Greetings Sugarlovers!

As the Holidays are in full swing, it's only right to celebrate their true meaning with a charity do or two. Thus Alex and I recently traveled to Long Beach for "Painted On," an adult entertainment fund-raiser benefiting kids in foster care (toys were accepted in lieu of admission).

And painted on it was. The show's organizer, exotic feature dancer Rayne, and her go-go minions were clad largely in latex paint (whereas yours truly was much more demurely outfitted in pink cardigan with marabou feathers at the throat and a tasteful black satin poodle over the heart).

We arrived to find Kim Chambers (www.kimchambers.com) flanked by men on the concrete dancefloor. We had to elbow our way through the Wall of Testosterone to see what was going on. By the time we made it through the crush, Ms. Chambers was on the floor on her knees, a fellow entertainer spread out below her. The two drove the Wall crazy with a cunning simulation of oral sex (G-strings in no way impeding the suspension of disbelief). After this display, Ms. Chambers proceeded to the rear of the club to have Polaroids taken with her fans. Certain we were in the right place, we bellied up to the bar for a couple of pear ciders (when in Rome) and surveyed the landscape. To the right of the stage was an elevated platform where two topless dancers, one painted as a zebra, gyrated behind some military-issue camouflage netting. They were mirrored by a pair of girls on the dance floor sporting short-short vinyl skirts and feather boas; one wore a skimpy top, the other wore paint.

Shortly thereafter, Ron Jeremy (www.ronjeremy.com), inarguably the world's most renowned porn star, took the stage. He amazed with a Borscht Belt shtick worthy of Henny Youngman, though instead of "Take my wife, please," he tended toward the more socially pointed Long Beach foreplay: "Get in the truck, bitch." After a short set that left us agape, he introduced Rayne, who said a few words about the evening's sponsors and beneficiaries and tossed swag into the audience, including some sex toys for the ladies. (The few women patrons there looked like dancers on their night off, except for a couple of random hippie chicks whose presence puzzled me all evening; daughters of the Isle, perhaps?)

Next came feature dancer Nikita Kash (www.nikitakash.com/opening.htm), whose performance proved to be the main event. She spun out onto the man-flanked dancefloor in long, flowing pigtails, a black vinyl lace-up corset, black vinyl skirt with white lace petticoats, pointed, high-heeled button-up boots (think turn of the previous century) and a bullwhip. Seconds after making her entrance, she fixed me with a lengthy, penetrating stare, which prompted the gentleman behind me to lean in and hazard, "I think she likes you."

Nikita proved herself an acrobat from the word go, launching into a brilliantly dirty floor routine (the floor was, in fact, dirty). At one point she pulled an aggressively nondescript guy onto the floor, pushing him down on his knees and then on all fours. She rode him like a donkey, all the while whipping his ass in great circular flourishes (actually, she was whipping the floor just beyond his sneakers, which created the requisitely authentic effect). She then got down behind him and pretended to give it to him in the ass. The crowd roared. When he tried to return the favor, she threw him over for another guy. This one got a vigorously mimed blowjob.

Dismissing him, Nikita strutted over our way, bending from the waist in front of Alex and thrusting her lovely posterior against his happy package. She then stood up against him, slithering like a snake, grabbing my thigh for greater purchase and rubbing up against me as well for a few succulent seconds.

And then she was off, stalking the lust-bedeviled mortals all around, finally alighting before a man in a wheelchair. She teased him languorously with her whip, draping it around his neck, knocking his cap off. She gave him the look for a moment before again bending at the waist, presenting her ass a few inches from his face. She slid her petticoats down and kicked them aside, offering her new fan an unparalleled view of her barely concealed snatch. Clearly not certain this view was unparalleled enough, however, she raised one leg straight up into the air, essentially performing a vertical straddle split. Again, the assembled signaled their approval. That she chose to lavish her rare attention on this particular man was strangely moving. "This shit is deep," Alex whispered.

Nikita's performance complete, we shambled away from the floor with a slack-jawed, that-was-worth-the-price-of-admission air. Remarked Alex: "Nikita Kash has changed my life. I'm ready to throw it all away and become one of her converts." What could we possibly do to top this experience? Introduce ourselves to Ron Jeremy, of course.

Alex spearheaded that mission, approaching Ron with praise for bringing the Catskills to Long Beach. As it turns out, he of the enormously large penis (yes, I've seen a smattering of his films) had worked for years at the various Catskill resorts, among them Grossingers and the dearly departed Concord. A lovely chat ensued, with Ron evincing considerable charm. I must admit, I felt myself falling under his sway, despite the fact that he is a portly szhlub with bad hair (both facial and head) whom I could never understand wanting to fuck. Up close and personal, however, the twinkle in the eye coupled with sincere rapport and witty repartee had me starting to get it. He clearly got us as well, inviting us to an afterparty at a nearby hotel, an overture akin to an audience with the pope for red-blooded all-American porn lovers like us. We took the room numbers under advisement.

When the old-school punk band Cacawates hit the stage with the announcement "We're from East Anaheim," we retreated to a booth, where Alex amused me no end. A sample pearl: "Glad I didn't dress more flamboyantly. As it is, I feel like an eastern dandy." To be sure, his slightly '70s swankwear was a bit sophisticated for the grubby surf element arrayed for the night.

We returned to the floor briefly to survey the skills of Thomas Woods and Anna Maltese, The Exotic Fire-Eating Duo, also both in latex. Anna was quite the torch twirler (she was surely on the baton squad back in high school) and quite the looker, imagine Jodie Foster with long black hair and flames painted across her breasts. The finale found Anna and Thomas sharing a sexy fireball kiss.

Those with a yen to boogie surged back onto the floor, though a crowd of men quickly formed once more, this time around the go-go dancer in the red vinyl mini and beautiful red latex boobies. La Femme Nikita, meanwhile, had stationed herself on the floor just behind Red Skirt, video camera in hand. Enjoying the attention paid to her rear view, Red Skirt began hiking up her red skirt in tiny increments until just the littlest bit of ass, and then puss, was revealed. I watched from a distance while Alex and the throng stood over NikitaÕs shoulder watching the show on the video monitor, where a more revealing picture was emerging. The post-modernist bent of watching a crowd watching a porn presentation on video while the real thing was gyrating inches away was not lost on us (and to their credit, some of the looky-loos had their eyes glued directly to the girl, several at nearly pointblank range).

I had to hire a tow truck to pull Alex away from this manifestation, but it was a school night and thus time to go. We ran into Ron at the now-abandoned entrance to the club on the way out, at which point Alex was struck by the necessity of closing out his tab and retrieving his credit card. After a few more moments conversing with Ron (who confirmed that Jeremy is actually his middle name and that his last name is indeed something Jewy), he gently turned me by the shoulders and asked permission to do "something" to the nape of my neck (guess I was asking for it, what with my hair up and all). Because of my platforms-enhanced height, his face was actually nape-level. I assented, and he served up a world-class nuzzle. I assured him IÕd never wash my neck again. Alex returned and phone numbers and e-mail addresses were exchanged. Ron was crestfallen that we couldn't make the afterparty, but we promised to catch the next one.

Who knows, dear perverts, you may soon be able to rent La Carla at a video store near you! Stay tuned.

XO,

Carla