Fast Forward: Confessions of a Porn Screenwriter

1

Have you ever thought about writing a porno?

At first, I was fairly sure that Tim was joking. He had a healthy sense of humor about the screenwriting trade, of which we were both would-be members. When our prospects of finding meaningful employment seemed particularly bleak (which was invariably), we would often joke about selling out to the porn industry. For some reason, we always found this terribly amusing, and in a way, strangely comforting. I suppose the ridiculous concept of peddling smut for a living made the shadow of poverty seem a little less terrifying.

Well… sure, I said, with a mocking grin. That's why I moved to L.A.

Tim didn't return my smile. He peered at me with a somber expression and extinguished his cigarette into a plate of untouched eggs, already piled high with butts.

We were sitting in a mostly empty coffeeshop in West Hollywood. It had been Tim's idea to meet here, and judging by the urgency in his voice when he'd called, I assumed it was important. During our days as struggling writers in Chicago, we'd promised that if either of us made it, we would find a way to share the wealth. Although I'd only been in Los Angeles for a few weeks, Tim had lived here for almost two years and had a considerable head start on me. I suppose I thought he would have something substantial to offer me by now. If not a real career opportunity, then at least an insider tip. Something to get me started. I certainly expected more from him than sniggering remarks about porn.

I'm serious, he said. It's not as bad as it sounds. The money's pretty good, and it's certainly better than a day job.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. One of my dearest friends was actually advising me to do the unspeakable, to venture into the darkest underbelly of Hollywood. Porn was the final destination for teenage runaways and high school dropouts with dreams of celluloid glory. I never considered that a writer might fall into the oily grasp of pornographers. It just didn't happen that way. A broke writer may turn to journalism or even, God forbid, advertising. But never porn.

Are you actually considering this? I was incredulous.

Oh, I'm not considering, he said. I've already done it.

He told me the whole ugly story. It began just months ago, when he'd gone to the Sundance Film Festival with hopes of landing a film deal. After passing out his business card to anybody even vaguely associated with a major studio, it looked as if he would be leaving empty-handed. But on his last night in town, he attended an after-hours party where a friend of a friend of a friend introduced him to a porn director. A few hundred cocktails later, his judgment skills sufficiently impaired, he'd been hired to write his first feature-length screenplay.

I finished it in one afternoon, he said. Twenty pages for five hundred bucks. It's the best money I've ever made.

You're not using your real name, are you? I asked.

No, of course not.

Aren't you afraid that somebody will find out?

Tim just laughed. And how would they do that? You think anybody actually pays attention to a porno's production credits?

Yeah, but—

It's not like I'm putting my reputation on the line here. Nobody is going to watch this thing and think less of me as a writer. Odds are, nobody will even remember it.

He had a point. I'd watched more than a few pornos in my time, and couldn't recall a single plot. And why should I? Like any man my age, my libido suffered from a short attention span. And porn offered the ultimate experience in instant gratification. It was the perfect sexual release for anybody with a few hours to kill and working knowledge of the fast forward button.

You know, he said, a lot of famous writers started out in porn.

Name one, I challenged.

Jerry Stahl.

He had me there. Stahl's brief stint as a porn screenwriter was legendary, at least in certain literary circles. The prolific scribe of sitcoms like Alf and Moonlighting had indeed written several adult films during his early days in Hollywood, and he'd made no attempt to conceal it. He'd discussed his experiences in countless interviews, and documented it in his autobiography, Permanent Midnight. Stranger still, his porn beginnings had not hurt his career, and had helped elevate him to the level of hipster icon.

Stahl isn't the half of it, Tim continued. Barry Sonnenfeld also started out in porn. So did Wes Craven and Richard LaGravanese. You see what I'm saying? If they could get away with it, there's no reason why I can't. I should be so lucky to have their careers.

I wanted to be disgusted with him. A writer in L.A. was supposed to endure poverty, suffer with quiet nobility while he waited for Hollywood to recognize his genius and reward him accordingly. But Tim had sold out in the worst possible way. He had settled for less, gorged himself on chum in the water. He was wasting his talents on an industry with no cultural significance, a creative black hole where ideas go to die. How could one of my friends — one of my peers — have been so easily duped?

But honestly, I was angry because I hadn't thought of it first.

It was never my idea to move to L.A. That had been my wife's doing. She decided, quite abruptly, that she wanted to try her hand at writing sitcoms. I would have been happy just to stay in Chicago: I was born there, I'd spent most of my life there, and had every reason to believe that I would die there someday. But my wife insisted that Chicago was career suicide for a writer, so we left. I guess I could have put up more of a fight, but a part of me wanted her to be happy, and a bigger part of me wanted to be married to a TV writer who regularly made obscene amounts of money. Despite a long-standing hatred of all things West Coast, we packed up our meager belongings and set out for sunny California.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a proud armchair critic of Hollywood, regularly coughing up tired old clichés like L.A. has no culture and It isn't normal to live in a city without seasons. But after we moved there, my opinions about California's nether region changed radically. This is not to suggest that my paranoid assumptions about L.A. proved to be inaccurate. It has no culture, the weather is redundant at best, and everybody who lives there is, exactly as I suspected, a raging egomaniac. So how, you may be asking, could any person possibly fall in love with a city so inherently evil? Wasn't there the least concern that this move would result in the eternal damnation of my creative soul?

It doesn't take much for a man's principles to be conveniently tossed aside. For me, it was as simple as one phone call from an L.A. agent.

You are, hands down, the most talented writer of your generation, he told me. I kid you not. I've never met anybody with more potential for greatness. If you give me the chance, I'm going to make you a star. I guarantee it. You sign with us, and you'll have your first million within the year.

As a humor writer, having my ass kissed so shamelessly was a bit disconcerting. Accustomed to a lifetime of obscurity and small paychecks, I never imagined that I could hope for anything more. I certainly never expected to have one of the largest agencies in Los Angeles call up out of the blue and promise the world. There had to be a catch but I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what it might be. It seemed peculiar that anybody in his position would want to represent me, given the fact that I had never written a screenplay, nor had any inclinations to do so. But he was insistent, and I couldn't very well refuse someone so unwavering in his admiration.

I was invited to numerous breakfast meetings to discuss my impending fame. Meeting at posh diners throughout Beverly Hills, I was force-fed omelets and cappuccinos. He said that studios were already lining up to make a deal, and that I should keep my schedule clear should they need me to begin work immediately. It seemed too good to be true, but far be it from me to complain. As long as the free meals kept coming and my ego was getting stroked on a regular basis, I was happy just to sit back and enjoy the ride.

It wasn't until our fourth meeting that my agent dropped a bombshell: Where's the script?

This was the first time that he'd mentioned an actual screenplay. After all the assurances of instant glory and riches, it'd never crossed my mind that I might be expected to write something. Maybe I thought I'd just be handed a check for my biting wit and charming sensibilities.

I need a script, the agent said, getting snippy. There's nothing I can do for you until I have a script.

So I wrote one. I'm not sure how it got done so quickly. Maybe it was inspiration, but more likely I just felt obligated to satisfy this man who seemed to be riding his entire financial future on my abilities. Days after the first draft was delivered, the agent called again and began filling my head with more visions of dollar signs. The script was perfect, he said. A veritable work of genius. It was disturbing that he'd been so easily pleased, but his enthusiasm was intoxicating, and I became even more convinced that my success was a foregone conclusion.

And then one day, the calls stopped coming.

I wasn't particularly concerned, and just assumed that he was too busy pitching my script or negotiating my milliondollar contract. Days passed. And the days turned to weeks. I called, but he always seemed to be in a meeting or out to lunch. Voicemail messages were left and e-mails sent, but he never responded. I felt like a college co-ed who'd been seduced by a frat boy only to be brushed aside after he'd had his way with her.

I called my New York agent (with whom a healthy relationship has continued, if only because of his tendency to return my calls) and complained to him about my predicament, but he wasn't nearly as pessimistic. That's just the way they do things in L.A., he told me. Don't take it personally.

I tried to take his advice, but that was easier said than done when rent must be paid and a promised fortune has kept you from seeking meaningful employment. I was flat broke—and if my luck didn't change soon—on the verge of being homeless.

Welcome to L.A.

When I arrived home later that day, I couldn't resist telling my wife about Tim's porn misadventures, feeling like a giggling older brother tattling on the misdeeds of a younger sibling. I took a mean-spirited delight in relaying every juicy detail, and fully expected her to share my enthusiasm. It was a horrible thing to do, I know, but we both needed a distraction from our stalled careers.

My wife didn't find it nearly as amusing. In fact, she had the audacity to suggest that Tim might be onto something. Maybe, she said, I should be following his lead, and might consider how I too could become a professional porn scribe.

Are you out of your mind? I replied, unable to conceal my moral outrage.

Well, why not? she said. It'll give you something productive to do with your time. What have you got to lose? It's better than lying around the house all day. And it's not like you've been getting any other offers.

She was obviously making allusions to the agent, who may or may not have dumped me. Hurt by her insinuation, I insisted, He's going to call. I'm just going to give it a few more days.

It's not like anybody is asking you to make a career of this. Just write the script, get some quick cash, and that'll be the end of it. Who knows? It may be fun.

I don't see you volunteering to do this, I muttered.

Hey, thus far I'm the only one making some honest money around here. It's about time you started pulling your weight.

Of course, it wasn't necessary to mention that she wasn't having any better luck in her chosen career path. To her credit, she had come closer than I had to finding an actual job in the entertainment field. After obtaining an agent, she had managed to secure meetings with various TV producers. But we had somehow timed our move to L.A. so that it perfectly coincided with a writers’ strike. She'd been assured of her talents, but told in no uncertain terms that she would not be able to secure employment for at least the next one to two years.

In the meantime, she'd found a few other jobs to pay the bills. Now, when I say jobs I mean, of course, game shows. Since we'd moved to L.A., she'd been a contestant on more than four game shows. And yet despite all her efforts, she had only $300 and a synthesizer to show for it. Not exactly the big bucks we'd been hoping for, but then again, beggars can't be choosers. Of course, beggars can't buy food with a synthesizer either, but who's counting, right?

You really think I should do this? I asked her.

Why not? she replied. If nothing else, it'll make for great talk show fodder.

What do you mean?

One of these days, you're going to hit it big. And when you're doing the talk show circuit, you're going to need some amusing anecdotes. You mean to tell me you've never thought about this?

I was too ashamed to admit that the thought had never crossed my mind. Like any self-respecting writer, I'd been finetuning my Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech for most of my life. I'd also done a little work on my imminent podium time at the Oscars and Golden Globes. I even had a Grammy speech tucked away somewhere, just to be on the safe side. But I'd never once considered the possibility of appearing on a talk show.

Just think about it, she continued. You're sitting on the couch next to Dave or Jay, and you mention how you used to write porn for a living. I'm telling you, they'll eat it up.

I had to admit, she might be onto something. The money was one thing, but if writing porn could result in at least one colorful yarn, suitable for any number of talk shows and magazine interviews, then I owed it to myself—to my career—to take this chance. If I didn't do it for myself, I should at least do it for Dave.

As I sat down to write my first porn screenplay, I established one rule: I could not take more than an afternoon to complete it. If I gave it more attention than that, I was obviously giving the thing too much thought. This was not rocket science, after all. It wasn't even remedial physics. It was porn. Pizza guy knocks on door, big-breasted woman in flimsy negligee answers, they have sex. Bing-boom-done.

If I was at all tentative, it was because I wasn't entirely sure how to write a porno sex scene. Just how much information would I be expected to provide? Would every sexual act need to be choreographed: exactly where each limb should be placed, which bits should be inserted into which orifice like some perverse VCR operator's manual? Though I was confident in my abilities as a writer, I'd never attempted to summarize the mechanics of sexual congress. If it in any way resembled the literary porn I was familiar with, it would necessitate a vast arsenal of erotic adjectives, and it was doubtful if I could