Tag Archives: fml

Real Life Dickwad of The Week

30 Oct

(Disclaimer: Before anybody gets their panties in a bunch, I encourage you to read the note at the bottom where I tell you the real truth about the real me in regards to this.)

(Drumroll please)………..

You are the #1 reason for throwing off communications between me and another.
You made me want to vomit….
You have made somebody else want to vomit.
I opened my personal facebook mailbox and there was a final message from you.

You, Mr. Malicious, are the ultimate, all time, DICKWAD OF THE WEEK.
From your spikey black hair to your guyliner…down to your douchey leather jacket.

I will never work with you again.
I will NEVER write in your magazine.
I will never speak to you again.

If I’m feeling like its necessary, I will spread how malicious you are across the land, so nobody in this fucking town will ever work with you again.

Here’s what happened:
– First off…I already changed my phone number in part because of you, because you think that its appropriate to be in contact with people you “work with” at 3am. You know I’m up at 3am as a whore who works the nite shift, but in the last two months, I have only called you from a blocked number.

-Secondly, I already made a 2nd facebook profile in part because of you, because I didn’t want to make myself available for unwanted communication with you.

-I blocked you on facebook as of today, so you now have no way of contacting me again, except via email. I’ll be looking into how to block that as well.

The request to write for your magazine:

We started talking because you were offering for me to write a sex column for your magazine. Of course I would be interested.

You bring up a colleague of ours that you also want to get involved on the design side of things. I mention what a great designer this person is and how much I really like his work….and that in addition to his work (here’s what I did wrong), I also mentioned that I thought this designer was a really likable person.

Yes I admitted to liking somebody, that’s my mistake.

So…..you, Mr. Malicious…
You and I already talked candidly about sex. You know thats been like our “thing” because I’m in the industry and sex is funny. Until a few days ago, I’ve had no problems in talking about sex with you.

But then you went too far.

You said, “Oh that guy and I are friends with some of the same chicks. We’ve fucked the same chick…..he’s fucking some chick who spends time in X city. He’s a great guy. All his exes say great things about him.”

Normally, I’m not bothered by who is fucking who.
Normally, I’m fine in discussing such matters.

But for some reason, I’m pissed.
I’m pissed because suddenly you go from
“guy I can chat sex with”
to the same old formula I’ve dealt with since I was 16:

The guy that suddenly gets jealous, competitive, and tries to “talk shit” about whatever new person I like, in hopes that I’ll start to hate the new person. It’s the “if I can’t be happy, no one can!” philosophy and its ALWAYS HAPPENED between my guy friends when I so much as talk with a new guy. I don’t even have to be dating the new guy, admit to dating, or any of that. The shit talking starts when guys get jealous that I think better things of someone else than I think of them.

That’s what happened here.

What happened next:
Foolishly….I vent my anger and my frustration to my new friend about what a douche Mr. Malicious is for telling me that the two of them fucked the same chick.
I vent because I feel its necessary that he knows to avoid Mr. Malicious at all costs….and also because like any other human, I am upset when people get “all up in my biz.”

The Unfortunate Aftermath:
My new friend gets upset and whatever rhythm in our communications that had existed prior to this moment, has now completely dissolved. I was enjoying talking to my new friend. You can imagine how frustrating this must be, as an apology did not help. It wasn’t “my fault” yet I get the brunt of the aftermath. Go figure.

Looks like Mr. Malicious accomplished what he wanted:
Pure sabotage.

Mr. Malicious’ acts of jealousy don’t stop at merely bringing up some other girl.
He continues to harass me online.
I post a quote on my facebook wall.
Two hours later I find a comment from Mr. Malicious on my facebook wall….no names are named but clearly he’s “discretely” trying to bash my new friend.

A once composed Mr. Malicious is now so deep in his battle with jealousy, that he’ll do anything to ruin the good thing I have going with me and my new friend. A thing that isn’t even a “thing!” A thing that barely even got started. Mr. Malicious is just like every other “platonic guy turned monster” that I have dealt with since I was in my teens.

It gets worse.
I tell Mr. Malicious that his facebook comment was uncalled for and the harassment has to stop (he played stupid…. “what are you talking about?” he asked.)

Like any hardcore case of “I want her my way or not at all” , Mr. Malicious decides that he’s going to sabotage his friendship with me beyond repair. If I’m fucking stupid, I’ll fall for his dickwad moves and will continue to be his “friend.”

The Final Straw:
I open my personal facebook email to find a message from Mr. Malicious titled “This Chick.”

The email contains a lone photo of my new friend, drunk at some party, with this girl that he supposedly fucked at one time.

I dont even click the photo and I immediately start to cry.

To be clear, I want to tell you why I’m crying:
(More on that later.)


It reminds me of what celebrities must go through when they walk through the grocery store aisle to find a photo of somebody they are dating on the cover of a gossip magazine with a chick that isn’t them.

For all we know, that “chick” in the Brazilian bikini is their cousin.
The celebrity isn’t upset by the photo.
The celebrity is merely upset at the way the paparazzi and the media tries to interfere with their privacy and happiness.

So, Mr. Malicious.
I cut you from my life.

Now, some notes the real me:
Before all you idiot platonic guy friends embarrass yourself by putting your seething jealousy on display via “looking out for her”, I have something to say:

You really ought to explore how liberal a chick is before you “look out for her”, because its possible the chick is too liberal to care.

Unless a guy and I make a mutual agreement that we are fucking each other exclusively, I don’t care WHO THE HELL HE FUCKS up until that point.

That’s right: You guys could be fucking a chick regularly whos not me, and I won’t care, I won’t be upset, I won’t feel lied to, cheated on, or ignored.

You could go out to dinner with me, and we could have the “Exclusive Talk”, and I wouldn’t even care that earlier in the day you had mimosas at lunchtime and fucked a chicks brains out! Omit that detail. I’m fine. I won’t go digging for those kinds of details either. I am not like other girls.

I’m so goddamn cocky that honestly, I probably forgot you told me you were fucking another chick.

(Side note: I’m not admitting as to whether the above is actually true………)

Its not that I wish it were this way, but here’s the truth:
I am NOWHERE NEAR having an exclusive talk with any guy at this point in my life.

I’m smart enough to recognize that a lot of my relationships became “exclusive”
on the basis of sex, and only sex.

I want the next relationship I am in to be with a person who I like for their character.

NEWS FLASH: You can’t get to know someone for their “character” if all you are doing is fucking their brains out.

Of course boyfriends are great.
I’ve had some great ones.
I wouldn’t mind another great one.
If you’ve never had a great BF or GF, I feel bad for you as you’re really missing out.

It’s fucking great having somebody in your life who loves you, supports you, believes in you, and encourages you.

Outside of having a disgustingly successful career, there is nothing else in the world I can think of that would be cooler than having an amazing best friend to share that success with.


But….do you know what its like when you’re working super hard on your goals and dreams and somebody wants more of your time than you can afford to give?

Its fucking hell, is what it is.
I’ve got shit to do.
I’ve got shit to accomplish.
I’m going to be a busy chick in the next year, two years, five years.

I don’t know what other people do when they are “playing for keeps.” – frankly my dear, I don’t give a shit. Alls I know is that if I’m starting to feel like I might want to play for keeps….the typical rules of immediate possession and jealousy do not apply.

Go frolick.
Go go be a man.

Be a gentleman with me.

Enjoy your Dickwad award, Mr. M. I hope you rot in hell.

The Power Of Touch – Q & A with my bodyguard.

28 Oct

Q and A With THE  BABE

My body guard wants to know:
Q: “Do you think your former job has changed your view of physical contact and its expectations?”

Answer: it depends on whether I have the “hooker switch” flipped on. I’m so much better now at telling when a guy is sexually interested or aroused that “hanging out” in real life situations (at a bar, for example) can now make me very uncomfortable, if I allow it to.

Reason being, when men have nowhere to vent this uncomfortable energy, it’s much more awkward in a bar than in a brothel.

Unlike in a brothel, we can’t run down the hall to fuck.

No matter how much they say they “don’t want to”, they do, but they “don’t.” because they have “morals.” You see this catch-22 here? In brothels people process their lack of morals via having sex. In the real world, we don’t have this blessing.

When the expectation is,  “I can’t touch you, you can’t touch me” –  you end up with a lot more anger/pent up frustration than you have in a place where people can fuck freely, and immediately.

Then there is the juxtaposition of how I feel because of the imposed morals of the real world. I realize half of what I feel in wanting to touch someone is not what I actually FEEL, but what years of bibles and TV shows have made me guilty for feeling.

What the “outside world” has made me feel in regards to touch (and a lot of things), is a whole lot more conflict.

Its very exhausting:
I do (want to fuck)
But I don’t (because that would make me a ho)
but a bigger party of me simply doesn’t care
(sex is sex, I’m still a ho at heart, etc.)

I think I am a lot more capable of thinking of sex like a man.
Perhaps even more capable at it than some men are.

I see men in my life getting all emotionally open, then the subsequent fear, and the subsequent detachment.

The fear of getting hurt. See, I KNOW that when we have sex, they will love me.  They will be my biggest fan. We will be each other’s heroes. I know by merely the electricity in touching their hand that the rest of it is going to be great. Its magnetics. Touch can tell you so much.

Yet – I lack expectations.
They have a level of expectations I don’t have.
Post job, I sense this more than ever.

I can see that when I try to touch them.

Then I think,“Aww, what’s wrong? Lets go! Lets party!” But…so many men are hesitant to disconnect their brains to their bodies for the sake of doing what is a physically healthy thing to engage in.

I think the physical touch would be healthier for their spirit than sitting around and talking.

I would be less likely to abuse the power of touch, because in my business, I have been taught not to take physical touch for more than what it is.

You might wonder how its different at my old job.
Brothels have such a clear boundary line. We don’t engage in intimate touching that “real couples” engage in:
Such as….

The touching of the face.
The kiss on the lips.
Your fingernails down somebody’s arm.
Stroking somebody’s hair.
When people are only there for the sex, these physical connects are rarely made.

You then start to realize that it is THIS KIND OF TOUCHING where true bonds are formed.
Hands. Hair. Eyes. Mouths. Scalp.
Soft, slow, sensual, and sweet.

The way my views about physical touch have changed is that I know how essential it is to a loving monogamous relationship, and how much I miss it.

Its a crime when somebody you love does not want to be hugged or held.

It breaks me up inside.

In fact, it’s breaking me up right now, bodyguard, as I write this. You know with who.  Oh bodyguard. You know everything. Why can’t things be different?

P.S. My bodyguard also wants to know if dudes pay extra to squirt .
Yes they do, but I don’t squirt….so…darnit.

Apparently squirting is up to 80% urine. Ewwwwww.

How To Lose a Ho in 10 Dates or Less

23 Oct

1. Send her love songs via email and say, “Here, this song that talks about Cocaine reminds me of you.”
2. Begin a sentence with the following three words: “We’re meant to…
3. Flowers, teddybears, or chocolates
4. Talk about marriage (gag me.)
5. Take being a gentleman seriously
6. Testicle Stubble
7. Stubble in general
8. Magnum condoms on your dresser
9. Introduce her to your friends but give some convoluted back story on how you two met
10. Ask, “So, how much?”

Dear gentleman I went on a date with

12 Oct

Dear real life gentleman I went on a date with,

You know about the job I have had for the past year.
You know I fake orgasms when I get paid to do so.
In the last year or so, I’ve hit on approximately four hundred men.
I’ve slept with less than 250 but more than 100. (This is a rough estimate.)
I’ve walked down the halls with a handful of Benjamins, trying to contain my glee.
I’ve been slipped 20 dollar increments every five minutes underneath a bar, just to talk to a guy who thinks I’m too good for this business.
I gave my first and last lap dance where I got turned on by a girl.
I’ve had a dick in my mouth, and a dick below my waist at the same time…and realized that threesomes with guys take too much work.
I had my first and only lesbian experience to date. Which was also a threesome…and I realized…I don’t like crazy old lesbians.

I’ve been asked “Would you like a drink?” at least 300 times, and probably 99 of those times I have taken up the offer for a drink….and instead of getting a real alcoholic beverage, I’ve ordered fake wine, only to feign drunkenness.

I’ve been tested for STDs at least 42 times. As of three weeks ago, I can assure you that I had none, and likely still have none. I have the paperwork from Planned Parenthood to prove it.

Of all the men I’ve slept with in the last year, the most memorable one was a cab driver who I fucked on his birthday…or maybe it was the French man who I told “kissing me involves paying me double.” So he believed it, paid me double, and I was thrilled.

There was also the guy who just won at gambling, and right before Thanksgiving last year, when I had barely made any money the whole weekend, he came in.

I made more money in two hours than I had made any weekend before or since that time. He gave me something to truly be thankful for: The ability to enjoy my Thanksgiving without worrying about money.

The biggest crush I’ve had in the last year is the fellow who came in to my work who I recognized from real life.
We don’t know where our paths crossed at one point, but I genuinely liked this guy, and genuinely was interested.

Our first date was going to the brothel next door.
I sat with this young guy for hours hoping he would pay for sex.

He never did.

The security guard then told me that in real life, men are always the ones who ask the women out, so when they come to a brothel, they want a woman who takes charge. In a brothel, they want it the other way around.

Hearing him say “guys are the ones to be the dominant ones” came as a surprise to me, because I couldn’t remember the last time outside of a brothel I experienced it like that.

In my real life, I’m always the one taking charge.
Of the conquests I have had in real life, it’s been because I was the one to show some interest. Maybe they showed interest at first, but I removed all traces of doubt.

And now……NOW….I’m trying to do things differently.
I’m trying NOT to be the girl that unhooks the belt and undoes the all-too-difficult Levi’s button.
I’m trying NOT to be the first one who lets my hands foray below the waist.

I’m trying not to be a whore, and it is by far the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life.

The fact that I turned down your offer to go to your house when I was too drunk to drive was a goddamn miracle.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve turned down sex (or the potential for sex), except with the guy who has the giant creepy mustache.

So I’m handing the torch over to you, dear gentleman.

Please be the whore first and save me from miles of agony.

If you will unbutton the first button, deal with the unruly jeans, unclasp the first hook, and give me the experience of what it feels like to be a normal girl,

I might hate attempting to be normal….
but dammit….you can’t blame me for wanting to try.

Brothel Babe