Red Flag

I don’t post ads anymore, but I got an email from Backpage this morning, and I thought I’d share:

“We have just completed an analysis of the site to determine what necessary changes should be made to better protect our communities. As a result, has implemented new safety enhancements in the last few weeks as follows:

  • Review of all new ads and images in the personals and mature sections of the site.
  • Implementation of key word searches to quickly identify possible illegal advertising.
  • The blocking of off site html images to block images that violate our site usage policy.
  • Implementation of a new content policy to disallow nudity across the site.
  • Enlisting of safety experts to help craft further safety strategies.

Please pay close attention to the posting rules on top of the posting form for more guidance. With postings under review, you may also notice a 20 minute delay in your postings going live. In addition, pics in your postings not meeting our new policy will be removed.

We believe changes like these will better protect our community.”


I used to love Backpage because it was NOTHING like Craigslist. You could post pictures showing yourself naked or in a compromising position, and in most ads it was abundantly clear what exactly the provider was offering or willing to do (and for how much). But, not anymore. I’m guessing whomever oversees the site was sick of taking heat about “supporting prostitution”.

I hope sometime in my life I’ll see wider acceptance of prostitution, or maybe even (GASP!) nationwide legalization. Or AT LEAST just eradication of the social stigma’s associated with the whole sex industry.

Don’t worry, though, I’m not holding my breath.


I don’t make it around to my old haunts much anymore. And when I do, it’s generally during the day. Good because I’m not big on crowds, but also bad because I never know any of the girls who are working.

Last week I went to Lucky Devil with a friend of mine for a few drinks and as soon as we sat down I noticed an old custie of mine from the Shack. He was sitting at the rack with his head tilted slightly to the right, staring longingly at the vag of the young dancer on stage. I used to do shows with this man, both at the Shack and at my apartment, so I’ve seen that head tilt many times before. He was nice enough, but always maintained that little bit of creep factor, no matter what we were talking about or doing. Maybe I just think he’s creepy because he always shook a little while running his hands up and down my body..? Sort of reminds me of a chihuahua.

Anyway, when the dancer’s 3rd song was nearing a close, I downed the remainder of my drink and figured I might as well get this inevitable reunion over with. I swiveled my chair so it angled towards the stage and waited for him to get up from the rack. When he did, I waved and his bearded little face lit up. We chatted for a bit and reminisced, and he was unfortunately his same old creepy self, even though I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Luckily, as the conversation was waning, the 3rd member of our party showed up and we headed out for another club on Powell.

Question: Do any other females out there use the men’s bathroom when the women’s is locked/occupied?

The only other time I’ve even been to Rose City (formerly Cocktails and Dreams) was the night it (re)opened. It was packed that night, but I’m guessing the hype has died down since. When we walked in, I counted 5 bodies – 2 dancers, 2 customers (one at the rack, one at the bar) and the bartender. I would say maybe the after-work crowd had yet to arrive, but when we left an hour later, there was only 4 people inside (bartender, one custie and two dancers).

We sat down at the bar and I look to the right and see another guy I hadn’t seen in a while, only this time it had been close to 5 years. I had met him initially while I was working at one of the Dolphin Clubs. The first show we did I made over 500 for an hour, and then I guess he got comfortable with me after that and decided he wanted to date me instead of pay me. I totally would have dated him, but only if he was supporting me in some way… and he didn’t seem very interested in that.

It took me a minute to get up the courage to talk to him, because I wasn’t 100% sure it was him. So, I asked him his name and, low and behold, it WAS him. There was a seat between him and I, so he scooted over to it so we could talk without yelling. He really is a nice guy, but we don’t have anything in common. I think the only reason the conversation went on as long as it did was because I was on my 4th drink of the evening, and I get super talkative after about the 2nd drink.


I know it’s bad form, but I just got super distracted while writing this post. So I figure I’ll just end it now, as opposed to letting it go on and on without continuity.

BOTTOM LINE: Portland is a small town.

I wrote this in sort of a frenzy last night. So, I apologize if it seems like more of a ramble than a story.


Are you ever just sitting there, poking around on the internet when you see a word or a name that takes you back to something you had COMPLETELY forgotten about? Well, it happened to me just a minute ago when I saw the name “Holmes”.

Okay, so a long, long time ago, I was hanging out with this guy my friends and I referred to as “The Happy Dancing Guy”. He was actually kind of a badass, but he had a soft spot for techno music and couldn’t refrain from dancing whenever he heard it. Oh well, we all have our vices.

So I was at his house one day and he had a bunch of his obnoxiously attractive friends over, and I don’t know how the conversation ended up on the one member of their crew who wasn’t there, Dominic, but it did. One of the guys threw his hands up in the air, got really tense, and then said something about how he, “never believed all that stuff about Dominic’s past.”

No one said anything else about it after that, and I wasn’t really one to pry.

Fast forward about 6 months.

I’m hanging out with a girlfriend of mine (the one who I robbed the strip club with), and one of her guy friends. She and I are shooting up, he’s getting high on crack and then we all decide to head to one of the male strip clubs downtown, Three Sisters. Her guy friend is the DJ there, so we get in free, have a few drinks and pick up one of his friends, who’s stage name was Damien. We all go back to my apartment, the boys smoke their crack, the girls shoot their crystal and eventually I end up in my bedroom with Damien to have sex. I want the light on, but he’s very adamant about having it off, so I give in. The sex was terrible, his dick was semi-flaccid and looked pointed in the small amount of light filtering in underneath the bedroom door from the hallway.

So after he busts, we both get dressed and wait for the other two to be done with their business in the living room. I turn the light on so he can smoke so more crack and we make small talk. Eventually I ask him his real name and he says, “Dominic”. He’s attractive enough that I consider for a moment he might be one of Happy Dancing Guy’s friends, but I forget it as soon and I hear my friend tell me it’s safe to come out.

The guys take off after that, and leave my friend and I alone to tweak in peace.

Fast forward about 2 years.

I’m living in a different place now, and I just got a new roommate a few weeks prior. We’re up getting high one night when she mentions she ran into her old flame Dominic the day before, and she wanted to know if it was okay if he came over. My response is, “Sure, why not?”.

So, she calls him and he promises to bring some dope if he can just come over and chill out for a bit.

When he arrives, I immediately recognize him as the crackhead male stripper I’d had terrible sex with 2 years prior. He recognizes me, too, but neither of us want my roommate to know we fucked, so we just do introductions. After talking to him for a minute, it comes out that he’s also friends with Happy Dancing Guy, and we start reminiscing about him and his crazy lifestyle. At one point, my roommate goes to the bathroom and it’s just me and Dominic alone in the living room. I ask him about that night we had sex, and he tells me he had been wondering the same thing about me.

Awkward silence.

In an attempt to break the silence, he asks me about a picture of my mom I have on display. He asks if it is, in fact, my mom. And then he remarks about how pretty she was in the picture. Luckily, my roommate returned to the room after that.

A few hours later, after Dominic leaves, my roommate mentions that she’d heard weird rumors about him a few months back. Something about how he’d killed someone when he was younger. I figured we should just Google it. AND OH MY GOD, we found numerous links to different articles about how Jonathan “Dominic” Coons (who later changed his last name to Holmes) was convicted for killing his mom when he was 16. He stabbed her 29 times in the chest, shoulder and back. HBO and PBS even collaborated for two different specials that featured Dominic. HBO’s version was titled, “Kids Who Kill”. I found an article that stated he only ever admitted killing her one time, after asking what it was like to kill his mom. He replied, “it was like stabbing a watermelon.”


Years ago when I originally searched, there were more articles available. Now, it’s limited to only a few. Most focus on a fraud investigation he was wanted in. — This one is sort of cheesy.

Here’s some pictures I took a few years back of the two floors above Union Jack’s club in Portland. I’m well aware I’ve ruined the photos by messing with their natural state. This is what happens when you’re a tweeker armed with a digital camera, Photoshop, and entirely too much free time. I had about 20 more photos, but I lost the disc I had them saved on.

The whole place was totally fucking rad. I wish I hadn’t needed to climb on top of a cooler to get up there.

Everything was incredibly dusty.

Most of the rooms up there had numbers on the doors.

And THIS photo was quite possibly the most excellent thing to happen to me that year. Sad? Probably. But it is an excellent accidental shot.

Well, hopefully the end of an era.

Last week the Sugar Shack, Video Visions, Pink Marlin, Dillingers and Tommy’s, Too got raided by the IRS. I, obviously, don’t have anything against the kind of illegal sex stuff that was going on in and through those establishments, but I do have big issues with the way the owners conducted their business, how they treated their employees (dancers, bartenders and janitorial staff) and all the illegal financial shit they’ve been getting away with FOR DECADES. I also have a few friends who are now out of work because of these closures, but they’re not working there because they can’t get a job anywhere else, they were working there because it was easy. Hopefully this is the push they need to get jobs at better bars/clubs/whatever.

Watch the news cast here.

It happens to most, if not all, strippers at some point in time. They’re either too busy to pay attention to the warning signs, or, in my case, TOTALLY caught off guard.

Even taking birth control, sometimes my period didn’t start when it was supposed to. It wasn’t unusual for me to take my pill a few hours late, or even skip it altogether. And it took me a while to figure it out, but messing with the schedule almost always meant I wouldn’t start first thing in the morning on the 3rd day of placebo pills, like I’m supposed to.

So, I’m high, as usual, nursing my 3rd drink of the afternoon when it’s time to go up. After my last set, I changed into a sheer white outfit with solid white underwear. The club I’m dancing at has strong black lights and I’m feel very sexy in my glowing white garb.

I pick my songs just in time for the previous song to end, and I strut up to the stage. There’s only one guy at the rack, but a few guys at the bar are throwing down ones when they periodically remember we work for tips only.

For the 1st song, I do my usual thing for the one guy at the stage, making sure to wave my butt around in front of him and slap my ass. I can feel a dampness in my underwear, but I just sort of ignore it because I am really not expecting to start my period RIGHT THAT SECOND.

By the time my 2nd song starts, I’m naked except for my underwear. And when I do my cute little slide down the pole into a spread eagle position, I notice that there’s a dark spot in the crotch of my clean white underwear. I stop what I’m doing and move to a kneeling position and pull my g-string down so I can see WHAT THE FUCK is going on.

I am immediately mortified. Completely and utterly mortified. This was, by far, the most embarrassing thing that had happened to me on stage and I was so humiliated I had a hard time snapping out of it.

I pulled my undies back up and crawled over to my customer and asked him, “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING?”

He shrugged and told me that he didn’t want to disturb me because I was just so into the performance.


I thanked him for tipping me, grabbed my clothes and money and made a hasty exit off the stage and down the stairs to the dressing room. The song wasn’t over yet, but I figured everyone would understand.

I made sure that was the first, last and only time that ever happened to me on stage.

Meet Jenyne Butterfly.

I’ve never seen anyone make this shit look so effortless.

Exerpts from a previous life.

I worked as a dancer in Portland for the better part of 6 years. I was also a prostitute, a junkie and an occasional alcohol abuser. These stories are just stuff I don't share with people in my new life, and it feels good to get them off my chest. Feel free to ask questions and leave comments.

Ask me anything!

Drugs? Sex? Crime? Sure!

Email me your questions, and I'll answer them on my blog.