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Are you famous? Can we watch you fuck?

It’s all the rage these days. Celebrities like Pamela Anderson, Paris Hilton, and Vince Neil have all seen their careers skyrocket after the public got a gander of their sexy shenanigans. Well, maybe not Vince Neil.

Within minutes of the word getting out, people all over the world were beating their computers with sticks to make them download faster, even if they didn’t like the nekkid celebrities. And this frenzied attention translated to increased public awareness, more job offers (some of them even legitimate) and good times for celebrity stalkers who no longer had to fantasize quite as hard.

But it’s not as easy as just throwing a tape in the camera and greasing up. For the maximum media penetration your porn debut must be carefully orchestrated so that a) you can get the publicity while still keeping your reputation safe, and b) everyone in the world gets to see your wobbly bits at least twice. You can only do this kind of thing once before it becomes your career, so do it carefully. Here’s some tips.

Wait until your career is on the skids.

This is vitally important since a badly-timed “stolen” video can ruin your life if you’re riding high. Not only because of the scandal, but because celebrities with successful careers don’t have time to have sex and any evidence to the contrary might suggest that you’re no longer A-list material. Seen any Tom Hanks porn around? See?

But when you’ve got nothing to lose a good sex tape can get you your own show, a movie deal, even a Grammy!

Pick an attractive partner.

Not too attractive (you don’t want to get upstaged) but someone that’s decent enough to look at. It’s the kiss of death to be seen sleeping with losers, it’s like getting caught showing up at the Oscars in a Chevette. Vince Neil filmed himself with porn stars, Pam had Tommy’s massive joint, and Paris was smart enough to keep the camera focused below Rick Solomon’s waist.

Use bad lighting.

Just in case the publicity turns ugly you should take care to leave a smidgeon of doubt that the naked person dripping with apple butter and strapped to the taffy puller is actually you, especially if your partner is underage, visibly using drugs, or a member of Congress. That kind of publicity you don’t need. The first night-vision release of Paris Hilton’s tape was perfect, she looked like a raccoon doing a Courtney Love impersonation.

Check out Rob Lowe’s tape for examples. You can barely tell there are humans involved, much less make out features. It could have been a Loch Ness sighting for all I could tell. And lawyers are going to have their work cut out for them trying to prove that R. Kelly’s ass is unique in all the world, like a fuzzy snowflake.

Choose awkward positions.

One of the best things about celebrity sex tapes is that they let people see that their sex symbols are human, too. Better looking humans, but still human. When we see celebrities in movies, on TV and on magazine covers they look larger, better, brighter than life, but in your tapes we can see you as just as human as the rest of us. Make this even more obvious by squatting, scooting around awkwardly, fumbling a lot, or falling off the bed halfway through. Not only will this endear you to your fans, it’ll make your later denial more believable. Like you’d let any director get your bad side like that? Please!

Be enthusiastic.

You might look human, but you don’t want to lose your sex symbol status, either. Fuck like you’re trying to move the bed outside with your hips alone, and suck like you lost your car keys in there.

Dump your partner afterwards.

Bad enough that everyone will know just what you did with this person, but from that point on every time you bump uglies with that person you’ll wonder if it’s just a sequel and the first one was better. Also, you may not want your partner around where they can be subpoenaed, at least not until they’re old enough to drive to court themselves.

Show it to friends.

How’s it going to get stolen if no one knows you have it? It also helps to leave it out for the movers marked “Sex Tape, Do Not Steal.” If you get desperate enough or if there’s an opening on “Ellen” coming up, just stick it in a video rental box and cram it into the overnight slot at the local Blockbusters. Self-promotion was never so easy!

Time the release to break before your new project, whatever it is.

Paris’ tape came out just when her new show “A Simple Life” was starting to advertise, and it went through the roof. Pamela Anderson’s new exposure helped her launch “V.I.P.” And would Rob Lowe have made it to “The West Wing” if the producers hadn’t seen him picking up cans on Ventura Blvd. for his community service hours?

Where Tonya Harding made her mistake was letting her honeymoon tape get out after her knee-whacking scandal. If she had released it beforehand, America might have let her slide and she would have been the one in the Disney parade while Nancy Kerrigan was banished to Celebrity Boxing.

Deny it outright.

At least initially. So what if everyone can tell it’s you? So what if, during the video, you faced the camera and said clearly, “This is me!” and displayed on-screen DNA testing? You still have to deny it or you’ll be labeled a slut. You need to build up the pity opinions and get people thinking “It’s a damn shame that poor little girl got her personal, private orgy tape exposed like that. What’s this world coming to?” instead of, say, “What a whore.”

Fire lawsuits left and right and accuse everyone of libel, even if you were the one that mailed the tape out. Especially if you were the one that mailed the tape out. Then after the news dies down you can tearfully admit it, just in time to hit the next news cycle.

Give six hundred exclusive interviews explaining why you just want to put it behind you.

After refusing to talk to anyone, have your publicist approach a few respected news outlets like Barbara Walters or Jon Stewart and say you’re ready to talk about it, just this once. Cry and be brave and admit that it was you, you were deeply in love, but now you’re stronger and more confident than ever before! Also you’re single now.

After you cry at Barbara it’s time to do the stolen movie promotion junket where you appear on every TV show with more than seven viewers, host “Saturday Night Live” to make fun of yourself, and do a layout in Maxim mimicking your video poses. Strike the right combination of pride and self-deprecation and you’ll be starring on FOX inside of two months.

Sell it to Russian websites.

Hey, might as well make some money off this thing.

Handled carefully, a stolen sex tape can make your career. And you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that a movie starring you is being watched every minute of every day, somewhere in the world, often in continuous loops.

You’ve been told all of your life that touching yourself is a weakness, it’s sinful, it’s shameful. Seriously, all of your life, there was probably a nurse in the hospital who tugged your widdle hand away from your fiddly bits and said “Now, now, mustn’t do that or you’ll burn in righteous and loving flames, dearie.” People will tell you that it simply isn’t done, and if it is done it isn’t spoken of, not by respectable people. Fortunately there’s never been any danger of me turning into one of them.

I like masturbation. I’m a big fan, and I like to think a talented amateur. There are many excellent reasons to grasp your nettle. Here’s some of them.

It feels good.

Everybody else is doing it.

You will become more comfortable with your body.

You will get a better idea of what pleases you, something you can share with a lover.

You won’t be as irritable at work.

Morticia Addams. Rawr!

 

You can develop control and staying power in a low-stress situation.

You can discover the many parts of you that are sensitive and excitable without actually being genitals.

You’re trying to quit smoking and you gotta do something with your hands.

Congressional filibusters are so damn boring.

You feel the need to tap off excess fluid on occasion to keep your body running at optimal efficiency.

You’re going for the world land-speed masturbation record and the cameras are waiting.

You want to have sex with a relative but you fear social ostracism and genetic horrors.

Look at this body! Who wouldn’t want to touch it?

It’s safe sex, as long as you watch your aim.

Just downloaded Christina Ricci’s nude scene from “Prozac Nation.”

Can’t sleep.

Nothing good on tv.

Kill Bill 2 was sold out.

Just wanted to make sure everything still worked, you know?

Next conjugal visit still a week away.

Because every time I do, an angel spasms.

Exercises the wrist and reduces the chance for carpal tunnel syndrome. It must, because I type a lot and I’ve never gotten it.

Long wait at the doctor’s office, and all the magazines are out of date.

Would you ask Pavarotti not to sing? Baryshnikov not to dance?

Really, really difficult to get pregnant when you’re the only one there.

Not too easy to get pregnant even if you’re in company, if you’re careful.

You can stay a virgin for years without getting twitchy.

It helps to maintain good pelvic blood flow and strong PC muscles.

Big money-saver on dinner and alcohol.

It reduces menstrual cramps.

Men who stimulate their prostate glands during masturbation reduce their incidence of prostate infections.

It stimulates your creativity and enriches your fantasy life.

You’re asserting your independence!

You don’t have to depend on a man for your orgasms (unless you’re a guy, of course).

You can get it anytime you want, man.

You can do anything you want without having to explain it to a bewildered partner.

You’re helping to establish the philosophy that sex is good in, by, and for itself; and that there is nothing whatever wrong about experiencing it as a fine thing in its own right.

Show me a guy with three speeds that knows exactly where and when to go.

You rarely have to use roofies to get sex.

It’s cheaper than Zoloft.

Masturbation results in remarkably few abortions.

The love of your life is currently unavailable

The love of your life is currently available, but isn’t interested right now.

The love of your life is currently available, but likes watching me.

It releases endorphins into the bloodstreams, and that’s good, I think.

Eases the strain and anxiety of long traffic jams.

Reduces the need to ask for sex during times when it might be inconvenient or unwanted, like when she’s in labor.

It keeps you from hitting all the people who really need hitting.

Because you always call the next day.

No scrambling for birth control.

Better than nagging her for sex, and she might join in.

Easier to get into a meditative state than chanting, I’ll tell you that.

You’ll be able to grip your golf club with more confidence.

You can join the Mile High Club without trying to cram two people in that little bathroom.

My parents encouraged it to ensure that I grew up with a healthy perspective towards my own sexuality, even to the point of charting my progress and having me do it in front of family gatherings.

In 1972 the American Medical Association declared masturbation a normal sexual activity, and I’m celebrating.

It really bugs a lot of the Religious Right, and so I’m striking a blow for freedom. As it were.

You can take all the time you need.

Netflix is too damn slow.

I’m doing my part as an American to keep the sex toy economy thriving.

When out in the woods, alone and in tune with nature, it’s a magical thing to spooge all over the environment and truly become one.

Because the son of a bitch popped and went to sleep on you.

Because you really, really like escalators.

Gotta do something until bail arrives and you don’t have a harmonica.

Your next-door neighbor has been watching you through the window, and you think it’s time to take the relationship to the next level.

Keeping one hand under the table at all times is a valuable defensive pose, probably.

Helps improve your backhand.

Because you can’t reach with your mouth.

You paid for your dinner and the movie, so you’re probably required to.

Just won Best Actress.

You’re watching an adult movie, and there is an implied contract between you and the movie’s distributors.

To glorify God and His creations.

Don’t have to count days first.

Performance art.

Because it makes your web site membership spike every time you do it.

Flipping burgers only takes one hand, so?

Because no one else is good enough for you. YouI barely qualify.

The cast came off today.

It’s non-carcinogenic, non-fattening, and low in sodium.

Did you know you can take Barbie’s clothes right off?

Because you are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and you suspect that happiness just ducked into your pants.

Couldn’t think of anything else to use in your valedictorian speech.

SxyGrrl69@hotmail.com told you to.

Doesn’t require equipment (although there’s quite a large industry ready to supply you if you want some).

Downtime between spacewalks.

Did too many Hail Marys, have to even it out.

Tom Welling took off his shirt on Smallville last night.

Because this isn’t just a casual fling – you really love yourself.

It was integral to the plot.

You’ve got a lot of love to give.

Is it just me, or are mannequins getting hotter every year?

Needed new material for your “Best Of” DVD.

Helps keep me warm on cold nights.

It’s what the “pause” button was invented for.

Just got the Swamp Thing DVD with extended Adrienne Barbeau swamp bath scene.

It would be rude not to show your appreciation for the strippers, it’s like belching to compliment the chef.

Because if there’s one thing porn has taught us, it’s that women inexplicably go nuts when a potbellied guy jerks off on them.

You’ve heard that if you don’t use parts of your body they atrophy and drop off, and that’s scary.

It’s part of your low-impact aerobic full-body workout. 10 reps, pause, repeat as needed.

Bought one too many cucumbers for dinner, and wasting is a sin.

Because (drum roll) it’s there.

So awhile back I got this ICQ message from Heather Corinna, and she asked me if I wanted to go appear on a panel and talk about erotica webzines with her and a bunch of our mutual online friends. Seems that there was going to be a webzine seminar in New York City and she had been nabbed as moderator for the erotica panel, and I figured what the hell, I’d go. Okay, that was a bit of a fib, I really thought it would be really really GREAT because I had never been to New York before and I really really wanted to, and I’d get to meet a lot of amazing people I’d only written to before, and it seemed like a perfect chance to get a couple of fantasies out of the way at the same time. I was on my way.

FRIDAY MORNING: Up, up and away!

I get up, bright and early, already packed and double-checked, and zoom off to the airport with a song in my heart and joy in my pants. I had spent the last week researching so I wouldn’t look like a total dweeb when I got there; I re-read all my old Spiderman comics, watched The Muppets Take Manhattan again, read my Spotter’s Guide to Celebrities, and studied The Simpsons episode where Homer has to go get his car in New York. Off we went, singing and laughing, to the airport, where I found that I had missed my flight.

We went back home and went back to sleep.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON: Up, up and away!

 

 

 

 

Air flight is always exciting. Meeting new people, seeing the world from high above, where everything looks so clean and beautiful, puking my guts across six different states… ha ha! I’m kidding, I never get sick on airplanes. I get all that out of my system during the boarding process. Sorry folks!

After the landing and debriefing, I was finally in New York! Wow! It was exactly how I imagined it, unfortunately. No, I’m kidding, it was great. There were thousands of people bustling around, just in the men’s bathroom, and I’m pretty sure I saw Nathan Lane’s feet in one of the stalls. I caught a shuttle van into the city and was amazed to see how driving habits differed from back home. See, my dad taught me that when I was behind someone, I should never get so close that I couldn’t see their rear tires over my hood because that would mean that I was too close and if their car got stuck then I would still have enough room to maneuver around them. Everyone in New York seemed to ignore that simple rule, along with street signs, stop lights, pedestrians, fire hydrants, buildings, just about anything beyond their own dashboards really. Near as I could tell, as long as you didn’t leave any traceable car paint scrapings you could do whatever you wanted. How free! How wonderful!

 

 

 

 

 

I had missed meeting Heather and Todd that morning, but I did get to meet Jane and James at the hotel and we went out for dinner. (I had already taken the liberty of carefully distributing my cash and valuables in different areas of my person so as to confound muggers and highwaymen.) I learned many things that night: that Jane was just as bubbly and fun and cute as she appears on her site, that she and James are a lot of fun to hang around, that mussels aren’t too bad, and that you should never rely on Jane for directions in a big city.

We talked and laughed a lot — a discussion of creating a chain of S&M theme family restaurants a la Hooters remains stuck in my mind, along with James’ suggestion of the mascot (a little animé girl, on the floor, with a boot on her head) — and had a blast. Even my unexpectedly explosive allergy to shellfish didn’t dampen the evening, although I think it might have lessened my chances for a goodnight kiss. Ah well, back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. They had invited me along to an S&M gathering, but I begged off, explaining that my uncontrollable urge to heckle was not generally welcome during most public power exchanges (Hey, let’s see you try maintaining the proper level of authority and dominance over your slave while some potbellied guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt over a t-shirt that says “Let a Gargoyle Sit on Your Face” stands next to you, asking “Whatcha doing?” while eating handfuls of Captain Crunch cereal right out of the box).

I’m positive I saw Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-NY) ducking behind the bar with an appreciative biker. Hey, after her last few years, who’s gonna begrudge her a little kinky repulsive fun, hah? Gidoudda here.

SATURDAY MORNING: Taking it to the streets

Got up with the sunrise and quickly mastered the art of taking a hotel shower (which involves hopping in and out of the spray, timing your leaps to avoid the cycles of boiling heat and freezing cold so as to hit the brief periods of humanly-tolerable temperature) before checking out and venturing out alone onto the streets. Gosh, I can’t describe the feelings I had when I was walking around the very streets I had seen on countless cop shows since I was a kid. You gotta love a town where the porn shops open at 7, bright and early. I tried spinning into a wild dance number but I guess I didn’t know the trick of it because the crowds on the street failed to fall into step behind me. They were yelling in unison, but I’m pretty sure what they were yelling wasn’t from any Broadway show I’ve ever heard of, unless it was a Mamet play.

 

 

 

 

 

I covered quite a bit of ground with my technique, which was to go up to a corner and immediately go in whichever direction had a “Walk” sign already flashing. Unfortunately my obedience to traffic signs clearly marked me as a tourist so I was treated to a variety of colorful local dialects as natives clamored to sell me their watches, souvenirs, faux parfums, marijuana, hot dogs, and sisters. Chased the pigeons in Washington Square Park (spotted Jack Nicholson sleeping under a park bench, that rascal) and very nearly enjoyed an authentic New York hot dog. After a bit of this I stumbled onto 6th Ave and I strolled the 34 blocks to where Heather was staying, stopping only for occasional gawking, a couple of Cokes, and some hyperventilation. Heather was waiting for me on a park bench (the pink hair gave her away). The hug was worth the trip.

 

Heather is difficult to describe. An unholy marriage of Janis Joplin and Pippi Longstocking, a sexy dynamo that runs on coffee and cigarettes. Just the sort of person you want shepherding you through a strange and violent city, even though I think she weighed maybe 75 pounds. We wandered around a bit before heading over to the CB Gallery for the webzine event, and she showed me all the myriad wonders of the Village, which apparently all involve shopping for shoes.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON: The Big Event

 

 

 

 

We walked to the end of Bleecker St. (past Margaret Sanger Park, which just has to be the safest place to fuck, ever) (think about it) to the gallery and headed downstairs to the basement to discover where all the smoke was coming from. All the tragically hip people were there, although they strongly resembled early afternoon drinkers. We met Bob, the organizer who had offered me couch space that evening, and Debra Hyde, writer extraordinaire (Heather attacked both with the sort of shrieked hysterical greeting I associate with old Beatles newsreels). Also Todd, who emerged from the gloom looking tall and wryly amused, which I was to learn was his usual expression about most everything. Jane and James showed up and we all sat and talked for awhile about just the sort of things you’d expect a bunch of sophisticated, kinky adult webmasters to talk about — kids, politics, The Simpsons, movies, Diablo II — before it was time for our panel.

Heather had decided, in a fit of artistic inspiration (i.e. laziness, but with style), not to plan anything whatsoever, so we sat down, got introduced and then took questions. We had a decent turnout (many thanks to you folks who yelled “woo hoo!” when I was introduced; you disappeared afterwards, possibly from shame) and we happily answered questions and giggled amongst ourselves for an hour before they made us stop.

Afterwards we gabbed some more and Heather, Todd, Debra and I all moved outside (agh! Sunlight!) to stock up on oxygen and lunch. I think we were all a bit startled with how well we all got along, and the love fest lasted all day. We kept on talking through lunch, back into the event, all through Michael Moore’s keynote speech which we pretty much ignored even though it was happening about 10 feet away, and long into the evening before everyone had to bolt.

SATURDAY NIGHT: I sleep with a lot of girls. And boys.

 

 

 

 

I expected to hang out until Bob was finished, then go crash at his place. Heather hung around to keep me company and drink some more (in that order, bless her heart), but it was becoming apparent that Bob was pretty wired and, since the anticipated mugging I budgeted for mysteriously hadn’t occurred yet, I decided to go for another hotel stay. I was there long enough for Heather to shoot video of my first on screen porn debut, something she’s already threatened to make public. I also learned some fun drinking games, including “Quarters” and this weird thing you do with Stoli, some dry ice and an enema bottle. Brrr! (Note for you non-drinkers, anything carbonated can substitute).

I took my first cab ride — uneventful, since the hostage situation resolved itself — only to arrive and discover that the only rooms the hotel had left were something called dormitory rooms. No worries, I get along with everybody. I spent some time on the phone waking up quite a few people who were not Todd before I hit the correct hotel room, and I let him know what was up. At 1:30 in the morning he sounded exactly as he had at 6 in the afternoon, something else I was assured was perfectly normal, so I went upstairs to begin getting along with everybody.

Everybody, in this case, was 15 other people. 15 young, drunk, unwashed, loud people (one of them was, I believe, Christina Aquilera, but I was “cool” enough not to blow her cover) in varying degrees of consciousness. I scampered onto someone else’s assigned bunk, clutched my bag to my chest, placed a hastily-written note on my back (“Hi! Please do not anally violate me! Thanks!”) and went to sleep.

SUNDAY MORNING: Look what the cat threw up.

 

 

 

 

I was to meet everyone at Prince and Broadway to get brunch, so a bit of experimentation was in order. Luckily I awoke bright and early, sweating and screaming. Everyone else was still in their narcotic stupors so I had the shower to myself with no distractions like noises, or towels, or soap. I wandered out on the street again, determined in an atypically manly decision to figure out the subway system all by myself, with only Todd’s meticulously detailed map and descriptions to guide me.

It was early enough that I figured I could detect and correct any navigational mistakes, and aside from a quick jaunt to Jersey all went well. I took lots of shots of the city to shove into the faces of my family and friends who couldn’t come along, the losers, and even used the restroom in a corner store all by myself. I had been raised to always leave a bathroom clean before I left it so that took a while, but still it was an event I’m glad to have lived through. Would you believe they have their illegal drugs laid out in deli cases? God, what a great place. I kept expecting to see shootouts and car chases and explosions, but maybe that’s considered gauche on Sunday.

I did have to ask a few people how I could get to Broadway (they never answered, they all just looked at me for a few seconds and then walked away, shaking their heads for some reason) but I arrived with enough time to stop by Michele’s where Heather was staying and hook up with them. There I was privileged to see a sight that few people have seen and survived: Heather, pre-coffee. I love the woman like few others, but I kept my distance and a sturdy chair between us nonetheless.

We met up with the rest of our happy, hung-over crew and set off for a corner cafe — the caffeine-deprived among us lurching forward, the more seriously hung over hanging back, and Todd acting as a sheepdog trying to keep everyone in sight. We managed to keep Heather on track with two of those long forked sticks and a Taser, although we didn’t react fast enough when she turned the corner and stampeded that poor Pakistani family.

At the cafe the caffeine junkies self-medicated and we resumed our gabbing — I was my usual grim, solemn self — and I have to admit that I was about as content as I’ve ever been without actually being naked. There are damned few people in the world I can completely relax around (I had already married the cutest one) but everyone at the table was someone I would have loved to spend a few more weeks with, or had sex with, or even both.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON: I am nailed to the hull.

 

 

 

 

Sadly, after the brunch we had to split up. I hugged Jane and missed her even before she was out of sight, although I did keep an impression of her boobs on my ribcage to remember her by. Debra and I braved the subway again; she was off for home, I was off to meet Shmuel who lived locally. Bye Debra! This is only the beginning, you know. Met Shmuel and had a great time trading truly awful puns over iced tea (I won’t repeat them here, because you don’t deserve to be treated that way and because I suspect he might have gotten the better of me) before we meandered over to where I could hand him off to Todd (bye Todd!) and receive Heather in return.

 

I had told her I needed to pick up some cheapass gifts to take back, so she took me to Pearl River, an act for which I may hate her forever. Way too much cool cheap oriental crap, and I met Jackie Chan’s older brother’s dental hygienist who sold me a very reasonable autograph. I managed to limit myself to only three or four times the amount of allowable carry-on bags before we left. We split a cab back to Michele’s (where Heather avoided being ripped off by being more stubborn, more loud, and more Italian than the cabbie) and I was off to the airport. Missing my flight on Friday had made me nervous, so I arrived at JFK 11 hours early, just to be on the safe side.

The flight home was relatively uneventful – a little turbulence, a guy two rows up spilled his coffee, and I think we lost a wing — and I arrived home safe and sound to my loving family.

Now it’s a few days later. I’m still locating my hidden bodily caches of money — the kids just found another one this morning — and I’m still in the misty love fest feeling. I miss New York already, and my personal physician assures me that I’ll always have something to remember it by.

See ya next year!