I need someone to work for me for the next week or two writing
responses to personals ads and updating my photos and profile. You will
work from my office. Pay is $10/hour. You should be creative and
intelligent. Job starts immediately. Please tell me something about
you. You should be a well-dressed, attractive and intelligent person
since that is who I want to meet and you should be on the same
wavelength as those kinds of women.
Speaking of ass-fucking, have you been watching "The Pick-Up Artist" on Vh1? I have a pretty high tolerance for bad TV and even I can't stomach it. That these dorks are relying on a spazzy Jamiroquoi wannabe who calls himself "Mystery" to get them laid is a cross between scary and just plain sad. And his sidekicks are even worse—especially the deeply closeted gentleman with the fancy black streak in his blonde hair.
But even worse than Mystery's lame name, fuzzy hat and eyeliner is his voice. Go on. Turn it up. I guarantee that ten years ago his conversations ran more along the lines of "The Ferengi rules of Acquisition explicitly state that blah, blah, blah. . ." So nasal, so Canadian, so completely and utterly, not hot.
I just received an anonymous photo of Frankenstein that is so
scandalous. . . so shocking. . . so, so, so, sick, I decided to post it
only after the jump. So if you're under 21 and/or weak of stomach, please refrain from looking.
You know how everyone (okay, me) is always talking smack about the crazy jackasses they used to date? At least if you mine this site for tail, you'll have an official diagnosis going into it. That could've saved me a lot of time back in the day.
I threw out my lucky shirt the other day. It's the end of an era. Even though that shirt had gotten
me tons of ass back in the day, I had to face facts that it was over. Done. What was once nice was now holey, smelled weird
even when it was clean, and wasn't actually very flattering anymore. Truth be told, it was never particularly flattering, but it had this odd effect on men. It definitely wasn't a hoochie shirt, but I think it worked because it had the stealth cleavage thing going for it. Kind of baggy, but always open just a little too far. It also had these subtle lacey inserts that made it obvious what color bra you were wearing.
That's a photo of my friend Julie wearing the shirt. I made her put it on for a personal ad photo shoot we did a few years back. Though she was dubious about its powers being transferable, I knew my shirt would get her laid too. And, as happens so often, I was correct. It truly was a magical garment. I bought it in a thrift store and it served me well for many years. Maybe I should've given my booty blouse an official burial or something, but instead, I just tossed it in the garbage. Perhaps a hobo lady will fish it out of the can and she'll end up getting finger-banged in the bathroom at Botanica. Not that I'd ever do anything like that. . . .
Anyway, I'm procrastinating. Here are a few things I've been thinking about in order to avoid working on my column:
What about this bag? Rose says yes (but she'd been drinking, Boyfriend says no (but then, he'd been drinking too). I'll tally your votes at the end of the day and act accordingly.
This made me gasp. I thought it was a joke. But it's not. Show people are the devil, I tell ya!
I might have mentioned that I'm woken up by a piledriver (construction equipment, not sex or wrestling related) between 7:15 and 7:30 every day. It's good to see that the construction that's preventing me from getting my beauty sleep is going to be tasteful and lovely once it's completed.
Now this to me is a bad kiss. Bushie's moving in for a smooch and Condi is giving him the head turn combined with the fish face. Either one would be bad on their own, but combined? GWB ain't getting no tongue offa Condi. Though I'm betting most men don't.
I'm looking for examples of bad kisses/ers. I've had lickers, slurpers, deep-tonguers, and guys who kept their mouths clamped shut tighter than the Laura Bush's asshole. I want to hear about your rotten makeouts and if any of you had any luck showing them the right way to do things. If so, how'd you do it? Yes, this is for a column I'm working on. You can either email me, or post in the comments. Thanks!
It's Wednesday, which means my new Seattle Weekly column is up. In case you're too lazy to read it, this week an older lady writes in wondering if it's too late to date. As I'm rapidly aging, I think I over-identified a little and was actually very kind and gentle. Which can make for a somewhat boring read, I'm afraid. (I hate when that happens!)
So that means you'll be needing a little excitement. In that case, go read about my pal Lusty Lady's adventure at an underwear-only shabbat! My first reaction to her piece was "hey! how come I never get invited to underpants parties?!?" But really, I'm far too self-conscious to go to one anyway, so if you're thinking of inviting me—don't bother.
Even when I was a skinny little minnie, I was kind of selectively prudish. Sure, I'd blow you, but no way were you seeing me naked. Catholic school makes for some truly idiotic neuroses.