LOS ANGELES – Inspired by a revealing, behind-the-scenes look inside the world of feminist porn, I’ve come to Los Angeles to provide a revealing, behind-the-scenes look at the world of extremely cheaply produced gonzo porn, guided by my trusty fuck-flick Sherpa, famed gonzo porn director Jimmy Duskish.
The “studio” is a two-bedroom bungalow located in what passes for an inexpensive neighborhood in Los Angeles, meaning the rent on it is a mere $6,000 per month.
A broken gate hangs on a single hinge, open to a cracked concrete sidewalk peppered with protruding weeds. A sign claiming the property is monitored by a security company (which long ago terminated service for lack of payment) leans against the front steps, bleached by the sun and stained around the edges with black resin scrapings from the official on-set bong.
A little after noon, performer Sasha McTush walks into the studio’s “lobby” unannounced, loads herself a bong hit and kicks off her shoes.
“Hey Jimmy,” she bellows as she exhales, “whose cock am I sucking today? Someone who has bathed recently, I hope?”
Duskish stumbles in from the back office, shitfaced on Jack Daniels and holding a handful of small oval tablets which he firmly believes to be phenobarbital, but are in fact his wife’s birth control pills.
“Hey, Sandra baby,” Duskish says, mangling his starlet’s stage name, as usual. “How are you girl? Ready to work?”
McTush loads another bong hit and responds without ever looking up at Duskish. “Yeah, I’m good. Did you hear what I asked? Who am I working with today?”
Looking nervous, Duskish shuffles his feet a bit before responding.
“Only the best for you, Sandy,” Duskish exclaims. “The one and only Evan Polyurethane!”
McTush nearly drops the bong in clear disgust. “Jimmy,” she whines, “you have got to be kidding me. That moron again?”
While silly, petty rifts between porn performers are not uncommon, it turns out McTush has a legitimate beef with the well-muscled but intellectually challenged Polyurethane. As I would learn later in the day, the last time McTush performed with him, Polyurethane mistook her purse for a toilet and relieved himself therein.
When Polyurethane finally shows up — nearly two hours late — he asks Duskish if he can have a few minutes alone with the script to “get to know” his character.
“Evan, as I explained twice on the phone yesterday and via both text and Facebook messages this morning, this is just a straight-up sex scene with no dialogue,” Duskish says, clasping his hands around his face. “There is no script.”
“Oh, that’s right. Got it, got it,” Polyurethane responds, clapping his hands together for emphasis. “So, can I get a look at that script now?”
Duskish looks at McTush, who just shrugs and loads another bong hit.
Forty minutes later, Polyurethane seems to finally have accepted he can’t see the script, having been told the document is “top secret” and “too sensitive to share with performers.” The actor is seated on a bed wearing only bright-red boxer shorts, waiting for Duskish and the rest of the video crew to finish setting up.
Wearing torn jeans shorts and a sleeveless top, McTush struts in and starts doing a slow, seductive dance at the side of the bed.
“Hey,” Polyurethane objects. “How come she gets jeans shorts and all I get is a pair of boxers? I want jeans shorts too. This is gender discrimination!”
After several minutes arguing with Duskish, who swears he simply doesn’t have any jeans shorts handy in Polyurethane’s size and isn’t “holding back any perks,” Polyurethane demands that someone go out and acquire him some jeans shorts, or else he’s “not fucking anybody.”
Visibly distressed but still thinking fast, Duskish proposes a novel solution.
“How about I have someone run out and get your jeans shorts while we do the sex scene?” Duskish asks. “And then we can film the part with you wearing the shorts later?”
Polyurethane gives a satisfied nod and leans over in my direction to whisper a pro tip.
“You gotta be firm with these porn director guys or they’ll walk all over you,” he explains. “You watch: Later I’m going to leave here today with those jeans shorts, and I won’t have paid a dime.”
As Duskish and his assistant are finishing setting up the lights, Polyurethane absentmindedly masturbates in the corner while reading a People magazine article about Naomi Judd’s struggles with mental illness.
“Uh, oh,” Polyurethane mutters. “We’ve got a problem here, Jimmy.”
Duskish, busy giving instructions to his crew and fiddling with light settings, doesn’t acknowledge his leading man.
“Jimmy,” Polyurethane says again, much louder this time. “It’s happened again.”
Everyone in the room casts their gaze toward Polyurethane, who stands to reveal a small pool of semen which has gathered in and around his navel.
“Sorry man,” Polyurethane says to Duskish, shrugging. “But you gotta stop leaving People just lying around. You know it’s my favorite porn mag.”
McTush, who has long since returned to her bong-side spot on the couch, shakes her head, rolls her eyes and loads yet another hit.
Panicked and out of options, Duskish looks over at me hopefully. “Hey, Ben: Ever wanted to be in porn?”
Out of nowhere, veteran performer Lily Black appears and pours the contents of a massive pitcher over McTush’s head. McTush is positively aghast when, instead of water, what streams out of the pitcher is fresh flowers from the front yard — along with the dirt in which they had been planted and several pieces of old, dried-out dog excrement.
“What the fuck, Lily?” McTush screams, bolting to her feet and running from the room with tears instantly streaming down her face.
Silence envelops the room as we all stare down at the pile of potting soil and tattered plant matter now adorning the couch cushions.
“Sorry boss,” Black says, looking at Duskish sheepishly. “For some reason, that stunt sure seems to have worked out a lot better for Crash Pad and Rolling Stone.”
