How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 11

  Randy: Let’s see you put your hand between your legs and rub your pussy a little bit. From underneath. Yeah. That’s great. Another shot for the layout right there. Beautiful.

  Jenna strikes another pose.

  Randy: Okay, Jenna. Do me a favor. Pull those panties over to the side for me. That’s it. Arch your butt way over. Pull it back over the butt cheek. There you go. Beautiful. Yeah. Nice, baby. How’s that feel?

  Jenna: Mmm, good.

  Randy: Okay, now I want to do one of those classic butt shots. I want you to put your hands on your cheeks. Spread ’em for me. Can you do that with two hands? Are you in a position to do that? Yeah. Yes! Oh. That’s nice. That’s nice. This is what the boys and girls want to see.

  Jenna giggles.

  Randy: Yeah. Okay, give me one big spread shot right there. A nice big one. Yeah. Oh yeah.

  Jenna does as she’s told.

  Randy: Now can we do that with the pussy too?

  Jenna: Oh yeah.

  Randy: If we’re shooting a magazine, I got to see some spread. Pretty pink. Yes. That’s it baby. Nice. Oh yeah. Let’s see that pretty pink. Mmm. Good. Can I see a finger go in that pretty pink? Mm-hmm.

  A finger goes in that pretty pink.

  Randy: Can you put your finger in your ass for me a little bit?

  Jenna: Mm-huh. Oh …

  Randy: There, baby. Mmm. You are getting this photographer awful horny.

  Jenna: Mmm. Yeah?

  Randy: Yeah. Are you getting a little horny?

  Jenna: Yeah, definitely.

  Randy: Do you get horny when you shoot stills?

  Jenna: Yeah (pause). Usually.

  Randy: Really?

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: Do you ever get off when you’re doing it?

  Jenna: No, I’m not allowed to.

  Randy: You’re not allowed to?

  Jenna: Unless I’m shooting a girl-girl. But not usually on my own. I usually go home and take care of myself.

  Randy: Finish the job at home, yeah? But it is a turn-on to shoot, though?

  Jenna: Oh, absolutely.

  Randy: Yeah?

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: Good. Is this a turn-on too?

  Jenna: Yeah, in a big way. (Giggles)

  Randy: Well, I’ll tell you what. Do you mind if I join you?

  Jenna: I think that that would be great.

  Randy: Good. I was hoping you’d say that. I’m going to get my cameraman, and I’ll be right back. You can, uh, do what you want to do and I’ll be back. Keep it warm and wet for me, okay?

  Jenna: No problem.

  Randy: I didn’t think so. (To audience) See, what happened is we did that first shoot with Jenna. Well, can we tell them the truth, kind of what happened? You did your first boy-girl shoot. It didn’t come off quite as good as you had hoped.

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: She got kind of nervous about doing boy-girl stuff, so when I got her together with Kylie I asked her if maybe we could do some boy-girl stuff and improve on last time.

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: She finally said okay, we can do a little oral stuff. But we didn’t really complete the deal. So I talked to her and asked her what her state of mind was now and she said it’s a lot better. I said, “Good. Can we just do regular boy-girl?” She said, “Yeah,” she’d like to try it. And let’s see if we can put a good one on tape for her.

  Jenna giggles.

  Randy: So this is kind of a continuation from last time, except it’s kind of like the guy who liked the razor so much he bought the company. I liked Jenna so much I brought her back to my place. So that’s the story. And here we go.

  Later…

  Randy: In case you didn’t notice, these are one hundred percent all-American breasts. No artificial ingredients, fillers, or colors.

  Still later…

  Randy: I could eat your pussy for months.

  Jenna: I’d let you.

  Randy: I’ve been waiting so long to be alone with you. Oh yeah.

  Even more later…

  Randy: I love a good blow job. But your hand feels so fucking good. If you do them both together, I’m dead meat. Oh man. I told you. Oh fuck. Oh baby. Come on, save that for the end.

  A little bit laterer…

  Randy: Let me ask you something: Do you have a favorite position to have sex in?

  Jenna: Doggie style.

  Randy: You like doggie style?

  Jenna: Mm-hmm.

  Randy: Do you want to start with doggie or finish with doggie?

  Jenna: Finish.

  Randy: Finish?

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Several positions later…

  Randy: In case you can’t tell, I’m crazy about you.

  Jenna: Mm-hmm.

  Randy: I want you to fuck my cock exactly the way your pussy likes to fuck. I’m just going to keep it nice and hard.

  A good pounding later…

  Randy: Okay baby, let’s bring this one home, huh? I am dying to come in you. Do you mind if I come inside ya?

  Jenna: Mmm, I’d love it.

  Randy: I’d love it too. I’ve never done an internal cum shot yet. For you I’ll make an exception. You like that? Does it feel good when a guy comes inside you?

  Jenna: Oh, I love it.

  Randy: Can you tell the difference?

  Jenna: Oh yeah, I like to feel it.

  Randy: Good.

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: Oh God. Yeah. Ooooooooh yes. Are you gonna cum with me?

  Jenna: Yes.

  Randy: Yes?

  Randy begins to orgasm.

  Randy: Yeah! Ha ha! Ah ha. Ahh. Ha. Ah. Ha ha. Ha. Oh baby. Oh fuck. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ah. Oh baby. Huh-ahhh. Ah. Oh God. Oh God. Mmm. Yeah. Squeeze.

  Gurgling sound of cum being squeezed out of Jenna.

  Randy: Oh ho ho. Oh yeah. Oh fuck. Yeah. Oh look at you. Look at you. Look at that. Oh baby. You are so fucking fine.

  Jenna giggles.

  Randy: Oh, girlfriend. My first internal cum shot was a beauty. With a beauty. You’re fucking awesome. Fucking awesome. Yeah. (To audience) Well guys, here’s probably Jenna’s first really good boy-girl scene.

  Jenna: Yeah.

  Randy: Does that rate on your scale?

  Jenna: Absolutely.

  Randy: Good. There you go. (Picks something out of her mouth.) A little lint. I guess it was such a good fuck, she started sucking off my bed is what happened. Got a few strands left on there, y’know. Well, I’ll tell you what. Whether you like it or not, I’m bringing Jenna back for some more stuff. Okay? Keep your eyes peeled. Who knows what she’s gonna do next?

  When Up and Cummers #11 came out, my life changed. Everyone in the incestuous little world of adult film was suddenly buzzing about this new nineteen-year-old all-natural sexual dynamo with the face of a little girl. There was only one drawback: Jack found out.

  I came home from Jennifer’s apartment one night and he was sitting on the couch, just waiting, his veins practically popping out of his head. I sat down across from him, and he blew up.

  “You are a fucking whore! Why would you ever do this?”

  He picked up the videocassette and threw it at me. It hit the wall, leaving a black dent. He didn’t have a problem with the girl-girl stuff I had done in magazines, but being with another man on camera was worse than cheating in his mind.

  “You’re an idiot!” he screamed. “How could I ever love a girl who would fucking do this to me?”

  “Come on!” I yelled back. I was growing the confidence to stand up to him now. “How many girls have you fucked at the tattoo shop? How many? Be honest.”

  “Jenna, give me a break. You are a fucking psycho. There was no one besides Lacey. Give it a rest, for chrissake.”

  I knew that was a lie. I had inside information that there were others. And I didn’t feel a shred of remorse or guilt for doing the movies behind his back. I had beaten him at his own game. I had taken revenge in a way that the whole
world could see.

  We yelled at each other for an hour straight, destroying dishes, CDs, a bookcase, a coffee table, and my last surviving Barbie doll, in the process. Finally, he stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard that chips of paint flew off

  He was gone for seven days. During that time my dad called. He and Tony had finally stopped running, he promised, and settled in a town called Reading in northern California with Grandma and Selena. He had met a lady up there and married her, and he wanted to give me his new number.

  One afternoon a few days later, I came home from shopping and Jack had reappeared. He was cutting up lines on the kitchen counter.

  “Here, you can have the biggest one,” he said.

  He handed me a rolled-up dollar bill. I bent down and snorted it all. Suddenly everything was back to normal again. They say that time heals all wounds, but drugs get the job done quicker. Ever since I’d quit the strip club, I’d started spending more and more of my nights with a dollar bill up my nose. As a result, I began to lose the independence I was starting to achieve. I began to cling to him more, because now he was not only my boyfriend but also my dealer. For the first time in months, we started having sex again (perhaps because he wanted to regain his masculine pride after seeing the Randy West video). And every now and then, I’d wake up in the morning and fly to Los Angeles to do more of those movies that he didn’t want me appearing in anymore.

  One of the most frustrating things about the film work was that the producers never wanted to put me on box covers. They all said my breasts were too small. My boobs were certainly big enough for all the men who stared at them every time I left the house. But they weren’t big by porn standards. Just like at the Crazy Horse, the girls with the monster silicone got all the attention and I had to compete with the one organ I had that was bigger, my brain.

  But then I met a producer in L.A. who called himself Nappy Headon. He wanted me to star in a movie called Sponge Cake, and he promised to put me on the box cover. Before then, the only box cover I’d been on was Up and Cummers, but this was a feature.

  However, I’d have to perform with a guy again. (For the box cover shoot, the photographers, Brad and Cynthia Willis, a husband-and-wife team, actually made me wear a push-up bra so that my breasts looked bigger.)

  The movie was filmed in a house in Studio City. I didn’t know anybody there; the rooms didn’t look like they’d been cleaned for years; and, in comparison with Andrew Blake’s sets, the production seemed beyond low-budget.

  The plot was very original: a naive young girl from the Midwest runs away from home to make it in Hollywood but somehow finds herself in the adult film industry and has to hide the truth from her boyfriend back home. I was the naive young girl, and something about the story had a ring of autobiography to it. While I was waiting for my first sex scene, my co-star, a gentleman I had never met before named Arnold Biltmore, sat next to me. He had a soft, pasty body; a porous, greasy complexion; and a kindergarten haircut, parted in the middle and combed to either side.

  He flashed a big shit-eating grin and said, “So, are you ready to have a good time?”

  I smiled back at him, wanly.

  “You know,” he said. “You’re a cute girl. You’ve got potential. Congratulate yourself.”

  He wrapped his sweaty arm around me. I was so obsessed with Jack that I never even thought about other guys; but even if I had been on the market, this guy still would have creeped me out.

  “Look at you,” he said. “You’re like a lost little lamb with a cute pink belly.”

  I gave him no encouragement.

  “Here,” he said. “You look tense. Let me give you a back rub.”

  He started kneading my shoulders. I stiffened my body.

  “I’m thinking,” he continued, “of getting a tattoo of a sundial around my dick, so that whenever I get hard I can tell what time it is.”

  Nothing about Arnold Biltmore turned me on. And in ten minutes, I was supposed to be having sex with him.

  When our scene started, he tried to kiss me. I turned my head away from the camera, so that no one could see me grimace. All girls, be they sorority girls, porn stars, or Botoxed old ladies, like rock-hard dicks that look like they’re straining to wiggle free of the man they are attached to. But Arnold’s dick never felt like it got all the way hard. It was stiff but mushy, like a twig that’s been seaborne for several days. Prior to this movie, I’d had only good experiences. But as my head kept bumping into his stomach while I gave him head, all I could think was, “What the hell am I doing here? This is disgusting. This is not me.” This was truly the underbelly of the business.

  “Now slowly roll your eyes upward and linger there,” the director yelled at me. He wanted one of those shots where I look up with soft, doe eyes as I’m giving head and make intimate eye contact with the camera—and, by extension, the person sitting at home watching. I slowly tilted my head back and rolled my eyes upward. And then I saw it. A bead of sweat on Arnold’s forehead seemed to be glistening more than all of the other dewy particles there. It swelled and grew until it turned into a bubble, and then slowly pried itself free of his forehead. It dropped slowly, growing from my perspective to the size of a beach ball.

  When it smacked me between the eyes, it flipped a switch in my head. “I’m done,” I thought. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  After the scene, I didn’t talk to anybody. I went to the dressing room to gather my clothes. Kylie Ireland was in there with her manager, an obsessive, overbearing guy who was willing to be her lapdog in exchange for the opportunity to suck as much money as he could from her. We call those types of people suitcase pimps. They date industry girls, become their managers, take all their money, and often leave them broke, jobless, prematurely aged wrecks. These fine specimens can often be seen trailing behind the girls in airports, carrying all their suitcases. Porn stars constantly go for this type of guy because they think he’s going to protect her, manage her, and do her drudge work for her. After a girl works in the industry for a while, that’s the only thing guys seem good for—taking care of stuff.

  Kylie was having trouble with her sponge. When a girl is on her period, a company can’t afford to put a movie on hold and wait until she’s not bleeding. So some genius came up with the idea of inserting a sea sponge against the cervix. It catches all the blood, and the camera never sees a thing.

  Kylie couldn’t seem to pull her sponge out, so her suitcase pimp decided to come to the rescue. He knelt in front of her and reached deep inside her. He had a very strange expression on his face, as if he actually enjoyed the responsibility. When he fished it out between his bloody fingers, he actually sniffed it. I had to get out of there. I never wanted to do another movie again.

  When I returned to Vegas after the Sponge Cake shoot, it was one of the most depressing times of my life. I had hit a wall: my career, as far as I was concerned, was over. As soon as I don’t feel like I’m moving forward or don’t enjoy something anymore, I tend to just give it up. And so I left the business. I was done with movies, and there was no way I was going back to the Crazy Horse.

  I had no idea what to do next. All I had, once again, were Jack and Jennifer. So I started hanging out at the tattoo shop, building needles for Jack and shooting the shit with Matt. And every now and then, when I needed the money, I booked a photo shoot. After Sponge Cake was released, Nappy Headon, the producer, called and asked me to do another movie. I was high at the time and low on money—the two criteria for most bad decisions in the world—so I told him I would. Two weeks later, the tickets to Los Angeles arrived. I never used them, and I never called to cancel. At that point, I was too far gone on meth.

  Just after my twentieth birthday I decided it was finally time to do something that had been on my mind for the last three years. Now that it was too late to give me a competitive edge, because I was no longer stripping or doing movies, I was ready to get a boob job. All those customers and box covers lost to girls with b
igger, faker breasts had built a deep insecurity.

  More than that, I prided myself on being able to change my appearance. For a Hustler cover, I’d cut my hair short. For a movie, I’d feather it and wear heavy blue eyeshadow. But I had done so many photo sessions in the past year that I was literally being shot out of the business. I needed to do something to get more jobs, otherwise I’d lose the only source of income left to me. At least, that’s what I told myself. The real reason, in retrospect, was that I wanted more attention from Jack. I thought that if I looked sexier, he would want me more. How pathetic.

  I was so skinny and unhealthy from the meth that I decided to clean up, and eat up, before getting the implants. So I quit the drugs for two weeks, gained some weight, and went with Jennifer to see the wizard who had bestowed her with beautiful C-cups, Dr. Canada.

  Mine didn’t turn out as well.

  I only wanted to go one cup size bigger, but Dr. Canada got a little carried away. He went under my muscles, which were strung incredibly tight from years of gymnastics, ballet, and pole work, and put in these huge boobs. With an implant that big underneath my muscle, it felt like fucking Barnum and Bailey’s Circus was sitting on my chest.

  I cried when I looked in the mirror afterward: they seemed way too big for my frame. Afterward, Jennifer bought two cakes (one for each implant) and we threw a birthday party for my boobs at a local Italian restaurant. I’ll never forget it, because for years afterward I continued to celebrate my boob day every July 28.

  I drank a little to kill the pain and, when I was good and buzzed, stood up and took Jennifer’s hand. She looked so beautiful, and I wanted nothing more than to press her Dr. Canada boobs against my Dr. Canada boobs—gently, of course.

  I led her to the bathroom, like I had so many times before, and we had sex in one of the stalls, like we had so many times before. But the routine ended there.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

  “What?” That was the last thing I expected. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  My face fell. That asshole Lester had knocked her up.

  “For how long?”

  “Three months,” she said.