To be or not to be, soft-core division
I ALWAYS WONDERED how much my soul was worth. So when Cinemax asked me if I’d go on camera to interview soft-core porn stars on the set of its new series, “Sin City Diaries,” in return for $2,000 and a free night in Las Vegas, I discovered that my soul was worth some amount less than $2,000 and a free night in Las Vegas.
Shortly after arriving in the morning at the Palomino strip club and interviewing the show’s star, Amber Smith, I was approached by John Quinn, the show’s creator and executive producer. Quinn, clearly rattled, told me that the guy playing the role of “Chef” couldn’t make his flight from Los Angeles, and he offered me $450 to take his place. I felt just like Lana Turner at Schwab’s.
I asked Quinn how many lines Chef had, and he told me it was less than a page of dialogue. I told him I could handle that, and that I knew quite a lot about cooking. This didn’t seem to concern him. That’s when I asked whether there was any nudity in the part. That’s when Quinn looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s an erotic film,” he said.
He told me that, like most soft-core performers, I could choose to wear a piece of nylon over my genitals. I was not exactly sure how that made the offer more enticing, but I thanked him. I asked what exactly I’d be doing. He said I’d be simulating sex -- basically everything besides, well, sex.
Quickly going over my marriage vows and wondering what the world’s best lawyer could do with them, I asked if there would be kissing. Again, Quinn delivered the exact same look of bewilderment. This guy clearly used to act. Without a nylon sock.
Before I said yes, I told him I needed to ask my wife, Cassandra. Afraid of a fight, I wimpily text-messaged her. Less than a minute later, she wrote back: “Are you going to get naked and simulate sex? I’d like to see that.” I read this five times. I couldn’t figure out if it was a joke, or if she was turned on, or just didn’t care. Was it, “I’d like to see that,” as in “I’d like to see it over and over again when you’re not home as a marital aid”? Or was it, “I’d like to see that,” as in “I’d like to see that so I could show everyone your pathetic attempts at foreplay”? Text messaging, I discovered, needs more emoticons.
Sweating, I texted her again. I mentioned the kissing and the horrible jealousy that might consume her soul. To which she wrote: “You can do it. I am letting you. Sounds like YOU don’t want to.” She was taunting me. If I didn’t play Chef, I’d be less of a man in her eyes. I had to do it. Plus, this might be my one free pass to cheat before I died. And most definitely my one chance before death to be with a soft-core porn star.
I went to meet my acting partner, Michelle Palmer, who would be playing a masseuse. She was tall and athletic and someone I was allowed to have fake sex with. In our scene, we’d be lost on our way to a rich person’s house. So we’d pull over and call our co-workers for directions. Only they wouldn’t answer the phone because they were having sex. So while we waited for them to call back, we’d have sex. This was the first script I’d read in a long time in which I understood the characters’ motivation.
Michelle told me that she’d never had soft-core sex before -- just like me. It seemed so romantic. Michelle assured me she didn’t object to her first scene being with me. Or with anyone else. Michelle did not make me feel special.
Still nervous, I called my friend, Josh Tyrangiel. He told me that, in this age of YouTube, I should definitely not do it. I explained that I had basically thrown away my journalism career when I took the $2,000 to interview Skinemax stars. Josh insisted I refrain. He referred to the potential footage as “my own personal macaca moment.”
Dejected, and stuck with the same frustrating honors-class conservatism that prevented me from having fun during my youth, I told Quinn I wasn’t going to play Chef. Quinn went ballistic. He offered to let me keep my underwear on. He told me I had misled him and put him in a bind. He said I was “good looking.” I was starting to understand how Vanessa Williams caved.
Panicked, Quinn made some calls, and cast, in the role of Chef, Penthouse Pet Ashley Roberts. Apparently, Ashley and Michelle had a Tracy-Hepburn kind of chemistry that was so intense Michelle couldn’t deliver her lines. This somehow made me feel worse, and then better, and then worse again.
I like to think that I saved my marriage from irrevocable damage; that even if Cassandra didn’t think I’d be stirring something up, I would have. Because the only other option is that there’s nothing left to stir.
Either that, or Cassandra has done some soft-core porn work she’s never told me about. I’ll be watching a lot of Skinemax to find out.
