Category Archives: women

There But For The Grace of Utter Failure, Go I

I’ll be candid. I have a Billie Eillish problem.

I don’t have anything against her. She is supremely talented. Inarguably cool. Undeniably successful. And basically, doing everything that I wanted to do, since like, forever.

I mean, okay. I get it. I have a lovely singing voice. I have perfect pitch. I am very musically inclined. I composed, performed and produced two CDs of original music. So, of course I should be a fringe performer in the adult industry making what amounts to an average of $6 an hour. Obviously, all the criteria is there.

In fact, few people truly appreciate the large number of unused skills one should have to be a marginally-subsisting fetish model. Coding, for instance. If you have an aptitude for HTML5, CSS, and Javascript like I do, and you are also learning front end libraries, then of course the adult industry is where you really need to not utilize these skills.

Get a A in that Marketing Course you took at the for-profit college that ripped you off and derailed your future? Be sure not to use that.

Also, a solid grasp of your native language really goes to waste here, so you can use the spare time you have from not being able to afford to go anywhere to forget words with more than three syllables. If you find, however, that doesn’t really take long to do, then by all means, dispense with those three-syllable words themselves, as well. You will not miss them. Okay, well, there is ONE that is useful. Okay, TWO. But the rest?

You could be busy hitting the bong and killing the brain cells that store that information in the time it takes to even CONSIDER that question. Get to it!

(And find my fucking lighter, please.)

Additionally, a great sense of humor that you can let languish and die is always a bonus in this position. If fueling suicidal ideation is in YOUR five-year plan, you simply cannot do without the slow downward spiral being dead inside provides, as it will eventually diminish your ability to laugh at life’s follies. You will find this monotonous lack of cheer and the lack of energy that comes with it NOT AT ALL INFECTIOUS. And that’s what it’s all about, amirite, friends?

No, but seriously. Billie Eillish may be famous and rich and internationally beloved and very attractive and successful and happy and able to travel and get her hair done in a salon on a regular basis, but MY job lets you get high and masturbate all day, and in the final analysis, isn’t that what “giving back” REALLY means?

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Look But Don’t Look

It is an interesting and not altogether comfortable perspective to make one’s living from one’s looks when every single bit of one’s true and actual essence is located within. And to continually call oneself “one”, also, is a bit fucking weird. So yeah. I am in the position of putting my face out there, when personally my opinion on my face is that it is deformed.

Hi, I’m Rocky Dennis, and I’m a fetish model. Got a light?

I have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I have been told I cannot see myself clearly or with any degree of accuracy. That it is impossible to judge my own attractiveness because I see myself as hideous. Supposedly I magnify my flaws, give them more importance than they deserve or is necessary.

But as I told my roommate yesterday, “Hey, it’s not Dysmorphic if it’s TRUE.”

The way I see things is this: I know the truth about myself. Sure, the girl in the pictures looks OKAY – but that’s HER. And the work of the camera and the lighting. Important to mention. But that’s not ME.

Picture Girl is idealized, captured in that one moment in time, the one split second that passed enough muster to be posted for all to see. Real Me is not so fortunate. Real Me is subject to the ravages of time and the ignominy of not meeting that perfect 1.14 symmetrical ratio that plastic surgeons use. Real Me is asymmetrical, a bit like a female Harvey Dent. I wear two faces at once. My eyebrow is perpetually arched, as if I am always in a state of mocking disbelief. And… I’m not actually going to list ALL my flaws. I assure you, however, that this short list is by no means complete.

(And in a strange twist, it seems that the moment I begin to speak of Picture Girl in human terms that relate in any way to myself, I immediately feel the urge to start TEARING HER DOWN and I want to make excuses for my grand compliment of her, you know, the one where I said she was “OKAY”. Man. My brain is really a piece of work.)

So this is my dynamic. This is what I’m operating under. This constant feeling of not being good enough to do a job that frankly 1) is not even a real job and 2) requires a neverending struggle just to make ends meet – well, it’s not an easy thing to do or to live with. And this feeling of not being good enough is compounded exponentially when I look at my sales figures – after all, if I’m so great, why am I poor? Why am I always broke? Why are people passing my clips by? Surely it must be because I am not pretty enough.

But that argument, as attractive as it is to my sense of self-hatred, does not hold water. I hold up as evidence the numerous clips and images I have seen online of women who are not what you would call Classic Beauties, clips and images that receive untold accolades from online admirers who compliment their sexiness and aesthetic value regardless of whether they meet with Current Unrealistic Beauty Standards.

It’s an old story, but let’s tell it again: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s a cliche’ because it’s true.

I know this. I believe in this. And yet, my brain will not accept it. It will not accept any concept of reality where I could possibly be considered beautiful. “I know what I see,” says my brain, stubborn like someone who proclaims, “I’m not an art critic, but I know what I like!” My brain sees ME and my brain does not like that one fresh bit.

Ultimately all of this goes nowhere. Whether or not I think I’m cute, time marches on (God, does it ever) and I STILL have to do this, I still need to make a living whether I have this argument with my brain or not. Regardless of who wins in the Battle Of Is She Or Isn’t She?, the light bill still has to be paid. And I still have to shoot clips to struggle by. This dilemma is never more vexing than during PMS time (technically PMDD but who’s keeping track?) when patience is thin and I’m retaining water for six people.

In my heart of hearts I know that this is the wrong conversation to be having with myself. That beauty fades and appearances are fleeting, anyway, and the transitory nature of such things means you cannot rely on them, that realistically speaking there are moments where I look better than others and moments where I look worse, just like everybody else. That the way I look is not really THAT important.

Except that it IS. Because I’m in a visual field. (“In a visual field” – what a fan-fucking-tastic euphemism for what it is I do). The statements in the previous paragraph are nice, to be sure, but they apply more to people who are not putting themselves out there as visual folly.

What kind of person would I be if I were not forced to constantly confront my appearance? What kind of person would I be if I were free to pursue some other mode of survival? Is my self-hatred impacting my income? If I wanted to have hope for the future, exactly where might I find that?

It’s a depressing way to end this entry, but that is where this talk with myself always ends up: difficult questions, with no apparent answers.


Busty Discourse

I suffer from chronic burning back pain. Several years ago, a doctor told me this was because of my double D’s, and that I might want to consider breast reduction surgery. But there was no referral to a surgeon for a consultation or anything because my insurance company was like, just give her pain pills instead, and then, oh, take them away when she’s used to taking them. Which sucked but is another story altogether. Anyway. The titties. They prevent me from standing up straight. My posture sucks. So I’m pretty gung ho on this surgery idea until I go to the chiropractor last week, who says not only is the surgery “gruesome and barbaric”, as he put it, but probably won’t help me anyway, because what I actually have is degenerative disc disease and arthritis in my spine. Now, I’m allowing for the fact that this is a male doctor, and I’m thinking males in general are probably not too hip on the idea of chopping off boobs. (If they are, I don’t want to know about it. Please, no cards and letters.) But the man made sense, and for now, I’ll go ahead with his therapy and treatment plan because my insurance is paying for it. My back still hurts like a bitch though.

It is famously impossible to get pain medication in this state unless you go through pain management, where you are regularly drug tested to make sure you’re not having any fun. If you happen to allegedly use marijuana for self-medicating your pain, it’s possible that even if you stop, it will show up as many as 90 days later in your tests. (I say go for the cheek swab if possible, that only can tell if you smoked within the last 12 hours. But I say that as your attorney and so this information is privileged and confidential. Cue the twangy guitars.) This I mention because when I broke my ankle I was offered Tylenol 3, which for me may as well be baby aspirin. Most doctors do not understand that when you take anti-depressants, they make pain meds less effective. But it’s been proven in scientific studies. Which I am too lazy to link to, but reports about which exist at Anyway. It’s best not to get too into pain meds anyway, because they can suck out your brain’s ability to soothe your body with dopamine and endorphins when you really need pain relief. Meditation is helpful. Kratom is very helpful, until they outlaw it (because people have this mistaken notion that kratom gets you high. I’ve never felt high from kratom. Just felt like, gee, I don’t have crippling cramps that make me scream after taking it. But that’s me. Doing Whip-Its doesn’t effect me, either. Because you know you were wondering about the Whip-Its.)

Anyway, the point of the post is to say, for the meantime at least, I’m keeping my tits. Which I never, ever refer to as “the girls”, as I find that much more vulgar than saying “tits”.