Tag Archives: sex

I am a whore [cont’d]

Part I of “I am a whore” can be found by either clicking on the link or scrolling down ever-so-slightly.

So, Tom, dictionary.com and my logic have determined that I’m not, indeed, a whore. Though, to reiteriate, this is only due to the fact that I’m sexually stunted… sort of. To explain, I’m not a virgin or anything… that would be kind of randomly fucked (ha! see what I did there?). However, I’ve never actually had sex while sober. This tends to happen when one is consistently high and/or drunk for 10 years. This brings up the fact that I may not actually remember all of my sexual encounters. So, there’s that, but what can one do in that regard? eh…

By sex, I don’t mean oral or some sort of kiddie ride version of sex… but actual sex. 

On with the story:

In addition, I’ve never had sex with one person more than once. That, in itself, totally sounds: whore! The aforementioned with the exception of Mr Leaving West Hollywood. Whom, you may remember from his brief appearance in American Idiot (the musical) & Me (the liar). And with Mr Leaving West Hollywood, the sex was basically constant, as he is insatiable. But again, it was a very sad sort of pickled-liver alcoholic craziness.*

*wait, not only Mr LWH, possibly (I feel most likely)… lets call him Mr. Not-Alive-Anymore (aka Dead Phil). Now, the not-alive-anymore-part has nothing to do with either the author or drugs. Literally, some kind of freak accident. He was sweet and probably (literally) saved my life more times than I can remember. These were the days of primo-primo-junkie-meth. This is 23rd Street. I am young and wide-eyed and blissed beyond the imaginable. In NY, that particular summer, there was a massive brown-out. This is the only time that I remember the goings-on (in flashes)… and Mr. NAA saving my life. I know it was bad. And I know that I am alive. But that is another story. (and I will tell it… as much as I can remember because he did save my life). Anyway, for “I am a whore” purposes… he, like Mr LWH was someone that I believe that I’ve had sex with more than once. But unlike Mr LWH, Mr NAA wasn’t a crazed sex-fiend .

And, so there’s that. I mean, as far as sexual history goes… that’s what you’re gonna get right now.

Whatever the above amounts to, though, we’ve decided that, at least literally, I’m not a whore. However, it doesn’t explain anything about the fact that I feel like one.

So, he pays for everything, he is a thousand years older than me and I probably wouldn’t hang out with him, if he couldn’t help me (job-wise) and/or pay for everything. So, on the surface, atleast, it all looks very “whore”. I must say that I do enjoy his company and can actually have an interesting conversation with him… but then again, if one is pouring alcohol down my throat, I can probably have interesting conversation with a turtle.

But mostly, this is the complete opposite of my M.O. I don’t get random things for being eye-candy on someone’s arm. Simply because I am not eye-candy. I like my rapscallion homeless vibe. This is one thing that I have a hard time reconciling.

Again, to be continued. Sorry.

Though, to backtrack here, from a self-professed whore, here is another definition:

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I am a whore

My friend Tom says that I’m not a whore because one has to sleep with (fuck) the whore-er to be in consideration for the position of whore. I suppose he might be correct. But I still feel covered in a veil of metaphorical whore-ity, if you will. Let us defer to dictionary.com.


[hawr, hohr or, often, hoor]
noun, verb, whored, whor·ing.
1. a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse,usually for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet.

hmm… apparently, dictionary.com says that I’m not a whore, either… though I must say, strumpet sounds like something that I would be (it sounds like a cute, homeless chick that you found in the woods). But unlike Tom and/or dictionary.com, I take liberty with words. And by ‘take liberty’, I mean, not know what a word actually means and rather than looking it up, “feel what it should mean” and then use it in this capacity. It works. Well, it’s never not (yay, double-negative!) worked. I have considered myself and have been considered by others, a writer. My grave inability to speak (or rather, the slow slow process of retrieving thoughts from my brain to my mouth) forced my communication skills to align with the written word, rather than the spoken word.*

*this brain-to-mouth process would also be a huge catalyst behind my theoretical need/acquisition & usage of/subsequent addiction to methamphetamines… but this is another story.

In addition, I understand the fact that time and culture can morph words into things that are, though at their core still the same, a very different animal. I also understand the fact that the word “whore” is thrown around these days like America’s dirty rag-doll. I totally throw it around all the time. …and I enjoy it!

But, then again, I do take liberty with words.

And here is the unreconcilable nature of whore/non-whore: by this definition, I could never be considered a whore.

You see, as much as I brandish around and revel in my position as a high-level, extremely knowledgable and versatile drug addict… I would probably say that I am a college grad; possibly entry-level at best, sex person.

sex, drugs and rock n roll, baby.

Certain things go hand-in-hand, or are rather, frequently associated with one and other. Drug addiction, self-destructive tendencies, sexual promiscuity, blahblahblah. But frequent association is just that. This is why “the syndrome” is so retarded. Medical professionals taking symptoms that frequently co-occur and bunching them together and naming it something-syndrome. But I digress.

If we take “whore” in it’s most literal iteration of whore = sexual promiscuity… I would never be a whore.

As awesome and fun and socially-reinforcing as I can be… it could be said that I am also, for lack of a better word, afraid of people. I like controlling my own thing, being self-sufficient and choosing to self-destruct by myself, on my own… or not.

And thus, enter whore-ity, stage left. Drinks. ghey. “Lets do drinks”. ghey. Unfortunately, this is sort of a requirement in the entertainment industry. Fortunately, in the absence of hard drugs, I’ve become quite the alcoholic. And the condescending sounding vernacular moves aside while I step in to order a vodka and something. But to ease for mere seconds back into the category of condescending ghey once more, there is an art to Drinks as chronicled, in the best possible way, in this article from stuffhollywoodassistantslike.com. Read it. Its kind of awesome.

Anyway, whether one is in whatever city they are in, if one works in the entertainment industry… ‘drinks’ are kind of a requirement. In so saying, new again to New York… I decided that accepting the offer to have aforementioned ‘drinks’ with talent manager A was probably a good thing (-martha stewart).

Martha!? Was it a good thing? Was it really?

I am poor and after the project I was working on was done, I am also unemployed.

Why would Talent manager A even want to have drinks with random, who the fuck are you-me? There was an email exchange that made him think that I had integrity. Apparently, integrity is the end-all, be-all with this guy. So, there’s that. Also, at the time, I was working for one of the most respected people in this field. Furthermore, three or four people that have been Boss A’s assistant in the past, have gone on to be retarded-successful in their own rites.

As my first instinct is to steer clear of people (either that or the exact opposite, to go balls-to-the-wall) plus this job, the schedule and my sanity… I basically ignored him. But his persistence and because of Martha Stewart’s words of wisdom, I decided that one drink after work wouldn’t kill me.

I never thought, though, that it would make me a whore.

But it didn’t kill me. Two drinks. The end.

…or I thought.

Another penciled… and I mean very lightly penciled in theoretical drinks were to be on the books. Months pass. I prolong as I’ve prolonged before. Then, as I was still unemployed coupled with the fact that he made it clear, in no uncertain terms that he would pay for everything all the time (He used to do this with Boss A… in his own words, smiling, he said, “she used me all the time. Whenever she wanted to see a show, she would call me up and I would pay for it”) I went.

And this is where something goes a bit awry. I have become quite the bottomless pit of alcohol. He pays. I drink. We talk. It’s fun. But just because I can hold my grey goose doesn’t mean that I don’t fall victim to my own rose-colored social glasses that accompanies excessive drinking. I can talk about everything, everything is interesting… the world is my oyster, anything is possible… and I think that I kind of agree to be a girlfriend-ish person.

…to be continued.

I am aware that the “to be continued” phrase on 23rd street is almost always a lie, but I believe this will actually be continued.

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…and thus it begins…

Date: mid- late- 2004

Location: New York

“so… what’s your deal? I know you have a deal.”

“what do you mean?”

“come on, I knew it from the first moment I met you.”

“I mean, I used to… sort of… have this thing…”

“what, like… sex, drugs and rock n roll?”

“well, I never had a problem with rock n roll…”

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