widowcentauri

Archive for the ‘Widow Centauri’ Category

Fix That, Buy This — Gimme!

In dating, dominatrix, paying for it, Widow Centauri on August 2, 2014 at 2:16 am

I’m pissing in the bathtub for the rest of the night because my toilet is having a fit. It just keeps draining. I have jiggled the handle and gone into the tank, the toilet is just whining. I need this fixed asap.

Additionally:
My fridge is trying to die
I need hurricane supplies and information
I need cleaning supplies.
DESK — this is urgent. I need to build a desk and am willing to use recycled materials but we might need to scavenge for them, unless truck bitch wants to buy things for me.
Food — I really have none and would love to go on a grocery store shopping trip
The doorknobs on my back door. I don’t have keys to them and I would like to replace them.
I need beds — two queen sized beds. New and comfortable.
A clothing rack
A dresser or two
A full mirror
Kitchen things — I need a pot and maybe some other simple stuff that I should already have but don’t.
Ink for my printer, and nice paper
Simple medical supplies for my foot
Ghetto insulate the front of my house with rags and duct tape!
Change lightbulbs / get lamps
Lighting for backyard
Furniture for backyard
Photo Shoots
A good bike
Money to pay my bills
Sexy tight and shiny fetish clothing. A new rubber catsuit and a weekend in Barcelona would melt me.

I’m accepting gifts, donations, and elbow grease. 

Language and Laws

In Lorelei Erisis, politics, video, whores, Widow Centauri on July 16, 2013 at 4:59 am

The Entitlement of Day People

In bullshit, friends, fun, traveling, whores, Widow Centauri on July 14, 2013 at 10:36 pm

If you have been reading my blog and are wondering what they hell is up with my pissed off attitude lately I’m here to answer your burning itchy question.

A bunch of shit is irking me. It’s not really your fault, dear reader, though I’m sure that my random diatribe might suggest otherwise. Don’t get all butthurt, enjoy my outrage for the spectacle it is.

Let me break down some of the seriously white problems I am suffering from

It is summer time. I hate summer time. It is hot, business is slow, the sunshine is out there trying to kill me.

Maybe you had forgotten that I am very ill, or maybe you thought it was a joke, some strange plan to mess with your heads — nope I am really and truly very very sick. Thought I have managed to get my symptoms somewhat under control I am constantly living from minute to minute, hoping that the sun does not shine in my eyes, hopping that when I have a DR apt that I will feel well enough to leave my home (which I did not this week).

I’m having something of a flare up with my health. Given that the multitude of tests and scans I have undergone have failed to find anything I am doing what I can to avoid things that make me sick. And when I say sick I mean sick. Sometimes I end up barfing my guts up from exposure to the sunshine.

Sometimes I binge drink and barf from the booze, but mostly I have been avoiding alcohol, avoiding sunshine, avoiding anything that resembles fun. Even going to clubs takes a toll on me. The noise, the smells, the back breaking shoes, no matter what I do I seem to end up in pain. The question is how much pain can I tolerate and how can I best mitigate it.

Because of my current health flare up I had to forgo my long anticipate trip to Las Vegas. I have been wanting to go and hob-nob with some super-hookers, but given the fact that I went on a family adventure to jazz fest, then I spent time in California defending and finishing school, and then I had to make another trip back to california where I just let the nervous breakdown I was having hang the fuck out (I was mostly black out drunk the whole week I was there).— I have had too much sunshine and can not continue under the guise of summertime. I must avoid going outside until the leaves change.

Maybe you think I am being mellow dramatic, maybe you want to label me a vampire, or a goth, or just dismiss my symptoms as some sort of psychological thing that is not real. And this is where I say FUCK YOU. Would you treat a person with a visible disability as though they were faking it? Would you mock them, joke about their condition, ask them to infect you? Nope, you would not. So stop taunting me and asking me to bite your neck.

The social expectation for decorum would prevent you from mocking a friend with one arm, someone with diabetes, or an elderly person with mobility issues, but somehow social niceties escape a lot of people when they discover that I can not go in the sunshine.

And I want to go in the sunshine. Sometimes I really really miss being able to act like a normal person. I’m sick of having to wrap myself in a burka, a massive sunhat, full shoes, wrap around shades, spf 100 — just to cross the street. It is exhausting. I’m really getting frustrated.

I hope you can see the matter of fact way that my illness is effecting me.

Sometimes I can push myself, but I always pay for it with days and weeks of not being able to move, vomiting, dizziness, sometimes I just a little stream of light in my eye will blind me for a moment preventing me from seeing things and walk into walls, trip over chairs, fall down stairs. It really sucks.

It sucks that I can’t be in Vegas for the Desiree Alliance conference, an event where I expected much fun would be had. While I was packing I wanted to know if the hotel had laundry facilities, but in looking at the site I realized that the conference area and the suites are not in the same building, they are separated and require a long and leisurely stroll in the vegas sun.

I knew that would put me in the hospital. I don’t like being a patient in the hospital. I’m a horrible patient. I get all scared, I cry. I’m a big baby when I am sick.

So I called, and tried to bargain, and I managed to find that there are ADA rooms but that they are not close to the conference area. No matter what room I ended up in I was gonna be in the vegas sunshine, frequently. And that was just not gonna do. I had to make the hard choice to stay home. My heart is heavy and I spent some time crying.

This is my life.

Can I go out there today? Is the sunshine going to fuck me up or might I make it quickly from building to car, to building. Never at high noon.

Often the sunshine coming through the cracks in the drapes feels like shards of glass in my eyes. It feels like my third eye is being gutted. My whole body aches. I am queasy.

So you wonder why I seem a tad bit hostile?

I missed a medical appointment I have been waiting six months to get because I was simply too unwell to go out into the overcast afternoon. I had to forgo a long anticipated event where maybe, just maybe I would make some friends and share some camaraderie.

My life is a constant struggle to get from day to day. I never know if I will be able to go outside, if things will be just fine, if I will end up in the ER, if I will find myself in a situation where I’m alone and too sick to cope. I’m sure I must look like a drug addict to the average eye. My medical records are clean. Squeaky clean. I don’t have anything. But I have a bunch of symptoms. Sometimes I can just push the pain and frustration into my yoga, into my writing, into some place where I hope I never have to confront it, but currently the madness wants to come out and play.

So I hope you have not been too mortally wounded by my last few posts here. I’m going through some heavy shit. I’m at a point where my life is changing, and though I assume it will be better, I realize that everything could fall apart without any warning at all.

Yesterday I fell down the stairs. I thought I broke my ankle. Luckily I did not. Two days ago I was having ‘an episode’ where my spine sort of froze up preventing me from moving. It’s sort of like a temporary and partial paralysis. I could not figure if I should try to take something for the pain or what, but then I remembered that one of the best ways to cure my locked spine is to walk around in my stripper shoes. Really.

So I walked around in my eight inch platforms for a few hours and felt a lot better. Then after a day and a half I fell down the stairs. I landed in my stripper bag.

The falling and the walking into things seems to happen when my sight disappears with the light. Also, I fall when I’m suffering from an episode. Not always, usually before anything else happens. Like a precursor — I fall over and I know that I’m gonna get taken out of the game for a while. How long? Don’t know. Could be a night, could be a week, longest was three weeks solid, with bad effects for months and months.

And though I have a perfect setup to make my living at home, to tour and perform at night, to write and teach and do all the things I want to do, I am all bent out of shape cause I can’t do a bunch of day things. It should not bother me that I won’t be able to play with the super-nerds at the university of las vegas, or that I can’t commit to any sort of full time full sun anything. My life is stymied by this illness and it should be just fine. Except I want to have the option to do normal things. When people ask me if I want to go on a boat, to a barbecue, to a picnic in the park, I want to be able to say yes. But unless it’s a night time party, I can’t. This lack of daylight living seriously limits my friendships and really stresses the few friends whom I do have.

Yes, sometimes when I go out I act impulsively. Last time I went to california I was drunk the whole time. Yep, I was on a bender. Would I have been less sick and exhausted if I had refrained from the devils beverage? Maybe, maybe not, but I would have had less of a rock star time. Sometimes after months of not seeing anyone, not seeing the light of day, not being able to run errands, or go to day people events — sometimes rock star is all I have to work with. Give it all to me, NOW, while I am out here in the light of day. NOW! Then I’ll go home and regret it either way. Rock star in the daylight, or nun. Makes no difference on the other side. Either way I get dizzy, confused, sick.

And all you happy people who don’t have to live in constant fear of the sunshine, you might be thinking ‘just make the best out of it’ or some such cheery ideals. Yep, making the best out of it. The best does not always equate into being cheerful. It is hard to be cheerful when the bulk of the population roams around entitled and tan, oblivious to the fact that that horrific ball of gas in the sky is making some of us sick as all fuck. Businesses close early, even fuel stations close early around here. If I need to fuel up my vehicle I must do it on my way in at five in the morning, or on my way out at ten PM. Three in the morning is no time to pump gas, pick up groceries, do laundry, or hang out in a coffee shop. This part of the world shuts down at night.

I am constantly dancing around the mood, making sure I get inside before the sun comes up, making sure that it does not fry my brain, my skin, my eyes, my soul.

The whole thing gets really old. Sometimes I am bitter. Mostly I read a lot.

Fuck The Patriarchy — Where Are The Scissors?

In Adventure, drama, drinking, Family, LA, Lorelei Erisis, Los Angeles, New England, San Diego, Widow Centauri on June 12, 2013 at 5:26 am

My flight was at 6 Am. The first train to logan was at 530. I spent the night in the airport with Lorelei. I got in a wheelchair and was wheeled to my gate. I took a sleeping pill and woke up in LA at 11 AM. I went to the post office. I was expecting to retrieve my masters degree and a set of plates to a half dead BMW that sits in my parking lot irritating my neighbor with its stagnation. Neither were there.

I wanted to go shopping on Hollywood Blvd and get some stripper gear. But I went to the park, did some yoga, and went to visit neighbor Dave.

Neighbor Dave was in the very last stages of being evicted from a place that he has lived for the better part of 20 years. I lived next to him for a short time. He is one of my last remaining friends still living in Hollywood. It was sad to see that all his shit was packed and in the garage. He told me he was gonna stay with a friend but that he had no idea if he was moving to Portland, NYC, or gawd forbid … could he stay with me? Sure, I said, why the fuck not?

After a couple hours of drinking beer with ND a random tweeker showed up. Almost immediately thereafter a well put together blond woman, looked like she worked in an office — maybe for social services, came to the door. ND suggested that I kick it with the blonde woman and he was gonna go ‘do something’ with the tweeker. We went to the roof to admire the view and have a drink. I asked ‘so how do you know Dave’ and she looked at me in a curious way. “You don’t know?” she asked. “Nope, I have never heard of you” I told her. “He is moving in with me. I am his girlfriend” she told me. I looked puzzled. The last girlfriend I knew ND to have was Crazy Mary. Crazy Mary was a nutter. A sexy mid 40s stripper with long red hair and the sort of insane passion that went with the style of Neighbor Dave — bizarre, violent, artistic, fuck the man! This blonde woman didn’t seem to fit. I tried my best to put it all together. We went back into NDs unit and they started screaming at each other. I was ready to bounce. I had another friend I was planning on visiting across town. Blondie lived int he same area. She offered to give me a ride, so I went with her.

I don’t do screaming — sorry dave, I’m out!

We went to visit my old yoga buddy, who isn’t doing so well. We were there for five minutes. Her husband kind of freaked me out. We split. We drank a little more. Blondie probed me for details about Neighbor Dave. Apparently she had been his high school girlfriend and they only recently reconnected. I advised her not to let him take advantage of her. He is my friend but blondie didn’t seem to know that he is a scrub. He just never seems to give a shit. It is part of his charm, but I don’t want to see this nice person taken advantage of by my douchy loser friend.

Nothing personal if you are reading this ND, but yeah — you need to get a job or something. Rent is something you don’t fuck off after 20 years. Rent control is kooshy, homelessness sucks. Sorry that happened but get your shit together dude. Also, tell a person before your ‘girlfriend’ shows up. I would have been cool if I had known the score.

I went home with his girl and she introduced me to her cute as fuck, wicked ugly dog. It was one of the dogs that is so ugly and so strange looking that it should be in films. Strange looking little tilted head mother fucker. I was drunk. I slept on her couch. I don’t even remember her name. In the morning she even took me to the train station.

On the train I changed out of my jammies and prepared to meet up with my family. My mother picked me up in SandyEggo in a rental care with Massachusetts plates. I was trying to keep a low profile. There are a few people in that part of the world I would rather not point out my location to, not in the car, not in Northeast. How the fuck did my mother get a rental car with Mass plates? Gawd hates me, that is the only answer to this perplexing question. She looked at me like it was no thing and I pulled a flask out of my bag.

We were both ravenous from traveling so we had some massive Hash House breakfast. I was enamored by the ‘hangover cure’ on the menu. A Bud In A Bag, and A Side Of Bacon. I wanted it but I got something else. Something big with a tree of rosemary in it. And a drink that should have had more vodka in it.

We went on a family adventure that involved going DEEP into the suburbs to see some family members, and avoid some others. How we could expect to cruise up in a car with Mass plates and not be spotted was only a tad stressful. There was a lot of traffic. We stopped at the liquor store and got some nips. When we got the the event my daughter was dressed like a hooker. Wow. I wanted to say something but what could I say? Mini skirt and big ass red shoes. Wow. Whatever. Drink up. My mother screamed in the face of some coppers and I thought it was going to get us shot. She kicked back a mini bottle of Hennessy and we went into the massive theater / sports complex thing. It was a huge clusterfuck. Do we see who we are looking for? Can we avoid being seen by the fuckers we want to avoid? Drink.

I passed out for a few minutes or hours and a friend called, waking me up. We always try to go to the beach in the middle of the night when I am in town. His wife was bitching about something so he only had a few minutes. I got out of bed and took a beer to the beach. We said hello, had a hug and I went back to bed. In the morning TheFam and I ate some Hodads. Giant delicious burgers with Bacon and Beer. We waited in line for what seemed like an hour — in the sunshine.

Then we went to La Jolla to see see The Only Blond (TOB) I actually enjoy the company of and her Mike. I went to school with TOB and her Mike is a professor there. They are now happily living in La Jolla where she is getting a PhD and he has ditched his wife and the hundred cats they had. Beer drinking continued while we all talked about grad school, what the hell to do with the rest of ones life, and other shit. TOB started smoking. I thought that would be a good idea. I smoked — maybe one? maybe five? cigarettes. I don’t recall. In fact the last thing I recall was her Mike going to get some Glenlivit, us drinking some, him suggesting that we go to the beach, me thinking it was a great plan. I really really miss the pacific ocean.

So yeah, I said fuck yeah, lets go!

The trip to the ocean is a little foggy. I recall swimming in my granny panties and there was a giant fat mother fucking sea lion. Big ass bitch of a sea beast. I thought, in my drunken haze, ‘it’s so shiny, maybe it wants to be friends’ and I went swimming over to visit with it. Luckily I am loved and my family members do not want to see me devoured on the rocks of the La Jolla coast line by an enormous beast so I was stopped as I crept closer and closer to the lounging shiny fat thing.

But I was all wet and had been in the sunshine.

When we got back to TOB and her Mike’s place — I’m not really sure what happened then. I pretty much blacked out on the way back. I recall barfing into their toilet. I was gonna get int the shower but there were a bunch of clothes hainging in the shower — Hawaiian shirts from what I can grasp from my drunken splotchy memories of something red colored — did I take adderall while I was drunk? I can see that happening. I’m tired, I’ll take some speed. No wonder I got sick. Who knows. I blame the sunshine.

My offspring took me back to the car and my mother was sure they were not gonna let me on the plane. I barfed into an amazingly sturdy plastic bag in the back of the rental car with the conspicuous plates and we headed to the airport. After I was done barfing and we were in the parking area I put my jammies back on in the back of the car. I sat on my suitcase and got it to close. Apparently my knees buckled and I fell over at some point but I have no memory of this. I ended up in a wheelchair headed through security.

See you later lovely family. I’ll make the flight.

I offered to get out of my chair at security but the TSA folks were like ‘no no no, just stay in the chair.” And some nice people must have helped me get on that aircraft cause I made it to Philly shortly after the sun. I walked around 30th street station iso a mega bus to take me to NYC where I promptly regained my lust for the salivating menu item at the Hash House — bud in a bag with a side of bacon — I found a park bench and read a book I stole from robert about five years ago (and had with me as I was meaning to return it) while drinking a PBR in a bag with a straw, and eating a bacon sammie. It was a lovely grey almost raining day. I had a nice time in the park. No one bothered me or hit on me. I’m sure I looked and smelled like I belonged there with my beer and book. Hours passed and I went to a bougie place called Ghost for a couple of stellar cucumber margaritas, then on to the Red Umbrella Diaries where I read a story about pissing on people at gas stations.

Then I went with some nice folks from the event to have more drinks. Eventually I ended up with one person who told me she dressed up like a chicken and did live sex shows — we took a nap on the floor at penn station together. A copper woke us up and told up that sleeping and drinking beer were both against the law in this location. He didn’t take my beer so I just went to the Dunkin Donuts and got a donut to go with my beer while I waited for my train home.

The next morning I was back in New England and able to sleep in my own bed for five hours. Then I went to a strip club and danced, paid my phone bill, scurried in to pay my internet bill only to be told that I had already paid it three months in advance and then I came home to take another nap. When I work up this morning I thought it would be a good idea to cut off all my hair. Now I have a long red silky braid in a bag for sale.

The end.

Red Umbrella Diaries — NYC Storytelling — 6 June

In Adventure, Golden Showers, Los Angeles, Massachusetts, pissing, Widow Centauri on June 2, 2013 at 7:40 pm

I am leaving town NOW. Going to SoCal (June4-5), Philly and NYC (June 6th).

I am telling a really fun story at The Red Umbrella Diaries in NYC on June 6th at 7PM. It is FREE — so come see me, say hello, and enjoy a night of sex worker tales of traveling for business. It is going to be epic.

http://www.redumbrellaproject.org/redumbrelladiaries/

Happy Ending Lounge
Lower East Side
7PM
FREE!

Adventures at Gold Club

In Adventure, corporate america, culture, fetish, Happy Hour, New England, Widow Centauri on May 27, 2013 at 9:55 pm

I have been working at the Gold Club in Groton Ct for about a week now. It is exhausting. I was really spoiled at the Cadillac Lounge. They let me do anything I wanted. At GC I am trying to not piss off management. I was hired after both my size and my age were questioned. I need to not act like an entitled old lady stripper. I have no seniority here. I’m dancing on stage for the first time in years. At Cadillac Lounge they almost never put me on stage and when they did I just entertained myself on the huge island of stage. GC has three stages in two different buildings. I am constantly running back and forth from club to club. I’m up on the stage shaking my ass. I’m rocking the super fetish model look with a corset and stockings. I wear a wig. The look is really good but it is the least appropriate thing to stripper dance in ever. Popping my ass while wearing a corset is really starting to dig into my flesh.

Last night my wig fell off while I was dancing on the nude stage. There were three teenage boys sitting in front of me and no one else in the place. I guess I have that going for me. Very few people actually saw my wig fall off. I told no one. I just grabbed it and put it right back on my head and told the boys to tip me. After all, they got to see an exposed part I don’t generally expose on the stage. It was extra to see me with my wig off.

Fuck.

This is a young dancers club. I hate being on strip club stages. I’m young enough to be up there but old enough to know better than to make a habit of it. Last night a woman walked into the club made a beeline for me on stage and reached right up and tried to take my glasses off. “I love thoooose” she said in a slurred voice. Apparently she was so drunk she thought she was at the mall and I was some mannequin she could remove the glasses of. I almost decked her with my instinctual reflex to block the hand coming toward my face. She looked all butt hurt.

And there was Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool. I have a love hate relationship with people who have just steeped out of the 1980s. It must have been quite a fucking party to be a young adult in the 1980s. Mr. Look At Me, I’m So Cool was 50 ish, built like a body builder, dressed like a banker, fakely tanned, clean shaven, and five feet two inches tall. He was handing out hundred dollar bills like candy. All the dancers swooned. The bartender ignored every other thirsty wanker at the pub. In his own mind Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool was a gawd among men. It was so self righteous and egotistical I could not pander to it. I saw all these strippers jumping for him. He pad the bartender to chase him around like an overgrown child. He was pathetically archetypical of the ideal strip club patron. Mr I’m So Cool, Look At me comes in about once a month, like Santa Clause. When people see him they know, the club sugar daddy is here. Everyone was so excited.

But I resent 1980’s men in a way that can only be described with a photo of Ronald Reagan on a dartboard. Yes, I need his money. But I hate him. So, I play it as cool as I can. I do not spit in his face or engage him in the conversation of wealth separation, corporations bedding down with politicians, or any element of patriarchy. No I just smile distantly and wonder how Mr I’m So Cool, Look At Me sleeps at night. I want to fuck his ass with a huge black dildo and make him lick the shit and blood off of it. I want to make him give a hundred million dollars to charity. I do not want to have fun with him. I want to take his money. It will better serve me.

If nothing else The Gold Club has been a change in scenery. It is a much more fast paced club than what I am used to. I am used to moving at my own speed. Not being rushed by a middle aged man with hair down his back who plays three different songs and expects the respect of DJ Aristocat, Miss Kitten, or Dmitri from Paris. I’m not sure how long I can keep up at this pace. I really do like the club. Maybe there is a better way to work it.

On Being a Fat Stripper

In Booty Gonzales, corporate america, discrimination, drama, New England, weight loss, Widow Centauri on May 26, 2013 at 7:03 pm

Let me start off by saying that I am not fat. I do not have a complex. I do not think I am fat. For the industry I am often considered to be fat. So, now you know.

My body is actually quite lovely. My measurements are 36D, 25,40. I have a tiny middle with visible abdominal mussels and a big juicy arse. People go crazy for it. Strippers ask about it, touch it, wish they had it. Customers in clubs love it. They all say ‘wow, that is a lot of ass’ and so does management.

Managers of strip clubs often have the most racist, sexist, classist value system when it comes to body types. They see my ass and assume that I am too big to work at the club. I might actually weigh less than some of the other dancers but because they are proportioned more evenly the managers don’t notice. All they see is my huge rump.

And it makes me a lot of money.

But the managers only see a white girl with a large rump. They have told me: ‘you have too much ass for a white girl,’ ‘your too thick,’ ‘come back when you loose 20 lbs.’ If I lost 20 lbs I would still have this big ass but I would be skin and bones everywhere else. I could drop 7 or 8 lbs without looking like Maria Shriver in the rear. If you have never seen this woman in person you might not know that her ass it totally out of proportion with the rest of her body. Think stick figure with a giant beach ball glued onto the rump. The rest of her seems to look like a normal human but she was also blessed by the ass gawds.

The first time a black man told me I had too much booty the dude was a strip club manager. I asked him if he preferred the Asian ladies or something. He told me that if I was black I could get away with this shape. But white girls are not allowed to have this much ass. It is against the rules. My ass is an outlaw!

If I were actually a fat stripper I might have heard that from a customer. Never once has a customer suggested that my ass is too big to be working in a club. It is big but I can fit through the door. I can fit into a bikini and look really pretty swell. Come see me dance soon. I’m obviously getting too old and too fat for this gig so my days are numbered. I have to go to work. I hope I don’t tip over from all this booty.

BlondWidowBikiniRear017

PurpleHairWidowBikiniFront026

PurpleHairWidowBikiniGoofy027

PurpleHairWidowBikiniRear024

BlondWidowPinkDressFlexing006

BlondWidowPinkDressFront005

This is what I look like in the light of day. I had no idea my skin was so white.

CT, SoCal, NYC — NOW

In Adventure, Comedy, dominatrix, fetish, Golden Showers, Los Angeles, New England, pissing, Public, San Diego, strip club, traveling, Widow Centauri on May 24, 2013 at 9:18 am

I will be at the Gold Club in Groton CT most of the time until 3 June.

Los Angeles the evening of 3 June.

San Diego 5 June

NYC 6 June.

I will be performing at The Red Umbrella Diaries on 6 June at Happy Ending on the Lower East Side. Come and enjoy a night of story telling. It is free and starts at 7PM.

https://www.facebook.com/events/128092554056876/?ref=22

I hope to have some fun!

Driving Around, Cape Cod Bound, Then …

In Golden Showers, kink, New England, Public, strip club, traveling, Widow Centauri on May 7, 2013 at 4:36 pm

I’m heading to strip clubs tonight.

It is noon and I am awake. This really is a huge to do. I can’t usually be awake when the sun is up. It is the middle of my sleep cycle, so I might as well go put on some hooker make up and head to a club. But not all clubs hire same day around here. Some do, but not all.

Becasuse I know you want to come and play tonight here are my plans:

I’m hoping to be at Fantasies in Providence RI by 2:30 PM. I’m under the impression that when they hire dancers they don’t let you work the same day, so after that I’ll head to Zachary’s on the Cape (Mashpee I think). I’ll get lost, and I’ll be running late (because I always am), but hopefully they let me stay. I don’t expect them too. They are the only club on Cape Cod and I’m pretty sure they only hire in the winter, despite what the person on the phone told me. They only deal with new dancers until 5:00 PM so I aim to find the place before then. When they blow me off because there is no snow on the ground I’ll make a choice to head to The Gold Club in Groton CT, or to Worcester to check out the new mega-plex-uber-strip-club Emperors Palace. I assume that if I go there they will let me stay. They are a new club and I figure they need dancers. But it is new girl season, so if they tell me no, I’ll go give Hurricane Betty a try.

At this point I’m not sure which way I will go from the cape. If you want to meet up for a road side piss stop send me a text and I will call you back when I have a moment. If you want to wait till I figure out where I will be tonight, wait for me to update my twitter. Then jump in your car and bring me lots of money.

I Have Food, This is Good

In Adventure, American Dominatrix, bathroom, deviance, dominatrix, fun, Golden Showers, kink, New England, pissing, Public, Widow Centauri on May 7, 2013 at 4:19 pm

After reading my rant, sure as shit, some bitches came climbing out of the wood work all butt hurt saying “I’m a regular, no?” My response of ‘who is this?’ Didn’t exactly please them.

There is no fighting the fact that I am in a bad mood. I have all these big plans but every time I hear a big truck rumble to a stop I wonder if it is the power company, come to shut me down. Before I leave I’m gonna make sure there is a flashlight by all the entrances. Fuck on a stick.

But anyway

Someone called and said “I’m sorry you are in a bad mood Widow, can I take you shopping, or somehow make things better?” Of course I said yes. But I was still uncertain about who I was speaking to. He asked me where I was goign to be dancing. “I have no idea, some really well behaved subbie called me on niteflirt and totally derailed my plans to make it to a club at a decent hour. Why don’t we just meet at the supermarket, since I’m out of food.”

When we met up I knew who he was. He is a piss boy I have seen several times. As we wandered through the supermarket I threw things into the cart. When I found products that I thought would be particularly well suited for tormenting him with I would open them. “Pickled egg?” I asked coyly, as thought he had a choice. I shoved the whole jar of picked eggs down his throat and made him drink the brine. I smiled, then we moved on.

I put pretzels in his nose and marshmallows in his ears. I dressed him in a series of hideous grocery store rompers, sun hats, ugly shades, and threw a big ass beach umbrella in the cart. We made our way to the pathetic produce section. I spanked him with a leek and gagged him with an apple. Other shoppers were giggling, huffing, trying not to look, and being incredibly polite as people in New England are apt to be. One old lady looked at us with a big grin and said “you two are having more fun than anyone in this market. I want whatever you had, pour me one” and then turned and went back to her shopping seemingly quite content to have seen something amusing durring what was surely an otherwise mundane shopping experience.

When I was sure I had everything I needed I asked the person behind the deli where the bathroom was and we headed that way. After parking the cart by the bathroom door I pulled him into the multi-stall bathroom behind me. I could have gone into one of the stalls but I had to pee so badly by this point that I just hopped up on the counter, lifted my skirt and said “drink.”

He dropped to his knees and I heard them hit the tile. It sounded painful. His jaw dropped and I shot a little stream of piss right into his egg hole. “Swallow” I told him. Then he opened back up and I just let it all out. I pissed in his mouth. All over his face, into the bits of pretzel and marshmallow that were still stuck to his face.

Surprisingly he was able to drink most of it. He did get wet, but not nearly as wet as he would have if he had not been an expert piss chugger. There was a little puddle on the floor. “Lick that up” I said, as I grabbed a paper towel and dried myself off. After he was done licking the floor clean I jammed the paper towel in his mouth. “Wash your hands” I told him, “make bubbles.”

At this point I was just being a smart ass. But I was having a good time. After we are cleaned up we went to the register and he bought the strange assortment of things in this cart, including an empty jar that previously held pickled eggs. When the cashier looked at it I said “he got hungry.” The cashier looked at him, a bit wet, bits of food all over him, reeking of piss. The cashier didn’t say a word.

After loading the groceries into my car he said “ I hope I was able to cheer you up a little bit Widow.” And I sent him on his way.

I’m in a slightly better mood. I have an icebox full of food, so if the power company shuts me down while I’m out tonight I will have a massive mess to deal with. Hopefully that does not happen. Maybe you will come see me at whatever club I end up in. Watch for the tweet, then come and play.