Last Month
Staff Blogs
This month’s centerfold, Arison Cain, is no stranger to sex, lies, spice racks, and danger. In the following excerpt from his sensual, new, tell-all memoir, “Cream, Rinse, and Repeat: My Life as an American Figurehead of Erotica,” Arison is caught in a deviant’s pickle. Can he use his wily charms and brazen sexuality to navigate his way out of this seductive dilemma, or has America’s Number Four Topless Male Performance Artist bitten off a little bit more than he can chew? You be the judge.
"Oh my!"
I finally got a moment alone and began frantically searching for a lightswitch. Thirty-two hours in, and Burt Reynolds’ basement smelled no better than it did the day before. Burt’s food-fucking had finally gotten out of hand. There was no light to be found. The house appeared to be lit entirely through an intricate series of candles and mirrors. I managed to wiggle out of the square knots tied around my wrists. Time was running out. The Bandit would be back soon and, goddamnit, I was more than just a human sushi table.
I could hear him whistling at the top of the stairwell. “Is that Supertramp?,” I thought to myself, “Breakfast in America, this can’t possibly end well.” I seized the moment. Making use of my incredible upper body, I hoisted myself up into one of the comically large air ducts. As he returned to the room, clad entirely in denim including a custom-made denim cowboy hat that had been named after a civil war submarine, there was an escalating weight in my breath. I bided my time until he was directly underneath me, and released.
I struck with poise, like a wild cheetah or a sexually frustrated meth-head. The smell of Aqua Velva and spicy tuna was overwhelming, but desperation had taken hold. I needed to make it to the starting line in less than an hour and, at this rate, I was barely going to be afforded the opportunity to shave the “ol’ sumbitch.” After a lengthy struggle, I finally managed to strike with my patented Shaolin Taint-Thrust Technique, attacking multiple pressure points and robbing him of his consciousness.
"Let's blow things out of proportion"
I stole one of his denim bathrobes and raced outside. From what I could gather, I was about six clicks from the designated meeting point. My eyes were darting around the yard. In the driveway were a few of Burt’s collectible holiday HESS trucks that he had obviously been playing in the mud with. I hot-wired a ’72 Challenger and peeled out, with about a half-dozen of Burt’s Indiana Boyservants eating my dust.
I arrived in Santa Monica just in time and low on fuel. This was the day I had trained for. Nicholas Cage’s Analball Run: a four-day, cross-country, road-gropin’ adventure, pitting three-man celebrity teams against each other in the sexcapade to end all sexcapades. The first team to land a brown-eyed girl in each of the designated states would win the fabled Analball Cup, along with bragging rights for the next year. I checked my hair in the rear view and stepped out of the car. My team was waiting for me.
“Where have you been, Cain?!”, shouted Pacino. “I don’t have time to explain,” I responded, climbing through the window of the team car, “Tell Shaq that it’s time for the fisherman to go back to Starfish Lake”. Pacino translated to Shaq, who shot me a wide, toothy smile. “It’s about to get real stinky in here,” is what I think Shaq said, as our eyes collectively settled on the road ahead of us. The tension was palpable. Cage waved the flag and the race was on. 