Slate’s Prudence, a/k/a Emily Yoffe, is one of the worst of the advice columnists. The smug-looking cunt’s advice tends to be both insipid and patently misandrist. Just as I occasionally give bad advice or say something incorrect, “Prudie” occasionally stumbles into saying something intelligent and fair. Otherwise, she’s Frau Farbissina brought to life.
In one column last year which brought her round and near-universal condemnation from both sexes, Prudie, perhaps revealing her own hygiene habits (or lack thereof), gave a guy shit for questioning whether it was hygienic for his girlfriend to rarely clean or change her bra. Prudie claimed she “actually polled some of the cleanest women I know on their bra-washing schedules. The answers ranged from ‘weekly’ to ‘when my white bras look black and can walk themselves to the washing machine.’”
I’d hate to know what the bras of some of the dirtiest women she knows look like.
Prudie closed by snapping, “.. if you want your girlfriend of six months to be your girlfriend six months from now, you will drop the judgmental tone and think of yourself as a lucky explorer of a fascinating, strange land.“ Apparently, in 2010, Prudie considers any guy who gets to second base with his girlfriend of six months to be lucky. So what if he feel a pair of clean, hot-chick tits in just about any full-contact lap-dance club in the United States for less than $50! So what if I used to feel hot-chick tits at windowless peeps for a grand total of a buck-and-a-half ($1.50)!
Prudie’s bra post was actually an item of discussion on local radio as well among the women in my office. From the 20-year-old heavily-tattooed mixed-race intern to the 55 year-old white lawyer recently-transplanted from West Virginia, the consensus was unanimous – a bra is worn once and then washed.
Earlier this year, Prudie, 55 (85 in girl years), gave perhaps the most senseless advice I’ve ever seen in an advice column – making, as he would be the first to proclaim, Dan Savage look like a good dispenser of wisdom to guys. A lonely widower wrote,
“I am a 38-year-old widower. Three years ago, my wife passed away after a long illness. Our son was not quite 4. Since her death, my focus has been exclusively on him and my work. I have had no social life. My mother-in-law helps out, but she is quite old. I recently hired a woman to take care of my son until I get home from work. The woman is 24 years old, and my son adores her. She has a boyfriend of several years who seems like a good guy. Here’s the “problem.” She just told me she has a serious crush on me and is restless in her relationship. She has also made feints into discussions about sex with me, which I’ve brushed away. She is very attractive, and I have been completely alone since my wife passed, so this is pretty awesome on about 100 levels. But, of course, there are also a number of complications. I will not do anything if she is still seeing her boyfriend. If she does break up with him, what are my options?”
Prudie, obviously enraged by an age disparity that DirkJohanson would characterize as a bit on the narrow side, a rage echoed in the title of the ever-misandrist Tampa Bay Times’ reprint of the column entitled, “Widower, 38, Should Not Bed His Son’s Nanny, 24,” snapped:
“If your name is Von Trapp and hers is Maria, that would color my answer. But before you two burst into a chorus of ‘My Favorite Things,’ I’m afraid pursuing this young woman, awesome though it may sound, is a bad idea on about 100 levels.“
Prudie then went on to falsely characterize his post, “Since you’re already wondering whether you can hire her back when things don’t work out (answer: no), you clearly aren’t interested in her as more than a jump start to your too-long-dormant sexuality.“ In fact, the sincere, well-intentioned widower had posited the question “If we eventually break up, can I (gulp!) hire her back?” “If,” not “when.“
Prudie, continued, …”use the motivation she’s provided you to start looking for someone more suitable to date. This young woman has a pre-existing condition: She’s your son’s babysitter. …But he’s now made an emotional connection to this young woman, and it would be unnecessarily confusing for him to lose her as a baby sitter because you started an affair with her. I applaud that your response to her feints has been to brush them off and not to ravish her. Since nothing’s happened yet, keep it that way. You need to tell her that you appreciate the wonderful job she’s doing with your boy, and you want her to continue, but you two must leave your relationship strictly as employer and employee. If she can’t accept that, then you have to let her go.”
Lets analyze the levels of idiocy in Prudie’s post:
1. inability to read.
2. distinguishing the situation from the Von Trapp family, WHICH WAS A TRUE STORY WITH A HAPPY AND HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER ENDING, revealing evidence of the ever-repeating pattern that, for all their good talk about marriage, many American women have little tolerance for a guy actually happily ending up with a woman he wants. In this regard, Prudie falls squarely in that camp of women that proclaim that marriage is great, but actually only like marriage when it involves a woman 35 and over landing a rich guy.
3. assumption that the going-on-25 babysitter has no other aspiration in life than to remain a babysitter forever.
4. concluding that if the babysitter refuses to accept the rejection, that he is has to fire the babysitter, anyway, leaving the boy without a babysitter in the end – which, according to Prudie, was the very reason for her advice in the first place.
In a column out just within the past couple of weeks, Prudie again brought her poison to bear in an advice column about a girl who was having trouble having sex. Describing a largely-psychological condition known as vaginismus, the girl wrote,
“every doctor has recommended that I get a boyfriend and come back after I try sex with him.”
This column presented the elderly Prudie, 55, who not surprisingly is on record criticizing hook ups, with the opportunity to advise something to the effect of, “Good idea. instead of sharing the same handful of oversexed studs with all your girlfriends, give one of the other guys a chance – you know, one of the vast majority of guys that usually goes home from the club looking like they want to cry since all the girls have sex with the same few guys every night. I’ll bet one of those guys would relish the opportunity to help you.” At least that’s what DirkJohanson would say.
Instead, Prudie, who is not a doctor, blasted, contrary to successful advice I am personally familiar with, “forget the notion that there’s some Prince Charming with a magic wand who’s going to solve your problem.“ From apparently a single conversation with a non-physician hot chick from the Kinsey Institute (which in an earlier Monologue brought you Heather Rupp and her ludicrous assumption that women prefer having one-night stands with guys who have little sexual experience, Prudie speculated that the girl might have two vaginas, a quality no shortage of guys – from Prince Charming to Attila the Hun – would appreciate for many obvious reasons
In other words, Prudie sided with the advice from her own conversation with a non-physician – possibly over cocktails – over the advice of not just one gynecologist who personally examined the girl, but also the gynecologist who personally examined the girl in order to provide a second opinion and the gynecologist who personally examined the girl to provide a third opinion.
The prospect of dating a girl with two vaginas does raise an interesting question, though: what would the her ass be used for?
Never mind. I answered my own question in this post. The ass could write an advice column for Slate.
And now, I’ll leave you with the song that, thanks to cuntie Prudie, the lonely widower and babysitter will NOT be playing at their respective weddings, if any:
“I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”
-Sonya Sotomayor, with minor variation, on a few occasions, over the course of years in planned speeches
What Sotomayor would say about the conclusions of a Latina woman who was fucking a white guy who hasn’t lived that life – and if that same guy was prosecuting a murder case before that Latina woman – is not at all clear.
Which brings us to the case of the first Latina judge ever to take the bench in Broward County, Florida, Ana Gardiner, who was appointed to the bench at the tender age of 36, an age at which few white guys have a prayer of being appointed to the same job. Gardiner was apparently fucking the white guy prosecutor while she was presiding over the murder trial of a Latino guy. The richness of her experiences, which in this case apparently included inserting a guy named Howard Scheinberg’s schlong in her vagina, eventually led to the conclusion that the guy on trial should get the death penalty.
We can only hope that the bullying, misandrist, and undersexed Sotomayor takes it as a cue, if not for resigning, at least for getting some. In the latter regard, someone call Elena Kagan.
For those of you who are not that familiar with timeshares, timeshares purchased directly from a timeshare developer are a huge ripoff. I know – I used to sell them, and I’m not proud of it. Don’t let the presence in the timeshare industry of corporations that earned their good names in other industries fool you – names such as Disney and Marriott. Timeshares purchased from the developer are a ripoff if you buy through those companies, too.
As if the annual fees – most of which are only obliquely mentioned during the sales tour - are not enough to make it more economical to simply stay in an equivalent hotel, resale values for timeshares – which generally sell initially in the low five figures – are virtually 0 everywhere. And often the resale value is plain-old 0, as in $0.00 – unsellable. While there are a lot of bogus purported timeshare resale companies that will take your money to run ads to sell your timeshare, there is virtually no real market for used time shares. Basically, the $15-25K one typically pays a developer as the cost for a timeshare results in having something which is entirely worthless immediately. Without the free ticket offers, snake skin-booted sales managers, and felons conveniently placing their hands over the bad news in the fine print at the closing table, forget about selling it.
About the only thing aspect of timeshares that isn’t a ripoff is that timeshare resorts pay people handsomely just to come look at them and endure the sales pitch. While timeshare developers typically give away free tickets to theme parks and such to get people to look at the resorts, they also sometimes give away cash. In recent years, it was not unusual to find resorts paying people $100 and up just to take the purportedly “only 90-minute” tour.
I have some free time tomorrow in Orlando, and so I figured I’d spent some of that time making money sitting through a timeshare sales pitch, which in my case also has some entertainment value – sometimes a lot of entertainment value. I basically turn the sales tour into a comedy routine, even if it just entertains myself, though its hard for the salesperson not to pick up on it.
What I found out today, however, is that while historically single people of both sexes could get the free tickets and cash to tour the resorts, at least one major timeshare developer – in fact, the single-largest privately-held timeshare company in the world – Westgate Resorts – no longer offers such inducements to single guys. Westgate will still tour single women, but, in their experience, single guys so rarely are suckered into “investing” in a timeshare that it doesn’t pay for them to give us free tickets or cash to see the resorts. And, of course, single guys – as opposed to married guys – aren’t stuck bringing their spending half with them on a timeshare sales presentation.
First, to back up a bit, I want to say that there are a variety of reasons guys get married that do not in any way indicate that someone is generally prone to being scammed. Included among those are:
-wanting to please one’s parents;
-guilt over having slept with a chick for so long;
-lack of game combined with an aversion to doing hookers;
-the spectre of lifestyle altering child support obligations were one not to marry the babymama;
-having done too much MDMA while watching a Nora Ephron movie marathon; and
-having political aspirations and meeting the daughter of a wealthy and politically-connected Arizona beer distributor.
That having been said, I have long maintained that single, straight, never-married guys over about age 25 are the best possible jurors for the plaintiff or prosecution to want to have in a case involving a scam. Having not fallen for what, painting with a broad brush, is the world’s most pervasive scam – modern marriage – we have proven ourselves adept at spotting a ripoff.
Westgate Resorts – with nearly 30 years of successful experience to draw from in the timeshare industry – obviously agrees. We should take Westgate’s patent gender discrimination against guys as a compliment.
In a more-than-three-decade long bombshell study, laboratories have confirmed that antibodies can be just as effective in preventing sexually transmitted diseases as they are in preventing many other types of diseases.
The study participant is a guy whose sex life started started relatively slowly, but soon accelerated to include having sex with scores of hyper-sexually-active women, including hookers and swingers. Earlier in life, the participant would feel like he was coming down with a cold simply from making out with relatively innocent and inexperienced girls. Not long thereafter, he graduated to prostitutes, including one who became his girlfriend and with whom he had unprotected sex 1-2 nights a week for a year and a half while she was having sex with about 10 other guys a day. He even once managed to avoid coming down with chlamydia when, in approximately 1985, he was the third and final guy blown by a Manhattan street whore with a half-inch-long protruding growth on her face for a total of $20 (i.e., $6.67 each rounded to the nearest penny), and the first two guys blown tested positive for the disease.
The study participant has also been an active and semi-regular swingers clubgoer since 1993, and been involved in at least two 10 guy or more gang bangs.
Moreover, the study participant is quintissentially average: he’s slightly-below average American height, and isn’t wealthy. Even besides the hookers and swingers, the women who he has sex are obviously not that particular about who they do it with, and he hasn’t taken a virginity since 1982.
Yes, I received yet another round of negative STD results test yesterday. I’m still 0 for my lifetime.
Living evidence, if not downright proof. Forget about what you’ve seen on TV and heard in health class.
DirkJohanson: STD-free since the Kennedy Administration.
Since you won’t be hearing about it on Oprah – since, among other reasons, chances are, being a guy, you don’t have the luxury of lazing around the house all day watch TV – I’m giving you this reminder about the special program scheduled for this Wednesday, April 7, which you can attend by teleconference for only $15.
The program is a gathering of academicians drawn from a range of disciplines to examine the declining state of guys.
As most of us have figured out by now, if we don’t stand up for ourselves and our fellow guys, no one will. “Equal opportunity” long ago gave way to “empowerment.” Women just managed to have gender rating eliminated from health insurance – so now those of you that don’t get laid much or who do get laid but are vigilant about condom use – will have the honor of underwriting the cost of HPV-related health care treatment for chicks that refuse to fuck you – or who at least refuse to fuck you unless you pay them one way or another.
Meanwhile, of course, gender rating in auto insurance, which generally keeps the cost lower for women than guys, will continue.
I have long warned than a substantial segment of the Western female populace seeks as their unstated end goal a sort of reverse Saudi Arabia, albeit one where guys can drive, but only to work.
If the thought of that doesn’t concern you, bear in mind that one of the few statistical disparities that feminists rarely complain about is the extraordinarily lopsided combat death ratio. They don’t mind that they so rarely get killed in battle. By contrast, Saudi sheikhs don’t send their women off to war. Indeed, they take very good care of them, even if just with sexual purposes in mind. But Western women, increasing in love with their vibrators, dildos, and each others’ bodies, would have far less such incentive if they are in charge.
Don’t assume anything uglier than anything you can even conceive of is possible if we don’t start defending ourselves now. If your over 40, your mothers and grandmothers are probably too old to be influential, or will be soon. If your under 40, its likely that when your mother thinks of “men” she thinks of her ex-husband(s), babydaddy(ies), and the thugs that fucked her and dumped her. Unless you’re under 18 and your mother happens to be friends with a female Florida school teacher, you can expect little more than refuge. Like Anne Frank. And you know how well that worked out.
We need to defend ourselves now, within the system, so it doesn’t have to be resolved in the street.
The live teleconferenced colloquium will be co-chaired by Judith Kleinfeld, PhD, Professor of Psychology and Director of the Boys Project at the University of Alaska, and Lionel Tiger, PhD, Rutgers University Charles Darwin Professor of Anthropology. It will encompass a broad range of topics relevant to the study of guys in contemporary society ranging from our roles in the family and workforce, as well as our physical and emotional health, to the growing problem of misandry—the hatred of guys, an unacknowledged but underlying socio-cultural, economic, political and legal phenomenon endangering the well-being of both genders.
As I said, it is only $15 to sign up online for the two-hour teleconference. You can sign up by clicking on the above banner.
The teleconference runs from 11AM to 1PM, so you can listen-in over a cell phone during lunch hour and neither your wife nor girlfriend nor employer will even know.
I’ve been trying for some months to get Creative Loafing, an “underground” paper which publishes printed editions in Charlotte, Chicago, DC, Atlanta, Tampa, and Sarasota, to feature some of my posts in the Sex & Love portion of its websites, which features about 20 bloggers and commenters on sex, including Dan Savage. They have about 20 contributors, including at least one swinger, a married female. They also link to about 10 sex-related websites.
CL is a “progressive” paper, but I didn’t think it was that much of a long shot. Their Tampa edition features dozens of ads from escorts, massage parlors, and even premier “escort” review site, The Erotic Review, and CL’s website has a entire section devoted to escort ads. I figured the my perspective as a payah would be unique to that type of publication and a natural-tie with their escort and massage parlor advertisers, and that my perspective as a single-guy swinger would be a great complement to their married female swinger.
I’ve emailed, I’ve called, I’ve sat in the reception one of their offices, I’ve tried different personnel. Nothing.
No reply email, not even automated. No return call. No “your blog sucks, go away.” Nothing. Silence.
Obviously intended silence.
Obvious shunning.
By a stroke of luck, I happened to be in a meeting with someone who I learned was CL’s attorney, and decided to reveal my true identity to the attorney in a risky hail-mary attempt at at least getting a chance to make my case. Earning my eternal gratitude, the attorney, who is himself now a fan of The Monologues even to the point of suggesting article content, duly facilitated communication as an intermediary. I followed the attorney’s instructions, and, on February 13, duly emailed the contact person he suggested.
No response.
Like Sandra Bullock, I found out about it through the media, from Creative Loafing itself.
On March 2, CL’s Scott Harrell wrote a column essentially telling me to go away. He didn’t merely reject my column – rather, he called for religious fundamentalist overthrow of the United States in order to shut me – and guys like me – up. Harrell wrote, “… I sense nothing less than the creeping encroachment of a New Puritanism.
…
A whole new and formidable attempt to repress sexual expression is coming.
And, while I firmly believe “abstinence-only education” is idiotic and that anybody who wants to should be able to walk around naked and hammered without being violated, I’m kind of looking forward to it.
I’m sick of listening to my male 35-year-old friends detail their exploits like 18-year-olds. …
… at least until you’re asked, please, shut up about who you did, and how you did them. And what you’d like to do to that person over there. …”
Scott, would it make a difference if you knew I wasn’t 35 but that I’m 47?
Harrell finished his missive with a humorous flourish, “Oh, and will somebody please make a porn film with at least a cheeseball patina of narrative, that’s neither a parody of a regular film nor five minutes in what could be my neighbor’s kitchen? I could totally rub one out to that.”
Count Patti Scialfa on the list of high-profile female polygamists, as the New York Post has reported substantial alleged details of an affair involving Scialfa’s husband, Bruce Springsteen, with a middle-aged real (not “Real”) New Jersey housewife named Ann Kelly.
Of course, if, as stated in court papers, he was the pursuer of the then-40 YO Botox-filled Kelly, who also underwent anti-aging laser treatments, one can only imagine how many women The Boss has had on the side. And even if he wasn’t the pursuer, the fact that he was apparently even willing to bang her at all makes it likely that he has slept with untold scores of women over the course of his 19-year marriage to Scialfa.
I’m sure Glorida Allred is working on a theory for Kelly, but its going to be a tough one. Having opted not to employ her credentials as a Registered Nurse, Kelly no longer worked outside the home. She was fucking Bruce over lunch while her husband was working, and while her husband was having heart surgery in Cleveland, she stayed behind in Jersey and had dinner with Bruce instead. She even bragged about the affair with her own mother-in-law, and kept fucking the now 60-YO Bruce after her own father urged her to stop.
No word yet on any additions to the Springsteen mistress toll. Stay tuned.
As I began writing this post, the escort ad from one of the hookers I went to Winter Music Conference (“WMC”) with in Miami was still open on my laptop. At least, it was her text, though not her picture. More on that in a minute.
In the meantime, if you don’t give a shit about trance and other electronic music, or about the attendant scene, or don’t even know what it is, you should. In any event, you should keep reading.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, WMC is one of the premier music festivals in the United States, and one of the premier electronic and dance music festivals in the world. Its like Woodstock, except the chicks are hot, shaved, and showered since they are either staying in hotels or Miami area apartments, what little mud there is is shortly washed-off, and there’s no bad brown acid. Also, while the main event, Ultra Music Festival, is held outside, much of the action takes place poolside, on the beach, in hotel lobbies, on rooftops, and in the clubs. – even on yachts. No one bathes in a lake.
But rather than the usual report on WMC – whether, for instance, Ferry Corsten was spinning at his best, or what celebs were spotting making out with who where – this report will be from a Guyinism spin. The Leadup to WMC:
If you don’t give a shit about my personal life, you should, but if you are positive you don’t, anyway, you may want to skip this part.
This was my second trip to WMC, my first being in ’07. I vowed to return every year for the rest of my life, but due to not getting it together for anyone to go with me in ’08 and a work commitment last year, wasn’t able to make it back. This year I turned down a work commitment and made sure I was going, no matter what.
I was originally supposed to go with BL, the hot, 42 YO Barely Lesbian I had been seeing, but a few weeks prior, she suddenly began dissing trance – the most prominent genre at WMC – stating she was only going because of the dubstep, a still-obscure, downbeat genre that was being featured at a few smaller WMC events for the first time. Then, only two weeks before WMC, when I got into the specifics of making plans, she sarcastically told me I should take my sugarbaby instead. While it was an excellent idea, especially considering BL’s new-found disdain for trance, I knew my sugarbaby had her toddler and wouldn’t be available until the Saturday of the more-or-less five-day event starting on a Wednesday, and I had vowed to myself to make it to Thursday’s Juicy Beach party at Nikki Beach for the first time, so I told BL I wanted to go with her, not my sugarbaby, but she was noncommittal.
The Friday before WMC, I again asked BL to go. She repeated that I should take my sugarbaby. I again told BL I wanted to go with her, not the sugarbaby. A few minutes later, she went ballistic over something else, and threw me out of her apartment, the rent for which since day one of her residence there has been paid by me, so I began scrambling for a solution just six days before I wanted to be among the revelers at Juicy Beach.
My friends Tommy and Cheri (real names) were going, but they were staying with another couple, the guy of which was a rockstar in the 70s, and with whom I could not stay again (as I had for one night during WMC ’07 when Tommy and Cheri invited me to sleep in a backyard tent with them). Also, they were only going Friday night to Sunday, weren’t planning to go out Friday night or Saturday night, and already had tickets to Ultra for all of Saturday, while i was more interested in hitting the clubs.
A chick I had just met in the fitness center of my condo complex was going for a whole week, but she was staying in a house in North Beach with people I did not know, and told me her goal for the week was to meet a rich guy, which I am not. Also, that guy had to be under 50, which I am almost, and which she appears to be almost, but no matter.
Finally, on the Sunday before WMC, 21 year-old hooker Tori, attempting to fulfill a promise she had made to herself to herself less than two-weeks earlier – to return to Trapeze swingers club every two weeks – asked me to take her again that upcoming Saturday, during WMC. When I mentioned I was planning to be at WMC, she got excited about the idea of returning, and suggested we combine the trip to Trapeze with WMC, and I told her I’d get back to her about that, giving BL a couple of days to change her mind. BL didn’t change her mind, or if she did didn’t tell me, and so I told Tori I’d go. Unfortunately, by then, The Dominatrix who I had introduced to Tori when I introduced Tori to threesomes and who is now Tori’s de facto madame and possible future mother-in-law, was having none of it, telling me they both needed to work and make money.
I then called my sugarbaby, since i figured doing a single-night trip with her was better-than-nothing, and maybe, considering how hot she is, the best option overall. Unfortunately, she had her son until about 6 PM on Saturday, so the earliest we could possibly get to Miami would be 10, and she then happened to mention she already had plans with another guy for that night (“but it would have been fun, though”).
My alternatives at this point were groveling to BL and risking a return of her wrath, not to mention her dissidence from trance ruining the trip, or going with one or two women that I am not attracted to and don’t know well. Not liking those options, I didn’t exercise them.
The next day, The Dominatrix called me back. She’d gotten tipped off that the Tampa cops were going to be doing a sweep of hookers that weekend, and decided that she and Tori would work the weekend in Miami, splitting the cost of the room, and partying with me in between their paid-for sex. Eventually, The Dominatrix decided to take her 15 YO son Joey, which I didn’t object to since I didn’t know who I’d be able to hang out with while his mother and Tori were fucking, something they expected to do – based upon their lucrative sexcapades Super Bowl weekend - for much of WMC weekend, as well. I was skeptical that young clubgoers with game and good drugs would be buying sex as much as the wealthy businessguys that compose most of the Super Bowl’s live audience – and even more skeptical that the girls would pay me for the room, especially after I learned shortly after we left that The Dominatrix didn’t have the promised deposit money (which she had used to pay for her probation) – but I was too happy to have traveling companions so I kept my mouth shut.
The next day, as I earlier reported, The Dominatrix beat up Tori, bloodying her lip and driving her out of their sugardaddy’s house half-naked into the rain, and she eventually took refuge at my crib, soaking wet, bleeding, and not smelling too hot, again leaving me in a quandary as to whether I was going and with who. The Dominatrix eventually texted me, told me to take Tori, and then changed her mind and decided to go anyway the next morning. I won’t bore you with all the details of the dispute, but things were very testy for a while. Nonetheless, by late Friday morning, Juicy Beach 2010 already a memory for others, the four of us were finally on our way.
With that lead-up out of the way – a lead-up that seemed to consume the better part of my WMC experience – here are some of my observations:
Fuckonomics:
The Marketplace:
Its gotten a lot cheaper to buy sex in Miami. At WMC in ’08, outcall was $200/hour, but with a two-hour minimum: a total of $400 to get laid. This year, a clean, well-dressed, passable middle-aged black woman asked me right out on Washington Ave. if she could blow me for $20.
Tori and The Dominatrix were starving – literally. They came down with no money, and ended up breaking into a can of tuna fish the owner of the condo we rented left behind. Tori didn’t make a penny, in part because when one guy saw her and realized she had used pictures in her backpage.com ad of a girl who was thinner – and Tori’s a bit of a but-her-face to begin with, even when her lip isn’t swollen and scabbed from being beaten by The Dominatrix – he went ballistic. He wanted to fuck The Dominatrix instead, but then started suspecting they were both cops and took off.
Tori had run her ad Friday before we left for Miami, and, with the picture of the hot chick on it, the phone she was sharing with The Dominatrix quickly started blowing up. Unfortunately, however, we arrived too late for her to service downtown Miami businessguys on their way home, and despite re-running the ad, the phone – which kept losing its charge to boot – never ran with nearly the same prolificence.
The Dominatrix had little better luck. She relied on someone else to place her ad, and it didn’t get posted until 11 on Friday night. We had a weak, essentially nonexistent, wireless connection in the condo, and her period hit just as we got to Miami. The next morning she apparently ate something which made her both vomit and have diarrhea. She finally got a client Saturday evening- not from her ad but by meeting a guy in the club when he pinched Joey’s rear-end who later invited her to a party in his room. I’m not sure how much she was paid, but all she had for me when she came back from a multi-hour jaunt with Tori in tow was $50, and not much else to show except a box of tropical wines from Miami Winery. The guys who gave it to her – who claimed to own the company – told her the box of 3 bottles was worth $400, but they are available on this website for less than $35 total.
A big part of the problem was that, within an hour or so of The Dominatrix placing her ad, another 200 ads went up on backpage. Not only were girls selling it cheap on the streets of South Beach late at night, but gone were the two-hour minimums, replaced by 15-minute “full-service” sessions for $50, while Tori and The Dominatrix were only advertising full-hours for $200. By the time they starting advertising $100 half-hours, it was too-little, too-late. They even watched one of their clients get swept-away by hot street girls within 20 feet of the front entrance of our building, and when I returned from the club at 6 AM Sunday morning, two hotties had waylayed three guys right on our corner. The facts that The Dominatrix has been complaining about not getting dick for weeks (she doesn’t count it as getting it when she gets paid), and that the lack of business meant that she couldn’t go to Trapeze for dick even if she was going to swing on-the-rag anyway, only added insult to injury.
Fuckonometric Principles are Spreading
As for me, one of the great things about freely paying for sex is that I can go to an event like WMC and not really care if I get laid. Sure, there were plenty of incredibly hot, topless-and-thonged chicks all over South Beach I wanted to bang – and I made some moves – but its not like earlier in my life, when I might have found myself in a Chili’s in Pembroke Pines, eating fajitas with REO Speedwagon playing in the background, trying to get some ‘free” sex at the expense of enjoying WMC.
I was there for the scene. If I was going fuck, it was going to be on X, and preferably involve multiple chicks, or at least one seriously hot one that was part of that scene. And until mid-Saturday, I was still holding out hope for the orgy at Trapeze. When it was clear it wasn’t going to materialize, I set out to plan my Saturday night.
Tommy and Cheri would be at Ultra until around midnight, they didn’t answer my text, and I didn’t expect them to have the stamina or motivation to party-on after that.
While Joey had managed to get into Tantra the night before, when D:Fuse was spinning, I figured the chances of him pulling off a similar caper two nights in a row were slim, and I was determined to see top talent that night, anyway, which would make his entry into the more-crowded clubs even more unlikely. Plus, he had no money, so I would have to pay double. Nonethless, we cruised Washington Ave. to get a feel for the situation, but IDs were conspicuously being checked outside Mansion, which is only a block from the condo, precluding his getting into David Guetta’s legendary Fuck Me I’m Famous Party even if I wanted to drop $100 each for us which i didn’t. A couple blocks north, IDs were being scrutinized outside Kascade’s less-expensive, young-pussy-filled show.
I had run into the hypergamous broad from my apartment complex that afternoon on Collins Ave., and, in a highly-inebriated state, she informed me she was going to be at Space in downtown Miami that night, where Paul Van Dyk was headlining an all-star lineup. I’d long wanted to see PVD at Space, where he has played at least one night every WMC for the past 10 years, and which is about the equivalent of seeing the Dead at The Fillmore, The Ramones at CBGB, or Sinatra at the Desert Inn, but the place is huge, ticket prices were steep ($60 before midnight, $80 before 2, and, as I found out when I arrived after that, then go to $100), I’m not into the chick enough to want to have turned the night into, effectively, our first date, and I didn’t want to be a loner clinging to her crowd, which I had noticed back on Collins included a guy so ripped he made me look subhuman.
My choices dismal, I briefly considered going to Fuck Me I’m Famous alone, especially since parking near Space can be hefty enough to account for the difference in cover charges, but I decided against it. Not being famous – yet - I knew I wouldn’t be getting laid, but neither did I want to see all the famous guys around me getting laid by Sexy Bitches, either, while I was alone. The Dominatrix had seen Tiesto in the crowd the night before – if he was back again, that probably would have been a half-dozen girls gone right there, not to mention dozens of others who’d suddenly consider a guy like me a depressing consolation prize. Besides, I reminded myself why I was there, and while I’d seen PVD just this past November, where I saw him wasn’t Space, and the lineup at Space also included Filo & Peri, Pete Tong, Tocadisco, Cedric Gervais, Yves Larock, and host of others. I figured if I got to Space fairly late – say just before 2 – it would cost more than if I got there early, but at least I wouldn’t be clinging-on to my apartment complex-mate, or wandering alone as long, either – well worth the $20 tradeoff.
On the way downtown, around 1, I began having second thoughts. As I learned by turning on my radio to Sirius Area 38 which carried the event live, PVD was already spinning, which I assumed meant that by the time I parked the car and made my way up the line, he’d be done and presumably on his way to getting fucked at the Fuck Me I’m Famous party. I eventually continued downtown, and when I finally found a reasonably-safe parking spot under $20, it was already after 2, and the ticket price had jumped to $100. I checked out the other acts and prices at the neighboring clubs, and decided I’d take the plunge, anyway. What’s $100 when it appeared that I was paying at least $350 just for the room?
I was immediately reminded.
No sooner did I reach the end of the line when, right next to me, was a group of 30ish, game-wise, Guyinists. They had just found out it would cost them $100 each, and the leader did a body-count, figured that between the 7 of them they would be spending $700 just to get in, “and you know what we can do with $700 instead” followed by silent group contemplation of each of them doing two hookers at a time for a half-hour each, all eyes surveying the others. I’m not sure what they ended up doing – the silence was interrupted when the leader advised the others how many “capsules” they had left and how long the capsules would keep them awake – but I had heard enough, and went two doors down to Pascha’s, where Jonathan Peters and The Martinez Brothers were spinning for only $40. Or so I thought, since, in typical Miami-club fashion, I was told by the cashier after enduring the line that it was $50 unless one of the door guys had given me some sort of ticket.
I went in, anyway.
I later found out that PVD wasn’t lying when he advertised his peformances at Space as a “marathon” – he’d spun 44 tracks the night before, and was undoubtedly still on the decks until the even wee-er hours of the morning on this the second night, when I assume he was really going all-out. I should have sprung for the extra $50 – I can’t do a hot chick for that around here, anyway.
Finally, its not just hookers and payahs who are keenly aware of Fuckonomics in Miami – Diesel, which has a large South Beach outpost, has a new marketing campaign centered around the slogan, “SEX SELLS. Unfortunately, we sell jeans.”
Perhaps Diesel shareholders can take some solace from the fact sex isn’t selling as well in Miami as it used. Ask Tori and The Dominatrix. They’d have made more money WMC weekend working minimum wage folding pants at a Levi Strauss outlet.
The Scene:
Fashion:
For years now, Miami has served as a springboard for all manner of sexual depravity – both the good and the bad – as well as accompanying epidermally-generous fashion trends. This year was no exception.
Besides Diesel jeans, skimpy Victoria’s Secret panties, or at least what looked like Victoria’s Secret panties (and I’ve been buying a lot of Victoria’s Secret panties lately, so I know) were being worn in public at various daytime venues all over South Beach. Girls – many of them – were showing up at $40 – $75 a head pool parties wearing them,unaccompanied by even so much as a wrap.
The fashion at Pascha’s – or lack thereof – was a little more disturbing, at least to me. There were shirtless, ripped guys all over the club, each of which was in the embrace of one hot chick or another. Even if I still could get into that kind of shape – and two chicks there harshly reminded me I’m not in that kind of shape now – it doesn’t pay for me to do so given how easy it is for me to get sex just by paying.
On another interesting note, there were an unusual number of – how can I say this politically correctly so as not too offend the quick-to-hate groups? – Ts in the club, mainly Trans Women, mingling quite comfortably with groups of friends which patently included Gs, probably included Bs, and even appeared to included some of us oft-hated Ss.
Attitude:
Its not just my apartment complex-mate who’s hypergamous. Miami is probably the national hotbed of the threesome, populated with average girls that would rather lick an alpha guy’s balls while their hotter girlfriend gets to suck the cock, than have a regular guy’s cock and balls to themself- unless the regular guy gives them $50. On two separate occasions, chicks who weren’t that hot but weren’t getting any alpha attention decided to initiate disingenuously fucking with me, one while in the presence of her truly hot friend and the friend’s boyfriend, and two others hanging out unaccompanied at Pascha’s.
If they only knew they were dealing with someone who Jenny Hendrix once wanted to fuck me. (Ed. note WMC occurred before I learned that she may have been just as horny at the thought of fucking Ron Jeremy).
It wasn’t just chicks with bloated self-esteem that dissed me – I was dissed by none other than noted swinger’s party promoter Nathan Bliss, who denied Joey and I entry to his “bisexual” chick and swinger-centric clothing-optional pool party. I wasn’t insulted – even couples can’t necessarily get in, and he targets the under-40 crowd – until Joey approached Bliss without me and asked if he could get in if he brought “his girlfriend” back. Nathan, apparently not realizing Joey was a minor, agreed, but went out of his way to rudely point out that no matter who I returned with, I wasn’t getting in.
I know I was wearing a lousy outfit that day, but I like to think that Nathan, who has me on his mailing list, had somehow heard through the grapevine about my large schlong that I could be displaying around the pool, or that Jenny Hendrix had once wanted to fuck me, and didn’t want the competition.
Kids:
As I joked at Side Splitters comedy club and reiterated in a recent post, now apparently gone from the cloud after a server crash, I’m not exactly into the idea of having kids anytime soon. However, after a weekend of hanging out with Joey, I know that if I do have kids anytime soon, I will do so by adopting a teenage juvenile delinquent. He was my main hang-out partner for WMC, and he was a pleasure – and of course, one great thing about adopting a teenage juvenile delinquent is not only do you never have to change his diapers, but there’s a good chance he’ll end up incarcerated – like his two older brothers – even before he graduates from high school, so its not necessarily even a long-term commitment. In fact, in Joey’s case, he’s already facing criminal charges.
Not only did Joey get into Tantra, he did it with gusto, drinking, dancing, and grabbing a hot chick’s ass and getting a favorable reaction in response. He was given a stack of 40 cards to hand out to prospective contestants for the Maxim party’s modeling contest, and in less than a day, went through all of them. He actually was allowed to do a lap of the Maxim party for free, and ably followed my lead sneaking onto the pool deck at the Gansevoort, from where we watched the proletariat revel in the teeming beach party down below. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of buying him Four Loko under pressure, after I refused out of respect for his mother to give him coke or ecstasy or buy him cigarettes, but no problems resulted, and he promised to reciprocate by hooking me up with ecstasy, as well as other unmentionables, at high school prices.
More of the Scene:
The New York Post implied that Jeremy Shockey, who is part of the apparently large annual NFL contingent and was also at WMC last time I was there in ’07, fucked Traci Lords at WMC this year. I know I said wasn’t going to reiterate mainstream gossip, but I lied, just to give you some more WMC flavor.
And on that note, I’ll leave you with what I heard on the radio, but did not see, at WMC this year: Paul Van Dyk, at Space.
Here’s a picture porn star Jenny Hendrix (real alias) recently posted on sexypeek from her upcoming “Taxi” parody, which will also be starring future first ballot Guyinism Hall of Famer Ron Jeremy (real alias) in the Danny DeVito role.
Production just started last week. I don’t know at this time whether Ron (“The Hedgehog” – real nickname) Jeremy will get – or has already gotten- to do the honors instead. Here he is, just off set, after a day of, uh, er, shooting:
Whoever her sex scene was with, here’s Jenny Hendrix tweeting, just before her Taxi scene, the exact words she was repeatedly exclaiming in the lobby of Pleasure Palace swingers club when she thought she was about to be fucked and licked by me: “So horny!”
I guess it wasn’t just that she was especially horny for me. She might have been just as horny for, or even hornier for, The Hedgehog. So much for the ego boost I’ve carried around the past four years since she wanted to fuck me.
Speaking of tweeting, I thought James A. Arnold of Greenville, Illinois, said it well when he recently tweeted (not sure to who): “You’re like Jenny Hendrix’s asshole. You are an asshole, but everyone wants to be around you.”
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