The American Wet Dream

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Published  December 2012

antigravity_vol10_issue2_Page_20_Image_0001My invite to the Exxxotica adult entertainment convention in Edison, New Jersey did not come with a save-the-date but with a reminder to bring my boner because they would be giving away tits. The 4 AM drive from Greenpoint, Brooklyn to Edison was plagued with conflicting playlists. My hyper-sexual photographer, Justin Bakies, was insistent on playing the Smiths and warm butterknife bleeders. I unplugged the auxiliary cable from his phone and said, “There are very specific songs for what we are about to see. ‘Do Something Strange’ or ‘Shutterbugg’ or anything by Jamie Foxx; get out of BK and into NJ.”

I woke up from a starch-and-chlorine coma at 11 AM in my still damp swimming attire; a half eaten waffle was on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. “Justin, we need to meet Mike Munkey in an hour.” Dressed in our porno convention finest, we bounced our way through the industrial-complex labyrinth that is Edison, New Jersey in search of the mythical Temple of Poon. We passed a Stop & Shop grocery and ran in for non-perishables. The Exxxotica organization decided to spearhead a “back-to-normal” campaign by having a food drive for the residents of the region most affected by Hurricane Sandy. Hormel chili and dolphin-free tuna seemed fitting, as they are quite possibly the most erotic canned goods available. The convention center parking lot was packed with tailgaters sucking down Yuenglings, charging extra camera batteries and listening to alt radio. It was a sea of trunk-drunk bros. We hit Mike Munkey on the hip and announced our arrival. “Okay, I will meet you out front.”

Mike “Munkey” Beadle is the owner and CEO of Munkey Barz: Love Handles For Your Hips. He is a New Orleans playboy who had a keen eye for a specific hole in the adult entertainment market and possessed the critical mass to fill it. Mike built the Munkey Barz prototype in his Louisiana garage. He was hell-bent on designing a product that would give everyone a chance to have a better grip on their partner. Since his sex-belt debuted in 2011, he has had to hold on tight. Munkey Barz has been featured on the Howard Stern Show, mentioned in popular rap songs by Lil’ Wayne and T.I., worn by A, B and C-list pornstars and is featured in DMX’s video for his track “I Don’t Dance.”

We introduced ourselves to Mike. He gave Justin and me our passes, asked what was in the grocery bag and said, “Follow me.” Once we were through the lobby, it was an immediate overload of hot pink and red, pole dancers, stripclub bass thumpers vibrating the air, Lamborghinis filled with naked women, dick pill samples being flung, dick pill samples being eaten, camera flashes, tube sock tits with coffee cup saucer pasties, gimps, latex, tattooed asses, dollar bill confetti, a pretzel stand… “Mike, wait a minute” …donated food receptacles, cockolate candy, cages, barely legals on swings, very legals in chains, leather and Ron Jeremy.

antigravity_vol10_issue2_Page_21_Image_0001We finally ended up at Mike’s booth and he immediately started helping customers and promoting his invention. The talk around the Munkey Barz table was that the day usually starts off slow but by nightfall it would be popping off. I thought to myself, “Slow? I had been in the moist for 20 minutes and had already seen a decade’s worth of Bourbon Street Mardi Gras debauchery—and they weren’t even selling alcohol.” The Munkey Barz booth was already being swamped and there was a short but consistent line of people waiting to be fitted for their new belt. Barbie, Mike’s girlfriend, was wearing a pink belt and let me get a feel for how the product worked. I stood behind Barbie and had a firm grip on the handlebars. When she bent over in front of me, it felt like I was riding a sex machine. It was only a simulation and demonstration but I could tell there was no governor on the throttle. Mike said, “Watch.” He grabbed the Barz, had Barbie wrapped around his waist and was curling her like an erotic, sweet-smelling free weight. Again, these exercises were only a demonstration but Barbie was far from dead weight. I noticed Mike’s fleur-di-lis neck tattoo, felt a little NOLA pride and told him we were going to let him get back to work. He said, “Go cruise the floor. We will talk later. Come to the afterparty.” Mike also said, “Help yourself to our ice chest,” so we grabbed a Solo cup, poured a secret brew, waved bye to Barbie, Tara Lynn Foxx and Raven Bay and assured them we would swing by later.

Set free to roam the halogen-lit floor, I realized the lumens highlighted features of some stars but showed the robot rover tracks on others. As we turned the corner from Gianna Michaels’ booth, I made eye contact with her. She winked. I chubbed. We then crossed paths with a body painter who was airbrushing a petite brunette’s bare chest with a Wonder Woman motif. The use of her cesarean scar to add depth to her golden belt was noted and praised.

While I was eavesdropping in on a vendor explaining the importance of proper timing when using Rush inhalant to achieve a maximum orgasm, I saw the convention’s only amusement ride. The mechanical penis.

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I took my complimentary sniff of Rush, grabbed JB by the camera strap and wah wah wahed towards the genital rodeo. As we were leaning on the perimeter of the inflatable safety ring, a New Jersey Marie with ‘Slut’ embolized booty shorts was whipped into the air and nearly struck by the flesh-colored fiberglass balls hanging from beneath the saddle. It was her second time on the bucking tube stallion and obviously could not tame the cylindrical steed. The conversation JB and I had that followed is closely related to the dialog that leads up to a hillbilly’s dying declaration:

“Betcha I will.”
“Betcha you won’t.”
“Hold my beer.”

I helped the prick-lashed Marie exit the moon bounce flooring and Three- Amigoed my way onto the beast like a true cocksmith. I looked at the attendant while tipping my invisible cowboy hat to signal the opening of the gate and knew this oneeyed bastard was going to pump hard. I used the rein to hang on at first but quickly grabbed for the protruding vein. After 5 seconds, my grip was slipping; I then went in for the Koala hug. I almost chipped my tooth but I knew I was going to choke the juice out of the beast and could have probably rode the bastard all the way to Jackson Hole. The crowd of perverts cheered; and as I was collecting my personal effects, the operator said, “That was better than most chicks.” I attempted a Jack Twist impersonation and said, “I don’t ride horses; I ride cowboys.”

JB started talking up Cherry Crush at the Chaturbate booth and I could not blame him. The Chaturbate girls were the youngest, prettiest, hippest, most nonthreatening of the entire convention. I gave him room to talk with Cherry about the Smiths or reclaimed sweater vandal gloves or whatever and hit the restroom.

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The line of urinals was completely empty. I used one close to the middle of the row; and as I was staring at the wall, I heard someone come in and saw in my peripheral the urinal next to me was now occupied by Ron Jeremy. The only possible way pecker insecurity could have been greater would have been if the Los Angeles Lakers flooded the men’s room during halftime.

The convention floor now began to fill with all types of creatures. As the evening approached, the ratio of female-to-male-to- shemale started to increase. There were now more ladies in the crowd and they were all strutting their stuff. They might not have been pornstars, but they were dressed as if they were ready to wet up a casting couch or two. The atmosphere had gone from a spectator-driven event into a crowd participation party.

I told a large black dominatrix with two leashed subjects wearing leather masks that I ran a reasonable rate, gimp walking service. In good fun, but with force, she made me kiss her red leather high heels and then made me bite her fishnet and leather-covered ass. As Justin was taking my photo with her, I noticed her male slave was wearing a Fudpuckers t-shirt. I kept my mouth shut as there was a whole lot more ass left to bite.

While Justin was waiting to meet Aleksa Nicole, I went to check on the Munkey Barz crew. They were now completely engulfed by fans and customers. I had to walk behind and through adjacent, now empty booths to get to Mike. I asked him how it was going. He said, “We sold out. I don’t know what we are going to do tomorrow.”

All of the girls promoting Munkey Barz were lined up and twisted together. They were using the handlebars to execute daring girl-on-girl acrobatics. Constant flashes and paparazzi request were being thrown at them. The girls obliged and smiled and batted fuck-me eyes. I looked for the hidden fan that seemed to constantly blow their hair sensually across their shoulders but realized it was the wind from the wave of oncoming success. There was a grin on Mike’s face that is commonly found on people riding the American Creamer at Sixxx Flags. Exciting and thrilling, but you must keep your hands on the barz at all times.

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