“Hand-jobs aren’t cheating,” my wife informed me a few weeks ago.
My immediate impulse was to go on Twitter and ask, “1. Who has been getting hand-jobs from my wife? and 2. Who wants to give me a hand-job?”
As much as I was tempted, I didn't post this. Part of me was afraid of the responses I would get to both questions. Still, I am fairly certain that when my wife made this amendment to our civil union—possibly as a means of retroactively safeguarding a make-out session that got out of hand—she didn't believe I would ever meet a woman who would volunteer to give me a handski in lieu of sex.
Enter Katie Summers.
Apparently you can bring your own liquor to a bar provided your face is on the bottle (See Ron de Jeremy). That and if you have a ten inch cock that is recognized the world over I suppose you can do pretty much whatever you want.
At a previous NightMoves pool party, Ron Jeremy maneuvered my wife’s hand around the centerpiece of his porn career while I took a picture. I couldn't be too mad. Like many men I stupidly agreed to a clause in our marital agreement that we could each have sex with celebrities. At the time I greatly underestimated how easy this would be for her, and how impossible it would be for me. Luckily, my wife was more than satisfied just taking a picture with Jeremy.
It's hard to know for sure, but I am fairly certain Nikki Delano is in love with me. Maybe she is intrigued by the fact that we have the same birthday, April 12. Or, maybe it's the fact that I keep spilling my rum on her white shorts. I'm quite the charmer.
After drunkenly trying to swipe the driblets of rum off her shorts, which of course just makes me spill more, I remind her that this is a pool party and that she might want to strip down to her bikini. While I am certainly not the only one at the rainy pool party who wants to see this busty Brooklyn Latina flaunting her gymnastic curves, she refuses to change into one of the two suits she brought for the bikini contest.
Delano does, however, offer to let me borrow her bikini bottoms so I can compete in the men’s division of the contest, if there is one. Normally when I wear a woman’s bikini, I have to turn the bottoms around so the larger of the two triangles covers my junk. Unfortunately for Delano—who desperately wants to see me rock the shit out of her bikini—she only brought thongs. I don’t mean to brag but I need a bit more than a one inch slice of spandex to cover my junk—conservatively, I need at least two inches.
“He was in my ass last night,” Katie Summers says by way of introducing me to the male porn performer, Romeo.
“How was it?” I ask him.
“It was good,” he says. “A little awkward though because she was drunk and it was a weird angle and my girlfriend, Emy Reyes, was on top of her at the time which complicated things, but, you know how it is.”
“Yeah,” I say nodding, though I don’t know.
I have absolutely no idea what the hell he is talking about.
James Bartholet has a habit of walking on stage and letting his pants drop. He makes the mistake of pulling this gag for a picture in the presence of Ron Jeremy. Jeremy yanks down Bartholet’s boxers just as the camera flashes.
Jeremy claims that Bartholet first made a name for himself working as a non-sex actor in porn, which strikes me as amazing. Becoming a famous porn star without taking off your pants is a bit like becoming a famous bank robber who never pulls out his gun. I suddenly reconsider my potential as a porn star.
I am way too paranoid about STDs to ever have unprotected sex on camera. I spend too much time writing about the latest strain of super gonorrhea or how HPV just passed tobacco as the leading cause of head and throat cancer to ever think of casual sex as anything but an extreme sport that carries the risk of death or permanent disfigurement. Trying to explain this fear to a porn star is like trying to explain your phobia of flying to a pilot. You know that if certain safety precautions are taken, you are much more likely to suffer physical injury on your drive to whatever terminal you are traveling in and out of, but, as is often the case, knowledge does little to lessen irrational fear.
No matter how much fun she is having, or how drunk Christy Wild appears to be, she always remembers who I am, which is nice. On top of that, she usually shoves my face in her cleavage, which is also nice, though in a different way.
It has taken a few days of hanging out with porn stars but I am finally getting comfortable grabbing a boob in retaliation for when a porno girl grabs, punches, or flicks my junk. I developed this tit-for-tat strategy after chatting with Franki Markstone about her experiences performing as Liza Minnelli for gay men who think their sexuality gives them the right to grope her.
Not that I want to discourage women from groping me. Of course when a performer grabs the crotch of my jeans, neither of us are quite sure what she is grabbing. Most of the time it's air or a bundle of denim. Other times it's a rogue ball or the occasional potato I planted there to fill out my jeans.
Annie Cruz is not impressed by my ass, though she does more than a thorough job evaluating it. After I described her as a sex tornado in a previous story, I was terrified she would punch me when she saw me again. As a former boxer who does fetish work, Cruz is more than capable when it comes to inflicting pain. But, instead of hogtying me, she pulls out her iPhone and shows me some raw footage of a movie she is working on. Cruz, dressed as a schoolgirl, kicks the shit out of another actress in an MMA gym.
“I fight her, fuck her, then kill her,” Cruz says.
“In that order?”
“In that order.”
With her fighting experience, I ask if Marcus London considered her when he was casting for the upcoming Spartacus XXX.
“I asked him about it,” she says. “But there were no fight scenes between women. And apparently there weren't all that many Asians in ancient Rome.”
Who knew adult films were so historically accurate?
Perhaps what won me over most about Vandella was when I overheard her talking with Cruz about how they needed to apologize to Misty Stone, presumably for some drunken shenanigans that occurred the night before. The moment Stone arrived at the pool party the pair approached her. I wonder what says more about a person: the shit we do wrong, or the shit we are willing to own up to and apologize for?
After ordering a drink the night before at the Tampa Gold Club, the bartender informs me that I have to buy at least $25 worth of drinks on my card. I settle in at the bar next to Delilah Strong to enroll her in helping me drink away this debt.
We immediately bond by talking shit about others who don't meet up to our level of awesomeness. We both agree that for the most part, porn stars, at least the successful ones, are relatively normal considering their career choices. But there are always those few girls who live up to the train-wreck stereotypes propagated by mainstream media.
“For some reason I expected you to be a bit on the crazy side," I tell Strong, realizing too late how much of a dick I sound like. "I mean that in the best possible way."
Having won the F.A.M.E. award's Dirtiest Girl in Porn, Strong has presumably been called much worse things by way of complimenting her. She says she doesn’t know why she won Dirtiest Girl. She thinks it's because she has a dirty mouth.
“I love dirty talk,” I say, “but I sound like an idiot if anyone wants me to talk dirty.”
“What do you say?”
“Something really hot and sexy like, ‘So you think you handle all six inches?’”
As is the common response to this statement, Strong laughs. She asks how many of the adult performers have offered to sleep with me and acts surprised when I say one. In another context I might think she is hitting on me, but considering that in heels she towers over me and her ass is powerful enough to terrorize a small Japanese fishing village, I assume she only dates black guys. I am wrong. She says I would be surprised by the kind of guy she ended up with. He is nothing like what even she thought she was attracted to.
It's odd that so often the people we love, and the people we have sex with, are very different people.
Part of Katie Summers’ charm is not only that she is constantly saying shit that makes me giggle, like, “All of my holes hurt,” or “I keep waking up drunk,” but that she is cool with me quoting her as saying these things. Of course, this is also part of my wife’s charm. She is cool with me rambling online about the virtues of my gentlemanly penis.
Her sister, Cherokee, who has nearly an identical frame, is dressed a bit more conservatively in a t-shirt and shorts. While she is not in the adult industry, Cherokee occasionally accompanies her sister to her appearances around Florida. We bond over our peripheral roles in the adult industry and our relatively tame sex lives—we both maintained our virginity through our teens. While I can only pretend this was the result of my religious upbringing, for a girl who looks like she does, relentless prayer and strict religious parents were probably the only things that could save her from boys.
“I’ve never been in a bikini contest before,” Cherokee says. “I’m not really sure what to do.”
“Just don’t show too much too early,” I say. “You have to hold out.”
“Will you cheer for me if I do it?”
I take a long look at her over my beer. Cherokee looks identical to her big sister save for her straight black hair and the freckles on her cheeks. She will not need me to cheer for her. The entire crowd will cheer for her.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m going to boo the shit out of you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re the ringer,” I say. “There's one at every bikini contest. The host always brings one with her so they don't have to actually shell out the prize money.”
That and I generally reserve my cheering for the older, larger contestants who no one else applauds. I identify with the underdogs.
“I pinky swear I won't tweet about it if you let me give you a hand-job,” Katie Summers says.
The absurdity of the statement makes me smile. I agree to the pinky swear, though I'm not entirely sure what I am consenting too.
“So you will let me give you a hand-job?”
“Why the hell would you want to give me a hand-job? You wouldn’t get anything out of it. Besides, we all know hand-jobs are just a gateway to something more troublesome: carpal tunnel syndrome.”
“Because I like you."
"Isn't telling me you like me enough," I say. "Besides, I'm sure you like plenty of other guys."
"Sure I do," she says. "But they aren't here right now."
"I'm not even sure that I could physically get off from a hand-job."
"Well I can’t help it if my mouth slips on it a little bit.”
At this point our conversation halts as I take some time to refocus my thoughts on something other than Summers' teasing lips.
“Come on,” she says, shaking me. “Let me give you a hand-job.”
“If you can somehow convince me to come back to your hotel room,” I say, “you can give me a hand-job.”
“You promise.”
“I pinky promise.”
Alcoholic philosophers like to say that it's better to regret the things you do, than those you don't. I disagree when it comes to sex. For me, what I regret more than not sleeping with someone, is not talking to them. For some people it's not worth the trouble to meet new people with whom your relationship will probably go no deeper than a conversation about rum or breast implants. But there is always the possibility that you will meet again, in a different context. There is always the possibility of the occasional rogue hand-job, or a warm smile. And isn’t that what porn is really selling; the ability to indulge in fantasy and to believe in possibilities.
I believe in possibilities.
The rain taps the windshield as I sit in my car with the engine off. The weather spoiled the bikini contest. I pick up my cellphone and call the number that occupies nine of the last ten spots in my call history.
“You don’t know how many hand-jobs I've turned down today,” I say.
“How many?” she asks.
“At least one.”
“I'm proud of you,” she says. “I guess.”
“Are you home now?”
“No,” she says. “I have to set up some bioassays in the lab first. I’ll probably get home really late.”
“So should I go cash in on some of those hand-jobs?”
“What part of our ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ agreement do you not understand?” she asks.
“Obviously the don’t tell part," I say. "Though I also have had trouble with the don’t ask clause as well.”
“If you want I can give you a hand-job when I get home.”
“Why wouldn't we just have sex?” I ask. “Besides, when it comes to hand-jobs I work best when I'm alone with my imagination, and a healthy Internet connection.”
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