Hello! I hope everyone is doing well tonight. My thoughts are with the American, British, and Australian soldiers fighting in the Middle East right now, and of course my prayers are with them also. I didn't really know what I felt like writing about for my weekly journal entry tonight, but the following came out of me for some reason. Best wishes to everyone, wherever you may live, as we continue through a tough political time right now. XXXOOO


Recently two makeup artists were talking. One mentioned that she was disappointed that her boyfriend was not taking steps to clean up his credit history. Years ago he had accrued some credit card debt and neglected to pay it off. The other makeup artist said, "Well, why are you still with him if he is not serious about his money?" The first woman responded that she and her boyfriend had a child together, he was a wonderful father, and she and he had a lot of fun as a couple. Also, her boyfriend worked really hard at his job, but it was difficult for him to put extra money towards his debt because he worked in a relatively low-paying field. The second makeup artist looked at her with disgust and said: "He sounds like a complete LOSER!"

Loser? Wow, what a scary take on the situation. Good father, fun partner, hardworking, and he's a loser? Granted, credit card debt is not a good thing, but it's at least an understandable fact of life for someone in his twenties. The boyfriend in question was in his twenties.

I happened to overhear this conversation when I was at a photo shoot. The makeup artist with the boyfriend was doing my makeup. It was appalling to listen to the insulting remark from the other woman even though I hear sentiments like that all the time. I've heard them all my life.

When I was young I lived in a wealthy section of the San Francisco Bay Area. There was a street called Alameda de las Pulgas which ran along the edge of my immediate neighborhood. Some kids from my school lived on that street. I remember my mother referring to their homes as "the shacks on the Alameda." That seems beyond ridiculous now given my perspective as an adult. The houses on the Alameda were nice homes even then. I wasn't able to understand that as a kid because I had never even seen a bad neighborhood.

A few years ago I was active in a dog rescue group. I was speaking on the phone to one of the group's organizers and she and I were having a spirited conversation and getting along famously. She mentioned what a great judge of character her own dog was. Her dog was really warm to her owner's friends when they came to visit, but she would snarl at repairmen if they entered the house. The woman was quite proud that her dog could differentiate between acceptable guests and "plumber-type people," as she called them. I smiled to myself wondering what she would think if she knew what I did for a living. It had never come up before. In her estimation I would probably have rated much lower than a "plumber-type person." I can't even fix a toilet.

I've thought about her comment a lot since then. Somehow "Plumber-Type Person" became an actual entity in my head. She should be a superheroine. In many bondage and wrestling/catfighting shoots I have played the role of a superheroine. The superheroines often have names that are close to, but don't infringe upon, copyrighted names such as Wonder Woman, Batgirl, etc. Plumber-Type Person would be in a whole different league. I envision her driving around by herself in a van like the A-Team had. She has her hair in a ponytail and wears Levi's,work boots, and a white wife-beater tank top. Of course she has a tight, hard little body and big boobs because all superheroines do. She arrives at people's homes, toolbox in hand, ready to fix the plumbing. Most days are ordinary ones and she fixes the plumbing. Every once in a while, though, she becomes embroiled in a dramatic scenario where her true powers are desperately needed. Unlike regular superheroines she doesn't save lives or rescue entire cities or planets that are in peril. Plumber-Type Person specializes in pulling people's heads out of their assholes so they can start figuring out what's truly important in life.

I've known many people who could use her services. Maybe it all seems so clear to me because I've experienced a lot of different gradations on the wealth spectrum. Many people I grew up around had a lot of money. The ones who derided financially poorer individuals most loudly and most often did so because they had such deep unhappiness within themselves. They had a rancorous need to make others feel bad too. Our culture promotes the acquisition of material possessions and money as the keys to happiness. They aren't. I've known way too many miserable rich people to believe that.

As an adult I've had times when I didn't even know how I could pay the next round of bills. I know that feeling of lying in bed, unable to sleep, scared to death that I was going to lose what little I had. At those moments money seemed like everything, but in my heart I knew better. Now I enjoy working and trying to "get ahead," but I never judge anyone by their financial status. Similarly, I've never sneered at anyone who works an honest job. Maybe those who do would be better served by trying to figure out the source of their own hatefulness instead.

Hello. I was on www.msn.com earlier looking at photos of the war coverage. They are very, very gripping and powerful. Although I'm somewhat conflicted about the US policy that has sent our troops to the Middle East, I am so proud of and so grateful to the men and women of the US military who are there fighting for our country. Needless to say, my sentiments extend to the troops from the UK and Australia who are right there fighting with us.
Yesterday when I drove to work I was listening to news coverage of anti-war rallies. It brought up a bunch of mixed feelings in me. In the Saturday, March 21 edition of the Los Angeles Times there were photos of anti-war demonstrators in San Francisco who were wearing masks and concealing their faces. That really disgusted me. Of course they are entitled to express their opinions, but why do they hide their identities if they mean what they are saying? Are they afraid of getting hurt, going to jail, or suffering consequences at their jobs? We have soldiers risking their lives and dying for our country right now, and these morons in San Francisco are scared to stand behind their words and actions in their own homeland.
Granted, much of what makes the US great is due to our constitutionally protected rights of freedom of speech and freedom of expression, but some of these anti-war demonstrators have really touched a nerve with me. Maybe some of my emotions are irrational, but I feel that now is the time to support our troops in any way possible. We're already at war and I think all Americans should show respect for our military and our Commander-in-Chief by not wreaking needless havoc in the streets of our cities. Quiet, peaceful demonstrations can get the point across. The people kicking cars, disrupting traffic, damaging property, and taxing our police forces are not accomplishing anything worthwhile.
There was a rally in Columbus, Ohio on Friday in which people gathered to donate toothpaste, shaving cream, and other supplies for our soldiers. Those are the type of people who make me proud to be an American.

Hi there. Usually I try to post something new each Friday, but today was a day of tremendous upheaval, (both in the world and my own little life), and I just wasn't up to it. There are, however, new photos and video in the member's area so please enjoy!! I'm going to bed tonight with prayers for the soldiers fighting in the Middle East right now. I'll be back online tomorrow with renewed spirits and vigor. Good night and best wishes to all!!

Hello! Thanks again to everybody who has joined the new members' area. I appreciate the feedback I have received from many of you regarding what kind of content you would like to see. The constructive criticism has also been very helpful as I'm trying to make the site the best that it can be.

***Note to members: The member's bulletin board is open and active. Please feel free to post any messages!***


A few days ago I read a short article in the "Health" section of the March 17 issue of Time Magazine. It's called "Perils of Enhancement: Do Implants Trigger Suicide?", and it's about a study of Swedish breast implant recipients that was published in the British Medical Journal. The authors' research showed that women who have received breast implants for cosmetic reasons are three times more likely to commit suicide than women who do not have breast implants. Their results support the conclusions of previous studies that found a correlation between certain types of psychiatric disorders and the desire to undergo cosmetic security.

There's no doubt that many people have cosmetic surgery because of their insecurities. Insecurity, of course, is not a psychiatric disorder. Taken to an extreme level, though, it could be. I don't know what psychiatric conditions the authors were referring to, but the little synopsis of the study in Time got me thinking about my breast implants and the comments people make about them.

People have accused me of "selling out," of being a slave to my own insecurity, or of being compulsively in need of attention. I've been asked: "Why do you want to look like a sex toy?" At moments in the past I've even become a little defensive when people questioned me about my breasts. Here and there I found myself toying with the thought of having them reduced in size.

Whenever I reached that point, though, I'd become disgusted with myself. Why should I even contemplate taking out my breast implants just to placate other people? I LIKE big breasts. I always have. It would have been great if I had developed them naturally, but I didn't.

I was 20 years old when I had the surgery done. In retrospect that seems young, but I had already been stripping for two years. When I first started dancing I swore that I would never get implants. To me, back then, getting a cosmetic procedure seemed akin to admitting that something was "wrong" with my body, that I didn't have enough confidence in myself. A number of girls I knew got breast implants. Gradually, the thought of surgery did not seem like THAT big a deal to me. It no longer made me think that any of these women were compromising themselves. They wanted bigger breasts so they went out and bought a pair of them. They were still the same people- now they just had big racks. For the most part they were all happy with them.

I started wondering what battle I was fighting with my resolve to stay "natural." Big boobs had always turned me on. I admired them on other women. "She's so lucky," I would think. Well, with the help of modern technology I could be lucky too. Let me say here that I've always found lots of different types of women attractive. They certainly don't have to have big boobs to be beautiful or very appealing to me, but for some reason a large set of melons always does stir something within me. Who knows why- it just is what it is. I could sit here and toss out hundreds and hundreds of euphemisms for breasts, and become vaguely aroused just by saying them. Hooters, titties, milkhorns, funbags, breasteses, udders, cans, lungs, pillows, cockwarmers, chesticles, on and on.

Anyhow, my aversion to plastic surgery started to seem silly. I wasn't insecure because I wanted big breasts- I just wanted big breasts. I'll admit, though, that as a stripper I had a financial incentive as well.

Two weeks after the surgery I returned to work. All the girls checked out my new boobs and squeezed them backstage, (wow, this was great!), and I hit the dance floor, ready to make double or triple the money I had made previously. That didn't happen. Over the course of the next few months my money stayed the same as it always had. Interesting. There was no financial boon. In a way, I wasn't disappointed at all. It sort of reconfirmed what I had suspected all along. Confidence comes from within. The customers in the clubs respond to your level of self-confidence. Go into most clubs and look at the dancers. They are all different shapes and sizes, and there really is no commmon denominator in regards to who makes the most money and who gets the most attention. Sure, some men are obsessed with large breasts, but most just seem to like breasts in general, regardless of size.

I imagine breasts might seem like a novelty to men. Often I think of dicks and testicles and wonder what it would be like to have those on my body and be able to play with them all day. How would that feel, all that constant access? It fascinates me. I think each gender is somewhat fixated on the differences between their bodies. Particularly since society tells us that we're supposed to keep them covered up all the time. It seems natural to me that men like to ogle women. (Although they should know when it is or is not appropriate to do so. Women are not always "on stage." Go to a strip club or watch a porno if you want to stare unabashedly. At the very least, just be sly about it if you are checking someone out in public.)

At any rate, breast implants always seem to elicit a surprising amount of commentary. Many women lie about having them. They are entitled to do so, but I've never really understood why they do. Do they lie about having had braces on their teeth too? Do they try to pretend that they are not wearing makeup when they are? Why do they bother? Sometimes people look at my breasts and ask: "Are those real?" Yes, they are really mine. They are really part of my body. I really paid for them. I've never troubled myself to try and pretend that they were not implants. Who would I be fooling anyways? There aren't too many 115 lb. women around wth natural DD-size titties.

Although I have become very nonchalant about my breasts, I was not careless or cursory about having the procedure done. It is surgery, and it does behoove anybody who wants it to research surgeons and options very thoroughly. No one should ever bargain-shop or impulse-buy when it comes to surgery. Amazingly, I've seen numerous people do both because "Dr. So-and-So offers financing."

The study mentioned in Time is interesting because there is no doubt that sometimes people have cosmetic surgery for unhealthy reasons. Maybe they think it will change their lives or give them self-esteem. It won't. There are plenty of people, though, that just want to do a little improving on what Mother Nature gave them.

It's a beautiful morning here. Right now it's about 8 AM and the sun is streaming through the window and the sky is a bright blue. One of my cats is sitting with me as I drink coffee and type 5 words-per-minute.
Some people cringe if you mention cats. They roll their eyes and quit listening to what you're saying. I used to be like that. I was raised with dogs, very large dogs at that, and could never understand who would want a cat. Years ago one of my friends bought two cats for $300 each. I was incredulous. "You PAID for a cat?" , I asked in disbelief. What a joke! She was bringing creatures into her home whose sole duties in life were just to ignore her and eat the food she provided.

Months later I kept seeing a small white cat in my backyard. She (or was it a he?) was so skinny, and kept looking at me with these huge soulful eyes. Finally I started putting out food for it which it would eat greedily if I was standing there. If I left, it would dart away and other neighborhood cats would eat the food later. I noticed that she (he?) never hung out with the other cats. She, (I finally decided for no good reason that she WAS a she), always seemed so happy to see me when I came outside. She would rub up on stuff in the yard and try to preen. She was pressing up on my car one day and got a huge black streak of grease on her white coat. It remained there for days.

Clearly she did not belong to anyone. And finally I realized that she was declawed. That's why she wouldn't go near the other cats. That's why she was so skinny: she had trouble foraging for food. In spite of my lifelong contempt for cats I felt a connection to her. She moved in with me in 1994 on the day I realized that she was declawed. A veterinarian confirmed that she was female and I named her Amanda.
On my birthday in 1999 my friend Brian gave me a sculpture of a cat draped in robes sitting in the cross-legged style of the Buddha. His hands are folded and he has a serene, peaceful expression on his face. I LOVED my new statue and had to admit that I was a full-fledged "cat person." Cat Buddha is sitting here on my desk as I write this.
This morning Amanda is not here. Yesterday I took her to the vet because she seemed so listless and had dropped a considerable amount of weight in the past few days. Usually she fights a healthy battle to prevent me from getting her in her carrier. Yesterday she did not even attempt much of a struggle. In the car there were no highly indignant meows. Her vet became concerned instantly when she saw Amanda's glazed look and lethargic demeanor. Amanda was taken from me to be hooked up to an IV. She managed a feeble growl at the assistant who was picking her up as I kissed her goodbye on the head.
I cried as I drove to work, but resolved to think positive thoughts. Shortly before 6PM last night the vet told me that Amanda had eaten something toxic. She would recover at the hospital overnight and I would probably be able to take her home tomorrow, (which is now today!)
What a relief!!!! Today is a beautiful morning. Larry, Amanda's boyfriend, and I can't wait to bring her home again. Larry is a twelfth-or-so-generation street cat who barely cheated death himself in 2000.
I'm sure anyone who does not like cats stopped reading this long ago. Let me recommend a great book to anyone who is still reading, though, because you probably share my cat sentiments. It is "Where Cats Meditate" by David Baird. I found it at Barnes and Noble on Valentine's Day, and it is a collection of photographs and quotations. If you find it I hope you get as much joy from it as I have.