Porn CritiXXX Dialogues

Fiddler on the Knob

2009-04-02T21:47:00.000-07:00

The goth chick rolled her eyes, showing only the whites as she savored the second-hand cum that dripped down from the mouth of her root-hampered blonde sidekick. Obvious, yet oddly effective, Jimmy mused as he cleaned up an emission provked by the gothic duo. The roll of the eyes made the brunette seem as if she might be possessed, or was possibly overacting. Jimmy pondered why he suddenly cared whether or not some anonymous succubus-wannabe's orgasms were genuine. Perhaps that was her genius, to seem (or be) insincere, and make men care as to the truth of the matter. Jimmy felt like he was on to something, but knew that if he expressed any of this in his reviews Jack Johnson would undoubtedly be seen as going soft, and rightly so. Who cared if women were faking it?

On the other hand (he considered Tevye style), wasn't that the appeal of amateur porn, that the girls weren't worldly enough to fake it? He resolved to get on Amazon and get another copy of that book where David Foster Wallace covered the porno emmys, a couple of years before he either hung himself or administered a slug to his brain. Wallace definitely said something about this. On the other hand, maybe Consider the Lobster could wait, he considered, Tevye style again.

Maybe it was just the Knob Creek talking. Jimmy watched another stud's knob disappear into another creek,...um...crack and wondered if the Beam family had hired some marketing whizes before they named the Audi to Jim Beam's VW, Knob Creek. He felt a pang of guilt, not for spilling his seed on the ground, but for not comparing the two bourbons to Ford and Lincoln. He got over it by telling himself that the Ford and Lincoln comparison only made sense if the fact that Knob Creek was a Jim Beam product was common knowledge. Whatever gets you through the night, Jimmy.

He remembered the days when Honda and Toyota drivers in the Detroit suburbs returned to their cars to find bricks through their windshields. While he didn't particularly approve of this sort of vigilante protectionism, he resented it less than the guilt invoking "Buy American" marketing that had been around as long as he could remember. At least the brick throwers were doing something to influence insurance rates, instead of sitting on their asses waiting for a handout. What had happened to that can-do attitude? Maybe it's departure was just another symptom of the auto industry's slow death, along with which he included the atrocious performance of the once upon a time mighty Detroit Lions, driven into the ground by a cabal of the uncaring and the incompetant. Was it a coincidence that the Lions won three championships in the '50's, back when American Cars roamed the earth with fins and claws and scales left over from the Jurrasic age? And Cleveland! The Browns made it to the title game every year back then. Now Cleveland slummed along like Detroit's half-bright delinquint cousin. Mistake on the lake indeed.*

At least these girls were American, as opposed to the bondage girl with the shades and handcuffs in the last video who was moaning in German.

If Knob Creek could somehow be marketed as the booze that could make a 3-way between two girls with dog collars and a guy with a scorpion tatoo on his ass seem profoundly spiritual, it could become the Absinthe of the 21st Century. On the other hand, if this juice made him take interest in men's asses, that could make it the Details magazine of hard liquor**, which was the kind of Knob Creek that would swing Jimmy back to being a...Bushmills man, or something. Whatever was considered to be the butch alternative to the hypothetically lavender Knob Creek. If he was destined to become the Jack Johnson of gay porn (or granny porn for that matter), it had better be for an unfathomable ocean of greenbacks.

If I was a rich man, I'd be writing about somethin' else, unless I was some Dino Velvet brand of sicko, of course.***

Jimmy watched the clip, titled "Blow me and fuck me, Bitches" again as he wrote his review, just to see if there was really anything trancendent about the piece. This time the blonde seemed more alluring, as if his body cared that he'd already emptied his sac to batgirl's last ride, and wanted some variety, or wanted to sow some more wild oats. This was significant to him only because the blonde was nowhere near as hot as her partner. He also noticed trivial things he hadn't before, like the blonde's 3 labial piercings, but these were crumbs after the main course. He was somewhat relieved to be less impressed this time, yet his instincts told him that he had somehow briefly grasped a higher, indescribable truth that was now lost. He intuited that he ought to try to recapture this fleeting insight, even if the very pursuit of it confirmed him as a world-class douchebag.

He wondered if Herman Hesse felt this way when he was writing the tail end of Siddharta, and gradually dozed off, swimming upstream into a burbling river of pussy.

*While not known for it to the degree Detroit is, Cleveland's economy is also heavily tied to the auto industry.

**There's an inside joke in the magazine industry that Details is the magazine for men who enjoy looking at photos of male models with their shirts unbuttoned, but haven't quite considered the implications of their interest.

***Dino was the snuff mogul in 8mm, starring Nicholas Cage.

Switch and Bait

2009-03-04T11:46:00.000-08:00

My living room windows rattled as I passed through, loud enough to compete with the flushing toilet. I'd been wading through a Vietnamese video with no apparent plot, aside from occasional negotiations about money, and my lizard needed draining, or did until I drained it, that is. Peering across the muck on the lake, I confirmed what I already knew. The rumble was from the pipes of a Harley with an airbrushed confederate flag on the tank--Johnny Bob. This kid was making it tough to get any work done. It was like he could smell that my wife and kids weren't home, like a dog smells fear, or maybe food.

I had about fifteen seconds before Johnny Bob would be at the door. Inspiration flashed before me, the proverbial lightblub. I could try to keep writing my review of Mekong Mammas, or I could take a break. I rushed down the stairs, popped out the Asian vid, and popped in a black on blonde flick. I skipped ahead to some action, and turned as the door thumped upstairs. I headed back up, as the door was locked today.

"Dude, you look out of breath! You just uhhh, finish something?"

I stared at him for an instant. "No."

"Then you must be in the middle of one," he laughed, scampering past me and down the stairs. I almost told him yes, just so he didn't figure out what I was up to. But he probably didn't believe me anyway. If anything he'd probably be more suspicious if I'd confirmed his guess. Who admits to rubbing one out? Inmates?

"Why the fuck do you always watch this CRAP?!?!" His dismay echoed up the stairs.

"Economics. Supply and Demand. Gotta pay the bills." I sauntered down the stairs.

"Who wants to watch black dick slamming their wives?"

I could've given him a demographical breakdown of the consumers of Blackballed VI, but it would undermine my scheme. Most of them were in the deep south, far from my readership. If I'd actually been reviewing this fine film, it wouldn't be for their benefit.

"You think you gotta pay the bills? I gotta pay The Bills."

"No shit--" He meant Bill One and Bill Two. Bill One was Bill the Bail Bondsman, an ex-cop with a sadistic streak rivaled only by his cold streak. Bill the Bail Bondsman was a degenerate gambler who kept his debt to Frank manageable by collecting other debts to Frank. Frank said Bill was earning his keep. I wasn't sure how long this tenuous relationship could last, but as long as it did, Bill was worth his weight in IOU's. Even after twenty years of buffet lines, Dunkin' Donuts, and sitting on his ass in a squad car, Bill was worth his weight in IOU's.

Bill Two was scars and bad tatoos, stretched across skin and bones. More or less impervious to pain, the entire notion of it seemed to intrigue him. He was more adrenaline junkie than degenerate. It was hard to guess his age, even though every year of his life showed on the roadmap of his veins. He drifted in and out of town with the seasons, collecting a new name every few years....Transient Bill...Hobo Bill...Bumfight Bill...Circus Midget....Anyone could see he had a story to tell, though it probably wouldn't make much sense if he told it. Was Bill Two worth his weight in IOU's? Probably. Transient Bill didn't weigh much.

They were an odder coupling than a bad buddy cop movie on cable. They only made sense when Bill Two was out of town, riding the rails, waking up in a gutter, or an abandoned shooting gallery. Riding around with Bill the Bail Bondsman and collecting Frank's debts made no sense at all, except that they were so effective. I wondered what it was like for a natural bad cop like Bill One to have to play the adult, keeping worse cop on his psychic leash, keeping the violence at a reasonable level. Threatcon Amber....pain leads to compliance....pain leads to compliance....it pays to be a winner....pain leads to compliance....it pays to be a winner....pain leads to compliance....

Pay Frank, or pay the Bills. Johnny Bob sounded like he was navigating his way between a hard place and a rock. He wasn't limping, yet. I didn't want to sympathize openly with his circumstances, however dire they might be, in case he was here to ask for a loan. I turned toward the screen, where our starlet bent over a leather sofa.

Last Dance...

2006-07-06T02:29:00.000-07:00

I don't know about where you're from, but ever since about the time I figured out how to use the carb on a bong, I've noticed that there are times when the supply of quality herb runs a little dry, at least around here. I mean, we ain't 'zactly sittin' on the bordera Mexico, right? I'm not sayin' nothing comes over from Windsor, but shit--what little does you could prolly smoke up in a long weekend.

Anyways, those times tended to be in the summer, but when they happen, well, thats it. Don't really matter if it's September, you better get up off yer couch and find some, 'cause there's times Mary Jane finds you, and there's times you gotta go find her, ya know? It was under those kinda circumstances that I found myself going to see Johnny Bob. I hadn't seen much of him lately, which was why I'd already drove around looking a buncha other places, but they was all dry. Tapped. Nothin'.

Hadn't seen muchovim since he'd started playing minor league ball, since he was traveling about half the time. But shit, With herb runnin' so scarce, this whole travellin' thing could turn out to be an asset. Who knows what kinda smoke he coulda picked up on the road? That was my last thought as I tramped over the lawn, past a big Harley with a confederate flag airbrushed on the tank, and up to the door.

"The FUCK is it?!!"

I said who, and he said it was open. I walks in, and he's onna couch with Mtv or Vh1 onna tube. Now, music videos definitely are a good sign, and I figure I'm about to encounter a bong the siza my arm as I grip the couch and prepare to leap over, but SHIT!! I see over the couch and into his lap, where this dark-haired chick is bobbin' 'er head up and down like her life depended on it. I mean, she was dedicatin' herself to that fucker's joint like I had figured to be dedicatin' MYself to a, uh...joint. Or a bong. SOMETHIN. She didn't pay me no nevermind neither. Just kept at it.

"Dude! Have a seat!"

"Ummm...you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure! Um...hold on a sec." He pulled out a remote control and pointed it at the tube. What's 'er name just kept at it. I take a perch at the far end of the couch, as we lose VH1 and some kind of movie pops up. A tall man bent over a shirtless guy who resembled Fabio, and sez "Hey kid, you ever fuck an oompa loompa? The tall man swept his arm, and Fabio observed a huge room, with a long row of little men in fetish gear. A tall woman in braids rushed past Fabio squealing "I want one! I want one!" and headed for the loompa line.

"What the fuck is THIS?"

"Charlie and the Sausage Factory. Sometimes I need a little something to help me concentrate."

"So you watch midget porn?"

Johnny Bob laughed. "Yeah. This is the best thing I've seen since Load of the Rings."

"Load of the Rings?"

"Well, the whole trilogy, really. The Two Towers, Return of the Kink..."

"They made a trilogy??"

"Well, sure! Once you've got that many midgets in one place, why wouldn't you? They don't eat much, and they're really hard workers..."

Well I may not be the ummm...best tool in the shed, but somethin don't seem right here. How the fuck would he know all that? So I sez:

"How the fuck would you know all that?"

Johnny Bob laughed. "Easy! The leather-bound collecters edition is very thorough. Tell you SO much more than you'd ever want to know about midget porn."

I was sure that was true and told him so. This was followed by what was an uncomfortable silence, at least for me. I mean, I can't deny that half my family coulda been on Jenny Jones at one time or another, but nonea them wuz inta midgets, or havin the neighbors over for a birds-eye view.

But truth be told, my uncomfortable silence wasn't too silent, because the chick with the braids was gettin' her some midget sausage, n' she warnt doin' it too silently. That n' a chorus linea Loompas was starting to sing. Nobody but yours truly seemed too uncomfortable either, tho' Miss Fellatio down there mighta been workin' on a sore neck.

"Ummm...helluva chopper you got there," I mumbled, trying to make conversation.

"Shit yeah. I love that thing." I was somewhat surprised Johnny Bob was still listening, what with the job Miss Kneepads was doing and what not.

"Musta cost a narm anda leg."

Johnny Bob laughed. "Yeah, it cost somebody a fuckin' mint! Wasn't me tho.' I just paid for the detailing."

He meant yonder Dixie banner. "Actually, that was inspired by a porn too," he continued.

"What, they make a Dukes-a-Hazard porn?"

"Ummmmm....yeah."

Shit yeah. I reckoned I'd pay good money to see Catherine Bach and Jessica Simpson make a Boss Hogg sandwich. Hold the pickle. Speakin' a which, Miss Cucumber down thar musta been doin' a helluva job, cuz JB was havin' a tough time with some simple questions. But back to the Hog on the lawn.

"You were sayin' somethin' about not payin' for that bike?"

"Oh, right. Yeah dude, I won it in a poker game!"

"Yer shittin' me."

"Naw, man! In this biker bar."

"Yer lucky you didn't get the shit stomped outta ya."

"Well, I won it offa prospect, not a full fledged member."

"Ah. That helps."

"Didn't hurt that I knew a couple of 'em either."

"From back when?"

"Yeah."

"Shards?"

"Shards, herb, shards for juice, this n' that, whatever. Anyway, this fuckin' biker wannabee. I took his money, his dignity, his self respect, and his bike..." he gestured towards his lap. "The girl was an added bonus."

I had a wierd sense of deja vu right then. It seemed like I'd heard those words, or something very close to them before. Or maybe I'd seen quality head delivered while the tribal chant of leigons of Oompa Loompas boomed in the background. Background? That Johnny Bob's got a helluva surround sound goin on--if anything the Loompas had me surrounded.

My kind of Orgy?

2005-10-26T01:37:00.000-07:00

I swerved over to avoid the old Caprice barreling towards me. Two wheels vs four is a motherfucker. Then again so is Jimmy. By definition. When he's not in the doghouse at least. Jimmy was sitting on his picnic table as pulled into the driveway. I wheeled my bike through the door in the chainlink fence into the backyard, where it was safe.

Jimmy took a drag on his smoke. "Watch the tulips."

"Didn't know you cared."

"Maybe I don't. Miss the tulips or park in the driveway. Your choice.

I still needed to get insurance, and I wasn't quite sure where I stood if my bike got wrecked in Jimmy's driveway. I watched the tulips.

"You want me to miss the roses too?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Fuck it. It is a Harley."

I laughed. Jimmy grinned. "Would a rose crushed by any other bike smell so sweet?"

"Either way, it'd prolly smell like exhaust."

I knew Jimmy was quoting something or other, but I wasn't sure what. The important thing was that none of the botanical marvels in the backyard were threatened by my parking job.

Jimmy killed his cigarette. "Come on in."

"You doing 'research'"?

"Not exactly. I've seen this one before, so this is just to get my creative juices flowing, so to speak."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I got a lotta words for 'it.' Seriously though, I need this one done like yesterday."

"Why's that?"

Jimmy tossed me a VHS tape. It read Eight Men In.

"What is this, some faggot shit?"

Jimmy headed downstairs. "Nah. It's about the infamous Black Cox Scandal. Starring Lex Steele as Shoeless Lex Steele."

I play baseball, so I got the reference. Not to mention that the World Series coverage so far had fixated on the Black Sox Scandal. I guess they have to talk about something, now that the Red Sox and Yankees didn't get in.

Jimmy put the tape in. It was midscene. Buncha African-Americans surrounding a blonde in a lockerroom. Kinda like the Super Bowl halftime show last year, with 7 or 8 of Terrell Owens. Assuming that Terrell is packing some serious heat, that is. Or maybe the Minnesota Viking pleasure boat. If the boat has a lockerroom, that is.

"Which one is Shoeless Lex Steele?"

"See the guy with the bald head and shades, waiting in line?"

"Yeah."

"That's him."

"I can see why he's shoeless."

"Why?"

"Because they don't make shoes that big."

"You're assuming that his feet are proportionate."

"Why not?"

"Why? None of the rest of him is."

"That's true." I watched for a minute. "Who's that?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Token white guy. Only seven of the Eight Men In are black. That's the Chicago White Cock."

"Ahhh."

We both got quiet. Lex was about to get some action. Alot of suspense in this flick.

"That Lex, he's no John Cusak."

"In what way?

More silence. Alot of ways, but he knew what I meant.

"So why are you reviewing this now?"

"It's topical. The White Sox are in the World Series and I want to get this one published while the Black Sox Scandal curse still hangs over their head. If they do a sequel I might run this review again. I could get alot of mileage out of this one."

"They're doing a sequel?"

"Maybe. They're trying to get Ron Jeremy to play Ozzie Guillen."

"Awesome. I can see Ron now, calling for a new pitcher."

"It looks like he's calling for the Wide Body!"

"Who would play Bobby Jenks?"

"Now you're asking ther tough questions."

"You think they'll win it all?"

"I like their chances, especially now that they won the first game. Frank thinks so too. He won a good chunk when they won the pennant."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And he had Houston to win the NL. And last year his money was on the Cardnails."

"But they lost to the Red Sox."

"'Course they did, but Frank took them to win the NL, not the World Series. Just like this year he had money riding on Houston to win the NL too."

"On a fuckin' roll, that guy."

"He's got his own system. But he never bets on teams to go farther than winning the pennant. 'Says taking someone to go all the way instead of betting on the pennant is like going one question too far on Who Wants to be a Millionare? They always get greedy and lose it all."

"Not always."

"Fuck if I know--you think I watch that crap?"

"Yeah, you're so picky....You think anyone reads that skin mag for the baseball coverage?"

"What baseball coverage?"

"Exactly."

"I don't know if anyone reads it at all. Fuck it. They're paying me, and they let me say what I want."

It was sort of depressing. I guess this is what you get when you turn a bunch of underemployed Literature PhD's loose on the economy. And that movie made me want to airbrush a Confederate flag on my Harley, which I did soon after. I let Jimmy go a little while later, so he could get his review written and what not, you know, all those creative juices flowing and what not. You know. My hog rattled the windows a bit, but I missed the tulips on the way out. I didn't tear up the grass or lay any rubber in the driveway either.

Snack Cakes & E. StL

2005-09-06T04:40:00.000-07:00

Jimmy was busy when I got over to his place. It looked like nobody was home, but I figured I'd knock anyway.

"( !)"

"Whaaaaat?"

"ITS OPEN!!" This time I could hear him. I gave the door a shove. It was hot and humid out, so the door had been sticking lately. It opened. I was in.
I closed the door behind me, almost as loudly and with as much effort as I had opened it. Three steps across the kitchen and I was bounding down the basement stairs. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I knew where Jimmy would be. Because--

1. Jimmy has no air conditioning
2. The basement is cool.
3. Jimmy is a creature of habit.

As I descended I was rewarded with an earful of bass, mixed with some other all-too familiar sounds. The sounds receeded as I approached. Jimmy held a remote.

"Is that what I think it is? I wasn't talking about the remote.

"Probably--you're pretty quick."

I looked the way the remote was pointing. It was--

"You doing what I think yer doing?"

"I was."

"I interrupt?"

"Nah. I was before."

"You finished? I musta missed a hot scene."

"Not really. I got bored."

"Must not be much good."

"mmmmmm...a little too much plot." Jimmy shrugged. He'd been shrugging his way through most of the conversation.

"Yeah? How much plot?"

Another shrug. "Not too much plot. Not as much as say, Bimbo Bowlers of Boston. Jimmy clarified.

"What's it called?"

"Debbie Does East St. Louis."

"Another geographical piece."

"Sure," he shrugged.

"So what's the plot?"

"Basically, Debbie doesn't have enough money to take the Greyhound past St. Louis, so she gets off the bus and is greeted by a couple of blatantly attired pimps. They test her out, then send her to this thugged out bachelor party so she can earn her way to her next stop."

"It looks pretty amateurish."

"Yeah. They make it look like you just have a couple of dudes hanging out in the bus station looking for strays."

"You think they really were?

"Nah--I think they'd get arrested. Looks like it was done on location tho'."

"How's that?"

"They show the arch."

"Yeah?You sure its the arch?

Jimmy shrugged again. "Never been to St. Louis. They show it while they're crossing a bridge tho'."

"Does it look like some early George Lucas cardboard cutout arch?"

"Dunno. You want I should rewind?" Jimmy wasn't quite caught up with the times--you know, the DVD revolution and what not.

"Nah. Who's in it?"

"Debbie."

"Who plays Debbie?"

"It just says Debbie."

"You know, if her name had been something else, something other than Debbie, I just might believe that these guys actually discovered her at the bus station."

"Yeah? What if they called it "The Debbie Does East St. Louis Project?"

"Then I'd know it was a hoax, just like Blair Witch."

"Think of the marketing though. You could put a picture of Debbie on a milk carton on the cover."

"You're pretty sick, Jimmy."

"Not really. I stole that from that Bloodhound Gang song. Cigarette?"

"Sure. Chaissy Lane?"

"Noooooo...same album tho'." Jimmy stood up.

I laughed. "So you're not sick so much as literate."

"Musically literate, anyway," Jimmy said matter-of-factly, as wwe moved upstairs. Can't smoke in the house.

"What if they made Debbie look like Little Debbie?

"YOU'RE sick, you sick fuck!" Jimmy liked to get people worked up talking about porn & what-not, then pull some grand inquisitor shit on them. We moved outside. I was used to this.

"What?!? Little Debbie's hot--" I lit my smoke. Jimmy took the lighter back.

"Hmmmm. Well, you're not much older than her, so you'd probably get away with it, at least in the deep south...especially during the post-Katrina anarchy. Jimmy lit up.

"Don't worry, I am of course talking about an 18 or 19 year-old who happens to look young who is done up to resemble Little Debbie. Certainly nothing illegal, or even quasi-deep-south legal."

"Hmmmm--I could see that...maybe Jenna Haze," he inhaled.

"Sure, Jenna Haze."

"Don't try to distract me with Jenna Haze you little perv! Am I supposed to forget that my own daughters are around Little Debbie's age?" He pointed with two fingers and waved the cigarette at me.

"But they look nothing like Little Debbie."

"They could--what if their mother was white?"

"But she's not."

"Fuckin' great! What if they end up looking like Lilly Thai? Brooke Milano? Nautica Thorne?
I'm gonna have to get a restraining order."

I thrust out my hand--"Stop, you had me at--Lilly Thai...mmmmm....how I long for your, um..., hey, where'd they go anyway? Is this what you do when they're gone?

"I'm not going to do it while they're here. They're shopping."

Jimmy's smart-ass way of saying he was going to do it sometime. I felt like arguing with him, but as prolific as my right hand was, it would've been a tough sell. But there were other ways to wind him up--

"I would. I'd watch 'em eat their peanut butter bars and oatmeal creme pies, and I'd say--Hey little girl, hows about a zebra cake?"

"You know, there's a song about Little Debbie too....you may be off the hook on the Little Debbie issue you perv."

I tried to follow his logic. "So I'm absolved as long as my transgressions align with some obscure musical reference?" Jimmy had managed to change the subject, and I was taking the bait. I guess the jailhouse lawyer in me wanted to know the rules in Jimmy's world before I started breaking them.

Jimmy pondered a moment. At first I thought he was just trying to suck me into a debate on meaningless hypotheticals so I would stop teasing him about his daughters. Suddenly it occurred to me that to a somewhat eccentric literary type like Jimmy finding some parallel to Gauguin or Joyce in a scandalous circumstance could actually buy some wiggle room, if not a full pardon.

"It might. But if you feel the need to summon Oscar Wilde to your defense you are probably in trouble."

"Sure." No problem. Oscar who?

"He wasn't into little girls anyway....No R. Kelly."

"Fair enough." I knew what he was into...allgegedly at least.

Jimmy looked up as the sun flashed off a windshield. "They're back."

"Well, she didn't wreck it."

Jimmy took a long drag. "Not this time."

"You might want to turn off that fine film."

"I might."

"Guess I'll be off."

"Guess you will."

"Let me know what happens to Debbie."

"Count on it." I was moving down the driveway by now, Jimmy was headed inside, and we were both yelling.

"Don't let her hit you with the car!" Jimmy wasn't joking, and neither was I.

"I won't." And I didn't. Not the next time I came over either.