Adventures in Pornoland (DIRECTOR'S CUT)
Middle-aged mistress of the night Dr. Susan Block was your typical pornographer sex therapist shut-in, playing up, as a means to cold existential comfort and with minimal irony, an air of humble nihilism, hermetic hippie tendencies, and her “belief” that thousands of years of accumulated human knowledge, artistic achievement and spirituality pale in comparison to the cock-sparring, gang-banging and genital-licking of the Bonobos. This monkey-see monkey-do sentiment was “legitimated” by the philosophical firepower afforded her by routine surgical enhancement and the nearly impermeable academic/artistic prophylactic of a Yale Degree (she even wore pink Yale panties), was the foundation and, in a sense, justification of “The Dr. Susan Block Show"--a liquored up, amoral mind-fuck with a usually pants-less-and-erect home audience. A mind-fuck that was my order of business for the summer.
In truth, however, her naughty talk-show/porno happy hour was more a self-serving diversion than a revolutionary or humanitarian enterprise. Pop humanistic philosophy, a melange of new age goddess religions, and knee-jerk “liberal” politics were awkwardly plastered onto the show's substrate of good ol' fashioned splooge-drenched smut. For Dr. Block and her infamous pornographer Prince-of-Prague husband Max, it was also a means of having a “swingin’” social life without ever leaving their real home, the show's internet broadcast studio in LA's downtown fashion (i.e. Crack-and-Prada) district.
The night I first noticed that the mark of “pornographer” had been indelibly burned into my curriculum vitae started as per unusual: Dr. Block sprawled out on her lovebed/guest couch in her trademark sunhat and harem girl outfit, a giant Yale banner hung behind her over an assortment of bondage devices and marital aids. She played with her pet corn snake, letting it writhe around her like Emily Dickinson's favorite metaphor for penile activity and cooed insistently to the audience in nine-hundred-number cadences and spank-bank patois, breaking only to bark orders to her crew.
My orders were this: I would be taking soft-to-hardcore pornographic photographs of the doctor and her guests later, but for now I was on video camera. Dr. Block delivered her opening monologue, something about the war in Iraq and how Bonobos just fuck a lot instead of killing each other for oil or whatever. Meanwhile, her husband Max yelled about “The Revolution” and how a picture of two people shitting on each other he had seen was “beautiful, like art,” how it was going to change the world. The first lesson of smut is that pornographers will never call anything “art,” but merely refer to something as being “like art” as a matter of habit and as legal recourse, what with that nasty old Miller test for obscenity. Socially and “artistically” redeeming values guarantee sanctuary from prosecution. Ditto on the allegedly “educational” aspect of the show. The second thing I learned is that they don't really believe any of that crap. Earlier, Max had offered us a hit from a fattie of a jay. “You Yale Boys want to smoke some dope?” he said, the implication being that this would be some great, revolutionary blow against the empire. He was taken aback when we presented him with a quarter sack of high grade OG Kush chronic. “Jesus, I thought I could corrupt you boys...but someone beat me to it.”
In keeping with said aesthetic, Dr. Block performed a short, X-rated political Punch and Judy show, featuring dildo-puppets of Osama Bin Laden, George Bush and Dick Cheney while I got drunker and higher in anticipation of coping. Then she announced the guests. The week before, we had pornstars from Jill Kelly Productions on the show, including Jill Kelly herself. The show was later entitled “The Jill Kelly Jackoff Hour,” as it was devoted almost entirely to horny guys calling in to have Jenna Haze or Cindy Crawford (the pornstar, not the model) talk dirty to them while they spanked it. Maybe this week would be less traumatic. Or not.
The first guest, Avy Lee Roth, was the illegitimate porn-star daughter of David Lee Roth, former front man of Van Halen, the sort of music the Dutch exported before discovering E and ambient-trance clusterfucking. Avy herself had been exported—her mother was a Spanish senorita and Van Halen groupie, and she had a heavy accent and a gaudy flamenco rose tattoo on her right shoulder. As far as the veracity of Avy's claims that Diamond Dave was her deadbeat dad, her schnoz and singin' abilities seemed to confirm that Mr. Roth had indeed bip-dop-dip-a-dip-dopped half her DNA.
I was convinced when I put on Van Halen's eponymous debut album. Dr. Block was confused. “Who is this?” “This is My Dad!” chirped Avy. “Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night! You really got me!” She flailed wildly, slurring her words tectonically, flipping over a couch in the process, a maelstrom of professional booze-assisted carnality. Soon she began to howl and strip, or, rather, “rhythmically disrobe.” At the end of her dance, for some still unknown reason, she began complaining about “really having to go.” A steel bowl gofered by Kim, amateur porn-star and curator for Dr. Block's Erotic Museum (again, the studio), was brought in from the kitchen for just that purpose. Before I knew it, Avy had answered nature's call in Kim's makeshift Bauhaus chamber pot and was offering her leavings to Max. “Thank you my dear...Hmm.” Max, known to his friends as the most prosecuted pornographer in American history and a world-class pervert, took a sip. “Tastes like candy...it's the Revolution, people!”
After that, more hell broke loose. The next guests were a Scottish BDSM artist and Shayna Knight, a German porn starlet who I recognized from the “Virgin Surgeon” series. First, the Scottish gentleman hog-tied Ms. Knight with a number of elaborate Celtic knots, which I must admit were quite pretty. He then demonstrated the proper way to whip somebody—hold two lashes in either hand and make under-hand twirling motions, an action somewhat reminiscent of pitching a softball of leathery pain/pleasure dichotomy into someone's ass. Shayna's response to this was not unexpected—she began twitching and begging for somebody, anybody, to fuck her. Dr. Block suggested Max. “He can always get it up! And his cock is legendary!” But Max was too drunk on Jim Beam and stoned on my good weed to be any good himself, and Theron, our A.V. Guy and sometime go-to-penis, was in a shy mood.
Finally, the day was “saved” by Dr. Axel Braun, also known as the G-man, son of infamous Italian pornographer Lasse Braun, and a Princeton graduate and Doctor of Film (via a Ph.D. from NYU). His claim to fame, however, is his ability to make any woman squirt (female ejaculate). No joke, watch his tapes—he’s about 9-for-10 overall, and that evening he batted a thousand. “What's wrong with you? Don't you want to fuck this girl?” he asked the audience, staring at me and Tauxe in particular, our faces frozen in stoned fear. Nothing and no. Luckily, Dr. Braun was accompanied by two professionals named, simply, Phil and Brother Love, each betting the other fifty bucks that he could juice Ms. Knight first.
Brother Love was first “on dick” and not much to look at, a bespectacled Pledge Flounder type with a hard-on for being kicked or swatted in the testicles by middle-aged women. Somehow, there was a volunteer to perform such an act in the audience, a rotund, school-marmish 45-year-old accompanied by her husband, who in turn evoked shades of Captain Kangaroo and Robert Farris Thompson. “I'm wearing high heels with tips...should I take them off before I kick you?” “No...Leave them. They make your legs look longer.” “Okay....How hard then?” “As hard as you want. Or can.” Her husband took a seat in a plush-vagina chair, bathed in the light of framed hardcore pornography that also passed off as “art” (due to the film stock, I imagine), and watched his bride's repeated attempts to transform poor Brother Love's gonads into mush, like an Italian farm-girl making wine.
Much to my surprise, Brother Love's little friend stirred from its slumber as his balls received her field-goal attempts, but it was still only at half-mast. “Thanks, but I could really use a golden shower. Shayna?” Oh, fuck. More pissing. “I've never done that before.” Oh, fuck. Things a German porn star hasn't done. Kim brought in a blue plastic tarp from the kitchen and Brother Love prostrated himself upon it. No, no, no! “Ok...I'm ready, whenever you want to go.” Shayna, in spite of being a walking ropes course, managed to hop onto Love's chest (in high heels, mind you) and pop an inelegant squat. An unmistakable look crossed her face and she let loose with a stream that wouldn't have spared Noah. Piss sprayed in all directions, I ran for cover, and Love grew more erect as he frolicked in her micturition, slurping at le fonte de Shayna like a perverted puppy and rubbing whatever he couldn't drink into his hair. Thank goodness for all the Jim Beam and reefer coursing through my veins.
Taking advantage of this situation, a still-roped Ms. Knight started in on a vigorous bout of fellatio, bobbing up and down on his member like one of those little plastic dippy birds that alleviate the soul-crushing boredom of corporate America. In spite of all the hoopla and Shayna's impressive oral efforts, however, Love's lingam began to deflate, and when the time came to do the deed, he couldn't manage more than a couple thrusts before stopping and cursing profusely. It seemed as though he would not win the $50.
Balding and modestly endowed as he was, Phil, on the other hand, had no such problems. Shayna's bobbing worked almost instantaneously, and suddenly, as he took her entangled form from behind on the lovebed, I was videotaping what was, technically, illegal pornography. According to the Cambria Code (think the Hayes code for porn), penetration combined with bondage is a community standards no-no and an obscenity prosecution waiting to happen. But I wasn't worried about the legalities as the couple made their way through the Kama Sutra, switching deftly from vaginal to anal and back like lane changes. “Look how much pleasure he's giving her....Hmm,’ said Kim, ever the romantic.
I wasn't pleased. Fuck—I didn't want to be here. I wanted to cuddle my girlfriend and smoke pot and watch cartoons. Besides, after ten minutes, we were more bored than shocked. By the one and a half hour mark, we were out of tape and out of our minds—Phil, after years of careful prick-desensitization in the name of feature film-length shag sessions, was having trouble completing the act in the traditional XXX manner, i.e. the pop or money shot, and much to the chagrin of an increasingly impatient crew and audience, had to spend quite a bit of time “helping himself out.” Finally, after another fifteen minutes of switching between fucking-and-sucking and frenzied autoerotic manipulation, Phil bust a nut on Shayna's face and I took a couple of pictures.
Shayna toweled off, Phil picked up his fifty dollars from a snarling Brother Love, and the show was over. After we were cut off by the in-house bartender, Tauxe and I fell asleep with all our clothes on, and woke up at 6 A.M, hungover and covered in mosquito bites, to the sound of our bosses fucking. Thanks, Yale-in-Hollywood.
by Jon Carlo Bruttomesso
In truth, however, her naughty talk-show/porno happy hour was more a self-serving diversion than a revolutionary or humanitarian enterprise. Pop humanistic philosophy, a melange of new age goddess religions, and knee-jerk “liberal” politics were awkwardly plastered onto the show's substrate of good ol' fashioned splooge-drenched smut. For Dr. Block and her infamous pornographer Prince-of-Prague husband Max, it was also a means of having a “swingin’” social life without ever leaving their real home, the show's internet broadcast studio in LA's downtown fashion (i.e. Crack-and-Prada) district.
The night I first noticed that the mark of “pornographer” had been indelibly burned into my curriculum vitae started as per unusual: Dr. Block sprawled out on her lovebed/guest couch in her trademark sunhat and harem girl outfit, a giant Yale banner hung behind her over an assortment of bondage devices and marital aids. She played with her pet corn snake, letting it writhe around her like Emily Dickinson's favorite metaphor for penile activity and cooed insistently to the audience in nine-hundred-number cadences and spank-bank patois, breaking only to bark orders to her crew.
My orders were this: I would be taking soft-to-hardcore pornographic photographs of the doctor and her guests later, but for now I was on video camera. Dr. Block delivered her opening monologue, something about the war in Iraq and how Bonobos just fuck a lot instead of killing each other for oil or whatever. Meanwhile, her husband Max yelled about “The Revolution” and how a picture of two people shitting on each other he had seen was “beautiful, like art,” how it was going to change the world. The first lesson of smut is that pornographers will never call anything “art,” but merely refer to something as being “like art” as a matter of habit and as legal recourse, what with that nasty old Miller test for obscenity. Socially and “artistically” redeeming values guarantee sanctuary from prosecution. Ditto on the allegedly “educational” aspect of the show. The second thing I learned is that they don't really believe any of that crap. Earlier, Max had offered us a hit from a fattie of a jay. “You Yale Boys want to smoke some dope?” he said, the implication being that this would be some great, revolutionary blow against the empire. He was taken aback when we presented him with a quarter sack of high grade OG Kush chronic. “Jesus, I thought I could corrupt you boys...but someone beat me to it.”
In keeping with said aesthetic, Dr. Block performed a short, X-rated political Punch and Judy show, featuring dildo-puppets of Osama Bin Laden, George Bush and Dick Cheney while I got drunker and higher in anticipation of coping. Then she announced the guests. The week before, we had pornstars from Jill Kelly Productions on the show, including Jill Kelly herself. The show was later entitled “The Jill Kelly Jackoff Hour,” as it was devoted almost entirely to horny guys calling in to have Jenna Haze or Cindy Crawford (the pornstar, not the model) talk dirty to them while they spanked it. Maybe this week would be less traumatic. Or not.
The first guest, Avy Lee Roth, was the illegitimate porn-star daughter of David Lee Roth, former front man of Van Halen, the sort of music the Dutch exported before discovering E and ambient-trance clusterfucking. Avy herself had been exported—her mother was a Spanish senorita and Van Halen groupie, and she had a heavy accent and a gaudy flamenco rose tattoo on her right shoulder. As far as the veracity of Avy's claims that Diamond Dave was her deadbeat dad, her schnoz and singin' abilities seemed to confirm that Mr. Roth had indeed bip-dop-dip-a-dip-dopped half her DNA.
I was convinced when I put on Van Halen's eponymous debut album. Dr. Block was confused. “Who is this?” “This is My Dad!” chirped Avy. “Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night! You really got me!” She flailed wildly, slurring her words tectonically, flipping over a couch in the process, a maelstrom of professional booze-assisted carnality. Soon she began to howl and strip, or, rather, “rhythmically disrobe.” At the end of her dance, for some still unknown reason, she began complaining about “really having to go.” A steel bowl gofered by Kim, amateur porn-star and curator for Dr. Block's Erotic Museum (again, the studio), was brought in from the kitchen for just that purpose. Before I knew it, Avy had answered nature's call in Kim's makeshift Bauhaus chamber pot and was offering her leavings to Max. “Thank you my dear...Hmm.” Max, known to his friends as the most prosecuted pornographer in American history and a world-class pervert, took a sip. “Tastes like candy...it's the Revolution, people!”
After that, more hell broke loose. The next guests were a Scottish BDSM artist and Shayna Knight, a German porn starlet who I recognized from the “Virgin Surgeon” series. First, the Scottish gentleman hog-tied Ms. Knight with a number of elaborate Celtic knots, which I must admit were quite pretty. He then demonstrated the proper way to whip somebody—hold two lashes in either hand and make under-hand twirling motions, an action somewhat reminiscent of pitching a softball of leathery pain/pleasure dichotomy into someone's ass. Shayna's response to this was not unexpected—she began twitching and begging for somebody, anybody, to fuck her. Dr. Block suggested Max. “He can always get it up! And his cock is legendary!” But Max was too drunk on Jim Beam and stoned on my good weed to be any good himself, and Theron, our A.V. Guy and sometime go-to-penis, was in a shy mood.
Finally, the day was “saved” by Dr. Axel Braun, also known as the G-man, son of infamous Italian pornographer Lasse Braun, and a Princeton graduate and Doctor of Film (via a Ph.D. from NYU). His claim to fame, however, is his ability to make any woman squirt (female ejaculate). No joke, watch his tapes—he’s about 9-for-10 overall, and that evening he batted a thousand. “What's wrong with you? Don't you want to fuck this girl?” he asked the audience, staring at me and Tauxe in particular, our faces frozen in stoned fear. Nothing and no. Luckily, Dr. Braun was accompanied by two professionals named, simply, Phil and Brother Love, each betting the other fifty bucks that he could juice Ms. Knight first.
Brother Love was first “on dick” and not much to look at, a bespectacled Pledge Flounder type with a hard-on for being kicked or swatted in the testicles by middle-aged women. Somehow, there was a volunteer to perform such an act in the audience, a rotund, school-marmish 45-year-old accompanied by her husband, who in turn evoked shades of Captain Kangaroo and Robert Farris Thompson. “I'm wearing high heels with tips...should I take them off before I kick you?” “No...Leave them. They make your legs look longer.” “Okay....How hard then?” “As hard as you want. Or can.” Her husband took a seat in a plush-vagina chair, bathed in the light of framed hardcore pornography that also passed off as “art” (due to the film stock, I imagine), and watched his bride's repeated attempts to transform poor Brother Love's gonads into mush, like an Italian farm-girl making wine.
Much to my surprise, Brother Love's little friend stirred from its slumber as his balls received her field-goal attempts, but it was still only at half-mast. “Thanks, but I could really use a golden shower. Shayna?” Oh, fuck. More pissing. “I've never done that before.” Oh, fuck. Things a German porn star hasn't done. Kim brought in a blue plastic tarp from the kitchen and Brother Love prostrated himself upon it. No, no, no! “Ok...I'm ready, whenever you want to go.” Shayna, in spite of being a walking ropes course, managed to hop onto Love's chest (in high heels, mind you) and pop an inelegant squat. An unmistakable look crossed her face and she let loose with a stream that wouldn't have spared Noah. Piss sprayed in all directions, I ran for cover, and Love grew more erect as he frolicked in her micturition, slurping at le fonte de Shayna like a perverted puppy and rubbing whatever he couldn't drink into his hair. Thank goodness for all the Jim Beam and reefer coursing through my veins.
Taking advantage of this situation, a still-roped Ms. Knight started in on a vigorous bout of fellatio, bobbing up and down on his member like one of those little plastic dippy birds that alleviate the soul-crushing boredom of corporate America. In spite of all the hoopla and Shayna's impressive oral efforts, however, Love's lingam began to deflate, and when the time came to do the deed, he couldn't manage more than a couple thrusts before stopping and cursing profusely. It seemed as though he would not win the $50.
Balding and modestly endowed as he was, Phil, on the other hand, had no such problems. Shayna's bobbing worked almost instantaneously, and suddenly, as he took her entangled form from behind on the lovebed, I was videotaping what was, technically, illegal pornography. According to the Cambria Code (think the Hayes code for porn), penetration combined with bondage is a community standards no-no and an obscenity prosecution waiting to happen. But I wasn't worried about the legalities as the couple made their way through the Kama Sutra, switching deftly from vaginal to anal and back like lane changes. “Look how much pleasure he's giving her....Hmm,’ said Kim, ever the romantic.
I wasn't pleased. Fuck—I didn't want to be here. I wanted to cuddle my girlfriend and smoke pot and watch cartoons. Besides, after ten minutes, we were more bored than shocked. By the one and a half hour mark, we were out of tape and out of our minds—Phil, after years of careful prick-desensitization in the name of feature film-length shag sessions, was having trouble completing the act in the traditional XXX manner, i.e. the pop or money shot, and much to the chagrin of an increasingly impatient crew and audience, had to spend quite a bit of time “helping himself out.” Finally, after another fifteen minutes of switching between fucking-and-sucking and frenzied autoerotic manipulation, Phil bust a nut on Shayna's face and I took a couple of pictures.
Shayna toweled off, Phil picked up his fifty dollars from a snarling Brother Love, and the show was over. After we were cut off by the in-house bartender, Tauxe and I fell asleep with all our clothes on, and woke up at 6 A.M, hungover and covered in mosquito bites, to the sound of our bosses fucking. Thanks, Yale-in-Hollywood.
by Jon Carlo Bruttomesso
posted by Fonzy Mann-Johnson at 12:58 PM
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