TSP Gallery

Crazy Horse cabaret__Paris

Olga Rodionova


Mariqueen Maandig

STOCKROOM








Sugar Kitty corsets

Hookup App

X MARKS THE SPOT
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Vodka Cock

PUTTING "COCK" IN COCKTAIL: THE 14 MOST PERVY VODKA ADS
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Porn's Prettiest

SASHA GREY

GEORGIA JONES

w/Faye Regan

STOYA




20 OF THE PRETTIEST WOMEN IN PORN TODAY
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Need a Trim?

BUSH VS. NO BUSH
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What Turns You On?

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Half Hookers

RACHEL UCHITEL IS NOT A MADAME
[EXCERPTS]
MEN like to hunt, and there is no need to hunt a prostitute. Men like to cheat without strings, and you can’t stop a civilian from falling in love. But Tiger Woods found a way to enjoy the best of both worlds in one type of woman, a Venn diagram of sexual satisfaction. Most of his mistresses lived in a nebulous in-between world. Not prostitutes, no, but just about halfway there. As surely as he has changed the game of golf, so too has Woods exposed the grazing ground of the halfway-hooker, and her natural habitat, the nightclub. [...]

THERE are still rich VIPs in the premium corners of clubs from New York to Miami to Las Vegas, being “introduced” to girls who are not Woods’s girls but who are exactly like most of Woods’s girls. In most cases, there is an exchange, gifts or help for sex—though with celebrities, what the girls receive is often just the privilege of being with a storied name. The Woods scandal has upset the rhythm of this world, upping the stakes and rattling the locals. But you can’t keep wealthy men and pretty girls apart for long. [...]

STEVE Lewis, the former director of Life and current club designer and keeper of the nightlife beat for BlackBook, says this is half-true. They are not exactly pimps and madams, but the VIP hosts know which girls are loose and will place their clients with them. They know which girls will keep quiet. Lewis and others say that VIP hosts will often fly girls they know to events like Sundance for their clients. “Sure, there are girls in Utah,” says Lewis, “but not girls they can trust.”

To be a girl who is trusted, you need a track record of having slept with famous men and not talked about it. [...]

THE floor people, they are just to fill the place up. The celebrities and the athletes and the tycoons are the ones for whom this world is zealously designed. [...]

INDEED, nearly every job at a club is about bringing people in. There are hipster promoters who only bring in hipsters and model promoters who only bring in models, and some promoters daylight as male models. “There are mosquitoes, rats, gnats, leeches, agents, and then you have promoters,” says Steve Lewis. “A promoter is a glorified pimp. But then, everyone’s a pimp.” Some promoters don’t even refer to models as models. Lewis will often get texts that say, “I’ll be rolling deep with about a dozen hookers.” [...]

BOTTLE girls, like VIP hosts, are expected to have client lists. Early in the evening, she will text her clients. I’m working tonight and my favorite D.J. is spinning. Come by! They come because she is pretty and she has flirted with them. Hey, baby. Hey, handsome. You lost weight. Sugar honey sexy baby handsome. They come because she’s someone whose backside they can palm, someone who will kiss them at 3 a.m. between tables. [...]

KIM was making between $1,000 and $3,000 a night in tips. “And that,” she says, “doesn’t include what’s going on behind the scenes.” She smiles, and it is not suggestive but matter-of-fact. “You’re making hooker money, right? So, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...” [...]

“IF you say you’re a bottle waitress, it’s better than saying you’re a stripper. But it’s the same thing as being a stripper,” she says. What she means by stripper is someone who is a touchable commodity. There is never money exchanged, but there are gifts the following week. Pairs of Louboutins, Louis Vuitton bags, trips. It’s not unusual for a bottle waitress to take two days off and fly to Vegas with a client. She won’t get fired for that, so long as when they return, the client will spend large at the club. [...]

“AT one point,” Kim says, “every single girl I knew was sleeping with a celebrity. It’s the access. Some of the girls definitely think, ‘He’s going to fly me to California and make me his wife!’ But then most of them are just like, ‘Guess who I just did in the bathroom?’ ” [...]

FOR Kim, the job eventually lost its glow. One night, she was taken off her shift as punishment for not selling enough bottles. The girls are expected to be sociable on their nights off, so she came to the club anyway as a patron with a big client in tow. When his friends left, the client began to grope her. They were kissing and she hated every second and she was being mashed into the couch and when she looked up at one point she saw her manager, watching them. Smiling like he’d forgiven her, he said, “I’m going to leave you kids alone.”

“I felt pimped,” she says.

Another time, at another club, Kim slapped a whale who reached his hand up her skirt and she got fired. Now she works behind a bar. She makes a lot less money. But nobody is touching her. “There’s a whole bar between me and the men now,” she says, and she draws the width with her hands. [...]

GIRLS like her are either dating older men with money or young and good-looking ones without. There is a stupendous symmetry to this. The rich old men want to be young and good-looking and the young ones want to be rich, but both are sleeping with the same girl. [...]

GARCIA says everyone is aware of how it works. “American girls, I take them out to a nice restaurant,” he says, “to the cool clubs, and they’re satisfied with that. That’s what they get out of it. American girls are looking at the kind of wine you order. But Russian girls, they’re after the serious shit. They want the Mercedes. Out at dinner, they’re plotting ahead. They’re calculating. They’re professional.” [...]

THE difference between hookers and half-hookers is that the former will ask for money straight away, and the latter will ask for gifts. They follow the money as the money follows the seasons along the worldwide circuit of bottle service. St. Barts in December, Miami in March, Las Vegas in May. In New York, half-hookers hang out at steak places like Del Frisco’s. Or the Friday-night parties at Le Cirque.

These kinds of girls, this is how you spot them. Garcia says, “You have to look at the discrepancy between her income and her lifestyle. These girls are going to St. Barts in May, Gstaad in winter. Their rent is three grand a month, and they don’t have a roommate. Dresses cost them $1,000, $2,000.” VIP hosts and bottle girls are half-pimps to these half-hookers, using them to keep their clients satiated. While some bottle girls will sleep with patrons, for the most part their interactions are limited to the confines of the club. Party girls are more like freelancers, and sex is their currency. [...]

“THERE is no nightly prostitution” for the half-hookers, says Garcia. “It’s a weekly thing, or a monthly thing. And when both sides have gotten what they want, they move on.” Unlike with true escorts and some bottle girls, these party girls won’t admit what they’re doing. This is because most of them can’t admit it to themselves. Some girls are looking for husbands. Rich ones, but yes, they are looking to settle down. [...]

[COMMENTS]
HOW these ladies of the night are regarded by their benefactors was most accurately described by Tiger Woods, referring to Joslyn James: "You are my f**king whore". For them to think of themselves as something else however, is not surprising.

What amazes is that both the men and women to these goings on come away, the morning after, as having scored some great victory. Particularly the Wall Street guys brag how they scored with some "gorgeous model" while the women revel at having been the chosen one among all her friends. Neither wants to admit it was nothing more than a transaction. Celebs differ from the Wall Streeters in that they believe they are somehow "owed" the female attention and inevitable sex and that they are simply fulfilling the desires of these half-drunk, half ho's.

Guess its not who you are but who you think you are. Everyone already knows what you are.

-*-

THESE kinds of articles are primarily a diversion from the real issue. All of the men that get involved with them are MARRIED. Most, if not all of the women, are not. The MARRIED men have taken wedding vows and have made a promise of faithfulness to their wives til death do them part. It's supposed to be a mutual trust between a husband and a wife, a trust like no other. All of these MARRIED men have broken their promise and betrayed the trust of their wives.

But with articles like this one, too many of you are easily fooled into thinking it's the fault of "these kinds of women", be they half prostitutes, whole, interns or otherwise. It's just a diversion from the real issue; that these MARRIED men cheated on their wives because they WANTED to, of their own free will and choice. If MARRIED men didn't cheat on their wives, these kinds of women would be out of business.

-*-

CALL it what you will, if it walks, talks and functions like a madame then that is what she is. All the creative titles and slants will not change that fact. VIP Hostess can now be called ... Lifestyle Procurer, Entertainment Engineer. They know the truth and so do we, so let's not kid ourselves. And no amount of creative exchange of money for sexual pleasure - direct or indirect - can fool anyone.

Bad Breakup

SAVAGE LOVE
[03.25.10]
Q: The basics of my life: I'm male, straight, in my mid-20s; I have a twin sister and have been with my girlfriend for three years. I want to break up with my girlfriend for a variety of reasons. I have begun the "it's not working for me anymore" conversation four times. But each time I do, she brings up different sexual fantasies I have confided in her during our relationship. I believe the implication is that if I break up with her, she'll tell people about my fantasies—one in particular.

AND THAT CANNOT HAPPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!!!

The fantasy I am most worried about her revealing is incestuous in nature. When I was about 15, I—on occasion—used mental images of my sister to get off. I never had any romantic or sexual feelings toward her in real life—I was never attracted to her when she was physically present—and once I started sleeping with real girls, my fantasies about my sister ceased. One time, my girlfriend and I got stoned and discussed our most outrageous sexual fantasies; our relationship was different then, more trusting, and I told her about this stuff. I want out of the relationship, but I am terrified of what would happen if she told people, especially my sister. How can I exit this relationship, and how can I contain the damage if she decides to tell people my secret? And is it fucked up that I used to masturbate to thoughts about my twin?

Freaking Fucked Or Fucking Freak?

A: I wish my boyfriend were as easy to manipulate as you are—Jesus, the shit I could get away with.

Anyway, dumbfuck, unless you put your most outrageous sexual fantasies in writing—and you didn't—you're not the one in danger here. Here's what you do: Spend a week in front of a mirror perfecting a look of stunned incredulity, and then go break things off with your girlfriend. Make sure the actual split is big and messy and public. If she attempts to retaliate by telling people about your no-longer- operative sexual fantasies, FFOFF, you slap that look of stunned incredulity on your face and say, "I knew we had a bad breakup, but, my God, what kind of sick piece of shit makes up something like that?"

And yeah, FFOFF, masturbating to thoughts of a sibling is a little fucked-up. But it's not uncommon for teenagers to fantasize about—and, in some disturbing instances, to actualize all over—their siblings. Sex seems scary and new, siblings seem safe and familiar. For most people, early and inappropriate fantasies quickly subside, as they did for you, and most people have the good sense to stuff 'em down the memory hole.

TOP TEN BREAKUPS FROM HELL

New & Improved

SENSIS QUICKSTRIPS - A QUICKER, CLEANER AND MUCH LESS AWKWARD WAY TO GET A CONDOM ON

Muffs Defined

MUFF
Contrary to popular believe, the word muff is not associated with hair at all. Instead, the word "muff" is an inoffensive, slang word for a vagina. Muffs can range from dainty and tight to floppy and roast beef colored. Some muffs smell fishy or sweaty, and others smell like skin or roses. Some muffs are hairy, others are bare, and some have razor burn or ingrown hairs. Females (and transexuals) of all ages have muffs. There are baby muffs and grandma muffs. Most muffs have a week of bleeding, unless the owner is on some sort of contraceptive (see: Depovera, Seasonal). It is also the root word for Muffdiver, Muffed, and Muffdoctor.

POON
1. Poonana is a little girls vagina, 0-13.
2. Poonani A teenagers vagina, 13-20.
3. Poontang a mature womans vagina (quite good), 20-35.
4. Poonono an old vagina often with large muff, 35-110.

POONTANG
The center of the universe. Part of a female's body located between her legs that is reason why all wars are ever fought. If you aren't getting it you want it, and if you are, it's never enough. Often times it used as the noun in sentence because, let's face it, often times us guys don't care what's all around the poontang as long as it is willing to provide us access to this magical land of wonder.
Let's go get us some poontang!

PUSSY
1. The prime motivating factor in any (straight) males life. Like oxygen, it's only important if you're not getting any. Lack thereof causing depression, anxiety, willingness to do any stupid stunt to get some, and a train of thought that focuses on little but the question of why you're the only one on the planet not getting any.

2. The box a dick comes in.

VAGINA
1. The vagina is a buggy, often catastrophically so, feature of the Female Edition of the Human Being version 1.0. After approximately 13 to 16 years of proper operation, the vagina becomes problematic and starts failing periodically (no pun intended) around once a month. This in turn leads to the corruption (often permanent) of the mental faculties of the host. Whenever this happens, the individual in question is commonly referred to as "a bitch."

2. Something I haven't gotten in a while.

3. My god damn favorite part of my body.
Whenever I get turned on a lot, it starts throbbing, possibly getting wet.
What feels best is to move your fingers quickly just inside of it, teasing her, then quickly shove your fingers in and move your fingers in a "petting" motion, making sure not to just sit there stabbing it, that doesn't feel too hot.

CUNT
For some reason this word really offends people, maybe because of the exceptionally crude sound of the word, or maybe because talking about the female genitalia is still considered unnaceptable. Either way, people cannot seem to comprehend that it is just a word, making it a great thing to say around tight ass pussies to piss them off.

[UrbanDictionary.com]

Gilles Marini

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Felix Cane

Felix Cane on Nerves, Inspiration and Competition
"Dance-wise, I am inspired a lot by music. I like watching the way other people interpret music and I find a lot of artistic inspiration from that."

More Than Sex

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PORN AGAIN
[TheStranger.com - Sep.17/09]

MY BOYFRIEND and I have been living together for a year. He knows I am an insecure person when it comes to my body. I'm not overweight, I've been told my whole life how good-looking I am, and my boyfriend tells me he loves my body. We have an active sex life. Here is my problem: I get upset when he looks at porn. I never had a problem with porn until my previous boyfriend (he preferred porn to sex). I wish I could get over this. My boyfriend knows I would love to share pornography together, but he just does it in private.

I suppose I got upset initially because my boyfriend told me on several occasions that he didn't need to look at porn while he was in a relationship, and I believed him. I later saw on our computer that this wasn't true, and he kept denying it until we had an argument. It bothers me that he felt like he had to lie about it.

Any help or ideas would be greatly appreciated to help me get over this.

Feeling Fucking Frustrated

P.S. When I'm alone and I look at the porn my boyfriend watches on the computer, it does turn me on a little and I masturbate thinking about him getting off to it. But I feel bad after I'm done. WTF?


THE USUAL porn de la concorde—the only porn compromise that works—goes like this: He pretends not to look at porn, out of consideration for your feelings, and you pretend to believe him, out of consideration for his. And I would stick that advice on a pike and parade it under your window if it weren't for that amazing little postscript: You're turned on when you check out the porn your boyfriend's been watching, and—this is a very important detail—you masturbate not so much to the porn itself but to the idea that this porn is getting your boyfriend off when you're not around.

WTF? This the fuck: Your erotic imagination has been hard at work, FFF, breaking down your sexual fears and insecurities—about your looks, about porn, about your douchebag ex-boyfriend—and reconstructing them as a fetish. Congratulations, FFF, you've got a kink. It's not an uncommon response: Sometimes our subconscious mind takes the lemons of our sexual insecurities and turns them into delicious bonerade. So what do you do now? You should begin to explore and cultivate—slowly, carefully, thoughtfully—your subconscious mind's efforts to eroticize your boyfriend's porn habits and your own insecurities. Here's how:

He may never want to look at porn with you—he's obviously self-conscious about it, which is why he lied (maybe he had a bad experience with an ex who freaked out about his porn-viewing habits that left him feeling insecure?)—but you've already proven that you two don't have to watch porn together for both of you to get something out of it. He should continue to get off watching porn alone but then intentionally leave the clips for you, perhaps in a dedicated folder. You should look at those clips—alone—and get off watching the porn he watched and tormenting yourself—carefully—with mental images of him getting off to this stuff. Delete the clips you've looked at so that he knows you're getting off, too, and knows to refill your clips folder.

You can turn this problem that you're having with your boyfriend—he's looking at porn, you're masturbating about it—into a game you're playing with your boyfriend. That will give your insecurities an erotic payoff—and that payoff could alleviate or eliminate those bad feelings.

Eat a Fat Rabbit

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The Sweet Spot

Demi Moore


Striptease__1996

Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle__2003


44 years old in 2006

THE SWEET SPOT
by Adam Sachs
[GQ - Aug.09]

Somewhere between puberty and Cialis is that perfect moment in a single man’s life when he can date the broadest age group, when he can sleep with 23-year-olds—and their mothers—without being called a creep. He just has to know the rules

“ARE YOU DYIN' ON ME, old man?” the girl says with a sweet, cruel smile.

I am not dyin’. I am coughing.

Trying to muffle another, I spit out a hacking hee-hawish sound:
KARGHHA-HAAA! The laugh-cough is an unconvincing piece of theater, like someone trying to brightly yodel their way through a bout of diarrhea. “Don’t die, old man,” she purrs soothingly, “not right now.…”

Yes, please, not now. Not while she is, unaccountably, here in my bed, making jokes at my expense. She’s lovely. Naked. Twenty-two. She could read to me from Mein Kampf or throw pebbles at my head and I would still consider this an excellent morning to be alive. It occurs to me that I have lived a full 1.5 decades’ more mornings than she has. When she was born, I already had a driver’s license and beginner’s beard. Now I’m a 38-year-old, newly unmarried, formerly baby-tracked bachelor whose friends have summer homes and pictures of pink-cheeked toddlers posted in their Facebook profiles.

How did our paths cross here? The answer is a hitherto uncharted territory in the life of a man, the Sweet Spot, when suddenly you find yourself free to date anyone from recent college graduates to near re-tirees. It begins sometime after your thirty-fifth birthday, though the precise moment is impossible to identify. Suddenly, the pool of available women you can feasibly sleep with expands to include everyone—and her mother. If you are a female born sometime between the launch of Sputnik 1 and the release of Evil Dead II, we could conceivably be getting a drink later.

The Sweet Spot isn’t about love or even happiness. It’s just an observation of fact: For a presumably brief but glorious spell, the man in his late thirties can date more women of more fascinating types and circumstances than at any other time in his life. The discovery is like waking one day to read in the science section of the Times about the existence of a new planet made of salted caramel with rivers of flowing bourbon. For once, good news about getting older! In fact, it’s a fucking miracle.

Young women write their names on napkins in bars, talk earnestly to you about Proust until 6 a.m., and demonstrate Cirque du Soleil–ish tricks with their legs. (At 22 everyone’s a contortionist.) Older women look at you like you’re a warm appetizing pretzel that they probably shouldn’t indulge in but what the hell. Then there are the women your own age. They’re the most suitable and almost always the most fraught. They kill you with their eyes, tell you flat out they’ve smelled your type before, even when they’re sliding next to you into the homeward-bound taxi.

A while ago, two women visited my apartment on successive nights. They sat in the same chair. They ate the same ragù I’d made and frozen for these impromptu dinners. The redhead stayed over. The blond did not. The redhead was talkative, never slept. The blond was skeptical but amused. The blond had a kid about the same age as the redhead. The fact that these two would find their way into my life at all still seems to me slightly surreal, part of the dizzying luck of the Sweet Spot.

A friend of mine is 42, a long-term bachelor who loves the company of women but who flees at the first hint of domesticity. (He’s been at this longer than I have.) I asked him where he saw the age range of the Sweet Spot. “I’ve been with women in their fifties, and as long as I find them attractive, age absolutely doesn’t matter,” he says. “Bodywise, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I appreciated them younger, but not too young. Below 23 or so seems dangerous. I mean, ‘Dude, I just fucked a teenager!’—that is not a high five I want to be on either side of. And I’ve found that if you’re just looking for a fuck buddy, the older-wiser gals are so much better in bed.”

The paradox of the Sweet Spot is that so much of your success depends on your being manifestly Mr. Wrong. Take the 22-year-old who heard the death rattle in my cough. She’s smart, new to the city, on her way up in the world. I am peculiar and old, seasoned with my own special blend of baggage, bruises, and bloat. Not, obviously, boyfriend material. She doesn’t have to think very hard before she jumps in bed with me, because she doesn’t take me that seriously. There’s no need for the standards she’d apply to more suitable mates: Is this person reliable? (I’m not.) Can I picture a future with this guy? (You can’t.) What will my friends think? (They’ll laugh.)
For the 22-to-28 set, I am the Novelty Fuck. What someone like me brings to the deal is an apartment without roommates, and what passes for experience—the kind of little life things (wine-list familiarity, better shoes, less-awkward oral sex) that accrue to someone during those extra 1.5 decades the way sea barnacles attach themselves to a rusty old pier. Maybe most important, the man in the Sweet Spot comes with the unspoken promise that he will not linger. When she’s ready for less novelty, he’s gone, no hard feelings.

For the older woman, he’s another kind of escape, a harmless indulgence, and wrong in a whole different way. For husband material or even a steady date, she’ll look to someone older and more stable—someone with a track record of an orderly life. There’s a woman who comes to see me now and then. She is divorced and lives in the suburbs with her young son. With girls in their twenties, there are endless nights out and 4 a.m. booty calls. By contrast, the divorcée calls the week before. In her large Goyard overnight bag she brings rib-eye steaks marinating in Ziploc bags, a bottle of red, something expensive to wear to bed. After dinner we sit around and talk about travel and divorce. Never once do we mention seeing each other in circumstances other than these infrequent house calls. “I remember this,” she says, looking around my small apartment. “I remember your life.” For her I am the Vacation Fuck, a reminder of a time without so many adult responsibilities and a little fun with someone who isn’t offering or expecting anything more.

A newish friend of mine—let’s call him the Very Smart Man—I met in Buenos Aires. The VSM had sold some businesses and moved to Argentina to start some new ones and figure out what life is supposed to be about. Along the way, he learned how much more interesting he’d become with age. “When I was 25, I had no clue what I wanted,” he says. “So the girls who knew they wanted a family and kids weren’t interested in me. And the girls who wanted something nontraditional were fucking drummers and getting lower-back tattoos. But at 39, I am fucking fascinating.”

In the interest of research, I called another young lady I’d had some fleeting involvement with last year. Nothing much happened, but I’d always liked her and respected the way that she looked at me like I was a total idiot. She wasn’t shy about addressing our fourteen-year age gap. “First of all, I never thought you were stupid,” she says kindly. “But you were surely full of shit.” She agreed that “with an older guy, you forgo the normal screening you might apply to a prospect for a long relationship. Dating someone older is like dating a flight attendant—not someone you’d commit to, but they’re fun to be around.”
The scary, alluring thing about women my age is that we’re not necessarily wrong for each other. And so the suitability calculus is always applied: Am I a good bet? Am I fixable? The honest answer: Who knows?

What we all realize, though, is that the baby clock is real, and so these relationships tend to get intense fast. The road forks two ways: marriage or tears. If you were committed to living out the Sweet Spot for as long as it lasted, the kindest, most honest thing to do would be to avoid any marriage-minded woman in this middle demographic. But compatibility is hard to ignore. I asked a 37-year-old I dated how it looked from her end. “I think I like people or I don’t,” she said. “The unfair part is I now have to make quicker decisions about whether someone is capable of being serious with me. The stakes have changed even though I don’t feel like I have.”

My own fear is that, spoiled by choice, I’ll just keep chasing the fun until it isn’t fun anymore, until I’ve become so adept at charming my way into and out of emotional entanglements that where I end up is nowhere. The Sweet Spot is sweet precisely because it can’t last forever. There is a line between Happy-Go-Lucky and Oily Perma-Bachelor, our own ticking countdown to cheesiness and desperation. Maybe the line isn’t a particular age but a vestigial hope that there’s someone out there we can truly connect with. “The fear,” says a friend of mine who is eternally unsatisfied but tirelessly optimistic, “is that while we’re busy pursuing this porn life, the real thing is love and making a family, and that’s all passing us by.” Writes the VSM from Buenos Aires: “I do sometimes worry that I’m not going to have a chair when the music stops. But part of me thinks: Keep it up for as long as possible and hope to die young.” I’m pretty sure he’s not joking.

ADAM SACHS wrote about how to survive a long night of drinking in the April issue.