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Bad Ass Frank posts: It's been fourteen days since I posted the first excerpt from my upcoming book, 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy - An Insider's Tale of Sex, Love, and Paranoid Schizophrenia in the Adult Industry'.
As promised, I'll be posting a taste of each chapter every other Monday until the book is published, currently scheduled for February 2009. For your reading, wheezing, and masturbatory pleasure, I give you a sample from chapter 2, 'CAA to PSK', posted now exclusively at
www.badassfrank.com.--------------
I came to from my drunken blackout around 3am with a naked girl on top of me slurring the words, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”, and I immediately had an asthma attack which does not, for your information, feel like an orgasm, nor does it ever lead to an orgasm (Unless you’re one of those weird asphyxiation freaks, which I’m not). So after she finished her marathon orgasm, I wheezed, “Need to go to a drugstore.” Because I rarely had asthma, I didn’t carry an inhaler, and I was in desperate need of oxygen. I had one at home, but I was not at my home. The home I was in, however, was hers, and appeared to be shared with enough pets to warrant a call to Animal Precinct. My critter count may have been off, as some of the piles of pet hair were misleadingly large.
“What’s your cat’s name?”
“What cat?”
“That white one on the chair.”
“There’s no cat on that chair.”
This chick clearly doesn’t own a vacuum cleaner, or a lint brush, or any standards when it comes to living conditions. Because of my germ phobia, and allergies to everything from cigarette smoke, to animals, to fat girls, I kept my apartment spotless (fatless?). A place like this almost instantly constricted my bronchial tubes and made me feel like I was being smothered with a pillow (Primatene Mist doesn’t work when a psycho girlfriend is smothering you with a pillow, just fyi). So, in the middle of the night, I made the girl drive all around Pasadena looking for a twenty-four hour drugstore. While she was driving, bits and pieces of the evening came back to me.
I’d been sitting near the stage, making out with the starlet who’d suggested that I do porn, or at least start an agency and represent people who did. The girl who was currently driving me in search of a breathing apparatus had come up and tried to get in on the action. An argument ensued between the two and, trying to remain Switzerlandishly neutral, I stayed silently slumped over in a state of drunken semi-consciousness. The argument continued from inside the venue all the way to the parking lot where they young ladies came close to having a fist fight over who was going to be fucking me (As opposed to a fuck fight over who was going to be fisting me, thank god). I have a vague recollection of being propped up against something whilst this heated debate took place. I recall exactly nothing after that until I “woke up” in the eight by twelve allergen chamber that this chick called a bedroom.
We eventually found a drugstore, got me breathing again, and headed back to her house where I promptly passed out. A few hours later I woke up in desperate need of a shower, a toothbrush, and to be anywhere but this home for dirty stray animals.
After I got home and slept for a good ten hours, I started thinking about what the porn chick had been saying. An adult agency wasn’t something I’d ever considered before, although I was loosely aware that they existed. I’d had a mainstream agent for acting so I understood how the business worked, or so I thought. In an effort to get a grasp on what being a porn agent was all about, I called up another sex star I’d met to fill me in on the details. She explained to me that she had an agent who helped her find work, and took a percentage of her pay as a commission. So far this sounded just like my mainstream agency (Only these girls actually got work and made money). Then she said that her agent also got a kickback of one hundred dollars from the company that booked her, commonly called an “agency fee”. This sounded shady to me, but apparently all the agents did it.
“So, your agent books you a scene, invoices the company a hundred bucks, then gets a percentage from you as well?” I ask.
“Yep, but even if I book the scene myself, the agent wants their percentage and an agency fee,” she tells me.
Now I’m confused. The agent, whether or not they have anything to do with the booking, wants a cut of her take and a spiff from the company that shoots her? Do no work and double dip the money? Is this what she’s telling me? Yes, it turns out that is exactly what she’s telling me. And, to make matters worse (You’re in porn, can it get worse?), her agent doesn’t even try to get her work. She suddenly gets curious and asks me why I want all of this information.
“I met a girl last night who suggested I start an agency. Not really sure it’s for me but…”
“I want you to be my agent,” she exclaims.
And just like that, I’m porn agent.
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