Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [64]
The porn star said that he just accidentally fell into the porn industry when he was twenty-two. Tired of waiting tables at a Mexican restaurant in L.A. he had answered an ad in the back of a newspaper that requested actors for “adult movies.”
“I really liked the attention, to be honest with you, and I loved the money.”
“How much money are we talking?” Leeza asked.
“In the beginning it wasn’t all that much, maybe a thousand dollars per movie. But after I began to make a name for myself—which didn’t take long—I was making upwards of seven, eight grand per flick, and doing maybe three to four a month.” The studio audience ooohed.
“What about diseases? Are you afraid of catching AIDS?”
“Not really, we’re all very careful, all the actors. And we get tested on a frequent basis. We use protection.”
“How long do you think you’ll continue to make porno movies?”
“As long as, uh, the equipment holds up.” Laughter from the studio audience, and a smile from Max.
“What makes for a successful adult actor?” Leeza asked.
The porn star thought for a minute, then answered, “I think part of it is physical, just, you know, the way you look. And another part is, like, having this exhibitionist side.”
Max thought back to the conversation he had with Howard after the Slumber Sunday incident. “. . . You make it sound like I did it on purpose, like I’m some kind of exhibitionist or something.” He had said exhibitionist like it was a dirty word. And yet there on Leeza was a handsome, normal-looking guy who was making a great living because he was an exhibitionist.
At the end of the show Max watched the credits roll by:
Ms. Gibbons’s wardrobe provided by Ann Taylor.
Catering by Mari & Co.
Guests of Leeza stay at the luxurious Parker Meridian Hotel, located just blocks from beautiful Central Park and convenient to everything.
Then, at the very end, Max read, “Special thanks to Eagle Studios, San Bernadino, California.”
Seven or eight thousand dollars per movie? Three or four movies a month?
You exposed your penis on national television.
Max shut the TV off and got up off the couch. He went to the phone and pressed zero. When the operator came on the line, Max asked, “Yes, what’s the area code for San Bernadino, California, please?”
“P
eggy Jean, you’ve got to get out of bed. You can’t stay here forever,” John told his wife. Peggy Jean moaned, but did not move from the fetal position she had motionlessly occupied for almost three straight days except to get something out of her cosmetics case or take a One-a-Day.
When John had come home from the mall with his kids the evening of the disposable-razor attack, he had found his wife crouched beneath the kitchen table, an array of Henckel knives and an empty bottle of potato vodka at her side. Her eyes were wild and she was panting like an animal, snapping at the air with a pair of scissors. It had taken him the good portion of an hour to coax her out from under the table, and once he did, she would not stop clinging to him. Nor could she explain what had happened. Instead she mumbled incoherently, “Cut cut . . . she knows . . . I need to be waxed . . . where’s Debby? . . . hide my babies . . . I was Junior Miss San Antonio. . .”
Realizing his wife was perhaps in the midst of a nervous breakdown, John had phoned a coworker whose own wife was in psychiatric treatment for a mild self-mutilation disorder and asked for the name of the psychiatrist. The coworker gave John the name, and before hanging up he warned, “Christ, man, whatever you do, don’t let your wife anywhere near a fork. Take it from me.” John phoned the doctor and explained the situation. The doctor had told him that if Peggy Jean’s condition did not improve within a matter of days, it would probably be best to have her admitted to a local psychiatric hospital