Exposure

by Chauntelle Tibbals

  Like every other kind of entertainer since the dawn of time, porn performers are dependent upon their fans—all fans, even the cruel and inappropriate ones. And currently that’s true in a new and increasingly significant way. Some devotees negotiate the boundaries and norms of fandom differently. Today’s virtual world has blurred these boundaries, however, changing the nature of celebrity interaction.

  The business of sex is a special case within this changing world. Professional commercial sex work seems to foster an odd, manufactured sense of intimacy in its consumers (and, occasionally, in its workers). Couple this with our wider social discomfort with sex, the stigma of sex work, and the very public nature of porn, and what you get is a perfect storm in which “Fuck you, whore! I love you, baby. . . . Now give me some free stuff” all come together in the same 140-character message.

  14

  Being a Guy in Porn Is (Not) Hard

  NO ONE EVER PAYS ATTENTION TO THE GUYS IN PORN.

  Well, some people pay some attention to some of the guys who work as performers. Gay porn has produced a hefty handful of stars over the decades, and there’s obviously the iconic Ron “The Hedge-hog” Jeremy, who has worked in porn since the seventies and has more than 2,200 credits to his name. We also have that oh-so-topical panty-dropping juggernaut James Deen, and I’ve noticed more and more men performers getting quite a bit of fan-girl delight in recent years. Tommy Pistol, Xander Corvus, and Johnny Castle all garner their fair share of love.

  But these examples are only a small fraction of the porno men who’ve come and gone. Though no one knows for sure—because the labor statistics don’t exist—I’ve heard industry insiders, such as agents and people responsible for hiring, say there are anywhere from thirty to fifty guys working as porn performers at any given time. But this number is constantly in flux and doesn’t take into account the fringe guys and the mopes1 who, for example, fill in a gangbang and whose faces you never really see. These disembodied penises thrust in and out of scenes with nonexistent fanfare, all while even the most obscure lady performers get far more attention.

  And when concerned activists or academics raise questions about fair and ethical workplaces and occupational fulfillment, it’s always for the ladies. No one ever pays attention to the labor performed by the guys. Whether they’re James Deen–caliber or some random amateur, no one asks if the work is fair, ethical, or fulfilling for them.

  I was on set in the San Fernando Valley recently. This was not a big deal. As I said, I’ve been on many sets over the past ten or so years. From the most elaborate of productions to ratty apartments in North Hollywood shooting single-camera POV, I’ve seen it all.

  The shoot that day was for a smaller project for a fairly well-known company. A director I’m close with had started a new series of vignette lines—collections of roughly thirty-minute mini-movies. The intent was to find a middle ground between all-sex collections and films with a longer narrative. I was curious to see the production process behind this resurging format, and there’s always something to be learned about community and culture when you’re a fly on the wall. And if nothing else, I could blog about it. So I went.

  Two scenes were scheduled that day: a romantic interlude followed by a naughty/dirty stepsibling thing—“faux-cest,” which happens to be wildly popular with consumers these days. Call time was 8 a.m. for the first scene, noon for the second. I was more interested in the taboo tenor of the faux-cest, so I planned on arriving around 12:30 p.m. That way, there would be time for a little chitchat before actual sexy time commenced.

  But this was not to be the case.

  The first scene should’ve been simple—a little bit of set-up dialogue before sex. No elaborate acrobatics, no looming pressure from the four-person crew (director, production assistant, camera guy, and photographer), and a pretty bedroom set in a beautiful, airy house. Nothing to it.

  I received a call at around eleven. Things weren’t going well, so could I please come closer to one? Everything had been pushed back. The director came charging out front as soon as I arrived at 1:15 (due to another scheduling adjustment). “We’re just about to start sex,” the director said, referring to the first scene. Only just now starting? Yikes! I quickly shifted gears in my head. I could not fathom staying on set for another fours hours after this, but what was there of interest in everyday romance when I had anticipated something far more edgy?

  And what the heck was going on anyway? The woman in the morning’s scene, Ginger Moore, was a tall, fresh redhead in her early twenties. Apparently, Ginger had been late. Way late. And then she was hungry. And then she didn’t like her makeup. And then there were new performer problems, and then, and then. . . . “She’s never gonna get booked again,” I thought to myself. But, oh well. I’d never heard of her anyway.

  Then I started thinking about her scene partner, Tyler Max. Tyler was beautiful—tall, clean cut, and decently jacked. He was well respected and well represented, though also known to display a little too much bravado on occasion. But he had more than ten years of performance experience and more than five hundred scene credits to his name, working in everything from difficult acting to the hardest of hardcore, so you kinda had to give it to him.

  For this “straight boy-girl” (read: basic foreplay leading up to vaginal penetrative sex and an external pop), even though Tyler was seasoned and Ginger was new, he was still getting paid several hundred dollars less than her. Granted, he didn’t have to cover all the hidden costs she did (e.g., wardrobe options and the extensive manicuring that ladies are expected to maintain to be camera ready), but he’d been on time. And five hundred scenes! He was proven. All I could think about was how long he’d already had to keep his dick hard that day, and things were just now (maybe) getting started.

  I went inside the set house and assessed the situation. Where would I be the least intrusive? The large, open room was split by a false wall. The set was on one side, while a couch on the other provided a perfect vantage point. It would be easy to hear from there, and a conveniently located mirror near the door allowed for a crystal-clear view of the action. I stationed myself a mere fifteen feet from people work-fucking without creating even the tiniest interruption and began taking notes. I was still trying to figure out what I was going to do with the documentation.

  A little dog hopped up on the cushions and curled alongside me. Adorable. The next scene’s performers arrived, just as quietly as I had. Edgy-looking Ms. Bad Girl began contemplating outfits brimming from her huge suitcase. In an effort to pass the time, ordinary every-guy Richard Roe went outside to juggle bowling pins. Inexplicably, an agent showed up, too.

  Nothing of real consequence was happening on the other side of the wall. I mean, sex was happening, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. At one point, I glanced up into the mirror and saw Tyler making romantic love to Ginger from behind. She still had her panties on, which he held aside with one hand. It was kinda hot . . . temperature-wise. The director was giving instructions, moving the scene along—flip this way, look that way, and so on. There were occasional breaks for hardcore stills.

  And then it was time. Pop time.

  The crew gathered around. The photographer came out to my side of the wall. Everyone else went about their business. The little dog yawned. So did I.

  But all of a sudden, there was a problem. Everyone stopped. It was too hot inside with no air-conditioning, and the day had been too long. Our cocksmith couldn’t get to the grand finale. The crew drifted out as the performers cooled off and reheated on the other side of the wall. I could hear Ginger trying to nurse Tyler back to life as I chatted quietly with the photographer. The director and the production assistant began some paperwork; the camera guy took a few hits off his e-cig.

  Then suddenly, Tyler announced: “I’m ready.” He’s ready! Mad dash to places everyone!

  But again, it was too hot and had been too long of a day. The director talked to the agent, the production assistant went back to his p
aperwork, the camera guy went back to his e-cig.

  Then again, “I’m ready.” He’s ready! Mad dash to places everyone!

  And again, it was too hot and had been too long of a day. The production assistant brought in an oscillating fan, which only succeeded in blowing sex and heat around the rest of the room. The director gave Ms. Bad Girl feedback on her outfit, as the agent left. Richard was still outside; the camera guy went back to his e-cig.

  Then another, “I’m ready.” Mad dash to places everyone!

  And once again, the same story. The director started attending to Ginger, who actually was being remarkably helpful from what I could tell. Tyler was getting apologetic and anxious, and the production assistant (PA) was getting impatient. He was pacing around, throwing out insulting little jabs, and talking about the baseball game he’d be attending later that day. That seemed counterproductive. He eventually went into the refrigerator and cracked a beer, much to Tyler’s chagrin.

  “Hey, man, sorry,” said the PA. “You can have one too, but only if you pop.”

  I started writing down times as the cycle repeated itself: 2:31, 2:42, 2:49. . . . The production assistant, now looking to salvage the scene as best he could, offered Tyler some options: “You can keep fucking her or you can beat it. I don’t care, just as long as you cum.”

  Finally—mercifully—at 3:01, the entire crew decided they needed to simulate the scene’s culmination. They knocked out three options: a Cetaphil splatter (Cetaphil or something similarly milky and white is the liquid of choice for a fake external pop in porn) from off-camera, a soft shot of a fake internal vaginal pop, and a fake internal blowjob pop (using coconut oil this time, not cleanser). Everything was complete by 3:27.

  Ginger bounced into the shower, all giggles and smiles and tropical sheen. The crew scrambled around to change out the set. Ms. Bad Girl and Richard flirted softly in the corner of the room. And as I took my leave, I noticed Tyler’s reflection in the mirror. Still butt-ass naked, sweaty, and chiseled, he was standing with his head bowed. He looked broken-hearted and embarrassed. Word of today’s non-performance would get around quickly, and you’re only as good as your last scene.

  A few days later, I followed up with the director. “That scene sucked, the second one was sooo much better,” they lamented. In the midst of an absolutely unnecessary apology, it was also mentioned that Tyler had voluntarily discounted his rate that day, meaning he was paid even less. You know, because he didn’t finish the job.

  No one ever pays attention to the guys in porn.

  15

  Match Mates

  I MET KELLE DASH SOMETIME AROUND 2008. IN THOSE days, Kelle appeared to be climbing to the top of her game, two steps away from having it all. In reality though, she was going through some sort of a transition.

  Almost all successful people are hustlers, and Kelle was and is no exception. Stunningly pretty, she started out trying to be a conventional mainstream model in the early 2000s. Then she became a bikini model, then a topless model, then a nude model. Then she started doing entry-level gonzo1 porn. Some might have said she was hustling in the wrong direction.

  Almost immediately after shooting her first few adult scenes, Kelle caught the eye of a renowned performer/director. They fell in love, and he introduced her to all the right people—people who, coincidentally, happened to be looking for something new and noteworthy. The adult industry was hitting a bit of a slump, and top producers were on the lookout for it—the next big something that would get consumers to buy. What no one wanted to acknowledge, though, was that the proliferation of free, pirated content on tube sites had already taken hold.

  Tube sites have been a bane on the adult entertainment industry since the mid-2000s. And though no one was really talking about their impact when I first met Kelle, no one was really buying anything either.

  But this didn’t keep producers from attempting to work within the frame of their previously tried and true methods. They were looking for something new and shiny, and Kelle was exceptionally so. She and her guy got married just weeks before she signed an exclusive performance contract with a well-respected company. Back then, this was the porn star equivalent of winning the lottery, an increasingly rare version of the Fairytale of (Almost) Effortless Success. When I met Kelle, she was only a few months into her new employment as an exclusive “contract girl” and totally on top of the world. Almost overnight, she had become one of a small handful of superstars in porn, complete with a prestigious brand at her back. She was working exclusively with her husband and other women in what were relatively creative erotic projects. And though she was a little high-maintenance and dramatic at times, she was also really fun and funny and smart. She cared about her family, loved her dog, and had a good heart. We became buddies.

  As the months passed, Kelle’s star continued to rise. She photographed beautifully, traveled extensively, and became a minor celebrity in a world where everyone was allegedly famous. One time, while we were waiting in line at a local burrito joint in the Valley, a young man not a day over twenty sidled up to her shyly. “Are you Kelle Dash?” he asked, barely audible and tremendously flushed. She smiled sweetly in return, which was all the response that was necessary. The young man managed to maintain his composure—and Kelle’s eye contact—while thanking her for her work, which he loved.

  It was really sweet. But not everything in Kelle’s life was comparably smooth.

  Though things on the surface looked great and her public persona was gaining momentum, things behind the scenes were coming unglued. Her penchant for drama had devolved into an anxiety-driven diva complex, and full-on meltdowns happened at the slightest provocation. Her increasing drug use didn’t help either. Things were also going south in the romance department, and her marriage had gone from hot and heavy to down in flames. Eventually, all this began to affect her work. Kelle clashed with directors, other performers, and even her boss. In a fit of justifiable temper, she made a serious gaffe that ultimately cost her job. And then one day she got a letter from the IRS.

  During one particularly rocky period, Kelle suggested we needed a ladies’ weekend. She was booked to host a series of events at one of the then-hottest casinos in Las Vegas. In addition to all the standard party favors that came with such occasions, the venue was putting her up in their opulent new condo tower. Kelle and I, along with two other girlfriends, made a beeline for the desert, kicking off four days of ultra fun. Inevitably though, somewhere in the midst of pool parties and bubble baths, we all started talking about work.

  One girlfriend, Ms. Director X, was a fairly prominent adult content producer. She was in the midst of developing a special project and wanted Kelle to be the star. And the best part was that Kelle could pick anyone—anyone!—she wanted to work with for this project, regardless of rate. There were no budgetary constraints.

  “If you could pick anyone to work with, anyone at all, who would it be?” Ms. X asked Kelle.

  My head started whirling. Who should she choose? I started weighing the options, as if I had some say.

  But Kelle needed no time to think. She mused for approximately an eighth of a second before gushing—and I quote—“Oh my god, Manuel [Ferrara]!2 I’ve never worked with him before, and his penis is sooo perfect!”

  This seemed to be an interesting, and rather opportune, prospect. For the past couple years, the only man Kelle had worked with, while shooting exclusively for one company, was her now-ex-husband. Being partnered with someone new and different, especially someone she was super excited about, within the context of an entirely new and different pornographic lens, might have a cleansing, refreshing effect—both on her emotions and on her career.

  And so it was done: Manuel was cast, Kelle was elated (both before the scene was shot and after it was completed), and I got to thinking. Certainly Kelle was not unique. I mean, of course, she was a unique and special individual; but certainly other adult performers have a list of folks they’d just love to work with but ha
ven’t.

  I was reminded of this several months later when UK-based production house Joybear Pictures sent me a screener for their film Match Mates. To this day, it’s still one of the hottest, most original, and amazing films I’ve ever seen. In Match Mates, former producer and first-time director Liselle Bailey does something incredible. She plays matchmaker with her porn star friends. Put simply, Liselle helps several Kelles fulfill their Manuel Ferrara fantasies, all while creating some pretty amazing content.

  Liselle begins each match with a lighthearted but in-depth interview, plumbing the depths of her friends’ psyches in order to identify their respective Manuels—who they would just love to work with but haven’t so far. She then changes the subject to business matters and asks the friend to work in a scene with some other partner. Everyone agrees to the terms of this standard casting procedure.

  But Liselle is crafty. After everything is apparently set, she goes out and secretly books her friends’ respective Manuels for the upcoming scenes. When the shoots finally take place, the lucky friends show up for a regular day’s work and . . . surprise! They learn at the last minute that it’s their Manuel (who’s also in on the plot) they’ll be working with. And my goodness, the sparks fly!

  What we end up with in Match Mates are five scenes that are fantastic—hot, lusty, and a little bit giddy. (You’d be excited if you got to work with your dream lover, too. Don’t act like you don’t have one.) Liselle shoots much of the close-up action herself, but there’s a second, more distant camera that captures her working with the performers. It’s voyeurism squared, original and fresh, absolutely creative, and extremely thought provoking.

  That’s because adult performers have unfulfilled desires too, just like Kelle had for the real Manuel. And when an unexpected opportunity to turn those fantasies into reality presents itself, well, it’s exciting. The performers in Match Mates and Kelle’s giddy desire point to a very human truth: Porn stars have fantasies, just like the rest of us.