Tag Archives: Porn

The Queen of Erotica

4 Jun

I can no longer go anywhere without running into the self-proclaimed “Queen of Erotica.”  Who happens to be a man.  An allegedly straight man.

The gentleman in question pulled up a stool next to me one night while I was enjoying some crawdad mac and cheese at a bar.  He introduced himself as Adam, but then leaned in closer and added in a lowered voice “but my pen name is Lily Night.”  I wish I could say that he was not the third person who had introduced themselves to me using a pseudonym that week, but sadly that would be a lie.  Adam explained that he had been writing under the name Lily Night because his publisher thought his erotic short stories would be better received if the author were female.  He was bored with the subject matter given to him (middle-aged married couples having their annual beach orgy and so forth) so he had taken it upon himself to begin working on what will be the masterpiece of his career: an erotic saga about krakens.  Adam had even recently spent seventeen days lost at sea in the Caribbean in attempt to emulate the plight of his characters getting shipwrecked in Africa.  Once he finished the novel and leaked it to Gawker (like his erotica forefathers) he would be rich!  His main goal in life, he said with a huge grin, was to own a Dodge Challenger with commercial plates that read “BALLER.”

He finally paused to take a sip of his pink drink and I seized the opportunity to assess the situation.  He was dressed like he had just gotten off the bus from Massachusetts– button-up stripy shirt over a v-neck, some sort of oddly-washed jean, a necklace, and a chunky watch, which he kept flipping open and shut on his wrist while intermittently thumbing his exposed chest hair.  There was also a peculiar pair of sunglasses dangling from his deep-v that looked like they were stolen from a member of the Three Blind Mice.

“Is there really a market for a book about krakens who probe each other with their tentacles?” I asked him, picturing a nerdy teen with braces pulling out kraken porn from under his mattress.  “You don’t understand” Adam explained, downing a shot of raspberry vodka, a third of which missed its target and trickled down his chin and through his chest hair.  “The krakens aren’t having sex with each other.  They’re capsizing pirate ships, wreaking general havoc, and having their way with all the women.  The main character starts out as a juvenile kraken, only about fifteen feet long, but as the story goes on, the tentacles grow longer and longer until it can violate multiple women at once.  I’m not only telling a story here, I’m challenging science to prove me wrong!”  Sounds like we’ve got a real hit on our hands.

He added that his overwhelming success will be a nice slap in the face to his girlfriend of seven years who had recently dumped him.  “Wait a minute, you aren’t gay?!” I couldn’t help but blurt out.  I don’t know, maybe it was the way he spoke, the pink drinks, the jewelry, or the fact that he goes around referring to himself as the QUEEN OF EROTICA.  He looked offended and scoffed “gay men don’t write novels about women being raped by tentacle monsters.  They write about men being raped by tentacle monsters.”  I was finished with my crawdad mac and cheese.  He continued that for my information, he was currently dating three 22-year-old Asian girls he had curated from OKCupid.  In addition to seeming a little light in his Steve Madden loafers, he was obviously pretty immature.  He kept mentioning the appeal of being seen as a “tortured writer” and how he drinks as much as he can every night so he can obtain that image.  I haven’t heard someone glorify drinking that much since a group of naughty eighth graders passed me a beer on the playground in middle school.

I told Adam that the time had come for me to bid him farewell but he ignored me, saying “I’m a very ambitious person.  I have to finish three films, six erotica stories, and write the first great contemporary New York novel of our time before I turn thirty-two and there aren’t enough hours in the day.  Do you know anyone who will sell me Adderall?”  Despite the fact that I am not a drug dealer, he said he still hoped we would see each other again soon and I replied “me, too!” thinking the opposite.

Little did I know that I would run into Adam every time I went out in my neighborhood until the end of time.  I’ve mostly taken to pretending I don’t see him, but every once in awhile he will come over and show me the profile of the latest hot 22-year-old he is talking to online.  At least it’s good to know that there is still such a high caliber of men on OKCupid.

A Man Called Goat

23 Apr

I spent the past week in Austin where, as you can imagine, I encountered many colorful cowboys.  I received two marriage proposals while I was there– the first from a one-legged homeless man, and another from a flirtatious two-stepper who proposed marriage to me and then followed my male friend into the men’s room and asked him if his pubic hair was straight or curly.  But perhaps my favorite of all the Texan characters I met while I was here was a 44-year-old metalhead named Goat.

My friend and I happened upon a bar on Sixth Street that was playing softcore torture porn on their big screen TVs.  We were about to close our tab and journey onward when an assortment of aging metalheads blew into the bar like a warm spring breeze.  We looked at each other and agreed that we needed to stick around for a couple more rounds at this point.  Minutes later, a particularly amusing Metallica fan who had been playing the worst game of pool I’ve ever seen came over to me and introduced himself as “Goat.”  I asked him what happened with his game and he replied in a smooth Southern accent “I lost by sinking the eight ball in the wrong hole.  Although I don’t believe in wrong holes.”  Oh my.  Goat was wearing a red bandana tied around a full head of salt and pepper hair that went down to his waist, a full beard, pants that were tight in the butt and loose in the legs, a red shirt, and the essential denim vest covered in various band buttons.

Goat and his sidekick, Freddie, invited us to play pool with them and Freddie was no better at hitting balls with sticks than Goat was.  Each time it was my turn, Goat would tell me which ball to aim for and from which angle to hit it.  I kindly reminded him that he had lost every game up to this point in record time.  While playing, I learned that Goat was in a metal band called Pain Through Fate.  I looked it up on Facebook and found a photo of the band which depicted five forty-year-olds posing under a ceiling fan in someone’s living room.  The band’s description reads “Conveying the insane fucked up hurdles of life through the intensity of Metal.”  After telling him I live in New York, he informed me that he will be playing a solo show there in the next few weeks at some venue where the opening acts include a girl who covers herself in fake blood and a guy who gets naked onstage and eats cat food.

After losing the most embarrassing game in the history of billiards, I noticed that Freddie had suddenly disappeared into thin air.  Goat made little attempt to locate his comrade, but ample attempts to cop a feel.  It was time for me to depart.

The next day, I was telling the story at my friend’s bar and several of her regulars expressed that they were familiar with Goat.  “Well I guess with a name like ‘Goat,’ you’re bound to have a reputation around town” I said.  “That’s nothin!” a man in a giant lonestar flag shirt bellowed at me, “I also know a Hog, a Catfish, a Lunchbox, and a Juicebox.”

Do I HAVE to go back to New York?

Ten Years Later…

16 Sep

“Did I wear the right thing tonight?… Do I look like the plump indian no one wanted in their teepee?… Uh oh two other girls are wearing my dress… Oh my god, Ricky Martin just walked by and he is shorter than I am…”

Fashion Week stresses me out.  Even when I’m off the clock, dancing at an after-party, I can’t stop the constant flow of irrational thoughts running through my head.   My Fashion Week freak-out usually begins a couple days prior and tends to manifest itself into an emotional eating/drinking scenario.  This is exactly what you SHOULDN’T do if you are going to be exiting a runway show in a few days, greeted by a wall of paparazzi waiting to get a shot of Victoria Beckham or Dakota Fanning.  But at that point, it’s too late.  You ate a lot of cheese and now all you can do is suck in your love handles as best you can and try not to fall down the stairs.  My pre-Fashion Week crisis was especially amusing this time around.  Precisely two days before the runway shows I went to for work, I could be found in a Buffalo Wild Wings eating wings and drinking beer.  Wearing stretch pants.  This incredibly Midwestern meltdown alone is enough to have me deported from New York City.  People who work in fashion here are not supposed to eat at Buffalo Wild Wings.  Or eat, for that matter.

Anyway, the whole point of this post is that, while seated in a spandex yoga pant, housing a Miller Light and some boneless wings, I received a text from a guy I used to date in high school.  He was coming into town at the end of the week and wanted to get together to “catch up.”  Knowing this gentleman, I had an inkling of what his idea of “catching up” entailed.  The last time we had seen each other was back in Wisconsin, where we’re both from.  After a long night of partying with other friends from high school, I had woken up naked in a stranger’s basement, next to an elaborate toy farm set complete with cows and hay bales.  Sheepishly, I accepted a ride home from my friend via his mom’s mini-van.  I would like to lie and tell you that this incident happened years ago… but it occurred in July.

Let’s backtrack a bit.  I met “Mike” my senior year of high school.  I was the female lead in the school musical and Mike’s best friend was the male lead.  I had not known either of them during the first three years of high school– we went to a big school.  Although I initially had a crush on Mike’s best friend (who played my love interest in the show), Mike and I started dating after the play ended.  Mike was one of those people who everyone knew was destined to be successful in whatever he did.  He was in all honors classes, had a 4.0 GPA, and spoke multiple languages.  The only two things I remember about our relationship are: he gave me some sort of slingshot monkey for Valentine’s Day (that I had no interest in but my dog really liked), and once he came over to pick me up and brought with him a bag of biscotti as an offering to my mom.  Although it was a nice gesture, we all giggled later about how he pronounced “bees-COE-tee.”

The length of our relationship has been a source of debate between us during the rare times we see each other these days.  He says we dated six months.  I think it was more like three and a half or four.  I do remember how we broke up, however.  While we were still together, he found out he had been accepted to the University of Pennsylvania.  It was his first choice school and he was ecstatic.  I was simultaneously happy for him and devastated myself, because I had just found out that I had NOT gotten into either of my top choice schools.  While I barely had a 3.1 GPA, I had an extensive theatrical resume and felt that I had rocked my auditions and my essays.   Come to think of it, devastated is an understatement.  I was absolutely destroyed when I didn’t get in.  While I was in a state of great depression, Mike (still my boyfriend at this point) was on top of the world.  I remember one of the last nights we hung out as boyfriend/girlfriend, he got mad at me because I thought “Penn” meant Penn State, not University of Pennsylvania.  He was thoroughly insulted that I could think HE would go to Penn State and upset that I had told my parents that was where he was going.  He was totally unconcerned with my situation, and, if anything, annoyed that I wasn’t being positive and fun.  He broke up with me the next day.

After high school, we would occasionally run into each other when we were both home for the holidays.  There were a few times when we got together and watched 1970s soft core porn in his parent’s basement for old times’ sake.  I also saw him in Boston once, while he was in town for some fraternity brotherhood thing (Mike has always surrounded himself with groups of men who love each other like brothers).  The first time we actually had a “fling” again was the aforementioned basement barn-set incident.  I hung out with Mike’s best friend a couple days afterwards and we laughed about that night.  I was surprised when he revealed to me that my relationship with Mike (ten years ago) had been his longest ever.  I couldn’t help but wonder why– he was now a producer for a TV show about fish, had money, apartments in two different cities, and did a lot of traveling.  It seemed like all that was missing was a perfect relationship to go along with his effortlessly successful life.  I have to admit I was slightly embarrassed to have fallen back into the old pattern with Mike, and to be talking openly about it with his best friend.

Fast forward to this week.  Mike texted me last night that I should meet up with him around midnight.  That’s a little late for me to be going out, but I wanted to make an effort to see him after our encounter in Wisconsin a few month prior.  If I could feel like we were friends, I would feel better about our recent meaningless hookup.  I arrived at the bar, hot and sober.  Mike and about seven of his college friends had come from some party at a club.  Mike looked cute and well-dressed as always.  He was already drunk, and put his hand on my thigh while leaning his body against mine as I perused the whiskey menu.  His friends looked on, seemingly intrigued that Mike had a lady friend in the city.  He went around the table introducing me to everyone.  Not just by their name, but by what they do and how they make a lot of money.  One person was in grad school at Princeton, another did something involving hedge funds and had just gotten married… everyone was well off and lived in a beautiful apartment, according to Mike.  I felt my face flush as Mike got back to me… Please don’t tell these people I work in a store.  He introduced me as working in fashion and told them that I have a master’s degree.  Later, he brought up my dad and how impressive his job, wealth, and lifestyle is– as if that was one of my main selling points to him.  The rest of the evening continued that way.  When Mike closed our tab, I offered to split it with him.  He responded that he made more money than he knew what to do with, and reminded me of this again when he paid for my cab later on.  While I was secretly relieved (my funds are running a little low this week), I felt inadequate next to this guy who was basically flaunting his assets… and I realized I didn’t know him at all.  We hadn’t been close before, even when we dated ten years ago, and now we were virtual opposites.  After the bar, we went to his friend’s gigantic apartment uptown, where I tried to talk to him about what was going on in my life.  Each time I began to speak he would cut me off or start making out with me.  Mike wasted no time in stripping down to his designer briefs– well, I’m not sure you could call them briefs because they kind of looked like a thong.  I sighed, resigning at last to the fact that he had only wanted to hang out with me for one reason.  As we parted ways, I felt a sense of relief at the closure I now had for my strange relationship with Mike.  He was the same as he’d always been, and we may as well live on two different planets.

What a long week– Chicken wings, Ricky Martin, runway shows, endless bottles of wine, partying, ex-boyfriends… I feel like I could sleep for three days.

Stay tuned for the other absurd scenario that I had this week involving a Fashionisto…

So Big, So Red

7 Mar

Once, during my freshman year of high school, I was sick and waiting in the nurses office for my mom to come pick me up.  While I waited, I picked up a few guidance counselor pamphlets and mindlessly flipped through them.  Quitting smoking…understanding homosexuality…how to tell if you have Chlamydia…the difference between love and infatuation.  That caught my attention.  I read the brochure front to back, and for the first time in my fifteen years of life was able to gain a little perspective beyond the urgency of my teenage hormones.

I was either eleven or twelve years old when I first met “Rob” doing community theatre in Madison.   My earliest memories of him include nineteenth century bloomers, a velvet tailcoat and a red ponytail tied with a festive bow.  I would sit backstage in my petticoat and mop cap, watching him flirt with all the girls then go out with all the adult men for a smoke.  Rob was only a year older than I, but he was very suave and seemed much more mature than the boys at my middle school.  I was instantly captivated by him.

Rob lived in a huge house with several siblings and every household pet you could imagine, including parrots, fish, turtles, iguanas, cats and dogs.  We bought a hamster together once, but one of his cats ate it a few days later.  Going to his house was fascinating to me.  He and his brothers basically did whatever they wanted; no curfew, rules, or chores.  They had multiple cars and a boat that they would take out on Lake Mendota.  Once, I was on the boat with Rob, his brother, and our friend “Mark.”  As the brothers tested their new scuba gear in the lake, Mark and I dissected raw cornish game hens and threw them at the boys (a wild afternoon by midwestern standards.)  Eventually, I noticed that we weren’t going out on the boat anymore and was told that Rob had sunk it.  It’s whereabouts today remain a mystery.  The brothers would go through phases where they became obsessed with the idea of a new hobby, buy a million books on it and all the equipment necessary to pursue the hobby, then tire of it a week or two later.  Aside from scuba diving, there were also phases of dog breeding, beer making, and bee-keeping.

When I was in eighth grade, Rob had already started high school.  We still did theatre together, but he began dating a girl two years his senior who became my nemesis for much of my youth.  He never admitted to me that she was his girlfriend, but his friends and brothers told me so.  His relationship with her did not mean that he stopped hanging out with me, however.  The summer before I started high school, my best friend “Emily” would sleep over at my house almost every night.  We watched old MGM movies in my basement and waited for Mark and Rob to sneak through my backyard and knock on the window to be let in.  They came after my mom was asleep (around midnight) and stayed until the sun starting coming up.  We never really did anything with them other than make out and perhaps some light groping.  That, or get extra rebellious and sneak out to Denny’s in Rob’s van to eat pancakes at 3am.  It didn’t take long for my mom to catch on to our shenanigans.  Once, she confronted me about a huge pair of muddy footprints leading from the sliding door to the couch and another time when I was coming home from sneaking out, she locked me out.  She told me later that she was going to make me ring the doorbell to get back in, but was too pissed off, so she sat in a desk chair with her arms crossed in front of the sliding door until I came home to find her there.  My mom rules.

My affection for Rob was at an all time high and I was convinced he felt the same…until I started high school that fall.  Now that all three of us went to the same school, (his girlfriend a senior, he a sophomore, myself a freshman), the reality of the situation became clear to me.  I rerouted my path through the hallways at school so I wouldn’t run into them.  We stopped hanging out as much and his brother told me it was because they had started sleeping together.  I remember Mark showing me Rob’s private notebook, and when I opened it to the most recent entry, he had written “Happy New Year.  I got laid.”  I was devastated.  As infatuated as I was with Rob, I wasn’t willing to give up my virginity as a last-ditch effort to win him back.  So what did I do instead?  I buried his learner’s permit in the desert in New Mexico next to my grandma’s teepee (she lived there at the time…not in the teepee) and started dating his girlfriend’s younger brother, “Dave.”  THAT got his attention.

Dave was a year older than Rob, two years older than I was, and he was the starting quarterback on the football team.  My high school’s football team was embarrassingly bad, but it sounded like a jazzy idea at the time.  Dave and I also had met doing a play together, and when we began hanging out, Rob was suddenly interested in me again.  More specifically in what Dave and I were doing together…which wasn’t much.  Once, Emily and I went over to Dave’s house and listened to his father lecture about how they are direct descendants of General Custer.  To this day, Emily still swears he claimed their relation was to Colonel Mustard.  Anyway, Dave and I broke up after I caught him giving a hippie in a fairy costume a back rub.  Ah, thespianism.  Shortly thereafter, Rob got accepted into a performing arts high school in another state and moved away that week.  When he told me the news, I remember dramatically throwing my cordless Panasonic phone across my bedroom, taking a chunk of light blue paint out of the wall.  Hey, I was fifteen and this was life or death.

I lived for the school vacations when he would come home for a few weeks.  Once, we drove through the countrysides of southern Wisconsin for hours in the rain, listening to music and talking.  We eventually ended up at some sort of nature center and he announced to me that the two of us should get married.  Rob’s younger brother, “Jeff,” also went away to the same school and had a thing with my other best friend at the time.  The summer before my junior year of high school, my mom and sister went to our family’s lake house and left me home alone for a couple weeks because my dance team was attending a competition.  Rob and Jeff were home from school and the four of us spent the week together at my house, partaking in unsupervised activities.

That fall, Rob was about to move overseas to begin his BFA.  One of the last days we spent together before he left, we went to my grandma’s house to watch a movie.  For some reason that I don’t recall, we had taken two cars there.  My grandma lives out in the farmlands and on the way back into town, Rob followed me to the intersection where he was supposed to turn and go his separate way home.  Instead, he kept following me.  At first I thought he missed his turn by accident, then when he turned into my neighborhood, I figured he was messing with me.  Before I got to my street, I looked back and he was waving for me to pull over.  Confused, I did so, and he bolted up to my window.  “I love you!” he blurted out before kissing me, running back to his car and driving away.  I felt like I was going to have a heart attack.  I had been wishing he would say that to me for years, and no one aside from my immediate family members had ever told me they loved me before.  I returned home with the most ridiculous grin on my face ever.  Anyone who knows me knows that I am not the most romantic gal…but this remains one of the most romantic scenarios that anyone has presented me with to this day.

I moved to Missouri the following fall and began my freshman year of college.  Rob called and said he wanted to come visit me.  We went to all the bars I had scoped out that didn’t card, hung out at the local arcade, and got what some consider to be “matching” tattoos.  (Sure, they are both paw prints, but mine doesn’t have claws, thus they are not the same!)  I had a good time with him, but it occurred to me that at some point the tables had turned.  I had spent years of my youth obsessing over how much I loved this guy and wondering why he didn’t want to be with me.  Now, he seemed more interested in me than ever before and I was feeling pretty indifferent.  I was at a new school, with new friends, and meeting new guys…and then there was the whole pooping in my dorm parking lot thing.  We were coming home from dinner on the final night of his visit and were probably fifty yards from my building.  He decided that rather than waiting until we got upstairs, it would be a better idea to lean against a wall and take a dump in plain view, between two cars.  I politely waited until he was finished, then informed him he was sleeping on my floor that night.

The next time I saw him was when I returned home for the holidays with a guy I was dating and a few of my friends from college.  Rob and Jeff were having a huge new years eve party at their house and had invited us.  Rob was hammered and, after he tried to pull one of my friends into his bed by hooking her with a giant candy cane, he asked me to join him in his mom’s bathroom.  Obviously, I said no.  My boyfriend was downstairs and that would not have gone over well.  He begged me, saying he needed to show me something….which turned out to be deep bite marks on his Jack Johnson.  Apparently he had sustained these injuries from a young lady that had appeared on his doorstep a few days prior and who had stayed for the party.

The summer before I started graduate school in Boston, I got a job at a restaurant where the staff performed songs onstage in between serving duties.  Rob asked me for a job.  I was dating one of the other servers, “Aaron,” but ended up getting him hired at the restaurant anyway.  It was fine…at first.  Once, Aaron had a big party at his apartment and I went with my friends Emily and Mark.  Rob wasn’t invited because he had made some light death threats to Aaron in the previous weeks.  Aaron lived on the second floor of his building, so everyone was shocked when Rob scaled the wall and flung himself over the balcony, crashing the party.  A few weeks later, Rob invited myself, Aaron, Mark, and Emily over to his house, where he slowly and systematically took apart a lamp and threatened to maim Aaron with it, then picked me up like a caveman and carried me out of the room.  I had to borrow one of the family’s cars to remove myself from that situation.  This was the same summer that he allegedly hit it off with a lady at a gas station while, ahem, bargaining for some provisions.  She had given him her address, and later on that night, he made Mark drive him there.  When he knocked on the door, her husband answered and pulled him inside.  A few minutes later, Rob came running out from around the back of the house with both hands full of fishing poles.  He leapt into the getaway car, yelling “Drive! Drive!” as Mark sped off into the darkness.

I haven’t seen much of Rob since the summer of 2006, although I heard rumors that he dabbled in pornographic films for awhile.  In the past year, I’ve become good friends with one of Rob’s former lady friends.  She informed me that Rob had been using me to make her jealous for years, telling her that we were still seeing each other, had matching tattoos, and were even engaged at one point.  I recently saw his younger brother and asked him simply if Rob was still big and red.  His response was “SO BIG.  SO RED.”

I guess the moral of the story here is:  Just because someone is your first “love” doesn’t mean they are your last.  And pooping in a parking lot can be considered vandalism at some small liberal arts colleges…so tread lightly, my friends.