for my trip to the DR, but I did. Even in December, the DR is hot and humid, of course. I swear the day I wore these undies, my crotch developed into a swamp with a pool of sweat hanging around at all times. This was not pleasant at all, and I was reminded to follow my own advice about cotton underwear.
Wednesday, January 4, 2006
Yuck
I am not sure what on earth possessed me to pack my Body by Victoria non-cotton undies (seen below on Theo) 
for my trip to the DR, but I did. Even in December, the DR is hot and humid, of course. I swear the day I wore these undies, my crotch developed into a swamp with a pool of sweat hanging around at all times. This was not pleasant at all, and I was reminded to follow my own advice about cotton underwear.
for my trip to the DR, but I did. Even in December, the DR is hot and humid, of course. I swear the day I wore these undies, my crotch developed into a swamp with a pool of sweat hanging around at all times. This was not pleasant at all, and I was reminded to follow my own advice about cotton underwear.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
My 30th Birthday: Damn, Those Bulls Have Cojones
Our new friends dropped us back off at our car in Parque Nacional Sierra de Bahoruco around 2:40 pm. We learned that they were going on to Bahía de las Águilas (Bay of the Eagles), an extremely remote beach known for its pristine beauty. The only way to get there is to have a truck, Jeep, or SUV, or to hire a fisherman from the nearest town (las Cuervas) to take you there, which is a 20 minute trip each way. J. asked them if we could follow them out there until our car could not go any further and then jump back in the pickup and ride with them and the cactus. They said they’d be glad to have us join them, and we were off. (I had to pee again, but decided I’d better hold it for a while rather than hold the group back.)
We followed the pickup truck out of the Parque, through the Mars terrain, past the evil Alcoa trucks with giant piles of red earth that flew all over the place and blocked our vision as the trucks sped unsafely down the road. We were just at the turn off to the beach when our pickup truck friends screeched to a halt. It seems that something was wrong with the fuel tank, so they needed to go to the nearest gas station before heading into rough terrain. Seeing as the “nearest” gas station was about 50 km away, we bid them adieu and decided to drive to the fishing village and see if we could pay for a boat ride to Bahía de las Águilas.
Getting to Las Cuervas entailed driving about 10 km per hour because the road sucked, so by the time we got there, it was too late to get out to the beach and back. We decided to poke around the tiny town for a few minutes before heading back to Santo Domingo, which was at least a 5 hour ride from where we were. Las Cuervas was the only sandy beach I went in the DR, and I found a remote corner behind some bushes and finally relieved myself. (In fact, we all “changed the water” as J.’s boyfriend so cleverly phrased it.) This time, I avoided peeing on my own ankles, so I was very pleased. We studied the beautiful cliff that framed the town, and headed out.
We were not on the main highway long when we reencountered the cattle we passed earlier in the day. This time, their herders were nowhere in sight. We sat in the car and waited for the cows to part, sort of like Moses and the Red Sea, so we could pass safely. A few seconds went by with the cows milling about, showing no signs of moving out of the way, when two bulls burst out of the brush on the side, horns locked in fierce battle. We backed up a bit. The bulls unlocked horns, ran at each other, and butted heads.
We backed up a bit more. The bulls made lots of angry snorting noises. We backed up even more. While the two bulls were engaged in battle, a third bull analyzed the situation and decided they wouldn’t notice if he mated with the cow I assume they were fighting over. The bull mounted the cow. The cow made angry snorting noises and tried to run away. We backed up more. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction approached the scene. We wondered what the hell he was going to do. The bulls stopped fighting and walked away. The cows parted and the motorcycle drove through. Carpe diem and all that shit, we took seized the opportunity and cruised. Soon, the cows were receding and we were on our way.
The day ended uneventfully, with dinner at a cute little roadside restaurant in a nameless tiny town. While we were waiting for our meal (the cooks went to shop for the ingredients at the general store down the road), a traveling livestock salesman drove up with calves and baby goats trussed up in the back of his pickup truck. He tried to sell a calf to the restaurant proprietors. The animals bleated balefully. J. got upset. The restaurant owners refused and the salesman was on his way. The cook came back, we had dinner, and then drove off into the dark, only stopping once for a bathroom break and ice cream cake before arriving in Santo Domingo and ending the best 30th birthday a girl could have.
We followed the pickup truck out of the Parque, through the Mars terrain, past the evil Alcoa trucks with giant piles of red earth that flew all over the place and blocked our vision as the trucks sped unsafely down the road. We were just at the turn off to the beach when our pickup truck friends screeched to a halt. It seems that something was wrong with the fuel tank, so they needed to go to the nearest gas station before heading into rough terrain. Seeing as the “nearest” gas station was about 50 km away, we bid them adieu and decided to drive to the fishing village and see if we could pay for a boat ride to Bahía de las Águilas.
Getting to Las Cuervas entailed driving about 10 km per hour because the road sucked, so by the time we got there, it was too late to get out to the beach and back. We decided to poke around the tiny town for a few minutes before heading back to Santo Domingo, which was at least a 5 hour ride from where we were. Las Cuervas was the only sandy beach I went in the DR, and I found a remote corner behind some bushes and finally relieved myself. (In fact, we all “changed the water” as J.’s boyfriend so cleverly phrased it.) This time, I avoided peeing on my own ankles, so I was very pleased. We studied the beautiful cliff that framed the town, and headed out.
We were not on the main highway long when we reencountered the cattle we passed earlier in the day. This time, their herders were nowhere in sight. We sat in the car and waited for the cows to part, sort of like Moses and the Red Sea, so we could pass safely. A few seconds went by with the cows milling about, showing no signs of moving out of the way, when two bulls burst out of the brush on the side, horns locked in fierce battle. We backed up a bit. The bulls unlocked horns, ran at each other, and butted heads.
We backed up a bit more. The bulls made lots of angry snorting noises. We backed up even more. While the two bulls were engaged in battle, a third bull analyzed the situation and decided they wouldn’t notice if he mated with the cow I assume they were fighting over. The bull mounted the cow. The cow made angry snorting noises and tried to run away. We backed up more. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction approached the scene. We wondered what the hell he was going to do. The bulls stopped fighting and walked away. The cows parted and the motorcycle drove through. Carpe diem and all that shit, we took seized the opportunity and cruised. Soon, the cows were receding and we were on our way.The day ended uneventfully, with dinner at a cute little roadside restaurant in a nameless tiny town. While we were waiting for our meal (the cooks went to shop for the ingredients at the general store down the road), a traveling livestock salesman drove up with calves and baby goats trussed up in the back of his pickup truck. He tried to sell a calf to the restaurant proprietors. The animals bleated balefully. J. got upset. The restaurant owners refused and the salesman was on his way. The cook came back, we had dinner, and then drove off into the dark, only stopping once for a bathroom break and ice cream cake before arriving in Santo Domingo and ending the best 30th birthday a girl could have.
My 30th Birthday: Things Get Prickly
After a short stroll around Paraíso and the beautiful rocky beach, my husband, J., J.’s boyfriend, and a friend of a friend who lived in town headed for breakfast. We had mangu, a traditional Dominican breakfast made from mashed boiled plantains, fried onions, and fried eggs. It was seriously tasty stuff. We then packed up our rented Honda Civic and set out for Sierra de Barahuocco (not sure if I spelled that right) National Park.
On the way to the Park, we passed a large cattle drive taking place on the highway. We had to wait a few minutes for the road to clear up before we could go on, and then we finally arrived at the turn off point for the park. From there, it was another 35 km to go. The terrain was very interesting, full of red earth and strange formations left by the mining done by my least favorite Republican and anti-choice donor, the Aluminum Company of America (Alcoa). Fuckers. We seriously felt like we might have turned off and wound up in Mars.
Eventually, though, we got to the park entrance. A ranger approached the car, we paid our entry fee of 50 pesos ($1.50 USD) per person, and asked him how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, a scenic look out point at the top of a mountain. The ranger said that he just started working there and had no idea how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, which we found strange since that’s pretty much the only tourist destination in the park and my friend told me that Dominicans don’t really camp, so if anyone came into the park it was to see the view and leave, thus any ranger should know how to get there. Anyway, he went tto get the other ranger, who showed up a few minutes later in his bathrobe, looking pissy at the interruption. He did tell us how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, though.
We set off. Not long after we left the ranger station, the dirt road began developing ruts and other challenges for the Honda Civic. We had to park along the side of the road and get hiking, which was fine by us. Before the hike began, it was time for a bathroom break. Unlike Lago Enriquillo, where we used the nastiest outhouse in history the day before, we just peed by the side of the road. The men had an easy time of it. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, J. is very experienced at peeing in natural settings, and had no problems. As a city slicker with a vagina, I was not so fortunate. I tromped a bit deep into the woods, pulled down my pants and undies, and squatted. I’m an experienced squatter (I never sit on public toilets!), but it somehow did not occur to me that the position I squatted in would lead me to pee directly on my own right ankle. Ooops. Lesson learned, I repositioned, finished, and took my soggy leg back to the others, who laughed at me. I wondered if urine would at least keep the bugs away.
We began our hike. The forest was beautiful and the air was nice and cool. There were tons of butterflies. We hiked more. We were careful of the pits in the uneven road. We hiked more. I wondered if there were bears in the forest. We hiked more. I hoped we somehow didn’t get lost (which really would have been impossible as there was only one road and we were still on it). We hiked more. We all started wondering where the fuck Hoyo de Pelempito was and if we would get there and back before dark. It occurred to us that no one had any idea where we were. Going to Hoyo de Pelempito had been a last minute idea J. had. We decided we’d hike for 10 more minutes and if we didn’t get there, we’d just turn around.
Five minutes later, a rusty pickup truck tore down the road. The driver stopped, and J. asked him and his wife if they knew how far it was to Hoyo de Pelempito. The driver starting to answer in Spanish, looked at the gringos (my husband and me), and then said, “Hop in the back, that’s where we’re headed. Oh, and be careful of the cactus.” Yes, several pieces of cactus lay in the bed of the truck. We piled in, and as the truck bounced up and down the rutted road, throwing us around like rag dolls, I hoped that the cactus did not wind up under someone’s ass. It was delicately balanced between my husband’s legs.
(Is that a cactus in your pants, or are you just happy to see me? Ha ha!) In the meantime, I was having the time of my life.
Long story short, we got to Hoyo de Pelempito, hiked down a short path to the edge, and were rewarded with a stunning view of a 250 meter deep crater with pine trees surrounded by other mountains. Our driver, originally from the DR, and his Philippina wife were actually from Woodside, Queens. They were hilarious New Yorker types. As we gazed in awe at the view, our driver’s wife said in accented English, “It’s a big hole. I can’t believe you dragged me here. You see it, now let’s go.” My husband and I found this hilarious. When it was time to go, we piled back into the back of the pickup truck with our friend the cactus. Our new friends dropped us back off at our car, and we were ready for our next adventure.
What an awesome 30th birthday so far: I got a birthday treat of a roll with a tampon as a substitute for a cake and candle, a shower with ants, a tasty breakfast, a very intimate view of a cattle drive, and a wild ride with friends and a cactus in a pickup truck on a crazy mountain road. Seriously, I was loving it.
On the way to the Park, we passed a large cattle drive taking place on the highway. We had to wait a few minutes for the road to clear up before we could go on, and then we finally arrived at the turn off point for the park. From there, it was another 35 km to go. The terrain was very interesting, full of red earth and strange formations left by the mining done by my least favorite Republican and anti-choice donor, the Aluminum Company of America (Alcoa). Fuckers. We seriously felt like we might have turned off and wound up in Mars.
Eventually, though, we got to the park entrance. A ranger approached the car, we paid our entry fee of 50 pesos ($1.50 USD) per person, and asked him how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, a scenic look out point at the top of a mountain. The ranger said that he just started working there and had no idea how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, which we found strange since that’s pretty much the only tourist destination in the park and my friend told me that Dominicans don’t really camp, so if anyone came into the park it was to see the view and leave, thus any ranger should know how to get there. Anyway, he went tto get the other ranger, who showed up a few minutes later in his bathrobe, looking pissy at the interruption. He did tell us how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, though.
We set off. Not long after we left the ranger station, the dirt road began developing ruts and other challenges for the Honda Civic. We had to park along the side of the road and get hiking, which was fine by us. Before the hike began, it was time for a bathroom break. Unlike Lago Enriquillo, where we used the nastiest outhouse in history the day before, we just peed by the side of the road. The men had an easy time of it. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, J. is very experienced at peeing in natural settings, and had no problems. As a city slicker with a vagina, I was not so fortunate. I tromped a bit deep into the woods, pulled down my pants and undies, and squatted. I’m an experienced squatter (I never sit on public toilets!), but it somehow did not occur to me that the position I squatted in would lead me to pee directly on my own right ankle. Ooops. Lesson learned, I repositioned, finished, and took my soggy leg back to the others, who laughed at me. I wondered if urine would at least keep the bugs away.
We began our hike. The forest was beautiful and the air was nice and cool. There were tons of butterflies. We hiked more. We were careful of the pits in the uneven road. We hiked more. I wondered if there were bears in the forest. We hiked more. I hoped we somehow didn’t get lost (which really would have been impossible as there was only one road and we were still on it). We hiked more. We all started wondering where the fuck Hoyo de Pelempito was and if we would get there and back before dark. It occurred to us that no one had any idea where we were. Going to Hoyo de Pelempito had been a last minute idea J. had. We decided we’d hike for 10 more minutes and if we didn’t get there, we’d just turn around.
Five minutes later, a rusty pickup truck tore down the road. The driver stopped, and J. asked him and his wife if they knew how far it was to Hoyo de Pelempito. The driver starting to answer in Spanish, looked at the gringos (my husband and me), and then said, “Hop in the back, that’s where we’re headed. Oh, and be careful of the cactus.” Yes, several pieces of cactus lay in the bed of the truck. We piled in, and as the truck bounced up and down the rutted road, throwing us around like rag dolls, I hoped that the cactus did not wind up under someone’s ass. It was delicately balanced between my husband’s legs.
(Is that a cactus in your pants, or are you just happy to see me? Ha ha!) In the meantime, I was having the time of my life.Long story short, we got to Hoyo de Pelempito, hiked down a short path to the edge, and were rewarded with a stunning view of a 250 meter deep crater with pine trees surrounded by other mountains. Our driver, originally from the DR, and his Philippina wife were actually from Woodside, Queens. They were hilarious New Yorker types. As we gazed in awe at the view, our driver’s wife said in accented English, “It’s a big hole. I can’t believe you dragged me here. You see it, now let’s go.” My husband and I found this hilarious. When it was time to go, we piled back into the back of the pickup truck with our friend the cactus. Our new friends dropped us back off at our car, and we were ready for our next adventure.
What an awesome 30th birthday so far: I got a birthday treat of a roll with a tampon as a substitute for a cake and candle, a shower with ants, a tasty breakfast, a very intimate view of a cattle drive, and a wild ride with friends and a cactus in a pickup truck on a crazy mountain road. Seriously, I was loving it.
Monday, January 2, 2006
My 30th Birthday: The Day Begins with A Special Treat
There are basically two ways a Chicorker (a Chicagoan-New Yorker) with a decent income can celebrate her 30th birthday. Option 1 is to have some sort of day of luxury, surrounded by friends, food, and drink. Many female New Yorkers take option 1, gather their posses, and check in for a day of pampering and girl talk at a spa. This makes a normal 30 year old feel relaxed, cared for, and glamorous. Birthday girl and posse then head out for a night on the town, hitting trendy restaurants and the coolest bars and clubs. The next day is spent recovering and hopefully remembering a night of crazy fun.
Obviously, I am not an Option 1 kind of gal, which leads me to Option 2. Option 2 also entails crazy fun, but with emphasis on the crazy. In selecting option 2, I decided to use my frequent flyer miles and go visit my oldest friend (since 4th grade – that’s almost 21 years of friendship by now, not counting the year J. decided that she would not speak to me for a variety of reasons) in the Dominican Republic, a developing country in the Caribbean where things are cheap. Since the emphasis in option 2 is on crazy, it does not mean that the birthday girl and her spouse and friends go to an all-inclusive resort, take advantage of the weather, and lie around on a white sand beach. That would be more like option 1, with an emphasis on luxurious fun. Option 2 is to fly into Santo Domingo, have Christmas Eve dinner with J. and her family, wander around the Colonial Zone on Christmas Day sweating through everything I am wearing, and then rent a car on the 26th for a two day expedition into the impoverished but beautiful countryside with J., my incredibly adaptable husband, and J.’s unbelievably patient, non-English speaking boyfriend.
My birthday fell on the second day of our journey, Dec. 27. I woke up in a clean hotel in the tiny picturesque town of Paraíso with no water. While my husband and I waited for the water to go on, J. and her boyfriend burst into my room singing a local happy birthday song (not Feliz Cumpleaños) and bearing the best imitation of cake and a candle they could scrounge up: a roll with a tampon stuck in it.
(Fortunately, they did not light the tampon.) I was delighted. Really, who wouldn’t be? That was creativity at its finest.
Then the water came on, everyone got to take a cold shower in the tub where there was no shower head, just a pipe coming out of the wall, and with lots of ants, who seem to live in the bathtub. I was 30 and the adventure was just beginning.
Obviously, I am not an Option 1 kind of gal, which leads me to Option 2. Option 2 also entails crazy fun, but with emphasis on the crazy. In selecting option 2, I decided to use my frequent flyer miles and go visit my oldest friend (since 4th grade – that’s almost 21 years of friendship by now, not counting the year J. decided that she would not speak to me for a variety of reasons) in the Dominican Republic, a developing country in the Caribbean where things are cheap. Since the emphasis in option 2 is on crazy, it does not mean that the birthday girl and her spouse and friends go to an all-inclusive resort, take advantage of the weather, and lie around on a white sand beach. That would be more like option 1, with an emphasis on luxurious fun. Option 2 is to fly into Santo Domingo, have Christmas Eve dinner with J. and her family, wander around the Colonial Zone on Christmas Day sweating through everything I am wearing, and then rent a car on the 26th for a two day expedition into the impoverished but beautiful countryside with J., my incredibly adaptable husband, and J.’s unbelievably patient, non-English speaking boyfriend.
My birthday fell on the second day of our journey, Dec. 27. I woke up in a clean hotel in the tiny picturesque town of Paraíso with no water. While my husband and I waited for the water to go on, J. and her boyfriend burst into my room singing a local happy birthday song (not Feliz Cumpleaños) and bearing the best imitation of cake and a candle they could scrounge up: a roll with a tampon stuck in it.
(Fortunately, they did not light the tampon.) I was delighted. Really, who wouldn’t be? That was creativity at its finest.Then the water came on, everyone got to take a cold shower in the tub where there was no shower head, just a pipe coming out of the wall, and with lots of ants, who seem to live in the bathtub. I was 30 and the adventure was just beginning.
Sunday, January 1, 2006
It's Getting Hot in Herre
A few weeks ago, I went into work, and discovered that the heat was blasting. Usually in the winter, our office mates counter the blasting heat by blasting the air conditioning. (That’s energy efficiency for you.) That particular day, however, I learned that the air conditioning was broken and so it was sweltering in the cubicles. My co-workers coped by taking off their sweaters and wearing their t-shirts or shells. I was wearing a turtleneck cotton sweater with, alas, nothing under it. While I was warm, it actually wasn’t too intolerable. Usually I’m freezing at work since the air condition is blasting even on days when it is 10 degrees out, so I almost found the change to be pleasant.
I was sitting at my desk working up a mild sweat (both literally and figuratively) when my three co-workers gathered at my cubicle, smirking. “Suzanne,” one of them said, “we know this sounds like sexual harassment, but we swear it is not meant to be. We think you should take your shirt off like the rest of us. You need to fit in.” Seriously, I adore my co-workers. Hands down they are the best thing about my job at this point. So I told them that I’d be glad to, but once I took my shirt off, I feared that they would charge me with sexual harassment. Or their eyes might fall out in horror. Or worse, both. We spent the rest of the day making snide little remarks about topless employees. It was great.
This little incident came to mind today as I was reflecting on the wonderful burlesque show I saw last night, hosted by Scottie the Blue Bunny. Anyway, as is the case with burlesque, all non-Blue Bunny performers wore pasties. I realized that if I had been wearing some pasties under my shirt that day at work, I could have given my co-workers a real eyeful if I had taken up their suggestion. I can only imagine how hilariously wrong it would be to parade around the office in pasties. I’m not sure why this cracks me up so much, but it does.
I was sitting at my desk working up a mild sweat (both literally and figuratively) when my three co-workers gathered at my cubicle, smirking. “Suzanne,” one of them said, “we know this sounds like sexual harassment, but we swear it is not meant to be. We think you should take your shirt off like the rest of us. You need to fit in.” Seriously, I adore my co-workers. Hands down they are the best thing about my job at this point. So I told them that I’d be glad to, but once I took my shirt off, I feared that they would charge me with sexual harassment. Or their eyes might fall out in horror. Or worse, both. We spent the rest of the day making snide little remarks about topless employees. It was great.
This little incident came to mind today as I was reflecting on the wonderful burlesque show I saw last night, hosted by Scottie the Blue Bunny. Anyway, as is the case with burlesque, all non-Blue Bunny performers wore pasties. I realized that if I had been wearing some pasties under my shirt that day at work, I could have given my co-workers a real eyeful if I had taken up their suggestion. I can only imagine how hilariously wrong it would be to parade around the office in pasties. I’m not sure why this cracks me up so much, but it does.
The Year is Already Shitty and It's Only 4 Hours and 15 Minutes Old
I was very pleased by how nicely my mysterious digestive ailment behaved while I was in Republica Dominicana without consistent access to toilets that flush. I cannot fully convey how nasty it would have been if I had to leave one of my “chocolate mousse” (where the bowl is filled with a brown frothy substance that vaguely resembles the delicious dessert known as chocolate mouse but fortunately smells nothing like it so that there is absolutely no temptation to eat it) dumps or “shit log the size of my arm” (I actually broke a toilet in a nice London hotel with this type of crap in 2001) bowel movements in a toilet for several hours until the water came on and I could flush it. I am truly grateful for that, as I am sure that my husband and anyone else I stayed with is as well.
However, it seems that my gut had been saving up to give me a new year’s gift of shit. I think I just crapped out everything that I have eaten in the last week. Plus, earlier tonight I tormented two of my friends who initially sat behind me at the burlesque show with wretched gas. Some annoying other people tried to squeeze next to me on the floor and I hoped that my gas that smelled like a small animal had crawled up my ass, died, and was rotting would drive them away. (It didn’t – they moved because Scottie the Blue Bunny forced them to. He also rearranged the seating, which wound up being great since I no longer gassed directly on my friends’ feet.)
I’m fucking tired and want to go to sleep. But the shit keeps coming. If it keeps up this way, it’s going to be an exceptionally smelly year and I’ll need a lot of toilet paper.
However, it seems that my gut had been saving up to give me a new year’s gift of shit. I think I just crapped out everything that I have eaten in the last week. Plus, earlier tonight I tormented two of my friends who initially sat behind me at the burlesque show with wretched gas. Some annoying other people tried to squeeze next to me on the floor and I hoped that my gas that smelled like a small animal had crawled up my ass, died, and was rotting would drive them away. (It didn’t – they moved because Scottie the Blue Bunny forced them to. He also rearranged the seating, which wound up being great since I no longer gassed directly on my friends’ feet.)
I’m fucking tired and want to go to sleep. But the shit keeps coming. If it keeps up this way, it’s going to be an exceptionally smelly year and I’ll need a lot of toilet paper.
Happy New Year!
I rang in the new year with a few great friends, Scottie the Blue Bunny, and a bunch of talented burlesque entertainers. The place was crowded and we were sitting right up by the stage. I was actually sitting on the floor at the beginning, which was probably a much closer and more unique view than people usually get. One of the performers was wearing a very high cut thong, and as I stared at her just-starting-to-get-stubbly snatch area (not on purpose, but I was at a weird angle looking up from my seat on the floor), I thought how unpleasantly itchy that was going to become later in the day. I am very glad that I do not need to spend the first day of 2006 scratching my itchy crotch as my pubic hair grows back.
Another performer who seemed to like not really wearing anything and flashed her cooch a lot as she twirled a jillion sparkly hula hoops at once (which was seriously fucking awesome – now that is talent, I kid you not) impressed me because she didn’t really seem to shave her snatch. It was a small victory for CUSS, and I cherished it going into the new year.
The best performer, though, did shave her bikini line, but she did not shave her legs. I thought that was cool. In her final number, she seriously rocked a merkin and mustache when she came out as the rocker who sang lead for Quiet Riot’s “Come Feel the Noize.” She was hilarious and had fun and I adored her. Pinky Star, you are my new role model!
A final thought: I loved all these women for coming out, doing their things, and having fun. Not all of them were super slim, either. I thought it was great that they could come out with bellies and thighs and butts and be self-confident and sexy. However, they all looked like shit in thongs and g-strings, confirming my belief that no one can possibly look good with a string in her ass.
Here's to a year that's itch-free in the crotch area and full of full-bottomed cotton underwear!
Another performer who seemed to like not really wearing anything and flashed her cooch a lot as she twirled a jillion sparkly hula hoops at once (which was seriously fucking awesome – now that is talent, I kid you not) impressed me because she didn’t really seem to shave her snatch. It was a small victory for CUSS, and I cherished it going into the new year.
The best performer, though, did shave her bikini line, but she did not shave her legs. I thought that was cool. In her final number, she seriously rocked a merkin and mustache when she came out as the rocker who sang lead for Quiet Riot’s “Come Feel the Noize.” She was hilarious and had fun and I adored her. Pinky Star, you are my new role model!
A final thought: I loved all these women for coming out, doing their things, and having fun. Not all of them were super slim, either. I thought it was great that they could come out with bellies and thighs and butts and be self-confident and sexy. However, they all looked like shit in thongs and g-strings, confirming my belief that no one can possibly look good with a string in her ass.
Here's to a year that's itch-free in the crotch area and full of full-bottomed cotton underwear!
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