Sex & Journalism

“ I’ve had hookers and loved them.  Lot’s of them.  If I wanted another hooker I’d know where to get one, and cheap. ”

“ That’s too funny. ”

(Not really.)

“ I don’t know who you are or what you do. ”

 “Okay.”

 (Good!)

 “ And whatever it is you do, I don’t judge.  But I’m not looking for just another hooker. ”

 (Good thing I’m not just another hooker…)

 “ Of course you’re not.  You need chemistry.  You need something that’s real.  You don’t want to feel like you’re a chore.  There should be a genuine bond with someone you aren’t embarrassed to take out.  You want conversation and connection.  You can get sex anywhere.  It’s the whole package you’re looking for. ”

 “ If there’s no chemistry, it’s not for me. ”

 “ Of course not.  And chemistry doesn’t just come from sex. ”

I’ve had this conversation time and time again.  It’s so well versed, I can say it in my sleep.  I’ve been saying it like it’s my first time saying it every time I’ve said it for the past 5 years.  I say it with enthusiasm.  I say it like I’m excited that he feels the exact way I feel.  I say it as if it’s the most magical moment,  like finally,  finally,  I have met someone who is looking for the same thing I’m looking for.  I genuinely, sincerely connect with this brilliant man,  who I’ve been waiting for all my adult life.  Finally,  someone who “gets me” !

I say a lot of things I don’t mean.  I’m an honest person, and having to pretend is not a fun game to me, but it’s the pretending that pays my tuition and the pretending that keeps me dressed.  It’s the pretending that keeps me fed.  It’s the pretending that keeps me well traveled.  It’s the pretending that gives me material that I hope to write about one day so that I no longer have to pretend.  So, I swallow my pride and pretend.  I try to convince myself that this is a solid character strengthening exercise that will benefit me in the long run.  I try not to think about the men I really like who aren’t there.

“ I don’t want a client and I don’t have a set rate because I don’t want to feel like a hooker.  That’s not for me.  No man should ever be work to me.  If I meet a man and he feels like a chore, I’m in the wrong place. I’m not interested in that.  I need something more  - something I can feel good about. ”

“ That’s exactly what I’m looking for.  “

( I know. That’s why I said it. )

“Perfect. We should meet. ”

We meet.

“ You’re gorgeous. ”

“ I’m glad you approve. ”

“ You’re really nice. ”

( You're only saying that because I haven't thrown any dishes at you yet. )

“ I do think we get along well. ”

“ You’re wife material. ”

“ But sexier, more honest, and a lot less drama. ”

( Just in case he wasn’t sold already. )

“ What do you say we skip the polite introductions and just get to the intimate part?  I have cash for you. ”

He said he didn’t want a hooker. In actuality, he just wanted to believe he didn’t want a hooker. Of course he wanted a hooker! He just didn’t realize that they aren’t all sleazy idiots clad in fishnets and thick Eastern European accents.

“ Well, that’s not what I had in mind, but with you that might be exciting.  I think we get along well and that we're going to have a lot of chemistry.  We can skip polite.  I think that’s kind of sexy. ”

( Lie. )

Is he a nice guy?  Sure.  But chemistry?  No.  And that’s fine, because he doesn’t really want chemistry.  He wants an illusion.  He wants to believe that I am so overwhelmed with my attraction to him that I can’t help but drop my panties and take him before we even know if the names we are giving each other are real or not.  He wants to believe that there is nothing else in the world I would rather be doing than looking into his eyes while my lips are wraped around his most treasured and manly possessions.  He is fascinating to himself,  and he wants to believe that I am equally as fascinated with him.  He wants to believe that the stack of 100’s he’s given me isn’t for the sex,  or to make up for that fact that I don’t really want to be there,  but because he is just incredibly generous and really wants to help a friend out.  The money, of course,  has nothing to do with the sex.  It’s not like I’m a hooker,  after all.  And he certainly isn’t the kind of man who would have to pay for it.  The money is there as a sign of his copious ability to provide and as a sign of his appreciation for our incredible chemistry.

I have had chemistry with men who have given me money.  But it is a rare and precious thing.

This time,  like most,  I am telling stories and I am smiling a big,  “honest”  smile because it is harder to detect a lie when it is covered with the kind of smile that makes the liars eyes crinkle.

He’s nice enough and I keep reminding myself that I am fortunate for this opportunity for so many reasons, one being that it’s moments like these that make real sex with men I really like all that much better.

He doesn’t want a hooker.  He doesn’t get a hooker.  He gets an illusionist;  a pleasing pretender who whispers little lovely lies into his eager ears all the while daydreaming about the time in her life will she will be able to say these things and mean them to someone who won’t run away.

Raquel~

 Silvio Berlusconi, for "Douchebag Of The Summer".  This puts him in good standings for the "Douchebag Of The Year" award. 

I have so many opinions on this mans behavior, none of them favorable.  I, for reasons I'm sure are obvious by now, am not condemning men who have mistresses, see escorts or enjoy sex.  I am, however, condemning sloppy, slimy, idiots who publicly humiliate their families, ruin their careers with their childish indiscretions, deny the fact that they've made a series of obvious tasteless, poor decisions and then sue those who out them for doing it.  I also deplore men in their 70's who sleep with teenage girls.  Instead of exhausting myself in detailed diatribe, I will simply post some links that will help you understand for yourself what is so reprehensible about this man, in case you haven't already caught the word.

Give them too much, and they think they can get away with anything... Arrogant cows just burn me. 

If you are hoping to make huge life mistakes, would like to lose your family, friends, reputation, career, respect and billions of dollars, if you would like to be infamous for squalid stupidity, or if you would like to greatly increase your chances of developing chlamydia and/or iligetimate children from barely legal Eastern European hookers, your lessons begin here:

Sleazy Silvio in the Chicago Tribune

Sleazy Silvio in Forbes

Sleazy Silvio in Reuters

Sleazy Silvio in MSNBC

Sleazy Silvio in Huffington Post

Sleazy Silvio in Times Online

Sleazy Silvio in Fox News

Sleazy Silvio in NY Times

It is most distressing that this leaves four more months in 2009 for someone to outdo Mr. Burlusconi in his running for the yearly title holder of this douchy award.

Raquel

... Just air headed peroxide tramps that pretend to be models. LA’s fascination with over inflated, dumb, peroxide blonds will forever leave me perplexed. Who decided this was sexy and do these girls really think they’re fooling anyone when they pretend to be models? It’s one thing to be a model; it’s another to be a budget hooker who takes pictures that happen to make it to sleazy magazines now and then.

I’ve turned down the past several invitations to the Playboy Mansion and to the Bench Warmer parties partially because I’ve been out of town, and partially because I never got anything out of the parties. They are meant for a different breed of individual. A woman like myself has a difficult time fitting in.  Due to my guilt for being absent from the scene, though, I told myself that I would not miss the next one I was invited to. The next one happened to be the Bench Warmer party last night at the new Hollywood Boulevard hotspot called Kress. It took me all of a minute to remember why I stopped going to these parties in the first place. Not only do these women look like blow up dolls, they also express the intelligence of a blow up doll.  The men that attend the party are all attention seeking C or D list celebrities, or simply just tasteless men with a little bit of money who like to be in the company of these Barbie-gets-coked-out-and-does Dallas clones. Why were all the waitresses at Kress dressed like pirate hookers? And why did the vacant look in the heavily shadowed eyes of the blow up dolls, I mean…”models”… somehow make me feel devoid of any personality and thought as well?  Since when did s-l-u-t spell sexy? I’m not sure that sexy is defined this way anywhere else in the world. I wonder why LA so tightly clings to this “ideal”. Could it possibly be the sun sucking all reason and class out of the heads of Southern California residence? Or is this possibly the creation of that ridiculous Nazi pimp famous for making celebrities out of equally ridiculous nude cheese tarts on legs? By the way, and this is no joke, the Nazi pimp wouldn’t talk to me the first time I met him because I wasn’t blonde! Not to be misunderstood, I have nothing against blondes. Blondes, like women with any other hair color, can be absolutely lovely. What I have a problem with is the idolization of the bleached out idiot and the “model” title given to her. These girls are not seen in Cosmo or Vogue or Vanity Fair. They’re bikini bimbos on the pages of Low Rider and Page 3. I know all about being a low- end model, but at least I acknowledge that my modeling career was low- end, and hardly worthy of calling a career at all. I didn’t do it because I was an idiot. I never thought I was a celebrity and I found it cliché and almost embarrassing to even call myself a “model”. But these women honestly don’t know any better. It’s troubling to me.

On a positive note, for the occasion, I bought a fabulous Nicole Miller dress to go with some brand new gold Via Spiga heels. I  paired the outfit with some of the jewelry Fancy Pants has adorned me with and I looked so hot I would have asked myself for my phone number if I didn't already have it. And I was undoubtedly the most sophisticated and well put together woman there, which is perhaps why I had the pleasure of meeting who could very well have been the most intelligent and well spoken man there... a blonde, no less! I'll be going out with him on Friday.  He had a sparkling personality and expressed keen observation and a sharp wit.  I'm interested in figuring out if it was all genuine.

Other than that, Fancy Pants and I are taking yet another “break”. It seems we’ve lost our ability to communicate smoothly so we’re on communication hiatus…again. I’ve never had a relationship with someone who suggested we stop talking for a while every time we lost ability to see eye to eye. I can’t figure out if he keeps suggesting that we “cease communication for a while” because he’s tired of me and can’t think of a better way to cut off our relationship, or if he is just the kind to throw in the towel at every little sign of something less that ideal happening. It’s getting old, really, and I’m missing the seamless and fun conversations we used to have. Has he changed? Have I? Or is this getting more complicated now because emotions are evolving that we weren’t dealing with before? I wish I had the answers. Regardless, I’m trying to get out of such a snappy emotive state before writing him next. I’ve been emotionally bogged and fragile lately. I suspect it could have something to do with an absence of sex life (one worth talking about, anyway)… or possibly that all this highly uninteresting and mind numbing schoolwork is absolutely draining me of any vibrancy and happiness I may have ever had.  Anyhow, I must make sure that I am nice and even tempered before writing to him again, as I was thiiiiiis close to adding him to my shit list the other week (right up there with Coconut, when he misbehaves) but I really would like to keep him off, which is going to require me remaining calm.

Besides that, I’ve got sex on the brain and the tigress senses a hunt in her near future. If the Emperor's Club were still around, I wouldn’t have to worry about the results of sex with “real guys”, but being that I’ve been put out of work and that my lovers are so tragically far away, I am now forced to consider "normal" sex with "real" guys again. I tremble at the thought of this, as this type of relationship always invites awful things like emotions and expectations, but what’s a girl to do when she’s got no safe alternative outlet for her deviant, self-serving instincts?

I turned down an offer to audition for a friend’s low budget horror film. He said there would be nudity and a simulated sex scene. That's nothing I’m not used to, so I originally agreed to go in to audition for it. Then, I remembered something I told myself after my last naked simulated sex scene.  Naked sex = good. Naked sex on camera = bad. In addition to that, it was going to be not very well paid sex. I came to my senses and messaged him to tell him I wasn’t going to be available for this. I felt like a better person for it.

I also talked to Coconut today and he seems to think, after watching the movie Deception, that I’ve been going to some expensive Hollywood sex parties where I run into Charlie Sheen and sleep with him. He seems to think that there are a lot of celebrities that pay prices of something like 30k to go to these exclusive parties and have sex with whoever they want. Women get in free. Sex parties? With Charlie Sheen? I tried to explain to Coconut that I am well aware of Charlie’s reputation and that if I were to ever be naked with him, I would not be so silly to do for free what I know I could get him to pay well for. He seemed to accept that. But now I’m curious about these parties. Do they really exist and do the women get paid, or do they just go for the thrill of sleeping with celebrities? And why on Earth would you sleep with a celebrity for free? What's thrilling about that?

Oh yes; it looks like I’m going to come out with B’s in both of my summer classes. I was expecting A’s at the beginning of the intersession, but I wasn’t taking into consideration that to get A’s in a class, it is expected that one pays attention. Considering that my attention span and interest level are both essentially non-existent, I’m happy to have B’s.

That’s all you get for now.

Raquel~