Editrix Abby |
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Planning a Magazine Release PartyFor each new issue of my magazine, Extreme Fetish, I throw a release party. I'm not quite sure who these parties are for. I never seem to attract much press, just hoardes of my freeloading friends. I'm not sure why I do it, either, aside from the fact that, hey, I love a party. I don't make any money off the events. I don't charge people to get in and I don't sell the magazine. In fact, I give it away! And I give away porn videos! But that's more of a self-serving thing, because if I didn't give the damn things away periodically, I'd be waist-deep in porn videos. I guess the reason I do it is because I want people to come and say, Hey, bitchin' magazine, man. Which happens only slightly less than enough. Yet still, I slog on, planning the event, sending out fliers to my 400-person mailing list, 95 percent of whom have never even shown up at one of these damn things. Maybe I am out of my mind.For the latest issue of the magazine, Tits & Abs, I really dreamt up a doozie of a dilemma for myself. It being a muscle chick kinda issue, featuring a boxing rock 'n' roll gal, wrestling women and gym pumping, pec-popping weightlifters, I thought it'd be cool to have the party in a gym. Unfortunately, your average gym wasn't all too interested in hosting a herd of cigarette-smoking, beer-swilling, free porn-grubbing perverts. Crunch turned up their "No judgements" nose with a huff of, "We don't throw parties." Yeah, whatever. I was looking for a facility with a boxing ring and/or wrestling mat, so my featured boxer could, you know, box, and all my readers who want their heads scissored between fleshy female thighs (and there are a lot of them) could have the opportunity to be wrestled into submission. After a few unsuccessful phone calls, I gave up on the whole gym idea, pretty much thinking, what was I thinking? How about a sports bar? I thought. Big drawback with sports bars, though: sports fans. And in addition to sports fans, we might be subjected to actual sports. No way. This was about tits and abs, not March Madness. So I settled on the next-to-the-next to the best thing: Manitoba's, operated by my pal Handsome Dick Manitoba. He's a wrestling fan and he even has a few wrestling photos on the walls. The bar has a set-up for rock bands, so even though my boxing rock 'n' roll babe couldn't box, she could at least rock 'n' roll. She was the first--and easiest--booking. Mind you, I wanted her band, Times Square, but her bass player is on tour with another band, which required a last minute scramble for a substitute bass player. But that was the easy part. I also really wanted those wrestling gals. Now, I've published two six-page spreads on Tempest, an "apartment wrestling" facility here in Manhattan. If you're wondering, it's like going to a dominatrix, but instead of being beaten and bossed around, at a wrestling place, well, you're beaten and wrestled. So I made a call to the proprietrix of this establishment and asked if she could send a few girls to the party. "Sure," she said tentatively, "but most of our girls are kinda shy and wouldn't feel comfortable performing in public." Well, I explained to her, this will be a public party, so do ya think you could maybe scrounge up a couple of ladies who aren't shy? Unfortunately the babes I had in mind no longer worked there, which is a bummer, since they'll take off their clothes at the drop of a hat. Or dollar. After Ms. Tempest allowed as yeah, maybe she could rustle up a wrestling exhibitionist or two, she asked where they'd be wrestling--and on what. I'd already told her the party was being held at a bar. "I was hoping you could provide a portable wrestling mat," I blurted, wondering why she hadn't already offered one. I mean, Manhattan apartments are small enough without my having to store my very own personal portable wrestling mat. Sheesh! "Well, it's very heavy," she explained, "and difficult to move. And I wouldn't want anyone to spill their drinks on it or step on it with high heels." I guaranteed her I would be personally responsible for the mat provided she could get it down to the bar, and she said she'd have to get back to me. I left further negotiations to my business partner, who received a less evasive reply from Ms. Tempest's husband. Now I just have to hope the hell they show up with the damn mat and a few broads, or I'm gonna be stuck wrestling strangers on a bare cement floor. Next week, I'll let you know how it goes. And if you're in the New York City area, maybe you'd like to be on my party invitation mailing list, so you can witness these events first hand. Drop me a line and I'll see what I can do. [Written in the late '90s...I think!] |
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