“It’s all lube to me.” - SandersRead More | No Comments
Archive for the ‘video’ Category
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)
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.Read More | No Comments
This one’s a winner, folks.
A paid meat stick from the mid-90’s, Alex Sanders is still hanging around - or, he was when I shot this, in late 2004 or early 2005, a period in which I was pretending I was going to be making the definitive groundbreaking documentary about the Porn Biz. Never finished that movie, or even got close; but I do have about a hundred hours of tape in the back of my closet here, which is good for you, and great for YouTube.
I remember being in Santa Cruz, winter 2000. A cold and lonely night during the February rains. My 40-year-old hippie roommate is smoking bowl after bowl from his wooden pipe and pressuring me - exhorting me - to have some. He is playing some Very Nice Music, and lord, I am tempted. But no: I have research to do. I throw on some heavy brown boots and exit the house, tramping across Water Street to Hoots, Yogurt, and Video, where, after about a half-hour’s thoughtful perusal, I will rent (and subsequently tape, for my home collection), a Misty Rain movie (nobody ever talks about Misty Rain anymore! Man, she was amazing, the pride of 96-97 Natural girls). Sanders was in the flick. Long-haired as ever.
Famous actors must get this all the time; you know - the reaction from normals on the street: Dude! I feel like I know you! But I did feel like I knew Sanders, when I met him and videotaped him, for the clip you see above. I’d seen the guy fuck. I’d seen him get naked and fuck Misty Rain. Outside the rain was pouring down, and I was in Santa Cruz - and then it wasn’t, and I was older, I was in graduate school, and I had a class that evening but it was morning I was on a set in some tweaker shack listening to a pontificiation on civilian girls and how they don’t suck dick right.
I feel like I know you!Read More | No Comments
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.Read More | No Comments
Since it’s Friday, I’m taking the day off from posting my own source material. Yes, I’m going to be content, lazily cherry-picking from the YouTube archives.
Now then … How the hell did I not know about Man and Wife before yesterday? Have I been living under a rock? This is hilarious. More, it’s timely. Fat Man Scoop and Shanda are the Ricky Ricardo and Lucy of our generation. They are Clair and Cliff Huxtable, just with an extra 40 lbs of belly apiece and a light sprinkling of ass-sweat.
Clair and Cliff took us into their bedroom, too. But today’s environment is one of informality and crass authenticity, so instead of Coz’s full-on pajama gear (which was always vomit-worthy), we get Fat Man Scoop’s ratty tank top and boxer drawers. Beautiful. Also Shanda is talking about balls and shit-stains. Phylicia Rashad never did that.
No, the nastiest we ever got on network TV was a Coz foot rub. That was NBC’s shorthand for a Coz lick out.
And they wonder why some of us children of the 1980’s turned to interracial porno. We were taunted.
No, what am I saying . . . Phylicia Rashad was not proposed to a children’s viewing audience as a sex object. . . was she? Was she a Mom object, or a sex object? The worst thing about NBC is that they always try to have everything both ways. (”The Nanny” was a good example of this.) At least over at ABC, they let Roseanne Barr be a big, gross, piece of flabby ass that probably, now that I think about it, paved the way for Man and Wife a lot more than Clair and Cliff ever did.
Where is Roseanne? Is she still alive and eating jelly donuts? I haven’t heard a single thing from her since the mid-90’s. (Wait, not true. I attended her talk show once by accident when I was strolling on Venice Beach and a tout pressed a ticket into my hand. I spent a lonely afternoon in the CBS studio watching her interview the bald-guy from Star Trek. Wow. I had repressed that memory until just now.) And Roseanne was a really, really odd show. A fat, white, working-class family with a boring, tough-love attitude toward child-rearing - what made people think I wanted to watch that? And DJ? Fucking DJ. Talk about shit in your drawers. This kid exemplified shit in your drawers.
I repeat: and they wonder why some of us turned to producing porn. The more I look back on terrible sitcom families of the 80’s and 90’s (especially the Seavers of “Growing Pains”!) the more it makes sense to me that the eroticized body and the eroticized family would become my central concern. Episode after episode, while “real life” and intra-familial relationships are portrayed “realistically,” and every topic under the sun is explored - “Elvin” wants to marry “Sondra;” “Dan” loses his job down at the “Plant;” “Jackie” has a date with “Becky’s” “Subsitute Teacher” then Becomes a “Truck Driver”; “Mike” refused “cocaine” - there’s no real fucking. No awkward moments of someone shitting loudly in the bathroom. No close-ups of bowls of vomit. Little to no facial cum shots. To many of us, these remain gaping holes. Yearning to be filled in.
Thank goodness for Man and Wife TV. Like hardcore offensive pornography, these two pick up where network TV leaves off. I want to hear more about their huge asses. I want to see them grind. That much is true.Read More | 1 Comment
We break temporarily from porn (the video vault contains more than just porn, you see) to bring you three short pieces by Skip Arnold, a Los Angeles-based performance artist whom I had the pleasure to befriend in 2002.
These pieces are funny, arresting, powerful, memorable. It’s interesting to me that with the proliferation of video and the far wider availability of the tools of creation, editing, and publication, we haven’t really been able to improve upon the original video performance works of the 1970’s and 1980’s.
Maybe it’s as simple as the visual register. These works look “different.” There’s a kind of power in that: absorbing works in the here and now that were made 25 years earlier almost always imbues the original pieces with a kind of mystery and magic. It’s the contrast, dredging up both personal nostalgia and a collective technological unconscious that, despite being partially or totally unbeknowst to you, has its own kind of originary sinew.
In a piece I wrote here one month earlier about the music of 1980’s pornography, I posited that 80’s smut music was “better” than 70’s because it not only successfully aped the the visual tone of the movies it accompanied (the blurry low-res Betacam of the moment), but the contemporaneous political climate as well. That was probably bullshit. I said it tongue-in-cheek, regardless. But I’m glad to have Skip’s example of 1980’s video art to lay out alongside the wet laundry of the pornography of the same time. After all, video performance art and pornography are brothers and sisters in degraded composition - are they not?
Both mangle the grammar of film unintentionally (and yet in doing so, they break out of what is often a limiting, confining syntax, with the resulting power and efficacy of a wild knuckleballer). With their minor command (or often, total ignorance) of traditional Hollywood storytelling, to which most viewers are accustomed, the creators of both video art and pornography at once alienate and empower the viewer - alienate because they confuse, and empower because they demand a kind of rigor in watching that your normal soap opera or action movie does not.
Shitty sound; non-actors acting; weird time formats; untraditional ways of according value; odd motives for publication; non-traditional audiences; non-movie theater, non-televised contexts of reception; “outsider” creators; taboo subjects brought to the table — there’s a lot of similarities there. And Skip Arnold in particular is an artist who brings persona, sexuality, exhibitionism, and The Body to the forefront of his work. My god - I just realized this - Youtube may censor me due to his cock and balls - fuck it - I’ll roll with it . . .Read More | No Comments
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.Read More | No Comments
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.Read More | No Comments