Playboy Magazine, Nov. 1999

FEAR, LOATHING &

AND PORN STARS

IN LAS VEGAS

by Corey Levitan

 

       So there I was, in a hotel room with a hot female porn star and my best bud. We were down to our underwear and she was full of drugs.

       We had come to Las Vegas to attend the Adult Video News awards. Like the ceremony in "Boogie Nights," the AVNs recognize the awesome acting talent it takes for someone to deliver a pizza and then appear surprised when the recipient drops her leather skirt. There are awards for best actor and actress, best supporting actor and actress, and best anal. ("I'd like to thank my father, the proctologist, for teaching me.")

        But the real AVN show was the debauched Disneyland of secret parties held all weekend long in and around the Venetian hotel.

       One can pretty much tell a porn star from a beautiful civilian girl in a Vegas casino, which is important when trying to avoid asking a civilian girl where the porn-awards parties are. Female porn stars have breasts the size of two extra heads and are surrounded by a cloud of perfume that actually stains the carpet with scent when it settles.

       Dr. Gonzo and I met our first female porn star the previous day, at the adult video section of the Consumer Electronics Convention. Here, guys who looked like Drew Carey queued up to pose for pictures with stunning women whose job it was to lie and pretend they had a shot.

        "You have such nice ..., " the women said, searching for anything remotely complimentable.

        Never mind that there were 500 guys to each female porn star. This is not necessarily a pessimistic ratio in the porn world, where Jasmine St. Claire once did 300 men in a single video.

       Just past the booth manned by the prestigious Buttman magazine stood Sky. The 24-year-old star of the upcoming "Debbie Does..." series of remakes, Sky was signing posters advertising her work with Vivid Video. She told me she's also a budding singer who just cut a music demo that sounds like "a female Kid Rock." Then she told me to bend over.

        "I have a spanking fetish," Sky said. "Come on! Do it!"

        Video and still cameras readied to capture it all, and I pondered for a moment a second career as David Lexington (that's my middle name followed by the street I grew up on, the standard for formulating one's porn name).

        Ultimately, I wussed out and declined Sky's offer, suggesting instead a more private resolution of her parental issues, later on with Dr. Gonzo and myself in our hotel room.

        She smiled that rejection smile I first learned from Monique McMahon in the third grade, then went back to signing posters.

       "You have such nice...," she said to the next Drew Carey in line.

       OK, so I'm ripping off Dr. Gonzo's alias from author Hunter S. Thompson. Settle down. Thompson is currently holed up in a fortified compound on an island near Puerto Rico, awaiting the violent overthrow of the Western world. He doesn't do Vegas travelogues anymore.

       Anyway, my Dr. Gonzo deserves the honor. After the AVN Awards he wangled us a free limo ride to a "naughty sushi party" in a mansion just off the Vegas Strip. Here, assorted seaweed rolls were served on the naked bodies of live girls. (I asked one of them if she also did Seders. She just grinned and recommended the kapa maki from her naval region.)

       I have no idea how Dr. Gonzo makes wondrous things like this happen, he just does. It's like Clinton's policy on gays in the military: You don't ask, he doesn't tell. But I suspect his connections somehow involve drugs, the underworld or worse ... the music business.

        Gonzo did introduce me to a gentleman named Gino at one point during the weekend. Gino's talent was procuring a ticket to anything. You want to see Puff Daddy's next hearing? Gino's got you covered. (When no one at the AVNs bothered to return my calls, Gino and a few Ulysses S. Grants is how we gained admission.)

       Happening as the naughty sushi party was, Dr. Gonzo and I high-tailed upon hearing of an even wilder porn-star soiree back at the Venetian, one so exclusive it fit in the confines of a single hotel suite. This was a couples-only affair -- literally -- where bras and panties covered the welcome mat instead of shoes. (Porn stars like to leave those on.)

        As soon as couples crossed the threshold, they were immediately, ahem, re-coupled. Neither of us could enter without a date, but Gonzo had a plan. He knew Ron Jeremy, the one figure in porn you can never miss. This man is so heavy and hung that, even when he's not naked, he resembles the letter Q.

       When Jeremy arrived with a woman under each arm, Gonzo schmoozed his way into his entourage, making it appear as if each of them was accompanied by a single escort.

        Before he reached the recoupling phase, however, Dr. Gonzo was recognized for being unrecognizable.

       "Anyone know who that guy is?" a naked person screamed from inside the mangle of nakedness on the couch.

        "He didn't come with that girl!" another noticed. "That's one of Ron's girls! Hey, where's your date?"

       Dr. Gonzo flushed and scrammed.

       "Everyone laughed at me, dude," he recalled later, mortified.

        Ecstasy is a strange drug. A synthetic and potentially lethal compound known as MDMA, it functions both as a stimulant and hallucinogen, interacting with serotonin-producing neurons in the brain. Doctors will tell you the long-term effects are unknown.

       What they won't tell you is how horny it makes female porn stars.

       Sherry was 5'2", brunette and in possession of an intelligence quotient in diametric opposition to the porn actress stereotype. We met her in the lobby of the Venetian, which she was smart enough to know takes its name from "Venetia" -- you know, the country where they make the blinds.

       More significant for our purposes than Sherry's brain was what she was doing to it. She had just ingested a tab of E and was in search of a place to enjoy the trip.

        Dr. Gonzo and I happened to be en route to a party called the Player's Ball. Thrown in the hotel nightclub by rapper Ice-T, it was described by word of mouth as "a celebration of pimps and their ho's." A cell-phone call to Gino procured an extra VIP pass.

       Heads turned as Dr. Gonzo and I escorted Sherry to an upper balcony. Our pimp hand was exceptionally strong.

       "You are both so cute," Sherry said as we sat down on either side of her. She gently stroked Dr. Gonzo's arm with her left hand, mine with her right. This created an unusual tension, other than the one in our jeans. For about an hour Dr. Gonzo and I took turns sending one another away to bring Sherry water. (Ecstasy makes users as abnormally thirsty as it does horny.) Whenever one of us returned, he would find the other kissing Sherry's neck.

       Finally, we stepped away from Sherry together and decided on a solution worthy of King Solomon. We would share -- that is, if we were ever able to lure Sherry back to our hotel room. While formulating a strategy for doing so, Sherry interrupted us.

       "Do you guys have a hotel room?" Sherry asked. "Wouldn't you love to go there and rub oil over each other?"

        As soon as I could remove the horrifying image of rubbing oil on Dr. Gonzo's buttocks from my mind, I was up for it. So up, in fact, that I remember nothing about the 20-minute trip back to our room. Reality became kind of like the noise made by Charlie Brown's teacher.

       Sherry dropped, face up, on one of our two beds and I found the closest thing to Barry White to play on the alarm clock radio. Dr. Gonzo and I removed our shirts and pants, each rubbing one of Sherry's smooth bronze legs as seductively as two skinny Jewish guys gyrating in time to Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler" could.

       "You are both so cute," Sherry said again.

        It is at that point she asked us what we'd most like for our early birthday presents.

        I don't care what your fantasies have been since 10th grade, but if you're ever faced with the very real prospect of sexual intercourse with a porn star, a thin film of latex suddenly doesn't seem like enough protection.

        It's kind of like relieving yourself in a dirty public bathroom stall. You know some flatulent fat guy was there just 10 minutes before you. Forget paper donuts. You hover.

        I didn't hear Dr. Gonzo's whispered answer, but it was apparently preferable to my apprehensive request for a blowjob. He hopped atop Sherry as I did what I reluctantly began to realize was waiting my turn. It never came, although Sherry was close to doing so.

        Damning the homoerotic implications, I decided to go for it. I approached the epicenter of the room's seismic activity.

       If you want this story to have a happy ending, you'd best stop reading right here.

       Very well, but don't say you weren't warned.

       Every time I aimed a part of my body somewhere at Sherry the porn star, it met some swiftly moving counterpart of Dr. Gonzo's. He was all over her, in such a selfish way that not even Gino the scalper could get me in there at that point.

       When this scenario occurs in the pornos I've seen, one guy takes a girl from behind, the other from the front. Apparently, in the videos Dr. Gonzo has seen, one guy does the girl missionary style and the other guy gets screwed only figuratively.

       I'm an attractive guy. I may only be 5'7" but I have cool hair. I call that the height/hair compensatory ratio. Tall guys can be bald, but who cares since no one sees what's happening up there. Most short guys, unless we really did something wrong in a past life, are rewarded with cool hair.

       I also have an irresistible personality. Ask my parents.

       OK, so I'm 5' 6 1/2". The point is, I should not have been shut out of what was happening in that hotel room.

       As the moaning intensified, so did my frustration. I began to get dressed, figuring one of them would have the compassion to insist that I stay.

       Not since my mom waited to drive me to the doctor for allergy shots have I gotten dressed so slowly. One pant leg, then the other pant leg, then a sigh, then a sock.

       This is not how I hoped my first menage-a-trois experience would go.

       "I'm feeling left out," I finally sulked out loud. "I'm going back to the party."

       There was no response. I had been erased from existence, like older brother Chuck Cunningham after the first season of "Happy Days."

        It was 3:30 a.m. and the Player's Ball was all played out. There were no other women for me to meet, at least none that didn't require money first.

       I returned to our hotel, spending the rest of the morning trying not to kill myself as the noises and smells of Sherry and Dr. Gonzo's monkey passion filled the room.

       "If you want, you can whip it out and watch," Dr. Gonzo offered at one point.

       A couple days after our very long and silent car ride home to Los Angeles, a mutual acquaintance confronted Dr. Gonzo about his apparent master's degree in cock-blockage.

       "Why is he so upset at me?" my friend and trusty sidekick reportedly responded. "So the chick didn't dig him."

       I currently have an opening for a friend and trusty sidekick.

       Oh, and if you're reading this, Dr. Gonzo, see all the gorgeous girls in this magazine? Since I've been writing for Playboy, I've been fucking them all.

       If you want, you can whip it out and watch sometime.

 

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