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kt1018 · 4 months ago

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Not Looking for a Hero.

Part two.

MASTERLIST

If you haven’t read Part One - please go back and read for context. This is a SLOW BURN. Part One enters you into the story. Here in Part Two it is very much story building for background and relationships history. That is why it might be a bit obnoxiously long :)

After this we’ll be able to get into more development of Rafe and Reader.

Warnings : Language and references to cheating. Very light sexual discussion. Drinking and drugs. Mentions of death and loss.

This is Rafe Cameron x Y/N (female) Reader 18+

Your room was up in the renovated attic space, so the tree cover around your windows allowed for some late mornings. You slept in as long as you could before the sun hit you in bed.

You needed that today.

Being on the top floor allowed for some peace and quiet from the usually loud house below.

You and your four brothers lived in your childhood home right on the marsh. It was the safest place you could be. A little separate from everything else. As if it was a world all to yourselves.

Your dad hadn’t been in the picture since right before your younger brother was born, even then you wouldn’t have considered him there to begin with.

Then, your mom. She passed away 5 years ago and your eldest brother Aaron, 20 at the time, took guardianship of the younger siblings.

None of you wanted to be separated.

None of you wanted to lose the house.

Lose that world.

So you stuck together.

In spite of the terrible circumstance that had you there, the five of you functioned like a well oiled machine. The house was taken care of by your mom and money from her allowed for you all to keep it running. It helped relieve any added stress that would have usually come with that kind of loss.

Aaron had taken over the fishing and charter business your mother’s parents had built in OBX over two decades ago. ‘OBX Family Charters’ brought in money that took care of all the extras for your family. It was one of the leading distributors to local businesses and a hit with tourists.

Successful enough to keep you in this middle ground between Kook and Pouge.

The twins, Jack and Isaac, now help run the day to day operations. You and the youngest, Danny, help out when you can. Your older brothers do make it a point for Danny to enjoy being a kid and for you to appreciate your final free summer without too many responsibilities.

You were tossing a little, fighting the unwanted urge to wake up, when there was a light knock on your door.

“Y/N? You awake?” You heard your younger brother mumble from the stairway.

“Yeah Dan. Come in.” You turned on your side to face the door as he entered holding a cup of coffee in a peace offering gesture.

Smiling, you pat the side of the bed and scoot over to make some room. Danny placed the cup on your side table and filled the newly empty space, laying on his opposite side to face you.

He studied your face over as if he knew everything just from looking. Danny was probably your best friend and he always knew when something was bothering you.

“You strolled in pretty late last night. Did Elliot drop you off?” His brow creased as if he already knew the answer and expected you to lie.

You could tell too. “No.” You sigh. “Elliot did not drop me off.”

An awkward pause settled between you two.

Danny’s eyes rolled heavily from one side to the other. “Are we going to play 20 questions to get to the end? Because you know I will. I’ve got all day. OR… you could just tell me what happened and why you hopped out of Rafe Cameron’s truck at almost 3 in the morning.” He placed his hands under the side of his face like he did when he was younger, begging for a story.

You sigh again and roll onto your back to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t really want to get into it right now Danny I-.”

“Ah ah. What better way to process than to tell your brother? Take advantage now, it’s early so my empathy tank is still full.” He nudged your shoulder before putting his hand back under his cheek.

You exhaled as much air as you could hoping to deflate or disappear. You couldn’t deny he was right. Talking about things with him, well more at him because he’s 15, always did help in the end. You were going to have to start talking about it at some point, it wasn’t going away.

“Okay. Fine. Straight to the end then. I decided to go to Topper’s party and… Elliot was there…” You paused and turned back to face him to make sure you saw the full judgement that would inevitably be displayed across his face. “With another girl… getting really close, to say it nicely.” You shift your mouth to one side pausing for the audible gasps you anticipated from your audience.

Danny could tell you were waiting for a reaction, even though you knew he strongly disliked Elliot from the beginning and didn’t need to continue repeating that fact. Especially in this moment. So he chose humor instead.

“So when you saw that, you dumped a drink on him.” You shook your head no. “You slapped him in front of everyone?” Another no shake. “You screamed, caused a huge scene and now you're hiding out in this room forever to avoid further public humiliation?” A chuckle finally slipped out from you.

“No. I quietly backed up, made sure my presence was not known and scurried away like a coward.” You shrugged. Feeling like a bigger idiot saying it outloud and for not standing up for yourself, again.

“Right.” Danny nodded. “First of all, not cowardly. I can see how maybe addressing it when he clearly wasn’t in the place to make solid life choices, wasn’t the move." A malicious grin spread over his face. "Ah, now to the juicy part of the story, you ending up with Rafe Cameron?”

Your eyes switch over to the chair across the room. Rafe’s sweatshirt was hanging over the back. You think about how he just offered it up without you needing to ask. A smile comes and goes before you start talking again.

“My phone died and I started to walk home. Rafe happened to be the first person to drive by. He offered me a ride and I took it.” You say casually as you sit up, reaching over Danny to grab the cooled down coffee.

He looked up at you as you sipped. “Well that was decent of him. Wouldn’t want you ending up like someone on one of Isaac’s TV shows.”

“My thoughts exactly and mainly why I said yes.” You continued drinking.

Sitting up, he patted your blanket covered leg. “Don’t hide away in here all weekend, okay? That douche doesn’t deserve you wasting any more of your time on him. I know you liked him and it hurts. But I don’t want you spending more on him than he did on you throughout this whole relationship okay?” He looked over at you with concern. “If you want to talk more I’m here. Just promise you won’t isolate yourself.”

You leaned over and hugged him with your free arm. “Thanks. I promise I won’t. I’m going to Carter’s house soon. But thank you for checking on me.”

You push his shoulder so he moves his way off the bed and towards the door. “Had to. Who knows how long you would’ve laid here if no one came up.” He sarcastically chuckles.

“Oh spare me.” You toss one of your pillows in his direction.

Danny laughs dodging it, walking out the door “Love you too.” He shuts the door behind him.

Alone with your thoughts again. You run your index finger along the rim of your mug. Your brain is bouncing all over the place thinking of what to do.

Not what you ultimately have to do.

You have to end it officially for yourself. Elliot is clearly over it.

Just how.

Do you ask him to meet?

Or just send the I’m done text and avoid dragging this on?

You always thought the idea of ending things through a text was a low move. However, Elliot sure went lower than you expected.

You put your mug down and pulled your phone from the charger. It was still off from the night before. You held your breath and the power button at the same time, not knowing how much would pop up once it turned on.

Or worse, what wouldn’t.

You toss it on your mattress while it powered on and went to the bathroom. You did your morning skin and hair routine before heading back to see what waited for you.

A mixture of hurt and realization flooded over you.

There was nothing from Elliot.

Maybe staying quiet was just the way to go with him. Opening that door so he could have the chance to comment back would probably just infuriate you more.

Topper had texted asking if you had been at the party because some people swore they saw you at one point. You’ll get back to him later.

There was a missed call from Ruthie, that would continue to go unresponded to. She definitely just wanted to rub your nose in this a bit more. You never really got along with her from the start. When Topper ended things with her, she didn’t take you staying friends with him very well.

Your sibling group chat had a few messages back and forth. Nothing that required immediate attention.

Lastly, there was one from Rafe.

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

“Figured I’d follow up with my first hitchhiker. If you were to give a review… 5 stars?”

You smirk slightly. “2. Maybe 3 tops.”

The chat bubbles immediately popped up on his end. “Ouch. I thought there would be some extra points at least for the after hours and the complimentary sweatshirt services.”

The smirk grew into a smile now. “Those extra points were already factored in ;)”

Again his chat bubble immediately showed and it gave you a flutter you couldn’t control. “I see the sass is still intact. That’s a good sign.”

“No one can take my sass away. That’s engraved into my bones.”

A second text from him came through before you had a chance to hit send on yours. “Seriously tho. You should make sure to order a ride next time before ending up alone in the dark like that.”

“So… is this you offering unlimited pick ups?”

“I would but I don’t want you thinking I’m out here trying to be your personal hero or anything. Maybe a real rideshare next time.”

“Giving up the rescuer life so easily? :) Well my phone died and I needed to escape quickly. Options were limited.”

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

You sat there tapping the side of your phone watching for his text bubble, anticipating another buzz.

Nothing.

After a minute you got up and decided waiting for another guy was not going to be how you spent today of all days.

You grab your bag and you slip on a pair of sandals that were sitting on the top landing of the stairs right outside your door.

Once you got downstairs, you found Danny and Isaac sitting in the living room watching some crime show.

“Hello gentlemen.” You plop down on the sofa next to Isaac and lean your head on his shoulder.

“You know I don’t understand. Every episode shows how these people make these decisions that always get them into terrible situations. Such as, I don't know, death. I would never make the mistakes they’ve made.” Isaac frustratedly pointed at the TV.

You and Danny threw each other a glance and a chuckle.

“Isaac, you’re seriously blaming these people because they hadn’t previously watched 100s of hours of crime TV to ensure they didn’t become victims of whatever happened to them?” Danny said with the most confusion present in his tone.

“All I’m saying is they have unlimited access to learn from people's past mistakes and they don’t.” Isaac shrugged.

“Right.” You patted Isaac’s arm. “I’m not going to stick around for this exciting conversation. I’m headed to Carter’s. Buh bye.”

They both mumbled their goodbyes while not taking their eyes off the screen.

Your mom’s old, now off white, one bench truck sat in the driveway waiting for you. You were really the only one who used it and you preferred it that way. It sort of kept you connected to her. Something shared just between the two of you.

You had both windows down and your arm twisting in the breeze as you headed towards Carter’s house.

Carter was your closest friend, your best friend outside of your brothers, and she was one of OBX’s dubbed Kook princesses.

She never acted like it though.

Her position or wealth never altered the genuine person she was. You admired that. Especially seeing how easily she could’ve gone the other direction, like Ruthie or Elliot.

Carter was someone who took her friendships seriously. Which is why you knew going to her would help you solve your next step problem. Or at the very least distract you long enough to where you would no longer care.

When you arrived, Carter was lounging by the pool with a pitcher of drinks you were more than ready to help finish.

“Ah, there she is.” Carter sat up to pour you a glass and top off hers. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” She smiled up as she pushed your glass towards you on the table.

You let your dress slip off revealing your all white bikini. “You’ve been waiting for me, have you?” Winking as you took a seat in the lounge chair beside her.

“Oh this little world is all a buzz about Elliot Coin and his new summer fling. Figured you’d be around eventually. You okay?” She relaxed back against the chair to let you take over steering the conversation.

“I’m just feeling dumb right now.” You take a large sip of your drink and lean your head back against your chair. “I had all of these moments over the last few months and ignored them instead of doing something about it. Now I’m here.”

Carter got visibly annoyed. “Hey. Not going to happen. We’re not going to sit here and stir up some ridiculous reason that this is your fault. It’s not. No matter what signals you think you ignored, that does not excuse the shit he’s pulled.”

You attempt a believable smirk in response. “I just can’t believe myself. I should’ve listened and ended this a long time ago. Now I don’t even know how to go about that.”

“First step is to finish these margaritas with me. Then we’re going to go find something to do to enjoy this beautiful day." Carter waved her hands as if she was presenting the world to you. "Whatever you want. Surfing and a beach hang maybe? If and only if you’re feeling better, then we’ll think more about that little shit and what to do. My opinion is silence is the best response. Men HATE when they don’t get to feed off of an emotional response.” She raises her glass and you match.

“I knew you’d be the right one to help with this. My thoughts are just too all over the place.” You giggle and take another drink. “A beach day sounds perfect.”

“It’s a plan then. Who knows, maybe we’ll find some boys worth our time there.” She finishes off her glass and pours one more.

You hold up your hand to stop and correct her. “Men. No more boys. I’m not wasting time on someone else who doesn’t know what they want or how to treat me. Or fucks around because they think they can.”

Carter hums happily at that. “You are absolutely right.”

You finish your drinks and throw your dresses back on. You both throw your boards and supplies in the back of your truck before heading off.

Carter turns on the radio so you both can loudly and poorly sing along to one of the playlist she so proudly created. The drive was short so you didn’t get through too many songs before pulling into the beach lot.

You headed for a free spot and set up. There weren't too many people there so you were able to have some distance and privacy. Carter set the playlist up again on the portable speaker and you laid the blankets out.

You headed out into the waves right away. They weren’t too massive today, so you were in for a relaxed session.

You both hit a couple of perfect waves and are waiting for the next set before you hear some voices. Then those voices are followed by a couple of heads bobbing out towards you.

Topper and Rafe.

Your breath hitches for a moment, knowing that the subject you’ve been skillfully avoiding all morning will now be a main topic of conversation.

“Afternoon ladies.” Topper says sitting up on his board in front of you and Carter. Rafe followed. As he sat up, his eyes fixed on you. The blue in them pierced right through you. You didn’t break focus on him until Carter spoke.

“Boys.” She said side-eying you to ensure you picked up on the joke. You did and it gained a feathered giggle from you.

“How’s it been out here?” Rafe threw out casually. He floated closer to your side.

“Not too bad. Low swells. Not a lot of speed. Should be easy for you to handle.” You sarcastically tossed in his direction.

“Well baby if you can handle it, so can I.” He tapped your knee before turning away. You roll your eyes as Rafe lays on his board to set up for the next oncoming wave. He turned back with a wink before paddling into.

You smile without thinking and immediately feel flush.

No.

You are not going to fall into the Rafe Cameron trap. He knew what was going on with you and he was most likely only looking to take advantage of that.

You weren’t going to allow that.

“So…” Topper starts. “...last night was interesting.” He pauses, not looking directly at you.

You’ve been rolling your eyes so much today, you’re not sure they won’t fall out of your head soon. “I really don’t want to talk about this here Top.”

“I’m sorry. I just feel partly responsible, you know. He’s my cousin.” Topper lowered his head in what appeared to be embarrassment.

“Topper, what Elliot does is not your fault. It’s not my fault either. You and I… we’re good.” You try to convince not only him but yourself. It truly isn’t either of your faults. You just do not want to discuss this.

“I just want you to know I do not support what he did and I lost it on him when I saw. I’m just sorry Y/N.” Topper smiled nervously waiting for you to respond.

“Don’t do anything on my behalf. But I do appreciate it, Top. Again we’re fine. Let’s just hang and enjoy the day okay?” You smile more convincingly this time.

“All for that Y/N.” He smiled, setting up for his own wave. Leaving you and Carter alone again briefly.

“Well at least that potential awkward moment is over and wasn’t too painful.” She sent a little splash in your direction.

You send one back and a full true smile spreads across your face. It was a feeling of relief to have that part over and know that your friendships won’t be hurt because of it all.

Carter heads off on another wave and you’re alone. You lift your face to meet the warmth of the sun. You sat there with your eyes closed for what felt like forever when Rafe’s voice brought you back.

“You out here to surf or tan princess?” He pulls up right next to you. Close enough that your knees almost brush and you could feel the hair on your arms stand up.

You brought your face down to meet his eyes and stopped again at the sight of how bright the blue of his eyes looked reflecting the water. You didn’t realize how long you were speechless until Rafe’s brow started to tighten.

You snap back into the moment. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he responds quickly.

"That princess crap. I've watched you use that name on girls too many times. Don't pull that with me." He laughs and you scowl.

Rafe moved a little close to reach over to you and brushed something from your cheek. You froze at his touch. After a moment Rafe cleared his throat. "Are you still there?"

You side eye him to hopefully deter him from realizing why you paused for so long. You didn’t need to add to his already overly grown ego. "I was just giving you the opportunity to take another wave and catch up. But if you’re looking to take it easy.” You shrug at him and take the next wave to remove yourself quickly. No need to further embarrass yourself.

You can hear Rafe chuckle as you leave.

You decide stop after that one and head back to the blankets. Carter and Topper were already cracking open some beers.

Topper opens an extra and holds it up to you. “For you my lady.” He’s being overly nice and you hope it’ll stop soon.

“Okay don’t over do it now.” You laugh and take a seat on the other side of Carter, leaning back on your elbows.

“You guys up for doing anything later?” Topper throws out after a brief silence. “We should find something. Or we can all just chill at my house?”

You hesitate to answer. You and Carter share a look. Topper’s house is also where Elliot is staying. “I’m not really sure that’s a great idea Top.”

“What’s not a great idea?” Rafe is setting down his board before crawling down onto the blanket right in front of you. Leaning on his left arm, his face was now sitting very close to your bent legs. Too close. You lower them to stretch out past him, giving you some space.

Carter cuts in as she’s handing Rafe a beer. “Topper suggested we hang at his house tonight but with recent events…” She paused, glancing to you.

You keep your eyes down as you pick at the label on your beer bottle.

Rafe takes a swig from his beer and licks his bottom lip. He looked up to you, seeing you still not looking up. “Why don’t we go out on my boat instead? I know a spot where it's chill to anchor and stay a night or two.”

You look up now and glance to Carter and she’s already staring back at you. It’s clear her answer will follow whatever you want to do.

“Well…” You pause. Looking around again, all three of them are staring at you now. “Oh wow okay. I guess it could be fun. Sure.” They all start smiling.

Topper lifts up his beer. “Hell yeah. Let’s party people.” You and Carter reluctantly cheers to that. Rafe does not participate.

Carter pushes Topper's forehead to knock him back. “Please stop.”

You all start laughing and you peek over at Rafe, whose eyes are again locked on you. You mouth thank you to him, he returns with a nod and a smile.

“Okay my darling it’s almost 3. If we’re going to be out all night we need to go home and prepare.” Carter finishes her beer and throws her dress over her head. “Y/N, let’s get going.” She curls her pointer finger calling you to get up.

“Yes ma’am.” You finish your drink and throw your dress on too. Topper and Rafe stand up to help you guys pick up your stuff so you can head out.

Topper is walking ahead of you with Carter as she rattles off a list of things she is going to bring. You smile knowing she’ll most likely forget one or five things from said list.

“You know…” Rafe’s voice again snaps through your thoughts. “If you want I can grab you on the way to the marina?”

“Trying to get another shot at a better review?” You shove him a little with your shoulder and it knocks him a little harder than you anticipated.

“Woah! Easy there. I’ll take back my offer.” He laughs, regaining his balance.

You decide to play in, you know he’s not serious. “Oh but please sir. However will I get there?” You close your eyes and place the back of your hand against your forehead in a distressed way.

There’s no response, so you slowly open your right eye. Rafe’s still walking beside you but he’s rubbing his thumb and index finger along his chin. You open both eyes now and shoot an unimpressed look at him. “Really?” You say dryly.

“Just trying to decide if it would be worth stopping for you and your attitude.” He dropped his hand and shrugged. “Nah.” He glances left at you with a full size grin plastered across his face.

Without knowing you start blushing from being locked into his smile and you have to turn your head quickly to avoid him noticing.

“Fine.” You say now facing the brush. “I can fend for myself.” You don’t turn back to him, but you can feel him still staring.

Before another exchange you all exit the path to the parking lot.

Topper’s jeep was parked next to your truck so you all toss your things into your respective cars.

You can see out of the corner of your eye Rafe still slightly grinning, that caused more blushing in your face.

“So we’ll see you guys at 5? Head out of the dock from there?” Topper was standing on the driver’s side door frame talking over the roof of his car.

Carter paused getting into your truck and leaned on the bed. “Sounds good to me. Y/N?”

“Works for me too.” You say as you open your driver’s door. You move back a bit to allow the door to pass in front of you.

That’s when you felt Rafe right behind you and he leaned down slightly to whisper in your ear. “And I’ll get you at 4:30.”

The flush in your cheeks deepend. “I don't think I said yes to your offer.”

You look up to meet his eyes and he grabs your door while you climb in. Once you are fully in your seat, Rafe closes the door for you and leans in through the window.

"4:30." He said again before hopping in Topper’s car.

They pull away first as you start your truck.

“What. The hell. Was that?” Carter said with a mixture of shock and intrigue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You say avoiding her gaze and throwing the car in reverse.

“Bullshit. Your face is still red.” Crossing her arm, you knew she wasn’t going to drop it.

“He just offered to pick me up. I’m on his way.” You pass off casually.

“That’s what caused you to turn into a tomato? He had to have said something else to you.” Clearly Carter was not convinced.

“I’m red because it’s like 90 outside. And he didn’t say anything to me. We're usually bickering, he’s being nicer today. Though it is starting to feel a little too nice. I can't tell if it's pity or he wants to hook up.” You nod to yourself.

“If you say so. Just be careful. Once Rafe gets under your skin I hear it’s hard to get him out.” Carter giggled at the thought.

“He is not getting anywhere near or under my skin, Carter. Drop it.” You said firmly, you were done with this conversation. Thankfully, you were pulling into her driveway.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know shits weird right now. I just want you to be careful. He is easy on the eyes, but don't forget he is also Rafe Cameron." She leaned her head on the headrest looking over at you. “Are you sure you’ll have a good time tonight? We don’t have to go.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I want to try and have fun.” You rest your head back too and face towards her. “I promise. Remember, men who know what they want. We know Rafe doesn't. Everything will be fine.” You put on the biggest, cheesiest smile you can make.

Carter mimics you. “Okie doke. I’ll see you later then.” She leaned across and kissed your cheek. Then grabbed all of her stuff and once she was inside you headed home.

All four of your brothers were downstairs when you walked in. Danny was helping Jack make food in the kitchen. Aaron was in the living room arguing with Isaac about what to watch on TV.

You smiled at the sight.

“Y/N!” Jack shouted from across the room. “You home for the night? Want some of this food?”

“I’m home for a little bit. Going out on a friend's boat overnight, maybe for the weekend. If it’s done soon I’ll take some?” You head towards the staircase.

“Oh fancy, a boat trip. Sounds fun.” Aaron said without looking up.

“Who’s boat?” Danny asked again with his usual inquisitive tone.

You pause and turn back to him. “Rafe’s.” All four of them snap their heads at you. Your eyes roll again. You know the insinuation their faces were implying. “I’m not going alone. There’s going to be a few of us out there. Relax.”

This time you take advantage and escape upstairs and avoid further questions.

You grab a duffle bag and start packing some things you’ll need for the weekend.

Toiletries.

Bathing suits.

Large shirt to sleep in.

Clothes for the next few days.

A book for the morning, just in case you can’t sleep in.

You double check to make sure you don’t need anything else packed before hopping in for a quick shower to rinse the beach off.

Once you’re dry you throw on a pair of jean shorts and a black strapless top. You decide to let your hair air dry. It naturally gives off blonde beach waves and seems easier for the activity ahead.

You take a look at your phone for the time and see it’s almost 4:30. So you pick up your bag, as you’re heading downstairs you grab your white slides and a sweatshirt from the stair landing.

You join Jack in the kitchen. Danny had abandoned the cause and moved in on the video game the other two seemed to have compromised on.

“There she is.” Jack said with a calming smile. “Hungry?”

You shake your head no, while taking a cucumber out of the salad. “Not really.” You scrunch your nose in a teasing way as you take another cucumber. He threw a dish towel in retort.

“You doing alright?” His tone shifted to serious concern.

“I think so. For now at least. Today was a good distraction. I think it’ll be easy to get past this in a way. It’s been sorta building up to this for a while .” You shrug, taking a seat on a stool across the island from him.

Jack points the knife he was cutting with in your direction. “That’s good. That little shit is lucky we don’t go find him.”

“Alright, relax. He is not worth it.” There’s a knock at the front door, but you don’t fully acknowledge it. “I think I’m going the ignore him route."

“Ah classic.” Jack said with light applause.

“Ignoring who?” Rafe questioned walking into the kitchen. One of your brothers must have let him in. You’re thrown off at the sight. Rafe has never been in your house before and he’s strolling in like he’s done it a hundred times.

“That Coin prick.” Jack said without knowing how much that would piss you off.

“Jack.” You say quietly but firm and Jack shrugged in response.

Rafe picked up on the tension and just nodded in agreement. “You ready to go?” He put his hand on your bag. “This yours?” His eyes again, found yours.

“Yes?” You smile awkwardly.

This was awkward. He was being too nice.

Rafe picks up the duffle bag, says goodbye to Jack and your other brothers in the living room as he makes his way out the front door.

You make an inquisitive face at Jack and he laughs back at you.

Slowly standing you can feel the frustration boiling in your chest. You round the counter to hug Jack goodbye. “Have fun and be smart.” He says as he kisses the top of your head.

“I will. Love you.” You head towards the door, making sure you say bye to the others as you pass.

The front door snaps shut and you turn to see Rafe opening the passenger door for you.

Okay. You’ve had enough.

“Alright Rafe Cameron, I am only going to say this once.” You move across the lawn to him and his truck, almost at a charge. You square off with him, trying to look serious. Which was hard because you’re about 5’5” and he stood at about 6’2”.

He towered over you with a confused expression.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to do. I however, am not interested in whatever it is.” You stare up at him.

Rafe smiles and moves the slightest bit closer to you. “I’m confused. What do you think I’m doing?” His right hand moves up and tucks a strand of your hair behind your left ear. His fingers lingered a bit longer, twisting the ends of your hair.

You swat him away, causing him to laugh hard.

“Enough! You’ve been way too nice to me. Which under any other circumstances, with any other person wouldn’t be concerning. But you. You’ve never been this nice to me before today. So just stop.” Your voice cracks a little.

You falter a bit having said that outloud.

You push by him to get in the truck. Once in the seat, you stare straight ahead. “So please. Stop treating me like this. I don’t know what you want. If you feel bad for me. If you’re trying to take advantage of the situation. I don’t care Rafe. Just stop acting in this fake, kind way. It’s frustrating.” You take a deep breath and stop. “I just want things to be normal.”

Rafe clicks his tongue and slowly moves to shut the door for you. Climbing into the front seat, he sticks the key in the ignition and sits there.

You can see that he’s working through the light verbal lashing you just gave him.

Finally, he sighs.

You can’t tell what tone it’s in yet.

Not until he starts talking. “First. I don’t feel sorry for you. You and Elliot? That was fucked. But I’m not sorry for you. People do fucked up shit all the time. You’ll live.” He turns to you and you’re not sure how to respond, so silence fills the space.

Rafe’s features lean slightly more towards annoyed before he starts again. “Last. I’m not fucking taking advantage of you. We usually bullshit around with each other. I thought today was better to be more on the friendly side. That’s my bad.” He raised his hands in surrender and you let a light smile cross your face.

He continued. “I swear I was just trying to be nice. Admittedly not my strong suit. But I was not trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”

The quiet fills the air again. You both just look at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“So... I’m sorry.” Rafe decides to try and end it.

Now you feel awful for snapping at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m just overthinking everything and reading too far into shit today.” You say hoping that it’ll lay the foundation for any possible future outbursts.

He nodded in response. Silence taking over again.

You wiggle and settle more comfortably into the seat. “Besides. You can’t blame me for being so thrown off. Opening my door and carrying my bag? A bit over the top.”

Rafe turns the key to start the truck. He throws it into drive with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll just lay on the horn next time.” He looks over to you. “Don’t want you thinking I’m trying to fuck you because I choose to knock on your door.”

Your face flushes at his choice of words. You look away from him to hide it.

It's fine now.

You drew a line.

Now it’s a matter of not crossing it.

You roll down the window more to let the breeze cool your face down. Neither of you had turned the radio on. All you could hear past the wind were the tires on the ground and the bugs chirping in the grass.

The truck slowed as Rafe turned into the marina and parked. He switched it off and hopped out.

You got out right after him and headed towards the back. Rafe reached in and only grabbed his bag. He walked by you towards the docks with a smile.

You laughed and reached in for your things. Turning, you followed his direction.

You and Rafe are the first to arrive.

He’s already on the boat by the time you’ve caught up to him and you stop on the dock to take off your shoes.

Yachting rules. The main rule, no shoes.

You toss them into the storage box as you hop on. Dropping your bag next to it.

The floor feels cool on your bare feet.

You’ve been on the Cameron boat once before for a party. It’s a lot cleaner this time.

Less bodies on bodies everywhere. Empties and discarded trash aren’t scattered around.

It’s actually really nice.

Peaceful.

You move to the bow and lean on the rail, taking a deep breath, you close your eyes tight. This was your favorite time of day. Right before the sun sets. A bit before the tide starts smelling too low.

You hear the hum of the engine kick on and the rumble growing beneath your feet. You turn to look towards the upper deck where Rafe is standing by the wheel fussing with things.

You make your way inside. Walking towards the small spiral stairs and take them up. Opening the door you find Rafe facing away from you going over some sort of checklist.

“Need any help?” You ask, stepping up beside him. You run your fingers lightly across the wood of the hand carved wheel.

“Topper can help when he gets here. You don’t have to. Plus I don’t want to have to explain the steps while I’m trying to do the shit up here.” Rafe didn’t look up as he absent mindedly insulted you.

You scoffed. “Well it's a good thing I’m a little familiar with boats. If you just tell me what you want help with… you won’t have to explain a thing.” The sarcasm pours heavily out of you.

Rafe turns to you laughing. “Right. Sorry. I’m just not used to having girls around that don’t just immediately start partying once they get on the boat.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong. I will be grabbing a beer first.” You smirk and move back to the stairs. “I’ll start with unhooking the lines.” You feel Rafe’s eyes follow you as you leave.

You’re in the middle of untying when you hear Carter. “Y/N! Hey babe!” You look up to see her and Topper making their way over.

You smile and raise your beer to her. “About time!”

They both hop on, Topper heads right up to Rafe and Carter comes over to pull you into a big hug. “Sorry. I hope you weren’t here too long by yourself.” She whispered into your ear.

You pull away with a smile. “All good.”

You immediately change the subject.

“Help me finish untying? Grab that one down there and I’ll take the last one here.” Carter nods and moves to where you pointed.

Once you both finish Topper comes down and does the last few bits before signaling to Rafe that it’s good to go.

Rafe smoothly directs the boat out and away from the dock. The three of you at the bow applaud, while laughing with excitement for the evening.

Topper goes to sit on one of the couches to roll a joint.

Carter leans her head on your shoulder as you both let the wind sweep around you. She tilts her face up a little. “You good?”

You nudge her up with your shoulder. “Perfect. Please, stop asking.”

Carter spins away without responding and finds the aux cord for the sound system. Hooking up her phone she throws on another one of her playlists and starts dancing around.

She bounces over to you and throws you into a spin. The air fills with your laughter. Carter wastes no time and pulls Topper up to join you guys.

“Alright watch these moves.” He says and starts moving his hips in every direction.

You spin a few more times before you look up at Rafe and see he has his eyes set on the horizon. In that moment you feel a little bad he’s missing out.

“I’m going to go bring him a beer. I’ll be right back.” You pass between Carter and Topper. They don’t pay attention to what you said or where you’re going. The joint and the music are their main focus.

You grab two beers from the fridge and head up to the wheelhouse. You knock as you open the door, so as not to startle him.

“Hey.” You go stand beside him again and hold the beer towards him.

He looks at the beer and then up to you. “Thanks.” Taking it, he immediately takes a swig.

You take a seat in the captain’s chair to the right of him, sipping from your own drink. You close your eyes again to take a deep breath inhaling the salty air and allowing a huge grin to spread.

Rafe turns to look at you and he reacts with his own smile that’s still there when you open your eyes.

“What?” You say with a light defensive tone.

“Nothing.” Rafe responds coily. “You’re just really enjoying the sea air huh?” He laughs. Which causes you to laugh in turn.

“I am, thank you very much.” You scrunch your nose in his direction. “No, just being out here. Especially at this time of day. It’s my favorite place to be.” You turn to look out the right side of the windows, still foolishly smiling. “I could do this every day.” You take another sip.

Rafe turns back to look at you a few times in between checking the boat's direction.

You turn to him and catch his gaze one of those times. Again you’re frozen from the blue in his eyes looking right at you.

You can tell he sees you falter this time by the smile that gets bigger on his face.

“Come here.” He says, not breaking eye contact.

Your breath catches at the unexpected command.

“No.” You say sitting up straighter.

Rafe licks his lips over the smile that remains in place. Then biting his lower lip, as if he enjoyed your refusal, he turned away. He checked on the direction of the boat again then looked back at you.

“Come. Here.” A bit more firm this time.

You were, without a doubt, beet red at this point. There was no way to hide it from him. “For what?” You’re going to at least put up a fight, even if your face was betraying you.

Rafe’s tongue pressed into the side of his cheek. A airy chuckle escapes him. “If you come over here I can show you.”

You twist your head up in an attempt of resistance. You finish off your beer and place it in the table cup holder. Holding your stare with his, you stand up from the chair and move over to him.

Once he can reach you, Rafe guides you by the waist with both of his hands. He places you in between him and the wheel. Then presses himself directly behind you.

Reaching around with his right hand, he laid his thumb and index finger gently on your chin.

Your breath stops.

Rafe turns your head a little to the left, past the front of the boat. He turns his head closer to your temple. “Keep your eyes there.”

You lean your body back into him, but you do as he says. Keeping your sight where his hand had placed you.

Rafe takes his hand away from your face to make changes to some of the switches in front of you.

Your teeth find your lower lip as you bite down. Not knowing what to expect.

Once he was done ensuring the boat was all set, Rafe’s hand then moves back down to your hip. It matched his other hand that had been resting on your opposite side.

“Here it comes.” He whispers, his lips brushing against the side of your face.

Within moments the sky began to turn various shades of oranges and pinks. Brighter than you’ve seen in a long time. Being this far out on the water left no obstructions to the view. The sky's reflection was also showing in the water. The colors were all around you.

“Rafe.” You barely whisper his name. You feel him look away from the sky and down to you. “It’s so beautiful.” You bring your fingers to your lower lip as you gasp.

You can feel his chest move with a deep breath. His face, still looking down at you. “I know.”

You bite down harder on your lip this time. Not crossing that line might be harder than you thought.

Part One - Part Three

#rafe fanfiction #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #fan edit #drew starkey #obx #outer banks #outerbanks rafe #not looking for a hero

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dailyanarchistposts · 3 months ago

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II. The Illusion of Love

Capitalism is not wicked or cruel when the commodity is the whore; profit is not wicked or cruel when the alienated worker is a female piece of meat; corporate bloodsucking is not wicked or cruel when the corporations in question, organized crime syndicates, sell cunt; racism is not wicked or cruel when the black cunt or yellow cunt or red cunt or Hispanic cunt or Jewish cunt has her legs splayed for any man’s pleasure; poverty is not wicked or cruel when it is the poverty of dispossessed women who have only themselves to sell; violence by the powerful against the powerless is not wicked or cruel when it is called sex; slavery is not wicked or cruel when it is sexual slavery; torture is not wicked or cruel when the tormented are women, whores, cunts. The new pornography is left-wing; and the new pornography is a vast graveyard where the Left has gone to die. The Left cannot have its whores and its politics too. —ANDREA DWORKIN, Pornography: Men Possessing Women

THE PINK CROSS BOOTH has a table of anti-porn tracts and is set up in the far corner of the Sands Expo convention center in Las Vegas. It is an unlikely participant at the annual Adult Video News (AVN) expo. Pink Cross is a Christian outreach program for women in the porn industry, run by ex-porn star Shelley Lubben.

In a convention exalting the pornography industry, Lubben’s table is not overrun with visitors, most of whom are male and middle-aged with cameras around their necks. The few men who make it to the far corner of the convention center look curiously at its pink banner and walk past. The expo is filled with more alluring fare. There are numerous booths for porn producers and distributors, many with women in tiny skirts and bras who, often clinging to stripper poles, gyrate and bend over and spread their legs for groups of men. They simulate masturbation and flash their breasts for crowds of onlookers. Huge banners hang from the ceiling promoting new releases such as Anal Buffet, Fetish Fuck Dolls, Gangbang My Face 3, Fuck Slaves 3, Milk Nymphos 2, and Slutty and Sluttier 6.

A local escort service, VegasGirls, has a booth about a hundred feet from Pink Cross. There is a homemade wooden wheel with a flipper that looks like a middle-school shop project on its table. Those who spin the wheel can get various discounts or even a free visit by a “stripper” to their hotel room. Small, glossy cards are fanned out on the table, showing women in evocative poses and not much clothing, all with a first name, the agency’s phone number, and the phrase actual photo emblazoned on the side of the card.

“You want to take a picture of my boobs, then you have to take my card,” a woman in front of the booth tells a camera-wielding, middle-aged man.

“If I call this number, is it you who will come?” he asks.

“Here, baby,” she says, giving him the card. “I will come.”

Many of the booths at the Sands Expo feature well-known porn stars. There are long lines of men waiting for a signed photo and the chance to have a picture with stars from the Wicked Pictures studio, including Kaylani Lei, Kirsten Price, and Jessica Drake. The men usually wrap their arms around the women for the photo, always taken by a friend or someone in line. As they hug the women’s waists, the women sometimes playfully grab the man’s crotch or lick their lips. Huge plasma screens placed in the booths run nonstop porn, often featuring the stars having anal sex with multiple partners or giving blow jobs. The sheer volume of porn blasted throughout the convention floor by the sea of giant screens becomes, very quickly, numbing.

The porn films are not about sex. Sex is airbrushed and digitally washed out of the films. There is no acting because none of the women are permitted to have what amounts to a personality. The one emotion they are allowed to display is an unquenchable desire to satisfy men, especially if that desire involves the women’s physical and emotional degradation. The lighting in the films is harsh and clinical. Pubic hair is shaved off to give the women the look of young girls or rubber dolls. Porn, which advertises itself as sex, is a bizarre, bleached pantomime of sex. The acts onscreen are beyond human endurance. The scenarios are absurd. The manicured and groomed bodies, the huge artificial breasts, the pouting, oversized lips, the erections that never go down, and the sculpted bodies are unreal. Makeup and production mask blemishes. There are no beads of sweat, no wrinkle lines, no human imperfections. Sex is reduced to a narrow spectrum of sterilized dimensions. It does not include the dank smell of human bodies, the thump of a pulse, taste, breath—or tenderness. Those in the films are puppets, packaged female commodities. They have no honest emotions, are devoid of authentic human beauty, and resemble plastic. Pornography does not promote sex, if one defines sex as a shared act between two partners. It promotes masturbation. It promotes the solitary auto-arousal that precludes intimacy and love. Pornography is about getting yourself off at someone else’s expense.

“I was addicted to porn for two years,” says Scott Smith, twenty-nine, from Cleveland, Tennessee, who is at the Pink Cross booth. He first watched Internet porn as a college student.

“I started out once a day, usually at night, when my roommate wasn’t there,” Smith says. “You try and hide it. Then I started watching it several times a day. I would only watch it long enough to masturbate. I never got why they make these long features since I would always turn it off when I was done.”

Smith says the images crippled his ability to be intimate. He could not distinguish between the fantasy of porn and the reality of relationships. “Porn messes with the way you think of women,” he says. “You want the women you are with to be like the women in porn. I was scared to get involved in a relationship. I did not know how extensive the damage was. I did not want to hurt anyone. I kept away from women.”

There are some 13,000 porn films made every year in the United States, most in the San Fernando Valley in California. According to the Internet Filter Review, worldwide porn revenues, including in-room movies at hotels, sex clubs, and the ever-expanding e-sex world, topped $97 billion in 2006. That is more than the revenues of Microsoft, Google, Amazon, eBay, Yahoo!, Apple, Netflix, and EarthLink combined. Annual sales in the United States are estimated at $10 billion or higher. There is no precise monitoring of the porn industry. And porn is very lucrative to some of the nation’s largest corporations. General Motors owns DIRECTV, which distributes more than 40 million streams of porn into American homes every month. AT&T Broadband and Comcast Cable are currently the biggest American companies accommodating porn users with the Hot Network, Adult Pay Per View, and similarly themed services. AT&T and GM rake in approximately 80 percent of all porn dollars spent by consumers.

The largest users of Internet porn are between the ages of twelve and seventeen. And porn producers increasingly target adolescents. “The age demographic has moved downwards, especially in the UK and Europe,” explained Steve Honest, the European director of production for Bluebird Films. “Porn is the new rock and roll. Young people and women are embracing porn and making purchases. Porn targets the mid-teens to the mid-twenties and up.”

Patrice Roldan, twenty-six, with black hair and a loose-fitting purple and black potato sack dress, is standing next to the Pink Cross table. Roldan, whose screen name was Nadia Styles, made her last porn film in November 2008. She starred in nearly two hundred films, including Lord of Asses, Anal Girls Next Door, Monster Cock Fuckfest 9, Deep Throat Anal, Trophy Whores, and Young Dumb & Covered in Cum. She is five feet, five inches, 110 pounds, and wears a black scarf around her neck, black knitted stockings with knee-high black socks, and flat, black shoes. Her outfit seems calculated to be exactly what a porn star should never wear in public. She looks like a schoolteacher.

Roldan, like many of the women who drift into the porn and prostitution industry, had a difficult and troubled childhood, including a physically abusive mother. Her mother threw her out of her home when she was seventeen, and she spent time in homeless shelters. She answered an ad in LA Weekly that offered women $1,000 as models. This is a common doorway into the porn industry. She started appearing in Internet porn. She had a boyfriend when she began filming and tells me she “felt guilty” about hiding her porn sessions from him, but the money was good. Her boyfriend eventually found out, and their relationship descended into one increasingly characterized by verbal and physical abuse. She drifted from the Internet into films. She was nineteen when she made her first film.

“Doing a movie shoot was a different experience,” she says as we sit in two folding chairs across from the Pink Cross booth. “I made my first film with New Sensations [adult video studio]. I got makeup. There was a set and cameramen all around. I thought it was glamorous to have my makeup done, to have pictures taken of me. That was a regular boy-girl shoot. At that point, I was just trying to survive.”

She had been promised $1,000 for her first film. She was handed $600 when the scene was done. She also contracted gonorrhea. Porn stars are tested for HIV and sexually transmitted diseases once a month, but “people do so many scenes between tests that a month is a long time.” She began, once she had treated her gonorrhea, to do films three or four times a month. She would have several more bouts with gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases during her career. She got pregnant and had an abortion. The demands on her began to escalate. She was filmed with multiple partners. Her scenes became “extremely rough. They would pull my hair, slap me around like a rag doll.”

“The next day my whole body would ache,” she recalls. “It happened a lot, the aching. It used to be that only a few stars, people like Linda Lovelace, would once do things like anal. Now it is expected.”

She became a staple in “gonzo” porn films. Gonzo movies are usually filmed in a house or hotel room. They are porn verité. The performers often acknowledge the camera and speak to it. Gonzo films push the boundaries of porn and often include a lot of violence, physical abuse, and a huge number of partners in succession. According to the magazine Adult Video News, “Gonzo, non-feature fare is the overwhelmingly dominant porn genre since it’s less expensive to produce than plot-oriented features, but just as importantly, is the fare of choice for the solo stroking consumer who merely wants to cut to the chase, get off on the good stuff, then, if they really wanna catch some acting, plot, and dialog, pop in the latest Netflix disc.”[36]

Roldan would endure numerous anal penetrations by various men in a shoot, most of them “super-rough.” She would have one man in her anus and one in her vagina while she gave a blow job to a third man. The men would ejaculate on her face. She was repeatedly “face-fucked,” with men forcing their cocks violently in and out of her mouth. She did what in industry shorthand is called “ATM,” ass-to-mouth, where a man pulls his penis from her anus and puts it directly in her mouth.

As she talks of her career in porn, her eyes take on a dead, faraway look. Her breathing becomes more rapid. She slips into a flat, numbing monotone. The symptoms are ones I know well from interviewing victims of atrocities in war who battle post-traumatic stress disorder.

“What you are describing is trauma,” I say.

“Yes,” she answers quietly.

Shelley Lubben, who also worked as a porn actress, agrees.

“You have to do what they want on the sets,” she says. “There’s too much competition. They can always find other girls. Girls bring in their friends and get kickbacks. They feel like stars. They get attention. It’s all about the spotlight. It’s all about me. They have notoriety. They don’t realize the degradation. Besides, this is a whole generation raised on porn. They’re jaded and don’t even ask if it is wrong. They fall into it. They get into drugs to numb themselves. They get their asses ripped. Their uterus hemorrhages. They get HPV and herpes, and they turn themselves off emotionally and die. They check out mentally. They get PTSD like Vietnam vets. They don’t know who they are. They live a life of shopping and drugs. They don’t buy real estate. They party, and in the end they have nothing to show for it except, like me, genital herpes and fake boobs.”

“Porn is like any other addiction,” Lubben says. “First, you are curious. Then you need harder and harder drugs to get off. You need gang bangs and bestiality and child porn. Porn gets grosser and grosser. We never did ass-to-mouth when I was in the industry. Now you get an award for it. And meanwhile the addicts make their wives feel like they can’t live up to the illusion of the porn star. The addict asks, ‘Why can’t she give blow jobs like a porn star?’ He wants what isn’t real. Porn destroys intimacy. I can always tell if a man is a porn addict. They’re shut down. They can’t look me in the eyes. They can’t be intimate.”

“When legal and social mores first changed and porn went mainstream in the 1970s, there was a standard sexual script, which included oral and vaginal sex, with anal sex relatively rare, ending with the ‘money’ or ‘come’ shot, where the man ejaculated onto the body of the woman,” Robert Jensen, the author of Getting Off: Pornography and the End of Masculinity, tells me over breakfast one Saturday morning at my home in Princeton. “But once there were thousands of porn films on the market, the porn industry had to expand that script to expand profits. It had to find new emotional thrills. It could have explored intimacy, love, the connection between two people, but this was not what appealed to the largely male audience. Instead, the industry focused on greater male control and cruelty. This started in the 1980s, with anal sex as a way for men to dominate women. It has descended to multiple penetrations, double anals, gagging, and other forms of physical and psychological degradation.

“What does it say about our culture that cruelty is so easy to market?” Jensen asks. “What is the difference between glorifying violence in war and glorifying the violence of sexual domination? I think that the reason porn is so difficult for so many people to discuss is not that it is about sex—our culture is saturated in sex. The reason it is difficult is that porn exposes something very uncomfortable about us. We accept a culture flooded with images of women who are sexual commodities. Increasingly, women in pornography are not people having sex but bodies upon which sexual activities of increasing cruelty are played out. And many men—maybe a majority of men—like it.”

The cruelty takes a toll on the bodies, as well as the emotions, of porn actresses. Many suffer severe repeated vaginal and anal tears that require surgery. And there are some women porn stars, such as Jenna Jameson, who, once they are established, refuse to do scenes with men and are filmed only with other women. But few actresses in the industry are able to achieve this kind of control. Roldan, like most of the women, did not eat on nights before she was filmed. She flushed out her system with enemas and laxatives. “I would starve myself,” she says, “so I wouldn’t have to suck on my shit. The worst was when it came out of another girl and it was not clean and you had to do it.”

“I could not go to the bathroom,” she says. “I became a vegetarian and still couldn’t go. I took enemas and laxatives. I got colonics where they would fill me up with water and flush everything out. Sometimes my butt would stay wide open for days. It was scary.”

The male stars are encouraged to be rough and hostile. Some, she says, “hated women. They would spit in my face. I was devastated the first time that happened, but I thought it was good they were rough because of my abusive relationships. I thought roughness in porn was OK. I would say, ‘Treat me like a little slut,’ or ‘I’m your bitch,’ or ‘Fuck me like a whore.’ I would say the most degrading things I could say about myself because I thought this was what it meant to be sexy and what people wanted to hear, or at least the people who buy the films. You are just a slut to those who watch. You are nothing. They want to see that we know that.”

She would shoot scenes with men who disgusted her, whose sweat and smell “made me cringe.” And when the lights went off and the cameras stopped, she would stumble off the set in pain, her face often covered with semen. “Sometimes they would hand you a paper towel to wipe your face off,” she says, “and sometimes they would say, ‘Don’t touch us. You’re gross.’ I remember the first time I had come all over my face. I was so pissed off, but I took it. I pretended to like everything they did. I took pride in being a good gonzo girl. My fame came from this.”

By the second year of shooting, with an income of $100,000, she had turned to drugs, including painkillers and muscle relaxants.

“The lifestyle of a porn star is to spend your money as soon as you make it on weed, alcohol, coke, ecstasy, and Vicodin,” Roldan says. “I wanted to be the good gonzo girl they wanted me to be. I took this so I would not feel anything. By the next year, instead of only Vicodin I began to drink vodka, a whole bottle. Every girl I knew used alcohol. We were drinking so we did not feel the pain, physically and emotionally. I remember driving home thinking, ‘I could be stopped for DWI.’”

Roldan usually socialized with other porn stars, whom she and everyone in the industry call “girls.” They often spent their days drinking. “Most are very lonely,” she says. She longed for a relationship, “but it felt weird to have a boyfriend.”

Adult video companies such as JM Productions and Extreme Associates, which includes graphic rape scenes in its array of physical abuse of women, make no attempt to hide the pain and acute discomfort endured by the women. The pain and discomfort are the major draws of the productions. JM Productions pioneered “aggressive throat-fucking” videos such as the Gag Factor series, in which women have penises pushed all the way down their throats until they gag or vomit. On the Gag Factor Web site, the producers promise “The best throat-fucking ever lensed.” It offers still shots of women being “face-fucked.” One typical description of a film begins with the standard brief summary, as if the women were criminals with a rap sheet: “Degraded On: 10/8/08. Name: Ashley Blue ... Age: twenty-five. Status: Happy? Home Town: Thousand Oaks, CA.” It shows a picture of a woman with black hair lying on her back with her eyes closed. Her face is covered with semen and a penis is buried in her throat.

“Here’s Your Retirement Party,” the description of the film reads. “As many of you will remember, for quite a long time superwhore Ashley Blue was the official JM contract whore. But like the sole of an old shoe, porn whores eventually wear out and have to be thrown away. So, our way of throwing a retirement party for Ashley was to have her head get pistonfucked one last time. Enjoy!”[37]

Las Vegas, a city built on illusions, lends itself to the celebration of porn. It is the corrupt, wilfully degenerate heart of America. It is, in Marc Cooper’s memorable phrase, The Last Honest Place in America. Las Vegas strips away the thin moral pretension and hypocrisy of consumer society to reveal its essence. The commodification of human beings, the heart of the consumer society, is garishly celebrated in Las Vegas. Here there is no past, no history, no sense of continuity, and no real community. The mammoth resorts and casinos glittering in the desert are monuments to greed and vice, even as the rest of the country crumbles under the onslaught of physical decay, shuttered stores and factories, a disintegrating infrastructure, and mounting poverty.

Las Vegas is the city of spectacle. The Treasure Island Casino has an hourly pirate battle with two clipper ships, smoke-filled cannons, and scantily clad female pirates in a fake lagoon. Tourists can visit the New York-New York Hotel & Casino and take in a replica of the city’s skyline. They can go to the Venetian, board gondolas, and be poled down indoor copies of the Venice canals by aspiring opera singers. They can watch the pathetic eruption of the belching man-made volcano and the rubberized trees in the “rain forest” of the lobby of the Mirage. They can eat in a replica of a French bistro called Mon Ami Gabi, under the shadow of a half-size copy of the Eiffel Tower.

Mon Ami Gabi, where I went one day for lunch in the forlorn hope of escaping the ugliness and noise of the Strip, has waiters in black vests, white shirts, black bow ties, and long, white aprons. But, like the rest of Las Vegas, the exotic is only a veneer. The menu offers hamburgers, sandwiches, waffles, and, in what I suppose is a concession to France, French toast. Diners at the bistro look out on Caesars Palace, where Roman statues speak, although not in Latin, in Caesar’s Forum. It is a short walk to diminished copies of the Giza pyramids at the Luxor.

Las Vegas sells a cartoon version of other cultures and other lands. It is a monument to pseudo-events. It is a place where stereotypes can be experienced as reality. The guts and sinews of every theme-park hotel and casino, however, hold the same, mind-numbing slot machines, roulette wheels, and blackjack tables. A trip to Las Vegas is a visit to a sanitized, cutout version of foreign countries without the intrusion of foreign people, the hassle of unintelligible languages, strange habits, different ideas and traditions, or bizarre food. Here everyone speaks English. Here you are surrounded by Americans. Here, once you get past the façade, it is all the same. There is always beer on tap and hamburgers. The chaos of the real world, of other cultures and ways of being, is purged and made tidy, easy, and accessible. But it is all a game. New York-New York will part you from your money as efficiently as the Luxor. And that is the point. It is all about taking your money, and when the money runs out, you might as well not exist. Las Vegas, unlike the rest of the culture, is brutally honest about its exploitation.

Las Vegas speaks in the comforting epistemology of television. Many of the slot machines have movie and television themes with audio voices of characters from the Austin Powers movies, I Love Lucy, or The Price is Right cheering on the slack-jawed, glazed-eyed customers who repeatedly pull the lever, or, increasingly, push a button, to set off the whirl of icons. In Las Vegas the illusion of the exotic overlies the banal comfort of the safe and familiar. In a nation where less than 10 percent of the population has a passport, how many Americans can tell the difference between the illusion of France and the reality of France? How many can differentiate between Egypt and the illusion of Egypt? How many care?

Las Vegas should, as Neil Postman observed in his 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death, be considered the “symbolic capital” of America. “At different times in our history,” Postman wrote, “different cities have been the focal point of a radiating American spirit. In the late eighteenth century, for example, Boston was the center of a political radicalism that ignited a shot heard round the world—a shot that could not have been fired any other place but the suburbs of Boston.” In the mid-nineteenth century, “New York became the symbol of a melting pot America.” In the early twentieth century, Chicago, “the city of big shoulders and heavy winds, came to symbolize the industrial energy and dynamism of America. If there is a statue of a hog butcher somewhere in Chicago, then it stands as a reminder of the time when America was railroads, cattle, steel mills, and entrepreneurial adventures.”

“Today,” Postman concluded,

we must look to the city of Las Vegas, Nevada, as a metaphor of our national character and aspiration, its symbol a thirty-foot high cardboard picture of a slot machine and a chorus girl. For Las Vegas is a city entirely devoted to the idea of entertainment, and as such proclaims the spirit of a culture in which all public discourse increasingly takes the form of entertainment. Our politics, our religion, news, athletics, education, and commerce have been transformed into congenial adjuncts of show business, largely without protest or even much popular notice.[38]

The Las Vegas Strip is a monument to our nation’s cult of eternal childishness. It plays off of our fear of growing up. In Marc Cooper’s portrait of Las Vegas, The Last Honest Place in America, he wrote:

In a television-marinated society in which the boundaries between childhood and adulthood have been blurred if not erased, increasingly and dismayingly, children and adults dress the same, eat the same, and often talk the same, where they certainly endlessly watch the same TV shows, where simulation is often valued over authenticity (look no further than the acrobatic contrivances of so-called “reality TV” or the reclassification of steel and concrete hotels into “scenery”), it should come as little surprise that the phony lava eruption and the staged pirate-show next door should bring equal glee to the ten-year-olds and their parents. Add to that a certain solace Americans find in the worship of technology, even technology at this infantile level, and the Strip begins to make perfect sense.[39]

Porn films frequently build their themes around reality shows or popular sitcoms. I stand at the AVN expo in front of a display where the newest release is called I’m Dreaming of Genie. The company has also filmed Paris and Nicole Go to Jail and Getting It Up with the Kardassians. Jessica Lynn, twenty-three, plays the role of the porn Genie and for the convention is dressed in a replica of the television character’s costume.

“I usually do whatever I want and think later,” she says. “I won’t do anal yet. I basically do boy-girl, girl-girl.” She does do ATM, although she says, “I don’t like to. There are a lot of infections.” She says she can climax on the set, something most ex-porn actresses, including Lubben, insist never happens. “I can come if there is a vibrator.” She says her parents recently discovered what she is doing and have asked her to get out of the industry. She has a boyfriend, whom she later calls her husband, who “is cool with it,” and she says she sometimes “brings girls home for him.” “I love watching my husband fuck other girls, watching him make her feel good.” She has been in scenes, she said, that “got too violent and rough and one where one of the men began to eat his own come.” She said she is saving money for college and has stayed away from drugs. “A lot of girls have breakdowns,” she says. “They call me. I have had numerous calls. They are freaking out about their life and they are usually on drugs.”

Jeff Thrill, who uses the pen name of Roger Krypton, writes porn scripts for the Hustler Video Group. He wrote Not the Bradys XXX, This Ain’t the Munsters XXX, Very Happy Days, This Ain’t Gilligan’s Island XXX, and This Ain’t the Partridge Family XXX. The logo on the poster for This Ain’t the Partridges XXX has a line of little birds shaped as penises with wings.

“There have been parodies in porn forever,” he says. “In the past, it might have been Forrest Hump. But they were not true to the original show. In my films we make sure the actors look like the characters and, God willing, deliver dialogue like the characters.”

Thrill’s big hit this year was Who’s Nailin’ Paylin: Adventures of a Hockey MILF, shot with a porn actress who resembled Sarah Palin. The actress, Lisa Anne, played a character called Serra Paylin. Nina Hartley plays Hillary Clinton and Jada Fire plays Condoleezza Rice. The women have a three-way sex scene. In the movie, Serra Paylin participates in sexual encounters with visiting Russian soldiers. There is a flashback to college days, in which her creationist science professor teaches her lessons on the “theory of the Big Bang.” There are also shouts of “Drill, baby, drill” during sex scenes and many “you betcha”s. During a Serra Paylin press conference, there is an ode to the podium scene in the 1984 comedy Police Academy.

The film was featured on Fox News and the Colbert Report, as well as on The O’Reilly Factor. It sold well, four times Hustler’s other releases, Thrill says. DVD, video, and magazine sales of porn have dropped by 25 to 45 percent because of free Internet porn. Thrill said he had just completed Everybody Loves Lucy. In this latest film, Lucy and Ethel sneak into Rickey’s club and find that it is a sex club. “People like these familiar characters that they already know,” Thrill says. “You would not think anybody would want to see Herman Munster have sex, but they actually did.”

Thrill spends about six or eight hours on scripts, most of which have five scenes. A script runs about a dozen pages. “Once you get into the actual sex, we like them to stay in character,” he says, “but these are no Academy Award-winning performances.”

The sex those in the porn industry claim to promote is as fake, absurd, and unattainable as the façade of the Luxor casino and hotel. Porn is not about love or eroticism. It is about power and money. It is a transaction. It is based on the conversion of women into objects. They are assigned a monetary value and sexually exploited for profit. Most porn stars are also prostitutes. They charge a range of fees, usually in the thousands of dollars, to fans on porn escort Web sites.

When I ask ex-porn actress Jan Meza, thirty, who once did a scene in which twenty-five men had sex with her, how she would describe the producers and directors of the porn industry, she answers curtly: “Pimps.” The porn stars make anywhere from $1,500 to $3,000 an hour as prostitutes. Roldan would, along with other porn actresses, be flown into a city, including New York, and stay at a hotel for a week. They would meet clients in their hotel room.

Lubben says the AVN convention and awards ceremony brings together high-priced porn stars and clients.

“Ninety percent work as prostitutes,” she says. “They meet a lot of their big clients in Vegas during this convention. There is really big money being made by some of these women at night, as much as $2,000 an hour.”

The most famous porn actresses can make as much as $30,000 a week as hotel-bound prostitutes. Clients “would see you in the film and they wanted you to be exactly the same way,” Roldan says. “It was uncomfortable to meet some married stranger. I would walk around these cities and feel sad and empty. No one cared about me. My agent didn’t care. All I had was money and nothing else.”

The most successful porn films keep pushing the physical and emotional boundaries of the women onscreen and incorporate an expanding array of physically and verbally abusive acts.

Ariana Jollee, twenty-one, is sitting in a motel room beside a particle-board desk and a bare white wall, giving a pre-film interview for 65 Guy Cream Pie, produced in 2005 by Devil’s Film. She has sex with sixty-five men beside the indoor pool of a Prague resort during the film. She is smiling at the camera. Jollee has sleek, dark hair with bangs, a tribal tattoo encircling one bicep, and wears jeans and a loose black tank top. She has rounded arms, full cheeks, and a slightly heavy chin. Jollee started doing porn in 2003, when she was twenty, debuting in a film called Nasty Girls 30. She has done hundreds of films and was one of the industry’s premier gonzo girls, purportedly enjoying extreme abuse. Jollee tells the camera that she performed in a twenty-one-man gang bang on her twenty-first birthday. She says she is looking forward to doing the same now with fifty men, although this number climbs to sixty-five on the set. “Cream pie” refers to men ejaculating in a woman’s anus or vagina, rather than ejaculating on her body.

“I’ll be banging fifty guys—fifty, fifty, fifty!,” says Jollee. Maybe even more. That’d be cool.... So I’m like really excited.”

She laughs and plays with her hair. “And it just so happens that all these guys are going to be coming in me.” She looks coyly at the camera. “In the ass and pussy,” she grins, wrinkling her nose. “See I like it in the ass the best. I wanna find the biggest pervert and get him to suck all fifty loads out and spit it in my mouth.” She reaches up and fiddles with her bangs. “That’d be so good. That’d be fucking hot. It’d be disgusting.” She giggles. “I get off on that.” She runs her fingers through her hair, fanning it out behind her.

“It’s a big, big fantasy, always been a big fantasy of mine to be with more than one guy at a time. Many women have that fantasy....” Her voice drops to a whisper. She wrinkles her nose and narrows her eyes. “You have all these men, and they all wanna fuck you, and they’re all there, and it’s just like, cock, holy shit. It’s so good. So good. Now I’m getting wet,” she says, giggling. Her feet are up on the seat of her chair, and the camera pans down briefly to the exposed crotch of her jeans. She demurely pops her thumb in her mouth, still smiling, gazing at the camera.

“If you’re watching this before the scene, you’re in for a fucking treat.... Each one of those motherfuckers is gonna, you know, it’s gonna be the ride of their lives.” She nods thoughtfully. “But, who knows?” She throws her hands in the air. “Maybe they’ll fuck me up. Maybe they’ll really, like, teach me a lesson.” She tosses a small smile at the camera. She scratches her knee absently. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Maybe I’m not as insatiable as I think I am. We’ll see. I’m excited.”

She concedes that when it is over, she will “look like shit” but will be “well fucked.” The interviewer asks what condition her vagina and anus will be in after having sex with that many men. She speaks of her genitals in the disembodied third person: “They can take it. They want it. They like it. They go back to size after. Pussy’s tight. She always goes back to size.”

Jollee talks briefly about her private life. She says that before she did gang bangs in films she once had sex with twelve men on a fire truck. “I won’t say how old I was,” she giggles. “It was so good. I will thank the man who took me there every day for the rest of my life. I still talk to him. He’s a really good friend of mine. He’s a pervert, but I love perverts. I like free people.”

Her enthusiasm, as she relates this story about the fire truck, appears to momentarily fade. A brief tremor crosses her face. The fleeting impression when she falls out of character is that the experience of being taken to a firehouse by a friend who is “a pervert” and having sex with twelve men on a truck was not sexy or exciting, that for a young girl the experience was perhaps not the result of being free or the product of sexual desire. She quickly snaps back into the façade. She says, “I hope everyone gets off. I plan on coming.”

Her smile broadens. “If you’ve just watched it, well, here’s me beforehand.” She chortles. “It should be cool.” The camera zooms in and pans down her body as she fiddles with her hair. She reaches down and grabs her crotch. “Everything’s intact at the moment, it’s all intact.” She grins and wrinkles her nose as she rubs her breasts happily. She sits up and hisses at the camera, “I’m ready, I’m fucking horny, dude. It’s bad.” Then, in her enthusiastic college-girl voice: “I’m so excited, can you tell? Like I can’t sit still!” She rocks back and forth in her chair, raising her knees to her chest and putting her thumb in her mouth again. She giggles and swipes her bangs with her other hand.

65 Guy Cream Pie takes six hours to film. Jollee has oral sex, vaginal sex, double penetration, and double anal with sixty-five men. They ejaculate into and onto her body. When the shoot is finished, the last man heaves himself off Jollee. In a behind-the-scenes DVD bonus, she clambers up and stands on the curlicued iron bed. She is naked. Her body is covered in semen. Her hair is tied back. She jumps off the stained, pink mattress onto the tiled pool deck. She bounces up and down in front of a large potted palm, laughing gleefully.

“Grab your IDs really quick,” says the director.

“Can I just wipe off?” she asks, holding out a sticky hand. “My stupid IDs. I’m not going anywhere. Let me just wipe off really quick. Really quick.”

Jollee walks gingerly on her toes into the hallway. She holds her arms stiffly out to her side, fingers splayed. She glances down at herself.

“No hug?” a production assistant teases.

“I would hug you, but ... I would give everyone big fucking kisses,” she throws back.

She walks naked past a group of fully dressed men in a post-production huddle. She is the only woman visible. The men ignore her. She rummages through a duffel bag. She pulls a white towel out of the bag and holds it in her hand, away from her body, as she walks naked to the bathroom. She laughs and banters with the camera crew. “No, no, no, don’t touch me. Trust me. You don’t want to.” A camera flash goes off as she opens the bathroom door. The counter in the white marble bathroom is littered with crumpled paper towels. Jollee roams back and forth distractedly. She continues to hold her arms out stiffly.

“Good show,” remarks the man holding the camera.

“Yeah, huh?” Jollee puts down the towel. She tears off a piece of paper towel. She wipes her belly with the paper towel. She bends over to wipe cautiously between her legs. “Oh, my God. Wow,” she says, examining the paper towel.

Her laugh, as she straightens up, sounds like panting. “What’d ya think?”

“I think—I think you wore those guys out,” answers the cameraman.

Jollee laughs again raggedly. “They wore me out, I won’t fucking deny that,” she says as she takes out a baby wipe from a packet on the counter. “Look at me. I’m about to pass out.”

She pauses, unfolding the wipe. Then she looks at the camera. Her smeared eyeliner gives her the appearance of two black eyes. The corners of her mouth are pulled down. Her chin is tilted up. Her expression is hard to read. “Good gang bang?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was intense. Great job.”

Jollee nods for a moment.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I tried.”

She looks down and wipes her belly with the baby wipe. She blows her breath out as she holds the wipe to her vagina, bending her knees. “Oh my God, I gotta douche. I gotta douche real bad.” She inspects the wipe and sighs. “Fuck.” Suddenly she looks up with a wide grin and laughs. “D’you have fun with the camera? It’s fun, right? It’s like power. It’s like, whoo! It’s so much fun. It’s so much fun.... It’s like you’re allowed to be a pervert, now you have the camera in your hands.”

She catches sight of herself in the mirror and bursts out laughing. “Oh, God. I give up.” She throws the used wipe on the counter and heads back out, naked, into the lobby, among the milling production crew.

Jollee was also featured in the 2005 JM Productions release Swirlies, in which the male performer dunks the woman’s head into a toilet after sex and flushes. The company promo for the film promises that “every whore gets the swirlies treatment. Fuck her, then flush her.”

In Swirlies, Jollee comes to the door of a house and meets a man named Jenner. She tells Jenner that his little brother has given her little brother a swirlie at school. There is less than a minute of the usual stilted dialogue before the sex scene begins. There is oral, vaginal, and anal penetration in a variety of positions, with many close-up shots of the performers’ genitals. The oral penetration includes deep thrusting that causes Jollee to gag. Jenner finally ejaculates on Jollee’s face. He then takes her to the bathroom for a swirlie. During the sex scenes Jollee says to Jenner:

• “Shove it up my fucking ass ... fuck that fucking tight little motherfucking asshole. Ah, that’s so fucking good.” • “Fuck that motherfucking filthy asshole, motherfucker. Fucking amazing. So fucking amazing. Fucking fuck me, motherfucker.” • “Fucking cock in that little asshole. That fucking dick in my fucking tight little filthy motherfucking asshole.” • “Fucking love it. Fucking love it.” • “Fuck, motherfucker is fucking me. Ride that fucking cock, huh.” • “Fucking nice, hard cock in fucking tight, little ass. Fuck me like a fucking little puppy, huh. Little puppy dog, huh. Fuck me with that fucking, hard cock so hard. So fucking hard, shoot your fucking hot come all over my pretty, little motherfucking face like a dirty, little, filthy, motherfucking whore.” • “Fucking dirty. I’m a filthy, little, fucking whore.”[40]

As porn has gone mainstream, ushered two decades ago into middle-class living rooms and dens with VCRs and now available on the Internet, it has devolved into an open fusion of physical abuse and sex, of extreme violence, horrible acts of degradation against women with an increasingly twisted eroticism. Porn has always primarily involved the eroticization of unlimited male power, but today it also involves the expression of male power through the physical abuse, even torture, of women. Porn reflects the endemic cruelty of our society. This is a society that does not blink when the industrial slaughter unleashed by the United States and its allies kills hundreds of civilians in Gaza or hundreds of thousands of innocents in Iraq and Afghanistan. Porn reflects back the cruelty of a culture that tosses its mentally ill out on the street, warehouses more than 2 million people in prisons, denies health care to tens of millions of the poor, champions gun ownership over gun control, and trumpets an obnoxious and superpatriotic nationalism and rapacious corporate capitalism. The violence, cruelty, and degradation of porn are expressions of a society that has lost the capacity for empathy.

The Abu Ghraib images that were released, and the hundreds more disturbing images that remain classified, could be stills from porn films. There is a shot of a naked man kneeling in front of another man as if performing oral sex. There is a naked man on a leash held by a female American soldier. There are naked men in chains. There are naked men stacked one on top of the other in a human pile on the floor, as if in a prison gang bang. And there are hundreds more classified photos, many privately viewed by members of Congress, that show forced masturbation by Iraqi prisoners. Prisoners are made to pose for the camera in simulated sexual acts. And there are reportedly pictures of sexual intercourse among the guards. The photographs reflect the raging undercurrent of sexual callousness and perversion that runs through contemporary culture. These images speak in the language of porn, professional wrestling, reality television, music videos, and the corporate culture. It is the language of absolute control, total domination, racial hatred, fetishistic images of slavery, and humiliating submission. It is a world without pity. It is about reducing other human beings to commodities, to objects. It is a reflection of the sickness of gonzo porn.

Torture and pornography inevitably converge. They each turn human beings into submissive objects. In porn the woman is stripped of her human attributes and made to beg for abuse. She has no identity as a distinct human being. Her only worth is as a toy, a pleasure doll. She exists to gratify any whim that a male decides is pleasurable. She has no other purpose. Her real name vanishes. She adopts a cheap and usually vulgar stage name. She becomes a slave. She is filmed being degraded and physically abused. This film is sold to consumers, who, in turn, are aroused by the illusion that they too can dominate and abuse women. They, too, can be torturers.

Three of the alleged torturers in Abu Ghraib were women. They appeared to be willing participants. Porn has become so embedded and accepted in the culture, especially among the young, that sexual humiliation, abuse, rape, and physical violence have merged into a socially acceptable expression, once fear of retribution is removed. Absolute power over others almost always expresses itself through sexual sadism.

“My whole reason for being in the industry is to satisfy the desire of the men in the world who basically don’t much care for women and want to see the men in my industry getting even with the women they couldn’t have when they were growing up,” Bill Margold, a performer and producer of porn, has said. “I strongly believe this, and the industry hates me for saying it.... So we come on a woman’s face or somewhat brutalize her sexually: We’re getting even for their lost dreams. I believe this. I’ve heard audiences cheer me when I do something foul onscreen. When I’ve strangled a person or sodomized a person or brutalized a person, the audience is cheering my action, and then when I’ve fulfilled my warped desire, the audience applauds.”[41]

A performer known as Max Hardcore, currently in prison in Florida on obscenity charges, pioneered many of the forms of physical abuse now widely embraced by the industry. He was the first to perform anal fisting and “face-fucking.” He placed lighted medical specu lums in the vagina and anus. He urinated on women, often directly into their mouths. He slapped women around, tied them up, thrust their heads into toilets and flushed, pulled their hair, threw them onto the floor, and called them bitch, whore, cunt, and slut.

The women in porn plead to be abused. They call themselves whores and sluts. They are beaten and penetrated by groups of men. Their faces are covered with semen from dozens of masturbating men, their anuses penetrated repeatedly by lines of partners, and they are raped. The women portrayed in the films exist to fulfill the desires of men in the most degrading and painful way possible. Nearly all porn dialogue includes lines from women such as I am a cunt. I am a bitch. I am a whore. I am a slut. Fuck me hard with your big cock.

I find a man named Barry who refuses to give his last name sitting at a table selling bulk packages of 100 DVDs filmed by his company, Pain and Orgasm. He does business using the names Torture Portal, Masters of Pain, and Bacchus Studios. He admits his torture porn is outlawed in many states, and I find out later that he has been charged by a federal grand jury in Billings, Montana, with distributing obscene DVDs through the mail. The specific films named in the indictment are Torture of Porn Star Girl, Pregnant and Willing, and Defiant Crista Submits. If convicted, he faces a maximum penalty of five years in prison and a fine of $250,000 on each of the three counts charged in the indictment.

Barry is fifty-eight and is wearing a gold Star of David around his neck. He has graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He has been making movies since 1998. Not surprisingly, he feels the government is too intrusive in the business. He has a Web site where subscribers can see his bondage and torture films for $24.95 a month, along, he said, with “one live show.”

“There are more restrictions, more government involvement where there shouldn’t be,” he says. “People should be able to watch whatever they want to watch as long as it is between consenting adults and there are no kids or animals. Stay out of our bedrooms.”

He has little time for traditional porn and tells me, “I couldn’t tell you anything about porn. I don’t shoot porn. I don’t watch it. It’s boring. I shoot bondage. Tie ’em up and fuck ’em and maybe I will watch.

“I am not really involved in the industry,” he goes on. “All I know is that large segments around the world like to watch young girls being tortured.”

Barrett Blade, whose real name is Russell Alex Heil, is a porn actor who directs and is often filmed in porn movies with his wife, Kirsten Price. He started acting in porn films a decade ago when, he says, a girlfriend who shot porn brought him to the set.

“When I came into the business, gonzo was very small,” he tells me. “There were more features, more films with story lines. As a performer, I don’t do a lot of the gonzo. I’m a lover. I film it as a director, but I don’t do it. I can’t do a scene with some girl who before we start is crying and sitting scared in a corner. I can’t do a scene if the girls are not enjoying themselves.”

Most porn films have dispensed with the thin fantasy plots of older porn. The raw sex scenes begin almost immediately. And porn is overtly racist. Black men in porn films are primitive animals, brawny and illiterate studs with vast sexual prowess. Black women are filled with raw, animalistic lust. Latina women are hot and racy. Asian women are sexually submissive geishas. In this year’s AVN Awards, nominated movies bore titles such as Get That Black Pussy You Big Dick White Bastard Muttha Fucka, My Daughter Went Black and Never Came Back, and Oh No! There’s a Negro in My Mom! Porn, as Gail Dines writes, is a “new minstrel show.” Porn allows white males, safely removed from the black culture and the inner city, to be voyeurs into a depraved and frightening world of racial and sexual stereotypes. Porn, as Dines writes, functions as

a peep show for whites into what they see as the authentic black life, not on the plantation, but in the “hood” where all the conventions of white civilized society cease to exist. The “hood” in the white racist imagination is a place of pimps, ho’s and generally uncontrolled black bodies, and the white viewer is invited, for a fee, to slum in this world of debauchery. In the “hood,” the white man can dispense with his whiteness by identifying with the black man, and thus can become as sexually skilled and as sexually out-of-control as the black man. Here he does not have to worry about being big enough to satisfy the white woman (or man) nor does he have to concern himself with fears about poor performance or “weak wads” or cages like poor hubby in Blacks on Blondes [an interracial film in which the husband is literally in a cage while watching black men have sex with his wife]. Indeed, the “hood” represents liberation from the cage, and the pay-off is a satiated white woman (or man) who has been completely and utterly feminized by being well and truly turned into a “fuckee.”[42]

Dines writes that the black body that is celebrated as uncontrolled in interracial pornography is the same body that must be controlled and shackled in the world of white supremacy:

Just as white suburban teenagers love to listen to hip-hop and white adult males gaze longingly at the athletic prowess of black men, the white pornography consumer enjoys his identification with (and from) black males through a safe peephole, in his own home, and in mediated form. The real, breathing, living black man, however, is to be kept as far away as possible from these living rooms, and every major institution in society marshals its forces in the defense of white society. The ideologies that white men take to the pornography text to enhance their sexual pleasure are the very ideologies that they use to legitimize the control of black men: While it may heighten arousal for the white porn users, it makes life intolerable for the real body that is (mis)represented in all forms of white controlled media.[43]

Male porn stars make about a third of the money paid to the women. They possess the singular talent of keeping an erection for long periods of time while a small audience of actors, directors, and production crew watch. Barrett Blade tells me that many male stars take Viagra or inject Caverject into an open vein in the penis. “Some guy will be waiting to go on and reading a book and their cock up like this,” he says, indicating an erection with his fingers. “These guys who inject keep an open wound at the base of their penis. They bleed on the women. Pretty soon they can’t get it up without it. They need to get a vial from the fridge every time they want to have sex, even when they are home with their girlfriends.”

Jim Powers stands in his booth with a large, glossy poster behind him that reads, “Wanna Fuck a Porn Star?” The poster invites the reader to visit Fuckafan.com and “see Super Stars of XXX Cinema with Real Guys.” Powers, who has directed films such as Detention Whores, Mexicunts, and Squeel Like a Pig, films “real” fans screwing porn stars and puts it up for view on the Internet for paid subscribers. The booth next to his is a cosmetic surgery company that offers “breast augmentation, liposuction, Tummy Tuck, Buttock Implants, Nose Refinement, Botox, and Facial Fillers and more.”

“I find real guys and they get to fuck a porn star like Kenci,” he says, turning to a young woman beside him in cutoff shorts, a bra, and a baseball hat.

Powers says he tried to film a scene the night before with a fan that “went really bad.” “It was hours of heartache, but he got a free sandwich out of it,” he says. “It is tough once the camera comes on.” He is perturbed because three fans who had previously agreed to be filmed with Kenci this afternoon had not appeared. He says he “makes stupid content for stupid people,” that porn is a prime example of the “stupidifi cation of America.” “This is a YouTube world,” he continues. “It is a Jackass world. Everyone has short attention spans. You need a catchy trailer. You catch their attention, they buy the film and jerk off.

“There was a day when porn stars were veiled actresses,” he says. “They took the job seriously. They were twenty-four or twenty-five years old. Now they are nineteen. They are hookers. They don’t care. They are a throwaway commodity in a throwaway world.” He turns and looks with disdain at Kenci and says to me, “She doesn’t know what a book is, I bet.” He asks me if I want to be filmed having sex with Kenci. I decline with a quick “No, thank you.” He explains he doesn’t have anyone else. He has a house nearby to film, a camera crew, a porn actress, and no fan. At no point is Kenci consulted.

Sharon Mitchell, an ex-porn star, is the founder of the Adult Industry Medical Healthcare Foundation. She tests and treats actors in the porn industry. She runs her clinic out of Los Angeles.

“The type of performances that they are doing, basically they walk on the set and it is wall-to-wall sex, and the type of sexual encounters they are having are extremely high-risk, much, much higher-risk than when I was involved,” Mitchell said in a 2007 interview with National Public Radio. “When I was involved, I had the choice to use a condom, the choice to do whatever sex acts I preferred. Today, anyone pretty much with a handful of Viagra and a High-8 camera: ‘Hey, I want to be a porn director and producer.’ And they can literally go about this and sell these things on the Internet. So they recruit very young people, and my concern is, ‘Are you ready to do this?’

“When I founded the Adult [Industry] Medical Healthcare Foundation in 1998, there was actually an actor who was knowingly and willfully infecting women with HIV,” Mitchell said, “and finally I caught up with him and realized that he was going to county health clinics and getting anonymous testing. And he would put someone else’s name on this test. And not everyone was testing, and the tests were not centrally located back then. Denial is the backbone of pornography when it comes to health care.”

“I am a clinician that serves a world that I know very, very well because I come from it,” Mitchell told NPR’s Scott Simon. “And I know the pressures that these talent members go through not to use the condoms. They are offered more money. They are told, ‘Look, these films will not sell if there are condoms on it.’”

“Not to get graphic, but you would think that in these days of computer enhancements and special effects, it would be no more necessary to endanger a performer that way than it would be to require Tom Cruise to jump off a twelve-story building,” Simon said.

“Absolutely,” Mitchell answered, “but they are not looked at as performers. They are looked at as commodities. They are looked at as body parts that are going to be edited into a product that’s going to make money. And this industry, albeit mainstream as it’s become, they are not going to say, ‘OK, let’s go ahead and spend half a million dollars, let’s just digitally edit out the condom,’ which can be done, obviously. They just don’t want to spend any money.”

“In helping porn performers are you just enabling them do something that is destructive?” Simon asked.

“You know, some days I feel like I am sweeping back the ocean with a broom,” she said. “I wake up and I think, ‘This is amazing.’ I mean, we do catch a tremendous amount of HIV that would have ended up in the industry. And I can literally say I have saved lives. We have put a lot of people into rehab. We help a lot of people leave porn and get an education. We have a scholarship program. And with all this, some days, you know, when I see a young girl walk in, and I just know she is just going to get run over by all these producers and agents and types of things that she probably hasn’t experienced or even thought of experiencing, I think, ‘Am I just fattening them up for the kill? What am I doing?’”[44]

The Internet is the curse and salvation of the industry. It has vastly expanded the reach of the porn industry, but it has also made free porn easily accessible. DVDs and glossy magazines are going the way of newspapers. Playboy’s stock is down 81 percent, and in October 2008 it announced it was selling off its DVD division. There are an estimated 4.2 million porn Web sites—12 percent of the total number of sites— providing access to 72 million worldwide visitors monthly. One-quarter of total daily search-engine requests, or 68 million, are for pornographic material. There are 40 million Americans who are regular visitors to porn sites. Sites like Youporn.com and xtube.com allow amateurs with camcorders to show explicit porn. Illegal downloads and free video-sharing sites have cut into profits, say those in the industry, by as much as 20 percent.

The most successful Internet porn sites and films are those that discover new ways to humiliate and inflict cruelty on women. In the Web site Slut Bus, women are lured into a van, offered money for sex, filmed having sex, and then dumped on the side of the road. Money is held out toward the woman as the van pulls away. She is always left without payment. The message is clear. Women are compliant sex machines. They are good only for sex. And they are not worth paying for their services.

“The Mission?” the slutbus.com Web site asks. “Pick up the hottest girls we find. And get them to let us fuck them & cum in their pretty little faces all while videotaping the whole thing.”

“The Fun?” the site goes on. “Treating these slutty bitches like they deserve to be treated ... with a slam bam thank ya ma’am & a swift kick in the ass! What? You thought we would actually pay these sluts? Haha hahaha. Think Again!”

The theme of luring women to have sex and then discarding them is common.

“Tired of stuck up bitches that want gifts, dinners, money all of your fuckin’ time and attention?” reads an ad on a Web site called Creampie Thais, which charges subscribers $29.95 a month.”

Did you ever want to just want to find a little SUBMISSIVE fuck toy and fill her full of your man seed? At Creampie Thais, I do just that. I pick up hot Thai whores off the streets of Thailand. In clubs, supermarkets, the beach and off the streets, I wreck their young slick pussies and fill them full of my spunk. After I have these whores suck my cock and dump my sperm into their receptive cunts, I throw them back to the world to fend for themselves. These girls are willing to do anything to receive my spunk inside their hot tight asian twats. Maybe they think it’s a ticket to the promise land, or maybe they just want to breed. Are they on the pill? Who gives a fuck. Protection. Fuck no. Do I have illegitimate children in Thailand? Probably. This is the REAL FUCKIN’ DEAL.

Jan Meza worked as a porn actress in a genre known as “Big Beautiful Women” films. She made about forty movies and was filmed on some twenty Web sites. She left the industry addicted to painkillers, drinking heavily, and on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She is currently married and is finishing her doctorate in psychology at the University of Texas at Austin.

“The more society loses touch with reality, especially in relationships, the more people do not know how it is supposed to be, how to react with other people, the more they turn to porn,” she says. “People look at this fantasy and believe it should be their reality. They retreat further and further into their illusion because porn can never be real. It does not work in real life. Porn is a sickness.”

Jersey Jaxin, as she was known in the industry, walked away from porn. “Guys punching you in the face. You have semen.... Twenty or thirty guys all over your face, in your eyes,” she remembers. “You get ripped. Your insides can come out of you. It’s never-ending. You are viewed as an object, not as a human with a spirit. People don’t care. People do drugs because they can’t deal with the way they’re being treated.” She estimates that the number of women who use drugs before they film are “75 percent and rising. Have to numb themselves.... There are specific doctors in this industry, if you go in for a common cold, they’ll give you Vicodin, Viagra, anything you want, because all they care about is money. You are a number. You’re bruised. You have black eyes. You’re ripped. You’re torn. You have your insides coming out of you. It’s not pretty and foofoo on set. You get hurt.

“The main thing going around now is crystal meth, cocaine, and heroin,” Meza says. “You have to numb yourself to go on set. The more you work, the more you have to numb yourself. The more you become addicted, the more your personal life is nothing but drugs.... Your whole life becomes nothing but porn. I was a drinker. I drank a lot. Vodka was my drug. Vodka was my numbing toy. Before sets, after sets, and if it was a set where people didn’t care, they’d have it there waiting.”

“You may see a forty-five-minute set that took us thirteen hours.... We’re ripped, we’re tired, we’re sore, we’re bleeding, we’re cut up, we have dried semen all over our faces from numerous guys, and we can’t wash it off because they want to take pictures. You have this stuff all over you, and they’re telling you, ‘Hold it!’” Meza says.

“You can say anything you want [e.g., ‘Stop’], and they don’t listen,” she says. “There’s the ultimate thing where you squeeze their leg to ease up, and most of them don’t care. They have another scene to go to. It’s all about the money. They’ve forgotten who they are, and they don’t care who they’re hurting.

“You have no soul in the porn industry,” she adds.[45]

Porn is about reducing women to corpses. It is about necrophilia. Mingled with the booths set up by distribution and production companies, Las Vegas escort services, and a vast array of sex toy displays. There are booths that sell life-size, anatomically correct silicone dolls.

At the Lovable Dolls display booth, three large picture windows are set in walls of faux brick. There is a replica of an iron streetlamp outside the windows. The first window has two life-size silicone dolls. One wears knee-high, black latex boots with stiletto heels. She is reclining on a small frame covered in red velvet. Her fingers gently touch the hand of another doll in a black, curly wig and wearing a bandeau top. In the other two windows are more dolls, one with pointed pixie ears and what Bronwen Keller, a sales respresentative, calls “a deliberate fantasy face.”

“They have removable heads,” she tells me. “There’s a whole array of heads. The head cap pops off. You can reach in and disconnect the head and put a new one on. You can move the eyes. You do that from the inside so you don’t damage the eyelashes.”

We stand and peer through the glass at the pixie doll, surrounded by huge plastic flowers, as if she is emerging from a tropical garden. She has a pierced naval.

“We ship them in lingerie, like a chemise,” she tells me. “They are fully made up. They have their nails done, and they have a wig. They have shoes. We ship with the heads on. It creates the effect of ‘Oh, wow, here’s my girl, ready to go.’”

The dolls, which cost $7,500 each, are custom-built and come with various breast sizes, tongues, mouths, and vaginas, seven different skin colors, and eleven eye colors. Clients can create their own dolls. The dolls are the silicone replicas of the living porn stars signing autographs and permitting their fans to grab their asses and pose for a photo. The display next door, Reel Dolls, is even more disturbing. It has four silicone women’s heads, lined up in glass cases, with their lips parted to receive an incoming cock. On top of the display case rests a headless, legless, armless female torso, complete with an anatomically correct vagina and a tuft of pubic hair. Men passing by the booth push their fingers into her red silicone slit.

Dr. Z—not his real name—has come to the convention to preach the joys of silicone doll ownership. He is a trim, bearded, fifty-two-year-old man who teaches anatomy. He is wearing khaki pants, an orange collared shirt, and a pair of boots. He owns eight silicone dolls, with names that include Lindsey, Danielle, Sunni, Trixie, Candy, and Shawna.

“You walk into a room and they are sitting or standing around you, and they seem real,” he says. “It’s like having a family. They all have personalities.”

Dr. Z hides his hobby from most of his friends. He keeps the dolls locked in his bedroom closet. He positions them around the house, including in his bed, when he is alone. He shops for their clothing. He poses them for photo shoots. He carefully applies their makeup. And he talks to them. He began using blow-up dolls when he was married. He took blow-up dolls with him when he traveled. He kept his habit secret from his wife. He is now divorced. “Hey,” he says, “I wasn’t cheating.”

“No one I dated was ever privy to it,” he says. “It was always a private side of me. It did improve my relationships because it gave me the ability to experiment. It also takes the stress out of a relationship. My last wife used sex as a control mechanism.”

“You have to be creative,” he explains. “You have to make them feel like they are interacting. I have been in relationships where women just lie there like dead fish. The same thing can happen with this, but it is more fun with some dolls than with some women. You can make them do things with their hands. You can wrap their arms around your neck. You can use bungee cords to put them in positions. Their eyes are adjustable.”

He uses the thick iron hook on the back of the dolls’ necks to prop them up. He puts them in his sex swing. He photographs them using sex toys. He says it is a “really nice thing because you are in full control.” He tells me the dolls “take the stress out of wining and dining women.” He says he uses lubricants in the silicone mouth, vagina, and anus for sex. And he tells me that of the top three or four blow jobs he has had in his life, he would have to include those delivered by his dolls.

“You lie on top of one and it feels like you are on top of a person,” he says. He fixes their eyes when he has sex with them so “there is direct eye contact.” He explains, “I talk to them like pets,” and then smiles, saying, “but they don’t shed.” He tells me that he has, over the years, “learned what works.”

“You can’t beat them all you want,” he says. “They can get damaged, but spanking is OK. They jiggle like real.”

His dolls are body types that he says are not available to him with the women he meets socially.

“From my experience, women who look like these dolls are not mentally or emotionally in line,” he says. “It is hard to find someone who is smart, intelligent, attractive, and who wants to be with you. And then there are the breast sizes. I have one with ridiculous breasts. She is extremely hard to dress. I have become very appreciative of women’s clothes.”

“Everyone has a desire about controlling the look, the environment, what women represent and how they come across,” he says.

We are looking at the dolls in the display. He points out the simulated veins in the feet, which he tells me are the dorsal venous arch. “To me,” he says, “That’s really, really cool.”

“I have one doll, Sunni, who is blonde, hooker-style,” he says. “She’s really good at blow jobs. She’s like a California beach bunny. She has dark skin and is always tanning herself. She’s happiest in a black bikini and a blonde wig. She looks great in her bikini. I keep most of them dressed in underwear and sports bras. They hang out together, like a sorority. Personally, I have never ejaculated inside my dolls. I use the rhythm method. The cleanup is easier. I have a hanging apparatus in my tub and use the shower massage. They can absorb body oil. Look, you have old people who need to be taken care of, you can think about these dolls as being in a coma. Your job is to keep them comfortable. I am always a gentleman around them. I never have sex without asking permission. I sleep with them. I cover them with an electric blanket, and the silicone absorbs the heat.”

The dolls, like the porn stars, are a compliant mouth, vagina, and rectum. They exist solely to allow a man to penetrate, usually with a penis, sometimes hands, sometimes objects, into their orifices at will. You can spit on their faces, slap them around, verbally abuse them, as is done with women in porn films, but with the dolls there is no chance of rebellion or complaint. The silicone mouths will always have the thick, slightly spread lips, offering themselves silently to their owner’s penis.

The culmination of the AVN Expo is the awards ceremony, often referred to as the Oscars of porn. Porn actors and actresses walk down a red carpet into the cavernous Mandalay Bay Convention Center. The stars, producers, and directors sit at tables on the main floor, and fans are seated in the U-shaped bleachers around the main stage. Awards include Best Anal-Themed Release, Best All-Girl 3-Way Sex Scene, Best Double Penetration Sex Scene, and Best Big-Butt Series.

When an actress named Stoya wins the statuette for Best New Starlet, she thanks “each and every person who jerks off to my smut.”

The Best Anal Sex Scene award goes to Sunny Lane and her role in the film Big Wet Asses 13. She tells the crowd, “I can’t help it, I just love that cock.” Introducing her co-star, Manuel Ferrara, she says: “This is the man. I had to choose Manuel to be my first anal because he is so passionate, so loving, and he definitely knows how to work that soda-can cock. I prepared for this scene by sitting with a butt plug in while I was doing my makeup time so I was ready to go, all for you.”

“I did exactly the same for you while I was getting my makeup done,” Ferrara quips.

“Oh, really, very nice,” she says. “I would like to thank Elegant Angel for all of this, for the opportunity to let my ass show in all the right ways.”

I sit through nearly three hours of this vapid banter, an irony-free reflection of the banality of mainstream awards ceremonies. The rap-per Flo Rida provides entertainment along with local dancers from the Spearmint Rhino gentlemen’s club. Evil Angel owner John “Buttman” Stagliano leads a dance sequence that incorporates images of George W. Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, Abu Ghraib, Halliburton, the Iraq war, and freedom of speech, which the porn industry champions as protecting its Constitutional right to disseminate porn. The five-minute dance sequence is Stagliano’s artistic objection to the federal government’s use of the Patriot Act to persecute adult entertainment companies and customers.

“Did we really believe them when they said they would only use these laws to prosecute terrorists?” he asks in the sequence.

Stagliano, once a Chippendale dancer and also a porn actor, has tested positive for HIV. He was charged by the United States government for adult-to-adult obscenity. He is married to ex-porn star Tricia Devereaux, whose stage name was Karen Stagliano and who is also HIV-positive, as are many former members of the industry.

Porn has evolved from the airbrushed misogyny of glossy spreads in Playboy and smutty films sold in seedy shops. It is corporate and easily available. Its products today focus less on sex between a man and a woman and increasingly on groups of men beating off on a woman’s face or tearing her anus open with their penises. Porn has evolved to its logical conclusion. It first turned women into sexual commodities and then killed women as human beings. And it has won the culture war. Pornography and the commercial mainstream have fused. The publicity photo for the porn production company Wicked could be lifted from a Victoria’s Secret catalog. The lacy brassieres and thongs, candelabras, stilettos, windswept hair, strings of pearls, and arched backs are staples of mass culture. The wars fought by feminists such as Andrea Dworkin, Susan Faludi, Susan Brownmiller, and Gloria Steinem to free women from sexual tyranny have been defeated by a cultural embrace—by both men and women—of bondage and objectification. Stripping, promiscuity, S&M, exhibitionism, and porn are mainstream chic.

“Why do deep down within we’d all like to be porn stars at one point in our life or another?” asks Faye Wattleton in complete earnestness on the HBO special Thinking XXX. She is the president of the Center for the Advancement of Women.

Sexual callousness and emancipation have become synonymous. Fashion takes its cue from porn. Music videos feature porn stars and pantomime porn scenes. Commercials and advertisements milk porn for shock value. The grainy sex tapes of vacuous celebrities from Pamela Anderson to Paris Hilton enhance their allure as porn icons. Madonna has built her public persona, and her dance routines and videos, around the sexual boundaries obliterated by porn. Rap stars like Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent, and Yella produce porn. Howard Stern interviews porn stars. Fitness clubs offer pole-dancing and strip classes. Porn star Jenna Jameson’s memoir was published by HarperCollins and was a New York Times best-seller for six weeks. The E! True Hollywood Story episode of her life remains the highest-rated single episode of that show. Reality television shows like The Girls Next Door and Rock of Love feature a male celebrity who has multiple female partners competing for his affections. The Girls Next Door, which stars the octogenarian Hugh Hefner and girlfriends young enough to be his granddaughters, is spiced up with undertones of incest and pedophilia. HBO celebrates and glamorizes porn, prostitution, and strippers with specials and shows like Thinking XXX, Katie Morgan’s Sex Tips, Cathouse, and G-String Divas. The language, abuse, and moral bankruptcy of porn shape and mold popular culture. And there is a direct line from the heartlessness and usury of the culture of porn to the hookup parties on college campuses, in which young men and women get hammered, have sex, and do not speak to each other again.

Women, porn asserts, whether they know it or not, are objects. They are whores. These whores deserve to be dominated and abused. And once men have had their way with them, these whores are to be discarded. Porn glorifies the cruelty and domination of sexual exploitation in the same way popular culture, as Jensen points out, glorifies the domination and cruelty of war. It is the same disease. It is the belief that “because I have the ability to use force and control to make others do as I please, I have a right to use this force and control.” It is the disease of corporate and imperial power. It extinguishes the sacred and the human to worship power, control, force, and pain. It replaces empathy, eros, and compassion with the illusion that we are gods. Porn is the glittering façade, like the casinos and resorts in Las Vegas, like the rest of the fantasy that is America, of a culture seduced by death.

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