An Evening at Home with the Creator of Girls Gone Wild

At 1:38 on a Sunday morning, Joe Francis
walks alone down a hallway lined with
tapestries woven from hair extensions and
discarded G-strings. Joe Francis does not
indulge in solitude. He knows that solitude
is the last refuge of those too poor and too fat
to survive on spring break. Joe Francis feels
distress creep up his spine and into places
that he tries never to think about, the same
way that when the girls go wild, he tries never
to look them in the eye. But when Joe Francis
thinks he sees a nipple or a pierced navel
or a butterfly on a tramp stamp wink at him,
he has to look away. He has to hurl his own
eyes into the camera lens and grin like a
cat watching canaries bleed.
Tonight, there is a tanning bed haze in the
air over the Los Angeles, and Joe Francis can
barely see the full moon rise as he sips a
pina colada made with imported
Nicaraguan rum out of a hollowed, laquered
human breast. There are third world countries
where the only white people allowed are
missionary, military, and Joe Francis. The breast
was purchased in one of these countries. A
white one cost him an extra three hundred
dollars, but it was worth it — for the way the
pale leather kissed his chin, the way the stiff
pink nipple poked between his middle and
ring fingers, for the sight of the naked and
pierced native girls watching him through
big black eyes that gaped invitingly like
those begging, desperate sluts back home.

Tonight, as Joe Francis runs a finger along the
handcuff chains tacked to his bedroom wall,
he knows for sure that nothing can make him
as hard as the sight of mascara-smeared
blue eyes rolling back in their sockets.

Tomorrow, Joe Francis will take body shots
of three different expensive tequilas out of
seven different orifices belonging to a 19-year-old
sociology major from Tempe, Arizona.

She will cut herself open for the cameras, and
Joe Francis will buy her organs for an eighthounce
of fame apiece, which she will snort off
his dick wearing nothing but a Girls Gone Wild
trucker hat. Flashbulbs will pop against his
teeth like luminescent caviar.

But tonight, as Joe Francis swaddles himself
in mink sheets and a Vicodin lullaby, his last
thought is of the sparkling, gleeful compliance
of a girl going wild for the first time — how
beautiful, how free she is — having drunk
herself to pieces.


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