If Only In His Dreams

What this story needs is a photo and I'm sorry to say I don't have one. As soon as I saw them I knew I needed a picture.

Katia had been missing for over two weeks. Her frantic, breathy, voicemail message coupled with her thick polish accent was difficult to decipher. "So... sorry," was all I understood.

Katia is my housekeeper. In a recent blog post, Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper, I contemplate whether or not she is a prostitute. The circumstances surrounding my suspicions are presumptuous at best. True, she is a slender, fair skinned, European beauty who's lips have doubled in volume since her employment, but I have no evidence other than the fact that she disappears from time to time, is a member of SugerDaddy.com, and drives a BMW 3 series.

Katia finally surfaced last week. And with her came the explanation.

I was six days post nipple surgery. I could barely get out of bed. When I explained my dilemma to Katia, she quickly confessed that she too was recovering from surgery.

And then she showed me hers.

All I could think of was...... Must get picture.  Must relay latest development to Boris.

Illustration by Sarah Mcllwaine

Boris is my talented, successful, single, handsome, freakishly tall, blue eyed friend whose only downfall is his attraction to emotionally unavailable blondes.

And I am Boris's Wing Woman. My job is to round up as many beauties as I can, woo them with tales of Boris's charms and then introduce them to my Adonis acquaintance.

Boris and I first met in a park over five years ago. It was a brisk, fall morning when he introduced himself. New to the neighborhood, he wore flip-flops, a beat-up patriots baseball cap, a lucky brand t-shirt and light weight sweat pants. He carried a home brewed cup of coffee - an unusual sight considering that Starbucks was less than a block away.

We were both walking our dogs - his a beautiful golden retriever and mine an adorable, 5 pound shih-tzu. Both appeared disinterested in each other and annoyed by our chatter.

To outsiders, our friendship seems mismatched but to us, we were well-suited. Boris was the first person I contacted when I was delivered the devastating blow, "you have cancer." And I knew he would respond appropriately.

"I have cancer," said I.
"I'm coming over," said Boris.

My idea of beauty includes more than the physical appearance. Women worthy of Boris must be kind, truthful, self-confident and come with a minimal amount of emotional baggage.

Despite what Boris may think, Katia does NOT fit that description so I have done my best to keep them apart. And yet, when she showed me her new breasts all I could think of was... Boris is going to love these!

"Do you think they're too big?" She asked.

Oddly, my husband and I had just caught an HBO Katie Morgan, post implant, special - so when I say, they are HUGE by porn star status, I know what I'm talking about.

"No," I lied, knowing that this is what Boris would want me to say.
"I don't like them," confessed Katia.
"Don't be silly," I assured her, "they're lovely!"

It's not every day that a women exposes her bare breasts to me. And I knew Boris would be disappointed if I didn't at least TRY to get a picture of them. So I showed her mine. Then I showed her pictures of mine in various stages - from my sunken, horrifically bruised, post mastectomy picture, to my most recent.

My implants are almost double the size of Katia's but without breast tissue they are a mere morsel compared to what Katia is carrying.

"I love your nipples," professed Katia.
"They're new," I said.
"Where is your areola?" asked Katia.
"That comes next," I assured her.

Not only had Katia had her breasts enlarged - she also had her areola reduced.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"Too big" she declared.

"Well, I'll be picking my size as well as my color and I only get one chance to get it right," I elaborated.

Ah...that's it! I have the perfect wing women line!

"Can I take a picture of yours so I can show my plastic surgeon?"

I couldn't go through with it. I failed as a wing woman.

I have no photo - no proof of Katia's development.

But if you dare to dream, this is Katia. Pre-implant Katia. The Katia in Boris's dreams...

xo,MOnkeyME

P.S. Katia is a NO SHOW again this week. 

For those of you entertaining the idea of dating a porn star visit

"10 Reasons You Don't Want To Date a Porn Star"


***

Christmas Wishes

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.  ~ Dr. Seuss

Christmas Season 2011 

with my Dad, Lindsay, Mary, Jackson, Mark & Jay

Rock Your Cock

Earlier today I retold my "Can I shoot your cock?" story.  You know the story... where I'm standing on a street corner at Burning Man and ask random strangers if I can shoot their cock. And they oblige.

After 50 or so photO's I grow tired of the cock and put my camera down.

Three months later I photoshop cans of Spotted Dick on them.

This is my favorite cock shot...

I thought I was oh so clever... 

Until this...

photo courtesy of Bajzel Shop 

(thank you Wilma)

Ahhh... grasshopper has much to learn. 

(you've all heard this before but) I wasn't going to go AGAIN... until today. 

BURNING MAN 2013.... Costume Cocks!!! 

Can't wait. Tickets go on sale soon. May the dust stay with you.

xoMOnkeyME

Me and My Nipples

As much fun as it was announcing to total strangers, "You know... not everyone has nipples," eventually the game grew old and that's when I knew I was ready.

So, while some of you were busy Christmas caroling or dreidel spinning, I was strapped flat to an operating table. Hours later, I had my very own set of nipples. 

So far, this is what they look like, only double the size - HUGE by gorilla standards.

Some of you might be wondering, how do they make them?

Well first, they start with a liquified corn syrup base, then they add some dye, mold it into a gummy form and POOF, you've got DOTS.

Nipples are a bit more complicated. Different surgeons use different techniques. My surgeon extraordinaire, Dr. Sandra Margoles, used a technique called a CV flap. 

Isn't it adorable!

In the center of my reconstructed nipple is a slice of cadaver skin. This tiny morsel of cannibalistic goodness is used to prevent the nipple from flattening out. Believe me, the last thing I need are flat nipples. 

In addition to getting nipples, I also had some fat grafting. This process was a bit more involved. First, I had to grow the damn fat. That was time consuming. Then they needed to "harvest" the fat. Turns out fat taken from my thighs had the best chance of surviving since its been around the longest so they used that.

The down side is, now I look like this...

(I have no idea why I'm holding this orange)

Once Dr. Margoles harvested my fat, she injected it into areas surrounding my implants that needed tweaking. Implants under breast tissue (as in breast augmentation) typically look fabulous, but implants under pectoral muscle (as in breast reconstruction), with no breast tissue, tends to have some issues.

With issues now gone, lets focus on the orange. See how nice and round and plump it is... 

And this is me, four days post surgery.

On the top of my chest, by my collar bone, are two initials. An "M" is on my right and an "S" is on my left. I thought that meant righty is for Mark and lefty is for Shannon but it turns out that's medical jargon, for (Dr.) Sandra Margoles - her way of tagging me so there was no confusion as to who was operating on me. I for one am relieved - it tells me that, unlike my first surgeon (aka DICDOC), she really did do my surgery. 

I am going to make you wait a bit longer for the full unveiling - right now they're slathered in bacitracin and shielded behind what looks like water bottle tops but I'll tease you by saying that I am thrilled with the results! These nips have transformed lifeless mounds into titillating bosoms - something I seriously doubted would ever happen and if you've followed along from the beginning of my breast debacle, I'm certain you did too.

Once I'm healed, I'll travel to the top nipple/areola tattoo artist in the country, Vinnie Meyers, and get my areola and nipple tattooed a lovely shade of ... pink. Yes, as crazy as some of my design ideas have been, I'm beginning to think that "normal" might be the way to go. 

xOOx,MonkeyME 

To see how I got here visit CATSTIR the other "C" word that rhymes with Dancer

Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper

With a wide open weekend devoted to writing, I wasted most of it wondering if my housekeeper is a prostitute.

If you discovered your housekeeper was a prostitute would you fire her?

What if she was a stripper?

What if she was a sexy housekeeper?

Did you know there is such a thing as a sexy housekeeper?

According to Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper, a sexy housekeeper wears sexy outfits, whether it be a french maid outfit or luscious lingerie, while performing light housework. There is erotic conversation and flirtation, without bodily contact. It's 85% visual and 15% physical.

I suppose that means scrubbing your pot is out of the question, but what about tickling you with a feather duster?

A professional sexy housekeeper arrives in plain clothes and changes into a costume of your liking. She has perfected the art of vacuuming, without bending her knees, in 6 inch stiletto heels, and can polish a wood surface using the heat of her breath and the wax-on wax-off beat of her hands.

If you're feeling hungry, she'll bend over a hot stove and cook for you. Then she'll serve you and clean up after you - gently wipe lingering morsels of gooey goodness from your mouth and chin.

If you want to be a sexy housekeeper, you must have the face and body to match a man or woman's fantasy. You must be dexterous and deft, cool under pressure, and unwilling to rest (sorry Dr. Seuss).

You must be compliant, clever, and complacent - be able to handle unruly customers who complain their flatware isn't polished enough, their carpet isn't vacuumed enough, or their marble floor isn't slick enough.

Most of these women work for all service companies and according to their desired skills and resume criteria, you need to have excellent conversation and organizational skills.

Really? Why?

There are companies in larger cities that hire "out-of-the-norms," meaning cross-dressers, transvestites, full-figured men and women. Even...dare I say it, middle-aged women. So"sexy" isn't limited to cute and perky.

Ironically, after an exhausting google search, I have yet to find a sexy housekeeper who's duties include ironing. I can't even find a royalty free photo of a sexy/hot women ironing.

Which brings me back to my first question...

Would you fire your housekeeper if you found out she was a prostitute?

What if she ironed your sheets?

I love crawling into clean, fragrantly sweet, well pressed, sheets. But as much as I love them, I'm not willing to do them and I don't want dropping them off at my dry cleaners to be one of my duties. Besides, I'd still have to put them on.

This is the main reason why I have a housekeeper. That and she talks to the cat.

So why do I think my housekeeper is a prostitute?

Besides the fact that she's a slender, fair skinned, european beauty in her mid 20's, with legs up to her ears and hair to her waist - she drives a BMW and has had more cosmetic surgeries than anyone I know and I live in a superficial city overpopulated with trophy wives who worship botox and peroxide, and spend their days flitting from the gym, to country club benefits, to squandering small fortunes at garish boutiques.

Last week, when housekeeper Katia, failed to show up I called her. It was a bit too late on a Friday night and I was on my second bowl of wine. To my surprise she answered her phone in a breathy tone.

"Helllllo, how may I help you," she moaned.

Feeling awkward, I disguised my voice and asked for Rebecca.

"Yah, tis is Rrrrebecca... what I can do for you?" she eagerly baited me.

I had no comeback, no clever retort. So I hung up.

Clearly, I have no proof, no solid evidence. And even if I did, is that grounds for dismissal?

I say YES, based on the fact that prostitution is illegal and the willingness to partake in such an act of crime alludes to a certain amount of desperation and if someone is desperate enough to sell their body, what is stopping them from selling my jewelry?

My husband, on the other hand, is intrigued by the idea/fantasy of Katia having a side job. He no longer focuses on lingering dust bunnies or complains about mismatched socks. Instead of grumbling about her shortcomings, he wonders what other chores she performs.

With each of us having a 50% stake in household decisions, we are deadlocked. So I'm turning to you my clever, insightful, devoted readers of all things monkey...

Should she stay, or should she go? 

XO,MonkeyMe

UPDATE:
Katia called my office yesterday to say that she would not be able to come this week. She said she was very sorry. It was difficult to understand her explanation. There was a lot of emotion in her voice. But it had something to do with court. This changes everything. If someone or something is struggling my natural instinct is to help. This time, all I have to do is sleep in dirty sheets. I can do that.

GRUMPY TOAD

Excuse me while I rant a bit, but as much as I enjoy writing, the submission side of it SUCKS ASS.

No wonder we writers are insecure.

It's the first Wednesday of the month which means it's time to link my insecurities to the INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP. Honestly, I wasn't going to participate this month because what good is it? We get a few more followers and a few more readers who visit once or twice, and most of the time we never see them again. And this whole process of politely commenting and following is exhausting and it takes away from my actual writing time. And yet... I cannot forget that through the INSECURE WRITER'S GROUP I found some amazing people who also write and I love their words and their spirit.

I've decided to highlight one of them because her luminosity is invigorating...

Em @ 35 Juniper Drive 

Em, please tell me what to do? You're brilliant and clever and all things publishable - surely you most know!

I am so stuck. STUCK, STUCK, STUCK...

Last night I had a dream that I died without being published. And as part of my punishment for not getting out of my own way long enough to get my work read and accepted and turned into a best selling memoir - I came back as a toad. A big, green, slimy, slippery, TOAD - with no voice. No "ribbit" not even a gulp. And none of the other toads would talk to me because... I had no voice.

I have an "agent" who does NOTHING. Absofuckinglutely NOTHING! And when I try to do the work on my own - submit to a writer's submission services such as Writer's Relief, they won't take my work because it has appeared on my blog. MY BLOG. MINE, MINE, MINE!!!

Here lies the catch 22. I develop my voice on my blog. If it wasn't for my blog I'd have nothing clever to write about. So I write about it and some of it is pretty fucking good, but if I show you I can't submit it because it's here, on my blog. That's BULLSHIT!!!

And while I'm at it, let me say that this picture is NOT FUNNY. It's not funny, it's not clever, and worst of all, it's in poor taste. Sure I'm jealous. She is, after all THE WINNER OF THE WRITER'S 2012 SHORT-STORY CONTEST, but nothing about resting on train tracks is appropriate. For the record, a picture of a person pointing a gun at their head is also not funny. Nor is a person with one foot off a 40 foot cliff... (I'll stop there, but you get the message).

And yet it worked because DAMN IT I fell prey and clicked on "find out more."

I joined opensalon.com - a writers version of facebook. It's exhausting and it loads at a snails pace, but I tried posting my work there hoping to get read enough so that the editors will notice me and publish me at salon.com.  That's the carrot they dangle in front of you. But most of the writers are fucking geniuses, and it's intimidating and I don't even feel comfortable commenting. And after 6 posts, still ... I'm invisible.

So what the FUCK is an INFLAMED INSECURE WRITER to do? Seriously. Someone please whisper me the secret to successfully submitting your work? Do it now. Do it before I run out of time.

Because we're all going to die one day and no one should have to return as a mute toad.

Incidentally, this grumpy fuck's species is called RED FOWLER TOAD. Fowler... One of my dearest friends in the world is also a Fowler. Maybe that's a sign. Maybe things will all float on okay...