Naughty Girls Need a PPO Too - Job #31

Admit it, you’ve seen the billboards; you’ve been curious, maybe you’ve even jotted down the website. Maybe you’ve even bought tickets and attended that Mecca of all things salacious and taboo, the sexiest convention of all conventions: Adultcon. For those of you who don’t know, this is the place where porn stars, filmmakers and amateurs alike meet their public, sell their wares (and underwear), pose for pictures and promote their latest award-winning performance in “Butt Blanket Bingo vol. 7”

Like more conventional conventions, Adultcon is un-erotically furnished with rows of folding tables in florescent-lit conference rooms. Except here the tables are colorfully decorated with dildos, DVDs, and a scantily clad girl cheerfully inviting the throngs of visitors over to meet her. And then there was me. Sitting on a table, in jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by information packets, working for a man who’s big light bulb moment came when he realized what the porn industry needed most: health insurance.

That’s right, health insurance and a payroll paper trail that made the sex-cash business look like a boring day job - just in case said sex worker was future oriented and wanted to apply for a mortgage or car loan. Brilliance!

I met this man; let’s call him Roy, through my stripper friend Mandy (not her real name, or her stripper name). Mandy had bonded with Roy over a fun evening of lap dances for him and his wife. After he tried to sell her insurance, he asked if she’d like to come work the adult convention circuit. She said, not really, but she knew someone who would.

Me. Friendly, open-minded, always on the hunt for more work, me.

Roy called and made an offer: Twenty dollars and hour, per-diem and dinner. My mission: go to conventions, smile, chat up the adult actresses, strippers, and escorts; give them a brochure and plant the seed. Easy-sleazy, right? I didn’t have to sell them anything. Or sign them up. Or take off my clothes.

Not so easy. The first time I walked into the bright, noisy convention center and saw my prospective clients, I was dumb-struck. I mean these girls knew things; amazing and special things like how to make the most painful positions look enjoyable and squelch all gag reflexes. Not to mention they were very glossy, nearly naked under fluorescents (can you say “brave”) and posing for swarms of drooling fans. I felt like a little bowl of peas next to a procession of elaborate hot fudge sundaes. But my job was not to gawk or act shy and pea-like, my job was to get way up in there, make connections and offer these girls a service like no other.

After I set up my tri-fold brochures (a very boring presentation compared with the “revolutionary sex-toy” display I was parked next to), I moved in on my first target. She looked approachable enough with Marilyn hair and a knitted pink teddy. I tried a professional tact, “Good morning, I was wondering if you had ever considered health insurance…” She wrinkled her nose and put her hand up to stop me. “I’m good, I’ve had all my shots.” It took me a few seconds to realize she thought I was with the Health Department and was reassuring me that she was clear of all VDs. Whoops.

On the next few girls I tried a bubbly cheerleader approach, “Hiya chica!!! Do you want health insurance or an awesome W-2 at the end of the year? Check this out!” This too did not work. While some of the girls are super ditzy and bubbly as part of their persona, they certainly didn’t respect it coming from me.

I finally decided on a chummy-funny sidekick role. If I had researched the industry more and knew each girl’s body of work, I could have opened with something like, “Oh, I just loved your acting in Whorey Potter, now tell me, how did you do all that with out knee pads?” But instead I was left with normal attire complements like; “I like that French maid/naughty school girl thong-skirt, did you have it made especially for you?” Then we’d get in a conversation about the trials and tribulations of finding lingerie that actually fits a 31 DDD cup with a 22-inch waist and how if you wanted it done right, you learned to use a sewing machine and alter your own “outfits.”  Once we were best buds, I’d swallow my urge to ask if she actually did enjoy anal beads and instead say something like, “You can have all the benefits of a typical 9-5 without the cubicle and bad shoes!”  Then we laugh, I’d give her the brochure, and she wouldn’t regret talking to me instead of peddling her personal hand held vagina replica (known as a fleshlight- yes they are real).

There was a lot of fun to be had at Adultcon. While not necessarily a porn fan per-se, I certainly got a thrill being surrounded by the sex biz.  People are in good spirits, out to have a great time, no one judges anyone. Fetish is fun! Debauchery a delicacy! I learned a lot about the world during the hours I spent in those convention halls.

The money was good, the work interesting, but it couldn’t last forever. Roy kindly took me out for dinner after each convention, often joined by his friends/business partners. They were big fans of all things pornographic and had a great time backslapping and recalling their exploits and funny encounters. Roy’s stories revolved around his bi-sexual wife and their swinger lifestyle. I took it all in stride, of course, I’m no square, until he started telling me how much his wife would like me, really like me. At first I laughed it off, but when he started pushing the “meet-n-greet” as he called it, I stopped returning phone calls. I never said anything cool like, “Chill on the inappropriate boss talk- let's remember those sexual harassment trainings!” I just faded away from that world, no big finish, no money shot, just a whimper and a sigh.