By Vic Valdarno
As a young, debonair editor-in-chief at a large consumer sex magazine, I have my fair share of career-related sex. This is why it still shocks me when, upon hearing of my job, people ask me, "Wow! Do you have sex with those girls?"
Well, duh.
What goes on in people's heads? Don't get me wrong; I understand their incomprehension of my job duties: writing filthy copy, setting up hardcore orgies to be photographed, and sneaking cumshots past the Canadian censors. I know that to some, my industry is a cesspool run by morally bankrupt rats.
To believe this is their prerogative. I respect their views. But to assume that I wouldn't be shtupping the talent... well, to me, that is way more insulting than anything this industry could ever dream up.
Upon meeting the models in the flesh (all of whom I have personally chosen from either test photographs or e-mailed pictures), I know if there is a possibility of some post-photo shoot humpin' in the first 10 minutes. How? Because it's like any other time a guy meets a chick: you either hit it off, or you don't. Surprisingly, the fact that they're completely naked and I'm choosing what color dildo they should stuff up themselves doesn't change the boy/girl dynamic in the least.
These girls are-for the most part-professional models, and they are comfortable with their naked bodies. The flirty conversation that goes on between us could be happening at the neighborhood bar, or even the library. We either find each other swell, or we don't.
For many of these gals, this is just-and I repeat-just a job. These types bring their boyfriends to the set, wear their wedding rings, or make sure to interject their fiancée's name into the first barely comprehensible sentence they manage to grunt. And that, to me, is fine. In fact, in some ways I prefer that. No pressure.
But then there is the flip side: I arrive on the set to find that the girl whose photo I have been salivating over for the last two weeks is not only totally nice and funny, but her tits look even better close up. And she likes to drink vodka, too.
These are the chicks for whom segueing into a "Hey, whattya doin' after the shoot?" is a blood-rushing, erectile breeze. And to make things even better-since my company is based in New York and I am invariably in Los Angeles when I meet these girls-there is a big, fluffy, company-paid-for bed waiting back at the ultra-swanky hotel, and a booze- and star-packed bar downstairs. Ooh la la, I love L.A.
The sex with these gals ranges from "get on top and pump while I make like Bela Lugosi" to raunchy, grab-the-video-camera-we-got-a-hit-here, all-night marathon love. But for the most part, it is somewhere in between. A nice, saliva-seeping hour-and-a-half of pure orgasmic bliss that, unfortunately, will never be repeated.
Sure, I feel empty and used, cheated and abused at the end of these sweaty sessions. But I've come to terms with it. I can deal with the abandonment and lack of any real connection. What I can't deal with-what truly gets my goat-is people questioning that I wouldn't be getting lucky in my line of work.
