“It’s just the same as when Rosa Parks decided to sit at the front instead of the back. She was proclaiming her rights as a disadvantaged, African-American older woman.
Clarice Westwater
And I’m doing the same. I’m actually standing up now, and hopefully I can be supported by the male community and be understood as a person. This actually isn’t about selling my body. This is about changing social norms.” {Shady Lady’s Prostidude, Markus}
Dear Parishioners, High Priestess Clarice Westwater here with today’s parable:
Sin City’s newly minted prosti-dude, “Markus”, leads a melancholy and awkward existence, as is often the plight of horse-hung man-hos. Bobbi Davis, proprietor of Nevada’s Shady Lady, recently introduced Markus to cougardom, billing him as Vegas’ only licensed hetero male prostitute. Patrons must endure a 200 mile trek from city to brothel, located in the dust bowl Netherlands of Ney County.
Shady Lady Love Tub
Female clientele are segregated from the paunchy collection of libidinous Shriners corralled in the double-wide’s French Provencal parlor. The women are ushered into a private cabin located behind the cathouse, proper. Dodging the dung of free range peacocks, the trixies make their way to the rustic den of inequity to partake in the $500 hr “boyfriend experience”. The shirtless gigolo, torso glistening with baby oil to enhance his six pack, explains with gravitas that a “divine plan” brought him to the Shady Lady. Their penis-for-hire does not consider himself a hooker. Markus describes himself as a “sexual surrogate” with the ability to “heal women”.
George Flint, wedding chapel owner and lobbyist for the Nevada Brothel Owners Association, shows less enthusiasm for Markus’ healing arts. Rival brothel owners have not warmed to the gigolo concept, fearful that the addition of men to their stable would increase risk of an AIDS outbreak, or public backlash in the conservative outback when male prostitution attracts a homosexual clientele. Nye County Sheriff Tony DeMeo cautioned, “The ramifications are going to be statewide.” So to speak.
In a recent interview on my Evangelical Netcast, Messianic Minute, Markus lamented to your
Wiccan Rielle Hunter
HighPriestess that politics and bad press have left him exiled from his fellow sex workers. Gone are the weekly Cosmos with veteran she-stallion, Air Force Amy. The red carpet appearances at the annual AVN Adult Video Awards show. The manipedi gossip sessions at Nakisha’s House of Nails.
Markus protested, “The games of Go-Fish between tricks are interrupted by the incessant honking of peacocks. Even the birds mock me. It was never like this before. I had the respect of the peacocks. We were in harmony.”
His head nodded woefully side-to-side with remembrances of these dark days. Then, a slight smile crept across the pool boy’s mug, dismissing the malaise. My moribund interview took a welcome and unexpected tangent into sordid tabloid territory, as Markus emerged from his dirge like narrative to announce, “It was during that long, solitary walk through the valley of darkness that my savior appeared to me.”
Loathe when religious epiphany mucks up my preaching, I was praying for metaphor. It is far easier to justify the haute couture wardrobe and eunuch’s salary demands to my accountant when I supply all epiphanies to my cybergation. When I’m upstaged by a guest in the miracle department, tithings suffer. Markus continued, glassy eyed and beaming like a Scientologist after a celestial hand job from Xenu, “The hair. So perfect! The beatific smile and piercing blue peepers. The elegance of a patrician with a commoner’s touch.”
Markus
“We are no longer dishing about Air Force Amy, I take it?” I gently queried.
“Not at all. No,” Moonie-faced Markus demurred breathlessly, “John.”
“John? You’re now batting for both teams?” I pressed, noisily unwrapping the enigma as bon bon.
“John Edwards,” mouthed Markus in reverent, hushed tone. Still staring trance like into the void. On the cusp of stigmata, Markus cooed, “My brothel brother.”
I may not be Edward R. Murrow, but when a scoop slaps me upside my gravity defying titties, I can smell the cash as Netcast bandwidth is gobbled up by the muckraking pious. Nothing separates a Christian from his cash faster than the comfort of knowing his sins are dwarfed by his neighbor’s. And as sins go, alley catting around on a wife with stage four cancer is a show stopper.
“John Edwards? North Carolina senator and vice presidential candidate, John Edwards?” I challenged.
Still reliving his moment of ecclesiastical rapture, Markus prattled on like a George
John Edwards
Romero zombie on a brain binge, “Who else! He has a stage name now, “Long John Edwards,” and traded in the Savile Row for leather chaps. It’s a sort of Ozark beatnik look, but it works for him. Granted his new moniker brings into play a measure of hyperbole. “Five Inch Edwards” is a closer approximation, but his stagecraft is such . . . a thing of wonder . . . that his charm distracts the most demanding of Janes from any shortcomings.”
“Markus, are you telling me John Edwards is running the Shady Lady brothel?” My toy pug, Bitsie, awoke from her slumber on the recamier and began to track the inquiry.
Shady Lady Brothel
“No, of course not!” corrected Markus, “That would be silly. Long John is now the number two licensed male hetero prosti . . . I mean sexual surrogate . . . in Nevada. Bobbi added a second pleasure chamber to the prosti-dude cabin. Even Air Force Amy said she has never seen a senator so euphoric and in his element. And Amy has seen her fair share of euphoric senators. Any news junky could see this career move coming. LJ’s wife is pushier than a bull dyke at a debutante cotillion. Do you know that after Edward’s aide announced his tell-all, Elizabeth began flaming Rielle Hunter on blogs as a gold-digger and, worse, mocked Rielle’s psychic, Bob? It’s horrid! Elizabeth uses the pseudonym, ‘Cherubim’, describing herself as an African American Wiccan. The Wiccans are not amused by the ruse. You do not want a pissed-off Wiccan messing around with your chakras. Trust me.”
“You are telling me that John Edwards is your new pleasure partner? A man-whore?”
Markus - "Sex Surrogate"
As I fact checked, Bitsie sniffed the air. The pug has an acute nose for money too. The coffers overflowed with online cybergation donations as the sordid story unfolded.
“Priestess, John Edwards has always been a man-whore. These days he is simply more focused and entrepreneurial in his phallic frolics. He had no choice: Elizabeth and Rielle are both gunning for green. That turncoat aide tell-all isn’t helping matters.”
“The Andrew Young book, ‘The Politician’?” I asked.
“Yes. It wasn’t all bad. The book helped promote the Rielle-Edwards sex tape. That’s been a big hit at the brothel. When Long John is too tired to turn tricks, he hands the Jane a sex toy and throws in the DVD. It’s like watching a director’s cut. Having LJ provide the commentary and all. The women love it!”
“I can imagine. If nothing else, this turn of events should help jump start the Vegas economy. As a woman of the cloth, I do fear for Edwards’ immortal coil. I’ll schedule a prayer vigil.”
“The Republican’s beat you to that I’m afraid. The GOP is fast on the draw with the holy water. There was far more revelry than penance at that tent revival,” quipped the disapproving sex surrogate. They would not have been so quick to throw stones had they seen the unadulterated joy in LJ’s eyes when he first saw his name up in lights on the Shady Lady marquee. It’s an emotional moment witnessing a man realize the joining of profession and passion. John Edwards has found his way. I’m proud to have made my small contribution in showing him the ropes. He’s a real shark at Go-Fish. Even the peacocks seem more at peace these days.”
Erec-tor-al Vote
1. A vote on something that means dick.
2. A vote on something where the outcome is someone or everyone gets dicked.
Urban Dictionary, s.v. “erectoral vote” (by XDavid PolicastroX), http://www.urbandictionary.com/ (accessed April 18, 2009).
Jesus is My Pimp Daddy generated some spirited dialogue on the Net.
Cicciolina - Politician, Pacifist & Porn Star
Epic Irony. Man of God Claude McKnight, now holding himself out as a “reformed” sex addict, is making the rounds as radio guest and public speaker to counsel others through their struggles. At the same time, the Take 6 front man reportedly continues in the same aggressive pattern of predatory behavior. Just as “patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel” (Samuel Johnson 1709-1784), piety is the last refuge of the born again.
Cicciolina
Ultimately, we are all responsible for our own actions. Inviting the deity of the day into one’s heart does not absolve that person of past wrongs. Nor does assigning blame to the folklore of devils, demons and succubi give one a pass. If a womanizer believes that his new found personal relationship with a dashboard Jesus Christ is his salvation, god help those women in his future. Neither Muhammad, JC nor the Buddha can save a man from lustful loins. The only salvation from indiscriminate libido is a directed libido; only man can save himself from sexual folly. God has nothing to do with it. So long as it’s consensual and not duplicitous, that form of expression can be realized with the assistance of a girlfriend, wife or indulgent mistress. But one has to pick and choose and can’t lay claim to the entire box of bonbons.
So how is it we arrive at a place where rapacious, amoral womanizers like McKnight are a common fixture in society? We can turn to the nature versus nurture debate for answers.
Nurture: McKnight was the product of an overly oppressive, strict religious environment where the healthy expression of human sexuality was most likely discouraged. He was scarred with abandonment issues when, at an early age, his mother and father divorced. There is a constant need for affirmation from women that was never provided by his mother. Nature: The presence of a chemical imbalance in his brain that results in sexual addiction. Some manner or form of obsessive compulsive disorder, misogyny and/or extreme narcissism.
These theories may provide clues as to part of the destructive behavior, but here is where they fall short: this is a man approaching 50 years of age.
Nature: At some point we must all make the conscious decision whether
Milly D'Abbraccio Manifesto
to acknowledge and overcome internal and external impediments to self-actualization. Therapy, a 12-step program, family, friends or one’s spiritual convictions can be drawn upon to facilitate and buttress that process, but they won’t bring about the necessary change absent honesty with self and society. 12-step programs have a 75-80% failure rate. Pharmacological and talking therapy fair somewhat better if there is continuity and long term commitment to the process. Religion, more often than not, is an enabler: it is the “quick fix” that fixes nothing, but nicely misdirects the masses while the penitent happily persists in old habits. There may be a brief suspension of the behavior attributable to the placebo effect of faith, but since the underlying disease or organic disorder has not been addressed in a medically efficacious manner, the subject behavior soon resumes.
Locandina Evento
Nurture: Most would agree that McKnight’s behavior as outlined in Jesus is My Pimp Daddy is manipulative and opportunistic. While postulating and theorizing do not excuse such antics, there is some utility in striving for something greater than blanket, condemnatory statements. To dig deeper. To identify and analyze contributory factors. To disassemble and catalog Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory is a more productive undertaking than the caging of the monster. To shut down all such labs is an impossibility, but with an understanding of the elements and synthesis that yield the monster, one can identify the root source of the problem and curtail this form of ‘genetic and social engineering’.
Feminism as anachronism is one of the super conductors animating the good doctor’s monster with life force. Contemporary feminism has largely become an irrelevant and divisive academic exercise that plays favorites in malevolent fashion with differences intrinsic to each gender. In its literal connotation, “sexist” is not a pejorative word. “Homogeny”, as applied to the genders, does have a pejorative meaning. Male and female genders are not “equal” to one another. To the contrary, they are quite disparate. Rather than condemn one gender in order to elevate another, as feminism has often seemed intent on doing these past fifty years, those differences should be celebrated.
This is not to dismiss all of feminism or feminists as counterproductive.
Andrea Dworkin - Not a Pacifist, Legislator or Porn Star
The first-wave of feminism and much of the second were essential in order to reform a patriarchal political, legal and economic structure to ensure equal economic, social and political rights for women. Unfortunately, certain factions in the second and third-waves of feminism departed from the reasoned and thoughtful platforms of Betty Friedan, in The Feminine Mystique, and Angela Davis, in Women, Race and Class.
There are the outright whack-jobs, like Andrea Dworkin, who asserts that any form of consensual sexual intercourse is akin to rape: “She is opened up, split down the center.” Dworkin argues, “A human being has a body this is inviolate; and when it is violated, it is abused . . . . Violation is a synonym for intercourse.” Dworkin concludes, “Intercourse in reality is a use and an abuse simultaneously, experienced and described as such, the act parlayed into the illuminated heights of religious duty and the dark recesses of morbid and dirty brutality.” Intercourse, Chapter 7. Occupation/Collaboration. Dworkin, Andrea. 1987.
Post-feminist author, Angela McRobbie, contends that popular culture advances the notion that today’s woman enjoys equal opportunity in many respects, but is mis-portrayed in shows such as Sex and the City and Ally McBeal as longing for that one ideal man. Precisely. Most women do long for that one ideal man (or woman); albeit, the definition of “ideal” varies. While that may not be how some feminists prefer to be perceived, that is the message the majority of women in Western culture convey through their actions. Men do not always reciprocate in that sentiment, and that is often a source of contention between the sexes, but it is a legitimate, prevalent differentiation in orientation. Yes, this is a generalization and, as such, not applicable to all women, but it is a far more accurate generalization than that put forth by McRobbie.
Statistics show that, while as a society we have made great strides towards
The Anti-Dworkin. Jenna Jameson.
economic equality, there is not equal pay for equal work in all instances. Men should partner with women in eliminating what remains of the glass ceiling. From what I have witnessed in the workplace, once those barriers are removed, women are fully capable of competing toe-to-toe with any man in the workplace. The tragedy is that once in a position of power, many women are far more ruthless and amoral in conducting business than their male counterparts. Ironically, this bloodlust is more often than not directed at female competitors, not males. A nihilistic and self-defeating tendency that does not bode well for furtherance of female domination in a capitalistic society.
Where third-wave and radical feminism stumbles is in the conviction that men and women should not only enjoy equal opportunity but should be “equal”. Thankfully, men and women are not, nor ever will be, equal or synonymous. One is not superior to the other, but they are distinct in how they walk, talk, think, act, react, aspire and love. All of which keeps the dynamic between the two genders a lively and productive one.
J.Jameson
Which brings me full circle to Mr. McKnight. Let me be clear: to examine his behavior — or anyone’s behavior — is not to condone or excuse that behavior. I do not presume to know what led to his recidivist predacious exploitation of women. I do not know what makes McKnight tick or what sprung his spring. What I do know is that radical feminism’s attempts to emasculate and/or castrate men in order to remake them in its/her own image has the potential to aggravate and propagate this very sort of behavior.
Men possess and regularly exercise the capacity for an appreciation of womankind’s intellectual and inner beauty. Women do not have a monopoly on trumpeting substance over form. That said, men are hard wired to be drawn to the physical — whether that is physical beauty or physical pleasure. I’m not suggesting women are exempt from this tendency. Helen Gurley Brown aside, however, more is generally required to satiate a woman than a man’s physical beauty, alone. Men make love with their eyes; women make love with their ears. It doesn’t hurt if the source of the verse assumes the corporeal form of a George Clooney, but this does tend to be the general rule of lust and often romance.
This phenomenon and distinction is neither bad nor good. It simply is. The problem is that this male trait has been stigmatized as an objectification of women, with man damned for its existence in his genetic code. That men often exhibit a passion for aesthetic beauty does not necessarily translate to objectification of a particular woman or womankind. Nor does it instill within all men a sense of entitlement to acquire or “conquest” women as one-dimensional objects or trophies.
Many feminists struggle with this notion. Some to the extent a violent manifesto is the end game. Such posturing does nothing more than undermine the intellectual integrity of otherwise valid tenets and risks making a burlesque of their overall platform. Sans pasties, I might add.
Are 21rst Century Claude McKnights a manifestation of the social rights pendulum swinging too far towards extreme feminism and, in the process, emasculating men, compromising their rights and aggravating a predisposition in some for destructive behavior? Has the well-intentioned and necessary 1960’s feminist movement that began as an invitation and ended as denouncement with the ultimatum, “You’re either with us or you’re against us”, morphed into a form of reverse sexism? I maintain it has.
We now have a society where political correctness and sensitivity training have attained levels of the absurd and devolved to self-parody, compromising the rights of men in the process. Men are shamed into telling women what they want to hear and not what men truly feel. Much of the progress in securing fundamental civil/economic/political/sexual rights for women that, unquestionably, should have been recognized by men at the outset, has been achieved in a mean spirited and retributive manner towards men, in general, unjustly faulting sons for the sins of their forefathers. Men can be obstinate, oppressive, cruel and territorial, so throwing some punches was necessary, but the level of virulence of that voice of late has been excessive. It has come at the cost of candor in relationships between men and women. Then we wonder why 75% of marriages end in divorce. I’m surprised the failure rate isn’t greater.
I would submit that there is a direct correlation between the reverse sexism and emasculation of the Western male by fringe elements of the feminist movement, and the logarithmic increase in the proliferation of pornography, strip clubs and prostitution within our society. All pornography is not bad. Much of it is enjoyed — and produced, authored, distributed and profited — by women, as well as men.
Of late, though, erotica and adult entertainment have approached saturation levels. While this is largely attributable to ease of access in an Internet and wireless age, that is not the sole force behind this trend. With the growing feminization of the Western male, the natural balance of yin and yang, anima and animus, is thrown askew, resulting in an exaggerated and distorted male hyper-sexuality seeking recognition and expression in mediums both healthy and unhealthy, at times external to hearth and home. This does present a dilemma.
McKnight’s actions represent an extreme and unapologetic manifestation of this syndrome and cannot be pinned on the feminist movement, a doctrinaire theology, or absentee mother. Dr. McKnight’s monster has been effectively caged by vigilant women coming forward and reigning him in. There are gradations of this behavior, however, and some of that behavior is attributable in part to the oppression of the male identity through a self-serving, divisive, destructive and, ultimately, self-defeating post-feminist agenda that is as injurious to womankind as it is to mankind — if not more so.
Let us work together, men and women, to better understand and express our contrasting modalities. To acknowledge and accept our differences in an open, respectful and nonjudgmental manner. Embrace and celebrate human sexuality. It’s there to be enjoyed. It would be a shame to allow church, state or empty dogma from any quarter to muck that up.
Pimps tend to be a very competitive breed. The king has the most bling,
Pimp Daddy Pope Cartman
lowest ride and largest stable. Prostitution, as one of the early growth industries, had Jesus Christ written all over it. JC had the people skills, the right demographic and that beleaguered look going that never failed to win over the young, naive runaways that littered Herod Antipas’ dark and dingy Greyhound bus stations. Rounding out the posse was legendary courtesan, Mary Magdalene. She was as good with the books as she was in bed, making her the ideal Madame.
Purveyor of Holiness & Harlots In London's West End
The ever inventive JC’s side business as Pimp Daddy flourished, keeping him flush with mad money, but became more and more vexing for his praetorian guard, the Knights Templar, tasked with safeguarding the loot. People began to talk. People in general, that is. Not just the johns stuck with Mary’s steepening rates. Christ’s success in the sex trade business became the ace in the hole for the Priory of Sion in extorting favors from the Vatican, and not Mary’s bun in the oven as so often contended. Although JC’s heir definitely sweetened the deal.
Peddling the heady combination of flesh and religion as opiate cocktail would serve as the cornerstone for Christianity’s historic hypocrisy towards sex and its view of women as little more than chattel.
This view of JC’s glory days may differ somewhat from your and my interpretation of
Prodigal Son
the Bible, but it seems to be the modern day reading by several of Christ’s more popular apostles. Jimmy Swaggart’s appetite for hookers was as insatiable as his appetite for tithings; Jim Bakker defrauded parishioners of millions and paid for the silence of a woman who alleged rape; and Ted Haggart’s hate filled condemnation of homosexuality was eclipsed by his own drug fueled romps with male escorts.
With the introduction of feel-good mega-churches to the mix, the status of today’s Evangelicals has been elevated to minor pop star status. Slightly off key. It’s a one way love in which the celebupreacher is bathed; the adoring deification from his glassy-eyed parishioners transposed to the key of Ben Franklin by the mercenary cornea of God’s mouthpiece. The celebupreacher sees a sea of human ATM machines; not a sea of faithful.
Sermons are staged as full blown theatrical productions, complete with live bands, sound and light engineers. These populist pantheons retain public relations agencies to engineer complex marketing plans to better sell their alchemy. All of this has served to bring much of contemporary Christianity squarely within the quick fix, tabloid cult of celebrity. Sin on Saturday; buy absolution on Sunday. In all fairness, Catholics pioneered this business model, so our newly minted saviors do not get high marks for originality. They do, however, excel in devising efficient delivery mechanisms for their opiate.
Christian branding targeting the tween to twenty-something demographic reached its market segment through the propaganda of cable shows, theme parks, Internet sites and Christian music. The latter, faith based music, has been a phenomenal success. CCM or “Contemporary Christian Music” has quickly developed a large following.
McKnight. Spreading The Gospel, One Ho At a Time
Take gospel music for example. Or Take 6. A question echoed by a multitude of female voices on Internet social networking sites is, “Have you been McKnighted?” The ten time Grammy award winning gospel group, Take 6, was founded by the charismatic and talented tenor, Claude McKnight, brother of R&B crooner, Brian McKnight. McKnight, indisputably a very gifted vocalist and performer, personifies the dogmatic hypocrisy that is the dry rot afflicting much of today’s moderne Christianity. He puts bread on the table by pandering to a predominately Christian based audience performing Christian based gospel music. Yet, until recently, he did not attend church — except to sing and collect a paycheck — and was not a particularly religious man.
The manner in which he conducted his personal affairs — plural — would make the most devote secular humanist blush. McKnight created multiple profiles on social networking sites that included Facebook, My Space, Interracial Dating.com, Match.com, Black Planet and Fubar (“f__k you bar”, an online pickup site where individuals cruise for webcam sex). Virtual relationships took on physical form, implicating real world trysts with multiple women, often within the same month, week or day. Since McKnight’s group is constantly on the road, geography and logistics that might otherwise have proved obstacles proved an advantage: there was always an excuse for his unavailability to one partner while in the company of another. The online Lothario had women queued up in countries spanning the globe.
Were this just another instance of sexual addiction or the oversexed, narcissistic musician, it
Claude McKnight - Polishing The Pastoral Staff
would have been a non-story. Had all McKnight desired was casual sex, there were plenty of Gospel Groupies eager to polish the Pastoral Staff. The destructive behavior, however, extended beyond serial sexual encounters: McKnight worked intently at nurturing long-term relationships with dozens of women contemporaneously. In interviewing some of the con man’s marks, it became clear that sexual gratification was a component of his dysfunction, but incidental to his need for emotional affirmation. These women weren’t young Trixies trying to get their “hip card” punched. He indiscriminately targeted women of all ages, and directed his full frontal assault at the heart strings: most marks considered McKnight their best friend. One casualty described the experience as “emotional rape”. McKnight had deep seated abandonment issues originating from a tumultuous childhood. By winning the affection and devotion of each of these women, he attempted to compensate for childhood neglect.
The tragic irony in this was that as a direct consequence of his efforts to suppress feelings of abandonment by wooing multiple women simultaneously, when the truth came out many of these women wound up betrayed, deeply hurt and with abandonment issues of their own. In his efforts to heal one man, himself, McKnight perpetuated the affliction by leaving others as broken as he was or more so.
Take 6 built its following from devotees of Christianity, both domestically and abroad. The group enjoys an international reputation amongst God-fearing, ten commandment subscribing practitioners of various denominations. McKnight’s wake of broken hearts was broad and long with a global reach. Spurned lovers include women in Germany, Japan, Italy and Canada. He pledged his love to each woman, stressing that their relationship was exclusive. Some of the relationships spanned a period of years; yet, when inconvenient or uncomfortable, he would casually terminate the relationship and discard the woman, telling her that he never had genuine feelings for her. That it had all been a ruse. This caused one of his castoffs to ponder whether it was possible to cheat if the man never recognized the existence of a relationship. That “cheating” presupposed the existence of a relationship in the mind’s eye of the cheater, if not the cheated. While a provocative philosophical query, the very fact it was posited underscores the tragedy of the dynamic.
And so it continued for a twenty-year period until Valentine’s Day, 2009. McKnight had been
Mdm X
involved with a Floridian for three years. The two met in October of 2006. Madam X was a shrewd businessperson and single mother. She carefully vetted the men in her life. McKnight was no exception. He passed muster and had her convinced that she was his sole love interest. For two years she took him at his word. She would meet his family; he hers; they vacationed together. In December of 2008, she suspected infidelity. The singer would delete any personal comments Madam X posted to his Facebook profile page, lest other women he was playing see the comments and question his devotion to them. Of course, other women were posting similar affectionate missives. Since his prey were scattered across several continents, often the postings would appear while he slept. Occasionally one of his lovers would see an endearment left by another before he could delete it. When Madam X confronted McKnight, he attempted to dismiss the posts as a school girl crush by an adoring fan or three. Perhaps a little too adoring.
There Was Always a Man; There Was Never a Name
Madam X found that one of the singer’s entourage, an interior designer, was living at his house that latter part of January 2009 while he was on tour in Japan. She was redecorating McKnight’s townhouse, but it was apparent this was much more than a casual business relationship. Prior to that, she overheard him reviewing a business plan with a woman he held out as a colleague, but, again, he was addressing her as an intimate and not a Platonic associate.
Claude V. McKnight III had a ready and plausible retort for any discrepancy presented him, 
even as evidence of his libidinous ‘wandering webcam’ began to mount. Madam X would accompany the singer to the 2009 Grammy Awards Ceremony on February 08, 2009. The raven haired beauty with keen wit and sculpted body had been arm candy for McKnight at several red carpet events. She wasn’t aware that McKnight had extended similar invitations to two other women: a girlfriend in Canada and an LA based love interest with whom he had enjoyed a four year, physical relationship. He delayed Madam X’s arrival in LA by one day so he could un-invite and placate these two bench warmers. The singer and Floridian spent the weekend of the awards show at his brother’s home, Brian McKnight, outside LA. The night prior to the event, Madam X slept as McKnight had webcam sex in the adjacent room with his Canadian consort.
On Valentine’s Day, February 14, 2009, Madam X set a fool proof trap for McKnight. McKnight had a three day performance that weekend in New York. She told the singer that she intended to meet him in the city for a romantic weekend. In the 11th hour she was intentionally evasive and delayed booking her flight, curious to see if he would panic and recruit another love interest to warm his bed on Valentine’s Day. She suspected McKnight would call in her understudy, a love interest in Connecticut, were she unavailable. He did just that, and Madam X was able to verify this after the fact from the source when she confronted her stunt double with McKnight’s ménage a trahison.
February 19th, Madam X confronted McKnight a final time after discovering forty-eight pages
Satan Met a Lady
of contact information for various women on his computer. The list was compiled over a two month period. One woman listed per line. Doing the rough math: thirty-four lines per page; forty-eight pages with single line entries for each woman: that placed the total headcount on or about 1632 notches on his virtual bedpost. Even if one were to give him the benefit of the doubt and assumed Madam X was angry enough to see double at that point, that’s still eight hundred women the singer added to his list of receptacles in a mere two months. One can only venture a guess at how many bound volumes a black book containing twenty years worth of McKnight conquests would occupy. Realizing this was an end game, he pulled his MySpace and Facebook pages the following day. February 21rst, the pious poseur found Christ and posted a mea culpa on his Take 6 blog entitled, “To the Glory of God”. That same day he also enrolled in a sixty day online Bible study course purportedly designed to help those with sex addiction. Slightly disingenuous as he continued to correspond with his various playthings before, during and after the course.
Even though McKnight’s ‘come to Jesus’ recovery course was to run through April 21, 2009, on March 10th, Madam X discovered McKnight had registered a new account on the online dating site, Match.com. When on March 12th, Madam X brought this discrepancy to his attention, the singer updated his Match.com profile to include mention of his online recovery and past relationship with Madam X. Shortly thereafter the profile was removed entirely.
Determined to incriminate himself with one or two more amateurish overtures, on March 23rd
Is My Sweetheart True To Me?
McKnight joined in the dialogue on a forum of jilted McKnight lovers, posing as one of the women. Invoking Christ’s name thirty five times in 2.5 pages of text, McKnight in drag beseeches the angry mob to forgive the singer and, to everyone’s amusement, forgive themselves for being so weak and co-dependent. His fictitious persona as one of the aggrieved women provides insight into how he views women, as a whole: morally bankrupt, unable to avoid temptation of the flesh, easily mislead and emotional voids without a man in tow. His alter anima ego is portrayed as an inherently sinful creature without Jesus’ paternal guidance. He goes on to suggest that the women ask JC for forgiveness, presumably for their collective sins as the iconic temptress. Sirens in the night causing the singer to stray from God’s righteous path. Succubus. I quote, “Therefore, we must all forgive Claude and one another as well.” Then he thoughtfully refers the fallen to “Saved.com” for redemption before citing biblical verse referencing God’s capacity for forgiveness.
Pimp Daddy Emeritus, Flavor Flav
Madam X would later learn that while she was hosted by Claude McKnight on an October 2008 birthday cruise, he was wiring money to another of his companions to cover the cost of an emergency abortion. Always the romantic. McKnight never used condoms. Unwanted pregnancies were but one of many risks this walking Petri dish posed the fairer sex.
As word of the cocksman’s antics began to spread, spin doctors stepped in to do damage control. April 10th he appears as guest on a Netcast couples counseling show to share “. . . his battle and recent recovery from his sexual addiction.” The call-in radio show is hosted, conveniently, by a fellow Take 6 band member and his wife — neither of whom are trained therapists.
So was Jesus Christ Mac Daddy Pimp? Your guess is as good as mine, but if one were to base his interpretation of the gospels on Mr. McKnight’s, JC was that and then some.
“Men are as faithful as there are options.” (Anon)
Rachel Brings Her Game
Just ask Old Tom Morris, a pioneer of professional golf and 1861 winner of the storied Open Championship. But Old Tom was much more than a tournament contender. Much more indeed. The father of modern greens-keeping, he devised the concept of top-dressing greens: the precursor to the Brazilian wax. A Scottish lady’s man, the likes of which would make Sean Connery genuflect, Tom also introduced the practice of returning to the club house after each nine holes. Tom’s mistress inspired this innovation, after protesting that Tom spent far too much time top-dressing her greens and not nearly enough time fertilizing them.
Golf's Original Pimp Daddy
Old Tom, you see, was determined to butch up a sport demeaned by dandies and duffers. Abandoning the traditional effete uniform of plaid pantaloons and waistcoats, Tom liberated St Andrews Royal and Ancient Golf Club from staid conventions. In his third Open Championship win in 1864, he introduced his fellow athletes to the body thong. Sadly, there are no photographic records of the golfer and caddy sporting the historic, matching tangerine hued mankini ensembles. At the fourteenth hole, overly excited female groupies ambushed the two men, insisting the icon attend to their dew dampened greens. Without so much as a howdoyoudo, the mob stripped Old Tom of his package-enhancing Lycra and took turns waxing the master’s hickory stick. The sport would not see this spirited a female daisy-chain until formation of the LPGA in 1950. Showing true sportsmanship, Tom finished the last three holes to win his third Open Championship, naked as King Lear after a spring shower.
In this first recorded golf-gang-bang, Old Tom’s bravura, finesse and keen fashion sense
Mankini Magic
rehabilitated the much maligned, fey sport. He made virile the impotent game of golf. Were Tom around today, the game’s image would not be assailed with advertising campaigns for penis pills, colonics and man-Spanks. As fate would have it, Old Tom passed the mantle to Young Tom Morris. A sad, sad day for golf as the game of cocksmen. Young Tom, whilst a skilled golfer, was an inattentive greens keeper, boorish monogamist and practicing Protestant. ‘Twas the death knoll for the halcyon days of golf as vajj magnet.
“When you sleep with a married man, you’re helping him stay married.”
(Ashley Dupre 1984 - )
Golf suffered a long, harsh pooty-drought, my dear congregation. The sport hit limp-dick,
Ashley Dupre, Woods' Publicist
cardigan-wearing, Buick-driving, beer-belly critical mass. Between fans and pros, it was a tossup who would next stroke out sitting on the john ogling an Architectural Digest, French passementarie centerfold. Golf spent decades as an emasculated, soulless, cursed game. Until the Golf Gods gave us Wood’s Wang. At long last, the LPGA would have some competition for the peekachoo.
Tiger Woods single-phallicly brought the sexy back to golf, the turgid to the turf, the putter to the pooty. Wood’s Wang reunited hickory shaft and gutty balls. Golf’s libidinous savior nearly slept through his own party in an Ambien induced haze, slumbering peacefully alongside his totaled Cadillac SUV. The night Woods was chased from his residence by a club wielding irate Swedish au pair was the game’s proudest moment. It was a watershed event. Golf’s celestial rapture. The epic sucking sound of pudgy plebs exorcised from golf’s greens signaled a new era; one more accommodating to true
Golf's Savior
athletes. To real men.
Wang’s women are legion. Boldly reacquainted with their manhood, golf’s acolytes were now emancipated, free to embrace the glory days of Old Tom’s brazen swagger. Flaunting their newfound animus, Tom’s fabled mankini and machismo were again in vogue. First appearing on courses in France, the mankini craze soon enlivened the nouveau riche in Dubai’s most exclusive club houses. Their much neglected phalluses, atrophied from anachronistic, stifling social protocol and propriety, were kissed by warm tendrils of light emanating from the Sun King’s iconic loins; imbued with Tiger Wang’s vitality by proxy. Golfers would no longer feel obliged to attend their brethren’s flagstaff, pooling erectile
Trashy Girl Jungers Working It
dysfunction meds over Gin Gimlets. Fortified by Woods glorious womanizing, the “bump and run” would replace the cut shot as stroke of choice.
Accolades multiplied as Woods’ front nine grew to 13. Sure, his flaxen haired Number One did not immediately share in the collective enthusiasm of his parishioners. Familiar with Tiger’s mastery of the Goldie Bounce, fellow golfers knew Wang would shepherd his lass from rough to fairway. As adept a businessman as he is cocksman, Woods soon arrived at a seven figure détente with his tempestuous Ostkaka.
Golf’s devotees marveled as Wang similarly finessed an “understanding” with outspoken mistress, Rachel Uchitel. Tool Academy reality star, Jaimee Grubbs, has proven more challenging to muzzle, coldly dismissing our hero as “horrible in bed” . . . following a thirty-one month fling. Wang Watchers report the verdict is still out on
School Mistress, Joslyn James
buxom Vegas baby, Kalika Moquin, and the anonymous Orlando-based caddie cougar. Both have lawyered up.
Woods has reportedly hired private investigators to research respective histories of each companion. This was our prodigal son’s one failing. As any veteran pimp will attest, you vet your hoes before dipping the stick. Not after the ice cream starts to melt.
“Mary Loomis-Shrier, owner of Las Vegas’ Trashy Lingerie, supplies women in lingerie to accompany high rollers around Sin City for long weekends. Shrier lauded Jamie Jungers, a Trashy Lingerie ‘Trashy Girl’ and Woods’ consort, as ‘one of the best’”
A vocal opponent of classism in the game, Wang’s magnanimity was on display in the egalitarian
Holly Sampson is Emmanuelle 2000
spirit with which he welcomed “Trashy Girl,” Jamie Jungers, into his chambers. Jungers had worked as a Trashy Girl for Las Vegas’ Trashy Lingerie for two years prior to offering her services as ball-washer. Trashy supplies women outfitted in lingerie to accompany high-rollers around Sin City during weekend events. Each girl commands fees ranging from $5,000 to $50,000 per weekend. Owner, Mary Loomis-Shrier, would decorate VIP casino rooms with thirty models, give or take, to amuse competing whales. Jungers “gave” and Wang “took.”
Then came the two porn stars. Apparently more than once. Holly Sampson, star of fetish films “Girl on Girl Tickle Wards” & “OMG, Stop Tickling Me!“, was a bit long of tooth at thirty-six. Any misgivings amongst golf elders
Kalika 'Lickee' Moquin
that Wang was settling were allayed by the revelation Sampson had made a cameo in their beloved “Matlock”. When Sampson took respite for her B-12 shots, her understudy, porn Trixie Joslyn James, assumed the helm lubed and loaded.
Wang’s appetite was not sated by cougars, club consorts and porn poonany. There were rumblings in PGA ranks that Tiger’s Wang sought out handsy’s from Britain’s glitterati, including a fetching television presenter skilled in the ten-finger grip.
To coordinate sexytime on this scale demands the stealth efficiency that only an experienced management team can effectively deliver. Tiger Wang knew this. Knew this well. And acted accordingly, assembling a crack team of hoe handlers. Hustling the receptacles to
Mankini Renaissance
circuit stops. For years these pimp pros kept Wang’s stable under the radar. In so doing, however, they also did a great disservice to the brotherhood, at large, perpetuating the anathema of golf as the somnambulistic sport of walking dead. Necromancy gone horribly wrong. The great soul sleep.
Every golfer owes Woods Wang a debt of gratitude; a showing of reverence for infusing the anemic game with a hot shot of man-juice. For bringing scantily clad spectators to a road weary and dated game. For making Old Tom Morris a proud papa. For bringing back the glory that is the mankini!
Virtual Vice: A New Technology Crime Thriller Based on True Events