When I Dream, I Dream of the Valley

This is my favorite shot from the photos I took in the Valley when I was there a couple weeks ago for a story. It was one of about 150 I took that day, which was, coincidentally, my birthday, and most of which were, well, pretty shitty, although there were some that were OK. I was out of practice.

I have this thing where I don't crop or manipulate the image after I take it, because I want it to be the closest thing possible to exactly what I saw, because anything else, I think, is fake or bullshit, but it means I have to get it right when I'm right there, and sometimes when people are fucking about six feet in front of you, and the crew is watching you, and some guy from Fox magazine is elbow-to-elbow with you, it can get a little challenging.

Anyway, I like this shot because a) it's pretty, and b) if you cropped it so all you saw was their faces, it would look like the cover of a romance novel. And who's to say porn isn't romantic? Just because they didn't know each other that well and went at it like dogs in a matter of minutes, maybe that's true romance -- the ultimate intimate performance in homage to our one true love: the almighty dollar.

Once upon a time, someone told me: "When I dream, I dream of the sea."

These days, when I dream, I dream of the Valley.

You Must Bear Witness to This

The always-light-years-ahead-forward-thinking SHOWStudio is livestreaming and tweeting an amazing, eye-popping photo shoot inspired by the erotic pop perversities of Peter Saville.

"As backdrop to an editorial story for July 2009 Wallpaper* magazine, Peter Saville's febrile imagination constructs an imaginary 'Erotic House' of Pop perversity, sexualising an entire post-modern environment and fetishising furniture, fashion and flesh alike."

It's a must-must-see.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Orgy

There's an interesting profile of Gay Talese and wife Nan in the latest issue of New York: "A Nonfiction Marriage." While the premise of the piece is to focus on Talese's work in progress, a book about his marriage, it focuses a fair amount of its attentions on Talese's controversial-at-the-time study of sex in America, Thy Neighbor's Wife, which is being republished this month.

Gasp, faint, wheeze. Talese was a bit of a cad while writing Wife. While running around the country studying sex, and a married man, he didn't just stand to the side and observe; sometimes, he crossed the line. He cheated on his wife, got naked with the nudists, managed a massage parlor, ran wild at sex clubs. In the context of the piece, it's all very, well, dear. As if Talese is a tchotchke in a weird wunderkammer that no longer exists.

Of course, what Talese did is nothing new, nor very revolutionary. At "The World's Biggest Gangbang III," I distinctly remember noticing a reporter getting a blowjob from a fluffer in one corner. Photographer Ian Gittler recollects screwing Savannah in Pornstar; the scene is more depressing than inspiring.

Sometimes, when it comes to the sex beat, it seems like male writers have, well, a hard time. After all, the thinking around it goes, how can he not be turned on by what's right in front of his nose? But do these scenes make the story? Or do they undermine it?

In this case, that question isn't really raised. But things get complicated when the reporter sticks his dick in it. You'd think. Wouldn't you?

Miss Douchebag 2009

I took this photo of myself last night, right after I came home, less than an hour after I won top honors at the Miss Douchebag 2009 pageant. It was simply an amazing night, a true honor. If only I had been able to fit the trophy through the front door. Thankfully, I had the strength of mind to capture my image in the bathroom mirror, but a few feet from the toilet.

This is the first photo of myself that I've posted online in around five years, I think. Conveniently blurry, isn't it? Flash, thou art mine enemy.

Alas, I did not receive the Queen's blessing ...

Queen Elizabeth I: For you and for your heirs, Orlando: the house.

Orlando: Your Majesty, I am forever ...

Queen Elizabeth I: But on one condition. Do not fade. Do not wither. Do not grow old.

Twitterfreak

Do you know that I'm on Twitter?

It's true.

I am.

Exciting.

If you really can't get enough of me -- and, really, who can? -- feel free to follow me on Twitter, where I post random thoughts, scintillating links, and brilliant blog-to-book ideas.

Bestriding the City

On my last day in Los Angeles, I drove this crazy route. I had time to kill before I took the red-eye home. I drove from Hollywood, all the way up the 5, to a place called Kagel Canyon, all the way up to the top of the canyon, past the cemetery, to what seemed like the bottom of the sky, where I turned around, and I could see everything, for miles and miles, the valley forever and ever, it seemed.

Then I came back down. I drove to Studio City. I had lunch at Du-par's. I left my waitress as a 50% tip. The donuts looked awesome.

From there, I continued on through the Valley and back over into the City on the 405. I went to Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive, Tiffany. It was nice.

I stopped at the La Brea Tar Pits, the tiny elephant still screeching from the edge of the pool of black stench, its small trunk still extended to its eternally drowning mother.

I drove downtown, through the crazy, banging streets, and stopped at the Times building, staring through the glass at the giant globe rotating, at the foot of which the gold letters read:

His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear'd arm
Crested the world; his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres ...

In Chinatown, I walked under the swinging persimmon lanterns at dusk.

What was the point? They were all places in my novel. It was like living in between worlds, the real world and the shadow world in my mind. And I was happy.

[Image via Nevver]

Spitzer: If I Had Masturbated More, I Would Not Have Had Sex with That Woman

Deeply fucking amusing quote from a frequently fawning, generally dull follow-me-around profile of Spitzer, here on the subject of, you know, that woman:

Did he know what the risk was?

"Yes."

He was silent for a moment and then, without further prompting, offered an explanation: "I'm not going to say anything that … should be thought to be an excuse for anything. But there's got to be some element to its being a result of tension and release. And that builds up."

Jerking off would have helped, buddy.

What's the win?

Guest appearance on "The Real Housewives of New York City."

Steven Klein Goes "Clorox Blue"

Really love this new fashion film by Steven Klein, "Clorox Blue," which just premiered online.

Although, and maybe it's too much time spent on porn sets too recently, but I guess I was disappointed it was so soft-core, relying so heavily on framing, innuendo, and overtones.

If you're going to go high-end fucking in a toilet, why not go hardcore?

I Love a Man in Uniform

I did a new Q&A for the Daily Beast, this time with stripper-turned-Army wife Lily Burana.

While driving with you in the car, your husband had a flashback during which he thought he was back in Iraq. What was that like?

The first thing you need to know about my husband is you see him as someone very capable and utterly sane. I depend on my husband as reliable and centered, and to see him become a caricature out of Apocalypse Now—it was like watching someone become possessed. When I finally realized he was having this Hollywood flashback of the sort I didn’t think really happened, I realized there was a lot more going on under the surface than I ever would’ve have suspected. To watch him flip out was heartbreaking.

Read: "The Patriotic Stripper."

How to Tell a True Porn Story

When I was in Los Angeles, Porn Valley to be exact, working on a story, for Double X, I came across another story, a real story, a big story, the kind of story that turns you into a real reporter.

Now, at least thus far, I can't place that story. Or, I should say, I haven't placed it yet. It's about violence, and pornography, and politics. It's a grownup story, and comes with its own set of concerns, sending other people shooing me away from it.

What's a girl to do?

I've struggled a lot, internally, since I got back from Porn Valley.

All I want to do is go back.

Everyone says, no, no, don't do that, or sits silent on the other end of the telephone line, or gives me a stern look, and I think: You don't understand. I can feel it in my bones.

What if I had a dick, and I were shipping myself off to Iraq, wouldn't it be another story? Would you bother to bat an eyelash?

No.

I guess the problem with having gone through some of the things that I've gone through, or having seen some of the things that I've seen, or having dealt with some of the shit that I've dealt with is that the more I think about it, the more I just don't give a fuck.

And that's either a very clever or a very dangerous place to be.

When I was leaving Los Angeles, I picked up a copy of Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried from some LAX book rack, between all the rest of the books, all the drivel and all the shit, and I opened it, and there was this line that I'd read years ago staring back at me from the past.

"You can tell a true war story by the way it never seems to end."

And I thought: Yeah, that's about right.

He's a Muthafuckin' Puppet!

This is the battery pack of the set photographer on one of the adult movie sets I was on. The sticker is for "Black Devil Doll," which appears to be a black "Chucky." It reads: "AND IF YOU THINK YOU'RE READY FOR HIM, THINK AGAIN, BITCH!"

Snapshot

My favorite part of being back in Porn Valley was taking photographs. That was the part that made me happy. Sometimes, I think I would like to stop writing and just take photographs, but I don't know if I'm any good at it, which is a silly reason not to go after something, but maybe when you were raised by someone who says things like, "Wishes aren't reality," things can get complicated on the way to happiness.

Flickr: "This is Jim Powers, a porn director. His ouvre includes 'American Bukkake 13,' which caught the eye of the U.S. Department of Justice and ended up in an 18-count obscenity indictment."

What happened after the US government handed down that indictment is another story altogether. Suffice to say, Jim is still hard at work in the Valley. On the set of "Fuck Machines 6," his black T-shirt reads: "IMMORAL PRODUCTIONS."

At Sonny Bono's funeral, Cher said Sonny was the most unforgettable character she'd ever met. In Porn Valley, Powers is that person for me.

"You're welcome on my sets anytime," he told me, before I left.

The Great Debate

Now that I've returned from Porn Valley, the great debate arises. From here, do I go back to LA, back to the Valley, or do I move on, move to NYC? Last night, I thought I knew. I had decided. At one point, I re-read an email that was sent to me last fall by a merchant seaman who understands this dilemma.

"But, I noticed a trend in that people who go to sea beyond a certain time stay at sea. They 'get the sea in their blood.' True."

I thought, Oh, that's me. I've got it in my blood. I can't let it go. It's hard to explain. If you think you've been there, you probably haven't. If you know you've been there -- well, you understand me completely.

In any case, I woke up this morning, and I wasn't sure what to do all over again. What was I thinking? I thought. And then there in my email box was another email from the merchant seaman.

Dear Susannah-
 
I read your April 8th entry in RC: when I dream, I dream of the sea.  Actually, I have been reading you and your work continuously since I sent the note below.  I am the merchant seaman who wrote you.
 
If I may say, I worry about you.
 
I read about the loss you suffered, your headlong dive into the porn culture, and the success that followed you upon writing about this aberrant culture in an intelligent manner.  Your success and the people who want to see you tumble back into the abyss to send them back marketable, or remarkable, missives.
 
Golden handcuffs.
 
You have a strong voice.  I do not need to affirm this, many have said so much more eloquently than I.  Porn is a nitch, you are regarded as an expert, it was your entre.  Porn is not your muse.  Your voice transcends.  I see that when you write about the borders of sexual expression.  Write of it authoritatively, but not as a participant.  You paid your dues.
 
Don't let people drag you to what you have outgrown.  Your voice is clear and strong.  Write what you need to write, not what is expected or demanded.  You are not less, you have not missed your ride.  You are more than the subject.  Do not see yourself as the marketers demand to see you.
 
I wonder if I have said too much.  Rereading, I see that I have.  Maybe a bit repetitive, there, as well.  If you forgive me, I will not edit what I have written.
 
Be peace.  Please.

Redux

"When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle." -- "Apocalypse Now"

Day

In the Valley, kept forgetting it was my birthday, more here.

Another Day in Paradise

On the set of "Fuck Machines 6," LAPD-emblazoned ghetto bird circles over 360-degree views of the Valley, the girl on a swing with the engine whirring, and the director cries: "It's like watching a fish tank!"

When I Dream, I Dream of the Sea

Before I got here, I thought I would be able to write about this story as it was unfolding. Now, I'm not so sure. Instead, what keeps going through my mind is this line from an email I once received. It was from a merchant seaman.

"The longer I spent away from the sea-going community, the more I realize how hard I had gotten. How wounded I was by what I saw and heard. How damaged I was becoming. Still, when I dream, I dream of the sea."

That's what keeps going through my head this morning. "When I dream, I dream of the sea." That's what I thought, upon waking from dreaming.

Porn's Walter Lippmann

Mark Kernes, senior editor at Adult Video News, the New York Times of Porn Valley, looks at his collection of 3D pornographic photographs through a paper viewfinder in his Chatsworth office.

Hollywood, Baby

Frenetic, frantic, all that. Flew across the country, drove across the city, pulled into the valet of the hotel in Hollywood, and there was Ron Jeremy. Like fate, perverted.

Sitting on the 10th floor in between time zones, the city spills out in the dark with a million scattered lights, and I wish I'd never left. I fall in love all over again walking the boulevard, from the crazy old lady in pancake makeup and towering green turban to the falling apart art deco theater fronts with dirty red carpets.

I wish I'd never left, but I can't go home.

I started putting the story together, bit by bit, getting everything together, so the week is booking up.

Starting tomorrow, I'll hit the ground running, tape recorder in hand, camera slung over shoulder, running and writing at the same time.

Oh, it's a flurry. I just got here, and I never want to leave already.

Friday Goodbye

Next time we meet, I'll be in Hollywood.

No more spotlights coming down from heaven
It's a goodbye, it's curtains double time
Not even out of my dress
And already my voice is fading
Goodbye my dears and into
The big sleep

Bye for now.

Sasha Grey Returns

It's the movie poster for Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience," starring Sasha Grey. I can't wait to see it. If you're looking for the Sasha Grey American Apparel ad, it's here.

Sex Positivitism Sucks

I can't tell if this is a joke or not, it being April 1 and all, but I'm going to take it at face value: "Why Sex Positivity Is Bad for Feminism."

As I have discussed here previously, I loathe the whole "sex positivity" movement. I mean, really? It even sounds retarded. Sex positive? What's that? It sounds wildly redundant. Isn't sex, like, fundamentally, a positive? Like, get laid, high five, as you were, etc.

Sometimes, I sit around and wonder about the opposite. "Sex negative," they call it. That's whatever it is when their dreaded enemy, the MSM, covers anything about sex, and then a bunch of self-proclaimed "sex positive" bloggers work themselves up into a self-induced lather over how the coverage was, like, totally sex negative, and was, like, so not GLTrans--whatever the fucking acronym is today.

Isn't that being sex negative?

To be honest, most people who write about sex are pretty crappy writers. Let's be frank. You know it. I know it. We all know it. And mostly, and by "mostly" I mean "for sure," the sex positive writers are, like, the worst writers.

I mean, I guess that's me being, like, totally sex negative, but, like, whatever. Maybe if they learned how to write, I wouldn't be so negative about their movement.

In total, I would like to conclude by saying that not only is sex positivism bad for feminism, but it's also bad for writing.

So, stop.