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Flippersmack Issue 19
O=
/) FLIPPERSMACK 019
`= culturemag for a penguin generation
http://www.flippersmack.com/
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Stone Dragon went on a journey to do a little investigative reporting: the
secluded life of a professional prostitute. The trip and story paved the
way for this special edition of FLIPPERSMACK: THE SEX ISSUE. This issue is
for mature readers only. You must be 18 or older to read further.
pinguino
[pinguino@comicartist.com]
tABLE oF cONTENTS
What Is Love ...................................... Flippersmack
[poem] figurine ........................................... Monk
[poem] Reunion ......................................... Melinda
Sex Story .............................................. Epsilon
[poem] gradual ............................................ Monk
[review] Cotton Candy ................................. pinguino
[poem] Comfort Me ...................................... Melinda
Chicken Ranch Not All Its Cracked Up To Be ........ Stone Dragon
Kilna Report .......................................... pinguino
All About Llamas ...................................... pinguino
.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
What Is Love?
by Flippersmack and Friends
There is no solid answer to this basic question. Love has a holiday
dedicated to it. Countless stories and songs and poetry try to describe
it, without really capturing what it really is. Flippersmack asked around,
and got these answers to the philosophical question, "What is Love?"
oatmeal: "A four-letter word."
mynx (ice): "Love is a warm apple pie in winter."
Seige: "Love is the ecstasy you perceive when you know deep in your hearts
that no wind can blow out the flames that made both souls as one."
Cat-Dog (mimic): "Love lasts five minutes, and starts with a grunt."
Pinguino (penguinpalace): "Love is the connection between you and another
person that conveys caring and a sense of familiarity. There are many
different types of love, and ways to express it. True love is when the
other person reciprocates your emotion tenfold, without thinking about
it."
Loophole (hhp): "Partnership love is the feeling one thinks they need from
deep down insecurity. When one finds themself and their 'true love,' it
most of the time isn't a human of the opposite sex, it's rather a hobby
that you thrive for."
SlapAyoda: "Trying to describe love in simple terms is like trying to eat a
sixty-five dollar bill while riding a unicycle and listening to Elvis
Costello: it doesn't make any sense. The best approximation I can present
without breaking my head thinking about it is that love is the silly
little gnome who runs around my brain, stepping on various emotional
triggers, making me laugh and smile at the happiness it produces."
Far Call: "Love is like a banana. It's yellow on the outside and has a
thick peel and when you open it up, it's soft and squigy in the middle."
-.x.x.x.-
figurine
by Monk (monkstah@hotmail.com)
figurine.
remember the dining room
when you took me and then my silver.
remember the apologys you stole
from my mouth but not my heart.
remember waking up in cold sweat
shivering because the covers touched you
the wrong way.
of course not, why would you care?
you took my lungs away from the only air
i felt safe enough to breathe,
and stole my shadow right off the wall
as it was protecting me.
everything tastes dirty now.
everything seems taken.
i still have my figurine.
broad wings stroking the air around them.
faded green clothing painted to the curves of metal.
jeweled eyes whispering to me all of the world's they've seen.
didn't we all used to be magical once?
-.x.x.x.-
Reunion
by Melinda (scgal1@excite.com)
Funny how familiar
Some things are.
Touching becomes remembering,
Kisses become recollections of
Times gone by.
Your hand in mine takes me back
To the comfort you always gave,
Your brown eyes locked on my blue
Remind me of secrets we told
When we were too tired
For anything else.
I am 18 again as
Your mouth closes over my breast
And our bodies remember things
Our minds have forgotten.
The beating of your heart
Matches the pounding in my ears
As my blood rushes hot
Flushing my cheeks
Just like that first time.
Then your tongue joins mine, insistent
And I am home again in your arms.
-.x.x.x.-
Sex Story
by Epsilon (goten01@msn.com)
One of my embarrassing sex stories happened when I was 14. Me and my
girlfriend decided to ditch school one day, get sloppy drunk and have
some fun. Well, we got drunk to the point where we couldn't even
walk to the bathroom without falling over at least twice. Anyways, we were
sitting in her room and I leaned over to kiss her and she kissed back.
We started to make out then I undressed her and she did the same to me.
We started at it and eventually migrated to her living room couch. As we
were going at it, she heard a loud roar: the sound of her Dad's Corvette.
She jumped up to run in her bedroom, dragging me behind her. Being as
drunk as I was, I couldn't think straight and decided to go back to look
for my clothes as he was getting out of his car. Realizing they were in
her bedroom, as quickly as I could, I ran back down the hall to the master
bedroom, but it was too late. Her Dad had seen her enter the room
and was like, "What the hell!?". I managed to hide under the
bed, but my foot stuck out a little. He stormed into the room and saw my
foot. When he ordered me to get out from under there, I stood in front of
him stark naked. He looked me in the eye for a bit and walked in his room.
Seeing my chance for escaping, I ran to the door, grabbing my clothes on
the way. I was putting on my boxers while running out the door, as her
neighbor saw me and stared at me with a funny look. As I ran down the street,
I was struggling to get my clothes on while staggering uncontrollably left
and right. About a mile later, a cop picked me up and told me
that he had got a call that there was a teenager stumbling and looked
to be "wasted." To say the least, my Mom and Dad were mad about the
alcohol, but the still, to this day, don't know about me and my girlfriend
having sex. This was the first sexual experience we had, and it didn't go
as well as we planned.
-.x.x.x.-
gradual
by Monk (monkstah@hotmail.com)
i heard the rustle of covers, shifting the twilight
from my face.
i felt the touch of skin on skin, and the attention
of hairs.
i pretended to be still, so still, while you wrapped
your arm around my body, pressing into my back.
i felt the cold air escape my feet as you entertwined
your legs around me, locking them in place.
you started to whisper how much you loved me and your
glad that we were together, and how wonderful it was
that tonight was like this, and all those other things
you never really meant and never felt bold enough to say
to my face.
fitting that as you lay behind me, you lie to me.
i could have sat up and slapped you. yelled into your ear.
frightened your manhood with my honesty.
but i laid still, covered in your body. warm.
sometimes comfort is worth more than sensibility.
-.x.x.x.-
[Review] Cotton Candy
by Pinguino (pinguino@comicartist.com)
MonsterFur threw an event at the Kensington Club in San Diego last
Saturday, called Cotton Candy. I went with my friend Charles Wilson. When
you walked in, you had to pass through a 7 foot cloth vagina sewn by
MonsterFur. Then, you walked through a 6 foot corridor of the interior,
which had little crab cutouts stapled into it. The room the show was in had
a live funk band with so many instruments that they couldn't fit on-stage.
Silver streamers and balloons gave the room a festive feel, and the visuals
were a winamp-cracked mix of "Blow," "Boogie Nights," and subtle seventies
porn. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll were very clearly the motif. People
were having a blast, dancing and chilling in a creative atmosphere. Go
MonsterFur!!
What's MonsterFur? It's an awesome rave clothing company based in San
Diego. They specialize in furry club-wear. Check out their site at
http://www.monsterfur.com/ . MonsterFur will be a featured designer at the
CoF Roadshow event in Long Beach October 24. Roadshow is a fashion/art/music
being by Penguin Palace. Check http://www.penguinpalace.com/ for further
upcoming details.
-.x.x.x.-
Comfort Me
by Melinda (scgal1@excite.com)
Comfort can be found
If you only look.
Touch
Soft as a feather
Kiss
Tender as can be
Feel the comfort from a warm body
Reaching out in the night.
Touch my soul
As I touch your skin
Feel my heart
As I feel your caress
Taste my sorrow
As I lick your teeth.
Comfort me,
Make me forget.
Make me sigh, make me scream,
Make me feel.
Wake my nerves so that your touch
Burns.
Then cool my fevered skin with
Your tongue.
Comfort my soul
With your body.
-.x.x.x.-
Chicken Ranch Not All Its Cracked Up To Be
by Stone Dragon (r_lull@hotmail.com)
Everyone wants that perfect trip. Whether it be physical, spiritual,
sexual, or of the road variety, we all know what constitutes a perfect
experience in our minds. My friend Cole and I went to Las Vegas last
weekend in search of that very thing. For Cole, his perfect idea of this
trip would be to tour Vegas for a while, get nice and sauced, and then go
to the local brothel for a little rest and relaxation ... with someone
soft and warm on top of him, preferably naked. For me, the perfect image
of the trip included taking the blackjack dealers for all they were
worth, seeing a cool show, and getting a really in-depth interview with a
woman who's business it was to pleasure a man in a house of ill repute.
I imagined all of the things I'd been wondering about the sex biz being
answered and having an incredible tale to tell. A road trip - the end all be
all of comraderie and happy memories. Well, let me tell you, it sure
didn't happen on this trip, folks. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed parts
of the trip. Cole's a pretty good road buddy, and the beef jerky we had
for the trip up was quite tasty, but everything fell apart as soon as we
hit the Nevada state line.
The trip up to the Nevada state line was great. We talked and
laughed and listened to good music. We discussed things like my
brother's latest girlfriend, my own women troubles, and eventually worked
our way towards what Cole was expecting from the ladies at the Chicken
Ranch, which was the brothel we planned on visiting. I tried pressing
Cole for info on the type of girl he wanted, but all he would say is that
he wanted to "get the hottest chick there". Hardly a satisfying answer,
but that's what I'd have to deal with. Cole's not a very descriptive
guy.
Once past the state line, things got a little bit more interesting.
Somehow, we had both forgotten that we had dared to enter the gambling
mecca of North America on just about the worst weekend in the entire year
besides Christmas and New Year. For all of you who plan on going to
Vegas on Labor Day weekend, don't be like us. Get RESERVATIONS. We went
to every hotel in Primm (on state line). The thumb-nosings we received
were less than cordial. Every room was taken in town. So, not to be
daunted by this minor setback, we traveled to the next town on the way to
the Vegas strip: Jean. If you've ever been there, you know how empty the
place is usually. Not this weekend though. Not one single measly
room. We could barely find a place to park. Moving on to the next town,
Lake Mead, we did no better. This is when I started to get desperate. I
thought of just pulling over to the side of the road, and lowering my
car seat into a quasi-bed position. It was not a comforting thought.
By now, we've been searching for a room for about three and a half
hours. It was starting to get dark, and the chances of Cole getting any
pay-per-pleasure that night were getting dimmer and dimmer. We finally
decided to try our luck with the strip. The streets of Las Vegas were in
a state of chaos. Herds of intoxicated gamblers and rubber-necked
tourists ambled along the streets, walking in front of honking taxis and
snatching up as much illegal porn as their grubby little hands could
hold. And in the midst of all of this, there we were, watching as the
drunken masses shambled past like drugged cattle. We finally found a
remote corner of the strip behind Excalibur. Since that was where we
parked, we decided Excalibur would be the first hotel we'd try to find
lodging at.
I've been in the Excalibur before, and the scenery had been jaded on
me since the first time I'd seen it. Castle terraces and towers all
around, while Merlin looked down on us all from his lofty window, as if
we were his subjects. We rode the moving walkway like zombies all the
way through the door. We had been walking a lot since we hit Nevada, and
now was a good time to let the floor do the walking for us. The only
drawback is that the damn thing moves so slow, you have to listen to
Merlin go through his annoying welcoming speech about 5 times before you
are mercifully let go at the lobby.
Once at the lobby, we entered a long line for registration and
check-ins. Everyone in front of us and behind us had a reservation. The
lady behind me also had a drink. I asked her if she's got a reservation
or not. She says she does, then sized me up with a drunken lusty stare
that could curdle milk. She then asked me to hold her drink while she
dug through her purse to find her reservation ticket. As I'm holding
the drink, I noticed that it doesn't smell too good, and tried to repress
a shudder - unsuccessfully. Right on que, the inebriated lady suggests
that I can "take a drink of it if I want to" quite slyly. I politely
declined, but she wouldn't have any of that. "Take a drink", she
demanded in a slur, which turns into "TAKE A DRINK!" Like the weak
little bitch I am, I obliged her with a little sip. "TAKE ANOTHER - make
it a biiig gulp!". I gulped some down. Cole is trying hard not to
laugh, but a little chortle escaped from the hand he held to his mouth.
"That's good, huh?" said the lady who I will call Mary, since the drink
was apparently a bloody mary. "Now eat an olive" she said, stuffing a
handful of them in my mouth - stuffing two of her fingers in my mouth as
well. I was trying to tell her I didn't want anymore, but the olives
were clogging my throat. "NOW TAKE ANOTHER DRINK!" She'd gotten pretty
loud (and a little lewd) by now, and a lot of the other people in line
started turning around and scowling into my face, while I'm trying to
wash the olives out of my trachea with some more of the bloody stuff.
She then looked me in the eyes and said "That tastes gooooodd doesn't it
sweety?" I whimpered in response. "I loooovve these damn things! I'm
pretty trashed after about three of 'em, and I've had five, so I guess
I'm in TROUBLE, huh?" She laughed at her own little joke, and then
decided she wasn't through with me yet. As I handed her the drink back,
she quickly knocked it all back in less than four seconds. By now, she was
so close to me, I could smell the tainted tomatoes on her breath. "There's
no telling what I might do if no one was watching me..." her voice was
getting low and husky, and she not-so-smoothly rubbed one of her breasts
against my chest with a jagged toothed smile. Now, Cole and I were
desperate for a room. We were tired, cranky, hungry, and fed up with Las
Vegas already. That's why I gave serious consideration to going back to
this lady's room so that we could have at least a place to sleep. One
look at the woman's drunk-slack face, however, was enough to crush that
thought with a sledgehammer of reason. She could've been my mother - if
my mother was a drunken crack-fiend. Her face looked like old tattered
leather, and her teeth had all the colors of the Mexican flag. It took
us only 2 minutes to scurry away from the Excalibur, and into the
Tropicana, which is all the way across the street, and still not far
enough away from Mary.
Be that as it may, we were both ready to drop into a nice bed and
have a little food before calling it a night. All hopes of going out to
the Chicken Ranch that night had flown out of our heads with the setting
of the sun. We stumbled up to the registration counter in Tropicana, and
practically begged the attendant for a room. "We have a room in the
Island Tower..." A small twinge of hope fluttered in my stomach like an
angry butterfly. "..but it's only got one bed... and it's $300." My jaw
dropped, but my hand was in my wallet before my head knew what was going
on.
That's right: I took a one-bed room with another guy. What the hell
would you do? Getting to the room was like frantically searching for
the cheese in a rat maze. The casino's slot machines emitted a steady
tone of suspense as every new turn simply provided us with new slot
machines as well as new and extravagant (and horrible) flowery
carpeting. We finally found a map of the casino floor, but as I began to
study it, I found that Cole was no longer next to me. He was in fact,
following a couple of hot little bikini-clad blondes. I figured that
since I didn't really know the way anyway, maybe Cole would get lucky -
figuratively, that is. The blondes looked like they were more or less
trying to get away from him. However, it appeared that Little Cole had
more luck than the two of us, because before long, the girls had
inadvertently lead us to the elevators of our tower. As Cole would put
it later that night (with some content deleted and replaced in order to
facilitate political correctness) "All you have to do, Bob, is follow the
fine-ass (mature females with fascinating intellects and well-developed
personalities) and you'll never go wrong!"
We were actually getting into higher spirits then. We had secured a
room. We had finally arrived! It was time to settle in, and maybe hit a
few tables. Blackjack was on my mind all the way to our room. But just
as the dollar signs started to become solid in my head, we entered our
room. It was apparently where the staff of the Tropicana filmed their
pornos. One large bed, and a room-full of mirrors. Everywhere I looked,
there I was. And everywhere there was Cole standing next to me, saying,
"You'd better stay the fuck away from me tonight." as he threw his stuff
on the floor.
"I'll try to keep my hands to myself" I mumble, as I go to use the
bathroom.
The next thing on the agenda was some food. I decided that room service
was a great idea, and proceeded to order a couple of baskets of fried
chicken, 2 bowls of soup, some Cokes, and one huge bottle of Jim Beam. I
figured that we'd earned it by now. Let me just say now that Jim Beam is
no friend of mine. He has forever left an uncleanable taint on my soul.
But at the time, he seemed like the cool uncle that always gave you the
stuff your parents didn't want you to have.
After a steady journey filled with salty beef jerky and warm Diet Dr.
Pepper, we were ready for some real food. We wolfed down fried chicken,
biscuits, and soup with wild abandon. And there, at the end of it all,
with our bellies full, we both decided that after such an annoying and
tedious ordeal, that we needed to add a little firewater into the mix. It
would be a decision that I would regret later. We sat on the bed, and
decided to watch a movie. The best selection they had on the movie list
was Swordfish, which I felt indifferent about. I just needed to take the
edge off. I poured a full glass of good ol' Jim for myself, and Cole
drank straight from the bottle. I used one of the little bottles of Coke
as a chaser. Cole chased Jim Beam with Jim Beam. As the credits of
Swordfish rolled, I was finishing up my third glass of bourbon, and
attempting to fit batteries into my brand new mini-cassette recorder,
which was quite difficult to achieve. Just focusing on the tape recorder
was difficult. I remember Cole going into the bathroom for a little
self-abuse, but after that, everything is lost from my memory. It's been
washed away from my brain by the light-amber obscurity of alcohol.
Now, fast forward a few unremembered hours, and cue the undesired
cracks of sunlight through the hotel window. I was awakened by
housekeeping. The knocking on the door made me sit up with a start.
This proved to be a mistake, as the room was doing it's best impression
of the inside of a moving clothes drier. Trying to get my eyes to
uncross, I surveyed the carnage about my room. The first thing I noticed
was that Cole was nowhere to be seen. However, he did leave his Glock on
the nightstand. Nausea. The room was littered with chicken bones,
crusts of biscuit, soup stains, and little empty Coke bottles. On the
chest of drawers across from the bed, sat a very smug-looking
quarter-full bottle of Jim Beam. The mere sight of it made me want to
hurl. I tried to throw my shirt over it - at which point I realized that
I only had my boxers on - but all I managed to do was make the room spin
in a different direction. By this time, the housekeeping lady was
getting very insistent, and I could hear her use her own key to try to
open the door. I ran/stumbled to the door before she could open it, and
croaked out that I didn't want to be disturbed just yet. (Editor's note:
he probably said "Go away, cleaning bitch!") I shut the door and
shuffled over to the dining table. I stuffed a piece of cold
chicken and a slightly stale biscuit in my mouth, before collapsing on
the bed again. I have learned since then that the little "Do Not
Disturb" signs that you put on the door knobs don't really work. The
staff just ignore them. The sign might as well read "Free Money
Inside". The housekeeping woman would prove to be my bane for the next
four and a half hours. Every 20 minutes she'd knock on the door and
screech "house-KEEPING" as they pronounce it. Even though I had the most
heinous of hangovers, I still tried to be civil at first. I began with
"No thank you, I'm sleeping". She wasn't satisfied with this though.
Soon, it became, "I'm sleeping, go away", which metamorphosized into, "Go
AWAY damnit!" and finally into the last stage which was, "FUCK OFF YOU
SHE-DEVIL!" I heard muttered Mexican phrases which, I'm sure, translate
into English as more than a few four-letter words.
At around ten o'clock, Cole finally returned to the room with a
six-pack of Coors light under his arm, and a can in his hand. The
spinning of everything had mostly stopped, with the exception of my
stomach. Cole said he had been wandering the strip for awhile, and
didn't really have anything new to report. I told him that I'd probably
be in bed at least for a few more hours, and that we could hit the
Chicken Ranch in the afternoon. With this, Cole went back out the door,
and I went back into my hangover coma.
At 1pm, I awoke to find that Cole had slipped in the room without me
noticing, and was snoozing next to me. The Glock was now on the bed's
headboard. Still dizzy, sick and all-around unhappy, I nonetheless
decided it was time to do what we had come to Nevada for, and got myself
cleaned up. After a shower (and more cold chicken), I felt a little
better. I woke Cole, and we quickly got everything together, and walked
(I stumbled, mostly) to the elevators. I purposefully left Mr. Beam
behind. The bastard deserved it. After paying a seventy dollar "Late
Checkout" fee ("FUCK!" I exclaimed), we were ready to hit the whorehouse.
But first, we had to cross the street and the Excalibur parking lot to
get to my car. Let me tell you, there's nothing worse on a hangover than
the Nevada sun beating down on your back, sucking what little
moisture you have out of your dehydrated carcass. No wait, getting into
a black car (interior and exterior) that's been baking in the Nevada sun
all day is worse.
From Las Vegas, it's about a seventy-mile drive to the Chicken
Ranch. Little was said between Cole and I during this time. I had Cole
put in a soothing music CD so I could relax a little. After about sixty
miles of NOTHING, a small sign of civilization rose up before us. The
town was so unimpressive, that I can't even remember the name now. I
don't even remember the name of the county. We turned onto the dusty
desolate road that would lead us to the Chicken Ranch, and we both
livened up a little in our anticipation. Here and there we would spot
some housing, a general store, and a broken-down rusted-over truck or
two. Then we saw it. A large white barn-like building with pictures of
a cracked open egg with a pair of saucy legs with high heels sticking out
of them. It's the Chicken Ranch, get it? How very clever. And what's
across the street from it? A church. There's nothing like a nice slab
of guilt to go with your debauchery in the afternoon.
As we pulled into the dirt parking lot outside of the ranch, we
noticed a few things:
1. There were two angry-looking women out front (mother and daughter, it
looked like) with enough murderous glares to make Satan think twice about
approaching them.
2. Other than these women, the place looked absolutely deserted.
3. The eggshell-with-women's-legs-sticking-out thing was tacky.
The place looked like it was on lock-down. In order to get in, you
had to ring a bell, wait for the answering ring, then a buzz indicating
that the gate was unlocked, and quickly snatch the gate open because the
lady only gives you about a half a second to get in. Cole had to ring
the bell twice. Once the gate was open, we walked up the path past a
pair of sexy looking water fountains with excellent foliage (for
Nevada). Then we walked up a few stairs to the top of a very creaky
porch, where we were greeted by Dolly Parton's stunt double. "Howdy,
boys!" she drawled, as we approached the door apprehensively. The women
in the parking lot were beginning to bore holes in the back of our heads
with their stares. "Would y'all like ta see the ladies na-ow, or get a
drink first?" The lady looked to be about fifty, and had huge
saucer-like prescription glasses on that made her resemble a very fat,
bleach-blonde beetle. We told her that we'd like to sit down a bit
first, and she escorted us around the corner to the bar. The bar was
very rustic. It seemed to scream out, "WE WISH WE WERE IN TEXAS." All
around me were bull horns, cowboy hats, and fake wood paneling. We sat
down at the bar, where we were greeted by the slowest bartender in
existence. And when I say slow, I don't mean movement - I mean her brain
must've been made out of quick-drying cement. She asked us what we'd
like. "Beer," Cole grunted. He'd already downed a sixer on the way
there, and now he wanted more beer. I marveled at his liver.
"Ya gotta buy a token for a drink, and there's a three token
minimum." He was about to pay hundreds of dollars for sex, and the place
was still trying to gouge him. "Each token's seven dollars." Cole
reluctantly pulled out the cash.
When the bartender asked what I wanted, there was only one thing on
my mind, "Waaattteerrrr....." I groaned. I was lucky. Water was free.
At this point, I took some time to survey the room. Besides the
bartender, Cole and I were the only ones in the place. There was a
mirror behind the bar where, no doubt, the manager was watching us on the
other side with beady eyes. Off to the right of the bar was a hallway
that connected with the rest of the brothel. Every once in a while, we
could see women peeking out at us, looking over the prospects, so to
speak. We contented ourselves with trying to speak with the bartender,
who was, despite popular opinion, not a wealth of information. Every
answer was either "I don't know" or "I can't talk about that," both with
a lazy southern drawl that sounded fake. This bothered me as I had
wanted to get an interview with one of the ladies there, but the
bartender didn't know whether or not I'd be able to do so.
As we were sitting there, wondering what to do next, a man walked
into the bar. "How was it?" The bartender asked uninterestedly.
"Good," the man said, "I just wanted to get a menu before I go."
Apparently, there was a menu stating all of the activities the women
could perform. I asked the bartender if I could get one. "Five bucks."
she stated. My wallet was beginning to look rather emaciated, but I
forked over the dough. This was too good of a souvenir to pass up. The
lady handed me a menu, and gave one to the man as well. She then asked
him if he wanted a drink before he left. "No thanks," he said, "My wife
and kid are waiting for me out front, and I've already been here for two
hours." I almost choked on an ice cube.
As he walked out, I got the bartender's attention, "Hey, does that
happen a lot? Guys walking in here with there wives outside waiting for
them?"
She looked at me and just sort of shrugged, "I'm not sure, but that
last guy was in here yesterday too." Where do you find a wife like
that? I then thought back to the angry looking females out front, and
the connection was finally made. I suddenly realized that maybe the guy
didn't really have it as good as he thought.
We sat at the bar for a while. Cole was trying to get the liquid
courage going, and I was just trying to make my stomach stop churning. I
took the time to look over the menu I had bought. It was dissapointingly
short menu. A bunch of "Teasers," a handful of "Warm-ups," and a few
"Entrees." I paid five bucks for a one-page menu. After about twenty
minutes or so, a lady (as is appropriate to call all of the prostitutes
at this place, so I hear) walked up to us from the hallway behind the
bar. She sat down between Cole and I and immediately engaged us in
conversation. She was wearing a rather nice black dress, with some
spiffy black satin gloves that went up to her elbows. It was actually a
very classy look. However, she was wearing enough makeup to cover a
house. "Hi guys!" she said with a quirky smile. Her voice was
suggestive and silky. "Where do y'all come from?" We chatted with her
for a while, learning a little about her and how she came to be working
in a brothel. It turns out that her boyfriend had dumped her out in the
middle of Nevada after losing all of his money at the gambling tables.
Being a stripper at the time, she didn't find the transition to
prostitute very difficult, since they make more money. After about ten
minutes, I told her that I was working for a small newsletter, and was
interested in getting an interview out of her.
She looked at me doubtfully. "Your newsletter isn't on the Internet,
is it?"
A shadow passed over my face. Time for some quick thinking!
"Um.....noooo, no it's not." A small twinge of guilt (or Jim Beam gas)
swirled in my stomach. This seemed to satisfy her, but when I pulled out
my tape recorder, it was like I had a gun. The manager came storming out
of her hiding place in a huff.
"No interviews!" she barked. A burly man with an unsavory looking
billy club was behind her. "Either put that recorder away, or you will
be escorted out!" Like a scared little bitch, I whimpered my apology, and
stuffed the recorder back in my pocket. The manager left the room, but I
could feel her gaze from the other side of the mirror. There went half of
my reason for going on this trip. The other half was already gone with my
hotel room money.
By this time, Cole had had enough courage saved up, and we were ready
to get started. We were ready to see the line up. I had waited for this
moment. No matter what kind of guy you are, the idea of being presented
with a line of women from which you may choose whomever you want gives
one a strange sense of power. I imagined myself to be like an emperor,
walking back and forth along the line up, stroking my chin (insert
stroking joke here) as I tried to decide on my concubine for the night.
It was not an unappealing thought.
We were escorted back through the bar door to the line up room. It
looked nothing like the bar. Gone were the bull horns. In their place
were classy tapestries, colorful paintings on the walls, and a plastic
sheet-covered couch with fluffy pink (plastic covered) pillows. There
was some elevator music playing in the background. I looked over to my
right, and saw the other side of the mirror through which the manager had
kept so close of a watch on me. It was bordered by an ornate wooden
frame with intricate designs. The overall tone of the room was "saucy."
Displayed in one corner were all of the available souvenirs for purchase,
including the oh-so classy "Freshly laid from the Chicken Ranch!"
T-shirt. We were instructed to sit on the Teflon covered couch, and
wait for the women to show up. There were four of us. Cole and I, and
two other guys who had shown up a little earlier. We all sat there
awkwardly for about five minutes, before the madam came down the
hallway. She went to the front door, and rang the doorbell a few times.
Apparently this was the signal for the women to assemble into the
lineup. We waited a few moments, and then the madam cleared her throat,
and announced, "Ladies, please present yourselves!" Almost immediately
all of my expectations went flat. It wasn't so much a line up as it was
a handful of bored and tired women. Each one of them slouched into a
line, none of them making any form of eye contact with the men. We were
not allowed to stand until we picked a woman, or declined to go with any
of them. The women were only allowed to say their names. They weren't
even allowed to smile, but that didn't really seem to be a problem. They
were all dressed in cheap slutty apparel that did absolutely nothing for
me. As for their personal beauty, I can't really say. They were neither
ugly or attractive. They were just simply....there. Cole did not have
my hangups. He was the first guy to pick a woman - the same one we had
been talking to in the bar. She smiled at him as he walked up to her.
She took his hand and escorted him out of the room through the back
hallway. I declined, as I hadn't really planned on any action myself,
and I didn't really want any, now that I had seen the selection. The
other two guys declined as well, and we were escorted back to the bar.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one less than thrilled with the variety.
When I got back to the bar, it was close to full with guys. We had
hit the prime time. Ladies were wandering amongst the men, talking with
a few of them, but mostly they just sauntered back and forth, flaunting
their stuff. I sat at the bar, and got more water. I was in a sour
mood. Nothing had lived up to my expectations, and I wasn't even allowed
a few questions with a lady. As I was brooding, a hand slid up from the
small of my back, all the way up to my neck. I had shivers from the
touch. A silky, practiced voice whispered, "You're a Taurus, aren't
you?"
"Yeah!" I was surprised at the correct guess. "How'd you know?"
I turned to see a lady of indeterminable age regarding me slyly. "By
the way you looked at all the women in the lineup." She made a cute
little lopsided smile while crinkling her nose. I recognized her now.
She was wearing a different outfit than when I saw her in line. I
couldn't believe she had been the same among the sad looking individuals
in the lineup. She looked radiant now. She was wearing a black sequined
evening dress, with dangling sparkly earrings and black gloves that went
up to her wrists. "You looked like it was the most unnatural thing you
had ever seen."
I smirked. "It was. I was expecting a little more enthusiasm."
She shrugged. "It's been a long boring day... another one."
"What do you mean?" It was a stupid question. But she answered it
without any sort of venom.
"Well, it's Sunday, and it's usually pretty slow. Plus, most of us
have been here for two or three weeks already, not to mention it's a
three day weekend." Here's a fun fact for you: All of the prostitutes
at the Chicken Ranch are not allowed to leave the building unless they go
on vacation or a doctor's appointment. This means that they can be
cooped up in this one small building for three, four, even six weeks at a
time. The only entertainment they have is what they bring with them, or
the tiny gym with a swimming pool. It seemed like a drab life to me. I
talked with this lady for about forty five minutes. I told her right
away that I didn't plan on buying a "party" as the term goes. She told
me that she needed a break anyway, and liked talking to the guys. She
told me a lot of things. Some things were pretty normal, like what kind
of music she liked and what her favorite rides were at Magic Mountain.
She also told me about her sad story of how she became a prostitute. It
had to do a lot with heroin, but she made me promise that I wouldn't put
it in my article, so I won't. (Ha! I made a promise to a prostitute. I
am trapped under a mountain of irony.) She also told me a lot about some
of the other girls. Most of the stories involved lots of drug use,
sexual abuse, and other various hardships.
Of special interest to me was the amount of restrictions the ladies
were under. Apparently, it's harder to be the prostitute than the
customer. Here's what I remember.
- Each lady is allowed a certain amount of food each day. If they go
over that limit, they must pay for the food with their earnings.
- The ladies must never look at a man or smile in line up, because this
is deemed an "eye-catcher". This applies to outfits as well. Every lady
must present themselves equally. It seems that this doesn't apply in the
bar.
- In exchange for room and board, the ladies must split their earnings
evenly with the brothel.
- Each lady has their own set of prices, which explains why there were no
prices on the menu.
- The procedure for each customer is as follows:
- Once in the lady's "bungalow", the man must drop his pants, and be
inspected by the lady. Rubber gloves and flashlight treatment.
- The customer and lady then discuss what "acts" will be performed,
and discuss the price for the acts.
- The customer is then showered, and "gloved".
- After the acts are completed (climax not guaranteed), the customer
showers once again, and is escorted out.
I was intrigued by the amount of regulation, but it seemed like a very
sensible system. I asked Mercy what her "specialty" was. She told me
that she was great at giving the "Hot and Cold French," which, after a
look in my menu, I found out was when the lady will hold different
temperature liquids in her mouth, and give oral sex to the customer,
changing the liquids periodically.
I was enjoying my talk with Mercy, as she called herself. All of the
women had "stage names". I tried to coerce Mercy into telling me her
real first name, but I'm not that suave of a guy, I guess. About this
time, Cole shuffled into the bar, and ordered a beer. I introduced
Mercy, and he simply nodded to her. As soon as he finished his beer, he
was ready to leave. I bought a drink token as a souvenir, and said
goodbye to Mercy. She told me to send her this story when I was finished
with it, but she didn't give me an email address, so it looks like she's
out of luck. Cole was very silent. He didn't talk until we were back in
the car, and when he did talk, it wasn't very happy talk.
"That sucked." He said. Nice and succinct. For three hundred
dollars, the ladies gave stimulation, but not necessarily pleasure. That
was reserved for the guys with more than two thousand dollars to spare.
Cole went on about how he just couldn't find any interest (or erection)
with the lady he had chosen, since she didn't really do much to keep him
interested. Once she had his money, it was all just a matter of rough
tugging and awkward thrusting. He didn't even get to finish. He just
sort of gave up. Of course, I think that the ten beers he had before he
went in there didn't help much, but that was beside the point. She
wouldn't let him do any of the positions he wanted. She would only lie
on her back and let him go to work. He even caught her looking at her
watch, which as you know, doesn't exactly scream erotica. Cole ranted
and raved for about a half hour, and then slumped his head to his chest,
and fell silent. It was a long, quiet drive back to San Diego.
Ladies and Gentlemen. If I have learned anything from this trip, it's
that true pleasure can not be attained simply by throwing money around.
I threw lots of money around, and all it got me was a drink token and a
hangover. I don't even have my menu anymore. Some bastard stole it in
the bar. Also, it would be a good idea not to go to the brothel where it
is reported that major political figures frequent often. That just
equals lots and lots of unnecessary security that you have to deal
with ... and ugly cranky madams with big security guys who have itchy
billy club fingers. I've also learned that there just aren't any
sex-addicted prostitutes out there. Sorry guys, it's a fantasy made up
by some scheming greedy madam out there, and you are the unwitting
victim. As for prostitution as a whole, I can say that I really don't
think it's for me. Anyway, I prefer getting my sex the old fashioned way:
begging.
-.x.x.x.-
Kilna Report
by pinguino (pinguino@comicartist.com)
Internet pop star KILNA announces the grand opening of his website:
http://www.kilna.com/ which includes the public release of five new MP3s.
It also houses a photo gallery, chatroom, and messageboard. Next issue:
interview with Kilna.
-.x.x.x.-
All About Llamas
by pinguino (pinguino@comicartist.com)
Llamas are members of the Camel family, know as camelids. They are
domestic animals who have been crossbred into our world.
They have 3 stomachs and two-toed feet.
The sound a llama makes has been described as, "Usually just a gentle hum;
but when upset can make a shrill alarm sound".
Possibly the most famous llama was "Tony the Llama", who was the mayor of
Ramona, CA in the mid-eighties. Ramona is a small town in San Diego. Tony
Llama presided at community functions, such as the Ramona Fair and routine
elementary school visits. He was loved by all.
Llamas breed with the male on top, and may go at it for up to 45 minutes.
Baby llamas are called "Crias" and are mostly born during the day.
And if you ever need to shear a Llama, here's how to prepare it:
1. Use a blower to remove excess fur.
2. Brush Llama to get the dirt off. Dirty fur will fuck up your shears.
3. Shear the Llama
-.x.x.x.-
Flippersmack Archives:
http://www.penguinpalace.com/
http://www.nettwerked.net/
http://www.ghu.ca/
+-----------------------------------------------------+
Flippersmack (c) 2001 Flippersmack All Rights Reserved.
Flippersmack does not condone any of the acts in this collection of writings.
slap sez: llamas > * .
