Fascinating.

One thing I've been doing lately to unwind at the end of the day is making fascinators, which, if you don't know, are the sort of Victorian-inspired feathered headpieces that look pretty awesome and are getting to be pretty popular.

There are like a zillion people on on Etsy selling fascinators so I'm trying to think of a way to market mine differently. And I think I may have figured it out: since i'm making them out of scraps of old projects and actually using packing material from Real Job shipments, I can claim (truthfully) that they are recycled and earth friendly. Which is cool.

Wanna see?

 

This one I can't actually sell, because it used a Goldfinch feather I found in the woods, and the peskty migratory bird act states that songbird feathers can't be bought or sold, but I can use it for me. 

Black and Gold!

Into the den of Saints and Sinners

Another foot party last night. Blah. The upside is that Real Job and fetish club are in the same neighborhood and the food parties are starting earlier now. Which means I just go straight to fetish work after Real Job work. And because I start earlier, i hit the amount of money i want to make earlier and go home earlier. These things are good.

Things that are not good: I know we've gone over this before, but seriously, the place is a brothel. When I started it used to be guys where there to worship feet. Now there are my few regulars and they are the only guys I session with. Last night there were a TON of guys, but every new guy I talked with chatted me up for a bit and then asked if I did private sessions.

creep: "You know, I only session with the girls I know here, but every so often I like to add another girl to my group. You're really sexy. Do you do private sessions?"

me: "well, it depends on the sort of thing you like to do in sessions. There are some things I'm not interested in."

creep: "my sessions get a little wild and crazy"

me: "oh yeah? like how?"

creep: "you promise not to tell anyone?"

me: "no, of course not. I just want to make sure we're on the same page"

creep: "well, the girls I session with... they let me eat their pussy"

me: ".......oh, wow, Really? Uh yeah, while I'm flattered, I'm just not into that. But thank you for being upfront with me. Some guys would do a session and not bother to ask if I'm ok with that"

creep: "well yeah. I'm a nice guy. And you're really sexy. So you should let me lick your pussy"

me: "Yeah, no. Again, thank you. I'm flattered that you think so highly of me, but honestly, I don't do that. I just don't like the way it feels"

creep: "oh, I understand... can I lick your ass then?"

At this point I excused myself. I wish that I would have been quicker on my feet at the time, though, and asked how much he paid for one of those sessions. Not that any amount of money would have turned me, but I'm curious.

Moments later, I saw him go into a private room with one of the girls. They came out 10 minutes later and he went in with another girl shortly after that. Here is my issue: you bury your tongue into a girl's vagina. Then, less than a half an hour later, you stick your tongue into ANOTHER girl's vagina. Considering the STD/STI rate in the city I live in, I just don't see this as a good idea for anyone involved. Seriously, if you want to let some guy eat you out for money... I mean, it's not like it's hard work. But how do you know he's clean? And when he is going from girl to girl in rapid fire? EW.

And yet, not the weirdest exchange of the night.

There is a man who comes every week. He is older. I sessioned with him once. He has 100% Catholic guilt. He wants you to spit on him, tell him he's worthless, etc. But he also wants you to call him daddy and tell him you're a sinner. At least he did with me.

Thing is, I don't think he remembers that we've sessioned. But he does remember me. And every day he comes up to me and tells me, very sincerely, that I don't look like I belong at the club, that I'm too innocent looking, that I deserve better. I always assumed this was his way of hitting on the girls at the club, until last night.

last night, he approached me, and told me that he had been praying for me and that he had a message for me from god. And that message was for me to quit the parties. "These other girls," he told me, "they deserve this life. They don't have morals. But you are a good girl. And I know the money isn't that good for you. You just do the foot stuff, right?"

"Yes," I told him. "That's all"

"Good. But it still isn't worth it. Don't compromise yourself. It's a slope, and all these girls, they do things for money... I have something for you, and I hope you go to church tomorrow and pray on this, and I hope I don't see you here again"

And he handed me this:

Front

Back

Seriously. He tried to save me at a foot party. Now, I know that that scene is a good place to find fallen women who might need saving, (certainly there were a lot of people trying to save everyone at the porn convention I worked at)  but generally the people doing the saving are not also partaking in the debauchery. Just because he didn't session with me didn't mean this man didn't session. He did. Religious hypocrisy at its finest.

I'm not a religious person. But, what he said did make some sense. Less and less of the guys are there for services I offer. One of the girls I'm friendly with spent a good 15 minutes after a session scrubbing her hands with soap. She couldn't get the smell of, what she called "old man penis mold" off her hand, after she gave him a hand job. I....I can never bring myself to be that girl.

On a completely unrelated note, we did have a homeless girl sneak into the club last night to get off the street. To be fair, I think it dipped below freezing for the first time. She got the most attention I've ever seen a new addition to the club get. I think this was because she was underage. We deduced she was about 8 months old:

Homeless Kitty came into the club

Friendliest kitten ever. She curled up on my lap and feel asleep, even amongst the din of the music and talking and annoying drunk girls. So we fed her meatballs and one of the other girls took her home.

Taxi

So yesterday was halloween. I'm a huge fan of dressing up - it's the one time out of the year where no one thinks I'm crazy when I doll up in full makeup and outfit-that-is-more-costume-than-clothes, but I'm at that shitty age where my cohorts think dressing up is lame and really there is no where to go in costume anyway, because no one has costume balls or if they do, I certainly can't afford to go to them. Last year I dressed as a unicorn in full white body paint and yarn tail and ended up at a house party where A) I looked like a fool with my costume partner who was a Narwhal because really no one else dressed up and B) we couldn't figure out where to go in costume anyway, so we just sat around watching the World Series. Perfect waste of good latex body paint.

I knew this year would be more of the same, so I didn't even bother with a costume. I pulled out an old 80s prom dress and stuck  a flower in my hair to hand out candy. All the little girls who came to the door cooed over the "princess" who gave them candy. Then when the children had gone, I dressed up in drag and went to the local bar to watch Sunday Night Football. That was funny at least, I make an ugly man and ended up looking like the unibomber, but still, it took the bartender who knows me a little while to realize who I was.

But the real story was earlier in the day, when I had a photoshoot. There is a photog who I work with whenever he comes to town (every other month or so) and we generally shoot content for the pay site I'm on. This time he had a fun idea: to shot various states of undress in the back of a taxi cab as it drove around town. I thought it could be cool, but also was a little concerned: what if we offended said taxi driver's morals or sensibilities if his fare started stripping in the back of the cab?

Obviously, we planned on asking permission to shoot photos before we got in the cab anyway, but I tend to be rather blunt and I wasn't sure how to simply say "hey there, can I get naked in your cab? Kthanksbye"

In the end, the outfit I wore solved the issue. Who didn't love Vivian Ward

 

and the runway looks she inspired?

Basically, I walked down a major road in an outfit similar to above (a dress [shirt?] with garters showing and black thigh highs) past a row of cabs. The one that craned his neck to keep looking as I walked past? He was the one we asked.

So there I am, in the back of the cab, pulling up my dress, practically hanging out the cab window trying to get enough room to make good angles and not flash my vagina to ALL of the parkway when I noticed something: it was a Sunday morning on Halloween weekend. There were slutty nurses, slutty cows, slutty Jersey Shore Housemates, slutty fairies, and Lady Gagas walking home confused, hung over, and likely on their way to purchase Plan-B. No one was paying attention to my subtle flash of labia.

The moral here is that the early morning after a city's night of costumed casualties is the PERFECT time to slip past the radar unnoticed...

I can laugh at it now.

Today, boys and girls, we are going to go on a trip down memory lane. Last year, I worked as a booth girl at the New York porn convention.

Here is what you are thinking: A) how did I even stumble INTO that job? B) There is a PORN CONVENTION? C) I didn't realize you did porn!

Well, to work backwards, I don't do porn. At least, not the hardcore penetration on film stuff. Just naked photos which is porn to some, I suppose, but not really. Yeah, there is a convention in NY and Miami and Vegas every year where porn stars converge with a sex toy trade showroom and the (mostly male) public pays insane amounts of money to go inside and see all the decadence. Thanks to a random Craig's List ad,  I worked as a booth girl for a company that was selling their body paint wares, which means I hung around the convention in body paint all weekend. For the most part, it was fun.

Some parts, however, were not.

But let's not get too melancholy, yet. There was a lot to laugh at. After all, it was a porn convention and how can that not be funny in its own right? Like any convention, there was one specific hotel that 95% of the entertainment stayed at. That means that there was one hotel that was 95% porn stars, exotic dancers, sex toy designers, etc. Ok, sounds like fun right? And because the hotel was so booked, we had all the after hour events there, including  the "industry" night dance party (in the hotel lobby, no less). It was filled with hot girls and boys dancing, including yours truly dancing in her body paint.

However, maybe you're seeing where the joke is in this story. It's the other 5% of the guests who were staying in the hotel for the weekend. Because the other 5% were a wedding party. And here is how it went down: the sex industry party is going in full swing in the lobby and a bride walks through the door, in her gown, with her new husband and all her wedding party. At that moment a little person in assless chaps and a leather harness walks past and gives her a heartfelt "congratulations." The groomsmen get shit eating grins on their faces and start hi-fiving one another. The bride promptly breaks into tears and runs away to the elevator.

Look at that chiseled plastic Ken-ass. The scene looked pretty identical to this picture... except you know, he was wearing something similar in leather and was smaller than the bride. Seriously.

Part II to come later this week.

And now for the crafty side...

Today I had a rare day off to myself. I planned on doing a bunch of things, like going to the gym and cooking. But somehow I got super distracted and found myself sitting at my sewing machine and new serger in the exact same place I was when my roommate left for work when he came home 8 hours later.

But on the upside, I made a really awesome shirt:

And I just uploaded it to Etsy, so here's hoping I can sell it and buy some food other than pasta.

But more importantly, here's to a day in PJs on the couch!

Fucking up left and right

So I slept through an audition to be a gogo dancer today. I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, the coordinator didn't email me back to tell me I had an audition till after I went to bed last night and I didn't check my email first thing this morning so I didn't know about it. But still it could have been a good gig. I do love dancing.

Especially because it took all my strength and will power not to punch my manager out at "real job" this week and quit in a blaze of glory. I need to get out of that place... its slowly sucking the soul from my body. When I do the sex work stuff, I know going in what to expect. I might not always know exactly what will happen (I'm looking at you, hair pulling photog) but I know that at the end of the night it will have been crazy and I will shower and feel better and move on. But, with "real job" I want to be using my degree and my brain. When I first started it was awesome, but now my job has slowly morphed into stock girl and instead of using my training, I'm cleaning the glass trinkets with Windex and filling backstock and not having time to do the parts of my job I was hired to do. And of course I get blamed when things die because I'm not doing a good enough job keeping them alive.

Which I can't because I'm too busy filing or filling out paperwork or other stupid things that don't result in death of an organism if they don't get done OMG RIGHT THIS SECOND.

In crafty news, I was surprised by my old boss who saw my plea on facebook for a serger and told me I could have hers on a long term loan. Threading the thing took forever, but now I've gotten the hang out it and I'm able to fine tune a lot of the things I've made in the past. From here on out, I will be using it to finish the seams on the clothes I make and I think (hope) that this little extra level of professionalism will lend itself to a few more bucks per garment on Etsy.

But even that isn't going that great for me right now: I have 7 halloween type costumes listed and not one has sold... seeing as though it's already halfway through the month if they don't go quick, they won't go and then I'll have them cluttering up my life for another year.

New Photographer: An Update

Okay, I have to admit I jumped the gun. For those of you who read this post I regret to inform you that I have to rescind some of the comments. Mainly the good ones. Well, okay, not ALL of the good comments, but you remember the part where I said that this particular photographer wasn't a creeper? I was incorrect.

Yesterday, I went back to the photographers studio to pick up prints from last week's shoot and to shoot again. Why not? We had such a good rapport while shooting and I had a hunch the photos would blow my mind. And that part is true... I've modeled for a number of years now, and some of these shots made me stop and stare. Yet... as I looked, he commented that he generally hateed "fake" emotion and that he was impressed at how "real" and "genuine" the photos turned out (he was referring, of course, to the fact that I wasn't actually masturbating or orgasming in the photos, but looked like i could be). This should have been my first warning.

Ok, so the shoot starts. At first it's some fun dress up: stockings, vintage garter, black wig. And then... I'm not even sure what happened, the shoot just wasn't going as well as it had the week before. So he pulls out a box of fetish gear and tells me to pick something. Hmmm. I've never shot fetish before. It's just not me (I'm so girl next door it's disgusting). But there was a chain on a collar that I thought could be fun in a Princess Leia in the golden bikini sort of way, so I thought "sure, what the hell" and went for it.

No. No no no, bad, wrong.

 See that? That is what wanting to be Princess Leia gets you. First of all, let's talk about black lace thongs for a moment, because that is what I was wearing. See where one end of that chain is? His hand. The other end? Threaded THROUGH MY THONG. He kept pulling the chain and it kept pulling the thong farther and farther up my ass. I mean, seriously, there is a limit at how far those things can go. Once it gets there it fucking HURTS, especially when you keep pulling at it.

And then the hair? Excuse me? First of all, I realize this is a photo of a doll and you're going to think that her body contortion is because she is made of plastic. Not true, friends. Well, I mean, she is plastic, but the point is that if you have me chained up and then pull me up by my hair this is also what I looked like. Yeah, it does look painful and unnatural. And it was.

And who just fucking grabs someone's hair? His excuse was that he wanted my expressions to be more "real." No. No, that is not ok. Why? Because this entire business is based in illusion, fantasy, figments of imagination. I don't like it when fat men ask me to jump on their stomach, but I pretend that I do. I don't want to watch real people porn, because their orgasms are boring. I want the fancy fake orgasms from high production value porn. So if you need to fucking PULL ME BY MY HAIR to get a "real" look of pain on my face, well great, you'll get a look of pain on my face because that FUCKING HURT.

The question is, who the hell wants to look at that?

I mean, maybe people do. But I'm thinking fetish work just isn't for me.

Also, walking into "Real Job" this morning was a little awkward when I have chain burn around my neck. I felt like I was trying to hide a hickey from the rest of my classmates back in highschool so I didn't get called a slut.

(Don't worry, they called me a slut anyway)

Foot Parties

So the most bizarre of my jobs in the "exploiting my body for money" category has to be my work as a foot fetish club girl. What? Yeah, it's pretty much what you think. Then again, you might not even know what to think. I certainly didn't until I was poor enough to troll Craig's list looking for a job.

For what it's worth, I don't really recommend trying to find work on Craig's list. At least, nothing that could be considered "Adult" in nature. It's not that the opportunities aren't there - they certainly are, even with the "Adult" section removed - it's that every time I inquired about a post, I got a bad vibe when I read the responses. The vast majority wanted me to send photos of my tits to be "evaluated." Uh-huh, sure. But those weren't creepy so much as an annoying waste of my time, since the ad posted seemed legitimize. Some, however, wrote back long detailed dissertations about how I'd been a "bad girl" and gave a blow by blow of my "punishment." WTF? Some of these were ads for house cleaners and dog walkers. They're like the internet equivalent of flashers on the street in long trench coats... they seem benign enough and then BAM! penis in your face and there is no other place to look.

The Foot Fetish ad was sort of a bait and switch as well. The ad posted simply said it was looking for models and to respond for more information. I did, and, to the credit of the organization, what came back was an honest and succinct description of what the gig was: you go to weekly theme parties and men with foot fetishes come and pay you to touch your feet. Well, that seemed easy enough. And in all honesty, the reason I gave it a try was because the email was written in full sentences with good grammar, unlike any other internet job response I had received.

At first it was exactly as described. I went to theme parties, dressed like a Sorority Girl, or a Cheerleader, or a Secretary. Girls would sit around the club and guys would filter in, scan the room for the one that struck their fancy, and then lead them to various couches and chairs (or the private VIP rooms) to 'session' (ie, rub the girl's feet, suck the girl's toes, or have the girl rub her feet on his body)

Need a visual? Let me demonstrate for you:

 

Pretty innocent right? Yeah, we'd usually have short skirts on, so when you lift your feet you can sneak a peek up the legs, but nothing really that sexual. Sometimes the guys liked to lick:

Ok, I guess it's sexual for them, but I don't really get anything out of it, so its really had to think of it as something somewhat taboo... And yeah, sometimes I'd get a little drunk and take it a little further, showing a little bit more leg or doing sessions in a bra instead of a shirt, but it was all in fun.

I will admit though, that in the back of my head, I kept thinking how much it was set up like a brothel: guys would pay to come in the door, then they would pick out the girl they wanted, then they would pay her for her time. Yeah, ok, that sounds a bit like prostitution, but ok, I'll be a foot hooker. I mean, it's just feet right? It's not like it's taking it too far.

And then one day, I was looking for an open room to session in at the end of the night and I walked into this: 

Oh god. Are those dolls having sex over the side of a couch? Yes. Yes they are. And that very couch was one I had laid on earlier in the night while getting me feet licked and oh god.... 

I turned and ran from the room. I mean, it's not good manners to stand there and stare when people are fucking like rabbits on a velvet couch that is used by everyone in the organization. And as I fled from the room I had a sickening realization: this isn't a silly facsimile of a brothel, this IS a brothel. I work for a brothel. 

You guys, I'm pretty naive. I'll admit it: I didn't put that together till that moment. And once I did, all the money that came from that innocence was gone. Suddenly, I would be taken to a session room and told "yeah, so, I don't really like feet... why don't you just let me touch your vagina" or "Oh no keep your shoes on. I think feet are gross. I'm going to pull my dick out and you're going to dance for me"

Suddenly, I found myself here:

And in case you missed the details:

Yes, that is his hand in his pants. 

Now, I want to make it clear that I have never EVER touched a penis at one of these clubs. I get the "but all the other girls go down on me" line all the time and I'm just not that desperate. Yet. Once, a guy tried to entice me by saying "I know it costs extra... I have another $20 here for you if you just put it in your mouth" and I literally laughed in his face. He got all pissy, and complained to management that I was "rude" and "uncooperative." Whatever. Although I am concerned that some of these other girls are giving blowjobs for a mere 20 bucks. 

Last night was my first night back at one of these parties in almost 8 weeks. The last time I was there, I was dancing for some guy and he took it upon himself to stick his hand in my vagina. No bueno. The next day, he had followed me on twitter and facebook and found me on the modeling site online. Creepy. Ass. Stalker.  I got really upset and swore I was done with it forever. But I found myself in some dire straights the past few weeks and finally broke down went.

Of course, because I was desperate, I had the worst night EVER. Too many girls to choose from + not enough guys to choose = no money for your friendly neighborhood Craftitute. The only interesting thing to report was that in my absence a man has started coming who simply lays on one of the beds and girls stand on his chest and bounce up and down. Sorta like:

I don't really get it, but I don't really get most of the stuff there. 

The crowd was simply annoying last night. They wanted to talk and mingle and the guys don't seem to understand that this isn't a real party, these girls don't really care about you and your day. I mean, it's fine to chat for a bit, but we are there to get paid for our time. So I gave up and went to drink with friends in the city.

NOTE: You might notice in the photos I have reenacted for you that the girl is always checking her cell phone. Although in real life, the girls try to be more subtle about it, this is generally how things go. Why? Well, the guys buy a session that lasts 10 minutes. It is up to the girl to keep tabs on the time. If you go over time and don't get a verbal OK to charge for another session, you're out that cash. So everyone is pretty good about checking their phones at various points of the ten minutes to know how much cash they are pulling in 

Dress up

So I'm killing time before I head over to foot fetish club for the night. Don't worry, dear readers, you'll get a full update but as I'm there working the podiatric crowd, I'll leave you with this thought:





It is creepy how much more money I make when I make myself look 17.

New Photographer

I shot today with a photographer I've never met/spoken to/worked with before. These sorts of shoots always go one of two ways: either we hit it off immediately and produce an outstanding body of work from the first click of the shutter or it's awkward and I'd rather have dental surgery than have this man take my picture.

Luckily for me, today was a case of the first instance, although we did spend the first hour and a half of the shoot to simply talk and get to know one another, which helps immensely once you are laying there naked, unsure of what to do with your body, while man  with a camera straddles you trying to get "the shot".  And by "helps" I suppose I mean "assuages the fear that I'm actually a naive ingenue who has no idea this cad has lured me to his private studio in the big city to have his way with me."

What is honestly the most interesting part of modeling is how blithely I will walk into potentially perilous situations with no frame of reference other than the caliber of photographs the photographer creates. As if someone gifted with a camera lens couldn't possibly be somewhat unstable or downright crazy. Yet, when I take jobs with photographers who don't really impress me, I'm always contacting their previous models, asking about how the shoot went, if the girls were uncomfortable at any point, etc.

Funny how aesthetics provides a completely unrelated sense of security for some reason.

But anyway, new photographer. He gets a big A+ in my book (so far, I haven't seen the final product yet, but I'm confident it won't bring his grade down). Why? Well, he utilized music to set the mood of the shoot (it is SO much easier to shoot a certain mood or theme when the music brings you there). But really it's because he didn't try to hit on me. not once. In fact, as he was lacing up my corset, eye level with my ass, he told me about his upcoming wedding.  There was just something so refreshing about that. And it made me a lot freer to be more sexy and erotic during the shoot without worrying about how he might take it the wrong way and somehow assume that it is all because I want him desperately and not at all about getting the shot.

Modeling. It's like acting. And I can fake an orgasm on camera just as convincingly as I can in bed. Neither one has ANYTHING to do with the boy.

A package delivered

I was sitting at work today playing around on my laptop when the mail lady came. She handed me the stack of mail and was on her way. My boss was up in her office and it was a good thing: the top letter was one addressed to me. Well, that's not completely true, it was addressed to the fake name by that I go by which would have been confusing had someone other than me been there.

It's not the first time either. Last week he sent a package to work addressed to fake me, but I knew it was coming, I kept an eye out for it, so I didn't have to explain to all my co-workers "oh this? this is from a man across the country who likes to hand write me letters about how amazing my areolas are and likes to send me copious amounts of lingerie," because to be honest, I wasn't sure that would go over so well. Especially when I added the bit about how "I didn't want to give him my HOME address, what if he was a psychopath? So much better for creeper to know THIS address" although to think of it now, if he wanted to kill me having my work address isn't so much different from my home. I mean, I go there 5 days a week. Yeah, actually. Damn.

But still. Do you know how long its been since I've had a new bra? Those fuckers are expensive. So yeah, I leapt at the chance for some strange man to buy a new home for my girls.

Of course it's never easy trying to juggle two lives. The day the package was supposed to arrive, I hovered, hoping to be the first to intercept our FedEx guy. He never showed. Then it was my day off. Crap. I confided in another co-worker, "oh by the way, this name you don't recognize is me. Don't ask. And certainly don't Google it." Of course it didn't come that next day either.

And what a package it was when it finally did show. I was expecting a pliable envelope with a bra inside. Instead I was presented with a giant box filled with bras and panties and thongs and lotions and my GOD were some of them weird. The freaky thing was that they were all Victoria's Secret brand. Who knew they sold things like hot pink fishnet with purple lace trim thongs?

I didn't take a picture of the most outrageous (because they don't actually look good on) but this one I thought was interesting:

I mean, its certainly wearable. And who am I to complain, right? It's free and it's not Granny Panties from Walmart which is what I can afford at the moment. So I'll just say that there are a lot of things going on there. Like stripes AND bows AND lace AND pink AND purple AND white AND frankly, it looks like I'm covering my vagina with the circus.

But I'm being a cynical bitch. Some of it was quite lovely. The bras fit amazingly: I have cleavage up to my nose in the things. And some of the panty styles were A-ok in my book:

Whatever, I like the little ass cut out.

Back to the letter today, now that you have the context. More waxing poetical about my tits. Telling me how he wants to use the lotion he provided in the box (VS: Flirty Peony and Waterlilly which totally smells like my Grandma) to rub me down and give me a back massage. How I'll "have to come out west and visit sometime."

*sigh*

Don't ruin a good thing, honey. This relationship is perfect the way it is. You send me gifts and I exchange fairly shallow pleasantries with you. The end.

(Note: for those of you wondering why I have photos of myself to share, its a fairly standard practice that if you buy an internet model a present she will repay your kindness by sending back photos for your eyes only of the gift in use. [I will pose for some too hot to handle photographs of myself cooking dinner on the stove for anyone who wants to pay my gas bill this month] I happened to be shooting with a photographer friend this past weekend and I brought some of the box goodies along to snap some shots as a thank you.)

The story so far...

The number one point of this blog is that it's honest. My life is absolutely absurd right now and I'm reminded of this fact daily. I laugh about it daily. Some days I lament about it, as well, but I always laugh.

This is what you need to know:

I don't have daddy issues. I wasn't abused as a child. I'm not on drugs nor have I ever been (in fact I'm the lame-o friend at parties that would rather play board games while everyone else is going to the bathroom to bump a line or two). I don't have any other mouth to feed but my own. I'm actually pretty smart; I went to a good school, got my degree, have a ton of work experience and actually have a job in my field right now. As far as I can tell, the only thing I did wrong was graduate in the middle of a recession and pick a field I was passionate about rather than one that paid me to live. So, all of you "follow your dreams" middle school assembly speakers? Go fuck yourselves. I followed my dreams and I'm desperate to make my rent, pay my student loans, and feed myself every month.

Which brings us to this blog. I do what I can to make ends meet, utilizing all the skills I've learned over the years. I have a few shops on Etsy where I sell things. I'm a self-taught seamstress (well, sort of... my mother tried to teach me in highschool when I still lived at home but we were in that 'alpha female' pissing match stage so it didn't really go so well) and I make a lot of upcycled pieces from thrift store finds. I make some more couture pieces and costumes for photoshoots and performances that I only need for one night and then sell. But thats not all! I'm also really into "green" crafts and do a lot of nature based crafts, like yarn dying and pressed flower crafts and botanicals.

I'm also fairly attractive. This presents it's own opportunities for making money. I started modeling in college and had a very strict policy of what lines I would cross and what lines I wouldn't. Suffice it to say that once the college loan payments kicked in those lines were distant memories. I'm now a pretty popular model on an internet pay site that lets you access photosets of girls (generally naked girls). I've worked parties wearing nothing but bodypaint. When I'm exceptionally desperate, I work at a local foot fetish club and let men play with my feet for 20 bucks a pop.

If you think about, it's all really quite hilarious. So join me on this strange journey as I attempt to make ends meet and laugh along at the craziness of it all.

(Note: you'll notice I have not linked to any of my online ventures. This is intentional. This blog is not about asking you to support me. I don't even want you to know who I am, because then I can't talk about how creepy the situations in my life really are, for fear of offending them and losing that income source. Besides, bad behavior is more fun when it is anonymous)

xoxo,

Craftitute

What's in a name?

 me: The Crafty Hooker is totally already a crochet blog

 

Big Red:  taken?

               HAHAHA

               damnit

               it was such a good pun too

               hmmm

               the crafty concubine?

               crafty courtesan?

 

me:  hmmm

       idk

 

Big Red:  painting with prostitutes

               sewing for sluts!

  

me:  HAHAAHAHAHAHA

 

Big Red:  im full of alliteration

 

 me:  i just laughed so hard i farted

        no joke

 

Big Red: LOL

              hahahaha im dying

 

 me:  hahahaha

        this conversation? totally the first post in the blog

 

Big Red:  it would be an excellent start

 

me:  ok so acraftyhooker is free

 

Big Red: in the future I could write the foreward to your book and include it

              ah, perfect

 

 me:  you think?

        or should we look for something that i can be a "the"

 

Big Red:  what about no article at all?

  

me:  also taken

 

Big Red:  hm

 

me:  there is also hookercraft

        like hovercraft

 

Big Red:  that's taken?

 

me:  no its not

        i'm saying its an option

 

Big Red:  i like that one

 

 me:  eh, i guess A Crafty Hooker is good

 

Big Red: sluts&crafts

  

me:  oooohhh

        thats good too

 

Big Red:  that would lend to a good logo in the future

  

me:  yeah, i think that might be the winner

 

Big Red: YESSSS

              i get 10% of your future profits!

The whole conversation went downhill from there. But the point, dear reader, is that this blog is born. And you get to follow along the whole strange journey. At least until I get a job and don't have to do this nonsense anymore.