Orgasmo
It was my birthday, and I was sitting at work. I always like to do something on my birthday—I hate birthday parties, but I like to do something else to spoil myself. It’s Friday afternoon, I’m sitting at work and I’m like, “I want to do something,” so I decide I should go to my house in Argentina.

I call up the airline, and I have enough air miles or whatever so that I don’t have to pay for it, and so I say, “Fuck it, I’m going to go down.” They say, “OK, well there’s one leaving in two hours.” So I get in a taxicab with nothing, and just go straight to the airport and fly down. I get there and there’s a hotel which is also a casino. I tell myself, “I’m not going to gamble this time. I’m kind of tired. I’m just not going to go downstairs at all.”

I check in and I go up to my room. I’m lying there in bed and I hear the slot machines going off: “Dingdingding dongdongdongding” all over like madness, so I’m like, “Maybe I’ll just go down and play a few hands.” I go down and order a rum and start playing some blackjack. Cut to two hours later: I’m surrounded by about 50 women. Every time you get $500 they give you a chit, and I’m just covered in chits, they’re falling out of my pants. So they all see this—and this is like two years’ salary to them—they just see this drunk American dude with chits falling out of his pants. Since it was my birthday, I go, “OK, you, you, you, you, and you.” I pick five girls. And one of the girls—the one I later called Orgasmo—I said to her and one of the others, “You go get an ounce of blow, and you get a case of champagne.” I gave them a few chits each and then I went up to my room. I want to mention that these girls were NOT hookers. They were just local girls with shitty jobs who come to the casino at night looking for guys with money to pay for them to party. If you all end up fucking, so be it. If you give them some money as a gift, so be that too. But they are not hookers by any means.

All presenter photos by Patrick O’Dell. Styling by Sara McCormack. Mauricio: Y’s suit and shirt. So we go up to my room, and there’s like a mountain of blow on the table. It’s like Scarface or something. We’re drinking champagne and I start naming everybody. The reason I called the one girl Orgasmo is because she took off all her clothes right away and started snorting coke. She’d just snort a big, huge line then start rubbing her pussy furiously going, “
Orgasmo, orgasmo.” So her name was pretty easy. Then there was this one who was actually Colombian called Love and Rockets. I called her Love and Rockets after the comic because she had big, huge tits then a narrow waist, then a big, huge ass. I can’t remember what I named the other ones, fucking Lolita and Puss ’n Boots or something.

So we get down to it, and we’re fucking, and I’m like the guy from the Bolshoi—you know how he’d get them to put a pencil in their ass to choreograph them because that was the only way he could get them to work? I’m like, “You suck her ass, and then you lick my ass, and then you put your toe in her fucking pussy, or whatever.” So I’m doing all that and fucking them, and then I come or whatever. But I’ve been doing a lot of blow, right? I’ve got these five horny girls in my room and all this champagne and stuff, but I can’t get a boner anymore cause I’ve just come and I’m on half of fucking Bolivia. So you’re sitting there going, “Well, what can you do?” Well, of course there’s watersports, as is my proclivity.

So I go into the bathroom with Lolita and Puss ’n Boots, and I’m in there with the shower going and they’re just pissing. Pissing on me as I whack off, pissing on my knees, whatever. I sort of get a little wired and I put my leg through the wall of the shower. I kick out and put a hole in the wall. But who cares? The pissing keeps going, I bring in the B-team—more piss. Water’s coming down. So this keeps going for a while and then I hear this BANG!! Cops come into my room, with all these nude girls and massive amounts of blow.

What’s happened is, the water’s gone down into the hole that I’ve kicked in the shower wall, down the elevator shaft to where the one-armed bandits are, and shorted out all the slot machines in the casino. So they were banging on my door to try and get me, but a) the music’s too loud, and b) I’m way back in the bathroom with the water going and two girls squealing as they piss on my knees, so I don’t hear anything.

So they’ve called the cops, and the cops come in and I’m standing there naked looking like the father from An Officer and a Gentleman with all these young girls around. Now I have to pay off the cops—which is always a delicate situation—and to make matters more difficult I’ve hidden all my money. I’d rolled it up in a bunch of different towels and hid it in a bunch of toilet-paper tubes, cause I didn’t want to get rolled with so much fucking money—five local girls means five sets of sneaky fingers. So I’m surreptitiously taking the money out of the towels, the cops finally leave, and we’re all just sitting there like it’s the calm after the storm. Like, “What do we do now?”

Puss ’n Boots and Lolita leave, Love and Rockets sort of hangs out for a bit then leaves, but Orgasmo isn’t going anywhere. So, I’ll never forget, she sat down to take a piss, and I put my balls on the rim of the shitter, and the coolness of the porcelain just cooling my balls down—I just let fly right into her pussy as she pissed. Then she got a bit mad at me, because I was so into the pissing and was like, “Drink your own piss, baby,” and she got sort of freaked out. But still she wouldn’t leave, she wanted to keep the party going.

Anyways, I’m sitting there, wired for sound with Orgasmo, and I’m like, “Maybe we’ll go back downstairs for a bit.” So we go downstairs to play a bit more, it’s like four or five in the morning—the sun is imminent—and I’m supposed to be going to my house to relax, but I’m still in the casino. We go downstairs to sit in the casino, and I last about five minutes before I meet another five girls—completely different set of five—and Orgasmo fucks them all in different ways. And I don’t even bother whacking off at this point, cause I’m fucking gone, so I’m just sitting there snorting coke with my big fat belly, drinking wine going, “Lick her pussy. Lick her ass. Now, you lick her pussy as she licks your pussy. Lick her ass. Put that plunger in her ass.” I have them doing sort of bathroom things, like plunging their asses with the plunger from the toilet. Then the second army of chicks all leaves, and I’m still sitting there sort of wired and Orgasmo still won’t leave. She just sits there snorting coke and rubbing her pussy. This is after she’s been like the general of the evening, getting all the troops in line, and she’s still rubbing her pussy and going “Orgasmo, orgasmo,” as she’s snorting coke.

I don’t sleep—I just get in a taxi to the airport, fly to my house, sleep for three days, then wake up just crying at the debauch I’d got up to.

JOHN JONES

 

A Pube Away From Incest
She had been “that girl” in high school. This was a public high school in Brooklyn, so she was a blunt-smoking, tongue-ring-flaunting, high-top-Jordan-wearing, stories-told-about-her-fucked-up-family, gum-popping, white-dudes’-Spanish-girl-ass-obsession-justifying curse-whore. Her name was Amanda and she was exquisite. I spent four years trying to get in her ass. She’d lick the blunt while staring at me. She’d let me push up against her in the halls between classes. She’d laugh when I told her all the ways I’d fuck her. And… nothing. I went away to college without conquering Amanda.

But we stayed in touch, and made plans to meet up over summer break. I thought I knew what was expected, but was disappointed when I arrived to find her sitting with her dad watching TV. They had a ghetto-fabulous apartment. One leather couch and no other furniture except for the humongous television, wired for surround sound. Her dad shook my hand with a no-nonsense kung-fu grip and seemed incredibly comfortable in his reclining portion of the leather couch. When he got up to go “get something” I tried to kiss Amanda’s neck but she backed me off sharply. Dad returned with an attractive, locked wooden box and put it on the table in front of us. Best-case scenario, he is going to take me through some family mementos. Worst-case, he’s going to threaten me with his handgun. Amanda was expressionless.

He looked at me, looked at her, unlocked the case, and with a sense of great import, pulled out a bag of weed, a bowl, and a block of hash. She grabbed my thigh. “You want to smoke?”

Her dad picked up the TV remote, raised the volume abusively loud, and flipped on a nasty porn with up-close shots of dicks pounding into various holes.

“Um… no thanks,” I said, looking at the on-screen fucking. Dad retorted with, “All right, Amanda said you were a man but obviously you’re just a bitch.”

“C’mon,” Amanda said, moving one hand onto my crotch and breathing into my neck, “take a hit.”

“No, I’m cool.” I said and grabbed at her hand.

“You’re such a bitch. You don’t even like it when a girl grabs your dick?” her dad said to me, slicing off a piece of hash with a razor.

Her hand opened the top button of my jeans, “I want to show my dad you’re a man.” My hand held hers still.

“C’mon,” he imitated her, conducting his words with the razor, “show my daddy you’re a man.”

I was holding both her hands down at this point and she’d got one finger inside my jeans, inside my boxers, and scratching at my dick. “Please,” in my ear. “Please.” She started crawling up my back, tits mashed against my neck.

“Be a man,” her dad said again, and playfully stabbed at me with the razor. I was still trying to wrestle her hands off of my dick and she was staring at me like a kitten as her dad kept jokingly poking at me with the razor. Then they locked eyes.

“Come here,” he said, grabbing at the top of her shirt and pulling her half over my shoulder. He leaned in and raised the razor to her lips. She nearly kissed it before he sliced down, ripping the shirt that was tight across her tits right down the middle. “Maybe Marty would like you better if you showed him your tits. “Yes, Dad,” she said, pulling the shirt off. She straddled me as her dad commanded, tits in my face. “Do you want to fuck her?” he asked. I did. Her tits were amazing but, let’s be honest, what the fuck was going on here?

“Be a man,” she says.

“Be a man,” he sings.

Finally, I cracked. “Fuck this,” I said, taking a swing at him and knocking the razor out of his hand. She jumped off of me, tits bouncing against her own face. “Fuck you, you crazy asshole,” I said and cocked a fist at him. “Nice,” he laughed. “Go ahead now. You kids do what you want.” He picked up his bowl and took a hit. Amanda was already back in my lap and had both hands pulling at my pants. Her dad let out a few coughs and said, “Check out her ass, it’s amazing” and stared at the porn with a small smile on his face. “Suck my dick,” I told Amanda. “Yes Dad,” she said. After a couple of strong sucks, I was ready to explode but I still needed to see that fantastic ass I’d been watching. “Stand up,” I said. “Take off your pants.” She did as told and we got down to business with her dad sitting right there watching his porn and smoking his weed. I swear to god, once I saw her ass I had no other choice.

MARTY NORVICE


Toddler Liaisons
Growing up I had a playmate named Andy who lived in the apartment downstairs from me. Our moms were best friends and we took baths together as babies and all that stuff. One time, when we were about maybe five or six years old, I wanted to play with his Millennium Falcon, but he wouldn’t let me. I begged him and he said that I could play with it but only if I sat on his face till he counted to 20. I had no idea why he would want that, so I was like, OK, whatever, and I plopped myself down on his face. I had a skirt and undies on, and I remember rubbing myself against his nose and thinking it felt tickly and like maybe I had to go pee. I counted to 20 while he giggled maniacally and made sniffing noises. It happened a bunch more times and I never really thought anything of it—I just thought he liked having his face smooshed or something. Then one time he wanted to play with one of my toys, so I said, OK, now you have to sit on MY face and count to 20. So he plops down on my face, pants on, and I can’t breathe. I pushed him off of me. I could not see the appeal. His mom caught us eventually and yelled at us to never, ever do that again. All I could figure was that she was worried I would smoosh him to death. Soon after that we weren’t allowed to have sleepovers anymore.

Oh and also, he used to make me wipe him after he did number two. One time he had half a poo still sticking out of his butt and he couldn’t squeeze it out for some reason so I had to knock the whole thing off into the toilet for him.

KELLY AMNER


Puerto Rico Day
I had this friend who was obsessed with Puerto Rican girls. We were sitting around and he was bitching about how they were impossible for a white guy to get into bed, and a female friend who was with us said, “That’s just cause white guys never have the balls to hit on them. It isn’t like all Puerto Rican girls hate white guys or something.”

My friend took that to heart and that very night, he saw a Puerto Rican girl on the train, walked right up, and started kicking it to her. She was into it! They were talking and flirting, and then he got off at her stop and went to her apartment.

He said while he was having sex with her, she kept saying shit like, “Feels good, yo.” That was kind of bumming him out. Not the best vibe in the world. But then he’s fucking her and fucking her and he feels something weird. So he pulls out and puts his fingers inside of her and pulls out a fucking used condom! Not his—he wasn’t wearing one! He told the girl what he found and she calmy turns her head back with chewing gum in her mouth and goes, “I know. That’s bugged out right?”

RYAN MARKS

 

 

The Sock Men
The only nightclub in my hometown that teenagers were allowed in attracted a mix of skate kids, punks, metal kids, old alcoholics, thugs, sluts, and fucking weirdos. It was the worst nightclub in town.

The two biggest fucking weirdos who frequented the place were a tall guy who looked like he’d done time in prison and his shorter, fatter friend who looked like he was a chromosome away from Down’s. I’m not that scientifically inclined, but the guy was definitely retarded both physically and mentally. He wore eyeliner and his bottom lip stuck out quite a lot. Often he would have to wipe drool from his lips.

The two of them would approach our gang in the nightclub and start up a conversation with us. They always carried a big bag of used socks with them and a bunch of papers that they claimed were “official charity papers.” They would ask to buy our socks from us in return for a couple of quid and tell us the socks would be recycled and given to a charity in India or something. I never gave them anything because they gave me the creeps, but we were all really broke with no prospect of employment, so being able to buy another drink in exchange for a pair of socks you’d been wearing all day appealed to a lot of my friends.

A couple of mates would even give them their socks every night and struck up a weird friendship with the pair. I was totally against it. They told me they’d take trips to a decrepit guesthouse where the pair lived and get more involved in the exchange of socks and… other things.

It transpired that the two men were gay foot fetishists who enlisted young boys to commit weird acts with their feet and socks.

Typically, you’d be paid £10 for kicking the retarded guy in the ass 100 times and then having him lick your feet for five minutes. While this was going on the other guy counted down the number of times his mong friend got kicked and, with a stopwatch, timed how long each of my friends would put their feet, both socked and unsocked, on his face.

As I questioned my friends more and more over the weeks they admitted that things with the sock men had become increasingly lucrative and, worryingly, increasingly sexualized—with a heavy S&M lean.

One night, the retarded man had laid on the bed with his bare buttocks exposed while my friend whipped him with a belt 100 times, kicked him in the face, and then pissed on him. For this he was paid £80.

I informed him that he was basically a rent boy, but he said he didn’t mind because he didn’t have to do anything sexual himself and he thought that the guys didn’t get anything sexual out of it (yeah right) and that it was all for charity.

The fragrant dream ended when a younger boy ran screaming out of the flat after the two men offered him £150 to shit on the retarded man’s face. He was OK with this bit, telling himself it was funny because he was so desperate for money, but when they encouraged him to jerk off onto the shit he freaked out, the cops were called, and the two men were arrested.

In the ensuing newspaper coverage, it was revealed that the men had amassed a small fortune by ripping off gaming and cigarette machines and had used the money to pay young boys to tend to their fucking weird sexual needs. They’d been getting away with it for a year. All my friends were pretty embarrassed by the news coverage.

My favorite line of the story was when they interviewed the policeman who’d led the raid on their house.

“There were socks everywhere,” he said. “There were socks hanging from the chandelier, socks on the TV, and socks in the frying pan. It was like an explosion in a sock factory!”

WALLACE HUGHES


Penthouse Scammer
A girl I know, let’s call her sally, responded to one of those “Models Wanted” ads, eager to leapfrog her way into the Australian soft porn industry. She set up a test shoot with Bob, who was touted as a photographer for Penthouse Australia looking for new talent. Sally arrived for the shoot in a hired studio and was greeted by Michelle, Bob’s assistant. As the afternoon shoot progressed, Bob shot Sally undressing in the waning light while telling her this was her big break and that she’ had a great body etc etc.

Next Bob told her he needed some shots with two people so Michelle took over duties on the camera while Bob undressed and said “OK, we’re going to have to get some penetration shots, is that cool?” And Sally was like,“If that’s what they need, I guess it’s cool. How do you want me?”

Bob’s assistant was snapping away while he went to work with Sally, who wass beaming like a beauty queen under the flashes. By the end of the shoot, she had been through every manoeuver you can possibly imagine. A few days went by and no phone call from Bob, who promised he would be in touch as soon as the magazine saw the shots. Sally tried to ring him, but the number was disconnected. Finally, she contacted Penthouse Australia who told her they had heard about this guy before.

They told her that he claimed to be a Penthouse or Hustler photographer. This is about the eighth call they had had but they were sure there were more.

Which just goes to prove that you can get away with anything if you have a nice camera, an assistant and a set of balls the size of library globes.

CARLISLE ROGERS


This is a tie! It seems there’s two winners! Just kidding. The winner for most romantic romance story is Ryan Marks for that thing with the Puerto Rican chick who had someone else’s used condom in her vagina!

WINNER: PUERTO RICO DAY

Ryan Marks: “Oh man. I guess this isn’t fair because it didn’t exactly happen to me, but I heard my boy tell it a million times and he always fucks it up. You gotta be chewing the gum hard when you say, ‘bugged out, right?’ It’s what makes the story.”

 

MAURICIO

I grew up in Mexico City and moved here three years ago, one day before the blackout.

What were you doing before you moved?

I actually wrote for Mexican TV. I worked on soap operas and comedy shows.

And now?

Right now I do whatever is available: Construction, technical work at theaters, sometimes help with translating—too many things.

What’s been the hardest thing to adapt to living in the States?

The Spanish language is completely destroyed here. The ads in Spanish on the subways are almost always incorrect. I think the companies must rely on people who really don’t know the language to translate them, and nobody takes the time to check them.

But isn’t that just ads in general? I mean we have ads in English that say things like “Drink Dasani everyday.”

I don’t know. But there’s one ad I always see that says afuera solir, which basically means, “To go outside outside.”


INTERVIEWS by VICE STAFF,
PHOTOS by PATRICK O’DELL