One day Helmut Newton booked me for a swimming-pool shoot. I was thrilled at the prospect of working with him. All the top models had worked with Helmut at least once. He liked tall, domineering, angry, sexy Amazons. I could do S&M, I could be his kind of girl. He was working on a famous series of models in swimming pools, contrasting the cool blue water with the black of their sunglasses and bathing suits, the red of their nails and lips, their ebony hair, long tan legs and backs, curved sexy bottoms and breasts.
Mine was an ad for Smirnoff Vodka.
The turquoise pool, my long naked back next to a martini glass.
It seemed simple enough.
Helmut arrived at Ringo Starr’s estate in a black stretch limo, took one look at Ringo’s pool, another look at the sky and declared both inadequate. He needed bright sunshine, a rare event in North London, and the pool was too shabby.
He ignored me like I was some assistant and disappeared back into his limo. The shoot was cancelled. I was paid five hundred pounds for showing up, and a week later ten of us, hair, make-up, stylist, ad-people, assistants, flew to an infinity pool carved into the Portofino mountainside.
Throughout our first dinner Helmut entertained us with witty but brutal anecdotes, like when he had a fireman’s hose pointed between the model’s legs and the jet of ice-cold water accidentally hit her in the crotch causing her to scream in pain. Helmut told the story as if this blast had actually given the girl an orgasm and everyone laughed.
I’d never been to Italy before and I ordered antipasti, Osso Bucco and Tiramisu.
I was in heaven but Helmut stated that if I kept eating this much I’d look like a Dutch heifer next to my fine-boned glass of Smirnoff Vodka and for the next two days June, his wife/assistant, ordered my meals of salad and fruit. I starved but I was terrified of Helmut and his cruel sense of humor, so I kept quiet.
I had my back to him in the shot while he said things like: She looks like a guy from behind, get me Dalma or Jerry, or anyone else who knows what she’s doing, Her hair is too short, her elbows too pointy.
It was hard to model with my back, sitting on the edge of a pool, legs in the water. There wasn’t much I could do to look different, sexier, curvier, more S&M, but I hoped my back looked angry, because I hated him, and I put all this emotion into my butt, my vertebrae, my neck, shoulder-blades, arms, hair, earlobes, and skin.
Afterwards, when I saw the ad, I realized he’d been obnoxious on purpose. He wanted that tension of anger. It showed. The ad was great and I was proud to have a Helmut Newton shot in my portfolio.
Every For Sale sign becomes a For Rent sign, everywhere I drive I imagine living. I ponder the beach versus the mainland, Sobe versus Brickell, the Grove, Downtown, North Beach, Normandy Isle. I weigh ocean-front condo against a home with a yard against a community townhouse. Then I’m sure again that Aqua, where we now live is perfect, and that I should find a more affordable place here. I’m turning into a real estate catalog. Every Miami for rent three-plus bedroom now has a place in my mind. 95% is unaffordable and other the 5% is too small for our five enormous personalities. If its true that you become what’s on your mind then I’ll be a condo soon ( a gorgeous large but cheap one).
Yes, yes, yes Iona got into DASH and our nine month escape from the winter has turned into something very different. Oh its life-changing, our friends say. Hell yes. Like how the fuck do I patch this one together. Didn’t we just built a huge beautiful house that I love back in Milford? Wasn’t it the perfect place for us? Didn’t we create a balance between living, kids and work, lots of lovely friends, in a picture perfect village? Didn’t I say, when we moved in three years ago, it was great to know that we’d never have to move again?
sweet home
But no, we had to go and fall in love.
Suddenly Miami is the perfect place for us. We ALL fell in love with the palm trees, the beach, the bays and canals and swimming pools, the gardens and parks on every corner. Miami is crazy cosmopolitan, its not a white American city. Its Cuban and Italian and Jewish and Venezuelan and Chilean and its loud and a tad dangerous and hot and sweaty and gritty and romantic and we want it. We don’t want to flirt with it anymore, we want to get married and have babies. Well, maybe no more babies. But we want to look after our three baby girls, do whats best for them. And Iona is in love with DASH and Kiki and Leila are like Miami, wild and intense and engaging and a tad dangerous.
Husband and I? Don’t know. I’ve always been a sucker for moving. I left home in Amsterdam when I was seventeen. But my bag had been packed since I was ten. Not because I hated my life. I’ve never moved because I hate my life. Paris, Sydney, Melbourne, London, New York, Princeton, Milford, Miami, I always moved because those places nurtered me enough to turn another corner and experience more, learn more, challenge myself more and expand. Its never personal. Its just who I am.
And husband? We’ll let him speak for himself. He loves to swim and his goal is to swim in every pool in Miami and write about it. I’ll say no more I’ll just send you links, after all he’s the seasoned writer in this house.
Meanwhile.
I’m sitting in front of this giant puzzle and all the pieces are still strewn in front of me. School, home, kids, husband, dog, renters, friends, work and money. Money. Money. Money. Money. Money. Money. And Health Insurance.
Barbara de Vries was born in Amsterdam, where she was a shy child until her fourth grade teacher encouraged her to dance on her desk and tease the boys with her zip-down sixties dress. After this pivotal moment of self discovery her life improved and she started to dream of horizons beyond the grey, wet and flat security of the Netherlands. At age seventeen Barbara packed her bags to pursue a modeling career in Paris, but when she refused to strip for designer Andre Courreges (go figure) her agency threw her out. Eventually she became a top model in London for publications and designers like Vogue, Bazaar, Zandra Rhodes, Yves Saint Laurent and many others. She used modeling as a way to support herself through fashion college and launched her own collection which sold at Harvey Nichols, Neiman Marcus and Seibu, Japan and she dressed celebrity clients like Princess Diana. After ten years Barbara packed her bags again and came to New York where, in 1990, she was snapped up by Calvin Klein to become his senior VP of Design and she went on to create the CK collections which made fashion history when Marky Mark and Kate Moss wore (very little of) what Barbara had designed while posing almost naked over Times Square.
Next Barbara stripped for author Alastair Gordon, who soon became her husband. They had three daughters and moved to Pennsylvania, which dampened Barbara’s exhibitionist spirit until she discovered that, now that she’d passed forty, writing was not only the next best way to bare herself, but that from her new perspective she could throw light on the unattainable standards of beauty the fashion industry puts upon women’s self esteem. While she continues to work as a freelance creative director Barbara also writes professionally, such as the piece for NPR’s All Things Considered on modeling and eating disorders.
Why, after writing three hundred pages and 65,000 words of a complete novel is it impossible to say what its about in a few hundred words? The synopsis is due and I am procrastinating. My bio too. Also hard. Like who am I? Who do I want to be? Which part is appealing, which picture, which part of my life will draw editors and readers to me instead of evoke who-does-she-think-she-is disgust?
Really!
Don’t people hate ex-models? Aren’t models supposed to be seen and not heard? Apparently Tyra Banks’ agent said, when Tyra first pitched Americas Next Top Model, let face it models are just not very sympathetic characters thats why people don’t want to know about them. Well wasn’t he wrong. Turns out people love to see pretty wannabe models be humiliated, cry and then bitch about it. But thats beside my point. Actually it isn’t. I’m fascinated by the whole beauty culture. I was submerged in it for ages, so deep that I had no perspective.
Now that I’m older and live on the fashion periphery I see.
mama barbi
More clearly.
For instance I see the whole anti-aging mania. I had lunch with a woman last Friday, an ex-model, who said that she represented the anti-aging institute here in Miami. How cool, I tought, an institute that supports aging in a positive way. WRONG! It was a botox, lift, nip and tuck center, and might as well be called the How To Hide That You’re Aging Institute. See thats my point. Our culture is not as much about being young as it’s about apppearing young when you’re not anymore. I was right smack in the middle of it this. Yet I never grasped ( I was a stupid model) the reasoning and consequences of each youthful, laughing, leaping with happyness at the sheer pretty-ness of my existence photograph I took, to sell products by pretending that I was onto something that other women were not but might be if they bought into what I was wearing, drinking, smoking etc. Not a clue. I just smiled and leapt and took the fat check home. As for being sexy in those pictures, well you may be happy to hear that it never got me any sex. I’ll debunk this while I’m at it. Men were terrified of the Cosmo cover girl. I could stand alone at parties with hundreds of hot guys and the only ones trying to pick me up were greasy midgets with Greek shipping magnate names like Spiros. But I’m not getting to the synopsis. Not at all. In fact I’m still effectively procrastinating.
Although the novel is about all of the above, its also not. Its about sex and beauty and fashion and Calvin Klein and Kate Moss and Paris and fifty looming and losing weight and adultery and French mistresses and family and a BlackBerry and falling apart. Its more than that and its different than that. Less of a rant, more of a story. Like is it a love story? Kinda. Is it a story of self discovery? (yawn) Kinda. Is it about me? Yes and no.
So now you’re thinking, then what the fuck is it Barbi? Like if you dont know then how are we supposed to know?
You will. I promise. I’m just kicking up dust and see what settles. Using you and this blog-thing to get my head from the story to an advertising-copy sized essence of what took me 65,000 casual self-effacing words into something that now needs to read like the self-important blurb at the supermarket check out.
Suggestions are most welcome and also see poll below…
Audi super bowl party tonight at W penthouse with large outdoor deck only it rained so deck was closed for fear of ten inch heels slipping and diving down side of building. All of us cramped inside the PH suite with model renta crowd and two celebs as in Hillary Swank and Kate Walsh, going mostly unnoticed. Then onto the pool area where I met Mark Ellwood from Plum TV, celebrating his bday and talking about models, amazon models. It was that kind of night when mini mini skirts are more rampant than dead-from-frost lizards and husband remembers why we moved here in the first place and I remember why I stopped going… like why would anyone have a six foot sultry greeter in them ten inch heels at the door in a teensy black lace dress? She must’ve made at least 50% of party guests, as in women, turn and go home to hide under the covers hugging their teddy bears and pondering non-compete pre-nups. Tomorrow: twins have a treasure hunt birthday party at the Aventura mall, is this somehow an oxymoron? And one wonders: Twenty little girls running for clues and competing for treasure in a huge mall? Safe? Day before Super Bowl? Crowded? Lost little girls? I’m volunteering to chaperone…
Then another mini skirt leggy poolside affair at the Raleigh. Its party time again in Miami and I feel like Jon Stewart on Bill O’Reilly….I’m not scared….
OK. So. I know that some of you might be coming down this Christmas vacation. To escape the snow/20 degree weather. See Mom and Pop. See Grandma. See those silly friends who moved down telling you that Miami is like the next cool city. Or if you’re just dreaming of a blue Christmas.
After my first three intense months here I dare to share :
EAT:
My, by far, favorite restaurant, and OK so I’m biased because the owners are Dutch, and Ineke and I used to model together in Amsterdam in the seventies, is IndoMania, the only really good Indonesian restaurant outside Amsterdam (I never went to Indonesia), where they serve a full Rice Table, or great Indonesian inspired dishes that compete with any high class fusion restaurant.
Next fave, for lunch or a very early dinner (close at 7pm) and for those of you who like hole-in-the-wall style Japanese sushi, is at the Japanese Market @ North Bay Village. The deck at the Standard Hotel has great views of Biscayne Bay and also of superstar guests like Naomi, Nars, Weber and Calvin. More celebs and a great spot for brunch is, of course, under the trees at the Raleigh Hotel, if you’re cool enough to be given a table… Sardinia on Purdy Street is a fancy Sardinian restaurant where the food is excellent, the waiters real Italians and real cute, and I felt like I was back being spoiled on the Costa Smeralda. The Buena Vista Bistro is in the design district, the mainland, just over the Julia Tuttle Causeway. Cafe´ style home cooking like great grouper/mashed potatoes. Other restaurants in the design district are Michael’s with draft beer and macho fayre (bacon, burnt sprouts and lots of meat) and FratelliLyon. The Red Light, (305) 757-7773, has a fabulous owner chef, a cool quirky crowd and is hidden away in the fifties style Motel Blu , with only a handwritten sign that says Red Light . Upstairs interior is funky Caribbean diner and downstairs there’s a narrow terrace on Little River where manatees have been known to lounge around. Lincoln Road is fun, but most restaurants suck in a get them in and out fast kinda way, so we have our own three destinations: Books and Books for great salads, superb fish sandwich, magazines from all over the world, and cool well-read waiters. At Sostas the pizza is good and affordable, its where we take the kids. After seeing a movie at the Lincoln Theater next door I like the Venezuelan Baire where I have the poached pear and gorgonzola salad and hope that the super sexy group at the next table (straight from a Almodovar cast) invites me to join them.
PLAY:
Like shop?
For loitering outside, people watching and groovy stores like Diesel and Miss Sixty (dotted between the same old same old Gap, Victoria Secret and Pottery Barn) there is of course Lincoln Road, which becomes more interesting every other Sunday when a street fair/fleamarket is part of the streetscape.
While being So Be-ward, even if you cant afford or fit into ultra expensive, gorgeous, top of the line, best pick designer clothes, you have to visit the Webster, a newly opened lifestyle of the rich and famous store run by former YSL execs, Milan, Laure and Frederic, all chic as poodles, and incidently there’s a Kaspia, the Paris caviar joint ,in the lobby. But in general modern shopping is best in the design district, a small neighborhood of about four blocks square with furniture/lifestyle, Luminaire, Avanti, Kartell and fashion/accesories stores like Marni, Fendi, Quinn, Tomas Maier and the recently opened Moore building with several young designers boutiques. A few blocks down is the Wynwood area with lots of little galleries and cool shops like Las Tias , a consignment furniture store (and more) choc full of Lapidus and Miami Vice-style cast offs and owned by my fabulous Miami friend Esther Percal. A must!
More PLAY:
Like beaches and pools? We like to walk to the public beach entry on 62nd street where the water is turquoise, the beach is wide and very quiet. But for the complete Miami Beach experience rent a bike and take the boardwalk all the up or way down and pick a spot. Like South Pointe Park which was recently opened and extends along the port waterway where cruise ships like giant UFO’s glide by you on your tiny towel. For a grand feet-out-of-the-sand experience the beach at the Raleigh is wide and buff boys settle you into their comfy sun chairs for a substantial fee. The Raleigh pool is fabulous dahling, models, male and female, are encouraged to hang by the pool (in their spare time) for sex appeal but it made me want to diet, do the gym, botox, tummy tuck, and spray-on tan before ever coming back . The Fontainebleau has a “poolscape” meaning three, or is it four, pools with connecting terraces that are dotted with sun chairs and VIP cabanas which include flat screen TV’s and girls who rub sunscreen into the oily backs of sunburned Soprano types. Its kitsch but if you’re doing Miami you gotta do the Fontainebleau, even if its only for an hour. My favorite pool ever, anywhere, is the lake sized pool at the Biltmore Hotel in the Gables, nowhere near the beach, but go for a drink at the poolside bar, bring a costume, and float around (preferably at night when the hotel is lit up and feels like the Alhambra.)
Other PLAY:
Like renting a boat? Any size is available depending on your budget, from Indian Creek along Collins Avenue. Nightclubs must still be play for some, and the Wall at the W is one hot-spot, although it made me feel like my own granny. Debbie’s after hours club, called Private Residence @ 1427 West Ave is my Saturday night spot, its small and exclusive and reminds me of the old London clubs like Tramp and Annabel’s. Exploring funky neighborhoods is what I like to do best. Miami is a cosmopolitan experience and if you want to feel like you’ve left the USA go hang out in the South American strip by the beach between 63rd and 75th street. My favorite is the Buenos Aires Bakery where they sell pre-made mini sandwiches which I take to the beach. Or walk around little Havana for quirky shops, great Jazz and cigars if you’re so inclined. Along the railroad tracks on 4th North Court/79th street I found, behind a wall of highly designed shades of grey concrete panels, a commune of cool young fashion designers, artists, hairdressers, architects and Green developers. Its where I want to have my studio. If we stay next year that is…
Beg Borrow and Steal Show at the Rubell Family Collection
Its over.
One week of feeding frenzy art exposure that had as little to do with the act of the individual expression of divine inspiration as a car show. Art Basel Miami, exhibited at the convention center and other locations around town, was all about the commodification of art. Like the stock market. Thousands of people milling around halls and halls, and booths and booths stuffed with art ready to take the gamble like they were looking for a lucrative stock portfolio.
An art overdose. An art oxymoron. OK. I know. You gettit. But let me tell you, among all that art and trend, there was hardly any Green. I’d been pitching the story of “what’s new in green art” to websites like Planet Green, Inhabitat and Treehugger, but phew I’m glad I got no bites because there was nothing to report. No thing. Nada. NADA was incidently the name of the edgier art show at the Deauville Hotel in North Beach, walking distance from my home, where the Beatles had played in the sixties and it hasn’t been renovated since. The stale baroque carpet and duck taped doors were supposedly cool and funky, and so all the cool and funky peole stayed there. But my favorite show was Pulse, at the old Ice factory, where that whacky halloween party took place a month ago, the best art, the best setting, the most together mix of people. Pulse’s old warehouse environment did not diminsh the art as much as the convention center (still reeking from last month’s wine show) did. Like Pulse had Maria Jose Arjona, the Pain Resistant performance artist who stood on blocks of ice spiked with large nails, which became exposed as the ice slowly melted. As a fakir she stood all day, blocking out pain, cold and the sight of drones of people ew-ing and ah-ing, watching, pointing and laughing. One woman in the audience said, “OH NO, her hair keeps falling across her eyes.” “Please,” I said, “thats the least of her problems. Like hypothermia and tetanus come to mind…?”
Is art shown at a trade-show still art? Or is it f-art? I mean there are trade shows for everything commercial. Cars, wine, porn,furniture and fashion all use trade shows as a means to connect to their markets. But isn’t art more? And best understood within the context of the artist’s life, mind, raw loft, rickety farmstead? Call me a romantic, but I want the entire art experience. I used to do trade shows myself. Every season, sometimes four times a year, in London when I had a collection called Giraf and then again in New York at the Javitz when I did a kids clothing line, called Baby Gordon. And I can tell you, with authority, that trade shows are like being cast into outer philistine space. They suck unless you’re really really hot. But boredom and not inspired creativity was modus operandus at Basel Miami where the art representatives escaped on their MACs, traveling to virtual worlds (Googling old boyfriends?) beyond their tiny cubicle and the bourgeois crowds.
Of course there were some really cool things with which I shall now debunk myself and I took lots of pictures for Alastair’s WSJ blog, best Basel Miami blog on the market, and when I picked the projects I liked to photograph I also picked my favorites, all of which are posted on Miami Street Style, and some here:
dessert at the Rubell Family Collection opening of their Beg, Steal and Borrow exhibition
How?
Easy, they dont feed you here! Events, aka VIP parties, are planned from five in the afternoon through three in the morning, back to back, overlapping, six layers deep, some are even called dinner, BUT, they do not actually feed food. Drinks yes, but dinner, not quite. Maybe its the recession, maybe its fashion, but if a plastic cup filled with three shrimp and a hot pepper passes you between seven and ten, count yourself lucky. Except for Fendi’s dinner at Mr. Chow last night. Well kinda, it was dinner for one, so what was I supposed to do while Alastair ate? Well, I drove Michele Oka Doner to a few events that included Jordan, her son, and when I went to pick Al up at Chows the Peking Duck was just being served so I kinda crashed an empty chair and got enough calories to stay within the Basel Miami diet limit, before we returned home. I should have yielded earlier, I thought, to the donut wall, the symbolic dessert installation at the Rubell family collection, a wall with a thousand donuts hung on nails, for the picking.
But little did I know…
Tonight I write here, its past midnight, lick the peanut butter from my lips, and I wonder, but, more of THAT tomorrow….
It was fun and now its over. The last of the turkey was fed to the cats. and the raccoons, our guests have left, its quiet. Iona misses her friend Amanda and the twins are bummed, they love a full house, parties, action, and opportunities to dress up in glitzy gowns. Yes i said raccoons. And cats. Just up the street, at a large abandoned theater, there live a dozen homeless cats and four raccoons with their two raccundles. and every evening we collect our leftovers, get in the car, and park in the lot and i sneak out, weary of those either maternal or rabid raccons, and dump the food. Usually one tiger-striped cat with huge serious eyes walks out and sits right under our rolled down window. and stares. She stares us right down and we try to figure whether its a grateful stare, or a take-me- home-with-you stare, or a fuck-off-we-dont-need-your-food stare, or a I-remember-the-humans-who-abandoned-me-here-stare. or just a meditation stare before she tucks in. Then there’s the black alpha cat who always gets first dibs, and a ginger one who lingers until there’s the invisble sign that she too can join the feast. Tonight one raccoon was eager, it may have been the liver laced, wine soaked, cranberry dotted gravy smell, and tiptoed like she was drunk in high heels across the beam from my headlights, dove into the food, found a large turkey bone heavy with meat and carried it, head held high as if she was afraid to get her loot dirty, into the bushes where one youngster waited for her like a Tim Burton shadow against the white wall.
I have a hunch that this ritual of feeding cats and coons will be the sole reason my twins will finally fall in love with Miami.
Last night we held a small screening here, at our candy-land-bachelor-pad, of the movie that Roland, dear friend and godfather to all our kids, has made. This film follows three of his Bronx high school students over several years in their attempt to escape the ghetto through writing poetry. The movie is a powerful and touching piece of work, which will be shown by PBS sometime next year. As all twenty of us sat quietly and watched and listened to loud, intense rapping and slamming, another, even louder noise, seeped in through the open windows. Alastair and I looked at each other. WTF? A street fight? On our ultra secure Aqua island? A spousal argument? The new neighbors?
Rowdier shouting and hooting competed with the rap poetry that echoed from Tiesto’s Bose sound system.
Words like: You cant have sex!!! Bounced from the street walls. And no masturbation!!!
I peeked outside and through another open window across the street I saw ten young Hassidim men and their Rabbi sitting around the dinner table. The ten men cheered as if the Rabbi had just scored a goal.
As we finished Roland’s movie and ate a second Thanksgiving dinner, more loud and explicit sexual warnings about the pre-marital relationship were delivered across the way, whether we liked it or not, as we wondered what was going on, how long it would last, and where it would lead. (Any explanations? )
Tomorrow is the day before Art Basel Miami launches into its week of over-the-top art events. Alastair and I will be blogging it all. Both here and at his new blog, Alastair Gordon, Off the Wall, so stay tuned for more from rabid Miami….
A pill that blunts female inhibitions?!
No matter how men try to get into women’s sex heads, the results are always funny. And scary. I don’t know how many women chemists worked on this new pill that is supposed to re-awaken our desire (is it really so asleep? Not in Miami Beach!) but judging from the quotes in the Boehringer press release a bunch of men take the credit, and after being released on Bloomberg all the top Google results are macho sites touting this much anticipated drug, by men, by bankers, counting on their shares becoming gold as women start having more sex and their world will be a happier and richer place.
Maybe what Boehringer calls “blunted inhibition”, am I the only woman who feels misunderstood by this misogynist pr line, is really a survival mode. Like a way to not get pregnant again, and not be judged for having an abortion (how will our culture balance and consolidate Viagra, this new pill, unwanted pregnancies and right to lifers?) This unblunting pill’s clinical trials, the so-called Bouquet studies, dubbed Violet, Daisy, Dahlia and Orchid (are we throwing up yet?) showed that their test-women took the drug daily (therein lies the money, otherwise why not just pop Ecstasy when this woman in her thirties and early forties finally finds the time to get to bed while her man is still awake) and after taking it for three to six weeks displayed the side effect of feeling tired. Pardon me? And this is BEFORE feeling horny? Now I’m confused. Don’t we, the smart ones, the women in our thirties and forties and fifties, KNOW (without studies) that we’re sexually blunted because we are ALREADY tired? Like DUH! And now men have designed a drug that will make us tired yet horny? Either they’re just dumb or I’m lost. And how do they know that this drug blunts only the sex inhibition part of the frontal lobe? What about the other inhibitions? Like the inhibition that stops certain women from getting in the car with the wrong guy, use a condom, or leave the kids home alone to go on a hot date? Isn’t inhibition in some cases just a word for each woman’s own interpretation of common sense? And how exactly can this safety valve be selectively controlled by a drug that increases our sex drive?
Really? My sick “undersexed “sisters, is our disinterest in sex a legitimate medical condition, called by researchers HSDD (hypoactive sexual desire disorder), and are we gonna try this one? Hands up by those who admit to HSDD? Hands up by those who sometimes simply feel too tired? Hands up by the men who want more sex than their partner does? Hands up by the men who take Viagra?
AHA!
More AHA!: Boehringer faces the loss of 1.5 billion dollars in annual revenue when their two older medicines, Mirapex for Parkinson’s disease and Flomax to treat enlarged prostate, lose patent protection next year. Poor poor Boehringer.
I agree with the notion that HSDD is a clear example of a disease created by pharmaceutical companies to make healthy women think they need medicine. But what do I know? Sitting by my Miami Beach pool where women of all ages wear almost nothing and are buff, nipped, tucked, filled, implanted, and look like they have sex all the time. I mean Christ, Miami wouldn’t be safe if these women took this drug as well, the whole city would be bounding up and down, causing tidal waves.
Call me old fashioned but I’ll stick with the notion that a nanny (for the kids), a vacation, a husband on a diet so he’s nice to reach for under the covers, a few hunky young men around the pool or the supermarket for fantasy value, maybe a Percoset, a drink, a joint or Ecstasy (note to Internet Police, I’ve never touched the stuff) are likely to cure most cases of HSDD. But hey, who am I and what do I know? To be blunted, I’m just a menopausal bitch with young kids, who likes sex but is too responsible and inhibited to say let me do something for Boehringer’s shareholders and get horny more often…
Barbi Does Miami 
