EYE ON: Work on the wild side
eye WEEKLY
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eye WEEKLY October 10, 1996
Toronto's arts newspaper .....free every Thursday
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EYE ON EYE ON
WORK ON THE WILD SIDE
How I learned to stop worrying and write dirty books
by
JAMIE KASTNER
The glamorous life of the writer wasn't working out. Down to the last
can of sardines, my editors still aren't interested in a complete
survey of places that let you drink for free if you say you're a
reporter. It was starting to look like I'd be spending my last five
bucks on a squeegee and a pail.
Then it hit me -- I'm in the wrong market. They say you should write
what you know, and what I know wasn't selling. And what sells? Sex,
sex, sex, dummy.
Work on the wild side was the solution to my problem, so I immediately
did what any responsible journalist would do -- research, and lots of
it. Aside from potentially life-threatening options (unsavory ones,
anyway, to the would-be bourgeois), there are many hands-clean career
opportunities in the sex trade. Just look at the classified ads in all
from the most national broadsheet to the most parochial tab --
everybody's doin' it.
First up is phone sex. I call my telephone psychic friend Alik, who
says he'll have someone in his office call back with the phone sex
lowdown.
Sure enough, the phone rings. A soft, breathy voice: Suzy. I tell her
it's for a story, to make sure there's no charge.
"I'm 24, I just graduated from York in psychology and sociology. I
started doing the phone sex a couple of months ago, after school
finished. I was talking to a girl who said the money was good, so I
went with her one day to try it.
"There was me and three other girls in the office. There were booths
but the doors were always open, you could hear everything. Our boss
watched us on camera.
"At first I was scared. I even told the guy on the phone it was my
first time. He was patient. And by the end of the first day it was no
problem. Basically you have to talk all soft and sexy, to tell them
what you're doing, start panting and moaning, and moaning and moaning
-- a couple of times I got dizzy.
"It was all in Greek, it was a Greek phone sex line. I was born in
Greece, and grew up here. On the phone we had to pretend we were in
Greece. Guys were calling from Greece, we had to tell them we were in
Athens. Our bosses were always listening in making sure we didn't blow
it.
"There'd be people calling 24 hours a day, and it was a party line,
about 11 guys at a time. so I'd have phone sex with one guy and all
the others would be listening while he jerked off. Then the next guy
would talk. We'd talk for a while and then I'd ask, do you want to
fuck me over the phone?
"I got pretty good at using my imagination. I'd start with things that
had happened to me, like if I had gone to a bar the night before, I'd
say: You're sitting at this bar. There are two women sitting there.
I'm in a tight, short, dress, high heels. I look at you, inhale my
cigarette. I start licking my mouth, We come over to you...
"Some guys were real assholes. They call me all sorts of names, you
slut, you fucking bitch -- and in Greek it sounds even worse. One guy
asked me to put the phone up my -- you know. I didn't know what to do.
I called over Alik, the psychic, in the other room. He took the phone
and made this noise with his cheeks. The guy believed it, he got off.
I taught Alik dirty words in Greek, and he'd moan and scream them into
the phone -- the guys didn't know, they came.
"Finally I had to quit. My parents were getting suspicious. I live at
home. I had been telling them I was doing telemarketing, and they'd
say, 'How was work today?' And I felt awful lying. My parents are very
traditional, religious people. I'm not allowed to have men phone me at
home."
One question: What's the money like?
"Really good. Ten bucks an hour."
Hmmm...
Another newspaper, another ad:
"Turn Good Sex into Great Sex. North-America's No. 1 Love-Making Video
Library." There's a picture of a big-haired blonde straddling a suit.
Pick up the phone, toll free number, guy named Chad promises the $45
will only appear on my mother's Visa as "Maison Bousada."
Maybe this is my sexy new career -- I can start making educational sex
videos, or teach a Learning Annex course.
Volume 1 of the Better Sex series, "Better Sexual Techniques," slides
into the VCR. Soft synthesizer chords, stock music that reeks of
"educational." A smoothed-over Tonawanda twang: "Many adults spend
most of their lives without learning to enjoy the full potential of
their sexuality..."
I meet Dr. Judith Seifer, Clinical Sexologist, and Dr. Michael Kollar,
Certified Sex Therapist.
Cut to: baby blue bedroom. Seifer and Kollar introduce us to Mary and
Robert, a schoolteacher and rock musician, mid-to-late thirties.
Cut to: interview. Mary and Robert admit that the sex in their first
few years of marriage was a total bummer. Then Mary discovered a
Masters and Johnson textbook while preparing for a sex-ed biology
course, and decided to do a little homework...
But first flash back as the couple re-enact their early sexual
failures.
Cut to: Woods outside of town, night. A young Mary and Robert are
crammed into the back of a convertible. As Seifer continues voiceover,
Robert bares his ass, thrusts into Mary in a corner of the car, puts
his jeans back on. Mary is dissatisfied, near tears.
Back in the interview, born again Mary beams, discussing life post-
Masters and Johnson. Robert confesses his sexual sins and praises his
rehabilitation.
Cut to: proof. Mary and Robert back on the baby blue bed in skivvies.
Reformed Robert undresses Mary, turns her sideways on bed, kisses his
way down her belly, a sexual journeyman. Synthesizer bounces a few
happy chords over the climax and denouement. Cut back to doctors
Seifer and Kollar.
Hmmm...
The sexologist's life looks a little dull, and besides, I don't look
good in white. Then I noticed that Playboy's Special Editions and
Playboy TV were here were doing a "Model Talent Search" at a
waterfront nightclub. Why not find out how the professionals do it?
Inside the club's glass-walled VIP lounge are three goateed men with
receding hair, hunks of neck gold, open shirts, sunk in mushroom
chairs, their backs to the lake. They talk loud on cell phones, softly
to each other, whisper in the ear of the odd woman who passes through.
A stream of double vodka sodas is flowing.
The goatees are from Playboy. The big one is David Woodrow, Canadian
co-ordinator. Once from Calgary, he's now leather-tanned with spiked
blond hair -- pure L.A.
The medium goatee is Kevin Kuster, photo production manager with
Playboy Special Issues. He's pallid, with a southern accent toned down
by a decade in Chicago.
The small goatee (even with the aid of patent-leather brothel
creepers) is Eric Mittleman, a producer with Playboy Entertainment
Group, L.A.
"We think there may be some production opportunities in Canada," says
Mittleman with a slight lisp. "We've come to scout for talent,
locations, production resources. I like the look, the feel of the
city." He glances over his shoulder. "There's a very Florida feeling
here. Very southern U.S."
Woodrow and Kuster swish across the club to a dark stage at the far
end. At the edge of the stage is the evening's talent: women of
varying heights but the same shape, with sculpted hair, cartoon
chests, champagne-flute legs, vertigo-inducing heels.
Kuster nods to Woodrow and the first woman is ushered to the table.
She shakes hands, sits and regains her dimensions, which, in even dim
light must add up to more than three.
She has long dark hair, an aggressively tanned face and massive
monuments to collagen barely bound by a tiny tank top.
"Hi there. What's you're name?"
"Sophie."
"How'd you hear about us here today?"
"Well, I was just at the gym and I saw an ad in the paper and..."
"Terrific. Well, I'll tell you what we're here to do. We're on a nine-
city tour to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Playboy's lingerie
issue and we're looking for people for issues that we're going to be
doing at some point in the future. So we're going to ask you, after
this, to step over to our photographer, for a reference shot."
A ponytail guy with dark glasses grins from a barfront studio.
"Do you want me to be nude?"
"No, not at this point. These are strictly for reference, for our
records, that we'll refer to for future castings in Toronto."
Sophie offers her portfolio. There are color Xeroxes -- Sophie in
feather boa, Sophie out of feather boa. Kuster grazes a professional
eye over prints, praises the quality of the photocopy and sends Sophie
to the Polaroid bar.
Woman No. 2 is ushered over, Cind, Shelley, Lisa, Rita...
Every fifth or so interview, Kuster strays from the script.
"Did you come with anyone today?"
"No, just my brother."
Kuster slips her a piece of paper. "I'm gonna ask you not to tell the
other girls about this... "
"I won't, I won't."
"We're having a call-back session tomorrow. And I'd like you to come."
"Really?"
"Yup. Just bring a two-piece bathing suit or a bra and panty and some
high heels and we'll take another Polaroid."
"Do you want nude?"
"We'd prefer it, but you can start with just your top off if you'd
like."
She gets up, glowing, and goes to the bar for the Polaroid. Kuster
whispers: "What was her name again, Shelley?"
"Lisa."
"Lisa, Lisa, right."
Hmmmm...
Wait, maybe I can just write about sex instead of talking about it.
And there it is,a small ad in a respectable publication that says
"Erotic Writing Course." Hey, why not? Writing's what I do for a
living anyway. I dial the toll-free number and the operator identifies
herself. Leigh says it's a 21-part correspondence course, and it'll
cost me only $1,200. The modest $69 downpayment will appear on my
monthly statement only as "Quality of Course" -- Mom'll never know.
A week later, a large, nondescript cardboard package with an Ottawa
return address arrives at the post office. Inside the box there is a
set of training cassettes to "clarify and simplify all the major
issues writers face," a pile of writing market sourcebooks and a Bonus
Hardcover Book called Tart Tales: Elegant Erotic Stories, featuring a
soft-focus jacket shot of our author/erotica expert, Carolyn Banks, in
mink floorduster hat.
The first four instructional units are: Genre and Basic Rules, The
Role Of Fantasy, Your Casting Couch, and Letters -- A Demanding
Market.
The advice I need is all here: start with my own fantasies, don't
waste time on believable characters, have detailed settings, never mix
bondage and lactation, and above all, SELL! SELL! SELL!
Just as I am beginning to feel like some kinda sicko perv, the course
puts it in historical perspective with these lines by John Wilmot,
Earl of Rochester (1647-80):
Her father gave her dildos six/ Her mother made 'em up a score/ But
she loves naught but living pricks/ And swears by God she'll frig no
more.
The spears of morning sun pierce the pillowy summer clouds; I loosen
the blue beach towel shrouding my cold skin, it drops to the dock. The
sun's golden triumph tickles a symphony across my full, cinnamon
breasts. I feel my first cold, lonely country night being washed away.
Suddenly, from behind the point, an engine's rumble. Must be old Dr.
Watson! For some reason, I resist scrambling for the towel.
The hum of his Evinrude grows as the nose of the old fishing boats
jabs into my cove. I feel the wind whisper through my strip of golden
pubic hair. But wait -- that's not Dr. Watson...
My erotic writing course has taught me all sorts of things. In Unit 2,
"The Role of Fantasy," I learned that "Every major character is
attractive... and is also incredibly horny. Those characters are
gymnasts, and virtually insatiable. No one ever tries a new sexual
activity and decides, 'never again.' It's always fun. Virgins, fresh
from the convents, see their first penises, and are immediately
enchanted by them. People who have been frigid all of their lives find
themselves being buggered, and instantly turn into anal-fixated
erotomaniacs."
Peter Darvill-Evans, an "Erotica Editor," puts it a little more
forcefully: "We produce books aimed at the one-handed reader."
The money looks promising, too. "If you write an erotic novel... Your
advance may well be less than for a longish short story -- about
$1,000, but you can expect royalties of between 7 1/2 per cent and 10
per cent, perhaps for the rest of your life, and even beyond -- your
estate will usually have rights to your work for 50 years after you
die."
Hmmmm... working for myself, and future generations taken care of.
Now that's progress...
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