Ask A Pornstar

i just spit ice cream

out my nose.

i'm not eating ice cream...

You know what bothers me most about freaky people that do that to themselves? It's not so much how freaky they look as it is that whenever they look into a mirror all they see is "Damn I am Good Looking!"

Christ, thats a better fit than you may realize, Brandon. Because I'm the only black guy on many studio's approved male talent list (and I almost exclusively work in high end shit), I can go months without seeing another person of my own race on set.

As the de facto point man for my entire goddamn race, everything I do is scrutinized to an impossible degree. Other talent may show up hours late, high, and/or with a blatant case of Space Herpes and it's tolerated.

As the sole example of the "peeps", I'm never late to set. Never. This is because opinion of the entire black talent pool hinges upon my performance. Not just in the film as talent, but my interactions with others on set.

When there is a lull in conversation on set, the default topic is often recounting the ways that I am different with trite jokes. I laugh right along with them as I take their fucking money.

Sun Tzu teaches us that all "All warfare is based on deception." and "When strong, show weakness." When on set, I get my self-deprecating, shucking and jiving minstrel show on. I reflect back exactly as they expect see me. This allows me to operate within the business with impunity. I play along because it serves me to do so. I've no interest to inspire a paradigm shift in porn people's perceptions.

There are a dozen decent black male talent working, but Wicked used to shoot only myself and Mr. Marcus. Once, my agent fucked up by double booking me and I had to turn down a Wicked flick. This was an opportunity for another kid to take my place for what was to be his first high-end set. It shouldn't have to work out like that.

Many black male talent treat me with derision. The black-owned studios pretend I don't exist. It's amazing. I can get nominated for or win every award from AVN (the industry Oscars)and my work is ignored wholesale in the ethnic market.

This sucks only because I love, love, black girls but many of the top studio's like seldom (never) shoot them. The black studio's do.

From both sides, I'm the Uncle Tom that "talks/acts white", as if a decent command of the language is an exclusive attribute to the Caucasoid race, and non-existent in the Negroid race.

Whatever. I don't give a damn about educating people or inspiring a vision of Jesus. I care about adding cash to my "fuck you" stack.

How about PornOthello?

What about my idea to make a Passion of the Christ type film using The Song of Solomon as a porn?
http://chuckpalahniuk.net/forum/1000026/my-shortly-to-come-movie-project

You'd be communicating with me through a lawyer or a Ouija board.

1) My involvement in porn was the nexus of laziness, opportunity, and questionable decision making.

I was a stockbroker. I torched my client book, decimating people's live savings and rode a boutique investment banking firm into the ground. I basically said fuck it to life as a normal citizen, divested myself of anything that wouldn't fit into a sea bag, and slept under the stars.

The homeless bum lifestyle wasn't as romantic in practice as the idea of it. The kindness of a series of women, all of whom I found creative ways to fuck over, brought me back to society.

Some ex-model girl I knew from my early 20's let me crash at her place. We made a deal. I wouldn't try to fuck her and she'd pretend not to notice my self destructive habits (I'll keep this part private). I was so dirty by the time I took my first shower in months, you could see my stink vapors flicker around me. I cleaned up enough to get menial labor because I wasn't done hiding. Moved into a pay by the hour hotel right off Hollywood boulevard. Turns out Bukowski once stayed there for a bit years before, though I didn't know who the hell he was.

During that time, Model Girl hooked me up with her agent and I did some gigs here and there. One of them was a layout for an Australian women's magazine. I figured fuck it, nobody in the US will ever see it.

One day I was coming out of the Hollywood Library and some dude walked up to me. He asked if I wanted to make movies. I replied, what kind of movies. He gave me his card. I stared at that thing for months. I got tired of being poor so I called him.

My first day in porn was the third worst day of my life. I'll write it in a different post rather than digress too far.

2) Intellect and common sense are two different things and are not mutually exclusive attributes.

I wouldn't say the porn industry has a significantly lower intellect per capita than any random sampling of the population. Sure, there are plenty of uneducated people in adult film but what's shown in the media and isn't a balanced view.

The idiots and the fuck ups in all of entertainment (TV,sports, film, music, literature) stand out more than the "normal" entertainers that have their shit together.

This is because scandal and stupidity is sexy. It sells, generating revenues in the billions. From tabloids, to E!, TMZ, ET, People Magazine, to Oprah's couch. Nobody wants to hear about how great Mandy Moore's life is going. What sells is the silly shit Lindsay Lohan or Brittney Spears are getting themselves into. The constant search for the next Tiger Woods/Kate Gosselin/John Edward's-bastard-baby/and did-Tito-beat-or-not-beat-Jenna Jameson puke to shovel into the public's gaping maw.

Now common sense is an entirely different matter. There are a lot of screw-ups in porn but this has little to do with intelligence as it does poor judgement. The industry attracts a certain element of people into all facets of its ranks. The lazy, the ethically challenged, and the human tragedies waiting to happen.

just browsed through your website. Good stuff. What's Reverend Jen like? And how come I haven't seen you around here before?

Thanks man, but I've got a long way to go. There are a lot of holes in my writing skill, but I'm working hard on them. That's why I'm in the workshop. The workshop is priceless.

The upside is, I've only been writing for a year so at least I know for sure my skill has room for vast improvement. Now that I have other people's eyes on my stories, the days of self taught, bumping into walls is over. There are some super talented motherfuckers to learn from in that workshop.

This is a piece that is currently in the workshop. The workshop version is somewhat different, though.
http://thirstforfire.com/2010/0210unclean.html

This is the first thing I ever wrote. Ha ha, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing and it shows, too.
http://thievesjargon.com/workview.php?work=1407

Fucking Allie Sin was like clubbing Valium drugged baby harp seals. If there was such a thing as consensual rape, I’m sure thats what I committed. After I fucked her I wanted to toss my soul in a furnace.

The first time I saw her she was getting cummed on by 12 mopes (a mope is the lowest class of male talent) in “Bakers Dozen”, and she definitely was checked out of reality.

I am not Carl Jung, but she clearly had issues with doing porn the times I saw her. Consumers never see it but me being up close, I did. I remember working with her on my birthday for Joey Silvera/ Evil Angel. She answered all questions in monosyllabic answers, looking at her feet.

Let me tell you, during the scene it was me that wanted to just get it over with as quickly as possible.

As the scene progressed she was near comatose and at one point I wondered if she was still alive. She went into a space in her mind like the time I saw her on "Baker's Dozen". Me and another male talent took turns on her for 45 minutes. I rationalized that she has free will, could leave any time she wanted, and filled out the release forms.

Make no mistake. I didn't give a damn about the jollies of fucking her. At that point, my sex drive died 3-400 Viagras ago. I was thinking about my $700 check for an hour's work. That's it.

At the time, I was even more than a bit pissed at the girl for putting me in this situation of having to fuck her corpse, making me feel like a rapist, and thus fucking with what shred of conscious I had left.

My rationalized thoughts were, "Fuck her. Fuck her for putting me in a spot that I'd have to choose between doing what's humane, and making my money!" I saw her as an obstical to getting paid.

Dude, I've done some exceedingly vile shit. Not proud of it.

After that scene, I raced across the city to my second scene of the day.

This one was an English girl that burst into tears while I was fucking her because she was "having a second thoughts about having sex a black man". Not speculating. These were her words. Again, I said to myself, "Fuck her."

I excused myself from set while the director, Alexander Devoe, baby talked her into continuing, offering her more money for the extra degradation of herself.

You should have been there to hear them negotiate an agreeable price.

When you go to work today I want you to try this. Burst into a crying fit, holding up work, and ask for more money. State your reason for your spectacle as, "your co-worker is a Jew", and because of this I want you to demand more money.

I popped my second 100mg Viagra of the day and a Cialis, chewing them both for expediency. I stroked my erection back up and hate fucked her with all the shit I had built up from the earlier scene. It took me a good 45 minutes to get into my "happy place" to deliver the pop shot.

The consumer never sees any of this shit on his TV or hotel room thanks to skillful editing.

Welcome to Hollywoodland.

*Probably not smart of me to use real names, but fuck it. I'm past giving a damn anymore. Joey Silvera is a good man. Screw everybody else.

The industry sentiment ranges from liberal to a-political. There is a branch of the attorney General's office set up whose sole purpose is to shut porn down.

There was a period in '07 when offices and sets were raided at random. I pulled into one office's parking lot to pick up a check. A procession of armed gov't agents were carrying files out the door. Fuck it. I left the check, got in my car and drove away.

The Bush administration set it up. Obama has not closed it down. Can't blame him. Politically unpopular to do so for a so-called centrist liberal.

Lookit. The ~5 billion in revenues porn generates does not exist in a vacuum. Porn workers aren't consuming all that product. Porn, like any art form, is a mirror held up to the society in which it exists. It reflects the sentiment of the times, or a protest of the sentiment of the times. Either way, it's relevant.

If politicians have a problem with the disease of social degeneration, they'd be better served addressing the issues that would allow pornography, the symptom, to exist in said society. I'm just saying.

What's "PA"?

No worries. It kills time while sitting on set. Besides, I'm getting as much out of this by catharsis as you are by reading.

My first post was three weeks ago. I met Jen briefly at a poetry reading in Manhattan in February. She has cute elf ears.

Well, you told me a funny story of you on set, but you were not happy about it.

What's the happiest you've ever been with your job? Either in a scene, or out of the action, talking with a director friend, or whatever? Does anything involved with Porn make you happy?

Wow. So, maybe this is naive of me to ask, but is it really THAT big of a deal that you're black? Some of your post insinuate that your being darker skinned makes some girls not willing to/able to work with you. I don't understand that!

Maybe I'm just disillusioned? I just don't get how something as minute as the color of your skin would matter.

Pointless Announcements!

Dude, your blog is amazing. "She scats on me like Ella Fitzgerald," is the funniest thing I have read in a minute.

This fascinates me in some odd shameless kind of way. Can you talk more about it, or is it a no-no? Or at least pass under the table a couple key-words for the google machine?

Also...

"Her sphincter puckers and protrudes like a toothless old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage."

I probably won't go back to dipping, thanks to that.

Doesn't quite have that romantic feeling of Bill Hick's description of a "pink quivering bunny nose."

What kind of toon do you have and how can i get my mutilate-spec'd level 80 rogue to have higher DPS? I feel like i've tried everything but i'm always lower than everyone but the healer.

Assuming your gear is at high enough item level and is enchanted and gemmed properly, it's most likely your rotation. check out www.elitistjerks.com for solutions.

I like how Tyler can move from answering porn questions to WoW questions and not miss a beat.

best amature web cam site for making money?

wow... wonderful first post

Well you wouldn't expect me to ask under my REAL screenna-- oops.

I'm back. Been on set the past few days filming a porn parody of Bad Girls Club.

There are rare moments when I'm working with a girl and I can't believe I'm fucking her. It's rare but it does happen. The happiest I've been about my profession?

The shackles restrict me to baby steps. I’m being moved into a holding tank in Downtown LA’s Twin Towers. County jail. The chain gang holds a dozen of us, linked waist-to-waist, handcuff-to-handcuff. Everyone is in county blues jump suits with “LA County Jail” stenciled on the back in bold letters. On the feet of some of the men are county issued slippers. I’m the only one in street clothes: white linen Armani slacks, Donna Karen sweater, and Steve Madden sandals. You may as well have put a “my asshole is snug” sign on my fucking chest.

We shuffle to the holding tank. A group of Sheriff’s Deputies bark commands on top of each other, including “face the wall” and “spread your legs” as they take of the waist chains. A female deputy frisks me, hands roving up my inner thighs. She commands me to open my mouth, lift my tongue, then move it side-to-side. She takes off my handcuffs.

Another deputy is asking the racially ambiguous looking prisoners, who do you hang with? LA county jail separates the races into segregated areas for safety. Race riots are not uncommon inside. There are only four non black or Latino faces among us. They belong to three white guys and a Filipino kid. In the Twin Towers, you may be grouped in with guys on the way to prison for God knows what and for how long, so what the hell is another few months added for stomping on a new guy.
The lone Asian kid is is hyperventilating. Eyes darting.

The deputies leave and shut the heavy steel door. A few of the black guys are staring at me and talking amongst themselves. I do my best not to stare back, choosing to focus on a point on the wall across from me.

Time passes. The Asian kid is plucked away and soon after I’m moved into the black men’s tank. It’s a room designed to hold I’m guessing 50 people, filled with 200 or so. The tank is simple. One door. Steel benches bolted to the floor. Open faced toilet with a old man sitting on it. Linoleum floor, no windows, no clock so you have absolutely no sense of the passage of time.

There’s space on the steel bench but I do not sit. When my legs get tired of standing I pace to get the circulation going. More people looking at me, and talking amongst themselves.

One kid is tired of standing and takes a seat on the bench without asking. The “owner” of the spot folds the kid over his fist. Other weak or unaffiliated men are fucked with for various, if not unknown transgressions.

A man shits himself walks around mumbling unintelligibles. Nobody fucks with Shitty Pants Man . Unfortunately my bowels are empty so this defense mechanism won’t work for me.

Time passes. Hours to be sure, but how many?. When you are in a sealed off and windowless chamber that is vacuum packed from the rest of the world, your internal clock is useless. People not high up enough in the pecking order are sleeping all over the floor. My eyes feel dry and scratchy. There’s unclaimed floor space next to the open faced toilet but I’m not that tired that I would risk getting pissed on, let alone shut my eyes for a second.

A group of five guys that have been looking at me and whispering get up and cross the holding tank towards me. My adrenal glands scream awake. I give as good as I get sparing with pros at a local MMA gym and the Boxing gym and these guys look soft and out of shape. This is no comfort, their numbers render this observation moot. Regardless of my conditioning and skill there’s no winning. I’m not a “tough guy” in the street sense of the word and any victory to be had would be Pyrrhic at best. Still, not defending myself isn't an option.

The pack advances closer. I fold my arms under across my chest, resting my chin on my fist so I can raise my guard in an instant. They stop within arms reach of me. My mouth feels as though its full of hot sand, and the more I fight it the more my eyes mist over.

One of them, the alpha male speaks. He says, “Hey, me and the boys was wondering...”

A sound creaks out of my mouth, like two bricks scrapped together. I say, “Yeah?”

Eyes from all over the holding tank, all of them, focus on the spot between my eyes, generating heat. Adrenaline dump fucks with my perception of time and my previously empty bowels now want to void themselves. My eyes can only perceive what is directly in front of me because my peripheral vision is gone.

Alpha male continues, “Are you Tyler-mothu-fuckin’-Knight?”

My ridiculous alter ego name never sounded more beautiful!

“Yes.” I say, “Yes I am!”

One of the guys in the pack says, “See? I told you Motha-fucka!! I he was that porn nigga!”

Another one says, “Yeah, I seen your black ass on Showtime last week! You was trimmin’ the pussy of this curly haired bitch! What was the name of that show?”

I say, “Uh…Zane’s Sex Chroni…”

“Yeah that’s it! Zane’s Sex Chronicles!”

A crowd gathers. Even Shitty Pants Man seems interested and shuffles over.

Alpha Male turns to face the gathering prisoners and says, “Hey Y’all, check out my nigga! We gots us a Celebah-tee in tha house--”

This can’t be happening.

“--he makes da POOOOOOR-NOS!!”

Shitty Pants Man says, “Hey nigga, whachoo doin’ in here?”

Okay, just go with it. Do NOT fuck this up!

“It’s those racist mothu-fuckin cops, man!” I say “I was just driving, and they just pulled a nigga over!” (If you’ve ever heard me speak, you’d know how ridiculous I sound trying to talk ghetto.)

The crowd speaks:

“Thats some booool-shit right there man!”

“Shut up nigga! Let a nigga speak! Damn!”

“You better act like you know--”

Alpha Male takes control, “QUIET! Let the Tyler Knight speak!”

“Thanks dog,” I say, “so as I was sayin’--”

And I tell my story to the guys, holding court on a metal bench. The story of the LAPD then turns into the stories of my career in porn. They like my bukkake story the best, standing in silence as I tell it--laughing at the right places. One inmate calls bullshit on the cum-bong part but I remind him it’s on DVD.

I still don’t feel safe but I don’t dare stop talking. More time passes, and the other inmates start telling me stories. Some of them are actually pretty fucking funny. Many tales of their exploits remind me why I’m glad these guys are in here. My fellow inmate’s stories turn into confessionals and I’m dispensing sex advice, making shit up on the fly. I swear to Jesus to get them all into porn when we get out of lock up.

The crowd thins and a guy, I’ll say 6′5″ sits down next to me after waiting his turn.

He whispers to me, “Hey man. If they keep me in here in County, I don’t think Ima make it.”

Is this guy for real?

Alpha Male says, “Hey TK, don-choo worry . Me and the boys, we got your back. Lay down and get some sleep. Nobody gonna fuck wit choo.”

I lay on the bench, doing my best to rest my brain with my eyes wide open. Apparently I doze off for a bit (who the fuck knows how long) because when I wake, there is a pile of plastic wrapped cookies at my feet. The Cookie Shrine.

Alpha, watching me as I wake up, says, “We figured you was hungry TK so we got you some cookies.”

Looking around the tank, there is evidence that lunch was delivered as I was sleeping. Some prisoners are eating apples. Others drinking cartons of OJ. Nobody has cookies.

Alpha and his gang watch me work my way through a half dozen cookies from the pile. This is not the time to tell him about my low carb diet. The door opens. A couple deputies enter and shout out a few names to see the judge. My real name among them.

As I walk to the door, several of my new buddies shout their e-mail addresses and Facebook pages at me. One of them, “Militant Man” says he will send me a friend request on Myspace. (He actually does.)

The second most beautiful thing in the world an incredible young woman’s ass. The most beautiful thing in the world is a middle aged lawyer in a well tailored suit who is there to get your ass out of jail.

As I’m processed out, a deputy cuts my prisoner identification wristband off with safety scissors.

Outside, I squint like an evicted mole. The sun is up but the day on the calendar is different. Amanda, my girlfriend of eight years, is there waiting for me on the steps. She hugs me. I cry.

Across the street is the property return office. My personal effects including my cell phone and wallet with my ID’s have been lost and the clerk tells me to wait while they look for them. When I ask how long this will take, the response is, however long it takes. I remember the show on National Geographic channel where the gecko sacrifices his tail to escape.

I say to Amanda, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” We leave.

A few blocks away is Plaza Olivera, the oldest street in Los Angeles. We find a cantina and sip mojitos while the setting sun colors the smoggy Los Angeles sky purples and reds and oranges. When the first round is finished I order another, then another. We drink.

Everybody is smoking. The director, the assistant and the girl. The naked goth girl is all elbows and knees. She reminds me of a hurt fawn limping alone in the woods, decoying would be predators straight to prison-where inside of ten minutes of incarceration the predator is now the prey–passed around, hurt, limping. Whore-red lipstick smudged around the filter of her cigarette she is holding. Not my type but whatever. The other male talent I’m told is on set in the livingroom. The director’s assistant hands me paperwork, takes my IDs to photograph them. The director explains the scene.

“Ever done a double penetration before?” he asks.

Nope.

“Once.”

The assistant hands my IDs back to me.

“How did it go?”

A roach scurries across the wall behind the director’s shoulder.

“Okay I guess,” I say to the roach. I finish my sentence to the six foot tall insect that’s going to pay me. “the proximity of another dude’s balls as he digs in a girls ass while I’m fucking her pussy isn’t my favorite thing in the world to do but fuck it, it’s money so whatever. As long as there’s no sword fighting or ball touching involved I’m cool.”

The director walks away. Conversation over.

The girl and I play I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours with our std tests. The other male talent’s test is on the table.

After the homework is done, I shoulder my bag and excuse myself to the bathroom so I can freshen up and return the call.
—-----

The single, bare bulb above is layered with dust, basking my skin jaundice yellow in its light. Black and fuzzy mold or mildew, the fuck if I know for sure which, speckle the beige walls with their spores.

A Smurf-patterned shower curtain hangs outside the tub. It dangles on two rings giving the middle a depressive sag. Hanging there on its ring-as-hands for love of life. Caked-on soap scum at its tattered bottom. If it could speak it would beg for euthanasia.

The tub itself, a primordial tide pool with exotic life spawning from the sludge. A corpse could be dissolving in the bottom of the murk for all I know. I give it a wide berth as if I expect a hand to thrust out and pull me into the Abyss. It wouldn’t surprise me if the home owner has gills and fins. Calcium deposits on the shower head probably focuses the flow into an industrial water-jet beam that can cut steel.

Not going to wash my balls in that thing. May as well return the call.

He answers on the first ring. “Yeah, look man, I’m sorry but I can’t use you tomorrow.”

I take a breath before speaking. I don’t say the first four things to come to mind. “Why?”

There is a pause. “You know I like you and I think you’re gonna do well in the business--”

“Brian, get to the point.”

He says, “Nadia decided she doesn’t want to do interracial.”

I suppress a chuckle but nothing is funny. Even though I’ve never heard the term before, it’s self evident. I still want him to come out and say it. “What the fuck is ‘interracial’?”

“Look, your black--”

“Really?”

“--and she won’t work with you, Tyler.”

The police helicopter’s thwumping fades away. I want to set the bag down but think the better of it.

I say, “This is ridiculous, look at Nadia and look at me–I wouldn’t fuck her if I wasn’t getting paid either. Shit, I’ve fucked models from all over the world, my race was never an issue with women until I got into this business.”

He says, “Photographic evidence.”

“‘Photographic evidence’? What am I, a fucking yeti?” I reach into the bag still slung over my shoulder and pull out my toiletry kit. “That’s the problem, you people think everybody outside the porn bubble thinks like you do and you assume that most girls outside of the business think like that–”

“I don’t make the rules, man–-it’s whatever the girls and the studio wants.”

This month’s AVN magazine has a full page, one-sheet ad of Nadia doing some truly apocalyptic shit on camera.

I take out my toothbrush and go to run it under hot water from the sink but my hand stops cold at the spigot. I settle for toothpaste and the saliva in my mouth.

I say, “So the act of getting chain ass-fucked by ten guys-–all of them coming inside her while dunking her head in a toilet, then blowing shit-and-cum bubbles out of her asshole on camera is okay with the parents at home, as long as it’s white and not nigger cock. Is this correct?”

“Hey man-–”

“Did it ever cross you mind to-–gee, I dunno–cast a black girl for a change? Or perhaps one of the 4 trillion other girls, most of them way hotter than her, that have no ‘moral dilemma’ with doing an interracial porn scene?”

He says, “Well, her morality has a price. She will do the scene but I’d have to pay her extra money to work with you. It’s not in my budget but if you agree we can pay her the extra money out of your chec--”

I click the cellie shut.

Tyler, the mope.

I take my time brushing my teeth. The routine relaxes me. A little. When I’m done, I wrap the brush in toilet paper, put it and the toothpaste back in my toiletry kit. A thought occurs to me and I take my toothbrush out of the toiletry kit and drop it on the floor. In my toiletry kit is an in-case-of-emergency Viagra.

Bird in hand, Eric.

I chew the pill. It powders tart and citrusy in my mouth like licking a 9-volt battery. It bites me back with a twang in my salivary glands. With my tongue I pry loose the caked-on deposit from my molars and swallow. No water.

Lovely. I’ll still need one more scene after this.

Another anecdote:

I’m in a director’s office. We’re going to make a big budget flick that culminates with a group sex scene. Group scenes consist of several people switching partners a few times during the scene. This is to be the big movie of the year for this studio. Casting well is of paramount importance.

Director: Is there anyone you do not want to work with in this scene?

I know this studio only shoots top shelf girls. The best. Both in looks and in professionalism. My “no list” is moot.

Tyler: Not really, bro. As long as the girls are into working with me it's all good.

The Next Week. On Location Six Billion Light-years From LA.

Night time. People are cleaning up just before the sex scene after shooting action sequences and blowing shit up in the hot desert all day. Cameras are loaded. The fucking will commence shortly.

Director: Hey Tyler. You got a minute?
Tyler: Sure. Que Paso?
Director: “Cindy” does not want to work with you. She does not do interracial.

(Cindy is Asian. There are many Asian porn starlets that claim not to do interracial sex scenes. The thing is, there are exactly zero Asian male porn stars, making any boy/girl sex scene they do interracial. What they mean is they won’t work with a black guy.)

Tyler:We had this conversation in your office. You specifically asked me if there is any girl I did not want to work with. I said--

Director: I know man. Look, I’m sorry.

A blonde porn girl walks by. The director grabs her by the arm.

Director: Hey “Brenda” you don’t mind working with Tyler do ya?

Fuck! He is asking this now? What is she says no, too–-does he expect me to just go home?

Brenda: Not at all. He’s beautiful. I’ll fuck him any day!

Brenda walks off.

Tyler: There are three boys and three girls. Don’t you think it will be awkward with me sitting by myself for a good part of the scene?

Director: We’ll figure it out, my man. We can always edit and cut around you.

I'm silent. It is impossible to replace female talent at this hour. Especially where we are so far from the city. I'm as welcome as a dead roach in your bowl of corn flakes.

Director: You okay Tyler, you're not upset are ya?

Where the fuck am I going to go? What this he does not know is I have replaced the fantasy of fucking hot pussy with the sound of my V8 howling past set at 8,000 RPM. At this point in time I am the only black guy this studio shoots. I do not give a fuck if I'm never hired again. What I care about is the fact that I am in a fishbowl. Mr. Marcus and I are the de-facto point men for the entire Goddamn black talent pool with the high end studios. Our actions are scrutinized to an impossible standard and affects possibilities and opportunities for others. I leave set, and the go “SEE? Thats exactly why we don’t hire black guys!”

Still...

I give my short throw shifter a “click” and I mash the accelerator. Wheels spin. A pebble kicked up from my tires finds the director’s left ball. The needle on the speedometer climbs until it is pinned, as this tool and his set gets smaller in my rear view mirror...

Tyler: Nah it’s cool man. I really would appreciate it if next time you cast girls in a porn whom...I dunno...actually will fuck me.

Director: You’re a team player my man!

Die in a fire.

During the scene I hate-fucking Brenda’s ass. The other two male talent struggle to maintain erections, leaving the other girls largely unfucked.

I gloat.

Thanks, Tyler.

Your posts always make me kinda sad, but you're good at what you say. Keep saying it, yo.

Tyler,

Do you ever worry that someone from the industry is going to read what you write either here or on your blog? Is the open approach and uncensored perspective you use an attempt to self destruct your career so that you can find a way out of the industry?

I really enjoy your posts because they show me a part of something that I could not even fathom. Most people view working in the porn industry as this romanticized dream job. "Oh my god, your job is to fuck hot chicks on camera....where do I sign up?!" I am not one of those people.

Thank you for posting.

I think its obvious we are in need of a Green Mile parody. I do love the fact that most people would say being a pronstar is next to videogame testing as a job, when both jobs are just as tired and shitty as the next.

Here's a question just for laughs and curiosity, are you insured for your virility? Does the company offer health or dental insurance, or insurance for all your cavities? You seem to be a bit high profile, so I guess its something that would exist even thought it sounds funny.

Do the people like directors and so on in the industry maintain a cynical view of their work, considering it to all be about the money, or are there those who try to innovate in their films?

This is quickly turning into my favorite thread ever. Great writing, brutal confessions. If this stuff isn't compiled with a publishing deal within a year, I'll be amazed.

Yeah, I'd read the fuck out of a Tyler Knight book.

^ Such an appropriate statement given the context.

this thread is pretty great. thanks for sharing tyler

i have a question - were you and your girlfriend together before you started making porn, or after? were you upfront with her about it from the beginning? how does she feel about your day job? she must be an incredibly strong woman to be dealing with that for 8 years.

Thanks for reading. This is cathartic.

I don't give a damn. The only reason I use pseudonyms is for plausible deniability in the event that I actually sell a book or two and somebody wants to sue for liable. Yes, porn people will sue for *snicker* character assassination.

Aside from the legal issue, fuck them. What are they gonna say? "Hey, you changed the name but I recognize the douchebag antics you've described in xyz story as something only I would do?"

As far as destroying my career, in porn you are only as good as your last scene if you're male talent. Building a career is a false ambition--what you do is actually more akin to stringing as many successes together as you can, any way you can. If you have to pop pills, shoot your dick up, or look at gay videos (or whatever you are in to) on your iPhone before your scene to get you going then so be it.

I could kill it one hundred scenes in a row for a director and the one time I have an off day or struggle, that's what will be harped on. Forever. Assuming I'm hired by him again, that one scene will be used as leverage to negotiate my pay rate for the scene I'm about to do downward before I even start. Directors and even studios are often serious fuck ups, but they have the purse strings.

Forgive the digression, but there are entire studios on my "no list" because I refuse to be dealt with the way they treat talent. Some of these are: Metro, DVSX, Celestial, and Legend.

Anyway, professional porn is dead this time next year so it doesn't matter. I seem to have momentum in the softcore market with Showtime and Cinemax although I have no ambitions to be an "actor". We'll see what happens.

Thank you.

1) I get people that comment on my blog about how they don't understand why how my profession could have any draw-downs to it, and that I should just "lighten up." I don't set out to show the gritty side of what I write. Although admittedly it's impossible to be detached and objective, the aim has always been to document what happens as it happens.

(The funny thing is, even before I knew about writing minimalism I naturally inclined to tell stories without passing judgement of "this is good" or "this is bad", believing the details and context would lead the reader to his/her own conclusions. When I read about "Recording Angel" in Chuck's "She Breaks Your Heart" article about Amy Hempel I knew I had to join the workshop.)

How anyone can read any piece of mine and go "Yep, that's the job for me!" is baffling, but I still get letters daily about people looking to break into porn. People will see what they want to see.

2) We are independant contractors. There is no healh insurance, retirement, or anything resembling benefits offered to the talent pool. If you don't have health insurance one could spend thousands each year just curing staph infections and STDs.

Years ago Steven St. Croix had his penis insured for five hundred thousand dollars. Well, actually VIVID insured it when he was under contract to them I think. Good thing. During one scene a girl sat on it too fast and snapped it backwards.

Most crank out bullshit just to make a buck and keep working. The ones that actually do care don't have the talent to go along with their ambitions and the work ends up a pretentious, laughable mess.

There are a few exceptions to this, including Eli Cross, Ren Savant, David Lord, David Arron Clark (R.I.P) and a few others. All those guys are/were talented motherfuckers.

Then there one director that won't even watch the sex scenes being shot in their own fucking movies, and changes the script as it's being shot (I was lucky to even get a peek at it to begin with)like a certain director that used to crank out big budget schlock for VIVID. Fuck it, it's Paul Thomas, what the fuck do I care if people know who he is? Right before a sex scene I saw him leave the set.

I say, "Err...where are you going?"

He says, "I've been doing this shit since the 70's. If I watch one more sex scene my eyes will bleed. Jason (the camera man)will shoot it whether I'm here or not."

"Oh-kaaaay..."

The novel is done. Many of the anecdotal stories have been revised for quality and fictionalized and made their way into it because I couldn't express what I wanted to say better than how I've already written them.

I'm not terribly optimistic with my chances of getting a novel published.

1) Saying I'm a writer evokes laughter because of my day job. It's an uphill battle to be taken seriously for creating literature for me. That's why I've been piece-mealing out short stories to lit mags for publication to build credits.

2) In a publishing world run by women, and considering chick-lit dominates the market, my subject matter is a very tough sell. Hell, if you asked me I couldn't even give you a comparison to another writer, what school of writing, or existing market I would fit into. Someone said dirty realism. Whatever *shrug*.

3) Although there is absolutely nothing erotic about how sex is portrayed in my writing (intentionally) it's easy to dismiss it as porn. Correct me if I'm wrong but that would kill chances of the big booksellers from stocking it on their shelves.

4) There are soooo many better writers than me that don't get published for less. Christ, a year ago when I wrote my first thing ever I didn't even know how to use quotation marks, and I never even heard of the term "literary fiction."
I still don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but the writing seems to be improving. Maybe that's good enough.

Regardless of those things, I still did my absolute best with putting those 70,000 words together. It's the best I could do with where my skill and talent was at the point and time when the typing stopped. All one can ask is to give the best of him/herself, right?

Double up on the condoms.

I'll return to this question late when I figure out how much I want to divulge in respect to her privacy. I'm a public figure. She is not.

Are there many porn pregnancies? Like what would happen if one of the girls got knocked up while working? I imagine this has to have happened sometime, at some point.

My computer is hellaciously slow right now, so I'm not gonna' quote-button you, but you said "there is absolutely nothing erotic about how sex is portrayed in my writing" and that it would kill your chances.

I think if there ever was a time for less-than-romantic sex scenes, it's now. Look at Average American Male, The Lie, and I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. These are all popular books right now and they have less-than-erotic scenes in them.

In fact, I think the idea of what is "erotic" is changing, especially because of where the porn industry is at right now. Everyone is so desensitized, I think a minimalistic view of sex would be deemed erotic in its own sense. It's all about linguistics, which is an ever-changing beast.

It's rare because of birth control--I've never seen or heard of it personally but I'm sure it has happened.

They kids would probably be referred to as "porn babies", in the black and interracial porn market, "nigglets".