Private Magazine

Tag: allentown

Filthy Confessions

“What’s your fanta-ta-ta-sy?” -Ludacris

The first adult film I ever watched was called “Naughty Fantasies,” or something like that, from Baby Doll Productions. I found it in a CD case for Now That’s What I Call Music: Volume 18 that my college roommate left lying around. She was out of town when I made the discovery, so I invited all of my little college dorm friends over for a viewing party. Since then, I’ve become well-versed in adult film genres: gonzo, amateur, POV, MILF, transsexual, fetish, and “special interest,” which is basically an all-encompassing term used to describe anything and everything outside the status quo. (Trust me, if you can dream it, it’s out there. It exists).

I recently had the question posed to me: Do you have any taboo fantasies? I don’t really consider anything that taboo anymore, so I had no clue how to respond. I mean, define taboo. Go ahead:


I took the wind out of this guy’s sails when I didn’t answer his question.  I’m pretty sure he wanted to tie me up like a Christmas goose and spank me with a spatula. In fact, this blog, and therefore my LIFE, cannot be accessed at any Erie County public libraries anymore because it’s been deemed unacceptable for children under 18! It’s been banned. Found to be “suspicious.”

Now I have no choice but to put this up:


Last night, I wanted to make sure I still had the ability to vocalize my fantasies. When I was driving with Mick in his car, I let everything out.

“The cop who just drove by, omigod, he looked pretty sexy,” I said while eyeing a police SUV cruising down Allen St.

“Like I care,” Mick said, totally pissed and smoking a cig. I’m pretty sure Mick considers the two of us in a relationship, but I fail to grasp this and continuously try to date other men. I’m not super satisfied with monogamy, what can I say?

“That’s definitely one of my fantasies,”  I said, oblivious and smoking weed in a nonchalant manner. “For a hot police officer to arrest me and beat me into submission.”

“Great…” Mick said.

“But not in the holding center,” I said. “I heard it’s pretty smelly in there.”

“Whatever,” Mick said. “We’re here.”

Mick brought me to a Christmas party in a dark Allentown mansion. I love going to mansion parties – they are excellent networking opportunities. In the middle of the party, when a bunch of people found themselves on pink striped chaise lounges listening to an elderly art dealer play the trumpet, I embarked on another taboo discussion with two people I thought were a couple.

“….Swingers parties,” I heard the guy next to me say. My ears perked up, full-on SONAR, and his female accomplice noticed.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just, I attempted to infiltrate the swingers scene here before. I’m a writer.”

“I’ve never gone to any swingers parties before,” the woman said. She was pretty and tan. “But he has.”

“It’s pretty wild out in Calabasas,” he said. “Have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?”

“Yes, and honestly, I don’t think it gets that steamy around here,” I said. “At least, everything I went to just had a bunch of people sitting around eating mozzarella sticks.”

“Really?” the woman said.

“Yeah, apparently there’s some Bad Kitty Club that meets down in Dunkirk,” I continued. “We should go! What are you two doing after this? We’re going to Mother’s. Want to come? Hey, Mick -”

Mick stormed off and left me sitting on the couch to talk about the swingers lifestyle on my own.

“Are you guys dating?” the woman asked me.

“Um, not really,” I said. “At least, I don’t think we are.”

“We’re not a couple either,” she laughed and swirled her chardonnay.

“I’ll go find Mick,” I said. “He probably had to go to the bathroom. One sec.”

I found Mick slouched in front of the kitchen sink.

“Um, what?” I said.

“Look, I don’t want to hear you talking about threesomes and inviting random strangers into our romantic night alone -”

“I didn’t know we were having a romantic night alone,” I said. “You have to be honest about your needs and wants. Now that I know, we can have one.”

“If you are into these things, threesomes, group sex, blah blah blah, ” Mick continued to rave like Steve Aoki in Vegas,  “Then we are just not compatible. I want a normal life, marriage…”

“That’s not what I’m into!” I clutched Mick by the shoulders. “That’s not my real life!”

Later on in the evening, after meeting tons of interesting people at the party, I went into one of the many bathrooms to think.


“But I’m a writer,” the other side of me said, and whether it was the angel or devil on my shoulder I’m still not sure. “Anything goes if you are a writer with talent.”


“Ok, shut up and stay positive,” I said to myself. “You are indeed crazy and talking to yourself but it works for you.”

Mick and I left a little while later. We went off to continue our supposedly romantic evening, but in my estimation, it really wasn’t. He kept criticizing my life choices the entire time, mainly because Mick is from an older and more traditional generation.

“Your generation, all you want to do is cohabitate and share living expenses and fuck each other,” Mick said while driving me home, furiously puffing on cigarette after cigarette.

“So what?” I said. “My generation, we don’t need someone else to make us happy. We find strength within ourselves.”


I went to sleep knowing I’m insane. And when I woke up, I didn’t care.


The Pain. The Torture. The Foreplay.

A Halloween Retrospective


Halloween’s ghosts are gone. The vamps went back to their coffins.  Headless Horsemen rode off into the woods, since they weren’t getting any. Zombies looking for tacos had to settle for poutine, or perhaps they fed on their own puke. Who knows? Who’s to say? Spirits of Allentown shut their doors a while back, but their sign still looms ominously in the sky.

Eddie and I wander out of Nietzsche’s and into Holly Farms. We’re ghouls on the prowl. It’s Halloween and a little past five p.m. Not only is it the magic hour when everything looks pretty and not as fucked up, but it’s also Eddie’s birthday.

“I’m treating myself to a pack of good cigs,” he says to the clerk. “Camel Lights.”

“Here, I got you,” I press $25 into Eddie’s grip and start to walk outside.

“Do you really think this hat looks hot?” I say, turning back.  I’m wearing a navy cap reminiscent of a cop. Vintage. The antique dude across the street offered a fair price.

“Of course. Definitely.”

In the threshold of Holly Farms there’s a bunch of quarter machines filled with jewelry. One contains plastic grenades and dollar signs, which are definitely not Eddie’s style, so I put some change into the one with happier-looking charms. A necklace, featuring a lime green ice cream cone on a string, comes out.

Eddie’s already outside smoking a Camel. I hand him the plastic ball from the quarter machine.

“Wow, thanks,” Eddie says, putting the necklace on.

“I want to hear some music,” I say, taking a drag from Eddie’s cig. “And I’m feeling like a watered-down tequila sunrise wouldn’t totally suck.”

Several men are coughing on the bench outside The Old Pink, looking like run-down versions of The Village People, or maybe it’s the cast of Oklahoma. Who knows? Who’s to say? Maybe these guys aren’t even in costume. Eddie and I climb the steps and push the door open.

Everyday is like Sunday…Morrissey croons. Everyday is silent and gray…

Darkness folds around us. The ceiling drips. We sit at the very, very end of the bar, alone.

“Are you sure you don’t have to get back home?” I say, slurping my sunrise. “What if she’s planning a surprise party?”

“She’s not.”

“Are you sure she’s not waiting for you nude and covered in sushi?”

“She definitely isn’t doing that.”

“I just want you to have a good birthday,”  I say, and take Eddie’s hand. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Hillary. Rodham. Clinton,” shouts a man at the opposite end of the bar while slapping his palm on the pine. “HILLARY. RODHAM. CLINTON.”

“Ruin my birthday?” Eddie scoffs. “You’re totally making my birthday.”

Eddie has been sipping Guinness and scotch. We order one more round. The aroma of pot starts to permeate The Pink.  Eddie’s staring at me and I can’t remember the last time he blinked.

“Rejection is one thing,” Morrissey croons. “But rejection from a fool… is cruel.”

“We haven’t had drinks together in years,” I say. “Why?”

“I don’t trust myself to behave around you,” Eddie says. “I don’t want to lose control.”

“Control is overrated.”

“If we ever got back together, you would just break up with me after six months again.”

“Timing wasn’t right with us, Eddie,” I say.  “Sometimes I wish it had been.”

“I rushed things,” he says. “I should’ve put things in perspective.”

Three 8-year-olds in Halloween costumes arrive and sit next to us. They place their bags of candy on the bar, which I notice is completely slanted to one side.

“They must have had a long day,” I say. Eddie still hasn’t blinked. “Eddie?” He puts both of his hands on top of my thighs, zooms his face up close to mine, and emits a werewolf growl.

“I want to kiss you,” he says. “On the cheek.”

“Fine,” I say.

Eddie kisses my cheek, lingering for a few seconds before snapping back to reality.

“My girlfriend asked me if I would be open to sleeping with other people,” Eddie sips his pint. “I said, ‘Yeah.’ She just said, ‘Ok,’ and never brought it up again.”

“That sucks,” I say. “If you bring a gun into Act One, it better go off in Act Three.”

“Chekov said that, pretty sure.”

“Well, I think you should revisit the topic. Polyamory is trending nowadays – everybody’s doing it.

“Trying to find everything you need and want in one person is the source of our universal frustration,” Eddie says.

“That’s why I think I’m better off alone,” I say.

We finish what remains of our second round.

“We should go,” I say.

“I know. We should. I’ve been gone all day.”

“Yeah, it’s getting late. You probably have lots of messages to listen to, calls to return…”

Eddie zooms in close to my face again and emits the werewolf growl. He puts his hand behind my head, and we make out for the first time in years.

“Break up the family,”  Morrissey croons. “And let’s begin to live our lives…”

Eddie snaps back.

“We should go,” he says. “That’s just the right amount of infidelity for this evening.” He wanders outside.

“Yes, we need to go,” I rummage in my pockets, give $20 to the bartender and go outside too. Eddie’s smoking a cigarette under a gnarled tree.


“Allentown is haunted,” he says. “They dug up a cemetery.”

“I know.”

It’s dark now, but unseasonably warm.  Eddie and I make out again under the tree, for a while it seems, until he suddenly snaps back again.

“I want you,” he says.

“I want you too,” I say. “But I’m through being the other woman.” I kick the tree trunk. “Done with being a side chick.”

“I understand.” Eddie’s staring into my eyes and apparently still hasn’t blinked.

“We’re better than that, Eddie.”

“I know.”

“So now what are you gonna do?” We walk past Spirits of Allentown and around the corner, back to where I parked so I can drive Eddie home.

“I’m supposed to make tacos,” he says.

“Make tacos? On your birthday?”

“I’m going to walk in the house with a boner and it’s all your fault.”

“Just say it’s that time of the month,” I say. “When you have more erections than usual.”  Eddie gets in my passenger seat. I start the engine and cruise out of Allentown.

“Can I smoke in your car?” he says.

“Smoke away, smoke away,” I say. “It’s your day.”

I drive up to Eddie’s house and put on my turn signal, but decide to pull into the 7-11 next door instead. I put the car in park, and turn to Eddie.

“So, um, let me know how everything goes,” I say. “Let me know if there was a surprise party.”

“Doubt it,” he says. “And you know how it’s gonna go.”


“I’m going to make tacos, then have sex with my girlfriend while thinking about you,” Eddie shuts the passenger side door. “I’ll see you later.”

“You just haven’t earned it yet, baby…” Morrissey croons from my stereo as I drive away. My night is young, and off to a good start.


Dick Fuzz


There comes a time in every girl’s life when she must break a man’s heart. What the fuck is the point of monogamy? I mean, every time I find myself in a “Monogamous Situation,” I have to deal with some pigsty of an apartment. I’m starting to think some guys go out of their way to make their dwellings completely disgusting. How else can one explain the sinks, the tubs, the diseased sheets that I’ve seen? Ugh!  I once saw an episode of Hoarders where a family of possums were discovered in a man’s home. There was also an actual tree growing in his living room. Despite this glamorization in the media, men’s apartments IRL can be like that. The discoveries are endless…and they can be rather gruesome. At least, I’ve endured some gnarly experiences AND I KNOW I CAN’T BE ALONE!

All the men I dated with clean, well-appointed residences didn’t venture into Monogamous Situations. The sloppy niggas got monogamous right away- probably because all they wanted was a maid!

This is my list of the Signs Your Man Lives in Filth. (Note: all characteristics described do not refer to specific people ).

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

Pets You Smell Before You See

“Baby, you lack focus when it comes to BJ’s” he said, with cat hair stuck to his dick. “I don’t know why you can’t pay more attention to me.” Wah wah wah.

“It’s because your dick is fuzzy – that’s why!” I said.

Yes, the dick fuzz was the beginning of the end for one relationship. It came from hair left not by one, not by two, not three , but four -yes, four – cats. One of them was literally plucked off the street like a prostitute with Catmydia. It’s pupils were always dilated. The thing would jump out in front of me so I tripped down the stairs, almost to my death.  Another one of the cats barfed right next to me, right when I was starting to let down my guard. Plus they were so damn hairy.  It got everywhere. All surfaces were covered with cat fuzz balls. Faux fur IS in this season, but whatthefuck.

This dude’s apartment smelled like a zoo, so I bid him adieu.

He Doesn’t Own a Trash Can

If there’s no trash can, his place will become a trash can. One’s home reflects one’s sense of self. When his place is literally overflowing with trash, it could mean he has no self-respect. It doesn’t bode well for success in relationships, or in fact, anything.

Used Dishes Where They Don’t Belong

With one ex, I’d have to pick up and move empty food containers if I wanted to sit on the couch. If you are sitting on the couch, eating out of containers, why do you lack the energy to throw out the remains? (Oh, wait, you don’t own a trash can). Don’t act surprised when I tell you that you’ll never be my Baby Daddy. I had to be careful at one man’s house. Lounging around in the nude is all well and  good. That is, until  you discover a wrapper stuck to your ass. If there’s wrappers in bed (instead of rappers; that would be OK), your sex life will suffer. Trust me.

American Horror Story Bathtub

Pulling back the shower curtain in my former lover’s toilette revealed a tub so caked with grime, it probably caused Billy Mays’ heart attack. No amount of fucking Kaboom! would ever cut through the filth. How long it took to get that way must’ve been significant. The only thing in there was a bar of soap.

My personal stash of 90s Playboys

He Owns a Bitchin Porn Stash – But Not a Single Book

This is more common than you want to believe, and is an AUTOMATIC DEAL BREAKER in my world.


I love men, their smells, and the way they make me feel inside. There are great guys out there who are intellectual, generous, and handsome. There are some men strutting around with pierced ding a lings, and  I love that. Many have suffered heartbreak just like us. Many are in touch with themselves and are comfortable with their emotions. I’ve met gentlemen with style, manners, and elegance. Most men are lovely – yeah, I’m just feeling that type of way tonight!

There’s a percentage of men, however, who are serial monogamists. I’m talking about the ones jumping into relationships in order to be “fixed” or “validated.” These are usually the ones whose homes should be condemned by the City. My theory – some go looking for love in order to heal from other things they never dealt with. The men who inspired the aforementioned examples didn’t have their shit together, despite their pseudo-readiness to jump into a Monogamous Situation. Relationships are work – a lot more work than doing dishes or cleaning a bathroom. If those areas are in disrepair, well, it’s only a matter of time before your romance goes to shit.

From Drunken Makeout to True Love


We are at DBGB’s, Jennifer and I, posted up at the bar. Suddenly, a kid who looks like a 21-year-old version of Drake, in a red t-shirt, wobbles up to us.

“Isn’t that red dress a little excessive?!” he says to me, bobbing to and fro slowly, like a pendulum.

“…It’s a Christmas party.”

Then, he leans in close to me and his breath absolutely reeks of like, pure mildew.

“Go away!”

I turn to my right. There sits a seemingly-normal gent in a New Era cap, with a mellow demeanor.  He tells me his name is Chris. Apparently Chris is a waiter downtown. He tells me his goofy, Drake-esque accomplice is Justin. Justin wanders over to his bar during the day regularly. He also works downtown. Today, the two hatched a plan to partake in the free buffet at the DBGB Christmas party.

Twenty minutes pass. It seems like Chris and I are hitting it off… although, I am rather tipsy.

“Can I get you something from the free buffet?”


I see Chris get accosted by an untidy hobo in the buffet line. So I wander over there and begin gnawing on a mouthwatering wing. The hobo leaves. Chris turns to me…and I notice that both of his front teeth are chipped. Like, bad. I think to myself that he must be a hockey player or UFC fighter, even though he already told me that he’s a waiter. But maybe he’s undercover…  Daiquiris

All of a sudden, Chris kisses me right in front of the buffet table. I am completely taken aback. When I pull away, Chris takes hold of my bottom lip with his partial two front teeth and kind of bites me. Like, it feels weird because not all of his front teeth are present.

Now that I have been Bit in the Buffet line, I scamper off and break up Jennifer and Justin. Then, Jennifer and I go back to my apartment to make an oven pizza, take a bleary-eyed scroll through the Newsfeed, and tipsily discuss the evening’s events.


Two nights later, I receive a text from Chris while at work.

“I’m going to a show at Nietzsche’s and it would be cool if you came with me.”

I accept the invitation, then text Jennifer.

“Should I give him a chance? Even though he seems like a dope/doesn’t have all his teeth?”

“No” is her reply.
Wondering and skeptical of how this night will go, we make plans to meet up at Providence Social, because Chris doesn’t have a car. Providence Social is within walking distance of his house, evidently. What is up with that? Men… If they got a car, they live with their mama. If they got their own place, they have no ride. Maybe they even have no job.



I walk into Providence Social and am immediately welcomed by a warm, candlelit aura. However, Chris is nowhere to be found. I glance around and suddenly he appears, swilling a half-full pint.

“Oh, hey…” I look at his glass. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Five minutes? I ordered some soup.”

A waiter seats us in a cozy booth in the back and leaves. I have no drink. What the hell is he doing ordering everything without me? The waiter comes back.

“And what would you like to eat?” the waiter asks.

“Those Sriracha wings,” Chris says.

The waiter leaves.  Seriously rude, I think. What if I hated sriracha wings?! I don’t know why Chris is so oblivious. I steer the conversation. He is looking glassy-eyed and buck-toothed.

“So, what’s new?”

“Nothing really,” he says.

Dinner is going in a totally boring direction, because I guess Chris can’t carry on a conversation/has nothing going on in life. It’s going to be a long night.

“So…what are, like, your hopes and dreams?”

“Nothing really.”

We conclude our meal and I drive us to Allentown. Upon entering Nietzche’s, the place is dead. I suggest we go across the street to the Buffablog party. Once there, Chris takes it upon himself to get me a PBR. I’m not a high-maintenance bitch or anything, but I don’t like PBR.

“So, what’s your last name?” I ask.

The place is packed full of people; the band playing is super-loud; I swear that he tells me his last name is “Booby.” Glancing around the room sideways, I’m pleading with the universe that I don’t run into anyone I know.

“Listen, why don’t we just sit in the dark corner over there?”

“All right,” Chris says, kind of spitting on me through his broken teeth.

We sit side-by-side. Chris decides to nurse his PBR and stare off in the distance. I’m barely sipping mine and ready to fall asleep.

“Yeah, sorry I’m not more entertaining,” Chris says.

‘It’s ok,” I reply.

“I”m just tired; I worked three days in a row. Let’s go to Caffe Aroma for tea?”

Tea sounds like a great idea, and I’m joyful inside – the night is drawing to an end.

We drive to the café. It’s closed!

“I have tea at my apartment,” Goofy Tooth suggests.

I have to drop him off anyway, I think to myself. Eh, why not? Definitely not going to see this guy again. Jennifer was right. He is a major dud. It’s crazy how better they look while drunk in front of a dark Christmas buffet.

The night has turned into a frozen downpour. I drive my dull companion to his residence on the Lower West Side. He invites me up for some tea. Opening a rusty razor sharp screen door, Chris ushers me into a dark hallway. “It’s right up the stairs,” he says.

“Um, can you go first? I have no clue how to navigate your stairs in the dark.”

So he ascends the ramshackle steps; I clutch the railing and gradually get vertigo. Then Chris opens his apartment door; a wretched unfurnished garret greets me. Taking a chipped dirty mug from a dusty cupboard, he plops in a putrid chamomile tea bag. “Thanks,” I mutter.

“So – do you want to go in my bed?”

I zero in on the chipped, slimy front teeth inching their way towards me. They are ready for action. Like an overzealous beaver, Chris attempts to grab my face again for a little gnawing action, chewing, spewing chamomile…

“I really have to go. I have to get up early tomorrow. Will you walk me to my car?”

Thunder cracks outside as we walk the dreary avenue. Clouds converge in the gloomy nothingness above.

“Yeah – I had a really nice time, thank you Chris.”

I turn to unlock my Pontiac as Chris swivels on his skate-shoe clad heels and runs – literally runs – away from me.