by Paul Heald
Johansson reached over and turned the radio down. “He’s a great guy in a lot of ways and is generally easy to work with. We had our first disagreement over condoms. I wanted the girls to have the absolute right to demand condom use. That’s the current policy at Eden, but Herb thought it should be up to the director. You see, some of the guys have problems keeping it up with a condom on, so it makes shooting a scene more time-consuming. According to him, the standard program of monthly AIDS testing and weekly STD screening is enough.”
“Couldn’t you have just worked with girls who don’t demand condoms? Or are they hard to find?” Stanley asked.
“No, they’re probably a majority.” He sighed. “We could have worked something out, I think.” He pulled into the Eden lot and turned off the car. “Our real problem was, uh, creative, I guess you could say.” The car slowly warmed up as the director explained what led to the dissolution of a profitable partnership. “Well, you’ve heard his filmmaking philosophy: Give the people what they want. He really believes that, so he’s willing to pander to any kind of fantasy he thinks is out there. One of his series—he didn’t show you that one—is crammed full of rape and torture fantasies.” Johansson frowned in acknowledgment of the darkest side of his profession. “He films just within the bounds of obscenity law, but it’s not a market I want to satisfy. We had a huge argument about it. He thought I was claiming the moral high ground and took it really personally.”
Don clicked open the doors of the BMW and walked Stanley over to his rental car in the corner of the Eden parking lot. They shook hands and exchanged notes on timing the upcoming interviews. Finally, Stanley got in the car and rolled down the window. Don leaned over for a final word.
“He called me prude. Get that! A prudish pornographer!”
V.
YOUR TAXES AT WORK
Angela arrived in Los Angeles the day after her husband’s adult film studio tour. She had never been to California before and had always pictured her first trip out west in the company of young children headed for a Disneyland adventure. Instead, her husband was dragging her out to the San Fernando Valley to talk to porn stars. She sighed as the plane touched down at LAX in mid-morning and made her way slowly to the baggage area in the airport. When she finally walked past security, Stanley was at the carousel already, stacking her garment bag and the black case containing the audio-video equipment on a rolling cart. Her irritation evaporated as she watched his broad back flex, and she snuck up behind him and gave him a tight hug.
He told her that he had booked them a four-star hotel in North Hollywood, close to Universal Studios, but within an easy drive of the epicenter of the porn world in Van Nuys and Canoga Park. They arrived as their room was being cleaned, and Stanley suggested they have lunch first at the chain restaurant across the street. A young waitress with a small butterfly tattoo on her right ankle led them to a booth next to a window in the nearly empty dining room.
Angela focused on the menu and then smiled indulgently at her husband. Stanley had recapped his previous day’s encounters during the ride from the airport and surprisingly had spoken of Donald Johansson like he was some sort of philosopher king. He seemed amused by Eden’s competitors in the porn business, talking about them as if they were crotchety old men arguing in a barber shop rather than as misogynistic opportunists. When she prodded him to be more critical, Stanley had retreated into academic mode, refusing to pass judgment on the people he had met. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had been snowed under. For someone who was so smart, he could be stunningly naïve. He had zero grasp of faculty politics, for example, and the space under their kitchen sink was filled with no-name cleaning products sold by sketchy young people who knocked on their door claiming to be putting themselves through college. Most of the time, she appreciated his boyish disingenuousness and generous impulses, but did they really need two cases of Girl Scout Thin Mints in the pantry?
Writing a newspaper column about pornography would be much more satisfying than debating her husband about it. When she wrote, she had time to reflect, to choose exactly the proper unassailable set of words to reveal the humor or absurdity or downright wrongfulness of a situation. She could reread to her heart’s content and not press the send button until her emotion was surgically directed. Not that her emails were always so well-considered, nor her Facebook postings so coolly composed, but she had never yet fired off a newspaper column in the heat of the moment. Her conversational style, however, was not always so considered. When Stanley was either frustratingly innocent or just playing a part in some kind of Socratic exercise, her verbal response tended toward the slash and burn.
So, she smiled at her husband, ordered a club sandwich and tried to figure out how she was going to survive the dinner party that Donald Johansson was throwing that very night. The producer had invited the couple to a fancy sit-down banquet being held at Eden Studio to celebrate the release of Toys in Babeland. The studio head had promised Stanley a chance to see the entire industry at play. The formal interviews with actresses would start the next day. Seeing her husband’s reaction to the spectacle would reveal whether he was being captured by the powers of porn or whether he was just carrying objectivity and academic analysis to an annoying extreme.
When the food arrived, she realized how hungry she had become and she dived into a Cobb salad. Stanley took a couple of bites from a colossal hamburger and reminded her that they needed to do a sound check on the recording equipment later.
“I think I’ve been spending more time on this project than you have,” she said with a grimace and a vivid description of the ridiculously pierced Goth media assistant who had trained her how to use the equipment during an interminable two-hour session.
“Hey,” he protested, “I’ve spent the last two weeks boning up on the porn industry.”
“God, Stan!” She couldn’t help but giggle. “Don’t go all Freudian on me! Next thing, you’ll be telling me how hard this assignment is getting!”
“Well,” he replied with a straight face, “I’ve got some stiff competition.”
“Let’s hope your research isn’t a big bust.”
“I’ll try not to cock it up.”
“That would sure suck.” She waited for Stanley to respond, but he seemed to have exhausted his store of innuendo. She suddenly started laughing again. “I guess you’re all out of cracks.”
“Oh God,” he said, putting down his hamburger, “that was terrible. You win. No mas!” He popped a French fry into his mouth and tried to change the subject. “See how much fun this is? Aren’t you glad I convinced you to come with me?”
“Come with you!” She burst out and then with a mischievous grin pulled a baby ear of corn out of the salad and popped in her mouth. “Maybe this afternoon . . . if you’re lucky.”
The hotel room was clean and cheerful, and Stanley lay on the bed while his wife showered away the travel bugs that she claimed made cross-country flying so unhygienic. He grabbed the television remote off the night stand and pushed the menu button. Among the standard movie and television fare, the initial options list promised a wealth of adult titles available for viewing, and he could not resist scrolling through the offerings. One group of movies entitled “Classic Superstars” featured videos with multiple scenes starring Asia Carrera, Nina Hartley, Jenna Jameson, Miko Lee, Gina Ryder, Sydney Steele, and Stephanie Swift. He clicked on a name he had run across in his research and was soon confronted with the still image of Crissy Moran, lounging on the beach, provocatively pulling at the top of her string bikini while gazing languidly in the general direction of his zipper.
He clicked back to the main adult menu and found several movies produced by Richard Ramrod and Eden Studio. He clicked on one of them, Girls will be Girls, and his eyes saucered to the image of woman bending over a satin couch in a black bra, panties, and a garter belt. The blurb under the picture promised her in action with any number of glamorous women in the industry, all leading to an explosive f
inal scene where she discovers the most earth-shattering sex is with her husband.
He was contemplating accepting the free preview offer when he heard Angela turn off the shower. He returned to the menu and looked for titles from Chimera Productions and Janus Studios. He had rented a couple of movies before he left town, but it had been a clumsy and embarrassing operation starting with a leering teenage video store clerk and ending with a dirty look from his wife as he emerged from the study with the movies to return. She was unlikely to suggest that he do further research here in the hotel. He had just clicked on the description of a Janus production called My Best Friend’s Mom when Angela entered the room wrapped in a fluffy blue towel.
“What are you looking at?” she exclaimed as she stood next to the bed and looked over at the television. The “mom,” a raven-haired beauty named Porsche Michaels, was gifted with smoldering eyes and a lascivious mouth. As a shy high school student, Stanley would have turned to ash if such a neighbor lady had turned her attention to him.
His wife put a hand on her hip with a disapproving look and suggested erroneously that he was too old for that particular fantasy. He skipped to the next option and was greeted by an ad for Doing Ms. Daisy, an interracial feature from a studio he did not recognize. The title at least managed to get a laugh out Angela, which was a good sign, given her sense of humor usually deserted her whenever the subject of pornography came up.
The next offering was a video by the Chunky Bunch Group entitled, Big Girls, Big Lovin’. She gasped at the sight of a three hundred pound woman in lingerie and bright red lipstick pouting at the camera. She plopped down next to him unable to take her eyes off the television screen. “Does that do anything for you?”
“No,” he answered emphatically. Then he ran his fingers over the small hairs on the nape of her neck. “What about you?”
She slapped his hand away with a disgusted snort and revealed that she had only seen one adult film in her life: a tape played at a slumber party in high school. The male star had been fat and hairy, and the female lead’s main talent was her ability to appear completely bored regardless of the orifice being invaded. The small group of girls had watched one scene and a half, declared it gross, and gone on to a much racier game of truth or dare. He wondered if there were any movies in the hotel’s vast online library that might change her mind, at least on the narrow issue of grossness.
Angela stood next to the bed and watched her husband flip through the movie offerings. He stopped on a screen that offered several options featuring a stunning biracial beauty. Angela snorted skeptically as he read aloud the description of Girls Will Be Girls and struggled to fathom why it was necessary to maintain the pretense of a morality tale where the slutty wife and husband live happily ever after. She glanced at her husband and decided that he would probably have a heart attack if she gave him permission to push the “buy” button.
Normally, she never would have considered the idea, but she had come to California with the kernel of a plan in her head and indulging Stanley’s racy little fantasy might be an effective way to nurture it. They had been talking for years about having children, but waiting for tenure had always seemed a sensible reason to delay. With that obstacle about to be overcome, their California vacation would be a natural time to abandon the stringent birth control practices they had clung to since graduate school. She was tired of being alone in the house and was ready for children’s voices to fill the void. As the middle child of seven, she had long been eager for a family, and Stanley had managed to put her off for long enough. It was time to deal with his foot dragging.
She nodded her assent. He blinked in disbelief, and when she nodded again, he clicked on the remote. After a few seconds the Eden logo appeared and the movie began with a group of women chattering away at a wedding shower. A pale blonde, a tan brunette, an Asian, and an African American woman sat in a semicircle on a leather sectional couch with presents perched on their laps. The star, an Indian woman with long jet black hair, sat in the middle of the friends. After several minutes of stilted conversation, it became clear that the center of attention was soon to be married. As she opened her gifts of skimpy lingerie and sex toys, the girlfriends questioned her decision to leave her swinging life behind and started to reminisce about the exciting times they had shared in the past. As the blonde regaled the group with a particularly spicy encounter between herself and bride-to-be, the scene faded to a flashback.
Although Angela did not indulge in lesbian fantasies, she was not overly offended by the tender caresses and low moans exchanged by the two beautiful women on the television screen. It was clearly a male fantasy, but at least the immediate goal for the women in the scene was to achieve, or appear to achieve, some level of satisfaction for themselves. Men would love to watch—she cast a quick glance at her husband who was riveted to the screen—but in this scene they did not invade the privacy of the two characters. And the two women really did seem to be getting into it. Either they were honestly enjoying themselves, or they were darn good actresses. Given the unromantic nature of the movie set described by Stanley at lunch, she could not decide which would be more surprising.
As the lovers escalated their encounter, she looked over at her husband again. He knew she was watching him, and he put on his academic face, pretending to be seriously studying the sociological behavior on display before him. Who did he think he was fooling? She knew what he was thinking, and she knew that she could have her way whenever she wanted. With a little creep of her fingers down his chest, she reached over and tugged on his belt. He flinched, but did not say anything as her hand strayed below his buckle. She had his undivided attention now, and after a couple of minutes she took the remote out of his hand, clicked the mute button and crawled on top of him, blocking his view of the movie.
A few frantic kisses later and he was tugging down his pants, trying to pull her onto him. She kissed him again and admitted that she had forgotten to bring any protection with her. The arching of his back and determined expression on his face told her that he was not worried about birth control at the moment.
“Oh shit!” he cried, as she pressed down on him and lost herself in the sweet friction of their bodies. Shortly thereafter she felt him shudder, and she tried to continue on her own but he was too sensitive and grabbed her hips to slow her movement. “I’m sorry,” he panted. “That’s too much.”
She smiled and brushed a stray and sweaty lock from his forehead. He was seldom selfish and it had been a rush to control him so completely. She stayed on top, savoring the touch his skin, still tingling when she finally rolled over to the side of the bed. Stanley let out a satisfied sigh and they both turned their attention back to the frenzied action taking place on the television. Their eyes met and came to instant agreement that sex was about the silliest looking thing that human beings did and then they burst out laughing.
After a short nap, the couple lay on their backs, hands clasped and staring at the ceiling. Angela tried to remember the last time they had unprotected sex and eventually gave up. Stanley was so paranoid about an unwanted pregnancy that he would wear a condom even when it seemed ludicrous. She had guessed right that getting the book back on track would lower his guard, and the stupid movie had not hurt either. She rolled over on her side and spotted the narrow groove in between his eyebrows that meant he was worried. She tried smoothing it out with her thumb, but it kept popping back like a tiny whack-a-mole. He was probably contemplating fatherhood.
Angela sympathized and understood his fear of change. She had not wanted to move to Illinois, nor had she wanted to sell real estate to help make their mortgage payments. But the biggest adaptation for her had been sharing a quiet house with just one other person. If she could survive being parted from the warmth and chaos of her gloriously crowded childhood home, he could handle a linoleum lizard or two crawling around kitchen floor. Of course, having kids would be a challenge for her too. She knew all about midnight feedings and foot bruises from str
ay Legos, but at the end of the day there would a moment of quiet when she could sit down with her laptop and spin her children’s diarrhea and pin worms into comic gold.
She kissed his cheek and lay her head on his chest, comforted by the steady thump of his heartbeat and wondering whether she might be misreading him. Maybe he wanted change. He had complained about being stuck in a rut at the university and having kids would cement him in the job. Fear of kids might be fear of stasis, not a fear of change. She put her chin on his chest and took one more peek at his handsome face. Maybe he was starting his mid-life crisis early? He shifted his weight to the side and grunted as her chin bit too deeply. Would he be the type to take a hot graduate student as a lover?
She lifted her head up and looked at the digital clock on the bed stand. It was time to get dressed for the banquet. Her fingers searched for him underneath the tousled sheets. She nibbled his ear. “Are you sure we have to go?”
He slipped out from under her arm, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and walked to the closet. “It’s gonna be a classy party, Ange. Don said even the mainstream media are covering it.” He picked a conservative gray suit out of the closet and brushed a piece of lint off the lapel. “I’ll go alone if you want me to.”
“No way!” She went to the bathroom where she had hung her dress to steam while she had taken her shower. Finding something to wear had posed a difficult problem. On the one hand, she never wore the sort of daring outfits that the porn queens would undoubtedly be sporting. On the other, she did not want to stand out dressed like a schoolmarm. She finally settled on a stylish black dress with spaghetti straps that plunged into her cleavage further than she preferred but still did not stray outside middle-class cocktail party norms. When she finally got dressed and fixed her makeup, she stood for a while in front of the mirror. For once, her brunette locks were not frizzing up and the new cut looked sleek and elegant. And the dress did a good job of drawing attention away from the weight on her thighs that no amount of dieting seemed to diminish.