Nowhere in the English-speaking world is there a town called Pumpkins, yet what a comforting name to consider when driving through the tail end of an October heatwave: Calabasas means pumpkins in Spanish, and before I saw the pumpkilicious Anikka Albrite cavorting naked with a hose on the set of “I Love My Hotwife 2,” I imagined autumn in civilized places, redolent of cider and premature turtleneck sweat, but where they had only seen people like Albrite in pictures.
I’d been to this house before, almost exactly a year ago. The movie being filmed that day was called “Show Me How.” Aiden Starr was showing Jessie Andrews how to … how to what? I’m not sure. How to fuck? Seems unlikely. It had been a nice day on the set of this Andre Madness movie. I talked with Aiden Starr, of whom I am terribly fond, but Andrews refused an interview, saying she’d been burned by journalists before.
I wanted to assure her that I was not a journalist. It even says on my card: America’s Beloved Porn Journalist. Surely she would see the irony there. Surely she didn’t count the interview I’d done with her a few years before among those times she’d been burned. But I didn’t pursue it. Instead, I remember thinking how clean the medium-pile beige carpeting was.
“I would drop coffee on this the first day I lived here,” I thought.
But today was a different movie. Jacky St. James of New Sensations was shooting Albrite in “I Love My Hotwife 2.” Same hallway! Same door!
I had never heard the term “hotwife” before. It sounds like something you’d do to a car.
“It’s when the husband wants to share his wife with someone else,” St. James says. “It’s very particular. He might even suggest the way she dresses. There’s control involved.”
“Like offering a ride in his Lamborghini to impress a business contact?” I ask, trying to imagine that world.
“Yes,” St. James says, “but it’s not cuckolding.”
St. James and Albrite pick out clothes. It is pointless because Albrite will just take them off again. Somehow, when there is such glorious nudity around, it doesn’t feel like coming home to a sinkful of dishes you just washed last night.
St. James explains that some A-list porn guys would not want to be seen in a cuckold movie because it implies humiliation (if they are to be cuckolded) and lack of control. Hotwifing, on the other hand, is all about the husband passing out his wife like a nice box of Cuban cigars.
The porn world is very small. On hand is a man who was once known as Grip Johnson, who several years ago had started the cuckold mini-genre in porn as co-founder of Chatsworth Pictures. He is now a porn industry publicist and I recall that, like St. James, Johnson had discovered the cuckold fetish on message boards and sought to capitalize on it pornographically.
“Those were wild times,” Johnson says wistfully. We try to figure out the name of the woman in a movie that I made an appearance in, back in 2007? There’s a K in it. (Turns out it was Kirra Lynne.) I always admired Johnson’s work. He didn’t misuse the word “cuckold” to suggest that a cuckold was the guy doing the wife-fucking but instead the poor sap left to watch. Similarly, St. James is adamant that her movie stay within the bounds of the established fetish.
“The messageboards get angry if you get it wrong,” she says.
As I watch Albrite choose her clothes, I am reminded of Ashli Orion sprawling nakedly through her stripper gear in the dressing room while Kodi Gamble checked her texts on what is now a museum-worthy phone, and the world folds in on itself again. Luckily I wrote it all down.
But it’s not all nudity and gaping.
Woodcrest and the brilliant Eddie Powell school me on the various methods of vaping and pull out complicated equipment like they are poolhall sharpies assembling elegant cues and blowing churro-scented smoke like it’s a Disneyland of the Mouth.
“I never smoked before,” says Woodcrest, “and now I’m one of these assholes.”
But the star of the day is Anikka Albrite, who today will be working with her husband of six months, Mick Blue. The twist is that Blue will be playing Ricardo, the masseuse her husband lends his hotwife to.
I see that there is a script, but before I know it Albrite is naked out in the Calabasas heat, clutching a garden hose between her rich thighs.
And now it’s 2008 and I’m at Flower Tucci’s house, somewhere in Porn Valley but east of here. She’s out by her pool and clutching a garden hose between her rich thighs. It’s February yet it’s hot. It’s always so goddamn hot. I’ve been doing this job for 12 years.
I’m sitting in the kitchen with Albrite and Blue. They are in love. I ask them about porn star marriages and Albrite refers to the good ones as being “partners in crime.” That’s a great way to think of it. I recently had a relationship where I felt like I was pulling a rock up a hill, so I like Albrite’s version better.
“You need to create a solid foundation first so that you can resist the storms,” says Blue. “If the first thing you want to do once you get into a relationship is have a threesome, then maybe the relationship is not for you.”
Both are performers about whom other performers say nice things behind their backs. Blue, who is from Graz, Austria, just like Arnold Schwarzenegger, tells me that the German for “Walk of Shame” is Schandenweg. I am reminded of when, nine years ago, Katja Kassin gave me the perfect German word for a girl with a good set of hips. Albrite is such a woman, too.
The German word for pumpkin is merely kurbis, lest you think the Germans have a better word for everything.