"Hi, Honey!" I said as I poked my head out from the kitchen. "How was the gangbang at the bowling alley?" My husband swung through the front door lugging film equipment.
"Pretty whatever," he said. "Four massive dudes and two roller girls."
We were newlyweds. Ours was not your typical greeting.Read: Marriage Is Not Dead!
Eight months prior I'd relocated to LA to start a life with my fiancé, just as he'd landed an interview to be cinematographer on a docu-soap about pornstars. We'd pondered the inevitable questions: Would it affect our sex-life? Was I down with my husband's foray into that world? It was a dilemma for the modern couple.
A week later, they'd probed him with a slew of non-typical questions.
"You cool with hardcore?" they'd asked. "It can get really graphic."Read: Porn: When It Helps & When It Hurts
"Sure," my husband said.
"You can't get an erection on set," they told him.
"All right, man. We'll be in touch."
Granted, a reality TV show about the porn industry is not exactly working in porn. It's one step removed. "Basically, he's a documentarian." That's what I told my mom. After all, adult entertainment is officially mainstream fare. Between YouPorn, XTube, and the plethora of docu-porn airing on primetime, every man, woman and tween has an X-rated menu at their fingertips. Porn has never been closer to home.
Before we knew it, he'd landed the job-not only were Zack and Miri making a porno but so was my husband. The new nine-to-five required him to trail, say, Lindsay Blowhan as she noshed a sandwich, slogged to the gym, then cabbed to a Beverly Hills hotel to get tag-teamed. Despite being a slightly odd intro to married life, as dinner discussions of long-distance cum shots competed for time with Phelps' latest gold, it was a testament to the times. Gone were the days of a tattered box of old VHS cassettes and a stack of Hustlers. For us-an orgy in lane ten.Read: Porn For The Blind
Then came the disillusion. Daily, he described the latest let down-how the talent would stop ecstatically moaning when the director yelled, "Cut!" and frankly discuss where he should blow his load. Or how Brandy so-and-so would absently gab about her plans for the weekend while Thick Rick plowed on.
"Did you know they use fake cum?" My husband said on a particularly sad day. "It's sunblock."
The next week it was: "Girls get paid $100 extra to swallow; $200 for backdoor. More of a pay bump than a preference."
We baked cookies, watched Ghost, and held each other.