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My week has consisted of nursing a bruised uvula from my ex shoving his enormous, Cuban missile down my throat while I was trying to pee, fending off a darting tongue from an old, hippie, ex boss who bragged about his love for Viagra, and canoodling with horny boys who have no apparent employment and promise me the freakin' moon. Well, I'm a sunshine girl, boys, just so you know. Little Miss Sunny Delight, that's me, all smiles and rainbows and all that happy horseshit. Now where are my ciggies and coffee, Goddamn it all to hell? Not Your Average Joe called me from the lovely Jefferson Theatre the other night. This is a porn theatre that specializes in audience participation and performance art, let's just say. I have been there once with the Lion King and loved the standing ovation I received when my fishnet-covered ass was hiked in the air while I drained his member. I'm an exhibitionist I admit, and feel quite comfortable with it, thank you. So, Not Your Average Joe calls me from inside this wild theatre and since I wasn't home he left a message. He was like a twisted version of Howard Cosell or something as he commentated on his swarthy surroundings. "Mz. Conduct you should come down here. There are two couples getting it on in one section and another woman getting her wrists wrapped with electrical tape. Now, over on the other side, it looks like we have several guys spanking their monkeys." He then went on to say he bought a great piece of art at a gallery earlier that evening and blah and blah. I had a mental picture of him in this darkened theatre, his cell phone in one hand, his ample appendage in the other. His moniker was acquired for a reason. Ms. Lula la Paintbrush and I went downtown to put some of her gorgeous artwork in a salon. It was one of those swanky places, one of those 'massage, nails, and hair' salons with perfectly coiffed snoots running around fiddling with everyone's 'do'. Well, they took one look at my 'hair-don't' and offered an emergency (mere), sixty-eight dollar conditioning treatment. Thinking of all the martinis that could buy, plus a new pair of black-seamed stockings, I declined ... and not so politely. After all, I could have shot back with "Ms. Fancy Pants, it looks as if you haven't had a good orgasm in years, let me help you out with that immediately, and for just sixty-eight bucks." After that fiasco, Ms. Lula and I decided to go to the tobacco store and browse. We automatically turned into Lucy and Ethel and made poor Leonard's life a living hell for the good part of an hour. We know he loved it. Ms. Lula and I looked at cigarette cases and lighters and pipe tobacco and smutty magazines and purple candy. Then it hit us, we just had to have some sort of elegant cigarette holder. Not too long, but just long enough (my particular weenie motto at that). This was something I always felt I should have anyway and today was the day. We picked out lovely amber and silver holders and then spent the entire afternoon walking around with them like we were some sort of movie stars from the thirties. I stopped on the way home to rent the video -- for the umpteenth time -- the classic Sunset Boulevard. Oh swoon and smoke baby, I absolutely adore that film. It looks like I may soon be writing for a new fangled, dating magazine. One which is featured on some new, daytime television talk show. I will also be doing the quarterly booze and bitch column on Mind Caviar called Bottoms Up. My edible editor friend says I'll be going on Oprah any day now. Now that would be a hoot and a half. Me and Oprah just yakking it up, that is, until she brings out Dr. Phil to hack my gin soaked advice to shreds. Ha, let him try! I'd love to make him cry, honey! Well daahlings, I must go. I have a lunch date at the Labia Lounge and my libations await within the walls of a luscious red head. Send me your blundered blurbs and let me set you straighter than the Lion King's weenie: guttergrl69@hotmail.com
+++ Dear Mz. Conduct, I am a loyal, faithful reader of yours and get a gigantic monstrosity of a kick out of your writing. Now I'm wondering if you will answer a question of mine? I am in what I would consider to be my 'middle' years. In 1987 I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis following a traumatic loss in my life. My problem is as follows; In the more recent past, I broached the subject of Cannabis as a form of relief for persons suffering from diseases like cancer and M.S.. I told my neurologist that when I treat myself with Marijuana it really helps. He sort of hemmed and hawed about the whole thing, explaining to me that he thought I was doing "just fine" handling my M.S. and that I don't need to smoke anything that can be "a potentially dangerous drug". At night it sometimes causes me to feel so relaxed that I'm able to achieve an orgasm of extremely high quality with my husband and/or by myself. I usually experience up to four orgasms during one sexual encounter, because of Marijuana and my own insatiable needs. Why can't the damn plant be more readily available without me and my household having to fork out sometimes up to $300.00 per month? Is this something you can help me with? Fondly, and anxiously awaiting your wise response, "Turned on by an ILLEGAL SUBSTANCE" Dear TobaIS, My advice to you, since you do have MS, is to see another doctor. While your neurologist may be someone you're comfortable with, he doesn't seem to be listening to you with an open mind. He sounds like a misdirected, uptight old coot, actually. Plus, if he can't just keep you on all the pharmaceuticals, he won't be able to buy that new boat he has his eye on. This guy thinks you're "handling it fine," well, hootie and a blowjob, you just explained how it could be handled better. Furthermore, his crack about marijuana being "potentially dangerous" is a bunch of theoretical toe-jam. What can be "potentially dangerous" is his ignorance. Oh, honey, don't get me started. Too late! Yeah, let's call marijuana a potential danger to a woman who has a chronic illness and then we'll prescribe huge amounts of unnecessary drugs to everyone we know, pop a couple over-the-counter "legal" drugs with lunch, have a few legal cocktails after work and then drive home where the wife -- on her anti-depressants -- will hand you a 'muscle relaxer' and a scotch. Sure, that makes sense and that's America. There are doctors that are more liberally minded when it comes to medicinal marijuana use and you should find one. You'll have to establish a good doctor/patient relationship first and not just go in on the first visit and ask him/her to sign a form. After you've established this relationship then see if/how they can help you get what you need. You can get a card showing legal rights to carry marijuana and use it. Depending on where you live in some cases, if you can't find a place to buy it, you can grow it yourself. There are a few good web sites you may also want to check out. One site is : www.cannabis.com/medical/. Another is TheCompassionClub.org (instead of .com). I agree with you whole heartily that marijuana should be more available for medicinal purposes. I think it's fab that it helps to transpose you into an orgasmic goddess. It does have different effects on individuals though. I knew a guy that said he could never even drive without smoking a joint first. On the other hand, if I did that I would be putting at about three miles an hour, sweating profusely and glancing into my rearview mirror every third second, thinking every car behind me was a copper. I'm happy it works well for you and good luck. Take two bong hits and call me in the morning.
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Dear Mz. Conduct, Could you tell me why this woman I've been seeing for weeks now refuses to kiss me? I really enjoy spending time with her when we go out. She's made it clear that she's attracted to me since we've dry humped and rolled around for hours on end. When I want to go farther, she puts a stop to it and says she has to go home. I asked her why she's playing me like this and she says she doesn't want to get emotionally attached. What's going on in this woman 's head? Please help! Blue Balls in Baltimore Dear BB, I know what's not going on in your head and that's the release of yum yum juice and that's just a damn shame. Granted, I did this sort of thing when I was a teenager, but I assume your woman is as grown up as the pulsating bulge in your slacks. Send her to me a.s.a.p. and I will promptly bitch-slap her and butt fuck her. Seriously, I think this floozy has issues, as a lot of women seem to. If she really likes you, then she should be kissing you, and often, and by someone who knows how -- Gaad I love that line when Rhett Butler says that to Scarlett O'Hara. It's true, though. When you really like someone you crave their kisses like melting sugar cubes in honey, like butterfly wings and soul surging suction. Okay, I'm drifting into a bit of a moist reverie here. Chastity belts and paddle welts, I don't have time
for such nonsense myself. If you want to have sex with someone then you
should. Take a risk of loving and celebrate the connection in the meantime.
If she won't kiss you (what is she a Copyright 2002 All Rights Reserved Kim Alvarez
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