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Sunday - June 01, 2002
Fuckmeat Sandwiches


Well, we have puppies. Five of them. There were six whelped, but one was stillborn and never woke up. Mom and the remaining pups are doing fine and will soon be headed back to their rightful owner. In the meantime, I have five blind, deaf, wiggling creatures in my house and a fully grown no-longer-preggers "please-oh-please let me run around and play" mother dog on my hands. Have mercy. Although, you have to feel for Blythe. China decided to give birth in Blythe's room on a "Scooby Doo" blanket. (You know all that stuff you read about building a whelping box? Forget it. Dogs don't pay any attention to ready-made birthing chambers. They want to pop on the floor in a corner so that their squealing and wiggling offspring can keep you awake for weeks).



Let's see. That covers the dog update. 

How about new slut news...

Well,  my new favorite expression is "fuckmeat sandwiches." I can feel you all rolling your eyes out there, but you have to appreciate how much fun it is. And yes, I know, I have a college degree in English Literature and I probably shouldn't mire myself in gutter gibberish. I'm a slut, but I'm a classy slut.

Yeah right.

Fuckmeat sandwiches to that, I say. It's crude, vulgar and sublime. Say it aloud a few time. I bet it grows on you.

For those who are interested in the origins of fuckmeat sandwiches, I was flipping channels rather innocently about a week and a half ago and there was some sort of B-level action movie on HBO. I paused on the channel only long enough to hear the word, "fuck" and recognize a Baldwin brother. Not one to linger, I continued on my merry way to find the Naked Chef muttering the word "meat." But, I wasn't interested in his entree and moved on. I came to rest at last on Sesame Street where a muppet I remember fondly from my childhood was uttering the words "a la peanut butter sandwiches." 

The rest is just understanding the way my mind works. I'm twisted, I admit it, but fuckmeat sandwiches is my new favorite thing. Like when a five year old hears his parent curse for the first time and begins to immediately punctuate each sentence with the forbidden utterance. 

Fuckmeat Sandwiches. I love the way it rolls off the tongue...

Okay. Enough. I'm obviously more than in touch with my inner child these days. She's sorta in control.

Let's chat about the site. Garv let me put up a new gallery. And it's just peaches and cream, jellybean. I love his stuff and I continue to be both honored and amazed that the erotic artists I most enjoy are letting me showcase a few of their works. And Garv was very generous. I tired and tried to keep myself to a few like he asked but when I gave a little pout, he caved and let me use more. I mean, come on, look through the batch. I couldn't possibly have surrendered even one of them. Could you?

Speaking of surrender, I have recently discovered Dita Von Teese. Prepare to forget your own name when you get a gander at this girl. Oh my ever-loving goddess, have you ever seen anything more delectable than this walking, talking creamsicle of womanhood? Mommy, I want one! 

Just look at this picture. 




It's enough to make you weep. Sinn and I have been bickering over which of us gets to suck and nibble on her first. It's going to be a close call. I just adore any woman who expends that much effort to ooze sexuality. Burlesque and breathless beauty. She's like some pin-up girl from the 40s stepped out of a dream. And - NO - all you cynics, I'm not mentioning her here to pimp an affiliate program. She doesn't have one. I just think she's a hottie.

You know what...Sinn and I talk a great deal about yummy women. It's funny. Both of us are pretty much devoted hetero gals, but even though we chat about men and our mutual appreciation for the species that we bed down with, more often than not, we are showing one another photos or artwork of some delish dish in a corset and heels. There is a fundamental irony at work here. Sinn and I cannot agree on clothes. We cannot agree on men. We loathe each other's taste in furniture and decor. But we lick our lips over the same women. Go figure.

Lesse. What else...?

Oh! I'm hoping to launch three new areas of the site soon. Ask the Phone Slut, Real Sluts, and Porn Surfing 101. Ask a Slut will allow me to share some of the more amusing mail I get and questions I get asked. Real Sluts will feature friends of mine in the industry who actually use their own pictures to market their wares, and Porn Surfing will have tips and tricks to help while you surf. Yeah. Doubtless it'll piss off a few of the clan who love to trap surfers in pop-up hell. Good. Let them get a little of their own frustration back, I say. Fuckmeat sandwiches to them. *giggle*

I've gone mad. It's mad puppy disease I tell you.

No. As a matter of fact, I'm not drunk, thank you very much for asking.

There has been an outbreak of strange occurrences lately. Briefly (for about two hours) a few days ago, all the toll free lines of Rio's business went out. The phone company had no explanation. They were just out. My number (866-FON-SLUT) went out for a couple days! Again, no explanation. Just that they were working on it. We were not amused. But all was eventually set right.

Then, I finally caved and invited two of my clients to the private pricing page I maintain where they can pay me directly for less money than going through the service, but all appointments have to be made in advance by invitation only. I couldn't believe it when they said they'd rather pay the higher rate via the service and be able to call me whenever they needed me. Isn't that a hoot? Loopy johns. I suppose part of the thrill is having a beck-and-call girl, but that's a new one on me. I guess it's flattering that they'd rather pay a higher rate and be able to give me a jingle whenever they want, rather than save a few dimes and have to make a phone date in advance. But you know different strokes for different folks. (No pun intended).

Okay, well, this is all from the land of slut-dom. It's Summer and business has slowed a bit. You'd think I'd have more time to update. Hmmm. Yeah. You'd think.

Well, join my notification service and get an email when I update. It's rather painless. And it helps make me feel less guilty.

Also - just because I hate being on the last page, so ahead and click on one of those little Clix boxes when you read this entry. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.




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