Happy 4th of July weekend everybody. Let us all lament living in a country where the 4th amendment is a distant memory – and almost everything you say or do…and every time you click your mouse, the government is watching you. Sometimes they’re doing it…and sometimes they’re subcontracting the snooping out to the likes of Google, Facebook, Yahoo and on and on. But make no mistake about it, Big Brother is two feet up your ass.
Ever wonder why after you go online to buy a pair of shoes, every time you log on to some site for the next year you get ads for shoes on the sidebar? That’s not a coincidence! Is Edward Snowden a traitor or a patriot? I dunno! It depends on whether you think having the gov all up in your life is really thwarting terrorist attacks…or simply just snooping around on a witch hunt.
Anyway…this blog’s agenda isn’t really political discourse. It’s to inform you about which Asian cutie is where. We accept that our 4th amendment rights have been suspended indefinitely and go on about our business which today, is checking out the new girls of ASIAN PARADISE (347-256-8137). And here they are:
To start, TWINKLE has a brand new-new to New York cutie named SCARLET – with no letter on her chest (as this is a new era. Nobody gets a scarlet letter for doin’ her Hester Prynne thing). And ASIAN FLOWER has a bunch of new girls. Of course YOYO (the up and down girl) is an old favorite but RUBY, ELLA, DIDI, add JESSY all look new to me. Of course, they could have new pictures and I’d be fooled at this point.
So much potpourri today. Where to start? First, let’s begin with a little musical chairs Korean style – except this is less about the girls moving from place to place in New York – and more about their inter city mobility. Favorites like GUCCI and SUGAR have recently travelled down the turnpike 100 miles to reap some new-girl-in-town rewards in the City of Brotherly Love (Philadelphia).
Traveling just 100 miles and making the new-girl-in-town big bucks is great until there’s a big bust in the land of milk and honey (which there was). And thus, you can expect to see them returning in the near future to the relative safety of the Big Apple. Apparently, it wasn’t just the girls who took the hit in PA. The phone people, managers and even the actual owners got a free ride to the pokey as well. And that always makes the natives run!
Easing on down the road 100 miles is one thing – and tripping halfway around the world to Hawaii is another! Enter CHERRY formerly of ASIAN FLOWER…who did just that! And rumor has it, she banked big time in the land of leis! Haha! Upon hearing that she’d be returning to Flower next month I had to ask “Why would she ever come back given the circumstances?” (making five figures weekly in paradise). And the answer is family. Whatever…not for me to say.
Moving on…MSNBC had another of their sex slave marathons Sunday night. I was starting to get angry watching the skewed presentation and might have reached a full boil had I not fallen asleep out of boredom. I mean…how many times can you present a show in which vice cops cruise Backpage.com ads and then bust hookers? And the answer is many times. People want to watch that shit over and over for whatever reason.
But if you check that crap too much, you get the idea that every woman advertising on Backpage is a pimped drug addict. Not true! There are a few who aren’t! I kid. Most aren’t…so why would MSNBC want to make it look that way? I don’t know. Morality? Ratings?
Just a few days ago, I republished a piece about the media recruiting. But sometimes they do just the opposite. Not only would last night’s presentation make a girl pause…but it would make the customers pause as well! At least 30 minutes of what I watched centered around tricks getting busted by cops posing as blow job artists. And if that isn’t a deterrent…I don’t know what is!
The main thrust of last night’s harangue is that prostitution is not a victimless crime. Damn right! I felt like a victim just watching that horse shit! But seriously…if so many girls are getting pimped and trafficked in the business, maybe it’s time to legalize it and get a bunch of wack jobs like Dennis Hof to run the show. Pimps are so much more societally acceptable when they’re really just tricks wearing a velvet hat! Plus…think of all the programming HBO could muster from that mess!
Enough of that boring stuff! The government’s war on ho’s is going about as well as its war on drugs. They’re losing! And why? Because people are gonna get high…and dudes are gonna get laid whatever the gov does. So why not just take it to the bank? We already live in a profligate and entitled nation with citizenry and government alike living way beyond their and its respective means. We need money! Ya let people smoke tobacco and drink liquor – all in the interest of turning a buck while at once criminalizing marijuana and prostitution? That makes a lot of sense! Not!!
Back to shit that matters! ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) has a brand new (drum roll) Japanese girl! her name is HARU and here she is! And crazy TARA is back at Rose House as well with some new pix!
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.
Yesterday, a reader suggested that I post some old photos from when I used to take pictures at the Korean places, suggesting that while mine were far less professional than the current generation’s, they have a cache all their own. Well…I don’t know about all that…but I did dig up a few from yesteryear and found that the ones not meant for advertisements were my favorites. They provide such a revealing window into the culture.
Here’s what I’ve chosen to publish today.
This is an unposed shot of two girls streaming tv shows from home (why you can’t see the screens eludes me) in between customers. I saw the scene…had my camera…and took the shot before anybody knew what was going on. Once they realized there were no faces, there wasn’t a problem. This picture was taken almost 10 years ago at ASIAN VACATION.
The breakfast table at SPICY ASIAN 7 years ago. Blccch!
An Asian outcall guy from Flushing took me out to dinner one night. This isn’t 32nd Street for Americans. This is Northern Boulevard and 160th St. – strictly for Koreans.
Jisu’s slippers. Seeing the girls chrip away with each other while wearing robes and slippers like these is a lot different from going to their sites and viewing the photoshopped glamor shots. Still, a lot of the K-girls look irresistibly cute and innocent when they’re not vamping for us hound dogs.
Although it’s against my religion, I do occasionally telemarket for new customers. Very occasionally! But yesterday was the exception. I actually “dialed up” a grand total of one place called THE ASIAN CREAM TEAM! I’d say it was an original title but the owner of The Factory used it a long time ago. If there’s one thing that woman is good for, it’s naming her places. I remember when her friend decided to open an all black incall and she offered the name “The Plantation.” Funny…but very politically incorrect. They didn’t use it for obvious reasons.
Anyway…back to The Cream Team. Someone answered and I gave her the old spiel “I’m Billy aka Dollar Bill – and I have a site that virtually every Korean incall uses for advertising.” In her heavy accent, the woman responded with “Dollar Bill. I know you long time! You live on 10th Street in a crummy apartment. How much you pay now?”
Wow! I had no idea who this woman was. I didn’t recognize her voice at all. And here she actually came to my apartment and met with me at some point in I assume the distant past. That or I’ve gone completely senile! Whichever…definitely a case of too many Korean phone girls and too little time! I went on interrogating her as to where and when we’d met but all I could get was something about an outcall place in Queens.
Next, I asked if her recollection of our acquaintance was good or bad. The answer was both! Not surprising. Back then, I was overworked and harangued to death and thus, snapped at anybody who wasted my time. Identifying her from that feedback was like calling the Taxi and Limousine Commission to tell them you’d left your Stradivarius in the trunk of a cab driven by a guy named Mohammed. Which is to say…I snapped at everybody!
The bottom line is I did not recall who she was but suggested we set up a meeting in the next week or two. Mind you…there’s a good chance I still won’t recognize the woman if we meet up given that once upon a time I drew a blank on a really cute Korean escort with whom I’d had sex! Ya think she was a little offended?
Anyway…I rewrote the recruiting piece two different ways yesterday and with a little bit of luck, you’ll be able to check it out on THE DAILY BEAST. If and when it appears, you probably won’t recognize the feature as my writing. Especially the version that will probably meet with the editor’s approval. It’s reasonably well thought-out which is one good reason you – like me with the Korean phone girl – will draw a blank when it comes to the piece’s authorship.
Because it’s Saturday, I don’t feel the need to report on all things escort-related. And since nobody has called to apprise me of new additions, deletions etc., allow me to share a personal triumph.
A couple of weeks back, I lamented a decision I’d made 40 some years ago to not pursue a corporate executive for a job, adding that with a similar current opportunity, I had decided that dogged determination was the order of the day and I would follow through on an opportunity.
And thus, I’ve been e-mailing urls’s from this blog on subjects I think might be of interest to my assigned editor at The Daily Beast. For example, I thought “Fucking The Cons,” or “Prison Hookups” might be of interest. But both met with deafening silence.
Well anyway…as those of you longtime readers know, yesterday’s “Reflections On Recruitment” is a repeat from a few years ago. But that was of zero relevance. Assessing blame to mass media in the arena of escort recruitment was apparently a subject which hit the jackpot! Within 5 minutes of sending the post, I received this e-mail from my prospective editor: “Bill! This is great! Can you source this and flesh it out a little more?”
Thought to myself: “Welcome to the world of professional journalism, Dorothy! Firing off half-cocked as you do every day is fine for an amateur hour pursuit like this here blog. But now, you’ve thrust yourself into the real world, buddy! Do you even know what ‘source this’ means?”
From my limited experience writing features for the Village Voice, I actually do! And in this case, it means assembling quotes on the subject from owners in the business on exactly how they get their new girls…from some public relater at the Lifetime Channel…and maybe even someone in law enforcement. And while this is a professional writing gig, there is ironically…a little salesmanship involved. Which is to say, I’m going to have to call Lifetime and the NYPD and convince whoever answers that I’m a serious reporter on a story – and need to be connected with somebody who can speak on behalf of his or her employer. This will take a straightforward and no-nonsense approach dripping with professionalism and devoid of any “um’s” or “ya knows.”
The payday on this venture is not huge – but the payoff comes in the form of gratification as in…writers write because they like to. Getting paid for something you actually like to do is an extra. And having access to half a million daily readers to whom you get to perpetuate your mythology is another.
Whether this will happen – and if it leads to anything else are both in question. Just because the editor showed interest doesn’t necessarily mean it will be published. But I have some control over that. I’ll just keep sourcing and fleshing until my editor deems the effort worthy of publication. But the leading to anywhere part? That is beyond my control.
After publishing a Voice cover story written by yours truly many years ago, the paper’s managing editor called to say “You’re on your way. I’ll be curious to see where this leads.” It led almost nowhere. I got a thumbs up by a salon.com reviewer – and one more reasonably high-paid feature in the Voice from the associate editor assigned to adjust my feature. But that was it.
The only real benefit I derived from those two features was a little recognition from editors and former editors at Screw Mag, very few of whom had ever written cover stories for a publication as prestigious as the Voice (it was prestigious back then – believe it or not).
So anyway…now I’m already on to the “fleshing it out” part. Last night I took a shot and ended up on a legalization rant opining that given there’s no way to stop television or film from depicting the escort lifestyle as an enticing alternative to young women looking for work, legalization and destigmatization is the only rational course. But I’m not sure that’s what my guy really wanted! So I’m going back to the drawing board to pen another slant.
Ya see…it’s a lot of work being a journalist – which is probably why I’m not a journalist. Again…stream of consciousness writing is one thing. I’m good at that. Disciplined writing is something altogether different. I’m not so experienced in that area – but where there’s a will there’s a way and I’m determined to make the grade. We’ll see how all this “fleshes out.”
We read, hear and watch a lot of bull shit in the media about traffickers who lure girls into the escort profession. Maybe it’s true…and maybe it’s fiction. But I gained a little insight this afternoon that might really turn the mainstream on its ear – if only somebody from the mainstream actually read this blog.
Whatever…I was on the phone with an old buddy yesterday – one who I’ve known forever – when somehow the conversation turned to that old rites of passage thing (the usual sexual abuse mythology which is generally true)…and then to how she got lured into the profession in the first place. And you might find the seminal recruitment tool sublimely enlightening.
No, it wasn’t a big, bad pimp driving a $100,000 Benz – or a foreign broker who “turned her out.” It was THE LIFETIME CHANNEL that did the job! Yup! The girl was just 14 years old when one night she watched THE MAYFLOWER MADAM (the story of Sydney Biddle Barrows). And there is where she found her calling!
Of course, enroute to her destiny, the girl enrolled in UCLA on scholarship…but dropped out within weeks to pursue her particular dream – one of making the big bucks in the escort game. And sure enough at age 18, she was living in her own apartment, shopping till she dropped, and earning 900 bucks a day to pay the way!
This I find fascinating. While law enforcement pursues any number of facilitators and traffickers whom they think are the culprits, a freakin’ cable channel just might be doing more to glamorize the escort world than all the people they’re spending all that money to track!
And what about “PRETTY WOMAN” the movie? How many girls decided to give it a go based on that fucking fairy tale? I mean…come on! What girl wouldn’t want to marry a handsome trillionaire?? Ya think maybe a few girls entered the rank and file based on that bull shit?
I’m not trying to preach here or start a revolution. It’s not my style. But really…when you think about it…isn’t all the media coverage/glorification of the trade as culpable as any pimp or trafficker? What a powerful recruitment tool! Pimps do it one girl at a time. But Lifetime? Thousands and thousands! Not to mention Hollywood! OMG! Don’t tell me networks and movie companies don’t profit! How much do you think Garry Marshall earned on PRETTY WOMAN?
Of course, the constitution protects people like Gary and networks like The Lifetime Channel. Thus, they get to earn millions without regard for how many mixed up young girls they entice into the business while at the same time, some dude who posts an ad on an adult directory site as a favor to his ATF runs the risk of arrest for so doing…all of which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. But what do I know…and who hears my voice? Answers: Nothing and nobody in that order. I’m out!
We read, hear and watch a lot of bull shit in the media about guys and/or traffickers who lure girls into the escort profession. Maybe it’s true…and maybe it’s fiction. But I gained a little insight this afternoon that might really turn the mainstream on its ear – if only somebody from the mainstream actually read this blog.
Whatever…I was on the phone with an old buddy yesterday – one who I’ve known forever – when somehow the conversation turned to that old rites of passage thing (the usual sexual abuse mythology which is generally true)…and then to how she got lured into the profession in the first place. And you might find the seminal recruitment tool sublimely enlightening.
No, it wasn’t a big, bad pimp driving a $100,000 Benz – or a foreign broker who “turned her out.” It was THE LIFETIME CHANNEL that did the job! Yup! The girl was just 14 years old when one night she watched THE MAYFLOWER MADAM (the story of Mary Biddle Barrows). And there is where she found her calling!
Of course, enroute to her destiny, the girl enrolled in UCLA on scholarship…but dropped out within weeks to pursue her particular dream – one of making the big bucks in the escort game. And sure enough at age 18, she was living in her own apartment, shopping till she dropped, and earning 900 bucks a day to pay the way!
This I find fascinating. While law enforcement pursues any number of facilitators and traffickers whom they think are the culprits, a freakin’ cable channel just might be doing more to glamorize the escort world than all the people they’re spending all that money to track!
And what about “PRETTY WOMAN” the movie? How many girls decided to give it a go based on that fucking fairy tale? I mean…come on! What girl wouldn’t want to marry a handsome trillionaire?? Ya think maybe a few girls entered the rank and file based on horse shit?
I’m not trying to preach here or start a revolution. It’s not my style. But really…when you think about it…isn’t all the media coverage/glorification of the trade as culpable as any other entity? What a powerful recruitment tool! Pimps do it one girl at a time. But Lifetime? Thousands and thousands! Not to mention Hollywood? OMG! Don’t tell me networks and movie companies don’t profit! How much do you think Garry Marshall earned on PRETTY WOMAN?
Of course, the constitution protects people like Gary and networks like The Lifetime Channel. Thus, they get to earn millions without regard for how many mixed up young girls they entice into the business while at the same time, some dude who posts an ad on an adult directory site as a favor to his ATF runs the risk of arrest for so doing…all of which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. But what do I know…and who hears my voice? Answers: Nothing and nobody in that order. I’m out!
Uncharacteristically, I laid off reading for the past week in favor of watching endless hours of the PLANET EARTH series I’d DVR’d…and checking out dozens of country guitar lick lessons on You Tube. Exactly why I did this I cannot tell you…though it might have been about me being lazy. In the middle of reading a book about John Brown’s trial, I needed a breather from the drudgery and discipline of plowing through what felt like required reading for a 400 level law course. (Three hundred pages of arcane legalese concerning the case’s unique jurisdiction issues isn’t exactly like reading about blow jobs.)
Well anyway, I recouped to finish that tedious mind-exhausting prose, and descended to my lobby to check the mail this morning. And what was in the mail box? A complimentary copy of Dennis Hof’s autobiography “THE ART OF THE PIMP.” Exercised righteously by my reading of Brown’s trial, I zipped through 330 pages of Dennis’s crap in half a day.
But here’s the interesting part of the story: A week ago, I evicted Hof from my blog for what I felt were a few good reasons. First, he negotiated a discount on the basis of his place of business being 2500 miles from New York while the competition is just a taxi ride away! That made sense to me and thus, he got his lower price – and much more than the other advertisers. In addition, his advertising setup was labor-intensive and high maintenance.
Still, I was good – though basically in escort terms, he was that guy who hustled me for a discount and then wore me out in the room. But then came the first real no-no: Dennis picked my brain about blogs – how to set one up – and how to bring more traffic to his sites. So what happened next? He hired somebody else to essentially clone my blog (the guy was on staff and Dennis was saving money)…and then had the temerity to ask me to check out the other dude’s work and give him some feedback. To that I e-mailed him that I wasn’t the girl he was going to pay once and then get free the next time around. In consideration, I offered that I was more flattered than angry that he’d lifted my intellectual property. Which was a lie. I thought he was a cheap dick for doing that!
When it came time for the second ad payment, the check got lost in the whatever and finally arrived a month late – when the third payment was already due! Not good. And then came the two straws that broke the proverbial camel’s back. One of his employees suggested that I recruit some of the “knockout” Asians on the sidebar to go work in Nevada for Dennis.
It doesn’t take a PHD to understand what a grossly presumptuous request that is. Why in the world would I jeopardize my relationship with good long-time clients in favor of a newbie who was wearing me out with discounts, lots of work, late payments, and intellectual theft? Da noive!
And then finally…he didn’t see any of his girls on the sidebar (which was wrong…there were six) and requested that I place one of his beauties every fifth picture – which would give him something like a dozen girls on the site! Talk about ballzz!
So I sent him an e-mail offering a free month for old times sake and then suggested we call it a day after that. He responded in a state of semi-disbelief that I would evict him. I didn’t write back. While I am a cheap guy…I will give up income if I feel like I’m getting pimped or abused. Which I did. And then a week later…his book arrives in the mail.
So what do I think of his autobiography? Mostly, I thought it was bull shit. It depicts Dennis as a big spender…hardly my experience with him. And too much of it is about all the women he’s fucked well…and all the heartbreak he’s encountered along the way at their hands. Dennis craves the perfect relationship – one in which he can have his cake and eat it too in the form of having one “bottom bitch” while fucking all the other employees as well – or at least the ones he likes. Dennis has his head up his ass. Anybody who frequents American places knows it’s impossible to have a healthy relationship with an American escort. He maintains that most of his girls are normal and undamaged goods. They aren’t! And all the whining about failed relationships is redundant and moronic given this reality. Yet he goes on and on throughout the book.
But more important, the laundry-listed anecdotes about all the weird clients who’ve come to his house fell on deaf ears with this reviewer. I’ve heard it all. There simply wasn’t anything new there though admittedly, I am a jaded individual. Additionally, the stories that were supposed to be funny (mostly about Ron Jeremy’s antics) just weren’t that humorous. Really…the only time I cracked a smile were in the few pages in which Dennis included some rabid hate mail he’s received…and Cami Parker’s self-written wrap-up of her dysfuctional relationship with Dennis (she rips him a new asshole).
If the book and/or Dennis have any redeeming qualities, none of that is in evidence until the final chapter where Dennis goes to see a shrink and then allows said psychiatrist to analyze Mr. Hof. It’s not pretty. I applaud Dennis for publishing that chapter because it really lays him out for what he is…a manipulative sex addict. It’s to his credit that he would let a psychoanalyst have his say – given that the analysis was far from complimentary.
I guess Hof is a celebrity of sorts…and a guy who is waaay more famous than I’ll ever be. But that doesn’t mean I have to like his book – or put up with his demands as an advertiser. Reading Dennis’s tell all…and the shrink’s analysis, I just didn’t see myself in him at all. Maybe I’m as full of crap as Dennis. I wouldn’t be surprised if some shrink came to that conclusion about me. But I’ll tell ya one thing that speaks volumes:
On the numerous occasions when Dennis came to New York and phoned me up for recommendations, I told more than one person “I can’t believe this guy. He hangs out with those Cathouse girls all day in Nevada – and then he wants to see a girl here? You’d think that coming to New York to do the Maury Show, he’d want to take a break from all that hooker drama! It wouldn’t be me. I’ll tell ya what! I’d welcome the opportunity to get away from all that bull shit!”
A short while back, I wrote about the owner of “The Factory” telling me that I was “one of them” and that I shouldn’t fool myself. But she was wrong. Dennis is one of them – not me!And to prove it, he’s been a paying customer at her place on multiple occasions.
Dennis’s book is yesterday’s business in the literary world (it’s currently # 61,000 on Amazon’s bestseller list)…and his advertising is yesterday’s business on this blog. I wish him well…but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let him manipulate me like he does his employees. Reading his book, I saw how he operates at his place: the same way he tried to operate with me, Not happenin’, homey. Go buy an ad with Eros. Your money don’t spend here.
The following article is a repeat…but the girl pictured at the end is brand new! Just fyi...
It’s a peculiar thing. When your sex partner actually has feelings for you, the last thing she wants to hear is that you’re taking Viagra…and that it’s chemicals as much or more than libido that’s getting the job done.
Take my last FWB just for example. On more than one occasion, she stopped right in the middle of a blow job to ask “You don’t take Viagra do you? I’ll be very upset if I find out.” And this from a wack job who took 15 percocets a day…not to mention all the cocaine!
A few months ago she spied a pill bottle in my bag and froze! “What’s that?” the woman asked fearing she’d finally caught me. So I opened the bottle to reveal a dab of vaseline. “If you really want to know…I carry this in case I take a crap. After I clean up, I grease down to prevent hemis…of which I’ve had enough to know not to go without my asshole lubed at all times.” And that pretty much shut her stupid ass up.
In this girl’s case, the appropriate answer to the Viagra question would go something like this: “Hey, honey! Take a look in the mirror. It’s the eighth wonder of the world that I can get a hard-on for you at all! I not only take one viagra…but two…and a six pack of beer…and a few hits off the pot pipe…all so I can stuff your orifices the way you like. Unless you feel like paying for all that medication so I can give your dumb ass an orgasm, just shut the fuck up and enjoy yourself.” The nerve! To think that I could do the job I did stone cold sober. I’d have needed a blindfold and (especially with her) ear plugs to get busy at all.
But to be serious…here’s the real deal: Normal women would rather that you satisfy them out of passion, lust and virility…and prefer not to face the reality that it’s a little blue pill manufacturing all the lust. To that I say “Be thankful for what you just got and don’t ask a lot of questions.”
In truth, I didn’t take Viagra with this girl because I can’t imagine that anybody wouldn’t get a hard-on with her…as she was such a suck queen. Whatever…if you’re taking 15 pills a day of a strong prescription drug, don’t bust me for taking one pill with which to make you gulp and pant in pleasure. Boy oh boy! Can you believe that shit?
There’s something disturbing – but not surprising – that I’ve noticed about this blog. When I write meaningful or introspective stuff, the traffic goes down. And when I do nothing but post pictures of new girls or information about the never ending musical chairs syndrome wherein Korean girls move from place to place…the traffic goes up. All this proves that just like with Juggs (Magazine – which I actually once wrote for)…dudes are into the pictures and not the articles. Oh well…if I thought anything different, I’d also look in the mirror and see Brad Pitt staring back at me. What are ya gonna do? I’ll tell ya what: mo’ page six stuff. As in…”Dollar! Spare us your pitiful little drama. Nobody gives a shit. Trot out the cheesecake!”
OK! So I was over atDREAM GIRLS (646-276-0229) today and met NICOLE, who has an outstanding body. Tall and very proportioned (though not superbusty). And really cute facially what with her bangs and all. I was pleasantly surprised. Unfortunately, she’s going on vacation for a week – but will be back next Thursday.
Lying in the top section of the house’s designer bunk beds was ELLIE of the angelic face. In fact, both of these girls are really cute!
But the big news they want me to convey is that BONNIE (once GIA at BLUE ANGEL) will be returning tomorrow. Pretty good lineup all in all. Definitely worth a visit. And now…here’s the cheesecake.
And guess where she is! LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409). Now there’s a surprise! Whatever…her name is BUNNY and she’s new to New York. The phone girl promises me she’s gorgeous. And from the way she said it, it just might be true.
That’s all for today. If you want something to read, check out “Fucking the Cons” from yesterday. It’s one of my better efforts – though that might not be saying much. Here’s Bunny.
Not very long ago, I wrote an entry about prisoner hookups not just with other prisoners – but with corrections officers as well. But most of that stuff was benign entertainment. Nobody got hurt and the public’s safety wasn’t ever at risk.
Enter the malignant prison hookup wherein CO’s get caught up in some sort of twisted love affair with a convicted killer. You’ll recall that something in that genre happened a couple of years ago at I believe Rikers (correct me if I’m wrong) and has now once again come back to haunt us in what may become the prison escape story of the decade – or century….if they don’t get caught.
And this trailer park melodrama is no joke – way beyond female prisoners sucking CO’s off at 3 AM in exchange for a Lady Bic shaver – or a female CO dating a one-day-in-jail hooker. These two escapees are convicted murderers! And some lonely hearts seamstress who was teaching at the prison aided and abetted their escape.
What I want to know is how stupid do you have to be to fuck not one (definitely) – but both (probably) of these prisoners…provide them with tools to escape…offer to drive the getaway car…and plan on murdering your husband (with their help) – who is coincidentally also an employee at the prison? I’d say I saw this in the movies but no Hollywood screenwriter is imaginative enough to dream this shit up!
And to add the sublime to the ridiculous, a police officer revealed to the press corps that one of the escapees is very handsome…and has an enormous penis. WTF?!?! Am I dreaming this? In what context and/or for what reason would a police officer offer this tidbit of irrelevant gossip? This is the kind of stuff you hear at a whorehouse…not at a police station!
To jaded individuals like myself, this story might appear to be a comedy of errors but in fact, it’s no joking matter – even to me. These guys are serious criminals. One beat, tortured, killed and then dismembered the boss who fired him. And the other killed a police officer. They ain’t two schmucks who dealt drugs in the park and got caught up in some Rockefeller aw nightmare. The US prison system is full of people who shouldn’t be there. These guys aren’t two of them!
There’s a real possibility that the escapees won’t ever get caught! It’s happened before. Or worse…they might kill again before they get caught. These dudes are desperate and no strangers to murdering people to get their way. It’s no stretch to think they’ll do it again if it means freedom for even a few more days.
Considering the prison had already investigated an allegation of sexual misconduct between David Sweat (one of the escapees) and Joyce Mitchell (the douchebag who facilitated their escape), somebody in a position of authority should have thrown an eye on the situation and prevented this fiasco. Unbelievable! Out-fucking-rageous! Heads should roll behind this sterling silver example of monumental mismanagement. And Joycee should do some serious time!
And finally…you’d have to put me behind bars for a long fucking time before I would fuck Joyce Miller. That could be the scariest prospect of all!
There’s a Korean volunteer at the University Soup Kitchen named Angie whose nickname is “the general,” a moniker given her by one of the “guests” who thinks she rules with an iron hand. While stuffing envelopes a few weeks ago, Angie told me that coming to the soup kitchen on Saturday helps her reset for the week…to which I responded that going to the country and climbing a mountain does the same for me.
And so…this week on Wednesday morning, I awakened early to see sunlight streaming through my windows on the world (or 11th Street) and decided to ride to Port Authority and catch the bus to Bear Mountain.
With hardly a glitch (except for getting a fucking traffic ticket on my bicycle), I arrived at the Inn at the base of the mountain and decided to take the difficult trail to the top for a change. I have some new Asics which boast a burly tread on the sole. And given that both of my shoulders are in better shape than they’ve been in years, and my elastic back brace was wrapped firmly around my torso, I figured this was a good day to do my Grizzly Adams thing.
The difficult trail is really not all that difficult. The beginning is rocky with poor footing so you need to wear a shoe with good ankle support. But it’s not really very steep until a little more than halfway through when the trail becomes a 30 degree rock face where the footing is much easier – but the grade can be daunting. One slip and a hiker could go rolling down the mountain and really take a beating.
On the plus side…the view of the Hudson Valley at the top of this piece of the trail is astounding. To see such natural beauty just an hour and a half and $13 (round trip if you’re a geezer like me) away from the big city is truly a blessing for a wannabe country boy .
After spending a few blissful minutes at this little rocky plateau, I continued on toward the summit. One challenge with the pioneer trail I didn’t mention: the trail markers can be few and far between…and a hiker can lose the trail which of course, I did! Faced with going back or ascending without the benefit of a trail and its markings (called bushwacking), I chose the latter and with some difficulty, successfully made it to the paved road near the summit. Once there, I knew I was out of any danger of getting hopelessly lost (which could happen) and sat my as down for a rest.
A few yards away sat an old man wearing a broad sun hat and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Hikers tend to converse much more readily than city folk and I struck up a conversation with the old guy (who turned out to be my age but much older looking) and soon enough, we decided to join forces and hump the rest of the way together. There’s an unwritten rule of hiking which says you should never go it alone for obvious reasons. If you’re on a rarely-traveled trail and break an ankle or have a heart attack, you’re kind of fucked. With somebody along for the hike, you have a much better chance. You get the idea.
Well..that wasn’t really at issue as there were a few people on the trail on this beautiful day…and there really wasn’t any danger in hiking alone. But the guy seemed decent enough so I figured what the hell. I’ll take on a partner.
While humping to the top, the conversation was what you might expect. Ya know…trivia about Lewis and Clark and such. But by the time we reached the summit, it had turned much more meaningful with me divulging what I do for a living and some very stressful and life-altering closet stuff (not gay) that very few people know about me.
For his part, my new buddy revealed that he’d done some freelance writing in his life and had spent a significant portion of his adulthood entertaining children as a clown for a living. But now after his wife convinced him that shouldn’t be his life work, he went back to school and got a PHD in (drum roll) Clinical Psychology! I had to laugh. Here I was spilling my guts about all my personal drama to a stranger who turned out to be a psychologist!
Too funny! “So whaddaya think, doc? Am I crazy or what?” I asked having discovered he was a professional at judging such things. And his answer? “You seem fine!” Of course, that was the easy way out for him on a vacation day. Saying no to my question would have meant putting himself to work. But judging from his expression, I believe he meant what he said.
Well anyway…we roasted in the sun for a while and then I bid him adieu so I could get down the mountain and make the bus back to the city…but not before homey gave me his full name and told me he’d written two children’s books along the way. Amazing who you can meet on a mountain trek! I asked him where his wife was and he said she was back in Syosset…having no interest in his eccentric desire to climb a steep mountain trail to relive his youth. And guess what! I googled the guy when I got home and he actually has a Wikipedia page! Go figure.
Back to the point! My day on Bear Mountain was an unusually rewarding reset. Exactly what I’m resetting for I’m not sure as I mostly have nothing to do in my retirement. But whatever…it was nice to meet a kindred spirit in the form of an old guy who like me, digs climbing a mountain every so often – even if it means going it alone because nobody he knows wants to accompany him – especially in the middle of the week to avoid the throngs.
So for anybody who likes a little fresh air and is up for the challenge…take the MAJOR WELCH TRAIL up Bear Mountain. It just might reset you as well. And for the $26 round trip (if you’re under 65), how can you go wrong?
In some ways, you could view the houses who appear on the sidebar of this blog as tenants who pay rent. Fortunately, all are good payers (if they weren’t they wouldn’t be there. I have no patience for excuses from deadbeats and never did)…but some are easier than others. And the easiest is MY ASIAN GFE (646-326-9512) (a place where rumor has it a guy can get his money’s worth). They just never call with any requests. It’s remarkable! So today (and not at their request), I’m volunteering to hook them up. A reward for being a good client is definitely the order of the day.
My Asian Gfe stands out from the crowd in another way as well. Some may think it better – and others not so much…but the fact is their photographer is clearly not on the level of the other houses. But in at least one way, that’s a good thing. There is absolutely no photoshopping in any of the images. What you see is definitely what you get – though sometimes it’s a little difficult to see what you’re getting with the dim lighting in some of the images.
Because they are so small, I really can’t blow them up to the normal size I usually use in the center section here. And so…I established a happy medium sizewise… and photoshopped everything for lighting, hue and smoothness. But in the interest of truth in advertising, I did not change any body contours. It’s still a what you see is what you get scenario. It’s just that you can see it better now.
So anyway…here goes with the girls currently working at MY ASIAN GFE!
Moving uptown just a few blocks, we arrive at ASIAN PARADISE (347-256-8137) where a cute new girl named MIWOO has just arrived. In the Asian community, it’s usually a case of too many so-and-so’s and too little time when it comes to recalling girls named Yuri…or Sasha…or Cherry (just to pick three names).But MIWOO? First time in 18+ years I’ve ever advertised a woman with that name. And she also looks pretty good, too. Check Miwoo out!
Normally, I wouldn’t dedicate an entry to just one girl – especially when I’ve already done my blogging for today. But because LUCY (who just arrived at LOVELY ASIAN – 212-470-0409) looks so good, I figured I’d make an exception.
Miss Korea has not one…not two…but three crucial things in her favor. First, she’s new to New York. Second, she’s all natural. And finally, Lucy has a round booty! Need I say more? Probably not. Here’s my favorite photo of her. Enjoy.
Pursuant to some previous entries on two subjects…1. escort marriage and 2. getting outed as an escort or internet porno chick…I have some sad news.
First, one of NYC’s all time favorite girls is either on her way – or is already in – Florida to (drum roll) do her second porn for cash. It’s not a decision of which I approve (being an escort is better…you’re less likely to be outed in later life) but the girl has made up her mind. As with the implants I told her she shouldn’t purchase, Miss Honey is likewise doing something I would advise against. But hey! I wish her luck. Like…I’m not her father, right?
While that isn’t necessarily a sad story (at least for the moment), another is. A Korean girl I’ve known for almost ten years had a boyfriend…an American guy she loved. They were to be married – for real! No money exchanged – no nothing. She already has her green card.
Well…in the meantime, she still needs money to live and thus, has been in and out of the business (no pun intended) for the past few years, and was discovered by her finacee. So devastated by the news was he that the guy didn’t even have the decency to break up with her in person. He did it in a text message.
Ya know…there aren’t a lot of virgins left in this world and if you find one, the likelihood is that she’s a virgin for a reason (like nobody wants to diddle her – or she’s such a religious fanatic that more than likely she’d be so vanilla in bed you wouldn’t want her even if she looked halfway decent). A guy is not likely to find a woman in this day, age and country who hasn’t been personally acquainted with at least a few male organs.
And thus, if I knew this guy, I would surely tell him “get over it, Bubba! Look at it this way: She’s experienced hundreds or thousands of guy…and she’s picked you, asshole! You should be proud of that. Your decision to dump the girl is more a reflection on you than her!” Maybe I’m jaded after dealing with so many you-know-whats. But still…you get the idea.
The reality is that the guy missed out on a beautiful girl who loved him. Unless he looks like Brad Pitt, I doubt the dude is gonna find anybody more physically amazing. And really…she’s not that bad of a person (though honestly, she can be a pain in the ass at times). Whatever…if and when he comes back, I sincerely hope she’s moved on and laughs the guy off her phone – by text message – in a perfect world!
Since there’s no news on the escort front today – and even I’m tired of writing about my own personal drama (let alone you guys reading it), I will switch gears and play Sports Reporter (I love those guys when I remember to watch them – which isn’t very often).
Watching the NBA finals was of special interest to me because there were two very recently ex-NY Knicks playing for Cleveland (I’m a big Knicks fan)…and a girl from Jewels actually dated JR SMITH (now on the Cavs), who I always found to be a John Starks kind of train wreck. Ya know…both very talented…and both capable of making seriously boneheaded plays. But most important, both irresistibly appealing and fun to watch.
Well as I said…I like JR and actually root for him. But he’s not a guy I want on my team if I’m coaching in the NBA finals. He’s cool…and I dig his haircut. But you get the idea. (Actually, his ex-girlfriend alleged he smokes a lot of pot. Makes sense when I watch him play.) But even though he scored a streaky 15 points in the 4th quarter last night, I still think he was one of the reasons Cleveland lost.
Ditto for IMAN SHUMPERT, who I also liked when he was a Knick. Great defense…but spotty shooting. Again…not a champion…and although he didn’t play badly…not quite ready for prime time.
In fact, at times, the Cavs reminded me of the Knicks…just with Carmello out and King James in. (I still say Lebron makes it look like he’s a varsity player competing against the JV!) Regardless, the guy almost single-handedly willed the Cavs to a championship. Gotta give James his props. He’s the best since Michael – and just may be his equal or superior when it’s all said and done.
But I can’t say that I like to watch him play. He’s reminiscent of WILT CHARMBERLAIN in what a dominant player he is and how both offenses that the boys played in weren’t fun to watch (at least for me) because they were so centered around the star.
Moving on…to the refs! Considering they’re the best of the best (these guys are scrutinized by the league)…they missed a lot of calls. But officiating basketball is really difficult – and you have to expect human error. What we all really hope for is officiating that doesn’t determine the final outcome. And thankfully, they passed the important test.
To STEPHEN CURRY! What a joy to watch this guy play. But the real key might have been IGUODALA who isn’t as good as Lebron – but is pretty much as big and strong. The Warriors needed that – especially with the big Russian guy in the middle on the Cavs. I tell ya what! I’d like to have that guy on the Knicks. He’s a big mother fucker – and a great shot blocker. I’ll take him over Chandler (I know he’s gone but still) anytime.
And finally, congratulations to The Warriors who I (along with most other sane people) picked on day #1 of the endless tournament. Obviously, they are the best team in the NBA.
Referring back to yesterday’s post in which I reflected back with no regrets about not marrying a beautiful escort, I ponder a decision from even longer ago that if I had a do over on, I would redo differently. This introspection comes courtesy of a book I just finished the subject of which was Bill Graham’s rise to rock promoter extraordinaire during what I’ll call The Hippy Era – an era I was part of I might add.
One of Graham’s right hand men in the beginning was a guy named Kip Cohen. Forty some years ago I met Kip Cohen. At the time, I had no idea how he’d gotten his job as head of Arts and Repertoire at Columbia Records. Not that it really matters…but it took reading this book all these decades later to find out. So now here goes with the story:
Shortly after leaving graduate school before getting my PHD, I was down in Florida visiting my old man. The family was in an uproar over my decision to punt a paid-for graduate school education in favor of playing the guitar. Only my old man understood. And given that I knew nobody in New York and had no prospects other than answering Village Voice music notice ads, the first year wasn’t going that well. All I’d found was some crappy local work with which I was barely supporting myself.
So dad came up with a brilliant idea. He would write Clive Davis (the big wheel at Columbia at the time) a personal letter of introduction on my behalf. It seemed crazy. My old man hated Clive Davis with a passion. He had nothing but bad things to say about him. Yet now, Pop was on his knees asking Clive to do something for the son of his archenemy.
Despite their history, Clive wrote back and directed me to contact (drum roll) Kip Cohen for an interview. When Popsicle called to tell me the good news, he did marvel at Clive’s benevolence. Clearly in Clive’s place, he would have blown the entire letter off with vengeful alacrity. Regardless…I called Mr. Cohen and made an appointment.
At the time, I did not have very lofty goals. The recording business (as it were) held no mystique for me (even though my old man had been a star producer). All I really wanted to do was go on the road with my guitar…see the world…make a few bucks…and mount a few babes. Beyond that, I had very few thoughts. Like the idiot I was, I was hoping that Kip had a gig for me as a guitar player in some up and coming band.
Obviously, that was not the case. What he told me was he would be on the lookout to hook me up as a road manager for somebody on the Columbia roster. And then I was invited to one of Columbia’s famed singles meetings..a meeting I did attend. But when it came to calling Kip back about scoring a gig as a road gopher? Never happened. And to the best of my recollections, that was it. Disappointed that I hadn’t the prospect of playing for a living via my old man’s hookup, I lost interest. It was a big mistake!
With a do-over, I’d have badgered Kip endlessly until he found me something in the corporation. Once a road manager…the opportunities for networking would have been considerable. The opportunities for networking via the Jamissohn Scott Revue, the band with which I realized my road warrior dreams a year later, were limited comparatively.
I relate this story for a second reason today (other than reading about Kip Cohen in the aforementioned book). Via my old New York Press acquaintance – who is now an editor at The Daily News, I have been introduced to an editor at The Daily Beast, a news website of renown with half a million unique viewers every day! The big editor read some of the better entries on this blog and reported back that she is interested – and then passed me along to another editor who I get the idea doesn’t really want to be bothered.
So again…I stand at the crossroads. Do I continue e-mailing and pestering the two editors until they throw me a bone (a bone which doesn’t really pay a whole lot)…or just be satisfied blogging to a limited though dedicated audience (you guys)?
Well to answer that question…I e-mailed both editors yesterday with this reminder: “Put me in coach! I’m ready to play!” And I’ve decided, I will pester them until they come through with something. Chances are that even if they do throw me a freelance gig, nothing will happen except I’ll be $250 richer. No book deals…no groupies…no advertisers for the blog.
But at least I’m gonna give it my all. At this stage in life, I owe it to myself to discard my ego…pay no mind to what’s in my bank account…and simply go for it as if I were 23 – my age when I met Kip Cohen. Who says old dogs can’t learn new tricks?
Anyway… if I write something for “The Beast,” you guys will be the first to know. That’s it for today. Wish me luck.
You get it…as in the Chanel #5 ad campaign from a hundred years ago? But this isn’t about perfume. It”s about a girl who proposed to me.
So anyway…I was stuffing envelopes at the Soup Kitchen a few weeks back (fund-raising solicitations), when the subject under discussion turned to arranged marriages for citizenship. Now this is something I know about…and I chimed in accordingly.
Her name was CHANEL…and she would make any man swell! Chanel worked at a Queens casita out in Flushing. Literally my first week at Action, the house’s owner called the office looking for information about advertising and I was dispatched – with my trusty Minolta – to make the sale. (All Action salespeople were given cameras and instructed to take photos of any girl who was willing. This was the paper’s hook: “Over 200 girls you can have now!“).
To the end of the line on the #7 train I rode and then embarked on a bus to finally arrive at an almost suburban setting near 150th Street. In attendance was the owner/phone girl and two workers, one of whom was (drum roll) Chanel, a ravishing Venezuelan with a sensationally curvy body. So I took the pictures and submitted all the materials to production (via Fed Ex – this was before e-mail and such) and by the next month, the boss (Carolina for you old timers) was smitten. Chanel’s photo had brought in big money.
It wasn’t on that trip…but within a year…and after Carolina and her best friend Inez (who also owned another house which advertised with me) got to know me, Carolina proposed on Chanel’s behalf. “Chanel will give you $7000…buy a Mercury Montero for the two of you to drive around in…and give you sex on the weekends – if you marry her!” Whoa! Age 46 at the time, I think I’d had maybe a grand total of two girlfriends as beautiful as Chanel facially…and none with her body! Was I dreaming?
So I took her out to dinner that night at some totally Colombian restaurant under the L on Roosevelt Avenue to start the ball rolling…and called my lawyer friend the next day to inquire. The bubble kind of burst right there when Henry informed me that this sort of union was commonplace in the South American community…and not to infer that this girl had any feelings for me at at all. It was just business. And he added that after the two years it took to get married, I would be responsible for her financially (if she went on welfare) for ten years after we separated (which was part of the program. Nobody assumed we would be together forever).
I teetered on the brink long enough to have two free rolls with Chanel (auditions if you will). But after that, the boss figured out I wasn’t going to marry the girl (I did tell her what my lawyer had said) and that was that. In fact, I was considering the marriage until one day I brought one of my trusted cab-driving buddies out to a house where Chanel was working and after leaving asked what he thought of my prospective bride. He looked at me and confirmed what I already knew: “That girl cares nothing about you! That’s who you’re supposed to marry!” (I didn’t let him know while we were there.)
Subsequently, other girls proposed marriage…for as much as 25 g’s! But I never went for any of the overtures. It just seemed so artificial and worse…an open surrender! Marrying for money signified I’d given up on true love and romance. And as odd as it sounds, that was something I couldn’t live with.
And so ends the Ballad of Chanel. There have been some crossroads in my life at which in retrospect, I might have travelled in the wrong direction. But that is not one of them. Marrying Chanel would not have improved my life. Of that I rest assured!
Enter WWII in HD, one of my favorite AH2 shows. The format is simple: endless footage shot in color with narrators reciting the contents of letters sent home by the combatants – or correspondents who were there describing the action. The series is hours and hours long with each minute more gruesome than the next. I don’t know which is more horrible: the footage of dead and mangled bodies from the beaches and battlefields – or the piles of emaciated corpses the allies found when they liberated a Nazi death camp.
So right in the middle of the brutal spectacle, the presentation switches gears for an hour and examines the “oases” of Pearl Harbor, complete with two vice cops…one now 101 years old…telling the story. And quite a story it is! For starters, the general program dictated that each “hobbyist” got 3 minutes with the girl for the price of 3 bucks! And the lines of purchasers caught on film looked like Yankee fans queueing for World Series tickets! Gasp! I know Smokey told us “You better Shop Around” so you find the right one..but imagine the huge field of applicants a girl had at her disposal to find the perfect boyfriend!
Of course, the girls were forced to live where they worked…could not own a car…or have a boyfriend – among other atrocious rules and regulations that rendered them little more than indentured servants. But they split the three bucks with the owners (the most prominent of which was a woman) and as time always has it…made CEO money while their customers earned 30 bucks/month – that is – if they lived till the end of the month!
If you’d like to see Hollywood’s version of Pearl and its funhouses just days before the attack, check out “FROM HERE TO ETERNITY,” an Academy Award-winning film from 1950. The honchos were hesitant to green-light the production because a significant part of the plot revolved around a soldier and the love interest he found in one of these places. Exactly how would they depict the reality the book described? Well…they managed surprisingly well without spelling out exactly what the program was at these joints.
And really…though the scene and those real-life long lines of sailors were from some 75 years ago, the entire deal drew many parallels with today’s New York City escort world. A guy, his libido, and need for companionship never changes. That you can always count on!
Anyway…I highly recommend watching this series. I could watch it (and did) all day!
Today, the blog will be about nothing. Hey! If it worked for Jerry Seinfeld…it could work for me too, right? So here goes:
Did anybody watch the game two nights ago and see Lebron’s junk? I did – and did view Lebron adjusting his uniform. But I didn’t see any junk. Maybe it was just too small to see – though I kind of doubt that. Imagine if you were a girl…going out with a tall and built black man – only to find out he was junkless when you decided to hit the sheets. How would that work? I guess that’s why girls are always backing up on dudes in a bar. Ya know…to feel up dudes’ junk with their asses.
Anyway…back to big black men with no junk. I’m sure they’re few and far between…but one girl I used to run ads for way back told me a story about meeting just that…a big black guy with no junk! So I asked her how she handled the situation and she referenced staying with him for a while.
“Really? You…a veteran of huge junk stayed with a junkless guy?” asked I. “Well…he was very attentive,” she oozed with a wink wink, which I assumed meant he was a big pussy-eater. “So what happened?” I continued. “I dumped him,” came her answer. “And why’d you do that?” Answer: “Because he had no junk!”
Aha! I figured! I guess an agile tongue goes just so far (no pun intended). Girls are funny that way. Some like oral…and some like intercourse. Some like it slow and deliberate…and some just wanna get pounded with as big a hard-on as you can muster.
Man… I have a ton of food in my refrigerator today! It was the mother lode at St. Bart’s yesterday…and we could not give away all the food. Ribs…curry chicken…Starbucks desserts…awesome bagels and bialys now nicely stock the ice box. Sunday I have a date with my blow job queen. I’ll have to bring a feast for our afterplay session. She’s a big eater of not just healthy food… but as I in”dick”ated – junk as well!
That’s another thing. Would you rather have a girlfriend who lives to eat your junk – or one who lives to wedge it in her pressure cooker? I know…both! That would be your answer.
Once upon a time, I had a partner who didn’t like to eat junk – but loved to wham it in her pressure cooker. Anytime! She never said no that I can recall. I got a lot of exercise…I’ll say that! She had a big booty and an insatiable appetite.
Enough about that…what about chicks and their junk? A guy can tell a lot about a girl’s breasts even when she’s in her clothing. But he knows nothing about her vagina until he gets there. And just like with guys’ junk, girls’ “down there” junk are all different.
I remember meeting a trailer chick in Florida while working for Joey Dee who had the smallest junk ever! I felt like one of those monster black porn guys who can only get half his junk inside the “actresses.” And then there was that brief girlfriend who had a horrible tit job…a flat ass and a giant vagina. Biggest ever!
I felt kind of sorry for her. I mean…if you’re gonna be a chick with a giant opening, wouldn’t it make sense to have a super badonkadonk and 42DDD breasts with which to attract a dude with a 13 incher? Fortunately, she liked girls as well as men. And with a girl, chicks can always have their BFF’s strap on the perfect partner – if that’s at issue. Honestly, I don’t even know. That girl was a riddle I never solved.
And that’s another thing I wonder as I watch lesbian videos of girls pounding each other with strap-ons. Not such a bad deal. A girl can pick the exact size she likes and be confident that it won’t get soft…and it won’t cum too quickly. And the wielder of that monster has soft skin and breasts to suck on, too. I mean…why would any girl even think about fooling around with some douchy and sweaty guy who’s just going to fuck her friend when he gets the chance because his life’s ambition is to impress every girl in the world with his big junk? Boy! If I’m a girl…I’m going gay. But then again…I like tits, ass and pussy so I’m kind of biased.
Anyway…my mission is accomplished. If nothing else…today’s blog is clearly about nothing. Look out Jerry Seinfeld. Dollar Bill’s comin’ for ya.
Ya know…I used to be a psycho kind of dude. But lately without all the pressure under which I once labored, I’ve become decidedly sane. That’s where the archives come in handy. Lots of psycho stuff in there! Here’s an interesting post in which I’m pretty much angry with everybody involved in the process of running adult advertising in the Village Voice. Can you believe that two or three years later they actually hired me to work in-house after i wrote this and several other “psycho” entries about them? Anyway…enjoy!
A week ago, I wrote about my meeting with “the swells” up at The Village Voice – and how I had succeeded in negotiating a rate that would at long last free me from my pimp, an advertising agency which does absolutely nothing for me save siphon off 15% of my money. Guess again! Suspicious individual that I am, I called the rep who was set to handle me to ask if there was any chance that her boss might go back on his word. I know the agency and figured they’d bitch and moan that he was stealing their whore (that would be me). She assured me that wouldn’t happen. Uh huh?
That is EXACTLY what happened! My pimp went in there and in corporate speak screamed in essence “Where you get off stealing our mother fucking ho?” The guy folded like a beach chair and had one of his slaves call me to break the bad news. Now, I’ll do my chameleon thing moving out of the street metaphor and into a law office. Dear “esteemed” Publisher of The Village Voice. You breached your verbal contract. Three witnesses watched you make me an offer. You handed me a rate sheet with your handwriting on it and markings that indicated where I would fall on that rate sheet. I e-mailed you my acceptance of your offer. You e-mailed me back the terms of payment. You made an offer…I accepted it…and I can prove it. You can’t go back on your binding verbal contract! Additionally, you later convened with the officer of another corporation and cooked up a price fixing conspiracy to smooth the waters. Maybe you don’t see it that way…but I think the legal system does.
But really, I’m not by nature a litigious guy. I’m a common sense right and wrong guy. And here’s the way I see it: The advertising agency passing on a bogus rate hike is wrong. They deserve to lose me for this and a bunch of other reasons I won’t bother to enumerate here. And The Publisher of a major paper negotiating in bad faith? Get the fuck outta here! Ya know…during our meeting, he quipped with a broad smile on his face “We’re all whores.” Speak for yourself, bubba. There’s good whores…and there’s rip-off whores. I don’t think I have to tell you into which category you fall at the moment.
Really, this whole deal is a monstrous rat fuck. There are all kinds of reprobates who go up to The Voice and pay a garden variety of different rates. I know because several of my clients who I still deal with for other advertising vehicles have gone direct…and they’re all paying different prices. For all intents and purposes, there is no fucking rate sheet. It’s a mess and the people at The Voice know it.
The agency that insists on being my pimp is about to go under – which is why they have absolutely no morals or conscience about controlling me. They’re hanging by a thread…they’re treading water in the middle of the ocean with but one nostril above the water line. Their karma sucks. I’m not the first guy (or girl) they’ve tried to steamroll. Their problems are numerous. When I was their friend, I set them up with Extreme – free-of-charge. I set them up with Escort Magazine – free-of-charge. I taught them craigslist so they could save their company during a price war! And then when they started fucking me I said to myself “Why the hell are you helping these people? Stop! Stop talking to them!”
And the operative moment is nigh! I’ve been feeling it for a while. And then yesterday, somebody spilled the beans. They’re about to fold. While I pay them before publication – and have – like forever….they pay The Voice 30 days later. Yup! They oughtta have a float in The Siren Parade. They cry for me to deposit on time constantly. And then they hold my money for 30 days hoping to keep that nostril above the water line.
I’ve seen it all before. Here’s what’s gonna happen: The agency is going to drown owing The Voice close to six figures. My deal with The Voice had cash terms. That was in The Publisher’s e-mail when he accepted me direct. And the funny thing is when the agency expires, who knows all their advertisers? Who knows how to design the ads? Who knows all the sizes and how to build “camera ready” pages and blocks? Take a wild guess! Yup! The guy they just fucked. Go figure.
I’m definitely more than a day late and a dollar short with this but belatedly, I’ve decided to comment on the retirement of David Letterman from THE LATE SHOW if for no other reason than I was almost on the big show not once…but twice.
On the first occasion, Dave decided to take a bunch of taxi drivers out to dinner to see if what was mostly an unscripted scene would play out. So he dispatched one of his producers (a guy named Steve O’Donnell) to find a table full of cabbies who might be entertaining. And because I’d written for the local weeklies, I made the short list!
Small problem though. At the end of all my op-eds, the papers would italicize a short line which said “William writes a column for Taxi Talk Magazine.” So to make a long and boring short, when Steve called the paper to find me, the owner of the rag decided to impersonate $ Bill and take my gig.
“Wow! How’d you get the gig, Mikey?” I asked my boss after he bragged about doing the Letterman Show one day hence. His answer? “They called the office!” He neglected to say that they’d call the office for me! Schmuck-o got paid AFTRA scale and blew the cash on a gold chain. Talk about a douchebag!
Anyway, I missed the job. And the dinner went so poorly (entertainment-wise) that the crap never aired. Mikey was totally lame (so I heard later) and went over like a lead balloon. At one point, one of the producers actually pulled him aside to dress the big blowhard down: “This is Dave’s show…not yours. Pipe down!” Dickhead was trying to take over the entertainment! Talk about not knowing your place.
The only reason I found out about this theft in the first place is because my numb-nuts boss left the evidence on his desk in the form of an answering service message that said the Late Show was calling for William!
The second time I had a near miss with appearing on Letterman occurred when Nick At Nite solicited Dave to have their taxi choir (which I was a part of) appear on his show. But once Mikey (also in the choir) told the producers that we’d all have to be paid AFTRA scale (already, he was a spoiled star), they backed off. Do you believe this guy? Talk about a one man wrecking crew!
And finally – though it had nothing to do with appearing on the show – some writer/trick who was reading my blog began stealing my material. Whatever offbeat take I’d written up on life somehow ended up in Dave’s monologue.
Getting that creepy feeling which told me I wasn’t imagining all this, I called Dave’s staffer out on the blog and I never got that feeling again.
Anyway…enough of my near misses. I’ve always known that Letterman is a moody and antisocial guy and thus, I feel a kinship to the late night icon. I’m sorry to see him go. While the writers were lame too often, Dave had some truly funny unscripted moments (like his interview with Paris Hilton during which he wouldn’t get off the subject of her experience in the slammer. Classic comedy!)
I did not fall for all the hype his last on-air week and watched none of the final shows – but did catch the finale on You Tube. And far and away, my favorite two minutes came when Dave introduced his wife and son – both of whom were seated in the audience.
Now Dave is a super private person. For years, he didn’t even acknowledge his live-in girlfriend – until she got pregnant and he married her. But still…she was as incognito as can be. His wife, a good-looking woman of the mature variety was as charming and normal as she could be for the camera. But his son? Just as weird and antisocial as his daddy. Almost embarrassing, actually.
Dave, searching for something to say that might break the tension of his son looking at the camera as if he could give a shit about the show or his old man, thanked Tommy Robatti (I think that’s his name) for coming along with Harry to the show.
With that announcement, Dave’s boy finally smiled for the camera and actually looked alive for two seconds. And it took his father announcing the presence of his boy’s buddy to get a rise out of his kid. Like father – like son – is all I can say. I can just imagine the family looking back on that tape for years to come and seeing Harry’s almost belligerent and clearly disinterested expression on the occasion of his father’s big sendoff. Wanna know why I never had kids? That bull shit right there!
If you really want to witness what I’ve just described, you can hit You Tube and search something like “Letterman’s last show” and I’m sure it will come up.
Regardless, Dave’s a funny guy. I’ll miss watching him on the occasional nights I actually did. Jimmy Fallon is good, mind you. But he’s not Dave. He’s way too normal for one thing.
P.S. Rumor has it that before his nupitals, Dave was a customer in our demented world – and reportedly a big tipper with a big tip.
As noted in a post many years ago, I’m a guy with good manners. I always say please and thank you as a courtesy to all service people – or anybody who does anything on my behalf. Perfect example: I’m at the supermarket checkout. The cashier hands me my change. How do I react? “Thank you.” Just a common courtesy I learned from my Aunt Ellie – drill-sergeant style – a long time ago.
Up until about a year ago (when I began volunteering), the general suffix to my “thank you” was “boss” if it was a guy and “ma’am” for females. But now while the thank you’s have not changed…the suffix has. I’ve taken to addressing everybody as “brother” or sister.” And it’s the volunteer world that “did the trick!”
It works perfectly. People who line up for free food in New York are a diverse crew. (I’d say that the one thing they all have in common is being poor but that wouldn’t be true. Not everybody is homeless and/or indigent. There are some people just getting a free meal.)
Whatever…in the soup line scenario, “boss” seems pretentious and fake. But “brother” (or sister for the women)? This is the term of inclusion which works for me. I’m not their servant…or superior. I’m their sibling. And whatever their race, creed or color, the implication is we’re all in it together. It’s so good (the brother and sister thing) I now use it everywhere. To date, it hasn’t offended anyone anywhere – even on the soup line. Trust me…that’s pretty impressive with some of the entitled malcontents we deal with. Not everybody has learned the “please” and “thank you” deal. What are ya gonna do? We’re not there as disciplinarians (though a little dose of that might help at times). We are there to serve.
Back to the demographics of the “guests” (as they’re called). It’s the usual gorgeous mosaic New York has been known for since Mayor Dinkins described the populous with that term. I have my favorites and let us say…some groups I’m not as fond of.
St. Bart’s on 51st Street attracts a lot of Mexican dishwashers. I know about Mexicans. They work for a living at low-paying jobs Americans won’t take. And I’ve always respected that! Back when I was a cabby, a group would occasionally flag me from in front of a restaurant on the Upper East Side. I knew they were dishwashers splitting a cab three ways to three different stops in Corona and Jackson Heights – a shit fare for sure! But I’d take them anyway (rather than give them the invisible treatment and run by them as if I didn’t see them waving). I knew the boys would be respectful, thankful and generous with the tip for a cabby willing to travel to an outer boro – their lowly wage notwithstanding.
Then there are the messengers from the messenger center across the street. As a bicyclist, I respect those guys. Bike messenging is a very dangerous and not terribly well-paying job! I’ll give them extra if we have it.
Parents with their children always get extra not just with me – but all the volunteers. The thinking is that the tykes have nothing to do with ending up on a soup line. And somehow they’re always cute! I’d like to see more in one way but then again…no child should be on a fucking soup line. Seems like a heaping helping of reality for somebody way too young.
Downtown, we get a lot of little geriatric Chinese ladies. I’d like to tell you how sweet they are…but I’d be lying. They’re fucking rude bull dozers too often. Stealing food when we’re not looking and cutting in line is their general MO. I know that’s a racist statement but everybody down at the University Soup Kitchen who’s ever worked the pantry line is in agreement. They’re a rough dose!
And my least favorite guests are the junkies. We don’t get a lot of them (actually we get none at St. Bart’s) but downtown, a few zombies show up. Junkies gross me out. And that’s even before two from their crew got me fired with a certain advertiser a few months ago.
Moving on to providers of the mature variety (talk a bout a non sequitur!)…I rarely take photos of the girls anymore since I lost my photo gig. But I revved up the rechargeables for my favorite cougar THE INCREDIBLE LEAH (347-357-8211). She’s incredible as in…incredibly attentive (or so I hear). But don’t take my word for it. A lot of guys many years her junior have enrolled in her fan club. Here she is!
One of the hallmarks of the Korean girls and houses on this blog is the amazingly seamless way in which the employees move around with no resultant rivalry and drama between the owners who employ the girls who do the moving. When that crap happens between American or latin places, WW III breaks out! But most of the Koreans know each other and the sisterhood trumps all.
Having just made that statement, there is an occasional instance during which the relationships among the Asian owners can get combustible. And it happened yesterday. One house told me so-and-so from somewhere has left one place and landed at hers.
But here’s the problem: Owner #1 isn’t in the loop. She doesn’t know the other bosses and the girl who left her in favor of a competitor told boss #1 that she was going on vacation rather than admitting the truth…that she was moving on.
I assume she pursued this course of action to leave the door open in case she didn’t like the new place. That was a dumb move. The secret would be out soon enough when house #2 told me that so-and-so from house #1 was moving to their place!
So naturally, I got stuck in the middle. And worse, the girl wanted me to use photos that had actually been paid for by owner #1. This has always been a problem with entitled divas who think they can use and abuse old employers. Whatever…when I called owner #1 to see if she’d paid for the photos, the shit hit the fan. I hate when I get put in these difficult positions because I can do no right.
Finally, I calmed down owner #1 (who was very angry because she thought the girl should have told her the truth) by relating experiences I had back when I posted Backpage when Korean owners would tell me they were going to stop posting Backage and didn’t need me to do that for them anymore rather than let me know that they were moving on – which I would inevitably discover the next day when I saw their ads on BP posted by someone else.
Pain in the ass…let me tell you! Anyway…
Big road day on the bike today. And a beautiful day it was for the rubber to hit the road! So in no particular order of importance…
LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409) has a new-to-New York girl named JOANNE. Or I should say “nude” to New York as she’s wearing nothing but her birthday suit in her photo!
Jeff Foxworthy made millions with his “you might be a redneck” comedy bit. And I’m about to make a million enemies with my own version of Jeff’s take on a different subculture – namely – hood rats.
I have ambivalent feelings about hood rats for the simple reason that I find them so physically attractive – and so personally unattractive. It’s a testament to my shallowness that I can want to have sex with people for whom I have so little respect. I understand that. But my primal instincts and funky attitude are what they are. And the following list is a reflection of all that.
You say I’m a racist? I don’t really give a crap because a) hood rats come in all races…and b) there’s a common thread which weaves one and all together. And that’s truth. So here we go with my TOP 20 WAYS YOU KNOW YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT! Feel free to chime in with your own.
1. If you graduate near the bottom of your class from BMCC and your family is brimming with pride…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
2. If your boyfriend offers you a vacation in the Bahamas and you end up on the LIRR going to either Jamaica or Nassau…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
3. If you think hip hop is music rather than rhythm and chant (which is actually what it is) and you call your favorite rap recording a “song”…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
4. If your #1 love interest is either on his way to jail…in jail…or just coming back from jail…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
5. If you’re on a first name basis with half the employees at The Bureau of Child Welfare…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
6. If you sell ass and make 2 grand a week all while you collect welfare and you and your out-of-wedlock baby are on Medicaid…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
7. If you pronounce the word ask like it’s spelled axe…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
8. If the thought of getting caught in the rain after you got your hair done sends a shudder down your spine…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
9. If you’re black and spend half your money trying to make it look like you have white girl hair…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
10. If your real name is Shaniqua but you use the alias Lexus on your escort job…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
11. If you make a twerk video and put it on You Tube…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
12. If the only channels you favorite on your cable remote are WPN and BET…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
13. If your ass jiggles when you take a deep breath…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
14. If the toilet in your Section 8 apartment is too small for your ass…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
15. If you go on the Maury Show because you’re not sure whether your baby daddy is Tre, Dre, or the husband of your sister Monet…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
16. If you go on the Maury Show at all…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
17. If Wendy Williams is your female role model…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
18. If your third measurement exceeds your IQ…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
19. If you think the double t in “Manhattan” is silent…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
20. If you go to your corner store and there’s a homey selling looses outside the front door…or the joint got burned down to the ground the day before…YOU MIGHT BE A HOOD RAT!
With all the Asian massage places in the Big Apple, it’s a wonder that any of them can keep their heads above water financially. So given all the competition, what’s the formula for success in the KMP world? How does that actually go? Well, I’m not exactly sure but from what I can deduce, here it is (and not necessarily in this order):
1.Gotta have a good phone girl. The ads give her the hot leads…and then she has to close the deal on the phone. Just a simple sales concept. Very important that a) the phone girl has a good voice…b) is friendly-sounding…and c) speaks fucking English! To the Koreans’ credit, they’ve discovered in recent years that employing a phone girl who’s fluent (or at least semi-fluent) in English is essential. I can’t tell you how many times 10 years ago I would call to telemarket Asian places for my boss at Action…giving them the big spiel on all I could do for them…only to hear the phone girl say something like “Ah! Two hundred dollar! You come over now?” Enough said!
2. Pretty and established girls who give good and consistent service! Having an A-lister is paramount. The regulars know about the starlets and will come out to see them. You know the theory that 5% of the women in the world get 95% of the play from guys while the other 95% starve? Well, it’s that way in the K-world as well. Just one A-lister on staff can pay all the bills. That’s just the way it goes.
3. New girls! If a KMP can find a new girl – whether she comes in from another city or straight from Korea for that matter – that’s key! The guys are always on the prowl for a new experience with a fresh face. And if the girl is cute? Even better.
4. The GFE thang! Asians have discovered what “The Factory” has known all along. Guys want GFE service. Pretty girls who do GFE? They get the play – and the pay!
5. And finally…location, location, location. Lots of the girls’ customers like to duck out for lunch or visit surreptitiously right after work before they go home. And you definitely want your house to be as close to the workplace of as many customers as possible. That’s why you’ll find so many KMP’s right in Midtown 30’s close to the terminals. That way the girls can garner the most customers and get the best coverage.
So that’s that: My intuitive formula for success free-of-charge for the girls (as if they didn’t know all this already). Once busy places who haven’t changed girls for months go stagnant. And once slow places who have get busy. The rub is actually finding new girls. It’s not all that easy!
Despite my advancing years, I’m not a complete fuddy duddy when it comes to 21st century technology. Like just for example, I don’t have a webmaster for this train wreck. I do it all myself! And no, I didn’t take a course with a bunch of kids and finish dead last in my class. I figured it out by my mother fucking self.
But before I pat myself on the back to the point where I cum in my pants, it’s also true that there are certain new wave technologies I eschew. One is social media…and the other is texting. And both for good reason.
First, social media. Twitter! I’m sorry. I don’t have to go on the Internet to tweet “Just took a burly dump. If you come to visit my apartment, you may not want to go in the bathroom!” What the fuck is that?!?! But more important…I used to be on Facebook. And just to be modern, I linked the blog to my Facebook page. Mind you, it didn’t bring any traffic but some SEO guru told me it was a must. So I took his word for it.
One day, I logged onto my Facebook page to find several friend requests. Having friends on Facebook is like having IQ points. The more the merrier! So I began accepting everybody. But halfway into clicking on all the friend requests, I noticed something odd. All the requests were coming from underage girls!
Whoa! So suddenly, I had a bigger job to do: Unfriend everybody from that day – and then shut down that useless fucking Facebook account. I guess if I were a priest, I would suddenly one day wake up to 25 new parishioners at the church door…all 12 year olds dressed in nothing but their underwear. I’m surprised I didn’t get an e-mail from a 12 year old girl saying “I want to be on your blog but I have no money. Can I suck your dick instead?” Bottom line: Facebook no more – in spades! Very suspect! (Notice that I don’t address the elephant in the room.)
Moving on…to texting. Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis used to text with their generals all day long during the Civil War. And you know why? Hello! Because the telephone hadn’t been invented yet. They did not have that luxury…so they were stuck with fucking texting. So why now in an age when you can shoot a video and e-mail it to your friend so he can actually see the 42EEE-chested chick who’s walking down the street behind you, would anybody text?
Today I called a potential advertiser who’d expressed an interest in appearing on this blog. I got voice mail and left a message. Two seconds later I received a text from her that she couldn’t talk and “Do you text?” Despite the fact that I think texting is fucking retarded, I texted her back. After several exchanges (which took 15 minutes) which left me confused as to why the girl seemed to not remember me, I received her final communication: “Bye, nigga!” I’d sent her a text asking if she was too busy trying to lift her huge chest off the couch to talk on the phone. It was meant as a joke that apparently went over like a lead balloon.
So here’s the thing. The girl I was trying to reach had lent her phone to somebody else and I’m guessing that somebody else wasn’t all that busty, hence the “bye, nigga” response. To the point: If the fucking moron had simply picked up the phone when I called, it would have taken two seconds for us to realize the obvious. But because American youth is sooo enamored with texting, we both wasted 15 minutes and the girl got herself offended. Me? I’ve hung out with a lot of black people in my life and was often the token honky in a band when I was a musician. I’ve been called “nigga” before. Not a problem. Actually, it was almost always a good thing!
It’s been 21 years since dear old dad moved to the next frontier but his colorful stories live on in infamy. In honor of Father’s Day, here are two of my all-time faves:
My daddy (rest his soul) was a salty old dog. He’d always have at least one wife (sometimes two), a girlfriend, and a couple of “for-hires” on the side. My mother used to say he had a severe case of arrested development. Whatever! The guy had great stories and as you might imagine…some of them were about escorts.
Back in The Sixties, Popsicle (that’s what I used to call him after I grew up) was the head of A & R at Columbia Records. He actually had 17 gold and platinum records as producer for Andy Williams, Barbara Streisand, Johnny Mathis et al. Every year, Columbia would have their blowout convention/vacation in Miami. Pop had a yacht down there (which he captained, repaired and maintained by himself…he used to call himself The Chicken of the Sea because he was afraid of capsizing in a storm), and decided to reward a couple of engineers who’d worked extra hard during the year on his behalf. Obviously, you don’t have to be a producer to know that without a good engineer, a producer is nothing.
So he dialed up three ladies…one for him…and two for two engineers he wanted to take on a little cruise. The wrinkle was that the two girls he hired for the boys couldn’t let them know they were paid employees. It was their job to pretend they actually fancied these paunchy old engineers…not a huge leap with the for-hire crew be it then or now!
And so…the girls did their part descending below to the staterooms to do their thing while Popsicle instructed his girl on how to steer the boat. (“If I squeeze your left tit, pull the wheel left…if I squeeze right…pull the wheel right.”) When they got back to dry land, the boys bid their new girlfriends adieu, hoping to see them both soon.
Well apparently, these conventions were testosterone-fueled carnivals and by the next night, the Columbia crew decided to hold a pussy-eating contest – and needed a subject or two upon which to perform. And imagine their surprise when the two engineers entered the room where the contest was being staged to see guess who flat on their backs with legs up in the air being attended to by a line-up of contestants!
As soon as they found my father, the two engineers registered their discontent with his childish prank in answer to which daddy held out his arms and pleaded “Come on fellas! Didja have a good time or what?” And as the story goes…the engineers would do anything Popsicle asked of them and then some for the rest of his tenure at Columbia.
Another quicky: Andy Williams was performing in Las Vegas where the old man visited him to do whatever. So after the show, the two rascals hired up a couple of Hoovers to take care of their needs and after they were done, Andy asked the girls to please not say anything about the encounter as he was married at the time (to a French chick who subsequently murdered her ski bum boyfriend and only did 30 days for the crime).
Andy’s servant, who was apparently several years his junior but much hipper responded “No problem. But please don’t tell anybody I was with you“…meaning she didn’t want her reputation trashed. Clearly, she wasn’t down with anybody in her crew knowing that she’d stooped to the level of servicing a slab of milk toast the likes of the Moon River Crooner!
According to the old man, Andy got really offended and didn’t get over it for a while. Anyway, enough of the beautiful walk down somebody else’s Mammary Lane. That’s it for today.
Today’s entry hit the cutting room floor with a thud. it was too offensive and thus, an oldie – from years ago.
Unless you’ve been struck deaf, dumb, and blind, ya gotta notice the plethora of Asian ads that virtually litter the New York section of every escort site on the world wide web. I mean…it’s getting ridiculous especially given that these girls are NOT indigenous to our country – and it’s not that easy gaining entry to the good ol’ USA! So how do they get here – and for that matter – why do they come given our country’s post 911 paranoia about all people foreign?
I’ve been dealing with Asians long enough to understand the why and how of the Asian trade. And to dispel all the rumors about trafficking and similar nonsense people in control often don’t understand, I’ve decided to take this moment to convey what I’ve learned over the years.
First, the societal stigma of what these girls do for a living is more or less ubiquitous. Not many cultures view “escorting” in a favorable light. So it follows that a lot of girls would rather pursue the profession as far away from friends and family – and as profitably – as possible. And that often means that “The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave” IS the location they seek to sell their service. That’s why we see such a vast international community of escorts in Manhattan! Say what you want about all our problems. Most of the world still views the USA as the land of milk and honey! Add to that the surprising reality that American men WILL pay older and mature escorts for their time more readily than Korean or Brazilian men, and you have a perfect storm wherein we find numerous Asians and Brazilians congregating in The Big Apple.
New York City in particular is one metropolis whose laws don’t punish escorts as harshly as others. Immigration officials rarely accompany NYPD during arrests and the act of selling sex in exchange for money is a misdemeanor. Hence, a simple bust is almost viewed as a cost of doing business. Kind of like UPS and the numerous parking tickets their trucks get. Call me crazy..but if I’m an Asian escort…I’m working in New York where if I get busted, I’m out in a few hours with no questions asked about my immigration status.
Now onto how the girls get here. And this addresses the entire human trafficking issue that so seduces all the media. I have no doubt that there are some very nefarious individuals hoodwinking naive girls into thinking they’re coming to The States to be movie stars – or whatever. I’ve just never dealt with any of them. Nevertheless, there certainly IS a network which brings these girls in! And the deal goes like this:
If a Korean girl wishes to gain entry into the USA, up until last October (I’ll explain later), she needed a visa. A simple passport wouldn’t do. Obtaining that visa involved hiring a broker with connections in the embassy to accomplish the mission. With the lubrication of a little host bar/hanky panky to part the sea, the broker could expedite the passage for in the range of $50,000! ALL the girls know exactly where they’re going and what they’re going to do for a living. And if they were to arrive on our shores and get offered a job as a waitress, there would be hell to pay. Escorting pays big money! Waitressing does NOT! And they paid their 50 grand and want to recoup ASAP!! Case closed!
The problem is that there is no guarantee for what period of time the visa will cover. It could be three months….or six months…or whatever! And when that visa expires, what’s a girl to do? Go back home and pay another 50 grand to re-enter? Or just stay and hope she doesn’t get caught and then deported! Well….take a wild guess what the girls do!
So that was your basic MO up until three months ago when Korea decided to stop buying American beef, citing that the mad cow menace wasn’t worth the risk. The US government stepped in offering passport entry (rather than requiring the old visa) to South Koreans if they would just resume purchasing American beef! Suddenly, South Korea wasn’t so afraid of the mad cow menace. Funny how that shit works! THIS in turn put the broker (or trafficker if you will) out of business. And if it’s easier and cheaper to gain entry into the United States, you know what that means. Hello! Mo’ Koreans!
So there you have it. Combined with all these reasons plus the American man’s healthy appetite for all things Asian…you have your plethora of Asian escorts advertising in New York City.
The problem is that as appealing as Asian girls are to Americans, there still aren’t enough aficionados with enough disposable income to support all these Korean girls in the style to which they’ve become accustomed. Illustrative case in point: When I first got my job at Action Magazine, we had three or four Queens casitas advertising in the paper. Knowing Queens like the back of my hand – and boasting a semi-fluency in their language, I boosted that number to ten or eleven. The boss was smitten until the clients began complaining that the paper wasn’t working anymore.
So he summoned me for a meeting, accusing yours truly of fucking up their ads. I countered with “How about advertising your paper and increasing distribution so you can support all these children?” Faced with the naked truth, he backed off. The culpability was in his court. He published a boring paper…did no advertising to bolster sales…and was paying the price via customer complaints. I wasn’t the problem!
Given the current oversupply – and underdemand resulting from the recession – this is actually the best time in recent history to go see a Korean girl. When the ladies are sitting around with nothing to do, they are much more likely to go the extra mile for their customers. So to my homies…go check out your local Asian. And tell them it was $ Bill’s idea. Because I need the props. The girls are treating me crappy lately and simply don’t appreciate the unique brand of help I provide!
And to anybody at The Voice who might be reading….I know this is as much an advertorial as it is a piece of journalism. There’s a reason for that! These girls pay your salary. And I’m trying to put enough money in their pockets so they can buy ads in your paper and you continue to get paid. I give them their props – even if you decided not to!
Over the years, I’ve heard a million escort war stories – most as ghastly as they were boring. But on the subject of prison hookups, my ears always perked up. I mean…isn’t prison supposed to be about punishment? How does an inmate successfully turn lemons into lemonade? Some people kill to find the right hookup. Who would think that prison could be the venue that finally worked? The fodder was so wonderfully bizarre. I couldn’t get enough!
Her name was KIMA (or that was her “show” name). She was kind of a sexxxy girl. Decent face…ok body…with a heaping helping of ghetto attitude. Definitely a thug fucker in between girlfriends – the latter of which just might have been her main focus.
Kima was also a crimey mother fucker – something I picked up about her right away. Dealing with escorts all day long as I did for almost two decades, you get to know their type on site. Kima was no dabbling school girl. The bitch was hardcore!
Anyway, Kima left the incall where I met her and took off on her own which in this context means she rented a hotel room in Midtown, found a phone girl to answer the calls, ran some ads, and went to work. One small problem: She caught her phone girl stealing calls (sending prospective clients to other escort friends and splitting the money while Kima wasn’t looking.) Bad move.
Kima and her girlfriend found out and beat the girl, tied her up with a phone cord, and then locked the hotel room behind them. Another small problem: She got caught red-handed! “One year at Rikers, young lady,” said the judge (or something like that) and Kima entered what is arguably the worst local jail in the entire USA.
This face-melting news I received after the fact when I ran into Kima on the street. Obviously, we hadn’t seen each other for a while…and she wanted to catch me up.
“So how’d you like your extended stay at Rikers?” I asked after hearing the story while virtually cringing at the thought. Kima’s answer: “It wasn’t that bad. I found a super hot girlfriend to pass the time.” “Really,” I responded with some skepticism. “It’s a dormitory in there, right? Where did you get it on?” (Like yo! “En”- quiring minds want to know this shit!)
Not surprisingly, it was the shower room where all the action took place (makes sense to me). Worst prison notwithstanding, it didn’t sound like Kima’s year in Rikers was all that horrible. Kind of like girls’ summer camp where they inevitably feel each other up ’cause there’s no boys around!
Whatever…seder time at the same jail/prison. Anybody with any proven jewish heritage could attend. And the scramble was on. Why? All the under-the-table blow jobs. Apparently, the fiesta was an infamous Rikers tradition – according to one of the participants.
And then there were the late night through-the-bars blow jobs female inmates would give their male CO’s (corrections officers). The payment (guard to administering girl) was anything from lady Bic shavers to candy. Ya know…currency of the realm in the cashless prison confines. One guard was so cute that the girls were blowing him free-of-charge. Hey! Every so often a girl’s gotta get her tonsils busted out. Again…makes sense to me!
Moving on…CANDY was a wigger…a barrel-chested white girl with a baby face, a woman’s body, and a wish to be black. Candy liked crack…and thugs of the darker persuasion – just about equally I would guess. But crack, thugs (of any color), and flatbacking is a bad trifecta if you want to stay out of trouble with the authorities. So not surprisingly, Candy vacationed at Rikers a few times over the years.
One night, she arrived at my building door to pay for her Village Voice ad. Outside waited a woman in a car. “Who’s your girlfriend?” I asked with an intentionally insinuating tone just to bait her. “Yeah, she’s kind of hot, right? I like her,” was Candy’s matter-of-fact response which it just so happened…didn’t answer the question.
So I asked again. “Who is she and how’d you meet her?” Candy: “At Rikers…the last time I got arrested. She’s a CO.” At that point, the hunter had been captured by the game. Suddenly, it was me that she was getting the rise out of! I gave up right there. Silly me! As if I was gonna freak out an iconic reprobate of Candy’s stature. What was I thinking?
The stories go on and on. How about a murderer and a burglar (both females) hooking up while doing some significant time behind bars? Their release dates were staggered and by the time the second got out her girlfriend had a boyfriend. Apparently, the lesbian thing had an any port in a storm quality to it.
The point is that when it comes to pleasures of the flesh in prison, you could file it all under the heading WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY. Stripping away all the intellectual horse shit we entertain ourselves with simply to hold homo sapiens above the rest of the animal world, the truth is we’re here to fuck, procreate and then die. Philosophers can ponder their existential reality with questions along the lines of “Who Am I” and “How Did I Get Here?” But the truly wise man knows the answer. We’re simple animals here to go boom boom in the room room – and keep the species going. And one need only look at the “prison hookup” to prove the point – even if none of the previous examples could end up in procreation.
On the current events front…BLUE ANGEL (917-615-3281) welcomes GIA…who used to be Bonnie up until last week. You’ll probably recognize the photo as it’s a hot one!
Up until 3 months ago, my social life was one of remarkable quality and variety. Methodically, I indulged with a minimum of fanfare until the shit hit the fan. Like rock stars who let the band break up despite the millions they’re making and all the groupie action that’s part in parcel of their stardom, I eschewed the drug-addled and mind-shattering incompetence of the infrastructure of a certain place – and lost all the benefits.
And so I settled into one situation which was in no way the equal of the previous…and lived with the consequences until about a week ago when I had a bang up fight with my current girl because essentially, she’s a total fucking moron. We have since reconciled but in the interim, I decided to join an Internet dating site for black people (which obviously, I am not) because hey…I like black women! Whatever…I’d had enough of the fucking brain-dead escorts whatever their racial affiliation and it was time to find a square…hopefully with not just a booty…but a brain as well.
Well anyway…the search has been interesting. A couple of girls who don’t look half bad began corresponding with me. One is kind of cute – though not a rocket scientist. She keeps using the word “it’s” as a possessive. Not a good sign. And the other uses a lot of fancy words – albeit incorrectly. Also not so great even though she looks pretty good. But then just today…I reached out to a woman whose profile indicated she has a PHD.
Somehow…and some way…there was magic. After admitting that I was the first guy she’d found on the site who could “hold a conversation,” the woman began to bear her soul as if I was a bartender or something. And her writing was flawless, error-free and inspired. It turns out that she teaches law at Columbia University and is suffering the rigors of competition academia style. Joining the site was the manner in which she sought an outlet for all that stress! In short, I hooked up with a brainstorm who not only teaches at an Ivy League school…but attended a few along the way as well.
The point is that after years of dealing with people who are not my intellectual equal, I now find myself corresponding with a woman who is clearly my intellectual superior. Be careful what you wish for…as the saying goes. Satisfying this woman intellectually just might be more difficult than rocking The Incredible Fifty Foot Woman’s world physically!
But here’s where fooling around with the pros is gonna work in my favor. I figure what I lack in brain power…I will more than make up for between the sheets. And I have the dumbbells to thank! Funny how life works out! But really…I’ve had a plethora of booty over the years…and a dearth of brains. I don’t care how much smarter she is than me. I’m down for the program. Where it will lead only time will tell.
I received a call this afternoon from LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409)lauding their new-to-New-York employee…a girl named PINK! “Do something…do something!” pleaded the phone girl. So I went to their website to check out Pink and see if there was some inventive way I might get fishies like me to go for the bait. Well fortunately…the bait (Pink) looked pretty good.
“Hey!”…I salivated (not literally), she looks natural! Most of the phone girls in the Korean community have discovered recently that not only does “new to New York” bring business…but “all natural” does as well. Why wasn’t the phone girl telling me if indeed the girl is all natural? Well, unfortunately, this phone girl hadn’t gotten the memo. She didn’t know if Pink is all natural or not!
So anyway…you guys remember the episode in “Two and a Half Men” when Charlie teaches Jake how to tell between fake and real breastissizz? Well…here’s a chance to play the game. Fake or real on Pink? I say real – 99%. That or the world’s best boob job. Pink begins on Wednesday. All researchers invited to her NY debut. (Damn! Why isn’t Madison Avenue calling?)
Feeding the indigent soup-line style – versus actually sitting the guests down and serving them in an orderly fashion are two very different animals logistically. Just for example, the former (which is what we do at St. Bart’s) is much easier than the latter. No need for buss people, waiters or maitre d’s. Which brings us to today’s ennui. I was the maitre d at the University Soup Kitchen yesterday, a place where we do seat and serve the royalty.
Now I’ve run the food prep line and the pantry line like a benevolent and efficient sergeant. My reputation is solid gold down at the “food factory.” But yesterday I somehow got a brand new (for me) job as maitre d. When assigned, I didn’t really understand that this task could best be described as crowd control officer and that oddly enough, I was picked because I’m more physically imposing than your average volunteer! These are not 3rd graders at a religious school lining up for lunch and a little brawn helps. But still, finesse, friendliness, cultural awareness and psychology were of equal and possibly even more importance.
First, Emerson let the crew in about 20 at a time to be seated in 40 seats whose occupants I controlled. They were effectively in the batters’ box at that point. (Stage 1 involves standing in line. Stage 2 gets you in the 40 batters’ boxes. And in stage 3, the guest is seated at a table with 4 other kings and queens with the regal feast (which really isn’t bad – homemade meat loaf, those beans that give you gas to help move you along on your the journey that life is, some sort of vegetable that comes out of a 5 pound can, fresh salad with decent ingredients but no discernible dressing, a vast selection of bread, a banana, a juicy store brand beverage but at least in the 100% juice category, and a gushy/sugary dessert) their reward for waiting patiently – hopefully!
Two other volunteers holding either a green or red paddle signaled to me how many seats had been vacated whereupon I ordered whoever’s turn it was to step up to do just that. The problems lie in the reality that there are people trying to cut the line…and there are other people ready to rumble behind that stupid bull shit.
So basically, you have to keep track of everything so you don’t accidentally send somebody who got there after somebody else…or WW III breaks out like a mother fucker. And then there are the twos and threes who want to sit together and the pursuant muddying of the waters as to who’s turn it really is to be seated at a table. It can be a clusterfuck for sure – something I learned quickly.
So there was this one really mouthy white trash woman who looked like a problem right at a moment when I had to assert myself to clear some confusion. Fortunately, I solved the hassle quickly and was back firing on all 8 again when the woman chirps “You’re doin’ a good job, buddy.” And suddenly, I could see I had the respect of the entire peanut gallery. It was all downhill from there. Keep the natives in check all while the paddle pushers constantly call out “I got 4 Billy” (or whatever) across a noisy room so that my head is on a swivel making sure my gaze doesn’t leave the guests waiting to be seated for too long as I respond to all the “seaters'” orders.
At some point, one of my fellow volunteers (a tall and biggish Chinese guy) complimented me as he unloaded the garbage (the floater’s job)…”I did that job a couple of weeks ago and totally messed it up. You’re doing great.”
To the point (finally). As ridiculous as it seems, I drew a lot of satisfaction from gaining the respect of and handling a pretty rough and diverse crowd. At one point, Thor (this huge guy who looks like your celly from hell) and his tranny sidekick were scaring a few of the volunteers with their bloated sense of entitlement. But I stepped in and got them seated and fed, effectively dousing the flames.
Was the feeling as satisfying as a good session with an escort? Let’s just say…different and leave it at that. One is in the physical realm – and the other spiritual. Ya know…apples and oranges. And am I weird for drawing gratification from performing a non-paying job so well? In some sense, it sounds kind of pathetic. But I’m not gonna worry about it.
You could rationalize that volunteering gives me something to write about so I can continue to attract readers to my blog…which brings more customers to the sidebar advertisers which…you get the idea. Somehow, I turn it into paid work in the end and that’s all that matters. Right? Yo! That shit was crazy!
And speaking of crazy…guess who’s back in town! CRAZY SHASHA (as in crazy good!) Check out her new pix. Hot! She can be reached at SWEET ASIAN VIXENS (917-434-5707).
I’ve heard some laughable names for an escort. But BIG NOSE KATE has to take the cake!
So I just finished reading a book debunking all the legends of the Wild West. Back in the late 19th century, people paid a lot of money for dime novels and newspapers – as print was the only medium in those days. And exaggerating the exploits of people like Wild Bill Hickock, Buffalo Bill Cody, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Kit Carson sold units! You know that goes. There were a lot of fish stories about these guys and the book was written to dispel all that mythology and reveal the real people behind the legends.
Anyway…today’s thugs and yesterday’s had one thing in common: They both had girlfriends whop were ho’s! Not a big surprise. Fast chicks love a bad boy – whether it’s the 19th or 21st century. Business as usual!
Of all the flatbackers the gunslingers dated, Big Nose Kate, who was actually Doc Holliday’s paramour, would have been my favorite. Talk about a Backpage headline waiting to write itself! I can see it now! BIG NOSE KATE LOOKIN’ FOR A BIG HOSE DATE! Even better than CHECK OUT THE CZECH CHICK or THE SNOW IS ALL GONE BUT THE POONJAB PRINCESS STILL NEEDS A GOOD PLOWING!
Some names and people lead a copywriter to the promised land more than others. And that Big Nose Kate moniker is just too precious. I had a really cute college girlfriend named Jane who happened to have a big nose. Let’s see: BIG NOSE JANE WILL DRIVE YOU INSANE! Here’s another: GET YOURSELF READY FOR BIG BOOTY BETTY!
Enough! I don’t do Backpage ads anymore so I’m just jerking myself off here. I’m out.
P.S. The picture above is of Doc Holliday. How’d he get his nickname? He was a fucking dentist!
Many years ago, I wrote a piece called “Rights of Passage” in which I chronicled the times when grown men squeezed my balls on virtually every one of my college summer jobs. Thus, it comes as no surprise to me that ex-Speaker-of-the-House, Dennis Hastert, is apparently in what I’m getting the idea is not a very exclusive fraternity of grown men who take an interest in young men’s junk.
Personally, I could give a shit, really. None of my assholes ever got anywhere with me and I gotta figure that if a kid isn’t homosexually inclined, nobody would get anywhere with them either. Of course there’s that extortion scenario wherein a high school wrestling coach (which Hastert was) could say shit like “If you want to be in the big meet, you’re gonna have to let me blow you” (or vice versa). But there’s no indication that was the case.
And nobody knows…and may never…as the charges leveled on Hastert are about structuring financial transactions and lying to the FBI. The statute of limitations has long since expired on his sexual misconduct. However, if Scoutmaster Denny agreed to pay $3.5 mil in blackmail money, it must have been a pretty damaging deal! It only stands to reason.
Researching this melodrama brought me to some quotes and facts from the venerable NY Times which really left me ROTFLMAO (rolling on the floor laughing my ass off – for those who don’t know that acronym). Dig this…a passage from the Times article:
“Mr. Hastert also worked with the Boy Scouts for 16 years, according to an address he gave to a Boy Scouts group at Pikes Peak several years ago.”
Are you kidding me? Dude was a fucking scoutmaster? Who doesn’t know how scoutmaster’s roll? That’s one reason I don’t write for the Times. (Actually I did three times. But never mind that.) I could never report something like that with a “straight” face! Here’s another one from one of his opposing wrestling coaches:
“He was a man of character, a pillar in the community.” A “pillar,” eh?Nice choice of words, schmuck! I wonder if that wrestling coach had his hands down the pants of his athletes? And finally…my favorite:
Of his tenure as scoutmaster, Denny says “I saw those kids develop and meet challenges and change.” You saw them develop? I feel ya! You saw them develop hair on their balls, you fucking freak…and meet challenges like how to handle alleged sexual misconduct from their douchebag coach!
In his defense, when faced with overseeing the investigation of Mark Foley’s overtures directed at congressional pages (who were male), he dragged his feet rather than let’s say aggressively prosecute escort services one day while being their customer the next! (If you can guess who that was, that right answer and $2.75 will get you a ride on the subway!)
In conclusion, I gotta tell y’all…this blackmail thing would not work on me. Check it out:
Blackmailing tranny: “Hey Dollar! If you don’t give me ten bucks I’m gonna tell everybody you sucked my cock!”
My answer: “Fuck you! Haven’t you heard? I’m a cheap jew. No ten bucks! And if you tell that lie, I’ll let everybody know you have the smallest and ugliest dick I ever sucked!” Case closed.
Easy for me to say. I don’t fuck around with boys – let alone underage boys who I’m supposedly mentoring. Yccch!
Moving on to some hetero stuff…I was over at ASIAN FLOWER (646-639-1195)and while hanging with my favorite phone girl, got to meet DANA and ELLA. Dana is all natural, surprisingly bootylicious and 21 years old – for real. I was impressed! A few minutes later, Ella walked in looking tan and youthful as well. I guess there’s a reason Flower is a busy place. Here they are:
Stop and think for a second. Have you ever wondered about the backstory behind all those ubiquitous and deplorable “exploited teen” type websites you see streaming videos of barely legal girls taking on seasoned studs many years their senior? Well wonder no more! RASHIDA JONES (daughter of Quincy) has produced a documentary titled “Hot Girls Wanted” slated to preview on NETFLIX tonight (May 29th). And it explains the entire phenomenon.
This is not a scene I know nothing about! I’ve met several of the “women” who have performed on these sites over the years. Not surprisingly, they ended up working at incalls in New York. A couple had done “Exploited Black Teens”…still others “Ghettogaggers”…and finally one who did a video which was so low budget you could hear cars and buses honking in the background. But still, I discovered things I didn’t know about the business just from watching pre-show hypes. (What lies in the actual show God only knows!)
Like just for example, the code headline used for ads designed to attract applicants for this type of employment is “hot girls wanted”…and the advertising venue is usually Craigslist’s “talent” button in the “gigs” section. Interesting. Ghettogaggers used to run ads with me and they used Backpage with the title “video girls wanted.” Not much of a difference when you think about it.
But here’s something that really did surprise me: This “amateur” stuff (the girls might be amateurs but their partners and filming crew clearly are not) actually makes tons of money – all while regular porn does not anymore. True, the “gaggers” guy told me he and his partners were netting over a million bucks per year in streaming revenue. But I wasn’t aware that all sites of the genre were doing that well – and that the industry as a whole was banking wheel-barrel style.
Wait there’s more! Most of this crap comes out of Miami. The hustlers run ads all over the States and buy plane tickets for the girls to fly down whereupon the applicants are all housed together! I don’t know. The girls are at least somewhat aware of what they’re in for but still, it sounds like pimping to me! And I’m kind of a jaded individual!
On the occasions that our paths have crossed, I’ve often asked the obvious questions of these girls: “How much money did they pay you?”…and “What were you thinking when you signed on to do something which was more than likely going to chase you for the rest of your life? It’s complicated enough being an escort on the downlow. But having a video of yourself being degraded all over the Internet? That’s on a whole ‘nother level!”
The show contends that girls get hookwinked into this deal pursuant to their dreams of fame and money. I’m not so sure about that. It’s really just about the money from the perspective of the girls I’ve spoken to. Ya know…broke and such – and looking at adult help ads to make some quick cash without considering the consequences. Video ho’s are looking for fame and fortune. But not the girls who do this crap. They’re just broke – and stupid!
It turned out that they really had no concept about what they were getting themselves into. Again, all they saw was $800 (more or less the going rate) for an afternoon’s work. The reality that just maybe…one of these girls would enter into a relationship with a “normal” guy and then have the whole fucking deal blow up in her face when the fiancee got a glimpse of her “performing” on a nasty exploited teen site eluded them.
Clearly, there is some element of predation in this world. One girl I met who’d done a gagger loop asked me if I could get the guy to pull her off the site once I’d enlightened her. She even offered to pay him back though I seriously doubt she had the money to do that. Anyway, I asked on her behalf and the dude laughed. “Tell her I wouldn’t do it for a hundred grand. She signed the contract. Over and out!”
I’m sure he’d have taken a couple of grand to delete her but the entrepreneur was trying to make a point. And that was he was a pimp of sorts and all powerful in his world. And he was the “nice” guy of the three partners.
Well…if you have any interest in this bull shit…and a subscription to Netflix, you can smoke a joint and check this train wreck out tonight. I think I pretty much know the story except for the Miami part. So I can wait. And even if I don’t? I can still wait.
The entire deal is kind of disgusting if you ask me. Pimps are one thing. Their brand of indoctrination is only visible to a very small percentage of a girl’s world. If she can get out, there’s a chance her history won’t come back to bite her in the ass later.
But this exploited teen shit? It’s exactly what it says it is…in spades. Once you’re in one of these mother fuckers, you can pretty much kiss any “normal’ life goodbye. And all for eight hundred bucks? You’ve got to be one dumb mother fucker to fall for that hustle. But alas…there are some dumb mother fuckers out there. I know. As I mentioned…I’ve met several of them along the way.
And fyi…Quincy’s daughter is pretty cute. But Rashida is not ready for prime time when it comes to interviews. Her responses to Katie Couric’s questions were so riddled with “ya know”s…”like”s…”um”s and “I mean”s that I had to stop watching. It was just too embarrassing.
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!
BONNIE (DREAM GIRL NY) – 646-276-0229
SCARLET (TWINKLE NY) 917-861-6600
CHANEL (HOT LIPS) 646-309-0453
CAT (MY ASIAN GFE) 646-326-9512
MIKI (HIYAKO) 212-679-3681
AMBER (ASIAN PARADISE) 347-256-8137
BUNNY (LOVELY ASIAN) 212-470-0409
JUNE (BLUE SKY ASIAN) 646-342-7253
YOYO (ASIAN FLOWER) 646-639-1195
RED (VIP ASIAN) 646-391-2639
HARU (ROSE HOUSE) 347-624-3305
VIOLETA (ALLURING RUSSIANS) 646-234-2794
NY HEALTH SPA – 212-575-5600
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