Love Love (27 page)

As you've seen, I'm not particularly hung. Many of the men in this business are well-endowed, but I'm normal Norman. Rick, on the other hand, he was big, “eight and a quarter inches of pleasure,” as he often liked to say. But size doesn't do you any good if you can't get hard, and for Rick, that's what happened to him. He was good for about four pictures, but then he started having trouble, which isn't surprising at all. By that time, Monty had a studio built in his basement and had two cameramen and a lighting guy on the payroll, folks who worked in the
mainstream doing commercials and wanted to make some extra money at night. The techs get those lights really close up to your genitals, and they're hot. And sometimes the cameraman has to brace himself right against you to get the money shot, and maybe the guy ate garlic bread or kimchi for lunch. Then there are the girls—usually they're pretty young things, but many of them take drugs to get through it, and I've had times when a deep throat goes down a little too deep, and she ends up vomiting all over you. Not to mention that just like any other movie shoot, there are workers milling about, extras to fill a scene and caterers setting up the spread, and all these people have to get paid whether or not you can maintain an erection.

Fifteen years ago, you saw all sorts of guys doing my work: old, ugly, fat, what have you. That's because staying hard was a gift from above, and usually God gave you a magic dick and not much else. But that changed with the introduction of Viagra and other ED drugs. That's why all the recent porn actors are handsome and sport six-pack abs, because they can just pop the blue pill before they face the camera. Some of the girls don't like it, because it makes them feel less attractive and sexy, that a guy has to use drugs to perform, but this is the present reality.

Call me lucky. I've had my blood tested, and my testosterone level is still higher than most men in their twenties. The toughest part for me was keeping from coming inside a woman. Because if there's one rule you cannot break in porn, it's that you have to ejaculate outside, for the camera.

In some ways, women have it easier than men in this business because they can fake it. And of course they do. In all the movies I've made, and I've made my share, 193 to be exact, there have only been a handful of women I worked with who actually orgasmed with me, one of whom was your mother. I'm sorry if that shocks you—I can't imagine many children wanting to hear about their parents and their orgasms—but sex, to me, is a commodity, a way to make a living, no different than the way an electrician may consider his voltmeter. But I'm getting ahead of myself, Kevin. There's so much I want to tell you that it's difficult not to stray.

After the first four movies, I had to find a better porn name. Ironically, Rick was born with one, last name Strong. The thing Monty liked most about me was how easygoing and relaxed I was, so he dubbed me Mellow Yellow. Maybe today I would've been offended by the racial connotations, but it all seemed fine back then. There weren't many Asian porn actors working in the States, so more than anything, I was grateful
that I was getting paid to fuck a lot of women. In fact, I think there was only one other, a big Chinese guy they called Long Dong, so you can imagine what his specialty was.

Many people who get into this business do so as an act of defiance, because they were brought up in strict religious households, where they prayed every day, never heard a single curse word, weren't even allowed to think about sex until marriage, and maybe not even then. It's a terrible situation to be in, especially when you're a teenager, puberty exerting itself in every which way, like a bomb waiting to go off. Believe me, I know, because I was one of these unfortunate people. My parents were Catholic missionaries, their entire lives devoted to the church and all things Jesus Christ, and what they wanted was for me to be a priest.

A priest!

It's funny now, but there was nothing funny about my adolescence. Do you believe in God, son? That's perfectly fine if you do; in fact, I applaud you if you do, because I've never been able to believe. In my heart of hearts, I know there's nothing else for me, for any of us, outside of what we have here and now. And I'm not pulling some sort of a Nietzschean nothingness here. I just know that we are, in essence, alone in this universe. Why wouldn't we be? Why would we want to look to some ethereal, higher being for guidance of any kind? We are our own gods.

Okay. Let's get to me and your mom before I turn down another philosophical alley.

We met at Monty's birthday party. It was 1971, and Grace Kim, that's your mother, was invited by Vince DeGuardi, the photographer. It was just a couple of weeks after we had our movie premiere at the O'Farrell Theatre, so both Rick and I were semicelebrities. That's where the movie Behind the Green Door was shown a year later. It was when everyone saw Deep Throat and the concept of pornographic films became more palatable to the general public, a time dubbed the golden age of porn. I can't agree. As usual, the past is often seen through the forgiving filter of nostalgia, and what I remember about that time period is nothing of the sort. Drugs were everywhere, the mafia was involved with both the backing and the distribution of the products, and as it was a time before AIDS, there was no regard for the sexual well-being of the actors. At the same time, the movies back then had larger budgets and longer shoots, so the claim isn't entirely unfounded. The Internet has both been a blessing and a curse, making for easy delivery of materials but also bringing in an enormous wave of free amateur porn, but it's not as if the
adult film industry is the only one that has suffered at the hands of new technology. Look at what's happened with record companies.

Sorry I went off on another tangent, son. It's not often that I talk about my past, especially to my own blood. Which reminds me—I haven't told you that you have a sister. Half sister, I suppose, but blood is blood. When we see each other again, I'll be sure to get you in touch with her. She wants to meet you. Denise lives in Oakland, just a few BART stops away.

Your mother was eighteen years old when we met, and she was a beautiful girl. The photo that you have is from 1973, and by that time, she'd spent almost three years working in the industry, and it destroyed her. She didn't admit it to anyone, especially herself, and her cause of death was determined to be an accidental overdose, though I think it was as accidental as someone dying of lung cancer after smoking three packs a day for his or her entire life.

When I met Grace at the birthday party, her feet never touched the ground. There is no better way to describe her youth, her air. Here was a girl who knew how to have fun, whose hair was so long and so dark that it touched the small of her back.

I know an orgy sounds like some weird, kinky thing, but it's nothing more than a lot of people fucking at the same time. You might think there's all sorts of swapping going on, like some kind of a naughty square dance, but in the numerous orgies I've partaken in, that's actually pretty rare. This will sound strange, but it's more like the thrill of watching a great movie in a crowded theater versus watching it at home by yourself. What's special is the shared experience of the moment, that you're not alone. Nobody thinks about this because, well, it's not something that normal people ever have an opportunity to think about in a different way, but sex is a lonely thing. Yes, it certainly is less lonely than masturbating, but have you ever considered the fact that when you are orgasming, you're almost always experiencing it by yourself? As everyone knows, simultaneous orgasms between two people only exist in romance novels. In the real world, if the girl is lucky, she gets off before the guy does. When you're in a room with a hundred people groaning with pleasure, bodies dripping with the sweat of lovemaking, it's guaranteed that there's somebody else reaching their climax at the same time as you. There's nothing that makes you feel more human.

So that's how we met, at Monty's birthday orgy. Human bodies fell around us like trees, female legs spread wide and reaching for the sky,
grunts of pleasure echoing all over the house. At eighteen, Grace's body was as fresh as a summer's morning. Touching her skin was like getting high; never would I meet another woman who'd have that kind of an effect on me. I can still remember her inner warmth, like an all-encompassing embrace. That was the magic, Kevin, that our bodily union was like a hug. We felt so safe with each other.

Sharing in this very intimate act with other people is why I've stayed in this business. Most people have a very low opinion of the kind of work I do, and maybe you do, too. But I believe I'm doing some good in this world, for this world. There are men out there who would never be able to get a girl to bed, ugly men, disabled men, obese men, shy men. But they're still men, and they need an outlet. That's why there's pornography. Maybe a husband isn't getting the frequency of sex he desires from his wife, so instead of having affairs or getting a divorce, he beats off while watching one of my movies. We've all been conditioned by religion and society to be shameful of sex for too long, so it's not going to change overnight, if ever. Even though pornography has become more mainstream, America's Puritanical roots will never allow us to enjoy our lives without guilt. But that doesn't mean I won't stop trying.

Because what I do, son, what I do is an expression of freedom. I'm not talking about some Larry Flynt–First Amendment soapbox but rather the act itself. It's something that didn't occur to me until many years later, but when you're naked and there's this girl who's naked and there are cameras whirling and people all around you, watching and filming this very primal moment—I wish I could convey to you how free you feel. There are no rules, it's animal, it's the very essence of life.

I'm sorry to say your mother and I were in only one film together, and the only reason why it even got made was because Monty owed a Chinese opium dealer some money and wanted to appease him. Unlike most folks, who wanted to see interracial couplings, this guy wanted to see two Asians going at it.

That reminds me—I forgot to tell you that in about two-thirds of my films, I played a Mexican, which I could get away with, with my dark skin and my convincing accent. With a bushy mustache and darker eyebrows drawn in, I became Juan Grande. So if you ever come across some vintage porn starring a Mexican who could pass for an Asian, it's probably me. Not that you would find any of my old movies. Most of those films were stolen or trashed. It wasn't like we were making The Godfather or Gone with the Wind, safeguarding our masters in vacuum-sealed vaults.

Our film was titled One Night in Bang Cock, the name of the city intentionally misspelled. That was the name of Grace's character, Bang Cock, and it was filmed mostly in Monty's backyard, at night, hence the title. Monty's backyard was as manicured as a golf course, so it made for a suitable backdrop. The story was that she was waiting for her husband to return from a war, but she was this nympho, so she ends up having sex with everybody—the mailman, the gardener, the girl babysitter. It's actually a pretty funny movie, because the whole time, she's in false agony, like, “I miss you so much, husband,” and then the next minute, she's blowing the exterminator. But the last twenty minutes of the film is just us. The costumers had me in a samurai suit, with the sword and the armor and the iron helmet that was like having a house on my head. It took a good five minutes for me to just get out of all of that gear, but was it ever worth it. Being on camera with my future wife—it was the spring of 1971, a full moon rising high in the night. When you look back on your life, son, can you find a single moment that makes life worth living? Maybe it's sad, that of all the years that I've lived on this planet, I can shrink down the best of my life to a single shard of time. But I've lived that scene many times over in my mind, us sixty-nining on the grass, then I'm on top and not even seeing the cameras anymore, your mother's breasts cupped in my hands, her nipples as hard as erasers, our bodies moving as one, and now the director is screaming because he can see it on my face, it's something he'd never yell at a professional like me, but there I am, breaking the only unbreakable rule in this business.

That was you, son. I know it was you because nine months later, you were born.

The movie paused, his father's mouth frozen in midword, looking as if he'd encountered some mild, pleasant surprise. Kevin lifted his elbows to see if he'd accidentally pressed a button on the remote, but the remote was in Claudia's hand.

She pointed it at the TV and clicked the power button, the light extinguished, the room darkening.

“Claudia?” Kevin said.

She looked as if she wanted to kiss him, and that's what she did, her lips pressed against his, moist and full. She tasted like salty caramel, and it was as if some switch had been thrown, more in his pants
than his head. He wasn't exactly turned on, but he wasn't exactly not turned on, either, and that was more than enough. Kevin returned her passion in equal measure, holding her close, pulling her closer. She unbuckled his belt; he unbuttoned her blouse. Her hands were as scratchy as a cat's tongue, raising goose bumps when she ran her palms over his chest. She laughed, and he laughed, and they were on the couch and then the floor and then back again, her hair in his mouth, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his ass as she yanked him onto her, into her, through her, their bodies melding into a single creature. Wasn't that lovemaking, a flesh connection? At the core of it, that's what fucking was, a man and a woman joined at the front of their respective hips to achieve a symbiosis of sorts. He'd always enjoyed the physicality of it, the well of pleasure filling up before the grand release of orgasm, and now, as Claudia rode him like a mechanical bull, her breasts bouncing with every pump, it occurred to him that his appetite for sex was something else that ran in the family.