I forget her name, but she is a true to form, cold-as-ice professional; that is, she’s on the clock. She isn’t here for the sex, only the paycheck.
She doesn’t want to me to kiss her. She doesn’t want me to touch her hair. She doesn’t want to touch me if I am not already hard, and especially not until cameras are rolling. She requests to not have to suck my dick after it is to be inserted inside of her, and to make matters even worse, my co-star is on her period, so the industry standard method of shoving a makeup sponge deep within the vaginal cavity in an effort to—um—plug the hole, has rendered her completely dry.
My co-star’s disdain for everyone around her—particularly myself—is beyond palpable, and that tension leaves me hopeless. I endeavor to hold a conversation with this woman—forget getting a hard-on; she is incongruous with what makes me vascular, with what transforms me into a throbbing he-man, leaving me limp and about as firm as a wet noodle.
Everyone’s attitude changes the moment wood troubles begin on set. The director tries to remain calm and sympathetic, but I can read between the lines; I can see the look of disappointment on his face.
I sequester myself in the bathroom.
"Just give me a minute!” I call out as I sit on the toilet seat trying to squeeze life back into my dick, but it’s useless. I hear them all whispering about me, and I can’t concentrate. I lose all interest and motivation. I no longer feel sexy or aroused, just weak and embarrassed.
I have never in my life thought the day would come when the communication between my mind and my manhood would be severed, especially not after giving up everything, leaving my family behind, and dropping out of college to become a bona fide, mother fucking, PORN STAR.
I am left unable to do my job.
I go home defeated. I think my career—or whatever semblance of a career I have established up until this point—is over.
My mind is racing with questions like:
“Will they ever hire me again?”
“Will word spread?”
“Am I gay?”
Feeling less than zero, I call Mick and tell him the bad news. He laughs at me over the phone.
“Big fucking deal. This was bound to happen sooner or later, kid. Everyone has bad days.”
“Not everyone. Not me.”
“Look, they can’t all be home-runs. But remember, you’re only as good as your last scene, you understand? You start making this a regular thing and soon nobody is gonna book you.”
“Well, shit. What am I supposed to do?”
“You want a guarantee? Go pay a visit to Dr. Dose. He’ll give you exactly what you need.”
I am nearly six-months into my porn career at this point; I haven’t exactly declared my official arrival, so to speak. I am still new, still green. I have to keep working; I have to keep shooting if I want to succeed. I can’t afford to lose my edge, so I follow my agent’s advice and take out an insurance policy on my career.
Dr. Dose is the industry’s primary care physician. He runs an urgent care clinic in the armpit of the valley. I enter his office and one of the nurses leads me to a neglected examination room. With stale lights and stained walls it resembles something straight out of Requiem for a Dream. I sit anxiously atop the wax paper.
Ten minutes later the Doctor walks in.
“So, Sporto, I hear you’re in dirty movies and you want some medicine, yeah? Well, we can get you fixed up with whatever you need: Viagra, Levitra, Cialis, even Caverject if you don’t mind jabbing a needle into yourself.”
“What? Uh, No, that’s okay, Doc, I’ll just stick with the pills—the Viagra.”
“No problem, Sporto. Whatever you want. You need anything else? Xanax? Codeine? Maybe some antibiotics; Do you have a scratchy throat? Could be gonorrhea, you know. A shot in the butt and a Z-pack would clear that right up for you.”
“No thanks, Doc. I’m fine. Just the Viagra, please.”
“Sure, sure. Got a script written up right here for you.” He hands me the slip of paper. “Just take this to any pharmacy and you’ll be good to go. “
He opens the door and shoos me out.
“Okay, have fun; take care of yourself, Sporto. See you soon.”
I am dizzy by the time I leave his office.
I get into my car and drive to the nearest CVS. With my script in hand, I approach the pharmacy counter, doing my best to remain inconspicuous.
“Hi, I just wanted to drop this off.”
“Sure, what’s your date of birth?”
“October 17th, 1990.”
“And what’s the medication?”
Under my breath I mutter, “Uh…viagra.”
“Right. Okay, sir, how many pills would you like?”
“Well, how many can I get?”
“The max is ten.”
“That sounds good.”
“Just so you’re aware, the price will be $220.”
“Holy shit. For ten pills?”
“Uh…okay then, I guess I’ll take it.”
Thirty minutes later my prescription is filled and I leave with my first bottle of magic blue pills—my new best friends and most trusted allies in my male-performer tool belt. Hereafter, all of my on-camera erections will grade nothing short of pharmaceutical.