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The videotape on the screen in front of me is stark, grainy. The color is garish, almost fluorescent, possibly from too many generations of loosely authorized copying. A shirtless male figure lies face down on a mattress, his head resting on a pillow. His eyes flutter at half-mast. His mouth is puddled in a stuporous grin, and he looks very, very high. The camera pans to reveal his pants dragged down around his knees and a pink vibrator resting on the crest of his buttocks, lazily gyrating with an irritating whine. The mood is hardly erotic. The man on the screen looks like a hostage in one of those videos streaming out of war-ravaged Iraq: disheveled, sleep-deprived, disoriented, and, just maybe, fearing something on the order of an on-camera beheading. hahaha8220;My name is Joe Francis,hahaha8221; he says repeatedly in a damaged monotone, slurring his words in a continuous stream. hahaha8220;Ihahaha8217;m from Boys Gone Wild, and I like it up the ass.hahaha8221;
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hatisblack at yahoo.com
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