SEXIS WRONG

fluffing up. People just didn’t save their dildos back in the
1920s and 1930s.”
The library also contains private papers, films and videos produced
in-house, recordings of guest lecturers, and all the dissertations.
Perhaps a student will one day cue up a video of
my little talk and learn more about Brazil.
to film equipment. Paul relays a joke common to the early LA
porn industry, where politicians were most severe in monitoring
its activities: “In Los Angeles, going on location meant
going from the bedroom to the living room.” Everyone chuckles.
Howard quickly ushers me through an empty room strewn
with rubbish and beat-up furniture, into yet another room,
where film archivist Paul Potocky is absorbed in viewing
a video monitor, showing a piece of smut that—going by
It seems strange that the world’s
largest repository of sexuality—so
often a source of joy in people’s
lives—is in the hands of such a
curmudgeon.
hairstyles alone—looks like it’s from the 1980s. Each day,
Paul threads up 16mm porn films, views each roll of celluloid,
and takes notes on its condition and deterioration. He
is surrounded by stacks of film reels and containers, labeled
with titles: All About Gloria Leonard. Domination Blue. Loving
Friends. Here Comes Johnny Wadd. The most commonly
donated films, Paul says, are the 1970s classics Deep Throat
and Behind the Green Door, but the quality is often very poor
because these are the two vanguards of adult smut, the
temples of hardcore, and the copies have been screened too
many times.
Howard and Paul walk me to meet Rand McIlvenna, the
school’s media director who is in charge of transferring the
Archive’s best-quality films onto video for archival purposes.
Paul and Rand have spent two years digitizing the films, an
enormous full-time undertaking they estimate will take eight
more years—unless the Archive accumulates more, which
is inevitable. Rand says that adult movies shot in the 1970s,
rather than the 1980s, are surprisingly the best preserved,
because they’ve either never been watched at all or haven’t
been screened in years. The films often sit in garages or storage
facilities, until someone decides to donate them to the
Institute.
They are well-steeped in American porn history and how the
genre broke down geographically. New York’s porn filmmakers
in the late 1960s and early 1970s were convinced that
porn was art, and they hired Off Broadway actors and used
sophisticated camera and editing techniques. San Francisco’s
porn reflected the realism of hairy armpits and dirty feet, and
invariably included several unnecessary minutes of cable cars
and the Golden Gate Bridge. Los Angeles’ porn was singularly
poor because any jackass in Hollywood had easy access
I follow Howard down a flight of stairs. Sitting in an office is
the Institute’s founder and president, Ted McIlvenna. A former
Methodist minister from Nashville, McIlvenna began offering
sex classes in the late 1960s in San Francisco, which evolved
into the National Sex Forum, then the present
school. He’s written several books, testified
in dozens of court cases, and even claims to
have invented a lubricating cure-all for STDs
called Erogel. The man knows sex. And when
it comes to the Archive, Ted is the Man. All
acquisitions come directly through him.
The gravelly-voiced McIlvenna is introduced to me, and he
sizes me up for a moment. He’s at least 70, his hefty frame
wedged into his chair. There is nothing on his desk but a phone
and computer. If you get to know him, he’s a cordial sort, but
to strangers he radiates intimidation and a hint of contempt.
His moods are legendary in that his own staff roll their eyes
at his grumpiness. It seems strange that the world’s largest
repository of sexuality—so often a source of joy in people’s
lives—is in the hands of such a curmudgeon.
He launches into a familiar story about how they went to inspect
one of the Archive’s warehouses, which hadn’t been
opened in 20 years. Apparently the keys to the lock had been
lost, so they had to use bolt-cutters to break open the door.
Neighbors witnessed the act, called police, and a squad car
arrived on the scene. He leans back and laughs, his joviality
catching me off guard.
McIlvenna says he will retire at the end of 2003, but don’t
hold your breath. 1 In many ways the Institute remains a momand-pop
sex shop, a store with a hanging shingle from a frontier
town in the Old West. His wife is comptroller, his son the
media director. In 25 years, they’ve had just 280 graduates. A
common phrase around the school is: “We are what we are.
We can’t be what you want us to be.” For years, outsiders
have speculated about the future of the Institute, but in the
end, it always revolves around McIlvenna.
He says he’s never really been a collector, other than a few
pieces of fine art. But what he does understand very well is
that people respond to large numbers. Each time he speaks
of the Archive, he says things such as, “We have 287,000
films alone,” then pauses, knowing the listener is bound to
be impressed.
88 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG