Ecstatic Fanatics and the Foot Soldiers of Sex

The world would be a better place if all scary politico-religious extremists would consider the following suggestion:

Instead of inciting further global animosity by promoting assassination, bigotry and fundamentalism, maybe these folks should drop to their knees and learn some foot worship.

They might actually like it.

Because, in reality, the naturally-occurring dopamine that induces a mental hard-on for a foot fetishist anticipating tickle torture is the same chemical produced by the brain of a freaked-out religious zealot anticipating the wrath of a vengeful Jehovah who will smote the “drunkards, drug dealers, communists, atheists, New Age worshipers of Satan, secular humanists, oppressive dictators, greedy money changers, revolutionary assassins, adulterers and homosexuals.” (“The New World Order,” by Rev. Pat Robertson, page 227, W Pub Group, 1991)

Fair to assume there’s a powerful force behind this kind of superhuman zeal. Whether the obsession is divinely or neurologically-inspired is cause for speculation.

“That circuitry is pretty much hard-wired,” says Dr. Steven M, a clinical psychologist. “It’s the circuitry of ecstasy.”

“The word ’fetish,’ of course, comes from the old word for any kind of token God or some kind of icon,” says Dr. M.

For fetishists and fanatics alike, the pleasure they seek “borders on, or it’s probably very much a religious experience,” the doctor explains.

“You know about the Holy Rollers and the Quakers. These are people that would have orgasms dancing or shaking or trembling. And it was considered that they were closer to God. But in reality, it was sexual.”

One could argue then, that spiritual fervor and sexual ecstasy are one in the same – but what varies are the extreme, often ritualistic behaviors used in order to heighten the rush of passionate intensity.

Leading to the question: Which is more insane?

Mentally flagellating yourself into a holy state of frenzy until you want to obliterate everyone that doesn’t have the same belief system as you?

Or being aware of your feet as sexual objects that can be manipulated until you reach a blessed state of orgasm?

CEO/producer Brittany Andrews is, perhaps, the world’s most eminent foot fetish diva. She has appeared on the cover of Leg Show Magazine four times (more than any other foot fetish model) and wrote a regular column in Leg Sex Magazine. She was also the star of “The World’s Largest, Most Extravagant Foot Job Gang Bang,” produced by Kick Ass Pictures.

“I don’t know too many people that have as many foot credentials as I do,” says Andrews. “I absolutely adore and love and have a major obsession with feet.”

Her success at fetish, she says, is a result of her own personal kink.

“Why do the fans like me? Because I have a foot fetish!” she explains. “I’m not a girl in a magazine that’s doing a job. You can obviously tell I enjoy it.”

Recalling her first experience with foot sex, Andrews says, “When I was young, I was a raver girl and I used to do a lot of nitrous. I was doing this big balloon and I had my friend there, and he was giving me a foot massage while I was doing the balloon and I totally busted a nut! I came really fucking hard and I was like, ‘Whoa. That’s really fucking cool!’ That’s where my own personal foot fetish started.”

Rubbing, licking and sucking a tendon on the bottom of her flexed foot, she claims, will produce an orgasm (as well as stimulation applied to the crux of her elbows and a spot on her back).

Having explored so many avenues to ecstasy, Andrews has also experienced spiritually-inspired passion, illustrated by the story of the strangest thing she ever did to someone else’s feet.

“My ex’s middle name was Jesus,” she explains. “One day, I had this kind of charcoal wax stick (for drawing). And we were into one of those extreme, kind of insane, having crazy sex kind of places.”

“He was a fashion designer/artist, so he started making the crown of thorns all on his head (with the wax crayon) and then he started making the whip marks on his body, and I ended up tying his arms to the bed with the rope and his feet together on the bottom.”

“Then, I took a cigarette and was burning holes in his feet. It was so fucking hot!”

“I mean, he had to work on his feet after that. The shoes were just rubbing on the tops of his feet, the scabs, for a couple of weeks,” says Andrews. “I loved it; it was so hot.”

So, whether it’s the heat of physical release or the smoldering flames of Hell, to some extent, the desire to tap into some kind of divine rapture burns within us all.

For some, it’s about desiring to create a specific sexual process which leads to cathartic release.

For others, there is a relentless urge to repress and deny those carnal desires.

“A lot of times, there’s a certain amount of guilt and shame associated with fetishes, which is absolutely ridiculous,” says Andrews. “So many people don’t want to be labeled as having a fetish because then they’re freaks or weird or a pervert.”

“When you look at it from my (clinical) point of view,” comments Dr. M, “it doesn’t matter to me whether you’re very much for sex or very much against sex; it’s exactly the same thing. You have an unresolved conflict in that area.”

“Like that crazy guy that said Tele-Tubbies were homosexuals – Jerry Falwell or whoever. What he’s really saying is he has this unresolved conflict with homosexuality.”

“The interesting thing about the saints and people who have these ecstatic out-of-body experiences – (Alleged alien abductees) have the same thing with UFOs and being taken up by aliens and being anally probed. It always involves some sort of sexual examination,” he says.

Taking us all the way back to Rev. Robertson – in the July/August 1997 issue of Freedom Writer Magazine, writer Skipp Porteous reported the following summary of Robertson’s comments made on the historic landing of the Pathfinder space probe on Mars:

“Robertson used the news of the July 4th Mars landing to promote his extreme beliefs. A segment on the July 8, 1997 broadcast of ‘The 700 Club’ featured news of the Mars Pathfinder mission. Employing the historical event as a starting point, the program delved into the possibility of the existence of UFOs and space aliens.”

“While Robertson viewed the space program with suspicion, on a more serious note, he launched into a diatribe against those who entertain the existence of space aliens and UFOs. In a rambling discourse, he said that if such things exist, they are simply demons trying to lead people away from Christ. According to Robertson, the threat is so serious that people who believe in space aliens should be put to death by stoning –according to ‘God's word.'”

It is unclear whether or not Robertson’s comments indicate a fetish for Old Testament-style methods of execution.

(Author’s note: For the purposes of this article, both Dr. M and Brittany Andrews were interviewed on the topic of foot fetish, and NOT on the subject of religious extremism. So, please, do NOT stone them. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

"The Stigmata" photograph by Nitehawk.

Horror Stories from the Set

This article was originally published in the November 2006 issue of XBiz Video Magazine, but not before some controversy.

Then- editor Matt O’Connor had assigned me the story. “I want funny, gross things that happen on-set,” he said.

“Well, what do you consider funny and gross?”

“Oh, you know, farting, accidents with sex toys, stuff like that,” he replied.

So, ever the dutiful reporter, I got out my list of contacts and started calling around to get “Horror Stories from the Set.”

I knew that Rob Spallone would be a live wire; he tells the best stories. And likewise with Cousin Stevie, who is a very down-to-earth guy. Robby D had to think about it for a minute, but then came up with some amusing anecdotes. And Tina Tyler and Tianna Lynn both gave a uniquely female perspective on the strange things that can happen when working on a hardcore set. As always, everyone I spoke to was very nice and willing to share their experiences.

When I turned in the story, I got a panicked phone call from Matt.

“I’m gonna have to give you a kill fee! I can’t run this story,” he says. “It’s too gross!”

“Well, you said you wanted gross,” I replied. “I mean, what did you want?”

“I don’t know – farting incidents or whatever.”

And I’m thinking, well, people fart on sets everyday – but that doesn’t make a memorable story.

You may have the same reaction as Matt did and find the contents of this article a little hard to take.

But it’s all in a day’s work for people in the adult film industry. When you’re having sex on-camera (or off), sometimes gross, crazy things happen; but try and imagine what kind of stories and jokes you would hear at a gynecologists’ convention.

Sex, like any bodily function, can be messy and awkward. Performers have to accept that as part of the job; they’re like athletes and often called upon to do things that push their physical and mental limits. So, they develop a sort of gallows’ humor and openness that can be very funny.

This story shows that it’s not just a job, it’s an adventure. It was finally published after Matt left his position as editor. Perhaps it was this piece that pushed him over the edge.

From alarmingly anal antics to cat-fighting cast, or unintentionally doing a Mike Tyson on a female performer’s labia – the “behind-the-scenes” footage you see in most DVDs doesn’t begin to describe what can go wacko on the set of a porno production.

“I’ve been in this for seven years and you become jaded,” says Robby D, director for Digital Playground. “There’s nothing that’ll happen on a set that I’m not prepared for.”

Including hungry crew members digging into a cake with extra-special “icing,” unaware it’s been used as a prop for a masturbation scene. Or taking a big hit of water out of a red plastic cup that’s just been used as a “dick wash.”

Stuff like that happens all the time, according to Robby. One memorable episode involved his favorite sex toy prop; a set of pink plastic anal beads.

Scott Nails and Latin performer Carmen were shooting a blowjob scene, using the beads to great effect.

“He’s pulling them out one at a time because it looks hot coming out of the butt like that,” says Robby. “And the little cord snaps.”

With one ball hanging, “we kind of panic and he grabs the ball, trying to act calm on-camera and keep it normal. He pulls on that and then that snaps.

“Now, the camera’s off and there’s like a quarter inch of plastic cord hanging out of this girl’s butt with these two big balls inside her. We’re trying to hold on to this little cord covered in lube and it’s slipping up her butt further and further.”

Eventually, Carmen managed to eliminate the problem herself, but says Robby, “It was one of my favorite toys and I won’t use them again because I’m just fearful of having to explain that to some doctor, you know?”

Rob Spallone, owner of Star World Productions, has been ringmaster on many a set-gone-wrong. He’s seen it all; from Bigfoot-like body odor to having to hire a guy off the local lunch wagon to finish a facial pop shot.

“I’ll tell you the best all-time story, ever,” says Spallone with his straight-out-of- Jersey accent. Shooting a boy/girl scene on the kitchen set of his studio, “it’s the last scene of the day, about ten o’clock and I want to go home.

“Now back then, the break down was ten minutes of pussy-eating, ten minutes of blowjob, 12 to 14 minutes of sex in three different positions and that made the scene.

“After 25 minutes, I come out of the office to see how far they got. He has her up on the sink with about eight people standing there and they’re still on eating pussy.

“So, I say, ‘Guys! What’re you doing? I wanna go home! Let’s go!"

“All of a sudden, the guy goes to rip her G-string off with his teeth. He misses and bites off a piece of her pussy lip. Blood is squirting out like a vein and she’s hysterical.

“I’m screaming at this kid to go to the RiteAid and get some peroxide. It was fucking crazy. And you know how the sink has two sections? He spit the piece into the other sink. You could hear it plop and the cameraman shot it. We couldn’t use the footage, but we had it.”

“I said to him, ‘Let’s do the blowjob scene now and we’ll let her bite your dick off!’ It was crazy that night,” says Spallone, who decided it best to finish the shoot on another day.

Sometimes, performers are expected to go above and beyond reasonable limits.

Tina Tyler , director at Mercenary Pictures and former performer, recalled a director that attempted to save a few bucks on a mile-high budget.

After performing a scene in a small Cessna with her then-husband Tony Tadeschi, Tyler was approached by the director while they were still in the air.

“He says to me, ‘Once you’re finished cleaning up, you don’t mind going up in the cockpit, right?’

“And I asked, ‘Why would I want to go in the cockpit?’

‘Well, I promised the pilot he could get a blowjob if he gave me a deal on the plane…’

“So, I said, “Well, then you better get your knee pads out, because you’re the one that made the promise!’”

Tyler says the pilot later charged an even larger fee after realizing the deal had not been negotiated pre take-off.

Other performers push themselves beyond their limits. Tiana Lynn, national sales director for Elegant Angel and former performer remembers an incident when she was new to the business.

“I was doing this birth control. It’s like a wax suppository that melts inside of you,” says Lynn. “I was doing a scene and ended up using too many, I think, and wound up in the hospital with a second degree burn. I don’t know if it was from the friction or a chemical burn.”

“They’re the most horrible thing to have sex with,” she adds, “especially on-camera. The wax starts to come out and I know the viewer is like, ‘What is coming out of her?’”

But the real meltdowns happen when super-diva personalities clash on-set, as described by director/producer Cousin Stevie, from his “Pussy Party # 11 : Ho’ Down” where this cat fight can be seen in behind-the-scenes extras.

Actresses Ava Vincent and Dillan Lauren arrived on-set, throwing attitude at each other over a previous incident involving some stolen clothing.

“There was just general animosity between the two of them,” says Stevie. “Cursing back and forth, yelling, and then one of the girls threw a burrito at the other one.”

The situation escalated, until a can of Rock Star energy drink hit Lauren in the back.

“So, Dillan got really pissed,” says Stevie. “She grabbed Ava by the back of the head and smacked her head into the refrigerator – Bam! She did it a couple of times and then threw her to the ground.

“Because the camera was down the hallway, all you see are feet going behind the wall. Then, you come around the corner – and now, Ava is coming down with her elbow like a WWF move, right into Dillan’s face. Then, April (Storm) broke it up, thank God.”

With the mayhem unleashed, “some of the girls sided with one girl, some with the other. But if my ‘Pussy Party’ doesn’t come off as a fun, happy movie, it’s not going to work,” says Stevie.

“So, April, my production manager and I got on the phone. We begged and we scrounged and got eight new girls. We didn’t get finished until two in the morning, but I have to give it to everyone there that made it a successful movie.

“After I saw it,” Stevie sighs, “then it was funny. But that night and that day, there was nothing funny about it.”

Howard Stern is NOT My Friend

152,167 and counting. That’s how many “friends” Howard Stern has on his MySpace page the last time I checked.

The automated ticker on his “Add a Friend” feature must spin like a Tilt-A-Whirl on crystal meth, day and night. He’s got a “Thanks for adding me” post from every girl in the greater Los Angeles basin with a pierced labia and a webcam, and every mook in New Jersey that pays $29.95 a month to watch her. Then, they all pay for satellite radio so that they can be a part of the Stern community.

I guess all those people have their own reasons for wanting to be associated with a media figure like Stern or, more accurately put, to have an association with the intern he pays to update his MySpace page while he’s practicing transcendental meditation and hanging out at Scores.

For myself, I barely have time to wash my car or clean under my fingernails, much less giving a whole lot of energy to a MySpace page. I understand how indispensable the Internet has become as a tool for networking, and obviously, if you’re reading this on my blog, you’re entitled to say that I’m full of shit. I’m sure, sooner than later, I’ll end up on MySpace, too.

Part of my life is lived out on the small screen – just NOT the part that should be happening in real time and space. And certainly NOT on some weird group-schizophrenia-blog-gone-apeshit that reminds me of junior high.

I don’t need anyone to sign my yearbook or to have my ticket punched a couple of thousand times in order to feel validated and have never been the type of person that needs to feel like part of a tribe.

I just have some serious misgivings about how technology has changed the way we conduct personal, actual relationships. As much as the Internet and portals like MySpace can be a gateway to places normally inaccessible, you can end up like Alice down the Rabbit Hole, in a Wonderland where things are just NOT as they seem.

I dated this guy for awhile (someone I did NOT meet on the Internet) – let’s call him M.S.

Anyway, several weeks ago, he emailed me and mentioned that he is now “addicted to MySpace.” He gave me his page address and told me take a look.

I’m not going to say everything he put on his MySpace was totally deceptive. The only flat-out lie is his location; claiming the upscale address where his post office box resides and NOT the downtown neighborhood where he actually flops on a friend’s couch.

Most of what he posts is accurate on a superficial level. But given the opportunity to scratch beneath the surface; let’s just say I got a completely different take on his personality profile.

For instance, he says, “I help everyone.” Well, translate that suspiciously broad statement to mean, “I help everyone in the hopes they will help me right back by loaning me their car or letting me hang out for a few days.”

But B you’re not U going to get L that L subtext trying S to read between H the lines I of someone you T meet online.

I mean, he looks so cool and laid back in the pictures.

It’s only my opinion, but the reality is my opinion is based on experience and NOT on some PR hype I got off MySpace. And I think, while he’s harmless enough, he also seems to have some difficulty with relationships – especially the one he’s having with himself.

It’s ironic because he has “friends.” All 461 of them on his MySpace list. I know a few are actual acquaintances.

And though he claims to be quite an industry insider, I’m pretty sure Jenna Jameson and the Angelina Jolie are NOT texting him from their Treos. Madonna will probably NOT be giving him an onstage shout-out the next time she plays the Staples Center.

This is a grown-ass man with the grown-up equivalent of imaginary friends. Like when I was eight-years old and joined the Donny Osmond Fan Club and received a “personal” letter and signed photo from Donny himself.

Is it me, or is that absurd? Defining yourself by associations with famous people you don’t really know, so a bunch of anonymous Web-surfers (that don’t know you) will want to get to know you and become your new “friends.” Hell-ooooo? There really should be a post-modernist/MySpace definition of the word “friend.”

Because when 75% of the “friends” you have on MySpace are celebrity endorsements, I wonder if that has more to say about how really lonely you are.

Of course, socializing from your PC creates a comfortable safety zone. No one ever has to get close enough to know what you’re really like. It’s streamlined and efficient, with just enough emotional investment to send a post if you feel like it or simply delete when you don’t.

For M.S. and MyCrack addicts like him, posting and posing are probably about as much human interaction as they really want to deal with – just know that there’s a fine line between being insulated and isolated.

Then there’s the flipside; over-exposure in a beam of hot white light through a magnifying glass. It’s only a matter of time until someone gets burned.

I ‘m having sex with this guy I’ll call Z. Like everyone else in the industry, he’s using MySpace as an ersatz method for promoting a website, allowing accessibility and, of course, to pick up women.

And we did NOT meet online either, just for the record.

So, one day, I’m sitting naked at his kitchen counter on a bar stool, on a towel, buzzing with hormones and post-orgasmic electricity.

He insists I have some cranberry juice to ward off any urinary tract infection. Standing there naked, he pours a big glass. I like to look at him because he’s handsome, his body is very beautiful.

And he’s talking about work; he needs to drive more traffic, he needs more equipment, he needs to upgrade, etc.

“Well, Z,” I say. “If you can’t afford to pay someone to do it, then you’ll have to do it yourself and that’s gonna cut into the pussy time, sweetie. I mean, rent is pretty expensive and you’ve got that pussy magnet car…”

“You know, I don’t even need the car,” he says. “The porn girls don’t care – they have their own money. And the other women don’t care if I drive a Toyota…”

I ask what he wants with all these women and he seems befuddled. “It would just be nice if I could have three or four like you – you know, like friends. And then nine or ten more just for variety. That’s what keeps my head straight – the variety.”

Then, his thoughts turn dark, like a cloud passing over a rocky, slippery slope. “There’s this one girl – she’s over here four nights a week…”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-six... She goes to the grocery store and, well… it’s hard for a guy to say ‘no.’ But she’s out of town for work, Thank God – she said she’s in love with me and I’ve been really back-peddling since then.”

“Is that what you want from a woman? Someone to go to the store?”

“No. I don’t want a relationship – but if I did, I might have feelings for her.”

In reality, I already know about the girl – 21-years old and from a small Midwestern town – because she’s been posting on his MySpace page. Romantic messages in lover’s code sandwiched between the coy innuendos of a half-dozen other women in the variety pack.

Of course, one of the great features of MySpace is NOT only do you get to know every allegedly intimate detail revealed about your primary interest, you can also zero in on all their friends (a boon to pedophiles, stalkers and jealous women everywhere).

And, on her MySpace page; the ardent, funny responses of a man that finds the adoration of a wild, infatuated young girl as addictive as heroin.

She smokes cigarettes and parties and likes to kiss girls. She wants to be a millionaire by the end of the year.

I wonder if 21-year old girls from small Midwestern towns ever fantasize – like I do – about meeting a nice guy. Or is it just shits-and-giggles? Imaging that you’re top-of-the-roster and someday he’ll change and then, things will be different.

On her MySpace, she’s listed as “in a relationship.” On his, “single and looking.”

“You know, you can’t expect a young girl like that to have the kind of perspective it takes, to have a real relationship, especially with a guy like you…” I’m not sure if he noticed the far away look in my eyes, just then. He was busy on the computer, answering email.

Later, he hugged me, saying, “You know, that’s what I like about you. I can talk to you and I don’t have to hold back because, you know, you’re like a friend.”

I don’t go up on Z’s MySpace anymore, even if I want to check his calendar. If I want to know what he’s doing, I should just be able to ask him – we’re supposed to be friends.

The first few times I went up on his page, I realized I’d rather be found dead in a transparent latex cat suit with a gerbil up my ass, than to post any crush messages to him; like stained panties strung on a clothesline for the world to see.

And truthfully, it’s discouraging when he won’t answer his cell phone but he’s taken the time to post messages to a girl he hopes won’t fall in love with him. It’s really none of my business what they say to each other. We’re just friends.

Maybe I’m the freak. Maybe I am old-school. Maybe my expectations of friendship are so out-dated and over-estimated that disappointment is inevitable.

People are complicated; much more than scrapbook pages of digital photos, personality profiles, avatars and I-tunes. If you Google the phrase “make new friends” you’ll get 230,000,000 references in .20 seconds; everything from articles to guidelines, networking to message boards and whole websites for pimping your MySpace page with more bells and whistles to attract more hits and clicks.

But no matter how interactive, you can’t be friends in two dimensions. I guess most people are intelligent enough to realize the difference between reality and a computer-generated simulation. Sometimes, even in three dimensions – what you don’t realize is that you can know someone intimately, but never really know them at all.

I know a lot of people, so I took a mental tally the other day. I have less than a dozen friends on my list. They’re the people that keep in touch and don’t want anything much from me.

And no, Howard Stern is NOT one of them.