Teenage Fan Club

Sushi, sluts, and supermarkets: All in a dog day’s work

How much would you charge "clients"?

On average, $250 to $400 an hour — although some clients would spend up to $2000, $3000 an hour for a girl.

Would you ever post a picture of a girl resembling porn star Jenna Jameson, but then the client actually got a girl who looked likeDaily Bugle editor J. Jonah Jameson?

There are too many levels of repugnance in this image to adequately analyze in this space
There are too many levels of repugnance in this image to adequately analyze in this space

You have a lot of agencies that put up fake photos on the Internet, but I always provided clients with the girl they were expecting. If I sent someone you didn't like, you could call me up and I would send you a different girl. That is why I was so successful.

Did your clients ever make requests for weird sex acts?

I had one guy who would always ask me to send him a girl he could wrestle with. Another client would pay $500 to have a girl defecate on him. A lot of guys also liked taking golden showers. Some clients would just pay the girls to dance for them, no sex involved.


Riot in an Empty Aisle
During a recent visit to the Aventura Fresh Market to stock up on nutritional dog essentials like gourmet caramel corn, coffee, and cannolis, The Bitch hopped into one of the long lines that did not seem to be moving.

"Is there a problem?" the tired and hungry dog asked a graying gentleman clutching four bunches of assorted lilies and a wheel of Brie.

"Apparently the computers are down," he smiled.

Just then the manager appeared and made an announcement. "I apologize, folks, but the computers are down and we can only accept cash at this moment," he said as sweat beaded on his brow. The cashiers wasted no time finding calculators and notepads, and began jotting down prices of tagged items as they sent the baggers scurrying to weigh bulk items on the scales at the deli counter. The manager then locked the automatic doors and taped a sign to the window, apologizing for the temporary closure owing to equipment failure.

Expecting a riot, The Bitch braced herself for a shower of San Pellegrino and Gold'n Krackle pita crisps and began searching for change, praying to find a misplaced Hamilton amid the detritus of her messenger bag. But there was no yelling. No one was shoving or cursing. Not one nasty sentiment was muttered as customers calmly waited. A few people pushed their carts aside and walked to a nearby bank to use the ATM, while others began chatting about weekend plans.

"Wow. I can't believe everyone is acting so nice," noted the young woman standing in line behind The Bitch. She held a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a baguette to her chest as she adjusted the sparkly strap on her party-ready Donald J Pliner heels. "I was just at the mall, and people were so mean. I got pushed into a table of pashminas, and people were fighting over spaces in the parking lot. But people are acting right in here."

While The Bitch was deciding between putting back the pecan bars or the raspberry linzer cookies, the system came back up and debit cards emerged from Prada purses and Ferragamo wallets. "Aren't you glad you get to buy all of your goodies now?" the grinning cashier asked.


Scenes from a Sushiplex
Chef Enrique Jasso is fiddling with some fried squid legs, arranging the bronzed, sucker-puckered extremities into a fried, spiced, nouvelle (and unsettlingly erotic) presentation of a basic plate of calamari.

Jasso, who came to Miami after a long stint at Chicago's Su Casa of Tokyo, presides over the glowing case of very fresh eel, tuna, crab, scallops, and exotic sea denizens at Sushi House. The strip-mall restaurant is in an oasis of calm at NE 159th Street and Biscayne Boulevard, between Aventura Mall madness and the endless construction barriers farther to the south.

On a recent weekday evening, Jasso, a partner in the venture, is so focused on whipping up a jalapeño-based sauce to go with some yellowfin he barely notices the few patrons in the minimally outfitted café; there is a shorts-clad guy perusing the take-out menu, two career-type women in deep conversation, and a hot mom with two disinterested, flip-flop flinging teens, all on cell phones.

The business part of the restaurant falls to the other owner, Mark Koyfman, a shy but solid man in his thirties with a genteel Eastern Bloc accent. Koyfman, dressed in black and pacing hesitantly past the table where The Bitch is admiring the calamari, pauses to fret over whether launching a wine-and-sushi happy hour might be interpreted as a cheapening of the place's image.

"No way! Go for it!" The Bitch enthuses and then asks, "Did you study sushi in Japan? How many times have you visited there?"

"Never," Koyfman sighs. "I've always wanted to go, but something always comes up.

"And now this...." Koyfman adds, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the restaurant's interior. "I really want this to succeed. So the calendar is cleared of vacation for who knows how long. Maybe next year I'll get to visit Japan."

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