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July 2000 Columns
xmag.com : July 2000 : Tales from Spookyville

Tales from Spookyville  -- by Spooky

Welcome back; if you read our first installment, maybe you’ve figured out exactly what Spookyville is all about. If not, allow to me to bring you up to speed. Spookyville is Main Street USA. Almost every town has one, but instead of the general store and the post office, the streets of Spookyville are lined with Adult Video Stores, Lingerie Modeling Shops, and my personal favorite, the "Gentlemen's Club."

So, are we catching on? Spookyville is my home right here in Pornland. And the tales within are my often unusual experiences that are all in a days work—since I arrived here as a result of running away from home with a stripper (excuse me, here in Spookyville the correct terminology would be exotic dancer, or, how about clothing-deficient performance artists). [Actually, the most correct term is Ecdysiast --WebEd]

Portland, Oregon. Land of free cover charges at nudie bars, and
home of the depraved.

Portland, Oregon. Land of free cover charges at nudie bars, and home of the depraved. God, I love this place. Such a shame I had to waste thirty years of my youth anywhere else but here. Sure, San Francisco may be where I left my heart (actually the bitch ripped it out and tossed it off the Golden Gate Bridge), but Spookyville is a land where the perverse proprietors sincerely recommend you check your heart at the door; you won’t be needing it here anyway.

There were so many new things to discover and encounter. Like finding the girl blessed with the special gift of being born without a gag reflex, only to discover this magical creature is now sworn to celibacy. Ahhh...we have such sights to show you here my friends.

More than 50 strip clubs provide an endless supply of lust and flesh to be pumped into your veins on nearly every corner. And just in case that's not enough for you, we can smoke, drink reasonably priced alcohol, enjoy fine meals and admire a beautiful naked woman up close and personal for only one wrinkled dollar bill. Hell, there's even the geniuses out there who think they can sit in the second row (a.k.a. the cheap seats) and get close to the same view so they can hang onto their precious dollars for the video crack machines to make their illusionary fortunes.

I hate to burst your bubble out there, guys, but these dancers are doing this for a living. It is, in most cases, their profession. Maybe the stereotypical illusion of a dancer’s intelligence has you all misled. Guess what, the dancers can still see your cheap ass sitting there in the second row drooling in your two dollar beers as your eyes crawl all over her erogenous zones. Let me fill you in on a hint guys...even though you can't smell it, doesn't mean you aren't expected to pay for the sniff!!! [Uh... What? Did that make any sense? --WebEd]

The dancers have now acquired a new super power in their arsenal of erotic weaponry: it is known as the all powerful Taxi Dance. This dangerous ability allows them to penetrate the forcefield of the rack, which confines the tantalizing vixens to the stage. Just like a lioness casually sipping at the watering hole amid a herd of zebra, these lovely erotic creatures must now wander amid the cheap and the pathetic, seeking out the old and the weak. These hunters in the buff are forced to explore the wild tundra and feed on the monetary vegetation which used to grow wild on the rack in days of old. But now it grows sparsely in denominations of single digits, pried from the tight grasping fingers of vagrant purveyors of flesh hoping to catch that cheap thrill.

Think about this guys, you'd pay close to $20.00 for "Surf and Turf" anywhere else, so why is it that this beautiful exotic dancer isn't even rewarded with more than a sweaty dollar bill for each song— if they’re lucky. Come on fellow smut lovers, maybe you can't put a price on a gorgeous piece of ass, but the opening bid is way overdue for a bit of inflation.




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