Song Of The Beehive

Remembering Marilyn Chambers

2009-04-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

There were few tears shed at the public memorial service of Marilyn Chambers on Wednesday — and that was a good thing. The mood was ebullient, even joyous at times; though her sudden death must be sad for family and friends, those that gathered were there to celebrate her life.

Under cloudy skies at Zuma, near tower 9: Beautiful pictures of her were set up under an arch decorated with lavender balloons, her favorite color. A spray of all white flowers was standing to the side. Someone had made a sand sculpture portrait of Chambers and the Ivory Snow box cover was there, of course. People were dressed for a cold day at the beach; only a handful were from the adult industry. Several toddlers and small children played in the sand, oblivious and laughing. Someone had brought Chambers’ chihuahua. She loved animals very much.

When the news of her death broke early last Monday morning, the day after Easter, it was a shock. All that was known was that her daughter had found her dead in her mobile home — it turns out she’d suffered a massive stroke. I immediately called Bill Margold after hearing the news because I knew he would be reeling in his own patriarchal sort of way. I was the fourth phone call he had already received that morning.

“Well, kid. It’s just devastating. First (director Ron) Sullivan, then (“Deep Throat” director Gerard) Damiano, and Buck (Adams; performer and Amber Lynn’s brother)… But with Chambers, it’s devastating,” Margold sighed heavily, giving the roll call of the recently dead. He didn’t have to say much for me to know that he was terrified at the thought of having to watch friends and peers passing away, even if they were passing into history. A controversial figure himself; you can love or hate Margold, but if you work in or have ever worked in the adult industry, you’re family to him (whether he loves or hates you in return).

As a first generation performer and in his self-imposed role as a “triple-X historian,” Margold knew he would be called for quotes as soon as the mainstream press picked up the story. When we went to dinner that night, he said he’d gotten more calls from saddened fans, than from the media. That comforted him.

I scanned the Internet all day. Industry trade publication AVN had the scoop. It took a couple of hours for the news to show up, first on MediaBistro.com, then the LA Times, then Reuters, then the L.A. Daily News , CNN, until it had spread internationally. I was interested in what the threads on the articles would say, wanted to gauge the response; because when you’re famous for taking your clothes off and having sex onscreen, you can never tell how people will react toward that.

But that’s not really what Marilyn Chambers was famous for — it goes beyond that. She was more than that and she was famous; like legendary famous.

Chambers was a sex radical and iconoclast, and that’s why people who have never seen her movies know her name. She was the original “girl next door,” blonde, wholesome, beautiful. Like a lot of the performers from the first generation of adult, she had mainstream movie and theater aspirations. If she never quite made it on the mainstream side, it’s not because she was untalented or unintelligent. It’s because mainstream society wouldn’t accept her status as a hardcore queen.

Still, in retrospect, I think it would have been impossible to be in her position and not get turned on by the scandal and controversy of the early days. It was a revolutionary time; the whole world was changing. As a trailblazer, it might have been difficult for her to anticipate the stigma that would be attached to being a porn star; she was one of the first. People were breaking the rules back then and making up new ones as they went along.

Red-headed Jane Hamilton (Veronica Hart), a legendary star of the early 80s, might have said it best as she spoke at the service, recalling how the first time she met Chambers was on a set. Already a big star, Chambers was worldly and sophisticated, said Hamilton, and “so kind. What a time to be so beautiful, so young, so famous to so many.”

When “Behind the Green Door” came out in 1972, a lot of people still considered it racy for a woman to wear pants to work, or even have a job. I was only eight years old at the time, but I remember my own mother making disparaging remarks about “women’s libbers” running around with no bras on, acting like sluts. With her Catholic mindset and deeply conflicted ideas around her role as a wife and mother, my mom bitched constantly about not being “allowed” to work, but then also openly resented women that dared to break the rules — she embodied the confusion around women's roles in those days. My dad, a civil servant with the Navy, would trundle off to his job every morning and then return home every night. After dinner, he and my mother smoked Pall Malls until the dining room had a fine haze of smoke hovering near the ceiling. They would talk about bills and everyday problems, and I would be watching the black and white TV in my room, tuned into the “Sonny and Cher Show” and singing along to the Enjoli perfume commercial and wondering if someday, I’d bring home the bacon.

It’s kind of a miracle that between the ‘70s feminist rhetoric and my mother’s hopeless denial of her own power, I grew up to believe that a real feminist, a real woman, should be free to make her own choices — no matter what those choices turn out to be. Marilyn exemplified that in the extreme; pushing it beyond society’s rules, beyond feminist standards for “liberated” or what they now called “empowered,” probably beyond what she could’ve imagine, or maybe even wanted.

We lived in the East Bay in the ‘70s. Across the bay, in San Francisco, Marilyn was already bigger than life, starring at the O’Farrell Theater, naked and 15-feet tall on theater screens in the role of a wide-eyed innocent heiress, having sex with a black man on camera. The audience was mesmerized, I think, because they had never seen anyone like her before.

The Mitchell Bros., who owned the O’Farrell and produced “Green Door,” made a fortune off the movie. According to a letter read by Margold at the service, sent from another classic star Serena; she and Chambers would feature dance at the O’Farrell and, after the show, Chambers would sometimes stick around and play poker with Artie and Jim. Serena described Chambers as “enthusiastic,” a word that came up several times during the day, as friends and family remembered her. Chambers also was a wife, mother, good friend and neighbor.

At the service, a girl with short, blonde hair and a strong jaw took the podium and spoke directly to Chambers’ daughter McKenna. She introduced herself as Liberty Mitchell, Artie’s daughter. She recalled seeing Chambers at an awards show, eight months pregnant with McKenna, and as she took to the stage, laughed and said, “I know Artie would love it if I just gave birth right here.”

“I don’t know you, McKenna, but as a mother, I know that your mother will always be right here with you. She’s just on the other side,” Mitchell added. Not too long after that, the gentleman casually officiating at the service reminded everyone it was Earth Day as well as Chambers' birthday, and so we all sang "Happy Birthday."

My own remembrance of Chambers is the only time I met her, at the 2005 FOXE Awards. It was the first adult industry event I covered and she was my first published interview in the industry.

It was raining like hell at the Mayflower Ballroom that night, poured the whole way as I drove up from San Diego. Margold let me in the event, pointed out a few names and let me loose on the crowd. It was intimidating; I still had not seen a whole porno in my life and I wasn’t sure what questions to ask. Ron Jeremy was there (he had written a poem for Chambers), and some other long-timers like Rhonda Jo Petty, Lynn LeMay and Cara Lott. I didn’t know anyone. I watched Alicia Rio dance for the first time that night and thought she was amazing. I talked to a fan named D.J. Riley, who had a congenital defect and was strapped to his wheelchair; he was so eloquent, explaining what pornography meant to him.

Chambers arrived late, but it was worth the wait. She was reunited with her “Green Door” co-star Johnny Keyes, for the first time in 25 years — and I got them both. I felt terrible interrupting their conversation to get a few words. They both looked at me sideways and then she turned and gave me that broad, photogenic grin. She answered the questions, though Keyes did most of the talking. I felt like I had really scored, scribbling in my notebook.

Onstage, sitting in a giant wooden throne, she had a mischievous glint in her eye. The house was full of stars and fans, the roof was leaking under the ceaseless downpour, and one after another, they lined up to say a few words for Marilyn. There was lots of laughter, a little drama and many kind memories — just as on the beach the other day.

After Chambers died, most of what was on the threads were simple condolences. Most of the posts I read were from men, and said things like, “Sad — I loved her.” Many called her “goddess.” There were comments about her heated performances, her pierced genitalia, the perkiness of her tits; the kind of compliments that get paid only to a triple-X superstar. One early morning post read, “Marilyn Chambers dead? That’s it. I’m going back to bed…”

A misguided woman posted to a Facebook thread and said if you knew anything about Marilyn Chambers that she had been exploited by the men in her life and those men probably wouldn’t be found dead in trailers. With a rueful smile, I remembered my life before adult and what my opinion of porn stars was back then. I had to shoot back a response, pointing out it’s impossible to know what really happened, unless you were there, unless you knew her.

Did Chambers have regrets or wished that she’d done some things differently? Well, don’t we all?

“And if you’re gonna put a tragic trailer park spin on her death,” I added to the retort, “I had a friend whose grandmother died in her mobile home. That was sad, too …”

After the service, Margold and I ended up having something to eat at Callahan’s in Santa Monica. He told me the story of going there with his mother 50 years ago, on Friday nights when they would have dinner and go to a movie across the street. The conversation quickly turned back to the industry. We were the only ones in there, until some guy sat alone at the table next to us. Margold’s deep voice boomed in the emptiness, telling more stories from a long time ago.

“Excuse me, you’re Bill Marigold, right?” the man from the next table asked, mispronouncing Bill’s name. I turned to look at him. He looked a little like William Macy, mid-40s, maybe a little older.

“How do you know who I am?” Margold smiled.

“Well,” and a secretive look washed over the man’s face. “I’ve seen some porno movies, you know … do you come here often? I’m a Santa Monica native; I come in here all the time…”

“Well, kid, we just came back from the service for Marilyn Chambers. I grew up here, so I needed to be here today. It helps me feel grounded…”

“Oh,” the man responded. “Hey, what did she die of?”

He seemed surprised when Margold told him it was a stroke. The conversation started in earnest then, about the old days, old Santa Monica, old porn stars. The guy worked in television, so they chatted about that and old movies; they had a lot in common — I just leaned back in the booth and listened, taking it all in.

And somewhere, in the grey skies over Malibu, a lavender latex balloon was floating, ascending into the stratosphere…

Resolution #17: Dharma Dogs

2009-01-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

"It scared me, the word 'vibrations,' " Brian Wilson once said, remembering how, when he was a boy, his mother, Audree, tried to explain why dogs barked at some people and not others.

"A dog would pick up vibrations from these people that you can't see but you can feel. And the same thing happened with people."

"Good Vibrations," Wilson's crowning achievement as a songwriter and producer, harnessed that energy and turned it into eternal sunshine.

"This is a very spiritual song," he said after its release, "and I want it to give off good vibrations."

— RollingStone.com review of the Beach Boys’ "Good Vibrations" from the album Pet Sounds

My resolution: Be more like a dog.

Because dogs react and rely on instinct; physical and emotional instinct. Dogs don’t think when the appropriate action is to feel, or just to be. In the absence of every discordant thought, distraction, ego trip and neurosis that prevents humans from picking up that unknown thrumming, dogs get the frequency with radar that has been bred into their DNA over a thousand-thousand years. They hear it on a cellular level.

Why do I talk myself out of something good, when what I should have been doing is following what my gut and heart is telling me? Because I ignore the signals.

When writer’s block is holding me back like a choke chain, isn’t it always because I am thinking too hard about what to write, instead of manifesting in words what should be instinctive?

“Our world requires that decisions be sourced and footnoted, and if we say how we feel, we must also be prepared to elaborate on why we feel that way,” Malcolm Gladwell said in his book “Blink.”

He added, “We need to respect the fact that it is possible to know without knowing why we know, and accept that — sometimes — we’re better off that way.”

Without realizing it, Gladwell, who is an intellectual, almost academic writer, has his ear cocked and is listening to the inaudible call of dog whistle consciousness here. His book is all about plugging into unconscious decision-making and letting your mind off the leash, so to speak.

I watched The Dog Whisperer last night. He made three important points:

· First, a dog's natural instinct is to be happy.

· Second, dogs live in the moment.

· Third, dogs act unnaturally when they repeat destructive habits from past conditioning or have been traumatized or abused. The only way to correct this is to create balance.

Exactly, I thought. Right on the cold, wet nose. Anyone that has ever had a great dog would tell you. It’s all about doggy Dharma.

For 11 years, I had a dog named Bear. He was full grown when I got him – a huge 120 lbs. half-Labrador half-Newfie mix with short, shiny black fur, long dancer’s legs and a cinder block-shaped head. He was so handsome; people would stop us in the street and make a fuss over him, which he would encourage by nudging with his big snout.

He rarely barked, but always seemed to be listening. He had an uncommon congenital disease that limited his ability to produce adrenaline, so he wasn’t overly aggressive and he never humped like other dogs. Because he was at a disadvantage that way, I believe it heightened his sensitivity; with limited ability to react into fight-or-flight mode, he had to be ultra-aware of his surroundings.

You could tell when he was thinking. He would give you a deep look and then sigh, with a great gust of air out of his nose. He was majestic but clumsy. He was gentle and intelligent, except when it came to cats and skunks.

He was a happy boy.

Bear never met me without being ecstatic to see me. Typically, when I would get home from work, he would be waiting at the door and start dancing on those long, muscular legs, weaving back and forth with excitement, his tail beating the air. Then the nudging. It wasn’t in his nature to hold back affection.

We would walk for miles in the canyons, early in the morning when the air was wet and heavy with sage brush and wild fennel. It made him cross-eyed happy to roll in coyote shit. I tried to discourage that behavior with a torrent of swearing, tried to outsmart him — but he was following the instructions of something deep and ancient.

He could tell if you were depressed or anxious and would stick close, if you wanted him; just having him there would lower your blood pressure. When the other dog Peg got sick with cancer, Bear stayed up with her at night, and when her legs got weepy with edema, he relentlessly licked the fluid off. Before we took her to the vet to put her down, Bear barked frantically. Afterward, he was quiet and lonely without her.

When he went lame in his hind legs and time had come, we spent the last day at the only place where I could think of where his legs wouldn’t matter. We went to the beach, and I helped him into the water with a sling around his useless hips. He pulled himself along in the shallows on his front legs for awhile, until I realized that he was indulging me as much as I was trying to indulge him. He wasn’t able to chase seagulls in a flat-out run across the sand anymore. So, we went for hamburgers and ice cream. Bear was happy, and then he was gone.

Putting him down broke my heart. I can say, without a doubt, that it hurt so badly because the relationship I had with Bear was pure good vibrations. He was my friend because it never occurred to him that there was any other way, except to be loyal and near, true and joyous. In his dog way, Bear was the embodiment of total consciousness.

But he never realized what he was doing, in the human sense. He was a dog, a killer. He killed other animals and would stand his ground, and that also was in response to the will of instinct.

He wasn’t perfect. But you don’t have to be perfect to be happy. You just have to trust your instincts to take you toward bliss.

You can say that I’m anthropomorphizing, that dogs are animals and not capable of understanding complex emotions like happiness. But that’s the whole fucking point: You don’t need to think or scheme or rationalize or analyze how to be happy — you just are. You just feel it. It doesn’t have to be complicated.

Bear was a Bodhisattva, a canine conduit of Universal energy that flowed straight from the unconscious. We didn’t need words or intellect — all we did was tap into the dynamic bond between us that reverberated with unlearned goodness; a true soul connection that was laid down effortlessly, as natural as breathing.

It was one of the most profound experiences of my life. The masters don’t know what the big dogs understand.

I wish it was that easy with people.

So what’s all this got to do with resolutions? Here’s my new dogma, my pit bull mentality.

Especially now, when it seems like there are "gathering clouds and raging storms" all around — it is crucial to make the unconscious decision to be happy.

But — because emotions like happiness, anger, love, hate, fear, joy are intangible and difficult to grasp without confronting obstacles like ego or the distraction of thought — it’s even more important to connect with Universal energy, the wellspring for artists, writers, poets, philosophers, prophets and mutts everywhere. It’s the eternal sunshine that Brian Wilson tapped into, though I’m sure he couldn’t explain the process to you anymore than a dog can explain why it barks at the moon. That energy is real, powerful and it exists, underneath the veil of emotions.

I know a lot of people that try to plug into it with meditation, yoga, religion, music, drugs, booze, dance, sex — and those are all a path, some better than others. I've gone down many of them, but I’m ready for the dog spirit to lead me to the source.

In terms of balance, I’m not talking about achieving the sort of unbearable happiness you encounter when you meet someone trying so hard to be totally positive. That’s an illusion.

Real balance is accepting the side that lurks in the shadows, integrating the fears and dark desires with the light, to make a whole. There’s no sunshine without darkness; otherwise how could you see the difference? It’s sensing when to bare your teeth back and bite, or roll over and show belly. While heeding instinct, you can still master impulse. When the night is darkest, I’ll follow the Dog Star.

Without the cosmic flow or the ability to balance, is it ever possible to live in the moment? I don’t think so. You’ve got to tap the unconscious to have complete awareness that each moment is the only reality, and it’s up to you how you use it. There’s no time to think in a moment — only to be, to rely on instinct. But you have to trust your own nature to come shining through.

That’s mad dog yin & yang for you.

There are many historical references to dog mythology. Here is a story I found that think proves my point:

“One version of a memorable dog story from Indian literature involves the heroic Pandava brothers of the epic Mahabharata. When King Dharmaraja, his brothers and all their families set off on their final journey up the Himalayas, each one fell until only Dharmaraja and his companion dog were left.

As they neared the top of the mountain, they were greeted by the god Indra in his chariot. The god lauded Dharmaraja and said that he had earned a place in heaven. He bid the king to board the chariot and as he did Dharmaraja beckoned for his canine friend. However, Indra protested saying that dogs were not allowed in his heaven.

Upon hearing this Dharmaraja said that he could not abandon such a faithful companion who depended on him. He declared he would rather stay on earth than abandon his dog. Finally Indra relented and both were taken to heaven. Upon arriving the dog was transformed into the god Dharma, the lord of the correct way of living.”

Without hesitation, I will tell you that if Bear and Peg don’t greet me at the gates of Heaven, then I’m not going in. Not that they want me there anyway.

This bitch has learned a New Year trick or two, but I’ll let Iggy howl the last word.

Ecstatic Fanatics and the Foot Soldiers of Sex

2007-05-16T22:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-06T06:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Part Two: Buck Angel

2007-04-29T00:30:00.000-07:00

I think a lot of transgendered people prefer to make themselves as invisible as possible, hoping to blend in with the crowd and be accepted by their gender orientation.

Likewise, I’d bet a lot of non-transgendered people would rather not be confronted by something they perceive as not being very “normal.”

While most people in his situation might choose to hide or try to go unnoticed, the thing I like most about Buck is how open he is and how he’s put himself out there for all to see. He knows he makes people curious and that there’s only one way to help people be educated, as opposed to ignorant. Whenever I’ve talked to him for an article, he’s been patient and totally ready to answer any question – with a thick skin and a good sense of humor.

Even in the world of adult entertainment, where people are used to being completely exposed, it took a lot of guts for Buck to keep knocking down doors and insisting he be accepted for what he is – not a freak show but, truly, a self-made man.

At this year’s AVN Awards, the “Oscars” of porn held every January in Las Vegas, Buck won two trophies – one for Transsexual Performer of the Year, and the other for Most Outrageous Sex Scene, for a scene he performed with male-to-female transsexual performer Allanah Starr, in “Allanah Starr’s Big-Boob Adventure.” Talk about gender mind-bending confusion!

Since then, he’s been traveling a lot, from his home in Mexico. Just in New York for the infamous, annual Black Party on March 24th; Buck was featured at the event in an experimental film called “Schwarzwald.” He’s traveling this week for appearances in Madrid, the UK, Gran Canaria in the Canary Islands, and then back to New York. He will also be speaking at the San Francisco Queer Arts Festival on June 21-22.

The latest movie from Buck Angel Entertainment, “Buckback Mountain” also released this week, featuring himself with Lobo, Mylo Deren and Sean Steele.

I asked Buck, recently, if he feels like he’s living his dream and what the future holds.

“You know, I never in my wildest dreams could have imagined that my life would end up like this. I really feel so lucky,” he replied. “It’s as if I had to go through this really rough period in my early life, to really be able to appreciate what I have been given. Not that I haven’t worked hard to get here, but I had no idea it would become so big.”

“For the future – well, you know, that kind of scares me, but in a good way!” he added. “I just see myself becoming so huge and making such a huge mark on the world. I really see, in the last year, peoples’ interest in me exploding. They really want to know more about me and what I represent. This is so good! The sky’s the limit for me and the future.”

Even if it didn't seem that way back in May 2006 when this interview was conducted, Buck Angel has become a shining example of someone for whom the adult industry has been a positive, self-affirming experience.

JC: Do you ever get really negative response?

Buck Angel: Of course. I’m in a situation – I’m coming in and fucking shit up. Because you know, the industry is very straight-laced in a sense. Everything has its own little category and when you’re not really in… It took me years to get my foot in the door, where people like you are calling me and people are being very respectful to my work.

In the very beginning, nobody would even talk to me. No magazines would talk to me, no video companies would even look at my videos. People were like, ‘You’re disgusting.’

Believe me, it was very difficult for me to get to where I am today because that industry is so, in a sense, vanilla. And they are very categorized. So, basically, where does Buck Angel fit? He doesn’t fit anywhere, from gay to straight to tranny and back again.

My consumer base, at this point, tends to be gay men, which is very fascinating to me. Straight men tend to be the least interested and the most aggravated by me. Straight men tend to be the most rude and disrespectful and ugly to me.

People are so unbelievable. The thing is; I’m a fucking strong man. You can say anything you want to me, go the fuck ahead. I don’t really fucking care. In the beginning it did kinda tweak me a little bit, so I had to learn to say, ‘You know what? It’s not about me, it’s about them.’

I’m proud of myself. My partner is proud of me. My friends are proud of me and because I have such an amazing circle of people around me, it pushes me up even more and makes me feel… and then I get people like you and people like Keith at Titan, who are just so amazingly supportive of my work, it makes me even push harder and harder.

Eventually a couple of straight guys are going to come around and say, ‘Hey, you know what? Buck is hot… I might not want to fuck him, but I think he’s kinda cool, what he’s doing.’

I think that’ll come around for sure, definitely, somewhere along the line.

JC: Why the decision to become a porn star?

BA: It was weird. It wasn’t like I chose to become a porn star. I was working in the porn industry behind-the-scenes. I was making fetish movies with my ex-partner who’s a dominatrix, and I was doing all this stuff and making websites, and working with transsexual women doing websites, and it just clicked in my head, like, ‘Jesus Christ, there’s nobody doing female-to-male tranny porn! There’s nobody doing it.’

In a world of porn where basically you can see and do everything, right? There’s nobody doing any type of female-to-male transsexual porn. That was fascinating to me.

So, I just did it, not knowing what was going to happen. Honestly, I really didn’t. I just felt like I was the one that was chosen to do it, you know.

And it just goes to show you that even today, after three years, I’m still trying to find guys to shoot and bring into my work; there’s not many guys that want to do this – very, very, very few. That’s why you don’t see my movies with other guys. I’d like to eventually just produce and direct with other guys like me.

JC: Are there others like you?

BA: Very few and when I get them, to be honest with you, they’re just not up to the quality of guy that I’d like to have, you know? I’d like to put out guys that have really nice bodies and look like they really want to take care of themselves.

Most of the ones that come to me don’t tend to be up to the standards that I’m looking for right now. Not to say that someone might get turned on by that, but for me as an artist and as somebody who’s doing this, I have a vision of what I want my guys to look like.

Even then, since I’ve been doing this, there’s maybe a handful of men that have come to me. And then, when I go to get them to do the movie, they’re very shy or decide that they decide that they’re not ready to do it at this point.

It’s just amazing. They just are not comfortable being men with pussies. They’re not comfortable with it. Eventually, I hope that I’m going to be able to change that situation for them.

JC: When you get negative reaction is it always from straight guys?

BA: Oh yeah. I would say that 99% of the time it’s from straight men. You know, I don’t get as much hate mail now as I did in the beginning. Mostly, I’m on their blogs and the say, ‘Hey, dude. Check this out. This is fucking gross or weird” or “This is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen!”

Just totally immature high school boy shit. If you have a problem, why don’t you just contact me and maybe we can talk about it?

JC: Well, you know the male-to-female transsexual thing is becoming very trendy and it’s mostly straight guys watching that, I would assume…

BA: Huge. Isn’t that funny?

JC: Do you think that female-to-male transsexuals will ever be as accepted?

BA: You’re going to hear this from me: That’s eventually going to happen. And I’m the one who’s starting that. I have invented a whole new genre of porn. Not a whole lot of people can say that, you know? Eventually, in the next five to ten years, every studio will have a Buck Angel. You watch – it’s going to happen.

But right now people are just wanting to see what I’m going to do and the bottom line comes down to money. How can they make money? Is there enough interest out there for people like Buck Angel?

JC: Well, how’s the response? How many films do you have?

BA: Actually, I have three films with Robert Hill and I have two of my own with Avalon. And I’m doing my third one now… My new movie that’s coming out now is called 'Buck Angel’s V is for Vagina.'

JC: I think there are a lot of people that have never even considered female-to-male transsexuals…

BA: I’ve been around for three years and you still hadn’t heard about me. Believe me, I’m everywhere, so that’s what I’m saying – it's just because I don’t think enough people know about me yet. The more people know about me, the more people see about me, the more fanbase I get.

JC: So, is it difficult to find people that will perform with you? Who do you use?

BA: Men and women and transsexuals. No straight men, obviously. That doesn’t work right now. Mostly gay men, bisexual and straight women I would say, and transsexuals.

I shot a movie with Wendy Williams. I did a movie for Gia Darling, but I didn’t shoot with Gia; I shot with Allanah Starr.

That was a history-making scene, me and Allanah Starr, that’s never been done in the history of porn – a male-to-female transsexual and a female-to-male transsexual. That title is 'Allanah Starr’s Big Boob Adventures.'

It’s a really hot scene and, of course, people are tripping on it because it was just so… like the camera man said, ‘I’ve been working in this industry for 30 years, Buck, and you just blew my fucking mind.’

JC: Well, like you said, the industry is kinda vanilla…

BA: It’s like – okay, why is an 800-guy gangbang okay, and why is getting my pussy fucked not okay? Like, I don’t get it, you know what I’m saying? That seems normal to them, but when I get my pussy fucked, it doesn’t seem normal.

If this is what turns you on, then that’s okay. But an 800-man gangbang, honestly; it does not turn me on to see a woman full of cum, like from head to toe. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s okay. It’s totally okay.

But that’s why they all turn around and talk shit about my work. That is just so weird to me and so close-minded. We’re all in the same industry, people…

I get it and I know what I’m doing and being a pioneer. All of those things is very hard work and I have to educate. And believe me, that was never my intention. I did not want to do that. I just wanted to make fucking porn, but it’s turned into a lot more than that. I’m becoming a political activist at this point, a revolutionary. All kinds of things are coming from my work.

And I’m taking it on. I’ve decided I’m just going to take it on and I don’t really care.

That’s one of the reasons I moved out of the United States. All those damn stupid fucking laws that they’re making now; obscenity laws, which is so – whatever obscenity means – they can walk into your house and arrest you because they don’t like you, is basically what it is.

(Laughing) And there’s ‘Buck Angel, the man with the pussy.’ How more obscene can you get?

(For more information on Buck Angel, visit www.buckangel.com or www.transsexual-man.com. Photo used by permission of Buck Angel)

The ? Spot

2007-04-24T22:19:00.000-07:00

There’s a guy I know – sexy, well-endowed and eager to please. And I can always tell when he’s looking for my G-spot.

If we’re in missionary with him kneeling upright and my legs in a V-position, he’ll grab my ankles like ski poles and sort of steer, kind of like he’s running moguls. He’ll pull my legs a little wider sometimes, or wrap his arms around my shins and close them tight then sling them towards his right shoulder. He shifts his weight slightly to thrust at a different angle and I know he’s trying to hit the target.

Or, if I’m on all-fours, he’ll use his hand to reach in there and start fishing around for it, manipulating me with the famous “come hither” hooked finger maneuver, so that I feel this delicious pressure and the sensation of being full, like I have to go to pee. But I never get off with just this particular technique.

In the midst of all the breathing, sweating, muscles stretching and straining, pushing and pulling, position-changing, communicating, maintaining eye contact and/or managing a long, deep kiss – in the midst of all that, I’m not sure what spots he’s hitting.

And the real truth is – I could give a shit if he ever finds my G-spot. In fact, I’ll go one step further and say if I only have an orgasm 5 percent of the time, that’s okie-dokie with me.

Never having been terribly orgasmic to begin with, the only surefire way to make me cum is to apply vigorous, direct manual, mechanical or oral stimulation to my clitoris for anywhere from 5 to 45 minutes while I fantasize about gangbangs and sex with strangers in public restrooms/dark alleys. For the guys out there that have worked so diligently to provide me with a mind-blowing orgasm, just know those fantasy scenarios do include you. Most of the time.

And with this particular lover, chasing an orgasm is more of a psychological game we play. I know he really is trying to make sure I’m satisfied, but he is also getting a big boost to his big ego by transforming me into a wailing, sex-crazy she-devil with the stroke of his mighty penis. I show him my response by spitting, clawing and vocalizing like an inflamed alley cat while he enjoys the show.

I’m not faking anything; I’m just not focused on attaining any goal except enjoying his company. And he’s sex-savvy enough to understand – he doesn’t take it personally if our sessions don’t always end in a paralyzing, earth-shaking explosion.

He’s just as apt to jump off the bed and go get a glass of water, if he’s thirsty. And when he comes back, he might just want to watch Discovery Channel. Or I might get hungry and suggest we go get something to eat. It doesn’t even bother him if he doesn’t have an orgasm. Any length of time we spend just touching, teasing and playing is some of the best sex I’ve ever had, with or without a “happy ending.” It hits the spot, figuratively if not literally, and that’s all that matters.

So, for me, I think G-spots and orgasms are a bit overemphasized, in terms of what kind of importance is placed on them as the ultimate means and measure of a women’s pleasure.

Every month for as long as I can remember, the cover of Cosmo has featured an article on how to ramp up your orgasm/his orgasm and assorted other information to potentially improve your sex life – sandwiched in between pages and pages of advertising for products geared towards making you feel attractive enough to get this wonderful sex life that you need to be improving upon.

Google search the term “G-spot” and you’ll get 2,000,000 references in .21 seconds. In fact, if you search “G-spot” on Amazon.com, you’ll come up with 1,502 books mentioning the term; some of those are technical texts with obscure references to other types of G-spots, but the great majority of them are sexually-oriented literature falling into the areas of health, body and mind, or medical.

Wow, that’s whole lot of writing on a bean-sized area of spongy tissue allegedly located one-third to one-half of the way up your vagina, on the anterior wall near the urethra, in relation to the Skene’s glands, otherwise known as the “female prostate.” I mean, how much conjecture or rhetoric can there be on the topic? Apparently, a lot of writers have successfully managed to sell feature stories and get a book deals out of the search for the Holy G-spot.

This is a quote from Wikipedia’s posting on the G-spot (not a written-in-stone reference, but good enough for government work and blogs): “There is a great deal of dispute about the reality of the G-spot. It is mostly referenced in books on sexuality aimed at a popular audience.”

I asked Dr. Carol Queen, the founder/director of San Francisco’s Center for Sex and Culture, her opinion on whether the importance of trendy techniques overshadows other aspects of satisfying sex, like good communication or being comfortable with your body.

“Here's the real problem,” Queen said. “The pop media presents these things as though they will work equally well for everyone who tried them. Remember Kim Cattrall's book with the techniques drawn in red, with directional arrows and such? That's a roadmap for getting Kim off, not me or you or her other readers. It is so misleading to present these ideas as though they will work for everyone.”

The sex manual Queen is referring to is “Satisfaction: The Art of the Female Orgasm,” (Warner Books, 2002) co-authored by actress Cattrall and her real-life, jazz musician husband Mark Levinson.

In Publisher’s Weekly, Cattrall is quoted from the book, saying, “’Some people... assume that for me to play a sexually open character, like Samantha Jones on HBO's Sex and the City, I must have had fabulous sex most of my life. Well, the truth is that until three years ago most of my sexual experiences were miserable."

I guess playing a wanton strumpet on cable TV does qualify you as some kind of expert in between the sheets. But I’m not sure if I want to take a whole lot of sex advice from a woman who, admittedly, was having “miserable” sex up until she was 43-years old. (Interesting also, to note, that Cattrall and Levinson were divorced in 2004.)

“I actually think there is too little basic down-to-earth information given in many pop culture sources," Queen explained further, "with a huge emphasis on making orgasms better... for women who often are not reliably orgasmic at all! Since almost none of us have been able to count on really strong sex educations, this trend is problematic.

“Especially if the women receiving the G-spot (or whatever) technique info assume that they can go right to that level without truly understanding and mastering (mistressing?) basic body knowledge, arousal, and all the things that must be in place for their sexuality to function without problems. Skipping the basics and then recommending elements that aren't going to be major parts of every woman's erotic response seems wrongheaded to me.”

Likewise, noted sex expert Tristan Taormino sees the situation as two ends of a double-headed issue.

Famous for a regular sex column in the Village Voice, her anal workshops, books and instructional videos, Tristan has spoken to thousands of people all over the world about sexuality in every variation.

“On the one hand,” she said, “I feel like that whenever something sort of reaches popular consciousness, it’s a good thing.

“The G-spot has obviously been around for a while; it’s in our bodies. But the notion that now, everyone knows about it – people are asking about it and are curious about it, I think, is a good thing. The more information people have about their bodies, how they work, about pleasure and sexuality is a great thing.”

“But then on the other side, something happens when something becomes sort of hot and trendy," Taormino said. "When I lecture colleges and universities, I want to say to people, ‘Some women have tried G-spot stimulation and it’s just not for them, and that’s okay.’ That doesn’t mean you’re broken or that you’re not having as good a sex as your roommate is… People have this idea that it should be this certain way and if it doesn’t happen this certain way, like, oh my God, like I’m not normal or whatever...

“I think I’ve had really amazing and great and very satisfying sex, without having an orgasm. For me, in my twenties, you could blow on me and I could have an orgasm. I got to my 30s and it became a lot more difficult for me to cum. And so, sometimes, I get to a point where I’m headed in that direction and then I completely veer off-course.”

“But, I’m aware of it," she said. "I know my body really well, and I’m like, ‘You now what? It’s not gonna happen… But, I’m totally down with what we’re doing – it’s fun, let’s keep on doing it.’”

Both Tristan and Dr. Queen point out the obvious; every woman is different. So, finding out what makes you tick should never be defined by trying to duplicate the same result - that goes for everything from wearing a size four dress to shooting the orgasmic moon or searching for some sexual Holy Grail.

Don't get me wrong; I enjoy getting off just as much as the next person.

But I’m also really glad I never let the lack of an orgasm stop me from having a really good time. As far as I’m concerned, if my pleasure-loving partner wants to Mapquest my G-spot using his dick as a compass, then I’m going to look at that trip like a scavenger hunt. It’s not necessarily what you end up with – it’s what you find along the way.

Artwork used is entitled "Target, 1974," by Jasper Johns

Part One: Buck Angel

2007-04-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

“It’s too bad people feel that the genitals make you that gender. It’s totally ridiculous.” – Buck Angel

I was first turned on to Buck Angel by Keith Webb, co-owner and vice president of Titan Media, a gay studio in San Francisco well-known for their buff, burly models, leather fetish and condoms-only safe sex policy.

Researching a story on condom use in the straight industry versus policies in the gay industry, I mentioned I was also working on a piece about transsexual porn. Like most heterosexual people, I still had a tendency to confuse gay with transsexual, so Webb was trying to set me straight (pun intended).

“Let me tell you, it is not gay,” he laughed. “Gay men do not want to watch chicks-with-dicks. It’s straight men that want to watch it.”

Further along in the conversation, he added, “You know, we are the first gay studio to use Buck Angel. There’s chicks-with- dicks and now, the new thing is guys-with-pies – Buck Angel is a female-to-male transsexual. He was born a woman, but he’s become a man, but he still has a vagina.”

At that moment, my mind couldn’t quite comprehend what I was being told. I’m sure I asked Webb if Buck was a biological guy that had his penis removed and a vagina constructed, but otherwise keeping his male characteristics. He repeated himself a second time, until I finally got it.

That’s what happens when you try to explain Buck Angel to people. It takes them awhile to get it.

For my tranny porn story, I did end up featuring Buck, who was relatively new to the adult business at the time. This interview, conducted in May 2006, came at a time when Buck was still having great difficulty breaking into porn. No one in the “mainstream” adult industry was even sure there was a niche for Buck, though there was growing demand for male-to-female transsexual porn.

Since then, I’ve interviewed Buck several times and found him to be remarkable in many ways. Aside from the typical (if you can call it that) story of being “trapped inside the wrong body,” his life is truly stranger-than-fiction.

Prior to transitioning, Buck had a taste of the spotlight as a female high-fashion model during the 80s, for Elite Model Management and Z Agency, out of London. In the biography on his website he said, at the time, he was miserable and living as a woman was, at best, painfully difficult.

Two years after surgery, in 1998, Buck married professional dominatrix Ilsa Strix. Their unconventional relationship and break-up was chronicled in a January 2006 Rolling Stone article, entitled ”The Mystery of Larry Wachowski”.

Wachowski, co-director with his brother Andy of the blockbuster “Matrix” movie trilogy, met and fell in love with Strix after seeking her services as a professional mistress. Both she and Wachowski left their marriages to be together and, in 2003, appeared at the Cannes Film Festival. Afterwards, the pair became reclusive as rumors of hormone therapy and sexual reassignment to become a woman swirled around Wachowski.

Award-winning author Stephen Elliott wrote an insightful rebuttal to the Rolling Stone article and the way it portrayed both transsexuals and BDSM culture, which was posted on Huffington Post.

Buck has since remarried to Elayne, a well-known body-piercing artist. After producing a few releases with Robert Hill Releasing, Buck started his own production company, Buck Angel Entertainment. One of his videos, titled “V is for Vagina” is a thinly disguised dig at the Wachowski Bros’ film, “V is for Vendetta.”

A lot has been written about Buck, and I’ll quote Gerry Visco, from the New York Press, “At first, I wasn’t sure whom this human hybrid was meant to appeal to – women, men, gays or straights. But when I met Buck in the flesh, I discovered he oozes sex appeal. He’s also smart healthy and funny.”

Honestly, I couldn’t agree more.

JC: You’re pretty unique in the transgender genre?

Buck Angel, female-to-male transsexual porn star: Basically, because I’m the only one. I’m female-to-male transsexual and basically, I go by ‘Buck Angel, the Man with the Pussy.’
I don’t really consider myself a transsexual so much anymore; I kind of use that more for marketing. I would say I basically live my life as a man – I just happen to have a pussy.

JC: It’s so weird to talk about the topic because it’s difficult – I don’t know what’s politically correct and I don’t want to sound like an ass.

BA: Let me just tell you right now, there is nothing politically correct for me. You can call me anything, you can say anything and if I have a problem with it, I’ll tell you. It’s part of what I’m doing – it’s just the way it is…

JC: So, you just always wanted to be a man?

BA: It’s the same old story that you hear. You know, we grew up in the wrong body, we never felt like the way we were. Basically, the same story – I never felt comfortable being a woman or a girl or in that body. Even growing up, my parents treated me like a boy. They called me a boy’s name. I played all kinds of sports.

Until I got to be a teenager, and then they’re like, oh-ho-ho-ho, wait a minute – you gotta start acting like a girl!

And I’m like, ‘What are you talking about?’

That just spiraled me into a bad situation mentally because I was like, ‘Wait a minute. I’m a boy and I have to wear a dress.’

And that escalated into a bad situation of drugs and alcohol abuse until I got into my mid-twenties and decided, you know, if I don’t find a way out of this, I’m going to commit suicide – I was that desperate to be a man. I just could not be living as a woman anymore. It was not comfortable.

So, I had a sex change in my late 20s and basically, it’s been going great for me since the time I started my first hormone shot. That was where I needed to be, you know. I needed to be the man that I am. Without that situation, I would not be sitting here.

JC: And you made this difficult transition…

BA: Like I said, it was life-threatening for me. I was on the verge of suicide. I was very uncomfortable with myself for many years and it was a life-threatening situation for me. I had to make that change. And I did. I found out how to do it and when I did it, 15 years ago, it was not trendy. It was not ‘everybody’s doing it.’ It was not like just go find a doctor. It was very difficult for me to find a doctor. The surgeon I went to had never even operated on a guy like me before. My hormone doctor had never dealt with female-to-male transsexuals; he mostly did male-to-female transsexuals. But like I said, I just went and I did it because I was determined to do it.

I think there is a reason for me to be here today, for me to go through all that pain and all of a sudden do what I’m doing and be where I am today…

JC: When you talk about having the surgery; you didn’t have complete surgery, though.

BA: Men like me, female-to-male transsexuals can have what’s called “bottom surgery,” penis surgery; yes, they can.

But I have to let you know, and a lot of people get upset when I say this, but I’m the kind of guy that puts myself out there for reasons that there might be other guys who might feel the same way and not be able to express it. I don’t feel that the penis surgery is up to my standards.

I’m a perfectionist and I feel like, if I’m going to have a penis, the penis better work, the penis better be able to make pee through it. I want to cum through it. I want to get a hard-on through it. All those things are impossible to do with the penis surgery today.

You know, you can have a penis, basically put on, and then you have a penis there, but it doesn’t really work. It doesn’t work like a man’s penis. It has all these different things you have to do to it, and it doesn’t aesthetically look like a penis.

So, why am I gonna spend $50 to $70 thousand on something like that? That just makes no sense to me.

I’m perfectly comfortable having a pussy. Really, honestly, it does not make me any less of a man. It’s too bad that people feel that the genitals make you that gender. It’s totally ridiculous.

JC: Right; because in your mindset, you’re a man.

BA: I’m a guy. I have a billion dildoes I can strap on if someone needs to get fucked; that’s not even an issue. My hard-on can stay all night long; you know what I’m saying? And if my partners are okay with me having a pussy, which many times they are, then they can fuck my pussy. So, I have a lot more options than a “regular” guy.

Actually, it’s amazing because you can’t even imagine the amount of emails I get from guys that say they fantasized about men like me their whole life.

And I think, ‘Wow!” They’ve never been able to write that down ever in their whole life, and now their able to send me emails telling me how they fantasized about a man like me. It’s just, to me, that’s just incredible.

In Part Two, Buck discusses his struggles to be accepted as a porn star, why it was important for him to be part of the industry and his recent success and accomplishments. Visit Buck's membership site at www.transsexual-man.com

Photo used by permission of Buck Angel.

Donut Deployment

2007-04-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell lately. A few months without having sex with anyone but myself, especially now that things between me and X have cooled completely.

And, it seems, even a little bit of deprivation can do funny things to the senses. Like being on a diet – whenever I can’t indulge in, let’s say, donuts, it seems like I can pick up the scent of puffy rings of dough bobbing in vats of hot grease, at five o’clock in the morning, from the nearest Crispy Crème which is about two miles away.

Lying in bed, I can practically hear the oil sizzling. I imagine mounds of crème-filled delights being glazed and then double-glazed with sweet, sticky layers of sugary white icing and what it would be like to be shoving one in my mouth, plunging my tongue into the middle and sucking out all the warm custard inside.

Mmmmmmm. Then, I get up and have scrambled egg whites for breakfast.

In terms of sexual appetite, maybe it’s because I’m getting older. My rampaging hormones have laid a fuse straight from my brain to my pussy; the timer is counting down and sparks are sputtering.

My libido, like a desperate kidnapper, is holding my common sense hostage with a penis-shaped pistol to my head. Whole days go by when I can’t remember where I put my car keys or if I mailed the cable bill. Sitting at my computer, secret sex agents are lurking in the shadows of my imagination. They all have great abs and huge, glistening cocks.

If I don’t kill them, I’ll never get any work done.

I try to pay ransom with self-induced orgasms, delivered in the dark of night by fantasy lovers armed with Hitachi Magic Wands, silicone dildoes and plenty of lube – but it’s never enough. The terrorists want to see some action. They want to feel the earth move when the bomb finally detonates. Pretty soon, my common sense will be brain-washed, too. Dressed in combat fatigues and one of those cute commando berets with a strap-on slung low across my hips – that’s when the real mayhem begins.

Of course, being on the fringe of the adult industry adds to the tension. Just when I manage to reach hormonal détente, the ceasefire is interrupted with a blast of sex bomb pornography.

The other day, I was with my friend Tina Tyler, looking at photo sets from her solo male masturbation epic, “Handyman 2.”

Ten guys, all in great shape and hotter than hell, jacking off and talking to the camera as if it were a woman they’re dying to fuck. I’m lined up in front of the firing squad, so to speak, with no blindfold.

“Look at this one,” says Tina, her granny glasses perched on the end of her freckled nose. “That’s Johnny Castle – he’s new, but really fucking hot, eh? Look at that…” She runs her fingertip down the screen over a photo of his eight-pack and pecs chiseled out of solid muscle and smooth skin. His abs remind me of a big, tasty bear claw, sprinkled with sugar.

“That’s fucking amazing,” I agree.

In another photo, Tina points out Castle’s particularly large scrotum and how some women like that.

Aesthetically, it does set him apart from the other performers. I ponder for a moment, not having given much thought to scrotum size.

“I’m not sure if I’m into that so much,” I say. “But he has kind of a thug look – you know, that whole bad boy thing…”

She’s turned-on by each set of photos because she shot them and is proud of her still photography. Tina is a workaholic and an excellent director. Her keen eye is able to pick out what is characteristic of each model and then use it to the best advantage.

Me? I’m just looking and thinking and getting horny.

There’s Jack Lawrence, who has a reputation for being the best pussy-eater in the business. He knows just how to pose, with his face turned slightly downwards, pouty smile and big, hazel eyes that say, “I’ve been a very naughty boy.” His bulging, vein-y dick is so big; he needs two hands to “jack” off with. If he were a donut, he’d be a glazed twist. Mmmm, yummy.

We both agree Cheyne Collins is a little bit thick; Tina explains he’s just back from vacation and hasn’t worked out in a few weeks.
But I kind of like that; much better than being too lean. There’s a momentary mind flash of Collins between my thighs with me having all that to hold on to. He’s a cinnamon roll; no doubt about it. Plus, he has very pretty eyes.

Then, Tina pulls up the file on Herschel Savage. He’s a classic star that’s been around since the 70s, handsome and charismatic.

Hersch’s segment was set up as a business man coming home from work to his video-camera wielding wife. Dressed in business clothes, he’s never fully naked throughout the whole scene.

But something about the contrast between the crisp linen shirt with his erection straight up out of the open fly of his dress slacks makes the scenario even hotter. More than that, it’s his facial expression.
“Goddamn,” I tell Tina. “Herschel looks fucking awesome!”

Staring straight into the camera; the look on his face, simply put, is just plain nasty. His eyes, half-closed and sensuous, one half of his upper lip curled up in a snarl – he is the portrait of a grown man, hard and hot, that would fuck you like a wild animal if you let him anywhere near you.
“Yeah? Doesn’t he?” she says. “He was so horny through the whole shoot…”

With his experience, Herschel is a pro. He knows how to unleash raw sexual heat and gets it on the video. Using all his charms to flirt with the camera, he knows it’s the small details that make a big difference. And that’s something younger guys sometimes don’t understand.
He may be an old-fashioned, but he’s loaded with delicious spices.

Of course, one of the advantages to being an older woman is there is a larger and larger pool of young hotties to choose from. And my lust is not always so hardcore or limited to porn stars.

At my day gig, there’s a young guy. Twenty-three, blonde, built, from the South, fresh out of the military and loaded with that sort of sweet, down-home hospitality. And he’s a terrible tease, made even more terrible because he seems nearly oblivious to it. Like a big, ten-month old puppy that keeps trying to hump your leg.

So obvious, you want to laugh; wondering if it’s possible for even a young man to be so boyishly naïve – feeding you some ridiculous line while he’s batting his big, blue eyes at you with a goofy smile. And you’d swallow, hook and sinker, despite yourself.

He has no idea what was going on in my head; about the smoldering fuse or the drip-drip-drip of Chinese water torture games that leave me soaking wet.

One day, I was wearing a new pair of jeans and a couple of the girls were commenting on them. Jumping into the conversation uninvited, he stopped to ask what we were talking about.

“We were just checking out Joanne’s pants,” one girl replied.

“Really? I check out Joanne’s pants almost everyday,” he chimed.

I felt myself blush and my ears starting to ring. Or maybe that noise was the alarm bell going off in my head, warning my common sense that rampant terrorist hormones had escaped and were on the loose. Stunned and immobilized, all I could do was stand there like an idiot, as he be-bopped out of the room.

Sometimes when he walks by I can smell, from somewhere off in the distance, fresh donuts being scooped out of a deep fryer into wire baskets. I imagine myself rolling around in a cloud of powdered sugar.
And then I imagine him licking it all off of me.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s my private paratrooper. Laughing, he flirts with danger and is able to disarm even the most diabolical libido with his bare hands. In my fantasy, he’s covered in grime and sweat, wearing torn-up camis and sporting a big gun. He’s kicking in the door of the room where the terrorists are holding me prisoner.

Help me, baby! I need help!

One of these days, I’m going to ask him if he likes chocolate or jelly-filled, with or without sprinkles.

(Tina Tyler's "Handyman 1-3" is available at the Mercenary website. Also, check her other series for Mercenary Pictures, "Superwhores," "Black Moon Rising," "Fresh Out The Box" and "Ironhead." )