make men jerk off. To find out how, stroll down to your favorite
smut shop. Between the dildo displays and blowup doll reside the
magazines. Peruse the periodicals and select a copy of, say, Jugs.
The pictures of sprawling women and fat nipples are nice, arent
they? But what about the words, the one-liners on every page?
Someones got to write the words. And that someone is me.
name is Josh and Im a short, hairy, mildly unattractive
23-year-old writer at a porn publishing company. I graduated from
college a little over a year ago. With a journalism degree and
a dream to work for a magazine in hand, I left the Midwest for
New York City, the pulmonary artery of the publishing world.
figured, one glance at my resume, featuring experience as a copyeditor
at a small daily newspaper, where I devised hard-hitting headlines
such as 100-Year-Old Still Flying Friendly Skies and Wheres
the Beef? Back on Americas Dinner Table would score me a
position at Time or Rolling Stone.
idealism is a grand thing. After three months of fruitless searching
and recitations of "you need more experience," my dreams
vamoosed and I cursed the cursed job market. Visions of me, a
piece of cardboard tied with a grubby shoelace around my neck,
WILL COPYEDIT FOR FOOD scrawled in grammatically correct manuscript,
tangoed through my mind. So to score the dough to buy beer and
numb the failure, I took zombifying temp jobs, working as secretary
in myriad Fortune 500 firms. Then, I got a phone call.
friend informed me that I could star at the same porn publishing
company employing her as a proofreader. Weighing my morals and
her assurance that editing sex was funny, I leapt at the opportunity.
After a brief interview, the gist of which was:
can you start?"
see you then."
find myself writing this to you.
at my desk, I soak in the scenery: two aging editors in need of
caffeine and a vacant secretary are the only decorations. The
bare officewhich could double for an accountants cubicleis
bereft of any photos or family memorabilia. No one wants to admit
they work here. The only picture in sight is that of an 18-year-old
blonde pinching her nipples and licking her lips. Im trying
to write a catch phrase along the lines of, "My tiny pussy
is hungry for cock!"
diminutive company employs eight people, but goes under two names.
They are Worldwide Publications, which traffics in magazines,
and Valley Publishing. The latter division concerns itself with
digests, diminutive newsprint tomes filled with grainy images
of women drinking sperm while being anally violated and men with
penises the size of small domesticated animals.
me, it does a number on the mind.
Publishers has a roster of 23 chapbooks, making my company the
largest purveyor of filthy stories in this U S of porn lovin
A. Books range from Horny Housewives, which explores faithless
spouses engaging in numerous trysts with every available male,
from delivery men with, of course, foot-long dicks to neighbor
boys who just wanted to borrow a cup of sugar, but, "oh yes,
Ms. Johnson, your breasts are gorgeous and you can rip my virginity
from me like the tag from a new shirt," to the most dubious
of titles, Family Touch, concerning itself with moms and dads
and uncleskinky kinfolkwho thrust into and suck off
relatives in such a nonchalant manner youd think incest
is a taboo whose lawlessness has expired. Now, before I trudge
further, the family business merits further exploration.
tawdry title, one of eight like-minded books (Family Fantasy,
Family Touch, Homestyle Affairs, Best of Family Secrets, Best
of Family Taboos, and Best of Family Touch) my company purveys,
are our biggest sellers. Countrywide, and not just in confederate-sympathizing
states, incest is flying off bookshelves and into bedrooms of
individuals whose hands caress members and diddle crotches whilst
dreaming about poking Aunt Ritas tush and riding Uncle Charlie
like a pogo stick.
every family reunion and grandmotherly hug a bit dirtier, doesnt
"real reader," who describes his or her improbable sexual
conquest in lurid detail, sends in each story and letter. Of course
theres no readerjust me, a newly minted 23-year-old
whos been laid but thrice in his non-sexually advantageous
life playing porn lord as I edit, chop, and paste Valley Publishings
stupefying cache of porn from the 70s. But just because I dont
do the humpty dance doesnt mean I cant edit the literary
I dont log much time between the sheets, I have a vivid
imagination and a merit badge in jerking off. As a teen, I registered
considerable hours watching Skinemax and HBOs Real Sex series.
Besides, I had a six-year stint when I walked around with a raging
hard-on, stealing copies of Hustler and Playboy to quiet the throb.
My lack of getting laid is my fault. By dint of shyness and an
inability to let someone touch my peepee unless alcohol has greased
my senses, Im a sexual hermit.
who needs to make the beast with two backs while employed in porn?
Especially when Valley Publishing owns that mind-boggling hoard
of primo stroke-off material, all written when Nixon, Carter,
and the forgettable Ford were commanders-in-chief.
in disco and bellbottoms heyday, a nation not yet plagued
by AIDS was enamored with the ol in-out. Free nookie spilled
into the mainstream and that, combined with the Pill and the All-American
fun of an orgasm, caused mericans to fuck. Following my
convoluted sense, it follows that if a country is fucking, then
the writers are gonna be scribbling about sex. (Poke holes in
this logic later over coffee. This piecell read better if
you dont stop to think all that much.) So an army of faceless,
and possibly sexless, authors set to filling their coffers with
tales of frenzied passion.
for the writers, the porn business, though hungry for a good hump
story, didnt shell out the dead presidents. Writers were
paid pennies per word and, by doing the math for a 2,000 word
story: (2000x$.01=$20) youll see they werent getting
diddly. But the scribes were crafty. The tales were penned hastily
with superfluous words padding both the action and wallets.
is the verbose situation remedied? Send me to the rescue!
a story rambles, like the repair man arriving and actually checking
out the washing machine before the housewife spins his cycle,
I sic my red pen on the prose and hack away at extraneous words,
leaving it lean and mean.
can call it sex.
if the screwing isnt what its cracked up to be, I,
using my boyhood Skinemax imagination, ratchet up the raunchiness.
Here are a few of my favorites.
son likes eating my pussy better than my homemade apple pie."
drank enough cum last night to feed Luxemburg for a week."
can gum your pecker like your grandpa liked it, Timmy."
love riding dads divorced dick."
take pleasure in making readers cringe, as only gutter level rates
a reaction from me.
aside, heres where the second problem slides in. Like I
mentioned before, lava lamps were hot shit when Valley Publishings
yarns were spun, meaning another of my duties involves taking
the antiquated stories and bringing the shenanigans into the 21st
century: land of computers, DVD, and CD players.
another example of something I fixed.
read a telegram from my friend, John, and he was having a rough
time of it, so I immediately drove down to the Western Union to
send him a message telling him Id visit him that weekend."
this technologically revolutionized era, telegrams are archaic
and only used in period movies with the budget to recreate a jaunt
to a historically accurate Western Union. When I get my hands
on the copy, telegrams metamorphoses into e-mail, thereby crushing
the anachronism and saving the historically inaccurate day. Even
with anachronisms safely vanquished, the job still turns into
a rancid pretzel, twisted, not tasty.
second part of my company, Worldwide Publications, could publish
anythingSAT study guides, sci-fi novels, Cajun cookbooks.
And though Id like to edit something that my mom could proudly
show her friends, like Antiques Today, my company only knows one
thing and knows it well. I dip my finger in two pornographic magazines,
Cuddles and Hot Chocolate.
Cuddles is for enthusiasts of 18-year-old white girls, Hot Chocolate
isnt for Sarah, your Hershey-loving auntie. Its for
aficionados of skanky, ebony queens looking like tires on their
third retread. The magazine does very well in the Netherlands.
And me, the whiteywhite white boy writes copy for the pictorials,
looking at images of women named Desire with bananas shoved up
their coochies and writing, "Since my hungry chocolate cunt
couldnt have your cock for dinner, I had this banana."
hope it never gets out that this unattractive man who doesnt
get any is the voice of Shaniqua, a woman saying, "Make me
beg like the bitch I am." If the truth slid out to the readership
(all 10,000 of em), the illusion that Shaniqua really likes
taking it up the butt would burst, leaving a lot of lonely men
pretending to be naked black women, I also write video reviews.
Bootylicious Proper Hos is just one title Ive criticized
in a tantalizing way that still makes you want to rent the flick.
I usually scan the box cover and make up some balderdash about
how I didnt stop jacking off from the first scene to the
last. Its hard to be objective considering every porno is
inherently bad. When the actresses "act," you realize
theres a reason theyre not gracing Hollywoods
celluloid reels and why their orifices are crammed with cock.
most readers are not so concerned with words as images of cunts
and asses, which they use as fodder while they ejaculate into
a Fifi rag, the homemade, MacGyver-esque approximation of a vagina.
Thank you, prison.
incarcerated often espouse their love for Hot Chocolate in detailed
letters requesting the addresses of the models, which are filed
in the dumpster. Im all for prisoners reaching out and touching
someone, but Id rather like it if their missives remained
in the penal system. Ha! Penal system.
oh where, has my little sense of humor gone? You know, when I
first signed up for my porn tour of duty, my friend assured me
it would be funny, a regular dose of laughing gas without the
gas. Somedays its a laugh-in, but more and more its
I tell people I traffic in pornography, they immediately conjure
up images of disrobed porn stars cavorting through the office,
providing complimentary blowjobs on coffee breaks. There are no
XXX stars. This isnt a glamorous jobs. I hardly masturbate
Ive mentioned, porn does a number on my mind. Ive
never been the most affectionate kid, preferring a soul-affirming
high-five to a hug. Over the years, though, Ive progressed
to firm handshakes and chest bumps. As Bill Murray says in What
About Bob?, "Baby steps...baby steps...Im taking baby
bad all those years of self-taught intimacy are erased daily by
the sheer number of cocks and cunts I edit. Each time a stud impales
a woman on his surging 10-incher, causing her to groan with eternal
pleasure, a dab of my intimacy dies. When women are objectified
as cum receptacles, and Im the one making them so, I grow
a little disturbed, nay numb.
the end of a day at the porn factory, the last thing I want to
do is think of a woman in any way but platonic. Its like
a coal miner coming home from a long, dangerous day excavating
coal, and his wife wants him to head out to the family claim to
knock out a few nuggets to heat the stove. Yeah. Just like that.
Walking around after work I see thousands of girls providing glimpses
of flesh-scooped necklines, miniskirts, midriff-baring shirtsand
my pulse rates a resting rate. Going home and watching TV snow
is preferable to anything that might make me orgasm. I dont
get stiff until Sunday night. Pretty sad for a guy who at one
time would get a hard-on watching womens golf.
this train of thought leads somewhere not-so interesting, namely
Joshs land o love. Its not a voyeurs wet
dream. Under the covers, I lose sexual urges within minutes and
just go through motions I once practiced. Recently, a girl who
seduced me with her charms and gin and tonics had the misfortune
of bringing me back to her apartment.
were in bed, kissing and rubbing and doing things that are supposed
to feel so good, when I was struck by the thought that eating
her out would be a good idea. Down I went, licking and nibbling,
her moaning, when I started thinking about how a character in
one of my stories would accomplish this act.
be "chowing down on her muff like he hadnt eaten for
months, sucking on her clit like a miniature popsicle as her juices
cascaded down his chin."
about that while performing a sumpin on her thing, I lost
it. Id freely associated my lapping with the story, with
incest, and the girl had black hair, like my mom, so you can see
where this run-on goes. Still, I performed my duty until my hair
was grabbed and my head yanked from her spit-soaked crotch. Then
she blew me and I fell asleep, feeling like a dirty, dirty boy.