I’m about to give y’all a deep, dark dive behind the scenes of my life last week, but first, an announcement!

After much begging from a few but very vocal Instagram followers, I finally started up an OnlyFans account. Immediately after I uploaded my first photoset, it was crickets from those guys. SIGH.

Still, you can now view the bod that has made me such a terrifically mediocre stripper at https://onlyfans.com/circusmacabre.

I am SUCH GREAT at marketing.

And now, onto the shit everyone REALLY cares about: my weird clients!

Long before any of us had even heard of the big C-word, I received an inquiry from one of my Instagram followers:

I checked out his Insta account. Holy, shit, he was hot! And an artist. Throw in some emotional unavailability and excessive drug use, and he’d be just my type.

I resisted the urge to message him back, “Dude, I’d fuck you for free. Let’s just skip all this shit and bone.” Instead, I quoted him a stupidly high triple digit sum and emphasized it was for non-sexual play only.

Jeeeeezus, he didn’t even blink.

We set a date, and I fished out my massage oil from my very neglected sex toy box. Pretty sure the Pop Rocks in there were two years old. This massage oil was even older. Still, it smelled vaguely of eucalyptus, so it would do. You’d be surprised how little my clients complain about stuff.

At this point, if you’re a better person than I am, you may be less concerned about expired massage oil and more concerned about my safety. “Circus,” you might ask, “Is this . . . safe?”

No! No, it isn’t safe at all! Welcome to the illegal sex industry. It’s never been safe.

Still, I could definitely take some precautions. And by that, I mean my best friend, Sigmond, a 6′ black, ex-Marine with dreadlocs to his waist. Sigmond is a walking precaution. He was super excited when I asked him to be my back-up.

“My roommates and I have been stockpiling guns and ammo for weeks! Just say the word, and we’ll break the door down and storm in locked and loaded! Hmmm . . . I wonder if I still have some leftover tear gas canisters . . . “

I began to suspect Sigmond would be extremely disappointed if something DIDN’T go wrong.

“Um, just remember that I’ll be there in some capacity,” I reminded him.

“Sure!” he said cheerfully! “Just hit the floor when we bust in to avoid most of the bullet spray!”

Um. Well. Okay! Sigmond’s enthusiasm and armory couldn’t be beat, so we agreed on a word I’d use if I were fine and one I’d use if I weren’t and several time limits in which I’d check in.

And then it was on. My client, Nathan, was making a pretty big deal out of this:

He even requested this:

That made me feel pretty goddamn weird, but it wasn’t the oddest request I’ve received, such as when a lawyer from Mississippi asked me to fart in his face, so I agreed.

I have LOTS of outfit options on my Insta, but it was clear Nathan wanted someone to make a fuss over him and make him feel important. I also have a crap load of costumes and outfits that weren’t on my Insta. I grabbed a few of them, and an hour later, I sent him these:

“Just consider me your own, personal Build-a-Barbie,” I told Nathan dryly, hoping he wouldn’t detect my sarcasm via text. “The outfits and hair are interchangeable. Pick and chose your favorites.” He was thrilled.

And then, just like Sigmond on a bad guy, coronavirus burst onto the scene.

Nathan lost three contracts and had to bail. His texts became a little incoherent:

Did you guys catch that? I WAS HIS SUPPOSED TO BE HIS BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO HIMSELF!

Instead he got the world’s worst birthday present ever: a global pandemic.

Awwwwwww . . .

On the plus side, this means I’m a better birthday present than a deadly virus to at least some people, so that realization was a nice self-esteem boost.

Still, I was disappointed about the loss of a hot guy paying me a shit ton of money NOT to fuck him.

That is, until Rajit texted me.

To be continued . . .