You wha? Do I whaaa? Ohh baby, you KNOW what I like! An absence of notable chancres! Yes, the Big Bopper gets lucky in this tawdry tableau, this sin-soaked story of CLUB WOMEN GONE WILD. That’s a club woman right there, the surly stick-thin doxy in the black lace Depends. The guy – well, who knows. I’m guessing that they’ve already sought, and found, their shameful thrill; that would explain the woman’s self-loathing (and him-loathing) expression, and Bopper’s cheerful mug & post-coital cheroot. You know what he’s doing. He’s telling all his friends.

But this is not a story about men who misbehave at the Water Buffalo convention. It’s about women who belong to clubs of some sort – book clubs, flower clubs, garden clubs, Sally & Laura Dick Van-Dyke-show slash fic clubs, whatever. They go out of town to meet, and once freed from the stifling morality of their home town, they rip off their clothes and bounce like a big pink Tigger on a traveling air-freshener salesman.

The article makes this sound very shameful, but you have to read these things in reverse. The more they castigate these women, the more they’re assuring the reader he might well find one.

But what shameful thrills are sought? Read on.


 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 

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