"I bet she'd be good with some dippin' sauce."

As a WHACK! stapher, I like to think I answer to no man, and at the AEE Expo and AVN Awards this year, I made a point of being as irresponsible as my sickly constitution and weak mind would allow. As such, I can’t say for certain whether my memories of the debauchery in the back alleys and hotel rooms of Sin City are all, strictly speaking, real. It’s very possible that these are merely the ravings of a lunatic whose imagination was set far too loose around Las Vegas, but somewhere buried deep within is the grain of a truth more profound than reality, bitches. Or so I like to think.

Friday, January 7, 2011

My cooze-crazed colleague, Maxxx Peters, and I boarded an early flight from NYC to Vegas. Being, as we are, destitute and cheap to boot, we’d booked impossibly impractical flight times with ridiculous layovers in out-of-the-way cities to keep our expenses down. We barely made it out of NYC: it was snowing hard and we were almost ready to turn around and sleep through the weekend rather than fighting through storm clouds, but our cheap-ass airline got us to Ft. Lauderdale, for some ungodly reason, in good time. Our connecting flight left late and we landed in Vegas just in time to rush to our flea-infested motel off the strip, change, and NOT make it to the convention before it closed.

Lucky for us, we happened to be standing around feeling dejected with some other hangers-on at just the right time, drinking our troubles away with a bottle of Jack that Maxxx had purchased, and managed to sneak our besotted butts onto the Burning Angel party bus as it lurched its degenerate black ass across town to the Burning Angel After-Party at the Black Door. All manner of illicit insanity ensued aboard that bus, and though we’ve been sworn to secrecy, suffice it to say that there was tit-biting, crotch grabbing, radio-DJ-ing, and a veritable carpet of tattooed flesh layered upon itself and zipped up into a latex bodysuit of the sexiest kind.

Arriving at the Black Door, we were filmed going into the club by G4TV, and the rest of the blurry evening was spent wallowing behind a velvet rope amidst a rising tide of liquor, latex, and lasciviousness. We left sometime after midnight, but before 4:00 am. I believe there were lapdances, and Jiz Lee making out with Lux Altpraum, and moustachios, and loud music, and the G4 cameras all up in our faces all night… Fade to black.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Maxxx and I were up as early as we could muster, and after Bloody Marys, coffee, and eggs had been put away, we were off to the AEE convention to rack up as many interviews, photos, and other useless media objects as we could reasonably expect. Our hotel being miles away from the convention center at the Venetian and our broke asses being too poor to afford cabs, we arrived much later than we’d hoped to after walking for miles and dodging drunken frat boys at every turn, only to find the convention center so completely over-mobbed with horny fanbois that we couldn’t even see who the fuck was at the head of the signing lines. Overwhelmed by the spectacle of sad, overweight, pimply men with gigantic cameras and not a legitimate porn star visible to our lower vantage points (we’d never realized before what a boon to our abilities at conventions our publisher, Jack Hoff’s 6-foot-5 frame could be), we put an even bigger hurt into our bottle of Jack. By 4:30, the expo hall was clearing out as the whores and horndogs alike made their ways back to hotel rooms to prepare for the awards ceremony at the Palms that evening. Maxxx and I managed to link up with Katie Cox, Nina Hartley, a cadre of dimpled BBWs, Celeste Star, and our very own Stevie Valentine, before we headed back to prepare for our first-ever awards ceremony!

"Dis how we roll."

Several hours and more than several drinks later, Maxxx and I sallied forth in a rented cab to the Palms, where we hooked up with hundreds of gawking fans and waited to get into the Pearl Theater. It was boring as shit. We’d hoped to get some Red Carpet footage, but as we had no expectation of being able to take our huge-ass camera with us into the ceremony, we ended up standing around like a bunch of intoxicated losers while the excitement outside died down. When we were finally allowed into the inner sanctum of the sex industry, we ran into Mr. Marcus, Ron Jeremy, Ivan, Rico Montana, Charley Chase, and dozens of others, before retiring to our nosebleed seats, where for some reason we were sandwiched between taciturn fans who neither spoke nor applauded throughout the proceedings. Maxxx and I, however, were undaunted by their boringness, and proceeded to cheer, clap, whistle, scream, and drink heavily throughout. By the end of the awards ceremony, we were both seeing double, and the people around us had all left. I suspect our rowdiness may have had less to do with their hasty retreat than the botched and abominable performance put in by some Lady-Gaga-aping keytar act called “The Speaker  Junkies” toward the end. I still have nightmares about that performance.

Shnookered out of all reason, we found our way back to the front of the Palms, where we hobnobbed with Jiz Lee, Courtney Trouble, and Tina Horn, before pretending to be interested in after-parties while we changed in our hotel room and ending the night with pizza at the New York, New York Casino. The pizza was terrible, but the Jack was still going strong.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Maxxx and I blearily made our way back to the convention center, hung over, unhappy, and generally disheveled. We arrived, miraculously, before the last day of the convention got going, and had to stand around with the steaming piles of crap who call themselves journalists in this industry until the powers that be let us loose on the talent inside. Or, should we say, the lack of talent inside. Nobody showed up till almost noon, and by that time Maxxx and I were already a quarter bottle of Jack deep. We kept our shit mostly together, however, and managed to get some kind of inebriated film in with Ivan, Chanel Preston, the Girls and Corpses guy, Asa Akira, and… maybe… some other people… before our battery died and we were left standing around at the convention with our proverbial dicks in our hands and a whole shit-ton of business cards to hand out in hopes of future interviews.

Ah well. Never to be daunted or brought down by reality, we just went back to the hotel and napped. And it’s a damn good thing. We had a big day ahead of us the next day.

Monday, January 10, 2011

With pretty much everyone porn-related out of Sin City, Maxxx and I had hours to kill before our red-eye back to NYC. We figured we’d better make the best out of it while doing as little constructive work as humanly possible. We started our day with five beers and the rest of the Jack, then wandered the strip for hours fueled by as many more drinks as we could get our hands on. There was gambling. There was a David Bowie impersonator. There was a midget Elvis. There was In-N-Out Burger. There was decadence, there was degeneracy, there was a perfectly WHACK!-y day, and then there was the long and hungover flight back to the Big Apple, where, looking back on it, I can see in hindsight that I had a really stupid AVN weekend. But hey, considering the state of inebriation in which we performed the aforementioned tasks, I think we did pretty damn well, and once we get all the video footage processed and posted, we think you’ll agree. Or not. Whatever man, who cares what you think?

—Miss Lagsalot

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