Our saturated shit-house poet, splashing in a poetic puddle, turning abstract ideas into ecstasies, stood on a milk crate bombing a naked space on Tremont Street.
He dressed his words up in drag and made them fuck each other – lashing them against the concrete until blood ran black and ink broke their veils.
PARTIES DON’T THROW THEMSELVES.
The annual Easter Egg Bash at the Playboy Mansion was the very definition of a hot ticket. To be invited was the Hollywood proof of arrival. Playmates, hundreds of beauties, barely dressed in get-ups that ranged from fur-trimmed baby-doll lingerie to bondage gear and leopard-print body makeup, scattered through the chateau in search of painted eggs, as butlers attended to the trays of apricots dipped in chocolate and Hef, as our horn for porn calls him, socialized with his shimmering celebrity guests, secretly wondering in his head if some of them will last beyond the moment.
The decor of the palace was exquisite. The walls were oak paneled and the beamed ceiling was adorned with flowered frescoes. Long leather couches, abstract lamps, oversized armchairs, and abstruse paintings sparked conversation and added a sense of prestige and piquancy to the 30-room Mansion.
“The rhythm of the house is the rhythm of the people inside it,” Hef said to one of the press pricks as he posed for a candid with an armful of pectorally superior bunnies. Not many people were in the house yet. Well, not many important people. Mostly just workers, Playmates, and second-rate gossipy media meatballs that Hef invited to create buzz for his magazine.
After all the eggs were found and the Easter Bunny did his eventful thing, the place exploded. Evolved. Transmogrified. Holiday festiveness gave birth to dauntless exploration and seditious fantasy. Limos crowded the gates. Fireworks erupted above the castle. Loud house music echoed through the hallways. And the lights got dimmed.
In less than ten minutes, the manor was packed with herds of famous party monsters: Bill Maher, in a Japanese silk robe, smoking a cigar and talking to Drew Carey on the back patio. Kato Kaelin waiting in line for the restroom with Kool Moe Dee. Britney Spears and Jenna Jamison standing by the bar munching on Head Candy, a fruit-flavored, mouthguarded-shaped gummy candy that prevents scraping during fellatio. Sean Combs and Ashton Kutcher doing Kamikaze shots at the bar as they flip through the latest issue of 944 Magazine. The place was like the Star Wars bar – it was full of random, eccentric stars whose radiance and energy knew no limits.
Our rancid vacuum stood by the door with his best friend Mohican Man drinking Old Speckled Hen and assessing the array of hot Hollywood ass that came through the door.
In walked Alyssa Milano in a black tube-top and a short red skirt.
“I’d beat off to a poorly drawn crayon picture of her,” said our well-known drone.
The next three guests were male: David Spade, Bradley Cooper, and Kid Rock. After them came Lacey Chabert, looking all grown-up. She had the type of chest that the Greeks used to eat olives off of and a bucket so hard you could have cracked a lobster on it. She was active-volcano hot.
“You know you’re getting old when the girl from Party of Five becomes fuckable,” said our observant servant.
“No shit,” said Mohican. “Look at Punky Brewster over there by the fireplace. Burger King must be after her with those Whoppers.”
“What time are you guys going on?”
Droopy Cracker was asked by Hef to provide the spirited entertainment, which explained the huge big name turnout. Their latest single “Play-Doh Ho” was the number one song in the nation.
“Whenever J.M. and the boys get here.”
“That doesn’t leave much time to go over there and mack her.”
Before Mohican could strut his stuff, the rest of the band bounced in already half in the wrapper.
“What up? What up?” yelled J.M., decked out in a ripped White Snake T-shirt, a pair of Nike warm-up pants, and his infamous red fitted Yankees hat backwards.
“So much for that,” said Mohican, slapping our wasted seed’s hand. “It’s time to rip shit up. I’ll check ya after our set.”
Being alone didn’t scare our superintendent of sexual neuroses. He figured he’d fire back a few more Long Islands, enjoy the smoke show, and try to land a prime spot near the front of the stage. But, before he could get situated, two Playmates, twins with twin overweight milk duds on their chest, grabbed his hand and escorted him away.
“Mr. Hefner would like you to come to his private quarters,” they said in sync.
“If I did something wrong, I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I just--”
After traveling through a few hallways and down two flights of stairs, the twins opened a big wooden door that led to the Underwater Bar – fully-equipped with booze, Playmates, small windows on the wall that allowed you to observe half-naked women swimming in the pool, a hot tub with colored lights and scented water, a huge movie screen that lowered from a hidden compartment in the ceiling by the touch of a button, and Hef himself.
“Come on in, my fine fickle friend,” said Hefner. “I have more pleasures in this house than most people find in a lifetime.”
Our rogue revolutionary took a seat on the leather sofa next to three blonde Playmates who had the kind of tits you only see on blonde Playmates.
Hugh, now decked out in black pajamas and a red smoking jacket, walked over and introduced himself.
“You’re the writer, Mohican’s buddy. I’m Hugh Hefner. Nice to meet you.”
“It’s an honor,” said our nervous ninny, firmly shaking Mr. Playboy’s hand.
“I invited you down to my private quarters for two reasons, actually, three.” He stood at the bar fixing himself a drink. “Can I make you a drink?”
“Malibu and ginger ale would be great.”
“One, I figured you’ve seen Dumpy Cracker a million times and could use some new excitement. Two, I wanted to check you out. One wrong guest, one wannabe, and my legendary status could diminish to the size of Mini-me’s flaccid pecker. And finally, I thought as a writer you’d appreciate what’s about to happen in the next five minutes.”
After another drink and some uncanny dialogue, a black woman in a leather S&M outfit was escorted in by a big, bald black guy that looked like an ugly Ving Rhames.
“Who’s that?” asked our captain of curiosity.
“The entertainment,” said Hef.
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s Mara. She’s a prostitute.”
With our snooping stallion, Hef, and over 15 Playmates watching, Mara began quickly stripping off her tanned hide garments to the funky sounds of 3 Doors Down’s “Kryptonite.” Vest. Chaps. Boots. Then came her cowhide halter-top – liberating her midnight tits that looked like the sinus lobes on an elephant’s head. Their roundness exemplified a severe affection toward the fly machine at the gym.
Finally came her deerskin panties. She had a bush you could have lost golf balls in and a slot as big as a hippopotamus’s yawn.
Following a few gyrating moves and a brief lap-dance for Hef, the naked whore lied down on the rug in front of the enthralled crowd.
Enter a slobbering Saint Bernard.
“Watch this,” nudged Hef.
Without a flinch, the big dog bolted over to the nude harlot and began excessively licking her downstairs gizmo. The violated whore moaned with supreme pleasure. The snatch-sucking canine continued his slobbering trek until the lady of the night had her second orgasm. Then it took its erect dog dick, stuck it in the strumpet’s fiery fern, and fucked her doggy-style but not actually doggy-style.
“Have you ever seen anything like this in your life?” asked Hef.
Our baffled bohemian shook his head – his mouth open – his eyes still fixated on the demented deed before him. The dog’s humping was now being fueling by boisterous barking. It was clearly enjoying itself. So was the call girl. Based on her animated whimpering, it was apparent that watching 101 Dalmatians would never be the same for her.
Man’s best friend had transformed into woman’s best lover.
The pooch pounding continued until the whore had her 15th orgasm. One more and she probably would have combusted. Her moaning evolved into piercing opera singing and Hef, detecting the Playmate’s annoyance from the noise pollution, signaled to the bodyguard to end the fornication. The dog, still wailing away, plainly was not ready to stop fucking. When the Ving Rhames clone went to pull it away, it bit his hand profusely.
The whore’s pleasure quickly turned to fear.
The bodyguard sprawled out on the rug, clutching his left hand, which was ardently dripping with blood.
The dog, unfazed, kept slamming the reluctant prostitute.
“Do something,” said Hef to our thunderstruck guest. “The girls are getting disturbed.”
Without even weighing the issue, our instinctive mercenary went over to the bar and grabbed a plateful of shrimp and a bottle of Absolut. He then went over to the heated couple and threw the shrimp on the whore’s stomach.
The dog eyed the tasty seafood, but didn’t take the bait. So, in an act of desperation, our usual animal-loving ally slammed the possessed canine in the head with the hard bottle of vodka.
The startled whore jumped up, gathered her clothes, and limped out.
Hef handed the bleeding bodyguard an envelope and a towel to wrap his arm with. The dog lay motionless – its dick still stiff and its cracked head oozing buckets of blood on the Persian rug.
“Is it dead?” asked one of the Playmates, sticking it with a fire poker. It didn’t move. Foam excreted from its mouth.
“Get it out of here,” said Hef to our accommodating serf. “And don’t get blood everywhere. Here, wrap it in this.” He handed him a nice quilted bedspread.
“Why do I have to do it?”
“Because you killed it and because you’re my guest.”
“Where do you want me to put it?”
“There’s a trash room up the hall to your left. Put it there.”
Our mutt assassin wrapped the dead dog in the flowery blanket and dragged it by its tail. Hef yelled to him as he left the Underwater Bar: “Don’t let any of the other guests see you. A dead dog can really ruin a party. Oh, and hurry back. I have a surprise for you.”
As our master of the golden glow dragged the perished pooch down the newly waxed linoleum floor, all he kept thinking about was Hef’s surprise. What was it? Or who was it? He quickly kicked over some boxes, dropped the dog, and stuffed him under a locker.
When he got back to the vault, he was astonished to find a pair of naked Playmates lying on the leather couch. They looked like angels brightened by incandescent flights. Hef was gone and so were the rest of the girls. One of the unclad beauties was holding a couple of pieces of paper bounded by a paperclip.
“This is for you,” said the bare seductress, handing him the papers. “And so are we.”
He read the top of the first page as the other girl started to undress him. “This is a contract.” He rapidly read more. “Hugh Hefner wants me to submit a piece to Playboy.” One of the girls nodded her head and said: “There’s a check attached to the last page.”
Our ecstatic fanatic quickly flipped to the back and found the check. “Three thousand dollars! Holy FUCK!” Now he was naked. “Holy FUCK!” One girl started blowing him while the other one stuck her plump jest-totes in his face.
Two hours later he emerged from the vault and the Mansion was as dark as a mustachioed villain’s thoughts.
Everyone was gone.
The place looked like it had already been cleaned up. There was a fire going.
“Hello,” hollered our eagle-eyed electric, looking for some form of human life.
A voice emerged from behind the big chair in front of the fire. It was Hef.
“Hey writer. How’d you like my surprise?”
“It’s a lot of money for a shit-house poet.”
“I was referring to the girls.”
“Oh, um, amazing. They were unreal.”
“I’m going to need something from you by Friday.”
“Oh yeah, I was intending on paying for them,” he said, digging into his pockets. “How much do I owe?”
“I’m talking about your piece for the magazine.”
“Right, right. I’ll send it over as fast as I can.”
“I’ve arranged a car to take you home. It’s waiting for you out front.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hefner. Thank you so much for a great party.”
He headed for the exit but Hef stopped him in his tracks.
“Oh and writer.”
“Don’t forget that the only lasting fame is literary fame. And call me Hef.”