Laid Bare: Essays and Observations

by Judson, Tom

  When the Munchkins came out from wherever they were they discovered they had been liberated from a life of hiding and fear. Do yourself a favor: take Glinda’s advice. It got Dorothy home safe and it can get you there, too.

  NORMAN RAE

  Shouldn’t there be a union for guys in porn? I’m asked that question often. I understand the logic behind this and, as an insider, appreciate it even more than the porn-buying public at large. What’s more, I am a union man: I’m a dues-paying member of Actors’ Equity Association, the professional actors’ union. I’ve been active in union politics and served as a self appointed bur-under-the-saddle of the producers of the National Tour of “42nd Street” a few years back when we were hampered with a sub-standard contract.

  Bear all that in mind when I repeat my answer to the above-mentioned query: It ain’t gonna fly.

  Labor is organized for two main purposes: to achieve fair wages for members’ efforts and to promote healthy and safe working conditions. Let’s address the second point first. Just what constitutes safe working conditions in an industry that is based around men having sex with other men? Mandatory condom usage? That’s already in place at all the mainstream studios. The barebacking fringe companies obviously would never agree to such demands. Guys that appear in bareback videos are pretty much blacklisted from the big studios. Let’s face it; the only foolproof way to ensure safe conditions on a porn set is to prohibit the sex. In the theater the actual performing surface is an issue in all contracts. Do you even want to think about the “performing surface” at the end of a video shoot? I don’t think so.

  But it’s wages most people mean when they bring up the idea of a union. I wouldn’t know where to begin to set a fair per scene rate for a video shoot. (That’s how we’re paid in porn, incidentally; per scene.) What if the performer appears in a solo jackoff scene? Or is in the background in a large orgy? How about if a two-way evolves into a larger group after the initial cumshots? Should the first couple get paid for one or for two scenes? And what if a guy is unable to cum? Should there be a penalty? Or is there a bonus if he comes twice? What about minimum erection duration? Is a bottom more valuable than a top or vice versa? And what about workhorses like me who get saddled with lots of dialogue (“B-roll”, as it’s quaintly referred to in the industry) for no additional compensation? Should I go on strike? All by myself?

  Which artfully brings us to the next point: A union of less than all possible talent is toothless. Collective bargaining can only work if the entire workforce is committed to the idea and willing to forego employment knowing that it will strengthen the union. Forming a Porn Actors’ Guild, like any other union, would entail initial drawbacks and monetary loss. Corporations don’t like unions. (Perhaps you’ve heard the name Wal-Mart?) They have to be wrassled to the ground to agree to an organized workforce. That means all of the guys making porn, and all the guys who are thinking about making porn, would have to decline movie gigs in the short-term until the studios had no choice but to hire union performers.

  And here we have the crux of the matter. In porn, “short-term” is the only term there is. Men going into porn don’t think about it as a lifelong career. There are a very few cases where performers’ careers have lasted a decade or more, but you can count them on one hand. Most young men (and they are mostly young) aren’t thinking past the end of the day, much less 5 or 6 years down the road. Will they be willing to part with $500 of their $1000 fee for union initiation if they think this movie will be their first and last?

  In 1913 New York actors shut down Broadway with a strike and forced the producers to the bargaining table. In 2003 one of the major issues confronting the 90-year-old union was the willingness of young performers to accept non-union employment. And that’s a business in which people hope to spend their entire lives. One afternoon on a porn set—as a lark—doesn’t engender commitment to “the cause.”

  I’m no apologist for the porn industry. Do I think we performers are treated fairly by the production companies? No. Do I think the studios are making profits way out of proportion to what we’re paid? Yes, I do. Do I think we should earn residuals on the units sold? You bet. But there is no single performer in the business that could not be replaced with someone equally as popular, so holding out for a cut would be meaningless. When I was working regularly in porn was there anyone holding a gun to my head? Not that I ever noticed.

  Don’t get me wrong, I believe the biggest dilemma facing the heads of the various production companies—several of whom are friends, I hasten to add--is how to spend their excess profits. And I do feel that the naïvete of vulnerable young men is exploited by those same companies. (If I were in charge of this hypothetical union, 30 would be the minimum age to be eligible to work.) But since I am congenitally unable to hold a job for any length of time I have work experience in many disparate fields and can say without hesitation that there is virtually nothing unique about the porn business.

  Except that it can’t be organized.

  THE HOUSE PAINTER

  Climbing the sidewalk up the hill from the train, Clive Simmons managed to convey a sense of dignity despite the circumstances in which he found himself. The elbows and knees of his tweed suit were worn, but the suit itself was clean. With his thin, elegant moustache and slight British accent he managed to present a picture of someone who had not been as deeply affected by the Depression as, in fact, he had. Prosperity might be around the corner, as the last President had said, but Clive had never had a good sense of direction. So, he was glad to have the address--engraved just beneath “Mrs. Marion Giles, Rooms”--on the card he held in his hand.

  Six months in New York after returning from his studies in France had left him near penniless. Evenings in his sweltering flat were spent anointing canvas after canvas with oil paints—tubes of color that were becoming more precious in direct proportion to his decreasing funds. His maitre in Paris had encouraged him in his visual experiment; Clive was trying to perfect the technique of seamlessly blending colors from opposite sides of the spectrum into one another. He hoped to reach the point where the viewer’s eye would discern cobalt blue, then cadmium orange then manganese violet before realizing the hue had completely changed. His work progressed through autumn and continued even now when the early winter cold made his fingers stiff as he stood at his easel. But, the matter of rent was quickly overriding artistic pursuit.

  Packing a small bag, along with his paint box and a few canvasses, he took the Hudson River Tubes to Hoboken and there boarded a northbound train. The Simmonses had left Monroe years earlier, but it was an area Clive knew well and, at this point, familiarity would be as welcome as friendship. And a man he had met at the artist’s supply store had given him the business card of a young widow with inexpensive, clean rooms to let.

  Mrs. Giles’s house was a two-storey affair with a wide front porch. It sat on the street among similar houses. The shade offered by the enormous maples must be welcome in summer, thought Clive, but now, under the gray November sky, they served merely as a skeletal reminder of warmer days.

  The shingles of the house were painted white on the second floor and green—Forest green, he’d have to say--at street level, thereby distinguishing it from the solid-color dwellings on either side. There was one area at the back of the house near the kitchen door, however, that was still the old brown. Mr. Giles had gotten just this far with the project when his wife, Marion, found him hanging from a rope around his neck in the detached garage. Month after month of a fruitless search for employment had taken its irreversible toll on the man, leaving his young wife to fend for herself. Two years later the brown patch remained as a silent testament to continuing hard times.

  Responding to the knock at the front door, Marion emerged from her kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. Her chintz dress complemented her black hair, which, in turn, drew attention away from the fact that, really, the dress was quite threadbare and faded.

  “Mrs. Giles,” asked Clive. Mari
on reacted to his dapper appearance by instinctively reaching up a hand to smooth the hair piled on her head.

  “Yes?”

  “You received my telegram saying I would arrive today?”

  “Oh, Mr. Simmons, of course,” replied Marion, opening the screen door to her newest paying guest, the relief in her eyes momentarily erasing the tired sadness that usually showed there. “Please come in out of the cold. I just put a tray of biscuits in the oven for dinner. Why don’t I show you your room and I’ll bring some into the front parlor.”

  The small china plate sat on the table between them, a few stray crumbs sitting amid a pool of honey that had dripped off the warm, flaky buns. Clive agreed, yes, it was nice of her friend, Mr. Clark, to give him Marion’s card. No, he did not know Mr. Clark very well. Would Mrs. Giles object to Clive setting up his easel in his room. Of course, he would be very careful with the paints and the solvents.

  “Well, I don’t really know… Would you be able to work in the garage? There’s a stove there. I don’t use it for anything, uh, anymore.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clark explained that to me. That would be fine, thank you. I would like to pay you two weeks’ rent in advance.” Marion thanked Clive and watched as he climbed the stairs to his room.

  During the following weeks leading up to the holidays, Clive and Marion became more comfortable with each other. Marion had no interest in art or in travel, but she enjoyed listening to Clive talk about things even if she didn’t understand them. And Clive appreciated the company. Marion didn’t quite understand what he was attempting to do with his shading colors, but she was sure it would be lovely, just lovely.

  Clive spent most mornings in his studio garage, stopping to rub his fingers in front of the small coal stove when the cold became more intense. Marion wouldn’t come into to the garage, but she’d call to him from the kitchen door if something was warm just out of the oven.

  Clive would come in to the house, passing the patch of brown near the kitchen door, and the two of them would spend a few moments together before returning to their work. Sometimes Clive would borrow a bowl or some fruit to to use as a subject. Marion was reluctant to let him take the vase of Cala Lilies her sister had brought her, but Clive made her see how perfect they would be t paint. She was disappointed later when he failed to bring them back into the house.

  One afternoon, after replacing the blue enameled coffee pot on the stove, Marion sat at the table across from Clive and, screwing up her courage, said, “I hope you don’t mind, but, since you do owe two weeks’ room and board, I asked at the new school up the street and, well, they’re ready to work on the interior and all the classrooms need to be painted, and…” Her voice trailed off as she saw Clive’s posture stiffen.

  “Oh, yes,” said Clive, sounding slightly more British than usual, “while I do understand the position I have placed you in, I hope you will appreciate that I am not a house painter.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Thank you for the pie. I really should return to my work.”

  Flushed, Marion blurted out, “You will be joining us for Thanksgiving on Thursday, I hope.” Clive replied, “Thank you, I’ll be sure to let you know if I can,” and closed the kitchen door behind him, walking slowly back to his studio, past the brown patch on the side of the house.

  The next few days were as chilly inside as they were outdoors in the steely November cold. Clive stayed in the garage until late at night, painting, and Marion fixed him a tray in his room for supper. That Wednesday, as he headed upstairs, he found a telegram placed just outside his room. He picked it up and went inside, closing the door behind him.

  Marion was up early the following morning, her younger sister having come by before the rest of the family to help with the Thanksgiving meal. Looking at the clock above the stove she realized that Clive was sleeping much later than he usually did. She climbed the stairs and stood in the hallway outside his room, listening for sounds of life on the other side of the door. Hearing nothing but the tick of the clock on the landing, she knocked gently.

  “Mr. Simmons? I thought you might want to know what time it is so you could get ready to join us for dinner.” She opened the door a crack and looked in the room. The bed was neatly made and Clive’s suitcase, which usually sat on the stand at under the window, was gone. Marion walked stonily down to the kitchen, torn between anger and disappointment.

  Ignoring her sister’s queries she stalked across the yard to the garage, the dead, brown grass crunching under her low-heeled shoes with each determined step. Along with repeated cries of, “Mr. Simmons!” she knocked firmly on the garage door. But, still there was no response.

  Marion took a deep breath and pulled open the heavy garage door. She stepped into the gloom; the dust stirred by her footsteps dancing lazily in the shafts of sunlight coming in through the two eight-paned windows on the wide door. She had not been in here since her husband’s death two years ago and, even now, lowered her gaze so she would not see the beam above her head that had played a leading role in the turn her life had taken.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Marion could just make out an artist’s easel standing at the far side of the room near the cold stove. Walking towards it she knocked into a small table, just managing to catch the vase it held before it fell to the dirt floor. As she got closer she realized she was looking at the back of the easel. There was a canvas mounted on it, and a note was tacked to the frame of the canvas. She took the note and, holding it at an angle in a shaft of sunlight, read its contents:

  “Dear Mrs. Giles, Our friend Mr. Clark has come through once again. He has secured me a position on a Federal arts project. I will be working with a crew of fellow artists painting murals in a new Library in Ohio. While I am afraid I cannot pay you the rent I owe you, I hope you will accept this picture in lieu of payment. Thank you for all your kindness. Sincerely, Clive Simmons. P.S Please forgive my taking the liberty of finishing the job.”

  The only word that came to her mind was “miffed”. She was miffed at the audacity of this man. She wondered what Mr. Simmons expected her to pay her bills with. And, what could he possibly mean by “finishing the job”?

  Circling around to the front of the easel, she saw a small, narrow canvas, on which was painted five white Cala Lillies. They were beautiful. Even more beautiful than the real ones her sister had brought her. But, it was the background of the painting that caused Marion to stare. The lilies were not positioned in a vase, nor were they arranged against any recognizable background. They were simply floating above color. Three colors, in fact. The background faded from blue to rose to black, but it was impossible to tell where one color ended and the next began.

  So, this was what Clive had been trying to explain to her. It was so clear, once she saw the results.

  Marion took the canvas from the easel and left the garage, closing the door behind her, for the first time not thinking about what had happened inside. She held the painting carefully in front of her and looked at it as she walked back towards the house. She raised her eyes as she neared the kitchen door and let out a small gasp. The arm holding the painting slowly fell to her side and she raised her other hand and cupped it over her open mouth. Looking straight ahead she saw that the patch of brown next to the kitchen door was gone, covered over by a fresh coat of green.

  Forest green, she would have to say.

  ____________________

  Clive Simmons was never heard from again. But, Marion’s younger sister was my grandmother and the painting of five Cala Lilies he left behind that cold Thanksgiving morning hangs on the wall in front of me—just to the left of the window—as I sit writing these words.

  PANHANDLE MANHANDLE

  Mrs. Dahlia Strunk, hostess, Brass Buckle Family Restaurant:

  “Well, course I remember him comin’ in here. On account it was Mother’s Day, which, as you know, is our busiest day of the year. Folks’d be makin’ their reservations startin’ right after Presiden
t’s Day sometimes. Honestly, I wisht one of these years the families would decide to cook for the mothers ‘stead of taking ‘em out. It just seems to me that…. What? Oh, all right. It was a Sunday—goes without saying—and, well, we was packed. Hot, too. This part of Oklahoma heats up pretty early, y’know? That reservation book was full-up weeks before. Which really ain’t surprising, because we are the best restaurant in the Panhandle. I had just seated the Preebo family (Lord, you should see that oldest gal—must tip the scales at 200 pounds if she’s an ounce) and Charlene here—Charlene, you spit that gum out pronto! ‘fore I stick it behind your ear. And answer that damn phone--comes up and says can I seat a single. A single, I tell her! I say, girl that peroxide musta gone to your brain, I can’t seat no single on Mother’s Day, just look at this place. Well, Charlene looks at me with those big cow eyes of hers and I can tell she feels sorry for this fella, being by hisself on Mother’s Day. So, I squeezed him in over there on 9A—that deuce over there by the beverage station. He didn’t stay long, but I heard he left a nice tip. No, I can’t really recall anything else in particular. What’s that Charlene? Oh, that’s right! No, I’ll tell it! Get this—he just ate a bunch of vegetables. Was one of them vegetarians, I suppose. Now, I ask you; what the hell is the point in that? I always say, “If God didn’t want us to eat no animals, he wouldn’t-a made ‘em out of meat!” He was real friendly-like on his way out. Gave me a compliment on my hairdo, can you imagine? Said he had a long drive in front of him. What’s that? No, sir, I never would-a guessed that boy would get hisself involved with the law. Oh, and mister, ‘Hostess’ up there at the top needs a capital H on it.”