Sunday, January 31, 2010

How do you feel about a one-night stand?

I prefer repeat customers and referral business but I'm down.

Ask me anything

Ask me anything

Friday, January 1, 2010

Sugar Weasel's Madhouse Mag. Article Issue 1

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 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.