Porn

I’ve often said that after 20 years in porn (yes, indeedy, two decades) you really aren’t fit for human consumption anymore. When I’m out amongst the civilian populace, I have to run everything through a frontal-lobe filter before I say it to ensure it’s acceptable to release into the wild. Someday, I’ll relate stories about my most Epic of Fails in this regard.

On set, naturally, it’s a different story. Conversational threads that would likely make your toenails curl are de rigeur. Occasionally, it happens that we begin telling jokes, usually foul. If you’re gonna compete in this kind of cockfight, you have to be packing some pretty hefty artillery to get a satisfactory reaction in such distinguished company. I’ve got a couple of real sphincter-clenchers I keep in my pocket for these occasions.

Quick digression; Milton Berle was reknowned for having an enormous cock. No, not a joke, just go with me. Like a horse. One night, at a party, Berle, Bob Hope and Errol Flynn are all drunk, and Flynn decides he and Milton need to whip ’em out to see who’s bigger.

Errol Flynn proudly drops trou. Bob Hope takes one look, laughs, turns to Berle and says, “Just take out enough to win.”

If you’ve seen The Aristocrats, forget about it. That’s a great joke — and a better movie — but not the level of disapprobation we’re gunning for.

I usually warm up slow:

What’s the difference between Michael Jackson and Neil Armstrong? Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Michael Jackson fucked little boys.

This is cotton-candy fluff. Gets a chuckle, but leads us down the right path. I let a few other jokes fly around, and then jab in with my two parter (the emphasis is important).

What’s the worst part about having sex with a four-year-old? Getting the blood out of your clown suit.

General groans of dismay.

What’s the best part about having sex with a four-year-old? Putting it in soft, and as it gets hard you listen to the bones crack.

Game over. Every time. This water is cold. And deep.

Now, as I mentioned, I’ve been fooling around with a 26-year-old. This is very unusual for me. I’ve never hunted this far outside my own demographic. I vastly prefer women to girls. Exempli gratia; on Tuesday, we shot Nella Jay, an 18-year-old (or biscuit, as they are affectionately know hereabouts) and Zoe Holloway, who’s in her 40s. Nella was sweet, but Zoe was stunning. There’s only one of them I would have taken on a date.

So hanging out with someone who was born after Return of the Jedi came out is a big deal for me. But she’s fiercely intelligent, extremely sharp and funny, attractive, and very, very dirty. There are substantive reasons (beyond that fact that she’s practically half my age, fuckyouverymuch) why it can never be serious, and we recognize that, but we’re having fun. We’re enjoying each other’s company. She teases me about being 42, and our cultural references are a bit like the Titanic and the iceberg; by and large, they don’t intersect at all, but where they do, it’s significant. All that’s to be expected.

Tuesday night, we’re walking to a restaurant in Long Beach, and Mischief (I haven’t decided what I’m calling her yet as her name is Allison but she has about eleventy-seven various nommes d’plume on the intar-web; Nyssa, Visceris, Poetry… all of them suit her, but I think I’m going with Mischief, because she’s trouble. Either that or Goth Biscuit) makes a terrible — no, really, frighteningly bad — Luke & the Emperor joke, so I decide to counter with The Worst Joke I Know…

And she fucking knew them!

See? Trouble. I’m having her bronzed.

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When you start to live outside yourself, it’s all dangerous. — Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden