Ring my Belles, baby

Eliot "Hot Mess" Spitzer was voted by Time Magazine in 2005 as one of the 100 people to shape our lives. Maybe they should have voted him as one of 100 people to lick our thighs. After hearing/reading about Spitzer the Spritzer every hour on the hour, I feel like I've been sleeping with him, too.

I have to say-- a little bit of scandal is pretty healthy in politics, I think. Keeps things spicy. I mean, there's always a closet with a skeleton in it. My question is who is #8? Who's #10? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?? Yeah, I have a feeling you know just the "john" I'm thinking of who also has a well-worn name. There-- I think I've come to the edge of slander. Don't make me spell it out, but the name I'm thinking of starts with the letter B. . .

Quite honestly, I think all men cheat. Maybe not with women (or men) but there's always something they secretly want as much if not more than you. Like crisp bag of Funyuns. . .








Like never having to say I'm sorry. Like gadgets. Like some video game. Like an interactive version of the epic film, 300 complete with leather codpiece. . . or something.

For a friend of mine, whom I will call . . . binary code 10010101 . . . his "mistress" is a certain comic book series. More like an addiction. Every week he visits his pusher-man in a seedy strip mall on the outskirts of town. His pupils dilate, he's giddy as a school boy, smoothing out each page of the graphic tale as if he's caressing perfectly shaved human flesh. Don't tell him I said that.

Speaking of flesh, I found something on etsy that I find arresting, tasteful, intriguing, and a little dirty. I include it here, as body art, as exquisite, photographic intimacy, freeing the female form, enacting her own desires. Check out Belles Lettres. We know that some people just like to watch, voyeurs craving what they can't have. Then I dare you to purchase 365 days of portraits from Belles Lettres. . . for one year, the images are for your eyes only. There are lots of other mod, hip, sassy, things to buy in this store, collages of modern life, quaffed playboys, pouting fashion models from the 50s as nesting dolls, laminated flip books for your pleasure, but the 365 days photographic project is exciting. NO-- the 365 days aren't a bunch of nekkid pictures-- some, maybe. . . it's about mystery, it's about curiosity, and it's out of your control, which absolutely delights me. . . This is a project/product I think Anaïs Nin would be super proud of.














Another etsy store caught my eye:




Grey Goat boasts a panty style to fit all bottoms and all budgets. All handmade, in sumptuous satin, Grey Goat panties are flirty-- I can easily imagine my ass bouncing around in those cute booty wraps, and I'm not really an underwear kinda girl. I mean, I like somewhat pedestrian underwear, I'm more into cotton comfort, underwear to run from zombies in, unless I'm in a hot, sexy zombie film. But . . . hmmm. . .I feel a sensual awakening coming on. . . I like the idea of Grey Goat's timeless, stylish, custom made knickers. How much fun would it be for your special someone to find a pair of these panties hiding under your skirt. Or do what I plan to do when I get mine-- stare at my big, pretty ass in the mirror, and do a little dancin'.


. . .



Anyway. . . Spitzer. I know, as a woman and a feminist, I should be more upset, right? I should be PISSED. Livid, and the only justice is rough justice. On your knees, foul creature! Hmmm. . . WHY can't we be more like the French? Meeting a mistress/call girl/gigolo is not le scandal. It's what rich and powerful men (and women) do . . . on Tuesdays. . .

I guess I'm a little desensitized. A) Because I feel like upholding some pristine image of our puritan past as if it were our raison d'etre has made us complete and utter hypocrites-- we break moral, spiritual and Constitutional laws all the time. Go ahead, call me a card-carrying member of the Sisters of Hester Prine. What happens within the bounds of the Spitzer marriage is really none of our business, and if his ho (and I write this with all due respect)had not crossed state lines to service her client (somewhere in there a felony lies) ye old Spitz would still be tripping the light fantastic in a rented bed as Mr. #9. B) Because I started watching The Secret Diary of a Call Girl-- a BBC program featuring British actor Billie Piper, (teen pop-star turned faithful assistant to Dr. Who) as Hannah a.k.a. Belle-- a high-priced ho, living and working in London. Swinging London, indeed.


(Hannah and best mate Ben in Secret Diary . . .)









The Secret Diary of a Call Girl (I like "call girl" better than prostitute) is based on a collection of blogs written by Belle du Jour, a real London call girl. A brilliant team of writer/producers compiled the loose tales into a great story . . . about some tail. Hannah, the main character is a throw-back to the ancient courtesans: educated, lovely and talented. And, if you look under that tight skirt of hers (pay first) you'll find the girl next door who's just great at her job. When she's not working hard for the money, she's hanging out with her best mate, Ben, played by actor Iddo Goldberg, who is really almost too hot to live. DAMN!

I have to say, the show not only turns me on-- it has enlightened me-- I mean, I never really thought much of men who pay to play. But, after breathlessly watching Secret Diary. . . I realize there a lots of reasons why men (and women) pay for sex. Sometimes it's sex, sometimes it's about living out some fantasy without shame, sometimes it's freedom from having to talk about who's picking up James from school tomorrow. Who knows why Eliot Hot Mess Spitzer strayed. Maybe he was always that kind of man.

So, what do we do now? Go on a witch-hunt, further diverting the Nation's attention from the race for the presidency, and the inevitable recession and the on-going bloody war? What about the people of Tibet pushing back against Chinese rule? Exactly who in the hell do I need to blow to find out more about THAT story, lost in the deep, daily annals of our scandal-hungry media outlets?

Hot . . . under the collar

I'm not sure what got into me the other night, but I decided I needed to wear one of my vintage ties to my new temp job (they already think I'm a bit of a weirdo, so why not). I work in a law office as an office assistant, floater, (the more popular name for the position, however gross it may sound) a Girl Friday (the name I prefer, but of course no one calls me this). Since few people call me by my name anyway, why not play with gender, identity, and fashion in one grand swoop?!! I thought I'd get a few nods-- a few "well dones" for tying one on. But. . .

It was like I had a third boob tucked neatly under my neck. Seriously. Come on-- a woman in a tie is not revolutionary-- Queen/King Hatshepsut was a hep cat-- I think she wore her tie way back in the ancient day. . . to compliment her beard. What about the tie worn by every student at Hogwarts? I just wanted to feel what is was like to hit the financial district of town in my pinstripe shirt and smart tie-- to make an adjustment when things got hot under the collar. I wanted to tie one on.

But I had to learn to tie a tie first. I tried hunting down a few sites but let me tell you, unless you remember studying Macramé in an after school program, or you happen to have spent some time on the sea, making knots and such, tying a tie is ever so foreign. It's no wonder that clip-ons were born. . .

No clip ons for me. No easy, cheap-ass knots. I mean I could have stopped at the average fold'em and hold'em it's a tie, what do you want? sort of thing. But, after finding out that when not sporting a bow tie, 007 prefers a Windsor knot, and I had to have it. It's a wider, square finish with the knot underneath-- perfect for wrangling a wide collar shirt. Okay, I'm not going to lie-- I was not ready for the full Windsor, named after Edward VII, the Duke of Windsor's grandpa (you know, the Ed.3 who abdicated the thrown for love). When folded correctly, the Windsor comes with a cute, elongated "dimple," which is really quite sexy, I must say.




Look at the rebuked Duke's fat, fat tie. . . okay, so I tried to learn to tie a tie using graphic images:





I pretty much fried my internal mother board, trying to follow graphic instructions. I decided to try a different route-- I wanted to follow along. I wanted a man to teach me. Is that so wrong? I just kind of thought that, having a man teach you how to tie an tie, even in the virtual world, is, to quote Paris Hilton. . . hot. So, I went straight to You Tube.

After wading through a few somewhat creepy dudes, tying their ties in not so clean, well-lighted places, I opted to study under the tutelage of an older gentleman with a lovely Scottish accent. I figured of all people, this man would have a Windsor knot down pat. And he did. But it took more than 7 minutes to make his knot. Meanwhile, I meandered, got lost, started to day dream about Robert Louis Stevenson, my great lost love, and sweet Jesus-- the stunning Mr. McAvoy. By the time the teacher was done with the lesson, it was me who found herself in a knot. HUZZAH! Check out these Windsors. . . and the resemblance. . .








Anyway. . . I found a coupla clever frat boys with their clever music, and their clever, stop-motion animation. But in the end their knots were conventional-- tied before you could say Beau Brummel.

I'd almost given up on my dandy-girl look when I found this:



Leave it to a lady to explain the technique, and in 1:17. I learned the half Windsor with her voice and male hands, tying the tie. I got it on the first try. Without looking at my own hands, I watched his-- it was kind of like crocheting without the needle.


Every woman should know how to tie a tie, whether you have a male sig/other or a son, or a lady friend. It's kind of a fun way of connecting with your "manly" side. Not to mention that a well-done knot could get you some. . . interesting attention. Depending on your preference. Forget those who respond with shock and confusion at your attire. I talked to THREE men in my tie who were intrigued by my knot. If she can tie an intricate knot, what else can she do?

Take that, Cosmo. . .