Sunday, October 29, 2006


Renee dances at Larry's Rack Shack. Many of the girls there get their cars serviced at Davo's Auto Shop because it is conveniently located near Larry's. Earlier this year Renee arrived at the bar complaining that the brakes on her car were curiously unresponsive. She had almost rolled right through a red light until she practically stood up from her seat to put pressure on the brake pedal. She was afraid to even drive the car home. A few of the other dancers urged her to call Davo so he could take a look at it. She did so and Davo had her car towed to his shop free of charge. He fixed the problem with her brakes that day and even granted her the leeway to make payments towards the $500 bill over the course of the following month. Renee never paid him a dime.

Months went by and then once again Renee had car problems. She called Davo from the bar and pleaded with him to work on her vehicle. Davo reminded her of the $500 she owed him. Renee sighed dramatically and said:

"Look, I'm desperate. I'll do anything. Anything. Please fix my car!"

"Anything?" Davo asked.

"Anything." Renee affirmed.

Davo assured her he would be there with a tow truck in 15 minutes. True to his word he pulled into the back parking lot at the appointed time. Renee snuck out the back door to hand him her keys, stumbling clumsily on the gravel in her 6" black platform heels. Davo told her to get in the truck.

"I can't do anything here!" Renee said indignantly.

Davo told her he was taking her back to his garage to pay off her debt. Renee hesitated but realized she had no choice if she wanted to get her car fixed. Grudgingly she climbed into his truck, uncomfortably aware of how conspicuous she would look riding around town in her skintight red lycra dress.

Renee really needed to get her car running. She put on quite a show for Davo and the boys at the auto shop. They did not let her leave until she had settled her debt to everyone's satisfaction..


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- XXOO Tanya

Thursday, October 26, 2006


Misty Knight thinks that because she has bigger tits than I do that she is more "feminine." That was her word for it. My word for her is "floozy." Misty and I both dance at Larry's Rack Shack and she is known for her nasty lap dances. I'm known for being a bitch and I don't appreciate other strippers taking away my customers by appealing to their baseness. She practically leads these guys away by their dicks. Last week I confronted her in the dressing room and called her a "cheap hooker" in front of all the other girls. Everybody laughed but then they started laughing even harder when she told all of them that the security cameras in the parking lot had recorded me giving the owner of the club a blowjob in his car! Honestly, Misty and I had been heading for a showdown for a long time. Our vicious catfight amazed even the most jaded of the strippers in the room..


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- XXOO Tanya

Sunday, October 22, 2006

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Tuesday, October 17, 2006


Kianna Dior is a beautiful woman who likes expensive things. She appreciates fine dining, luxurious resorts, and powerful automobiles. Her hair is always beautifully coiffed, her hands perfectly manicured, and she loves designer clothing. When I stand next to her I look like a trashy homeless chick. Still, I pull myself together when I have to do a shoot although that's about the only time I wear makeup and heels. The other day Kianna and I were supposed to shoot together at 9AM at Mike Raffone's studio, but my morning took an unexpected turn. My car had needed to go to the mechanic and I came in the door an hour late muttering excuses. I was wearing old sweats and my hair up in a bun. Mike asked me how long it would take me to make myself look presentable. I requested that he give me 15 minutes and I headed into his bathroom. Kianna came in and watched me applying makeup one-handed as I spoke to my mechanic on the phone. The mechanic promised to call me back as soon as he could give me an estimate.

We were about one hour into our shoot when the mechanic called with the news. "It's time to make a decision." he informed me. He explained that my car had just passed the 100,000 mile mark and had some major problems. It needed a new transmission, a new timing belt, and a bunch of other stuff. He sighed and told me that the repairs would probably total about $3500. I almost fell onto Mike's teal sofa when I heard that."Basically, it just depends on how long you want to keep the car." he said in summation. "These repairs may actually be more expensive than the value of the car itself."

I told him I'd think about everything and call him back. Kianna had heard my side of the conversation and saw how deflated I looked when I hung up.

"Just donate it to charity." she said.

I looked down disconsolately and told her that it would be really hard for me to part with my car. My 1998 VW and I have gone through a lot together. I had bought it in 2001 and could remember zooming around the highways in it even before the fabric of the seats was ripped to shreds and the rear-view mirror had fallen off. When I had glued the mirror back on it felt like new again, even though I'd never actually been inside it when it was new. The VW had never once been towed anywhere because it had never completely broken down on me. We had both survived without a single scratch even when one of the tires had blown out at 75 MPH on the freeway. I remember losing control, clinging to the steering wheel, and plowing over the side of the freeway into an embankment filled with ice plant. My friend Raul had driven out at midnight to find me and help change the tire and get the VW back onto the actual pavement. When he finally located me I was lying on top of the hood staring up at the stars. None of the traffic on the freeway could even see me because the VW and I had rolled too far downhill and out of sight. The VW and I were a team through good times and bad.

Kianna started to giggle when I began telling her all this. I knew what she was thinking and I don't like it when people make fun of my trusty old car. Mike was watching the situation unfold and had become uncharacteristically quiet. He and I may not agree on much, but Mike knows the folly of abandoning a loyal friend, whether it be machine or human. He knew me well enough to realize that I would not tolerate someone mocking my devotion to my vehicle. I could tell by both his expression and his firm grip on his camera that he was waiting for carnage to ensue. I did not disappoint him."I'll get another 100,000 miles out of that VW! Watch me you stuck-up, pretentious bitch!" I screamed at Kianna as I smacked her in the face. Amazingly, she still continued to laugh and that just made me angrier..


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- XXOO Tanya

Friday, October 13, 2006

Hotel San Diego: Part 2

During a trip to San Diego in 2001 I became captivated by an old, dilapidated hotel in the downtown area. No one with me would exhibit anything other than disdain for this remarkable but decayed place. Faded red lettering on the façade of the building identified it as the Hotel San Diego. I tried fruitlessly for years to find out information about it its history. One day I called Jay of JayEdwards.com . He lives in San Diego. I asked him if he knew anything about the Hotel San Diego. At first he didn't. I described the glorious structure in detail and mentioned that it had fallen into a state of extreme disrepair.

“Oh, that old eyesore!” he exclaimed when he realized what building I was talking about. “I think it’s going to be torn down and it’s about time.”

I felt very wistful when I hung up the phone. That grand old building really deserved better. For the next five years I sporadically searched for it on the Internet and even asked 1970s porn star Jesse Adams if he had ever heard of it as a possible venue for live sex shows in past years. Someone in a San Diego bar had mentioned that it had been used by the infamous Mitchell Brothers for that purpose. Jesse, however, was positive it had never been used by the Mitchell Brothers because he had often performed in their live sex shows in San Francisco and the porn community was much smaller back then anyways. He was sure that he would have heard of a location like that if it had been regularly utilized by members of the adult industry. A year or two later Ron Jeremy told me the same thing.

More years passed and in early 2006 I was working at my friend Raul’s office and happened to do a search for historic hotels on the Net when I was supposed to be doing something else. A sponsored ad on the right side of the page caught my attention. After I clicked on it a bolt of shock went through me. I knew I was staring at the Hotel San Diego. Raul was working a few feet away from me and I jumped up and thrust my laptop into his hands.

“Check this place out.” I said without revealing any emotion.

Raul gazed at the photo and then began looking at different pages on the site. I watched his face.

“Wow, this hotel is really awesome!” he said with genuine admiration. “Where is it? Oh, it’s in San Diego. You should go see it. You’re the one that loves all those old buildings. This one is really amazing. It’s supposed to open in the fall of this year.” he commented as he continued reading the text on the site. “Thirteen US Presidents stayed here in the past hundred years. Huh, that’s interesting. I’d like to see it too.” he said as he tried to hand my computer back to me. I refused to take it.

“Doesn’t the hotel look familiar to you?” I asked. Raul had been with me when I had first seen the building. He had wandered around it with me for over an hour, shaking his head the whole time and wondering aloud why I always became fixated on “ghetto-type” dwellings.

Now, five years later, he humored me by looking at the photos longer and then shook his head to communicate that he’d never seen it before.

“You’ve been there.” I said flatly.

I let his confusion go on for a few more minutes and watched his puzzlement increase and some other sensation start to wash over him. He wasn’t telling me to go back to work because some memories were creeping up on him as he continued to look at the site.

“That’s not..,” he began then stopped. “That can’t be that one beat-down old building in San Diego that you became so obsessed with years ago.

“Yep, that’s it. I finally found it.” I responded.

Raul’s shock genuinely gratifyied me. He could not believe the splendor of the newly renovated place that was displayed in the photos. I bookmarked the site, www.USGrant.net , so I could show it to Jewell Marceau the next time we shot. She had also been in San Diego during that trip in 2001. Like Raul she had gotten sick of me rhapsodizing over the Hotel San Diego during the few days we were there. I made her look at the site the following week during a break in our filming, but she refused to believe that it was the same decrepit old building she had seen in San Diego all those years ago. She ended our discussion of it by logging off the Internet and shaking her head. Fortunately it was my turn to tie her up and I resumed our shoot with a renewed sense of vigor..


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- XXOO Tanya

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

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Thursday, October 05, 2006



Last summer I rented a unit in an old apartment house, The Capulet Arms, in Long Beach. A few weeks after my arrival my elderly neighbor Jim informed me of the existence of a haunted room inside the building. Jim’s tone had become very grave when he looked at me and said that he hoped I would never encounter room 731. I remember asking him if apartment 731 in The Capulet Arms was the same place as “room 731.” The answer to the question was seemingly obvious but something had made me pose it to him anyways. Jim had not responded on that day as we sat there and stared at the sunlight shimmering on the ocean. We were drinking stingers on the balcony of his twelfth floor apartment which overlooked the Long Beach recreational harbor. The unanswered question hung in the air and neither of us spoke for a long time after I asked it.

Cars whizzed down Ocean Boulevard below us and a chill crept into the air as the sun began going down on the water. Jim and I often sat in silence for significant lengths of time, but as this afternoon turned into evening I could sense that he was troubled about something. He had appeared cheerful before he had mentioned the mysterious room 731. Afterwards he had seemed to degenerate into a morose, pensive state. I sensed that perhaps he wanted to be alone with his thoughts so I finished my drink and told him I’d probably stop by again later.

Out in the hallway I began wondering about his abrupt change in mood. Jim hardly struck me as the type to worry about such an odd, fanciful notion as a haunted room, but the subject clearly had affected him. Why? It seemed kind of silly. Jim was a retired sailor and sailors are often prone to superstition, but the notion of a haunted room in the Capulet Arms seemed kind of foolish for some reason. I decided to walk past apartment 731 so I descended 5 flights of stairs to locate the unit. Quickly I discovered that the seventh floor contained only seventeen units and they were predictably numbered from “701” to “717”. Apartment 731 did not exist. I smiled to myself and shook my head at my own naivete. Jim was a wonderful man in his eighties, but he did consume an overabundance of liquor. His conversation often contained extraordinary insights and pithy observations about life and society in general, but he did tend to ramble when he had consumed one stinger too many. His statements about “room 731” must have been the product of some disjointed thoughts and his inebriated state of mind. It amused me that I had given them any credence at all, but there I stood at the furthest end of the hallway on floor seven. I had been looking for an apartment that had never been built. I shook my head again and hoped that Jim would not have too bad of a hangover in the morning. Clearly he had been drinking quite a bit before I happened to stop by that afternoon.

Jim had been very welcoming from the time I had moved into the Capulet Arms. I enjoyed our conversations about the history and people of Long Beach and had even started to develop a bit of a taste for his favorite drink, the stinger. I had never heard of a “stinger” before I met Jim. In actuality it is a pretty nauseating combination of such ingredients as crème de menthe and whiskey, but it kind of grows on you. Jim and I often reclined on his balcony and gazed at the harbor while we drank our cocktails. He would sit in his wheelchair and I would relax on a wooden rocking chair that he had crafted many years before. We would lose track of the number of stingers we threw back as we chatted. Something about life in The Capulet Arms made heavy drinking seem very natural.

The weeks drifted into each other and I really was enjoying my summer by the ocean. Sometimes the power would go out in my unit, but that was the only drawback to living there. I would be working on my laptop and all of a sudden my computer would shut off and I would be blanketed in blackness. It always happened at night. Either I would light candles and read or just go to sleep. On one particular evening a power outage occurred as I was checking my banking account online. I just sighed and shut my laptop. Evidently I would need to wait until morning to see if that particular check had cleared. I decided to call it a day and go to bed.

That night I fell asleep almost immediately which is extremely unusual for me. Hours later some soft but insistent knocking at my door interrupted my deep slumber. The power was still out so I climbed out of bed and felt my way to the door. Still disoriented I peered through one of the two peepholes and saw a gorgeous, scantily clad blonde woman looking back at me. How could she see me through her side of the peephole? There was no way that she could, but it really felt like she was staring right into my face. I opened the door.

“Jim needs you.” she said.

“What? What happened? Is he OK? Who are you?” I asked. My brain was too cloudy too make any sense of this.

“Jim needs you.” she said with more urgency. “I am Yvonne.” she added as an afterthought.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hallway. I felt myself following her. My confusion and anxiety began to mount, but I did not ask any questions. I just followed her. What happened next defied any of my later rationalizations. She led me to a room on the seventh floor and pulled rather than pushed open the door. A man in a sailor uniform sat in a barren room on a cloth-covered couch. His pants were around his ankles and one of his hands cradled his large erection. Yvonne pulled me to him and then down to my knees. My memory is of beautiful Yvonne and I taking turns pleasuring the unidentified sailor. I felt like I had to do it. I also felt her fear.

None of it could have happened. I awoke in my own bed the following morning. The memories of Yvonne and the anonymous sailor were excruciatingly vivid. The whole episode had been quite an amazing, harrowing dream. Normally I don’t even remember my dreams. Of course I never mentioned it to anyone.

A few weeks later I logged on to my own website and saw that my webmaster had updated the site with a black and white gallery of a busty, blonde, steely-eyed beauty. It was Yvonne. It was not just someone who looked like her: it was Yvonne. Shock ran through me and I felt weak. Nothing made any sense. Where had these photos come from? Did Yvonne actually exist? I walked away from the computer without turning it off. I felt Yvonne's eyes watching me from the monitor. My pulse began to race and a light sweat broke out all over my body. It took quite a while for me to control my breathing. Finally I was able to approach the computer and shut it down.

Days later I mustered the courage to phone my webmaster and find out where he had acquired the photos. He was nonplussed by my queries.

“You gave them to me.” he said. “They were in that last package of content that you sent me.”

Something akin to fear coursed through my system. I had not sent him these photos. The first and only time I had ever seen Yvonne had been in my dreams.

Who is she??


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.- XXOO Tanya

Sunday, October 01, 2006

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