Tag Archives: strippers

Dildo Warfare: A tale of strippers, sickos and unwanted hand shandies


A few years ago I headed up to the Gold Coast for two weeks on the piss with a good mate of mine called Dion. Alright, that’s not really his name; I’ve changed it for reasons that will soon become clear, and have gone with a name that suggests I have a big, black, bald-headed friend.

After an all-day drinking session that ended with us having watermelons thrown at us by angry locals, me and Dion staggered up to Orchid Avenue and rolled into a scummy nightclub called The Sugar Shack. It was ladies’ night, so there was wall-to-wall poontang. Unfortunately, there was also a massive Maori gentleman dancing around on stage with most of his gear off, and when he de-pantsed and started waving his sizable wang around, I felt very uncomfortable. Still, there was something familiar about him… about his face, I mean, not his wang.

Luckily, the dark-skinned sicko left the stage and me and Dion were able to get on with the important task of failing to pick up women. I was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a sailor hat, which probably didn’t help my cause. Well, it didn’t help me get the women, but it was like a red rag to a bull for champion homos, because while I was sipping my beer a door opened and I saw the Maori stripper standing buck-naked in a change room, a huge smile on his face and his doodle as hard as an ex-wife’s heart. He gave me a wink, pulled his dick a bit, and beckoned me inside. I looked around, sure he was after one of the lovely ladies that were paying me no attention, but he was certainly after me.

And then it hit me. No, not his dick, I mean it hit me where I recognised him from. He was on a dating show called Playing it Straight, where one chick has to decide which of 12 bozos she wants to make bang-bang with – with the twist being that half of them were gaybos. Anyway, this stripper, Chad, was a finalist, and the show only had a week left to run. He was a famous telly start and he wanted me. Me! Unfortunately, I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if he caught me, so me and Dion hid in a dark corner while Chad gyrated around the place, looking for us.

I’ve gotta say, though, it hurt my feelings that he didn’t look harder for me. I was wearing a fucking sailor hat, after all, and he was big and buff enough that if he’d really wanted me he could’ve picked me up and carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes. Funnily enough, a few days later, Chad won Playing it Straight – and revealed himself to be heterosexual. Just goes to show that you can’t trust reality TV… or gay dancing Maoris.

While hiding from Chad, I started chatting to this attractive blonde chick with a cracking set of watermelons, named Casey. I can’t remember what bullshit I was telling her, but it must’ve worked because we started pashing under a fake palm tree. She had three friends with her – another attractive blonde, a fat chick who just sat there eating meat pies and farting, her fat rolls drooling onto the floor like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and some nonce of a bloke who appeared to be wearing a picnic blanket for a shirt. Dion homed in on the blonde and did his best to ignore the two freaks, and I did my best to feel my chick’s tits. Romance certainly ain’t dead.

Turned out the bloke in the picnic blanket was called Nathan, and wasn’t a huge fan of having sex with women. I managed to con an invitation back to Casey’s place, but she said she couldn’t leave until Nathan had found a fella to spend the night with. I’m a problem solver, so I pointed at Dion and said, “He’s gay. He’ll fuck Nathan.” Twenty seconds later we were out the door, with Dion none the wiser that he had been targeted for spermination by a very horny Nathan, who kept licking his lips in anticipation. He soon got an idea, though, because the pervert kept rubbing his leg and winking at him. I dunno, maybe Dion thought Nathan just had cerebral palsy or something.

We got back to their house and it was a dump. Not only was there rubbish and broken furniture all over the place, but they had a dog that liked to shit in the house, and instead of cleaning up after it they just chucked some newspaper down over it. It was as disgusting as seeing Iain Hewitson naked. Anyway, I was young, dumb and full of cum (my own, not Chad’s) so I headed off to a bedroom with this Casey bird. Much to Dion’s disappointed, the attractive friend pissed off, leaving him alone in the living room while I got on with the task of disappointing Casey.

I was a few minutes into a performance that would make a fur seal ashamed when I heard a scream from the living room, followed by crashing sounds. I pulled on my novelty boxer shorts and raced out to see a very angry Dion throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down at a terrified Nathan. “He tried to wank me off in my sleep!” screeched Dion, then threw a dying pot plant at his molester.

Nathan picked up a handful of dog turds and threw them back at Dion, who dodged them before they splattered all over the wall. If anything, it added to the ambiance of the place. I stood back, enjoying the bizarre spectacle, until Nathan took aim at me with a broken toaster. I ducked the deadly appliance and fired back with the leg of a chair. We were tearing the place apart and backing Nathan into a corner, when I spied a bag full of sex toys under a dirty table. I reach down and picked up a huge purple dildo and hurled it at Nathan, conking him on the head. Dion pulled out a butt plug and chucked it, and Nathan must’ve liked that because he tried to catch it in his mouth but ended up sprawled on the floor in a puddle of dog urine instead.

Dion plucked out a set of anal beads, and the last thing I saw before returning to bed (well, it wasn’t really a bed, it was more like a pile of towels in the corner of a room) with Casey was Dion choking out Nathan with the beads. Three minutes later I was finished, the bird was unsatisfied and I was dreaming the dreams of kings.

I woke up a few hours later and snuck out of the room, and went to find Dion. He wasn’t in the living room, or the brasco, so I rang his phone. I heard it blaring away in one of the rooms, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely naked and porking the fat bird from behind while she munched on a sausage roll. It looked like an ant on a scoop of ice cream, and her fat rolls were hypnotic as they jiggled back and forth in time with Dion’s thrusts. I left him to it, and a few minutes later he swaggered out the door, proud as punch, and we got the fuck out of that hell hole. I had to step over an unconscious Nathan on my way out.

It was a long walk home, so we picked up a case of beer and got back into it. When I got back to our unit, I poured Dettol all over my old fella. You can never be too careful.

A few nights later, we saw the big bird pull up in her rustbucket car outside of the Sugar Shack and get out with Casey. I told Dion to shove a banana up her tailpipe. “Why not?” he chuckled. “I’ve already done it once!”


Tales From Pornland: The World Tour of Toowoomba

Hey, who invited the sex pest?

Journalism is the sort of career that takes you places. America, China, the Middle East – there are stories all over the world, and they all need someone to write about them. Of course, in the first seven or so years of my career the furthest I got was Cronulla, but I assume I’m the exception that proves the rule.

So when the opportunity came up to fly to Toowoomba for the opening of the city’s first strip club, The Vault on Ruthven, I was all over it. Of course, I didn’t realise that Toowoomba is sort of in the middle of nowhere, and that there’s no airport, but I didn’t let that stop me. It was a chance to get out of the office, so I booked my flights and headed to Queensland.

It took two trains, a plane and two buses to reach the Garden City, and after six or seven hours of traveling, I was thirsty. Thankfully, I was met at the bus stop by The Vault’s owner, Thor (no, he didn’t have a huge hammer, or a beard), and he was just as thirsty as me. He took me up to the club, where he poured me a beer and told me I wouldn’t be paying for a thing all night. Shit a brick, nothing tastes as good as free beer!

I’m not gunna lie, I made the most of Thor’s hospitality, and enjoyed a bucketload of beautiful beers as he took me on a tour of the city’s best pubs. I’ve never been treated like a celebrity before, so it was brilliant, and Toowoomba really is a nice place. It’s definitely a step back in time, with a church on every corner, but the place has a great vibe to it and really is nicely presented. But I wasn’t there to admire the architecture, I was there to get monstrously drunk and perv on nude sheilas, and I succeeded at both.

I wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with her!

After checking into my hotel (and being mistaken for a stripper by the lady at the front desk – there might be a career in it for me), I wobbled back to the club and was surprised to see a decent line forming out the front. I felt like a golden god as I swaggered up to the hefty bloke on the door and made my way inside while the other chumps waited. Shit, I could get used to this celebrity stuff.

It was choc-a-bloc inside, with hundreds of horny dudes drooling over the many spunks in attendance. Everywhere I looked, there were tits and fannies, so I grabbed another beer and settled in at the VIP table, next to a rapper named K-Nob and some sort of extreme sport yo bro dude called Gravy. K-Nob’s name was certainly appropriate, and the only thing extreme about Gravy was how extremely stupid his name was. But I wouldn’t have cared if I was seated between Hitler and Hotdogs from Big Brother, because all I cared about were the ladies on stage. And the beer, of which I consumed enough to drown a fish.

The girls on stage were very talented, and by that I mean they all had great jugs. Most of them were amateurs competing for the title of Miss Vault, with a handful of Oz’s best clothes-removers along for the ride. Actually, they were much more than a handful!

Would, would, would, would, would, would, would, would…

As I slipped further into the warm embrace of blackout drunkenness, I must’ve become very charming because, despite having spew all down my shirt, a very pretty young lady too a keen interest in me. Now, I’m a smart guy, but despite being at a special guest at a strip club, and there being no girls other than strippers in attendance, and barely being able to talk, and having a small amount of sick on my shirt, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve pulled!”

It’s not the first time I’ve been convinced a stripper actually liked me and it won’t be the last, but the chick was fuckin’ smokin’, so I rolled with it. I mean, it was all free and it was nice to get some attention from someone other than the fat, bearded chick who lives next door to me (hi, Glenda!), so I ended up having a sweet night. I partied like a maniac, made a fuckwit of myself, lost my female companion in the crowd (on reflection, she probably finished her shift), danced in a cage and even managed to wobble on stage for a photo, then promptly fell off stage and into the crowd.

I don’t remember what happened after that, but let’s just say that it was wild, and that I may have touched some boobs at one point. They basically had to pour me out the door at the end of it.

I ended up staggering back to the hotel alone, and was confused and angered when my key wouldn’t open my door. I banged on the door and yelled out like an idiot, and a few minutes later – as if by magic – it opened. It was opened by magic, though, it was opened by the little old lady who was staying in there, and she then went on to point out that I was on the wrong floor. She also kneed me in the nuts which, on reflection, probably wasn’t unreasonable behaviour.

When I woke up on the floor the next morning, it felt like skinheads had been tapdancing on me in the night. After spewing up a few litres of warm beer, I set out on the seven-hour trip home. As I did my best not to shit myself on public transport, I was able to reflect on an odd and wonderful 24 hours, where I was treated like a kind and acted like homeless drunk, spent time with beautiful women and was assaulted by a grannie. A month later, I no longer worked at The Picture, and my story on The Vault was pulled for reasons I’ll never understand. I like to think of it as my last hurrah in the world of porn, a final wild story that came when work was not an enjoyable place for me. I’d like to take the opportunity to thank Thor for his hospitality, and recommend that if you’re in the area, drop into The Vault.

Because, really, who needs exotic locations and a respectable job when you’ve got tits?

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