Clip Job: an excerpt every day from the Voice archives.
November 2, 1972, Vol. XVII, No. 44
Just a hard-on away from the Presidency
by Bob Williams
I was just a hard-on away from the Presidency, in a darkened room somewhere off the corridors of power.
On a small screen a man and woman were doing things, like she would take his family newspaper and fondle it, then toss her hair, lean over, and give him a family newspaper job. He would touch her crinkum-crankum, her teasel, and she would touch his baldheaded hermit, his bracmard, and before you could say “Watergate,” they were tromboning, playing at stable-my-naggle.
There was a great deal of this molrowing, jumping, and playing at hougmagandie, and a plethora of shots of blessings, crimson chitterlings, and Irish roots, as well, of course, as shots of diddly-pouts, eel-pots, the centrique part, the penwiper, molesnatcher, Berkeley-Hunt, or the little spot where uncle’s doodle goes.
It was a pretty good film of that sort. But land sakes, you don’t want to hear about all that, you want to hear about the corridors of power, since the election is just around the corner.
Around the corner from the flick is 36 West 44th Street, the Bar Building, where the Finch Corporation is. I went there, dressed in a plain brown wrapper, because the New York Post had just run a story saying that the Finch Corporation owns three buildings in the 42nd Street-Sixth Avenue area which house porno-shops, peep shows, and live sex shows. And the Finch Foundation is the family of Edward Finch Cox, who is married to President Nixon’s daughter Tricia.
Delicious. Mr. Sanctimonious himself, with a crotch-parlor in the family. Yes, here is the Oval Room, this is the Treaty Room, and over here is the Smut Room, seven shows daily and late shows Friday and Saturday nights. Prayer Breakfasts in the morning.
The Post story, which was not picked up by the Times or Daily News, or followed through by the Post, said that young Cox is in line to inherit the buildings owned by the family-held Finch Corporation, whose president is his mother’s brother, Edward Ridley Finch, Jr. Another building with a porn parlor and live sex show, 109 West 42nd, is also controlled by the family, through another corporation. It’s a regular pornglomerate. But West 44th Street is another story.
It’s quite a block. The Bar Building is not very prepossessing, but it’s got some pretty nice neighbors, like the Hotel Algonquin and the Harvard Club, which don’t exactly bring the neighborhood values down. And right across the street from number 36 is one of the most beautiful buildings and poshest clubs in the city, the New York Yacht Club. An incredible dream of a building, completed in 1901, it might have been created by Gaudi himself, Cox’s grandfather left a piddling $2 million, which is doodley-squat in my book, but I guess if you play your cards right…
Which brings us back, only 100 paces or so, around the corner to Sixth Avenue and the Paradise Playhouse. Its neighbors are a souvlaki joint, a gin-mill, another peepshow Taj Mahal, the like. But it’s got tuzzi-muzzy, it’ got whim-wham.
An houri comes down the aisle, Oriental-looking hair, and it is Paradise. She does a graceful strip, then, in the red light, the magic begins. She lies on the low bed on stage, parts her legs, lifts high her nates, and slowly moves her family newspaper left to right, backward, forward, painting in the air with soft, slow brush-strokes in the oldest and newest art-form, action-beaver-painting, slow, hypnotic calligraphy.
Downstairs in the bookshop, the usual array of books with titles like “Black Girls and their Canines,” magazines featuring either snatch-blatch or pego, infinite variations on the theme of mucoid membranes, and the topper: a bondage mag with a cover of an Oriental girl trussed up — Jesus, Christo, with clothespins hanging from her belly.
By the cash register — remember money? — a miraculous glass case, filled with exotic erotic flora or fauna, a garden of pink waxy cocks waving, beckoning, as in a display at the Museum of Natural History: all right children, come with me! Here we have a magnificent collection of Phalluses, or Phalloi; they are harmless unless provoked, but terrifying when aroused. No, it’s not the real thing, just omigod a replica, children. An imitation. Yes, yes. Yes. Yes. $6.95.
Next to the garden, all alone, a foam vagina, $19.95. Today, any American — whether they’re friends of Trish and Eddie or not — can walk in and buy this foam vagina for $19.95. And that, my fellow Americans, is the American dream.
[Each weekday morning, we post an excerpt from another issue of the Voice, going in order from our oldest archives. Visit our Clip Job archive page to see excerpts back to 1956.]