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xmag.com : May 2002:The Industry

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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