Slacktory

Red Cross porn truck

After Sandy, ten of us had volunteered specifically for this mission. I was still woozy from donating blood, but I hung on tight to the van as I swung back and forth, dipping an arm inside, swinging it back out again with a fresh Hustler, flinging the magazine to an open-mouthed boy on a stoop, swinging back in for the next copy.

We were behind schedule. We’d wasted a half hour painting a giant red cross on either side of the U-Haul, and then Ed spent another fifteen minutes finishing a girly-girl on the hood, as if anyone wouldn’t already know our mission.

Our mission as the Volunteer Porn Brigade was to help the blacked-out victims of Hurricane Sandy by delivering first aid and distributing traditional non-electronic pornography.

We took a break at 3rd Street, buying coffee from a lady who’d brewed it upstairs on a gas stove. She asked for no payment, but picked out a “blacks on blondes” special issue of Tight Ends. I offered to find some more interracials, but she assured me this would get her through til Saturday. “Save the rest for those who need it. You’ve still got TriBeCa ahead of you.”

We skipped Chelsea, knowing they were already in the steady hands of the New Jersey Smut Ferry. We headed into the Financial District. Despite the blackout, thousands of workers had hiked down from the unaffected areas by sheer force of habit. Most of them just hadn’t heard about the hurricane at all. Some had been sitting in lobbies in the dark, tapping on laptops disconnected from the internet. We left stacks of Playboy for them, knowing they’d discreetly pick them up at 6 PM and pretend to read the articles for a bit.

I cracked some Amstels with an old man in the LaGuardia Houses. “Time was,” he said, “people had their own provisions. We weren’t so reliant on twenty-minute hardcore scenes or Reddit Gone Wild. My grandson can’t get off without paying ten tokens a minute to some girl in the Philippines.” He gave us some imported Club Internationals and a print-out of a MadThumbz gallery (“as modern as I ever got, around aught-eight”) and waved us on. He raised a beer to us and shouted, “To life, liberty, and the pursuit of fappiness!”

Co-written by Henry Birdseye.

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