star studded
March 21

Universal City

I'm not even sure if 'Universal City' is an actual location, all the more fitting for the location of the annual gay and bisexual stepchild of the Adult Video News annual awards show. AVN holds it's big show in Vegas, but as I was told by a nominated diretor, "you can have girl on girl and it's still called 'straight' but as soon as a guy touches another guy, it's automatically 'bi', and comes here." Here, in Universal City, slice of the worst of Vegas shoved onto the top of a hill. In a few years, Palm Springs will look like this, minus the hill, if Donald Trump gets his way.

I was feeling joe-anti car, after a hellish slog through afternoon traffic, so I took the subway. This was after shaving and showering at the gym, where I ran into one of my brothers in the industry, one very hot man who is always working, even while we were trying to say hi in the locker room, his mobile went off. I went off in my snappy suit, sans tie, carrying my backback and suit bag in hand, dark sunglasses adding to my mystery.

Exiting the subway, I looked for a shuttle bus to take me to the mountain top, but there were so many people waiting and I was feeling so outside the lines- I was wearing a suit, how many times does that happen?- that I decided to parade my glamorous self up the road to the Hilton.

I was way too early, the will call hadn't been set up yet, so I stood outside to admire the sunset. Then I see Ron Athey standing against a wall, and talk with him. This is the first time's he's ever been to one of these, and he's not sure he's going to enjoy it. I tell him it's gonna be a blast, then his english as a second language camera man asks 'how late is it now?' and I explain that instead one asks, 'what time is it now' and saves 'how late is it now' for when one is ready to go home.

A sack of porn stars show up with studio reps, and are just whisked in, they already have tickets. The cameras and lights are drawing curious civilians, after all, the real Oscars are just a few days away. I'm getting a little chilly and adventurous, so I go in search of a restroom in another part of the hotel. I pass two girls who have separated themselves from their parents to go on a star search. Their heads follow me as I stride by.

Nothing exciting in the restroom, some other fancy dress, but no one I recognize, and no one who looks like they'd be in front of the camera. The door opens, a tourist comes in, and I hear squealing- it's the same two girls, they practically followed their dad into the men's room and are still trying to figure out who I might be.

Mr. Athey and I decide it's time to go in, we approach the guards and tell them we're talent and our tickets are waiting and in we go. After our tickets are torn I show Ron the ballroom where we'll be sitting and then realize I don't know what table I'm sitting at. We go back to the will call and Jeremy Spencer, the editor of AVN's gay and bi section, assigns us to the same table. Ron is relieved.

We go for the gift bags, the usual calendars and magazines, but on the place setting is the biggest bottle of lube I've ever seen given away. Also on the table is a little sex toy. I got a pair of beads, slightly bigger than hotballls, and swith them for the silicone cockring at the setting next to mine.

More stars show up, I glom onto Steven Richards, get complimented by Taylor Donovan, and wander about looking to see who will be sitting where. The front tables are reserved for the big studios, who keep their big stars where they can see them, in case they have to rush up to accept an award. Me, I'd been placed back in porn star Siberia, though not at the very last table, which was where I sat the firs time I went to one of these, partially out of choice, just in case my pager went off and I needed quick access to a pay phone.

The hallway was jammed now, I was surrounded by industry. I mingled and said hi to anyone I recognized. As if he recognized me, Ryan Idol gave me a big smile as he wedged past. I gave big Michael Brandon a big hug and kiss. Jason Branch looked as majectic as ever, it was a thrill just to speak to him. Sergio Real told me we have to do lunch.

Colton Ford and Blake Harper, in matching lace stretch tops and hip huggers (sadly, not in stretch lace) were inseperable. Gino Coultier wore the same fish net (sadly, not fishnet, but a real fish net) as he does every year in his homage to Cher, this year with an American flad tied around the waist.

One star wore a rubber apron and a thong, Billy Herrington wore a black feather boa, Ken Ryker came up to say hi to me, looking even better than the last time I saw him, and asked if I thought he had been too honest in his interview in IN magazine.

Trolling the hall I caught a group of familiar faces, Carol Queen and Ilsa Strix I knew, but there was another face I recognized but couldn't place. She recognized me too, but where from? I finally figured it out, she was a truck driver when I worked at a tiny health food store in San Francisco- she dropped off our produce, and was now a porn star. I'd never seen her in make up or a dress before, amazing. And under her wrap she wore beat up work boots. Hot.

Back in the ballroom, I wandered around looking for trouble. I noticed an old woman earlier and thought how cool, an old lady going to the GayVN's, maybe her son is up for an award. She had plopped down at my table, oh well, no footsies for me. Geoffrey Karen Dior reintroduced me to his boyfriend, Matt Bradshaw said hi, but most of the new stars I didn't recognize. Steven Richards dared me to crawl under the table and blow him.

I finally sat down, the show was starting, with Taylor Negron singing the compulsory intro song that incorporates the title of each 'Best Video' nominee. I had forgotten this little detail and wondered how anyone could write such a piece of crap. (And no, I didn't blow Richards under the table) Then I noticed the old woman sitting next to me was actually Skippy Love, host of a cable access talk show where he manages to get actual celebrities.

"Where's Bruce?", Skippy was reading my mind. Taylor had a difficult job, and several times just winged it, but oh well, most of us were thankfully not taking this thing so seriously. The funniest thing was when the winner for 'Best Oral' came up to the podium, the band was playing Hall and Oate's 'Maneater'. I think they do this every year, with fewer and fewer people getting the joke.

Gossip columnist Billy Masters was in constant comment at the table next to us, just as Skippy was at our table. Ron Jeremy sat serenely at a table behind me, and I was getting hungry and wondering when dinner was going to be served and realized that it was not so into the hallway I sailed, I remembered snacks on tables.

Since I have never been nominated, nor asked to present, I felt no guilt in abandoning my guild and scarfing any edible veggie things I could get my hands on. Alas, the pickings were few (actually two) for those whose only meat intake is to the tune of 'Maneater', but after a couple trips to the sterno trays, I just parked myself at the table and scooped.

I'm glad I sat my ass back down to see Michael Brandon's acceptance speech for Performer of the Year, very touching and sincere. Wash West was collecting awards like a 'gotta catch them all' Pokemon fanatic for his contribution to The Seven Deadly Sins series. There were so many categories, and so many nominees for each, I wondered if I was the only person in the room not nominated for anything.

Certainly not nominated for the Best Impersonation of Jack Nicholson's Character in Witches of Eastwick award, which went to Jeff Stryker, who was to present the award for best video. He opened the envelope but asked one of the band to read the winner. Later during the acceptance speech, he stood off to the side and pulled his pants down, mooning the audience, then threatened to pull out his cock.

But like all good things, the show came to an end (And no, Stryker didn't pull out his cock) and we flocked to the hallway and the after parties upstairs. My ride home had disappeard and while I didn't mind another trip home via the subway, I'd have to change out of my suit first. Then Sergio Real came to the rescue and offered me a ride in his car.

What I'm reading: last January's Esquire, I cut out Chuck Close's interview.
What song I can't get out of my head: 'Pushover', by Etta James.

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