Girlvert: A Porno Memoir (15 page)

I wore the same dress I’d worn two days prior in
Slave Dolls
. We began the scene with me on my knees. All of the men stood over me in a circle, surrounding me. I was in a hollowed-out portion of the brick floor in the poolroom. The walls were made of see-through plastic. At least they put some pillows down for my knees. All of the cocks came out of the pants. They circled around my face. The aerial view must have looked like some kind of prehistoric penis flower. The cocks smacked and rubbed against my face. The men started calling me whore and commanding me to suck their cocks. “Yeah, get down on it! Swallow it. Suck my balls! You fucking whore! Is this what you want? Yeah, take it. Take it all the way down.”

My face was grabbed and passed around from cock to cock. It wasn’t smooth and controlled like Guinevere’s scene. It was a free-for-all. I was manhandled and shoved onto different bodies. There wasn’t a second for me to breathe in between chokes. I couldn’t see anything but dicks. Ball-sweat and spit covered my face. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t get enough air to make a sob. I heaved and cowered from the cocks. I had to stop. Tyler and Roach pulled me out of the brick hole. Tyler held me while I cried. I knew I couldn’t stop now. If I’d just ran away, I’d have to face everyone later. They all wanted me to finish, so I did.

“I’m all right now. It’s okay. Just don’t be as rough,” I sucked it up and got into it as much as I could possible feign.

Roach put his arm around me and led me into the living room for a pep talk. This was his specialty. He could talk at length and with great intensity about anything. He made me forget my fear and misery about what we were doing. “Ashley Blue,” he said, looking deep into my eyes and handing me a lit smoke, “you are doing great. This is incredible. You are a star and you will be just as big a star as Guinevere. Are you all right? Do you need anything else? Some water? Let’s get going so we can wrap this up and go home. We’ve got two cameras on you this time. So, let’s go!”

Everyone kept telling me about the two cameras ever since I picked up the phone that morning. What exactly did it mean to me during the scene? Absolutely nothing. It was supposed to make me think it was going to be easier and go faster than a normal gang bang, but nothing makes fucking eight guys at once easy. Especially when it’s all hardcore double penetrations. I did double vaginal and double anal. Every time I was penetrated, single or double, there was at least one cock in my mouth, throat-fucking me.

For hours, we stopped and started. All of the guys had wood, no problem. They all liked me. I was usually a great scene. They could do anything they wanted with my body. But I was crying most of the time during this one. I wasn’t ready for another gang bang, not that day. I was still sore from a couple days earlier. Roach just kept telling me to hang in there, like I was a boxer in a ring.

It was time to pop. It can’t be any worse than the pop shot for
7 The Hard Way
, I thought. Wrong. This gang bang’s cum ending had to top other gang bangs. Roach wanted his movie to stand out. I was handed a metal cereal spoon from the Tuxford house kitchen. It was all dinged up and bent. Roach directed the grand finale.

Each of the eight men fucked my ass, one at a time. One by one, they came on my ass cheeks and hole. After each guy shot his load, I scooped the cum out of my ass crack with the beat-up steel spoon. Then I spoon-fed myself. It smelled like bleach and blood. The taste was too awful to remember, but the texture was worse. When cum sits on any piece of cold metal, it coagulates. It had body when it entered my mouth and sat on my tongue. I swallowed every lump. I just wanted it to be over, and for the finale to be good. I suddenly felt like I had failed everyone, not just myself. I did another gang bang after I said I never would, then I cried all the way through it. The least I could do was swallow.

When all was finished, Tyler was treated like the real hero for getting me to fill in at the last minute for Andromeda. He was full of pride. He’d fucked in two gang bang scenes for Roach and received five hundred dollars for each. We now had separate bank accounts, but I still paid all the bills and bought him clothes, dinners, his gym membership, and his HIV testing. Everyone thought Tyler had it made. He had the hot, willing girlfriend who loved him. Things hadn’t begun to get dark for Tyler and me yet—at least I hadn’t been able to perceive them. The only publicly dark things about our lives were the circles that’d formed underneath Tyler’s eyes. From the outside, our lives seemed to be really coming together. It would still be a while before the unraveling.

Chapter Twenty-One

My Mother

C
heryl
and I made up on the phone. She left messages on Tyler’s voicemail, crying and begging him to have me call her. I was fully prepared to never speak with her again. I can be cold in that way—if I feel like somebody is doing more damage to me than good, I cut them out of my life. You have to remove cancerous tumors.

Tyler had a plus-size heart when it came to family sympathies. He listened to Cheryl’s pleas on the messages, and then argued with me about the situation. “She’s your mother. You only get one in life. Call her. You can’t go on like this.”

I pointed out to Tyler that no matter how much he loved his mother, his own Cheryl, he still lied to her about his occupation. His mother was flawed, but Tyler was forgiving. She’d lied to Tyler about who his real father was and chose her lovers over her children—just like my mother. It’s eerie how similar they are, in name and manner. Tyler forgave his mother for all of it. They even did coke together.

I had called my mother from Paris. It was an expensive call. It was our last night before we left for home. In such a romantic, inspiring place, where it feels like anything is possible, I thought maybe I could change and somehow grow to be a more compassionate woman by reaching out to Cheryl. I needed her at the time. Just the thought of my family’s reaction to my porn career made me cringe, and I hoped Cheryl would be a gateway to get through to them. No one would be happy for me. My family always praised me for having a sharp mind. Now, to them, I would be wasting my gifts and exploiting my body. Everyone in my family is extremely modest about sex, except for Cheryl. She taught me everything I know about wearing provocative clothing. At a very young age, she would embarrass me by wearing see-through tops and shorts that revealed her butt cheeks. I guess at some point I took after her.

My mom was so happy I called. She regretted how we ended the last call. I didn’t remind her that she’d hung up on me. I tried my best not to be snotty. Both of us shed tears and choruses of “I love you.” Cheryl can always get me to feel sorry for her. She makes poor decisions in the moment. But she’s instinctively manipulative.

Cheryl and her new live-in boyfriend, Leon, invited Tyler and me over to their home for a visit when we returned. Cheryl couldn’t go five minutes without a man. This one, she claimed, like the rest, was The One. I was well aware of her codependency. All I knew about this guy was that he used to have a parrot named Shithead. He was also fresh out of prison. Not jail, but prison. He did ten years of hard time for selling cocaine. He was supposedly clean now, or else he would be in violation of his parole.

Cheryl certainly was not clean. She still took a fair share of sedatives and methadone. She also smoked pot all the time because of its medicinal value. Her body was a wreck from various ailments. As a kid, it used to frighten me that she was such a mess. It didn’t matter to me what she was taking anymore. I had my own drug issues.

Leon was overly friendly. Tyler and I had met him a few brief times before, but now that Leon knew about us doing porno, he was extra-delighted to have us over. With relish he wanted to know about our involvement in the porn business. How much money did we make? How many scenes did we do? Who did we work for? What were the people really like? Was it easy for us to get started?

Hesitantly, we answered all of his questions. My mom didn’t get into the conversation at all. She just sat there, quietly, letting Leon do all the talking. I wondered why she quietly accepted her boyfriend virtually getting off on talking about porn with me. I just tried to be polite and not look offended.

Leon led us all into his office. He had saved everything he could find about me and Tyler in a folder on the desktop of his computer. Images of me naked, sucking cock, and Tyler fucking my ass popped up on the screen. It was too bizarre to be real, yet was all too real. Leon was all jacked up about showing us. He was so proud of his collection of my porn clips. My mom never looked me in the eye the entire time. I ducked out of the room and walked down the hall.

“Ori, hey,” Leon called out. He came down the hall after me. “I just wanted to ask you and Tyler if you could put in a good word for me, you know, in the porn business. I was wondering if they need any guys who are in their 40s, like me? I think I can measure up. Ask your mom.”

I looked at Cheryl. She looked back at me, smiling. She nodded and said, “Do you think you could help him get in? He really wants to try doing porno movies. I don’t mind.”

They both hung on me for an answer. I turned to Tyler, who had a hopeful look on his face. I was the only one who thought this was wrong.

The corners of my mouth turned down as I spoke, “I don’t know.” It made me sick to even open my mouth.

“You two don’t have to tell anyone I’m with your mom. Just say I’m a friend.”

I wanted to kick his teeth in.

Tyler stepped in, but instead of siding with me, he sided with Leon. “Well, maybe, Ori. There’s always Jim. He hires anyone. You don’t have to do a scene with him. Let’s just see.”

I looked at Tyler with fractured eyes. The discussion was over. I was ready to puke. I didn’t even want a stepdaughter’s relationship with Leon, let alone a professional one. “We have to go home. I’m really uncomfortable that you guys asked me this. I don’t know what to say.”

Leon’s feathers got ruffled. He stiffened up and acted put out. My mom acted like nothing was wrong. Tyler and I hugged her and said goodbye. None of the other men she’d been involved with over the years ever acted perverted toward me.

In the car, Tyler wanted to continue the discussion. “It would help them out with money. Your mom said she didn’t care if he did scenes. I think he’s disappointed that you said no, just like that.”

“We are not going to do anything to help that man. This is unthinkable. It’s almost incest. I don’t care if his feelings are hurt.”

If we would have gotten Leon into porn, directors would have worked the incest angle to no end—or at least marketed him and me in the same films—and that was downright disgusting, even for me. How my mother could sit there blankly smiling, a doped-up specter, I could barely fathom.

I shouldn’t have expected much from a woman who basically never had a chance to learn how to be a mother. Her own mother gave her and her twin up for adoption when they were newborns. Life had dealt Cheryl a sad hand from the start. At fifteen, she got pregnant by a guy named Chuckie, my sister’s dad. When my mother got to the hospital to deliver, one of the nurses called out, “Here comes another baby havin’ a baby!”

Cheryl was wild, too. She started smoking cigarettes and pot in elementary school. She repeatedly got into fights in junior high and high school, resulting in expulsion. As a teen mother, she was already married and divorced by the age of eighteen. Chuckie taught my sister a nursery rhyme that went something like, “Two Englishmen, two Englishmen digging a ditch, one called the other a son of a bitch… And if you ever get hit with a bucket of shit, be sure and shut your eyes.”

Cheryl and I once had a close relationship. She called me her best friend. When I was a child, she would let me get out of bed late at night and play gin rummy. At thirteen, I was old enough to smoke cigarettes with her. I admired the way she could blow enormous smoke rings. I don’t remember an age that she didn’t allow me to drink alcohol. There was always a bottle of vodka in the freezer. Cheryl never cared if I drank from it, just so long as I left some in there for her. She would even order margaritas and kamikazes for me at restaurants when I was underage. She was into really good, racy literature. Of course I thought she was cool at the time. Being a cool mom was the top priority for her. Never mind that she forgot to pay electricity bills and spent all the grocery money on perfume and boots.

I learned the difference between being drunk and buzzed by watching my mother. A few drinks meant she was buzzed. Her complexion would get a little flushed. Laughter would come easily, and loudly. She’d start singing and dancing, full of joy. Drunk Cheryl, on the other hand, was nasty. Fights would break out. She always fell to the ground in some way, usually on her ass. Once, she was severely drunk at my cousin’s tenth birthday party. Our extended family went to Roller Gardens. The Wagon Wheel Bowling Alley was next door. My mom and her brothers got shitfaced at the bowling alley before joining the kids for some skating. Cheryl laced up her roller skates and barreled out into the rink. Halfway around the lap, she fell on her ass. She was just lying on her back, in the middle of the polished floor, kicking her legs in the air while sprawled out, slurring and unable to get up.

Still, there was more love than hate most of the time, at least when I was young—just enough. And I admired Cheryl’s brash fuck-off attitude, though her unpredictable and out-of-control behavior caused me to develop into a worrier. She might crash her car on her way home, drunk. My dad, Gary, might catch her in a lie about where she’d been. She could lose her job because of her bad temper. The cops might come and take her to jail for smoking pot or fighting with my dad. Etc.

When she had self-esteem, she was lively and unstoppable. She was the life of the party. My mom was the funniest person on Earth, always cussing and making me laugh. Her sense of humor was mean. The outgoing message on our answering machine said, “Leave a message…and fuck you.” My friends all thought it was hilarious and envied me.

I don’t remember her ever telling me not to do drugs. Throughout my childhood, both of my parents smoked pot. Cheryl openly admitted that she smoked weed while pregnant with me. I think she was proud of it. My parents sniffed speed, too. I think their drug use is the reason why my parents split up. All the fighting and lying was amplified on drugs. They stayed out all night sometimes, doing speed and drinking. All I could think about was them ending up in jail, until I became an adolescent and began to think about exercising all the freedom their behavior provided me. At age thirteen I got picked up by the police while I was riding around in my neighbor’s van. I was drunk with some other thirteen year old girls, high on oregano. The cops dropped us back at my house and we never got into trouble for it because my mom and dad weren’t home.

Cheryl constantly cheated on Gary. It began when I was a toddler. She abandoned my sister and me with my dad while she ran off to Nebraska with her lover. Gary took her back a few months later, but she never stopped screwing around with other men. She brought me out on her dates sometimes, while my dad was at work. One of her boyfriends took us to Catalina Island for the day when I was seven years old. She told me never to tell my dad who we were with or where we went. I followed her instructions carefully. I was her little sidekick, her accomplice.

My parents started abusing speed when I was around eleven or twelve. By my fourteenth birthday, they were out of their minds on it. I’d become bulimic and started having sex. Then my dad and I left my mom. We moved to Texas.

Cheryl went to live with some other guy. She started using heroin with this other guy, so he became her boyfriend. She went from using speed with my dad to shooting heroin and speed with her new boyfriend. I loathed this man. I came to live with them when I returned to California. I couldn’t stand Texas for very long. My father made it clear that I was choosing my mom over him. He was hurt. It ended our relationship. Gary no longer wanted to be my dad after I returned to Cheryl.

The plumbing her and her boyfriend’s house was a mess. The only thing that worked in that house was sadness. I wanted to run away, but I didn’t want to be a loser. I needed to finish high school. I made the best of this gloomy life. My mom was always passed out from drugs. She could barely speak half of the time. She would go crazy and fight with her loser boyfriend every few days. She had a gun and would threaten to end her life with it. She held the gun in her mouth and to her head, in front of me, many times. I would cry and tell her not to do it.

I wanted to kill myself, too. A few times, I came close. I wanted to electrocute myself by tossing my radio into the bathtub with me. Thankfully, the thought of dying in the presence of my junky mother and her equally despicable boyfriend prevented me from trying. I lived through my depressing teen years. I smoked a little pot and tried speed, but I didn’t want to be like my mom and dad.

As much as my real parents fought and did drugs, it was nothing compared to how much worse things became after they separated. Both my mom and her boyfriend contracted hepatitis C. They got it from used heroin needles. It didn’t stop their drug abuse. They would often pass out with lit cigarettes dangling from their mouths. As early as six or seven in the evening, they would be smacked out of consciousness. I would peek into their bedroom and glare at the two lifeless bodies on the waterbed. My heart would fill with darkness. The ash would fall and smolder on the blanket, never turning to flame.

At fourteen, my sister—who lived with her father and stepmother—took me to live with her for six months. The living conditions in our home had become unsuitable. There were needles lying around the entire house, with two other junkies living there. The house was full of cigarette smoke and ashes. The carpet had too many burn holes to count. There were broken windows with tape on them. Until Cheryl could provide me a real bedroom and clean up the rest of the house, I would live with my sister.

My mom was in and out of mental health facilities as well. She had to find ways to get prescriptions for downers. Because she was so fucked up all the time, my mom couldn’t work. Her job became a full-time effort to find ways
not
to work. She compelled countless doctors and psychologists to deem her crazy and disabled. Her liver and thyroid were legitimately shot. The valium, Vicodin, Percocet, methadone, and codeine pills she was taking made her incoherent enough to be viewed as mentally incapable. She collected worker’s compensation and disability. She qualified for welfare until I turned eighteen. After she could no longer claim benefits in the name of her child, she began making a case for social security.