A rather useless ADT account birthed this unwanted offer via e-mail a few months ago:
"Subject: Thank you and a special offer
Hi, Marcus London here.
I check in here on the forum from time to time, and I'm always happy to see what a passionate bunch of fans us 'performers' have...
I want to say thank you.
As an adult film aficionado, your continued support is what allows people like me (I've been in over 400 titles at this point) to put food on the table and feed our families!
And I can't tell you how good it feels to see that the work we do positively affects you as a fan.
So with all of this in mind, I've sent out this message. You see, I'd like to get some feedback from you. (more on that in a little bit..)
As you may know, I've started to take my adult film career in a different direction, using the experience I've gained to help ordinary guys get better at sex.
I've done some private 1 on 1 'sex coaching' for a while now, but recently I decided to reach out and help a greater number of clients by creating cutting-edge sex education video programs. In these programs I help ordinary guys (and girls) improve their sex lives by teaching them the skills I've developed during my career as a top adult film actor.
So why am I randomly writing to tell you about this?
Well, I figured there's a chance you might be interested in learning what I teach.
Since you're clearly comfortable with your sexuality (the first BIG step to being great in bed), I figured that you're also open-minded enough to want to explore the outer limits of your partner's sexual potential.
(No wife or girlfriend required, by the way... what I teach has worked for me and my students during MANY one night stands and casual relationships)
In particular, I have had a LOT of success teaching my students the step-by-step method to give a woman her first squirting orgasm.
(it's pretty simple once I walk you through it, and when a woman experiences one of these explosions for the first time... Wow! She'll want you to do it to her again and again)
Does this sound like something you'd like to learn?
If it is, I'd really like to you to try this technique out for yourself and let me know how it works for you.
My students' success rate with this technique has been extremely high, but I'm always looking to perfect my teaching approach. I feel that getting honest feedback from adult film connoisseurs such as yourself will make these techniques even more effective.
So, if you're at all interested, go here and check out this video that explains more, including a special offer only for adultdvdtalk.com forum members:
http://www.2girlsteachsex.com/cmd.php?ad=626067And be sure to PM or email me with any questions you may have.
Thanks again!
Cheers,
-Marcus"
Marcus London got interviewed by a subscription-based magazine recently and while Gene Ross was identified as a retard before, copying and pasting correctly and giving a working link to the source he copied it from is something for his future endeavours.
Not completely disregarding the introduction by the editor of the magazine, who was pleased enough with the result to make the interview people're supposed to pay money for publically accessible for free is something he can always try sometime. Just like actual links to the exact sites he copies content from to then fuck with its formatting like an idiot.
[source link 1/3] [source link 2/3] [source link 3/3] ____________________________________________________________________________
Porn Parody
The Fuck You, Marcus London Issue :: June 5, 2013 Marcus London Ain't Someone U Fuck With
By Leigh Cowart Editor's Note: Leigh Cowart, NSFWCORP's sex and science editor, spent five days living with porn star Marcus London and his entourage before writing this remarkable profile, which first appeared in Issue Three of NSFWCORP's print edition.
One of the themes of the piece was its subject's eagerness to be accepted as a mainstream performer and director, not just a porn star.
Apparently Mr London should be careful what he wishes for. Shortly after the piece was published, he took to Twitter to voice his displeasure at the piece. He didn't dispute a single fact or quote (and nor could he -- as editor on the piece, I can testify to the pains Leigh took to ensure that Mr London was represented fairly and accurately) . Rather, his initial tweets were limited to the standard whining of a first time interviewee: the author had taken his words (his homophobia, his belief that disabled babies should be killed) out of context. Even his follow-up threat that "i ain't someone u fuck with" was more comical than troubling (Careful readers will note that Marcus London is a porn star. As such, his entire job is to be fucked with.)
From there, though, his posts became more menacing including specific and repeated threats to come to our office in Las Vegas to exact revenge, and comments about how he was trying to find the home address of NSFWCORP staffers.
NSFWCORP is no stranger to threats, and bigger men than Marcus London (5'7") have issued them. That said, it's a running "joke" at NSFWHQ that we spend our lives writing about Chechen bombers, CIA assassins and billionaire industrialists but it'll likely be a disgruntled nobody whose name we misspelled who shows up with a shotgun. Given his enthusiasm for fantasy gun-play, his demonstrable god complex and the fact that he is entirely unused to criticism, Marcus London might just be stupid enough to follow through on his threats. I can't adequately describe how ridiculous it feels to have to contact law enforcement in three states (Nevada, California and North Carolina) and explain that one of my writers is being threatened by a pint-sized cockney in a loin cloth. But such is the rich tapestry of this job.
Security precautions addressed, there remains the question of how to publicly respond to a man who thinks threatening a female writer with physical violence is a good way to bury an unflattering profile. A simple "stick your threats up your arse, you gobby little cunt" is one option, from one Brit to another. But that's somewhat lacking on the "teachable moment" front. A more effective response might be to demonstrate that, if anything, threatening our writers will only cause us to double down on our reporting. So here we go...
Ordinarily NSFWCORP print features do not appear online (except as pdf downloads for print subscribers). On this occasion, however, we've decided to make an exception -- unlocking the entire profile for the world to better get to know the man, the legend, the AVN award winner for best porn parody: Marcus London.
-- PBC
London's Calling
By Leigh Cowart I’ve been with Marcus London less than ten minutes, and already we're watching porn. On the screen, a fleshy blur of jackhammering and grunting fills a set dressed to recall a Roman costume party. Marcus is a porn star. A short British man, covered in tan, with bulbous muscles that strain the veiny seams of his skin. He has closely cropped hair, translucent white teeth, and the kind of bright blue eyes that don’t require careful lighting to illuminate. Some faded tribal tattoos adorn his biceps, which bulge from what appears to be a woman’s black tank top.
He outlines his special gift as only Marcus London can:
“I can put my hand inside a woman and I can tell. I can feel things. Like car mechanics looking under the hood of a car, I know what does what.”
He has already informed me with professional pride that he recently set— created, then set—the world record for making women ejaculate: five women in thirty seconds. And he claims he can teach any man to make any woman “squirt.” For those without his natural expertise, he has created an educational DVD, and an extraordinary wristwatch.
We'll get back to the watch. At the moment he is cruising through porn tube sites, trying to find the pop-up ad that redirects to his series of instructional videos. A blur of bleached assholes, hypertrophied penises, and small, pink nipples cover the monitor. He can’t find the pop-up.
“I don’t have any respect for porn. Just ’cause I do it, don’t mean that I like it.” It’s daunting, the task of profiling a person. I want to get everything right, see all the angles, watch and learn and dissect and piece back together all the parts that so seamlessly blend together to make one whole person. Marcus London will prove to be a difficult study.
The BeginningI first met Marcus at the 2013 Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas, a massive convention of porn stars and pervy novelty products. The Expo is the cash-cow prelude to the "Oscars of porn," the Adult Video News (AVN) Awards. Marcus was in Sin City to promote “Spartacus MMXII: The Beginning,” a reimagining of the gladiatorial classic, with hardcore fucking. The movie, which Marcus had written, produced and directed, was a shoo-in for an AVN, but Marcus had far larger ambitions. Marcus was already a star, a two time AVN Award winner with over 384 film appearances to his name and a dozen directorial credits. He acted like a star too.
My assignment was to interview him at the penthouse suite at the Hard Rock Casino and Hotel. Seated in a deeply upholstered chair that dwarfed my frame, I waited for him to arrive. Meanwhile his smothering, schmoozy agent fussed over my shiny red hair and patted my arm every fifteen minutes or so with an update as to Marcus’s estimated time of arrival.
Finally The Star arrived, fresh from the airport, with his pretty blonde wife in tow. He shook my hand, invited me to sit back down, and motioned to his wife to do the same. Before we started, Marcus wanted to make one thing very clear. Even though "Spartacus" was nominated for “Best Porn Parody–Drama,” his masterpiece (based on the STARZ show, not the movie) was not a parody. In fact, Marcus practically flinched at the sound of the “p-word.” His preferred term was “sexually acted epic.” (Later that weekend, when "Spartacus" won, Marcus repeated this assertion from the stage. As if prepared for such an eventuality—and the lawsuits that would follow without a “parody” defense—a curvy blonde woman clamped her hand over his mouth and escorted him off stage). One on one, though, Marcus had free reign to explain what set his movie apart.
According to Marcus, the story of "Spartacus" is more important than porn. There's a story, there's music, there's “tasteful, artistic sex.” The sets were dressed by hand; the costumes were sewn by the cast in his garage turned- sweatshop; the music, carefully chosen, was soaring and essential. The fight scenes were practiced and perfected. The pubic hair was painstakingly groomed or attached with glue. And the overt theatricality of pornographic sex — the moaning and grinding — was toned down as much as possible. Marcus passionately explained his movie, the gap his work was filling, the bridge he was crossing, the new frontier he was exploring. His wife — who co-starred in the movie — sat absolutely silent.
It was shortly after the interview, as I walked back through the Expo hall, that I first encountered the watch. A giant cutout of Marcus loomed over the stand, which was enthusiastically manned by Aaron the engineer. Aaron, the watch's actual inventor, seemed delighted when I bought one. He threw in a second for free, as well as some instructional DVDs, brochures, and two bags of Gushers fruit snacks. Back at NSFWCORP’s downtown Vegas office, I showed the watch to my editor, Paul.
Battling with an eyelash curler in preparation for the AVN Awards Show, I explained the story of Marcus, his silent wife, his desire to break into mainstream cinema and—of course— the watch.
“It doesn’t tell time?” Paul asked.
“No.”
There was no doubt in either of our minds: I was going to be spending a lot more time with Marcus London.
SundayIt's a little over a month later when I land in LAX for my week-long stay at Marcus' private ranch. The logistics have been troublingly easy to arrange: apparently it's perfectly normal to invite yourself to live with a porn star. In the confines of his home office, the auteur continues to defend “Spartacus.”
“It’s not a porn. I won’t classify it as a porn.”
(It is definitely a porn.)
He takes me through a viewing of the many (nearly identical) trailers he cut. An action sequence features choreographed fights and a well executed wire trick, then abruptly gives way to fucking. There’s really nothing realistic about sex on camera but here the suspension of disbelief is further tested by the jarring switch from battleground to bedroom. Grimy, color-corrected wide shots jump to close-ups of well-primped genitals. Basically, if you want the ball-slapping angles, the sex is going to be porny. Several trailers are softcore-only, crafted to appeal to men who are too scared to break out their gonzo anal- POV porn with their delicate, pearl clutching girlfriends.
“People told me it was the best movie they’d ever seen.” On screen, a gigantic mass of muscle and phallus lumbers toward a panting girl. “Put your cock inside me,” she quips. To further his point, that his movies are better than porn, or rather that they are, “porn that doesn’t feel like porn,” he shows me footage of a movie he shot three years ago. It’s about a woman who loses her husband and keeps having sex dreams, then finally ventures out to a masked swingers party. It features real swingers. It stars his wife, Devon Lee. “And the sex party is realistic. I know; I’ve been to lots of those parties.”
As the movie starts, he explains to me that the flashbacks are in black and white, but the color is real life. On-screen, Devon stirs awake in her bed, pantomiming sad. (“We shot this in one day.”) He skips ahead, pausing for scenes of her talking to a masked woman, dreaming of her dead husband, receiving a mysterious sex-party mask in the mail. The music at this point is a clichéd and pulsing bo-do-do-booow, but once she starts fucking at the sex party, it changes to what sounds like the soundtrack to "Gladiator."
“The music takes away that dirtyfilthy feeling. It helps describe what the character is feeling.”
We are watching another guy fuck Marcus’s wife.
“Imagine 'The Notebook' without music!” (I cannot.)
Marcus is keen to give me a tour of the two-story ranch that he shares with his wife, and porn actors Tommy Gunn and Tony DeSergio. Today, though, the house is being used as a porn set: the crew is preparing to film lesbian porn and are just waiting for their director to appear.
We venture into the bright, cold California afternoon. Out at the workshed, Tony DeSergio is hammering away, building a confessional for the gay porn that is being shot at the house next week. Tony is the taller, leaner, sweeter counterpart to Marcus. He’s the roommate that cooks. He too is a porn veteran, also clad in black workout gear, and also covered in swollen musculature and ropey veins as thick as milkshake straws. As I watch him laying out wood for the frame, I note the tell-tale lawn of uniform stubble that confirms he shaves his arms. Behind us is a shed filled with homemade "Spartacus" props.
Wooden shields with big, round metal nipples in the center, heavy metal swords, a formidable gladiator helmet, and some beautiful leatherwork that they had custom made for the film line the walls of the congested storage room. Marcus knows the story, the work hours, the usage of every item in that shed, and those details and memories flicker across his face each time he finds something new to show me. He’s most proud of the helmet, a hulking and weighty piece of metalwork. There is no way I could wear this thing for any significant length of time. I am impressed.
After my brief tour, we settle on the patio with four Shih Tzus and talk about Marcus for another hour or two, beginning with a description of his ideal film:
“My perfect analogy of my perfect movie is James Bond with sex.” We go over his work history. After starting out working in his father’s pub, Marcus soon progressed to dancing in his skivvies before moving on to fucking ladies on camera for dollars. He speaks with pride about managing London strip clubs with a team of what he describes as “scary mobster goons with guns” as his club security.
Halfway through the conversation, Marcus’ wife calls. He puts her on speakerphone without telling her that he’s in the middle of an interview that is also being recorded. I wait for him to ask me to step away or turn off my recorder, but he doesn’t.
Sounding tired and whiney, Devon asks Marcus if he’s “done anything this weekend,” universal spousal speak for have you done this thing you were not supposed to do? He hasn’t. She queries again. He says he’s sure he hasn’t. He does, however, call her a stupid drunk, but I’m pretty sure it was meant with love. Hard to tell. After the interview, Marcus drives me and Tony to an Italian restaurant for lunch.
When Tony has finished interrogating the cashier on the freshor- frozen status of the food (everything is frozen), the duo discuss the logistics of the confessional they are building. They can’t agree whether or not to use wood paneling or to fake it with fabric. This conversation will recur like a leitmotif for the entirety of my stay.
When the food arrives without silverware and the pizza without plates, feathers are ruffled and Marcus sends me to get plates from the kitchen. The silverware and plates are self-serve by the napkins, straws, and soda machine but, in the interest of keeping things peaceable for now, I get them anyway. Marcus asks what publication I write for and what kind of things I write about. I realize he has invited a total stranger to follow him around for days—and to stay in his house— without even a basic Google search. I give him my job title and mention that I cover infectious diseases when the need arises. Naturally, he wants to talk about Ebola.
“How can a virus hide from people?”
Fortunately, the conversation quickly turns back to gym routines and nutrition. Marcus swears that carbs are not a bad thing, but insists that meat is the enemy. He croons that he has dropped fifteen pounds in a week just by going vegetarian. Without meat, he doesn’t get sleepy after meals! Without meat, he feels more clear-headed! I think he used the term “meat bloat.” Tony does not pipe in during this portion of our talk, instead poking his fork at the once-frozen meatballs that sit thick and uneaten on a sticky nest of spaghetti.
Later that night, director Nica Noelle arrives, after having called the crew to gather at 10 o’clock in the morning. When I enter, she is sitting at the dining room table working on a script. Today’s shoot is for her company, Girl Candy, the feature: "Lesbian Voyeur 2." Also at the table, fully made-up starlets play iPad games and flip through their phones.
Nica is tall, with long ombre hair that falls near her waist in roiling, beachy waves. She’s wearing a dress barely longer than her hair, a short, cream-colored sweater that skims the tops of her thighs, revealing a bare length of leg down to her tan Ugg boots. Her face is framed by prominent, hipster-esque glasses and she asks in a sweet, breathy voice that I not attribute quotes to her that she did not say. I assure her I will not.
Nica has the utmost respect for Marcus. A hard-worker, she emphasizes. A really smart guy. She tells me that she is used to being the smartest person in the room, but when Marcus is around, she defers to his expertise. I want to know where she sees him in five years. Without a moment's pause, she bobs her head, ruffles her hair, and says she hopes he is in mainstream film by then. Because that’s where he’d be happy.
“It’s where he belongs.”
I have to know: What’s the difference in their directorial techniques?
She laughs. “Well, I’m a pornographer. Marcus is something else.”
I spend the rest of the evening on set. Marcus strolls about flirting with the chatty girls, leaving the quiet ones alone. A beautiful pale girl in a silk robe video-chats with her young child at the far end of the table. The stills photographer, Joshua Darling, is dreadfully sick with some sort of disgusting cold so I make him tea (it’s lactation tea, but it’s all I have and it seems to help). Marcus struts about like a laidback rooster in a henhouse, cracking jokes, keeping his dogs quiet, and never letting anyone forget whose house this is.
The only real difference between a porn set and a conventional film set is the frequency with which naked people stroll into the room. Everyone seems happy, healthy, and welladjusted. The banter ranges from Krav Maga to foot care to poking fun at the assistant in charge of check-writing at the end of the night.
At 2 a.m. the cast and crew has slipped into the best kind of delirium. The last two girls to shoot their sex scene, who were, only moments earlier, grim faced and grumpy, return from their night's work with ear-to-ear smiles, strutting back into the kitchen naked and loose with that instantly recognizable post-fuck swagger. The scent of pussy hangs in the air, tinged with the unmistakable flowery smell of vaginal douches. Dirty jokes, loosened tongues, and fatigue fill the house. Someone fishes panties out of the sofa. Tony is padding around the house, collecting things for my bed, while members of the crew give me their business cards and a gentleman tries to explain to me why people are into bondage.
I let Mr. Bondage talk as he shows me—on his cellphone—dozens of pictures of a blonde, buxom woman in various stages of hardcore bondage. He’s showing me a picture of her tied to a wall, and carefully explaining that men who could never dream of fucking her get off on seeing her in such an available state. He does this for many pictures until I tell him that I am well aware of the pros and cons of bondage and am no stranger to being tied up. He offers me a job.
As does the assistant director, who tells me matter of factly that he’d definitely like to watch me having sex. It’s a polite offer with all the interest of a business deal: professional and only as charming as necessary.
As the shoot wraps and people start breaking down the lights and loading out, Marcus steps up behind my chair, pats me on the head, and tells me that my bed is ready. This head-patting business is an arm-breaking offense but I am working and tired and it is just too weird a boundary-blur to deal with. Also, I am still freezing and, like many a reptile, the cold makes me sluggish. I sleep with the covers over my head to conserve warmth and maintain my girlish obscurity. Life as an innocuous blanket lump is good and I don’t do anything weird in Marcus’ living room, like REM-hump the sofa or scream in my sleep about the nanobots in my colon.
MondayToday Marcus is working on a non-porn “action short” called “Walk the Dog.” It’s the story of two brothers, one of whom gets his gangster boss thrown in jail. Big Boss gets out, calls a meeting, tells Brother One to kill Brother Two. The brothers escape, antics ensue, ending in a montage of nuns wielding machine guns. Brother One realizes it’s all been a daydream, and is still in the car with Big Boss and Brother Two. Brother One shoots Brother Two, who has a metal yo-yo in his breast pocket. Brother Two survives. Walk the Dog is a yo-yo trick that requires two people to perform. Twist!
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat pretending to be Brother Two, who will actually be played by Tommy Gunn. I wonder if there is anything in the script to account for the fact that one of the men has a thick Jersey accent while the other is clearly British.
“Speak!” barks Marcus— demanding that I help him test the audio equipment. For a brief instant I consider yelping like a dog. Tony is outside the car setting up a camera, pointing it in my face and apologizing because he thinks I don’t like cameras. Finally, Tommy Gunn arrives and they are ready to shoot.
The camera malfunctions and Marcus, a perfectionist, is flustered and annoyed. He slings orders and other noise at Tony, who is working one of the two cameras. The screen keeps going black, which Tony of course, would like to keep from happening so that he can get the shot, but Marcus is snippy with him.
Tommy Gunn shifts in his seat, looking bored and not a little put out. He looks over his script, mouthing the clunky, cruel dialogue, waiting for things to settle and cameras to roll. I watch Marcus in his frustration, his halting directorial style, the way he bites and snaps and insults his friends. I know the type, so focused in their pursuit that their attentive, perfectionistic temperaments tip over into aggression. Action trumps civility. The task at hand becomes the only reality, and anything that gets between you and completion is ripe for the cutting block. Even his attempts at humor during the shoot fall flat, mocking Tony for needing to look through the lens with his left eye, dubbing him Tony Weird Eye for whatever eye ailment is making Marcus’ shoot last longer.
The batteries start to die. The light is changing too fast.
Inside the black Honda SUV, Marcus and Tommy are shooting and re-shooting the opening scene. The dialogue plods, delivered back and forth with the awkward beats of a rehearsal. Which it is, mind you; the purpose of this shoot is to get a feel for the short, to do some test editing, to play. So maybe when they shoot it for real it will be better, feel natural, and possibly even be compelling. Right now, though, it looks like two bored dudes playing at action heros by yelling at an invisible prostitute in the back of their car while their bro films it so they can put that shit on YouTube.
Mercifully, the batteries finally give up the ghost.
Marcus and Tony decide to run errands; Tommy Gunn and his gelled, black hair go off to get testosterone injections. At this point, the fellas apologize for being boring, seemingly worried that I’m not going to have enough material, that their life isn’t rock ‘n roll enough.
Twenty minutes later we are having lunch in a Panera Bread. As Marcus eats chicken noodle soup, Tony goes through the various performance-enhancing drugs he’s taken over the years—both for muscles and for penile turgidity. He is making me laugh into my coffee with his visceral descriptions of the Viagra flush, enacting all of the blood rushing to his chest and face. Loudly. Everyone else in the restaurant is trying to pretend they can't hear him. This is California, after all.
Next stop is JoAnn’s Fabric Store to look for something that could serve as a false dividing wall for the gay porn confessional they’re building. Well, that Tony’s building. Marcus still thinks that they should just make a solid wood frame but Tony wants the fabric and Marcus helps him sift through bolts of fabric and piles of factory scraps.
The two men are again dressed in closely matching all-black workout attire. Tony carries a black shoulder bag, which is to say, a purse. I’ve often wondered why more men don’t carry shoulder bags; they are so practical. The woman working the fabric counter eyes them skeptically, watching them scrutinize heavy upholstery fabrics and thick, matte strips of brown, textured pleather. “Doesn’t this look rather Catholic-y to you?” Tony asks, holding up a deep purple-and-gold embroidered swath of fabric. I agree. Marcus is loudly unconvinced that using fabric in place of wood paneling in the confessional divider is a good thing, but I point out that churches are covered in fabric stapled to the walls, so it’d probably be fine.
They buy the brown plasticine couch material and some heavy, patterned cloth to serve as a tapestry in one of the non-confessional scenes. We scour the store for premade crosses, but with no luck. After Jo-Ann’s we go to the gym, where Marcus is in a mood to philosophize.
“Nature doesn’t make fat lions, you know? You never see a fat lion.”
Everyone is staring at me. I’m wearing street clothes and my coat (I’m cold goddammit), watching a pained, flushed man push himself to the limit. Tony is two repetitions in and his chest and face are red as an apple, the muscles of his back rippling menacingly under what appears to be severe sunburn. There is such an instantaneous change in his physiology that I feel some alarm as his already prominent veins bulge and dilate, stretching to accommodate the blood flow surging to and from his heart. Marcus makes a sweeping survey of the people sweating away in the gym and comments on the vast diversity of bodies present. His gaze lingers on a few of the less fit participants and launches into a conversation with himself about junk food.
Knowing approximately three things about the insidiousness of junk food science, I offer my input about the science of keeping people eating while simultaneously keeping their bodies from registering that they are full. I have, however, misjudged where this Marcus Monologue is headed. Because it’s not about the fat people. It’s about the New World Order.
“It’s a government culling program to control the human race. As the Zeitgeist says, the population is classed as the eaters.”
He explains that everything is controlled by a select group of people who are going to act in the best interests of the few with no mind for morality or ethics. He tells me that they control everything, that everything is a united front, that if you challenge it you will be thrown out. If you talk, you’re killed.
I ask him why he’s not dead for speaking out.
He shrugs me off, continuing his recitation of that Peter Joseph movie. I ask him, has he ever been involved in local politics? The politics of even a small group are often so intractable, so messy, so fraught with competing interests. How is it remotely possible for one, small, nefarious organization to carry off a perfectly-executed global conspiracy? “Illuminati.”
As he pulls the weighted bar behind his neck, he tells me through broken grunts that if you just took all of the money out of the world, everything, all power, would be even. We move on to the next machine area where Tony is already, pulling and grunting and red. And, as I notice throughout the entire Zeitgeist rant, very quiet.
Marcus, flushed and sweaty and as chatty as ever, continues explaining himself to me. He’s always been a talkative man, but something about the gym has loosened his tongue to an amazing extent. Maybe it’s because he’s in his element. Maybe it’s all the blood flow. Maybe it’s the rush of being out on display. But whatever it is, he’s fallen into a certain ease with me, relaxed into more expansive posturing and a faster stream of consciousness.
The casual nature of the gym interview. Who knew? It’s almost endearing, talking to someone while they sweat and groan in the name of self-improvement. When focused on a task, people think less about what they are saying and more about what they are doing, leaving space for honest answers and removing the awkward silence that hangs around thoughtful pauses. “I don’t even like anal sex because that’s what gay people do.”
Cue the sound of a thousand cars slamming on their breaks and burning the thick rubber of their tires into choking clouds of smoke. “It’s unnatural. Gay sex is unnatural. Cavemen fucking each other if there aren’t women around? Unnatural.”
I look at him incredulously. “So you don’t like blow jobs either? Because someone sucking your dick, that’s definitely gayer than anal.”
He looks me square in the eye. “Blow jobs? I can take them or leave them.” So I ask: What then, is natural sex? His answer? Sex between a man and a woman for procreation. Under his definition, anal and oral sex is unnatural. I guess masturbation is unnatural? If the only natural sex is sex in the pursuit of a gravid mate, then sex for the sole sake of pleasure is unnatural. This, from someone who makes all of his money as a sex worker! I try to take a moment to wrap my head around the fact that this man who fucks on camera, for pay, is leading me into a discussion of what constitutes natural sex, his living literally predicated on the diversity of sexual preference and the seeking of sexual pleasure.
He is continuing his homophobic rant, trying to justify his stance that homosexuality is unnatural when Tony points out some grey hairs on Marcus’ neck. Marcus explodes, spinning around and yelling at Tony.
“My wife grooms me! That’s what she’s for!”
I’m taken aback at the sudden vitriol over a few stray, faded neck hairs. I haven’t seen this kind of violent reaction from Marcus all weekend and it admittedly makes me a little bit queasy. I consider emailing Paul—who is already quite worried about the journalist he sent to go live at some porn dude’s house for a week . Maybe I could get a hotel for the remainder of my stay.
But before I have the time to process what is happening, Marcus launches back into our conversation about ass stuff. Mired in suspicion, I ask again if he really doesn’t like anal because it’s too gay.
He tells me, vehemently, that he prefers pussy. That’s all he wants. Referring to a woman’s asshole, he says “I don’t even want to see it. Put a plaster on it!” I try to imagine my response to a man telling me to put a Band-Aid on my asshole.
Tony, who has been quiet through all of this finally pipes up between reps. “Actually, I like anal because it’s so personal.” I smile at him, happy to hear him disagree with Marcus while Marcus is on such a tear. (I later found out that Tony used to bottom in gay porn. After hearing Marcus ceaselessly shit talk men who do both straight porn and gay porn, asserting that gay men shouldn’t be allowed to do straight porn, I wonder if Marcus knows about Tony’s gay porn past.) I ask Marcus if he’s ever put anything in his ass. Surely, either out of curiosity or the spell of a compelling woman, at some point in his life, he has poked the prostate.
“No! I’ve never put anything in my ass.” He tells me that I need to make sure that goes in the article. Marcus London has never, ever put anything in his asshole. He confidently tells me, “If there was a straightest man in the world, you just met him.”
I nod.
According to Marcus, if you like something in your butt, you’re gay. Never mind that all men, regardless of sexual orientation have the same basic anatomy; any man who puts so much as the tip of his lady’s finger in his ass at any point in their relationship is actually a closeted gay man and is, then, I guess unnatural. Wait, I guess all ass touching is unnatural and gay. “Marcus, am I gay because I get assfucked?” As I say this I notice that the people around the back machines are giving us some serious glares. Talking about buttplay while pumping one’s lats is a big ol’ gym etiquette nono, apparently. What-ever.
He laughs. “No babe, you’re in the safe zone.”
I’m irritated.
“I have a much more radical way of life than most folks.” He beams at me, enjoying his perceived ability to shock the journalist. I follow him to the water fountain. He gives me a Cheshire Cat grin, telling me that he’s going to tell me something that really pissed off his wife. The “thing” being that he thinks that all babies with any mental or physical defects should be aborted. “I think about how hard it is for us normal people. To know that you are giving birth to something that will suffer…”
I point out that this is a very slippery slope. He mentions autism as an abortable condition. I mention again the slippery slope, but I’m mostly just staring at him while he outlines his plan to make humans happier and less handicapped by killing a lot of babies, retarded people, and the handicapped. To reduce suffering by making sure that the babies born are all in tip-top shape. Marcus doesn’t believe in suffering, or rather, he believes that all suffering should be avoided. I tell him I think suffering builds character, that it of course serves a purpose and to avoid it is like avoiding sadness or nighttime or pooping or your own asshole. I ask him if he’s suffered; he says he hasn’t. Has had a great life and doesn’t understand the need to suffer. That he thinks that those people doomed to suffer should be culled.
By the time we make it back to the car, Marcus is explaining who deserves the experience of life. And let me tell you, it’s not kids without legs.
The conversation shifts. Marcus tells me he would “cut off Axel Braun’s head with a Roman sword if this were Roman times.” (Axel Braun is a very successful porn director who does a lot of porn parodies.)
Sneering at a large van next to us, which he jokes must be full of Mexicans, he reminds Tony not to park next to beat up cars because they’ll scratch up his SUV. “Money keeps the shit away.”
We arrive at the grocery store. I follow Tony and Marcus around like some sort of resigned hound dog, sniffing at their conversation and wagging my tail on cue. Several dirty jokes are made at the expense of produce. They shop like an old married couple, except sweatier and more muscular. I feel bloated and tired and dissociated as I stroll the aisles with the boys. They buy vegan wieners, kombucha, a nice selection of vegetables, almond milk, packages of meat, bananas. Tony offers to buy me an energy drink.
The cashier think Marcus is Australian, and he attempts fake offense, but it doesn’t mask that he is actually, genuinely, pissed off. He lectures the cashier, instructing her on his origin and his lack of Australianness. She tells him it’s because he’s so tan. He asks her if she’s ever even met an Australian. I don’t remember her reply, only the look of irritation on her face. Dude, didn't anyone ever tell you not to fuck with hourly wage workers? It’s draining, spending hours and hours as a professional listener and question-asker for a single individual. Or maybe it’s just this individual. Regardless, it’s been a long day and my patience is wearing thin.
As soon as we get back in the SUV to head home, I ask Marcus if anyone ever thinks that he and Tony are a couple. Oh yes, he tells me, they most definitely do. He thinks it’s because they are in such good shape, are so good looking. I suggest that maybe it’s because they grocery shop together with such familiarity. I mean, no one really does that, outside of freshman roommates and romantic partners. I make sure to add that I think it’s great that he has such a close relationship with such a dear friend.
Marcus tells me he doesn’t mind the company of gay men, especially the “flamers.” Indeed, this is the man who made “Straight Guys for Gay Eyes,” a porn series in which the male performer fucks a lady, but the movie is shot and marketed towards dudes who fuck dudes. Incognito gay men, though, he doesn’t like to hang out with so much. He tells me a story about being left by some girls at a gay bar. He’s telling me that black gay men love him.
He tells me that gay men are certainly more successful that straight men. Oh my god I am so tired.
TUESDAY Tuesday morning finds me standing in the kitchen with the one, the only, Tommy Gunn. He’s making breakfast, and I, already fed and ready to work, am taking the opportunity to talk to the most elusive male in this desert porn compound.
My only encounter with Tommy prior to our breakfast chat has been his rather annoyed line-readings for the action short. Unsure if he is interested in talking to the reporter, I approach with caution, not wanting to spook him. I am richly rewarded.
With over 1,000 porn titles under his belt, veteran performer and Jersey boy Tommy Gunn has seen some shit. Shit that scares him. So much so that he has refurbished his van for the coming apocalypse. That’s right: Tommy Gunn has a zombie-proof van.
A matte black van, fully operational, outfitted with various armaments and with an empty water jug hanging from the back. It’s an $18,000 labor of love, two years in the making, with dark-red velvet upholstery, reinforced openings for weapons and thin ribbons of lights to set the mood. I guess? A shaggin’ wagon for the end of days! And in case any of it was too subtle, “zombie proof” is spray-painted on the side. Imagine my delight when Tommy Gunn, the Tommy Gunn, opened up the floodgates to gift me with a torrent of opinions, ready and willing and excited to lay out his worldview to be recorded for the ages. Here, in the order they were given to me, are Tommy Gunn’s thoughts.
The folks at Monsanto are pigs.
“Pigs!”
We should do away with money because money is meaningless. “No, really. What is money?” We have the technology we have today because an advanced alien civilization came to earth. The Illuminati, the powerful few, got to keep Earth and, in exchange for technology, have conspired to fatten up the rest of the earthlings for slaughter. All technology and entertainment exists to distract the people while they are fattened for slaughter.
We are all nine meals away from total global chaos, mass murder, cannibalism, and a sort of consumer horde zombie apocalypse.
Climate change is a hoax; it is our entire solar system that is heating up.
Tesla was robbed.
There is a project in Alaska that consists of an array of antennas that put out one million watts of electricity that affects the ionosphere that controls the weather. There are eight such weather control stations worldwide. They may or may not be involved in the chem trails that are probably controlling us and definitely testing things on us.
Fluoridated water is a nefarious plan to control the populace. Fluoride is rat poison and research shows that it serves no purpose.
All movies are true because the best place to hide something is in plain sight. Anyone who suspects something and tries to spread the word will be met with the ultimate cultural dismissal: “I saw that in a movie once.” Tommy Gunn doesn’t vote.
He believes the tragedy of Newtown, CT never really happened. It was faked to create an opportunity to disarm the populace. After all, the best way to make a law is because of an event. “I won’t get a stop sign at the top of the hill until someone has an accident.”
It is very suspicious that we haven’t been back to the moon. It is also very suspicious that the moon, in fact, does not spin. This is because there are aliens on the darkside of the moon. After all, if you were going to take over a planet, the dark side of the moon is the perfect base of operations. Tommy Gunn is bored of working in porn and doesn’t want to fuck on camera anymore. “I don’t want to leverage this physical act for money anymore. I want to keep it for someone special.” He’s tired of his career in porn being a “blemish on his record,” a thing that keeps him out of mainstream movies. He wants to be an action hero like Stallone. He says he looks the part. He believes he is ready. He just needs everyone to get over the idea that people can’t do porn and mainstream movies. After all, he is an actor.
And finally, Tommy Gunn is in love with a woman that makes his entire face light up when he talks about her.
Whew.
Exhausted, and a little paranoid, I make plans for an afternoon away from the compound. I’ve been too long in the Santa Clarita hills and need more than a few hours outside of this porn-y, absurdist bubble.
I let Marcus know I’m headed out and I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I need to know how to work the giant metal gate that sequesters his home from the rest of the barren landscape. He is explaining to me how, if I come back at night, I’ll need to slip between the bars and onto the property so I can punch in the code, when Tony interrupts him.
“You should just tell us when you’re going to be back, Leigh. What you need to do is communicate with us.” I stare at this man I barely know, who is talking to me like I’m his bratty teenage daughter—or worse, his property. He’s not joking. He’s demanding an answer. I turn back to Marcus, who finishes telling me how to get back into the gate if I need to, and promptly get the fuck out of there. The silence inside my rental car is a revelation. I need a break from this surreal buddy comedy. Perhaps we all do. This might be as good a time as any to actually talk about the technology inside the squirt watch. To loosen the screws and peer into the science behind the squirt...
The WatchThe Marcus London G Watch (
www.timetosquirt.com) is an "instant feedback device" that teaches the wearer the correct force and speed to use to make a woman ejaculate. That's it. The technique required for female ejaculation is straightforward enough, on paper at least: with your hand in the universal sign language position of “I love you”—also known as the Spiderman web shooter position— you hook your middle and ring fingers up against the g-spot (a spongy cluster of tissue, one to two inches inside, on the front wall of the vagina—feel around, you’ll find it) and move your entire arm (not your fingers, keep those fixed) until you reach the correct speed and force.
What the watch does is track your progress and informs you, through a series of colored lights, when it's —ahem — “time to squirt.” To answer your immediate questions: no, the watch does not tell time. And, yes, it is waterproof. The first time I asked Marcus about how the watch worked, he laughed off the question, telling me how vastly complicated and advanced the technology was. “If you asked Aaron [the engineer] how it worked, you’d be snoozin’ babe, bored to tears within seconds.”
I called Aaron.
Aaron is the engineering mastermind behind the watch and the founder of Orgasmic Research. A biomedical electrical engineer, who contributed 34 parts to the Mars Curiosity Rover that is currently roaming the red planet, Aaron is no pauper when it comes to brains. And, as it turns out, his little squirting watch is a pretty sophisticated piece of sex tech. So how did he go from working on drone technology to female ejaculation?
If you’re asking that question, you probably haven’t known many engineers. As Aaron tells it, when he was in his early twenties, he stumbled upon a way to trigger squirting orgasms in the woman he was fucking at the time. Years went by before he did it again, but one day he’s in the vicinity and remembers that old technique. Squirting success! A lightbulb of engineering curiosity goes off: how does this work?
Down the bunny hole he went, making woman after woman ejaculate, all the while spreading the gospel of his methods to anyone who would listen. Aaron feels, very passionately, that this type of orgasm should be widely understood and available to all women. Throughout our conversation, I cannot help but note his sincerity: this is a man who wants to change the world.
“I taught all my engineering friends, sometimes even going over to their houses and putting my hand alongside their own, right inside their wives, showing them how to trigger the squirting reflex. But I did the math: even if I taught three people a day every day for ten years, that’s only a little more than ten thousand people. And that’s not enough. I could spend my entire life teaching people in person and never reach a population greater than a large metro area.”
Aaron has tested his technique on hundreds and hundreds of women. He once made a woman ejaculate over forty times in a hour as an attention-getting proof-of-concept. (He also wanted me to note that it was definitely overkill and doesn’t recommend subjecting anyone to that unless they explicitly ask you to.) “My goal in life is to be responsible for one billion orgasms,” he says, without even a whiff of machismo. “And you have to have many, many people learning simultaneously if you want to change the world.”
Initially, Aaron spent six years trying to develop a kind of realistic squirting-trainer, similar to the vagina of a Real Doll, except this one would feature sensors and a feedback device to teach inquiring fingers how to do his “I love you” technique. However, he abandoned that idea when he was testing his technique on an actual Real Doll at a sex convention and even he felt uncomfortable finger fucking a fake pussy in public. “People were giving me looks. It felt weird. I knew there had to be a better way.”
And so came the watch. “The idea hit me on a plane, actually. The best way to learn is by doing and with a watch interface I could provide realtime feedback based on the force and speed of the motion.”
So Aaron bought some watches, gutted them, and got to work. The ultimate vehicle for world squirting knowledge is an instructional DVD, featuring the hired face of the product, Marcus London, and a waterproof watch with two sets of indicator lights that blink red upon motion, yellow when the motion is getting close to the necessary force and frequency, and green when it’s, well, when it’s time to squirt. But how the fuck does it work?
So glad you asked!
Inside each waterproof watch is a microprocessor containing an oscillator and a simple accelerometer. The oscillator measures the frequency, that is, how fast you’re moving your hand back and forth. The accelerometer, meantime, measures the force. The type of accelerometer found in the squirt watch is essentially the same as the 9-axis accelerometer in your cellphone that re-orientates the screen based on how you are holding it. Most women will ejaculate at 5 Gs, or five times the force of gravity. Marcus London’s technique clocks in at 9 G’s. And yes, that is a pretty unheard of level of g-spot force and totally unnecessary in the pursuit of the squirt.
The accelerometer and oscillator are the easy parts of the watch. Measurement, after all, is just taking data points. The hard part is the realtime feedback: turning that mess of data into usable feedback. The magic that does that, my little mathletes, is an averaging function called a fast fourier transform.
A fast fourier transform, or FFT as the cool nerds call it, is a handy way to convert a sampled function from its original domain—say, the data from the accelerometer with respect to time—to the frequency domain. Okay, so we have force data in terms of frequency. And we know what force and frequency we need to hit the right motion and force to trigger ejaculation. But how do we make that usable? The neat thing about Aaron’s FFT, the one the microprocessor uses, is that it takes real-time data and averages speed and force simultaneously, spitting out usable data in the form of a gorgeous sine wave, a kind of even, repeating oscillation. This smooths the data, allowing the watch to ignore subtle shifts in speed and force, instead providing broad, usable feedback. For the non-scientists, all you need to know is that all this technology is what makes the lights move from red to yellow to green, as you get closer to achieving your goal.
Truly, Aaron's watch is a labor of love. Unfortunately for him, the instructional materials Marcus has produced to accompany the watch do it no favors. Before I left for my trip, my partner Jerem and I sat down to watch the instructional DVD, which amounted to watching Marcus babble on and on and on about how to make a woman “squirt.”
Even before sliding in the DVD, I'd already watched hours of Marcus London on screen. I still had many hours still to watch. The instructional video was very nearly a bridge too far. The model next to him was blonde, quiet, and submissive. After a ramble about his perfect technique and how we too can learn to have Marcus’ hand on our hand to make our women squirt, he lubed his fingers, smeared the excess on her labia, shoved his fingers inside her, frantically moved his arm like he was being electrocuted, and then triumphantly showed his slick palm to the camera.
The noise his fingers made inside the poor girl were eerily similar to the sound a fist makes in a wet chicken carcass. However, both of the watches LEDs turned green, thusly demonstrating that indeed, it was time to squirt.
“Squirt!”
It was the moment when Marcus likened wearing this watch to literally having his hand on the end of your wrist that I knew I’d never use it.
The watch, as a stand-alone piece of faceless tech, is a fascinating and unique sexual device. As an extension of the Marcus London brand it just looks like an ego-ridden piece of plastic. Instead of telling time, his name is scrawled across the face. From a distance, it does look like the time, but up close? Branding.
Jerem and I stood there watching Marcus ramble about squirting as the new girl—one who had never squirted before—sat on the bed and drooped her eyes in an approximation of seduction. At one point during the preamble, she stood up and started stroking her body, and which point Marcus told her to sit back down. I couldn't tell if she was desperately attention-seeking or just luxuriating in the after-effects of a handful of pharmacology.
After he made her squirt, she asked him if she squirted.
“Did I do it?”
Marcus, undeterred, continued to upsell the ejaculating female orgasm as the greatest thing ever. Even though she didn’t know she’d had one.
WednesdayI arrive back at Marcus’ house early in the morning, with enough time to shower and pack my things. Today he’s shooting one of his instructional videos for Ultimate Sex God Club, and I’m going along to watch.
The time to leave comes and goes. I sit in my rental car, deep inside a phone conversation, when a knock at the window startles the living fuck out of me. Marcus’s car won’t start, so he’s going to move his things into his other car.
Duly noted. I go back to my phone conversation.
Ten minutes later, another heart attack inducing window-knock. His other car is out of gas. Marcus rather sheepishly asks if I can take him to his shoot. I pop the trunk and tell him to load in.
There is a noticeable dynamic shift, from passenger to driver, apparent in his voice and posture. Or maybe Marcus has just finally gotten used to me and is more himself. Or maybe he’s preoccupied with car trouble and the day’s work ahead of him and doesn’t have time to be “on” for the journalist. Or maybe he just needs a fucking cup of coffee.
I need a fucking cup of coffee.
After stopping for coffee, we arrive at the gated home that’s been rented for today’s fuckery, a towering and angular grey building with a distinct cubist influence. We enter the large glass doors, climb the entryway staircase and take a sharp left into what’s been converted into the green room.
The green room features low, ottoman-style geometric seating, a pool table, a stripper pole, and several paintings of oddly proportioned women in various states of undress. There is one that’s just an enormous pair of lips, between which a long, shapeless leg is stretching, her foot dangling and clad in a toddler-size stiletto. I set my coffee in the empty bookshelf, squat on one of the strange low chairs, and turn my attention to the girls opposite the room while Marcus unzips his suitcases and begins discussing wardrobe decisions with the director.
Marcus nudges me and points to the underwear in his bag. “I’m wearing Tommy’s underwear today!”
Sure enough, there are two pairs of Tommy Gunn brand underwear, ready to be donned in the pursuit of commerce and squirting. I sincerely hope that if I ever have an underwear line featuring my name that I have friends so dedicated they will proudly wear my branding. That’s love.
The girls on set today are Nikki Seven and Carmen Calloway. Nikki has been in the industry for a bit, but Carmen is a brand-new baby porn star. She’s only been shooting for a couple of weeks and, at the time of this shoot, none of her scenes had been released yet. The dynamic between the girls is quite mentor-mentee, with the more experienced and markedly less enthusiastic Nikki teaching peppy little Carmen how to do the pre-scene douche and properly baby-wipe her vulva after she finishes working.
Carmen is pale and thin with long brown hair and is watching the cosmetic transformation of her peer with huge blue-green eyes. She has a ribcage tattoo and a pronounced dimple in her chin. She chirps rather than talks, in girly, animated fashion. Nikki, who’s currently receiving her daily allowance of eyeliner and flesh-toned pancake, has long bleached blonde hair, minimal body fat, and the necessary alt-girl accoutrement: a collection of piercings, gauged ears, and several large tattoos, one of which, on her wrist, she keeps hiding from the camera. She photographs nicely but in person her angles are very severe, bones and tendons grinding underneath her deeply tanned skin.
“Don’t get tattoos for two years. Don’t get boobs for two years. Only do that stuff after you’ve shot with everyone, then they’ll want to shoot you again.” Carmen says she never wants boobs, that she’s happy with her small ones. Nikki laughs. “Everybody says that. And everybody gets boobs.”
The conversation turns to their abortions and history of abusive boyfriends. The makeup artist, a short, thick Latina in her late thirties, is gossiping along with them, fawning over their war stories and agreeing that men are universally awful.
I leave the green room and venture out to find Marcus, who’s talking to the director. Said director immediately pulls me aside and tells me to please keep him out of the story; he’s the best kept secret in porn and he’d like to keep it that way.
The men are discussing today’s shoot and, like the rest of Marcus’s colleagues, Mystery Director has nothing but great things to say about him. Best work ethic in the business, legendary stamina, flawless technique, expert at reading body language, consistent, and dependable.
“He should be booked daily, absolutely.”
Marcus, who’s standing right there while the director gives him a winning blurb, gives a good-natured grin. “Go on…”
Director laughs. Marcus laughs. They have a good rapport and for the first time I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of that all-star worker everyone claims Marcus to be. He’s polite to everyone on set. He’s nice to the girls. He’s ultra professional. He’s thoughtful, helpful, and frankly, a bit charming. I make note of this and decide to explore the house.
The house looks like it was decorated during the 1980s, under the influence of a suitcase full of coke and staggering delusion. There is a fireplace in every room, and each one looks like a pile of broken glass. There is a foot-long lighter next to each one, shaped like a giant match. When in use, the gas flames lick the broken glass.
Every room is decorated with marble and brightly colored plastic that I believe is meant to look like brightly colored glass. There are towers of colored plastic shapes taller than I am. Small colored plastic cubes and pyramids and curved pieces are stacked atop each other. Like rejected designs for award statues, they litter the shelving and glass tables and marble. The living room features twostory floor-to-ceiling windows. The master bath has a bottle of Hugo that has to hold at least three litres.
The pool features intricate tilework and a multi-tiered fountain, the perimeter of this cocaine oasis is cluttered with objets d’art: a giant pair of lips, a silver mannequin, art deco lawn furniture and an outdoor bed whose curtains flutter in the breeze. I meet back up with Marcus.
Out of nowhere, he tells me that his wife wants him to stop doing this, gesturing towards the green room. That she wants him to be monogamous.I wasn’t really for that kind of divulgence. Marcus hasn’t exactly been the most vulnerable subject this week. “Are you sure that’s something you want to do? Could you do that?” “Absolutely,” Marcus nods emphatically. “I love her. I love her more than anything. I was a fool and didn’t realize what I had and now I can’t imagine life without her.” Marcus and Devon used to be swingers. Their relationship had been such that they were free to fuck other people for pleasure, together or separately. From what he tells me, he abused that privilege, even going so far as to leave his wife alone during the middle of dinner in a nice restaurant because he got a booty call.
He winces when he says that. We both do.
Trust began to fray. He began to lie about his activities. And Devon began going home frequently to see her family. Except she wasn’t going home to see her family; she was flying home to see the professional football player she’d fallen for. He was building her a house. She was going to leave Marcus. Marcus looks pained, worried.
“I learned my lesson, but I learned it late.” He tells me she’s coming home. That he’s quitting porn for her. Adopting monogamy for her. They are going to start a family, he tells me, sounding wistful. “I just look around me and she’s the only one I want. I can’t imagine starting over without her. I just don’t want to start over.” The crows feet around his blue eyes crinkle and for the first time, he looks his given age of forty-five.
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