Bad Advice Throughout The Years

In the research for my book, A Girl's Guide To Getting Off, I have emailed, Skyped, Facebooked and talked face to face with dozens and dozens (maybe even hundreds) of women of all ages (from around 13 to over 70) about sex and the sex education they received and I have to say that on some topics I was sad to see that not a lot has changed over the years.

Across all ages I have encountered girls who had no idea what was happening when they got their period, women completely disgusted by the look of their own genitals, women afraid to touch themselves for all manner of reasons and fears, and girls told that what they wear or how they act will make them somehow responsible for their own rapes or sexual assaults.

Today I would like to share with you some of the bad advice they were given.

(All names have been changed)

On Periods

“I was bleeding. I had no idea what it was. I thought I was dying. I went and told my mother and she slapped me! Slapped me right in the face, gave me a packet of pads and told me to never speak about it again.” - Sue 71

“My mum came to me when I was about twelve and told me I would start bleeding from my private bits soon and that these [pads] would help soak it up. She didn't tell me what it was or why. Just that it would happen and happen a lot. It wasn't til I was about sixteen that a friend explained it to me. Up until then I thought it happened to boys too.” - Liz 50

“It happened at school camp when I was about 14. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I was going to die. My year co-ordinator was so lovely. She gave me pads and told me what was happening. When I got home and told my mum all she said was 'You're a woman now.'” - Carly 18

On Boys

“Mum told me to never let a boy pay for everything on a date because then he would expect certain things. She didn't tell me I had the right to refuse or that he had no right to demand. Only that the best way to avoid it was to make sure you didn't 'owe' him anything” - Jessie 37

“I have always been told, since I was a kid, if a boy is mean to you it means he likes you. That's led to some pretty fucked up relationships I can tell you. I will never tell my kids that. If someone is mean to you, it's because they are a mean person. End of story.” - Anne 29

“My older brother has never had a curfew. I always have. When I questioned it my dad said it's because girls get raped and boys don't. When I said that maybe that should mean boys shouldn't be allowed out rather than stopping girls he told me I didn't know what I was talking about. Talk about double standards” - Debbie 17

On What You Wear

“My father telling me I wasn't leaving the house in that was almost constant. When my breasts began to get really big he made me cover them in a cardigan, no matter how hot it was. He told me it was because boys get ideas and he wasn't going to have his daughter be the one to give it to them.” - Sara 40

“My mum told me it was a shame I had big boobs because everything I wore made me look like I was asking for sex.” - Anne 29

“My mum always says if you dress like a slut you'll be treated like a slut. I've been treated pretty bad just in jeans and a top so I don't think she's getting the whole picture.” - Kerry 19

On Sexual Assault

“When I was 19 I was raped. I went to the police and they kept asking me what I had been wearing and if I had led him on. It was really horrible. The fact I had a black eye and scratches all over me didn't seem to matter. One of the cops even said if I hadn't made such a fuss maybe [the rapist] wouldn't have hit me so hard.” - Fern 50

“I had big boobs in high school. I got used to the boys trying to touch them and grab them when I walked past. If you complained they called you frigid. I actually didn't think about it til years later how completely wrong it was” - Jessie 37

“When I was in grade seven I complained to my teacher that the boys in my class were trying to feel me up. She told me 'boys will be boys' and to not encourage it by wearing my school skirt so short” - Hayley 17

On Losing Your Virginity

“On my wedding day [I was 22] my mother pulled me aside and told me that now I was a wife I had specific duties. One was to let him touch me with whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. She said it would hurt but I would get used to it.” - Carol 68

“My mum told me to save myself for marriage or I would get a bad reputation. She said it was okay for boys because boys needed the practice to make sure they were good husbands. It never made any sense! Who were they supposed to be practising on and why couldn't I practice to be a good wife? She never answered my questions. She just said not to do it.” - Jennifer 39

“My mum hasn't really said anything to me or my sister about sex. She gets really embarrassed about it. She gave us a book though. That helped us learn a bit more, but I don't know. The girls at school says it hurts.” - Alannah 15

On Masturbation

“My mother caught me masturbating in the bath once. She screamed and told me I was dirty and going to hell and that I was to never, ever touch myself there again. Of course I didn't listen. I just made sure I was more careful about where I did it.” - Sara 40

“My mum told me if I touched myself down there it would ruin my vagina (she didn't actually use that word. She just called them 'bits') and that no man would ever want to marry me.” - Anne 29

“My mum has never talked to me about it ever. I wouldn't know how to talk to her about it either.” - Hayley 17

                                                                       *****

So much confusion. So much wasted self doubt. So much bullshit! All in the name of what? Protection? Fear? All that has done for most of these women is left them feeling unsure, abnormal and completely unaware of their own bodies, their own sexuality, their own pleasure. Not a life I wish for my daughter, nor yours.

I absolutely believe it is imperative that we open the doors to honest and proper sexual education and allow teenagers to explore, learn and develop without any fear of judgement or punishment and without ridiculous scare tactics and untruths about what will happen.

Yes, sex is an activity that comes with responsibility and risk but then so is almost everything we undertake as we grow from children into adults. Let's be true educators. True guides. After all truth is knowledge and knowledge is the key to all greatness and that is what I wish for my daughter and yours.

Sorry, dear, you're not qualified!

Okay, so I have kind of misquoted there, but only by a word or two and for those hard-core Monty Python fans out there, I know you’ll know what I mean…

               

A mate of mine called me up not too long ago. He has been a colleague for many years, was even my boss for a few of them and, over the course of our working relationship, we have become friends. He has helped me out of a jam or two before and I him and we have formed a bond.

                But enough about that, this isn’t what this is about, it is about the phone call. He called me up and said, “Hey mate, I need some help. You’re a really good writer and I think you’re pretty funny too ( he went on and on with the compliments, but I don’t wanna bore you), and a friend and I have started up a website all about comedy, specifically Australian comedy, and we would love you to be a part of it. You have the skills as a writer, the contacts in the entertainment world and, well you’re just awesome (no, really, he said this heaps! *disclaimer, he probably didn’t say it as much as I like to remember).”

                Well needless to say I was flattered. Not only do I respect his opinion, I really love comedy. Like really. Some of my earliest memories are of watching old Billy Connelly videos with my dad, and my sisters and I screeching with laughter at the Goodies and Monty Python and all the best comedy from the 70s. When we got a little bit older my sister’s and I would re-enact scenes from the Old D-Generation show. We would quote the lines over and over.

 It wasn’t just comedy though. It was all performing. I loved theatre and musicals and live shows. Those people who know me well know I studied acting and writing for many years while I was a teenager and early adult. I did speech and drama and elocution, I performed improvisation and spoken word in Eisteddfods, I acted in plays (one of which was chosen to play in an international festival when I was only 16), I wrote plays (one of which ended up winning a prize in the Australian National Scriptwriting Competition in the early 90s) I told jokes, I did strange street theatre that nobody understood. It was my life.
                Those people who know me very, very well know why I quit. That’s another story for another time. It was one of the hardest things I have ever walked away from. But I did.

Over the years I put that loss of being on stage away and my passion for performing and entertaining was redirected into my other favourite thing, sex. Not only within the realms of escorting and sex work, where I would be able to don any mask to fit the personality of a client and get to show off my talents and personality and magnificent oral skills (oh as if you weren’t expecting a pun or too along the way), but also into public speaking and presenting too. I partook in panel discussions on writing porn and erotica; I co-hosted radio spots and, with a good friend, presented skill share workshops for women on sex and sexuality. (I am using past tense but all these things are still very much part of the work I do). In short, I was putting myself out there as much as possible but, instead of doing it under the guise of a character, I was doing it all as me.

So, back to the phone call. Of course I said yes. Not only was it awesome and flattering and exciting to be asked, it meant I would get to see some fantastic shows, hone my writing skills even more and build up more of my public profile because, let’s face it, when you’re a freelance writer without an agent, no one else is going to do it for you.

I have quite a few mates who are comedians. Some I know very well and would call them good friends, others more acquaintances who I have a drink with every so often and others are just people I know from around the traps of being a writer, enjoying live shows and/or they are a friend of a friend and I saw them once at a party.

I told a couple of them I had been given this gig and they were all excited for me. As well as eager to plug their next show and promise to buy me lots of beer if I gave them a good write up which I, of course, refused (Hey, you may be able to buy my sex… But my laughter is another matter). I was pumped. I was excited. I was ready to laugh… And then something happened.

I have a few idols. People I look up to and admire for one reason or another. I am very lucky to have met a few of them and even luckier to have met some who have since become friends of mine. One such Idol who I have met, although would not class as a friend, is a pretty famous Aussie comedian. Someone I grew up watching and enjoying. Someone whose lines I spent hours quoting with friends. Someone who had a permanent poster-spot on my bedroom wall. Someone who, when they started following me on Twitter and who I eventually met briefly one day, made me jump up and down in my chair and go “Squeeeeee” for a while. Someone who, with a few casual words thrown in my direction had me questioning everything about myself, my intentions, my skills and my talents.  Someone who almost made me give up.
Yay idol, right.

It all started with a ticket mix up at the Melbourne International Comedy festival. I went to get tickets for a show I was reviewing and the girl at the desk told me she was really sorry, but for some reason they hadn’t sent me an email about another show I’d been hoping to review and I had missed out on the tickets to it because it had already started an hour earlier. She was really apologetic but I understand that shit happens and it wasn’t anyone’s fault really. But the most disappointing aspect of it was it was the show of the above mentioned idol. Someone who I had wanted to see live since forever.

So I sent him a tweet. Basically I said something like “Hey, am reviewing shows for MICF and just found out that, cos of a mix up, I missed out on your show. Bummer!”

His reply was quick, simple and short. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know you were a comedy specialist.”

Well, I’m not. That bit is true, but at first I didn’t think much of it and sent him a reply back saying something along the lines of sex and laughter being intertwined and hey, people are always telling me I’m funny… And not just funny looking…

He came back at me with a quote. A quote from Roosevelt about how critics are scum and whose only purpose is to point out faults and judge while someone else lays their heart and soul on the line. (I’m paraphrasing… Here’s the actual quote http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7-it-is-not-the-critic-who-counts-not-the-man )And basically went on to tell me that I had no place to be judging others, that I come from a place of no experience and total risk and that, regardless of my years of experience presenting and writing and putting myself out there for everyone to judge and criticise (seriously, until you have come out openly and positively as a sex worker, you have NO idea what being judged by complete strangers is like) I had no place to do what I was doing because comedy is a craft unlike any other ever and should be above scrutiny and basically fuck you, Eva, you’re a fraud.

This got to me. This got into my head and into my confidence and started eating away. “Yeah, Eva,” I thought to myself. “Here’s someone who knows his shit, man. Here’s someone whose advice you take seriously. Here’s someone who thinks you’re a big fat phony. What the hell are you doing? Why did you even think you could do this? You’re not even funny. People probably laugh AT you rather than WITH you. Stop what you’re doing right now. Get your hand off it. Go back to fucking. You suck…”

It was horrible. I rarely suffer from self-doubt and it’s even rarer I let what other people think of me get inside my head, but this was different. This would be a bit like the porn star Belladonna (who is another of my idols and one I have had the amazing luck to have interviewed over the phone) telling me to close my legs and stop having sex because, quite frankly, I was shit at it.
It was a blow to my everything...  I really was ready to give up. I spoke to the guys at the website and told them my concerns and they told me not to worry about it. That they wouldn’t have offered me the part if they didn’t think I could do it, but still I worried.

And then the emails and messages came. Now I have mentioned earlier that I have quite a few friends who are in the comedy biz. At the time I didn’t know who or how many people had seen this exchange (Yes, it had all been done rather embarrassingly publicly on Twitter, I have since removed them from my timeline) but apparently word had got out among a few of them and they had felt compelled enough by it to contact me.

Every single one of them said pretty much the same thing. “Don’t listen to it, Eva. You’re really good at what you do. You write well. You ARE funny, and you have every right to be doing what you are doing, oh, and will you come and review my show I’ll buy you beer!”

They made me feel better. They really did. But it wasn’t until I had some of my first reviews posted on the website that I really started to believe it.  People were sharing them over the place, the comedians I was writing about enjoyed and reposted them and the public took my advice and saw the shows I’d written about and then thanked me for directing them to good stuff.

I have had a few weeks to reflect on all of this and get my head around it. Out of all the comedians I know and have since met in this amazing Melbourne festival, the only negative reaction I have had was from one person. One. No-one else. And that, to me, says more about them than it does me or my skills. I always try to look at things in a glass-half-full way, and this is no exception. It just took a little longer.

                A couple of things I will add, in response to the “coming from a place of no experience” comments and the “you’re not a comedy specialist” digs, are that yes. He is right. When it comes to writing comedy reviews I haven’t got much experience. But, like all people, in all things that they do, they have to start somewhere and, luckily for me, I have got quite a bit of writing and reviewing experience under my belt, albeit in another genre.

Also I AM funny. I write damn good stories and have a way of expressing myself on paper and in person that is amusing and sometimes even laugh-out-loud funny. Okay, I may not have the experience of putting myself out there like a comedian trying to make people laugh, but if you think I haven’t stood up in front of a mass of people and bared my raw soul for all to see (and judge and scrutinise and whisper harshly about) then you’re sorely mistaken. I have stood in front of crowds and read out my own erotic writing and experiences including a blow by blow (pardon the pun) description of fellatio and cunnilingus and once I even re-wrote a scene in 50 Shades Of Grey to involve a gay kiss between two rather prominent and uber-hetero male radio presenters that was then read out on a national prime time show.

As for having no credibility to be judging others I will say this. I have never, nor will I ever judge anyone who has put themselves out there in a position of vulnerability. I just won’t. It is soul damaging and mean and not who I am in the slightest. I think the terms “critic” and “review” sit uncomfortably in a lot of people’s head because (and this happens) it means people can put you down, tell you where you went wrong, and judge (like Roosevelt says) from the relative safety of the critics chair. I don’t and will never “review” like that.

If you have a read of the ones I have done for the festival (blatant self- promotion here’s a link to ALL my reviews http://whatsoncomedy.com/author/evas/ ) you will see not a single judgement of harshness. What you see is a description. An observation of what I saw and what the basic premise for the show was. My experience and past as a sex worker is perfect for this. Let me explain how.

One of the most common questions I get from people about sex work is “But what if they’re old and fat and ugly?? How do you possibly enjoy it then?”
The answer is simple (well simple for me, I understand not everyone is like this) Everyone, absolutely everyone has something redeeming and endearing about them. Everyone. And, as a good sex worker, it is my job to find it and I have to say, in all the years and all the men and all the sex, I’ve come across maybe three people I couldn’t find something nice about.

I look at these comedy gigs the same way. Even if the show is the equivalent of a fat sweaty old man there will be something I can write positively about it. (Hell I probably could have written Tracy Morgan a good review) Even if I don’t “get it” or find it funny I can do that. Why? Because humour is subjective. The audience watching is reacting, laughing, clapping, joining in… Who am I to say it’s shit just because I don’t find it funny. It’s not about me.

And that’s the thing really, isn’t it. It’s not about me. Nor is it about letting other people’s judgement and ideas of you stop you from being who you are and doing what you love. It’s just about living.

So love what you do and do what you love and life will always come up smelling peachy. Or at least, a super cute comedian you have a bit of a crush on will hug you close and tell you you’re pretty damn special.

(I would just like to add that as much as this person hates critics and thinks the art of reviewing is one left to dogs and their fleas... He has NO problem retweeting, reposting and linking to any and every review and commentary on his latest offerings... But hey, don't take it personally, Eva... It's really not about you... Honest... )

No Bang For Your Buck

It’s almost inevitable that a Buck’s party will end up at a strip club, it’s like an unwritten law, but Paul wanted something different for his best mate, Brian, something kind of extravagant.

The receptionist at the agency told me that this guy wanted something a bit left of centre and wanted to know if he could speak to me directly as it was a bit long-winded. Always up for a new experience and curious as to what left of centre could mean, I got his number and gave him a call.

In that first phone call he was a little bit evasive. Not in a bad or sneaky way, I could just tell he wasn't to comfortable trying to ask me all the questions he wanted to over the phone, so he asked if we could meet up before the night in question so that he could explain his idea to me properly.

About a week before the job was going to happen I went along to a small cafe in the city to meet him. He was a really good looking, young guy. Probably in his mid twenties. He looked very professional in an expensive suit and was very well spoken and polite. He told me that his mate, Brian, was going to be the last of their group to be married and, for the last hoo-hah, Paul and their other friends had decided to organise a show Brian would never forget; a live sex show, performed by me and a male escort, Sam, who worked for the same agency as me. I thought it sounded like fun and agreed to do the job. Sam had already been briefed by the receptionists at the office about it but, as our paths had never crossed before, we arranged a time to meet before the job so we could plan out the what's and where's and all the details.

The basic idea was this: Sam was going to be Paul’s “cousin”, and a last minute addition to the party. He was going to join them on their night out, and then later, they were all going to come back to the office where most of them worked where they would meet me. I was going to be the “stripper”, hired for the night to perform my routine but, as a twist during the show, I’d pick a member of the group to have sex with in front of the rest… Sam. Easy! And not only that, it sounded like fun too!

Sam and I instantly warmed to each other. He was funny, smart and really, really cute with dark, wavy hair, big brown eyes and a gorgeous body. He seemed as excited about the night as me, and it really did seem to be the perfect job. The guys were friendly, the venue spectacular (a top floor office in a tall city skyscraper), and the money was also going to be amazing. Team that with the fact that Sam was a total hottie with a great personality to boot, and I was sure nothing could possibly go wrong.

Paul was right. It was going to be a show his mates would never forget…

The night started out fine. It was around 11 pm when I got to the party and met the guys. They were all very nice, Sam had fitted in well and no-one had doubted the story of him being an out-of-town cousin. We all shared a drink and chatted for a bit and then Paul put on a CD of sexy music and the show began.

On a night where nothing could go wrong, things started to go wrong.

I probably should have thought about it a bit more beforehand, because it's something I know very well about myself: Although I’m one hell of a fuck, I’m not a great dancer. That whole line of being able to tell how good someone is in bed by the way they move on a dance floor is, in my opinion, total bullshit!

So there I was, in front of a group of guys, with slow, sexy music playing on the CD player, trying to move all sensual and snake-like while wearing these ridiculous spike heels that I could hardly walk in, let alone keep a beat with. And it was only then I realised with horror that not only was I supposed to dance in them, I had to undress in them too. All while keeping this seductive dance going! Concentrating hard I sort of wiggled my hips a bit and tried to take off my shirt.

Salome I was not.

I think If I’d unbuttoned it properly it probably would have worked better, and it took me almost a full minute to untangle myself, completely stuffing up my hair, smearing eyeliner down the sleeve and losing my balance a couple of times in the process. But, just as it all seemed lost I managed to regain composure, fling my shirt across the room in a haphazard but totally sexy way and find the beat in the music again.

Relief was short lived. I now know why strippers wear things made with easy-pull-apart velcro sides. As I delicately shimmied out of my skirt one of the stupidly high spike heels got caught in the bottom of it and I stumbled again, falling onto my hands and knees as a heel got caught in my skirt. I cleverly disguised the fall as a sexy move and slipped the offending skirt off the heel. There was a nasty ripping sound as it caught on the hem, but I soldiered on and luckily the guys hadn't seemed to notice.

Feeling awkward and clumsy I got back up, now just in my bra, knickers and stupid shoes and beckoned to Sam, pulling him out of the circle and into the middle with me, telling the boys that this show was going to be a little bit different.

Sam smiled as he let me undress him. It was definitely easier getting his shirt and pants off than it had been getting my own clothes off. I smiled to the boys as I slid down his boxer shorts, and then I knelt down in front of him, licking my lips.

There I encountered the next problem in the “perfect job”. Sam was as soft and limp as cooked spaghetti and no matter what I did I could not get him to grow. I tried everything. Long slow licks, delicate kisses, tender hands and fingers running up his legs. I ran my hands over his chest. I put him (soft and limp) into my mouth (so not a sexy thing, really.) But still nothing. Not even a twitch. It was something I had never encountered before in my life! Sure, there have been guys with beer droop and drug slug and guys with other erection issues, but never had I come across someone so unresponsive to me in every way. When I did sneak a glance up at his face he looked bored.

After about five or so minutes of my futile attempts to get him hard I stood up and whispered in his ear that maybe he could try going down on me. At least then we could give the guys who were paying us a shit-load of money to be there something to watch to give them their money's worth. Sam shook his head, replying that he didn’t really like doing that and maybe we should just give up.

I was pissed off! Not only was I feeling about as sexy as a lump of wood, I was really mad at Sam, who was getting paid the same as me but was putting in absolutely no effort whatsoever to make this job work.

In the end I gave up and apologised to the guys. They were surprisingly fine with it. They laughed and said it had been a great show and a fun experience and that they were all massively turned on by me and my dance routine and would I mind if they called me again for private jobs with them. I said I'd be happy to, and then, after getting dressed back into my ripped skirt, and make-up smeared shirt, left the party and got my driver to drive me back to the office where I told the receptionist everything. Her response totally shocked me, but at the same time explained everything.

“What do you expect?” She laughed. “Sam’s gay! He only ever works with other men! I can’t believe he didn’t tell you that. I guess he thought in a room full of blokes it’d be easy to get hard.”

It wasn't too long after that night that Sam called me to apologise. He even offered to give me the money he made that night. When I refused, he made me promise to at least take half, which I did, and now have some awesome new boots to show for it. And I have also regained my sexiness (and ego) with a few regular bookings with Paul, and other members of the group where I had absolutely no problems getting them to respond in the way I wanted.

So, in the end, I guess we were right. It was a night to remember… I just kind of wish I could forget.

Star Struck

With the fun of my #CelebritiesIHaventRooted Tweets the other day I got quite a few emails etc asking about the ones I had. Now, as a professional I really cannot (and will not ever) reveal that... But I did write a column about it a while ago!
This "celebrity" is a blend of about three people and written in a way that no-one will ever know... Except me. 
Enjoy!

 

When they were giving out self-confidence, I think I must have accidentally stepped into the line twice. I have a lot of it. I don’t get nervous often and I rarely have those I-hate-myself days. To me the expression “lost for words” usually means I’ve been dealt only vowels in Scrabble. I can slot myself into any situation and get along with almost anyone. It definitely helps me at work. The conversation flows and my client’s feel relaxed and at ease. Well, usually...

It was a regular night like any other. I had started work around 9pm and within a couple of minutes I'd been given my first job. It was in the penthouse of an inner city apartment block. I'd visited a client at that building a few months ago so I knew what the place was like and could only imagine how spectacular and ritzy the penthouse would be, considering how nice a second floor place had been.
I travelled up in a beautiful elevator, got to the entrance lobby of the penthouse and rang the bell. The heavy oak doors slid open and the man who had booked me for the next few hours stood silhouetted in the doorway.

He stepped into the light where I could see his face.

“Holy shit!” I said, before realising I’d said it out loud.

Now, as embarrassing and pathetic as I know it is, there really is only one thing in this world that makes me so nervous that either my feet leap into my mouth at every opportunity or I just can’t speak at all, and that is when I meet someone famous. And, worst of all, it doesn’t even have to be someone super-famous like Brad Pitt or Madonna, it has been known to happen when I’m at the pub and the person sitting at the table next to me is the chick from a K-Mart ad.

Yes, I know it is pathetic, I know it is “so high school”, but knowing that doesn’t stop the dribble that seems to flow out of my mouth when I try to speak.

The guy smiled at me. “Hello.”

“Holy shit,” I said again. “You’re the guy from that show!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Wow! I was so in love with you when I was younger, I had posters of you all over my bedroom!”

Ignoring the slightly bemused look on his face and the screaming in my brain, ‘Filter! Filter!’ I ploughed on“I even named my pet fish after you!”

I wandered around his living room in a kind of ecstatic haze studying photographs of him with various singers and movie stars. “Oh my god, that's you and Kylie? Holy shit, you know Tom Cruise?”

After a little more “fuckwit” from me, we finally made it into the bedroom and, as he lay me down on the bed and began to kiss and touch me, I thought I was going to faint. It was completely surreal, a fantasy coming to life and, oh wow, it was good! He knew how to touch, how to move, what to say. His hands were soft, yet firm and his body felt amazing next to mine. I have to admit I closed my eyes for a moment and pretended we were in one of his movie scenes. It was even more fantastic than those late night masturbation fantasies I'd had of him as a teenager, because it was real! He was there! I was actually fucking him! Oh my god.

Afterwards, as we lay there entwined in the sheets, I was still unable to stop myself; “If you give me your autograph I absolutely promise never to tell anyone how I got it.”

He turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “Only if you also promise me that the next time I see you, you don’t act like a star-struck groupie, and you don’t name any more pets after me.”

I did see him quite regularly after that and, true to my word, I learnt to treat him (and other celebrities I meet) mostly like normal people. It can be tricky, especially if I am a fan of theirs, but I'm definitely not as ridiculous with it now as I was in the past which is good, for them and for me, and one knows the real story behind the hand signed poster that sits over my dresser.

Well, no one but me and the teddy bear that shares his name. Teddies aren’t pets are they?

Write and Wrong

This is an extended version of the original that went into People Magazine... You'll see a difference from the others I've posted, as this is going from a 500 word article like the others are, to a 900 word story.
I like the extended versions better. They're more detailed, and are more like this in my book.

Franco lived on the 10^th floor of an old apartment block in the city. Although I'd not been to see him before it was the home of many a single man and a place I knew well. It was one of those old fashioned looking buildings with gargoyles on the corners and musty old carpet in the lobby and one of those rickety old elevators that shake and creak and threaten to plummet to the bottom if you so much as sneeze when you're inside. Not that I had to worry about that on the night I went to visit Franco.

That night, which of course happened to be one of those horribly muggy summer nights, the lifts were broken and I had to walk up ten flights of stairs. No shit.

Now, I’m not the fittest person. I despise exercise even more than I hate coriander - and let me tell you that's saying something - but I am lucky and manage to keep in shape by the grace of good genes and of course lots of fucking. So, after walking up ten flights of stairs in ridiculous shoes, not to mention thick, unbreathable air, by the time I got to his floor, my lungs were ready to explode, my legs felt like jelly and I wanted to pass out.

I spent a good five minutes or so leaning up against the wall in the stairwell trying to stop my nose from running, and gasping and wheezing and cursing the cigarettes I'd smoked on the drive over. As soon as I could manage to breathe without pain and noise I rummaged around in my over-filled bag and pulled out my little mirror for a quick check.

Okay, so my face was bright red and I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and nose, but my eyeliner was intact, my lipstick was still on and I had good hair. Small mercies! Trying to rid myself of the rosy-cheeked glow, I fanned myself with my hands as I walked down the fluorescent lit hallway, counting off doors until I found his and knocked.

The door opened a crack and Franco peered out. “Ah yes,” he said in a thick accent. “You girl, yes?”

“Yes, hi,” I replied. “I'm Sophie.”

He was a tall, fat guy with messy Einstein-style hair, wearing nothing but a loosely tied, faded dressing gown from which tufts of grey hair poked through, and a pair of torn socks.

“Elevator is bitch, yes?” he asked me when we were inside. “You right?”

He brought me some water and sat at the kitchen table looking at me while I called the agency and signed in. Once that was all done I went and sat at the table with him. It was a cluttered mess of papers and magazines and I moved a pile aside so I could put my glass down.

“You right?” he asked me again, leaning forward and looking at me closely.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.” I thought about my marathon stair climb and wondered if I’d missed something in the mirror. An ugly sweat stain perhaps, or maybe a booger (Oh God, please don’t let it be a booger!)

“No, no.” He motioned with his hand. “Write. You write?”

“Oh!” I laughed, relieved. “Yes, I can write.”

“Good,” he said. “You write for me.”

He motioned to the stack of papers I'd pushed aside and on closer inspection I saw they were those contact magazines. You know, for mail-order-brides, partner swapping and that kind of thing.

He opened one of them to a photograph of a naked woman, her boobs thrust out, thighs spread wide, and a painful expression on her face that I think was supposed to be orgasmic. It said she was called Nora, lived in Germany, loved fucking and sucking, and wanted a big cocked, warrior-type lover to take care of her.

“Her,” he said, pointing at the picture. “I want you to write to her.” He pushed a pen and notepad towards me. “I want you to tell her this: ‘I want to fuck you. You come here, live in house and we will fuck. You look after me like good woman should and I will fuck you good. I am much better than warrior. I have big cock for you so come here.’”

“Seriously?” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

He nodded. “Yes. You write that.”

I have to tell you it was one of the easiest, not to mention funniest, jobs I'd ever had. I spent the next 2 hours (at $300 a pop) writing out these ridiculous letters to mail-order-brides and international call girls, the irony of it completely lost on Franco.

To all of them he demanded they must come and live in his house and do all the things that a woman should do, crapping on and on about his big dick and how privileged they should feel because he was going to fuck them with it.

I think the funniest thing about the whole situation was that I’d caught a glimpse through his open dressing gown earlier and I knew the truth; there was really only one big dick in the room, and I have to admit I laughed about it... All ten flights down.