Chapter 1: The SexCon Soak-Job

Her name is Desiree, and her ample ta-tas look fantastic inside the tight constraints of her lace-up black leather tube top. I can get a pretty good look, too, since said breasts are all of three inches from my eyes. Yes, O Red-Faced Reader, this is one of those books. If you figure you may need to skim the next part, you might as well just toss the whole thing aside instead — it’s not for you, it’s going to focus on exactly what you would expect with that opening and it’s only going to get raunchier from here. Still with me? Great, let’s dive into the hot stuff!

Literally, in this case, as the hot lights and leather let Desiree transmit a fair bit of body heat to me as she straddles my body. No matter how often it happens, it will never stop being thrilling to me — the heart-fluttering excitement I feel when a beautiful woman presses her body against mine for the first time. It’s the moment when I can feel her curves through tight clothes; when her body heat merges with my own; when her smooth flesh eclipses my field of vision and I can make an inventory of the birthmarks, body quirks and slight blemishes that make every woman on our planet so deliciously unique and individual. These are the moments that I live for — everything else is mere filler by comparison.

Desiree intoxicates me. She has straight black hair, very lustrous, swept tight back against her head to a bun in the back, then hanging down from that in a ponytail. It gives her already intense features an even greater sexual aggression, a look of dominant insatiability. Her skin is dusky bronze, and her flawless glamour-girl makeup perfects the already stunning beauty. She has full lips, prominent cheek-bones and the kind of distinctive eyebrows perfect for the sexually-hungry come-hither look. With her darker complexion, I wonder if she’s just really tan or part Asian — I honestly can’t tell.

Her black leather lace-up top has hot pink strings, and it holds her firm, fake breasts tightly up and together to form a mind-obliterating view of cleavage. She’s very fit, toned and slightly muscular, but not to the point where it detracts from her raw natural femininity — the pole-dancer physique. Her midriff is bare, and her navel has a piercing with an eye-catching blue jewel. She has tiny gemstone earrings, but their very unobtrusiveness makes me suspect the tiny sapphires might be real. She’s wearing very tight leather pants — the kind girls only wear when they have a figure as perfect as hers — which conform in meticulous detail to the well-toned curves of her ass, thighs and pussy. She uses men’s aftershave — I can smell it. I like that — still all woman, but signaling a dominant femininity and a masculine sexual appetite.

Harsh rainbow stripes — pink, blue, purple, orange, red, green — reflect off Desiree’s glossy black hair and shiny leather pants. The back wall is faux-marble, festooned with a menagerie of decorative neon shapes: a cocktail glass, a trumpet, palm trees, a guitar, music notes, a boomerang — as well as more abstract triangles, jagged lightning bolts and curved squiggles. The floor is a black and purple checkerboard, the other walls are mirrored and our feet are shrouded in ankle-deep fog pumping out of a nearby smoke machine. The arty, music video décor accentuates and elevates the beauty of the stripper, making her erotic magnetism inspire the awe it rightly should.

Her thigh grinds into my crotch at about the same moment her hands crush my face into her cleavage. My body responds as it naturally would, and I have no shame in that — Desiree is a stripper, an adult performer, dancing for me on stage before a crowd. If I wasn’t erect, it would be a professional insult to her. I’m shameless. She can feel my cock, and that doesn’t embarrass me — it only makes me harder. And she doesn’t seem to mind, either. Well, why should she? If you’re as good at her trade as she is, you almost have to take some pleasure in it. And I’m sure she does, in fact, take more than a merely moderate amount of pleasure in her work, and in bodily contact with attractive men. It’s faint but distinctive — under the aftershave, she smells like sex.

Her nimble hands with the long red press-on nails unhook one of the neon pink laces holding her top in place, and she offers it toward my mouth. I bite down firmly, grabbing the string with my teeth as she seems to want. She leans back slowly, away from me, inch by inch. As she moves, the lace pulls out and her top pops open bit by bit. Now that’s some pro stripper moves right there. And finally, we reach the climactic moment, with her top held together only by one remaining tie. She gives the universal hand signal strippers use to pump up crowds, eliciting cheers from them — and the crowd is only too happy to comply! Once her vanity is sated, she leans back just a little bit more, and the top pops open. She chose it well, as it snaps away for exactly the kind of cinematic reveal moment you’d want in a situation like this.

Her cans are really big, and her boob job isn’t the best — the skin is a bit stretched, the scars are visible and they have that unmoving, fake look. They might not be perfect in the abstract, though, but they are perfect for Desiree. Let me explain a bit. I have known three types of girls with bad fake tits: the desperate, the pragmatic and the wild.

The first have a self-esteem problem, a need to be noticed or to keep up with their peers, or just a competitive nature. I feel sorry for them, and I’d offer them support if I could, but I have no desire to fuck them. Next, there are the pragmatists — the strippers who do the math, and figure out their income will go up by X percent each month after the tit job, so they do it. I can’t fault them for making a solid business decision, honestly. Some of these do enjoy their work and can be fun to be around (and with), but more of them are jaded and vaguely robotic — in their mind, the knockers replace the need to actually engage with their clientele rather than enhance it.

And then, there’s the third type. They get the tits for themselves, not for men. It’s like middle-aged dudes getting a Maserati. Guys, let me tell you a secret — most girls don’t actually go for your sports car. They can’t name the model, and they may not even be able to tell it apart from a Honda. But the Maserati gives you confidence, and the ladies do go for that — it makes you think you’re a tiger on the prowl, and on some level that perception becomes reality. Well, for some girls — strippers and some “civilians” alike — fake tits have the same effect.

The lady’s body image changes. She looks in a mirror and she sees a wildcat staring back at her, and much like the dude with the sports car the perception becomes reality. A switch flips in her head, and suddenly a bold sexual adventurer full of dominant energy and confidence is born — a wild being of insatiable carnal appetites that is God’s gift to men simply because she believes she is God’s gift to men — and revels in their attention rather than disdaining it. And these girls ... they are absolute treasures to be coveted and adored and fucked cross-eyed whenever that can be managed. The actual breasts have nothing and everything to do with it.

Three guesses which category Desiree falls into, and the first two don’t count.

She catches the back of the red leather chair I’m sitting on, and grinds up and down, riding me like a cowboy to the throbbing beat of Ratt’s Body Talk — and let me tell you, the music isn’t the only thing throbbing! Her routine is so aggressive there’s a glow, a sheen of sweat on her skin. Her breasts don’t bounce, but they do look unironically nice in profile. Her expression really sells it, though — challenging, aggressive and rawly sexual. I’m really hard now. She’s not changing position to avoid it; in fact she shifts a bit to feel it better. I love that — how into it she clearly is, how not grossed-out and not interested in keeping her distance.

Speaking of not keeping her distance, Desiree pulls herself back close to me, grinding her cans in my face, motorboating me. The nipples are dissonantly soft — she probably doesn’t have any sensation in them. They have a nice texture, though. And I love the warmth of her flesh, pressed against my face; the scent of sweat, aftershave and sex. A less experienced guy would assume she wasn’t aroused, given her nipples, but I know better. I can feel in her body language how much pleasure she takes grinding her breasts into guys’ faces. It makes her feel like she’s a goddess, an unconquerable sexual superhero. And she’s actually trying to get off for real. I can tell by the way she’s grinding her pussy against the side of my torso.

I’m being a good boy. I keep my hands clasped behind my back, exactly like you’re supposed to when a stripper dances for you. Desiree stands up, breathing heavily but not losing the rhythm. She steps up onto the seat of the chair I’m seated in. I shut my legs tightly to give her room. Wow, she’s standing on the seat of the chair I’m sitting in, her stiletto heels on either side of my thighs.

That’s ... dangerous, but skilled strippers are known for their sense of balance (among other things). My hands stay clasped behind my back, but I keep alert and ready — if she careens, I want to be able to catch her. And she stands fully upright, with her hands on her hips. Desiree’s tall and leggy, maybe around six one — she’s a good head taller than me. I need to look up to see her groin, but it’s worth looking up for. Those pants are tight enough to form a cameltoe, she’s not wearing underwear and she’s a bit wet after the grinding. Nice!

Then her hands reach out and unbutton the pants. She can’t slide them down fully with her legs spread like this, but she can unbutton them, unzip and slide them down an inch or two, giving me a great closeup of her perfectly trimmed landing strip and the audience a good two inches of ass crack. She looks me direct in the eyes, filled with lust. After several seconds of eye contact, she bends her legs to kneel. Her groin, her unzipped pants, are right in my face. I don’t touch. I don’t lean forward and lick, like many younger guys would try to do in my place. I just take a very deep breath, and exhale ... in a very focused way. Yeah, I’m subtle about it, but I’m still blowing directly on her clit. I’m pretty sure she likes it.

She quickly gets down from the chair. I have the feeling my blowing moved up the pacing of her routine. She wants her climax, right away. She strips the leather pants off with ... perhaps less ceremony than a stripper should in this kind of show. She’s naked, and her body looks spectacular. I’m a very experienced guy, but this is my first time as an adult stage show volunteer. I’ve heard about the shows at SexCon, and how wild they can get, so I’m not sure what to expect.

I know I’m not getting my dick wet, but I’m not sure what can actually happen outside that. I’m actually dreaming that she’s going to bring her pussy near my face and keep it there long enough for me to literally blow her to a subtle orgasm, here on stage in front of the whole crowd. She seems worked-up enough, and I bet I could do it with just my breath, and that would be crazy-hot to me in terms of “getting things past the censors” and indulging in things you’re not really supposed to do.

But she apparently has a different plan, shocking me by pulling a hot pink strap on out of a gym bag. Is she going to peg me? Honestly, I probably wouldn’t say no. But no, this is going in a different direction. She stands me up and starts putting it on me — well, I knew they allowed insertions at shows like this, and that’s a good way to get sex without sex. She does grope my cock repeatedly as she affixes the device, looking at me and daring me to say something, to complain. No way! Babe, you can touch that as much as you want!

And then she shoves me back into the chair and stands over me, looking down at me. I smile back up at her, radiating cocky confidence. Pun intended. I think she likes that. She kneels down, and the tip of the strap-on brushes her pussy lips. There’s a brief period of perfunctory teasing. I suspect with a different subject it would have gone on longer, and she probably would have put some lube on the strap. But right now it seems like she had no time for games and no need for lube.

She sits on it, and gasps as it plunges into her. She grabs the back of the chair and uses it to grind around on my lap. Her skin is glistening with sweat now, reflecting the neon panorama behind her like a high-class fashion photo. I can judge women very precisely, in sexual terms — this is a performance, but it’s also one hundred percent real, and she’s enjoying it a great deal. Her hands find mine, clasped together behind the chair, and pull them apart. Well, if she invites me ... but I’m not being encouraged to grope. Instead, our fingers intertwine and she uses our locked hands for leverage, to pump herself up and down on the rigid plastic shaft. She leans in close to me and whispers to me. “I want to do this for real, sometime.”

I don’t know if that’s a thing she tells all clients, or serious — I’d buy either at this point. I keep up the cocky poise, since she seems to like it. “Then call me,” I whisper back. “My number’s not hard to find.”

She bounces vigorously on top of me, pumping herself up and down, almost doing pull-ups with my hands. Well, as it turns out, you can make even the really rigid fake tits bounce nicely — you just have to get really athletic about it. I stare at her pussy, see her thighs beginning to tremble. And then I decide to go for gold. Maybe it’s arrogant — you decide. In these kind of shows, the man is supposed to be passive, to just do what the woman instructs. Well, I’m not pushing any unexpected sex acts on her or taking uninvited liberties — but I am gonna change up the script a bit.

I’m the kind of guy that can’t resist a little playful testing of limits, seeing what I can get away with. I manage to slip one hand out of her grasp, while the other stays tightly gripped. I slide this hand around her waist — and stand up. Given our positions, that’s an impressive feat of strength — but I carry it off smoothly. She yelps in surprise, but doesn’t exactly protest — our eyes meet, and after a brief shock she seems to appreciate (or at least accept) my daring spontaneity. Her legs clench very tightly around my waist, driving the dildo even deeper.

I walk about the stage proudly, holding Desiree in midair perpendicular to me, with one hand around her waist and one hand clasped to her own — which she’s using to hold herself up. There’s a thing about meeting my gaze, a trick I can pull which I’ll explain in just a bit. Well, I take advantage of the opportunity for several seconds, making her squirm and writhe most pleasingly. And I pound her with the strap-on; her moaning thrills me. I’m rock-hard. It’s an impressive position for a sex show — I look fantastic, and she looks absolutely ravishing. When I feel her thighs start to really shake, I don’t quicken — I just keep up the pace that’s clearly working for her and hold her gaze playfully as she enjoys her orgasm.

I could get off too, if I wanted. There’s more than enough stimulation and eye candy for me to shoot off in my jeans, if I wanted to embrace it. But I have strong sexual self-discipline, and I don’t. I have big plans for this evening, hopes of getting this woman back to my hotel room for a private performance, and I want to save my sexual energy. Besides, I have class. I don’t exactly want to walk off stage with a big cum stain on my outfit, as much as it would tickle Desiree’s ego.

As fate will have it, this will not happen — someone even more sensual and unexpected will show up and change the whole path of my life today, and it will be around two years before I’m face to face with Desiree again. Now, O Annoyed Reader, you may think it sounds conceited or narcissistic of me, to assume that I would have any chance of taking this amazing performer home with me for an intimate evening. But really, it isn’t.

It’s just a realistic view of who I am, what I’m capable of and what I’ve been doing with my life.

My name is Marcelo Ambrose Knight, or MAK for short — and yes, I can say that with a straight face. (It took practice.) I’m a professional pickup artist, stage magician and celebrity bad boy. You, O Inquisitive Reader, are holding my tell-all memoir concerning my involvement in the Sexy Scandal Spectacular and with its beautiful proprietress — the original Naughty Magician herself, Lascivious Livia.

Over the years, our show has certainly lived up to its name — you’ve probably seen our faces splashed on the front page astride a rather bizarre headline more than once. From the Rolling Stewardess Incident to the Great Delaware Slut Eruption, we do tend to attract attention. The destruction of Loventino Café, the BastardCard financial scandal, the LMAO event, our rivalry with New Century Swimstyles, the time we spent as fugitives from the law across the border — I’ll cover all of them as they happen chronologically in my narrative.

And of course, you’ll get the skinny on a number of prominent celebrities like Monique DeMain, Bahiti Salama and Judith Palmer and that ended up suffering certain rather spectacular and peculiar indignities as a result of our show. But try to put all those events out of your mind, O Perplexed Reader, as your read my narrative — each will make more sense once viewed in its actual context. Well, sometimes — if I’m being honest, some of the shit we got entangled in is just surreal, and remains so to this day. But at least you’ll get to hear what happened directly from the horse’s mouth.

Regarding the actual magic, I’m going to give you a generous helping of behind the scenes detail, while leaving some mystery behind many of the tricks and giving only a vague idea of the methods on others. I’ve made a career out of knowing what my audience wants, however, so you can bet that there will be a fair amount of dwelling on the sexy bits, complete with some rather explicit passages I’ll need to sell this book. (No point in dancing around it, right?)

You know, when I first sent this manuscript into my editor, she said she liked the audacity, but thought that some of the explicit sequences “pandered to juvenile male fantasies” and “bordered on the pornographic”. No shit, lady — since this is porn, it better do more than just border on the pornographic! Know then, O Crimson-Faced Reader, that not only is this porn — it’s the kind of awesomely shameless porn that can only get written when an author fully lets go of his inhibitions and pretensions, surrendering any hope that the literary intelligentsia will ever refer to his writings with a term as high-brow as ‘erotica’.

People whose life stories are worth telling often find those stories fit into a genre of fiction. JFK’s biography would make a good a political drama, Audie Murphy’s would be an action film, Geraldo Rivera’s a dark social satire. Well, I share with Emmanuelle Arsan, Caligula, King Solomon, Cleopatra and Debonair’s Howard Hepler the rare and much-coveted distinction of having a biography best served up in the medium of pornography. Cope with it.

As for the pandering, well, I’d love to see a truly accurate survey of the number of people (or men, at least) that consider that a feature as opposed to a bug — but I’m not holding my breath waiting for Ipsos to conduct it. Regardless: I’m a male, I have some pretty typical fantasies (and some decidedly atypical ones), and I came upon the means of living them out for real. You do the math.

So, O Sweaty-Palmed Reader, you should be warned that this memoir will contain extended and explicit descriptions of exceedingly attractive people engaged in shameless recreational sport-fucking to a nearly ludicrous extent. I could tell you it’s a paean to sex with no strings attached, but there’s a bit with ropes and knots and bondage in Chapter Ten that would make that a bald-faced lie — and let’s not forget Chapter Fifteen! We are magicians, so of course there are strings attached — just not the romantic kind.

I once promised myself that if I was ever so indulgent as to write a memoir, I would make sure it was chock full of gratuitous sex, since I know that any potential readership would be far more interested in that than they are in me. It is both ironic and hilarious, then, that I can not keep my word on this. There is no gratuitous sex in this memoir. (No, not even that bit with Diane on the beach in Chapter Nine.) If you really want to know what life with the Sexy Scandal Spectacular was like, you’re going to need to drown in sexual excess and the pursuit of sensual pleasures just like we did. So that means that everything you will read is strictly necessary to the story, and cannot fairly be called gratuitous. It’s still a hell of a lot of fun, though. Bon appétit!

But the show was never about tab A in slot B — it was about capturing a kind of public performance erotica that was in equal measures psychological and sensual — and I’ll try to keep the memoir on that road as well. Like the show itself any work trying to capture its unique energy and zeitgeist must be, above all else, naughty.

I may be a pickup artist, but I also pride myself on being a gentleman — and a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Some things conspicuously aren’t in this memoir. Names are changed, some details omitted and some encounters fictionalized to an extent. Everything described explicitly was either done in public with knowing subjects, or has the permission of the women involved to appear here, or is relatively anonymous. But there’s no shortage of exhibitionistic, vain, bombastic and colorful women involved in this tale, and many were only too happy to receive a more explicit handling from my rough pen. Obviously, several of the amateurs have had their names changed to protect the indecent. (Jeri was actually using the first name Jeri, however — you’ll see why I couldn’t change it when we get to her section!)

If you watch a lot of sensationalistic daytime TV, you might think you know the rough shape my narrative will fall into — a story of decadence, excess and hedonism, and the inevitable downfall and tragedy these vices lead to. Well, I’m rather smugly pleased to tell you, O Moralistic Reader, that this is not a story about consequences. Instead, this is a story about how clever and decent people can have a lot of wild fun and stay one step ahead of that dreaded c-word. Well, most of the time, at least. It’s a story of hotties and hijinks, not tragedy and regret. I promise you, O Escapist Reader — in the end, when all is said and done, this is a story about being bad, having fun and Getting Away With It™.

So ... come inside. Imagine you are me, and live through the highs and lows of my life; the drama and adventure, the laughter and the lust, and of course the bountiful bevy of beautiful babes I am blessed enough to call lovers. (Or, for my readers of a more feminine persuasion, learn how I romanced so many beautiful women and pick which ones you would most like to imagine yourselves being... )

You will forgive me, I assume, for narrating past events in the present tense — I want you, O Fortunate Reader, to experience them with vivid immediacy, as if they are happening to you as they happened to me, right now. (How to write a relatable protagonist in one easy step: simply have your protagonist order the reader to relate to him!) So I say: spend a weekend or two living vicariously though me, your erstwhile tour guide to all manner of exotic sensual pleasures and ribald debauchery. Believe me, nothing will make me happier than my account bringing a little joy into your life.

Anyway, back to the beginning. At the start of this story — seven years ago as of publication — I’m not especially famous or successful, and might even fairly be called a bit pathetic. I’m not yet a magician or celebrity, though I am a pickup artist with a carefully maintained bad boy image. I have two published books to my name, and they’ve sold quite lucratively even if they are semi-underground.

I come from an old-money Richmond family, and have access to a moderate stipend from my parents (who definitely do not want to be appearing in a book like this!), but little affection — indeed, after my books garnered a degree of fame and infamy, they all but bribed me not to have any further contact with the family and to never use my real name in my business. (It wasn’t a tremendously loving family to begin with.) As of the publication of this memoir, Marcelo Ambrose Knight is my legal name, but at the start of the story it’s just a pseudonym I publish books under and use when “on the prowl” or giving speeches.

How does one become a pickup artist? Mostly by accident, honestly. I’m currently short, dark and handsome; in junior high I was short, pudgy and awkward — and very eager to figure out ways around those limits in the social pecking order of men. Even by the impressive standards of teenage boys, I was inordinately horny. My grandfather was a bit of a player, and an early role model to me. There were also some ... let’s just say peculiar ... books and memoirs in our family library I learned things from. I slowly got confidence and charm, and by college I was really good with girls. Being young and horny, I leaned into the mystique hard.

My parents cut me off financially when I was being a postgraduate slacker, telling me I needed to spend more time on my career and less with bar girls. To spite them, I published a book of pickup tips (carefully couched in cheesy comedic banter to make it seem ‘safe’, and thus fit for print) hoping it would net me two months rent to stave off my inevitable descent into soulless yuppiedom. It ended up covering more like two years.

Wealth, prosperity and social standing, people like my parents believe, should come only through respectable, approved channels like law, finance and academia — exactly the channels their social class gatekeep and moderate. Making mad bacon by publishing a book of cheesy tips for macking on girls wasn’t just embarrassing to them; it was an unacceptable loophole in the system they stake their identity on. The expected narrative was that I would struggle on my own, fail, give in and come back to the nest a wiser and more respectable young man. (I’ll let you know if that ever happens — but I wouldn’t hold your breath!)

In a magical twist worthy of a Spielberg film, it turns out there is a nascent secret society of pickup artists originating in the LA area, organized on underground BBSes, who were faintly amazed I had managed to get a semi-mainstream book out about macking. They promoted it wildly by word of mouth — my beleaguered publisher could never quite figure out how it exploded the way it did.

Visiting SexCon is my indulgent, early twenty-ninth birthday present to myself, and my coming thirtieth milestone is not filling me with joy and optimism. Indeed, I could be said to be on the verge of an early midlife crisis. It’s not that I’m a dork or a horndog — I’m both, and comfortable with being both (at least as long as I can stay a sexy dork). But I’m increasingly conscious that I’m a directionless slacker — I’ve done nothing truly significant with my life up to this point beyond perfecting some tricks for getting laid and satisfying girls.

Looks and aesthetics are pretty central to my story, so I should probably give you all a brief description of myself through my own eyes — even if you’ve probably seen my face on posters and ads everywhere by now. As I noted, I’m pretty short at five five. You may never have realized that — celebrities of both genders are, on average, four inches shorter than you think they are — and I’m careful with stage framing to downplay it. Also, not to put too fine a point on it, but in some Scandal Show promo material where I’m side by side with Livia, I’m standing on a box. Showbiz, ladies and gents!

Back in high school, this was a big deal to me, so I worked hard to develop a sense of style and sex appeal that counters it. (Insert stock Napoleon Complex joke here.) I succeeded, becoming some kind of weird-ass sex symbol in spite of the limitations I was born with. That means I’m all inspirational and shit, which is honestly pretty useful for selling books. I hope it doesn’t mean I have to go on Oprah, though. Talk about earning your Man Card only to set it on fire!

So yes, even as the disgraced loser I am at the very beginning, I still think I’m exquisitely handsome and eye-catchingly stylish — wavy blonde hair, smooth-shaven, unafraid to wear eccentric Victorian-influenced fashions in public, piercing blue eyes and a perfectly toned body. In retrospect my hair at this point is very ‘Lestat’, even though Interview won’t be out for another few years — guess I’m ahead of the curve!

I’m slender and graceful with subtle musculature; a gymnast’s figure more than a body-builder’s. I am buff, mind you — I work out fastidiously to keep those defined abs all the chicks go wild over — but not bulky. I don’t have the broad shoulders of a Kurt Russel or Arnold Schwarzenegger to make bulging biceps and thick thighs look powerful instead of just desperate and beefy.

I’d like to have that action-icon machismo look, but my bone structure is what it is and I’ve done pretty well with styles that work with it — if I do say so myself. On the spectrum between lantern-jawed, stubble-bedecked roughneck and baby-faced pretty boy, I guess I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ve got sharp cheekbones and faintly Latin features but a softer jawline than I’d really like, and a really youthful ingenue-face — I got carded at a bar two months back in spite of the fact that I’m turning thirty next year.