I'm working on the sample chapter for my book proposal. When this is finished, I will be done. A decade ago, I set foot on a porn set for the first time. In all this time, I never really wrote about the girls, the porn stars, not really. I avoided it. I'm no good at self-portraits. There's a bulletin board on my wall with a girl on it in an image torn from the pages of Vogue magazine. The girl is lying on an operating table. A giant robotic surgical system is suspended over her. She wears Armani and Balenciaga as she guides the probes towards her. "The four-armed probe follows the commands of a surgeon seated in a hooded console a few feet away," it reads, "shades of the wizard at the court of Oz." The chapter is in three parts. The first part is done. That's about the girl, who she appears to be. The second part is about sex, that which she sells. The third part, I suspect, is about love. That remains unwritten.
