Report: Night of 101 Girls "Pleasant", "Good"

I attended last evening’s Night of 101 Girls and found it pretty O.K.

There seemed to be no occasion for the party, other than I recently got my hair cut, but sponsors L.A. Direct Models, Vivid, Skinnie Magazine, and Effen Vodka nevertheless put on a brave face and threw a party anyway.

Read more after the gap.

The evening was billed as An Unforgettable Night of 101 Girls, and I suspect that, with my photographic memory and obsessive-compulsive disorder, I shan’t. But what about everyone else? Someone is bound to forget, and how will that reflect on the adult party-throwing industry’s reputation?

While I counted only 81 girls at the Cabana Club (I even checked the bathroom and the bottom of the pool), I was incorrect in my prediction that there would be exponentially more guys. It was not a sausage party; it was a reverse-Beach Boys with two guys per girl which, while it doesn’t reflect America, makes for hardly a challenge with my new haircut. Besides, who wants to reflect America, anyway?

I hung out with my personal bartender, Jenny Hendrix. She introduced me to the Liquid Panty Remover a couple of months ago and told me she had a new one.

“It’s Blueberry Stoli, pineapple juice, and Sierra Mist,” she said.

I replied how I could already tell how it would taste coming back up.

“What do you call it?” I asked.

“My friends in Tampa call it ‘Gator Juice’ but I’ve got to come up with a better name for it,” she said. My suggestion is Crococide.

Hendrix hosts swinger parties. I mention this because she is one of America’s Most Affable Porn Stars, and she made sure she talked with everyone at last night’s event. Swinger hosts are often different from the swingers themselves. {I was on a set the other day when one of the people I cringe to admit does a similar job as me was shrieking at a visitor, “You’re in the lifestyle?! You’re too cute to be in the lifestyle!! Swingers are ugly and creepy!!” I have seen people act like the revolted object of Pepe Le Pew’s affection when this person walks into a room.}

The party had an open bar sponsored by Effen Vodka, which I’d never heard of before. I think open bars are good. This bar was to be open for 90 minutes, from 9 until 10:30, but since the Cabana Club had not let anyone other than a gaggle of L.A. Direct Models in until 10, I had to drink fast. Hendrix and I approached the bar at 10:20.

Effen is a Holland-based company. The name in Dutch means smooth and fast. I suspect that the Effen people didn’t do too much market research in the northeastern United States, because there their company name is fighting words, as in:

“I’m gonna hit you with an f’n baseball bat you f’n queefsmoker.”

It’s like if the apocryphal Chevy-Nova-in-Mexico story were true.

But I am known for my worldliness, so I ordered three f’n Cape Codders in ten minutes and no one knew I was violent.

It was good I’d been drinking, because it dulled the shock of seeing Sophia Lynn.

“I heard you were dead!” I said, averting my eyes.

“I was a little sick,” she admitted.

Lynn’s early career in the adult business has been marked by tumult and confusion. In less than two years, she has been a short-lived contract performer for Adam & Eve, an almost contract performer for NinnWorx, has appeared on the same unflattering “Prime Time” show as Sunny Lane, and has had the kind of publicity porn people kill for.

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” she said. I wish this were a business in which that statement wasn’t true.

She is now signed with L.A. Direct Models, and said she is working all the time.

One of the selling points of the party for me was that there were to be Vivid makeup artists there who were going to paint lucky ladies like porn stars.

I asked Kayla Synz, who had just been made up, if she could designate whether she could be softcore, harlot, or whore.

“I’m a little less than harlot,” she reflected, then told me she was very in tune with her sexuality. I asked if she was from San Francisco.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“People from San Francisco use the word ‘sexuality’ a lot,” I said. My BART driver was talking about his sexuality the last time I was up there.

“I’m a transgender activist,” he said.

“Yes, but how do I get to f’n Oakland?”

The makeup lady asked me if I wanted to get made up, but I replied that if I became more perfect I would become inaccessible, and would no longer be America’s Beloved Porn Journalist but America’s Icy And Unattainable Porn Journalist.

Plus I didn’t want to get mistaken for Dave Navarro on the way to my car.

I saw Ava Rose, who is also with L.A. Direct. I wasn’t aware that contract performers need agents, but her contract allows outside still photography and softcore work.

She insisted on wearing a drink sticker on her forehead. But she could wear New Haven, CT and still look passable.

I like the way Ava dresses. She told me she’s been going to the gym. I told her that she’d look good even as a perfect sphere in a muumuu.

“I’ll tell (L.A. Direct owner) Derek you say it’s OK to get fat,” she said.

I asked her if I could continue my Ava Rose in a booth series, and she agreed. It’s important to me that my career has goals.

As I was leaving I saw the Republican porn icon Savanna Samson. It was my first time meeting her. She seemed to float above the crowd a little, and I wondered if that was because of her confidence as a vintner.

She did not know me from a hole in the ground, because Vivid tries to keep me away from its contract stars due to the world-destroying heat it might generate, as predicted by Science.

Regardless, I risked telling her I liked her in Stood Up, and she smiled tolerantly.

“Could you give me a factoid about your wine?” I asked.

Not to give short shrift to anyone else there, but Samson is a veteran media professional and she seemed poised to deliver a practiced soundbite.

“Well,” she said, “There’s a little bit of me in every bottle. I get myself right into it and move my hips around.”

I thanked her, but then we locked eyes and had the following conversation with our minds:

“Savanna, it’s me, Gram. Why can’t you let your guard down and just Be. Be with Gram. Be, Savanna, Be. Be, Goddamn You!“

“I’m afraid.”

The party was f’n pleasant.

Previously: Gia Paloma’s fan letter; Hirsch’s Heavies heave haunches heavenward; Obama behind porn endorsements?
See also: Vivid, L.A. Direct Models, Skinnie Magazine