So I have big breasts. It’s not unusual for people to stare and beg to rub things on them, only to leave disappointed when I refuse. As a teen, the heat missiles strapped to my chest were good for drawing the attention of seedy men. I remember how pimps used to hit on me, ensuring I would never opt for a life on the street. Nothing made the walk home from school more uncomfortable than hearing shouts of, “Damn gurl, bring those juicy D’s over to Daddy!” This of course, was cause for offense. If I were ever going to sell myself, why have a middle man? Surely I’d be better off NOT having someone beat me and take half of my money? That’s just Bad Business 101. No way those fools were gonna play me.
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1985 was quite simply the most magical year I’ve ever known. I was just a small boy at the time, with already large and highly threatening testicles; but not unlike other children of lesser testicles (or even, none at all), I was completely immersed in the world of a young, yet burgeoning cable channel called Music Television—or MTV, to those in the know. This MTV was quite different then. They actually played music videos, and had people called VJs that introduced them. From what I could gather of VJs, they were mostly just wicked old people—like 22 or something—that tried to act like they knew all kinds of shit about music. Of course, people that old only listen to retarded, faggy music, so I’m sure they had kids around to tell them what was cool. As far as I was concerned, these VJs could just as easily have been replaced by drooling chimps in diapers (and they eventually would be). The music videos themselves were all that really mattered.
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