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KON4M 99
March 1999
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Robert Sterling
"i want to fuck you like an animal
i want to feel you from the inside
i want to fuck you like an animal
my whole existence is flawed
you get me closer to god"
"Closer," Nine Inch Nails
As the year 2000 approaches, mankind is slowly whipped to a frenzy, a larger portion everyday convinced Armageddon is approaching, yet too alienated to really care. Faced with expectations of a grim, dubious future, the outcasts unite, engaging in ritualistic acts of indulgence and deprivity, an attempt to escape the post-industrial civilization's lack of connection to nature by achieving enlightenment through excess and imbalance. Perhaps that is what is on the mind of the participants (at least subliminally) on February 6, 1999, as a group of very eager men - and a few women - unite in Southern California, the purpose to participate in the world's largest gang bang, the Houston 500.
Perhaps, or perhaps they just want to fuck the shit out of some hot babe.
Whatever the case, the recent evolution of the gang bang is an interesting parallel to developments in global finance and commerce. As mammoth-egoed Titanic director James Cameron boasted while receiving one of his many awards for his three-hours plus, $200 million dollar epic, "I guess size DOES matter!" The box-office draw of his Leonardo DiCaprio vehicle certainly qualifies as convincing evidence to his claim, as does the fact that of the ten biggest U.S. mergers in history, the oldest occurred on May 11, 1998. On December 1, Exxon and Mobil Oil, the world's two largest petroleum corporations, announced that they were merging, forming the world's largest industrial giant and reuniting the two crown jewels of the Rockefeller empire: the story was treated with a nonchalant shrug by the media elite. Contrary to popular mythology, the obsession with size and concentration of power by industrial kingpins didn't disappear with Donald Trump, Ronald Reagan and the go-go eighties: if anything, the trend of blockbuster mergers has only intensified as the millennium approaches.
And so it goes with sexuality. Certainly sexual extravaganzas are no 20th century invention, with the orgiastic delights of the Roman Bacchanalia festival and Francis Dashwood's Hellfire Club parties of sword-sucking and sorcery - which Ben Franklin was a frequent participant of - being two of the more notable examples in history. Yet the modern era may actually live up to the hype of Fundamentalist fire-and-brimstone preachers, a civilization of unmatched decadence. Jack Boulware, in his Boogie Nights-flavored celebration history book of the seventies, Sex American Style, describes the massive commodification of sexuality that took place during the Me Decade with the unprecedented formation of a lucrative pornographic industry. Conventional wisdom is that this was the "Golden Age" of porn, that the days of Marilyn Chambers, John Holmes, and Deep Throat represent the pinnacle of sexual entertainment, a peak shattered by Uncle Ronnie and the AIDS panic. The numbers quickly prove this wisdom to be certifiably false: while some of the pseudo-respectability porn achieved during the seventies has disappeared, porn is more than ever the not-so-secret twin of the mainstream entertainment komplex, achieving an economic clout and vitality common to hedonistic delights. True, the production values in porn has decreased from twenty years ago, but this has been more than compensated by the increased jizzability of the actresses involved in the product, as economic incentives have lured a more arousing group of female participants to the field of adult cinema (the vast majority aided by a multitude of cosmetic surgeries, which often surrealistically approach Dr. Strangelovian wet dreams in their absurd transformation of women's bodies into glorified sex objects.) Further, while the AVERAGE porn film has certainly been cheapened due to the ubiquitousness of videotapes, the finest of pornography is no doubt better than ever, whether it be the lush, glossy stylistics of Andrew Blake's art films or the Godard-esque cinema verite auteurship of Seymore Butts. Indeed, the evidence is overwhelming that pornography's heyday is right now, that the apparent end of the sexual revolution has merely intensified mass consumption of disposable fertility goddesses, just as pop culture has only increased its exploitation of sexual urges in the post-AIDS environment.
In any case, the gang bang employs the turn-of-the-century "Bigger IS Better" craze to perhaps its most intense metaphorical extreme, as the fine art of female copulation with multiple partners turns to matching McDonald's brag of how many billions of burgers it has served. So far, there has been a trio of stars that have attempted to go where no woman has gone before. The first, Annabel Chong, had a voracious sexual appetite worthy of the mantle, and many suspect she would have participated in the 1995 extravaganza - where she was banged 251 times by 80 guys - for free. (As it turns out, she DID do it for free, getting fucked a 252nd time for her $12,000 by sleazy porno producers.) Sadly, while Annabel may have had a sense of good sportsmanship worthy of a Lady Bing trophy, her own physical attractiveness has been widely criticized, a common derisive term associated with Ms. Chong being "skanky-looking". The second woman, Jasmin St. Claire, certainly has never gotten any complaints in the looks department: her sultry, exotic mixture of French and Sicilian heritage complimented her doe-eyed, tasty-breasted appeal, and beauty alone would have made her a top porn-queen without the gang bang gimmick. Unfortunately, to nearly all it was clear that Jasmin could barely conceal her revulsion at the industry she was employed by. St. Claire has since continued to be steadily employed in the porno industry, and the subject of her own alleged lack of enthusiasm is a touchy one which she vehemently denies: still, a viewing of her performance makes it quite obvious she was at her 1996 event (where she was banged 300 times by 51 men) merely to pick up a paycheck.
The latest gang bang queen, Houston, promises to be the best of both worlds: a highly aroused, sexually insatiable woman who is also a drop-dead bombshell. On paper, she appears to be the perfect combination to take on the promise of 500 sexual penetrations (hence the title "Houston 500"), during which she will be squirted with enough hairgel for an entire squadron of Cameron Diaz clones. A tall, well-tanned platinum blond who claims to be 30 years old (a claim that is highly suspect, a common occurrence when viewing the bios of porn queens), Houston has large coconut-sized implants for breasts, though relatively not too outlandish in size. Relatively, that is, because, though they do not match the more extreme level of defying gravity and evolution that some actresses do, her chest is nonetheless implausible by any natural biological development, each globe stuffed with enough silicon to power a Cray supercomputer.
Houston is known in porn circles for having a sweet, thoughtful personality, and this writer's lone previous encounter seems to confirm the label. In 1997, I met her at an erotica convention. We spoke a little bit when the crowds around her had surprisingly thinned, and I was struck by her sincerity and intelligence, not to mention an attractive collection of freckles that marked her upper chest, unwisely left hidden by lighting and camera work in nearly all her films and pictures. After what literally was about three minutes of exchange between us, one of Houston's male handlers popped in between us and said out of the blue, "Hey, she'll sell you the panties she's wearing for ten bucks." To be honest, up until that point, the idea of even asking for Houston's used panties hadn't popped into my head, much less buying them. Still, I understood that she was on the clock, and I felt her kindness deserved some kind of reward from me (besides, I am a sucker for a pretty face), so I agreed. As she slowly took them off, I felt kind of goofy about the bizarre transaction, and apparently, she noticed. Halfway down with them, she stopped, looked up at me, and asked, "Are you enjoying this?" "Oh yeah," I replied with a smile, telling a little white lie. Having heard this, she continued, her performance quickly drawing a crowd, and when through, she handed me them (I believe I still have them somewhere.) Perhaps her little pause was a minor thing, but her actual concern for my personal pleasure said volumes.
It is with this little insight on Houston that I arrive at the event on this Saturday morning, invited at the last second by the production company as part of the media coverage. The event is sponsored and promoted by Metro Global Media, an adult entertainment film producer that has Houston under contract. Metro is one of many companies trying to overtake Vivid Video as the industry leader, and has made some impressive steps, signing some of the more well-known names in the industry: Jill Kelly, Madelyn Night, Shyla Foxxx, Coral Sands and, until the Houston 500 their biggest success, Misty Rain, perhaps the most notorious sex vixen of the decade thanks to her volcanic sensuality and bubbly personality. They have also tried to sign younger, lesser known talent to develop name brands, among them Claudia Chase, Inari Vachs and Dee. Still, Houston is now the top name at Metro, as the Houston 500 represents a major coup for them, a firing shot to lay claim of Smut Supremacy.
As I park in the media member lot, so do two others covering the event, Evan Wright, Executive Editor for the Internet Entertainment Group (the geniuses behind the nude pictures of "Dr." Laura on the net, and the promoters of the Houston 500) and Tim Kinneally, Hustler's entertainment editor. We hit it off, and soon we check in, entering the sound stage. Hustler and IEG aren't the only media here: Anka Radakovich, sex-writer for Generation-X via Details Magazine and her books, covers the event as well, and keeps a low profile throughout the proceedings. A more attention-grabbing presence is Susan Breslin, an attractive, twenty-something, dirty-blonde haired woman with a telegenic look, which explains why she is the host of Sex Cetera, a Playboy Channel show about sex events all over the globe. Breslin has an appealing icy demeanor to her, which compliments very nicely her Amazonian height: shoeless she is 6'2", and with the stiletto-heeled red leather boots she moves around in, she is a jaw dropping 6'9", tall enough to look Karl Malone straight in the eyes. Her look and dress make a very attractive package, and if one didn't know any better, it would be easy to mistake her for a porn queen herself. In fact, that is what I do when I first interview her, and the fact that I don't recognize her immediately as a legitimate writer clearly annoys her. "Look, I've had my work appear in Detour and Details, and I've done the talk show circuit, including Politically Incorrect." As she says this with a wicked fire in her eyes, her breasts heave forward, barely concealed by the tight blue-black rubber dress she has wrapping her well-shaped body. "I'm a respectable journalist." Whoops, sorry about that. I have no idea how I could've mistaken you for anything else.
Folgers coffee, hot chocolate, jugs of Arrowhead water, plates of vegetables and fruit, as well as hot dogs and hamburgers with condiments for a little lunchtime protein, are all provided by Metro free of charge. I am later told that at the previous gang bangs, all participants had to pay for these things, so there is quite some appreciation that Metro isn't being cheap about this.
Mingling with the crowd are some names of pornography's past: Sharon Mitchell, the one-time ubiquitous porn queen who still looks in great shape (though she is a now-ancient for porno females 41 years old), is here for her non-profit organization Adult Industry Medical (AIM) Health Care, which promotes AIDS awareness and medical safety in the adult industry. Steve Drake, a former porn-stud, is here as well, currently working on some documentary project, and he is a surprising low-key and easy-going fellow. Not the same can be said about two other porn actors at the event, Sasha Gabor and Ron Jeremy. Gabor, who in his heyday was best known as being porno's lookalike for Burt Reynolds, still is a dead ringer for the Cannonball Run star - that is, a dead ringer for Reynolds if Reynolds didn't have a plastic surgeon. Despite the deterioration of his physical appearance, Gabor still plays a Casanova with buffoonish effect, and while seeing him in full narcissistic glory, I kept holding back the laughter thinking of one woman I know telling me of Gabor's recent failed attempts at trying to seduce her. Meanwhile, Ron "The Hedgehog", whose immense girth and squat-like, trollish appearance is, incredibly, more repulsively grotesque in real life than on camera (an appearance that is so unappealing that many porn actresses have "Ron Jeremy clauses" in their contracts stating that they won't ever have sex with him), proves himself to be equally lacking in personal charisma as he is comeliness, continuously moaning and whining about the world's lack of appreciation for his importance to Western Civilization.
Soon the Hedgehog bounces to center stage, telling a lame assortment of jokes as a standup routine, before introducing Houston herself. She appears, wearing a tight hot pink dress, and poses with a blue and orange NASCAR Pontiac to the delicious howls of a very eager crowd. Ron reads the rules for the event: be a gentleman, no fingers (dick and tongues are enough penetrations, and Chong in the first gang bang was cut up by hand digits, a case study for future reference for all you budding gang bang stars), no facial spraying (the top of the tits down is the approved strike zone for the event), no actual sex with "fluffers" (a porno term used for women whose job is to keep men hard between takes by sucking them off), keep clean, wear your Metro t-shirt at all times (most important, since the actors are not merely porn studs but screwing billboards) and no ins and outs of line.
That done, the crowd mingles once again, and two of the fluffers grab my attention. One is a cute, fresh-faced black woman named Diamond, whose frizzy hair, glasses and pierced tongue (she cheerfully adds, "And my clit is pierced too!") as well as her cheery demeanor gives her the look and attitude of Scary Spice. This resemblance, she insists, is totally coincidental, saying, "Oh my god, you're like the third guy to tell me that this week!!" The other woman, Claudia de Corazon, is a stunningly attractive, angelic-faced Hispanic dancer, model and "escort" on the side, and soon she has a crowd of men surrounding her like puppy dogs.
Another woman at the event is Cherry Swellz, a voluptuous, lingerie-clad Willendorfian Venus who has been in a few movies herself. For some reason, Cherry, who came to this event to be a fluffer, isn't picked to be a finalist. That hardly stops Cherry however, and soon she gathers a flock men, who participate in a pre-bang circle jerk around the eager female.
An assortment of lesser known porn studs is at the event as well. One is John Q. "Milky Way", a handsome Latin performer who is here with Claudia. They both live in Oregon, but still have Los Angeles-based business numbers. Though they try to conceal it for business reasons, it is a safe assumption they are a couple. A rather open couple at that, as Milky Way will later pound Houston with his hammer and Claudia will help blow the battalion of participants. Then there is John D' Player, a married middle aged man. I ask him if his wife is aware he is at the event, and he replies, "Oh, most definitely." It turns out John and his wife are swingers of note, besides running the website Hot-n-Nasty.com and being a rather successful amateur porn film director in his own right, having earned the prestigious honor of filming the lovely Misty Rain's Mistycam Birthday Bash.
A young, dreadlocked African-American wearing an Emmitt Smith Dallas Cowboy jersey calmly waits for the proceedings to start as well. Tony Eveready is his name. It turns out he is a bit of a pro already, having previously had sex on-screen with Porsha, Janet Jackme, Nairobi Knights, and Heather Lee, four of the sexier dark-skinned actresses in the business. How about Heather Hunter, I ask, referring to the dreamy, mocha-skinned beauty who is the most popular African-American name, you ever work with her? "No, not with Heather, at least not yet." There is a moment of silence as we both lament his sole misfortune.
One two-toned hair-colored younger man also seems relatively at ease, Eric Sloan, a budding porn king wanting to hit the big time. Sloan is an artist living at a commune hostel in Venice Beach. Also at the hostel is Sasha Gabor, which explains Sloan's in to the industry. Eric is a cameraman and special effects designer for money, but porn is where his heart is at for a future while his art career develops: "Hey, it's the best fucking way you can earn a living, you know?" So far, Sloan has only been in three other films, each earning him $50 a pop, less than you can make by giving blood. "I guess a hard dick is a dime a dozen, until you develop a name." He just may develop one: a healthy tan and well-chiseled and tattooed frame, along with his no-bullshit talking style, seem to echo the look and style of a youthful Mickey Rourke.
But certainly the most interesting would-be dick-for-hire is an outgoing, affable fellow named Skidmark. Skidmark, a flabby, tattooed, and pale-skinned man looking in his mid-twenties, traveled all the way from Chicago, Illinois to fulfill his dream of participating in the event. Apparently, Houston was smitten by his eagerness, and decided that he would have the honor of screwing her first. She then wrote with a pen on his body "Love, Houston," and Skidmark, flush with excitement, immediately traveled to the nearest tattoo parlor that was open (it was 10 PM on a Friday night) and had it engraved as a permanent momento of his meeting with her.
"Everybody who knows me thinks I'm a fucking freak," he says with a wide grin on his face. Part of the reason is Skidmark's fixation on pain. Besides his impressive collection of tattoos, he proudly shows off a different kind of mark on his body. "These aren't tattoos, these are brandings." How does the pain of brandings compare to tattoos? "They're MUCH more painful." He also has both nipples pierced, and I ask him if his tongue is as well. "No, but eventually I'm going to get it split."
Excuse me, did you say you were thinking of getting your tongue split? "Oh no, I'm not thinking of doing it, I AM getting my tongue split." He pauses for the moment as the boldness of his declaration sets in. "It's no big deal, I've already split my cock," he proudly boasts.
Sadly, a little glitch has fallen in the way of his dreams for this day: namely, his blood test. Skidmark apparently took the wrong kind, and AIM will not certify him as gang bang ready because of it, which normally would mean that he traveled all this way for nothing. Fortunately for Skidmark (and proof that there is some justice in this universe), the fine folks at Metro promise to fly him to Los Angeles again soon so he can screw Houston in another film, thus providing a happy Horatio Alger ending to his tale of scrappy determination in the face of all obstacles.
The sex itself is a little anti-climactic. Houston looks in particularly good shape, perhaps aided by a recent 45-day jail stay for a DUI. Throughout the event, she has a wide smile on her face, and nothing seems to faze her. The best sex comes when Misty Rain stops by, along with French sex-kitten Rebecca Lord and the charming and promising Puerto Rican nymph Dee. Misty quickly straps on a black dildo, and proceeds to become the 250th victimizer of Houston's orifices, thrusting with a reckless abandon that the tame-in-comparison men all seemed to lack. Otherwise, the most interesting sexual activity is the surprisingly impressive oral skills of Claudia, who proves her sweet face was just a cover for tremendous throating talents. Later, during the lunch break, a group of guys surround her again, and a few beg her to go in the corner and be the center of another circle jerk (she refuses.) Instead, one particularly smart guy manages to sweet-talk her into letting him suck her breasts, and soon, there is a line of men waiting to wrap her pointy nipples in their mouth.
As the lunch hour nears its end (initiated when Houston was one short of the record at 300), I see one fellow sitting by himself, looking up in the sky with a grim look on his face. I ask him what's up. "Oh, nothing," he says. "I'm just trying to decide if I want to participate or not." It turns out he has a girlfriend who found a copy of his application form, and, unsurprisingly, she wasn't pleased. Apparently, she gave him an ultimatum: either you say no to Houston, or you say no to me. The fellow has long had a dream to be a porn stud: this was going to be his first step in the field. Now he isn't so sure if it's worth it or not. The guy looks up into the sky again, and I leave him be to weigh what he's doing.
In the end, the event becomes the equivalent of most Super Bowls, lots of hype going in but ultimately boring to watch. There is little drama in seeing Houston's record-breaking 302nd sex act. That is, if it really was the 302nd act at all: a common sentiment among the crowd is that the numbers are grossly padded and as fake as the average porn queen's tits, using a brand of arithmetic that can be referred to as "Wilt Chamberlain math", a style similar to Pentagon billings by defense contractors and the kind of Hollywood accounting which declares that Forrest Gump lost money. Nothing new here in the bogus gang bang math: the previous two extravaganzas are widely viewed to have fake totals as well. The final official numbers are dubiously listed as 620, but in any case, with over 40 pro and 60 amateurs involved in a spectacle which lasts the full day, this is by any count the biggest of all the gang bangs yet.
A few weeks later, I interview Houston outside at Hustler's Sunset Boulevard club in West Hollywood, while she is on a cigarette break. Her chest is still red from the splattering she has received, and she is not finished recuperating from her exhausting bout. Nonetheless, she is in good spirits, cheerfully reporting that she will be on Howard Stern's radio show again soon and is taking acting lessons. A couple of men suddenly come up to us, and one says, "Hey, you're Houston, that gang bang girl, right?!" "Yes, I'm the gang bang slut," she says with a smile, but also a slight hint of annoyance that betrays her attempt at humor, taking another puff of her cigarette.
Will the gang bang phenomenon continue, or will the coming of the year 2000 end this fad once and for all? It could go either way: after the pummeling that Houston has received, it seems to have already reached the point of unnecessary overkill. Still, pornography is the most disposable of artistic goods, and no doubt men will soon be hungry for more. In any case, perhaps there is something to said about an event which - in an area that has been decimated in recent years by earthquakes, floods, riots, police beatings, and any other social or ecological calamity that could possibly be dreamed up - was able for one day to unite so many people of so many backgrounds over one single cause. As Rodney King asked: "Can't we all get along?" Sometimes, with the right motivation, we apparently can.
Along with all the people mentioned in this article, special thanks to Susan Yannetti of Metro Media for treating me like I was a respectable journalist (though I'm not), Luke Ford of lukeford.com (an excellent resource for this article, and despite the bad press he's received lately with the "Matt Drudge of Porn" label, a very entertaining writer, whether he's right or wrong when printing it), and both Dee and Coral Sands (two Metro girls whose charm made this piece seem less like reporting and more like hanging around porno babes.) Also, another big thanks to Houston, for proving once again her friendly image is well deserved.
