How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale

by Jameson, Jenna

  Weeks later, at a photo shoot, I met a producer who worked for a company called Heatwave. He wanted to put me in a movie, Silk Stockings starring Tiffany Million. I had really only dabbled in adult movies before, primarily as a way of getting back at Jack. I was through living my life in response to Jack’s actions, but I wasn’t exactly sure what to do instead. Heatwave was a respected company at the time and the pay would be five thousand dollars per scene, nearly twenty times what I made from photo modeling. On one hand, those sweat droplets from Sponge Cake still hung vividly in my mind’s eye. On the other hand, there was the memory of the polished, professional set of Andrew Blake. I wrestled with the decision for weeks. Nikki was dead-set against it. In fact, she was devising her own exit plan from modeling; her parents were covering her (and thus my) rent and car payments as she put herself through makeup school for film.

  “You’re making a big mistake if you go back to that world,” she said. “You’ve done magazines, but movies are entirely different. You’re really compromising yourself. Are you prepared to deal with the psychological effects of having sex with men you don’t know? You got lucky with Randy West. But what about Sponge Cake? That’s what all these movies are like. Whatever you go on to do in life, these films will be with you forever. Think about how it will affect your future relationships. And, God forbid, one day you are going to have to explain them to your children.”

  She was such a mother figure to me that I thought about every word. I lay on her couch, unable to sleep for entire nights sometimes, wrestling with myself. I couldn’t invade Nikki’s space like this forever. I had to make a life for myself. I was good at this whole sex-on-camera thing. I enjoyed it; and, if I only chose high-quality projects from reputable directors, I could avoid the less savory side of the business.

  Everyone I talked to told me not to get into adult films. They all had their reasons. And they all made sense. But the notion wouldn’t leave my head. I just wanted one person to say that it was a good idea—one person to support me—and I’d be able to move forward. My instincts kept screaming that it was the right thing to do, but they kept fighting with my brain, which said it was sheer idiocy. That support eventually came from my father.

  I called him in my usual state, upset and holding back tears, and told him that I was alone, scared, and considering accepting an adult film offer.

  “Ignore what everybody else says,” he said. “They have their own reasons. How do you really feel?”

  “I want to do it,” I blurted. “I really think this can be my life.”

  “So you’ve made your decision,” he said. “I can’t say that I agree with it, but I support it. The only thing I ask is that, if you do it, make sure you do it right. Don’t ever compromise yourself and don’t let anyone get the best of you. When you show up for work, know that you are an asset to them and not the other way around.”

  When I hung up, I was relieved. Not only had my dad given me advice, but he’d actually given me good advice. The closer I came to deciding to say yes to Silk Stockings, the more vehement Nikki became in trying to dissuade me.

  “Don’t fucking do this,” she’d yell. “You are destroying your life.”

  This was the type of reaction I would have expected from my father. And as I always do when confronted with authority, I rebelled. I was upfront with Nikki about everything, so when I later told her that I’d called the producer and accepted the offer, she blew up. “If you do this,” she screamed, “I do not want you living here. You can pack your fucking bags and get out.”

  Nikki was so upset that she wouldn’t even drive me to the first day of shooting. She’d always been a blunt girl. That’s what I had liked about her in the first place. Of course, she loved me too much to boot me out.

  I pulled up to the studio in a taxi. The first person I met was an actor named Lyle Danger, a dark, moody, well-built Slovenian with smoldering eyes and a day of stubble on his chin. Like me, he was also new in the business. So we both sat quietly around the set, nervous and shy, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. I liked him right away. Of course, the business would eventually change him into another creature entirely.

  We didn’t shoot our scene that day, but afterward I asked him for a ride back to Nikki’s. He was hesitant, but I pleaded and eventually he gave in. When I saw his ride, I realized why he had been so reluctant: it was a bucket truck with a cherry picker in the back and the words ONE TWO TREE on the side. His day job was running a tree-trimming business.

  When he dropped me off, he agreed to pick me up the next day for work. Finally, there was another friendly person in this town. Nikki, of course, neither liked nor approved of him (though that would soon change).

  It was beginning to get very uncomfortable in her house. It wasn’t just because of the movie, but also because I noticed a glue gun in the kitchen. Nikki was staying up all night working on strange art projects that meant a lot to her but made no sense to anyone else. I recognized the behavior. And I also recognized the cause. Buddy was telling Nikki every day, in subtle and not-so subtle ways, how fat she was. He’d push her out of the house and order her to go to the gym. Instead, she became so depressed she’d go to Winchell’s, buy a dozen donuts, and sit in the car eating them.

  Then, in the middle of shooting Silk Stockings, I was fast asleep just before daybreak and Nikki was up organizing her shoes for the tenth time, when all of a sudden the dishes in the kitchen started shaking, followed by the bottles in the bar. Then books and videos started falling off the shelves until, finally, the TV set smashed to the floor.

  We ran outside. An earthquake had struck in Northridge nearby. Before our eyes, Nikki’s windows shattered—now we were all homeless—and the house next to us collapsed, killing the people inside it. We sat on the side of the street, stunned and in silence. And I was supposed to be at work in less than three hours.

  On set, I was scheduled to finally shoot my scene. As soon as the camera started rolling and the male lead, Bobby, walked in, I felt the air fill with tension. It was so thick that I could almost feel the resistance as I moved through the room. He stood there, smoldering and sexy yet nervous and intimidated.

  All the tension and fear of the day just exploded out of me. It was as if I needed to prove to Nikki that she was wrong, that this was my calling. Every part of my body—my hands, my mouth, my legs—began pumping in a different but perfect rhythm. I suddenly understood where the phrase sexual dynamo came from; I was a frigging machine. And I was so in the moment—more connected to life and myself than I had been since my last scene with Randy West. I was fucking good at this. When the camera stopped rolling, everyone applauded.

  After the shoot, I asked Lyle to give me a ride back to Nikki’s. Bobby hitched a ride with us as well and squeezed into the cab of Lyle’s ridiculous truck with us. As we drove back, our hormones were still whizzing around from our scene together. We never made it to Nikki’s. We had Lyle drop us off at a motel instead. I felt bad for Lyle because I could sense that he really liked me, and was new in the industry and reaching out for someone. But my body wanted Bobby. As soon as we entered the room, we tore each other’s clothes off and fucked savagely. But the passion only lasted five minutes—not because either of us came, but because it just felt weird having sex together in real life. The chemistry on screen was not that of attraction but a different kind of partnership, the bond of two new actors emotionally invested in creating a perfect scene together. I don’t know who said it first, but we both thought it at the same time: “This is not right.”

  A few days later, Nikki and Buddy moved into a new house. It was bigger than their last place, so I had my own bedroom. But I never unpacked. I knew it wasn’t going to last long. Our friendship was turning to rivalry as Nikki began accusing me of competing with her and lying to her. But I couldn’t have a rational conversation with her, because her personality had been taken over, eroded, and replaced with paranoia. Whenever I said anything about her partying, she accused me of tr
ying to drive a wedge between her and her husband. That may have been true when I first moved in, but I had quickly realized that she was under his thumb. It was interesting to observe their relationship now that I wasn’t in one. I could see the way Buddy would make fun of her weight or encourage her to party, just like Jack had with me.

  The final blow-up came when I confronted Nikki about her partying, and she responded by accusing me of slutting around town and lying to her about it. She was my only support in Los Angeles, and now she was screaming at me like a lunatic.

  “I opened up everything to you—my home, my life, my love—and all you’ve done is disrespect me,” she yelled. “I want you out of this house tomorrow.”

  “I want you out of this house,” she yelled, so loud that her voice went hoarse. “Tomorrow.”

  Only Nikki’s brother, Michael, shared my concern for her and understood what was going on. From the moment we met, there was chemistry between us, if only because I couldn’t have Nikki and he was a tall, strapping male version of her.

  I had no idea how to find my own place in L.A., so he bought a paper and circled a dozen apartments to look at. The first day we went hunting for a place, we passed a piercing parlor in Studio City. I had Michael stop and walked inside. I had an impulsive idea of commemorating my new independent self with a memento: a belly-button piercing, which was poked by a creepy little white guy named Flavia with dreadlocks down to his knees. Then we drove to see the first apartment, a little studio on Dickens and Van Nuys, across the street from a newsstand. I loved the place, not to mention the fact that I didn’t have far to walk to pick up the magazines I was in.

  We moved my worldly possessions—one small bag of clothes—out of Nikki’s house. It was one of the most painful things I had to do: I felt grateful to her for so much. Since I’d first met her, she’d been a voice of sanity in the craziness of this business. Without her, I probably never would have gotten back on my feet and in the game after Jack. I would most likely have been taken advantage of by someone who saw my desperation, neediness, and confusion as vulnerability. But when I left her house, we didn’t say a word to each other. Not even good-bye.

  Anal sex. Anal fucking sex. Brown-hole-spelunking rusty-can-expanding colon-tickling anal fucking sex.

  I know I have your attention now, because just about everyone is interested in doing it up the butt, whether it’s because they want it, their partner wants it, or they’re just curious. Evolutionarily speaking, the dick was never meant to go in the butt. Besides the fact that you can’t procreate from that direction, there’s no natural lubricant in there. But there are still pleasure centers and, moreover, there’s an emotional component. Anal sex is an exchange of power. And every man I’ve ever met loves the idea of dominating a woman by pushing his massive dick into her tight sphincter so that she loses control.

  For me to allow a man to have anal sex with me, I must have trust first. Because to be on the receiving end of anal sex is to give yourself completely to your partner. And that’s why, despite the fact that it is practically an industry standard to have anal sex in every sex scene, I’ve never done it in a film.

  It has become a constant issue for me. I’ve been offered hundreds of thousands of dollars to do anal. But even if I walked away with $300,000 for having done it, I would also be taking away the feeling that I gave up something that was really important to me. This is almost embarrassing for a porn star to admit, but I’ve only given that up to three men, all of whom I really loved. Doing it on camera would be compromising myself. Sex, on the other hand, is something I’m comfortable giving up—albeit not often—to a stranger in a one-night stand. The fact is, I’ve only had about fifteen different male partners on camera.

  Most people I talk to in the business can’t believe I made it this far without having done anal in a scene. But the fact that I got to the top of the game without having done it should tell them something: you can set your own rules. When I agreed to do Silk Stockings and return to the industry, I promised myself that I wouldn’t do anal or double penetration. I don’t know exactly why I drew the line there, but I’ve never doubted that decision once. If you come into this industry as a woman, you need to have a clearly defined set of guidelines and boundaries for yourself. That’s how you maintain your sanity. And every person I know has a different standard they hold themselves to.

  Thus, for both the interested and the curious, I present to you:

  HOW TO MAKE IT AS A FEMALE PORN STAR

  An informative guide for the inquisitive reader

  SHORT VERSION

  1. Show up on time.

  2. Don’t do drugs.

  3. Don’t date or marry any man.

  EXPANDED VERSION

  Let’s begin with the premise that it’s very easy for a girl to get into the industry, but it’s very hard for her to stay there.

  For most girls, it starts at the World Modeling Agency in Sherman Oaks. That’s the company that places dozens of classified ads in newspapers with variants of messages like “Female models wanted” and “Figure models needed for immediate placement.”

  World Modeling is run by a big Texan named Jim South and his son. Raised as a strict Catholic, Jim moved to Los Angeles in the late sixties and found a job recruiting clothed models for retail store advertisements and mail-order catalogs. But at some point in the late seventies, a director offered him two hundred dollars a day to find girls to appear in super-8 porn movies. Within months, finding girls to pose nude was a full-time job.

  Every day, World Modeling recruits for nude magazines and movies. Dozens of girls arrive, strip down, get Polaroids taken, and then fill out a questionnaire. On the form, they check boxes next to what they are willing to do: girl-girl, boy-girl, anal, double penetration, and so on.

  The main event comes once every three months when World Modeling holds a massive day-long cattle call. Most of the directors and producers in the industry come down, meet the girls, and inspect them like, well, cattle. Some of the gonzo guys arrange to wait in the office, so that they can nab the best new girls before anyone else sees them.

  In a worst-case scenario, a gonzo director will take a girl to a hotel room and have their friends shoot a cheap scene in which she is humiliated in every orifice possible. She walks home with three thousand dollars, bowed legs, and a terrible impression of the industry. It’ll be her first and last movie, and she’ll regret it—to her dying day.

  In other scenarios, she’ll work for two weeks until she’s only getting paid seven hundred dollars a scene and then, finally, no one wants to use her anymore. So she’ll agree to do double penetration or drink the sperm of twelve guys just to stay working. It can be a terrible experience if you don’t go about it properly. And you can get very sore, physically and emotionally.

  The job of porn star is not a calling—or even an option—for most women. However, if you make the right decisions and set the right boundaries for yourself, it can be a great living, because you’ll make a lot of money while doing very little work. And you’ll get more experience in front of the camera than any Hollywood actress. Though watching porn may seem degrading to some women, the fact is that it’s one of the few jobs for women where you can get to a certain level, look around, and feel so powerful, not just in the work environment but as a sexual being. So, fuck Gloria Steinem.

  However, there are many pitfalls—more than nearly any other occupation. So it’s best to start slowly, rather than being thrown into a filthy bedroom with five naked guys. (As a woman, it’s smart to remain conscious to some degree about the way in which you are portraying your gender to the world.) The other advantage to starting slowly is that people will pay you more as you add extra sexual acts to your roster. Beginning with nude modeling is a nice way to ease into it.

  There’s no reason to run out of the offices of World Modeling with the first gonzo guy who waves money in your face. Every girl who walks in that door, no matter what she looks like or weighs, is going to get us
ed because, to put it crudely, she is fresh meat.

  The biggest challenge is the psychological preparation you need before you walk in the door, to keep yourself from getting screwed (metaphorically). What’s key here is to set your boundaries and never allow them to be crossed. If you do, it will break you down, and you won’t have longevity because you’ll be freaked out about the things you’ve done. You must not be afraid to say no if you’re uncomfortable with something. It’s nice to bring someone with you, be it a girl or a guy, to help you hold your ground.

  You need to know what is expected in a normal scene, so that when you get to the hotel or the set, the producer doesn’t suddenly say, “Okay, in this scene, two guys are going to fuck you on this bed and then we’re going to move into a different room and another guy is going to fuck you.” I’ve seen them convince girls that this is all part of the one scene she’s getting paid for. There are a lot of scumbags in the industry. They’ll tell girls they need to “test them out” first to see if they give a good blow job. Fact: you don’t have to have sex with anyone in order to get a job having sex with people.

  Another decision you must make is whether you want to have sex with a condom or not. Though every performer is required to have comprehensive monthly testing for sexually transmitted diseases, STDs are still a valid concern. I would suggest checking the box on the World Modeling questionnaire that says “condom only.” Unless you’re working with a man with whom you have a monogamous relationship, it’s better to be safe than sorry. You never know what type of lifestyle people are leading off the set. So you should be as selective with your partners on camera as you (hopefully) are in real life.