From www.nypress.com- What do you wear to a porn shoot? After a little consideration, I went for the “doofus hipster” shirt, black jeans and black Converse. It seemed appropriate enough for a Burning Angel set. Inexplicably, I decided to wear a ring. Then I realized I was thinking like I was dressing for a date. I wanted Joanna Angel to think I was cool.
Freelance journalists end up with lots of contacts, and sometimes you don’t even know where they came from. Somehow, despite the fact that I’d never written about the porn industry, I ended up on the list of a PR guy who represented producers of adult entertainment. When he sent me an email inviting me to a Burning Angel shoot, I didn’t know what I’d do with the story, but I quickly accepted.
I arrived promptly at 12:30, the designated time. The production, of course, was running late. Joanna introduced herself to me; she was small and lovely with a sweet, high voice. Not the fierce Suicide Girl–type I’d half-expected.Then she started telling the crew about her latest tattoo, lifting her long cotton dress to show it off. “I’m so stupid getting a new one right before a shoot,” she said. “I asked them if it would heal in three days and they said ‘What are you, retarded?’”
The tattoo was on her upper thigh. She was wearing nothing under the tight dress. I tried not to stare.
The rest of the talent still hadn’t shown up, so Joanna, the director and star of the picture, decided to go ahead with some publicity stills. She pulled off her dress, wrapped a pink towel around her hot little body and said to me, “This is my wardrobe for the movie” with a smile and a shrug.
“Well, pink towel and black heels,” she clarified. Cute as hell. Come-hither looks came too easily for her, and I was falling for it.
She crouched in the shower stall, her towel falling to the side, as the photographer snapped away and steered her through poses. She’s a porn star, right? Surely it’s not rude to look. A boom box quietly played songs by the Stones, Kim Wilde, Cyndi Lauper, Nena and the Partridge Family. Every song was a cover.
They finished the shoot and the crew began discussing the set, a borrowed Williamsburg loft. “Should we take down this poster?” one of them asked, pointing to a large photo of a heavily tattooed band. “I actually hooked up with one of those guys,” Joanna cut in. “Maybe we should take it down. I don’t want to get in trouble. Maybe they’re Christians now.”
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The truth is, I’m kind of a porn wuss. I like pictures of naked ladies, sure, but I’m not much for hardcore. I do, however, have a voyeuristic streak in me. So watching Joanna as she was talking to the crew, sitting in a tall director’s chair with her knees apart, did something for me. Did she know I was looking? And it couldn’t bother her, could it? I mean, she is a porn star.
The other actors arrived and shooting finally began. “If you pull my hair, pull the top, ‘cause I have extensions,” one of the women explained to James Deen, Joanna’s boyfriend and co-star. I was daring myself to stay for the money shot. Boogie Nights already told the story of porn actors having to keep it hard, but watching the scene made part of James’ talent apparent. He was also the best actor on the set and seemed to have a good knowledge of porn production, suggesting camera angles and giving acting tips. Needless to say, he’s endowed with an enormous schlong.
Joanna watched closely as her boyfriend fucked another woman. All very professional. “Start to wind down and set up for the pop,” she announced. “But don’t actually come yet.” The scene—a woman sandwiched between James and another actor on a small couch—had been shooting nonstop for about half an hour. Cameras scurried around and lights were repositioned as the fucking continued. Finally they turned off the cameras to adjust the set, but the sex went on. Deen went down on the woman, pro bono apparently. After 30 minutes of shooting, I decide I did want to see the pop. More to the point, I wanted one of my own.
They started shooting again and the producer suggested the two guys high five as one fucked the woman and she sucked the other off. “No way am I going to do that,” James said.
How long can this keep being hot, I wondered. I’d been on the set for five hours, standing talking to the lucky stiff who owned the apartment about good Scotch and bad rock while the starlet—it was her first film—was being double-teamed.
Then it came time for the fabled pop. It’s funny that the guys had to get themselves hard to do another shot. Apparently there’s no line item for fluffers in the Burning Angel budget. They took matters into their hands and got ready.
Joanna, in character and in towel, entered the scene. Not only did she have an amazing body, she had comedic talent, playing a tattooed, multi-color-haired spelling-bee geek. She asked me several times if I was having fun, then asked me, quite sincerely, if it looked like it would be better than the average porn movie.
It did. At least I assumed, not actually having seen many average porn movies. But during her scene I was actually holding back laughs—not to mention my own ridiculous visions. Maybe, I thought, they’d quickly write in a scene where some doofus journalist gets taken advantage of. Maybe they’d play out my Almost Famous groupie fantasy and pop my porn-star cherry. And maybe I’d be more comfortable with hardcore pornography if I was the star. But none of that would happen—at least not that day.
I thanked Joanna for letting me hang out and walked to the subway, already thinking about the Google Image Search I’d be conducting when I got home.
