By Nicki Escudero
By Amy Silverman
By Brian Palmer
By Chris Parker
By Troy Farah
By Lauren Wise
By Lauren Wise
"I'm having trouble finding a band," Stacy said dejectedly.
Around the room, insobrietous porno pets in butt thongs showed their exhibitionist sides. On the dance floor, the action got going. The best were lithesome ebony starlet Dee and the athletic girl-next-door blonde Nikki Lynn, both of whom accented their gymnastic prowess with knarly bends, evil hipsway and patented pouts. Elsewhere, porn boobs popped loose from tight tops, girls exchanged spit and luvy duvy, and heady lap dances resolved the night. The night just resolved.
My drunkenness was matched by a sense of sheer anatomical overkill, a sense that too much of anything will inevitably shut down the soul, where lust is a peripheral grab bag of fabricated rewards.
I needed relief, some spiritual platform from which to evolve. Then the answer came. I got up and headed for the casino.
Janine and Vince Neil
Hardcore and Uncensored
(Vivid Video & IEG)
Armed with a handy video cam and a blond bimbette sidekick, Mstley CrYe vox squeal Vince Neil (the Elmer Fudd of rock 'n' roll) and gal-pal porn star Janine went on a Hawaiian Hallmark holiday back in '93, where they frolicked on the beach, picnicked, and schtupped for the benefit of amateur-porn buffs and metal-racket fans the world over.
Of course, the shag proffered has little or no porn value other than the worthy white-trash Cindy Crawford port of Janine and the faceless (her mug is literally smeared like the innocent on a Cops episode) blonde who administers a by-the-numbers dildo plug on her. Upchuck value, though, is the key here, kiddies: Picture the fleshy and expansive white Vince Neil ass bucking up and down atop Janine as his hirsute scrotum bounces along behind, or worse, Neil's dong, which suffers throughout from the dreaded anti-porn flaccid disorder.
There is something profoundly funny, albeit pathetic, about a flabby '80s MTV star who fancies himself some kind of stud while wielding his soft 200-plus-pound carcass around like it is something to behold; like he's the shit, like enough self-aggrandizing will make him bigger than life--like in those Reagan-era rock videos. Hardy har har.
Contact Bill Blake at his online address: firstname.lastname@example.org