• Join The Fed
• Advertise with The Fed

• About Us
• Contact

In This Issue

• The Spec Almost Led Me Into White Slavery
• Where Have All the Strippers Gone?
• Abused by Geriatrics Without Prozac
• Letters to the Editor(s)
• Marauding Interviewer
• Free to Speak? Shut Up!
• Where It's Safe to Sodomize
• Unionized Columbians Become Denizens of Primal Gangland
• CAVA Shifts Focus from Medicine to Profitability
• Garment Grabber Liberates Clothes From Floor
• Legless Pigeon Recounts Tales of Early Abuse
• Geek has +9 Indifference Cloak Against Discrimination
• Columbia Hits Me Where the Bruises Will Never Show
• We Have a Film Critic?
• The Future Is Now, and It's Pointing and Laughing
• Juice Review - A Mango Juice Odyssey
• Fed Favorites
• I Hate You Damn Happy People
• Your Pets Will Be Waiting for You in Hell
• Fruitloop and Dandy
• Wacky Fun Abuse!
• My AIM is True
• A Word from Our Advertisers
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 17.7

Stephen Grant

See Sally wrestle Jack. See Sally pin Jack. See Sally's thong in Jack's face... Smile, Jack, smile.

"Looking for attractive, intelligent women to wrestle, $150/ hour," said the ad in the Spectator. I paused in my casual perusal of the want ads. Now that was the kind of salary I had been looking for! But wrestling? I wondered if this person wanted someone to come in and "wrestle his monkey".

My friend and I arrived for an interview at a small residential apartment nearby and were welcomed by a woman who appeared so masculine and massive I had previously assumed her to be the neighborhood transvestite. I once saw her manhandle a tiny non-English speaking grandmother in Aerosoles for taking her seat.

"So, uh... who, exactly, will we be wrestling here?" Heather smiled and clarified that it was mostly businessmen looking for a little adventure with a rough woman, usually wearing a bikini, lingerie, or other fantasy-fulfilling garment. She carefully explained to us that this was never pornography or prostitution.

Then she handed us the packet. On the front was an illustration of a small boy being trapped by a classmate in a "scissor hold," his head held firmly in the girl's crotch by her thighs. Oral sex, prostitution, what's the difference? The difference was wrestling, my friend. Apparently it makes all the difference in the world to Heather Fine.

"These are the holds you'll learn when you start. Most clients love the scissor hold the best because it's so intimate," she paged through the packet, each showing a different pin between the two child-like figures. The girl wore pigtails, knee socks, a sweater vest and a skirt that in some illustrations flipped up in her exertions with the boy to reveal her rather adult black thong. Heather's instruction booklet with the wacky and crazy "playful" kids, was disturbing at best.

She then moved on to the contract. We stopped her. "Wait... does this say 36 months?"

Anxious to leave, my friend picked up the pen to sign. I interrupted her, "Why don't we think about this some and get back to her?" Heather crushed our hands by way of handshake and flexed her bicep, which was roughly the size of my thigh, and said that I was a little thin for the job, but I'd do, if I wanted the position. Heather gave me the once over and said in her husky voice, "Oooh, you're tall. About 5'7"? They like that."

This got me interested, since I've been having trouble getting a good date recently. I've asked bartenders out, asked friends to set me up, but no matter what I try, I can't do better than a guy who likes to lick cats. No double entendre intended.

Upon coming back to my dorm room, my friend and I decided to look up She's So Strong Productions online. As we clicked on the homepage, Heather Fine's craggy face and pendulous breasts grinned up at us as her thighs squeezed the living bejesus out of a poor bald man's head. His shiny dome gleamed bright red, near the point of explosion.

Deciding to "Meet the Ladies" of the staff, we saw Wei-lin, a wide and flabby "iron maiden," Erica, the bewigged "blonde" black woman, and Nancy, a 50-odd year old woman who, according to the picture, likes to sit on women's faces. There are 16 girls on staff, and all seemed to fit in well there.

Soon, we discovered the section of wrestling photos. Generally these consisted of the ladies smooshing the old guy's faces into their crotches, as he flailed and struggled for dear life or for a gasp of sweet oxygen. As with the homepage, his face was inevitably 14 shades of red darker than healthy. One wonders how many strokes these foxy wrestlers have inflicted.

When the ladies weren't shoving faces into crotches, they were forcing clients heads between breasts and butt cracks. Remember Sir Mixalot of "a round thing in your face, you get sprung. I like big butts..." fame? The worst part is that all the photos were clearly taken in hotel bedrooms, with coral shell bedspreads and pastel still-lifes bolted to the walls.

Porn? Close. As my friend so aptly put it, we had bravely stood on the precipice of porn, a world somewhere between fetishism and prostitution. Finally, a customer's testimonial convinced us that no matter how many designer bags and Playstation II games we could buy with that kind of money, any job that ended with exertion, sweat, and an erection was out of our league.

According to a part of the agrammatical testimonial, "I told her I enjoyed long lingering submissions and to be aggressive with me (sic)." And, girlfriend, yes she did:

"She pinned me deep into the mat and landed her sexy ass firmly on my face. I was totally helpless and gasping for air... I was ordered to kiss her feet and suck her toes. With her other foot she began to rub my penis. She... asked if I wanted to extend the session and I smiled."

Porn? Naw...