Tales from da Cult: Mortal Kombat and Mazzio’s Pizza

DISCLAIMER: After I mentioned in a number of Tales from da Club that I had been raised in a cult, a bunch of you (actually two people) reached out to ask me to write more stories about it. I declined in large part because I didn’t feel like I really had any stories to tell, but my Halloween costume choice this year caused me to remember that I do.

I’m dressing up as a Mortal Kombat character for Halloween this year. Seeing as how I’m planning to pair it with my signature red ponytails and my brand new Demonia platform boots, it made me realize that for Halloween this year, I’m really going as Girl Who Obviously Hasn’t Played Mortal Kombat Since She Was a Teenager in the ’90 And It Shows.

It’s true; I remember almost nothing about the game. I don’t even know the name of the character whose costume I bought off Amazon thinking it might make a great pandemic stripper outfit since it came with a face mask. (It doesn’t, by the way, make a great pandemic stripper outfit. It’s a one-piece, meaning you are either wearing a costume that is very hot and a pain in the neck to remove, or you are naked.)

The only thing I remember about Mortal Kombat is that there was that one fighter whose arm got absurdly long when he punched the other fighters. I always chose that guy as my character since the only thing I had to do to win was keep hitting that punch button, and none of the other fighters could get close enough to me to land any blows. I sucked so hard at that game – well, any video game in general, really – that I could not win if I played with any other fighter.

Remembering Mortal Kombat made me remember Mazzio’s Pizza, which is the restaurant/child casino where I played it. I can still remember the smell of their pizza. The deep dish featured literal puddles of grease atop an inch of cheese, and gawd, it was so good. I’m pretty sure that pizza was responsible for half the acne I had as a teenager, which was a lot.

Every Sunday night after Sunday night service (which followed, of course, Sunday morning service and a huge nap), all the Apostolic Pentecostals in a 15-mile radius would descend on Mazzio’s Pizza for two of our favorite things: food and fellowship.

The Apostolic Pentecostals differentiated ourselves from ye olde regular Pentecostals with a number of things: The denial of the Trinity in favor of a belief in the “Oneness” of God; baptism in the “name of Jesus,” as opposed to the words used by the hellbound Trinitarians, “in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit”; speaking in tongues as evidence of salvation; and a very strict holiness standard which basically meant men had to shave and women had to follow a shit ton of rules that mostly regulated the way we looked.

And then, within this tiny splinter of Christianity, the Apostolic Pentecostals splintered even further. Most of the churches (there were 22 in that 15-mile radius) belonged to the United Pentecostal Church. My particular church, on the other hand, broke off from the UPC in the 70s because they began allowing liberal things like divorce, women wearing their hair down, women wearing splits in their skirts, and men AND women wearing sleeves above their elbows.

Such things were shockingly evil to our pastor at the time, The Reverend Murray E. Burr, so we became independent, right alongside the churches who did not allow the celebration of Christmas, even though WE never went THAT far. Those people – good people, but a little TOO conservative, you know? There was such a thing as BALANCE, we said to justify our celebration, as gleefully hedonistic and commercialized as the rest of America, just with more Jesus and less Santa.

We Pentecostal teenagers growing up in the 90s did not remember those days of scandal and turmoil and church splits back in the 70s, so those of us in the proudly independent Faith Tabernacle happily rubbed shoulders with our more liberal counterparts, inwardly envious of all the girls who were allowed to wear their hair down while outwardly looking down our noses at them for it.

My brother, however, was the first to cross the aisle and actually date one of those girls. Many folk of our more conservative ilk were deeply disturbed by this scandalous move, but my parents, strict as they were, were surprisingly welcoming of this development because grandbabies, and their utter delight that SOMEBODY THEY DIDN’T CARE WHO might actually procreate with their homely offspring.

Stephanie Gomez was her name, and I don’t remember much about our first meeting, but Stephanie does. She told me later that she was super nervous about meeting me because in her observations of me from afar at Mazzio’s, I seemed like Little Ms. Perfect and kinda stuck up.

However, I had just woken up from a huge nap shortly before being summoned to the dinner table where Stephanie nervously met the fam for the first time. I arrived in a huge, baggy t-shirt with a stain. I sat down and burped and then laughed about it. Stephanie told me that it was at that moment that she knew we were going to be Best Friends Forever, and she could finally relax.

It’s true, Steph and I are STILL friends to this day, although I use the term “friend” loosely because she recently visited her mom in Houston from where she currently lives in Bumfuck, Louisiana AND DID NOT EVEN TELL ME AND I’M STILL KINDA MAD ABOUT IT. Like, I’m literally RIGHT HERE, Stephanie, and you did not wanna hang out. RUDE.

Well, once I saw that my brother was getting away with dating a liberal, I decided to try my luck as well, shortly falling head over heels with a boy from the church in Orange who had dimples so deep you could hide things in them. He was the Assistant Choir Director who sang like an angel and loved my daughter like she was his own. He is still friends with my Mama to this day.

This did not sit well AT ALL with our pastor at that time, no longer Brother Murray E. Burr, but another faithful member of the religious cabal that I won’t name. Apparently, my brother dating a sinner was one thing. My doing it was quite another, for, if we married, I’d be forced to go over there to his church. As my pastor explained to me, as I sobbed, they were allowed to watch TV, and how was that okay for any man or woman of God?

I eventually broke up with poor Dimples, breaking both our tiny little Pentecostal hearts, but not before my pastor launched a three-month sermon entitled “The Other Pentecostals” in which he claimed that God would laugh as he threw them all into hell.

Now, at this point, Steph and I were thick as thieves, and I was hanging out with her youth group more than my own, and I was just not having that. The “Other Pentecostals,” as my pastor labeled them, were no different than my own church people, hardworking people just trying to get by like everyone else. I could not picture God laughing as he threw them in hell.

After that sermon series, Mazzio’s Pizza became extremely segregated and WAY less fun.

And that was pretty much the beginning of when I began to lose faith in that faith and that church and that pastor. Twelve years later he resigned in disgrace after cheating on his dying wife with my cousin’s wife, and I’m mostly disappointed by what a fucking cliché that is.

Funny how a Halloween costume 20 years later can bring up all these memories, and WHY THE FUCK IS MORTAL KOMBAT STILL A THING? IT IS OLD AS DIRT, YA’LL.

World on Fire

“If I had known we’d be shooting a music video, I would have shaved my legs!”

I stood laughing in the middle of DJ Rob’s room for the first time in four months, staring at all his new toys. A Go-Pro. A drone. Professional studio lighting. A backdrop in every room of his house. Dozens of costumes draped over the back of the couch. Rob had been BUSY.

“It’s okay!” Rob beamed. “You’re gonna be AWESOME.”

Except I was NOT gonna be awesome. No, I was probably gonna hate every inch of this footage. Nothing makes me cringe more than watching myself on video. I never even linked to the band’s first music video because all my lobbying efforts to have most of the footage of myself edited out had largely proven unsuccessful.

“There you go yet again,” I grinned, “Always believing in me when I have zero faith in myself.”

Rob frowned in frustration. “And I don’t understand why you DON’T,” he shot back.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why DJ Rob is high on the list of my favorite humans on this planet.

It was good to see Rob again after so long, but nevertheless, this was a part of my life I hadn’t missed: putting my heart and soul on the line for public inspection. All the massive insecurity that comes with that. Rob played the song I had written, the one we recorded together, my first single, and I sheepishly confessed I hadn’t listened to it in months.

When quarantine stripped away the parties, the concerts, the endless parade of pretty distractions, I realized how empty my life actually was. It was an unsettling revelation. Some people adopted pets, some learned to grow plants, but I threw myself into the few people around me who remained. I found myself enjoying this silent new world. Finally, a world created for introverts! It felt cozy, secret, intimate. I dove in deeply.

But the sun-dappled magic of April and May gave way to all the fire and fury of June, and the sudden re-emergence to reality made me feel like a fish ripped from water and jerked without warning into the suffocating air.

All across America, black men can’t breathe. And so, black and white, every nation, tribe and tongue joined together, risking their lives to remove the boot from their backs, knowing that a boot on one of us is a boot on all of us. In every corner of our nation, ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances have taken up a battle cry against tyranny and injustice. I am a lover, not a fighter, but here, in this place and time, if we are to be lovers, we must also be fighters. There is no other way.

We are only two weeks into June, but against this backdrop, I have already learned two harsh truths: love is a gift we all squander, and people don’t listen to what you have to say more than they do when you’re walking away.

Or when you’re lighting a match and setting everything on fire. No one pays attention better than when shit gets drastic, and that is our undoing. If heartfelt whispers in the dark would not go unheeded, no one would have to shout, light a match, break a window, break a heart.

For me — and much to DJ Rob’s dismay — quarantine had not been a time of creation but one of cultivation. But the reopening is here. The re-emergence has been just as much of a shock as the sudden submergence. My fields lie empty; the harvest is gone. The world is on fire, and it is LOUD again.


The same degree to which I lamented the passing of my old life is the same degree to which I no longer want it to return. Everything changed, and I mourned when it happened, but now it feels like everything is back to the same. And for that, I mourn again.

Magic is Not For Sale

The stories have stopped writing themselves the way they usually do. My best days no longer have stories. They are spent dreaming beside a river, watching as the sun like Midas turns everything around me to gold. Captivated by a spider spinning a web in the tree above me. Tasting the tangy crispiness of clover for the first time. Laughing at nothing with my lover. Kissing in underground caverns. Dancing on rocks with the river sprites who call themselves my friends. Way too many whippets and White Claw.

There is a lovely quote from Rumi that describes these days so well.

Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry moving through, and be silent.


My life is a lot more silent than it used to be, and I like it this way.

I don’t miss my old life, my old job. I don’t even miss the money anymore. I can no longer buy the life I have now. You can buy fantasy, but not magic. Fantasies are stories that can be told, but magic can only be felt.

Like an eighteen wheeler skidding on ice, the stories are grinding their way back to me. I can hear them coming; I can feel them coming. I have accepted that this is my fate. I don’t dread it, but I do savor the sweet smell of honeysuckle more than I used to, the sound of my mother’s voice over the phone, the nap I can take in the middle of the afternoon.

It is my hope that you, too, have managed to find at least a sliver of peace in the midst of the madness and a few good-natured travelers to help you navigate through the worst of the storms.

If, like me, your life no longer has stories, I hope you like it that way too. Perhaps the best stories are the ones we cannot tell, because you can buy fantasy, but magic is not for sale.

The House of Melancholia

Raise your hands if social distancing is turning you into a zombie.

And not the cool kind of zombie either. The kind of zombie who has a brain but lacks the circadian rhythms necessary for it to function properly. The kind of zombie who will chase you down, not for your brains, but for your hugs and snugs.

When my daughter left for college, she left behind this unsightly, cumbersome Papasan chair – you know, those big, round Asian-looking things? Rattan. Rattan is the word I’m looking for, not Asian-looking, which sounds vaguely racist. My bad.

Anyway, I wanted to get rid of it but couldn’t bring myself to do it, because even though it’s odd looking, it’s so damn comfortable, which is also a thing people say about ME sometimes. LOL. I have piled it full of pillows and blankets, and it has become my nest. It is saving my life right now. I spend most of my time there now, endlessly scrolling through my phone.

I still wanna chase you down for your snugs and hugs. I will settle for an elbow bump, however. We’re worse off for that, though. It is the only thing I can think of that’s stupider than a side hug. Unless I’m greeting Joe Biden, of course. Elbow bumps ONLY for you, pal.

Speaking of Joe Biden, did you catch my last post about being somewhat concerned by the possibility of being sexually assaulted at a nude photoshoot with a perfect stranger? We’re gonna pick up now where I left off then.

The next week, Phil messaged me at the very last minute, wondering if we could meet up a few hours later.

Not a good look, Phil, but also, I’m a little dumb, so I agreed. I had done a bit of research, so I wasn’t terribly worried about this guy. I found out he’s worked with some of you sexy mofos in the past, and that proved to be an excellent reference for him.

We met at the Wal-Mart in Manor and I followed him way out into the countryside. We drove for a Long Fucking Time, which is a legit unit of measurement in Texas.

And then, Phil abruptly pulled his car over. A vast field greeted us. On its horizon, in a messy copse of trees, slumped a grey clapboard house, reveling in its ruin.

The field, easily a hundred yards across, was full of hard clumps of dry dirt. I stood there looking at it for a bit. Then I looked down at the six inch stripper heels I was wearing. Then I looked back at the field. Then I looked back down at my stripper heels.

Phil had said nothing to me of this field.

“Wow!” Phil said by way of greeting. “You really came, uh, ready to go!”

I took one step. My ankle immediately bent into a 45 degree angle. I straightened it and tried again. Same result.

Sighing, I removed the shoes and walked barefoot across the field, an apologetic Phil trailing behind. THAT. WALK. HURT. SO. FUCKING. MUCH.

But it was worth every rock I jammed into my arches in that agonizing walk across the field. I love a good abandoned house. There’s such a wildness, such a mystery to them. Some family hand-cut every single board in the wall, hand-carved each railing on the staircase, went to bed each night underneath the sloping eaves. What happened to them?

There was nary a single piece of sheetrock or popcorn ceilings to be found. The house was made solely of hardwood, some of it weathered, some of it rotted, but most of it still strong, stalwart, a quiet testament to a long forgotten echo. They don’t make houses of this quality and with this much love anymore, but they should. Oh, they really should.

Why do the houses made of plastic and fiberglass still stand, full of laughter and energy and bustle, while this ancestral paragon of unbending oak lies empty and alone? One can breathe in a house like this in a place like this. Here, you can see the sky in places you shouldn’t, but damn, the sky was beautiful.

This house really got to me, for some reason. I related to it. So many times we go unloved when we shouldn’t be. Overlooked when we have so much to offer. Built by love and created to hold space for it, even when the heart remains empty. The steady and strong parts and the weak and crumbling parts equally beautiful, equally picturesque to the few willing to adventure forth and discover.

There was also a lot of rat poop. I’m not gonna sugarcoat how much rat poop there was, and I’m not sure how to romanticize it either. I guess . . . it’s possible to be a thing of overlooked and forgotten value and also be full of rat poop. Perhaps that’s the lesson here, if there must be a lesson here?

I’m still working on the set of photos that resulted from this shoot, which I have dubbed The House of Melancholia, but it is perhaps my most inspired one yet. Obvs, Phil did a fantastic job, each photo walking the fine line between fantasy and nightmare, madness and desire, encapsulating that split second before revelation that holds both a threat or a promise, but you don’t yet know which.

Kermit Kreations Photography | IG: @kermit_k.photo

I suspect we are all balancing on the edges of paradox these days. Too exhausted by loneliness to reach out for connection. Too weak from hunger to cultivate our own sustenance. Choosing to undergo physical deprivation of that which we require for mental survival, destroying the one to save the other.

In the void left when answers have vanished, art suffices.

At least, it does for me.

Murdered Like a Hot Chick in a Horror Flick

“Do you think we could be in Kyle by 6:30?” I asked my boy, Sigmond. “Also, it would probably be a good idea for you to come armed.”

I smiled a little as I wrote that sentence, knowing the thrill it would give my trigger-happy bestie, but truth be told, I was a little nervous.

A few days prior, I had received a DM from one of my Instagram followers, Mr. Krash, requesting a number of things:

a) My VenMo, so he could tip me

b) My willingness to take photos in crotchless lingerie, if he bought it and mailed it to me

c) My willingness to work with a local photographer he liked, if he agreed to pay the photographer

Mr. Krash sent me the photographer’s handle, Phil the Photographer, and I looked him up. Phil’s work was impressive, almost entirely boudoir shots of beautiful women. I clicked to follow him.

Two seconds later, Phil slid into my DMs. “Would you be willing to work together?” he asked.

JEEZUS KEY-RISTE. How on earth did Phil even have time to write that message, much less take a look at my content?

“Ha, ha!” I wrote back. “Funny you should ask that . . .”

Phil and I decided to do two shoots, one for my Instagram fan and one just for us. He asked me to meet him Wednesday evening in an abandoned house in Kyle.

“You cool with that?” he asked.

Well, let’s see . . . A perfect stranger I just met over the Internet wanted to meet me in an abandoned house at night for a nude photoshoot. That sounded like the PERFECT plot device to set me up for getting murdered like a hot chick in a horror flick.

“Into it, Phil!” I wrote back. “See you at 6:30!”

We agreed that it would be a “socially distanced” photoshoot. Keep in mind, Phil, MURDERING PEOPLE WOULD NOT BE VERY SOCIAL DISTANCEY OF YOU!

Hence my message to Sigmond. I basically just wanted to keep Phil safe.

And then we wound up canceling the shoot because it rained on Wednesday. So, you’ll just have to find out next Sunday what happens to poor Phil.

I will not leave you without a weird plot twist, however.

Mr. Krash fucked up. He didn’t VenMo me; he CashApped me instead.

On CashApp, he put his photo in his profile.

Now I’m pretty sure my generous Instagram benefactor is THE BIGGEST VILLAIN IN THIS BLOG SO FAR.

What. The. Fuck.

Just a Normal Girl . . . Creating Porn

If a job interviewer had asked me five years ago where I saw myself in five years, under no circumstances would I have ever said, “Bent over my bathroom floor getting my ass shaved on video.”

I mean, there’s a number of reasons I wouldn’t have said that to a job interviewer, but chief among them is that I never, ever would have imagined myself here five years ago.

Five years ago, I was a somewhat happily engaged woman who spent most of her time skim-coating walls, creating flower arrangements and singing really loudly like a Disney princess so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I was about to marry a Libertarian.

On the other hand, a job interviewer might appreciate the efficiency of such a task: not only does my unfurry butt look great for future photoshoots, but I now have a great fetish video for my fans! Two birds, one stone!

It was such a mortifying video to make that I couldn’t even bring myself to watch it until the next day. I was pleasantly surprised by the result, however. It turns out that runny shaving cream is oddly arousing.

I am learning a lot from this new endeavor.

I should back up a little.

So there I was, having a great time posting artistic nudes on OnlyFans, when my fans started asking for cum facials and ass-fucking videos.

I really enjoy creating artistic nudes for my fans. It combines my three great loves of nudity, costuming and design. Cum facials and ass-fucking videos . . . don’t really do that.

But whatever my fans my want, my fans get, because that is the kind of bitch I am.


So . . . I hit my up my cute little Coronavirus crush, and he graciously agreed to help. He told me later that while shaving my butt, all he could think was, “Don’t snag the wrinkles! Don’t snag the wrinkles!”

Cute, right? Who knew creating porn would be so cute?

It turns out that creating porn is also super fun. It’s also very exhausting and very sweaty. We relaxed with pizza and anime afterwards, as well as some other stuff I can’t mention, at which point he went to send the photos to a shared Google drive and promptly uploaded them to his work account instead.

Oops. Here’s hoping you don’t have a super awkward Monday morning, Coronavirus Cuddle Buddy!

I am so much more conservative in regards to sex than I previously realized. My other friends doing OnlyFans are like, “Here’s a video of me featuring triple penetration during a Full Blood Moon ritual on the stairs of the Capitol Building! Just another typical Tuesday, haha! Enjoy!”

Meanwhile, I’m over here like, “Good morning, good sirs. If I might bother you for a moment, I’d like to tell you about a selection of videos I have that may suit your libidinous predilections. In the first video, you will see my gluteous maximus become less hirsute, and in the next . . .”

SIGH. I have a super-long way to go before I’m completely comfortable with this. Can I please just go back to making dumb jokes and stripping now?

I have a bunch of odd looking photos and videos on my hard drive now. Some of them are actually sexy. Now, to work up the courage to unleash them on the world.

There’s nary a cum facial video among them, however. Baby Girl kept swallowing too soon. Oops. There would have been a video of me squirting harder than I ever have in my life, but we forgot to turn the video recorder on. Double oops.

Perhaps we’ll try again next weekend.

A Labor of Lust

It’s 2 am on a Tuesday. My bestie and quarantine partner, Sigmond, and I are sitting on the living room floor, concentrating deeply on our task at hand, as my elusive roomie walks past.

“I bet she wonders about me sometimes,” I whisper to Sigmond.

“Girl, think about it!” Sigmond exclaimed. “You’re half-naked, getting spanked by a black man and taking pictures. Of course she wonders about you! Why would she not?”

This is my new life right now.

Since I have a face that usually doesn’t curdle milk and an ass with an extra fat cell or two, I have moved online to make money with OnlyFans. Along with, you know, a few of my other newly unemployed friends and peers. All 63,489,978 of them, if I had to guess a number.

(OnlyFans told me recently I am in the top 20% of creators. All right! I must be really standing out amongst . . . 12 million other people.)

It’s been an awkward learning experience. Instead of luring men with intelligent conversation, stupid jokes and my reading-ass titties, I have to be a sexy girl now. Like I once told my friends, if you see me out in public and I am sexy girling, it was a complete accident. It’s still true. I don’t know how to sexy girl.

It’s been an agonizing learning experience. Under the glare of harsh lighting, who knew my ass had so much cellulite? Who knew there were so many stretch marks on my thighs? I mean, I kinda knew it was bad, but not THAT bad!

At this point, I can do nothing but resort to the motto I learned at the strip club:

FUCK IT! NOBODY CARES / Because they really don’t / And I promise that some people like you, even if other people won’t / Maybe one of these days, I’ll photoshop that shit / Until then, baby, what you see is what you get.

I absolutely love it, though. This came as a surprise to me during my first photoshoot. There was I was, pulling off black lace pantyhose frame by frame, when I realized something very strange: Baby Girl was melting.

The pink canoe needed to be paddled. Baby Girl needed a little do me time. Time to listen to the downstairs deejay while flying through the batcave. THAT MUFFIN NEEDED TO BE BUTTERED.

I have found my kink, and apparently it involves me photographing my pussy and plastering it all over the Internet. Well, okay then. Who fuckin’ knew? If you’re one of my subscribers, know that I love what I’m doing for you. It’s truly a labor of lust.

Which brings me to another thing that is strange to me: why do (straight) men (obviously) like looking at pussy? It’s wrinkled and discolored. Mine looks like a grenade exploded at a deli counter. Even after almost two years in the adult entertainment industry, there is much I don’t understand about the male libido. I just take their money and stay confused.

It’s not easy to take sexy photos in quarantine. My chipped nail polish is turning brown around the edges. The blond hair atop my lip is definitely becoming thick enough to catch the light. And my butt crack is so fuzzy, it looks like a squirrel crawled up there and got stuck.

When this quarantine is over, war WILL break out at the beauty salon. I’ll probably go in armed with a nail file. And I swear, I WILL bean a bitch with a bristle brush if she stands between me and my butt wax.

Look, if you saw my butt right now, you’d realize how justified that would be.

These are all trivial things of course, but they are keeping my brain busy in a time where idle hands are truly the devil’s workshop, if the devil’s workshop is just a den of despair. If I’m thinking about how to properly light my tits so that they look as gigantic as possible, then I’m not thinking about thousands of people dying from a deadly virus and wondering which of my loved ones might be next.

Who knew porn would become my path to mental wellness and sanity? It’s a strange new world out there, and it’s only getting weirder.

The Butcher Knife

If you missed last week’s episode, here’s a quick recap: It was basically about my first house call that went awry when my client lost his contracts due to Coronavirus, and ended when I received a text from another client.

But let me back up really quickly: If you follow my entertainer Instagram account, then you probably saw a post where I advertised house call services shortly after the city shut down all the clubs, bars and restaurants.

I got a handful of takers. I didn’t go visit any of them. I’d like to pretend it was because I’m super virtuous and chose to stay home and self-isolate voluntarily like the rest of you angels, but no. I didn’t go visit any of them because they all looked huge and scary in their Instagram photos, and I wussed out.

Rajit was a different story, however. He wasn’t an Instagram follower of mine at all, but a client I had met my last night at Palazio. After just one lap dance, he fell in love and tried to date me.

So when he offered to pay me to come over and cuddle, I figured he was probably a pretty safe bet. (Sorry, Siggy. I know how itchy your trigger finger is!)

And he was safe, but oh, so annoying. Look at this shit, ya’ll. Look. At. This. Shit.

It goes on like that for MILES. Rajit was the texting version of the black and white static that appears on old TVs when you first turn them on. Boy, was he a tooth grinder.

It was a half hour drive to his apartment in south Austin. When I arrived, he came out to the parking lot to lead me in, but he walked far ahead of me without looking back. It was odd. He clearly didn’t want his neighbors to see him with me, and I think that was the first time I’ve ever felt the shame and stigma that people feel about hiring sex workers.

Inside a strip club, all the clients are there for the same reason. There’s no shame inside a strip club. Inviting a stripper you’ve just met into your apartment must make you feel some other way entirely.

I wish men didn’t feel so oddly about hiring sex workers. I wish there were less stigma in our society surrounding it. First of all, your sex worker is grateful to be there. Chances are pretty high they like you as a person and enjoy their job on some level. And finally, it’s not that different from driving by Cheddar’s (don’t laugh; I LOVE Cheddar’s) for some take-out on the way home from work: you may be a great cook, but sometimes you just want comfort without having to work very hard for it. It’s a very human desire, and there’s no shame in being human.

Rajit’s apartment was clean but barely furnished. It was the apartment of a man who cannot put down roots. Standing there, in the silence and emptiness of his space, I began to feel his loneliness creep into my bones.

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing into the darkness of a back bedroom. “I have something for you.”

I waited nervously, hoping he wasn’t about to pop out in underwear with a rooster head covering his cock or some weird shit like that.

No, thank goodness! Instead, he came back with a bottle of perfume from Victoria’s Secret. “This is for you,” he said shyly. “I asked my friend what you might like, and she said this was the thing to get.”

The perfume smelled sickeningly sweet, but I melted a little nonetheless. It was an adorable guesture.

“I would like to put on some porn,” he said. “Do you like porn?”

“I don’t hate it,” I confessed, “But for the most part, I find it a little silly.”

“Then we will not watch it,” he said.

I tried to protest, but he was firm. “I want you to be comfortable.”

I stripped down to my thong, set a timer and started some music. He immediately scooped me up and carried me into his kitchen. There was a huge butcher knife on the counter.

That was when the enormity of my new reality hit very hard. I was at this man’s mercy, and this was my first day on a brand new job. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

While I eyed the knife, memorizing its position on the kitchen counter, Rajit had other thoughts entirely. “I want to hug you in every room in this apartment,” he murmured into my shoulder. “That way, when you leave, I will walk into that room and remember you there.”

You think I was kidding when I said Rajit fell in love? You guys, I was not kidding.

We began our cuddle session, and Rajit could not stay still, switching positions every two minutes and trying to kiss me on the lips. It began to feel more like a wrestling match, accommodating his ever-changing positions while dodging his kisses.

After awhile, Rajit opened up and told me that his parents had arranged a marriage for him back in India. He had been making preparations to fly back and meet his bride shortly before all the airlines closed down. He was worried the young lady would not like him.

“How do you tempt a woman?” he asked me.

“Like, into having sex with you?”


I thought for a moment. “Take her on romantic dates, but you don’t need to spend a lot of money. Take her on a picnic with wine and cheese. Lay out on a blanket at night and watch the stars. Go for a walk around the lake. Keep doing that over and over and when she’s ready to have sex with you, she’ll let you know.”

Rajit seemed satisfied with my answer, but later, when I recounted our conversation for the bestie, the bestie laughed at me.

“That’s a very 1965 answer,” he said.

It was, but . . . AM I WRONG, LADIES?

Judging from numerous conversations I’ve had with with my girl friends, I don’t think I am.

The timer went off at half an hour, all Rajit had been able to afford. I was so relieved the wrestling match/cuddle session was over.

“Time, it goes by very fast with you here,” Rajit observed.

I really hope his new wife likes him, whenever he finally gets to meet her. He is certainly a very kind man.

And I hate the fact that I can’t melt away the loneliness of every single person on the planet. This job has made me keenly aware of just how much loneliness exists out there, and it weighs heavily on me sometimes.

But it does tell me that my job is necessary and valuable and that maybe, I’ve done well in choosing it.

Still not gonna make house calls for my scary looking clients, though!

Your Own Fucking Personal Build-a-Barbie

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:

That UV-reactive harness is by Lotus Freqency, y’all!

“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:


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 . . .

Ten Zits in My T-Zone

I am once again on a date with a client.

I really don’t do this very often. I’d tell you if I did, because I have no shame. My clients either enrage me, annoy me, or frustrate me, but most of them make no memorable impression at all. In fact, the longer I do this, the more their faces blur together and the more remarkable a man must be before he’ll capture my attention.

Toby was remarkable for his laser-focused perception. Several comments he made in the VIP booth caused me to stop mid-dance and gape at him. Still, when he crawled into my DMs and asked me out, that’s not why I said yes.

I said yes because I had just extricated myself from a predatory but brief relationship and had shit all going on. I said yes because I was bored.

I also said yes because, despite spending an hour in VIP with me being butt ass naked, he never once touched me inappropriately or begged for a blow job. Respect: It’s so hot these days.

You might ask me, “Circus, is it weird going on a first date with a man who’s already seen you butt ass naked?

No, it’s not that weird! Considering my penchant for spontaneous public nudity, you might not be surprised how often this happens. My mother would say it’s weird, though. My mother would say the mystery was gone, and men like mystery. My mother would say once I presented as a sex object, he’d always see me as a sex object, never again as a human being with value and worthy of love.

I wish I could get my mother’s goddamn voice outta my head. Anxiety, thy name is Mother.

I couldn’t even remember what this guy looked like. He had very little social media presence, so I couldn’t stalk him pre-date. What if he were casually racist or a Trump supporter? (Oh, sorry, that was redundant.) All I could remember about him was that he went to CrossFit, but considering that wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth, even that spoke well of him.

I was on my period and counted ten zits in my t-zone as I prepped for the date. If I wrote an album about my love life, “Ten Zits in My T-Zone” would be the title track. Sigh. Fingers crossed for a restaurant as dark as da club.

Three minutes into the date, Toby told me he had read my entire blog, bottom to top. It had taken him three days, at work, on his phone.

Well. FUCK. ALL. YA’LL. I don’t think even my closest friends have read this entire blog bottom to top.

“It’s pretty funny,” he commented, “You’re funny.”

I started to sweat a little. I am total sucker for people who laugh at my lame jokes. Forget sucking oysters or pouring tequila shots down my throat; just make me think I’m funny, and you’re 38% into my panties.

38% goes a lot further than you might think, considering these ain’t no granny panties:

Toby was not a Trump supporter, which meant that his chances of making it all the way in increased dramatically.


This is what I wear for Trump supporters, in case you were wondering:

Anyway, back to the date: Toby was a very pleasant, absolutely perfect gentleman. We went to Jack Allen’s Kitchen, where I tried chicken fried meatloaf for the first time. It was absolutely decadent.

(Fun Fact: My daughter was in high school musical theater with Jack Allen’s daughter, and that family spent so much money on that theater department, making that two Macabre girls dancing in dollar bills.)

At the end of the date, he walked me to my car and left a very gentlemanly kiss on my cheek, mercifully missing all ten zits in my t-zone.

I feel another rap song coming on.

Ten zits in my t-zone, in my t-zone / Baby, where you have you gone, where have you gone . . .

Doncha wanna pop this, pop this / Baby, got me squirtin’ like a Swiss, like a Swiss

I’ll work on it.

The day after our date, the City of Austin ordered all bars and restaurants to shut down across the city in order to slow the spread of coronavirus.

There goes my side hustle, but don’t worry: Baby’s taking her show on the road! The stories will continue!

In addition, all new relationships are shut down in order to slow the spread of coronavirus.