Pepper spray
The Pussycat was situated off the corner of Broadway and 49th Street, right next to the topless Mardi Gras, a bar where B-girls hustled ‘splits’; a ridiculously priced miniature champagne, manufactured for those with temporary memory loss. The gritty arcade Fascination occupied the space next door, where chicken hawks preyed upon jailbait like live field mice. And right across Broadway were first-run 3 BIG XXX HITS: ‘CHINATOWN NYMPHO’, ‘HORNY FRAT GIRLS’, and ‘THE PSYCHIC BIMBOS’ all decorated the marquee of the licentious Circus Cinema.
An iconic adult cinema and live peep show, the Pussycat remained visibly a trademark, and a testament to the raw power of pornography in Times Square. The horizontal signage itself, no less ‘neon spectacular’ than a grand scale extravaganza, incorporated bright colors that pulsated into an animated array of visually exciting high voltage neon. ‘Swagged’ curtains comprised a drapery, with synchronized letters that spelled P-U- S-S-Y-C-A-T sequentially; the flashy façade itself an erotic sensory pleasure. The Pussycat, customized with fantastic incandescent tubes that seared into the consciousness, mesmerized Broadway, captivated tourists, and even provoked forbidden passion amongst passersby.
The bookings for the latest degradations were conducted with Pepper, a sweet Bedford-Stuyvesant black girl, deliciously wholesome like fluffy chocolate cake. She even had a nice creamy filling a la Drake’s Ring Ding, for which to thrust my tired Twinkie. She wore a wig ‘cause without it she looked like Buckwheat, and me without a doubt, a pseudo Alfalfa. On stage we were the Lil’ Rascals, as I licked her Darla and she slurped my Porky, then I squeezed and jammed my Weezer inside her Spanky, no further puns intended. With a black Pepper and a half-Filipino, we were perfect for ‘salt n pepper’ Love Teams, though I hardly was as saline as salt; more like monosodium glutamate. But customers loved ‘mixed combo’ like a quick fix lunch at Micky D’s; a tasty, flatulent treat.
Our live shows began in the basement here at the Pussycat, where we had more pussy than you could shake a dick at, and in some cases, more dick than you could shake a dick at. The Peep-A-Live stage contained a revolving platform with colored lights, located in close proximity to the dressing room. Previously the stage held open windows, which allowed touching, until a cunt-lapper bit poor Dina’s clit off. Subsequently management installed Plexiglas to prevent further mishaps. On the floor cashier Felix the Cat, with a Spanish accent and in between toots of blow, announced the live shows:
“PU-PU-PUSSYCATS...PU-PU-PUSSYCATS! MAMANDO- CHICHANDO LIBE ON STAGE...IT’S ‘CHO TIME!”
To the front of the stage amidst puddles of jizz, an excrement heap loyal to the peeps. Perched like a stool atop a stool, manager Big Bob resembled a colostomy bag, like a big black Whoopie Cushion. Nearby Fantasy Booths housed live nude girls, a voodoo child, and a transsexual exchange student, with several show girls zonked on Quaaludes, at only 11am.
Although neither of us particularly cared for Big Bob, a.k.a. ‘the Abomination’, I had no idea Pepper intended to get over on the piss and shit-eating fuck. As the latest Love Team America, Pepper and me proceed to perform live sex acts and mess around on stage. After fucking her Cocoa Pebbles and getting my Granola Bar sucked all week long, Pepper takes me aside.
“My nigga, my studly do-right,” she goes. As I sat on the dressing room counter reading my Marvel comic books with my back against the mirror, she elucidated on an elaborate plan. Rubbing her palms together, Pepper contemplates a revenue stream not unlike a slot machine.
“You see,” she says sneakily. “This man, he like a customer, you know, a foreigner, and he like, he wanna do da live show instead of you.” I looked at her incredulously.
“What?”, I said suspecting Pepper’s doing a number on me, while rubbing my knee.
“He gave me $100,” she boasts, “of which 25 is yours to keep, but you need to sit dis one out, my nigga.” Sit this one out, she said; which means not get my noodle wet.
“Well I don’t know,” I swayed. Pepper then begins to shake, prodding me with her freakin’ finger-nails, and buckles down.
“Nigga, nigga, nigga. I need you to get down wid da program! Please! I need you to sit dis one out and chill!” Since she’s pleading with me, I realize Pepper needs that money to get high.
“He gave me a $100,” she sobs. “What you want me to do, give it back? I ain’t given’ it back. Besides, 25 is yours to keep, to buy some weed, my nigga. So what do you say?” I peer deeply into Pepper’s peepers, unmistakably in the throngs of multiple withdrawals. Down to the nitty-gritty-titty, I deliver an ultimatum.
“Gimme me my goddamn money, bitch.” And after we settle up, I voice my concern. “But what about the manager,” I protest. Pepper just smirked.
“Manager,” she cracked. “For your information, he ain’t no goddamn manager. And he ain’t goin’ nowhere if his dick is hard. Look!” Peeking from the dressing room I observe Big Bob huddled underneath a gleaming mirror ball, near the tape deck. Flanked by two gorgeous showgirls, he remains glued to his stool. Pepper’s quite right; he ain’t going nowhere ‘cause obviously his dick is quite hard!
As far as I know, everything is going according to plan. While Pepper does her thing, which is sneak some peep freak on stage, I sit this one out, reading Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America. I imagine myself a superhero just like Spiderman, who shoots his sticky webs, but me I just squirt gooey sperm. Suddenly I hear barking that stems from the direction of the stage:
“RUFF! RUFF! RUFF!” Followed by a healthy: “HALP! HALP! HALP!” Upon recognizing Pepper’s unmistakable ghetto nasal, I instinctively dart from the dressing room toward the stage. More barking and yelling resonates from that direction; unorthodox words not within the context of my limited vocabulary:
“UND SCHWEINHUND!”, a man on stage bellows. “UND SWVARTZE!” With not a moment to waste I throw open the stage door. There, lying on stage is a hapless Pepper, flat on her back, her legs spread wider than 11th Avenue! Sprawled out on top of her is a naked German wearing Argyle socks!
Startled by my sudden presence, he veers his head from side to side, growling like a guard dog in a concentration camp. Now I get the drift: the Peep-A-Live has been captured by the Fatherland. As he proceeds to rectify the German takeover of Africa, Pepper shouts out loud: “GET OFFA ME, YOU NAZI BITCH!” On cue, I spring into action and leap on stage, grabbing the German by the nape of his dog- collared neck. But the venom-spewing Nazi squirms free. Seizing his nearby briefcase, I bat him in the fucking head with it. Pepper jumps up, sperm trickling down her ebony bosom.
“FUCK ‘EM UP! FUCK DAT NAZI UP!” she screams. Then she starts kicking him, I start kicking him, we both pitch in like storm troopers and kick the shit out of the Deutschland motha-fucka, which he seems to be thoroughly enjoying. Finally we boot him off the stage, throw his clothes and fling his briefcase at him. Tearfully he gets dressed behind the stage and disappears into the night.