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Postcards from Paris

In defense of a profession. "I didn't have to market my body in order to have sex—I chose to. And to dispel the assumed myth, I grew up in an affluent fully intact family on Park Avenue in New York City before moving to Paris to set up "shop." I was never molested or abused either verbally, physically, or sexually—though I know that these sorts of pasts plague many of my colleagues. No, I am writing to make a case for my profession. And I am aware that everything that can be said has been about we ladies of the night and this the "oldest profession known to man." But here is my addition to the discourse for Bastardlife. I love intimacy. I love pleasing men and women and showing off, performing if you will, all that I have learned both about my body and theirs. I find my job one of an entertainer—which, though there are no lights or cameras, and no sea of screaming fans, fills me with the kind of heightened pleasure I can't find words for. The bedroom, the bed, and their bodies are my stage, and I gladly enrich my bank account for what I do. Some people get salaries for the work they do, and some get bonuses on top of that. My "salary" is quite high, and I work hard for it. In my line of my work though, the tip I may garner is not my bonus—but the orgasm I make sure we both have is."—Juliette J. Paris, France

By Neal Boulton at 6:47PM on November 17, 2009

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in the life

Straight as an arrow

Liam tried to keep his sea-green eyes hidden in the shadow cast by his baseball hat's brim, but his attempts weren't completely successful: With every tilt or turn of his head, flashes of turquoise would shoot across the table like lasers.

"Honestly, I'm really not into guys," he said casually, no hint of defense in his tone.

"Even when I'm like, literally into them, you know what I mean?" Liam chuckled. Maybe this guy wasn't trying to hide his eyes after all, I thought. Or if he was, it wasn't because he was embarrassed or ashamed, and certainly not because he was shy.

"You know, like 60% of gay porn stars in Europe are actually straight," Liam added. It was funny to hear a Eurostat coming from such an All-American Abercrombie prototype. "It doesn't have to be such a big deal, you know? I mean, it's just a job. And it's a hell of a lot easier putting myself through college doing this than working at Starbucks."

Liam makes a good and practical point. In a way, he's the perfect spokesmen for this next generation of adult film stars: Unlike their strung-out and out-of-control predecessors from the 70's and 80's, these actors are professionals like any other, working hard to make a substantial buck, which they're more likely to put in the bank than they are to throw away on drugs and excess. When Liam's not in front of the cameras, he's busy getting his master's in finance and fixing up the condo he shares with his girlfriend of five years, social worker Marie.

"What does Marie think of all this?" I asked.

Liam grinned and shrugged. "She doesn't know," he said, simply. "I'm sure she'll find out some day, and that's cool. But for now, she doesn't need to hear about any of this. It can't hurt her." Liam went on to quote more statistics about how sex with a porn star is in some ways the safest sex of all: Actors are required to get screened for all STDs before starting every new shoot, and in gay porn, condom use is a general requirement—no exchange of bodily fluids is ever allowed anally or orally, "unlike the filth of straight porn," he says.

"Damn, I feel bad for some of those girls," he nods with sympathy.

"In a way, Marie benefits from my day job," Liam laughed.

"How's that?"

"Well, look at it this way," he began. "I spend hours focusing on how to bring my partners the absolute most pleasure possible, cause that's what looks best on film. Some guys, I know just how to grip their waists when I've got 'em on their hands and knees and tell them to tilt their asses up, how to perfect the rhythm of my scrotum slapping against theirs; others, I know how deep they like me to penetrate them when they're climaxing or, if I'm on bottom, when to flex my pecs while they hold on and ride me. By the time I get home to my girl, I'm so damn ready to let her give me what I want—and for those soft hips and round breasts. I mean, we have one hell of an urgent sex life by the time I pull her underwear down and see her naked body."

Liam pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair. His eyes popped like flashbulbs.

"Sounds like a lucky girl," I said—J.B.

By Neal Boulton at 1:55PM on November 13, 2009

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in the life

Stallin'

Pit stops. In a poll of 4,139 BastardLife readers, 21% of you told us that you had no shame about the times you cruised and hooked up in either the bathroom of a club, bar, or restaurant. However, over 50% of you ruled out the roadside rest stop for your pit stop romps citing it as either, "below my standards," or, "just too creepy."—M.T.

By Neal Boulton at 8:05AM on October 21, 2009

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Bull headed

Montana, 10:43 P.M. Saturday night. It was one of those nights. I knew it the minute I slipped on my black lace thong and felt my wet, hot pussy. Shit, I wasn’t just wearing Hanky Panky, I was craving it. By the time I made my entrance into Diablo’s, I was in full fuck-me drag and someone was about to get lucky.

I slid onto my favorite bar stool, perfectly positioned to observe the merchandise as it rolled by. Suddenly I felt a toe slide up my fishnet stocking. And when our eyes finally met, I was pretty sure this Puerto Rican princess would soon be slipping inside my satin sheets and spreading my perfumed thighs.

"How about we have an Obama contest? Whoever has the best stimulus package wins."

"Wins what?" I smiled. "I’m Meredith."

"Rosa. Nice to meet you."

And then HE walked by – an absolute John Mayer ringer and my total drop-dead favorite in the hunky male department. I was a goner—until he opened his mouth.

"Come here often?"

He didn’t just say that, did he? Do guys still say that shit?

He grabbed his crotch and stuck his tongue in my ear, "this package has your name on it, gorgeous."

"Does it now?"

"Yeah, really. Get ready for the ride of your life."

I think some pick-up record had just been broken. The guy had gone from Adonis, to boy toy—to loser in less than 30 seconds.

"I’m sorry," I answered, ever so sweetly, "but I think your package is defective. ...It’s missing a BRAIN."

I grabbed Rosa’s hand and headed for home.—L.R.

By Neal Boulton at 2:12PM on October 16, 2009

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in the life

Moms on film

"You can't be a rock & roll animal 24 hours a day you know. I mean I get on camera and I do what I do to entertain you by being the nineteen year old Olympic lay in bed. Hell, the director is like right there and he wants the best of me, he wants to get what he's paying for. Imagining my audience gets me through my sets (3-6 a day)—the men in suits on business trips horny and alone in their hotel rooms, the young boys who haven't done it yet looking for clues. Then when I get home, I make my husband dinner, do the homework with my children, and tuck them in like any good mother, or, adult film star."—Vanessa-G, Mother of 3, Pasadena, CA

By Neal Boulton at 6:20AM on October 10, 2009

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in the life

Flowers

Stemming the Rose. Is it just me, or do women give better cunnalingas? To find out I staged a contest: who could go down on me and get me off the fastest. Thankfully, my part time girlfriend obliged me and joined my boyfriend and I for a night of tending to my garden.

But who had a greener thumb? Ok, she did. Not that my man didn't send me shivering and writhing around with his tongue. Quite the contrary—the way he pulled my legs open, gripped my thighs, lapped and licked with his thick wet tongue, it was earth shattering. After a time, I came long and hard. But when our guest took her shot—I shot; as in, I literally shot when I came.

In my youth, I had always lived for the moment when a hot woman went down on me, and now I know why. First, my girlfriend took her time—devouring, rather than licking and sucking. And, an advantage, she knew exactly where to go, when, and for how long. She knew what rhythm for this, then for that. Instead of one long hard orgasm, somehow, I had several—until I finally gushed.

Not to be outdone by a woman, my boyfriend plunged into me afterwards, sending me over the moon with probably the deepest orgasm I have ever had in my life. In the end, my girlfriend may have had the greener thumb, but my boyfriend proved his deft skill at stemming the rose.—L.Turnbull, Greenwich, CT

By Neal Boulton at 7:20AM on October 08, 2009

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in the life

Recessionary tales

Hit hard. Stewart and his wife Maegan were both promising advertising account executives in New York until the recent economic downturn struck home. First, Stewart lost his job and though he mounted what he calls "a massive manhunt for another position," he never found one. Then, last month Maegan lost her job as well. With enough money in the bank to live for about "a year, if we're frugal," Maegan tells us, the couple has launched a small ad firm of their own from their home. "The great news is that, while we don't jet around or hit all of the hot spots in town like we used to (we're literally working side by side everyday), our sex life has returned to what it was when we first met: we do everything, at least three times a day—everyday. It's as if he's inside my pants with me and I can just slip it in whenever I feel the need."—N.B.

By Neal Boulton at 1:48PM on September 23, 2009

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Because we can

Feasts. "If the first lay wasn't so good, I'd just get laid again a few hours, or a few minutes later," a rutty, fair skinned Rick said about the 1970s gay sexual revolution through a thick bushy gray mustache, sipping coffee in a San Francisco cafe in the Castro.

We were in the front on stools at a counter facing the street through tall french doors that were open, letting in the crystalline clear light and thin cool breeze of the afternoon. Rick looked on wistfully, "I'm not sure why, though, we queens call it 'back in the day,' because that 'day' could be today," he laughed and gestured with a snap of his farm worker thick and rough fingers saying, "Please honey, we could stand up, walk two blocks, and with a few single dollar bills blaze through as many men as we want."

Of course I knew this, but I had steered my conversation with Rick toward this because I had a larger question; one that I thought he might answer with some stats or psycho-babble about gay repression or something. "Why so many though? Gay or straight or bi—men are promiscuous. We never hear women bragging about such things. What's with the trophy of 'blazing,' as you say, through as many women or men or both as we want to in a night?"

Rick cocks his head back sort of wisely, paused and nodded with a kiss of old age in his still bright blue eyes and just said it, "Because we can."

That, I believed.—M.T.

By Neal Boulton at 3:41PM on June 08, 2009

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in the life

Assume the position

Twister anyone? Our friend Les Fairchild at HX.com conducted an interesting sexual position poll recently that Kinsey would have just loved.

The question: What position do you find yourself in most often? The answers: Bottom 32%, Versatile 34.6%, Top 31%, and Other 2%. Now we all know that the group "other" just want to get jackhammered all night. (Our favorite types of men—and women).

Interestingly, when we posed the same questions to 4,395 BastardLife readers, 62% of you claimed to be tops, 38% threesome bottoms, while a small 13% of you claimed to just be full blown oralaholics—N.B.

By Neal Boulton at 10:29AM on May 03, 2009

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in the life

What has your hooker done for you lately?

Everyone has their price. No, these aren't hookers pictured above, but man we wish they were. In a recent BastardLife survey of nearly 200 adult workers (in this case escorts, male hustlers, and street hookers) 32% of you claimed you would defy your Oath of Office and snitch on your Johns if the price were high enough. The majority of you, both men and women, told us that you "had no price" and that your client's secrets would go with you to the grave. "However, we have no control over the guilty, loose lipped men, who get drunk, dial their wives and rat on themselves. In cases like those, we lie—even if there are pictures."—T.B.

By Neal Boulton at 12:54PM on March 09, 2009

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