by Tyler Knight
Bang ba-BANG bang BANG BANG bang bang bang!
I tell myself to relax and that this will pass.
BANG!!! ba-BANG BANG!
It’s not passing. Two people in my living room…Amanda’s sleeping right next to me. I may as well be on Pluto.
BANG!! BANG!! ba-BANG!!
My heartbeat pound in my toes…my fingertips…my eyes…my teeth…my ears.
How do you bargain with a god with whom you’ve got no rapport…a god that you’re certain you’ve got nothing he wants? Instead of pleading, my thoughts go to the absurdity of the moment: one instant, I’m a rational thinking man, a member of the human race reading the thoughts of another sentient being. The next, all thought fades… I just am. A panicked insect, alone and stripped of humanity… An animal that cannot run. The veneer of humanity painted over our instinct is thinner than you’d think.
ba-BANG!! ba-BANG!! ba-BANG!!
Salt drops well up in my eyes and pile onto each other, blurring my vision like looking through a frosted window at dawn.
Just as soon as it all started, it stops. The rumbling in my chest fades like a train that has just passed and is now a mile away. My mouth is dry, and my entire body is numb and tingles like a hand that’s been slept on.
It came and went. The entire thing was so…sudden. Human thought returns. Amanda still sleeps. I just lie there and contemplate it all. You’re a gazelle in a herd drinking from a still pool when jaws spring from the water and grip your chest. It takes you deep and twists you so that up is down is up. Then, the crocodile lets go.
I brought this upon myself. When you abuse any prescription drug you take your health in your hands. My prescribed dosage of Viagra was fifty milligrams a day; at the peak of my career, I took three hundred.
The first time this happened to me, I lived in denial. Who the hell thinks they can have heart problems in their thirties? Since then, I live with doom. When you look at it from the perspective of my state of mind as of late, maybe it’s the Universe giving me what I asked for so many times over the past few years…a way out. Until now, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to survive this. I mean, really, what’s the fucking point? The only joy I get from life is during those rare bursts of energy when I write and paint for days on end, sequestering myself from society while I create, often forgetting to eat. These burst are always followed by much longer stretches when I can’t get out of bed, let alone sit up to reach the keyboard or a paintbrush… My mind is my enemy hell-bent on my annihilation. I’d give all of the highs back for a taste of normalcy.
And no, I never sought medical attention—for either affliction. Before you judge me, I’m one of millions—millions—of the working-poor class of Americans with no health insurance. As such, we tend to avoid seeking medical care until it’s too late.
It was well after the first time my heartbeat was on the verge of critical mass when I told some friends: Justin, a physician; Jeff, whose father was a cardiologist; Derek who escaped from porn purgatory; and my brother. It’s not easy being my friend. Just ask any of the above people. I avoid social situations, often lying my way out of birthdays, drinks, bowling, or hanging out with the guys to watch pay-per-view fights. It’s not unusual to go months, even up to a year without as much as a text message from me, and when you do see me I’m not really there. Who knows why I even bothered to tell the people I told, but I did. Maybe I really don’t want to die and T. S. Eliot is calling my bluff by showing me a handful of dust.
I told all those people, but I never told Amanda. You think it’s tough being my friend, try loving me. How would she feel that I told others before I told her? How would she feel if she learned of my affliction by reading this sentence? I wake her and tell her.
They say the average man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Death perverts my thoughts.
• • •
The next day I write out my will. Then I print a copy of important contacts and put it in my wallet, and take a walk. I don’t have a destination planned, I just need to get out of the house and think. I have to lose weight. I can never take Viagra again. Ever. No matter fucking what.
My first stop is Skylight Books. Then I walk down the street to Starbucks and look to my usual chair. It’s empty. I sit.
Soon I notice how quiet it is in the store. Bud, one of the regulars, walks up to me and stops in front of my chair.
“Tim died yesterday.”
“Are you sure? I mean…I mean…how? I just spoke to Tim two days ago.”
“He was in his office last night. He had a massive heart attack.”
• • •
The camera man films Jasmine Embers masturbating on a sofa. It’s a live feed, as opposed to DVD, meaning, you log onto the web cam site, pay the fee, and you get to see everything in real time right there on your computer. You can even type in comments to the performers, which they can answer back. You can help the girl pick out her outfit, tell her how to masturbate, and if there is male talent present, you can direct the scene, telling them how to screw.
Jasmine goes through the commands of the viewing audience, as barked out to her by an off-camera woman who reads them from a laptop. I wait off camera, next to the barker, stroking myself to keep the motor running while I wait my turn to step in. Jasmine is one of perhaps four black girls I’ve even seen on a set, let alone worked with, in the past few years. Jasmine would be my female counterpart in porndom. I first met Jasmine way back when I was a contract star. We were both on set paired up to work with other people, but when I saw her, time ceased to exist. Never has a woman triggered such a primal and visceral response from me. Never. She was the Golden Ratio expressed in flesh and breath. I had to have her. Whenever a major studio has a need for an acceptable black couple, we are always paired together. Black talent are by no means a plurality in the adult industry, but there are certainly more than just a handful of us. (Plenty of other talent should get a chance to work for the upper echelon studios, not just the same six of us.)
Over the past decade, whenever Jasmine and I see each other, we fall right into step. Like we’ve got our secret club: her and me against the porn world. She was the girl who played my little sister in the “Most Unclean” story. No matter what happens, we’ve got each other’s backs. She requested me to work with her in today’s scene.
The girl’s pre-game warm-up is over and the barker taps me on the shoulder and I step in front of the camera and go to the girl. Today is to be the first scene attempted without Viagra in…God, I couldn’t tell you how long. This is a failed scene before I walked in the door…even before I woke up this morning. Not because of the girl. We’ve worked together dozens of times before and Jasmine is one of my favorites. Not because of the lack of drugs—well, not entirely. I am on set physically, but I’m just not there. I’m not really anywhere lately. I’m a Polaroid developing in reverse.
The blowjob goes well. I manage to keep focus on the girl and the sensations from what she is doing to me. My dick stays up. The barker conveys a command from a viewer for us to switch to doggy style. The girl gets on her hands and knees—my God, what an ass this girl has—and I position myself behind her and insert. It doesn’t take long for my erection to wilt. After fumbling around in her vagina, I roll off her and walk off the camera. Jasmine picks up the slack by resuming her masturbation, and the camera stays on her.
Franco, the camera man, whom I’ve known a very long time, looks at me and frowns. He taps his finger to his temple, meaning, It’s in your head, dude.
I nod to the affirmative. I take a Tyler moment, then step back into frame. Jasmine takes me into her mouth but it’s no use. There will be no more sex from me today. I can only imagine that the fans viewing my live and real-time implosion are saying. The barker spares me the reading of their heckling.
The barker goes up to Franco and whispers in his ear. She then holds up a dry erase board with the me
ssage:
FAKE A POP SHOT IN HER MOUTH, AND STEP OUT OF THE FRAME!
Jasmine, still thinking of saving the scene (and me) says, “You can do it. If it helps, just pretend that I’m a white girl or a Latina girl or something.”
It breaks my heart that right now she believes my problem of not being able to perform is because of her. That she believes I don’t find her, the ne plus ultra of my feminine ideal, attractive enough because of the color of her skin. Our skin. That my struggling through this scene is my passive-aggressive way of stating a preference of lighter skin and my boycott of black women. I want to tell Jasmine if we met under different circumstances, and if I wasn’t with Amanda, I’d move heaven and earth to make her mine. But we didn’t meet under different circumstances. And I cannot say any of this. The things left unsaid to people we care about, and the void those unspoken words leave, often have more impact that what is said. I take what the Universe has dealt. A true professional, Jasmine looks chipper for the always-watching camera, but I know better. The weight of her sadness grows in the space between us. I wish I were dead.
She drops to her knees and I howl as I deliver a fake pop shot into her mouth. She then lets saliva dribble down her chin. It isn’t ejaculate of course, but the camera doesn’t linger on it long enough to tell the difference.
When the camera cuts, it severs the connection between Jasmine and me. Franco packs up his camera equipment. Jasmine gathers her clothes and dresses in silence.
The director, now sitting behind his desk, asks if I can finish out one position and pop for the DVD version of this scene. I tell him there is no way. He lets out a sigh, then slides my check across the desk toward me and says that he will keep me in the rotation and give me another chance later, if only by my reputation alone, but the next time I have to deliver a pop shot.
This is not true. I will never see this man again. That’s the way it is. My success ratio for scenes has to be 200:1. This is my first failed scene since the summer of ’09.
He’s asking me what the problem was. This is the part where many other male talent, caring only for self-preservation, place the blame on the girl, the heat under the lights, choice of lube, the sofa, Fibonacci numbers, anything rather than to take responsibility. They beg and plead to the director to keep them in the talent rotation—and to keep their failure silent from the industry lest they be banished to mope purgatory. But when you no longer give a fuck, you have freedom.
I say, “Jasmine is awesome, and this scene, in terms of difficulty, was a lay-up. I had an off day.” I slide the check back to him and say, “I didn’t earn this.” I don’t offer an apology, either. I just leave the house.
The sky is black. The air is warm. I’m walking down the driveway, thinking I should go back inside and find Jasmine and hug her and tell her how sorry I am, and that my failure had absolutely nothing to do with her. But I fear it may come off as a “Hey baby, it’s not you, it’s me” cliché, so I keep going. I’m walking when something pushes against my thigh and a thousand sharp pains spear my crotch. This time it’s not Chlamydia. I walked into a cactus. I laugh and laugh and pluck the quills from my groin and thigh. A car passes, and the woman inside glares at the cackling black man in her neighborhood who is fussing with his crotch.
• • •
I get a text for a booking. It’s a reshoot of a scene with jennifer dragon (spelled with lower-case letters), the contract star and director for Decadent Pictures. She directed me in something last month. Decadent is the only condom-mandatory studio in the porn industry. Its stance on condoms—proving porn’s long-standing “nobody buys porn with condoms” paradigm wrong—is commendable. They put talents’ safety first, and it takes balls to make a stand.
Not every male talent can work with condoms, however. Under the stress of a porn scene, when time and money are on the line, condoms make the job infinitely more challenging because at minimum, it reduces the sensation that may keep you aroused and in the moment. This, and the couples and female-friendly, woman-empowered content they shoot demands male talent who are fit and attractive, and believable as choices for the females in their films. As a result, the list of Decadent’s approved male talent is shallow. These things present two problems for me. One: I just failed a scene since swearing off Viagra, and with a condom-only scene, what are my chances of success? Two: I put on a few pounds over the past few months.
I read the details: call time, location, wardrobe, then text back, confirming my availability.
• • •
I’m sitting on jennifer dragon’s sofa. My girl for the day is off doing her girlie stuff and the other cast and crew are sitting around me talking. It’s an equal mix of men and women, and most of us have been friends for years. It’s relaxing—even comforting to see some familiar faces. While the conversation goes on, I’m actually contributing now and then. Sure, I’m aware that I don’t have a Viagra on me, how can I forget, but it’s not a great concern at the moment.
The conversation drifts from gossip to the prevalence of performance enhancing drugs in the business. How many of the top-level guys won’t/can’t perform without them and the new generation with their Caverject injections. I’m silent while this conversation is going on, but after while I speak up.
“Back when I was working at a clip of twenty or thirty scenes a month, I’d take a Viagra every once in a while…Mostly days when I’d do two or three scenes scheduled for the day so I wouldn’t fail any of them. Aside from last week, I can’t remember when I didn’t pop a V before a scene… That’s a lot of fucking pills. Anyway, I’m fairly certain I’ve had at least two heart attacks over the last year. At minimum, there’s significant damage done. If I take a Viagra today, you’ll have a snuff film on your hands.”
Someone laughs and makes an innocuous joke to break the tension, and the subject changes. I like these people.
When the girl returns, she goes through pretty girls on a white sofa next to a crackling fireplace. She’s all legs and smiles, and while she poses, the men on set are transfixed.
Someone asks me, “What are you gonna do with all that?”
“Braid her hair and ask her about her day.”
Laughter.
When the stills are done I take my place next to her on the sofa. My mind starts fucking with me. It screams, WAIT! You can’t perform without Viagra! Remember last week? You’re gonna FAIL!
The crew takes their place and someone yells, “Quiet on set.” The cameras are pointed at the girl and me. The boom mike hovers above our heads.
I point to the fireplace and say, “You guys ever hear of Richard Pryor and Michael Jackson? Never put a black man’s hair next to open flames!”
Laughter.
Jennifer calls, “Action!” The girl leans over and kisses me and the inner voice shuts up and the scene begins. We complete the scene, with condoms and no Viagra. The scene goes without incident.
• • •
I’m at a burrito stand with Ken, a screenwriter who was a philosophy professor in a past life. Some girls take too long gathering napkins at a dispenser near our table. They try to be subtle as they stare at Ken. The way women react to Ken has to be seen to be believed. It’s as though he’s a Disney character and girls are woodland birds that eat out of his hand. He acts oblivious, but I’m sure he misses nothing.
Today, we meet to trade books. I give him a copy of Permanent Midnight, a rare book for me in that I’ve read it more than once.
Ken takes a few bites of an enormous burrito. I don’t eat. My diet as of late consists of fresh fruit and grains. We catch up to what we’ve been up to. He tells me about a philosophy book he’s working on. Then I listen to another idea he has for a children’s book.
I say, “Shit man, that’s a great fucking idea. This would go right over kids’—and for that matter, most adults’ heads, but you could go Nabokov on the colors thing—”
“Yeah!” I say. “Your idea is fucking brilliant.”
“Thanks, man.”
Ken, in between chewing, says, “Every story you’ve given me to read for my opinion, I notice the same Nihilistic theme.”
“It’s not so much an intent…I’m just trying to figure shit out.”
Ken says, “There are modern-day Buddhist monks that spend a lifetime discovering newness of the bell.”
“What’s that?”
“They empty their minds… When you hear a stimulus…like a ringing bell, it’s great, but each successive time you hear it, the effect of the bell’s beauty is less. These monks, they meditate so that each time they hear the bell, even after a thousand times, the bell has the same newness of the first time they heard it. The effect is bliss. Bliss every time.”
I consider this for a few moments. I say, “So, it’s a discipline…”
“Yeah.”
“A lifetime discipline.”
“Pretty much.”
A woman, walking a Pomeranian, slows down as she passes our table. This is her second lap around the burrito stand. Ken winks at her.
I say, “Fuck that. You’re trading one sacrifice for another. And the stimuli are still the same. It’s still the same bell.”
“But it’s not the same. By definition, everything in life, no matter how mundane or meaningless, is a new experience, Erik. Each moment that passes has never been and never will be again.”
“Tell that to Prometheus…or Sisyphus.”
Ken says, “The rock Sisyphus pushes up the hill is a bit different each time. His thoughts while toiling with the rock are different. He is not the same man pushing the rock.”
“You’re right. Each day, there’s a bit less of him doing the pushing!”
Ken doesn’t say anything to this. He smiles at me, then gets up from the table to talk to the lady with the dog. When I figure it out, I smile, too.