“Yeah, I have a Ku Klux Klan outfit, so what?”
That’s how I was going to start this review, but truth is I very much hate the damn thing and wish I could get rid of it. Over the past eight years of owning my home, I’ve gone to great lengths to discard some sketchy shit that has been sent to my house to review and that, for whatever reason, I’ve held on to over the years.
I’ve had the bottom of a washing-machine box full of old, cumbersome VHS porn fall out in my arms at the local dump. I’ve filled convenience-store dumpsters with bags full of transsexual DVDs that I could not trade or even give away to transients I met on the street. I’ve thrown duffel bags of worn-out and/or melted silicone dildos off highway overpasses, in hopes of not allowing my garbagemen to find out the true depths of my sexual deviance. (Ever since, I’ve wondered why two dildos melt together when stored on top of each other.) But when it comes to the old yellow plastic bag that the KKK outfit has sat in for the past decade, I’ve never been able to bring myself to even touch it.
For the record, regardless of how much I enjoy sporting a Hitler mustache and making jokes at the expense of old Hitzy, there was never a time when I was mildly interested in the KKK, even for comedic value; I hate white people just as much as the next guy, and certainly more than every other race. I’m not entirely sure how the damn thing came into my possession. It was purchased online and worn by my good friend and former colleague Dave Carnie for the photo to the left, which ran in the now-defunct rabble-rousing skateboard magazine Big Brother’s race-themed “White Issue.” My best guess is that when Larry Flynt killed the magazine in 2004, we were given 24 hours to clean out the offices, and in a mad scramble our possessions were boxed up haphazardly and shipped to our various homes.
We love costumes in our house. We have bins and bins of masks and outfits and wigs and such, but nothing like the Klan robe and hood. They’re pure evil. Like the evil ring in The Hobbit, they laid dormant in a storage facility for many years… until we moved into our home and my wife found them while unpacking. Of course, my first instinct was to get her to try on the hood in the nude for some sexy photos, but she would have no part of it. I tried it on and immediately threw it to the floor as if it were burning my face. I felt like I couldn’t breathe in the thing; it was as if 150 years’ worth of dumb rednecks were standing on my chest as they drowned me in a shallow puddle of moonshine. But I didn’t know what to do with it; I certainly wasn’t going to leave it in my trash can for my African-American garbagemen to find. So I stuck it back in the attic until I could figure out how to properly dispose of it.
Dir: Nicholas Steele
In a past life I was Jacques Cousteau, traveling the globe in search of adventure. Just a short baker’s dozen years ago, I spent no less than 28 days a month abroad on skateboarding tours. I was home so infrequently that I opted to no longer rent an apartment, but rather slept in any stranger’s bed for a night or under my desk at the legendary, defunct skate mag Big Brother. At some point I met my wife, moved back to New Jersey, had two sons, and settled into a peaceful life of domesticity in the suburbs.
Yet not one day passes that I don’t crave the open air of a strange and new place, wanting to find myself in inexplicable predicaments on foreign soil and barely escaping with my life. To try and spice things up, I’ve gotten myself into three car chases in the past two years, and on several occasions have just gotten in my car and driven for hours with no destination in mind. I try my best to take the family on the road a few times a year, but those adventures are different. The adrenaline rush tends to center around if the kids are going to break something or if we can pull over fast enough to avoid one of them shitting his pants.
In the immortal words of Clark W. Griswold: “I wanna paint, I wanna sculpt something massive… I want to… God, I just have a creative urge.” One that only a road trip can quench. Lucky for me I work for Vans, the greatest skate-shoe company on earth, and they’ve been kind enough to take me on a three-week European vacation. I’m writing this on the eve of my departure, and as excited as I am to mix it up overseas, I am beginning to stress out.
This will be the longest I’ve ever been away from my sons. I’m missing my firstborn’s first day of school and his fourth birthday. Worst yet, what really has me sick to my stomach is that I won’t be getting laid for 21 days. I haven’t gone that long since I first discovered the fuzzy britches of a woman. I don’t know that I’ll be able to handle it. So, I sat my wife down and discussed my options. I told her the tour had a one-night stay scheduled in Amsterdam and that I needed closure. She understood, gave me her consent, but feared for my safety.
The story goes that 11 years ago, in the early stages of our courtship, I found myself in the red-light district of Amsterdam. Not wanting to cheat on my new lady, I instead opted to buy a bag full of oblong vegetables for a prostitute to use as sex toys while I masturbated: no touching involved, and I’d gladly pay full freight. Turns out girls over there don’t care much for veggies. Every gal scoffed at the proposition; one sex worker got so angry that she called the enormous Moroccan security guards and nearly had me beaten senseless.
Babysit My Ass
Dir: Joey Silvera
In April, after a battery of tests, at age three and a half, my firstborn son was diagnosed on the autism spectrum. Perhaps I should have realized something was up sooner—like at ten months when he lined 34 pancake bites across his highchair tray equidistant apart from each other in a straight line. Or at age two when he became very particular about how his toys and books were put away and any deviation would result in a meltdown. But I had no idea what signs to look for. I was a first-time parent with no father to ask for guidance. It took my son’s preschool teacher to tell me his humming and outbursts warranted professional examination.
It seemed just as the diagnosis came back that things were at their worst; meltdowns and outbursts were becoming violent, and he nearly broke my wife’s nose with a kick to the face in one particular instance. I wrapped him up in my love and rocked him back and forth to calm him down. I whispered in his ear how bad it is to hit people.
July 1 marked my seventh wedding anniversary and I found myself in a car headed for Maine on a camping trip with my family. The campsite, as you would hope, smelled of inbreeding and white trash from various parts of America. The people at the cabin next door to ours were from Ohio. The wife and husband both wore glasses, giving them the appearance of being learned; I realized this to be false advertisement when their five-year-old daughter rode up on her bicycle and said, “Mommy! Drinky!” and proceeded to hop off her bike and run over to her mother who was simultaneously whipping out her deflated tit to put in the child’s mouth.
The swimming pool was ice-cold but had four hot tubs in a row beside it. My son liked to jump in the freezing cold water, letting his temperature drop, then hop in each of the hot tubs for exactly 34 seconds before moving on to the next. Two hot tubs were marked under 18 and two were marked over 18. He can already read but he chose not to heed the signs and I didn’t stop him; he was enjoying himself.
A 40-year-old redneck guido (picture a mullet and gold chain, Oakley Blades, and a Pam Anderson barbwire arm tattoo) tried to regulate a hot tub for him and his bro. My son paid him no mind and slid into their tub. The guy told my son, “No kids allowed.” My son ignored him and continued to count to 34. I told the fucker, “It’s fine, I’m his dad.” He kept on and pointed to the sign and said it was 18 and over. I looked at him and laughed. He had no idea how important counting to 34 was to my boy, and I wasn’t going to tell him. It was none of his goddamn business, and I wasn’t going to give my son a “He’s special” crutch to walk around with his whole life. If his wild eccentricities make him happy, there’s no reason for him or anyone else to apologize for them. I told the Kenny Powers stunt double, “It’s a campground. We’re all on vacation. Chill out.”
With that he leapt out of the water and puffed up in my face. He was begging me to pummel him senseless and fill that tub full of blood, and it took everything I had to restrain myself.
“You are fighting in defense of a hot tub, you cocksucker. I am fighting for my son. Who do you think is going to win that fight?” I asked him. Maybe his Oakley Blades made him a learned man for that instant because he let it go.
It was the closest I’ve come to beating a man in front of my son. I feel awful he saw me that way, and I could tell in his fearful eyes that it resonated in him.
“Thirty-four?” I asked him.
“Do you want ice cream?”
As we walked for a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles he asked, “Were you going to hit that man, Daddy?”
“No, boy. We don’t hit.”
Read more Skinema from our past issues here.
No Warning 7: Ambushed
Dir: Aiden Riley
Two weeks before writing this, I was in sunny Los Angeles with VICE’s global editor, Andy Capper, filming retired porn star Belladonna for an upcoming episode of my Skinema show. The family was back in New Jersey, and I could drink until sunrise, pick fights with Parisians, and walk around my hotel room nude; I was on vacation without a care in the world. I should have just stayed in LA, because the day I arrived back home in New Jersey the airport was full of fearful folk running around with their hands above their heads, doing the Steve Martin and screaming, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”
We were 24 hours away from getting ass-raped by Hurricane Sandy. California refuses to acknowledge any part of the country outside its borders, so during the week I was out there I had heard nothing of this megastorm. I had to prepare my home, my skate shops, my family, and my world in general for outright disaster, and I was very late to the party. None of the stores in or around my town had any generators, flashlights, food, or really anything left on the shelves.
Luckily, every skateboard filmer owns a generator, and my friend R.B. Umali was kind enough to lend me his since he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to run it in his Manhattan apartment once Sandy hit. Less than two hours before the city closed the Holland Tunnel, I raced in and out of NYC to grab the only hope I had of keeping my family warm and our fridge running.
Thankfully, I was spared. My home received only minimal damage, my shops were unscathed, and I was only without power for a week. But the rest of New Jersey was absolutely devastated. My hometown and the boyhood home of Jon Bon Jovi, Sayreville, was flooded by the Raritan River at high tide on the night of October 28, and the full moon only brought the surge farther in. Houses are now kindling. The high-water marks show that, in some places, the surge reached well above head-high. Many good, hardworking people lost their homes, which were condemned because they were flooded with toxic water contaminated by a feces-filled sewage plant on one side of the river and the Edgeboro landfill on the other. Every town in New Jersey along the river, the Atlantic Ocean, and Raritan Bay suffered the same fate. I have been overwhelmed with sadness and despair for my fellow New Jerseyans.
In the aftermath, while delivering food and warm clothes to those in need, I have seen underdressed infants shivering in cold and dark homes without power; as of press time, there have been no signs of power being restored, and aid workers are nowhere to be found. One father I met was working diligently, without light or heat, to cut open all the walls on the first floor of his house in an attempt to remove the drenched and damaged drywall and insulation before mold set in. He told me that FEMA had cut him a check. I asked whether it would cover the damage, and he laughed and said, “It wouldn’t even cover a new heating unit.” And because his property had been rezoned two years ago, he was without flood insurance. With tears in his eyes, he removed his glove to shake my hand and thank me for the box of donated clothes that skate companies had sent me. His palms were so cold it was like shaking hands with a corpse.
Someone in California texted me, asking, “Is everything back to normal over there? The national news isn’t covering it anymore.” I laughed. We are going to have to create a new definition for “normal,” because things will never, ever be the same for the people of New Jersey.
Dir: Joanna Angel
I started taking steroids yesterday as an act of thanks and joyous celebration. I felt it was my duty as a native of New Jersey because the pieces of shit on the most atrocious public-relations disaster in the history of the Garden State, Jersey Shore, are not returning for another season. Hopefully by the time you read this my balls will have shrunk to a microscopic size (like those of the cast of the show), and I’ll be starting senseless bar fights because I have no other way to channel my latent homosexuality.
Sadly, the steroids I’ve been prescribed are not the kind that will turn me into the Incredible Hulk. I asked the doctor how long before I’d be able to lift cars above my head. She laughed and said, “You’re thinking of anabolic steroids. These steroids are to get rid of that hacking cough you’ve had for three months. The only real side effect is that you’ll have very vivid dreams.”
I was hoping for wet dreams, but instead got an entirely different brand of delight. Last night I dreamed I was on a road trip, heading to the Grand Canyon with five other fellows. We stopped at a greasy spoon on some desert highway in some nowhere town.
“What kind of beer do you have?” I asked the red-haired, middle-aged waitress. “We got both kinds: Bud and Bud Light,” she replied, accented with a look of disgust, as she walked past me. My eyes and head followed her to the end of the counter, but my torso didn’t move. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and was nearly knocked off my barstool.
I leaned back to get a good look at my fellow travelers. We were all dressed as famous female musicians. And we looked pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I was Dolly Parton, and as my dream camera panned down the bar like in Goodfellas there was Aretha Franklin, Lady Gaga, bald Sinead O’Connor, Cher, and Madonna. After we finished eating, things took a real Beverly Hills Cop twist, and Aretha Franklin got killed. (Yes, even in dreams the black guy is always the first to die.) Next thing, we had guns and were hunting down the killer. I remember saying the classic Eddie Murphy line, “I ain’t fallin’ for no banana in my tailpipe,” and one of the other ladies saying, “Ooh! Ooh! I will! I will!”
I woke up at 4 AM, before we solved the murder, because I had to take a dump. Seems that these steroids have another side effect: shitting like you’ve been on a weekend-long ex-lax-snorting bender.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was on tour in Utah and my buddy met this girl from Turkey or Syria or somewhere and went back to her place after drinking shitty, cheap 3.2 percent beer for 13 hours, and she fed him the darkest Turkish coffee known to man and as they’re making out he started farting and shitting himself? Long story short, he ran out without saying good-bye and barely made it outside before having to rip his pants down and spray poop all over her front door. It’s times like this that I’m thankful I’m not single and always have a toilet nearby.
Previously - Anal Lessons
Dir: Mike Adriano
Are there scouts in the porn business like in baseball who travel the minor-league circuit looking for the next big star? If so, I think that’s what I’d like to do when I grow up. I feel that I have an eye for who is and isn’t slutty, and this goes far beyond my default fantasy of “Well, she’s got a mouth, she’s got to be slutty.” Like a batter, there are a lot of telltale signs. Instead of hip movement or bat swing, first check the eyes. Are they slowly scanning the room, seeking something? If so, most likely you have a good case of daddy issues on your hands and she’s probably a nice prospect.
As I’ve said in the past, tattoos are the quickest indication that a gal likes anal. Is she covered in ink? Chances are she loves it in the ass and prefers it there first. Freud tied the whole yearning-for-pain thing back to the loss of virginity in his book about porn; I forget what it was called.
The young lady above is named Christy Mack, and I wish I were the scout who found her in Indianapolis. Aside from the necessary three holes, she’s got all the attributes needed to play in the big leagues: attitude, a unique look, and big tits. I don’t know who the (not dead) George Steinbrenner of porn is, but I can imagine calling him from my cell phone in the parking lot of the Brass Flamingo or whatever club I found Ms. Mack patronizing, and saying, “I just found your next Derek Jeter (of butt sex).”
I always wanted to own my own Brass Flamingo. From the moment I walked into my first strip club—smelling the coconut lotion and pressing my head to a stripper’s vagina in the champagne room and hearing the ocean—I knew it was the tropical locale where I wanted to live out my days in retirement. At the time we were at war with someone in the Middle East, and I remember thinking that the Gaza Strip would be a great name for a strip club, but as I traveled more I realized it was important to come up with the basest name possible to attract the sort of clientele who frequent such places: Tit World, Ass Palace, and Place to Look at Pussy (PtLaP) were quickly added to the list of possible names.
Then I moved to Cincinnati for nine long months and ballooned from 135 to 215 pounds. While living there I went to Sudsy Malone’s, a local rock venue/laundromat, and that’s when it hit me: Open a titty bar in a college town where you can pay the girls to do your laundry and give you a lap dance. I’d call it the Muff ’n’ Fold. Every year I’d get a new crop of girls who honestly and truly were just trying to put themselves through college. If they were unsure of what occupation to pursue, and if they had the right stuff, perhaps I could suggest to them a fun and exciting life in the not-at-all seedy world of pornography. I envisioned it as a wholesale family business with my sons recruiting the prospects for training camp, me scouting for the bigs, and my wife making sure the girls knew how to do laundry because I have no idea how that works. I tried once and flooded the entire basement with suds. Then again, they love those foam parties in Ibiza. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
More stupid can be found at ChrisNieratko.com and twitter.com/Nieratko. You should also watch the Skinema video series on VICE.com.
Previously - Panty Pops
Dir: Kevin Moore
Can you believe that Panty Pops #6 was just released? It’s only been about two years since the first Panty Pops came out. That is a level of efficiency Hollywood could learn from. Who needs $100 million budgets and three years of production for superhero movies? Let’s treat them like pornos, since they basically have the same formula.
In porn, it’s blowjob/pussy lick/missionary/doggy/reverse cowgirl (or any of three varied positions)/cum shot. In superhero films, it’s hero origin/villain intro/love interest/love interest kidnapped by villain/fight/hero triumphs. That said, I could make Spider-Man on a shoestring budget and keep it under five minutes long: roll credits, show Peter Parker being bitten by a spider, then a scene of him climbing on walls, have the Lizard wave at the camera, then the Lizard kidnaps Gwen Stacy, epic battle scene (this is where all our budget will go—big explosions), Spider-Man swings into the sunset with Gwen in his arms, fade to black, roll credits. Five minutes max, just like the amount of time needed to dispose of the dead babies blocking up your main line. I could make a half-dozen Spider-Man movies a year, maybe more. Tell Christopher Nolan or whoever to holler at me.
Spoiler alert! The point of this Panty Pops series is—you’re never going to guess—to have the pop shot land on panties. It’s brilliant writing because your brain is telling you, “There’s no way this Kevin Moore gives away the entire plot in the title,” and you’re waiting for things to get all Sixth Sense, and when it doesn’t you’re all, “HOLY SHIT! He totally got me! I was so anticipating getting got that I got got before I even got started. I GOT MYSELF!” Genius. Absolutely genius.
But even more genius than the tricky not-trick ending is the social commentary that Moore addresses on the changing of sexual desire that occurs with age and the mortality that we all must face. In their youth, men cannot rip off a woman’s clothes fast enough. And yet as we age and begin to understand what’s under those garments, and that the power it possesses can bring a man to his knees, we do our best to extend the experience, to shield ourselves from what lies just beneath that cotton facade. Granted, Moore never flat out says what we’re all thinking: We’re all going to die some day, and if we can just hold this boner for another five minutes maybe we’ll live forever. Yet he implies it, somewhere between the pussy licking and the first fuck position. I don’t know a whole lot about religion—aside from the fact that Easter candy is delicious and I thank God for it every April—but I imagine that the feeling that watching Panty Pops gives you, where the subject is so heavy that you just need to take a nap afterward, is what people mean when they say they’ve had a “religious experience.” It’s the only way I can describe it. It’s like if Zeus gave you a handjob.
Previously - Raw 10
Girls Love Girls #4
Dir: Jonni Darkko
Let’s face it, the lesbian scene in a porno film has been perfected. Much like the classic boy-and-his-dog or the free-the-whale-from-the-ice/aquarium film, it’s hard to improve on two women in the throes of passion. And yet director Jonni Darkko found a way. How? Marijuana. In my 40-plus years of watching pornography, I thought I’d seen every manner of female same-sex debauchery: dongs the size of horse cocks, horse cocks the size of whale cocks, coke cans, coke bottles, coke dealers, bowling pins, bowling balls, baskets of golf balls, and every other manner of round or oblong or misshapen object invented by man. But never in all my days have I heard anyone request to have smoke blown up his or her ass or seen the act executed.
The scene stars Heather Starlet and Madison Ivy (who has a Snooki-like quality about her. I know, “Snooki” and “quality” should never be used in the same sentence). It begins with them on a couch sharing a blunt (people still smoke blunts?) and quickly escalates to shotgunning and nudity. Before long, Heather is blowing smoke up Madison’s ass (when played in reverse, it looks like Madison shits out smoke. And tells you to kill your parents). It culminates with the two in a shower spraying each other with weed smoke instead of water.
I very much wanted to love the scene for its groundbreaking incorporation of weed, but the problem is, I hate weed. And stoners. I don’t care what anyone tells you, there’s no such thing as a “functioning stoner.” They’re all retards. Ever read Retard Times? Fuck, it’s brutally painful. That’s what the world needs: some baked dipshit with political views. “The government is, like, not cool, man.” Fuck off and get a job. Go occupy the back of a garbage truck; there’s no shame in that. It’s a respectable occupation with benefits.
In my early 20s, I was the first of my friends to realize pot made me an idiot. Sadly, I have many friends inching up on 40 who still haven’t figured it out. I know guys who live at home with their parents, milk unemployment, borrow money from their mom for “the chronic” (you’d think if you didn’t have a job you’d at least smoke a more affordable caliber of marijuana, for your mom’s sake), burn one down at Wall Street, and then cry about how they can’t find work. I tell them, “It’s impossible to find something that you refuse to look for.”
I will tip my hat to Heather and Madison, who have found a way to stay gainfully employed and pay for their own pot. I’d go so far as to say that if weed smoking were reserved exclusively for naked chicks in porn, I probably wouldn’t hate it as much. But much like my stoner friends ever getting a job, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.
More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and twitter.com/Nieratko. Also, the Skinema show is finally airing here on VICE.com. Check it out.
Previously - This Ain’t Dracula XXX
Skinema delves into the dirty secrets of the dirty movie industry. Watch the premiere episode here.
For more than a decade Chris Nieratko has been “reviewing” porn for VICE in his Skinema column. (It spawned a VICE book of the same name.) We now welcome you to the first episode of Chris’s new show,Skinema, where you’ll get a behind-the-scenes look into the lives of the most famous adult stars.
The subject of the first episode is the lovely and talented porn actress/director/photographer Kimberly Kane. She was nearly choked to death her first time on a porn set. We learn all about her entrance into smut and the secret to giving a good blow job. We also get to watch Ms. Kane attempt a butt sex scene with an Italian stallion. Enjoy.