Glorifying Corruption

While my assessment of the fist-astic movie Corruption was not a rave (I tried to slash my wrists five or six times before I remembered I was well-adjusted), I certainly like the people involved. I am also drawn to things which cost a lot of money, such as ex-wives and bids for AVN awards.

Even when I had editorial jobs at various adult industry trade publications I could never understand the money that was spent nosing around for awards. That there is a connection between certain publications and chains of video stores is well-known, but (correct me if I’m wrong) the increase in a title’s sales following an award rarely puts a dent in the cash outlaid for its award campaign.

Regardless, I like vodka and porn stars, so I went to Corruption‘s party this weekend.

For some reason, Krol vodka has become the official potato-based alcohol of event impresario Jeff Mullen, who has lubricated the parties of Britney Rears and Corruption with it.

I had the following conversation in perfect Russian with the bartendrix:

“What will you have?” she asked.

“Ten,” I replied.

I achieved two out of three of my goals for the evening. The first was to drink, and the second was to deliver a birthday present to Bryn Pryor, star of Corruption, shoo-in for whatever acting awards the industry would be wise to bestow, and Ponante family friend.

Pryor arrived with Titian-maned consort Kylie Ireland.

“You were moving as Eleanor Roosevelt,” I said to Ireland.

“See? At least he liked Tailgunners,” Pryor groused, one year closer to the doom which awaits us all.

I did not tell them that, because of my unflinching honesty, I was bade to nurse from the perineum of a chronic masturbator under the employ of XFanz’ alias-generating industry.

My third priority was to see Adrianna Nicole, frank and no-nonsense in O and in real life. But it was not to be.

“Have you seen Adrianna Nicole, star of O?” I asked, again and again.

“N-O,” came the reply. Everyone is so goddamn clever.

Nicole’s absence was somewhat reconciled by a contingent of her agency’s models, Der Spiegler Girls.

I spoke with the vivacious Georgia Peach, standing to the left of Sakura (fans of David Aaron Clark know that that means Cherry Blossom), Max, and Bobbi Starr.

“Are you from Georgia?” I asked, probing.

“No, I’m from Tampa,” she replied.

“Then why are you called Georgia Peach?”

“Because my ass is round and fuzzy?” she suggested. “When I got into the industry, there were a lot of Georgias – like Georgia South – so because I am very peachy my agent at the time gave me that name. I wanted to be Molly Starr.”

“Maybe you can be Molly Starr when you open a restaurant?”

Peach said that the last time she went to Tampa she was d.p.’d by two high school friends.

“On purpose?” I asked.

“They said they had all my movies and they had never done that before,” she said.

“You’re a very good friend,” I observed. “But I hope they didn’t high-five over you when they were finished.”

“They did.”

That made me think of disturbing things about the porn industry in general.

“Do you ever bite the tip of your finger in movies?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“But you don’t in real life?”

“Correct,” she said.

I allowed that whenever I’m in a porn movie, I wear workboots and have tattoos.

I spoke with the gifted Hillary Scott, who has starred in all of Krol’s movies. She took most of September off. I admire people who take vacations.

“I’m going to Amsterdam next week to judge a cannabis contest,” she said.

“WTF?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been there three times this year. It’s a fantasyland.”

There was a man walking around the party who looked like a cross between Carl Sagan and a coke dealer circa 1977. I’m sure he was neither.

As I was leaving, I saw Tyla Wynn and Mercedes Squirtz (you use a Z to indicate the word isn’t a verb). Many adult industry journalists have a wholesome crush on Tyla Wynn, probably because she looks like the natural evolution of Jo Polnicek and Leather Tuscadero. If photographs really capture people’s souls, I want Wynn and Squirtz to move in next to me.