"I’m The Great Pretender"

Isn’t there an unspoken something called a writer’s license where when you put a pen to paper (or a finger to a keyboard), even if it is a memoir, where is a certain allowance of stretching the facts? Since a memoir is a personal account of a personal story, what happens if the person writing it feels that certain occurrences will help further a point? Isn’t it a writer’s job essentially to entertain? If a story is juicier with some added features if only to satisfy the readers, should a writer be expelled from bookstores? Yes, James Frey wrote a memoir, A Million Little Pieces, and it sold lots of copies. He wrote about his dalliances with drugs and time spent in the slammer, and apparently there were some little white lies embedded within his truths.
Now I have never been one for little white lies. In fact, I think they can doom relationships and impeach presidents, but for the sake of writing…can little white lies be forgivable when the writer is not penning a personal letter but rather an experience for the masses (most of whom are strangers) to read?
James Frey is a man—he’s not President Bush (someone who we do demand the whole truth and nothing but the truth from). Frey is a writer, and that is what he did, he wrote a story about his life according to him. Even if he never spent a second behind bars, maybe he felt as if his addictions and self-loathing were like being imprisoned and to include a description as such would fail the point that he was trying to put forth.
I’ve never read Frey’s book. I tend to steer clear of anything on the Oprah book list (although I know she’s got great taste and if my own novel ever gets published and makes it to her favorites, I would be grinning from ear to ear). But still, great books have been pimped out on her show and she has done more for books and writers than…well…she’s done almost as much for books as the trees themselves. I’m not counting the books on tapes (or CDs) which I think should only be purchased by the blind.
But Oprah’s pathetic display of anger and even some welling of tears on her show while Frey sat there like a pig at a roast while the audience booed was unacceptable since only a couple of weeks before she phone in to the Larry King Show when Frey was a guest in support and to say that there was "much ado about nothing."
Frey may have told some tall tales about jail and not having Novocain at the dentist, but he cannot be deemed solely a liar. He is a writer. A writer who I read tried to first sell A Million Little Pieces as fiction, but who publishers were convinced was essentially a memoir. Frey maintains that the essence of his book is true.
Did you read his book and like it? Did you get a feel for his pain and suffering? Did it teach you something? Did you sympathize? Oprah sure thought so when she put it on her prized list. Millions thought so when they read it. Just because Frey fudged some words to make his story more enticing, does that mean the words imprinted on the page are no longer of any value?
Michael Moore did it with his films. And doesn’t Hollywood effin love him?
I wear makeup. Does that mean I lie to people everyday when I look them in the eye through my black mascara and eyelined lids because I used an enhancer to make my appearance more appealing?
Don’t we all expand a tale a bit to add some succulence to a story?
Don’t we often salt and pepper even our sweet mashed potatoes so they taste better?
What is truth when it comes to telling a story about a "common" man’s life?
I’ve heard that St. Martin's Press added a disclaimer to memoirist (and one of my favorite writers) Augusten Burroughs’ upcoming book. Would I care if I found out that Burroughs really didn’t have a much older boyfriend who said "he wished he could package my cum like ice cream so he could eat it all day"? No. I understand the point he was trying to convey by saying it.
I’ve said this before, and now again, all writing is full of half-truths and partial lies, even memoirs, if only for the lies we tell ourselves and believe every day. Memory is full of it too. How we all process memory is a unique transaction. The same thing can happen to two people and both parties could yield a difference experience. Like when my sister and I found film canisters in my parents’ room in a shoebox under the bed. She was maybe eight years old, which made me around eleven. We opened the gray-topped black plastic thing and found some sort of seeds in it. I had no idea what it was, but there were other things in the box that were far more interesting to us at the time—namely a cassette tape by The Platters featuring the song "The Great Pretender." My sister and I know every word to every song from that cassette.
Years and years later, she and I had a conversation about our find under the bed. After singing the lyrics "Oh yes, I’m the great pretender. Oooh, oooh, pretending that I’m doing well…" we touched on the film canister. "You know what that was?" she asked. "Yeah," I responded with some uncertainty. I’ve never smoked pot in my life so I really couldn’t be sure despite the fact that I’ve been in the presence of many people who have, parents included. We never fact-checked with them if it was pot or not. But it was.
In that very same conversation, my sister and I talked about the role we believed my dad played in a certain heist that earned headlines in the 80s, but then again, all this sleuthing was from two eavesdropping adolescents.
Do you believe me?
I do.
Did I entertain you?
Frey’s future career is said to be over.
There’s a million little pieces out there that I am going to pick up.

Faint Melancholy Exudes

At eleven years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had dabbled with the thought of being a nurse (thanks to my elite care of Cabbage Patch Kids and creating faux-hospital Babyland General), an ice skater (my Dorothy Hamil haircut was sheer perfection), and a newscaster (reporting live from the scene of course). The latter career choice came from my delight that Michelle Marsh shared my first name (not the spelling) and was fantastic reciting the Channel 2 New York City News.
But my number one choice in a profession was to be a hooker thanks to the incredible portrayal of struggle in the film Angel. Dangerous situations always seemed the most glamorous. Plus, I could go to school during the day (preferably a Catholic school, thus incorporating my pleated and plaid mini-skirt into my night job walking the streets). Of course, I never thought about the actual act of sucking d*cks, handjobs, and sex with sweaty old men with huge wallets when I was eleven. I had never even seen a penis yet…at least not one that I recalled. That came when I was thirteen.
The first time I saw a penis when I wasn’t going to have sex with it but had some semblance of sexual thought was when I first moved upstate New York. I have my parents to thank for sheltering me throughout those formative years living in Brooklyn and Queens. I don’t know how they did it, but maybe it was more of a don’t follow by example because they certainly weren’t censoring their activities. But for me, seeing them do things made me not want to do those things. So I managed to never see a penis nor did I have any sexual thoughts about it.
Sure, I’d seen them before like when I was babysitting and changing diapers and the little nub fascinated me. Sorry, Little Richie, it was you.
What’s really frightening is that Little Richie grew up to be quite a handsome man and when I saw him years and years later as an adult, I was mortified to find out that he in fact was older than some of the guys I had dated.
Nonetheless, I was fascinated, but I did not, repeat, did not have penis envy. Why would I want that thing hanging off my body like a wayward thumb? At least that’s what they looked like when you guys are still in diapers.
My first sort of sexual penis sighting was in Playgirl magazine. Hooking like Angel seemed like a day at the County Fair in comparison to the images I saw in that rag. Besides, I think hookers really have something to offer society. We’ve got priests molesting young boys (and sometimes girls), so why don't we get the hookers to dress up in little kiddie outfits and head on over to the rectories so God's chosen ones can get their rocks off and not corrupt the impressionable minds of the youth of today? Father John and his friends surely get enough hand outs during mass from neighborhood citizens, right? Hookers will get paid for doing what they do best and the Holy Fathers will keep their communion giving hands off the pre-pubescent. Just a church box suggestion. Think about it: The movie was called Angel.

I didn’t think much about that at the time, although I did have Father Bob in CCD class who was young and the girls all giggled at. We would line up in front of his confession booth instead of Father Joseph’s. Father Joseph was old and mean and ugly. Father Bob was young and sweet and cute. Kids always gravitate towards things that are cute. That’s why they love puppies and cartoons.

I hate to admit it, but the thought of turning men on in exchange for cash was really exciting to me. In fact, it is one of my top fantasies even today. I mean, there is nothing quite like having a great dinner, some cocktails, having my boyfriend pay for it all, then going home and having sex with him. I’m not saying that’s an exchange just like hooking, but in a way it is.

So penises. I was babysitting (not for Little Richie), but for Joey. But his sister’s were there, which is what I don’t understand really since his oldest sister was just four years younger than me. But I guess a thirteen-year-old needs to baby-sit a nine year old? I don’t know the rules. Maybe she came home early from softball practice or something, but the fact is that me, my ten year old sister, Kim (the nine year old), her younger sister Sarah (seven), and Joey (four) were at Kim’s house without any parental supervision. It needs to be noted that this house not only had the Playgirl magazines, but Playboy as well, possibly Penthouse, and also a hot tub and a master bedroom with lots of mirrors. It was basically a den of sex disguised as a family home. I once even heard a rumor about Kim’s parents that they were swingers. Which totally grosses me out to think of anyone who is friends with my parents as swingers for fear that they once swung with the people who made me. Gross. Almost as gross as thinking about the time I saw my own father’s penis, accidentally of course. I walked in on him while he was peeing and he yelled at me for a good ten minutes afterward. He was, um, pissed that his little girl walked in at the most inopportune moment. I think that was the first time I discovered that there were "growers" versus "show-ers" but I didn’t really know what that meant until much later. I retain a lot of odd memories. Try to get me to recall what I was wearing or what I revealed to you on Friday night and I’ll draw a blank, but the fact that I can remember seeing my dad’s penis twenty years ago, quite vividly I might add, and I can recall details and the color of the towels that were hanging on the towel rack confuses me.
At the house, Kim decides that we are going to play house and that I am the mother, she is the father and our siblings are our kids. We do what I assume is what her parents do every night before they retire to their perversions—put the kids to bed. She leads me to her parents room and slides open the mirrored closet doors and behind the shoes and bottoms of fancy dresses are a stack of porno magazines. She flips open a page of Playboy and there is an image of a woman barely wearing some lingerie. This sparks an idea in her nine-year-old head and she goes over to the bedside dresser and pulls out a frilly nightgown that looked like a hooker’s wedding dress and tells me to put it on. Since I am playing the "mommy" I do as "daddy" says.
We lay in the bed and flip through more pages of the magazines seeing oiled buff bodies with erections and photos of couples having sex.
"This is what my mommy and daddy do," she tells me while pointing at an image of the man going at it doggie style while pulling on the woman’s long blonde hair.
I think I was turned on or nervous or both.
Then she did what I had never done before with anyone, she kissed me.
My first kiss was with a girl, four years younger, lying in her parent’s bed, while I was wearing nothing but her mother’s negligee.
She was on top of me, being forceful sort of, like she probably saw her father do to her mother, on this very bed, wearing this very same nightie. And she humped me. And much like my first real time with a boy, I just laid there.
My sister walked in and she stopped. I don’t remember much after that, but I do believe I received money from her mom in exchange for my babysitting. Sex for money? Perhaps.

I'm Still A Suspect

Sometimes I wish for things and they really happen.

Sure, it happens to all of us. But sometimes it’s a bit uncanny.
That’s when I subscribe to karma.

There have been small instances, but some have been glaring. It has been some of the things that have hurt me most in my life where the outcome seemed just so suitable for the crime.

In high school, I dated a guy who constantly made fun of my hair and my teeth. Sure, it was the 80s and I was from Queens, so the hair was high with Aqua Net. He wanted his mother, a hairdresser who had her salon (and I use that term loosely) in the basement of their house, to "fix" my ’do. No thanks.

This very same guy used to point out the gap between my front two teeth and tell me that I should really get that fixed.

I dated him for way longer than I should have, but when I finally told him it was over, he cried to my mother and told her I was the one he wanted to love forever. He was 19.

Once it was over, I felt like I could breathe again. He was really controlling and used to forbid me from wearing skirts and going anywhere without him.

There were times that I wished ill will upon him, but it never happened…until many, many years later when he was in a terrible car accident and lost all of his teeth. He is now also, due to age and genetics I assume, pretty much completely bald.

Was this some type of divine intervention? Was it atonement from God to me? Or was it just an odd coincidence?

When my grandmother was just a kid, she was told she had to move from Brooklyn to Marlboro, New York, which is about 2 hours upstate, for the summer. She didn’t want to go, but her parents made her go to the farmhouse so she could pick apples and do whatever it is you do on a farm in the summer in the 30s.

I think it was about a week in when the entire farmhouse burned down. No one was hurt. And my grandma got to go back to Brooklyn.

There was a time that I did not get along with my father. At all. And I did wish horrible things upon him. About two years ago, he and I had a terrible fight, one of the worst ones, and we didn’t speak for weeks. I called him on Father’s Day because, well, it was Father’s Day and I thought it was a good time to break our silence. We made up the best we could over the phone and looked forward to seeing each other again.

A short time after that he crashed his motorcycle and could have died. He spent over a month in a hospital and I was there taking back every bad thing I ever wished upon the man who gave me life. I learned a lot from that.

I was, and I still maintain this stance, unjustly fired earlier this year. There were many whispers behind my back and at the final moment, they all hid like cowards behind an excuse that had no merit. There was controversy, sure. There was scandal, yes. After all, I did work in a den of sin filled with corrupt businessmen and backstabbing co-workers. Yes, there were some really great people there too, and I don’t want to lump them together with the scum that sucked the life out of any spirit of goodness that was there. Some people who were instrumental (or at the very least not vocal in my defense, which is an offense in my book) in my firing have recently found themselves on the wrong side of karma. One man broke his back and two others were fired.

I’m sure they will be fine, just as I am fine. Better off, even. Well, maybe not the guy with the broken back. But this is a man who once said to me that he didn’t like women like me because we have too much to say.

I have always been a big fan of justice.

When talking about this with someone, they said that "karma is a belief, I wonder if justice is the moral equivalent."

Take heed in what you wish for. Let karma put forth justice.

I've Tasted The Body Of Christ

I’m slightly perplexed.

I just found out that many Christmas songs were written by Jews.

Adolphe Adam wrote the music for "O Holy Night."
Mel Torme wrote "Christmas Song".
Irving Berlin wrote "White Christmas".
And "We Need a Little Christmas", "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", "A Holly Jolly Christmas", "The Christmas Waltz", "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow", "Silver Bells", and "I'm Getting' Nuttin' for Christmas" were all also written by people who have been Bat/Bar Mitzvahed.

Just last week, I was complaining about the Christmas music playing at my job because I thought it was disrespectful to play "religious" songs for people who may not be of the Christian faith.

Actually, I was really complaining because I cannot stand those songs even though I am of the Christmas celebrating variety. I don't care if the songs are wrapped up modern day versions of themselves with people like Nora Jones or Gwen Stefani singing—they still are horrible and do not put me in the Christmas mood.

I've never purchased one of those Very Special Christmas collections.

The only Christmas song that I do like is John Lennon's Happy Christmas.

But he's been long dead so I can't count on another one from him.

Plus, that song isn’t exactly your cookie-cutter variety of Christmas song.

I wondered if Mark David Chapman, the guy who killed Lennon, was Jewish. Turns out, he's not. He was actually briefly enrolled at Covenant College, a Christian university in Georgia and was supposedly a devout Christian despite the fact that he had attempted suicide by asphyxiation from the exhaust of a car. Chapman had an obsession with J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.

The movie, The Good Girl features Jake Gyllenhaal as a kid who goes by the name Holden due to his obsession of Salinger’s character in that very same book. Supposedly Gyllenhall is also a big fan of Salinger’s work and even has named his production company Nine Stories after the author’s collection.

Jake is not starring in the movie they are making about Chapman. Jared Leto got the part and Lindsay Lohan is playing the Lennon fan who befriends him. Hmm…so that’s how those two met.

I’m glad Leto is back to acting. His band was really bad. But so are most bands that are "commercial". There is no more passion for rock music anymore. Not that I loved K-Rock, but it was one of the only NYC stations that played some of the songs I like and it’s going off the air on Monday with the format changing to talk/classic rock.

Even the music award shows all feature rap and country artists and the categories are blended into one. Will Smith, Mariah Carey, and 50 Cent were nominated in the Pop/Rock category at the American Music Awards. Will Smith won Favorite Pop/Rock Male Artist.

And almost every winner thanks Jesus.
Who is thanking Moses?

I am not going to say "I digress" because you obviously know I am.

There’s this band called The LeeVees who features ex-members of Guster and some other band I never heard of, and they sing Hanukah songs. The song I heard was pretty good. You know, these guys are Jewish, so they are passionate about their faith and wrote a song about it. And the song was good.

Sure, Lennon was certainly not a Christian crusader. But the man was certainly passionate and the lyrics of his song display that. One can certainly argue that Lennon did possess an ecclesiastic quality.

Maybe that’s why I dislike most Christmas songs—because they were written by Jewish people who don’t even like Jesus. There’s no passion for the Christ.

And no, I don’t like Christian rock, nor do I want to hear a Christmas song by Destiny’s Child.

But maybe I have nothing to worry about because apparently the word Christmas is too much for some people and they want to replace it with "Holiday". Like saying Holiday Tree instead of Christmas tree. You know, it was the Clinton administration who put forth that saying in the 90s, dubbing the White House tree a Holiday Tree.

Maybe I should follow another 1993-era Clinton idea: Don’t ask; don’t tell. Even though the former president denounced that ten years after he signed it into law.

I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut when I am passionate about something.

Happy Jewmas.
Jesus was a Jew.

Maybe that could be the new chorus of a Holiday song sung by Beck.

Sex And The Cerebral

Where The Porn Stars Are
*written in June with an update

I was in Los Angeles for Erotica LA and Playboy radio. So, of course, I was surrounded by porn stars, agents, managers, directors, bodyguards, silicone, and a lot of guys who are walking around with huge boners waiting to see the girl they wack off to every night. It was an interesting day one at the convention.

Jenna was there with her signature blonde locks dyed a light brownish red. She looked terrific and graciously signed autograph after autograph as the photographers clicked away. Her bodyguard, who I was told is an Ultimate Fighting Champion or something, gave the evil eye to everyone who came within her reach.

I was a guest on Playboy radio's live broadcast from the event with Christy Canyon and Kylie Ireland as hosts. Both ladies were really sweet and really down to earth. I thought they had more substance than some of the girls I saw walking around wearing next to nothing and flashing their crotches at fans. Both of them were adorable. On Monday I am going to Playboy radio studios to do Night Calls so it should be interesting to see what kind of calls will come in while I am there. It's on XM in case you want to listen.

I got to see Jean Van Jean, a male porn star, and I have to say that he looked really hot. I've seen his movies and never thought he was sexy, in fact, I thought he was kind of gross, but in person he looks like a runway model capable of starring in a Gucci ad. Just don't ask him to speak. Even with his French accent, I wouldn't want to listen to what he has to say. It's not much. I personally like my men with a lot of substance and a really big brain.

There were some other neat things at the event like the glass dildos, a huge stripper pole with girls showing off their acrobatics, and The Touch Pool, which was an actual pool filled with latex body parts that can be fondled. Oh and I cannot forget the Buckfest booth that had a mechanical bull. Porn star girls saddled up wearing barely anything at all. I don't know how they didn't get all chafed up.

Later that night I went to "the best porn party ever" at Avalon. I thought it sucked. I wanted to dance or I wanted to sit, I needed a better drink, or maybe I just needed to be more drunk. But there were way too many guys there, all of whom wanted to get laid by a porn star I'm sure. They all looked at the women like we were meat. I did get to walk on the red carpet though to get in since I was VIP. I'm not bragging. It was so silly and odd and a little embarrassing since I didn't want anyone to take a photo of me and think that I might get double penetrated for a living. Yes, I've been f*cked but it was by a porn company, not for one.

The next day, I was a guest co-host on Playboy radio's Night Calls on XM. The witty and gorgeous (even with little makeup and sweatpants) Christy Canyon and I took calls from listeners who, well, wanted to talk about sex. "I want to have a threesome, but my girl isn't into it." "How do I get my lady to give me a blowjob?" "How do I get a date?" But the best one was from a man who wanted to know more about the procedure women are getting to increase their chances of G-spot orgasms.

The G-spot is the fleshy part of the inside of a woman's vagina that you can reach from making a "come hither" motion with your fingers when inserted with your fingers toward the front. Some people contest that the G-spot even exists, but many, many women disagree and have had orgasms (even squirted) from this stimulation alone. Then again, there are some women who can come just from playing with their nipples, so it's safe to say that it really depends on the girl.

The idea to help women with their sexual satisfaction in the G-spot area is to plump up its fleshiness and make it easier to find and thus more easily stimulated by a penis. I've read that some doctors use hyaluronic acid, a fluid that lubricates our joints, which is also used in cosmetic procedures to erase wrinkles, to plump it up. Other docs use collagen injections. One doctor performs the service, called the G-Shot ™, and for $1850 you can get collagen injected into your urethral sponge. Supposedly, it makes the area "swell" for up to four months.

What if a woman gets this injection and feels nothing? Will she feel less than a woman because she cannot orgasm even after a so-called revolutionary procedure. It's bad enough women's orgasms have been called inconsequential since they are not "necessary" for reproduction. Or maybe it has nothing to do with a bigger G-spot, maybe it's all mental, and after a woman gets this injection, her mind eases and she thinks that now she can come more easily, taking the pressure off, making her more relaxed, and thus making her more likely to come.

Is that worth the money? Some will argue yes. The ways in which a woman can orgasm is so much more complex than a man's. And if this helps some women, then why should they be denied the chance for pleasure? But I do believe that this procedure should be the last resort. Augmentation of your gentials is not reversible. I think we all need to look a little more on the surface. Like if a woman likes candlelight instead of the bright lights, or she prefers to keep her bra on during sex, or whatever her hang-up might be (we all have them)—listen to her. Chances are the sex will be better (and hopefully more satisfying) if we are all a little more "comfortable" doing it.

Day 2 of the Erotica LA convention was a bit more interesting and had a lot more people. It is a consumer based event, so everything you see (possibly even some of the people) you could purchase. While walking around I saw this cute line of lingerie that was very 50s and 60s inspired and everything on the rack was $25. So I am looking for the set I liked best when the guy who worked the booth asked me if I danced. Of course I dance was my first thought. I dance all the time to cheesy music with my BFFs. I was thinking that this guy was a DJ and maybe he was spinning at a party that night, but then it dawned on me...he thought I was a dancer as in an exotic dancer. After all, it was Erotica LA I was at and I was wearing slut heels, a thong and little else. Totally kidding about the wardrobe part. I was wearing jeans and probably looked more like a soccer mom compared to most of the other girls there. But still, I was flattered (I think). Then the next thing I know one of the other guys who was working the same booth starts smelling my neck, then my shoulders. "Mmmmm, you smell so goooood!" he says. Then he starts grinding against my ass as I am trying to look for something in my size. "Don't be scared," he tells me. "I just want to dance with you, have fun."

I wasn't scared of him, exactly, but I was scared that maybe having him too close to me would then allow his awful smelling cologne to rub off on me and then I'd have to be reminded of his stench the rest of the night. Or maybe I was afraid that he had crabs and one would get on me. I was always afraid of cooties as a kid.

I left the booth without buying anything.

While at one of the other booths, I watched as three really cute porn starlets signed autographs and posed for photos. Each of the girls had her own small four by four platform with a chair and table. The one in the middle was doing this "sexy" squat pose for a fan when her left f*ck-me pump slipped off the edge causing her to tumble back off the platform and onto the floor, legs spread eagle in the air. A porn starlet going down! I didn't laugh out loud and I still have no idea why. Humans tripping and falling is some of my favorite fodder. But without hesitation, this chick got back up on her platform and continued to pose. The crowd grew after her fall and in seconds there were men clamoring for a spot to take the best, tight shot of her crotch. Yes, I saw a camera not one inch away from her hot box snap away.

Tera Patrick was there and I think she is absolutely beautiful, but I am very upset that she got breast implants. I know this is old news, but she was just perfect without them. Now they are too big and too porno. But I suppose this is the business she chose so the bigger the better?

Later that night was another red carpet event at the Whisky. We go there early in an attempt to get seats but the VIP list hadn't arrived so we were asked to wait outside. I was annoyed. We went into the Hustler Hollywood store to pass the time and checked out the Stunt Girl I and II box covers. They were $39.99 each so I didn't buy them. I really want to see them though. In the book section, they had one of the collections my story was featured in, Best Bondage Erotica. They also has The Sexual Life of Catherine M. which is a book I've been wanting to read. My friend recently told me to read The Story Of O, but they didn't have that there. Have you ever read an erotic story or novel? I highly advise you to. It is incredibly hot, even more so than watching a porn sometimes. At least that what I think. There is just something about reading the words and being able translate the image in your mind. You have the freedom to envision exactly what you want with the scenario supplied to you. Meaning no sweaty gross guy pumping away at a siliconed chick who moans more than humanly possible when in the midst of passion.

We did make it into the Whisky and sat amongst porns biggest and wettest and waited for the feature band "Not The Ramones" to play, yes, Ramones songs. But we left after about an hour because...well...it was "not New York" and there really is a different vibe in LA, one that I don't know if I could get used to. Maybe it was because I was surrounded by porn people who I have decided I have nothing in common with despite the fact that I once was editor-in-chief of Playgirl. What I did there was very different, and writing and thinking and provoking thought about sex, sexuality, and playful kink is not at all like sucking on cocks and waiting for the perfect come shot.

And now to present day....
Once again, hundreds of porn's biggest are gathered in Las Vegas for the AVN Awards hosted by Savannah Samson, mom/Score's girl/Howard Stern favorite/porn starlet. She once smooched me on the lips so she could have some of my lips gloss. Sin City is bursting with even more sinners. I wonder who is going to win the top honors. Or does that mean that they all have really lost? Or maybe just so lost themselves?

I have such mixed feelings about the industry. There are just too many unfortunate stories, tales of life destruction and degradation. As an outsider, one who just watches porn, you don't tend to think too much about the stars' lives off the screen. But as one who has been on location for these shoots and talked to the talent, it changes everything.

Just Like Candy

In Kansas, sex offenders cannot open the door on Halloween.

New York, Wisconsin, Florida, California and some other states have similar laws. There are curfews too where the sex offender cannot leave the house after 7PM.

There is a Sex Offender Compliance Squad and they put a big red piece of paper on the doors of sex offenders so the trick or treaters and their parents are warned.

These sex offenders are also not allowed to dress up like the Easter Bunny. They have candy, too. Kids love candy.

I am fascinated.

What about Santa Claus? Santa has presents and lets you sit on his lap. He also has candy canes. Kids love candy canes.

I am writing erotica for a collection about sex and candy. Somehow this inspires me. Not directly of course. But somehow. Just like Halloween. We dress up, go to parties, role play, and drink. If we are lucky, there's even some some candy to suck on. Perversions. Adults love perversions.

Like in the movie The Ballad Of Jack And Rose where there were hints of incest. Those moments were some of the best in the film. Profound. I loved it.

Maybe my mind is slightly warped from watching The Brown Bunny. Yes, I loved it, too. It was climactic. Just like sex. Just like candy.