FYI:(NerveMag)-Houston 620 article-A Fly on the Wall of a Sex-A-Thon

[Joner1]

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Many pictures of Houston on the set accompany this article
at the web site URL below: (check them out if you care to.)
< http://www.nervemag.com/Ueland/houston/houston.html >
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SOURCE: Nerve Magazine - Leif Ueland
A Fly on the Wall of a Sex-A-Thon
< http://www.nervemag.com/Ueland/houston/houston.html >
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A Fly on the Wall of a Sex-A-Thon

by Leif Ueland      

<Picture>
"I can't believe I'm going to be fucked by five hundred men!"
     There are, presumably, few woman on the planet who are in a position at
this moment to utter those lines. It is Friday night, the eve of the gangbang
that is being promoted to the world as the Houston 500. As luck would have it,
I am among a select group hanging out with the woman who answers to the stage
name Houston. We're on a big bus owned by Metro, the adult video company
producing the gangbang, and we're heading for a dance club on Sunset Boulevard
where Houston is supposed to make her second personal appearance of the night.
     "I can't believe I'm going to be fucked by five hundred men!" she repeats.
<Picture>
     It's not a statement that calls to mind an obvious response. Fortunately,
I don't make the mistake of trying to get her to look on the bright side, say
something like, "Well, look at it this way, at least it's not a thousand!"
Among the very many weird aspects of such an evening, the fact that I am the
one struggling to respond to Houston's statement ranks high on my list. I don't
know a lot about eve-of-gangbang protocol, but my intuition is that she should
be at home, surrounded by friends, or at least her professional handlers —
agent, manager, publicist, gynecologist, someone. Instead, that select group
that I refer to is really just Houston and me.
     So, not knowing what the hell to do in a situation like this, but feeling
that the woman deserves somebody doing something, I try to make myself useful.
When she breaks her last cigarette and looks like she might panic, I run out
and get a fresh pack. When she breaks a fake fingernail and seems intent on
fixing it, I track down some Crazy Glue and do my best to reattach the thing.
When she decides that the outfit she is wearing is not right for the club we
are heading to, I pick out something new and assure her she will feel more
comfortable in it. When she is not breaking things or struggling with
indecision, Houston actually seems to be doing amazingly well, considering, and
I tell her so. We drink cocktails without ice as I try to find a decent radio
station. When a song comes on that Houston likes, she sings along in a
powerful, impressive voice. Occasionally, she begins responding to questions
<Picture> though I don't ask any. She comes from a loving family, is
well-educated, was never molested. She got into the business in her
mid-twenties, instead of eighteen, which she thinks is why she isn't messed up
like so many of her co-workers. And yes, it's very hard to carry on a
relationship, but she would like one, with somebody intelligent.
     Later, we have a drink in the basement of the club. It occurs to Houston
that the last time she was at this place she was on a date. And no, it didn't
go well. She had had a few drinks and ended up doing a series of back flips in
the middle of the bar. Back flips? Yes, and apparently the back flips kind of
freaked her date out. I can't tell if she is serious or not. She is so
nonchalant about the information. Apparently she also does backflips on stage,
when she headlines at strip clubs. Flips? On stage? In heels? Naked?
Absolutely, she tells me. "And what do the guys think?" I ask her. "I don't
think they actually know what to think. They're always a bit in shock." She had
already established that she wasn't what one might expect from a gangbang
participant, but this stuff about the back flips . . .
     Eventually, her publicist and a couple friends show up, so — citing my
responsibility to cover a gangbang in the rapidly approaching morning — I say
good-night. Houston holds out her hand to shake, but I wrap my arms around her
and give her a big hug. I kiss her on the cheek. I can't help it. It's the back
flips. I'm a fan.

"Amateur or Pro?"
     These are the first words I hear a fellow human utter on the morning of
the gangbang. It is eight a.m., so there's a sleepy moment of incomprehension
before I get it and mumble, "Reporter." I drive off to the media parking area,
fighting the urge to yell out the window something about that flight attendant
down in Mazatlan, an effort which I impartially believe must have earned me at
the very least semi-pro status, but the moment is gone.
     After picking up my press credentials, I make my way around to the back of
the studio where the amateurs and pros are lining up. The line at this hour is
about thirty deep. Doctors, lawyers, MBA's and CPA's they are not, though at
first glance they are not as bad as I was fearing, not a string of circus
freaks out for their first sexual experience. Still, at best they have the
down-on-their-luck look of drug informants you see on police detective shows.
Up at the front of the line have clustered a group who somewhat haughtily
inform me of their pro status. They have the self-anointed air of the cool,
like the kids at summer camp who are in their second year and know the ropes.
They consider the amateurs with derision. "Yep, the trailer parks are empty
today," they joke, looking back over their shoulders and chuckling at the
sight.
     I can't help thinking that if these boys are pros, they need a better
union. One of them is wearing the Members Only jacket I donated to Goodwill ten
years ago. Another looks kind of elfin, with white hair and beard, an accent I
took to be gay Transylvanian and a mini toiletry bag, the kind airlines give on
transatlantic flights. He lurches back when anyone tries to touch the bag.
Number One in line is the class clown. He was going to be one of the first five
guys or forget it, joking that any later is too messy: "Can I get a clean-up
<Picture> on aisle five?" He was going to come out at three in the morning, to
be sure he was number one, but then he remembered, "Hey, this is the porn
industry, no one shows up on time." Number One even has prior experience at a
gangbang: "It was all right for the three minutes I fucked her. Easiest money I
ever made."
     Leaving the porn stars to their yucking, I drift back to the amateurs,
whose ranks are steadily growing, and only then do I appreciate how much
personality the "stars" exhibited. Many of the amateurs won't talk to me. I
feel like a parole officer. I ask one guy if he plans on keeping in touch with
Houston after the event and he soberly informs me that he has no illusions
about their relationship. Another guy, in an effort to explain why he is here,
tells the story of how he was on the same freeway offramp with some porn star
twice and it just seemed like such a coincidence, he couldn't pass this up.
Uhhh, what?
     One of the big questions I had obviously hoped to answer by coming here
was, What kind of guy participates in a gangbang? But these guys are too much.
The pros were at least weird guys with senses of humor. The amateurs are that
other breed of weird guy, guys who you can't relate to at all and if you joke
around with too much might cut your throat. Why do I get the feeling they all
hitchhiked over here?
     I retreat to relative safety inside the studio where, true to the form of
any video or film production, the primary activity is waiting, while unseen
people tend to things that are never revealed.
     Except for the set, the studio is dark, cavernous. There is nothing in the
facility that isn't nailed down, as though tenants have a habit of leaving in
the middle of the night. The set itself though actually looks good. Going with
the Houston 500 theme, the production designer has created an auto racing
mechanics shop. It looks like the set they might build for Tim Allen if he ever
switches from home improvement to car repair. There is also a small grandstand,
just big enough for the fans of a very rural high school football team.
     After a lot of milling about — including my own thrill-seeking gesture of
eating from the craft services table — we get a sign that something may soon
happen: the fluffers arrive. Fluffers, for those who don't know, fulfill an
integral roll in the gangbang. Not to give innocent gangbang fans a
there-is-no-Santa-Claus moment, but all five hundred men do not get to have a
complete love-making session with Houston. Neither Houston nor anyone else
could actually survive that. Instead, the fluffers — sportily dressed in white
T-shirts, black leggings and knee pads — are enlisted to help bring the men to
that point where they will hopefully be able to pop during their fleeting
moments with the star. Fluffers: the unsung MVP's of a gangbang. Even more
<Picture> than the participants, I'm dying to know why the hell anyone would be
a fluffer. It's all the work, with none of the glory, nor the money.
     The first fluffer I pull aside begins mildly shaking soon after we begin
speaking. Strangers make her nervous, she explains. At the risk of frightening
her further, I mention that she is about to meet a lot more strangers, and in a
much more intimate fashion. "Oh that," she says, "No, that don't bother me.
It's talking to strangers. I can fuck all day. It's just talking makes me
nervous."
     The next fluffer I interview is equally confused by my questions. She also
seems to consider nothing more natural than spending an eight-hour day blowing
strangers. Not only that, but this fluffer keeps asking me to explain so she
can get it straight. "So, you ask me these questions because you are trying to
understand what I am thinking? Oh my god, that is so weird." The fluffer even
stops a passing Houston 500 participant to tell him about this unusual thing I
am doing. It turns out that the participant, Number Eleven, just happens to be
her husband. That's right. I don't even bother asking them if this isn't a
slightly unusual place to find husband and wife. I don't want them to look at
me funny.
     Number Eleven, as it turns out, strikes me as one of the saner people I
have met this morning. Eleven, who is a pro, is a big strapping guy, dressed in
Adidas pants, who stretches out his hamstrings as we speak. I've never met
anyone who actually throws the javelin, but were I to, this is what he would
look like. He tells the story of his first shoot, some fifteen years ago. A big
production, big-time director, and a scene with two cute actresses. All great,
except nothing happened. He couldn't perform. The director escorted him out the
back door, and it was years before he would try again. Eleven is philosophical
about the dilemma — he says that it can be a struggle, that everybody on set
gets stressed when the lead can't get it up. Then he and another pro standing
nearby get into a discussion of whether a noisy set or a quiet set is better
for performing. The other pro is saying he likes it quiet, something about not
liking to hear laughter, which he worries is directed at him. Eleven
respectfully disagrees. He needs noise, I hear him saying as I walk away, lots
of dirty talk, lots of You-whore-this and You-whore-that.
     Finally, the bulk of the participants have filed in and there is movement
on the set. A man with a megaphone calls all participants to the stage. The man
is none other than porn legend, porn forefather, Ron Jeremy, just as short,
pudgy and homely as he is on video (as he would be the first to inform you: "If
it weren't for porn, I wouldn't get dick, let alone ladies"). Ron quickly goes
over the rules: be a gentleman, no fingers, no sex with the fluffers
(participants all boo), and most importantly, wear those Houston 500/Metro
T-shirts!
     Then Houston steps out on set for her press conference. <Picture>
Photographers, videographers, reporters all surge in before I realize what's
happening. Left without a clean camera shot, I climb up on a cement barricade.
Houston is wearing a bright red jumpsuit tailored to her size-one figure, which
she has unzipped to reveal her over-stuffed breasts. Her bobbed blonde hair has
been enhanced with a long, elaborate wig that was probably used for some
naughty period video about the court of Louis the XIV. And, apparently
realizing her make-up would not stay on, she has opted to put on less than the
usual porn star garishness. All in all, she actually looks very cute and for a
moment I realize that, yes, I would.
     Which is just the moment that Houston sees me standing over the scrum. Her
face brightens into a huge smile and with both hands raised high she gives me a
big "yoo-hoo" wave. The other press briefly look back, wondering who the hell
the guy on the barricade is. And what can I say, Houston is my girl.
     Reporters start in with questions. Houston responds to the one about how
she prepared for the event with a lot of running and a lot of dildos. Some of
the press chuckle. A tall, square-jawed chap who I have the sneaking suspicion
is the proud owner of an Ivy League diploma, manages to miss Houston's
facetious tone and asks her to follow-up on the specifics of her dildo regime.
She looks at him like he is unbalanced. He then comes at her with this
humdinger: "Would you consider yourself a promiscuous person?" Houston smiles
radiantly and rolls her eyes in a way that is both perfectly bemused and
dismissive, the only legitimate response for someone about to fuck five hundred
men.
     I pick a funny time to realize I've never actually in person watched
someone else having sex. The fluffers are standing at the back of the set with
numbers one through fifteen, all chatting away amiably, and we in the press are
carrying on as if we are at an office Christmas party. And then, suddenly, a
<Picture> hush falls over the room. The press all leans forward. The
participants in the bleachers lean forward. One of the fluffers had dropped to
her kneepads and gotten to work. In that instant, a charge seemed to run
through the room, an animal awareness on everyone's part of something both
primal and taboo. It passed. The press moves forward, starts taking notes,
snapping pictures. The video crew moves in for shots. The other fluffers all go
to work, and the participants who don't for the moment have fluffers take
matters into their own hands, self-fluffing as it were, but totally
unconsciously, like seasoned craps shooters shaking the dice. My consciousness
of seeing something I have never witnessed before disappears like a smoke-ring
in the breeze. And then it is time for Houston.
     Naked except for knee-high black boots, she climbs up on her gangbang
throne, a padded Lazy Susan mounted on a stack of used tires. Over the
megaphone, the director calls for the first "dick" to come out. One by one, the
boys assume the position, begin thrusting away, and try their darndest to pop
in the allotted time, which isn't easy. I didn't clock it, but it couldn't have
been more than sixty seconds before the megaphone is back with, "Okay, Dick,
that's enough. Next."
     We watch Houston have sex, repeatedly. At times she cracks jokes, other
times she seems to be getting off on the experience, but most of the time she
just looks like someone at work. In between men, she squirts herself with
copious amounts of lube and makes frequent changes in position, on her back for
one man, on all fours for the next. After every five dicks she gets up and is
toweled off. The only time she shows any temper is when there is a delay in
between men, or when the director forgets to watch the clock. "Okay, that's
enough," Houston growls. One onlooker said of the event, "It's so preposterous,
so over-the-top, that it becomes abstract. I'm sure she wouldn't call it sex."
There's something to this. The lights, the set, the guys in T-shirts and shoes
— part of the reason that it all isn't more weird is that it's so obviously a
media spectacle. It would be more disturbing to walk in on two people at a
party having sex than watching Houston fuck five hundred.
     And yet, her friend, I know, has a hard time watching. And I, as her fan,
am none too thrilled myself.
     I see some reporters making their way around to the back of the set, so I
follow to check it out. A small group, including an enterprising janitor, has
gathered at the set's fake window to watch the scene from behind. The fluffers
are working away, with diligence reminiscent of a crew on a Habitat for
Humanity project. I see Number Eleven in there, the javelin thrower, and can
tell from his face that things aren't going well. Looking south I see the
problem. He's about as hard as a licorice whip, but he has taken matters into
his own hands and is furiously self-fluffing while he paces in tight circles
and takes big cheek-puffing breaths. His furrowed, panicked brow is that of a
husband and father with his livelihood on the line. A fluffer drifts back to
the window to take a breather. I ask her how its going and she jokes that
everything's backwards, meeting the dick and then the man. She asks what I'm up
to and I tell her reporting. She looks suggestively in the direction below my
belt, then looks up, asks whether or not I'm going to give it a try. Not today,
I say. Got to work.
     I'm distracted from this touching exchange by a flurry of movement.
Through the milling Houston 500 T-shirts, I catch the back of a big guy taking
Houston from behind. He is flailing away, a piston gone out of control. I
realize it is Number Eleven. Houston looks crushed under his weight. I remember
what he said about dirty talk, but it seems like he needs even more: dirty
fantasy. This man is acting out taking her against her will. I realize I need
some air and on my way out, a reporter stops me to say that I look like I'm
about to be sick. He's right. I have that over-stimulated, nauseous feeling I
associate with amusement parks. The fresh air slowly brings me back to Earth.
     Coming back into the building, I nearly stumble over one of the pros from
the first group to go at Houston. He has that unreal look of people on the
cover of porn boxes. We in the press were calling him Mr. Nair and making jokes
like, "So, do you think he rents or owns his tanning bed." Then I hear him say
that he wasn't just in the first group, he actually was the first. I
immediately think of the other big talker, the guy who had said he was going to
be Number One. Turns out Mr. Nair bribed him, because he couldn't get it up. I
ask about the bribe, and he is momentarily hesistant to tell me what it cost
him. He's worried about the legal ramifications, but he can't resist.
     "I gave him a Viagra. Yeah, I knew another guy had one who didn't need it,
so I got it from him and gave it to Number One for his spot."
     I return to the set where one of the gangbangers is in mid bang. This
<Picture> character is putting on a show. He's in full control, taking his
time. At one point, he seems to be going for porn slow motion. The guy even
breaks the sacred rule and takes off his Houston 500/Metro Video promotional
T-shirt. And with seconds to spare, he pulls out and theatrically pops on
Houston. Big beaming smile and still relatively erect, the guy is hamming it up
for the encroaching cameras, behaving like a wide-receiver who just brought
down a Hail Mary in the end zone. Except that, aside from black shoes, black
socks, and hiked-down black underwear, he is naked.
     I leave the showboat carrying on, intending to go interview three young
women who recently showed up. They look like they must be in college, maybe in
an actual sorority, and they are making disbelieving squeamish faces. But
before I get to them, I start to recall something. The showboat, I know him, or
he looks familiar. And then I remember. I don't know him, I interviewed him.
He's one of the pros. He is Number One. Or, that is, he was Number One before
he traded his coveted position for Mr. Nair's black market hit of Viagra. Of
course, that explains everything.
     I find myself having strange urges. Not to sound like Mr. Sensitive, but I
honestly consider going out and giving Houston a hug during one of the clean-up
sessions. I just start to feel that after a certain amount of gangbanging, the
champ deserves one. But then I think about the reality of the situation.
Houston is so in the "must-get-record" zone that any sort of reminder of the
outside world might be annoying. She would probably tell me either to
contribute to the tally or move along.
     I think about Glenn Close in The Natural, standing up in left field as a
silent gesture of support to Robert Redford. I climb up on the bleachers, take
my place in the stands, surrounded by T-shirted, pantless men who happen to be
playing with themselves. This isn't the answer either. I'm no Glenn Close.
     And so I decide it is time for this reporter to hit the showers. With only
ninety-eight down, I feel certain that I just don't fit in at the gangbang. I
understand that Houston got herself into this whole thing, that she made the
calculated financial decision to do it and that all I have seen is part of the
bargain. But still, does a gangbang have to be like this?
     Many of the boys who can't pop during their allotted time give up their
position, shuffle around to her side and then finish themselves off. The result
cascades over her torso like paint from Jackson Pollack's brush. But I can't
help thinking that Jackson Pollack had more regard for his inanimate canvas
than the participants do for her. The woman could jump up from the gangbang,
haul off a couple perfect back flips and no one would know to applaud. In fact,
the dicks probably think they should be getting the ovation. It's just too
much.
     The following day, I actually run into Ron Jeremy (a sentence I never
thought I would write). Six hundred and twenty, he tells me. The final tally,
six <Picture> hundred and twenty. She hit five hundred and said keep on going,
finally finishing up at 7:30 at night. And, Ron adds, he was the final pop. Not
only that, but he had the participants all count down from ten and popped on
zero. "I'll tell you," Ron says, "It wasn't easy, after being on my feet all
day." Impressive indeed, but not quite in the same league with fucking six
hundred and twenty men.

©1999 Leif Ueland and Nerve Publishing
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