courtesy jasper goodall
Inside, I’m standing there with my skirt lifted up to my waist. Outside, an iconic stained glass butterfly on the wall stands two stories high, gossamer, delicate and encased in a thick cocoon of grime and graffiti.
Inside the Butterfly a chubby twenty-something wise-guy wanna-be draped in brown polyester and gold chains is propped up on bar stool by the cash register, his feet dangling. Nicky Fireplug gives me a quick once over, like I’m a used car, and kicks my metaphorical tires.
“Ya got good legs?” he asks me. Nothing about experience or previous employment. Just, “Ya, got good legs?”
I hoisted my skirt up to my waist. Because I do. I got good legs.
That’s what got me the job, the good legs. And the fact that I’m willing to lift my skirt for a total stranger whose feet don’t reach the ground when he sits on a bar stool. I didn’t care about my legs. Or his. I needed a job. One where I could drink and no one would bother me about it. And these were my job skills: a big ass, thick thighs, muscular calves, delicate ankles and a total lack of shame, or pride – whatever. Either way, it wasn’t exactly a skill set I put on a resume. This was no worse than some and better than answering phones at the whorehouse. The Butterfly gave me access to a fully stocked bar. The whorehouse, did not.
Sometimes, it is just that simple.
Guys & Dolls had felt like your Italian Nonna’s house with the overly bright living room where everything’s encased in plastic, red flocking or gold paint and the uncles are hiding downstairs making homemade wine and homemade bombs. The Butterfly was more like that aging aunt the family whispered about. The one whose clothes were a little dingy, outdated and wrong for whatever occasion she managed to show up for, who reeked of after-dinner sherry, even at breakfast, the one who used to be beautiful. The bar curved around in a question mark, punctuating the unspoken query–just what are you doing here? Worn booths made S curves around two or three small raised stages with poles, and another low stage stood just past the bar.
The Butterfly was dark and brooding, all nappy red velour and red lights–a warm menstruating cooch, if your cooch came equipped with brass poles and mirrors.
The hustle was the same. Twenty bucks gets you ten minutes of cheap champagne and company at the bar. If twenty will get you ten at the bar, forty would get you twenty in a booth, eighty got you thirty upstairs… and the beat goes on.
Personally, I don’t even like good champagne, thanks for asking, but you can buy me a $20 glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. In a few months I will have polished off all the Harvey’s, as well as the Frangelica, the Sambuca, Anisette, and any other sweet thing I can find. Nicky Fireplug won’t order any more. He knows it’s only me and pimps that drink that stuff. He knows it’s really all me because they’ve figured out what the other two joints could not–how to discourage pimps, which is easier than you’d think when you fill the place with mobsters. The boss orders thin gold bottles of fugazy Harvey’s and You better be happy with that you little slut, because that’s all you’re getting. You’ll drink that and charge the same as for the good stuff.
I’ve found a home. I begin to assemble a family. At 24 I’m already that aunt the family whispers about. Both families….
This entry was written by , posted on November 30, 2009 at 11:04 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, drinking, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
3 naked ladies talk about their view from the stages and laps of the 70′s, 80′s, 90′s and today.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, or thedirtygirldiaries.com
This week, globe-trotting glamour-gal, Kelly Hayworth stops in to chat with the Naked Ladies….
Jodi Sh. Doff: In the 70s & 80s I danced on stage and hustled drinks on the floor. There was a difference in the feelings of security & power. I felt safer, emotionally, on stage with that distance from the customer. Lauri, you worked laps as well as poles yes?
Lauri Shaw:I sure did. The amount of contact and privacy varied from club to club.
Some lap dances were more like table dances –both feet on the floor at all times and you faced the customer.
In others, you could straddle the customer backwards or forwards, rub your knee in his crotch, he could touch anywhere but your tits, ass or crotch. You essentially dry-humped the guy and often right out in the open. I hated that, but as with everything else, you get used to it.
Some clubs had special rooms for lap dances, wall dances…
JshD: Dry humping against a wall? Guys never get past high school do they…
LS:... or couch dances –they were only semi-private, but away from the main floor. The VIP rooms, though, were usually just you and the customer, one-on-one.
JshD: And once again I’m grateful I got out before lap dancing caught on. It’s one thing to be alone in a VIP room negotiating whatever, knowing the bouncer was just the other side of the door and I didn’t have to do anything. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn’t, but no one had the right to expect contact like they do with a lap dance…
LS: You never HAD to do anything. You set your own limits, but they had to be similar to the other girls’ limits, or you wouldn’t make money. So I guess it felt a lot like “had to.”
Kelly Hayworth: Well, I’m a career-long dive-bar dancer–my Tokyo club was the size of a living room. Many Tokyo clubs are hostess-like, there’s more emphasis on making commission on drinks than on stage shows.
JshD: Hustling drinks always made me feel like a beggar. I don’t mind taking my clothes off, or drinking with anyone who offers, but all that “Hi honey, wanna buy me a drink” shit was just depressing. I had to have some booze or dry goods first to work the floor…
LS: I don’t think that’s easy for anyone. I had to be a little tipsy myself, otherwise if someone was rude to me, I’d be rude right back. A bad exchange with a customer could mess up my whole night…you get off to a wrong start and don’t make any money.
KH: Yeah, I only drank at the clubs when I had to sell dances and/or drinks. Some of the London pubs were stage only, so no problem.
Only a couple of girls danced on “stage”–(a wobbly pole in the centre of the room that collapsed with my friend upside down on it)–and only once or twice a night. You’d dance one song–half twirling around the pole, the other half going to each customer and demanding a tip. The smallest Japanese bill is worth almost $10 American, so it was worth doing the stage. We laughed if an American came in and tried to give us a dollar bill.
LS: I knew some girls who had danced in Japan, all tall with big tits. I heard the money was great but that if you were petite like me, don’t bother–you wouldn’t be exotic in Japan. So I never even thought about going.
KH: Tokyo changed massively while I worked there on and off from ’98 to ’07. In the beginning it was about being blonde for the Japanese guys, but nowadays it’s all foreign businessmen–British and American–so blonde means nothing. They’re looking for Japanese girls.
In London it was fully nude walking around the pub floor for a song, going up to each customer–giving everyone attention. You wouldn’t think so but, it’s actually where I felt safest. We never got too close–there was something like a three foot rule and absolutely no contact–and guys never pushed it. They were conditioned to just look. Also, you got the tips before the show–every customer has to put one Pound minimum in your glass.
JShD: I guess there’s some modicum of British propriety– I can’t imagine that in NYC. Visions of drunken frat boys grabbing ass and tit as you moved through the crowd. I need personal space. A lot of clubs had a raised stage behind the bar because of an ABC Buffer zone law that specified if you served booze, you needed 6 ft. between topless dancers and customers. Looking down on my customers from that distance gave me a feeling of control and power I really liked.
KH: Ha! I don’t know about British propriety! These were tiny pubs out in the country, a Friday night in Leicester Square would’ve been very different.
LS: Yeah, I live in the UK these days. Propriety my ass. They can afford to behave themselves in the strip clubs because if they want more, they can go to a legal brothel here.
KH: Tokyo and London felt more powerful onstage than the US. Maybe because it was more confrontational–like by walking up to the customers I’m demanding their attention and tips–in the States I felt like I had to hope that maybe they would tip.
LS: The girls I danced with on stage in Manhattan used to kick drinks on customers who were really offensive and / or refused to tip.
KH: Also, since there isn’t a continuous show, like the States, dancers aren’t “background”, we got direct attention. I certainly feel more powerful when I have attention, it can be crushing to have no one come up to your stage–or worse, get up and leave when you come on! I mean, we are getting naked, they shouldn’t take us for granted, right?!
JshD: Makes sense. Girls on stage are competing with the girls on the floor for the attention and dollars of the mooks at the bar. It’s set up so the bar wins, not the girls.
This entry was written by , posted on November 25, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged London, strippers, Times Square, Tokyo. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Nothing was ever worse than that week in 1979, the week I would use to measure and rate all other weeks and incidents in my life, for the rest of my life, even today. Nothing was ever worse than the week my husband stole all my money and tried to kill me by beating me to death with a Bible, I got fired, Lightfoot locked me up in a roadside motel with the intent of ‘turning me out’, my apartment got infested, infested I tell you with cockroaches and I was on the back of a motorcycle as it crashed head on into a parked van.
Even I could see something was slightly askew. Something was always slightly askew. The bottom line was that I was still alive, albeit a little more banged up, a little broker than when I started, but alive.
I took a few days off at my parents house to get over the very worst of the accident, then headed back to the East Village. Lola got me a waitressing job at the Italian restaurant where she worked and I tried, I really did. I tried to make a go of it with a straight job for almost a year.
1979 October
I tried on those boots with the red suede stars. They looked great, but they’re $160 – so it’s back to selling drugs for extra money. I can pick up 100 Black Beauties this week.
October
Granma Helen called. “You’re not a princess anymore,” she said. “Nope, too many frogs,” I thought to myself. I wish she’d stop calling.
November
I’m nothing but a lowly waitress and I’m drinking again. Luckily, it takes less and less to get me drunk. I don’t do anything very well. Except give head. I’m not sure if that’s depressing or not.
November
I go to the 50¢ photo booths every week and study the four small black and white impressions of me. I don’t really recognize myself in these photos.
December
Wednesday : Crashed a private party at Great Gildersleeves for the Hell’s Angels and got as drunk as I could.
Thursday : Had a tooth pulled out.
Friday : Stayed in.
Saturday : Took Laurie to Bellevue Hospital after Havasha beat her up.
December
Winter is here and I’ve started drinking at home. Not to worry, but it’s a change.
1980 March
I’m sick and not even a cat here to keep me company. All I want is someone to feel sorry for me. The landlord’s been banging on the door all day, yelling for the rent.
March
I hate being grown up. It’s lonely and there’s nothing to look forward to. The older I get, the less I’m able to remember. It used to be just my childhood but more and more of my teenaged years are gone. Maybe if I had a job or something… I’m scared.
March
I get so violent when I’ve been drinking. I’m almost knifed a bitch in Gildersleeves over nothing, a guy.
May
Sometimes it’s more painful to live than to die.
May
I do not recognize the face in the mirror.
June
The apartment is clean, the roaches are gone and I have a large cold glass of Rosé beside me.
I am very calm.
June
Finding that I can ingest a lot of booze in a short a period of time and still be clear. The physical clumsiness of the 3rd drink now takes me 1/2 a bottle of wine and 1/4 bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream to find. Unfortunately, the maudlin crap comes just as quickly as before. Quicker as get older. Maybe it’s not the drinking at all, just the aging.
July
So far this year I’ve seen 16 movies and had sex 17 times with 10 people. That makes a movie every 11 and 6/16 days and sex 2 1/2 times a month. I guess I don’t actually have a lot of sex, I just have it with a lot of different people.
July
BW got out of prison. Neighbors say he’s been looking for me. I decided the best way to deal with this was to get drunk. It worked, I fell asleep, which I don’t seem to be doing a lot of lately.
July
Voices call my name I turn and see no one as the day grows nearer (any day now, this is the year, this is my last year) the voices grow louder and more distinct am I mad or right or both is it madness to wait patiently for one’s own death?
September
I’m 23 and bored with people and life. The thing that kept me most excited about life was death – and then, I didn’t die.
September
Decided to really go straight, take anything to avoid the midtown sleaze. My first interview – a receptionist job – turned out to be at a whorehouse. I start 10:30 tomorrow morning. I don’t know if I’ll show or not, but apparently sleaze is my fate.
September
Still looking for work. Losing track of days and time. Drinking less because I’m short of cash, but I’d rather eat less. If things get tough I could dance one day a week.
One day wouldn’t kill me.
This entry was written by , posted on November 23, 2009 at 2:02 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, 1980, death, drinking, drugs, East Village, the abyss. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I walk in moonlight, my breasts full and plump, my ass soft and round, hips rolling seductively as I near the bed. My face a blank mask as I look down at him, thinking about what? The car? The money? The task at hand?
Floyd lies naked, an island of flesh lit by garish street lights. He does his best to spread his legs open, to expose himself more. The sheer mass of his stomach eclipses everything in the room. His chubby fingers grab at my dark curly pubic hair and he shoves a thumb inside of me (Audible gasp. Mine. I cannot tell if it’s pleasure, surprise or horror.) His thumb probes deeper, twirling around.
“Suck my cock.” His voice has lost its whininess. He pulls his thumb out of me and shoves me towards the foot of the bed. The thumb, shiny with my juice, he sticks in his mouth and suckles on.
When a man’s pound of flesh is surrounded by four hundred more pounds of flesh, well… finding it alone is work. Tucked inside the folds of those massive thighs, deep beneath the crevice below his belly, I root through his flesh like a pig after truffles. Holding his belly up with an elbow, his thigh away with a hand, I find my prey. No bigger than a thumb or a pale breakfast sausage, I take him in my mouth. Sucking him, stroking him slowly, making him harder, squeezing and pulling, rubbing my breasts while he peeks around his belly to watch me.
I’m getting us both ready.
He lays there, unable to move, a giant overturned turtle, a great sea mammal washed ashore, stranded and at my mercy. My juices are flowing. I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m so wet. I touch myself, separate the damp hairs, the pink outer lips, open myself up and rise up. I close my eyes and mount him as best I can.
“Suck this,” I command, slapping his hand away from his mouth and sticking my fingers, slick with my own juices, in.
I ride him, leaning forward as he grabs my tits, pulling painfully at my nipples. I grip his round arms and ride him, forgetting about his rash, his size, his lack of size. I ride and pump and thrust and grind. I moan and curse and Oh baby, and yes, yes, yes as he comes inside me. I ride him some more, pulling on my own nipples now, rubbing my clit up against his big firm belly, bringing myself to climax. I stroke his big round belly and when I feel him shrinking, I contract inside and try to hold that little sausage a bit longer.
And I think about where I will go in the cute blue Pinto I will buy with his money.
My money.
The money was the real reason I was there, I told myself. Yet, even describing it now, my juices flow and my puss tightens. His flesh repulses me, but having a man want me so badly he’ll pay what I ask, makes me wild. Opens me up inside. To be in charge. To be in control. To be paid.
He’d already washed my scent off and squeezed back into his brown polyester slacks when I realized no money’d changed hands yet. No crisp bills waited quietly on the night stand like in the movies.
“Floyd, uh…you’re leaving?” He stood at the doorway to the lighted bathroom. A gargantuan silhouette, his huge polyester behind reflected in the mirror.
“Yeah. I gotta see what kind of damage those boys did tonight. Keep the room. I paid for the night.” He struggled into the matching sportcoat, patted me on the head, checked his pockets, tossed the room key onto the bed and headed towards the door.
“I don’t wanna stay here all night. We talked about money Floyd… What about the money?” I snatched up my clothes, pulling my panties on without washing him off of me. A little bit of liquid Floyd runs down my leg.
“Lookit kiddo, I don’t have the money with me…”
“What do you mean, you don’t have the money? The cab, the room…?”
I came here to get paid, to turn a trick.
“That’s about all I had, I don’t carry cash. Look, are you okay? D’ya need cab fare?”
Cab fare you mammoth pig? I need three hundred and twenty five dollars. I need your head on a platter. I need my FUCKING MONEY I scream in my head.
“OK? OK? I’m not OK,” screaming out loud, pounding the bed. “What about my money? You said you’d pay me three…”
It’s not a trick if you don’t get paid.
“Hey,” he interrupted. His fat hand on my still naked shoulder, “d’ya think I’m trying to cheat you?” And it is, it’s exactly what I think, but I don’t say anything. “Whad’jew want me to do, tell the guys with the guns ‘Wait, don’t shoot nobody yet. Lemme get money outta the safe to give to my girl?’ ”
“But I thought….I thought you had money with you…”
STUPID, STUPID STUPID. STUPID BITCH
“No, kid,” he said softly, like you do with a child. “You stop by the club tomorrow night and we’ll straighten everything out. OK?”
I’m such a stupid bitch.
I nod silently and sit quietly watching us in the mirror as he kisses me goodbye.
Silent, I watch the door close after his fat polyester ass.
Silent, I sit as my heart and soul walk over and rejoin me, a little thinner now, a little paler.
Silent, I finish dressing and head down to the subway and back home. I have just enough money for the subway, I’ll panhandle the rest at Penn Station for the train ticket back to Long Island, to my parents house.
Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Maybe it was just a dirty little room and I was just too scared or too stupid to ask for the money.
Maybe I was just a chubby girl having sex with a huge fat man and expecting him to keep his word.
Maybe there was nothing sensual about it at all.
Maybe it was just sad.
Stupid bitch.
The next night back at the Bon Soir yellow crime scene police banners criss-cross the doors. I scoot under and creep down the dark stairs to investigate. To find Floyd and get my money.
The dance floor is empty. The bodies are gone, but last night, the police say when I ask, last night was just crazy. A pile of bodies on the floor. They closed the club for good. There were no witnesses. Not a single bartender or manager or anyone who had seen anything. They couldn’t find Floyd either.
JJ forgot to teach me the first lesson of whoring. Get the money up front.
This entry was written by , posted on November 19, 2009 at 8:22 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty money, Greenwich Village, johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, or thedirtygirldiaries.com
This week, former New York City madam LZ Hansen sits in with the Naked Ladies….
Lauri Shaw: Some of my “regulars” were kind of irregular. I had this retired cop, told me that he’d lost his stomach for law enforcement after he’d killed a man. Looking in my eyes all intense and unblinking when he said it. For all I know, he made it up — he was always trying to get me to “open up” to him in return. He also did the whole “I’ll take you away from all this” rundown.
Jodi Sh. Doff: At the Lollipop we had this heavy drinking, heavy drugging black plainclothes cop who’d take me and my bff Patty to the back room. He liked us to play with his real live, loaded gun and ladies, I don’t know my ass from a safety. He’d rub it on us or watch us “stroke” it while he stroked himself. It’s a wonder no one got shot.
LS: No shit! Did your bouncers / managers know?
JshD: You could get away with anything there. One night, one of the “boys” shot the jukebox. He said it made a threatening move!
LZ Hansen: I had this guy who’d come to the whore house to see me three times a day, always wearing the same dirty Yankee jacket. He didn’t have a lot of money but he blew it all on me. He’d hang out for hours talking or fetching us snacks. He was a nice guy and we took advantage of that. Turned out he was living in his car! It’s sad, he deserved better. I think we were his only friends. But, I made $50,00 alone in a year from him.
JshD: Oh, yeah, for me that would have been Bubbles. We called him Bubbles even to his face. It was very emasculating, I imagine. Bubbles was every girl’s dinner date — he never tried anything and we all took advantage. Looking back, he was just a sweet guy with no social skills. But I could always count on a free dinner with Bubbles. If I needed to make my drink quota, he’d buy even when he didn’t want to drink with me.
LZH: Bubbles…poor man. But those are the types who attach themselves to us, they want to be part of our lives. And we want their money.
JshD: Look, we all know, there’s Us, and then there’s Them. David worked at the racetrack, claimed he was doping horses and thought that made him “down”. Civilians who tried to be part of the crowd, I hated them. I’d take everything I could and teach them a lesson. Very long story short – David thought we’d get married–I could barely kiss him without retching. By the end of the scam, he’d lost his license in NY and Jersey. I didn’t get as much cash as I’d wanted, but I made my point. He never came back.
LS: BDSM Guy had been clean & sober for 20 years until he met me. He lived for power games and kept trying to up the ante– “I’m gonna be your master, I’ll make you fuck me one day, blah, blah… ” I refused to be around him unless he got me high. He was a regular at Dangerous Curves so I didn’t see him after I quit. But a year later, I walk out of the Carousel Club one freezing winter night and find BDSM Guy lurking next to my car. I started yelling and when he looked up, he had blow caked all over his mustache. I may have been responsible for his relapse…
LZH: Did the dancers worry about stalkers?
LS: Thankfully, it didn’t happen as much as you’d expect.
LZH: One of my weirdest was this handsome young man who confessed he was in love with his sister. Afterwards, he asked if he could tell me something. I thought, haven’t you said enough? He said he’d been having sex with his sister and wanted to marry her, but she was engaged and wanted nothing to do with him any more. Then he said “And you look so much like her,” and begged me to date him outside of work.
JshD: That’s a little creepy. You never know how much is in their head and how much is real. Whether you’re saving someone else by indulging their fantasies or stoking the fires of their insanity.
LZH: I know. We all know how some clients lie. But I believed this guy, he was so broken up over his sister. He thought that I’d jump at the chance to date him. He came to see me every month, always begging me to date him, saying I looked like her! If he’d had money I could have hustled him, but he was broke.
LS: At least he wasn’t dangerous, right? I had this guy get obsessed with me after I’d danced for him once at the Harmony. Afterwards, I’d see him around the East Village following me down the street staring at me, looking haunted, while I was walking with my boyfriend. He acted like a jilted lover. He was scary.
LZH: Thinking about sick clients reminds me of Dr. B. (You know who you are.) We met in a massage joint opposite Carnegie Hall in 1987. He’d book 8 hrs to sit & stare at me. We had sex, but really quick. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse–he’d support me & my $300/day heroin/coke habit (that eventually went up to $1000/day). He put me up in the Chelsea Hotel and was my ‘sugar daddy’.
He gave me everything — a house, car, a business. I never understood what he really wanted with me, but he was a doctor, an OB GYN!- a junkies dream. I stopped sleeping with him & made him sleep on the couch. Then I moved my real boyfriend, who I’d actually just married, into our house. Dr. B almost lost his license after giving me a years worth of Hydrocodone scripts.
Finally, after four years, I fled with my new husband, my cat, and the clothes on my back.
This entry was written by , posted on November 18, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged dirty boys, dirty money, drugs, strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The floor drops beneath my feet. The music spins itself into a thousand hysterical screaming banshees. The world falls away until there’s nothing but the men and their guns coming down the stairs in slow motion. Slowly. Slower. Silent. I notice the small bits. Shoes and the quiet way they walk in them. The one who wears no socks, his skin is the color of cinnamon and his shoes just a shade darker. One wears an avocado colored knit suit with hand stitching around the pockets and buttonholes. The buttons are brown and look like some kind of polished stone. The lights from the dance floor play on the dark oily metal of the guns and blue and white dots dance over everything, reflecting off the mirrored ball. Off their manicured, buffed nails.
I’m trapped in a series of close-ups. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t see their faces even though they’re right in front of me, only a dozen stair steps away, searching the floor with their dark eyes. I do not see a single face and I don’t think they notice me.
And then I feel Floyd’s chubby fingers bite sharply into the soft flesh of my upper arm. I drop my drink as he drags me away, wasting vodka as it soaks silently into the carpet. He pushes me ahead of him. The music is back and suddenly I panic. Everyone else is still dancing. And drinking. No one else seems to have noticed them yet.
And then we’re in the back. We’re up the stairs. Out on the sidewalk. Seconds only. Floyd throws me into a yellow cab and stuffs himself in beside me. I hear the first shots exploding like Chinese fire crackers in February as the car door slams closed.
“Drive. The Consulate Hotel. West 49th Street”, he says to the cabbie.
“Relax, J. It’s over,” he says to me as he drops a bloated pink hairless hand onto my leg and looks at me, the question in his eyes.
I owe him big time now, I think to myself. I don’t say anything. How bad can it be? He’s not mean. And I really do owe him now. I should be grateful. I should at least say thank you. I probably owe him my life I think.
“I need three hundred and twenty five dollars,” is what I say.
“OK, Jodi, three hundred and twenty five dollars it is then.” He smiles at me, rubbing that pink hand up and down my thigh. Abu Ben Taxi Driver is looking at us, at me, in the rear view mirror. Listening in. Deciding what I am. What Floyd is. The vodka from my last drink rises back up my throat and tastes awful and I wish I had more.
JJ’ll be proud when I drive into the city in the car I bought with the money from my first trick. How bad can it be, really? Okay, so he’s big. Fat. Instead of thinking about fucking one hugely fat middle aged man I imagine it will be like making it with two big beefy boys and that’s not a bad thought.
In the hotel room, the lights are out, but the blinds are open. The room’s lit romantically by a full moon above and the street lights below. Floyd lies naked across the bed, a great white beached sperm whale. His skin iridescent in the moonlight, broken only by an archipelago of eczema that dots his massive body, the likely source of the medicinal aura that floats around him.
I stand at the bathroom door, my clothes at my feet, trying to imagine the feel of his skin and the texture of that rash.
I leave my body. My heart and soul float across the room and settle sadly into a wing chair in the corner to watch. A sick voyeuristic pleasure makes it impossible to tear myself away, the same way you slow down on the highway to eyeball that car crash and take a moment to be grateful it wasn’t you. But it is me, and I watch myself, struck speechless by what I’m capable of.
There is barely any room for me on the bed.
This is not at all like getting wild with two beefy boys.
This entry was written by , posted on November 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, dirty money, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I stepped out of the Bon Soir, into a night damp and gamy with exhaust, sweat and blood, tripping over the body sprawled in front of the door. I didn’t know his name, but I’d seen him around the club. This didn’t exactly seem like the best time for introductions. He wasn’t paying much attention to me anyway, he was pretty intent on trying to keep his insides inside. Someone had blown away a lot of his outsides. He was slumped against the doorway, just staring down to where his navel was when he had one, trying to figure out what had happened, how to make it go away and how all those intestines had ever managed to fit inside him to begin with.
The coke wars had started and they weren’t going away.
Just what is the proper etiquette when you see your first gunshot wound? Your first drug war casualty? I’m a runner by nature. When things don’t make sense, when you get too close, when you love me too much, when everything gets too too, I keep moving, I run. It’s what I know. So, I stepped over the bleeding boy and hailed a cab.
There was a lot of coke going through the Bon Soir – a lot of coke meant a lot of coke dealers. The quickest way to increase the profit margin of any concern is to eliminate competition. The boy who lost his stomach was the first casualty I saw.
Two days later two small Latinas glided down the stairs, scanning the joint. Small girls with dark hair and lean muscular arms. Eyes shining in the darkness. Each with a pistol in her hand. Each with a purpose.
I don’t know much,
if I did, I wouldn’tve come back after the night of the bleeding boy.
But I know enough
not to get between
predator and prey.
I nodded at Floyd, holder of the key to the service entrance. He pushed me ahead of him, his fat hand wedged between my shoulder blades, pushing me into the back room, past cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes. We were already on the street when we heard the first gun shot. Pop. Small and distant, like the crack of whip. Muffled by the cement walls, the loud music and the night.
“Okay Superman,” I linked my arm through his as we walked away from the madness into the dark,”Where to now?”
“The Plaza. I’ll take you to the Plaza. I’ll pay you, we’ll order room service. I’ll….”
He was sweating from climbing the stairs, from the fear, from the excitement. Fuck that, he was always sweating because he was a Sweaty. Fat. Man. The standing offer was three hundred dollars. I wanted to be a whore. I wanted money for sex. If Sharon could do it, so could I. But, good God. Floyd? I owed him for getting me out the back, but I didn’t think I owed him that big.
“...take care of you. I’ll….” A police car rushed passed us, cutting him off. Sirens and lights flashing and screaming, the wrong way on a one way street. It jumped the curb in front of the club. Pop. Pop. Two more shots downstairs. Barely audible now, we turned the corner. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and stood waiting for me to answer.
“Let’s just get some breakfast for now, OK, Floyd?” I took the handkerchief and gently dabbed the sweat off his forehead, around his upper lip and steered him in the direction of the Waverly Diner.
I took a few days off to think things over. The idea of turning a trick turned me on, like being on stage for the first time. Men wanting me enough to pay me. Begging to be able to give me money for something as simple as pussy. It’s not like all the sex I was having was always fun. I didn’t like fucking Short anymore, but I did. I would make JJ so proud of me, prove to him I had the right stuff. But Floyd …?
I’d been looking at a little blue Ford Pinto a kid on my block was selling for $325. I’d only need to come up with another $25. I could manage that.
Nah. Forget it. Bad idea.
There was no way I could fuck the Fat Man.
I let go of the idea and just hung with the boys. Night came, and with night, the Bon Soir and barely listening to Floyd drone on about who cares what as long as he keeps buying; watching Shortrun run his game on some other chick, some little PR chick with her hair dyed blonde.
I keep an eyeball on the staircase over my cocktail, in case someone cute shows up to rescue me from this boredom. Even one of the drag queens would be better than being trapped by this human wall of flesh because truthfully, I’m not sure there’s enough vodka in the bar to make the Fat Man even vaguely interesting for much longer.
The double doors at the top of the stairs open out into the night. A crowd of guys I don’t know slowly fill the doorway. Latinos. Too well dressed for the Bon Soir. Italian suits, soft leather shoes, well groomed. Close shaven.
They start down the stairs one at a time.
Surveying the dance floor,
they walk
soundlessly,
slowly,
carefully
down the red carpeted stairs.
Uzi’s hanging loosely at their sides.
This entry was written by , posted on November 12, 2009 at 5:27 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, or thedirtygirldiaries.com
This week, Antonia Crane rants along with the Naked Ladies….
Jodi Sh. Doff: I’ve been on the phone with a friend I used to dance with. She never could make the transition to the straight world. Eventually we all get too old or too fed up to do the work, then what? She’s struggling with possible eviction.
Lauri Shaw:I was terrified that would happen to me. I tried to quit stripping dozens of times, kept running out of money and going back.
Antonia Crane: After throwing money around for over ten years, I managed to pay the tuition I owed Mills College and finish my BA. I needed $7,800. With determination and the strong will that only another stripper can understand, that year, I saved 10k. A girlfriend had a fledgling accounting business. She took at least $300/week and invested it for me.
JshD: I was $8000 in debt when I got out. I hadn’t been anyplace. I had no jewelry, no investments, no real estate and no more education than when I’d started ten years earlier.
LS: The money got spent so fast! And the amount I “needed” to retire kept growing.
AC: I traveled to India and took a trip to Prague, so I certainly didn’t stop spending. I’ve quit dancing a hundred times, had many careers, but I still have no clue how to live paycheck to paycheck.
JShD: I would’ve stayed till the bitter end, but I fell in love. With a hustler. Neither one of us wanted the other to work anymore, but I’d been there ten years. How the fuck was I going to get a straight job?
LS: I wasn’t qualified to do ANYTHING. That’s why I’d started stripping in the first place.
AC: I was qualified to do lots of things, but where can you make as much as an average CA attorney — untaxed cash — plus make your own schedule and perform?
LS: I’d leave for a month, try to find another gig. I took the proofreading course advertised in the back of the Village Voice.
JshD: I concocted a make-believe company called MG Entertainment where I claimed I’d worked for the last ten years. I applied for a receptionist’s job at High Times Magazine and said I could type 35 wpm — I couldn’t type at all. I’m hesitant to even call that my first straight job, it was nothing but drug related content. But it was the perfect stepping stone.
LS: I tried selling coupons on the street. “Excuse me! Question about your hair!” I lasted four hours. I’d told the hiring manager the truth about my work history. So when I went to quit, he asked, “Don’t you think you can make money with your clothes on?” He was being nasty. I just shrugged. “No.”
JshD: A few months into the job, the girl who’d hired me said she knew I lied about all those office skills, but she liked me, so she didn’t care. I don’t think I could’ve gotten away with that anyplace else but High Times.
LS: I used a fake company name too — a boyfriend pretended I worked for him. It still pops up on credit checks.
JshD: I was lucky. Once I got High Times under my belt, no one looked any further back. Times were different — no background investigation, credit checks, personal references. I kept MG Entertainment on my resume for a few years until I had enough distance to let it drop off naturally.
LS: A regular customer of mine got me a job bartending. The drunks were as difficult as any strip club customers, for a fraction of the kill. I didn’t see the point. I quit and went on the road, stripping in any state that would hire me.
AC: I also became a bartender. I made good money, but I wasn’t as young or fast as the other girls in L.A.: out-of-work models and actresses who had an “in” for the good bartending gigs.
LS: By 1999, it was nearly impossible to make money in NYC if you weren’t a top-shelf girl. Quality-of-life laws closed clubs, scared off customers. I drove across state lines regularly. New Jersey, Connecticut. Competition was stiffer than I’d ever seen it. My earnings dwindled.
I didn’t have money for college, but I had enough for audio school. I took time off from dancing, expecting I’d go back part-time after I finished the course. I never did.
AC: Dancing supports my writing. I have a memoir and a novel, a screenplay. But I don’t want to be one of those 45-year old strippers with a screenplay, so I’m hustling.
LS: I lived off savings…
JshD: No savings. Not a dime when I left. Nothing but debt…
LS: … took unpaid internships. Eventually I landed a job managing a recording studio, but it took two years. By then I was broke.
AC: I’ve started doing “massage.” This is the most efficient use of my time. The clubs are too lame in L.A. The economy too anemic, the regulars too much work. I don’t do GFE — I guess I’m old school.
LS: I hate to say this, but I’ve never made decent money at any “straight job.” After I danced, I was almost as shit-poor as before I started. Music journalism was as lean a career as studio management. If I didn’t have a husband, I’d have gone back a long time ago. I think about it all the time.
AC: I now have an MFA and dance in New Orleans to pay my rent. I still have “massage” clients. I don’t spend money like I used to. It’s about survival now.
I knew women who managed to ensnare moneyed men, and not only quit dancing or escort, but never have to get a job. I’m not saying that’s wrong, but it’s not my style — I’m not interested in a “sugar daddy.” I’m struggling the only way I know how, doing what I’m great at. I guess I’m stubborn. I’d LOVE to quit with money in the bank — that’s why I’m flying back and forth from L.A. to New Orleans. Wish me luck.
This entry was written by , posted on November 11, 2009 at 6:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged dirty money, strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The Bon Soir was just a small bar around the corner and down a flight of stairs from the park. Dark and hot, it usually smelled of brandy, sweat and marijuana. The men, too, who crowded the bar–dark, hot and sweaty, smelling of brandy and marijuana. Everyone had an angle. Drug dealers, burglars, thieves, hustlers. Most of them small time. Penny ante chain snatchers, mid level coke dealers and street corner pot sellers. I ran into old lovers, drag queens I’d known and loved and hustlers from the Chalice. A little slice of Heaven, that’s what the Bon Soir was. And except for Floyd, I was the only pink in the drink.
I bounced there, first with the boys that brung me.
And then, after a while, with whoever was buying.
The only white girl floating on an endless river of brown boys. Warm dusky bodies surrounding me, feeding me vodka, touching me, dancing me. Strong arms and firm thighs. Red and gold lights glinted off Jheri curl juice activated curls. Moisture trickled down valleys made by rippling abdominals. I rode waves of dark lips and pink tongues, my nostrils waiting to be filled with cocaine, music pounding in my ears, the pulse of the night throbbing deep inside me, deep inside me, deep, deep inside.
Shortrun was always more interested in selling coke than in fucking me. I was interested in staying stoned and fucking anybody. Except Floyd.
Floyd owned the bar and bribed me with drink tickets. He counted on eventually getting me drunk enough that I’d let him fuck me, which was really not such an unreasonable expectation, all things considered. I flirted and drank his booze until I got bored, at which point I tottered off to find someone lean and hard and brown. Which Floyd was not.
Floyd was white. Very.
And fat. Very very.
He’d bought the bar with money from his days as a professional wrestler.
Those were the old days.
Now, he weighed in at 457 lbs.
No shit.
457.
Everything about him was repulsive. His neediness. The faint medicinal odor that lay under all the other odors he dragged around with him: flop sweat, polyester, cheap cologne. The pinkness of his skin. Powdery and dry like an old man’s. Soft skin, pale, puffy and stretched to its limit. Especially his hands. His hands were bloated like a balloon in the Thanksgiving day parade.
I hated everything about him.
Except the booze. I stayed for the booze, ignoring the method to his madness, turning down his offers of money.
I didn’t have what it took to be a good whore. I gave it away to anyone I was attracted to for free. I didn’t want to sleep with guys I wasn’t attracted to for money. And I would put up with endless drivel just to get a drink.
This entry was written by , posted on November 9, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
January 1978 Sunday
Hung at the Earle with Jesse then split for the Bon Soir. The fat manager, Floyd, about 40, laid his rap on me all night. Bought me one drink. Ace’s brother Timmy just got outta the joint. Bought me one drink.
Shortrun and Brother Joey showed up at 3:30AM. Short bought me one drink around 5 AM. Short and the Joeys dropped me off at the hotel on 86th Street. I woke up alone at 8 AM. The dude at the desk volunteered to take Short’s place. Fuck you desk dude. Called the Earle – Charlie Frontdesk said Short was there. I went back downtown, banged on some doors. Went for breakfast. Came back. Banged some more. Found Jesse around 9 AM so I went there, watched TV and nodded.
I woke up at noon – someone else was banging on the door. Brother Joey with a load of coke. We smoked some hash. Big Papo came down. Did more blow and smoked more hash. Jesse and Joey went to cruise the streets to do some business. I split with Big Papo to the Village Plaza Hotel to do some credit card business. We did some more blow. People came and went. I moved over to the bed. People stopped coming. Soon we were making love.
I used to be scared of Big Papo. Not anymore.
When I got downstairs, Jesse was in the lobby – I walked him to the Limelight at Sheridan Square and went to La Crepe to use the bathroom there to wash up and change clothes.
Friday
I got to the Bon Soir around 11 PM. Floyd gave me two extra drink tickets. Black Joey got me very stoned. I forget what else happened.
Tuesday
Me, Shortrun and Black Joey go over to the Village Plaza for a room. The clerk wants $12 and Short only wants to pay $10. We get to a room – no bath, no sink – fucking delightful. Joey passes out on the floor from all the Seconals. I make the bed with sheets the clerk gave me. They don’t look clean.
Short and me start to fool around but I’m not into it. I start to give him head and his fucking cock is leaving bits of dirt in my mouth – I want to throw up. I push him away. He crawls on top of me. I don’t even want to kiss him. He bangs me anyway for a while, then tries to ram it up my ass. He bangs me a few more times and decides he needs to rest.
As soon as he fell asleep I got dressed and split. I’m done with him. I left him a note. I wonder if he can read?
I’d like to say I was there because they were my friends. Truth was, I stayed for the drugs and the excitement. Bullet wounds and scars were medals and ribbons of honor. Disappearing for days became acceptable. Lies were a way of life.
I’d tried to be faithful to Shortrun. Even while I was fucking Big Papo, even while coordinated our stories about where we’d been during the last few hours, I thought I was faithful to him. I really did.
When I wasn’t in the Earle fucking or watching the boys bag up, I was in the park with them while they sold pot and coke. Nights, we were all in the Bon Soir.
This entry was written by , posted on November 5, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
For as a long as there’s been music, women have danced for the entertainment and titillation of men. Scheherazade. Minsky’s Burlesque. Cage dancing go-go girls in the psychedelic 60′s. Times Square strippers, pole dancers and lap dancers. Women dance….Men watch.
Naked Ladies get around! Look for the 3 Naked Ladies and a new topic every Wednesday on laurishaw.com, $pread magazine online or thedirtygirldiaries.com
This week on Three Naked Ladies, the legendary Georgina Spelvin sits in for Jodi Sh. Doff.
Georgina Spelvin: My childhood was spent “on the road.” The only real friend I had was a girl who lived across the street from my uncle in Jasper, Texas. I spent a week or two at their house every summer until I was about twelve. She and I connected again in the early 90s. Georgina Spelvin is a stage name, so she never knew. When she learned about my “secret life in porn,” she was thrilled and delighted. Probably more so than I ever was.
Lauri Shaw: But, you started in Broadway musicals, right? Were your peers in the mainstream judgmental of your decision to go into porn?
GS: I didn’t make any lasting friendships in the world of musical comedy. It was always “I loved you, Baby, but the show closed.” Because of this itinerant life, others’ opinions of me, or anything else for that matter – held little weight.
LS: The 90s class system went like this: feature entertainer porn stars like Jenna Jameson or Janine Lindemulder were at the top; then came girls from Scores, Tens, and VIP; mid-level topless girls from say, Flashdancers next, after which came the girls at topless dives. Girls like me who removed their panties were close to the bottom of the heap. It was strange — we made more money than the girls in many of the topless clubs. But you definitely lost status the minute you showed cooch.
Rachel Aimee: Yes, girls at the high-end clubs can be really snobby about dive bar strippers because we make our money in dollar bills instead of twenties, but the reality is that the dollar bills often add up to more than the twenties after the high-end club girls pay out their $100-plus house fees.
LS: In the nude clubs, there was always someone whining, “I didn’t sell a bottle because I don’t do blow jobs like all these other bitches.” If someone was openly turning tricks, she was low on the totem pole. There was a lot of hypocrisy.
RA: Strippers look down on peepshow girls because they take their bottoms off and do dildo shows. But, I worked at a peepshow briefly and I found the peepshow girls disparaging about strippers. They would say “at least we work behind glass and don’t touch our customers.”
LS: Human nature doesn’t change, I’m guessing your generation had a pecking order too?
GS: I’m sure there was, but I was just “tap dancin’ as fast as I could” trying to make a living. Making friends was not a big priority.
RA: Most girls move from club to club so quickly that making friends isn’t a priority. There’s this unwritten rule that you don’t talk to the new girl until she’s been there for at least three weeks, because who knows if she’s going to stick around anyway? I’ve worked at several clubs where I never even exchanged so much as a hello with any of the other dancers. I only really made friends at the club where I worked for six years!
GS: I didn’t socialize much with anyone doing the films –I have no idea what they did off the set. Getting cast as Miss Jones was such a fluke. And every sex film I did after that was a case of someone talking me into doing “just one more.” They were a means of getting a few dollars together to pay the rent on the Pickle Factory: the film company our little “collective” of wannabe film makers we were trying to keep going in New York in ’72. They didn’t pay anything like what they do today, believe me. $100 for the day. That was it.
RA: I’ve always been lazy about doing any kind of sex work other than stripping because stripping can be so low maintenance. You can go in there, make money, then leave work and stop thinking about it. You don’t have to worry about maintaining relationships with clients or agencies or scheduling your life around your job. (Although, of course, there are plenty of strippers whose lives revolve around their jobs — I’ve been privileged enough so far to be able to get by without really throwing myself into it.)
GS: I always thought of myself as an actress – working in the only medium where work was offered to me. Hollywood never called me back. I am very glad to count several of the sex film actors and actresses I’ve met recently – and the few I got back in touch with when writing my memoir, The Devil Made Me Do It, as friends. I’m not terribly active in any causes – sex work related or otherwise. I’m too lazy and very selfish with my time.
RA: Being a part of the sex worker activist community has always been really important to me, as a support network as much as anything else, because it can be so difficult to talk about sex work with outsiders.
LS: What stopped me from doing porn was, I was afraid my father or my brother might inadvertently stumble on the material. Once someone takes a picture of you, you can’t control where it ends up, and it lives forever… weren’t you worried about anyone you knew coming across your work?
GS: When I did my first hard core film, I didn’t know it was to be hard core until we got to that scene. The only “blue movie” I’d ever seen was a short clip of Candy Barr – a famous stripper in her day. She’d given a guy a blow job in a motel room while someone recorded the event with an 8mm “home movie” camera. It was all new to me. No one I knew, nor anyone they knew, knew anything about such things.
At the time, it was $100 a day that was sorely needed to pay the rent on the Pickle Factory. That was all I was thinking about. Trying to remake the world through underground films. If I had had any idea that making The Devil in Miss Jones (not to be confused with The Devil & Miss Jones!) would make Georgina Spelvin a household word, I might have given it some thought…The short answer? It never entered my mind.
This entry was written by , posted on November 4, 2009 at 6:00 am, filed under three naked ladies and tagged porn, strippers. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Cindy and Geronimo walked me the three blocks from the Chalice to the corner of Waverly & MacDougal. That particular corner of Washington Square Park where you could find One Armed Jesse selling product strapped to the petrified bicep of his withered arm. Cops never looked up the sleeve of his dashiki, that shriveled stump where an arm should be freaked them out. Jesse brought me to the Hotel Earle, the two Joeys, Black & Brother, and the two Papos, Big & Little who everybody just called Shortrun, on account of he was short even for a Puerto Rican.
I was Short’s girl. I towered over him by four or five inches, except when I wore sneakers and he picked his Afro out, then, well, we were okay. Being with him meant I was welcome at the Hotel Earle where fresh dime bags were bagged in Big Papo’s room. They could keep an eye on their corner of the park from his window as they worked. Papo was massive, dark and handsome, full of scars shaped like knife fights and bullet holes. When he looked at me I imagined the braille of them writing stories on my skin.
I was Short’s girl, I wasn’t selling coke, I wasn’t buying coke, I’d never even tried coke. I had no business in Big Papo’s room. Not to look out the window, not to bag up, not to try to get a taste. I waited for Shortrun somewhere else, in someone else’s room, with Jesse or one of the Joeys. I waited in safe rooms where men watched out for me, which is different than watching every move I make.
“Hey J,” I was sleeping, curled up like a cat, or a fetus, in a chair in someone’s room. “Inhale, little sis.” Short’s brother Joey. His voice warm, comforting and moist in my ear. Brother Joey held the corner of a matchbook piled with fluffy white cocaine under my nose.
I did as I was told. There were heavenly trumpets. Electricity tingled from the back of my nose, encompassing my entire skull, traveling down each individual hair on my head, finding its way across my breasts, around my nipples, down my belly, into my puss where it lit up each individual lip, inner and outer, tightened the curl on each pubic hair and then, then, with the second bump, someone turned up the voltage. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t just stay in the room. I was awake. I was one hundred and ten percent awake and my brain, my heart, my skin, my skin, my skin, the voices were going one hundred and ten miles an hour.
Shortrun had a wife. Maybe a daughter. No one would say for sure. He stayed at the Earle or at the York and there was an apartment. Someplace. It was all very vague. He was younger than me, only 17. And he was, well, he was short and he wasn’t around very often. He wasn’t around enough. He wasn’t here now. I needed to be someone to be here. Now.
Big Papo, on the other hand, was here, right there across the hall. He was there with his scars, his dark eyes and his little cocaine factory. Location, location, location.
We sat on his bed talking and testing product. We lay at right angles. We lay parallel. We lay on top of each other. And after we’d finished fucking he swore it would be our secret, swore he’d never tell Short. He did. Of course.
I didn’t care. In the time that lapsed between that first corner of a matchbook and putting my pants back on I’d totally forgotten why I’d been waiting for Shortrun at all. I’d forgotten everything except the feel of the coke going up my nose, the taste of the drip at the back of my throat, the excitement of his scars brushing my skin. I’d forget about Big Papo soon enough too. All that mattered was I’d found the way to be more alive, more beautiful, more awake than anyone had ever imagined possible.
This entry was written by , posted on November 2, 2009 at 9:36 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, The Chalice. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
