Friday, April 19, 2013

Nature Finds a Way

There's a local business a mile or two away from where I live that I patronize occasionally. I happen to love their business model, and they provide a service much needed by guys like me. The place describes itself as a self-serve porn studio. By any other name, it's a brothel.

So, think about this. It is illegal in every state in the U.S., except Nevada outside of Las Vegas, to pay someone to have sex with you. Given my own gender and the fact that the overwhelming majority of both prostitutes and porn stars are female, I'm going to drop any pretense of gender neutrality for the rest of this post. Just realize that, yes, I know men do these things too.

Anyway, back to the point. You can't pay a woman to have sex with you. You can, however, pay a woman to have sex with someone else, as long as you take pictures or videotape it. (It makes me smile that, in this digital age, we still use "tape" as a verb. I guess "videoflashmemory" doesn't have the same ring.) So, none of the men in porn are "johns," they're actors or models. The women aren't whores, they're also actors or models. If a producer gives a woman money to have sex with me, it's not prostitution. Are we clear on the distinction? If you give money to the woman, it's a crime. If you give money to someone else, it's porn.

Enter the self-serve porn studio. You enter the establishment and are greeted by a friendly woman (always a woman) who has you initial two documents. One is a statement that you're over eighteen. The other is a "contract" that makes you a one-time producer of porn. You then show your cock to the woman, who gingerly inspects it with gloved hands to make sure everything looks healthy. Then you meet the girls.

I am of the opinion that the cock inspection is more of a safety net than an actual health screening. It is a known fact in these kinds of circles that a cop can't engage in illegal (sexual) activities with the subject of their investigation; doing so makes any evidence they collect inadmissible in court. This is exactly what happened elsewhere in town years ago; many massage parlors got busted after a long, undercover operation, but when it was revealed that the cops doing the investigating were getting hand and blow jobs from the women, all the cases were thrown out. Showing your cock is considered over the line, a sexual act that taints evidence.

The girls "choose" a "studio" with a pre-determined time-limit and price. One half hour for $120 to $160. You give the cash to the friendly cock-handler and go with your girl to your studio. Said studio is a room with a bed, a photographys studio light fitted with a diffuser, and a digital camera on a tripod. The girl strips naked and lays on the bed. You take some pictures of her while she fingers herself. After about eight snaps, you're done, and the sex begins. A timer goes off after half an hour, and bob's your uncle.

Make no mistake: the people who run this place know what's up. You don't just walk in; you have to call ahead and tell them you're on your way. Once outside, you call them again and they unlock the door to escort you inside. When you're done, the girl calls the friendly cock-handler to escort you back to the door, which she locks behind you. You never get copies of the pictures. No video is ever shot. The pictures are never sold or displayed on a web site. This is a gray-market business, carefully weaving through the legal maze of anti-prostitution and pornographic artistic expression laws. It's fucking brilliant (ahem).

Is there a point here beyond my describing how I can finally get laid again? Why, yes, there is. The point is that there are some simple facts about human nature that will always be true, no matter how many laws we pass against them. One of them is that people like to fuck. Men, especially, like to fuck so much that they're willing to pay a woman to fuck them. And there will always be women who are willing to accept payment to fuck a man. That's never going to change, no matter how harsh the legal penalties for doing so. The same holds true for drug use. And eating unhealthy food. And homosexuality. And abortions. This is who we are as homo sapiens.

Quit wasting our time with useless, irrelevant laws that only consume taxpayer dollars. Quit busting the whores and potheads; start busting the financial regulators, the fuckers who do real harm to people.

I love that self-serve porn studio, and I'm not ashamed to say so. I love that it's so close to my house. I love that it's technically legal. I love that I can get laid anytime I want (except Sunday; even whores gotta got to church, I guess) without worrying about the social interactions that a suck so badly at. I love that all the girls are fairly cute, and at least two of them are significantly to heavily tattooed. I love that someone was clever and creative enough to come up with the idea and implement it with such grace and style.

There's apparently a second location somewhere in town, but they don't have enough girls to staff it. Any ladies need a job?
UPDATE 6/21/2013: The studio has been busted for prostitution. Nine people arrested: seven model/actresses, the friendly cock-handler, and the owner. A female undercover cop applied for a job there; that's how they got around the "no showing cock" limitation. I'll either keep updating this post or make a new one if developments warrant it.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The Closet

The bedroom closet is a walk-in with clothes hanging along both sides, deadening sound. Pitch black silence, it envelops, provides scant comfort. I huddle in the corner, pulling my knees tight to my chest, trying to become as small as I can.

She will return soon with a car full of useless things purchased with yet another credit card she opened in my name. It's legal because we live in a "mutual property" state.

The gash on my scalp has quit bleeding, at least, although my bathrobe is ruined. A long rivulet of blood runs down the side of my face and onto the terry cloth, leaving a hard ridge of crust in its wake.

She'd hit me over the head with the garden hose when I was sitting on the back porch. The hose had a heavy metal spray nozzle, thus the laceration.

I had retreated to the porch to escape our latest fight. The details differ, but the framework is always the same. Disagreement. She attacks me verbally. I defend myself. She attacks me physically. I retreat. Years ago I used to try to resolve problems but always failed. Now we merely see who can hurt the other worse. She wins every time.

This was one of the worst. We fought, argued, and yelled at each other. I made one last snipe and went outside to smoke and calm down. After a minute, she followed and grabbed the hose. I thought she was only threatening me with it until the final swing.

Go ahead and call the cops, she said. I'll tell them it was self-defense.

My mind goes back to the time I called them after she hit me across the face with a stick and left a mark. One cop talked to me outside; the other went inside. I told the truth. The cop saw the mark. His partner came outside, and they conferred. I was told they couldn't do anything because they didn't see it happen. I was told to get it on video if I wanted to prove anything.

The police won't help me.

An old friend of hers had come to visit and saw how we constantly sniped at each other. She laughed and said we were a real-life version of "Married with Children."

Witnesses won't help me.

My mother was a controlling bitch who would blame me for things that weren't my fault, like the behavior of my friends. My wife consistently reminded me that mother didn't care and only wanted to control my life.

My family won't help me.

I am alone, in pitch black silence. The hopelessness crashes over me, and the screaming sobs begin. I grab a towel to press against my face, trying to muffle the sounds so I don't wake my little baby girl in the next room. Thank god she's been asleep this whole time.

It's all my fault, she says. She can't get a job and it's all my fault. She's miserable every day and it's all my fault. She can't lose weight and it's all my fault. Something goes wrong and it's all my fault. She hits me with a garden hose and it's all my fault. She spends every dime I make and it's all my fault. I'm in the grips of suicidal depression and it's all my fault. No one will help me and it's all my fault.

I'm a worthless, incompetent moron, she says. I should kill myself so I quit sucking air away from those more deserving of it, she says. No one will even notice if I'm dead, she says. And it's all my fault.

The sobs have melted together into a long, wailing moan. I can barely pause to take a breath. My body shudders from the effort. I rock back and forth, clutching my knees. My skull wants to burst out of my face. My eyes are swollen shut. The snot and tears soak the towel, smearing slime everywhere. I turn it over to start on a clean spot.

She likes to follow the example of Leo, the abuser from "Twin Peaks," using a bar of soap in a sock to hit me. She believes another character from that show who says such a weapon causes internal damage but leaves no bruises. She, however, bruises if you sneeze too hard next to her. If I bat her fist away, it leaves a mark, which she then shows to the police, and I am kicked out of my own house that I alone work to pay for.

I installed the picket fence around the newly-landscaped front yard. I assemble any new furniture. I installed the kitchen floor. I painted every room. I ran the wires for the surround-sound speakers through the walls so the living room would look nice. I installed the dog door in the back room. I taught her how to use a computer. And I am an incompetent, worthless moron who doesn't deserve to live.

If only I could do better. If only I could remember every word she says, even when it was months ago. If only I could anticipate her every whim. If only I could never disagree with her. Then she would finally relent. It's all my fault, you see, because I don't do better. I could, but I don't. Because I'm worthless. According to her.

Her car pulls in the driveway. The switch flips, cutting off the sobs. I climb out of the closet, splash water on my face, and prepare to meet her. I must do this, for the consequences of not are far worse. The key turns in the lock. I steel myself and hope I can make it through the next round.

Death would be a blessing. One I don't deserve. So, it continues.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Gimme a Break

So, yeah, I took a break from this blog for a while. I lost my job back in February, and since my personal history makes it so my sense of self-worth is directly tied to what I do for a living, getting laid off hit me really hard. I've been mired in near-suicidal depression for two months.

I got a new job today, at least.

The Snizz Iz the Biz

Where are the women?

Not the silly little girls
With their hair done up in curls
Who think fake boobs and a tan
Is the way to snag a man
You know, the superficial bims
Who care about your rims
'Cuz a fat ol' stack of bills
Is what gives 'em body chills
Doing belly shots all night
In jeans too friggin' tight
Two hours in the weight room
Three hours in the bathroom
To land a sugar daddy's heart
Then let themselves fall apart

No, I mean the women

Not the stuck-up know-it-alls
Who get off on busting balls
And always think they're better
On the basis of their gender
You know, the self-righteous femmes
Who denigrate the gents
Who have a word to say
That isn't "Please" or "May
I have some more?"
So they can slam the door
In a decent fella's face
And put him in his place
Make him feel like a dog
And her high on the hog

No, I mean the women

Not the psychopathic nuts
Calling other women sluts
Then running all around
Banging every guy in town
You know, the manipulative types
With the never-ending snipes
Telling one story to me
Then another one to he
Then another one to she
Then denying all three
Who'll give a guy a pop
Then go running to the cops
Crying poor little victim
When she's the one who hit him

No, I mean the women

Don't need a man to make their lives a piece of cake
The earning my respect 'cuz they're giving what they get
Couldn't give a bleat about statuses and tweets
The iron granite spine, never asking for a dime
With dry, sarcastic wit, intellectually fit
The mother to her child with uncompromising style
The challenging, engaging, intriguing, stimulating
Fascinating, funny, not obsessed with money
Fiercely analytical, passionately political
Eyes and mind wide open, never give up hopin'

I ain't looking for a ton
Can someone just show me one?

Here's a video of me reading this poem live: