Ask A Pornstar
John Holmes did gay-for-pay scenes on his way down the spiral. At that time he was already in full-blown AIDS.
This is why we can't have nice things.
I saw a documentary where Ron Jeremy basically said Holmes should rot in hell if he deliberately gave AIDS to people... hard to disagree with that logic.
He also did straight scenes knowing he had AIDS. I can't really disagree with Ron's opinion.
This is why we can't have nice things.
Ron Jeremy should do gay porn.
Yes, I know that. I posted his other stage name.
He really started from the bottom and worked his way up didn't he?
This is why we can't have nice things.
I dunno...I worked for his company a lot of times, but I don't really know the dude or his history. Met him only once.
He must have done something right along the way: he's got a Ferrari 430r, and I take the subway...
I saw a documentary where Ron Jeremy basically said Holmes should rot in hell if he deliberately gave AIDS to people... hard to disagree with that logic.
What documentary is this? I'd be interested in queuing it up. Or really, any documentary about porn that steers clear of being overly lurid. Like an historical overview of the industry.
There is hope, but not for us.
...but still has that awesome 70's funk soundtrack.
This is why we can't have nice things.
The only porn docs I've ever seen are the ones where all they say is that porn victimizes young women, turns men into misogynistic pigs, and is just generally evil and will be the end of us all.
And you disagree with that?
There is hope, but not for us.
Also, I just wiki'd John Holmes and oh my goodness. It's like something I made up in my head to keep myself amused on a long car ride.
His father, an alcoholic railroad worker who abandoned his family. . . His stepfather was an alcoholic, who would come home inebriated, stumble about the house, and even vomit on the children.
Holmes was arrested during this time for pimping and pandering, but he avoided prison time by becoming an informant for the LAPD.
At the same time, Holmes was closely associated with the Wonderland Gang, a group of heroin-addicted cocaine dealers
There is hope, but not for us.
Yes, to an extent.
the Wonderland Gang, a group of heroin-addicted cocaine dealers
At least they weren't cocaine-addicted heroin dealers, amirite?
This is why we can't have nice things.
Yes, to an extent.
As do I.
Si vis pacem, para bellum
Happy Birthday, to our resident ex-porn star!
Mom's gonna fix it all soon.
Thank you!
Part Two of the interview.
Here was my response via Twitter. I linked the tweets for readability:
"Of course nobody will come out & say they're cavalier about tests. Who would? That's talk. In practice, I've experienced otherwise, and if you'd have asked Brian Pumper if he took tests seriously he'd say "Yes," right until he turned on his camera and got busted for *actions--not what he would say. Although this is a rare case, it is by no means an anomaly.
Companies that choose to shoot while others observe a moratorium are making a choice. Regardless of how them may rationalize it. The small business analogy is no excuse. We are not talking widgets that may spoil on the shelves. This is human life.
That one would make the choice of money over human life is doubly egregious. A producer that says. "Well, I didn't mean any harm, you see, my margins are too thin to stay closed while the exposed/infected was sorted out." is of zero solace to the person who may be exposed infected.
There's the right thing to do, and then there's rationalizing. With human life at stake, it IS black and white. Grey area kills. My point is, whether a person's infected as a result of acts of malice, avarice, or economic necessity is moot to the victim."
*Brian Pumper got busted for directing scenes with manipulated test(s), and lost his directing deal with Evil Angel. An extreme case, however, some directors have asked me if I'd do a scene with a partner whose test is expired--or non-existent.
Yes, to an extent.
As do I.
This thread has changed my stance.
There is hope, but not for us.
Happy birthday, TK.
Note to Self: Never. Ever. GIS "porn cake" again.
This is why we can't have nice things.
I haven't posted a slice of life story in a while. Here ya go:
________
The Woodpile (part one)
“I mean, it’s only words, right?...Harmless self expression...” He waves his hand in the air. “First Amendment and all that applies to us, too...”
I shake the bottle. A Viagra tumbles into my fist. I say, “Words are powerful-–”
“...which means,” he continues his monologue, “we’re perfectly within our rights if it’s in context of art…”
“–-context?” I pop the pill and crush it between my molars.
Jack and I stand knee-to-knee in a makeup room the size of a parking space. This close, I taste his menthols.
He says, “You strike me as a man who understands the value of money. Seriously, what do you do, anyway? You stroll in here…You…you take out your dick and swing it around like an eleph-–”
“Jack! What the hell are you talking about?”
He laughs. He laughs, flops down onto the futon. The fluorescent light from the bank of vanity mirrors bathes his skin jaundice yellow, and settles on his hair like a layer of soot. This man, a head taller than me when standing, sinks between the folds of the mattress like a forgotten about nickel. Jack stops laughing, looks at me and blurts out, “We’re going to have April call you a ‘nigger’ during the scene!”
“...What?”
This is the part where he’s supposed to say, Relax, I’m fucking with you.
Jack says, “Ha-ha-ha?...Uh-huh?”
He’s not fucking with me.
“What the-–? I mean, no. I’m not promoting racism. NO!”
“It’s not racist. It’s porn!”
A muffled, woman’s voice bellows from the other side of the closed door: “Do what you’re told, you greasy beast! Obey me!” There is a loud smack and a man wails.
“Goodbye, Jack.” I grab my shaving kit from the counter and turn for the door.
“Wait!” He springs to his feet. “Where are you going?”
“To watch Batman Begins.”
“I’ve got mon-eeeeey!”
“There is no way I’m letting a girl call me that on camera. Not gonna happen.”
“There’s a dozen guys I can call right now that’ll do it for half what I’m paying you.”
"So call them."
He sighs. “Okay, fine. We won’t say ‘nigger’ in your scene, but how-a-bout–-”
He pulls out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and reads.
“-–darkie...jigaboo...coon...spade...spook...jigaboo, ha ha, I said that already–-”
“NO!” I take the doorknob and twist it.
“Wait!”
“WHAT?”
He looks down to the floor the way a six-year-old caught stealing cookies would. “I’m sorry.”
The woman on the other side of the door says, “Oh my God! The stereotype is true–-you don’t eat pussy!”
In spite of myself a chuckle bubbles up, but I snag it by the tail and wrestle it back down to my gut before it comes out as sound. “Okay,” I point to the door. “but the first time she says anything racist, I’m leaving–-”
“Okay.”
“–-and I don’t give a damn if we’re-–”
“Fine.”
“–-just two positions into the scene.”
“Fo shizzle, my nizzle.”
“Anything racist at all.”
He holds up a fist to give me a pound. “It’s all good, Playa!”
“Stop it!”
“Sure, sure,” he says. “Go ahead and out the paperwork, and I’ll have a talk with her. There’s only one scene up before yours-–April with Jim Crowe, which shouldn’t take long–-you’ll be done in time to catch the next show!”
Jack takes my IDs and my HIV test, then opens door a to leave–-
“ARE YOU CRYING? GET BACK HERE AND FUCK MY WHITE CUNT OR I’LL BEAT YOUR ASS AGAIN,–-”
“That’s some scene,” I say.
“-–N-I-I-I-I-I–-”
Jack steps back in and slams the door shut behind him.
“-–geeerrr!!!”
“Oh, we haven’t started shooting the first scene yet,” he says, “I’m the director. Ha-ha-ha...”
Continued...
Jesus...
This is why we can't have nice things.
(part two)
I follow Jack through the warehouse. He shot the first scene, so it’s my turn to tussle with this fire belching, man-eating succubus.
Jack has long strides and I have to trot to keep up with him. He tosses sentences back to me, over his shoulder:
“–-and a few of us are already starting to see it happen…You got into porn at shitty time...Save your money, because we’ve got maybe three...four years tops until-–”
We pass several pre-made, three-walled rooms (all open to one side like a TV sitcom set). A doctor’s office with an examination table...a college dorm…
He continues, “–already spoke to her, and she promise not to say anything offensive-–”
...an executive’s office…a graffiti covered wall with a waist-high glory hole…
“-–so I tell her, ‘Hey, I’m just here to get blown!” ha-ha-ha!”
We stop at the set where April and Jim Crowe just shot their scene. A Jail. April is gone. Jim, behind bars, sits on bench. He looks wild-eyed and disheveled. He stands up and approaches the cage door when he sees us.
A rape kit (the ubiquitous plastic bin for porn sets containing lube, baby wipes, and condoms that never see the outside of a wrapper) sits on the floor. Jack picks the rape kit up, and hands it to me, then slides the (unlocked) cell door open, “releasing” Jim. He shoves a crumpled ball of cash into Jim’s hands and says, “Okay, here you go.”
Jim counts the money. He speaks, and the deep, rumbling timbre of his voice sends my adrenal glands screaming online. He says, “It’s a hundred dollars short.”
Jack says, “Do you think you gave a performance worthy of your full rate? Because–-”
“Yeah, man, I did my job! I mean...it was kinda hard to concentrate on the pop shot with her beatin’ on me and all, but–-”
“Immaterial. If a bukkake-line mope can come at will-–”
“My clothes are torn! Ruined!”
“And I’ve got to pay overtime on location fees!” Jack says, “The location owner doesn’t care why you struggled, and neither do I. Time. Is. Money-–”
“Yeah, but-–”
“–-and right now, you’re jeopardizing our business relationship by wasting more of it!”
Jim’s shoulders slump. He shuffles through the door. He never bothers to put the balled-up wad of cash in his pocket, so he drops a twenty as he walks past us. Jack picks it up and pockets it.
“Ha-ha-ha...”
________
April sits on a schoolteacher’s desk. Her legs dangle and swing over the edge. Her hands, folded in her lap, hold a blackboard eraser. She looks like she dove into her mommy’s makeup box, then got bored with the game of dress-up and stopped somewhere in the lingerie drawer. The kid looks up at me with big Disney princess eyes. Smiling. Her legs are open. The bald folds of her cunt peek through the sheer fabric of the panties.
She says, “Hello, mister.”
A blackboard looms behind the desk. Columns of chalk-scribbled writing say:
“I will not say nigger in this scene.”
She hops off the desk, and skips to the board. Her butt wiggles as she erases “nigger” from each sentence.
My jaw clenches. Lava churns in my gut, but some of heat seeps down to warm my crotch. A desire...to grab her and rip her panties down…but to spank her bottom red, or to spit on my cock and force my way inside her cunt? I look at Jack. Jack looks at me through his camera’s viewfinder. The camera’s greedy lens sucks my image through it, and splashes my digital ghost across his face as pale blue light. If he’s satisfied with how clever he is by circumventing my “say anything racist” rule, he does not show it. This moment...this moment right here, is last chance to walk out the door and protect any vestige of self-respect, so I open my mouth to speak–-
Her hand tugs my chin so that my face is square with hers…Those eyes…She drapes a lazy arm over my shoulder…and the other, around my wait...Pulling herself into me...We kiss.
Giggles...
________
Stephanie stops kissing me and the girls giggle and laugh and laugh… Eileen slides my backpack off my shoulders…All of us are in the house next door to Eileen’s house...Eileen told me that she had something that she wants to show me and I said okay and followed her and Stephanie and Krista into the house...The house is not finished being built and I wish I wore my jacket and my hat because there’s no wall on one side...Just some wood…The floor is cement...I’m sitting on it now…It’s cold…
Krista says, “It’s my turn!” but Eileen pushes Krista out her out of the way because Eileen is a lot bigger than Krista. She is bigger than I am too.
Eileen says, “Now we’re gonna play ‘Show us yours and we’ll show you ours.’”
“What do I hafta show?”
The girls giggle and laugh and Eileen says, “Your penis.”
“What’s a penis?”
“Stand up.”
I stand up.
“This.” She unzips my pants and pulls them down and then she pulls my underwear down too. She grabs my thing. “This is a penis.”
The other girls…They don’t giggle…I can see everyone’s breath in here but my face feels very hot.
Eileen tells the other girls to pull their pants down but Stephanie doesn’t. She leaves. Krista doesn’t pull her pants down either so Eileen grabs her but Krista gets away and she runs away too.
Eileen lifts up her skirt. No underwear.
I know I’m not supposed to look but I can’t help it…She has hair…A lot of hair.
“Have you ever seen a pussy before?”
I nod.
“Come here.”
My thing kinda hurts and I look down and I see that it’s standing straight up.
Eileen says, “Wanna touch mine?”
I look over at the front door of the house. It kinda feels like last week when I got in trouble for fighting and my teacher said she was gonna call my dad at dinnertime and when we’re sitting at the table and dad asks me why I’m not eating. I’m looking a the phone and hoping that it doesn’t ring…I shake my head no and Eileen gets mad and pulls her skirt down again...
Someone is coming. Krista’s mom walks in the house and Eileen starts crying and runs away past Krista’s mom. My pants are still down and I try to pull them up. My belly feel like it did when I went to sit down and Jimmy pulled my chair away…
She stops in front of me and I have to bend my neck to look up to see her face…Krista’s mom looks kinda like Cinderella…She has yellow hair like Krista and all the daddies in the neighborhood talk real sweet to her…her perfume smells really sweet...
Slap!
My cheek stings...you know when skateboarding and your wheels hit a crack in the sidewalk and you stop your fall on the cement with your hands...and your palms are red and tingling? That’s the feeling. My eyes are full of water and I see her all blurry but I hear her yelling...
She calls me a pervert...I don’t know that word. Then she say a lot of other things and then she calls me a nigger...I know that word. She’s leaving and she says she’s gonna call the police to take me away and run my family out of town...
I’m alone...but I still feel her hand on my cheek...
I hate living out in the country...I hate my new school…And the kids...What’s AJ is doing back in Philly?...I wish he was here…He always stuck up for me...He stutters...I can’t stay here because the cops are coming. I know where I can hide...
I walk past my house and hide behind a station wagon...The lights are off and dad’s car is gone...It’s starting to rain and I’m getting really wet and I shiver so I keep going...
Robert answers the door and we walk to the back yard and he opens the woodshed...I sit down on a pile of firewood...It smells like Christmas in here...my clothes are wet and they stick to my body...I shiver...He says he’ll be right back and leaves but he takes a very long time to come back…When he comes back he gives me a piece of cake and a glass of soda but I’m not hungry…Sometimes Robert sits next to me at lunchtime when nobody else will...
Robert asks me what happened. I tell him everything and my eyes sting again...I tell him what Krista’s mom called me and he tells me what a pervert is. It’s dirty. We talk and I get kind of hungry so I eat some cake...
He asks if sometimes don’t I wish was white like everybody else?
There’s a safe...like in the cartoons...It’s tied to my heart and falling off of a cliff...
I say...Yeah.
Somebody bangs on the shed’s door…I hear my dad yelling...
________
I open the bathroom door. Jack is there.
He says, “Great job. April had to go but she wanted to tell you she had fun, and that we’re going to add you to our male talent rotation. What are you doing next Thursday?”
I grab my towel from the shower door, and pick up my shaving kit. Even though at this moment I can’t imaging coming back for a repeat performance, I know I’m not clear-headed and stoicism is the prudent tact. There are advantages in options, and let’s be honest, at this point, what difference does it make? “I’d have to look at my schedule.”
We walk though the warehouse.
I say, “So, this racial shtick...is that the theme for this website?”
“Nope. Makes no difference one way or another. I mean, it’s a neat gimmick and all, but it’s hilarious to see how much shit a man will eat to earn a buck. And thank you for it, afterwards.”
We stop at the front door. He hands me my cash in crisps, neat bills. It’s all there.
I say, “How many guys let you, I mean, April, call them a nigger?”
He looks down at me, scoffs, and shakes his head. There’s shift behind his eyes, as though he’s re-evaluated me.
He says, “All of them.”
End.
I was nominated for Best Supporting Actor two weeks ago...Whatever. Here's a story:
________
Dusk to Dawn
My cellphone’s glow illuminates my steps through the dark hall, and my free hand drags along the stucco wall whose Braille crumbles under my fingers. The light dies, a flick the volume button re-ignites the torch. Industrial debris crunches underfoot. My fingers lose contact with the wall when it terminates at an intersection, and I’m a kid in a crowd reaching for his mom’s hand that’s no longer there. I grope the wall out of the darkness once again, and follow its new direction down another hallway.
Ahead, voices echo, then a ice blue glow of another lithium-powered torch blazes. It bounces toward me. When our lights get to within conversation distance of each other, we stop. The voices say something to me in Japanese.
My light cuts out, then theirs. Black. We flick our buttons.
With a scrap of Japanese remembered from a long forgotten girl, I say, “Watashiwa Tyler. Genki desu-ka.”
Their expressions twist into Jack o’ lantern smiles, and they escort me through the corridors. They open a door for me, gesture me inside, then disappear down the hall.
My eyes adjust to a cinderblock walled room with a greasy lightbulb swinging from the ceiling.
A stale mildew scent. Windows, to high to see out of, with glass either broken or missing. The last shafts of daylight filter through, exciting the dust on a current of warm air. Couple of folding chairs. On one chair, a pizza box with heels and coagulating cheese. On the other chair sits a kid mangling the remains of a slice. He tosses the crust on the floor where it skips into a corner, and introduces himself as the translator. I fill out the forms, then he takes the paperwork and leaves.
I sit and wait.
________
After a contortion act I find a sleeping position in a metal chair. I’ve slept on worse. As I close my eyes my phone chirps an incoming text message. My brother...He’s accepted into medical school...his first choice. A glimpse of life shaped by different decisions. We began at the same start line...similar IQs and other raw materials. He took his ore and forged himself a scalpel. I made a straight razor.
The reality is, either can kill you. My last day working in a investment banking firm, Frank Garrison, a stock trader who’s been in the market since Nixon took us off the gold standard, went down to his car, came back with a baseball bat, and played t-ball with my skull as I laughed and cackled my last vestige of sanity away. Rewind five minutes earlier: he complained that he couldn’t read my handwriting on a trade ticket so I told him to ass-fuck his mother. Old people can be so pissy. When they pulled Frank off of me, I tossed my wallet and keys on my desk and walked around Beverly Hills with the clothes on my back: an Ermenegildo Zegna suit and a paper Burger King Crown. I spent that night sleeping in La Cienega Park…and the next night, and the next, and...
I text a congratulatory reply to my brother...no signal.
________
Through the windows, night replaced light. During winter in the high desert the temperature plummets with the sun, and I dressed for daytime. Wind whistles through the gap-toothed glass and the lightbulb sways. The hairs on my arms stand up so I pull my arms into my thrift shop t-shirt.
________
My breath plumes from my mouth and evaporates. No clock. I check my cellphone. It’s now tomorrow. I search this storage room. Racks of boxes filled with doorknobs...a jar of nails, screws and washers...a box of showerheads...nothing to seal up the windows.
I start some Silat djurus (think katas or forms) to keep warm until that evolves into all-out shadowboxing, which I regret because I’m sweating and when it evaporates it will steal my bodyheat.
A yawn pushes past my lips so I sit again, propping my feet on the second chair. The wind whistles a lullaby...
The door scrapes open and the translator tells me it’s time. I follow him into the bowels of the building.
________
A white dot of light beckons from end of the hallway. When we get to the end, the hall opens up to a vast, sprawling warehouse space. In the center, an island of light blazing in the sea of black. The set. It’s dressed to look like a hi-tech clean room or something you’d expect to see in Area 51. All that’s missing are engineers in clean suits reverse engineering a crashed spaceship, and a dissected alien on a gurney. The mildew scent of the storage room has been replaced with the tart citrus of industrial cleanser, which tears my eyes a bit. The all Japanese crew scurries about, scrubbing the set and working their chores. All of them in beanies and hoodies.
Am I going to be dressed in an alien costume? Japanese are big on tentacle porn.
A tattoo-sleeved man, wearing surf shorts and a wife beater, jogs up to me. The translator introduces him as the director. We shake hands and exchange deep bows. By the time I rise from my bow the director is bouncing around the set from prop to prop like a sub atomic particle on meth, spiting out Japanese sentences Kalashnikov style while the translator struggles to keep up. Schroedinger’s Jap wants me to play a patient. Someone hands me a hospital gown, which I change into. I’m commando style with my bare ass open in the back. The translator tells me to hop up on a stainless steel gurney. It’s polished to a mirror finish. No paper. I think, thank God I’m not wet or my buttocks would stick to the metal. I curse to myself as I lie back. I’ll warm up when we get into the sex.
My co-star, a girl who’d get carded for ordering apple cider, enters wearing a candy striper’s uniform. The director yells, Action!, tears a rift in space-time, and steps through it. Sayonara.
Nurse recites her exposition in Japanese then switches to English phrases she must have practiced all day to get right. We talk (sort of) about the horrors of war (what war would have a black guy in a Japanese hospital?).
She helps me to sit up, unties my gown, and rubs my chest with frozen steaks she passes for hands.
Then, she asks, “Are you ready for, giggle, sponge bath?”
Her words hit me jagged and crisp like a bucket of chipped ice flung in my face.
I fight the urge to say, Go fuck yourself! Last time I said that to a co-worker, I dodged hickory wood.
“Hai. Domo-arigato,” I say.
________
Over and over, she squeezes the sponge over my body. Over and over, sheets of ice water crash onto my skin–the water cascades off my body and onto the metal, taking with it a piece of my spirit like a Bering Sea wave eroding an Aleutian shoreline. When the shivering comes, it comes with violence.
Fuck this. Enough! I rip the sponge away her, rub her hands between mine, then and place one on my crotch. She gasps and squeals words I don’t understand. Could be genuine exasperation, could be her playing coy for the scene. The fuck if I care.
I rummage under her skirt and grab a fistful of muff. Her eyes are punctuated by dime-sized pupils. I smash my mouth onto hers. When we separate, she pants, spraying a mist of breath in the crisp air.
It’s on.
Men of various job descriptions orbit the gurney, filming, lighting, and snapping stills. I fall onto my back as naughty AZN girl wrestles the hentai cock.
My legs quiver...I place my hands on them to stay them...
The director phases back into existence, makes the universal sign for blow-job-to-pop shot, then returns to his state of everywhere and nowhere at the same time...The girl obeys and attacks my tentacle…The crew seems transfixed by this girl in mortal combat, hell-bent on sending the Kraken to the watery abyss from which it came...Fuck the crew, focus! Control your breathing...Breathe in…hold…exhale...Breathe in...hold...exhale...You’re in a sauna...with some girl sucking your cock...
It’sss nnnot working...Goddamnit, I’m ccconvulsing...No way the camera doesn’t sssee this...Okay, draw your limbs as close to your core as pppossible...biology is working against you. Lose wood, it’s gone for good...kkkeep the blood flowing where you need it...there’s a girl sucking your cock...sucking your cccock...sucking your cock...it’s Amanda...lips…tongue...sucking your cock…sucking on your motherfucking cock...
Pop shot.
I blink; the director is there.
His lips fly, then he bows.
The translator translates, “You’re a jungle beast!”
I say, “Yes, I know,” and return the bow.
Directorsan counts out a crisp stack of Benjamins into my trembling palm.
I say, “Oats Caress Ha-ma.” (Nice working with you).
I come down hard from the rush. I yawn.
________
Outside, wind slaps at my face. Stars everywhere. When I fire up the Mustang, I’m greeted with the sound of a lawnmower wheezing with asthma.
YOU FUCKING WHORE! START!
I pop the hood with my cell phone clinched in my teeth to illuminate...corroded ports on my battery. I scrape the smegma with my keys, and fire the V8 up. She roars to life.
Clicking through gears with my short-throw shifter, I assault the freeway. Outside the window the desert mountains surrender the fight as they no longer hold back the grey of dawn. Clouds, underlit pink. I yawn. My eyes want to close…and I don’t remember how to get home...The car knows the way.
Gotta stay awake...I lower the windows...Wind blasts through, whipping up a vortex in the cockpit. Normally, this the part where I contemplate what all this shit means. Not today. I crank the radio full blast as the rising sun warms my face...and sing.
“Every time I look in the mirror
All these lines on my face getting clearer
The past is gone
It went by, like dusk to dawn
Isn’t that the way
Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay...”
End.
Interview. NSFW due to an advertisement of two girlies rubbing their asses.
Are you kidding me? I signed a bunch of stuff last year and now they are popping up on Ebay:http://cgi.ebay.com/TYLER-KNIGHT-SIGNED-GOLF-BALL-TIGERS-WOOD-TIGER-WOODS-/250733858154
Tyler,
I just watched 'Graphic Sexual Horror' the other night, a documentary about the notorious bondage site Insex... Anyhow, just curious if you have seen it and if you had any thoughts on similar stuff, or any good stories.
You get the feeling that it started out kind of legit, then as the dude who ran it started making cash, shit started going badly.
Anyhow, its an interesting watch for those who don't mind seeing some shocking stuff.
Info here
http://www.graphicsexualhorror.com
Man, that shit is scary. I honestly can't see how that would get someone off. But, I mean, each to his or her own.
matt, you don't even know how crazy some of the shit they were doing gets. They show in the documentary how the models would do live feeds on the site. Some of these were 6-8 hour events, the longer they could last, the more they got paid. It eventually became a badge of honor to make it through one, but at the same time, everyone knows they couldn't tap out because it was unlikely he would have the models back ever again if they did.
He did do some pretty clever stuff though. For instance, all of the models would be assigned a number like '106' on the site, instead of using their name. This way, even if they did work for other sites, they would basically be advertising for his site.
Anyhow, the bulk of the documentary is talking heads so if you're interested you should be able to make it through.
I mean, I could probably watch it. Maybe. I'm not sure. I've seen rough sex type stuff before, and some light bondage stuff, but never anything that borders on horror and snuff. I'm fairly unphased by grotesque stuff. Maybe i've been conditioned from working in aged care. Some pretty far-out shit happens at work. And working with dead bodies will make anything that's still breathing a breeze. But yeah, I just don't see how you could wack off to something like that. If there's a Cultie that is into it, and doesn't mind sharing, I'd love to hear about what it is that turns them on.
Well, to be fair, I wouldn't call anything in it as bordering on "horror" or "snuff". It is VERY strong BDSM stuff, but they don't try to cross that line, as far as I know.
That said, they do talk about a water tank they built with 3/4 inch glass that basically exploded. Some of the shit they built could certainly be dangerous. They probably got lucky, actually.
What's the difference between heavy BDSM and horror, or torture? Willingness?
Well, when I think of horror or snuff, I think of gore.
I'm interested in seeing the documentary. Although, I won't be able to watch it alone. How can people be into that sort of thing? Labia and pepper spray...seriously?
you gotta give the girls credit though. Fucking women are so much stronger than men. I don't many men would put up with that sort of abuse.
We have an event here in San Francisco called Folsom Street Fair that blows my mind. It's a big BSDM showcase where all sorts of strange things happen. I went one year and saw a guy being lead by a leash around in a full vinyl gimp suit licking the shoes of everyone he passed.
Saw another guy whipping some dude with barb wire while he jerked off.
Place is bizarre man.
You know in all the years I've been here I've never been sigged?
That's true. But still, $4000 is not enough for me to do this.
That's all they got for it? 4k. No. Fucking. Way.
On the website Kirk linked to it said that their pay was $4000, but they'd get a bonus if they "played" with PD, or the guy who doles out the torture.
Also, I read on the actual Insex website that scissors were taken to the breasts and vagina of one girl. How is anyone okay with that?
I don't know how scissors to the breast is still classed as BDSM and not torture. Did they fuck the slits or something, like that one creepy German (maybe it wasn't German) porno where they strung a girl up and sliced between her ribs then fucked the hole.
And you guys say I'm obscene...
Remember when aphonic messiah made that thread about the porn he watched with the deaf girl getting beat up and how mad it made him?
No. Link plOx.
I watched a porno with a deaf girl in it once. She made sounds like a whale and I felt bad.
Anyway, Matt, sane people would consider that torture. I actually support that the Department of Homeland Security shut down the site.
Looks like post-millennial BDSM with a larger-than-usual budget for props and sets, not necessarily "harder".
My ex-girlfriend, before she got herself dead, went on to do extreme pain/humiliation work, going out of her way to specifically seek out certain famously-brutal producers who were generally avoided by those who were "in-the-know".
Sure, the money was alright, but mostly she did it because she liked being beaten and burned and electrocuted, &c.
I know more about this bullshit than I ever wanted to.
I'm more interested in the political and legal circumstances surrounding the site's closure.
This is why we can't have nice things.
4K buys a lot of oxy
Is it normal for me to grit my teeth at the fact that someone actually beats off to that torture? Should I be ashamed that I feel hatred towards someone who does, because I assume it means they have some seriously sick issues with women, desiring their pain and torture? I understand not everyone who does wring their rag to this actually winds up trying it, but I still feel, not know (big difference), that they have some serious problems that need fixing.
Si vis pacem, para bellum
I'm a doctor and I think if they didn't have that stuff to beat off too, they would be way more likely to do it themselves in real life.
Peter North IS Matt Ramsey!