Chapter 22: Pull My F*cking Hair

6 Sep

(Warning: Explicit**See Below.)

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The subject of rough sex was broached at lunch. My friend – the epitome of the conservative girl next door – gritted her teeth and said, “YES. Yes. I want someone to pull my fucking hair.” As we all nodded in total agreement, she paused and wondered aloud, “I wonder what that says about us. Psychologically, I mean.”

I thought about that for a while and decided to find out.

Women have long flip-flopped between wanting to be with a nice guy who treats them like a princess and dating that arrogant prick everyone hates. We’ve all shaken our heads and thought, “Jesus, that guy is such a douche bag. Why is she with him?”  

You can’t change men (Men Are Like Shoes- http://aprilhunterblog.com/2014/05/09/chapter-20-men-are-like-shoes/) so these relationships with bad boys nearly always end badly.

However, our heads still turn when we see the guy with the loud, fast car or the motorcycle. We want tattooed, muscled and pierced. He’s ex military, in a rock band or a crazy surfer. We want that because, quite sex467561949071b426f6cafcf1850ef176honestly, he looks like trouble. Trouble means he will probably throw us down and ram us hard from behind, while pulling our fucking hair. (Read: Not yank. Pull.) We want to be nipped at, tied up, spanked, and told what to do. We want you to hold us down and lick our pussy until we can’t take it anymore…and then we want you to do it again with your fingers teasing our ass at the same time. If you won’t, we’ll eventually find someone who will. At least once. That’s just how it is.

Some women have a hard time saying it like it is. Perhaps they’re afraid what their partner might really think if they tell him what they really want.

Sex is fantastic. Romantic sex is absolutely wonderful. But sometimes you just need to get slammed up against a wall and fucked.

There. I said it.

 

The most common sexual fantasy for women is rape. (That’s not to say women want to BE raped.) I think you get what I mean when I state this fact. In a fantasy, you can enjoy the idea of being coerced without any real danger. That said, you can understand psychologically that we females have an innate desire to be told what to do, held down and fucked. Sex researchers suggest that one reason for the prevalence of aggressive fantasies isn’t so much the rape itself, but rather the desire to feel a loss of control. Women make a lot of decisions every day. We have to remain in control in order to get things done. Part of the pleasure of sex is giving up or taking that control to another level, so it’s vital to find a partner who balances you sexually. Two submissive people together are going to make for a lazy marriage that lacks heat. Neither will feel like being on top. Two dominants will constantly be in a power struggle that may spill outside the bedroom.

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Rape or near-rape fantasies are the main theme in romance novels. Often called “bodice-rippers”, a handsome man becomes so overwhelmed by his attraction to the heroine that he loses all control and must have her, even if she refuses–which she does initially, but then eventually melts into submission, desire, and ultimately fulfillment. Rinse, repeat and rename it Fifty Shades of Grey.

“Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in his viselike grip above my head, and he’s pinning me to the wall using his lips … His other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine…” -50 Shades of Grey pg 78.

This is part of our core animal nature. We like to believe we’ve evolved into something superior to being animalistic, but it’s revealed in certain basic situations. We overeat when we’re not hungry because we’re genetically programmed to store food for the possibly stark future. We sleep more in the winter because it’s cold and dark. And yes…there is an ingrained sexual aspect to us that’s undeniable. Yet, despite sex being as natural to both animals and humans as eating and sleeping, some still try to deny it.

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From Psychology Today: “This study is part of a growing body of research unveiling women’s dueling desires. On the one hand, women express wanting a relationship with a loving and committed partner for the long-term. Yet on the other hand, they demonstrate an attraction to men with darker personalities, typically for the short-term. It is important to recognize, however, that this dynamic has been shaped by the demands of evolution. For the women who fall for bad boys—and the men who love them—these insights may help untangle this paradox.”

 

The three most populated places on Earth:

  1. China
  2. India
  3. The Friend Zone

Every nice guy has bemoaned to anyone and everyone within earshot (and on every social network) how all women only love arrogant assholes.

Word origin for ‘asshole’: Latin. Meaning: contemptible person”. Dated: mid-1930s. – *I wonder what these types of people were called in 1892?*

This only loving assholes thing isn’t exactly true. Most women – the ones who aren’t completely damaged, that is – struggle with finding a balance. We want a nice guy. This man loves his mom, won’t run around on us (we hope) and calls on the way home to ask if he can pick anything up from the store. He tells us we’re beautiful, kisses our neck and remembers things that are important. He holds the door open, does laundry, cooks and enjoys the same movies. He may even remember to put the toilet seat down.

And, we want someone who will pull our fucking hair. With Bad Boy Syndrome, narcissism suggests confidence and dominance.  Women respond to this sexually without even realizing because it’s ingrained into us for reproductive reasons. We want a strong male who will provide strong offspring and be able to protect us.

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 “Stupid women say all men are the same. Smart women stop dating the same men.”

With age comes wisdom. With more wisdom, I’ve gravitated more towards the “nice guy”. I always thought he was vastly under appreciated. After all, I’m trouble enough for two and as long as he is a ‘think outside the box’ captain and not part of the crew, I’m perfectly fine with it. However, despite appreciating decent, sweet men, I’ve still found myself staring at obvious bad boys with sleeve tattoos, facial stubble and vascular forearms. Why? I’m smart enough to know not to date that type, yet I still find myself occasionally drawn to it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that men aren’t the only ones who want a lady on the streets and a whore between the sheets.

As I’ve gotten more comfortable in my own skin, I’m not afraid to say that sex is very important and I am not willing to compromise on that in a relationship. You can be wonderful, funny, good looking and rich. But, if the bedroom action is bad, boring or one-dimensional, it’s just not going to work for me. Life is too short to suffer from bad sex. That’s my own opinion, but I’d reckon others feel the same way.

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Any woman can understand what I mean when I offer up this example:

What is more innately attractive?  There is a tall, dark haired man. He’s handsome with broad shoulders, full lips and high cheekbones. He is also a certifiable nice guy. He pulls up in a Prius or a Scion. It has an automatic transmission.

Now, that same nice guy steps out of a sleek BMW Z4 or pulls alongside you in a rumbling convertible Ford Mustang.  By the way, both the BMW and Mustang happen to be stick shift – and he takes control of his car like a champ.

It’s not rocket science. This isn’t materialism. It’s a show of testosterone and confidence. I’m using cars as an example. You can work it any way you want. Nice guys don’t always finish last – not if they don’t want to.Sex_1

My point is this: women don’t love bad boys. They’re just attracted to them. Their confidence. Confidence is a big one.  This is something even the nicest boor can own if he tries. Spice it up with little danger or masculinity. Pin her down and give it to her hard every now and again. Women want variation. Be raw. Romantic. Rough. Teasing. Sensual. And incredibly dirty and nasty.

Pull her fucking hair.

Stay decent.

Personally, I’ve noticed that men who are close to their moms or were raised well by a single mother tend to have a completely different (and positive) view on strong women than the norm.  I’ve used that as a marker for my friendships and how to choose my dates rather than an Alpha vs. Beta vs. Omega debate. In the end, I think a sign of a good relationship is someone who is your best friend – he is the person you respect, share ideas, look forward to spending time with, your partner in crime – whom you want to fuck like crazy and give a blowjob while driving down the highway.

–While he wraps his hands around your hair.

My question to the modern male is this: Can you be both “the lady on the streets and whore between the sheets”? 

If so, you may just solve our paradox and answer that age old question: ‘What is it that women really want?’

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**I’d like to apologize for the copious use of the word “fucking” in this blog.  When it’s being used in the context in which I needed it for, there were few other options in the English language.

Like, none.  

I searched for interchangeable words but “fornicate” and “copulate” simply weren’t cutting it. Going full-on British English gave me even less to work with. “Give your bird a good rogering”, “Go on and get your face full of fanny while playing with her bum” or “Shag her bloody silly” wasn’t conveying the point very well at all.

So, “fucking” it was.

Carry on.

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COPYRIGHT APRIL HUNTER. NO PART OF THIS BLOG CAN BE USED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

 

Robin Williams and Suicide. Don’t Judge…

12 Aug

williamsI saw this on a blog today:

“What happens when celebrities lose their way, and think death is the only answer to their problems? Moreover, what happens when celebrities are no longer in the limelight; and the roar of the crowd, has been reduced to a handful of curiosity seekers? Do they grow old and fade away? Do they try to revive their careers? Or do they follow in the footsteps of the late great Robin Williams, and commit suicide? What do you think?”

 

First off, this person is a complete fucking moron.

Secondly, Williams has a film coming out shortly, so he’s still in the limelight.

Third: I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill himself out of depression or pity. Robin Williams had Bipolar Disorder.

Fourth: if others follow simply because Williams did it, they’re even more stupid than the woman who posted this is. And that’s a whole lot of stupid.

I think judging this as an outsider is something you can’t really do accurately. I have bipolar disorder. Unless you have it, you have NO IDEA what it’s like to live with it. This disorder has the highest death rate of any disorder…even a higher death rate than cancer. There is a reason for that. Sometimes people don’t kill themselves because they want to die. It’s because they just can’t live with it any longer. 
When you have a disease, it stays with you, no matter what. Nothing changes that. Not where you move, what your career is, who your partner is. It’s always with you. And bipolar disorder is much, much more than just mood swings. It physically affects you, especially the respiratory system. 
Unfortunately, with the ridiculous stigmas in the USA and lack of affordable healthcare, people either are afraid to talk about it or won’t come forward to get help and the proper medication…medication which is BRUTALLY expensive and usually not covered by insurance. 
There’s also a real lack of awareness about BP here, too. We would not tolerate that with Autism, yet we sweep this under the rug, despite so many having the disorder and it being a genetic disease that was declared a legal handicap in 2008. 

Most people who are successful at suicide with bipolar disorder do not do it during the depression phase. It’s when they’re manic or coming down from a manic episode.10426822_921610514532624_245466395857668397_n

As someone who is in the entertainment industry, I can tell you with a solid amount of certainty that Robin Williams was not eaten up by Hollywood, as someone suggested. He simply got tired of battling something that will never go away.

At the end of the day, Williams lived a very interesting, colorful life. And he got to choose when he wanted to check out.

That’s more than most people will ever get.

April Delivers the Write Stuff

20 Jul

themuseherself:

This was sent to me by another writer and I thought it was very, very neat, so I reposted it.

Originally posted on The Adventures of A Mixed Wrestler:

April Hunter

To paraphrase Bono, it’s no secret that aspiration bites the nails of success. And, if I had one aspiration for my blog, it would be that it was considered half as good as April Hunter’s blog.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with my blog and the purpose it serves. I get to write about my exciting wrestling matches, I get to feature some wonderful, beautiful ladies on it and I do have a loyal readership who seem to enjoy reading about what I do.

But, quite frankly, I wish I could write prose as engaging, as thought provoking and as entertaining as April can. For the uninitiated (and there can’t be that many of you if you call yourselves wrestling fans!), April is a pro wrestling legend. As beautiful as she is buff and talented. As well as wrestling, she is a fitness and glamour model – the pictures…

View original 770 more words

AC/DC – A Long Wait For The Day That Never Comes

17 Jul

I will occasionally edit for other writers.

This is something I edited for someone who had a story, but is not a writer. I chose it as part of my resume’ and collection here for that exact reason. That, and the content. Hopefully, you’ll be as entertained as I was.

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A Long Wait for the Day That Never Comes

     “You fucking cunt!” 

The hostile words screamed from my mouth still echoed the walls as we were escorted out of Madison Square Garden by six large men and one fat, angry little woman into the dark, rainy New York streets. 

     AC/DC, arguably the greatest hard rock band on earth was finally on tour again after an eight-year hiatus. They were playing two sold-out nights in New York City. Years of waiting and planning – and I managed to procure floor seats. That’s right; the mighty AC/DC LIVE IN NEW YORK – AT THE HISTORIC GARDEN! Unfortunately, I was never going to see this show.

Acdc_backinblack_cover     From an early age, I’ve been involved in a passionate love affair with rock and roll. When my aunt died of a drug overdose, I was the beneficiary of her record collection. Among these was an AC/DC Back In Black album. While flipping through my newly acquired collection, I was immediately intrigued by the simple black cover and the spiky, violent lettering of the famous AC/DC logo that said so much by showing so little. (Looking back, it was a fitting follow-up to Highway to Hell and the untimely death of the great Bon Scott.)

     When I placed the album onto the turntable and laid the needle down, I was greeted with the ominous tone to the opening of Hell’s Bells. The bells of death slowly rang and Angus Young’s guitar riffs filled the speakers. I was enthralled. As AC/DC rocked out, I held the album in my lap and poured over the artwork and lyrics. I had never heard anything so overpowering and beautiful. I had never seen anything so bizarre as this crazy long-haired man in a schoolboy uniform sporting a guitar with horns running around stage. I was hooked. 

     Many alcoholics and drug addicts often go back to the first time they tasted liquor or their first shot of junk; a vivid memory because it was a profound moment that ultimately affected the rest of their lives. In addition, they say the first high is always the best and you spend the rest of your life trying to duplicate it. To me, this moment was profound because my life has never been the same since that day. My vice isn’t the bottle or dope; it’s rock music – and I will never get enough.

     If rock and roll can be deemed a religion, then I was officially baptized at eight years old by AC/DC. I’m now thirty-nine and still listen to the same music that I did when I was in the fifth grade.

     When I hold a record in my hands, I worship it the way the priest does his bible. From the print on the spine to the smell of the sleeve, I cherish every part of the album and savor every note of the music. This is primarily why I detest CDs so much; they have no soul. Listening to an album is an experience. Only people who truly love music can understand what I am saying. Music just seems more alive on vinyl and the album sleeve is a real piece of artwork in your hands.acdcscan0039

     There are two types of people in this world; people who like music and people who live and die by it. I am the latter. I’m one of those guys that could be in a bar surrounded by willing, beautiful women, but spending all of my time going nuts over the excellent jukebox instead.  Whenever I’ve had extra cash on hand, I spent it on an album. I once lost a job in college because I HAD to see Fugazi when they came to New Orleans. They rarely made it to the area and it was not going to happen again in the near future. I had skipped work and gone to the show. Of course, I got fired and almost couldn’t feed myself, but it’s still one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I don’t think they made it down to New Orleans ever again.

     With that said, I will now tell you about the worst night of my life. I had been waiting years to see AC/DC live. I’d missed their tours in both high school and college. Military deployments kept me away as well. After years of sifting through web sites, magazines and chat rooms, rumors of their long-awaited new album had begun to circulate. My time had finally come.  AC/DC was going on tour again after eight long years and there was no way in a highway to hell I was going to miss it. 

     Because I am an anal retentive music fanatic, I strongly believe that there are only a few places that a rock show may be seen. These locations (in order) are New York, Donnington, Los Angeles and London. Additionally, wherever the band is from will suffice as well since hometown crowd enthusiasm is usually unparalleled. I am from New York and have had the pleasure of seeing most of my favorite bands there. Compared to other places around the U.S. that I’ve been, bands just don’t put out the same way they do when in the Big Apple – it’s a fact.  New York crowds also are the most responsive and fun, therefore making the concert experience a memorable one. If one of my favorite bands is playing, I will always fly to NY from wherever I am to see them.

    AC/DC rocks Madison Square Garden It’s literally impossible to get a good ticket from the Nazis at Ticketmaster, so I was forced to deal with a group of dirty pirates known as ticket brokers. AC/DC would be in NYC in November; by September my plans were in motion. After getting raped for almost $600, I had acquired floor seats. I originally wanted to spend $500 per ticket to get closer to the stage, but my brother, who was my faithful concert companion, would not go for it. We were still on the floor, which was fine by me.

     After waiting roughly eight years and two months, November thirteenth arrived and it was time to rock. I flew up to Long Island on the morning of the 13th from Orlando, Florida and met up with my brother. We had a great day planned; we were going to take the train into the city, catch up with our younger sister, who was a senior at Fordham University, and get properly smashed with other AC/DC fans at the bars surrounding the Garden. 

     Our first stop was the Blarney Rock on 34th Street. The Blarney is a carpenters’ union bar that has outstanding food. My brother and I downed four beers, a basket of wings and watched a bar fight between two irate carpenters while we waited for our younger sibling to show up. So far, the day was coming along famously.

     When my sister arrived we hit up a few bars around the Garden looking for trouble. Being that it was only three o’clock and the show didn’t start until eight, everything was still fairly quiet. We stumbled upon Brother Jimmy’s BBQ, where we heard AC/DC tunes being played full blast on the restaurant speaker system. Derrick, our bartender, was a great guy and seemed highly entertained by our rambunctious state due to the family reunion and of course, AC/DC.  We proceeded to drink several Pabst Blue Ribbon tall-boys while singing along to AC/DC tunes. 

     My brother was the first of the group to display his drunken state when he got up on his bar stool and screamed, “AC/DC…HIGHWAY TO HELL…WOOOOOOO!!!!!!” After being told to calm down a bit, Derrick gave us a round of shots on the house and asked us to please stay a while. My last clear memory of the BBQ establishment was the three of us slamming our hands down on the bar in synch to the bass drum opening of Hells Bells. The bar had gotten packed full of AC/DC fans and had become very festive. At 7:30 we parted ways with our sister and hauled ass over to the Garden.

     As we entered the front of Madison Square Garden, we immediately stopped at the bar and I ordered two vodka cranberries. In hindsight, I should have known better. My brother was a beer guy and has never handled booze very well. Despite this well-known fact, my brother, being the good Jew that he was, had never turned down anything that was free and eagerly took the cocktail.

     Our seats were great – right on the floor towards the back of the fourth section. We quickly made friends with everyone around us and settled in. Within minutes my brother was convinced that we could get better seats. He was a city cop and knew a lot of officers who moonlighted at the Garden. To my surprise and delight, he knew the ushers working the first section in front of the stage. His friend told us that if we came back after the first band was done, she would get us to the front without any problems. This night had officially gone from damn good to quite possibly the greatest time of my life. Or so I thought. This is where the story gets better for the reader and goes horribly wrong for the narrator.

 

******

 

   ACDC_edit  One of my pre-concert rituals is to take everything in around me; the stage, the lighting, the sound booth and of course, the impressive size of the arena. After all, if rock is my religion, then the concert venue is my church. As the lights dimmed, the first band made its way onto the stage.  They were called The Answer and also hailed from Australia. As I looked around the dark arena, little red lights began to illuminate the Garden. AC/DC sold these devil horn headbands that lit up and flashed red. It was awesome to see glowing devil horns floating in the dark all around me. My excitement suddenly kicked and the realization that I was finally there hit me hard. The Answer started playing and sounded a bit like a Led Zeppelin cover band.

     Halfway through the first song, I felt a tugging at my shirt. I looked down and my brother was sitting with his head between his legs, spitting onto the floor. Being the man of the world that I am, I immediately recognized his actions as the universal sign for “I’m gonna puke.” I grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him into the nearest restroom.

     The floor seat restrooms are definitely the best kept secret in New York. Squeaky clean, never a line. No puke or some douche bag pissing in the sink. Furthermore, there’s a liquor bar right outside.  Instead of taking a twenty-five minute trip for a shitty, lukewarm beer, you can have vodka!

     Anyway, I dragged my brother into a stall and he immediately started letting the chunks fly. Up came the wings, beer, vodka cranberries and even a bagel we had at the train station.

     After about ten minutes, I asked, “Are you done yet?”  I heard a faint whisper emanate from the stall: “I have to shit.”

     My brother is a father of two and owns two properties. Recreational drinking is and has been a thing of the past for quite some time. When he gets a chance to go out, he blows the wheels off. Additionally, when he is really sick, he always has to defecate. One time he slipped on ice and hurt his back. At the hospital when he came to, they had to carry him to the bathroom to evacuate his bowels. I guess it’s some weird reaction his body has to pain. I think it’s totally fucking gross. I’ll just leave it at that. 

     So, at that point, my brother was crapping in a stall while spitting on the floor. The Answer had just finished their set and I began to get antsy. I got up on the adjoining toilet and looked into his stall, shouting, “Get your shit together, it’s almost GO TIME!” No response. I opened the door and slapped him in the face. “What the fuck!”  He was up. After a few moments of motivating words and cheers, he cleaned up and emerged from the stall. 

     He appeared okay and it was apparent that we were going to make it. My brother looked at me with sleepy eyes and asked where the sink was. As I turned to point to the row of sinks, vomit sprayed past the tip of my index finger. Jesus Christ. My brother coated two sinks in puke.  Luckily, there was no one in the bathroom. I felt so bad; I tried to conceal the mess by wiping off the sinks with a wad of paper towels.

     Finally, in a strong and confident voice, my brother bellowed, “I’m ready, let’s rock.”  He took two steps and did a header straight into the tile wall and slid to the ground. I put one arm around his waist and made him put his arm around my shoulder. As we entered the floor area of MSG, we looked like a couple of soldiers fresh out of a shit-storm firefight in Da Nang. 

     I walked him quietly by a group of ushers back to our seats. “Stop right there!” Fuck. A small, fat woman ran over.  “He’s too drunk.  He’s gotta go.” 

     I assured the woman that he was fine and there would not be any problems.  She wasn’t hearing any of it. I began to beg. Like a little bitch I stood over her and pleaded with everything I had.  “Please ma’am, these tickets were very expensive and I’ve been waiting years for this show.” Nothing.

     She said there was no way my brother could stay. At this point, I started to hurl every curse word I’d ever learned at her. In short time, we were surrounded by six very large, very black security guards. The guards escorted my brother and me to an elevator and boarded with us. As the elevator began to move, my brother came to and cocked his head up. It wobbled like a baby who had not yet developed the proper muscles to hold its head up straight. “I bet you all voted for Obama…fuck you!”  He then passed out. I looked up at the six large men. “I’m sorry; he doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Thank God they worked for the Garden because if we had been on the street, I’d be dead.

     I couldn’t believe this was happening.

We had floor seats and were about to have FRONT ROW seats. Now we had nothing.

     At this point, some readers might ask, “If it was so important to you, why didn’t you just leave him be and see AC/DC by yourself?”  Well, to this fair question I have a two-part reply. First, you never leave family behind. Second, the puke-spewing poop machine next to me was a New York cop. I couldn’t allow him to tarnish his record with a drunk and disorderly charge. 

     As the guards escorted us out, fans were making their way in. They were happy, rambunctious and walking into us because they were drunk. Drunk. I started getting mad and began pushing people away from me like I was in a mosh pit. We were surrounded by huge guards in red jackets so nobody messed with us. Before I knew it, we were standing in the cold rain staring at the entrance of Madison Square Garden.

     I dragged my brother down to Penn Station to catch the train back to Long Island. When I asked him which train we needed to take, he just laughed at me. I dropped him on the dirty floor. While my brother slept like a drunken snow angel on the station’s concrete, I searched for the information. Our train left in four minutes with the next one in two hours. I picked him up military style and we made our way for the track like we were trying to catch a chopper out of a hot zone. People stared and laughed. I was not drunk. I did have a headache and was sweating. It all fucking sucked. We made the train.

     The moment we passed through the doors, my brother informed me that he was going to get sick again. If we got kicked off the train, the next two stops we’d likely be dropped off were really bad areas to be stranded at night if you happen to be a couple of white Jewish guys. I wasn’t in the mood to end my stellar day by having my teeth knocked out, so I hustled him through five cars before finding the bathroom. Ripping the door open, I chucked him in. As the latch closed, I could already hear him wretching. “Whhhooooaaaaauuuugh!” 

     About ten minutes later, Old Jew Lady was complaining that the bathroom was still locked. I opened the door for her and of course, my brother is on the toilet shitting again with his head between the legs. “You can go ahead and use it. I’m sure he won’t mind.” She gasped and stalked off to another car. I held onto the railing as the car swayed. We would not be home for another forty-five minutes.

     Staring out the window, I wondered how the concert was going. I began to cry into my arm and choked back a sob. Really – I did. People were understandably staring at me. Here was a guy with steel-toed boots, ripped jeans and a full-sleeve tattoo, weeping like a little girl. I don’t even cry at relatives’ funerals. I had officially hit a new low.

     About thirty minutes later, my brother popped out of the bathroom like a goddamn jack-in-the-box. He was smiling, lucid and looked like a million bucks. “What’s up bro,” he said grinning ear to ear. My only response was a whispered, “Get the fuck away from me.” 

  acdccustom_1234388747870_forged_acdc_ticket_2008_front  When we got to his stop, my brother bolted off of the train and down to the parking lot. When I got down there, I could see his truck rounding the corner. Did that motherfucker just leave me stranded at a train station? Yes, he did. It began to rain again. I put my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and found my concert ticket stub. Taking it out, I held it up to my face for a few seconds and let it drop to the ground. I stood there and watched for a few minutes as the falling rain slowly seeped into it. 

     I was completely gutted because I was so excited to add that stub to my framed wall of concert tickets. This was THE prize; more important than my Stones ticket and more meaningful than the stub that proved I was lucky enough to be grossly underwhelmed at a Nirvana concert. I wanted to be hit by a car.

     I’m in my brother’s neighborhood once or twice a year, tops.  If you’re in Nassau County, you know everything looks the same. Every street has a pizza parlor, nail shop and deli. It’s the same type of house style, too – one after another. It took me over an hour to find my way back.

     I won’t go into the aftermath of this event, but I will say it was the single biggest let down of my adult life.

     I can only hope and pray that the lovely woman who threw us out got a raging case of herpes.

     To this day, I am still deeply scarred.

- Ryan S. Nichols

 

He Said

10 Jul

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He said, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Excitement. My heart beats. I smile.

Then panic. I did not like the fact that someone had the ability to make me feel this way.

If he can make me feel happy, he can make me feel sad.

That scares me.

A lot scares me.

Having control is key. Key to focus. Key to life. Key to sanity.

Someone else making me happy is not having control.

 

When I was safe inside a relationship, there was control. There was the comfortable glide. There was security.

This is none of that. It’s up, it’s down. It’s long distance. It’s uncertainty.

It’s gut wrenching solitude.

It’s a hole in my heart.

It’s wanting. And not being able to have.

It’s being attached to the phone.

He exists in there when he’s not here.

His face, his words, our moments.

I had wanted unplug more.

 love-quotes-breaking-down-walls

How did this happen?

I’m usually so careful. Removed. Warm, yet cold. It’s hard for me to really care.

I’ve gotten it down to an art.

Smile. Converse. Drink wine. Ask them questions about themselves.

Even if it’s boring, act interested.

Eye contact. That’s what you have to do.

Sure, sure. Let’s do this again soon.

Let me check my schedule.

Oh, damn. I’m away. Maybe another time?

 

I’ve become more and more like a man in so many ways. I was raised by a man, I work with men, I have turned into one.

I’m not selfish. It’s self preservation.

Truth be told, most people aren’t worth it.

There exists a carefully cultivated fuck-you shell around me.

It intimidates.

Purposefully.

“You’re nothing at all like I’d thought you’d be. You’re smart…sweet.”

I know.

It’s a common comment I hear from people who make it past the muscle. The blunt truths. The loudness. The vibrancy.

I have a lot to give. I can’t afford someone who takes.

I only want real in my life. Not so easy to find.

 

He was different. His words alone were atypical.

He saw things differently.

He was strong. He was used to being the one to do the intimidating.

He had his own uniquely cultivated shell.

He got into my head. I couldn’t get him out.

I tried. I gave up.

Gave in.

 

We were a lot alike. 

Maybe too much alike.

 

He said, “You’re so different than I’m used to.”

How?

“Well…you’re like a guy in a pretty girl’s body. That’s what I like, though.”

Really? Someone who views sex as sex? Someone who swears far too much? Someone who lives on steak and bacon? Someone who takes no shit, will shove people out of the way and not think twice about punching another in the throat if there’s cause for it? Someone who would rather go to a shooting range than a romantic comedy? Someone whose dog holds more value than all the jewelry she owns? Someone who watches Das Boot and knows who Yngwie Malmsteen is? Someone who hates malls? Someone who doesn’t give a shit about designer labels? Someone who doesn’t cook very often?  Someone who believes “Great mind talk ideas, good minds talk events and small minds talk people”? Someone who “gets to know herself”…often? Someone who believes the word ‘cunt’ should be used as a noun, adjective and verb? Someone who only half-heartedly cleans behind the toilet?

 

He said, “How bad are you? I’m asking because I really like you and want to know.”

Extreme. Rapid cycling. Out of my mind. Crazy. Bipolar.

Medicated.

He said, “Okay.”

And it was.

 

He said, “I’m being recruited. The job is across the state. I have my second interview this week.”

My gut twisted.

I wanted to run. But I didn’t.

But I wanted to.

 

He said, “I’m not sure if I’m taking it yet.”

I allowed myself to breathe.

For the moment.

 

He said, “I’m on my way.”

And I smiled.

 

Then one day he said, “I can’t do this right now.”

Why?

He said, “I can’t give you any more than this. I can’t give you what you deserve.

There are issues about myself I’ve always had. I’ve been working on them and thought I was all right. Mentally…I’m not.”

 

I suddenly realized that I’ve been him before.

I’ve done this to others.

 

I hated how it felt.

I felt raw and ripped open.

 

I’d hated how I felt when I did it to others.

It’s taken this to make me realize what I’ve done.

What I’ve done to those around me.

 

I wanted to help him. But I can’t. 

I know from being me that only he can help himself.

 

He said, “I’m sorry.”

And I was right.

He made me sad.

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Chapter 21: A Southwest Air Stalking

19 Jun

The Tampa airport was frenetically busy at what I considered to be an ungodly hour of the morning. For many writers, 7 a.m. is still the middle of the night. I am one of those writers. The alluring smell of fresh brewed coffee from Starbucks was almost enough to make me brave the line that stretched around the kiosk and halfwaydown the terminal…almost.If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to get the two and a half hours of sleep on the flight I still so desperately need. I love my Starbucks…and not just because there are (so-called) rumors of it being laced with methamphetamines.

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I’ve always wanted to be three things in life: a morning person, a black coffee drinker, and someone who can function perfectly on four hours sleep. I will never be any of these.

If I don’t get enough sleep, I literally feel hung over; nauseous, weak, foggy, and my head pounds. I’ve been on crazy wrestling tours where we didn’t catch more than a few hours sleep between a show the night before and getting on the tour busthe next morning to travel seven hours to another city. I was always deathly afraid I was going to drop someone on their head if I was sleep deprived.

It only happened once in my fifteen year career, but it DID happen – and it was bad. I was in Japan and jet lagged as hell. It was my first show on the tour. My opponent jumped off the top rope and I barely caught her in time; then I fell on top of her, snapping her ankle in several places. She needed surgery with metal rods and pins to put everything back together again. It is something I’ve always felt reallyhorrible about. I’ve also given myself several concussions by landing stupidly because I’m not all there while in the ring. Due to these things, I’ve managed to train myself to sleep anywhere in any situation. I know I have to when traveling in order to function.

I walked past the airport gates to find a water fountain for my refillable bottle. I’d love to say I’m environmental – and most days I am – but in this case, I’m just cheap. I refuse to pay $3.50 for water. Remember when water was free and you paid for porn?

An exhausted mother, herding three small children wearing Dora the Explorer backpacks and faces full of crumbs ran into me, her arms overloaded with diaper bags and…stuff. She apologized and I waved it away, asking her if she needed help. Her voice said “no, thank you”, but her sagging posture suggested otherwise. My heart went out to her. Then I secretly prayed if they were on my flight that they would be located far, far away from my row.

As I made my way back to my gate, a giant Mr. Olympia sized bodybuilder openly stared at me. Shaved head, shirt that was too tight and jeans that barely made it around his Hulk legs. He wasn’t bad looking, but he made me uncomfortable. He looked at me as if I was a steak and he hadn’t eaten in a week – and he didn’t stop staring. So, I kept walking.
I’m generally used to stares. But this guy started to follow me.
Sure, we are the same breed of alien gym rat. I’ll admit: our kind is rare. This does not mean I’d like to share my genetics with him to create miniature gym rats.

seriousFuck. I realize that he’s on the same flight I am. Southwest Air’s open seating policy makes people rush to board instead of clogging aisles trying to figure out what side A or D is on like aimless idiots. Most days I’m a huge fan of this concept…not today.

Naturally, Mr. Olympia was in “A” boarding as well and with nothing but open seats, he headed straight for my row. He and his much smaller friend squashed in, with him taking the middle seat.
Even the most petite human being will not willingly take a middle seat with other rows open. I was definitely being stalked.

He graciously allowed me half my window seat since his 300 pound frame and one leg took up the other half.

As if on cue: “You’re really vascular,” he stated. Vampires, athletes and Homeland Security agents looking for people carrying drugs love vascularity. I’ve learned to suffer the long sleeves in summer when returning through North American customs and immigration to avoid being “randomly selected”. 

“Um…yep.” I made a big show of opening my book wider and turning towards the window.

“You look great. I’m a personal trainer, so if you ever want help with your diet or anything, that’s what I do,” he volunteered.

“Ah.”

Him: “We travel to see Rush. Been to all their concerts. They’re playing in Philly tomorrow night. Do you like Rush?” I fucking love Rush. Red Barchetta, Tom Sawyer and Limelight got me through endless I-95 drives lasting twenty-two hours, between parental visits from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Enterprise, Alabama.so-i-see-you-do-gym-tell-me-more-about-how-u-lift-things-up-and-put-them-down1

“They’re okay,” I replied.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m…an accountant.” I deliberately picked the least interesting career I could think of on the spur of the moment.

“Oh? That’s interesting,” he said.

“Really, it’s not.”

“I love your hair. Can I touch it?”

“What?”

My copper red hair hit the back of my jeans in length. At the moment, much of it was on the armrest. He picked up a handful, rubbed it thoughtfully and then – SMELLED IT.

I snatched my hair back. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m just going to read and sleep.” I dramatically put earplugs in and made my 5’8”, 150 pound frame curl up as small as possible against the window.
I could tell I wouldn’t be allowed to sleep. Hell hath no fury like a bodybuilder scorned. He fidgeted around and continued a loud running commentary which included something about A playlists versus B playlists for Rush concerts for the duration of the two hour and thirty-eight minute flight. I wanted to ask him if he minded shutting the fuck up, but had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. I began to wish for the mother and her backpacked toddlers. At least they tend to fall asleep at some point after the seat kicking wears them down.windowseat

Damn. I had to pee, but would face the sticky issue of getting out of my row.Do I turn my ass or front to pass the guys? Forget it. I’ll just hold it.

“So, do you want to meet us for the concert in Reading Thursday night? I can probably get another ticket for that show.”

I looked at him and said, “Sorry, I think I have to return some videotapes.” He looked confused, thus confirming that the only thing we had in common were dumbbells.

“Uh, no. Not my thing. I’m not much of a concert goer.” Unless you count Kid Rock, Reverend Run, Greg Allman, Def Leppard, Coldplay, Madonna, Blue Oyster Cult, Whitesnake, Great White, Guns n Roses,an awesomely absinthed night at the Stone Temple Pilots, The Trailer Park Boys live, nearly every Cirque du Soleil show…I pushed my earplugs in deeper, turned into the window and tried to ignore his jostling leg up my rear. My throbbing forehead pressed against the cold window and I desperately wished for a pair of those expensive noise cancelling headphones and sleep.
When you don’t sleep on a flight, it seems long. Really, really long. This was clearly one of those flights.

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Eventually, it was time to get off the plane. Or as the airlines call it in their made-up word, “deplane”.
Mr. O eyed me as I stood up, looking like he may make one last desperate attempt. With a big smile and a warm tone in my voice I told him, “Touch anything on me and my fist will ‘Rush’ into your face, sweetheart.” He went silent for the first time in hours.

I stepped past him and shook out my hair. He took a step back and made room for me to pass. Victory. Exhausted victory.
Pee or Starbucks? I desperately needed the bathroom, but Starbucks was………Closer To The Heart.

 

COPYRIGHT APRIL HUNTER. NO PART OF THIS BLOG MAY BE USED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Truth or Lies?

3 Jun

lie

The problem with being around a writer is that you never know how much they’re taking from you. I steal – or am “inspired” – from many around me.

I take from people’s stories, personalities, problems and conversations.

Anything and everything can be material; I’m always observing. Nothing is off limits.

Bad decisions make the best stories.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been with friends who have begged: “Please do not write about this, April. Okay?”

Or someone will hover over my shoulder as I’m writing. “What are you…?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right. Let me see…”

“You smell like drama and a headache. Get away from me.”

So, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.    

 

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There is a fine and sometimes blurry line between fake fiction and real non fiction.

 

“She kissed him and tasted cigarettes and disappointment.”

“Are you taking your medicine?”

“No.”

“But you’re depressed.”

“Good. That means I’ll be inspired.”

—-

Being single at fifty-two was confusing. She sipped her wine. Looking at the online dating sites seemed unreal. Half the men her age seemed on the defensive, clearly having been hurt before.

The other half looked like shit.

—-

“Mom died. You need to come home.”

That’s how he had ended up back in the tiny house, in a tiny Nebraska town full of tiny minds.

—–

Florian was only culturally Hispanic, because she found she’d had to translate a menu for him in the restaurant Paella. It was a culture Abby had quickly learned to appreciate after a small town, white bread upbringing chock full of aprons and meatloaf. His was one of café Bustelo and cigar factories.

She felt the heat emanating from his body as his full lips bit hers and brushed softly against her ear. He wrapped his hands in her hair and pulled her roughly into him in full view of whoever cared to watch in the busy parking garage. He pressed her against the car, burying his face in her neck. She liked the way he felt. She liked his dark eyes and aquiline nose. She liked his passion for life.

The next day Abby returned his text in Spanish and said, “I’ll make you learn this.”

“I know…I’m a bad Latino. I’m sure there are many things you can teach me. That’s why I’m keeping you.”

“Oh, are you? We shall see about that.”

“See we shall.”  

“Mind the gap.” The tube doors slid open and people rushed in as we shoved our way out, surfing along with the teeming throng of black and grey clad bodies pushing up the stairs. The grey-white tiled walls dripped with dampness…

She’s  late. Again.

Not because she’s high maintenance. Because she doesn’t want to go.

Procrastination. Stomach churning. She hates this.

Self revolving, self serving, selfish. Me, me, me. That is what she sees when she looks at them.

Far too stupid to be whores. They’d rather give it away like sluts. For attention.

“Look at me! How fabulous I am, right?”

Stupid, stupid girls.

Narcissism. Borderline personality disorder. Mommy and daddy issues. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder.  All rolled into one room multiplied by 35.

This is the entertainment business.

It won’t make you crazy. Crazy makes it.

He wrapped his arm around her from behind and in the filtered twilight, she could make out several skulls and the Virgin Mary on the colorful tattoo that ran from his shoulder to his wrist. One of many he hid under his crisp suit and tie during the week. He wasn’t one for words or sentiment. When he did speak, it was matter-of-fact, blunt and stoic. 

His was a character of contradictions. Punk rock and golf. Independent art and million dollar contracts. Athletism and exhaustion. Chaste and carnal. Impatience and biding. Supercilious and open minded. A love of food and an empty refrigerator.

She found him brutally direct and completely unreadable.

He dumped the Big Gulp cup with change out on his tatty blue blanket and counted. Thirty-eight dollars. Not bad for the day, but not good either. Most of it had been earned on his last trick, a coup des gras magic levitation combo. He’d waited until the New Orleans streets were packed with happy drunks. Timing was everything.

“I wish we could make more money,” he said to the scruffy brown mutt lying at his side. Sam was never far from his side. Her bushy tail wagged easily despite the conditions they lived in.

“Do you?” 

Rodney looked up. An old black man with a milky eye that stared off to the left stood before him. He wore a starched white uniform and had a Creole accent. Sam didn’t growl, which surprised Rodney. “I’m Claude. I work at La Richelieu and I enjoyed your act.” He reached down and scratched Sam behind the ear. “Tell me…have you ever thought about voodoo?”

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and a large medieval contraption was before her. Leather straps, metal, cuffs. A sign read “Please tip your attendants. These rooms are not self cleaning.” In the corner, a blond was kneeling in front of a middle aged man sitting on a dark purple vinyl couch with khaki pants around his ankles and his hands on the back of her head.

She worked with the church, spending her nights taking calls and heading into the cold to pick up strays and search for lost pups. On this night, she’d found a little white dog with big, brown eyes and took him back to her place. He didn’t stop trembling until she wrapped him in a blanket and fed him.  He ate like there was no tomorrow and wriggled into her ankle afterwards in happiness. He wasn’t in bad shape, really. He couldn’t have been out there long because he was still groomed. She pet his soft white face, cradling him as he kissed her cheek and nose. Walking outside, she crossed the dusky yard to a sizable wooden pen. As she neared, the barking and snarling coming from it hit a fever pitch.

She kissed the little mutt on the head and then dropped him into the pit bull den as bait.

The left side showed me immediately why she’d survived and I hadn’t. A truck carrying long metal tubes had lost several.  One went through my windshield. The glass was a crumbled spider web splattered with blood and bits of skin. The metal was perfectly intact.

And it could be found pierced straight through my chest.

Mark Twain’s advice is to “write what you know” – which can be taken or mistaken in many ways.

 

 

Chapter 20: Men Are Like Shoes 

9 May

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She sighed. We were sitting outside a cafe near the beach on a chilly winter day with our coats buttoned up tight and steaming cappuccinos in our hands. There were also two glasses of Cabernet…as chasers.

“I don’t get it. Some days I really think I’m over this and can do it all myself. Who needs him? He doesn’t do the things I ask him to. It’s almost like he doesn’t do them on purpose because I’m asking! Then just when I’m ready to end it he’ll do something amazing and I love him again. But next week…it’s the same thing all over.”

I looked at her. “Men are like shoes.”

“Shoes? I don’t get it.”a49b18f13a404bc3b77136b967e988a3

I pointed to her black stiletto boots. “Do you expect your shoes to change to fit your feet?”

She looked puzzled. “No…”

“Then why do you expect men to change to fit your needs? Those boots are hot, but I’m sure after a while they hurt. What happens then? Do you try to lower the heel and reshape them, do you kick them off and go barefoot…or do you slip on a more comfortable pair?”

She laughed. “You can’t be serious. Men and shoes?”

all-men-are-shoes

“Oh, sweetheart, of course I am! Think about it…the relationship and love between women and shoes can be as complicated and inexplicable as it is between any woman and man. If you don’t expect your shoes to change, don’t expect a man to change. Some are pretty and uncomfortable. Others fit great but lack flair. Some women can only love shoes that hurt their feet. However, sometimes you love shoes that don’t change, but loosen up. They become your favorite. So comfortable, that even when they start falling apart, you’ll never want to get rid of them. “

 

“Oh, wow. That makes so much sense. Where did you come up with that?”

“I didn’t. For a couple of years, while I was living in France I found that the French have a vastly different and much more honest way of looking at things. It was there that I heard the saying ‘men are like shoes.’ The more I thought about it, the saying clicked with me. I had a much better outlook of relationships afterwards. Namely, not being disappointed or bitter. It simply was what it was and I brought this saying back to America to amuse my friends.

Some shoes fit better than others. Sometimes you go shopping and there’s nothing you like. And then, as luck would have it, the next week you find two pairs that are perfect, but you don’t have the money for both.”

We drained the last of our wine.

Gathering our bags to leave, I looked at her and smiled. “Your time and energy is valuable. Don’t waste too much of it expecting your shoes to change. Shoes that pinch don’t have to be part of your life, you know. Sometimes you have to try on a few pairs to find something that is the perfect fit for you. C’est la vie.”

 

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COPYRIGHT APRIL HUNTER. NO PART OF THIS BLOG MAY BE USED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Chapter 19: Shooting for Playboy and fantasy artists Boris Vallejo/Julie Bell

25 Apr

playboy4When you were in school, did you ever just tune the teacher out, gaze out the window and lose yourself in some dream? Like the day you pass the bar exam-how proud your parents would be to know that their money really wasn’t wasted? Maybe getting that record deal? Or making a pro sports team? Hitting the lottery for big bucks and buying Mom that house she deserves?
Right there with you. My fantasies included being an Olympic gymnast, that I was a direct descendant of Brian of Boru and Gormlaith, to be a veterinarian, travel the world, and do Playboy magazine. Well, I’d grown too tall to compete seriously as a gymnast… am still hoping to be Boru’s descendant… would later be fortunate to not only visit many countries but live in some…may possibly finish med school in a bit after I’ve gotten modeling out of my system… and had I just found out I’d gotten into Playboy.
wkend1I grew up a skinny, gawky, bookworm with tangled hair, a flat chest and thick glasses. To me, I’m still her. I don’t always see what everyone else sees. To actually have a shot at Playboy was a big deal to me. After about nine years of submitting every six months and getting rejection letters (“While you’re certainly an attractive young lady, you’re just not what we’re looking for at this time…”) my friend, Devon Michaels, was at the Playboy office in Chicago and showed them my pictures. They called and wanted to know if I could come in person. I wasn’t going to be in Chicago, but would be closer to NYC. The next day I was set up to do an audition in New York. From my own experiences and from those of my co-workers, it’s very hard to get into this magazine. I was pretty much overjoyed and shitting my pants simultaneously.
Naturally, I got this call the day after Thanksgiving. This holiday for everyone else is a fatty fat fat feast. But when you have a little Italian grandma at home in Philly, who gets super insulted if you don’t take seconds and thirds of the meal she slaved all day over a hot stove to cook you…fatty fat fat takes on a whole new meaning.
Translation: Absolutely ab-less for a Playboy shoot. I went… they took Polaroid’s and promised to call the next day. I was like, “Yeah, OK.” But, they did. I had to go back to NYC the next night for a shoot the following day.

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As I checked into the beautiful hotel that was arranged for me the night before the shoot with my hair up, no makeup on, in baggy sweats, the front desk girl loudly announced that Playboy would be covering all expenses and incidentals. 789 business men turned around to stare…in disappointment.
I was ecstatic. I can’t sleep when something’s coming up. I’m like a little kid at Christmas, and this was a fantasy dream come true. I surrendered to the night and opened my 14th story window overlooking Manhattan, twinkling full of Christmas lights for about an hour. I love this city. I’ve spent so much time here lately, I feel like an honorary New Yorker. Almost as rude at times, too… I love the rudeness, but I prefer the term directness. Saves time.
I had to be up at 7 a.m. without ever falling asleep, which worked in my favor because the hotel forgot my wakeup call. Around 6:30am, I just gave up and got in the shower. Did I ever feel like complete shit. With all the traveling, I was now on day 3 of no sleep.

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OK. So, the makeup artist Jay arrives – and he had his work cut out for him. I’m going to call him Really Gay Jay…because he was Jay and really gay. He primped and pampered and blended away. I’m usually wary of makeup people. I started doing my own makeup for photo shoots pretty often after dealing with a slew of bad ones. One woman actually made MY lips look thin. My lips. I have big Latin lips (and ass). It’s damn near impossible to make them look thin, but that girl managed. Jay had lots of great stories about super models and celebs he’d done for Playboy… and some great makeup tips that I stole. Loved the way he cooed in his Southern lilt: “Ooh, just look at all that hair! Fab-u-lous! And that color! Who DOES your color?” All the while he just kept brushing my hair and telling me gossip.

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This was already fun. I decided I was a big Really Gay Jay fan. We grabbed a cab and headed to the studio. It was set up like a gym. There were lots of people around and half were Japanese. It felt a bit odd because I wasn’t used to this many people around on shoots. Most of the time, it’s just the photographer and me out in a desert somewhere.

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Playboy had:
– the makeup guy,
-the art director,
-the photographer,
-the guy who owned the property,
-his wife,
-their maid,
-and the girl who did castings.
There was even a Nivea lotion guy. Hate to ruin the myth, but Playboy isn’t as airbrushed as you might think. It’s a lot of Nivea. This is a shiny lotion that bounces the light back to the camera and makes your skin appear smooth and flawless on film. I think they’re still hiring for this job, so hurry now boys.

-Oh yeah, there was also the lighting guy.
A hair light. A face light. A boob light. A thigh light. And a butt light. All of this was very, VERY important.
Playboy puts a lot of effort into their shoots…via a lot of people.

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What do you think a butt lighting guy gets paid? Imagine that conversation at the bar after work with his friends…they probably think his life is awesome. Meanwhile, he’s truly a stifled artist dying a slow death under butt lighting and developing a deep resentment for Playboy models. He begins dating chubby girls out of defiance…and keeps the lights off. Just my guess.
Then we went to it. Gen Nishino, (who reminded me of a younger version of Mr. Miyagi) clicked away while I hung naked from the equipment in a way that I’m sure it had never been used before. For my main shoot, I wore a Crunch Fitness bright yellow sports bra that was too small so my breasts were mostly falling out of it while doing back and shoulders. The next set was a naked treadmill session for a special edition of Hardbodies, because we models ALWAYS do our cardio in the nude while bending over the handlebars naked to stretch. And finally a Playboy Lingerie shoot in tight black lace and red strappy high heels by the stairs. Gen shoots in a ‘voyeur’ style that took getting used to and also made the almost unforgivable comment, “Wow-you’re massive!” I suppose I am next to the bitty things he usually shoots. Plus the fact that he’s Japanese. Probably not the best comment to make to a model while you’re trying to get the best out of her.
It was forgivable, because this shoot would later lead to a ton of other opportunities, including an open door straight into the wrestling business.
After the shoot, Really Gay Jay looked out for me very protectively; made sure the cab driver didn’t rip me off and told me the easiest way to get home. Incidentally, the parking garage at the hotel “lost” my car for about an hour, and no one spoke English. I was so tired and sore (long contorting shoot) and didn’t have the energy to freak out on them….which is universally understood, I believe.

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I got back to Philadelphia and fell into bed just to get up in the morning and head north again to shoot with fantasy artists Boris Vallejo and Julie Bell.
This was supposed to be my week off between nonstop national burlesque tours , but there’s no way I’d miss these opportunities. I’ve always wanted to work with Boris and Julie. I’ve loved their work since an old boyfriend turned me onto a calendar when I was about 19. I can’t believe both these calls came the same week.
Boris is from Peru and we chatted about the popular book, The Celestine Prophecy. He told me it was completely made up, because the Inca’s had no written language, and therefore couldn’t write the prophecies. Bummer. Guess there’s no Santa Claus either?

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I shot with Julie first. This woman was just incredible looking. She looked 10 years younger than she really was, and has one of the best fitness bodies I’d ever seen – and 2 kids. Not to mention, she’s really beautiful. She attributed it to twice-daily workouts with Boris, organic foods and veganism. I couldn’t believe she could have that much muscle mass as a vegan.large
She had me get undressed completely, stand on a pedestal and pose with lots of barbaric-looking cool weapons. I was a lone female, wearing nothing but buckskin and a shield, battling off Norse invaders to my village with their own battle axes to protect my King, who had been critically injured while fighting a fierce dragon. He’d saved me, a sacrificial, ginger virgin left on an alter, from the beast… I had a little movie running in my head the whole time, and was having fun losing myself.
Boris shot me next, and was quick. He knew exactly what he wanted.
I especially enjoy my job when I get to do fitness-related shoots and play with weapons. I was told for so long to “soften up and stop scaring people”, that it’s nice that my fit look is not only accepted but sought after now. Plus, it beats a desk job, right? Two major dreams fulfilled in one week. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be dancing around the living room. But after all the fantasy shooting that week, I think it was perfectly acceptable to fantasize about dancing around my living room instead.

 

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COPYRIGHT APRIL HUNTER. NO PART OF THIS BLOG MAY BE USED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

With or Without You…

22 Apr

(Written spring of 2013)

It’s such a cliché. When did we become a cliché?

We never did conform to anyone else’s rules.

We always colored outside of the line…but now we’re THAT.

I told you…I never wanted to be that couple sitting across from each other at the restaurant,

Not talking. Not looking at each other.

We became THAT.

 

Loyal. Kind. Negative. Criticizing. Witty. Smart. Nitpick. Divide…and Conquer.

My mind races and I can’t sleep.

I never could. Thoughts come faster than I can get them down.

Being this way…It’s a curse. It’s a blessing.

I know.

I know people don’t get me. They can’t. 

I know I may die young.

I know I’m smarter than most.

I know I do dumb things.

I know my father was this way, too.

I got this from him.

He said, “I will never be happy.”

Well…I have trained, read and learned.

It’s simple. You decide how you will see things.

I know I can be happy.

I don’t think you can.

When you are already past the age of where you could be dead, every day is a gift.

What should I do?

I don’t want to live like this. But I can’t imagine life without you in it.

We are two good people who bring out the worst in each other.

You look at me, but you don’t see me. You see an illness. That’s all I am to you now.

 

I don’t want that.

The constant reminders…

I don’t want to be looked at like that.

 

A dog loses his leg and learns to walk again.

Right away.

No one is in his ear, all day and night, telling him what’s wrong…how he’s a poor thing…there’s something wrong with him.

He just gets up and walks. 

Before this, I was just me. I’m still me.

And I’ll be fine.

Without you…I think maybe I can walk again.

 

Life_goes_on_edited

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