Party report: The Cropping and flogging of O

HOLLYWOOD — It’s 90 degrees out, the hills are on fire, and I’m wearing leather pants. I’m walking west on Sunset Blvd. feeling ornery. I’ve spent 40 minutes looking for parking because valeting my car just to see it being parked within my field of vision strikes me as everything that’s wrong with Hollywood. That and the Landmark Forum.

I find parking in a yellow Loading Only spot outside the Crossroads of the World. Little Known Fact: Yellow Loading Only zones equal free parking in Hollywood after 6 p.m. I check my camera. No lens cap. The pictures are going to look as filthy as I feel. I am the Lizard King.

I think: With this hard-hitting observational prose style I should start a blog detailing my two-fisted porn journalist adventures.

I’m walking the two blocks to Boardner’s for the launch party of O2: The Surrender of O. I get in and sign a form about the pictures I’ll be taking. I don’t think the form was meant to be read, as it was handed to me in a dark alcove, so I didn’t read it. I just signed it. That’s how I live, and how I roll. I roll how I live. It’s also how I got a sweet deal on an adjustable rate mortgage.

People are walking out as I’m walking in. You’re thinking, “That’s a bad sign.” Not if you knew these people, pal. It was actually good they were leaving.

Inside it is like the kitchen of a really good party where all the women are wearing assless pants. I stand still (I might have leaned on something) and people appear in my viewfinder.

The first is Ava Rose. Who is not transported with joy when he encounters Ava Rose? A cold, senseless person, that’s who. With nipples Xed out with electrical tape and an ass poking out of her Syren latex ensemble (this was the uniform of many attendees), Rose makes me think once again that all I want is what’s beyond Thunderdome.

Rose is dancing from Los Angeles to San Francisco at gentlemen’s clubs near you (if you live near either of those places).

I am concerned for her psychic well-being.

“Are the house girls nice to you?” I ask. Gyratrices in residence at strip clubs often resent the higher-paid touring “feature” dancers. It’s just like the Bolshoi.

“Yes,” she says, and she says plenty of other things, too, about Alaska, and Reno, and crime, and the Spearmint Rhino, but I am gazing too deeply into her assless pants to recall any of it.

Then I see both Bobbi Starr and Aiden Starr (no relation).

“Lick her armpit clean!” I demand of Aiden, who is a famous submissive.

“Yes, sir,” she does not say.

I talk to a man wearing an ankle-length Cenobite-meets-Matrix jacket. He has just finished reading The Odyssey in the original Greek and tells me that there is a Greek word that means “to burn something down in retaliation.” It is my favorite conversation of the night, though I never learn the word.

My next favorite conversation is when a woman tells me she gives the best blowjobs ever and I tell her that no, I don’t believe she does.

In any case, a show has started, and Mika Tan is being surprised by the icy hands of Claire Adams.

And then Ava Rose proves that she can delight females as well. Here she asks Bobbi Starr back to her place for crepes and Gram.

Though she was not in O2, Satine Phoenix came dressed for the occasion. Because I posed her in front of candles, I call this photo Wax Dat Azz, in honor of my signature expression around the house.

Finally, Co-Mistresses of Ceremonies Claire Adams and Nina Hartley object to my cutting an ass out of my own pants.

“But I’m going native,” I say.

“You’re frightening us,” they say.

See the gallery here.

Previously on Porn Valley Observed: O2 review
See also: Adam & Eve