KENNY ROGERS

He sits in your kitchen in his work socks and clumsily strums his guitar, working late into the night while you lie sleeping. He's hoping, as he shuffles about looking for a snack, that he'll come up with that special song that'll make everything good in the world and prove you right, you who have had faith in him and supported him for so many years. And then, finally, he does come up with just such a song, and that song isn't about the moon or stars, but about you, about you believing in him.

Kenny Rogers has had a white beard his entire life. He is a lover with slow hands and an easy touch. Leave the oils to Conway Twitty; Kenny doesn't need props to make you feel like a lady. After fixing everything in your house that's broken, he lays you down on the bearskin rug. He's calm and in control, which isn't to say he can't appreciate the perspiration on the small of your back, especially if you happen to be under forty, like all of his (so far) five wives. He, like love itself, is not boastful or proud. He never brags or yells at you. He adjusts his gold chain, looks you in the eye, and he just has one thing to say: that he loves you, he wants you, and he simply needs for you to know. And for that, he is our crush of the week. Neal Medlyn

Hailed as "The sexiest show in New York," Nicole Blackman's one-on-one show The Courtesan Tales returns to P.S. 122 through May 30. A Scanner correspondent took in a performance and reports back:

"A gothy "hostess" led me down a rose-petal covered staircase to the basement. I was told to go through a little hallway to "the chamber," where I was to sit in the chair and put on a blindfold. Soon, I felt a hot breath in my ear, my wrists being tied to the chair, feathers caressing my body. The CD playing loud, drum-heavy music started skipping. I heard a raspy voice begin the story of a woman's erotic visit to a castle. Under the blindfold, I rolled my eyes a little but tried to keep a straight face. Then I felt a rather heavy woman sit on my lap, grinding and rubbing herself on me as the story became more intense. She put her mouth right up by mine, thus giving me all her germs. Then she started rocking the chair violently back and forth while urgently pressing her whole body against mine. This caused my head to bang against the chair. "Ouch!" I said. She ignored me. Suddenly, without warning, I felt something hard smash into my mouth. She rubbed it roughly onto my lips and tried to get it in my mouth. It felt like a Brillo pad. "Stop!" I yelled, trying to break free. I felt my lip swelling up. "It was just bread," she said, dismissively. I managed to work one hand free and push up the blindfold. "This is too much," I said, now through a puffy lip. "In five years, you're the first person who's ever stopped me," she said, still sitting heavily on our lap. "There are less hardcore stories. Would you like to hear one of those?" I didn't. "Well, Ron Athey and Candida Royale liked it!" she said, as if I were crazy and they were not. "Annie Sprinkle almost came!" she said, then let us go.
[www.ps122.org]

Comic Rick Shapiro, the best-read former hustler around (who was, incidentally, called "the funniest man in America" by Cups magazine) does smutty stream-of-consciousness bits, giving equal time to fisting and Faulkner:

Rick Shapiro (To cute couple in front row): You're a couple, right?
Nervous guy: Yeah.
RS: So, do you think about her cunt?
Nervous guy: Uh, sure.
RS: Do you think about it so much you lost your job?
Guy: Uh, no . . .
RS: Then you're not thinking about it enough!
[Rick Shapiro]

Young NYC playwright Julia Jordan has been all over town this year, with a drama about budding female sexuality (Tatjana in Color) and a comedy about a snow-fueled romance (St. Scarlet). Her latest, Boy, a sad story about a bunch of smart, messed-up people, opens this week at NYC's Primary Stages.
[Primary Stages]