No one besides a dancer would have this purple lycra dress with a ruffle at the hem. I bought this skintight number in the nineties from a costume salesman named Aljo (I wrote about Aljo in the "Wet Dress" gallery of June 6, 2004.) These days I don't dance very often anymore or buy much new stripperwear. Here and there I work at a topless bar that is frequented mostly by contractors and Hell's Angels. It is a tiny wood-panelled place that was built in the 1960's and never renovated since then. There is no deejay and the dancers pick their music from a jukebox. The place is a relic and I like the old-school feel of it. Somehow it strikes me as the kind of place Bob Seger would have liked back in the day. It's sort of a "Down on Main Street" (remember his song of that name?) kind of venue. I can't explain it any better than that. Generally I just wear a bikini if I'm there and most of my old dresses just sit in platic bins so my cats can sleep on them.


Join my archive site www.JackOffLand.com now to see the full 6-page gallery and read more than you ever wanted to know about my checkered past ;)


- XXOO Tanya

Last year I rented an apartment in Long Beach for the summer. My short-term lease expired in August 2005 but I still drive by that amazing apartment building about once a month just to stare at it. An architect named Claude Beelman designed it in the Roaring Twenties and it was very luxurious by the standards of the day. The building fell on hard times when the Great Depression hit in the thirties and in later decades it became roughly the equivalent of a transient hotel. The unit I rented had never been updated. It still had a murphy bed, a safe in the wall, glass doorknobs, hexagonal floor tiles, original mirrors, a dry ice closet, and the original tiles and marble in the bathroom. The plumbing and electrical were about what you would expect from that era too.

Usually I live with my cats on the upstairs floor of a warehouse which one of my friends uses for his business. The living quarters are comfortable here, but I always consider renting that same apartment in Long Beach again. I never do. Sometimes I feel that there are spirits inside the place that I'm not ready to contend with right now. The building is named for the investors who funded its construction. I have the same last name as they did. That probably has no significance, but it surprised me nonetheless. I had fallen in love with the building and moved into it before I even knew it had a name.

After leaving there last summer I got on the Internet and started reading up on its history. As noted, Claude Beelman was the main architect. He is recognized for creating numerous other structures in the city of Los Angeles. The building that houses my former apartment is not in the actual city of Los Angeles and is a bit older than the work for which he is primarily known. I'd never heard of Beelman before last summer, but since then I have spent hours on the Net searching for information about his works of art. One of them, a former Elk's Lodge near Macarthur Park, sounded especially interesting. I was unable to find a photo of it. In recent years it has become known as the Park Plaza Hotel, but it has endured many ownership and name changes prior to its current incarnation. Its spiral downward began during the depression of the thirties and gradually another of Beelman's Roaring Twenties creations was relegated to transient hotel status. It now stands across the street from the local welfare office in one direction, and across from Macarthur Park in another. Macarthur Park is a gritty and notorious venue for illicit sales of all kinds, mostly drugs and sex. Presumably you could purchase a fake ID there too if you happened to need one.

I drove out that way early one morning to go look at the Park Plaza Hotel. My hope was that it was still a transient hotel and that I could possibly check in and get a room. It would be an opportunity to explore the place and I really wanted to see it. Unfortunately I was a few years too late and it is now closed to the public. I spent about an hour walking around the building and admiring it. In addition to its glorious architecture it had an alluring feel about it. Debauchery draws me like a magnet and there was no mistaking the sense of depravity which still lingered around the empty property. I could barely force myself to leave.

The day after my visit I was depressed and did not feel like working. I went to eReader.com and picked out a selection which I could spend the day reading. Somewhat randomly I chose an autobiography of a career criminal who had gone on to author numerous books and screenplays. I downloaded Education of a Felon: A Memoir by Eddie Bunker and settled into my couch to immerse myself in his life story. Towards the beginning of the book Mr. Bunker describes arriving at a hotel next to Macarthur Park. It was the 1930s and he was in the company of a black pimp and the pimp's gorgeous blonde girlfriend. From his description of the building I knew it was the Park Plaza Hotel where I'd been just the day before. Chills ran up my spine and my eyes bugged out. How weird. I'd just been standing outside that place envisioning who the former inhabitants might have been and sensing the licentiousness of their old antics.

The author recalls receiving his frst fix of heroin inside one of the upstairs rooms and watching hookers manipulate their johns and watching the pimps manipulate their hookers. He mentions that many of the rooms were bathed in a green light that helped hide the hookers' physical flaws and somehow contributed to the lascivious, underworld mood of the place. At the time he was there the building was called the Park Wilshire Hotel.

Strangely, it turns out that I know someone who was supposed to help renovate the building in the 1990s. For months he had keys to the entire property and explored every inch of the place. He is a friend of my roommate but I did not know him back when he had been hired to work on the Park Plaza. Someday I will find a way inside there. I already know that a green light is still glowing on the upstairs floors.

The pic above was shot on the premises long before I ever knew the building existed. The situation in question degenerated into a very tawdry example of street-level need and satisfaction. Everybody on the streets of L.A. has something that somebody else wants..


Join my Playhouse to see the full XXX gallery now!


- XXOO Tanya

Yesterday I got a ticket for parking my car at an address that does not exist. The citation was on my windshield when I returned from my stroll around a Long Beach neighborhood. The parking meter at this spot had expired 5 minutes earlier and the vigilant meter maid had already nailed me. I looked at the ticket and then tucked it back underneath the windshield wiper so I could use the space for the rest of the day without having to fill the meter again. In that area they will usually only cite you one time in a day so you may as well just leave your vehicle and your ticket in the same place where you received the ticket. When I started walking away from my car I saw the meter maid watching me. Something about her expression indicated that she would probably come back and give me a ticket every hour if I left without feeding more coins into the machine. I sighed, snatched the ticket off the windshield, and then got into the driver’s seat to go park someplace else. As I drove I inspected the citation more closely to see how much the fine was and then I noticed that the address given for my parking infraction was “65 Lime Avenue.” Tingles ran up my spine and a familiar sensation began to consume me. Here we go again, I thought. My car had not been parked on Lime Avenue.

Lime Street has intrigued ever since I used to live in Long Beach. I don’t know why. Certain places just call to me so I go to them and try to figure out what I need to do there. Generally they are buildings in Long Beach, downtown Los Angeles, and Detroit. For some reason a long expanse of Lime Avenue, not just one building, has some type of magnetic pull on me. The Green Leaf Hotel at 63 Lime Avenue sits within that mysterious realm. I want to check in there but I never do. About two months ago I approached the place at night and a tall, dark man did a quick reconnaissance of the immediate vicinity and then stepped into my path when he realized no one else was watching. At first I thought he was going to try and steal the laptop which I was carrying in a case slung over my shoulder, but he didn’t. He and I exchanged greetings and he looked directly into my eyes to try and communicate his intentions. His expression conveyed his confidence that he had exactly what I wanted and all I had to do was ask. I smiled and sidestepped around him only to encounter another larger, darker man lounging in the shadows against the wall of the Green Leaf. Evidently the two of them were working together and their presence dissuaded me from entering the hotel. Drug dealers usually don’t make me nervous. They just want to sell drugs and they aren’t going to bring unwanted attention onto themselves by mugging or molesting random passersby. Still, that night something compelled me to keep on walking into the darkness. Lime Avenue often has that effect on me.

Now I had an immediate reason to go back there. The City of Long Beach could not expect me to pay a fine for parking at an expired meter on a street where there were no meters. At least I would be able to contest the citation. I set the parking ticket down somewhere in my car and started driving to see if 65 Lime Avenue even existed. It did not. I knew it wouldn’t even before I got there. In reality I had been parked at 65 Linden Avenue, two blocks away, and the meter maid had just made a mistake when writing the name of the street. It was a simple error but the prickles on the back of my neck made me feel like the hand of fate was beckoning me back to Lime Avenue yet again. I parked on that familiar block and headed over to the Green Leaf Hotel. I could not check in there today because I already had a reservation for the night at the Hotel Stillwell in downtown L.A. The following day I had a bondage shoot in the San Fernando Valley and it was easier to just stay downtown and avoid the morning commute. As I walked down the alley next to the Green Leaf I wondered when I would finally go inside the place.

The next day at my shoot the photographer put me on my stomach and shackled my wrists and ankles. I felt tense and unrested and kept thinking about Lime Avenue. Who or what was there that both called to me and repelled me? Why did I always feel like that street was going to suck me underneath it and not let me out? The photographer was barking directions at me and was annoyed that I had such a distressed expression on my face. It was not the “look” he was going for. He wanted me to play the role of a horny woman who was tied up and waiting for her lover. Finally he announced that he was going to put a blindfold over half my face. I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from asking that he give me some earplugs too.

As soon as he put the blindfold on me the world seemed to start spinning. It happened fast. The two drug dealers from the Green Leaf popped into my head. One stood behind the other and the one I’d spoken to that night was staring right into my face, right into my soul. He was both intimidating and devilishly self-assured. He knew he had something I wanted. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” he kept promising me. The words seemed to be coming out of his eyeballs and the sound was hideously distorted. Various syllables would get lengthened and others truncated and the volume of his speaking would increase and diminish with no predictability or rhythm. I wanted to scream and he kept sending me those words as he leered at me. His lips were not moving, but somehow the repeated phrase kept emanating from him. The words were echoing endlessly in my head and then rebounding from deep within my heart. I knew it was his voice. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” He stayed right in my face and refused to go away. Gradually I became aware of a woman screaming. Her cries of anguish could not drown out the man’s endless mantra. He was completely impervious and I knew with terrifying certainty that he was offering me something far more dangerous than any drug. I’d stymied him that one night by not checking into the Green Leaf and now he had come to get me. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” he kept insisting over the tortured wails of the woman.

All of a sudden the blindfold was ripped from my face. The photographer stood there staring at me, visibly shaken. The two men from the Green Leaf were gone. The voices were gone. Belatedly I realized that I had been the woman who was screaming. The gallery below would have had many more photos if I hadn’t somehow gotten enveloped in that inexplicable daydream..


You can see the full "Stranded" gallery inside The Bondage Room of my Playhouse now.


- XXOO Tanya





----------------
www.PennysaverDomains.com - Cheapest domain registrations on the Net!

Large Dog Larry: Part 2

I like to observe people who interest me. My friend Tyson calls it "stalking", but generally he is willing to accompany me on my sightseeing expeditions. A few weekends ago we pulled into the parking lot of The Siren in Hermosa Beach so we could spy on one of my favorite subjects, Large Dog Larry. Large Dog Larry has lived in that beach area for decades. His skintight jeans, diamond rings, and long, feathered hair harken back to the cocaine-fueled era of the 1980s. In my mind the theme from Scarface is playing whenever the Large Dog strides into a room. Of course I've never seen him anywhere other than The Siren and a lot of stuff happens in my mind that has no connection with reality. Still, other people seem to take a shine to the Large Dog too. The Siren is right on the beach and one time, during a ninety-degree summer afternoon, a little kid inside the place pointed to Larry and said with wonder:

"Mom, that man is wearing cowboy boots."

My friend Raul, who was with me that day, almost choked on his sandwich when he heard the comment and I slid my gaze downward to see Larry's snazzy snakeskin boots protruding from beneath his tight jeans. The boots even had little spurs on the back and metal decorations on the pointed toes. The boy's mother glanced at Larry but did not respond to her son's observation. Larry was leaning against a piano/table at the far side of the room with a big-boobed blonde who was wearing a T-shirt with text across her breasts that read: "They really are hypnotic, aren't they?"

That kid was certainly not the first young man to take notice of Larry. Tyson's friend Vaughn grew up next door to Larry and idolized him for years. Vaughn claims that Larry's pimp-style diamond rings were all gifts from past girlfriends. All the women were wealthy and all were married. Supposedly one rich husband walked into his own house in ritzy Palos Verdes, CA only to discover Larry pumping his wife in the ass with his giant rod. That housewife was the source of one of the rings.

Larry also dated young models because, according to local gossip, he was a Penthouse photograher in the 1980s. Vaughn remembers lots of hot babes coming over to Larry's house at all hours of the day and night. He'd also see Larry out on the boardwalk with a girl on each arm. Sometimes they would have coordinating outfits, like the time one was a cowgirl and the other was an Indian.

Stories about Larry abound in Hermosa Beach. Perhaps my fascination with him arises from the fact that he's almost a caricature of a person. He could be a cartoon. He belongs on a billboard with Angelyne. It's really amusing to see how people react to him. In any case, Tyson and I were at The Siren to hang out by the ocean and observe Larry. On our way in Tyson yelled to the lot attendant:

"Where's Large Dog Larry? We're here to see Large Dog Larry!"

I couldn't believe it. It's impossible to spy on someone if that person gets wind of the fact that you are spying on them. The glare I fixed on Tyson made him realize his mistake. It was too late. The lot attendant smiled a big smile and came up to us:

"Larry's not here yet. He's probably out drinking a champale somewhere, but he'll be in later."

Champale? Champail? Champagle? Shampale? My mind got stuck on the word. That always happens when I don't know how to spell something. The part of the sentence in which it was used replays itself over and over and over in my brain, kind of like when an old record player hits a scratch on a vinyl record. I managed to shake my mind out of the groove and then Tyson and I left before Larry could arrive and find out from the parking lot guy that two people were asking about him. We decided to go back a different time and we both wondered aloud what "champale" was. A pail of champagne? Sparkling Wine? Boone's Farm with bubbles?

Of course I told Jewell Marceau the whole story the next day when we met at the gym for our boxercise class. Jewell has met the Large Dog before...


How did Jewell respond? What lethal insult from her mouth turned our lame boxercise workout into a bare-knuckled slugfest?! Join my Playhouse now to read her rude comment and see this huge catfight gallery in its entirety!


- XXOO Tanya






----------------
www.PennysaverDomains.com - Cheapest domain registrations on the Net!

About ten years ago a group of guys tried to carjack me and my friend Mike in Venice, CA. They did not try hard enough. In retrospect it amazes me that they thought he would stop the vehicle. Mike was driving and a group of black men with blue bandannas pulled up halfway over their faces (Jesse James-style) came into the road from both sides of the street and tried to surround his truck as he and I drove near the intersection of Santa Clara and Electric Avenues early one morning around 2AM. One of the dudes on my side was pointing a gun at us. Presumably others in the group had guns too but I fixated on that one man and his gun. I can still picture him right now. Somehow I knew he had a lazy smile on his face underneath his bandanna, but I'm not quite sure why I thought that. The impression still persists.

"Go. Go. Are you going?! Don't stop!" I beseeched Mike from the passenger seat when I'd spotted the gun and then noticed that we weren't moving any faster. For an instant I thought that Mike had not registered what was happening.

"I'm trying! This truck just won't go that fast." he replied as he put even more weight on the gas pedal.

He tried to gun the engine but that old truck really wouldn't move very fast. We still escaped without any problems even in that low-speed vehicle. Afterward it seemed that it had all happened really slowly, but it probably had not. The guys had just seemed to drift into the road. In reality they must have attempted to surround us very quickly because nothing else would make sense. Still, I can recall thinking that those stupid fuckers were crazy if they thought Mike was not going to try and get away. Wouldn't anybody try to run them over rather than just stop and exit the vehicle in hostile territory? I know I'd rather be enclosed in a few tons of steel instead of running down the streets of Venice on foot in the middle of the night.

A similar incident occurred just the other week. I was leaving the Hotel Cecil in downtown Los Angeles. My stay at the hotel had been freaky and I was eager to drive home. I had parked in a lot across the street and an older white man was walking slowly towards me as I threw my bags in the back and climbed into the driver's seat. It appeared that he was staring at me and I smiled a vague smile in his direction because we were the only people in the immediate vicinity and I felt compelled to acknowledge him. His demeanor struck me as kind of simpering and harmless. He made some type of gesture at me which I could not understand. Then he moved very quickly over to the passenger door of my car and tried the handle. Before that he had been walking with a pronounced limp and had seemed unwell. Lots of people in that area seem unwell. It was surprising how quickly he recovered his agility when he rushed at the car and took hold of the door handle. I shook my head at him and put the vehicle in motion. He had to let go or risk being pulled under the car as I accelerated. He opted to avoid getting run over. Why on Earth had he thought that I would not try to get away from him?

Instinct rules everyone even if sometimes they suppress it. I knew I could escape that time and I did. There have been other times in my life when the odds were stacked against me and I knew I could not depart so easily. There were yet other times when I just defeated myself. Sometimes people believe they are trapped even if they are not. I know I have degenerated to that level. A case in point occurred in Covina, CA a few weeks ago. I was at a bondage shoot and had started feeling unaccountably feverish, lightheaded, and clammy. Usually that overall state is a precursor to a full-blown panic attack. My wrists were already bound to iron railings and my emotions were starting to roil. The house next door was haunting me. Somebody had been hurt there and the legacy of their pain lingered in the air. Those damaged spirits occupied the dwelling even though the house stood vacant. Overgrown weeds surrounded it. I could not overcome my reaction to this former home of someone who had been grievously wronged. The pathos infected my soul. I was in the backyard of a neighboring property for the shoot and I had been tied up in a position where I was facing this house. When I look at the pic above I see the distress in my face. I was not in danger, but the vestige of someone else's terror had overtaken my senses. I began struggling frantically to escape the ropes, but they only seemed to get tighter...


Join my Playhouse to see the entire "Yellow Rope" gallery inside The Bondage Room now.


- XXOO Tanya

Recently I was working at my friend Raul's office when The Montel Williams Show came on the TV. Nobody in the room was paying much attention to it until psychic Sylvia Brown took the stage. Sylvia's raspy voice indicates a three-pack-a-day habit and she reminds me of of an old drunk on a barstool offering up bits of wisdom in between slugs of a whiskey sour. I believe she's been doling out less than sincere advice to daytime talk show audiences for more than a decade.

"Check her out." I said to Raul and my friend Tyson who was also in the room.

We watched as a lady in Montel's audience asked Sylvia to reveal the name of the lady's personal spirit guide.

"Elliott." Sylvia replied in a bored, definitive tone. "His name's Elliott."

Raul, Tyson, and I exploded with laughter when we heard her deadpan answer. Sylvia's the best.

Another audience member stood up and told Sylvia that his doctor had recommended some type of surgery. He asked her if he should indeed undergo the procedure.

"No, you don't need it." she responded flatly.

The man nodded his head with satisfaction and Raul, Tyson, and I started laughing even harder.

Montel circulated about the audience selecting people with upraised hands. Each of them had a query for Sylvia and she spit out rapidfire answers which she punctuated with insolent stares and dismissive hand gestures. Her hand movements were similar to that of someone who was lazily trying to wave away a bug that had landed nearby. When Sylvia flicked her bejeweled hand Montel moved on to the next question. Some people in his studio were moved to tears of gratitude when they heard Sylvia's answers. One woman asked if her recently deceased father was at peace.

"Yeah, he's fine." Sylvia affirmed blandly.

"Thank you. Thank you, Sylvia." the woman managed to say in a voice choked with emotion. The rest of the audience applauded enthusiastically and Raul, Tyson, and I almost fell on the floor.

One daring soul tried to express his confusion when Sylvia's response to his question did not make sense to him.

"I already told you this. What don't you understand?" she demanded as she cut him off in the middle of his sentence. She looked at Montel and raised an eyebrow to manifest her displeasure. Montel left the man's side and hustled over to a different studio audience member. Sylvia would have been one of those incompetent highschool teachers in a tenured position if she hadn't discovered that she could make tons of money at this psychic gig.

We watched Sylvia's antics for nearly a full hour as we worked. It became apparent that she does not have much enthusiasm for her charade at this point in her career. She made so little attempt to conceal her disinterest in the proceedings that it seemed as if she was almost trying to make a mockery of the whole show. Presumably the psychic routine still pays the bills for her but you could tell that she has grown sick of it. She was counting down the minutes until she could puff on a cigarette and sip whiskey in her limousine. How do I know this? I'm psychic.

I do believe that some people have psychic abilities, but I don't think those folks use their gifts to perform parlor tricks or pretend that they can answer any question on demand. As it turns out some of my acquaintances feel differently. Just two days after watching Sylvia light up Montel's stage I received an invitation to a bachelorette party. I almost never go to stuff like that but I felt like I had to attend this one because a good friend of mine was getting married. The organizers of the party had arranged for several male dancers and a psychic. Yeah, a psychic. She was going to tell everyone's fortune.

Most of the women at the party, including the bride-to-be, were dancers from the same club I work at and it got pretty rowdy pretty fast. We all like to drink, get naked, and act foolish. By 7PM all of us were smashed and running around in slutty little outfits. We were waiting for the male dancers and just about everyone had forgotten about the psychic. A dark limo pulled up outside the house just as the sun was beginning to set. The driver alighted from the vehicle and attempted to hide his shock when he laid eyes on the debauchery unfolding in the backyard. When he regained his composure he informed us that "Madam Something-or-other" wished us to gather in a circle on the back lawn so she could begin her readings. In my drunken state I could have sworn that he had called her "Madam Sylvia." A bolt of jubilation shot through me. If Madam Sylvia Brown was inside that limo then I could die happy because a moment of such supreme comedy would never be equalled again in my lifetime.

Of course it wasn't Sylvia who came striding across the lawn in a multi-colored scarf and large hoop earrings. The woman called herself "Madam Saskia" and she had a presence about her that any of us strippers could envy. Something about her regal bearing just commanded attention. The sun was rapidly falling from the sky and a bit of a chill had crept into the air. All of us huddled a little more closely together on the lawn. I could sense the anticipation buzzing around me. Just about everyone had fallen silent. Madam Saskia really knew how to make an entrance. She began reciting incantantations in a foreign tongue and commanded all of us to close our eyes, bow our heads, and hold hands. She walked around the circle from behind and placed her hands on each girl's head. I know this because I kept opening my eyes and spying on her. I hastily bowed my head and shut my eyes when she approached me to lay her hands on my head. No one else seemed to be moving. Madam Saskia ordered us to keep our eyes closed and began making commentary about individual girls in the circle. Some of her words caused her subjects to emit audible gasps. She was guessing who had children, who did not, and what astrological signs related to each of the assorted dancers. She was identifying each one by the scanty lingerie the girl was wearing (e.g. "The young woman in the pink teddy is a Gemini. I feel the duality inherent in her nature.") Evidently Madam Saskia was correctly nailing some of this information because I could feel the tension build. All of a sudden she stopped her spiel in the middle of a statement, paused dramatically, and then loudly pronounced:

"There is someone here who does not believe!"

Total silence greeted her proclamation. A tinge of nervousness seem to run through the group of us. We all stood still, eyes closed and heads bowed.

"I cannot work in the presence of a non-believer!" Madam Saskia said loudly. "There is someone here who does not believe!"

"Uh, yeah, I'm right here." I thought to myself silently as I repressed a smile. That would be hilarious if she found me.

"The blonde in the black leather must be removed before I can continue!" Madam Saskia thundered. "Remove her!"

Wow, she did have my number. I looked up and stared her straight in the eye with a smile on my face. My friend Sabre felt me move and she looked down at my black leather outfit. I had been outed. She giggled and pulled me away from the group. We ran across the backyard laughing and headed into the pool area. We were both really drunk. In the end she opened up what had been her intended gift to the bride-to-be, a set of black wrist and ankle restraints, and left me shackled on one of the recliners inside the pool area. I was smiling when I asked her to tell the male strippers or any other horny passersby where to find me.

A short while later I was still shackled and alone. I was nearly naked and starting to shiver as the air grew colder. Fortunately there was a small candle on the table next to me which was giving off some heat. I could not hear any of the girls on the other side of the yard and the silence had become a bit unsettling. Once or twice I thought I sensed movement near me. I called out but no one answered. My mind was playing tricks on me. Where was everyone? It had been such a loud, raucous party until Madam Saskia had shown up. Once again I heard a noise and I struggled against the restraints to incline my head towards that spot in the darkness so I could try and discern what had caused that sound. As I did so someone or something blew out the candle on the other side of me...


You can see the entire "Strapped" gallery inside The Bondage Room of my Playhouse now.


- XXOO Tanya

Years ago I was dating a guy that I really liked. I'll call him Tom. Tom and I had been seeing each other for a few months and I was excited about him and the relationship. He left town on business and I received an e-mail from a friend of his. Tom's friend stated that he was interested in producing adult videos and said that he would pay me for my time if I could give him some information about the business. I responded that I'd be happy to answer any questions that he had and indicated that he did not need to pay me anything. In his next e-mail the guy told me that he was looking for a hooker who would work for somewhere in the range of $300-$500. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

All of a sudden I realized that his initial e-mail had just been a more indirect way to solicit me for prostitution. He thought I was a hooker and when I hadn't taken the bait the first time he had made a more explicit request the second time. This guy was a fairly good friend of Tom's. They had grown up together. I felt angry and humiliated. How could Tom's friend ask me something like this? He had actually put it in writing. Evidently he did not fear any negative consequences. It was not as if he'd just said it and he could deny it later. I had it in writing.

Of course I blasted Tom's friend in a return e-mail, but I was still shocked. He was friends with the guy I was dating, the guy I really liked. I told Tom about it when he returned and tried to stay very calm as I explained what had happened. I could not keep the emotion out of my voice as I told the story because I felt humiliated. I stared at the floor as I explained the details and then looked up at Tom's face. Clearly he had noticed my embarrassment and anger but he seemed to be trying to maintain a neutral expression. I left shortly after because it was late.

Several weeks later Tom and I were eating dinner and he mentioned that he had run into this same friend and commented that the guy was going through a rough time. I ate silently and listened. Was Tom trying to elicit sympathy from me regarding his friend's misfortune? Why was he even telling me this? Why was he even talking to the guy? I thought Tom liked me. We were together all the time. How could he not understand how inappropriate his friend's behavior had been? I was shocked all over again. I had really thought that Tom would address his friend's offensive actions or just stop talking to him or something. Something. It really hurt me that he was hanging out with his old buddy and did not even care that this friend had tried to pay me for sex. It really hurt. I told Tom that and, honestly, I don't remember him coming up with anything worthwhile to say about the whole situation. He said his friend was probably drunk when he sent the e-mail. I wanted to cry. I think I may have but I can't even remember. Inexplicably, I continued to see Tom for another month or so. I'm a complete fucking idiot sometimes.

Of course the issue did not die. The last time we saw each other I sobbed and told Tom how much it bothered me that he did not even care. Didn't he understand how humiliating it was for me? I asked him how he would have felt if his friend had sent his sister an e-mail offering her money for sex. What would he have done? Tom wouldn't answer me and that was answer enough. As I walked out his door for the last time I passed his roommate's bedroom. His roommate's kids were in there. They had heard everything. I could just see it on their faces. I had not known they were there and it made me feel bad. When I said goodbye they just looked down at the floor.

I climbed in my car, hit the freeway and started sobbing. I cried the whole way home. As I blasted through the night in my 10-year-old Honda it occurred to me that it would have been satisfying to be at the wheel of a high-performance vehicle so I could really let it loose on the highway and power through some of my angst. Maybe I'd also feel better if I had better clothes, a more "respectable" job, and a nice haircut. Some makeup probably wouldn't hurt either. As it stood I was rolling through the night in my reliable old car wearing some beat-down jeans and a cheap T-shirt and remembering that I had an early call time for my bondage shoot the following day. That car had always been good to me and there was no way that I would trade it in. Or get new clothes. Or change my profession at that point in time. Let people think what they wanted. Let them think that I was desperate for money. Or would do anything for it. Fuck them. Fuck everybody. Still, it killed me that someone I liked so much had cared so little about my feelings. I felt like an idiot. Just a complete fucking idiot. I sobbed even harder and kept driving.

Tom tried to call me several times as I drove, but I did not pick up the phone. When I got home my phone was ringing. I knew it was him and I answered. He seemed happy that I had picked up and he asked if I was OK. I told him I was not OK, but I would be OK. I'd be fine but now I realized that he thought I was a cheap fucking whore and evidently it was OK with him if any of his friends wanted to say or do anything to me. He laughed uncomfortably and told me to stop thinking crazy thoughts. That was the last time we ever spoke. The next day I went to my shoot and tried to block the events of the previous evening from my head. Jewell Marceau supplied the wardrobe and tied me up. I became very absorbed in the shoot and relished the feel of the latex garments, the tight blue ropes, and Jewell's playful/painful prodding of my body. Sometimes fantasy is the best cure for life..


You can see the entire "Bad Tanya" gallery inside The Bondage Room of my Playhouse now.

- XXOO Tanya

Worth Quoting: Ivan Seidenberg, Chairman and CEO of Verizon, on Hard Work

"My first boss - he was the building superintendent, and I was a janitor - watched me sweep floors and wash walls for almost a year before he mentioned that I could get tuition for college if I got a job with the phone company. When I asked him why he'd waited so long, he said, 'I wanted to see if you were worth it.' The message: Work hard, have high standards, and stick to your values, because somebody's always watching."

(Source: Business 2.0)


- XXOO Tanya

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I love to go to downtrodden parts of town and visit shady bars. The ones that open at 6AM are my favorites even though I very rarely drink that early. Establishments in California cannot legally serve alcohol between 2AM and 6AM. At this point the only bars in Los Angeles that have the ability to open at 6AM are those that have occupied the same location for many years. Presumably most cities in Los Angeles County will not grant any new liquor licenses that permit taverns to start serving so early. The cities are probably just hoping that the old stalwarts that open their doors at 6AM will eventually go out of business. That would really be a shame because those old dives are fascinating gateways into the past. No one I know understands my fascination with these places. I just go to them by myself and don't mention it to anyone because it bugs me when they shake their heads with disgust and warn me that I'm going to get in trouble. These are the same people that go on vacation to Mexico.

Anyways, I came across some interesting stories today on the Net. Evidently the editor of the LA Alternative Press assigned a group of writers to go check out some bars in Los Angeles County when they openned for business at 6AM. Some of the writer's impressions are very interesting. I was most amused by how some of the authors enjoyed the experience and others were completely disgusted by what they found in the dimly lit venues. Here's a link to their words:

www.laalternativepress.com/v03n23/feature/feature.php


- XXOO Tanya