Freaknik Flossin'

The Starsky & Hutch of P-town take in an exotic-erotic extravaganza

"Kreme!" squeals Jett. "Sorry, Isa. You might say he's programmed to be a smart-ass."

I look up at the albino, hairless Yao Ming and crack wise, "Think you could get one of these for your rude parts? I hear Borg chicks dig titanium testicles."

On that note, Jett hooks my arm and drags me away from Isa and "the family." In addition to my comments, she thought I was staring too intently at the gaps in Isa's latex.

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"I don't want you embarrassing me," she grumbles.

"Can I help it if your ex-teacher is hot, in that Cowboy Bebop sort of way?"

"Put a dildo in it, Kreme. I want to talk to this guy in the, uh, Braveheart gear," she says. Before us is Ron Darling, a spectacled, balding fellow in his 60s, dressed from head to toe like a Scottish Highlander, in matching red kilt and hat. Aside from his tartan, the chap looks trés milquetoast. He's of average build, with sallow skin, like he's spent too many nights in front of the computer screen downloading porn. He tells us (surprise, surprise!) he's a retired software engineer. Says he's been coming to Exotic for the past eight years.

"Are you Scottish?" asks Jett.

"Irish," he corrects. "The Irish wear their kilts for formal attire, more so than the Scottish. The Scottish wear theirs when they go into battle."

"You look dead sexy," I say, doing my best Fat Bastard. "So what are you wearin' under your skirt, pops?"

"I'll only show a young, fetching girl," he grins lecherously.

"Well, here I am," says Jett. "Whip it out!" And the old dude does just that! He parts his kilt in the middle, tugs on his watch chain, and out pops a flaccid John Thomas with a cock ring on the head and a padlock on that.

"Whoa!" exclaims Jett. "You've got a big schlong!"

"How would you know?" I laugh.

"Hey, I've seen National Geographic," she replies. "That thing must be at least seven inches soft! I wonder if he gets dizzy from the loss of blood when it fills up."

"Seven inches flaccid! That's nothing," I say, trying to appear confident. Sigh . . . nobody's buying it. Truth is, you could tie a ribbon on the alter kocker's pecker.

"I've never had any complaints," Darling boasts. "Tell your readers I'm looking for a hot chick to tour the country with me in my large, plush motor home. Age isn't a problem, but they must be uninhibited because I like visiting nudist camps."

As we're recovering from the sight of Darling's ding-a-ling, a sultry, topless lady with long brown hair passes us by. Her funbags catch the eye of my ever-lecherous lezbo pal, even though they're coated by a Renaissance Fair-style body painting of some purple dragon-and-sword.

"Follow those tits!" shouts Jett, leaping ahead.

I apologize to Darling, and head after my breast-addled buddy. We bob and weave through galleries packed to the gills. Some of the standout art on display: photoreal naked babes from painter Sarah Clemens; a bronze half-donkey, half-human holding his wiener in one hand by Lawrence Taoman; communion wafers emblazoned with nude male torsos by Steph and Jay Monkeyboat; and, my fave, Sex in Doors #4, a yellow wooden door with six panels of leaded glass showing a woman's body with legs spread and a big cock and balls entering her vagina.

We descend to the basement where body painter Mark Greenawalt is about to resume photographing his "canvas," Laura Woodhouse, 33, the gal we've been following. (Apparently, Laura had to visit the ladies' room mid-photo session.) Greenawalt was responsible for painting the Janet Jackson doppelganger, too. He takes pics of his models for posterity.

We ask Laura if we can have a word with her. The queen of the lavender knockers requests we wait 'til Greenawalt finishes. As Jett is salivating at the prospect of interviewing Laura, she gets a call from her main squeeze. Seems she can get incoming calls, just can't place them until she pays the bill.

"I am working," screams Jett. "Kreme, tell her."

She holds her phone up to my mouth. "She's working," I say. "Of course, there's a naked chick right in front of us."

Jett slaps my shoulder, hard, then goes up and out to argue with her wifey du jour. I chat with Laura's boy toy, Justin Snoderly, 20, who tells me he's a pro BMX bike racer. "This was a Valentine's Day surprise," he tells me grinning, referring to Laura's arty ta-tas. Laura joins us, finally finished with the photos. Says she's studying to be an aesthetician, which has something to do with facials, and no, not the kind Ron Jeremy gives.

"It was a great experience," she tells me, now covered with the top half of her jumpsuit, which she'd had off before. "I'd do it again."

About this time a security guard comes by and kicks us all out. Time to go already? Goddamnit, it's only 1 a.m.! And when I was finally starting to get excited. Guess this means another late night snorting crank in the rest room at the 5 & Diner. At this rate, I'll never kick!

At least the art's up until Alwun's Rites of Spring Dance Ball on March 19, which folks claim is even freakier. See ya there, Isa?

E-mail stephen.lemons@newtimes.com

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