The Beautiful Kind

Ah, I love a good whore story. They say that a memoir on prostitution only sells if it ends tragically, or, at the very least, with the woman realizing the error of her wicked ways. The book Callgirl by Jeannette Angell provides neither of these society-demanded conclusions, but instead offers a straightforward account of two years in the life of a woman who teaches at a university by day and caters to the sexual needs of horny men in Boston at night.

The book describes how she came to be a whore (an attractive woman who found herself in financial straits) what it was really like (eh, not so bad) and why she left the business (it was simply time to move on with her life.) It’s funny, written conversationally, and of course, due to all the sordid lives and dark and dirty secrets she gets to peep in on, fascinating.

The worst experience for her (even worse than the guy who tried to force anal on her) was the man who hired her to act like his mommy and talk to him as she sat in her underwear and put on her makeup, as if preparing to go out for the evening and leave him with a sitter. She found the situation profoundly depressing, a stark example of how fragile and emotionally fucked up men can be, but personally I would have liked that job. I would have gotten a kick out of playing Mommie Dearest.

The cool thing was, she was teaching a class on prostitution as she was a prostituting herself in real life. When one of her student’s parents had an issue with their daughter taking the class, she couldn’t help but wonder - how would they feel if they knew the class was being taught by an actual callgirl? Damn I love that ha-ha-little-do-you-know shit, just like how the guy working at Subway who wordlessly made your tuna sandwich today was wearing a butt plug and pink panties under his roast beef scented uniform.

Proof that the Bible is a bunch of crap.

After much dreaded anticipation, kind of like knowing your favorite fuck buddy with stellar oral skills is applying for out-of-state jobs and will be moving away though you’re not exactly sure when, the tacky and legendary Noah’s Ark in St. Charles was officially demolished a couple weeks ago.

I stifled a sob as I drove by the caved in pile of time-bleached timber, all my memories, the good, the bad, and the silly stirred by the sight of the sacrilegious rubble:

1. As a kid, going there with my grandparents when they came in town. The place was swank and family happenin’, with concrete and fiberglass animals galore and a big bar and kiddie cocktails with maraschino cherries and luminescent giraffe swizzle sticks. You could throw coins at the gaping hippo in the fountain outside the restaurant, and the servers wore safari hats. Bearded Noah proudly stood on top of the ship in his white robe, a dove in his outstretched hand.

2. At age 20, I had my first miscarriage at the adjoining Noah’s Ark motor lodge. By then the restaurant was run down and seedy as hell, with sad little aquariums built into the walls next to the booths and filled with desperately horny guppies. The taxidermied zebras and antelopes in the glass-enclosed hall displays were flea bitten and faded. I got cramps during our crappy dinner (I think I ate an ostrich burger) and spent the rest of the evening alternately bleeding in the bathtub and having sex with my beyond-cool boyfriend at the time. I wasn’t sure who the father of the fetus was, so we were glad to see it go.

3. At age 33, going there with my 6 year old daughter, the place dilapidated and on the brink of being torn down. My friend who lived in Pittsburgh drove through St. Louis and buried an obscene postcard for me to find using clues. I followed his clues and ended up at Noah’s Ark. Traffic rushed by as my daughter and I scoured the parking lot, searching for the buried postcard. We investigated the perimeter, clumps of weeds, dirt piles littered with beer bottles, and on the verge of giving up - SUCCESS! - finally found it in one of the rock gardens.

At least they’re going to replace the Ark with something worthwhile - an accessible community aqautics center. And word has it the remaining animal statues (giraffes and an elephant) will be restored and put on display in the new building.

Um, don’t watch the movie Pan’s Labyrinth if you’re PMSing or pregnant. I’m just sayin’.

Yesterday was St. Louis’s first ever South Asia Heritage Fair, held in a conference center near the now-demolished Noah’s Ark (more on that tomorrow) in St. Charles. Hell yeah the venture was a big hit, representing countries such as India, Nepal, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.

It’s not very often I get to be a minority in a crowd, but there I was, surrounded by mustached computer programmers in striped polo and short-sleeve button up plaid shirts, and beautiful women in brilliant, flowing saris and spangled jewels - peach and teal, orange and magenta, green and yellow, royal blue and purple.

The website depicts an Elvis impersonator, which I hope wasn’t misleading clip art, but just bad luck on my part to have missed.

The food (we tried Curry in a Hurry) was fucking spicy and amazing, definitely not dumbed down for whitey like the fare offered at Festival of Nations a couple weeks ago. God that food sucked.

There was a stage and festive music playing so adorable little kids could scamper about in their costumes, their ankle bracelets jangling. Or kids could throw themselves into the huge inflatable mosh pit in one corner of the ballroom - watching the frenetic mass was like watching a riot in an animal shelter, except there was a lot of gleeful shrieking going on instead of fur flying.

Two gripes: way too many balloons there for my taste, and sad to say, despite all the worldly attire and culture immersion, I still saw a few pair of Croc shoes.

Ladies, if you haven’t checked out the dated and over-the-top book The Satanic Witch, you totally should. Teaching the secrets behind seducing men and driving them crazy, it’s like a demonic version of The Rules.

The author, Anton LaVey, is a SCREAM (and also the founder of the Church of Satan). He instructs women on beguiling tricks such as how to dilate their eyes, and how to position their head depending on what kind of message they’re trying to convey (dom or sub).

He also suggests not washing so much, wearing ill-fitting clothes, and tucking a sachet scented with your menstrual blood in your bra when you’re trying to woo a man.

He encourages honing the art of hussy - flash deliberately, but make it look like an accident. Act like you don’t notice your bra strap hanging out. Sit in a short skirt in a way that makes it look like you think you’re covered, but in truth you know the angle is allowing the guy across the room to peep at your panties.

Here are some of his gems, some outrageous, some possessing a kernel of truth:

IN BEING A WOMAN YOU ARE DIFFERENT FROM A MAN AND THAT VERY DIFFERENCE MUST BE EXPLOITED!

No other organ has been so closely linked with the genitals as the eye. If you can read a person’s eyes, they are more naked before you than if you were to remove their clothes.

There are more men who are stimulated by the smell of urine than will ever admit to it.

Men who are dominant and masculine prefer sweet dressings such as French, Russian, 1000 Island. Women who are passive, submissive and feminine prefer Roquefort, bleu cheese, and oil and vinegar, as do males who are passive or gay.

Women like to be felt. Men like to feel. Don’t reverse the procedure, unless you use your feet or legs for contact.

ALL MEN HAVE A FETISH. THE TRICK IS FINDING OUT WHICH ONE THEY HAVE.

Wear the brightest, reddest lipstick you can find.

Remember, “cheap” is just another term for “available,” and every successful witch knows that available she is, but not to just anybody, and she seldom comes cheap.

Some of the best witches are prostitutes. It’s their job to attract men! They not only learn the little quirks that other women never see in men, but they must be able to dress, act and think outside their natural role.

The more experienced a woman appears, the more desirable she becomes. Very few men will be compelled towards virginity in a woman, except as a fillip to the ego.

I make SUCH a good witch.

“You sure have the Madonna-Whore thing goin’ on!”

- my guy, reflecting on my baking jam muffins for my daughter and blowing him sloppily later that evening. Thank god he can handle it, some poor saps can’t.

…WHO put me on the email list for Human Events? Their intro email to me starts off with “Dear Fellow Conservative:”

Maybe I can be one of their feature blogs since they seem to like blonde cunts who mouth off so much…

- The Beautiful Kind

Man o man. Check this out. We tried out our very first rope trick, and look at how fab it turned out. My guy didn’t even need to follow instructions- he pulled this off from memory. Fuck he’s talented. And I’m gorgeous. I feel like origami.

While looking up websites on how to make your own synthetic pussy flavor, I found recipes for all these cocktails - who knew?

Juicy Pussy
Sloppy Pussy
Bald Pussy
French Pussy
Eat My Pussy
Pink Pussy
La Pussy
Virgin Pussy
Wet Pussy
Purple Pussy
Passion Pussy
Skunk Pussy
Rotten Pussy
Sour Pussy
Green Pussy
Creamy Pussy

What’ll you have?

OK, is this a joke? A friend sent me a website promoting a German scent that’s supposed to smell like pussy - it’s called V U L V A. (Warning: Clicking on the link will subject you to fake tits and cheesy music.)

The fine folks at VULVA specifically instruct you to apply “a tiny amount of the precious liquid” to the back of your hand, and acknowledge that it can be used to enhance the experience of a man whacking off solo (oops, I mean “stimulate the cinematic visions of the imagination during self-stimulation.”) That has to be their target audience, cuz why would a woman buy it?! Talk about a renewable resource - just rub your hand in your crotch if you want Pussy Palm. (Or make your own using stuff lying around the kitchen like this guy does.)

The video intro on the home page is laughable - why is this dude sitting around sniffing his hand when he’s got two naked chicks writhing around behind him? And it took me listening to the tagline at the end of the video to get their too-clever url: smellmeand.com - it’s not smellmeanddotcom huh? — it’s smellmeandcum OHHH!

In the “tips” section of the website, it advises, “Keep VULVA away from children.” And if “Original” scent is too tame for you, they’re working on two new flavors - “Exotic” and “Eighteen.” Mmm, nothing better than barely legal muff, presented in a virginal white box. And who will be modeling the “Exotic” flavor? Someone from Tahiti I hope. I can’t wait for them to come out with “Ripe” and “Sanguine.” I’m so glad I can just sit around in my underwear all day and sniff my crotch whenever I want. It’s so precious and all.

Continued from previous post…

Finally we got the butt plug all the way in, and I tried to relax and bask in how kinky I felt with something fully seated in my ass.

“Will it work for you to fuck me with this thing in?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if the base would get in the way.

“I think so,” he said, and he successfully mounted me. I could tell it felt extra good for him, made it tighter for him, and extra full for me. Mmm, double penetration…

“God I can’t wait for you to fuck my ass sometime,” I groaned. “This is prepping me for that.”

“Fifth base,” he grunted.

He flipped me over and we did it that way for a while, and his cock kept hitting my g-spot, causing it to swell. I was so aroused, I felt the need to ejaculate.

I told him I had the urge, but didn’t want to get the bed all messy, so he got up and grabbed a garbage bag and laid a blanket over it.

We took a break from fucking so I could rub my g-spot and send myself over the edge. It didn’t take much and I gushed. And gushed.

I felt like I had more in there, so I asked him to push down on my belly as I frigged myself and goodness it just flowed and flowed…it smelled light and fragrant.

Finally I tapped myself out, and he helped replenish my fluids by making me eat his cum, which really wasn’t that much, given his adventures earlier that day.

We pulled the butt plug out (I squealed) and wrapped it in the blanket with the huge wet spot and tossed it on the floor to deal with later, and passed out.

The whole ordeal was SO intense that we didn’t even have sex the next day.

Continued from earlier post…

I was in the bathroom with a finger up my ass, preparing it for anal play. I felt squeamish about it - I’d done anal before, but I was so inexperienced in that department. I really wanted to work on incorporating my ass into the mix as much as my pussy, tits, mouth, and so on. I mean, what good sub doesn’t give up her ass to her dom?

My ass was very hot and tight, squeezing my finger. God I wanted my guy to feel that with his cock.

I cleaned up (washed my finger about 10 times) and came out of the bathroom and announced the change of plans. “I want to try anal play tonight.”

His eyes lit up. “What kind?”

“I dunno, we can try the butt plugs or anal sex, but you have to be really hard for anal sex.”

“I think I can pull that off, even though I came twice already today.”

“You came besides the time we had sex this morning?” I asked. “When?”

“Right afterwards. I went down in the basement and jerked off.”

When he saw the confused look on my face, he added, “For nostalgia’s sake.”

“OHH. Got it. Well, why don’t we start with the small butt plug and see what happens. I want to know how regular sex feels with that thing in.”

We got out the lube and slowly eased the black plug into my practically virgin asshole. “Ow ow ow!” I whimpered.

My guy reminded me of the secret trick to taking it up the ass - push back with your ass muscles - it helps facilitate the process.

I did, and it helped, but I was still being a baby about it.

“This isn’t very arousing for me,” he admitted, “it seems like you’re in pain.”

“I’m just working through it!” I insisted. “Just wait until it’s YOUR turn.”

To be continued…

We were sitting around eating homemade curry and he said, “It needs salt.”

I went to the kitchen and looked in his cupboard and found something called bamboo salt. I brought that out, along with regular salt.

I tried the bamboo salt on my dish. It was fine-grained and had this really odd taste - organic, almost funky, reminiscent of hard-boiled egg.

“Mmm! This is good!” It set my taste buds a-tingling, and I started sampling it on my finger.

He finished eating and I was still grooving on the funky salt. “Let me try it on your dick! I said excitedly. Of course we were eating naked.

“I don’t know, that might sting.”

I scoffed and pushed him back on the couch and salted his dick. I set to work, licking and lapping and exclaiming with delight. “I just love it!” I kept seasoning his meat so I could keep licking it off.

He said, “Let me try it on you.”

So he salted my cunt and gave it a go, but decided he didn’t like it very much.

I told him I’d go wash it off, and ran off to the bathroom. While rinsing my cunt, I suddenly decided I finally wanted to try anal play tonight. Dang, I wish I had an enema, I thought, but a gay friend of mine had suggested just sticking a soapy finger up the ass to clean it. So I took the next step towards making the night a little wilder.

To be continued…