New pic from my last shoot!

As promised, here is a pic from my latest shoot. We got the idea from a poster of Marilyn Monroe working out. So of course we did a whole slew in the same spirit. Hope you like it!

Autumn Pictures

More pics from Millennium Park, 2005.

Make a Smilebox photobook

Pics from y forst 50 updates

Here are some pictures from my Southern Charms site. htere is one picture here from each of my first 50 posts.

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Bllopers Reel!

Everybody loves bloopers, right? Here are a few of mine!

Make a Smilebox slideshow

My 2005 Portfolio

Here are the pictures from my portfolio in 2005, when I was trying to get into plus-size modeling. For some reason, size 14, which I was at the time, is considered plus-size. Don't ask me. They are pretty pictures, but not really suitable for Southern Charms, so I thought I would post them here. Enjoy!

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Here is a link to my art prints on RedBubble:

UPdate 34 posted

You can see the rest here.

New picture updates

Hey Everybody!

I have a new Photo set up at Southern Charms. Here is the first pic:


Update 32

There are a few more updates coming up soon, which means I submitted them butthey are not out yet. Here is the next regular update:

Update 33

And here is the next Bonus Update:

Update 31 now on Southern Charms

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Some very pretty summer pictures

Here are some nice pics that were taken of me in July of 2004. The photographer's name is Peter Arbib and he is located just outside Indianapolis. At teh time, I was trying to get into plus-size fashion modeling, so that is what these pictures are about. I can't use them on Southern Charms, and they are too old and out-dated for a portfolio, but I thought I would share. Maybe you will like them.

So This Lady Accused Me of Having No Morals

When I first put up my MySpace page, some woman sent me a message. The Subject line read "Morals." The entire body of the message read, "Do you even know what they are?" I liked my reply to this letter so well I decided to publish it here.

Dear Paige:

About a week ago, you sent me an e-mail with the subject “morals” and the entire body of the message read as follows:

“Do you even know what they are?”

I wondered, as in my reply to you, why you were concerned with my education or lack of it, but you never answered my question. I can only assume that you are too busy sending such messages to every stripper, exotic dancer, adult industry model, and porn actress on MySpace. That’s OK; as the moral watchdog of MySpace, you must have a lot to do.

As to your original question:

Yes, dear Paige, I do know what morals are. I think my Mom first introduced the concept to me. I further refined my ideas at the University of Maryland (Phi Theta Kappa, Class of ‘95—GO TARAPINS!) and while serving my country in the US Army Signal Corps. Just to be certain, I looked it up. This is what my dictionary says:

Morals: principles of right and wrong as they govern standards of general or sexual behavior (emphasis mine)

Well, since I am a sex worker, I have to believe it is the sexual aspect of this definition to which you are referring. I have drawn the conclusion that because my principles of right and wrong, as they govern sex-oriented entertainment and quasi-sexual behavior, are different form yours, you have discounted my principles and simply choose to believe I have none.

Shame on you, Paige. And you call yourself a Christian (other).

I would never tell you that your moral convictions are wrong; however I have a right to defend my moral ground as well. I am always honest and forthright in my business dealings. I do not go home with my customers, and I do not pretend that I will. I never lie about my marital status, and I never lie to my husband about what I do at work. In fact, the only time I ever lie about anything regarding my work is to protect somebody who would be hurt by the truth, like my son. I lie to his teachers and the PTA about what I do, to protect my son from people like you.

I am not trying to steal your husband, nor am I trying to steal all his money. I don’t want it on my conscience that I helped some man spend the grocery money and half the rent, because I know how devastating that can be to his wife and kids. How do I know? Because I’ve been there, baby.

What I am trying to do is feed my kid and pay my bills, just like any normal American parent. My decision to work in the sex entertainment field, rather than one of the many other things I could be doing, is all about the hours and the flexibility. I can be here for my family when they need me. (This year I took about 6 or 7 weeks off to deal with an abnormal amount of family drama, and my work didn’t even bat an eye.) Yes, Paige, believe it or not, dancing is a family value for me.

I understand that many Christians (other) believe that any sort of sexual behavior outside of marriage is some sort of sin. Obviously I disagree. Lest you think I am being arbitrary, alow me to point out that the Old Testament is full of lovely dancing girls who are praised for their beauty and grace, not condemned. The Ten Commandments state only that a man should not covet his neighbor’s wife. Harmless flirtation is not condemned.

Jesus Himself befriended and forgave many supposedly promiscuous women, such as the woman at the well. Even His close friend Mary Magdalene is commonly believed to have been a prostitute. After her famous entrance into the story with the alabaster jar, Mary is said to have traveled with Jesus and the Twelve, one of several women who “provided for them out of their own means.” As a prostitute, “her own means” would have to be money she had saved from working, or else she may have been working still. Imagine that: The travels of Jesus and the Disciples all through the Middle East were financed, at least in part, by the earnings of a sex worker! And Jesus must have loved her anyway: Mary Magdalene was the first person Jesus came to see when He rose from the dead.

We humans are sexual beings. If, as many Christians believe, we were created by God, then it is God who made us this way. Scientists are still debating whether humans are biologically wired to mate for life, or, like the majority of species, we are meant to crave change. Perhaps it’s true what some people say, that the male mind is always looking for a new place to sew a few wild oats, while the mind of a woman is set to ensure safety and security for herself and her babies.

Imagine for a moment that it is true. Say a man loves is wife, but he needs to get out a little. Take a little vacation from reality. So he stops by a bar on the way home from work. He could go to a regular bar, hit on some girl, and take her to a hotel room. Well, that’s about the end of the marriage right there.

Or he could come to see me. Sure, we will have a drink, flirt a little, maybe I will rub his back or even dance a few songs for him. Then I give him a peck on the cheek and send him home in a good mood. When he gets home, he is a little more relaxed and happy. He doesn’t kick the dog, refrains from yelling at his kids, and is responsive to his wife. Maybe they even make love after the kids go to bed. I think that is a much happier ending, don’t you, Paige?

My point here, the moral of my story you might say, is that yes, I do understand and even practice morals. The moral code by which I work and live is very strong. It is not wrong, it’s just not yours. As a business woman in the sex-entertainment industry, I provide, with integrity, an honest service and in return get paid an honest fee. I believe deeply in the value of my work, the value of entertainment and fantasy. And (surprise!) I also beiee in the bible, especially the proverbs:

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

Adventured in Karaoke part 2 (Everybody Loves my Baby)

So, the whole fiasco at Possum Pub was actually meant to be a warm-up for tonight. For the first time since our son was born (5 years ago) we went out singing. Never mind that I am just getting over laryngitis. Never mind that there are presents to be bought and wrapped and a holiday dinner to prepare. I wanted to go, and damn it, we went.

We landed, pretty much by chance, at the Lost Acre bar in Romeoville. It was sort of brightly lit, and didn’t look too promising at first, I must admit. At first we couldn’t locate the karaoke area because it was just on one end of the bar, with some tables pushed aside to make room for the singers.

But . . . what the hell. We sat down and ordered a beer. The “stage” such as it was, featured a decently-voiced Elvis impersonator in a white t-shirt, singing “Love Me Tender.”

No sooner has my butt hit the chair, than Elvis wanders over and starts singing to me. I am with my husband, mind you, who has removed my coat for me, brought me a drink, and in all other respects acted like he is with me, as opposed to having shared a ride with me. Elvis takes my hand, leads me to the stage area, and shoves his mike in my face. Remember the old Stick-Ups air freshener commercials where the lady opens the closet and a giant smelly gym sock comes out? When this guy opened his mouth, giant mugs of beer should have been coming out. Gag! But here we are, at the front of the room, in front of this guy’s friends. I will be singing in front of these people in a few minutes; I don’t want to alienate my audience at first sight. The lyrics for the next verse are coming up; well I need to warm up anyway, so I take a deep breath, get my bearings and belt it out!

As the last notes of “Love me tender” die away, Drunken Elvis tries to plant a juicy one on my lips. I duck and make my way back to my table, where my beloved is laughing hysterically.

My first song is Reba McIntyre’s “Fancy.” It’s a good song, right in the middle of my range, and I do it well. Big, big applause. As I walk to the bathroom, I am nearly accosted by my new fans. I should have brought some business cards to hand out! One man grabs me and tells me how much he liked my singing. A couple more grab me and ask my name, where I am from, etc., and how come they never saw me here before. By the time I make it back to my seat, Ted was laughing at me even more and asking whether he was going to have to fight somebody for my honor.

At this moment, another man gets up to sing. He looks a little bit and sounds a lot like Barry White. Drunken Elvis appears at my side and asks me to dance. I turn to Mr. O’Reilly for help. “Go on,” he tells me, “Have your fun.” I shoot him one last frustrated glance as I am pulled to the makeshift dance floor. Someday, I vow, he will pay for this.” –> –> –>[if gte vml 1]> –>[endif]–> –> –> –>[if !vml]–> –> –> –>[endif]–>

Drunken Elvis Pulls me close against him—too close. I am struggling to breathe. I pull back, only to have him blow some more beer-sodden breath in my face. I glare over Drunken Elvis’s shoulder at my husband, who can’t stop laughing. Drunken Elvis does a pelvic thrust and attempts to grind with me as he is ostensibly slow dancing with me. I am backing away while trying not to humiliate anyone, least of all me. He is thrusting, I am backing. What a sight we must make.

When I get back to my seat, I punch Ted in the arm. “You know what, Romeo?” I hiss in his ear. “That kind of thing wouldn’t happen to me if you would ask me to dance sometimes!” “Oh, you want to dance?” He replies, all innocence.” –> –> –>[if gte vml 1]> –>[endif]–> –> –> –>[if !vml]–> –> –> –>[endif]–>

And the night goes on. We take our turns singing with the dozen or so other singers in the bar. I am just getting over some laryngitis, but still I want to sing. I actually sing until I am hoarse. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” does me in. I croak the last few notes. Drunken Elvis approaches me again and insists on another dance.

There is no deterring this man. While he is attempting to discretely grind on me (as if I wouldn’t notice) he starts telling me, “You know, you are a very beautiful woman. Very beautiful . . . .” I point out, “And I am also very married!” Did he really think I would bring one man to a bar and then attempt to pick up another one? Dude! What are you thinking?

Apologies ensue. When the song ends, he walks me back to my seat and thanks Mr. O’Reilly for allowing me to dance with him. “Hey, man,: he replies, “She’s her own woman.” Not helping my cause, I think. For once, I do want to look as if I am under somebody’s thumb.

Later, Drunken Elvis will corner my other half at the urinal and tell him all the stuff he already knows, how lucky he is, blah, blah. But now Ted’s song is coming up. He has put in a doors tune, “Break on Through (To the Other Side)” I am watching him sing when a long instrumental break interrupts him. And I mean LOOOOONG—like maybe 16 or 20 measures long. As I watch is face, I can see him start to snicker. When I look to the lyrics screen I see why. I begin to blush, and scrunch down in my chair while the words hang, in large white letters, in front of the bar for all to see. My honey can hardly contain himself with laughing as he belts out:

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY!

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY!

DOORS lyrics

Photo Shoot Today!

I’m still into doing pin-up art. I work with an awesome photographer who also likes doing the pin-ups. We have a terrific time when we get together.

I had only 3 hours sleep last night, but I still went to shoot today. (Which reminds me, please forgive any bizarre typos. Thanks.) Mr. O’Reilly even had to cancel some continuing education class for his job, because a shoot for me is THAT big a deal.

My photog buddy Kevin and I have been planning this shoot ever since the last one, and we had decided we wanted to work slowly and concentrate on quality poses, rather than just trying to produce a huge number of images, that will need major editing later.

Last time we shot we worked with a friend of Kevin’s, and between the two photogos, we ended up with 1200 pictures. I just wanted to go lie down after that one!

Today we woud up using 6 changes of clothes over a period of about 4 hours. We shot abut 700 images. The costumes I used were:

**Blue Hawiian-print bra and skirt
**Yellow cocktail dress and panty hose
**Beautiful black “Illusion Gown” form Fredericks of Hollywood
**Grey pinstripe sexy librian suit with lacy-top stockings
**Brown baby-doll lingerie
**And the best one of all, a black teddy that looks like a tuxedo, with balck thigh-high boots and a hat that coveres my eyes on most pictures. It looks like I am in the chorus of a broadway musical.

I Don't NEED Saving, Thank You

This article in Glamour is seriously warped:

“No one should have to be a stripper”

She spent years dancing naked for leering men clutching $5 bills. Now she’s trying to help other women escape the soul-killing triple-X life.

Now seriously, nobody HAS to be a stripper. Me, I could have taught school. I did that for one soul-killing year. Every day I faced a few dozen cocky, arrogant, misguided adolescents and attempted to teach them the pleasures of reading and learning and using their minds. And then they told me they hadn’t done their homework because they were too busy watching TV or getting laid.

I could have stayed in retail. I could have killed more than my soul managing a Radio Shack store, mandatory 54 hours a week on $25,000 salary, with abusive customers and a misogamistic district manager. I was seriously expected to tell customers “thank you, please visit us again” after they threw merchandise at me. It happened more than once, and let me tell you, getting beaned in the side of the head with a package of four D batteries, HURTS!

But no, I chose to give all that up for the sad and depressing work of dancing. I must admit, I feel SOOOOOOOO degraded when some moron grabs my ass, that I just have to turn around and smack him for it. (Smacking people who desperately dereve it is jsut so humiliating, don’t you think??) It is completely demoralizing to have people greet me warmly, buy me drinks, and give me compliments. I felt so much more respected when the great majority of people I met in a day would imply or even say outright, what do you know; you are only a woman (teacher)?

I really hate that, you know. Having people act happy to see me. I hate it more when they say how much they enjoy my company, or my dancing, or even looking at various parts of my body. I really mostly especially hate it when I know I have made somebody happy, really brightened their day. Absolutely disgusting.

And do you know what else I hate? (Ohhhhhh, I am on a roll now!) I hate not punching a time clock. I hate not being responsible for other people’s children or merchandise or money or property. I hate being able to stay home with my kid when he needs me and taking time off to help my mom. Making my own schedule really sucks. So does picking up an extra shift or two whenever I decide I want something.

And I really really f’ing despise making as much in 2 days as I used to make all week, attempting to put a little sense into the heads of other people’s insolent brats. Now I have no bloody choice but to spend some of my extra time and income with my own son, making sure he does not grow up to be the same kind of willfully ignorant, arrogant little cuss that I so enjoy beating my head against. Damn! That was one of my life’s ambitions, to be so busy providing for my kid that I didn’t have time to raise him. And I guess I have to spend the rest of my free time building up my couple of businesses and making my husband feel like the luckiest man alive. Man, that irks me!

Yo, sister! Over here! I need to be saved!