Danielle Bacher

Interviewing Jack Grisham is always a trip. Now 50, the T.S.O.L. singer/political candidate/professional rabble-rouser has lived several lifetimes' worth of punk rock excess and insanity. Fortunately, he has thrown himself just as hard into sobriety and a committed relationship with fiancée Kate Kieve.

Last year, he released a semi-autobiographical novel entitled An American Demon: A Memoir, which touches on substance abuse, relationships, cross dressing and punk rock, and he recently recorded an album with new band the Manic Low.

At his home in Huntington Beach, Grisham (along with Kieve) shared some of his most personal anecdotes and feelings about sex, love, drugs and putting things back together after they all fall apart.

More >>

Lina Lecaro

Filthy fun for boys and girls

The self-proclaimed "Filthy Family" behind Miss Kitty's Parlour and Boulet Brothers bashes never cease to crank up the heat -- and crank down club-goers inhibitions -- at their monthly events at the Dragonfly in Hollywood.

The promoters are not fond of labels or boxing themselves into any one scene or theme, but kink is always a component. Whether it's a finger lickin' good "White Trash" night or a "Star Wars" inspired galactic grind (light sabers are so phallic), Kitty/BB parties' half-naked go-go dancers, salacious stage shows. and audacious, androgynous, highly interactive amusements make for one of most erotic environments in L.A. nightlife.

A full-on fetish-themed night was long overdue, and last Saturday their Black Unicorn party was as horn-y as expected.

More >>

Flickr: MonikaThomas

Human beings have near-endless ability to sexualize objects and experiences. Most people fall within a narrow band of erotic desires, but our Internet snooping has revealed smaller communities of people who get turned on by things that the vast majority would never, ever consider to be sexy. The following are 10 of the strangest fetishes we've found in literally minutes of in-depth research.

More >>

A true-life hook-up disaster from After Dark reader Luxx Fontaine.

I was out at an industry party (of course, what else do we do in Los Angeles?) and a colleague introduced me to his brother. I wasn't totally into him, but was being showered with his attention and I enjoyed it enough to continue the conversation/drinking at several other bars that night.  
 
I knew I drank a lot when I realized I'd lost track of the beverage count after only the second bar. We had tequila there.
 
I've learned there's a point when you acknowledge all the moments you could have or should have made a better decision. Here were mine:

    • I probably shouldn't have flirted with him. I wasn't interested.
    • I probably shouldn't have swallowed that fifth (?) shot of tequila.
    • I probably shouldn't have gotten in a car with this dude. To Venice.

I lived 30 minutes away, making a walk of shame impossible, and a cab ride of shame was not in my budget that week.

But did that stop me?
 
When we got to his place it took forever for him to make a move, and I had to help it along.

It had been months since my last make-out session and I was psyched to get down to business.

I was disappointed pretty quickly.

My boredom sobered me up pretty fast and I went for the easy way out: talk dirty, let him take care of himself and then pretend it was awesome.

Works. Every. Time.
 
I slept hard and it took more than a moment to realize where I was – and what had happened the night before.

As my eyes fluttered open and I looked around and realized I wasn't in a house. Nor was I in an apartment, or even a building.

I was in a trailer.

An Airstream to be exact.

In Venice.

In my party clothes.

With a dude with a small penis.
 
I hoped I was dreaming. I wished I was still drunk.
 
“Oh. My. God. No. Do-over. DO-OVER!!” (Yes, I said this out loud.)
 
It all came rushing back to me. He kept joking about a trailer, but I didn't realize he was serious.
 
In order to save face and/or be polite we went to brunch and it was complete torture. We had nothing to talk about and with each moment, I felt more and more hung over.

I felt like I was going to die.

The car ride home was even worse. It was hot and there was no AC. The food was making me ill and when I thought it couldn't get any worse, he decided to take the freeway.
 
A week later a friend asked if I knew anyone with access to an Airstream trailer for a photo shoot.
 
"Please,” I replied. “As if I would know anyone who owns a trailer.”

Image: Simon Howden.

A true-life dating/drinking tale from After Dark reader Luxx Fontaine.

 

I got to the bar and rolled right up to the bartender: "I would like a shot of your cheapest tequila and a vodka/soda please.”





He looked at me funny and said, "Really? You sure?”

 

Yes, I was sure – I had catching up to do. As the night went on, I got DRUNK. Like, really really drunk.



I was at the bar getting my third shot of the “cheapest tequila” and the bartender asked if one of the dudes I was with was my boyfriend.



I confirmed, "No," and he asked for my number with a smile.



I got home in one piece (not really sure how), passed out in my clothes, and was woken up by a text around 2 a.m.  



"Hi, nice to meet you."



We texted for the next hour or so, but the only thing I remember was that it was VERY difficult to type and the letters were moving on the phone.

 

It was a fun flirtatious texting conversation and he asked me if I wanted to go out and get a drink. Cute – a date!

 

Friday night rolled around and I decided to text him. He was at work but invited me to come out to the bar to see him. I had plans, but said I might, knowing full well I wouldn't.



I wanted him to look for me, to wait for me.

 

The next night, I was out with a friend and we visited the bartender. I was buzzed, but not trashed. I wanted to get the “friend approval,” and since I was so drunk when we first met, I wanted to remember what he looked like.



He fed us drinks and as the night wore on, I proceeded to get heavily intoxicated.

 

After our date was set, I immediately Googled him and found out the truth. He was an actor. Great. I go from musicians to actors. Typical.

 

Date night rolled around and I received a text around 6 p.m. saying, “This is your last chance to back out.” Cute. We met at my favorite bar in West Hollywood.

 

He was sweet and handsome, despite the khaki pants. We went to a few different bars and not only did he buy me beer, but also several shots of Patron.

 

We proceeded to get drunk (surprise?) and had an amazing in-car make-out session. He was a dirty talker – VERY hot. He also shared his appreciation for red lingerie.



Unfortunately, due to forces of nature, I couldn't sleep with him or else I would have. I added a trip to Victoria's Secret on my To Do List.

 

Some girlfriends and I visited the bartender the next night. They left early after just one drink, but I wanted to go home with the bartender.



But it was only 10:30 p.m. I had a few hours to kill.

 

So I proceeded to get DRUNK DRUNK DRUNK. (Are we noticing a pattern here?) [EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes.]

 

He was leaving the next day for a film festival, so we went to his place and had another crazy make-out session. I was still out of commission and couldn't sleep with him.

 

When he got back into town, he invited me to a work party, and though I hadn't made it to Victoria's Secret, I put on my hot black lacy panties and was ready to go.

 

Then I got a text:



"I'm exhausted and not feeling great, but I'm not blowing you off. Let's shoot again for next week.”

 

I know a blow-off when I see/read one. You don't text someone, "I'm not blowing you off," and NOT blow them off. [EDITOR'S NOTE: It's science.]

 

When recapping this *ahem* “relationship” with a friend, I came to an unpleasant realization:

 

I was sober around the bartender for MAYBE an hour. All the other hours? WASTED. He only knew me drunk.

 

Maybe I don't have a dating problem, I have a drinking problem.



Image: Maggie Smith.

A true-life tryst tale submitted by LA After Dark reader Cherry Blossom Girl, entitled "WTF BF?"
 
I had a crush on “Jason” at my first job in L.A.. He was super dreamy, tall, cute, funny and we had an amazing sexual chemistry but never acted on it. When I left that job for another, we ran into each other at a bar (go figure) and I started flirting/drinking/laughing at his jokes – they weren't funny at all – and using all kinds of fun body language.

You know how it is. Blame it on the Jack Daniels.

He asked me to go home with him and I was like, “Why not?” C'est La Vie.

We went back to his place and we made out on his balcony until he said the golden words: “I've always wanted to know what it's like to be in bed with you. I guess it's been building up for all these years.”

I eloquently responded, “Yes, me too. I've wanted to fuck you for awhile.”

I was naughty.  

We passionately kissed and make naughty noises like the ones you hear on Cinemax at 12:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.

We did the whole sucking-face-while-walking-to-the-bedroom-while-taking-off-each-other's-clothes maneuver. He was a bit drunk and stumbled on the bed.

Then he's on top of me. It's steamy and exciting. He flips me on my stomach and starts humping…my back. My fucking BACK??

I thought, “Well OK, some people are into dry humping. Why not?”

I told myself I'd let him get his rocks off for a second, ya know, warm up the oven before he put in the turkey. But he fucks my back for almost 10 minutes and was done.

WHAT THE FUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK??!

I was lying on my stomach relatively traumatized but I didn't want to embarrass the guy. So I just went home and took a nice long bath.

Still to this day, I have no idea what that was about. My back has never been the same.

Image: m_bartosch.

A true-life tale submitted by LA After Dark reader Cherry Blossom Girl entitled, "Golden Shower Panty Boy."

I went over to this boy's house and he was a little, I guess you could say, “eccentric.” We were on his bed and he was going to town on me in the crotch area. He got excited and put my panties around his neck while going down. I felt a bit weird but wasn't too bothered by it.

A few days later he left me a message on the phone saying that I smelled really nice, that I had soft inner thighs and skin. (Yes, he said those words verbatim.) Weird that someone would leave that kind of message on a voicemail to a stranger, but whatever. 

We texted back and forth the next week and he said, “[Cherry Blossom Girl], I really want to ask you a serious question. I know we don't know each other well but I love tasting you and I want to take it to the next step…”

I'm thinking, “Uhhh OK. Spanking? Ball gag?” I was creeped out nevertheless but curious because I'm a borderline pervert.

He says, “I want a golden shower with you.”

[Enter cricket noises here.]

I said, “Uhhh, I dunno...” and he swiftly responded, “Well, please think about it. I fantasize about it with you.”

Glutton for punishment, I had to ask, “Well...how?”

He says: “I want you to stand on top of me while I lay on the bathroom floor. Then you pee on my face.”

And…scene. Thank you for coming!

I didn't return his calls. I was grossed out. But did I ever see him again? Yes.

I ran into him recently. He is a friend of my neighbor so I see him every now and then. He gets a polite wave and smile.

Then I run the fuck away.

Image: Healingdream.

What a Strip Club Isn't:
First, a strip club is a place to watch live naked girls disrobe; it is NOT a place to pick up girls or get laid, nor is it a great place to masturbate or take a first date. The girls are there to make money – period – so if one can convince you she'll put out to part you with copious amounts of cash, she'll put in an Oscar-worthy performance to do so.

Preparation and Cost
Though many, if not most, clubs don't require a dress code, show some class and put on your nice threads. Expect to spend an average of $30-$40 per hour while you're there for drinks and tips, with extra allowance for lap dances if you find a performer you particularly enjoy.

Touching
Due to a myriad of local ordinances aimed at preventing prostitution, clubs have a “touch and go” policy, meaning you touch a girl, you go. Always keep your hands to yourself and let the dancer decide how far to take things. If she wants to let you touch her assets, she'll move your hands appropriately.

Drinking and Nudity
The laws in L.A. dictate that no alcohol may be served when any nudity is involved, meaning overpriced soda, coffee, bottled water and energy drinks only. Bikini bars, where the girls strip suggestively only to their undergarments or lingerie, have no such restrictions.

Tipping
If you sit at the stage during dances, you are expected to tip, whether or not you like the girl, her dance, or her outfit. Keep plenty of dollar bills handy and show your preferences by tipping a couple of extra bills to girls whose performances or looks you like best. If you decide to get a lap dance, expect to pay about $15-$20 per song (maybe two).

Helpful Hints
•    If you're going with a large group, call ahead to let them know you're coming and ask if they'll waive any cover charges. Most clubs are very accommodating and will at the very least provide a good discount.
•    Unless you've been together a while and/or you're positive your date is not a prude, don't take a date to a strip club. You will not be treated better for having a girl with you, and your fantasy of a lesbian tryst after-hours will not materialize.
•    Unless you fly to Vegas during a busy convention, you will not be treated to a club full of Playboy bunnies and supermodels at most strip clubs. More likely, there will be a couple of stunners, some attractive yet pudgy performers, and a couple of overweight, yet game gals. Show respect to all of them.
•    Don't be afraid to speak up. The girls are there for your money – never forget that. Therefore, it's up to you how you wish to be parted with your currency. If a girl is putting the hard press, politely tell her “Maybe later,” and have her move on.
•    Finally, if you have a great story, share it, then ask for one in return. Strippers have the greatest stories and you'll be rewarded for asking.

Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono.