: April 2002:The Industry
THESE DAYS IT
BOILS DOWN to
a choice between writing and fucking,
and sometimes I ain't too crazy about the writing.
Deadline's breathing down my neck, and I was supposed
to finish this column last night. But the Grim
Reaper's also breathing down my neck, and I chose
to have my face buried in a nice silky pussy instead
of staring half-retarded at a computer screen. I'd
rather hear a girl say, "Oh, my God!" when I shove
myself inside her than sit here pecking away for the
fleeting amusement of the 1% of you who exhibit the
vaguest comprehension of what I'm trying to get at
with all these words, month after month.
Total real-life drama
last night, too, the kind that words can never quite
capture. At a dark, crowded club, I bump into a girl
whom I've wanted to fuck ever since I met her a few
months ago. I thought she hated me, though, so I never
pushed the matter. She pulls me aside and says she
can't stand her boyfriend. He's stupid and doesn't
understand her. She says I'm the only smart guy in
the club, the only one that could possibly hold a
conversation with her. She's crying. She's nuts,
too, but I tend to go for that type. I ask her
if she wants to go somewhere and talk. We whisk past
her boyfriend and out of the club.
We find a quiet place.
She says that she's drawn to me. I confess that I've
had a crush on her. A light kiss. And then the chemicals
I tell her I feel bad
about her boyfriend.
And then I tell her
I don't feel bad enough to stop.
You know when it feels
right and when it doesn't. This felt right.
I sent her off in a
cab this morning and came down to work, but now I
wish we had just rolled over and kept sleeping. Instead
of watching her walk around in my bathrobe, now I
have to deal with morons who sell crotch for
a living but somehow are righteously offended by my
words. Words aren't dangerous. What's dangerous is
how stupid people react to them. Smart people never
freak out over mere words. If you need someone to
take you by the hand and tell you what's right and
wrong, I ain't the guy. And if you're that simpleminded,
why would I want to breathe the same air as you?
EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH
There is only one man in the Exotic office
who has the lanky frame, cheetah-like grace, two-tone
hair, leopard-patterned shoes, and tumultuous personal
life that spell "rock 'n' roll SUPERSTAR in the making."
There is only one man who has been rockin' since the
early eighties and who absolutely flat-out refuses
to quit rockin'. Wherever this man is, there,
too, is rock 'n' roll.
This man is John
"Spooky" Voge, Exotic ad representative,
photographer, and gracefully rockin' bon vivant.
He is so thoroughly rockin', such a torch-carrier
of the never-say-die rocker spirit, that I have rechristened
him Jon Bon Voji. When I first saw him, I
thought, "Gee, now there's a man who rocks."
If you were to, say, look up the term "rockin' Portland
sex-industry dude" in the dictionary, I'd bet dollars
to donuts that there'd be a devilishly mischievous
picture of ol' Spooky, his eyes saying, "Let's Rock!"
Speaking of pictures,
John threw a snit-fit last month after I accidentally
stumbled across a naked photo of him while skimming
through a computer folder in search of a new mug shot
for Erotic City. There, amid a comical portfolio
of late-80s Howard Stern-style shots of Voge looking
rockin'-but-sensitive, was a self-portrait of an apparently
stoned Spooky, naked as the day he was born, his rockin'
penis dangled teasingly in the frame's bottom. He
looked lazily off-camera as if unaware that it was
he who was taking the photograph of himself. I gasped,
laughed, and then closed the picture. When Voge found
out, he seemed genuinely hurt. In response, we tracked
down a photo of Voge's penis tethered to a stripper's
vagina with some Modern Primitives-style steel
wires, and we placed the incriminating pic on his
We haven't had an Employee
of the Month more apprehensive about his profile since
the infamous freakout by "Butts" when this award was
first tendered. All month long, Voge would groan whenever
he passed me, almost cowering like a dog who's been
abused. It got me wondering about what skeletons might
be hanging in Spooky's closet. I mean, doesn't everyone
already know about the substance abuse, the domestic
stuff, and the fact that the Korean Mafia has placed
a hit on him? That's old news!
The most embarrassing
thing I was able to find on him--and it's mild, really--was
a cyber-dating profile he'd posted of himself a few
months ago, never suspecting that my informants are
many. In the profile, he describes himself as an "Exotic
Bad Boy with Good Heart" and describes his style as
"kind of Motley Crueish, before they all shaved their
heads." He claims to enjoy wine-tasting and snowboarding
and describes both his hair and his occupation as
"Other," which seems about right. His dream mate would
be "Wild, Sexxy [sic], Exhausting, Affectionate (PDA's
okay by me), Loyal, Honest, Beautiful inside and out,
trusting and confident."
a stripper in town who dances to Johnny Cash and trucker
music. She told Voge she's interested in me, and this
Friday after deadline's over, Voge is going to hook
a bro up. And that's why I'm not going to say anything
bad about him. See, I can be bought if the
price is right!
DARKLADY'S SO BIG,
IT TOOK TWO ISSUES TO FIRE HER
Big-boned temptress Darklady is up to her ol'
Internet-spammin' ways in the wake of my rude, unfeeling
dismissal of her last month. She is apparently wired
up to a bunch of those eternally FUN sex-positive online
discussion groups and recently tried to rally her minions
to bombard the Exotic offices with outraged e-mailings
decrying the fact that we no longer squeeze the Big
Lady into that Small Column.
A whopping SIX people
responded. Amusingly, three of them defended Darklady,
while three of them were relieved to see her flushed
down the editorial commode. Even on her own turf, half
of the people hate her. Delicious!
Comments from her detractors
I think I might like to
shake your hand for firing her. She's horrible.
The darklady author is
gone. No tears here. She's on several lists that I enjoy
participating in and it never fails...I unwantingly
know more about her goings-on than my own dog's perusings.
I would like to personally
thank Jim Goad for having the chutzpah to pull the plug
on Tales of the Darklady...I have been irritated
by Darklady's insipid, sexist, unsexy drivel for months.
Now I might reconsider picking up a copy of Exotic
magazine once again.
Her supporters claimed
that Exotic was becoming a bastion of "pure vile
hatred." One of her acolytes, a person who claims to
be affiliated with something called Senior Unlimited
Nudes, warned that we were
sending a message to current
and future employees, freelancers, advertisers, news
sources, and other associates: After Jim Goad has finished
using you, he may try to humiliate you.
Another exasperated sex-positive-but-probably-sexually-unattractive
Darklady fan gasped,
Jim Goad's a convicted
felon with an unsavory nationwide reputation, who has
written vast volumes of painfully misanthropic material.
And you put him in charge of a magazine?
Yet another easily freaked-out
"transgressive" type wrote that
people would be happy
to run from Mr. Goad as fast as their feet can carry
them, and I must agree my image of Darklady would only
suffer from any association with him....
The Big Gal herself,
the one who is presumably called "Darklady" because
she casts a huge shadow wherever she waddles, moaned
that Exotic was becoming "anti-sex" and that
she had meant to leave anyway--but somehow musta forgot--before
I shit-canned her:
I consider it to be a
matter of pride to have been fired by this guy...I figure
it's only a matter of time before Goad's found beating
the hell out of a stripper somewhere...
Well, you know how it
is with us compulsive woman-beaters. We just can't help
ourselves. Since Darklady so graciously brought it up,
I'd like to share with you what a typical Jim Goad day
9:30AM Start Beating
6:30PM Write About
You know, Mama Darklady,
I could beat the hell out of a thousand strippers,
and your writing would still suck. Your name
would still be a punchline. Oh, how primitively
Catholic is your priggish moral tut-tutting of whatever
demons you think I represent. Clean thy own nest, thou
filthy, bitter bird. Hey, did you ever consider that
maybe the "new" Exotic is not sex-negative at
all...just opposed to the idea of sex with people such
as Darklady? Besides, you're just jealous that we've
replaced your column with "Stories of the Shadow Woman"
on page 72.
TWO NEW HOT CHICKS
have joined our
venerable stable of writers, two chicks who easily pass
our new "lookist" policy that Exotic writers
physically fetching as well as verbally gifted. I welcome
DebraJean "The Cum-Hungry Genius" Danger and
Bobbi Jo "I Hate Sex" Schmidt to the Exotic
family and place them warmly under my wings. DebraJean
can be seen in
varying states of undress on the suicidegirls.com
website. She is currently in New York, scripting an
independent film in which I am slated to star as a police
detective who kills her. Talk about type-casting! Bobbi
Jo Schmidt hosts a very funny website under her real
name, which she doesn't want revealed here. Their new
columns are on page 62.
Next month will see the
inauguration of a new full-page column called "Performance
Anxiety" in which a rotating stable of writers will
most awkward, embarrassing, and horrifying true-life
sexual experiences. In my checkered history I've had
some doozies, so this column should be wall-to-wall
THOSE WACKY ACTIVIST
GIRLS over at Danzine
and Miss Mona's Rack would like it announced
that they are hosting a "Bad Date Line" whereby female
sex workers, as well as
normal gals who don't charge for the pooty tang,
can tattle on physically or sexually abusive males with
the hope that other women stay away from them in the
future. They have compiled a list of Bad Dates and are
willing to share it with interested parties. You can
anonymously report Bad Dates at 503-234-9615. I have
several misgivings about the idea of a Bad Date list,
chief among them the fact that the name Jim Goad
was not included.
I ATE BOBBY BALDWIN'S
MANDARIN DUCK out
of the Exotic office refrigerator during a sleepwalking
episode at about 4AM during the last deadline. I woke
up dazed, wandered over to the fridge, and gobbled it
up. I would like to publicly apologize. Bobby, let's
got out to the Candlelight sometime soon. I'll buy the
drinks, and we'll both mack on big-booty white chicks.
McCLINTOCK ROCKED THE HOUSE
along with brothers Porter, Boyd, and Groin
as barbershop quartet The B.M.s (Brothers
McClintock) crooned their way into the hearts of an
initially skeptical Dante's audience in late
March. Reed, who is known to Portland crowds as One
of the World's Top 20 Coin Magicians (which would seem
to imply that he didn't make the Top 10), exhibited
some rare emotion at the sight of all those McClintocks
reunited in one place. "I haven't seen Grandmama
Bundt McClintock in what seems like ages," Reed
said, a tear swelling in his eye. Reed's father Rind
chipped in: "It's good to see the kids and the old
people together again. And, ooooh, can those boys sing!
Hot tamale!" For this writer, the evening's highlight
was when Reed's little sister Blintz came onstage
to play dulcimer as her brothers belted out a spellbinding
"Sweet Adeline." If you haven't yet seen the B.M.s live,
I'd suggest you catch the wave before it rolls over
you, because this shit's gonna blow up MAJOR!
AM I A NEO-NAZI?
No. I'm an old-fashioned Nazi. But thanks for
2002 X Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. copyright | trademark | legal notices