CHAPTER 3 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.
Between April and May of 2011, I paid for 15 hookers. Seven blondes. Four brunettes. Three black. One gray. But I only fucked twelve of them because I passed out three times.
Over the course of those two months, I went to Vegas four times. I had three visits to the Kaiser ER for detox. But most of the time I holed away in my penthouse, drinking and buying hookers.
When I wasn’t fucking hookers, I was buying shit. House stuff. Mainly because I was bored, and I snagged a few of my mother’s catalogues when I was home in San Jose, one weekend. At this period of my life, I would describe my design style as a mix between the black and silver of American Psycho and fun of Big. Some of my purchases included:
- A pillow-top sectional and ottoman sofa from the Valentino Collection
- A Sony XBR 65 inch LED-backlit LCD TV
- An AICO Tuscano Bar in biscotti
- A basketball pop-a-shot game
- A Ms. PacMan arcade cabinet
- A 1982 Dr. Dude pinball machine
All this stuff is long gone, and I got only a fraction of the money I’d shelled out for. The only thing I still have from that spree is a fake Bree Olson rubber butt, and some vibrating nipple clamp sex toy. Apparently pawn shops don’t buy nipple clamps.
One day near the end of May 2011, I was perusing the merchandise at a high-end designer furniture and rug store, drinking Macallan 18 from a Tangerine Rain Gatorade bottle. I was in need of a rug. Passing out on 100-year-old tile floors was hurting my back.
And then I saw the 6′ X 9′ beauty: a Couristan Royal Luxury Brentwood Bordeaux Rug. It was a thing of beauty.
Later that night, lying naked and clutching a bottle on the rug, my mind began to daydream about the things I would do on the rug. Like I could watch a Lakers game while getting a blowjob from Aletta Ocean. I could play Scrabble with Bobbi Starr, and we could both have butt plugs in. I could eat Chinese food and watch a bad Kate Hudson movie with Juelz Ventura.
I came on the rug. Then I puked on it. It felt like a low point in my run. I passed out on the Couristan.
Most people, when they hit a low point, usually try to bounce back up and straighten themselves out. I had no such intentions. I was at a low point of excitement. I felt empty. I needed something. Something more longterm than fifteen hookers. Something tangible. Someone consistent. I needed a lover. I needed a pornstar girlfriend.
If you don’t know, it’s really fucking hard to date a pornstar. And not for the reasons you think. I never had a problem with dating a pornstar who took dicks up the ass on a daily basis. I never had a problem with a pornstar’s drug use — I actually preferred the drama.
What I mean by it’s really hard to date a pornstar is: It’s just really hard to get a pornstar. I tried all the tricks in the books. I offered money, expensive vacations. I said I was a writer for Family Guy.
But money and vacations don’t really matter to the biggest names in porn. They already have them (and the men they get with are usually better looking and pack bigger dicks than me).
So after many failed attempts to hook myself a pornstar girlfriend, I decided on a different approach: Finding a fading pornstar.
There’s no job that screams of desperation more than a pornstar on the backside of her career. I wanted someone who masturbators didn’t know if she retired or died. This opened up a lot of doors until I landed on one: Maggie May. (Note: This is not her stage nor real name, but this the name I’d choose for my daughter if she went into the profession).
Maggie was once a promising porn model. She’s about 5’5”, she’s got perky tits, a luscious pear bottom. Teen cheerleader type. You’ve seen her in everything from straight vaginal intercourse to gokkun. And her success — no matter how brief — was due to the line she blurred between acting innocent and being downright filthy.
I was attracted to this. To the girl who could play both good and evil. I could see myself having a relationship with Maggie May.
It’s tragically easy to find out pornstar’s contact information. Ninety percent of pornstars moonlight as escorts, meaning their contact info, email and rates are out there and can be obtained with a few smart, simple Google searches.
I found Maggie May easily, which meant her career was more in the dumps than I’d thought. Which meant, hopefully, that she was desperate, and open to something new, like dating me. We emailed a few times, hopped on the phone, and set a date in early June to ‘hang out’ in my apartment.
There’s no job that screams of desperation more than a pornstar on the backside of her career.
I paid for her the first time. I’ll call it our first date, and it’s fair to say I was loving Maggie May from the start: She was vibrant, young and had big plans to make money. I could relate to her delusional naivete.
We fooled around a bit, talked and got fucked up. She poured Scotch down my throat. Her drug of choice was heroin. Smoking it. Something I’d never done, or planned on doing.
At this point, I’d known Maggie May for two hours and 35 minutes. I’d probably racked up more time masturbating to her than talking to her. But the clock was ticking and she was leaving after three hours. So I went for it.
I told her to be my girlfriend for a trial period of two weeks. I promised lavish spending.
She took a hit of heroin. And another. ”Sure. Why not,” she said.
The exact response I was looking for. We stayed up and watched a porn she’d starred in. She explained things I couldn’t see like some ditzy blonde sex scholar. I sucked on her tit until I passed out. We slept on the rug.
The first week of our relationship, Maggie and me basically spent it like Sid and Nancy. Two junkies. Spending money. Fucking. Eating. Using. We partied at a few clubs. We ate at the finest places downtown had to offer.
We stayed up and watched a porn she’d starred in. She explained things I couldn’t see like some ditzy blonde sex scholar.
Every day we’d wake, use, and have coffee. As if it was semi-normal, domestic lifestyle just with heroin and Scotch sprinkled in. From the outside, we seemed like a normal enough couple. Fighting. Making up. Arm in arm. I bought her things. We watched bad movies. She let me live in her ass. And we’d walk around the city all strung out. Maggie would come right back to my penthouse after a porn shoot, like it was her own place. I hadn’t felt so normal in a long time.
She let me live in her ass.
Week one was coming to a close and I decided to get courtside seats for a Lakers game. We were getting ready for the game in my apartment. In Maggie’s opinion, the best looking black man in the NBA, Dwight Howard was “going to be at the game” (playing in) and she wanted to make a good impression. So she did her makeup like pornstars do — caking it on. If there’s one thing I learned from dating a pornstar, it’s don’t mess with them when they’re putting on makeup. After she douched (something I really appreciate), we grabbed a limo to the game, only 10 minutes walking distance from my apartment.
But she’d smoked way too much heroin for anyone about to watch a basketball game, for anyone about to sit courtside. As we were waiting in line to get in, Maggie noticed they were checking bags. She started freaking out. I asked her why.
“I have my pipe in my bag,” she said.
“Throw it out.”
“No! It’s my lucky pipe!”
Someone having a lucky pipe should’ve been a clear sign for me to get the hell out of the situation. But there’s something addictive about drama and the dilemma of trying to get into a Lakers game with a pornstar girlfriend who carries a heroin pipe around…. turned me on a bit.
“Look. Throw it out. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You can’t just throw out a lucky pipe. It’s…lucky.”
“Not even for Dwight?”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I’m just gonna shove the pipe up my pussy.”
If the lucky pipe wasn’t a sign, this was clearly one. But it turned me on. I told her to not shove a heroin pipe up her pussy, if not for her own health, for mine because “I do like burying my face all up in there,” I said.
Maggie got so pissed at me. Stomped around. We yelled. Argued. I chased her down. She got in a cab and left. I went to the game by myself, had two beers and left at halftime.
“Don’t worry. I’m just gonna shove the pipe up my pussy.”
Maybe one week is all you need. But she’d promised me two. So I called her up the next day. I apologized for the incident and quipped, “We should’ve just shoved the pipe up my ass.” I told her I made reservations for a week at Oprah’s favorite hotel: The Bacara.
I still drove my piece of shit Saturn, so I rented a Porsche for the week and we drove up there. Maggie gave me a handjob on the way, and I came out the open window. To this day, I still consider that my best comeshot.
We arrived at the Bacara and the place is absolutely stunning. With its Spanish-style design, the Bacara has 3 restaurants and 4 bars all on the resort’s 78 acres beachfront. We had a huge suite with a balcony patio that overlooked both the ocean and the pool. We dropped our bags, put on our suits and took our champagne and heroin pipe down to the pool.
For the first three days, everything was nice. We seemed fresh, which is an important thing for two junkies to feel. All hell can break loose when junkies get worn down. We swam in the pool a lot. Had food delivered to us whenever we felt like it. We fucked on the sand and in the ocean and every time she begged me to come on her face — another endearing trait in a pornstar. We were having a relaxing, sex-filled fun time like any other couple on some honeymoon vacation.
All that changed on the fourth night.
Maggie wanted me to smoke heroin. She wanted me to hang out in her world. She even chugged a full glass of Scotch to be in mine. It was that gesture that made me want to try –a woman drinking Scotch is probably the sexiest thing in the world.
So I tried heroin — I smoked for about an hour. It felt great. And she felt great. Maggie’s lips seemed to be non-human form. Her tits felt like there were seven of them. As I smoked and smoked, I felt like a piece of dingleberry, floating along from one sexy ass to the next with no care. She must’ve blown me three times that night, but I wouldn’t have known. I was off thinking of shapes and clouds and anamorphic figures that could only be thought of by fucking up brain synapses.
The next day, I was a zombie. The ghost of Merv Griffin. Maggie wanted me to smoke more. But Scotch was my only nurse — I’m a boozehound at heart, not a huge fan of pills or other substances.
But the booze wasn’t helping. I was out of it. I would spend hours at a time staring into space only to be snapped out of it by Maggie slapping my face. Middle of the way through the 5th day, she had a huge fit and told me this “trial membership” was over (as if it was a porn site I’d signed up for). I was in no mood or had any energy or will to argue. The trial was over. It was over before it had started. I booked her a flight from Santa Barbara to LA.
Maggie May and I lasted one week and four and half days. It felt like three years. I spent the remaining two days holed up in my suite writing, drinking but mainly staring blankly as Bill Callahan played in the background. On checkout morning, I signed for the six grand bill while the front desk man had a grin from ear to ear.
I wouldn’t say this is the last attempt for me in terms of dating a pornstar. Lord knows I’d give it another shot if the chance arose. But this would be the last time I would ever be in a relationship with a girl I only knew for two hours and 35 minutes. It applies across the entire board, not just to pornstars.
I drove back down to LA. I couldn’t stop thinking about how her pussy tasted like she shoved a heroin pipe up herself on a regular basis.
I have to admit… it turned me on.
Les Baxter — “Quiet Village”
Chapter 4: Bocas Del Toro Should’ve Killed Me