Adult Film Community

I am the thick-haired and prolific Vincent Guidera, creator of many porn classics, including The Maraschino Twist and Wireless Girl, as well as the Diva 9 series.  I was profiled recently in the Los Angles Times in a fawning article about the enormous amounts of money I, as the de facto king of the adult film community, bring into the Los Angeles economy.  Laced with equal amounts of irony and envy, this article claimed, among other things, that with my wealth and visibility I had my pick of any woman in the entertainment business, including mainstream Hollywood.  Just look at my pool parties. . .    

            Absurd. 

            For me, simply stated: only porn women are suitable for me.  I don't seek women outside this cohort.  And they don't seek me. 

            Do I pick porn women because they, more so than other women, are knowledgeable about the world's wide and forbidding spaces?  Is it because they surrender themselves to redeem the rest of us?  Perhaps I pick porn women because I can include them in my daily life by showing them photos and films of fêted women just like themselves, and they don't get rattled.  Every woman today lives for the camera—yet only porn women completely give into the lens, subsume themselves for the view.  To be considered alive these days we all must jump whole-heartedly into the camera, not stand outside and merely hope to be seen.  We must commit, and know we're doing this for others.  Few women other than porn women have this strength and facility in them. 

            I've found that most women—despite their fantasizing about the lens, as well as their wishes to be strong and independent—can't handle being visible.  If I were to involve myself with them, as well as presenting them with images of women who move me, who have forfeited themselves for us all, these bold and current women would quickly wilt. 

            It is my task to bestow women who possess power and incite desire in our modern, flattened world, so I ask any woman hoping to share my life that she view this bounty with me.  But only porn women can stand tall and not frantically tell themselves that because I am stirred by other women's sacrifice I am incapable of loving them, or even noticing them.  Porn women understand they look identical to all the other women in my productions; they possess the same inspiring physical traits repeating over and over, and this duplication of their attributes is all that matters, all that is needed as we try to foster—in bared skin—the world's revival.  (And male porn actors, as we all know, are largely superfluous to this process.) 

            These women of mine must fit the overarching mold created for us long ago: the sagacious female body with its hips and breasts, its indented waist, bared navel, and the prime cleft.  Otherwise, without this model, we will continue with our recent wanderings, our separation from each other in our abstract, computer coded, and machine world.  

            It is porn women who can walk into this biggest of arenas—the world—be naked, be considered and, most importantly, not be like the throngs of princesses today who demand that

a man be everything for them.  The porn women, with their bodies ceaselessly augmented, inoculated, plucked, dieted and tanned, they understand they must be permeated and divulged, yet sometimes ignored and sidelined, even cast out.  Sadly, no one in this world gets full attention and comfort, not even the most notable celebrities.  The porn women appreciate this fact, and though they comprehend that they will be handsomely rewarded in their endeavors—after  grueling regimens of bright-light exposure—they must submit themselves wholly to the regimens of their renowned guild, while expecting very little from men: no glass slippers, little allegiance.  To be granted the privilege of the lens, they must suffer so that others will be served, even if these others remain strangers to them—which makes porn women's work all the greater and more worthy of redemption.  That is the true forfeiture and sacrament in my women: they benefit the many others, including other women. 

Currently, with approved male domination and caretaking vanishing from our world, it's no longer possible for a man to be everything for a woman, and it seems only porn stars know this—unlike all their delicate sisters who wish to be rewarded and validated so very stringently now that they are out on their own.  Porn women only ask for the shoot, and the accompanying  notice, and also, of course, the money.  Their search—as nude and voracious bodies, for sperm and money and connection—mirrors women's ancient quest for men's essentials, but the porn women directly personify this, and reenact it for us to witness.  Someone has to show it and believe it! 

            As a lover or a husband (I've been married twice) it is not my job to prop women up and give them a reason to live, though because they are women, and they are young, the porn women are initially quite hectoring for affirmation.  They soon learn this does not help them, for instead of investigating me and my commitment to them they need to ratify this same quest in front of the lens with my male actors.  Usually, after a few times facing the camera, the women fathom this, learning we all are abject subjects, and though there is no reward in life, there is account-ability and fortitude in the face of others.    

            Most women now, unlike their grandmothers and most every woman in the past, are little school girls wishing you to hail them as fabulous and fully individuated initiates in their busy, rewarding lives.  You must keep your distance from them, keep your paternalism from them—yet protect them, cover them when the moment demands it.  But why be involved with such contradictions?  Why try to be a woman's center when you can't really protect her or provide for her?  Such a useless and humiliating endeavor.  Porn women, however, exhibit themselves and partake in any situation, asking for little in return; they inhabit scenes that demand our full-bore cooperation and vulnerability.  In doing this they make us all comprehend our weakness and nakedness.  These women don't mind the scrutiny of others, both at this very moment under the hard lights, and also much later, seen from all corners of the earth, standing ever-present yet never quite discernible on a myriad computer screens.  After all, there's always the next shoot, for more exposure.  Such a big and daunting venue for them to explore. . . 

            Were men put on earth to authenticate and validate women?  I doubt it.  Perhaps we

were put on earth to swell women with babies and provide shelter and resources for them.  Women now claim, with some pretense, they don't want shelter and resources from men (and often not even the swelling)—instead, in compensation, they want the colossal buttressing and justification of their lives.  Yet women don't realize what they seek is no longer viable, here as men's old shepherding and care of women disappears, or is no longer officially endorsed.  And so, to make up for this absence, as well as all the shrill ideological posturing about rights and equality in our new world, it seems we must have porn.  That's what is left today: porn for both men and women.  To be viewed and naked and desperate for connection and helplessness.  The only response.  

            Having to garner and maintain themselves on their own, this has always petrified women, as it has for all of us, though men have known from the beginning the horror and intractability

of individuation, with their often finding no solution to it, as their short lives end in violence, prison, banishing, or loneliness.  And now, after all the big promises from their culture, young women are slowly learning the truth a few short decades after their recent liberation: we're so very alone.  So women will decide it is best to be naked and viewed and penetrated.  I will be waiting patiently; I will film them, and allow millions of other women to watch women perform what is missing in their own lives: involvement and correlation.  Porn fills most women's lives, even if they never engage in it on the set, or if they occasionally peek in at their computer screens.  With their schooled sex techniques, their Brazilian waxes, their fine underwear and their tattoos, women are always naked and sex-bound, even when they're clothed and working in their offices. 

            Ignored and unsheltered, women hope, like never before, to be noted, grasped, assimi-lated.  Perhaps they've had enough of everything else: the empty apartment, the stressful work day, the monthly paycheck, the blank answering machine, the pills.  If men are not allowed to care for women and support them, if that is proscribed, then a woman will become only a shaved twat, a bare clam, open legs.  It seems, in the end, all our disconnection demands only cunt.  Modern life engenders our porn.  Of course there's always been porn, but not like this—porn as ubiquitous part of everyday life for a majority of people.  Porn reminds us of our ancient heritage, even though porn is a modern industry, much like car-making or fast food.  Sadly, only porn stars fully comprehend the power of union, of coalition and being in the shoot, enjoined by everyone.  No separation for those girls!  Only big tits and stiff prick, to bring us back to the garden.  Perhaps, in the end, it is only porn that will enable us to escape porn. . .   

Porn women can sooth me with their wisdom and forbearance, as well as let me—in the parlance of the day—bone them, and fall for them, and, in my own way, provide for them.  After all, I can't run their lives or keep them at home: instead I use them to foster other people's membership in the world, and I pay them a lot of money for their efforts.  With this, my life is complete, though on my shoots I have to maintain a professional stance and affirm my women as distinct and separate from me, and they, for the most part, understand this.  And though they, in their ruthless regimens, in their exertion on the set and in their many health programs and health scares, can comprehend we are all essentially luckless and undone by the world, it will still be understood that my films are about the exact opposite: communion and sanctification. 

            I indeed do wish, in this contradiction and in my isolation I share with many others, that these sanctified women remain with me after the shoot.  I treasure their snarling demands on camera, their mighty and consequential bareness, and I love it most when they can lie with me at night and view our work together, once it's complete.  Displaying them to themselves is all I have, my first joy, my last bit of paternalism.  When they enjoy what they view on screen then my mission is perfected, especially because they—more than any other women—fully know what they are seeing.  They see themselves subtracted from themselves, yet heralded.  Hardly any other women these days are blessed with this realization and summation. 

            The porn women also understand they are absolutely necessary to my movies; this is my imperative, my bald wish for them, as if I were a beset-upon and wooing lover.  They hope to serve me, for they know I serve them.  I am indeed their slave performing for them faithfully.  Ladle in hand, like a chef, I pour their richness into appreciative soup bowls, perhaps to the prince at the ball.  Their women's desperate and plunging hearts are provided for, in the end, here at the royal court. 

            Or are they?  The ball ends at twelve, unless they can show their worth into the night.  Our work is never done—as is true for all of us, male or female.  The porn women are usually up to the occasion, for the night is long and filled with new events.  My shoots are grueling, though actually, they're shot in the afternoon.  The Southern California nights are for parties and celebration of another arduous day completed. 

            In my hapless and confused fatherliness, I provide for my women's comfort, their concession and stimulus.  Sex, money, and being visible—all together, all wrapped up in one—that's what I give to them, and all my viewers.  These days, with my films being distributed as a streaming in the very air itself, never on reels of film like in the old days, I connect with my porn women who fit the paradigm of all other women—if their motions are right, if their breasts and thighs are right—reminding me, reminding them too, of the way women once were, before we all became human units and lost our bodies.  I am ever so friendless, unless I am shooting, unless the women are gasping and growling on camera.  This is my only response to the sappiness and excessive idealism that fills our current times.  Regrettably, that is the new guardianship in our culture: sentiment and persuasion, not men's resources and women's bellies.  And violence and nudity on screen is our only response to ward off this devolution.  As men's protectiveness ends in the world, violence on the personal level, in all aspects of daily life, will increase, as will porn.  Fewer wars, but more violence on screen and in our heads.  

            Sadly, all of our lives now are masturbatory fantasies.  Perhaps porn can take us back to the body, and in achieving this, extinguish itself, at least until another cycle of bodily removal commences.  Yet in men's removal from them, women are only allowed and can only comprehend and seek a new kind of custody in the world, the slushy, emotive kind—but it has no power, no true presence, and soon women grow antsy, frightened, and work ever harder at their fractured, harried lives.  In women's desperation, men must become puppies to them, or a child clutching at them, having to tell them how much we love them.  And though maternal care is very foundational, we know maternal care is the need that comes second; first there has to be another essence and requirement: male sexual focus on women, and spilled sperm in them.  All women must be deposited with sperm, like furrows in a rich plot of land—just as my porn women are paid for this depositing on them.  Paid well, as all women have been rewarded, to be spattered, and made fat.  But men don't stand over them now, don't approach them, and women grow ever more addled, and begin taking their Zoloft, which further reduces their sex drive and pushes men even further away.   

            So, working with my production company, I make my hires, and I film women who, in being viewed by other women (and men too, of course), seek ever more stringently to become porn, to embody it completely, to make up for all the bullshit and misdirection in the world.  These women on my screen, and these women being moved and incited at home, hoping to incarnate porn themselves—or at least to send nude pictures of themselves to their recalcitrant men—will perhaps become the new women to refill and reanimate the world.  And all the other women, the remaining and more-timid women, will find themselves searching, in their rising loneliness, for their male infants and for words of love.  But maybe these women, seeing the fruitlessness of this existence, the idiocy of trying to baby men, and expect men to provide what a child once provided, maybe these women can also be drawn to wider world.  They will open their eyes and stand in front of my cameras, or someone's cameras.  They too will eventually come to me, just as my porn women have done, to unchoose their lives, to be rendered nude and federated and evident. 

            After all, when you're naked who wants to have choice in your life?  Naked takes away all choice, removes segregation, even mine.  Making my films I am granted hope, and believe I can give it out to others as I select evermore women for my film encounters (and sometimes for my bed), with this process making up for the women who have never been in my arms and never will be, who spurn my films and my reverent heralding of captivating and inclusive female bodies  here in the divided, fallen world— even when I triumphantly, as the LA Times smugly headlined in its article about me, Start the cameras rolling. 

            My mighty cameras. 

            Behind my pointing cameras I am being viewed too, consumed, just like my exacting

and enabled women.  The camera is draped over me, like a warm coat, or a cord of semen, comforting me, showing us all our own loathsome but soon-to-be corrected separation.  Like the leaping lens, my appreciation leaps out from me, catching on their skin, a new woman's skin, to incite her to view and be viewed.  It's our only hope as our gestures, our motions here on the set, urge the world onward, and we believe we are included in it now.