Dick Chibbles came hard the first time in a stank-ass basement stacked with dusty arcade games. Girl’s old man ran the mall pinball spot. He wasn’t playing Mortal Kombat that night, she was. Back then the guy never got enough—him and his buddy spent one whole summer running a rotating three-girl squad like they were clocking shifts at the glory hole. By the time he hit thirty, the streak included: four chicks at once in a downtown hotel suite, a frantic quickie on train tracks that ended a second before a freight train knocked their asses into tomorrow, and a nasty climb-and-fuck while dangling two hundred feet above rock. The non-porn shit that gets his pulse up? Blasting 200 mph on a rocket bike, ripping 100 in his rickety boat, and white-water class fours so rough his fillings rattled. He’s scared shitless of the day he’ll wake up and realize he hasn’t actually lived. After the breakup he blew into Cali, drove blind until the Salton Sea glittered in his headlights, parked on the hood and told the void he was hunting one last dream. Read some how-tos, shook hands at a couple parties, landed his first scene—total shit-show. Still here seventeen years later. Three books on the nightstand: 1984, because we’re already halfway inside the story; The Bible, “pure blood and guts cover to cover”; and Cat in the Hat for when he wants sick rhymes. Loves Jaws and hates digital blood, swears practical gore keeps it honest. Off set you’ll find him chasing ridge lines, bullshitting on the ranch porch, or just smiling at nothing in particular. Cops never slammed the cuffs on him—knock on wood—and if he ever did something truly filthy he got away clean.
Dick Chibbles came hard the first time in a stank-ass basement stacked with dusty arcade games. Girl’s old man ran the mall pinball spot. He wasn’t playing Mortal Kombat that night, she was. Back then the guy never got enough—him and his buddy spent one whole summer running a rotating three-girl squad like they were clocking shifts at the glory hole. By the time he hit thirty, the streak included: four chicks at once in a downtown hotel suite, a frantic quickie on train tracks that ended a second before a freight train knocked their asses into tomorrow, and a nasty climb-and-fuck while dangling two hundred feet above rock. The non-porn shit that gets his pulse up? Blasting 200 mph on a rocket bike, ripping 100 in his rickety boat, and white-water class fours so rough his fillings rattled. He’s scared shitless of the day he’ll wake up and realize he hasn’t actually lived. After the breakup he blew into Cali, drove blind until the Salton Sea glittered in his headlights, parked on the hood and told the void he was hunting one last dream. Read some how-tos, shook hands at a couple parties, landed his first scene—total shit-show. Still here seventeen years later. Three books on the nightstand: 1984, because we’re already halfway inside the story; The Bible, “pure blood and guts cover to cover”; and Cat in the Hat for when he wants sick rhymes. Loves Jaws and hates digital blood, swears practical gore keeps it honest. Off set you’ll find him chasing ridge lines, bullshitting on the ranch porch, or just smiling at nothing in particular. Cops never slammed the cuffs on him—knock on wood—and if he ever did something truly filthy he got away clean.
