Ten Reasons Why I'd Be A Bad Porn Star

Author Note: Okay, so as promised before, I'm posting my story, "10 Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." I wrote this in 2003. You are reading the original version, completely unedited though know that I am trying to re-work this piece into a one-person show.


Number 10:

I can’t afford a boob job. I truly believe that, to be in the adult entertainment business,
it is necessary to have an ample bosom. Really, I hate it when people get all self-
righteous and say things like, “It’s so unfair that girls with bigger boobs get better
jobs.” Really, in an industry where you're selling flesh, don't you want to have good
flesh?

Those self-righteous people are forever annoying me. I saw an episode of Howard Stern once in which a woman came by to show Howard her great boobs. Au naturel, she said. When he asked her to strip down, the woman wore a corset, which lifted her breasts. When he asked her to get rid of it, there was blur as TV censors covered it up, but Howard’s reaction was enough.

“But it’s natural,” she said.

I loved what he said next: “So what? Why do we put so much stock in real boobs?”

Really, bad breasts are bad breasts.

Number 9:

I’m too picky. I’d probably get fired for saying, “The guy looks like a white Yeti” or “I don’t do oral unless you’re clean.” I mean, if you look at the way I eat, you can tell just how bad I am. The other day, I ordered a Rueben with fries. At the end of the meal, my plate was fuller than when it came out. The sauerkraut was scraped off the bread. The bread crusts were littered everywhere. I mean, I'm pretty picky with food already.

But what I suppose I’m really saying is that the industry is probably just like high school. You know, keep your eyes closed. Don’t say anything. Don’t be critical. It’s odd when you think about it. I’m planning on having sex with a guy, yet I shouldn’t even look down at his genitals to see if he has warts down there. Or, I shouldn’t ask him to wash his privates before oral sex. What’s up with that?

Number 8:

I don’t have sex on hard surfaces. I prefer to keep my backside free from scrapes. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the chiropractic fees anyway. I have to wonder about the various locations that porn directors choose to shoot in: a table, a kitchen island, the floor, the stairs, on top of the toilet. I think they choose these “exotic” locations because, once you get down to it-no pun intended-the sex is all the same really. Porn directors tend to have a very limited span of creativity. The scene almost always begins with oral sex being performed to both the men and the women. This is then followed by some in-and-out sex. I suppose that the correct term for “in-and-out sex” is actually coital or vaginal intercourse. Of course, Caleb, my current boyfriend, has teased me about this. “After all,” he said, “Isn’t everything in and out?” But I digress. The in-an-out sex is then is then filmed in various positions to create diversity, but we almost never see the missionary position. After all, people watch porn for fantasies, not reality.

Maybe this is another reason why I might not make a very good porn star. I’d probably have creative differences with the directors. In a movie that incorporates a story line and thus, dialogue, for example, I might instead suggest to the director that the actors not speak but do interpretative, well, acting. Even I, a lay person, cannot stand to hear some naked blond chick saying, “Oh, no. Rescue me, Dick Master!” I would definitely go for the interpretive thing.

Number 7:

I believe in a woman’s right---to an orgasm. The scene does not end when a man comes. I'd probably get my ass fired so fast by saying, "Hey, what about me?"

Number 6:

I talk too much. No one wants to hear, “I think we should get to know one another better before we do it.” My mom is constantly telling me how fortunate I am to have Caleb, Caleb who has talent for listening and hearing-or so I’d like to believe. In the late hours of the night, as he is busy playing the latest Final Fantasy saga on his Playstation, I’ll rattle off like crazy talking about anything from the latest Jane Austen movie to a contemplation on the greater meaning of Debbie Does Dallas.

Despite what the popular consensus is, Caleb and I agree that the adult entertainment industry has a great sense of humor as well as a great flair for puns. Who, for example, would have ever thought of a title like Thump’n Hood or Ass Ventura? We do appreciate the deeper aspects of these works.

Number 5:

My body is sensitive. It can’t withstand more than one orgasm every five hours nor can it stand the constant ramming of dildos. Maybe I’m envious or vindictive or even just naïve, but I have to question those women who claim to have “Oh, at least seven or eight orgasms every time.” How is that possible? Do they count small spasms?

Anyway, the point is that my body is so sensitive, I'd either be broke from making only one movie a month or I'd be on disability so fast, it wouldn't be worth it to hire me.

Besides, I'm not very flexible. Having stopped doing exercises in tenth grade gym, I rely solely on decent genes to get by in the world. As a result, my body has very limited movement. In fact, the only movement I can make for long periods of time is with my mouth.......With talking, that is. Remember? I talk a lot?

Number 4:

I have no stamina. As a child of the eighties, I grew up with endless movies about yuppies having casual sex. The man and woman usually meet in smoky bar. He offers her a drink-tequila or scotch straight up. It’s never anything like a pina colada or strawberry daiquiri. Always some hard liquor. They check each other out with sly, seductive smiles. Next thing you know, the couple stumbles into an apartment, kissing violently, the man’s hand enraptured in the woman’s hair and the woman trying desperately to undress the man. They make it seem as if they’re just so horny, they can’t stop for a moment and say constructively, “Careful with the buttons. That shirt cost me a lot.” What they don’t say even less before they have sex is, “Are you clean because I don’t want to go down on you if you’re not?” I know. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want to screw up the chemistry of the moment, but damn, it would be even worst to be putting your mouth-man or woman-against someone’s putrid genitals.

For all I have to say, however, Caleb and I did try to re-enact one of those scenes. We went through the doorway, hands all over each other, panting heavily. We even managed to throw our bodies against the wall. Without undressing me beyond ripping open my blouse-for which I later regretted because it was one of my favorites-he lifted up my skirt and heaved my legs around his hips, pushing my back into the wall. On the outside, it was a great display of eroticism. But we couldn’t even keep it up for more than two minutes before we both gave up exhausted over the effort. Even as we sat on the floor, Caleb and I were still breathing heavily, making me realize that our heavy breathing wasn’t a result of hormones. It was the result of exertion. Besides, my hair felt as though they’d been pulled out of their roots.

After this pitiful display of TV-imitation, Caleb offered to get me a drink. “Orange juice?” he asked.

“No, I want something stronger: Pepsi over ice.”

Number 3:

I believe in safe sex. Therefore, I don’t wear stilettos, especially when having sex. After watching Single White Female in which Jennifer Jason Leigh kills Bridget Fonda’s boyfriend with the points of her stilettos, I was convinced that shoes were not the way to go when having sex. Besides, while I’m not a clean freak, I’m not particularly fond of beds sprinkled with dirt from your shoes. After the sex is done and over with and you and your partner have escaped yet another close call with the pointy heels, the last thing you want to do is go to bed with small pebbles scratching against your bare ass.

Number 2:

I don’t swallow. Not even for Caleb. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think the porn stars like to either. I think it’s just a way to turn men on. Robbie, who was the first boyfriend whom I really made out with, used to suck my fingers. There was something soothing about that. His tongue sliding gently against my indexes. His gentleness. Once I summoned enough nerve, I started sucking and licking his fingers too until he said it wasn’t necessary any more.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, performing oral is enough. It’s not necessary for you to tease me with that gesture anymore, you know.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that, to him, the gesture of sucking his fingers was symbolic, a tease meant to enhance his arousal. I didn’t realize that he couldn’t feel the same thing I could.

That’s what I think swallowing really is. Just a symbol for men. So now I like to show them that my clean face, too, is a symbol, a symbol of one who has a clean face.

Number 1:

My butt has a sign on it: EXIT ONLY. Enough said.