The Vegas Porn Summit: AVN/AEE 2012

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When I was a child, just like when you were a child, someone told you that dreams really did come true if you worked real hard. In 2008, I was a young copywriter working for a nutraceutical firm on a sex campaign. I gleefully impregnated the inbox of millions with stories of how you could get the John Holmes penis you’d always wanted. This was my first post-college job in a recession where writers were left snarling over the carcasses of SEO content development jobs, so I would have taken anything I could have procured.

The best part about this job was when they transferred me to Vegas. While my transfer was left incomplete due to the untimely arrest of my boss for money laundering in the amount of $17 million—an unforeseen horror that had me on a plane back to a Michigan winter—I never forgot how much I loved Las Vegas’ trashy, transient nature. And I would never forget that I had flown into Vegas just days after the 2008 AVN Awards. The whole city, a bartender told me, becomes like this, porno, thing. I will go to the AVNs, I declared. One day, I won’t be a copywriter anymore, but a real journalist and I will cover the AVNs or I will die an unglamorous death trying.

Cut to 2012. Hundreds of bylines later, and my press credentials for the 2012 AVN Awards are approved. Now, 2011 was one hell of a year. I’d covered Movement in Detroit, Electric Forest, Maker Faire, ArtPrize, MI Fest, DIY Fest, NeoCon, The Gathering of the Juggalos and Exxxotica New Jersey in a matter of months, Exxxotica being my last hurrah. It’s also an adult convention nestled a mere 45-minute drive from the infamous Jersey Shore. You can read all about it here and see photographs here and here. This wasn’t my first rodeo, but I’d be lying if my week in Vegas wasn’t everything I hoped it would be, and grosser.

Desperately Awaiting Hardcore

I spent the first two nights in Vegas alone, being pathetically nostalgic about it all. With baited boners, the city waited for the arrival of porn stars. I followed them half-heartedly on Twitter, but spent most of my time reading Craigslist and trying to figure out which women were prostitutes. Because I had decided to spend the first two nights in Excalibur, the second cheesiest hotel on the strip (Circus Circus, right?), I ended up at the cheesiest restaurant: Dick’s Last Resort.

Here, I sat next to two women from Baltimore, one of whom didn’t realize the pudgy, balding, middle-aged bartenders’ schtick was to hit on any female that sat down by insinuating she was a slut. And she was into it. The other one told me that she and her ex-boyfriend were huge fans of porn and had planned to go to the AVNs, but had split up. So, it was just her and her friend now. They were eating fried shapes out of a Styrofoam container, dipping the shapes in ranch dressing. One of them got dressing on her fingers, and the other licked it off. I texted back home, “Sitting next to two large women trying to sexily lick ranch dressing off each other.” Response: “And I didn’t think anything you did in Vegas would make me jealous.”

If these ladies were the kind of people also waiting for the AVNs to start, I could only wait with excitement for what would happen when they actually commenced.

No Butthole, No Care

Wednesday. After arguing with a concierge for an hour, I’m finally let into my suite. I’ll be sharing this room with Nate “Igor” Smith, a photographer from Village Voice perhaps better known by his blog, drivenbyboredom.com. Igor and I met at the Gathering of the Juggalos, which you can read about in great detail here. After four days of being trapped, sans cell phone signal, with 20,000 juggalos, covered in Faygo and learning the secrets of the dark carnival, you develop a solid professional rapport. Igor and I both agree that we’re down with the clown, but not necessarily until we’re dead in the ground, and would defend Juggalos to the death against naysayers everywhere. I’m thinking that this trip is going to be nothing like the lawlessness of the Gathering, and even though it is a porn convention, the nudity will be much different. And I’m sort of wrong. You see, the Juggalos have a chant and it goes a little something like this: “Show your butthole! Show your butthole!” You would think that this kind of chant would only exist in the confines of Cave In Rock, IL, but you’d be wrong.

Former hairstylist and current porntrepreneur Hunter Moore founded the site IsAnyoneUp.com in 2010 after deciding to start a blog posting nude photographs of people. Users of the site can anonymously submit photographs or videos of themselves or others. Moore will use social networking to verify the persons involved are over the age of 18, and then post photos of the the person(s) getting increasingly naked, and occasionally involved in sexual situations. Some of it is the willful submission of individuals of themselves, but a lot of it is revenge porn. Moore requires a name and social networking site with all submissions, and links the images to that site. So when your ex is pissed you blew his friend and sends every dirty image you ever sexted him to Moore, the gatekeeper of sweet, sweet vengeance, get ready for a slew of new Facebook friends.

Moore has been called a life-ruiner, and is frequently bombarded with requests to remove photos. He claims he will do so, but he also likes to post his hate mail on another section of the blog. In 2011, he was attacked in his own driveway by an angry victim, and he is threatened with law suits all the time.

Moore is having a party tonight at Mandalay Bay in a club on the 43rd floor called The Foundation, and he wants Igor to come and photograph the party. Igor arrives in Vegas late afternoon with Arabelle Raphael, a buxom, septum-ringed Burning Angel starlet.

Arabelle is interesting and fun, but she loses her contact in the bath and decides to stay in for the night and get some rest since she has to be up signing early at the Adult Entertainment Expo in the Hard Rock the next day. So, it’s me and Igor off to meet Moore on our own.

[This is a photo of Arabelle Igor instragrammed. Want more? Follow "@drivenbyboredom".]

Immediately upon being introduced to Moore, who is wearing sunglasses in a dark club and drinking Skyy straight from the bottle, he asks me if I’m going to talk shit about his party. “If it sucks,” I tell him. So, let me be honest. This party is a far, far douchier place than I have ever been before. A guy with a fanny pack is dancing all around yelling, “Fanny pack dick!” and someone is marketing Big Cock and Little Pussie energy drinks. It’s fucking dark, but people are wearing sunglasses and a wasted girl on the balcony is dancing with her dress pulled up around her waist. And by dancing, I mean she is running into the ring of guys that surround her, making out with one after another and happily getting groped. Until “Hangover” comes on. Then she angrily stomps over to the DJ and starts going on about how much she hates it. A tab on a computer is rung up at over $500, and there are eight guys to every girl. People are jumping on couches.

But Moore is a gentleman, who invites us to drink of his bottle service bounty. Igor hands me a glass of ice with just vodka in it. He tosses in a lemon and shrugs saying, “I’m no mixologist.” Igor introduces me to Coco Velvett, a porn vixen who buys me a real drink and becomes my pal for the night. I also meet Melanie, lead singer of Vegas band The Objex. She is not wearing it at present, but can be seen wearing a jacket that reads #NBHNC on the back. Another girl who wants Igor to photograph her has this tattooed on her hip. But what, my friends, does it mean?

It means: No Butthole, No Care. And it’s fairly simple. The site says it’s simple. It means EXACTLY that.

Other things you might learn from Is Anyone Up:
A gnargoyle is an unattractive woman. A mangoyle is an unattractive man. An SIF is a Secret Internet Fatty who takes a photo of themselves appear slender, but in real life, doesn’t have the benefit of that angle. A Hoember Alert is when a woman’s social networks suddenly disappear.

As has often been said before: the Moore you know.

Eventually, Moore takes to the DJ booth where he is introduced to the party by a freestyle rapper who claims Moore has “blow up his nose like a gun hose,” an assertion I can neither confirm nor deny. Moore is quite inspirational, telling us he’s far too drunk for this, but reminding us to “do your thing; be creepy as fuck.” He starts playing “Champagne Showers,” and says, “Fuck you. I’m cool now.”

When Moore finishes, he pays Igor and we take off. He asks me again if I’m going to talk shit about him. Frankly: no. Moore makes a living off of embarrassing those of us who allow our images to be taken when we’re nude. He says a portion of the profits—sources say Isanyoneup.com makes $8-10k/month from ad revenue alone—go to charity. He is fierce about not allowing underage submissions, and reports those submitters to the authorities. But his power as a life-ruiner depends on our society and our inability to recognize that nudity only has power if we hand it over, and sexuality is only shocking if we pretend it isn’t on our minds a great majority of the time. He’s a mid-twenty-something who makes a suitable living off of the ability for some people to pretend they’re too good to send their significant other a photograph of them fresh out of the shower.

I can only hope that if I end up on IsAnyoneUp.com, and if I am asked, “What were you thinking?” that they will understand when I answer, “Living the fucking dream, obviously.”

Thursday: The Calm Before the Porn

I wake up early on Thursday and work out at the fitness center, where I am joined by a man whose routine is to sit on machines and stare creepily at the girls that are actually working out.

When I return, Arabelle has left to go sign for her fans and Igor is ready to get into the Expo. We head to the Hard Rock, a venue change from the AVNs prior location at the Venetian.

The Expo is much like you would expect. A bunch of porn stars sitting next to larger-than-life banners of their airbrushed box covers, signing fans for drooling creeps and giggling tourists. Max Hardcore introduces himself to us early on and suggests we go location scouting for him, but is there ever really a good place for people to urinate on each other?

The Expo really hasn’t kicked off yet, so I decide to tag along with Igor on a few photo shoots instead. He shoots the lovely Lily LeBeau, who gets weird with our toaster, tells us a cute joke and leaves to attend AVN rehearsal, leaving behind the wrapper to a pack of Annie’s Bunny Snacks. Samantha Bentley then joins us for a shoot, and we convince her to go to the Gold and Silver Pawn Shop with us in seedy North Vegas.

When we return to the Hard Rock, I meet a series of other characters. Xander Covus is being barraged by two super fans, Andy san Dimas explains to me why she doesn’t do anal and I’m introduced to Brian Bangs of popporn.com fame. Igor and I share a meal with Katie St. Ives and Peter Warren before setting up a shoot with the alternative starlet Sasha Sweet.

It is when I return to the Circle Bar that I see perhaps the best thing I have ever seen. How strange it is to be in the desert but find a Juggalette, like a throwback to the circumstances under which Igor and I met. She has Pennywise the Clown’s face tattooed on her thigh. And this tattoo is gigantic. Do you know how terrifying “It” was for literally everyone in my age group? The most terrifying. “I have a lot more tattoos,” she tells me.

I want to see them all. Unfortunately, it’s late. Igor and I head to a convenience store. “We’ve got to find Faygo if we’re going to shoot that Juggalette,” I tell him. Faygo: something you never appreciate until you’re in Nevada and can’t fucking find it.

Sitting in the car, waiting for the tank to fill, we try to remember how long ago it was that we were at Hunter’s party. A day, we determine. But it feels like a week.

Highlights of the Day:

Asking an adult actress if that was a hickey on her neck and her replying, “No, it’s a meth rash,” then suggesting to me that by doing meth with her, I would save a lot of money on meals, seeing as how they’re so expensive in Vegas and all.

Katie St. Ives casually taking her breasts out in Mr. Lucky’s 24/7. They were quite nice.

Getting in trouble with a security guard who reluctantly asked our Juggalette friend to put hers away.

Friday: When Jessica Drake is your Bartender, or, When You Can’t/Can Only Feel Your Mouth

What I really like about porn expos is that someone always tries to come to the expo to convince you not to be into porn anymore. They truly go into the belly of the beast.

Now, I have never gone to church to tell everyone there not to believe in God, or that it’s totally cool to have drug-fueled orgies in murder motels, because I don’t like to go into someone’s home and tell them to stop what they’re doing. But that’s just me. So, of course the notorious XXXChurch shows up to the AVNs. Their stickers find a good home as pasties for the breasts of many of the strippers who casually perform around the convention. My favorite is another group who had a board set up where you could write prayer requests for your favorite wayward porn stars.

This mirrors a billboard I saw coming into Vegas that said, “God knows what happens in Vegas. Repent!” and a bumper sticker reading, “A life without Jesus is a dead-end street” plastered on one of the many news boxes with ads for strippers and escorts. I would admire the diligence of a group of missionaries in sin city, except I don’t admire it at all.

This Expo is, obviously, much bigger than the one in Jersey and any porn star who is anyone is wandering around somewhere. Many of them are not nearly as pretty as they are in video, but many of them are. One thing I’ve noticed is that most of them seem to dislike each other, in a mentality not unlike high school. But all of them are, for the short duration I get to know them, quite friendly. Some are too friendly. Or just friendly enough.

Igor leaves to shoot Zoe Voss and I wander about a bit myself, running into Geoff from Xcritic and eventually hooking back up with Brian Bangs. He’s headed up to Wicked’s Penthouse, so I tag along.

Here, Jessica Drake is bartending and director Brian Armstrong is having a conversation with porn legend Randy Spears. Spears reminisces about the late Jamie Gillis. He talks about having once filmed a movie in France where they stayed at a chateau with ample amounts of food, wine and classical music. Jamie asked him for a dance and while Spears says he doesn’t have a “gay bone in his body,” he shared a dance with him. Porn used to be different, Spears says, and I get the impression everyone used to make a lot more money.

But their suite is fairly extravagant, with a room that is only a jacuzzi, and the drinks are flowing and everyone is enjoying a catered meal. I talk briefly with Steve Orenstein, who founded Wicked in 1993. They’ve been using condoms since 2004, he tells me, which is relevant on account of Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s recent decision to sign a law making it mandatory for adult performers to wear condoms in any films shot in the city in an area requiring a film permit.

When I leave the studio and wind up downstairs, I find myself talking to Sparky Sin Claire, who is happy to talk about her gang bang wedding for kink.com. Her own mother walked her down the aisles, she says. She may or may not be currently wearing a butt plug under her shorts, she informs us.

Then, a real business man comes along. This guy is trying to sell me on a “natural arousal balm” called “On.” This L-Arginine free, non-mentholated balm, which can be applied directly to the clitoris and labia, is meant to increase sensation within two minutes. While it is first suggested I take this sample to the bathroom, it is secondly suggested I use it like lip gloss. Which results in me tweeting: “I can’t feel my mouth,” followed by, “No, wait. I can ONLY feel my mouth.” Which results in someone back home assuming I am on a lot of drugs.

Face tingling, it’s time to go to the Sapphire, the world’s largest strip club, for the Burning Angel party. I get in a limo and away we go. When we arrived, we wait in a line for a short amount of time before being led to a roped off section of the club where we’re served far too many bottles of Grey Goose. Everyone at the party has decided I am Russian and is calling me Milla. I spend most of my time talking to Popporn’s Meatball until I am distracted by a stripper with an 8-pack who takes her client’s belt and wraps it around her throat.

At some point, Dave Navarro shows up. Naturally.

I vow not to get in the party bus, but I end up in the party bus. It has a pole. When we return to the Circle Bar, somewhere around 4 a.m., “Hirsute Maximus, Esq.” (this is the name he made up) is telling me he’d rather be a writer for National Geographic than work in production. Perhaps everyone is too drunk. At 5 a.m., I return to the hotel only to find Igor is still out.

Saturday: This is the Day the Lord Didn’t Make (See also: every day)

Tonight’s the night of the AVN awards, where we all eagerly await to find out who will be this past year’s champion of girl/girl/boy, best oral, best anal release, etc. While I was not given a ticket into the show, I manage to finagle some and provide one to offthegrid.fm photographer Jason Hite, who I have not seen at all until this very moment. I eat dinner with director Lee Roy Meyers, the terrifying Princess Donna, Hirsute and porn heartthrob James Deen. Deen and the Popporn crew are taking on the red carpet, and Deen is nervous about what he’s going to ask the stars. This is a guy who has sex on camera for a living having a panic attack over asking people questions on film. He settles on asking everyone about toast. I spend a considerable amount of time discussing porn film titles with Lee Roy Meyers with Hirsute pouts about being denied the opportunity to walk the red carpet as Lee Roy Meyers.

The awards show is somewhat long and drawn-out, everyone tells me, because there are so many categories. And this is a heterosexual affair — the gayVNs aren’t until later. Many fashionable stars walk the red carpet — including Evan Stone, who I find to be quite personable — and settle into the Hard Rock’s The Joint for the show.

Belladonna writhes her way through a sensuous silks performance. Dave Attell tells a series of dirty jokes and highlights the one thing I’ve been complaining about all week: it is impossible to walk anywhere in Las Vegas. Or at least illogical, perhaps. Our two sexy hostesses for the evening are Bree Olsen and Sunny Leone.

People spend most of the show milling about and drinking too much. You can read a full list of the award winners here, but you should absolutely know that my favorite porn starlet of all time, Bobbi Starr, won female performer of the year. Best Feature went to Elegant Angel’s Portrait of a Call Girl starring Jessie Andrews.

Following the awards, we attend an afterparty at Vanity, a nightclub inside the Hard Rock. The club is packed with dude-bros and girls in short skirts. “People who don’t read have to have some place to party,” Erik Schut of TLA notes. He claims to be dressed down tonight in Armani and Westwood, but doesn’t approve of the Forever 21 dresses he’s surrounded by. We end up in the box in front of the DJ Booth where women in next to nothing bring us a magical elixir (straight Patron) that enables one to feel that LMFAO may be geniuses. Alektra Blue and Jessica Drake dance on the tables and several fine young men stand below trying to take photos of them and asking how a person gets into where we are. You must be a sinner.

We exit the party and return to the Circle, where Xander falls over drunk and gets kicked out, I buy April O’Neil a $12 shot of Jameson for no real reason and photographer Jeff Koga and I are the soberest people on the planet. I meet a random stranger who is almost articulate enough to convince me to go to a party Ron Jeremy is hosting at the Green Door, but if there’s two places I won’t go with a stranger, one is church and the other is the Green Door.

This is the end of the Porn Summit. Everyone has drank their fill. Veruca James is having everyone smell her arm — not her finger, her arm. And it’s not because she has a fine perfume sample. As the sun threatens to rise on Vegas, I take a cab back to the Signature and pass out on our luxury couch.

Now Boarding

The following day, I decide I’d pay $24 for a shower and to not carry my luggage all over town, so I check into Circus Circus. I take that shower and wander through the screaming children and the mini-malls of tasteless souvenirs. I drink a $2 frozen margarita while everyone around me screams about a football game. Igor is at the Burning Angel brunch somewhere, where menu items are named things like “put it in your mouth.” When he finally returns, we eat with celebrity photographer Hew Burney at the grossest buffet in the world, though Hew doesn’t eat, and I sort of wonder if he ever does.

All the porn stars are peeling off their fake eyelashes, something the CVS has purportedly sold out of this weekend, and are toting their leopard skin luggage through the McCarran. Meanwhile, Hew drives like a true maniac down the strip, and his backseat is full so I have to sit on Igor’s lap, holding the camera and an energy drink that comes in what appears to be a blood packet while he blares dubstep. He takes us to meet Curtis Kulig, a New York grafitti artist who is in residency at the Cosmopolitan, known for his “love me” tag.

Eventually, we wind up at a photo shoot for Ron Jeremy and Lloyd Kaufman at the Comfort Inn across from the Hard Rock and suspiciously close to Club Paradise. The photo shoot is for a clothing line called Knockout and Doug Sackman of Strip for Pain fame is there. He gives me a copy of Doggie Tales, the strangest Troma film I may have ever encountered. Expect a full review shortly.

1 a.m. approaches and so Igor takes me to the airport. Everything is closed, and the gate fills with a tired group of people in track suits and oversized sweaters. Vegas has killed them.

We board, and leaving is bittersweet. Back to no drinking outside, no smoking inside and no boobs for sale anywhere, due to Grand Rapids’ puritanical laws against strip clubs.

A sign on and the airplane reminds me that what happens in Vegas stays with Vegas. And most assuredly, there are many pieces of Vegas that I will take with me to my shallow grave, but the rest of it is all right here. And in my photo roll on my iPhone.

The real question, ladies and gentlemen, is: where should I go now? Suggestions welcome.