What happens when you send a Penthouse Pet, a reality-TV star, and two regular joes to compete in an adventure race in the rugged north of Scotland?
By John Bolster
Photos by Rodrick Cox

We drank like champions, witnessed three nearfistfights, and narrowly missed uprooting a crosswalk light with our vehicle. And that was just on the ride to the airport.

A quick word to the wise about Drambuie, the honey-and-herb-flavored Scottish liqueur with a legendary 250-year history: Don’t let its pleasing taste and smooth character distract you from the facts that (a) it’s made of malt whisky, (b) it’s 80 proof, and (c) if you down it like it’s some kind of peach schnapps–style girl drink, it will fuck you up.

That was a lesson our group learned right off the bat. Well, most of our group, anyway.

There were 40 of us, and we were headed overseas, as guests of Drambuie, to participate in the Drambuie Pursuit, a nine-stage adventure race in the fairy tale–beautiful Scottish Highlands.

Our teams of four would be shooting arrows, riding speedboats, hiking up mountains, canoeing, biking, running, and, in some cases, puking. Team Penthouse consisted of 2007 Penthouse Pet of the Year Heather Vandeven, former Bachelor contestant Charlie O’Connell, an agent named Brian, and a broken-down Penthouse editor with a trick knee. We would span 180 miles of land and water in the event, which is a reenactment of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s legendary escape from the English in 1746. After a failed attempt to reclaim the British throne for his father, the Scottish prince fled through the Highlands, protected by the region’s clans. As an expression of his gratitude, the story goes, the prince gave his secret recipe for Drambuie Liqueur to James Mackinnon, captain of the Highland clans.

After a send-off party at the Penthouse Executive Club in Midtown Manhattan, we boarded the bus to the airport for our flight to Glasgow. People were ready to take it to the next level. Bottles of Drambuie made the rounds and were tipped heavily, and the company motto—“Enjoy our good taste with your good judgment”—went right out the window, with painful results in some cases. One woman began the bus trip as a fresh-faced, bubbly blonde, only to finish it wandering blotto and cadaverous looking through the airport terminal without her luggage.

Fortunately, she figured it out and went a little easier on the stuff for the remainder of the trip (and someone found her luggage). One guy failed so spectacularly to learn the lesson that he got booted from the trip when we landed in Glasgow.

But once he was gone, and everyone else got their sea legs, the trip rocked. From Glasgow, we made the short voyage to Edinburgh, the historic capital of Scotland. After a day of sightseeing and a welcome party, we boarded a bus the next morning for the Highlands—Braveheart country.

Anyone who slept on that two-hour journey missed some of the most spectacular scenery on the globe, one majestic vista after another: snow-capped peaks, lush valleys and meadows, and the sprawling Loch Ness.

The scenery functioned as a direct counterpoint to the cuisine, which we’re pretty sure has inspired no poetry, except maybe a dirty limerick or two. Most of the food looks like something you might eat on a dare. Have you ever tried black pudding? You should know that the term pudding here is a total smoke screen. Not since sweetbreads has a euphemism been employed more brazenly. Black pudding is in fact a sausage made by cooking blood until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled.

There was a lump of it sitting on our plates on the morning of the big race, and since we’ll try anything once, we gave it a go. Our reaction? Let’s just say we’ve crossed “choke down a piece of blood sausage” off our bucket list, and never speak of it again. Now it was time to suit up for stage one of the event, a Zapcat powerboat race.

Zapcats are two-person inflatable speedboats; one person drives (Drambuie provided us with professionals) and the other functions as dynamic ballast, also known as “hanging on for dear life in the front of the boat and trying not to get tossed out by the g-force as you round the turns at top speed.” We all took a turn in the Zapcat, and, needless to say, this stage was awesome. Even though our boat’s engine died right out of the gate and we had to scramble for a new one, Team Penthouse rallied to escape a lastplace finish.

Stage two had two parts: One team member made a three kilometer uphill bike ride to the foot of a mountain, then the remaining three teammates climbed the mountain on foot. Our man Charlie O’Connell was on the hike team, and he was so gassed by the end that he had to crawl the last 20 yards. Two teams passed him where he lay. “I felt like the snail that gets overrun by two turtles,” he said. “It all happened so fast!”

After the climb, we traveled 40 miles to some rapids for a white-water raft race. Let the record show that Team Penthouse’s white-water-rafting skills were not up to snuff. We’re not sure what the problem was, exactly, but we stunk so bad that, after seeing us in action, our guide simply stopped giving us pointers. Apparently, we were beyond help. Luckily, the river had a current, so we eventually did reach the finish line. We’re pretty sure we placed last in that stage. Dead last.

Next, we biked two miles up a mountain, then barreled back down on an off-road trail. Given the all-USA lineup of participants, this brutal descent had international incident written all over it. It was really steep, and it plunged through mud, stones, tree roots, and hairpin turns. The whole white-knuckled way down, the main thought in our heads was, How the hell is Heather Vandeven going to come out of this alive?

Amazingly, Heather not only made it down in one piece, she also finished ahead of fellow Team Penthouse members Charlie and Brian.

With only three stages left, Team Penthouse was in good position to achieve the two objectives it set after taking stock of the rest of the field. Goal No. 1: Have a good time. Goal No. 2: Defeat at least one of the other nine teams. No. 1 was in the bag-we were having a blast-and No. 2 was within reach, as we were in ninth place.

We held that position until the final stage, a one-mile run through the city center of Inverness. But the tenth-place team, the Rusty Nails, was nipping at our heels. O’Connell looked like he might not make it. But as we labored toward the finish line at Inverness Castle, just a short uphill sprint away, he and Heather made one last heroic push, putting a few crucial yards between us and the Nails. Then, just to be sure, Brian grabbed them both and shoved them over the line.

Goal No. 2 accomplished.

O’Connell collapsed on the ground in the finish area, and we can’t say we ever saw him get up. We’re not saying he perished there, but we didn’t see him rise. When all was said and done, it was a spectacular event (a team of Idaho smoke jumpers—guys who parachute into forest fires, on purpose, to fight them—ended up winning, by the way), and worth it for the scenery alone.

If you happen to see a few Drambuie representatives at your local watering hole some time soon, offering chances at a free trip to Scotland, sign up and give it a shot. You won’t regret it. See PursuitOf1745.com for more on the Drambuie Pursuit.

Lars and the Real Girl left us with questions about RealDolls…. Lots of questions.

Let’s start with the practical:
How do you clean them?
Where do you store them?
What do they really feel like?
How customized can you get?
How does it compare to sex with a real girl, and how the hell will we ever find someone with experience with both who can answer that?

Then there were the queries spawned by our research into those initial questions. We found a few stories online about guys with inanimate “girlfriends” or “companions,” not to mention owners’ sites full of photos and blogs. If only we could have reached out and asked, How many outfits does your doll have? Why are those 300 bikinis reserved for one of your three dolls? How much do you spend on clothing/makeup/wigs/upkeep? Clearly, more research was needed.

We contacted the folks at RealDoll, and they very nicely agreed to contact a few clients for comments. The seven men who responded were far less creepy than we’d expected, and some even owned dolls for reasons with which we could empathize. Still, we did find out some amusing and entertaining things. We also found the answers to some of our questions in the RealDoll.com FAQs, which, by the way, we highly recommend reading.

Our Halloween hotties have plenty of tricks and treats…but if anyone’s unwrapping these goodies, it’s us. You have to get your own.

SUPERSEXY SUPERHEROES

Wonder Woman
($52; FlirtCatalog.com)
Troy boots by Ellie Shoes
($65; EllieShoes.com)

Batgirl
($47; Costume
Supercenter.com)
Chastity boots from
Penthouse Shoes by Ellie
($70; EllieShoes.com)

To celebrate the age of personalized media, when bands build their fan base via MySpace and TV networks boast about show downloads, we’ve plucked this month’s comedian—Jonathan Fin—from that most democratic of media outlets,YouTube.

While growing up in the south suburbs of Chicago, comedian/musican Jonathan Fin realized one thing about himself: He’s a douche bag, and damn proud of it. (Really. It’s on his business card.) After he was voted class clown in the eighth grade, he also realized that his sarcastic nature and sophomoric wit could make him popular—and maybe even get him laid. Of course, back then the 32-year-old never could have imagined that such gloriously crass songs as “The Hand-Job Protest Song” and “The Titty Song,” both of which have videos that prominently feature Fin’s ex-girlfriend’s impressive boobage, would make him an Internet sensation.

Fin started on a more traditional career path, with a degree in journalism from Indiana University and success as an advertising copywriter. Then he started performing original songs and stand-up at local open-mike nights, refining his material and defining his comedic voice. He also took improv classes at Second City, created a comic strip, and wrote a lot of songs.

In 2006, Fin joined Rover’s Morning Glory, the nationally syndicated morning radio show that replaced Howard Stern in Chicago, eventually garnering No. 1 ratings and rave reviews from audiences and critics alike before it was canceled. Now, as Fin shops around his own show, we sat down with him to discuss his strange aptitude for perverted songwriting and to find out what makes this particular douche bag so fucking funny.

Your videos have made you a YouTube legend, but we were shocked to learn that you won a car on The View with one of your songs. Don’t they investigate who they award prizes to?
My sister knows I do parody songs and she’s a big fan of The View. Personally, it’s not on the top of my list. But they were having a song parody contest and she thought I could win. She said, “The prize is a minivan and 15 grand. I could use the minivan; you could keep the 15 grand.” Anyway, I ended up winning. It was pretty fucking cool. I had people calling me up, saying, “Dude, did I see you on The View this morning? What the fuck is up with that?”

No offense, but do you think you would have won if someone had checked your background?
I tried to get a plug for my Website [JonathanFin.com] when I won, but I’m guessing they took a look first, because they didn’t mention it. I get the feeling they wanted to distance themselves from “The Titty Song” and “The Hand-Job Protest Song.”

Has the popularity of “The Titty Song” changed your life?
I get at least ten to 20 e-mails every single day from people telling me the song changed their life. It’s become sort of a tit anthem. People are using it for their ringtones. I think it’s just great.

What makes you an expert on tits?
I just had a very simple idea to write a song about tits. I was seeing the girl in the video at the time, and she had huge fucking tits. I was smart enough to know that if a hot girl is in a video, it’s going
to get twice as much interest as without it, so I wrote a catchy little tune and it just took off. It’s everywhere now. Although I also get a lot of hate mail from people who write things like “You should be
ashamed of yourself” and “Your mother must be so proud.”

Is your mother proud of you?
Not particularly. She says, “You better not tell anyone at work about your pornographic material on your Website.” I don’t think she under stands that it’s just comedy. It doesn’t help when people come up to her and say, “Did I see your son in a video called ‘Lickin’ Chicks’?”

How does your ex feel about being an Internet star?
She’s a really cool chick. We broke up because of a proximity issue. She was in Detroit and I was in Cleve land at the time. It just didn’t work out. But she works at a bar and she always gets people coming in and saying, “Are you the fucking girl from ‘The Titty Song’?” She actually signs autographs. She’s a great sport.

How would you describe the perfect tit?
It all depends on the girl. I like ’em to be real but look fake. The ideal is a large C cup with a nice dime-size nipple.

Have your songs gotten you laid or slapped in the face?
It’s cut right down the middle. It’s a great way to find out right away which chicks I’m going to be able to have sex with. My business card says “Jonathan Fin: Douche Bag” with my contact information. The chick will check out my Website and either say “You’re the funniest thing ever!” or “You’re a fucking pervert. If you ever call me again, I’m going to call the cops.” It’s a pretty good way of weeding out the faint of heart. But to answer your question, my songs definitely get me laid. A lot of times, right before I perform “The Titty Song,” I’ll pull a girl with a nice rack up onstage and sing to her. That move has gotten me laid once or twice. And laughter is always the best way to get laid. Plus, you throw in the fact that I can play guitar and have a ten-inch cock. I mean, what else do you need?

Have you ever motorboated a women’s cleavage?
Oh, absolutely, man! Absolutely! I don’t know who came up with that, but there’s something about the shape of a tit that makes a man want to stick his face in there and go, [makes a motorboat sound]. I try to do that as often as I can.

We can’t leave out your infamous “Hand-Job Protest Song.” Have you ever told a chick in person, “Fuck it, suck it, or leave it alone,” like you do in the song?
I have. Not so much in those words, because I try to be a nice guy while we’re naked and in bed. But since I wrote that song, no chicks even want to touch my cock. They’re so afraid! Truth be told, my ex-girlfriend gave a killer handjob. She really knew how to work it. But it’s funny how many girls are afraid to touch it after that song.

It is a catchy tune.
Yeah, I know. I’ve had people tell me they’ve gotten in trouble at work for singing, “You got to suck it, fuck it, or leave it alone.”

Your Website bio also describes you as a douche bag. What makes you such a douche bag?
I just don’t give a shit what people think. Chicks always say they want the nice guy, but they always end up with the fucking douche bag. Always! My theory is, come right out and say, “This
is what you’re dealing with. Let’s just get it right out in the open now.” I cut right to the chase. I’m kind of a dick and kind of bitter.

What’s the biggest douchebag move you’ve pulled off?
Man, there’s been so many. I once got a present for a girl I was dating, but I ended up hooking up with this chick at the fucking mall. She saw the lingerie I had bought my girlfriend and ended up wearing it. I totally fucked her in it and defiled it. But I still gave it to my girlfriend.

Even we’re offended by that.
When I gave the lingerie to her, she said it smelled like pussy. I told her that’s how lingerie is sold now. It’s pre-scented.

You took over for Howard Stern in Chicago when he went to satellite radio. I can’t imagine that kind of pressure.
I wasn’t the host of the show. His name was Rover. I won a contest to be on the show and it worked out, so I was on for about a year and a half. But the state of radio today just fucking sucks. You can’t say anything. You can’t push the boundaries. And after the whole Don Imus thing, it just got worse. That’s why I liked watching Howard Stern’s TV show a lot more than listening to his radio show. Our show became more like the radio version of the Jerry Springer Show. They just wanted us to
make up stories. But I wasn’t interested in doing that. I wanted to keep it real.

How real?
For instance, I had a girlfriend who was really into threesomes. We’d go out and take pictures of the chicks we would take home and I’d talk about it on the air the next day. That’s the kind of shit I wanted to do. But they weren’t so much into that. So we got canceled.

Would it be inappropriate to ask for your ex-girlfriend’s phone number?
There’s still a chance we might get back together again one day. But she really enjoyed those threesomes. We would do amazing things with those girls. In fact, I actually sent letters to “Penthouse Forum” about it.

If you could wrap your meat hooks around one pair of celebrity tits, whose would they be?
I’d like to check out Carmen Electra’s. Those are pretty nice. I know they’re fake, but I don’t care. Maybe I’d go for Jessica Alba’s. Jessica Simpson has nice titties, too. But now that I’m thinking about it, Jennifer Love Hewitt has the best rack of all! I would love to feel those things!

If you think all-you-can-eat wing night at the sports bar with your buddies can get pretty sloppy, try a pilgrimage to Philadelphia on Super Bowl weekend to experience the glory that is Wing Bowl.

The Jumbo Tron at Philadelphia’s Wachovia Center shows a close-up of a pair of massive breasts. The camera zooms in on them as they jiggle, riling up the thousands of surly men who let out a collective Yeaaah! as the perfectly symmetrical mounds take up even more of the giant overhead screen. The owner of the breasts is wearing a light-blue top and playfully squishing them together, tugging at her bra strap, which excites the men even more. She’s pulling down her shirt, showing the top portion of her cream-colored bra. She knows what she’s doing; she’s a willing participant. The camera does a frantic zoom-in, zoom-out visual hubba-hubba to further accentuate the display. Then it pulls back enough to reveal that the woman is about to stop toying with the crowd and lift up her top—the precious grapefruit-size orbs are seconds from being revealed. The men in the crowd hoist their beers high in the air, bellowing with a collective guttural yell not unlike William Wallace’s charging Scottish soldiers. The camera pans up and reveals the woman’s face—a pug-nosed, mannish face, criminally mismatched with those perfect, perfect breasts. The men, again in unison, boo.

It is 7:10 A.M. The Wing Bowl has officially begun.

For 16 years, miscreants and louts from all over the Philadelphia area have made a pilgrimage to watch oversize men eat Buffalo wings as fast as they can. Sports radio station 610 WIP began the Wing Bowl in 1993 as a way to celebrate something—anything—during Super Bowl week, given that the hometown Philadelphia Eagles were consistent also-rans. What started out as a couple hundred people crammed into a hotel lobby has morphed into an arena-size festival of gluttony, partial nudity, and drunkenness. It may not have the marquee-event status of Independence Day’s Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island, but Wing Bowl is so much more than just an eating contest. For the last nine years, it’s been held in the 21,000-seat arena currently known as the Wachovia Center, home of the Sixers and Flyers, and has always packed the venue—at 6 A.M., no less. This year, the $5 tickets sold out in less than an hour.

Charging admission and issuing tickets are recent but necessary additions to Wing Bowl, which nearly devolved into a riot thanks to an estimated 30,000 would-be revelers storming the Wachovia Center’s entrance in 2005. One security guard, working his eleventh Wing Bowl, says that was the only time it was truly scary: “We had to barricade the doors in some sections.” This year it is comparitively tame, and the security guards and the ten or so armed policemen on duty are confident they know how to control the crowd. “As long as there aren’t any guns pulled or fists thrown, we’ll leave most people alone,” the guard says, summarizing in one sentence a century of Philadelphia sports security protocol.

The 2008 Wing Bowl is unique because it features the return of Bill “El Wingador” Simmons, a six-foot-four-inch, 285-pound behemoth who reigned as Wing Bowl champion from 2001 to 2003, when he retired. Since Simmons stepped down, the Wing Bowl crown has fallen to out-of-town professional eaters, with the last two titles going to Joey Chestnut of California, the man who dethroned the legendary Kobayashi at Coney Island, ingesting a record 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes.

But as we’ve said, the wing-eating contest isn’t the reason that thousands of men pile into the arena for Wing Bowl. It’s the tits. And the opportunity to be sloppy drunk on a workday well before the rest of the world’s alarm clocks have gone off.

But mostly, it’s the tits.

The best composite of Wing Bowl attendees is this: They’re the men who get kicked out of sporting events—the boorish, drunken slobs who curse too loudly, start fights too easily, harass women too aggressively, and make watching a game uncomfortable for 90 percent of the other spectators. Even in Philadelphia, whose fans have a nationally known reputation for classlessness, this crowd is vile. Philly fans earned their rep for, among other offenses, throwing snowballs at Santa Claus in 1968, cheering when Dallas Cowboys receiver Michael Irvin lay motionless on the turf with a neck injury in 1999, and behaving so poorly at the old Veterans Stadium that the city was forced to assign a judge to the Vet on Eagles game days. In a makeshift courtroom in the bowels of the stadium, an actual, real-life judge doled out fines and jail time—during games!—to the brutish types who couldn’t help running afoul of the law while expressing allegiance to their beloved Iggles. That was a first … and it remains unmatched to this day.

Yes, the Wing Bowl crowd comes from this stock. And they run the show at Wachovia Center. They arrive at 4 A.M. to tailgate and are urinating in the parking lot by 5:15 A.M. Once they’re finally through the doors, they might keep tabs on the wing-eating contest, but the strippers gyrating by the competitors are a constant distraction—and the ones strategically planted in the crowd, disguised as civilians, become the main event. These chiquitas and the dynamic they create with attendees define the essence of Wing Bowl. Dressed-down in tight-fitting Phillies T-shirts, well laundered hats, and faded jeans, they troll the crowd and sporadically flash the men, causing heads to pop up one after another,
like weasels during an earthquake.

Sure, there are a lot of “normal” girls flashing the crowd, and they can be stars today—provocateurs of tens of thousands of men (“One more time! One more time!”) who, in more docile social settings, probably wouldn’t consider them desirable. But civilian girls are relatively few and far between. The strip
clubs - well aware of the business prospects represented by thousands of drunk men pent-up from four hours of ogling women and wing-eating—clean up. They send strippers into the melee to start a little congenial conversation with a crowd of gawkers after a well-orchestrated tit-flash. It goes a long way toward securing customers at their club after the festivities are over.

Each of the 30 contestants in the eating contest is sponsored by a group of “Wingettes,” who usually come from a local strip club. The larger jiggle joints will even bring out the big guns, like porn stars Gina Lynn and Nikki Benz (shown below). This is Benz’s first Wing Bowl (she was our May 2008 cover girl, by the way), and she’s sitting on top of a makeshift float in a skimpy two piece, shivering, waiting to be pushed out into the arena so she can cheer on her wing-sucking contestant, wiggle her ass, and hopefully encourage some of the raucous crowd to turn up for her show at Delilah’s later that afternoon.

This is Gina Lynn’s second Wing Bowl. Kind of. Last year, it didn’t work out too well: Lynn—all five foot two of her—was thrown out for fighting one of the bouncers backstage. This year, she is determined to make it through the entire competition, and she does.

All in all, there are about 100 strippers at the event. Most make it onto the stage as Wingettes; some work the crowd “incognito”; some work it, um, “cognito,” wearing skimpy nurse’s uniforms or Army fatigues and breaking into impromptu performances. If the girls get too raunchy or the crowd starts tossing money at them, they’ll be escorted out of the section by security, provoking a chorus of boos or the “Azzz-hole” chant from the crowd.

By 8:30 A.M., with the actual eating contest well under way, portions of the crowd begin to nod off in the stands—three hours of early-morning drinking will do that to you. The contest, broadcast live over WIP’s morning show, is off to a feverish start—Chestnut has annihilated the first heat by eating 124 wings. During the commercial breaks, though, when the Jumbo Tron tit show is in full effect, some of the early risers wake up.

“Aw … they’re fantastic,” says one fortyish, work-booted man with a gray goatee as two dancers engage in a feverish make-out session on the big screen. The in-house pit band is playing the “Chicken Dance,” but substituting the clap-clap-clap-clap portion with “Show. Us. Your. Tits.” More strippers-posing-as-civilians are shown on the Jumbo Tron. Some just wave, resulting in boos and a few tossed beers. One woman obliges, flashing her perky A-cups, and the crowd roars again.

It was rumored that this year’s Wing Bowl would be the last, but the WIP guys say that every year. And every year it just becomes more popular, raunchier, and less about the wings.

Even if the radio station were to stop sponsoring it, some other entity surely would. If only for the fact that on the Friday before the Super Bowl, 20,000 Philly-area men would feel a little lost without it. You get the sense that the strippers in attendance would feel that way, too.

As seen in Penthouse Magazine July, 2008
By A.J. Daulerio
Photography by Anthony R. Gargano

The cool little L.A. club that introduced the world to Dita Von Teese and reveled the art of the tease to a new generation of horny hipsters is branching out to Vegas, London, and, with any luck, New York. Hang on to your pasties.
By Donnell Alexander
Photos by Jeff Vogeding

It’s a small room for L.A. Squeeze more than a hundred people inside Forty Deuce and the fire marshal might have a strong case. That’s why it’s so overwhelming when a New York–bred Latina called Dakota steps into the spotlight wearing a blue feather boa and a flash of fringe across her crotch. She makes her elegant way across the club’s narrow stage to the sound of a three-piece band, losing her clothing, seemingly, step by step. Her dance is a closebut-no-nudity provocation that reduces your average strip club get-down to playground hokey-pokey. Amazingly, the crowd is made up of more chicks than dudes, and when Dakota lets loose, you can almost hear the panties moistening.

Ivan Kane’s Forty Deuce is a rare slice of gritty Hollywood glamour, the kind of spot where the deejay flits between bursts of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun� and classic hip-hop, and the folks in the V.I.P. section are unshaven and possibly sporting sweats. Very L.A. “Part of what makes Forty Deuce great is that we mix the swells with that different demographic,� Kane says. “Any one demographic in a room is going to be kind of boring. What makes it interesting is to get a diverse kind of crowd that wants to get a little bit down and dirty in an elegant setting. That’s what makes the night achieve its magic.�

Kane, who opened Forty Deuce in 2002, had hoped his creation would fly in his native New York. The screenwriterturned-entrepreneur had Sting and David Bowie as financial backers, but that failed to sway neighborhood opponents. In September, Kane thought the local community board protest would be a minor irritant, a predictable hurtle to any New York club opening. “It’s just part of the process,� he said. But by October the entrepreneur had become frustrated that months of hearings and diplomacy had failed to win him the liquor license he needed to set up shop. In the gentrified flanks of Little Italy, he’d run up against the kind of outrage he’d never encountered in Hollywood.

Luckily, there’s always Vegas. In the desert, at the club Kane opened in 2004, the Forty Deuce dancers perform bigger and project more broadly than in L.A. There, Kane strived to appeal to industry people who work in other nightclubs, casinos, and bars. “Man doesn’t live on Friday and Saturday alone,� he says.

If Kane ever gets New York’s version off the ground, it will break from what his other clubs have done so far—changes which remain, in part, a secret. The trick is recognizing how every market is like a snowflake—or a woman. “There are subtle differences,� Kane says, “but those differences will make or break you.�

Kane is planning on opening a Forty Deuce in London and one in San Diego next year, and is confident his formula can transcend borders. “I don’t care if I’m on the moon, hot women are hot women,� Kane said while in New York on a day when it was crawling with even more models than usual. “I’ve seen a lot of long legs this week, because it’s fashion week, and I don’t think these women are from the same planet that I am. I think there are gorgeous women on both coasts. I fly between two magnificent cities and complete the triangle in Las Vegas; it certainly is a visual feast. I don’t think I can take two steps and not see gorgeous, talented, fabulous women.� Just like his dancers can’t take two steps without causing arousal.

In 1982, an Atari 2600 game called Beat ‘Em & Eat ‘Em featured a masturbating male on a downtown rooftop, with ravenous, pixelated women waiting open-mouthed in the street below. Twenty-five years later, we’re still waiting for the sexual revolution in gaming. Heather Chaplin discovers that if America can be more like Norway, Germany, and Japan, that day may soon be here.
Illustration by Greg Horn

Although its life span was short, Boong-Ga Boong-Ga wasn’t a videogame you soon forgot. It was an arcade game featuring kancho, after all, which is Japanese slang for anal probing. The game’s controller was shaped like a big fist with one finger stuck up in the air, and the goal was to shove that finger up the ass of the people who ‘make your life miserable.’ Sexual proclivities aside, Boong-Ga Boong-Ga seemed to perfectly marry videogame technology and libidinous perversion.

Not long ago, it would’ve been easy to imagine retailer shelves bulging with Boong-Ga Boong-Ga spin-offs. By all rights, sex and games should be a match made in virtual heaven. You’d think that hooking up the two leisure pursuits would be an interactive medium just waiting to be exploited. America is among the biggest consumers of porn worldwide ’spending as much as $13 billion annually on pornographic merchandise’ and the industry continues to explode online. So why don’t we have more sex in our video games? Where is the Halo of ferocious fornication? Will there ever be an EA After Dark?

Twenty years ago, it appeared that America might catch on and we’d all be swinging in virtual sex clubs, neck-deep in possible partners, joysticks in hand. Back then, videogames were still a Wild West frontier of renegade programmers and self-made publishers, some of whom attempted to make sexually active videogames. In the early eighties, Softporn Adventure from Sierra Entertainment featured a cover shot of a Macintosh and three naked women in a hot tub being served champagne. And for the Atari 2600, there was the graphic and bizarre Custer’s Revenge and Beat ‘Em & Eat ‘Em. Granted, both of those are still considered among the worst games ever made, but at least they were a start; or so it seemed. But today, when it comes to turning out racy new titles, the U.S. lags behind pixel pushers in Germany and Norway and, not surprisingly, even farther behind Japan. This winter, an Oslo-based company is due to release the most explicit mainstream massively multiplayer game ever with its hot-blooded take on the Conan the Barbarian saga, Age of Conan.

In many ways, American developers are still struggling against a two-decade-old crackdown on sex games. After the Entertainment Software Rating Board was established in the early nineties, Wal-Mart and Best Buy, among others, refused to carry adult titles. Console companies developed proprietary chips, making it impossible for games to be created without their approval. In 1996, the Interactive Entertainment Merchants Association, which includes all the major retail chains, refused to carry unrated games and products that had been given an Adult Only rating by the ESRB. But in the past few years, a handful of dirty-minded software slingers are once again happily dipping a toe into the potentially vast pool of porno gaming.

Initially, the adult-entertainment industry was excited about interactive pornography. The math, however, quickly soured the idea for all but the most ambitious producers. The average cost of a porn film is about $10,000, with the most expensive topping out at around $250,000. A videogame, on the other hand, costs a minimum of $3 million to $5 million to produce. Add this to the limited and tightly controlled distribution channels for both products and you start to see the problem.

Still, some Internet entrepreneurs are undaunted. Though most hard-core players are less than thrilled by them, the Flash games found on such Websites as SexyFuckGames.com, WetPussyGames.com, and Adult-Games-Zone.com at least attempt to arouse. But these efforts offer almost no game play, and when they do, you’ll wish they didn’t. In this realm, a typical scene has you bending a schoolgirl over, then scrolling the mouse to thrust your penis in and out of her backside as animated juice dribbles down her legs and her face flushes red. An orgasm is represented by a bar filling up from left to right at the top of the screen. Virtual postcoital cigarettes are hardly needed.

The online Flash games that try to do more can be maddeningly frustrating. In SimGirlDNA on FuckGames.com, you have 100 days (a minute in game time) to build up enough experience points to get the girl. You complete small tasks to inflate your bank account, charm, and physical strength until you can buy her enough presents that she’ll agree to date you. So enlightened! Then you have to remember all the little things she told you (her favorite band, where her father works, her phone number) to get farther than a dinner date. By the time the meal is over, you’ll be ready to hit the hay ‘alone. In Don’t Wake Her, you attempt to have sex with your sleeping girlfriend, but it’s almost impossible to remove her covers without her eyes popping open and her asking just what you think you’re doing. The answer, sadly, is not much. And in Naughty Doctor, it can take an hour of mouse work to try to separate your squirming patient’s legs and get more than an uninspired ‘ah’ out of her.

Other would-be sex-game moguls have done better. Three years ago, Brad Abram was working for a run-of-the-mill technology company in Vancouver. One of the tools he sold was a game engine—the software that powers the action. Wanting to break out on his own, Abram started thinking about what else that engine could do. Today, Abram is chief executive of Stream 3D Multimedia, Inc., the creators of Virtually Jenna, Sex Villa, and 3D Gay Villa—three downloadable sex games based on that initial game engine (which was originally meant to be a flight simulator).

Virtually Jenna (yes, that Jenna) allows users to play with the porn queen and a bevy of “friendsâ€? as if she were a movable fuck doll. In story mode, Jenna pisses off an eighteenth-century duchess by crashing her party and has to placate the lady of the manor by dropping to her knees and fellating the nearest partygoer. Other scenarios: Jenna gets horny in the office; Jenna causes trouble on a pirate ship and must be punished. Those with time constraints can simply choose a location and get right to work. There are ‘anal bunnies’ and dildos to insert, free floating fingers for her to suck, and whips and paddles. The game also has an extensive customization section where you can choose breast and nipple size, eye color, eyebrow shape, and hairstyle. It also has a new feature of which Abram is particularly proud: ‘pimp the pussy,’ which lets you customize the size, shape, and color of Jenna’s vaginal lips.The reason gamers don’t go for this title is that there’s not much to do once you customize Jenna and her friends and pick your position. You click on a series of icons to choose missionary position, sixty-nine, or doggie-style; then Jenna and her partner go at it. There’s no actual manipulating of the figures within the confines of the chosen positions. There’s also no winning or losing per se, although you can collect dollars for bringing your characters to orgasm, which you then spend on gear like French maid or S&M outfits for Jenna and her crew.

The truth is, virtual boot knocking, just like in the real world, offers the kind of sex you want; it’s just a matter of finding the community engaging in it. The most exciting sex action happening in American games can be found in massively multiplayer online worlds. Mainstream MMOs, such as World of Warcraft, or even single-player virtual-world-like games, such as The Sims 2, have entire communities built around participant-created pornographic game play. There are Websites dedicated to nude ’skins,’ playermade modifications of games With these skins, you can turn your leather-jerkin-clad elf into a nude elf, or your happily married Sim into a chronically masturbating secret S&M fan. Second Life has a flourishing sex industry, and you don’t even need to find skins if you want to trot around flapping in the pixelated breeze. Since everything is created by players, things like sex clubs and dildo-enhanced chairs proliferate.

There’s a fine line between suave and skanky. Learn how to walk it and become the gentleman slut you’ve always wanted to be. Chelsea Summers shows you how.

I have fucked a lot of men. A few of these men I’ve loved, a few I’ve detested, but most fall into the fat swath of those I’ve liked. While this revelation might not garner me many fans at Jesus Camp, it does mean that I have the sheet cred to serve up the sex intelligence that lots of guys are so hungry for.

Monogamy is not for everyone, at least, not all the time. And though many people equate monogamy with morality and sluttiness with depravity, I suggest that this connection is a fallacy. In other words, you can be both moral and a manwhore. You can kiss, bang, boff, screw, sixty-nine, frottage, grope, lick, suck, and otherwise fuck as many women as you want and still act ethically. Here’s how.

Defining the Moral Manwhore

As Ernest Hemingway famously said, “What is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” So ask yourself, how do you want to wake up in the morning? If the answer is “finely fucked and feeling damn fine about it,” then you’re ready to be a moral manwhore. You’re ready to feel good after, and why shouldn’t you? You just need to figure out how to negotiate the rocky terrain of polyamorous sex.

A manwhore may fuck anything that moves, but a moral manwhore puts in a call the next day. A moral manwhore is a guy who has sex to please both himself and his partners, and he’s a man who takes responsibility for his actions. At his core, the gentleman slut is a man with enough respect for the women in his life (and enough respect for himself) to be honest to everyone. A moral man whore takes responsibility. He’s an adult. A moral manwhore is a man. Anyone else is just a coward.

Be Straight Up

Lying may seem like the path of least resistance, but it will bite you in the ass. Not only do you have to keep your lies straight, which takes a tremendous toll on a guy who’s trying to remember several phone numbers, but inevitably you will find yourself in a headfirst collision with the truth. It’s just a matter of time.

The most moral manwhore I ever fucked was this guy named Pete. Tall, dark, and strong, Pete had the improbable good looks of a Calvin Klein underwear model. He could have just about any chick he bothered to check out, and he basically did. The great thing about Pete was this: He made no bones about telling each girl that he wasn’t looking for an exclusive relationship, and that he saw several women concurrently. He didn’t apologize for his lifestyle; he was conscientious, straightforward, and caring. He never broke dates without plenty of lead time, and always con tacted me the day after to say he enjoyed himself. I was never in doubt about the status of our relationship. He was the consummate moral manwhore.

Take a cue from Pete. If you know you’re just looking for sex without strings, then be direct and up front. She’s a big girl and can make her own decisions, as long as she’s fully informed.

Pleasure Principle

Sex is a two-way street, my friend (unless you’re really lucky and make it a three- or more-way). Remember this: You’re only fucking over yourself if you don’t make fucking fun for her. Sure, it can be difficult to figure out each woman’s buttons and the order in which they need to be pushed, so you need to learn how to ask her what feels good and what doesn’t, and how to be flexible enough to change things up.

A moral manwhore makes sure that the woman he’s with has as good a time as he does. That means he pays strict attention to his partner’s pleasure; he aims to please, and doesn’t take offense if a woman gives him directions. He recognizes that fucking is intimate and real, and he takes pride in his sexual ability. A man makes it mutual.

Know Your Motivation

Some manwhores are whorish because they’ve been burned and can’t handle emotional ties. Some have a fear of commitment. Others get a thrill from the unknown. Most, however, have some combination of the three. You owe it to yourself, as well as to your partners, to figure out why you’re doing the women you’re doing, because not all motivations are healthy ones.

I’ve known guys who take their anger out on women by sleeping with anything that moves, or are kind of addicted to the first blush of love and the heady pheromone rush that goes along with it. Still others take brutal pleasure in the head game of making some chick fall in love with them, then heartlessly dumping her. These men are not moral. They are motivated to fuck, not by pleasure, but by their own callousness.

It’s far more courageous to be noble than it is to drag some unknowing woman into your own cruel motivations. Know yourself. If you do, you can act accordingly. You can make better choices. If you are moral, you don’t always get what you want, but if you try, you just might find you get what you need.

Pimp My Ride gave West Coast Customs national prominence, but it almost drove them into ruin in the process. Now, WCC is rising from the ashes of reality TV and blazing a radical new trail in the quest for the world’s sweetest ride. Hint: It’s called a Corvelle, and it’s like no car ever built.
By Chuck Tannert Photographs by Michael Ballard

A little over a year ago, Ryan Friedlinghaus faced a life-altering decision: To pimp or not to pimp? The CEO
of West Coast Customs had to choose between his 13-year-old custom-car shop and the stardom and profits that came from his four-year stint on MTV’s Pimp My Ride. “I should’ve been happy with all of the success and worldwide recognition,� he explains. “Instead, I was embarrassed. I kept thinking, If we ride this wave
any longer, there won’t be a business left.�In 2004, the 31-year-old and his streetwise crew of automotive artisans became overnight superstars as the heart and soul of MTV’s Pimp My Ride. Ryan, Big Dane, Ish, and Mad Mike transformed beaten-down clunkers into slick street machines, wowing young viewers and spawning three spin-offs for the network. “Shit, we had the highest-rated show on cable for three years,� says Friedlinghaus. “We were even hotter than Jackass.�

But as Friedlinghaus found out, reality-TV fame—even from the kind of show that sets out to merely document your job—comes with hidden service charges. “The segment producers were out of control,� he says. “They were telling us how to paint cars, what types of interiors to use, pushing us to do all sorts of stupid shit.�
In one episode, they pitted Big Dane against the diminutive Ish for a sumo match in the middle of the shop. “I was told it was great for TV,� Friedlinghaus says. “But what the fuck did it have to do with building cars? Nothing. It was a fucking nightmare.� The demands of the show caused dissension within the shop. Certain people got airtime, while others—the grunts doing the work behind the scenes—received little, if any, recognition.

Meanwhile, the show had begun pushing away the shop’s core business. The WCC crew worked from 9 A.M. to 9 P.M. on MTV projects, then till 2 or 3 A.M. on their customers’ cars. The demands of the show were put ahead of the shop’s clientele—even those, like Shaquille O’Neal, who helped build Friedlinghaus’s business in the first place. “We built something like 30 cars for Shaq,� he explains. “When the show came around, we just didn’t have the time to meet his needs. Eventually, he went elsewhere.�

And if that wasn’t enough fallout, the show began corroding the shop’s reputation. Friends in the industry were begging Friedlinghaus to drop Pimp My Ride. “They’d say it makes you look like you can’t do anything serious,� he says. “I spent way too long build ing this business to let it go down in flames. My grandfather, God bless his soul, gave me the $5,000 to start this shop in 1993. I wasn’t about to lose it for a TV show.�

Still, exactly who instigated the actual breakup is murkier than a pan of spent oil. Friedlinghaus decided to move from the relatively small Inglewood, California, shop into a larger, state-of-the-art facility in Corona, knowing full well that it would be a problem for MTV. However, it would finally make WCC a one-stop shop—able to do everything from performance upgrades and fabrication to paint and electronics. When MTV heard about the
move, they balked at making the daily trip from L.A. to film the show. Friedlinghaus decided to rally the troops, insisting that if they all stuck together, the production crew would have no choice but to make the drive north. Instead, MTV made offers to certain key players to continue the show from a new shop. And some of the guys, such as Pimp My Ride host Xzibit, went with MTV.Friedlinghaus says it still stings: “I support any move to better oneself. It’s when people stab you in the back that pisses me off.� Before PMR, Xzibit was just another guy hanging around the shop, a middling rapper with an easy charm and a modicum of fleeting success. PMR made him a star, and it was Friedlinghaus who handed him the job. “I’m not looking for thanks, but I expected some loyalty,� the car builder vents. “He should’ve followed us. Instead, he spit in my face.� (Xzibit did not respond to requests for comment.) And it seems like every time the rapper does an interview, he takes a jab at his old friend. “He went on Big Boy’s Neighborhood [a show on L.A.’s Power 106 FM] recently and blasted us,� rages Big Dane. “Saying shit like, ‘I wouldn’t take my car to them, they do shoddy work.’ Come on. We built several cars for both those fools.�

Today, Friedlinghaus is happier and more confident in the work he’s doing. He’s doing it his way again. The new shop is hopping with activity and back to doing what it does best—building some of the coolest, most talked-about cars in the business. They are in the process of opening shops in Dubai and Russia, and have even landed another reality-TV show. “Lightning does strike twice,� Big Dane chuckles. TLC, the same network that does American Chopper, American Hot Rod, and Dirty Jobs, is producing the new show, which will follow a typical workplace-drama formula. “Now the world will get to see what we really do here,� says Big Dane. “The heart and soul of this shop will be revealed.�

The newly minted rock gods known as Operator take a break from the road to tour the Penthouse Club. This afternoon, singer Johnny Strong had St. Louis in the palm of his hand. Tonight, he has Vegas in his lap.By Jason Harper Photographs by Scott Ferguson

Several weeks before their debut album will place them firmly on the hard-rock map, the Los Angeles band Operator has spent the day paying dues. Rock’s next big thing played a 12:45 P.M. set before Papa Roach on a side stage at St. Louis’s Verizon Wireless Amphitheater. The side-show-attraction status or having to warm up the crowd for Papa Roach don’t faze Operator singer Johnny Strong, who lowers himself into a plush chair at the VIP lounge of the Penthouse Club in St. Louis. “The hardest part about this tour,” he says, “is being in a situation where you might be playing with some dog-shit bands, and you still gotta get up there in front of the crowd and kick ass.” But now he’s kicking back, speaking in quieter tones to the bronze-skinned brunette perched on his knee. “What’s your name?” he asks.”Vegas,” she responds. Strong and his bandmates have taken over the VIP lounge, where girls in corsets, panties, and garters make the L.A. boys feel right at home amid the leopard-print carpet. By the entrance, a stuffed Barbary lion baring a mouthful of fangs looms over a small fishpond: Touch my goldfish and lose an arm, motherfucker. These rockers aren’t exactly the cigar-bar crowd, but guitarists Rikki Lixx and Paul James Phillips, bassist Wade Carpenter,and drummer Dorman Pantfoeder look content as they ease into the leather couches with their smokes and their drinks while Vegas and her colleagues the honey-haired former bull rider Bobbie Jo and the fair-haired knockout Kayla, drape themselves on the band. They’re followed by the pert, busty Aspen, whose long, silky brown hair and dark eye makeup give her an irresistible goth-next-door look.

The band is full of anticipation these days. Their debut album, Soul crusher, single-handedly rejuvenates the hard-rock sound that’s been missing since classic nineties bands Alice in Chains and Soundgarden. And their sexy video (also called “Soulcrusher”) has been heating up the Web. Playing daytime gigs at festivals is all part of the master plan. The band started the day watching some inspiring Pantera videos in the tour bus, then Strong, shirtless and tattooed, led Operator through a thunderous set before a mosh-hungry crowd. “One thing I hate in this world is pussy motherfuckers” he yelled as he towered over the throng. Throughout their set, crowd surfers rode the sea of hands,traveling from the back of the pit to the arms of beefy security guards in the front. At the show’s climax, Strong jumped down into the fray, stood on the iron fence holding back the crowd, arched his back, and unleashed the final notes of “What You Get” in a cathartic howl. Vegas takes a particular liking to Strong, who’s sucking down bottled water and keeping his smoke secondhand. Strong’s physique has helped him land roles in action films (Black Hawk Down, The Fast and the Furious) and make it as a mixed-martial-arts fighter who could potentially compete in the UFC. In other words, he makes Henry Rollins look like Butterbean.Strong thrives on competition. “You never know when shit’s gonna go down,” he says, “and I want to be the strongest motherfucker on the battlefield.” Apparently, this preparedness extends to grappling with his bandmates. “Johnny got pissed the other day,” recalls Carpenter. “We spar all the time and I clocked him a little harder than I should have. He kicked me so hard, I couldn’t walk for a day and a half.” Vegas doesn’t seem to mind Strong’s gruff exterior. She straddles him on the easy chair as he wraps one hand around her neck and tousles her hair with the other. On the far side of the couch, Bobbie Jo stretches out on the laps of Lixx and Phillips. Kayla and Carpenter make like old acquaintances. The tanned beauty runs her hands through the rocker’s soft Mohawk and nuzzles his neck.

At one point, Wade starts waxing about groupie sex backstage, until one strap of Vegas’s dress mysteriously frees itself from her shoulder and the bandmates instantly christen Strong a “Jedi.” Strong wonders aloud, “Do they have to havetheir clothes on?” and soon receives his answer. Vegas’s dress comes up, while Bobbie Jo’s top opens up. The bulbs flash. And then, the clock strikes 12 and it’s time to get back on the bus. It’s only midnight, but the next gig is eight hours away in Iowa. Meanwhile, for the other patrons inside the Penthouse Club, the night is just beginning.

Owensboro’s own Nicky Hayden stunned the MotoGP circuit by winning the title last season and reigniting American interest in this global motor sport. This year his international opponents are taking aim, and Hayden is feeling the pressure that comes with being No. 1.
By Greg Lalas

Nicky Hayden is frustrated. He just finished 17th out of 19 riders at Friday’s practice session for the motorcycle Grand Prix of Turkey, and now he’s standing outside his trailer at Istanbul Park racetrack, facing a cluster of journalists who want to know what the hell’s going on. After all, 25-year-old Hayden is the reigning MotoGP world champion, and world champions aren’t supposed to come in 17th position, not even in practice.

“Obviously, I need to do something different,� Hayden says, shaking his head. His arms are folded across his blue Repsol Honda Team sweater, his lips are tight, and his fierce dark eyes are shuttered behind big black Oakleys. It isn’t just here in Turkey that things are going awry, it’s been at every race—in Doha, Qatar, and Jerez, Spain…. This is exactly how 2007 was not supposed to play out for Nicky Hayden. This was meant to be the year the “the Kentucky Kid� became “The Man�—capital T, capital M. He was supposed to contend for another title, and he had hopes of attracting flocks of new American fans to MotoGP, the world’s premier class of motorcycle racing.

“I guess right now I’m not a good salesman for MotoGP,� Hayden says.

That’s not what anyone in the sport wants to hear. A good salesman is precisely what MotoGP is looking for: a Lance Armstrong, a Tony Hawk, a Shaun White - a prodigious talent with a SportsCenter personality to carry it beyond Europe where the sport is hugely popular - and onto the mainstream American sports fan’s radar. Unfortunately, the pressure seemed to get to Hayden once he’d been fitted for his Pied Piper costume.

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It’s 4 A.M. and your man in Vegas just ordered a raft of sushi and a fresh bottle of whisky, and he wants to know when you’re going to stop nursing that wine cooler and start having a good time. Meet Phil Stamper, bachelor party professional.
By A.J. Daulerio Photographs by Jeffrey Vogeding

Drop your cock and grab your socks. It’s time to go to the pool,� says the man on the other end of my phone. It’s noon on a Saturday in Las Vegas, and I’m still dressed and still buzzed from the night before. Apparently recovery time is over. On the other end of the phone is Phil Stamper—aka My Guy in Vegas—calling from his car. “I’ll see you in 20,� he says. I better get my shit together.

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