The Virgin Prince's War Journal

Dearest comrades,

I came to the realization nearly a year ago that a Storm Trooper's uniform can indeed look quite flattering on a female form. While I'm not sure if it's the type of thing that would look universally wonderful on all women, it certainly suited the tall, slender redhead that stood out prominently among her fellow soldiers on a San Francisco sidewalk. Also at the comic book convention I was attending with the Green Mike and Red Raven, there was another pack of people in uniform, namely, a large group of Stargate SG-1 enthusiasts. While I respect their fanship of a syndicated Sci-Fi show, I couldn't help but look down on them, at least a little bit, for being fans of a show with such poor writing and cliché solutions to the weekly problems faced. Needless to say, their camoflage soldier uniforms were not as flattering to the females wearing them. I myself was dressed in a black suit, white shirt with the top button unbuttoned, loosened double-windsored black tie (I had been partying the night before after all), and my polished black and white shoes. Even with the few hours-worth of stubble I had, I looked much cooler than them, though probably not half as cool as the guy that came dressed as Pimp Green Arrow.

When The Green Mike and I weren't snickering at their expense, we were busy looking at bootleg videos and observing the celebrities in attendance. Regretfully, I lost my chance to speak to the ultra-beautiful redheaded goddess, Cassandra Peterson, better known as Elvira. There is still a tinge of regret there, I not seizing my opportunity to talk with the former Vegas showgirl, the lady who lost her virginity to Tom Jones (and subsequently had to have medical attention), the classy dame that worked with Frederico Fellini in her young years, and later, alongside Paul Reubens in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. The woman who so captivated me in my youth with that marvellous rack partially concealed under that tight black dress, and in my early adulthood with her slender gorgeous body, a nice ivory color, contrasted by the natural, fire-red hair that existed on both the upper and lower halves of her body, a vision made available to me courtesy of the photographs she'd posed for in her youth.

There was an unexpected surprise later in the convention. As we strolled around, I noticed a booth behind us with several pictures of noted Penthouse Pet, internet model, and not quite pornstar, not quite actress, Aria Giovanni. "Ooh! Aria Giovanni!" I said in surprise, no doubt very audibly. I then looked up to see her standing there. "Oh shit!" I thought as I quickly walked away. I panicked. She wasn't on the guest list! What does one say to one of such beauty, one of such fame? Call it superficial if you wish, to hold in such high regard one famous for nothing more than having a stellar body and being willing to show it for money. But if only you could see her smile. Oh lord, her beautiful smile.

A smile that could launch a hundred warships to Troy. A smile that could make the old and infirm feel young and strong. I suppose you could say that smiles are the most important thing to me on a woman. It's certainly the first thing I look for and the thing that attracts me most. It was indeed a smile that put me under Rush Girl's power, a smile so appealing and lovely. It is without a doubt Mandy Moore's smile that has caused my infatuation with her. A delicate and genuine smile that shows more clearly than words that inside, she knows real happiness, that at her core there is a genuinely beautiful soul. Likewise, it is Britney Spears' unappealing, artificial, and labored-looking smile which makes any attraction for her minimal, helps to form my opinion that she is shrivelled, cancerous, and empty inside, and seems to reinforce my feelings that she is merely a faker, a paid whore. She attempts to deceive us with her smile, and that makes me angry. Faith Hill is another that wears a clearly false smile, and it causes me to despise her. That and her trite music.

Back to the story at hand, after making my swift getaway, I suddenly realized that nervous as I was, if I passed up on a chance to talk to the great Aria Giovanni, I would surely regret it for a long time to come. I had to go back. This time I would be ready. Though himself paired with the Red Raven, Green Mike accompanied me for moral support.

"I think you rock." I told Ms. Giovanni as I presented her with a big thumbs-up.

"Oh, why thank you!" she said to me, widening her smile in such a way as one does when they actually do feel flattered and glad to hear what you've said.

We made small-talk, discussed her projects, what she was working on, what the life was like. "Here, take a card," she told me, shoving a postcard in my hand, the picture on it was a rather flattering one of her in nothing but a pair of thin pink panties. I asked her about the films she'd worked on, which prompted her to direct my attention to a stack of adult videos she'd done. Though I'd been referring to the actual acting she'd done in plot-driven films (admittedly low-budget movies), I suppose she assumed that all anyone would be interested in from her were scenes of her stripping, showering, shaving her pubic region, and shoving her hand in her crotch. I thought she was selling herself short, and it saddened me a bit.

What impressed me the most about Aria Giovanni was how nice she was. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, based on the opinions I'd formed on her smile in the photographs. She seemed honestly to enjoy talking to me, had not treated me in the thinly-veiled disgusted and patronizing manner I had expected from a statuesque model talking to yet another nobody fan-boy. She'd impressed the crap out of me.

Though before I'd even arrived at the convention I had firmly decided that I wished to write, that I would make efforts to follow that as a possible career, it was without a doubt Aria Giovanni that gave me my ultimate feelings of motivation. I decided that when I came back a year later, I wanted to be somebody. When I next would see Aria Giovanni, I wanted to feel not as a lesser, but as an equal, a semi-celebrity in my own right. I wanted to be able to ask her to pose for the cover of my very own comic book. That is the tale of how I got my first great push of motivation, the energy which started me on the furious process of constant writing.

Many months have passed since, and I'd all but forgotten of Aria Giovanni. While rifling through my drawer of personal items the other night, looking for a comb so that I might trim my sideburns, I found my long-lost pocket-knife, given to me by my cousin all those summers ago, and that well-worn postcard of Aria Giovanni. I looked at it again out of curiosity. Though she remains cute as ever, I felt no special feelings, no overwhelming desire to meet her again. Rush Girl has her claws in me now. It is her I desire, her I miss, her I want. My feelings have changed about so many things.

So without the desire to impress Aria Giovanni, why do I write? I write because I like to write. I write because I'm good at it. I write because people like what I write and I like to entertain. I write because The Virgin Prince is the best darn superhero around and I won't stop until I'm damn sure you all know that. I'll have a partner in my quest, for Rush Girl too has a love for the English language and an ability for sculpting grand groupings of words. And sometimes, it's a good feeling to be joined in your mission.

I have to go now, Bobo the Virgin Chimp has made a terrible mess all over my Twister mat. It's better you don't ask.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince