GLADYSMy masculine gay über hot, 30-something Greek neighbor did not come home last night. I know this as truth because insomnia had me up and awake most of the wee hours rearranging fake Roman antiquities on my foyer console table. Too, he has not slammed his door today as he does every Saturday morning at approximately 9:30am. He goes to the gym. My powers of deduction tell me this because (a) he is literally built like a Greed god and (b) unless he’s carrying a gym bag full of sex toys, making a living as a rent boi, me thinks he carries gym-like stuff. Unlike fancy moi; the only thing I take to the gym is my faded I.D. and a rolled $20 dollar bill for any emergencies. “Emergencies” defined as a side trip via Starbucks or a stroll through Walgreens for unwaxed floss and/or any new cosmetic that diminishes dark circles while leaving me with a doe-eyed, ingenue face. But I digress.

My stud Greek god neighbor is — how do you say in your native tongue: “aloof.” At least that’s my sour grapes take. Lord knows if I looked like him (tall, tanned, extremely handsome, and ripped) I would not be sitting here typing a faggoty blog. I would be hatefully ordering kitchen staff around regarding too wet quiche and bitching at a pool maintenance crew for not clearing the fallen gardenia blossoms that my stinkin’ rich Hollywood film producer of a husband specially planted poolside so I can float in wafting fragrance while he busts ass to keep me shopping Fred Segal. In this scenario I also possess a meaningful, thick cock, that lazily erupts– though faithfully, like that geyser in Yellowstone.


But let’s not tarry on tawdry daydreams. Back to my hot-as-chicken-fried-steak neighbor. I’ve pleasantly introduced myself, twice, and yet he still can’t recall my name. I mean, bitch, what is so eff’n hard to remember? My goddamn name is the post popular name for males ever — bitch, jot it down on a Post-It if need be. But youthful beauty has no time for small, ordinary details like remembering an old-fuck neighbor’s name. It has details far more exacting to consider. Like unbuttoning an imported cotton, tapered, slim-fit shirt three buttons or four for the perfect peek of pecs. Cunt. Ahem.

When I leave for my office Monday through Friday, my apartment exit coincides with the end of his morning shower. As I silently twist the key into the deadbolt lock I hear metal shower curtain rings rolling quickly. Abruptly. Youth has no time to waste. And, if I linger, silently, just a bit at my dark stained apartment door, the clean, damp scent of wet soap escapes into the hallway. I imagine him reaching for a towel. And how it hits his backside to catch the wet diamond drop rivulets coursing to that pitched divergent of a firm ass crack. From my front door to the elevator buttons, my mind hops on the bus to skankville with me in the driver’s seat. In the elevator I have his damp butt angrily riding my face while he pleasures himself into a cloudburst of gloppy jizz. But then I hit my sunlit lobby with the towering, rail-thin potted bamboos and face mature realities that keep me from ever really singing in a summer shower.



“Can you wave hello to the nice man? Wave hello…c’mon, wave hi hi to the nice man…”  I recently joined beaming, 30-something, stroller pushing parents in my building’s freight elevator. They were on their way to a family picnic by the looks of their red, white, and blue coordinated attire. It was Fourth of July. I was celebrating the birth of a great nation by taking out a brown paper shopping bag brimming with empty beer bottles. I never buy a six-pack; I prefer the 40s which — in my head, supports my twisted “I only had ONE beer” rationalization. There’s a smug sense of accomplishment when I hear the scraping, car crash sound of glass against glass as I toss my moldy empties into the recycling bin.

But I am not a “nice man” lady. Why, if it were up to me, your fug baby would already be handcrafting NIKE gym shoes in some remote wet spot of a Vietnam village. I think developing a sense of commerce and community is important at a very early age; structure and discipline are important with children. If a child can’t prepare and deliver scotch eggs and a bloody mary bedside on a white wicker tray I simply don’t have the time to invest my tax dollars into area schools. But I digress.

MEAN-GIRLSNo. I am not a “nice man.” I am a razor-tongued, quick wit who is emotionally arrested; I have feelings and thoughts that don’t parallel my age and life experience. I need to grow up, grow a pair, and get my shit together. I am a flighty, bitchy “mean girl” of a social climber in a man boob cage not of my making. No. Actually I DID make this man boob cage of a body. See above beer intake. Add to that chalk board equation dinners out and a lackluster gym schedule.

Meh. My actions sometimes don’t match my heart. And vice versa. But a coworker says I have a “good heart.”  His surface assessment is based on my over extended ability to buy choice birthday gifts at better department stores. I’ve always been that way. I don’t care what something costs if it will make someone happy. Within reason, of course; spending $150 on a TOM FORD powder compact may be viewed as ‘what were you thinking’ with regard to coworker holiday gifts but I don’t think that while sliding plastic across the sales counter. It’s the thought that counts, right? And by giving expensive gifts I validate my ability to do so. It’s my twisted logic on the road to becoming a “nice man” maybe. A former boss, a chronic alcoholic and full-time asshole, once told me that I bought my staff’s loyalty with unnecessary acknowledgements of their birthdays and Christmas. “…You may get them working late hours with that nonsense but they don’t respect you.”  

He’s dead now. So who won that round, bitch.



At first I was afraid. I was petrified…  Well, you know the rest. I’m not going to begin with an apology for my absence. No one cares. It’s not like Hemingway is posting shit here.

Let’s sally forth, shan’t we?

I’m eating — slowly, a FiberOne chocolate brownie because it’s a taste of chocolate that sort of takes the edge off my skin crawling diet hell. I have a society page event Thursday night which will be ripe with photo ops and I look like a fat fuck from, well– fatfuckville.  And by “diet” I mean I’m drinking two chardonnay a night instead of my usual curl-up-in-a-ball and sleep it off nightly three count. I’m currently paying $136 a month to ignore a chi chi gym membership that is a five minute walk from my front door. No, instead I am choosing irrational “just eat less/drink dinner” thoughts to keep the man boobs and flab at bay. Last week I was caught in the workplace forking a chunk of chocolate cake with inch thick chocolate icing while scrolling web pages for ‘compression t-shirts.’

Oh. My workplace has a Pride parade float this year. I’m on it and standing next to 20-somethings who have been fussing like wet hens for a week with “if I shrink the XS t-shirt it should be just the perfect fit.”  I want to snap their 27″ waistlines in half and fill their boy-like torsos with Nutella and marshmallows. But I digress.

How can I possibly remain relevant in a youth culture that has left me standing — with a lot of baggage, at the station? I catch myself in mirrors and don’t know who this person is. Or who I have become. Depression still is the undercurrent here; it has sucked the joy out of any single hour of my day. My Facebook world window would suggest otherwise because that is all stage dressing. Curtain up! Smile, Neeley; sparkle!!!

I hate people. I’m filled with regrets. I project sweetness and light but behind my eyes is a vast dark depth that frankly scares the shit out of me. My niece graduated university this May. She sent a beautifully framed photo of the event. It’s that photo’s youthful ‘got the world by the ass’ glow that keeps me going now. I don’t want her to get that phone call. The one about her dead uncle.

Jesus. How morbid. Someone tell a joke. I’mthisclose to getting dressed to go the store for strawberry ice cream. Strawberry ice cream fills the void until Mercury is out of retrograde or until this hocus pocus, bloody man period brain cramp moves on.


la te f*cking da…

Well. Here I am again. The crossroads of ‘pull the plug’ on this blog or trudge ahead, alone—in the depths of my despair in the hope that some total stranger across the silent miles is gently nodding ‘I get it’ while reading my cray cray shit.

I am just now getting up and about today. Daylight Savings Time has kicked in and I am in no fucking mood to leap forward much less fix myself late lunch. What I have done is wanked three times since the early a.m. hours. I do this because of the two minutes of post-orgasmic bliss I get that—fool heartedly, gives me some bit of fortitude to carry on in this world. I should be buggy whipped for my addiction to internet porn.

ride-the-snake_180x129But it’s so easy isn’t it? It’s just out there, waiting to be discovered and briefly enjoyed like chocolate covered cherries. Oh. So I watched this vid called “half his age/son & daddy” or some such relevant titillating title and my first thought when they both entered the bedroom was ‘look at that little 23-year old whore begging for daddy’s cock’ but had to check that judgement at the front reception desk of “oh mary” when I realized I was THAT 23-year old when I met my now EXbf who was exactly 44-years old at the time. It’s not like he had to hit me over the head with a club; I went willing and quite able.


Which now makes me think about the daddy role I find myself cast in nowadays. I did not ask to be anyone’s daddy but this salt-n-pepper hair and thick middle doesn’t exactly shout fountain of fucking youth either.

Friday night I sparkled at one of this town’s spring fundraising events. Actually my company hosted it as the premier sponsor so you better believe I was running around with my damn head cut off all the while looking smashing in my silvery gray shark skin suit, blinding white French cuff shirt, and tres expensive TOM FORD silk knit tie. Let’s just say the venue’s late 20-something event director was graciously accommodating and quite friendly. Or did I just imagine that taking place? He seemed a bit flirty. I don’t know; my ‘come fuck me’ meter is rusted. Anyway. Where was I? Oh! So near the end of the evening, around midnight, I flagged him down on the red carpet runner and grabbed our photographer for a quick shot. For some inexplicable reason the photographer’s flash went haywire and began rapid flashing like a disco strobe. It was blinding but, too—for a brief second I felt like Kim Kardashian stepping out of an Escalade minus panties.

“Well I guess our beauty broke his camera” I sort of laughingly joked to my embraced photo companion. “Well, YOUR beauty” was his smiling reply. So I sez’ to myself hours later while stripped and tipsy before my bathroom mirror: “What would a boy handsome enough to be a Ralph Lauren model want with these tits” as I pondered the soft roundness of my man boobs.

I’m wondering if I should follow-up tomorrow with a professional email of thanks post-event. I mean, he gave me his card for that very reason, I think. Naturally I’ve already stalked his Facebook page and have died a thousand deaths over his pics. I wish I had bigger balls to ask him out for a drink or something but with my ongoing despair vortex who would want to fly a rainbow kite of gay love with me in this hail storm?

He’s taller than me. Has an easy laugh, blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. German descent, I believe; he seems like someone who wouldn’t be a player. I have this ivory-colored knit afghan that my mother crocheted for me. It’s one of my favorite possessions even though it sprang from the hands of Hell’s gatekeeper. But I envision blonde boy and I cocooned in its familiar warmth post shag. It would be a good color next to his skin.

all that glitters is idiocy


Sometimes in the workplace I just want to shout: “FUCK this! I got into Studio 54 — TWICE!!. So go fuck off!” That’s right. Marc Benecke, the doorman — the guardian of the velvet rope, chose ME, bitches. But no one cares about a relic like fabulous moi from the Seventies. I daresay only a handful in the office would even begin to grasp the noble reality that über ultra suede fashion king — HALSTON, owned the Seventies. Sigh.


So we rent office space in a luxe hi-rise tower and share the floor with a WASP-nest financial firm. Many are nice; a few are the ‘1 percenter’ pricks one reads so much about. It’s been an US versus THEM scenario since I poured French creamer into my morning coffee that supposedly wasn’t OURS to use. These monogrammed shirt cuff folks make six figure incomes but don’t touch their goddamn $3.49 fake cream for fear you’ll lose a summer share in the Hamptons. Our clueless office manager routed a card today for all of us to sign; we’re moving out at the end of the month. He asked that we express our ‘thanks’ for sharing their space and jot a note about what we’ll all miss most. Say what?

Seriously. I’m not making this shit up. When the dirty folder hit my desk I grumbled something like “…Hold on. Let me put down ‘My Little Pony’ and Lite-Brite so I can sign this damn card!! WHAT ARE WE? FIFTH GRADE…” My curmudgeoness was not appreciated.

So fuck them. I signed the goddamn card though. Team player, and shit, rah-rah; “let’s go out on a high note” they said. But here’s the thing: in my head I’m still Diane von FUCKIN’ Furstenburg waiting for my town car to Studio. So blow me. And then go slow fuck yourself with that shiny greeting card scribbled with dull sentiments.

Now go dance in your Maud Frizons.

on the relevancy of blogging


Oh hai. Is this thing on? With the advent of even shorter attention spans, Instagram, Tumblr, and Vine seem to be more popular with all the cool kids. When I began blogging in 2004 I found the medium immensely freeing. It was a world of anonymity that allowed morsels of truth to bubble up. I discovered a vehicle to rant about my witch of a mother, my decaying relationship, my sinking career, and my second chances to begin again. All supported by anonymous commentors. Well, some of them weren’t anonymous as they had their picture posted on their blogs but I was — and remain, a paranoid blogger, posting from the shadows. Just who is reading this blog stew? And why should I care?

But we were all so new to the medium back in the day. And now, today, quite a few of my FACEBOOK friends originate from reading my old blog. I like that. It’s odd that some total strangers know more about my inner thoughts than friends just two blocks away. Too, I’ve received more emotional support when needed by these very blog buddies than folks who reside in this town. Go figure that one.

Anyway. I still like blogging even though it’s an older social medium. I like the creative aspect and the immediacy of it all. I can publish stuff here and within minutes some dude in Germany or Australia can be reading my thoughts. That’s still cool.

BW_fkmeWhat is not cool is the fact that I’ve lazily wanked three times since 4:00am. Seriously. What is my problem that I can’t keep my hands off my dick? I’m attributing it to the high testosterone levels my doctor spoke of.

But then why can’t I apply that to the damn gym? If I worked out as much as I jerked off I would have quit my day job long ago just because I’d be WeHo buff like a 2Xist tank top wearing hawt bitch and would be too busy sucking cock and walking red carpets as arm candy to work a legit job. Just once I’d like to have a hot body. But that bus already left the terminal and I’m curbside with a lot of old baggage.

Today I am really going to try to pull my shit together — shower and shave, to hop a subway downtown. I need a new vacuum cleaner. The old EUREKA died post Christmas trim take down. Anyway. That’s what I want to do today but we’ll see if I can manage it. It’s also too damn cold. I might just stay put with tea and TCM network.

blog, blog! my darling!


I’m a bit behind in my blogging. I’ve been away for an extended period and I know that all ten of you are worried sick and losing precious sleep as to my whereabouts. Truth be told, I’ve been away with my new boyfriend; his condo in Abu Dhabi is the bomb. We’ve been planning our spring nuptials wherein 10,000 white French tulips will air freight to Majorca for our dawn beachfront wedding.

I lie. But wasn’t that a marvelous bit of queenie escapism for a dull winter’s night? Or morning. I have no idea when you crack heads are reading this shit.

Sigh. Nothing is new here or there. My Xmas decor is down; half of it is shoved unceremoniously in my small ‘butler’s pantry’ style kitchen because that is a room I rarely frequent other than to count bottles of Clos du Bois. Nor do I mind tripping over a beribboned wreath and a vase filled with red berry stems to reheat my morning cup of coffee. This is how white trash lives.

diamdsOh. So I’m on this gala planning committee now for a spring fund raiser that benefits a major charitable foundation. No it is not boring cancer and, no — it is not cray cray Alzheimers. I will not say what it is but just know that the gala attracts a well-heeled crowd of this town’s old guard, face lift ladies-who-lunch, and an equally youngish group of botoxed, slut social-climbing wannabes who pay a lessor amount ticket cuz, well, they’re in the “young professionals” slot for gala ticket prices. So. What matters here is that I’ve been invited to sit on the committee. Needless to say the invitation thrills me no end as it should negate the constant chatter in my head that — in reality, I am no better than special agent Clarice Starling (Hannibal Lector’s friend) from some hill jack town in West Virginia with cheap shoes and bad fragrance. True, dat. Yes, I do own a $250+ TOM FORD silk knit tie but it does not improve my station in life one bit. And frankly — for that price, I think I should at least garner a FULL NAME IN CAPS mention in the social column and a hand job from a top chef on restaurant row. Fuck.

So I go to the meeting this week and I style DIESEL dark denim, classic lace ups, a gorge shirt with the mismatched collar and cuff fabric thang, SEAN JOHN gray sport coat, (yes, I know, but it was ON SALE) a divine floppy silk pocket square, and a very unkempt mug of fuzz ala Hugh Jackman. I thought I rocked my silver fox pussy hard but within five minutes of being surrounded by the REAL movers & shakers I withered into a leather club chair with “you do not belong” thoughts and that other sentiment about ‘any club that would have me as a member is not a club I want to belong to’ quote from, I think, Groucho Marx.

Anyway. I just nodded mostly and kept my mouth shut until a full glass of half good chardonnay oiled me enough to toss a media maven I know under the proverbial bus.  It was an okay meeting as those types of things go. There was some real work accomplished and we’re off to a good start in gathering silent auction items but I just wish my low self-esteem banter would shut the fuck up long enough for me to enjoy the rarefied company I’m in. Just once. Also I have nothing to wear to the spring gala. Fuck. me. hard.


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