You know, everyone jokes around when they are on vacation and the crazy friend joins them in the debauchery. But seriously, if I had known that this weekend, only half way over, was going to be like this, I would have rested up…or something.
The magnitude of our first night out at Roosters was somehow lost in my drunken post. From sober eyes, the insanity of two men punching it out in pretty vicious bar fight that starts in the middle of the bar and somehow ends up on top of the table you are sharing with some friends and a very horny lesbian is still unfathomable. Add to that the round of beers you just ordered being casualities of the drama with bottles flying everywhere and beer landing on all of us. I was only somewhat joking with K about this being a weekend to put the bail bondsman on notice. But the jokes have stopped and I’m effectively eating my words with a side of Aleve.
Last night we planned a thorough round of Scottsdale barhopping. But that quickly came to a halt after our first stop at a Biker Bar. Forward my mail everyone, I found my home there and never ever wanted to leave. FK made me hit one other place then we grabbed a Rickshaw taxi instead of hoofing it back.
Back at Biker Bar Extraordinaire we sit at the bar and I put some money into the Megatouch machine. I’m an addict. It’s a throwback to my days of waiting tables in Connecticut and sitting with the girls into the wee hours of the morning matching tiles for Tai Play. At some point, K leans over and whispers to me.
K: You may want to join this conversation I’m having with this guy next to me.
K: He’s a pornographer. He shoots porn for a living.
I turned to the couple on the other side of me, rapt with my agility at tile matching, and said, “Knock yourselves out with the remaining money, apparently there is a conversation I need to be a part of over here.”
We grilled that guy about everything. He told us how he shoots amateur, how a girl in her mid-twenties is considered “old,” how Jenna Jameson allegedly “ruined” Scottsdale with her underhanded tricks. I refuse to believe anything bad about Jenna though his accusations beg the question – she’s a pornstar, did you expect her to have high morals? Come on dude, she sucks cock and takes it in the ass for a living. He explained how they rent a hotel room and bring some artwork to hang on the wall to make it look more legit, how once they rent a hotel room the hotel is “tainted” and they can’t go back, though I’m not sure if it is for an artistic reason or if the hotel gets wind of it and bans them when they see his Irish ass coming to the front desk. Then we get to the question of money. K was sadly in the loo for the early part of this conversation.
Velvet: So the chicks make like $2000 for 2 or 3 days work, right?
Pornographer: No way. They get paid hourly. And it’s not that much.
Velvet: How much are we talking?
Pornographer: Depends on the girl. Pick out a girl in here and I’ll tell you what I would pay her.
I’m hard pressed to find many females in this bar. Finally I locate one who seems decently attractive but he says he wouldn’t hire her. “Man face” was cited as the reason, and she was disqualified.
Velvet: Okay, that girl over there.
Pornographer: How big are her tits?
Velvet: Tough to see them, I’d say a B or C cup.
Pornographer: I’d give her about $140.
Velvet: An hour? Jesus. Okay, well, I’ll just ask. What would I make?
Pornographer: You? Are those a C cup?
Pornographer: How big are your areolas?
Yes. He really asked me that.
Velvet: Uh…normal sized I guess.
Pornographer: Are they light or dark?
Pornographer, with eyes lighting up for some reason: I’d give you more than that other chick then.
Velvet: Who knew the money was in the areolas?
As the conversation wears on and shots are poured, something else distracted my eye and garnered my full attention. I heard little yelps from FK of “save me,” and “help,” but there really wasn’t a lot I could wanted to do. I was distraaaaaaaacted. Apparently the pornographer had been asking her to go back and see his studio and the world famous adult bookstore where he worked. When she rebuffed his advances, he said, “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what I did for a living!”
As friendly switches into creepy, K and I were happy to be kicked out as the bar closed.
Then, as if the above madness wasn’t enough, we somehow ended up with more derelicts in tow with conversations of jealous girlfriends, obvious homosexuality, and my staking a claim on the best bar ever…evidenced by the fact that I climbed, in cork heels, on to this sign.