1:43 p.m. June 5, 2013

London's Calling: Part Two

Previously: Marcus London Ain't Someone U Fuck With


It's a little over a month later when I land in LAX for my week-long stay at Marcus' private ranch. The logistics have been troublingly easy to arrange: apparently it's perfectly normal to invite yourself to live with a porn star. In the confines of his home office, the auteur continues to defend “Spartacus.”

“It’s not a porn. I won’t classify it as a porn.”

(It is definitely a porn.)

He takes me through a viewing of the many (nearly identical) trailers he cut. An action sequence features choreographed fights and a well executed wire trick, then abruptly gives way to fucking. There’s really nothing realistic about sex on camera but here the suspension of disbelief is further tested by the jarring switch from battleground to bedroom. Grimy, color-corrected wide shots jump to close-ups of well-primped genitals. Basically, if you want the ball-slapping angles, the sex is going to be porny. Several trailers are softcore-only, crafted to appeal to men who are too scared to break out their gonzo anal- POV porn with their delicate, pearl clutching girlfriends.

“People told me it was the best movie they’d ever seen.” On screen, a gigantic mass of muscle and phallus lumbers toward a panting girl. “Put your cock inside me,” she quips. To further his point, that his movies are better than porn, or rather that they are, “porn that doesn’t feel like porn,” he shows me footage of a movie he shot three years ago. It’s about a woman who loses her husband and keeps having sex dreams, then finally ventures out to a masked swingers party. It features real swingers. It stars his wife, Devon Lee. “And the sex party is realistic. I know; I’ve been to lots of those parties.”

As the movie starts, he explains to me that the flashbacks are in black and white, but the color is real life. On-screen, Devon stirs awake in her bed, pantomiming sad. (“We shot this in one day.”) He skips ahead, pausing for scenes of her talking to a masked woman, dreaming of her dead husband, receiving a mysterious sex-party mask in the mail. The music at this point is a clichéd and pulsing bo-do-do-booow, but once she starts fucking at the sex party, it changes to what sounds like the soundtrack to "Gladiator."

“The music takes away that dirtyfilthy feeling. It helps describe what the character is feeling.”

We are watching another guy fuck Marcus’s wife.

“Imagine 'The Notebook' without music!” (I cannot.)

Marcus is keen to give me a tour of the two-story ranch that he shares with his wife, and porn actors Tommy Gunn and Tony DeSergio. Today, though, the house is being used as a porn set: the crew is preparing to film lesbian porn and are just waiting for their director to appear.

We venture into the bright, cold California afternoon. Out at the workshed, Tony DeSergio is hammering away, building a confessional for the gay porn that is being shot at the house next week. Tony is the taller, leaner, sweeter counterpart to Marcus. He’s the roommate that cooks. He too is a porn veteran, also clad in black workout gear, and also covered in swollen musculature and ropey veins as thick as milkshake straws. As I watch him laying out wood for the frame, I note the tell-tale lawn of uniform stubble that confirms he shaves his arms. Behind us is a shed filled with homemade "Spartacus" props.

Wooden shields with big, round metal nipples in the center, heavy metal swords, a formidable gladiator helmet, and some beautiful leatherwork that they had custom made for the film line the walls of the congested storage room. Marcus knows the story, the work hours, the usage of every item in that shed, and those details and memories flicker across his face each time he finds something new to show me. He’s most proud of the helmet, a hulking and weighty piece of metalwork. There is no way I could wear this thing for any significant length of time. I am impressed.

After my brief tour, we settle on the patio with four Shih Tzus and talk about Marcus for another hour or two, beginning with a description of his ideal film:

“My perfect analogy of my perfect movie is James Bond with sex.” We go over his work history. After starting out working in his father’s pub, Marcus soon progressed to dancing in his skivvies before moving on to fucking ladies on camera for dollars. He speaks with pride about managing London strip clubs with a team of what he describes as “scary mobster goons with guns” as his club security.

Halfway through the conversation, Marcus’ wife calls. He puts her on speakerphone without telling her that he’s in the middle of an interview that is also being recorded. I wait for him to ask me to step away or turn off my recorder, but he doesn’t.

Sounding tired and whiney, Devon asks Marcus if he’s “done anything this weekend,” universal spousal speak for have you done this thing you were not supposed to do? He hasn’t. She queries again. He says he’s sure he hasn’t. He does, however, call her a stupid drunk, but I’m pretty sure it was meant with love. Hard to tell. After the interview, Marcus drives me and Tony to an Italian restaurant for lunch.

When Tony has finished interrogating the cashier on the freshor- frozen status of the food (everything is frozen), the duo discuss the logistics of the confessional they are building. They can’t agree whether or not to use wood paneling or to fake it with fabric. This conversation will recur like a leitmotif for the entirety of my stay.

When the food arrives without silverware and the pizza without plates, feathers are ruffled and Marcus sends me to get plates from the kitchen. The silverware and plates are self-serve by the napkins, straws, and soda machine but, in the interest of keeping things peaceable for now, I get them anyway. Marcus asks what publication I write for and what kind of things I write about. I realize he has invited a total stranger to follow him around for days—and to stay in his house— without even a basic Google search. I give him my job title and mention that I cover infectious diseases when the need arises. Naturally, he wants to talk about Ebola.

“How can a virus hide from people?”

Fortunately, the conversation quickly turns back to gym routines and nutrition. Marcus swears that carbs are not a bad thing, but insists that meat is the enemy. He croons that he has dropped fifteen pounds in a week just by going vegetarian. Without meat, he doesn’t get sleepy after meals! Without meat, he feels more clear-headed! I think he used the term “meat bloat.” Tony does not pipe in during this portion of our talk, instead poking his fork at the once-frozen meatballs that sit thick and uneaten on a sticky nest of spaghetti.

Later that night, director Nica Noelle arrives, after having called the crew to gather at 10 o’clock in the morning. When I enter, she is sitting at the dining room table working on a script. Today’s shoot is for her company, Girl Candy, the feature: "Lesbian Voyeur 2." Also at the table, fully made-up starlets play iPad games and flip through their phones.

Nica is tall, with long ombre hair that falls near her waist in roiling, beachy waves. She’s wearing a dress barely longer than her hair, a short, cream-colored sweater that skims the tops of her thighs, revealing a bare length of leg down to her tan Ugg boots. Her face is framed by prominent, hipster-esque glasses and she asks in a sweet, breathy voice that I not attribute quotes to her that she did not say. I assure her I will not.

Nica has the utmost respect for Marcus. A hard-worker, she emphasizes. A really smart guy. She tells me that she is used to being the smartest person in the room, but when Marcus is around, she defers to his expertise. I want to know where she sees him in five years. Without a moment's pause, she bobs her head, ruffles her hair, and says she hopes he is in mainstream film by then. Because that’s where he’d be happy.

“It’s where he belongs.”

I have to know: What’s the difference in their directorial techniques?

She laughs. “Well, I’m a pornographer. Marcus is something else.”

I spend the rest of the evening on set. Marcus strolls about flirting with the chatty girls, leaving the quiet ones alone. A beautiful pale girl in a silk robe video-chats with her young child at the far end of the table. The stills photographer, Joshua Darling, is dreadfully sick with some sort of disgusting cold so I make him tea (it’s lactation tea, but it’s all I have and it seems to help). Marcus struts about like a laidback rooster in a henhouse, cracking jokes, keeping his dogs quiet, and never letting anyone forget whose house this is.

The only real difference between a porn set and a conventional film set is the frequency with which naked people stroll into the room. Everyone seems happy, healthy, and welladjusted. The banter ranges from Krav Maga to foot care to poking fun at the assistant in charge of check-writing at the end of the night.

At 2 a.m. the cast and crew has slipped into the best kind of delirium. The last two girls to shoot their sex scene, who were, only moments earlier, grim faced and grumpy, return from their night's work with ear-to-ear smiles, strutting back into the kitchen naked and loose with that instantly recognizable post-fuck swagger. The scent of pussy hangs in the air, tinged with the unmistakable flowery smell of vaginal douches. Dirty jokes, loosened tongues, and fatigue fill the house. Someone fishes panties out of the sofa. Tony is padding around the house, collecting things for my bed, while members of the crew give me their business cards and a gentleman tries to explain to me why people are into bondage.

I let Mr. Bondage talk as he shows me—on his cellphone—dozens of pictures of a blonde, buxom woman in various stages of hardcore bondage. He’s showing me a picture of her tied to a wall, and carefully explaining that men who could never dream of fucking her get off on seeing her in such an available state. He does this for many pictures until I tell him that I am well aware of the pros and cons of bondage and am no stranger to being tied up. He offers me a job.

As does the assistant director, who tells me matter of factly that he’d definitely like to watch me having sex. It’s a polite offer with all the interest of a business deal: professional and only as charming as necessary.

As the shoot wraps and people start breaking down the lights and loading out, Marcus steps up behind my chair, pats me on the head, and tells me that my bed is ready. This head-patting business is an arm-breaking offense but I am working and tired and it is just too weird a boundary-blur to deal with. Also, I am still freezing and, like many a reptile, the cold makes me sluggish. I sleep with the covers over my head to conserve warmth and maintain my girlish obscurity. Life as an innocuous blanket lump is good and I don’t do anything weird in Marcus’ living room, like REM-hump the sofa or scream in my sleep about the nanobots in my colon.


Today Marcus is working on a non-porn “action short” called “Walk the Dog.” It’s the story of two brothers, one of whom gets his gangster boss thrown in jail. Big Boss gets out, calls a meeting, tells Brother One to kill Brother Two. The brothers escape, antics ensue, ending in a montage of nuns wielding machine guns. Brother One realizes it’s all been a daydream, and is still in the car with Big Boss and Brother Two. Brother One shoots Brother Two, who has a metal yo-yo in his breast pocket. Brother Two survives. Walk the Dog is a yo-yo trick that requires two people to perform. Twist!

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat pretending to be Brother Two, who will actually be played by Tommy Gunn. I wonder if there is anything in the script to account for the fact that one of the men has a thick Jersey accent while the other is clearly British.

“Speak!” barks Marcus— demanding that I help him test the audio equipment. For a brief instant I consider yelping like a dog. Tony is outside the car setting up a camera, pointing it in my face and apologizing because he thinks I don’t like cameras. Finally, Tommy Gunn arrives and they are ready to shoot.

The camera malfunctions and Marcus, a perfectionist, is flustered and annoyed. He slings orders and other noise at Tony, who is working one of the two cameras. The screen keeps going black, which Tony of course, would like to keep from happening so that he can get the shot, but Marcus is snippy with him.

Tommy Gunn shifts in his seat, looking bored and not a little put out. He looks over his script, mouthing the clunky, cruel dialogue, waiting for things to settle and cameras to roll. I watch Marcus in his frustration, his halting directorial style, the way he bites and snaps and insults his friends. I know the type, so focused in their pursuit that their attentive, perfectionistic temperaments tip over into aggression. Action trumps civility. The task at hand becomes the only reality, and anything that gets between you and completion is ripe for the cutting block. Even his attempts at humor during the shoot fall flat, mocking Tony for needing to look through the lens with his left eye, dubbing him Tony Weird Eye for whatever eye ailment is making Marcus’ shoot last longer.

The batteries start to die. The light is changing too fast.

Inside the black Honda SUV, Marcus and Tommy are shooting and re-shooting the opening scene. The dialogue plods, delivered back and forth with the awkward beats of a rehearsal. Which it is, mind you; the purpose of this shoot is to get a feel for the short, to do some test editing, to play. So maybe when they shoot it for real it will be better, feel natural, and possibly even be compelling. Right now, though, it looks like two bored dudes playing at action heros by yelling at an invisible prostitute in the back of their car while their bro films it so they can put that shit on YouTube.

Mercifully, the batteries finally give up the ghost.

Marcus and Tony decide to run errands; Tommy Gunn and his gelled, black hair go off to get testosterone injections. At this point, the fellas apologize for being boring, seemingly worried that I’m not going to have enough material, that their life isn’t rock ‘n roll enough.

Twenty minutes later we are having lunch in a Panera Bread. As Marcus eats chicken noodle soup, Tony goes through the various performance-enhancing drugs he’s taken over the years—both for muscles and for penile turgidity. He is making me laugh into my coffee with his visceral descriptions of the Viagra flush, enacting all of the blood rushing to his chest and face. Loudly. Everyone else in the restaurant is trying to pretend they can't hear him. This is California, after all.

Next stop is JoAnn’s Fabric Store to look for something that could serve as a false dividing wall for the gay porn confessional they’re building. Well, that Tony’s building. Marcus still thinks that they should just make a solid wood frame but Tony wants the fabric and Marcus helps him sift through bolts of fabric and piles of factory scraps.

The two men are again dressed in closely matching all-black workout attire. Tony carries a black shoulder bag, which is to say, a purse. I’ve often wondered why more men don’t carry shoulder bags; they are so practical. The woman working the fabric counter eyes them skeptically, watching them scrutinize heavy upholstery fabrics and thick, matte strips of brown, textured pleather. “Doesn’t this look rather Catholic-y to you?” Tony asks, holding up a deep purple-and-gold embroidered swath of fabric. I agree. Marcus is loudly unconvinced that using fabric in place of wood paneling in the confessional divider is a good thing, but I point out that churches are covered in fabric stapled to the walls, so it’d probably be fine.

They buy the brown plasticine couch material and some heavy, patterned cloth to serve as a tapestry in one of the non-confessional scenes. We scour the store for premade crosses, but with no luck. After Jo-Ann’s we go to the gym, where Marcus is in a mood to philosophize.

“Nature doesn’t make fat lions, you know? You never see a fat lion.”

Everyone is staring at me. I’m wearing street clothes and my coat (I’m cold goddammit), watching a pained, flushed man push himself to the limit. Tony is two repetitions in and his chest and face are red as an apple, the muscles of his back rippling menacingly under what appears to be severe sunburn. There is such an instantaneous change in his physiology that I feel some alarm as his already prominent veins bulge and dilate, stretching to accommodate the blood flow surging to and from his heart. Marcus makes a sweeping survey of the people sweating away in the gym and comments on the vast diversity of bodies present. His gaze lingers on a few of the less fit participants and launches into a conversation with himself about junk food.

Knowing approximately three things about the insidiousness of junk food science, I offer my input about the science of keeping people eating while simultaneously keeping their bodies from registering that they are full. I have, however, misjudged where this Marcus Monologue is headed. Because it’s not about the fat people. It’s about the New World Order.

“It’s a government culling program to control the human race. As the Zeitgeist says, the population is classed as the eaters.”

He explains that everything is controlled by a select group of people who are going to act in the best interests of the few with no mind for morality or ethics. He tells me that they control everything, that everything is a united front, that if you challenge it you will be thrown out. If you talk, you’re killed.

I ask him why he’s not dead for speaking out.

He shrugs me off, continuing his recitation of that Peter Joseph movie. I ask him, has he ever been involved in local politics? The politics of even a small group are often so intractable, so messy, so fraught with competing interests. How is it remotely possible for one, small, nefarious organization to carry off a perfectly-executed global conspiracy? “Illuminati.”

As he pulls the weighted bar behind his neck, he tells me through broken grunts that if you just took all of the money out of the world, everything, all power, would be even. We move on to the next machine area where Tony is already, pulling and grunting and red. And, as I notice throughout the entire Zeitgeist rant, very quiet.

Marcus, flushed and sweaty and as chatty as ever, continues explaining himself to me. He’s always been a talkative man, but something about the gym has loosened his tongue to an amazing extent. Maybe it’s because he’s in his element. Maybe it’s all the blood flow. Maybe it’s the rush of being out on display. But whatever it is, he’s fallen into a certain ease with me, relaxed into more expansive posturing and a faster stream of consciousness.

The casual nature of the gym interview. Who knew? It’s almost endearing, talking to someone while they sweat and groan in the name of self-improvement. When focused on a task, people think less about what they are saying and more about what they are doing, leaving space for honest answers and removing the awkward silence that hangs around thoughtful pauses. “I don’t even like anal sex because that’s what gay people do.”

Cue the sound of a thousand cars slamming on their breaks and burning the thick rubber of their tires into choking clouds of smoke. “It’s unnatural. Gay sex is unnatural. Cavemen fucking each other if there aren’t women around? Unnatural.”

I look at him incredulously. “So you don’t like blow jobs either? Because someone sucking your dick, that’s definitely gayer than anal.”

He looks me square in the eye. “Blow jobs? I can take them or leave them.” So I ask: What then, is natural sex? His answer? Sex between a man and a woman for procreation. Under his definition, anal and oral sex is unnatural. I guess masturbation is unnatural? If the only natural sex is sex in the pursuit of a gravid mate, then sex for the sole sake of pleasure is unnatural. This, from someone who makes all of his money as a sex worker! I try to take a moment to wrap my head around the fact that this man who fucks on camera, for pay, is leading me into a discussion of what constitutes natural sex, his living literally predicated on the diversity of sexual preference and the seeking of sexual pleasure.

He is continuing his homophobic rant, trying to justify his stance that homosexuality is unnatural when Tony points out some grey hairs on Marcus’ neck. Marcus explodes, spinning around and yelling at Tony.

“My wife grooms me! That’s what she’s for!”

I’m taken aback at the sudden vitriol over a few stray, faded neck hairs. I haven’t seen this kind of violent reaction from Marcus all weekend and it admittedly makes me a little bit queasy. I consider emailing Paul—who is already quite worried about the journalist he sent to go live at some porn dude’s house for a week . Maybe I could get a hotel for the remainder of my stay.

But before I have the time to process what is happening, Marcus launches back into our conversation about ass stuff. Mired in suspicion, I ask again if he really doesn’t like anal because it’s too gay.

He tells me, vehemently, that he prefers pussy. That’s all he wants. Referring to a woman’s asshole, he says “I don’t even want to see it. Put a plaster on it!” I try to imagine my response to a man telling me to put a Band-Aid on my asshole.

Tony, who has been quiet through all of this finally pipes up between reps. “Actually, I like anal because it’s so personal.” I smile at him, happy to hear him disagree with Marcus while Marcus is on such a tear. (I later found out that Tony used to bottom in gay porn. After hearing Marcus ceaselessly shit talk men who do both straight porn and gay porn, asserting that gay men shouldn’t be allowed to do straight porn, I wonder if Marcus knows about Tony’s gay porn past.) I ask Marcus if he’s ever put anything in his ass. Surely, either out of curiosity or the spell of a compelling woman, at some point in his life, he has poked the prostate.

“No! I’ve never put anything in my ass.” He tells me that I need to make sure that goes in the article. Marcus London has never, ever put anything in his asshole. He confidently tells me, “If there was a straightest man in the world, you just met him.”

I nod.

According to Marcus, if you like something in your butt, you’re gay. Never mind that all men, regardless of sexual orientation have the same basic anatomy; any man who puts so much as the tip of his lady’s finger in his ass at any point in their relationship is actually a closeted gay man and is, then, I guess unnatural. Wait, I guess all ass touching is unnatural and gay. “Marcus, am I gay because I get assfucked?” As I say this I notice that the people around the back machines are giving us some serious glares. Talking about buttplay while pumping one’s lats is a big ol’ gym etiquette nono, apparently. What-ever.

He laughs. “No babe, you’re in the safe zone.”

I’m irritated.

“I have a much more radical way of life than most folks.” He beams at me, enjoying his perceived ability to shock the journalist. I follow him to the water fountain. He gives me a Cheshire Cat grin, telling me that he’s going to tell me something that really pissed off his wife. The “thing” being that he thinks that all babies with any mental or physical defects should be aborted. “I think about how hard it is for us normal people. To know that you are giving birth to something that will suffer…”

I point out that this is a very slippery slope. He mentions autism as an abortable condition. I mention again the slippery slope, but I’m mostly just staring at him while he outlines his plan to make humans happier and less handicapped by killing a lot of babies, retarded people, and the handicapped. To reduce suffering by making sure that the babies born are all in tip-top shape. Marcus doesn’t believe in suffering, or rather, he believes that all suffering should be avoided. I tell him I think suffering builds character, that it of course serves a purpose and to avoid it is like avoiding sadness or nighttime or pooping or your own asshole. I ask him if he’s suffered; he says he hasn’t. Has had a great life and doesn’t understand the need to suffer. That he thinks that those people doomed to suffer should be culled.

By the time we make it back to the car, Marcus is explaining who deserves the experience of life. And let me tell you, it’s not kids without legs.

The conversation shifts. Marcus tells me he would “cut off Axel Braun’s head with a Roman sword if this were Roman times.” (Axel Braun is a very successful porn director who does a lot of porn parodies.)

Sneering at a large van next to us, which he jokes must be full of Mexicans, he reminds Tony not to park next to beat up cars because they’ll scratch up his SUV. “Money keeps the shit away.”

We arrive at the grocery store. I follow Tony and Marcus around like some sort of resigned hound dog, sniffing at their conversation and wagging my tail on cue. Several dirty jokes are made at the expense of produce. They shop like an old married couple, except sweatier and more muscular. I feel bloated and tired and dissociated as I stroll the aisles with the boys. They buy vegan wieners, kombucha, a nice selection of vegetables, almond milk, packages of meat, bananas. Tony offers to buy me an energy drink.

The cashier think Marcus is Australian, and he attempts fake offense, but it doesn’t mask that he is actually, genuinely, pissed off. He lectures the cashier, instructing her on his origin and his lack of Australianness. She tells him it’s because he’s so tan. He asks her if she’s ever even met an Australian. I don’t remember her reply, only the look of irritation on her face. Dude, didn't anyone ever tell you not to fuck with hourly wage workers? It’s draining, spending hours and hours as a professional listener and question-asker for a single individual. Or maybe it’s just this individual. Regardless, it’s been a long day and my patience is wearing thin.

As soon as we get back in the SUV to head home, I ask Marcus if anyone ever thinks that he and Tony are a couple. Oh yes, he tells me, they most definitely do. He thinks it’s because they are in such good shape, are so good looking. I suggest that maybe it’s because they grocery shop together with such familiarity. I mean, no one really does that, outside of freshman roommates and romantic partners. I make sure to add that I think it’s great that he has such a close relationship with such a dear friend.

Marcus tells me he doesn’t mind the company of gay men, especially the “flamers.” Indeed, this is the man who made “Straight Guys for Gay Eyes,” a porn series in which the male performer fucks a lady, but the movie is shot and marketed towards dudes who fuck dudes. Incognito gay men, though, he doesn’t like to hang out with so much. He tells me a story about being left by some girls at a gay bar. He’s telling me that black gay men love him.

He tells me that gay men are certainly more successful that straight men. Oh my god I am so tired.

TUESDAY Tuesday morning finds me standing in the kitchen with the one, the only, Tommy Gunn. He’s making breakfast, and I, already fed and ready to work, am taking the opportunity to talk to the most elusive male in this desert porn compound.

My only encounter with Tommy prior to our breakfast chat has been his rather annoyed line-readings for the action short. Unsure if he is interested in talking to the reporter, I approach with caution, not wanting to spook him. I am richly rewarded.

With over 1,000 porn titles under his belt, veteran performer and Jersey boy Tommy Gunn has seen some shit. Shit that scares him. So much so that he has refurbished his van for the coming apocalypse. That’s right: Tommy Gunn has a zombie-proof van.

A matte black van, fully operational, outfitted with various armaments and with an empty water jug hanging from the back. It’s an $18,000 labor of love, two years in the making, with dark-red velvet upholstery, reinforced openings for weapons and thin ribbons of lights to set the mood. I guess? A shaggin’ wagon for the end of days! And in case any of it was too subtle, “zombie proof” is spray-painted on the side. Imagine my delight when Tommy Gunn, the Tommy Gunn, opened up the floodgates to gift me with a torrent of opinions, ready and willing and excited to lay out his worldview to be recorded for the ages. Here, in the order they were given to me, are Tommy Gunn’s thoughts.

The folks at Monsanto are pigs.


We should do away with money because money is meaningless. “No, really. What is money?” We have the technology we have today because an advanced alien civilization came to earth. The Illuminati, the powerful few, got to keep Earth and, in exchange for technology, have conspired to fatten up the rest of the earthlings for slaughter. All technology and entertainment exists to distract the people while they are fattened for slaughter.

We are all nine meals away from total global chaos, mass murder, cannibalism, and a sort of consumer horde zombie apocalypse.

Climate change is a hoax; it is our entire solar system that is heating up.

Tesla was robbed.

There is a project in Alaska that consists of an array of antennas that put out one million watts of electricity that affects the ionosphere that controls the weather. There are eight such weather control stations worldwide. They may or may not be involved in the chem trails that are probably controlling us and definitely testing things on us.

Fluoridated water is a nefarious plan to control the populace. Fluoride is rat poison and research shows that it serves no purpose.

All movies are true because the best place to hide something is in plain sight. Anyone who suspects something and tries to spread the word will be met with the ultimate cultural dismissal: “I saw that in a movie once.” Tommy Gunn doesn’t vote.

He believes the tragedy of Newtown, CT never really happened. It was faked to create an opportunity to disarm the populace. After all, the best way to make a law is because of an event. “I won’t get a stop sign at the top of the hill until someone has an accident.”

It is very suspicious that we haven’t been back to the moon. It is also very suspicious that the moon, in fact, does not spin. This is because there are aliens on the darkside of the moon. After all, if you were going to take over a planet, the dark side of the moon is the perfect base of operations. Tommy Gunn is bored of working in porn and doesn’t want to fuck on camera anymore. “I don’t want to leverage this physical act for money anymore. I want to keep it for someone special.” He’s tired of his career in porn being a “blemish on his record,” a thing that keeps him out of mainstream movies. He wants to be an action hero like Stallone. He says he looks the part. He believes he is ready. He just needs everyone to get over the idea that people can’t do porn and mainstream movies. After all, he is an actor.

And finally, Tommy Gunn is in love with a woman that makes his entire face light up when he talks about her.


Exhausted, and a little paranoid, I make plans for an afternoon away from the compound. I’ve been too long in the Santa Clarita hills and need more than a few hours outside of this porn-y, absurdist bubble.

I let Marcus know I’m headed out and I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I need to know how to work the giant metal gate that sequesters his home from the rest of the barren landscape. He is explaining to me how, if I come back at night, I’ll need to slip between the bars and onto the property so I can punch in the code, when Tony interrupts him.

“You should just tell us when you’re going to be back, Leigh. What you need to do is communicate with us.” I stare at this man I barely know, who is talking to me like I’m his bratty teenage daughter—or worse, his property. He’s not joking. He’s demanding an answer. I turn back to Marcus, who finishes telling me how to get back into the gate if I need to, and promptly get the fuck out of there. The silence inside my rental car is a revelation. I need a break from this surreal buddy comedy. Perhaps we all do. This might be as good a time as any to actually talk about the technology inside the squirt watch. To loosen the screws and peer into the science behind the squirt...

Part Three: “I’ve had my vagina my entire life and I had no idea it could do that!”