Confessions of an Ivy League Pornographer
I saw Chris Cannon first. A thick-dicked Bostonian with whose work I was well-acquainted, Chris sat idly on a make-up chair, staring at nothing, sporting a camouflage tee shirt that read "You Can't See Me! Ha Ha.” The tongue of his tan work boots licked eagerly at the tapered cuffs of his white jeans. Approaching the star cautiously, I mustered up enough courage to ask Chris who he’d be working with.
"No idea," he said, proudly. "All I know is, I'm up first. I got another job this afternoon." Chris fucked five days a week, fifty weeks a year, often booking more than one shoot a day. The Hardest Working Prick in Show Business.
Kristi Myst was there too, carefully applying her own mascara. The uncommonly beautiful porn starlet was the former contract girl for Extreme Associates – meaning she'd been bound for years to the rottenest, most mean-spirited company in the valley. (Rob Black, Extreme's owner, and his girlfriend, director Lizzy Borden, would be subjects in a disparaging PBS Frontline documentary shot in 2002.) I'd seen Kristi do terrifying things with her anus. I wondered what she was doing here.
"No more Extreme," she said kindly. She looked sweet but tired.
"You . . . think you'll be happier at Sin City?" I asked.
"I'm happy with whoever pays me, hon," said Kristi, gently, as if I was the most innocent thing she had ever seen. She brushed by me, leaving me just her scent.
Alone in the dressing room, I stole a quick glance at myself in the make-up mirror. Tactical mistake. I saw an outsider. Despite my stretch as an independent smut maker, down here I was as green as they came, embarrassingly ignorant of the serpentine intricacies that defined the existence of today’s professional porn player. I nearly lost heart right then and there – but then I checked myself. I was a pro too, now, wasn't I? I also had a job to do, for the good people at the Wett Channel. Determinedly, I set out to grab a few dynamite interviews.
I spotted a pretty, curly-headed girl roaming the hall. Swiftly, I cornered her, explaining my on-set function. "Mind if I tape you?"
"Not at all!" She beamed, waving a slender forearm in the air. "Hi, everyone! I'm Karly Klein!"
I waved back at her idiotically, from behind the camera. "Tell us about yourself, Karly."
"What would you like to know?"
Suddenly, I realized that there was so much I wanted to know, I wasn't sure where to begin. "Uh . . . how'd you get into porn in the first place?"
"Oh, modeling," said Karly, waving her hand vaguely.
"Modeling?"
"Yes." She smiled, nodding. I waited for some elaboration, but there was none forthcoming. "I'm actually getting out of the business," she added abruptly.
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh, you know," she said. "Time to move on."
"Okay," I said, hesitating, confused. "Thank you very much, Karly. For the Wett Channel, I'm Sam Black." I shut off my camera and stared at her. "Why are you really quitting?"
"I hate everyone," she said flatly. "And, I'm tired of getting fucked by gross guys. Look around. Would you want to have sex with them?"
"No," I said. "But I'm a guy."
"Well, the girls disgust me, too. They're a bunch of coke whores, most of them. Anyway, I was just trying this out for a while. It seemed like a good way to make a buck. As it turns out, I can make almost as much money doing lap dances."
"Really? How much does a porn star make, anyway, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Depends. Girl-girl'll net you anywhere from $400 to $600, depending on who you're working for, and whether you’re willing to stuff a butt plug up your ass. Pretty chintzy if you ask me, considering how much money these movies gross in a year."
"And how much do you get for boy-girl?"
"Sin City and other big-time companies will pay $1000. An internet company might only give you $700, but they'll have you in and out in an hour, so sometimes it's worth it."
"So, you make enough to get by on, I gather?"
"Oh, in the beginning, it's great," said Karly, ruefully. "Your phone's ringing off the hook, every company wants to shoot you. They're literally fighting each other over who gets to book you first. Your head gets so big, it's ridiculous. Then, very slowly, the calls start coming less frequently. Suddenly, your agent's too busy to try to get you work. You make the rounds of the companies yourself, but none of the directors will make time to see you, unless you hint that there might be a BJ in it for them." She looked at me hesitantly. "BJ means blow job."
"Yes," I said slowly. "I know."
"I've sucked cock to get work," she said. "Can you believe that? Sucking cock, so you can suck cock? It gets kind of grotesque."
"I see," I said. "Well, is there anything that you'll miss about the industry?"
She thought for a moment, curling her lips meditatively. "I might miss the dicks," she said, finally. "These guys are simpletons, but I have to admit, their cocks are pretty nice."
Confessions of an Ivy League Pornographer is available in all formats now.
"No idea," he said, proudly. "All I know is, I'm up first. I got another job this afternoon." Chris fucked five days a week, fifty weeks a year, often booking more than one shoot a day. The Hardest Working Prick in Show Business.
Kristi Myst was there too, carefully applying her own mascara. The uncommonly beautiful porn starlet was the former contract girl for Extreme Associates – meaning she'd been bound for years to the rottenest, most mean-spirited company in the valley. (Rob Black, Extreme's owner, and his girlfriend, director Lizzy Borden, would be subjects in a disparaging PBS Frontline documentary shot in 2002.) I'd seen Kristi do terrifying things with her anus. I wondered what she was doing here.
"No more Extreme," she said kindly. She looked sweet but tired.
"You . . . think you'll be happier at Sin City?" I asked.
"I'm happy with whoever pays me, hon," said Kristi, gently, as if I was the most innocent thing she had ever seen. She brushed by me, leaving me just her scent.
Alone in the dressing room, I stole a quick glance at myself in the make-up mirror. Tactical mistake. I saw an outsider. Despite my stretch as an independent smut maker, down here I was as green as they came, embarrassingly ignorant of the serpentine intricacies that defined the existence of today’s professional porn player. I nearly lost heart right then and there – but then I checked myself. I was a pro too, now, wasn't I? I also had a job to do, for the good people at the Wett Channel. Determinedly, I set out to grab a few dynamite interviews.
I spotted a pretty, curly-headed girl roaming the hall. Swiftly, I cornered her, explaining my on-set function. "Mind if I tape you?"
"Not at all!" She beamed, waving a slender forearm in the air. "Hi, everyone! I'm Karly Klein!"
I waved back at her idiotically, from behind the camera. "Tell us about yourself, Karly."
"What would you like to know?"
Suddenly, I realized that there was so much I wanted to know, I wasn't sure where to begin. "Uh . . . how'd you get into porn in the first place?"
"Oh, modeling," said Karly, waving her hand vaguely.
"Modeling?"
"Yes." She smiled, nodding. I waited for some elaboration, but there was none forthcoming. "I'm actually getting out of the business," she added abruptly.
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh, you know," she said. "Time to move on."
"Okay," I said, hesitating, confused. "Thank you very much, Karly. For the Wett Channel, I'm Sam Black." I shut off my camera and stared at her. "Why are you really quitting?"
"I hate everyone," she said flatly. "And, I'm tired of getting fucked by gross guys. Look around. Would you want to have sex with them?"
"No," I said. "But I'm a guy."
"Well, the girls disgust me, too. They're a bunch of coke whores, most of them. Anyway, I was just trying this out for a while. It seemed like a good way to make a buck. As it turns out, I can make almost as much money doing lap dances."
"Really? How much does a porn star make, anyway, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Depends. Girl-girl'll net you anywhere from $400 to $600, depending on who you're working for, and whether you’re willing to stuff a butt plug up your ass. Pretty chintzy if you ask me, considering how much money these movies gross in a year."
"And how much do you get for boy-girl?"
"Sin City and other big-time companies will pay $1000. An internet company might only give you $700, but they'll have you in and out in an hour, so sometimes it's worth it."
"So, you make enough to get by on, I gather?"
"Oh, in the beginning, it's great," said Karly, ruefully. "Your phone's ringing off the hook, every company wants to shoot you. They're literally fighting each other over who gets to book you first. Your head gets so big, it's ridiculous. Then, very slowly, the calls start coming less frequently. Suddenly, your agent's too busy to try to get you work. You make the rounds of the companies yourself, but none of the directors will make time to see you, unless you hint that there might be a BJ in it for them." She looked at me hesitantly. "BJ means blow job."
"Yes," I said slowly. "I know."
"I've sucked cock to get work," she said. "Can you believe that? Sucking cock, so you can suck cock? It gets kind of grotesque."
"I see," I said. "Well, is there anything that you'll miss about the industry?"
She thought for a moment, curling her lips meditatively. "I might miss the dicks," she said, finally. "These guys are simpletons, but I have to admit, their cocks are pretty nice."
Confessions of an Ivy League Pornographer is available in all formats now.
HOLY COW! brilliant stuff, Sam.
I discovered that things were almost as dismal on the gay side of things. I too wanted to make sex-positive movies with my company, Daddy Oohhh! Productions. [https://www.daddyoohhh.com/] And I believe I did; I'm very proud of my my filmography. But the pull of the industry to do it for cheaper and with less regard for the wellbeing of the performers, in the end, did me in. Making a movie that celebrates sexuality is impossible if it's only about parts bumping. When it's soulless; it get to be pretty dismal.
Thanks for your honest perspective. I look forward to more.