By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
"She's hot and horny and double busty," says the DJ at T's in West Palm Beach. "Guys, put your hands together for former governor candidate Mary Carey." Out prances South Florida's own Mary Carey, the Broward County-bred porn star turned politician, in a horned hat and leopard pelts over her privates. Carey really knows what she's doing up there. She rides the brass poles cowboy style. She sprawls on the stage, rotating her legs like clock arms. She hits every conceivable sexual position.
But the three dozen guys who have blown their lunch hour are either too excited to clap or not into seeing politicians writhe in their skivvies. There is, after all, something surreal about it all, watching Carey clothed on CNN a few weeks ago, then being offered irrefutable proof that her prime assets are either fake or, well, very firm. "Come on, guys," the DJ chastises, "make some noise out there." She flips over, and the DJ gets excited. "Oh my God -- it's Mary Carey doggy-style." If only the gubernatorial debates were this animated.
This ain't no strip-club floozy here; two weeks ago, Carey managed 10,524 votes in California's recall of its governor, tenth in a crowd of more than 135 candidates, not far behind Larry Flynt and Gary Coleman. More than anything, the election was terrific publicity, making the star of such titles as Hot Showers 6 and Thumpin' Melons a well-known name in two seemingly dissimilar fields: porn and politics.
Last week, the hometown headliner rode that fame to a three-day engagement at the squalid inky T's (the club is painted black from top to bottom), down the street from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office. Halfway through a performance last Thursday, the stage is already littered with dollar bills when the DJ announces what everyone must be waiting for. "Hey, guys, how about a little titty tipping?" Carey displays her political mettle by grasping greenbacks between her bosoms in a way perhaps no other politician but Arnold himself could manage.
From there, the show -- Carey's bottoms off, "Welcome to the Jungle" on the turntable -- gets raunchy. Anybody want to see Mary rub lotion all over her naked body? Yeah. By then, all that's left of her outfit is two shards of leopard pelt tied to her forearms. Well-lotioned, Carey flips onto her back and places a plastic cup next to her crotch. The DJ dares the guys to make a backboard shot as the stage spins. In two minutes, the stage is littered with dollars. No hits. Finally, she makes it easy, replacing the cup with a champagne bucket.
Somebody collects the fistfuls of dollars strewn on-stage as Carey ducks out to the entranceway. There, she poses topless with fans for 10 bucks or naked for 20. She uses the same pose for each shot: boobs pulled out of her dress, face contorted into phony orgasmic pain, and hands cupped over her crotch. A half-dozen guys sign up for the Polaroid, including a fidgety man in shadowy glasses who sneaks out afterward like a shoplifter.
Carey reluctantly agrees to talk about her future in politics. Sitting at a small bar in the back, she wears a crimson spandex dress with a cut-out oval that offers a glimpse of her double-D debate-stoppers. "I'll talk to you about politics and stuff," Carey says, expressing some hesitation after what she called unfavorable New Timescoverage of her campaign. "But you know what? I hope every writer at the New Times dies." She lets the effect of it hang in the air before flipping her hair around playfully. "I'm just kidding. Here, I'll give you a little something to make up for it." Carey casually rubs her hand across the crotch of the interviewer, a gesture meant to be sexual that instead has the effect of a hernia check.
Carey turns away teasingly and looks to the bartender. "What do I want to drink?" she says, perhaps as a cue for someone to buy her one. A guy to her left with a six-inch mullet quickly complies. The bartender mixes her a gin and tonic, and Carey goes on to politics. "I'm gonna run again," she says. "Mayor, governor, I don't know. Mayor of Los Angeles, I'd like that. I gotta wait 12 years before I can run for president. Then I'll be 35. I'm 23 now." (One T's waitress, though, thought Carey looked like she was "pushing 40.")
Next big project: a reality TV show called Can You Be a Porn Star? It hasn't been picked up by a network yet, she says, but she's optimistic. "I mean, it's perfect, right? Who wouldn't want to be a porn star if they could?" She's also going to do, with the help of goofy-movie pro Paulie Shore, some standup comedy. "I mean, I've been doing standup for five months, right? Every time I got up to do a speech, I was doing standup."
All things considered, Carey says, compulsively flicking her cigarette in a plastic ash tray, crossing and uncrossing her legs, her clear plastic shoes with four-inch platform soles banging on the bar, she's glad to be back where she belongs. She flips her hair over her shoulder to look in a floor-length mirror to her right. "I was glad I ran," she says of her five months in politics. "But I'm glad to be back in the porn industry. I'm less exploited when I'm in porn, you know? Politics, they really exploit women, especially if you're beautiful. They don't care if you're smart."