The chaotic ramblings of a retired adult industry entertainer.

Maybe I’m just mean


The story of my life.  Had been texting a bit with someone new for about a day.  He’s decent looking.  Seems nice.  Easy enough to talk to.

We’re a whopping 30 messages in overall when it starts.

“Send me a picture of your feet”.

I made it clear that I wasn’t going to do that.  He told me that it was a simple request and that we should start learning to please each other now.  I blocked him.


Where are the boundaries?!?  I talk to a LOT of guys.  And usually, it ends after about 10 messages because at that point they are already starting to make demands.

“Send me more pics”, “let’s facetime”, “drop everything and meet me at a bar right now”. Or God forbid I go and pee without my phone.  I always come back to the “did I scare you off?” I swear nothing turns me off faster than that last one.

Whatever happened to conversations?  Getting to know somebody?  Taking a minute to pursue them if you’re sincerely interested?

Am I expecting too much?  Am I just a bitch?  Did all the negative porn experiences make me too sensitive?

I have no idea.  And frankly, I’m not sure I care.

I’m at the point where I would rather die alone than put up with any of these weenies on a regular basis anyway.

My Granny has been single by choice for over 30 years now.  I used to think it was odd.

Now…I think it’s brilliant.


I have to


I saw this prompt this morning and thought that I would go to town with writing.  Now it’s the end of a long, exhausting day…and all I have going on is some insomnia and a case of writer’s block.

I miss my children.  I’ve cried so hard that I thought I would break.  I’ve wanted to die so badly that it hurt.

But (unfortunately for me), I have to keep going.

Otherwise, they’ll have no other options than to believe the lies that they’ve been told about me.

If I kill myself, I become the “crazy” that they grow up being told that I am.

So here I am.  Living.  Pursuing.  Succeeding.  Kicking life right in the ass.

Folks could say a lot of things about me.  But I’m not crazy, and I’m not a failure.

So every day I endure.  Because I have to.

Not for me.  For them.




Single Mom Life


I don’t get those “I love being a single mom because it’s twice the love” and whatever women.  Maybe I’m just envious of them.

I think that being a single mom sucks.  There, I said it.  And I don’t really care what feminist, mom, or progressive person hates me over it.  Of course, I love my child (because someone always has to go there).  But these circumstances are not how I’d ever wish to raise a kid.

We are so alone.  I joke on Facebook about a family adopting us for holidays.  But it’s not a joke.  Holidays are incredibly lonely and boring for us since we have no one to celebrate with.

He’s constantly in daycare or with the nanny.  Over 60 hours a week.  The mom guilt over that is all-consuming.  I know kids all over the world have it worse.  And I should chill.  But this is my baby and I’m not going to just chill.  He deserves better.

I’m constantly sick, stressed, and frazzled.  I just want to run away, but there’s nowhere to go.  I want to just be sad in bed alone for a while.  But I can’t ever truly relax because he’s always in the back of my mind somewhere.  I want to not live in fear of catching germs because there’s no greater hell than trying to take care of a hyperactive toddler boy when all you want to do is puke.

I have the basics down (food, clothing, shelter).  But the enjoyment part is missing.

If there’s a secret to this, will someone please let me in on it?




You can’t force anyone to care about you.  Certainly can’t make anyone love you.  This is obvious advice that can be found on memes all over social media.  But man, is it hard to swallow sometimes.

A large part of my wearisome personality is due to spending so much time loving folks (one in particular), who will never return the feelings.

“Get over it”.

I know!  I’ve tried everything from therapy, waiting it out, to magic spells to try and rid myself of these feelings.

Who am I to feel picky?  I’ll be lucky if I don’t die alone regardless.

The heart wants what the heart wants I suppose.  Though my brain knows that I’ve chased off good people, and wasted years of time over this madness.

Just some more regret to add into the already heaping pile.



There is nothing

“We want to know how it felt to do porn.  More details!”

I can’t offer up more details since there isn’t more to say.  I was numb to all of it.  I still am.

I wasn’t raised religious. I wasn’t taught that sex is sacred.  My own mom was a whore.

At about the age of 8, my dad told me that he expected I’d get knocked up instead of going to college.  At 18 my mom sat me down and told me that if I was going to be a whore, I should be a high-class whore, and not a low class one (I don’t believe that my other siblings were given that same riveting talk).  Nobody had very high hopes for me.

Porn felt like having some lame sex.  That’s about it.  Nothing deeper.  No crazy or conflicted emotions involved.

Looking back on it stirs up a few feelings of “blah” and “ugh”.  I’m not full of regret, but I’m probably working my way towards that.

I’d say more, except there isn’t more to say.

The verge of disaster


That’s where I am alright.  On the edge of a disastrous situation.  For over a decade I lived through porn, poverty, and chaos.

Today if you first met me, you’d never know it.

I have a cushy corporate job, live in a nice place, and drive a nice car.

That’s what matters right?  I’m comfortable.  I should be happy.

So why am I going stir crazy?  Why am I sabotaging everything with this stupid blog?  The day H.R. puts two and two together, my ass is out of there.

I’m a little bit older, and a lot less impulsive than in my younger years.  So I’m playing it cool for a minute.  However, I don’t see me lasting much longer in cubicle land.

Deep in my guts, I know that I need to shake things up dramatically.  This path that I’m walking down, it doesn’t belong to me.

My path will likely not be the most beautiful.  It’s surely not going to be the simplest one.  It’s meant to be mine though.  And I look forward to feeling more at peace when I finally reach it.


You won

I don’t say much about the people that are raising my kids.  Regardless of the truth, or my feelings…I want my kids to love and respect their parents.

I will say that one family, in particular, hates to send me photos.  They are so petty about it, that I actually had to get a court order just to receive photos.  And I’ve had to have my lawyer threaten them with more court in the past because they STILL weren’t sharing photos.

And they’re not private people.  They post public photographs of the kids all over social media (of course I’m blocked).  They just don’t want me to have any of them.  You know, the person who gave those kids life and all.

So now when they do reluctantly send photos.  The kids are always looking the other way.  Or they have food all over their faces.  Or something is blocking their faces. Etc.  If those kids have ever taken a nice picture, I would never know it.

So today is Mothers Day.  And guess what I receive?  Not a nice photo of my kids.  Nope.  A group selfie of the mom with all of her kids (biological and adopted).

My gift was some salt for that wound.

So in case she ever reads this.  Yes, you won.  My kids are yours.  You have their entire childhoods to yourself.  And I’m lucky if I even receive a picture.  All of your money + a corrupt system + my lack of sense/ self-esteem = you the winner.

For now anyways.  None of us can know how the kids will feel when they’re older.

Happy Mothers Day.



I was asked about the pros of living on the streets.

I can’t come up with any.


I could be all “yeah, freedom to go and do what I wanted, blah blah”.

But it just doesn’t really usually work that way.

I was a single, decent looking female living on the streets.  It was dangerous as heck.  Probably would have been a lot more terrifying if I wasn’t constantly wishing myself dead anyways.

Sometimes I would walk for 5 hours straight at night time, just to stay safe and warm.

Even if I did lay down to sleep, the cement is hard, but the grass has bugs.

Sometimes it was so cold I just prayed that I would die and get some relief.

Knowing that if you did die, nobody would even know (or care).

Sleeping with one eye open because you’re worried about being raped or at the very least, having your stuff robbed.

You’re constantly dodging police because it’s essentially illegal to be homeless.

The constant battle of finding a restroom.  Or a way to get clean.  Feeling self-conscious because you look at feel like shit (and you know it).

I was always thirsty and dehydrated.  But the fountain water at the parks was so gross that I generally just preferred to stay dehydrated vs. choking that nastiness down.

I read tons of books to keep my mind occupied.  Bonus…the library usually has nice restrooms.

Did you know that San Fransisco doesn’t have any emergency shelters for single women? (at least they didn’t back in 2014).  I’d have to find a way to get myself into the city to sign a list at lunchtime.  Then I’d have to get back there again at dinner time.  I’d sit there for hours and hours waiting for my name to be called while watching other folks get called and shuttled off in vans.  Then come 7 o’clock, they kick you out with a “sucks to be you”.

I never panhandled.  Shoot, I could barely look people in the eye as I wandered aimlessly through towns with my backpack that had my blanket tied to the outside of it.

Only a few groups of people seem to actually enjoy living on the streets.  The mentally ill.  Those who are trying to prove something, but know that they have mommy and daddy to fall back on when they get bored of adventuring.  And drug addicts who are too far gone to care.

Living in my van was a huge improvement.  But I still wouldn’t recommend it.  Sure there were some good times.  But one doesn’t usually have much energy for parties or adventures when just staying alive requires so much effort.

More porn!

Since folks want to complain.  Here’s a little story about porn:

I’d show up at a random house in Los Angeles.  It would take what felt like three years for whoever to get everything ready.  I’d get fucked for money.  And I’d take my measly earnings and leave.

Look at me being a writer.



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