Last fall I worked my ass off at a Christmas tree farm in Washington state.

From sunup to sundown, I chopped and wrapped trees until my hands were rough with sap and my biceps were solid as branches. At bars, girls would tell me I smelled like a pinecone.

I’d been laid off and was living with my dad, so when the tree gig came up, I jumped at the chance to get outside. Then, when I heard they needed people to drive the trees south to sunny Los Angeles and sell them in a lot, I jumped twice as fast — Washington women might look good in flannel and might be able to drink you under the table, but I wanted to meet some Beverly Hills mamas with long fingernails and huge tits on tiny bodies.

Well, it didn’t exactly turn out that way. Not only was I living in a shitty trailer with three other... Read More