Chocolate, Vanilla or Strawberry?

I was dating a guy in NYC a couple of years ago whom I suspected, might be obsessed with anal sex. I suspected this because he used to fumble around my downstairs with his penis, like someone making their way through somebody elses house during a blackout wielding nothing but a broken torch to guide them. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, naively wondering if he was having trouble finding the correct hole. You know, the one that naturally lubricates itself, is directly adjacent to the clitoris and stretches in an accommodating manner. This fumbling business happened a lot. The next clue, was the off handed comments he would frequently make referring to anal sex.  Months later, when I was back in Australia continuing a relationship with him, he sent me a dick pic. It was awful on so many levels.

Two things stood out the most, the pubes that had been given the haircut of a Gregorian monk, and the anal porn captured in a freeze frame in the background. Both things, disturbing in equal measures. One of my girlfriends was crashing at mine during this period and I showed her the picture. She gasped. Then laughed. Then turned the lights on for me, illuminating the fact that yes, this manchild was obsessed with anal sex. Just as I’d suspected! Ding!! She pieced the puzzle of the photograph together with a conversation I’d had with her once about being bored with the sex because he always had to finish by flipping me over, pushing my face down in a pillow and pounding one out.


To this day, she still cannot believe that I can be so dense. So unquestioning. So simultaneously inexperienced but experienced. It wasn’t obvious to me. I’d been in relationships for the better part of twelve and a half years since I was a teenager and had been terrorised by a small number of shit dicks in between (the trauma caused by weird ass, marshmallow, enoki mushroom, mini winni dicks was so real that Shit Dick is #1 on my Deal Breaker List).

I’ve had anal sex before. When I was 19. It hurt like Hades and the experience can only be likened to having a sword shoved up my arse. I told him so. I also asked him if he actually really wanted to have anal sex or was he just joking, to which he replied….

“No! I’ve done it a few times before. But I wasn’t that into it…you know….sometimes you pull out and get a whiff….”

Thereby eliminating ANY chance that he had of me exploring the option again. Deny, deny, deny. All that attempted anal probing. For nothing. What an idiot. If he weren’t such a closet anal prober, he would be able to plan in advance and be with someone who keeps a bathroom cabinet shelf full of spare douches. Denying himself his best chances of world class whiffless butthole surfing.

Like a small child who had tried to sneak his spoon into the neapolitan icecream tub and steal aaaaaall the chocolate flavour and having the lid slammed down on him. Cutting the spoon off in the nick of time as it blindly wandered the stripes, pretending it wasn’t sure if it was the strawberry, vanilla or chocolate flavour that he was attempting to lodge his spoon in. He would’ve got further if he’d been honest about it. I told him this as we remained friends for a couple of years after the demise of our vanilla dating experience.  Until I visited NYC again in October last year. I was supposed to stay at his place in the East Village for five nights. I had expressed several times before hand that there would be no spooning, no kissing, no sexing for it was neither my vanilla, strawberry nor my chocolate stripe that enjoyed the aggressive, porn computed tappings of his spoon. I drew the lines of clear platonic borders and I expressed this several times, but his ego was beyond borders. Total waste of a good spoon. Strong. Rock solid. Upstanding. I warned him, the lid to my tub of icecream closed to him in 2013 and was not about to open any time soon aka ever.

I ran away after two nights. So stressed out by this pathetic prober that I was on the verge of insanity. First I ran to a bar to see girlfriends Fat Percy and Dolly who were able to assist me in the drowning of sorrows in my favourite sorrow drowning joint in the East Village. Then to where my  girlfriends Lolly and Kimba were staying a few blocks away where I was able to rest my weary head and give my fight or flight instincts a much needed safe house. Lids to all of my flavours safely sealed, without danger of intruders. Since returning to Melbourne, there’s been only two fumblings. Both with inflatable spoons that just haven’t quite had enough in them to make it smoothly into even the vanilla tub, let alone work its way over to chocolate. I consider myself as in the midst of a drought. Waiting patiently for a solid, unwavering, good looking spoon to come along and hang with my forkables. A spoon that isn’t attached to a lying misogynist with anal shame and mummy issues would be great.



Locker room chat is usually one of the best parts of my night. The girls at my club are for the most part, sound bitches but let’s not lie, we are also deeply, and unapologetically demented… In a good way. Some of the sharpest wit I’ve ever had the pleasure to sit pretty in, has been with the home club girls. Yesterday the gossip was that there had been a shocking occurrence over the weekend. A club crime if you will. Something that has really incited rage in the long-standing manager and institution of the blue stonewalls. Something that could drastically interfere with the pristine presentation of both the venue and his long, black, slicked back pony tail. It’s pretty fucking hard to piss him off. He’s as eccentric as we are, easy come easy go. If he likes you he likes you, if he doesn’t you should probably fly under the radar or change up your wigs and cosmetic contouring quite regularly (the club provided an excruciating compulsory tutorial on the latter in 2013 so there is really no excuse). Opinions of him vary according to experience but I love him. He makes me laugh and I really enjoy it when he gives me practical life lessons, such as how to put out a fire in the smoking room bins, or why it doesn’t serve me to languidly pour a drink all over a customers white shirt. It’s rare to hear of him genuinely pissed off about anything at all.

According to locker room goss, one of our younger, crazier, lovable girls, Little Las Vegas had found an entire gram bag and spoofed the contents of the small plastic vessel into the face of our younger bar manager. It sprinkled it’s fairy dust all over his black attire under the UV lights. Uh oh. He’s usually quite jovial. Always up for a laugh and has a cute, friendly dog who is shaped like stodgy black penis with extra girth. Winning. Apparently he, the manager, not the dog, then went out the backstage door and reemerged with a loaded super soaker water pistol. He then proceeded to spray Little Las Vegas in the face while she was giving a lapdance to a customer in tipping seats at the main stage. There were gasps and laughs all round the locker room. This is unheard of. Girls have literally shat themselves on that stage before….ok, maybe just that one girl. But a manager has never super soaked a dancer mid straddle!

“What was in the bag?” We inquired.


“FUCK! What the fuck was she thinking?!?!”

Loose glitter is a class A banned substance where we come from and erryone knows it. It’s likely that if Little Las Vegas had thrown a bag of cocaine in either manager’s face, the objection would have been minimal and the inhalation deep and spiritual. Namaste. You’d be less likely to get fired for giving a hand job on the premises than you would for spreading the filth of loose glitter on the floor or stage. Semen spritz and the interaction leading up to such an explosion (and/or dribble) is ill-advised and gross, not to mention illegal. Whilst glitter showers would not be a blip on the radar of the law, they are highly illegal on King Street. It spreads like a bacterial virus that nobody wants to catch and that nobody can escape. Most of all, it’s bad news to men who want to pretend they’ve been good boys when they return home to the significant vagina in their life. It’s in our interests to protect their interests. As much as we all love sparkles, a zero tolerance glitter ban must prevail! The crime rate for glitter related offenses has been close to zero in the 9 years I’ve been working. Little Las Vegas is lucky she’s one of the lovable demented ones. And that she’s pretty. And funny. And sweet as pie.

The Rise And Fall of the Vertically Challenged – Hitting Below The Belt

One night I was walking from backstage to the bar when I felt something hit me in the vagina. My first thought was that somebody had thrown something at me. I quickly glanced around, not wanting to seem too obvious. Better not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d hurt me. I couldn’t see any suspicious characters…..

Geez my vajayjay hurt.

Then out of my peripheral vision, I saw something below me. Had I walked into a bar stool? Was that a dwarf?

It was a dwarf.

Or was it a midget?

I can’t remember whether his head was out of proportion with his body or not. It didn’t seem important at the time anyway. In my 5 inch platform stripper shoes, I towered over this little sprog. Towering or not, ouch. My pubic bone was aching.

I looked down, down, down, down at him and asked, “Did you just punch me in the vagina?”

He looked up, up, up, up at me, put his little fish flapping arms out to either side of him like libran balancing scales, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Meh.”

I was outraged. Since when was punching women in the genitals a part of Australia’s disability benefit package? I ran over to the DJ booth and shrieked, “That dwarf just punched me in the vagina!!!!”

The DJ laughed. This put me close to tears and I shrieked even louder, “It’s not fucking funny FUCK! That dwarf just punchedmeinthevagina!!! Aren’t you going to tell security?!!?!”

Security was advised. “At last,” I thought to myself as I made a gesture of solidarity to my vagina and put a calming hand over my pubic bone, “Justicccccce.”

I looked over to see the big beefy security guard bent over the little dwarf – laughing. Patting the short arse on the back. Ho ho ho. Merry fucking vagina punching day. They were having a fine old time. The big man and the small, disparity in size inconsequential. King Arthur’s sword and the toddler’s bread and butter knife combined to make one stupid and useless penis.

In retrospect I see that it’s funny to have been punched in the vagina by a dwarf. But in the moment, I wasn’t thinking about the dwarf. His strange teetering posture, his odd little scrunched up face, his comical flapping arms and waddly little legs, I was thinking about the mother fucker who launched his fist at my genitals.

I was upset. I was as upset as any woman would be if she got punched in her privates. It is a sacred space. Classic writers such as Danielle Steel and Joan Collins have for decades been emphasizing the wonders and mystique of the female love temple, the ultimate receptacal. To be treasured and caressed by a strong man with broad shoulders, long hair and stone cut abdominals thank you very much. I had to go sit downstairs for a while and recompose myself. Get my head around the fact of not only the event, but also that the people who were supposed to support and protect me, had failed. Furthermore, laughed. I expected more from my old club. It was not a great feeling. In that moment I wished I believed in a vengeful God who would smite the dwarf with his wrath.

At about 4.30am I had to go and move my car from the carpark before it closed. On the way back I noticed a commotion outside the 7-11 and kebab shop. What the hell was happening? Although the area had been roped off and there were police cars with flashing lights, people didn’t seem alarmed. I craned my neck in an effort to see what was going on. The scene was littered with cops but I could see no criminal. And suddenly, I saw him. The dwarf. Hands cuffed behind his back, being hoisted like a naughty child up into the back of a paddy wagon.

Finally. Justiccccccce!

I took a moment to behold the scene as God didst smite the dwarf with his wrath. Then it was I who laughethed lastest as I didst rejoice and kicketh my heels together in the air whilst crossing the road, dancing ever closer toward the scene and finally yelling,


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