You really need to read Part One or you’re not gonna have any idea what the hell I’m talking about. It has to do with my employment at Hustler Magazine.
So I had to make a will. Not because I had a kid, or a lot of money, or a lot of fine belongings, nope. It was because I started acquiring a lot, and I mean a LOT of porn. You can imagine the frenzy my collection stirred amongst my guy friends. I was instructed, not asked, no, instructed by them to draw up a will. You know, just in case I dropped dead and the state claimed all of my belongings. I’m sure my porn collection would be on the top of their list…
I’m not even a porn person. I’ll watch it, sure, but it’s not something I particularly enjoy or seek out. So why not just give my porn away? Well, I did, I gave some of it away. But I had to keep such films as Pregnant MILFs, and Smoking Vaginas (no really, some women can actually smoke a cigarette out of their vagina—I’ve seen it), and of course any film with multiple black men and one white woman. Just for the sheer physics of it.
I also couldn’t just give away all my porn because, well, I felt it was hard earned. And you know, it’s my legacy to the grandchildren I’ll most likely never have.
But the greatest keepsake from Hustler, and the most prized possession in my will, are all of the letters to the editor that I kept. That’s right, the really good letters, I kept. [NOTE: please do not report me to LFP.] These letters fill two Trader Joe’s paper grocery bags and they’re probably the most incredible things I own. I’d say 90% of the letters came from prisoners. The grammar is atrocious, but if you can get passed that, there are some real gems. The other 10% were from just all around lonely guys. Really, really lonely guys. 99% of the guys wrote to specific models, who of course never saw them (not just because I took the letters home, but because these were letters to the editor, not letters to Miss January.) The other 1% of the letters were from motherfucking crazy dudes writing to Larry about spaceships and shit. Some real kuh-razies.
I wanted to take a photo of some of these letters so you could see them, but they are buried deeeeeep in our garage. Like, there is no way I’m getting to them unless money is involved. But many of the letters went something like this:
“Dear Shanon. I like yoor pussy yoor pussy is nice and pink and I like pink pussy i want to slap my dick on yoor foorhead.”
But my absolute FAV letters were the ones that included photos. ESPECIALLY naked photos. Well, the guys were never completely naked. For some reason the dudes would just pull down their pants to their ankles and then take the pic. Note to the males: that’s not hot. Take an extra 15 seconds and take off your construction boots and your pants and then take the photo.
For some time I couldn’t figure out why in the majority of the photos the men were holding a broom or a mop pointed towards camera. What the? It took my seasoned counterpart at Barely Legal to enlighten me: someone or something had to take the photo. In these cases, the men used the broom to hit the capture button on the camera. I know, right? I’m still rather speechless about the matter.
Oh then there was the time that I took an elevator ride with Larry and his two bodyguards. Unfortunately our conversation only consisted of pleasantries, but I admired his all gold wheelchair. And the fact that he still goes to work every day.
Oh and let’s talk about the penthouse! If you haven’t seen The People vs. Larry Flynt, do it. Just to see that damn penthouse office. They shot the film in the actual location. I can’t remember the exact figure, but there’s something like several million dollars worth of art in there. And the furniture and décor is straight up Louis XIV, or something shmancy like that. I used to love going up just to cruise around and say that I went to a museum that day.
What I really started to enjoy though was when the Editor in Chief of Hustler started to call me into his office for my opinion on spreads. Now, I know, it sounds extraordinarily creepy. But it actually wasn’t. Nothing there is actually that creepy (except for Barely Legal) primarily because everyone’s so numb to it all. For better or for worse, I’m in no way phased by looking at girl on girl, gang bangs, and double penetration. It just became a matter of the 8-5 monotony.
But it was fun when I was pulled in to give creative input on layouts. Now, it wasn’t like, “Buffy, what do you think of this D in the A while riding the horse?” Um, no. More like, “What do you think of these colors, these fonts?” etc. People at my level were never called in to the Editor in Chief’s office to give such input. But being the token chick my ideas were golden.
But you know me, I can never stick around at a place for too long. And I certainly can’t work at a J-O-B for 40 hrs a week without starting to become a maniac. Because after all, with pursuing my career, that meant that I was really working 70+ hrs a week and that’s just no bueno. Mama needs to have some fun too. So I quit.
I retired any sort of remaining innocence that I had at LFP. But, I walked away with a treasure trove of naughtiness to fill a will and one more notch on my resume of ridiculousness.