Private Magazine

The Slut Diaries: Part I

Melrose

There’s playing with fire and getting burned, and then there’s dousing yourself in lighter fluid and going full-on Richard Pryor. Ever since the emotionally-abusive cycle with Billy ended, after he spazzed off on me in a jealous rage and things went totally caput, I’ve propelled myself into a Sluttylicious Spree of epic proportions, with party favors included.

March 10:

Kurt’s on my list of guys to bone.  Actually, he’s on the list of guys I have boned. But is he in the friend zone, or is it possible to re-light a match?

We had our blink-of-an-eye fling, sure.  But it wasn’t my fault it ended.  Kurt suddenly got a girlfriend and banished me from his apartment downstairs.  I wasn’t allowed to hang with his roommates or homeboys, not when he was there anyway.  Honestly, I like Kurt – we go back, way back.  We’re in the friend zone.

This drunken date of ours was slated to happen for, I don’t know, months. Kurt just bought a house in our old college town, a spacious relic on a winding road. So we went on a date to the Italian joint. I drove down; it was a snowy afternoon and the town was empty. Where did everybody go?

Kurt’s truck rumbled up his driveway. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to the liquor store.”

“What are you, some kind of raging alcoholic?” I said.

“We used to live in the same house,” Kurt said with a grin. “You know I’m a raging alcoholic.”

Yeah, true. We did almost burn the place down once or twice.

Kurt handed me his debit card and I ran across the wine mart parking lot.  Back at the house, we situated ourselves inside Kurt’s rustic den.  I put on John Denver and rolled a joint. The place had been owned by an “old man”  who had been a “hoarder,” according to Kurt, and one with an obvious affection for the wilderness. He left behind in the den two giant walls of books. Their musty jackets loomed over Kurt and I.  Kurt gave me one he said reminded him of me.

“Here, this is it,” he said.  “Mistress to an Age.”

Schnapps

Kurt swilled Evan Williams and I downed wine.  The homespun haze put us in a daze, completely under its spell, until we remembered the Italian joint closed at eight. So we caroused our way downtown, and succumbed to total drunkenness at the Italian joint. It was there I felt the psilocybin kick in. Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed alcohol with a mushroom in the den. My ravioli became something of a muse. We discussed our common Libertarian ideals and emotional instability.  Kurt ordered an excessively-huge carafe of cabernet.  Back at the house, my face was numb but I pressed it against Kurt’s anyway and we started making out in the kitchen.

MARCH 11:

Kurt inexplicably woke up at 6:00 a.m. today, even though it’s Sunday, by turning on his light and saying casually that he “had to go to work.”

“Are you for real,” I turned over. Embarrassingly enough, bootleg big booby smut still emanated on mute from his TV. Kurt put it on as we were making out after dinner.

“I have my period, sorry,” I said. “Goodnight.” And I turned over.

“Oh come on,” Kurt said.

“I can see now that I’m not your type,” I said. “I’m not a big booby uggo downloaded from LimeWire.”

“I don’t have a type!”

Yeah, of course I know men don’t have types…How else do you explain Tiger Woods?

“Shhh,” I said. “I need to get some shut eye.”

At some point thereafter, we both passed out. Dead, and still in the friend zone thanks to that carafe of wine. Either way, in the morning light, I kept repeating to Kurt that I needed shut eye, until he shouted “Shut up!!!!” and clomped outside in his work boots. I heard his truck back down the gravel driveway.

I slept for a couple more hours, smoked some weed, folded Kurt’s laundry, and then began to plot our next adventure  – for some time, Kurt and I have discussed joining the swingers club in town, and going there as a “couple,” actually…

March 23:

Let’s see, “Scotty” from The Third Hole re-emerged, in the strangest of ways. Turns out, he broke up with his fiancé. We made plans to go out to dinner, after I wound up at The Third Hole last Saturday and Scotty and I made plans while in a drunken, coked-out stupor. But nonetheless, we made plans to go out to dinner in the Falls.

But I guess he has a child and was to have custody of him for the evening or something like that? How do these things work? Anyway, a few days before, Scotty said we’d have to postpone. So I asked Mick if he wanted to go out instead. He’s always down to go out to dinner, even at the last minute.

“Let’s go to Mother’s,” I said, and I figured I would just guzzle pinot grigio to make the night more enjoyable.  Since when have I ever needed an excuse to get drunk? Mick is like 50 years old. But right before, while I was getting ready to go, Scotty texted me and said his son went to the movies with friends, and he was headed to The Third Hole after all!

Great. Now I’m stuck going to dinner with Mick, when I could be having a much more stimulating night with Scotty. Hmmmm.

Mick picked me up at 6:00, which is MAD EARLY, and especially bizarre since we were going to Mother’s and they serve dinner until 2:00 a.m.

“Why are we going out so early?” I put my sunglasses on.  “It’s still light out.”

I turned the radio dial to the pop station.

“Oh sure, change the channel,” Mick said sarcastically as “It Ain’t Me” by Selena Gomez emanated from the speaker. “Who’s going to walk you through the dark side of the morning…” I said, not nearly stoned enough. “La la la, it ain’t meeeeee.”

“Oh my God, please, can we just have a quiet evening,” Mick droned.

“Sheesh” I said while trying to take a selfie. “The lighting is really bad in here.”

“Complain, complain, complain,” Mick said monotonously, and I knew right then it would be an annoying evening.

Or would it?

When we got to Mother’s, it was totally empty.  We sat in the far dark corner by the bathroom.

“It’s so early I’m not even hungry yet,” I said, thinking maybe I shouldn’t have popped an Adderall and 15-day herbal cleanse that I had lying around from Feel Rite, but so what? I was only trying to have a pleasant evening.

“Cannot believe we have a prune mixed with a banana for a president – I mean what the serious fuck?” I said, looking at Mick but he has the personality of a dial tone, and his face didn’t even move. “This scandal with Facebook using our information and pandering to the GOP? Of course they did, and he knew how stupid everybody really is and how to manipulate them emotionally.  We impeached Clinton for getting a BJ – but we are going to allow our civil liberties to get ass raped?

I watched Mick pour steak sauce all over a bloody piece of meat until I felt about ready to puke.

“I stand up for sex workers!” I grabbed a knife. “And freedom of speech! Does the Cheeto with Easter grass for hair, does he really know how to even read the Constitution?”

Mick sat there, detached.

“Who are you talking about?” he said.

“Ugh!” I said. “Do you want to go to the Goth store after this? There’s a party at nine.”

“No, I do not want to go to the garth store,” Mick said. “What is so great about the garth store? If you want to live that lifestyle -”

“Yes, I DO want to live that lifestyle,” I stood up and tossed my cloth napkin aside. “You are insulting my community. Just meet me at Q.”

I walked down the block to Q., and after Mick paid the bill and everything he came in after me. I wonder if he realized it’s a gay bar, with all the subtle rainbow accents? Mick is totally square nowadays.

“Look,” he said, sitting down. “I think after this we should both part ways, you should just go back with Billy, both of you don’t care about anybody but yourselves -”

“Wow, really?” I got upset and walked outside again. That was a low blow, even from Mick. I dialed Scotty’s number not sure if he would be available, but he answered on the first ring.

“If I took an Uber to The Falls,” I said while walking towards Delaware Ave. “Could you drive me home later, or like, tomorrow?”

“Yeah sure,” he said. I could hear The Third Hole background noise. And that’s exactly what I did. I rolled down the car window as we approached the saloon, and smelled smoke in the air. A house fire was just being extinguished.

Harbor Inn

MARCH 31:

I’ve wanted to do nothing all day except day drink and listen to Danity Kane. Why the fuck is it still snowing? Luckily, Troy*, my platonic homebody from the past, re-emerged. We met up at a sushi joint right after my hair appointment, so I looked pretty bossed-up if you know what I’m sayin’.

But I wasn’t trying to seduce or flirt with Troy. I wasn’t sure what was going on in his love life.

We were day drinking in the Hertel jurisdiction, D-District, where it all began, back when I lived in a minuscule attic studio more suitable for three blind mice and Troy was still legally married.

But wait – is Troy still legally married? Who knows, who cares.  Either way, we watched a drunken Camilla Parker Bowles-look alike chug Michelob after Michelob at MT Pockets. We started gyrating to “Boys” by Britney Spears at Gecko’s.  Somewhere along the line, I thought maybe Troy and I were going to make out.

Little did I realize, we would soon be making out in a full-blown PDA episode inside Gecko’s! And afterwards, we staggered into the Video Liquidators theater. Apparently I’m a regular, but they really do have the best selection of slutty lingerie. Anyway, no one else was there, which was weird since it was a Saturday and we found ourselves alone. First I peed in the ladies room, which is painted a dusty rose hue.

We wandered to the back of the store.

SHoes

What happens in the Video Liquidators theatre stays in the VIdeo Liquidators theatre, if you know what I mean.

But we emerged from its dark, sticky depths still in the friend zone for the most part.

APRIL 1:

“Do you want to become a mouthpiece of your generation?” I say to Pete, in front of the giant window of Just Vino that looks out upon Main St.  I’ve found myself on an actual date with someone I know, but not very well.

“I like your blog,” he says. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

Sure, you say that now… But what about after one is about you???

“It would be okay, actually,” Pete said. “That would be cool. Just change my name. Or don’t.”

APRIL 13:

I’m driving home from work, a.k.a smoking a jay and circling the block, wondering about how I’ll ever feel normal in relationships again.  But did I ever? I’m not exactly “normal.”

I’m chasing the dragon of actually caring. I feel numb to the earth. I’m waiting for The Feeling to sneak up on me again, like heroin probably does, but I’ve never done heroin.

Wait – who’s that? Chasing the dragon, right, that is until I see the guy taking out his trash – t-shirt, beard, tattoos – he looks to be moving old carpets and junk.  It looks like maybe he’s moving in…and just on the next block over too…Hmmm…

 

Cupid, Cuckolds, and the Cherry on Top

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A Valentine’s Special

It’s a cold winter Saturday, the time of night when fog creeps into this part of downtown and hangs over the cobblestone streets. It seems haunted, eerie, like something from the days of Jack the Ripper.  Smoke clouds emanate from a factory on the horizon.   I’m wandering the casino with Louis and my Cousin Phil.  Rows of slot machines glitter into the distance.

I’m sitting at the Playboy machine with Louis, who’s just put in $20.00  I look into his eyes. They’re blue, like mine.  A cherry pops up in one, then a dollar sign in the other. I’ve hit the jackpot as far as online dates are concerned.  Who knew finding a boyfriend would be this easy? We’ve been seeing each other for about a month now.

 

Cupid3

For our first date, Louis and I met up at an art show.  As he came through the door, I admired his beard and chubby physique. Via message, Louis confided that he has a foot fetish – but what’s so weird about that, compared to all the other stuff out there? What’s a simple, normal foot fetish, in the grand scheme?

We sat down at the little bar area in Revolution Gallery. He bought drink after drink. Throughout the night, he held my hand.  Louis’s body is encapsulated in tattoos, yet he has a sad puppy-dog face.   At the end of the night, while walking down the street, Louis revealed he bought me the painting I liked while I was in the bathroom.

“Louis!” I was shocked, because I knew it was $300, but Louis had the receipt and everything to prove it wasn’t stolen. “You really didn’t have to, though. It was expensive.”

“You don’t like it then?”

“I do,”  I said. “Of course I do. Thank you, Louis.”

From that night on, I’ve spent every weekend with Louis.  He lives 45 minutes away, in a small rusty town.

Tonight, I thought I would introduce Louis to my Cousin Phil, who is up from Tampa and already tipsy, because he has been here at the casino drinking way before we even arrived. We are all going to see Dave Attell at Helium together, and I just know the two of them will get along.

“Lou,” Cousin Phil puts his arm across his shoulders. “You know, I like you already. What do you do, anyway?”

“I do signage, commercial signage.” Louis pulls out his phone to show Phil some pictures. “I carve stuff out of wood. And metal, sheet metal mostly -”

“Excuse me, sir,” says a security guard coming towards us. “You’ll have to check that knife.”  I look at Louis’s crotch, and notice the folded-up blade against his hip.  This security guard is a petite lady, and she doesn’t seem pissed or anything.

“Sir?”

Louis looks up from the musty carpet.

“Oh, my knife?”  he says. “Sorry.” He walks off with her towards the security desk.

“That’s hot, right?” I say to Cousin Phil. “The fact he has to go check his knife?” Cousin Phil leaves to buy some drinks.

“You’re manly,” I say to Louis upon his return.  He stares at me with an unflinching stare.

“Um, sorry” I say, leaning into him. “Daddy,” I whisper.

Last week, Louis said that he doesn’t want me to call him “Louis” anymore, I am to call him “Daddy” and nothing else, and frequently too. Louis sucks on his lithium-powered vape, and exhales strawberry-flavored smoke.

“What do you want to drink, Doll?” he says.

Cupid5

Louis owns many knives and guns, as well as a Harley.  He seems  like the kind of guy who could kill a bear with his own hands.  In fact, he can make and shoot bow-and-arrows, which seems like a totally romantic thing to do, very Cupid-esque.

But I’m noticing that behind closed doors, Louis is rather intense.

“Fuck,” Louis gets up from his couch and heads towards the kitchen,  naked as a shucked clam, which is customary because Louis is a self-proclaimed nudist. “His numbers are still good.” He’s talking about the Donald Trump “news” on TV  that he found after 10 minutes of trying to find news on Hulu. “They’re still good, fuck what they say.”

The elephant in the room. Louis stomps off with the empty pizza box.

“Get the fuck out of here, dog,” Louis yells at his dog, Bruce, who’s sitting straight up and staring at the wall.  Louis rescued Bruce from a shelter, but I feel really bad for Bruce’s current situation, because Louis keeps him cooped up in his stupid apartment all day and yells at him all the time.

“Aw,” I hug Bruce. “He’s not doing anything.”

—-

BRB8

“You know what would be hot to do while I’m out of town, Doll?” Louis texts.

“What, Daddy?” I reply.

“Send me some photos of you fucking another dude,” he says.

Yikes! Why is Louis so into this idea? Honestly he’s brought it up before, but I’ve been stalling for time by saying that I will eventually, later on, after we date a while.  After I figure out if he’s worth it.  Because honestly, this whole time, I’ve been fantasizing about having sex once again with my ex,  “S.,” but I’m scared about releasing S. into my current dating situation.

Comparing Louis and S. below the waist is to compare an acorn with a log, respectively – a log any beaver would thirst for.  Sex with Louis sucks.  He seems depressed about his own manhood. It’s true what they say, that men with small packages compensate with cocky personas.  Louis struts around like a cockatiel, whereas S. is quiet and shy.

The more Louis pushes this idea on me, the more I have sexual fantasies about S. Since I’m sexually frustrated and about to blow,  I decide to send him an email.

In the subject line, I type the word “Orgy.”

“I suppose this letter may come as a surprise, I write.  “I have a new boyfriend. He’s soooo romantic. Plus, turns out, he is very open about wanting to watch me have sex with another man. Someone to be a “sex slave,” so to speak… 

You came to my mind as a potential sex slave for this orgy because you wanted sex without any emotional involvement or attachment, said you never want a relationship, ever, and seem okay with a straight up friends with benefits scenario.”

What the hell am I doing? Talk about a can of worms.  I hit Send and do not expect any response at all.

___

Cupid4

“I just want you to be happy, so I’ll do that for you,” S. says over the phone a mere five minutes later. “Just tell me one thing.”

“What?”

You can tell S. is driving because I hear the whoosh of the open window since he’s probably smoking a cigarette with me on speakerphone.

“How’s the sex?”

What?”

“The sex,” S. exhales. “ I mean, I’m asking because clearly there must be a reason you thought of me.”

I’m not telling S. that sex with Louis sucks.  That would only feed his ego, and have me eating from the palm of his hand. No, this time I’m going to be the one in control.  

Cupid

“The last girl I dated didn’t work,” Louis tells me over brisket at his town’s BBQ pit.  “I took care of her.”

“Oh, really?” I say.  Louis insisted on paying for this meal, and these drinks, again, even though I was the only one carrying cash. He never lets me pay for anything. That’s why   I decided to buy him a gift, some Viktor & Rolf SpiceBomb cologne, to show my appreciation.  The bottle is shaped like a grenade, perfect for Louis’s heavily-armored self.  I hope he likes it.

“If we ever lived together,” Louis says, staring at the bar TV screen with a diamond ad projecting from it, “I would want to pick out what you wear when you’re at home.”

“Um, really?”  I haven’t touched my Bloody Mary. “I am very particular about my wardrobe.”

Louis stares at me with his penetrating stare.

“I have something I want to give you,” I say, to change the topic as Louis pays the bill.

“What is it?”

“Just something small,” I hand Louis a tiny gift bag with the cologne inside.  “What’s wrong?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t have,” Louis stands up and puts his hands in his pockets, starts walking towards the door to the back parking lot. “I won’t accept it.”

“What? Why?” I walk faster to catch up with Louis, who’s standing in the shadow of his giant truck. “I wanted to show my appreciation.”

“The way to show your appreciation for me is to call me daddy, and let me play with your feet, “ he says. “For future reference, I don’t like surprises and never accept gifts.”

I climb into the passenger side of the truck, and don’t bother saying “Sorry, Daddy” this time.

After all, what did I really know about this dude?

 

Movie Santas I’d Like To F**k

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The stockings are hung, and my presents are wrapped.  Because when a random dude in red infiltrates your chimney, one has to be ready.  I’ve tied myself up and am awaiting the arrival of this man, the Man in Red.  But who is he? A total enigma, duh, according to limited folklore.. So here I lay, submissive and content, reflecting upon Santas from contemporary cinematography that I’d like to fuck. (Aka, SILFs).

Ironically, my favorite Christmas film doesn’t contain a single Santa. It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) is my favorite Christmas film, probably because it was first a short story and contains philosophical themes as well as social commentary. These themes include: Post War financial depression, suicidal thoughts, pharmaceutical culpability, existential crisis, marital abuse, and dare I say, feminism. Even though I loved It’s A Wonderful Life from a young age, I didn’t fully appreciate certain aspects until now.  Upon reflection, I know it’s because of what happens once George Bailey is “dead.”  When “Violet Buck” (Gloria Grahame) comes back into George Bailey’s life post mortem, she showcases an early example of the hooker-with the-heart-of-gold archetype, plus a case of shoulda coulda woulda as far as girls that got away in George’s life are concerned.

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Forties-era rhinestone-ed necklines aside, scenes in Christmas films captivate for subjective reasons. Holiday films appeal to our most childlike instincts and associations.  In a Christmas-themed Golden Girls episode, the ladies wait in a psychologist’s office for Rose, who is a receptionist there at the time. A “Santa” enters the waiting room, and Blanche’s horniness suddenly goes into overdrive.  Apparently, she has a Santa fetish.

Blanche

While I do not have a Santa fetish, given all of the representations of this enigmatic character in film, turns out there are a few who could potentially be a turn-on.

Billy Bob Thornton in Bad Santa and Bad Santa 2

Thornton portrays a complete nymphomaniac, alcoholic, nihilistic man named “Willie” who plots to rob businesses while employed as their in-house Santa.

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I figured Thornton wrote these scripts, but turns out they were penned by a bunch of random people.   Thornton taps into his “outsider” and “low life” persona well, fleshing out this character of “Willie” so well that I assumed he was a product of Thornton’s own imagination. Willie is a drunken pervert without a conscience, except for moments when, it turns out, he does seem to have a conscience. Is this guy boyfriend material? In my world yes, because I refuse to accept reality and always pine after those who consistently show me they are bad news.

Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places

Dan-Aykroyd-Trading-Places

Being unable to appreciate what you are given in life is a common holiday conundrum.  The movie “Trading Places” showcases such a tribulation in a way only an 80’s movie can, without regard for being politically correct and employing the comedy skills of early-era SNL greats (namely, Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy). I’m slightly embarrassed to mention (but not too embarrassed not to publish for the whole world to see) that I’m infatuated with the young Dan Aykroyd,  because he probably did lots of blow with John Belushi and never got in trouble for it.

In “Trading Places,” Aykroyd plays Louis Winthorpe, an upper-class commodities broker at Duke & Duke.  The two crotchety partners, Randolph and Mortimer, are at odds with each other – one thinks people are either born criminal low-lifes or not, and the other thinks even an upstanding financier such as Winthorpe would resort to a life of crime if he lost it all tomorrow. They wage a bet. They toss Winthorpe out on the street after framing him for petty theft, and a gregarious street hustler played by Eddie Murphy moves into Winthorpe’s penthouse and takes over his life.

Winthorpe winds up gaining the friendship of a prostitute (Jamie Lee Curtis), but does break into the Duke & Duke Christmas party totally drunk off his ass and weilding a gun. He sneaks in wearing a dirty Santa outfit and stuffs an entire salmon under his lapel, later devouring it on the subway to the horror of a female onlooker.

Minor-Role Santa in Home Alone  

In the first Home Alone, Kevin McAllister (Macaulay Culkin) walks over to Santa’s cottage on his suburban Chicago-area block to ask for his family back. Santa’s cottage is closed, but Kevin spots Santa trying to start up his broken down car while smoking a cig.

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Santa doesn’t have any candy for Kevin because “his elf took all the candy canes home to her boyfriend,” but he does give Kevin a few orange Tic Tacs. Santa unfortunately discovers a parking ticket on his station wagon – “What’s next, rabie shots for the Easter bunny?” – and then Kevin heads home. The actor who played  Santa in this scene was Ken Hudson Campbell, who, according to his IMDB page, just starred as an Uber driver in a 2017 Christmas movie called The Trouble With Mistletoe.

I do have a thing for sad, chubby guys with glasses, so I think that back in 1990, this down-on-his-luck Chris Cringle and I might have made a nice pair.

Conclusion

This blog stands as a warning to those unafflicted by holiday woes – do not drink too much, or eat too much, or smoke too many cigars like a chimney this holiday season, because your mind will turn into a blizzard of weird thoughts that you won’t be able to see through, until the only topic you can think up for your Holiday Blog is about “Movie Santas you’d like to F**K.”

So… did I leave any of your favorite Santas off the list?

Reader Survey: WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MEN WHO CONSIDER “DIE HARD” A CHRISTMAS MOVIE? FACTORYGIRL1987@GMAIL.COM

 

House of Tards

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Kevin Spacey, Harvey Weinstein, and Louis C.K. walk into a bar.  

“What are ya having, sweetcheeks?” asks the barmaid.

“Barely-legal virgins,” says Harvey.

“Little boys,” Kevin says.

“Want to see my dick?” says Louie.  

“Ummmm…” says the barmaid.  “There’s a punchline here somewhere.”

When it comes to sexual assault, happiness is the best revenge.  Or you could do the Lorena Bobbit thing and cut off his penis. It’s all about standing up for yourself and not letting men push you around.   I have real-life tales of date rape to reveal.  Sometimes you don’t even realize something was inappropriate for many years.  Sexy women get used to unwanted sexual attention. At least, I’ve let some things slide that I really shouldn’t have.  You’re always worried that no one will take you seriously lest you reveal the sadistic desires of some people walking in our midst.  The whole #metoo sensation might have thrown some men for a loop.  Some called out perverted guys they know.  But it’s important for each man to look deep within himself and acknowledge the pervy things he’s done in the past, and apologize to the person or persons involved.

Let’s examine how some of these famous pervs are handling the negative attention, shall we?  I created a playlist and beverage recipe to correspond with each one.   Perhaps it will inspire some men out there to cop to their own transgressions.

LOUIS C.K.

I watched “Louie” on Netflix, and I’ll admit, I liked Season 1.  There’s a sketch where Louis C.K. and Robin Williams go to the funeral of “the biggest asshole they ever knew.”  They are the only two people there.  Afterwards they go to a strip club.  All the dancers start crying when they tell them who died, because according to them, the same guy was “the most generous man” they knew.

But as the seasons go on, the show dissolves into a serious depression.   A later episode contains a dream sequence in which non-consensual stuff happens between Louie and his crush.   The show becomes all about his strained relationship with daughter and ex-wife.  It wasn’t funny anymore.

When I was binge watching the show a couple years ago, I searched around the internet for info on Louis C.K.  It was rumored he frequently whips out his dingaling in front of female comics.  Now, finally, he has admitted to the whole thing.  Or, at least, some things…

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Drink:  the GINGER COCK-TAIL

1.5 oz. Fireball

Ginger ale

Combine in a tumbler over ice. Garnish with a maraschino cherry.

Playlist:  “Cleaning Out My Closet,” Eminem

“Age of Consent,” New Order

“Issues,” Julia Michaels

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HARVEY WEINSTEIN

The ‘megalomaniacal producer’ is a familiar Hollywood trope.  Someone who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, until his rationality is thrown to the wayside and things fall apart.  This person is driven by power and control, and continues thirsting for more power and control.  Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet, Rose McGowan…every day, a new one of my favorite actresses I’d grown up watching spoke out against Weinstein.   He became the face of a widespread movie industry problem.

It’s interesting to note that there’s lots of porn made with the “Hollywood casting couch” plotline.  This would make one think it’s a popular fetish, but maybe the porn industry is simply commenting on the Hollywood industry, as they are two sides of a coin.  Many working in the legitimate porn industry today say they are highly respected in the workplace.

(BUT OF COURSE, there is the DARK SIDE of free Internet porn that EXPLOITS AND DEGRADES.  It’s important that your pornography is ETHICALLY SOURCED. RESEARCH THAT SHIT!!!!!!)

Drink:  the SHAKESPEARE IN TROUB

1.5 oz gin

1.5 oz. lemonade

1 oz. Prosecco

Ice

Halved strawberries

Fill large margarita glass or goblet with ice, add lemonade and gin, and top with Prosecco. Garnish with the strawberries.

Playlist:  R. Kelly, “Your Body’s Callin”

“Hollywood,” Madonna

KEVIN SPACEY

I didn’t want to believe this one.  Kevin Spacey?!  I love many of his movies- Seven, American Beauty, LA Confidential. Apparently it was “BuzzFeed News”, which sounds like a complete oxymoron, who broke the story.   But when I read that “House of Cards” removed him from all future episodes and plan to carry on without him, I knew there must be weight to these accusations.  He drunkenly came onto a 14-year-old.   How messed up is that? His ‘thing’ as an actor is to portray socially-inept characters.  He has that ability to maintain an eerily-stoic facial expression at all times.

According to USA Today, there is currently a list of 15 individuals accusing Spacey of misconduct. One of the accusers is Richard Dreyfus’s son! (I had a crush on Richard Dreyfuss when I was a kid after seeing Mr. Holland’s Opus, maybe that explains my teacher fantasy?!) Anyway, Spacey is denying all of these allegations up and down.  I hate liars! HATE THEM!  They should all live together underground.

Playlist:

“Lies”- Thompson Twins

“Lies in the Dark,” Tove Lo

Drink: the NUMB OUT

2 oz. bourbon

½ oz. absinthe

1 oz. lemon juice

Pomegranate juice

Combine ingredients in a shaker with ice and pour into a martini glass.  Garnish with a lemon.

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CHARLIE ROSE

Charlie Rose won an Emmy for his interview with Charles Manson in 1987. Go figure, the day after Manson dies, it’s announced via CBS (Rose’s own employer) that he was terminated due to allegations from young women trying to break into broadcast journalism. This straight-up broke my heart; I was getting a pedicure when it came on the news and kept saying “It’s not true, it cannot be true,” while sniffing glitter nail polish to numb the pain.   I LOVED his show on PBS, Charlie Rose, especially his interview with Bill Gates. Bill Gates keeps alluding to artificial intelligence in a very nuanced way and it’s kind of sexy.

So if I was alone in a party with Charlie Rose, trying to schmooze, would he have invited me up to his hotel room and exposed himself? (And who doesn’t have a story about a guy exposing themselves to share?!)

So, now what? Who knows? He has no job and nowhere to turn.  The media attention is on him now… I am sure they will capture what’s next.

Drink: EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THORN

Pour two shots of Tequila Rose into a snifter, on top of a single ice cube.

Playlist:

“Rose Of the Devil’s Garden,” Tiger Army

“Kiss from a Rose,” Seal

“I Wanna Be Adored,” The Stone Roses

NICK CARTER

But my love is all I have to give. Without you I don’t think I could live. I wish I could give the world to you. But love is all I have to give. Damn, that’s poetic. Nick Carter sang those lines in the early 2000’s as front-man of The Backstreet Boys. Honestly, I was more of a 98 Degrees kind of girl; they were more sexual and obscure.

In 2004, Paris Hilton and Nick Carter dated for 10 months.  In Carter’s ghostwritten book, “Facing the Music and Learning to Talk About It,” he says the time with her was the most self-destructive period in his life. He says he did so much ecstasy that that it caused permanent depressive changes in his brain. So  that would have been around the time the girl-group DREAM (hit single: “He Loves U Not”) were also on the pop charts.

One of the members, now 33, says Carter raped her by going down on her in a bathroom, then persuading her to have sex with him, despite her pleas that she was a “virgin and saving herself for marriage.” (according to People magazine).  Nick Carter says he’s shocked and “saddened” by her proclamation, so who knows.   Let’s hope they both get the help they need.

It must be noted that Carter himself may have suffered sexual abuse at the hands of Lou Pearlman, the record exec who invented the “boy band.” He owned Backstreet Boys, N’sync, O-town, etc., and went to prison after stealing $300 million from investors. It’s alleged he forced members of these boy bands to give him “massages,” and touched them inappropriately.

SPA

Drink: THE BLEACH BLOND

Fill glass with ice. Add equal parts 99 Bananas and orange juice. Pour into cocktail shaker and then into glass. Do this until frothy and enjoy. Garnish as desired.

Playlist: “Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely,” Backstreet Boys

“Rumors,” Lindsay Lohan

AL FRANKEN

It’s the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even …. A Democratic senator/comedian whose bad joke came to bite him in the ass.

Before becoming a senator in Minnesota, Franken was a politically-minded comedian and wrote for/performed on SNL in the 1970s and 1980s. Is he funny? Not really.  Apparently he groped a sleeping Playboy model, and also forced a make out upon a young news anchor. I mean, the man is old. He probably tastes like peppermint gum and pastrami.  If he stuck his tongue down my throat, I would have barfed everywhere probably. EVERYWHERE!

I’m not that surprised. The man is a comedian and politician. With those careers combined, he had the cards stacked against him.

THE CHAMPAGNE TRAIL

2 oz. dry gin

1 tsp. Sugar

½ oz. lemon juice

5 oz. brut champagne

Shake gin, lemon juice, sugar and crushed ice in cocktail shaker. Strain into Collins glass half-full with ice and top with champagne.

Playlist: “Feels Good (Don’t Worry Bout a Thing), ” Naughty by Nature

“Tears of a Clown,” Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

CONCLUSION

This is not an attempt to make drunken mockery of a sobering situation.  Definitely do not consume these drinks in the presence of known sexual predators.  There are still so many misogynists out there wandering around in plain sight.  While it’s a good thing celebrities are speaking out, all of us “normal people” have to do the same.  When faced with situations that “aren’t okay,” tell the person that what they are attempting is not okay with you and is a violation of your rights as a human being. There’s many types of abuse – sexual, emotional, physical.  These things are hard to report to the authorities and even harder to prosecute.  If you are being victimized, collect all the evidence you can against the perpetrator, and sue him in civil court. That’s my advice.

 

No Ifs, Ands, Or Big Fat Butts

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This story isn’t about butts. It’s about romance. But what is “romance?”  No one seems to know, not even the dictionary. The dictionary says it’s, first and foremost, a “novel, movie, or genre of fiction.” Google says it’s “a feeling” associated with “love.”

I always thought romance was something sold in the Victoria’s Secret catalog.  This is probably because I used to wear the Amber Romance fragrance from their Fantasies line. (I later switched to Strawberries & Champagne, and they’ve both been discontinued).  Romance, to me, is rather illusory and fleeting, like cheap perfume.

In college, one of my upper-level English classes was “Romantic Journeys.”  It was taught by a very handsome professor-slash-documentary filmmaker.  It was then that I went from an Existentialist to a Transcendentalist.  Romanticism is about being free to express raw emotion.  There are also lots of castles in Romantic literature, so maybe that’s why Cinderella and all of them live in castles and get swept off their feet? But in reality, some Romantic guys actually went insane.  Edgar Allen Poe had syphilis, didn’t he? Frankenstein is also from the “Romantic” era.

Men today shouldn’t be scared of Romantic gestures, or expressing their emotions for that matter.  It’s slightly macabre, scary and perfect for the Halloween season. Here are some ways to make your relationship more Romantic this Halloween.

Live on Your Own Private Island/Castle

You will be able to have sex anywhere and everywhere, first of all.  On an episode of MTV Cribs featuring Nas and Kelis, they boasted that they are super loud when they have sex, so it’s a good thing no one else is around. I can’t remember where they lived, but it seemed pretty secluded.  Sadly, they went through an acrimonious divorce.

I once visited Alexandria Bay, NY with my belligerent former-sugar daddy and we did a ghost tour. There’s a castle there called Boldt Castle; it’s very famous.  The man who owned the Waldorf Astoria in NYC started to build a castle on a heart-shaped island for the love of his life, but she died mid-construction.  He ordered all work to permanently end.  You can take tours of the place now though, and the area’s ghost tour covers that and other places.

Sigh… so Romantic. A ghost tour would be perfect for a spooky yet sexual date. Or you could drive around looking for castles and explore.

Wear Vials of Each Other’s Blood

Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie were certainly a Romantic couple.  I never found out how they obtained the vials of each other’s blood that they wore around their necks. Was it professionally drawn, or was it more of a DIY effort? Donating a pint of blood would be something interesting to do as a couple.  You will get free juice and donuts, too! #FreeDates. Maybe you can take some blood home and fashion it into jewelry.

Bram Stoker wrote during the Victorian period, not the Romantic period, but Romanticism permeates the novel.  Dracula lived in a castle, of course. The sexualization of vampires is no secret; Helloooo Robert Pattinson.

Today you can visit bondage dungeons that resemble castles.  While there, mingle with the folks turned on by blood. There’s nothing closer to the heart, and therefore passion, than blood.  You might pick up some new ideas for the bedroom.

If you prefer to stay in for your Romantic night,  red wine and candy apples make succulent and sexualized treats. The Halloween film Sleepy Hollow contains blood play/bloodletting sex scenes.  It will surely get the blood flowing to the right areas.

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Pick Out Your Tombstones Together

So what if it’s only your second date? It’s never too early to choose how your headstones will look side-by-side. Personally, I want a heart-shaped tombstone. Black marble. What can I say, I’m a Romantic ‘til death. And the font is very important – chic cursive for me, all that way, with an etching of a rose.  A cemetery date would be great for Halloween. A walk through Forest Lawn is very picturesque, not to mention Rick James is buried there and I recently discovered a pond coated in cool green slime.  You can decide where your side-by-side burial plots can be placed, too, and then listen to “Cemetery Gates” by The Smiths.

Edgar Allan Poe is said to have died from syphilis, probably due to the fact he married his first cousin, but the actual cause isn’t known.  He was apparently murmuring the word “Reynolds” over and over when he appeared  at the hospital. It could have been syphilis, alcoholism, rabies, or something else.

His first cousin/wife, Virginia Eliza Clemm Poe, died before him, even though they married when she was only 13 and he was 26.  She had “the consumption,” but Poe’s extramarital “sexual improprieties” are said to have contributed to her early demise.

They’re buried together in Westminster Hall and Burying Ground, Baltimore, Maryland.

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You may not view all this stuff as “Romantic,” and simply dismiss it as the stoned ramblings of an utter nitwit.  That’s your decision. You can keep it PG, put on the old French maid costume and tickle your man with a feather duster again…  That’s cool for Halloween, too.

The dark and the mysterious has always been sexy, and dare I say, Romantic. The brooding Romantic hero in an exotic setting  has become a familiar plotline.  A Happy Ending is what we crave,  but sometimes, it’s the emotion and intrigue in between Happy Endings that makes the Happy Ending feel so good. The whole ‘Happily Ever After’ thing is for the birds.

Murray’s Return

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I have a bad habit of “boyfriend recycling.”  As soon as one romance fades away, his predecessor twice-removed comes out of the woodwork. That’s exactly what happened with Murray. He slid into my emails, asked me to go to a “strip club in PA,” and of course, I couldn’t say no.

Murray’s living room

It’s sunny inside Murray’s living room, for once. Probably because it’s mid-July, the perfect moment of the year when one’s perpetual drunkenness is enough to make time stand still.  I study Murray’s coffee table like a map.  What cards does tonight hold?  There’s a bottle of Fisheye Pinot Grigio, a bottle of Evan Williams Green Label, copies of Playboy that I unearthed from Murray’s bathroom, and an ashtray of smouldering Senecas – some of them  lipstick-stained.

“We should probably head out soon,”  Murray says, squinting like an old man. He’s wearing those dangerously-skinny jeans again, but he’s not  exactly “thick.”  I guess skinny jeans for a skinny man are okay.

The Echo Club

In the backseat of a black Nissan – why are all rideshares so generic? – Murray and I gaze out the window. We’re buzzed. Smoke stacks reeking pollution pass us by, and that’s not even counting what lies beneath the surface of Niagara Falls.

The Nissan pulls to the curb of Burt’s house, which sits among shot-up bodegas.  At one, you can score stolen appliances, hookers, and some bomb-ass pizza.  But you didn’t hear it from me.

“So are ya ready for a funky-ass night?” says Burt, who’s wearing lobster-print shorts. He and Murray record music together. Last weekend, they wound up at the Echo.  Since Murray and I have been hanging out regularly again, he invited me there.  We all joined together on this shadowy, Saturday night.

“Do you really think it will be open?” Burt asks,  popping open a Michelob.

“It’s gotta be,” says Murray, sauntering around in his worn oxfords.

We pile into Burt’s van and search for the Echo along the pitch-black road.  I’ve got a blunt danglin’ from my mouth; Murray’s on his twelfth Seneca. Finally, I perceive a dim yellow light.

“There it is!” I squeal.  “The Echo.”

We walk onto the Echo Park Mansion’s giant wraparound porch. A cat scampers off.  It’s got a William Faulkner, “A Rose for Emily” vibe.  It’s a relic of a more prosperous time, when the grandeur of this stately mansion wasn’t overshadowed by run-down wreckage surrounding it.   Rumor has it the owner kept debtors in a basement jail cell.  We climb the steps, and peer through the bars of a steel storm door.  There’s a sign flickering inside – “Karaoke.”

Murrays

“Hello?” Murray walks in, and I follow, and so do Burt and his finacé, Noelle.

The wood floor is buffed and polished. At first there’s not a soul.  But then, a middle-aged brunette rises from behind the bar. She’s got a Scrunchie on her wrist and a gray tee shirt on.

“Hey,” Murray says, already taking a seat on the vinyl barstool.  “Dina, right?”

“We were here last week,” says Burt, standing behind him.

I sit next to Murray, who’s got his denim shirt half-unsnapped.

“She’s going to have a pinot grigio,” Murray says to Dina, ordering my drink of choice.

“I’ve got some right here,” Dina says, stooping down. “Wait – what happened to the pinot? It was right here.  The other girl must’ve put it somewhere.”  She leaves.

“Spooky,” Murray says.

“Look what I brought in,” I whisper in his ear, and look down so that he notices the clutch purse open on my lap.    “Kinky Liqueur.”  I pull out the tiny bottle of neon pink liquid, and take a sip while looking him dead in the eye.

“Hmmm….” says Murray. “Let’s go on a tour of the place.”

I agree, even though this punctuates the seductive moment.  The four of us walk through a dark, dusty banquet room with black-and-white portraits on the wall. Murray leads the way – since he’d been here with Burt – and takes us on a tour through the mansion’s three floors, via a peeling “Yellow Wallpaper” staircase, past end tables of porcelain dolls and hand-painted china, up to a diseased-looking bedroom with wedding dresses hanging all around.

“We could be up here later, Burt,” Murray says, pulling a curtain aside to gaze at the moon.  “To watch the sunrise.”

This captures my attention. How come Murray didn’t invite me to watch the sunrise? I look to Noelle, but she’s off in another room, apparently. We return to the bar and Murray continues to buy me drinks and bum me cigs and do all the things I like men to do for me (that pretty much covers it) and then a whole bunch of Murray and Burt’s pals start to show up.  So I call my girl, Trixey, who’s often driving around The Falls for no apparent reason.

“You guys seem really cute,” Trixey tells me at the bar while Murray does a rendition of Brian WIlson’s “Good Vibrations.”  We’re the only group in the place, besides Dina, the ghosts, and a karaoke facilitator/DJ. “I can tell he’s into you.”

“Really?” I say. “I’m really into him, too.  Although, if I continue hanging with him I’ll get cirrhosis of the liver.”

“Do you want a Valium?” asks Trixey.

“Yeah, sure” I say.  “I’m knock knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door and I really don’t give a fuck.”

After that, I decide to sing “My Own Prison” by Creed as my karaoke debut.  Court is in session, the verdict is in. Then we all go on the porch to smoke. Shoulda been dead on a Sunday morning banging my head. Murray and I are seated on the concrete ledge, overlooking the front lawn.

“I only take people I trust to the Echo,” he says, inhaling his final drag.

“You trust me, Murray?” I say, hoping this will become one of my more memorable functioning blackouts.

“Whoa…WHOA!” Murray falls sideways and takes me down with him; we fall completely off the porch and into a patch of bushes underneath.

“Are you guys okay?” Trixey calls down.  “I’ll drive you back to Burt’s.”

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On the way back to Burt’s, Murray’s not the only one who’s passed out in the car this time around.

“Hey, hey,” Trixey is shaking me awake.  “We’re at Burt’s.”

I head upstairs to brush my teeth, then crawl into Burt’s guest bed and wait for Murray.  I’m wearing a fishnet outfit  from the porn store.  I’m sure our makeout will happen any moment now…

…………..ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ……….

Before I know it, sun is streaming through the open window.  It’s morning.  I’m on top of the covers in the same position as when I got here. There’s no trace of Murray.  I get dressed and go downstairs.

Murray and Burt are slouched on the couch alongside an almost-gone bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, hey,” I say, nonchalant. “Good morning.”  I sit in a chair on the other side of the room.

So wait….we really didn’t make out? 

“You guys drank all that whiskey last night?” I say. “When?”

“We just went to bed two hours ago,” Murray says, scratching his chest.

“Oh.”

I look from Murray, to Burt, from Burt, back to Murray.  They are two peas in a pod. I guess this is how sexual frustration feels.

“You don’t remember?” Burt sits up.  “You came downstairs, took the whiskey bottle from Murray, went up and were cuddling with it.”

“What?” I say. “I was sleepwalking?!”

“You really don’t remember?” Murray says.  “You were cuddling with the whiskey bottle.”

Probably because that was the closest thing to a make out as I was gonna get….I drag my weary body out the back door and sit on Burt’s dock, overlooking the river.  After a few minutes, Murray comes out, still in his dirty, all-black clothes from yesterday, and lights a cigarette.  I look at him, but don’t say a word.

“I’m not boyfriend material,” says Murray, exhaling a smoke plume.  He’s pale, sweaty, and totally unhealthy in every way.  And we didn’t even make out.

“You know what, Murray,” I finally say, “You say that all the time, but I think it’s just an act.”

“No,” he says. “It’s the truth. I’m honest about that part.”

“Well then, let’s just get an Uber back to town,” I say. “I have some weed I need to be smoking.”

READER SURVEY: WHEN ARE MEN IN SKINNY JEANS OKAY? FACTORYGIRL1987@GMAIL.COM

Romantic Retardation*

*In the clinical sense of the word

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Another Memorial Day, another drama. That’s my life. For the past two months, I was seeing this guy “Billy,” an electrician with peroxided hair. I thought that I knew the real him.

Our passionate connection made me feel like we were sheltered under the sunny boardwalks of Venice Beach in 1994 with nothing to kill our buzz.  I was wrapped up in his bubble. Billy skateboards all the time, and lives out in the country actually. He was kind of like an obscure record I discovered in a beat-up barn out in Cambria.

We met in a strange twist of fate and turns out, we both read Hustler for the articles. Our romance was meant to be. Billy took me out to eat and to the park all the time, brought pinot grigio and PBR for us, held my hand and gazed into my eyes… He was just so romantic.

But then the record totally scratched. Billy flipped the script. Everything changed.

Masks

The masks we wear

One week ago, Billy told me that he was too broke to take me out to eat anymore.

“I’ve been saving for a house,” Billy texted me. “I can’t spend any money.”

“But it’s impossible not to spend money when there’s a woman in your life,” I said.

Honestly, I was hurt. Why would Billy take me out on dates for two months straight and then suddenly say he can’t anymore?  I figured it meant he wanted to do his own thing, and that I should break up with him as soon as possible, before I’m the one left in the dust.

“Look, Billy…” I said. “If you’re trying to be rude and passive aggressive, than just leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about?” He texted me about five hours later. “I’m not mad about anything.”

So I’m a crazy bitch then, apparently. It was all in my head. Ugh!!

 

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But the situation didn’t go away. For the entirety of this past week, Billy turned into a withdrawn and depressed goon who didn’t want to do anything, despite the fact I told him I would be an emotional support and wear a schoolgirl outfit to his house.

“I don’t want to bring you down when I’m in a depressed mood,” Billy said.

“It’s okay to be in a depressed mood,” I said. “Everyone gets in depressed moods, you don’t have to totally ignore me because you’re in a depressed mood.”

But that’s basically what Billy did. His personality changed. Emotionally, he disappeared. He hid away in an emotionless purgatory, and he didn’t care how I felt about it. I suppose you could say he left me high and dry, feeling abandoned, vulnerable enough to join the Church of Scientology…I mean, right when I thought that I met someone honest, it turned out to be an act.

“I actually don’t even like going out to dinner,” Billy said. “I hate going out to eat. I hate going out downtown.”

“What?” I said. “You could have fooled me.”

“I don’t know how to show my emotions,” Billy continued.

“You are a sociopath, I think,” I told him. “American Psycho!”  I hung up the phone, and then I went out for the night.

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Saturday night, Allentown was pop, lock, and droppin’ from Wadsworth to Main. I decided to forego stilettos and wear pointy ankle boots which said “Girl’s Night – Not Trying to Talk to or Be With Any Men.”  Except that is, the men who were in Q. and supplying me with dollars to pick out songs by Nicki Minaj and Demi Lovato, (what can I say, I’m a great DJ at Q. late at night, when the THC and pinot grigio and Adderall are coursing through my veins and I think that 1:30 a.m. is still early and that I should call a bunch of people right away).

“Eddie!” Eddie is my somewhat nocturnal ex-bf/BFF who is definitely an emotional support.  I thought maybe, just maybe, he might be awake. “I’m tipsy and I can’t get home!” But did I really have any intentions of going home?

“I’ll be right there, where you at?”

By the time Eddie’s olive-green Honda pulled to the curb, I had already twisted my ankle while crossing the street. Damn ankle boots…I muttered, flicking the ash of a cigarette whose origins were unknown. Stupid little Billy boy…I paced the corner of Allen and Delaware amidst taxi beeps. If only he could see me now! 

“Eddie!” I hopped in the passenger side of his olive-green Honda. “Hi!’’

“So, you, like, needed a ride home?”

“Meh, I guess. But I don’t really feel like going home yet!”

Eddie drove around to a quieter street, and we sat in the car and talked awhile. I hadn’t seen Eddie for several months; but it doesn’t really matter, because we’ve known each other a super long time and there just aren’t certain pretenses between us. Except now, Eddie has a girlfriend who would chase me away with a broom if I were to ever show up at his place.

“It’s just all gone to shit,” a tear rolled down my cheek under the glow of a crescent moon. “This dork Billy, I never should have given my heart away. He’s too busy saving for a house, apparently…”

“He’s an electrician, he should already have a house,” Eddie lit another cig. “They make good money.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“What an asshole,” Eddie said, and I realized he was wearing finely-striped silky pajama pants the whole time.

“I like your pants,” I said.

“Thanks,” Eddie said, and I leaned over to give him a kiss.

 

 

The Blind Leading the Blind(fold): How to Spot Serial Killers on Dating Apps

I recently had the displeasure of being zip-tied in a man’s home. But that’s what I get for not paying attention to the “red flags” that Teddy constantly waves through the air like he just don’t care; I was too preoccupied with my own delusions and fantasies to notice them.

In fact, Teddy and I should have never met at all.  It went against the laws of nature. He has that whole “Norman Bates” thing going on – he’s a total recluse, with mommy issues and antisocial/borderline personality disorder. His moods flip like a switch, but never seem to show on his face. His house is meticulously decorated from the era of “Mad Men”; there’s dusty bottles of gin and cocktail shakers, mid-century furniture and I don’t know, 60’s Christmas songs by Bing Crosby and the like emanating from an ancient record player, because this all took place in the wintertime, mind you.

Norman Bates

But something brought Teddy and I together, even though the only time he really leaves home is to go to work. It was okCupid. What the hell was I doing on okCupid? Who knows.  But Teddy looks really good in photos…very much like Dr. Threadson from “American Horror Story,” actually.

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He began alluding to having a “bondage dungeon.”

“So how intense is this dungeon, anyway, Ted?” I said. “I mean, on a scale of one to ten.”

“My dungeon is an 11 and I don’t use safe words,” he said. “And you aren’t ready to see it.”

“What are you talking about? Haven’t you seen Device Bondage? Everyone uses safe words.”

Not ready…ha! I think I’d like to decide for myself what I’m ready for…  I felt like he was presenting me with a challenge, or at least new blog material. Is Teddy a dedicated BDSM practitioner? Megalomaniacal “Christian Gray” wannabe?  A serial killer? Naturally, I went to his house to find out.

The date night which ensued at Teddy’s house has now turned into ThePrivateMag’s latest offering to society – my handy guide “HOW TO SPOT SERIAL KILLERS ON DATING APPS”  – just in time for your 420 celebration. Don’t even think about meeting your match in person without checking for the following Serial Killer Signs. According to an FBI symposium published in Psychology Today, there isn’t one definitive serial killer profile, but there are several common traits present among murderers.

HE MANIPULATES EVERY SITUATION IN HIS FAVOR

Teddy controls everything. He’s CEO of his own company. When it came to the two of us, in the end he knew way more about me than I knew about him. He would get pissed at me out of nowhere, because apparently I’m “out of control.” He played mind games to get me back to his house. With the exception of our first date, that’s the only place he wanted to be. His house, where he holds all the power and control. He also told me to wear high heels for our date.

“Intent on exerting some kind of control over the people around them, they often hold back bits of crucial information in a bid to maintain power over the situation, gain attention and assert a warped sense of authority,” said  Dr. Elizabeth Yardley, Director of the Centre for Applied Criminology at Birmingham City University, in Real Crime magazine.

If you’re chatting with somebody new, and you have to beg for information or they simply dodge your questions, it’s definitely a bad sign.

HE’S A SOCIOPATH/SOCIALLY INEPT

What is a sociopath, anyway? The term gets tossed around quite a bit. “He must be a sociopath, we had sex and he never called me again…” “Oh he’s a total sociopath, he’s a drunk with complete disregard for the law…”  Sociopathy is just one type of antisocial personality disorder. According to the article “The Sociopath – Serial Killer Connection” from Psychology Today magazine, sociopaths make for “disorganized crimes” committed impulsively. Sociopathy is a learned behavior, showcased by disregard for social standards and the feelings of others. It makes you prone to violent outbursts as well.

There are other types of Antisocial Personality Disorders, and many are left undiagnosed. According to PsychCentral.com, “Antisocial personality disorder is a disorder that is characterized by a long-standing pattern of disregard for other people’s rights, often crossing the line and violating those rights. A person with antisocial personality disorder (APD) often feels little or no empathy toward other people, and doesn’t see the problem in bending or breaking the law for their own needs or wants.” Antisocial Personality Disorders are 70 percent more prevalent in men. Symptoms tend to decrease in intensity by their 40s-50s.

In contrast, Psychopaths are more “in control” and according to Psychology Today, “The FBI explained Psychopathy is a personality disorder manifested in people who use a mixture of charm, manipulation, intimidation, and occasionally violence to control others, in order to satisfy their own selfish needs.”

Be on the lookout for drug and alcohol abuse and a violent criminal record. The best indicator of future behavior is past behavior.

Clarence

SEX LIFE DOMINATED BY AUTO-EROTICISM

If a guy you barely know from Tinder wants to go all 50 Shades on you, you might wind up tethered to a radiator in his basement (why do I have to find everything out the hard way?) with no way out. I’ve spoken with dominatrixes and been in dungeons before, and the legit BDSM community stresses the importance of consent and trust. But if you’re a withdrawn manipulator who lacks empathy, you don’t care about such things. Therein lies the catch.

“Serial killers’ fantasies are often about control and violation…” according to the online article “10 Most Common Traits of Serial Killers.” “From an early age, many serial killers are intensely interested in voyeurism and fetishism as well as other paraphilias. Many will start their deviancy as relatively harmless peeping-toms, before moving on to house-breaking, rape, and murder. Given that elements of bondage and dominance feature so strongly in most paraphilias, it is no surprise that this is often the route followed after adolescence.”

I asked Teddy his favorite sex position and he told me “he doesn’t have one, vanilla sex doesn’t interest him” and the only sex he has is with women who are tied up. “But what about a quickie in public, or on the go?” I said. “Doesn’t it take a lot of time?” Teddy looked at me like I was crazy.

Perhaps the most popular murderer/bondage enthusiast was Dennis Rader, aka the BTK (Bind Torture Kill) serial killer.

CHILDHOOD ABUSE AND NEGLECT

Not everyone who endures childhood trauma grows up to murder people, obviously, but according to the previously mentioned FBI study, a large portion of serial killers interviewed had gone through severe childhood trauma and neglect. When I asked Teddy about his family, he said he “doesn’t talk with his mom”, who lives out of state, and that his dad “was a psychopathic drunk.”

ARSON AND ANIMAL TORTURE

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These are common early crimes committed by those who kill later on – and they definitely make for a really bad date. If you’re out with a guy and he wants to burn down a house – But maybe he was watching that scene from 8 Mile, you’re thinking, where Eminem and Brittany Murphy share a moment under the fiery glow of a house consumed by flames?  Um, girl, just walk away.

 

 

How to Have Sex in a Church (and Get Away With It)

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“Got no religion / Don’t need no friends / Got all I want / And I don’t need to pretend” – Black Sabbath

Are you turned on by dripping hot candle wax? What about sipping wine in a robe, or whipping yourself in a cold, dark room? It’s easy to become aroused in church. Inhale the incense and look around. There’s the illusion of mystery, the whole ‘getting down on your knees and begging forgiveness’ thing, and many potentially erotic uses for the confessional.

When Lucifer calls, you’ll pick up the phone, because he will manifest as a Johnny Depp-lookalike dripping sweat and tasting like Moet, not a hooved creature with stank breath. That’s why it’s called “temptation,” duh – sin is everywhere and it’s hard to say no. (Side note: I once met an exotic dancer named Sin, how’s she doing?). If I learned anything in Catholic school, it’s that it’s okay to give into sin, just as long as you confess and say you’re sorry afterward.

Churches have a lot in common with dungeons – kinky sex dungeons, that is. Last week, I got a call from “S,” a guy who’s titillated by subterranean exploits as much as I am. He suggested we try to have sex in a church. Even though I rebuffed his advances in the past, his church idea was too good to ignore. We didn’t really think it would be possible, anyway, but was worth a good, old-fashioned Ozzy Osbourne “Shot in the Dark.” So I doused myself in a vial of True Religion cologne, listened to my “Crucifix Playlist” on Spotify (Madonna, Justice, Tori Amos), and met “S” in front of our chosen house of worship.

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. And all of the doors were locked. Damn! But guess what? We totally pulled it off in under thirty minutes. Yes, S and I had sex inside a church and didn’t get arrested. So here it is, my sexy readers, theprivatemag’s Valentine’s Day gift to you – a definitive how-to guide on how to have sex in a church and get away with it. *For entertainment purposes only. Church sex is illegal.

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Check out Churches with Cool Architecture and Art

It’s easy to gain admittance from a clergy member midday, on a weekday, under the guise of wanting to sneak a peek. Real Tiffany windows, Gothic Revival architecture, actual gold, and Renaissance-era art are NO JOKE, and worth checking out. Trinity Episcopal (371 Delaware Ave.) features stained glass windows by Louis Comfort Tiffany and John LaFarge; the Lombard-Romanesque interior of Blessed Trinity RC (317 Leroy Ave.) features a major collection of Christian symbolic art – 2,000 pieces deep- along with Byzantine details; Our Lady of Victory Basilica (767 Ridge Rd., Lackawanna) is mammoth, marble, and has a Father Baker museum in the basement; St. Stanislaus (123 Townsend Street) is a Romanesque fixture of Ol’ Polonia built in 1882; and when St. Louis Cathedral (35 Edward St. ) was built in 1855, it was meant to be an homage/knock-off of Cologne Cathedral from 16th century Germany.

Wander Off to Explore

While on a self-guided tour with your companion, look for annexes, nooks, and dark corners until you are alone and everyone thinks you left the building.  S. and I explored the main church by ourselves, then ended up finding a room with music stands and a piano. From there we wound up in an alcove between two doorways – one led back out into the church proper, and the other into a courtyard.

Make Sure you are Concealed and Undetectable

First thing’s first, make sure you won’t get locked in. (Asphyxiating in an old church dungeon is no laughing matter). Have an escape route. The door out to the courtyard was ours. An area with no windows is ideal. There was only a tiny window toward the bottom of one of the doors inside our alcove, and S. kept pressing his face up against it, but that’s a good way to scare the beJesus out of a nun.  I suggest a stealthier approach: get down on your hands and knees and peer every so often.

Turn Your Phone Off.

I figured this out the hard way. You will have adrenaline flowing and won’t remember to do so. In a quiet church, even vibrate mode could blow your cover. Turn that shit off completely.

Foreplay is Crucial for Testing the Limits

You might think a quickie in a church calls for ramming it in and running away, but foreplay is crucial. Not only will it increase your enjoyment overall, in this case it’s best to dip your toes in and see what you can get away with, slowly at first. If someone is going to catch you, it’s probably better to be moderately clothed and between first and third base. After five minutes, if you’re undetected, heat things up more. And then even more!

Don’t Leave Evidence

If you are prone to leaving things behind, now is not the time.  FYI, if you leave a condom wrapper, you’ll go to Hell forever. I heard it from the Archangel Michael himself.  The less personal belongings you bring with you, the better. It makes for a faster departure.

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I wish I could say I’m sorry that I had sex in a church, but I’m not. Why should I be? Jesus Himself probably had sex in a church at one point or another. The Romans weren’t exactly nice to the guy. So this St. Valentine’s Day, let’s all just try to have sex in as many places as possible.

READER SURVEY: WHAT’S THE BEST PLACE YOU’VE HAD SEX? FACTORYGIRL1987@GMAIL.COM

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Submitted For Your Approval

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Inside a house far back from the street dwells a man with a cross to bear. He’s an even-tempered man, albeit a very reclusive man, who may or may not dose himself with MDMA, psychotherapy-style. If we could see through his curtains, which are perpetually closed, we would see him reading by the fire.  In fact, he’s reading this very blog, on an iPad, with his slippers propped on a mid century table.

His living room has a distinct Twilight Zone feel; it’s as if we went back in time. But we haven’t gone back in time. We have entered a parallel dimension.

I met Teddy on okCupid four years ago.  He messaged to tell me he “consumes” my writing, and likes it. Nothing ever happened with him back then, though, because he fell off the face of the planet. Until, just recently…

Do you experiment with molly? is the text Teddy sends me. Hm, Teddy, what ever happened to you? goes through my mind as I type a reply. I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing the interior of Teddy’s meticulously mid century abode.

I drive to Teddy’s house expecting a chill evening. As soon as I pass the Audi dealership, I know I’m far from home. Snow falls from the sky in heavy clumps.

“Good evening,” I say into my phone, walking the long, snowy path towards Teddy’s garage. “I’m here.”

I see Teddy’s diminutive figure emerge through a square window in the door, which he unlocks and holds open.

Teddy is fortysomething, with hair both thick and spliced with gray.

“I was just making rosemary chicken,” he says. “Come in.”

Teddy leads the way into his kitchen, where the walls are clementine orange. Coordinating pans hang above the stove, along with all the homey trappings of a 1950’s kitchen – containers excavated from estate sales, their contents labelled on the outside, and a really-old looking coffeemaker.

“Interesting place,” I say.  “Why don’t you give me a tour?”

Behind his black frames, Teddy looks serious. In fact, he looks exactly like Dr. Thredson from American Horror Story. He calmly leads our way to the living room.

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Vodka and gin are stashed on a bar cart, along with various shakers and glassware. Schwing! Three old typewriters are displayed on a shelf. The walls feature framed movie posters from Bye Bye Birdie, Psycho, and the like. All the furniture is mid century modern and pristine. The room is a page torn from a catalog.

“I had this sofa reupholstered,” he says as I walk down the hall.

“Is this a bathroom?” I turn a doorknob slowly.

“No,” Teddy approaches from the right. “You can’t go in there.”

“I’m curious now. What’s in there?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just, nobody can go in there.”

“Ok, all right,” I say. “Is it a sex dungeon?”

Teddy is quiet.

“I’ve been building one in my basement for a while now,” he says. “But if I take you down there, you must submit.”

“I knew it,” I say. “I knew you had a dungeon.”

“I’m a man who needs control,” Teddy says, coming closer.

I go back to the living room and sit on the couch. Teddy leaves for a minute, and eventually returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“I don’t usually have this around,” he says, “but I went and bought some pinot grigio.”

“You’re the best,” I say. “How did you know that’s my favorite?”

“I had a feeling,” he says.

Teddy places another log in the fireplace, and it cracks and flickers and pops, before he sits on the other end of the couch. He’s wearing a cashmere cardigan and Hermes cologne. Ancient Christmas music emanates from the stereo.  I start to ask questions.

“So what do you do for Christmas?” I say. “Any family traditions?”

“No,” he says.

“What about your mom?” I say. “Where does she live?”

“I haven’t spoken to my mother…” Teddy trails off. “My mother and I don’t talk.”

“Why?”

Teddy stares at me in silence from the other end of the couch.

“Ok, sorry…” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Teddy pours the wine.

“So, since this is my inaugural Writer’s Seance,” I say, “What kinds of things do you write about?”

“See those six boxes under the TV?” I look at the shelf , and sure enough, there’s a bunch of boxes there, from typewriter paper or something. Handwritten labels are taped to the side of each one. “Those are my manuscripts,” he says.

“Oh, cool,” I say. “Can I read them?”

“No.”

“Do you want to read some to me?” I drink my wine. “Even just a sentence or two?”

“No one has ever read any part of them.”

“Do you think I can, someday?”

“No,” he says, heading towards the kitchen. “If I ever catch you looking at them,” Teddy’s head pokes from behind the wall, “I will have to remove you. Physically.” I follow Teddy into the kitchen. He’s chopping mini potatoes.

“Do you have any sparkling water?” I ask, opening the fridge. There’s nothing inside but dozens of cans of Vernors.

“Actually, yeah, here’s some water,” Teddy pours water from a pitcher on the counter, lemon slices floating inside, and hands it to me. “There’s only a small amount of roofies in it.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, walking around the kitchen.  It’s a kitchen that makes one think robotic Stepford blowup dolls will emerge from a closet at any minute to sweep the floor like an LSD-influenced Fantasia sequence. “Does it ever get lonely out here?”

“I stick to myself,” Teddy says, arranging the potato slices in a pan.

“Aw,” I say, and give him a hug. Teddy’s head snaps to the side to look at me quickly, his spatula raised. He taps it on my nose.

“Ha ha,” I say, and go back to the living room.

“Dinner will be served in twenty minutes,” Teddy says, following me to the couch.

“I really appreciate you making me dinner,” I say.

Twenty minutes later, Teddy brings out the rosemary chicken, the roasted potatoes, some silverware and cloth napkins. I unfold a napkin across my lap. Teddy devours everything in five minutes.

“Wow, Teddy, you have an animalistic appetite,” I say.

A white, artificial Christmas tree glimmers in the corner as we eat and talk, talk and drink, and I get the strong sense I’m being psychoanalyzed. Hours pass while watch movies. Teddy’s decor is having an opiating effect on my mind.

“Let’s open another bottle of wine,” he says, standing up.

“Um, only if I can sleep on your couch.”

“My couch?” Teddy says. “What about my bed?”

“I don’t really know you that well, so…”

Outside, snow continues to fall in clumps and I know I won’t be making it home tonight.

A little while later, I’m tucked in on the reupholstered couch and everything’s dark. It’s the middle of the night. All I hear is the ticking of a clock. I sink into a deep slumber. My body and mind go in separate directions. I dream about plastic wrap, prescription drugs, and nuclear warfare.

Odorless vapor drifts around the living room. I open one eye. Teddy’s in the armchair with his e Cig in hand, staring straight ahead at the wall, and his mouth is totally flatlined.

“Teddy?” I rub my eyes. The clock on the wall tells me it’s 7:30. “Do you sleep? Or just stare at the wall?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Teddy gets up and starts making coffee.

I get my stuff together while Teddy stays in the kitchen with his back turned.

“Well, I’m going to go brush off my car,” I say. “Teddy?” Teddy doesn’t react. “Well, bye.” I stand there as Teddy walks into the living room without giving me any response.

Kathy Bates, Norman Bates, and now this fucking dude, I’m thinking as I drive past the Audi dealership on my way home. When I’m safely in my bedroom, I call my friend Eleanor despite the fact it’s 8 a.m.

“Eleanor, hey…” I say. “I think I’ve met someone…”

READER SURVEY: DO YOU ENGAGE IN BDSM? FACTORYGIRL1987@GMAIL.COM

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