Bill Landis aka Bobby Spector article in Village Voice

[Luzdedos1]

Almost all pornography is made by and for men. Even in this era of prosex
feminism and empowerment theory, it's a man's world. But men are meat, too, as
I learned when I witnessed the crumbling of the porno-chic empire during a
four-year stint as an actor named Bobby Spector.
Like so many sex performers, I had a military background. I was born abroad and
had bounced around the globe by age five. My father was a violent World War II
vet who witnessed numerous Far East bloodbaths, my mother a shrill Valley of
the Dolls-era pillhead who felt righteous in her drug use because she "took
pills the doctor prescribed." She'd alternate between diet-pill mania and
dinner-table blackouts helped along by downs and martinis. The military does
not like it when dependents freak out, so from an early age I was forbidden to
call 911. Instead I'd phone a poison-control center and b told to induce
vomiting. My father the sergeant would lie on the bed and command me to "take
care of it." I felt loyal to my country because I did my job correctly and
precisely.
And only child, I developed a strong fantasy life that centered around James
Bond. I owned a toy 007 briefcase that contained both a fake gun and my real
passport and military ID. It was roomy enough to house my beloved collection of
Dinky cars, miniature detailed Rolls Royce limousines complete with toy servant
chauffeurs and urbane passengers. This fantasy bubble of being a tiny
jet-setter was burst when the Air Force spat my family into Louisiana. There I
had my first blackout experience, which was not induced by any drug. I was
raped--I never knew by whom. The details are hazy, but I know it happened, and
I also know that no one in my family would acknowledge it. That day ended my
childhood. I was a six-year-old man, and in the military men are taught to
tolerate the pain--to take it like a man.
Shortly after this incident my father retired from the service at age 37 and
moved us to Brooklyn, where he became a househusband. Almost immediately I had
my first exposure to the adult film world through the garish ads for 1960s
softcore movies in the Daily News, New York Post and Daily Mirror. The adult
theater in a rundown, drug-ridden Coney Island, right next to the Greek social
club where my maternal grandfather gambled, fascinated me.
My family then moved to Staten Island. My father grew increasingly aggressive
with no men to boss around. For his own protection, my grandfather was put in a
nursing home, where he eventually passed away. My grandfather's fate scared me.
I resolved to do everything in my power not to age, and film seemed like a
medium that could preserve my youth forever.
When I was about 10 I met a girl in our apartment complex whom I really dug,
Kelly. She was about my age and had blond hair. Sometimes I'd peek through my
peephole when I knew she was in the hallway. We got very friendly. We each had
an urge that we didn't know how to label, and we acted on it whenever we met.
It was overwhelming, sexually exciting, and involved physical pain, which made
me a bit afraid. The vague notion of death was in there, but I didn't know
quite how. Every time we'd see each other she'd up the ante; we were equal,
mutually dependent, trading the role or captor and captive. The fun would start
with her commanding to search for discarded Playboys; I'd hold her ankles as
she dove down garbage chutes. One time she whipped me with her jump role and
ordered me not to move. I had an involuntary orgasm; I just couldn't help it.
When she got rough I associated it with affection and excitement.
Unfortunately, I got skipped ahead in public school and she went to Catholic
school.
By high school I'd been skipped two years. It traumatized me. Any of the normal
peer initiations--hanging out, dating, learning to drive--were ruined by the
age difference. The girls I met in my classes were too old to go out with me.
In college I briefly went out with a well-meaning but neurotic girl my own age.
I wanted to get kinky, but couldn't even undress in front of her. By then I
knew that my proclivity was known as s/m and I felt guilty. I didn't know
whether it was a weird sex drive or mental illness. What I enjoyed about
visiting my girlfriend was when I'd be the only man in the house, the center of
attention for her, her younger sister, and her youngish divorcee mother, a real
Erica Jong type. I wanted them to gang up and get as rough as they wanted on
me.
After splitting with my girlfriend, I became obsessed with hardcore
pornographic movies. I wanted to get the act right. I saw hundreds of sex acts;
there was something educational about people fucking 50 feet high, as if they
were under a magnifying glass. I also read s/m books like The Story of O, so I
no longer felt like a total nut. After I saw enough films, I finally jumped
over the sex hurdle by going to a prostitute. It was an apartment situation, a
phone number from a Screw ad. I didn't want to be with a nervous teen. I never
liked the thought of a girl collecting my cherry, so I collected it myself.
During the day I was ostensibly attending NYU. Then for a year my parents
attempted to groom me into a Wall Street superstar by making me go to night
school while working nine to five. I'd see Kelly on the train going to her
Catholic high school and it would break my heart. She was still enjoying her
teen years and I was forced to be a junior adult with a briefcase. I got angry.
I stopped going to school; I just read the books and passed the tests. It was
New York in the late 1970s. I had just turned 18. There were all sorts of
freaky scenes to explore. Clubs for every persuasion. I participated in gang
bangs, pissed on strangers lying in troughs, fisted masochists in front of
enthralled voyeurs. I punched, kicked, and shoved. There was never a shortage
of willing victims, although more of them were male than female. Manhattan was
a floating Roman orgy, but it was a cold and anonymous party. In two or three
months I got bored. I dabbled in hustling faceless male tricks. I tried to give
myself confidence; I seemed to need a lot of it. My one consistent admirer was
one of my mother's friends, a schoolteacher who would slip me $50 bills when
I'd tell her salacious stories about New York's wild side. She never demanded
any sex. I never offered. But I did get the Midnight Cowboy delusion of getting
kept by an older woman.
I graduated college with a business degree I never wanted, and took a few desk
jobs just to move to Manhattan, but I just couldn't deal with the prison of an
office. The hourglass of my life was always in my face. Apart from that vague
childhood ambition of becoming a movie star, an international sex symbol like
Ursula Andress, I didn't know what to do with my life, but I wanted to feel
free again. I drifted out of the nine-to-five world into acid, quaaludes, and
bar hustling. Eventually I got a job working as a cashier in a big old dirty
movie house on 42nd Street.
Suddenly I found an escape from straight society that also seemed to solve my
financial problems: I'd become a porno star. I was a consenting adult who never
considered the consequences. I didn't think I'd live long enough to see any. I
thought it meant easy money, basking in my own glory and having tons of sex
partners approach me with cash in their hands. I had no patience for talking
girls into things, which made me feel like a cad. I didn't want to hurt
anyone's feelings. I studied the m.o. of stars like George Payne, Jim Cassidy,
and Wade Nichols, steel-eyed men who had gotten their starts marketing
carefully tailored sexual personas to the gay audience. These actors were
icons. They got billing above the women in straight movies and had their faces
in newspaper ads for the gay ones. People threw themselves at them. I couldn't
imagine a better position in life.
A hustler friend told me that the notorious "chicken classic" auteur Toby Ross
was scouting for talent at the Ninth Circle bar. Toby's operating company,
Hornbill Films, specialized in quintessential huge-dicked, boy-next-door types,
slightly retarded and vaguely underaged. Toby's movies, which sold for $100 on
videotape, included Reflections of Youth, Boys of the Slums, and Do Me Evil, a
speed-inspired masterwork about two hustler brothers. Disturbingly, it featured
a five-year-old boy as a clothed extra peeking through a keyhole at two
clean-cut teenaged boys making out and giving each other head. That summed up
the shock, prurience, and casting philosophy of Toby Ross.
I found Toby in the basement of the Ninth Circle. We bonded over acid and
quaaludes, followed by strong candy-store grass. Toby was a great talker, full
of weird stories, and we went back to my apartment and rapped for hours about
mutual acquaintances and sex-industry gossip. A balding man with a vaguely
Austrian accent who spoke seven languages and had a talent for invisibility, he
had spent time in Eastern Europe and Israel, where, he told me, he was a child
prostitute and had witnessed much illegal behavior. I knew that Toby's
endorsement would immediately bring me two flights up on the golden porno
pyramid, above Deuce grunt workers like live-sex-show performers and male
dancers.
Toby took some test shots of me against a drawing table in sun-shadowy natural
light. I loved the way I came out. I was 23, but I looked 13 and my dick seemed
bigger than I had ever seen it before, straining against Fruit of the Loom
boxers. Toby had a fetish for boxers, Fruit of the Looms in particular. He also
shot a masturbation loop of me, and used my test stills on a flyer promoting
his videos. At this point I chose my professional name, Spector in honor of
Phil, Bobby for a vaguely doo-wop feel.
Working at the theater I encountered the actor I had admired so much as a
teenager. George Payne was a drifter of indeterminate age from somewhere out
west who had been looking out for himself since age 14. His cinematic career
began with fucking in hotel room loops, and he progressed to playact everything
from midnight cowboys, a regular guy having a midlife crisis, a bearded
Spartacus, and clean-shaven sadist psychos. He was a man of a thousand faces,
always offering a new angle, a new look, another refracted image. He had the
hands of a man of advanced years, and those hands were known for pushing sex
partners to the limits of euphoric pleasure or agonizing pain. I was sitting in
the box office listening to tinny oldies on WCBS-FM when George popped up
brandishing a $100 bill and demanding change. One of George's movies was
playing inside; not five minutes before I had witnessed him spitting on his own
penis, verbally abusing a girl, and performing rough anal sex on her. I was
surprised to see that George was my height, five-seven, and had slimmed down
from the tiny Atlas look of his early films. I had the eerie feeling I was
looking at myself grown older. I locked eyes with him through the glass as I
buzzed the bookkeeper for approval, and introduced myself, sliding George the
Toby Ross flyer with my photo on it.
Shortly thereafter we got better acquainted while I was managing another Deuce
theater that George was using as a home base. He lived nowhere in particular
and spent most of his time waiting for the pay phone to ring. he told me of
repeated incestuous molestation as a child. His current act wasn't far form
that angry kid trapped in a middle-aged body--spitting, cursing, pinching,
punching, attacking. I couldn't bear the thought of my idol living so close to
the edge, so I invited George to crash with me. This was the business school I
had always wanted to attend.
Right after George moved in, I passed through the initiation rite of all sex
workers: completing a sex act watched by multiple strangers. April, an
Asian-black-Hispanic live-sex-show performer with whom I had shared a mellow
platonic friendship for about six months, showed up at the theater without her
male partner. Besides live shows, April moonlighted as a booth girl and
in-house prostitute. Her brother usually watched her two kids. For a woman on
the chaotic Time Square grind, witnessing a steady parade of flashers each day,
April had remained surprisingly whole--not at all hard-bitten or cold-blooded,
which is the Darwinist road female sex workers who usually forced to take if
they don't want to get killed. But the only empowerment she felt was that she
had survived another day. One show partner had a cocaine jones and would sponge
off her. Ultimately, the story goes, he gave April the twisted knife in the
heart when he molested her children.
I volunteered to do the live show and April was relieved. I was nervous, but I
had six friends in the audience, people who worked at the theater with me.
George sat in the back row. About three dozen oldster regulars were the paying
customers. A white spotlight hit the stage and April did a quick gyrating
strip, spreading her legs in a split beaver. April always did her shows to good
music, and Mtume's "Juicy Fruit" was thumping out of the loudspeakers when I
made my entrance. I was the legendary Cuban Superman, one of those guys who did
shows for touristas in pre-Castro Havana, only I was American. I was where it
was at. The public humiliation gave me a charge. I climbed on top of a dirty
mattress, undressed, and kicked my clothes to the side, out of the audience's
reach so no one could steal them. April and I performed virtually every sexual
act within 15 minutes, and I came on cue. George gave me a standing ovation. By
the end of the night my show had become mythologized in its retelling by my
coworkers. I was in the gang.
George then began trotting me around to various porn directors as "the new
kid." I gave up casual hustling, but I did have a morbid curiosity about
trading on my new persona for cash as an escort. This was a scene George knew
too well. When I inquired, the inscrutable Mr. Payne looked me up and down and
said matter-of-factly, "They'll eat you alive. Like piranhas." He also
mentioned new social diseases like GRID and AIDS, surrounded by myth,
confusion, and no cure.
George and I obtained leads in one of those porn spoofs on a popular Hollywood
title. It was my rent money, two days out of my life. I immediately experienced
a loss of control when we got bused up to Nyack, New York. I had no bread and
no idea how to return to Manhattan. Everything went wrong. I hated the girl. I
had to do a scene with her and the super-competitive Jerry Butler. Jerry had
only spent two years in the business and was already so mad that everyone had
to pay for his misery. He was a regular Brooklyn guy, but he was so high and
upset that he looked constantly on the verge of snapping into a violent rage. I
thought he was going to strangle me with all of us naked on a bed. Another
hassle was my cocaine and Percodan habit. I was still new to drugs and made the
mistake of not taking any Percs during the shoot, which left my mind in a
shambles.
For a long time I had searched for the ideal self-medication. My mother used to
steal my painkillers, supposedly because I didn't know how to use them, and I'd
get back at her by drinking her cough medicine and helping myself to her
Valiums. Pot always clicked with me. Cocaine was everywhere around the Deuce
and in the sex business; it made things glow, intensified them, but I could
never prolong the euphoria. A security guy in the theater sold Percodan, a
narcotic not unlike morphine known for its appeal to personalities like Jerry
Lewis and Courtney Love. Percodans give a sudden manic surge of euphoria and a
sense of sexual excitement, producing an involuntary erection in some men. They
also kill mental anguish. Percodans can give you the courage of a lion, but
your tolerance rises very quickly and the crash is emotionally devastating.
I felt my first big shoot had gone very badly. But George, pragmatist that he
was, told me they really cared about the come shot, and I had come. Women can
fake it. Men must ejaculate or they have no business in the sex business.
George took care of this requirement personally, with baby oil, not asking his
costar for anything. People teased him about it, but it always worked. Most
male actors end up using masturbatory come shots anyway. The fluff girl is a
myth on straight sets--your erection is up to you.
This shot solidified my bond with George. We would start each day with a manic
jolt, sharing an entire Entenmann's chocolate marshmallow cream cake for
breakfast and playing on the telephone like children, pranking enemies in the
sex business. Then we'd make an exhaustive run hitting up directors for work.
We soon wound up in another badly titled Hollywood spoof. On this shoot I took
the Percs, but by the time I was called for my scene 10 hours later, they'd
worn off. Nevertheless, I got the job done.
Soon the stress from my sex-kitten career grew too much for my system. I was an
anorexic, bulimic 105 pounds, with an agonizing manic drive. My Percodan
tolerance was shot to hell; I needed eight pills--$40 worth--to feel something.
So I joined the long line of porn performers who were IV-drug users. The
Molotov cocktail of heroin and cocaine, never pharmaceutically consistent when
purchased off the streets, made me feel calm, collected, distant, eliminating
all my superficial guilt. But the gnawing feeling that I was wasting my life
reemerged. Although I thought the speedballs were preserving my youth, they
were actually embalming me, and no matter what the medication I'd see the
hourglass again. But the rush--the warm feeling from the dope and the
excitement of coke--was better than any orgasm I had experienced with another
human, and I was aware enough to regret it.
The next gig that came our way was with a fat slob, a one-eyed cheesy swing
enthusiast. We were taken by van to a dominatrix's lair on a Latino street just
outside Newark. We were told that the woman we'd be working over was a willing
submissive and were commanded to "lay some real force into her." While to some
personalities this might have been an outlet, George and I were disgusted.
George compensated by making loud whip noises and ogrelike faces out of a bad
B-movie. The dominant woman aiding our assault was pretty bruised--she calmed
her frayed nerves with so many quaaludes that she'd knock into the sharp edges
of furniture in her apartment. During lunch, George and I sat nude, consuming
roast chicken from a local bodega, while the female duo pulled an insistent,
unappetizing swing complete with loud oral-sex slurping noises right next to
our food. We ignored it like loud TV.
Our best job that summer was for the original porno-chic auteur, Gerry Damiano,
director of Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones. We knew we were working
with a legend. Damiano was one of the last directors to make the job as
comfortable as possible. It was 1983 and he was still trying to cultivate a
1970s bacchanal atmosphere. He played to our vanity and flattered us. If you
were working well with the girl, he went for a John Cassavetes effect that
struck the viewer as cinema verite.
Finally I landed my first major lead in a big-budget 35mm production by David
Darby. You got very big after working as a lead for him. As a kid I had seen
the Darby film he made starring porno-chic out-there masochist C.J. Laing, one
of the few actresses who seemed to enjoy getting whipped for real. For a grand
finale she got fistfucked by a ring-wearing "gypsy" lady while deep-throating a
13-inch dick.
I went to Darby's office in the garment center, a mass of cubicles decorated
with posters of his current hits and populated by tough, grim, nasty,
gray-haired men. Darby had his own rather large office and looked like what he
was: a big ex-trucker with a huge gut. His hair was dyed an unconvincing brown
and he sported a sloppy emulation of a Bob Guccione noodle to mask his creeping
baldness. I presented my credentials--the Toby Ross flyer, a few mentions of my
prior roles, and my dick. He asked me to rub it and get it hard. To be blunt,
this horrified me, but it wasn't out of the norm. That's the thing about the
sex business. Acts that would otherwise be unthinkably dehumanizing become a
way of life. So I sat on his couch and got a hard-on. It took little time but
felt scary and suspicious. "Feel comfortable," he said as he eyeballed me. I
had heard about actors in straight movies getting fucked in the ass by openly
gay directors. That I would never have tolerated. But this was getting punked
with eyes. Darby seemed like a deeply closeted and angry guy. Once I was hard,
I stopped, knowing that's all he superficially wanted. I wasn't about to give
him a free come shot. He told me he'd get back to me.
I felt that a sick trick had gotten over on me. George dismissed Darby as a
kook but noted that he did actually make a lot of films. And eventually he did
call me. I went back to his office and he gave me a script in which I was to
portray a dim-witted underage boy who was also a deaf-mute. Maybe I should have
been insulted, but in fact I was relieved I didn't have to memorize any
dialogue.
I had never been to a set without George, but Darby nixed Mr. Payne. The male
umbilical cord had finally been severed. Since I didn't trust Darby, I got a
bit part for April. At least if I was found dead or mutilated maybe she'd
whisper it in someone's ear, and perhaps George would repeat it to other
performers, who'd then know to avoid Darby. They always train you not to go to
the police in the sex business. If I did get killed, what could April do? Show
up at the stationhouse and incriminate herself as a prostitute and accessory to
a crime? This is why no one in the industry can give an honest interview.
Nothing bad can be revealed, and the performer turns into a porch nigger.
Interviews with sex workers are just ads to get more work.
We all showed up in the garment district early Saturday morning and got taken
by van four hours into Suffolk County. The set was an ordinary suburban home.
Since this was a four-day affair, we were stationed in a cheap truckers' motel
nearby. Trapped far from Manhattan yet again, I was subjected during this shoot
to cheap ego-shattering tactics, kept awake all different hours, and fed joints
to keep me off balance. Kentucky Fried Chicken or cheap Chinese takeout were
brought to the set at the director's whim. Darby would thuggishly shout
instructions, then tell me a story about being raped by an older woman as a
little kid, assigning me the task of recreating this experience. There I was
recreating this nutso's fantasy on the same turf where several porno-chic
superstars had gotten busted in the 1970s.
Darby bullied me constantly. He snatched one of my last joints, smoked it in
front of me, pausing as the smoke twirled in front of his swollen slit dark
eyes, repeating, "Bobby, you have to give good acting. But you also have to
give good sex." Every time I'd have to do a scene, he'd stare at my dick and
say, "I wish I was an actor." Fucking an older woman in the pussy and the ass
on a car hood under blaring lights for four hours in the middle of a hot summer
night was no easy task. One of the comic-relief episodes had me beat up, but
for real, by the guy playing my father. He then threw me out of a second-story
window. Also for real. I hated heights anyway, but this was too much. I wanted
Darby dead. Still do.
When the nightmare ended I was back in Manhattan and high out of my mind for
several days. I began to black out. My phone would ring, I'd tall but later I'd
remember none of the conversations. My showbiz illusions were permanently
shattered after a year. The drug use took its course. The speedballs would
provide a glimpse of clarity, helping me realize that the movies were merely
photographed acts of prostitution, but at the same time put a tourniquet on my
emotions. I also began timing my injections so that they'd produce an automatic
come shot the following day if I was going to a shoot. My personal sex life
became nonexistent.
When George Payne got hospitalized for ulcers, my life turned into a shambles.
I was overrun by obnoxious, loser, drug-addicted and alcoholic roommates who
would leech sex, drugs, and sympathy. I became resigned to never finding a
permanent relationship. I didn't want to drag any regular girl into a weird
scene where her boyfriend went out and fucked strangers for money.
Surprisingly, when George got better, he became adamant about "hooking up with
an old lady," as he'd bellow to me whenever he was within earshot of Deirdre,
an assistant to a well-known pornographer who frequently employed all of us.
George particularly enjoyed telling of an aging muscleman ho bamboozled a Miami
Beach oldster into marriage and joyfully received his first facelift as a
wedding gift. Deirdre would lock eyes with George and respond with bemused
curiosity and surprise. George was direct in a greaser, doo-wop way.
I found it a beautiful courtship, and it gave me some hope that I'd find
someone. I knew it worked when I saw George sitting in the projection booth at
the theater wearing an outtasight sheepskin coat Deirdre had bought him. He
wore it like a shawl, like he was growing a second skin. The sadness in his
face was heartbreaking. He just couldn't believe anyone would be that nice to
him. As soon as they held hands, they inspired catty remarks and jealous sexual
speculation.
The more I worked, the more the situations seemed like replays. The directors
always wanted the same scenes: a double penetration with a woman getting fucked
in the ass and the pussy by two guys; three guys getting a blowjob from one
girl; a straight fuck; two girls and a guy. During the sex scenes people would
shout orders like drill sergeants. It's a trained dog act--there's nothing
"sex-positive" about it. The women are your coworkers, and you hope that you
have some kind of rapport so you can get the job done as easily as possible.
Perhaps one out of 20 times you'll hit a groove where you'll actually get
turned on, but mostly you have to invent crazy mental scenarios to achieve the
come shot. The come shot rules your life. It's your existence. You're just
fluid in the universe. Your seeds, never to reproduce, are a means to an end. A
sex magick as has been performed, but the energy released is a negative
current.
After the sex scenes I'd run to the shower at top speed. If I had done an anal
to a woman, I'd vomit immediately. There would be a pileup of women behind me
shouting stuff like "Bobby, please hurry up. I've got three guys' come all over
me. It's cold and it's drying. It's stuck in my hair] Hurry]" Very empowered.
I worked with girls who I learned after the fact were either barely legal or
slightly underage. Sexually, in a different context, this would make me hot.
Very salacious, ordinary, and true--the sweet, fuckable 16-year-old is a prized
trophy in this culture. But the reality on the sets was that these girls were
children, plagued by homelessness, pimps, drug addiction. They were usually
completely freaked out and hard to work with. The most despicable thing I saw
was a mother pimping her "19"-year-old daughter and bringing her 15-year-old
onto the sets to get her used to the atmosphere. On that shoot they all shared
a motel room with the 15-year-old's boyfriend and a little kid. God knows what
happened to the younger ones afterward, but I later saw the "19"-year-old in
magazines catering to pregnancy fetishists.
By 1984 the David Darby movie I starred in had become a huge inner-city and
video hit, and I was flooded with work, generally as a juvenile. Late that
year, Wade Nichols, the porno-chic icon turned soap-opera star, committed
suicide. No one knew for certain whether he was dying of AIDS, whether he'd
lost the soap job when the producers found out about his X-rated past, or both.
Wade, who'd started as an escort, as the guy everybody looked up to for clawing
his way out of the sex-for-sale ghetto. His death sent a shock wave through the
industry. All of a sudden people realized they could contract AIDS in the line
of duty, but that didn't stop filmmakers from demanding even more anal sex.
By 1985, an increasing number of directors had turned to video because of the
huge savings in film development. As theatrical venues closed and home video
boomed, features went directly to videotape anyway. And with home video came
the amateurs, ugly people who had such X-rated star illusions they worked for
well below the going rates. When Josey Duvall arrived on the scene, it was the
beginning of the end. To know Josey was to loathe him. He was an old swinger
who looked no less than 65, wore leather pants, and sniffed coke constantly.
Josey claimed to be from Belgium and to have been a mercenary in Africa for the
French Foreign Legion, but all he had to show for it was a sleazy tattoo of an
anchor. Although he appeared in straight movies, Josey seemed homosexually
inclined as well. Basically, his big charge was a compulsive, exhibitionistic
masochism and impaling actresses on a half-hard dick while screaming, "Ride, me
baby]" After about four hours, the actress would sink into nervous exhaustion
and Josey would be on the brink of a heart attack from priapism. I was
virtually guaranteed stunt cock work every time Josey was cast.
The constant presence of Ron Jeremy, a fat, obnoxious failed Catskills
comedian, was a blight everyone lived with. I've seen girls screaming in pain
as he did anals to them. They didn't yell to stop. They'd just scream. Later,
during the editing, moans and music were cut in. After 10, 15 years in the
business, women get physically banged up--even with no anals--and suffer severe
gynecological troubles. Hysterectomies are the norm, and a few of the
better-off actresses pay for surgery to restore their vaginal elasticity.

No worries, mate
Luke Ford
For Sin in Sinema: www.lukeford.com
For God in the Galut: www.dennisprager.net