High atop the city of Los Angeles sits the home of Rick Plank, owner of Phallix Glass. I call it Xanadildu.
Plank threw a combination Valentine’s Day/birthday party for Cousin Stevie (he uses Phallix products in his Pussy Parties) this weekend, which I attended with the multiracial glamazon Iphigenia Squirtz.
The party had a Zeppelinesque feel to it, as I found Plank presiding shirtless over debauchery involving models, ice sculptures, bodypainted bartendrices, and Jagermeister.
“I am a golden god!” he might as well have been saying, finding groupies to stick shark bits into.
Outside, weary valets backed cars down the length of windy (windy with a long “i” – the air was still as the dead hooker in my trunk) streets and ran back up the hill again. When I arrived, one fixed me with a look of pure hate when I handed him the keys and said I had to leave in 40 minutes.
Inside was a sexy nightwear party. I was dressed all in black, like Johnny Cash and the Viet Cong. “Man in the black pajamas, Dude. Worthy fuckin’ adversary,” I said to Shy Love.
The bartender lady (pictured, image courtesy April Storm) did not know what “three fingers of Dewars” meant, but that really was not the point, at all.
It was a great party with a low weasel count, tasty snacks, and people like the virginal Sunny Lane running around being, as always, charming.
I asked her if she wanted to go the contract girl route or continue appearing in every film ever made.
“I am keeping my options open,” she said, and then we talked to some swingers about dog collars and UFOs.
It was then time to leave, but we wished we could stay. People rolled around on beds and lolled in the hot tub. The vacant-eyed valet (his sign read “attendent on duety”) ran three miles to get my car. “Somehow I feel I must have displeased my ancestors,” he said.
“I left something in the trunk for you,” I said.
Previously: Pussy Party: Day rate plus anal
See also: Phallix Glass, Cousin Stevie
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