Archive for September, 2012

September 21, 2012



That ship done sailed years ago….


Whore’s Baths

September 11, 2012

I can see myself having a similar meltdown, considering my lighteaded calorie counting status of late. By the way, as a lady who often bathes without getting my long hair wet, I’ve taken whore’s baths as long as I can remember. I prefer the term bird bath, thank you.

Stop the Hipster Madness!

September 10, 2012

Seen on the N train this morning.

What’s this dude’s deal? Is he trying to resemble some kind of New York City literary great of yore?

Does he realize the title of his old-school Signet Classic is too small to read from my seat, thus failing to impress me? I’m willing to bet it’s one of those outdated prints marked 69 cents, likely found at a Brooklyn rummage sale. Perhaps he scored it at the estate sale of a tortured writer who killed himself and now he gets to brag about having all the original underlines and notes taken by said troubled soul. How deep.

Yes, dear gentleman and scholar, I did notice you were about 95% through with the book. Bravo. Have you actually read the book three times already and just ride around staring at page 450 hoping it will trigger a conversation you are so well-versed and rehearsed in?

As a blogger, I have love for plenty of hipster types, provided they’re not too self important. Seeing people like this dude make such glaringly obvious effort incurs more gag reflex than trying to deep throat Dirk Diggler.

Save me a seat at the Algonquin table, guy. And have a dry martini made with an obscure, Hemingway-endorsed, gin ready.

The Throwaways

September 5, 2012

This article in the New Yorker really resonated with me. I’ve never heard of strippers or escorts being forced to comply with authorities in the way drug offenders are pressured to lead cops to bigger fish, but if any readers refer me to stories along those lines, I’d appreciate it.

The Throwaways cites multiple examples of small time drug offenders, all very young, giving cops way more help than called for at risk of their lives. One such offender was caught selling a whopping eight methadone pills after forming a painkiller addiction that got him in trouble. Eight stupid opiate pills and he lost his life for snitching.

The general public tends to side with police and I think that’s because we blindly trust them to deal with all the ills out there and alleviate the burden from us, the taxpayers. But the volatile relationship between exploited minor drug offenders and cops draws many parallels to sex workers.

The title The Throwaways says it all; once you make the choice to get involved in drugs, either as an addict or dealer, or sell sex in some way, you become a throwaway in the eyes of mainstream society. I appreciated that the article used a white, middle class college graduate as a key example, because, let’s face it, the more similar to ourselves (the judgmental middle class), the more we’ll take it to heart.

In other news, I recently saw For a Good Time Call…. and enjoyed it. Yes, they make the work look like easier, quicker cash than it likely is, montage style. But other than that annoyance, I was glad it didn’t pander to too many chic flick cliches, or involve overdramatized lessons learned. Overall, I thought it was a positive example of women being free with their sexuality in a productive, profitable way, and phone sex was a good route to take, since mainstream culture takes more kindly to it than (God forbid) sex work involving human contact.

I also saw Midnight Cowboy on Netflix without knowing the plot ahead of time. It was awesome! John Voight’s sexy-as-fuck character moves to New York and tries in vain to hustle rich women. His exploits reminded me very much of my early stripping days, when I was a piss-poor hustler, as well as my shitty attempts to use Sugar Daddy dating websites. It’s not overly depressing, but when Voight’s character, Joe, gets desparate and fed up with being jerked around by poseur Johns (and female Johns whatever those are called), the way he unleashes it makes you cringe. Joe gets stiffed too many times to count and toward the end, finally confesses to his partner in crime, Dustin Hoffman’s “Ratso” (Rizzo), “I’m no kinda hustler.” The film demonstrates how difficult it was to “talk business” for escorts before the internet era, as well as how tough it is to collect pay for play when you have no legal recourse (that’s still the case, but although escorts can’t run to law enforcement about an unpaid tab, they can blacklist you among themselves.)

For all the discussion about sex work, I don’t think many people talk about how depressing it is to cross that taboo line and realize you’re no good at it; to throw in the towel before you even pay off a credit card or make that month’s rent. I have felt that way and had my desperate moments. That’s why I gave up on sugar daddy dating sites and made a point to work at strip clubs where the customers were more likely to appreciate me (i.e. the Italian types in Staten Island compared with the 22 year old black guys in Queens who think I look old.)

(John Voight’s Joe gets stiffed by a guy he picked up on 42nd St. who lied about having money. He tries to take his worthless watch and is even talked down from that cause the guy says “my mom will die if I come home without it!”)
Bob Balaban Jon Voight Midnight Cowboy 8x10 1969