The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 8: Flight

(I found this image at Jet Set Blog)

Every time I pack to return from my trips to Los Angeles, I am so grateful for having learned to pack light. This time I had everything in my carryon bag in minutes.

Breakfast with Andrew was uneventful: Espresso and home-made oatmeal, our usual. We didn’t talk much. “I didn’t pay them for the sex,” he said out of the blue. I flipped on my psychic switch to see if he were lying. Unfortunately I was burned out and could not tell, so I just nodded and said nothing. We didn’t talk about what happened the night before. I wanted to, but my thoughts were not coherent and I felt at a disadvantage. I’ll call him later, I thought.

At the airport he shoved a wad of bills into my hand to cover my expenses. He’d never done that before. “I’ll send you a check for the airplane ticket when I get home,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.” He looked sad. “I miss you already. Please come back?” He looked very worried.

“Of course,” I reassured him and gave him a kiss. “We always have such a good time.”

At the gate I felt so lonely, and eventually succumbed to the urge to call my ex. To my surprise, he actually answered the phone. Could I see him soon? I missed him, and given my weekend I really needed someone to talk to. We made arrangements to spend some time together upon my return.

Little did I know my next meeting with my ex would be the last time I saw him for several weeks. He was less than sympathetic to my plight. “You knew the deal going into it,” he said. “That’s the way it’s done. If they pay your airfare it means they bought you. What did you expect?”

He then suggested I might be moonlighting as a call girl. How else would I get to go to all these great places and see all these wonderful things? Why else would my fancy suitcase always be packed and ready to go? What about all these new men who were calling me? Where have I been mysteriously disappearing to all these weekends?

I glared at him. “I bought my own ticket.”

“Well then, that’s different. You had the right to say no, then.”

“I had the right to say no in any case,” I snapped.

He shrugged. His offhand comment triggered a vicious overreaction in me, and he more than paid for it with my venom. We slept fitfully in his bed, not making love, barely even touching. The next day I sent him a bitter email telling him I was through with him, but I wasn’t really through, because I managed to send one scathing email after another until I wore myself out and started to miss him. I spent almost an entire month moping and brooding and crying and not dating anyone. I realized his accusation was partly my fault: I’d been exaggerating my romantic exploits in order to make him jealous. I’d forgotten that when it comes to Scorpios, it doesn’t take much.

What is it they say? MEN: Can’t live with them, can’t shoot ‘em!

But here I am, overlapping my stories. You already know I eventually kissed and made up with my ex. Actually, I probably need to quit calling him “my ex.” I need to make up a name for him, perhaps a soap opera name such as Chase or Ridge or . . . hell, I don’t know; I don’t watch soap operas! I will create a character for him, though: A handsome, established bachelor. He’ll be solitary, paranoid and suspicious, not interested in marriage, and passionate, possessive, moody and jealous when in love. He’ll be an aesthete, a gourmet, and a musical prodigy. Actually, he’s not a bad character for this drama; I think I’ll keep him! He sounds rather like a Heathliff, don’t you think? Heath, for short.

(The End?)

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 7: Substantial Penalty for Early Withdrawal

It was Sunday night and I was feeling out of sorts. Actually, I'd been out of sorts since I got off the airplane that previous Friday. Let me explain.

Before that weekend, all my flights to and from LA had been spent doing calculus homework. This time instead I'd made a vow to read only "chick lit" and so grabbed the first three pink-jacketed books I saw at the airport bookstore. The titles:

Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl

Prep

Elements of Style

Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl intrigued me, so I decided to read it first. I'd occasionally wondered what my life would have been like had I chosen this path myself. I had the looks, the body, and the brains of an expensive courtesan. Combine those qualities with a ravenous sexual appetite and what job could be more perfect than a high-priced, low-profile professional companion rubbing - er - "elbows" with the rich and/or famous? Sites such as Jet Set Blog only add to the glamour and intrigue. I'd be rich! Ah, if only I found casual sex with complete strangers appealing. Soulless sex with rich men who think I'm a whore and who'd probaby treat me like a wadded up tissue after the deed was done. Yuck.

I really do know better. One beautiful, red-haired ex- call girl made this very clear to me while I was working as a sexual violence counselor in college: The life of a call girl, however high-priced, is not glamorous. It's dangerous, soul-sucking and demoralizing. It's no better than street prosititution, only higher-paid and in a nicer setting.

Still, I was curious: I wanted to get into the head of this particular call girl, Tracy Quan, to find out what made her different than me. Supposedly, although highly precocious and fascinated by sex, and despite the fact that she supposedly "always" wanted to be a call girl, underlying the titillating stories of fancy hotels and faked threesomes was the sad truth: What was "different" was that she was sexually abused by a neighbor when she was thirteen (she calls it her first "trick"). She ran away from home and was turning tricks to survive at the age of fourteen.

Which, if you really think about it, throws this whole idea of her career "choice" out the window: What "choices" does a fourteen year old runaway have? Actually, given our status as members of The Sex Class, what choices do MOST women in this world have? Good Girl vs. Whore?

This was the mood I was in when my plane landed in the pornified landscape that is Los Angeles. With a different mindset, perhaps, my visit to the Playboy studio with Andrew might have been nothing more than a lark to me, because images of nudity and consensual sexuality generally don't bother me at all. In fact, I'm an exhibitionist myself and probably wouldn't mind the work. There was nothing wrong with what was going on at the Playboy studio; it was all pretty silly and harmless. Unfortunately, while watching these naked women pole-dance and writhe, all I could think was that they were only being paid enough to eat for a few days. What they were doing to pay the rent was probably more harmful and much less safe.

As I jumped into another sex-soaked weekend with Andrew, I saw my own role as just one more member of the Sex Class, and I wasn't even being paid. One of the reasons Andrew searches far-and-wide for his girlfriends is that he wants, in his own words, "a woman he can kiss," someone he can spend quality time and have a "real" relationship with. On the other hand, most of the other women in his life are women who won't let him kiss them. Most of the women in his world, the ones who look like me at least, charge by the hour, women who come to Los Angeles with dreams of stardom but end up turning tricks and starring in porn flicks. Andrew is sympathetic to these women's plight, but sees sex work as any other kind of work and does not judge his environment harshly. Once upon a time, when he was an impoverished immigrant living in New York City, he was even faced with the decision to hook-or-not-to-hook, American-Gigolo style, just to make ends meet.

The scene was finally starting to bother me, now that the lie of my "Sex-Positive Choice Feminism" was exposed. I was even suspicious that Andrew wasn't flying me out to LA because he cared about me; rather, perhaps he was flying me out because I was a fucking bargain, if you'll pardon the pun.

To say these thoughts killed my ordinarily turbocharged sex drive is an understatement. Little things started to bug me, such as the fact that we had to have The Condom Discussion every goddamn time I flew out to see him. That weekend he even tried to force himself on me without a condom while I was lost in my own lusts, a calculated move that infuriated me to the point of physical violence (I did hit him). I also started to pick up on an attitude that my sudden decreased inclination to fuck him every hour on the hour was somehow not okay, as if the fact that he bought my plane ticket bought him unlimited access to my body for the weekend. Which is ludicrous on its face: Even if we were to accept our arrangement at cash-for-flesh, a round trip to/from LA is the price of one hour with a call girl. Besides, this time I even bought my own ticket, so, well, FUCK HIM.

Or, not! My protests about what was wrong with this picture were loud and emphatic. He was patient and understanding about everything that bothered me about our weekend so far. Except for my refusal to have sex with him: That part he just did not get.

By Sunday night I'd had it. I looked all over his house for a magazine that I could bury my nose into so as to withdraw from him. Unfortunately, Andrew is hyperactive and cannot sit still to read anything. I finally found a few automobile magazines from 2004 and flipped through those. I though about pulling out my own books but I wasn't in the mood to finish a story about a prostitute just then, and I wasn't about to start a new book until I finished the old one.

We agreed to watch Pulp Fiction, a supposedly classic movie I'd never seen because I generally refuse to watch violence. Not fifteen minutes into the movie he was poking at me.

"Forget it," I said.

"Just a little bit," he pleaded.

"I said no. I've had it. I'm sexed out. I'm done. FINIS. Okay?"

This went on for several minutes. Finally he said, "I'll just have to do it myself, then."

"Fine."

I had to go to the bathroom to wash up afterwards. I crawled back into bed, facing away from him, praying to fall asleep so that Monday would come more quickly.

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 6: High Contrast

I'm sure this has happened to you before: You're in a strange place and all of a sudden you're thinking: How did I get here? What have I done? The question is rhetorical; there is no immediate answer. You just do what you have to do to get through the moment. This is pretty much what I was thinking that Sunday as I trudged upstairs wearing nothing but a towel, my gay pool boy fantasy in tow. That and "How do I blog about this without giving my mother a heart attack?"

I was not raised to be a hedonist. I grew up in a strict Calvinist Norwegian/Germanic family in Minnesota where sex was almost never discussed. "When you grow up on a farm ye don't need sex education," my father used to tell my mother, which was fine except we didn't grow up on a farm. One day my mother quietly slipped a picture book under our pillows and my sister and I figured out how a tadpole became a frog and where puppies came from. We did the math and it all made sense.

I lost my virginity the usual way: At the age of seventeen with a fumbling high school boy who didn't know what he was doing. My dad read my diary and lost his mind, and eventually I moved out. He called me a "hedonistic pleasure seeker," which in my father's world (almost Quaker in its sensibilities) is a very bad thing. Rather than accept his shaming, I adopted the label as a badge of honor and from that day on sensuality was my raison d'etre. I grew very wise, very quickly: I read every book I could find about human sexuality. I practially majored in sex in college (B.S. Human Relationships, 1989). I had my own research grant and was an RA to a well-known sex researcher.

All of my hedonistic activities today, I suppose, still qualify as field research.

"All acts of love and pleasure are my rituals," says the Goddess, and believe me I've had my share. I've never allowed a man to hold me to a higher moral standard than he was willing to live up to himself. Being clairvoyant and seeing what most men do when their wives and girlfriends aren't looking, this often means open relationships, whether up front or by default once my partner strays. Still, my tastes in lovemaking remain almost Tantric. I yearn for the transcendant, spiritual kind of sexuality, the kind of mindblowing lovemaking that leaves you sweaty and shaking and unable to move afterwards. The kind of love that rips you apart and reassembles you piece-by-piece so that you're changed forever. To achieve such bliss, one needs to be in a long-term relationship based on love, committment and trust.

As I approached Andrew's bedroom with Bruce I knew the situation was as remote from tantra as it could get. I've always known that so long as I walked the hedonistic path there were bound to be days like these. Here were two people, Bruce and Kendra, who may have been - - maybe not? - - bartering their sexuality in exchange for cash, and I was horribly conflicted about it. I'm generally opposed to the pure cash-for-flesh exchange because it is cold and empty and denies pleasure and full personhood to the ones accepting payment. At the same time, I believe people should be able to do what they want with their bodies. I hold the paradox in my head with no sense of irony: Our time is on the auction block; we are constantly exchanging energy for experience. Money is a form of energy, and sex is one kind of experience; so, legal or not, the cash-for-flesh exchange will exist until humanity does itself in.

I knew Bruce would not have been here if he hadn't needed the money, and this sad fact rendered the situation completely unacceptable to me. I didn't know Kendra's story except that this was not her first time with Andrew and I was not about to judge. I needed to figure out a way to get through the next twenty minutes without compromising my ethics. Or, for that matter, outing my new-found friend.

"I'm not going to do anything," I told the gremlins in my head.

"Suit yourself, we don't give a shit," they said. The gremlins are completely amoral. They're always there for me, but not exactly reassuring. I knew right then that they weren't going to interfere unless I asked.

"Just help me get through the next twenty minutes," I said.

Twenty minutes. HAHAHAHAHAH!!!! Apparently I've seen too many porn movies. What happened next was shorter than your average commercial break! Kendra was the star, and Bruce and I appeared on the scene with just enough time to rummage through the nightstand and hand over a condom. Bruce joined the fray in ways that didn't require any interest on his part. After they were done, the three of them turned to me and concluded that I'd been left out. Andrew and Kendra stood up, grabbed their towels, and left Bruce and me alone.

Exxxxxxxxxcelllllllent. This was going to be easier than I thought. I heard the door click. I wasted no time.

"We don't have to do anything," I said.

He laughed reassuringly. "Oh, you'll get yours, just give me a minute."

"No really. I'm kind of not in the mood."

I felt the relief coming off him like sweat. "I suppose you had a big night last night."

"Yeah, I'm kind of sexed out. Can we just lie here instead?"

"Okay." He was quiet for a minute, then spoke up. "You're really cool."

"Thanks. Friends?"

"Deal."

Another silence, and then he spoke up again. "Ever been with a black man?"

"Noop."

"Ever want to be?"

"Never really thought about it." We held up our legs and compared his very dark skin to my very light. The contrast was beautiful. We fell asleep with our legs intertwined, the water from the hot tub still drying off our bodies.

We woke up when Andrew walked in the room with a camera. Bruce threw his leg protectively over my body and covered my chest with his arm.

"So help me god if those show up on the internet I'm going to kill you," I said, but I let him take the pictures. I really didn't care.

(to be continued???)

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 5: Poolboy Fantasies

The weather was glorious and everyone was getting along marvelously. Kendra turned out to be a little bit of a queen bee. Still, she was friendly, and her attitude didn't bother me the way it would have bothered me ten years ago when I had no idea I was a queen bee myself. After all, women who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

Bruce's cooking skills were as advertised. He played chef all afternoon and presented a very creative salad, a spicy shrimp appetizer and a sea bass entree with a spicy mango salsa. I asked for seconds! Meanwhile, I was developing an enormous crush on Bruce. He was educated, worldly, funny, and genuinely interested in what I had to say; not to mention he kept my drink fresh and was beyond gorgeous in a sexy, pool-boy kind of way. Also, heads up to the professional chefs out there: I have a serious weakness for men who love to cook!

Evidently, Bruce was also warming up to me. I'd had a thing for a black man several years ago; unfortunately he was very gay. This was the first straight black man I'd ever developed a crush on besides movie stars Denzel Washington and Blair Underwood, who don't count because I never actually met them. Were it not for the sordid circumstances surrounding his presence on Andrew's patio, I would have dated Bruce. Except for that nine-inch problem. That would just not do.

After dinner everyone retired to the hot tub. Andrew has banned bathing suits from his patio, so everyone doffed their duds and hopped in. After some general chatter about the water temperature, Kendra and Andrew cuddled close. She called him "my little freak" and proceeded to get affectionate with him. Very affectionate. I remembered Andrew having told me that both she and Bruce had been here before. Call me slow, but things were finally coming together in my head: Despite the concerns I'd verbalized two days prior, the side dishes were being served.

(cue bad porn music)

I was not shocked or jealous in the slightest. I adore Andrew and always enjoy our time together, and my life is more adventurous because of him (certainly my blog is more interesting, yes?). However, I am not in love with him and never will be. Also, by that afternoon I'd concluded I'd seen just about everything, and frankly, given Andrew's sex habits I was relieved that Kendra was now the one receiving his attentions. I was jet-lagged and sexed out, content to be a spectator in any further dramas.

Bruce and I turned to each other and began to get chummy. We really did make a marvelous pair! However, something was feeling a little "off" about the situation. I flipped on my "psychic switch" and focused on his energy body, checking out his vibe. That's when it hit me:

Bruce was gay.

So much for my first straight black crush!!!!! My pool boy fantasies went right down the drain. Now, I know it does not take a clairvoyant, or even a rocket scientist, to tell some gay men from straight. But this was a very, very tough call, because this is one man who really and truly does love women. As people.

Meanwhile, the scene in front of us was proceeding predictably. Andrew and Kendra stood up, grabbed their towels and headed indoors. "See you upstairs," one of them called back to us. I noticed Bruce never took his eyes off Andrew's body. I smiled a secret smile and took another sip of my drink.

Bruce and I looked at each other. "Want to go upstairs?" he asked.

"Sure." I pulled myself out of the tub and grabbed my towel. This was going to get interesting. I had a plan.

(to be continued . . . )

The Porn Queen Chronicles: Recap

Some of my kind readers have been following along with my Porn Queen Chronicles. Writing them has been a gas; however, I need to hurry up to the present moment before I head out to Los Angeles again at the end of the month.

I am almost finished with Part Five. Unfortunately, I am having a difficult time coming up with a subtitle for my experience. Rather than fight my writer's block, I've decided to consult the Hive Mind. Yes, I am convinced the beautiful members of the Blogosphere will coin the perfect phrase for me!

The setting: A posh patio in the back yard of a very large house in "the hills" overlooking the San Fernando Valley. A sexy co-ed hot tub scene ensues, but things don't go quite as planned . . .

Ideas, anyone?

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 4: Boobies! Not Work Safe!

Andrew and I took things easy that Sunday morning after our night at the couples' club. I even took a nap while Andrew went shopping for some food for our afternoon activities, because Bruce and Kendra were coming over.

As I mentioned in my earlier post, Bruce is a "chef to the stars" to a few of the R&B/Soul musicians who live in the LA area, and Kendra is one of his friends. To the best of my knowledge the master plan was for Bruce to be our personal chef for the afternoon and evening. Kendra was to come along for the company.

When I woke up from my nap they had already arrived. I met them on the patio, where they were lounging by the pool. Bruce was a handsome and well built African American gentleman with a polite, easygoing manner. Kendra was strikingly beautiful: Part Jamaican and hailing from London, she spoke with a British accent. A personal trainer by profession, her body was perfect, with porn-quality breasts done by a famous Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.

Andrew is a breast man. When we first met, he asked me if I'd consider breast augmentation. Since I'd already taken out a second mortgage to pay for my breast reduction (from DD to a more manageable B/C), I was less than enthusiastic. Actually, I looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. I told him: "I like my breasts. They're very sensitive and I like to play with them. They make my sex life interesting. A boob job would take those sensations away, so why the hell would I risk losing my own pleasure just to please the generic male gaze? What has the generic male gaze done for me lately? Are you out of your mind?" Fortunately for him he never raised the topic with me again.

Suffice it to say he was quite taken with Kendra's pontoons. "Don't you think they look good?" he asked me. "They're perfect!"

"They look great," I agreed. They certainly were spectacular.

"They even feel real," he said. "Kendra, show her."

Kendra unzipped her pink terry jacket and put her chest on display. "You can touch them," she encouraged. I poked the side of her left breast. It felt like a water balloon.

"Wow," I said. I whipped out my own breasts and showed her the scars from my reduction.

"They look so real you' can't even tell," said Andrew, "Don't you think?"

I looked at him to see if he were just trying to be nice. To my shock, he was dead serious. The man actually thought her breasts looked real. He'd been living in Los Angeles wayyyyyyyyyyy too long.

But maybe not. Have the men of America grown up with so much porn, and so few real topless women, that they no longer can tell real breasts from fake? Is it possible? It boggles the mind. Let me take a little side trip here to talk about breasts. Consider this my public service to pubescent boys and porn-addled men alike.

Breasts come in all shapes and sizes. Big and little, droopy and perky, balanced and lopsided. Big round nipples, little pointy nipples. Sometimes the nipples point up. Sometimes they point down. Sometimes they point sideways.

What large breasts do NOT do is defy gravity. At least, not for long!

Sometimes women are born with breasts that meet the porn standard. For awhile, at least. However, it doesn't take long for very large breasts to turn southward.

The unfortunate woman pictured above had breasts that weighed 44 pounds.

So let's do a little pictorial review, so you men out there will have realistic expectations the next time you prepare to enjoy the presence of a naked woman:

Real breasts.
Fake breasts:
Real breast.

Survivor breast.

Real pierced breast. (Do not try this at home)

Fake breasts.

Real breasts.
Man breasts.

Fake breasts.
Decorated breast, possibly real.

Chicken breasts.
My breasts.

The fakest breasts I've ever seen.

Real breast. Real baby.

Photoshopped breasts:

Real breasts.

Fake breast.

Knitted breasts!

Real breasts.

ANY QUESTIONS????????????????????

(to be continued . . . . )

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Postscript #1: How could I have neglected this one?

Danni Ashe's breasts.

Incidentally, Danni Ashe's breasts are the most downloaded breasts on the internet (she is in the Guinness Book of World Records) But are they real? Doubtful! Something about this statistic gives me a sort of ironic pleasure, though: it appears the most downloaded woman on the internet is over 40 . . .

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 3: Swinging

(Original image found here)

Andrew and I had just woken up from our “nap” after spending the day with an Academy Award winning sound engineer and his wife. The sun was down and the view from his house on the hill was spectacular. I’d had a cup of espresso to counteract my jet lag.

“Get next to the bike; I want to take your picture.”

Having been to modeling school, I knew just what to do. I walked over to his Ducati and stuck a pose. And then another. And then another.

“Pull down your top; I want to see.”

“No way!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want it to end up on the internet. I have a daughter. This is the last thing she needs to find there.”

“It won’t end up on the internet.”

“Your laptop was stolen just a few weeks ago in Tel Aviv, remember?”

” . . . I forgot about that. But your dress just fell down and now I have a picture of your boob.”

He was right: Although my dress was short, it was too big, and it was slipping, and I was going commando. “Delete it!”

“No, I think I’m going to keep it.”

“Pig. What time is it?”

“About eight thirty; we should be going soon.”

Andrew and I were going to a “couple’s club” for the first time. As always, I approached the experience as a visiting anthropologist, since by then I was convinced I’d seen everything.

“Let’s go, then.”

It was a long drive to San Bernadino county. The club was off the beaten path and hidden behind the trees. Still, the place was huge, just like any enormous dance club you’d find in the city. There were billiards, tables arranged nightclub-style, and a large dance floor.

The difference? This place had towels, showers, gym lockers, mattresses, and endless loops of pornography on multiple screens. The “play” area looked like summer camp for grownups, with its queen-sized bunk beds and mirrored ceilings. We took a tour, but hardly a soul was in there as it was still early. Nearly everyone was either eating at the buffet, drinking at the bar or playing billiards, so after being advised that “the women are in charge,” we joined everyone by the food. We had the bartender pour our drinks (BYOB), helped ourselves to the buffet, found a table and made ourselves comfortable.

I looked around. The women were dressed like street prostitutes, while the men were dressed like frat boys in chinos and untucked oxford shirts. I found this very strange and remarked upon it: All the lingerie and flopping titties were very nice, but what about the men? Where were the bulging biceps, the cut abs, the butt cheeks peeking out from the leather chaps? It was so one-sided that I felt a little cheated. I devised a few theories to explain the vast differences in costuming between the men and the women:

1) In our culture, which generally follows the BDSM model anyway, the one with the power gets to cover up more and keep his dignity; and/or

2) The men at these clubs are so homophobic that they feel that if they dress up, people will think they are gay; and/or

3) The untucked shirts hide all the erections!

It’s possible that the truth lies somewhere inbetween. The bottom line is that it all has to do with power and control. So much for the women being in charge . . . .

I looked up at the screen, checking out the porn. It was raunchy and hard core, and guys, I simply must ask: What’s with the butt sex already? Don’t you know that 99% of women don’t like it? Don’t you know that it hurts? How would you like if if someone did it to you???????

After we had our fill of the buffet, Andrew and I hit the dance floor. The way the club is set up, it was very easy for us to act as though we were at a normal club and completely forget that people were getting naked and jiggy with it at the other side of the building. There was a DJ and the club was hopping. Compared to the Playboy set the day before, the vibe was good and everyone seemed happy. Certainly, no one looked bored!!!!

I actually had a very good time! But, did we do anything naughty?

Now, that’s a tricky question to answer. If I say yes, half of you will think I’m a slut. If I say no, half of you will think I’m a prude. There is simply no way to win if I answer this question. I’ll let you fill in the blanks with your own imaginations, while giving you these hints: I’m more than a little bit exhibitionist, but don’t care too much about being touched by strange men. And lastly, I prefer to dance with the guy who brought me . . .

(to be continued . . .)

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 2: Awkward Conversations

“So what did you think?” he asked.

“Interesting,” I said. “Although I was miffed they didn’t offer me a job.”

He sat straight up in the driver’s seat. “I can get you on the show if you want.”

“KIDDING!!!!!! I was KIDDING!!!! I’m forty years old; no one needs to see me naked.”

“You don’t look your age.”

“Honey, I have nothing to add to the state of the art. Nothing. What do they think they’re going to see on one more naked body? Another orifice? An extra tit? What?”

“You’ve got a point.”

“I am convinced that the porn industry could shut down entirely and no one would notice the difference. There is enough porn in the world today for every man in this world to see a different video every night for the rest of his life. They don’t need to be making any more. It all looks the same, anyway.”

He verbally walked with me through the math and admitted, “You’re right.”

We were silent for a moment. Then he changed the subject: “So what are we going to do on Sunday? I need to call Bruce. What should I tell him?”

“I already told you how I feel about that.”

Wait; I need to back up a little bit to bring my dear readers up to speed: My friend, who I’ll call Andrew from this point on, has an acquaintence I’ll call Bruce. Bruce has been personal chef to many famous musical artists who live in and around Los Angeles, and up until about a few months ago he was the personal chef for (insert name of famous female R&B singer here). However, recently she went on tour without him, leaving him high and dry and eventually deep into debt and in arrears with his landlord. He approached Andrew about a business venture, and offered his cooking services for a fee, to tide him over until he finds another job.

Here’s where it gets interesting: Bruce has a friend who I’ll call “Kendra.” Kendra is a personal trainer; she has also offered up her services. And apparently, for a substantial “donation,” they offer sex as a side dish. Both of them.

(Welcome to Hollyweird!!!!!!)

“I say we pay him to cook, period. I’m not comfortable with the rest; I told you that.”

“Apparently he has a nine inch dick. I believe it; he was in my hot tub and I saw it.”

“So? Now I’m even less likely to want to have sex with him. In fact, he’s completely disqualified forever. That’s too big. Forget it. Besides, given what I know now, he could have AIDS. I wouldn’t have sex with him in any case.”

“She likes women, and she’s gorgeous.”

“So what? We might not hit it off. We might even dislike each other. These things just can’t be forced. I don’t like having sex with strangers. Besides, I refuse to take advantage of their desperate financial circumstances. It’s wrong. Ick. Forget it.”

“Okay, I’ll call him. We’ll just play it by ear and see what happens.”

I sat there thinking “What do you mean by we, Kimosabe?” and mentally calculated how many hours were left until my plane ride home.

(to be continued . . .)

The Porn Queen Chronicles, Part 1: Night Calls

My friend in LA called a few days ago. "I'm on the Playboy set!" he announced.

"Is everyone naked?" I asked.

"Just the girls."

Ah, let me explain. I never did get around to telling you what happened during my last weekend in LA. I'll start with this story, but I'm telling you now: This ain't the half of it . . .

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My friend likes to tell people that his house overlooks the world of pornography. He's probably right, as the 10 billion dollar porn industry lives and plays in the San Fernando Valley. He does not do porn; however, he rents and sells equipment and services to the television and movie industry, and Playboy has been one of his clients for many years. As you can imagine, he is full of stories and has plenty of Playboy memorabilia around his house, including a very large print of the 1st edition Marilyn Monroe centerfold that he keeps in his bedroom. From the looks of it, Marilyn's boobs have reincarnated and taken up residence on my chest, because I look almost exactly like her!

My plane arrived about after lunchtime; he was waiting for me with the car. "I got a call from _______ and I have to go to the Playboy Studio for awhile," he said. "They're rehearsing Night Calls. Want to go?"

I sensed a blogging opportunity and said, "Sure, why not!"

So we headed for the Playboy studio, located in Glendale, about 25 miles out of Los Angeles. It took us over an hour to get there due to the traffic.

"So what is Night Calls about?"

"It's a couple of women sitting on a sofa in their lingerie talking about sex and taking phone calls."

Sounded pretty tame, if you ask me.

When we arrived, I needed to pee like a racehorse, so the first 10 minutes were spent trying to find a bathroom. All of the ladies' rooms were out of order. I thought this quite odd, rude even, considering at least half the people at the studio were female. The only working bathroom was a men's room in the offices, so I used it while the men guarded the door. After relieving myself I followed my friend and one of his employees to the stage area. And that's when it finally hit me:

I was on a porn set.

There were naked women everywhere: Poledancing, shadow dancing, writhing in naked piles, and coupled up for girl-on-girl action. There were no naked men. In the center was a sofa with Jesse Jane, the unbelievably pottymouthed hostess, and a female guest. They were talking, and the subject matter involved - surprise! - how much they loved dildos and threesomes!!!

My friend suggested I have a seat in the audience while he talked shop backstage. The "audience" consisted of a few tables and chairs arranged, nightclub-style, at stage right. The only ones sitting down were myself, looking "hawt" in my silk sundress and Dolce & Gabanna 5" gold wedges, and a young man, perhaps in his twenties, who looked as though he were on leave from the military: crew cut, t-shirt, jeans.

I took some time to look around. The camera and fliming crew looked bored. Except for one man; I suspect he was new. The director (?) was standing behind me complaining about him. "Hey, pay attention!" he ordered, half-teasing.

"That's what you get for not hiring gay guys," I said. He laughed.

I turned my attention to the poledancers, as I'm a burlesque dancer myself. I have an appreciation for this art form, especially when the dancer hangs upside down. Since I consider weightlifting an exercise in boredom, I'm often tempted to take up poledancing just to have an interesting way to build up the muscles in my arms. However, I know that if I tried to hang upside down on a pole, I'd probably fall and break my head open!

Unfortunately, the poledancers weren't really dancing. Some of them looked as though they knew what they were doing, but it was almost as if they were actresses pretending to pole dance. How lame! I'd been hoping that, since I had to sit through all of this anyway, at least I could watch some good dancing. I felt a little bit cheated. I turned my attention to the writhing piles of nudity. They were on platforms covered in purple shag carpeting and it all looked so . . . unsanitary. Then I noticed that they, too, were faking it. When the cameras were off, the action stopped and the women looked very bored.

Come to think of it, everyone in the studio seemed really bored, except for the one cameraman and the young man in the audience (I couldn't figure out whether he were an actor or a civilian). When the cameras turned on us I thought, oh no, oh no, I'm going to be on TV, SHIT!!!! and then I remembered it was just a rehearsal. The hostesses took the young man by the arm and led him to one of the raised platforms with two naked women, where they play-acted a threesome. Jesse Jane let forth a stream of verbal porn that I suppose was meant to turn the audience on, but to me seemed just lame and overdone.

And then, cut! It was all over.

Private Calls was next, and my friend and I watched the rehearsal from the production booth. Anne Marie, dressed in a terry bathrobe looked like the girl next door. At first I couldn't figure out how this show was any different from Night Calls, but my friend explained that Night Calls was a talk show, and Private Calls was just like phone sex with visuals: Men could call in and talk to porn stars, and actually see the women doing what they said they were doing on the phone. The show they were rehearsing was for Cinqo De Mayo, so guess how they decided to celebrate? You got it: Mexican porn stars! One of them settled on one of the raised, carpeted platforms and play-acted taking a call and playing with her dildo. All I could think was, I hope they shampoo the rugs on those platforms frequently. Unfortunately, from the look of the purple shag, I don't think they do. Ew.

In case any of you are wondering, none of what I saw on the set bothered or upset me, up to this point at least. I am an exibitionist accustomed to nudity and . . . . shall we say . . . public displays of affection . . . (ahem!!). I suppose you could call me one of those "sex-positive" feminists, although I hate the term, because it assumes the folk who disagree with me are "sex-negative," and I don't think this way at all. Anyhow, after the initial shock of seeing throngs of naked people when I didn't expect it, it all seemed so normal, even blase. I only felt disappointed that people weren't having more fun with it. Their boredom was not surprising to me, however: Take any art form (painting, sculpture, dancing, sex) and commercialize it, and you will see the life blood drain from it until it's flat and dead. Real art rarely emerges under pressure to produce, produce, produce for income$$.

So there I was, blase and bored like everyone else. However, when they brought out the pinata shaped like a naked woman and started molesting it, I became very annoyed. I thought, "If they start beating that pinata until it breaks open, that's it, I'm walking home!" I know that sounds weird, so let me explain: First, I dislike pinatas the way some people dislike clowns. Second, I abhor violence, and find it so pointless that, after creating this work of art (even if it's ugly art), someone would want to string it up by its neck and destroy it. And I hated the symbolism of this paper symbol of womanhood being disemboweled. So there you have it. Call me weird, but it's just the way that I feel.

"Do you want to see the live show or do you want to go to the party?" my friend asked.

"I think I've seen enough," I said grimly, and stood up.

We walked outside, where men were barbecuing and everyone was eating. We chatted and ate, and then my friend and I headed to the car for the long trip back to my his house. He fondled me in the car and tried to get frisky while driving home, but I was feeling out of sorts and pushed his hand away.

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"So how was the show?" I asked.

"Good," he said. "A little boring. You know, I didn't even get turned on the whole time I was there. Isn't that weird?"

"No, I don't think it's weird at all."

(To Be Continued . . .)

Chinese Food

By afternoon the day I stayed home with my sick daughter, she was asking for Chinese food. Of course this meant she was feeling better!

Speaking of Chinese food . . .

Lately I’ve been seeing a man from LA for whom sex is just like Chinese Food: Twenty minutes afterward he’s completely forgotten he had it and wants more. This was fun at first, and exactly what I asked for: At the time I put out The Call, I was experiencing a sex drought and had put “highly sexual” on my list of priorities in a man, along with the specific request that he like music. Within a matter of weeks I was on my way to the Grammy Awards with a man whose idea of a normal sex life is eight+ times a day.

Unfortunately, it got real old, real fast, and I realized I could only take him in small doses. Ever try to live on Chinese food?

(I found this one at The Joke Forum)

Chinese food sex is just like bunny sex. There is nothing wrong with occasional bunny sex. But when it’s all The Hedonisticpleasureseeker gets, it becomes repetitive. It leaves no marks, no trails, no memories, and twenty minutes later she gets that empty feeling.

When I complained to my annoying gremlins that my sex life was all form without substance, they just laughed their little asses off.

“You didn’t ask for substance,” they said.

(image from The Grinning Gremlin)

Sigh. Right now I could use the sexual equivalent of a bloody steak. But I’m afraid of what might happen if I were to ask for it.

LA Confidential

I'm back from LA with my stories; I just don't know if or how I'm ever going to be able to tell them. I suppose that, while I recover and put my weekend in better perspective, I can share a few of the G-rated details:

Friday night we went to the birthday party for one of the musicians who plays at Paoli's, a bar/restaurant on Ventura Boulevard. Later on everyone at the party went there to see him and his buddies play. Paoli's is famous for its musical talent; you never know who is going to show up on any given night. Folks show up with their instruments, create temporary bands, and then jam all night, usually 60's through 80's rock-and-roll classics. That night an electric guitar, a keyboard, a saxophone, and an Elvis impersonator showed up. We had a wonderful time drinking and dancing with friends, and made it home around 2am.

Had lunch on Saturday with an Academy Award winning sound engineer (one of the inventors of Dolby Surround Sound) and his wife. A lovely couple! He did the sound for Star Wars, Close Encounters, and A Star Is Born and had a recording studio in New York City in the 70's, where most of the great bands passed through to do their records. I can't remember all the names but here are a few:

The Rolling Stones: Always stoned

Jimi Hendrix: Kind, but very sad

Paula Abdul: Drunk

The Beatles: LSD insipired, with social gatherings that could have been designed by Andy Warhol himself. Actually, this sound engineer used to hang out with the Warhol crowd. Ah, seems all the glory days were before my time . . .

Barbara Streisand: Perfect pitch; controlling bitch

Tina Turner: Salt of the earth, even during the bad-old-days with her lousy ex

Nell Carter: An "absolute doll"

As for the rest of the weekend? I'm afraid it's X-rated and I can't decide how to explain it without giving my mother a heart attack. It's not so much that I DID anything wrong; I left with my personal boundaries more-or-less (ahem) intact. But if it weren't for the lovely people mentioned elsewhere in this post, I might have concluded LA is one vast, amoral, pornified landscape. "Hollyweird" is a crazy place, and I sure got an eyeful . . . . .