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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, I never actually drove a truck (I don’t have the license and wouldn’t even know how) but there was one point in my life when I found myself wondering whether I was a truck driver or musician.

The occasion for this introspection dates back many years when I was a “Starlighter” accompanying Joey Dee, a cantankerous little mother fucker who capitalized on the twist craze in 1961 with a hit tune titled “The Peppermint Twist.” The record rated #11 for the year…and combined with “Shout” (a lesser hit as a follow up), Joe was poised to work the oldies circuit for the rest of his goddamn life! And for six months (until I quit), I got caught up in the madness.

Joseph DiNicola was the only road warrior. After a close call on a flight back in his hey day, Joe absolutely refused to fly anywhere…though accepting bookings as far away as Miami, Texas, and Iowa wasn’t a problem for him. Joe just hopped in his van (with band) and drove to the gig!

Around month #4 of my employment, we returned home to play a few venues in the tri-state area only to face the next leg of what seemed like an endless journey…one night in Louisville, Kentucky…two nights in Des Moines, Iowa…and then back home for a few days off. And of course, we would be driving the entire trip.

In the meantime, I’d just about had it with the whole fucking mess. For one thing, the band sucked. Having played with real musicians while backing Musique, Carol Douglas and Stephanie Mills, I wasn’t feeling the hacks in Joe’s band. And for another…we all took turns driving to the jobs…and I knew too many times, guys were one second from falling asleep at the wheel. I wasn’t ready to die on the road. At the time, I had a friend (Billy Nichols who wrote “Do It Till You’re Satisfied”) who’d told me that just a few months after leaving Billy Stewart’s band, the entire band bought the farm in a car crash when one of the musicians fell asleep while driving. Plus…I wasn’t getting paid enough! Joe wasn’t the kind of guy who split the gig money evenly.

Considering the circumstances, I decided to crack on Joe for a raise. I figured he’d refuse me and that would be that. Summer was ending and I didn’t want his job anymore anyway. But to my surprise, he acquiesced and met my demands…and re-enlisted me for what would be in the neighborhood of 2 hours of playing the bass – and 50 hours of driving/riding. It was at that point that I asked the drummer “Jesus Christ! Are we musicians or truck drivers? This is insane!”

Regardless, the next morning, I hopped the #6 train to Bronx Park East (where Joe lived) and once everybody had gathered, we were off to the Kentucky State Fair where Bobby Lewis, Mary Wells, Bobby Vee and our band would be performing at The Louisville Redbirds AAA baseball facility.

Except for the fact that the stadium had astro turf and the temperature was over 100 degrees on the field, we actually had some fun. For one thing…the band dressed in the team’s locker room, which had a vending machine with Coke, Pepsi and Miller High Life as the beverage choices. I got a kick out of the hand-written sign that limited the players to two beers. Yeah, right! I’m sure the Louisville Yahoo’s obeyed that rule!

While the sign warning the team not to get drunk in the locker room was makeshift, the ones that said “Do not assault the umpires” were very official-looking. Obviously, triple A players had anger issues and the league didn’t want the boys kicking the umpires’ asses over a bad call.

So anyway…we sweated through our gig and then went back to the hotel to hang out with the Bobby’s! The next morning our vacation was over and it was back to truck-drivin’ Bill. Next stop? Des Moines, Iowa and the Iowa State Fair!

A few things about Iowa struck me as unique. First was the 110 miles of corn we saw out the window once we hit the state line! Yo! They got a lot of corn growing out there! And second, was the wide-open space feel of everything. The first night we arrived…the promoter took us out to a sports bar that was so big there was actually a regulation basket right inside the bar where a dude could shoot hoops in between sips of brew! Try that one in New York!

The sidewalks in town were as wide as 10th Street in New York…and the bathroom in our hotel room was bigger than my entire apartment in the East Village. Clearly, space was not at a premium in Iowa. If nothing else, Iowa had space…and plenty of it!

The next morning it was off to the fair, a festival complete with ferris wheels and hog-catching contests. Whoa! Click your heels, Dollar! This might not be Kansas…but it was pretty darn close! To the stage to set up…where I discovered why Joe had given in to my demands for more money. He forgot to mention that we would be backing the Chiffons…and knowing that I was the only guy in the band who could read music, he was gonna need me for the job!

What a nightmare. Imagine the sound of three girls singing their hits with nothing but a drum beat and a bass part backing them because the rest of the musicians were befuddled! But no problem! This was commonplace in the oldies game. Bad musicians were always fucking up gigs for moldy acts on that circuit!

Whatever…we muddled through the concert which featured not only Joey Dee and The Chiffons…but Rick Nelson (just before he died) and Johnny Rivers as well…not to mention 8000 screaming fans (admission to the fair included the concert so virtually everybody came to watch)!

A couple of go-rounds on the ferris wheel with Joe’s son…back to the bar for a hula hoop contest (which I won)…on to our spacious hotel room…and then up the next morning bright and early to drive the 1000+ miles back to New York. And for the entire trip…225 1985 dollars in my pocket! Not exactly a windfall!

I piloted the last leg from Pittsburgh to the city hoping that Joe would let me drive myself home to 10th Street when we arrived in the metropolitan area. But it wasn’t to be. Joe was a prick like that! Even though I’d done all that driving, he saw no reason for me to not ride 27 stops on the fucking #6 train after riding/driving over 1000 miles from the middle of the country!

After that, we did a few more jobs within 100 miles of home but when Joe decided we were going to drive to Texas for a one-nighter…that was it. No more boppa shoo wop…bop boppa shoo wop’s for me! I was out! Next stop? From the frying pan right into the fire with the fucking Belmonts!

Now you might ask “What the fuck does this have to do with escorts?!?!” And the answer is…absolutely nothing! I’m just jerkin’ myself off here. But it’s Sunday and some guys like the music stories – and it only took me 30 minutes to write this. So why not indulge myself as that’s really what blogs are all about anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nina11
amanda2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Call for more info.



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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



To all the basketball fans out there I pose this question: Does it occur to y’all that there was something downright Machiavellian about the Heat’s loss (and the Spurs win) in game 1 of the NBA playoffs? I know it occurred to me…and to Jeff Van Gundy as well…who said sarcastically at one point during the contest “yeah, it broke”…referring to the faulty air conditioning which malfunctioned effectively turning the entire arena into a sweatbox. 

For all his Superman qualities, NBA players and coaches know that Lebron can’t take the heat!  He cramps up when other players are fine! And sure enough, the plan (if it was a plan) worked. Seemingly Lebron’s entire body spasmed with a few minutes left in the game and the Spurs ran away with the victory. What a story! Our modern day Superman has his kryptonite. He can’t take the heat! One thing’s for sure, though. Come Sunday, the Spurs won’t be able to get away with it a second time. They’ll have to beat the Heat – and Lebron –  in an air-conditioned arena. Neither the fans nor the league officials will abide a repeat of game 1′s hellfire and brimstone climate.

In more relevant news…I notice that HOT LIPS (646-309-0453) has a stunning new staffer named MONA. Why they wouldn’t call to let me know is a mystery - as most places regales me with their news flashes. Regardless…check out her best pic (in my opinion). And I notice that GINIE has some new pix on their site. Remember when she used to call herself SOY? What a cool name. I wonder why she dispensed with that original moniker.

Moving downtown…there will be a new oasis appearing on this blog in the next day or two once I get all the pictures taken, collated and all that stuff. So welcome BEACH BUNNIES OF NEW YORK (website coming soon) in honor of the coming summer season. Fortunately, you won’t have to go to the beach to meet up with them. They found a strip of shore right here in Greenwich Village. Go figure.

Well…it’s a beautiful day and I’d be out in the sunshine were it not Soup Kitchen Volunteer Day. This has become my Saturday activity – good or bad weather notwithstanding. But really…it’s not that much of a sacrifice. As a man of leisure, I can frolic in the sun any day I want – as I have no job to speak of. Plus…the meat loaf is always good…and maybe today there swill be a hot female volunteer checking me out. Not likely…but hope springs eternal. 

Many years ago I had what I thought was a brilliant idea for the Asian houses who’d hired me to post Backpage ads: “Let me videotape the interior of your place so guys can see how neat, clean and inviting this deal can be! And then I’ll embed that video in your Backpage ad.”

Alas…there were no takers. The girls were not feeling the concept. Undaunted, I tried my brainstorm out on a couple of other clients and within a day, they had 2000 views. But then, Backpage decided to stop supporting videos in their ads so that was pretty much that. End of story…until yesterday when GOLDEN ASIAN (646-391-2639) called to request that I post their new video! Backpage recently decided to reconsider their decision and once again not only supports video for their site…but has placed a button to enable the process on their posting template so anybody can now post video to their site…and not just accounts with html privileges.

The good people at Golden Asian apparently took this as a cue to get the jump on their competitors and thus have produced 2 minutes with MOMO as the star. Frankly, I’d have had the girl speak to the prospective customers saying something along the lines of “Hi, I’m Momo. My friends and I here at Golden Asian would love for you to come over so we can show you a really good time. ” And then maybe Mo could do a 360 to spice up the representation in much the same way as she might “introduce” when a customer comes a-knocking.

Anyway…this is a good enough start. Maybe at some point, I’ll shoot some videos with my trusty camera (it of course has a video function as does almost any digital camera nowadays). But for the moment, here’s the virginal voyage in the video realm for the KMP’s of New York.

Of additional note…Golden has experienced a changing of the guard. The new staff now includes MOMO, EZZY and LUCKY…all looking good…and none of whom I’ve met. I choose their best pic from the site for today’s post. To see all their shots just click on the Golden link toward the top of this entry.

I think we’ve all herd the old expression “tits on a stick” used to describe a thin women with a big chest. While it may be a little insensitive to boil a woman’s essence down with such an expression, you have to admit it does paint a vivid picture. Well anyway…I went over to GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE yesterday to reshoot NATALIE and IMAN (at both their requests) and ran into a girl I can only call “booty on a stick.” Once again…a somewhat arbitrary expression which so effectively conveys the message.
SHEENA (her show name), like many other girls in the business, claims to be (or have once been) a model. And while I’m not convinced when others make the same claim, I was (and am) with GC’s new girl. I know enough to know how models’ bodies are supposed to look…and she has that physique and a phat booty to boot! Hence, I call her “booty on a stick.” You be the judge if she’s worthy of the appellation.

In the meantime, Natalie wasn’t in the mood for pictures so nothing new on her, but Iman now has a new shot or two which capture her essence – as she has captured my heart. But then again…I’m easy so nothing remarkable about that. Here’s a couple of examples of last night’s effort.

A few days ago I articulated a “fly on the wall” fantasy conjecturing what a certain house full of girls might say about me when I’m not in their presence – and that I probably wouldn’t be all that flattered if I were a fly on the wall listening to how they really felt about me. Well…nobody recorded a conversation and played it back for me or anything like that…but I did intercept an e-mail sent from one of the phone girls to the boss snapping away on my photography. And very unfairly I might add.

The truth is I know that this girl has tried to sabotage anything I do with her boss from day 1. I could just feel it. And there was the proof in black and white. What a fucking douchebag. What a hope-to-die fucking drug addict. This cunt is the self-appointed boss of everything in the organization when in fact, all she is is a phone girl – and not a very good one. She sounds snappy, snippy, fake and officious with the customers. And every one of her colleagues agrees (other girls who answer the phones) and wants her out.
Well anyway…I wrote her back that she’s a presumptuous pile of needle marks and scabs who’s either too stupid or lazy to learn how to a) make a border on an image…b) put a name on the picture…and c) size that image so the house blog doesn’t look like an unmade bed. Yet this monster thinks that she’s earned her editorial stripes and can trump everybody else’s opinions on every function of the boss’s business.

I cannot even begin to tell you what a troll and beast this girl truly is. The nerve! The presumption! Oh well! Nobody takes her seriously and I’m hearing that the boss has had just about enough. So it’s “ready…aim…” and everybody in the organization is waiting for the shoe to drop on the last word. For just a second yesterday, I felt sorry for the girl when I heard how upset she was with my e-mail. And then I reread hers and came to this conclusion: Fuck my Jewish guilt. She’s a horror. She tried to get me fired. Fuck the bitch. I;m not worried about hurting her feelings. Hopefully, the end of her employment is near. She’s just soooo the ultimate douchebag!

WARNING: This is an old post from several years back updated today to reflect who my new “desert island chicks” would be as I currently don’t speak with any of the girls mentioned in the original version.

WNEW FM used to have a late night show with a “Desert Island Set.” In an imaginary “Gilligan” type world, the DJ would be stranded on an island and only be allowed his or her five favorite albums. And those were the albums he would play that night for his “Desert Island Set.”what would those albums be? Usually, it was Zeppelin or Metallica or Pink Floyd. Whatever…I thought it was a a novel idea at the time…and am now about to hijack the concept and morph it into which five escorts I’d want to take along were I to be stranded on a desert island. Fair enough? Let’s get it on!

The first girl who comes to mind would be IMAN (347-741-1741). More mature than some of her colleagues – but still youthful enough, Iman has a sensibility that turns me on. Not the type to twerk it up with the girls, she’s more likely to converse on grown-up subjects and be more serious-minded…all of which would work on a desert island. And did I mention she’s easy on the eyes and is in possession of what I consider the perfect booty? In short, the girl (or woman) is equally appealing as someone to talk with and squeeze up on!

Next up is BRIT (or Eva…or Anique…or Anastasia), my old pal now transplanted to Florida. An opinionated pain-in-the-ass for sure, Brit and I have been “friends” for over 10 years. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t gone off and threatened me on occasion. But hey! Bipolar chicks do that! They’re crazy. But with her, it’s a for better or for worse thing. And of course, she has some amazing body parts to keep me at attention. On a desert island, the other girls could keep her in line whenever she stepped out so I wouldn’t be trapped by her bull shit when she acted up. And she could operate as my “wife,” if for no other reason than longevity. In this ridiculous fantasy, it would all work perfectly!

Let’s see…third would be KATIE (212-470-7347). I love a Southern girl and I’ve finally found one with manners, consideration, and a sumptuous and substantial body in NY’s escort rank and file. From her hometown somewhere in The South (I won’t say where), she researched and answered a help wanted ad and once employed traveled north on an adventure and found New York to her liking. Sound like a fairy tale…or a dream come true? Getting stranded on a desert island would be more of a nightmare turned wet dream if only Katie were along for that adventure.

Fourth, I would bring along ALICIA…or CHRIS…or at least one Korean phone girl to be the communications expert on the island. Ya know… in case some reality show called up and wanted to use us for some “Survivor” type bull shit, she could coordinate the mess. And best for her is it wouldn’t be a sex thing as I gotta think that 4 partners would be enough. I could forgo sleeping with at least one of my five desert island chicks.

And finally, I’d bring GINGER (917-547-0723) along because she’d bring her better half NINA as well so I’d get 6 for the price of 5. But really…the first time Nina introduced me to her friend (we were all at Bliss Steak), I didn’t find her attractive. But now? She’s the hottest thing since the tubeless tire (talk about your grandfather’s expression!) Plus, she’s a hard twerker and while I might make fun at the whole twerking craze, I have to admit I’d need one expert in the group of 5.

And so ends my fantasy – and list of 5 desert island chicks I’d choose to be stranded with. Silly, I know. But hey…it gave me something to write about today. Now I can go back to my biography of George Armstrong Custer. Did you know that “Autie” (his nickname) graduated dead last in his class at West Point? Wow! Even lower than John McCain who graduated from the naval academy 4th from the bottom. And did you know Custer became a Brigadier General at age 23? And that among many of his Civil War duties one included flying in a hot air balloon over enemy lines to do reconnaissance? I didn’t even know they did that back then. Cool! That’s why it’s good to read…ya learn stuff.

Anyway…if anybody has his own Desert Island Five, feel free to fire away in the comments section. That’s what it’s there for!
After years of not socializing in the venue  - and writing an entry just recently about abandoning the bar and club life – I found myself drinking in a bar yesterday afternoon with all the soup kitchen volunteers, a couple of whom finally persuaded me to join them at the corner watering hole. After buying a pitcher and sitting down, the Chief Bottle Washer posed this question to me: “What do you buy your father for Fathers Day?” I was speechless for a second and then went on to explain that my father has been dead these 20 years and as a result, I really hadn’t given the subject very much – or any – thought.

Not satisfied, he went on to ask what I used to buy dad when he was alive…producing an even more uncomfortable moment. Gee, let me think. What do you buy a bigamist who abandoned you, your brother and mother for a start at a new life with an 18 year-old stripper? A plaque that says “World’s Worst Dad?” A rotten apple?

But really…I have mostly fond memories of my father despite his transgressions. He made up for some of his egregious absence later in life and I came to view him as a friend, business associate and sort-of older cousin when I became an adult.

Pop was an adolescent till the day he died. And as such, he did stupid adolescent shit that pissed me off – very little of which had anything to do with our early history. He was just that kind of guy and you had to accept it. You loved him or you thought he was a fucking asshole. Not an indictment, mind you. Just the way it was.
Regardless, my fellow volunteer’s question solicited deep feelings of ambivalence. It would have been nice to grow up in a “normal” setting where Fathers Day meant something. Or even that I was within 1000 miles of my father on any given Father’s Day – which I never was! Seems like it would have been nice in retrospect. And if he were alive today, I think I’d have made a big deal of  it  just to break tradition.

Then this morning I suddenly remembered there actually was one Fathers Day I spent with dad. The family (consisting of my brother, sister-in-law and two nephews) were visiting the old man on his yacht in Florida. Sometime in the morning I grabbed the two kids to go shopping for a Father’s Day gift. I had no idea what to buy him (as he was with his third wife so a hooker wouldn’t do) but undaunted found the perfect gift – a baseball cap that read “old fart” across the crown.

At the time, he wasn’t all that old…but was getting into the habit of playing old. Dad loved to put his hand up to his ear and scream “whaaat?” pretending he was hard of hearing whenever one of the kids cracked on him for money. That or he’d point to his prominent nose and answer the kids “ya see this nose? Ya know what that nose means?”…meaning “I’m a cheap jew. Stop hawking me for money!”
Anyway…he got a kick out of the “old fart” cap and I’m sure he never wore it because Dad had a full head of hair till the day he died and I never once saw him wear any kind of hat. But none of that matters. Today’s theme is this: If your old man is alive…and he was any kind of father…you might want to go out of your way to honor him just because you have the chance. Take it from one who doesn’t. I’d do something cool for pops if he was around and in the area. The problem is…he’s not around!

Gold as in two new girls at GOLDEN ASIAN (646-391-2639). Girl #1 is MIO who was at Golden briefly for a short visit a while back. And girl #2 is her friend ARI who just arrived in the gold ol’ USA. So basically if the girls were cars, Mio would have a few miles and – Ari virtually right off the showroom floor. Bad analogy, I know. But y’all get the idea. And here’s their pix.



Well…as promised, KANA’S (646-255-3203) back with new and much improved photos. Her original set from a few years ago were halfway decent. Her next set was horrible. I don’t know what she was thinking. And now these are pretty good – and much different from the usual Korean photographers’. Here’s my favorite. You can find two more toward the bottom of the sidebar and I assume that eventually, all of the ten photos she went me will appear on her website. But for the moment, what’s here will give you the idea. She also has a nicer apartment (with a terrace even) in the same building. What’s not to like?



As noted before, there seems to be a trend in the Korean community toward retirees coming back for limited engagements. And the place to which they apparently choose to return has become LOVELY ASIAN (212-470-0409). First OSUCA returned. Then GANA came back. And finally,  SUNNY. And now? Sunny is back home (or wherever) and both GANA and OSUCA are currently at “Lovely” simultaneously. How’s that for an all-star duo?


My understanding is that both will be in attendance for 2 or 3 weeks but for clarification, call the house. In any case, here’s a reminder of both individual’s beauty in the form of the usual super-pro (albeit somewhat photoshoopped) pix. Enjoy.



You’d think it’s like Time Warner buying up AOL or something like that given all the news bulletins I’ve been receiving the past day or two. So to clarify without boring everybody with the inner machinations and drama associated with this “merger,” I’ll give you the facts.

The newly-conceived BEACH BUNNY NY has sold out to JEWELS OF NY – which has returned to their old Downtown location. I’m not clear what’s going to happen with their Midtown spot (it changes by the minute) but I’m pretty sure that Jewels’ return to the Broadway location is at least semi-permanent. Some of the BEACH BUNNIES will be staying (I know Katie is for sure) while the normal Jewels crew will be there as well. With respect to Beach Bunny NY, my understanding is that they’ll be coming back at a different location at some point in the near future.
A funny sidebar to all this drama: I was dining with the brass at Beach Bunny NY last night when the phone girl blurted out of nowhere “so Billy. What’s with the black girl fetish?…referring to my predilection for girls of the darker persuasion. While it’s not entirely true that I’m a freak for dark-skinned hotties, I can see where she could draw that conclusion. It’s not an illogical observation on her part.

Well anyway…once I’d swallowed the Buffalo chicken wing which prevented me from answering immediately, I gave her the 411: “I was a child of divorce. And when my father left and my mother went off to work, she hired black women to raise me. And that’s why I like black girls!”

I’m not sure all of that is the reason I like black girls. But it makes sense so it’s a good answer. Why I waited until I was in my mid-20′s to have my first experience in that realm is curious as there were many nubian goddesses at college, none of whom interested me. And I’m sure the feeling was mutual as those girls were extremely militant. They’d post signs at their switchboards like “honkies ain’t shit” for all the hippies to see when we came over and asked them to ring up our girlfriends. Not exactly an invitation for this honky to cross the color line!

Anyway… I digress. The point? Jewels is back downtown at their old location…and though a couple of the Beach Bunny girls remain there, that outfit has retired for at least a minute – until they come back for another round. And when and if they do…I’ll be the first to let you know.

After yesterday’s entry detailing the futility of both the supply and demand sides of the escort biz forging anything meaningful in the way of a relationship, I feel obligated to elaborate that despite my negative point of view, girls do find guys (and vice versa) to “date.” I mean…it’s inevitable. A guy sees an exterior that meets with his exacting standards expecting nothing more than what’s on the surface and up front about the encounter. And then he feels something about the inner woman and can’t help himself from falling – albeit ever so slightly.

And the same goes for the girls. Usually, it’s their mission to stay in control. But then a cute guy walks in…says something funny and endearing…and bam…she instantly remembers that she herself was once a wide-eyed schoolgirl who couldn’t resist the charms of some undeniably attractive boy. And it’s on. The point is…you never know where, when and how you’re going to find true love. So why can’t it be in the room? It’s certainly happened before.
On more than one occasion, I’ve sold advertising to couples whom I discovered met at an in – or outcall agency. He came back over and over again and then one day? They’re in business together – and as a couple. A while back, Rosie from the Voice sent me a client she couldn’t accommodate because at the time, color ads could only be sold through one of the agencies that forwarded pages of ads and stacks of money to the Voice’s adult advertising department.

I met up with the girl and became fast friends. We’d hang out…go to the country…and even have sex. And she charged $500/hour for her services until the girl found a lawyer who lived down the block from me. We stayed friends throughout as I became her confidant, laughing as she navigated the waters of true love – or whatever. Eventually, she moved in with him…stopped working…and gained 20 pounds sitting around all day eating pastries while she  awaited his arrival home from work.

When she discovered that he was seeing an escort on the side, the girl went bonkers. Despite, and to my knowledge, they are still together – though the couple moved to Williamsburg and I lost track of her. Even though the girl went from an escort who could successfully command $500/hour to a housefrau who in my estimation couldn’t charge two bucks after she gained all that weight, he stayed with her and the duo has lived happily ever after. I assume. if they hadn’t, I’m sure I’d have received a call.

Hers is an individual story – but one of many which are similar. Somebody out there might remember me writing a piece in Screw Mag about climbing Overlook Mountain outside of Woodstock. My partners that day were a couple who’d met guess where. Their relationship did not stand the test of time. But the problems didn’t lie with her professional life. They just weren’t right for each other.

So what I’m saying is that while the room might not be the best place to find your significant other…it can and has happened there because once again, you never know where, when or how you’re gonna find true love. And if you’re lucky enough to find that true love, why would you worry about finding it in the room with an escort? Just be happy and let it be what it is…and ride the wave wherever it takes you. Just make sure it ain’t the poor house.

Last night I was over at GENTLEMAN’S CHOICE (917-547-0723) taking pictures (what else is new?) and and after shooting AUTUMN, took a seat with the girls until HONEY was available. It began to rain like crazy which of course, killed off business for the moment so there were 5 or 6 of us talking about whatever when the conversation turned to this question: “Where do you find a decent guy to date?”

Now this is a subject I’d expect to discuss at a yuppie summer share – and certainly not with pros whose work is to entertain guys. Too funny! Whatever…before I could formulate an intelligent answer, one of the girls contributed “at the library.” Good answer – if you like nerds! I suggested eharmony or match.com but added “you’ll probably get a boring not-so-beautiful but very devoted guy.” All agreed that wasn’t to their liking.

Continuing, I offered “I’ll tell ya where you won’t find a good guy! At a bar or club!” The girls agreed. You might find a gorgeous player with tons of game all right. But he’d probably fuck your sister and steal your money before it was all over.

Just then, Honey emerged from the room so the intellectual discourse (or at least my part of it ) ended as I had work to do. Regardless, here’s what I took away from that spontaneous bit of verbal intercourse with the girls: It didn’t even occur to anybody that she might find somebody to date right there on the job! Duh! You meet all these guys with $250 in their pockets so they have money. And some must be good-looking. Yet dating the customers did not seem to be an option. In fact, it was so remote that nobody even suggested it or even thought to!

I know I’ve said this before…but it bears repeating. In the girls’ eyes, the guys who come to see them are just as damaged as they are and certainly not boyfriend material. From their point of view it goes like this: “Who wants to date a guy who goes to these places? It’s obvious he’s into variety and would never stop on her account. Nobody wants a cheater – especially when you’re looking for monogamy while he’s on the prowl every waking minute you don’t have your eye on him!. Not good!”

Regardless…I got a kick out of the conversation as it made the girls seem vulnerable and human…and not like the blood and money-sucking vampires we often think they are. And I think we can all agree…that’s a good thing.

I can only imagine what they think of me. I’d hate to be a fly on the wall when the idle conversation at GC turns to my sorry ass! “Dollar Bill. That dude is some mutt, huh? And that fucking blog. He’ll say anything!” Honestly, I’d be lucky if it were that good.

Anyway…I just got a call from KANA (646-255-3203) who has returned from her long hiatus…and she informs me new pix will be forthcoming shortly. In the meantime, here’s yesterday’s effort. Both AUTUMN and HONEY were agreeable photos subjects as well as people. No diva shit going on at all. Here they are.


Yesterday was as unremarkable a July 4th as I can remember in my 40 years of living in the East Village. I barely heard a firecracker explode let along the big fireworks dispaly now that the show takes place on the Hudson instead of the East River. Talk about a profound change from the old days.

Thirty or forty years ago, July 4th essentially began in early June as far as illegal fireworks exploding 24/7 in the 11th Street schoolyard went. Giant sonic booms punctuated by what sounded like small arms machine gun fire were commonplace every day up until the 4th whereupon locals seemingly ignited all that was left of the arsenal in honor of the country’s birth – or their pyromania. Take your choice.

Walking down the street was actually perilous on the night of the 4th as firecrackers would rain from upper story windows randomly with their flesh and bones launchers oblivious to whether they’d be causing significant hearing loss to the unfortunate people whose ears were just feet away from the ba-booms! And if you were crazy enough to walk east to the big East River display (which I was once or twice), you had virtually no chance of returning without a serious case of ringing ears. There was simply no avoiding tinnitus for the night.

As far as driving a cab was concerned, I never drove on the night of the 4th! Stories of pedestrians throwing firecrackers in the windows of New York’s fleet of mostly unairconditioned cabs was all the disincentive I needed. I value my hearing now – and I did back then as well – and knew better than to risk it by driving a fucking taxi!

The turning point for New York’s unruly July 4th mayhem came during the Giuliani administration. “Giuliani time” was a serious mother fucker in New York City. Rudy may have implemented Gestapo tactics during the era thereby ruffling a lot of feathers (including mine). But you have to admit that he ushered in the new era of law and order in the Big Apple. Before Rudy? New York was a sea of squeegee guys and sonic booms in late June and early July. But after? All gone – for real!

And it’s probably a good thing on balance. There was something to be said for New York’s rowdy personality back then. But there’s more to be said for its civility now. The days of walking the streets with your head on a swivel weren’t all that much fun and I’ll take our relative safety today over having say…squeeze through windows and live sex shows on 42nd Street. Alas, I must be getting old. If only we could have the squeeze though windows and our newfound safety and quiet. That would be awesome. What are ya gonna do? Whatever…I liked that you could hardly tell it was July 4th in the East Village last night. I’ve seen and heard enough fireworks to know what they look and sound like. No big deal.

Several years back, I had a bad habit of writing things on this blog (and in a couple of tabloid magazines) that did not meet with the girls’ approval. I felt that I was revealing juicy behind-the-scenes info guys would be interested in knowing. They felt I was divulging their secrets.

And sooo..over time I became my own censor, constantly thinking to myself  “don’t say anything about this…and don’t write about that” to the point that a lot of the good stuff met the cutting room floor – so to speak. While I knew the back stories were worthy, I didn’t want to incur the ire of the girls – most of whom were Korean. Well…I was doing pretty well on the discretion front – at least for a while. But this week the shit hit the fan with a group of girls I fear want to hate me.

About a week or so ago, I wrote an entry describing a latina spinner in very favorable terms. At least three times, I referred to how attractive she was but did slip that at one point the girl gained weight and needed to shed a few pounds. Overall, the post was 90% favorable. But that didn’t matter. Ms. Honey girl seized that 10% she found offensive and now refuses to talk to me. Forget that I did her a big favor by informing the reading public about her new whereabouts. That escaped the woman entirely! What are ya gonna do? It’s the old no good deed goes unpunished.

Then yesterday, the same place hired a new employee…a girl whose pictures I’d taken maybe two to three years ago. After doing a little conferring with the boss, it was established that they’d post a Backpage ad so I could check out her current photos and then make my decision as to which images to use on this blog. If I felt the new ones were better than mine, I’d use them. And if not? I’d use mine. This seemed like a fair compromise. After all, people aren’t on this blog so their phone doesn’t ring. It’s here so it does ring! And I want to use the images I think will work best!

Well anyway…her new photos are not to my liking. First, they’re shot too close so body parts are cut off. I hate that type of photography most of the time and this time was not an exception. And second, the pics were very yellow as in…the skin tones were way off. And thus, I went into the archives…found the best photo…blurred her face…smoothed her skin…and did a little nip and tuck here and there to produce what I thought was a good image.

Within minutes, my phone rang with the boss yelling at me. The prevailing consensus among the girls was that my “hoarding” old photos was creepy – and to take down what I’d posted immediately. Of course, the real reason I keep everything is so it’s available if and when the girl pops up somewhere and doesn’t have photos – or decent photos – to use for the new owner. Talk about being misunderstood. It’s an act of responsibility…and not obsession. And if it were the latter, I’d be obsessed by literally hundreds or girls many of whose names I wouldn’t remember if the pics weren’t labeled so I can find them when the need arises! Does that sound like a stalker? Get over yourselves!

I called their old employer (both of the aforementioned girls had worked for the same person previously) to vent about the situation and her comment was “oh my God. Don’t bother. You can’t make those girls happy.” I took her word as gospel and won’t be showing my ass up at that joint anytime soon. I did my thing hooking this girl up (at least in my eyes) and some thanks I got.

The funny thing is that when I discovered girl #1 was working at this place and posted a couple of her old pix a few weeks back, she got business! And…she’s still using those old photos to make the phone ring. No mention of that, naturally. Oh well.

At times, I have been indiscreet on this blog, saying stuff I probably shouldn’t have divulged. But in this case and on balance, I do much more building up than tearing down – and often get misunderstood in the process.

Most mornings I awaken with the usual on my mind: who I’d want next to me so I could roll over and have sex with her. It might sound sad that there is nobody there to roll over and have sex with. But fair is fair. Whoever she might be, more than likely I wouldn’t want her sleeping in my bed with me anyway. I’d just want her to mysteriously appear at the perfect moment and then disappear shortly thereafter. Talk about unrealistic expectations. It’s why I wake up alone almost every morning.

The parade of women who flit through my mind as candidates for the wake up ball consists of girls I’ve already experienced. It almost never includes a fictitious icon or even somebody I’ve been fantasizing about. Why dream of what might be when there are so many “been there and done that’s” who I’d like another go with. I’ll think of Judy’s strong and shapely legs and how I’d like them wrapped around me. Or maybe Lisa’s round and oh so jiggly booty. Or Cindy’s big chest. Or Gina’s incredible massages. Or Connie’s beautiful face. Each woman has her strong and weak points. Regardless, all rate by me. Without hesitation, I can hug and kiss each of them with no reservations. I like being intimate with one and all.

I may awaken alone every morning…and some people would say “that’s pitiful.” And maybe it is. But I get variety – like crazy. And I get it with no guilt associated. I’m a single guy…a confirmed bachelor. And I can come and go as I please and fantasize and even have sex with as many women as I want – or can handle.
Recently, one of the girls I think about – and have been with on more than a few occasions – couldn’t believe that I’ve never been married and have no children. I have a pat answer for the question as to why I’m still single: “Nobody will have me.” It’s not really true – but it’s a good response.

“Who’s going to take care of you when you’re old?” she went on actually concerned for my welfare. This is not a question I haven’t thought about. And then I consider my brother and cousins – a significant percentage of whose children barely speak to their parents. Not good! I want to smack them around (the kids that is) and scream “after all so-and-so has done for you you have the nerve to excommunicate your parents?” What the fuck?!?!

I actually can imagine being hooked up with one woman. If it were the right woman, I it might be OK. But the thought of getting matrimonially involved, having kids, eventually losing interest in my wife, and then going to pros for workouts seems so depressing – and immoral! I couldn’t stand it. I’d feel guilty…and trapped…and just plain lost. And so I opt for the good life – as I see it.
A long time ago, I had a co-worker/colleague who sold ads with me at Action magazine. Howard was a good family man with a not-too-attractive wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs. He used to tell me “Billy! You have no life.” And I would answer “True enough…but it seems to be the life everybody I know wants.”

It’s a double-edged sword I guess. My life – or non-life – has its good and bad points. But it’s the life I’ve chosen and if I don’t like it, I have nobody to blame but myself. And being a grownup, I take full responsibility.

There’s a girl down at the Soup Kitchen who is clearly showing an interest in me. She’s of mixed heritage, educated, has a good job, and is probably half my age – though she doesn’t realize it. Our rapport is free-and-easy. And organic. And though not a bombshell, she’s pretty easy on the eyes. While I’m almost excited at the prospect, I can’t put out of my mind the reality that I’ll have to lie about a lot of stuff to pursue this prospective relationship – and deal with the guilt associated with continuing my non-monogamous lifestyle.

After all, if we hook up in some meaningful way, what am I supposed to say to my friend in Florida when she wants to come stay for a couple of days? And what about the pro who sat on the end of the bed for 30 minutes after time was up just to tell me about herself – and ask me why I’ve never been married?

It’s a strange thing that society dictates that you can (and often should) have as many friends as you want. But you can only be intimate with one of them. Does that make sense? Anyway…what do I know? I just go with the flow. Who knows? Maybe in five years I’ll wake up with a wife by my side. Not likely. But it is what it is and it’s the life I’ve chosen. And so, I’ll call it the good life. The glass is half full. Why not?

If you think “bootylicious” isn’t really a word, just look it up in the Oxford Dictionary. It’s there but the funny thing is…the meaning is wrong. According to Oxford, bootylicious means “sexually attractive.”  I beg to differ. “Bootylicious” means the girl’s got an attractive butt. It could be big…or round…or smooth…or jiggly…or whatever. But the word is descriptive of a specific body part. You wouldn’t say a girl with a big chest and no ass was “bootylicious” even if you found her sexual attractive. How could the good people at Oxford blow that? Oh well. I guess they’re even lamer than I am! But then again…if you look up “ratchet,” I bet the definition will be “a tool.” What does Oxford know anyway?

One thing I did notice in Destiny’s Child’s video though: Those girls are not bootylicious. None of them has anything in the rear – or the front for that matter. They’re all arms and legs. Those girls look like track stars…and not the ones you used to see at “The Point.” And speaking of “The Point”…anybody remember those good old days?

I was not a consumer there. But late one night back when I was a cabby, a guy flagged me down from Midtown asking to go to the Hunts Point Market. He was one of the guys who worked with fruit – at the market. Man, did I get an eyeful or what? Now that was a place to find a bootylicious babe! Or a breast-a-licious babe. Or just a naked babe! Half those girls wore almost nothing at all! And the proliferation! Hunts Point made Manhattan’s 11th Avenue in the 30′s and 40′s look minor league. Too many trollops…too little time!

Years later I came to find out that The Point was a union shop of sorts. If you wanted to work the main stroll, a girl had to have a pimp. If she chose to be an indy, Miss Honey would have to stroll on the fringes away from the madding crowd. Go figure! Who’d have thought The Point was a study in labor relations?
Moving on…this World Cup shit is leaving me totally flaccid (or even more flaccid). And with basketball over (at least the NBA version), there’s no sports to watch for this guy – at least for a month when the NFL preseason begins. I hope I can hold out that long!

So to fill the time I read a lot. Just finished Andy Rooney’s book of 154 hare-brained essays. In it he complains about editors and specifically – copy editors. Anybody who’s ever written a published article knows what he’s talking about as all authors think what they submit is perfect. But here’s the funny part: Andy admits that his copy editor found two instances in which Andy used the word “principal” instead of “principle.” Ironic that he should mention that because among many typos in his book, I found one instance in which he uses “here” instead of “hear”…and another where “their” appears instead of “there.”

It seems Andy’s copy editor isn’t much better than he is! Of course, I have my own share of errors so I shouldn’t talk. But then again…I don’t have a copy editor. But if I did, I’d expect him (or her) to find those types of errors. And actually, I find an error or two in almost every book I read nowadays. Maybe I missed my calling and should have been a proofreader. Whatever…I’m tickled that even after a manuscript passes through at least two additional hands that books can still go to print with errors. But what’s the difference? Nobody buys books anymore. So why would a Publisher pay anybody more than a few bucks to proofread the text? And that’s why so many new books have typos and errors.

And finally…a “where’s the beef moment?’ Hey Destiny’ Child! If you’re gonna taunt guys about not being able to handle you because your body’s too bootylicious, ya might wanna have some booty! Those chicks are all arms, legs, hair and makeup. Hey! I don’t tell y’all my body’s too dick-a-licious for ya babe. And I wouldn’t even if I had 14 inches. But come to think of it…look who Beyonce married. That’s like the ugliest dude ever .With all that money and million dollar hair and makeup, I’d have thought she could do better!



Once upon a time the great majority of women aspired to present an aura of class, refinement and distinction. And if they wanted to convey some sort of sexual heat, it would be more of the smoldering variety than of the overt. Nobody wanted to portray herself as an outright slut. And thus, popular music would boast hits the likes of “Behind Closed Doors” to deliver the message. Regular women were reserved – and only whores were sluts. But that all changed over time. And a lot of it had to do with the  R & B musical genre. Ever wonder how it came to pass that women of color (and their female admirers who aspire to be “ghetto”) started bragging on being “freaks” and then twerking in yo’ face to prove it? 

Well…two seminal vehicles did the job. First is a song (and video) named “Don’t Cha” performed by the Pussycat Dolls. And the second is Destiny’s Child’s “Body Too Bootylicious.” Along with the film “The Players Club,” these two videos turned being an outright booty-shakin’, ass twerking, cock sucking slut into mainstream culture. Whether this is a good or bad development is a matter of opinion – and not the theme of today’s entry. I simply offer the two following videos a insight into the culture for geezers like me who inexplicably find young women of color titillating. That’s not to say that young black girls think I’m cool because they don’t. They think I’m ratchet. 

And I think I know more about how they got the way they are than they do. Ya know…it’s the old “youth is wasted on the young” adage and “ya never know where you’re going until you’ve already gotten there and left” (just made that up). Anyway…here are the two culture-defining videos. Enough of my blather. Let the nuvo-sluts speak for themselves. In #1, Beyonce and Company taunt the listener “I don’t think you ready for this jelly cause my body too bootylicious for ya babe,” while the Pussycat Dolls purr “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?” Not exactly subtle…but effective nonethleless.


Hypocrisy and the people who live that life rate way down my list. “Practice what you preach” I always say. It might be a tired old cliche…but it makes sense to me. Like my old buddy Sully down at the Village Idiot 20 years back. He used to rage about the “faggots.” Then one night at 4 AM, I spied him negotiating with a tranny hooker as I crossed 14th Street looking for a fare in my cab. What the fuck is that?!?! Or Elliot Spitzer busting escort services while he alternately patronized them when he was off duty.

Well yesterday, I was doing a little research on a businessman who robbed me for tens of thousands of dollars via fake rates and rate hikes at NY Magazine and the Village Voice, and declared bankruptcy effectively beating the Village Voice and Bergen Record for $250,000 each and the NY Press for $58,000…only to come back the next day as a different agency with a puppet as its head. In his Linkedin page, he claims  “I go by the notion that you reap what you sow in every part of your life. In the end, it all catches up to you, good or bad.” He goes on to say “when greed is a by-product in the pursuit of profits, this is where I draw the line.” is this a fucking joke? Yeah, tell me that shit again you slick scum bag mother fucker. As if!

What’s worse is I came to discover that he’s contrived yet another bull shit hustle for which he has won awards and media acclaim! And all the while nobody seems to notice  how miserably he failed as an adult ad agency…nor how much he beat his media outlets for when clearly, he never went out of business in the first place…but simply shut down and reorganized to avoid paying his bills. And while his puppet (at agency #2) was a sieve head beyond comprehension – and not a hypocrite (except that he was fucking and falling in love with escorts all while married), he committed a venal sin I won’t even begin to describe here.

But fuck the puppet. This is about the hypocrite. If the Law of Karma actually does apply, you can count on an afterlife of splitting rocks on a chain gang in 150 degree heat at a dollar an hour until you pay off every media outlet you fucked so you could continue to live your silver spoon existence. This schmuck used to brag that he grew up next to Richard Nixon and threw a football with him in the back yard when he was a tyke. And that ought to tell ya something right there. Richard Nixon. Now there’s a paragon of integrity for ya.

Anyway…just seeing what this asshole is up to pissed me of to the point where I had to say something today. Oh the hypocrisy! He’ll get his…or he won’t. All’s I hope is that he’s reading this and squirming in his fucking seat in the knowledge that if nobody else is aware…I know that he’s a big fucking hypocrite.

I’ve often wondered what exactly it is about female escorts that makes an inordinate percentage of them bisexual. Are they super horny and just want to get down with everybody? Or is it all the competition they encounter working at houses that makes them resolve the conflict by simply coupling up with another girl who has one particular asset she herself wishes were hers?

Whatever…whether a large percentage of escorts are bisexual is virtually beyond debate. After almost 18 years of dealing with the girls, I can say unequivocally that a) I’ve met a statistically significant sampling and b)…that many do have sex with women as well as men.

Recently, I was fooling around with a girl who told me in no uncertain terms that she liked women as well as men. In fact what she really said was that she seeks men out for relationships…and women for love! It’s women she falls in love with! Maybe 10 days ago during a conversation, the girl informed me that she had to get off the phone as she was being rude to her new “roommate” who had just moved in. The roommate is a girl she once worked with out in Brooklyn. I got the idea that maybe there was more to this deal than roommateship. And sure enough, that was the last time I spoke with her. I can guess what happened.

I told this little anecdote to somebody who asked about her and the response was “you were going out with so-and-so? You know she’s gay, right?” I feel complimented that at least for a hot minute, this girl had swung to the other side with me. But alas, her true colors came shining through. What are ya gonna do?

I relate all this bi crap today because last night I was mingling with some girls  during which time I met the “husband” of one of them (the husband was a woman)…and listened to another intellectualize the difference between having having semen versus “pussy juice”  on her face and in her mouth. For her, PJ was preferable. I did not inquire as to her sexual orientation. I didn’t need to!

Well anyway…I have to go now as I’m hoping to take a day in the country. But before I do here’s a pic of a new girl at BUNNIES NYC (212-470-7347) named EMILY (I did not take this pic)..and one of ABBY I did take!

I was always a big Andy Rooney fan. He was the reason I watched “60 Minutes.” It didn’t matter that sometimes, the stories which proceeded his two minutes bored me to death. Just so I got my quick Andy fix, I’d stick around through thick and thin. And come to think about it…where the fuck did the expression “through thick and thin” come from? Did it originally mean that a guy stuck with his significant other while he cheated with skinny and fat girls alike? Seems like a logical explanation.

Anyway…you can tell I’m adopting (or plagiarizing…call it what you will) Andy’s style today. It gets tough to write this blog on a daily basis. Observations about nothing (which is what I call Andy’s shtick) seems like as good a course as any to take. It worked for Andy! Maybe it’ll work for me! Sp today…I ruminate on the term, facial.

Now without looking it up, I’m pretty sure the term’s origin has to do with applying creams and such to one’s face to keep it looking young, vibrant an lustrous. It’s a perfect ruse for the cosmetics industry. Manufacture a cream designed to “relieve your chapped face” and you could charge maybe a buck a bottle. But market a substance which gives you a soothing “facial?” That stuff costs like ten bucks an ounce!

We got what facials were and understood the hustle behind calling it just that for a while. But then Marv Albert came along and introduced basketball fans to a new meaning: cumming on one of his tranny hooker’s faces! Just kidding. From the sound of it, he came on female hooker’s faces as well. OK! Kidding again! Post Marv, we now have a second meaning for “facial.” A facial occurs when a basketball player dominates his opponent and then triumphantly stuffs the ball in the basket effectively emasculating not just the guy guarding him…but his whole team, organization and fan base. What a coup for the word “facial!” When did it get so powerful? One day it simply moisturizes a woman’s face. And the next? It can de-ball a 6′ 9″ paragon of them male homosapien. Now that’s goin’ some!

Finally, the word “facial” reached it s pinnacle when the recently ubiquitous porn medium once again reinvented the wheel when somebody decided it would be cool to film a guy ejaculating all over his partner’s face. In the old days of porn, nobody ever heard of that kind of facial. Guys came in a girl’s vagina or in her mouth. ya know…like normal people do. But that wasn’t visual enough for the porn-producing/watching world. Cumshots were born and then as a matter of evolution…the facial!

Blccch! If I were a chick, I’m sure I’d be a big slut. I’d have a different guy for every day of the week and two for Sunday. Unless there was a good ball game on! Then I might just stick with one. But I would draw the line at facials. As in “Dude! You can pound me all night long! But if you try and cum on my face, I’ll cut your balls off!”

And I know I’ve covered this before…but what does it say about a girl who likes guys to cum on her face? And similarly, what does it say about a guy who likes to cum on a girl’s face? Recently asked how she keeps her face so youthful, Heather Locklear cited semen (not applied out of a bottle) as her secret. And who’s on heather’s list of old boyfriends? Misogynist rock stars, that’s who! Clearly (at least to me), Heather likes dominant rogue males. And isn’t letting a guy cum on your face the ultimate submission statement? (Take me, stud. Have your every which way with me!”) Mind you…I like Heather Locklear. If she wants to retain her youthful appearance by having semen applied to her face via cannon shots, who am I to judge?

On the other side of the coin is the guy who likes to shoot on a girl’s face. Probably not the same guy who buys you flowers and chocolate on Valentine’s Day. More likely, he’s the guy who fucks your friend on Valentine’s Day. It’s just roguish and disrespectful behavior.

As for me…I had one kinky girlfriend who requested I cum on her face. I pretended to be deaf for a while but eventually, had to give her what she wanted. So I assumed the dominant position (perched above her head as she lay flat on her back anxiously awaiting her treatment) and proceeded to shoot directly into her left ear! With whom the fault lay was irrelevant. The girl never made that request again. I guess a shot in the ear is as uncomfortable as a shot in the eye. Or maybe she just figured out that I wasn’t a cum-on-your-face  kind of guy!

Regardless….facials! I can’t wait to discover what the word will mean in its next incarnation given the colorful turn it’s taken since its inception. Adn there’s my Andy Rooney style essay for today. But before I go…I was over at DREAM GIRL NY (646-276-0229) yesterday and met STAR and HEAVEN for the first time. Cut girls! Young, too. I liked both but favored Heaven! Nothing beats a pretty face (or is it a great pair of legs? Who cares?) And Heaven is a super pretty girl!

Added to their roster, you’ll note BECCA is now on staff. Great picture for sure. Unfortunately, she was in the room when I arrived so I didn’t get to meet her. Here’s her best pic before I go.



Ya gotta love New York if for no other reason than it has to be the meanest and most ornery city on the planet. Talk about cold and unfriendly…check it out!

So I’m riding my bike up First Avenue yesterday on my way to 53nd Street to take pictures. I know from experience that if I can get a jump on the 23rd Street red light (meaning traffic clears so I can proceed before it actually turns green), I can get “greens” all the way through 30th Street and then coast unabated to 34th (there are no cross streets by the hospital) and get mo’ greens all the way to 39th or 40th Street. And as such I generally stop in the cross walk at 23rd rather than before it…so I can get that jump.

Generally, I don’t get in any pedestrian’s way via doing this…but yesterday was different. As I checked right and left for traffic and people whose way I might be impeding, I locked eyes with an old coot who called me “asshole”…and then continued “two assholes” before I could react. I looked behind me to see that another bicyclist, a scruffy/hippy-looking 20-something dude on a girls’ bike had in tandem with yours truly effectively blocked this infirm man’s way.

Like the considerate citizen I am, I shifted my bike to run parallel to the crosswalk so the man could pass. After all, he did have a point. We were blocking his way…and he was a significantly slow-moving and old individual who was about to get stuck in the crosswalk when the light turned because of two bicyclists breaking the rules. Despite, I was planning to criticize the guy for his lack of diplomacy…but the second bike rider beat me to it.

“Fuck you, old man,” was his sensitive rejoinder to the geezer’s foul-mouthed salvo. For his part, the geriatric was no shrinking violet. Four letter words spewed from his mouth as he swung his cane barely missing the 20 something guy!

“Why aren’t you dead yet?” continued the young man (nice)! To that the old man swung again and this time caught the kid in the back pack. And I gotta tell ya…the old guy swung a pretty mean cane for someone who could barely walk. If he’d caught the kid across the bridge of the nose for example, I have no doubt the kid would have had a broken nose.

Anyway…the light changed and everybody proceeded without further physical incident though a few more “fuck you”s echoed through the canyons of Manhattan East. I said nothing during this entire exchange but did commiserate with my fellow bicyclist as we rode up First Avenue…mostly about how such an infirm old man could risk his well-being when he essentially would have been almost completely defenseless in a fight once the other protagonist had grabbed hold of his cane.

And then it struck me. Twenty third Street and First Avenue is the location of the VA hospital…and more than likely, the old guy was a veteran – probably of WWII – coming from what must have been a very frustrating experience at the VA. Yup! I guess it doesn’t get more bitter than an old vet wishing he were young again so he could cross the street before traffic would mow him down because he just can’t get his body moving like it used to say…on Iwo Jima.

Fucked up! I hope I’m not that ornery when I get to be that guy’s age. That would be horrible. Just inching my way across intersections and telling everybody in my way they’re fucking assholes. Ah! Such a tender moment – New York style. What are ya gonna do? Guess I better go fornicate while I still can. Or maybe feed a homeless guy. Or maybe both – but not at the same time.

I don’t expect that escorts actually tune into this blog. And if they do, it would be to view the pictures rather than read what I (or anybody else) has to say. But just recently, not one…not two…but three girls refuted that presumption. KAYLA, NATALIE and SOLANGE (all who work or worked at GC) check me out  - at least occasionally.

Now I’m well aware that this platform isn’t as “blingy” as the 0ld one whose appearance was more or less like the hot Puerto Rican female drug dealers who used to sell their product on my block. And that is to say, they – and the old blog – were very “pastely.”  I had no problem using purple, lime, turquoise and any other color that might make the blog “pop.” Whether I was overdoing it was immaterial. Like the dealers, it was purple spandex, lime-colored shoes and pink halter tops all the way. I mean…why not? This is an escort blog, right?

But with this platform, the availability of all that color is minimized. Whether I want to or not…I can’t “bling it up” as much as before. And that reality came to the attention of Natalie and Kayla who both commented that they liked the old blog better. Given that the content hasn’t changed…and the pictures are actually bigger and splashier than before, I can only deduce that the absence of all the bling is what they’re missing. What are ya gonna do?

Fortunately, there are readers who’ve e-mailed that they like the new look…which I assume means that they’re responding positively to the larger sidebar pix and still prominent photos in the entries. So who knows? The traffic is about the same and I guess that’s what really matters. Style comes and goes but substance remains the great equalizer. You can dress a woman in all different kinds of clothing and predictably, some guys will be seduced by the outerwear while others will undress the girl with their eyes and get to the substance. And so it goes with blog readers as well I’d imagine.

The significant difference in this platform is the comment function. Now your comments come with an e-mail and ip address revealed. And that has reduced commentary by like 90%! I know blogs live and die by their comments…but I don’t give a shit about that. I grew very tired of people taking anonymous pot shots at me or the girls on the sidebar. It was really unattractive…and I’m happy to jettison the flak. There were some major psychos commenting on the old blog who are now silent in the knowledge that their threats etc. can be tracked to them.

At some point, I might go for the “premium” package this platform has for sale. And I assume that package will enable me to “bling it up” if I so desire. But for the moment, I’ll stay stark and hope that fly girls like Kayla and Natalie will understand that I don’t need a push-up bra to impress my readers in much the same way that they don’t need a push-up bra to impress me! How I feel about them is less about what they’re wearing and more about how we relate interpersonally. And if ya believe that…I got some ocean front property in Arizona I’d like to sell ya! But really…this platform is working for me just fine and thus, I have no plans on changing it in the near future.

With virtually nothing to write about today, I think I’ll comment on our favorite sports: soccer, baseball, hockey, and basketball. And not necessarily in that order.

First…congratulations to the San Antonio Spurs and their amazingly dominant performance agains the Miami Heat. I’ve become a big basketball fan in the past few years. And that’s for a couple of reasons. Like for one…the athletes are incredibly skilled. And second, they score a lot! It may sound crazy…but I like a sport with a lot of scoring! I mean…who wants to watch a skin flick for 90 minutes when there’s only 3 minutes of fornicating and 87 minutes of foreplay/filler? What the fuck is that?!?!

And that leads me to why I couldn’t give two shits about the World Cup. There’s almost no scoring in soccer!  Yesterday, a big game ended in guess what score! You got it. No score…as in 0-0! Talk about a porno with no sex! Who wants to watch that?

As a youth, I played all sports. You name it…basketball, baseball, football, track, street hockey and even riflery (if you want to call that a sport). But not fucking soccer. Hated it! Too much running…not enough scoring. My super is Peruvian. He lives for soccer. But then again…he’s the biggest asshole I know. That ought to tell you something right there! And what about the soccer fans? Fanatics! They brawl and kill each other for fun. Savages. Soccer…feh!!

On to baseball. Snore! Too many fucking games. But there is a silver lining. A ball game is an excellent sleep inducer. All I gotta do is lay down in front of the tv while a ball game is on and it’s lights out for this guy. If the Yankees or Mets are in the playoffs? I’ll watch. Otherwise…I’d better have nothing to do or there’s no chance I’ll watch even the World Series.

And finally…hockey. I tried to watch at least part of a Ranger game or two during the finals. I was bored. No fights? No scoring? What’s the point? Hockey suffers the same fate as soccer in the USA. Again…not enough scoring. Widen the goals. Do something!

Anyway…this rant all make sense in this blog’s context because when it comes to our favorite indoor sport (wink, wink), it’s all about scoring. First base…second base…third base? Yeah, they’re great. But what we all wanna do is score! That’s the point. Best of all…when you go to an incall, the fix is in. You’re gonna score! It’s like fishing in an overstocked lake. Hard to miss! You’re gonna catch a fish! Yup, it’s all about scoring with us guys (or this guy). And that’s why all you season ticket holders can keep your hockey and soccer tickets. No scoring…I’m not interested. I’d rather hit my favorite oasis or read a good book for that matter. Any sport in which you rarely score just isn’t for me! What more can I say?

Well…it’s not exactly IBM joining Apple – or Time Warner merging with Verizon. But there it was in an ad on Backpage. ASIAN PARADISE in the title/headline…and NYC ASIAN MODELS the link to their site in the ad body! And if there were any doubt, it was all removed by the listed phone number (347-256-8137)… the old Asian Paradise number.

And so…I called up to find the old phone girl from Paradise on the other end and went over to catch up on the ipsada (Korean for gossip). Sure enough, the old owner from 38th Street has taken over at Asian Models.OK! That’s great! But what about da goils? That’s what we’re here for!

While none of your old faves has returned, I’m happy to report that two new girls (BIBI and MIMI) are currently on staff. Both have come from California and neither has been to New York before. Probably not too much of a culture shock for the duo as they’ve conveniently landed smack dab in the middle of Koreatown (where AM/PARADISE is located). Thus, there is no shortage of Koreans or their native cuisine right outside their door.

The girls themselves are of the cute/geisha variety (I met them both)…as opposed to the type that would go out to a ghetto club…break a bottle over some other girl’s forehead…and then go home with a thug. Not their style at all! They are both very quiet and refined – or at least they were when I met them.

Whatever…judge for yourselves. Here’s da goils of AM/PARADISE! Welcome one and all (or both).