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 > * .