A dismembered hand, gnarled, curled up in what could only be a death grip. A hacked-off pair of feet, seared together from what must have been scorching heat and violent fire, leaving only a tiny gap between. Horrifying torsos, with limbs chopped off in a gruesomely rude accident that must have involved astounding force and flying metal to have removed the parts as cleanly as a serial killer. And the genitalia, everywhere — severed penises, rendered-apart vulvas in various states, some with hair and some without, all with the ghastly color of dead flesh. All cool to the touch. Surely I had arrived late into the scene of the crash.
Or maybe I was standing in the middle of the Adult Video Expo in the business-to-business section, surrounded by the latest crop of sex toys. Okay, I was, but you get the idea. With all the parts on display in the other parts of the expo, and the Hannibal Lechter cooking hour assembly in the back, it was hard not to feel the disconnect. It was Thursday; I had checked into my oh-mi-gawd suite in the Venetian the night before, attended a terrific sex writer dinner with 25 people, met Jonno (Fleshbot) for the first time (in his bathrobe in his room, trying to get his lost luggage), gotten what would be the only decent night of sleep the entire time, and was making the rounds during the trade-only hours. Or maybe it was trade-only — the way the whole expo was run, and given how crowded and chaotic it was during the "exclusive" hours, I’d be surprised.
But if you want a pretty comprehensive recap, read Carly’s entry on Pornblography — I was with her quite a bit — the dinner, the Circle Bar, the boyfriend surprise, I visited the booth chaos a few times, the Hard Rock party, and more. But when invited out to Friday night’s exclusive party, I just didn’t have the will to clump into an entourage and try to get in, and when Jonno and Carly *told* me lovingly to attend the awards with them, I declined — I had been doing photos for nearly four hours with Thomas. That means I had been doing nude yoga in 7" heels, was very hungry and tired, and just couldn’t get it up to skip food and go stand around. Plus, I had Thomas, Carol, X and his girlfriend all staying in my room (a lot of fun!), and we all wanted to drink wine, eat and chill out to the music on my iBook.
For my complete Vegas photo album and mini-blog, For the photos I did with Thomas, go here. Those are culled from over 800 photos — not counting the photoset we shot for Suicide Girls, and hopefully they’ll accept the set. If not, I’ll have almost 500 other photos from a set you haven’t seen yet, to share.
Overall, I had a really great time, but that’s all due to Carly and Jonno, who made sure I always had a party to go to, or someone to meet and hang out with, though there never seemed to be a shortage of people who knew me… which was odd. I was actually recognized by people who love Tiny Nibbles — and here I thought I’d be a ghost. And it was all so flattering I kind of wanted to shrink into a little ball and roll away. I would get interrupted by total strangers who wanted to take a picture with me — and I always thought they had mistaken me with someone else, but no. No one *ever* had me mistaken for someone else. Directors (famous ones!) told me my video book has a "place of honor" on their bookshelves — no shit! And after the editors at AVN told me my book was crap, a mistake, doomed to fail, this felt pretty good.
I least expected the adoration. I also did not expect to meet anyone cool — and I was totally wrong. A shout out to the people I met, my new friends: Jonno, Jonno, Jonno. *sigh* The second time I met him, he squeezed my breast (and in 7″ heels, I jumped, making me rise probably two feet off the floor) and told me “That’s from Michael.” Then, he and gorgeous, wickedly-smart troublemaker Jack abducted me to the backstage area of the Hustla Ball. Jayme, with whom I will be working in the future. Tristan, who I’m so glad we chatted in my room for an hour and put together the pieces of a friendship that should’ve began years ago. Paul, whose photos are astoundingly gorgeous and whose company was down-to-earth and much-needed. Benny, whose porn is so hot, and whose intentions are so punk, and pure and fierce, I just adore. Joel and his sweetie, who provided hours of conversation over beers about tech stuff and made me feel more at home in the caveman-like tech aura of Vegas. Las Vegas is primitive, primitive! Freddy and Eddy, who I’m definitely taking up on a home-cooked dinner next time I’m in LA. Alison, who I definitely owe drinks, dinner and more. Carly’s friend Sinfulrella rocked me hard, though I don’t have a link for her… yet.
Now I’m back, and I’m so glad. I really don’t like Vegas, and while my room was ultra-luxe, and I’d stay there again if I had the money, the Venetian is *scented*. That’s right, they pipe scent throughout the entire hotel, a sickly, sweet odor that permeates everything and you don’t realize it until you go outside and the regular air smells weird… Very yucky, and with the scent, lack of sleep, talking the entire time, drinking and second-hand smoke, I’ve been pretty sick since I’ve been back — tired, dry cough, tight chest. I missed everything in San Francisco, and with all the contrived decadence of the porn spectacle, I don’t want to go back unless I can bring the entire Marching Band with me, to show them how it’s done with talent and style. There was a serious style vacuum there, like there needs to be a Queer Eye for straight porn, or Vegas, or all of it. Like my new favorite site, Go Fug Yourself (thanks Chris!).
But I’m uneasy and feeling strange about a few things since I’ve been back. Carol wasn’t the only one of my GV coworkers there, but I had no idea she was going to be there representing GV until she told me as a friend. That felt weird, but not on Carol’s part. In fact, she slept on my couch. No, what felt even weirder was seeing three other employees *working* in a booth, and having no prior knowledge of it, one of them being the video buyer (I’m supposed to be the video reviewer). Think about how that might make you feel. Then Carly gets fired, after killing herself to make everything perfect — and it was, for me.
Then when I got home I found out that AVN magazine reviewed my Sexual Fantasy book — and credited the book to the porn performer impostor who has been using my name for the past three years.
AVN knows who I am, and they obviously know who she is. They’ve reviewed my books before, I’ve been told rude things by their editors, and I’ve written a few articles for AVN Online — they’ve cut me checks, for fuck’s sake. So I have to wonder what’s going on. It really kills me to work so hard for so long (my first published article on porn was in 1998; by 2001 when the impostor’s first tape was released I had *three* online columns on the subject of porn; she appeared in tapes previously as “Violet” and “Violet Lust”) and have someone else get credit for it.
So I have a bit of a fever right now, but with the artificiality of my past week, the smells, the bad expensive Vegas jail food, and the out-of-control feeling in my professional life, I just want to go into my grey, rainy backyard. I want to get on my knees in the patch with the overgrown weeds, feel the wet seep through my pajama pants, cold. I want to claw at the weeds and mud and earth, I want to paw and pull and dig at the ground. I want to press my face into the dirt and rub my cheek on it and smell it in my nose. I’ll come up to keep digging, feel the dirt and mud and rocks stuck to my face and watch pieces fall off into the hole. Fell the dirt hurting my fingertips, make them raw and cold and numb. Then I want to put my feet in the hole and cover my feet with dirt to the ankles, squatting as I paw the dirt over me. Then I’ll stay there, standing toward where I think the sun is.
