“Hi, posso eu falar com o Kristopher?”

“Esta é ela,” eu digo, esperando o usual

“Oh! Oh… Eu pensei”

“Esse eu era um homem gay?”

De “heh Heh! Bem,” diz, “eu serra seu local e a foto e mim figurei que era fotografia conservada em estoque, e então, você sabe, essa parte de seu local que diz, SEXO do `' em todos os tampões, aquele não pareceu como algo tipicamente que uma menina escreveria.”

“Eu não sou típico. E embora eu lhe sou lisonjeado pensei eu era um modelo aleatório, faz esse meio que você pensou também que o Kristopher atrás de todas estas palavras sujas era um homem gordo que gostasse d em seu estômago?”

Continue lendo”

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“Eu comecei apenas um bra que fizesse meus melharucos um o copo inteiro mais grande!” Eu canto em meu iPhone, falando ao menino, meu menino. “É assim saliência!”

“Quantas vezes você foi a Starbucks hoje?” pede.

“Somente três,” eu digo. “De qualquer maneira, este bra satisfazar-me-á até que eu quebre em meu IRA para financiar meu addiction futuro de Botox.” Eu presto atenção a minha cara em um espelho, e a minhas testas enrugar-se em uma sombra de um vinco que eu encontro moldar meu sorriso. “Que é realmente o que meu stash da aposentadoria é para, porque o senhor motherfucking sabe eu estarei em minha cama da morte, funcionamento, wordsmithing histórias sujas ao lhe dar um trabalho do sopro.”

“Eu admirei sempre sua ambição.”

Continue lendo”

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Skimming over writing gig ads — no, thank you, no, thanks, no fucking thank you — I recognize a listing by The Boy’s company, The Boy, Inc. I click the email address and apply:

From: K @ KRiSTOPHER DUKES .com
Subject: Applying for Position On Top, As a Sexy Secretary
Date: October 23, 2007 4:40:56 PM PST

Dear Sir:

I can type the opposite-of-dry business plans at 69 words per minute, while performing what is commonly referred to as a “lap dance.”

I prefer really, really big things, but I can also pay mind to details; I am ready to observe your office’s dress code. I have black “fuck me” “fuck you” pumps which are standard attire for secretaries in classic pornography, and I’ve also a white, business class buttondown with a formal black bra peeking out. Should my dress be deemed inappropriate, I am very open to disciplinary action involving being bound to a bed post with an Hermes tie.

Very personal references are available by requests written on my stomach with your tongue.

I look forward to hearing (moans) from you,
K
___________________
Senior Pole Dancer
KRiSTOPHER DUKES, LLC

» Paul Smith “Naked Lady” cufflinks $125, eLUXURY

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You’re tough, but no punk.

You sport “fuck you” shoes, but they aren’t steel-toed.

You’re hard, but your record’s a pure white.

So you’re sporting this Kenneth Jay Lane bracelet to board meetings, and seeing that your manager’s shoes are as short as her business foresight, you’re texting ‘cross the table:

“God save the queen.”

» Kenneth Jay Lane bracelet $95, Net-a-Porter

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I’ve never understood flower bouquets: they’re useless gifts that do nothing but passively pose pretty for short seconds before they wilt and die.

Like suburban housewives.

But an enameled orchid necklace? An orchid necklace is more shine and spine, it’s beautiful but hard, lasting past bad meetings with boys and worse dates with bosses, playing hard at work from nine to five and five to nine again, while still styling time to invest hours–and hours–in pleasure.

Like a boss motherfucker.

» Natural orchid necklace $38, Novica.com

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The Boy and I catwalk down a super market aisle, looking at food, the opposite scene of me sitting at the L.A. fashion show I’ve ditched, where I’d be watching underfed sticks runway–instead of eying models, we’re modeling suburban bliss.

Only we act like children instead of have them, The Boy’s almost old enough to be my father, and I’ve my hand down the back of his pants.

“Am I anything but a sex object to you?” he asks, his voice perfect pitched so that a shopping mother looks over.

“Of course you aren’t,” I say. “As soon as your body goes, so do I. Forget your brain and accomplishments–you’re nothing but a piece of lean meat to me.”

“That’s rather sexy.”

“You’re sexy,” I coo, squeezing his ass as he grabs a can of cookie dough.

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A little lover’s letter held tight in a tiny, golden envelop, its “I Love You” hugging near your heart, this Urban Outfitters Jewelry “I Love You” necklace is so saccharine.

I’m def gifting myself this love letter necklace.

It beats the porn I usually forward to myself.

And paired with a little Al Green on my iTunes–

I’m totally sexing myself tonight.

» Urban Outfitters Jewelry “I Love You” necklace $24, Urban Outfitters.com

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I’m so smart my ass has a higher IQ than the last dude I sexed, so I celebrated my brain prancing ’round my home office in a “smart ass“-stamped thong.

A panties slogan so more seductive than an obvious “EAT ME,” the thong made me slap my own ass, and now I’m suing KRiSTOPHER DUKES, LLC for sexual harassment.

Even though I secretly liked it.

» Smart Ass Gals “Smart Ass” thong $22, Smart Ass Gals .com

» Use promocode “kdgalpal” and get 20% orders of $50+, plus get free shipping if you spend $75+ at SmartAssGals.com*

* Offer expires December 31, 2007

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I skimmed this Oprah.com article about how to live twice as large, and I had an epiphany:

Oprah is twice the motherfucker I thought.

And I love her twice as much.

Thank you, Oprah. Not only do I know about charities I’ll never contribute to, and how to get Vicky Beckham’s $2,000 shoes that look like they cost $20 for $200, but now I realize life is double as short as you think, so your skirt ought to be twice as short.

And your heels twice as high as you think you can handle.

And your “Fuck you”s to catty kitties who hate on your attitude twice as hard.

Like your next dude’s dick.

» Steve Shein “Fuck” necklace $68, Testimo Boutique.com

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Just like those Pretty Women on Sunset Blvd., these goodies from ASOS are S-E-X on the cheap.

Only a little safer.

And likely less exciting for your boy.

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What’s better than this Pade Vavre ring, with its mini galaxy of sapphires?

a. The Pade Vavre ring will make you feel fully dressed in your black lace and 24k-laced trashy lingerie.

b. The Pade Vavre ring’ll add a some punch when you punch your younger brother.

c. The Pade Vavre ring is $132 with promocode “xxxo”.

d. All of the motherfucking above.

I check d, and I’m also double-checking these other goodies you can get 25% off of:

• Goldenbleu bag in patent leather, that converts to a clutch. Was $865. For you? For you I give $649.
• Kenneth Jay Lane ring, a boss black flower. Metaphor for the soul I sold to Satan? Perhaps. $64? Certainly.
• CC Skye bracelet in white python, from $176 to $132. Make NickyLindsay Richie Lohan jealous.

» Get 25% all full-priced jewelry and accessories at Max & Chloe, with promocode “xxxo”*

* Promotion ends November 1, 2007.

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A quick call, and I haul ass to Beverly Hills–it’s my second date, with my new hair stylist. Since I moved back to the left coast, I’ve been a salon slut of one appointment stands, doing it all over L.A., trading up from my Santa Monica stand-by to 90210 salons. And now I’ve met Sally, a Japanese middle-aged girl with a face rounded like my mother’s. Her nose is gently balled at the tip like my mom’s, her eyebrows her same soft arches, and I see the powder puffs of skin under her earthy eyes and think of the trust of paying someone to do with your head whatever they like.

“Yes, I think you go slightly red, just with a glaze,” she says. She fingers my hair, a convincing caress like her soft sales pitch that I de-virginize my brown bob with a popping cherry color.

“How much maintenance?” I ask, already overbooked.

“It fades and grows out if you don’t like it. You won’t see any roots.”

Life’s short, like my skirt. Fuck it, “let’s do it.”

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Cruising La Cienega Blvd. in La La Land, I’ve passed a billboard preaching, “Life’s short. Have an affair.” I meant to visit the dot-com pimped on its bottom, but since I wasn’t selling myself on the site, I forgot it along with the boulevard’s speed limit.

Then CNN.com picked on the billboard, which is marketing by AshleyMadison.com, a dating dot-com for people prowling for XXXtra-marital affairs.

And while I dig the site’s carpe diem spirit, its guilt-free sex, its implied commandment that thou shalt love yourself first, these reasons exactly are why I’ve never understood cheating: why short change yourself sexing someone you hardly respect, why be contracted to someone dumb enough to ignore your cheating, why–

Marry in the first place? The tax deductions aren’t that great.

Precisely because life is as short as that skirt you’re wearing–

The only affair you should be having is with this NJOY Pure Wand dildo.

XXXO,
K

» NJOY Pure Wand dildo $120, Coco de Mer USA .com

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Diamonds may be a typical girl’s BFF, but atypical Type-A chicks prefer splurging on stock in a diamond mining co., and stocking up on cheap and chic baubles, like this Kenneth Jay Lane cocktail ring.

Boss, bold, and overblown, this Kenneth Jay Lane cocktail ring is just how I want the life I can buy after investing my money right.

You know, my yacht the SS K, the Monaco penthouse, and a certain part of the decades-younger-than-me Italian toy friend I’ll keep around.

» Kenneth Jay Lane Cocktail Ring $110, Vivre.com

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“Bye– Wait.”

My finger hangs above the END CALL button.

“Can you wear something kind of normal for the cocktail party?” asks The Boy.

“You mean a Beyonce-grade, sequined flapper frock cut up to my crotch, with leopard platforms?”

“The guests will be 80 years old. You’ll send them to their death if you come in your Betty Boop shit.”

“Have faith, friend. I’ll look lovely. I have to go now and put on my face.”

“All that eye shadow?”

“Tah, tah.” I hang up on The Boy, and carefully create my face: I pat on porcelain powder, I super-size my eyes with charcoal shadow, I smudge beams of bright on the bone of my cheeks. Then I blend all my makeup together so my paint-by-features face softens into play of light and shadow. I smooth down my bobbed hair, I spritz on a shower of Juicy Couture perfume, I–

Am amazed I can do this in less than an hour. Finally I step into wedding-white mary janes, I slip on a cotton and crinkled chiffon frock that’s a cloud of vanilla, the flavor of the lives of guests at the party The Boy invited me to.

It was his dressy-casual, SoCal social scene debut in expensive suburbia on the coast, a mini village of McMansions owned by the retired or near retired, and The Boy’s inviting me to his new neighborhood mixer came with his request I lighten my use of mascara and the word “fuck.” “Hmm. I can do social scripting,” I reassured The Boy. “I’m rusty on that ‘And how do you do’ bull shit, but I can handle it. You mostly see my Hyde, but I can play Dr. Jekyll, too. All Prozac pretty smiles and cliche conversation.”

“Perfect,” he said.

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