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xmag.com : August 2001 : The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas

The Gospel according to Viva Las Vegas - "the laziest gal downtown"


Been learnin' a lot, test-drivin' age-old mysteries and dubious truths. Here's some results:

1. Paris, France is the city of lovers for one reason and one reason only: Paris delivers the most fantastic fuckin' orgasms EVER.

1a. Italy's orgasms are more frequent and longer....more languorous, but quite forgettable in light of those in the City of Lights.

2. New York in the summer is sex. There's no room for anything else. Hot, humid, plus the usual thrilling everyday RIDE, thrown altogether and it throbs like my insides.

3. Best Summer Outfit: A. Smile. B. Hippy shake. Walk that down the street. C. Thunderstorm.

4. SCENT is DESTINY!! The nose knows. Love = luck + chemistry. Do it doggy-style and go sniffin' 'round to figure out which fuck-up's gonna be right for your gene-mixing experiments (and, more importantly, will therefore make yer blood boil). Ran into this big ape of a guy I knew and wouldn't talk to in
college...said he heard all about it on the Discovery channel. Seems we animals look to mix with our opposites to create more diversified immune systems and thus live forever. Ignore this info at your peril! Especially in NYC. Who cares how rich/tall/handsome/Jewish he is. He's gotta make you HUNGRY. Find out what he had for dinner, and if you wanna get invited over for leftovers. No sommelier? Tear a page from Vice magazine and have a sniff of ass. You'll know for sure then.

"I imagine what it would be like if we all wised up
and started following our noses, stopping to sniff,
grope and mount.''

5. Hound dog came sniffin' after me, found his way into an empty bar I was tending. Lotsa dogs been comin' round. I must be pretty pungent. This one, a huge dark hulk of a man, was a musician, was biting his lower lip, was turnin' me on with his eyes and was the definition of blatant. Said he's a 'detail guy'--loved my eyes, my hands and had somehow memorized the exact shade of tacky pink I'd painted my toenails, still hidden behind the bar. Loved my feet, wanted to rub them, said,

"I can smell you from here."

"Oh yeah? What do I smell like?"

More lip biting as he grinned mischievously and pantomimed 'Come hither' with his come-hither finger. Ah-ha, that explains everything, like why all the dogs in these parts keep runnin' straight for me, stickin' their noses near my crotch; it's quite a sight... already been interviewed 'bout it for a New York mag: "What's my secret?"

I giggle and blush and get turned on and so turn my attention to the street, where the everyday parade of the most colorful, fabulous, down-and-out up-and-coming on God's green earth are oozing by in the thick-as-pea-soup heat. The girls are barely dressed, each one a neon billboard for fertility with full breasts thrust forward, tummies bared, asses wriggling in the oldest, most effective come-on of 'em all... except perhaps for that come-hither scent I seem to be exuding...It's got 'em all beat! I imagine what it would be like if we all wised up and started following our noses, stopping to sniff, grope and mount. In Indonesia, the definition of the word for kiss--cium-cium--is "to sniff." And kisses over there, in that land drenched with hot wet eroticism, are little sniffs and nuzzles. Over here we got New York City, which in summertime is the definition of hot, the definition of sweaty. Crack it open like a ripe cantaloupe--so succulent, sweet and juicy.... gives ya somethin' real nice to suck on.




More Viva!








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