T.S. Eliot famously said, “April is the cruelest month.” Well, for me, September of 2003 was the cruelest month of all. I was trying to recover some normalcy in the aftermath of my father’s passing a few weeks previous, but then also had to deal with my cousin’s suicide in early September. After missing a bunch of workdays for my father’s funeral, upon returning from Japan I had to take another week off due to the death of my cousin, Julian Bong.
Needless to say, when I returned to work, I stayed late every shift to catch up. I was rushing not to miss my flight to Julian’s funeral in Seattle, so late that I rushed home, grabbed my bag, shoved some clothes inside, and ran to the airport. As I passed through TSA, one of the metal detector operators notified head security. They told me to follow them.
Searching my bag, they found my collapsible baton, which I had needed back when I worked at the Seattle porn shop. It sat, completely forgotten, under my travel clothes. This was unfortunate; in Washington State, anyone can buy the baton, but in California you must have a license. Also, my arrest unfortunately occurred on the cruelest day of the month, as in September 11 (the second anniversary of the attacks!). This was my first arrest, and still my only one as of 2021. I was transported to the closest jail. Already sad over my cousin’s death, now I was questioning my decision to move to Los Angeles. When we arrived at the Pacific Division lockup, they did the usual police business: fingerprints, taking my personal info and belongings and, adding insult to injury, making me bend over and spread my asscheeks. The usual police procedure to make sure I didn’t have any contraband in my ass! (Please don’t take your personal liberty for granted!) Eventually they put me into a group cell.
Until that day, my only understanding of jail came from movies and HBO’s magnificent “Oz” prison series. The latter crime drama is full of murder, rape, betrayal, rape, racism, rape, sexism, rape… Did I mention rape? I was nervous, that’s for sure.
I didn’t really know what to do, or what would happen to me, not being a member of the three dominant racial groups in prison: Latinos, Blacks and Whites. (I’m basically in the “Others” category.) I needed to adapt and survive. That’s when porn came to my rescue!
One of the black inmates asked me where I got my “Buttman” t-shirt. I explained that I worked for him. He goes, “Yo! For real?! Motherfucker, Buttman is the man!” This guy seemed really impressed and was cool to me from then on. (BTW, don’t try this yourself. Generally speaking, you don’t really want to be associated with the name “Buttman” in jail… I’m just saying. Did I mention rape?) After the word got around, blacks, browns and whites put their differences away, and got very chummy, asking me questions about my job and particularly about female porn stars. I became the porno version of Andy Dufresne, protagonist of “The Shawshank Redemption.” In the movie, Andy wins over inmates, guards and even the evil warden with his astute financial and tax advice. I fielded questions about the adult industry, and even helped one of the prison guards fulfill his dream of doing blowbang and amateur porn.
Them: Did you ever meet Belladonna?
Me: Yes, I’ve produced her DVDs.
Them: Have you ever met Nina Hartley?
Me: Yes, I was allowed to smell her ass.
Their response: Wow!
Them: Ever meet Rocco Siffredi?
Me: Yes, many times, even met his lovely wife.
Them: Have you been on a porn shoot?
Me: Yes, even did paperwork for some of them, etc.
These stories and more, plus my pledge of help after our release from jail, were more than enough to win them over. With the porn gods on my side, I was able to avoid the worst kind of trouble. Porn literally saved my butt.
Thanks Andy and Buttman! …And did I mention, no rape?