Penthouse Pet of the Year Megan Mason

What can I say? I'm a f'in stud. I mean, how many people can claim that they've gotten intimate with not one but several stars of the skin trade, specifically the crème de la crème, the top of the heap, not the basement girls of Swank or Hustler, or the middle-of-the-road soft core honeys of Playboy, but the upper floor excellence of Penthouse for Christ's sake? It's quite an accomplishment, me thinks. I mean, aside from the girls' agents, managers, photographers, editors, directors, and all the other guys they slept with to get to where they are, when you think about it, what I've done is pretty…sad. Very, very sad. Never mind.

But I did have fun. And that's all that matters. In fact, I had so much fun that by the end of the night I puked my guts out, due to the consumption of a shitload of free vodka. Amazingly, the girls peddling the vodka were just as hot as the Penthouse girls. Even the coat check girls were hot. Now, take this factor (beautiful women) and combine it with the swanky Metrozor restaurant in Grand Central where the party was held (a beautiful location) and throw in delicious, free vodka (beautiful in itself) and how can you not have a great time?

The mysterious F. Sot Fitzgerald with another Pet

I was invited to the soiree by none other than F. Sot Fitzgerald, a regular contributor to Freewilliamsburg, and the founder of his own website, Alcoholreviews.com. The site was in fact a sponsor of the festival, so while myself and some of the other Freewilliamsburg staffers were getting tanked and gawking at the women like schoolboys, F. Sot was busy schmoozing and working the crowd, never once even putting a drink to his lips (at least none that I observed).

The rest of us, however, like good festival attendees, sampled each and every vodka offered. Also, in the spirit of the occasion, we sampled the girls as well. By sampled, of course, I mean their conversational skills, their demeanors, the way they carried themselves, secretly judging how well they represented Penthouse. After all, were they not there as representatives of the periodical? And was it not our responsibility to see to it that they carried out their obligations to the letter, much like, perhaps, a Miss America should? After all, if you saw Miss U.S.A. walking around all slouched over with a crack pipe in her mouth, rambling on about how great communism was or something, wouldn't it be your moral obligation to slap the shit out of her? So in a similar fashion, we made sure the girls were suitably sexy and slutty, like any good Penthouse girl should be.

And this "sampling," it should be noted, did not manifest itself in any physical fashion, although it certainly could have. This was due of course to all of our strong wills and moral characters. It had nothing to do with the fact that we were dorks or losers. Nor did it have anything to do with our sexually inadequacies. I mention this because one of the vodka pushers, some crazy German guy representing Feigling vodka, told us out of the blue that he had an 11-inch penis. Why he decided to share this fact with us is unknown, although it may have been his way of hitting on us. I was too drunk at the time to tell, although, now that I think about it, if I was gay, would I really want to be reamed by a guy with a dick that big? Wouldn't the opposite be preferable? "Hi there, I'm Steve. I've got a 1-inch dick. You won't feel a thing."

So after learning this strange piece of information, one of us told the guy he should be a porn star. His reply was another shocker: he was. When we pressed him on this, wanting to know the names of some of his titles, he kind of skated this issue. I wasn't sure why he did this, but I think it was because he was a GAY PORN STAR, and perhaps was a little embarrassed to tell us how much he enjoyed working on Lord of the Cock Rings, or Monster's Balls, or Moulin Spooge, or A Beautiful Behind (that's my gay salute to the Oscars).

Anyhow, enough with all the talk (particularly of penises). Does one read Penthouse for the articles? Certainly not! Therefore, without further ado, here are the babes and a random drunk guy who was chased down by the national guard:

The Pictures:

	Me and one of the more "natural" Penthouse babes. She wanted me, I swear.
	Me with a Barely Legal Vodka Girl (she had braces)!
	Me with a lovely Not-a- Penthouse-Pet Bartender.
	The DRUNK MAN -- you may remeber seeing him jumping the wall at Yankee Stadium the day Mickey Mantle died -- he proceeded to run around into the outfield for about 4 minutes while being chased by 300 pound security guards -- then, he started for second base... sliding in beautifully as the sold out crowd cheered him on -- he made it to second safely -- but was taken out hard on his way to third!
	You know its a party when the National Guard show up. Here they are on the hunt for the drunk man who had just shuffled out the door.

Stay tuned for my next report from the Screw Magazine Crack Festival. You won't want to miss it.

PS: The party was a fundraiser for the firemen and a substantial chunk of money was raised. Bravo!

E-mail: Filthstar@aol.com