SAN FERNANDO VALLEY UNDERAGE PUSSY ALERT: CODE RED
TRACI LORDS IN HER ONE LEGAL FLICK DOING WHAT SHE DID BEST: COCK
NEWSFLASH--SAN FERNANDO VALLEY (SkullGame) Since TRACI LORDS' famous act of legerdemain--now she's 18, now she's not--and the resulting financial sting of having whole product lines being declared illegal because a 17-year old skank wanted to get paid for poon, San Fernando Valley Porn producers have been understandably a little leery of having vetting procedures that are anything less than sterling.
Multiple ID checks are the de facto standard and sluts not meeting the letter of the law are sent back to the high schools and the fumbling ministrations of the teenage boys from which they had fled.
And then there's this:
TO: Our Simon Wolf Customers
FROM: John Chambliss
RE: HIRING A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR TO VERIFY EVERY ID - ON EVERY
PRODUCTION/RELEASE
It is truly frightening to suddenly realize that we cannot depend on the California ID's (or any ID for that matter) presented to us by adult
performers, and we're therefore implementing the following procedure
immediately ...Commencing with our new releases going out this week, we've just hired the same private investigator who this morning determined that SAVANNAH MOORE's CA ID had been faked, to check the ID of EVERY performer in EVERY show that we release. Additionally, we will build a database to carry this information, which will be free to anyone who wishes to use it.
We will be contacting everyone shortly about how to proceed with the recall process once we have been fully advised of all the legalities involved.
I AM A SPANISH PERFOMANCE ARTIST....AND I SUCK COCK
AUSTRALIA (SkullGame) -- Courtesy of ANDREW from NZX Magazine -- Adjusting her small blue bikini, Spanish actor Teresa Vallejo draws deeply on a cigarette and squints in the Melbourne sun.
"People ask, 'How can you do this?'" she says in a deep-voiced Spanish accent. "But for me, is normal now. Is very normal." The statuesque Madrid actor is not reflecting on relaxing poolside in a scanty swimsuit while on tour. She's talking about fucking and sucking. More specifically, the copious eye-poppingly graphic sexual acts Vallejo has just presented to Melbourne audiences in the previous night's Australian premiere of Catalan theatre troupe La Fura dels Baus' XXX.
"People think we are porn actors," says Vallejo, whose costumes range from sparkly, clingy dresses to absolutely nothing. "Is not true. If one person says this to me, I am very sad. We are actors. This is theatre."
"WE ARE VERY SAD. THIS IS NOT PORN FUCKING. THIS IS THEATER FUCKING."
XXX is not a brand of extra strong mints but "the most explicit theatrical experiment ever to claim the high artistic ground", according to the The Times in London, and an "astonishing festival of sexual excess", as interpreted by The Daily Mirror, also in London.
It's also chockful of fucking, sucking and shit eating.
Two weeks ago in Melbourne, the packed, 1000-strong opening-night crowd watched Vallejo, along with one female and two male actors, vividly enact fellatio, cunnilingus, intercourse, sodomy, incest and rape. Huge video projections showed excerpts of porn footage, an actor attempted oral sex with an audience member, and a naked Vallejo wrote "A better world is possible" via a light pen seemingly held between her buttocks.
And that's not forgetting a talking penis, a defecating bottom, a baked-beans-and-cream-based orgy, orgasm machines and a live internet link showing a prostitute in Barcelona rubbing her nether regions with a dildo. The show climaxes with a truly disturbing scene of mutilation.
MOMENTS LATER AN AUDIENCE MEMBER IDENTIFIED ONLY AS "ANDREW" GENTLY PLACED HIS COCK IN HER OPEN MOUTH. IT WAS VERY ARTISTIC
Several Melbourne theatregoers accepted invitations to join in the action onstage - one very intimately - while one man disrobed in the aisle after a bit of encouragement.
"Violent Hollywood films can show people's brains leaking out, but we can't show some f---ing?" she said. "It is all so completely ridiculous."
Vallejo barely pauses when pressed about why XXX is more than an X-rated flesh fest. "Because pornography does not speak about itself," she says. "In porno videos, people are having sex, with a very basic storyline, or there are live sex shows and striptease. But there's no view on that. No reflection, no thought on what it means."
In this instance: TWO FUCKING BIG BUSTED NUTS.
ANOTHER ITALIAN SALVO....It’s CRAPS! Not Crap. CRAPS!!!
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE: THE EX-LAX EGG NOG
My brother was always a guy who danced to a beat of a different drum. A drum that floated in a hypodermic syringe laying on the rough and dirty streets of Philadelphia in the late 70s and 80s. He was a pretty comical guy who would look down his nose at people who were occasional drug users always saying things like: they have no respect for their “craft.” The craft of being an out and out junkie, living by one’s wits and getting his fix anyway he can. Well anyway that didn’t involve work…
Now let’s see if you can follow along.
It’s 1989 or somewhere around there and we are in Atlantic City.
Have I lost you?
Good.
Your hero, and I used that term for lack of a better one, has arrived at Caesar’s Palace like a man on a mission, floating through the casino like Oceans 11 on heroin. Walking with purpose, occasionally stopping to nod out here and there along his opiate-fueled route. He is a stoned and stumbling JOHN TRAVOLTA in his strut and manner of dress, an outfit favored by young Italian-American men who lived in the north east corridor that stretches from Philadelphia in the south to Boston in the north, a uniform if you will: white dress slacks with a white button up dress shirt open to the navel exposing chest hair and gold chains. He fits in, not attracting any attention while wearing the fashion equivalent of a fucking cowboy hat and shorts.
WE HAVE NOT COME TO BURY CAESAR, BUT TO CRAP WITH HIM
I see your eyes glazing over there.
Do I still have your attention?
Focus for crying out loud!!!
He is strutting now, little spring in his step heading toward the transition between the Casino and the hotel lobby, the DMZ where the carpet ends and the slick marble floor of the hotel lobby begins.
Here is where everything starts to happen very quickly.
He sees the patch of water on the marble floor; which seconds earlier was an ice cube. With spring in his step he makes a beeline for it, as his foot hits the puddle and in full view of everyone in the hotel lobby and the ass end of the casino he is up in the air, arms and legs flying and just as quickly lands on the ground with a terrible slap, crapping his pants almost simultaneously.
He rolls over to his stomach: he is hurt.
No, no he is not; the opiates in his body have a steady stream of endorphins running through him that allow for this type of stunt.
He’s ashamed.
No, no he’s not; his crap filled white pant’s are like a brown badge of courage, his crap filled keys to the kingdom. It was perfectly choreographed dance wherein the copious amounts of heroin and stool softener all came together beautifully in a veritable ballet of shit, piss and white polyester.
Seconds later the hotel and casino staff converge on the scene. It’s a fucking horror show. Your hero lay’s there on his belly screaming: why? WHY? The look of unbridled terror on their collective faces is fucking priceless. Everyone reaching and then pulling back like The Dance Fever of crap, where no one wants to be the first to dance with the shit stained DENNY TERRIO. Finally and oh so gingerly the man who will become the focus of so many urban legends is led from the lobby, into the casino and into a recessed door with no door knobs or visible hinges. Hurried into an office he is still screaming: why? WHY?
The sobbing, shitty hero, sitting on a blue tarp covered chair. Weeping and stinking, but mostly stinking, flanked on both sides by neck-less behemoths. The conquering hero has reached the Castle keep. This is the final obstacle in his quest and before it starts it ends. He with the expensive suit and shoes, walks in, looks at him with a mixture of pity and disgust and says: “I would really like for you to leave. Here is 3000 dollars. Just leave, leave and never come back. Follow?”
He did, and without looking back our conquering, defecating dancing machine disappeared onto the boardwalk. Ocean breezes and pants full of crap, it smells like, yes, yes now I am quite sure. It smells like victory.
Well, like victory and the heroin/cocaine speedball he was cooking in a Mountain Dew bottle cap…
