Notes From the G Spot: The Uncensored Diaries of Slick F. Worthy

Description

From the Publisher Notes from the "G" Spot paints a graphic picture of the underbelly of California society, with Dr. Slick F. Worthy as a modern-day Sisyphus who continues to push the same rock up the same hill with the same exact results. The refreshing aspect of this protagonist is that he expects this continued outcome and doesn't object all that much. He's not looking for love; he's not looking for commitment or anything else so trivial. He's looking for respect, he's looking for a break, and he's always looking to get laid. Beyond that, the source of his next meal or a consistent place to live is not really a concern. He refuses to buy into the American dream, and is content to live from one day to the next. Roving between Sacramento, Las Vegas, and Hollywood, he says it like it is and explores the complexities of a life few of us have known. reviewers of the first edition wrote: "This book is amazingly raw and honest. Slick F. is an articulate plebian and seeker of truth or [sex] or both. The refreshingly complex low-life character possesses an insatiable appetite for women, compassion for the downtrodden, and most of all, contempt for the oppressors. Not for the weak of heart or mind. Religious fanatics and pop-culture worshipers stay away!" "This was the first and ONLY true representation of the American male in pursuit of his ultimate goal...Pussy and freedom in a capitalist American society." About the Author Drawing inspiration from such writers as Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski, with some Henry Miller, William Burroughs, and Irvine Welsh thrown in, Cain writes with a confidence born of intimate knowledge of the territory. Provocative and entertaining, Quentin Cain is the real deal - not some fabricated made-for-TV personality. His biography reads much like his protagonist's: Born, over thirty years ago in the San Francisco Bay area. Raised there, pretty much. Eight different elementary schools, two junior highs and three high schools. Moved often. High school dropout. After football season, of course. Joined tough guy cult (United States Marine Corps) on a whim. Thrown out. "Untrainable." Many colleges. Excused from some, left others. One degree. Former athlete. Short on skills to go the distance. Became stripper. In it for the sex. Blew all the dough on liquor. Caught diseases. All treatable. Entered nomadic period. Mexico, Canada, Europe, Northern Africa. Several years later was an accomplished drifter, copious songwriter, and mediocre poet. Lived in Las Vegas and Hollywood. Fronted a few rock-and-roll outfits. All duds. Caught diseases. All treatable. One drunk driving rap. Thirty days in the jug. No counseling. Began suffering the embarrassment associated with a life of failure. Became a recluse. Wrote a book. Once owned a Harley. Never had a dog. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Dale spotted a cop headed in our direction. We tried to duck behind a shrub but it was too late. He'd already noticed us walking along the freeway. The cop pulled the cruiser over to the shoulder about twenty yards in front of us. Dale and I glanced at each other. "You wanna split?" he said. "What for, man? We ain't done nothin' wrong." "Slick, are you kiddin' me? This guy's a fuckin' cop," whispered Dale. He grabbed me by the elbow, taking on a somber tone. "Look, Slick, I don't know what world you come from, but in my world, the real world, cops are bad news." "Dale, I know the real world man, but there's nothin' we can do. We can't outrun this fucking pig. Take a gander at these bags we're carrying. And in case you haven't noticed, there aren't a whole lotta cats around here fittin' our description." The cop swung the car door open and stepped out all piss and vinegar. He stood up tall and lumpy, sucked in his gut and threw out his chest. It was comical. "Slick," said Dale icily, "this was a bad idea, man. We should have split when we had the chance." I rubbed my beard, turned to Dale and said, "You're probably right." The cop walked forward with a steady gait. He wore mirrored glasses and a drill instructor's hat. "Gentlemen," he sneered, "whattya think you're doing walking on my freeway?" Silence. He looked me up and down, inspecting my tattoos. "So, where'd you do your time, stranger?" "Pardon me," I said. "My time?" The cop adjusted the billy club and the sagging belt that was sliding down his hips. "How many felonies you got, young man?" "How many felonies do I got?" I repeated. "You mocking me boy?.... You ain't another one of those longhaired smartalecks, is ya?" I didn't know what the jerk-off was getting at. But I knew for sure that I didn't have to shoot the breeze with a fucking cop. Something about: You have the right to remain silent. He could either arrest me, cite me or back the fuck off. But I wasn't going to stand there listening to some pencil-dick authority figure's discriminatory harangue. "Got some IDs?" said the pencil dick. Dale's eyes met mine. Neither one of us carried ID. We shrugged our shoulders and braced for the worst. "You know I can throw both your tails in the county jail for not carrying identification?" The cop looked at me again. It was a long, hard look. The look of disapproval. "I think you'd boys better hop in the back seat." Dammit, I thought. I should have listened to Dale. He was right about that whole real world thing. The wind fell out of my sails. It looked like a visit to the local stockade. We filed into the back seat per instructions. Dale glared at me with disgust. The cop lunged into the cruiser and immediately began asking us for info. We gave him our names, dates of birth and social security numbers. We didn't have addresses. He radioed our stats into dispatch and sat lustily behind the wheel, eagerly awaiting long rap sheets to come over the airwaves. "So, you two a couple of vagrants?" asked the pencil dick. "Well," I answered, "I guess that depends on your definition of vagrant. If you mean one who wanders from place to place without a permanent home or livelihood, then, I suppose we're vagrants. If on the other hand you mean one who constitutes a public nuisance, then no, we're not." Dispatch returned with the payoff. The rearview mirror told the whole story as the smirk vanished from the pig's paunchy face. They had no dirt on us. We were, in fact, vagrants of the non-nuisance variety. Pencil dick was steamed. He dropped us off in Tracy, a few miles south of Lathrop. We were advised to keep moving.