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Subject: FUCK DECENCY 409 Passions Playpen NND g2
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“Are you, or have you ever been, a sexually active person?”
- Question posed by the Senate Subcommittee on UnAmerican Activities,
June 21, 2029.
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
NAKED girls and more at:
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
Issue No. 409
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Passion’s Playpen
Chapter Nine
Kate heard a car approach. She waited silently, her back to
the road. She knew it was very dangerous to stand like this, with her
skirt flitting in the wind, without panties on and wearing a
constricting corset. She forgot that she was still wearing John’s
handcuffs until the light from the car’s headlights glinted upon it.
Then, suddenly panicking, for she knew she must look ridiculous standing
by the road in handcuffs with her hair mussed and smelling of sex, she
tried to run. But her whole body was frozen with fright and she was
forced to watch the car roll to a stop and the side window come down.
It was a Porsche. Better luck than she might have expected for a
foolish girl who should be back at college doing her homework.
A voice called out in the dark. To Kate’s despair it was a
woman’s voice. High-pitched, cultured, but not a Trojan prince’s voice
calling her to be his Helen. When Kate remained still, a bunny waiting
to be turned into roadkill, the woman got out of her car.
“Are you a runaway?” the woman asked. She seemed to be in a
hurry and a little miffed that some calling of conscience had forced her
to stop by the side of the road. And then, looking around, she seemed
to entertain the thought for a moment that she was not a potential
savior but a potential victim, of roadside bandits.
“No, I’m just, well, um, a party got a little out of hand and I
left,” Kate said as piously as she could.
“Well come, then, it’s terrible you should be out here in the
dark by the side of the road,” the woman replied.
Kate resisted answering any questions in the car. The woman
seemed to want to prosecute somebody. Kate told her to take her to the
college and then pretended to be asleep.
Kate went to a fraternity party the following weekend. She got
drunk and she thought she got laid but in the morning, sitting on the
toilet in the frat house with a terrible hangover, she decided she’d not
really gotten anything like what she was looking for. Walking out, she
had to step over some boy’s underpants that he’d shitted in. She went
back to her dorm room and cried a little and then tried to do her
homework. Sitting on her bottom, she wished it hurt a little, but it
was white and clear and she could sit on it all day if she wanted to,
but that meant she had no excuse not to sit at her writing desk and do
her homework.
When evening came Kate decided to go to a nightclub near the
college. She put on a t-shirt that was a crop top and had no sleeves
and whose hem, leaving her belly bare, just covered her tits. She
jumped up and down a little in front of her mirror in her room to see
just how much bouncing the shirt could take without letting her boobs
fly out. Not much, she realized, and the thought that she was going to
be this racy excited her. For a moment she pondered taking the crop top
off. She’d bought it a year ago and her breasts had blossomed since,
making it much sexier now than her mother had ever intended it to be
when she’d bought it for her as a 17th birthday present. It had sort of
been her mom’s way of acknowledging her sexuality. Kate felt bad
wearing the shirt now, when she knew her mother would no longer approve
of her wearing it because it was much too small.
Kate rummaged through her clothes drawer and took out a pair of
bikini hot pants. They were very soft stone-ground blue jeans, with
belt loops in them and a snap and a zipper, but they had no sides to
them, only a front and a back connected by a slim strip of fabric along
the waist. As if to enhance their appeal, they were adorned with a
white lace ruffle that ran all along both leg holes. Kate squeezed
herself into them and looked in the mirror. She’d have to be sure to
take her I.D. along to get into the club tonight. She looked like a
tramp from some junior high school.
Kate pulled on small ankle socks and tied on her tennis shoes.
Then she threw a coat over her little outfit, one made of black leather
so as not to hide her intentions too much, and she kissed the teddy bear
on her bed goodnight and left.
Kate saw him standing in the club, near the bar, steadying a
drink in his hand and looking too old to be there. He was watching the
college girls dance and he seemed to her as if he was acting nonchalant
when he really wasn’t. He had a long face and he was fashionably
unshaven, with stubble for a beard. He was wearing an Armani suit, a
little upper-crusty for a place where kids dressed like Kurt Cobain were
doing their best to act insane. Kate decided to tease him, since he
definitely needed someone to take him to task for being in the wrong
place, and she had nothing better to do anyway, except let frat boys paw
at her bosoms.
“Looking for your daughter?” Kate asked, sidling up next to
him. He hadn’t seen her coming. He looked quickly at Kate and almost
seemed to spill his drink. She gave him a snide pouty grin and
pretended like she was about to pass on.
“No,” he answered.
“Then what are you doing here?” Kate asked him.
“I’m the owner,” he answered.
“You don’t look like the owner,” Kate said. She felt an
excitement at his words and hoped he was lying to her.
“I usually live in New York,” he smiled. He was in control now
and she sensed he knew it. I own a lot of clubs. This is just one of
them.”
Kate felt a thrill run up her spine. She had an odd sensation
of wanting to undo the man’s zipper and see what he had under his
expensive Armani suit. She found her fingers lingering near his crotch,
in mid-air but still tentatively close to it, and she had to order them
away before she did something utterly unpredictable and foolish. To
give her fingers something to do she put them to her half-unzipped
leather jacket and unzipped it the rest of the way.
Without even asking, the man reached out and slid Kate’s jacket
off her shoulders. He managed to hold his drink upright as he did it.
His eyes gazed down at her bulging braless bosoms, quivering under her
too small tee. Kate found herself still looking at the man’s crotch.
She seemed to see it thicken, but the light was bad and she tried not to
think of such things.
“Let’s dance,” the man said to her. It was less a request than
an order. He gave her jacket to someone to hold for her. Kate accepted
his hand and let him lead her out onto the dance floor.
NAKED AT THE NEWSSTAND
by holy joe
Club, Holiday 1998, $5.99. Club Magazine, P.O. Box 133, Mount Morris,
IL 61054. No web site listed.
Review: This issue makes an interesting point. (Albeit, I
suppose, unwittingly.) It’s that making porn is hard work! You can’t
just get some naked girls and photograph them and expect everything to
work out.
This issue left me cold. Sure, it begins with a beautiful
blonde, named “Charlie”, but she just stands in thigh-deep water and
stares at the camera. In real life this girl would amaze me. (I’d
probably even shit in my pants.) But, trapped on a two-dimensional
magazine page, she failed to excite me.
Next up is “cumcam”. It features a blonde who was once
extraordinarily beautiful. Unfortunately, her once delectably-slim,
round bottom is now fat! (Almost as fat as mine!) This pictorial was a
total waste.
And on it goes. I’m not going to bore you with a description
of all these failed pictorials. Suffice it to say that, while Ken Starr
might find something of interest here, I didn’t. Fortunately Club puts
out lots of issues and, as a subscriber, I got this one for free.
Better luck next time, guys.
THE PERFECT COUPLE
Today I was reading the Economist. (Someone has to, after
all.) It was the October 10, 1998 issue. And there on page 92 I saw a
photo. It was of two people. A male and a female. They were well
dressed and obviously quite happy together.
Then I read the article. It was titled, “Hate the sin, hate
the sinner.” It used words like the following to describe this happy
couple and their relationship: “gruesome”, “evil incarnate”,
“revolting”, and “disgust”.
One wonders what words the Economist employs when writing about
such things as the Nazi holocaust.
To me, the photograph of Lolita and her lover looked like a
photo of the perfect couple. She’s beautiful, and 12. He’s handsome,
and 45. She makes a lovely girlfriend and he is able to provide her
with money, a house, and a car.
Now, you might be wondering: what if she falls for a guy who’s
15? What then? This is actually not a problem. In 1970’s America,
which was a “free love” society, Lolita would be able to have BOTH her
45-year-old lover and her 15-year-old lover. So, even then, everyone
would still be happy. Ken Starr might have to learn about Rogaine and
weight loss instead of anal and oral sex, but everybody else would be
happy.
I realized I was in great need of psychiatric help, since I was
unable to look at the photo of Lolita and summon up words like
“gruesome” and “evil incarnate”. So I went to a psychiatrist’s office.
I took my photo of Lolita along.
hj: Hello, are you a shrink?
db: A shrink?! Son, I am a doctor!
hj: I’ve always admired people who can do surgery.
db: Surgery? Don’t even mention that word! It makes me think of
blood, and I’m afraid of blood!
hj: How can you be a doctor if you don’t like blood?
db: You don’t need to be a surgeon in order to be a doctor. There are
all kinds of doctors, son. Why, if you go to your local college, you’ll
see doctors all over the campus! There are doctors of political
science, doctors of art, and doctors of basket-weaving. I am a doctor
of psychiatry!
hj: Well I’m looking for this guy who’s a shrink. His name is Booger.
db: That’s me. Doctor Booger!
hj: I think I need help, Doctor Booger. I have this photo here, a
photo of Lolita and--
db: What?! Evil incarnate!
hj: Maybe you could tell me what’s so wrong about Lolita. I mean, I
just don’t see it.
db: What?! You don’t?! Well, first of all, look at those pigtails!
hj: I am.
db: She’s obviously a child. Look how young and cute she is!
hj: So I shouldn’t like her because she’s young and cute?
db: Right! And look at that top she’s wearing-- it leaves her tummy
bare!
hj: I know.
db: And look at how small her belly is. It’s actually tucked in under
her ribs, it’s so small!
hj: Yes, I noticed that.
db: And look at that little skirt she’s wearing! It matches her cute
little top!
hj: Yes.
db: Hardly what you would call “Power Clothing”, don’t you agree?
hj: Yes--
db: And she’s not wearing shoulder pads! Good God, her shoulders are
BARE!
hj: Well, they’re small shoulders--
db: They’re BARE! Like her tummy!
hj: Her legs are probably bare too, but you can’t see them, owing to
how the photo is cropped--
db: Yes-- BARE!
hj: Don’t you think she looks happy? I mean, she’s smiling so
sweetly--
db: BARE!
hj: Doctor? Are you okay?
db: BARE!
I decided to leave. Doctor Booger just kept yelling the word
“bare” over and over. Fortunately he was staring at Lolita, otherwise I
would have thought he was commanding me to undress.
I let the doctor keep the photo of Lolita. (I bought another
one). I still don’t know why Lolita can’t love whomever she wishes. It
seems to me that if she likes a guy, and he likes her, that’s it. Who
needs some bald-headed man, or some bossy woman, to tell her she can’t
be happy?
Fadeaway Encounter
by Will Dockery
Fire, period.
Emily with Jesus in the garden,
talking about the werewolf of Peabody, and
Time, red haired angel, she’s the
Dragon of Sandinista.
Machine works, life.
Sunset, outside. Pastel.
Lightbulb, inside. No electricity.
Burning desire, sets the stage for
Gunshots on Chesterfield Avenue.
Speedball, murder winds.
Desert moon drops.
LaGrange premelt.
Emily at the stations of the cross.
Pastel sunset, then wine in the dark.
Nightmare notes,
bloody bathroom tiles.
Eos, another May baby, she carries the
Ragnarock brick.
Flying mystery,
Jesus on a joyride,
in frosty frizzy clouds.
There goes that pretty blind girl again.
Thinking about Jesus and Emily,
and of course the pretty blind girl.
AND IN THE END...
Why the Media Hates ‘Pedophiles’
“A well chosen enemy... [can] sell more papers than Little
Orphan Annie.”
- Richard Norton Smith, C-SPAN 2, About Books, August 17, 1997 (on
newspaper publisher Robert R. McCormick).
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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Click on “Power Search” in the middle of the screen.
Find the box labelled “Main Archive”.
Change “Main Archive” to “Complete Archive”.
Next, do you see a blank box labelled “Power Search” ?
Type in: roller666@earthlink.net in the blank box on the screen
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Click on “find” (the button to the right of the box).
-Other providers:
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or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/
-When visiting Barnes and Noble, ask for: Jock Sturges’ Radiant
Identities and David Hamilton’s The Age of Innocence. Support art!
-Also by David Hamilton: A Place in the Sun, and Twenty Five Years
of an Artist Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
- NAKED girls, under 18! Plus scholarly books. Publishing for over
a decade, it’s Alessandra’s Smile, P.O. Box 2377, New York, NY
10185-2377. Phone: 1-212-505-6985; Web:
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, 537 Jones St. #8418, San Francisco, CA 94102.
Phone: 1-212-807-8578; Web: http://www.nambla.org
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder.
-Official Newsletter, Temple of Pan
- Think different. http://www.apple.com
-END OF 409 EMISSION
“Just eavesdrop at the mall one afternoon, and you’ll hear
enough pubescent sexcapades to pen the next few episodes of Dawson’s
Creek.”
- TIME, June 15, 1998, pg. 53.
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