“It’s all lube to me.” - Sanders

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MISSY MONROE: THE VITALS (courtesy of the Internet Adult Film Database)

AKA Missy Monique, Missy Marie

BORN August 22, 1984, Las Vegas, NV

STAR SIGN Leo

YEARS ACTIVE 2003-2009 (Started around 19 years old)

HAIR Blond

MEASUREMENTS 34DD-27-37

HEIGHT 5′5″

WEIGHT 134 lbs (varies according to water weight gain)

TATS “Missy” on right asscheek; strawberry plant on left ankle; pink bird on left shoulder blade (late 2004)

NON-EAR PIERCINGS None

DATES WITH SAM BENJAMIN I’m glad you asked. There were two occasions that stand out in my mind, and the first one occurred about one week after the day I met her on the set of Jim Powers’ “White Trash Whore” and videotaped her talking about squirting: the power of female ejaculate. She gave me her phone number and said for me to call her and I called her happily but the thing was she was living at Slain Wayne’s house at the time, a famous editor in the adult film industry, so when I called her she said she wasn’t sure she was allowed to have guests, and what should she do? I said hmm sounds like Slain’s in love with you (it happened from time to time), let me talk to Slain and I’ll call you back. I was friends with Slain in those days and even had his number on my little grey metallic cell phone, a simple model that certainly would be laughed at today. So I called him up and he said Hey man! It’s been so long! And I said hey, hey. And we talked about Cal Arts for a while because he had gone there and I was going there now. And he said guess what, I’m working on my indie movie! He was always working on some indie movie. I said that’s great. He was definitely a talented editor. Crazy, all over the place. But what I’d really like to do I said is visit Missy. Would that be okay with you? There was like this silent power struggle going on between us, in between the friendship part. And he said of course why shouldn’t it be? And I pounced all over that. I said, terrific. Be right over. So I drove into the boring depths of the Van Nuysian Valley and found their little cardboard house and nothing really happened with Missy Monroe and me.

The second time we hung out it was a lot worse. She called me up - out of the blue! - and said, hey hon, do you want to come over? I have a new house and do you want to come over? I said that sounds terrific and followed a horrible path of winding expressway at least one hour until I came into her expensive gated apartment complex and when I got there I saw she had a cable box disconnected and a DVD player disconnected and a TV disconnected and there were swirling wires all over the place. And she made a face like a little girl and said Can you help me? And I was not bad with wires at the time and in fact enjoyed a challenge, so I got behind her very big TV and got in there and got to work connecting everything. Wire here wire there. Wire filched into the back of a tubeTv, no flatscreens in late ‘04, that was for sure, plugs crapping into the wall. And finally it was all connected and all we had to do was program her remote control and set up her speakers. She drank a beer watching me do it, she was lounging on a couch in her sweats looking cute and stuff and smoking a bong.

We had a working TV over here. So I came over to the couch for my reward. But there was no kiss or anything like it. I got a little huffy, but she passed me a beer and that was okay. We went out on the balcony and watched the traffic for a while. I was then invited into her bedroom to check out her porn collection. She had every tape she’d ever been in. She gave me one tape which I still have, from Red Light District. I believe it’s called Cum Dumpsters. It’s signed across the front, it says “Love you babe. Missy Monroe”. We drank some more beers and sat on her couch watching this DVD of Reggae on the River. Michael Franti of Spearhead was tearing it up. We watched for at least an hour and a half. We smoked some pot too. Then Missy said, well, I guess I’m gonna go to bed. And I said, do you have anything else to watch? Because I didn’t want to make the drive back just yet. I had been driving around fucked up a little too much lately and it was starting to scare me. She gave me this look like what are you talking about? I said I’m a little drunk. She said you had one beer. I said so you’re just going to put me out? She said I’m going to bed! And I was like go to bed then! Can I just sit on your fucking couch for an hour to sober up? and she was like how the fuck could you be drunk, I don’t get it, and no, I can’t let you stay out here and I said FUCK YOU and she shouted FUCK YOU BACK and I pointed my finger at her and I said Fuck you Missy, silent and soft and mean. All I remember was her hard eyes black and staring at me.

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Handsome young Brian Pumper, only 20 years old. I met him in the summer of 2002 when his body-fat percentage was .02 and he was climbing up the ladder of black male performers with a curious vengenance. Above him? Lexington Steele and Mr. Marcus, certainly. Arguably Wesley Pipes, with whom he did perform - because Wes was more fun to watch. Funnier. Though Pumper was funny himself. Mandingo dwarfed Brian peniswise, and B’s youthful contemporary, Justin Slayer, looked more like Usher, and may have been even more narcissistic. Yet Brian Pumper had his own way, his own charisma, his own freestyle fuckpatterns.

The young man from Long Island (Babylon, NY? I don’t remember. If he is indeed from the same hometown as Danny Green, incoming NBA rookie and one of this author’s all-time favorite Tarheels, then we got a lot to talk about) did not drive. He was instead toted around in a car or sometimes Limosuine, courtesy of super-agent Derrick King, one of the only black agents in the business around the turn-of-the-decade. King’s go-to limosuine driver was an elderly Alzheimerish Jew named Jerry, who can be heard during the first few moments of this videotape, his groanings and gruntings- I’d like it too. Hey Briiiii-an. I’d like it too. If it were my job.

Brian’s way was not super-stud games: he was a lover-boy, instead. How many times did I witness him sidling up to female talent - women he’d either just fucked, was in the process of fucking, or would eventually, and mumble-whisper under his breath, “I’m diggin’ you.” It was enough to make you laugh and love him. For Brian, jes bonin’ would never do: he wanted and needed a heart connection. He sniffed at women’s shoes, wore their panties on his head. Maybe it was to get a laugh and maybe it was a ruse for attention. Whatever. He was persistent. I saw him take away girlfriends from scenes. Mostly impressionable 18-year old white girls.

I remember him running around with a girl named Jennifer. She was from Long Island as well - maybe that was their connection - and wore deflated frecklish breasts. She was a strippa back home and seemed to tolerate Brian’s fits of whimsy with Italian-style good-humor. I filmed her getting fucked by four dudes outside on a lawnchair in warm October. Have almost no recollection of the actual occurences but have watched it on video several times. Pumper was not one of the four.

I remember an actress named Elizabeth. She couldn’t have done more than sixteen scenes in her career - one of those three-week girls. She wasn’t good-looking enough to have an extensive career; but since she was 18 and sinewy, she got work. Derrick King was her agent, no idea how he discovered her. Pumper was with her for a while, romantically - this little maladapted young woman with little tits and dried cum on her forehead and glasses - and I wonder exactly what they talked about when they were out for dinner. Munching burgers thoughtfully. Watching a Valley sun go down.

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The onslaught of the video vault continues.

Genevieve DeKay was one of about thirty girls I shot doing interracial semi-pro porn in Long Beach in  fall of 2001 - summer of 2002. Amongst her contemporaries are forgotten luminaries like Cherie (a Jewish girl who was kinda thick, had hebrew tatted onto her back, and appeared in Ice-T’s porn movie, in the hot muggy summer ‘02), Buffy Sinclair, Cindy Pink (aka Felecia), Alana Evans (where is she now?), “Honey” (I saw her again in late 2004 at an all-female bukkake; never mind), Bree Brooks (a tall Scandinavian who once starred in Thom Zupko’s Ass Clowns 3), Venus (former Penthouse Pet with an adorable bi-racial toddler and a Baby Daddy who stalked her - well - she was stalkable), and a few actresses who probably never even got names, they were so temporary. DK - Derrick King - supplied many of the actresses, though in the case of Genevieve, I got her from Reb’s Pretty Girl, International, home of Reb Sawitz, one and only.

Genevieve is notable mostly because she represented the beginning of a trend: the Suicide Girl, or the alt-porn star. I don’t know what became of Genevieve in the end - she was very nice - and whether she did in fact become a Suicide Girl - I suppose a simple internet search would tell me, but I just don’t have the patience - but she was about as close to the stereotype as you could get without having an eyebrow piercing.

I really have no stance on the whole SG/Eon McKai/Alt-porn trend - I like to mention it every so often, because I’m interested in fashion and trends as they pertain to porn - whatever people like to masturbate to, I’ll happily salute. I for one didn’t find Genevieve’s style overwhelmingly attractive - maybe that’s why I was able to conduct this interview with her with a minimum of sleaze. It really made things easier when I would shoot actresses for whom I had no desire, in fact. I would ruin everything by panting all over their aroma like a sick dog. But I was very horny throughout my career as a young pornographer. It was hard not to desire these young girls with near perfect bodies and the willingness to expose them. Really, things got simpler when I shot gay porn (04-05). I was so much more of an ethical person about the workplace. Perhaps I should be castrated. It would solve so many problems. Went to a Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson/ John Mellencamp concert last night at a minor-league ballpark and just walked around the track endlessly, glooming over girls and their bodies. My jaw hanging open. Things would be so much more simple in a world where I had no testicles. I can’t wait to get old.

Oh, and here’s a minor point of trivia in the case of Genevieve: she said during this interview that this was her first video shoot, and later I found out that she was lying. I have no idea why she fibbed - was she attempting to get a better paycheck? I paid her what I paid everybody else, $800. I never paid anybody more or less if this was their first time on camera or first anal or first interracial or anything. Why did she feel the need to lie to me? It’s such an unimportant question but I pose it anyway. The stakes are low, in blogville - I can pose anything I want.

Will I ever find out? Will Genevieve herself eventually find this post or perhaps more likely, the video of her interview on YouTube - and contact me to clear up this little mystery? The power of the internet: reuniting me with a pre-Suicide Girls goth porn actress ten years after the fact, to explain why she lied. You have to love it.

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And here I present the final entry in my crowdpleasing Wesley Pipes marathon. Oh, I might have another clip or two knocking around somewhere, and you might see it before I am done, but tomorrow I will move on to a different porno subject, if only for the freeform fun of it.

But I’m curious to see what kind of response the ol’ Pipes brings from porno fans. Does he have his own base, who rabidly follow his every porno move? I would imagine that he does - in my mind, it would make perfect sense that Wesley has some hard-core devoteés. But you can never really tell with porn. That’s the beauty of porn and the curse of porn: it’s such an anonymous venture. Kids all across the land have pictures of Kobe Bryant up on their bedroom walls (mildly homoerotic, wouldn’t you say? Little suburban white kid having this picture of a half-naked black man with a perfect body, sweating and victorious, with the look of a hired killer in his eyes, perched above his four-poster suburban bed, probably keeping that poster up there from the age of 10 to 13 until he gets sick of the poster and tries marijuana for the first time and then crumples Kobe and puts up a framed Lynyrd Skynyrd black light number in its place?) No kid, teenager, or grown man in the entire universe has a Wesley Pipes poster up in his room. They simply don’t exist. And in any case, porn owns a different kind of fan action, is what I’m saying - though the athletic and charismatic principle is the same, and if Kobe doesn’t know Wesley’s body of work, then I think he should be introduced to it.

Really: who does Kobe watch, when he watches porn? You know that Kobe watches porn, cuz he’s sure as shit not fucking around behind his wife’s back again, if only for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to part with another six point five million dollar rock, which is what he bribed her with the last time around, Colorado Springs style. He’s not hammering random room service pussy anymore, we assume that - but a man’s a man, and Kobe’s as much of a man as the rest of us (except he’s part reptilian and his blood temperature is a chilly 6 degrees celcius). He has a laptop all his own; and he has some sort of privacy, I assume: my man’s watching porn.

Now, would Kobe watch an Eon McKai movie? I hate to be dismissive, but I don’t fucking think so. Maybe he’d watch a Brandon Iron venture, or a Khan Tusion piece of work, but I sorely doubt it and would in fact first wager on Tyler Hansborough making the NBA all-rookie team next year. Nope, Kobe’s more likely watching the kind of porn that I used to proudly produce: black-on-white, interracial slambangs starring men with whom he can identify and sympathize. Kobe’s watching Lexington Steele, Justin Slayer (does he still exist?), Brian Pumper, and Mr. Marcus. And he would have been watching Wesley Pipes - had Wesley Pipes not been doing two and a half year recently for carrying a pistol.

Isn’t that ironic? Pipes goes to jail - for a ridiculously long stretch - for carrying a firearm, in violation of his parole (initial sentence explicated by Pipes in the above video), while K. Bryant is free to roam the streets of Los Angeles despite doing vaginal damage to one Colorado Springs debutante. He dogged her worse’n’ he did Dwight Howard; and yet because of his superior lawyer, he’s absolutely free.

But then there was Michael Vick, who basically was in jail for the exact same amount of time as Wesley and in the precise same time period. (Though I think Vick served in Atlanta - am I wrong? - while Pipes was in California). No amount of good lawyering could save Vick from the rabid claws and teeth of the ASPCA, who wanted him behind bars for dogfighting. Um. Kay. Vick does two years for dogfighting, Pipes does two years for carrying a firearm, and Bryant gets off scott-free. I don’t hold judgements for any of this behavior - more, I just wonder whether Vick and Bryant - the best in their fields - even know about Pipes, who was the best in his field too, particularly around the time that I was shooting these interviews, which was summer 2002. In fact, he was nominated for AVN’s “Performer of the Year” that January 2003 - but Lexington Steele won it for the third time in a row and no one was suprised.

Ricky Henderson and Jim Rice were inducted to the baseball Hall of Fame yesterday. Did either of them tune in to YouTube to catch the latest installment of the Wesley Pipes anthology? Of course they didn’t - they were too busy reliving 1,026 stolen bases and 81 lead-off home runs (both major league records, set by Henderson, a jheri-curled madman who reminds everyone of Terrell Owens, just with more jheris.) They were too busy sniffing about the years 1977-1979, when Rice became the only player in major league history to notch more than 35 home runs and 200 hits in the same season three consecutive times. Did they watch out for their neglected brothers-in-porn? Did they mention them even ONCE in their acceptance speeches? No. Of course they didn’t. Because the connection is tangential at best, and I’m just breaking balls here.

In fact, what the hell am I talking about? I’m blathering on here. But I’m allowed to - I’ve done my job for the blog today, and that’s supplying you with indisputably valuable content. Wesley Pipes. Goddamn, I love having access to my video vault. It makes the job of blogging hardly a job at all.

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