All I Could Bare: My Life in the Strip Clubs of Gay Washington, by Craig Seymour

Author:Craig Seymour [Seymour, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Social Science, General, Gay Studies, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Cultural Heritage
ISBN: 9781416542063
Google: XGMoOjcGhOcC
Amazon: 141654206X
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2009-08-04T07:00:00+00:00

Prostitution wasn't my only sex-for-cash-related obsession, though. Ever since I've known that there were guys who get paid to fuck on camera, I've wanted to be one of those lucky Joes or Johns or Dillons or Mavericks. I think I was fascinated with porn stars for the same reason I was attracted to prostitutes. They seemed sexually powerful to me and I was hungry to know how that felt. One fringe benefit of stripping was that I got to meet a lot of porn stars who came to town to dance. I had the opportunity to examine them closely in the dressing room—and see if the camera adds inches as well as pounds. I also got to ask them all of my burning questions about the biz.

My understanding of what it meant to be a porn star had changed so much since I started dancing. I remembered when I saw Joey Stefano at La Cage all those years ago.

I imagined that he swept into town on a first-class flight, possibly chartered, and was whisked in a limo from the airport to his luxury penthouse suite at the Watergate. The limo waited for him as he prepared for his performance—a ritual that, in my mind, involved yoga, a personal masseuse, and a bath of lavender-scented Evian—and then took him to the club, with the limo driver talking to him all the while to distract Joey from noticing the crummy neighborhood. But I soon discovered that the touring life for most porn stars is a far more Greyhound bus/Southwest Airlines/Days Inn affair.

(Also, Joey's drug-overdose death in 1994 showed me that porn definitely had a dark side.)

One Sunday, I worked at the Follies with an up-and-coming porn star, Clay Maverick. I hadn't even heard of him before, but when I met him, I almost had the wind knocked out of me. He had the lean chiseled body of a hot Greek statue, and the face of someone you might cast as Superman. If I had known he was so amazing looking, I would've gone to the video store and done some research.

After the noon set, I was on my way out to grab some lunch when I noticed him sitting idly in the lobby. Some golf game was flickering on the TV.

"Hey, do you need a ride somewhere?"

"Yeah," he said. "It'd be great if you could give me a ride back to my hotel. I don't want to waste money on a cab."

"Sure," I said. "I'm also going to grab something to eat and you're welcome to join me."

"Cool," he said.

As I was talking to him, the whole scene felt surreal. Here I was, this geeky grad student, giving a genuine porn star a ride to his hotel and inviting him to lunch. How weird was this?

We got in my red Neon— Seth and I had bought it about a year before—and started on our way. I instantly became obsessed with his comfort, like I was his personal flight—or in this case, car—attendant.

"Are you cold, or hot?" I asked, fiddling with the controls.

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