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| xmag.com
: May 2002:The Industry |
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The
steam skims off the top of molten-hot bath water
as I float like a bloated Caucasian matzoh ball,
washing the sex off me.
My slobbery scrunchy dog is scratching on the outside
of
the bathroom door, trying to get in. The Jew
is sleeping in the bedroom with a smile on her
face.
 I'm
sneezing from all the pollen churning through the
air, all those spores that recently exploded from
the cold winter ground in a spermlike rush to fertilize
things. Springtime, when my brains turn to
mush. All I can think about is goin' up inside that
girl. Like this hot bath squeezes the toxins out
of my body, the warmer weather pushes the hormones
straight out through my pores, and all I think about
is sex.
Whoever
designed the pussy knew what they were doing.
More and more, just about every second lately, I
find myself either rammed up her tight little sugarcave
or thinking about doing it. I see her walking next
to me on these warm spring days, and my instincts
just flutter down to her kangaroo pouch. It's only
natural.
They
say I hate women. Well, yeah, if you remove their
bodies from the equation.
"Hoist your mugs, ye
mateys, and let's drink to another hundred
years of sex-for-cash in Portland!"
Here
at Exotic, where The Industry butters
our bread, pays our rent, and buys our toilet paper,
we paddle our boat through a pinkish ocean of pussy
and sometimes aren't as grateful as maybe we should
be. We sit here all day, Photoshopping pimples and
bruises off chicks' bodies, wondering what it all
means. Dipping your head inside a huge boiling cauldron
of sex-for-cash, day after day and month after month,
can't be nearly as injurious to the human soul as
the critics allege, could it? Sure, there's a seamy
side to this industry, but this industry also shows
people at their best--naked and enjoying themselves,
their genitals flapping all over the place.
Our industry actually benefits society by...by...by,
um...by giving us cash and by giving them
sex. We fulfill each other's needs. It's very
nurturing! It's a good thing. And the people
who try to suppress, regulate, or abolish our industry--they're
the bad ones. We're the good ones and they're
the bad ones.
I've
heard that there are more titty bars in Portland
per capita than anywhere in the WORLD. I'm too lazy
to research whether that's true, but I just wanted
to pass it along. It wouldn't surprise me. Everywhere
you turn, someone's doing a pole dance.
When
I moved up to Portland eight years ago, I couldn't
believe how huge the sex industry was. While one
was forced to drive miles and miles through P-town
to find a gas station, there was a strip club on
every corner serving up shaved pussy, cheap beer,
and Chicken 'n' Jo-Jo's Blue Plate Specials. Every
other girl I met was either a stripper, or she sold
dildos and bongs along 82nd. I was intrigued by
the idea that Portland seemed so sex-crazed. It
might be a gloomy place where everyone was fat and
pasty, but all the rain and drugs apparently drove
everyone indoors and into the bedroom.
Even
while I was married and living in LA, I fantasized
about moving up to Portland and gettin' myself
one of those stripper girlfriends.
I
made my fantasies come true and embarked upon
a romantic relationship with a girl who used to
dance at Magic Gardens and J.D.'s. It didn't work
out too well, but at least I'm off parole now.
But
I wouldn't be so petty as to blame the industry
for
my misfortune. That would be immature. This is
a fine industry, and it's already received enough
undeserved blame. The industry does not abuse
women. It does not churn their bodies through
a meat grinder, spitting them out as old and unwanted
by the time they turn twenty-three. Nothing shady
goes on within our industry. No one gets hurt
or exploited. No one suffers psychological damage
from all this.
One shouldn't bite the twat that feeds them, and
I fear that this is exactly what I've been doing
for the past six months...but I promise to do
it no more. I am here to state, on the record,
that this is an absolutely COOL industry, and
I can't think of another industry in which I'd
rather toil!
I have resolved to chide the industry no more.
If I even try to chide, you should tan
my hide. I will not engage in my trademarked,
intermittently amusing character assassinations
of the sundry personages who wade through our
industry like so much toxic bilge oozing through
a sewer pipe. From this point on, I will refrain
from making smug, catty comments about their appearance
and character, no matter how homely or despicable
they may be in real life.
As the daffodils sprout outside and the skies
turn from grey to golden and the children wave
their bubble blowers through the air, I consider
it my moral duty as editor of this fine publication
to say I'M SORRY for all the hurt feelings,
misunderstandings, recriminations, and litigation
that have erupted since I manned the wheel of
the Good Ship Exotic. As a man grows older
and his days dwindle, he ponders life's finer
points with a cold glint in his bloodshot eyes,
and my conscience has lately been pricked (ouch!)
by the troublesome notion that my endlessly self-absorbed
public wrestling matches with my psychological
demons--wrestling matches which should be kept
private, with only me and my demons in attendance--have
been unnecessarily hurtful to the fine folks who
used to people our pages with their poignant,
pithy pontifications.
Henceforth,
I will no longer make sport of the writers, no
matter how dreadful, who used to splatter their
black ink on our white pages. In fact, I would
like to take this opportunity as is my duty in
this sacred editorial role which you guys used
to play, to SALUTE
all
you Exotic writers and editors who are
no longer a part of our warm, womblike family
and who may, yes, unwittingly suffer at the expense
of our merciless, never-ending, oft-creative in-office
jibes. I sincerely wish you a LOT OF LUCK
in your burgeoning writing careers. We should
all get together for a nosh
sometime soon.
So,
again, peoples--I'M SORRY if I caused you any
undue stress, and I DIDN'T REALLY MEAN IT when
I said your writing sucked.
In
the same spirit of remorseful, self-hating,
shit-eating reconciliation, I salute all
you lesbians! I've thought it over, and
I've changed my mind...now I think it's REALLY
COOL that you lick each other's pussies. That's
rad! And what's better, it's brave!
It's also awesome when one of you straps on
a fake cock and pretends you're a guy. I
was ABSOLUTELY WRONG to make sport of your
precious lifestyle! What the hell was I thinking?
I'm sorry I
hurt your feelings! Maybe I had given you more
credit than to think you'd react
so bitterly and humorlessly...just like the
Christians who persecute you.
But I'M SORRY that I gave you so much credit.
You obviously need reassurance. You need to
be patronized, and I'm just the guy to do it.
You chicks are cool! Slurp on, sistas!
I salute the girls...ahh, the girls...the
ones who whisk through our lives like a warm,
lilting summer wind...the ones who leave voicemail
threats to our publisher from in and out of
mental wards...the one who stole a thousand-
dollar video camera from an Exotic staffer...the
one who rushed into our office after being attacked
by a coworker upstairs...the ones who run escort
ads to help feed their three kids...the escort
girl whose cell phone rings with clients the
entire time she's here placing her new ads...the
one who shoved brightly colored dildos up her
Eskimo snatch in the back room when we were
doing Internet porn...the ones who struggle
valiantly with chemical-dependency issues...the
ones who strain with every fiber of their being
to try and
forget what their fathers did to them...the
ones who find a new Mr. Right just about every
three weeks or so...the ones who stay in the
industry long after they should have left...the
ones who couldn't buy enough makeup to cover
it up...the ones who place themselves in situations
where they'll find plenty of good reasons to
keep hating men...the ones who won't recover
from it, who never developed the skills to get
past it...the ones who give you that look, as
if you'd possibly have any answers for them...the
ones to whom you could explain it very clearly,
and they still wouldn't understand...all I can
say is that I'M SORRY if I ever suggested that
any of you are unstable. You girls--YOU are
the ones to whom I pay special tribute as I
celebrate this wondrous industry that pays for
the honey which I lovingly ladle atop my steamin'
morning oatmeal.
I
will no longer question the motives nor intelligence
of the innumerable
young ladies who pass through our office and
walk through our hearts. That's a promise. That's
right, I salute the estimated two
or three thousand Portland girls who swap their
female charms for cash--
why, you're the tops! I love you dames! We all
know that the stereotype of the
unstable,
formerly abused, histrionic erotic dancer is
merely that--a stereotype--and is hardly typical
of the fine gals who populate our noble profession.
For every Borderline Personality Disorder harpy
who leaves death threats and is always attempting
suicide, there are a dozen other female sex
workers who are clean, well-adjusted, and eager
to please. There's a big basket fulla female
sex workers out there in P-Town--don't let a
few bad apples spoil the bunch for you, guys!
I
salute the strip clubs where men, couples,
and the occasional lesbian gather in order to
sate their primal need to see naked people with
whom they have no chance of having sex. The
strip club, truly, is the Temple of the New
Goddess, a church where seekers congregate to
worship the life-giving pelvic nexus variously
referred to as the vagina, the cunt, the snatch,
the snapper, and the stinky woodchuck. Plus,
the drink prices are reasonable, and sometimes
the food isn't
that bad.
I
salute (and apologize to) the Exotic readers,
whom we have unfairly depicted in the past as
lonely, inadequate schmuckjobs who are unable
to procure sex partners without waving hundred-dollar
bills in front of them. This was an unfair,
cruel accusation, and if I was able to apologize
to every one of you personally, I'd surely do
it. I have reconsidered my beliefs, and now
I'm of the staunch opinion that you guys pay
for sex because, well, you must like paying
for sex.
But
even beyond all that rigamarole and poppycock,
we, the employees of Exotic, gather together
to defer, pay homage, and submit in a quasi-sexual
manner to this shapeless mass that no one has
ever seen but everyone calls THE INDUSTRY.
Let it be declared that there will be no Exotic
Employee of the Month this month. No, not
this month. Next month, but not this month.
If someone asks you whom the Exotic Employee
of the Month is this month, you'll have to tell
them, "No, no, there isn't one this month."
Instead, we have selected THE INDUSTRY
as...
EXOTIC
EMPLOYER
OF
THE MONTH.
And
what a damn fine employer it is!
Hoist
your mugs, ye mateys, and let's drink to another
hundred years of sex-for-cash in Portland!
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