JOEY
GOT LAID
A Short Tale of
No Ordinary Party
A Short Story from
TURDS IN THE
PUNCH BOWL
by
JEN ASHTON
Joey Got Laid by Jen Ashton
Copyright © 2011 by Jen Ashton
Cover by Jen Ashton
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the original vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Author’s Note
Joey Got Laid is the first chapter of my Bestselling humor book Turds in the Punch Bowl. It is my hope that you will enjoy this short tale and venture on to read the rest of Joe’s adventures.
~ Jen Ashton
JOEY GOT LAID:
A SHORT TALE OF NO ORDINARY PARTY
I woke up to the unfamiliar sound of thumping against my bedroom wall. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over to check the time on the digital alarm clock glowing from my nightstand.
“5:03? Are you kidding me?” I thought to myself as I refocused my attention to the sounds coming from Joe's bedroom. What the heck is he building now?
My best friend Joe was notorious for building things. Things and stuff, as I always referred to them. They were never necessarily useful things; however it was typically clever and innovative stuff. He would often get a wild hair up his ass to construct some off-the-wall idea that he dreamt of or saw on TV. Just never at this hour
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I laid there in the waning darkness of the in between. Moments ago it had been pitch black in my room, a symbol of the night. And now as I lay there tossing and turning under my cool sheets, the sun was peeking its head over the mountains of the east, slowly brightening my room like someone in the sky was turning on the dimmer switch. Ugh. I rolled over and covered my ears with the pillow.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
It was then that I heard something peculiar between the thuds echoing through my drywall. Did my ears deceive me? I lifted the pillow off my head for a better listen. No, it couldn't be. But it was. True enough, the thumping from the other room was in fact Joe’s headboard banging against the wall, followed by tantric moans escaping the lips of a woman.
A woman? Joe brought home a woman?
This was a rare feat for the rather tactless and desperate Joe. We had spent the greater part of the last year trying to get him laid, and to no avail. After his divorce, Joe had been enduring a rather painfully long dry spell. We tried countless tactics and rehearsed hundreds of opening lines, night after night, with little to no success. It seemed the scars of his marriage had left a lasting impression on his confidence, rendering him completely useless in the dating pool. No matter how well I prepped him before I sent him out there into the endless abyss of blonde, Vegas bimbos, somehow Joe had a talent for effortlessly torpedoing into an embarrassing nosedive. Crash and burn every time.
Most of his conversations would start out strong. “Hi, my name is Joe.” But that's about as far as he ever got on his good foot. From there he would segway into comments such as, “I'm divorced. My wife was a stripper and she left me. I had a kid once, but she wasn't mine. I have three piercings in my penis. Do you want to see?” Almost always in that order, and yes, almost always in one breath.
You get the point. It was no secret that Joe was about as smooth as a serrated knife. Although I was always hiding in a corner watching from afar and laughing my ass off, neither Joe, nor the object of his abrasive introductions were ever smiling when all was said and done. He needed practice and a stern talking to about the stench of desperation.
I explained to Joe on several occasions that desperation was like dog shit; it stinks. Sometimes you don't even know you’ve stepped in it, but when you do, it lingers. Everyone can smell it. We could wash his old shoes a thousand times, but chances were that a few sneaky remnants of poo would encrust themselves deep into the ridges of his soul and remain forever. On this morning, he must've finally decided to change his shoes.
I fumbled in the faint light for my cell phone and dialed our friend Michele.
“Hello?” she answered in a scratchy voice reminiscent of a forty year old smoker.
“Michele!” I shouted in my best whisper-voice. “Wake up!”
“What? What time is it?” she asked, although it was more of a rhetorical question brought on by her grogginess. “Oh my God, Jen, it's 5 o'clock in the morning. What?”
She was half asleep, and although she was on the other end of my phone, I still prompted her to quiet down.
“Shhh...” I hushed her. “You need to wake up.” I waited a few beats for her to gather her wits and listen carefully. “Right now, right at this very moment, Joey is getting laid!”
There was a long pause as she tried to process the impossible.
“Shut up! Are you serious?” She raised her voice again briefly, but then quieted herself on her own accord as she remembered we were being secretive for reasons still unknown to her.
“I can hear them in the other room as we speak. He's got her moaning like a cat in heat. Get up, I have an idea!”
“Oh lord,” she moped. I could hear her rolling over in her bed.
“Michele, get up. Meet me in the party section of Walmart in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, alright,” she agreed reluctantly. “I can’t promise I won’t still be in my pajamas though.”
“What's new?” I joked and hung up.
Twenty minutes later I met Michele at the south entrance of the Walmart on the west side of town. She was dragging her feet and didn’t even smile at the greeter as we passed him on our way to the party section. I steered our cart around the corner and down the aisle, paying no mind to the tacky fleece, leopard-print pants and floppy, unkempt hair Michele was donning that morning. She was forgiven for the sheer fact that she showed up at all.
“Ok, what's this novel idea?”
It was clear that she was not only annoyed, but also required a tall shot of espresso to function in the a.m. I was hoping my plan would unhitch her from the chains of dreamland and inject her with enough excitement to keep her alive and kicking for the next few hours while we prepared for the celebration of the year.
“We're going to throw Joe a party!” I announced. “A Joey got laid party! Now, help me pick out some party favors.”
We walked up and down the party aisle filling our cart with streamers, noise makers, blue ribbons, kazoos, trophies and anything and everything else we could think of that would make for a proper cobweb-elimination soiree. Joe's ability to get laid on his own warranted nothing short of a cheap, plastic gold medal and the best party a roommate could throw. In my own sick and twisted way, I was awfully proud of the lad. I had every intention of convincing Michele to share in my excitement and chip in half for the supplies, as well as follow me home and help me decorate. Before checking out, she even suggested we make breakfast for the victim, uh hem, girl, and somehow found the energy to join me in my enthusiasm as we headed over to the grocery department to grab some cinnamon rolls and orange juice.
Back at the pad, Michele and I tried to be as quiet as possible as we squeezed through the front door with our handfuls of plastic bags. It was almost impossible to keep those darn things from making a ruckus, but we somehow managed even as we tripped over a pair of unidentified high heels resting in my entryway. Michele preheated the oven while I rolled out some paper and began drawing giant block letters in fluorescent markers.
CONGRATULATIONS!
One down, one to go.
JOEY GOT LAID!
By the time the cinnamon rolls went in the oven, I had colored in the letters, hung the banners on each side of the kitchen and moved on to the streamers. I think my thumbs were raw and bleeding from the toothy edge of the Scotch tape dispenser by the time we finished decorating every inch of the room. We strategically placed the trophies in the center of the kitchen island, surrounded by the gold medal and blue ribbons. True to Jen and Joe form, no one was leaving my house after sex without a parting gift: a tradition passed on to us by one too many break-ups from my checkered past, and the random tokens of their strange affections. But aside from my sense of humor about the whole fiasco, I was compassionate enough to consider that the poor girl upstairs would likely need to replenish her electrolytes and nourish her body after a wild predawn romp with the king of sadistic sex moves such as the donkey punch and the one-eyed dolphin. Although something tells me he merely kids about using those techniques, it’s hard to put anything past a guy like Joe. So, the refreshments would be there, just in case.
As the house filled with the aroma of delicious cinnamon and the kitchen started to resemble a surprise party throwing up all over itself, Michele and I hatched a plan.
“Just text him and see if you can get them to come downstairs.” Michele suggested. “I want to be here when she does the walk of shame. I have to see who those heels belong to so we can give him shit later.”
We toyed with the different ideas of who the girl probably was and how Joe might have been able to convince her to sleep with him. After countless scenarios, we settled on the fact that she was probably a stripper from one of the clubs he frequented. And although we didn't believe he actually paid her to come home with him, her visit was probably a result of the many, many dollars he dished out on her behalf the night before. It was most likely due to those dollars that Joe was even able to converse with her in the first place. So we had that to hold over his head and tease him about, at the very least.
Hey, there's breakfast down here if you're hungry. I texted him.
He responded a few moments later. Sure, I'll be down in a few.
We could only hope, as we sat there with our fingers crossed, that he would come trolling down the stairs with the girl in tow. It would still be a great party either way, though it would be that much better if we could celebrate with the both of them. The intent was always to just embarrass Joe, and I suppose in hindsight, I never really considered that we may scare the poor stripper off; never to return, and ruin any chance of a continuance for their courtship. Perhaps it never crossed my mind, or maybe I just knew deep in my heart that Joe was more of a one night stand kinda guy. To be honest, I didn't know the girl, so she never really was any concern of mine. But for Joe's sake, and the sake of saving him from another year-long dry spell, I hoped to God she had a good sense of humor.
When we heard the door open upstairs, Michele and I took our places behind the kitchen island. The suspense was killing us as we squatted low, hidden from sight. I could tell by the sound of the footsteps on the stairs that the stripper was with him. We waited patiently until they rounded the corner at the base of the stairs and...
“SURPRISE!!!” We yelled out, accompanied by twirling our noisemakers and blowing in our kazoos. Michele pressed play on the portable stereo on the counter and “Eye of the Tiger” blared from its speakers.
“Risin' up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances…”
Poor Joe. He just stood there in the living room marveling at the tacky decorations and wishing the music would stop. His eyes widened as he read the banners, realizing that his secret was no longer a secret. JOEY GOT LAID! His embarrassment was quickly disguised by his ego's need to overcompensate and make fun of himself. I imagine he waged an internal battle of to laugh or cry at that point, and went with the more lighthearted of the two.
“Nice!” he shrugged with a smile, reaching over to grab the hand of the mortified woman still in last night's skin-tight mini standing next to him; who, was still coming to terms with her own guilt by association. Looking over to her and trying for a hint of consolation, he introduced us. “Those are my friends. I'm really sorry about them.”
Joe forced a smile and nodded his head in my direction. I knew what that look meant. At some point in my very near future, I was in for it. There was no doubt in my mind that Joe was better equipped to one-up me in the embarrassment department. He was also more brutal, brash and undeniably creative. I knew then that I had it coming to me. And by the wink he sent my way to follow, I'll admit, for about half a second, I was scared. But then I remembered how I had predicted his retribution and adequately armed myself with a one-up arsenal of my own for an explosive grand finale to the morning's events; for no other reason than to simply just outdo myself this time. The sheer thought of what still awaited my best friend in the aftermath of his little party made me giggle inside. I couldn't wait for him to see what I was truly capable of. My ego desperately craved the due respect from my fellow prankster, and it was a long time coming as far as I was concerned.
Joe took the girls hand and led her into the kitchen where Michele had already taken the rolls from the oven and I was setting out plates for breakfast.
“We felt this called for a celebration,” I announced, placing the gift-wrapped trophies in the center of the dining room table for the two of them. “These are for you.”
She swallowed hard to hide her embarrassment, although something about the expression on her face read more like “I can’t believe this is happening again,” as opposed to believing this was happening at all. Something told me this wasn't her first rodeo.
“And these,” I added as I placed the blue ribbon badges in front of their place settings as they both sat down. “And this is for you, Joe.” I walked over to him and slid the mock gold medal over his freshly-fucked hairdo and let it come to rest around his neck where it hung like a shiny showpiece of humbled conquest.
“Wow, it must've been a really long time for you Joe, to deserve all this. I'm flattered.”
Alas, she spoke! And she did, in fact, possess a sense of humor. She winked at him and laughed aloud. We all followed suit and had a good laugh together. By the look on Joe's face, I don't think I was the only one who was pleasantly relieved that she was a real trooper about the whole thing. We all sat down and enjoyed a rather quick breakfast together as the red and blue streamers fluttered over our heads in the spring breeze coming in through the windows.
“Alright,” Joe sighed as he abruptly rose from the table, “thanks for breakfast...and the party. It's been fun, but I need to get her home.”
His machismo was taking over again. That, or he really was the one night stander I knew him to be, and was perturbed that we had invited her to stay longer than he had intended. To this day, I still don't know the answer to that. The fact that Joe lived with me for several more years and I never saw the likes of her again, makes me think the latter. But then again, my grand finale may have put the icing on that cake, sealing her fate to never return unless she was a glutton for more sick and twisted punishment.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said a little condescendingly, smiling bigger than usual.
“See you again soon,” Michele mocked from behind me.
We watched her do the walk of shame to the front door where she leaned down to strap on her heels from the night before. She half-smiled in our direction, pulled the hem of her mini dress down a bit, presumably not to look like too much of a stripper as she exited the building, and followed Joe out the door. Michele and I waited for a few seconds until the sound of her stripper heels clunking down the sidewalk faded into the distance, and then let out the gut-busting laughs constipating us for the greater part of the last hour while we had held our breaths.
“Bahahahaha!” We blurted out in unison. We were so loud. It never even occurred to us that they could hear our commotion through the open windows. I can’t imagine what was going through the poor girl's head as she walked away.
“Ok, Michele, lets count to ten,” I whispered, though there was no need to be quiet.
“Then we'll follow?”
“Yes. Grab your camera.”
We counted backward from ten together.
“Three, two, one!!!” We shouted aloud and ran out the front door.
Giggling like little girls, we snuck down the drive just in time to catch Joe and his companion nearing the end of our street where he had parked his truck earlier that morning. Michele set up her camera for the shot as Joe, and said stripper, turned the corner to witness Jen's Grand Finale; the end all, be all of my rite of passage into One-Upmanship.
As soon as Joe turned the corner, his shoulders sank into oblivion and his tail dropped between his legs. His girl friend held her head in shame and brought her hand to her mouth in amusement, or horror. I'm not sure which. Joe stopped dead in his tracks in awe. Staring him in the face was a decorative party mobile that had once been his truck. He looked down at the ground, shuffled his feet and looked back in my direction to pay tribute.
“Wow!” He called back to me, smirking in assurance that I had earned my rite.
HONK IF YOU”RE HORNY was written in giant text across the back windshield of Joe's truck in fluorescent paint. His tailgate was appropriately adorned with streamers and coke cans dangling from its bumper. His passenger door window was labeled VICTIM. The driver’s side was a bit more of a challenge to draw, but I had somehow managed to paint Captain Morgan in his signature pose with the phrase CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN across the entire left side of his vehicle. And nothing says party like a little silly string, so we topped off the design with a shit-ton of it. Actually, more than a shit-ton, we may have gotten a little carried away in that department.
“You've really out-done yourself, Jen!” A defeated Joey flipped me the bird in a gesture of both annoyance and endearment.
“Oh, you just wait” I mumbled to myself, waiting for yet one last surprise at the end.
Finally, when he lifted his tailgate and closed it, Joe came face to face with the piece that tied the whole theme together again. Rolling his eyes, poor Joe came to the realization that he would be driving across town that morning in his new, freshly-fucked-mobile that announced his milestone in big, bold pink letters that read, “I JUST GOT LAID!!!”
THE END
If you enjoyed Joey Got Laid, check out the rest of Jen and Joe’s wild adventures in TURDS IN THE PUNCH BOWL!
Also available now:
Girls Don’t Poop
by
Jen Ashton
(read on for an excerpts)
Reading Sample #1:
Jessica has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. She talked like a sailor and walked like a man, even in the third grade. With country in her blood and an invisible horse saddled up between her legs, she was as manly as an eight year old girl could be. She lacked all things effeminate, which made us a perfect match. Rather than sundresses and bobby socks, we could be found wearing cut-off jean shorts and leather jackets, hiding behind the school bus holding a spitting contest. When the boys would try to out-spit our loogies, Jessica would puff up her chest and launch one twice as far, following up her winning shot with some hillbilly phrase like, “This dog’s too old to get fucked by the puppies.” There was nothing not to love about her.
Jessica and I were joined at the hip for years. We rode bikes, skated around the neighborhood and played in the mud together. We never wore shoes and always got into trouble. We played outside from sun-up to sun-down every day, rain or shine. She helped me with my paper route and I helped her with her appetite. Every day after school, we would load up my paper bag with rolled newspapers and throw it over my handlebars. Jessica would jump on the back pegs and we would ride over to an adjacent neighborhood to deliver them. Afterward, I would steer us over to the local grocery store for a snack.
“You hungry?” I would always ask, even though I already knew the answer.
“Yep,” she always responded with her husky voice.
We would walk around the produce section, sampling free cheese, crackers, fruit and cookies. You would’ve thought we were poor and our parents didn’t feed us. After the first lap, we often ran to the restroom, switch shirts and hats and went back for round two. Surely, no one would recognize us as the two girls dressed like boys who gobbled up half of the free samples just ten minutes before. Nope. Never. Unfortunately, we could never fool the bakery ladies, and they chased us off…every single time.
Once full of hors d’oeuvres, we would head over to the magazine rack to load up on all the Tiger Beat gossip and check out the new boy’s fashions circa 1987. One day, while stealing a centerfold of Joe Elliott from Def Leppard, the cheese finally got to me.
“Hey Jess, I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“Too much information,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the poster of Bret Michaels that she was ogling.
“Come with me,” I whispered. “I’ve gotta poop real bad.”
“Impossible,” she responded.
By this time I was wriggling around in my jean shorts, confused by her response and running short on time. “What do you mean, impossible? I think the cheese upset me stomach, I gotta go poop. Just put Bret down and come with me.”
“Impossible,” she said again, turning toward me and looking at me over the top of her magazine.
Suddenly, my feelings were hurt. There I was, her best friend, requesting her company in the restroom while I sat on the shitter and she was so fixated on her poster of Poison that she was turning me down. What kind of best friend was she? She could see the urgency as I stood there, holding myself as I danced around trying to keep my insides inside. And it was obvious that our friendship meant more to me than my rumbling tummy and clenched butt cheeks because I hadn’t left yet.
“Why is it so impossible for you to come with me?” I yelled in my best whisper voice, trying to remain calm so that my stomach muscles didn’t accidentally push anything out preemptively.
It was clear that Jessica was handling the situation more calmly than me. She stood there, in her jean shorts and jacket, with a ripped concert tee and a button that read I heart Brandon, staring at me. I was waddling back and forth, warming up with panic. Then, she looked me straight in the eye and told me something I had never heard before.
“Girls don’t poop.”
“What?!?!” I was confused and growing dizzy from running around in small circles.
“It’s impossible, because girls don’t poop,” she reiterated.
Reading Sample #2:
I've wanted to be a model since I received my first compliment.
“Aw, isn’t she precious,” my grandmother swooned.
That’s all I needed to hear. It was in my blood. I was born to model and I was determined to get a head start on the other girls. So, it’s no surprise that photos exist of me posing in my crib naked with a mink throe. All I was missing was a little lipstick. I was such an amateur then. But flash forward six years and I would finally get my chance to go pro.
One afternoon while I was reorganizing my Star Wars figures in my new Darth Vader case, my mom knocked on the bedroom door.
“Jennie?” she asked sweetly. “How would you like to model tonight at my Tupperware party?”
I almost pissed in my Dungarees. Maybe there was an innate desire to be a girl somewhere under my striped Izod polo and dark denim jeans after all. Or not. Looking back, my mom probably just wanted to get me into a dress, but to me, this was my chance to strut my stuff. I had fantasies of becoming a big time Christmas catalog model. Every December I would flip through the pages of the Sears Catalog, circling images of the latest boy’s fashion—Oshkosh overalls, Michael Jackson Thriller jacket, soccer cleats—you name it, I was all about putting in years of hard work at Tupperware parties, family functions, or neighborhood picnics to earn my way up the ranks to model it someday. And now, here was my chance. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
My eyes lit up with excitement and I smiled bigger than ever before. Little did I know then, that this would be the beginning of a string of modeling assignments to earn my merits. And they would all start with, “Jennie, would you like to model for me tonight?” Those few words would soon take a strange toll—from sheer eagerness to pay my dues to absolute horror when I looked in the mirror—all for the sake of chasing my dreams to be a male model.
“Come down to the kitchen once you’ve put your toys away,” my mom instructed. “I’ll show you what you’ll need to do.”
I showed up a few minutes later wearing my best plaid shirt, still rocking my Dungarees. My mom pulled back my hair and asked me to sit on a chair in the middle of the room. She draped a cape over my shoulders and started to apply makeup to my face. It was the eighties, so she caked on the blue eye shadow and red lipstick; a trend she would repeat over and over and over again on my poor little face every time we went to Sears for family photos. And though I forced a smile for the sake of not getting grounded, I knew in my heart that the makeup was never going to increase my chances of being recognized by the photographer as the next face of “Boys Size 8-10.
Reading Sample #3:
My brother and I were latchkey kids. While Mom was in beauty school, we often found ourselves unsupervised for several hours at a time on school days. This became a prime opportunity for my brother to bully me. We would race off the school bus to the kitchen, fighting over the snack drawer. He always won, therefore declaring him King of the Twinkies. He hoarded those delicious yellow sponge cakes—for years—and left me no choice but to settle for second fiddle; the Ding Dongs. I didn’t mind so much. I loved their chocolaty goodness and creamy filling. At least I still got to partake in that scrumptious Hostess cream filling. It tasted so good. This was the age of innocence. The time when I actually just ate my Ding Dong, instead of staring at it first, seriously considering how they actually got that white fluffy stuff inside the holes.
Everyone knows Ding Dongs paired well with an ice cold Coke. And like any other product of eighties pop culture, my after school snack was not complete without two unique cultural experiences. One: removing the “pop top” of my soda can without breaking the tiny ring on it. (I was told these little collectibles could be exchanged for kisses from boys. So I proudly saved them all in a Ziploc baggy, waiting for the day to cash them in on my crush.) And two: smashing the wrapper of my Ding Dong on the counter into some abstract piece of flattened, tin foil origami art.
“Hmm? Looks like a hippo today,” I said to myself one afternoon, squinting my eyes and stretching my imagination, “sitting on a cloud with a sword in its hand.”
Speaking of swords, it was time to get out He-Man and a Skeletor. It wasn’t uncommon for me to get at least one battle in before my mom got home. But that particular afternoon, while playing on the floor in my parent’s bedroom, I decided I wanted to wage a full-on Masters of the Universe war. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough action figures. I needed more soldiers. After searching the house over, I ended up with He-Man, his tiger, his castle, Skeletor, two Barbies and a Ken doll. Not the most desirable army, but it would have to do. Now, all I needed was some weapons.
Skeletor had a staff. He-Man had his sword. I needed something awesome for the Barbies. Hmm? Where could I find something cool to use as a gun? My little girl eyes turned to my mother’s bathroom. Surely, she would have something in her makeup case that would make a great gun. I crawled along the floor, setting my eyes on the cabinet under the sink. When I finally opened the doors, I was met with an array of womanly products; perfumes, makeup, curling irons, lotions and potions galore. And just beyond all the bottles, far in the back, hiding under a bag of makeup, was a white box with the letters o.b.
“O.B.? What the heck is that?” I asked aloud. The only “O.B.” I knew up to that point was Obi Wan Kenobi. Surely my mom wasn’t hiding him under her sink!
Pushing all the other products aside, I reached deep for the little box and retrieved it without a hitch. I lifted the lid and peeked inside. No Obi Wan. All that was inside was a few white bullets shrink-wrapped in plastic. I had no idea what they were, but they would make great guns!
“O.B.” I repeated. “Official bazooka!”
That’s all I needed. I grabbed the white bazookas and secured one under the arm of each Barbie. Ken had two. I was prepped and ready for war.
“You’re going down!” I announced in a low voice that was supposed to be Ken’s. “Feel the wrath of my O.B.!”
Skeletor cowered in the distance as imaginary missiles shot from the cannon of my O.B. and destroyed the drawbridge of The Castle of Grayskull. “Die, Skeletor! Die!” I shouted, making high-pitched shooting sounds that sounded like, “Pew, pew pew!”
About the Author
Jen Ashton is a successful published artist, writer, and entrepreneur with a background in creative marketing and business consulting. Internationally known as “The Artist to the Poker Stars”, she paints portraits and collections for athletes, celebrated personalities, and fine art collectors worldwide. Her popular online blogs and erotic short stories have generated national attention from a strong web following since 2004. Ashton currently lives in Carlsbad, CA with her family and consistently strives to be a positive role model for her family and friends.
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