SEXIS WRONG

nervous tics. For instance, before leaving a room he’d grab at
his crotch; I wanted to suggest the doorknob, as that’s what
works best for the rest of us.
The crew’s first task was to shoot the couple’s opening
scene: entering the house. Throughout all five takes, the
cameraman had to carefully position the camera to avoid the
formerly sleeping blonde as she obsessively scrubbed a spot
on the carpet with a sponge and a saucepan filled with soap
and water.
Next, it was time for me to explain sexual anatomy using the
brunette as a live model, pointing out my descriptions to the
camera. I sat on the bed and waited for the actress to take off
her clothes, which took all of five seconds due to the fact that
she wore no underwear, but then had to wait as she searched
her belongings and asked everyone on the crew if they had
any baby wipes. “I think I need ‘em,” she rasped.
I focused really, really hard on
avoiding skin contact, visualizing at
one point that her pussy was made
of molten lava or skin-melting acid.
Finally, she flopped onto the bed and spread her legs, and
motioned to a Braille pattern of sores and scabs on her
shaved vulva and inner thighs. In a Suzanne Pleshette voice,
she croaked, “Fucking razor burn!” I took stock of the bumpy
terrain, like some planet best discovered only by some sort
of remote-controlled machine, and carefully pointed out anatomy
to the camera in my best teaching voice. I focused really,
really hard on avoiding skin contact, visualizing at one
point that her pussy was made of molten lava or skin-melting
acid. After the director yelled, “Cut,” I walked over to him
and thoughtfully whispered, “You know, I’m a bit concerned
about the sores.”
“You can see those, too?! Shit.”
He put a stop to the filming. Then he told the brunette why
we stopped and why we couldn’t use her for the shoot, sending
her into a screeching, wig-throwing rage. Her boyfriend
obsessively yanked on his dick and quietly told us he was
going to stay and do it for the money, assuring us he could
get another girl, no problem. He fished his cellphone out of
his pocket with his free hand. “What about the HIV moratorium?”
I asked him. “Oh, that’s nothing. (Company name) is
sending out 200 girls a day; their drivers can have one over
here in an hour. You want (now famous, awarded starlet)? I
think she’s free this morning. Let me make a few calls.”
So we did. Seven hundred miles from home, I talked about
sex with the crew and took turns playing Crockett and Tubbs
with the cameraman in the spacious, abhorrently tacky Miami
Vice mansion. There were no wastebaskets or trashcans
in the entire house. We found a condom wrapper under a
dresser, creeping each other out with suggestions as to
where the contents now lie.
Two hours later, a pretty, comparatively plain-looking blonde
arrived. She was, in fact, beautiful, soft, and naturally lovely,
not hard-edged and thin like the brunette. I was relieved that
no one had arrived with some sort of “porn look,” to which
years of porn-watching had made me violently allergic. It had
become impossible for me to enjoy porn starring living blowup
dolls, every breast a perfect chemical melon, pendulous
miracles of science. If their boobs were filled with air, you
could tie a string to an ankle and fly them. Their tanned and
toughened skin always looked like the interior shots of a car
commercial, and threesomes at a glance could trick me into
seeing an epileptic man in a fit with a hard-on, bookended by
a pair of overstuffed Naugahyde recliners.
The director whisked our blonde upstairs to
the bedroom, had her take her clothes off, and
asked me to come in. She was waiting for me
on the bed, with her legs spread, looking at
the ceiling. The director indicated her splayed
crotch and asked me, “Is she okay?” I glanced at her and
waited for a second, wondering how David Lynch had managed
to become director of my life. I told them, “She’s fine.”
We started over from the beginning, and this time the blonde
performers flirted like mad, dropping names about industry
contacts and bantering about sex. She was a rising star; he
was hoping to get a rise. Back on the bed, about to point out
anatomy for the second time (but still careful not to touch),
she whispered to me in a baby voice, “I thought you were going
to say I was ugly.” I told her no, the last girl had sores. She
looked at her new paramour, his hand absently massaging his
scrotum, and exhaled, “Ah.”
I explained clitoral anatomy to the camera, my fingers careful
not to graze her kryptonite pussy. She was perplexed. “How
did you learn all this stuff?” I told her I’d done around seventy
hours of sex-ed training courses and that I’d been pretty surprised
about the clitoris, too. I wondered what else I should
be telling her about sex in the seconds I had between takes,
and whether she’d listen, or care, or see something shiny.
The next segment was male genital anatomy. The male performer
took his clothes off, and I wondered if he was going
to need baby wipes, too. The blonde kept flirting with him,
and he played pocket pool, now minus the pocket. “Wait,”
he told us. “I gotta get a hard-on for this part.” His genital
gropes were getting rough, beating, and the crew and I ex-
150 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG