Women’s March on Washington DC

Sad and angry since the election, I’ve disassociated, haven’t paid attention to the news. I’ve kept to myself, read Jane Austen, and gone to museums.

Until yesterday.

Ten of us walked to the march together but got separated right away in the throng and I spent the day alone, with hundreds of thousands of friends, including Gloria Steinem, Michael Moore, Alicia Keys, Madonna, Scarlett Johansson, Angela Davis, America Ferrera, Elizabeth Warren, Ashley Judd, and Amy Schumer.


I looked around and realized: all these people feel the same way I do.


370 marches in every state in the country and on every continent.

Ours started at ten AM on Independence Ave and Third. I got there at nine but could only get as close as the Air And Space Museum on Independence and Fourth.


By the time the rally started, people had lined up on Independence Avenue all the way back to 14th.



Jumbotrons were set up along Independence Ave so we could see the speakers. There’s a jumbotron in the upper left of this photo:





After five hours of speakers, people started shouting, “March! March! March!” So we turned around and marched west on Independence Avenue to the Washington Monument.






At one point, people appeared on the sidewalk raising signs that read, “Abortion is Murder,” “BLM are Racist Thugs,” “Homo Sex is Sin.” They formed a bottleneck with these signs; we got closer together and had to slip through. That part was scary.



But that only lasted a few minutes.


When we got to the Washington Monument, we went north on 14th NW.



My Pussy Has a Posse


On tiptoes, I saw a mass of people as far up the street as I could see.



Marchers used all the north-south streets to get toward the White House.

We turned left on Constitution Ave and headed for the Ellipse which is the front yard of the White House.






I’m not sad anymore. I’m fired up.

I’ve just set a recurring alarm on my phone for ten AM. Every day at ten AM, I will be calling my representatives and telling them what I want and what I don’t want.

I want action on climate change, now.

I want the electoral college abolished.

I want equal pay for equal work.

I want the one percent to pay their fair share.

I do not want a Muslim registry.

I do not want a wall on the southern border of our country.

And if anybody tries to defund Planned Parenthood, they will do it over my dead fucking body.

Here’s the number to call to reach your representative and tell them what you want:



Tomorrow, I’m calling to tell them that I do not want Betsy DeVos as my secretary of education.



A Day in My Life

I heard an NPR story called Ghetto Life 101. They gave two teenage boys in Chicago a tape recorder and told them to record everything that happened in a day. One asks his mother, “Who is my father?”

“Your father is a felon named Toby Flipper. He saw you when you were about two and I ain’t seen him since.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“He’s probably dead.”

“Thank you.”


LeAlan Jones and Lloyd Newman are great.

I thought, there’s a recorder on my phone, I should do that. I don’t live in the ghetto; but, I work in one of the world’s fanciest brothels, and people might be interested.

Here is a day in my life at work:

The audio isn’t perfect because the recorder on my phone seems to skip, especially the first few seconds of this, but you’ll get the gist.


My room in the old seraglio.



This is what I look like when I wake up in the morning.


This is what I look like after I put on my makeup.


Girl, Lady, Sweetheart

I get called “Girl” ten times a day. I’m forty-four years old; I’m not girl.

Why do they do it? Maybe because girls are easier to control than women. Girls can’t be expected to take responsibility for their actions, do anything competently, aren’t expected to have articulated opinions, haven’t been to school yet, need help, can’t do things for themselves, need to have things explained to them. Maybe girls are less threatening than women.

It seems so obvious how insulting it is to call women “girls,” and yet everyone does it in this business. At first, I thought it was mildly irritating, and looked at it like an outsider as if I were studying a different culture. Now, I’m just sick of it.

“Ladies” is also annoying and patronizing. Eat like a lady. Stand like a lady. It’s something a parent would say to a child. Act like a lady. The subtext being: not like the dirty, ignorant, child that you are.

One of the bartenders called me Sweetheart the other day, “Sweetheart, I need to get by there.” My chair was blocking his way. He couldn’t remember my name? I pay your salary motherfucker, don’t call me Sweetheart.

Women who work in this industry are adult professionals who deserve respect. We aren’t girls. And please don’t call us “Ladies” like you’re scolding us for slumping at the table.



Jesus Loves Prostitutes — A Book Review



Naturally, I thought this was satire when I picked it off the bar. I laughed merrily through the Forward until I got to “…choosing not to judge but to build relationship with the prostitutes, the pimps and the “tricks,” until they see with their own eyes that God is love and He is the love with them.”

It would be easy to make fun of the spelling and grammar errors throughout this book, but that would set aside how profoundly ignorant it really is.

Kay Landwehr,

How dare you explain to me what love is?

Take your relationship and be off with you.


I ran over to Riley to show her the book. She scoffed and laughed. Olivia Bently scoffed, huffed, and stomped away.

A section in the book called Gift Giving and Services of Love describes how groups of church people bring gift bags to brothels for the women who work there. I’ve seen these bags. Inside are usually earrings made of fish otoliths and aluminum foil, Fruit Loops bracelets, and treasures I’ve never seen but are described in this book: rocks with words painted on them.

“The girls (we’re women, please don’t infantilize us) don’t save many things (Kay hasn’t seen Riley’s room). They travel pretty light (by railroad car or Mary Poppins umbrella). The fact that this girl (she was a woman) saved her heart-shaped rock with the message, Jesus Loves You, must have been something very special to her. Praise God for the rock of our salvation.”

Dear Kay,

Your gift bags have necklaces made out of dirty pop cans strung on dental floss for women who are accustomed to wearing Tiffany. If you are trying to bribe us, you are sadly missing the mark.

Take your rocks and be off with you.


A couple in the bar waiting for a tour asked what we were laughing at. I showed them. They rolled their eyes and said it was insulting. Yes, very.

Kay describes putting women in brothels through “Foot Detoxes” — her polite term for an exorcism. It would be easy to trick a tired woman after ten hours in heels to agree to a foot massage. Bliss!

But what Kay describes is crafty and treacherous. They set the woman up with a foot bath, and just as she’s settling into a nice treat, Kay whips out the Bible and prays over her for a half hour. Then pulls her feet out and drips anointing oil on them. After which, the woman is allowed to select any of the free materials: evangelical books, CDs, and DVDs. Kay says, “We never charge for anything.” Then, she drys the woman’s feet with a towel embroidered with “I am God’s Girl.”

“Each girl was given her towel to keep.” Good for hurling into as soon as Kay leaves.

The worst foot massage imaginable.

Kay goes into brothels uninvited to supervise the morality of others with her barely disguised contempt and appalling lack of sensitivity.

She writes about what she does in such a self-satisfied way as if she should be congratulated for dirtying herself. Thank you, Kay, but we have all been exposed to evangelicalism, your version is nothing special. She congratulates The Girls, “These girls are real live human beings!”

Dear Kay, 

If you care about prostitutes:

  1. Work to legalize and regulate prostitution everywhere. 
  2. Don’t let men get away with sexual assault. 
  3. Support programs like WIC.
  4. Demand equal pay for equal work.
  5. Support Head Start.
  6. Work to make higher education more affordable.
  7. Spread the word about sexually transmitted disease.
  8. Support affordable health care. 

We don’t need your moralizing or your pity.

Take your proselytizing bag of rocks and be off with you. 



If I were a tree, I would be so pissed if they turned me into this book. I’m taking this book to the Fernley recycling center and, hopefully, they’ll turn it into a Planned Parenthood pamphlet.




My First Ad!

Someone emailed me to ask if I would be willing to post a link on my Sex for Bitcoin article in return for forty dollars. The spelling and sentence structure of the email wasn’t perfect, but who cares – forty dollars! Meaning I would be a professional, paid writer.

I said sure, what’s the link? It was to a Bitcoin infomercial something or other. Fine.

This blog is a lot of work. If I get this forty dollars, that will come out to about one cent per article. On the right track! Although I’ve gotten a few parties off this blog (readers who have come to the Mustang and spent time with me), I just haven’t figured out how to monetize the content with ads or however people do it. Until now.

I sent back my enthusiast yes to the Bitcoin link and asked how the forty dollars would be transferred. Carrier pigeon would work. I’m not giving my PayPal account to someone who can’t spell. Or, someone could walk in the door and hand me forty dollars, but then I’d have to give half to the Mustang.

Breathlessly awaiting a reply. Probably: Dear Tatyana, Compensation will be in Bitcoin.




Being out of sync is the worst with new lovers.

If you don’t know each other well enough to laugh about it, here’s some advice:

  1. If she is on top, pay attention to the rhythm she’s using. Don’t move unless you can move to her rhythm, otherwise, you may throw her off. One, two, three… one, two, three…
  2. If it seems like she needs a minute to get her rhythm down, be still. Let her do her thing.
  3. Don’t try to hold her knees or body up — instead of helping, you’re probably hindering her movement. If it seems like she’s getting tired, ask if she wants you to take over. Have her hold her body still while she remains on top, and you move gently and slowly up into her. She can brace herself on the wall or the headboard. If you move with a slow enough rhythm, she can easily join in, by sitting down, or gently bouncing. If you go too fast, there’s no way she can keep up and she’s probably annoyed.
  4. In my experience, men usually go too fast at first. A fast pace is great at the end when both of you are close to climax but ease into it. Let her open up slowly.
  5. If you are on top, start by moving your body in a slow, gentle, rhythmic way. One, two, three… consistent. Don’t vary the rhythm too much, it’s distracting. Slow, fast, slow, jack-hammer, slow, stir the cocktail, fast, slow: annoying. Pick a rhythm and stick with it.
  6. Feel it. Then, gently, slowly, increase the pace. Pay attention to the way she’s moving. Try to match your movements with hers. If she’s slowly griding on you, slowly and gently grind back at her pace. When her breathing gets faster, increase the rhythm slightly.
  7. Talk to her. Be specific. “Is this fast enough?” “Do you want it slower?” “Do you want it faster?”

If you don’t have confidence in your rhythm (white boy dance) – be still, feel her, and then try to move with her.


Hard to believe I first came to the Mustang over a year ago, which means I had to spend Tuesday renewing my Sheriff’s card.


Some of the questions on the form:

Have you ever been convicted of a crime with a deadly weapon?


Have you ever been convicted of theft?


Have you ever been convicted of drug possession?


Are you now or have you ever been defunct in paying back child support?


Have you ever been arrested for any reason?


Well, I got a DUI in college. That doesn’t count, though, does it? I was a different person then.

Brothel workers in this county — including prostitutes, drivers, housekeepers, bartenders, cooks, office workers — who have ever been arrested must now get an FBI report.

As the driver took me into Reno to the FBI place, I was so embarrassed, explaining that I got arrested on Halloween dressed as a mermaid, with my boyfriend who was dressed as a pirate, I had two whiskey sours in two hours, and I promise I felt fine to drive, and we were parked waiting for our friends at midnight, when a police car pulled up, told me to get out, and said because the keys were in the ignition it showed an intent to drive, and I blew just over the limit, and they took me to jail…

The driver said it was okay, he did something stupid in his twenties too so he had to go to the FBI too.

We work at the discretion of the Sheriff’s office. If the Sheriff digs through our histories and finds an unreported arrest, he may pull our cards. They may allow us criminals to explain our bad memories and beg for our jobs back in front of a panel sometime in the future. Or not. So it’s best to reveal everything.

I said mean things about the Sheriff. The driver said the Sheriff was just doing his job and he’s in a tough situation and we’re all doing the best we can. The driver looks like he could pound a nail into a board with his fist; yet, he won’t say anything bad about anyone. As we drove, I tried for another ten minutes to get him to say something unkind and failed.

The Mustang car is a sleek, black, beautiful, movie star car, a starlet should be stepping out of it; instead, when we reached the FBI place in a strip mall, I got out wearing shorts, flip-flops and my hair in a pony-tail. Accompanied by a large, bad-ass looking man who is a Koala Bear in disguise.

We waited an hour. I got fingerprinted, and forty-five minutes later they emailed me the results. And sent a paper copy to my house. Love, your friendly FBI Support Staff.


Mom, please don’t pick up my mail next week.