In my brief Google search of the AEC, I learned that it’s the largest porn convention in the country and that it’s the number one place for fans to meet their favorite stars. It’s attended mostly by men, but there is a growing segment of female attendees, especially with the rise in popularity of male performers like James and Ethan Dane. Typically, fans pay for day passes or for the three-day pass that gives them access to a special meet-and-greet room. They bring stuff for the stars to sign and check out new products, like James’s recently released sex toy line, and it’s a great opportunity to boost sales.
“I’m psyched for you to meet Shawnna too,” James says as he eats a bite of toast. “She’s super cool. You’re gonna like her.”
Shawnna Hendrix was James’s first co-star, an incredibly famous performer at the time who requested the young buck by name after seeing some old modeling shots on an agency website. James said the scene he shot with her was the best he’s ever done and that she was a true professional who made him feel completely at ease with having sex in front of a massive crew of experienced filmmakers. They’ve stayed in touch over the years, and they frequently talk on the phone.
Shawnna is thirty-six now, and she’s been retired for several years, but she started her own production company, Electric Lady Entertainment, and she helped James out of a major quagmire by purchasing the rights to all his old movies after his feud with Rick. She signed him to an exclusive deal to be a consultant, and she fast-tracked his sex toy line—something Rick from Sin Cinema had been dragging his feet on for ages, much to James’s annoyance.
We’re going to the convention today as a way of thanking her for all her help. James will be signing at her booth, which will draw a huge crowd, given his Man of the Year nomination, and he’ll be talking up Electric Lady and what fine, high-quality porn they produce. In truth, they really do make good shit. Shawnna seems to favor high production value, and all her performers are beautiful—Hollywood beautiful, not just porn beautiful.
James and I finish breakfast and put on some real clothes. I opt for skinny jeans and a thin, navy blue T-shirt with a modest V-neck, nothing too cleavage revealing. James goes for jeans that flatter his heartbreakingly perfect ass and an olive green tank top meant to show off his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. He’s sexing it up, trying to look extra hot for his fans. It’s working big time on me, so I can only imagine the effect it will have on the ladies at the convention.
When we hit the convention floor, I try to take in the expansive array of booths in our immediate area. Most people have a simple table in front of a curtained-off square, boxes of products visible between the sheets of black fabric. There’s money changing hands, credit card sliding, receipt signing, plastic bagging, and big smiles as happy customers purchase everything from lube to latex apparatuses like the ones in our gift bags last night.
The larger companies have elaborate setups with stages and lighting. We pass one area where three girls twirl around poles as a crowd of eager male fans cheers them on.
“See that?” James asks me, pointing to the stage. “That shit is a great marketing tool. They kind of tease those dudes, then they do a meet-and-greet, but you can only get a ticket if you buy something. So if you want to meet the girls, you have to shell out some cash.”
“Good method.” I nod my head in agreement.
“Totally, right?”
“You gonna shake your money-maker on a stage before you sign your stuff?” I tease him, giving him a little smack on the ass.
“My money-maker will only be shaken for you from now on,” he says with a grin.
We walk past the endless rows of booths, and I decide to check out the crowd. There are a few women and average-looking couples peppered in it, but the majority of the attendees are men. These guys seem to fall into two distinct types. First, there are the older men, the ones who look a bit pervy and have thick mustaches or T-shirts with their favorite sports teams. These guys are the old-school porn fans, the ones who still buy DVDs instead of wanking to webcam girls online. The second group would be politely classified as douchebags—the popped collar, gelled hair, puka shell necklace crowd. They look like frat boys, and they seem to travel in packs of three or four, roving the floor, scoping tits, and making comments about every woman who passes by.
James is holding my hand when we enter the orbit of one such pack. I try to look away, hoping that they’ll ignore us if we ignore them, but that method doesn’t really work when you’re with a tall, strapping superstar who sticks out like a sore thumb.
“Holy fucking shit! James fucking Langdon!” One of them points at us.
“No fucking way!” another gasps. “Dude! You’re my fucking spirit animal. I, like, model my whole fucking life after you.”
James smiles and laughs, shaking their hands and patting their backs in that “bro hug” way that frat boys seem to favor.
“No shit, dude, I have seriously seen, like, all your stuff. That one you did a couple years back with Carina Cole and Jenna Tyler, fucking hot, man.”
“Totally, dude,” the third one chimes in. “You fucking held that bitch’s hair and you were like, ‘Yeah, suck that fucking cock, slut!’”
“That was a pretty fuckin’ sweet one,” James says, nodding. He’s in “famous dude” mode now and I let him roll with it.
I try not to think about that particular video, but these idiots have brought it to the forefront of my mind. James shot it with Rick in partnership with a more douchebag-targeted company that usually uses very enhanced women and aims to objectify them—but, you know, more than they’re usually objectified in porn. The sex was very rough, and at one point, James was concerned for one of the girls when the other started harshly going at her with a dildo. Ever the champion for vaginas near and far, James took control of things and made the aggressive girl tone it down. These walking boners would love a semi-degrading video like that.
“I bet you’re gonna fuck some fine ass bitches later, huh?” one of the bros says. “I wish my girlfriend was here. She always says she wants to fuck you, and I’d totally love to watch you tear that pussy up!”
I cringe, but I try to hide it. I’m afraid that if I roll my eyes with warranted gusto they’ll get stuck up there in a permanent sarcastic position.
“Nah, I’m out of the game, dude,” James replies to the guy. “Just chilling with my girl here.” He nods to me and I pretend to smile, though I don’t want to be dragged into this conversation.
“Yo, what up, girl?” the one guy says, scanning my body from head to toe. “You in movies?”
“No, just a civilian,” I reply.
“You’re fine as fuck, baby,” another guy says to me. “You got some big old titties.”
James clears his throat, and the guys snap back into line. A pack of bros like this will usually bow to an alpha male like James, and I know he’s fighting back the urge to get in their faces about their uncouth commentary regarding my bosom.
“Babe, should we get to the booth?” I ask him, looking up into his eyes and silently communicating my matching desire to knock some sense into these ass wipes.
“Yeah, we should head out,” he replies, lowering his mouth to mine in a sweet, politely sexy kiss.
I get what he’s doing. He’s trying to exert his ownership so these other guys will get the message that I’m off-limits. So territorial.
We continue on our way, strolling down the lanes and checking out the exhibitors. There’s a company displaying all-leather clothing, from chaps to bras to those harnesses and hats that scream “leather daddy.”
“I think you could rock a pair of assless chaps,” I tease, pointing to them.
“I have been told my ass is pretty fantastic,” he says boastfully.
He winks, and I roll my eyes, continuing to a neighboring booth.
This one has stripper shoes, rows and rows of stripper shoes. Some have LED lights in the heels, some are sparkly, and some are so high that they look more like art
than apparel. James dares me to try on a pair, and I take a few very cautious steps before immediately determining that I would fail miserably at being a stripper. I’d either break my ankle or knock myself unconscious on the heel if I tried to work a pole in these things.
The next booth is set up like a dungeon, complete with fake stone and torches on the walls. It looks a little more Party City than Spanish Inquisition, but they’re working with what they have. There are display cases with some rather harsh looking metal instruments. James stands by smirking while I check things out. The first one that catches my eye looks like a pizza cutter, but with spikes.
“It’s called a Wartenberg wheel,” he explains. “It looks worse than it is.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“It doesn’t really hurt. It’s stimulating, but not painful. Now this, on the other hand—” he points to a metal thing shaped like a pear “—is another story.”
This has to fall into the “advanced” skill level of sex devices. It looks medieval and scary.
“They call it the pear of anguish,” he says like he’s about to submit a story for the approval of the Midnight Society. “It goes in and opens up like an umbrella.”
“In…where?” I meekly ask.
“In whatever hole the person doing the inserting chooses,” he says, clearly very amused by my reaction.
“That seems sort of dangerous.” I take another tentative look at it. “It looks like it could do some damage—and it’s got screws and moving parts, so how do you wash it to keep it sterile?”
He bites down on his lip, but almost snorts when he starts laughing. “I just want to say that I love how your mind works.”
“James Langdon!” we hear from the left.
A middle-aged man with a bald spot and a T-shirt bearing the store’s name perks up as he approaches. I’m guessing he’s the boss, or at least the manager here at the booth.
“It’s an honor to have you here,” he says, shaking James’s hand. “I’m Roger. I own the Pleasure Palace.”
“Nice to meet you, Roger,” James replies. “Nice set up you got here.”
“Thanks! I saw you over here browsing, and I wanted to make sure you got personal service from us. We’d be honored to have you use our toys.”
“Thanks, man.” James nods appreciatively.
Roger looks to me and reaches out to shake my hand, so I introduce myself. I can feel my cheeks blushing in embarrassment as he starts waxing poetic about the quality of his instruments. The man takes pride in his business, which is admirable, but I can’t figure out the polite way to tell someone that I absolutely do not plan to put any sharp metallic objects into my orifices.
The two of them chat about the adult industry and fetish markets. It’s thoroughly entertaining to hear a boardroom-style conversation about butt plugs, and I find that I’m less intimidated by the subject matter when it’s put in these terms.
“Let me give you guys a few things to try out before you go,” Roger says as things wind up.
I look at James for a second, trying to decide if we should decline or just let him give us come complimentary wares.
“Actually, man,” James says warmly, “I’m not really doing BDSM stuff anymore. Most people would be surprised at how vanilla I am in real life.”
“Get outta here.” Roger laughs with amusement.
“Yeah, me and Lola keep it simple.” James winks at me.
“Well, hey,” Roger says, shrugging, “whatever floats your boat.”
“But you’ve got some great stuff here,” James cordially continues. “If I see Amber this afternoon, I’ll tell her to come see you. She might want to do an endorsement or something.”
“That would be fantastic!”
There’s a slightly awkward pause before I initiate our goodbyes. James holds my hand as we continue into the fray.
“Thanks,” I say when he glances down at me.
“For what?”
“For handling that. I didn’t want to seem judgmental by saying that I’m not into that lifestyle, and I appreciate you addressing it so I didn’t have to.”
“Well, you’re welcome. But, babe, I doubt anyone’s going to be offended that you don’t want to stick a metal pear up your ass. Just because that dude digs it doesn’t mean anyone else has to. That’s basically what fetishes are all about.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug.
“These people aren’t going to hold it against you if you just want to have regular sex,” he says, laughing. “Nobody’s going to deduct points if you don’t do a fuckin’ double-anal threesome, okay?”
I chuckle, feeling reassured. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles, smiling warmly as we round a corner into the next row of booths.
About halfway down, I spot Ethan Dane sitting beside a few other familiar faces at the Sin Cinema booth. There’s a colorful banner with Ethan’s photo that says “Three-time Man of the Year Nominee Ethan Dane!” in red letters. I can’t be sure, but I feel like this is Rick’s little stab at James. His “brightest star” has signed with another team, so he’s pimping out Ethan to try to show James that he’s replaceable. Ethan’s a really kind, sweet guy. But he’s no James.
He looks up from signing an eight-by-ten and sees me, giving me a friendly wave.
I wave back and tug on James’s arm. “We should go say hi to Ethan.”
“Why?” he asks with distaste for the idea.
“Because he’s being nice and he waved at us.”
“He waved at you, not us.”
“Will you stop being a toddler who doesn’t want to share his toys and just go over there with me?”
“Damn right, I don’t want to share my toys,” he says, grinning as he squeezes my butt. “This sexy little ass is mine!”
“Fine, stay here and I’ll go over there,” I reply, flipping my hair and leaving him in the dust.
I’m not sure if he’s following me, but I don’t care. I’m going to talk to Ethan. If James can reminisce with his co-stars about shooting sex scenes, I can chat with one of the few people I actually know at this event.
Ethan nods as I approach, and the burly guy manning the autograph line stops the next person so that I can step up to the table.
“Hey, Lola,” Ethan says warmly as he hugs me. “How are you liking the convention so far?”
“It’s really cool. I can’t believe how many people are here.”
“All the fans in one spot,” he says, proudly looking around the exhibit hall.
“Sorry that Mr. Grumpy Pants didn’t come over here,” I say, glancing back at James, who is killing time on his phone.
“No big deal,” Ethan replies. “I’d rather talk to you anyway.”
I feel very flattered, but I feel like Ethan is just a warm person, not like he’s trying to get a piece. He’s flirty, like James, but I don’t think there’s a serious game plan there.
“Did you see the banner?” he asks, rolling his eyes as he points back to it. “It’s so over-the-top. Rick made one that said ‘Ethan Dane for Man of the Year’ but I told him it felt like I was running for student body president or something.”
I laugh and agree.
“Honestly, this competition stuff is getting out of control,” he says quieter as he leans into me. “Why can’t we all just make movies, you know? I’d much rather know that I shot an amazing scene and that my partner enjoyed herself.”
“I think that’s a good attitude to have,” I reply, my voice slightly softer. James has said stuff like this too, and I always melt a little. It might be weird that I find it heartwarming to hear a male porn star say his goal is pleasuring his co-star, but those are the traits that make for a generous lover—both on screen and off. So much of porn seems phony, and even borderline violent, so it’s nice to know that there are guys like Ethan and James out there to change the game.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I look down to see a text from James. “Can you wrap it up with loverboy?” i
s what it says.
“I’m being summoned,” I say to Ethan, holding up my phone. “It was good to see you again. Looking forward to the show.”
“Same here. See you later, Lola,” he says, kissing my cheek before I head back to my boyfriend.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Giggly von Bats-her-eyes!” James says when I return.
“Shut up!” I laugh and tug his shirt so he’ll bend down to kiss me.
He smirks against my lips, but takes my hand and continues down the corridor with me. As much as he might tease me about flirting, he knows he’s got my heart.
There’s a big setup along the wall at the far end with women standing in glass cases. As we get closer, I see that they’re actually hyper-realistic sex dolls. The ones on the side are generics, but the ones in the middle bear the names of famous porn stars in big, white letters above their display cases. They’re full-body replicas, customized to look exactly like each performer. There’s even one on the left that looks exactly like that deep-throating skank, Tara Morgan.
“That is fucking weird,” I remark to James. “Who wants to stick their dick in a creepy, dead-eyed, rubber version of that ho?”
“Hey, it’s not that different than sticking your dick in the creepy, dead-eyed real version. Oh! Up top!” he jokes, holding up his hand for me to high-five him on that dis.
I do it, laughing hard the whole time. James rarely has an unkind word to say about his co-stars, so I’m sure he said it to show solidarity since he knows I can’t stand Tara. I appreciate that, and I have to say, it was a pretty good burn.
“At least the doll doesn’t have her obnoxious personality,” I comment, rolling my eyes like the doll can see how much I hate Tara. “These things cost, like, five grand, right? Who’s paying five grand for a chance to pretend to fuck that catty bitch?”
James snickers as I wind myself up, getting more vitriolic with each word. “I know, right? They couldn’t pay me five grand to fuck her—not anymore, anyway. Whatever, you know what I mean.”
I smirk up at him, wanting to come back with a snappy zinger, but I can’t because he’s too hot right now. Dammit, James! Your gorgeousness is destroying my ability to rip on you!
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