Blowing My Wad — Part 10: Porn Try-outs

PART 10 OF ANDY SWEAT’S EPIC ADVENTURE OF PLOWING THROUGH CASH AND ASS. GET THE BACK STORY HERE.

This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. Since then, I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now. This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.

LATE NOVEMBER 2011, the money was running dry. My apartment became a bomb shelter with all the necessities: Cases of booze, the Internet and a working TV set. I’d sold all the fine furniture, the pinball machines and the car. I had a mattress, some blankets and my bar counter. My vices alternated between Marlboro Red and Copenhagen, Scotch and wine, petite and voluptuous, air and starvation.

My anxiety was high, yet I wasn’t panicking. Strangely, I had a sense of optimism like I knew something no one else in the world did. This was a lie, but I’d convinced myself otherwise. I had to or else what the hell was the point to keep on living?

I’ve been writing furiously, most of it not making much sense, always distracted by the bottle’s curves. I was about two months late on my rent and no money coming in sight. I’d had some promising Hollywood leads, but the pitch meetings ended up going nowhere. I’d barricaded the door with bricks I found in the alley in case the police came to evict me. But, through ALL OF THIS, I kept being optimistic.

Booze has a funny way of making me delusional that way.

I wrote a plan on my wall: Establish a career or die by 30. I felt good with that. So, filled with boozy optimism, I kept sending my writing out even if I felt like Hank Chinaski at the mailbox, destined for his writing to make it to the landfill along with my empty bottles of Balvenie.

But I needed money now to stop the eviction. I had been chipping away at it with the few dollars I still had left. I also had been doing a bunch of odd jobs to make up some of the rent. I donated sperm, plasma and bone marrow a few times. If only I was a woman, I would donate my eggs in a heartbeat. I’ve done a few psych experiments at UCLA, one that involved a lot of electrode strings all over my body. I tried telemarketing, but my drunk outbursts and screaming to a woman that the “Titanic would’ve been saved by global warming” on the phone was not the smartest sales tactic. You start thinking you’re smarter then the smugglers in “Locked Up Abroad” and you would never body pack.

But I didn’t have a drug smuggling situation (or at least not yet) and time was running out.

I needed a little over $500 in two days. I had a last resort option before killing myself or getting a barista job.

CALLING BILLY BLANXXX

I didn’t want to call this guy, Billy Blanxxx. Not because Blanxxx was a bad guy or anything, but because I didn’t want to go down this road. But I had no choice. I gave Billy a call and he said he had a couple shoots I could do.

Specifically, a participant in a couple bukkake shoots. Of course. It couldn’t be a romantic one-on-one softcore porn shoot. It had to be with 5 to 25 sweaty men all shoving their dicks in any orifice they could find and painting the ground with sack fluids. It’s one thing to enjoy watching porn, yet to engage in it is a completely different beast. People watching you, filming you, hot set lights, stops, starts… and, in this case, being around 25 cocks and potential cumshots flying all over the place.

These are the moments where I actually wonder if I should’ve just stayed in the Bay Area, taken over the family business and lived a regular fucking life just like any other Joe. But, for me, that would be quitting. There’s no way I was gonna throw in the towel and head home. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep this pipe dream of doing something in Hollywood alive. Even if it meant being surrounded by dicks.

The bukkake shoot was a few blocks down from me. For some reason, when I arrived to the warehouse, I expected to be greeted like some leading actor star. Instead, I was put in line against a wall, herded like horny sheep.

“Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t say anything,” one of the worker people (I’m not even sure what his job title was) told me.

“What if I need to use the bathroom?”

“Come on, man. You’re at a bukkake shoot. Pee yourself.”

All the other various shaped white men in line eyed me with such disdain for the amateur I was. I felt like it was high school or the only white guy in a Guatemalan jail. I was nervous.

I gave a guy a friendly nod. He looked at me like I was some freak. I noticed a bald dude had a headband on with little silver cock patches sewed on it. This was equivalent to the Ohio St. Buckeye Leaf sticker rewarding players for doing well on the field. I was told that this guy stitches on silver cock patches for every bukkake he participates in. I counted 18 and that was 3/4ths of the headband I could see.

“Let me see your dick,” the Director of Photography shouted at me.

“What?”

“Your cock, man. Let me see it.”

All eyes on me… I slowly unzipped my pants. The DP had no time to wait, so he quickly unzipped them for me, pulled down my pants and rolled his eyes.

“Number 18. Nice face. Average to sub-par dick.”

His assistant made a note on a piece of paper under #18 which was essentially my “name” for this movie. He went to the next guy to examine his cock.

“Perfect. Come with me.”

All the other men in line groaned as the DP and the “Cock Stud” walked away together. Being picked first I learned that this “Cock Stud” was the first dude to enter the vagina, her asshole and pop on the pornstar’s face, which was some sort of prized position.

Next thing I know, we’re all escorted into the warehouse.

“Stand in a circle and get naked.”

Everyone stood in a circle. Dropped their pants. Ripped basketball tear-aways with nothing underneath. These guys were prepared pros. Except me. I took my socks off first. Left one. Right one. Undid my watch. Set it down. Took off my sweatshirt. Then shirt. Everyone was watching how slowly I was moving. A sea of dongs stared at me. My heart started pounding. What the hell was I doing here?

I felt like I had hit rock bottom willing to do anything to survive and for money. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the porn industry, but this place wasn’t for me. I had romantic ideas about my life. Part of the good and loving man wasn’t all forgotten in this mess. I started to sweat like mad. Everything getting dizzy and distorted. All the dicks had five dicks sprouting from them. Then multiplying into humongous 80 dick circus freaks. The bald guy with the headband now seem to have 120 silver cock patches. Heavy breathing turned into panic. I could hear “Once in a Lifetime” playing in my mind. So….

I ran out of there. Shirtless. Barefoot. Down the downtown streets and alleys. Past tall buildings and homeless people. Business men and buses. Sweating and running like my life depended on it. Where was I running to? Back to my apartment? Where booze and lust and lack of love has led me to this moment? This moment of panic? This moment of self-hatred?

”A sea of dongs stared at me. My heart started pounding. What the hell was I doing here?”

I made it back to my apartment and sat in my shower. I didn’t leave that tub for 5 hours. I noticed the bricks barricading the door. Cracks in them. All of them. I decided I needed to do something different with the way I was living. I didn’t want to end up in the middle of that bukkake. I didn’t want to end up killing myself. I cleaned myself up, swore off the booze for a while. I talked to the landlord and she agreed to give me more time. I worked out, ate better, and went for sober walks. A week later, I sold something and had the money to pay the rent. I removed the brick barricade, bought a couch, and started drinking coffee in the morning instead of Scotch.

Playing the Hollywood game is like Russian roulette. There’s no pension or hazard pay for this industry. You hope to hit it big. But most likely it never happens. Or you’ll never be satisfied with whatever little success you had. It’s a place like no other. It’s essentially hell. Buy the ticket. Take the ride. Everyone has a story to tell. It’s why I’m in Hollywood. I don’t want a regular job or a boring life no matter how much fire I have to walk on.

Tom Waits “Heartattack and Vine”

 

Related on The Smoking Jacket:
Blowing My Wad Part 1: How I Got Hit By a Dodge Minivan and Pissed 500K on Booze,
Whores, and Designer Furniture 

Blowing My Wad Part 2: Chicago Whores 
Blowing My Wad Part 3: 2 Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May 
Blowing My Wad Part 4: Muerto in Bocas Del Toro 
Blowing My Wad Part 5: The Wonder Years 
Blowing My Wad Part 6: Shemales 
Blowing My Wad Part 7: Baby Mama Concierge in Cathedral City
Blowing My Wad Part 8: Hollywood Munch Party
Blowing My Wad Part 9: Edie Sedgwick Locked Me in Her Country Basement

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