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

by Jameson, Jenna

  So do guys train themselves?

  Yes, because nobody performs well at first. They don’t know camera angles or how to position themselves or all the necessary dick tricks. And no one looks pretty having sex, especially guys.

  One thing that girls are good at is making ourselves look beautiful during sex, which is hard. For guys, they have to concentrate on keeping their dick hard, not holding their stomach in, flexing their arms. We are able to relax and think, “Okay, I need to arch my back right now” or “Oops, I’m making a really funky face right now.”

  For a guy half the time you have to move your face out of the way, because the director doesn’t want your face in the shot. So you are leaning way back and you can’t put your arm down for support, so you have your hand on your hip like a sailor. You look like a fruitcake.

  Is it easier for good-looking guys to get in movies?

  If you are too good-looking they think you are gay.

  What about if you’re hideous, but you have amazing cock control?

  That’s fine. You don’t even need acting skills. It’s ninety-nine percent about your sexual ability. But you should be really well-groomed. You should be bathed, shaved, and super-clean, though body hair is okay. You want to make sure you clip your nails, especially so you don’t scratch a girl while your fingers are inside her. Brush your teeth and use Altoids, but at the same time, don’t be an egomaniac. Vanity in guys is not good.

  Is there any way to practice?

  That’s the thing. There is no real way you can practice. And it’s hard to get aroused if there’s no chemistry or you’re under pressure. Maybe you can do live sex shows on stage at a club. Or you can try masturbating in front of your dad. “Hey, Mom, start cooking dinner and I’ll whack.”

  Seriously.

  What I’ll do is sit at home, distract myself mentally, and try to get a hard-on. I’ll be on the phone with the gas company, trying to get a hard-on.

  Any other tips?

  Stretch out. Keep yourself loose. Focus on one thing that turns you on. Eventually you’ll learn dick tricks where, if you’re about to come, you hold off by making it look like you’re doing something else. For example, you’ll pull out and make the girl suck your dick, which will give you enough time to stop yourself from coming. Or you’ll pull out, beat your dick on her pussy, go down on her real quick, spit on her pussy, and then start fucking her again. Every single performer has a trick. I know guys who will take it out and smack the head to decrease their sensitivity.

  I’ve seen guys smack themselves in the face, pinch themselves, hit their balls, and do all kinds of really weird stuff. When you are having sex with a guy and he does that, you are like, “Huh? Are you all right, you freak?”

  The hardest part is just getting in the zone where you can get a hard-on. And the thing is, you have to know when you are going to come and be able to control it. You have to be able to stay on that edge. But after you control it for so long, it’s really hard to have an orgasm. With a true performer, if the director says, “Give me a pop shot,” he’ll do it within thirty seconds.

  How can you do that?

  I just concentrate. I focus on the sensitivity of my dick. You have to be really in tune with your body.

  What about coming? Is there a way to make it shoot farther?

  The trick is just to have a lot of build up. It’s like when you jack off, if you jack off and come in a minute, you don’t come very much. But jack off for an hour and a half without letting yourself come and, by the time you do, you’ll shoot the next wall.

  That’s really what happens. You get it right there and pull back, get it right there and pull back, get it right there and squeeze off, squeeze off, then let it go. An extra trick is to push with your PC muscle after each contraction, and then the jizz really goes flying.

  What about reloading?

  Some guys can do that right away, like T.T. Boy. On the other hand, some guys have no self-control. Once there was a new guy on this huge production that was so much money. The minute before the director lowered the camera on him, he came. He could not get another hard-on at all. It ruined the whole scene.

  When a good director is shooting a new guy, he will say, “Don’t get embarrassed if you are going to come right away. Just let me know, so I can get it. Don’t sit there and come in the girl. If you are close, I don’t care if you are stroking your dick and waiting to get it up for the scene, squeeze that thing off as tight as you can and tell me. We will position the scene and get you all set up, so you can come.” This way, the director can go back later and get the hard-core.

  A lot of guys will pound the girl so hard to make themselves come. Most girls I know like it more if he just jacks off and comes on her.

  The hardest thing for guys is, if you’re doing a scene with a girl and another guy and the other guy gets it up right away while you are still jacking off. It hurts your confidence. It’s better to be quick on the draw.

  Are there are any other mistakes that beginners make?

  The worst thing a male performer can do is grudge-fuck a girl or try to prove something. A lot of guys think that having rough sex is a way to show that he is a good performer. But he will fuck the girl up. Every girl will complain and no one will work with him. You have to make sure you are aggressive to a certain point, but not so passionate that she thinks you’re a stalker. There are a lot of little mind games a guy has to play in order to make the chemistry work with the girl. It’s super-important to do everything right, because once you get higher-end girls on your side, they will consistently use you.

  That was true for me. I would not work unless it was with one of three or four guys. And then, once the other girls saw that those guys were being picked, they all wanted to work with them, too. When I wanted to change things up and try a new performer, it was a nightmare every single time. The interesting thing is that unlike the girls, the guys never age out of the business.

  They are in it until they want out. There are guys in their forties, fifties, and sixties fucking eighteen-year-old girls.

  However, they do have an amazing talent. All a girl needs is lube and she’s ready to go. Guys have to be turned on right from the beginning. I find them much more interesting than the girls.

  The best is watching guys perform with their wives or girlfriends. If a girl is with a normal guy, she will work through any problem to get a good scene. But if it’s her husband or boyfriend, she’ll start saying things like, “Don’t go that deep; you know that doesn’t feel good” or, “You know I don’t like that” or, “Don’t treat me like that; I’m your wife.” You never see guys and girls who are just performers arguing on the set, but I’ve seen couples in knock-down drag-out fights. The problem with couples is that they are overly sensitive to each other’s behavior.

  What about Viagra?

  Almost every guy uses it, except for the original hardcore guys. But even most of them use it, though they claim they don’t. It keeps it hard for a long time. But with Viagra, you want to practice at home to see how you react to it. There are tricks of the trade to make it work its best. Here’s one: Do not eat. Sometimes I think that the sex is worse when you take Viagra, because there’s something different about it. It’s better to just relax and go with the flow. Besides, no matter what you’re on, if you are mentally done, you are mentally done.

  And what about Caverject?

  That’s when guys inject their dick with a medicine that keeps it hard all day on the set. No matter what you do, you have a hard-on. Imagine being filled with blood for that amount of time. I don’t think it’s good for you.

  Any other tips?

  Practice your orgasm face.

  A lot of guys want to get into porn to get laid. What are your thoughts on that?

  Getting into porn is a death sentence. As a male performer you are doomed to be single for the rest of your life. A contract girl does eight to ten scenes per year. A guy performs seven to ten scenes per week at least. The num
ber one performers do fifteen scenes per week. So what girl is going to go out with a guy who’s pounding fifteen other girls every week? No one. The guys don’t have any social life, because they are on set so much. And when they do go out, they are like lepers. Girls won’t touch them. Even girls in the industry avoid them, because it’s bad for their career to get stuck having sex with just one guy on camera.

  So do guys in the business become freaks?

  That’s actually true in a way. Every guy in the industry has one fetish or passion that keeps him going. You have to realize these guys are working with a girl who’s beautiful one day, and then the next day they’re with a girl that they wouldn’t normally want to touch, let alone fuck. So they have to go somewhere in their head to keep themselves interested and aroused.

  What is the top of the game for a male star?

  Guys don’t get a lot of money: maybe three hundred to five hundred dollars a scene, though some are getting eight hundred dollars. So the top is graduating into directing and owning your own line of videos. There are also certain guys who have gotten contracts with companies. I think Steven St. Croix was the first, but it doesn’t happen often. Basically, you are at the top of your game when you are working every day, you’re doing scenes with the top chicks instead of beasts, and you’re getting starring roles where you are acting. When you do a signing with a girl, then you know you’ve really arrived.

  So the real message here is: Don’t be a porn star if you want to get laid.

  Exactly, because that’s not what it’s all about.

  So why would anyone want to do it then?

  It’s a good steady job, you make decent money, and, despite everything we’ve talked about, it’s fun.

  For six months straight, Joy had been blitzing the Howard Stern Show with videos, pictures, and letters. And not once had they called back. This whole breaking-into-the-mainstream thing was proving to be more difficult than we thought. It was easy to get a picture or article in AVN, but as far as getting anyone in the real world to show any interest, it was nearly impossible. It wasn’t as if they weren’t watching the videos: they just didn’t want to admit it.

  Joy and I weren’t the biggest Howard Stern fans. She thought he sounded like a dick, and I was scared shitless of him because he shredded people on the air. But Blinky was obsessed. I was in Joy’s office one morning, looking over pictures I had done for Adam and Eve Productions, when Joy pulled out a glamour shot of me topless, holding a dildo, and making a goofy face with my eyes crossed.

  “Here’s this week’s photo,” Joy said.

  She had it blown up into an eight-by-ten and sent it to Howard Stern with the usual press materials. We didn’t expect to hear back from them. A week later, they were talking about it on the air. Joy called to let me know.

  “He’s talking about you right now,” she said.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He’s saying you look like you should be a Guess model and he can’t believe you’re a porn star.”

  As soon as the show ended, they called Joy.

  “Can you be here next week?” they asked.

  “We’ll be there tomorrow,” Joy replied. We were scheduled to leave that day for a photo shoot in New Jersey anyway.

  On the plane ride there, I was petrified. Not only had I never been to New York before, but I hardly even had my feet wet at Wicked and already had to represent them on a live radio show with a host who specialized in humiliating women. I was sure Howard was going to rip me to shreds. For hours, I rehearsed what I was going to say in my head. I didn’t want to come off like all the other girls on his show. They either pretended to be voracious sex kittens or poor wounded birds. I wanted him to see who I was, with no act. I wanted to hold my own against the pressure and manipulation.

  I woke up at 3 A.M. the next morning to get ready. They had just started filming his radio show for the E! Channel, so I was going to have to look good. I slipped into a midriff-baring white sweater and tight jeans.

  The office building that housed Infinity Broadcasting was big and empty except for a security guard at the desk. I walked to the elevator, and he chased after me. Evidently, I had to sign in first. I’d never actually been in a high-rise office before: I had no idea I was supposed to sign in and tell him what floor I was going to and get a badge and all that crap. I felt like a complete idiot.

  As I waited in the green room upstairs for my turn on the show, my tension reached a new plateau. I needed to be quick-witted; I needed to be incredibly smart; I needed to defy every stereotype. Few girls left that studio without looking like bimbos. And, unlike with moviemaking, I had to get it right in one take or risk national humiliation. Joy had given me a list of movies and products to promote, which lay crumpled in a sweaty ball in my fist.

  I could hear Howard talking about me on the monitor. He was discussing the photo he had seen the day before. “This girl could be a model,” he said. “She doesn’t have to be in porno. She must have had one screwed-up childhood, man. She’s probably got a great story in her.”

  When he said he wanted to take a “real hard look” at me to see if I measured up, I literally couldn’t breathe. I was so frightened I was gasping for air.

  An assistant entered the room and led me down the corridor. The minute I saw the door with the “On Air” sign above it, I thought, “Put it on, girl. Put it on.” I grabbed the doorframe and swung myself playfully into the studio. Suddenly, the queasy feeling in my stomach left me, my posture straightened, and a flirtatious smile spread across my face.

  “Wow, super,” were the first words out of Howard’s mouth when I walked in. I had done it.

  Instantly, the grilling started. He seemed determined to know what had made a girl like me become a porn star. I told him I loved sex. I told him I loved the attention. But it wasn’t enough for him.

  He kept saying that something didn’t compute. He asked if I had a screwed-up childhood, and I said no. He asked if my parents had been strict, and I said no. He asked if my dad and I still talked, and I said we did. He asked if my mom minded what I was doing, and I said no. I had decided in advance that it was better not to discuss her death on the air. I didn’t think I could handle it.

  But then Howard asked me if I’d ever been molested or abused. It was the one question I wasn’t prepared for.

  My mind flashed back—not to Preacher but to something far worse. It hadn’t even crossed my mind in years. I think I had successfully managed to block it out. But as soon as Howard asked that question, the images came flashing through my mind like a flicker film. The red pickup truck door. The blinding sun. The mosquito bites. The desert.

  It didn’t actually occur in a desert. But when I relive it in my mind, I always imagine the desert, for some reason. It actually took place on the side of a dirt road. A dirt road in Fromberg, Montana.

  During sophomore year in high school, my dad dragged us to the tiny town of Fromberg because he wanted to raise cattle and keep me out of trouble. I was miserable there because the girls at school were vicious. I didn’t want to let them get the better of me, so I decided to make an effort to socialize with the boys instead. To that end, I had my brother drop me off at a football game we were playing against a school twenty minutes away.

  I had a great afternoon, and talked with everyone. I spent most of my time hanging out with four players from the rival team. They were funny, good-natured guys, and I thought that maybe my luck was going to turn in this town. There were other people to hang out with besides the jealous bitches at my school. When they offered me a ride home, I didn’t hesitate to accept. It was a small town, everyone knew each other, and crime was so low that no one even bothered to lock their car or home doors.

  We squeezed into their pickup truck and started down the road to my house, chatting away merrily. Looking back, I can’t even remember what we talked about or even what they looked like. I’ve blocked it out. They were just backwoods boys, but I never could have imagined what t
hey were capable of.

  When they turned off the highway onto a dirt road, my suspicions still weren’t raised. I just asked where we were going, and they said that they had to pick up something quickly at a friend’s house. It was when they stopped in the middle of the road, with no house or humanity in sight, that I began to panic.

  “What are you guys doing?” I asked.

  “We just have to find something under the seat,” one of them said. “You need to get out for a second.”

  “I need to get home,” I told them as I climbed out.

  “You’re just fifteen minutes away,” one of them said. “You’re fine.”

  “Seriously. You need to take me h—”

  It came out of nowhere: a loud, cracking sound—the sound of a fist connecting with my face. The first two letters of the phrase “What the fuck?” escaped from my mouth as the hand was on me again. It grabbed a clump of my hair close to the scalp, and slammed my head against the car door. Once. Twice. And I was out.

  When I came to, one of the boys was on top of me. I could see his face, flushed and furious, bobbing over mine. I knew what he was doing. I couldn’t move. I don’t know if I was pinned to the ground, if I was too weak to move, or if I had somehow gone catatonic. The details are so foggy. I tried to think about riding my horse. I imagined that I was galloping across my dad’s farm, all by myself, with the sun shining and my hair loose in the wind. I kept telling myself, “Everything is fine. Everything is fine.” Then suddenly something cracked solidly into my skull just above my right eye. It was a rock. I saw white fireworks for a millisecond, and then the world went black again. Everything wasn’t fine.

  When I woke up, I was lying in a rocky field just off the dirt road. The sun was warm on my face, and a thick cloud of mosquitoes had settled on my body. I turned my head, and the side of my face splashed into a puddle. I reached up and wiped my cheek dry. My ribs ached. I inspected my hand, and it was smeared with red. It hadn’t rained in Fromberg for weeks. The puddle was my own blood.