When I Get Back (My First Porn Shoot, Part 2)
[Disclaimer: As is the case with almost everything I write, all of the conversations in this piece are recreated from memory. The tone and content are similar to what I remember hearing and saying, but the actual words are far from exact.]
Part 1 is right here.
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“When I get back, when I get back home,/ when I get back, when I get back home/ when I get back, when I get back home,/ I won’t be the same no more”- Handsome Furs
I had decided that this experience was already transformative: just being across the country, secretly, was a life-changing fact. It affirmed my independence, and I was determined to get as much out of my stay in San Francisco as possible. I wanted to know everything about my driver, for starters. Unfortunately I had already forgotten his name.
“So, uh,” I paused, struggling to remember if he had even introduced himself,” you— how did you get into this?”
A smile spread across his broad face. “Oh, you know— a friend of a friend of a friend. I was out of work, and, you know, surfin’ all day…” A surfer! How perfect! He had the accent of a California surfer bro, but he certainly didn’t fit the stereotype of the young, shaggy-blonde-haired dude. He was probably in his late thirties, solidly built, and appeared to be of Mestizo descent. “…and so she was like, listen, there’s this opportunity for drivers here, you know, and you can work your way up.” He turned to me. “I’m doing some video editing now.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that like?”
“It’s pretty complicated, but I’m getting the hang of it.”
“And the porn part? Is that weird for you, or..” I trailed off, mostly to let him finish my question for me, but partly because I was distracted. In the darkness, it was the trees and not the landscapes that struck me as the most obviously different. Were they various species of palms? Certainly not all of them…
“Eh, not really. It’s sex, you know?”
I nodded. “Yeah, kinky sex, but sex. I assume most of the people involved are into that kind of stuff anyway. I mean, definitely the models, and—” I hadn’t really expected him to reveal his own preferences, but he did. Of course, that’s none of your business, dear reader. “Oh, yeah. Okay. And the models especially, I meant…” We had already talked about me, about this being my first time on the west coast, about how I’d gotten into porn. I thought maybe it was time to ask about the other models, the ones he’d mentioned when I’d first gotten in the truck. “I’m surprised that they don’t totally know what they’re getting into. You said a lot of them end up bailing and not even calling to let you know?”
“Well… not a lot. Let’s put it this way: out of the dozens of shoots we do each week, maybe one model will flake, like, every other week. But yeah, a lot of ‘um have barely looked at the site.”
I shook my head. “Damn.”
“Yeah, well,” he offered, shrugging. Just then a strange structure caught my eye. We were still on the outskirts of the city, and so a fifteen-story building seemed out of place. It was also oddly shaped and oddly lit. The lights seemed to snake and— wait, is that a hill? As we got closer, I saw that it was, in fact, one of the city’s famous hills, rising almost vertically above the highway. The twisting, trailing lights were glowing windows all right, but they were in separate houses, not one tall structure.
“Yeah,” I said slowly, still miffed by the hill-building (hillding?) “I made sure to really check out the site first. I still don’t know much about San Francisco though. But these— these hills are pretty amazing!” I realized I sounded like a total rube. “Uh, you know, compared to New York…”
“Yup,” he said. “Oh, and here’s the downtown coming up over here. That means we’re almost at The Armory.” I followed his finger out above a lower, rolling hill and gazed out towards the brilliant center of San Francisco. The view struck me as roughly similar to what Manhattan looked like when approached from its eponymous bridge: the imposing architecture, the looming lights. Everything was further, though, and somewhat smaller; even the imposing hills couldn’t make San Francisco seem as outsize as New York. I smiled slightly, relieved that I wouldn’t be tempted to move out West for good.
By the time I snapped back to attention I realized my nameless driver was talking about the history of The Armory. “…and even though the bids were the same, the city gave the contract to Kink because they promised to preserve it.”
“Yeah, I read that,” I affirmed. He seemed taken aback by this— researching Kink.com was one thing apparently, but the Armory too? I wondered if I should mention my cursory knowledge of The Mission District and really blow his mind.
“Oh yeah? So you really did do some research, huh.” He may have asked this, but it came out as a statement. Suddenly he pointed again, this time to our left. “So you see those flags there?” I squinted. My eyes had not been particularly reliable that night already, and they were threatening to fail me again. “See? Over sort of where near those lights are, and that steeple?”
“I…uh, I’m not sure…”
“You’ll see them soon.”
And indeed, once we pulled onto the off-ramp I exclaimed “Oh! There!” I had thought he’d been referring to a bunch of flag poles or something, maybe showing me a monument.
“Uh-uh,” he affirmed, “that’s The Armory.” The flags were sticking up from the corners of a building that took up a whole city block. I couldn’t make out what they depicted, but I recognized their flapping in the breeze from the beginning of all of Kink‘s preview videos. “Wait ’til you see the inside. I’ll be giving you a brief tour.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Wait, is, uh, is there a 24-hour drug store around here anywhere?”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t check my bag, so I need to get some toiletries, like, a razor and—”
He waved his hand. “They have all that stuff there. Pretty much everthing you could need.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. Cool!”
“And here we are in The Mission. There is a Walgreen’s a few blocks over that way if you end up needing something. Just be careful walking around here at night. It’s one of those neighborhoods where, you know, if you make the wrong turn, you might be in trouble.”
“Oh, I get that,” I said. “I live in [my NYC neighborhood]“
He nodded, apparently familiar with what that entailed. “Yeah, so you know then.”
“And I sort of read a bit about this neighborhood. If I wanted to go out tonight, like, to a bar, Valencia might be my best bet?”
He wasn’t as surprised by my further knowledge as I hoped he’d be; maybe he already anticipated I’d pored over the Wikipedia entry for The Mission. “Yeah, although you’re gonna want to go in kind of a round-about way to get there. I”ll show you.” He pointed out the route as we neared The Armory. “And actually there’s a bar right across the street from us that you might like to go to. Riiiiight there.” He pointed at a small black building with a red neon sign: Ace. “And here we are.” He pulled the truck around the corner of the castle-like Armory and waited for a garage door to open in the back. My eyes widened as we drove inside and came to a stop. “This used to be the drill court. We mostly use it for parking now, but we sometimes shoot for Ultimate Surrender and Naked Kombat in here.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Yeah it looks familiar.” The room was the size of a small arena, nearly twice as large as my college’s main basketball court. The ceiling rose up three stories and at the top level, all around the court if I remember correctly, was a seating balcony. I wondered if it was as old as the rest of the structure, or if they’d added it on later. If this was only used as a drill court, what could the seats have been for? In response my mind conjured up an absurd image: a whole army of WWI-era soldiers marching in lock step, their generals and majors and… whatever other high-up ranks there are, watching them from the balcony while eating popcorn out of old tins. Yeah, I’m sure it was *just* like that, I thought rolling my eyes at myself. My driver had already stepped out and was removing my bag from the back seat when I noticed the hot tub with a neon sign on the side: the scarlet K with a devil’s tail. As I opened the door to the truck I asked, stupidly, “Is that a hot tub?”
“Yes it is.” He smiled.
“Damn. Do you all get to use it?”
“That’s just for the models.”
“Fuck, if I’d known I would have brought a bathing suit.”
“What do you need a bathing suit for?” As soon as he said it I realized he was right.
“I dunno… isn’t it… unsanitary?” I weakly protested. He just laughed and shook his head, and I followed him across the court towards the glow of an open door.
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“Sign in here, Ms. Adorable,” the security guard instructed me. Like my driver he was balding and probably in his late thirties, but he had no trace of the surfer accent. He was also scrawnier, white, and wore glasses.
I squinted at the sheet asking me if I understood that I was now in an ‘adult’ space and required to be over the age of 18. “Do you want my real name? Or…”
“Eh, whatever. Both, I guess.”
“Ok…” I quickly printed and signed my real name, and then I paused. Writing ‘Lori Adorable’ in print was easy, but in cursive? I signed it for the first time, and just like I feared, it came out looking like I had signed it for the first time.
The guard proceeded to hand me the key to my room, then added, ”Oh, and sign in here Lori.” He pushed another sheet of paper at me, and I obliged. This time, however, I only signed my initials: L.A. Wrong city, girlfriend. I sighed at myself and the guard gave me a strange look. Just then a black cat jumped on the desk to distract us. “Ruby, get down.”
“Hey kitty cat,” I cooed and scratched her chin. She hopped back down as quickly as she’d come up and sauntered behind me to a giant kitty condo.
“Well, I’m gonna give her the tour and drop this off in her room,” my driver said, lifting my bag up in his left hand.
“Have a good night!” the guard replied.
“Oh, wait.” The driver stopped. “Do you know if that Walgreen’s around the corner is open? She maybe wanted to pick up some stuff.”
“I’m not sure, man. I thinks so,” the guard looked over at me in apology, and I gave him a sympathetic smile in return.
“It’s fine.” I shrugged. “I hear you guys have everything I need here.” I’d decided, looking at the lobby, that this had to be the truth. It struck me as what the entrance to an austere old hotel would look like, complete with historical photographs on the walls. The only thing that was off (well, besides the kitty condo) were the figurines in the glass cases along the walls: they were bound in various submissive positions.
“We’ll start your tour here, I guess,” said the surfer-driver at the foot of one of two symmetrical staircases. “That over there is the talent office. That’s where you’ll go to get paid.”
“Oh, do they pay you right away?”
“Yup, as soon as your shoot is done,” he replied. I immediately felt a huge weight lift. I had squirreled away some eighty-five dollars over the past two weeks, being careful not to raise my parents’ suspicions (I told you they paid my bills; they also have access to my bank account.) I’d meticulously budgeted my trip, figuring that if I were careful— and since Kink was paying for airfare and lodging— I could get by on that. Knowing that I would be getting a $500 to $600 check the following day, however, freed me up to be a total alcoholic. If only I weren’t so tired…
I trudged up the worn marble stairs behind my surfer-turned-driver-turned-guide, admiring the tapestry hanging over to one side. As we reached the second floor, a large, toned, completely bald white man appeared at the top of the staircase across form us. “Hello there!” he remarked in a British accent.
“Hey Mark,” my guide replied. I waved and smiled as well. After the man had disappeared I was informed that I had just been greeted by Mark Davis.
“That name sounds familiar,” I mused.
“It should. He’s been in the industry for twenty years. You might see him at that Ace bar across the street tonight— probably where he’s headed out to.”
“Oh!”
“Yup.”
“I’m not gonna lie. He kind of totally looks like my high school psych teacher.”
My guide laughed as he led me to the first door on our left. “Well, you’ll be seeing a lot of him. This is the bathroom— it’s unisex, so you’ll be sharing it with all the other models who are staying here.”
My immediate reaction upon seeing the large, turn-of-the-century communal bathroom was fear. I looked at the showers and saw a prison rape scene. I shook my head. They’re porn stars, not prisoners. YOU are a porn star. And for fuck’s sake they probably do this because of the trans folks who work here! This thought not only relaxed me, but buoyed me: how progressive! Of course, the real motivation for the unisex bathroom was probably that it required no renovations, but I allowed myself to believe that This is clearly a sign of radical inclusivity, a blow against the patriarchal gender bianary a—.
“So over here are the towels,” he continued, pointing to stacks of blood red terrycloth, “and ya got everything you need on these shelves here. Oh, except the shampoo and soap are in the shower.” It did look like there was everything I could need: hair pins, hairspray, toothbrushes, toothpaste…tampons? And, oh no, those cheap, disposable, two-blade Bic razors. If I use one of those on my bits, I will chop them to…bits. I resolved right then to find that Walgreen’s. ”The enemas,” my guide continued, ” are on the top shelf, but don’t use them in here.” He turned to leave and on our way out he pointed at a sign on the door which I’d missed coming in (the door was propped open.) ‘Private enema bathroom is located on the third floor,’ it read. “You just go right up these stairs again,” my guide eleaborated, leading us down the short corridor that was populated by a handful of rolling carts. Some held lighting equipment— different bulbs, gels, and other items I couldn’t hope to name— and others contained what I can only think to call amenities: make-up sponges, lotion, granola bars, lube. Behind the rolling carts was what looked like a sound-proofed bamboo room divider and a cluster of blinking signs: ‘Shoot in progress. Please keep noise down.’
The two of us turned right into a large hallway. “On our left right here is the men’s wardrobe, and that back there is the men’s greenroom. They use that after six at night.” I couldn’t help thinking it bizarre that Kink had segregated green rooms but unisex bathrooms, but I didn’t question it. “This is women’s wardrobe,” he continued speaking, but he had stopped walking. “The next door is hair and make-up. And this right here,” he turned to the first door on the other side of the hall, “is your room. Let’s see if the key works.”
I searched in my pocket and pulled out the small gold key. Holding the heavy, ancient metal knob, I turned the key in the top lock until I heard a click. “Seems to work just fine,” I remarked and pushed open the door. My guide stepped in front of me to turn on the lights, then placed my bag down on the dresser nearby.
“Yup, this is it,” he said. It was a handsome room— small, but not too small, with off-white walls and solid wood furniture. On the left side was a full-length mirror, propped on a chair. It reflected the bed. “And over here,” he said, beckoning me, “is your closet. Or, you know, another room.”
“Wow,” I stood next to him, peering into the ‘closet’: it was almost the same size as the bedroom. “This is bigger than my room back in New York,” I mumbled
“Yeah, it’s a little ridiculous,” he affirmed. Like the bedroom, it also had cream-colored walls and a dark red carpet a shade or so deeper than the blood-colored towels. “Ok, I’m just going to show you the green room you’ll be reporting to tomorrow morning, and then I’ll leave you alone. You still think you’re going out?” We turned to leave, brushing past the tan, white, and maroon bedspread and the small mahogany night table. I couldn’t help noticing it held the only non-furniture items in the room: a box of tissues and a bottle of lotion.
“I…I might go out. I’m pretty tired, though. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Ok then—”
“But…but, I mean, even though I have to get up tomorrow—”
“Call time isn’t ’til eleven,” he reminded me.
“Right. And I don’t want to stay indoors in a new city. You said Mark Davis would be across the street?”
“Yeah, probably— at The Ace bar,” he replied, leading me further down the hallway, past wardrobe and hair & make-up. The last door on the left was open. “Here’s where you should report tomorrow morning.” A flatscreen TV glowed blue from the far corner until my guide switched on the lights. “Here’s a computer over here,” he said, stepping into the room and gesturing to the near right corner. “You got the TV and couches over there, and the fridge is over here.” I followed him to the refrigerator and watched eagerly as he opened the door. Dozens and dozens of juice bottles lined the bottom shelves, and a similar number of granola bars and packs of gum sat on a table on our right. “We lotsa juice. It’s important to hydrate, doing this kinda shoot…”
“Can I—”
“Yeah, take one.” I grabbed a cranberry juice. I hadn’t realized til that moment just how thirsty I was. “Ok then! I’ll take you back to your room, and then I’ll leave ya alone!” He smiled.
“Thank you so, so much. You’ve been really helpful.” We walked back down the hallway, and I waved good-bye as he turned and headed toward the stairs. I pushed my door open and let out a huge breath. “Well,” I said to myself. I needed to decide what to do— go out, or stay in? First things first: see if they have wifi, and if not, go use that Mac in the green room. I unzipped my radioactive bag. Hey, I wonder why the green room isn’t green like this… Probably because this is obnoxious, [my real first name].
I plopped down on the bed only to discover it was about twice as nice as my brand new mattress at home. Then I connected to the ‘bicycle’ network, e-mailed my (ex?) boyfriend, checked my Twitter, and let you lovely readers know what was going on. By the time I shut my laptop, it was 11:30 local time, and I was feeling even more exhausted than ever. I knew I had to buy a razor, though, and so I figured I might as well get a drink too. I changed from my Fiona Apple ‘self-affirmation with snail’ shirt and put on a plain black tee. With the military jacket and cuffed jeans, I decided I’d fit in in what I assumed would be a neighborhood filled with gentrifying hipsters.
I grabbed my small totebag and locked my door, listening with my head cocked for the strange moaning I’d thought I’d heard minutes before.
“UhhhhhaaahHHHH!”
There it was, a woman’s voice. This night has got to be interesting, I thought as I made my way down one of the twin staircases.
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To hear about that night’s adventure and the porntastic day that followed, make sure to check back tomorrow!
To be continued….
