"sometimes peanut, what comes outa your mouth is God's own private mystery"

“If you’re truly wild at heart then you’ll fight for your dreams. Don’t turn away from love... don‘t ever turn away from love.”
The Good Witch to Saylor in ‘Wild at Heart’

My comrade in the written word of the wise, Darklady, had her last big bash at the infamous Darklady Estates, before having to move. Her front porch was laden with smokers and a man with a camera that snapped some naughty shots of me draping my scantily clad ass over the railing. There were hundreds of interesting folks in attendance: from four-hundred pound drag queens, voluptuous strippers, bikers and leather boys, corseted beauties and Greedgirl and I, of course. It was an immoral imperative that we go to this last party, as we met there, in the love loft, one year ago. We met as Greedgirl was indulging herself in the wand of electricity and I was in full awe of it all. I had to try it out on my bare boobies and instantly became an electricity slut myself. We realized at that point that we shared more than just a love for the purple wand o’ sparks and we’ve been bosom buddies ever since. So, at this last party, we took turns smooching boys and posing for others, swilling numerous amounts of cocktails in between. A lovely vanilla boy that we met at the Masturbate-a-Thon was the focus of our evening. Upstairs in the love loft, he spanked me to orgasm in front of a lust filled audience and that turned me on even more. Greedgirl and he spent the rest of the evening doing much more -- because she didn’t get her name for nothing! They woke up laughing at jackhammers; the real ones and the good old-fashioned flesh covered ones!

The next night, my roommate, the Distinguished Deviant, did a photo shoot of Greedgirl and I, smoking and drinking, as he’s making DVD’s to sell. What a night. She and I cracked open the bottle of Absolut just a wee bit early, and before long I was making love to the dining room floor. It turned out to be quite the shot. I later passed out in just my purple tutu and seven inch heels. Fighting the tutu, which was still over my head, I woke up the next morning in bed with Greedgirl. I mumbled something like, “gawd, my breath could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon,” and still half asleep, she moaned back, “it’s okay sweetie, I can’t hear anything.” We realized we were still a little drunk, but laughing made our heads hurt. Nothing a couple of Advil and a Bloody Mary wouldn’t cure.

The Blue Sky Boy and I went out to the Breasts R Us Bistro and ogled the table dancers, swilled beer and accepted compliments on my pigtails. When we couldn’t toss down one more beer or swallow one more compliment, we headed back to his place to swallow other things. I sampled every inch of his skin from head to toe. With the skill of a contortionist, without removing his penis from my mouth, I peeled his socks and shoes off, and soon thereafter, sent him spurting into fire hydrant frenzy. As he would say, “Nice!” He says that so much, I tell him that’ll most likely be on his epitaph.

Fret Boy and I ventured out, on an orange colored, harvest moon night, to the comedy club downtown. We were both in need of a few hours of chuckles... and alcoholic beverages of course. Our waitress told me I was ‘adorable’ and seated us at table number sixty-nine. Perfect. It’s always seemed strange to me when a woman half my age calls me affectionate little names. Most likely she had no idea, as I had my pink hair sticking straight up in a Pepples style ponytail and a skimpy little pantsuit on. Other than some poor sap -- coiffed and cologned, in a lily-white shirt -- puking his guts up outside the place, it was a fab evening.

The last day of summer was a smoldering ninety degrees, so I grabbed my radio, ciggies and water bottle and headed out to the Nipples and Nuts nudie beach. Just as I was bending over to situate my blanket, a man yelled from down the beach, “I’m in love with you.” I didn’t even turn around to see who the idiotic blurb of jiggling testosterone was. Instead, I ignored him and sat down to turn on my radio. All of a sudden, out of the little red speaker, came an immense voice of a preacher yowling “you’re a sinning woman, a sinner! You know you’re Satan’s slave.” I dove for the damn thing before half the pervs on the beach could hear more. Guilt ridden? No, just a tad embarrassed. It must’ve gotten jumbled around in the car, as the volume was turned up and the station was not my usual one. I quickly turned it to another station and heard Poe’s “I’m Not a Virgin Anymore.” Ahh, much better!

I was in a mix with the editor of the magazine I write for. It seems that he thought he had paid me for this month. We haggled and bickered, and finally when his damn British accent got on my last nerve, I felt the need to quit right then and there. After a day or two, he called and conceded. He told me I could pick up my check at the office, so I trotted right over, as I hadn’t eaten in two days. Thankfully he wasn’t there and it was just the two assistants at their desks when I arrived. We all yakked about what a penishead he was and blah and blah. They both reminded me that I get a ton of fan mail and the magazine would certainly suffer without my contribution. Ego-boost. Much needed. Okay, I was feeling better. I spied an ultra-cool martini glass lamp they had sitting on the floor next to the water cooler, unplugged! Well, this lamp is made of metal and stands about fourteen inches high, with a huge green olive on a giant toothpick. The red pimento, in the center of the olive, lights up when turned on, sort of like me. I freaked out over that lamp, in my not so demure way and the boys decided I deserved it, insisted that I take it. And that I did! I had a smile on my face the size of Manhattan as I carted out the big ol’ lamp and my wee little check. The lamp is properly perched in my kitchen now -- along with my thirty-eight martini shakers and miniature penis cocktail stirrers. Cheers baby!

Dear Mz. Conduct,

My wife and I have been married for nine years. We have three small children and she stays at home with them. I work ten hours a day and the first thing I see/hear, as I walk through the door, is her complaining about whatever; her day, the kids’ troubles, and well, you get the picture. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife dearly, but I don’t know what to do about this situation. When I know what’s waiting for me each day, it makes it hard to want to come home. We don’t get any time to ourselves and I feel guilty when I ask to take off for an hour. She flips out when I ask, so I’ve stopped. Do you have a suggestion?

Hub with a Headache

Dear HwaH,

Yeah, I have a suggestion: stand up for yourself, sackpaste! Wait until your kids are in bed and you have some time alone, then explain nicely to your motor-mouth wife how much it matters that you have some time to unwind when you get home. If she can keep her yap shut and the kids away for even a half hour after you get home, that’s a start. When you emerge from your spot, whether it is the garage, den or even the bathroom, then and only then will you hear about your family’s day. This is important, as your children will respect you more, the more you respect yourself.

Dear Mz. Conduct,

I’ve asked my wife to wear wigs while we’re having sex, just for the kick of it, the fantasy of her looking like a flight attendant, a hooker, or even a teacher. My wife refuses and tries to tell me that I want to be with other women and that’s my reason for the fantasies. Is there a better way to approach this subject because I’m finding myself obsessed with it lately? We both enjoy reading your column, so she will read what you write. Help please?

Wigless Wayne

Dear WW,

I personally don’t see her aversion to this. Sounds like fun to me, but that’s just me and I’m sick and perverted... but in a good way! She seems to be insecure and maybe you should confront those issues first through better communication. You might ask her what some of her fantasies are and be willing to explore those with her. Exchange ideas and talk about them first, then ease into role-playing possibilities as you move forward. Some fantasies are better left as such and it’s between the two of you to compromise on the differences. If you want her to make your fantasy come true , then really listen to her, be interested in what she’s telling you, and seriously want to make her own fantasies come true . Maybe you’ll be the one wearing a wig, lipstick and a uniform, who knows. And if so, you’ll do it and you’ll like it, you hair hoppin’ hump daddy!

© All rights reserved Kim Alvarez