The Pet Next Door
The dancer's long, muscular legs are swirling as she arches her back, cups her perky bare breasts and gives my friends and me a "Want some of this?" look.
Not tonight, Lacey. We're here at the new Penthouse Club, formerly Caligula, to meet Jamie Lynn, Penthouse magazine's Pet of the Year. Tonight, lucky Houston schlubs can get an autograph and their picture taken with Lynn, who, I'm told, is a "34D-26-32 and a real girl-next-door" type. I'm granted a few minutes' audience with Her Petness, 23, who's looking all hot and slinky in a revealing red dress. From what she tells me, being the Penthouse Pet of the Year isn't completely unlike being Miss America. You have to devote part of the year to touring the country on PR jaunts. You gotta have an easy smile and be good with a crowd. After all, you're the face -- and boobs and vagina -- of the company. As we lounge in the Champagne Room, she tells me how she keeps her poses hot after hours of shooting.
"Music! It keeps me on that vibe. Then I imagine someone who's really hot behind that camera."
"Oh, yeah, like who?" I ask, fixing my hair and sucking in my gut.
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"An old friend of mine."
"Male or female?"
"Male!" she says with a big duh. "But I think women have beautiful bodies. I love breasts," she says. (She ain't lying. Her Web site boasts a whole section of images where she's fondling her own. "I love playing with my titties," says the caption. "Ohhh, they are so real and so soft. I could do this all day!")
Speaking of boobs: "When I started out, I wanted to do Playboy," she says. "They told me I needed a boob job, and I had D's -- natural. I was like, 'I'm 21. How bad could they be?' "
"Wait. They told you that you needed a boob job?" I ask incredulously. It's really dark, so I decide to be up front about checking out her rack. "Mind if I look?" I ask. "Oh, yeah!" she says, dropping the top of her dress.
Hot damn, I was fine looking at them under the dress, but there they are, in all their natural D glory. She jiggles them for me. "See?" she says. I mutter something indecipherable and imagine how I'm going to explain this to my fiancée. "I told Playboy to fuck off," she says, still holding her boobs.
Note to Playboy: Please cancel my subscription.
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