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A New York Escorts Confessions
Aunty Lexie
Hoorah! My newest niece, little Buela Rose came into the world today at 8:05 AM. Six pounds six ounces with a full head of black hair.
How cool is it I have a niece named Buela?! I can’t wait to meet her.
First though, I’ll have to be able to get out of bed.
That’s right. Pity your poor Alexa. About a week ago I took a killer yoga class. This new teacher I found is determined to have all of us learn how to do handstands in the middle of the room by the end of the year. Lots and lots of ab repetitions involved. Lots of standing on our hands against the wall and tightening those little suckers until they stay that way.
Actually when I got out I felt great. I felt like I was going to do that handstand in the middle of the room by January 2007.
By the way, isn’t it funny? I went through a gymnastics phase when I was a kid. Handstands were no big deal then. I’m trying to remember when I stopped being able to do them.
So all was well. Until I got up in the middle of the night to open a window. And felt a tiny little ping under my left back ribs.
And then I walked around in heels the whole next day.
Yeah. I know. It was pretty dumb.
By the time I got home late that night, I was stooped like an old lady. I crawled into bed and have been there ever since.
The worst part is I’ve had to cancel all my jobs. Let me tell you—I feel poor already. My guess is though that most guys don’t want a gal on their arm shuffling along like a grandmother and moaning with every step. It’s just not sexy.
Neither is a date in that condition.
“Okay I’m totally not cancelling—”
“But you’re cancelling,” M said to me. He sounded…prepared? hardened? for that kind of response. It made me feel worse than ever. I really really didn’t want to mess this up.
“No. I’m postponing. Ow. Ow. Sorry. I totally wrenched my back. Believe me I would never make something like this up.”
“Oh no. Are you alright?”
“No. But I will be, I promise. By Saturday I vow to be alright. Could we possibly do it then? That would be so great.”
Turns out we can. And I will be there valium and all.
Rigged Love
Is anyone as perplexed by HBO’s hip new show Big Love as I am?
I was all excited when I heard about the series. It’s a killer cast of solid but relatively unknown actors: Bill Paxton, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Cloe Sevigny, Harry Dean Stanton, Mary Kay Place and Bruce Dern. It’s a great concept. Who isn’t at least a little curious about the idea of polygamy? It also got all the right reviews.
So why is the actual show such a big whup?
The series starts off with a great set up. Bill (Paxton) is just opening his second home department store. A few months before, he and wives Barbara (Tripplehorn), Nicky (Sevigny) and Margene (Ginnifer Goodwin) moved into three neighboring houses in an upscale development. Although no one from the outside can tell, each house’s backyard is connected to the next and shares a large pool.
Since polygamy is outlawed, the whole family—including the seven kids—have to make sure they keep the details of their real life secret. All this just as their father is becoming a local celebrity on account of his television commercials.
So far so good. I love the conflict between wanting to have all the trappings of a normal life but also needing to lead a very different kind of existence behind closed doors (hmmm…wonder why that strikes a cord?!) The series gets it right by first focusing on the conflicts between the wives. Bill alternates homes and beds and several arguments ensue over scheduling and love making. We also get to see three generations of women since Margene is in her early 20’s, Nicky in her 30’s, and Barbara in her 40’s. There’s also an interesting plot line about Margene’s relationship with Barbara and Bill’s oldest son, Ben, who is probably only six years younger than she is.
There are so many other obvious ways to go here. How do the kids feel about sharing their father with each wife’s other kids? How comfortable are they keeping the secret? How does the family socialize the youngest ones to deal both with the family and the outside world where the rules are very different? How does the family as a whole handle social situations involving the store?
But the series so far hasn’t investigated any of this. Instead it just goes kabloey.
In the first episode, the show introduces Bill’s extended family, who all live in relative poverty in a polygamous compound. Their leader is the reverend Roman Grant (Stanton) who seems to have a great deal of money and power despite the fact that his followers are in shacks. Roman, we soon learn, receives fifteen percent of Bill’s earnings on the first store, but Bill is determined to keep all of the profits from the new store from him. Roman’s henchmen are soon barring Bill from the compound and threatening his employees. Bill also has to deal with his mother Lois (Grace Zabriskie) who may be poisoning his father Frank (Dern) with arsenic. Or maybe it’s Roman.
If that all sounds confusing, it’s because, well, it is.
Not that I’ve ever written a TV show, but it seems so obvious why it’s gone so wrong. Why didn’t they start at the beginning? Why couldn’t we begin with Bill and Barbara, this all American couple, deciding to take on another wife? I’d like to know why Bill, who’s seemingly so modern and who has rejected Roman’s community, feels the pull of polygamy. On the series, Bill and Barbara refer to it as a religious calling, but they never go on to explain it. Wouldn’t that be interesting? And then after they marry Nicky, you go a few seasons of Nicky producing offsprings and then you introduce Margene.
Just as Bill opens a third store. Get it?
Of course the biggest offense here is that the lovely and fashionable Ms. Sevigny is confined to a wardrobe of peasant skirts and french braids.
Now what’s so hip about that?
Gory Story
Okay Kat. Take me off the lam-o list. I’m a procrastinator no more.
That’s right. After two and a half weeks of watching his business card watch me from its perch on the desk, I finally picked up the phone and called M.
I thought a lot about what all of you had written me. Yes Moonlighting Escort. It is certainly true that there are a lot of men over forty who like to date younger women who couldn’t possibly have their life experience and who therefore feel they have the upper hand. Many of the men I meet through my profession fit that description to a T. Yes realistic, it is true that he is an investigative journalist and that I should be aware he may want to know more about me right away than what I necessarily want to tell him.
But old sayings exist for a reason, don’t they? “Nothing attempted, nothing gained.”
So yesterday after three aborted attempts at calling him, I finally made it through all ten digits. It rang and rang and rang. And then without so much as an outgoing message or a warning, there was a beep.
“Oh. Oh. I guess I’m on. Um…hi M. This is Alexa. From the coffee shop. Shops. Anyway, just wondered if you wanted to um go out some time maybe on purpose? My number is—”
“Alexa?”
“M?”
“Hey. Hey! I’m so happy you called.”
“You totally faked me out with that sudden beep on your machine.”
“Oh I know. I’m such an idiot. I keep calling my home phone from my cell and pressing the wrong button—”
“Because the number to delete messages on your cell voice mail is the number that actually re-records your outgoing message on your home—”
You do that too?!”
“All the time. It’s like I’ve got a mental block. All my friends razz me about it.”
“Me too.”
We shared a laugh. Then there was a pause. A long one.
“Um…so—”
“Right. Our date.”
“Yeah.” Ahh. That sounded so nice.
“So, I’m going out of town this weekend, but I’ll be back late Monday. Can you do something Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“Sure.”
“You know actually, I’ve been dying to see the Bodies Exhibit. Would you be into that maybe?”
Um the Bodies Exhibit? The Bodies Exhibit where there were like 22 actual skinless preserved corpses and 260 organs and partial body “specimens” on display? Where you could see things like ventricles and cancer ridden lungs and urethras up close and personal? Where some people had complained there were no records of the deceased who were…presented? Who does he think—I can’t get through episodes of CSI. I passed out when I had to dissect a PERCH in high school. Were we going to hold hands while looking at death? Were we going to kiss in front of an actual heart? Was this some kind of a test? Was this what war photographers did for kicks?!
“Alexa?”
“Sure. Me too. I’ve been curious too.”
“Great! And then after we could have dinner.”
Ooof. Like that was going to happen. Does anyone else think this is a little um, weird?!
Do Not Try This At Home
I could tell I was in trouble at the beginning of the phone call.
“A-lex-a,” X said, drawing out the syllables. “Do you know there’s—”
“Yup.” I said, cutting him off. “So where would you like us to meet tonight?”
X and I have been dating casually for a while now. Unfortunately, my attempt at distraction didn’t work. He soon began to sing:
“Well I’m on the Downeaster Alexa
And I’m cruising through la la la la
I have charted la la la la la la—”
Okay. It’s bad enough sharing a name with a mediocre Billy Joel song. What sucks even more is no one actually knows the words to said mediocre song past the title line.
Ugh. Poor me.
X didn’t let his lack of knowledge stop him from la-la-la-ing his way through several more refrains.
“That’s lovely really but—”
“You know he named it after his daughter?”
Let me state this as baldly as possible. If there is a song where our name is mentioned? Yeah. We know everything about it. We’ve suffered through years of inept men trying to awkwardly serenade us. We’ve bared the brunt of picking up prescriptions while goofy pharmacists chirped the lyrics at us. While the Fed Ex guy hummed and winked in our general direction. And while, yes, the gynecologist gave us a pelvic exam.
I’m not the only one who hates this with a passion. Take my friend Sherry. “Oh God. Don’t even get me started. Three different fucking songs I have to deal with. “Sherry baby” from the 50’s, Stevie Wonder’s “Ma Cherie Amour”—
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s insipid. ‘Oh Sherry’—.”
Ooh. I had to agree with her there. Steve Perry sans Journey. Ick.
I know I don’t have the worst cross to bear here. In a horrible burst of irony, my older second cousin, Scott accidentally sliced through one of the tendons in his finger when he was playing with his father’s butterfly knife. They had to put his arms in one of those hard casts that was propped up by a metal bracket, so it was constantly at 90 degrees. On top of that, his finger was placed at a perpendicular by a wire. He had to wear the crazy contraption for over a month.
Right when the Bangles came out with their hit “Walk Like An Egyptian”.
As for X, much to my horror, by the time I met him in Soho at Pao! he had actually taken the time to learn the words. Which he proceeded to tailor to our evening:
“Well I’m with my Upper Wester Alexa
And I’m cruising from Long Island Sound
I have charted a course to Tribeca
‘Cause tonight I am New York City bound.”
I laughed politely and tried to change the subject. When that didn’t work, I ordered a fair amount of caipirinhas so either I’d get drunk enough not to care, or he’d get drunk enough to cease and desist. No dice there either. As I got my coat, X whisper-sang into my ear:
“So now I’ll take my Upper Wester Alexa
And I go where the ocean is deep
There are giants out there in the canyons—”
At ‘giants’ he creatively pressed against me just so I’d get his meaning. I moved away before he could illustrate ‘canyons’.
But X had saved his finale for the bedroom of his friend’s pied a terre in the Village where he proceeded to thrust to the beat:
“So if you see my Downeaster Alexa-a-a-a
And if you work with the rod—uhhh—and a a a feeeeeel
Ahhh tell-my-wife I am trolling Atlantisuhhhhhhhh—”
Hmmm. Guess I’ll never know the end to that verse.
Life, or Something Like It
So my sister-in-law Jennifer is due March 30th. At 7:00 AM sharp.
Like many women these days, she’s having a C-section. She was in labor with her first, my nephew Tyler, for eleven hours before her doctors realized she would never dilate enough to successfully give birth vaginally. Plus as she explains it, they discovered she’s out of the normal range for clotting. I have no idea what that means, but it’s enough to make anyone say, “For God’s sake man, take a knife to me already!” So for Emma she had a C-section, and she’ll do the same for her third.
While some women may revel in the idea of being able to to simply pencil in their birth on a calendar, Jen is kind of bummed. “You know Alexa,” she explained to me in a rare moment of full disclosure, “There’s something so humbling about your water breaking. Pete and I had just put the rubber mattress cover on our bed, because it can soak it through. That’s just a weird idea when you hear it. But when it happens to you, it’s really like a dam bursting in your body. I actually heard it before it happened. It sounded like… like a storm. And I ran into the shower and started yelling for Pete to bring me towels. And we were laughing and making fun of me because I was like a fountain.”
Hmmm. Doesn’t sound too appealing if it’s not happening to you, huh?
I guess what Jen misses is the sense that for once we’re not in control. That life itself, bigger, stronger, and more mysterious than humans can ever understand, is taking over. Plugging an entry into a Blackberry seems to somehow to erase that magic.
We’re so busy controlling all of the variables in our life. We think we can dictate in minute details exactly how we will live our lives and exactly how long those lives will be. But then the natural world has a way of kicking us in the pants every once in a while, doesn’t it? By dumping 27 inches of snow on us and making us miss our dinner plans, our get-togethers and our flights. By wrecking our dieting strategy by telling us, “Oh that low fat thing? Yeah, that was kind of made up.”
You’re not going to hear me describing whatever that thing is as God. I’m way too much of a lapsed Christian for that. But whatever name we give it, it’s pretty clear that something else out there is really calling the shots.
We continue to delude ourselves though. Because in the midst of Jen’s speech about letting life take its own course, I wanted to remind her that “hello!” she and Pete had elected to learn the baby’s sex before it was born.
So much for living life au natural.
Big
The “my cock is bigger than your cock” battle just took on a whole different scale—one of approximately 38,929 feet.
Square feet that is.
If you look in the New York Times today, there’s an article about a brouhaha brewing in Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the richest towns in the US. A hedge fund manager wants to build a house of epic dimensions—224 feet wide with 11 bedrooms, 16 bathrooms, an indoor pool, a squash court, a golf simulator, a home movie theater, a wine cellar, a billiard room and a five-car garage. And a 1165 square foot poolhouse. Oh. And a beauty parlor. (I know. That one perplexes me too.)
Apparently his adversaries, the ones trying to block him from building his dream, are people much less well off than he is. They only have houses that are say 31,000 square feet.
Listen. I’m a big fan of big. The article made me look around my comfortable 750 square foot one-bedroom apartment and wonder who the hell decided 750 square feet was comfortable?
As Cindy Adams always says, “Only in New York kids. Only in New York.”
Though I pine for the Tribeca loft with bigger closets and a bigger kitchen and a bigger wardrobe and a much bigger checking account though, I don’t know what to say about 38,929 square feet. Or 31,000 square feet for that matter.
Because I’ve been to one of those Greenwich houses for a Christmas party a couple of years in a row now. The wife was another one of those second-wife trophy women with perfect skin, perfect hair, a frozen smile and a frozen gait. She looked prefab somehow. The girl was picture perfect with a taffeta skirt and a big bow in her hair. The nine-year old son had—I kid you not—a page boy haircut. Their family portrait, which was on a marble side table in the parlor, actually scared me. It was so stiff and formal I literally thought it would shatter the glass that encased it.
The house kind of got to me too. Maybe it’s because we as New Yorkers are so used to cramped spaces that in a way, we’re sort of comforted by them too. But I don’t know…does anyone really need a floor to ceiling mural with life sized portraits of their kids cavorting with butterflies in a meadow?
Frankly in real life those kids looked like they were one step away from therapy. I happened to inadvertently stumble into the kitchen, where I saw that each of their schedules and dietary restrictions were printed out and posted on a different refrigerator.
What happens to human beings when they encase themselves in a world with their own gym, their own beauty parlor, their own reality? Think of Michael Jackson. The part of them that’s connected to the rest of the world seems like it dies. Sure they can all have their parties where they raise money for the less fortunate. But they’ll always be one step removed.
Maybe Greenwich should rethink its zoning laws. Not because a particular McMansion mars the view. But because it mars The View.
And I don’t mean the television show.
Deus Caritas Est
Somehow when I wasn’t looking the Pope went ahead and endorsed erotic love.
Okay—with a whole lot of reservations. But still.
Benedict’s first encyclical or pastoral letter, which he released January 26th, was called “God is Love.” Don’t let the title fool you though. He’s got much to say about the human variety.
The Pope starts by explaining the difference between Eros, erotic love, and Agape, a Greek word meaning “unconditional and selfless love”. According to him, they are actually interrelated: “The more the two, in their different aspects, find a proper unity in the one reality of love, the more the true nature of love in general is released.” He sites the Old Testament’s “Song of Songs” as an example. In that poem, each speaker looks first to the happiness of the beloved before satisfying his or herself. This mutual fulfillment moves them closer to unconditional love, and thus Divine love, the ultimate goal.
On the other hand though an “intoxicated and undisciplined” Eros leads only to human degradation. According—
I’m sorry. I have to interrupt myself here. Doesn’t “undisciplined Eros” sound like an invitation to someone with an S&M fixation?
I know. I digress.
According to the Pope, when sexual pleasure is pursued as an end in itself, man becomes a “commodity”. He goes on to say: “The apparent exaltation of the body can quickly turn into a hatred of bodiliness.”
Hmmm. I don’t know. To me this all sounds a bit dogmatic. I suppose it should be. It’s actually dogma.
The thing is, I wonder if it really takes into account human nature. Let’s face it; my guess is I see a wider range of human behavior on my front line than the Pope does on his. I can tell you case in point that most of the men that eventually find their way to me are married. They’re looking to spend time with someone other than their wives precisely because Eros has left the building—usually a long time ago.
I’m sure in a perfect world love between married people can go on being erotic. But out in the real world? Why does it happen so infrequently? Are we as human being simply not trying hard enough?
I suppose it is good though for the church to acknowledge that our bodies can be used sexually for good. I hope the word gets out. Because that’s another thing. It’s amazing how many of the people with whom I come into contact have shame issues about sex directly because of their religious background. Surely God didn’t give us a body primarily so we could feel badly about what it wants?
His Story of Violence
Sunday night found me at a fancy Oscar party in Westchester. The kind when you get dressed to the nines and pretend that you’re kind of sort of involved somehow. Of course everyone there was a corporate lawyer or dating one or married to one. But I had to give it to them for trying. They even had two gold five-foot-tall Oscars flanking the columns on their door.
After the champagne and hors d’oeuvres, we settled down to watch the show in our hosts’ home theatre, which had white lights running along the edges of the aisles. I was psyched to see John Stewart (And yippee! I’m actually going to see The Daily Show taped later in the week.) and the opening montage with him sleeping with Halle Berry and George Clooney didn’t disappoint. But after that? Jesus, were any of you out there as bored as I was!?
It’s like they sucked the very life out of the show somehow. It was as bland as that bland color worn by Naomi Watts and Uma Thurman (hello! Naked color makes you looked washed out, not naked!) The only high point was when Three Six Mafia won Best Song for “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp”—which I proceeded to sing for the rest of the night. Finally someone on stage seemed to express real feeling, surprise and glee.
When the remainder of the show dipped to new levels of borrrring (rhymes with snoring), my date for the party L and I began gossiping with the couple seated next to us. He was nerdy looking but funny and friendly in a class clown kind of way. She on the other hand was hot. She wore a dress with a plunging neckline that clearly couldn’t accommodate a bra. If there was any doubt of that, her nipples remained erect during the whole broadcast on account of the air conditioning in the theatre. She wore a shawl around her shoulders to hide them to a certain degree. But I caught L staring at them anyway.
“So what do you think gets the best sex scene in the nominated movies?” she asked coyly. “Personally? I think you’d have to go with Brokeback Mountain.
“Says you,” said L.
“Oh come on. Don’t be so hetero. Even if you’ve never been attracted to a man—”
“Is she always like this?” he asked the nerdy guy.
“It’s like every woman wants to know now. Did you think it was hot?” the nerdy guy commiserated.
“Come on. Admit it. That kiss after they haven’t seen each other for five years?”
“Unfucking believable.” I said.
I’d actually been fantasizing about it ever since I saw it. It felt passionate and strong and male and desperate and physical. And when there was that scene with the two of them wrestling with their shirts off, all Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots and dirt. I just wanted to watch it over and over.
“I thought the movie was boring,” said L.
“Yeah,” she said. “You know what? Aside from the love scenes, I actually did too. She turned to me. “What about you Alexa? What’s your favorite?”
“Me? You can’t top that scene between Viggo Mortgenson and Maria Bello in A History of Violence.”
“That guy,” said L. “Every chick I know wants to fuck him.”
“Well yeah.”
“Duh,” she added.
“It’s not just that,” I said. “That combination of anger and passion and danger. And the idea that you don’t really know who you’re having sex with—”
I would have gone on but I saw she had her hand under his jacket. He jumped a little suddenly. Then they exchanged a smile.
The other people at the party clearly didn’t find our conversation as stimulating as we did. We kept getting shushed.
“Want to get out of here?” said L.
“Desperately,” I answered.
We got in L’s Audi convertible and made our way back to New York. Just before the entrance to the highway though, L pulled off onto a side road. He continued until he found a particularly dark street, turned down it and parked.”What are we doin—,” I started to say. Before I could finished L had pushed me up against the passenger door. I felt the door handle cutting into my back. My head hit the ceiling. L’s hands smacked the glass. I felt his teeth on my ear along with his hot breath. Then suddenly he stopped. He panted in the dark.
“…I’ve always had a fantasy.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
He wouldn’t look at me. “…take off your panties.”
I hiked my dress up and slowly eased them down. I slid into the seat, my bare skin on the leather. L finally turned and stared at me. I opened my legs a little wider. He moaned then groped his way back to the steering wheel. He turned on the car but kept it in park. “Please,” he said. “Would you…Oh God. I want to see you fuck the stick shift.”
I turned so my back faced the dash and slowly lowered myself onto the tip of the stick. L moaned and unzipped his pants. He began to stroke himself. I tightened my grip over his and eased myself up and down, up and down, faster and lighter.
He revved the engine long and hard as he came. Then he took off his leather glove and stroked the stick with his bare hand. He brought it to his nose, inhaled, then slipped his glove back on.
“Now that,” he said. “Was an Oscar-caliber fuck.”
I’ve even got Maria Bello-like bruises to prove it.
M
So there I was fresh from a yoga class and ready for one of the killer sandwiches and flawless capuccinos that The Grey Dog Cafe does so well. Just as I was stepping inside I had…a sense. I don’t know what it was exactly. But I knew I had to turn around.
There he was on the other side of the door. M. That beautiful, quirky, charming and awkward guy I met in December—at the other cafe in The Village. The war photographer guy. Who was exactly as beautiful, quirky, charming and awkward as I remembered him. My knees started shaking.
“Hi…”
“Hi”
“M”
“Alexa”
“… so do you go to all the Village coffee shops?”
“Yeah. I got a bum job.” He smiled his lopsided smile.
Then we said at the same time, “You never called.” “I never called.”
“I know. I suck. Sorry. I was away.”
“Oh. Me too actually.”
“Darfur?”
“Haiti”
Right. The elections. Something about one of Aristide’s former allies getting elected. The elections had been contested. The guy who was elected had been president before. What the hell was his name? Why couldn’t I think of any specifics on Haiti?! what was the matter with me?!
“Can I treat you to a coffee?” he said, interrupting my panic attack.
“Oh. Aren’t you just coming out though?”
“Oh. Does that mean you don’t want to?”
“No no. I mean yes. I mean—coffee. Would be great.”
So there I was having a coffee with a man I had secretly been thinking about for the past couple of months. And I was in an ancient oversized sweater thrown over my yoga clothes. Wearing no make-up. With my hair up in a messy ponytail. I was praying he would somehow find it within him think the non-look cute.
Weirdly we didn’t talk too much about his job. We talked about—marriage if you can believe it. He had been married once but had been divorced for ten years. His ex-wife now lived in France. He started telling me about what he thought went wrong.
“The thing is we were always around people who were accomplished. Some of them famous. And she felt insecure, you know? Like she had nothing to offer herself. And she was just so wrong about it. Because she did. Everyone adored her.”
“Including you.”
“Of course. She was my wife”
“…sounds like you’re still in love with her.”
“Oh no. No. We’re good friends now. It’s an important relationship. But,” He looked down at the napkin on his lap. “I’ve got my eye on someone else.” He looked up quickly at me and then down again. It was a flash of an utterly naked look. I felt flushed. And I couldn’t get rid of the goofy smile spreading all over my face.
M handed me another card as we were leaving. “I’d love to see you again Alexa.”
“Me too. Yes.”
He grabbed my hand. Then shook it. Then kissed. Then blushed, pushed up his glasses, and was gone.
It was perfect.
I thought about him all the way home. How unique looking he was. How confident but bumbling too. The spark of his intelligence and thoughtfulness.
But there was something also about the way he talked. “We were always around people who were accomplished…” M was clearly a guy at the top of his game. He didn’t have to say it. I just knew. So as soon as I got home I did what any gal would do. I Googled him.
Oh. My. God. He’s won a slew of fancy awards.
Jesus. I am never calling him. Ever.
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about me
So why am I writing this blog? I have an inner exhibitionist that just needs to be let out. I've always wanted to bare myself completely in front of strangers but have always been held back by fear.
As strange as it may sound, I've never really truly bared myself in front of any of my clients. For all that they've seen, they've never seen me be me. And for all that I've seen, I simply need to share it with you!
So why should you come? To be tantalized and teased. To get release by knowing the true me.
I promise that I won't bite, and if I do bite, I'll make sure you like it!
my favorite posts
- Caveat Vendor - Part II
- Selling Out (Part III)
- Poops!... I Did It Again!
- My First Escorting Experience
- My First Lesbian Experience
- Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)
- Selling Out (Part III)
friends
raunchy humor
sexy stories
archives
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