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xmag.com : August 2002: I Hate Sex

If there's one thing I hate, it's sex. But if there's another, it's strippers! Those goddamned bitches have it way too easy. I don't know how it works in other parts of the country, but here in Vegas, strippers straddle the top of the food chain. They rake in mountains of cash, all for a few hours of air-humping and eyelash-batting. Now, as a small-time hustler myself, I share their life's purpose--to extract as much money as I can from men, with a
minimal amount of effort. But those Silicone Sallies up there on the pole
have a much easier time of it than I do. And that pisses me off!

Just look at the pages surrounding this very article: Lipsticked Lolitas, sucking on lollipops and lounging about in lacy lingerie. It must be nice to lead such a laid-back existence--I doubt my sugar daddy would appreciate me showing up for dinner in my pajamas! And those platform stilettos--I could hardly make it through a four-hour chip-hustling session at the craps table wearing heels like that! I'm telling you, those lucky, lazy broads are living the life of luxury. A flash of the gash and a lap dance, and the money comes rolling in.

They don't even have to put out! Here I am slaving away at the Bellagio, suffocating under the wheezing bulk of some rutting old oil tycoon just to make a few bills, while mere blocks away down at Déjà Vu, some bitch is scooping up major bling with her mucous membranes. And all she had to do for it was slap her tits in some guy's face. Or steam up some Japanese pervert's glasses with the sultry jungle breath of her nether-mouth. Meanwhile, I'm scrabbling hand-over-foot for a few trinkets from Tiffany's. It's disgusting!

Speaking of disgusting, let's talk cellulite. I bust my ass at the gym to look trim and firm under the bright Vegas lights--there's a lot of competition for those high rollers. But my dancer friends have no such trouble. They can lie around all day scarfing Godiva chocolates and watching Jerry Springer, because when they get to work, they have the blacklight on their side. Forget diamonds--a blacklight is a girl's best friend! You lusty club-goers never know what that sexy mood lighting is hiding from your passion-glazed eyes--stretch marks, pockmarks, spider veins, and birthmarks shaped like the Virgin Mary.

But even if the flaws do show, it's no big deal. Stretched-out sows all flappy from childbearing can still rake it in, dangling their protruding birth canals in the face of all. Once I saw this stripper-mom whose inner lips pouted out from her velvety folds like a navel orange. But men threw buckets of cash at her! I guess there's a perverted bastard out there for everyone! Like this one dancing friend I have, who was blessed by God with pointy, ultra-long nipples. "Dugs," she called them, and she was glad to have 'em one night when some sicko offered her as many benjamins as she could thread her teat through, using a hole he had poked in the middle of each bill! That bitch made rent in a single night! Meanwhile, I'm breaking my back chatting up wealthy wrinklies, pretending to be interested in the price of oil and the miracle of Viagra. What's up with that?

Well, enough bitching already! As they say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em--I'm changing careers. I'm gonna be a dancer, and I ain't talking about the American Ballet Theatre. I'm gonna shave my pussy, strap on a pair of seven-inch platform stilettos, and wave my asshole in some perverted businessman's face. I may even fart on him--if he sends enough money my way!





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