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The anticipation was the real aphrodisiac. It had been a year. A year where it felt the whole of the nations across the globe were suffering through an audit; a real shedding of fake value, like fur off a rabbit who makes it to spring. My thoughts were turbulent and my nerves shot, the twenty-four hours prior to hearing my iPhone emit the Basinski loop I’d made into an alarm years ago and have used ever since. Finally, serenity. Garnished with sweet anticipation. I needed to pick up Lowes.

In the year a bunch of footage became a website, a lot went topsy-turvy. No sooner than Miles and I had emerged as shell-shocked masters of our roles as porno-documentarians were we  shanghai’d into the antipodal worlds of digital editing, e-commerce and webmastery. This detour, as it turned out, was the only way not to get fucked over on a minute-to-minute basis by the twin malevolent forces of incompetence and fraud, otherwise known as our contracted crew.  To say this forced expansion of our skillset watered down our prime endeavors would be a downplay of the truth. We just wanted to be pornographers. The day Miles fired our second editor, (the first of whom came with a degree in Filmmaking and resigned the day of our first official shoot) was the day our headaches started and didn’t once recede until we launched the site. That’s a lie. They still haven’t receded.. At least not by much. Times you could find us walking around in an adobe creative cloud of our own, sans the constant crashing, of course.

Suffice to say, the hiccups and speed bumps went beyond the pale that year and were likely better left unmentioned, at least to Lowes who, I was certain, would arrive fully-equipped with his own volume of tales to tell, born from a year spent holding down the fort on his own budding and morphing career in Las Vegas, the highlights from which had to be more interesting to him than a replay of our obstacle course to becoming part of “the business”. This would fill the void left for small talk on the ride home. Besides, show me one good model whose favorite pastime isn’t talking about themselves. I veered my car onto the airport off-ramp and my thoughts to the task at hand. James Lowes. After a year on his own. How would he look? Would I recognize him right away? Oh God, nothing is worse than being caught cruising at the airport. Did Miles remember to mention I drive a different car now? Would I have to pay to park? But all of these trifles melted away as I pulled into the passenger pick-up lane.  

I did my share of chauffeuring Lowes around out in Vegas – for all intents and purposes. At least until the details of those intents and purposes came into focus, like models in a PNP porn who method-act in their off time “to get a real feel for the part.”  Like the things we saw and recorded through lenses that we burned onto DV tapes and emblazoned into our memories through connected wires until time came along and distorted true events with dropped frames and icy silences. Putting it plainly, if we weren’t shooting Lowes, he was probably getting shot at. If he wasn’t getting shot at…er…nevermind. But it is noteworthy for any fan of the good Officer, something they may even appreciate, that James Lowes didn’t just play a bad boy on TV – he played one in real-life, as well. And goddamn us all if he’d ever once let go an opportunity to prove it. Like the time I picked him up at Palace Station…

He called me, frantic. Some strung-out bitch. Just had to have him in the room where OJ finally got popped. Him and six klonopin. And a healthy helping from a freezer bag of blow. “Fish scales that would make a spawning trout jealous!” Both had their way with her – and for far too long. Long enough to banish any trace of cognitive thought from her head. It would only be a matter of time before the she swallowed her tongue. And check-out was a half an hour ago. Naturally, I told him I would be right there.

I arrived, as it turned out, just as Lowes was departing prematurely. And to a premature departure, no less. I knew that face. When bad boy turns sad boy. I turned him around by the shoulders, “two dead bodies weren’t better than one so pull it fucking together” and ushered him back to the room. Had him turn the shower on while I got her ready. Not too cold, I told him.

Two minutes later, the heaving of her chest; the opening of her eyes. In the background I heard Lowes start to breathe again, too. Then, a knock at the door. Housekeeping. Ready and there to prep the room for the next near-burnout. The next close call. The next starfucker in distress. Ours was just waking; not quite ready for checkout. Could we have until one? “No comprendo”– but twenty bucks on a cleaning cart in a town driven by hospitality can decide the difference between a Weekend At Bernie’s ending and Rush. They gave us another hour – we used half. We got her out alive, makeup intact, not one blond hair out of place. And Lowes was barely there. As we stepped outside and into the valet line, sleeping beauty finally muttered her very first words: “I feel like it’s tomorrow already.” I assured her it already was. I wouldn’t have wanted her to get freaked out.

When he appeared at the arrival curb, the relief was palpable. It was like no time had passed at all. Like getting off. Or getting off just to get it off the table. Like twenty dollar seats at Jagged Little Pill. The musical. The deal was done and it looked like a million bucks. All smiles. Mission accomplished. Battleship sunk.

Lowes had never been to Louisville. We talked food, bourbon, his girls, my boys. Work talk creeped in, but when your business is sexy, water cooler talk gets hot. Anyone who works on a porn set can attest. I listened, processed and filed away any juicy details for a future shoot. Then, in the looming shadow of the Galt House, smack-dab in the middle of Bourbon Country, two-thousand miles from Paradise, Nevada, he asks me, “still smokin’ the same stogs?” I handed him my pack.  

Some things never change.

 

Austin Silver

Louisville, KY 2018

New Year’s in Vegas is a special time. The natives are all tucked awake in bed. Most tourists are still bleary-eyed from “Cowboy Christmas” festivities. Hell, Ronnie Spector couldn’t even make it to her own goddamn holiday spectacular. The gambling and the drinking take on spiritual, almost sacred, purposes. Yes, there’s a sense of a real obligation to the finer arts of getting properly and constantly fucked up. PNP and cloud emojis become ubiquitous on the popular hook-up apps and overwhelm the synapses. It was 2016 and there we were, amidst the lazy lollipop mobocracy, testing our odds and negotiating the societal grain. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Vegas – well, I go Vegan. No meat? Sure. I’ll raise you no solid foods at all. Taste some meat? Absolutely. But I’m only ingesting milk and clouds.

So it was with lifted spirits and a spring in my step that I found myself setting up and blocking a shot for what would eventually become the debut feature for Previtus Media, only feeling slightly silly.

The shot, like the concept, seemed simple: Dominant straight man uses a cock-obsessed sub. I figured a shot of a dicksucker kneeling in front of an alpha would be a piece of cake. Miles agreed and we blocked the shot. Or tried to, anyway. Even before he called “action” he was unhappy with our then embryonic fake meth, so! back to the drawing board I went to “tweak” the recipe and compare Previtus PNP clouds to the genuine article in front of the camera and on film.

You can imagine the trial and errors; the relentless questioning. How do they look in this light? How do they look at this shutter speed? Are we sure we couldn’t get it more real? Look, the real shit isn’t smoke – it’s a vapor! I know Miles, this is a vapor, too. But it shouldn’t LOOK like a vape pen. Does it? Lemme try comparing clouds under an incandescent light. Okay, now try this lens… Imagine a PNP version of Sigourney Weaver’s audition for Alien.

I’m not sure we ever blocked anything that night, except maybe our vape pen coils, but we hadn’t  begun production yet so, there was time. All we knew is that we wanted to master the art of PNP Porn. I mean if you’re going to coin a genre and claim it…

PNP’s screentest ended before long, cameras and lights abandoned in the on position, and we found ourselves on our cellulars and laptops, sifting through porn in search of the cream of the crop. Some kind of big finish or finale flick to wrap our blocking fail. I perved over countless vids of amateur military guys on leave some of which are still in my bookmarks. Miles, on the other hand, seemed to be jumping through pornographic hoops without a safety net. I kept one eye on his laptop monitor out of mere curiosity, all the while keeping the other on my iPhone, and before long, The Light came on.

“You’re making it.” I told him.

“Huh?”

“What you’re looking for. You’re making it. It’s not out there. That’s why you’re making it.”

I watched him mull this over. I have to admit, I understood his fascination with the concept of PNP porn. PNP porn or the shortage thereof, rather. And, so did he. Among the homosexual community, PNP was quickly becoming as traditional as apple pie. Vegas, more than any place in the world, understood and celebrated this. Hell, the city was practically built on a fast foundation. We felt strangely at home there.

Miles spent another hour sifting through search engine results from tube sites, Bing, Google and the lot – coming up high and dry, so to speak. Then he said to me, ever the optimist, “you know, I just thought of something.”

I don’t mind telling you, I was scared.

“If I’m the one making it – PNP porn – you realize that means I’m never going to be able to enjoy it myself, don’t you?”

At Previtus nobody can hear you scream.

 

Austin Silver

Louisville, KY 2018