s already used/damaged goods and considered over-the-hill for this business. Guys with currency of the realm are not interested in buying their services. So what’s a girl to do? Answer: Go to a country where men aren’t so hung up on youth. And that country is AMERICA! A while back I broached this subject with a forty-something client from Brazil who explained to me that 16 year-old girls litter the nude beaches in Rio. They’re all over the place vogueing, preening and selling. And that’s what Brazilian men want. Once a girl is 21, she’s already too old. Hence, the mature girls come to New York to earn dollars, which they send back to Brazil where they’re valuable. Many end up building houses and/or buying buildings in Brazil with the money they make here. And this is why we have “The Million Brazilian Cotillion” in New York.
Venezuela is another country steeped in youth and flash. On many occasions, it’s been explained to me that Venezuelan girls will spend all their money on clothing, make-up and anything else to make themselves beautiful only to live in God-awful shacks and hovels. The youngsters draw all the attention while mature ladies go ignored.
And finally, I recently asked a Korean girl about why there were so many Koreans in New York. Among other things which she asked me not to divulge, was once again …the explanation that the girls stay in Korea and work when they’re in their late teens and early twenties, only to be put out to pasture by the Korean man’s distaste for girls over the age of 25 to 30. And that is when they come to The States, a country whose men don’t have a problem with a girl who hit puberty more than two years before.
And sooo…American men can pat themselves on the back in the realization that we are a culture of enlightenment in the eyes of many foreigners…at least when it comes to our maturity about accepting women who are “mature.” And I count myself among the enlightened. My aforementioned relationships are with girls in their 40’s. And that does NOT present a problem to me. The fact that they’re insane is much more relevant than their age. I simply do NOT find their bodies to be too aged to stiffen my essence.
And then there’s the old mythology about mature ladies doing it better and with more care. Well…I don’t know about all that. But I do know that the girls with whom I have a personal rapport generally seem to be in the mature category, though there have been times during which I’ve bonded with youngsters who gaze upon me as a confidant, mentor or father figure. And that’s when I bring in all my MTV and VH1 viewing to relate. Sometimes that can build a meaningful bond, too. But really, I’m simple. I just like a girl who turns me on. And that girl can come from a wide age demographic. Hey! I’m an American. And the stereotype DOES apply. A woman can be over the age of 25 or 30 and still look hot to me!
Ah! The changing of the guard once again! My favorite. No need to conjure a theme. I need only report the news!
Over at ASIAN VIP (646-391-2639), it’s out with the old and in with the new beginning with MIMI, an alma mater of I can’t remember where…and then moving on to jazzy JIN, a see-through wonder of feminine construction…and finally, RED, who I believe is visiting The promised Land for the first time. As usual, ASIAN VIP features only the best in ladies who want to be your girlfriend. One hour at a time sweet Jesus! The motto that all enthusiasts should bear in mind!
And moving a few thousand miles west, we arrive at ALLURING RUSSIAN (646-234-2794) where I met an enchanting princess named LINDA. I get a kick out of AR’s girls. They’re real Russians untainted by American culture. Once a Russian girl comes to America and starts hanging out with hood rats, it’s pretty much over for any guy looking for a genuine Russian experience. I know the term “hood rat Russian” is kind of an oxymoron…but I’ve actually met a few along the way. I like the real ones better.
Anyway…here goes with the new girls at Asian VIP. Enjoy!
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 wrote something long and boring for today and then decided not to publish it. Hence, you get a repeat which is short and boring. My apologies.
Many years ago I had a not very noteworthy FWB relationship about which I’ve uncharacteristically never expounded on this blog. So let me rectify that situation today as there is something instructive in the reminiscence.
She went by the name of Brenda…and worked at Gina’s Dreamland for a while. And when the girl decided to go independent and rented an apartment down the street, she called for ads. Despite the fact that Gina had already told me that Brenda sucked in the room, I was still interested in a little barter along with a few cash sales. The woman was very cute facially and boasted a big, natural chest. I mean…what’s not to go for in that deal?
Mostly, Gina was right about Brenda in the room. Not that great. But I got by that. She was pretty…and stacked. And I kind of liked her. What can I say? You can’t get everything in one package! But Brenda had a quirk, too. She was normal…a hopeless romantic even! Who’d a thunk?
Just for example…before our first quid pro quo, Brenda insisted that I go out and purchase a bottle of wine for the event. What the fuck, girl? I got work to do. What’s with all the romance? Still…I got the bottle and eased into the situation appropriately. Maybe I’m not a hopeless romantic but I can at least fake it with the prospect of the promised land as a reward for my acting ability.
Maybe 4 deals later, I reported to her apartment to hear some soft music playing as I entered. And before I had a chance to defend myself, the girl had me hand in hand and arm in arm doing a little dancing. And I’m not talkin’ hip hop free-style here. I’m talking Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn.
Whatever…these two vignettes are indicative of the reality that Brenda was a romantic. Despite the business deal we’d negotiated, we still did “the dance.” Because she said so!
Brenda had a bad habit of being very bitchy and unreasonable at times and thus, the relationship didn’t go on and on like some others have. She moved to Queens and we eventually faded away. What can I say?
Now I’m gonna look for an old photo of her (I think I have one) and post it so y’all can see for yourself that there actually is a hopeless romantic in the escort woild. Yup! Brenda was a normal girl…with normal instincts. How she became an escort I never discovered. Here she is! Not exactly a pro shot.
It’s a curious deal the way relationships run their course. First, the couple meets. They’re attracted to each other and the feeling-out process begins. They hit the sack and enter the honeymoon phase. Everything is great on both ends. Then the facade comes down…the veneer wears off…and they find out who each other really are! It’s make or break time! On how many occasions have you heard “I didn’t even know this new guy (or girl)! Where was he (or she) all this time?” And the answer to that was…hiding…so you wouldn’t see the real guy (or girl) and bolt! It’s at that point that relationships fizzle out and end – or go the distance (at least for the foreseeable future) into marriage or some sort of living arrangement if the real person is acceptable to the other.
Why I write about this seemingly mundane observation today is that in my recent past, I had a relationship (kind of) that ran its course in just the previously described manner…without the two of us ever meeting up anywhere but the room at one of this blog’s advertisers! And in a way, it was a beautiful thing! No awkward dates. No courtship. And not even a payment involved. I simply took pictures and posted them wherever. That was all I had to do to see the girl.
When I first met Sadie (fake name), it was my job to take her photos – and report back to the boss my impressions of the new girl (she trusted my judgement to a point). I wasn’t all that impressed. The woman had an overbite and looked to be 40 or so judging by the look of her hands. Even though she’s black (and my rep was one of liking black girls), there was something about her I didn’t find attractive. I told the owner that Sadie was not a girl I wanted to see in the room but that her pictures turned out well and she’d probably do some business.
Maybe a week or two later, it was time for my “payment” for services rendered and somehow (I really can’t remember how), I ended up in the room with Sadie. I can’t say it was an earth-shattering experience – but it was fine. Then maybe a couple of weeks later (and after I’d seen other girls in the interim), we hooked up again and it was really good – something we both acknowledged. Her observation was “I’m getting comfortable with you!” Clearly, we were entering the honeymoon phase – even if we’d skipped the physical attraction part at the outset.
Soon thereafter, our rendezvous became a once a week date. The place has many girls but if Sadie was working, I couldn’t see anybody else. She would get angry! Yes, I could have exercised my prerogative but decided against that course of action. While everybody got along with me well enough in the room, Sadie actually liked me…even revealing that she thought I was an excellent writer and lover! Hey! I’ve done a lot worse in this life and rarely better than Sadie. So I went with the flow. If Sadie was there, I would never see anybody else. It got to the point where the manager would say “Your future husband is here to see you!”
But a funny thing happened. The veneer began to wear off and Sadie revealed herself as a fucking nagger. (“I don’t like this picture. It’s doing nothing for my business,” or “I’m not making any money! Why am I not making any money? Maybe I need new pictures…or a review” and on and on.) Aha! The honeymoon was over. I was seeing the real Sadie – and there were issues.
Still, I didn’t really care. I mean…I wasn’t living with the woman. But somehow, she could enter the room and begin with her bull shit – and I would spend precious minutes (of my allotted time) calming her down! WTF?!?!
The last act came one night when right in the middle of our time, Sadie got distracted. First, the house was noisy – and Sadie was one of those girls who demanded extreme quiet to stay in the moment. And then it really happened! In this one quick moment, I sensed that Sadie was having ambivalent feelings about her occupation and her “relationship” with me. I knew she had a “boyfriend” and somehow, I could just tell he was on her mind as well.
I could have been wrong and completely misread her entirely. But it didn’t matter. Whether she was over me was irrelevant. I was over her! I decided at that moment to stay away when she was working and then eventually segue into seeing other girls when she was there. I mean…for how long could she reasonably display an attitude given the environment?
That issue resolved itself quickly when my relationship with the owner blew up and with no notice, severance, or anything I was terminated for insubordination. And that was that. If there was a silver lining to that termination, it was that I didn’t have to deal with Sadie and the reality that she’d be a pain in the ass whenever I went to see another girl.
In retrospect, I’m amazed that for once (and due to the unique circumstance in which I embarked on this relationship), I got to maximize the enjoyment and minimize the headaches with an attractive diva. I’ve been in similar “normal” relationships where the headaches far outnumbered the moments of bliss. But because this was part of the escort business, I managed to dodge the heavy Howitzer shells. And for that I am thankful. Really…I mostly got the good part…and mostly avoided the bad.
Imagine! No children…no divorce…no alimony…and no drama. Just lights out and mostly a beautiful memory. In the parlance of Larry David…pretty good! Pretty good!!
I’m not a real expert in the genre but there are a lot of girls who swear by what I would call the VERIFICATION SITE. The general idea is that via said website, both girls and guys can verify each other so that the dude knows he’s getting what he sees and that the girl is a reputable provider – while the girl herself ascertains that the guy calling has references and simply seeks a good time in a gentlemanly manner. It helps weed out the freaks, assholes, hustlers and criminals on both sides of the equation.
Enter TRUSTED FLING, a new site dedicated to exactly what I described in the previous paragraph. The owner of the site contacted me to advertise and I not being an expert in the field (as I mentioned), requested that he e-mail me with some sort of mission statement/instructions on how best to use his site so that the guys who come here will get the idea and use his resource to their best advantage.
If I were an English teacher, I’d have to give the guy an A+ for his effort. There’s really no need to paraphrase what he sent me. So with his permission, I simply copy and paste his e-mail. Within is all you need to know on the world of verification. And here is its:
Here’s the scoop. The purpose of Trustedfling is to allow providers to screen clients quickly, and for clients to quickly get detailed info on providers – resulting in better sessions that are more quickly arranged. The site has a couple unique features to make this a reality.
Clients and providers exchange “safety references” on the site. Every user has a list of other users who vouch for them, and you can view this list from their profile. So ladies can quickly feel comfortable setting up a session. If they want more info, they can sort the reference list by “last visited” – so they can ask other providers about the client, and be confident of a quick response.
Clients can see a summary review section for each provider to get an overview of the “menu”. If they want more detailed specific info, they can contact other clients on the provider’s reference list, also sorted by “last visited” to ensure a quick reply.
I’ve used a system similar to this on a local LA board, and I know from experience that it works really well for both the clients and providers. As a client, you can get what you seek within an hour or two and be quite sure the session is just what you’re looking for. The only problem with that board is that it’s local – and not really designed to scale to other areas. So on my site I have included map-based searches, which means users can take their references and reviews with them on travel or tour.
When an escort decides to work for a boss rather than go it herself – and the boss’s place of business is an incall – her ego and self-esteem can be on the line at all times. And I can relate. It’s not an easy row to hoe when a girl faces sitting for a shift and competing with some very beautiful or built colleagues. I mean…every time a guy walks in, it’s a beauty pageant of sorts. And there’s only one winner (or maybe two if he does a double) in a field of 8 or so girls! These are not good odds. And predictably, bad days will bring the reality that a woman can sit for the great majority of the shift making little to no money as she watches others banking over and over again.
Over at “The Factory,” this was a problem girls (and I) faced constantly. Barely a day went by that somebody didn’t request that I do something for her to help their situation. Or if they didn’t ask, I noticed it was a constant topic of conversation. Lying fallow and making no money for 80 – 90% of the shift doesn’t make for happy workers. And the situation created what I call a double whammy effect.
Not only is the girl in a funk because she’s going home with little to no money…but the poor baby doll feels ugly and inadequate as well. It’s the nature of the beast (so to speak). Girls are fragile. Anyway…there’s your double whammy right there. Broke and feeling ugly? Ouch. Stay away! Worse…when women feel ugly, that attitude is so obvious that her entire demeanor and aura suffer – and she continues to not make money!
This was a problem for the boss down at “The Factory” as well. Some girl or other would hassle her about not making money and she would call me to ask my advice (which she would never take – by the way). My response would generally be along the lines of “Tell her to lose 40 pounds”…or “I’m not surprised. The girl has a fucked up attitude which screams ‘You’re not gonna have a good time if you pick me!'” Fortunately, it was a bigger problem for the girls’ employer than it was for the photo guy!
I would feel sorry for the afflicted but then again, I see women earning 5 – 10k per week on the job – with an insufferable attitude 100% of the time. Insufferable is an adjective which describes a lot of escorts – whether they’re making a dollar or a thousand dollars a day.
Whatever…escorting is a tough business for a girl who doesn’t boast the physical blessings required for success. And given all the lazy and shiftless women (and men for that matter) in this world, too many choose the profession without considering that they don’t have the right stuff to make the grade. But that doesn’t mean they won’t complain constantly without facing the facts.
Come to think about it, there could be a double whammy when it comes to the guys as well. Ya know…like if a dude is not only ugly…but fat as well. Or if he’s not just unenlightened but an asshole as well. Yup! Life is a double whammy. Bad things come in pairs. I know…”So profound, Bill! What’s wrong? Nothing to write about today?” Bingo! There’s your double whammy again: Nothing to write today – and no talent for writing it in the first place. Ouch! The double whammy just got me!
I know I occasionally snap on the girls for being irresponsible, sloppy or unappreciative. But there are an equal number of times when I’ll be their advocate as well. Take the issue of what a girl is willing to do in the room with a stranger. That’s a woman’s choice if you ask me! The “our body ourselves” feminist motto is one with which I’m in total agreement.
First and most obvious (at least in this context), the credo addresses a woman’s right to turn her own body into a revenue stream! But more important in most feminists’ minds is applying the tenet to abortion – and the attendant legal right to terminate an unwanted pregnancy.
Today’s theme involves a unique issue most feminists never considered – an escort’s right to do what she wants – and conversely refusing to do what she she doesn’t want to do – with her customers. (It’s her body and she has the right to do only what feels comfortable with – and nothing more.) After all, it’s an accepted reality that escort work carries very little dignity…and as undignified as the work is (though it can be very profitable), it’s my opinion that a girl should be able to establish her parameters with a customer without having to answer for it on some review board or other.
And so…when I go on to these review forums and read some anonymous guy complaining about a girl who wouldn’t do something with him that in a million years I wouldn’t ask a girl to do – and something that I wouldn’t do in a billion years if I were in her shoes, I always take the girl’s side. I get this picture in my mind of an ugly, entitled masher repulsing a girl who’s just trying to pay her rent. And it grosses me out!
Pressure to do “stuff” doesn’t just come from the customer. It comes from the boss, too! And that can never be good. One person I dealt with in the past had a policy which required her girls to perform a few choice acronyms for the guys as a condition of employment. And predictably, girls who needed the job would yes the boss and then figure “I’ll do what I do in the room…and I won’t do what I don’t want to do…and deal with the consequences later.” And just as predictably, as soon as the boss heard a new employee wouldn’t do a required acronym, she wanted to fire the girl with no questions asked.
That’s when I’d whip out the argument that the job was already undignified enough… the girls didn’t need the boss to tell her she had to do something which repulsed her just in order to stay employed. But the boss lady wasn’t having it! Her attitude was “I’m not asking them do anything I didn’t do myself a thousand (actually a lot more) times when I worked!”
I even appealed to her sense of greed and avarice! “The girl’s cute and friendly. And except for those one or two acronyms, she’s great. You wanna fire her behind that?!?!” But still, she wouldn’t budge. “Rules is rules” was her credo. And really…the house regulars were spoiled. They’d come to expect that humiliating the girls routinely and with impunity was part of the deal. Hey! You run that type of place…you get that type of customer. What can I say?
Well anyway…I no longer need to debate the issue but still as a general rule and sign of respect, I don’t ask girls to do anything they wouldn’t want to do simply because in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to do that – and secondly, because it’s just the right thing to do. Anybody who wants to coerce a girl to do something outside her parameters just because he paid and he’s an asshole would be a customer I’d never see again if I were an escort.
The debate on this subject could go on forever…so let me stop here and just say this: Guys and bosses! Have a heart. Life’s highway has brought these girls to a dark place. Why you wanna make it darker? Give them a modicum of respect.
Every widget store which runs a website wants its url to appear on the first page of a GOOGLE search when a prospective customer types in say… “widgets NY.” But how to get on that first page? This is something only an SEO expert knows – and he or she doesn’t really know for sure as Goggle changes the algorithm constantly. Still, people pay big bucks to get on the first page. It’s almost become an ego and status thing – whether it nets any returns or not.
Now I’m the first guy to tell you I don’t know a lot about how to get on page 1. And I’m way too cheap to pay an expert to put me there given that I know in my case, that it doesn’t mean very much – at least for the girls on the sidebar. Never has anybody reported back to me that a guy came to their place after googling something like “NY, NY escorts” to find this blog on page 1 and then their ad. It’s just never happened.
Yet with no payment, I find today that out of 783,000 references, guess who’s #1 on google when you type in the previously cited search term! So here’s a hint on how I got there from what little I know.
Google is big on bloggers who write original content every day. People like me go to the front of the line (or the top of the page)! So you want to go to the head of the class? Change your site very day. Second, we all know about keywords. Put the keywords which people will use in a google search on your site so when they do a search for say “escorts NY, NY,” they’ll find you on page 1.
So recently, I slipped off the front page down to page 3 or farther (depending on which search term – “escorts NY, NY,” “NY, NY escorts,” “New York escorts,” escorts New York,” and similar permutations and combinations) and then suddenly, I googled “escorts NY” today and found that as a result of inadvertently writing “NY” and “escort” in the previous day’s posting, I was not just on page 1…but on the top of page one!
I did the search because a new customer contacted me to advertise. But it wasn’t a house…it was a verification site called TRUSTEDFLING .COM (more about the Monday). Curious as to why the site was interested, I googled myself assuming that was the explanation. And that’s how I discovered my vaunted position.
So there’s what I know about SEO. You write every day…you write the terms guys would use to find a site like yours…and you go to the top of the page. And for your trouble an occasional adult site will be impressed and want to advertise with you assuming that ad will help them to access the New York market.
And that’s it…the sum total on what I know about SEO. It seems unfair that someone who knows so little about getting that position is there for whatever reason. But it seems just as unfair that after writing thousands of pages on this blog over the years, I still don’t have girls calling to offer their services in exchange for an ad. What are ya gonna do? I’ll take my victories where I can get them!
Anyway, here’s a screenshot of today’s search.
P.S. Just a few minutes after I wrote this I fell to page 3. Ever get the feeling that somebody’s watching you?
Yup! Not one…not two…but three hot new Korean cuties in one day. That’s why I call it a trifecta! Ya know…’cause there’s like three of them!
So anyway…first up is JENNY from ROSE HOUSE NY (347-624-3305). Cute girl! Nice photo! A lot of photoshop but I can tell she looks good in the flesh as well.
Next is OLIVA at ASIAN PARADISE (347-256-8137). I’m lovin’ the photo! Colors…as my college roommate used to say as he was tripping on LSD. Lotsa color in this shot. And she has others equally provocative.
And finally, YURA has joined the A-lister beauties at SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707). The phone girl tells me she’s all natural. It’s funny how two separate phone girls have suddenly discovered that guys like girls who are natural. Jeez! I coulda told ya that a long time ago! Whatever…if she’s half the hit her two friends are (EMMA and KRISTAL), Yura will be a crowd favorite in no time.
And pa-pow! There’s your trifeta! I’m glad I didn’t have to think up something to write today. I’m in the middle of painting my apartment and I gotta tell y’all – it ain’t easy shifting all this crap around to get the job done. I’m drained – from looking at these girls’ pictures as much as from being Joe the Painter! Whatevv…here’s da goils!
When I think about it, I don’t really consider myself to be an author…or a journalist…or a reporter…or a writer for that matter. But once upon a time there was one gig I scored freelancing as an investigative reporter.” And here’s how that happened:
Exactly how I can’t remember…but at one point during my Action Mag employment,, I met a sketchy National Enquirer editor/tell-all biographer to the stars. We exchanged cards and one day, the dude called to say he had it on good authority that a certain tranny advertising in Screw was the she male who’d “seen” Marv Albert. And he wanted me to go get the story! Hmm! How would I do that – knowing this girl had successfully avoided the press for a couple of months already.
So I called up and actually got her on the phone the first try! But rather than blurt out my mission and kill the story right then and there, I asked if she was interested in advertising in my employer’s shoe insulator. And she bit! “Come on by and show me the magazine.”
Over the course of the next week, I must have spent 3 or 4 hours in her apartment first making the sale – and then planning the “campaign” (this girl micronomanged her ads to death). But in between, she told me everything about Marv and Eddie Murphy! I mean…it was a crazy good job I’d done as it turned out. With my employment (and card) at Action, I had the perfect cover! And without so much as asking one leading question, I had the entire story plus…yet another tranny-chasing celebrity…in the deal. Maybe investigative reporting really was my thing!
But there was a problem (what’d ya expect)? When I spilled the beans about my main mission in meeting with her, she became mortified! “Oh no, Billy. I’ve been running from those people for months and now, you’re one of those people!”
On a wing and a prayer, I countered “I know all about it…but they’ll give you a lot of money for the story” ( I can’t remember the exact amount but I’m sure it was in 5 figures.). Regardless, Ms. Honey really wasn’t interested. And she wasn’t kidding. I could tell! No amount of money would entice her.
“Ya know…you’re a decent person – and you did buy an ad in Action. So I won’t push,” I backed off. And that was that! I told the Editor all the gory details and then added “You have no shot at getting this woman to sign off on the story” (they already knew that and were simply hoping maybe somebody from the industry might get her to cave).
And except for one other assignment about basketball groupies, that stands as my only gig as an investigative reporter. But I’m good to go after all because nowadays, bull shit bloggers are big time in the writing world. And I am definitely a bull shit blogger if nothing else.
You don’t see it that often but occasionally (especially with an Eros ad), a girl will advertise an overnight rate! I never really “got” that. Wasn’t it Charlie Sheen who famously said “You don’t pay them to come…you pay them to leave” (or something like that). I totally agree. The great majority of the times I’ve had a sleepover with a woman (at least when it’s a pro – and often with bar pickups) it wasn’t because I wanted to. I just didn’t know how to say “I’m good. You can go now”…without insulting her. Clearly, I’m not that guy who’s interested in an overnighter – especially if it’s with somebody I don’t even know and/or somebody who wants to charge me for the privilege of hearing her fart and smelling her bad breath in the morning!
So anyway – after my breakup with a certain advertiser, I e-mailed pretty much all the girls whose addresses I have on file (and might want to spend an hour with) suggesting that anytime they wanted a hundred bucks (what they got paid to see me for 45 minutes before the breakup) to let me know. I’d be down with a little notice.
Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. The girls liked me well enough. But with the possible exception of just a few (who saw me outside free-of-charge), I know how they feel: “Show me the money!” And my measly hundred bucks wasn’t gonna cause a stampede to my door!
Predictably, the first day brought no response. Jeez! At least they could have said “hey.” Oh well! But on day 2 there it was: An e-mail from one of the girls I’d solicited! Mind you, the respondent is a woman I’ve seen many times in the room – and one who on occasion, has e-mailed me claiming to be having wild fantasies about us between (or above) the sheets. But apparently, despite those professed fantasies, there was a price to be paid – and the hundred bucks didn’t impress her. She began her response with “hey stud” (nice touch) and then alternatively offered three hours of her time for $500!
Granted, it wasn’t an overnighter but still, I couldn’t help but laugh. What the fuck was I gonna do with this girl for three hours? Forty five minutes – or maybe an hour – works great. But three hours?
Ya know…it’s funny how a guy will more than occasionally think that a girl is actually “into” him – thanks to her Academy Award-winning performance in the room. But that door swings both ways. And for this girl to think I’d like to spend three hours with her (even if I wasn’t paying) is as deluded as me thinking that she has any sort of feelings for me.
In response to her overture, I countered with about what her gross misunderstanding of my essence deserved: “That’s why I love ya! You gave me something to write about!” But really… this girl was great – but only because our activity didn’t involve too much intercourse of the verbal variety. One hour was about my limit – but certainly not three – two of which I’d wish she were gone.
Speaking of overnighters…here’s a girl I wouldn’t mind spending the night with! Her name is MIMI and she’s another new staffer atROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305). I couldn’t decide which pic I liked best so I included two. I’m over the moon about this new athletic wear thing the Koreans are getting into. Check it out!
Normally when I hear the expression “make some noise,” I think of a rapper on stage beseeching the crowd to do just that – as a function of him or her wanting the fans to get heated up and in the proper mindset to enjoy the show! It’s a phrase used in what I call the hip-hop lexicon – a set of words and expressions which includes the likes of “Let me give a shout out to…,” “fresh,” “def,” “fly,” “Ya feel me?’ and on and on. For hippies, it used to be “groovy,” and “far out.” You get the idea. Just stuff that identifies somebody with which pop subculture they belong.
Well anyway, “make some noise” found a new context a while back while I was discussing the unacceptable amount of noise that comes through the walls at a certain place we’ll call “the factory.” Ownership regards their employees as precious gems, and they may well be. But when it comes to the award for The Noisiest House In New York, no place else is even close! Of that there can be little doubt.
I pointed this out while socializing with a few of the girls one day – which is when one of them related an anecdote which gave me something to write about today. Acknowledging the veracity of my statement, the girl commented that during one session – while the couple in the next room were making a racket – her customer actually asked the girl to make some noise, I assume because he felt inadequate next to his neighbor. Too funny!
Maybe some people like all the noise. Who’s to say? But I know from personal experience that the girls I’ve been with at this place didn’t like it themselves. One complained to me (to which I responded “Hey, Look where you are! Go work someplace else if you want it quiet!”). And another actually shouted through the wall “Keep it down.” So I’m guessing that the majority of the world prefers quiet to a racket going on outside the room. It was never a huge issue with me though I’d be lying if I said all the noise enhanced the experience.
In fact, when I go visiting places currently featured on this site, I rarely hear any noise coming from the rooms. The environment in virtually all of the Asian houses which decorate this blog is extremely discreet and quiet. It’s as if the customer is all alone in the place with his girl.
The question as to why the aforementioned noisy place is so noisy is one you’d have to present to ownership. But really…they do a myriad of things to fuck up their own business. So it comes as no surprise that they would compromise their revenue stream by building walls so thin you can hear a pin drop through them.
Anyway…back to the guy who asked his girl to make some noise. I offer this advice: Wear noise canceling headphones in the joint or better yet, just find another place to hang out. It ain’t as if they’re the only show in town.
In summation, you could ask me why I was there if the situation was that bad. And the answer is I wasn’t paying! Case closed. Otherwise, I think the chaos would have deflected me to a quieter and more discreet location.
Moving on…KRISTAL from SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707) has a new photo. Cute girl…great outfit…fucked up photographer. Yet still…it comes off because Kristal has a great shape. Check it out:
And I just received a call from ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) that a new girl named MIKA hs just arrived from Australia. It’s her first time in New York! Here she is. Enjoy!
Not surprisingly after nobody at BLUE ANGEL confirmed that I’d sent the right NICOLE, it turned out I’d sent the wrong Nicole. Not really my fault. I forwarded the most recent Nicole – and that was the wrong one! So here’s the right one (finally)!
I’m a guy who prides himself on being responsible and organized. I mean…I had to be as a once-upon-a-time one-man advertising agency – and even now just running this blog. But when it comes to the girls? Not so much. One realm in which my clients manifest their carelessness – and I my sense of responsibility – is photo filing.
“Picture” this if you will: A girl pays a significant amount of cash to have her photos taken…pictures which help her make money. One or two years after those pictures were taken, who would you figure would have those photos on file and at the ready? The girl who depends on those images to make a living or me, who at the time of uploading one of the photos on this blog, filed the picture where I could always find it if need be.
Well…you already have your answer. And not once…but twice this week, I received requests to forward photos of girls who had somehow misplaced their own pictures. After the first e-mailed her thanks when she got the long-lost photos, I answered back “You’re welcome. When can I come in for my free session?” I’m still waiting for her response.
With the second, I don’t think I even got a thank you! Am I surprised? Not really. Am I angry? Not at all. I have nothing to do anyway. I can e-mail a few photos in between feeding the homeless or reading a book. It’s not that big of a deal.
But still…how the fuck do you lose your own photos? And how is it that I, who doesn’t give a crap about those images, end up being your backup? And the answer is…I’m a pro. Stuff always gets filed away and even backed up – as was the case the last time I had a computer crash.
The funny thing is that there have been occasions when girls thought it was stalkerish for me to keep their photos on file. But the real reason I do that: Because I know that girls are going to lose pictures that they need later. So I keep them and get labeled a stalker for the favor – until they need them at which point, I’m lucky if I get a thank you for saving their asses.
Sometimes people ask me if I have sex with all the girls on the blog. Clearly they don’t get it. They’re my daughters! They fuck up…and then I help them clean up their mess.
And to wrap it up…here’s one of the girls who lost her photos: NICOLE from BLUE ANGEL (917-615-3281). Enjoy! I’m assuming these are of the correct Nicole as I found 193 images in my finder with that name! Talk about too many Nicoles and too little time! See the next post. This turned out to be the wrong Nicole!
It seems unlikely that I would know anything about punk rock music let alone win a contest via that knowledge. Yet somehow, I did just that late one night while listening to a hard core radio station with my then friend with benefits.
Her name was…(fuck! I can’t remember her name! Doesn’t matter. Let’s call her Lisa!) Lisa was a really pretty girl I met at either Downtown Beirut or the Aztec, both equally dingy dungeon type bars in my neighborhood. We were the oddest couple ever. I mean…guys would come up to her when we went out drinking and say shit like “nice boyfriend” as if to imply “What the fuck are you doing with that square?”
I didn’t give a shit. As far as I was concerned, they were even bigger losers than I…and the only reason I hung out in those bars in the first place was to get laid. Whatever…our MO went like this: We’d hook up at whichever shithole and be each other’s wing person. Mostly, she got laid more than I did (not a big surprise) and when nobody struck our fancy, we’d simply go home with each other.
So one night we’d done the bars and returned to Chez Dollar whereupon Lisa tuned the radio to some radical punk station. Bear in mind that Lisa had bright red spiked hair which rose two feet above her head and listened to deep punk exclusively.
I pretty much tuned out the music until Lisa turned to me and asked “What’s the name of that song playing?” with a sort of urgent tone. I centered my attention on the radio and immediately recognized “Music To Watch Girls By,” a hit instrumental from my youth and matter-of-factly told Lisa. In an instant, she picked up my phone and almost shouted into the receiver “Music To Watch Girls By!” The next thing I know I hear “We won?!?!”
Lisa stayed on the phone for another 15 seconds…long enough to hear the DJ say “I can’t believe somebody actually knows that song!” By now, I caught on. We’d won a call-in contest via my expansive music knowledge of all things not punk rock – as it turned out! I could see why the DJ was surprised given his playlist. Nobody over the age of 21 without hair up to the sky would be listening to his station at 3 AM unless of course, it was a relative geezer abiding his thrash rock presentation in the interest of getting laid.
So anyway…now I’m getting excited because we won something. Cool! A trip to the Riviera? A hunded bucks? What?!?! Not quite. We won two tickets to see the BUTTHOLE SURFERS at the RITZ! The Butthole mother fucking Surfers?!?!” WTF?!?! Jeez! Can we trade it in for a free night’s stay at the Bethlehem PA Holiday Inn? Too fucking stupid!
Bottom line: Neither of us went. Lisa had to work at the hospital (when she wasn’t a punk rocker, Lisa let her hair down to work her RN gig at Cabrini)…and I drove my cab. As far as I know, she didn’t even give the tickets away to a friend.
And there you have it: PUNK ROCK BILL! Contest winner supreme! The Butthole Surfers! The story of my fucking life. I finally get lucky and win something and look what it is! Shoot me now!
If I’ve never mentioned it before, check it out: I have a BA in Economics. And one of the very first things I learned in the curriculum was the concept of elastic versus inelastic demand. Basically, here’s how it works: Let’s say you’re currently selling a service for $100… but you’re thinking about raising the price to $150. Will you make more or less money?
If you raise the price and do make more money, the demand for your service is said to be inelastic. People tend to want your service more than they’re worried about a price increase – at least to a certain extent. Let’s say once having upped the price and made more money, you decide to raise the tab again – up to $200! Suddenly, you’re making less money! The demand for your service between the prices of $150 and $200 has become elastic. You’ve upped the price 33% but lost more than 33% of your business.
Enter ASIAN SUPERSTAR and SWEET ASIAN VIXENS! The former began advertising on this blog a month ago – and the latter just recently. Oddly, the lead girls at each agency are almost twins. It’s uncanny! Both are very beautiful, tall, lanky and A-listers all the way. Just one major distinguishing factor: For the same service, the former is charging $150 more than the latter.
With the more expensive girl, the customer would be more likely to get a fresher servant given her elevated price. Would that make a difference? Well..here’s how it went: Sweet Asian Vixens is ecstatic with their response…and Asian Superstar is dropping their ad (at least I think they are. They haven’t confirmed that yet.) Conclusion: the demand for escorts and their service is elastic. At $200, a girl will earn x number of dollars. At $300? The number will go down more than 33% and she’ll end up making less money – though admittedly, she’ll work less for that money.
On many occasions, independent girls have asked me how much I think they should charge. And my answer is always this: “The less you charge…the more you’ll make – and the harder you’ll work.” Of course, I usually have to repeat that statement 23 times before she understands! But that’s a subject for another day! The bottom line is….the demand for escorts and their services is elastic. You raise your price? You make less money. Lecture over. Professor Bill is out!
Every so often I actually get a gratifying day running this dog and pony show. It doesn’t happen often but somehow, today was that day.
The day started off on the right foot when the phone girl from SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707) called to verify me that after just over a day on this site, they’re already significantly in the black with their ad. And the angels sang!
It’s good to hear that your erstwhile advertising vehicle actually works for the customers though admittedly, if it didn’t work for EMMA, it wasn’t gonna work for anybody (meaning Emma is very beautiful).
After receiving that piece of upbeat news, it was time to plan my day. I decided to forego a trip south to apply for my individual half fare Metrocard (I’ll do that tomorrow) in favor of two stops in the Midtown 40’s – and then to St. Bart’s to feed the homeless. (One thing about St, Bart’s: the volunteers are unabashed about claiming their share of the grub. Downtown at the University Soup Kitchen, the volunteers rarely grab food for themselves – at least until the end when they – or we – see a surplus. But the St. Bart’s crew doesn’t roll that way. Literally all the volunteers commandeer their evening meal + before the “clients” descend and devour everything in sight. Maybe it’s because the food is so good uptown.)
But I digress! I time the trip out to hit the church last. And what greets me at the first stop? Not only the house payment…but a $200 tip in an envelope from one of the girls! Here here! And the angels sang!
Apparently, I’d placed Ms. Thang on the top 10 list (where she clearly belongs) and even recommended her to write-ins as a paragon of Korean hospitality. Now I should mention that nobody pays (or plays) to be on the Top 10 list. And ditto if I recommend them and a guy actually shows up and spends based on my advice. Thus, you might think it would be appropriate to in some way hook the guy up (me) who’d helped beef up the revenue stream. But it rarely happens. What are ya gonna do? And that’s why the angels sang.
At the next stop, I rode the elevator with a GQ-looking guy who was ascending to the same place I was. He was the kind of dude you’d look at and wonder “Why the fuck is this hombre buying a girl’s time? He could just go to a bar and wait for chicks to circle around? I don’t get it!”
Whatever…we got off…I let him go in first…and then enter myself. Upon seeing that it was an old friend who was about to join this individual, I offered “Your guy is very handsome, honey.” “Not as handsome as you,” she countered and then wrapped her arms around me. And the angels sang!
Normally, that would mean nothing. But I’ve known this girl since the first week she came to New York at which time, the boss threw me in the room with her so I could write a review. We bonded spiritually and at some point several years later, she actually proposed marriage to me. Again, that would mean nothing as well were it not for the fact that her proposal came in two forms: $25,000 was door #1…ya know…the usual green card overture. But door #2 might have been an even better option: No money but “we’ll really be married!” And you know what that means (boom boom in the room room for two years)! Wise ass that I am, I answered back “I thought I was getting both” and then made light of the entire proposal implying that it wasn’t for real anyway. Which it might not have been.
Regardless, the way in which she said “not as handsome as you” was in some way genuine. As I’ve said before, rarely do I get a vibe from any of my clients that they find me physically attractive. But I always did with this girl – which I found hard to believe as she’s super cute and a woman I consider to be way out of my league in the looks department.
And ya know now that I’m through with JEWELS INC. (where I had my lay of the land), maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to break my fast with Korean girls and return to where I was 8 to 10 years ago (fooling around with Korean girls). Just something to consider.
Anyway…it’s not likely that I’ll do anything about it but that’s not the point. Today, I got paid and complimented by two beautiful women. And….St. Bart’s had some nice sausage and peppers and…a few cute girls volunteering. But that’s where the angels stopped singing. None of the girls jumped into my arms. Not that I didn’t try.
Well…back here on Earth, it’s one day at a time Sweet Jesus. Hopefully, tomorrow will be half as good as today was. And maybe the angels will sing once more. Who knows? Stranger things have happened!
First order of business today is a thank you to the guys who called over to SWEET ASIAN VIXENS. The whole deal is a big happy face! I’m happy…the SAV’S are happy…and from what I hear, the guys who took the plunge were happy as well. And soooo…the big happy face!
On to the new lovely Asians at LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409). Two new girls have arrived. First is SHINY (gotta love that name), who is currently brightening the metropolis for the first time ever! – which means she’s new to NYC (and the USA as well for that matter). So I know all you guys who live for “the new girl” will heed the call of the wild (and new).
Additionally, CIEL (who looks familiar) has joined the lovely crew. And now that I’ve done the telling part…it’s time for the show part (ya know…as in “show and tell”). So without further ado…da goils!
Believe it or not, there are several Asian phone girls who I would count as friends – and not just people I deal with as part of earning a living. One of my all time favorite Asian phone girls goes by the name of Chris…and today, she called to announce her return to Manhattan after leaving a good and high payin’ job 6 months ago to spend more time where she lives.
The event which brought her back was employment with a brand new place appropriately named SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707). And Chris called knowing I could hook them up (or at least hoping I could).
So I checked out their ads and site and more or less came to the conclusion that this new place wasn’t a lot different from all the other houses whose girls adorn the sidebar of this blog. But when I arrived at their spic and span/clean as a whistle place of business, I knew this house was special.
First, I met CRISTAL, who even though she was lying on the mat dressed in flannel pj’s in the “girls only” room, struck me as facially stunning. “Now here’s a pretty girl Asian style,” I thought to myself – and actually more or less stated out loud. A good start for sure. But then (and taking nothing away from Cristal), in walked EMMA, a Korean princess oozing sensuality!
Wow! Talk about the “it” girl! Emma is about 5′ 8″ in her heels…with a gorgeous face, long wind-swept style hair, and a perfectly proportioned body from head to toe. And…she was sweet and flirtatious as well. Talk about a winning combination! Unfortunately, Emma’s photos do not do her justice. I mean…when was the last time you went to see a Korean girl and found that she looks better than her pictures? I don’t know if that ever happened! But it will if you go see Emma!
Chris reports that Emma is fantastic in the room and that guys have already doubled back to see her again – even though they opened only two days ago! Talk about a testimonial!
Anyway…the program at SAV (what I’ll call them) is similar to that of HIYAKO! Eighty bucks gets you in the door and everything from your standard body rub right up to a honeymoon experience is on the menu! And that honeymoon thing is a very reasonable deal (though you’ll have to talk to the girls for particulars).
I know this blog has its share of paid political announcements – as that’s part of the reality of me making a living. But in all candor, both the girls I met at SAV are A-list material. If you go see either one, I’m 99.99 % sure that you’ll leave with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. These girls are top notch all the way. Now here’s their pix. Hubba hubba!
And here’s an amateur shot of EMMA obviously taken with bad lighting and a bad camera. But this is exactly how she looked when I met her. you get the idea!
You know…as in TWINKLE (917-861-6600). The boss called to say they have a new girl named KATIE…and YOKO has new photos. So here we go…a little pictorial content to go with the way too many words earlier today. And you’ll notice (from the sidebar) that CANDY, one of VIP ASIAN fame) is now at DREAM GIRL (646-276-0229).
Too often, the objects of our extreme affection are here today and gone forever tomorrow. Just when you think you’ve found your perfect girl? Bam! She vanishes – leaving many a red-blooded male in the lurch. If I had a dollar for every guy who e-mailed me or commented about his separation anxiety concerning somebody or other’s disappearing act, I’d have a pocket full of dollars.
So anyway…one reader recently requested that I repost an old photo of his paramour Sunny, who has (to his chagrin) just recently exited the fold for greener pastures. And once I went searching for Sunny’s picture, I figured I might as well include a few more as well. No doubt, these photos (all taken by yours truly I might add) will leave you with some bittersweet memories – hopefully more sweet than bitter. There were a few others as well – but the images weren’t captured by me. And given that the guy complimented my meager photography skills, I decided not to include anything shot by anybody else.
If you were to read a book only 20 years ago, once you were done the experience was pretty much over. Yes, you could go to the library and research the author to discover anything that had been written about him or her. But you probably wouldn’t come up with much for a lot of effort. Nowadays, it’s a totally different ball game.
If I’m curious about the author whose book I’ve just read (and I usually am), I’ll google him or her and generally find the author’s website – which will tell me all I ever wanted to know about the person. Additionally…if he or she is really famous…I might find something on You Tube as well – which is that much better as you get to see and hear the person after reading his or her work.
So getting to the point…I found “How To Make Love Like a Porn Star” (Jenna Jameson’s biography) at the local library and couldn’t resist checking it out. For those unaware, it was a best-selling book written 11 years ago and published by Judith Regan, the woman I met at Hof’s party – and who rejected me as an author. I figured it might be entertaining and instructive at the same time to read the gossipy biography.
Well…I ripped through the 577 page train wreck in a day and a half (not exactly “heavy” reading) and typically, hit the computer for more info and perspective on Jenna after I was through reading. So first, I went to xhamster to watch her in action as believe it or not, I’ve never seen any of her movies. And I can’t tell you that there was anything special about the girl. A blow job is a blow job…and unless a woman can swallow a sword (or something as long), it’s generally just not that big of a deal.
Not particularly impressed, I busted my next move on You Tube – which is where the golden nuggets the multimedia experience can occasionally provide lived. There were many Jenna Jameson interviews to watch and listen to and of course, the most revealing were the uploads from the HOWARD STERN SHOW – and a mess of a morning show interview during which Jenna could barely speak she was so fucking high! (Way to show the world that you aren’t an idiot, dumbass!) I’d read the paid political announcement the book surely was. But with the help of You Tube, I really got a feeling about the woman – much more so than I ever could have just reading the book.
Clearly, Jenna is a trashy trailer bimbo. There’s no doubt about that. But the girl is (or was) really cute and just smart enough to not be a total eye roll – at least on The Stern Show. (I’m grading on a steep curve here but I think you get the idea.) I wouldn’t discuss foreign policy with Jenna, but we’d have enough common ground to make a conversation that wouldn’t totally bore me – if she wasn’t totally high (and I gather that would be a crapshoot). Whatever…it was via the multimedia experience that I discovered all this.
As far as the book goes? Nothing earth-shattering. It was more or less like all those rock star biographies I’ve read before. Ya know…lots of money…and excess…and dysfunction…and drugs. Snore! Not exactly a trend-setting tome. But it was just light enough…and had enough insider info on the porn business…to keep my interest. On a scale of 4 apples, I’d give it a 2 or 2.5. Why it became such a hit is obvious: The protagonist…the subject matter…and Judith Regan’s marketing acumen. Hard to miss with that trifeccta!
Pretty much everybody who reads this blog knows who DENNIS HOF is. He’s that big guy with the HBO show which depicts the life and times of Dennis and the girls who work for him out in Nevada. But here’s some stuff you didn’t necessarily know about Dennis: He doesn’t own just one legal house in Nevada! He owns five…and is in the process of building two more! The dude is a major entrepreneur.
Well anyway…Dennis has become the newest advertiser on this here train wreck. So if you’re a guy looking to visit a legal place while you’re out in Vegas losing all your money…check out one of Dennis’s houses of “chill” repute.
And girls! Are you tired of dodging the police? Are you played out in New York and nobody wants to come see you anymore? Do you have the wanderlust and a sense of adventure? Well then, go west young lady! Just think! You’ll never be in a compromising position when all of a sudden, there’s a sharp knock on the door and the voice on the other side commands “POLICE! Open up!” Maybe it’s time to heed the call.
Following are six prime examples of Nevada’s best. This is what awaits you the next time you hit the state. Enjoy!
Like guys, girls can be very judgmental of a prospective partner. Like just in the area between his legs, chicks will harp on the length, width, shape, angle of the dangle and hardness of a guy’s unit. Does the candidate ram too hard…or conversely, have no power to his stroke? Does he last long enough? or does he go on forever and wear her out? Does he want sex too often…or not often enough? And we haven’t even gotten to ball size!
Well..with all these, there’s still one I haven’t mentioned…the “tip of the rubber” test. Guys! Can I get a witness here? After you’ve mounted, made love to (or whatever), and then retreated from the Promised Land with satisfaction, what does the girl do? She looks and reaches down to feel the tip of the rubber to accurately how much you came – seemingly judging you and the entire experience on how much ejaculate she finds swishing around the tip of the condom. Yup! It’s not enough that you get a big, phat hard-on and gave the girl an orgasm! She wants to know that you shot a major load as well!
I get the idea that this is a self-esteem issue with women. The more cum they see at the end of the rubber…the more attractive and virile they feel about themselves. It’s almost as if they go to their friends and say “Wow! So-and-so fucked me really good and you should have seen how much he came. Dude was like a geyser!”
And so…just when you thought there were no more requirements to fill on a woman’s endless checklist, there’s another one! The tip of the rubber test! Wonderful!
Pornography is what it is (sex on camera) and not too much more. Which is to say while the action is almost always hot…the plot and the acting are not! So to find anything in the genre entertaining on any other level than the obvious is a rare treat indeed. Still, I somehow found this thoroughly stimulating softcore scene while doing a “black lesbian” search today on xhamster. The big sorority sister doing the hazing is waaaay cute. This “short” is a diamond in the rough for sure. I know it didn’t win any AVN AWARDS but check it out! It’s unique in its own way.
After laboring away on my income taxes, I’m not in the mood to write something new today. So I went into the big blog file (almost everything I’ve written in the past 6+ years), and did a search on the word “skank.” For some reason, searching a particular word seems to help me find worthy ancient entries to republish. I’m not sure how that all works but whatever…here’s the second post that came up. It’s an insider’s look at the one day every month I had to rise and shine at 6 AM to fulfill my duties while selling advertising for ACTION MAGAZINE. Enjoy!
As I rapidly approach the traditional retirement age (65), I sit here this morning thinking back on how many “straight” gigs (ones for which I had to get up in the morning Monday to Friday) I’ve suffered through in my life. At one point in my early adulthood, I remember my mother observing that it was my life ambition to never have to get up in the morning. Ha ha! And whether that was true or not, an impartial bystander might agree with her given how few times I actually had employment that required I set an alarm clock.
Let’s see…besides those silly summer jobs I used to work during high school and college…there was that 8 weeks as a preschool teacher…6 weeks as a taxi top salesman…and one week at the Village Voice. And that’s it…unless you count my 3+ years at Action Magazine. But that wasn’t a job for which I needed to rise in the morning – except for 1 day a month. And on that day, I did endure multiple humiliations pursuant to my earning a legitimate paycheck. Ah…the sales meeting…Action style. Those were the days!
It may not sound like much of a burden to some but bear in mind that the Action offices were in suburban Philadelphia – and everybody at the company lived there except me. So you know who did the commuting!
Initially, I would make a two hour trip on Amtrak – and then another hour on SEPTA (the Philly version of the LIRR) before I’d finally arrive at the Action office/warehouse. Well that wasn’t working so I did a little research to discover that alternatively, I could ride to Trenton on NJ Transit for an hour and 50 minutes where my homey and fellow salesman Howard would be happy to pick me up for another 45 minute ride to the office. The train was kind of skanky but overall, that commute was better than the Amtrak/Septa deal – which was like 5 times as expensive as well.
Getting picked up by Howard had a special appeal all its own. The first thing he’d do was light up a phatty for the ride. Howard was a serious pothead….and a juggler of sorts, too. He could drive fast, talk on his phone, check his pager, and take a drag off the doob all at once without for one second being distracted from the main mission at hand: driving us to the office safely! The guy was totally in control even through all that multi-tasking.
Almost without fail, we’d arrive right on time (9AM) at our little suburban oasis…a set up which consisted of a big warehouse filled with endless smut rags all of which the boss distributed, and a pre-fab office area up a flight of stairs.
So we’d walk in to say “hey” to the distribution slaves and then hike the flight to the corporate offices where the bean counters and bosses hung! And there at a big table in his big office sat Joe Rose – Philadelphia’s version of Al Goldstein – ready to intellectualize the sales function ad nauseum. But while Goldstein was an artist type who valued a good writer more than a good salesperson, Joe was exactly the opposite. His book was all ads and almost no editorial – save phony stories about girls the writers had supposedly bedded though mostly, we’d never even met the objects of our lust! Whatever…all his energy went into how he could get his sales people to up their numbers – and not how he could get the writers to submit better stories and features.
Obviously, this was not a good fit for me who was (and is) all about writing and couldn’t give a crap about sales even though I was hired to write and sell! But I’ll credit Joe with one thing: He willed me to become a salesman. And by the end of my employment at the firm, I stopped writing for the magazine and concentrated solely on selling – and the numbers that would prove I was doing my job! And if I did write, it was for Screw or the Voice, or Oui Magazine where I became the Managing Editor while still collecting a weekly paycheck from Joe. Naturally, none of this met with his approval.
Anyway…the sales meeting would go on for hours as each salesperson chronicled collections, leads and which publication (like NY Mag, The Press or Voice) he’d been telemarketing to beat the bushes for new revenue. Gaaag! If there was one thing I hated more than cold-calling escorts who were advertising with other publications and not ours, it was reporting the results of this fruitless pursuit to a boss who lived 100 miles away – and all at 9 AM! All I could think was “I could be out drumming up new business instead of coming down here to listen to this bull shit!”
But it wasn’t all bad. Inevitably, all the sales gab degenerated into blow job gab…and who was best at that! The boss’s son was fucking (and getting high with) everything in sight so there was no shortage of anecdotes – as you might imagine with a magazine whose advertising base consisted solely of escorts or dominatrixes.
Finally at 12, we’d take a lunch break and Joe would order out to an Italian joint for everybody. That was the best part! You can guess what I ate. Yup! An eggplant parmy hero! I’m predictable if nothing else!
Once stuffed to the gills with some red lead, it was downstairs to the production room where all the mistakes were made. And trust me…that crew specialized in fucking everything up. They were so bad that eventually, the sales meeting more or less morhped into the production meeting, a function that ensured every ad got in the paper – and every phone number was correct! Things got so bad with all the errors that I had to admit to Joe and myself that what was once a useless sales meeting became the most important and essential day of the month. Without it, I was sure to suffer multiple headaches from people whose ads hadn’t run…hadn’t run correctly…or had an incorrect phone number.
Well…I’m starting to ramble so it’s best that I wrap this thing up for the day and somehow pull this stream-of-consciousness mess together. So I’ll say this: Sales meetings are for squares. They’re for salesmen – and certainly not me. That I ever got into sales demonstrates what a whore I truly am because selling is the last thing I ever wanted to do….right next to getting up in the morning to an adrenaline rush caused by an alarm clock. The funny thing is that having said all that, I’m usually up very early nowadays. Go figure!
Whoops! After republishing the repeat, I forgot there’s some news today. ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) texted to let me know the house has not one…but two new girls. Check out EMMA and NICKY! I love the background in Nicky’s photo. Very nice! And I thought my apartment needed a paint job!
It seems like just yesterday that I was a pubescent 13 year old eagerly awaiting the day I would turn 18 so I could go see what passed for a “dirty” movie back in those days. Then I blinked and the next thing I knew? I couldn’t wait to be 65 so I could ride the subway and go to the movies half price.
Well, fellerz! That day has arrived. I was over at the Gem Spa scoring a pack of fancy smokes for my paramour – a simple purchase that would ensure my trip out to the frontier would be a fruitful one – when I stopped by the subway station…displayed my Medicare card…and got my first half price round trip ride on the MTA. SUH-WEEET! Welcome to the Golden Years, Dollar. You’ve finally arrived!
And ya know…it seems only fair that us geezers should get a 50% discount at our favorite oases as well. Ya feel me, guys? I mean…how much damage can we really do at this point? It ain’t like we’re gonna put a lot of mileage on a youngblood. More likely, we’ll just lecture somebody 1/3 our age about the good old days as she nods in approval and then turns her head to roll her eyes at an imaginary colleague.
Anyway…every minute I spend blogging is a minute I delay the reward for my pioneering spirit! The fiancee says she has a headache and only I hold the cure!
Ain’t I the lucky one! Actually, yes! And now it’s time to take a shower…brush my teeth and hop on my conestoga wagon for the promised land where I shall be slow-hand and deliberate Bill…and I will live to fuck another day. Yee-hah! My eager partner awaits.
We’ve heard the following question a thousand times: “What do you look for in a mate?” The predictable responses run along the lines of “nice body, good parenting skills, intelligent, stimulating conversation, sense of humor, a best friend”..and on and on. You might occasionally hear “a good lover” but almost never does somebody respond “a lover with an oral fixation.”
I’ve had my share of girlfriends with oral fixations – and some without. Which is to say some blew me with a passion and alacrity that boggled my mind. And others weren’t down at all. Maybe we fucked up a storm…but in the suck department, we barely or didn’t even exist. Personally, I go for door #1. It’s not that I want my partner to be servile. I just like the feeling.
Anyway…my point is that the power of a good blow job is underrated – or often unstated. Whichever way, I think we (as men) should “own” the fact…and state it in response to the age-old question. “Yes, I’d like my dream mate to be smart, funny, good-looking, stacked but above all….(drum roll) give a great blow job – and love doing it!”
A lot of people I know will tell you that Dollar Bill likes black girls with big asses. But if they saw my current “gf,” they’d look at you and say “No fucking way! Billy’s with that girl?” The answer to why I’m with her is pretty simple. She likes me and…she gives an insane, endless and very enthusiastic blow job!” I mean…what more could a meaningful schmuck like me ask for?
The recent revelation that Sandra Bullock is now in court prosecuting a stalker who actually broke into her house while she was asleep brings to mind some old posts from this blog about guys who stalk escorts – as well as a new development in the stalker game I’ve discovered via a reader’s emails. This form I would label “information stalking.” And frankly, I find it a little spooky.
Just for example…before I ever posted You Tube videos of my old records (which obviously has my name on them), guys would either write in or send comments addressing me by my real name. This I viewed as a form of intimidation. Ya know…like they were gonna dime me out with the authorities anytime they felt like it. And how did they get hold of my real name? By using google…or actually finding somebody who knows me. Whichever way, I call that information stalking.
Switching gears, it is not an uncommon occurrence for guys to write in relating tales of what they’ve done in the room with which girl. And with one particular house, it can get very graphic. None of this affects me as I have no feelings for any of these girls and have not been in the room myself with the great majority. Whatever complaints, admonitions or fears they have are theirs – and not mine.
But recently, a guy’s correspondence has indicated that he really knows a lot about the inner gossip of one of the places. And it’s a place with some very malignant inner gossip. Ya know…stuff that I might know but really, nobody else who isn’t part of “the family” should!
When I asked him where and how he came by all this information, his response was that the organization has a mole…and that all the dirt and gore is being shared “back channel” on one of the review sites. Interesting, but it didn’t strike fear in my heart as all the 411 isn’t about me (although I’m sure there is some about me on different subjects). But then he started coming up with real names of girls who work in the organization! That I found a little sick and intrusive. Escorts give themselves fake names and blur their faces for a reason: They don’t want their private lives intersecting with their downlow existences. And the realization that customers are researching their identities wouldn’t make me happy if I were in their shoes.
Whatever…all this drama is very foreign to me. I mean…the last time I stalked somebody was in high school. And really…all I did was drive by the girl’s house a couple of times after she dumped me.
Many years ago (and recently now that I think about it), I broke ties with one of the advertisers – several of whose girls I had some sort of “relationship” with (if you get my drift). Breaking up with the owner pretty much meant that I was breaking up with all her girls at the same time. It didn’t occur to me that standing outside the house at shift break to talk to the girls I liked would be appropriate behavior. And I didn’t. Regardless of what any of the girls had said to me in the privacy of the room – or how many times we’d been in the room privately…I knew them as pros and fully expected to hear nothing from them once I was no longer servicing their boss. And that’s what I got. No expectations…and thus, no disappointments.
Guys who patronize these girls should understand that. Whatever it looks like…it isn’t! You’re a customer…and she’s providing a service. Period. Any expectations beyond that is pure folly. And stalking of any kind (information or otherwise) is inappropriate.
A word to the girls: Guard your identities. And do not have an Instagram page with your real name and picture. You’re in a dirty business. And the guys who see you are just as dirty as you are. If you’re not careful, they’ll discover your real name. And they’re not looking to recommend you for New Yorker of the Week with that information! Be apprised.
And before I go…let’s lighten up the mood with what we’re all here for in the first place: The cheesecake! Check out the new girl AMI at BLUE SKY ASIAN (646-342-7253). Lookin’ pretty hot to me!
At this point in time, we all pretty much know that marijuana usage is pervasive on all levels of American society – and certainly not the exclusive domain of the lower strata. Just for example, I used to know a guy (25 years ago) who earned 75 k per year selling weed to doctors, lawyers, architects and the like. He established a $75 minimum to keep away the “trash” and still made a handsome living.
While people from all walks of life smoke pot, the manner in which they smoke it differs. Back in college, we rolled joints and/or smoked in water pipes. While on vacation in Europe after college graduation, I briefly traveled with some Danish guys who smoked out of a chillum – an apparatus which looked more like a trombone mouthpiece than paraphernalia with which to get high on reefer. And then there’s the segment of society which eats its pot in the form of brownies, cookies, and even candy. One Christmas, the owners of Somad gifted me with all manner of edibles I could get high off! I gave them away. I prefer to smoke my weed…not eat it!
So anyway…we arrive at the MO of American pot smokers of color – and their white or Asian wannabe friends (wannabe as in they wish they too were people of color). Their method is one of buying a cigar (known as a blunt)…emptying its contents…and then replacing the tobacco with what is often an entire 20 bag of weed.
This is not my preferred way of smoking. In fact, it’s my least preferred way. First, I gave up tobacco literally 44 years ago. The last thing I want to do is smoke a fucking cigar tobacco leaf. Blccch! It makes my head spin! And second, it’s a very expensive and inefficient way to smoke. If these girls would just get a one-hitter…or even a little baby pipe (two more ways to smoke), they could make that twenty bag last ten times longer and then (hello) have the fucking money to buy an ad on this blog (you knew I had an agenda here)! Yet, that’s the way they roll (pun intended) and often, American escorts can blow $50/day on fucking weed. Amazing! No wonder they’re always broke! If they can spend that much on marijuana, imagine what they can waste on coke or heroin!
OK! And now to the title of this masterpiece! Way back (like at least 10 years ago), I knew a project Puerto Rican owner of a house full of ghetto hoochies. The joint was a hot mess! Girls would rob or “set each other up” (tell boyfriends where, when and how to rob a colleague). Fights (and I mean brawls) would break out all too often. And periodically, the ladies’ pimps would show up to beat the girls or break windows to register their discontent about something or other. Soooo charming!
The boss, who somehow operated with a modicum of discretion (though not much), mandated that the employees be careful with the Mexican deli deliverers who used to bring them their order-out meals from the local corner store. She didn’t want the guys knowing what they were doing! Makes sense to me! Why would you want some dude who doesn’t have the money to partake in the first place telling everybody in the neighborhood about the house across the street?
So one night I was up there doing something or other when I actually witnessed the group pool their cash to call the deli and order (drum roll) blunts and rubbers! Whoa! Like…could you dildesses be any more profligate and indiscreet? On what planet would any delivery guy with an IQ higher than 40 not know what you’re doing when you order out for something like that?!?!
Whatever…it didn’t really matter. Just a week later, the boss got all fucked up on multiple drugs with some douchebag from her project…started an argument which ended in a free-for-all…had to go to the hospital with a broken jaw…and was subsequently thrown out of the building as the fight itself was conducted at about 130 decibels on a Saturday night!
Aah! The Ballad of Blunts and Rubbers! Classy, girls! And you wonder why mainstream society looks down their noses at escorts!
CANDY (DREAM GIRL NY) 646-276-0229
CHERRY (TWINKLE NY) 917-861-6600
CHOCO (BLUE ANGEL) 917-615-3281
CHANEL (HOT LIPS) 646-309-0453
SUSAN (MY ASIAN GFE) 646-326-9512
EMMA (SWEET ASIAN VIXENS) 917-434-5707
BLUE (LOVELY ASIAN) 212-470-0409
MIKI (HIYAKO) 212-679-3681
JUNE (BLUE SKY ASIAN) 646-342-7253
DANA (ASIAN FLOWER) 646-639-1195
RED (VIP ASIAN) 646-391-2639
JENNY (ROSE HOUSE) 347-624-3305
OLIVIA (ASIAN PARADISE) 347-256-8137
VIOLETA (ALLURING RUSSIANS) 646-234-2794
AIR FORCE AMY (BUNNY RANCH) 775-246-9901
NY HEALTH SPA – 212-575-5600
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