Bukkake, for the vanilla-inclined, is a line of Japanese humiliation vids wherein 20 or 50 men drag a girl into a room, hold her down, and jack off over her until she's covered in cum. Of course, here in the land of the free/home of the brave, anything that edgy goes over about as well as Marilyn Manson at an Oral Roberts hoe-down, so JM Productions and director Jim Powers have opted for American Bukkake. No coercion in their version: just a happy group masturbathon onto a pornchick who catches the cascades of flying DNA in her mouth, drools it into a glass, and gulps all that tasty backwash down. It's a granola feminist's nightmare, and every bit as fine as Iggy Pop in a miniskirt and garters with me; it takes more than a few ropes of goo to make me raise an eyebrow.
So imagine what it took to get me to raise both of them, as I did when I got the call to come to this shoot and learned who the evening's soon-to-be jizz-drenched star would be: Brooke Ashley, the most visible member of the 1998 HIV outbreak. The one who appeared on all those television interviews, her pretty face smeared with tears as she described how the industry had screwed her over. You'd have to be the Rev. Fred Phelps not to feel a pang of sympathy.
Were Powers and JM Productions out of their fucking minds?
If I was disturbed by the news, Powers didn't seem to be. Ashley was going back to Hawaii the next day, and wanted the work. No contact, no penetration. No big deal.
Maybe I was overreacting. As in: Why did the fact that it was Brooke Ashley make it suddenly not okay? She's an adult; she doesn't need to be protected. She's allowed to make her own decisions. And she shouldn't be treated as a pariah.
But what if she didn't understand the health risks involved in swallowing semen when the immunities are down, not to mention the potential damage to her media persona... and on and on and on.
Ugh, a moral dilemma. Now I'd have to go.
***
Brooke sits on a couch in the cold warehouse, and doesn't seem overjoyed by the idea of an observer. I ask her if she minds that I stay. "It's okay," she replies steadily, not smiling. "As long as you don't...." She doesn't finish the sentence; she doesn't have to. As long as you don't judge me. As long as you don't laugh at me. As long as you don't make me feel bad about myself.
I reassure her I'm not here to hurt her, and she nods. I can stay, but she's not in the mood to answer any questions.
About 20 exemplary specimens of masculinity have congregated; all masking their discomfort with the whole roomful-of-naked-guys situation by bitching about the absence of fluffers and pointing out one chubby participant's "bitch tits." Someone tells me that the guys are getting paid $25 each for their, uh, contributions. Who says you can't put a price on the essence of life?
Ever the fashion guru, Powers has chosen a stylish wardrobe for his boys; each wears cheap cotton underwear in pukey colors. They're told to sit on the floor, facing Brooke, with "solemn" looks on their faces.
Powers tells production manager Johnny Thrust to issue three hand claps. At the first, the guys will stand in unison. At the second, they'll pull off their undies. And at the final one, they'll toss the garments on Brooke, while shouting "Banzai." (Banzai That sudden breeze in the room must be the last remnants of their collective dignity flying out the window.)
They do as instructed, and Brooke cracks up.
"What is this all about?" she giggles, plucking bargain-basement Jockeys from her hair.
"It's about good, clean fun, honey," Powers deadpans.
Brooke gets a glass, holds it under her chin, and the performers start stroking. She's not making it easy for the more visually-oriented among them, strategically hiding her cooch. One by one, sometimes in tandem, they walk up to her and blow in/on/around her mouth.
It's supposed to be a female humiliation vid, but it looks like it's the male performers who are bearing the brunt of that onus. An interesting phenomenon evinces itself, as the shoot wears on: It takes on the air of a three-quarters-completed awards show. The guys who've already popped are the winners, and an air of desperation permeates the room as the circle of strokers gets smaller and smaller. Each time one guy walks up to Brooke, the others' hands seem to pump a little harder, a little faster.
One of those visually-oriented late-comers is also one of the few professionals present - Johnny Toxic, who's evidently uneasy with the amount of time it took him to earn his $25. "She was covering her pussy with her hand," he whispers to me, pulling on his clothes. Pornboy explanations; there's nothing more entertaining. You're disturbed that you didn't find the situation exciting enough to climax quickly, but being seen standing naked in a pair of boots, twirling your panties over your head and screaming "Banzai" didn't bother you?
"Are we almost done?" Brooke snaps, in a tone that offers no room for a "no." She downs the scary nectar, heads off to the shower, shoots me a we're-not-discussing-this look, and I leave.
It probably bears mentioning that, as we went to press, everyone who'd heard about this shoot reacted as if the Symbionese Liberation Army had just risen from the Great Safehouse Down Below. It definitely bears mentioning that the reality of it wasn't as bad as that, and far less horrifying than anyone - especially the PC-biased - is going to want to believe. If Brooke wasn't in an especially ecstatic mood, neither did she give the impression that she's a girl who does anything she doesn't feel like doing. Oh, you could fault the event for being tasteless and a little sleazy (an example of achieving one's goal, as far as JM Productions is concerned), sure. But wrong?
Only when they said Banzai.
