If my suitcase bursts on the morning commuter train, it would be a more dramatic moment than for most. If a dapper businessman doesn’t drop his coffee all over my designer rubber wardrobe, the poor girl behind the tea trolley may slip on a ball-gag. From the expressions on the faces of everyone else, I am likely to know: A) if they have a fetish, and B) what it is.
I’m a fetish model. That is my job. I started off my career while I was in school, earning some extra cash modeling for a friend’s bondage website. When she encouraged me to join a site that specialized in fetish modeling, I booked enough work to go full-time after finishing my degree. Since then, I’ve been photographed in 13 countries and four states, tied up everywhere from stunning church ruins to secret underground dungeons below country mansions and have stomped down catwalks in just about every kind of outfit imaginable. (See above!) Keep reading »
Ten minutes. I was hitting the 10-minute mark of just standing in front of the freezers, seemingly debating whether to buy a quart or a gallon of milk. Or perhaps unsure of which kind I wanted. Skim or whole? Maybe 2 percent? I had a pensive look on my face.
It’s the look I get when I’m frozen inside. Generally from shock. Often from fear. Almost always after a harrowing experience that’s left me momentarily paralyzed.
My allergies had been just horrific, but I’d decided to brave the run across the street to the little bodega anyway because I’d been out of dishwasher soap and milk and coffee filters for three days. As I walked up the steps to the entrance, two men walked out. Because I’m a woman who’s been trained by society not to look strange men in the eye when its dark out and they look potentially threatening, I didn’t. But they stopped in the doorway and came up close to me, speaking far louder than was necessary. “Whoa mama, look at those tits.” “Daaaaamn. Naw like really dog, daaaaaaamn.” One started masturbating and pushed up close to my face as I stared at the ground, trying to navigate around them. He rubbed himself and licked his lips as he undressed me with his eyes and loudly proclaimed what he’d do to me. Keep reading »
UPDATE: I have since viewed 40+ minute scene from “Farrah Superstar: Back Door Teen Mom” and have additional thoughts!
Last night, in the name of journalism — okay, I was bored and horny — I decided to take one for the team (that would be you guys, my beloved Frisky readers) and hopped in bed to masturbate while watching the 5:12 clip from Farrah Abraham’s sex tape, “Farrah Superstar: Back Door Teen Mom.” Or, rather, I attempted to masturbate to it. But I’ll get to that in a second…
Yesterday afternoon, I sort of half-assed watched the clip from Farrah and James’ porn and mostly felt uncomfortable because I was at work and I usually don’t like starring at unfamiliar vagina as my coworkers eat lunch around me. But I must admit, I was curious to give the video a closer looksie at home. Though I am a Manuel Ferrara loyalist, James Deen has, hands down, the best sex growl in the biz. His baby-faced boyishness makes it all the more surprising and hot when he breaks out the dirty talk and tit slapping. So, hey, a new James Deen scene to watch? Who cares if his costar is a “Teen Mom”? If she’s good enough for James Deen, she’s fine by me!
Around midnight last night, I kicked my dog Lucca out of bed and on to the couch (nothing distracts from a good solo sex sesh like a puppy trying to curl up under the covers), got out my laptop and my Jimmy Jane vibe, flicked out the lights for, you know, ambiance, hopped in bed and pressed play. Keep reading »
By the time I entered my junior year of college, I was convinced that Binghamton University had only three kinds of guys. There were the players. There were the boys who were saving themselves for marriage. And there were the ones who learned about sex from my mother.
A biological anthropologist, my mom taught Intro to Sex and Evolution, which focused on everything from mating systems in the Animal Kingdom to why women go through menopause. Pretty much every student in the life sciences took it. Those who didn’t heard stories of the professor with the sign in her office that read: My biggest fear is that there is no PMS and this is my personality.
Thus, at the age of 19, I could flawlessly explain the mechanics of seahorse sex, but had only a vague notion of how it might work between two humans. I feared getting into an intimate situation only to have word of it get back to her, or worse, hearing her clinical scientific explanation of it in my head. And if a guy ever mentioned sex and my mother in the same sentence, forget about it. Keep reading »
“What would you like to see happen as a result of this process?” I was asked this question by friends and family in late October of 2012. Then in November by two officers from the LAPD. Later, by a detective. And three more times by the university staff members assigned to adjudicate my report of sexual assault –– most recently, on April 2.
This question has haunted me, as I infer it haunts other rape survivors. I have never been able to answer it. Until now.
Invited to write about my experience as a rape victim who is attempting to “seek justice,” it occurred to me finally: I just want to stop the rape. That’s what I want.
My rape and the ensuing process was fairly typical. I trusted a man I was getting to know not to rape me. Then, once raped, I struggled to re-interpret myself as not-raped, because the pain and horror of accepting I had been raped was too much for me to bear. Typical.
Where my story isn’t as typical begins about one month ago. After my university failed to take immediate action against the student who raped me (despite having been provided with several audio recordings in which my rapist confessed to raping me) and after I became so socially ostracized that I contemplated suicide, it was suggested to me that I did not have to wait for the world to decide whether it would advocate for me or not.
I could self-advocate. I could post my name and photograph and his name and photograph to the Internet.
And so I did. Keep reading »
Today in Things I Should Have Seen Coming: the jewelry my ex-husband gave my was fake. And really, why wouldn’t it be? It’s the perfect, almost too cliche, synopsis to the story of our marriage. Lies — all of it.
Almost three years ago, at the start of what would become a long, drawn out and difficult divorce, I had tucked little pink suede bag that contained the jewelry he had given me away in the back of my safe. Admittedly, it wasn’t much: two rings, a third passed down to him from a family member, and a tennis bracelet.
It seemed unfathomable, at the time, that I would ever reach this point, standing in a quaint little shop trying to convert the pieces into cash. I imagined myself handing them over to our daughter when she was older or just letting it collect dust, because selling it would just be wrong. Disloyal. Tacky, even. Keep reading »
We’ve probably all had a crush on a celebrity at some point. Maybe you loved Kirk Cameron or Jonathan Taylor Thomas growing up, but these days your tastes lean towards Jon Hamm or Channing Tatum. However, rarely does your new crush show up at the party you’re at.
Years ago, I became mildly obsessed with … let’s call him Charlie … after I saw him in a horror flick. I’d like to say he was talented, but mostly he was just ridiculously hot. After some cyber stalking, I found out he was single, living in Los Angeles, had been in some decent movies, and was now working on a police drama TV show I’d never heard of (thanks IMDB).
Around this same time, my best friend started dating an actor whose career was on the rise. He and his friends would have parties up in the Hollywood Hills. A typical Hollywood party usually consists of a modern house owned by who the hell knows and 30 skinny model/actresses wandering around with drinks. There are always C-listers in attendance. After some awkward staring, you realize that you’re looking at someone from a WB show (yes WB before it was CW, hence C-list). Sometimes reality TV stars pop us at these parties. “America’s Next Top Model” and “American Idol” contestants seem to the most popular. It’s a weird world. No one is technically famous, but deep down everyone is happy to be at a party with C-listers and reality stars. It was at one of these parties that I spotted my hot crush Charlie. Keep reading »
He was everything a girl could have ever wanted. Smart, handsome, a steady job, well-dressed, and French, Pierre met all of my requirements for boyfriend material. Our relationship — which lasted a little over a year — began when I was studying in Paris during my junior year abroad. I was lonely and depressed from a series of romantic failures and friendships gone awry, and he was getting over a broken heart. We met in a Parisian café on a cold March night and instantly hit it off. It was just like something out of a cheesy romantic comedy.
Except for the fact that Pierre was 30 years older than me. Keep reading »
“What do you feel about going topless?” he asked me over the phone. I hesitantly replied, “Well, I guess I’m okay with it. But will they be able to touch my boobs?” There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line. “Yes, but you’ll never have to do anything more. I promise.”
A few days earlier, I’d been scanning Craigslist for part-time gigs and came across an ad that seemed too good to be true: “Beautiful college girls sought for nightclub modeling. Receive up to $1000/night. Email pics.” I answered and said that I was a 21-year-old student and attached some cheesy iPhoto shots.
It was January of my senior year of college in New York, and I was completely and utterly broke. I had been doing freelance work to keep me afloat, but things started to go downhill in December, when I only made $600 for the entire month — not even enough to cover my rent. On a cold night I huddled in the school’s library, answered every student job posting I could find and scanned Craigslist. Five minutes after answering the nightclub post, I received a response from a guy named Bob. He wanted me to call him. I ducked outside and dialed the number he sent me. Keep reading »