The Sex Olympics
By Diana the Valkyrie
Linda Daventry - as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile


"Action!" says the producer, so I heave the butterstick into a roughly
vertical position and give it a quick squeeze to get it going. The camera pans
across the room as the yogurt pump spurts the creamy liquid to splatter
against the wall, and then "Cut!" and it's another wrap. Yawn. I grab a couple
of pints of left-over yogurt for my tea, and get ready to leave.

"Linda, can I have a word, darling?"

Oh no. It's Creepy Henry in his Noel Coward dressing gown (he calls it a
"smoking jacket"). Why do all the flakes cluster round me? Don't answer that.
But, I suppose I'd better butter him up, you never know when a bit of schmooze
might lead to a bit of bread-and-butterstick. A professional fluffer has to
take the rough with the smooth, if you take my meaning. Although Creepy is a
bit too smooth for my taste; you get the feeling that if he was spread on
bread you wouldn't believe that it wasn't Olive Oyl.

He puffed over. "It's about the Sex Olympics" he said, looking important.
Whoever agreed to put sex events into the Olympics wants his head examining.
Or, to be more precise, his bank statement. I feel sure that large amounts of
lettuce must have changed hands. Because there's a lot of money in the sex
industry, and an Olympic champion would give a major boost to whoever was
sponsoring him. Or her.

Money in the sex industry? From the pittance that fluffers get paid, you
wouldn't have thought it. And we're the skilled workers. The crumpet is lucky
if it gets a hundred per day, and the buttersticks mostly perform ad libre. Or
not perform, which is why us fluffers are so vital. No, the real money isn't
in the videos, or the sex toys. The real money is in powder.

The powder racket is great. They don't actually say that it improves your
sexual performance, they just hint at it. They don't actually say that it
gives you a bigger butterstick, they show pictures of fire hydrants, fast
steam locomotives and horses, and you're supposed to work it out for yourself.
And an endorsement from Harry the Horse is like gold in your pocket. Never
mind that he's called that because of his face rather than his equipment.

So the fat cats of the sex industry got together a while back to talk about
how to screw extra loot out of the gullible culleys, and with an
uncharacteristic display of sense, they asked along one of the few people in
this game with two brain cells to rub together. And since they offered me
time-and-a-half to attend, plus all the yogurt I could eat, I got up on my
hind legs and gave it to them.

Marketing. It's all about marketing. Any fool can make a sex video, that's
proved again and again. All it takes is one crumpet, one butterstick and a
camcorder. But selling it, that's the difficult thing.

The great thing about selling powder, is that A) it costs almost nothing to
make, and B) no-one can ever know whether it's any use or not. Unlike videos,
where you can tell it's garbage as soon as the blurry out-of-focus picture
comes up. The problem with selling powder, is how do you find people gullible
enough to believe that eating powder out of a tin will make them the Great
Lover?

The obvious answer, is you tell them "This powder will make you into the
world's greatest fucker". The problem with that, is that the wimps at the
Advertising Standards Authority don't let you tell lies. Or at least, they
don't let you tell obvious lies.

So, what you want is some sort of Sex Champion, and then you pay the Sex
Champion to eat your powder, and to say publicly that he likes the stuff, and
then you let the culleys make the connection. You don't actually say that your
powder makes great fuckers, you kind of imply it. And the ASA don't mind you
telling that sort of lie.

So, where do you get a Sex Champion? Well, there's porn stars, there's winners
of erection contests, there winners of Genital Weightlifting contests. But
there's nothing as good as an Olympic Champion. And that's why the Fat Cats in
this business were so keen to get Sex Sports included in the Olympic Games.

And blow me if they didn't succeed. Or blow Harry the Horse, your choice.
There was the Long Distance Marathon event (for women), there was the ten
second sprint (for men), there was the Pole Vault and, of course, Genital
Weightlifting. And the champions were all carefully trained to say "I owe it
all to Fuck Powder" or whatever noxious substance they were supposed to be
pushing, and everyone was happy, especially the people who organised what came
to be called the Sex Olympics.

It was one of those win-win situations you get sometimes. The powder
manufacturers were seeing bigger profits, and they funneled some of that into
the Sex Olympics, some to the Sex Champions and 99.999% to themselves. The
audiences thought Christmas had come early; they could watch porn on
mainstream TV and tell themselves it was "sport". And even the suckers buying
the powder were happy, because no-one told them it was all useless, and the
stuff isn't actually harmful. Well, most of it isn't. Watch out for anything
with digitalis (Foxglove), Atropa belladonna (deadly nightshade) or strychnine
(Saint-Ignatins'-bean) in it. Yes, I know those are natural products, made
from Foxgloves and other happy things. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to
pick and eat those pretty brightly coloured berries? Or the toadstools? Some
things made from purely natural sources are really really bad for you.

Anyway, it was all going like gangbangers until some fool had to open her
mouth. I mean, it's always the way, right? Someone comes along and spoils a
perfectly good scam. And why did the whistle get blown? Well, because of my
old pal Harry the Horse. He didn't only have a face like a horse, he had a
brain like one (and equipment like a bull) and he thought, well, if each of
these powders helps things along, it makes sense to take all of them, right?

I found him barely conscious, puking his guts out as his stomach did its very
best to disgorge the poisonous contents of the two dozen assorted tins of
powder he'd ladled into himself. I called 999, then when they told me about
the three hour waiting list for an ambulance I called my friend Sharon and she
picked him up with one hand (it's really useful having friends like Sharon)
and we rushed him down to the nearest hospital, where they left him on a
trolley in the corridor puking his guts out into a bucket for several more
days before some wannabe doctor's assistant's friend glanced at him and
pronounced him well enough to hobble back home. Thank heaven for the free
National Health Service.

I asked Sharon to stay with him for a while, because he was still looking a
bit queasy, plus I could see from the way she kept glancing casually at his
groin that she was keen to investigate whether his equipment really was bigger
than her forearm, on account of with her forearm being about sixteen inches
around most men had legs that were smaller. And she wasn't glancing casually
at Harry's leg.

A couple of weeks later I checked back, because I hadn't heard a squeak out of
either of them, which meant either Sharon was investigating in detail, in
great detail, in dedicated 24/7 complete and utter devotion to detail, or else
there was something wrong. And when I visited, I found Harry at deaths door,
with a concerned-looking Sharon spooning white powder into him as fast as she
could. I checked the tin she was spooning from. "All Natural" it trumpeted,
and went on to explain the healing and restorative properties of foxglove.
"Sharon, you're killing him!" I shrieked. "No, I stopped doing that last
week," she replied, "he kept saying he couldn't take any more. So that's when
he started upping the dose. It increases the blood pressure, you see, and
that's why they claim you get 'longer harder erections' from taking the
powder."

I poured the powder into the toilet, a treat for the male alligators in the
London Sewers, and for the female ones, come to that, and explained to Sharon
that, although the recommended dose of this stuff is probably pretty harmless,
shovelling it down by the ton is not. So Sharon held Harry upside down over the
bath by his ankles, while I shoved a dildo into his mouth to trigger his gag
reflex (you're supposed to use your fingers, but Harry has teeth and I'm
attached to my fingers), and when I'd got it several inches in, I switched on
the power, and he vomited in bucketfuls. Then we filled him up with water,
and repeated the process a couple of times. I guess we could have rolled him
off to the hospital again, but I thought this would be more effective than
another week on a trolley in the hospital corridors (I heard that now the
corridors are filled up, they're starting to use the car parks, with umbrellas
for when it rains, but they're running low on umbrellas).

We cleaned him up, and I told Sharon to tuck him into bed, nil by mouth except
a little bottled water, and no sex at all. "No sex?" she said, horrified.
"Well, hardly any" I replied, knowing that there's no point in making
unrealistic demands.

So Harry spent the next week begging for food, and Sharon spent the week
telling him "No", or at least telling him "No food", and next Saturday I
rocked round there with a carton of yoghurt from the latest production I was
assisting with "Rock of Ages", which isn't about what you're probably guessing
from the title, nor is it about hymn singing. Harry was sitting up in bed, and
was just about ready for the nourishment, although after he'd had a pint or
so, I probably shouldn't have told him that it was from the supplies
department of a porn video producer, because he got entirely the wrong idea,
and I had to spend time convincing him that it was yoghurt, with nothing
added.

Meanwhile, Sharon was telling me that she wanted to do something to the people
who'd poisoned Harry. "Harry poisoned Harry" I told her. "It gives the
recommended dose quite clearly on the tin, he shouldn't have tried to eat the
whole thing". "But they imply it's natural and it's good for you, so why
should you worry about how much you take?". Good point. All I can say is that
if you shovel powder into yourself, it's down to you to check that it isn't
going to kill you. I mean, you'd rely on someone else for that?

But Sharon was adamant. "Those bastards tried to kill my Harry, now they've
got me to reckon with, I'd like to ram his junk up his arse." Oho. "My Harry"
is it? Maybe his equipment is bigger than her forearm. I thought back to the
last time I'd fluffed it, and I made an O with my fingers and thumbs, and
looked at Sharon's forearm to compare, and I have to say, there's not a lot to
choose between them. Anyway, what matters in affairs of the heart isn't the
truth, what matters is what people think. And Harry was looking at Sharon in
an adoring kind of way, and I could see that Cupid had struck again. So I gave
Sharon the phone number of a good ambulance-chasing lawyer.

Imagine my surprise when I read in the newspapers that Mr Wanker, a well-known
and widely respected purveyor of Powder for the Promotion of Sexual
Performance had been ambushed by a vicious gang of thugs and was now in
hospital being treated for two broken arms, one broken leg, and a rather
delicate operation to extract a tin of his own powder from where it had become
jammed into a hole that was normally exit-only.

I rushed round to Harry the Horse, and pulled Sharon off of him. "I want to
talk to you, Madam" I yelled at her. "You can't go around doing that". "I'm
not going round, I'm only doing it to Harry." "I didn't mean that, I meant
shoving tins of powder up the arseholes of prominent and well-loved citizens."
"Oh that. I've got an alibi." "An alibi?" "Yes. I was right here, wasn't I,
Harry?" "Sharon, your alibi is about as tight as Harry's limp butterstick," I
said, pointing to it. Sharon smiled. "You'll fix that for me, won't you
Linda?" Duh. Well. I mean. Well. How dare you!

OK then.

I got home bright and early next day, after a twelve-hour demonstration that a
good fluffer was better than a lorryload of powder, although it might be that
we exceeded the recommended dose, because Harry the Horse was looking
distinctly pony, and even Sharon was starting to wilt a bit; after a few hours
I was having to help her get moist for him, Harry being beyond the point of
being able to do anything for her. And it's dangerous to put a butterstick of
Harry's proportions into the grip of a vice like Sharon's (the vice-like grip
is her specialty, and I'm not talking about her hands) unless it's thoroughly
lubricated. Well, even a fluffer has to have some fun sometimes, and I really
liked both of them.

Next day, I was on the "Rock and a hard place" set (it was a sequel to "Rock
of Ages") and slurping my half-inched yoghurt, and Sharon turned up. "Linda,
can't we actually do something about those bastards?" "I thought you already
did?" "I've got an alibi, besides he isn't the only one. There's thousands of
powder-pushers. Why isn't it illegal?"

I thought for a moment. "I think the problem is, they classify it as food, not
as a drug, on account of it's made from plants." "Yes, like Deadly Nightshade
is a plant". "Well sure, but no-one actually sells Belladonna as a supplement,
do they?" Sharon sat down, and looked at me. "Do they?" She continued to look
at me. "I don't believe it!" She nodded. I went to the computer in the office,
and used Google. Good grief. Deadly Nightshade is one of the common things
they put in these powders. But surely no reputable manufacturer would ...
would they?

That evening, Sharon, Harry and I put our heads together. Harry the Horse
isn't known for his cognitive skills, and Sharon isn't the sharpest knife in
the drawer either, so that mostly meant me. And the idea I came up with was
for a guerilla campaign at the next Sex Olympics. Obviously all the powder
merchants would be advertising heavily (they call it "sponsoring", it sounds
less money-grubbing) .

The first step was to organise and recruit. You can't have a war without
cannon-fodder; you can't have a revolution without committed loonies willing
to Die for the Cause. And, of course, we needed a Leader, a kind of Che
Guevara figure. And a symbol, like the clenched-fist, which might go on a
flag. When we talked about leader, Sharon and Harry looked at me in a
significant kind of way, but I'm not really your up-front-and-shouting sort of
person, I'm more your eating-yoghurt-quietly-at-the-back sort of person.
Besides, revolutionary leaders have to be male. So I explained this to them,
and there was a short pause while each of us did the calculation about who
amongst us was male. After a few minutes, Harry said "Uh." OK, now we have a
leader, we need a symbol of the fight to liberate oppressed sex workers of the
world ... excuse me, I'm getting passionate, got to do something about that.
Anyway, Harry came up with a great idea there. "A cock", he said.

Yes. Well. What else would one use as a symbol. Obviously you'd want a picture
of a proud cock, bold and erect. A no brainer, really.

I got some leaflets printed up, all about the perils of powder, the abuse of
belladonna and the scourge of strychnine (yes, athletes take strychnine, it's
a stimulant in small doses) and calling people to come to the first meeting of
the Union of Sex Workers and Allied Trades. And we distributed leaflets and
gave them to our friends to pass around. For the next few weeks you couldn't
get to a vidshoot without getting handed a recruiting leaflet for the USWAT.
Plus I got some posters made and we put them up in sex shops and porn video
rental shops, and we did a stunt where Harry exposed himself at Trafalgar
Square, but no-one noticed because everyone else is pretty much naked there
most of the time. Except when it rains.

I left hiring the hall and getting it ready to Sharon. She did pretty good;
the hall was the Leatherworkers Guild Hall, which I thought was nicely
appropriate. But when I turned up for that initial meeting, I saw that we'd
had a bit of a failure to communicate. I got there nice and early, because I
wanted to install a nice loud sound system, so we could whip up our audience
to the appropriate amount of frenzy, and when I got inside the hall, it was
with horror that I took on board the decorations, which Sharon had also
organised, Harry being unable to organise his way out of a paper bag. Too late
to do anything about it, though. We'd have to go with what we got, I thought
philosophically as I sat at the on-stage table at the top of the room, munched
my apple, and watched the raw material of our union file into the room,
wondering why we had all those posters, banners and flags with a picture of a
chicken. Oh well, I thought. I'll make like that was what we meant to have all
along. And I could even see advantages of a chicken as our symbol; it meant we
wouldn't get arrested for obscenity when we marched with our banner held high.

So, first of all I stood up to speak. I'm no rabble-rouser, I just explained
the situation we were getting into. If we let things go as they were going,
soon it wouldn't be possible to get a decent job in the sex industry unless
you were willing to take huge quantities of these powders which were A)
expensive, B) of uncertain value and C) actually pretty harmful. And I
explained to them that "natural" didn't mean "good for you", waving a sprig of
brightly coloured berries and asking "Hands up if you'd eat these without
knowing what they are", and then a brightly coloured mushroom (I knew it was
actually a mushroom because I bought it in Sainsbury's and painted it myself,
but that's not the point, is it?) and I told them about digitalis, and
belladonna, and strychnine, and where would they draw the line, and who was
going to look out for us, if we didn't look out for ourselves.

The applauded me politely, and I could tell they weren't impressed. Oh well -
whoever thought that an appeal to reason would work?

So then Sharon stood up. "They're trying to poison us" she said, and that was
just her starting point. She worked herself up into a frenzy, you could almost
see the flecks of foam from her mouth, and if anyone had been standing in
front of her, they'd have needed towelling down afterwards. By the time she
sat down, she'd appealed to fear, uncertainty, doubt; love and hate; and sex
and violence. I'd have thought that her emotional appeal to the irrational
underbrain would have worked, but she got even less applause than I did.

Time to play the Harry card. I have to admit, Sharon and I were only there to
act as warmer-uppers. Harry, being the Main Man, our Glorious Leader, was the
one who was supposed to get them flocking to our banner. Which was a chicken,
oh why oh why hadn't I explained to Sharon exactly what I'd meant when I
said "cock" ... oh well, too late for that.

Did I mention before, Harry isn't the most gossamer condom in the packet? When
God called out "Brains" he thought it was "Trains" and he missed his? So,
never mind about him making up a speech, I was nervous about whether he'd be
able to remember one I wrote for him. So I made it simple.

"If we do a Union, we can go on strike and get more money." said Harry, and
sat down.

He got a Standing Ovation. Cheers, whistles, stamping of feet, everything.
When rationality and emotion fail, you can always rely on good old Greed. I
grabbed the microphone, and yelled "Come up to the front table to sign up!"

We got nearly 500 members that day, and over the next few weeks, USWAT
membership rose to several thousand. Chicken rampant! By the time the boss
class realised what was going on, we had a well-organised Union, with branches
in every major city. Wherever there was a dozen sex workers, the USWAT was
there. We had recruits in the Reeperbahn, shop stewards in Scunthorpe (a town
that AOL doesn't allow to exist) and members in every orifice that members
could penetrate into.

And international! Sex isn't just a British idea, you know. They have it all
over the place. Once they'd seen our organisation, the Americans formed an
organization called the Organization of Representatives for Gender Activities
and Sexual Management. Gung ho on acronyms, the yanks. All around the world,
people were yelling "Sex workers unite, you have nothing to lose but your
chains" (not to mention handcuffs, ball-gags and other bondage implements).
This thing was snowballing so fast, it was out of control! At last, workers in
the sex industry had their own voice. And now the boss class had to listen to
our legitimate grievances, call for better safety in the industry, and demands
for more money.

It is in Las Vegas each year that the sex industry congregates, at the
misleadingly-named Video Arts Exposition. Anyone who is anyone is there; if
you aren't there, you aren't anyone. Wannabe video producers looking for
stars, wannabe stars looking for video producers. And bulk yoghurt sellers.
Bright lights and flashing banners, sound and fury signifying sex, and a good
time is had by all. Pornbrokers as far as the eye can see, none of them with
three balls. Leastways, none that I've ever fluffed. I go each year, because a
professional fluffer has to get some exposure. I don't rent a booth; I go
round everyone else's booth handing out business cards and quick gropes. For
me, it's mostly a social occasion; I don't need to get known. Everyone knows
Linda Daventry already, and they know how to get hold of me. And they know
that I know how to get hold of them. I mean, that's what fluffing's all about,
ok? Anyway, for me, the VAE is a chance to bump into old friends, do a bit of
schmoozing, remind people that I'm still around, and I'm still their best bet
when they're trying to stiffen a terminally limp butterstick.

There was one difference this year. Everyone wanted to talk to the brains
behind the Revolution. And everyone knew that Sharon was the muscle, Harry was
the Horse, which left me. So I got asked to be the Keynote Speaker at the
conference that runs in parallel with the expo. They have this conference each
year, each year they give it a different title, each year the real title is
"How to make more money with sex". So what do I know about that, I'm just a
professional fluffer, money isn't my thing. Except they offered to pay my
airfare in exchange for speaking, and so suddenly I'm the expert on sexual
profits.

On the flight over, I tried to work out what I'd say. When you're crammed into
cattleclass between a 270 pound heavy-breather and a 23 year old brat who
automatically tries to make time with anything vaguely female, you have to
make your own entertainment. And I really needed to come up with something
good to say, the Honour of the Daventries was at stake. I tried to
concentrate, but Brat-23 kept interrupting me with idiotic pickup lines, until
eventually I lost patience and turned, faced him, and said "Sweetie, when was
the last time you got fucked?" He turned bright red and made gargling noises.

They supply you with these dinky little pillows, too small to sleep on and too
large to eat, plus a blanket. So I told him to bite on his pillow, I spread
his blanket over his trousers, and fluffed. After five minutes of increasingly
muffled sounds that would have been screams (some men get *so* noisy when I
fluff them) were it not for the pillow in his mouth (and I'm not sure that
they really are too large to eat, Brat-23 certainly swallowed most of his) I
got him to the point where the soul is as far from the body as you can get and
still wake up the next day. And then, of course, he fell asleep, and I could
concentrate on my talk.

Well. I knew what I wanted to say. That was simple. I was going to tell them
that success could be assured if only they hire a first class Senior Fluffer
and pay her lots of money. The tricky bit was working out the chain of logic
that would lead inevitably to that conclusion. But logic is always easier if
you work it backwards. Why do you need a Senior Fluffer? Brat-23 would be able
to tell you that, when he recovered consciousness. And if he hadn't had the
pillow in his mouth and the blanket hiding my handiwork, there would have been
an appreciative audience hanging on my every stroke. OK, so a fluffer means
that you'll be able to tape longer, stronger louder orgs, and orgs is what
sells vids. The more orgs the better. If you can put out a brightly-coloured
tape box that says "Includes 100 orgasms" then you'll sell a zillion. And if
your tape is 30 minutes, that means one org every 20 seconds. Well, maybe that
isn't possible, but a fluffer will get more than the pathetic two or three
that you'd get with conventional methods. And a Senior Fluffer has a lot more
experience than the young fluffers you see these days, still wet behind the
ears (and maybe also wet elsewhere).

I drew up a few charts, illustrating how sales of vids increased with
org-count, using statistics from the usual source - did you know that 87.4% of
statistics are entirely invented? I added some animations, because people like
those, sprinkled a few "unh"s and "ugh"s and grunts and groans to get a few
cheap laughs, and I was all ready.

So comes the big day of the Video Arts Exposition Convention, I'm giving the
keynote speech, I've got my best Posh Frock on, high heels and makeup, and I
get up on stage, get in front of the microphone, and I start off. "What's it
all about?" I ask the audience, rhetorically. And before any smartarse can
shout out "money", I take a teaspoonful of yoghurt and hurl it at the
blackboard, where it goes "splat" and starts oozing downward.

Well, that got their attention. Maybe they didn't realise it was yoghurt. And
then I launched into my spiel. Money = Orgs = Fluffer, preferably Senior
Fluffer. Dressed up with spurious statistics and cheerful charts to pad it out
to 15 minutes, leaving five for questions. And each slide I put up, I chuck
another teasoonful of yoghurt at the blackboard. Pretty soon, that blackboard
is looking pretty scuzzy, and the some of the folks in the audience are
starting to look a little queer too. So then I stop for questions, and the
first question, of course, is "Is that white stuff what I think it is?", so I
slurped down a teaspoonful, smacked my lips and said "Yes, next question" Then
they got onto the real issue, USWAT. "Why are you organising a union?" "So
that we can strike for better conditions and more money" "What do you mean,
better conditions?" "Well, I'm fed up with vanilla yoghurt, for a start, let's
have a few more flavours." "What's the chicken about?" So I pulled out our
flag. "He's a cock, and he's the symbol of our Union", and I said that with a
straight face, which isn't easy when you're doing two puns in one sentence.

You can't really get serious about the issue when you've got five minutes, I
just wanted to make them laugh. "Anyone who is really interested about this
stuff, come and talk to me later." Well, after that, they knew what I looked
like, and the stunt with the yoghurt made sure they wouldn't forget me in a
hurry.

Going round the expo was more fun that it had ever been before. In the past,
folks on stands would take one look at me, decide I wasn't a potential
customer (being non-male), decide I wasn't some famous porn star (well, do I
look like a porn star?) and pretty much ignore me. Except the old-timers in
the industry, who were well aware of what a fluffer did and that I was one of
the top Senior Fluffers in the game. But now, they'd all heard of me, and
about the thing with the yoghurt on-stage, except I think they were assuming
it wasn't yoghurt, and they'd heard of the union, USWAT and ORGASM, and they
wanted more details.

And that gave me the chance to hand out some leaflets about the union, about
pay and working conditions, and most of all to agitate about the powder that
they'd been cramming down their throats without too much thought about exactly
what might be in it and what it might be doing to them. Plus a bit of
propaganda about what a good idea it is to have a good fluffer on the shooting
set, in order to maintain the org-count and thereby boost profits.

The closing party of the VAE was great fun. You'd probably have thought that
if you put a bunch of pornbrokers together they'd have a sex party, right? You
couldn't be more wrong, that's like expecting people in a chocolate factory to
eat chocolate off-duty. No, it wasn't all mattresses and satin sheets. The
closing party was a "chocoholics nightmare". And I took full advantage of it -
the flight home was going to be long, boring and nothing but airplane food.

Sharon and Harry met me at Heathrow. I can't sleep on airplanes, so I was
cream crackered by the time we landed, it being a 14 hour flight. I staggered
through customs, and pretty much collapsed into Sharon's arms, except that
without her support Harry looked like he'd be on the floor. Between us, we
managed to drag Harry, me and my luggage to Sharon's old car, and she drove us
home. "What happened to Harry?" I asked her. "I did", she answered. Plus he'd
stopped taking the powders, so his stamina wasn't really up to Sharons
demands. And Sharon gets pretty demanding. "We missed you, Linda." Awwww.

So I slept round the clock, that being the best way to get over jetlag plus
sleepless nights, my sleep only being interrupted every couple of hours with
the noises that told me why Harry was looking so gruesome. When I finally
returned to the land of the living, I interrupted Sharon and Harry to find out
what had gone on while I was away. "USWAT is going great guns," said Sharon.
Harry's eyes close and he drifted off to sleep. "Which is more than I can say
for this great lump. Linda, are you sure I can't use the Horny Hamster Powder
on him?" "No way, Sharon! That's one of the things we're fighting against,
remember?" "I guess" she said, looking disappointed. Then she cheered up. "But
you're here now, Linda, and you're the greatest fluffer in the world - who
needs powder when you've got Linda Daventry, right?" "Sharon, not now. There's
things to do, we have the Olympics coming up soon." "Oh go on, Linda. We've
missed you something rotten."

Duh. Well. I mean. Well. At a time like this?

OK then.

Next day, we all went down to Union HQ. I hadn't completely wasted those 14
hours on a transatlantic jet; I'd been working out what union activities we
could have at the upcoming Sex Olympics. And my plan was - sabotage! The folks
against fox-hunting try to disrupt the hunt by getting in the way as much as
they can, laying false scents, making a noise to scare the foxes away - all
perfectly legal, and good tactics to deter "the unspeakable in pursuit of the
uneatable". So I'd worked out ways to bugger up (metaphorically speaking) the
Sex Olympics. And this was the USWAT planning meeting.

I stood up and explained my idea. "The big weakness of any sex activity is the
butterstick. Limp that, and all you've got is a deflated sausage." Everyone
nodded, all pretty obvious, really. "And to limp the butterstick, there's
really three ways. Pain, sex and football." Pain causes an instant limp, but
the effect wears off pretty fast. Sex causes a longer term limp, although most
buttersticks will re-stiffen after a few hours. But for a really long-term
limping, that can last for days, a football championship can't be beaten - the
last time we had the World Cup, by the end of the second week you could see
the strain showing on the nookie-deprived faces of women old and young alike.

I was voted down on the football idea, "cruel and unusual" they called it. And
we decided against the pain thing too, it's too short term. But there's a
certain elegance in using sex to sabotage the Sex Olympics; I mean, how could
you object? So that's what we decided to do, and as the Senior Fluffer I was
delegated to come up with the specifics of a plan.

I went home; Sharon and Harry came too. I think they'd decided to move in with
me, since Harry wasn't being allowed his usual stimulative powder. But that
was OK, it meant I could divide the workload into three. We needed a list of
sabotage activities to do, we needed the raw materials to do it with, and we
needed the people to do them. I told Harry to go out and recruit a dozen porn
stars to do the dirty work, I sent Sharon out to buy essential supplies, like
perfume and sexy clothes, and I sat down to work out the various things that
we could do to disrupt the Sex Olympics.

Sharon returned after a shop-until-you-drop raid on Oxford Street; I'd be
surprised if there was any lingerie, parfumerie or sextoyerie left for sale in
the whole of London. I'd made detailed plans for how to disrupt a dozen
different events. Harry came back empty handed. Well, not quite. Nothing in
his hands, but he was followed through the door by Ruth Rogers.

I asked her once. "Bit obvious, isn't it? Ruth Rogers?" And she said "dunno
reely" which is her stock answer. But what she lacks in brains, she more than
makes up for in sex appeal. The poor girl positively oozes it, it's
embarrassing sometimes. I remember once I was working on a half-dead
butterstick trying to coax it back into semi-rigidity, when Ruth walks in, and
suddenly I've got an iron bar in my hand. And lots more like that. I think she
must spend hours on her hair to get it into that "tousled" look, her legs
practically reach her armpits, she's got a bust like Mount Everest sideways,
and she's currently the number one hot property in the pornbroker business.
And a definite asset in Sex Olympics sabotage.

All we needed was a dozen more like her.

Harry, of course, was utterly useless once Ruth was around. And jealous Sharon
was as green as Shehulk, (and about as big, too), and with one of her hands
gripping tightly round Harry's essentials, she wasn't much use either. So it
was down to me to find more recruits for the sabotage.

I asked around the industry, but all the porn stars were too scared of the
bosses to take on a high profile Olympic sabotage job. I widened my search out
to the more general sex workers of the industry, the street-walkers and the
on-your-back girls, but they were all too busy trying to scratch a living. I
even tried that old mainstay, the Swedish Women's Basketball team, but they
turned me down - not really their thing. By the time I got back from Sweden, I
was feeling rather down-in-the-mouth, time was running short. I needed some
advice. Good advice. From someone who knows where her towel is. So I visited
my old tutor at St Hilda's Convent Fluff School.

Well, I should have thought of this myself, of course. Nuns! A half dozen nuns
from St Hilda's would solve all my problems; when it came to sexual sabotage,
there's none better. Oops. Sorry. Anyway, a good firm grip on the genitals, a
powerful twist of the wrist, and even Harry would be useless for a week. I
went to see the Mother Superior; she loaned me Mandy, Norah, Evadne and a few
others. I asked Norah if she thought she could handle such a large job, and
she just rolled up one sleeve and showed me a 26 inch arm that made even
Sharon look small. Yeah, I guess she could handle the lot of them
single-handed, if need be.

So, come the big event. The athletes were all housed in the Olympic Village,
carefully segregated into four camps by sex, of which one of the camps was, of
course, especially camp. Oops. Sorry. Gotta stop doing that. So, at night, we
snuck under the barbed wire, released the on-heat bitches - Rottweiler
bitches, they were, plus a few Alsatians - and that dealt with the guard dogs
in a very appropriate way. And while the dogs were, er, busy, we snuck up to
the men's camp. That is, not the camp men's camp, the other one.

I wasn't sure how we were going to pick the locks on the door, but Mandy
solved that - she just walked at it, didn't stop, and the rest of us came in
through the hole she made. We left a nun at the door to stop any of the men
escaping, and then we worked out way through the rooms. Norah was at point to
deal with any interference, Ruth a couple of yards behind to do the iron bar
thing, and the rest of us mopping up. Sorry. Sorry. I promise no more. And 
it turned out that there was quite a lot to mop, these being the 
creme-de-la-creme of the sexual athletes. However. Within an hour or so, 
there was no more cream left, so we departed the way we'd come.

Well, you probably know the rest. The Sex Olympics was a complete and utter
fiasco, with the exception of the beaver diving event, sales of Horny Hamster
powder plummeted, as did all the other fake sex enhancement pills, powders and
creams. Several powder-makers went toes-up, the union got a gazillion new
members, and the USWAT cock was cock-a-hoop. Of course, that didn't mean that
powder went out of fashion just on account of one disastrous Sex Olympics, but
the important thing was, we'd struck a blow. They'd take notice of us in
future.