On a bright, clear day, I head out for a meeting over coffee with one of the true veterans of porn publicity stunts. A normally effusive man, today he looks weary and worn while nursing his double latte and lamenting the summer of porn publicity stunts that might have been.
“We just missed so many golden opportunities,” he says, shaking his head almost mournfully. “I mean, Robin Williams dominates the headlines for over a week, and it never even occurs to me to offer his corpse a job in porn? That’s just not like me.”
Fishing into the breast pocket of his custom-tailored sport coat, the wistful porn mogul slides out a small flask of spirits unidentified and pours a splash into his latte.
“There was a time when his agent’s phone would have been ringing off the hook before the medical examiner had even determined the cause of death,” the mogul says, wincing slightly between sips. “Let’s face it: I’ve lost a step.”
Trying to make him feel better, I offer a slim rope for him to climb out his porn-depression hole.
“Look man, it’s not all your fault,” I say. “Some of the biggest stories of the summer just didn’t lend themselves to exploitation by the industry. I mean…there’s nothing sexy about ebola, after all, right?”
Shooting me an angry glance, it’s clear he’s having none of it.
“Have you actually seen the first ‘Ebola Nurse’ from Dallas?” he fires back. “Tell me she’s not every man’s sexy Asian nurse fantasy. Even if there was no chance she’d say yes, I should have at least made the offer.”
“But the testing…,” I protest weakly, “how could she have been cleared to perform?”
Slamming his fist on the table, he nearly topples his liquored-latte and draws the eyes of everyone in the café.
“Don’t you get it man?” he yells. “It’s all about the headlines; in reality it doesn’t matter if she ever sucks dick one. The point is that the public gets all pissed off, but curious, and the next thing you know, a bunch of them are on our website, buying shit — or at least stealing shit and uploading it to the tubes!”
We sit in silence for a couple of minutes while he stews and mutters to himself.
“Still, I suppose you’re right,” he finally says. “Some of the stuff from this summer was probably fool’s gold, and it might not have worked out at all.”
Brightening up somewhat, he describes a nascent plan he had to offer Oscar Pistorius a job as his new marquee male performer. His creative department had even made it as far as debating the name of the first movie. Blade Humper was the favored moniker if Oscar’s debut were to be a feature, while His First Post-Homicide Sex was in the lead if they opted to go the “reality porn” route.
“Well, why not go for it now?” I ask. “I mean, Pistorius is back in the news now with the sentencing phase in progress. it’s not too late.”
Clearly irritated, the frustrated smut-slinger glares back at me with a look that could bore holes in concrete. “Think about it for a second. What’s the only thing we know for sure about why Oscar Pistorius is in trouble right now?”
Admittedly stumped, I sit dumbstruck, shaking my head. “You got me. What am I missing?”
“The whole reason he’s on trial in the first place,” he says, throwing his hands in the air in disbelief. “The fucking guy shoots too quick!”
We spend the rest of our time mutually stewing in an awkward silence, with me thanking my lucky stars I didn’t bring up how he was beaten to the punch by another porn publicity whore during the whole Ray Rice thing.
Watching him slurp down his liquored-up latte and unravel a wrinkled fiver from his pocket to drop on another latte, I’m filled with sadness. I’ve never seen him like this, even when the mandatory condoms law passed. He’s an optimist by nature, a man who believes a disgraced celebrity is born every second, and that he’s decidedly the “one to take them,” as they say.
But then, just as I’m starting to feel like there’s no hope for his recovery, a buzzing sound emits from the disheartened mogul’s pocket. Pulling out his iPhone and glancing at the incoming text, a smile suddenly erupts across his lips.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“You know that Australian rapper chick with the great big ass?” he asks, nearly bursting with enthusiasm. “Well, sounds like she really does have a sex tape!”
Barely able to contain himself, he knocks over both our drinks as he leaps to his feet, dialing his phone as he starts toward the door. Turning back in my direction, he points his left hand at the phone he’s holding to his ear with his right: “Sorry, gotta run. Serious opportunity here!”
Coming over to mop up the coffee oozing across the black table top, the bespectacled hipster barrista asks “What was that all about?”
“Just a man realizing his dreams aren’t dead just yet,” I say, smiling. “Not just yet.”
[Yes, this is satire. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. —Ed.]
