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Monday, May 25, 2009

Might have some interesting news to report here soon.

Hope everyone enjoyed a fantastic Memorial Day weekend. Me? I drank.

I am also pondering the ramifications of my home poker boat expanding to 44 tables and hosting a WPT event. Good gravy, I might need to tackle this poker thing again.

For now, enjoy Part Six of Losers, Inc.

--

Losers - Part 5 and a half - "Danger is our business."
======================================================

"All the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers,
queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will
come and wash all this scum off the streets." -- Robert Deniro, Taxi
Driver.

Before we post part 06, let's reach into the reader mailbag (don't worry,
we would never use your name or enough text to make you identifiable) and
see what people are saying about this report so far:

"Can you tell me where that after hours place is?"

"Any chance that strip place where you can touch the girls is in the NYC
area?"

"Where is that after hours place with the strippers?"

"Are the girls hot at that place? Where is it?"

"I think you guys are just a bunch of immature drunks who have no idea how
to deal with women."

*** Manbeast replys ***

What was your first clue honey? Hey, are you any good looking? What are
you wearing?

*** End Manbeast ***

There you have it, feel the love! For our inquisitive readers, I would be
happy to give you the location of the after hours joint except for one
small thing: The rumor is that the person who gets the place busted will
have his tongue removed with a reciprocating saw. I'd just as soon have
that not be me.

But since we seem to have found a demographic niche with the degenerate
crowd, we will throw you a bone. Here's the scoop on an NYC sex club we
visited 3 or 4 years ago. Things may have changed, but this is the way it
was:

On the annual trip to the hunting cabin Spaulding insists we detour though
New York City. He claims to know of a "sex club." A place where people
go to have encounters with strangers, apparently.

Call me skeptical, but I just don't think women who want to have brief,
meaningless sex with strangers need to go anyplace special to find it.
They could stand up in any bar, restaurant, office, grocery store,
synagogue, etc. and say, "Hey, I want brief meaningless sex. Any takers?"
Being trampled to death would be the major risk.

But Spaulding is a man on a mission. He says this place is the real deal.
So we're off to the City That Never Sleeps.

Welcome to New York City: Come for the metropolitan sophistication, stay
for the sexual depravity.

We roll into the Big Apple around 2300. Manbeast is driving, Spaulding is
navigating (he's been to this place before). Unfortunately, Spaulding is
trying to use visual landmarks to navigate. It's dark, and NYC is a
rather big place. So Spaulding is peering out the van window, squinting
like a Chinese short order cook, giving directions. We immediately become
lost in a nasty looking area. Not that it matters, but the street are
littered with people, all representatives of a major race other than ours.
People seem to be staring at us. "Maybe they think we're trying to buy
crack," someone hypothesizes. Spaulding yells out the window, "Attention
negroes! We are not trying to buy crack. However, if you have a little
marahootchie, maybe we could talk busine....." Manbeast punches the gas
and we get out of there in a hurry.

So at about 0130, we're at the entrance to "The Vault," a New York city
underground sex club. There's a guy outside, on the sidewalk, a Billy
Idol clone in leather, who explains the rules. Cover is $40. This is a
safe-sex club. No oral or anal penetration without a condom. No
interrupting another act. No booze, no drugs. (Spaulding: "No booze!
What the fuck is wrong with you boyscouts?") They search us briefly,
knicking my CQC7, then we go down the steps, below NYC street level, below
the steaming man holes, the pimps, the drug dealers, and down into . . .
the Vault!

*** Snow White *** I hope the C.H.U.D.s don't get us. ***

[Cue music - chorus of "The Freaks Come Out at Night"]

Inside now. Holy crap, this is weirder than any porn movie I've ever
seen. At first, it's intimidating. It's dark and dingy, and there is
bondage equipment all over. Cages, chains hanging from the ceiling.
Weird chairs designed for weird bondage. Various clusters of freaks are
huddled around "acts" going on, watching with an incredible intensity.
The first act we see involves two oriental guys. One is humped over a
sawhorse like thing with his pants down. The other guy is holding, uh, -
this is about to get rather indelicate - holding his sphincter open with a
forceps like device, and shining a real bright flashlight up there.

*** SW *** Where are the C.H.U.D.s when you need them? ***

"Looking for your watch?" Manbeast asks. Only he and I guffaw. No one
else is amused, and several people call for our removal from the club for
interrupting a 'scene.' A bouncer comes over. You can just tell he's so
sick and tired of dealing with stupid newbies who don't know the protocol
for underground sex clubs. Sigh. We're warned not to do that again. OK,
OK, OK. Rules, rules, rules. This place is more uptight than a John
Birch Society meeting.

So we hang back and observe for a while.

There are quite a few people in here. I observe that 90 percent plus are
guys. We strike up conversations with some obvious regulars. Some guy is
explaining the secret dress code. "A plain white t-shirt means you?re a
twink looking for a bear (or something), see? A blue handkerchief in your
back right pocket means (something else, also gay), ting tang walla walla
bing bang." Manbeast: "What if you're a hetero male trawling for tuna??
Answer: "No code for that." Manbeast: "That speaks volumes."

Presently, there is a leather bikini wearing blond, probably the best
looking girl in the place, whipping some fat loser, both of them enclosed
in a cage.

There are maybe 2 more girls who are there with boyfriends, and they are
obvious non-regulars who came to gawk at the freaks. There is a trio of
thin asian girls in short skirts wandering around, but something about
them Just Doesn't Look Right. There's a really chubby leather-nut girl
at the 'bar.' (The bar doesn't serve booze. Somehow, Spaulding got his
flask inside, of course.) Maybe another 2 more girls are in the place,
but they're bone ugly.

*** Manbeast says ***
Manbeast's hints for the aesthetically challenged, #1: Ladies, if you've
got a belly that fails the Louisville Slugger test, DON'T wear an outfit
that exposes your mid-drift, especially in conjunction with tight pants
that
push your blubber up, squeezie-like, over the waistband.
*** End Manbeast ***

Next thing I know Spaulding is in the cage getting whipped. He's not a
good actor though, and the soft cat-o-nine-tails is clearly only tickling
him. The bikini girl has his shirt off. Spaulding drops his pants and
underwear, too, and asks to be lashed on a more intimate area of his body.
"Sorry peewee, I don't do that." A pile of homos swarm the cage as soon
as Spaulding exposes himself. It's like throwing a Big Mac into the
audience at the Rosie O'Donnel show.

We deduce that bikini-girl is a shill. She looks great, and will whip
anyone who asks (on the back -- no where else -- and it's a 'play' whip),
but you can't touch her and she is not interested in any private
encounters.
So Spaulding has gone off trolling for sluttier girls. Manbeast, Snow
White and I are just taking it all in, sitting at the 'bar.' There's an
open bowl of popcorn on the bar. Manbeast offers me $50 to eat a handful,
but I decline.

That's when the JDLR asian chicks saunter over and start talking to us.
As they are talking to us, they keep reaching towards our crotches,
telling us what they have in mind. The Manbeast says something like,
"Even though you've trowelled on 5 pounds of Mary Kay comsmetics, I can
still tell you have to shave. Your face, that is." They take the hint
and slink away, searching for dumber pastures. Manbeast looks at me and
asks, "Do you think anyone is fucking stupid enough, drunk enough, or
horny enough to fall for that?"

"Helloooooo," says Spaulding, coming up behind us. "This place is fucking
great!" Manbeast and I explain to him that the only girl in the place who
(a) is really a girl and (b) isn't a shill and (c) is under his 222 pound
limit was the gawker who was wrapped around her boyfriend who has now
left. Spaulding doesn't care, and wants to stay. We tell him we're out
of there in 30 minutes, with or without him. "OK."

Manbeast, Snow White and I take one more lap around the place, learn what
"tea-bagging", "felching," and the dreaded "tossed salad" are (trust me,
you don't want to know), then retire to the bar for another few minutes.
We strike up a conversation with the chubby leather-nut girl, who is
reading a book and looking bored. God knows why she was there. Reading a
novel in a sex club at 0300. She was really nice and normal to talk to,
adding to the weirdness of her being there under those circumstances.

Time to go and here comes Spaulding with this big, dopey grin on his face.
He's all excited. "I got a handjob." "From who?" "Those asian girls.
They can really squeeze the weasel!"
"Uh, did they show you their tits?"
"No."
"Beaver?"
"No, but I was holding the one's ass. She wouldn't let
me touch her tits though. She said she was shy."

[Variable] "Twenty bucks if I can tell him."
[Manbeast] "Forty."
[Snow White] "Sixty."

***Manbeast says*** To summarize, 'The Vault' is where New York City
faggots go to meet and greet and spooge on the floor. Male homos, that
is. Hell, if there was any carpet chomping I'd happily pay the cover.
But there's not. If you're gay, and male, I recommend it. It's
fagtacular. If you're hetero, forget it. Save that 40 bucks for the
strip club or poker table.
***End Manbeast***

I must concur with my esteemed colleague on this one. It's shocking when
you first go in, but you quickly figure out everything is fake, including
the women. And I'm not overly enamored by the idea of having to dodge
puddles of jism.

We'll leave you with the question that has stumped scholars and wise men
for millenia: If you engage in a sex act with another man, but you
genuinely thought it was a woman, is that gay?

Now off to the cabin.

On the drive to the cabin we made up several helpful cadence call style
mnemonics for Spaulding, and sang them a few thousand times. Here are
some samples:

Adam's apple bigger than a pea?
Trust me friend just let it be.

Jutting jaw that's kind of square?
Just get your ass right out of there.

Fingers look a little thick?
That's because she's got a dick.

Sound off, one two ...

Spaulding eventually drifts off to sleep in the back seat.

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(Spaulding, wearing a gold bracelet and flanked by two beautiful cocktail
waitresses, is being interviewed by Dick Van Patten)

DVP: The world's finest poker players showed up today, to do battle with
what's turned out to the toughest field to hit the World Series of Poker
since 1996. Hello everybody I'm Dick Van Patten, and I'd like you to meet
this young man. His name: Spaulding. And Spaulding, congratulations to
you. Spaulding, things looked kind of rough out there today.

Spaulding: Well Dick, I did battle for some humongous pots. But like I
told the guy from Pokerpages, danger is my business.

DVP: A lot of people thought that maybe Chris "Jesus" Ferguson or Johnny
"The Oriental Express" Chan would take the title.

Spaulding: Those guys are fags!

DVP: That's fantastic. Let me ask you a question, when you get out
there, do you ever get scared?

Spaulding: To me, putting all my chips in is a way of looking at my
opponent and saying, "Hey bud, let's party." Hey, where'd you get that
jacket?

DVP: The network gave it to me.

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--- To be continued ---

Next time: The real Part 06


All Content Copyright Iggy 2003-2007
Information on this site is intended for news and entertainment purposes only.


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