Pornographers have, as of late, been more guarded as to What Happens Next.  Publishers, many of them corporate publishers, would call me up because I was poor, a sitting victim I could and did live on $2,000 a year. You try it. “I need ten vanilla, I need three anals, four big tits, one diaper, and a spitting in the mouth and boots. I could handle boots. John Waters blazed the way. I would write anything so I could write what I had to write. There are punishments. People like it when Agnes says: you dirty bitch. Punish him. Punish him.

Throw work at me. Throw me as much work as you can. I begged. I groveled at his feet. I wanted him. I had wanted him for years. From the day we met. Money and sex. The problem with that scenario, is that I met him in the second grade. We went to the same high school. He lived down the street. He had a skateboard. I liked cumming on it when he wasn’t looking. When (usually literate) tricks wanted to have sex with you, they did not mean have sex with me. But no. They wanted him. They knew nothing of my straight books. They were bouncing off the porn. What is he like in public. How big is his dick. Are we gonna see him naked. No. No. And no. I could do him all the time. It wasn’t hard to be him, or mirror him, he was easy and fucked me on the boating dock. As he was fucking me, the other ones jumped on board. It was Open Mic Night, one free Margarita. The voices in my head usually took turns around the lake as to who might be up tonight. They were all up, and I told them up front we are not out tonight, groans and moans, but there were too many cops. Too many cop cars. Cops are never hard to find, and what do you think they talk about. Us. They talk about us. We talk about them. Stay home and read poetry, you old fool. Okay, I will. Some years I made nothing. Writing books does that. Media forums, especially pornography, can be packed with us sex workers, always asking the same question: where’s the money. I have never heard an authentic variation of that mean crabby little tune. The money is in a bomb-proof vault. Guarded by Navy Seals. What has value. Why are you here. It makes no sense. If you are looking for publishing – video, paper, digital, anything that separates the spectator from the disassociating we do to protect our denialism – you are barking up the wrong dildo tree. Time after time, the Meese Commission was itself puffed up with gravitas. But not for porn stars because they are the real problem. Right. “Spread’em, the director will say during a shoot, and so I Did what I was asked to do. I am part of the problem. Gynecology as art. I would would steal Burger King ketchups next door. Mix hot water while hiding in a toilet stall – and you have le-tomatasoup. The showers were up, away from the beach. How many fist fights have you seen at the garbage dumpsters. Many. How many of them have knives. All of them have knives. It’s dangerous to be alive. People rob you, tie you up, make you do things you don’t want to do. I’m sorry, but I have to laugh. None of these guys understands that the equality women seek, has good things for them in it, too. Why is it always the women who make as much content as the men but the men are paid balls out more. Porn stars do not make shit. Often, they are belittled by men who live to belittle. Small children ought to be trained rigorously by porn producers to crank it up to the Porn Star Gods who would not know the paternalistic (and this is why porn is so unimaginative) is just the paternal modus operandi cranking out rubbish. Star gods, or no star gods. We are about what we have done. Very little. We plot constantly. There are many Mary Poppins People who love cultural events with free Scotch. God, how can women sleep with these men. Le-Meese Commission maintained the fantasy of sexual extremism as a quid pro quo. Like we didn’t know that. Worthless whore. Right. We get shoved around a lot. Male POV. Follow the money. Kids don’t have credit cards. But no. That is why porn does not address the self. Cherie, kids do have credit cards. How do you think kids with credit cards get paid. Hipster children are now walking, talking, and numerically relevant. The Other Parents that you knew, the ones who looked like deer in headlights, who were, in fact, deer in headlights. We make shit. Like brownies and fudge. We love fudge. Especially if you put a lot of drugs in there. I would walk out on the rocks in the moonlight, drinking jack. People screamed at me that I did not know what I was doing. I never, ever know whatever I am doing. But if you’re cute while pretending to be the Tech Guru on Mars seeing as how all the other ones were dead, go right ahead. Go right ahead. Thank you. I did.