Writing | Show Time by Danielle WillisChessie Moore is the kind of aging porn star whose decaying '70s glamour I might have found exciting if her dissipation had been of the gaunt heroin addict variety as opposed the bloated alcoholic type, and if she didn't have a tit job that looked like two demonically possessed Hoppy horses were gnawing their way through her chest cavity.
She lumbers onstage in a silver space suit with a clear bubble helmet to a gurgling recording of the Star Wars theme while her husband, who sounds like he began his entertainment career as a commentator at monster truck shows, exhorts the audience to get closer to the stage for a better view of the Duchess of Down and Dirty herself, MISS CHESSIE MOORE!!!!!!!!!!
The premise of this particular set is that Chessie Moore is a space traveler and her husband is the disembodied voice of Interstellar Command. She boogies around halfheartedly rolling her eyes until he tells her to "remove her protective shields and engage heat seeking missiles", at which point she takes off her bra, squats down like she's going to take a shit right there on stage and bangs her tits together with her knees while her husband exclaims "Holy cow, folks, look at those gazangas!" and promises a free Polaroid to the most enthusiastic patron.
On her last song she gets out two dildoes and sticks one in her pussy and one up her ass.
"That's right, folks, double insertion! You've seen it here!" Somehow he makes a correlation between this and Operation Desert Storm.
The house girls all think he's a vile carnival side show barker who gets off on degrading poor dilapidated Chessie Moore and might take it into his head someday to kill her and mount her tits on trophy plaques or something but since I'm the first girl after the star I get to talk to him and he's actually a very nice guy who's planning to take Miss Moore to the MEDI QUICK for her urinary infection first thing tomorrow. "She's hurtin purty bad", he says in an almost reverential tone, "but she's giving it her best", and goes on to explain that even on a slow night you've got to give it your best and even if there's ten people in the audience and they're all asleep if you can get through to just one of them you're doing a good job. The scary thing is he really loves her and he really believes this is the big time.
That night I had a nightmare that I was so drunk I staggered into a tattoo parlor that did surgery on the side and demanded the biggest tit job they could give me, then passed out on the floor and woke up in a dingy back room with a pair of Triple F cement and cartilage implants zigzagged with purple scars already oozing with gangrene. Since I'd spent my life savings on these monstrous endowments I changed my name to Bubbles and embarked on a tour of Mexico in a desperate attempt to raise enough money to have them taken out before I died of blood poisoning. The rest of the dream is a soggy blur of basement theatres and decrepit circus animals with names like El Gordo.