Taste The Passion!

I am a pretty passionate person. I like to get fired up about all sorts of things. Good, bad, everything.

Like, I get fired up and angry every time I see a dumb article or Facebook post that perpetuates hate or bigotry. Anti asylum-seeker stuff. Dumb fake “news” about Christmas being banned and how much we should all hate Muslim people. People who use false and proven wrong claims about autism and mercury poisoning to endanger their kids (and others) by not immunising... These things get my blood boiling and make me want to kick faces.

On the other side there are the things that get me passionate and fired up that are positive things. For example, if I am reading a good book I want, nay need, everyone to know how amazingly brilliant and clever and exciting it is. I talk about the characters as if they were friends and I feel a sense of loss or sadness if something happens to them in the story or when it ends. When I meet people I connect with or admire I become like their cheer squad. “Person, person Rah Rah Rah!! Yaaaayyyy PERSON!!” (without being too clingy or annoying... No really). Extreme sports stunts, crazy magic tricks, amazing live acts. These things get me excited and passionate.

And then there are the things I get passionate and fired up about that are just plain silly. That people look at me and go “Is she serious??”

Sad thing is... I usually am.

One of these things, which I just cannot get out of my brain, is the new Skittles ad.

I know right.

Bear with me.

For those who haven't seen it... This is the ad

I love this ad. I love it so much I want to marry it. It's funny. It's weird. It's just... Well... What we have come to expect from Skittles... But it frustrates me. It frustrates me to the point of irritating everyone around me when the ad comes on.

I mean, yes, it's great... But (and here comes the dumb) I cannot help but wonder about the rest of this guy's world outside the confines of the 45 seconds we see.

Okay, wonder is not the right word... I obsess over it.

I mean everything he touches turns to Skittles. He laments over not being able to hold his newborn child... But how did he ever have sex in the first place to become a father? How does he scratch his nose or go to the toilet and wipe his arse?

HOW WAS HE EVEN BORN???? Did his mother explode into skittles and he kind of appeared in her place? Do the Skittles he creates become even more Skittles when he touches them? How did he even get a job where his sole purpose seems to be answering a phone and using a computer in what looks like a library where books are read... BY HAND??

Also, he isn't a young guy. Did this affliction come later on in life? Why isn't he in a protective cell? Why isn't he being punished for effectively murdering a dude on his way to work that morning on the bus. HOW DID HE USE HIS MYKI!!!! These are the big questions, people. There is just no sense or reason outside the ad and I cannot deal with it! This is what keeps me up at night.

Yes. I am a bit crazy... But hey. I'm cute and funny... So I think I can get away with it. Skittles anyone?

Sexy Costumes Are Sexy

@AngryAussie and I love to have a little fun with our vids... This time we roped in the delicious @ViolaTurtleDove to come play too!

The shop I work in has heaps of funky costumes and so we decided to show some of them off... And then we made a video!

Enjoy!!

Video: Blow Up Dolls are fun!

Blow-up dolls can be so much fun, and a little bit funny too.

Join AngryAussie, AIDzee and me as we look at some of the best ones!

Naked Noodles and Other Stories

Like I’ve said before - and will probably say again - everyone has fantasies and fetishes, and everyone’s idea of what is sexy or a turn on is different. Some of them I totally understand and share myself, others I can see why it’s a turn on but they personally do nothing for me, and then there are the ones that either gross me out a bit or completely mystify me.

I’ve encountered so many different fantasies and fetishes since I started working - indulging in (and enjoying) quite a few - and it’s rare that I ever come across something that I haven’t at least heard of. In saying that, though, there are so many variations and different aspects to sexual fantasy that each one is as individual as the person who desires it.

Some are more of the visual sort; watching porn, dressing up, putting on a show, mirrors and things like that.

Like I remember I used to see this guy, Dan, who loved watching me play with a vibrator. Of course, that isn’t a rare request at all, but Dan was the first person I’d ever met that wanted to watch me do it on the kitchen table while he made pasta. Always pasta. I never found out why.

There are fantasies about specific body parts like toes, arses, belly buttons and nipples – One guy I met would come by getting me to squeeze on his earlobes as he fucked me, another loved me to tickle his feet with my hair.

For some people there needs to be pain and/or control involved; hot wax, fingernails, bondage and discipline, and other people get off on adrenaline and risk – fucking in public, taboo partners (like your wife’s sister, or your daughters piano teacher) and other elicit affairs.

Laura and Max, a couple I once saw, had an appetite for make-up sex. You know, the passion-filled and anger-fuelled fuck you have after an argument. But, because they hardly ever fought for real, they would have these pretend bust-ups about trivial things – the toilet seat being left up, what to watch on TV etc – and sometimes, usually when on holiday, they would have these loud, melodramatic arguments in public full of accusations of betrayal, name calling and lots of crying and flouncing off, before heading back to the hotel for crazy, hardcore make-up sex. In the booking I had with them, Laura “caught” Max and me in the act, resulting in a huge “fight” and some very hot threesome sex. I must admit it felt very strange, sitting naked in the bed while these two went off at each other. It was quite full on. If I hadn't known it was all an act I would have been terrified! She really laid into him!

I have to admit, though, some of them can make me laugh more than anything, and I there have even been a few times when I’ve felt downright silly. Like this guy I (privately) nicknamed Dick Chasey because whenever I’d go to see him the job always started with us getting naked and me chasing him around his house trying to catch him by his dick. Harmless, yes. Embarrassing, very. I don't like to run at the best of times, let alone naked with my boobs bouncing around and my butt all wobbly. But he loved it and I really did enjoy satisfying his itch. Which was always proof to me I was in the right job.

I honestly think, when it comes right down to it, if it’s not hurting anyone (unless of course that’s the fantasy) then there really isn’t anything wrong with a little naked pasta making. Noodle anyone?

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.