Profile for little fawn:
20 year old professional slacker dividing her time between new york, los angeles, london and brighton.
I want to put a photo on here but I broke my photobucket.
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20 year old professional slacker dividing her time between new york, los angeles, london and brighton.
I want to put a photo on here but I broke my photobucket.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» DIY disasters
useful feminine devices
The ages of 13 to 16 are a bit of a blur to me as I was smoking round about an 8th of skunk every two days or so, whilst attending one of the most sloaney private schools in the country and generally fucking things up.
My greatest achievement however, before I was packed off to boarding school for 6th form, was creating the Incredible Tampon Inserter for my final project in GCSE DT.
DT was one of my favourite classes cause I could sneak off, have a few spliffs and then spend a relaxing double lesson sanding random bits of wood I found and painting them pink. However my safe, balsa wood smelling haven was soon to be disrupted.
A few months before our DT exam we got a new teacher called Mrs. Angel who was a complete and utter cunt, and made it her mission to whip me into shape and force me to get an A so she would look good. I complied, by copying out IKEA instruction manuals and pretending I was going to make a bookshelf for my practical exam.
The day came, and honestly, I did think I was going to attempt to make a bookshelf! A shit one, I suspected, but a bookshelf none the less. However this was not to be. That morning I met up with some mates from the adjoining boys school and smoked some extremely powerful skunk, plus a huge hash blunt that turned out to have had a large percentage of opium in it.
I turned up to the four hour exam stoned out of my tiny head and starting to hallucinate a little bit. I felt great! I was gonna make the best fucking bookshelf the invigilator had ever seen.
Alas, I spent 2 hours doing what I had always done in lessons, and just sat there sanding a big block of wood (bout the same size and shape as four bricks), so one of the sides was slightly curved.
The half way point arrived and I finally noticed my teacher staring at me with an unprecedented look of fury in her face. I looked at what I had created and decided I must make SOMETHING, if not a bookshelf.
So, for the remaining two hours I attached (with duct tape, no wood glue for me, oh no) six, 4" by 2" posts to the top of the block of wood, all in a row. I then preceded to paint the base pink, and the posts red. It was a work of art, I just had to decide what it was. Then a stroke of genius came and I started silently laughing so hard that I almost cracked a rib.
The end of the exam came, and the invigilator man walked around asking everyone what they had made and looking at their plans etc. He came to me. "So young lady, this doesn't look like the bookshelf in your designs...."
"No. This just appeared in my mind and I had to make it Sir. My brain had no control over my hands, I think I was possessed with the spirit of Jesus, he was a carpenter too wasn't he?"
"Erm.......Ok...So what is this?"
"It's a tampon inserter"
"................"
"You balance a tampon on top of each little peg, then you sit on it and the tampon goes right in, easy!" "I painted the pegs red so it's harder to see the mess if your having a heavy flow day"
Cue the invigilator trying hard not to burst out laughing, and my teacher running over, grabbing my invention and shouting "GO TO MY OFFICE...NOW!!!".
I had never been in that much trouble, ever. Not even when I habitually wore a garter belt and stockings to netball lessons. Still, the only thing that was a disaster in my mind is that they confiscated the tampon inserter and I never got it back!!!
Apologies for width, I always had to use super plus tampax.
(Fri 4th Apr 2008, 22:43, More)
useful feminine devices
The ages of 13 to 16 are a bit of a blur to me as I was smoking round about an 8th of skunk every two days or so, whilst attending one of the most sloaney private schools in the country and generally fucking things up.
My greatest achievement however, before I was packed off to boarding school for 6th form, was creating the Incredible Tampon Inserter for my final project in GCSE DT.
DT was one of my favourite classes cause I could sneak off, have a few spliffs and then spend a relaxing double lesson sanding random bits of wood I found and painting them pink. However my safe, balsa wood smelling haven was soon to be disrupted.
A few months before our DT exam we got a new teacher called Mrs. Angel who was a complete and utter cunt, and made it her mission to whip me into shape and force me to get an A so she would look good. I complied, by copying out IKEA instruction manuals and pretending I was going to make a bookshelf for my practical exam.
The day came, and honestly, I did think I was going to attempt to make a bookshelf! A shit one, I suspected, but a bookshelf none the less. However this was not to be. That morning I met up with some mates from the adjoining boys school and smoked some extremely powerful skunk, plus a huge hash blunt that turned out to have had a large percentage of opium in it.
I turned up to the four hour exam stoned out of my tiny head and starting to hallucinate a little bit. I felt great! I was gonna make the best fucking bookshelf the invigilator had ever seen.
Alas, I spent 2 hours doing what I had always done in lessons, and just sat there sanding a big block of wood (bout the same size and shape as four bricks), so one of the sides was slightly curved.
The half way point arrived and I finally noticed my teacher staring at me with an unprecedented look of fury in her face. I looked at what I had created and decided I must make SOMETHING, if not a bookshelf.
So, for the remaining two hours I attached (with duct tape, no wood glue for me, oh no) six, 4" by 2" posts to the top of the block of wood, all in a row. I then preceded to paint the base pink, and the posts red. It was a work of art, I just had to decide what it was. Then a stroke of genius came and I started silently laughing so hard that I almost cracked a rib.
The end of the exam came, and the invigilator man walked around asking everyone what they had made and looking at their plans etc. He came to me. "So young lady, this doesn't look like the bookshelf in your designs...."
"No. This just appeared in my mind and I had to make it Sir. My brain had no control over my hands, I think I was possessed with the spirit of Jesus, he was a carpenter too wasn't he?"
"Erm.......Ok...So what is this?"
"It's a tampon inserter"
"................"
"You balance a tampon on top of each little peg, then you sit on it and the tampon goes right in, easy!" "I painted the pegs red so it's harder to see the mess if your having a heavy flow day"
Cue the invigilator trying hard not to burst out laughing, and my teacher running over, grabbing my invention and shouting "GO TO MY OFFICE...NOW!!!".
I had never been in that much trouble, ever. Not even when I habitually wore a garter belt and stockings to netball lessons. Still, the only thing that was a disaster in my mind is that they confiscated the tampon inserter and I never got it back!!!
Apologies for width, I always had to use super plus tampax.
(Fri 4th Apr 2008, 22:43, More)
» Customers from Hell
Catwalk
In my 3 years of living in America I have had about 9 jobs, because I am generally useless and like to take spontaneous trips to the desert and have 30 hour lock in band practices.
My favoritest job is ironically the one with the most customers from hell.
A job that allowed me to work when I want and how I wanted to.
A job that has openings in any city across the US.
A job that was always hiring, even for one night.
A job that happily allows you to take days, weeks, months off and always lets you return at exactly the same position and pay rate.
A job where you are happily allowed to drink up to five adult beverages a night.
Yes, it is...stripping! What better way for an underqualified over-sexed Brit to earn wads of tax free cash whilst continuing to be fundamentally lazy, rude and drunk. Mmmmm yes this is indeed the dream job. And none of this crap about stripping victimising women. If anything -I- was victimising the customers...maintaining the illusion of the possibility, even eventuality, of sex until they were out of cash and their credit cards were maxed out.
So here is a handy pull out guide to the worst/funniest/mentalest strip club customers, and some dos and donts for you b3tans who frequent these dens of inequity.
1. Mr. "I don't really need to be at a strip club because when I'm in the real world, girls' clothes fall off at the mere sight of me".
Some men have this attitude because they are insecure, and some have it to try and score a free lapdance or justify not tipping. Whatever it is, you can fuck right off back to this imaginary world where hot girls rub their meat flaps in your face for free.
2. The Retard.
WHY THE FUCK the otherwise lovely staff let Down's Joe in every afternoon is beyond me. He makes all the dancers feel totally weird, and only tips a dollar an hour. I guess the bouncers feel sorry for him but it is just cunting wrong! I am usually the only girl that will get on stage and dance for him because I feel sorry that the other dancers ignore him except for the day he gets his disability payment and buys 2 lapdances. For I refuse to give him lapdances...I have to draw the line somewhere. I will gladly dance on a 300lbs trucker who is only wearing thin nylon shorts, but a grinning, drooling spaker who regularly calls me his best friend...I have to decline.
Plus the DJ indulges him when he is the only customer (during the 4pm-6pm dead period) and plays Joe's very own Monkees CD on repeat.
Imagine the Forrest Gump take off parodied in Tropic Thunder and add a hard on.
3. Customers who harp on that I'm too pretty/too smart/too educated/too British to be doing this. Stop asking why I do this and getting all pseudo-freudian on me. I DO IT FOR THE MONEY YOU MORON.
4. Men who try and get real into it when I give a lapdance. The ones who moan loudly and grind back into my crotch. You just look stupid. It's not flattering, I just care if you like it enough to give me money at the end. Actually, I don't even care if it was the most unsexual, crashingly boring experience of your life and I farted in your face, the bouncer sitting 5 feet away will make you pay me anyway.
My favorite lapdance customers (apart from the Yale literature professor who quotes Tolstoy and Amis) are the ones who sit nicely with their hands by their sides and say nothing for the entire dance, then ask for 5 more. There's one really nice Spanish guy called Angel who does this. He sits on a chair away from the stage all night, ignoring all dancers attempts to hook him into getting a dance, and at half an hour til close spends $300 getting lap dances from me. Doesn't say a word or try to touch me the whole time. Brill!
That leads me onto
5. Lap dance recipients who try and touch.
I understand that it's frustrating having a naked girl grind on your clothed dick, rub her tits and pussy in your face and not be able to feel her up. But that's tough shit. It's not as if this is unexpected, there's signs all over the lapdance area.
You REALLY want to touch? Then pay $400 for 15 minutes in the VIP area where I will let you touch my boob flesh (not the nipple) and my legs and thighs. You will then also have the added pleasure of being watched closely by a 300lbs gorilla who will snap your hard-on in two if you are naughty and touch me somewhere bad.
6. Mr Stinky.
Shower before visiting our humble establishment and you will be approached by the hot dancers and not only the one who has 'thug passion' tattooed on her back, 7 kids and a crack problem.
7. Yes my tits are real, as real as my affection for you.*
8. Men who ask me out on dates. No. Just no. And don't act surprised when I say no. The sole reason I am acting like I'm into you is to get your money out of your wallet and into my garter. Do you ask your mechanic if he'd like to go for a long drive with you this week end? Hm?
9. Customers who ask to fuck me.
If I did that I'd be working for a top escort agency and be earning a lot more. Go ask the ugly girls.
That's it for now, I'll add more when I think of it, and if you click. Go on, I DO think you're hot and you ARE making me wet.
*my tits are real, this remark is courtesy of another stripper I know.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 17:48, More)
Catwalk
In my 3 years of living in America I have had about 9 jobs, because I am generally useless and like to take spontaneous trips to the desert and have 30 hour lock in band practices.
My favoritest job is ironically the one with the most customers from hell.
A job that allowed me to work when I want and how I wanted to.
A job that has openings in any city across the US.
A job that was always hiring, even for one night.
A job that happily allows you to take days, weeks, months off and always lets you return at exactly the same position and pay rate.
A job where you are happily allowed to drink up to five adult beverages a night.
Yes, it is...stripping! What better way for an underqualified over-sexed Brit to earn wads of tax free cash whilst continuing to be fundamentally lazy, rude and drunk. Mmmmm yes this is indeed the dream job. And none of this crap about stripping victimising women. If anything -I- was victimising the customers...maintaining the illusion of the possibility, even eventuality, of sex until they were out of cash and their credit cards were maxed out.
So here is a handy pull out guide to the worst/funniest/mentalest strip club customers, and some dos and donts for you b3tans who frequent these dens of inequity.
1. Mr. "I don't really need to be at a strip club because when I'm in the real world, girls' clothes fall off at the mere sight of me".
Some men have this attitude because they are insecure, and some have it to try and score a free lapdance or justify not tipping. Whatever it is, you can fuck right off back to this imaginary world where hot girls rub their meat flaps in your face for free.
2. The Retard.
WHY THE FUCK the otherwise lovely staff let Down's Joe in every afternoon is beyond me. He makes all the dancers feel totally weird, and only tips a dollar an hour. I guess the bouncers feel sorry for him but it is just cunting wrong! I am usually the only girl that will get on stage and dance for him because I feel sorry that the other dancers ignore him except for the day he gets his disability payment and buys 2 lapdances. For I refuse to give him lapdances...I have to draw the line somewhere. I will gladly dance on a 300lbs trucker who is only wearing thin nylon shorts, but a grinning, drooling spaker who regularly calls me his best friend...I have to decline.
Plus the DJ indulges him when he is the only customer (during the 4pm-6pm dead period) and plays Joe's very own Monkees CD on repeat.
Imagine the Forrest Gump take off parodied in Tropic Thunder and add a hard on.
3. Customers who harp on that I'm too pretty/too smart/too educated/too British to be doing this. Stop asking why I do this and getting all pseudo-freudian on me. I DO IT FOR THE MONEY YOU MORON.
4. Men who try and get real into it when I give a lapdance. The ones who moan loudly and grind back into my crotch. You just look stupid. It's not flattering, I just care if you like it enough to give me money at the end. Actually, I don't even care if it was the most unsexual, crashingly boring experience of your life and I farted in your face, the bouncer sitting 5 feet away will make you pay me anyway.
My favorite lapdance customers (apart from the Yale literature professor who quotes Tolstoy and Amis) are the ones who sit nicely with their hands by their sides and say nothing for the entire dance, then ask for 5 more. There's one really nice Spanish guy called Angel who does this. He sits on a chair away from the stage all night, ignoring all dancers attempts to hook him into getting a dance, and at half an hour til close spends $300 getting lap dances from me. Doesn't say a word or try to touch me the whole time. Brill!
That leads me onto
5. Lap dance recipients who try and touch.
I understand that it's frustrating having a naked girl grind on your clothed dick, rub her tits and pussy in your face and not be able to feel her up. But that's tough shit. It's not as if this is unexpected, there's signs all over the lapdance area.
You REALLY want to touch? Then pay $400 for 15 minutes in the VIP area where I will let you touch my boob flesh (not the nipple) and my legs and thighs. You will then also have the added pleasure of being watched closely by a 300lbs gorilla who will snap your hard-on in two if you are naughty and touch me somewhere bad.
6. Mr Stinky.
Shower before visiting our humble establishment and you will be approached by the hot dancers and not only the one who has 'thug passion' tattooed on her back, 7 kids and a crack problem.
7. Yes my tits are real, as real as my affection for you.*
8. Men who ask me out on dates. No. Just no. And don't act surprised when I say no. The sole reason I am acting like I'm into you is to get your money out of your wallet and into my garter. Do you ask your mechanic if he'd like to go for a long drive with you this week end? Hm?
9. Customers who ask to fuck me.
If I did that I'd be working for a top escort agency and be earning a lot more. Go ask the ugly girls.
That's it for now, I'll add more when I think of it, and if you click. Go on, I DO think you're hot and you ARE making me wet.
*my tits are real, this remark is courtesy of another stripper I know.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 17:48, More)
» Guilty Pleasures, part 2
every town, has its ups and down
My guilty please is....Disney songs. I fecking can't get enough of that shit, especially the old 70s and 80s ones where Roger Miller (he of King of the Road fame) did the music.
I have every song from every soundtrack hidden away in an obscure photoshop file on the communal imac i share with my roommates. I thought this would never be discovered...
When I'm alone I like to play the songs really loudly and sing along at a similar volume (my favorites right now are Not in Nottingham from Robin Hood and Tale as Old as Time from Beauty and the Beast).
I recently moved into a unbearably hip and huge warehouse complex in New Haven CT. Three days ago all my roommates went out and it was obviously Disney music time for little fawn. I cranked Oo De Lally up all the way followed by some choice Aristocats and belted them out at the top of my lungs.
All was well until the day later when I went with the roommates to a dive bar downtown. About 3 whiskey and sodas in Pin by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs came on and I was singing loudly.
My friend then approached with 2 very beautiful boys in shameful skinny jeans and pork pie hats. I got ready to trick them into shagging me with my English accent and milky white breasts when one of them said "do you live at ********* warehouse?" I replied in the affirmative and then they both burst out singing "EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE A CAT".
I was so surprised and embarrassed that I made a quick U turn and bashed into a wall, bloodying my nose.
Turns out that they live below us and the ceilings are rather thin...
I haven't been as humiliated in at least 3 weeks!
Click I Like This and I'll post a pic of the bloody Disney-caused injury.
(Sat 15th Mar 2008, 1:52, More)
every town, has its ups and down
My guilty please is....Disney songs. I fecking can't get enough of that shit, especially the old 70s and 80s ones where Roger Miller (he of King of the Road fame) did the music.
I have every song from every soundtrack hidden away in an obscure photoshop file on the communal imac i share with my roommates. I thought this would never be discovered...
When I'm alone I like to play the songs really loudly and sing along at a similar volume (my favorites right now are Not in Nottingham from Robin Hood and Tale as Old as Time from Beauty and the Beast).
I recently moved into a unbearably hip and huge warehouse complex in New Haven CT. Three days ago all my roommates went out and it was obviously Disney music time for little fawn. I cranked Oo De Lally up all the way followed by some choice Aristocats and belted them out at the top of my lungs.
All was well until the day later when I went with the roommates to a dive bar downtown. About 3 whiskey and sodas in Pin by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs came on and I was singing loudly.
My friend then approached with 2 very beautiful boys in shameful skinny jeans and pork pie hats. I got ready to trick them into shagging me with my English accent and milky white breasts when one of them said "do you live at ********* warehouse?" I replied in the affirmative and then they both burst out singing "EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE A CAT".
I was so surprised and embarrassed that I made a quick U turn and bashed into a wall, bloodying my nose.
Turns out that they live below us and the ceilings are rather thin...
I haven't been as humiliated in at least 3 weeks!
Click I Like This and I'll post a pic of the bloody Disney-caused injury.
(Sat 15th Mar 2008, 1:52, More)
» Common
Ok...
I fall prey to so many things mentioned here, am I common? I don't think so, I'm more...borgeousie youth trying to get away from white/middle class guilt.
I...
- Smoke roll ups because they're cheaper and I can hide hash in them.
- Have a tramp stamp, reminscent of man ray's cello lady.
- Wear ugg boots. BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKING COMFORTABLE. If men could get away with wearing slippers in the street they so would.
- Say 'innit' a lot. Perhaps in an ironic fashion? Perhaps from the riduculous amount of time I spend around my 17 year old dealer?
- Stay in my pajamas until absolutely necessary to get into real clothes. It's so fun! Also they eventually feel like fur and you are a green and white yeti type creature running to the shop for 'large blue rizla thanks mate'
- Have a dog with 'terrier' in the breed name. Horace is a Bedlington Terrier and looks like a wee lamb. He is also gay.
- Drink in airport bars before 11am. I make a habit of always venturing to the airport bar whenever I am on a layover. I play Tom Waits songs in my head and sit at that goddamn bar. If four minutes go by without meeting some 50ish year old business man who just wants to buy me a drink and tell me his fascinating, sorrowful life story then I give up and try to sneak into the first class lounge.
Those men are legends.
So, am I common, or do I just do whatever I feel like and bugger what people think?
(Thu 16th Oct 2008, 22:34, More)
Ok...
I fall prey to so many things mentioned here, am I common? I don't think so, I'm more...borgeousie youth trying to get away from white/middle class guilt.
I...
- Smoke roll ups because they're cheaper and I can hide hash in them.
- Have a tramp stamp, reminscent of man ray's cello lady.
- Wear ugg boots. BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKING COMFORTABLE. If men could get away with wearing slippers in the street they so would.
- Say 'innit' a lot. Perhaps in an ironic fashion? Perhaps from the riduculous amount of time I spend around my 17 year old dealer?
- Stay in my pajamas until absolutely necessary to get into real clothes. It's so fun! Also they eventually feel like fur and you are a green and white yeti type creature running to the shop for 'large blue rizla thanks mate'
- Have a dog with 'terrier' in the breed name. Horace is a Bedlington Terrier and looks like a wee lamb. He is also gay.
- Drink in airport bars before 11am. I make a habit of always venturing to the airport bar whenever I am on a layover. I play Tom Waits songs in my head and sit at that goddamn bar. If four minutes go by without meeting some 50ish year old business man who just wants to buy me a drink and tell me his fascinating, sorrowful life story then I give up and try to sneak into the first class lounge.
Those men are legends.
So, am I common, or do I just do whatever I feel like and bugger what people think?
(Thu 16th Oct 2008, 22:34, More)
» Political Correctness Gone Mad
liberal child forced into 'racism'
I think agree with the general idea of political correctness, but...
when I was a baby fawn and in a London comprehensive primary school where 85% of the kids were black or of various other refugee ethnicity (Somali, Kosovan, etc), I was horrendously bullied for the majority of my time there.
I was fat, a swot, and had a bowl cut so it was to be expected really, but I did get a lot of abuse from the Arabic kids about being Jewish (the only Jew in the school). It got worse and worse, and when I told the teachers they helpfully did nothing. So, when I was due to leave a year earlier than everyone else to go to a very prestigious public boarding school I was inordinately relieved and vowed to continue holding in my anger until I left.
But one day the taunts and weird Palestinian abuse got too much finally and I burst.
"IT'S BECAUSE MY PARENTS ARE RICH AND JEWISH THAT I GET TO LEAVE THIS SHITHOLE. ", i shouted. "YOUR STUPID REFUGEE PARENTS CAN ONLY AFFORD THE GHETTO COMPREHENSIVE SO ONE DAY YOU CAN ALL LOOK FORWARD TO SERVING ME CHIPS".
Those were the actual words I said too. I can remember this as it was the only time I ever stuck up for myself in primary school.
The result? I nearly got suspended for racism, and would have ended my comprehensive education with an expulsion.
Luckily Daddy Fawn stepped in and used his Jew claw to make sure I wasn't expelled and I spent the rest of the term hiding from arab children.
Ironically, I went to the West Bank in Palestine for part of my gap year to help an aid organization.
(sorry for the length, it's my first time and I can feel the blood trickling down my legs)
(Fri 23rd Nov 2007, 8:19, More)
liberal child forced into 'racism'
I think agree with the general idea of political correctness, but...
when I was a baby fawn and in a London comprehensive primary school where 85% of the kids were black or of various other refugee ethnicity (Somali, Kosovan, etc), I was horrendously bullied for the majority of my time there.
I was fat, a swot, and had a bowl cut so it was to be expected really, but I did get a lot of abuse from the Arabic kids about being Jewish (the only Jew in the school). It got worse and worse, and when I told the teachers they helpfully did nothing. So, when I was due to leave a year earlier than everyone else to go to a very prestigious public boarding school I was inordinately relieved and vowed to continue holding in my anger until I left.
But one day the taunts and weird Palestinian abuse got too much finally and I burst.
"IT'S BECAUSE MY PARENTS ARE RICH AND JEWISH THAT I GET TO LEAVE THIS SHITHOLE. ", i shouted. "YOUR STUPID REFUGEE PARENTS CAN ONLY AFFORD THE GHETTO COMPREHENSIVE SO ONE DAY YOU CAN ALL LOOK FORWARD TO SERVING ME CHIPS".
Those were the actual words I said too. I can remember this as it was the only time I ever stuck up for myself in primary school.
The result? I nearly got suspended for racism, and would have ended my comprehensive education with an expulsion.
Luckily Daddy Fawn stepped in and used his Jew claw to make sure I wasn't expelled and I spent the rest of the term hiding from arab children.
Ironically, I went to the West Bank in Palestine for part of my gap year to help an aid organization.
(sorry for the length, it's my first time and I can feel the blood trickling down my legs)
(Fri 23rd Nov 2007, 8:19, More)