Tits out for the boys

Strippers are real people too. You better believe it. In fact, I’m a strong believer in supporting these women. Who am I kidding, I FREAKING LOVE STRIP CLUBS! I love to make up these stupid excuses so I can go as well such as “I guess it’s just us boys, you probably want to go to the strippers...” and “oh, it’s a Wednesday, nothing is open except the strippers, guess we’ll have to go there.” That’s the exact excuse I used only one week ago so I could visit King St once again.


Now, my lovely best friend Chanelle, as pictured below (very attractive girl), is super sweet and innocent. She flinches at the word penis, cringes at the sight of an FHM cover and would NEVER go to a strip club....until now. I like to think of myself as someone who can persuade people into doing something they don’t want to do so making her go to a strip club was relatively easy.

The first time I suggested it, she firmly said no. I had obviously told her of my first experience of a strip club way back when I was a tipsy underage rebel using my sister’s I.D. I didn’t even have to use that fake I.D, claiming I couldn’t fit it in my dress while trying my best to get into “Dallas Showgirls”. To my delight, they let me right in. Long story short, I made good friends with the strippers, had a group hug with them and tipped my first dancer, resulting in her expressing her gratitude by rubbing my face between her sweaty breasts. I’m a lucky girl.

After a little persuading, Chanelle was convinced that going to a strip club was a good idea. “Goldfinger’s” was selected as our exotic venue for the night, which proved to be a terrific choice. It was unlike any strip club I’d ever seen before, with dozens of strippers walking around and working for tips. As a girl, it was my natural instinct to check out every girl in the place (I assume girls do that in order to scout of the competition). The strippers (or shall we call them exotic dancers??) at this testosterone fuelled environment came in all shapes and sizes apparently to suit every type of man. You’ve got your fatties, your hotties, your fake titties, your oldies and your possible dudes. It’s every flavour you want from a buffet of ladies.

As an experienced campaigner, I’m going to provide a list of hints when going to a strip club for the young players.

• Tipping strippers can vary. Some strip clubs have a main stage where the chickadees will strip down to their birthday suits. At these lovely establishments, you can get a seat right up against the stage and tip the strippers with cash (if you’re lucky, you can put this tip down a pair of underwear or inside a bra). Some places you need to buy tipping money at the bar but those places you will usually find in Kings Cross. Other places (such as “goldfingers”) you approach the stripper directly to ask for a private strip dance that goes for around $20 for five minutes.

• Don’t touch the dancers unless you see others do it and it seems ok. No one likes a dirty pervert.

• Be nice to them and they’ll be nice back.

• Don’t ask for their phone numbers or ask them on a date. You just sound seedy and they probably get it all the time. Just keep it classy.

Just so y’all know, I’m the best friend ever so it was only right that I bought my friend Chanelle her very first lap dance from a lovely girl called “Lexie”. Clearly her alias but she was a nice lady! I picked out her through a careful selection process after scanning all the girls. She had the best body with the nicest bra so I went in for the kill and got her into the other room, alone with Chanelle and I. “So what would you like me to do?” she asked in her adorable Brittish accent. “I don’t know, some cool shit with the pole?” I replied sounding uber experienced. The show went down pretty casually with the highlights being when Chanelle asked where she got her bra from (playboy, if you were interested), when I found out that her terrific mammories were in fact real and when she grinded on Chanelle while Chanelle squeeled and put her hands over her face.

When all is said and done, remember this:

“You know that little girl up there dry humping the stage and grinding that f*&#ing pole, that’s somebody’s daughter! “

Sweet skills

I’m broke. Like MC Hammer broke. I ain’t making a dime. I also just realised while trying to write a resume that I have no skills. Sure I’ve got my “responsible service of alcohol” certificate but a monkey in a wig could pass that. I have lots of sweeeeet skills that are not really useful in real life but I find them quite pleasing so I’ll list them.


1. I am the lyrics master. Don’t be jealous, it’s just the way I was born. I can remember the lyrics to pretty much any song including rap... I’ve been called the songbird of my generation. If I listen to a song about twice, I will always know every word. Me and 50 Cent have that in common. It’s a strange and useless talent that I’ve grown very fond of.

2. I know everything there is to know about Harry Potter. When I was the tender age of 14, I had the world’s largest crush on Daniel Radcliffe. I had literally planned how we were going to meet, where we were going to get married and what our children’s names would be. I was a creep. I was also weirdly obsessed with the books and movies so I was obviously devastated when my owl didn’t come with my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. The point of my story is, no one appreciates it when I quote it or make Harry Potter related jokes eg. “wow those clouds look ominous, I think the dementors are coming!” or “you can’t say that word, it’s pretty much as bad as saying *whispers* Voldemort out loud!” I digress...

3. I can swear in multiple languages. I would list everything that I can say as it’s pretty impressive but some people might get offended. So I’ll just leave you with this: Chin chin wa oki desu.

4. I can throw javelins really far because I have abnormally long arms. I’m quite the brute. I never really fit in with the throwers when I was at school because I was lanky and awkward while all the other girls were short and muscular. I just got more leverage I guess but I do have the ability to put on muscle really easily, which is pretty funky.

5. I can burp on demand with gusto.

6. One time, I made raspberry sorbet and it tasted just like I got it from an ice cream store. Win.

7. I’m pretty much Wikipedia. I know so much useless information it’s ridiculous. Did you know teeth are the only part of the human body that can’t repair themselves? And that the most stolen item in the world is the bible? And that dolphins are the only animals capable of rape? Ok I’ll stop now....I see your eyes glazing over.

You heard it people. I got game. Now, if you would excuse me, I’ve gotta go and polish my encouragement medal I won for competition aerobics in year seven.

in search of strippers and cocaine

It was the day I became a stripper. Yes I went to a private girls school but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I never thought it would turn out this way, but I had no choice. It just kind of...happened. I was unprepared for the events that were to unfold. I had been told they’d all be watching intently, but I didn’t expect the reaction they’d give me. Laughter? Really? Was that necessary? Sure my outfit was a little small for me but there was no reason to snigger! I thought the venue was a little too classy for that kind of reception. It was the Sandringham Yacht Club for heaven’s sake!


Humiliated. Mortified. Embarassed. Horrified. Violated. Exposed. Why? All thanks to a stupidly short dress on a runway.

No it wasn’t on the stages of Goldfingers but it might as well have been, I was practically wearing nothing. It was a parade for the World Sailing Cup and I unfortunately decided I didn’t need to try on this one dress of the eight changes I had that day. I had assumed it was a top to be teamed with shorts...I would pay for this decision dearly. All was going splendidly on the runway, not a problem in sight....until the dress. I was running a bit late before the show with hair and makeup so I only tried on half of my outfits. DAMMIT!!!

It comes to half way through the show when I first lay eyes on the “dress”. “Where are the shorts to go with it?” I ask innocently. “There aren’t any, unless you have a pair (implied ‘lol’)” replies my dresser. I struggle into this tiny purple singlet and stretch it over my uncovered butt. Now here’s the trouble with catwalk modelling: you have to wear a skin coloured g-string so it doesn’t show under the clothes, which means if you’re wearing a short dress then nothing is left to the imagination.

Here I was, in this tiny little “dress”, stepping out onto the runway. All was fine until I began walking and the dress began to creep up. That’s when I started trying to sneakily pull it down in the hopes I’d be subtle enough that it looked normal. But out flew my butt cheeks and cue the hysterics. Everyone at this ladies luncheon started laughing! I, on the other hand, began to resemble a tomato. I have never gone so red. I started getting tears in my eyes I was so embarrassed! I had to walk a good 50 metres in front of these women and cameras while everyone laughed.

Eventually I got back to the safety of the change room after what seemed like an hour of humiliation and remembered I had about four more outfit changes. This was my conversation with myself: “I must face them again. Change of outfit this time! Oh crap. What’s this? Change of shoes too? Oh no. I don’t know these shoes. They look kind of big. No time! Must wear them!”

So out I go, back onto the catwalk, pose and begin to walk. Off comes a shoe. I get back into it and keep walking but stumble. SCREW THIS!!!! I lean down, take of the shoes, lift them into the air and keep walking. Yeah bitches, I got this.

My story seemed so great and embarrassing until my poor friend Olivia had her entire boob fall out in front of the lifestyle party three days later. I’m sure she picked up some lusty sailors that night ;)

THE DRESS!!!!!!!!


*photography by Travis Burns

To violence against women, Emily says no

A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be involved in the launch of The Lingerie Boutique at Rivers Edge. The Lingerie Boutique is an online store providing Australian women (and their partners) with beautiful European labels such as Roberto Cavalli Underwear, Parah, Lou Paris, Lisca, Jolidon and Prelude.

The event was sponsored by 666 Vodka, Australia's premium vodka, and Siren shoes. 666 Vodka provided the most delicious cocktails while Siren provided the models with their beautiful heels.  Chanel Costabir, at just 23 years of age, created this online boutique stating the idea evolved from her "passion for lingerie" and her decision to "fill the gap in the Australian market for beautiful well-crafted lingerie".
 

The model's hair was done by the stylists at Headline Salon. The brief was for voluminous, sexy Victoria's Secret-esque locks, as they created to perfection.

The same brief was applied to the makeup, which was done by the girls from Gorgeous Cosmetics, who also donated some of their beautiful products to guests in their goody bags. I particularly love their "sheer brilliance" foundation as I usually only wear mineral foundation so it's light weight look goes well for a flawless complexion when I go out.

The event was also in support of the white ribbon foundation. The white ribbon foundation was established to help women who have been or are currently involved in domestic violence. Violence against women is a serious problem in Australia and leaves many women feeling unworthy and distrusting of men.Chanel chose this charity to support in order to instill confidence into the lives are many deserving Australian women. "My lingerie is all about creating confidence and women feeling good about themselves. Unfortunately there are women out there who don't have the opportunity to feel that, just because of their circumstances they can't feel confident and that's really sad to me." Everyone has heard about high profile cases of domestic abuse such as Rihanna & Chris Brown along with Whitney Houston & Bobby Brown, but most people don't know about these serious crimes going on in their backyard.

 
lingerieboutique.com.au is currently offering personalised fittings for a limited time and will open its virtual racks to sale very soon. Look out on Fashion TV for the follow up video soon :)

Creepy crawlies!

Something people don’t know about me is that I’m quite the green thumb and I have a veggie garden. It’s kind of a big deal, I know. I’m practically Don Burke and close to getting my own TV show in Japan. I grow carrots, celery, bok choi, onions and garlic. I also have a feijoa tree...I don’t actually know what a feijoa is but one day this tree will grow some form of fruit and I shall eat its offspring. I also grow my own herbs, have a crappy lemon tree that grows no lemons and I steal mandarins from my neighbour's tree that grows through our tennis court fence.

A few weeks ago I had my first harvest which yielded an abundance of delicious carrots and celery! Sure the carrots were bent and half the size of normal carrots but it was as though they were my children and you’re not supposed to hate your children if they’re ugly. What I didn’t realise is that I had disturbed the giant orgy of some very randy earwigs. I had cockblocked another species. I only realised this when I was proudly carrying my produce into the house and I felt something crawl on me only to look down to see a massive earwig crawling on my hand. As a normal reaction to this, I screamed like a little girl while throwing the vegetables in the air and shaking every part of my body to remove any possible bugs that had clung to me.

So there I was, flipping a bitch in my living room surrounded by vegetables, dirt and literally hundreds of bugs. I shit you not, they were everywhere. You know when you’ve had a bug on you and you get that feeling when it’s like they’re still crawling on you after you’ve gotten rid of them? Imagine that while being surrounded by bugs. It’s pretty easy to feel like they’re crawling all over you when you can see them scuttering around your living room. I believe the medical term for this sensation is formication. It can even lead to delusional parasitosis, which is when a person becomes convinced that this sensation is being caused by actual insects crawling all over them. Creepy much?! I had that recently after I was woken up in the middle of the night by a moth on steroids. I screamed and made my mum kill it while I hysterically jumped around my room in order to avoid it.

To make matters worse in the incident of the evil earwigs, I was the only one in the house so I had to deal with the problem myself! Shiver me timbers! It took me about half an hour, a lot of stamping and a lot of shaking of the celery to get rid of all these pests. Mum didn’t particularly enjoy the clean up-my contribution to the household was food hence excusing me from cleaning up. I don’t think I even ended up eating those veggies.

Barbara lives in Bank world

Last weekend, I became a mother. No the baby wasn’t human but I swear it was just as hard as having a real baby. My friend Tegan was going to a wedding with her family so for some reason she trusted me with her tiny kitten for the night. The thing I like the most about this kitten is that her name is Barbara. She was named after Barbara from bank world because they’re both rangas. So Barbara and I were to spend the night together. I clearly didn’t know what I had signed up for.

I figured since I’d somehow managed to bring up my cat just fine, this cat should be a breeze. Admittedly, she did use her little tray like a clever little cat unlike my cat who used to use my bed as a toilet. No joke, I once came home from not being there for a few days to find my cat had left me a gift of 5 piles of poop and 9 little puddles on my bed. Thanks Kitty. Bitch.

Barbara was a little more cunning than this. She had a very odd routine where she would sleep for two hours then play for two hours. In the beginning this was very cute because she’d snuggle up on my chest while I was watching tv then play with my shoelaces for a bit. She also ate every hour. Unfortunately, this routine didn’t change when I went to bed.

Off to bed went Barbara and I after a long six hours of watching TV. She had a little play in my room and then it was off to sleep....for an hour. Barbara starts crying. Why is Barbara crying? Barbara’s hungry. Barbara must be fed. So I get up begrudgingly, feed Barbara and go back to sleep...for two hours. Barbara begins to bite my face. But why? She’s had enough sleep and now wants to play.”But Barbara, it’s 3am, mummy needs sleep!” I plead, but there is no rest for the wicked. I think that’s why God made babies cute, so when they annoy the crap out of us we can’t hate them and throw them out the window.

Also awkward, my cat tried to kill her. Barbara, being the little darling she is, went to introduce herself to Kitty while Kitty was having dinner. From what I understood in cat language, their conversation went like this:

Barbara: Harro, I’m Barbara

Kitty: Wanna get cut bitch?

Luckily, I swooped in to rescue Barbara before she was eaten. It’s so weird how after you see a kitten and then you see an adult cat, the big cat is immediately uglier and less cute than it was before. My cat is still ugly and obese to me, even a week after Barbara left. She’s dead to me....ok a little harsh.

This entire experience made me realise I am not having babies for a very long time. Getting woken up every two hours is NOT enjoyable, no matter how cute the baby is. So use protection!

Just for your entertainment, this is me getting fed ice cream while my cat tries to eat it. Yep, pointless video.

Horsing around

They call it “the race that stops a nation”. Nice choice Betting Association Australia. I almost missed that particular race and I was there! Let’s be frank, not a lot of people go to the races to watch the horses. Sure some people place bets (and lose) so they have to watch the horses but the majority of people go there to dress up, drink too much and stagger home when the day is over. I pretty much just went so I could look pretty while standing around drinking champagne and eating canapés. This plan didn’t quite work out.


My dream racing day would have begun with me looking dazzling in a dress I’d picked out months ago with a fabulous head piece and comfortable shoes. For one, I didn’t have an outfit until two days before cup day and I only figured it out after designer Pamela Usanto gave me one of her beautiful skirts as a gift. The day before the races I still didn’t have a headpiece so my mum found me one in a random box at her work and I generally do not own any comfortable heels (come to think of it, do comfortable heels exist???).

Another essential thing you need for the races is good weather but in Melbourne it is literally impossible to come by. I’m just thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t one of the poor sods on Derby day who had to trudge through the torrential rains with muddy heels and a see through dress (how convenient the dress code is black and white, clearly God’s a pervert and was craving a wet t-shirt comp). I had to promote for Tom Waterhouse online betting for four hours that morning at Southern Cross station and apart from the hectic blisters I got, I had a ball checking out people’s interesting choice of clothing but nothing would prepare me for what I saw on cup day.

Willy Wonka. What was this woman thinking??? I just don’t understand why some people decide to dress like this. I don’t think she’ll be picking up too many guys in that ensemble. I also saw numerous pairs of gum boots and fishnet stockings. I’m one of those girls who salivates at the thought of giving random strangers makeovers because it would make their life so much better and make things a lot less painful for my eyes. Seriously, look less fugly or stay inside.

The thing that you need the most at the races is good company and that’s why I love my friends. They all looked super amazing and have fantastic drinking and eating skills. They’re not that girl you spotted stumbling around taking swigs from a bottle of wine but the ones skulling their glasses or champagne with three sandwiches in their other hand. They’re not those girls whinging while carrying their heels in their hand, they’re the ones dancing and singing the national anthem at the top of their lungs in front of their marquee. Some of my favourite quotes from the day came from my little friend Brianna. My favourite was: “If you don’t skull that glass of champagne right now, you are no longer my friend”.

With the races comes the typical seedy old men who had one too many beers. The thing that disgusts me the most is the guys who try to hit on us are old enough to be our dads. I make a point to make them aware of this while asking if it bothers them that they’re paedophiles. That usually shuts them up. If that doesn’t work, I begin to call them dad while subtly running away. To seedy old men, Australia says no. Occasionally you will agree to be in a photo with them so they can go home and tell their other predator mates in Wagga about all the hot chicks they hung out with at the races. Is it really that hard to stick to their age group? Yes the women of that age are sagging in all the wrong places but at least they’ve finished going through puberty and got their first bra more than four years ago.

Did I also mention I am somewhat challenged at making bets? I literally have no idea how to do it, as I assume many other girls don’t. I don’t know the names of the horses, jockeys or anything about gambling. I went up to the window, handed over my $20 and said confidently “twenty on number nine thanks”. This was followed by the man asking me “which race? Place? First? Do you want to know the odds?” SHUTUP AND PUT MY BET ON BUDDY! YOU’RE MAKING ME LOOK LIKE A DICKHEAD! Dignity=lost.

To put it simply, I’m not really an experienced campaigner when it comes to the races but I make up for it in the effort I put in when trying to look like I know what I’m doing. Giddy up!