new website coming soon!

Hello friends and readers, I’m switching hosts (consolidating a couple sites), the new server doesn’t have the follow capability, so I strongly suggest if you don’t already that you follow my Instagram account (which I post to more often)

The new site is a bit easier to navigate (I think), and you’ll be able to buy my first memoir and coffee table art book with a click when they become available in 2016.


Podcast number three is ready for your ears!


Titled, “A dick is supposed to go in there?”

My first guest!

@the_sexual_sexpert is a fellow female sex positive force on Instagram to be reckoned with.

I got her in the studio, opened a bottle of white wine for her, a bottle of whiskey for me, and hit record.

The three plus hour conversation covered everything from dick pics, squirting, beasteality, panty selling, censorship and the country’s general mindset when it comes to sex and nipples.

Special thanks to my “little sister” and my producer, Rocker Meadows

Follow us:

* I’d like to add an amendment to the podcast-because my brain was at half mast for most of the recording-in likening dick pics to modern day flashing (my moment of brilliance if I may say;), I say, “We’re back to asking permission”, but flashing is about NOT getting permission. So, while I stand by men not sending unsolicited dick pics unless they know the woman is into it, the flashing concept is a separate entity.




I was working in the Green Door Room one night—a six, girl-on-girl live nude show, ending with semi-private toy show—and while I was in the middle of a dildo show, I spotted a musician friend of mine. I waved and gave him the, I’ll be there when I’m finished, gesture. After my show, I hugged the group of guys who had paid me, wiped my pussy with a towel and put on a skimpy outfit. I sauntered over to my friend, Mark, and his buddy, who were sitting on one of the three steps by the Cabanas. I hugged Mark, and he introduced me to his pal. He used my real name. “Hi, nice to meet you”, I said as I shook his hand.

“Hey”, he said, “Mark’s told me a lot about you.”

“Is that right? All good, I hope”, I said and winked.

“Of course.”

“What do you do?”, I asked.

“I’m a musician.”

“Ok, so…what coffee house do you work at?” I was feeling frisky. I giggled and leaned against Mark, who was being uncharacteristicly quiet.

“No, really, I’m a musician”, he said in a shy manor.

“Yeah yeah, don’t be embarrassed. I used to pump gas at Chevron, there’s no shame in honest work.”

They weren’t saying anything. Then Mark pipes up, “He’s not lying. He’s the guitarist for _______.”

A cunt hair moment of silence passed. “Oh shit, I dance to one of your songs, my bad. Nice to meet you.”

We all laughed, and went about getting to know each other and shooting the shit. I saw him around town at a few parties after that, and Mark told me he had a crush on me. A couple months later, my boyfriend and I broke up, so I gave Mark the go ahead to give what’s-his-name my number.

We ended up dating for a short time. He was really sweet, but it wasn’t a love connection. Not really. It was fun being in his world for a minute though. His band had the number one selling record at the time. I went to the recording studio with him while they worked on some post shit and singles. He owned the most incredible house in San Francisco. I spent Halloween Eve passing out candy with him. Most times, he would stay out of view and I’d open the door to field the, “Does _________ live here?”

He was surprisingly down to earth. He’d been in the limelight for a long time. I worked at a their shows in the 80’s. He muttered some hints about marriage once, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Although perhaps I should have. I would have been set for life. But as much as I love money and the freedom it affords, I like making my own. The thought of riding on someone else’s coattails doesn’t appeal to me. I really did love his house though. I may have liked it better than him. Hell, his guitar collection alone could have covered both of my first two properties combined.

At some point, my ex-boyfriend wanted to get back together. And because I loved him—and had invested interest in the relationship—I ended it with the rock star.

Why my cat’s an asshole…

To begin with, he’s a cat, so the extent of his give is limited. Monkey is a big, furry fuck, so in order to avoid dingleberries I have to cut the hair surrounding his ass region. I also trim the bottom of his raccoon tail, and his legs (which sometimes smell like urine…super fun…especially when he lays on the pillow by my head). Monkey needs to be groomed far too often for my low maintenance taste. But if I don’t, my house turns into a fine-haired nightmare. And they get caught in your eyes! His hair is hypoallergenic. Not normal cat hair. Takes about a year to fish those thin fucks out of your eye. Feels like you just came when you finally do. 

I didn’t know he was a Maine Coon when I got him. He was a baby, and my speed dealer didn’t tell me. His interests were in birds and reptiles. What is it about meth dealers and exotic pets? I once bought crystal from a dude who lived near the 7th Street Bridge, he opened the door with two huge ass birds on each shoulder. 

Anyway, I had no clue Monkey, would grow up to be 20lbs of fur. I’m always telling him not to piss me off, because he’d make a lovely stole. Adding to his dickery is that he’s the same color as my hardwood floor, and likes to lie in the (often dark) hallway, and in between doorways. You know, where I fucking walk. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stepped on him. Perhaps he’s a masochist. 

He knows his mommy has a bum foot—he was there when it happened. Fuckit, he wants to be stepped on? I will oblige. I do this thing when I get up in the middle of the night: I keep one eye closed. It’s to trick myself into not fully waking up (I had horrible insomnia until I was eighteen). So, this pirating, and the fact that my house is pitch black at night (vampire) you can see how easy it is to step on his punk ass. Little shit. 

Speaking of shit, Monkey has had some recent old age butt problems, which manifests in him rubbing his butthole all over my floor and bathmats. I just love knowing that I’m stepping in E. coli. Countless times I’ve had to pull poop out of his butt, and give him warm towel washes. 

I’ve never done so much for a man for so many years…for free. Monkey owes me money.  


My Kickstarter was successfully funded!! ♡ Thank you to everyone who made this possible. I am over the moon. Now the work begins. Truthfully, I’ve waited so long, I’m ready to make the final edit with my professional editor, and then let my baby go…..into your loving hands. I’ll keep you posted. 

If you wanted to donate, but life got in the way, you can still send money via PayPal, use my email: [no G] Any extra funds I receive will go towards publishing a fine art photography coffee table book. Cheers! 

Please make sure to include your mailing address…I will honor the reward according to your pledge. :) 

You know what irks the fuck out of me? When a person says—when they hear I’m on my way to a job—“Well, hopefully you’ll enjoy yourself”. It’s pretty much the most ridiculous thing to say to a hooker. I know the person means well, its just supremely naïve. My buddy who sparked this piece is a good guy, this is by no means a diss on him, it’s been an issue of mine for a while, he just ignited the flame. And it’s not that I hate my job or want pity, but to hear “Have fun” is maddening. Out of the seventeen years I’ve been hooking, I think I’ve truly enjoyed myself with a handful of men. A handful! Out of…. 

I ended up sort of bitting this guy’s head off publicly on Instagram; which I felt a bad about, but I was in the midst of a full-blown breaking point with the male species. Between The Texan, my two crushes (both of whom were working my nerves), and all the other men who contact me on the daily, I was at the cliff’s edge. When he said the above in a comment (as a response to why I couldn’t join him for drinks at the pool), I responded: “That will be my mantra as I suck his seventy-year-old cock (the have fun part). I’m feisty today, can’t you tell?” That last part was to soften the blow. I try not to call out my friends and readers, but dammit, don’t you read my posts? Isn’t it clear that most of my work isn’t a walk in the park? I suppose it’s a testament to everyone’s personal filter. People read what they want. Honestly, I’m not sure what the correct thing to say would be. Break a leg? Power through? Remember not to punch the guy? Maybe just a simple, good luck. Granted, I might be the only ho on earth who gets annoyed at such minor things. But I can say with almost 100% certainty, no hooker/call girl/sugar baby is telling another she hopes she’ll enjoy it. That’s the cue right there. I assume every profession has their version of this quandary. Cops get asked the same questions. Men think guys who work at strip clubs have the best job on earth (they don’t). The list goes on and on. I recognize its tiny significance in the scheme of life and that I shouldn’t let it bother me…but then I wouldn’t be me.