“Thank you, Sam, for this late-breaking news.” She grinned, reaching for the channel changer. “What else have you got?”
Liz lived in an apartment complex on a hot and treeless street in North Hollywood, across the street from a junior high school, within walking distance of two liquor stores. Her bedroom overlooked the 170 freeway. The constant hum of traffic was never, far from us. As if that weren’t enough, an army of cheap plastic fans spun endlessly in even- room, creating a miasma of white noise; it w as enough to drive you bats. Also, Liz had a Chinese roommate named Lisa, who was ven- pretty- and totally immature and loved pooing with the door open. I wanted to kill Lisa.
Their bathroom was like the horrible place to take a shit in the United States. Their towels were maroon, the wallpaper was bumpy, the door was painted yellow, and on all exposed surfaces, scissored and Scotch-taped pictures of the little monsters from the rock band Incubus stared back at you. As a team, Liz and Lisa adored them, wanted to embrace them, and be embraced. A sickly light emanated from one long fluorescent bulb that was paneled behind a thick plastic covering, and their toilet paper was matted and wet. It smelled like they had a tray of cat litter hidden in there. But there was no cat.
“I think porn is offensive,” I continued. “To women.”
‘You are one sensitive guy, sweetie,” Liz said, patting mv hand.
“I’m impressed."
Liz’s bedroom was a touch better, although, in realitv, it was a terrible place that gave me vertigo. The walls felt like thev were made out of pasteboard and you could jump right through them and they would fold like props in a skit. Green fluorescent stars on the ceiling bothered me when I went to sleep, and there were black silken sheets on her bed, which spoke of a goth sensibilitv I couldn’t relate to. And Lisa, I seriously disliked. She and Liz had their own secret language and goth giggling fits that left me out in the cold. I couldn’t relax there.
“There,” Liz said. “Now that we’ve got that covered, should we make some food?”
“But seriously,” I pressed. “Don’t you think about it sometimes? Isn't it, like, gross to you?” .
Liz shrugged. “People are people.” She got up from the couch and opened a kitchen cupboard, from which she removed a large stockpot. She turned on the kitchen faucet and began to fill it with water.
Perhaps I was being a tad ungrateful. Liz was well liked by my contemporaries; not only did all the porn guys love her, but so did many of the porn actresses. Daisy Dukes—small, thin, Latina, and owner of arguably the worst name in the biz—really looked up to White Liz. In fact, she adored her like a big sister. Liz was three years older, but she dug Daisy in the same way. They would go shopping together and buy underwear and talk about boys. Their relationship was important. I knew Liz was taking care of her. I could tell she cared about her. I had seen Daisy Dukes strangling on dick, but whom hadn’t I seen strangling on dick, by this point? My job was making people strangle on dick.
“But... what about the girls?” I persisted.
“What about them?”
“I just think ...” I drew in a long, slow breath. “I think some of them were molested when they were younger.”
“Holy cow, Sam,” said Liz. “This is some day of epiphany for you. When did you come to that groundbreaking conclusion?”
I eyed her sharply. “Don’t make fun of me, okay? I just didn’t. . . well, before recently, I didn’t really believe that.”
“Well, congratulations,” Liz said, laughing. She lit a burner on her white stove and hoisted the pot onto it. “You’ve tapped into, like, the biggest stereotype ever! Girl gets pawed, girl grows up, girl gets pawed again.”
“So what are you saying?” I asked, watching her fearfully. “You think it’s true? Or, no. You think it’s stupid. It’s not true.”
“God, you are trying to figure this out, huh?” She tilted her head at me. “You’re kind of cute when you’re earnest. You know?”
“Did Daisy?” I asked, my voice quaking. “Did she get . . . molested?”
“Her real name is Leslie,” Liz said. “And since you’re interested, no. She didn’t.”
“So why is she in porn?” I asked doubtfully.
“Why are you?” Liz asked, waggling her eyebrows at me.
“Not the same thing,” I parried. “I’m not in front of the camera.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Liz said, laughing. She mimed getting fucked from behind. “Slide Bi Me, anyone?”
“Who told you about that?” I cried, infuriated. “Timberlake? That little fuckerl”
Liz collapsed into a fit of giggles, hugging her arms to her chest. “Nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie, nothing at all...”
“I’m glad I could be such a source of hilarity for you,” I said dryly, waiting for her laughter to subside. “Are you done yet?”
“Yes,” Liz said weakly. “Yes. Very done.” She wiped tears off her very pretty perfect face.
“Then I’ll answer your question.”
“Go, baby.”
“I’m in this game to make money.”
“So’s Leslie.”
“I’m in it for the attention.”
“Ooh,” said Liz. “Good honesty! Points. So’s Leslie.”
I opened her refrigerator. “What are we making?”
“Pasta,” Liz said. “Unless you want to get takeout?”
“I’m too lazy,” I admitted.
“Good,” said Liz. “Me, too. Pasta is good for you, anyway. It has amino acids.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said seriously. “So look. Maybe Leslie wasn’t molested. But I’ve been getting this feeling from some of the girls that I shoot that they were.”
“Maybe they were,” Liz said, shrugging and pushing past me to grab a couple of water glasses, which she filled from the tap. “I have a couple of friends who aren’t in the porn industry who had bad stuff happen to them. And those are just the ones who’ve come clean. Abuse isn’t as infrequent as we’d like it to be, unfortunately.”
I accepted a water from her and stared at it, frowning. “Or it’s like, collectively, these porn girls have been fucked with. You know what I mean? In the collective unconscious?”
“Now you’re talking over my head,” Liz said. “Missed that.”
“Women have been getting fucked over by men, degraded, for hundreds and hundreds of years!” I declared. “Reduced to a combination of ass, tits, and legs.”
“You’re a feminist!” Liz said. “This is really cute. A pornofeminist. Okay, I’m listening, very sorry to interrupt, but do you want spaghetti sauce? ’Cause we might have to go out and buy some.”
“Yes. I do want it. Let’s buy some.” I took Liz by the shoulders. “Listen. I just get this sense that I’m tapping into something ugly. I’m mining something here, something secret and sad. And there’s something wrong about it.”
“Okay,” agreed Liz. “I hear you”
“I have to stop doing it, don’t I?” I asked fearfully, waiting for her reaction.
“Not if you don’t want to,” Liz said dryly.
“I... I don’t?”
“Sam. Come on. Do you think that’s going to make a difference or something? Maybe some of the girls you shoot have issues, and sure, of course they do. Porn’s a strange diet for anyone to choose willingly. But are you going to change their past by quitting? Are you going to heal them by running away?”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I make my living off of this totally gross set of actions,” I mumbled.
“Well, true,” Liz said. “Your life’s pretty gross. On a cellular level.”
“I’m going to hell,” I decided.
“Well, I’m more detached from the action than you are, but I’m implicated, too,” Liz said. “And I don’t feel great about it. But what are we supposed to do? Quit? Have you ever thought about what you would do for money?”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about the new Kenwood stereo I had my eye on for the Volvo. Its parametric three-band equalizer and in-dash unit-integrated amplifier were only half a five-man gangbang away. “It’d be more difficult to get by,” I admitted.