And of course, who better to lead things off than my good friend and close colleague, Brent in Portland.
The Journal was born from a conversation Brent and I had on a Thursday night at The Paris Theatre in Portland in the summer of 2009. We were both of the opinion that this thing of ours was bigger than what was being talked about in a couple of Yahoo Groups that had a slightly less local scope. But the conversations were few and far between in those Groups, and we both agreed the scene needed a national voice.
And that was the start of The Journal... Thank you sir.
Here is Brent's forward, followed by the first of two of his favorite reports. Enjoy.
***
Doc,
I don't have a particular favorite. I enjoy the writing style of Johnny Paradise and I remember getting turned on by the reports and accompanying photos of Jim and Chris' adventures at The Eros Theater in Colorado Springs back in 2011.
Brent
From July 13th, 2013...Johnny Paradise.
In any game, the fun is not knowing who will win, or how, and the games we remember as the most exciting are the ones where our expectations were the most roller coaster-ed along. In the jungle, the adrenaline rush is not because the tiger is there….it is because the tiger might be there. Or, where the tiger once stood, there might be something else….or nothing at all…..The indefinite gap between "not there" and "there" is a meaningful pause….it is the pause between notes in Beethoven's 5th symphony….it is meaning terrifyingly present in the absence of sound. It is the silent perfect thunder of expectation. Expectation and uncertainty, the palpable heart-pounding thrill of MAYBE....
Friends of ours in "this thing" get that, instinctively. The kick is not knowing. An empty theatre can suddenly become a full theatre. A chaste couple holding hands can transform into libidinous frenzy. Private intimacies can become public offerings. And sometimes, every so often, the empty theatre itself can sometimes offer an unexpected something. And so....
FRIDAY
I arrived sometime around nine. Too late, I thought, noticing the dearth of cars in the lot and the scattered crowd - barely a quorum for any event. My brief hopes for another feature presentation from the "good old days" were dashed by the generic goings-on up on the screen. With a sigh of resignation I sat. An old man was giving a middle-aged man a handjob up against the wall. That was it for the action. I noticed that some of the men there had become familiar to me - faces I have seen and, may the gods help me, more than just faces.
I realized I had started giving them names, the men I had seen before - the Turk, Edward G. Robinson, the Guru, Tebow (the quarterback kid from yesterday's visit, so strangely out of place that I was tempted to say "your mother called and wants you home!" just as a joke...) It was not lost on me that, at the point when you are crafting fictitious names for the men you see in an adult theatre, you are spending too much time in an adult theatre. In fact I had passed up an invitation to spend time in the real world with a pretty delightful young lady this evening so that I could indulge my fascination with this particular adult theatre. I made a mental note to spend the rest of the weekend elsewhere. But for now...
The first couple was preceded by a sudden influx of men - lurkers from the parking lot, most likely, now coming in at the appearance of a woman. The first couple - he looked to me a bit like Michael Chiklis. She had long hair with natural auburn curls and a pretty face. They sat and for the longest time there was relative calm. The men in the crowd were respectful, most remained seated though a few gathered at the rail, looking down vulture-like. I tried to lose myself in the film...boom. Like watching bread rise.
Then suddenly the herd gathered by the rail and I turned and saw the silhouette of her head moving up and down over his lap. He was quiet and the men were silent as they watched the slow rhythmic plunging of her luxurious hair over the cock that was enveloped by darkness and her, apparently, very talented mouth. Total quiet gave way to a few obvious wet smacking slurping sounds and his - by now - impossible to contain utterances of pleasure, and (coincidentally) the actress on the screen was fellating her fella as well, but not so well as this attractive figure in the shadowy folds of the couples' corral. At one point she lifted her head and her ample milky white breasts spilled out of her top in a spontaneous moment charged enough to elicit a few gasps and not long after the couple arrived at the natural conclusion of their activities they hastily left...(to return later, but their participation in the night's feast of flesh was finished.)
Two couples came in not long thereafter. The first - a stocky gentleman who appeared to be Latino and who wore an open Detroit Tigers visitor's jersey with Justin Verlander's name and number 35 on the back, was accompanied by a thin woman with medium length hair that was brownish and also several shades of blonde. She wore a short black and white skirt and a jacket. The other couple....
I had the immediate sense that I had seen them before, somewhere. He was tall, thin, dishwater blonde with the easygoing look and casual gait of a college professor. She - she was a sight - tall, long black hair with absolutely beautiful curls and a piercing bright pair of deep-ocean eyes that held one's attention even in the almost opaque black of the theater.
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| "R" from "C & R" |
To report everything that happened then, with utter fidelity, play-by-play style, would have required a stenographer's notebook and the jotting down of notes in the darkness. This is a tribute to the intensity and variety of the actions observed. After a period of quiet conversation between the two couples, it appeared that "C" was performing oral sex upon "R", and I say appeared because from my shadow in the room of shadows at times things were supposed but not completely clear. I moved closer. What followed between the two couples was a pretty extraordinary exchange of sexual acts.
"R" went down on the man I kept calling "Latino Verlander" in a way that was eliciting gasps and moans and grunts and exclamations of approval, both from the gentleman in question and, increasingly, from the men at the rail, gathering tightly, most of them with members out in a full-blown jerkathon. He looked down at her and said "you're beautiful.....everything about you is beautiful..." a sentiment that seemed so spontaneous and genuine and NOT merely because she was so expertly bringing him to the point of exstacy....his high regard for her was obvious, and the old men in the line were equally obviously entranced by this lovely young woman who had, somehow, even in the midst of a public blowjob, an inescapable poise and an undeniable aura of class.
The cynical shell that cocoons so many "theater women" seemed to be wholly absent, and I found myself wanting very much to talk to her, to both of them, to find out more about the how and why of their activities. But that is a line I don't easily cross, or I run the risk as an observer of becoming what I myself am observing, thus spoiling the impartiality and cold veracity of my journalistic endeavor. But they were different, somehow - different from the usual swinging couple. So many questions I wanted to ask.
The men at the rail were whispering, muttering, encouraging the two couples with suggestions that were less than necessary. Also, there was a plump short-haired woman in the corral, seated on a couch, alone. Before the end of the night her male companion appeared but for the balance of the evening she was a solo act, throwing back canned sodas and watching intently the couples at play. (One poor old guy, seeing her alone, tried to join her. He failed to do so and beat a hasty retreat into the store. It is a bad place to get a bruised ego.) Her contribution, at times, bordered on unsettling. "Milk that cock" she would say in a flat tone that was 100% Midwest. "Git her git her git her git her" and "Yeah you like that hard cock". "I'll say it if no one else will"" she intoned at one point, or words very much to that effect.
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| "R" |
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| "R" |
The multi-toned blonde joined "R" in working on "Latino Verlander" and the two of them gave this man an incredible going over. At various times he had to wipe his head with a towel from the pleasurable exertion of his labors. When she kneeled down to suck him her backside was evident in the slant of light emanating from the back wall and the smooth hairless contour of her labia struck the men in the crowd like lightning. The high point of the spectacular, though, was when she climbed on top of the couch to lower her pussy onto his face as "R" sucked his cock. Visually it was stunning and it brought the men assembled to a fever pitch of excitement that was matched only by the sight earlier of both women, back to back, riding cowgirl style on their respective opposite partners.
Those men - a creepier lot than usual, tonight, and I say this with honesty and all respect. They muttered, they grunted, they whispered, they masturbated, they compared notes on other women who had come through these honored aisles. A strange assortment, to be sure. And in close quarters - there was a reek tonight of alcohol, sweat, and expired Hai Karate.
However the action in the corral was a sensory spectacular and the whole scene - all of it - was made the more remarkable due to the fact that these two couples seemed genuinely nice; they genuinely seemed to like each other, and, as cynical as this lifestyle (or observing it) can tend to make someone, there did seem to be the presence of genuine real honest unaffected passion. I wondered if it was possible?
Another couple entered. He - muscular and intense. She - short cropped blonde hair, black jacket, a little hard edged. They left, apparently, without so much as a held hand. There seemed to be some unresolvable issue between them. Then another, and it was at this point that I really wished to have a score card. My observation of the "main two" couples pretty much obliterated my chances to see what this new couple was all about. They came, they had sex, they left.
Then another. He was in his fifties or sixties, quite large, craggy features and glasses. She was late forties, early fifties, but looked younger from the back and sounded younger from her small quiet cries of pelasure; petite, blonde with short hair and she looked a bit like Teri Garr or like a much more mature Maria Sharapova.
They started out slowly, she worked his cock with her hand and just the MOTION of that hand in the darkness told a story. He revealed her thong to the crowd as she sucked him and then she rode him in reverse cowgirl fashion and had to grab on to the couch in front of her as he grabbed her tightly by her lithe hips and pulled her mightily back again and again against a protuberance of stomach flab and the forceful immediacy of his ancient cock. She panted and cried out and a black man sitting in the first row in front of the corral said "lift up your dress, show us your titties" and she lifted her top halfway, revealing a tight abdomen and also a measure of modesty. Her companion eventually pulled her garment in such a way that her breasts were revealed - perfectly round, high, proud full B's or C's, with dark thick rubbery nipples that were striking in the pale light, like two generous dots of dark ink on a canvas of unblemished ivory flesh in the back and forth blur of his furious thrusting. She was a very, very attractive woman. He finished. They left.
During this, "R" had gone down to the front row of the theater, her hair pulled up and pinned back, and a ghoulish band of men surrounded her and started ejaculating on her. "Latino Verlander" watched for a while, then left. His companion asked, with a small measure of reproachful incredulity "You left her alone?" and so "C" went down and sat and watched her as men masturbated with varying degrees of help from her and shot their sperm onto her chest, covered only by a pink netted top. One man who looked to be in his spry seventies very awkwardly but very energetically lifted a still-athletic leg up onto the next seat to achieve the angle he needed. He had taken his white tee shirt off to do this - why I do not know. When he was spent he put it back on and just sat there, staring at her in some unfathomable mix of appreciation, admiration, lust, grandfatherly concern, desire, and she noticed him and just very sweetly said "Hi", and really at that point my curiosity about "C" and "R" doubled. So nice. So patient, so seemingly content. I wondered. I am wondering.
Most of the men shared their seed with their comely complicit human vessel. Tebow did not. I saw her eyes catch him for a second and he just nodded and smiled and backed away. I wondered why he was there. He probably wondered the same thing about me, as I did not partake. Journalistic impartiality. And there are other reasons. And maybe he is a bible salesman.
But the girl was lovely.
So, the couple left, and the woman to whom I had (perhaps unfairly) given the sobriquet "loudmouth" was the only female who remained, and so now the attention of the remaining men was leveled squarely at her and at the man who had finally joined her. Where had he been all this time? It is incredibly easy to stay anonymous in a darkened theater. She gave him a blowjob that seemed to astound him. ("Now THAT'S a blowjob" he said, as if advertising it.) He tried to caress her crotch through her jeans but the blowjob seemed to be all she wanted to do. They talked. They left. The crowd thinned out. A middle aged man gave a hand job to another middle-aged man and I walked slowly out into
SATURDAY
morning. On the shore of a deep blue ocean of stars gazing up at the sky in the parking lot of a quaint old movie house after taking in a carnival of desire and Fellini-esque faces and passionate whispers of something far to the left of love and something far to the right of lust and something so completely real and so completely artificial and something like the living movie of the moment, and I thought once again about the probable, the possible, what is and what MIGHT be and about the bright lurid colors and the pictures I'd seen in the seats and the aisles and on the cinema screen.
Johnny Paradise
***
Doc here again. Many thanks to the poet laureate of this thing of ours, Brent in Portland. Great choice of a report!
What is your favorite report at The Journal? Drop me an e-mail at emiliolizardo1@gmail.com , and put Fave Report in the subject line. Please write a short paragraph or two, provide a pen name if you don't have one already, the approximate date and year of the report, and who it featured. I will do the rest.
Thank you for five years of support and readership!
Doc
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