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My trip to HUSTLER, my take on porn, and the Fuck Dimension…

I got this email from my publicist asking me if I wanted to do an article for HUSTLER. She said they wanted to interview me for an upcoming issue, and she wanted to know if I was interested.

Immediately my mind went racing. I thought about actually meeting Larry Flynt himself, about how crazy it must be at the Hustler offices, about what kind of sick freaks must work there. I had a vision of what it must be like… hot young girls, scantily and skankilly clad hanging around chewing gum and laughing loud, wild eyed photographers dropping off rolls of perversion for future publication…

Sounds like a freak show, and if you know me, you know one of my main mottos is that I’m always down with the freak shows.

"Tell them I said yes."

I got to the famous building at around 8pm. I had to work that day, so the agreement was that I would meet the writer when I got off. I left fear factor, made the call and headed to the Larry Flynt Publications building. I always loved that building, and it’s huge, gaudy sign. If you’ve never seen it before, the Hustler building is a regular looking office building in a nice area of LA, except at the very top of it, in HUGE gold letters it says "Larry Flynt Publications." There’s no mistaking that name, and there’s no doubt what goes on in that building. Larry Flynt wants everyone to know THAT is the building where he makes his dirty magazine. Just thinking about how many uptight people must be pissed off at that sign just cracks me up.

I have always loved the site of that building, and I have a very special memory of the huge fucking smile it brought to my face when I first moved here. The year was 1994, and I had just moved here from New York to work on this failed TV show I did for Fox called "Hard Ball." I was pretty miserable at the time. I went from living this perfect, carefree lifestyle I had when I was 25 in NY, where I would get up every day around noon, workout, go do a comedy show somewhere, and then hang out with my friends at the pool hall all night, to long boring days with actors who, (at least half of them) were totally out of their fucking minds, working on a TV show that sucked 18 different kinds of ass, and spending my weekend nights watching cable in a pre-furnished apartment. Now I know that it’s a dream job for most people to be on TV, but there’s very few things in life that suck more for a comedian than to be forced to say unfunny shit.

Why did you agree to do unfunny shit?

I didn’t, actually. The saddest and most frustrating part about this show sucking, was that when I first signed on to do it, it was funny. The guys who wrote it also had written for "The Simpsons", and "Married with Children." They wrote a great script, but then everyone started getting their grubby little hands on it. Change a little of this, add a young kid to the cast, add a little of that, etc. Eventually the network took the show away from the guys that wrote it, and hired a fucking brutal hack to take it over. This guy started rewriting everything, and it got really bad, really quick. I mean REALLY fucking bad. Some of the worst, and most unfunny writing I’ve ever seen in my life, and we were doing it for primetime, network TV.

How bad was it? People ask me that sometimes when I tell them this story, and these are the actual lines this guy wrote for the show that I always tell them about:

I played a character named "Frank Valente," a spoiled baseball player. The scene was me in the coach’s office, making out with a bimbo on his desk. The coach walks in on us. I say, "Do you mind?" He says, "Yes, I mind, that’s my desk you’re preparing to defile!" I say, "I’m not defiling the desk, I’m defiling HER."

I shit you not. That was the real dialogue.

That fucking idiot had actually sat in front of his computer, typed that out, and said "Oh yeah, that’s a keeper." He probably told it to his friends over the phone, and they probably gave him that fake laugh that producers give each other. The worse the writer is, the better the fake laugh they have. Anyway, there I was, out in Hollywood for my first time, and there was no way in the world that I could think that I wasn’t just hoeing my self out. It was clear as day. I was out here for the money, and the money only, and at the time the money that they were giving me was completely impossible for me to pass on. I went from making $400.00 on an average week doing shit hole comedy clubs on Long Island and Jersey, to making assloads of cash remembering bad jokes on this goofy TV show. It was great not having to worry about the rent any more, but doing that show was costing me quite a bit in mental mortgage. Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s hard to be sympathetic to someone complaining about being on TV, and if I had to go back in time and do it all over again, I’m pretty sure I would whore myself out again, butI’m just trying to let you know where my head was at the time.

So, the day I first saw the Larry Flynt Publications sign, I received a call from my agent:

"Hey, now that you’re on TV, we have to start getting you out for movies!"

"Uum…OK."

"There’s a part in this big movie coming up that’s perfect for you! Come down to the office and get the script, your audition is this afternoon."

"Uum… OK."

Now at this point in my young life, the whole notion of being able to even make a living doing this shit was still mind boggling to me, but I started to wonder if this was a good idea. I wondered if actors that do the movies were as retarded as the actors that were doing TV. I wondered how I even got to be an actor at all, when just 6 months ago I was doing what I feel is my calling in life: stand up comedy. All of a sudden… I was an actor. It was really weird, but I was going along with it at the time. I got the script, and it was just fucking completely awful. Just the standard, bullshit chick flick, and the part that I was supposedly perfect for was this moron that worked on a construction site and sang Bruce Springsteen songs while he hammered down beers after work with his mongoloid townie friends.

Holy shit. What the fuck am I doing with my life.

I decided to call my agent after reading the script.

"Umm… I don’t think this is really me. I mean, it’s not funny at all, and it’s not really the kind of movie I would ever want to see."

"I know it’s a little weak, but it’s got a great cast attached, and there’s a lot of heat on it! This could be huge for your career! Besides, sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do, so that when something comes up that you do want to do, they’ll know who you are."

Tough to argue with that logic.

"Umm…OK."

I suck it up, and head out the door to my first ever Hollywood movie audition.

I make it to the casting office, and when it was my time to audition, a pasty woman in her early thirties that looked like she hadn’t slept in days greeted me. I just assumed that she was just tired from working crazy hours, when I noticed that she had a really big ass, and diet and exercise magazines all over the office.

I looked at her eyes again. Although she looked like she hadn’t slept, her eyes were darting all over the place.

"I bet she’s on that phen phen shit…" I thought to myself.

Now, if you don’t remember the phen phen craze, it was some crazy diet shit that the geniuses in the FDA passed in the mid nineties that helped people lose weight. Basically it was just some hard core fucking speed, but it worked, and a lot of people were on it at the time. I had a friend that was taking it, and she lost 30 pounds in a month. It was just insane. I didn’t even recognize her, and when I did, I pulled her aside to ask her if she was OK. She was happy as a pig in shit, with her new improved ass, and a crackhead look in her eyes. I think phen phen was only out for a year or so, and then people started having alien chest burster type heart attacks, so they yanked it. I still to this day sometimes see newspaper adds for lawyers looking for former phen phen patients to represent in lawsuits.

Anyway, I get in her office, and the vibe is very uncomfortable. She’s all wired out, and I just wanted to read this stupid shit and get the fuck outta dodge. Ms. Diet Pills, however, wants to talk. We start off with the usual small talk.

"So, Joe, where are you from?"

"I was born in New Jersey, and I grew up in Boston."

"I’m from New York. Well… actually I’m from New Jersey, but I tell people that I’m from New York."

"Why do you do that?"

"Well, because people look at you funny when they find out you’re from New Jersey."

"They do?"

"Of course they do, don’t be silly."

"That’s silly? Don’t you think maybe it’s even sillier lying about what state you’re from, just to impress idiots?"

Silence.

She was pissed at me now. She shuffles through her paperwork for a moment, collects herself, and then looks up at me with an agitated look on her face.

"Are you ready to begin reading?"

Shit.

I know there’s no way to pull myself out of this uncomfortable hole, so I just plow ahead and read. Even though I’m sure I learned some sort of a lesson from the experience, If I had to do it all over again, there’s no way I would have gone through with it. I would have excused myself with a smile, headed for the door and never looked back. But back then, I was young, and inexperienced in the ways of the world, so instead of leaving, I began the ugly downward spiral that would not end until until the last lame word of dialogue came out of my mouth.

She’s staring at me angrily, as I self consciously stumble through this awful garbage. There’s even a part where I have to sing a line of this Springsteen song, and pretend that she’s my girlfriend, while she’s shooting laser beams of hate at me from her eyeballs. It was like eating shit while standing waist deep in vomit, as nails are being raked on a chalk board, and once I started all I could think of was getting to the end. I finish the reading, and Ms. Diet Pills has a half satisfied look on her face.

"OK, thank you."

I was humiliated, and she was looking for more pills. I leave the office, and stand out in the hallway thinking about how horrible that went. Outside of her having one of those alien type heart attacks right in front of me, and me having to do CPR on her, I can’t think of any possible way it could have gone worse. I’m not gonna be able to deal with it out here, I think to myself. I’m just not on the same frequency as these people or something. I start thinking maybe I should just bag it and head back to NY.

I step out into the street and head towards my car, when I see it for the very first time:

FLYNT PUBLICATIONS

And man, the sight of that sign just brought a HUGE smile to my face. I just stopped there on the sidewalk, gawking at it and smiling. I thought to myself, now there’s a guy that really just doesn’t give a fuck. I could almost see the look on his chubby, perverted face the day they erected that ridiculous sign. It’s just a big fat statement to everyone that sees it:

"I’m Larry Flynt, and I sell porn. I sell it right out of this building here. I sell fuckloads of it too, and some of you must be buying it, because if youjust look at the size of this building, this couldn’t have all been made from guys in prison buying my porn. No, not this kind of money. This giant building with the big sign on top is BIG money, so you gotta know that some of the people walking amongst you every day are buying my porn. I know a bunch of you fucking hypocrites talking shit about me buy it too. You don’t like me or what I do? Fuck you, who cares. Have a nice day."

You gotta love a man that’s not afraid to be himself.

Now am I saying that it’s great to sell porn? No, not necessarily, although I argued with myself back and forth for a long time as to whether or not porn harms people. It’s all very tricky to me… I do know that if you’re a dumb guy, and you believe everything you read or see on a tape to be fact, you could get a really fucked up perception of women from watching some porn. But I’m not a dumb guy, and I don’t think we should nerf the hard surfaces, and corners of the world because of idiots. To me, when someone does something fucked up because they were influenced by some cult, or excited by some album, or porn, the problem isn’t what influenced him, the problem is that he is a poorly formed human being. If he looks at a magazine, and then goes out and rapes a woman, but yet when I look at the same magazine I jerk off and take a nap, the problem is obviously not the magazine. The problem is that fucking piece of shit that raped a woman, and the problem is more than likely because of the way they were raised. It’s not because of a magazine filled with naked woman that they act that way, it’s because of a mind filled with horrible childhood demons. They’re all fucked up, and I don’t blame porn, I blame them, and I blame their parents. I also think that a better way to solve this problem than banning things that affect idiots, is to go after the parents instead. I think that if your kid does something really fucked up, you should be held responsible for it. Totally and completely. You should be responsible for it right up until the time you die. I don’t care if your kid is 50 when that little fuck snaps, you’re responsible. You did a fucking shitty job raising him, and just because he was out of the house when your handiwork (or lack thereof) kicked in, doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You created a monster, and you should have to pay.

I think after we execute the first couple idiots that shit out serial killers, then maybe the dopes with poor child care skills would be a little more cautious about having babies. Maybe you would care a little more about raising your kids if you thought that if they fucked up it could land you in jail for the rest of your life.

I could just hear the conversations around the trailers the night that law is passed:

"Clarrence! You best stop fucking the kids, they done passed a new law! You gonna make serial killas out a them and wind us up in the penitentiary!!"

Of course laws like this are never gonna get passed, because:

(A). No one would ever suggest it because it’s too honest, and there’s far more idiots out there than smart folk, making that a really shitty move for a politician.

(B). Very few people would ever vote for it, because very few people are that confident in their child rearing abilities. Even smart people wouldn’t want it, because the sad fact is that even most smart people are just way too selfish to make good parents.

Sooo… my answer is that it’s not porn that fucks people up, it’s people that fucks people up.

Why is porn so fucked up anyway? I mean just plain, straight porn is really offensive to some people, and those same people often have regular sex. I mean, It’s OK to have sex, but seeing it on TV is offensive? Why? If you regularly blow your husband, why does it freak you out to see a woman blowing a man in a magazine? Why is porn offensive to people? And by saying porn, I just mean the regular people having sex type porn, no specialty shit involving ropes, midgets, and urine, (and we’ll get to some of that stuff later) I mean just plain ole’ people having sex in front of a camera. Why is that offensive?

One of my ex-girlfriends used to say that she didn’t like porn because it just made her sick that these girls probably barely even know these guys, and they just fuck them. Unlike her and I, who knew each other deeply, when we fucked 2 hours into our very first date.

I’ll tell you why it’s so offensive to some women, because it shows men footage of hot women that want sex all the time, however the man wants it, and that takes power away from those woman. Before you get your panties in a bunch, please remember, I said SOME women. Some women actually like porn, but women who are manipulative, and withhold sex to get what they want in their relationships DO NOT want you to have access to tapes of chicks 10 times hotter than them BEGGING guys to fuck them in the ass and cum on their face. That completely screws up the programing they’re attempting to install. They will tell you, "that’s not real, and no girls are really like that, you fucking idiot!" but the damage is done, no matter what they do, Pandora’s box is open. It’s very, very difficult to get a guy to marry you before you’ll have sex with him, when just down the corner at Tower Video there’s DVD’s of Jenna Jameson lapping jizz off her nipples like a hungry puppy with a saucer of milk.

I used to think that the sex scenes were totally unrealistic until I moved to LA "Girls that just meet guys and then fuck them 10 minutes later? Man, that would never happen!" Well, hanging around the Comedy Store for the last 7 years has given me a completely different perspective now, andI’ve seen shit there that would be a little too over the top for a lot of pornos. Make no mistake about it, despite whatever delusional vision of civilized humanity you may have, at the root of it all, human beings are just crazy little wild, talking monkeys, driven by sexual lust.

Look at it this way…

Even if you love your significant other, and think the world of them, if I had a device that you could use, and it would take you to another dimension where you could fuck the sex partner of your dreams for 3 hours, and then magically whisk you back to earth at the very time in which you left, and no one would know about the encounter but you, would you do it? I mean, no one could ever know, and the person you fucked wasn’t even in this dimension, so they don’t even really exist here. You would be completely off the hook. Your body wouldn’t even show the effects of it because it never happened here.

How many people do you think would do it?

What if I made it cheap? Like… twenty five cents. You could buy it at 7-11, right next to the lighters. You could even do it right in front of your mother, because in this dimension nothing would happen. You would be off fucking the hottest chick you’ve ever seen in your life for three hours, and all your mom would see is you blink when you returned to real time, and her story about baked yams. Guaranteed definite sex with no guilt, anytime you want it.

How many people do you think would do it?

EVERYONE.

That’s right, everyone. Every single fucking human being on the face of the planet that’s even remotely honest with themselves. No guilt for you, no pain for your spouse, no worries, and guaranteed lust filled sex. That sounds like absolute, perfect, animal pleasure to me. Take out all the religious bullshit, and all the moral dilemmas about infidelity, and every single fucking human would want this device.

Your dick doesn’t work down here? Well, that’s no problem in the Fuck Dimension, because there you’re always rock hard! You’re insecure around women because you’re not attractive? Well that’s no longer a problem in the Fuck Dimension, because there the sex partner of your dreams is wildly attracted to you. FOR REAL. No faking it like a cheap hooker moaning during a twenty dollar blow job, I’m talking they are really fucking WILDLY attracted to you. I know you’re 90 lbs, and 4 feet tall, with breath like a dead seal, but it doesn’t matter, to her you’re Brad Pitt with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and she hasn’t been touched in years.

I know here on Earth you’re as big as a manatee, and that your sun dress could double as one of the parachutes behind the space shuttle, and that you have a face like Clint Howard, but in the Fuck Dimension… you’re a god damn hellified dream. There you look like Liz Hurley sitting spread eagle on a red velvet couch with her fuck me pumps resting on a glass coffee table. Her skirt is hiked up to her waist, and she’s fingering her shaved pussy with her mouth open, and her tongue hanging out. He is so horny looking at you that he’s drooling. He looks like a young Charles Bronson, and has a dick as fat as a beer can. All this could be yours, guilt free, at the touch of a button, anytime you want it.

If such a product was available, how many people do you think would use it?

EVERYONE.

Every single fucking person in the world.

Everyone wants desire, and to be desired. We all want to be devoured by lust.

So what does that tell you? Well, first of all it tells you that I get very, very, good weed. Second of all it tells you that we’re suppressed. Really, really, suppressed. Even in places where we’re not aware of it. Our views on sexuality aren’t molded by our natural desires, or what makes us happy, instead they’re molded by our worries about what other people would think about our behavior. They’re shaped by the morals that our society has imposed on us at birth, and the basic nature of supply and demand. Maybe you suppress yourself and don’t act on your urges because you don’t want to hurt your significant other, but make no mistake about it, that desire is very, very real, you just suppress it. Maybe you suppress women, because you’re terrified that someone out there will surpass your sexual prowess, and she’ll no longer desire you. Maybe every time she goes out with her friends to a bar, you get insecure, and call her friends whores. Maybe you’re afraid of her meeting a guy that can kick your ass, and makes more money than you, and so you tell her she needs to find friends that aren’t sluts, and that dress she’s wearing makes her look fat, and meanwhile the whole time you’re talking… she’s thinking about what it would be like to suck a big fat black cock tonight. Maybe you suppress your daughter, because you’re afraid you can’t handle the day some punk kid starts fucking her mouth. Maybe you push your son to find a good girl and settle down, because you don’t want him to remind you of his philandering father that left you to raise 3 kids alone. Maybe your thoughts about sex are all bitter, because the ones that you desire find you repulsive, and maybe you suppress those around you because it hurts you to see people lust after others when nobody wants to touch you.

Whatever the case may be, much of our views on sexuality in this society, and much of what is acceptable and unacceptable, is just a bunch of crazy, unhealthy shit we came up with to make other people happy. It’s not based on nature, it’s not based on your happiness, it’s not based on what’s healthy, or on fulfilling your desires. It’s based on shutting other people up, making them happy, and controlling the breeding.

Make no mistake about it, what we call our sexual politics, is nothing more than a very complicated, carefully controlled mating ritual for the human animal. You can trace every element of the predetermined patterns of behavior in our romantic relationships directly to breeding, and controlling access to the supply of females. You may never reproduce, but if you’re living by society’s standards, you’re still walking the walk. The only reason we follow these rules is to keep the peace, and insure more breeding. All that "Be a Lady and be a Gentlemen" bullshit, is just a cleverly concealed way to distribute the sex within the pack. To be a monogamous man in our society is an admired thing only because we know it’s unnatural, and extremely difficult. We make the monogamous man a hero, and we guarantee praise to him, because we hope that other men will see him receive this praise, and strive to behave like that and get their own dose of the proud satisfaction and bragging rights that our society will award you for suffering, and avoiding your instincts… and not fucking my wife.

We will trick you into thinking that’s a desirable thing, because the alternative, you following your DNA and running around trying to fuck every woman you’re attracted to is dangerous. It’s threatening to me. You’re taking more than your share, and I’m afraid eventually you’ll get to my woman, or my daughter. Don’t be a scum bag, be a good man. Be a Norman Rockwell painting. Be an episode of "Walker Texas Ranger."

The sexually frustrated man goes to bed every night with the satisfaction that even though he could, he never cheats on his wife. He is a good man. He is Russell Crowe in "Gladiator." He is Nicholas Cage in "Family Man." He takes satisfaction in knowing that he behaves just like his fake, media created, heroes. Heroes, who in real life, are probably fucking strippers and doing coke.

In five years he will be divorced and angry, talking about all the sex he passed up on while he was with "the bitch" …And meanwhile, five years from now, people will still be fucking in the bathroom at the Hard Rock in Vegas.

None of what you do is important, you just think that it’s important because it involves you. You have to think your life is important. It’s a trick that nature plays on you to keep you alive… to keep you breeding. Sorry if it makes you feel bad, but in the greater spectrum of the Universe, it really doesn’t matter if your wife fucked her tennis coach. You just think it matters, because you’re caught up in a game you didn’t even know you were playing. You’re just a little talking monkey protecting his breeding grounds.

So, in a nut shell, there’s my take on porn. Nothing that you do really matters, so why should porn be bad? As long as no one is getting hurt, it’s just people having sex. The stigma attached to it is completely artificial. If sex is natural, then how can sex on camera be bad?

It can’t.

I’m completely aware that most if not all of the women in porn were sexually molested as kids, but you know what? There’s nothing you can do about that now, and they’re not kids anymore. Although their motivation and desire for attention makes me sad when I think about the roots of it, in the end, they’re just having sex on camera, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. As long as it’s just regular porn and nobody is getting tortured or any other fucked up shit, any hang ups you have about it are on you, and believe it or not, girls with unhappy pasts still like to fuck.

But I digress…

I get to the Hustler offices, and call the dude I’m supposed to be meeting. We talk a little on the phone, so that he knows that I’m aware of what we’re going to be doing. Initially it was their idea to have a Fear Factor sort of a theme to it, where we would take some fucked up pictures with naked chicks and different scary things, but I informed them in no uncertain terms that I was pretty sure NBC didn’t really want their show to be connected to Hustler any more than just by having me there. He understood, and said we could do something different, and I could do a "Review" of adult magazines with them (whatever the hell that meant.) The elevator door opens, and a guy that looked EXACTLY like what I would picture a writer at Hustler would look like steps out. He’s a friendly looking, wiry guy with Buddy Holly style glasses, long scraggly hair, and vintage clothes on. He could have easily been a writer from Hustler in the ’70′s that just stepped out of a time machine.

He looks a little shocked to see me.

"We haven’t had any celebrities agree to do this in a long time."

"Really, how long?"

"Oh, it’s been years. I was really surprised when you agreed to do it. I never thought you would say yes."

Hmmmmm…

The elevator opens up on his floor, the doors open, and we step out.

Immediate disappointment.

No wild eyed photographers, no hot chicks chewing gum and laughing too loud. Just cubicles. Empty cubicles at that. Just regular old office space, like any other office. It looked like they could have just as easily been selling cable TV there, except that porn is laying around everywhere, and I do mean EVERYWHERE. Just boxes of the shit, pilled up everywhere. Two steps into the room, and there’s a pile of 10 videos entitled "Fat black cocks, and tight white asses!" The box covers show some frightening looking trailer trash in compromising positions with some of the most ghetto looking black dudes you’ve ever seen in your life. I mean full tattoos and bullet wounds, straight out of the penitentiary, with their oversized dicks planted firmly in the asses of these doughy, lost looking, cracker whores. It was so graphic, that I swear if I stared at the box long enough I could smell her stinky ass, and his hair care products. Somehow when you see porn EVERYWHERE in an office, it really looses it’s mystique. If you walked into a regular office, and someone had a Hustler open in full view, that would be scandalous! Here, after a while I bet you barely even notice the stuff.

We round the corner towards his office, and there’s a pile of the very popular "Girls who suck cock and eat cum" videos. No guess work needed there. No wonder that’s such a popular product, they’re very specific about what you’re getting.

"I bet her dad is proud." I say pointing down at the box.

"How about her dad?," he says pointing down at a box titled "D.P. Queens." The D.P. stands for "Double Penetration" … ’nuff said.

"Yikes."

We make our way through the maze of smut, and turn the corner into his office, where he has piles, and piles of dirty magazines. All sorts of different kinds, from all sorts of companies. He pulls out a tape recorder, and presses record.

"OK, here, ummm, what do you think of this one."

He hands me a "Barely Legal" magazine.

"That’s it? That’s how we’re gonna do this? You just give me magazines to look at and I tell you what I think?"

"Yeah, pretty much." He says, smiling a little bit uncomfortably. "That one is made by Hustler."

I have no idea what to say to that.

"Very nice. Ummm, yeah. Very pretty, I guess."

And so begins this unusual odyssey.

For the next hour or so, my new friend hands me magazine after magazine, and asks me what I think about it. It starts off fairly standard; strung out chicks in their late 20′s wearing catholic school outfits and pretending to be 18. Magazines that feature all girls with big boobs, and ones have all girls with small boobs. Some by themselves, some with guys, some with girls. Pretty standard stuff.

"OK, this stuff is a little more extreme…"

That was what he said to me before he handed me a magazine that seemed to be based entirely on pissing in people’s mouths. From there we took a strange turn away from what I would consider normal pornography, and into the "Super Pervert" zone. Never before have I been in favor of the government keeping tabs on people based entirely on them doing a perfectly legal thing, but if there’s actually assholes out there subscribing to this shit, and waiting in front of their mail box for the latest issue of "Piss in your mouth" magazine, I want that motherfucker followed. Put a fucking G-man on the case, god damnit, I’m a tax payer, and I demand to be protected.

We go from magazines featuring pissing in people’s mouths, to midgets, to pissing on midgets, to amputees, to midgets pissing on amputees… it was some of the craziest shit I’ve seen in my life. He had magazines that were all about feet. People sucking on feet, people sticking their toes up other people’s asses, and of course, people pissing on feet.

There was an entire magazine based on fat asses. I mean really, fucking frighteningly, fat. Enormous, hairy, unkempt, cottage cheese asses, close up and in high resolution. I mean really, really, fucking fat asses, the whole magazine. Whenever they would show the girls face, you could just see the confusion and self consciousness in her eyes. She had no idea why they would want to see her naked, but she needed the money, so she continued to pose.

More magazines with fat asses, and even someone pissing on a fat ass. There was a series entirely based on extreme piercing, barbells through dicks, horns surgically implanted in chick’s heads, and of course, pissing on piercings.

There was a series of "big asshole" magazines, where it was all about stuffing large things in girl’s assholes. Astounding. That was the whole magazine; chicks with large objects stuffed up their ass. Pages, and pages of bowling pins, fists, and even a full foot shoved up this one chick’s pooper.

Of course they would not disappoint, and there was a picture of a chick with a chair leg stuffed up her ass, getting pissed on.

Finally, after about an hour or so we ran out of magazines. I really didn’t know what to say. I think I said something like "That was interesting."

The writer said "Thanks for your time"

"No problem."

"Do you want to take home some videos?"

"No thanks, I think I’m good."