The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (49 page)

We like to think of ourselves as marital aids. We want to inspire you to try as many different positions as possible, and to make an effort to satisfy
both
partners. We advocate communication and sometimes a little dirty talk to spice things up. But remember, what
feels
good doesn’t always
look
good, and what
looks
good doesn’t always
feel
good.

You want further proof? Consider the porn blow job. When an actress is fellating somebody in an adult film, her cheeks often need to stick out. It doesn’t hurt to have visual evidence that a cock is in her mouth. And for the guys, this means ramming your cock straight into her cheekbones. You’re not really fucking her mouth, you’re going through two rows of her
teeth
. Yes, let’s all say “ouch” together, shall we? It looks great on camera, but for the people doing it, it doesn’t feel that exciting.

In your private life, when a girl is giving you head, what feels the best? You want your cock to be deep inside her mouth, right down to the tonsils, while she’s creating a sucking, vacuumlike effect and swirling around it with her tongue. But we can’t show that in a porn film. Unless we had miniature cameramen out of
Fantastic Voyage
who could travel inside a girl’s mouth and catch all the action, it’s not going to work. In a porn film, we spend more time with our cocks
outside
of a girl’s mouth than in it. And even then, she can’t give it too much attention without ruining the shot. I’ve been on too many sets when directors have shouted, “Honey, your hands are blocking the balls! Back it up a little, please.”

Making love like a porn star means enduring all sorts of uncomfortable and occasionally downright nasty things. Take a double-penetration scene, for instance. Two guys are riding a girl at the same time, one in her pussy and one in her ass. As a visual spectacle, it makes for great eye candy. And sometimes it feels great. But once in a while, you feel some guy’s balls knocking against your balls. Perhaps it’s the size of the girl’s taint,
*
or maybe the guy just has balls that hang a little lower than usual. But whatever the reason, it can take every last ounce of strength not to lose your wood completely.

Sometimes if you’re on bottom and the guy on top pops first, his cum will end up missing her completely and dripping down your leg. When it’s happened to me, I just take one look at the guy and say, “You better get a towel and get your kids off my leg, or I’m gonna put them through college. Now
I
have to see
your
blood test.”

Still want to make love like a porn star?

“But what about those amazing cumshots?” you’re probably asking. “How do you make your sperm fly over a girl’s head and hit a wall twenty feet away? I’ve heard that some actors drink raw egg whites before a scene. Is that true?”

Whoa, whoa, slow down, Tex! You’re right, porn stars do shoot some pretty massive loads. But you’re an idiot if you think there’s a secret to it. You can suck back as many egg whites and Asian mushroom extracts as you want, and you still won’t cum like a sperm geyser. If you really want to have a better orgasm, here’s my advice. Two words:
hold back!
The longer you can abstain from having sex or having an orgasm, the better it’ll feel when you finally do it.
*

I pretty much guarantee that you’ll have a slightly more liquidy cumshot with this method, but why does that matter? In a visual medium like porn, sure, a big cumshot is important. But in the privacy of your bedroom, when nobody is watching, you shouldn’t care if you’re cumming buckets or thimbles. The only thing you should be concerned with is how it feels. Does it feel good? If it does, then you’re doing something right. Do you actually think that women pay attention to the amount of gook? What’s your girlfriend going to say? “Oh, very nice. You drenched me. Now bring me a towel, you pig.”

As long as we’re on the subject of cumshots, there are a lot of you out there who seem to think that we porn stars have some kind of superhuman control over our own orgasms. Okay, sure, I’ve bragged in this book that I can time my ejaculations down to the second. And yes, it
is
true. But as remarkable as this skill may be, it took a little trial and error before I got it right. And even then, I’m only human.

Here’s a little tip for you guys out there. If you think you’re going to cum and you’re not ready, just take your cock out and give it a rest. You have a luxury that we don’t have on a porn set. You can stop whenever you want. This doesn’t mean that sex has to end completely. You can still play with your partner with your fingers or your tongue. Trust me, she won’t mind. Alternate between your dick and other parts of your body. Dick-tongue-dick-tongue-finger-tongue-dick. If you’re so turned on that even touching her will make you pop, take a break and go make a sandwich. If you need to, run your pecker under cold water. It’s okay, you’re allowed.

For every cumshot that I got right, there were a few times when I came too soon and almost ruined a scene. You want an example? Fine. Here’s one:

A few years ago, I did a porno called
The Adult Apprentice
, a parody of Donald Trump’s TV show
The Apprentice
. I had a scene with Vicki Vette, an incredible blonde bombshell who gives absolutely amazing head. Every time I’ve been with her, it’s been a struggle not to climax too soon. We were doing a position called the pile driver, which is very physically difficult. The woman is basically turned upside down. Her head is on the floor and her legs are sticking straight up in the air, and the guy is standing over her and penetrating her by putting his legs on either side of her. In a way, it’s like you’re trying to simulate human scissors.

So Vicki and I were doing the pile driver, and even though it’s a taxing position, she was getting me really excited. Vicki knows how to do things with her body that are probably illegal in forty-eight of the fifty states. I got the horrible feeling that I was going to pop too soon, so I did what I always do in that situation. I started thinking of disgusting things: war casualties, deceased relatives, etc.
*
To my amazement, it wasn’t working. So I pulled it out just long enough to regain control. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but I had forgotten that I was doing the pile driver. I was standing on a bed, perched precariously over Vicki with nothing but her legs to hold on to for support. The moment I backed up to pull out my penis, I realized that I was losing my balance.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was cumming.

I fell over backward, tumbling off the bed and onto the floor, my sperm trailing behind me like the burning smoke from a crashing plane. The director adjusted the camera in time to capture my orgasmic plummet, so at least it wasn’t a complete waste.

And that, in a nutshell, is the main difference between sex at home and sex on a porn set. When one of you suffers from premature ejaculation, the most that gets hurt is your pride (and maybe that of your wife or girlfriend). But when we do it, we can end up with a broken back and a face full of our own jism, and the entire cast and crew gets to witness it.

At least I’m getting paid to put myself through the abuse. What’s
your
excuse?

On the set of
Scoundrels
. (Photograph by Cecil Howard/Command Cinema)

EPILOGUE

It is very difficult to fail at pornography.

—Michael Chabon

In 2004,
Slash invited me backstage to hang out with his new band, Velvet Revolver, at the Roxy in Los Angeles. Slash was an old buddy, and I couldn’t have been happier that he was making a triumphant return to music after the nasty breakup of Guns N’ Roses and the semisuccesses of his new bands, the Snake Pit and Slash’s Blues Ball. I watched as he tuned his guitar while his wife, Perla Ferrer, sat by his side.

I knew Scott Weiland (Velvet’s lead singer, former front man for Stone Temple Pilots) and the other band members, but I felt a special kinship to Perla and Slash. After all, I had introduced them to each other.

You see? I haven’t always introduced musicians to porn stars. Sometimes when I play Cupid, I can actually get it right.

It all happened just five years earlier, as I was on my way to Slash’s hotel room in Las Vegas for a late-night party. I bumped into Perla in the lobby, and she asked me to bring her upstairs to introduce her to Slash.

“I’m going to marry that man someday,” she told me. She didn’t say it hopefully; she spoke with a confidence that I’d never seen in the groupies who usually chased after Slash. She knew in her heart that she was destined to be with him, and nothing could convince her otherwise.

So I brought her up to meet Slash, and they hit it off almost immediately. A short time later, just as Perla had predicted, they were married. It’d been a few years since I’d seen either of them, and I was happily amazed that they were still a couple. Relationships in rock tend to be short-lived, but Slash couldn’t have been happier. He loved his new domestic life and raising a family with Perla. They had two kids already, and Slash told me there were plans to have another.

The other members of Velvet Revolver had undergone similar transformations. Scott had spent the last decade battling his substance-abuse problems, an addiction that he had finally been able to kick. He was also married with a kid, and his rowdy past seemed to be completely behind him. The rest of the band was no different. They were all clean and sober, and to watch them lounging together backstage you would never guess that these four guys were once the hard-partying, booze-swilling, drug-taking, sexed-up wild boys of L.A.’s rock scene.

I glanced around the backstage dressing room. There were no empty bottles of beer or Jack Daniel’s, no blonde groupies, no panties draped across lamps or overturned furniture that had recently been set on fire. It was just a small group of friends and their wives, a social gathering no different from what you’d find at any suburban dinner party. I pretended to be horrified.

“This is absolutely appalling,” I barked at them, breaking the silence. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

The band looked up at me, stunned by my outburst. I walked around the room, surveying the shameful display of rock impotence.

“You call yourself rock stars?” I continued. “What the hell is this? There’s not one bottle of hard liquor in the place. Not even a beer. You’ve got bottled water and sodas, PowerBars and granola. What kind of rock star drinks fruit juice? I mean seriously,
fruit juice
? Are you worried about your prostates or something?”

Slash began to giggle. He knew that I was just having some fun with them, mocking how radically their lives had changed since the glory days of the 1980s and early ’90s. I stormed over to the buffet table, on which the usual amenities had been replaced with something far more sinister.

“And what do we have here?” I asked, my voice shaking with rage. “Antibacterial Handi Wipes? Baby powder? Pacifiers? Rattler toys?
Diapers
? I remember a time when this table would’ve been covered with unconscious groupies. And now it’s been replaced with boxes of
diapers
? I’m telling you, if word gets out that the Velvet Revolver touring machine is moonlighting as a day-care facility, your careers are finished. You think your teenage fans want to know about this? It’s an affront to rock and roll!”

I collapsed next to Slash, and we both burst into laughter. “Seriously though,” I said. “I’m proud of you guys. This is the best it can be. And I’m one to talk. I don’t touch drugs, and I barely drink.”

“That’s right!” Slash exclaimed. “Where do you get off scolding us?”

“Well,” I said with a wide grin, “I do enjoy the occasional groupie.”

“Oh, sure,” he agreed. “There’s that.”

Slash gave me a consolatory hug. “It’s okay, Ronnie,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll catch up with us eventually.”

I
just found out that my ex-girlfriend Juniper is moving to Florida.

To be honest, Juniper hasn’t technically been my girlfriend for two years. I mean, we had been living together, and we were what you’d call “romantically involved.” But now we’re friends, first and foremost. We enjoy each other’s company, and Juniper always tells me that I’m the best friend she has in the world. But whatever we were—or are—was never clearly defined. I was in love with her and wanted to be with her, and that’s all I needed to know. We were just taking our relationship day by day, without any expectations of what tomorrow would bring.

But then Juniper announced that she was fed up. She didn’t think I’d ever be ready to settle down and commit to her. She wanted me to quit the swinging lifestyle. She didn’t want to share me with other women, and if I couldn’t devote more one-on-one time to her, mind and body, then she didn’t want to waste any more time on me.
*