I got another scene request from a director at Anabolic. It was for someone named Pro Trusion. This was not his real name, of course. The video line he directed was called Oral Consumption. I was hired for a blowjob scene that included some male ass-licking and man-toe sucking. Fine with me. I hadn’t licked any man-ass before, but I was always up for trying new things. I didn’t care what I put in my mouth. I was literally a sucker for a new sexual experience.

My boyfriend wanted to come with me. He still wanted to be in with the guys at Anabolic. I was glad Tyler was coming with me to this shoot. It was at night, and I had to drive all the way out to some remote part of Chatsworth. I didn’t know that Chatsworth even existed until I did porn. Apparently, the district of Chatsworth, deep in the San Fernando Valley in the city of Los Angeles, has a higher concentration of porno companies doing business than any other place in the world. Every major street is decorated with adult industry offices. Anabolic was on Nordhoff Street, at the corner of Owensmouth. The building was ominous, a grey cement two-story warehouse that said ANABOLIC and DIABOLIC in large letters on the front.

Tyler’s eyes were shining like it was Christmas. He was told that any chick that went to the Anabolic warehouse and blew someone could have free shirts and hats. Tyler really wanted some free Anabolic gear. I told him that I would not blow a guy for clothes. That was where I drew the line. What would be next? Fucking for food? Tyler remained hopeful though. He knew he could persuade me to do anything if he threw a fit or made a big enough commotion about it. I was easily convinced. All he had to say was, “Ori, do you love me? Well, then…?” How could I argue? Of course I loved him.

We met a friendly Asian-American guy in the parking lot. His name was Voltron or Wanker. Either one of these fake names was fine to address him by. He had a big beer gut and brown skin. He was probably in his late twenties, but I couldn’t be sure. Asian people have great skin. My mom is half Chinese and has almost no wrinkles. I immediately liked this guy, Voltron. He giggled constantly. His face had an infectious humorous expression that seemed to say everything around him was a permanent joke. I liked that he didn’t take this porno shit so seriously. I felt the same way, that all of this was still a big laughing matter. The sex I was having and the money people paid me made me feel kind of silly. I never intended to do porn, it was a mistake, a happy accident, a detour. This was going to be something I was supposed to look back on and laugh at. Like, can you believe how stupid I was?

Voltron was completely harmless. I would have never suspected that he had previously done time for pistol-whipping an ex-girlfriend. He didn’t even seem like he had a dick. He was entirely void of sexuality. He had a mean sense of humor, but so did I. He was a very sick person, though. He turned out to be a serious drug addict. He is still suspected of murdering his girlfriend, a porno girl named Haley. We will never truly know because Voltron, aka Wanker, killed himself shortly after her death.

Led by Voltron, we walked through the empty office building to the back, near the warehouse. It was past seven at night, and all the employees had long since gone home. There were several lights, called Kino Flos, set up near a couch. Kino Flos are packages of fluorescent lights, the most common lighting equipment in porn. A few dudes were there getting things ready for the shoot. I can’t remember who they were because they were shy. And I was still embarrassed to be there. I wasn’t able to proudly say, as I can now, “I’m Ashley Blue, and I’m here for the blowjob scene and ass-licking.”

Pro Trusion introduced himself. “Hello, pleased to meet you, I’m Pro. Ashley Blue? And, is this your boyfriend?” He was sneering too much to be sincere. He was downright sarcastic. But he was funny. You could tell that he meant to be entertaining. It was clear that he liked attention. Pro Trusion had a speech impediment and sounded like an exaggerated character from The Simpsons. Maybe he had to develop the comedic personality because of his lifelong problem. Spit, white spittle, was flying as he talked.

Bitterness also exuded from this man. He was very unattractive, in looks and personality. He was around fifty years old and was bald and a tad overweight. He told us right away what he wanted us to know about him, his own story, his mythology. At the time, Tyler and I believed everything people told us about themselves. I didn’t think anyone had a reason to lie in porno. I thought everyone was already a degenerate, so there’s no reason to lie and make yourself sound better, because everyone already thought of you as a lowlife. I was wrong about that. Pro explained that he was a rich real estate developer and just directed porno for fun. What he really got off on was rough sex. His Rough Sex series of videos were so abusive that he had to discontinue them. Stores banned his work for the sheer violence toward women. This made him prouder than anything else he’d accomplished in life, he said.

Pro was an incessant talker. When he spoke, he looked straight into Tyler’s and my eyes for reactions. He wanted us to be scared and shocked. Pro Trusion was desperately excited to put fear into me. It was confusing, because he also made us laugh with his clever humor. He was obviously a smart guy. But at the same time we were very uncomfortable by how vulgar he was. He smoked a putrid smelling cigar and bared his yellow-brown teeth around its soggy butt as he talked. He used intellectual words. He was testing my comprehension, trying to see how intelligent I was. He even remarked a couple of condescending times that I was “pretty smart for an ass-licking, little anal whore.”

I just let Pro Trusion talk to me any way he wanted, which was down and rude. Yet another thing to get used to in this porno business, I thought. I shouldn’t expect any better treatment from these pornographers, really. Why would I need his respect? In a few minutes he’s going to see me with my tongue in some guy’s asshole. Respectfulness had a vague meaning to me. It didn’t really bother me to be disrespected on a porn level. Pro wasn’t going to be my friend. I was young and seeking his approval as a porn director, not his respect as a human being. Some sick and sad people in life are incapable of paying such common dignities. I wanted this cretin, Pro Trusion, to be singing my praises by the end of this blowjob scene. Through sexual performance, I was going to gain–I was going to earn–some recognition.

I sat down on the couch with a light pointed at my face. The dude I was about to blow, Bent Brent, was sitting nearby on a chair. He was rubbing his cock through his pants. So was Tyler. Voltron worked the video camera, and Pro Trusion started with his questions. One of his specialties was to ask a girl just the right questions to make her cry on film. His interviews always came first, before the sex. he asked me about my parents–did they know? No, they didn’t, and I didn’t care if they did. He inquired about my aspirations before I decided to suck cock for a living. His goal was to make me feel like a piece of shit. He said, “…because that’s what you are, aren’t you, a piece of shit?” I told him I wanted to be an artist. I was unshaken by his insults. He couldn’t make me feel bad about myself, no matter how much of a jerk he tried to be. How could this guy think he had any grounds to judge me? To Pro’s disappointment, I didn’t cry. He said he wanted to continue the interview some other time, for another scene. Good. Another gig meant more money.

We had to start the blowjob. Bent Brent had a long, uncircumcised penis. It was about ten inches with a curve in the middle. It was like an elephant’s trunk, but I managed to get the entire thing down my throat. It was better to deep throat than to suck because of the foreskin. The smell underneath foreskin grosses me out. It’s sour and resembles the stench of what is in between sweaty toes. Brent’s had a lot of white, cheesy stuff under it, too. Every time he stroked his cock, more would appear. It was like a butter churn.

During the blowjob and ass-eating, Pro berated me. I just licked away at the butthole. It was freshly swabbed with a baby wipe. The ass was much less offensive than cock cheese. Brent had pretty clean toes, too. There wasn’t any visible fungus like so many other porno guys had. The feet were dry and rough with calluses. I sucked each toe individually, then stuck the whole foot into my mouth, as far down as I could. Then I choked myself, taking the extra step. I wanted to show everyone how into this I was. I didn’t want anyone to pity me or think I was doing it just for the money. I don’t–I didn’t–think I was doing it just for the money.

Pro saw me choking myself with Brent’s cock and foot. “Do you like to get choked?” he asked after Bent Brent had dumped his load all over my face. Tyler had gotten turned on during the scene and decided to pop on me as well. Now I was wiping both of their cum off of me. Without much thought, I replied with a yes. I remarked how much I liked it when Mark Davis had done it to me, that I loved it. Mark Davis was the sexiest porno guy ever. He was English and handsome. It didn’t even matter that he was uncircumcised. He could make it work–he could make you feel happy about foreskin. I swooned when I worked with him. He was charming and sexy, just like my own boyfriend, only a  little more. Doing scenes with Mark Davis was like acting out a romance novel.

“Can I choke you?” Pro asked with a dark gleam in his eyes. My compliments about Mark Davis struck a nerve. Pro Trusion didn’t like it when girls talked about Mark Davis choking them. According to Pro, Mark couldn’t do it the right way. “I am the only one who does it right. Let me choke you.” I said it would have to wait until the next shoot. Fair enough.

“Do you like to get pissed on?” Pro asked. He was relentless.

I thought about it, then laughed, looking at Tyler. “No, no one’s ever done that to me.”

Pro gasped, “What? You’re kidding me! You have to try it. You’ll love it! I swear on my children! All girls love piss. Every girl I’ve ever pissed on absolutely loved it! We can do it right now. Can I piss on you?” His yellow-brown teeth were gnashing together with delight. This was a real treat.

I stared at Tyler, sort of in disbelief. I never thought anyone would be asking if they could piss on me. Especially someone I barely knew. I didn’t have a ready answer. So, I responded, “No, you can’t piss on me. If I were ever going to do that, it would only be with my boyfriend. He’s the only one who ever could.” Thinking Tyler was on the same page, I thought I had gracefully dodged the situation. I didn’t want to get pissed on for the first time in front of people. I liked to do everything at home first. Instead of remaining on the same level, Tyler lit up with excitement. “Okay, let’s do it! I’ll piss on you!” This was his chance to finally be in on the action. He’d been sitting on the sidelines for so many shoots and wasn’t satisfied with just being an extra pop shot. He jumped at the chance to piss in my mouth. I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t.

“No, Tyler, you can’t just piss on me right now. Your pee is too yellow. It’s gross.” I was looking for any reason at all to stop what was already sadly in motion.

“My pee is always clear. Can I piss on you?” Pro wouldn’t give up trying to gain first pissing rights to my mouth.

“No! I’ll drink water. Look, I’m drinking right now.” Tyler chugged down the bottle in his hand, and Voltron handed him another.

“All right, fine.” I gave up and laughed at myself. Not ten minutes earlier I had wiped the cum of two guys out of my eyes. Soon, I would be wiping out piss. Who knows, I thought, maybe I really will love it. I did love it in the ass. Part of me looked forward to any possibility of enjoyment. It would definitely be the most hardcore thing I could be into. Anal sex and piss. There was a ring to it.

Tyler filled up his bladder as much as he could. Voltron and Pro went into one of Anabolic’s employee bathrooms with Tyler and me. The door was wide open for all of the others to watch. I got down on my knees and made sure my face was positioned over the toilet bowl. Ha, now I’m the toilet bowl, I thought. I looked up at Tyler as he unzipped and pulled out his soft dick. I watched the peehole until the pee stream appeared. Then it was steadily flowing into my mouth. It was warm and gross, salty and stinky, all vinegar and sour herbs. There wasn’t a lot of yellow to it, but it was still sour. All the water he drank didn’t make it exactly clean.

The piss filled up my mouth a couple of times there was so much. I just spit it into the bowl. No way I was going to swallow it. After about thirty seconds, Tyler stopped pissing. He couldn’t pee anymore. He was completely hard. Pissing in my mouth gave him a huge boner. I looked at him and said, “Are you serious?”

His erection was very serious. It turned him on big time that I was kneeling over a toilet getting pissed on. I even put my hair into pigtails for him, at his request.

I took the piss into my open mouth with a smile. It was totally ridiculous. I was thinking, Okay, done. Now I’ve tried piss and I can say with truth and conviction whenever someone asks me about it: It’s not that big of a deal. I didn’t love it, and I didn’t totally despise it. I guess it was more for the guy to get off on. Voltron captured it all on video. I consented to have it be taped, and Pro paid me an extra two hundred dollars in cash. He said it would never be seen by anyone else but him, that he had a whole collection of private videos that he kept at home to jerk off to. Stupid me, I believed him.

A few months later, the piss scene in the bathroom ended up on one of Pro’s websites called PissMops.com. I felt like an idiot for trusting this guy. It was out of my control. Once you sign that model release, it’s over. What you did is no longer yours. As the performer, I surrendered absolute consent after I was paid for the footage. It didn’t really bother me to have this surprise video resurface later in life. To tell the truth, I like that people can watch me getting pissed on my first time. I like piss now. By the time Piss Mops was put on to DVD, I was ready for it. Pro Trusion even put me on the front cover.

What is the most horrifying smell that you’ve encountered from porn?

The smell of a vagina with vaginitis is the worst ever.  On the set of a lesbian gangbang movie in 2006, a smoking-hot girl opened her legs to get pummeled with gigantic, double ended, black dildos.  Her fellow performers plugged her holes up, airtight.  When the anaconda-like devices came out, it was like breaking a vacuum seal.  Rotten fish garbage steamed out of her. I turned my head and died for her inside.  Too much going back and forth ass to pussy had created the stench.  But she was still fucking beautiful.

 

What makes you happy?

Swearing always makes me smile.  I laugh when I hear and get overjoyed when I read any nasty language.  Maybe it has something to do with a hot sauce and spicy food fetish.  I love the burning sensation and shock in my mouth and in my throat.  If my eyes aren’t watering, it’s not strong enough.  Cussing, in my opinion, can never be overused.  It’s just not for everyone though, and I wish it could be.  Some people’s digestion just can’t handle it.  But it should still be respected.


Who do you love?

I love my husband the most, then artists and whores.  We both love artists and whores.  He may love them more than me even, because he married both.


What disgusts you?

Being a bore is absolutely sickening to me.  I can’t stand it when people brag about being boring or normal.  I can’t stand bragging either.  Unless it’s in a completely ghetto way, then it’s funny.  And that is the highest honor, making someone laugh.


Are you a feminist?

No.

 

What made you think you could write a book?

I didn’t think I could.  The only thing I’ve really done is porn, and most people think porn stars are morons that can’t even read.  Going into writing Girlvert, I had no confidence, just one crazy story at a time.  I knew it would be interesting, and entertaining, but unsure if I was a good enough writer.  Accepting and believing the praise was difficult.  I thought that everyone was just being nice to me for a long time.  Then the book was published and in my hands, and awesome!


What now?  What next?

Right now, I am devoted to Girlvert.  My entire life has changed because of it already.  The porn star is fading out and the writer is born.   It’s a much more grown-up job, with different responsibilities.  I’d like to avoid being censored as much as possible.  My next book is in the works with my publisher.  But there is a lot of real work to be done as a writer.  And I also haven’t quit being an artist…or a whore.  That is the permanent foundation for all my creative energy at the moment.

Part I

Like new lovers, my husband and I were blind to flaws. And even if we had seen them, we wouldn’t have cared. Sunnyside, Queens, had us smitten. Rows of dollhouses rested in the shade of old English Plane trees. White wooden porches, hidden courtyards and raccoons. I almost expected an army of garden gnomes to slide down the slated roof, singing. I would interrupt their silly chatter and usher them to the heirloom rosebush, where my husband would be waiting amidst bunnies and blue birds to have his picture taken.

What lay beneath the colorful bricks and the pitched slate roof? Where was the skeleton, where the closet?

When we arrived for the showing, the owner, an Asian man the height of a 10-year-old was nipping at the hedge in the front yard with nail scissors. This made him appear neat, honest and trustworthy. Mr. Lau waved us into the house. He wore a broad smile, but didn’t speak any English. He didn’t understand our questions: Why was he selling the house? When did he buy it? What are those earth mounds in the backyard? Mr. Lau would grunt, smile and point to his wife, Mrs. Lau.

Mrs. Lau, small and round, sat in the kitchen in front of several bottles of pills and a ticking wall clock wrapped in plastic and grease. She explained in broken English that they were old and helpless, and that after living in the house for 30 years they were moving in with their daughter in Orange County, California. She pointed at the mysterious earth mounds in the backyard and said, “Potatoes!”

Even though I was about to blow my entire inheritance, the day of the closing I bought the Laus chocolate truffles to ease their pain. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Lau, we thought. It must be hard to leave behind a home like that.

Our inner weeping stopped abruptly when we began to discover what Mr. Lau had done to our house. For the next few months, he managed to surprise us daily.

Mr. Lau’s main skill lay in his versatile use of plaster, silicon, tar and other building materials designed for purposes he willfully ignored. As if his caulk pistol had a loose trigger, he smothered whole rows of tiles with thick layers of goo. When we tried to remove the caulk, the tiles came right off with it.

So what if all the tiles were to fall off? Who cares! I was in love. If the house had collapsed on top of us, I would have chimed, “Honey, let me get the broom!”

The dollhouse windows were covered with years of grime. They just need a good wash, I thought. But after hours of scrubbing and buffing, I saw that the glass was fogged between the panes.

One night we tried to turn on the heat. Mysteriously, the boiler, which had worked the day of the inspection, seemed to be broken. After hours and hours of trying to find out the gist of the problem, the plumber informed us that the electricity line, hidden behind the yellowing ceiling tiles, had been “snipped.”

Mr. Lau was “a joker,” “a jogger” and “a passionate gambler,” the neighbors told us. And apparently, he spoke English passably well.

Behind the hedges in the bushes we found innumerable old broomsticks. It turned out that Mr. Lau had used them to build modernist supports for fast-growing plants. My archeological findings revealed another facet of Mr. Lau’s extraordinary creativity: he bundled the sticks together with rubber bands, wire, string, telephone cables, and, in a personal twist, Mrs. Lau’s old tights.

Mr. Lau’s gifts could have made him a fortune on Etsy, but instead he devoted his talents to his house.


One day, anguished black clouds appeared. The first hurricane hit the northeast since 1903, and New York’s streets turned into rivers. Heavy winds and rainwater whipped our dollhouse. When just before dark two old friends arrived for a visit, I took them up to the wood paneled attic. We joked that its crawlspaces that lead nowhere were home to Mr. Lau’s grandmother. If I stuffed my ears with Mrs. Lau’s old tights, I could almost hear Grandma Lau boss the gnomes around.

It turned out instead that the attic was haunted by Mr. Lau himself. As my friends and I stood marveling at the dark wood paneling, the rain hammered onto the slate roof. The dim light bulb flickered. Through the foggy windows pointing out to the yard I could see how the spaces between the “potato” earth mounds filled with water and how the water crept closer and closer to the house.

“What are those mounds in the backyard?” My friend asked.

“There is a long waiting list for those burial plots,” my husband joked. I turned around and noticed a thin, continuous strand of dark water running down the wooden walls behind him. A metallic taste filled my mouth—the first sign of an oncoming panic attack. I must have visibly blanched because my friend immediately tried to calm me. “I’m sure it’s just a small hole in the roof,” she said. “Probably right by the chimney. They would have noticed if the hole was big.”

“The chimney,” I said, my voice shaking, “is on the other side.”

My friends tried to distract me. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to show us?” they asked. I had told them that Mr. Lau had decorated the basement in the style of a 1970s porno. He had paneled the space in light brown wood, hiding pipes and electric wiring behind yellowing ceiling panels. One room was divided off from the rest and featured an inexplicable, rectangular peephole.

I led my visitors to the basement bathroom that Mr. Lau had designed. The colors! A beige toilet confronted a pink shower curtain. The amorphous, bile green and fecal brown floor tiles battled the square, baby blue wall tiles. This was nausea. This was art. Or something. It suddenly struck me that it didn’t look so much like the set for a porno as much as a snuff film. Were these shocks planned? Was Mr. Lau watching us from the comfort of his new living room in Orange County?

Taped to a wall in the basement was a thick, 10-feet long bamboo rod whose purpose we couldn’t guess. Had Mr. Lau used the rod as a push pole during floods? But where was the boat? Had he used one of the several doors stacked against the wall as a raft? Then I noticed the puddles on the ground. Water!

“It might not be much,” my optimistic friends tried. “You might just need someone to snake your drains.”

The four of us tried to determine where the isolated puddles came from. Maybe a pipe was leaking? I took off a ceiling panel. A mousetrap garnished with a desiccated rodent fell on my head. Behind the doors that Mr. Lau had left us, I discovered a sewer drain with a missing screw cap. The old towel decorated with Disney characters that Mr. Lau had stuffed into the hole in lieu of the cap was saturated and had begun to release a slow but steady stream of water. Due to physics, gravity or something equally unfathomable to me, the water had accumulated where the foundation lay deepest without leaving any trace of its path.

The waters were rising, and we needed help.

To be continued…