On The Road Again, Part 4

Day One. The Third Person.



The Dollhouse looked like most other strip clubs Al and I had ever been to. Dark. Lots of shadows. Dark carpeting, dark upholstery on the chairs and in the booths. A sign just inside the front entrance advertised, "We are a Non-Smoking Facility" but somehow the room was still filled with cigarette smoke.

There were five small stages in the Dollhouse, and one large stage in the center of the room. All the stages had small running lights along the sides, each with one of the ubiquitous dancing poles.




Al and I picked a pair of seats in front of the main stage and settled down to watch the show.

The format was simple; there were three songs in each set. Each girl danced in a bikini for the first song, for the second song she'd remove her top, and for the third set, she danced topless, God bless her.

Al and I ordered a couple of beers and watched a couple of shows. It's a strange thing. I've been in strip clubs with male dancers for female audiences, and in clubs with female dancers for male audiences, and everybody acts the same.

In clubs with male dancers, the women act like Red Sox fans after Boston won the Series. They yell and scream and wave their arms like they're at a rock concert. Male audiences are different. Most guys just sit there when a woman's dancing for them. She might get a smile and some money, but there's not much emotion involved, not unless the guy's really, really drunk.

Al and I weren't really really drunk, so we just sat there and watched the show for a while. I could see that he was smiling at a couple of the girls, but he wasn't behaving any differently than any other customer of the club.

I said, "Having a good time?"

"Sure, he said." A redheaded girl named Ginger was kneeling in front of him, massaging her breasts.

I said, "You know what we need to do?"

"What," Al asked as he tucked a dollar bill into Ginger's g-string.

"We need to try to take one of these girls back to the hotel room.

Al laughed. "Good luck with that."

I almost spit out my beer when I heard that. Al had taken me to my first strip club. Hell, he'd gotten me my first date with a stripper. Dating strippers was a difficult chore, but it wasn't impossible. Al had showed me how to do it. Now, Neil Armstrong was saying it was impossible to reach the moon. I realized getting Al's balls back might be more difficult than I'd first anticipated.

When you're trying to make a date with a stripper while she's working, you have to understand you're dealing with three people.

The first person is the persona the stripper wants you to see. She's being sexy just for you. She's taking her clothes off just for you. All the other guys in the club are extraneous. She's lusting after you, bub. The money you're giving her to get naked is just for show. She'd do it for free, as long as it's for you. Obviously, the first person is an illusion. The best strippers are very good at giving you that illusion.

The second person is the "real" persona behind the first person, behind the illusion. This is a job to her. She's taking her clothes off for you because you're giving her money. If somebody else gives her more money, she'll be the dream girl of that guy. A harsh reality, but it's the truth.

Then, there's the third person. If you really want to date a stripper, you have to address the third person. The Third Person is the girl behind the second person. The Third Person is reality behind the reality. The Third Person is the girl dancing to pay her college tuition. She's dancing to support a family, or she's dancing because she's bored. The Third Person isn't named Candy or Ginger or Chantal. The Third Person is named Kathy or Rebecca and she's got bills to pay and her car's transmission is on the verge of giving out. She's the real girl behind the dancer. If you want to date a stripper, you've got to find out about the Third Person. If she's looking to meet someone, she doesn't want someone interested in only the first or second person; she's interested in someone interested in the real her.

So, you pay for a table dance with her and if you're lucky, she'll chat with you when you get a private moment, and that's when she'll show you who that Third Person is. That's the person you deal with.

So you say things like, "I've got kids, too. Two boys and a girl."

Or, "What a coincidence. I studied English Lit in college."

Or, "I could tell you used to dance ballet. You've got a real sense of grace about you."

Al and I spent about thirty minutes just watching the show. There were lots of attracive girls there, lots of college girls. I'd have to say the Dollhouse got a thumbs up from me compared to some of the other clubs I've been to.

However, Al just sat there. He smiled and handed out a few dollar bills here and there, but he wasn't acting like the old Al I knew.

One dancer, a girl named April, looked like Al's type. She was petite, but she had an hourglass figure and full breasts with red, perky nipples. When she danced for Al, he just sat there and watched, but I could tell he was enjoying her performance. So, when she was done dancing and she was getting her dress back on, I told her I wanted her to give my buddy Al a table dance.

April was young, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with lots of youthful energy. She said, "Sure."

I said, "You need to know something, though. Al needs a good time. He's had a run of hard luck. His wife left him just before he got back from Iraq."

April's eyes went wide. "Really?"

I said, "Oh, yeah. Al's a vet. Special Forces. But don't let on you know, okay? He's seen some things you just don't want to admit you've seen."

"Wow," said April.

"And then on his way home Al's wife gives him divorce papers. A real kick in the crotch."

"I'll bet," said April.

"So I'm counting on you to give him a good time, okay?" A table dance cost only twenty, but I made sure April saw I was giving her TWO twenty dollar bills. "A really good time," I said.

April said, "You can count on me," and she took my cash and approached Al. She took him by the hand, whispered in his ear, and then she led him to the back of the room.

My Own Private Obsession #1...Gwen Stefani

I know it's been a few days, apologize for that...

anyway...

Gwen Stefani





You might be saying to yourself, "J.T.!" (Which is a funny thing to say to yourself, but hey)...

"J.T.! What's so unnatural about an obsession with Gwen Stefani? She's sexy, she's beautiful, she's a dynamic performer."

Yeah, she's all those things and a bag of chips, but she also bears a striking personal resemblance to a ...uh...working girl with whom I'm personally acquainted. Not that I ever paid for any...she came to me.

But anyway...

it would make for an interesting conversation starter if I ever got to meet her, don't you think?

"Hello, Ms. Stefani. I'm a great admirer of your music. It's a pleasure to meet you. You remind me of a hooker I knew in north Denver."

On The Road Again Part 3

Day One. The plan is implemented.

We got into Spokane at about nine A.M. and immediately checked into the nearest motel we could find, just off I-90. Al and I planned to take a quick shower, get a bite to eat, and then find a strip club or two.

Our room had the standard arrangement; two queen-sized beds, a TV, lots of towels and an ugly brown-red shag carpet that I'm sure had been chosen specifically to hide stains. I lay down on the bed nearest the TV, my shoes still on my feet, and I said, "I'm going to watch TV for a while. I'm still a little wired from the road."

Al said, "Suit yourself," and he stretched out for a nap.

I found ESPN News and I settled down to catch up on the ball scores.

The next thing I knew, Al was nudging me awake. He'd showered and shaved, and he was wearing what looked like brand new black slacks, leather patent shoes and a red-and-white striped button down shirt. He said, "I'm hungry and horny. Let's go."

I looked at the clock. It was after seven P.M. While I'd slept, Al had taken a nap, showered, gotten lunch, and gone shopping for new clothes. He'd even managed to get the keys to the Jeep out of my pocket without awaking me. Now, he was ready for a night on the town.

I showered and shaved in record time. I didn't have any new clothes, but I made do with some khaki pants and a sharp-looking black pullover shirt.

First, we walked over to one of the local steakhouses, within walking distance of the motel. We both had thick sixteen-ounce steaks with french fries and lots of beer. Not the domestic crap. Good beer. I drank Stella Artois and Al had some Newcastle Brown Ale. I thought it was too heavy for the red meat we were eating, but it was Al's favorite. Who was I to argue?

It was a nice enough-looking place, with lots of TVs set up to watch the Mariners play the Red Sox. Since it was the middle of July, there were no other sports to watch. I'm okay with baseball, but I'm more partial to hockey and football.

Al, however, was a baseball freak. He'd gotten into the Reds' farm system back in the early eighties, and had gotten all the way up to their triple-A franchise in Denver, back before the city got the expansion Rockies. Back then, they called themselves the Bears. Al spent the last month of the 1984 season in Denver, riding the bench and never getting into a game. At the end of the season he was cut, but Al decided to hang around the Mile High City for a while. That's when I met him.

Anyway, the point is Al was really getting into the game. He sat right underneath one of the big-screen TVs, muttering to himself with every pitch. It wasn't so much a play-by-play he was giving, as it was instructions to the Mariners manager.

"Too far back, guy! Your men are too far back! Bring them up! This guy's a contact hitter, he's putting it on the ground! Pitch him high and in! Look where his bat is! High and in, guy!" The Seattle manager, naturally, paid no attention to Al's advice, so when the pitcher threw a low fastball right down the middle of the plate, the Red Sox batter knocked it right down the third base line and he legged out a single, barely beating the throw to first. Al let out a triumphant whoop.

"Told ya to bring them in, you son of a bitch," he yelled. "This next guy's gonna drive him home! The pitcher's gonna try a curveball next and this guy'll put it into right field."

Sure enough, the batter caught the pitch and drove it into the right field corner. The Sox runner on first made it all the way home standing up.

Al looked like he'd gotten a winning lottery ticket.

"Do you follow the game that closely," I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you chart the pitches and keep track of how each batter does against left-handed pitchers in the middle innings and all that shit?"

Al laughed. "Hell no. I don't have time to watch much baseball these days. But after a while, you see the patterns. From the way the batter holds his bat, you can tell what kind of swing he has. If you know what kind of swing he's got, you know what his favorite pitches to hit are. So that tells you what kind of throws the pitcher doesn't want to toss to him. It's a lot like chess. You know how if you've seen enough games, you see the patterns? So if the black queen's bishop is on the f7 square and the queen's pawn is on d5 you know it was a queen's gambit opening? Same thing. Same thing with life, man. When you know the pattterns, it's all an open book."

We finished our dinner, tipped the waitress, and tipped the bartender, too. Al and I both used to work behind the bar ourselves, so we know the value of a good tip. We also asked the question most bartenders in any town know the answer to. "Where's a good strip club, man?"

He knew right away. "Get on Sprague, just north of I-90. All the good clubs are on Sprague."

"Where are the best clubs?"

"My favorite is The Dollhouse. On west Sprague. All the college girls go there to dance. All young and athletic. You get them from Gonzaga, Eastern Washington, Wash State, all of them, man."

That earned the guy another five dollars on his tip. We went right to the Dollhouse.

It was an upscale-looking club. The doorman was dressed in a tuxedo. Valet parking. Men in business suits were going inside. Al's and my casual wardrobes got the once-over from the guy taking our money, but he didn't say we couldn't come in.

And just like that, we were in.

TO BE CONTINUED.

On The Road Again Part 2

Day One of our quest. A plan is formed.

We were on Interstate 90, about fifty miles out of Seattle. The city's lights were growing smaller and more faint in the rear view mirror. Ahead of us were the Cascade Mountains, Idaho, Montana, and all the rest of America. It was about four-thirty in the morning. I could already see the faintest orange-yellow glimmerings of the sun along the eastern horizon, preparing for another day.

Al had dozed off back when we were still on Mercer Island. I had, after all, kidnapped him at three in the morning, and he was older than I was. Neither of us would be ready for a membership in the AARP for at least another decade, but we had both reached the age where hot young teen sluts would address us both as "Sir." As for me, I was still young and hale enough that a good jolting cup of java would keep me going for miles and miles. However, Al confessed that since he'd passed his fortieth birthday, if he didn't get a full eight hours he was no damn good for anything the rest of the day. So he curled up to sleep for a while, and I roared down the highway into the black, moonless Washington night.

I'd found a classic rock radio station to which I was listening while I drove. Neil Young's "Heart Of Gold" was playing when Al awoke. Neil'd finished his harmonica solo and had started singing again when Al opened his eyes.

"I've been to Hollywood
I've been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
I've been in my mind
it's such a fine line
that keeps me searching for a heart of gold
and I'm getting old.

Keep me searching for a heart of gold, and I'm getting old.

Keep me searching for a heart of gold.

Keep me searching and I'm growing old.

Keep me searching for a heart of gold.

I've been a miner for a heart of gold."

Al, still half asleep, said, "Play it again, J.T."

I said, "I can't, Man. It's on the radio. I should get it on CD, though. Great song."

"I love that song," Al said as the final chord faded and the next song came up. Foghat. "Slow Ride." Al asked, "What do you think he's looking for?"

I shrugged. It was such an obvious question I wondered if he wasn't still half-asleep. "A heart of gold."

"No shit, Sherlock," said Al. I knew then he was fully awake. He said, "What's so special about that heart of gold that he's getting desperate? That's what the song's about, Man. He's getting old. He's running out of time. There's desperation in his voice. What's so special about that heart of gold?"

I had to think for a moment. Before I could answer, Al answered his own question for me.

He said, "That special treasure. That one, unique person he's looked for his whole life. He believes there's the perfect woman out there waiting for him to find her, only he hasn't found her yet. He's been looking, but time's getting short. That's why he's desperate."

I couldn't think of a better answer than that, especially at that hour of the morning. I'd need a coffee break, soon. We drove along in silence for a few minutes. I watched the road. Al stared out the window, not really watching anything.

Finally, he said, "So, J.T. How the fuck are we getting my testicles back?"

Inwardly, I cringed. I knew Al would ask that question sooner or later. I'd hoped he'd ask it later so I could come up with a satisfactory answer. I said, "I don't know, yet. I'm kind of planning this as I go."

"Meaning you're making this up as you go."

"Basically, yeah."

"Sounds good to me," said Al. He became quiet and stared out the window again.

I realized I didn't want silence at that time. I was tired; I'd been driving all night, and conversation would make it easier to get to the next town and a much-needed refill of my travelling coffee mug. I also figured this was as good a time as any to lay out a plan of attack.

I said, "I'll gladly accept any input you have, Man. Any ideas? They're your nuts. You'd know better than anyone how to get them back."

Al gave me a sad laugh. He said, "Shit, J.T. I have no idea. It's been so long, I've forgotten what it's like to have to shift them around in a tight pair of jeans. She ripped them from my scrotum long before the divorce hearing."

I winced at the image. Then, I had a flash of inspiration. I said, "We start small. We re-develop them. Like physical therapy. Build them up slowly."

"Where do we start?"

"At a strip club. A tittie bar."

"What?"

I said, "Seriously, Man. We start in the fucking cave. We gather with other men and beat our chests and dance around the fire and gear up for battle. We start in a tittie bar. Where else are we going to find so much raw testosterone? We could grab somebody, open a vein, drain manliness into a glass and drink it. That's where we start."

Al laughed. "Okay. I'm game. Shit, I haven't been to a strip club in ages." He thought for a moment. "You know the last time I was in a tittie bar? My bachelor party. The night before my wedding. Remember?"

I said, "Yeah. I remember." Against my better intentions, I grew silent, pulling up memories from the distant past.

We were in Los Angeles that night. We'd had the wedding rehearsal that day and we congregated in a nearby steakhouse for the rehearsal dinner. Afterward, my fellow groomsmen, stewards and I piled into some cars to take Al out for his bachelor party. We didn't have a plan. It was my responsibility as Best Man, but Al said he didn't want anything big. We decided to hit a few strip clubs and bar hop for a while, and Al said he was fine with that.

Our first stop was a sleazy little club on Colorado Avenue, just a few blocks from the Santa Monica Pier. And when I say it was sleazy, I mean it in a good way. The Lakers' locker room at the old Forum was bigger. Three tiny little dance stages with the obligatory poles and track lights along the edge of the stages. The bar in the back served only shots and beers, and the bartender looked less like he could make four kinds of daquiries and more like he could kill you in six different ways using only a pencil. Judging by the bulge under the armpit of his jacket, he was packing at least a .45.

The girls were an eclectic mix. Some looked old and tired, some looked young and not-quite-so-innocent anymore. Some put some effort into their routines, some danced like they'd just heard about the death of a loved one.

Still, the place was packed with customers, flashing lots of green. And some of the girls were pretty hot, too. When we entered the club, the girl at the stage directly in front of us spied Al and me and she spread her legs just for us, allowing me my first glimpse of a pierced clit.



I've seen a few more since then, but my reaction hasn't changed.

YEE-OWCH!

Anyway, this seemed like the perfect place to truly debauch ourselves before Al's entry into the Gulag of Matrimony. Full topless and bottomless dancing, lots of alcohol, a little rowdy, and the girls were all a little feisty. I had no idea whether the club was up to code or not, but since I saw a pair of off-duty LAPD patrolmen whooping it up, still in their uniforms, I wasn't worried.

We picked a booth to sit down in and watch the show, and we ordered a few drinks. I fulfilled my obligation as best man (it's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it), and I arranged with one of the dancers to give Al a "Bachelor Party Special." For fifty bucks, she agreed to do it.

Her name was "Candy." Or so she said. I didn't care, really. She was tall, with long legs and a huge rack, and flaming red hair. In other words, she was Al's perfect female type.

She got on stage and announced that Al was leaving the Fraternity of Single Men, and she had a going-away present for him. We had to practucally shove Al onto the stage for his present. He was made to sit down in a chair brought onto the stage, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. Then, several girls danced for him, rubbing their pelvises on his knee and smothering his face with boobs and generally doing their best to make him cum in his pants.

And Al just sat there and did nothing.

Looking back, I should have realized something was wrong. In the old days, taking Al to a strip club was like finding a lost package of C-4 plastic explosive and saying, "Hey, let's get some gasoline, a blow torch, and a few firecrackers and, you know, see what happens."

Al used to love strip clubs. He took me to my first titty bar. Hell, he got me my first date with a stripper. Al treated the admonition, "Behave yourself" like a sensible piece of advice, but not an actual RULE.

When Candy brought out the handcuffs, knowing Al, I wanted to ask her to make sure those cuffs were actual police issue, and not toy cuffs. For her own safety, she might want to borrow a couple pair from those off-duty cops.

See, the Al I knew and loved was into pushing limits. If someone told him, "Don't touch the dancers," he'd nickle and dime you to death on the definition of "touch." I fully expected Al to press against his restraints with arms, legs, hands, chest, and tongue.

But he didn't do anything. He just sat there, sheepishly smiling as the ladies rubbed their bodies against him, and he didn't even have any red marks on his wrists when they let him go. He'd been as passive as if he'd spent four hours playing computer solitaire.

When he got down off the stage, Al asked if we could leave. He knew of an all-night billiard hall down on Ocean Park Boulevard where we could drink beer and shoot pool all night.

I figured, Hell. It's his bachelor party. "Whatever you want, Al," I said. So we left.

We all piled into our cars and headed over to the billiard hall. Al and I were in one car by ourselves. He was driving. He'd actually had a little more to drink than I had, but he knew where we were going and, anyway, driving through Los Angeles sober actually hinders performance instead of helping it.

I said, "Hope I didn't embarrass you by dragging you up there, Al. It was supposed to be fun."

Al said, "Oh, yeah. It was a gas, J.T. Thanks. I had a blast."

"You didn't look like it was a blast. You wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as you could."

Al shook his head. "Don't sweat it, J.T. It's not your fault. We're cool. You didn't embarrass me or anything. I'm just nervous."

"About what," I asked. "You won't get in trouble with Susan." Susan was Al's bride-to-be. "I told her I wanted to take you to a tittie bar and I made sure it was okay with her. She said it wasn't a problem as long as you didn't get out of line. And you didn't. If she asks me tomorrow, I'll swear to it."

Al was quiet for a moment as we drove along 23rd Street. Then he said, "That's what I'm nervous about, man. The whole 'get out of line' part. I'm so afraid that if I fuck up in any way, she'll leave me and call the whole thing off."

"How would you fuck up," I asked.

"You know how," he said. "How do I usually act in strip clubs? Around women generally? I'm always trying to get into their pants. I can't do that shit anymore. I have to behave myself or Susan will leave me. What if I can't control myself? What if I make one tiny little slip up and fuck up the rest of my life?"

"Do you want to fuck up?"

"No. Of course not."

At that point, I did the one thing I thought I'd never do to my best friend in the world. I slapped him on the cheek. I said, "Get your head out of your ass, you stupid idiot! If you don't want to fuck up, you won't. You're not some animal who can't control himself. You do what you want and you act the way that you want. If you want to act like a randy son of a bitch with your friends, do it. If you want to toe the line with your wife, do it. You can do it. None of this "I can't control myself" bullshit. You're a grown man. If you don't want to lose her, you know how to do that, and you do it. But don't deny who you are."

Al clutched the steering wheel. I hadn't tried to slap him hard, but something was stinging. I said, "Anyway, if you do act like an ass, I'll swear to Susan and her parents and your mother and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir you were a perfect gentleman. 'Oh, absolutely Al behaved himself. We just hung out in the Christian Science Reading Room all night, and on our way home we found homes for a litter of abandoned puppies.'"

Al smiled at the image.

I said, "I've got your back, Man. If Susan means that much to you, I'll make sure you don't fuck up. And if you do fuck up, I'll give you an airtight alibi. That's what friends are for. You sure you don't want to go back to that sleazy little titty bar and give yourself a reason to go to confession on Sunday?"

Al laughed. He said, "Thanks, J.T. Shooting pool's fine with me."

So we shot pool the rest of the night. It was a nice, airy room with lots of people and cheap beer. A couple of young ladies were shooting pool a couple of tables over, and one of them kept bending over the table to show off her pink panties under her denim skirt every time Al was in a position to look at her. She even smiled at him several times.

Al smiled back, but he did nothing else.

Looking back now, I realize something was seriously wrong, but at the time I just figured it was what my friend wanted. And I just wanted him to be happy. So I let it all go.

We left the billiard hall at three in the morning, got up early, and Al and Susan got married that afternoon. At the reception, I toasted them and said, "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you'll never be as happy again as you two are today. I hope you two are wrong a thousand times over."

He hugged me. Little did I know that my toast had been dead wrong. That had been the happiest moment in his life, and none of the moments since then had come anywhere near close.

And now, we were somewhere in the middle of Washington, with half a bag of Doritos, a quarter tank of gas, and a serious need of some coffee.

But we also had a plan. I said, partly to myself, partly to Al, "Phase One of the Plan to get your balls back is to find a heavy-duty strip club, Buddy."

Al said, "Okay. Sounds good to me."

The sun was beginning to peek over the Cascades. It was going to be a gorgeous sunrise, the perfect way to start a gorgeous day.

On The Road Again

I once knew a man, a massive, throbbing, walking, talking, enormous gland of a man. He was the kind of man who, whether you admired him or not, you couldn't help but respect, because he was a sexual god. He could stare at a woman and make her cum. He could simply caress her hand in public, and she'd throw herself on the nearest horizontal surface, spread her legs, and beg him to bang her senseless.

How's that George Thorogood song go? He could make a rich woman beg, a good woman steal, an old woman blush, and a young girl squeal. All in the same night.

He was my best friend. I met him in college, we bonded right away, and I considered him a brother. He was best man at my wedding, and I returned the favor a few years later.

Notice I'm talking about him in the past tense. What happened to my best friend, a satyr among men?

He got married. Which is okay by itself, but then he got divorced. And she ripped him a new one. She crippled him, ripped off his face, and then, at the final divorce hearing, got his testicles.

Seriously. With a pair of rusty tin snips her lawyer brought for just that purpose.

Whackity-whack.

Few things are as sad as a formerly manly man who's been emasculated in the worst way. When I checked in with him last, he was actually living with his mother in Seattle, Washington.

So I put some air in the tires of my 87 Jeep Cherokee, said a prayer to the radiator gods that the stop-leak stuff I poured in would work "just like magic" and I hit the road, north and west, away from the front range, through the Rocky Mountains, through Utah and Idaho and Oregon, up through the Pacific Northwest, into Seattle.

I got into town at about three in the morning. I raced along NE 77th Street until I got to the proper condominium complex. Unfortunately, all those condos looked the same and the drizzle in the air and the bad lighting prevented me from finding the proper building.

I parked my jeep as close to the middle of the complex as I could, and I leaned on the horn. I saw lights come on in units all over the complex within seconds, but it was a good ten minutes before my buddy Al Castro came racing toward me. He was wearing blue and white striped pajamas. Swear to God, pajamas.

"What the fuck are you doing, J.T.," he asked.

"Pack a bag," I said. I put him into the jeep and we drove across the grass to his mother's condo. I dragged him inside, said hi to his mother, and dragged him into his room upstairs. In five minutes, I had his bag packed and I was dragging him back down the stairs.

Al's mom was sputtering at me in Spanish, demanding answers. So was Al.

I didn't give him any until after I'd put him back into the jeep and we were on the road.

"What's going on," Al demanded.

"We're on a quest, old buddy," I said. I got into Interstate 90 toward Mercer Island, and toward America.

I said, "Al Castro, we're getting your nuts back."

TO BE CONTINUED

Why am I doing this?

Call me nut, call me crazy dreamer, (Go ahead...."J.T. you nut! You crazy dreamer!") but yes, I'm starting another blog.

I've got one up already, here called, "All Worked Up And Then Some," but as much as I've enjoyed working on it, I've noticed a heavy political bent and not so much a sexual bent.

Well....I like writing about sex, too. It's why I got started at ERWA, long, long ago.

SOOOOO, I'm going to try to have my cake and eat it too. I'm going to hopefully keep "All Worked Up" going with the sexually-oriented political stuff while at the same time putting out more sexually oriented fun-type stuff here.

Stay tuned.

Sexual Intercourse Is Kicking Death In The Ass While Singing

Charles Bukowski