Back when I was just a youth, tattoos were the exclusive domain of merchant mariners, navy men, Hell’s Angels or jailbirds. Almost nobody else dared to ink their bodies. But now? It seems like the entire world – with the exception of yours truly – has a fucking tattoo.

This is all well and good until a schmuck like me gets a gig photographing American escorts. That’s when I came to discover that virtually everybody has several tattoos – and they all want them removed from their pictures. Sometimes it’s easy (like if they’re small)…but too often they’re these giant elaborate designs covering relatively massive amounts of skin! And I gotta tell y’all…it’s getting crazy! I’ll remove two tattoos on a girl and then get a frantic call that I need to remove so-and-so’s ink. I’ll inevitably respond that I did and then go back to double check and find out I missed one!

Given the circumstances, you’d think that somebody might pass me a tip to do this extra work (that somebody being she who got the tattoo but is ashamed to let it be seen in her pictures). But that hasn’t happened. I guess I’ve been too easy-going on this subject. Worse…it now seems that all the girls at GC and JEWELS want their pictures taken or retaken. This is spinning out of control.

Well anyway…I guess I should be complimented. A few months back, one of the phone girls passed an e-mail to the boss that my photography sucked and I should be fired. That situation seems to have turned around big time – at least with the photo subjects themselves. Maybe now it’s time to apply a little pressure. The problem is that hanging out with all these girls (many of whom can be judgmental) is already a  gauntlet. One false move and they could all decide I’m an asshole. But still…a little understanding would be in order. After all…I always tip (albeit not a huge amount) when I hit the room even if the girl sucks. It just seems like the right thing to do. I wonder why my photo subjects don’t reciprocate – especially when they have multiple tattoos to be removed.

OK! Complaint department closed. I finished up all the girls at JEWELS (347-595-4518). Here are a few pix. Enjoy.

P.S. To be fair, neither SOLEIL or MIA had any tattoos which required removal.

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Not that it’s of particular interest to anybody…but yesterday I punted the soup kitchen in favor of a different but equally righteous pursuit: Reuniting with a bunch of guys who knew me before I had hair on my balls. But conducting the usual circle jerk wasn’t on the agenda. Rather, a trip to the old hometown to visit our ALS-stricken comrade was the order of the day.

I needn’t tell you that ALS is not a pretty disease. Yet Eddie holds on and though unable to move, speak or breathe on his own, he is still responsive and was clearly appreciative that the old boys from the hood came out for a visit. For 4 full hours, we reveled in all experiences both past and present. And even if Eddie could barely move anything, it was obvious that his mind is still with us. His smile and eyes lit up the room as we all recalled the days when our collective cocks would stand up from a stiff breeze.

Regardless of all the degrees – and even PHD’s – a group of more accomplished adolescent-acting fools would be hard to find. And that’s what reunions are all about. Grownups (I know…I kid myself) get to relive their youth. And in our case, we got to bring a little sunshine to a good old friend and family man.

Spent from all the reminiscing and laughter, each old pal approached Eddie in turn to express his fervent prayers that somehow, we’ll be meeting again and again for many years. For my part, I offered to bring a basketball out on the next visit so we could all shoot some hoops.

Hey, listen…what can I say? Some days it makes you feel good to convene with a hot babe. And some days ya can achieve the same effect just by giving. Hopefully, we made Eddie’s day.  And ya know what? I think we did! Now as usual…before I go…here’s da goils…err I mean…da boyz!

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A lot of people (including my mother) have told me I need therapy at certain points in my life. But I never agreed. I figure I can step outside myself and assess what’s going on. Plus (and as I used to say to mom) “a shrink isn’t gonna give me a hit record or a national bestseller. So what’s the point?”

Whatever…while I was sitting in the tub this morning just soaking up the wet warmth and thinking about anything – and nothing – I came to the realization that I’m currently in the middle of a Pygmalion complex. Check it out! I take great pride in sculpting my photo subjects (many of whom are already very hot) into my own icon of feminine beauty. And when I’m done (and if I think my work is worthy), I’ll often go back to check the picture out a few times just to think to myself “wow! Who wouldn’t want to go in the room with her?” And if all that self-manipulation ain’t a Pygmalion complex, I don’t know what is.

So of course you know I will now trot out my latest hunk of clay-turned goddess to illustrate the point. To be fair…I did almost nothing with these photos (especially the one where she’s lying on the bed) save smoothing, lighting and tattoo removal. The woman was mostly born perfect. There wasn’t that much to do on my part. But before I post the pix…a little foreplay. Why not?

Expanding on yesterday’s post, the occasion of this photo shoot was prompted by the boss at JEWELS (347-595-4518) requesting that I take pictures of HONEY. And as I said yesterday…before it was over, I’d shot five girls –  one of whom I will feature today.

Upon passing through the hallowed portals, I was immediately in the company of the manager and two very heart-stopping girls…neither of whom I recognized. Within seconds, I realized that the white girl was WILLOWbut the identity of the sensational exotic mix eluded me. Finally, I had to ask to which she responded “Billy! It’s me OLIVIA! Have you gone senile?”

Well the truth is….probably so. But still, Olivia had done something with her hair and eyebrows since I last saw her that turned a reasonably good-looking girl into a serious stunner! And it was Pygmalion time! Olivia’s former pix aren’t that great and I was ready to capture her essence and sculpt the woman into a paragon of female perfection. Witnesseth the results! Here’s OLIVIA. Don’t get too close. This is moth to a flame stuff!

And check out the new background I gave SABINA from GC. She’s out of this world – as evidenced by the fact that the girl can actually walk on water.

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For a guy who’s essentially in retirement, it sure didn’t feel like it yesterday! First, I was summoned to take pictures of HONEY down at JEWELS OF NEW YORK (347-595-4518)…and then head uptown to GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723) to do likewise with CRYSTAL. But what started out as two stops to shoot two girls turned into two stops to shoot eight girls! Yikes. In my 18 years of selling adult advertising, I don’t think I ever took photos of that many girls in one day.

What some people don’t realize is the amount of work involved after the pictures are taken. Convincing the girls to emote and pose seductively…and then getting the right shot is one thing. But going home to collate all the pictures…choose the good ones…smooth the girls’ skin…gently add and subtract curves…blur faces…remove tattoos (which I have to do for virtually everybody)…adjust exposures…add borders…and then finally place their names in the shot…is another. It takes considerable effort. And by the time I’d cleaned up 4 of the 8 girls, I was done…as in wasted. It was not time to get frisky with a cutie. I settled in with a pillow and Thursday Night Football.

Rather than haphazardly throw 8 photos up on the blog, I offer the greatest hits. It’s not that all the girls aren’t worthy…it’s just that I was paid to shoot 4 individuals and did the other 4 uncompensated because let’s face it! How do you tell a girl that “the boss only wants to pay for so-and-so’s pix and not yours?” So I simply shot everybody who wanted their photos taken and figured I’d work out the particulars later.

So anyway…today’s eye candy comes in the form of HONEY, SABINA and PENELOPE. Fyi…Honey can be reached at JEWELS…and Sabina and Penelope are at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE. To the descriptions! Honey has a body like a track star…the face of an angel (no kidding, she’s really pretty)…and a haircut which gives her an alluring particularly alien quality. Remember the chick in Avatar – and how hot she was? Honey is kind of like that. And by the way…a very nice girl. She looks intimidating but in actuality has a soft and sweet quality.

Penelope is like Pam Anderson’s twin sister. Everything is booming and the girl is undeniably stunning facially. To look at her, you’d think she’s an American girl. But when I heard her talking very fluent Spanish on her phone, I instantly knew that Penelope brings hispanic heat! And I have to say…she speaks both languages beautifully.

And finally…to SABINA. If you fancy a phat booty, perfect legs and a really pretty face, this is your girl. Sabina hails from Trinidad but has so many nationalities in her family tree she can’t be categorized as anything but truly exotic. If somebody asked me which of the eight girls I’d most like to see in the room, I’d have to answer Sabina. Granted it would be a hard (or difficult) choice…as many of yesterday’s girls caught my eye. But Sabina had the magic. What can I say except “enough already!” I’m out. Here’s da goils.

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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.

While there are a fair number of people who visit this blog every day, I don’t kid myself into thinking that all of them – or even a significant percentage of them – read what I have to say. And I seriously doubt that exclusive group has very many female members. Yet yesterday while I was over at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE, the legendary BRANDY (who I hadn’t seen for a while) made a point of approaching me to say “I really liked what you wrote today.”

The truth is that entry was far from my best. It was a tad disjointed – and I wasn’t satisfied with the pace of the piece either when I reread it the next morning. (Writers – or wannabe writers – always think what they just wrote is a work of true genius. It’s not until you step away and then come back that you discover whether your work was worthy of posting – even on a bull shit blog like this.)

Regardless of the flaws (which as I’ve said, were many), what I’d written about escorts and their boyfriends spoke to Brandy in a way that a Buddy Guy guitar solo speaks to Eric Clapton. It doesn’t have to be technically perfect. The point is to give somebody something he or she can feel. And the fact that a sixty-something guy wrote something that spoke to a twenty-something girl is about all the validation I can handle. I’m about to bust with pride – and of course, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with Brandy. Next to telling me “hey, Dollar! How’s that magic wand between your legs?”…her complimentary review of my random thought put to paper (so to speak) is about as good as it gets for a schmuck like me! I wasn’t sure if “the girls” would get offended by that entry when I posted it. And I was most gratified to find out that at least one thinks I know what I’m talking about. Go figure!

OK! Enough of that. Let me clean the jizz off my belly and move on to this Ray Rice situation because in a way, Rice’s relationship with his wife is emblematic of some of the dysfunction I outlined yesterday. Ya know…everybody is up in arms having discovered that the NFL league office lied telling the world they’d never seen that tape from the interior of the elevator. But I don’t think that’s the story here.

The real issue is that after getting knocked out by Rice, the woman went on to marry the asshole. I got news honey. The next time you tell him about some dude who has a bigger dick than his, he’s gonna knock you out again! And now that he’s on edge…without a career…and all that money? Things are only gonna get worse.

To the girls who are reading this…imagine marrying a star football player/multi-millionaire knowing that he’s violent and likely to strike you again only to have that guy get busted down to buck private and relieved of all his pay at the same time! Ya think things are gonna get better now? Chances are Rice is going to end up working on a loading dock somewhere. Talk about a nightmare! Get out now, honey before he kills you!

This story isn’t about the criminal tendencies demonstrated by too many NFL players (although that is a story). It’s about battered woman syndrome. And Rice’s wife is the poster girl. How in the world can you stay with a guy who knocked you out and then dragged you out of the elevator like a fucking rag doll? Call me crazy…but if I’m a chick, I wait till he’s fast asleep and then cut his fucking dick off. See how ya like that, Buster Brown?

And then ESPN has the temerity to ask Ray Lewis what he thinks! Ray Lewis…the guy who got off on a murder charge after two guys were left dead when Ray and his crew got into it with some dudes at a club! Yeah, let’s hear what that guy has to say!

The whole deal is a horrible embarrassment on  a lot of fronts for sure. But I still can’t get over this girl marrying Rice after that incident in the elevator. It just boggles my mind.

Call me crazy…or jaded…or whatever! But when I listen to escorts talk about their boyfriends, I take a dim view of the entire subject. It’s not that I think they’re bull shitting and in reality, they don’t have boyfriends…it’s just that I can’t see how any escort can have a functional relationship under the circumstances.

I figure you can break escorts’ boyfriends down into one of three categories. They’re either pimps, cuckolds or morons. Allow me to elaborate. The pimp is a guy who knows how his girl is making a living and doesn’t give a shit. The cuckold similarly knows about her other life but hangs on because he simply can’t live without the girl. And the moron is too stupid to know. Regardless, all three are not viable in the functional mainstream world.

To category 1: the pimp. If you’re an escort and your guy doesn’t care, he doesn’t love you pure and simple. Escorts are well aware of this but at least are secure in the knowledge that they won’t have to lie 1000 times a day to keep the charade going…while they still get the intimacy they require. Too often, the relationship will turn to her supporting the guy financially in exchange for some baby-sitting duties. I think we can all agree. Not a functional situation for the most part.

Category 2: the cuckold. This guy has a job and is almost normal – with the exception that he accepts the arrangement just to be in her company. One problem! Girls want a man with a spine and a pair of balls…and when it comes down to the bottom line, they would rather have a guy who makes them tingle than some dude with whom they sleepwalk through the sex act. That or fantasize about somebody else while they’re making love (or whatever) to the cuckold. Not a good way to cohabitate.

Because of the problems with the first two categories, many escorts fall into a trap with category 3. And that trap is living a constant lie…and bull shitting their significant others literally dozens of times a day to support the original lie. Let’s face it. What kind of way is that to live? Hardly a basis for a functional relationship. This third category also accounts for why so many escorts are such good liars. They get so much practice it becomes second nature.

The other day I was speaking with the owner of Hiyako and asked her if she’d ever worked in the room –  to which she responded in the negative – and went on to elaborate that she always tells the girls that having a boyfriend while being an escort is a bad idea. Better to work for a few years…save your money…and then open some kind of business with your saved money. This is the Korean way. Members of their culture are entrepreneurial…and the girls are always dreaming about opening their own businesses…be it nails, hair or even eyelashes. And it’s not just a pipe dream. I’ve seen numerous Koreans leave the escort grind in favor of businesses along the lines of the aforementioned.

I do remember one exception to these three categories. She was (or is) an escort who worked 24/7 and turned her regulars into boyfriends – of a sort. In fact, she had some feelings for them…but not enough to upset her operation. And the woman actually derived some satisfaction from those relationships – even as she earned north of $10,000 per week! But the last time I spoke to her she told me that her phone was tapped! And then…I never heard from her again – or saw another ad on any board in the metropolitan area. So who knows what happened with that?

Anyway…my point is that escorts should stay away from having boyfriends. It just makes for problems of a grossly dysfunctional nature. I know the girls want to feel intimacy with somebody! And I say turn to another escort for that! It’s the best way. And it is part of the equation in their netherworld. Just as many girls have girlfriends as boyfriends. And I’ve seen some remarkably functional relationships with those couples. I guess it’s that same sex exclusivity that trumps all. I’m no expert at all of this mind you – and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some escort right now marveling at how full of crap I am – and how I don’t know what I’m talking about. But my opinion is my opinion and this is what I’ve observed for almost 2 decades.

Moving on…TWINKLE (917-861-6600) would like everybody to know they have a new girl named LEXY. And of course….she’s sexy! Here’s her pic.

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Well…I was going to write about escorts and their boyfriends but once again, my meaningful (yeah, right) observations have been pre-empted by more meaningful commercials. It’s the nature of the beast. What can I say?

To start…you’ll notice the absence of ASIAN BARBIE DOLLS. Those chicks were a total nightmare. Talk about two girls who really knew how to fuck everything up! They were the ones. It was soooo bad that I didn’t even call them about renewing. Migraine headaches can come in a cute package. And they were proof of the pudding.

Next…I got a text from JOLIE of SECRET DIARY (917-531-1867) fame. She’ll be back soon…though she didn’t quite indicate when.

Moving on…since the SOMAD disaster and me terminating my relationships with Backpage and the Village Rag, I only visit my buddies on a monthly basis and thus, don’t get to see the girls like I used to. But yesterday, I hung with the boss at TWINKLE (917-861-6600) and got a gander at CHERRY and AMY. And I gotta tell y’all..those girls are extremely cute! Fo’ real! The boss tells me how wonderful they are with the customers and all that. What else is she supposed to say? But I could tell by their body language and attitude that they’re the real deal…and Korean style. They’re not like the hot chegros I used to know. They’re much sweeter and nicer…but still with the goods!

OK! Enough of my current unrequited crushes. We arrive at GOLDEN TIME NYC (917-929-4044). Back in the day (horrible expression, I know), I used to brainstorm the names of the houses for my clients. But all that is in the past and they now do it for themselves. Golden Time connotes an activity I’m definitely not a fan of for sure. But Koreans don’t know what that means in the dungeon world. Regardless…the Golden Time girls are in that $1200/ounce category – but only charging the usual $200/hour. Go check them out and of course…tell ‘em where you heard about them. And here is their roster: Enjoy!

And over at HIYAKO SPA (212-779-3681), there’s a naturally busty new girl named MONA looking to meet up with some hot guys. Personally, I still have the hots for TAMI (what else is new?) but can’t deny that Mona’s looking good herself!

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Anybody remember the original BLUE SKY from a few years back? Well…if you don’t, it doesn’t really matter as the new Blue Sky has none of the girls from the old Blue Sky. But they are just a block away from the old one.

Funny story about the old place: One day I showed up to collect for their Voice ad and ran into a few guys heaving around all the fake designer bags I knew were distributed from the floor below. Every time I went to the old Blue Sky I’d always see a bunch of African street vendors on the first floor so it was pretty obvious what was going on.

Anyway….I thought it was peculiar that the guys were throwing all that merchandise around so carelessly until I saw a badge around one of their necks. Oops! They wuz cops busting the counterfeiters! Duh! I high-tailed it out of there before they asked me any questions (like was I the head counterfeiter)?!?!

But that was the old Blue Sky. Why they chose that building in which to set up their operation only they could  tell you!

Whatever…the new BLUE SKY has 3 cute girls waiting for some guys to show up and say “treat me right, honey! I called from $ Bill!” You get the idea. And here they are. I only met HANA. She’s a very cute spinner. And she fed me those tiny little Korean western omelettes they serve cold. Yum!

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Make no mistake about it. I’m not a big fan of drug addicts. Heroin heads are nod-off nudnicks. Coke fiends are wired blabbermouths who babble on and on about nothing all while thinking their thoughts rival those of Plato and Socrates. Weed heads lay about and do nothing all day observing their environment with pithy expressions the likes of “far out, man…far fucking out!” And drunks either lie in the street in puddles of their own vomit or start fights over nothing. It’s a sad state of affairs all around. But today, I especially hate pill fucking poppers.

And there’s a good reason for that. I haven’t mentioned it for a while but the bike accident which caused my fractured vertebrae has been a life-changer. Eight weeks later, I’m still in considerable pain from the event. It’s impossible for me to sleep more than 2 hours at a time and I dream like crazy which I assume is my body’s way of keeping me asleep for a little longer before it must awaken from the pain.

Now to the point: In the 2 months since the accident, I have been prescribed a grand total of 20 Vicodins. And of the smallest variety at that. Six weeks into the ordeal, I finally took two of the 20 and discovered that finally, something gave me relief. Ibuprofen, acetaminphen, and tramadol – all of which had been prescribed for me were and are worthless.

Finally, after multiple visits to Beth Israel requesting referrals within an HMO system which leaves a lot to be desired (and that’s being kind), I have a pain management specialist appointment on Wednesday from which I’m quite sure I’ll get the appropriate prescription. But why did it take almost 9 weeks when the x-rays show I have a fractured L3? Answer: Because of all the pill popping, Vicodin-selling shitheads in the world today. There are so many assholes addicted to this stuff – and selling it – that doctors are extremely circumspect when prescribing it. And that leaves guys like me whose accident was caused by garbage/old whisky bottles strewn on a ramp over the East River Drive in the lurch. It hardly seems fair.

Anyway…fuck pill poppers. The ones I’ve known were good-for-nothing except two hour blow jobs. And even with that, I eventually dumped them – which ought to tell you something right there. If you’re willing (or even anxious) to administer to me orally for two straight hours and I still dump you, you’ve got to be one helluva human wasteland. Enough said.

Moving on…my old friend YOYO at ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) has an astonishing new photo she’d like you all to check out.  And I have to compliment whoever is taking these Korean girls’ pix. The photography is nearly Playboy-quality. And this one is proof of the pudding. Here’s Yoyo!

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imgresFor literally the first time in my life, I sat down with a 250 page book a couple of days ago…and didn’t stop reading until I finished the entire text. The work was that hypnotic I simply couldn’t put it down until I was done. And the name of this work of art? TRAFFICKED, by SOPHIE HAYES, the story of a twenty something upper middle class British girl who travelled to Italy for a vacation with a longtime friend only to discover that for 4 years, he’d been grooming her for when the moment arrived!

That moment was an incident during which her friend, an Albanian drug dealer, jettisoned $100,000 worth of drugs while being followed by the police. His supplier wanted to be paid…and this scum bag decided that he would “traffic” Sophie on Italy’s street corners to make the payment! As soon as he got her alone in the hotel room after her arrival, the guy essentially beat the crap out of the naive lady…told her exactly what she would be doing from that point on…and threatened harm to her two little brothers if she didn’t obey.

Personally, I don’t care how bad a dude the guy was (and he was a bad dude), I’d run away at the first possible moment (it wouldn’t have been that difficult). But for whatever reason, she didn’t and for 6 months endured a life so horrific it’s almost beyond comprehension.

Finally, after checking into the hospital from being so run down by her “trafficker,” Sophie called her mother and found freedom. But so freaked out by her experience – and scared of her “trafficker” was she – Sophie wouldn’t press charges – a fact which is apparently common in situations like these.

As incredible a read as this book surely is, I couldn’t help but think about its title – and just how misleading it is. This girl was not trafficked…she was pimped! And I don’t get it. Is “trafficking” the new euphemism for “pimped?”

As I said a couple of days ago, pimps put their girls on the corner in exchange for which they provide room, board, attire and hopefully, some sort of reward for the girl’s good work. Trafficking on the other hand is (at least in the mind of the public) the act of moving women internationally with the ruse they will be earning money in some way besides the obvious only to discover that they’re far from home without their passports and at the mercy of their traffickers. So why would such a momentous work of art (this book is extremely well-written and powerful) be mislabeled? Shouldn’t the title have been “Pimped?”

People not in the business get confused about all this. Pimping? Trafficking? It all sounds bad to them. It seems that clarifying the subject and differentiating between the two functions would be appropriate in the interest of educating the public whose tax money is being spent to capture these purveyors. Yet Sophie’s Publisher muddies the waters by mislabeling what actually happened to her in a best-seller that sold big numbers in England.

Oh well…what the hell! Maybe it doesn’t matter that nobody understands. Sometimes, I’m not sure that even law enforcement does.

And now to rap this up, I’m going to say something insensitive. Sophie’s problem was being attracted to Albanians – and hanging out at dance clubs. Albanians are known for their ruthless behavior. And Sophie had not one….but two Albanian “boyfriends” – both of whom she met carousing and getting drunk at dance clubs, an activity which I’ve cited as a poor method to find a mate. Wanna find trouble? Date an Albanian you meet at a dance club while you’re drinking. Now to insensitive statement #2: I’ll never understand why somebody in her horrible position wouldn’t run the first chance she got regardless of the threats. Just call home and tell the folks what happened! And then call the police. That’s what I would do. I’m sure of it! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you submit to that life regardless of the threats?

Anyway…the book is excellent. It really informs the reader as to how pimps work their brand of magic on defenseless victims. Such a sad story – and one that will keep you turning the pages until finally, somebody beats the crap out of this guy and frees the girl! Unfortunately, it doesn’t actually happen that way. Mostly, the predator gets away with his crime. But at least there’s some closure at the end when Sophie returns to her former life – even if Schmucko only does 6 months in the slam – and not for what he did to her – but for his involvement in some shooting incident which occurred previous to Sophie getting pimped within an inch of her life. This is a real life story. If it were made into a movie, you know that at some point, the Producer would change the plot and have the pimp lying in a pool of his own blood. But this book is factual – and so the ending isn’t that satisfying. What are ya gonna do?

This is so stupid! Last night, there was an episode of Two and a Half Men on TV in which Charlie meets up with an old girlfriend – only to discover she’s had a female to male sex change. Now that would seem like an almost completely contrived and preposterous scenario – if only I hadn’t experienced the same surreality myself in real life. And I have the adult advertising business to thank.

Once upon a time, I had an Action Magazine account named “Men’s Club,” a halfway decent (though nothing to write home about) Upper East Side incall. Though I liked the manager…the boss was a serious douchebag…the kind of coercive mother fucker who fell under the classification of “pimp” as far as I was concerned. She was once quoted…”Grab that bitch by the hair and tell her to do what the client wants”….and after closing and going to Arizona with her girlfriend…she (allegedly) ran the clients’ credit cards to the tune of over a million bucks and told the guys if they charged back she’d call their wives. Yup! Major reprobate!

Fast forward maybe 4 years after she mercifully fell off my list of the elite, when I get a call from a guy named Anthony. He’s seen my magazine and wants to advertise. So I hit him up with the old “Anyplace you want to advertise, I got ya covered. Press? Voice? NY-Exotics? You can do it all with me at competitive rates!”

Well…we start gossiping and sooner than later, homey brags that he owned a successful incall 4 years before by the name of (drum roll) “Men’s Club.” Really? Now the cracker’s busted because I know that nasty dyke Ali was the boss – and not some dude named Anthony. Nice try, hustler!

And I actually called him on his bull shit…”Ya know, Men’s Club was my Action Magazine client…and I know for sure that a woman who called herself Ali owned that place!” There came a pregnant moment…and then the surreal and contextual response.

“Billy! Is that you?” she queried. “Yup! This is Billy from Action. Who are you?” I waited for an explanation. “Uh, Billy! There’s been a change,” said she. Uh oh! In the 4 years since I’d seen this monstrous bull dagger…guess what! She became Anthony! 

So…I sold her a couple of ads if for no other reason than to throw an eye on the change and then she once again mercifully disappeared – but not before demonstrating unequivocally that regardless of gender, he or she was still a scum bag/belle. I know there’s a lesson in there somewhere. It just escapes me currently.

imgresAs I’ve noted before, pimps are prevalent in all strata of society. It’s only those individuals who traffic women (or men) and take all the money earned from their chattel selling sex who wear the ugly moniker.

Well anyway…I was doing my laundry at a laundromat out on the boulevard yesterday (yes, my building has machines in the basement but they are in no way equal to the task of cleaning a bachelor’s clothing) and as I waited for my clothes to dry, began reading last week’s feature in the Voice about the dangers and hypocrisy involved in the country’s national pastime – football.

Before I begin, I’d like to say that NFL football is far and away my favorite sport to watch. It has aggression, violence, ballet, drama, competition and a lot of other things all rolled into one exceptional package. But watch college football? No fucking way…unless I hear that the pimps who run that mess will be strung up during halftime! Wait a minute! Am I really calling the guys who run collegiate sport pimps? Am I crazy? Check it out!

In the subculture’s view, a pimp is a guy or girl who puts his “employee” out on “the stroll” (so to speak) and in exchange for keeping all the money he or she earns, will provide room, board, bling, hair-do’s, weed, protection from unruly customers and essentially everything his or her whore needs to keep the revenue flowing. That’s the way a pimp works.

Now let’s take a look at the people who run college football programs. On the face of it, the college offers a free education to exceptional football players to compensate them for generating billions of dollars in revenue from television rights, alumni contributions and ticket prices. But in fact, the monetary value of that education is dwarfed by the amount of money the athletes bring to the university. In a free-market collective bargaining scenario, their compensation would be 10 – or even 100 times higher. But because the entire ruse falls under the umbrella of collegiate sports, the pimps get to keep almost all of the money!

Not only that…the great majority of these players on scholarship don’t get an education…unless you consider training in how to maim your opponent part of a liberal arts program. If you think that a Division I football player on scholarship graduates from that college with any skills with which to earn a living in the mainstream world, you’re kidding yourself.

Anybody remember Dexter Manley, a Washington Redskin pro bowler with a degree from Oklahoma State University who admitted after his playing days were over that he couldn’t read or write? Big universities with football programs that generate millions of dollars couldn’t give a shit if their players – especially their stars – get an education. Keeping them eligible with basket weaving courses is paramount. Preparing them for a world after football is not!

Worse is the reality that playing football is a very dangerous proposition. Once upon a time, it was the prevailing opinion that players might have a problem later in life with arthritic joints caused by multiple breaks, tears, separations, dislocations and the like. But now we’ve been made aware of a whole new arena of injuries – namely head trauma – which can cause dementia, memory loss, senility, and at its worst ALS!

So ya think fucking and sucking for a pimp is a bad deal? Try getting your brains bashed in on a collegiate football field in exchange for room and board! Whores can use a condom to prevent disease. But there’s no helmet currently available to the football player which will prevent concussions – which are inevitable when you play football.

You may ask why I watch pro football and not college ball. What’s the difference? Here it is: Professional football players are highly compensated for their work. They know the risks but throw the dice in exchange for fame, glory and a huge hunk of cash. Hopefully, they’ll escape with a portion of their bodies and minds when it’s all over. But a college player? Now that’s a trafficked and pimped individual if ever I’ve seen one. He puts his well-being – and even life – on the line in exchange for what? The hope that after 4 years of getting his body brutalized for zero monetary compensation that he’ll be good enough to make the pros and the big bucks 4 years down the road. And all the while, the big pimp gets over on them earning millions for himself and the school he represents with that horse shit fantasy that after those 4 years of indentured servitude, the athlete may actually make the pros and get a shot at earning his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Pretty sorry if you ask me! I’ll tell y’all…it’s atrocious what these pimps get away with. Just for example, whenever one of the servants gets maimed, does the pimp go to jail? Is he even prosecuted? Hell, no! One of his players could drop dead from heat exhaustion and still…nothing! Not a mother fucking thing! Somebody pays a little lip service about protecting the players while the pimp continues earning truckloads of cash as he continues to traffic those who are still standing.

In truth, the guys who run away with all the money are about as likely to be prosecuted as the Wall Street assholes who caused the financial meltdown. That’s America. Some pimps go to prison and some just don’t. But make no mistake about it. The guys and schools who profit handsomely from collegiate football are pimps – and just as egregious as the Cadillac-driving, velvet hat-wearing guys who put girls out on the corner. Maybe even more so!

College football is an embarrassment. Let’s face reality. It’s a de facto minor league for the NFL. And its players should be compensated as such. And considering the dangers involved and the money generated, they should be compensated at a very high level!

 

Hanging with the girls at an incall is rarely a test for your knowledge of history, current events, foreign policy or the inner workings of the American political machine. Which is to say…this ain’t no Bill Maher. That is..until you strike up a conversation with OLIVIA from JONY (347-595-4518).

So there I was…sitting with ABBY, SOLEIL and OLIVIA…just talking the usual stuff about guys who like to dress up in diapers – or even swaddle the girls like they’re infants – when somehow, the conversation turned to the current police killings of two unarmed black men and then the holocaust (of all things). Olivia, who is the perfect equal mix of black and white, has (or had – not sure which) a Polish grandmother who told her tales of that incomprehensible period in time when Hitler exterminated 15 million people for the crime of not being Aryan.

“Tell me the citizens who lived around Dachau didn’t know what was going on” (a claim many German people made after discovering what was really happening in Germany’s most egregious concentration camp). “They saw the trains. There was never any food on them! What did they think?”…Olivia went on with a passion. It seems her grandmother (who was not a jew) took it upon herself to save as many souls as possible, herself recognizing the reality of what those camps really were if nobody else did!

Right in the middle of her rant, in came a guy requesting her company. And that was that! Olivia excused herself and then as if we had just met at a business meeting, extended her wonderously manicured and very beautiful hand to shake mine with the perfect amount of authority.”It was really good talking to you,” said she before exiting to hit the assembly line. Color me impressed. Five minutes of conversation with an escort that didn’t include near misses with the police or the strange primal habits of the male homo sapien. Who’d a thunk?

I might also add that Olivia is pretty easy on the eyes. She has beautiful hands (as I said), and legs…and a pretty and strong-featured face topped with a shock of long, straight and what looks like all natural hair (though I’m not sure). I’ll have to circle back and check her out again. Girls who look good in this business are a dime a dozen. But escorts who can talk about stuff beyond their insulated realm? Not a dime a dozen. That’s for sure.

Moving on…my old pal (not really…just sayin’ that) COOKIE has now landed at ASIAN MODELS (347-256-7143). Along with SARAH and ALISHA, the petit treat (Cookie) and friends make for a nice lineup there in the heart of Koreatown where just a few yards away, a guy has a choice of dozens of restaurants where he can sample a fare of a different sort (as in food versus beautiful women).

Guys have been writing in and asking “where’s JOLIE? (of SECRET DIARY fame – 917-531-1867). “Is she coming back?” I assure you the Korean wonderwoman will be returning shortly. Just a little summer vacation.

And finally…to the demise of that certain clone site which not-so-mysteriously resembled BEST GFE.  A  couple of guys have been commenting and/or asking. Apparently, karma caught up with The Great Imitator. The site was a bust and he tanked it. Alternatively, our anti-hero has started something new. Ya gotta give the devil his due (I call him the devil because of that atrocious trident thing). He’ll keep trying and trying until he either succeeds – or ends up like his ill-fated husband. Insiders in-the-know understand what I just said.

Well….that’s about it for today. But before I go…here’s a pic of Cookie and two of Olivia for your edification.

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I received a call yesterday from a familiar number. Usually, I dodge this individual, but she’d phoned me a few times at inopportune moments so I answered hoping to stem the tide: “What’s up? Is there an emergency?” I asked knowing there wasn’t. “No. I just wanted to see how you were,” came her response. Just what I suspected.

I haven’t run an ad for this woman in almost 2 years. While we did have some sexual interaction many years ago, it was never about anything but a little idle play. And that was on both of our parts. I eased her off the phone without hurting her feelings – hopefully. A few hours later, my Florida buddy called and asked “how’s your girlfriend Lisa?” (name changed). It was a perfect opportunity to vent.

“Have you ever had a customer who stopped seeing you after a while but continued to call foolishly thinking you wanted to talk to him even though there was no more money forthcoming? That’s what this girl is to me!” She fully understood. Ms. Florida knows Lisa (through me) and is well aware of just how banal a conversation with her generally is. So…message to Lisa (who can’t read so she won’t be offended): You can stop calling me. I don’t hate you or anything like that. But you were a customer. And you aren’t anymore. Just a little misunderstanding, I guess.

The other day I was visiting a popular incall. Apparently, one of the girls had read the entry about me climbing Bear Mountain and smoking a bowl at the top and she appeared impressed. “Billy! If I’d known you smoke weed, maybe our relationship would have gone differently,” said she when I emerged from the room after spending time with one of the other girls.

Now this woman has a sensational body…I have to admit. And I’m fairly certain she expected me to melt at the very thought that we have a “relationship.” After all, I’m just a schmuck of a certain age to her. But that wasn’t my response at all. To the best of my recollection, I answered “oh, please! Since when do we have a relationship?” Talk about presumption! Yet another little misunderstanding. Where do these girls get off thinking they’re anything more to me than I am to them? Talk about inflated egos!

To keep it real…the problem lies in all the adulation attractive escorts receive from their sycophants. They think that all men were born to worship at their feet – except the thugs who fuck them on Monday – and then fuck their best friend the next day.

But really…I like both of these girls well enough. But on a very limited basis. Forty five minutes every month or so doesn’t comprise a relationship. And just because I ran ads for you once upon a time doesn’t mean we’re lifelong friends. Just wanted to clear up that little misunderstanding.

I was over at VIP ASIAN (646-391-2639) yesterday talking to their manager when out from the “girls only” area walked a vision in K-POP. Ya know, a cute and slinky girl with blonde highlights just like the cuties in that bubble gum group SISTAR. So the phone girl introduced us: “Billy! This is LUCY! She very popular. Everybody love her.” I gave the girl a visual once over and couldn’t help but observe “she looks like a K-pop Sistar!”

Wanna see a K-girl light up like a Christmas tree? Just tell her she looks like a Sistar. Lucy was all smiles and giggles. Too bad I wasn’t there for a session with her. That comment would have gotten the party started on a high note – and big time.

Well anyway…I checked out my own site to discover that Lucy wasn’t here! The substitute phone girl who busted me for not making timely changes (it might help if you called my number – and not one from over a year ago) had apparently not texted me the correct lineup a few days ago. Hmm! Go figure.

Whatever…I checked their site and did see Lucy…and here she is!

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Almost everybody has a role model he or she looks up to. For me, it could be Mickey Mantle…or Eric Clapton. And in truth, both were. But little known to anybody but a few cab drivers and me was a role model of a different sort.

His name was Jose and he was a friendly-enough Puerto Rican dude I met at “shape-up” (that’s the period of time you stand around a taxi garage with all the other societal misfits and wait for the boss to dispatch you a cab) down at Victor’s halfway house for criminally insane taxi drivers.

Jose was a big Mets fan. He lived in the projects on the Lower East Side and his idea of the perfect day was to punt cab driving…tune in to a Mets game…and drink a case of Budweiser while watching. A case? Holy cow! (I know…wrong team!) The dude was like 5′ 6″ tall and maybe all of 150 lbs.

Just to make sure, I had to ask him to clarify when he made that statement. “Jose! A case? You mean 24 beers?” Matter-of-factly, he responded “Yup! 24! Last time I checked that’s how many beers are in a case.”

I never actually sat down with him to watch a full Mets game and see if he could really drink 288 ounces of beer in 3 hours. But I had no reason to doubt him and from that day on, Jose became my role model. The next night, I decided I’d push the envelope to see if I could add a few cans to my consumption in the hopes that eventually, I could condition myself to meet his lofty bar. But just like I knew I’d never be able to high-jump 7′ or hit a baseball 500 feet, I gave up on the aspiration to down 24 beers during one single baseball game and alternatively adopted Jose as my new role model.

Yes, Clapton can play the blues…and the Mick could hit the ball 500 feet! But I bet neither of them could drink 24 beers in 3 hours! But then again, Mantle WAS a serious drinker. Maybe he could. Regardless, I anointed Jose my role model because devoted beer drinker and then blow job receiver that I am (in that order), I know I could never equal Jose’s accomplishments. And that’s what role models are about. You know you can never equal them. You just try to come close. That’s the reality and sadness therein.

Lately when I watch late night talk shows, I’ve come to notice that they’re often repeats. Too often, actually. So I figure what the hell! Me, too! If it’s good enough for Dave and Jimmy(s), it’s good enough for me. Flimsy excuse, I know. But it’s Labor Day weekend and I’ll already be laboring free-of-charge down at the soup kitchen…so I feel entitled. Anyway…the reason this entry is named “Requiem For a heavyweight” is simple: The guy about whom I wrote this died a few years ago. May he rest in peace.

While it’s obvious I know many girls and owners in the escort/massage business, it’s not so obvious that I know almost none of the consumers who support this trade. And the truth is up until fairly recently, I didn’t know any! But that changed when I observed that the best looking Asian girls on my list were submitting photos all of which came from the same source – and I was curious about that source.

So I asked one of the girls “Who is so-and-so?” And it turned out to be the big client who was cherry picking the most attractive Asian girls in New York and taking them on trips to Hawaii to frolic in the sun and sand. One day while one of my buddies was in his presence, she put him on the phone to talk about the digitized formatting of her photos thus deviriginizing me (so to speak.) And now I know what the American girls used to call a “big willy” – a guy who spends inordinate amounts of cash in this business.

David (fake name) is a sixty-something year old guy…no children and never married…a retiree with a PHD…and a healthy appetite for all things Asian! He clearly has a pension and what not to provide for his “golden” years and has opted to live out his fantasies in the presence of beautiful women…and eating the best food at the best restaurants. His health isn’t that fabulous and he should really be eating rabbit food to control his weight and blood pressure. Instead, he dines like Al Goldstein used to. Food is the second love of his life and he has no intention of adjusting his diet in deference to his health. He only asks that he go quietly in his sleep while he’s having the time of his life.

Right now, he has monopolized the time of one of the Korean community’s most popular girls…and the girl has confided in me that she actually has feelings for him (which I’m not really sure I believe). Regardless, David lives comfortably (though not aristocratically) in his Village apartment living “la vida loca” with no signs of letting up anytime soon.

Me? I don’t live “la vida loca.” I live “la vida mala.” Alas..my talents are unrecognized and my thirst for the opposite sex unrequited. But there’s hope for me yet. As Yogi used to say…”It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.” And unless I get flattened by a truck riding my bike, she probably won’t be around for a while. I still got a shot!

Well…if I thought the girls on the sidebar gave two shits about what I write on this blog (which I actually didn’t), all doubt was removed today. It’s the old deal with everybody wanting their commercial on top. (What else is new?) So anyway…on to business. ASIAN FLOWER (646-639-1195) is currently celebrating the return of RUBY (I love her picture)…the arrival of CANDY (formerly of VIP ASIAN)…and CHERRY’S new photos (which are astounding).  And without further ado…here they are!

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Well…enough of the flashback (previous entry from early this morning). I just got a bunch of text messages from VIP ASIAN (formerly Golden Asian – 646-391-2639) about their new additions. For a while there, the house was going under two names (for what reason I don’t know)…but they now want the world to know they are VIP ASIAN only – to avoid confusion. And here are the updates to their staff.

JUNE, KELLY and GUCCI are all available for consultation. I can’t remember exactly where they were or when in the past but I do know that I already had all their pictures in my files. Whatever…all are A-list members as this place is very popular and wouldn’t consider offering anything but the best to all us K-POP lovers.

And now as an apropos reminder…here’s da goils!

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And finally…if you think this SISTAR K-POP thing is manufactured horse shit, check out their unplugged live version of “Touch My Body.”  As angelic as the girls’ voices surely are…what really blew me away is their guitar player. What the fuck?!?!

Today I offer an old repeat. It’s cab-driving stuff. I know there are at least 2 people out there who like this shit!

As Andy Warhol once said…”In the future…everybody will get their 15 minutes of fame.” And he was right. You Tube has afforded everybody that opportunity. But not for me or some dozen or so of my cab-driving colleagues. Ours came from a different source.

I was a night shift type of guy. I couldn’t stand daytime traffic in the city! So my shift was 5 PM – 5 AM. Ripping through the streets of the Big Apple looking for a fare after 1 AM on a weeknight was mostly an exercise in futility. Idling in front of a club or bar was better – and easier on the nerves. The science to this pursuit involved finding a bar that most cabbies didn’t know about – and whose patrons took long rides. Like when that big tranny suckhole Edelweiss broke at 4 AM…there were lots of she male whores going to Queens or Brooklyn. Or Flashdancers in front of the Ed Sullivan Theater. Those skanks took long rides as well.

But I didn’t normally work Edelweiss or Flashdancers, because I knew a place right on my block that offered a steady stream of Upper East Siders who would come downtown to be hip, but in actuality end up in an East Village bar filled with their neighbors from uptown. I mean…what’s the point? But I didn’t give a crap about that. All I knew was virtually every ride out of the 10th Street Lounge was heading 80 blocks north. And that definitely worked for me!

Well anyway…one night I got a guy from that very spot…who sure enough…was going to 89th and York. His name was Mark…and he worked at MTV, which also owned Nick At Nite, a station poised to embark on a publicity campaign to launch the premier of the old “Taxi” reruns on the network. And he wanted to know if there was a taxi publication in which the corporation could run a big, splashy ad. Given that I sold ads and wrote for the premier taxi rag in the city, he had clearly approached the right guy. So we exchanged numbers and thus began the mini saga.

Nick At Nite decided that the ad would offer free car washes for any cab driver who reported to the Houston Street Car Wash on a certain date, which I believe they called New York City Taxi Driver Appreciation Day. They would also run open auditions for a Nick at Nite Taxi Chorus, and have said taxi choir perform at the event.

Pretty ingenious if you ask me. Whatever…the open call was also advertised in the paper to any driver who wanted to join. If you could carry a tune…and produce a current hack license, you were in! And the “singers” would be paid to rehearse and perform. Back at the office, Crawford was tone deaf…so he didn’t even audition. But Mikey and I weren’t…and we made the cut. The audition tune? “New York, New York!”…with the sheet music to sight read from. A total snap!

The funny thing was…Nick At Nite hired an excellent Broadway piano player and choreographer to whip us into shape.And those guys were no pikers. They were the real deal. I felt sorry for the frustrated duo – what with having the job of making a rag-tag bunch of hacks sound like anything. But to everybody’s amazement, within a few rehearsals, we weren’t half bad.

Taxi Driver Appreciation Day rolled around and go figure…hundreds of cabs lined up at the Houston Street Car Wash for their freebe! The Nick people were so scared before the event that they almost went out to find and pay 50 cabbies to show up – just in case. But their apprehension was not well-founded. Offer a New York City cab driver some kind of freebe – and he’ll be there!

Well anyway…we donned these ridiculous yellow robes (see the picture) with checkered scarves or whatever, and sang our hearts out for the appreciative crowd. End of story – or so I thought! That night Crawford called to say “Hey! I was pounding a few brews down at the Blarney when the Channel 4 News came on and you and Mikey were singing. Nice outfit by the way!!”

And then the next day, Nick At Nite called the office to say they were negotiating for the entire chorus to sing on the Letterman Show. But right there was when the 15 minutes ended. Mikey hit the guy up for AFTRA scales on behalf of everybody in the chorus. And that would mean a hefty payment from CBS. I admonished my starstruck diva of an employer that maybe his overture would be the deal breaker that would kill the opportunity…and I was dead right! We never heard from the Nick people again, though we did get our checks for $325 a week or two later. Not bad! Paid and paraded on the 6 o’clock news? If that doesn’t qualify as my 15 minutes of fame, I don’t know what does.

But that wasn’t quite the end of the story. A couple of months later, the Editor of SCREW MAGAZINE called me up. “Hey, Billy! I was waiting for ‘Welcome Back Kotter’ to come on the television tonight and I saw you and that asshole you work for singing some stupid song! What the fuck was that?!?!” Ah! Residuals! They’re the best! Pardon me while I bask in the glow!

The other day I was reviewing the owners of the places whose girls adorn the sidebar of this blog to somebody outside the business. After maybe half a dozen descriptions, he commented “isn’t there anybody you don’t like on this blog?”…as if to say “you’re juicing these girls up for my edification. Somebody in this mix has to be a dick” (or a cunt).

The fact is that not only do I not accept fake photos on this blog (which everybody who reads this knows)…but I generally don’t accept clients whom I don’t like! I’ve been accused of being a cheapskate. And in truth, I can be at times. When something goes on sale at a supermarket or drug store, I usually buy like 100 of them. (I got that from my grandmother.) But when it comes to accepting money from prospective advertisers who I know are assholes, I draw the line. The payment is simply not worth the headaches involved.

Back in my Action mag days, I was paid like most (or all) salesmen. I got a draw against sales and maintenance percentages. If you’re confused, that means I received a base salary (and an expense account – for taking clients out to dinner) every week. The money I collected from new sales would be calculated at from 10% (for big escort services who paid big ad dollars) to 35% (for little migraine-inducing trannies). As for existing accounts who stayed in the paper, I believe I got 6% of their payment for maintaining them. If all that added up at the end of the month exceeded my base pay, I’d get a bonus.

And while I always got that bonus (because I worked so hard and was the only sales guy who actually lived in New York and thus, was available 7 days a week), I would get into constant debates with Action’s owner about accounts I’d dropped because I thought they were assholes. My theory was that life is too short to get aggravated by deadbeats. Joe had a different opinion. He drove a Corvette Sting Ray and a 1250cc Harley and needed me to collect every dollar possible so he could pay for his expensive toys – even if those dollars came from the most egregious manipulators of human flesh on the planet.

So it was then…and so it is now. I sang and still sing The Executioners’s Song when it comes to advertisers. If you’re a serious piece of shit, I won’t take your money. And that’s why every owner or individual who appears on this blog is a decent person. Because if they weren’t, they wouldn’t be here.

Moving on…in the new girl department, ROSE HOUSE (347-624-3305) has a recent addition named BIBI. Here she is. 

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And here’s a little more eye candy from SISTAR.The quality of the videography completely amazes me once again. Check out the clips on the beach at sunset. I’m not that big on the song itself but whoever made this video really is a genius in the pop art genre.

It might come as a surprise to the average consumer, but shift work girls in this business have their slow periods even if they’re super A-list material. Let’s be realistic. The guys have to earn the money they so eagerly hand to the girls at some point in time…and the great majority do that in the mid-morning and mid-afternoon hours, thus leaving the girls sitting in anticipation for a significant portion of their work day.

As men, we know what we think about in an idle moment at our workplaces. Alcoholics anticipate their next drink…and almost everybody be he functional or impaired in some way, will fantasize about sex. It could be with an old girlfriend…or a prospective girlfriend…or even a current girlfriend or wife. Or it could be about the perfect blow job…or a roll with  a woman who boasts the world’s biggest breasts  – or most ridonculous badonkadonk ever! Guys are like that. We have fertile imaginations.

And so it would follow that women themselves have similar fantasies – especially in an incall. Yes, the television plays on and on for their entertainment. But the subject matter is banal…and almost nobody thinks to bring a book to work. So obviously, minds will wander.

Well…yesterday, I was over at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE to take pictures and not for the first time, found myself sitting with the girls as I waited for ADDIE to exit the room when out of nowhere, AUTUMN vocalized her fantasy of the moment. But it wasn’t about George Clooney – or Mandingo’s big brother. It was about a bowl of cereal! Yup! Here’s how it went: “I can’t wait to get home so I can pour myself a big bowl of cereal…with ice cold milk. Yummm! That’s what I’m in the mood for right now!” It may sound boring…but it was delivered with the kind of heat that a teenage girl would have exuded watching the Beatles at the Ed Sullivan Show.

I couldn’t help but acknowledge the bizarre moment at which point, pretty much everybody jumped on the bandwagon poking fun at Autumn’s fantasy. I don’t know if there’s a lesson here beyond remembering to bring a big bowl of cereal the next time you want to see Autumn. It’s just a funny story you wouldn’t expect from the local playland.

Just think… if you (as the reader) were there at that moment, you wouldn’t need the body of Schwarzenegger…or the wallet of Bill Gates…or the junk of John Holmes to turn her inside out. All it would have taken was a big bowl of cereal covered in creamy ice cold milk!

Anyway…after it was all over, I exited with photos of two girls. One is MAYA who as you can see is a substantial beauty (as I said yesterday) and the second is a new girl named ADDIE – a Russian who everybody’s rushin’ to see (couldn’t resist). I can’t wait for GC to hire a Czechoslovokian woman so I can write “check out the Czech chick!” But enough of my stupidity. Here are two of yesterday’s pix.

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Yesterday morning I woke up at 6 AM with the sun streaming in my window and then stumbled to the bathroom to take a righteous dump. Ya know…the kind that says “you’re done for the day. Bubba! You can go about your business!” And I decided my business for the day was to climb Bear Mountain. This is surely not my first visit. But it is my first this year.

Off on the bike at the crack of 8 AM, I noticed that people on their way to work do not smile. Everybody looked grumpy…except me. I was taking a mini vacation – and I’d taken the perfect dump. Could the perfect day be in store?

Nobody was on line at the Short Line window, and I’d arrived at the perfect time – 10 minutes before departure. Could this get any better? With license in hand, I smiled at the cashier: “One round trip senior citizen to Bear Mountain, please.” She didn’t even check my license which seemed odd, as just a week before I’d been carded when buying beer at Rite Aid. Yo! To one cashier I barely looked 21. And to another? Easily 62. No need to check the date. Go figure!

Whatever…onto the bus where I got my own two seats. The only hitch? A British family that didn’t shut the fuck up for the entire ride. And half the conversation was “goo goo” and ga ga” at the noisy baby they had in tow.  I buried my nose in a collection of greatest sportswriting from Harper’s Magazine and before I knew it…we were there.

For those familiar with Bear Mountain, you know it can get crowded – especially on weekends – which is why I never go on weekends. But at 10:15 AM on a weekday? Almost deserted. First, I called my friend in Florida to tell her what she was missing and then went straight up the mountain running into a grand total of 2 people while ascending. Excellent.

The last time I visited my favorite lookout, it was Saturday…and there were a lot of people (relatively). There must have been a dozen cars and 30 individuals taking in the amazing panorama that the Hudson Valley surely is up there. But yesterday? Nobody for an hour and a half. Wait a minute. There was one guy who stopped his car and did a little outback climbing.  And then there were the birds just coasting on the breeze barely even flapping their wings. Just groovin’ on a sunny day.

I called a few people just to make them jealous and even smoked a bowl – which I’ve discovered helps with my chronic back pain…and also makes the view that much nicer. Heading down the mountain, I decided to greet every person I passed who was on the way up. I figured in the city, nobody says hi. So if I’m in the country…I’m gonna say hi to everybody. And I dusted off the perfect line:

“Hello fellow mountaineer(s). Everest is that way”…as I turned around and pointed behind me. Pretty much everybody flashed a smile or stopped to bull shit for a few seconds. One couple in particular looked really prepared. Ya know…huge backpacks and ski poles. Knowing we were actually on the Appalachian Trail, I asked if they were day hikers like me or just passing through en route to somewhere else. My intuition was correct: “We’re on our way to Georgia.” Whoa! I saluted. I’m full of crap. They’re the real deal!

Once descended, I was faced with a terrible decision. Continue all the way to the Hudson’s edge – or swim in the pool. There wasn’t time for both. The pool is huge and wasn’t all that crowded. Still I went for the peace and quiet of the Hudson. Having reached the water’s edge, I broke out the tuna sandwich I’d carefully packed and listened to the river lap at the rocks on the shoreline. Sweet!

Soon enough, it was time to head back to the 3:19 bus where once again, I had two seats to myself. This time I knew to sit as far away as possible from the Brits and their baby. And that was a good thing as a 1.5 hour return trip turned out to be 3 hours…thanks to New York traffic!

And just to prove I’m still a boy, I rode home…watched some of the Emmys (boring) and then headed over to GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723) for some fun. In truth, I was planning to see the nagger but she was busy. So I adjourned with MAYA who turned out to be an excellent choice…especially given the theme of the day. No hoity toity spinners for yours truly. Give me a friendly and substantial girl who likes to have fun. And that was Maya. She was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

In fact, I’d never really met the girl because she came in with what I thought was a professional photo and didn’t need to be photographed. I complimented her on the picture she’d submitted and was amazed to find out that it’s a selfie taken with her phone! Damn! Fooled again. Tell me this isn’t the best selfie you’ve ever seen. I’m impressed.

Anyway…yesterday was the best day of this past summer – at least for me. Fuck my chronic back pain. it was mind over matter and I came through with flying colors. Now here’s MAYA (ooooo la la)!

maya

A few days ago when I stumbled upon those glitzy Korean videos, I didn’t realize that they are all part of a musical genre called K-pop. Thanks to a phone girl and a couple of commenters who brought this to my attention, I googled the term…went to Wikipedia…and discovered the whole phenomenon.

There are actually three entertainment factories in South Korea which does for these girls what Disney did for Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. They train future pop stars  starting at an early age in academies of sorts, teaching them how to dance, sing, and look into the camera. Basically…they give them all the tools to become starlets at no small cost to themselves (sometimes $3 million per girl!)

When the records are released, they are strategically places on CD, video and on all social media to be marketed to the world. And all this is with the endorsement of their government which has come to realize that via these enterprises, Korea’s magic is being projected around the world thus bringing tourist dollars to their country.

But for me, all of that pales in the face of how good some of this stuff is. They’ve seemingly copped the American feel and essentially improved upon it! And you’d think that the language barrier might prevent K-pop from going international. But they even have that covered as well. Often, the hooks are in English. And there’s generally a verse which is rapped within the song as well. Yo! Like…they got all the bases covered!

Following is yet another example of K-pop which totally blew me away. The production, song, musicians, and vocals are so superior that even the likes of Patti Austen, Rod Temperton and Quincy Jones would take notice. I simply can’t believe how good this track sounds and it almost bothers me that America isn’t producing music this good anymore.

But before the video…a commercial (Page Six if you will). ASIAN BARBIE DOLLS (646-644-7879) has two new girls on staff: JESSICA and GINA. Currently, only Jessica has pictures so here she is. And over at TWINKLE (917-861-6600), I’m hearing that AMY is the “girlfriend” of your dreams. OK! Commercial over. Just something to check out after you watch this video.

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As I’ve noted before, the escort rank and file is not a good source for wisdom, philosophy, humor or timeless one-liners. Escorts don’t contemplate their station in the universe or time continuum. They’re mostly hedonists who live in the present. Despite, there have been isolated moments of clarity expressed by one person or another from the community I’d like to share today.

Actually, the first came not from an escort…but from a distributor of pornography who had a warehouse out in Corona. The outfit specialized in S & M and tranny flicks…and the boss had called into Adam As Eve magazine (a tranny contact tabloid) to purchase an ad hoping he might score some mail orders for his movies from the tranny-chasers who bought that magazine. And I as one of the ad reps, was dispatched to sell the ad.

It wasn’t going to be a profitable venture that was for sure. He only wanted a 1/4 page ad which would make me in the neighborhood of 30 bucks in commissions. But at that point in time, I was out in Queens at least once a week taking care of casitas and Asians who were advertising in Action. So no big deal to stop off and grab the sale.

Well anyway…I rode the #7 train to the Corona station with publication in hand and walked over to the grimy warehouse where all the gash was piled up for distribution…and met a 50 or 60-something perv named Vince who ran the joint. And as any salesman would do, I proudly opened the magazine to display the exceptional piece of crap I was repping to make the sale.

I should mention that Adam As Eve contained numerous photos of advertisers showing off their endowments. One in particular was a three-legged individual who looked more like a dude in a wig than a woman. But that didn’t matter. To the tranny-chasing size queen, he (or she) was the trophy tranny in the bunch. Vince took a gander at the ad and then looked up to matter-of-factly comment “boy! if I had a dick like that I wouldn’t be wearing a fucking dress!”

Now Vince wasn’t an enlightened guy who understood the concept of a woman being born into a man’s body or any of that bull shit the transgendered community preaches. And if he were…it wouldn’t have mattered. All’s he knew was it was a crime against nature to have a dick that big and want to be a fucking girl. And how somebody that endowed didn’t want to tear asunder every pussy from here to Timbuktu escaped him. As enlightened as I am and was at that point as well, his sentiment didn’t fall on deaf ears. Ya know…as in what’s the point of having a giant dick if you’re just gonna wear a dress? What the fuck is that?!?!

I can’t recall ever meeting up with Vince again. I don’t think he sold any movies from the publication and dropped the ad. Regardless, I always remembered his one-liner as emblematic of just how befuddled many people are about the entire transgendered ethos. And he sure was a funny poster boy for unenlightenment.  I know that feeling like you’re a woman born into a man’s body has nothing to do with the size of your junk. But still…Vince’s comment was just too fucking funny…and 15 years later, I’m still laughing as I write this.

Timeless one-liner number 2 came from a hot project Puerto Rican mess with the prototypical pathology (complete with being turned into a drug-runner at age 6 and getting sexually abused by her uncle at about the same time). One day after a photo shoot in her apartment up in Harlem, we were walking to the 60 minute photo joint to get the film developed (this was a while back…obviously) when my friend waxed philosophical proudly declaring that she had $12,000 saved and deposited in Citibank because “what’s the point of being a broke ho?”

In her own inimitable style, Diana was saying that being a sex worker was undignified enough on its own. But to be a ho with no money as well was just too low…and she wanted no part of it. Diana at least had a bank account and something to show that she wasn’t completely adrift. Hard to argue the point and ever since, I’ve quoted her on numerous occasions. Escorting surely is not the most dignified work and as such, a girl should at least have some money stashed if she’s chosen that profession. Makes sense to me.

Eighteen years into selling adult advertising, I’m sorry to say that those are the only two one-liners worth mentioning in this entry. But at least, they are worthy. “If I had a dick like that, I wouldn’t be wearing a fucking dress” and  “What’s the point of being a broke ho?” Words to live by for sure.

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

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

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

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

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


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


 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway…here’s Jerry!

 

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

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candy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sarah
eve1_fs
briella2
briella3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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