I perused my latest issue of XL Magazine with genuine enjoyment. But I am writing to express several concerns I have with your fine periodical, and with this latest edition in particular.
Firstly, Ronnie Roxx is a particular favorite of mine. Her girl-next-door good looks and delectable hangers on a curvaceous frame get my motor purring. Her latest layout is another in a far-too-short line of great photoshoots. The first thing I did when I had finished running my eyes over her ample bust was cut out the fold-out spread. I am pleased to say that while I compose this missive, I am looking beautiful Ronnie Roxx right in the eye-- and there's no brown in this eye; it's as pink as the day she was born. But I was slightly put off by a preview for an upcoming issue in which it is promised that Ronnie Roxx will do a photoshoot with an African-American male performer. As a staunchly heterosexual man, I can confidently say that the appearance of male adult performers is secondary to me. Let me also state that I have many African-American friends. Sadly, though, I am unable to enjoy this particular subset of adult performance. Allow me to illustrate my objection with a story.
In the summer of 1978, I traveled with my cousin to a music festival in Dayton, Ohio. We were both excited to see a performance by country-rockers The Allmann Brothers. On our way to the festival, we stopped our car (I still have fond memories of our '56 Rambler, even if it did leak antifreeze and the Lord Himself knows what else!) near Hebron and retired to a motel a short distance from the Interstate. While relaxing in a nearby tavern, a light-skinned African-American approached my cousin. I suspected him of having Anglo-Saxon blood and was perhaps what we would once call a Quadroon. His racial heritage notwithstanding, he struck up a conversation with my cousin about Sly and the Family Stone and racial politics in the United States. I daresay I need not remind readers of this magazine of the social currents swirling through our Nation at the time. A young Anglo-Saxon girl was not free to spurn the advances of an African-American for fear of being labeled "square." The African-American man bought her a drink and I discovered while overhearing their conversation that, like my cousin, he had recently graduated from Tufts University.
I entreated her to return to the motel with me but she had firmly decided to stay and have a conversation with the African-American man. I took a seat in a corner of the tavern and watched their exchange. I noted that a clear sexual undercurrent was forming. In disgust, I walked to where the two were holding court and emptied my bottle of Old Milwaukee over the African-American man's sweater and slacks, his "threads" I imagine he might call them. The African-American man simply frowned and asked me what my "problem" was. At that moment, as I was about to offer an explanation of exactly what my "problem" was, several gentleman employed by the tavern none-too-gently removed me from the establishment.
I wandered the streets of Hebron for several hours before returning to the motel. From behind the door, I heard what I took to be the chatter of a television. The door was locked but a hefty shoulder against it brought it down in an instant. I walked in on a scene that I can only describe as apocalyptic. I have heard many news reports about soldiers returning from overseas conflicts bearing the emotional and mental scars of the battlefield. These psychic scars, just like my own, are just as disfiguring as a severed limb or decapitation, but are perhaps more insidious for their invisiblity. I will, in language fit for a fine periodical such as this, narrate the scene that I encountered that night in Hebron, Ohio. The first thing I saw was the buttocks of the African-American man and his driving hips, which pinned my cousin to the bed. She was whimpering as a dog that has been thrashed by its master, and was moaning sick encouragement to the African-American man. The pungent odor of Marijuana hung in the air like a foul miasma. I fairly erupted in rage, cursing the African-American man and shouting for assistance in defending myself against his attacks. I feared he would murder me in cold blood, but perhaps his revolver was out of reach in his crumpled slacks or he retreated in the face of my overwhelming show of force. One would need to query him on this matter.
My cousin, as victims of sexual assault often do, claimed that it had been an innocent and consensual coupling of two adults. I suspected that the African-American man had perhaps plied her with some intoxicant, which he cleverly disguised in the Marijuana. I implored her to press charges against the African-American man but when the police arrived, she claimed that his sadistic rape was not even his idea. She claimed to have seduced him. Stupefied, I could only wither under the contemptuous-- nay, mocking glances of the policemen.
Just as many American Servicemen have been reduced to tears by viewing the Gulf War epic and George Clooney vehicle Three Kings, so I am affected deeply by the depiction of African-American and Anglo-Saxons sharing the same bed. I dare not cast the first stone, but I will leave it at this: I believed Ronnie Roxx had more self-respect than she is showing by taking part in this demented enterprise.
Secondly, I noticed a pictorial featuring Mikka Jugs, a Filipino-Hawaiian entertainer, who I have followed closely over the past decade. Her GGG bust and where-do-they-stop? legs would capture the attention of any man with a heartbeat. I contend that pound-for-pound, her oh-so-luscious knockers, capped with Hershey's Kiss areolas are the finest that can be found in the adult industry.
With this in my mind, I still dare to hazard a criticism. The recent issue features Ms. Jugs extracting and consuming her own breast milk. I will be frank, I find this display about as titillating as coming across, as I once did, the grotesque tableau of a homeless man voiding his bowels into a soda cup from the Arby's Restaurant and then, using a plastic fork, consume the resulting slurry of feces and what appeared to be warm 7-Up.
Just as I wouldn't expect to open XL Magazine and be subjected to entertainers such as Ronnie Roxx, Carol Triple G, Michaela Chub, Bonnie Bust, or Savannah Rockets depicted urinating in a highball glass, plopping in an ice cube and lustily imbibing, I don't expect a classy performer like Mikka Jugs consuming her own bodily fluids.
As Mikka Jugs self-identifes as an Asian-American, perhaps I am missing some cultural nuance. But as Louis Armstrong once said, "If it's wrong, it's wrong." Take my criticism for what it is, the honest opinion of a man that belongs to a generation that is fading. I can only lean back in my proverbial rocking chair and mutter, "...in my day." But perhaps "my day" wasn't such a bad day.
Despite my criticisms, I would like to warmly thank the performers, editors, writers and photographers that make XL Magazine possible. Thank you for continuing to bring your readers a high quality product and for introducing us to a veritable harem of plus size models.
Signed,
Mike Klein
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