(NOTE/2013: When I first worked for AVN in 2002, there was a ricockulous style of porn journalism prevalent in the halls of that publication that spoke volumes about how its employees thought about themselves. I created the character Loup Perch-Tounge to embody the needless puffery of some of the dudes I worked with.)
DATELINE: Loup Perch-Tounge – It is not easy to be a porn journalist, of whom much is expected. One would think that a business making by its own estimation more money than the combined mainstream music, film, and aerospace industries wouldn’t worry about its own appearance of credibility, but indeed it does, and lucky for me, because it is I to whom it has been appointed to craft a veneer of legitimacy on this rough and ready band of vagabonds and visionaries, who so often toil in anonymity while their mainstream contemporaries strut and fret their hours on the stage (Shakespeare’s Richard III, not As You Like It, as some would think).
I am often told how important it is that I continue working, how important it is that I not give up the fight, even as I see the business which glistens with the pearls of my intellect not taking my wisdom to its heart. Would that this industry crown a philosopher king, I am told, so that we may experience a second Golden Age, where narrative, administrative competence, and good spelling hold sway. These conversations occur in my mind. Alac, I must do my part as scribe king only.
There is no multihorsed phaethon for this scribe king. Indeed, there is hardly any craft services as I walk through the Canoga Park warehouse parking lot to peek in on Deering Treetrove’s latest nugget for Turgid, Analingus Blumpkinhead. Little do the owner of the nearby car stereo place or the employees of the adjacent carpet samples outlet know that erotic history is being made behind the nondescript windows of their neighbor. Little do they know that, in a back bathroom just up a poorly carpeted stairway is a man preparing for his workday the only way he can. Nikos Astinopoulos, better known as The Colossus of Loads, is injecting Caverject into the base of his penis.
I am greeted warmly by all I meet as I sweep onto the set. Even though they are simple folk, poorly educated, drug users, convicted felons, victims of abuse, abusers, and otherwise generalist reprobates, they all share a respect for two things: myself and making money. I am offered the foot of a non-used bed to sit on and take notes as Turgid publicist Rhesus scrambles to get me my drink of choice: a Diet Pepsi.
“You deserve at least this,” she says, dropping to one knee and offering me the delicious beverage.
“I have a job to do,” I say.
The shoot begins as per usual with a squareoff between Treetrove and Iphigenia Squirtz’s current suitcase pimp, a man in a Walgreen’s visor who identified himself as Billy.
“I’m the only one she’ll work with,” Billy is saying. “We discussed it last night.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Billy,” Treetrove replies, “but Nikos has already been contracted for the job with Iphigenia.” Treetrove takes Billy aside and whispers, “Plus Nikos is gay. It’s not like he’ll be enjoying squirting his phone number up your girlfriend.”
Billy considers this. It does help that Nikos is gay. Sometimes the other’s homosexuality makes your cuckolding less real. But Billy remains adamant, threatening to pull Iphigenia from the picture. He has been taking a Dreamweaver class, he says, and he plans to make Iphigenia Internet-only.
Suddenly the room gets colder. There is a shape in the doorway.
“I will slice you like turkey and stuff you with your own balls,” the shape says. It is Turgid owner Ari Goldfarb, at 5’2″ the most feared man in pornography. “I will set your skin on fire and kick you until you are dead.”
Billy rescinds his demands and the camera start rolling. Before Goldfarb got into porn, he was in the Mossad, and the experience pays off.
Analingus Blumpkinhead is based on the true story of Alan Billings, who developed a much more fuel-efficient engine than anything produced by Detroit, but whose efforts were thwarted by a phalanx of patent attorneys funded by GM lobbyists. Treetrove optioned the story when he was a script reader for a Hollywood studio. (“I could go back to mainstream any time I wanted,” he tells me. “So could I, but I choose not to,” I reply. “Me too,” he says. “I just choose not to,” I reply.) Treetrove’s version expands Billings’ character into the owner of a bordello who has a penchant for eating the asses of Asian girls while being blown on the toilet.
“It is my way of saying, ‘Explore your sexuality – we are all sexual beings’,” Treetrove says. “If people aren’t into erotic entertainment and the films we produce, they are probably uptight and something is wrong with them and they are probably hiding something. Also, if they’re married.”
Treetrove is a passionate man, and his dialogue reflects this. The first scene sets the story:
ANALINGUS (Nikos)
I have developed a fuel-efficient bordello, you sluts.LOBBYIST (Iphigenia)
I’m the only one here, stud.ANALINGUS
Fuck you, you Washington sluts! (pops)
Treetrove is very concerned, as we all are, about the current administration’s crackdown on what it deems obscenity. What is clearly the most un-American government in years fails to recognize pornographers as the First Amendment Patriots we are. Treetrove tries to address this in all his films, except for the gonzos, where he tries to address his passion for midgets having sex with Ukrainian girls with doctorates.
Fellow porn-scribe Trent Brown enters, late, and has to sit on newcomer Exautica Cuntrix, who has passed out. We discuss our patriotism.
“We are on the forefront, the front lines, if you will, of a war of perception,” he says. “A pale horse is riding through Porn Valley, and that is the pale horse of Censorship and Asexuality. How can what we are doing be labeled Obscene when this government slashes its education budget?”
Very true. That Brown is a smart kid. He should read my archived columns. I have often written that it is a choice to misinterpret what we do as merely documenting the deliverance of copious amount of semen down the throats of naked ladies. Our real purpose is Freedom of Expression, and though we could fight that battle through any other medium, we have made our stand here. This view is shared by my protege, the blogger Calgary Pooh. “I am very concerned about womens’ body image issues,” she says. “That is why I constantly ask readers of my website if I should get my boobs done.”
The action grows faster and furiouser on the set, and builds to a fever pitch in the orgy scene, which is held when I am finished with my luncheon at Carl’s Jr. The orgy takes place at Blumpkinhead’s combustion laboratory and features Squirtz, Cuntrix, Billy, some midgets, Ukrainian women with engineering degrees (Treetrove strives for authenticity), a small group of runaways from the bus station, and the rapper Fuk’n Doofus in a non-sex role as a rapper, Stoopid Frig’n Doofiss.
STOOPID FRIG’N DOOFISS
This combustion lab is off the hook!STOOPID FRIG’N DOOFISS LEAVES
ANALINGUS
200 miles to the gallon, you sluts!ATTORNEY SWALLOWS (Cuntrix)
To the gallon of what, exactly?ASSISTANT BILLY
To the gallon of me! You sluts! (pops)ANALINGUS
And of me, you sluts! (pops)MIDGET FedEx DRIVERS
And of us, you sluts! (multiple pops)LOBBYIST ENTERS, NUDE
LOBBYIST
I’m going to kill your invention by fucking you to death, over it.UKRAINIANS
You’ll have to fuck us, first of most.LOBBYIST DOES
ANALINGUS
Wow! (pops)
Analingus Blumpkinhead, for which the final Asian/blumpkin sequence will be filmed in a dry-ice rated handicapped bathroom in North Hollywood tomorrow, days-and-dates March 1.
I emerge into the chilly Prairie Avenue air after gladhanding a news magazine crew from NBC, which is intent on making this professional and amicable set look sordid and pathetic. “Go bottom-feed somewhere else, fellas, like the Attorney General’s office,” I say, reminding them that I used to work in mainstream and I was onto their tricks. It is a happy accident that Rhesus runs out at that point with a bag of homemade cookies for me and presents them in full sight of everyone.
“You are the soul of this town,” she says.
I take a bite of a cookie at 6:12 p.m. It is hot and sweet and good.
“I know.”
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