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There are many misconceptions and stereotypes about the porn biz and the people in it. Hence my reasons for penning this brief occupational memoir.

I'll tell you everything from the very beginning, the professional parts anyway. To have a clear picture of a porno person one must examine the life they had before porn.

I had a paper route. Then I had three paper routes-- I mean why pass the same houses delivering only one product when you can flog three? Disloyal? The papers were all the same shit, with different political decorations. This being Canada, there was one for the Tories (like the Republicans), one for the Liberals (sort of like Democrats), and one for Ross Perot-types.

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fter the paper routes, I worked in a coffee and doughnut shop for two years.

The next two years were an assortment of shops, a bakery, a dry cleaners, and a tuxedo-rental boutique.

The following year I went back to school, funded by a patron who was rather fond of me. When we ceased to be fond of each other I went to work for several sales agencies, all on the phone, all straight commission, all very good money, and all very high stress.

The following four years were spent as an accounts person and sales agent for a wholesale art company. Not very good money, but pleasant, steady, and an arts education on the side. One of the accounts I sold art to took me on for a couple years as salesperson in a furniture shop. A competitor asked me to manage his furniture shop. Why not?

Then I took a year off to study the collected works of Ayn Rand, Go Ask Alice, 1984, and Brave New World. I went to Florida for two years to get away from it all where I installed commercial flooring, labored for a masonry company, and worked my way up to night manager of a wholesale bakery. All the while I kept just ahead of the nice fellows at the Immigration and Naturalization.

Then came the porn.

Migrant labor

I am a Canadian with some American family. In other words, free place to stay in Lauderdale, but no green card, no legal right to work. My departure from Florida was voluntary, though it would eventually have been mandatory. So back home in Toronto, I looked far and wide for income-generating activities. I went to a nightclub I knew, and was offered work as part-time bartender. But due to some criminals known as the Toronto Police, the place was forced to close to protect the patrons. It was the Bijou sex bar, where they play porno videos and such (how foreshadowing, eh?). When the Bijou re-opened, it was without the bar.

I went to other local places: a bakery, a restaurant, and a few other similar establishments. It never occurred to me that my shoulder-length hair might have discouraged some from taking my resume seriously. It may have been that my most recent references were all in an alien country that required a long-distance call to check. I went to visit a friend at a computer business he'd built up to see if he could help me. There were a lot of very suspiciously beautiful people in the front office, and Brian was in Montreal. I would have to try back.

Then I saw an ad in the paper for models to pose nude for a video, and thought that sounded okay. A quick infusion of cash.

They refused me on account of my longish hair. A friend I knew encouraged me to do something on my own. So I started making fast food in my kitchen for a local cafe. It covered the cost of the materials, and when I worked out the labor and time, I was making $4.50 an hour (Canuck dollars)-- not exactly encouraging. At least it was extra money, and it kept me from being hungry, but it was clear I would need something more.

When Brian returned from Montreal he interviewed me. It was done in less than ten minutes. He showed me on his screen a couple of boys screwing, explained it was a live video feed, and lifted my shirt to reveal if I'd let any fat cells accumulate around my midsection. I started later that week. Good thing, too, because "broke" does not even begin to describe my financial circumstances. I would soon need to get serious about looking for a new place to live. The new job came very much in handy.

I did not really look at it as a job. I saw it more as something temporary to tide me over till I got a job. In fact the time demands were very light. The shifts were generally two hours, done in pairs. So for four hours a day, I had work. To get more fit (thereby increasing my salability) I joined a community center gym for $20 a month. It was very tight the first few weeks as the office held back two weeks pay. To complicate matters I was assigned the Toy Show Room. I needed to come up with some toys in a hurry. So I went to Kensington Market, where you can find some of the most unusually-shaped and oddest-looking vegetables. I chose a cucumber, corn on the cob, and a butternut squash of interesting proportions. Rounding out my purchases was a tub of low-fat margarine-- all for less than $10. I became Billy Bob Joe, the porno farmboy. By way of careful internal cleansing, I was able to entertain countless home viewers with a disappearing act involving these tasty kitchen regulars. The ratings weren't bad, and eventually I went into more mainstream rooms. When I got my first check I was surprised that it seemed a bit higher than I expected. I was expecting it to be $400 or 500. It was $700. For dancing in the window facing Yonge Street during the gay pride parade, the boss apparently gave me and several other dancers a $200 bonus for what was maybe an hour's show. My butt cheeks, pressed against the glass, graced the pages of the local urban-living magazine.

When I started, the models were paid based on the type of show we did. A chat room paid $12 an hour. A solo show room paid $25 an hour, and a show with a partner paid $75 an hour, with all shows running two hours. None of us were getting particularly rich, but we all had enough to make the bills, and had enough spare time to have a life, hold a second job, or go to school. The types of shows varied. The duo rooms were boy-meets-boy, girl-meets-girl, as well as the live-sex couples, many of whom were a real-life husband and wife. There were girls solo, boys solo, and transsexuals (chicks-with-dicks). I often marveled at how hard they could get while still taking all those female hormones. An interesting sub-category of the girls' rooms was the dungeon. Take an otherwise nice girl, put her in tight leather or PVC, add chains, whips, and nipple clamps, and teach the otherwise nice girl to be really mean to the paying customer, and presto! you have a best-selling concept room: The Dungeon. Later on, the company added a "tip" button. Some of the more apt models were artistic in how they might get tips without a button for the customer to push. By pushing the clients' appropriate sympathy buttons, amazing results could be achieved. Occasionally you'd hear of so-and-so going on a trip, or so-and-so got a computer for their fictitious birthday. One model impressed a client so much that he bought the boy a nice suburban house, and still provides him an allowance conditional on his abstaining from porno acting. It's just like he got married in Pretty Woman or Maid in Manhattan. I myself have been the guest on a few trips, received flattering cards and letters (with and without the cash gift), but have yet to receive any real estate.

Two's company

Duo shows made the difference between making a good week's wage and making a great week's wage. The live-sex couples (a man and a woman banging) were handled differently online. The couple did their thing while a typist or chat monitor was liaison between the paying customers and the couple. The couple would be busy in a camera studio, while off to the side, outside the room, the typist would call in various requests, such as "Blow job!" or "Stand on your heads!" "Lick her toes!" "Give her anal!" and so on. I did the live-sex typing to fill in a few shifts, and got to know some of the couples involved. It became apparent that the boy involved was merely a prop-- a dildo with a pulse. Most, if not all of the requests had to do with the "her" in the show. Even when the incredible Felix shot a load far and wide, there was no congratulations or applause, just repeated requests for Carlotta to eat it.

To preserve anonymity is not difficult, because everyone's model name was made up.

Carlotta and Felix were an interesting example of what not to expect of your porno personalities. Felix (not exactly handsome) wore a mask and leather restraints-- his endowment made up for his lack of looks. He is a software designer. Carlotta-- who is incredibly beautiful-- is a nurse, studying to become head of a department at the hospital, her more regular job. Felix needed the money more than she did, but that was all it was to them: means to an end. They were a friendly couple, and we would often go out for dinner after work.

The alter egos to Carlotta and Felix were Cindy and Andy. Andy was very wrapped-up in how muscular he was. He liked to mockingly muscle-pose in front of guys much smaller. I suspect he was a bully in his grade-school days. He had a very small penis for porn. He had a small penis period. Perhaps that's why he was so hyper-pseudo macho. Cindy was your classic perfect blonde bimbo-looking D-cup knockout. She was the more pleasant of the two, though they would often fight on-camera and lacked a professional detachment. Both were recent arrivals from Hungary, but you don't need a great command of English to work in porn. I would rather have eaten my lunch underwater with a school of barracuda than with these two. Andy was none too crazy about homos, so I was never invited. As they both were egomaniacs, they were perfect for the porn biz.

For every relatively normal person in porn there's a bubble-head. Take Murray. He would neglect to spread the tanning lotion evenly, lie in the tanning bed for 20 minutes, and then wonder why he resembled a leopard. Then Murray would repeat this process. Savannah was another example. She would lock herself and her keys in her car if left unsupervised. Her tanning bed deal was to double-baste. In other words, 20 minutes followed by another 20 minutes. Her midsection bore what I thought were stretch marks from pregnancy but was in fact "sun" damage caused by overexposure. I loved the in-office, free of charge, tanning beds-- a voyeur's dream. Some of the shyer types would often hide their genitalia with a sock or towel while tanning.

Some of the more normal humans in porno-land included Gordon, a moonlighting meteorologist; Doug, the incredible calf-and-thighs bike courier; and Jimmy, a media student, who did model management on the weekends. With only two exceptions, all the managers have in-front-of-the-camera experience. And with only one exception, they are all easy to get along with.

It's not like other office jobs. Here the managers have had to deal with everything from the occasionally overdosed model, to a shooting at a bar that shared space in the building, to fielding the most unusual array of "I can't make it in tonight" stories. It's astonishing how many grandmothers choose Saturday night to drop dead. The more routine aspects of a manager's job is to log in new models at the studios when the shift changes, mark down payroll, and find replacements for any AWOLs.

As the kite flies

A brief note on the drug-and-alcohol policy. I am not sure there is one. On festive occasions such as birthdays, holidays and gay pride there's free beer-- otherwise you have to buy it on your own. One of the managers was fond of doing "K bumps" and was relieved of his duties for being both stoned and generally disagreeable. He would've lasted much longer if he'd chosen pot over K. In fact, pot is the drug of choice for most porno personalities. Another strange popular consumable is G. I am told G was created to help guys using steroids get some rest. It provides a rush, followed by a tranquilizing effect, referred to as the "G hole." Some models are found in a G hole during their show, in a state of unconsciousness or semi-consciousness, not so different from a natural state for some. This is not an overdose, but the usual result of using G, and it is not great for ratings. E is also a popular pill, but more so after the show than during. Some models arguably work in order to afford the E, K, G (not the medical procedure-- that sort of thing is free in Canada). Of E, K, and G, I only have personal experience with E, and must report it's okay, but I'm not sure what all the excitement's about. Anything that inhibits the hard-on while making me horny seems to defeat the point. Drugs exist in every workplace-- perhaps a bit more in porn than others. But the policy is like at many businesses: if it fucks your ability to work, you'll catch flack; otherwise, it's your own affair.

Affairs, on the other hand, are a public matter. I've had five official affairs in cyberspace-- relationships created for the camera. I've been paid to perform several arias from the opera "Fellatio" while online, as well as a few anal recitatives. They were all fun in their own way, some lasting months, some a couple weeks. But it really had more to do with money than anything else. My income went from $400 to $500 a week to an average of $800 to $1000 with duo shows. Unlike the live sex shows, the boys in a boys' duo do their own typing. The difficulty being, how do you make it interesting after the fifth time? How do you keep it up for the whole two hours? Where do you find the costumes?

The answer to the first question is it doesn't have to be interesting, it has to look interesting. And answer number two is that only one person needs to be hard at a time, and thank Pfizer for Viagra. Lastly, at a decent secondhand clothing store and army-surplus depot, you can become cowboy, cop, soldier, sailor, and construction worker all for about $100.

I became labeled the Last Tango Boy because within weeks of any of my duo work, the other model would usually quit or be fired. This unfortunate coincidence led to the situation that no other model would do shows with me. However, in my own defense: Zack was fired for being unreliable and no-showing for shifts; Chad moved back to British Columbia; Sergio suffered from chronic sleep-deprivation, which he remedied during office hours; Andrew (unhappy in porn) went into mutual funds; and Gordon moved back to Boston. I had nothing to do with their choices, so far as I know. As well as staged affairs, I did enjoy several brief off-camera ones. They were one of the many perks to working in porn.

Keep the gears grinding

Discipline at the Cum Cannery was a cruel business. Those unable or unwilling to show up for scheduled shifts were not only docked, but fined the value of the shift they missed. We also were offered cell phones, paid for by the office. Naturally, we were responsible for a monthly fee and any long distance we might spend. A model working a given week might owe money come payday if he happened to be overly talkative and/or tardy.

For those who did well, there were rewards. The GayVN awards show meant a select few were sent on assignment to Los Angeles. The annual general porno convention meant a select few were sent on assignment to Las Vegas. The Cyberland trade show meant a few were sent on assignment to New Orleans. The responsibilities included cocktail parties, poolside promotions, and helicopter rides over the Grand Canyon. As I was relatively reliable, I was chosen for three such trips. There was never any travel to Tennessee, Utah, Nebraska, or any place too chilly to work on the tan.

I was a reliable worker. This was not an office where you can be casually five minutes late and it's okay. When one model is off, the other has to be there. It's a 24-hour office. We never close (except for 12 hours, Christmas eve to Christmas day, and during a hangover recovery period after New Year's). In three years of porn I've canceled only two shows, and gave more than a day's notice. While I was an administrative assistant at the fine-art reproduction company, I may have missed an average of two days a month. The nature of the porno job is much different. It is not eight-to-ten grueling hours a day. It's three or four hours, and they are fun hours. It's work when you want to work. We can book time away as needed. Other than the three company trips, I've been to see my sister in Orlando three times, and seen Europe three times. Additionally, fans have arranged my travel to Florida, St. Louis, and New York, although officially, that sort of thing never ever happens. We have to be careful not to break any international laws. We are providing sex entertainment, not a prostitution service, even though they in part resemble each other. I guess it's a combination of liking the job, being half-decently good at it, and being able to get away when I need a break from the routine.

Toss a lifesaver to Narcissus

One clearly negative aspect of any vanity-driven profession is the self-perception disease. The image in the mirror for some becomes all-consuming. It's no longer a simple question of "How do I look?"; it mutates into "How do I look to them?" or "How do I look compared to him?" These are the waters Narcissus might have drowned in. What's worse is the emotional games that the mind's eye plays. For some it can mix up priorities. I recall being violently angry that a new guy got chosen over me for one of the LA trips. Robin had a look that was more suited to the type of show our company was engaged to perform at the awards event; it wasn't personal. One of my duo partners told me his frustration trying to compete with all these twinkies that were younger than he was; he felt invisible. One shouldn't forget, I told him, that this sort of job is not a long-term venture, even if the expiry date is murkier than outsiders might think. Some of the models with more on the ball than looks made a transition into marketing or management. But the nature of the product is one of novelty. "Hot today, cold tomorrow" is commonplace, so turnover is high. Some faces come back after taking breaks, some just disappear into some other place in the workforce.

Balm to the soul

The man who peddled our services to eager cyber customers would be thought no better than a pimp by some. But he provides an office for hundreds of people to work in and take a decent wage from, and no one is forced to stay if they don't like the work or rules. Some complain he makes so much money and pays so little. Any business that runs smoothly looks like it runs easier than it does. Is Brian getting rich? Yes, I think he is, but he and his partner took a big risk early on. He is at the office 12 hours a day, six or seven days a week. And he has to keep on his toes. Globalization has changed the cost of the product. Porno performers in Prague are now doing for $25 a day what porno performers in Toronto want $25 an hour for. It reminded me of the story I read in the paper about a Maytag factory moving operations-- lock, stock, and barrel-- from a town in Illinois to a town in Mexico.

My reason for leaving cyber-porn was that it stopped being fun. I've never been congratulated so much for leaving a job before. Everyone seems to like watching it, but no one wants it made with their relations or in their backyard. Every major hotel chain, even Mormon-run Marriott, now offers (an often second-rate selection of) pay-per-view porn as an alternative to HBO. Some of it's tacky, some of it's elegant and artful, just like the regular movies. It might seem like those who act in porn are mindless, but all you are seeing is the animal, carnal side. I've heard the suggestion that all performers are emotional basket cases, unhappy with life. I certainly won't suggest that porn people in general are qualified to give psychiatric evaluations or teach anger-management seminars. Yet strangely, counseling is a large part of what we do in cyberspace. We chat with, console, and pleasure often horny, sometimes lonely people who might be a little scared of their own sexuality. Sort of "therapy with full release"-- a bargain at $25 an hour.