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FOOD REVIEW: ROSE. RABBIT. LIE.

Jan 29, 2014 3:41pm

You have probably seen the billboards, the blogger posts, the banner ads, the news spots, and maybe even the TV commercials (apparently people still watch TV?). Even a faux demonstration of grammarians protesting the gross...

PIZZA MAKING ART

Jan 08, 2014 2:19pm

Some girls move to Vegas and dream of headlining a show. Some dream of marrying a millionaire. Some dream of opening their own restaurant. Well, ever since I moved here, I’ve had a very simple dream: Get my picture on one of those little porno cards they hand out on the Strip!

Say what you will about the proliferation of those cards — the mess they make, the shady employment practices, the seedy atmosphere they lend to the Strip — they are an integral part of the Sin City Experience, and have become an established part of Vegas folklore. Hell, many hotel gift shops even sell the “GIRLS DIRECT TO YOUR ROOM” T-shirts worn by the guys who hand them out!

My opinion is that these awesome little artifacts perfectly represent Vegas and everything it stands for: big-titted blondes … and deception. Nothing here is what it seems — not even the girls on these cards. Only a total rube would actually believe that the girl on the card is the one who’s going to show up at his hotel; they use models for the photos on the cards, not actual escorts.

Well, imagine my surprise and delight when I got an e-mail one day from a photographer who wanted to book me for a “controversial” shoot; he said he understood if I declined, but he needed girls to pose for photos for an escort agency. Finally! I couldn’t reply fast enough.

Once I was confirmed, I packed up the requested “upscale sexy” wardrobe pieces and followed the directions they’d given me over to a patchwork neighborhood on the east side, near Boulder Station. In the midst of a run-down, blue-collar neighborhood nestled a small subdivision of custom McMansions, one of which apparently belonged to the owner of this escort agency (hereafter referred to, ironically, of course, as “pimp”). His place was amazing!

The pimp wasn’t home during the photo shoot, but you could tell what kind of guy he was by the décor in his home and the little things he’d left lying around: a rack of immaculate, Size 15 Nike Airs by the door; gaudy, ostentatious artwork and furnishings at every turn; and a first-rate gaming setup, including leather theater-style seating and every video game system known to man.

He was also, apparently, quite the animal lover: In addition to there being a pack of wolves penned in the backyard, there was also a monkey in a cage in the corner next to the fireplace. And as I sat in the makeup chair for a few last-minute touch-ups, I noticed a ginormous doggie door in the opposite wall.

“Oh, that’s for the ocelot,” the makeup artist told me.

“Awww, cool! Where is it?”

“It had free reign of the house, but it’s sleeping in the bedroom now. Best leave it alone; it isn’t friendly.”

The ocelot was the least of my concerns, however, as once we started shooting the first set — on a sort of classy leather settee next to the grand piano — the little monkey began to screech mercilessly. If you’ve ever heard the screeching of a monkey echoing off the vaulted ceiling of a McMansion, you know what I mean. Excruciating. Worse, my posing apparently got the poor little thing all riled up: Its screeching intensified to a howl, and it clung fiercely to the bars of its cage, its little pink monkey boner poking out!

We eventually moved to another part of the house, and the monkey calmed down. The rest of the shoot proceeded without incident, and at the end of it all the producer had me come over to an office area to get my cash and sign a release.

“Now, I just wanna reiterate to you that you don’t have to worry; these photos aren’t going to end up on any billboards or in print anywhere,” he reassured me. “They’re just for our website.”

“Aw, what?! You mean I don’t get to be on those cards?”

My crestfallen expression made him burst out laughing. “You are the only model I ever met who wanted to be on one of those cards! Most girls are terrified someone would see it, and think they’re an escort.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it would be funny.” Think about it: You’re walking down the Strip one evening with your grandma, and there you are on the ground, with stars on your tits. What could be funnier?

Okay, maybe I have a warped sense of humor.

Since I wasn’t able to get my photo on one of the real cards, I designed my business card to look like one. On one side, there’s my name, title and contact info. And on the other, I put a sexy photo of myself with stars over my nipples, plus the usual text. “DIRECT TO YOUR ROOM IN 20 MIN OR LESS. $150 SPECIAL. ACTUAL PHOTO.”

But in case any bozos get the wrong idea, I also added, in fine print: “TOTALLY NUDE … NO SERVICE.”

SARAH JANE WOODALL will give you all you can handle on her blog, Wonderhussy.com.

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