Quim Profiles: Quinne Suicide

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Since starting as a hobby project in 2002, the Suicide Girls have become an internationally recognised brand, the ’Gilmore Girls’ of Alt porn. With its host of interviews with intellectual iconoclasts, and an active, literate user community, the company’s site – Suicidegirls.com – has become what the playboy mansion aspired to be in the mid 60’s – a mecca for the libertine intelligentsia.

Yet while financial success and critical acclaim have embraced the Suicide Girls, rubbing the sweet balm of profit into their tanned and pierced skinnybodies; controversy too has stalked them, like an ugly Greek outside a hip party in Notting Hill, with a zoom lens and a bowie-knife. Allegations that the Suicide Girls corporation has used convincing mannequins in some of their shoots, worse, poorly paid mannequins, have dogged the company. If there was any truth to such rumors, I, Quim La Douche, resolved to find it.

I asked Quinne, the SG’s flagship beauty, and winner of Bizarre magazine’s hottest woman in porn- a nymphet with elfin eyes, and pendulous breasts – about the allegations, as we sped up the historic Route 1, connecting LA and San Francisco, in Jackdaw Media’s limited edition McLaren F1 convertible. Laying a hand on the gear stick, she dodged the question.

’This is quite a car’.

In many ways Quinne is an enigma, wrapped in a puzzle, hidden in a crossword, written in a cypher, hidden in a bottle, and tossed into the sea. As the Suicide Girl’s top model she has an odd kind of fame. A fame akin perhaps to the celebrity of a rebel journalist battling lie crime for the nations fiery mouthpiece.
Surely I ask, with her luminous beauty and apparent sexual availability, there must have been stalkers?

’A few’, she replies, leaning over me to stomp the clutch and pole us into fifth (her hair smells like the sacramental fields of Medjugorje). ’But’, she continues, rolling back her t-shirt to expose ten ghoulish skulls emblazoned on a shoulder. ’I can defend myself ’.

Indeed she can. Quinne, real name Anistasia Van Buren, is one of a tiny number of Westerners who’ve surmounted the walls of tradition and spelunked the caverns of obscurity, to master the ancient Japanese art of Kabuki Ninjitsu. With her jet black hair trailing behind her like a murder of crows, and her colourful montage of hipster tatts, she is magnificent, a coiled cobra. Quinne flashes me the smile that’s cracked a million flashbulbs, and tells me how she became the queen of indie porn.

’Growing up, I was just an ordinary girl. Royal Ballet scholarships, Macarthur grants, the Fields medal. I saw these dull career paths laid out before me – behavioral geneticist, concert violinist, NSA operative.’

Quinne felt imprisoned by the conventional options offered by society. After graduating Oxford with a triple first in Classical Languages, Pure Mathematics, and Fine Art; and gaining her Harvard MBA, Quinne rejected the conventional definitions of success. She traveled alone for two years in South America and the Congolese rain forest, and reached the final stage of the Russian space program – before being rejected on ideological grounds. Her great grandfather Rufus Wainwright Van Buren, was the founder of modern Anarchism.

’I was searching for something’, she told me, over a cheeky but full bodied Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanee-Conti, in my hotel suite.
’There had to be something outside the walls of the academy, a world beyond the lab or the Conservatoire de Paris’.

She found her New Jerusalem, waitressing at the Third Alternative, a tiny Portland bar and grill, where there was little pressure to translate Linear A, or reinterpret Bach’s Chaconne.

’That’s when I met Wolf ’, she tells me, as we bubble away the stress, in one of the Hilton’s magnificent en suite Jacuzzis.

Quinne’s referring of course to Wolfe Duke, the Suicide Girl’s charismatic and controversial pater familias.

A man referred to in a recent editorial in Fortune as ’the padre of pussy’. What did Duke do, I ask Quinne – as we towel off in front of an absurdly ostentatious but deeply romantic air-conditioned log fire – to convince her to bare the incredible assets I’m currently softening with Creme de la Mer.

’Oh’, she replies coyly, tossing me a wicked grin, ’it was something like this…’

Quim La Douche teaches journalistic ethics at London Metropolitan University.

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