Thoughts About Ben Exworthy
by People Who Are Forced to Spend Time with Him
 
Ben is not egotistical. I don’t care what those so-called “other people” say. He’s actually quite a humanitarian. Like the other day, for example: Ben and I were walking to our Extreme Jazzercise class down in Pioneer Square, and we saw this homeless man who was asking for change. So what does Ben do? He yells, “Eat this, you filthy scum” and threw his Bologna and Pimento Loaf sandwich at the man. I mean, he feeds the homeless people. What do you do? On a side note: I think everyone should know that Ben is packing some major heat “down there”—if you catch my drift. I’m serious. He has weapons. So don’t mess with him, or he’ll cut you. Word.
Lastly: Ben is a fantastic boyfriend. I feel sorry for all those other girls that screwed it up with him. They must be real losers.
—Brit Belisle
 
Ben Exworthy is a good friend of mine. I like him. He is generous of heart and awfully silly, and sometimes maniacal. He broke both of his hands one year because he lost his mind, but at least he didn’t break anyone else’s hands. I think Ben liked me when he first met me because I had glittery orange nail polish on, but by now he must like me for something else, because I never paint my nails anymore. It’s too much maintenance. Anyway, Ben is a good guy, and pretty much what you see is what you get, which is a hyperactive goofball who demands that raw tomatoes never touch his plate but enjoys ketchup with his fries. Don’t cross him. I’m just saying is all. Keep the damned tomatoes off of his plate, is that so much to ask?
—Bevin Keely
 
Ben didn’t pay me enough to write a better testimonial of my love to him, but when he does, I will.
—David Dunham
 
The sweatiest sex I’ve ever had!!
—Amy D. Barr
 
In my time with the Sea Gypsies I had seen many people lick the blade of a knife, but no one ever did it with as much wild-eyed glee as Ben Exworthy. It was 1976 and I remember smiling to myself as I watched this young, innocent, fresh-faced boy from Ohio lick the cocktail of earwax and plasma off of his Italian onyx handled stiletto. I thought, this kid is going places. Of course my appraisal of Ben wasn’t always so optimistic. When he first stepped onto our sampan floating in the Bay of Bengal I thought Exworthy was going to be floating home in a bucket of chum within the hour. First impressions it seems, are not always accurate.
 
He strode into his new life with the Sea Gypsies fairly easily, his sandaled right foot slapping flatly on the deck of our boat as his left lifted off the smoking remains of the Corsican yacht sinking into the sea. His smile, one that now inspires either gibbering fear or brotherly welcome from Bhutan to McKeesport, was looked on with a great deal of suspicion by us as he reached under his smoking jacket. I have a distinct memory of ordering my deck gunner, Ghee, to hold his fire as Ben produced not the weapon we expected, but a bottle of 30 year old Glen Campbell single malt and a spliff of Humbolt county green the approximate diameter of a yak penis. It was the Smart Play at the time and Ben has always been instinctively canny with the Smart Play.
 
But the blade and the ear and the licking, right. After we had picked Ben up (or had he allowed us to join him?) we sailed together for two years. I don’t like the term “pirate” and “buccaneer,” they’re just corny. Suffice it to say that Ben made a first rate Sea Gypsy. He never lost his cool in a fight, even when a Soviet submarine had decided to use my small fleet to work out its stifled proletariat aggressions. He never dropped his line in a grift, a none too simple feat when one is conducting interest rate negotiations with a syphilitic Indochinoise banker while hanging upside down over a pit filled with rabid monkeys and rancid pho. But what Ben did really well, what he truly excelled at was being The Guy.
 
In my line of work, The Guy is an indispensable resource and a fragile one. Once the credibility of The Guy is tainted, forget about it. Drop him off at a Chuck E. Cheese to service the whak-a-mole machine or chop him into ground round for the sweet smelling black market Hellburger salons in Phuket, he’s done. The Guy is your final tool of creative negotiation. It doesn’t matter if you’re interrogating a sour smelling Prussian tourist or trying to leave a poker game with all of your testicles, as long as you can face your opposite number across the table and say, “I have tried to work things out like a civilized man, but you have proven yourself to be unreasonable. I have done all that I can, but now it is out of my hands. You will have to now discuss this with my associate, [The Guy]” And then The Guy steps into the picture and everyone knows that something truly horrible is about to happen and you know, maybe we can work this all out.
 
Ben Exworthy was my Guy. It wasn’t that he was unpleasant or over the top. When he moved from his silk hammock on the foredeck to the meeting table aft, he just brought this air of menace and joviality that in combination were so incongruous, you really didn’t know whether to shit or make egg rolls. And that’s when he cut his ear off. The deal wasn’t a huge one. We were trying to sell a depressed orca to a small dog food chain based out of Michigan and their VP for New Flavor Development, a guy named Jake Homiller, was getting froggy about our commission. The meeting had started to deteriorate and the mustachioed Sardinian acrobats he had brought along as bodyguards were starting to do some aggressive hamstring stretches. I called Exworthy up and pleaded with the guy for one last chance to be a mensch. He refused and I turned things over to Ben. The blade reflected the afternoon light on the water and his smile was manic and bourbon-fuelled. Then Ben started giggling. I never really liked Ben’s giggle, not because I thought it was an affectation or anything. It was just every time I heard it I knew I’d need to have the boys clean up the deck. In this instance, the giggling continued, rising in pitch and volume. The VP looked nervous and the Sardinians stopped limbering themselves and glanced at each other uncertainly. It was obviously going to get really sticky and I put my manta skin boots up on the table. He giggled some more and it started to get weird. Then the blade clicked open and without any kind of preamble, Exworthy slices off his own goddamn ear and starts sucking on it like a sticky pink gobstopper. He never stopped giggling and he never broke eye contact with the Veep. The ear made a cute little plip noise when he spit it into the drink. That’s when he licked the blade and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone have so much fun doing it. Not long after that, Ben left the Sea Gypsies. He’d had enough of being The Guy professionally and wanted to do it “for the love of the game,” which I can respect.
—Phill Arensberg
 
Ben is a wonderful kisser. When his beautiful lips touch my skin I shiver. A lavish cold runs my spine and I blush unrestrained. His majestic posture and his refined attire speak to me in a windy whisper.
—db
 
Ben X has a way
of drinking fine bourbon with
a bug guard on top
—Teagen Densmore
 
I remember, at this one party... Ben let us use his ass as a dartboard,
with real darts. The things he will do for his friends.
—Lightman
 
I first met Mr. Exworthy while chauffeuring a school busload of drunken circus clowns around Pioneer Square. While most of us view how events affect us personally, he see himself to be the center of Known Existence(tm), around which everything else can find its own damn universal sense of balance.
 
I’ve noticed that every girl I’ve seen him with has been blonde, much like Mr. Exworthy himself. I think he should have skipped spending money on buying out The Stranger, which already sold out so very long ago, and investigated human cloning options. Ben, it’s not considered “gay” to do yourself—I think it’s more like masturbating.
 
Ben’s liquor de choix is Maker’s Mark. I don’t know the true history behind this brand name; liquor bottles don’t have fun facts like cereal boxes. I wonder if it refers to the Eternal Maker, God, and his ultimate mark of creation: Ben Exworthy. Perhaps this analysis is far-fetched, but one must admit it contains a certain drunkard’s logic.
 
14 billion years of existence, whose every minute detail and event had to happen exactly as it did to create Ben exactly as he is. One small piece of stardust bounced out of place, one tiny tadpole eaten before it crawled to land, and the Universe may well have just thrown this whole thing to the ground and stormed off pouting, never having realized it’s ultimate creation. Perhaps Ben IS the result of the ultimate in creation attempting to make a duplicate of itself, for itself. In that case, if Mr. Exworthy ends up the bitch, then it IS totally gay, dude.
 
And finally, who the fuck buys out a media outlet to devote entirely to their own self-interest? Ted Turner, Rupert Murdoch, and now Ben Exworthy—a worthy addition to that group of loud, high maintenance, bonnie boys. In each of these men’s worlds, they ride the surfboard, and everyone and everything else just gets to ride the wake like so much flotsam.
 
I’m going to end with a paraphrase of a little tale I heard. Seems God was busy making people of significance on this little rock of ours and, having worked very hard for several days on luminaries like Leonardo da Vinci, Mark Twain, Gianni Versace, and Parker Posey, he used the last of his good clay building Ben. He spent lots of time on the small details: the messed up hair, the goofy lips, the glasses, and boy if he just wasn’t getting a bit sleepy. So he took a little nap and woke up the next morning to find that Ben had hardened overnight, and was now crusty and grumbly, a little schizo, 3 parts sweet to every 2 parts sour. Well, he was out of the good clay, and he just didn’t know what to do—he wanted to get on to making iPods and cool stuff. So, he thought for a few minutes and then said, “I know what I’ll do! I’ll make a bunch of people who like him this way!”
—Durin Gleaves
 
I knew Ben Exworthy when he was just a child. Even as an unbiased mother, I always knew Ben would be a “special” guy one day.
 
There were hints along the way—like the time he, during his eighth year of life, hurled rocks at the mercury lights attached to the elementary school one evening. When the principal questioned him, Ben described the very satisfying explosion they made as they broke.
 
Not long after that the local sheriff’s deputy brought him home one day. It seems Ben had been throwing rocks through windows of some old, junk cars that actually had an owner. Those pesky rocks again...
 
We moved away from that location.... got a fresh start.
 
But history repeated itself at our new home when the town’s only police officer brought Ben home. He and a friend had gotten great satisfaction from watching their BB guns shatter the windows in, yes, another group of old, junk cars which really did belong to someone. We went to court for this one. Not long afterwards Ben began to drive. Even then he liked the feel of an adrenaline rush, but a high rate of speed on a gravel road with a sharp curve just meant that I had to pay for a new picket fence. It was also a new paint job on virtually every surface of the family car.
 
Along the way I tried.... I really tried to shape Ben into a productive, caring, responsible, moral, thoughtful world citizen. It wasn’t easy...
 
But then, one day, he really did turn out to be that special guy.
—Ben’s Mom
 
On the floor of Oseo-oh
or down in Seattle to go-go
with the weapon selection
with the mirror reflection
I’m financing myself
 
when there’s no-one else to fight
and the liquor’s getting tight
well I wait so long
for my glove sensation
I’m financing myself
 
Well there’s nothing to do
And there’s something to prove
I’ll be financing myself
 
if I puked all over the world
And there’s every type of hurl
But your larger size
Seems to surpass me by
Leave me financing myself
 
So let’s sink another fink
‘Cause it’ll give me time to blink
If I had the chance
I’d put the world to trance
And I’ll be financing myself
—Scott Heyer
 
The once worthy Ben
As his last name may imply
Spread his pubes on me
—Chance Warner
 
A grown woman contemplates her irrational fear of birds. Every time a pigeon flies by (a frequent occurrence in her hometown of San Francisco), she flinches as if someone has run their fingers down a chalkboard. In particular, she despises the flapping of their wings. What developmental experience could have caused a hair-raising, ear-covering reaction to the sound of birds taking flight?
 
Upon further reflection, she recalls a scenario from her childhood... As a weekly treat, this girl and her brother went to the pet store while their mother was shopping for groceries. They would walk in the door and head toward the section where all children love to congregate: the puppies and kittens. But on the way, they had to first pass through the bird section. Parrots and parakeets were in abundance there, and the little boy took particular pleasure in running ahead and waving his arms around frantically—eliciting a frenzied response from all the birds. They squealed and squawked, slamming their bodies against their cages in what was either blind fear or idiotic camaraderie. The overall effect was an insane cacophony and the young girl had to run this gauntlet many, many times. There were, after all, puppies to be found at the other end.
 
Yes, concludes the adult woman, looking back at this memory. The pet store experience is mostly likely the source of her lifelong phobia.
 
This boy is now a grown man named Ben and I am his sister Alice.
—Alice Thavis
 
walking home in turn
for frozen pizza dinner
two latch key children
—Alice Thavis
 
It’s odd sometimes what you remember about Ben. Little details stand out. I remember approaching Ben at the Saint Valentines Day Massacre Ball his friends held to honor him. Ben’s position as “The Don” was impressive—sitting on a raised platform with his “molls” on either side. Ben’s pinstripe suit and silk tie were impeccable. The molls’ sequined flapper dresses were stunning. He held out his hand for the ceremonial kiss on the ring. I thanked him for honoring me with his favor in the past year and asked what I might do to reciprocate. He suggested a gift to the molls, who were to brighten the festivity later by dancing burlesque, would be appreciated. I draped white feather boas on the molls, who gave appreciative wiggles. I think I saw a quiver of a smile on the corner of Ben’s lips. I still treasure this moment.
—Howard Gutknecht
 
The first night I met Ben Exworthy we got engaged. We were in the middle of the desert, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by lights and noise and people. We somehow lost the group and wandered through the makeshift city. We found a garbage can with a fire in it, sparks flying, pieces of lumber sticking out, surrounded by a starry sky I was too drunk to see. Ben got on his knee, asked me to marry him and slipped a ring on my finger. A Ben Exworthy type of ring: the wax ring around the top of a Makers Mark bottle. Wow. I just barfed in my mouth. That is the cutest motherfucking thing I’ve ever heard. If you’ve read this issue and you think, “I want Exworthy to be MY friend” think twice. He’s got me. We don’t need you.
—Betsy Morris
 
Who the hell agreed to sell this fucker print space? Do you realize what a marginal, low talent assclown this guy is? Okay—so he has enough money to buy your crappy magazine for a week, but who cares! Have you looked at his hair lately? Only retards or child molesters do their hair like that. And he is quite obviously shopping for clothes with all the other droolers in his group home.
 
But it’s your ink, not mine. I’m sure that your advertisers won’t mind that you glorify someone who leaves skidmarks in every pair of underwear he ever put on, or that he uses superballs for sexual gratification. Come to think of it, put this little ditty next to the engagement ring ads, with a picture of him being spanked by a chimp named Juicebox. I’m sure you’ll have record advertising sales for your next issue.
 
I am just saying that you should reconsider the practice of selling your periodical to just any cumfactory with a checkbook. Think about it.
—Benni Cagle
 
Ben is just plain WRONG. One of the very first times hanging out with him in the desert, after drinking way too much whiskey, I watched him convince this poor girl to punch him in the face. It was entertaining, to say the least. And he kisses really good, for a straight boy.
—Jerry Knight
 
My studies at the prestigious Schwarzheizen Institute of Eccentricities in Austria never prepared me for Ben Exworthy. Nothing could prepare anyone for Ben Exworthy. What is the allure of this man? This man whose brain has long been removed and replaced with hundreds of tiny superballs. His body contorted in such a way that, even when standing still, he looks like he’s coming right at you. A man who erupts in girlish glee whenever a new Jesus lenticular arrives in the mail. A man who has no problem getting a date... wait, that one I might understand. It’s amazing how many women have a fetish for human oddities. If you ever meet Ben, your first impulse might be to run away. But stick around, observe, but from a distance, the same way you might observe mating rhinos.
—Chance Warner
 
I have uttered this phrase a million times. I really do not like cats. I need loyalty, unending love, I am the center of the universe. That is why I have a dog. Ben so understands me.
 
It all started last week when I received the final installment of my x-mas present...started with a pair of brass knuckles, then a key chain that turns off any television anywhere, and then finally this...presented to me in front of all of our friends. A small rectangular package wrapped in disco green paper with a single ribbon tied around it. My hands were trembling as I opened it, so excited was I to see the final results. From inside the green disco paper a dark wooden box appeared with a small brass latch. I fingered the box turning it all around to look at it before popping the latch. Nothing ornate, just a wooden box, a wooden box with something in it that I can hear tumbling around inside. So, I steady it and I open the latch, lift the lid. On the inside of the lid is a piece of paper with the word “MEOW” written on it. A little confused I look into the box and understanding hits me like a tsunami hitting Asia. Inside is a real, but dead, kitty paw. Tears well up. Why? Because, though the gift is repelling, it also is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I look over at Ben staring at me, quivering like a nervous poodle, and I am wondering if he has wet himself yet. I look up with tears in my eyes and tell him it is the best gift ever. We rush to each other and embrace.
 
“I was so excited to give it to you, I knew you would love it” Ben mumbles into my hug.
 
“It is the best gift I have ever gotten” I mumble back.
 
And now I carry it with me wherever I go. My special kitty paw in a box.
—Donia Love
 
Seeing Ben’s picture and the various tawdry tales of his generally reprehensible exploits paints an incomplete picture of this enigmatic man. To really understand Ben, you need to see him in the flesh, and, in particular, you need to see him walk, see him move. He doesn’t do it like the rest of us, one foot simply in front of the other, arms and legs in clean syncopation, here then there.
 
Rather, Ben’s standard gait is the moral equivalent of a child somersaulting down a hill, arms and legs in quick and seemingly random flicks, gaining speed as the onlooker cringes and winces. Each lurching step, you’re sure, will be the last before he finally tumbles to the ground. But no! Miraculously, each flailing lumber is followed by another equally incomprehensible lunge.
 
It occurs to me on occasion, watching Mr. Exworthy, that he most resembles a puppet, a marionette operated by a lecherous, perhaps intoxicated puppetmaster. With frightening clarity, I can see the ruddy, pockmarked face of this celestial manipulator as it squints down at chubby, nail-bitten fingers trying to disentangle the fragile threads that hold Ben upright.
 
But this is a dangerous thought, and I always seek to obliterate it at its first rise through a quick ingestion of alcohol or a sharp but bloodless wound to the fleshy part of my thigh. For if there really is a dipsomaniacal puppetmaster manipulating Ben’s ungainly waddle, how to explain his unparalleled success in the world? More disturbing, how to explain my own mediocre performance in this puppet show of life? If Ben’s clearly inebriated string-puller manages to propel him to the heights he has achieved, then does that mean that my own master is, worse than merely drunk, simply incompetent?
 
I choose not to think about it.
—Jordan Schwartz
 
My first experience with my nephew Ben occurred when he was about eleven or twelve years old. I stopped him in his attempt to burn his initials onto the bare back of his sleeping cousin, Jason, with a magnifying glass. It was highly unlikely he would have been successful, my intervention or not, but he did try. Many years later that same determination led him onto an albacore tuna fishing trip that ran out of Monterey, California, without taking any seasick precautions. It was a rough day on the sea with a lot of white water and cold wind. The deck bucked like a horse in a hole and Ben got seasick in spite of his determination. He seemed almost to enjoy the challenge and remarked on how hard it was to walk on something that moved in so many directions. He was still standing at the end of the day and that says a lot. I think Ben can (and will) do whatever he chooses to do and that’s something you can probably take to the bank.
—Uncle Bob
 
Ben a narcist? You mean Ben “Not a Narcist” Exworthy? That is buuuuuuuullshit!!! In over 20 years in every maximum-security pen up and down the crystal highway, Ben has never narced out a fellow con, not once!
 
One time, we were in lockdown at Shelton and shit was dragging, you know? So I busted out my batch of pruno (prison booze) and was all busy working on a buzz-on when one of the bulls catches me mid-guzzle! I would’ve been fucked, in more ways than one, when suddenly, as quick as you can say “That ain’t my soap!” Ben fakes a seizure and sends the bag of pruno flying all over the tank. Sure, I was covered in pruno and I still went to the hole for a week, and everybody said he was really just trying to get his hands on my booze, but he still didn’t narc me out! That’s the kind of guy he is. The kind of guy who wouldn’t NEVER change his story at the last minute so I would be on the chain gang for 6 months at Walla Walla. Just like he said, I can never keep stuff straight and it’s always my fault for getting the story all screwed up, every fucking time! When will I ever learn? Shit, if it wasn’t for Ben keeping an eye out for me I probably would’ve been sent off to some pussy minimum-security prison in Palm Springs by now. The horror.....
 
Did I mention how much the screws fear and respect him? He commands so much respect that they let him have his own cell with a couch and TV! He even gets out of his cell all the time when everybody else is locked down just so he can tell the guards what is up and shit. They fear his wrath so much that when we were rioting over the lack of two-ply TP they let him out into the yard cuz they know how much he hates tear gas, he’s the man!
 
Yeah, a con couldn’t have a better cellie than “Not a Narcist.” From this day until I go down with a sharpened Goody Comb in my back I will always be proud to say Ben made me the prisoner I am today. Wait, what’s a “narcissist”?
—Chuck “Guns Moby” Little
 
He stands on corners and drools.
He bought me whiskey from the “Square” bottle.
He showed me a picture of his girlfriend naked.
He drives too fast.
He plays odd music
He is my boss
He showed me a picture of his girlfriend naked.
—Bill Sears
 
The saying goes, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” Well, it’s a good thing Ben knows so many people because when it comes to “what” he don’t know shit.
—Unknown
 
I am the coolest person you will never meet. Smart AND good looking, and you can totally trust me because I’m telling you this. I have many pets and children. I’m not quite sure who Ben is, though.
—Garr Godfrey
 
It is not appropriate to simply describe Ben as a narcissist. It is much more complicated, more involved, and more intense than that. Ben not only focuses his intense, sometimes borderline psychopathic love onto himself, but he spreads it to those around him. Whether it be giving the gift of protection in order that everyone for whom he cares has the ability to crack a man’s skull, or providing the somewhat more than occasional drink, Ben is always displaying his love to us all through his generosity and overpowering attention. Despite all that, his true passion really is himself. This is self evident to anyone who looks closely at Ben and spots that burning desire in his eyes, desire for himself. The kind of desire that says “Hey I love myself so much I wish I could be bending myself over my desk right now.” Though I am hesitant to explore the true depths of his narcissism, I can say that it is there, it is strong, and it is a good thing. Other than that, you’ll just have to seek out the real Ben, or just read some more in this paper. Also don’t ever get road rage from Ben and follow him around seeking revenge. This is Ben, he has a bat.
—Brandon Godfrey
 
I first met Ben Exworthy when I was interviewing for a marketing position with his company in 2000. For my interview we went through the usual interview questions briefly at a bar over drinks. It soon turned to the topic of eating jalapeno peppers and the effects I’ve discovered it has on giving one oral sex. I was hired! I have had many wonderful days with Ben since then, too numerous to relay in this testimonial so I will skim the surface and highlight some of the more memorable experiences and characteristics of this modern day narcissus:
 
Ben is Marcus’s Martini Bar’s #1 patron, having purchased endless amounts of Maker’s Mark throughout the years. When he comes in they have his drink ready for him by the time he gets to the counter. He is sure to have his glass covered as fruit flies flock to this sweet, strong beverage.
 
Ben is an avid collector of super balls. Some of which we enjoy tossing out our 6th floor office space at Mariners’ fans or anyone who happens to be walking on the street below.
 
In his office sits vials of fingernails and eyelashes collected over many years. On occasion Ben feels the need to show them around to everyone... yummy.
 
Every 4th Friday of the month at 4pm marks our monthly where we are required to drink 4 beers or we are fired. Ben founded this tradition where we drink copious amounts of beer in the office until 6 or 7pm and then we move on to Marcus’s to drink more. Quite often Ben is very generous and picks up the tab for everyone, all 20+ people and hundreds of dollars later!!! There are usually many stories to tell the following Monday at the office of crazy, embarrassing, drunken behavior and interoffice hookups.
 
He is very photogenic and you are always sure to have a snap shot of Ben looking like he just escaped the psych ward.
 
During a golf game you won’t see Ben playing golf but rather attempting to run over flocks of geese off-trail in a golf cart.
 
Ben also enjoys wearing custom-made plaid suits and “cutting the carpet” at holiday parties.
 
I love Ben!
—Lynn Rott
 
Ben was always one of the first people to come in on the weekends at Café Paradiso. He followed me to every café I have worked in since then. After 8 years of serving him coffee, I found he is not as crazy as he leads you to believe and can be your most loyal friend. If you need a couch for the night or a girl-watching partner... he is definitely your man.
—Gina Mainwal
 
If Ben hadn’t almost whisked me away from my bartending gig the first minute I met him at the great Ballard institution Hattie’s Hat, well he just wouldn’t be Ben now would he? If he hadn’t continued to pay me visits there I might never have known that he was very serious about his offer to marry me in the glitzy desert oasis of Las Vegas...After a year or so of serving him drinks and slopping mediocre olive oil onto a plate with bread so he could eat better than all other drooling barflies, I figured out he really had meant his offer of marriage (sans engagement, mind you, unless you count the plane ride and time it would have taken to get someone to cover my shift.) He is the kind of guy to say just about anything, and then actually follow through on it!! CRAZY!
 
What if I’d gone? I guess I’d be married to a really rich narcissist with a penchant for naughty humor and naked parties in the desert. Or I’d be divorced, with a nice little nest egg and half a collection of bouncing rubber balls.
 
No point in fantasizing about what could have been. Glory be and Hallelujah, someone was watching over me when I said “No I won’t marry you!” to Ben Exworthy.
—Emily Marsh
 
As a Ben Exworthy long-time friend cum sycophant, I can say that I hang out with Ben for more than the free booze and the promise of hookers. Sure there’s the glamorous side like watching him impale himself on his Mt. Bike, lock himself in an RV bathroom for hours and refuse to come out, break his left hand by hitting it against a brick wall and then a few weeks later severely dislocate his right hand by beating up some sheet-rock, and completely divide my social circle to the point where I must schedule Ben vs. non-Ben events, but that’s just part of the fun.
 
I knew Ben before he could buy out an issue of The Stranger. Money hasn’t changed Ben-Jam’n too much. He’s pretty much the same “arsehole” he always was. He still doesn’t hesitate to annoy or offend. He still doesn’t know the meaning of “indoor voice.” Ben is a one-of-a-kind, frighteningly loyal, cerebral, intensely sincere, generous bundle of contradictions that constantly embarrasses me and that I’m proud to have as a friend.
—Loren Schwartz
 
Ben Exworthy (1968-2005) was an orphan, raised in the wilds of Montana by a Cajun prostitute named Louixise. Put to work as a carny at the age of five, his early life as a low-grade con man led to a life of penny-ante scams and ether abuse. His first arrest resulted in an extended prison term, later recounted in his bestseller “Cigarette Boy.” As recently as 1998, he was used as an extra in a filmed biography of the life of Jim Carroll, playing (to type) a crooked restroom attendant. All of this changed when he met his third wife, Sophie, a European degenerate with a fondness for extramarital affairs and toast. He spent the remainder of his life raising badgers at his ranch, Rancho Lingua, and writing books about the hermeneutics of used chewing gum. He is survived by his longtime companion, known only as Blade, along with Sophie, two Chinchillas, and a talking border collie. Donations should be made to the Burt Lance Home for the Terminally Bewildered.
—Darren S. Cahr, Esq.
 
Interview with Ben Exworthy, as theorized by Danger Girl, Ace Reporter.
DG: When you suck the marrow out of life, what does it taste like?
BE: Gin and girl parts.
DG: Do you have a favorite deity?
BE: Me, the patron saint of Mars.
DG: Who’s your most cherished comic book hero?
BE: Beelzeshug Ben. He’s a quiet, mild mannered eccentric millionaire by day and a lecherous, rubber-masked, cantankerous old fool by night. Especially on full moons. And he always shows his.
DG: His...?
BE: Full moon!
DG: How old are you and what’s your sign?
BE: 210 in dog years and I’m all Mars, baby.
DG: What was your first wet dream?
BE: My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Evans. She’s a Mennonite. Hot. Those long skirts...in my dream, I was xxx x xxxxxxx and then she xxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxx xxxxx. [big sigh]
DG: What’s your favorite color?
BE: Mars red.
DG: Tell me the worst thing you ever did to your mother.
BE: The hell I’m tellin’ you.
DG: Ok, how about your favorite mode of transportation?
BE: Train or funhouse. Depends where I’m goin’.
DG: What’s the most embarrassing job you’ve ever had?
BE: All jobs are embarrassing. I make sure of that.
DG: What position do you like to sleep in?
BE: Sleep? Who needs it??! Ok ok, missionary. Ha! Gotcha.
DG: If you could delegate anything, what would it be?
BE: My sins.
DG: What are your hobbies?
BE: Depantification, terrorizing old ladies, and donating to my favorite charities, including the liquor bank.
DG: Do you have any concluding words for our readers?
BE: Yes. Danger Girl does the best comics even though she didn’t put out for me. A comic, I mean.
DG: Thank you for this interview.
BE: Any time. I’m off to my Secret Hideout now. Bye!
—Judy Hale
 
I know this guy who is so full of love for life that he can’t stop thinking about it. He thinks about it and he picks it up and he can’t stop shaking it. He shakes it until it rattles his teeth. He doesn’t like to sleep or sit down because then he would be missing it. He doesn’t just love all the little things in life, like the taste of roasted corn, or the smell of mountain trails—he loves the whole beast. The dead toenails, the crimes against humanity, the piles of garbage floating out to sea. When he buys a sandwich, he loves the woman who sells him the sandwich. He paints his car with gold flecks until it sparkles like the flying cars at the fair so that everyone he passes can laugh and be confused. He gives strangers the gift of being allowed to act a little crazy. He reaches his orangutan arms as wide as they will reach and draws the world into a gentle Hammerlock. People try to talk to this guy. They say, “you can’t fit all of this love into one place.” They tell him to slow down and pick one thing to love.
 
He counters, because he also loves to argue. He argues by showing them how to fit all the love into one place. There’s an exact way of doing it, and he has figured it out. First of all, he doesn’t keep it all in one place. He stashes it in mad little alcoves he calls “friends.” He shares the dirty pictures, the warm, safe haven, the desiccated animal remains. He has some surly friends. He tricks them into loving life with him, but that is fine because he loves playing tricks. Each day, when this guy approaches life, he undergoes a private ritual to protect himself from the enormity of his love. If you take enough pain into yourself, and you mix it with the right balance of bourbon, loyalty, and ammonia, you can do just about anything. Just ask Ben.
—Carrie Christie
 
When Ben used to drive his Festiva, he would provide me with “door to door service.” He would drive mach 10 up on to the sidewalk of my Capital Hill apartment complex, barely squeezing his clowny car in between the hedges to drop me off RIGHT AT the door. It was great. As we said our goodbyes we would block the entire front entrance to the building, as well as any foot traffic hoping to utilize the sidewalk. I felt important and extravagant. Ben has a way of distilling that feeling among all who are graced with the presence of his crazy ass. Because of Ben, I am capable of not only writing on the moon, but also of busting up your face real good. Thanks Ben, and also please emerge from your girlfriend’s vagina soon, we’d all like to see you but doubt there is room in there for us all to just stop by.
—Brianna Camarda
 
It happened again this week. Dateline: Wallingford
First there was Peter Buck, he thought he could sneak up on me in his black high-top Converse All-Stars, the same ones I wear for all my stun-gun incidents, and my occasional track meat, but I digress. Instead of stalking (although he’d never call it stalking) me in his little Ford Festiva, he’d follow me on foot. What an eco-phreak. That was the ’90’s – this is the ’05’s – or the “Os” as the kids are calling it.
Today, early January, I’m sucking down three chocolate vegan donuts and a triple tall Americano from the neighborhood vegan donut shop, letting my business run itself, when who should walk in, but the pot-soaked-voiced Rock Star for the Frat Boy set—Dave Matthews, with his kids in tow. Now, I have to admit, bringing along the kids is a good way to go unnoticed as a stalker. The flipside is, it slows you down. Brilliant, Dave, brilliant. Realizing I can never hide out here again and my cover is blown as Seattle’s sexiest Ben, I am now having to find another place to hide away. Is there anywhere else that I can suck down this much gooeyness and still go unnoticed by this insane infiltration of rock stars? Isn’t this why I moved out from Ohio? What about trying to get away from the ladies?! Is there nowhere else in this world I can be anonymous and, simultaneously, narcissistist!? Thanks a mighty-o bunch Dave.
—Kaye Kuijper
 
Back when I knew Ben, he used to stick chicken nuggets up his nose. He said, if he was going to go mining, he’d better be finding nuggets. That’s just the way he was. Nowadays, you’d hardly know him. You might see him, you’ll definitely smell him, but I doubt you’ll know him. Anyway, he’s still one of my best friends. Or maybe he’s one of my only friends. Either way, as Ben always says, breaded is better than battered.
—Bryan Ballinger
 
A classified mission brought me to the Seattle area. My objective was to find the man that goes by SHUG and decipher what I only knew as BIML, then eliminate him. It wasn’t easy to reach SHUG who I later found out was Ben Exworthy. I had to go through an old, but wise and somewhat perverted Barry McCockner. That was no easy task! Long story short, I met up with the infamous Shug and put him unknowingly through a series of tests during 2003 and 2004 to analyze this phenomenon of a man. 112 bottles of Makers, 2 arrests by SPD, 20 feather boas, 210 female interviews, 3 midnight car chases on I-5, 45,000 superballs, one half recorded CD, 68 break-ins to his office, and one incredible, mind blowing kiss outside of the men’s room later... I regret to inform I was no closer to breaking the code. The last test involved scaling a 13-foot iron fence at the Seattle Center to escape a laser show. I cannot go into more details, but this badass holds some of the most desired classified information on women, booze, and super balls. I can’t say much more than that, but I fell in love with his character and couldn’t take him out. He is probably the most fascinating, sexy, charming, generous, upstanding man I have ever encountered in my years of world travels. I have since left the agency and become a fulltime author completely dedicated to the one man that has stopped me in my tracks, literally: Ben Exworthy. My book, “SHUG- the legend of BIML,” is due out in 2006.
—Bridget Shaw
 
He hates fluorescent lighting.
He collects switchblades and shoves them in his friends’ faces while saying, “I CUT YOU!”
He broke both of his hands on separate occasions by punching a wall.
He fractured his foot by jumping out of a tree in Pioneer Square.
He’s not afraid of going to therapy.
He collects vials of his fingernails and eyelashes.
He’s convinced he is going to die from prostate cancer, yet somehow he insists he will outlive us all.
He drinks. A lot.
He likes women. A lot.
He has sex. A lot.
His cell phone says, “Fuck You, Verizon Wireless.”
He has abandonment issues.
He gave all of his employees brass knuckles for Christmas.
He carries a baseball bat in the back of his car, “just in case.”
He collects lenticulars of Jesus Christ.
He lives at Marcus’ Martini Heaven. No joke.
His favorite drink is a Maker’s Mark bourbon straight up, covered with a napkin to keep out the fruit flies, and a glass of coke on the side.
His mom sends him yellow marshmallow peeps every Easter.
He plays one song over and over and over and over and over again for days.
He gave me $50 to write this.
—Jennie Bowers
 
I used to rent this office in Pioneer Square, in the Maud Building. One day it was really hot and my officemate complains there’s no air circulation inside the building, which has some v-shaped light wells with latches on the glass. She talks me into opening the latch to try and get some fresh air flowing. I work the latch but it’s stuck, so I gave it a fierce tug and it pops open. To our shock and amazement, out pours an avalanche of superballs, dozens and dozens of them, all different colors, bouncing across the floor like popcorn. Everyone in the office is speechless, and then we all bust up laughing, imagining whoever must have put those balls up in there.
 
A couple years later I’m sitting around with some people I met at Burning Man, and somehow the story comes up. This guy with glasses looks at me with a grin and says, “Hey, I put those balls there!” Turns out he used to rent that office, and left the balls there as a joke on whoever followed him into the space. And that’s how I met Ben, balls first.
—Dan McComb
 
A Non-ku
Art and genius
beneath a mask of madness.
There lurks a gentle Ben.
(not the bear)
—Aunt Jeannie
 
How can I write a testimonial for Ben Exworthy? In the beginning it sounded easy. Others I knew were also submitting said to me, “oh I just sat right down and wrote it.” Well fine and dandy, it should be a piece of cake. But it’s not easy. I couldn’t possibly explain to you in such a short amount of space what it takes to be Ben Exworthy. To me it was as daunting as explaining the theory of relativity in a pamphlet, or why ALF was such an important TV program. Let me just tell you this, someone like Ben can’t be summed up in a couple of words, a paragraph, maybe not even a novel. The fact is, the biggest compliment I can offer up about the guy: He is just too much, it’s a staggering task, and you didn’t bring enough Makers Mark.
 
So here it is, he is a well armed, resourceful, merciless, won’t say “no” for an answer, roller coaster car paint havin’, Ford Festiva lover who drinks way too well. The kind of guy who will taser YOU for YOUR birthday. And friends, that is a good time, we have the video to prove it. I trust him with my kidneys, liver, and the names of at least one of my future offspring. If you love Ben Exworthy, let him know with a smile and a wave. He hates that.
—Jole Sack
 
What would I say if I had space in your issue? That I believe with all my heart that you are insane. I don’t mean the kind of insane that makes people chuckle good naturedly, like, “That Ben! He’s always getting into some sort of wacky project! He’s so crazy!” (Please pardon the vernacular. I am Southern, and lately I’ve been hearing a lot of the ‘noise’ that people here constantly utter when they want to comfort themselves with their voices in polite conversation but still say nothing. There are a lot of “Bless your little hearts” and “Well, isn’t that nices?” and when you get home from a party you realize that you didn’t get to learn any thing about anyone, and never once engaged in any in depth conversation. It’s discouraging.) No, Ben is actually crazy. Since Ben has a little money and is able to do things like buy issues of magazines, he can be called a slightly gentrified version of crazy, which is called eccentric. And since Ben has money, we get to play a game over the phone which is called “Ben, Can You Buy Me A ?” in which I ask Ben to buy me outlandishly expensive or unrealistic gifts, like a new basement or my own invisible airplane. (He always says no.) But since Ben is crazy, I get to be crazy too, which is the beauty of my friendship with Ben. I get to speak non-sequiturs in funny voices just to make him laugh; I get to say his name a hundred times the same way his grandma did until he asks me to stop because it hurts his head. But then there is the softer side. Like when we went to Scotland together and I pissed him off so badly that he broke his hand on the pavement in the Meadows, or when I almost left him that night he went swimming in Loch Ness. (Oh, shucks, Ben, I didn’t almost leave you... I have an audience to consider!) But to be serious for a moment—there are the times when I feel small and I call Ben and he tells me I’m wonderful and that he loves me. And everyone should have a friend that constant. I mean, isn’t that why you all have written in this particular issue? OR DID HE BUY YOU AN INVISIBLE AIRPLANE?
—Kelly Banner
 
A LONG STRANGE TRIP IT’S BEN
Not that Ben was ever spinning at a Dead show. He has gone to Burning Man a time or two but please don’t hold that against me. Him. I meant him. Ben was born a poor, black child in Mississippi—no, wait—was that Ben? I forget the details exactly; it was a bit before my time. By the time we met, his skin had very little pigment at all. It was more pinkish in hue. Bit I digress. I could regale you with tales of Ben’s childhood—but there’s really not much to tell that you’d even believe. Like the crank-lab-esque escapades going on in the garage (who invited the Hell’s Angels?)—replete with passed out strangers strewn about the house, although nothing so serious as to interfere with his Saturday morning Josie and the Pussycats and bowl of Trix. There are effigies of his sister’s prom dates, burned ceremoniously when they came to pick her up. (He was just watching out for her). Or the time his mom pissed him off so he read her the Encyclopedia Britannica out loud for 14 or so hours (I think he made it through the D’s before falling asleep). But that only brings you to 1987 or so. What’s happened since has been no less unbelievable, but are you even interested? As one of the few who share some genes with this guy, I wanted to thank those at The Stranger for giving Ben this opportunity to further inflate his ego to Hindenbergian proportions. I understand it’s for a good cause (big ups to the Northwest Harvest crew) but how the hell are we, as his family, supposed to hang out with this guy? He already thinks he’s better than us, now you allow him to buy his way into the hallowed pages of your fine publication. I’m not sure he’s ever read anything in The Stranger other than Savage Love. In fact, I think he first picked up The Stranger because he thought it had something to do with Camus. He’s a literary snob like that. But I’m not mad. I’ll act surprised when my framed copy of the Benjamin J. Exworthy Narcissism Issue is under the tree next Christmas. By then, another Strangercrombie auction will be upon us—maybe you guys will have a car for Ben to bid on ’cuz he’s still rockin’ the Ford Festiva.
—Cousin Jason Christian
 
So let me make one thing perfectly clear: Ben Exworthy is a straight man. He loves women. Tall skinny women with little boobs and nice butts—so there!
 
My story begins two and a half years ago when I cofounded an erotic video production company. I was the artistic director, and had conceived some very intriguing ways in which a beautiful young man could show off his hard little body (and whatever else God had gifted him with). Key to the look of the video was fast and active editing, my original music, and the “gimmick.” The gimmick was a huge twink-sized lazy susan. The model would slowly strip off all his clothes and then jerk off while I called out directives to a grip down on the floor, lying on his stomach and spinning the twink-sized lazy susan ever so slowly and methodically with the tips of his sore fingers. Being my grip wasn’t easy work, and it did come with job hazard—you could get wet.
 
I showed the first vignettes to Ben, and he was impressed; he had always wanted to be on the set of a porn shoot. This wasn’t really a typical porn shoot (there were no big-titted starlets furiously riding ten-inch cocks), but for Ben, it would suffice.
 
It just so happened that we were shooting a model a week later, so I asked Ben if he wanted to be the Man-Pivot Operator and “spin the twink.” Ben told me that he would not miss this opportunity for anything, that he would be courteous, kind, obedient and above all punctual. He did indeed arrive on time, and after salutations to the production staff, he immediately scanned the room for the Man-Pivot. “There it is!” he exclaimed and went to it like some poor thirsty fucker out in the desert. He studied the Man-Pivot for a while, gently spinning it and trying to control the speed and consistency of the movement. The intense focus in his eye told me that he took his new profession very seriously. I’ve known Ben for nearly 7 years; when he makes his mind up to do something he can’t be moved to do anything else. His word means everything to him; it’s one of the things I really love about him. Oh, and another thing—don’t fuck with Ben, because he fucks back! Anyway, I digress.
 
The model arrived (late) and after we coaxed him sufficiently for his on-camera jerk-off debut, we started the shoot. We played some terrible techno for the twink and all of a sudden our young star was as happy as a clam. So the cameras are rolling and here’s this 22 year-old guy dancing, grinding and gyrating on the Man-Pivot, and Ben Exworthy is 3 feet below the model on his stomach, occasionally looking up while the model peels off his clothes. “Clockwise, Ben,” I yell. “Counter-clockwise, Ben!” “SLOWER, fucker!” In no time at all the model is fully undressed, is in constant rotation, prancing naked on the faux-fur covered Man-Pivot and is sporting a hard dick. (if I recall the model was rather cute and hung, and I was getting pretty turned on. It was sort of bizarre to be there with Ben in this capacity, but isn’t this what best friends do?)
 
We’re getting closer to the money shot and there’s Ben, just spinning away! Being that Ben is on the ground and gravity makes certain demands, there is a large possibility that Ben could get soaked with twink-spunk. Ben is not afraid; he keeps on spinning dutifully. The model is getting closer and closer to climax and I look down to see Ben staring up at me as if it were raining boulders, sort of squinting as if he were without his trademark glasses (he’s blind as a bat). This is the critical point of the shoot because the model has to be facing the cameras at just the right time so that we can capture the unloading of the 22 year-old baby batter. The model says he’s about to cum, so Ben slowly spins the model’s hard dick into position. Then the money shot arrives and the twink shoots white sticky ropes of cum all over the place. Ben keeps on spinning, but now he’s scanning the advancing Man-Pivot for cum so as to avoid getting his fingers in it. Ben says to this day that he did not get any cum on him, but considering the amount that the model released I doubt that he stayed dry (I know you got wet, Ben). I continue shooting and Ben continues spinning and the twink continues convulsing on the Man-Pivot. At last we’re finished with the shoot and everyone can relax. Ben decelerates the twink and we wrap.
 
Sometimes I wish that I were still shooting male erotica; I created some beautiful works of art (my first and only release was even nominated for a GayVN award), but I’m on to bigger and better things now. But in the course of shooting 10 models and directing 10 Man-Pivot operators, I can say that Ben Exworthy was by far the best Masturbator Rotator that I ever had. If I ever do get back into the industry you can bet that I’m going to call on Ben Exworthy to spin the twink. Maybe next time I’ll try shooting big-titted starlets furiously riding ten-inch cocks. Either way, if I need Ben there, dodging fast flying cum, I know he’ll be on the floor in a second—with a smile on his face and his fingers poised.
—Maxi
 
The best wedding present ever
Sometimes a day feels like ten days. Sometimes a weekend becomes epic. This is my diary account of 4 days, 19 hours and 23 minutes in New York with my new husband kEvin and our friend Ben.
 
As a wedding present, Ben had offered to buy us both outfits at Paula Fletcher’s Dumb Clothing store—the favored outfitter for the Seattle Burning man scene. There was just one problem: Paula and her shop had moved to New York. Luckily, that didn’t stop Ben.
 
Day 1 (Friday, 11/14/03)
Leave house at 6:30 am
Our flight is delayed long enough for three rounds of double Bloody Marys and yet we still almost miss the plane. “Ben, Leah and Kevin? BEN, KEVIN, LEAH!” No movie, so we take in two rounds bourbon. Ben is putting us up at the Hudson hotel, the one with the bar where Britney (yeach) had her birthday party. $14 for a Makers neat. Bugger. We change to party clothes and run for central station subway line 6 last car to meet the Paula Fletcher Birthday Party Train. We make it in time to join 20 other people and take over the last train car with noisemakers, gymnastics, dancing, rap, tinsel, and multiple water bottles filled with straight vodka. For an hour we hop from car to car, hollering and dancing and shaking titties and ass at the platform. We leave the subway to parade east village with even more noise, buying more alcohol and landing at someone’s apartment to keep the neighbors up. I make my new husband kEvin kiss other women. We arrive back at the hotel 3ish; I crash while the boys get bacon and pepperoni pizza and get to sleep around 5.
 
Day 2 (Saturday)
We’re up at 11 for breakfast at the Flame diner across from the hotel, buy penis lighters on Canal street and then make it to Paula’s store with three liters of alcohol (Paula’s drink of choice: vanilla Stoli + soda + lime squeeze) and try on clothes for three hours. The boys both get custom bling pants for the burner party in Queens that night and we all convince the other cute girl in the store to get this short dress with heart cutouts on front and back down to her hum-hums – she’s going to the party, too. We transition to Paula’s apartment, pick up her cute roomie and start drinking vodka from water bottles again. At the pre-party, kEvin and I camp out in front bed/coat room, where I take off my shirt and demand kisses from select men before they can collect their coats. At 2:30 am I pass out on the floor of coatroom. Ben and Paula’s crew and the other 2 liters of alcohol cross the street to the party, a warehouse space filled with beautiful crazy people. Ben and Paula drink the entire liter of mandarin vodka. When Paula suddenly takes a nap on danceroom floor, the group decides to go back to Paula’s apt, where Ben gets it on with Paula’s roommate.
 
Day 3 (Sunday)
Ben calls kEvin and I at 11am to say Paula’s group is going out to breakfast at a place that offers three free Bloody Marys with breakfast. He calls again at 12 to say no-go: they’re meeting at Iggy’s Celtic Lounge in the East Village, instead. Twenty burners take over Iggy’s for 7 hours, consuming Bloody Mary’s until the tomatoes run dry. There’s dancing, flashing of pedestrians, and luring of innocents in off the street. The bartender is a luscious Latina and hardened New York native who’s not entirely sure what to make of us. Ben and kEvin give this girl named Filthy McNasty a sidewalk orgasm, and then again, with my help this time, inside the bar. Afterward, I hear myself say I’ll jello wrestle Filthy that night at the Antarctica bar. When the alcohol is all gone, the group heads to the wrestling-venue, where the rules-of-conduct for the audience during this all-female wrestling event are no swearing and no hitting on women in the bar. The jello is in the basement. It’s some strange industrial gelatinous compound, clear, warm, and almost dry, sitting inside a children’s plastic swimming pool on top of plastic covered mattresses. Part of a video/documentary project, the wrestling will be filmed. I’m now mostly sober and refuse to participate. To help motivate me, kEvin dresses up in skimpy gold lame thong with one nut sack hanging out and hockey pads he somehow acquired at Iggy’s and participates in the all-male belly flop contest. The announcers name him nut-boy. Inspired, I have 2 shots of Makers from the bottle (liter #3), let Filthy dress me in a Marilyn-style halter top and mini-skirt, and agree to wrestle under name Better With Butter. It’s 10:30 pm. NYC fire station 48 (specifically Billy) decides I’m their favorite and moves in (so much for no hitting-on). I avoid capture when I’m called to wrestle Bitch Jenner, a 5’9” 250 lb costume designer (I’m 6’, 185 lb). After 5 minutes, I get socked under the jaw. The crowd goes wild for Butter and chants my name. The two commentators take up the West Coast theme. My teeth hurt but the referee girl is cute so I stay in, swallowing and spitting jello. After 25 more minutes of shoving, I accidentally manage to pin Jenner. F**ing exhausted and covered with jello, I realize my front left tooth is cracked and one of my lower teeth feels loose. Stomping off stage, I pull kEvin upstairs to the only available mirror to check my teeth. Billy follows us up and confronts kEvin in the bathroom, then backs down upon proof of marriage. I’m mad about my teeth and am refusing to continue, until the cute referee with the spiky black hair, knee socks and tiny little skirt searches me down and tells me the crowd is waiting. Inexplicably, I follow her back to the pool, where I face Foxy Red, 5’8” and 135 lbs. Foxy is shapely in red lingerie, very fast and strong and does “moves.” I’m bigger. The match drags on and on and on. The cute ref tells us the winner must go on to fight another round. Utterly exhausted I mutter “fuck that shit” and tear my top open, tits akimbo. The crowd roars and chants BUTTER, BUTTER, BUTTER. Then, Foxy cracks me in the eye with her knee and I forfeit. Thank f***ng god. I’m shaking and must be helped backstage by kEvin and Ben. The nurse from New Jersey who followed us from Iggy’s swarms me in the green room, squirts shit in my eye, smooshes her boobs in my face, strips me down and ices me up. Foxy Red wins the final match again Pussy Control. After far too long, we Seattle People leave, accompanied by Bitch Jenner and Filthy. I go to the hotel while the wrestlers, kEvin, Ben, and this random couple from California talk their way into a closed French bar, drinking with the manager and fondling each other against the bar until he follows one of the girls into the restroom. Oops, time to go. The group returns to the hotel room. In a gentlemanly attempt to allow me to sleep, Ben and the two wrestler girls party in the bathroom. kEvin sits on the toilet for a half hour watching Ben and the two girls naked and rolling on the tile floor (rooms at the Hudson may be incredibly small but the bathrooms are large enough) and then tries to explain to me what’s going on. I pat his head and go back to sleep. After another hour the party of three moves to Ben’s bed and gets loud. Then Filthy moves to our bed. She still smells like jello, booze and wrestling and I can’t take it. I take kEvin across the street to the Flame to pick at some food (it’s 8 am).
 
Day 4 (Monday)
The girls leave at 10:30 am as we return from “breakfast” and the three of us sleep for an hour. Ben gets up, puts on a T-shirt that says “The liver is evil and must be punished” and wanders off into the city for 6 hours. When kEvin and I finally make it to Paula’s around 6, we find him under the sewing table, asleep in the mountain of fake fur. Paula tells us the NY burner boards are covered in postings about The Seattle People. Ben buys Kevin and I each Paula outfit as the final piece of our wedding present and buys himself more shiny pants than you can shake an ass at. Then, we all finally eat our first real food that day and keep it down. Kevin and I go back to the hotel, have totally failed to keep up with Ben and being just fine with admitting so. Ben goes to meet an old college friend at Café Vivaldi and charms the hostess (she liked his shirt; he could have gotten a date) but then the bartender from Iggy’s calls and he leaves with her instead. Ben and she barhop until 2, come back to the hotel and go into the bathroom and close door. They stay there for a while, talking and “playing cards,” move out into the hall, and then back into the bathroom. Finally, at 6 am, the bartender leaves and Ben goes to sleep.
 
Day 5 (Tuesday)
7 am and it’s back to the Flame for breakfast. Ben manages to eat Frosted Flakes. kEvin and I go back to bed while Ben kills time until check out at noon. When he wakes us up, kEvin is trashed and I’m determined. We cab it to Century 21, buy rejected Euro designer wear from the super-mark-down rack, and go back to Café Vivaldi in search of the cute hostess. She’s not there (Ben leaves her a love note), but we still manage to eat stellar Italian food and down two bottles of white wine. The karaoke guy from the night before shows up and remembers Ben, for his shirt. After giving the waiter our remaining stash of alcohol, we convince a cabbie to drive all the way to Newark airport (very illegal he says, he could get in so much trouble). Ben gives the cabbie a huge tip plus our remaining metro passes. The cabbie beams and shows us photos of his kids. We check in at the airport and then collapse on the chairs at a shoeshine stand. The boys tell the shoeshine guys about jello wrestling and show them pictures, tits and all. I pretend not to know them. Finally, we arrive at the gate, loud and drunk, board the plane, and only manage to order one more drink before falling asleep. Fin!
—Leah