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xmag.com : January 2002:The Industry

PROSPERO AÑO NUEVO, all you lonely, creepy masturbators of the greater Portland area! Just holding a copy of Exotic in your hands makes you sexier, doesn't it? There's enough jack material in this issue to keep your bony li'l paws busy for a month. And lest you grow uneasy, I'm here to assure you that there is nothing shameful about masturbating to Exotic. Alright, there's plenty that's shameful about it, but we butter our bread by peddling the illusion that being a pathetic, inadequate, sex-starved spud is somehow redemptive, so go wild, you crazy jerkoffs!

As your editor and personal guide, I've made it my mission to usher in a new era of sex-negative literature. In each issue, I plan to print at least one thing that'll kill that hard-on of yours. In fact, that's my New Year's Resolution: to render a dozen of your erections noodle-limp.

It's right before Christmas as we go to press, and I get a warm, crinkly feeling seeing all the naked sex workers mincing through the Exotic office for last-minute photo shoots. Our humble compound is stuffed with so many freaks, desperados, and drama queens, one could write the whole magazine without ever having to leave the office.

EXOTIC EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH Henry, a k a The Exotic Distributor Formerly Known as The Real John Henry, has been working in the sex industry since before most of you whippersnapper strippers were able to shave your pubes.

I fondly recall prior encounters with Henry...the time he showed up in the middle of the night when I was sleeping on the couch in the back room, scaring the shit out of me...the time he confided that I was one of the few staffers whose face he didn't want to FUCKING SMASH IN every time he saw me...the manic, hilarious, utterly frightening phone message where he harangued our beleaguered publisher with desperate exclamations such as "I'm not your nigger, Frank!"...and the time he and a lady friend burst into our office, sweaty and panting, claiming that a rival publication's distributor had threatened their lives.

Henry is psychotic. He'll tell you that himself. He's been diagnosed and everything. Henry has two moods: He's either exceedingly polite or he's threatening to crush your skull. If it hasn't happened already, Henry will probably kill someone someday...and then feel bad about it...and then justify it...and then feel bad about it again. "In this life, I've lived many lives," he tells me, and I believe him.

In contrast with some difficulties we've encountered with the award in the past, I'm glad to report that our lucky winner this month is also an eager participant in the proceedings who pledges to fulfill his Employee of the Month duties to the utmost of his capabilities. Not only did Henry graciously endure a grueling photo session, he also supplied me with several cartoons, poems, and background information about himself. Right before we went to press, he ran into the office insisting that I do shout-outs to his friends Joanna and Mr. Bohem.

Knowing that I now [plug, plug] spin country records at Dante's every Friday from 5 to 8 p.m., Henry also generously bequeathed me a stack of old Christmas-themed 45s, including "Yingle Bells" and "I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas" by Yogi Yorgesson, "I'll be Home for Christmas" by child-batterer Bing Crosby, and "Santa and the Kids" by country superstar Charlie "The Only Negro in C&W" Pride. I was at first suspicious of the big white flaky substance that was caked on most of the 45s. What could it be? Dried cum? Anthrax? Henry tells me it's soap flakes, which help keep the records from getting scratched.

Henry also left me a microcassette player containing a tape on which he breathlessly recites a ghetto-themed "The Night Before Christmas"--"The Crips were selling crack on the corner/And the Bloods were hidin' under their beds/With visions of drive-by shootings dancing in their heads."

Henry is a fan of The Redneck Manifesto, so I have no beefs with the man. He claims that our last issue sold more in coin boxes than any prior Exotic issue. In an unedited passage from a Christmas card he left for me on my desk, he opines about the reasons for this (note--Henry writes, and speaks, in all capital letters):

"IT'S BECAUSE THERE WAS A GIRL AND G-- WAS WOMAN AND BOTH OF THEM WHINERS AND THEY WERE ALWAYS BITCHING AND THEY NEVER SOLD NOVEL AND AND BOTH ACTED LIKE THEY WANTED ME TO PUNCH AND ONE NIGHT I ALMOST SNAPPED AND HIT G-- BUT THEN I DIDN'T BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN'T HIT ANYONE ESPECIALLY GIRLS AND BOTH WERE GIRLS AND THEY BOTH CRIED LIKE BABIES SO WHO WOULD WANT TO BUY A FREE MAGAZINE AND LISTEN TO THE CRYIN' THAT GOES ON FOR DAYS EVEN AFTER THE PERIOD IS OVER BUT WHAT'S THIS GOT TO DO WITH THE HOLIDAY CELEBRATING THE BIRTH OF THE LORD JESUS?"

There are no formalities with Henry. He exudes the refreshing, cut-through-the-bullshit candor of the truly insane. He's a sparking, sputtering live wire of restless psychic energy, a whirling dervish who tends to become so wrapped-up in whatever he's talking about that he doesn't realize he's being VERY, VERY LOUD. Looking into Henry's eyes is like beholding the face of madness. He has the battle-scarred bearing of a man who's stared into the face of Pure Evil without flinching. I'm quite fond of the guy.


BYE-BYE, VIVID BLUE
We bemoan the loss of yet another Exotic contributor: VIVID BLUE, authoress of the much-loved and to-be-sorely-missed "Sex Around the World" column, recently called our office all huffed-up about the rude treatment she'd received at the hands of an unidentified staffer who'd answered her previous call. According to Vivid, when she asked the staffer, "Who is this?," she was greeted with a lecherous, "Well, who do you want it to be?" Upon resigning, Vivid let it be known that she's written for such prestigious publications as Swank and Genesis without ever having to deal with such rude, dastardly, and unprofessional behavior.

My only previous run-in with Vivid was a few months ago when she left a serious of frantic (sexists might say "hysterical") calls to our office, claiming that she was being stalked and demanding that her real name be removed from her column. (Er, if your stalker already knows your real name, what's the sense of trying to hide it?)

We wish Vivid Blue the very best and hope she continues having sex all over the world. Which begs the question: How many more Exotic
contributors will voluntarily resign before we have to start playing mind games with them over the phone?

WHY ARE ALL EXOTIC READERS NAMED "MARK" OR "JOHN?" A man identifying himself as "Mark" left us a phone message claiming that he'd been fired from his security-guard position for reading Exotic while on the job. He added that after being fired, he went and watched Viva Las Vegas perform at Magic Gardens, which made him feel better. This should also make Viva feel better, if not safer.

 

RACIAL INJUSTICE JUST AIN'T COOL, DUDE The female owner of a local lingerie boutique recently visited the Exotic office and made it a point to loudly assure Bobby Baldwin, our production anchor and widely thought to be The Only Sane Exotic Employee, that she had always opposed prejudice in all its forms, even before it was considered cool to do so. (Bobby is black.)

 

"FAILLACE" MEANS "BROTHERHOOD OF EVIL" IN ITALIAN A startling allegation has recently crossed our venerable news desk, one which threatens to topple the formidable Exotic empire. It comes via a musician and former Christian preacher who fronts what might properly be termed an industrial/metal-style musical combo. Apparently, Exotic publisher Frank "Just Pronounce it 'Flatch'" Faillace and his henchman Reed "One of the World's Top 20 Coin Magicians" McClintock are high-ranking satanic priests who sacrifice strippers to appease the Demon Gods. What's worse, they then dump the used corpses in a bottomless pit which is hidden in a "secret" chamber in the basement of Dante's, a hyper-hip nightclub nestled beneath the second-floor Exotic offices. Dante's is also owned by Mr. Faillace. The angular, amiable, fashionably disheveled Exotic publisher and the shadowy, brooding, slightly tubby coin magician are said to be involved in an Oregon sect of Aleister Crowley's O.T.O. which has made a mission of placing convicted criminals in high-ranking positions within the Exotic organization. (Hence, um, me...) The musician/accuser noted that several of Dante's drink specials are "satanically themed" and that the club's phone number contains a damning "666" in it.

Faillace offered a tight-lipped, "No comment," regarding the rumors. McClintock vehemently denied all allegations and then tried showing me a
card trick.

 

 

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