Tales from Pornland: Barber shops and Brothels

It’s good to be king

Back when I was drunk and gainfully employed as a writer for porn rag The Picture, it wasn’t uncommon for me to appear in many of the magazine’s photo shoots. No, I didn’t get my dick out or anything (it wouldn’t really make sense, unless they gave away magnifying glasses with every copy), but I did get to stand around and have my picture taken with spunky nude sheilas.

I was good at looking like an unshaven pervert, so when a topless hair cutting place opened up just down the road from the office, I was sent along to check it out. It was probably a good idea, too, because I looked like I belonged on a sex offenders register before I got there.

Alright, maybe I’m retarded

When I arrived, I was handed a beer and told to sit down in a big chair, and then a great-looking sort with a clear aversion to clothes came over and asked me how I wanted my hair.

“I reckon it’d look great between your legs,” I cheered, and she was so impressed that she was unable to reply, and just sort of acted like she wasn’t at all impressed. Ladies always play hard to get around me.

“A little off the top, ladies!”

Thankfully, she covered me in some sort of smock, which hid the fact that I was smuggling a boner harder than an Asian kid’s homework. I was able to keep myself from shaking and panting too hard, and the little babe gave me a haircut that made me look like slightly less of a cunt.

Just as she was finishing up, an old bloke in one of the other chairs let out a moan loud enough to shake the windows, and when he stood up he had an unusual white stain on the front of his slacks.

“Erm, it’s shaving cream,” he mumbled, and shuffled out of the shop.

That journalism degree was certainly worth it

Not long after that escapade, I visited a Kings Cross brothel. No, it wasn’t so I could pay for sex, but for another photo shoot. Local nightspot/cockroach hotel/knock shop Porky’s had recently banned NRL players from entering the premises (and entering the prostitutes), and I decided to roll up dressed as a footy player to see what would happen. And because I didn’t want to die alone, I took my friend Goggles along.

Were we meant to be footy players, or mega homos?

When we got there, a very large, very angry man was at the door, and he found my prank to be somewhat less humorous than I did. In fact, he was laughing as much as a militant lesbian at a Rodney Rude concert.

While my photographer snapped photos and laughed himself stupid, the gigantic man grabbed me and Goggles in a headlock, banged our noggins together, and tossed us into the street like human trash we are. Well, at least he didn’t toss us off in the street, although that would’ve been less painful.

This is why you should always be nice to blokes who can kill you

With no story and plenty of bruises, me and Goggles retreated to a dark staircase where, for some strange reason, we decided to masturbate to photos of naked sheilas and go to sleep on the piss-stained carpet. What can I say, I’ve had worse nights, and Goggles looks like he enjoyed himself, too.

He must’ve been reading one of my articles

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