According to Horrid Boy™, he has so many groupies in Canada that he thinks it’s cruel and unusual punishment for them to be forced to trek thousands of miles just to be with him. After all, it took Mr Ford’s self-proclaimed number one groupie, porn star Maja Lee, six years to screw up the courage to travel to America for a weekend of non-stop love-making with Mr Icky™ (followed by a lifetime of shame and self-loathing — after her fling with Luke…she immediately closed down her website, stopped making porn films, swore off sex forever, and hasn’t been heard from since). “Why should slutty Canadian women suffer so,” Mr Ford reasons, “when I can easily travel to meet my lovelies on their home turf?”
…I’ve read on the Internet about the unfortunate, and incredibly disturbing, phenomena of butt babies. And Mr Ford has a thing for anal sex. He goes on and on (and on) about in his Lives On the Edge chapter about his relationship with Holly Randall (see chapter 52: “I Try to Convert My Slutty Alcoholic Pagan Girlfriend To Orthodox Judaism and Fail, But In the Meantime Have Lots Of Really Nasty Sex”). In fact, their entire relationship was based on a mutual fondness for this ungodly act. No wonder it didn’t last.
Perhaps, I speculated, after Horrid Boy™ dumped Ms Randall for not following through on the 12 point self-improvement plan he so kindly created for her, which included giving up her career as a porn photographer to move into the Hovel and wait hand-and-foot on Luke…24/7, he needed a new anal sex partner … I mean in addition to Mr Stinkyface™.
January 2006, those were better days:
I arrive at the Casino Royale (next to the Venetian on the Strip) at 1:30pm. I get into my room at 1:50pm. I call my roommate on her call.
“When can I see you?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she replies, and my spirits sink. “I’ve picked up my badge. I’m going to lunch with friends. Then we might hang out.”
“So I’ll see you when I see you,” I say.
I hit the show and pick up my press passes to the AVN Expo and Internext as well as check my email in the press room.
I arrive back at my room before 5pm. A few minutes later, my roommate walks in. I give her an awkward hug. Though we’ve spoken on the phone a few times (since 2003) and exchanged a few emails, we’ve never met.
I crawl under my covers. She changes. She doesn’t mind if I watch.
“I might as well tell you before David does,” she confesses, “but I’ve been a Luke…groupie since 1998. I love your writing.”
She gets into her bed. I wait a minute and then ask, “Would you like company?”
“What?” she said.
“Would you like company?”
She laughs. “I’ll come into your bed.”
She does. We cuddle for a few minutes. We undress.
I get up. “I’m just putting my clothes away and getting a piece of gum,” I say from the foot of my bed.
Then I crawl back into her arms and deposit a condom under my pillow.
“I love how you give play-by-play,” she laughs. Then she reaches under my pillow and pulls out my condom. “What’s this?”
“I’m allergic to all condoms but superethylene. I brought some with me.”
She goes to her bag and comes back with a couple of her special condoms. “I always bring them to tradeshows,” she says, “but I never bring enough.”
I turn off the light and we snuggle under the covers.
“I’m very conservative,” I say.
“So conservative that you’re willing to have sex with a stranger,” she laughs.
“But I’ve known you over the years,” I protest.
We get down to it.
“It makes me so horny the way you smirk while you have sex,” she says.
Ten minutes later, I’m done. She was especially tight, in that ancient Confucian way.
For the first time in years, I feel big.
“Should I pop a levitra?” I ask.
“Why? You don’t seem to need it.”
“Without levitra, I can make love to you again for five minutes. With levitra, I can make love to you for hours.”
“Take the levitra.”
I get out of bed and go to my bag and find my bottle of pills. I put them all together — the lithium, vitamins, minerals, clonazepam, clonidine, levitra, Tylenol, Tylenol PM, gaunfacine, Tums.
I can’t tell which pill is the levitra.
My roommate laughs hysterically. She gets her camera and takes pictures of my desperate search.
I finally find what I think is the right pill and I bite off half. It turns out to be Vitamin C.
I pour all my pills on the bed. I know I put just three or four levitras in my bottle. I find a pill with numbers of the back. I decide that must be the levitra. I swallow half-a-pill (when I returned to LA Sunday, I realized that this pill was lithium, which is no help growing a boner) and crawl back to bed.
For 20 minutes, I give it to her while she’s on top. Then for 20-minutes, I give it to her while I’m on top. Then I collapse in a sweaty heat.
“I have an extra ticket to the AVN Awards,” I say. “Would you like to come with me?”
“I’d love come,” she says. “I’ve never been. That would be so much fun. Will I have to buy a new dress?”
A month ago, I asked a woman I was dating: “I’ve got an extra ticket to the AVN Awards. Would you like to come with me?”
She replied (and I’m working off my faulty memory): “I’ve already got a ticket. I’ll be sitting at the…company table.”
“Darling, I just asked you to be my date. Are you blowing me off?”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do that night. You’re going to be running around all night interviewing people.”
“Fine. I’ll take Rob Spallone.”
“Honey, of course I’ll be your date. Are you mad at me?”
“No,” I lied. “I guess you’re just being practical.”
Well, in comparing the two responses, it is good when you feel you can give something to a woman and it sucks when your woman makes you feel like you have nothing to give her.
A man wants a woman to inspire him. If he loves her, he wants to do wonderful things for her. He wants to go out and slay the dragon and protect her and care for her and take her to the AVN Awards. He doesn’t want to taste other men on her lips.
At 9:40pm, we make the Digital Playground dinner which I later realize was called for 8:30pm.
I tell Gram Ponante I might need a ride home Sunday. He says that will be one of his questions for pornographers along with, ‘Did you ever send a girl to blow an owner so you could get $200 off your rental rate?’”
“I’m not willing to give a man a blowjob or a handjob in exchange for a ride home,” I emphasize to Gram.
“I know your limits,” he replies. “I’ve read your profile on LA Direct.”
Gram says I look like I’ve ridden 40 hard miles.
We hit the Circle Bar in the Venetian. At 11:30pm, I go to bed. Near 3am, my roommate returns and we make love again.
“I love how you ask, ‘May we do doggie?’” she says, “instead of just moving me into it.”
You may ask why I’m telling you all this. Telling you? I’m telling everybody.
We peak, collapse, and fall asleep.
I wake up at 8 a.m. We have sex for the fourth time in 15-hours. Then it it time to shower and hit the show floor. I am but a shell of my former self. People tell me I look happier than they’ve ever seen me. I wonder why?
Chaim writes: “You know, you have a real talent for getting attractive women to buy you stuff: meals, clothing, hotel rooms. That’s as close to manwhoring as men can get, at least in the straight world. And for that, I salute you.”
Luke, this girl is successful. She’s Asian, ie: smart. She’s taking a nice chunk out of this multi-billion dollar business. She’s a Luke groupie. You could do worse than to team up with her, become successful and start salting some bucks away for your declining years.
She obviously digs you Luke. She seems to be very intelligent. Being an Asian she is out to make as much money as possible. She has drive where you’re sloth is legendary. She could be running the various Ford-Maya enterprises whilst you are resting in bed sipping rice milk. Together you could be the King and Queen of Porn. I urge you to see more of her. This could be the start of something big.
Luke, see what a sleazy business you are in. I suggest you marry Ms, make her see the error of her ways, you both give up porn, and retire to a bean sprout farm in British Columbia.
I read an article today in the New York Times about secular Jewess Heidi Fleiss (whose cousin I once dated) and her efforts to build a brothel in Nevada that straight women can go to for some hetero sex with men. She expects the going rate to be about $250/man hour (far below what women get, I believe). The article was quite skeptical in tone, quoting various experts who feel that the way women go about paying for sex is not conducive to a brothel. Apparently, women don’t just pay a man for sex, rather, they buy him clothes, hotel rooms, meals in fine restaurants, and cover his travel expenses. That sort of thing. Now, who do we know who has managed to pull of this sort of manwhoring? That’s right, our own Luke. Luke is the man. Yet another saleable book this boy could write and would write – IF he had a Chinese wife to prod him along.
I was contemplating that the woman in question slept with Luke without having ever met him before. I speculate that in her mind she’s met him through the website. This is sort of like people thinking they know a TV or movie actor because they have seen him/her on TV or in the movie.
Luke’s website gives him exposure to lots of people. This is akin to meeting several hundred people and sifting out women who would sleep with him without actually having to spend the time dating lots of people.
Query: Luke, if you met this woman in a bar without her knowing you or you knowing her, do you think it would have gotten anywhere?
Do you think that by reading your website she actually got to know much about you personally?
Bob writes: “Oh, but the porn journalist blade cuts both ways. For every strumpet with a pay-site to pimp that Luke titilates there are a hundred respectable Jewesses that would be equally repulsed. Luke, I have advised you many, many times to fake your own death, adopt a new name. Do it while you are still young and marketable to wealthy matrons.”
A bloke who was going to let me crash with him ends up across the hall from me at the Casino Royale. Eric Danville (managing editor of Penthouse) and Abby Ehman are on the fourth floor.
Friday. I leave the show at 4pm. I come back to my room and light two white candles. I have a drink. I get into bed and watch the candles. After they die, my Chinese roommate returns.
“I want you to be my daddy,” she says. “I want to be your dirty little slut. Can you call me, ‘Dirty little slut.’”
“Dirty little slut,” I say without enthusiasm.
“Cool,” she says. “That makes me so horny.”
We’ve shagged about eight times by now and my back is starting to ache.
“I love your technique,” she says. “You just shove it in. It makes me so horny.”
We go to the Topbucks dinner.
“I want you to act like you’re my dad,” she says. “I want a recording of you calling me a ‘dirty little slut.’ Can you make me a wave file?”
I introduce her at dinner (even though they all her friends) as my illegitimate daughter who I conceived during a hit-and-run mission in Vietnam in 1975. That I had not wanted to acknowledge paternity until this weekend and we were having a heartfelt reunion.
After dinner, I head to the Circle Bar. I meet Ariana Jollee’s mom, who says she’s cool with her daughter the porn star. I hang out till 11:30pm. Various people greet me. A Swiss banker asks me what’s going on. Who am I?. I say I’m a writer.
“A writer in porn? Isn’t that absurd?”
“You don’t know my work, man” I reply.
I circle the bar one last time and go to bed.
Saturday morning. I read Philip Roth’s The Human Stain in the Venetian Shoppe.
Then I return to my room for the my first meal of the day — a cinammon-raisin bagel with peanut butter and two apples.
Feeling lost and lonely, I put on my black cap and walk the strip in my blue jeans and black jacket hoping to find a member of my people. I have an ache that no goy can fill.
I see a man in a black suit wearing a black cap. I say two magical words to him and his wife.
They don’t respond.
I’m used to being ignored.
I walk on to Caesar’s Palace and sit beside the fountain and look into the sun.
The man approaches me. He says the two magic words of peaceful greeting. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’m deaf in this ear. I want to invite you to join us for the third meal at room XXX at the XXX at 4:15pm.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I hang out near the entrance to the suites at the luxury hotel. Paul Fishbein walks by. Paul Cambria walks by. I don’t feel like I can ask them for the favor of getting me into the suites. I let other pornographers pass.
I feel like a loser. Only the sheer force of will keeps me standing here hoping for salvation.
It comes from Steve and Adrian (out of Santa Fe) from last night’s dinner. They approach me. They hook me up with a fellow webmaster who gets us into the suites. They’re going to the NATS hospitality suite. I go to the suite filled with swaying men in black.
I’m the only person wearing blue jeans. I have The Human Stain tucked into the back of my pants, covered by my jacket.
We chant. We sing. We sway. We bow. We speak a foreign language. Then we wash our hands and eat the most luxurious third meal of my life.
Various goodies are pressed upon me. We hum ancient melodies and sing ancient songs.
A man across from me stares at me. He wears a black hat. He smiles at me. I greet him. He smiles more broadly. He must know my story.
We chant and mutter and sing as a group. We light a candle and extinguish it in a glass of wine.
I wish the man a good week.
“It’s beautiful to see you here,” he says.
There are some young dark-haired women. They greet me. With their refinement and character they are more beautiful to me than any porn star.
I mumble the correct phrase and beat it.
I walk past a young Orthodox couple. “Are you on crack?” asks the wife of her husband. “If you want sex tonight, you better come with me. You can’t expect me to go there alone.”
This group has been meeting at CES for over 20 years. In my six visits to Las Vegas at this time of year, I’ve always missed them. Instead, I’ve suffered the day on my own. Next year CES starts on a Monday and ends Thursday.
I do not spend one penny in Las Vegas. And not one penny going there nor coming back.
Sunday, Jan 8, 1am. My roommate says, “I want to go outside and you call me on my cell and order me as an escort.”
She walks outside. I call her.
“Hi, I wanted to order an escort.”
“OK, we can do that. How did you hear about me?”
“From my friend David.”
“Oh, David. He’s a good guy.”
“So what are your rates? How much for an hour?”
“OK. That sounds good. I’ve got cash.”
“Where are you?”
“Room 214 [not actual room number] at the Casino Royale.”
“OK. I’ll be right there.”
A minute later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s my roommate. I’m naked.
“You don’t waste any time,” she says.
I jump into bed.
“Do you want to get right down to it or would you like to talk first or a strip show or have a massage?”
“Let’s just get down to it. Wait, I’ll take a massage on my lower back. It hurts.”
She massages my lower back. Then we get down to it until 2am. I get her off digitally.
“I still want your cock,” she says.
“I’m exhausted, darling.”
“Two am. This is it? This is the earliest I’ve gone to bed all week.”
Then she falls asleep while I toss and turn.
Sunday, 9am. My roommate, standing in front of the mirror, says, “My lack of sleep is showing.”
“I have bags under my eyes. Why do you think I’ve been going around with my head up and my eyes half-closed? It’s not just because I’m horny. People still tell me I’m beautiful.
“Did you accomplish everything you wanted?” she asks.
“I mean at the convention.”
“Yes. How about you?”
“I didn’t see enough people and I didn’t get laid enough.”
“How often did you want to get laid?”
“I didn’t mean by you.”
“How many people did you want to lay you?”
“Good luck today.”
“I don’t think I’ll have enough time.”
I walk into the parking lot at 9:30am and wait for my ride. I read my Philip Roth book, The Human Stain.
Professor Silk Coleman, 71, tells his 34-year old cleaning lady lover: “This is more than sex.”
“No, it’s not,” she replies. “This is just what sex it is. All by itself. Don’t f— it up by pretending it’s something else.”
Goodbye Yellowbrick Road You can’t keep me in your penthouse Duke Floored with Chinese chick who agreed to go along with gag that Duke nailed her, to make Holly jealous, but Duke overplayed hand by claiming to have done it 8 times in 15 hours Bye, bye, my little China girl
Tuesday night, a friend asks me, “How you been?”
“Just spent five days in Vegas, laid three times a day,” I reply.
“You looked like you had toxic semen build-up on the brain,” he notes. “Reminds me of what this Jamaican guy told me, ‘Man, she f—ed me like she owed me money.’”