#21 AVN Awards Convention, January 2017, Vegas, Nevada
A Naked First Lady and the Piss Pot at the End of the Rainbow
by Tzvi Peckar the Third
I'm off to the 2017 AVN Awards Convention, Las Vegas Nevada. They have a Trump Tower in Vegas. Off the strip. You gotta Uber or Taxi there. I’m not going there. I’m tagging along my way into the Hard Rock for the next two nights. Not going to attend the inauguration or the actual AVN awards. I'm going to walk around and let the world figure it out. Whatever gets splooged on my page can be blamed on the new President, in honor of his retarded desire to allow underage girls get knocked-up by their boyfriends whose jobs will be replaced by robots before they even graduate Junior High and can't get their baby mamas' diapers because Wal-Mart employees are already on EBT, but can cash in on a little porn screen time in Florida for a few grand, or ride a good catch on a webcam and pump that account while it keeps logging in. Don’t become a hooker. Strip to make money. Don’t become a hooker or a Republican / Unless you become a hooker for a Republican, then tape your pillow talk and take a pict of you holding his dick.
Friday. Is there a difference between Vegas and Vegas with the Adult Video News Award conference? Maybe at noon. Noon on a Friday in Vegas is usually resigned to a calm bustling of hotel employees tending to preparations for the onslaught of an impending Friday night. Carpet cleaning. Room cleaning. Slot machine dusting. And the constant revolving of the ashtrays. You can still smoke indoors at the casinos, but that State right is starting to suffocate under the citywide family oriented immigration of the American vacation. Today, on the noon hour, the Hard Rock is early to rise and the palace of porn is popping and spotted across a many other monstrosities called Hotel Casinos while four other national conventions are buzz into their Friday after three days of elbow rubs, wink-winks, and a couple of nods toward the incoming President Elect. Maybe he already spoke? Maybe no one cared? Maybe all the Concrete Convention attendees have holed themselves up in their 3 star hotels watching the horror of the cabinet get sworn in? Maybe they’re watching the parade? I should have gone straight to Vegas' Trump Tower to see the bloated real-estate tycoon plaster himself with kissy, kiss praises to his Master Priebus across all the big screens of the golden hotel that by night looks like a massive black monolith eager to fund the monkeys with pitchfork and machetes for the racial war insisted by the propagandist tickling Trump's testacies way into the Oval Office, or like Trump likes to remind himself, the Oral Office where he can get more than a Blowjob from each and every one of his constituents for appeasing to his, "Grab the Pussy and lick my anus," remarks of Alternative Facts.
“These girls are scantily clad,” in the casino, the circular lobby of the Hard Rock, the drum. Not stripper scant, no G-strings disappearing in the casino. Slightly sluttier, better hipped up platform stilettos than the usual evening in Vegas, but its noon. I think other’s notice. They have a buzz. I need credentials. 3rd Floor. I’m not going for Red Carpet, I just want to get in for free, maybe write this story. “No. I don’t really need Red Carpet. I’m not videoing nothing,” but he insists on trying for me, calling me later. He never calls. Won’t be surprised. Probably forgot. They give me a Press Badge and here we go. I’m shacking up with another freeloading AVN attendee. Her volunteering debt to societal curiosity got us a room in the Hard Rock and a reason to skip the other convention’s golden confederatee raining upon my conscious and all over the West Wing. The room is sweet. Dark. Rock Star. Dark, dark Purple, maybe Purple and black…Dark. Mirrored. Massive windows, dead mid day of an empty lot and the strip three mighty Vegas blocks away.
Drinks are twelve bucks, but that’s beside the point ‘cause neither of us are paying six for Well. We backtrack to the liquor store a block and a half away, unaware of Liquor World directly across the HardRock.
There are more people in the Hard Rock Lobby when we get back. We’re passing a few sluttier ladies through mass of t-shirts, beer bellies, back-packed collectors, producers, marketers, actresses, women and men. We’re straight to the elevator to mix her drink in the room. The inner-elevator doors have a giant ass, kept G-rated with a G-string pair of jeans. The ass parts, I have to refocus on the entering people. We push out. Here we go. No Trump. He’s so distracting. A distraction. Writing in hindsight does not make it easier. So we mix, we drink, we elevator, we trot to the convention, through security, into thehall into the first room and…“There’s Ron Jeremy,” I point out. Ron Jeremy’s signing autographs. A line of dudes. They dig the guy. He “pounds, pounded so much pussy.” Down the outer-rim of the convention hall is a line of kink supply. Anal play, very popular for the supplier. Robo-Booties. I don’t touch. It’s like a mini-chick. I remember to hit my vape and spund a shot or two from my flask. Okay, Robo-Partial Sex Robots. Proportionally fine, no arms, no legs, a well-crafted vagina, nice tits, but smaller than the little beauty in AHS: Freaks. I’m not into that shrunken Hobbit shit. But now it’s Dungeon’s and Dragons the sexy side of the die. Whips, chains, braces, laces, cases, tasers, sign a release form and we’ll pepper spray your asshole. IPhones and Androids capture a Dom-astration on a foot high rise. Three girls. Leather, stilettos. The Long Orange haired Dom preps a whip. The other is being accosted by the third on a red leather X rig.
Black booty, black hoochie, negative ass white tooty, hefty Latin chinch-chos, bodacious black, white, florescent footies, and all the like, everywhere, with the boys all wide-eyed, surrounded, closed in, rubbed up against, selfied with time and time again. Down another hall of booths in this sea of sponsored by edans, and sodomns, and gomorrahs…a nearly all inclusive jackoff house, “I masturbated so many times today,” says the slim polo shirt to his foot shorter pear of a balding pal as they squeeze between me and my roomdate. “Did he grab your pussy?” I ask her. She shakes her head. “He mustn’t have addressed the nation yet. What time is it?” I ask her. “Four,” she replies checking her phone then snapping a shot of the Free Books booth. I turn. “Hello,” the middleman behind the booth addresses me, “All these books are free.” There are a lot of books on this table. I can’t catch a single title. “Really?” I ask back. “Yes. We’re the Vegas Christian Group and we would love for you to take any of these books.” I tilt my Skatanic Rednecks Truckers’ brim up, “I want them all.” He smiles, leans forward, “You can have them son.” I have no bag. I have to come back later. “Later,” I say. He sits up straight. “Come back please. We’re here all weekend.” He knows exactly where he is. So does his team of team of two wholesome women. They can’t stop smiling. People are being very nice to them. They are having a good time. A WebCam hall of girls testing new vibrator products with their laptops out catching all the convention attendees in fisheye passing behind her is right around their corner. We’re all Porn Stars today. Even these good Christians, smiling their prayers away to all us fine adults and the kids outside in the Casino lobby because Vegas is the new Family Vacation spot and either the parents knew exactly which weekend they booked a two night stay at the Hard Rock or they didn’t and little six year old Eddie is seeing a lot of hoochie walk by his 3 foot eye line. Insert “Jesus Loves Porn Stars” on-sight silk screening booth. There is also a dude with a human size 3D scanner surrounded by a curtain that makes miniature sculptures of naked women…moving right along.
I’m solo. I got a text from Brock Doom. He wants to get high. I had parted off from my chaperone, sponsor, roomdate. She’s gone upstairs to jerk off and take a nap before the nightlife happens and she has to work the Kink Lair Annual AVN party. I meet Brock outside. He has an entourage. A photographer and a girl Porn Star. Brock is prepared with a tightly rolled long. I’m hoping no herpes. I’m checking the outbreaks, nothing. I’m thinking I’m good to go. Check twice. You think if you thought you were going to get herpes by punching a voter chad, a good number of people would have thought twice about voting for Trump…one might say that would be giving the American Public, even the educated ones, too much credit, when in facts, not alternative facts, the American Public had a number of reasons even worse than lip herpes not to punch that chad, but a good number of people, even educated ones, did not think twice enough without a herpes threat when they voted for- They pass me the blunt, I hit it. We all hit it. Burn it down. “I have to go stand at the booth and sign headshots,” Brock says, “This way,” and he leads me into a different entrance to the convention, the official one, and we hit a roadblock. The security guard says, “This is for fans only,” and I’m super confused. “Fans? But we have All Access?” Brock demands fluffing his Porn Star Pass, “And he’s Press,” pulling up my necklace badge and presenting the credential to the guard. “That’s why we have a separate entrance for you. Through the Casino,” and he makes us walk all the way around that massive Hard Cock of a Café and worst of all through the front doors where you have to see the 311 drum set. 311? Are you fucking kidding me? And people thought it was funny that Trumperella couldn’t get anyone decent to play at his ball? 311. Front doors of the Hard Rock Café. I need to write a comment for the comment box on this foul.
Drop off Brock in his Dick shirt to sign titties and cocks alike. FLASH. A photographer’s popping off shots after shots beside me, I get one off; two girls grinding in their lingerie, one bent forward bracing her self on the brass railing. This room is all actual Porn Stars signing off their nudie body shots, taking selfies with their fans, hamming it up, loving each and everyone with equal sluttiness. Sluttiness is not judged by what it is, but where the girl herself draws her line. Her line does not equal less sluttiness. No. Her line is as far as she goes, but if she gives her best then a simple look of an eye could have you cumming in your pants and spending plenty of nights and mornings blowing your load swiping through the five selfies you got with that sexy soft top, with the sexy bottom. Other slutty’s include a twerk job, and poses for the dollar with her tennis shoes on, and the boys are good for it cause they came already when they got in line watching what the other twenty-five guys in front of you are about to indulge in, collecting mad shots with their phones. And on stage a burlesque show and two Porn Stars being interviewed live. I missed their names. The audience is shiny. Bowling balls. All good. Fits the stereotype. But these homies got dollars. Throwing rain one weekend a year in Vegas. Getting it live. Real time. Strip-clubs must be popping tonight, maybe in the morning. Get the vibe these guys are gonna wait it out in the Hard Cock till 4am when the crowded slut chicks have vanished from the Casino lobby. They will disappear. They will leave the masses. They will go somewhere. And I remember what that wise man had admitted in the hall, “I have masturbated so many times today.” They’re gonna go to the pole palace. That pole palace will give them another level of defeat, and in the shower they’ll blow one more and hit the sheets…until then there must be more.
vil Angel. Chocolate Dildo bouquets. Girls stripping out of dresses and wandering in their lingerie instead. More robot armless, legless vaginas, still a little small. Full robots. Their eyes. Dead but lively and beautifully crafted. They are the comic girls you can cuddle and fuck. Pirates in the Lair whipping hags. Fleshlight display of severed robot vaginas. Robot Dick penetrating Dildo. In and Out, In and Out. Devil horn implant Porn Stars. Busty Doms. More Robot Women. They’re hanging. On white couches. 90’s NYC Tunnel Club styles of hot and awesome, classy. The white trash American flag bikini bot sucking on a strap-on on a glamor girl bot. It’s the most happening, yet inanimate, party in this place. Raver Post-Post-Industrial getting her picts shot. Her side guy’s Nine Inch Nailed out down to a robotic metal boned leg from his knee down. They are authentic. No alternative facts here. They are for real. A dog in a Porn Star chair. He’s got panties on. Is he signing picts too?
Drinking. Vaping, high-THC-count Indica, Blazedica, Jetty. Dinner. Pizza. Outside the HardRock. 2nd Liquor store shop. We have Adderall. Two pills. Tip out a few beads from the pill casing, lick ‘em. They are pore-sized beads. I can feel them. I don’t taste ‘em. Invisible taste. But they roll into your pores like a child’s Tic-Tac-Toe pinball game. But the Adderall beads are microscopically too fat, they don’t go all the way in. They stop. I can feel them. I feel them forever. Now we change into our evening garb. Black suit, black shirt, black Docs. Black chainmail brassiere, leather strap leg wraps, leather black G-string, black belly straps; like tefillin on the bottom half of a woman, and a third eye gem sticker, black diamond bling stilettos. We’re off to the Kink Party, the Lair Party. Pint of Jack packed. Gin and Tonic in a Trenta Starbucks cup. Finger tips of Adderall.
-Leather, Lace, Evening Wear, Expensive Drinks, Tables and Chairs, No where to dance, A few performances, burlesque clown-play, chair-play, special pole-performances, and two side Play-Areas equipped with rigs, and whips, and chains, and tasers, ropes, sign a waiver and get your ass whipped. Kink Party.
Lights out perves. Adderall. Wasn’t drunk all night. Finished the pint in two hours. Adderall tricked me. Third hour and I’m wasted. I’m fucking wasted as fuckville. She’s wasted going too. We’re fucking wasted. “How much did you end up drinking?” her bottle of gin on the counter a blur in the dark. She breathes, “That whole cup,” she sways, “Ha, I’m drunk.” The Vegas lights of the strip a half a mile away make a nice skyline. She should see that. “Here, look this way,” and I turn her head and squeeze her nipple.
Checking my photos for evidence of the next morning activities. There are like 12 hours missing. I guess I was up at 3pm. “No dude, we already went out for breakfast,” she says from her bed. “We did?” She turns toward me. She is fully dressed under her sheet. “Are you done with your nap?” Nap? “We watched the Women’s March and then took a nap dude,” she reminds me. “That March was Tits,” I say. “That’s rude,” she childishly scolds me. “I didn’t mean…Fuck those guys. That Women’s March was all right. Each and every one of them. The chicks with dicks are right too. Fuck those fucking adminis-castration assholes. I didn’t want to think about that Priebus Puppet today. I didn’t mean to say tits. Shit,” she set me off, so I tap the Adderall, “Hey we need that tonight,” she clamors. “I’m going to look at porn before it all closes,” and I’m outey back downstairs for the last day activities before the Awards Ceremony that I did not get sneaky passes for.
I got 20 mins before doors close on this convention. The Lobbyists are either still wasted and tried to get there, but passed back out on the couches, or they’re still weeping over yesterday’s shit show that I have still miraculously avoided seeing, and for this I feel blessed by the porn-show and the Women’s March. Even the girls are lazy lounging by the slots on their phones this end of an afternoon as they roll out the Red Carpet for the Splooge Trophies. When is some one going to use all the Awards ever given and make a Jerk-Off Video with them? That would be a classic. You could call it, “Trumping the Trophies of a Golden Generation.
Inside the convention is different. Inside is the last free wheeling hustle. A hustle usually saved for the girls on film or stage, but for these past few days the fan owns the hustle. The fan gets it real time, even the rows of WebCam girls still going at it with only 20 mins left of the entire convention, and they’ve lost some patience with the rules they broke all along the way. Cootchie supreme. Guys in wheelchairs getting better views. Girl on girl. Full body photos stacked in piles for take-aways. A Sexy Psychedelic Coloring Book flier in every Porn Stars’ hand. Bad Dragon lizard dick shaped Dildos and Vibrators. Tyler Bradberry is behind the counter. “Well Hello Tyler,” I casually say to a pal of a billion years. “Shooting a doc for Bad Dragon and Lloyd Kaufman. Let’s get drunk. Cheap drinks at Ellis Island up the street,” he invites me. “Yes,” and I compliment his Jeffery Dahmer rims. “Yeah I’m getting old. Can’t see,” is him missing the joke. Moving along corporate slut alley in the Hard Rock Convention center I spy with my lizard eye- less people here. 15mins to go. People are packing up. In these last precious Last Call minutes Guys are snapping ten times more Selfies with girls willing to act sexual around them because they are sexual all the time unlike the women in their lives that either are their mates, or just co-workers, or females that live their lives around them that they do not know. No. These women, girls, here are wired to want to fuck. That’s what these guys like. That’s what they like to believe. Think. Pretend. And this is Disneyland for their dicks. And that slutty one who let him touch her tit is the Snow White he met when he we five. And this one that licked his ear is the Ariel of his wet dreams at eleven, while Beauty blew him in the park at 14, that they never had again. These are their Princesses. And a single Selfie cums a hundred different ways.
I heard a rumor, cause I still don’t want to believe, that the Pool at the Hard Rock looked like the Inauguration of the Priebus Puppet. So, as the go getting journalist I am, I find my way to the Hard Rock Pools, and upon stepping outside I, to my glory, saw the Pools were under renovation, and I assumed this meant new jobs, but as I wandered through the massive intertwining step paths to and through all the pools, I saw no construction being done. Destruction. They were chipping away at the pool walls. Screwing it up worse first so they can build back up later. But no one was working today, and there were no sunbathers. And I thought to myself, “No, this is Fake News. I did not go to the inauguration, so the idea this place looks like it, is a fallacy. This place is deserted without me. That would make more sense.” And I tremble to think, “He could get four more years if he kills, deports, and imprisons a third of the population,” and then in the fantasy world in which we live where deportation and imprisonment will happen to the first 3.5 million of voters who fraud-ed the system with pardons to Steve Bannon and the bunch. Fines on the counties that allowed it. Closing Voting stations. Fix the electoral so it better reflects New America now that voting fraud has locked up all the bad guys and the only people who are left are right-wing Christians and the Corporations that feed their churches, and #T2 #TyrantTrump Telepathically living through the Dynasty that is the Trump bloodline of perfect puppetry.
Convention Closed. Go home. Jerkoff. Don’t crowd the Red Carpet. I’m Adderall-ed up and nothing exciting is going to happen until 6ish when the Explicit Actors, Actresses, Directors, and Producers of the World dress themselves up to the 9s and downright more wholesome than some of those slut whores at the Oscars with their nearly revealed million a movie nipples and the G-string under the transparent Gucci special. The Porn Stars are not wearing slutty clothes. They have all chosen Modern Night Out gear if attending a classy event and you could be slutty about it if you want. I appreciate their Red Carpet. I think they do as well. They put those Inauguration Ball picts to shame, and I’m not being facetious about that. That’s real news. That’s Absolute Facts. These Porn Stars are appreciative, classy, upstanding, happy, joyous, and not grandstanding…and that’s rare for even regular people who don’t make their living cumming and fucking. And the crowd looks from a distance like the same misogynistic assholes who voted for Trump with earnest feelings in their hearts to his example, but no they are not them, these bowling ball heads, and pears, and ties with Androids, and laptops, and pads, laughing and having a good time without judgment or too much pay, consensual on the surface, casual understanding and pride in the Porn Star boundaries while out in the Casino is the Real American with an AutoLot small business to run rolls snake eyes with another grand for his daughter’s tuition to that Redneck Ivy League.
Story sponsored by @SexyPsychedelicColoringBook
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