Editrix Abby |
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Auld Lang SyneI wasn't going to write a year-end type thing, but after watching what appeared to actually be the Age of Aquarius sweep across the globe on New Year's Eve, I find I've become somewhat nostalgic. Which means reflective. Rather than encapsulate the year, however, I feel moved to embark upon a decade wrap-up. I am not grooving with the rest of the globe, however; I am, instead, decidedly crabby. Here's why I'm bitter.As the Nineties began, I was a statistic: a single 30-year-old woman. I had as much a chance of being struck by lightning as I did of achieving matrimonial bliss. So I was busily screwing away, engaging in indiscriminate sex, copulating condomless in the face of a sexually transmitted disease with a death sentence. As womankind agonized over the spectre of spinsterhood, I was an unrepentant slut. Then, as the decade was waning, and slutdom had suddenly become chic, I found myself tragically married. Curses, cruel fate! Psychotropic drugs were altering everyone's ornery outlooks and craven 20-something chicks were publishing screeds on their emotional despair--and their inability to hold a job. In contrast, I felt appallingly content. And as every babe who ever got boned was spilling her guts, admitting to all sorts of embarrassing sexual escapades, I had committed myself to monogamy. And to make matters worse, I'd never taken Prozac. Oi. What a loser. Today, as I toil away at my little fetish magazine, a singular empire of, um, one, my competition thrives due to their being backed by giant conglomerates. And what good is being a good little Editrix, conscientiously scanning my pages for typos, when there are glamorous ladies cramming plastic cocks up their asses on camera? Jeez, what am I doing in this business? Ten years ago I could have profited greatly from my unbridled enthusiasm for giving head. Now the only beneficiary of my superlative blowjobs is stuck with me for life--and no one else gets to see. Of course, I could join the legions of amateur filmmakers and capture it all on video...send off surveillance camera footage of tawdry scenarios so that others may at least witness my oral expertise. Hey, are there any good end-of-the year video camera sales? My only consolation is that as I receive those cutesie-poo year-end newsletters from far-flung friends, their lives sound stultifyingly dull! As happy--and therefore boring--as I may think I am, my life is comparatively exciting. Living in Manhattan! Publishing a porn magazine! Producing a weekly party filled with scantily clad babes and foot-worshipping, slobbering slave boys! What could be more millenial? Or so I say to myself as I attempt to summarize my year and complete MY little year-end newsletter. I'm on my way to Vegas for the porno Academy Awards and my supposed peers are reproducing at an alarming rate! While they drive their offspring to soccer practice, I make crucial decisions about which slide will elicit the most erections. While they pin Crayola masterpieces to their refrigerators, I post fetish party information on the internet. And while they flop into bed at 10 pm exhausted, I'm applying another layer of eyeliner and sprinkling myself with glitter. Am I getting too old for this? Who the hell cares! Happy 2000! And I command you to worship my infinite coolness. [Written Jan. 2000] |
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