1:39 p.m. June 5, 2013

London's Calling: Part Three

Previously: “How can a virus hide from people?”

The Watch

The Marcus London G Watch (www.timetosquirt.com) is an "instant feedback device" that teaches the wearer the correct force and speed to use to make a woman ejaculate. That's it. The technique required for female ejaculation is straightforward enough, on paper at least: with your hand in the universal sign language position of “I love you”—also known as the Spiderman web shooter position— you hook your middle and ring fingers up against the g-spot (a spongy cluster of tissue, one to two inches inside, on the front wall of the vagina—feel around, you’ll find it) and move your entire arm (not your fingers, keep those fixed) until you reach the correct speed and force.

What the watch does is track your progress and informs you, through a series of colored lights, when it's —ahem — “time to squirt.” To answer your immediate questions: no, the watch does not tell time. And, yes, it is waterproof. The first time I asked Marcus about how the watch worked, he laughed off the question, telling me how vastly complicated and advanced the technology was. “If you asked Aaron [the engineer] how it worked, you’d be snoozin’ babe, bored to tears within seconds.”

I called Aaron.

Aaron is the engineering mastermind behind the watch and the founder of Orgasmic Research. A biomedical electrical engineer, who contributed 34 parts to the Mars Curiosity Rover that is currently roaming the red planet, Aaron is no pauper when it comes to brains. And, as it turns out, his little squirting watch is a pretty sophisticated piece of sex tech. So how did he go from working on drone technology to female ejaculation?

If you’re asking that question, you probably haven’t known many engineers. As Aaron tells it, when he was in his early twenties, he stumbled upon a way to trigger squirting orgasms in the woman he was fucking at the time. Years went by before he did it again, but one day he’s in the vicinity and remembers that old technique. Squirting success! A lightbulb of engineering curiosity goes off: how does this work?

Down the bunny hole he went, making woman after woman ejaculate, all the while spreading the gospel of his methods to anyone who would listen. Aaron feels, very passionately, that this type of orgasm should be widely understood and available to all women. Throughout our conversation, I cannot help but note his sincerity: this is a man who wants to change the world.

“I taught all my engineering friends, sometimes even going over to their houses and putting my hand alongside their own, right inside their wives, showing them how to trigger the squirting reflex. But I did the math: even if I taught three people a day every day for ten years, that’s only a little more than ten thousand people. And that’s not enough. I could spend my entire life teaching people in person and never reach a population greater than a large metro area.”

Aaron has tested his technique on hundreds and hundreds of women. He once made a woman ejaculate over forty times in a hour as an attention-getting proof-of-concept. (He also wanted me to note that it was definitely overkill and doesn’t recommend subjecting anyone to that unless they explicitly ask you to.) “My goal in life is to be responsible for one billion orgasms,” he says, without even a whiff of machismo. “And you have to have many, many people learning simultaneously if you want to change the world.”

Initially, Aaron spent six years trying to develop a kind of realistic squirting-trainer, similar to the vagina of a Real Doll, except this one would feature sensors and a feedback device to teach inquiring fingers how to do his “I love you” technique. However, he abandoned that idea when he was testing his technique on an actual Real Doll at a sex convention and even he felt uncomfortable finger fucking a fake pussy in public. “People were giving me looks. It felt weird. I knew there had to be a better way.”

And so came the watch. “The idea hit me on a plane, actually. The best way to learn is by doing and with a watch interface I could provide realtime feedback based on the force and speed of the motion.”

So Aaron bought some watches, gutted them, and got to work. The ultimate vehicle for world squirting knowledge is an instructional DVD, featuring the hired face of the product, Marcus London, and a waterproof watch with two sets of indicator lights that blink red upon motion, yellow when the motion is getting close to the necessary force and frequency, and green when it’s, well, when it’s time to squirt. But how the fuck does it work?

So glad you asked!

Inside each waterproof watch is a microprocessor containing an oscillator and a simple accelerometer. The oscillator measures the frequency, that is, how fast you’re moving your hand back and forth. The accelerometer, meantime, measures the force. The type of accelerometer found in the squirt watch is essentially the same as the 9-axis accelerometer in your cellphone that re-orientates the screen based on how you are holding it. Most women will ejaculate at 5 Gs, or five times the force of gravity. Marcus London’s technique clocks in at 9 G’s. And yes, that is a pretty unheard of level of g-spot force and totally unnecessary in the pursuit of the squirt.

The accelerometer and oscillator are the easy parts of the watch. Measurement, after all, is just taking data points. The hard part is the realtime feedback: turning that mess of data into usable feedback. The magic that does that, my little mathletes, is an averaging function called a fast fourier transform.

A fast fourier transform, or FFT as the cool nerds call it, is a handy way to convert a sampled function from its original domain—say, the data from the accelerometer with respect to time—to the frequency domain. Okay, so we have force data in terms of frequency. And we know what force and frequency we need to hit the right motion and force to trigger ejaculation. But how do we make that usable? The neat thing about Aaron’s FFT, the one the microprocessor uses, is that it takes real-time data and averages speed and force simultaneously, spitting out usable data in the form of a gorgeous sine wave, a kind of even, repeating oscillation. This smooths the data, allowing the watch to ignore subtle shifts in speed and force, instead providing broad, usable feedback. For the non-scientists, all you need to know is that all this technology is what makes the lights move from red to yellow to green, as you get closer to achieving your goal.

Truly, Aaron's watch is a labor of love. Unfortunately for him, the instructional materials Marcus has produced to accompany the watch do it no favors. Before I left for my trip, my partner Jerem and I sat down to watch the instructional DVD, which amounted to watching Marcus babble on and on and on about how to make a woman “squirt.”

Even before sliding in the DVD, I'd already watched hours of Marcus London on screen. I still had many hours still to watch. The instructional video was very nearly a bridge too far. The model next to him was blonde, quiet, and submissive. After a ramble about his perfect technique and how we too can learn to have Marcus’ hand on our hand to make our women squirt, he lubed his fingers, smeared the excess on her labia, shoved his fingers inside her, frantically moved his arm like he was being electrocuted, and then triumphantly showed his slick palm to the camera.

The noise his fingers made inside the poor girl were eerily similar to the sound a fist makes in a wet chicken carcass. However, both of the watches LEDs turned green, thusly demonstrating that indeed, it was time to squirt.

“Squirt!”

It was the moment when Marcus likened wearing this watch to literally having his hand on the end of your wrist that I knew I’d never use it.

The watch, as a stand-alone piece of faceless tech, is a fascinating and unique sexual device. As an extension of the Marcus London brand it just looks like an ego-ridden piece of plastic. Instead of telling time, his name is scrawled across the face. From a distance, it does look like the time, but up close? Branding.

Jerem and I stood there watching Marcus ramble about squirting as the new girl—one who had never squirted before—sat on the bed and drooped her eyes in an approximation of seduction. At one point during the preamble, she stood up and started stroking her body, and which point Marcus told her to sit back down. I couldn't tell if she was desperately attention-seeking or just luxuriating in the after-effects of a handful of pharmacology.

After he made her squirt, she asked him if she squirted.

“Did I do it?”

Marcus, undeterred, continued to upsell the ejaculating female orgasm as the greatest thing ever. Even though she didn’t know she’d had one.

Wednesday

I arrive back at Marcus’ house early in the morning, with enough time to shower and pack my things. Today he’s shooting one of his instructional videos for Ultimate Sex God Club, and I’m going along to watch.

The time to leave comes and goes. I sit in my rental car, deep inside a phone conversation, when a knock at the window startles the living fuck out of me. Marcus’s car won’t start, so he’s going to move his things into his other car.

Duly noted. I go back to my phone conversation.

Ten minutes later, another heart attack inducing window-knock. His other car is out of gas. Marcus rather sheepishly asks if I can take him to his shoot. I pop the trunk and tell him to load in.

There is a noticeable dynamic shift, from passenger to driver, apparent in his voice and posture. Or maybe Marcus has just finally gotten used to me and is more himself. Or maybe he’s preoccupied with car trouble and the day’s work ahead of him and doesn’t have time to be “on” for the journalist. Or maybe he just needs a fucking cup of coffee.

I need a fucking cup of coffee.

After stopping for coffee, we arrive at the gated home that’s been rented for today’s fuckery, a towering and angular grey building with a distinct cubist influence. We enter the large glass doors, climb the entryway staircase and take a sharp left into what’s been converted into the green room.

The green room features low, ottoman-style geometric seating, a pool table, a stripper pole, and several paintings of oddly proportioned women in various states of undress. There is one that’s just an enormous pair of lips, between which a long, shapeless leg is stretching, her foot dangling and clad in a toddler-size stiletto. I set my coffee in the empty bookshelf, squat on one of the strange low chairs, and turn my attention to the girls opposite the room while Marcus unzips his suitcases and begins discussing wardrobe decisions with the director.

Marcus nudges me and points to the underwear in his bag. “I’m wearing Tommy’s underwear today!”

Sure enough, there are two pairs of Tommy Gunn brand underwear, ready to be donned in the pursuit of commerce and squirting. I sincerely hope that if I ever have an underwear line featuring my name that I have friends so dedicated they will proudly wear my branding. That’s love.

The girls on set today are Nikki Seven and Carmen Calloway. Nikki has been in the industry for a bit, but Carmen is a brand-new baby porn star. She’s only been shooting for a couple of weeks and, at the time of this shoot, none of her scenes had been released yet. The dynamic between the girls is quite mentor-mentee, with the more experienced and markedly less enthusiastic Nikki teaching peppy little Carmen how to do the pre-scene douche and properly baby-wipe her vulva after she finishes working.

Carmen is pale and thin with long brown hair and is watching the cosmetic transformation of her peer with huge blue-green eyes. She has a ribcage tattoo and a pronounced dimple in her chin. She chirps rather than talks, in girly, animated fashion. Nikki, who’s currently receiving her daily allowance of eyeliner and flesh-toned pancake, has long bleached blonde hair, minimal body fat, and the necessary alt-girl accoutrement: a collection of piercings, gauged ears, and several large tattoos, one of which, on her wrist, she keeps hiding from the camera. She photographs nicely but in person her angles are very severe, bones and tendons grinding underneath her deeply tanned skin.

“Don’t get tattoos for two years. Don’t get boobs for two years. Only do that stuff after you’ve shot with everyone, then they’ll want to shoot you again.” Carmen says she never wants boobs, that she’s happy with her small ones. Nikki laughs. “Everybody says that. And everybody gets boobs.”

The conversation turns to their abortions and history of abusive boyfriends. The makeup artist, a short, thick Latina in her late thirties, is gossiping along with them, fawning over their war stories and agreeing that men are universally awful.

I leave the green room and venture out to find Marcus, who’s talking to the director. Said director immediately pulls me aside and tells me to please keep him out of the story; he’s the best kept secret in porn and he’d like to keep it that way.

The men are discussing today’s shoot and, like the rest of Marcus’s colleagues, Mystery Director has nothing but great things to say about him. Best work ethic in the business, legendary stamina, flawless technique, expert at reading body language, consistent, and dependable.

“He should be booked daily, absolutely.”

Marcus, who’s standing right there while the director gives him a winning blurb, gives a good-natured grin. “Go on…”

Director laughs. Marcus laughs. They have a good rapport and for the first time I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of that all-star worker everyone claims Marcus to be. He’s polite to everyone on set. He’s nice to the girls. He’s ultra professional. He’s thoughtful, helpful, and frankly, a bit charming. I make note of this and decide to explore the house.

The house looks like it was decorated during the 1980s, under the influence of a suitcase full of coke and staggering delusion. There is a fireplace in every room, and each one looks like a pile of broken glass. There is a foot-long lighter next to each one, shaped like a giant match. When in use, the gas flames lick the broken glass.

Every room is decorated with marble and brightly colored plastic that I believe is meant to look like brightly colored glass. There are towers of colored plastic shapes taller than I am. Small colored plastic cubes and pyramids and curved pieces are stacked atop each other. Like rejected designs for award statues, they litter the shelving and glass tables and marble. The living room features twostory floor-to-ceiling windows. The master bath has a bottle of Hugo that has to hold at least three litres.

The pool features intricate tilework and a multi-tiered fountain, the perimeter of this cocaine oasis is cluttered with objets d’art: a giant pair of lips, a silver mannequin, art deco lawn furniture and an outdoor bed whose curtains flutter in the breeze. I meet back up with Marcus.

Out of nowhere, he tells me that his wife wants him to stop doing this, gesturing towards the green room. That she wants him to be monogamous.I wasn’t really for that kind of divulgence. Marcus hasn’t exactly been the most vulnerable subject this week. “Are you sure that’s something you want to do? Could you do that?” “Absolutely,” Marcus nods emphatically. “I love her. I love her more than anything. I was a fool and didn’t realize what I had and now I can’t imagine life without her.” Marcus and Devon used to be swingers. Their relationship had been such that they were free to fuck other people for pleasure, together or separately. From what he tells me, he abused that privilege, even going so far as to leave his wife alone during the middle of dinner in a nice restaurant because he got a booty call.

He winces when he says that. We both do.

Trust began to fray. He began to lie about his activities. And Devon began going home frequently to see her family. Except she wasn’t going home to see her family; she was flying home to see the professional football player she’d fallen for. He was building her a house. She was going to leave Marcus. Marcus looks pained, worried.

“I learned my lesson, but I learned it late.” He tells me she’s coming home. That he’s quitting porn for her. Adopting monogamy for her. They are going to start a family, he tells me, sounding wistful. “I just look around me and she’s the only one I want. I can’t imagine starting over without her. I just don’t want to start over.” The crows feet around his blue eyes crinkle and for the first time, he looks his given age of forty-five.

We proceed to the set. Today he’s shooting for a sex education company. Part of the shoot is a pre-sex interview in which he sits down with the girls and describes the how and why of the techniques he’s going to be demonstrating. The first video, which will feature Nikki, is about orgasmic order; that is, the different types of orgasms a woman can have and the order in which to provide them so that she can experience maximum pleasure. The second video, ejaculation control with Carmen, is a series of positioning tips and distraction measures to help men keep from prematurely blowing their load.

Watching the interviews, Marcus is selling pussy tricks right into the camera with the emphatic urgency of a preacher. “The squirting orgasm is like the missing link of orgasms. It’s so powerful, it’s addictive.”

As he describes his sex tips, the veteran Nikki slouches next to him, listening, providing commentary and covering a tattoo she wishes she didn’t have. Carmen, on the other hand, is sitting ramrod straight, feigning intense listening and doing a pretty spot-on impersonation of a Good Morning TV host while eyefucking the camera. And eyefucking the crew. And eyefucking me.

The audio guy on the floor next to me is reading Twitter while making sure that no one has a fucked up mic. Nikki asks if sticking peeps in her vagina for an Easter photo shoot would be a bad idea; I mention that it sounds like a great way to get a yeast infection and she should be careful not to leave melted peep in her lady parts. She thanks me.

In between interviews, Nikki, who’s not wearing underwear, flings her legs up over her head and asks if her vagina is showing. The new girl giggles and the crew chuckles. Marcus leans over and sniffs her crotch like a dog, getting a long nose-full before rubbing her folds with his fingers and murmuring with approval. She smirks at him. He throws her a practiced, lecherous snarl. I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen Marcus act remotely sexual since I’ve met him. The interviews wrapped, we head up to the bedroom for the sex shoots.

During the lull between talking on camera and fucking on camera, I learn that Carmen uses the phrase “right meow” and is very excited to be in porn, that Nikki has her EMT certification and wants to do mainstream movies, and that Marcus is very good at making each girl feel comfortable and ready to work. That’s not a euphemism, by the way. Marcus took time with each girl to talk to her, get a feel for what she liked, who she was, to outline the scene, and get acquainted. Before each shoot, he'd kiss his scene partner on the bed while the cameras set up, a short prequel of sorts to figure out the girl’s style and loosen the tension. Just before Nikki’s scene, “orgasmic order,” she prances through the room with the baby wipes and reminds Carmen to always wipe her butt crack.

Marcus is already on the bed, pre-tearing the corner of the condom and popping open the cap on the lube. Sure enough, he’s wearing his Tommy Gunn skivvies.

The scene starts. As part of the instructional nature of the series, Marcus narrates everything. Everything. He tells the viewer exactly what he’s doing the entire time he’s on camera.

Hats off to you, dude. Not many people can live-narrate eating pussy. For the first few minutes of the scene, Nikki is just flopped on the bed, skinny legs akimbo, eyes closed, motionless. From my angle, she looks asleep. Marcus is grunting and sucking and talking between her legs, coming up for air and a description of what his mouth and tongue are doing during the “head shaking technique.” Nikki stirs.

After the first few minutes of stillness, she warms up fast and hard. Her breathing changes, coming in shorter and shallow. Her long, bony toes curl into the duvet and she’s gripping the sheets. Marcus is still talking, narrating the build-up to her first clitoral orgasm of the shoot. The muscles of her thighs start to quiver, and Marcus, simultaneously mouthfucking her and talking, announces he’s going to send her over the edge. Which of course, he does.

What follows is an absurd chain of orgasms. Off come his Tommy Gunn panties with a level of finesse that is decidedly non-civilian. He’s putting on the condom. He’s tossing her about the bed. He’s making her come over and over with his succinctly narrated, relentless chain of techniques and suggestions. His butt is incredibly tan and spherical, like a basketball split in half and glued on. He fucks like a robot, precise and fast, changing angle and pace and rhythm like a deviant symphony conductor. Do it this way and then this way and then this way and then this way and then this way from here to eternity forever and ever amen. She’s come several times and I’m still not used to the constant narration. Carmen is beside me, covering her mouth, which is comically agape with what appears to be shock and glee.

Nikki is limp and writhing on the bed, her only job to be receptive to Marcus’s work. Marcus is panting, focused, talking and explaining and sweating and moaning and talking and pounding and oh my god I finally get it. In that instant, I understand Marcus London.

He props her up on her knees, her trembling, thin body slick with sweat, her blonde hair extensions stuck to her harshly angled face. In his final moment, he curls his hand into her, fingers hooked inside her, pressing into the g-spot behind her clitoris, and with furious precision, Marcus makes her ejaculate for the very first time.

“CUT!”

He towels off, but not before making Nikki squirt once more for good measure.

“I’ve had my vagina my entire life and I had no idea it could do that!” Carmen, who’s excited like a kid on Christmas morning, is squealing.

“Did you see how many times she came?!”

When Marcus returns from washing up, he sits across from me on a giant ottoman and with a sly grin, asks me what I think. I should also note that he’s sitting on a towel because Marcus and his erection are stone cold naked.

“Honestly? The narration was fucking crazy. The entire time! You talked the entire time! Do you ever screw up and forget to talk?” “Once, I think, with Allie Haze. I just looked down and woooah kind of lost my train of thought. But really, it’s quite easy. Not sure that just anyone could do it but babe, I’ve been doing this a long time.”

Marcus is loose, relaxed. Jesus, does he look happy? He looks happy! I haven’t seen Marcus in this state since my arrival. He’s jovial, professional, completely at home with the mundane reality of selling sex for profit.

Seeing him now, shoulders extricated from his ears, naked and sweaty and smiling, the pieces of his personality begin to fall into place. His utter cockiness, his intense desire to be taken seriously, his distaste for porn, his difficulties with his wife, his unapologetic and constant stream of opinions, his wildly successful work in the adult industry, it all finally gels into this tan, muscle-bound man sitting before me, chatting up his next scene partner.

Marcus asks to see what Carmen looks like and when she obliges him, spreading her legs in an overconfident manner that belies her nerves, he purrs with delight.

“Oooh, lips! I love lips.”

Carmen bats her long, false eyelashes and tells Marcus that she likes it rough. He nods.

Marcus, with his practically unlimited access to fertile, young mates, essentially has off-thecharts reproductive success. If I was observing some male bats and one of them was constantly fucking lady bats, day in and day out, I would make a note like “Hmm, something about Bat-2395’s phenotype or behavior has done amazing things for his apparent reproductive success rates; advise continued observation and paternity testing for colony.”

Sure, this is a loose argument because of course, of course, population biology is a vastly complicated and nuanced field. But the basic underlying point remains: Marcus London successfully beds lots and lots of women, which gives him a significant biological advantage as compared to the reproductive chances open to your average American male. He is overwhelmingly sexually successful. And all of that alpha male posturing, the kind that other men wear as armor or padding or weaponry, Marcus carries as a function of his success. Frankly, it’s fascinating. Marcus pulls on a fresh pair of underwear as the crew makes the bed with a clean set of sheets. Again, he pre-tears the condom wrapper for easy opening during the shoot and pops the lid on the lube. Again, he crawls into his scene partner, holding her neck, touching the small of her back, kissing her with intent. And again, he fucks a girl on camera for money while steadfastly narrating the entire act and making sure the timing of the foreplay, each position, all instructional points and the popshot is perfect. And he continues his narrative right up until the moment of ejaculation. For the entirety of both shoots, my positioning in the corner of the room meant that Marcus’s tan, not-gay asshole was staring me in the face the entire time.

Wrapping Up

My time with Marcus ends where it began. In his office. He has one last thing to show me.

I watch as Marcus searches through his YouTube account for a video. A solo effort, it features him, standing in front of the camera, dressed like some kind of boy band auditioner, and singing his heart out. It’s a music video for the Usher song “There Goes My Baby,” featuring an earnestly lipsynching Marcus London.

And I am dying.

My laughter erupts from within with the violence of a dam bursting. I’m clutching the sides of my chair, trying to hold on to this new fragment of Marcus in the context of everything else I’ve seen from him and after everything, this is what breaks me. I’m apologizing, trying to lessen whatever egregious errors of etiquette I’m committing, but laughing nonetheless. “Marcus,” I tell him, “You are fucking insane.”

The video opens with footage of Devon talking on the phone. I’m pretty sure she’s fake talking on the phone, the way one can be pretty sure a five-year-old is lying. Next is a shot of Marcus, clad in one of his ubiquitous black T-shirts and jeans, sauntering over a giant rock in the distance, swaying side-to-side with machismo.

When the vocals start, Marcus is directly in front of the camera, wearing black sunglasses and a silver cross, still swaying, ducking and twitching his head along with his singing. After each line, he leans back and away from the camera, like a nervous performance tick. He appears to know most of the words, though he is singing through a tight, small mouth, so it’s hard to get a good handle on his enunciation. He flings his arms open, welcoming the love and adoration of his wife, letting this moment wash over him in a sweeping, glorious tidal wave of ridiculousness. There are several shots of his wife feeding carrots to horses, decorating a Christmas tree, and walking away from him, swiveling her hips in a tight pair of jeans with white topstitching. There are black-and-white scenes of the two of them, naked and embracing, her lying atop him in the bed, their mouths mashed together and gnawing at each other. There are shots of Devon in a black, diamond-encrusted fedora, wearing an exposed bra and infant-sized white button-down shirt, leaning against the wall and massaging her breasts.

Actually, there are several shots of her massaging her breasts. All of this interspersed with footage of Marcus on the rocky hillside, lip-synching passionately, yet awkwardly, into the camera. At one point he pops his top off, baring his tan, smooth, pumped up porn body.

Everything you need to know about Marcus is captured in this video. His cinematic aspirations, his willingness to put everything out there, his cocky nature so wildly impervious to failure, his utter ridiculousness. He’s an earnest, cocksure, proud, do-it-yourselfer who’s not afraid to go after what he wants. He had an idea to make a music video for his wife. He did it. It’s terrible. But it means something to him, the making of it, the sharing of it. He puts it on YouTube for all the world to see. Because of course it must be fantastic. He made it.

Thankfully, Marcus is laughing, though the thought occurs that perhaps it’s just at the sheer hysteria in which I’ve found myself drowning. He tries to mount a defense of the video, but he doesn’t have to. I get it. It’s singularly the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen in a pretty ridiculous week, but it was done with such earnest devotion and there is nothing about it that makes Marcus look like anything other than a completely delusional lovesick fool. I cannot look away. I cannot stop laughing. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

Marcus shows me another, this one a short film called “Alone.” The entire film is of Marcus going about his daily routine… alone. He’s constantly reminded of his wife throughout the film, via flashbacks and pictures and moments he would have shared with her. In light of his rather vulnerable discussion of his recent tribulations with Devon, the short is genuinely sad. Some of the shots are beautiful and it’s almost enough to draw you in, but as soon as you get close, cheesy, earnest poetry scrolls across the screen in what appears to be a script version of comic sans.

I cannot help but wonder, after such a dynamic shift in personality once he was on the porn set, how much of the Marcus I saw this week was the Marcus that he wanted his wife to see. The aggressive antiporn stance, his apparent disinterest in women, his lofty, mainstream aspirations, the coldness of his demeanor, the way he scoffed at the beautiful women who came up in conversation and wandered his home in various states of undress, how much of this is classic bad boy reformation? Heavy speculation, sure. But it is in the face of the undeniable fact that Marcus on the porn set was the happiest, nicest, most professional Marcus I’d seen all week. Everyone loved him. He seemed to be taking great pride in his work. My god, there was even that cheesy “light in his eyes” people talk about when someone is flush within their true calling. On a porn set, Marcus glowed.

Several months have passed, and I’m back in Vegas, finishing the final edits for my feature on Marcus London. Curious about what he’s been up to, I call his cellphone.

He is working more, he says, currently finishing up a script for a "Mad Max" parody. Not that he’s happy about that, of course. “I love "Mad Max" but my heart’s not in it. I’m not enjoying the parody aspect.” He’s also producing a porn for a firsttime director which, to put it lightly, sounds like an absolute nightmare.

This newbie director seems to have a tenuous grasp on reality, at best, and is prone to do things like demand to change location mid-day. Even through his frustration, though, Marcus sounds excited to be busy.

After his passionate vow to leave porn for his wife, this busy schedule surprised me. Last I saw him, Devon was living away from home, but reconciliation was looming on the horizon. But little has changed. Marcus talks like a man who has had his heart broken: he hopes for a simple, lovely future with his wife but is realistic about the chances of it happening. “Work's like this: If I lose her and I’m poor versus if I lose her and I win the lottery. At least something isn’t terrible.”

He says this casually, sounding very different from the time when he gave his deeply wounded monologue about love while we were on the porn set. “I’m in a better place because other things are looking up. But you know, I got too used to getting my own way all the time.”

He has plans to see her soon, but tells me she cancelled at the last minute for their previous rendezvous, and that he doesn’t expect her to actually go through with it this time. She’d still like him to slow down on the porn work, but he tells me she understands that he can’t just quit the business. A step in the right direction, I suppose, but asking Marcus to work less feels like a cruel punishment for some past transgressions, rather than a supportive gesture.

His interest in sex outside of work has ebbed. “I’ve learned all I can learn, I’ve taught all I can teach. At some point, you wonder why you’re doing it.” He skipped a massive swingers party in Vegas last weekend.

But then he’s back to talking about work, and happy again. He talks about the new squirt watches coming soon and his AVN win. He tells me about his producing work, his directorial aspirations, his scripts, his set building, his creative ideas, a busy stream of planning and action and excitement. Even his issues with the "Mad Max" script won’t defeat him.

“I just have to get my finger up my ass and get it done.”

Bonus: NSFWCORP Film Editor, Eileen Jones, reviews Spartacus MMXII: The Beginning