So what’s black and blue and hates sex? Sugar Weasel in the back of a Las Vegas police cruiser at 12:30 am. Now I’m no stranger to the inside of a jail cell but those of you who have been to Clark County Detention Center will agree with me, it’s no place for a naked clown on a Friday night. I know what your thinking, how badly does one have to fuck up to end up in jail in a city that’s built around, legalized gambling and prostitution? Pretty, damn badly.
I decided rather last minute to fly to Las Vegas for a couple of weeks for some R & R. I thought I might play a little poker; entertain a few lady friends, maybe even squeeze in a pedicure at the Palms. The first few days went pretty much as planned. That is until I got a call from an old friend of mine, Janie. She wanted me to work a party for her friends 40th Birthday. Call it intuition but normally if Calamity Jane refers someone I graciously decline, but I was spending money like Elvis and frankly needed the extra cash.
It was to be a straight clown show, no escorting. I would do a little Go-Go dancing follow it up with a striptease, and maybe the naughty ring-toss game. Easy money. I’d be in and out of there in an hour, with plenty of time to get cleaned up and back on the strip for a little celebrating of my own. I showed up at the Imperial Palace with balloons in hand and knocked on their door. Who ordered the Chinese food, I said with a wink to the heavyset woman who answered. She looked at me as if she stepped in dog shit. There’s a fucking clown at the door with balloons, she yelled. She was half right, but there would be no fucking this evening.
As I made my way through a thick fog of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, I found five brutish women in sensible shoes, drinking boxed wine and putting on make up. “You must be the birthday girl,” I said to the bruiser in the tiara as I handed her the balloons. I hate clowns, “ she said curtly. “Really, that’s interesting because the census bureau did a study and the vast majority of clowns polled, hate you to” I replied. You could have heard a pin drop. At that point I figured I could settle up with Janie later on my bill. I just wanted to hurry up and get naked, so I could do my show and get the hell out of there. May I use the bathroom I asked? “Just don’t stink up the joint” she responded. She was a real lady, this one.
I quickly disrobed, and put on some mood appropriate music for the crowd, Mambo Italiano, by Rosemary Clooney. I took a deep breath and jerked open the door, ready to begin my shock and awe campaign. Who ordered the Chinese food I said again as I leapt from the bathroom into the bedroom, wearing nothing but my size 36 clown shoes. What Calamity Jane neglected to mention, was the birthday girl and her cronies worked vice for the Las Vegas Police Department.
The beat down I received was both humiliating and instantaneous. I felt a sharp knee to the groin and fell face first into the pissed stained carpet whimpering, while all 5 women proceeded to stomp me into submission. As the birthday girl placed her size 10 hush puppy firmly on my throat, I looked up in defiance and said, “Under different circumstances I might have boughten you boys a drink” It all gets rather hazy at that point.
I remember being dragged naked from the casino and placed in the back of a police cruiser where I was taken to the Clark County Detention Center. As I was being processed the other detainees began to take notice and started singing the theme to cops. Bad boys, bad boys what you gonna do, what you gonna do when the come for you….
As you might imagine, I made a lot of friends in jail that night but thanks to a high priced attorney and the fact that no money had officially changed hands I was released the following morning. Calamity Jane slipped off to Reno. It turned out she’d been working as a confidential informant for the LVPD, for sometime. Although in hindsight I do not think this was a set up, just poor judgment and dumb luck.
Vegas remains to be one of my favorite vacation destinations and I have no ill feelings towards the Las Vegas Police Department. They have a difficult job keeping a lid on the world’s biggest 24-hour party, but I did learn a few lessons that evening. Always trust my intuitions, and women in sensible shoes hate Chinese food.
It’s not every day you meet a clown gigolo. To my knowledge I’m the only one there is.It’s a recession proof industry and business has been very good so I suspect there will be copycats. My clientele is extremely diverse and like most industries, the majority of my business comes from repeat customers and referrals. Whether they are recent divorcees, heavyset college girls or married women looking for a tryst, the one thing they have in common is their love of clowns. I believe the clinical term is coulrophillia. I am a white-faced clown, or more accurately, a white-bodied clown. I’m a 145 lbs of sexy, 5 pounds of that is penis. The question I am most often asked is how did I become a clown escort. The answer is simple. I was born into it.
My father and mother met while performing together as tight-wire walkers. When I was 12 years old I witnessed my mother’s tragic mishap on the wire. We were working an auditorium in Flint, Michigan, for a crowd of 250 autoworkers and their families when a misstep caused her to lose her balance. I watched in horror as she fell 65 feet hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
A deafening silence fell over the auditorium. Then suddenly the “Pacific Land Circus Band’ began to play “Entry of the Gladiators”, signaling the clowns in clown alley to redirect the crowd’s attention away from center stage, allowing the paramedics to see to her. All the while the clowns were shouting, “She’s all right, she’ll be just fine”, “On with the show” I knew better. The next day the Flint Journals headlines read, “High wire walker falls to her death in front of hundreds.” This defining moment in my life set the stage for the macabre entertainer I would become.
My father gave up tight-wire walking and started a small circus of his own, where I worked as a clown with fellow performer “Cheyenne the Ranch Hand”. It was Cheyenne who first gave me the moniker” Sugar Weasel”, because of my insatiable sweet tooth. Ironically, it was my insatiable appetites for the women that gave the name such nefarious overtones. I later found out Cheyenne was mauled to death by a lion while attempting to dislodge a chicken from the lions throat.
It was also around this time I lost my virginity. She was 25 and had the kind of body men pay to see and I was a hormonal teenager. It was a short-lived romance however. When I met here she was clean-shaven but weeks into our affair she had grown a full beard. Apparently she had a condition known as cystic ovarian syndrome that can cause hirsutism in females. To put it in laymen’s terms, at the tender age of 13, I lost my virginity to the bearded lady. Clearly, she left a lasting impression on me as later in life I developed a fetish for women with hairy armpits. Go figure, a clown with an underarm fetish.
My father found God after my mother’s death, and I found the devil, by way of liquor and loose women. I spent most of my free time at the girly peepshow tent where I had several lady friends. This created a lot of tension around the dinner table as you can imagine. One night in particular when I was 16 my father caught me mid coitous with a couple of young ladies on the pay roll and threw me out. I believe we were in Nashville Tennessee at the time.
I drifted along the Florida coast, ending up in Gibsonton, where I worked with a variety of carnival and circuses touring the U.S. Most notably, “the Prince Brothers Touring Sideshow and Menagerie.” A rickety outfit that paid homage to the old circus sideshows, most of the acts were of the sword swallowing, modern primitive variety and were shocking but harmless. We worked a lot of halls and small outdoor venues where I would wrangle chickens for the curiosity seekers amusement. I would put the birds under my hypnotic spell then bite their heads off in classic “geek” fashion to the horror of the unsuspecting audience. Eventually the ASPCA shut down the act, and I again found myself drifting from town to town.
It was during this period that I discovered the legalized world of gambling and prostitution in Pahrump, Nevada, a town outside of Las Vegas. An affluent woman who had succumbed to my charms advised me how best to use my “natural attributes” for personal gain. I was conflicted by my need to entertain and amuse, and my unwavering love of women. So I decided to combine my passions. I started sugarweasel.com a clown escort service that showcases all of my acquired skills and quickly established a devoted clientele. I currently reside in Austin Texas but still service clients in the greater Las Vegas area as a Bad Ass Mutha Funken Clown. The rest as they say is history.
When Mad House Magazine asked me to be an ongoing columnist I had reservations, mostly out of concern for my client’s anonymity. When escorts open their mouth people tend to get nervous. Paradoxically, when clowns open their mouths people tend to laugh. Combined you have nervous laughter, kind of like watching porno with your father in law. I can live with that. So, what’s black and blue and hates sex? I guess you’ll have to read my column next month to find out.
"Were all-capable of acts of heroism or villainy. I’ve opened my doors to many a wayward girl, does that make me a hero, well....sure it does but I’ve probably taken a piece of candy from a baby once or twice too. I’ll tell you this though, If you want me to put on a fireman suit or cowboy hat or whatever it will cost ya, I charge extra for that sh*t!" -S.W.