September 1997 bumping uglies by Todd Levin |
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The makeshift sign on my cottage door read, "Single Mothers Wanted for Lady and the Tramp Style Fantasy Play. Inquire Within." I had everything laid out steam-press perfect for a long weekend of high-fructose salacious behavior in my quaint bungalow. A slow-jam remix of "Chim Chimney" was turned down low on my hi-fi, weaving velvet ribbons that bathed the bedroom in trouser-straining jungle lust. The sheets, a tasty 400-thread count, were pulled back casually off a pair of overstuffed allergy-safe foamcore pillows shaped like those lovable scamps, Chip and Dale, and on a small bedside table were neatly arranged jars, bottles and bowls of various skin lotions, massage oils, ribbed prophylactics, and hard candies all branded with the familiar face of a certain high-rolling rodent who was about to bring me more tail than Huey, Louie and Dewey. Welcome, traveler, to Pleasure Island -- Disney's secret swinging adult playground nestled like a sweet spot in the loins of the Magic Kingdom.
My brother, Sweet Dan, the Tri-County Street Pimp, hooked me up with a guy named Good Times Gary (named so because he owns the second largest collection of paintings created by beloved "Good Times" character JJ Evans), who is involved in the adult travel tour business. In the past, Gary had hooked me up with a couple of far east sex tours (one in Hyannisport and one somewhere in Delaware) back when I was writing travelogues for SWANK magazine and Condé Nast Traveler. So, when he approached me with this Disney Adult Tour Package and SMUG agreed to front the bill in exchange for a travel diary and a set of Disney 25th Anniversary commemorative cock rings, I stuffed a six-pack of Members Only "Gentry Edition" windbreakers and little else in a garment bag and I was off for the Magic Swingdom faster than you can say, "Hi Diddledy Dee."
Leave it to Disney to recognize the full erotic potential of its own intellectual property. Before I made reservations for Pleasure Island -- which is supposedly shaped like a giant bottle of Lavoris after-shave but, if viewed from above from the window of your own private jet the way I did, looks suspiciously like a duck with a tremendous hard-on -- I was asked to complete an extensive questionnaire so the cast members of Pleasure Island would be able to better customize my erotic adventures during my stay. Included in the questionnaire was a check-box listing of possible turn-ons... Disney Style! (I have taken the liberty of including the entire list for your enjoyment):
Please check all that apply:
Fairy Princesses
After a small mix-up at the registration desk (I had made reservations for the "Herbie The Love Bug Goes to Taboo Island Fantasy Room" but, through a computer error, I had mistakenly been booked in the "101 Damnations" suite -- a bondage/SM-themed room which was definitely not my doggie-bag -- I was all checked in, quickly and painlessly de-loused, and ready to see the sights and smell the smells.
Essentially, Pleasure Island is a lot like the rest of Disney in its careful attention to approximating in fine detail our fantasies, real or contrived. The primary difference between Pleasure Island and the Magic Kingdom, however, is that on Pleasure Island those fantasies are more likely to involve being masturbated by an elf.
As I cruised the strip alongside my thrillseeking compatriots, I noticed that many of the better known Disney characters were nowhere to be seen. In their place were several peripheral Disney characters, milling about in the artificially constructed streets, posing for pictures or selling shots. It seemed like every time I turned around I saw one of those wenches from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. I also spied some of the dancing hippos from Fantasia(!) and a guy -- I have no idea if he was actually affiliated professionally with this theme park -- in a grease-smeared T-shirt with iron-on Cooper letters spelling out "M-I-C-K-E-Y" who kept pulling the front pockets of his bermuda shorts inside out and asking passers-by if they'd ever "kissed a mouse between its ears."
Eventually, the sensory load became a bit overpowering so I ducked into an adult movie theater to catch the last 1/2 hour of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. This was a truly unusual experience. The visual was the unabridged 1940's original. However, the dialogue and music had been stripped out and replaced by a bass-heavy fusion jazz 1970's porn soundtrack. There was also one scene which I don't entirely remember from the original (though I can't be sure here because it was a long time ago and my memory is slightly fogged from my former sodium pentathol addiction) which involved one of the dwarves -- I think it was Sneezy or Bashful or Incontinent -- wearing a giant wooden strap-on and beating another dwarf with a greased-up tire iron.
Of all the things to do on Pleasure Island, and I eventually did most of them at least three different ways, possibly the most interesting was a new gay club called, "Pinocchio's Big Lie" where, the sign outside promised, "The Whale Swallows You Whole And Doesn't Bother Spitting You Back Out." It was a wild and friendly and perhaps the most thoroughly researched attraction at the park. As you walk in, you are greeted by a very young, very underdressed Gepetto. (note to self: did Gepetto wear chaps in the animated classic?) He leads you to the bar where you can choose to sit at a regular stool or one of the special stools carved to look like Pinocchio's grinning face in the middle of telling what must have been a pretty big whopper of a lie.
So here I am, waiting for the next pumpkin coach to pull up to my door. I am exhausted but not completely spent for the weekend and, as I glance over to my night stand a glass jar half-filled with Flubber rubbers tells me it's going to take a bit more than strings to hold me down tonight. Thank you, Disney, for all of the magic, the joy and the insight to know that your sweet films and beloved characters have served as masturbatory fodder for millions of people all over the world for the last 50 years.
back to the junk drawer
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