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xmag.com : April 2002:The Industry

THESE DAYS IT BOILS DOWN to a choice between writing and fucking,Your humble editor dons blackface and lectures schoolchildren about the evils of racism. 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 start flowing.

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?


EXOTIC 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 computer desktop.

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."

Apparently there's 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 include:


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.


Fair enough.

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 is like:


9AM Wake Up

9:15AM Continental Breakfast

9:30AM Start Beating Women

Noon Lunch Break

1PM Resume Beating Women

6PM Dinner Break

6:30PM Write About Beating Women

10PM Sleep


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 must be
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 detail their
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 FUN STUFF!


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.


REED 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 asking!





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