You take Sally, I’ll

Take Sue, have fun then some too

Our balls ain’t so blue

“Where did you get that picture of me to work with?” Stephanie Swift asked me the question and I tried to come up with at least one of the excuses that I had been anxiously rehearsing in preparation for this moment. Unfortunately, everything that I thought I might say sort of twisted into a heap of umms and ahhhs when it tried to pass from my brain to my tongue and all I could say was, “Well, that is a great question.”

I thought about the artist, Mark. He was an amazing talent with a couple of crates of spray paint and a nozzle collection suited to conveying every nuance a brush stroke might be capable of rendering. He could get detail and texture and lines out of a can of spray paint, stunningly classic neo realism, a regular DaVinci of the pressurized paints. Everyone who knew his work which was in graffiti murals on buildings all over the world told me that I was lucky to get him to paint our trade show booth. They couldn’t believe he was actually doing a piece for, shame, shame, shame, an amateur porn company.

I remember trying to talk to him when he had been working, one part painting, another part smoking, another drinking beer, in the dense noxious fumes of his studio. He was sort of unintelligible. He peered from heavily lidded eyes that occasionally would widen. He seemed to look around at things that were only visible to him and everyone who has recently eaten a bucket of peyote washed down with a keg of suds. Whatever was there didn’t seem to readily present any danger to me but I couldn’t be certain. Who could know what type of demon might suddenly possess the guy and control his behavior, suddenly turning him into a slobbering, seething, raving mad Englishman.  I certainly didn’t feel lucky trying to get him to finish the painting by our deadline. Homegrown Video could definitely not show up at the biggest trade event of the year with a half painted booth. Unfortunately, all our conversations seemed sort of one sided since apparently so many years of using spray paint altered his brain to the point where conversation required an advanced degree of obscure dialects in the language of mumbling.

“Why did you paint Stephanie Swift?”

“Mmrrmwu? I wasn owngone erm doan  painsteswift.” It sounded sort of Gaelic but I thought he was saying that he didn’t know who Stephanie Swift was. No way to be sure which meant I had to be careful responding. I decided it was best to just talk as if I hadn’t actually completely finished what I had to say before.

“She is that porn star that was working with us but now isn’t and… How can you not know who she is when you painted her picture right there? She is not going to be in our booth at the show; she is going to be working for our competition… and we are going to look pretty frigging funny promoting her when she is not even going to be at our booth.”

“SurreyMeht.” Mark answered, and continued. “I cuddoerm mek… mumble, slur, babble…pay me more.”

That last part made too much sense.

We learned about the situation when we saw the booth with Stephanie Swift’s sexy picture plastered up in a larger than life poster at a booth three times the size of our humble little space. In the picture, her makeup looked great. Her hair was perfect. Her unblemished body had been digitally polished to perfection. Stephanie Swift was definitely not a Homegrown Video amateur anymore; rather, she was now a true blue film star. Thousands of trade show attendees would be filing past that image and looking up to it and wagging their tongues and pitching tent poles in their pants to salute her and encamp their approval so their little helmeted soldiers could stand at attention. Then if they spied our booth, they could march on over and find out why we had a booth painted with an image of Stephanie when lo and behold we had no Stephanie at our booth.

Having opted not to let the teamsters charge their exorbitant fees to carry the booth in and set it up for us meant we were sweating our balls off to carry every single heavy wood piece inside. Since we weren’t going union to get the job done meant a few things. One, we learned the hard way that we couldn’t bring the stuff in through the conveniently close exhibition space giant doors; no, we had to carry each piece the long way, all the way through the casino, down the endless hallways, and no form of cart was permitted.  So we were sweating and breathing hard when we stumbled across the booth which was already installed and it looked like a temple with Stephanie as its primary inspiration for worship. At first it chilled us and took our breath away, but with each subsequent trip past it, I grew more heated and let a big grudge grow. Now I wasn’t just hauling huge 4’x8’ sections of graffiti painted plywood I was carrying a heavy load of unwieldy anger which I desperately wanted to drop off on Ms. Swift Porn Superstar’s head.

As the assembly of our booth took shape, peers and business associates mulling about making sure their booths were in order and sizing up their competition.  The questions started in right away. “Why do you guys have Stephanie Swift painted on your booth when she has an exclusive contract and is signing over there?”

Great. Well at least I was going to get some practice coming up with excuses.

Stephanie “Chinacat” Swift was introduced to us by a San Diego local who goes by the alias “Mark Giffy”. He had met her the day before on a set where Stephanie was set to perform her first scene. Unfortunately, according to Stephanie, the guy had trouble performing (remember, this was before the days of drugs like Cialis and Viagra). When we met, I could scarcely believe that she wanted to be in adult videos.  She was so quiet; shy to the point of being like an oblique liquid transparency of anything resembling a personality that I thought if I looked at her long enough then she would blow away and pop like a glistening bubble blown by a kid on a hot summer’s day. Upon asking her the standard array of questions though, would you like to be in a Homegrown Video, why would you like to be in amateur porn, what would you like to do in a xxx video, how far do you want to go in the adult industry, and questions like that then I realized what a completely complex person Stephanie actually is.

Stephanie was inspired by a big star at the time named Raquel Darrian. She simply lusted for the opportunity to have sex with her. In fact, Stephanie admitted that getting into porn would be an excellent way to indulge her bisexual tendencies since, as she explained, finding a girl to bring into her relationship with her boyfriend had been tough. (Some people have problems the rest of us wish we had!) The one hitch to the plan was the fact that Stephanie didn’t want her boyfriend’s parents to find out that she was making amateur sex videos or indulging in any other kind of naughty and inappropriately erotic pastimes. The parents were apparently dusty and crusty old money San Diegans that would sincerely not approve of such things.

However, no matter what her boyfriend’s parents thought, Stephanie was determined to make some amateur porn with us. If she felt that way about it, then there was just one way to determine if she was being sincere about it or not – put her in the middle of an orgy and see how well she accounts herself.  Our strategy for the stuff that we used to shoot ourselves was entirely based on the type of amateur porn submittal content that we like best; keep the cameras rolling as long as people are having fun and make sure you have enough tape to capture it all. There were two cameras that day and it was still hard to capture all the action, especially when Stephanie was practically melting them down in her pursuit of absolutely intense orgasms.

The vibrator’s buzz

Electrifies her pussy

Her asshole tickles

The other day Lani and I were having sex when all of a sudden she asked that I fuck like the president. So I asked, “Which one?”

“All of them!” She replied.

“You have to be more specific.” I said. “Name one and I will fuck like he does.”

“Start with Nixon!” she threw out. So I tried sneaking in her backdoor but she caught me and impeached me from going any further. Then she said, “Ford!” I begged her pardon and tried to sink a hole in one with my putter in her pussy hole. She got kind of bored with that though and suggested Jimmy Carter next so I asked for the Lord to forgive me while I fucked her good and hard while I imagined fucking all the Playboy bunnies who attended Hugh Hefner’s pajama party in 1978. She enjoyed it but it just wasn’t enough so she screamed for Ronald Reagan.  I kept a big smile on my face while I secretly snuck my finger into her ass which made her shoot me a couple “what the fuck are you doing” looks but never took the smile off my face… on the contrary, I kept plugging away…

Then she asked for Bush Sr. so I just went ahead and invaded her ass but that didn’t last long before she wanted the President I was most looking forward to all along, Bill Clinton. I went wild like a freak and she loved every minute of it even when I pulled out and came all over her face and her blue nightgown. It was amazing and I thought we would stop there but, well, you know Lani… she just wanted more… but even I was kind of shocked when she asked for more…  Bush… Jr., that is.

So I had to re-inflate my now limp cock and try to figure out what the hell I was going to do so I figured I might as well, what the hell, try to go back to invading her ass and plunder her for all she was worth so that by the time I was through she would be pretty much too exhausted to continue. But we are talking about Lani here and you know what? She hoped we could go on. So at last she called for Obama. I ratified my stimulus package, rolled up my sleeves, and proceeded to lay some pipe…

Think about the cultural ramming-her-fications of such a space. For once and for all, the wild and wooly, down and dirty, hot and heavy social importance of the porn industry would be firmly and resolutely established. Forever more, the wankers and the spankers would have a place that exalted the objects of their desire in a way that did justice to all their perverse pleasures in a safe, clean, and well stocked with tissues environment.

Almost forgot. There needs to be a wing devoted to biblical sex where all the great begetting and loin springing tales can be brought to life with startling realism and exacting attention to detail. All that Sodom and Gomorrah and Samson and Delia and even that New Testament foot fetish stuff would have to be included. That way tickets could even be sold to the groups of bible thumping protesters that would otherwise be milling about outside could be brought in and charged admission. Everyone knows they are the kinkiest freaks too though so special care would need to be given to making sure that they didn’t freak out the rest of the patrons. Perhaps special flogging utensils need to be provided for the severely penitent and unworthy.

Which also reminds me that the cafeteria better have a catchy name, like “Snatch Bar”.

At that point I suppose I would probably be dodging a gaff that some huge bruiser of a stage hand would be extending to try and get me off the stage. The microphone would screech with feedback and ears would be crunched in the distortion as I was wrenched from the stage. The stage hand and I would try to smite each other mightily off in the curtains while the hostess porn starlet scrambled out with a  look of pure terror and not knowing whether I would return for more, or if someone would show up with a spare microphone by the time she took to the podium. As I clawed desperately into the floor trying to scratch my way back to the stage literally crawling on my belly until reinforcements showed up for the gaffer and attempted to beat me into a pulp.

I would see that very first amateur video that I shot with my ex back in the fancy suite at the Mandalay after that Grateful Dead concert at the Silver Bowl; the time our house mate shot our first naked shots in preparation for getting in “the book” at World Modeling, the first agency to specialize in handling porn stars; my first time on a big budget porn set shooting for John Leslie and dealing with all the male co-stars trying to psyche me out of being able to perform back in the days when there was no Viagra to be a crutch to your cock; there would be the time I took revenge on Bowen for trying to make my wife work with that drug addict Jerry Butler; my heart would beat faster recalling those anxious moments when Max Hardcore started a riot on Cinco de Mayo with Anna Malle taking her clothes off in the middle of a celebration in South Central LA but that would dissipate recalling the time Anna Malle took on the entire cast and crew and the term “Homegrown Moment” was coined; having sex on the prop truck while the cult film “Orgazmo” was being shot and the time we made Carrie Fisher believe I was Trey Parker and Trey Parker was me while we shot amateur porn with her and Richard Dreyfuss and Tim Hutton and Buck Henry; the time I froze up from being star struck with the opportunity to ball Christy Canyon in a Vivid Video until they had to call in Randy Spears to stunt cock for me; the fantastic orgies at the adult trade shows when sex was like a handshake in the process of getting to know folks; so many more scenes would streak by, each one punctuated by a cry of “cut” and “change position”.

I would grab the microphone in my sweaty palmed hand then say, “I guess all those hard days at the orifice have finally paid off.”

Then I would I would flip everyone the bird just like Johnny would.

Not really. But I would have to consider the possibility.

I would consider it. Then I would fight those impulses until I was literally sweating. Hopefully I would be far enough away from the audience that they would not be able to see how uselessly bad the perspiration flowed like a field sprinkler in a spring rain. Of course, that would be the dream because the reality is that the cameras would be in tight on a close up capturing every drip drop drip that ran from the tip of my nose or down the edge of my jaw to wet my tuxedo, eventually drying out later in the night to leave a nice yellow stain on my shirt collar. At least the time I took to overcome these issues and actually begin talking would deliver a sweet pregnant pause that would lend an air of authority and gravity to the moment. I would look around with a bit of confusion mixed with amazement and a touch of fear, much like a newborn before the spank that would make it wail and gulp for air in order to wail some more.

Then the audience would lean in a bit closer and move to the edges of their seats.  Just when they were about to fall off, or probably more appropriately fall asleep, or fall back to the security of the bars set up like bunkers at the back of the venue, then I would lean back into the microphone to begin speaking. Before a single word came out though I would experience something akin to a near death experience where one’s life flashes before their eyes, only it would be filtered out of everything not having to do with my time in the porn biz. It would play like a movie across my eyeballs, “The good, the bad, and the fugly”.