Ring’s the Thing

On a late November evening, Plush ignited a streak of spontaneous passion.

Certainly Las Vegas visitors are transfixed by the swarms of working girls so overtly advertising and plying their horizontal trade. Live here long enough, though, and the sight of so many intimate pleasure providers simply becomes tenderloin wallpaper.

Occasionally a standout presents herself. Plush is one of the notables.

Tall, voluptuous, buxom, a bottle blonde, her face retaining plenty of wholesomeness (aside from the scarlet slashes along her plump lips) despite her profession’s demands, Plush might’ve become Marilyn 2.0 (or a real-life Little Annie Fanny) under more favorable circumstances.

Instead, she’s pulchritude for hire.

The night she besotted some poor helpless sap Plush wore distinctly fashion victim apparel: a denim jacket form which her extensive upper carriage cantilevered under a thin white sweater. Skinny jeans slavishly followed those luscious contours of her lower torso into glittery platform shoes whose clicked heels ought’ve transported their wearer to Miami or Rio, though surely not Kansas.

Reliably dressed far more demurely while prospecting for business, this particular evening’s attire indicated a social outing with an acquaintance rather than any transactional hopes. The get-together occurred on the uppermost floor of an off-Strip property whose lounge garnished conversation and tippling by offering panoramic views of Las Vegas.

The fellow Plush inadvertently enthralled executed a neck-wrenching double-take upon first sighting her. He went from curious to insistent in 0-60. In frenzied order he complimented her beauty, asked her name, then inquired whether she was married.

To the surprise of the universe, possibly including himself, he dropped down on one knee, clasped his hands before him, and earnestly beseeched Plush for her hand (and presumably the rest of her, too) in marriage.

Nimbly, she replied herself already wed. She even displayed a sparkler on the correct finger for his inspection and expected disappointment. Undeterred in the least, Plush’s sudden suitor wailed, “Do you think you’ll be leaving him anytime soon!?”

Give him this, that cat was quick. Leaving crushed aspirations in her pleasantly perfumed wake, Plush joined an occasional correspondent. Rather than watch her approach, he followed the turning heads and eyes that trailed her to their table.

The reaction Plush prompted had amused her confidant but hadn’t really surprised him. He’d quickly become used to the ease which she diverted attention as well as scrambled some minds. When hadn’t he witnessed conventioneers and exhibitors and locals, male and female, whose purposeful strides had broken down and blinkered focus veered through glimpsing her?

Much imagination was unnecessary envisioning how those who’d engaged her for an hour or several or an afternoon or night must’ve combusted. Learning her married surprised Plush’s amigo. She pulled a face.

Plush confessed the ring merely a prop. It came in handy when brushing off distasteful men. Other times, the phony bauble further aroused dates. Apparently some men enjoyed the illusion they cuckolded a husband. The belief they tapped another man’s wife added immeasurably to their bliss.

This trickery amused Plush’s companion. His laughter intrigued her. More than 30 years the 20-something’s senior, under mercantile circumstances casual observers could’ve mistaken him for a prospective, um, date. Gray frosted his temples and an appreciative gaze far deeper than any calculating one from men her own age distinguished him.

Plush asked the obvious question. Through her explaining the “why” behind the wedding ring prop, she had for him inadvertently decoded a mystery of pornography. Adult entertainment of his generation, not hers.

What presently passed for porn bored him. He found the product repetitious, uninspiring, not very erotic, and, surprisingly, joyless.

The performers, the female performers, became indistinct after any initial recognition. Which one of them didn’t seemingly run off to the same plastic surgeon to have her boobs inflated or lips plumped? After a while all these women were similar breathing blow-up dolls.

Plush warmed somewhat to her companion’s complaint. Since his preferences were long before her time, she quizzed him. He happily fell back into his by-gone era of smut.

Generally speaking, porn actresses then were natural. They hadn’t been plucked and pinched into perfection. They were as imperfect specimens as those seen and fantasized on the sidewalks except these women fucked without much prompting as many an onscreen pizza delivery boy or plumber could attest.

And though it might’ve been odd to mention, the films themselves actually had production values. Rather than being confined to a single setting, the plots, such as these were, encompassed the quotidian through the luxurious. Porn today occurred in hermetic surroundings. Also the overuse of hand-held cameras, not Steadicams, resorted to, one supposed for aspirations of vérité, could induce nausea from all the jiggling and weaving. Good old mounted cameras permitted louchers like him to focus without regrets.

Earlier Plush’s companion had mentioned current female performers were indistinguishable. If he delved back far enough into memories, he certainly could’ve established a list of adult actresses who’d once actively, no, vigorously, fueled his younger mindless lusts. However, one who jumped to the fore, in his mind the queen, the one whose renown to which all the rest aspired, sufficed as example.

Marilyn Chambers.

Against present standards of fleshly fantasy Chambers couldn’t compare. Pretty, though not glamorous, she looked too real.

So real hers had been a visage that had once sold soap. From what she’d envisaged into what engaged her. Now there’s a contrast!

Chambers had flaws that made her appear normal, if not unexceptional. Not perfect. Meaning she was accessible. Availability which conversely heightened her desirability. Chambers was the girl next door. The girl likeliest put out and when she came across wouldn’t be put off by her partner’s or partners’ freakiest insistences.

In her lengthy heyday no part of Chambers had been augmented or suctioned. If fact Plush’s companion never doubted that contemporary male porn enthusiasts would’ve further discounted Chambers because she lacked a set of exaggerated tits and Barbie™ doll measurements.

When Marilyn Chambers died the man with whom Plush conversed confessed he did something out of his usual character.

Never mistaking himself as sentimental, he’d visited an adult emporium and bought several of Chambers’ DVDs. Her better known titles, or at least the ones he best recalled. See, unlike now all smut then wasn’t interchangeable or waist-down derivations.

Watching those movies not only retuned him to less involved, less gray, more carefree and careless times, but restored all his vigor for several hours. Or so he preferred to believe.

Nonetheless no one could fool himself that Chambers’ career promoted any art or artfulness. Yet aside from the base nature of her product, several of Chambers’ efforts actually entered the pop culture canon.

Anyway, regarding Plush’s wedding ring. Upon admitting the band a prop, she’d solved for him a minor though occasionally niggling question. Why porn actresses wore wedding rings at all? Almost without fail no matter how unattached her character she sported a conspicuous signet.

Sharp-eyed horn dogs must’ve appreciated these rings’ significance. This perversity sat fidelity on its head. Viewers watching another man or other men gratify themselves with a husband’s wife must’ve enhanced the thrills. Only possibility of displacing the onscreen figure and doing the actual driving could’ve given greater satisfaction. As it was the ring’s presence aptly substituted.

In real life, didn’t those gold reminders of unbreakable vows more often than not get temporarily shed while having side-stepping sex? Somehow Plush’s companion refrained from asking her whether those gentlemen with whom she kept company absolved themselves of whatever guilt by slipping off that which tangibly bound. Through reflex or rescue, or just woman’s intuition, Plush answered his unsaid.

Valuable accessories got placed within sight and easy reach so they wouldn’t possibly inflict scratches. Neither party wanted the telltale to leave signs or vanish. Either occurrence would likely raise suspicions, create difficulties.

That would be bad for business – and future enjoyment.

Dissolute Figures

New Las Vegas residents need accustoming themselves to the local incongruities. Living in Nevada, a state on the fringes of the mind or amid the spatial void, the usual standards seldom seem to jibe.

Las Vegas is a community where those of us passing as solid citizenry mesh daily among what others elsewhere would regard as unconventional, unhinged, unmoored, and uninhibited.

Easy as it might be to ascribe the behaviors to weirdness or eccentricities, indifference is the apt word. Remoteness and the regional disposition conspire for perfect conditions which allow a good many individuals to flout or ignore recognized forms of comportment altogether.

Probably explains the locals’ mania to mar and disfigure themselves with tats and piercings as well as dye their hair in colors unseen in nature. On the upside, though, these deviations help tell the bags of shit apart. Continue reading Dissolute Figures

Mr. Charlie Empties His Mind

Likely a great many Donald Trump supporters are furious at the furor raised by their candidate’s long-ago intemperate remarks concerning the mating rituals of rich and crass males.

The rest of us are pleased seeing Mr. Free Association’s verbosity hoisting him by his balls. Also nice to hear his lack of impulse control isn’t a recent development. Continue reading Mr. Charlie Empties His Mind

Graceless Nevada

Suffered my first real pang of homesickness recently.

While New York offers plenty, or Nevada lacks a lot, I knew what I was leaving behind and venturing into three years ago.

In the 30-plus years before resettling West, I’d frequently visited the Southwest. And while visiting is never the same as living, these stays informed me. I wasn’t that tenderfoot or greenhorn who showed up in February who so beguiled by the gorgeous weather believed the Mojave Desert paradise only to discover it hell June through August.

Nor was I that New Yorker who bemoaned the region’s paucity of good pizzerias.

A woman tugged the old home heartstrings. One who wasn’t even from Metropolitan New York. She hailed from Boston. And unlike some longtime New York transplants who continue playing up their old neighborhood roots decades into living here, hers wasn’t some vocal caricature that should’ve been misheard as some kind of distaff Vaughn Meader. Continue reading Graceless Nevada

Modern Money Malady

Who thought it a wonderful idea that ours becomes a “cashless society”? So much can go wrong without the fungible stuff on hand. Greenbacks in pocket are reliable.

The myriad of ways we can buy items, make payments, and settle debts is astounding. Twenty years ago, the methods and devices we today take for granted to purchase and relieve would’ve smacked of science fiction.

At the rate we’re going, how soon until credit cards join currency in targeted obsolescence? If and when we become so advanced won’t we be opening ourselves to even more insidious financial mischief? Continue reading Modern Money Malady

Fractured Fairytales 2016

Don’t two fables form the weak backbone of Donald Trump’s presidential jihad?

Der Trump’s war against America borrows heavily from The Emperor’s New Clothes and The Scorpion and the Frog.

Unlike the first’s titled character, it is the Der Trump’s social media minions and the florid barking attendees at his rallies who are exposed. If the narcissus’ crusade actually holds any rational calculations, these only seem hell-bent on discovering the depths to which the candidate can drive his slanders. Dim enlightenment among his followers won’t occur until even the most convinced clod supporting him finally comprehends this fraud’s derangement has now also become their delusion. Continue reading Fractured Fairytales 2016

Under the Stateside Sun

“Silly season” is an Anglophile conceit. Across the Atlantic, it’s Brit shorthand for that carefree time of year when news seldom rises above trivial and the frivolous assumes gravity.

Were that the American version of the silly season consisted of the same confections.

Instead the menace and insipient violence always lurking beneath the surface of ordinary life here frequently shatters summers’ otherwise lightness. Hawks devour our larks. Vultures then pick over what scraps remain on the bones.

Our silly season has the likelihood of going overboard this this year. Continue reading Under the Stateside Sun

Yours Alone

When does sovereignty of naked photos expire? Do they ever? Or should they?

Not the commercial nudes adorning glossy magazines or porn sites, but those serving as, what, mementos that have been passed between lovers. In some circles, these are called “dedication pictures.”

As in “dedicated to the one I love.”

Naturally. What proclaims deepest affection and fidelity more than a lover’s or companion’s voluntarily exchanged nude photograph? Continue reading Yours Alone