Sarah Jane Woodall describes herself as “a foul-mouthed, flat-chested bon vivant and adventuress”—and while those things are probably true, I can’t help but feel that she’s missing an opportunity to go big. A fetish model with substantially more than “a few stories to tell,” Woodall is Vegas’ own leggy, bedroom-eyed Zelig. In reading through her Wonderhussy blog, it’s difficult to imagine a type of Vegas function she hasn’t infiltrated and subverted through her sexuality and guile. Whether she’s sidling through the Viva Las Vegas weekender anachronistically dressed as a Mary Quant-like British mod, playing “Anti-Virus Girl” at a recycling convention or wrestling topless in fake blood for an audience of wildly appreciative zombie aficionados, Woodall always manages to re-frame the action around herself, and the resulting blog reads like the most fantastic and improbable of fictions. But everything Woodall says she’s done, she has done … and I know this because every last paragraph is illustrated with a spanky photo or two, nearly every last one of them Not Safe For Work.
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