“Let me explain to you guys how this is going to work,” I said. “Vance, you’ll...”
“I want my porno name to be Darth,” Vance interrupted. “Darth Callous.”
“He’s into ah that Star Wars shit,” Bert said.
The pair were headed to a swing party in Granada Hills that very weekend; they assured me that if we arrived early enough, the owner of the house was sure to let us shoot there for free. “Just let him watch, if he asks. That’s good swing manners.”
I packed my bowling bag full of provisions: towels, douches, model releases, lube, baby wipes. The Volvo, now back in working order, rumbled deep across the Valley. It was a fine, warm night. I wore my porn director’s outfit: a short-sleeved orange polyester Izod and tight bell-bottom corduroy slacks. Greed rumbled excitedly in my stomach. I was going to be rich.
The shoot went even better than I had imagined. Bert and Darth, though amateurs, attacked their prey with passion and intensity.
“No Viagra or nothin’,” Darth bragged.
“We just love pussy,” Bert explained, breathing hard.
I got plenty of footage. It was totally plotless nonsense, of course, reminiscent of the 8mm anonymous hardcore “loops” that first drew raincoaters to New York City bookstores—but so what? It wasn’t in my contract to be creative. I was a hired gun. Now it was time for me to get gonzo.
If there was a letdown to the night, it was only that, postscene, Amber just sort of accepted her paycheck and disappeared. She had been a very quiet and reserved sort of porn actress. I was mildly disappointed that we didn’t get to know each other better, but, having been in her shoes myself in the recent past, I acknowledged the psychic demands of giving your all to the camera. Afterward, you need your space. Perhaps we would have other opportunities to socialize.
I sent the tapes off to Seattle, pocketing four hundred bucks for my efforts. Immediately, Pitts ordered another shoot. We settled into a steady rhythm: he would front me cash, and I would run to Pretty Girl, scouring the Book for new names and new bodies. I spent entire days in Reb’s cramped antechamber, watching the new arrivals complete their forms. Each morning, Clarence would interview and catalog a score of half-pretty brats looking to score: sad Portland punks with dead dads and milky, exquisite legs; weird MILFs with drum-tight abs and tattoos of Lucky Charms on their asses; and black girls named Shakesphere who hoped they were getting a head start on their singing careers by shitting into a moist towelette for a bearded photographer in a rumpled explorer vest.
Soon I met Gus, a cynical guy in his early thirties who lurked in a musty, unused corner of the building. His sole responsibility at PGI seemed to be taking the nude Polaroids of the aspiring actresses.
“I guess lots of guys would think I’m lucky to do this,” he grumbled. “But I’ll be honest, I can’t stand it. These chicks are downright revolting. I don’t even want blowjobs from them anymore. I tell you, I’m done with it.”
Apart from snapping pics at Reb’s, Gus also worked with Mike Hott Video, probably the most debased mail-order porn company in the history of the universe. Their bestselling line was something called “Party Pigs”—Gus’s doing. “It’s disgusting,” he bragged. “No one could possibly enjoy this.”
Gus, who had done ten long years in the business, took a certain choleric pleasure in educating the raw newbie who stood before him.
“Hey, listen. You know that fucker, Randall, who works the desk for World Modeling? Well, he performs, did you know that? I shot him once. He’s got the biggest dick you ever saw. But he can’t get hard. Twelve inches, and it can’t get hard. It’s like a big, floppy hose.” .
And then Gus would laugh. He had the awful hee-hawing bray of a donkey, the kind you never hear out loud except in a darkened movie theater—or while discussing anal sex in broad daylight.
“Hey—you ever shot a tweaker? You ever wonder, like, why is this chick wearing like ten coats of pancake? Well, I got a secret: her pores are too big. Meth turns your pores into these massive craters. They’re like big, wet, black freckles.”
Gus knew everyone and had sympathy for none, least of all the girls, many of whom carried intense personal struggles with them on their journey.
“Look, I know they’ve been abused, I know they’ve got eating disorders like a motherfucker. But that actually helps them, if you think about it. Say you’ve been puking after every meal for a year. Chances are, you can deep-throat with the best of them. You’ve got no gag reflex. None.”
Bert and Darth, newer than I to the adult film industry, likely gave not a damn about these issues. They were in it for the sex, period, and the sociology was secondary. Bert, in particular, was addicted to pussy. Chubby women the world over had found their way into his damp bed, felt the rub of his sheets. An amateur videographer, Bert often documented his adventures; I was made to watch the disturbing footage more than once. “I know this isn’t professional, like yours, bro. But I figured you’d want to see me take this chick on! Wow! Not bad, huh?” But it was bad. Bert fucked large, sloppy asses hungrily, snuffling the rapacious, thirsty grunts of a pleased dog. I 'his was a man who would sleep with any woman, anytime, no questions asked. A purist.
Darth was more complex, harder to pin down. He was much younger than Bert, but far more silent, as if guarding a trove of hard-earned secret knowledge and life experience. A veteran of four years of military service, he held a black belt in Kempo karate and exuded a thrilling air of potential violence. Yet he was kind, even delicate, with me, showcasing with quiet pride his immaculate collection of vampire hardbacks (he was an Anne Rice man), gently stroking the dorsal scales of Baby, the enormous adult boa constrictor with whom he shared his life. Baby made her home in his bathroom, sliding threateningly across the tiled linoleum floors, flicking her tongue coquettishly and swallowing the occasional rat whole.
Fearing the recriminations of my neighbors, I began to stage most of my shoots at Darth’s apartment in Long Beach. Those first few shoots were so bad. This is not an exaggeration. A single 500-watt bulb dangling from Darth’s popcorn ceiling illuminated our set with shocking baldness. Because I didn’t know how to white-balance my camera, an uneven yellowish hue contaminated all of my footage. But perhaps worst of all, my director’s vision had not yet matured. I didn’t know the angles. I would leap from spot to spot, frantically straining to find that perfect perspective, knocking over chairs and candles and Kempo trophies in my desperate ardor. Then, when I finally settled upon a spot, I’d film for approximately fifteen seconds, blink wildly, and make a sprint for the next location.
But none of this much mattered. Pitts complimented me profusely on each mediocre execution, exhorting me to add yet another chapter to his increasingly voluminous interracial library. Over the course of a few short weeks, I lifted myself out of my youthful poverty and entered solidly into a middle-class existence. The Burbank mall was visited; expensive Polo flip-flops were purchased. I wore them constantly in the LA autumn warmth, like a badge.
The speed of my transformation was startling. After a season of desperate, humiliating struggle, life was suddenly both easy and sweet. I felt more charming. Taller. For the first time in ages, I had enough money in my pocket to afford to buy a bag of weed. I cleaned my studio. I vacuumed the carpet, washed the windows, emptied the trash, scrubbed the bowl, changed the towels, and wiped out the microwave. All of a sudden, my place gleamed white, spacious, and exciting—a secret, bohemian laboratory. I spent long, happy evenings alone, listening to music and fooling around on the computer. One night, I even broke out the pen and ink, did a few modest little drawings. Most of them weren’t very good, but that was beside the point. Finally, I was winning.