by Lynsey G
There are plenty of other toys for the be-penised individuals among us, many of which have nothing to do with porn stars, and that segment of the industry is really just getting started. The unprecedented growth of the industry in female-and gay-male-oriented toys has normalized the idea of sex toys in the average American bedroom, leaving many men more willing to experiment with sexual aids than they may have been in the past. Vibrators and dildos are increasingly designed for use by both sexes and all orientations. Strap-ons are getting more popular with people of all body types as “pegging” (penetration of a male-bodied partner with a strap-on) is becoming more mainstream. Masturbation sleeves not produced by Fleshlight are entering a new renaissance with the advent of smart technology that can turn an MP3 player or phone app or webcam session into an interactive experience. Many of these sleeves contain internal mechanisms that vibrate, squeeze, and pulse like the inner workings of a human orifice, and they’re surprisingly sexy. (I know. I stuck my finger in a few at ANE in 2016.)
In short, the sex toy industry is booming, and it seems that everyone is benefiting. As of late 2015, the global sex toy market was estimated to generate $15 billion in revenue yearly, with projections neatly into the $20 billion range by 2020. Sex toys have become more accessible with online shopping and friendly, sex-positive brick-and-mortar stores, but they have also exploded as luxury items, with high-end brands like Lelo and Jimmyjane offering beautifully designed, ergonomic, body-safe “pleasure objects” at the top end of the market. Meanwhile, populist players like Trojan and Durex have been given shelf space in the “sexual wellness” aisles of CVS and Wal-Mart stores, next to the condoms.
Sex toys are more acceptable socially than they have ever been, with sex toy review columns hugely popular online, customer reviews proliferating on sales websites, and the so-called “passion party”—a sex-toy-selling party often held in private living rooms—taking off in suburban homes worldwide. Sex subscription boxes, like Unbound Box, The Pleasure Pantry, and The Nooky Box are cashing in on the subscription box craze and sending sexy goodies to subscribers in discreet packages on a rolling basis. Sex toy review blogs continue to proliferate, as more people of all ages and creeds catch on to the idea that writing openly about one’s sex life can result in an embarrassment of sex toy goodies, much as I did back in 2010.
I WALKED OUT OF THE Adult Novelty Expo that day with bags full of hundreds of dollars’ worth of sex toys. I’d exchanged information with numerous booth mavens and promised to be in touch about butt plugs, couples’ vibrators, and a few complicated-sounding wireless devices. In short, I was in sex blogger heaven.
Today, I have an entire dresser filled to the brink with sex toys in my bedroom. It’s become something of a conundrum during moves—it doesn’t make sense to keep them all, but selling “lightly used” sex toys on the Internet seems like a rough path to travel, and offering them to friends puts me right into Creepazoid Territory.
Back in Vegas in 2010, I was just learning where the borders of that fabled land fell.
With Jenna Haze the first time we ever met, at Exxxotica New Jersey in 2009. I was trying SO hard not to be a dork! Did it work?
(PHOTO COURTESY J. VEGAS)
CHAPTER 11
Creepazoid Territory
I SHOULDN’T SAY THAT the borders of Creepazoid Territory are clearly defined. And far be it from me to judge books by their covers. But let me tell you that if one were to seek the fuzzy line between the creep and the non-creep, one might do well to look in a vague circle around the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas in mid-January.
I don’t say this to be mean. In fact, I’m probably not even referring to the people you think I am. Sure, there were fans that fit the stereotypes: basement dwellers, oversexed couples trying to nail a porn star, guys who spent enormous sums on gigantic zoom lenses, and so on. But these folks were all at the convention for the same reasons I was—to rub elbows with porn stars—and I’m not here to denigrate them. After all, whatever is left of their paychecks after investing in Canon’s latest ultra HD hooziewhatsit (I’m not much of a camera wiz) is poured into the porn industry’s coffers at AEE. Without them the industry would be brought to its knees (I know, I know). Almost every porn star I’ve interviewed has declared their love for fans. In 2012 at AVN, Capri Anderson and I tried to film an on-the-spot interview ourselves, helped out by fans who stopped to hold up lights for us, unasked. “I feel a profound sense of gratitude for the following that I have,” Capri told me, “and the support that I get from these people.” Her devotion was heartwarming, but many among the porn fan flock are odd ducks, indeed.
An anecdote to illustrate my point: The Sands Expo Center didn’t allow drinks on the show floor, so in the accommodating way of Sin City, the Venetian provided small bars just outside almost every entrance, in order that we might nurse our hangovers with overpriced and convenient Bloody Marys. On my third afternoon in Vegas, I stood in line at one of these pop-up bars marveling at the fans walking by. They were stupendous.
I took a break from my musings to gauge how long it would be until I could re-up on my vodka and tomato juice reserves, and realized that the man in front of me was perhaps the finest example of Pornus conventionus sapiens I’d ever spied: Resplendent in white sneakers, camouflage cargo pants, a flowing white poet’s shirt, and shoulder-length, thinning, bleached-blond hair, he turned from the bar toward me and held his drink up with a smile. I beamed back, tickled to the bone that I’d encountered such a specimen, and imagined him that morning, regarding himself in his hotel mirror. He might have looked himself up and down, then nodded with gravity. “Yes,” he may have told his reflection. “This is the outfit.”
I shouldn’t poke fun, though. If there’s anything I’ve learned from porn, it’s that this world truly is made up of all types, and they’re all as necessary as they are different. Poet Shirt Guy may have raised eyebrows in almost any environment, but at AEE, he was an honored guest.
I have always been impressed at the respect that the porn community shows its fans. After all, many of the unknown quantities that keep people from feeling comfortable with one another are already cast aside when a porn fan meets a porn model: Active interest in sex? Confirmed. Accepting of various expressions of sexuality, particularly the kinky? Most likely. Willing to spend money on pornography? Let’s find out.
With all the awkward stuff out of the way, the porn industry feels little need to spend time or energy judging those who support it. Perverts of all sizes, shapes, colors, creeds, and levels of ability are welcomed. In fact, I cannot think of any place I have ever been that is as welcoming to disabled people as a porn convention. Our dominant culture too often handles the visibly disabled with kid gloves, as if they don’t experience the same emotions and desires as the rest of us. But the porn industry welcomes their patronage and is happy to treat disabled convention-goers as just more wonderful, money-spending, horny fans. Which they of course are. Why else would they be there?
There’s one man in particular whom I have seen at numerous conventions. I don’t know him personally, and I’ve had no luck tracking him down via expo contacts or Internet searches, but he’s basically an expo celebrity. He has one of those ultra-high-tech, super-versatile wheelchairs, which he has tricked out like a Bond car. This guy rolls up to his favorite porn stars like a boss, inviting them onto his chair with him, and then performing feats of wheelchair acrobatics that draw a crowd, all with said porn star balanced on his lap. I’ve seen him perched many feet up in the air, executing all sorts of turns and tricks, while the model of his choice squeals and poses for the cameras, at every convention he attends. I’d imagine a man with that kind of charisma is likely a big deal wherever he goes, but I also imagine he gets quite a bit less recognition in his daily life.
As I said, humans of every type are welcomed in the world of porn, where the social contract that keeps most of us from taking off our clothes, or staring at those who do, has already been broken. It�
��s freeing to be in a crowd of others who are self-proclaimed perverts, freaks, and weirdos, and I count myself happily among them. But the nefarious weirdos are rarely the fans.
I think it’s worthwhile to point out these folks in their own segment because I want to establish that only a minority of my experience with pornographers has brought me into contact with people I’d consider creepers. They exist, and tend to cluster in certain parts of the adult entertainment field, but they are rarer than you might expect. I prefer to isolate them in this chapter rather than let them run amok throughout this book and give the impression that they have more influence than they really do.
The denizens of Creepazoid Territory are usually the hangers-on. There is a certain demographic that is drawn to porn by the allure of “sinful” activity, the illusion of easy money, and porn’s often vague boundaries between the legal and the illegal. While none of these attractions are based entirely on false information, and while I suppose all of us who gravitate toward porn share one or two of them, some people are more driven by the idea that pornography is “bad” than others. Those who want to get away with “bad” things make up a not insignificant portion of the crowd at any porn convention. For instance, the would-be “agents” and “managers” who arrive accompanied by a bevy of heavily made-up women in tight dresses and high heels. These “agents” parade women around as if hawking wares at a flea market, no doubt hoping to attract the attention of porn directors on the lookout for new talent, but also invariably attracting the notice of private individuals on the lookout for company for the evening.
Now, I want to be clear that I am not opposed to escort work. The sale of sexual services among private individuals, in my mind, fills a real need that’s been with us for as long as we’ve had a rudimentary barter system. It will never go away, no matter how much those in charge may be opposed to it, and as such it should be considered part of our economy. I think that sex workers of all kinds should be entitled to the same rights and legal recourse as everybody else in pursuit of making a living. The criminalization of prostitution in most of America leaves an already vulnerable population all the more open to persecution, prejudice, violence, and victimization. If it were legalized, I believe that much of the shadiness, exploitation, and fear that surrounds prostitution would eventually dissipate as sex workers felt safe enough to come out of the shadows that currently shroud them. If sex workers were able to speak up for themselves without fear of legal repercussions, they could advocate better for health and safety standards that they need and deserve.
That being said, the “agents” parading their female wares around at porn expos make me uncomfortable at best. Make no mistake: These “agents,” here in Creepazoid Territory, are not the same as the agents that work above the board in the San Fernando Valley. The Licensed Adult Talent Agency Trade Association (LATATA) is a non-profit trade organization comprised of talent agents licensed by the state of California, with the goal of “assuring the longevity and well-being of the adult entertainment industry as a whole, while promoting the interests of the Artists and Agencies so working within it.” Its nine members meet periodically and, to the best of my knowledge, represent the interests of their clients in a professional, legal, and legitimate way. (This isn’t to say that their clients don’t also do escort work, but that’s a discussion for another time—like Chapter Nineteen.)
Perhaps their most well-known member, Mark Spiegler’s agency, Spiegler Girls, is considered the best in the industry. His clients routinely book the best-paid gigs and go home with the biggest awards the industry has to offer. While many of his compatriots at LATATA represent hundreds of clients at a time, Spiegler is the tireless advocate of just twenty to twenty-five performers at once. He estimates that he turns down about two hundred hopeful clients a year in order to focus on acting as a mentor, counselor, and sometimes family member while fiercely representing the professional interests of his clientele. Companies know that a call to Spiegler will pay off in the form of a sober, relatively on-time, experienced, and professional performer, and so they contact him instead of one of the skeevier so-called agents I’m calling out here.
Another LATATA member, Ideal Image Models, is headed by performer-and-producer-turned-agent Tee Reel. Reel prides himself on his professionalism and staying power. “In the adult industry, there are really only eight or nine reputable or bonded agencies,” he told me in 2016. “Not everybody who’s an agent or manager is really as reputable as they should be.” He’s proud to be among the few who have done the work of making a successful business as a talent agent in porn.
So when I talk about Creepazoid Territory, I’m not talking about the Mark Spieglers or Tee Reels of the world. These agents aren’t licensed. They don’t go to LATATA meetings. They operate with basically a pimp-and-prostitute mentality, and their clients can often be seen clinging to their arms in skimpy clothing while they’re being looked over by convention-goers. They are often spotted having confidential conversations with men on the show floor or at nearby bars, and it takes very little in the way of imagination to understand the transaction that’s going down. Many of these deals are made with the goal of producing pornography, but a lot of the porn that gets made on these skeevy deals is the kind that turns many viewers off of porn in the first place. The kind in which an inexperienced young woman signs paperwork before realizing that she was going to be put in a position she didn’t want to be in.
There’s one guy who sticks out in my mind when I contemplate Creepazoid Territory. He kept popping up over the course of Exxxotica weekend in New Jersey—at the convention, at the bar, in our hotel room. He dropped names at every opportunity, but never seemed to be interacting directly with the people he said he knew. He lingered on the outskirts of large gatherings of people, rarely entering the conversations, but watching them instead. At some point I saw him leer at one of the skeeze-ball “agents” walking by with a group of attractive women, then approach and speak directly to the man in the midst of the group. Later that night he mentioned to my colleague that he’d been booking some new talent. Turns out he was a “casting director” for a site whose name I won’t give here, but which involved the mention of violent actions being enacted upon a specific body part of the females they employed for their scenes. It’s perfectly okay to enjoy rough sex and participate in it on camera, but I got the distinct impression that these women were being lured into something they would not enjoy doing, for far less money than they deserved, at the behest of their “agent,” who would likely pocket more than the standard fifteen percent.
I’m calling out this kind of behavior not because I want to play into anybody’s ideas of how nasty the porn industry can be, but because it’s important that I not overlook those nasty corners that do exist. A lot of the rumors and scary stories you hear about pornography are true. I can’t deny that exploitation, coercion, and gross behavior of many kinds does occur on porn sets and in porn industry interactions.
But the truth is that a very high proportion of these unpleasant realities exist far more on the fringes of the industry, off the beaten path of good lighting, fair pay, and great working conditions. Most in the industry abhor people who take advantage of models. Like director Ivan told me once, “Who are we to mistreat anyone? … I can’t stand directors who mistreat the girls and better yet ask for special services [by] making girls feel that their job is on the line. Fuck those guys.”
Anyway, it’s not just the agents and casting directors that populate the Creepazoid Territory at the periphery of industry gatherings like Exxxotica and AEE. There are also the “managers.” When we’re in this dimly lit zone in which ethics are slippery, the difference between “agent” and “manager” can be nebulous, but in theory, there is a delineation of tasks for each role. Tee Reel explained to me: “By California law, which is where ninety percent of the agencies work, there’s a legal difference … Legally, agencies are allowed to negotiate and procure work, and they can’t charge more than
twenty percent in California. Managers can charge whatever the fuck they want, but they can’t book work and they can’t charge a commission on that booking.”
So, while the agent has at least a clear legal purpose in a performer’s career—booking work—the manager’s role is not so clear, and this can make for a lot of skeezy setups. There are plenty of real, legitimate managers in the porn industry, but there are just as many who are glorified boyfriends or hangers-on.
These guys (and they are almost always guys) are nicknamed “suitcase pimps” because they wheel the overstuffed luggage that female performers bring to sets and conventions (filled with sexy clothing for shoots, toys and lube, makeup, and so on), and because they collect the money those stars earn—just like a pimp. Of course, they’re often just nice guys who want to help their girlfriends get to and from career engagements without breaking an ankle in those skyscraping heels. But a hefty proportion of “managers” are, instead, jealous types who try to cover their discomfort with their girlfriends’ careers by making a living off them, and by forcing their louche presence into as many facets of those livelihoods as possible.
At conventions, they spend a lot of time standing directly behind the performers they work with, glowering at fans who approach, handling all the money that changes hands, and making everybody feel uncomfortable. In my experience, they are often large and muscle-bound, tend toward Ed Hardy couture, and sport a lot of neck tattoos. They don’t talk much, and I suspect that many have worked as bouncers.
They’re a staple of the industry, and they’re largely innocuous, but there have been stories about “suitcase pimps” losing it and acting out their jealousy and insecurity on the bodies of the women they’d once protected. The most heinous example of this phenomenon was the brutal beating that porn star Christy Mack—a gorgeous, busty, tattooed powerhouse performer—endured at the hands of her ex-boyfriend and “suitcase pimp,” the former MMA fighter War Machine. Months after they broke up, he arrived at her house in the middle of the night “to talk,” became enraged when there was another man there, and spun out of control. The encounter left her with a blowout fracture of her left eye, several other broken bones in her face, two missing teeth, a lacerated liver, broken ribs, and serious bruising. (In early 2017, he was found guilty on twenty-nine of thirty-four charges in relation to the incident, and as of the time I’m writing this, he faces life in prison.)