You want the flashing lights? Go to fucking Herald Square.
You want shopping? Again, go try SoHo, TriBeCa, or Midtown near Macy’s. Hell, go to fucking Columbus Circle.
But there is one thing that Times Square is known for.
Sex.
Plenty of fucking sex all around here if you just know where to fucking look.
Say, you want to go to a peep show? Well, actually, not much use for ladies at peep shows, but if you know that special man in your life who's not able to get any fucking women, then all he has to do is go over to 8th Avenue and look left, and right next to the fucking Port Authority Bus Terminal he'll have what he needs. Plenty of fucking peep shows there where he can jerk off to a girl in a room smoking a cigarette and fingering herself while little peepholes allow people look in.
Want to buy some porn? You’ll find that all over 46th street. Any kind of fucking porn you want. Tourists walk right by it; they’re so entranced by the fucking M&M’s store and the Coca-Cola sign. They can’t get enough of the NASDAQ building that they totally don’t realize they’re walking by three strip clubs and fifteen massage parlors that specialize in the ancient art of Rub N’ Tug.
Maybe your male friend wants to just skip all that and go straight for the hookers. Look no further than 7th Avenue from 44th Street to 49th Street. These women will stand there day and night walking the streets – you just gotta know where to look and you’ll see. More than likely, they see you. And if they see that you’re a tourist, they’ll blend in so fucking well.
I mean, take it all in. Naked Cowboys—yep we've got that. Girls with nothing on except body paint? We've got that too. You can take a picture of them as they rub themselves up against your cock for $20. I’m fucking serious.
It's a fucking pit of licentiousness and debauchery.
Which makes it absolutely goddamn perfect for what I’m about to do.
I walk up the stairs toward the podium.
We already have some of our regular porn starlets there, entertaining the audience and posing for pictures from reporters and photographers.
I’d say we have a good crowd. There are at least 10,000 people. All the major newspapers and news organizations are camped out.
What? I know you may be finding this hard to believe, considering KaneCo centers around pornography—right up there with Hawkelane Media—but porn has become completely mainstream in America today. We fucking celebrate it. And that’s good. Because if there’s one forte that I have, it’s pleasing the fucking ladies.
Don’t get me wrong though. I’m not just some fucking schmo with a good fucking body and a giant fucking cock. I built this fucking company from the ground up. My parents live in California—in Los Angeles. My dad owned a shoe store and my mom was a housewife. I was your regular kid. Went to UCLA for undergrad and then graduate school. Started working in marketing. And then I realized I didn’t like working for the fucking man. So I quit. Took what meager savings I had and started my own marketing and media company.
I didn’t know I was going to be getting into porn. But what I did know was that I wasn’t going to stay broke, or middle class. I was going to be fucking big.
That seems like so long ago from now, doesn’t it? I mean, I know you know I’m famous; you see my face on all the newspapers and shit. But you never heard that little bit, did you?
I’d tell you more, but it’s time to start.
The starlets are all done with their fucking happy and giggly jiggling. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve fucked them all. They all moan like a whore when they've got my fucking cock between their legs.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the first ever product launch by Illicit Entertainment,” I say into the microphone and watch as the photographers flash their cameras and people start to cheer.
Seriously, they’re cheering for me. A fucking pornographer. Sometimes it boggles the fucking mind. But we all gotta get laid, right? So maybe they know something I don’t. Maybe I’m fucking old fashioned.
“I hope you enjoyed the Illicit Entertainers,” I say gesturing to the girls. People cheer again. They’re clapping and hooting
and hollering. Not just pervy fucking dudes either. We’re talking tourists snapping pictures with their iPhones—wife and kids in tow. Teenagers. Hell, is that a fucking priest in the crowd?
“Pornography has come a long way since the days of old, America,” I say, looking directly into the cameras now. I may be in Times Square, but my face is being beamed all over the world. “And today, Illicit Entertainment is going to take it into the next millennium.”
A collective hush goes over the crowd and I nod to the technical guys.
The stage darkens. A screen lights up behind me and our company logo appears. This is my cue.
“We used to have scrawling of people having sex on cave walls,” I begin, pacing my words like Cheryl taught me to. “But from cave art, we went to pictures. And pictures became magazines. Magazines became books, that went to movies.”
People are looking at me with rapt attention and they look at the screen, which shows a montage with wonder. Seriously, I’ve probably destroyed the values of the next generation, but whatever; it pays the bills.
“Movies changed when we got the VCR,” I say, and the screen behind me switches to showing VHS tapes.