I just took a 1.5-day vacay in northern California. One afternoon swam in more alcohol than I’ve swallowed in my previous 20-something years combined, but buoyed by one hour of sleep I still stayed sober.

Though I did write this:

The faux chateau’s patio was a cliff coasting above a sea of vineyards. A tractor crawled over that ocean of green grid, and its rusty creaking echoed seagulls squawking.

XXXO,
K

The Chinese stewardesses all have tightly wound buns, little flower buds of sinful jet hair. Their mane is night against their virgin white complexion, powdered perfect in a way only whores wore makeup a hundred years ago, when flying over an ocean was just a child’s dream. They all have one lilting voice, that graciously mangles English syllables: “Woul you cah for caffee?” They all twitter and nod like little caged birds, their perfect brows arching like a back on a bed: I’m here to serve you, those soft parentheses say between model smiles. They stroll smoothly despite any turbulence: the thousands of feet of air under their heels may as well be the wood floor of their grandmother�s house. Their skin-toned costume hints at the slim, naked body underneath, and when I watch one woman, I watch them all, leaning over a sitting man and smiling at his request.

Doing?

I’m Starbucksing, guzzling a venti soy green tea latte — can I get a double shot of hip-hop yoga, too? — and catching up on emails.

In Hong Kong.

Forgive me the sporadic posts. I’ll be back soon. We’re about to shop Soho, which is apparently drowning in overpriced Vietnamese food, money, and expats.

On with the Fucci wallet and future first ex-husband hunting.

XXXO,
K

Margarite Elaine, whose real name is apparently not Margarite Elaine, tagged Kristopher Dukes, whose real name is Kristopher Dukes, to play Q&A.

What’s the story behind the name of your blog?
My dot-com began as an online portfolio for my writing in high school, and my legal name is Kristopher Dukes.

Go fig.

Why did you start blogging in the first place?
I wanted to cut out the middle man between readers and me. Also, it was illogical that fetching Splenda-laced lattes for some devil in Frada for a few years would make me a better writer than actually just writing. So I skipped paying my so-called dues and dove into self-publishing.

What’s your best blogging experience? Your worst?
My best? I love chatting with readers, who send me dirty instant messages. I like that I spend my nine-to-nine in lingerie, writing.

My worst? Readers send me dirty instant messages. And I’m often in my PJs all day.

What do you think will happen to your blog in 2008?
Give me a week or so — Kristopher Dukes the dot-com and Kristopher Dukes the girl are stripping down to what I love to do, to what is my motor and food and reason for living.

No, not speaking in the third person, or venti green tea soy lattes from Starbucks.

More pure writing. Stay tuned.

Now it’s my turn to tag some bloggers, but I’m handing that over to you lovelies. Leave a comment and a link to the blogs of whomever you want to answer these questions.

Sam Haskin “November Raincoat Open” print $2,500, Kiki DM.com

“So any idea of what your story will be about?” My dad’s question curves up with his lips; he smiles. After years of telling me my fashion writing was fashioning my writing into meaningless fluff, he was happy to hear I was tired of wordsmithing complicated coos about overpriced shoes on my dot-com. And while I always disagreed–I care less about what I write about and more about how well I write–, I was ready to move from commentator to creator, to build a whole new reality revolving ’round–

“Most likely sex,” I say, reaching for another piece of bread at the same time as him. He pauses, his hand hanging in the air, and lets me take a slice first.

“I’m sorry?” he drawls, still the southern gentleman after more than half a life in Los Angeles. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Sex. More ‘adult’ topics.” I use finger quotes, my polished nails snagging the air in the restaurant. Little hands like his, with the same long fingers. Only mine jammed against a keyboard all day long to make money and pay for blowing bucks at ‘Bucks, and his strummed a guitar to earn a living, when he wasn’t fiddling with the espresso machine he’d taught me to use when I was eight.

“Oh.” He swallows half his beer. The liquid was clear and gold and light, like his faith in Jesus’ virginity and Eve’s original sin.

“Not typical sex writing,” I explain, “not some sort of Sex Mafia and the Cashmere Jungle dating diary. But I think my stories will be situated around sexuality, around gender. Gender’s so much more cultural than physical.” My dad might blame naming his only daughter “Kristopher” for her interest in sex being bendable. “Plus, the sex industry is getting more glossy and pop. Adult toys are like luxury items.”

“I can’t say I’ve noticed.” The rest of his drink disappears. I suppose being sick for a couple weeks had loosened more than just my strict schedule of sleep: my tongue wagged like I imagine it would if I ever drank more than soy lattes (unlike my dad and brothers, I avoided alcohol because I hated to relax my hold on reality). I take a long sip of water, and the ice tinkles like my internal giggling: I’d told my dad I planned my next career move to be a strip tease of words, when I rarely even discussed dating with my parents–my family had first learned about the last boyfriend from my blog.

Maybe now my dad’ll say a little prayer for me at church, which could lead to an extra blessing from god for using my writing to build my heaven on earth. At least god’ll be comfortable with my move. Besides being called upon too often from women in miraculous positions parting a sea of red sheets, it’s written in black and white in the dusty grays of the Bible:

Even Jesus hung with hookers.

My river of dirty words has dried up to a creaking creek. I’m not patient so I won’t ask you to be, but I’m scheming a new set of stories for you.

Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, don’t forget to enter the Patrick and Skinner lingerie contest.

XXXO,
K

“Open for Negotiations” eye mask $10, UrbanOutfitters.com

…In my body, not just brain.

Forgive me the slow posting. I’m making up for years of lost sleep with this cold.

One more round of Starbucksing, and I’ll be back to my usual output of dirty words, lovelies.

Meanwhile, keep sending me your naughty stories to win this boss Patrick and Skinner lingerie. I’ve been getting some hot tales about tail, including a few featuring hubbies that actually make marriage sound attractive.

Maybe I should go back to sleep.

XXXO,
K

KRiSTOPHER DUKES the dot-com, not the chick, is nominated for best shopping blog at The Fabbies.

Go and and vote for me.

Unlike Billary and Obama bin Laden, the only universal healthcare I’m pimping involves tests to keep getting dirty clean.

And even that we could limit to boss boys and ladies.

Thanks always for reading. You make me want to touch myself.

I mean, you really touch me.

Or you should.

Email me.

XXXO,
K

VOTE HERE