What Girls Are Made Of 

    Ukrainian-born woman named Reisa owns a “beauty lounge” over in Brighton Beach. First Floor is y’know, the usual stuff, you get your facial, mani/pedi, have your hair done. But if you pay a yearly membership, you get access to the basement, which is tricked out in the style of a Russian banya, a subterranean steam room. Hang out naked, open up your pores and let your skin really breathe. Then Olga gives you a full body massage and you head upstairs for your other beauty treatments. It’s nothing short of glorious, I tell you. Few of us who live in Brooklyn and are into kink hang out there on Saturday mornings. The steam room is a nice place to talk, & fuck it, we gotta get our hair and nails done somewhere right?
    “So, how’s the little prince?” I asked Melissa. Melissa was a Mommy Domme with a new Little Boy in her life.
    “He’s adorable,” she said, “draws me the cutest pictures.”
    “You’re livin’ the dream,” I nodded at her, pushing a hair out of my face.  
    “Hey,” Melissa said to SuSu, “did Tumblr delete your blog or something? I don’t see you on there anymore.”
    “I deleted my blog,” SuSu said, “met a guy at a black sheet party, we played and he took pictures. Then we were talking on Tumblr, or rather he was stalking me on Tumblr, kept telling me to get on skype and get naked RIGHT FUCKING NOW, and when I said no, he threatened to show the pictures from the black sheet party to everyone and tell them what I did with him so they’d know what a slut I am.”
For a minute there was silence in the steamroom.  
Then Lauren said, “Fuck him with a twelve inch dildo,” and if I know Lauren, she HAS a twelve inch dildo.
Ignoring her, I said to SuSU, “So you got off Tumblr so the asshole can’t show all of Tumblr your pics, or if he does, they won’t know whose pics he’s showing.” She nodded. “Still,” I continued, “he’ll just move on to the next one.”
    “We’ll hire a hitman,” Lauren laughed.
    “Fuck that,” I said, “who is he, you met him in real life. He’s obviously from here. Let’s get him. What’s his blog?”
    It took three days, but SuSu finally gave up the guy’s blog. Most of his posts were about how females were useless pieces of fuckmeat, how men were superior in every way, and, directions on how to roofie a woman’s drink. SuSu’s pictures were on his blog, along with a description of what he did to her, including the fact that he was posting her pictures publically even after promising her he wouldn’t. Many of his selfies were captioned “Me at the Blue Zoo”. I knew the Blue Zoo to be bar/lounge where fuckboys (and the women who associated with them) hung out, so I figured this guy would be easy to find come the weekend.  
    I’m a submissive woman by nature. I don’t even like to be on top during sex. But submissive does not equal doormat, and I knew if I stood with my thumb up my ass and let this guy continue to abuse other women, to treat them as his own personal doormats, I was just as bad as he is. Something had to be done. He thought he was a smart guy, roofie-ing a woman’s drink while she was in the bathroom, taking blackmail pictures to ensure that she’d be complicit in the future. How many of those women whose pics he posted on Tumblr, WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT, had been fired from jobs because someone at work had seen the pics? Even if the answer was just one, something had to be done goddamn it.  
    Sure enough, I found him at the Blue Zoo one Saturday night. Parked at a banquette with his dude crew, all of them drinking shots of who knows what. I said nothing as I walked past them, but they saw me. I asked the DJ to play La Tortura, by Shakira, and when the music started, I started gyrating my hips and grinding…I dropped to my knees and started humping the floor, hair all in my face, putting on a show just for him, but knowing everybody else could see too. On my knees, I arched my back and shook my breasts.
    “Goddamn,” the DJ said into his mic when the song ended, “girl can move.” I stood up and bowed to the crowd.  
    “Hey,” he called out as I walked past his table, his dude crew watching.
    “Hey yourself,” I said over my shoulder, then kept right on walking.  
    He caught up to me at the bar and grabbed me around the wrist, “What can I get you to drink?”
    “Jagermeister,” I said, “beer back.” I said, noticing that his eyes were already sort of glassy. This might be easier than I thought. At the table with him (and his dude crew, of course) I sipped jagermeister so he could see me sip it, then backwashed into the bottle of beer in such a way he couldn’t tell I wasn’t actually consuming the jagermeister. He was drinking bourbon, and swallowing every drop of it. I felt his big right hand between my knees.  
    “What’s say we go back to my place,” he said, “have us some real fun?”
    “What about your friends?” I asked.
    “Maybe they come with, we make it a real party.”  
    “I got a better idea,” I said, “what’s say we ditch your friends and go to the beach. We’ll throw off our clothes & get freaky in the sand.”
    “But all my stuff is at my place.”
    “I got a vibrating egg & some duct tape in my purse,” I said, “shove that bottle of bourbon under your shirt and let’s get out of here,” I grinned.
    “My kinda woman,” he said, “you must like the thrill of getting caught,” he grinned back. Then he stood up, shoved the bourbon under his shirt and said, “Gentlemen, I’ll be leaving now,” and he grabbed me around the waist, “and I’m taking her. Don’t look for me too early tomorrow.”
    We made it to the beach in record time, and I swear he had a hard-on the whole way there. He plopped down on the sand, probably too drunk to stand. I opened my purse and produced handcuffs. “Whoops,” I said, showing him, “I guess I left the duct tape in my other purse. Anyway,” I put his hands behind his back, “you are under arrest for being too sexy.” I cuffed him nice and securely.  
“I love it,” he moaned. “Tell me something nasty.”
    “Awww, sweetie, I would, but I can’t think of anything nastier than what you did to my friend SuSu,” I said, slapping him full across the face.
    “That’s ho-wait, WHAT?”
    “Yeah, see,” I lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his face, “you met this girl SuSu at a black sheet party, fucked with her, took some pictures, stalked her on Tumblr because you wanted someone to dirty-skype with at your beck & call, and when she refused, you published the pictures from the black sheet party even though she didn’t want them published.”
    “You know SuSu?”
    “Yeah, I know SuSu,” I said, “and struggling against those cuffs won’t help you. My dad’s a cop, I actually know how to use them.”
    “You dumb cunt!”
    I slapped him again. “Silence. You are what we women call a fuckboy. An asshole. And, truth be told, sometimes we call you worse names than that. SuSu isn’t the first woman you’ve abused and/or harassed, is she?” When he didn’t answer, I went on. “The general consensus is guys like you should be punished, but I don’t agree with that. I think a man like you is beyond punishment, cannot be rehabilitated.” I put my cigarette out in the sand and reached into my purse again. “By now you’re probably figured out that if I lied about having duct tape, I lied about a vibrating egg.”  
    “Everybody at the club saw me leave with you, you cunt,” he said.
    “And they think you’re getting laid right now,” I said, still rummaging in my purse, “they’ll expect to see pictures and hear a story about how you Roofied my drink or gagged me with your massive cock.”
    “They saw me leave with you,” he said, “you kill me and it all leads back to you.”
    “Kill you,” I laughed, “I think you’re beyond rehabilitation but I’m not killing anybody here tonight.” I stopped rummaging and pulled a pair of gloves out of my bag. “There they are,” I said, putting the gloves on. I also removed a business card, that of a man I knew from the BDSM scene, a bisexual proDom. Wearing the gloves, I dialed the proDom’s number, “Good evening, Master Theo,” I said into the phone, “it’s me, the one with whom you spoke yesterday…yes, I’m the one who wired a down payment into your account this morning. The beach party is happening now, and Your presence would be most appreciated. Yes, yes, the agreed upon amount will be paid to you in cash upon completion of services, Master Theo. Very good, see you then.” I hung up the phone, put it, along with Master Theo’s business card, in fuckboy’s pocket, and removed the gloves.  
    Master Theo arrived in fifteen minutes, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. “You know I don’t usually do revenge,” he said to me, “but a) when you showed me what this one’s been doing on Tumblr I agreed he needed to learn a lesson, b) you’re a good client, a repeat client who has referred friends, and I like to make my preferred clients happy, and, c) anyone asks and I will deny having ever been here tonight, do we understand each other?”
    “We understand each other, Master Theo,” I said, “and here is your payment.” I handed him an envelope containing cash, “count it if you like.”
    “No need,” he put the envelope in the briefcase he carried. Then he turned fuckboy facedown in the sand and said, “Mmmmmmmmm, you got a plump ass, I’m going to enjoy fucking you, boy,” and removed his own trousers. “Get the bottom’s trousers,” he said to me, “seeing as you the one cuffed him.”
    I not only assisted in getting fuckboy’s pants off for Master Theo, I took cell phone video of Master Theo fucking him in his “plump ass”. Fuckboy looked so cute screaming like a lil bitch.  
    “Now,” I said when Master Theo had finished, “like I said, everybody thinks you got laid tonight. But the truth is you can’t tell your fuckboy friends what really happened here. What would they say if they knew Master Theo here pounded you like a steel drum You don’t want anybody to know. And I don’t want you do what you did to SuSu to anybody else. You do and everyone sees the video of a big black man fucking your little white asshole. Do we understand each other?”
    Fuckboy nodded vigorously.
    The following Saturday morning, us girls were at the beauty lounge again. Sitting with curlers in our hair and Melissa showing us cell phone pictures of her little prince dressed in a new outfit she bought him. When out of nowhere SuSu said, “It’s the strangest thing.”
    “What is?” I asked.
    “Remember that guy I told you about, the guy from the black sheet party?”
    “Yeah, what a dick,” I said, “but what about him?”
    “The other day I got this really weird phone call from him,” she said, “he said he’s sorry for everything he did to me, he wants to make amends, he knows now that he’s been treating women the wrong way his whole life. He sounded like he was crying.”
    “Maybe he got religion,” Lauren laughed.

The Times Have Changed

So I guess I was in junior high the first time I got the “don’t do drugs” speech.  Mind you, nobody told us (us being my seventh grade class) specifically which drugs we were supposed to NOT do, just that there were drugs, and not to do them.  In high school, we started making the discovery of liquor (every weekend either me or my cousin or some friend would get a bottle out of our parents’ liquor cabinet) and we would commence to get shitfaced, and we also discovered cigarettes (cigarettes were $2.25) a pack back then, and we could scrounge up enough loose change from under couch cushions for a pack.  Now we didn’t consider cigarettes and alcohol to be drugs at fourteen and fifteen because cigarettes and alcohol were perfectly LEGAL (OK we weren’t “of age” to purchase either, but nobody did 5 years for possession of vodka).  As long as we weren’t snorting, shooting up, or anything like  that, we didn’t consider ourselves to be using drugs.  Which was good, because, as we’d been told since junior high, we shouldn’t do drugs.  Drugs were bad.

Cut to now and I’m 38 years old.  I am almost 3 years sober (sober as in I quit drinking and am in a twelve step program).  I’m also treating with a psychiatrist because I have depression.  I’m unemployed, and recently my lovely Medicaid insurance has lapsed due to some glitch (I’m not going to explain because it’s only going to make me mad) and so, I have three days left of my antidepressants.  Yes,  that’s  right, my psychiatrist prescribes me drugs to treat my depression.  Because, as it turns out, not ALL drugs are bad ALL  the time for ALl the people.  Sometimes some people need specific doses of certain drugs in order to help them lead better, more productive lives.  And this is not a post about me asking that everybody please donate a dollar each so I can have Prozac, no, I don’t expect anyone else to pay.  This is a post about how times, things, situations, and people have changed.  When I was twelve it was “drugs are bad” and there was no negotiation about it.  Now I’m 38 and it’s “alcohol is a bad drug for me, but Prozac is a good drug, one that helps” and I don’t know what’s going to happen if I can’t get this shit straightened out before I run out of pills.

Donald Trump is a cartoon character

OK, so Donald Trump, the guy who does The Apprentice and Celebrity Apprentice on TV, is running for President as a Republican.  And he’s a goddamn cartoon character.  Because first of all, his HAIRPIECE, I mean, I’d say that was a dead cat plopped atop his head, but that would be an insult to deceased felines the world over.  It’s an abomination of a toupee.  Then there’s the Mrs. Trumps…first there was Mrs. Ivana trump, an Eastern European lady (for a man who has such a problem with immigrants in this country, he sure had no problem marrying nad breeding with one); next there was Mrs. Marla Trump (nee Maples); and now there’s Mrs. Melania Trump (another Eastern European lady).  Now, the three Mrs. Trumps may all be lovely women in and of themselves, but Mr. Donald Trump has a pattern of marrying women who are either models or beauty queens, two of the three who have been Eastern European.  He’s not marrying women who are his equals in the boardroom, now is he?  I’ll let you make of that what you will.

As a candidate for President of the United States of America, The Donald has screeched for sitting president Barack Obama to produce his birth certificate.  Why?????  Because Trump insists that Obama was not born in the US.  Trump has also called into question, and recently, whether or not John McCain (a Republican senator representing the state of Arizona, and a former candidate for president in his own right) is a war hero (McCain fought in, and was captured by the enemy during  the Vietnam War, spending time in a Vietcong Prison).  The Donald also has a problem with all the Mexican immigrants in this country, there are too many of them, they’re taking jobs away from Americans.  This, particularly, is laughable, because Trump’s Atlantic City hotels and casinos are staffed by (you guessed it) Mexicans.  That’s right, in buildings on which Trump has his name, Mexican immigrants, the very people he has such a big problem with, are earning paychecks signed by himself.  I’m not saying the Mexican chambermaid and bellman deserve to lose their jobs, I’m saying the Donald should choose one face and speak only out of it, rather than have two faces and alternately speak out of both.

And this guy wants to be MY president?!!!!!!!!!!!

The Usual Suspects 

Watching The Usual Suspects on cable.  This is a movie that came out in ’95 (same year I graduated high school).  Twenty years ago is a long time, but Kevin Spacey & his tale of Kaiser Soze are as relevant (if not more) than the movies being made today.  

So last night 

My sister (the lady in the white blouse & black slacks) took me to see the one & only Jim Parsons in An Act of God at Studio 54 on Broadway.  I don’t know why this thing isn’t getting better reviews, Jim Parsons is hilarious (as always) and if the thing was written expressly for him, he plays it like it was written for him.  He has a razor sharp wit, impeccable timing.  If there were any justice in the world, the actual almighty would be an openly homosexual man with such a razor sharp wit & impeccable comedic timing.  Seriously, go see An Act of God  before it closes.

Thankful Thursday

So yesterday I saw, and agreed with, a post on here about how America is a country of convenience.  And while we have thanksgiving Day (y’know, the day with the football games, the turkey, & the Macy’s Day Parade) we don’t spend all that much time being grateful for all we have, including the conveniences.  I may not say it often, but I really am grateful for the fact that I live someplace where the subway trains are air conditioned (even if the platform is a hot, humid, sauna in July) because people in other parts of the world don’t have a subway, they’re riding bicycles everywhere in the heat and they don’t complain about it.  I’m grateful to live in a place where I have air conditioning in my house, because I couldn’t imagine putting my makeup on in July or August without air conditioning.  I know, there are parts of the world where a woman has to wear a burqa in much worse heat than New York City heat, and I wish those women had the convenience to take that thing off and wear some linen slacks and a blouse, or a sundress.  Yes, America is a country of convenience, and yes, some people elsewhere in the world think we Americans are lazy for our conveniences (yeah, I said it) but maybe we’d appear less lazy, less selfish, if we were all a bit more thankful for that which we do have.  It’s just a thought.