Int’l Porn Star

Rarely am I starstruck, but when two international porn stars came into my work for a drink, I’ll admit that I was in absolute awe. Their personalities were indicative of years of southern California exposure both in and out of the adult entertainment industry and their mid-1990’s sex appeal wasn’t as much lost as it was just slightly weathered and likely required a bit more maintenance. Their conversations were financially savvy that obviously came from a considerable amount of experience in the “sales field”, it was interesting listening to them endlessly gab about who to network with and how to go about it. Sounded like research marketing 101 for strippers. That, however, was not the weird part.  

I’m not afraid to say that I’ve seen both of these women’s bodies contorted in terrific ways, devoured and demolished in the most terrible and beautiful of footage, while in my early ’20’s these two ladies were closer to me than actual humans. For years they were my dependable lovers, unconditional intimate confidants of my advancing sexuality. I spent countless hours studying their subtle and often times, not so subtle techniques of pornographic performance, holding these two particular professionals in extremely high regard in contrast to their endless parade of lackluster colleagues.

Not unlike two regular women who were traveling to my town for work, they sat and drank and ate like a couple of normal bimbos, a pair of silly giggling twits that nearly shattered the very foundation of who I am and particularly, who I used to be before outgrowing their videos. These two women were not supposed to be real people, I don’t have that same celebrity relationship with 99 % of Hollywood. If Steve Buscemi or William Hurt walked in, I’d be fine with it. Heather Graham or Selma Hayak, it’s all the same to me. My instant and chemical reaction to them is an entirely different dynamic, worlds away from the parasocial relationships I happen to have with certain adult film actors.

The stark personal time I’ve shared with these two porn stars they will never know about, they will never see how they’ve shaped me, consoled me, motivated me and taught me. And seeing them out of that context and in the flesh, in my everyday work environment, no less, turned my quiet private world into an awkward and mortifying day at the office.



Anytime one is hopping out of a car and exuberantly runs across a sidewalk and gets clotheslined by one of those steel cables that anchor telephone poles, make sure to check whether or not a rib is cracked. Or, quite possibly, broke. Being broke’s a bummer.


There is a beautiful little freeway loop that circles the city of Portland and crosses the river twice over bridges that can fortunately handle hundred mile and hour motorcycles. Tonight, the clouds sprinkle little drops in one neighborhood while dumping a bucket in another but then leave certain stretches of highway long and dry, ready for a scream of adrenaline to careen into its night.

Like a warm mouth in the rain or clenched fists numb from vibration, riding in the night-time is the best time for the senses to be truly driven.