  "Shaven Ravers" and "Razzle" were inexplicably strewn about the trees and bushes along with soda cans, cigarette butts, traffic cones, an upturned shopping cart and old mattress. We surveyed the scattered contraband in silence, our ten-year-old minds trying to piece together the evidence of what had taken place there. What really fired our imaginations was that the scene was in a constant state of flux. The mattress and cones would change position and there would always be a new magazine or two that kept us coming back. The content of the magazines was typically vile and the magazines themselves were putrid; rain-soaked, earth-sodden and stuck together in places. We were intrigued and disgusted by them.A few years later, I saw pornographic movies from Europe and the United States for the first time. (British laws at the time prohibited the production and sale of hardcore pornography.) I once accompanied a friend to a parking lot where he acquired these illegal movies from a man who sold them out of the trunk of his car. The glossy, explicit films were extremely arousing. My heart would beat its way out of my chest as I drew my bedroom curtains and slipped a tape into the VCR. Throughout my adolescence and early twenties, I had a recurring daydream about living in that porn world, of actually participating in the skin flicks. And now, it seemed I was realizing my teen dream. Hooksexup's Ross Martin had negotiated a cameo role for me in a Vivid production, Vivid being the first word in American porn. Jenna Jameson herself had just defected to their ranks. I felt giddy with anticipation, having no idea what my involvement in the action would be. I had been given a plane ticket, an address and a time to show up.  On the plane to Los Angeles, my heart was beating in the same way as it had in my bedroom as a young pervert.I called up an old friend in West Hollywood and asked if I could crash at his place. He mentioned that he knew Matt Zane; rocker, pornographer and self-proclaimed pioneer of the rock/porn crossover. You may have seen rockers like Korn and Papa Roach throwing lunch meat at naked girls. Well, that was all Zane's idea. Zane and I arranged to the night before my debut in porn to chat. We met in my friend's place, a bachelor pad bungalow filled with Zane's videos. Zane is about to turn twenty-seven years old, but while he dresses like a teenage Goth kid with his arse-length hair and all-black ensemble, his face looks like it's experienced a lifetime of seediness. "After three or four years," reflected Zane as he stroked his chin, his eyes cast skyward, "one tires of the flesh." I had hoped that the meeting with Zane would heighten my excitement about the upcoming Vivid shoot even further, but over the course of an hour he spoke only of his boredom with the genre, his accidental incarnation as a  pornographer and how being pigeonholed as a pornographer was strangling his creativity. "If I cannot be free to realize my artistic visions outside of porn, I welcome death with open arms," he proclaimed. Zane told me he had "banged almost a thousand chicks" but then six months ago, he decided to refrain from sexual relations with girls in the categories of groupies, strippers or porn sluts. He added ruefully, "It makes it a lot harder to get laid."12.00 I arrive at a soundstage in an industrial park in Chatsworth, about thirty miles from Hollywood. A rotund woman in her fifties tells me that the man I'm looking for, stage manager Jay Shanahan, is downstairs. Downstairs is pitch black. I can hear voices and walk carefully towards them. A dim blue glow from a TV monitor gives me a vague clue of my orientation. My eyes are beginning to adjust from the harsh California sunshine just as I become aware that I am now standing among the voices. "Cut, house lights!" screams director Robby D. who is tattooed from arse-hole to breakfast time. All eyes are on me, as I seem to have appeared from nowhere. "I'm looking for Jay Shanahan," I explain to him. "I'm Shanahan," says a man stepping forward, looking like the archetypal American suburbanite: ivory crew-cut, white socks pulled halfway up his shins, shorts and a green polo shirt. "So, you're Grant Stoddard from Hooksexup," he states, shaking my hand while looking over my shoulder. "This is very exciting, very exciting." Shanahan leaves the room. Everyone else eyes me with suspicion. "Can you move? You're in our way," grunts a crewmember. 12.45 Shanahan returns to the set in a beige suit and orange faux-fur hat. He has a cameo as a pimp in the next scene. The male star, Kyle, dressed in a ridiculous superhero outfit, is pacing and reciting his lines in a varied array of styles for his own amusement. Shanahan is visibly frustrated by the late arrival of the girl in the first sex scene of the day. "Where's the girl?" he shouts at no one in particular. Chelsea Sinclaire (nee Ebony Sinclaire) arrives on set at that very moment dressed in a glittery, rainbow tube top and mini skirt. Aside from the huge breasts squeezed into her top, Chelsea doesn't look like a porn star. She is naturally pretty with flawless brown skin. With her broad north of England accent (think Daphne from Frasier, then take it down a notch), she doesn't sound like a porn star either. "Oh, beautiful tits, Chels!" says D as she takes her place on set. "You just get those done?" "Yeah, seven weeks old," she calls from the other end of the set. This is to be the first time they will be captured on tape. "They look real good, like real natural black titties," D shouts back before turning to the crew. "I'm thirsty for chocolate milk!" he whispers to them. The crew is muttering the name of a surgeon. "Gordo do those for ya?" D asks Chelsea. "Gordo," he reports back; the crewmembers nod their heads in unison. They've seen his work before and hold it in high regard. Shanahan bangs out his pimp lines in the plot development scene before leaving the sex scene proper to Chelsea and Kyle. "Okay, suck his dick, Chels," chirps the director. Instruction is coming thick and fast from D. "Look grateful, he just  flew in to save your life. Get nasty with it. Spit on it Chels, don't be shy. Great, now say something real nasty."Chelsea takes Kyle's penis out of her mouth and breathes, "I love your cock." D rolls his eyes and looks at the crew. "'I love your cock,'" he mocks. "Jesus." "Okay, lets see some soft shots," bellows D, clapping his hands together. In order for a film to increase its revenue, all of the scenes in a movie are shot twice, with the second version not showing any penetration or erect penises. That way it can be sold to a softcore market that includes cable stations like Spice and The Playboy Channels. Kyle and Chelsea dry-hump in a few positions before Robby D. asks for a FIP, which I learn stands for Fake Internal Pop. Kyle looks demonically possessed as he bangs his flaccid cock against Chelsea's behind, "finishing" with a loud bellow. "Okay, let's fuck!" shouts D as Ross, a twenty-two-year-old production assistant, hands him Chelsea's discarded thong. He holds it to his nose and sniffs. "Mmmm, want some?" he asks, offering the scrap of material to the boom mike operator. "No thanks, man," he sighs. "I'm trying to cut down." Shanahan appears briefly to complain about how slowly things are moving and walks out swearing under his breath. Kyle and Chelsee sit across from each other, making small talk while she applies lube to her vagina and he slaps and rubs some life into his penis and puts on a condom, its use now mandatory on most porn sets. "Let's have a nice slow insertion," calls the thuggish and strangely likeable D. The actors churn out a carbon copy of the pretend scene, which is somehow no more convincing despite everything slotting into its natural place. The pop shot is conducted on Chelsea's breasts. Still photos are taken and the crew breaks for lunch. 1.45 A woman everyone on the set refers to as "Mom" is cooking burgers in the kitchen/hospitality area upstairs. An enormous buffet is laid out on the counter as she buzzes around taking orders. A couple of scantily clad girls talk about  makeup and shopping, while the men talk about their recent purchases of gas masks, water filters and automatic weapons in response to the September 11th attacks. They are all very interested in Hooksexup's proximity to the site of the World Trade Center. "Aren't people freaked out there?" asks one crewmember."Kind of," I tell them. "Everyone's wearing flags." They swap glances and chuckle. "Maybe we should videotape girls' ankles and sell it to those Afghan fuckers!" says a pot-bellied cameraman. "That's porn to them!" I catch Chelsea's eye and ask if I could talk to her. "Be with you in a minute!" she trills, wiping Kyle's semen from her chest with a towel. Chelsea is twenty-two and has recently graduated from Bradford University with a degree in management. She tells me that her sister got her into the porn industry by putting her in touch with an adult film agent in England. An American affiliate then invited Chelsea to come work in the United States. "Porn's a lot different here," she tells me. "A lot more professional. In England, there will be a couple of guys and a video camera. A lot of money goes into films over here, and the people are really nice." Chelsea has just become a Vivid girl, a handful of elite women who are the de facto superstars of the adult entertainment world. She only has to make seven movies and seven special appearances per year for her salary. Typically, non-contract girls earn money per scene and per activity. Facial come shots, anal scenes and D.P. (double penetration, anal and vaginal) all carry a higher price tag. I ask Chelsea what it's like to have no control over who she has sex with in the course of her working day. "If I don't find him or her attractive, it really puts me in a bad mood," she explains. "But once we get down to it, it's fine."  Chelsea has a boyfriend from Louisiana that she met on Venice Beach. They plan to get married.I ask her how he feels about her line of work. "It hurts him . . . here," she says, dramatically placing both hands on her heart. "He hates the industry, but he loves and respects me enough to get past it. I was doing this before we met. It's my job, y' know?" I see Shanahan and ask him about my scene. "You'll be playing a convict," he says over his shoulder as he strides away. "Well, did Ross Martin at Hooksexup tell you what I wanted to " I stutter. "Ross Martin didn't tell me a goddamn thing." Shanahan walks into a room and closes the door behind him. I walk up to the kitchen area where I find Kyle reading a book. "If you're gonna be in porn, you'd better like reading novels," he tells me sagely. I've already made up my mind that I am not going to be in porn. "I've done this for about fifteen years, but lately the calls have been getting fewer and farther between," he mournfully admits. He explains that, up until two years ago when Viagra came on the market, only a handful of men could maintain a successful career in hardcore pornography. Kyle is relatively short, positively nerdy and his penis is within the normal size range. His real value lies in the ability to keep his penis hard for hours upon hours. "It's harder than you'd think!" he puns. Kyle refuses to use Viagra or penis injections, a physical crutch many other porn stars rely upon. "I'm convinced that those guys are going to have serious health problems in the years to come," he says. "But in the meantime, they're making a living and I'm not doing so well but we'll see. People ask me why I don't use pills or shoot up to keep wood and I say, 'Hey, I'm old-fashioned. I like girls!'" Kyle tells me that he has never had a serious relationship with a woman. "It's really too much to ask of anyone," he confides. Conversely, all of the female actors seem to be attached. 3.00 A quick comedy vignette scene in a jail cell is taking place downstairs. Shanahan has another brief walk-on as a prison guard. The non-sex scenes are wrapped up quickly, as the dialogue sounds like it was written in an equally rapid fashion.  The scene involves the three young male protagonists commiserating after each being brutally sodomized by a fellow inmate.On the next set, Robby D. is shooting a girl-girl scene starring April and Krystal. The set is all black, giving the actors the appearance of floating around in space. Despite looking like the archetypal porn star with her massive breasts, heavy makeup and permed, bleached mane, Krystal is a newcomer to porn and is a little coy. April is a pro and is going through the motions with a bored look on her face. It's insinuated that April and D have more than just a working relationship. "Okay, fucker," April scowls under her breath as D gives stage direction. The girls flash lusty pouts at the camera while they make out and play with each other. The highlight of the scene is when both girls wrap their lips around a fifteen-inch double-dong and slip it further and further down their throats until their lips meet. Robby D. goes crazy. "This is fucking amazing!" he enthuses. April gags and her eyes tear, ruining her makeup. She is not pleased, not least because Robby keeps getting her name wrong. 5.30 No one is looking forward to shooting next scene. I hear the crew discussing it. "It's a boy-boy-boy-girl. Three cocks to get hard, three pop shots and the kicker is that the guys in the scene are going to be passing around a hand-held camera. The shadows are going to be murder." The three guys in the scene are short, ugly and devoid of any body hair. They look like shaved carnies. The woman in the scene, Kelsey, looks a little older than the other girls. Before the scene, she runs outside to smoke some weed with one of the crew.Shanahan is the most senior member of the entourage, aside from "Mom," so he is often quizzed by the crew about the old days. "Ahh, the good ol' days," he hams, "when pornography was our friend. It looked better and felt better. Maybe that was just the coke!" After a quick shower, the three guys take their places on the set made to look like a college frat house and run through their dialogue. A bit later, the actress undresses while the guys attempt to get their dicks hard off-camera. This girl is the only one I've seen today that looks as though she is enjoying shooting a scene. She's also the only one who got wicked high beforehand. When she has a penis in each hand and one in her "cookie," D commands the girl to commit to the moment. "Come on babe, get real fuckin' nasty with it!" he shouts. "If we really wanna get nasty, why aren't we doing anal?" inquires the girl. Laughter erupts throughout the crew. "'Cause we can't fucking afford it, that's why!" yells Shanahan. Anal sex is an extra two to four hundred dollars; this figure is then multiplied by the amount of men in the scene. The guys estimate that "going anal" would put the production over budget to the tune of a thousand dollars. "We'll do it if you want to do it for free," shouts an optimistic Robby D. Now the girl is laughing. 7.30 It's getting late, I have dinner reservations in Hollywood at eight and I'm going to miss my ride back there if we don't finish soon. My scene, of course, is the last one to be shot. "What's this movie called anyway?" I ask the PA, Ross, as we get into orange jumpsuits. "Hard Evidence," he tells me. Ross has had a busy day: he fetched water and lube when the girls asked for it, removed discarded clothing from the set with the speed and skill of a ball boy at Wimbledon and had driven to the local pharmacy on several occasions to buy douche kits, home enema sets and condoms. Ross couldn't believe that I'd flown in from New York.  "You came all this way for this?" he asks incredulously. "You must be disappointed."Shanahan is a friend of Ross's family and offered him some work on his movies while he looks for PA work in mainstream pictures. "I thought I was going to get laid," he confesses. "My friends are all jealous of me. In fact, Jay had me round up a bunch of them to be extras in a scene tomorrow. Then they'll see." We all take our places on a set made to look like a prison rec room. "I've spent half my fucking life in prison and it looks just like this!" shouts Robby. Kyle sits at a table with Ross and they shuffle through a pack of Vivid playing cards each featuring a porn starlet. "Fucked her, fucked her, I'd like to fuck her, I'm fucking her next week . . . " Kyle drones. "Take your medication and get in the fucking shower!" Shanahan screams into his cell phone. "I fucking mean it!" He continues pacing up and down, waving his free arm around. "I . . . I don't care, Marcy is in charge now. Do what Marcy says. Take your medication. I'm going to throw you in the fucking shower when I get home. I mean it. Get Marcy on the phone." He strides out of the room. No one else bats an eyelid. I'm unsettled and uncomfortable. I sign a release form. I'm sitting next to a four-hundred-pound black man who is stroking my shoulder. It appears that I'm playing his bitch. "Okay . . . er . . . what's your name?" shouts Robby D. "It's Grant," I tell him. "Okay, Grahhnt," he says, aping my London accent. "Now, he's going to put his arm around you and I want you to look really fucking terrified, okay Grahhnt?" The camera pans across the scene as the big guy strokes me like a lap dog. I look terrified and it's not acting. "And . . . cut!" yells D. The scene is over.  "Okay, Grahhnt, you're all set. Er, why are you here anyway?" he asks. "I'm writing a piece for Hooksexup in New York," I explain, realizing that Shanahan had kept everyone else in the dark as to what I was doing #&151; which incidentally seemed to have worked to my advantage. "Oh," says D. "I thought that you just walked in off the street and you weren't getting in the way so I didn't say anything." He shakes my hand warmly and I run outside. Walk in off the street? I think as I walk out into the warm California evening. There is no street#&151;the studio is on a lot in the middle of the fucking desert! I couldn't wait to get back to New York. As I hurtled home, shell-shocked in the back of an empty 757, I reflected on my disappointment. The experience was akin to a trip to the slaughterhouse, a long glance into the eyes of a panicked heifer while I still have the taste of a juicy sirloin steak in my mouth. That afternoon, I saw in pornography what others (like my girlfriend) could see without having to go to the source: that porn has absolutely nothing to do with the reality of sex, that it is acting. I realized that in order to enjoy porn, I had been subconsciously telling myself that these people were fucking for fun in front of the cameras. I had myself believing that they all loved their jobs. It sounds naive, I know, but was a little like finding out my wife of twenty five years had been faking it all along. When I got back to New York, I distributed the few porn movies I had lying around to my inner circle of friends. I didn't think I could ever enjoy them in the same way again. In the words of the immortal George Michael, guilty feet have got no rhythm. |
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