I was handed an issue of a British old lad’s magazine called Mayfair. Only a portion of the M and the R in the title were visible on the cover, due to some jiggly girls depicted thereon, so it was hard to figure out what the publication was (Rolling Stone used to have this problem until someone wrote in, “don’t assume that people know who you are by the small section of font you choose to show”). I was delighted, however, to read an interview with our own antipodal Lurk Ford.
Last year Lurk asked me to not refer to him by his name. “Tod-Hunter,” he wrote, “refers to me as Our Australian Friend, for example.” I believe Ford told me why, but the reason seemed convoluted in light of the many places his name is mentioned. A year later, the only reason I am still doing it is because I find the alternatives Lurk Ford and Self-Hating Lew so much more accurate than his real name.
Still, as many of us have taken on noms de porn (my real name is Ronnie James Dio), I did not find it odd that Lurk, too, did not want lasers of truth focused on him. What person in his right mind invites media scrutiny? Certainly not Harry Whittington.
That is why I settled in for a glimpse into Lurk that only Mayfair and XXX-Communicated: A Rebel without a Shul could provide.
Then I forgot it, but it was interesting. You should read it.
At the end, though, Lurk says something like, “When I started (writing a site about porn in 1995) I was the only one out there. Now there are 12 guys. But no one does what I do.”
As America’s Beloved Porn Journalist, I find this hubris unsettling.
Previously: Adult industry writers wait for check
See also: “Why must I try to write like Gram Ponante?“
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