That time Reviewer TV talked to Big Hot Bombshell Jenni
Check it out, sportsfans. I found this archive video of Jenni Bombshell from 2007 or so. It’s an interesting sociological study in body acceptance, and all that. Plus she’s such a cutie…
Around ten years ago back in the mid-aughts ginormous obese women where a thing on the interwebs. I assume there still are whole genres of adult entertainment devoted to them and message boards and chatrooms filled with their admirers paying millions of dollars collectively to be members on websites where these models interact.
Jenny Bombshell was one such “Big Beautiful Woman” (“BBW” in the the adult industry lingo). I got to know her a year before this when she was an apartment manager in Ocean Beach, San Diego, and I needed a new place to live. A condo conversion sale of my rental’s complex was forcing me to move and time was running out. Jenny took my application to the owner who rented to me a nice 2-bedroom apartment with an ocean view.
She was a unique and unique charming and incredibly FAT woman (I think she might’ve tipped the scales at 500 pounds!). I later found out Jenni was internet famous in the world of adult entertainment BBWs. But she was also at the same time living a life of normalcy outside of the word of fat girl fetish, and she never mingled the two — until this interview for Reviewer TV. The file details have August 21 2007 as the earliest available date for it so that sounds about right.
If you’re not already a members you can join for a couple of bucks.
This story is a rough draft. For the real post go to the x-blog HERE.
by Bob Yunger
Here’s the video of pixie girl Ashley going at it with herself on my bed, shot sometime around 2008 or 2009.
At about 1:09 she turns her head toward the camera suddenly because the cameraman (me) had a boner under his shorts and it accidentally thwacked against her left foot that she had sticking out off the side of the bed during a casual move around her for another angle that shot down her body from her head.
The idea was to get her to “squirt” but she said it was hard to do without “help.” Stupidly I wasn’t aggro enough to volunteer. But the video is still good. Ashley was a topless dancer looking for day work that answered an ad I had on Craigslist where I was looking for a day laborer. As described in a previous post, mostly green-card bearing migrant labor with some under-employed white construction workers have traditionally filled this role in the past but in 2008 and 2009 there was a dip in helper availability while the Tea Party waged war in the media on Mexicans. So I tried posting an ad on the internet to fill a gig opening.
I brought her on a jobsite where there was another crew doing a remodel and when she asked to use the bathroom and was told where it was but that it didn’t have a door on it she laughed and said, “that’s fine,” and unashamedly got in there and pulled her pants down while the guys just stopped working for a few seconds and stared with their jaws open.
She looks good naked here. I should have kept in touch.
So, here’s the thing. I have a couple of reviews from a recent L.A. road trip that have been waiting to be filed. One’s a Siverlake restaurant review and the other is a Hollywood Fringe theater review. But I’ve been absorbed with this new project instead. I met up with a fine nude model that I’ve been wanting to work with again since 2012 and finally got some clips that I deem perv-worthy.
“Wait, what, Rob?,” you ask. “Did you say perv-worthy?”
Why yes. Yes I did.
I’ve decided to bring back the “Members Section” here at Reviewer. It won’t be on this news feed, per se, although there will be some work-safe preview images on posts here that link to it, and the premium content will be at another place that is separate, for adults only and password protected. Because I miss the attention and the money. I miss getting those surprise email notifications that people have bought new memberships. I miss watching the account balance grow as a byproduct of the pervy pursuits that the hot young ladies who are erotic-fetish-artnude models — amateur or professional — provide. Is that wrong of me? Am I really a horrible person, or simply crazy? I don’t know. Bring it on, haterz.
I’ve been going back and forth on this for a number of years and have decided to say fuck it. There’s too much of this material that has been collecting for years. I’ve been shooting nightlife and scene characters for you dear readers since the late 1980’s and it’s historically important to document this ongoing era as it rapidly changes. Besides, it’s fun.
I think I’ll give out lifetime memberships to lucky members who kick down for it as a way to show my appreciation during this initial re-launch phase. There’s other tricks I was taught by some of these girls during the initial entry period of 2011 to 2013 when I started out with this and had no idea what the fuck was going on.
If there’s one thing being the editor of Reviewer has demonstrated it’s that everyone’s a critic, most people have little idea what they’re talking about and jealousy, cowardly fear and hatred are the typical motivators when someone tells you that what you are doing is wrong. Okay that’s three things. But whatever.
Leviathan Darkside, Pontius Autopilate, and Phone Sex With Stephen Hawking
Getting acquinted with the underground writer and personality known as Lev Six
A first-person recollection by Zack Wentz
Photos are from the personal Facebook of Lev Six. His current public feed is HERE.
I first came into contact with Lev Six in 2000, maybe as late as 2001. Back then he was better known as Leviathan Darkside. We somehow got in touch, I think over a cult song that was circulating online called “Phone Sex With Stephen Hawking,” which was every bit as twisted as you can imagine. Hopefully more so. This was before MySpace, and the online music world was much less streamlined, more genuinely anarchic.
He released his music as Pontius Autopilate, and that was one of his most notorious, passed-around tracks. The PA work struck me as an odd mix of early Devo, artists like Foetus, Negativeland, maybe Tit Wrench, and something I couldn’t really put my finger on. It was sick stuff, strategically designed to both upset and amuse, and insidiously catchy. Subversive and homemade, but not just noise. He knew his way around a hook.
If I wrote to him about anything he would get back with thousands of words about as quickly as the miserable computer I owned at that time could be refreshed. Always very tidy, grammatically correct, but extremely intense, compressed, and wickedly funny. It was hard to tell what was serious and what was a joke. Often hard to tell if he knew. All over the idiomatic map. Obscure occult references interlacing insider breakdowns of various bureaucratic institutions, punctuated with offhand pop culture gags, and tied up with some odd bit of theoretical physics or ancient history.
He was one of the first “trolls” I knew of, well before the term was part of the common vernacular. It wasn’t just for “LOLZ” either. This was the kind of activity Anonymous is well known for now: pranks that were really designed to demolish organizations from the inside. I remember he was dealing with some fairly dangerous people, neo-Nazis, KKK nuts, infiltrating their chat rooms, first enticing, then dominating them socially, and when he had them eating out of his virtual palm, pulling the rug out, ravaging their online bonds by exposing them to each other as hypocritical saps. He did mess with plenty of harmless folks, Golden Girls fan clubs, and such. Sometimes you felt guilty for laughing.
I remember an odd phase he went through, composing bizarre porn screenplays around old Stephen J. Cannell/Glenn A. Larson type shows. The really off ones like Automan and Manimal. Hysterical stuff. Seemed to have endless energy for any stray idea, high-brow, low-brow, whatever. Went at it all with the same manic gusto.
He was always very generous with his words, but who he was and what he did was more than a bit mysterious. I remember once getting the idea that he possibly worked for some sort of intelligence program. Some kind of dis-info unit. Could have been the case, for all I know. I asked him, and he laughed it off, but still didn’t quite answer. I did gather that he had once worked inside Wall Street, the really nasty business, and was also intimately familiar with a wide variety of illegal substances, although in what capacity was left ambiguous.
It was a long time before I actually met him in person. Actually took a long time just to learn that he was located somewhere in Philadelphia. The band I was in was starting to tour nationally on a regular basis, and he offered to house us when were in his neck of the woods. The next time we were in Philly we put him on the list, and at the end of the show a very pale man in dark clothes, slicked-back black hair, came up to the stage smiling impishly. He looked like a cross between a young Christian Slater and a Secret Service agent, and although he talked much like he wrote, his words were delivered in sort of arch drawl. Say if Jack Nicholson had to play William Burroughs. He had a handful of pet words he used in strange ways, like “flipper.” They would get stuck in your head, and then you’d find yourself using them, as if he was teaching you his language subliminally.
The house he was living in was quite a ways outside of downtown Philly, in an upscale neighborhood. Big place, immaculately kept, but seemingly empty. He had a room upstairs that was almost more like a kind of temporary office, or monk’s cell. Very Spartan. Just a bed, chair, desk, computer, half-dozen or so thick books, guitar, and a synthesizer. He had one picture pinned to the wall: a grotesque portrait of himself as a special Olympian, playing basketball from a wheelchair.
He had bought us a lot of beer and some whiskey, made us food, an excellent host. The only thing he seemed to share the house with was a fish that lived in a bowl in the kitchen, and he was especially attentive to it. The rooms he set us up with didn’t seem to belong to anyone. Guest rooms, but not dusty or stale. All with fresh bedding, as if a spectral maid had just done them up, but no sign of regular occupation.
I remember the sound of him typing well into the night, and he was still typing when I woke up. I don’t know that he ever slept, which explained a lot. When we emerged from the rooms, he offered us breakfast. A lot of the whiskey was gone, and everything again was nice and clean.
I still have no idea who the house belonged to, but it seemed better not to ask at the time. As if it might be safer not to know. Probably was safer not to know.
[Editor’s notes: Lev Six will be releasing a fictional account about a female android prostitute that takes place in the far flung future wherein she takes part in the second American revolution. He’s described his writing here as being “very tight like an android prostitute.” Zack Wentz runs an online literary journal at New Dead Families and lives in domestic bliss with his wife and cats in Sherman Heights, a neighborhood of San Diego. He and Mrs Wentz sometimes play in their band, The Dabbers, around San Diego and elsewhere.]