Samone Taylor just called.

She’s pissed.

“I just got off the phone with my friend. He saw me on your site — Cumbang. It’s totally racist!”

“Well,” I said, “before we go any further, you need to know something. That isn’t my site.”

“You don’t own that site?”

“No, I don’t. I’m just a hired gun. An employee. I cast it, and then I shoot it, and then I send it off. From there, it’s out of my hands.”

Samone continued. “Well, all I know is you misrepresented it. If I would have had any idea what was going on, I would never have done it!”

I’d like to interject something here…something to you, The Reader. This isn’t a made up conversation; nor do I exaggerate. Even though it’s now been about 3 hours since it went down, I’m retelling it as it happened.

“I’m confused Samone,” I said. “What did I misrepresent?”

“That site is totally racist!”

“Well, Samone, if you’re talking about the site’s design, that’s something I have nothing to do with. I’m like you here — a hired hand. I’ll say this again…I cast it, and then I shoot it, and then I send it off. After that, I’m all done.”

“You never told me about Confederate flags!”

Are you hearing this? Cause I can’t believe I am. Again, I’m talking to you, Reader. Here’s a girl that’s in a scene blowing a bunch of dudes wearing Confederate Flag tee’s…and she’s telling me I didn’t tell her about a scene in which she appeared, completed, and was compensated in full.

As its star.

And never once did she complain about a thing.

Not before, during, or after her Cumbang.

Not before, during, or after her trip to the gloryhole.

Until now.

Then, it dawned on me. Maybe she was one of the first girls I shot? Before The Producer ordered the shirts? Or maybe she was one of the two girls who decided against shooting the scene unless the male talent removed their shirts.

Cause that’s the way we roll — we (as in The Producer and I) would never fire a girl home cause the Rednecks were flying their flag on their shirts. Instead of sending the girl home without a pay day, we had the dudes take their shirts off. So, if you’re wondering why there’s a few scenes without the Rednecks in their Redneck garb, there you have it.

But neither was the case with Samone Taylor; in addition, before the scene rolled, while each girl and every girl was in the make-up chair, I went over exactly what was about to go down.

“Well there’s a part in your movie where the guys meet and talk about the girl that’s about to blow them. In one of those parts, the white guys call the girl a nigger! I mean, it’s bad enough I’m in porn, but having them call me a nigger?!”

Then, she started to cry.

It’s not the first time a girl has cried to me about starring in a porno I directed.

It is the first time I’ve ever had a black girl say anyone on my set called her a nigger.

Cause it’s never happened.

Never.

As in, not once.

“Samone, no one ever said that. Not to any of the girls, and not to you. A few of the black girls on the site call their black boyfriends “nigger” cause, I guess, he was a cheater and they were pissed, but I defy you to watch any of those scenes and show me where that happened. And you were on my set the entire time that scene was shot. You know the guys talk about the girl before we shoot it. You were there. You could hear it. All they’re doing is going over your story. About your cheating boyfriend. And that you’re here for revenge. That’s it.”

“I didn’t see Confederate Flags anywhere!”

“Samone. They were wearing Confederate Flags tee’s and socks while you blew them.”

“I don’t remember that! You never told me!”

I knew where this conversation was going, which is about the same place all these conversations go when a girl regrets starring in a dirty movie. Here’s how it goes down: Samone was told the same exact thing every single girl who ever walks on to my set is told, which is exactly what’s about to go down. But they don’t care. Not about that. Porn Whores care about The Money, and the problems they’ll solve once they get paid, and beyond that…well, they’ll deal with that once they have to cross that bridge. And we might as well call that bridge either “The Family Bridge” or “The Boyfriend Bridge” cause, in almost all cases, neither the Porn Whore’s family nor her boyfriend knows exactly what it is they’re doing in LA.

Oh, sure, her family thinks she’s working hard waiting tables during the day and “auditioning to be an actress” or “trying to get some modeling work at night” whenever she can…and sure, her boyfriend knows she does some “nude modeling” from time to time to pay the bills (some, or most of which, are his).

I’m not saying this is Samone’s story…but it probably is.

Should I feel bad?

Should I laugh out loud?

Am I going to hell?

Are angels weeping for my soul?

And why am I telling you any of it?

And now, a brief afterward written almost 12 hours after this entry. Samone Taylor just called with an apology. After visiting Cumbang herself, she felt her friend was wrong.

I went to a book reading the other night with Adrianna Nicole.

Tristan Taormino wrote a book called Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships, and she was reading at a place called Book Soup.

Adrianna and Tristan are pals. By tagging along, I got to meet Tristan…and, maybe if I played my cards right, I could bug Adrianna a whole bunch — cause that’s the way we roll.

She bugs me.

I bug her.

Then, repeat.

I like Book Soup very much. It’s one of my favorite independent bookstores, and one of a few left. I don’t know how much you read, but you’re reading this blog, so you must know that independent booksellers are kinda like T. Rex — and no, not like Marc Bolan’s most-excellent band.

They’re dinosaurs, but once upon a time that’s all there ever was, and if you wanted to buy a book you walked into a small store and probably handed your money over to the owner…who probably recommended whatever it was you bought, cause they read it already, and then they’d put your book in a paper sack and said “Thanks!”

But now Corporate America has dumbed down another great institution (just off the top of my head, bookstores I used to love until they died and went to Heaven: Cody’s in Berkeley; Black Oak and Chelsea Books in San Francisco; Heritage in Los Angeles; Mesa Bookshop in Phoenix, AZ).

Indie record stores are dying in droves.

When’s the last time you went to a real hardware store, with a person behind the counter that knew exactly what it was you’re looking for?

A mom-and-pop toy store?

Why support a local seller by paying full price for your favorite thing when you can walk into Border’s or Home Depot or Bath, Bed, and Beyond or Toys-R-Us and get it for 30% off…right?

Or order it off The Nameless, Faceless Internet and save a whole bunch?

Anyways, Adrianna shoots a bunch for Tristan, and I was really anxious to meet her cause I’m a geek boy fan of Thomas Ruggles Pynchon. The first time I told Adrianna this, I had to tell her who Pynchon was; in fact, no matter who I admit my admiration for Pynchon to, I have to follow up with an explanation as to who he is: in a nutshell, he’s an American novelist who wrote three really great books that have been placed into the mid-century Canon of American Literature, and he has never allowed himself to be photographed, nor interviewed. There’s a couple super old photos of him floating around the internet before he wrote his first book, but that’s about it.

And one of his three great books is so dense, so complex, and so silly I can’t make it past page 100.

After 3 attempts.

A hard-core recluse who writes infinitesimally challenging meta-fiction about things like entropy and V-2 rockets is just my kinda guy.

And Tristan Taormino is his niece.

And not a time goes by when Adrianna says something like, “I worked for Tristan today!” that I reply, “did you ask Tristan about her uncle for me?” — and I do this for no other reason than to drive Adrianna crazy.

It works every single time.

And when Adrianna told me we were invited to dinner with Tristan after the ready, I knew then my Coup de Grâce was soon in coming.

Before I get there, I gotta tell ya Tristan is simply amazing. Her reading was great, and trust me, I’ve been to a zillion readings — from Nobel Prize winners to acclaimed poets and novelists — and a lot of them suck ass. Major ass.

The thing I like most about Tristan’s reading was her wit, the way she spoke to us, and how easily she talked about stuff not a lot of people really feel comfortable talking about — and not just sexy stuff, but things that aren’t so easy to talk about.

Like open relationships.

And nonmonogamy.

All Things Polyamorous.

That sort of stuff.

Think you can do it? Be polyamorous, I mean.

Do you have enough confidence in yourself to let your Significant Other go and get banged out by someone else? Someone else that might satisfy them more than you?

Watch your lovely wife entertain a black man?

Be OK with Hubby getting his weekly massage with Happy Ending?

Be OK with Wifey meeting her girlfriend for a bush-smoosh? (Um, you’re not invited, either).

You get the idea. If you find this sort of thing might be up your alley, here’s a shameless plug for Tristan’s book, cause I’ve been reading it this weekend, and it’s really good.

But I’m not done with my story. Cause after Tristan’s reading we went to dinner at a local Mexican joint with a whole bunch of people: Penny Flame was there, and Sinamon Love, and a cute make-up artist I was flirting with all night long, and Adrianna (duh!) cause if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been invited, and P.T. was there, and a whole bunch of other people I have never met before, and I sat across the table from a Professor of Feminist Studies from UC Santa Barbara who loved all my stories about shooting cuckolding scenes for Blacks on Blondes.

The Coup de Grâce came when Tristan sat me and Adrianna next to her, and chatted us up for a bit, cause I got to eye Adrianna — who really wasn’t paying attention to me — when I told Tristan, “I really wanna bug Adrianna, so can I tell you how much I like your uncle’s work?”

Tristan definitely indulged me, and I could tell I was treading in dangerous water, so I made it really quick and told her I got a grant from the NEH to study one of his novels a long time ago, and sure enough, Adrianna heard, and then Adrianna groaned, and Tristan was nice about it all…and that’s really about it.

Not much of a Coup de Grâce, I admit…in fact, if I were to rate this particular Coup de Grâce on The Grand Coup de Grâce scale, I’d say it clocks in at a 3 — outta 10.

But at least I got Adrianna to groan.

Then we ate some chips and guacamole and for the rest of the night I kinda eye-fucked a make-up artist who I think is cute — and I think, maybe for a second or two, I got eye-fucked back.

But probably not.

Cause who’d wanna flirt with some dude that’s a self-professed geek boy over Thomas Pynchon?