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Based on the Bizarre True-Life Story of
Sugar Weasel The Clown Gigolo
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A Word from the Author
Please forgive the reluctance to show my face. I have children in your neighborhood now. But people should know. Between pandemics and before the Apocalypse, find out why beautiful, intelligent women will pay upwards of $1200 to spend a night with a clown gigolo, self-described as “just a skinny guy with a big dick”? Who are these women? What transpires? How does one who may aspire become a clown gigolo?
Vicariously romp with Sugar Weasel through his bawdy, horrifying, yet laugh-out-loud escapades, and absorb his ménage à trois étiquette advice. In the privacy of your own home kick back in your favorite recliner and learn all about ball gags and Ben wa balls, and when–and when not to–put white pancake makeup on your own balls if you have balls and become so inspired.
He’s vulgar yet classy, and his secrets are revealed between these covers. But what you will find most captivating is the poignant, unforgettable story of the brilliant, tortured man beneath the makeup.
@barbara.barett
What people are saying
"Sugar Weasel Exposed" is destined to be my favorite book of 2024! The vivid descriptions and rich character made it one of those books you can't put down until you reach the end!
Dear Barbara,
Why do you write?
As a matter of fact, I just asked myself that question last night. Instead of writing, had I had used those hours peddling down the street selling popsicles from a cart I would have made more money and gotten out more.
As a child, I had aspirations of becoming a ballet dancer or piano player, but my single, working mother couldn’t afford lessons. I got books from the library and tried to teach myself Elevé and basic piano chords, but the other kids had recitals and pictures of themselves wearing plumes and I eventually gave up.
In middle school we had an assignment to write a story. I can’t remember what mine was about, but I do remember that when I read mine to the class, they laughed and clapped at the end. After that when there was a writing assignment, the class would chant, “Barbara! Read yours first! Read yours first!”.
Mom worked night and day to make ends meet, but we were poor. I don’t want to sound wah wah, but I had no toys. None. But I had paste, paper, crayons, poster paints, pencils, whatever I could ferret in the woods near our house, loneliness, and my own fertile imagination.
I wrote puppet shows and made puppets out of old socks, thread, and buttons. I made a stage out of an old tool shed in the back yard, made tickets and popped popcorn. If a kid didn’t have money for a ticket, I would take a toy in trade. I had money in my pocket, bagged a couple of nappy old stuffed animals, and all the neighbor kids wanted to be my friends.
The words the puppets delivered were mine. Flying friends came from my imagination to take me away from my troubles, and they had powers. I realized that they could make OTHERS happy too. More valuable to me than the pennies and toys the neighbor kids gave up in trade, I realize now, was the joy my words brought them. That was my reward.
That’s why I write.