Simone With TV on at Hotel Village, Hamburg Germany. Photo: Tony Ward, Copyright 2024
Text by Bob Shell, Copyright 2024
.
A Vast Wasteland
.
I grew up in television. My father, Jim Shell, was the news anchor for WSLS TV Channel 10, the NBC affiliate in Roanoke, Virginia, and I used to hang around the TV station as an obnoxious kid.. So it was natural for me to go to work in television after college. In 1971 I worked for WRFT TV Channel 27, in Roanoke, the ABC affiliate. My boss there was Adrian Cronauer, the man Robin Williams portrayed in the film ‘Good Morning Vietnam.’ It was a very small TV station, so everyone did everything. I did newscasts, weather reports, hosted late night horror movies, produced, directed, ran the soundboard, was staff artist and photographer, etc. It was a great learning experience.
Back in those days the man who headed the Federal Communications Commission, the FCC, was a fellow with the amazing name of Newton Minnow. I always thought he must have been teased in school for being called Newt Minnow, named for two little aquatic critters.
Anyway, after assuming chairmanship of the FCC, Mr. Minnow watched a lot of TV and famously called TV ‘a vast wasteland.’ In those pre-cable days, the FCC had near absolute control over TV. For example, there was an FCC rule against portraying superstition as factual. This resulted in the cancellation of ‘The Sixth Sense,’ a program I liked, because it portrayed psychic phenomena as true. It always bugged me that this rule wasn’t enforced against TV preachers. The worst I ever saw was Billy James Hargass who performed miracle healings on his program. Don Imus did a wonderful parody with his Billy Sol Hargass character.
When I watch TV today on cable, I ask myself ‘Where is Newt Minnow now that we need him?” TV today has sunk to depths he could never have imagined. But the FCC, by law, has jurisdiction only over broadcast TV and radio, it lacks any authority to regulate cable TV or cable radio. The results are obvious.
One thing the FCC did was regulate the amount of time commercials could take up in programs. When I worked in TV, we never ran more than two commercials in a single commercial break, only two breaks per half hour, and both commercials were thirty seconds in length. Today there are so many commercials in a break that I lose count! This, in my opinion, dilutes the value of them all. And it disrupts the continuity of the program. This is why old TV programs must be reedited to make room for all of the additional commercials, often disrupting the story.
When TV was broadcast-only we watched TV for free. The programming was paid for by the advertisers. Why today do we pay for cable TV and still suffer through commercials? It’s like double-taxation!
I’m an admitted news junkie. I watch NewsNation a lot to stay informed. But I’ve become burned out on repetition of the same commercials ad nauseam.
For example, if I see Jonathan Lawson hyping Colonial Penn life insurance again I may start pulling out my hair. I’ve noted that he says your rates will never increase, but he does not say that your coverage will never decrease!
Or the jewelry company called Pandora. Anyone who knows a bit of Greek mythology knows that Pandora was the first human woman. In Greek, Pandora means ‘All Gifts.’ After Zeus created her, he gave her a beautiful box, but strictly ordered her not to open it. Pandora could not restrain her curiosity and opened the box, releasing all evils upon mankind. Name your company after the person who unleashed all evil? What were they thinking?
I could go on about the stupidity of commercials, but I’ll spare my readers that vitriol. My point is that there are too many commercials, and too many of them are just plain stupid. Advertisers must believe the famous quote variously attributed to P. T. Barnum and F. W. Woolworth; ‘No one ever went bankrupt by underestimating the good taste of the American public.’
Being Kissed. Alex Foxe from Obsessions. Photo: Tony Ward, Copyright 2024
Text by Alex Foxe, Copyright 2024
.
In a Holding Cell
.
The one and only time that I’ve been arrested truly, was one of those moments of wrong place wrong time. I was completely innocent of the crime that I was arrested for. I had the day off work from Rick’s club in Seattle, Washington, but it was near my birthday and a couple of girls had asked if I was going to come in and work that day. No, I wasn’t scheduled to work, but they really thought I should. They said we would have a little party and besides, I would make money on my birthday.
Washington state has a law that if you’re fully nude, you cannot serve alcohol. I did not partake in cannabis, but I assure you that the dressing room was very fragrant at times. I assumed someone was bringing in a flask or a small bottle of liquor which some girls did. For one they needed a lot of liquid courage. I’m sure there were pills involved with some girls, it’s easy to conceal, but I am in no way insinuating these girls were addicts. Most were from other states with different laws, and they were used to having a couple of cocktails when they danced.
I was so excited and nervous that girls were starting to warm up to me. I was brand new at the club and I knew no one. I knew there was a hierarchy, as there always is. I kept my mouth shut, head down, was super respectful and kept to myself.
So, I threw my gigantic gym bag filled with the usual stripper basic kit, (which includes several outfits, shoes, makeup, wipes, deodorant, fragrance) into my car and went on down to the club. Now the way that Rick’s club runs, and a lot of clubs nowadays, (it was very new to me at the time) is you have to pay their fee called “house” to work at the club. The house fee was $70 the minute I walked through the door. It was super anxiety provoking, being brand new at a club with no established customers and having to get seven dances right off the bat. I was already struggling to pay for my house and then come home with any amount of money. Sometimes it was only $30- $40 after house and there was no way I could live on that.
I was new so customers were more than willing to get a first dance with me. The dances were $10 a pop and I was successful a lot of the time getting one dance, maybe two, any more than that and the guy and I were having a good conversation and he knew he should pay for my time. Funny side story, my landlord came in a few times to the club. I gave him a few dances and was hopeful he would become a regular and this would pay my rent. We had a great conversation, and he was very nice. He soon realized that he was spending more money than he planned and one day he told me he would not be coming in anymore because he was spending too much. I wasn’t the only girl giving him dances.
I was really struggling to figure out why I couldn’t get any more dances. Well, it didn’t help that I didn’t really like asking for a dance. The thing I hated about asking for a dance was not so much asking for the dance, it’s the way that some of the patrons acted and the way they looked at you up and down, like you were beneath them, and they would decide whether you were worthy or not. Mind you most of the guys that look at you like that, look like a turtle with their sweatpants or gym shorts on with no underwear. Still grosses me out thinking about it now.
The “absolutely beautiful” girls were making money, the “not too beautiful” girls were making money, but I was not making money. I was hired for dayshift starting out, which traditionally means you make less money because there aren’t a lot of people that go to the club during the day. But the people that do go into the club during the day are supposed to be working, or running errands, at hardware stores, etc. these guys had a limited amount of time and a specific set of money that they could blow. They were usually only in the club for maybe an hour or two, and they were gone. Of course, we got the occasional group of daytime bachelor parties, golf buddies, etc. Night Shift is a different ballgame. You can feel the energy in the club. There’s usually double the number of girls and in my opinion, I would say the night shift is where most of your hustlers’ work. Sure, you have a couple of hustlers dayshift, but dayshift is definitely way more chill. At this club anyways.
So, back to why I wasn’t making money. The pieces of the puzzle all came together when I turned the corner from the DJ booth where there was a large room with sofas lined up for private dances.
Let me describe how Rick’s was set up when I worked there:
when you first walked into Rick‘s to your left was the dressing room, on the right a second office, then walk into a big room with tables and chairs all around, four tops and a lot of two tops, a stage right in front of the DJ booth and a smaller stage closer to the table dance area.
The manager on the day shift was a very short, older, close to 70’s, Italian man. He was really nice, and I’m quite sure he knew what was going on because whenever he would come around the corner to make sure nobody was “dirty dancing”, he made a lot of noise before walking to the dancing area.
So I come around the corner from the DJ booth to ask for some dances, (the club was always very dark in my opinion but I wasn’t in charge of lighting so I went with it) and one of the strobe lights was shining just right, and as soon as my eyes adjusted, I see this really nice bodybuilder type girl named Tammy (who was ripped and very masculine in her build and she was always super cool to me) was given this guy hand job. And then there was this dancer who I think went by Barbie, (with the bleach blonde hair super fit like a fitness model, tan, who drove a convertible yellow mustang, and always carrying wads of cash) was bent over with her hands on her knees, like she was playing an outfield position for a baseball team looking out towards the stage, with her customer directly behind her in a Johnny Bench position, her yellow G-string pulled over to one side and the turtle is finger banging way.
Barbie smiled at me with a look like she was bored out of her mind.
I was shocked. I had never seen anything like that at any of the clubs I worked at. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m just saying I didn’t see it. To this day, when I look back, I think how gross this guy’s hands were, probably so dirty she could get an infection. It was one of those scenarios where once you see it, you’ll see it every time. So when I worked after that, I saw it going on with a lot of different girls. Not all the girls, but a good percentage.
I knew two things; I was never going to make a lot of money at that club because I was not interested in that type of sex work. Number two, I was going to have to get a different job.
Back to my birthday celebration at the club. I can’t remember for the life of me what the girls had brought in for my birthday… Anyway, I had just gotten off stage and I was walking towards the table dance section when, all of a sudden, all the house lights came on and these men stood up and said, “THIS IS A RAID!” It happened just like it does in the movies. I know it sounds cliche’ but this was just like the movies. When the raid began there were girls, screaming, and crying. You could clearly see the policeman’s firearms. They were not in a mood for small talk. But I guess the part that gets me is that, apparently, this was some sort of sting operation for prostitution. So, these guys, the cops, paid by the local government, by your tax dollars, try to get hand jobs and who knows what else for the “case.”
One of the things that surprised me the most was the fact that the officers let us go into the dressing room, a few at a time, to get dressed with clothes. They did not make us go downtown half naked. There were a few girls really upset and scared and trying to stash marijuana and alcohol so that they would not be charged with anything else.
There were 13 of us and we rode in one of those paddy wagons, with our hands zip tied behind us, off to the police station. You really find out about a persons’ nature when you get arrested with them. Some of these girls were so dramatic, it was really hard to not lose my cool and ask them to please shut up. They’re crying, pleading, begging…It was getting boring at this point.
We all stood in line to get booked and placed in a large holding cell where there was no private bathroom. There was a toilet with a three-quarter wall on one side and benches up against the walls. A tiny sink to wash our hands. Some ladies were creative and cleaned a lot more than their hands. I was cool with it because I didn’t want to be hanging out with stinky chicks. The place had concrete floors, metal benches and white walls. It was cold and loud. Very echoey and had sort of that damp Seattle cold feeling. This was an experience I did not want to repeat ever again.
One of the really pretty dancers threw up a couple times and one of the other girls had some GI issues. Two girls made a sort of makeshift door in front of the toilet to try to give her some privacy. She looked like the kind of girl who only poops at home. She would never poop at a lovers’ house, and especially not if the lover was home.
So, you can imagine it was a crazy mix in this holding cell. Most of the girls looked like models, or cheerleaders. One of the problems was, there were other ladies in the holding cell with us. Now, some of these ladies looked like frequent flyers to the joint, so they were looking at us like we were aliens in their cell.
I remember one lady with long chestnut color hair and fair skin, looked to be about 32-ish? Hard to tell. She most likely was wearing a concert T-shirt and some jeans. Well, she reminds me of my old neighbor growing up, so we’ll call her Laura. Laura was fascinated by us and our situation. She wanted to know if we all knew each other, what we did to get arrested, but she mostly wanted to tell us how she caught her boyfriend cheating and instead of bashing his headlights out with a baseball bat like a normal girlfriend, she took the baseball bat and hit him in the knees, repeatedly. If I remember correctly, he was sleeping at the time of the attack with his mistress. So, she’s talking to a couple of the girls, who, mind you, it’s probably a little early for all the makeup, and glitter, and big hair, with lots of perfume, so yeah, we were the stars of the show.
We had a payphone in the room and one lady was on it for a very, very long time. I can’t remember what she was talking about, if it was one long conversation or several. I was worried that if I paid attention, it would have some sort of reaction with my body, or my resting bitch face, plus, with all the crying and retching on and off, and the flatulence, it got pretty stinky in there I will tell you. Even with the hairspray and perfume. But I remember being fearful of her. Not only was she about 5’10”, 185 pounds, she had a tough looking face. But the eyes. Eyes that you knew she had seen some shit and she has very little regard for human life so yeah, I kept the fuck away from her.
She is talking to somebody on the phone, and she says “You ain’t never gonna believe this”, as she counts with her finger saying out loud, “how many of you?” and she counts 6, 8, 9-10…13. Then into the pay phone “13 bitches! They look like models. Well, not all of them. Most of them do.” Without missing a beat, she says, “I don’t know what these 13 bitches did, but I’ll tell you what, I know these bitches did it together”. Everybody sort of laughed and then went back to feeling sorry for themselves.
Pretty soon, we were alerted that we would be fed. A guard delivered us each a sack lunch consisting of a Bologna sandwich on white bread, some of us got oranges, some got chips, and everyone got a carton of milk. So, you can imagine there was some trading going on. I ate my chips, took a bite out of my sandwich and could not even finish, plus from all the stress, I had lost my appetite. I drank my small carton of milk and put my bologna sandwich back in the paper sack and placed it underneath the bench I was sitting on.
All of a sudden, I hear the payphone lady screaming across the room, “Hey, you!” I’m looking down, minding my own business. I look up because one of the girls is tapping my leg and several girls are looking at me. I look at the payphone lady, “yeah?” “Are you going to eat that sandwich? I said, “no.” She said, “Well, I want it.”, and she was off that bench, in what seemed like half of a second, and over to me. Before I could pull the sandwich out to give it to her, she had it in her hand and was already back to her seat. That sandwich was gone in just a couple of bites. Thinking to myself maybe that was really stupid I didn’t force myself to eat because maybe, it was going to be a long time before I got out of this place.
Next thing I knew, they said we’re all being released. That was it. We were free to go.
The one and only time that I’ve been arrested truly, was one of those moments of wrong place wrong time. I was completely innocent of the crime that I was arrested for. I had the day off work from Rick’s club in Seattle, Washington, but it was near my birthday and a couple of girls had asked if I was going to come in and work that day. No, I wasn’t scheduled to work, but they really thought I should. They said we would have a little party and besides, I would make money on my birthday.
Washington state has a law that if you’re fully nude, you cannot serve alcohol. I did not partake in cannabis, but I assure you that the dressing room was very fragrant at times. I assumed someone was bringing in a flask or a small bottle of liquor which some girls did. For one they needed a lot of liquid courage. I’m sure there were pills involved with some girls, it’s easy to conceal, but I am in no way insinuating these girls were addicts. Most were from other states with different laws, and they were used to having a couple of cocktails when they danced.
I was so excited and nervous that girls were starting to warm up to me. I was brand new at the club and I knew no one. I knew there was a hierarchy, as there always is. I kept my mouth shut, head down, was super respectful and kept to myself.
So, I threw my gigantic gym bag filled with the usual stripper basic kit, (which includes several outfits, shoes, makeup, wipes, deodorant, fragrance) into my car and went on down to the club. Now the way that Rick’s club runs, and a lot of clubs nowadays, (it was very new to me at the time) is you have to pay their fee called “house” to work at the club. The house fee was $70 the minute I walked through the door. It was super anxiety provoking, being brand new at a club with no established customers and having to get seven dances right off the bat. I was already struggling to pay my house and then come home with any amount of money. Sometimes it was only $30- $40 after house and there was no way I could live on that.
I was new so customers were more than willing to get a first dance with me. The dances were $10 a pop and I was successful a lot of the time getting one dance, maybe two, any more than that and the guy and I were having a good conversation and he knew he should pay for my time. Funny side story, my landlord came in a few times to the club. I gave him a few dances and was hopeful he would become a regular and this would pay my rent. We had a great conversation, and he was very nice. He soon realized that he was spending more money than he planned and one day he told me he would not be coming in anymore because he was spending too much. I wasn’t the only girl giving him dances.
I was really struggling to figure out why I couldn’t get any more dances. Well, it didn’t help that I didn’t really like asking for a dance. The thing I hated about asking for a dance was not so much asking for the dance, it’s the way that some of the patrons acted and the way they looked at you up and down, like you were beneath them, and they would decide whether you were worthy or not. Mind you most of the guys that look at you like that, look like a turtle with their sweatpants or gym shorts on with no underwear. Still grosses me out thinking about it now.
The “absolutely beautiful” girls were making money, the “not too beautiful” girls were making money, but I was not making money. I was hired for dayshift starting out, which traditionally means you make less money because there aren’t a lot of people that go to the club during the day. But the people that do go into the club during the day are supposed to be working, or running errands, at hardware stores, etc. these guys had a limited amount of time and a specific set of money that they could blow. They were usually only in the club for maybe an hour or two, and they were gone. Of course, we got the occasional group of daytime bachelor parties, golf buddies, etc. Night Shift is a different ballgame. You can feel the energy in the club. There’s usually double the number of girls and in my opinion, I would say the night shift is where most of your hustlers’ work. Sure, you have a couple of hustlers dayshift, but dayshift is definitely way more chill. At this club anyways.
So, back to why I wasn’t making money. The pieces of the puzzle all came together when I turned the corner from the DJ booth where there was a large room with sofas lined up for private dances.
Let me describe how Rick’s was set up when I worked there:
when you first walked into Rick‘s to your left was the dressing room, on the right a second office, then walk into a big room with tables and chairs all around, four tops and a lot of two tops, a stage right in front of the DJ booth and a smaller stage closer to the table dance area.
The manager on the day shift was a very short, older, close to 70’s, Italian man. He was really nice, and I’m quite sure he knew what was going on because whenever he would come around the corner to make sure nobody was “dirty dancing”, he made a lot of noise before walking to the dancing area.
So I come around the corner from the DJ booth to ask for some dances, (the club was always very dark in my opinion but I wasn’t in charge of lighting so I went with it) and one of the strobe lights was shining just right, and as soon as my eyes adjusted, I see this really nice bodybuilder type girl named Tammy (who was ripped and very masculine in her build and she was always super cool to me) was given this guy hand job. And then there was this dancer who I think went by Barbie, (with the bleach blonde hair super fit like a fitness model, tan, who drove a convertible yellow mustang, and always carrying wads of cash) was bent over with her hands on her knees, like she was playing an outfield position for a baseball team looking out towards the stage, with her customer directly behind her in a Johnny Bench position, her yellow G-string pulled over to one side and the turtle is finger banging way.
Barbie smiled at me with a look like she was bored out of her mind.
I was shocked. I had never seen anything like that at any of the clubs I worked at. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m just saying I didn’t see it. To this day, when I look back, I think how gross this guy’s hands were, probably so dirty she could get an infection. It was one of those scenarios where once you see it, you’ll see it every time. So when I worked after that, I saw it going on with a lot of different girls. Not all the girls, but a good percentage.
I knew two things; I was never going to make a lot of money at that club because I was not interested in that type of sex work. Number two, I was going to have to get a different job.
Back to my birthday celebration at the club. I can’t remember for the life of me what the girls had brought in for my birthday… Anyway, I had just gotten off stage and I was walking towards the table dance section when, all of a sudden, all the house lights came on and these men stood up and said, “THIS IS A RAID!” It happened just like it does in the movies. I know people always say it doesn’t happen like the movies…this was just like the movies where I’ve seen dancers get arrested in a raid before, but you get my drift. Of course, there were girls, screaming, and crying. You could clearly see the policeman’s firearms. They were not in a mood for small talk. But I guess the part that gets me is that, apparently, this was some sort of sting operation for prostitution. So, these guys, the cops, paid by the local government, by your tax dollars, try to get hand jobs and who knows what else for the “case.”
One of the things that surprised me the most was the fact that the officers let us go into the dressing room, a few at a time, to get dressed with clothes. They did not make us go downtown half naked. There were a few girls really upset and scared and trying to stash marijuana and alcohol so that they would not be charged with anything else.
There were 13 of us and we rode in one of those paddy wagons, with our hands zip tied behind us, off to the police station. You really find out about a persons’ nature when you get arrested with them. Some of these girls were so dramatic, it was really hard to not lose my cool and ask them to please shut up. They’re crying, pleading, begging…It was getting boring at this point.
We all stood in line to get booked and placed in a large holding cell where there was no private bathroom. There was a toilet with a three-quarter wall on one side and benches up against the walls. A tiny sink to wash our hands. Some ladies were creative and cleaned a lot more than their hands. I was cool with it because I didn’t want to be hanging out with stinky chicks. The place had concrete floors, metal benches and white walls. It was cold and loud. Very echoey and had sort of that damp Seattle cold feeling. This was an experience I did not want to repeat ever again.
One of the really pretty dancers threw up a couple times and one of the other girls had some GI issues. Two girls made a sort of makeshift door in front of the toilet to try to give her some privacy. She looked like the kind of girl who only poops at home. She would never poop at a lovers’ house, and especially not if the lover was home.
So, you can imagine it was a crazy mix in this holding cell. Most of the girls looked like models, or cheerleaders. One of the problems was, there were other ladies in the holding cell with us. Now, some of these ladies looked like frequent flyers to the joint, so they were looking at us like we were aliens in their cell.
I remember one lady with long chestnut color hair and fair skin, looked to be about 32-ish? Hard to tell. She most likely was wearing a concert T-shirt and some jeans. Well, she reminds me of my old neighbor growing up, so we’ll call her Laura. Laura was fascinated by us and our situation. She wanted to know if we all knew each other, what we did to get arrested, but she mostly wanted to tell us how she caught her boyfriend cheating and instead of bashing his headlights out with a baseball bat like a normal girlfriend, she took the baseball bat and hit him in the knees, repeatedly. If I remember correctly, he was sleeping at the time of the attack with his mistress. So, she’s talking to a couple of the girls, who, mind you, it’s probably a little early for all the makeup, and glitter, and big hair, with lots of perfume, so yeah, we were the stars of the show.
We had a payphone in the room and one lady was on it for a very, very long time. I can’t remember what she was talking about, if it was one long conversation or several. I was worried that if I paid attention, it would have some sort of reaction with my body, or my resting bitch face, plus, with all the crying and retching on and off, and the flatulence, it got pretty stinky in there I will tell you. Even with the hairspray and perfume. But I remember being fearful of her. Not only was she about 5’10”, 185 pounds, she had a tough looking face. But the eyes. Eyes that you knew she had seen some shit and she has very little regard for human life so yeah, I kept the fuck away from her.
She is talking to somebody on the phone, and she says “You ain’t never gonna believe this”, as she counts with her finger saying out loud, “how many of you?” and she counts 6, 8, 9-10…13. Then into the pay phone “13 bitches! They look like models. Well, not all of them. Most of them do.” Without missing a beat, she says, “I don’t know what these 13 bitches did, but I’ll tell you what, I know these bitches did it together”. Everybody sort of laughed and then went back to feeling sorry for themselves.
Pretty soon, we were alerted that we would be fed. A guard delivered us each a sack lunch consisting of a Bologna sandwich on white bread, some of us got oranges, some got chips, and everyone got a carton of milk. So, you can imagine there was some trading going on. I ate my chips, took a bite out of my sandwich and could not even finish, plus from all the stress, I had lost my appetite. I drank my small carton of milk and put my bologna sandwich back in the paper sack and placed it underneath the bench I was sitting on.
All of a sudden, I hear the payphone lady screaming across the room, “Hey, you!” I’m looking down, minding my own business. I look up because one of the girls is tapping my leg and several girls are looking at me. I look at the payphone lady, “yeah?” “Are you going to eat that sandwich? I said, “no.” She said, “Well, I want it.”, and she was off that bench, in what seemed like half of a second, and over to me. Before I could pull the sandwich out to give it to her, she had it in her hand and was already back to her seat. That sandwich was gone in just a couple of bites. Thinking to myself maybe that was really stupid I didn’t force myself to eat because maybe, it was going to be a long time before I got out of this place.
Next thing I knew, they said we’re all being released. That was it. We were free to go.
I think I ended up being in that holding cell for about 10 hours.
So I’m on my way to go to my first pornographic shoot. I’m nervous, excited, worried I’m gonna get lost. I’ve got my printed MapQuest directions in one hand, skipping music through my six CD changer, trying to decide what an appropriate song to my first porno might be.
I get to the top of this mountain with this amazing ranch home and there’s a big huge red barn, and after I park my car and get out, I can see the ocean in the distance.
I’m still curious who owned the house. It felt like a cross between, kind of a modern bonanza, meets old Hollywood western movie set.
Now we’re talking, I was greeted by someone on the crew. I don’t remember their name of course but Skye Blue was there, and after we exchanged our hugs she escorted me to where I could put my things. I put my outfits, shoes, and other personal items that I kept in a gym bag.
Word got around fast this was my first movie. I thought that everyone was being extra nice to me because it was my first movie. I found out later on other movies sets, that everyone I worked with was nice.
I found the kitchen where there was a ton of food and drinks. A really amazing spread. There was a make up artist and people were hanging out in the kitchen area talking about their lives. Their kids and what they were shooting. It felt completely normal and everyone was very nice to me and nice to each other.
I’m not sure if it was a week or two before I was on the movie set that Skye had asked me if perhaps I might be interested in shooting a movie for her.
I was working as a chat camgirl for her and I was making a decent living. I think we received like $15 an hour base pay plus commission. Skye Blue was definitely ahead of her time. There was one camgirl working there that everybody talked about. She wasn’t there regularly, but when she was there, she was doing privates and making bank. If anybody’s ever worked in the industry, there’s always been at least one of those kind of girls. Not anything bad about them, they just had that “It” factor and well, Stacy Burke had “It” and still does. Just like when I was eating Mexican food at Casa Vega on a double date, and who do we see, George Clooney and Renée Zellweger. She was doing that cute laugh that girls do when they’re really into a guy. And of course she was doing that because George had this glow about him as if he had that Barbara Walters lens that all the camera guys used to joke around about. Is that still a thing? Anyways, where was I? Back to the movie.
I’m not sure where exactly I laid eyes on what would be my future boyfriend. If I were to guess I would say in the kitchen because I love food.
He was goofy, with all these amazing tattoos. But more importantly, he made me laugh. That is truly the gateway to my heart!
We made our way over to the site where they were shooting a scene. Obviously, the bed was unoccupied. If you know, you know.
Me and the photographer laid horizontally, clothes on of course, across the bed like two kids in the 1970s sitting on orange shag carpet in my friends dad‘s house watching Deep Throat on VHS. I was fascinated, excited, I had never seen anything like it. I also felt sorry for Linda because some thing was wrong with her throat.. Anyway, my relationship with the photographer will be important later, and I will come back to that in another story. Now it was my turn for “Action”!
Late into the evening it was finally my turn to shoot my scene. I’m led out to the set by our very own “Scotty” to where we will be shooting my scene. I had met my costar earlier in the day and she was super nice about everything and more. Sindee Coxx had been in the business for quite a while and has made a lot of adult films. She was super nice, funny, she had an infectious laugh, she was the complete 1990’s adult film starlight. I’m sure working with Sindee made Skye’s job a lot easier. That day we walked out to the set, which was outside. It was now nightfall and it was pretty cold. One thing you should know about me is that I don’t like to be cold. The premise of the story is that I am a slave girl and naturally, would be naked. The lighting was great. Everybody was on set and Sky talked about what she wanted to shoot and I believe she told me to enjoy myself.
We start off with Sindee inspecting my body. She orders me to stick out my tongue, and then she pulled on my tongue ring which was a surprise to me. Sindee instructed me to remove my bottoms that had buckles to keep them up. Then she presents to me some green fruit that has a slit in it. It looks like a vagina. Wearing this amazing vinyl outfit, and I will note that it is because she has clothes on LOL,
She holds the fruit in front of her, instructing me to lick it. She’s fully clothed and I’m naked on my knees facing her and plunging my tongue deep into this green fruit. I might note that I have never done this before in my life, but my rules for working in adult is, if I would not do it in my personal life, I certainly was not going to do it on film.
So I’m eating out green fruit. I can’t remember all the details about the movie. I do remember freezing my ass off and that Sindee was amazing and it was a great experience. I thought to be fair, i’d watch the movie to see if it reminds me of anything that I’m forgetting or any points I don’t wanna miss. I don’t think people realize how long it takes to shoot good porn. Now I’m sitting here watching fetish island and she has me fingering the big hard green fruit. I Jam my fingers in there and pull them out and suck on them. I look up. Cindy‘s breast are exposed and she’s got a banana in her hand.
She put it into position of where her dick would be if she had one and instructed me to blow her. Of course, I’m blowing the banana deep throating it, which I do remember starting to gag on the banana, and mind you this is something I’ve never done on camera before. I think I was so comfortable because of the crew and the cameraman, Barry Wood. He was very good at camera work. Looking back, I probably should have paid more attention to what goes on behind the camera.
Anyways, at one point, the banana goes down the wrong way and I’m trying not to gag and I know we’re filming and a single tear runs down my cheek. Barry was over the moon that he caught it on film.
I have to say, re-watching it now, It does look really good and ties everything together. I wish I could say that I shed that tear on purpose.
I peel the banana with my teeth and then she asks me to remove her clothes so I takeoff her vinyl outfit. She lays back on the lounge chair and has me worship her feet. I’ve never worshiped anyone’s feet before. I guess it was just instinct. I look at her and suck on them. She put a Maraschino cherry on the top of her foot and I eat it off. I told the crew that I knew how to tie a cherry stem in a knot. They all laughed and instructed me to tie the stem, which, of course I really did not know how to do.
Five more Marcinho cherries between her toes I eat another one. I’m glad they didn’t have me eat all five.
Sindee starts kissing me and quietly tells me to suck on her tongue. We kiss pretty passionately. My nipples are so hard and I’m freezing, as the saying goes, I could probably cut glass.
Sindee licks my tits and hard nipples and then asks me to lean back on the chaise lounge. Once again, I lay down horizontally. Sindee has these amazing green eyes.
I’m looking down at her while she is licking my pussy, and while I was being filmed. With the hair and make up people standing by for touch ups was the closest to Hollywood starlet I would ever feel. Watching my first movie again, hearing the super loud synthesizer adult music. I wish the crew would’ve left the portable propane powered heater that we were able to use between takes on. They said it was too loud to film with it on.
She bends me over and fucks me with a strap on. Sindee shoves a bunch of grapes in my mouth to be quiet. Now looking at it feels like an OSHA violation. That’s a joke for those of you that do not know me yet.
I climaxed all over the dildo, I might add we used my own personal strap on in the film which I still have. The scene ends with Sindee caressing my body.
Before I knew it the shoot was wrapped for the day and it was time to go home. I remember having such a great time, and it was such a positive experience. I was excited to shoot another movie, I’m sure I asked Skye when was the next movie. Watching my first movie yesterday after 20 years has filled my brain with lots of thoughts. I’m sad I left the adult industry when I did, not because I necessarily wanted to, but because my family once they found out my new career choice were determined to make my life difficult, actually they tried everything in their power to destroy me.
Most of the boyfriends I had during my time in the industry, said they were fine that I was a porn star, but later in the relationship the comments, guilt trips, and arguments before and after shoots were exhausting What’s funny is I mostly dated people that had something to do with adult or mainstream films. I wish I had the courage I have today to not allow others to influence my life choices without thinking of what I want. And standing tall and proud in my decisions.
Butts Allowed on YouTube. Photo: Tony Ward, Copyright 2024
Text by Tony Ward, Copyright 2024
.
Only Butts Allowed: YouTube and Censorship
.
For the past couple of months I’ve been experimenting with YouTube and the platforms censorship rules. As of this writing I have 47 videos posted on my channel that range from behind the scenes clips of recent shoots, as well as vintage television footage of me working on erotic still and video productions from LA to Paris.
About one week into the experiment, I received a notice that one of my videos was marked as only available for viewers 18 years of age and older. I said to myself ok fair enough, but why that one considering the clip was not that much different than other videos I already posted with no limitation on viewership. Despite the age limitation, the view rate started to go up and so did the number of my subscribers. At the time of this writing around 9000 viewers have subscribed to date. Not bad for an upstart.
So I continued drilling down on my hard drives and the process of uploading videos continued until I received my first STRIKE. A strike is a warning that content has been removed from my site. So I looked to see what video was taken down and low and behold it was the very same video YouTube had already approved of – for at least a week running – until the algorithm thought otherwise, thus a strike out of know where it seemed. How unfair I thought. Why would they allow the video to be up in the first place if there was risk to breaking the rules? Just goes to show you these platforms are not perfect, so it’s best to be on the safe side if your plan is to game the system. Gaming the system means to monetize it.
Here is the video that was taken down:
A second 18 years of age limitation was placed on the channel on April29, 2024 but this time it was immediate. A message landed in my email inbox within a minute of the clip being posted. So again I was amused by how random these YouTube warnings can be if you operate close, near, or up to the line, when it comes to their censorship rules. Here is the clip that this time I took down without risk of getting another STRIKE. I will keep readers informed as this experiment evolves.
Finding myself naked on the roof of a gentleman’s club in Athens, Greece, was certainly not how I envisioned spending the summer of ’96.
The journey to Athens started while I was working the feature circuit in Canada. I had heard from fellow dancers that one could make substantial money in places like Japan, Macau, or Greece without compromising one’s personal boundaries. Tempted by tales of earnings over $30,000 a month plus tips, and enticed by stories of dancers returning with piles of cash and the latest gadgets, a few girlfriends and I auditioned through our agency in the plush executive suites of Vancouver hotels for a three-month stint abroad.
When an opportunity arose to meet a talent scout for a Japanese club, my friend Misty—who was absolutely stunning with her petite frame, long blonde hair, and natural beauty—and I attended the audition. While she was immediately selected, I faced a request from the scout to undress to my comfort level, which did not include removing my panties. Ultimately, I wasn’t picked for Japan, which was disappointing as Misty was the first real friend I had made in Canada. She had an impressive work ethic and aimed to own a franchise of the Original Pancake House, a place she adored. Misty was the one who introduced me to Dutch Baby pancakes, which remain my favorite to this day.
Instead, I landed a three-month gig at a club in Athens, accompanied by Georgia Peach, a colorful character with a tough exterior whose estranged husband was part of a famous motorcycle gang. Georgia was fiercely independent, the first wife in her husband’s chapter to get her own Harley Davidson—a rare feat at the time. She advised against getting too involved with the bikers, a tip I took seriously given her insights and my own prior knowledge of the organization.
Our trip included a 10-hour layover in London, where Georgia and I explored the city on a double-decker bus, taking in sights like Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, and sampling some classic fish and chips before continuing on to Greece. Upon arrival, we learned we’d be staying in a small guest house behind a large residence less convenient than a hotel, it required expensive taxi rides to the club and adherence to a strict curfew. One morning, returning late, we narrowly escaped an encounter with the estate’s guard dogs, thanks to the separating distance of a large swimming pool.
Rehearsals filled our weekdays. While some dancers easily picked up the routines due to their experience, others like myself found it challenging, especially since I wasn’t skilled in pole dancing, making group choreography mandatory. The club was often quiet—a result, we later learned, of the owners not paying off the local mob, which explained the sparse clientele. Despite efforts, the earnings were far below expectations. The regulars knew of the club’s tip policy and discreetly passed us cash folded into small squares, which I learned to stash in my knee-high boots—a wardrobe choice that soon became a daily necessity.
We had a diverse group of dancers from Canada, America, and Eastern Europe, who all bonded well. My heart went out to those who couldn’t leave or chose to stay because even a little money was better than none. Most of the girls sent money back to their families. During my stay, two sisters introduced me to a charming man named Dragon—indeed, his real name.
Increasingly wary, we were often pressured to hand over our passports for “safekeeping.” I knew better than to relinquish mine. One night, just after a performance and while clad only in my boots, we were tipped off about an impending police raid. In a frenzy, we were led along a hidden path that took us up to the roof where we hid for hours, shivering and fearing arrest for working illegally.
Lying there under the stars, naked and cold, I resolved to find a way out of Athens. Little did I know that escaping to surprise my boyfriend, Dragon, in Yugoslavia would be my way out. It turned out that while club security was searching for me at the airport expecting me to return to Canada, I was at another, heading to a completely different destination. This move effectively marked my escape from the club and its questionable practices, and unknowingly, set me on a path to a new chapter in my life.
.
Portrait of Alex Foxe by Tony Ward, Copyright 1996
