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xmag.com : June 2002: The Jack Shack

Been a long time since I locked myself in a cum-stained cubicle and tried to wack off before the time expired on three bucks. Even though I got a stack of vids on my desk, I slipped through the door at CINDY'S ADULT BOOKSTORE off Fourth and Burnside and bought a few tokens. I think Cindy's is one of the last places that still uses tokens.

Since I was in Chinatown, I flipped through the channels 'til I got to ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME from Redlight District videos. Two guys worked over a so-so-looking Chinese girl with a large purple birthmark on her cheek which seemed to vibrate as she gave both of them blow jobs. But the video of the moment at Cindy's is STUFFED BY A HORSE. You never see the face of the girl, just her bod bent over and the horse doing her. Actually, you don't see much of the horse, either, except his monstro dick, so this may be some plastic balloon horse. Still, vile to the max. I asked the guy working there, "Henry," if it was for sale. "Nope," he said, "we don't even know where it came from, but after I saw it, I don't ever want to see a horse out in the country again."

I went back to my place, ran through about five vids, drank a bottle of Jack. The last vid was Ben Dover's ASS WORSHIPPERS from VCA. The girls weren't as cute as the babes I've seen in his previous vids, but it was OK. I tapped the remote button, stopped a Ben Dover gang-bang in mid-plunder, swirled around in my chair, and tuned into CNN on my other TV set. The neo-fascist Frog, JEAN-MARIE LE PEN, had just gone down to defeat in the French presidential election. The leader of the National Front won't be swinging his dick in the Elysée Palace and drawing up his proposal for "transit camps" to process Arabs, Muslims, and blacks out of France.

Got the gang-bang going again side by side with Le Pen trying to explain that
he really doesn't want colored heads to roll under the guillotine. "What do I have to do not to be racist?" he asked. "Marry a black woman? With AIDS, if possible?"

With the twin TVs spilling out buttfucks and fascist howls, I went for a third visual lift--logged onto suicidegirls.com for the first time. I'd heard about the suicidegirls around the Exotic office but hadn't gotten around to scoping it out. My, my, what a nice change of pace from gang-bangs, moronic story lines, and the splashings of cum across a pretty face from some hairy-assed, baby-boom porn director. An army of strippers and freelance dancers have dropped their photos on the Portland-based suicidegirls site. Mini-profiles and daily journals clue you into the turnoffs and turn-ons in the chambers of their hearts.

Scrolling through the retinue of babes, my greedy eyes landed on Voltaire. She won my vote because of the French election's white noise in the background. And her luscious eyes. On weekends, she dances at Doc's out on Powell. In her daily journal, Voltaire said the last time she was at Dante's, she "ended up just being lazy and dancing. It was cool."

Another journal entry: "Today finds me in fine spirits, even though my arms are killing me from work, (from the pole)." Heavy damage on the preposition "from" and no need for the ( ), girl. Try this: "Today finds me in fine spirits, even though my arms are killing me from swinging around the pole."

She continues: "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to write journal entries anymore. I don't think anyone ever reads them." So wrong, Voltaire.

One pettyfogging grammarian reads your journal and corrects it with enthusiasm, like he's whipping your shiny hard butt with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

One dude, who says he's e-mailing Voltaire "from a van down by the river," wants to know the deep meaning of the tattoo on her left rib cage. So do I.

In her profile, Voltaire says she has "a ton" of tattoos. She has a right to decorate her body however she sees fit, but isn't a ton excessive? Tattoo ADDICTION, perhaps? I suppose all that royal purple, midnight blue, apple green, pelican black, and fire-engine-red ink swirling around her marbles, slithering down her ribcage, and coiling around her long white legs turns on the poor sap in the van sinking in the mud along the banks of the Willamette. Not me. I just don't get it.

Every inch of her body came up 7's and 11's with nature's roll of the dice, then she dunks it in ink. I can't help but imagine Voltaire the way Ovid described her in METAMORPHOSIS: a cool "sheet of fresh air."




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