the season of lists


rolling stone


At the end of every calendar year, we look back, we look forward, we look back, we look forward, we look forward and back and the end product of all this looking seems to be a bounty of lists. Hollywood breakups of 2015, top ten toys, movies, news makers, tragedies, triumphs, what to watch in 2016, who to watch in 2016. And with lists in mind, and in no particular order, I’m serving up the list of my top ten favorite foods, just for fun, just for you. And if you’re interested in some good reading and some actual good lists, check out Rolling Stone’s 20 Best Lists of 2015.


Pam’s Top Ten Favorite Foods


  1. Spaghetti and meatballs / even though I stated that this list in is no particular order, spaghetti and meatballs will always be number 1.
  2. Grilled ham and cheese / to be specific, on an english muffin.
  3. Cheese danish / duh.
  4. Chocolate layer cake / double duh.
  5. Chocolate / in most any form, but no chocolate and fruit combinations.
  6. Cheeseburgers.
  7. Grilled chicken breasts as only I make them.
  8. Potato salad / again, as only I make it.
  9. Peanut butter.
  10. Pizza, pizza, pizza / always pizza.
  11. Bread / all bread, all the time.

Sorry, had to make it eleven.

Quite the plebeian list, don’t you think? Try Rolling Stone instead.


photo credit: Rolling Stone, Photofest, Ethan Miller/Getty, Universal History Archive, Justina Mintz, AMC


so f’in good


Smoking kills


Do you know how stinkin’ good it is to have a day off from work and to be home alone with no agenda other than to do whatever the hell you want? Do you understand, can you imagine, the therapeutic properties, the joy to be found in this luxurious day?  To drift around the house and touch this, touch that, settle here, move there, look at this or not. Ahhh. The cream filling inside. Can you hear me sighing across the country? I bet you can. And then…do you know that if you smoke some weed it gets even better? I know you hear me, Ms. DVD. Ahhh, slutty, sluggish, heaven. Kisses everyone.




back to erotica


luisa pohlmann


When I play with myself at my desk, I always start at my breasts. I stroke my breasts like a kitten and my nipples are almost instantly hard. Sometimes I pinch them, sometimes I just like to rub the tips like I am doing now. Then I like to move to my clit and circle it through my panties. If I’m reading and not typing, I’ll rub one nipple and my pussy. I usually start to shift in the chair at this point and spread my legs. My desk has an iron base with a bar across the bottom and I put my feet on this bar, pull my panties aside and touch inside my cunt. I am always pleasantly surprised to find how wet I am. Sometimes I will even gasp or moan a bit and lift my ass to get inside me better. Then I have to stop typing and can only read. I push my fingers deep and try to pull them from the back to the front wall of my cunt. I play with my nipples. I read your hot, hot, mail. Mail where you write things like, she is mine, fucking you, fucking you, sucking you, open baby, open wider baby, now I’m going to really fuck you, give me your sweet ass, baby, do you like that, baby? Some nights I moan a lot, and if it’s during the day and I’m alone, I sometimes moan loudly. You have pulled me into another fuck frenzy with you and I am crazy mad with desire. Call your demon, baby. Tell him I’m playing with myself at my desk and want him to fuck me.


artwork: Luisa Pohlmann


my second love




He was my second love. J. Patrick Brown, or was it Patrick J. Brown? It was 1969 or ’70, we were 20 or 21, something like that, a generation holding on to the final fringes of the hippie movement, freshman at a Northern New Jersey, liberal arts college. Pat Brown was part southern gentleman, part brooding, sexy, druggie—not an addict, just someone who loved to get high. His southern roots were in Maryland, but his manners and mannerisms were more like those from the deep south, having been raised in part by his family’s black housekeeper. The brooding, sexy part came from head-turning good looks and a glazed-over, mysterious, stoner stare. He was gorgeous, smart, and gay. I didn’t know anything about gay men at the time, he was my first, and for many years I believed he would come to love me physically, for we were in love in every other way. We were inseparable. We smoked a lot of pot and hash and we dropped a lot of acid, enough acid that I had a semi-serious concern over possible birth defects in my future children, a notion from the late ‘60’s that was long ago discredited. We tripped at the Fillmore East, we did coke in clubs (he was a great dancer and singer), we spent entire weekends on the couch in his apartment with the curtains drawn. We were killing time until we dropped out of school and drove to California and back, a marvelous and eye-opening trip it which it became quite clear that this man did not want me as I wanted him. He moved to New York and I rented an apartment with a girlfriend in New Jersey. Over time we grew distant and I was sure he had died of aids, going so far as to write to his mother inquiring about his health but never receiving a reply.

And 2 or 3 years ago, after no communication whatsoever for over thirty five years, Pat Brown called. He had been searching for me for some time, eventually finding my sister’s name in a wedding announcement and contacting her. I was flabbergasted, totally and completely taken aback, and I’m sure he told me, but I don’t remember what inspired him to reach out. Pat Brown, son of a bitch. We met almost immediately, Patrick taking the train to Maryland where I lived, thirty miles from his parent’s home. And it was so different, not horrible or unsettling or anything but delightful, but so different. He told me that he worked many years at the U.N. in a clerical position, and during that time became a follower and student of a popular guru. He gave up all mood and mind altering substances and lived a monastic and celibate life as a student of this gentleman, but eventually left the fold and retired from the U.N. to take care of his dying mother. Our paths could not have been more different—Patrick, former yogi student for a decade or more, a gentle soul, Pam, pot-smoking, suburban mother of 2, a dirty writer. But the differences were greater than our paths—he seemed alien, a still handsome man in a bit of a time-warp, a man trying to catch up with a world that had been spinning without him, a man unsure, smiling and laughing at my cocksureity. My beautiful, sexy, stoner Patrick, replaced by this simple and humble person—one that I had a bit of a hard time relating to.

And that’s okay. Who we were or who we are, is not the point. Everybody and everything changes, but past loves remain intact within our most secure and sacred memory bank, the memories of our choosing. I remember the balcony of the Fillmore East, San Francisco, and nights that involved nothing more than smoking cigarettes and holding each other close. He was my introduction into the drug culture, my first experience, my first love outside the confines of home. His impact was, his imprint is still, enormous. Kisses to you J. Patrick Brown, and Patrick J. Brown, now in alien form.


photo credit:


And my first love? Silvio Balos, read and refresh.


the christmas muse




What a bitch, don’t you think? Why, she can spin a holiday any ‘ole way she wants. Happy, sad, in, out, she pummels you with inspiration, dangles expectation over your head like mistletoe, she pinches you on the nose and says,

follow me here,

and shifting she says,

oh no, follow me there,

or no, follow your heart, oh … follow, follow, follow, she whispers.

What a tease with all that sugar plum shit she fairy dusts around. And she knows, she knows that inspiration can go any which way, don’t you think?

He was inspired to leave after the argument. She was inspired to write love letters when she felt she was loved. She was inspired by Christmases past to believe in fantasy.

See how tricky the Christmas muse can be? Duping you, baiting you, taking you on a ride through your timeline and adding a loop or two for good for bad for memory for fun for future contemplation. Why, my brain is having a very tough time sorting through all these twinkling lights, never mind put it to paper.

Stupid Christmas muse. She inspires me to reflect on everything, a tree dried and heavy with decades old garland, about to burst into flames. – ph


photo credit:


winter trees


angie rae


Always, I’ve admired the winter trees,

Dark filigrees,

On alabaster sky.

Or stretched against the sunset’s rosy glow.



Have grown lumpy here of late.

Stripped of my clothes, I do not stand as straight

Or move as gracefully as winter trees.


But what of mind?

Can I acquire a wisdom scorned in youth,

To prune the mind


To the naked

Truth? —Janet W. Hoyt


Ms. Hoyt was an iconic, Anne Arundel County, AA attendee and poet. Thank you, Janet, and Merry Christmas.


photography: Angie Rae /


the guy next door part 2 and merry christmas




The Santa above was a delightful surprise at my front door this week. It’s the guy next door, the one who was stringing lights on artificial trees at midnight by himself, the one I had just written about. He came over to practice his role as the lucky Santa who gets to ride in the firetruck through the community, and who later makes a shock and awe stop at the community kids’, Christmas party. Wow, what fun, kudos to you, guy next door. Wow, how small do I feel for being critical, judgmental even, regarding his handling of the season. In my defense, I’m a story teller and I move in a variety of directions, from snarky to sappy, embellishing or editing, steering my posts as I want. And I stand by my dislike for artificial trees and Christmas mania. But wow, well done, guy next door, you are a real participant.

Regardless of how we approach or handle the Christmas season, regardless of how I approach my examination of the holidays, it is a universally, sentimental time from which there is no running and hiding. The wisdom of no escape. Spread love, accept love, stave off self-pity, practice joy. My very merry, best and wonderful wishes to my lovely and loyal readers.



the rental car




Only a few people know this story, (Ellen, Chrissie, Donnie, Hazel)—you know who you are. It’s very hard to tell, pathetic and embarrassing and brilliant. I smoked in a rental car, no smoking signs all over the place. I was the nasty who had the car before you and stunk it up. Not quite. I didn’t smoke in the car to be a scofflaw or rebel or disrespectful. I too, believe it or not, have an aversion to cigarette smelling cars. I understand how not courteous it is. I smoked in the rental car because I’m a cigarette junkie, and car smoking was my last stronghold. I loved/love smoking in a car—there’s no one to scold me, a comfortable seat, music, wind in your hair, ahh, freedom.

I tried to smoke respectfully in this car—windows open, fans blowing, my arm with smoke dangling far outside the car at most all times. But in a move of awkwardness, probably because I was trying so hard not to be awkward, and correct, even though I wasn’t anywhere close to correct, I hit the end of the cigarette on the window that was down but sticking up that annoying, inch or so. The burning tobacco fell to floor and made a nice little hole in the carpet before I could get to it. Fuck me. Fuck me royally. What the hell do I do now? Car jar, remember him? He would have a stroke.

I had no choice but to figure out how to repair it. It was my “make it work” (thank you, Tim Gunn) moment, combined with the ingenuity of mentor, Martha Stewart. I shaved rug with some backing from underneath the front seat with an exacto knife–right at one of those rug folds that are around the seat track. I trimmed the burnt fibers from the hole, put in a bit of crazy glue, added the rug cutting, secured, trimmed, brushed clean, awesome. But don’t think for one moment that I wasn’t scared shitless when that car went back to the dealer. They found nothing. Whew.

I apologize to anyone who ever got a smelly rental car. I promise, I will not smoke in a rental again. But addicts are so clever, don’t you think, so good at covering their tracks. Or so they think. Or so they know, said the junkie to herself.


photo credit:


not a drinking story




While looking for decorations in the Christmas closet, I saw my son’s large, blue, piggy bank on the shelf, a gift given at his baby shower from Sam Jones, one of my regular customers at Gampy’s bar. Sam was really a regular at both the bar and in the restaurant, spending hours reading or pouring over student papers in the back, corner banquet, then moving to the bar to catch up on all the local chatter before going home. He was probably fifty something, a gay academic, tortured it seemed by his semi-closeted life, his loneliness, and the death of too many aid-infested friends in the 80’s. He smoked and drank heavily and could easily be talked into snarky. Dyane and Bill probably knew him best, but he was kind and generous to all of the staff, and everyone thought they were his favorite (although there were a couple of servers he blatantly didn’t care for).  From what I heard, Sam practiced high risk sex, with young, angry black boys, coke addicts and street people, and although I never heard anything about the police investigation, I was told that it was some sexual or social deviant that robbed and killed him.

Every time I see this ceramic, blue snout on the shelf, I wonder what do I do with Sam’s piggy bank, or rather, Aaron’s piggy bank, the baby gift he doesn’t want, the gift he never used all that much. I really don’t like looking at it, such a sad reminder of someone who just briefly passed through my life, our lives, someone I was not terribly close to or knew very well. Aaron is thirty years old and would probably say he never heard of Sam Jones. And yet I can’t imagine giving the bank away, destroying it, not giving it the reverence it deserves. How odd to be held in limbo by a rather ugly, blue piggy bank with yellow daisies on it. Merry Christmas, Sam.


photo credit: