Private Magazine

Tag: Aphrodite

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.

Rave Scenes and Roadside Assistance


I’m in my apartment, waiting for my date James to arrive. We met a few days ago, after being isolated together at the LL Cool J concert. We had both been day drinking with my downstairs neighbors beforehand. I guess we must have lost track of the rest of them, because we ended up in the beer tent together. I guess at some point, James became slightly smitten.

He called me up. Turns out, we had both been invited to the Aphrodite show at Broadway Joe’s. I suggested that we go together.

“Oh, like, a date?” he asks.

“Um…Sure, maybe?”

“I don’t really have a ton of money to blow, er, I don’t think it should be a wild night.”

“No, definitely not,” I conclude. “I have to work early the next day.”

So here I am, getting myself primped and ready for a drum n’ bass rave party. I’m not typically in the glow stick crowd – but then again, I don’t roll with any crowd. I decide to wear a black and white minidress and some boots. Suddenly, there’s a rapping on my third floor door.

“Who is it?” I call out. My little loft is practically impossible for a stranger to access.

I open the door. James is standing there drinking a Four Loco.

“How’d you get up here?”

“I went through Mike and Jack’s downstairs,” James replies. This means he walked through their outside door, passed absentmindedly through their second floor apartment, up another flight of back stairs, and up to my unassuming, unmarked door.

“Oh – I didn’t know you knew where I live. Ok, let’s go.”

James drives the two of us in his car to Broadway Joe’s, everyone’s favorite Main Flaskand Minnesota destination. We get a pitcher of Rolling Rock to sustain us. Glow sticks illuminate the dance floor; ravers with hula hoops shimmy around; EDM beats boom out of giant speakers. I apparently missed the fashion memo; every other woman is wearing scrawled-on bell bottoms, bikini tops, fur leg warmers, glow-in-the-dark tiaras, feather boas, poppin’ molly and sweatin’.

I run into three long lost coworkers. We hug each other and go out to the back patio. Clouds of marijuana mushroom into the starry sky. I launch into a photo shoot of James in front of a graffiti-tagged garage. The night is turning out to be really fun.

AphroditeJames and I go back inside, and I can’t say I’m feeling him romantically but this night doesn’t totally suck. This show, this Aphrodite show, is totally random actually. Aphrodite, the drum n’ bass/jungle DJ, is actually quite a big deal in the UK. How he came to be performing for a small crowd at Broadway Joe’s is beyond me. I lean into the bar, squinting through the neon inferno.

A skinny guy runs up to James. “Hey, man, they towed a bunch of cars out of the parking lot next door! You better hope you didn’t park there, man. Because…if you did…your car is most likely gone. Gone, dude.”

“What? WHAT?! Fuck! No!”

With various tweaked-out exclamations, a bunch of guys vacate the bar with urgency. I’m a little buzzed, and watch scantily-clad background dancers gyrate on stage. Do they get paid? Maybe in drugs… Suddenly, James is back.

“My car is there, but it’s…” He looks side to side with growing suspicion. “Moved.”

“Moved?” I say.

He looks extremely confused. Dazed. He turns and nervously walks outside. I continue drinking. Five minutes later, James is back.

“I tried to drive my car, and it’s…fucked up!!”

 “What do you mean, fucked up?”

“I tried to drive it, and something is wrong with the back end. I think he tried to tow it, fucked it up, and left!”

The two of us go outside. Sure enough, his car is sitting at the other end of the lot. James is pacing around, back and forth. It’s after three in the morning. I have to work at nine. James continues to pace.

“Look, I have AAA. We can call them.”

“But – but – my car! What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know…maybe they can tow it somewhere until the morning?”

“Yeah..yeah, ok.” He breathes a heavy sigh. “I’m really sorry this turned out to be such a wild night.”

“It’s ok.”

I get on the phone with AAA, and end up taking a cab home to my bungalow alone. I guess James was OK.