I opened the door to Ing’s and bathroom nonchalantly, trying to downplay even the remotest possibility of any potential horror awaiting on the other side. I looked back with a shrug, “What could possibly be so bad?”

Spark knew. “You have to see it for yourself.” He said as if I might be walking into a room where someone just got hacked into bloody bits.

Then I saw it with my own eyes.

It could could have been a twisted prank. Some dadaist art piece designed to instigate disgust and provoke a riot. Or special effects from a horror movie made real  and therefore infinitely more disgusting. The bathtub. It looked like it was alive, crawling… hairy. From the hot water a steamy cloud thick with a stench of body odor and scented putrid soap scum hung in the air. The bathtub was thick with Ron Jeremy’s body hair, short, thick curly black hairs that clung to the sides of the tub with greasy suds drying to a hard fuzz lined it end to end. The puddled remnants of water that could not pass down the choked drain was grey with a dirty film. It rippled at one end trying to find a way down and out drop at a time.

Renting an apartment or house out for a location one is always taking a huge risk. The bored production minions, the apathetic actors, the selfishly arrogant directors and producers that are too busy trying to get their shots couldn’t care less. As far as they are all concerning, that space is theirs to do as they wish for the duration of the shoot. They own it.  They don’t care if they break the vase, flick burning ashes on the oriental rug, rip the upholstery moving the furniture into a stack in the corner. In mainstream or in porn, it is all the same regardless but ALL of those things would have been easier to handle than the devastation of Ron’s bath.

Ing stood behind me gently sobbing, demanding a new bathtub. “How am I going to clean that?” She wanted to know and I honestly was at a loss for any suggestion. Some sort of incendiary device would be too dangerous. Chemicals too noxious. It would require a complete hazardous waste disposal team to secure the premises and begin a toxic waste disposal process. Chances were good that Dupont hadn’t yet come up with a solvent that would break down such a biohazard as Ron Jeremy’s hairy soap scum.

I didn’t have the heart to warn her that we were probably going to find used anal sex condoms under the couch too when the Vivid shoot was finally wrapped.

Don't look under the couch...

I burst through the door, but silent as a shadow, creeping along to stay quiet so as not to disrupt the shoot. At the end of a long day, those hot lights can explode if things get especially steamy or the PA that has secretly been doing drugs all day with the starlets knocks it over; with patience on the brink, tempers about to snap, this is when the porn set is more like an accident waiting to happen, a bridge about to be burned,  the end of the fantasy of sex as something fun. Ing was outside her bathroom. Spark was holding and consoling her. She was trembling like she just saw the ghost of her dead mother walking her dead pet dog which was run over by the school bus.

“What happened?”

“He ruined my bathroom?” Ing wouldn’t look at me. At the time I don’t think she could see anything or anyone except Spark. He was completely the enveloping universe of love and protection, a perfect boyfriend, who was listening, reassuring, and warding from any further harm.

“What?” I was dead split between trying to sound deeply sympathetic but finding it hard to balance against intense skepticism.  ”Ron Jeremy ruined your bathroom? How did he do that?” Now I was looking at Spark too. He could be a mad dog when it came to protecting Ing, in all her innocence and demure naivete, an angel of rank in God’s Army. He would hopefully be the voice of reason in the next few minutes. He could just as easily be the boyfriend that opens up a can of psycho wuppass and starts WW III. Man to man, dude to dude, bro to bro… all that was easily disposable. Girls like Ing, so pure and true, were not typically the kind of girl he had ever been with since he was essentially a street kid that crawled out of the ooze of the LA river winding through downtown Los Angeles. Being with her was both a miracle and an evolution and as beyond true explanation as either for making the case of existence. Although their relationship was demonstrable by cause, because they were always, always, always together, and by effect, because they effectively were two opposites that were completely and utterly attracted to one another.

Spark was keeping it cool though. I guess at the end of the day he too realized that the only way everyone was going to collect a check for all the indignities suffered that day was if there was not a complete nervous breakdown, a boyfriend brawling, or any other sort of tremor that would rock the whole deal. Good thing because you really need that check at the end of the day for all the hassle, the spent analized condoms turning crusty under the couches. The broken dishes. The starlets talking porn outside your neighbors door even after you reminded them ten times not to.

“You need to see this” Spark looked at the bathroom door.

Ron Jeremy used the bathtub. What could possibly be so freaking tragic about that? It is a good thing to be clean right?

No ass make up needed here!

Since Ing seemed to be on the verge of tears and totally freaked out about having to apply concealer to some porn girls pimply ass, I really didn’t want to push her over the edge and say something like “what the fuck did you expect?” I could understand where she might of thought that doing make-up on a porn shoot would only entail trying to make the girls look their best and not mean in fact that she was going to be painting the tail ends of girls getting ready for anal reamings. I recommended that her boyfriend Spark handle the ass make up since it certainly wouldn’t be something I would expect him to have a problem with and as a graphic artist he would have the necessary skills to blend any colors necessary to make those butts look good. Ing liked the idea which was cool because I could easily have seen her getting jealous about it. Luckily that was not the case because she was willing to take that chance more than she was willing to rub some model’s naked ass with  a sponge of cake make-up. Good to know your limitations when it comes to stuff like this…

So, of course, making porn is still show biz and the sex show must go on. Ing went back to her loft. Vivid was renting both our lofts out for the shoot and that meant more of everything. More girls. More grips. More suitcase pimps. More catering. More director – assistant directors – assistants to the assistants. More craziness. And of course more of Ron Jeremy hanging around waiting for his scenes to be shot. Ing came back over for a report.

She stood there staring at me. I couldn’t tell if she was going to kill me or cry me a river even while the sun of good fortune and easy money was shining brightly on her and making it so she could harvest enough cash to pay rent. Shadows from the clouds of emotion passed by reflecting each shade of expression so quickly.  Kill. Look, that one floating by looks just like a crazy guy with a knife. Cry. That one looks like a baby… being dropped. Kill. Cry. Kill. Probably everyone is asking her why she doesn’t do porn…

Ing is a gorgeous girl… but innocent as the lamb that ended up on the dinner table slathered in mint jelly.

“Everything ok?” I asked. Ing was from a good family, deeply religious, and had led a life very sheltered from the weirdness of things like the porn industry. I knew she was being immersed in a world that was completely alien and somewhat intimidating to those with any sort of prudish bent, which Ing certainly is – straight as the crucifix on top of the steeple. The sight of naked people walking around completely unconcerned as if LA was actually the Garden of Eden freaked her out, but she had weathered it so far. She was even cool with Ron Jeremy sleeping the day away on her couch… until she got close enough to realize, to her horror… he had B.O.

“He smells.” She said with a look of potent disgust cinching her lip to try and constrict her nostrils from any further abuse. “I am going to have to get a new couch! Do you think Vivid will pay for it?”

You don’t get to be Vivid if you buy everyone a couch. Of course, by the same token, everyone should surmise with a smidgen of forethought that couches on porn sets should be roped off with Hazardous Waste KEEP OUT tape. I would have laughed except I realized that she was completely serious.

For Sasha Grey to get hired as an actress by such acclaimed directors like Steven Soderbergh for his film “The Girlfriend Experience” and subsequently also to get a recurring role on the hit show Entourage, people must have seen some sort of special talent. The interesting part is the only way they could have made that judgment initially is by seeing her suck and fuck like a wanton, craven, lusty, bawdy, dirty little whore slutting it up for the camera so that other people could watch it, get turned on and start jerking off. Ultimately sending out a ripple of orgasmic energy that was obviously powerful enough to make people stand up and go… “I think this girl can act.”

Homegrown Video landing the original amateur porn of Sasha, with future pornstar Sasha Grey freewheeling sexuality in budding prime, makes it the ultimate “demo reel”. This is the amateur porn that would bust her porno cherry. It isn’t the Sasha Grey tube site porn that you have probably seen everywhere else. This is Sasha Grey before the” I am a star” Facebook profile and Sasha Grey before she started to get bored with doing porn and started setting her sites on mainstream fame in Entourage and Girlfriend Experience.

Sasha Grey’s amateur porn debut gives the best clue to her future popularity. The girl is a natural! Even if she is only acting, she does it so naturally and so effortlessly that it appears real, which is of course the goal of any good performance. I bet Soderbergh said to himself… something like this… “Any girl that can take a cock in her ass and her mouth pounding wildly at the same time and look like she is having that much fun has got to be a great actress!”

[

Daphne, Homegrown Video

Some folks just absolutely ooze with Homegrown Video’s truest spirit, the unbridled sexuality that pumps life into those homemade sex tapes. For example, when the time came to represent, to stand up, to deliver the goods, Daphne would always go the extra mile to make good great. Whenever she and I shot some amateur porn taking turns running the camera, shooting photos, and that sort of thing, if she became turned on by the action then off would come the clothes and Daphne would be wanting to jump into the middle, usually pulling me by the Johnson to join in the fun.
Once, while I was finishing up shooting a live show from our San Diego studio, Daphne disappeared briefly. I was a little miffed that she was leaving me to deal with everything. You can only imagine what the aftermath of several hours of live sex looks like. Sweaty sheets pulled out of place with a tangle of spent condoms slithering around oozing cum like runny noses drip. There is wet underwear and stinky shoes. The swampy sweet fog of greasy lust permeates and clouds the senses. Don’t get me wrong.
I love it. But….
I just don’t like being the one that has to clean it up. So I called for her. No answer. Where the hell did she take off to? Things were put back in order. The sheets changed, the condoms gingerly coaxed into waste buckets. I was sitting on the bed pausing to enjoy a moment of peace and cleanliness when Daphne stepped in. She had changed into a sexy red gown and put her hair up. She crawled up on the bed and lifted the dress to show off her gorgeous ripe pear of an ass. She looked back at me mischievously. “I want you to fuck my ass” she begged.
I turned back on the live feed. The show would definitely go on.

Small breasts, if you looked around the trade show floor would appear to be a detriment and an affront to the art of pornography. Tiny tits were like an abstract and minimalist rendition of what every other portrait of a porn girl looked like, where lush bosoms and ample buttocks were drawing crowds of gawkers. The critics and the pundits certainly had their two cents to spend on an opinion.

“She certainly has a unique look. Kind of like a Siamese cat. Something sort of sultry about her… and that pretty mouth, you just want to put your cock in and fuck it hard.” People who right porn video reviews always have strong opinions that border on kinky obsessions. No wonder. Eight hours of watching adult videos five days a week is enough to turn anyone into a freak. The guy handed me his card. I took it between my thumb and forefinger to try and minimize any potential contact with bodily fluids. I didn’t recognize the magazine but regardless I would have to kiss his pinky typing finger to make sure we came away with decent press for all our efforts. “You painted her with bigger boobs than she really has though.” No end to this embarrassment until we could break down the booth and turn ourselves back to San Diego.

“That is because, long story, that is really not a picture of Stephanie Swift.”

He looked at me with the slack blankness of disbelief and raised an eyebrow over a squint of skepticism.

“Well, she could really be a huge star if she gets her boobs done. I watched your scenes with her and she has this sort of slutty but sophisticated thing going on that is really hot.”

Then, naturally, there would be that hallowed hall of all the past inductees to the Porn Hall of Fame and here you would find life size fully articulated, infinitely flexible lifelike latex version of the studs and sluts being recognized for all eternity on the basis of their sexual prowess. Museum visitors would not only be able to pose for photos with the star or starlet of their choice but they would also, for a nominal fee, be able to actually experience brief but reasonably satisfying copulations as well. After that, if the patron happened to be a smoker desiring a post coital cig then they would be able to enjoy the smoking fetish lounge where gorgeous staff dressed seductively would blow smoke in their faces through pursed lips shiny with rouge lip gloss before handing them the lit cigarette.

Without a doubt, I would have to be consulted on the porn archeology wing where the ongoing research into the permutations of amateur porn would be carried out with rigorous scientific standards. As amateur porn evolved into forms like “pro-am” and “reality” and “gonzo” and continues to adapt and change, there would be an opportunity for visitors to see adult entertainment historians, amateur porn producers, and actual distributors in collaboration and in literally a “hands on” environment museum attendees would be able to assist in the process. Of course, lubrication would be provided…

If you ask me, porn is responsible for the pube-less prepubescent look so prevalent in the prurient fashion pretenses of today’s prototype of the usually protean nubile prima donna. The tangles and twists of short and curly pubic hair previously so popular in the public’s eye have predictably been plucked in favor of exposing pretty, puffed, waxed, and pampered pudenda for no better purpose than to be able to purvey what is happening… down there… when the penis is penetrating the pink folds of the labia. Today, Lady Godiva rides out of gates in a palace of perversions for panting Peeping Toms to peruse her particulars and note whether her pussy is particularly shaved, in a shape perhaps, like a point of an arrow, or trimmed to pretend the patch of hair is soft as the fuzz of a peach. Previously, that place where the sex was protected by the thicket of soft thistle providing cover to that most private of places was revered by prurient interests with a propensity of lustful propriety; all hailed the hairiest bush properly. Today, the prim and the prude prance about extolling how propriety requires proper cropping for one to be promoted to perfections of sexual propensity. I say, fuck that, the hairiest bush is just as warm a place to point my proud erections!

Of course, with that first admonishment the first seeds of shame were planted in a sandy soil, the true grit of my soul, and though the roots run deep to nourish from a wellspring of muddy guilt, my libido like a resilient scurrying little hungry for sex rodent burrows in. The landscape is a desert for inspiration but somewhere between the barren patches thorny fruits nourish my craving for something sexual, no matter how brittle and lacking in actual sexuality. A Sears catalog full of tons of crap an eight year old could care less about has just a few pages of brassiere ads offering scant but fulfilling enough nectar to feast my eyes on. Books by Freud offer suggesting tidbits but hide the tastiest morsels in Latin. (Years later I would spend a couple years learning Latin so as to be able to translate those passages… unfortunately I could never find the book again in my parent’s shelves.) Tough times, but I survive and learn to forage furtively.

In the scheme of things, arousal doesn’t necessarily inspire the spirit of courage but it can make one courageously curious on a quest for arousal’s inspiration. This became quite clear to me as I set out to more and more dangerous crags and crevices of the house to find whatever possible scrap where it may lay. Though the prospect of getting caught searching through my parent’s bedroom and their closets was severely unpleasant, the risk would ultimately merit the reward, but not without a few very, very, way too close for comfort close calls.

Of course, whoever thinks “what if… I get caught?”