Archive for November, 2009

          With no greater grasp of what makes me sexually unique than I had on the day I discovered the virtues of Vaseline, I’m to have my manhood molded for mass production. Too late for seller’s remorse. I signed the contract and the cashed check is in a dozen different pockets now.

            I’m staring out the passenger-side window of Stan Trial’s SUV, paying as much attention to my self-absorbed fellow Angelenos as they pay attention to me. A sea of concrete, steel, and humanity  playing hurry-up-and wait on the freeway in our rolling isolation booths.

            Stan, the wunderkind director for the porn studio, DVD Gang, shoots porn like he’s filming at a skate board spot swarming with security guards.  Watching the sex scenes he’s shot, I often wonder what the fuck I just saw. And I’m in them. He’s been on the phone since we left the studio, playing verbal grab-ass with a porn girl who is chic-this-week. Fine by me. We snake our way through the West Valley freeway on the way to the Premiere Exotic Novelties, Inc. factory.  Apparently they are the biggest manufacturer of sex toys in the world. I’d never heard of them until that meeting.

             

            When DVD Gang’s president pitched the idea of an exclusive performing contract with the studio and a signature deal with his friends sex-toy company, PENI, it was all I could do to keep the bubbly-swigging-gangsta-rapper inside of me tasered the fuck down while I pulled on the stoic mask. Calm on the outside, I worked out some reasonable concessions. Inside, I was a ten-year-old stuck in a traffic jam with a full bladder; I couldn’t stuff those crispy checks into my rib-exposed bank account fast enough. Bitches and money; the ultimate swindle. Right?

           

            I ride along the freeway the way a prisoner would savor his last spoon of icecream. Only now, a month after the deal has been inked, do the consequences weigh on me. How do I feel about a rubber facsimiles of my cock with a half-life of herpes? What would the world look like with ten thousand of  my dick doppelgangers in it? Shit, the most thought I’ve given to the still nebulous process of casting my cock was the mention of a  fluffer to keep me hard. My imagination speculates  what this boner-bobbing beauty looks like. And who’s providing the girl, can’t remember — the studio or PENI?

            We prowl down the freeway exit ramp, coasting to a stop at the signal. A wide hipped Mexican woman extends a leathery hand holding plastic baggies of produce at my window. The banana’s browning skin tells me the meat inside has turned to mushy, black sugar.  I crack the window enough to slip a ten-spot through but not enough to let the med-fly-and-smog flavored fruit in. She snatches the cash and throws back rapid-fire grief. I’ve got a talent for insulting women without trying. In the side mirror,  cars behind us don’t even acknowledge the fruit lady’s existence. She can’t give her product away.

            Who the hell would buy these things anyway? Pretty girls can’t have much use for a rubber penis. They always have dozens of real cocks on call. Unless they just want the dick without having to deal with the dick. Gay guys? Sure, I guess, although personally  I’d rather think about that one-in-a-thousand coeds soon to be fucking  me by proxy.

            And what of the other uses for it? Door stopper? A toilet snake to unplug a stubborn clog. Mount it on a car antenna; when driving fast it undulates in the wind? Perhaps drill a hole in the base and mount it on a finger for the big game like one of those big foam “# 1” hands. Maybe it’ll be used for good, like a self-defense club,  and a granny will beat off a mugger…okay, poor choice of words.

            The deal memo says the dongs will be mechanized and battery powered. What if those robo-cocks go Mary Shelley and all ten thousand veiny bastards vibrate themselves off the shelves and out of the drawers and go on a pilgrimage to seek me out, filling my front yard like, well, Woodstock? Would the mob have a leader, and if so, can it talk? What do I say to it in that awkward moment, How’s it hanging? Knowing my luck they’ll go Roy Baty on me and push my eyeballs into my skull when I don’t have any answers for the questions I would ask if I was them. Imagine the TMZ van pulling up to my house to capture the moment of the pornstar bludgeoned to death by clones of his own cock.

            We turn onto a major boulevard where the single-family ranch homes and the pink-stucco apartment buildings dissolve to warehouses and business parks.

            “I dunno why they picked you for a sex toy.” Stan  looks like a Hollywood screenwriter that hasn’t sold a script since Chariots of Fire. He’s off the phone, scraping  his Suburban between two parked compacts and still has coordination to toss a shrapnel-edged truth-grenade my way. “You ain’t packin like Ron Jeremy, Lexington steel, or Shawn Michaels.”  He knows how to put a gimp in my swagger with the skill of an ex-wife.

            He’s right, this is insanity! I’m making a fool of myself!  Unless Lex loans me a few links, I’m gonna make a run for it as soon as we stop. 

            I don’t. Instead, I stand in the parking lot evaluating the PENI complex. No sign  to distinguish it from it’s neighboring office buildings and warehouses. Could be a auto-supply firm.  Could be a covert DARPA weapons test lab.

            Exactly.

            At the door, I close my eyes. The sound of passing traffic. My stoic mask on again, my hand grabs the handle. The door doesn’t want to give with obvious level of tug so I increase my effort. Airlock breached,  cool air whooshes past my ears.

            I enter.

            Continued…

“8th Day”, Adam & Eve’s  big film of the year got 20 nominations:

It’s widely considered to be the greatest modern porn film made according to critics.  It was a grueling year-and-a-half to make.

Friendships were ruined, marriages were destroyed. The friendship thing is a pain in the ass because I don’t have many friends, and when some of my friends decide to not talk to each other it’s annoying.

The two awards that directly affect me are the Best Supporting Actor (strange because I was the only male actor–who could have been the lead actor?) and  Best Group Sex Scene (again).  Cool, I have a reason to play poker in Vegas. I’ll use my award as a card protector.

I’m hopped up on Viagra tossing an Asian girl back and forth between me and “Malik” like we’re Joe Montana and Jerry fucking Rice.  Chemically enhanced, my Skull is crunchy cereal caught in the screws from the Inquisition and I got tone in my ears from my own private emergency broadcast station, wailing just for me.

“Cut,” says Jackson, the director.  “We got enough vag, lets get the anal.”

Great, ass spelunking.

Let me be clear. I’ve never been a fan of the sodomy arts. Sorry kiddies, but when you see me digging in a girl’s asshole, it’s all about the money.  It’s just not my thing. My first time ever, personal or professional, was with the amazing Lauren Phoenix. I was 30 years old and it was stellar.  It all went to shit from there.

“Are you clean?” I ask the girl.

“Yeah, but lemme clean up a little bit more,” she says, and goes off set to the bathroom. She takes a box of baby wipes with her.

With no girl on the bed, I’m self conscious of laying next to another dude while we both stroke our cocks to keep the motor running in feminine absence. I stand up.

Jackson sits on the foot of the bed and says, “You’ve been doing a great job for us, Tyler. You really stepped up these past few months.”

These guys shoot me so much, I clock four-thou a month from them alone.

“Thanks, man,” I say. “I may have an off day eventually but I’ll always give it my best.”

Malik, this studio’s contract kid, is on his back stroking his cock.  He’s using two hands but it’s really a job for three. It’s fucking ridiculous, his dick is a baby’s arm holding an apple. Malik bust a freestyle rap about pussy and assholes.

“So,” I say, “I figure since I have a normal-sized dick I’ll warm Andrea up with me doing the first anal position.”

“Nah, man!” says Malik. “Lemme get that ass first while I’m still hard. You got a smaller dick so you don’t need as much to keep you going. Plus, it’s my series.”

Pulling rank. Nice.

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”  It’s been an hour since I popped the first Viagra and it’s screaming through my system full force now.

Where this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing, let’s go!

For civilian purposes I took enough to be a Goddamn superstar all night, but for professional use, which is all I give a shit about, the clock is ticking.

“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” Andrea says as she bounds onto the bed and into Malik’s arms. The go down in  their own little giggling pile of youth like I’m not even there. It would be a real Kodak fucking moment if I didn’t have to go through the paces of ass-fuckery.

“Let’s shoot this fucking thing,” I say, and the kids stop their grab-assing.

“Action!” shouts Jackson, and back into the melee I go. I’m laying on my back, my dick in Andrea’s mouth while Malik is widening the guage of her asshole. The blowjob sucks, and in this case it’s not a good thing. Malik is slamming into her ass like a battering ram and each impact either scrapes my dick against Andrea’s teeth or knocks  it out of her mouth entirely. It’s like getting blown by a blender on puree. I feel the drug’s window of efficacy closing and that’s a motherfucker ‘cuz  I already took a near-lethal dose, my heart wants to leap the fuck out of my mouth and I’m getting a serious case of numb-dick.

Jesus Christ, not yet!

Malik is going DEFCON 4 slamming into the gates of her ass as if he’s a barbarian laying siege to Constantinople and my cock feels like it may as well belong to someone else.

“Switch,” says Jackson. Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind Andrea’s ass. It’s gaping, offering a clear shot of her pink innards but that’s the least of my concerns. On her rim, flecks of fecal matter that have the consistency of gruel and the color of bread gone bad. A scent…no, an unholy stench like  slaughtered cows suspended in a vat of mayonnaise  left to  turn in the desert leaps out of her exposed cavity and slaps my face like a dame in a Bogart movie. The worst part of this is, the Viagra-and-exasperation cocktail has left me short of breath.

 And my mouth is open. I snap my mouth shut and vacuum seal my lips, searching for the elusive adjective for the phantom of taste still lingering on my palate.  It tastes surprisingly like fresh-picked strawberries! That’s if in some fucked-up parallel universe strawberries are dingleberries. Seriously man, I’m searching for some kind of real-life comparison ‘cuz “tastes like shit” ain’t gonna cut it. I suspect I could live two lifetimes and never succeed.

Good…GOD!

Jackson peeks over the top of the camera’s viewfinder. “Go ahead man, fuck ass. I’m rolling”

“I need a minute,” I say.

Malik and Andrea, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them, cold cock in my hand. Normally if I my dick goes down I just have to look at a girls ass and I’m dealt back in the hand  but I’m taking a bad beat on the river because sewer cheeks has eliminated my last out. 

Do NOT look at her ass. For the love of God!

So there I am, rubbing a brittle, dry-rotted eraser passing for my dick with the business end of her ass aimed right at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.

Wank bank please don’t fail me now.

Within the time it takes microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornnoland when timed location fees are ticking away like a taxi meter, I manage to conjure up some depraved shit in my head to get me going.

I’m fucking Andrea’s ass, not looking down, mouth closed and taking sips of air from my nose because smell is the lesser of two evils.

Jackson is behind me holding the camera next to my head, shooting over my shoulder and down for the point-of-view/you-are-there shot. His dragon breath on my neck.  He can tongue my ear if he chooses to but instead he  whispers, “Give me some in-and-outs.”

What he wants is for me to pull my dick out of Andrea’s asshole entirely so he can zoom in and shoot the gape. My inner child screams:

NOOOO! Don’t! Fucking! Do! It!

Nothing good can come of this. Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because  I’m  fast becoming erection impaired and I’m still thinking of the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels. I extract my penis, millimeter-by-millimeter, Jackson’s stubbly face over my shoulder making us some kind of fucked-up, two-headed porn chimera and I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster mountain  looking down. I pull the penile finger out of the dike…

…and nothing.

Whew!

I shove my cock back into her asshole and get a few strokes when Jackson exhales into my ear, “Do it again.”

My inner child throws a tantrum,  my heart goes supernova and my field of  vision is diminished to a speck. Could be from the adrenaline dump, could be from the side effects of the drug. Who the fuck cares? What difference does it make at this point? Again, I back my dick out of the asshole and…

…the barrel clicks on empty.

Inner child whimpers, “I  *sniff* wanna go hoooome.”

Her sphincter  puckers and protrudes like a toothless  old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage.

 My inner child is in a fetal ball.

My dick is free falling. I stroke three or four times, not looking at the flecks of fecal matter on my shaft.  I could point the leakage out to Jackson so the girl can clean up, but it’s camouflaged into my brown skin, and the last thing I want to do is stop the camera. I won’t ever get back anything resembling an erection for the rest of the 21′st century if we delay. What a fucked-up dilemma. I don’t want to quit but my options are grim. What the fuck do you think I do? I rub the shit-flakes into my dick, using it as lube.  A python plays grab-twist-and-pull with my guts and there’s an acrid taste of bile in my mouth.

Don’t hurl you douche! Don’t do it!

So I play Enter the Asshole once again,  but this time I have to death-grip the base of my shaft like a carnival balloon to milk enough bloodflow for penetration. Once again, fucking away with my undead dick, not penetrating past the sphincter and I’m so soft Jackson does not have to tell me to pull out. Andrea shits my pathetic nub of a cock out and I concede defeat.  I’m still behind the girl in the line of fire when it happens. The aperture of her asshole snaps open and convulses like a heaving cat struggling with a hairball…and her hole is a water cannon. Well, fecal cannon to be accurate.

A human seltzer bottle, she gatling-guns crap, lettuce chunks, and more crap all over me and Jackson uses me as a human meat-shield. 

It’s The Running of the Bowels! Malik leaps off the bed and across the room like he’s got the Force as Andrea scats on me like Ella Fitzgerald.

My inner child is sitting in a corner, arms wrapped around it’s knees. He says nothing.

“Okay, cut.” Jackson says. “You need a minute, Tyler?”

Is he fucking serious?

“No,” I say “I do not need a ‘minute’. It’s a wrap for me, I’m done for the day.”

“But you have to finish. This is only the first anal position for you and you have to fuck her ass to pop!”

Looking down on the mattress, I see dookie islands in a lake of shit. I know it’s trite but I’m knee deep in it. I dry heave, nearly blowing chunks, adding to the geography with a puke archipelago.

Enough!

I grab my pants and underwear.

Damn it, underwear will be ruined. It’s Versace.

“Jackson,” I say. “I can’t imagine anything that will get me hard again, let alone be able to fuck her ass to popshot.”

He sets his camera down but only after inspecting his delicate lens for flyaway spew. “Don’t be a baby, man. Be a professional…take a Viagra or something.”

My heart is no longer beating. It’s vibrating so fast it glows in my chest like  E-fucking-T.

“If you don’t finish the scene it’s gonna jeopardize our business relationship,” he says.

I listen to my inner child, grab my shit and I go home.

 

 

 

 

“I have a booking for you tomorrow. Two scenes one movie,” she says. “The Director wants to know if you’re okay with violence and horror mixed with the sex.”

I’m sitting at my computer desk, a cup of green tea warming one hand, cell phone in the other. “Horror porn?” I ask.

“Yeah, like simulated violence but the sex would of course be real,” she says.

(more…)