It’s important that you know that I value this nation’s porn stars as decent, thoughtful people, and try to eschew conveniently lewd descriptions of my tasty subjects. But God Damn.
At a little bar at the end of a larger bar at the other end of yet another bar upstairs at the Aladdin I bumped into Carmella Bing. I wasn’t able to make the connection between her degree in child psychology and her opening line, which was “I’ve done a DP, a DP, a DP, and an anal this week,” but I seem to remember the nail in the coffin of her child welfare career was a vague feeling of futility.
The difference between us, of course, is that my own feelings of futility are never vague.
She now shoots for Digital Playground and thinks it’s just a matter of time before she shoots for Billy Glide, which was fortuitous because his was the party I was attending.
I don’t know how many photographers were in the room – probably as many as the sharks that devoured most of the crew of the U.S.S. Indianapolis – but everyone was focused on the same thing(s).
Crap. I did it again.
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