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xmag.com
: June 2002: The Jack Shack |
Been
a long time since I locked myself in a cum-stained
cubicle and tried to wack off before the time expired
on three bucks. Even though I got a stack of vids
on my desk, I slipped through the door at CINDY'S
ADULT BOOKSTORE off Fourth and Burnside and bought
a few tokens. I think Cindy's is one of the last places
that still uses tokens.
Since
I was in Chinatown, I flipped through the channels
'til I got
to ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME from Redlight District
videos. Two guys worked over a so-so-looking Chinese
girl with a large purple birthmark on her cheek which
seemed to vibrate as she gave both of them blow jobs.
But the video of the moment at Cindy's is STUFFED
BY A HORSE. You never see the face of the girl,
just her bod bent over and the horse doing her. Actually,
you don't see much of the horse, either, except his
monstro dick, so this may be some plastic balloon
horse. Still, vile to the max. I asked the guy working
there, "Henry," if it was for sale. "Nope," he said,
"we don't even know where it came from, but after
I saw it, I don't ever want to see a horse out in
the country again."
I went back to my place, ran through about five vids,
drank a bottle of Jack. The last vid was Ben Dover's
ASS WORSHIPPERS from VCA. The girls weren't
as cute as the babes I've seen in his previous vids,
but it was OK. I tapped the remote button, stopped
a Ben Dover gang-bang in mid-plunder, swirled around
in my chair, and tuned into CNN on my other TV set.
The neo-fascist Frog, JEAN-MARIE LE PEN, had
just gone down to defeat in the French presidential
election. The leader of the National Front won't be
swinging his dick in the Elysée Palace and
drawing up his proposal for "transit camps" to process
Arabs, Muslims, and blacks out of France.
Got
the gang-bang going again side by side with Le Pen
trying to explain that
he really doesn't want colored heads to roll under
the guillotine. "What do I have to do not to be racist?"
he asked. "Marry a black woman? With AIDS, if possible?"
With
the twin TVs spilling out buttfucks and fascist howls,
I went for a third visual lift--logged onto
suicidegirls.com for
the first time. I'd heard about the suicidegirls around
the Exotic office but hadn't gotten around
to scoping it out. My, my, what a nice change of pace
from gang-bangs, moronic story lines, and the splashings
of cum across a pretty face from some hairy-assed,
baby-boom porn director. An army of strippers and
freelance dancers have dropped their photos on the
Portland-based suicidegirls site. Mini-profiles and
daily journals clue you into the turnoffs and turn-ons
in the chambers of their hearts.
Scrolling
through the retinue of babes, my greedy eyes landed
on Voltaire. She won my vote because of the French
election's white noise in the background. And her
luscious eyes. On weekends, she dances at Doc's out
on Powell. In her daily journal, Voltaire said the
last time she was at Dante's, she "ended up just being
lazy and dancing. It was cool."
Another
journal entry: "Today finds me in fine spirits, even
though my arms are killing me from work, (from the
pole)." Heavy damage on the preposition "from" and
no need for the ( ), girl. Try this: "Today finds
me in fine spirits, even though my arms are killing
me from swinging around the pole."
She
continues: "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother
to write journal entries anymore. I don't think
anyone ever reads them." So wrong, Voltaire.
One
pettyfogging grammarian reads your journal and corrects
it with enthusiasm, like he's whipping your shiny
hard butt with a cat-o'-nine-tails.
One
dude, who says he's e-mailing Voltaire "from a van
down by the river," wants to know the deep meaning
of the tattoo on her left rib cage. So do I.
In
her profile, Voltaire says she has "a ton" of tattoos.
She has a right to decorate her body however she
sees fit, but isn't a ton excessive? Tattoo ADDICTION,
perhaps? I suppose all that royal purple, midnight
blue, apple green, pelican black, and fire-engine-red
ink swirling around her marbles, slithering down
her ribcage, and coiling around her long white legs
turns on the poor sap in the van sinking in the
mud along the banks of the Willamette. Not me. I
just don't get it.
Every
inch of her body came up 7's and 11's with nature's
roll of the dice, then she dunks it in ink. I can't
help but imagine Voltaire the way Ovid described
her in METAMORPHOSIS: a cool "sheet
of fresh air."
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