Whoreblogging: The Ace of Spades Sex-for-Money Online Diary

If you haven't been following it -- and if you haven't, kudos to you for your good taste and judgment -- there's a minor fooferall regarding the Washington-based blogger Washingtonienne.

Well, she's not just a blogger, really. She's a blogger-slash-Senate Aid-slash-dirty, filthy whore. More on that later.

Wonkette, who may or may not herself be a filthy whore, but is certainly a publicity whore, is pumping up this tawdry tale into her own little Monica-gate.

Serious Content Warning: A graphic recounting of my own tawdry sex-for-money escapades follows. Seriously-- some of this might be too rude for general consumption.

Whores.

The facts are these: Washintonienne is a 24-year-old-going-on-59 Staff Assistant -- or "Staff Ass," as she Wonkette-ishly calls it -- to Senator Mike DeWine.

She began a nothing little semi-literate blog in which she recounted her various whore activities. These activities included having lots of sex with low-level goverment bureaucrats and interns. Lots of anal sex, it turns out, which must have endeared her to Wonkette. Her brief "dates'" usually consisted of someone spending $60 bucks to get her drunk at TGIFriday's, or else were simply cases of running to someone's apartment at lunch-time for a quick and dirty one.

She also says she was paid numerous times for sex, although she's now backpedaling from that claim, stating instead that the men who dorked her up the keister gave her a money just as "a gift."

Once her actual name was outed, she was fired from her job.

The upshot? Thanks to Wonkette's tireless self-promotion over this very minor "sex scandal," she's now the talk of the town (see third item).

And she'll probably get a book deal out of this.

She's already gotten linked by Instapundit, damn her. And Volokh.

Well. You can probably see where this is going.

If this useless, semi-retarded butt-slut can get famous from having a couple of tawdry sexual encounters with semi-anonymous sexual partners, why can't Ace of Spades?

She's a blogger; I'm a blogger. She works in a low-paying dead-end government job; I know people who work in low-paying dead end government jobs.

So here was my plan: For the past four weeks, I've attempted to live the Washingtonienne lifestyle.

To snag my book deal, I'd have to match Washingtonienne in terms of getting semi-anonymous sex from near-strangers. I'd have to have sex with at least six (6) people in a relatively short span of time.

Furthermore, the sex would have to be deviant, at least most of the time, tending towards spanking and anal sex. Generally stuff involving my ass, in other words, or preferably someone else's ass.

And lastly-- this is the tricky part-- I'd have to get paid for it.

Washingtonienne doesn't specify how much money, all told, she received in "gifts" from various married men, but she does say that one guy gave her $400 for anal sex.

So I'll take this one specified amount -- four bills -- as my target.

Could I do it? Read the Ace of Spades HQ Sex-for-Money Journal and find out.

But read at your own risk.

May 3, 2004 11:22 pm EST

I had to take care of the easy ones first.

Two of Washingtonienne's sex partners were semi-boyfriends she'd already known for years. "Boyfriends" may be overstating the case; they mainly seemed to just occasionally visit her every few months in order to score an easy lay. Whatever the case, it seemed to me that my first order of business would be to have sex with my girlfriend, and then get her to pay me for said sex.

Getting sex from the girlfriend wasn't a difficult trick, although, as usual, it wasn't quite as easy as I would have liked. She wasn't in the mood for any kind of real deviant sex, but I did manage to spank her a few times.

"Stop doing that," she said.

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I thought I saw a spider on your bottom."

Before we were done, I slapped her ass a couple of more times. She shot me a look, but I just said, "Spiders."

So far, so good. Next task: Get paid. I decided to resort to a clever subterfuge.

"I just got my phone bill," I told her. "Remember when you talked to your dad from my apartment for a couple of hours?"

"No," she said, which is what I expected her to say, because she had never done so.

"Well, you did," I said. "You were wishing him Merry Christmas."

"I'm Jewish," she said. Damn her suspicions and innuendos.

"Well then you were wishing him Merry Shivouis or something," I countered. "Whatever it was. I can't keep up with your people's crazy calendar. You owe me sixty bucks."

She sighed with tremendous annoyance. "Take it from my wallet," she said.

Score!

Running Tally:

Sex Partners: One (1)

Deviant Sex Acts: One (1)

Cash Haul: $60.00

May 6, 2004 12:36 am EST

That was easy enough. But it would get dicey from here on out.

Strict adherence to the Washintonienne plan still allowed me one, but only one, more sex-partner who I'd already known.

So I dialed up a girl I used to date who I'll call "S" -- which stands for "Stacey," but that's not her real name; I just always wanted to pork a Stacey, as the name just screams "low self-esteem dirty, dirty girl" to me -- and invited her out for drinks.

I claimed that I had forgotten my wallet, thus cleverly forcing her to pay for my drinks and popcorn shrimp at the local Appleby's. After a couple of hours of getting her semi-drunk, I managed to wheedle an invite back to her apartment.

We opened a bottle of wine and got more drunk, talking about old times, which was exhausting, because we'd never really liked each other very much. She began to nod off from fatigue and inebriation, which is when I decided to spring my deal on her.

"We need to have sex now," I said with roguish charm. "Like, right now. I have to get back home to watch JAG."

She looked at me as if I'd slapped her in the face with a carp. I pressed on.

"Preferably anal sex," I said, nodding. I'd read that when you nod, the person you're speaking to is more inclined to agree with you. That person is nodding, they say to themselves. Maybe I should nod back.

I kept nodding, and then very seductively gave my pud a tug. "And you have to pay me for it."

I gave my own ass as sexy slap. "I’m not giving away this fine shit for free, you know. This is the shit that puts food on the table for my babies, and keeps my baby-daddies coming back for more."

At this point she stood up. "I'm going to bed," she said. "I'd like you to leave now."

Well, this threw a kink into my plan. I connived to use her bathroom. "Make it quick," she said.

I was determined to salvage something from the night. She had some underwear hanging up on the shower-rod, drying. I quickly grabbed a jog-bra and rubbed it vigorously over my flaccid wiener. Then I her tooth-brush and stuck it under my armpit like a thermometer.

I put both items back in place and then exited.

"Thanks so much," I said. "You've been very helpful."

"I never want to see or hear from you again," S told me.

I shuffled off to the door. On my way out, I pinched a couple of twenties and a five-spot from her handbag.

Running Tally:

Sex Partners: Two (2) (it counts-- "sex partner" does not necessarily mean "voluntary sex partner")

Deviant Sex Acts: Two (2)

Cash Haul: $105.00

Everything was going swimmingly thusfar.

May 13, 2004 8:22 pm EST

The Shut-Out.

It's been six days since I added to the total. I've been trying. But the trouble is-- well, it's hard for men to just pick up random women. Maybe it's not hard for some guys, but alas, I've never been one of those.

It's especially hard when you're trying to get paid for it.

If this keeps up I will never get famous. I will never get interviewed by Richard Leiby of the Washington Post. Lloyd Grove will never call me "smart and funny."

I'm beginning to get desperate.

Is the dream dying?

May 15, 2004 10:51 pm EST

I have decided that my approach this past week has been all wrong. I've been chasing after women I wanted to have sex with.

Washingtonienne wasn't so choosy; she was pretty much having sex with whoever would pay some attention to her silly-ass. She was doing desperate, lonely men who weren't particularly attractive.

Thus their willingness to pay her for sex in the first place.

A change in strategy, then.

The Korean grocery on my corner is run by a 65-year-old immigrant woman I'll call "K," for Mrs. Kim. I don't know if that's actually her name, but look, she's Korean. I figure there's a 40% chance she's a Kim. Or a Duk. Something like that.

I walked into the empty store. She sat on a stool behind the high counter, scratching a bunch of Lotto cards. "Shitty, shitty, shitty," she said as she tossed each into the trash.

"Looking to get lucky?" I offered with a wink.

"What you want?" she snapped, the necklace-chains of her bifocals jangling seductively, even wantonly.

"It's not what I want," I cooed. "It's what you want."

I let my raincoat fall open, revealing the fact that I was wearing a halter-style t-shirt that exposed my abdomen. I'd craftily drawn "cut lines" on my stomach with brown magic marker, giving the appearance of a nice six-pack. At least giving that appearance to a nearsighted, elderly Korean woman.

"All this can be yours. For a price." I traced a line down the middle of my belly with a finger, making that "sssssss" hot-stuff noise.

"No sandwich after nine o'clock," she said. "Deli closed."

"I've already got all the meat I could want right here," I whispered, trying to sound like Mickey Rourke before he got weird-looking. "Beef," I informed her, as I flexed a bicep and pointed to it. "It's what's for dinner."

"No sandwich after nine," she said again.

What a delightfully coquettish little minx Mrs. Kim was turning out to be.

And so the tango of desire continued.

I licked my finger, and then touched my saliva-moistened digit to the tip of Mrs. Kim's nose. "I hunger," I told her, "but not for sliced deli meats. Nor for Slim-Jims, nor even for Funions."

"You crazy," she told me. "You crazy-man. You get out of store now, or I call police." She took a small canister from behind the counter. I figured it was either pepper spray, mace, or Binaca breath spray.

Well, it wasn't fucking Binaca, I'll tell you that. Binaca's taste is like a fresh Spring breeze wafting through peppermint plants. This was more like a facefull of searing liquid holocaust.

Whatever it was, it stung like a right bastard and raised pulsing red welts in the mucous lining of my mouth. As I began choking, she hit a button, which I had to figure at this point was the silent alarm.

Thinking on my feet, I reached out and groped one of her drooping old-lady boobies. Then I filled my arms with cans of Pringles and Suzy-Q's.

I ran out of the store in triumph. The Kid scores again.

Running Tally:

Sex Partners: Three (3)

Deviant Sex Acts: Three (3) (groping an elderly Korean woman is deviant in my book; how about yours?)

Cash Haul: $122.85 (estimated value of Pringle's and Suzy-Q's: $17.85, at New York bodega rip-off prices)

May 17, 2004 8:22 pm EST

That had all gone so well that I decided to try my luck again.

"Mrs. J" is a chain-smoking widow in my building who might have been anywhere from 75 to, I don't know, one-hundred-and-thirty years old. She was also a bit of a shut-in, which I figured was a plus in my favor.

I figured her for a good mark because she had absolutely no conception, anymore, of the value of money. Twice she'd asked me to help carry groceries up to her mothball-reeking apartment. Once she'd tipped me thirty-once cents and a Canadian dime. The other time she'd passed me two crisp c-notes. In both cases, she seemed to think the amount -- once, $0.31 American and a tiny coin with a duck on it; the next time, a pair of Franklins -- was perfectly in line with the service rendered.

I buzzed her door for about half an hour. She couldn't hear me; she had Divorce Court turned up to maximum blast. But eventually the show ended, and she opened the door.

"What is it?" she wanted to know. Her eyes did not betray any recollection of me, despite the fact that we shared an elevator four or five times a week.

"Sex-o-gram," I told her.

"What's that?"

"It's a sexy telegram," I said, giving her my best George Clooney head-bob. "It's your lucky day." I handed her a rose.

She sighed and pottered into the living room, allowing me to follow her in. I carried in my portable stereo and set it up on her aquarium, in which six or seven dead neon tetras were floating amidst the filthy water.

Choice of music? Really, there is no other alternative for this situation: Duran Duran's Decade (Greatest Hits).

I stripped off my clothes, revealing a furry loincloth like the one Beastmaster wore. I began playing Hungry Like the Wolf, dancing sexily.

It was hard to navigate the cluttered room. The room was littered with furniture whose purpose I couldn't even guess at. For example, she had a table with what looked like a blacksmith's anvil soldered to the top of it and then a glass-doored knickknack-display beneath it.

What the fuck was that?

Nevertheless, I pranced about the space, doing a mix of hot moves. I did the water-sprinkler; I did the riding mower. I did a few moves I'd picked up from Color Me Badd's I Wanna Sex You Up video. Periodically I clapped my hands and shouted, "Whooooo!," because I have to figure the Chippendales guys do that.

Mrs. J didn't really watch me. She just changed the channel to a Wings re-run and then began doing a crossword puzzle.

So I got into her face, gyrating my "six-pack" three inches from her nose. I also showed off some of the dirty magic-marker tattoos I'd drawn on myself, the hottest of which was Steve Austin having sex with She-Hulk.

Now Rio came on, but I skipped ahead to Save A Prayer. Friends, it's like this: If you can't close the deal to Save A Prayer, you might as well just pack it in and go home.

I began slowly waving my hand over my head. "Put your hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care!" I shouted, which was really more of Prince-thing, but I didn't think Mrs. J would mind me mixing it up a bit. She half-heartedly raised one arm, and then panted from exhaustion.

"Whooo!" I screamed again, clapping between my legs as I did a sexy high-kick.

Mrs. J forced a not-very-interested smile.

Now, by this time, I had exhausted my scant repertoire of hot dance moves. I was now basically just doing grade-school calisthenics, a mixture of jumping jacks and deep knee-bends. I hadn't planned this thing through as well as I might have.

"This show doesn't have to end in the living room," I told her as I did a squat-thrust. I flipped up my furry Beastmaster loincloth, revealing a black thong whose front read Don't Fear the Peeper in bright red embroidered lettering. "We can take this party all over da house!"

I bent over to both touch my toes -- I was in need of a good stretch anyway -- and to show off my moneymaker, which I teasingly wagged right in her wrinkled mug.

She sighed out of boredom. "Okay, fine," she said. I think she was just bored enough that she would have said "Okay, fine" to whatever I said, quite frankly. I'm not sure if she even understood what the hell was going on. She might have thought I was there to fix the dishwasher.

She grabbed her cane and began to follow me to the bedroom door.

"Just one thing," I told her. "My boss says I have to charge for extra time. I'm sorry, but he's a real stickler. I'm afraid one hour is going to cost you--" I gulped as I got up the courage to name the price for peddling my sweet ass -- "three hundred and fifty dollars."

She shrugged. "If that's what they're charging now."

I limboed on to her bed. "And, the thing of it is, it has to be anal."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Regulations," I explained in embarrassment. "I don't make the rules. It's a crazy world, you know?"

She shrugged as she took off her cigarette-burned dressing gown. "I don't care either way. I'm not sure I can even tell them apart at this point."

Now that's hot.

We finished up about eight minutes later. Or rather, I finished; she had already begun napping three minutes into it. I took all the money from her wallet-- only about $175, as it turned out -- but I did also manage to steal her calcium-supplements and two bottles of her heart-arrhythmia medication, which I figure must have a street value of at least $80.

Running Tally:

Sex Partners: Four (4) -- I'm on my way! Whooo!

Deviant Sex Acts: Four (4) -- Two more to go!

Cash Haul: $377.85 -- Less than twenty-three dollars left!

May 22, 2004 8:22 pm EST

Another drought.

It's been five days since I fed the kitty. I've run out of senile widows to seduce, and they've got my picture up in all the groceries and bodegas. I'm so close to getting linked by Instapundit and interviewed by Wonkette; so damnably close to that fucking book deal.

And yet so far.

Today I met with a fellow blogger to commiserate. We'll call him -- just to give him a name -- "Joshua Micah Marshall."

"Life is tough," I told him.

"Tell me about it," he said, and then sipped his double-latte mochaccino.

"I'll tell you," I said. "I'm desperate. Actually, I was desperate three days ago. I'm beyond desperate now." I sighed. "I've really got to get laid."

He fixed me a look as he wiped the froth from his lip. He extended a gentle hand out and caressed the side of my face. "I know someplace we could go," Josh told me.

Now, it's times like this that make you decide just how much your dreams mean to you.

Book deal, said one part of my brain.

Gay sex with Josh Marshall, countered the other part of my brain.

I did a quick calculation. How bad could it be, really? A lot of people seem to like having gay sex. How could I be sure I wasn't one of them? I've never really given it a fair chance, I reasoned.

And so we began walking to an alley behind the store.

He began pulling the rings off his fingers. "Just for safety's sake," he told me.

What the hell did that mean?

This caused me to begin re-evaluating my circumstance. I didn't know much about gay sex, except what I'd seen in movies based on terrible novels by Brett Easton Ellis. So, what I knew about gay sex was the following:

* Many prescription and illicit drugs would be involved, some quite dangerous and exotic, ranging from Paxil to Zoloft to Vicodan to distilled essence of yak-musk.

* There would be ironically-bouncy eighties pop music playing in the background during the violent and degrading sodomy. It could be Berlin; it could be the Human League; it might even be Kajagoogoo.

* In the movie version, I would most likely be played by Andrew McCarthy or, worse yet, that douchebag from Dawson's Creek.

My blood went cold. I couldn't have that. I just couldn't.

I turned on my heel and went running from the alley.

"Give me a call!" Josh Marshall cried after me. "I'll get us tickets to the Blue Man Group!"

But I was already gone.

Running Tally:

Unchanged. Mission failed.

May 22, 2004 8:22 pm EST

More days passed without making any progress towards my goal. I was still $22.15 short of my target haul of 400 bucks; I was still down two sex partners, and two counts of deviant sexual activity.

I swigged on my drink of choice -- Seagram's and Yoo-hoo -- as I pondered my dilemma.

I absently watched television while brainstorming. Somewhere along the line I ended up putting on The Usual Suspects.

Kevin Spacey, part of my brain echoed.

Yes, yes Kevin Spacey, said another part. So he's Keyser Sosa. Big deal.

What Would Kevin Spacey Do? the first part of my brain rejoined.

What Would Kevin Spacey Do? I pondered. And then it hit me like a lightning bolt:

Kevin Spacey would take his dog out for a walk in a park used for sex-cruising at 4:00am in the morning.

That's what Kevin Fucking Spacey would fucking do.

I strained into my tightest jeans. I didn't have a dog, but the neighbors had a cat named Mr. Peppers. I lured the cat over to my window with a bowl of chocolate Ovaltine and then tied an extension cord around his neck as a leash.

I was all set.

* * *

Now, here's the thing about walking your pet in a disreputable part of the park at 4 o'clock in the morning:

You really can get mugged, it turns out.

My two muggers were a pair of skinny Puerto Rican kids who probably weighed about one-hundred-fifty pounds each. They didn't seem to have any weapons, and they didn't even look particularly tough. I think they were just relying on my being scared of them because I was white and they weren't.

Which was, as it turns out, a pretty good plan, because I was fucking terrified of them.

"Hand over the fuckin' wallet, Whiteboy," one of the two boys said.

I began to do so.

But then a thought drifted through my head again: What would Kevin Spacey do?

There were, I realized, precisely two of them.

When opportunity knocks, only a fool bars the door.

I withdrew my wallet and stuck it back into my pocket. "You'll have to take it, I'm afraid," I said, trembling.

The two boys advanced on me. One reached for my pocket, and I grabbed his arm. Soon the three of us fell to the ground, wrestling, grappling, as they tried to steal my money and I tried to complete my quest.

I unzipped my zipper and took out my joint.

One of the two boys cried out. "Aiiyeee! This pendejo is trying to rub up on me with his dick!"

The boy struggled to escape the scrum. But not before I managed to rub my business on his forehead a couple of times.

He screamed in terror as he staggered backwards and fell to the ground. "Run!" the other one said to him. "Save yourself! Don't be a hero!"

The kid went racing off into the park. But my work was only half done.

The other kid managed to put me into a headlock. I called out for help from the cat. "Mr. Peppers!" I shouted. "Attack!"

Mr. Peppers squatted in a pile of fallen leaves and urinated on them. "Damn your foolishness and cowardice, Mr. Peppers!" I raged.

I broke free of the kid's headlock, and then I got on top of him.

"Marricone!" he cried out.

"Shut up, I'm almost done," I said. I flopped my dork over his upper lip, giving him a sausage-moustache, a dirty little manuever I like to call "The Nasty Adolf."

"Aaaaagghhh!" he cried again, genuinely horrified. And who wouldn't be?

He squirmed free. As he scrambled away, I snatched the gold chain from his neck, and then I wrestled a sneaker off his foot, and then off the other.

He tore into the shadow-darkened park in his gym socks.

I looked at the sneakers. Nike Air Max's -- they had to be worth something.

I felt like fuckin' Batman.

No, even better-- I felt like Washingtonienne.

One hour later I found a guy on St. Mark's Place and I sold him the necklace and the sneakers. I asked for $50.00; he offered me $10.00. After a half-hour of negotiating we agreed on a price: twenty-two dollars and fifteen cents.

Running Tally:

Sex Partners: Six (6) -- Target reached.

Deviant Sex Acts: Six (6) -- Target reached.

Cash Haul: $400.00, even -- Target exactly reached.

Victory.

Now I commit this journal of my deviant sex-acts-for-money to my blog.

Now I sit back in sweetest satisfaction.

Now I just wait, wait, wait for that crazy blog-money to start rolling in.