STARTED JAN 2023--
MATURE AND EXPLICIT CONTENT. Viewer Discretion is advised.
Priscilla Pearl Wolfe is a Pornstar.
Halen Elle used to be.
That is until the apathetically charming jackass with a back pocket full of guitar picks and skittles moves...
"Ooh baby, ooh baby, I'm in love..." ♪ West Coast • Lana Del Rey.
THE CROCKET MANOR ON HOWL HILL
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"I'm a Pornstar."
This is the part of dates that I find dreadful.
"You're... a what?"
I've come to find learn that men have one of three reactions to finding out that I have an alter ego.
And ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, that's when it all goes downhill.
Of course, there are times when they're polite.
Like date number one; Samuel Brewer, a twenty five year old nursing student from Kansas. He simply said—after choking on his martini, no less: "I think you're a beautiful woman, but I'm looking for someone with a different lifestyle."
He was sweet. Clear. Cut. To the point. And it was a bullet dodged anyway.
The man had the enthusiasm of a dead fish when we had sex in his car and he sounded like a squeaky toy being stepped on every time he moaned.
He came and I went, leaving him in the parking lot of an IHOP with my business card and one word of advice:
"Watch my porn and learn how to fuck."
In reality, I should've called the hospital he worked for and demanded his immediate termination. You're a nurse practitioner who studied anatomy for a living and you still can't find the clit?
Yuck.
How useless.
It took one night in the Green Room with Santana to fuck away the nightmares from that hookup.
But, even now, sometimes at night, when I hear Chucky gnawing on his chew toy, I get the shivering reminder of Samuel the Squeaker.
Reaction number two; is disgust.
And that came from date number four; Paul Chase. He was a thirty year old, stay at home dad who had the nerve to call me a 'used up whore' and leave the restaurant before I could get him to pay the lunch bill.
I prefer the term 'antique,' but I digress.
He made quite the scene. However, I should've known he was bad news when he took me to Applebees.
That place is the Arby's of date restaurants. They pass off hippo testicles as chicken wings and call it 'gourmet.' That's no place for a woman like me. Or any woman for that matter.
I puked Paul and their food out of my system that evening.
And lastly, there's people like the man I'm on a date with, right now.
Date number ten; Freddie Court. Twenty-seven. A musician in an indie band called Tiny Toes, which should've been my first warning sign to stay away from those hazel eyes.
