I So Want My Own Column.

8 Sep

At the suggestion of a “friend” I sent things out (prematurely?) to publishers and literary agents.
I heard back from one lone agent who said, “would you be interested in a reality show from your perspective?”

My “friend” thinks this is a good idea.

I say it will ruin any and all possibility of being respected, married, carrying out anything resembling a real life.

My filler gigs would merely be d-level celebrity style poster signings at the annual porn convention in Vegas every year.

Not my idea of a good time. My tits aren’t even big enough to be at a booth in a porn convention, nor am I tan enough.

Besides, I asked my mom,
“What do you think about a reality show of me brothel-hopping?”
and at first she thought it was good.
Then she gave it more thought.
And she said as she was leaving for her trip today,
“I don’t think your brothel status being on TV is a good idea.”

When mom says no, the answer is really no.

A couple weeks ago however, Katrina put me in this crazy stripper outfit at work and I donned Red Lipstick and they said all I needed was a cape to make my “SuperHooka!” costume complete. Which makes me think, that I wanna be a form of SuperHooka.

“BROTHEL BABE, answers your sex and relationship mysteries!
Brothel Babe saves the day!”

So today, I wrote a magazine editor from my hometown.
Earlier in the day I asked, “Who is this editor fellow?”
to my girlfriend…and she explained who he was.
Turns out we are friends on facebook (he’s probably reading this now and I am mortified….GOD.)
I remember seeing photos of him before.
Which makes me think…I would have only scanned photos of him
if I crushed on him at one time,
or if he trash talked my other life in print……
Which people have been known to do about the “real me.”

Or maybe I only looked him up some years ago wondering who the hell he was, because he was supposed to be a “somebody” and I always tend to research my local “somebodys”.

No matter how you slice it, I can’t remember my history (if any) with this magazine editor, other than how we might have shaken hands at some downtown hipster event at one time.

I wrote him about writing a column for his magazine.
A sex column from a hooker’s perspective.

He responded with a run down of who (from my hometown) is for and against prostitution…saying nobody would be liberal enough to have Brothel Babe have her own sex advice column.

Sigh. đŸ˜¦
Well, looks like I have to start posting my food recipes soon, because I am running out of shit to talk about.

Another interesting story:
I called up one of my former idols (he is all uppity in the hipster scene) a couple weeks ago because that professional gambler I met at work, who said he could make me famous?
He said he knew the guy, who is my idol.

Yes I just happen to have my idol’s phone number in my phone.  I have a BFF who is a major socialite.  Even when I lost my phone, The gods served me well and I ran into my idol at the grocery store, of all places.

Two weeks after I left the message with my idol, he is about to head overseas and he CALLS ME to say that no,
he does not know this “millionaire” in question. Never heard of the guy.

“How did you meet this fellow?”

He asks.
“At my work.”
“Where do you work?’
“A brothel.”
“You are one of the ladies?”
I say.

“Very interesting!” he says.
Then he says he is immediately going to call one of his socialite people who is a publicist for people like me,
saying that if I came “out with my job…admitted what I was doing” that it would be an overnight success to fame. Or infamy. Depending on how you look at it.

He said,
“You could probably quit your job if you wanted to, at the very least.”
Oh what a dream that would be.
How then, would I finish a book?
What…or WHO….would I do with all that free time? Beats me.

Why I felt the need to tell my idol what I do for a living is beyond me.
I guess I know that he has tried to sleep with every gal on the planet and every gal has tried to sleep with him.

The last time we spent any time together, I even made him shake my hand , and we made a “deal” on it, that we wouldn’t try to fuck each other.

But look at me now. My how times have changed.

I kind of wish that magazine editor knew who I was.
The reply was so intelligent. Sigh.

P.S. I head back to work tomorrow. Double Sigh.


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