good advice from a very bad girl

“Baby, sometimes you just take me right over that rainbow”
Lula to Saylor in ‘Wild at Heart’

Lick my boots and bleach my roots, give me your troubles and I’ll burst your bubbles. Write to Mz. Conduct at: guttergrl69.hotmail.com. And now, my little pretties, you can set an appointment to talk with her on the phone at: www.keen/MzConduct.com.

I hope all of you voted for Mz. Conduct’s boytoy in Dan Savage’s Tighty Whities underwear contest. If not, you deserve to be bitch slapped and butt fucked, and when I show up on your doorstep, in head-to-toe leather, you better bend over! There were some chunky bits of manly meat on there, I must admit, but my photo entry was bathed in wicked creativity, and that should count for something, damnit! I’ve faced the fact however, we’re not passing GO and we’re not collecting $200. and we’re definitely not going to Vegas. Hey, I can still put Elvis on the CD player, make a batch of bone-dry martinis, dress my roommate in a sequined bikini and play make-believe!

Late the other night, as I was on the phone sex job, every Who’s Who of mental illness --thank you Blue Sky boy for that great line -- seemed to be calling me. One guy was saying my name every two seconds and asked me about ten zillion times to hold on while he went to get a beer. Whatever, dude, I’m thinking as I look at my watch. Drive into town and get another six-pack for all I care. The next guy had me take him into Tijuana to be humiliated. No biggie, I dragged him out in a Mexican public square, naked and collared and on all fours. I had all the local senoritas point and laugh at his genitals. He loved it! Things were going well until he said that this wasn’t punishment enough and begged me to take out a giant butcher knife and slice his schlong. Completely repulsed, my facial expression must have been a sight, but my voice didn’t show anything other than dominant dignity. I did what he wanted, hacked his manhood up and he promptly shot his load. Stilettos on a stork, what a freakin’ nightmare he was. A night full of looneys, out of gin, and I told myself, one more call. Well, this next guy asks me, “Do ya have any rock?” and I play it off and say, “Sure thing, right next to my stash of heroin.” This flew right over his head, and whatever contents remained in it, as he begged me to smoke some with him over the phone. I lit a ciggie and mirrored an effect that I saw in some movie once. Whatever, it seemed to work for him and that, my dears, was the night’s ‘last-call!’

I had another blind date at the Twilight Lounge. This time with a nice looking man who had intriguing stories to tell. But after I swilled four Sapphire martinis, the stories wore thin, and when he insisted on feeling my legs, I ordered him to scoot back to a comfortable distance. I decided to be extra bitchy and bossed him around a bit. He liked it unfortunately. I told him it was time for me to make like a baby and head out.

I’m swooning with the Yum Yum boy right now and can’t bear to wrap myself in anyone else’s arms. We had a surreal night out last week and it felt like something out of a Gus Van Zant film. We were off to hear his friend’s band, and I -- being that the Lil’ Princess and her man made me three towering vodka frappes just an hour before -- was not satisfied with my bland little dress. I ripped off the conformist in me and shimmied into a black, velvet, and low-cut dress with garter hooks on the hem. I slid into my black, spider-webbed stockings and stuffed my tootsies into my tall Mary Janes. I told my baby that I was ready to go and he threw me down on the bed. He put on a Wild at Heart drawl and said, “Gawd damn baby, you shor are purty,” kissed me with his hot lips, and off we went into the night. Now, the unhappening town this band was playing in has only been visited on extremely rare occasions by either of us. There’s no point, you see. We drove over the river and through the woods and to grandmother’s house we did not go. Through the air of the ghost town on a Saturday night, two drugged out kids standing on the main drag gave us spaced-out directions. As we drove off, the Dullsville cop decided he was bored enough to pull us over. The young and buffed blue, jittery and chomping a wad of gum, described himself to us as a “multi-tasked kinda guy” and then had me get me out of the car to explain the problem. My taillight was faded. He chomped his Doublemint and said that my taillight must be red, not pink. His eyes traveled up and down my spider-webbed thighs as I acted like a gave a rusty rim-job. The oh-so-big and multi-tasked guy that he was, he let us go... asswipe. So, we get to the bar and it turns out to be a freakin’ mall bar! It was an ever-so-lovely sports bar, lit up like a gawd damn Christmas tree. It was packed with mullet-headed men and mall rat bimbos guzzling down Coors light and hootin’ for the band. Christ in a crapshoot, I’m standing at the doorway, dressed for sinning up a gawd damn storm, and staring at the ultra bright lights and brazen boozehounds. Two red necked mo fos, perched on bar stools, made some comment about bending me over and the Yum Yum boy -- in his Elvis shades and hat, wearing his black wife-beater which amplifies his cut-with-muscle-meat arms, gave the guys a look that would kill. Not a violent boy, we decided a punch in the face wasn’t worth the energy. My hero. Our night consisted of multiple Jello shots, being waited on by my long lost ex-sister in law, me smooching some bi-curious girl, and finally leaving the wacky joint as randy as they come. We bagged our effort of casual copulation in the back of my truck (for comfort sake) and ended up getting lost beyond belief in the wee, alcoholic crazed hours in the town without pity. The Yum Yum boy and I pulled over in an empty lot and passed out until the sun came up. We finally pulled in my driveway the next morning, still half-asleep and half-drunk, wondering if the night had actually happened or was a twisted, twilight dreamscape. We are what dreams are made of.

It’s hotter than a whore on nickel night and where is my lizard of unusual size with that Bloody Mary and cigarette?

Dear Mz. Conduct,

Oral sex (mutual) is very important to me, but soon after we were married my wife unilaterally decided that we would no longer engage in oral sex on the grounds that it supposedly is unhealthful. I am convinced that she is not correct, scientifically.
I feel like the butt of the old joke: "How do you get a woman to stop enjoying oral sex? Marry her." She knew before we were married what I like, and I THOUGHT I knew what she liked, so I think she should be willing to meet half way at least. But she won't budge an inch. Over the years, my resentment over this has built up substantially, and she still will not even discuss it no matter how tactful or clever I am in trying to bring up the subject in a non-threatening manner. It seems to be no big deal to her, as a matter of sexual satisfaction, because she often becomes completely satisfied before I orgasm. She also often claims to be too sore to continue after she orgasms, at which point the rest is left to me, alone -- which, of course, makes it all the more frustrating to me that we do not avail ourselves of the oral sex alternative that not only would prevent soreness, but likely would provide us with more mutual satisfaction.

Thwarted Theo

Dear TT,

I’m with you on this one, oh frustrated one, but I wonder why it’s taken you years to ask about this. Are you slow on the draw or what? After the first month of this horseshit, I would have asked the little woman to go see a therapist of sorts, along with you of course. This is something that can be done now as well though and what I recommend you do.

You have worded your justified aggravation very well in your question. Your wife seems to have some misconceptions about oral sex. There is nothing unhealthy about it. Unless, of course, you’ve been sleeping with others and she knows about it, you bastard. I’m inclined to think that she’s using her unfounded fears as an excuse not to participate in oral play with you, especially since she was a willing participant before your marriage. Sex should be between the both of you and when one partner leaves you alone to ‘finish yourself off,’ there grows a gap in the intimacy department and this is the unhealthy part.

There are tantric workshops and sex therapists that should be able to help you two, if indeed your wife is willing. Dr. Carol Queen has a website that perhaps your wife would read with you (www.carolqueen.com). She is my heroine and as wise as they come. Your work is needed here, too, though. Try to let your wife know -- in a kind and unthreatening way -- that you are not happy in this part of your marriage, and that if she doesn’t make an effort to assist you, then there is a big fat chance that your relationship won’t survive. There may be medication and/or age factors involved and hormones flying about, but if two people want something bad enough, they can work through it, no matter what. Patience and dedication -- and Jesus on a jet ski, you’ve shown that so far -- will get you through. Maybe a round of Mz. Conduct’s cocktails and watching someone who has no gag reflex on video would help too.

Dear Mz. Conduct,

How would a very confident, handsome, and well-hung guy go about getting a date with you?

Manly Man

I can definitely tell you how NOT to get a date with me; by describing yourself as all of the above. First of all, confidence can be broken into shards of simple shame in about three point two seconds. Second of all, that’s just dandy that you consider yourself ‘handsome’, but that would be entirely subjective, and I’m not too charitable in that department. If you didn’t do yourself in with the two previous adjectives, then you threw in the spewed towel with the last one. Great, wonderful, marvelous... you have a big dick... whoo freakin’ hoo! That matters only if I like you... and I don’t.

© All rights reserved Kim Alvarez