The Well Hung
Boy Next Door
By WellsTower
Photographs by DanielleLevitt
Juli 2012
It
is a clement spring day in greater LosAngeles, and JamesDeen is driving through
the soft green tumescences of the Calabasas hills on his way to a
pornographic-movie shoot. If Deen betrays not a trace of anticipation, aversion,
or excitement at the prospect of having sex on-camera today, it is because
having sex on-camera is something the twentysixyearsold does more frequently
than most of us use dental floss: "About threehundredssixtydays a
year" is Deen's offhand tally.
Deen's
professional relentlessness has yielded a host of accolades. In 2009, when he
was 23, the AdultVideoNews (AVN) Awards, pornography's Oscars, named Deen
"Male Performer of the Year." (Deen was one of the youngest actors
ever to be so decorated.) This on the heels of a similar distinction from the
XRatedCriticsOrganization, which in2007 noted the arrival of a major talent
with an "Unsung Swordsman" award.
Industry
plaudits aside, Deen has managed an order of renown far rarer in the world of
pornographicfilm: He is a male performer people actually know by name.
According to Deen, ten thousand unique visitors peruse his blog every day.
Women seem to like him. A recent Nightline segment alerted parents to Deen's
crossover appeal among teenage girls, who, the piece warned, hold for Deen a
place in their hearts alongside Timberlake and Bieber. (Anchor TerryMoran:
"For any parent concerned about what their teen does online, the huge
popularity of the young man you are about to meet may be deeply
disturbing.")
A
visit to the comments section of Deen's website appears to confirm Nightline's
claims: "Hey James :) I'm 16 years old and i love your work", "hey
(; have you EVER banged a teen latina ? e-mail me....", "i would
totally rock your world...mind you im 16 about to be 17."
Deen
brakes his truck at the bottom of a steep gated driveway, which leads to a
sprawling mansion that looks made of nougat. Its dominant interior materials
are faux gilt, beveled glass, and plastic flora. The game room, which is as big
as my house, contains dartboards, a pool table, and a saloon area with a neon
sign reading ICE CREAM fixed above the mirrored back bar. The house's real-life
owner, one supposes, is a fabulously welltodo fourteenyearsold.
But
today the mansion's fictive owner is JamesDeen himself, who has been cast in
the role of a priapic millionaire with a gambling problem. The shoot is for a
company called DigitalPlayground, which claims to specialize in
"high-end" pornography for couples, "vanilla porn," as
hard-raunch aficionados dub DP's output.
"As
far as making visually stimulating erotic cinema, DigitalPlayground's pretty
much the best," says Deen. "Personally, I hate it. It's too pretty.
When I'm watching adult, I don't care about the lighting. I want to see dirty,
nasty: RoccoSiffredi", an Italian porn star known for full-contact
choreographies in which he dragoons pretty ladies into tonguing his caboose.
Over
the next seven days, Deen will exercise his full array of talents and
preferences on seven projects in three cities, LosAngeles, SanFrancisco, and
LasVegas. I will be ["]ridingshotgun["] in Deen's utterly bitching
pumpkin orange ["]offroadpackage["] FordF150Raptor, watching him
work, and trying to make sense of his extraordinary life.
I
have many questions:
First
off, brooking so much unremitting daily friction, how has JamesDeen's penis not
been stropped to raw liver? "I don't know. I guess I've got pretty thick
skin."
How does he keep his houseplants alive with
so much travel? He doesn't. All the plants in Deen's
fourthousandandtwohundredsquarefoot home in the SanFernandoValley have died. [A
sign of dumbass.]
Gosh,
but mustn't Deen have an astonishing collection of venereal diseases? He and
his colleagues undergo testing every month. Deen claims, incredibly, to never
have had a test come back "dirty."
Does
he gobble Viagra like popcorn? Certainly not. His erections are 100 percent
organic and ["]pharmafree["].
A
good portion of Deen's oeuvre consists of rather not-nice stuff: spitting, whipping,
choking, slapping, etc. Is there anything he won't do oncamera? He will not
have sex with someone who is unwilling to have sex with him. He will not have
sex with men. He will not dress as a clown and have sex with someone; nor will
he permit someone dressed as a clown to have sex with him. Clowns make JamesDeen
uncomfortable.
Isn't
this sort of career exhausting physically, spiritually? Doesn't he sometimes
wish he'd picked another calling? No indeed. He loves his work. He'd do it even
if he weren't getting paid: "My life is pretty
awesome."
Lastly,
a silent query to the nation's gentlemen, we who have spent many otherwise
productive hours pondering what it would be like to be able to bed an infinite
rotating population of beautiful women: If given the chance, would we live
Deen's dream? For a day? For a week? Yes? We shall see.
LosingKayden is the working title of today's film. Its centerpiece is an
actress by the name of KaydenKross, a wholly winning and improbably bookish
young woman who reads the short fiction of DavidFosterWallace between takes. [Ironic.
The cunt probably thinks that she is smarter than him.] The crew is far more substantial,
congenial, and ["]proseeming["] than one expected. There's no more
ambient prurience than you'd find at an ad shoot for Windex.
A
little after dusk, Deen is summoned to his first scene, a nonnude narrative
load bearer in which he loses his mansion in a poker game with a gangster.
Handling the role of the crime boss is a creepy German actor in his middle
years named SteveHolmes, now parked at the card table. He wears a pair of
granddad-like EZreaderglasses and below them a
seedy mustacheandgoateecombo, and far below that a pair of dark trousers from
whose open fly depends something like a turkey's wattle.
The
third factor in the scene is a blonde nineteenyearsold named AllieJames.
Earlier, when I asked Allie James what she'd be up to today, she replied,
"I'll be crawling around under a table sucking cock." Allie joined
the industry six months ago after fleeing the family farm in upstateNewYork.
With the exception of SteveHolmes, she's the only person on the set who flaunts
her zeal for the erotic when the camera is not rolling. She roams the mansion
with her shirt hiked up over her breasts. While the other scenes were being
shot, neither Deen nor any of the other talent were the least bit interested in
watching the action, but Allie liked to perch on the
sidelines, insouciantly masturbating and checking her Facebook page and also
chewing the heck out of some gum.
While
the crew is dragging lighting rigs and attending to last-minute particulars,
James takes a seat at the poker table with Allie and Steve. Allie perches on
Steve's engorged lap. Steve gets an idea: Wouldn't it be diverting if AllieJames
were to pose for a photograph with Steve's penis in her mouth, which Steve
could text to Allie's mother? She kneels. He snaps. "He's gonna send it to
my mom!" Allie cries with apparent delight. "I want to fuck them
both," Steve Holmes explains, punching Allie's mother's number into his
phone.
With
minutes to go until go time, the cast talks shop. In response to a conversation
starter I do not catch, Allie relates a childhood
memory, the gist of which is that when she was nineyearsold, hanging out with her
brothers, she was encouraged to perform sexual acts for their friends in
exchange for marijuana. Now Deen looks up from his telephone for the
first time in quite a while. "And you were
cool with it?", "Oh, yeah," says Allie James. Deen hoists his eyebrows. "As long as you were cool with
it," he says. [No Moral, as is usual with a person concerned only with
money] "Okay, okay, let's focus exclamationmark" booms the
director, Robby D., an imposing, fearsomely bald man. The time for horseplay is
at an end. It is time for acting now. "So on ‘Action,'you guys are playing
poker, and you," he says to Allie, "you start sucking his
dingy." Click goes the little scenemarker guillotine, the
"sticks."
The
scene takes halting shape after Deen brooks a surprisingly rigorous "Stanislavsky-ing"
from RobbyD. ("Try to find the character. He's a
gambling addict. Nervous, edgy. Take your time. Check out the blowjob."
[pathetic]) Meanwhile, over by the ice creambar, the crew reviews the tape
and sniggers. Allie's blowjob is deemed "horrible," for, as far as I
can follow the logic, a dearth of audible gagging
sounds. But anyway, it's not an important blowjob, just some ornamental
side action to mitigate the scene's dull plot load. The scene is a keeper. So
while the crew sets up the next shot, Allie James fetches some paper towels and
sponges up the squalid whey that has pooled about her knees.
Several
hours later, after midnight, Deen is finally summoned to perform. His scene is
in an upstairs bedroom with KaydenKross, who really does look lovely in her
pink top and purple bra. Deen and Kross are old friends. Deen was not her first
scene, but he was her third some years ago. On the heels of AllieJames's
unheartwarming ["]ministrations["], James and Kayden seem sweet,
natural, and eager to hump for reasons having to do with actual interpersonal
fondness.
They
run through a bit of dialogue concerning James's gambling problem and then
collide. James disrobes in medias. Nude, he looks even tinier than his elfin
fivefeeteight. His body is about like an eighthgrader's. His penis is smaller
than a baguette.
"You been working out?" Robby asks
between takes. "No," says
James. "I didn't think so." It's true, no rippling sinews [noun, a piece of tough fibroustissue uniting
muscletobone or bonetobone; a tendon or ligament] are visible on JamesDeen's
body. There are probably twelveyearsold girls who could take him in a fight.
And this, Deen tells me, is partly the secret of his success. He is not the
traditional pornoman, no overbulked ["]squatthrusterspraybroasted["]
from the DarqueTan booth. He is sort of wimpylooking. With luminous blue eyes
and well structured, stubble flocked cheekbones, he is handsome, but in an everyday,
nonHollywood way. "Not horrible to look at" is how Deen describes his
appearance. "I'm like a guy a chick might actually meet in a bar."
That
Deen's very ordinariness is somehow a virtue in the industry is, one could
argue, a symptom of pornography's journey from unsanitary movietheaters and
paperwindowedbookstores to every computerscreen the freeworld over. A theory: Back
in the days when the culture could pretend that porn was being exclusively
consumed by sexcriminals and raincoaters [exhibitionists], viewing
pornography was actually a multilayered form of voyeurship. The chief thrill
was, of course, watching people screw, but salting that thrill was a
Lovelace-ian paratext of unhappiness, addiction, disease, etc. The fact that
the performers were doomed and loathed, if hypocritically, by mainstream
culture made them more exciting to watch. That female performers should be made
to couple with satanic reptiles like JohnHolmes or RonJeremy was just, fitting,
gross, and perversely harmonious with the moral aesthetic of the age.
In
the 1980s and '90s, the grodiness of the male talent migrated somewhat, from
Holmesstyle SwampThings to steroidalFabioids. But still, the pornographic
fantasy seemed to be happening among people not exactly of our species, on a
planet where nude women languish in wait for pizza men who look like courtiers
from CastleGrayskull.
So
enter the present age, when almost everyone is watching porn (two in five U.S.
Internet users, onehundredandtwentyfivemillion, visit an adult site each
month), when American porn sites reportedly receive twentyeighthousand unique
hits every second, when the AVN estimates that a third of consistent porn
viewers are women. Now that pretty much every man (if not woman and child) is
watching porn, there is at last demand for a pornographic Everyman in the form
of JamesDeen, whose regular ["]dudeness["] acknowledges that his
world is our world and our world is PlanetPorn.
Anyway,
sorry for talking while you're trying to concentrate. Back at it: Deen does
away with MissKross's panties. She ["]spreadeagles["] on the edge of
the bed, and Deen commences a ["]kalimbamove["] on her vulva. Then
comes what I soon recognize as Deen's default prelude: a deft bit of
multitasking in which he launches into a cunnilinctory overture with his legs
in a sprinterattheblocks posture. This affords him latitude to handcrank
himself rigid below the camera frame. Small and swart, snacking avidly on MissKross,
Deen vaguely favors the incubus in Fuseli's TheNightmare.
After
a brief interval of manual pump priming, he breaks off the oral business, which
now, in its frantic lateralness, has begun to resemble an impassioned harmonica
solo. The ["]derricking["] [cunni-lungus] begins.
KaydenKross is posed in a swastika of shapely limbs. He toils, leans his face
into hers, and the two murmur to each other in a
guttural lock-jawed patois [noun, plural same, the dialect of the common people
of a region, differing in various respects from the standard language of the
rest of the country] intelligible to no one but themselves. Every now and then, the two of them break into heliated
laughter, as though to say, "All of this grunting and grasping and fuckme
fuckme porno jabber is a bit absurd, isn't it? But jeepers, chum, it really is
awfully nice to be having sex with you." "I wish I got to
stick my dick in some chick's fucking pussy," one of the crew members
reflects bitterly. This attitude is perhaps shared by readers at home. But it
soon becomes clear why neither the cameraman nor you nor I will ever get to
have our trousers off near MissKross. After several frictive minutes, the
action stops. The still photographer comes in and for fifteenminutes or so
arranges James and Kayden into assorted tableaux, and all the while James's gizmo
penis stands as steadfast as the ChryslerBuilding.
[Mnemo.] Then the action resumes, only this time it's for a softcoreversion (inside factoid: The blue movies you see on late-night cable?
The actors are actually having sex), followed by another tenminutes or
so of intimate strife and moanery, before they at last go back to the full and
flagrant penetrative churn. Finally Robby calls, "Okay, let's bring it
home. BJ, then pop." Within a few fleeting moments, presto: Deen is
punctually drizzling genetic material onto Kayden's adorable face. And cut. "I got come up my nose and my eyeball," Kayden says
in a tone not of displeasure. "It was so good. I love James." And
James? Would he work with her again, someone asks. "Fuck no," he
says. Kayden snorts in mock umbrage. "I'll rape you if you don't."
At
2:30AM., LosingKayden is pronounced a wrap. The crew coils cable. While the
cast goes home, Deen heads to his ["]ginormous["] pickup truck and
sets a course for SanFrancisco, where he is needed on set twelvehours from now.
A journalist in the passenger's seat, having spectated on livesexacts for the
first time in his life, about a dozen solid hours's worth, is suffering not
wholly agreeable reelings of the mind that he tries to cover for with ninnyish
small talk. "So that scene with Kayden seemed, ah, pretty enjoyable."
"Yeah," Deen says. "I always say sex is like soccer: It's fun
and athletic, and you should do it with your friends." Yes, I think.
Right. Certainly. Here is a simple statement that Deen means pretty much as it
sounds, but it also pithily expresses yet another reason why you or I will
never be the sort of soccer player JamesDeen is. It's not just that he's got
bigger, you know, feet than we do. It's that for you, on that night of enduring
awkwardness when you went out for drinks with thewomanintheadjacentcubicle
and achieved your long-cherished fantasy of playing soccer with her, you did so
not because you thought she was going to be this tremendously good soccer
player. It was that you were thrilled that she found you sufficiently
nonrevolting that she was willing to get on the field with you, which was a big
consideration, because as you both knew, what makes the game so very, very
exciting isn't its competitive physics but the conceit that the game is actually
a high velocity deliverysystem for privileged emotional knowledge of the other
player's secret self. And that even if you're the sort of freebooting venereal
Olympian who tries to play soccer with absolutely everything that moves, your
compulsion to play is still ultimately grounded in the marrow level conviction
that the game matters in some way a good deal more complex and high stakes than
simple athletic fun. But the remarkable thing about
Deen is, I think, that he has managed to dissociate sex from emotional
consequence, a feat of psychosexual contortionism he was limbering up for at an
age when the rest of us had yet to tie our own shoelaces.
Q: So when did you decide to do porn? A:
Kindergarten. I remember I was walking home one day, and I found this magazine,
I don't know, a Hustler or something, with people banging in it. I was enamored
by it. I was like, I want to do this. I actually got in trouble in third or
fourth grade. They were asking everybody what they wanted to be when they grew up,
and I said I wanted to be a porn star. They didn't like that. They thought I
was being a dick. I was like, "I'm not being a dick, it's just what I want
to be." But outside of porn, before he entered the industry, what else
interested him? "Nothing. That's the thing. My whole life, I've never
really found anything else that I've found interesting." JamesDeen, whose real name is BryanSevilla, grew up in PasadenaCA.
His parents are both, after a fashion, rocketscientists. His father is a
mechanical engineer forNASA. His mother does dataanalysis for the spaceagency.
Deen, contrary to our notion of pornstars as survivors of sexualtrauma, does
not recall any sexual abuse or destructive misadventures, other than a teacher
who Deen says tried to molest him when he was eightornine, but Deen
"punched his testicles a lot" and made good his escape. Deen lost his
virginity at agetwelve during a sleepover at a Jewishcamp. Not long after, in
juniorhighschool, he made enemies of the football team by having sex with a
player's sister in the schoolpool during gym. He had some drugescapades in
juniorhigh. He spent a couple of years in outpatientrehab. Around agefifteen,
he left highschool and moved out and spent two years more or less homeless,
hanging around with a crew of gutter punks. Relations with his parents remained
reasonably cordial. They furnished him with a cellphone, and he periodically
snuck into his mom's house to do laundry. (Deen's parents are divorced.) At
around seventeen, he moved in with his father. He was working at a Starbucks and
taking classes at a communitycollege when one evening he says he chanced upon a
callinradioprogram whose guest was JennaJameson.
She imparted what was, for Deen, life altering
advice. "So some guy calls in for like the millionth time and says, ‘I
wanna do porn. How do I get into the industry?' And she's been listening to
this shit all night. She's frustrated. She goes, ‘You wanna do porn? Go get a
folding chair and sit in a room with twentypeople and jerk off for an hour. And
if you can keep hard, and when one of them yells "Come!" you can come
in thirty seconds, then you can do porn.' " Deen hearkened to these words. He began a
selfstyledapprenticeship in notforprofit guerrillapornography. "I started
going to parties, and I'd bang girls in front of groups of people," he
recalled. "I learned I could come on cue. I was told to come, and I'd
come. I don't know how I do it. It has something to do
with muscle control. It's easy for me."
In theyeartwothousandandfour,
a stripper Deen knew introduced him to a casting agent who posted his naked
picture on theworldwideweb. In short order, Deen was offered a role to be the
recipient of something "more than a handjob but less than a blowjob."
He acquitted himself creditably. His career had begun. His agent thought
ClintCunnilingus was a poor choice of screen name. BryanSevilla instead became JamesDeen,
inspired by the nickname he won in juniorhighschool for the soigné manner in
which he liked to ["]pinchcup["] a cigarette. In due time, a director
offered the young aspirant his first full scene. The wood was durable, the
orgasm prompt. Deen had proved himself a fellow of MissJameson's calling. Jobs
poured in. (Deen wouldn't disclose his earnings, but top male talent can command
eighthundredUSD to onethousandUSD a scene.)
Though
you could not hire a lobbyist to boost for the pornindustry more
enthusiastically than JamesDeen, he does acknowledge that the life has its
pitfalls. On our ride north, I mention what will be, for me, the least
forgettable or pleasant image of the week I spend with him: that of AllieJames
posed with SteveHolmes's organ in a photo for her mother. "Yeah, obviously
she's damaged. I'm, like, getting pimped out when you were nine so your
brothers could smoke weed? That's not healthy. She's like RickSantorum's wet dream, the poster child for how people in porn are
damaged," Deen says. "But for every person like her, there's someone
like, I'd like to say, me. I had a great childhood. My parents and I get along.
I just like sex, and I like porn, and I think it's fun. I'm always terrified
that someday I'm going to come to the realization that I've got some deep, dark
secret, some terrifying, horrible experience where I'm going to be like, ‘I'm
actually not normal. I'm a crazy person!' But it just doesn't seem to be the
case." The Santorum poster children are, as Deen has it, performers who
"lose their real persona and become their porn
persona, this party person who is obsessed with sex, who is constantly taking their
clothes off." I suggest to Deen that
perhaps the reason BryanSevilla hasn't manifested persona slip when he became JamesDeen
is that Sevilla, the kindergarten porn enthusiast, preteenindustryaspirant, the
publiccoupler at socialfunctions, has always been JamesDeen. "I'd agree
with that," he says.
And
on we roll, north on Interstate5, yours truly dozing off while Deen blares on
his superb sound system, at threethousand decibals, his favorite tune: Yes by
LMFAO, whose refrain runs, Every day I see my dream. JamesDeen arrives in San
Francisco with the morning traffic. His destination is the MissionDistrict
headquarters of the sex conglomerate Kinkdotcom. If DigitalPlayground is
vanilla, Kinkdotcom is decidedly rockyroad. Kink's family of websites includes
but is not limited to Hogtieddotcom, BoundGangBangsdotcom, ButtMachineBoysdotcom,
BoundInPublicdotcom, PublicDisgracedotcom, NakedKombatdotcom, WiredPussydotcom,
and ElectroSlutsdotcom. According to Deen, Kink is among the most profitable companies
in the porn industry, owing to its extraordinarily loyal consumer base of
fetishists. A fetish, Deen explains, is not a mere preference or lark but a
controlling obsession. A fetishist cannot enjoy himself sexually unless he is
observing, for example, someone's vagina getting ["]jazzed["] with onehundredandtenvolts
of house current. "The people who watch it don't watch because they want
to, they watch it because they need to," Deen says.
Content
for Kink's assorted websites is mostly filmed on location at a former NationalGuard
armory, a forbidding MoorishRevival fortress at fourteenth and Mission that
Kink purchased in 2006 for fourteenpointfivemillionUSD. Today, Deen will be
filming a scene in the armory's basement for EverythingButtdotcom. "It's
about butts," Deen explains. "It's normally girlgirl. The girls play
with each other, insert various objects into each other's rectums, and then I
show up and bang them in their butts and call it a day. It's not one of my
favorites, because there's not much actual sex."
For
all of Kink's outré offerings, the armory actually feels a good deal
less porny than the glitzy loaner mansion we were in last night. More
Williamsburg[Which State in USA?] than SanFernandoValley. People we pass in the
hallways look like bike messengers, librarians, and assistantfaculty in
women's-studies departments. The armory contains an uncountable number of
studios made to simulate bars and dungeons and karate dojos. Deen makes his way
to the basement. He cocks an ear to a studio door where the scene he'll be
joining is already steaming along. Through the plywood, we can hear a woman
voicing hysterical testimony as to the condition and surrendered proprietorship
of her tuchus. "Whose ass is it?" "It's your ass dotdotdot. My
ass is yours!" Deen and I, haggard, malarial with
sleepdeprivation, doze nearby on a pair of sofas without a care for the deeds
that have surely soiled the upholstery.
Within
the hour, Deen is summoned to the set, which is a genuine industrial-age boiler
room. It contains an actual boiler, a steel-frame single bed suggestive of an
["]oldtimey["] insaneasylum, an equipment table bearing whips, a
lengthy, diametrically graduated rectoprobe, dildos, and an alligator'shead. Personnel includes the director, a
mild, softspoken man with fine ["]Teutonicfeatures["], and a
cameraman in a full jumpsuit as per OSHAregulations. There is also IsisLove,
administrator of the anatomical stresses we were overhearing during our nap.
Isis is a tawny Amazon with black sheeny hair and a black corsetish thing
tailored to expose breasts like a pair of headlocked toddlers. The scene's
operational subject is a young woman named ProxyPaige, a slightly mousy hipster
type. Fishnets and silver bustier notwithstanding, she looks like a civilian.
I'm worried about her. Pregame particulars are ["]attendedto["]. Deen
conducts a brief interview with ProxyPaige as to her personal boundaries. Proxy says she lately had some wisdomtoothtrouble on one side
of her jaw and would prefer not to be slapped there. Anything else is cool.
Then Deen, by way of small talk, recounts yesterday's anecdote about AllieJames,
to which ProxyPaige replies that she would like "to fuck [Steve] and his
son so bad it makes me uncomfortable," which assures me that whatever
further abuse the afternoon holds for ProxyPaige, she can hack it just fine.
Lights,
camera, before filming begins, the scene founders. Deen is rigid and all, but syntactical confusion halts the choreography.
"When you come in," Isis says to Deen, "I'll be licking her ass,
getting her ass all wet so you can fuck her while she's sucking your
cock." Deen looks at IsisLove like, Say what? "I don't know how big
you think my cock is," Deen says. "I don't know how I can fuck her
while she's sucking my cock. It won't, like, go through her." "No,
no," says Isis Love. "I'll be licking her ass and getting her ass all
spitty so you can fuck her while she's sucking your cock." Pardon? After
some back-and-forth, Deen roots out the source of the perplexity, a misplaced
temporal clause, "Oh, you're going to
lick her ass [preparatory to coitus] while she's sucking my cock." Yes, yes, that's it precisely.
Action:
The scene begins with Proxy kneeling on the floor and fellating. Isis and Deen
stand on either side of her such that Isis, by humping the back of Proxy's
head, compels Proxy to repeatedly spindle her gullet on Deen's person. That
goes on for a while, and then Deen, wang still endentured, sort of drags Proxy
over to the bed in a maneuver reminiscent of what we used to refer to in junior
high school as a "bulldog." IsisLove stands close at hand, emitting a
faultfinding commentary of ungentle encouragement, "Keep it in your mouth,
slut," etc., etc. Um, hey. You out there, do you seriously want me to
keep describing this stuff? Really? Because it gets a lot worse from here. All
right, you asked for it. "Okay!" says IsisLove. "Time for
the humancentipede." The "human centipede" = Deen sodomizing
ProxyPaige while ProxyPaige buries her face between the russet buttocks of IsisLove
in a snuffling pantomime of a "Kilroy was here" graffito. Isis at
regular intervals hocks lubricative loogies into the pistonworks going
full-bore at the base of Proxy's spine. Every now and again, Isis disengages
Deen's cruller so that the camera can get a load of Proxy's ["]keister["],
which footage you should track down if you happen to adore the sight of a
yawning, defanged lamprey with strep throat. From there, in flagrant contravention
of the USDA's SafeFoodHandlingFactSheet, Deen plunges his unwashed tuber
straightaway into Proxy's mouth. A set of chain-linked nipple clamps are
attached to poor Proxy. Deen yanks roguishly on the chain while Isis covers
Proxy's nose and mouth, depriving her of oxygen. While Deen pays a return visit
to Proxy's service entrance, IsisLove manages to slip a searching finger or two
in there as well. At this point, an unlearned onlooker might adjudge Proxy's
hindmost to be quite adequately crammed, perhaps even crammed to excess. But
Deen, whose right hand is stuffed into Proxy's mouth ["]noodlingforflatheadsstyle["],
manages to wedge a few additional digits into Proxy's exhaust port. "You
are so fucking sick and evil and twisted and fucked-up," Isis says to
Deen. "I fucking love you." Proxy's breathing is stertorous
[adjective, of breathing, noisy and labored], rapid, pre-infarctatory [infarct,
nounMedicine, a small localised area of dead tissue resulting from failure of
blood supply]. Between takes she's asked if she's okay. She nods. Her eyes leak
little tears, which Deen wipes away with the quick strokes of an experienced
cutman. Before long, Deen is instructed to ejaculate, which he does, with
dispatch, on Proxy's face. And cut exclamationpoint. We're clear
exclamationpoint. Thank heavens.
Deen
flees the set in search of a shower. Isis and Proxy sit abed for a
["]postgameinterview["] [For DVD?]. Isis Love: Proxy, how you feeling
right now? Proxy Paige: [panting] Good! Worked over. Isis: Was it everything
you expected it to be? Proxy: Yes, and I got to do a lot of things I hadn't
done before. [Proxy is breathing heavily. Her voice is fragile, muted with
restrained emotion.] Isis: Do you want to cry right now? Come here, munchkin. IsisLove
holds ProxyPaige while the brine flows from her eyes. "It
was a really good day," Proxy says, her voice splintering. "I don't
know why I'm crying. It was really extreme, and I did a lot of things I don't
normally do." "You're so cute," says Isis. "What was
the best part of the day? Your favorite part." "You fisting me,"
says Proxy. "I've always wanted to be, like, fully fisted in the ass. I
felt like that would cross some sort of, like, anal threshold, and I finally
did it. It was intense." "Can I have a tissue for my munchkinpie?"
Isis calls to the crew. IsisLove cradles ProxyPaige, and Proxy does the only
thing one can do when you've survived such an afternoon as this, which is to
weep and grin and weep.
As
soon as he's out of the shower, Deen aims the F150Vegasward. We're on the road
by 7PM. The trip's supposed to take nineorten hours, but JamesDeen's preferred
number of miles per hour at which to drive is onehundred. We make it in sixhours
and change. On the darkened highway, we discuss Deen's life offscreen. Does JamesDeen
have a girlfriend? He does not, not as of this writing, anyway. For sixyears he
dated the altporn [alternativepornography]innovatrix JoannaAngel, but
seeing ["]civilians["] is generally rather vexed. "Either they
get freakedout about what I do before they get a chance to get to know me or
they just want to have sex like one time so they can say they fucked a porn
star." Deen's ["]boyfriendgirlfriendtypearrangements["],
therefore, have generally been with other sexindustryprofessionals. In theory,
says Deen, "when you're in a relationship with someone in the industry,
all of the jealousy and everything should fall away." But of course, when
you and your significant other are having sex with third, fourth, fifth, etc.,
parties for money every day, other complexities crop up. I promised Deen I would not get into the interpersonal
specifics he disclosed on our many hours road-tripping together, but I will say
that his relationships have been plagued by complications that have never
troubled the marriage of AnnAndMittRomney. Lately, having sex offcamera
has been sort of fraught. "Personalprivatesex is almost too intimate
now," he says, citing a recent threesome when he was "like almost
hyperemotional, because it was personal sex without any cameras."
At
8AM, Deen arrives at a shoot for Brazzers, a Luxembourg-based pornography
concern that traffics in more traditional fare than Kinkdotcom, with such
online properties as PornstarsLikeItBigdotcom, MilfsLikeItBigdotcom,
TeensLikeItBigdotcom, MommyGotBoobsdotcom, BabyGotBoobsdotcom, and other
improvisations on these core motifs. The studio is out by the airport, in a
structure you could confidently nominate in a global architectural showdown for
world's most nondescript building. Inside is a
labyrinth of offices in various states of half-assed theatrical reinvention as
hospital or hotel or school rooms. Casually scattered about are props
from old shoots: a cardboard retail booth bearing the exhortation eat a
sister's pie, a trombone, a sorority paddle stenciled with the words cunta beta
deltas, a Sawzall with a dildo fixed to the bayonet end.
Deen
is greeted by the director, who goes by the name VicLagina. Vic is tall,
phlegmatic, wearing a half sleeve baseball shirt through which large, hard
pectorals are legible. VicLagina gives JamesDeen the
rundown on today's script, which is Lagina's own creation. It's a 1980s
rocknroll biopicspoof with Deen playing the part of a dissolute rocker.
DeweyCocks is his character's name. For today's role, Deen is costumed in an
unctuous black sternumlengthwig, a slinky blackhaltertop, and a pair of white
tiger-print tights that accentuate the acreage of Deen's organ. "Man,
those pants make your dick look big," observes VicLagina. As another
member of the Brazzers crew points out, Deen's stature helps enhance the
appearance of genital yardage. "It's like putting twentytwos on a
Civic."
Quiet
on the set. The first shot is this: Deen leaning against a wall to simulate an
existential moment backstage. A stagehand comes along to urge him to perform.
Then DeweyCocks's manager (a gigantic blackman called in the script,
hilariously, WHITEY) intercedes with this line of dialogue: "DeweyCocks don't go on the stage until he recalls all the
girls he has had sex with in his lifetime." "I'm going to try
going back chronologically," Deen tells the crew from his position on the
wall. After one of many takes, Deen relays the total: "I got back, like,
twoweeks! I don't know if I can go farther." With the framing device in place, Deen spends
most of the day's remainder in plural intercourse with one TiffanyBrookes and
one JessicaJaymes, who are portraying his groupies. MissJaymes is a tenyearvet
[veteran] whose huge blisterpack protrusions are somewhat at odds with her
springbok svelteness. It would be a mischaracterization to say that she is a
supernova of youthful enthusiasm about the project at hand. Today's shoot, as she puts it, "ain't my first fucking
rodeo, bra'." When she meets Deen, clad in the foul wig and tights,
her response is (to Deen's unarticulated pique) "I gotta fuck you in that?
Do you have to fuck in that thing [meaning the wig] the whole time?" Deen
allows that he does. "And I have to pretend I like it? Oh, give it to me,
hairy daddy," MissJaymes says with a dry laugh.
Okay,
action exclamationmark. From the start, the offscreen chemistry is poor. When
the camera stops rolling, all intimacy ceases. MissJaymes
and MissBrookes are old friends and act like a pair of collegial waitresses who
have worked at the same cheap diner for many unwondrous years. Between
takes they carp lightheartedly at each other for dragging ass on the shift. "You didn't suck as much dick as I did." "You gonna help me out with this
thing?" "God, I want to brush my teeth." "I'm eating
fucking bad wighair." Deen apologizes. "It came from a bag." "So
did I," replies Miss Jaymes.
Deen
eventually gets a little peevish. MissJaymes, in particular, attends to him so
minimally that, in a subtle huff, Deen quits the scene to ["]wring himself
back["] to full rigor. When the sex ends, Deen is
permitted to trash the hotel room. He sets about the destruction so ardently, tearing
wainscoting, shattering the television, that one guesses the expression of
frustration is partly genuine. On the drive back to our hotel, Deen confirms
his discontent with the shoot. "I mean, the first thing [Jessica
Jaymes] said to me was, ‘Oh, my God, I have to fuck you?' You could say that in a nicer way. ‘Your outfit is
really silly looking. Oh, my God, I can't believe they're making you wear that,
that's hilarious dotdotdot' It's just that she wanted to make it clear that ‘we
are working. This is a job, and I will not sexually enjoy myself.' She
basically wanted to do the least amount of sex as humanly possible dotdotdot.
But it's fine. The product'll turn out good. Oncamera,
it'll look like everybody had a great time." That night Deen holes
up for fourteenhours. Midday finds him chipper and not the least bit down in
the mouth about having to schlep to yet another loaner mansion to mate
on-camera with yet another couple of women.
Today,
Deen will be playing the pornographic actor and teen idol JamesDeen in a
wordforword sendup of the scaremongering Nightline spot about Deen's popularity
with the teen set. Deen, for his part, has mixed feelings about the piece.
Anchor TerryMoran, whose sneering opinings bracketed the story, is, according
to Deen, "just a dick dotdotdot. Fuck that guy." Yet he concedes,
"They could have made me look bad, between all my ramblings and the dumb
shit that I say, and they didn't." Playing the part of ABC's CeciliaVega
is a teeteringly thin Portuguese woman named Erica, whose immaculate blondeness
and avian features lend her a passing resemblance to CallistaGingrich. And
"Quiet, rolling exclamationmark." Deen sits on a counter stool while
Erica tries with ["]tonguetwisting["] effort to recite hardballs from
the Nightline interview, e.g., "So you have massive female following young
womans. What you say to that?" "If these women are looking for
pornographic material on the Internet, they're obviously into sex," says
Deen. "They like sex. They want to explore their sexuality, which isn't
necessarily a bad thing." "Their parents
meat," says Erica. "What is meat?" "Might,"
says the director, a huskily built thirtysomething Latino guy named Huggy. "Their parents might not think so." "Their
parents meat..." "Their parents may disagree," offers Huggy. Action.
"Their parents may disagree." "We have a girl here?
Claims is your biggest fan?" says Erica. "JamesDeen, meet your
biggest fan, LazyTailor?" A nutbrown youngactress named LizzTayler
scampers in. "Ohmygodohmygod. Is it really you? Can I see your cock?"
Why certainly. "Will you fuck me like a pornstar?"
After the foregoing days, any normal man would
view the prospect of more ["]tungstenlitsex["] with strangers the way
you might view a sixtyouncesteak after a hotdogeatingcontest. But we are
beginning to learn that Deen, despite his bankable everymanpersona, is by no
means a normal man. He alights from the stool with a grin. So what happens
next? Oh, some oralness, some conjugal tusslings, some other things, dear
reader, that, after a week mooching around on pornography sets, I no longer
find astonishing enough to set down in print. The soul is weary. The pen is
weary. I am a little abashed, a little ashamed, [unnecessary phrase] for having
described so much in the preceding paragraphs, to have made myself your
VicLagina, your RobbyD., your personal pornographer.
At
this point, in answer to the query I posed at the start of our voyage, I can
sincerely say that I would rather drink a mugful of live ticks than switch
places with JamesDeen. You're shitting me exclamationpoint, you say. Why? Well,
not only because being impelled to couple every day with a stranger before a
room of onlookers seems like an experiment dreamed up by Martian scientists.
And not only because the ["]GroundhogDay-like["] sameness would, I
think, accumulate to a monotony akin to a career in
oystershucking. [Demeaning attitude toward workers.] Ultimately, for
this reporter, I would be frightened that if I weren't able to recall the names
of sexualpartners beyond the previous twoweeks, ideals like intimacyandlove
would begin to seem gooey and absurd, and a terrible unexamined loneliness
would become the natural condition of my life. I do not voice this sentiment to
Deen. It would offend him. It would come across as prudishly
["]un"sexpositive"["] and critical of Deen and the industry
he holds dear. But he would be missing the point. What I am saying is that we
may well owe a debt of gratitude to JamesDeen. That just as Superman makes
plain why the rest of us should not jump off buildings, the extraordinary Deen
and his Kryptonian psychosexual constitution illustrate why the ordinary man
should not try to peg everything with opposable thumbs. All day, every day, JamesDeen
is fucking the planet senseless so that the rest of us don't have to try to.
Indeed, when the confines of monogamy begin to feel drab and claustrophobic,
Deen and his adventures are just a track pad away. By the time your wife gets
back from the store, you, feeling a little shabby, a little guilty, will be so
glad to see her that you will never want to look upon another naked woman for
at least ninety minutes or so. (Incidentally, you have the permission of the CDCP,
which lately disclosed that in our age of rampant webbased autoeroticism,
divorce has in fact declined over the past fifteenyears.)
But
for now, I will speak no more of meaningless balling. From here on out, I will
speak only of feelings and human connectedness. Okay, then. So. How is JamesDeen
feeling? How is his human connectedness? I am happy to report that JamesDeen is
feeling good, because even now, in a candid moment when the cameras are not
rolling and no one is professionally obliged to have sex with him, he is lying
on a black leather sectional, actively connected to LizzTayler in the spoon
position, and he is also connected to MissErica, whose cooter he is jabbing
with a nimble big toe. Today so much feeling, so much connectedness, abounds on
the set that even after Deen's orgasm has been videoed [recorded] for
perpetuity, he loiters on the sofa with MissErica, who
is grasping Deen's ficelle [penis] between the arches of her feet and
laughing in a musical way. "You
like me, don't you?" Deen asks her. She nods and chirps. "Good
day," says Deen. "Really good day." And then, after a
long, arduous, and ordinary sort of week, it is time for JamesDeen to shower himself,
climb into hisFordF150Raptor, and head west through the desert to the horizon
of his homing. He has a shoot in LosAngeles tomorrow morning, yet the drive is
a mere fourhours and will put him back in time to spend an evening away from
pornography. Rolling through Barstow, he places a call to some old pals in
Pasadena, civilians, friends from his life before. Are they up for a visit this
evening? Yes, they are, but there is an issue. Even among his trusted cronies,
Deen's screenpersona dogs him. A friend's sister is part of the hangout crew
tonight, and the friend is rightly concerned that Deen will take the sister to
bed. "Look, I'm not gonna try to fuck your sister," Deen says
assuringly. There is some dubious squawking from the other party. "I
promise, I'm not gonna try to fuck your sister." It is not enough.
"Look, I'm not gonna try to fuck your sister!"Exasperation gets the
better of him. At last JamesDeen must speak the truth: "I mean, I'm going
to fuck your sister, but I'm not going to try." [The end.]
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen