Before you're tempted to laugh at the night-time activities of 70's swingers, consider what future generations will think about the Dirtpipe Milkshakescollection on your coffee table amongst the In-n-Out wrappers.
Al Goldstein's "Midnight Blue" public access show aired this series of commercials in the late 70's, America's Grooviest Time.
What makes the hundreds of porn starlets cavorting through the Sands Expo Center so distinct from one another, even though they may be wearing the same Stripper Surplus thongwear, emanating the same melon body spray from the big vat out by the loading dock, and glittering with sparkles shot from the same hose, is their facial expression.
Here we are lucky enough to have two reactions to fucking huge cocks, mine and an augmented poster version, validating again the rich pornic tapestry that is the AVN Expo.
"You'll laugh so hard that cum will shoot out of your mouth."
The other evening at a classy dinner a woman laughed so hard that she started crying.
"I feel like I'm in Throat Gaggers 13," she said.
She meant that someone in a throat gaggeresque movie would be bent over backwards to receive upwards of four cocks in her mouth, causing her pornish makeup to run.
Of course there weren't four cocks in her face (at least while I was there, because then there would have been six), but we all knew what she meant.
As you well know, Throat Gaggers 13 doesn't have a scene of running mascara, but such is its cultural significance (at least at a dinner table with four people who work in the porn industry) that we all knew it meant that she was laughing hard. Even the people at surrounding tables figured it out, because they all left hastily.
Had I gone from college to a career in applied animal husbandry, I would not have got the joke. Instead, I laughed and laughed like I was in Lesbian Bukkake 9.
Jehovah's Witnesses: Can their literature be avoided?
A clean-cut Dad, walking with his family, approached me the other evening in my neighborhood and handed me a magazine that told me I was going to die.
"Something to read in your spare time?" he said.
Because I'd already torn through my copies of AVN and XBizWorld, I exulted (Acts 2:26) in the joy of having something new to read.
Imagine my hurt when all I saw was intolerance and vitriol (Psalms 31:13)?
I am shocked that people are allowed to roam our neighborhoods and hand out such filth.
Read more after the gap.
Awake!, a magazine for young Jehovah's Witnesses, uses the Bible as source material for an attack on pornography.
The December cover story, "Death: Is It Really the End?" (The answer: sort of) is clearly the money shot article, but the story "How can I avoid pornography?" cites passages in Thessalonians and Genesis decrying fornication and concupiscence, and says that the sin of viewing pornography results in death. It was dark, so I didn't see the contents of the magazine. The pornography item was listed in small print on the cover. Had it been daylight, I only would have seen the Death article. These children are going to die because they are looking at pornography. Especially the kid in the middle, because he's pandering. The kid on the right carries the same expression I wear every day. This picture also tells us that the DVD is dead and their dress indicates that what they are viewing is probably not steveporn.
Breathing heavily, I went to my Bible and checked the passages and indeed there were direct references therein to Dirtpipe Milkshakes and Girls Handling Cocks. How did they know?
Even though Awake! ends in an exclamation point, each article's title is a question. In addition to the stories I already mentioned, there is "Why Care for Earth's Environment?" (because), "Is There A Creator?" (yes), and "Why Do We Fear Death?" (because now we'll have to deal with Chico Wang in Hell, too).
In the article, kids stumble onto pornography online or in school, where porn is pasted in lockers and shared on cell phones, even though they understand it to be a "satanic attempt to devalue what Jehovah created to be honorable."
The cult's magazine is fascinating, with dressed-up digs at Catholics, Jews, and Eastern religions, and manufactured quotes worthy of a porn press release.
"It's a big thing at my school," said Denise. "On Monday, conversation seems to be, 'What pictures did you download to your cell over the weekend?'"
Oh, Denise, you should have heard the conversation at my school.
A man named Jeff writes:
"Despite what its proponents may claim, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - positive about pornography. (It) is damaging, it is perverse, and it is demeaning to all parties concerned."
Well you have obviously not seen the uplifting couples' porn of Michael Ninn. But I'm with you; I don't know a single person in this business who is happy with his company's health plan, and that is demeaning.
I hope I don't get disfellowshipped for this, but I am going to try to avoid Jehovah's Witnesses (Mat 24:11).
In that he ceased publishing his sex-tourist blog last November, the Londoner traveling abroad known as Morally Diminished has a site full of quaint depravity. It is like reading "Heart of Darkness" except with Thai hookers, katooeys, and other strangers instead of the Congo.
Read more after the gap.
Spent all day smoking fat jays in my hot sunny pool (after five Weetabix), watched Waiting (I fucking loved the Bat-Wing manoeuvre). After-dark ventured outdoors and soon returned with one of the hottest chicks I've EVER been with- a honey-skinned 22 year-old angel from Sukhothai. Drank a bottle of Moet together then, after chowing down on her sweet shaven box for a delicious tounge-cramping forty minutes, fucked like nasty-pigs for a few hours before sleeping soundly in each others arms (*puke*). I even still liked the little minx after I'd shot my load.
I mean, read this, a post titled "Things I Need":
Ten nine eight seven six more properties inc. East-Village Manhattan loft, canal-side Keizersgracht Amsterdam townhouse, gothic Hampshire castle with privet-hedge maze, cherry orchard, dungeon, helicopter on the roof, and snipers on the roof of the next building to make sure no-one steals my helicopter, packs of fast dogs and wild-cats, red-tiled pool, Pinoy gangster lair, paedo pad in Tokyo, brothel in Rio, retreat in Costa Rica, fuck-farm in Fiji, new old-Levis, Air-Max, more RAM, royal Nepalese temple ball, The Greenhouse's Arjan's Ultra Haze, Barney's Breakfast Bar's G13 Haze (plus all of these), Fabrique Nationale de Herstal's Five-seveN, "sticky shockers", Beluga, Ossetra, Sevruga, thallium sulphate, polonium-210, handmade Nickolas Buckalew skull-bong, GHB, ketamine, alprazolam, Klaxons tunes, to watch sally from Black People Love Us as a victim of The Gangbang Squad (while Johnny watches, perhaps taking a dark-sword in the shitter himself), that mega-shy phone girl from the latest True-Move ad, aLeda cellulose papers, Doctor Theodor Gilbert Morell magic prescription pad, and fortnightly "six-hole" threesomes with Am Patcharapa and May Pittanahd (minus disapproving Kantana chaperone), and so on...
People tend to think of all sex tourism as the act of traveling to other countries for the purpose of preying on minors. That is not always so. Sometimes it is preying on prostitutes, other hotel guests, or on people as fascinated with your skin color and income level as you are with theirs.
I found Morally Diminished entertaining and compelling truth in advertising.
Can't be sure whether she's always like this or whether it was her one-night-stand guilt combined with her recreational pharmaceutical consumption (something called Five-Fives that she buys in Singapore, no idea of trade-name). She was very turned on that she was being fucked and abused by a total stranger and, as I refused to tell her my name, and as had forgotten her's by this afternoon, we swapped phone numbers both using the name "stranger".
Strip club manager/Iron Maiden enthusiast Tim Case sent this along. He said he found it on Craigslist, but his wife, the dancer/performer/proud mom Felicia Fox, might have written it, too.
Everything listed in this Stripper Rant is common sense but it is, of course, a letdown to find that peelers don't like me for my profound insights into the adult industry. Remember: strippers don't like you; they tolerate you. Your only chance at approximating the warm, positive regard girlfriend experience you've been fooling yourself about is if you tip.
Read the rant after the gap.
Stripper Rant
1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it's the fucking deed to Trump Towers... what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?!? It's a fuckin' dollar, put it down on the tiprail and blow my world away already.
2) You losers that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen ~ fine point)...fuck you.
3) You with the thick-ass jeans, this was an impromptu visit, eh?
4) Don't pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if it felt good. IT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.
5) Hey you, Loser, the one counting out the 20 bucks in one dollar increments, rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.
6) No I will not just let you "slip it in real quick" for $50 more bucks.
7) Yeah, my tits are real. As real as my affection for you.
8)If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum in their pants from a lapdance.
9) Stop asking me out. You're a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I'm smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn't even fart your way.
11) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all, your breath ranks (what'd you have for dinner, garlic and shit?), you're about 172 lbs. overweight, and you look like Jay Leno. More importantly: I don't give a shit.
12) Don't bitch at me about the $10 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.
13) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.
14) No, you CAN'T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.
15 )Boys, don't sit in the front row with your "homies" and act all engrossed in some deep conversation during a girls performance because you want to look like you're too "cool" to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you. It's a clear sign that you ain't getting any.
16) DON'T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!
17) "So what do you guys do when you're on your period?" Answer: I lap dance with guys in dark pants.
18) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!! That's extra.
19) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!
20) I had a feeling you weren't going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion and obnoxious perfume before our dance.
21) Hey cheapasses: please don't come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to "Desperate Housewives" instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.
22) Stop asking me why I do this job and try to get all psychologically analytical on me. For the money, you moron, that's why.
23) No seriously, my real name is Sparkle.
24) NO, I will not take a dime sac for payment. I can tell it's oregano anyway you stupid mutherfucker!
25) Sorry, I don't do that. Ask the ugly girl at the bar with the black roots and overbite.
26) I can see it's your first time at a strip club. Let me explain the dynamics to you. If you want a fuck or a blow-job, go to the ugly chicks. Hot girls don't have to do "extra services." I can give you some recommendations for a small fee.
27) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.
28) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.
29)Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you're ugly. So basically, more.
30) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. It's like me going to PETA looking for a steak.
31) Girls--what's with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around the pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.
32) Girls--stop lip-syncing to the song you're dancing to on stage. Especially if you don't know all the words.
33) Girls--if your toes curl and hang over your platform shoes a la' Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size. http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif
34) Girls--drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you're trying to cover. Take a goddamn shower, you smell like lapdance funk.
35) Hey DJ! You suck!
36)Girls--may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking dancing llama on your ass is so lame.
37)Girls--some songs just should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are, you fucking weirdo), Sade, Boys II Men, or Bjork. For the love of God, Please.
When I write my book implicating you all, this is what I'll call it.
I was at the property of performer/entrepreneur Lori Lust the other day, the house having been rented for a shoot. It was an elegant but not ostentatious house in Northridge, near the faultline of the 1994 earthquake and across the street from a church.
There were Beanie Babies in their original packaging in glass display cases as well as coffee table books in the bathroom. There was Wi-Fi Internet and a two-story living room.
There was also a black toilet.
The porn scene was going on behind me but I didn't care.
"I have never seen a black toilet," I said to myself. "Neither a white toilet painted black, nor a toilet so dirty that it had become black. This is a toilet that has always been black."
I wondered if this were an omen of some kind. If so, did it bode well or ill that the seat was up?
A porn producer I know (r) has an anecdote that, since I didn't confirm the allegations with the other parties involved, I am forced to relate alegebraically:
"So we start shooting at (x)'s house and she says, 'Am I doing anal today?' and we said 'No,'" he said.
"Don't you book scenes with an understanding of which holes you will be filling?" I asked, as America's Beloved Porn Journalist.
"Yes. And (x) knew that. So (y) walks in and starts fucking her, and then he starts fucking her in the ass!"
"What did you do? Did you use a crowbar to get him out of there?"
"I wasn't in the room."
"OK."
"But wait, there's more. Then he pulls out and shoves his dick in (z)'s mouth, and (z) was there to do a non-sex scene!"
"OK."
"At the end of the day, (x) gives me a bill for $1300 for an anal scene and (z) wants a hundred extra for the blowjob."
"They bill you? Do they have a little QuickBooks setup there?"
This reminds me of the rogue windshield cleaners in New York City that America's Mayor cracked down on; they would wash windshields without asking motorists at a traffic light, then they would spit all over the windshields if the drivers didn't pay.
The difference, of course, is - and this is in the Bible, I think - : you can't unfuck your ass.
So if (r) equals Ron Royster, are you surprised?
(This photo of Alisha Tyler's ass from Rico Strong's Back Shots has nothing to do with the incident, but I love the picture.)
One features a crane, and the other features a telephone line to nowhere. How is one the "alt to alt"? I guess you can't call a color scheme legally actionable, though reversing the "e" in Penthouse looks about as edgy as writing "Kidz Menu", and just seems silly.
But at least the Penthouse title lets me know which one is a slut and which one is a pirate.
A newly-single friend of mine who happens to have the herp just set me hip to 'The Code': apparently herpes-positive singles (or swingers, one supposes) can include '437737' in a personals listing to let other herp-positive types (or herp fetishists) know what they can expect.
Perhaps most curious (other than my momentary fascination with this concept), while I found plenty of results when I typed The Code into Google, there were zero results (and) when I typed it into the Craigslist personals. Conclusion: Either no one in L.A. has herpes or those who do are big fat liars.
That number spells out "herpes" on a telephone. I tried dialing it and reached the operator.
"Do you have herpes?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
"You're a big fat liar," I said. "A big fat liar with Herpes. Now connect me to L.A. Direct Models."
In service to you, here are a couple of other numbers to use in your personal ads:
22846542: Catholic 466537: Hooker 7734626886787363328437: Pregnant (and) unsure of father 77346268472647328437: Pregnant (and) Gram is father 3323364: Dead dog 7792467284545377387: Psychopath (likes pets)
It appears from this news clipping from a Michigan paper that, since there is no real law against being Satan, the Vice President was hauled in for having relations with a dead dog.
Michigan's Bay City Times posted this article about Ronald E. Kuch, a man charged under the state's existing sodomy law for a tryst with a dead dog behind a daycare center, next to a photo of Dick Cheney after the latter's escape from a Taliban suicide bomber.
Kuch was charged with sodomy because there's nothing on Michigan's books about what a man and a dead dog (who love each other very much) can or cannot do.
Kuch's attorney, Kathryn Fehrman, argued that a dead dog is not an animal and therefore cannot be violated against its will. I agree. I believe a dead dog is actually a desk.
Cheney used similar logic when he said that waterboarding was not torture. It's just "a dunk in water," he said.
This coloring book, created in 1975 by Craig Berlin from what appear to be infrared surveillance photos, was purchased at a New York bookstore by Manhattan blogger Jaime Morrison.
I thought we had collectively decided to stop freaking each other out (with art, anyway) by 1975, but I was wrong.
Random pictures appear in my Inbox, and these two arrived simultaneously.
It makes me think that nothing is random. That a little thought can provide the connections between all things.
Flashpoint Pictures' Mature 20, starring Brandee on the beach, might have something to do with the surfacing of this "fossil" frilled shark, rarely seen alive due to its preference for very deep water.
I am not sure if the "20" in this movie's title refers to the number in the series or if Brandee is "a mature 20", meaning she has her 401k and health plan in order.
Either way, the shark died. The staff and affiliates of Gram Ponante Towers, Aviary, Border Checkpoint, Haberdashery, and ATV Speedway send their heartfelt condolences to its family.
There is always something slightly off about the women in the True dating service ads I need to navigate past in order to get to my useless MySpace page.
This is the first one whom I thought might make a good addition to the Gram Ponante Towers, Yurt, and Militarized Compound above the Santa Susanna Pass, but I think it's because she reminded me of the outfits Kami Andrews used to wear (sob) back when she was in porn (sob).
Still, - and not like this is a bad thing - she looks like a cowgirl sex wraith. I encourage the overlapping of styles in contemporary art, but this woman is a little too PoMo.
True is not a sponsor of this site, nor do I feel that the women in their ads could possibly be representative of their talent pool. I have never used a dating service (unless you count being an altar boy), so my experience is limited in that regard.
The unsinkable Michelle Aston sent me this picture of incontrovertible proof that there is always more room.
