OK, seriously?

March 11th, 2010

Dear Internets,

I just got off the phone with my brother, Stephenie. Who called to tell me that his girlfriend (the amazing and awesome Christina) wanted him to call me to tell me that she loves reading about my period-blood-sex-adventures.

Now available online!

Which is rad, because it means people are actually reading my blog! Although, I’m not sure why she couldn’t call me herself.

I never expected those words to come out of my brother’s mouth. He must be seriously pussy-whipped if he’s making calls to talk about my bloody Vagina on behalf of his girlfriend. That’s like, above and beyond buying super-sized tampons at the store. Right? I think that this is a prime example of how my life is different from regular people’s.

Just thought you’d like to know.  Because it cracked me the fuck up. And I thought it might crack you up too.

Sincerely,

Alisa

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Rule 13

March 10th, 2010

Dear Internets,

Can you honestly imagine me playing hard to get? Because I can't.

When I was 19, The Rules came out. The Rules were written by two skinny Anne-Coulter-esque women. You know, the kind of chicks who think that they’re hotter than shit because they can wear a pencil skirt and have long hair? Anyway, these bitches wrote The Rules, a book which proclaimed that the only way to “capture” Mr. Right is to be unavailable, and make him chase you. On a Rules first date, you’re not allowed to stay for longer than ten minutes. Whether you have something else to do or not, you have to look at your watch and say “Oh! I have to go!” and jump up and run away after ten minutes. After said date and for the rest of the relationship, you’re not allowed to return his first phone call. You have to wait until his third, or fourth. Or something. Apparently, the recipe for success is a combination of being unavailable, and maintaining mystique.

The book that insults us all.

As we all know, I am super-aggressive; sexually and in every other way. And I couldn’t maintain mystique to save my life. So, I fucking hated this bullshit. Probably because they created a program I have no hope of following, and then called any woman who didn’t follow their program lonely and stupid. But that’s not all of it.  It pissed me off that this philosophy is based on the idea that men need to be manipulated into love. Because for all of the slutting around I do, I like men. I respect men. And I’ve spent the better part of the last 17 years trying to work through all of my shit so that I can figure out how to have healthy relationships with them. The idea that I need to manipulate one into loving me means that I’m not lovable all by myself, and I can’t trust a man to make his own decisions about his feelings. All of which sucks.

The Rules Bitches: Arch-nemesis's of everything awesome

About two years after their books hit really big, both of those bitches found themselves divorced. Which gave me some satisfaction. I don’t usually delight in the misfortunes of other people. But I considered these women the Arch-Nemesis’s of everything awesome. And so, their divorces fed my desire to see them sad. Unfortunately, these divorces didn’t stop them from continuing to offer dating advice. They are continuing to wage their war against honest dating, even now. Their website is stocked with pictures of them smiling next to real celebrities. There’s even a quote from Oprah, saying that they are genius’s.

I understand their popularity. I think everyone wants to create some order out of the chaos of our lives. Especially when it comes to dating. Everyone has lines they won’t cross. I have name rules. Like the other night, I met a Ryan. Isn’t it weird how all Ryan’s are hot? And while he was charismatic, I knew he was Hell-bent on his own destruction. As well as the destruction of anyone else who said that they liked him. So, even though he had Dylan-hair, and was trying to throw some (pretty good) game at me, I passed, because it doesn’t matter how good a Ryan is in bed, the mind-fuck you’re getting afterward makes the whole thing feel like a bad sexual decision.

After I’ve met 3 different people with the same name, I can make general observations about the name. My name rules have helped guide me through my life.  I try to believe in exceptions to the rules. They exist. I’ve just never met them. Michael’s always try to fuck with my head. David’s kinda hate themselves. Kaytea’s are always a crazy-ass party, that you will never regret attending. But you should rest-up first. Emily’s are steadfast friends. And Becky’s are bitches. Rebecca’s are usually nice, thoughtful and sensitive. Steve’s are good friends, who will always listen, and seldomly put out.

As much as I depend on my name rules, they’re subjective. They’re based on my experience with people who have those names. The Bexter (note, she goes by Rebecca, not Becky, because she knows Becky’s are bitches too, and has therefore never let anyone call her that)  has had different experiences with different names. So, she is open to dating a David, or a Justin (although, she’s dated a lot of Justin’s she might be done with that particular name). So, basically, while I love my name rules, and they are the guiding light of my life, I can’t pass them along for public consumption, except as a party trick.

Recently, I was updating the list of people I’ve slept with. I’ve got 83 people on the list… And I feel like I’m missing some people. So, if we’ve slept together, could you please email me, so that I can double check and make sure I’ve alredy counted you? Please don’t email if we only made-out. You dont’ count. Wait. Unless we made-out and it was good, and you’d like to make the list. In which case, please email me, and I will consider your request. You can send your sexual requests (and tales of our dalliances together) to snarkycardsatgmaildotcom.

I have noticed lately, that I have a collected a lot of wisdom, from all these different boys, and situations I’ve found myself in. I give great dating advice. Which I can’t figure out how to follow myself (much like the evil bitches I despise). But my observations have helped my friends (and strangers I meet at the bar) navigate through their own dating debacles.

So I’ve decided to put together my own list. The Rules by The Snarky Card Chick! I will feed them to you in the form of cards, until we have enough for a book of our own. And then we can give America a choice, The Rules for girls who like men (by Alisa Starr) or The Rules for girls who like to manipulate men(by some heinous bitches).  Rule #13 is the first rule I ‘ve written so far. I wrote it for my friend, Tina. Who is a cougar. Which is kind of exciting, and it makes me very, very proud.

It’s a good rule, I think. But it’s not going to be part of the top ten. I don’t know how long the list will be yet. I’m just writing down things as they happen to me. Or as they happen to my friends. If you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Love,

Alisa

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Bloody Hands

March 1st, 2010

Dear Internets,

And who wouldn't take me home? I touch myself in public. A lot.

On the third day of my period, every month, I go out and get myself some. I know, my Vagina seems like a constant party, and you assumed I’ve been filling it more regularly than that, but the truth is, the rest of the month I work hard, and I flirt, but I go home by myself. I’m waiting for a relationship, I tell myself. And my friends. And my Snatch.

But the thing is, it’s been so long since I had a relationship, I don’t know how to go about getting into one anymore. For all I know, I’m cock-blocking myself at every turn. It could be years before I find a hot guy who doesn’t have anger issues, knows what kind of emotions he has when he has them, and wants to fuck the shit out of me. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting one. And so, I make my sexual choices a little more selectively than I have in the past. That’s why you haven’t read as many tails of rampant sluttery as you  might expect from an Art Prostitute.

Besides, boys don’t impress me as easily as they used to. But by day 3 of The Bloodbath, I am a cat in heat, and it doesn’t take much to impress me at all. I find boys I’d usually dismiss charming, and delicious. I can’t stop myself. The next morning I wake up triumphant and proud of my ability to score. It takes hours for me to start cursing my insane libido, and my seeming inability to find a nice boy who could take care of this and other sexual needs on a more regular basis.

I never tell boys that they are falling victim to my charms because of biological need. I should, I know, give them some sort of warning label to read. But my Vaginal needs come before anything else at that point.

Regardless, I think we all know that period blood, as well as being a great inspiration for bad sexual decisions, is also a great lubricant. And there is nothing hotter than seeing a guy pull away from you with your dead-baby blood smeared all down his happy trail.

So, I made this card for you to give to your guy. Congratulate him on his fortitude, give him his props for sticking it to ya, even when the sticking got sticky.

And in the meantime, I’ll try to wrap my head around the idea of finding something regular to put into my whoo-haa. So that I don’t have to keep conniving my way into strange beds every month.

Sincerely,

Alisa Starr

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Feminism and other F Words

February 24th, 2010

Recently I was accused of not being a Feminist. And it totally pissed me off. When I first tried to write this post, I made a list of all the things I’ve done, in my life as a feminist. Mostly, what I’ve done is read about it and talk about it. Which is kinda boring. I mean it’s not boring to me, but it would be boring to you if I told you about it. And I realized that I don’t really talk about Feminism anymore. Not the way I used to. I love where I come from, and I consider Gloria Steinem, Andrea Dworkin, Alice Walker, Ani Difranco, Tori Amos, Madonna, Nikki Giovanni, Bust Magazine, Bitch Magazine and all of the other Bad Ass Chicks who’ve fought for our rights over the years my family, my history. But I don’t need to talk about it the way I used to. It’s part of my belief system. I’ve internalized it. It’s part of who I am. And feminism doesn’t negate the other parts of who I am. I love sex. And I know, as a real feminist, who’s been around for a while, there’s no reason why you can’t be a feminist and like a good fucking.

I mean, that’s kind of the point of feminism, right? Because feminism is basically about everyone agreeing that women and men are equal, while still celebrating their differences. And it’s about me, as a woman, believing that other women’s choices are OK.

I’m a feminist, and that means that whether you’re an accountant, a housewife, a daycare worker, a teacher, an executive or an Art Prostitute, I support your right to do the work you’re called to, and I will fight so that while you do that work, you are respected, and safe, and equally paid.

That’s what feminism is about. It’s not about policing the way people use words, or trying to take the fun out of sex. It’s about making sure that all women get to follow their talents.

And my talent is making sexy, irreverent, somewhat disgusting Snarky Cards. So, I hope you love this new one, where I combine I my inner belief system and my love for fucking.

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Feelings and Family

February 22nd, 2010

Dear Internets,

Some of you might have noticed that last night I was out selling Snarky Cards at Zeitgeist in The Mission. I have returned home to San Francisco, to celebrate my ex-fake-husband’s 30th birthday.

I’ve taken the opportunity to get the Hell off my couch, jettisoning myself out of the Art Shack, which is stuffed to the brim with cats and people right now. Steve and Emily have a guest room, with a ginormous, comfy bed. There’s a swimming pool nearby and a bart station. So I can swim in the morning, and go out selling in The City at night. And I can return home, to the comfy bed, and bask in the love of my friends.

Isn't Steve adorable?

Steve and I started fake dating 8 years ago. It took us two years to fake-marry. And then it took that two years to explode in our faces. No-one really gets my fake marriage. Most people assume that I married someone so that they could stay in the country. Steve was born in Rochester, NY. And he and I didn’t actually marry. We just had a purely emotional relationship. Partly because I think he wasn’t attracted to me. And partly because I wasn’t capable of more than a fake relationship. We acted like we were dating. And then, when I moved into The Funhouse, we acted like we were married. And our divorce was painful and long. Yesterday, at his party, all of his friends stood around, and told stories about Steve. He’s kind of a private person, as his sister pointed after he got embarrassed, and stole out of the room in the middle of our hoots and reminisces. I didn’t really get that until all of the people who love him were in the same room with him (not his idea). No wonder our fake-marriage didn’t work. I’m not even a little bit private.

I can’t imagine keeping my life private, and that’s, like, one of his goals. His sister was really happy to meet me. “Well, he didn’t want to introduce me to you when we were fake-married because I say the word cunt, and you’re too delicate.” I informed her, feeling triumphant that we’d finally met, despite Steve’s best efforts. “I wanna hear more about this fake marriage!” She leaned her pregnant belly into the question. “Well, it’s a lot better now that we’re fake-divorced.” I was feeling smug because Steve and I are so close now. But a room full of people objected. “The divorce was horrible!” Jen cut her eyes at me, making sure I remembered. Jon nodded his head, looking frightened. “It was like a real divorce.” Randy explained to his still-confused sister. I looked around the room, at my friend’s pained faces, as they mentally relived my fake-divorce, trying to figure out how to give the whole thing a sensible narrative. And I saw Emily trying to scoot between Steve’s sister and her husband, and I realized what  had happened. And I realized that I could finally say it. “Yeah, and it would have stayed horrible between us, if not for Emily.”

Emily The Bridge

“Really?” Steve’s sister sounded surprised. Maybe in the real world ex-fake-wives don’t usually get along with newer, perfect girlfriends. “Yup. Emily is the bridge to all things awesome. She’s the one who got us all here.” It was true, but I was also happy to tell the story of me and Steve without getting stuck. “To Emily!” I raised my glass and everyone in the room toasted the girl who fixed my best-friendship.

Emily and Steve like to go out in nature together. I think nature is really gross. And deadly. I think that she's always trying to kill us. So we shouldn't be going out into the wilderness to be alone on her turf, where she has the upper hand. They're perfect together, right?

We were just trying to recover from our fake-divorce, when he brought Emily to Portland two years ago, to see me and some of her friends. I spent the whole weekend putting off being alone with them. I brought them to the bar, and then I disappeared to go off selling Snarky Cards. I made plans and then broke them, until finally he called and said “Could we please have breakfast before we leave town? I’d like to spend time with you.” So I couldn’t get out of it without looking like an asshole. I got high before I left the house, to loosen me up for whatever discomfort there was in front of me. I felt awkward as the three of us waited for a table, until Emily turned to me, and said to me “Steve tells me that you’re the reason that he’s good at communicating. And I just want to thank you because communication has been a big part of our relationship.” I froze, like I’d been caught doing something wrong. And then the last remaining bit of me that hadn’t forgiven him dropped, and smashed, and I fell in love with Emily a little bit. “Oh. Uh.” I stammered. “I didn’t realize he still said that to people.” She nodded brightly. I was amazed at how simply she’d put me at ease, and mended my relationship with Steve in one swift move.

Emily’s like that, her clear honesty sees you through uncomfortable moments, and where Steve and I break down, she picks up the slack. And so I have my best friend, Steve, back, and a bonus new best friend.

I realized, once I got here, that I haven’t been sleeping for the last month. Not just because I have been sleeping on the couch, but also because I’ve been worried about the next stage of Snarky Cards. I’ve been trying to figure out what kind of person I want to be in business. I’ve been wondering how to choose business partners. I’ve been trying to figure out what the next stage is. And I’ve got all these instincts, and intuitions, and feelings. And I’ve largely been trying to quash them. Because in business you go by numbers. And intuition is a woman thing. And Vagina’s are a weakness. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard in all of the other business situations I’ve been in. And I’ve had over 30 jobs. I’ve been in a lot of business situations. Before Snarky Cards I had a sales career, an office-bitch career, and a book career. And I always closely watched the executives, the decision-makers. And I tried to figure out what I liked about what they were doing, and what I didn’t and what I’d do differently, if it was my company.

And somewhere along the way I let it sink into my beliefs that having a Vagina, and feelings, and letting those influence my business decisions would mean that I made bad decisions. But looking around the room yesterday, at the faces of our friends, I realized that Steve and I built a life together, and when it fell apart, they still loved us. And they still want to celebrate us. And without all of those feelings, and all of those friends, I wouldn’t have been able to get this far.

My life has been saved over and over again by my feelings and my intuitions. So, it’s OK if my business runs on those same feelings and intuitions. I can be successful on the strength of my friends love.

Emily let me borrow her scanner, so that I could bring you New Snarky Cards. So if you wanna check out my etsy site, just remember that it’s brought to you by my Vagina. And my intuition. And the love of my friends.

Sincerely,

Alisa

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Tonight i’m selling in SF!

February 20th, 2010

Tonight I’m selling Snarky Cards @ zeitgeist in the mission!

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Confessions of a room-mate debacle

February 16th, 2010

Dear Internets,

In a recent post, I led you to believe that I am living happily ever after, with the non-sexual life partner of my dreams.

Some of that is true. But it’s not all roses. There’s some cat-shit in the soil, as they say.

Originally, the plan was, Claire would move in, Patrick would move out. Claire and I would live happily ever-after, and Patrick would have cat visitation privileges. Then,  a month ago, we found a 3 bedroom apartment. So, Claire, and Patrick and I thought we’d split The Art Shack, until March and then rent the other place. But it turns out, our lease is hard to get out of.  Something we didn’t realize, until we were all committed to living together in The Art Shack, which is tiny. I spend lots of late night in the living room, which is also my office, so it made sense that while we are splitting the rent 3 ways, I’d sleep in the living room, Claire would take my room, and Patrick would continue to live in Claire’s room.

We’re two weeks in, and I’m pretty sure the walls are closing in on me. I’m getting claustrophobic all the time, for no reason at all. There’s nowhere to get away from anyone. And I haven’t masturbated in 12 days. Which is turning me into a psychotic hornball. I went out of my way last night, to get felt up by a boy I should, by all rights, be ignoring. I can’t stop thinking about George Clooney (he’s my fall back fantasy, when I don’t have enough energy to fantasize some snappy patter for me and Seth McFarlane, Seth and I like to talk a little before we have broom closet sex, he’s a talker. George usually just grabs me in the elevator. And sometimes I don’t have enough energy to do mine and Seths’ part of the conversation).  I am a complete mess. I need to go out selling this week, for the money, but also, possibly because I need to prowl.

My sense of concentration is gone. I’m trying to paint and type new Snarky Cards for all of us to enjoy. But I find myself staring into space, forgetting what I was about to do, putting off any kind of real work.

Let this be a lesson to all of us. Women of a certain age (above 25) cannot sacrifice their privacy, unless they have at least one (but preferably several) dependable booty calls. And think of yourself as one lucky bastard, Internets, when you crawl under your covers and pleasure yourself in the privacy of your own room. Because right now, that sounds like Heaven to me.

Sincerely,

Alisa

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Serial Killed by a Stranger

February 16th, 2010

They want to find a serial killer near you!

Dear Internets,

Last night I was up until 8am painting Snarky Cards. I love painting for hours and hours. But that meant that I watched 6 hours of Criminal Minds in a row (I only ever paint with television. Life is harder without television). And I realized something. All of the serial killers are within my dating age range. Some of them are my age.

So, in all probability, I’m going to sleep with a serial killer someday. If I haven’t already. I hope I already have. I have a ten year ceiling on my dating range. I’ll break the rule, if you’re a hot 41 year old, but for the most part, I just say no to dudes older than 40. But, when I’m, say 35, I’ll definitely be dating guys up to 45. And if I date a serial killer then,  he’ll be totally past killing prostitutes, and moving into killing regular people.

And I don’t want to get serial killed. But I especially don’t want to get serial killed by someone I’ve slept with. That would be, like, way worse than getting serial killed by a stranger. Because then I would have to blame my death on my Vagina. And my Mom would be right about me.

Love,

Alisa

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My Valentines Day

February 15th, 2010

Dear Internets,

Last night’s Valentines Day was really fun. I made cards, and people laughed, and I got to show off my pretty new red dress (pictures pending). Claire came to hang out with me during and after the show. Claire is one of my best friends. And she moved here last month, to live with me, and our gay cats. Claire and I lived together before, two years ago, for 3 glorious months, before we were torn apart by her acceptance to UC Berkeley.

Now, she’s returned, with a Rhetoric Degree (do not ask me what that is) under her arm, and a deeper appreciation for Portland. It’s nice having her home, finally. I have been calling the extra bedroom in my apartment “Claire’s Room” since she left. Which was awkward for Krista, Libby and Patrick, who liked to think of the room as theirs.

Living with Claire is awesome. She buys cat food, and cleans the kitchen, and likes to eat vegetables. Also, she almost pissed her pants laughing at The Biggest Loser. “What a horrible show!” she choked out. “I mean, making fat people do these humiliating challenges…” I started laughing too, with relief. Finally, someone who sees what I see. She’s reading my books, and we’re having conversations about the characters like they’re real people. She can watch 12 hours of Criminal Minds, and she calls Agent Hotch Greg, from Dharma and Greg. Because he’s still playing that guy, and everyone knows it.

In short, today I got to spend the night hanging out with my Valentine, Claire. My non-sexual life partner, who has recently completed me. I’m so happy, I hope I’m making you vomit.

Sincerely,

Alisa

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Happy VD!

February 14th, 2010

Dear Internets,

It's pretty hot, right? Can you believe Celeste made this? She's a genius!

I had a fantabulous time at Radish Underground, Friday night. We made a lot of custom cards. And I think I outdid myself. Betsy the Great was there, making custom jewelry. And the red dress that Celeste made for me was amazing! You’ll see it tonight, if you come to Voicebox for the Valentines Day party!

Win this delightful painting at Voicebox tonight!

Win this painting at Voicebox tonight!

I’ll be there with Bob, my typewriter. It’s $10 at the door, to get in, a portion of which will be donated to Ethos. Which is a non-profit dedicated to bringing music to poorly funded public schools. Which, is kinda amazing. My public school was pretty well-funded but we had no funding for music. But we were middle-class, and we knew how to sell candy bars, and all that crap. By we, I mean they, of course. I am not musical. I am a groupie. I can write, I can crack wise. I can do all kinds of crap, but when it comes to music, I am useless.

Some of that is probably due to an evil piano teacher I was forced to spend time with as a child (Oh Mrs. Kerr!). And the rest of it I credit to Mr. Hibbert, my 8th grade choir teacher. I’m pretty sure he was in love with my mother. Which wouldn’t have been creepy, but she seemed to relish the crush. I always felt like I was interrupting something whenever I was in the room with the two of them. And they kept coming up for reasons for that to happen. Mr. Hibbert looked like a puppet. And he was an Orange Person. I hated and feared Orange People. I didn’t really get over being racist against them until I was 23 years old. I think that doubled the gross-out factor of his and my mom’s possible emotional affair. Also, in my head, when they did it, he was an actual puppet. It’s gross to think of your mother doing it with anyone, but a puppet puts the whole thing squarely in Stephen King territory.  So after 8th grade choir class, singing was kinda ruined for me.

Which is why you won’t hear me belting out any kind of song tonight. You can belt out as many songs yourself as you’d like -free sing all night! And you’ll get a free Snarky Card with your entrance fee, and you’ll also get entered to win one of my fabulous paintings.

Cards like these could come in handy tonight!

You may not be sure about your night tonight -maybe you’ve been single for a long time (like me!) or maybe you’re trying to deal with a shitty break-up, or maybe you like your boyfriend, but you’re not sure if you’re still attracted to him, maybe your wife has gotten drunk and angrily called your parents for the last time, maybe your husband doesn’t put out enough, maybe your girlfriend obsessively texts you. Whatever the deal is, I can make a Snarky Card, to help you ease the pain of your heart. And hopefully, along the way, you’ll meet other cranky singles, or at least some hotties who wanna cheat. And it’ll all culminate in hot, angry sex.

I mean, seperately couples will take each other home. Not that it’ll end in an orgy. Because, I am not pro-orgy. I mean, I don’t judge other’s orgies, it’s just not the right kind of sex. For me.

I know, it makes me sound like a hard-core prude. But I’m just not into group sex. And (as I recently found out in Seattle) I’m not into hanging out, waiting for someone to finish an orgy in a room next door to me so we can hang out. I’m sorry, I know that this will probably upset you, Internets, because you were totally going to ask me over for a 5some next week. But I always figured, I’m easy. That should be good enough, and the fact that I’ve had sex with 87 people should distract everyone from the fact that I don’t gang-bang. Or orgy. Or even threesome. And while I like having sex in public places, I think that’s as far as my adventuresome sexual spirit goes. It makes me feel a little Vanilla about how I get down. It’s embarassing to be one of the Sex Goddesses of the Western Hemisphere and not orgy. But I am.  Or maybe I’m just more straightforward than that multiple-partner mess. I like the hook-up. The hook-up is easy. The hook-up is my happy place.  And I’m hoping that there might be some in store for each and every one of us who shows up tonight.

Also: I relate to cranky singles better than I relate to happy couples. And if there’s nothing but happy couples at Voicebox tonight, I’m going to feel out of place. So, please angry singles searching for hate-sex, please come down and keep me company and I’ll write you some revenge Snarky Cards, which will soothe your battered egos, and I’ll point out the hottest single person in the room, and you’ll go over and start making out, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I made something happen in your Vagina, or on your penis, without having to touch it myself.  Because making people come from a distance is what I live for!

So see ya tonight at Voicebox, from 7-11pm, 2112 NW Hoyt Portland, OR.

Love,

Alisa

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