Holly Randall Blog

Czech Countryside

2011-05-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

For my first day of shooting in the Czech Republic, I chose a "castle" in the countryside for two days. The term "castle" is thrown around quite loosely here, and I think it actually refers more to a large stately home than what we would actually picture as a castle, with moats and towers and such. I was a little nervous as last year the "castle" I shot in was quite disappointing, but I can't exactly scout locations here before I book them so I have to take my chances.

Petra, my lovely makeup artist (who really should be modeling) picked us up for the 2 hour drive from Prague. We got a bit lost on the way due to a road that ended and a navigation system that didn't seem to know where we were going. After winding through narrow roads and passing by gorgeous scenery, we finally arrived, though it was about an hour late. Thankfully, the house was beautiful, and I was so relived once I toured the place-- it was such an improvement from last year!

View from my bedroom window

Conny, the first model I was shooting, was already there with her boyfriend, and like most Czech girls, she looked absolutely flawless in jeans and a t-shirt, with no makeup and slightly disheveled hair. She didn't speak much English, so I knew that Petra would have her work cut out for her, translating for me all day.

But when I got Conny in front of the camera, she was a good mover and a natural model, so really there wasn't much direction that I had to give her. She was quiet and seemed almost shy in person, but in front of the camera she was sexy and confident.

We shot the boy/girl first, which was a bit tough as I chose a small room to shoot in (most of the rooms were fairly small), and I lost the back light about halfway through the set, but didn't notice until the end. For the following solo, I decided that we had to shoot outside, as I'd been blessed with a week of amazing weather-- it was in the 70s, with a bright sunny sky. The grass outside was long and green, and two huge fields of yellow rapeseed flowers flanked both sides of the house. I shoot Conny outside in the long grass, looking like a beautiful wood nymph, and out in the field of flowers. The flowers were buzzing with bees but Conny didn't seem to bat an eye at the possibility of being stung, and also didn't seem to have an issue walking naked through knee-high foliage with hidden clumps of stinging nettles everywhere. I got a nasty bite which is still itching a week later, but she seemed to come out unscathed.

The second solo we shot inside-- a very romantic set with white lingerie. Conny looked so amazing in both sets that I honestly have a hard time choosing which one is my favorite... I think it might be the white lingerie set, but the outdoor set is so gorgeous as well... what a great way to start the week!

After the shoot, we were spending the night at the house, so we all had dinner together family style. I went to bed early but Tom and the crew stayed up to have a few beers. Cheers!

New Hustler Cover & Centerfold

2011-05-29T16:30:00.000-07:00

My Hustler cover and centerfold layout of the lovely Jesse Jane is on stands now... pick up a copy! Jesse is one of my favorite girls to photograph and we had so much fun this day, she truly is a blast to work with. I swear she is always in a good mood and full of boundless energy-- I don't know how she does it!

Czech Beer Festival

2011-05-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

So here we are in Prague... we landed yesterday, late afternoon. Getting to our hotel was fairly uneventful, though the taxi driver smelled like a strong combination of BO and cigarettes, and the car was hot and stuffy and the windows were locked. We were stuck in traffic and I seriously thought I was going to throw up but fortunately we made it to our hotel before I did.

Last night Prague was hit with a very heavy thunderstorm, but when we woke up this morning it was warm and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Tom had noticed a poster yesterday advertising the annual Czech beer festival, and since we have the weekend free before we start shooting on Monday, I thought why not check it out? I don't drink, but he does-- and I figured there would be food, music, and other things to keep me entertained.

We got there right at the beginning of the festival, and it was fairly empty at first. There were five huge beer tents, as well as rides and food. What made the rides so funny was the fact that though these were kids rides, they were covered with illustrations of half naked women with cleavage busting out of their skimpy tops.

On the "Institute of Future" ride there was even a topless woman, her arms strategically covering her nipples (well, not really, they just didn't paint the nipples on). I really couldn't resist taking a peek into such a sexy vision of our future, so Tom and I paid 100 kc for the show. We were ushered into a metal trailer with a dirty screen and really scummy "4-D" glasses that barely sat on our noses. The show consisted of really dated graphics but very sexy content-- a genie they called "Mr G" (with a big dollar sign next to his name) guided us through a kind of Indiana Jones temple with all kinds of dangerous roadblocks on the way: balls of flame, zombies, spiders, you name it. All to save a very curvaceous princess in a skimpy gold bikini. The best part was the end, which shows you as a silhouette on a magic carpet with your princess, who looks like those silver figures of sexy girls that you see on the mudflaps of big-rigs. Czech is teeming with sexuality, and totally unashamed of it. I love it.

The rest of the day we spent eating stodgy Czech food, drinking beer (well Tom was drinking beer) and taking in the people watching as the festival got more and more crowded, and people got more and more drunk. And I knew Tom was headed that way when he started to tell me how beautiful I am (I know Tom's drunk when he gets soppy and goes on about how much he loves me). Some men get drunk and beat their wives, Tom gets drunk and batters me with words of love and affection. I guess I'm the lucky one!

We left just as some ominous clouds were rolling in-- not without some Czech beers to take home though, of course. Gotta keep the boy happy!

Candle Boxxx

2011-05-15T14:38:00.000-07:00

Though I generally really do like almost every single model I work with, I have to say Candle, a relatively new girl on the scene, is pretty special. Is she beautiful? Of course. A fantastic model? But of course. Professional, down-to-earth, and easy to work with? Undoubtedly. But she has qualities that not every girl has: she's incredibly intelligent, she's about my age (early 30s! eek!), and she's undoubtedly a truly dirty pervert. Combine all of these qualities and you've got a star in the making.

The first time I shot Candle was for Twistys, and the overwhelming response just confirmed my belief that this girl was really something else. During our first set, as we shot photos, she demonstrated an ease with the camera and a natural flexibility that allowed her to pull a variety of interesting poses out from under her belt. When the video came, I explained to her that Twistys generally preferred live audio throughout the solo, which meant we would not be overlaying any music at the beginning, so it's entirely up to the model to keep some kind of sexy monologue going. Now for most girls this is agonizing-- many models just don't know what to say to the camera, and though they can do the necessary moaning during the masturbation portion, they've got to find some other way to interact with the camera while removing their clothes.

Candle took it all in stride and didn't seem bothered by this format at all. When the tape began to roll, I suddenly became aware why. Not only was she completely comfortable with dirty talk, she kept up a one-way conversation throughout the entire video that was seamless, enthralling, and altogether very dirty. When I called for the cut at the end of her performance, really all I could say was "Wow." It was pretty much right then and there that I fell in love with this girl, and I hadn't even begun to learn what kind of girl Candle is (yes it gets better).

I'd seen Candle in some fetish scenarios in her portfolio, so the next time I booked her I decided to do some latex and bondage sets. The first set started off in purple latex, on a rusted old Ford pickup truck. Candle was more than happy to roll around naked on a dirty truck with broken glass everywhere, and we got some amazing images that I think I wouldn't have gotten with a lot of girls because nobody likes to get dirty like Candle does!

And talking about getting dirty... I had the very talented bondage rigger Nikki Nefarious come by for the last set of the day, where we tied Candle to a broken down old bus (there's a lot of abandoned vehicles at this location). Nikki and Candle knew each other from previous shoots, and Candle was really excited about being able to "push the envelope" on my set. I wasn't sure what she meant until she declared that she should do some peeing shots! Now I've never shot peeing before, mainly because it's not "my cup of tea" so to speak, but when I've got both Nikki and Candle cheering for a peeing shot, who am I to say no? So I didn't.

You can check out all the dirty fun at www.forevervamp.com- the photo set plus the BTS video is up-- come join the fun, and see why Candle is one of my new favorites!

Fleshlight

2011-05-05T22:43:00.000-07:00

I've just wrapped up my third day in a row of shooting this week for a new client of mine, Fleshlight. If you don't already know, Fleshlight is the number one selling male sex toy in the world, with a signature line of special "Fleshlight girls" who have had their private parts molded especially for this unique sex toy.

A lot of my friends who aren't in the porn industry ask me about this sex toy company who has been flying me out to shoot for them at their headquarters in Austin, Texas. It's a little difficult to explain without physically showing you the product, but basically they are molded orifices (the mouth, vagina, and ass) made out of a realistic skin-like material which is held inside a tube similar in shape to a flashlight. Hence, the name "Fleshlight". This enables the man to hold it in a manner much like he holds his penis while masturbating, but with a device that feels ten times better than his hands. It may sound like I'm making a sales pitch because I now work for them on a regular basis, but I promise you this thing is pretty genius-- when I first got my hands on it I couldn't stop touching it. It's probably best explained on their website www.fleshlight.com and of course you can see the product photos and video there.

And just in case you still think I'm their new marketing girl, trust me they really don't need my help in that department-- this thing sells itself. They just hit the 4 million product sales marker and they didn't get there by putting out a crappy sex toy. They also have a line of "Fleshlight Girls" toys, which are famous pornstars whose "parts" they have specially molded into the exact replica of the girl's mouth, vagina, or anus. They've got quite a few on their roster, but the ones that I've shot for them so far are Tera Patrick, Teagan Presley, Jesse Jane, Lisa Ann, Asa Akira, and Riley Steele. And they're planning on adding more girls soon.

This is only my third time out to Austin shooting for Fleshlight, but already I feel like I'm part of the family. I'm already trading photos of our dogs with their production manager, sexually harassing the photo assistant, and sending the owner funny animal videos.

What I love about Fleshlight is that there is a really good vibe in the office and everyone seems to really love their job, which isn't altogether that common these days. It helps that the owners are a husband and wife team, and are really sweet, fun, and straightforward people who care a lot about their company. It's actually funny how much they remind me of my own parents. I was really impressed by how attuned they were to their customer's feedback and how they seem to constantly be striving to improve the product and expand the company. It's really exciting to be working for people who are excited about their work, the enthusiasm is infectious. And I'm somebody who is passionate about my work so it's really great to be working with people who feel the same way.

So as I mentioned before, I shot three girls for them this week. Lisa Ann, who is an old friend (she's an original "Suze" girl), is always a pleasure to work with and a real inspiration to young women just entering the industry. This woman is smart and has her head screwed on straight-- she knows how to market herself and take care of herself. She's turning 39 next week and she looks phenomenal. We shot her on this crazy army truck as a tribute to the American troops, and it was a perfect fit for her. She also took me out to a lovely dinner the first night where we had a great meal and even better conversation. I really respect Lisa, and I think the feeling is mutual, which is truly flattering.

On the second day I shot Asa Akira, who is someone I've really been wanting to book for myself for some time. I shot her once before for a calendar shoot but I didn't get to spend enough time with her, so it was a real pleasure getting to know her on this trip. She's another hard-working, smart and grounded girl who goes to bed early every night and gets up early to work out. Much like Lisa, and I gotta tell you next to them I was feeling really lazy. True to Asa's Japanese heritage, we shot her in the Fleshlight offices where there is a lot of Asian-themed decor. But my favorite set-- something I never would have thought of-- was the Anime set. Her makeup and hair was just perfect, and we had so much fun shooting this look, even though it was on a white seamless (they plan to Photoshop in a cartoon background later). As you can see, I'm Asa Akira's biggest fan!

The night after Asa's shoot, Riley Steele had flown in for her molding so all three girls were in town for the night. Steve (the owner) took us all out to dinner and it was one of the best ones I've had in a while-- and not because of the food (which was delicious) but the company was just so pleasant. Us four girls sat at the end of one table and covered every subject from bad movies to serial killers to this crazy industry we work in. I told Lisa Ann that she needs to come out with a "How-To" guide for brand new adult performers, because she's got her job down to a science. And who beyond Lisa Ann can claim such longevity in a career that can spit you out in a matter of a few years? She's got some truly sage advice that we could all learn from. Here's a photo of us all after dinner:

And today, the last day, was the beautiful Riley Steele. This girl is so pretty it's ridiculous, and I'm not even sure she knows how beautiful she is. She's got a really sweet and almost shy demeanor, with a soft voice and an adorable giggle. We had a very spiritual discussion on our 40 minute drive out to the Fleshlight ranch this morning, and I gained a new respect and affection for her. We shot some amazing stuff-- especially an outdoor set with colorful scarves that we had blowing in the wind. A really amazing idea from the production manager/makeup artist/stylist Angie!

So it is with some sadness that I bid adieu to Austin and to my newfound Fleshlight family-- but I'm not returning home empty-handed! I got a tour of the factory plus three complementary Fleshlight toys to take home as presents and souvenirs. And admittedly I miss my home, my dogs and my husband-- in fact today is our two year wedding anniversary so we'll celebrate tomorrow when I get back to LA. And I know I'll be back-- Fleshlight is having me shoot pretty much all of their content from here on out so it looks like I'm here to stay, and I couldn't be happier about it! My new sets of Jesse Jane, Lisa Ann, Asa and Riley will go up soon on Fleshlight.com but for now you can see my work of Tera Patrick and Teagan Presley up on the site. Oh and you can also see a short video I shot of Jesse Jane last week on the Fleshlight ranch going for a joy-ride!

Well I'd better go to bed-- I've got to get up in 4 hours to catch my flight, so good night!

Chrissy Marie

2011-02-06T17:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I am the last on the boat, and this was the case with one of my newest models, Chrissy Marie. I like to be the first to shoot every hot new girl, but alas there is only one of me and plenty of competition out there. Chrissy had already been snapped up by every other erotic photographer in the business before I finally got to her, but her importance to me as an addition to HollyRandall.com was no less than any other of the hotties that I have the pleasure of working with. Perhaps even more so-- Chrissy has the intoxicating combination of womanly curves, big natural breasts, and a sweetheart face that can change from innocent girl-next-door to seductive vixen in seconds. True to her all-American good looks, Chrissy has done a lot of casual, girl-next-door sets. Some like to shoot a girl in the way that people generally accept suits her, but I often like to take a girl out of her element and turn her into something that is unlike most of the photos she's already done.

Which is why I chose to shoot Chrissy at my stylist's downtown fashion loft. This gave me the benefit of an amazing location, plus access to couture clothing and fashion-forward stylists. I've often received the back-handed compliment that I should be a fashion photographer because I'm more concerned with what a model wears than the actual naked girl, but I don't care. This is my site and my show and I'll shoot it however I want. So there. ;)

In the end, it was no surprise to me that Chrissy could pull off haute clothing just as well as any fashion model. I tried not to go overboard, because besides the statement I just made a paragraph ago, a small part of me does recognize that I am an erotic photographer, not a fashion photographer. The result was a happy mix of porn-friendly outfits and sexy fashion. And some amazing photos of an amazing girl!

Samantha Bentley

2010-12-25T15:25:00.000-08:00

Just in time for Christmas: Samantha is a gorgeous all natural girl from the UK. She's got legs that go for miles and pale skin that contrasts beautifully with her dark hair. I was lucky enough to get her for two days shooting for HollyRandall.com as well as Twistys. She's got a very sexy look, and moves in delightful, erotic slow-motion. With her amazing lean body and all natural DD rack, she might just be your new favorite...

Danielle Trixie

2010-12-09T15:37:00.001-08:00

I've had some pretty tough shoots lately-- mainly with new girls who tend to take a little more energy and effort to shoot than the more experienced ones. Don't get me wrong, I love working with new models-- it's always great to get a "green" newbie and really work with her to help her realize her own potential, and her reaction to seeing herself all glammed up is one I always enjoy. Girls often looks at their photos and exclaim "That's not me!" and I explain to them that what they are seeing is another side to themselves-- one that was always there but took the right production team to bring it out in them.

But lest I go on to toot my own horn too much, I will refer back to the title of this blog-- Danielle Trixie. Danielle was a wonderful and welcome break to my string of green models-- she's relaxed, professional, and extremely easy to work with. With the other members of my "dream team", including styling by my friend Mia Presley, the results were phenomenal. But despite the amazing content that I shot, the best part was really all the laughter and joking around on set. It didn't even feel like work-- everyone was in good spirits and the positive energy bounced around set like pinball machine.

It always adds another dimension to my shoots when I'm able to hire a stylist-- as much as I like fashion I'm not particularly brilliant and piecing an outfit together, though I know what I like when I see it. I only wish I could afford to have Mia on set every time!

Samantha Saint

2010-11-19T09:16:00.000-08:00

The first time I worked with Samantha was over six months ago, when I shot her for Suze.net. I was immediately struck by her sexy girl-next-door natural beauty, incredible long legs, and sunny, positive attitude. I recently shot her for HollyRandall.com and Twistys.com with her new boobs, which she is very proud of, and I have to admit are very nice! Hopefully you'll agree...

Aracoeli & Heather

2010-11-01T19:34:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I was fortunate enough to have two new hot girls to shoot: Aracoeli Nin and Heather Joy. In particular I was really excited to shoot Heather, as I'd been chasing her down for almost a year. (Yes, in this case stalking really did pay off.) The first time I contacted Heather she told me she was no longer shooting nudes, and the second time I actually had her booked, but she had to fly home to New York for personal reasons. With no indication that she'd be coming back to LA, I figured I'd lost her.

But then about a month ago I saw some posts about her modeling again on an industry chatboard, and I hunted her down through Twitter. Thankfully, she was in town and available to shoot! I was thrilled.

I started Heather off with a softer look, since I usually begin my shoots that way and build up on the makeup as the day goes on.

She looked great, but Heather is an edgy kind of girl who looks best the way she does her makeup in her personal life-- with thick black eyeliner drawn out to a cat-eye look. So I actually pulled up photos of her that were self-portraits (she is also a photographer) and showed my makeup artist that I wanted Heather made up the way she normally does herself. I don't think I've ever done that before!

For the last set we did a very editorial-like goth set for Halloween. I think she looks a bit like Siouxie from Siouxie and the Banshees, one of my favorite bands when I was in high school.

The next day I shot Aracoeli-- she was very new and a bit nervous, but I've worked with lots of brand new models and so this wasn't anything I hadn't dealt with before. Aracoeli has beautiful delicate features, a lovely figure and gorgeous, natural breasts.

I shot a pretty, glam girl set and then a bondage set last. I'd rented a posture collar and corset from the very talented designer Billy at Antiseptic Fashion, and I hired renowned rope bondage expert Nikki Nefarious to tie Aracoeli up into all kinds of delicious poses. Being tied up in complex positions is pretty tiring and it takes a while, so I think by the end of the set Aracoeli was exhausted, but hopefully she'll like the photos enough for putting her through that. ;)

Angie Savage

2010-10-14T20:10:00.000-07:00

Angie was my stand-in for a model who didn't show, but I don't want anyone to think this girl is second-rate to me. Angie is a blonde, busty, and giggly sweetheart who just makes your shooting day go by so easily. You know how time flies when you're having fun? That's what it's like to work with Angie.

An added bonus to my day was working with Mia Presley-- a model turned stylist (yes she's also naked on my site) who is Angie's best friend. In fact, they joke about getting married someday. Or are they joking? ;)

With Ricardo doing makeup (Angie actually introduced us) it was just a day filled with laughter and of course fabulous results. We started off the shoot by the pool, with Angie wearing one of Mia's own personal designs from her swimsuit line. It was really hot out so I let Angie cool herself off with a water spray bottle, with sexy results!

The second set was an inspiration of mine that had been kicking itself around in my head for quite some time. I'd always wanted to shoot a beautiful old vintage couch in the middle of nowhere (and at my parent's ranch there is a lot of "middle of nowhere" spots). Now my dad hikes every morning from the ranch, and on his way back he always checks on an elderly neighbor named Jean who lives alone. Last week when I joined my dad on his hike, I was with him when we stopped by Jean's place. And right there, in that little living room, buried under piles of old clothes, books, and random junk, was a threadbare Victorian loveseat in a soft rose pink color. It was beautiful, and I couldn't help but gush over it. Luckily for me, Jean said he'd always hated that couch and insisted that I take it. I promised to bring it back after the shoot, but he didn't want it back. I did promise a photo of a naked girl on it in return though. ;)

So I made my poor assistants carry this couch up a narrow trail until we found a small clearing we could shoot in. Since we were miles away from any electricity, we did the natural light route-- a technique I have started to use more often, and really should do more of. The soft light was beautiful on Angie, and with her dressed in a white off-the-shoulder peasant dress, she was quite the vision. When she posed on the couch, she looked like a country music star. She did say how she felt like Taylor Swift, but lucky for us Angie will actually get naked!

The third set was in front of the house, by a rustic ladder that I'd had built specifically for photo shoots. It's sturdy, but since it doesn't have much of a base, when Angie climbed up it for a few shots I did admit that I got a little nervous. Fortunately the ladder stayed put, and so did Angie!

The fourth set was one I was really looking forward to-- Angie had recently gotten this bright pink pickup truck, and she was dying to shoot with it. So we decided to go white trash Barbie with her look. The fact that she had a pink BB gun just added to the comic factor of the shoot. She played the part incredibly well, and it was definitely the funnest set of the day!

I always say everything happens for a reason, and I think the model I had booked didn't show so that I could finally get my day of shooting in with Angie, and it was well worth it. All of these sets will soon be up on HollyRandall.com and ClubAngieSavage.com please come check us out! :)

Cleaning My Palate

2010-10-11T21:08:00.000-07:00

So I had a pretty disappointing experience this week when a model that I was flying in for a shoot simply decided to not show up. Without going into a long rant, all I can say is that I am embarrassed, angry, and yes-- even a little hurt.

But I have to remind myself that this rarely happens to me, that 99% of the models I shoot are professional, dependable, and really pleasant to work with. So I decided to cleanse my palate of this unfortunate experience, and list a bunch of girls that make my job worth getting up in the morning!

We'll start off with Angie Savage, who came to my rescue when I was able to reschedule the second shoot day with her, instead of my no-show model. Bubbly and sweet, Angie is always in a good mood, and that mood is infectious. She's got the cutest giggle I've ever heard, and she giggles a lot. Angie is the kind of girl who makes everyone feel good.

Aria Giovanni-- a very close friend of mine and one of the most unselfish people I know. Her boobs are legendary, her curves are dangerous, and her face is classically beautiful. It's no wonder Aria catapulted to fame so quickly, and why she remains one of the most sought-after pinup models in the world.

Jelena Jensen's huge natural boobs are so fantastic that one sometime forgets how beautiful her face is. But when she fixes you with her arresting gaze, it's obvious that she is just drop-dead gorgeous. Jelena is also a very intelligent woman who runs her own website and is building a network of other model sites-- she's someone who is definitely looking beyond her career in front of the camera!

To round out my selection of all natural boobilicous girls, I have to mention Taylor Vixen. Taylor and I have recently become good friends, and she is just a sweet, normal girl from Texas. Refreshing in an industry that can sometimes breed drug-addled drama queens! Taylor is currently the Penthouse Pet of the Year, and nobody deserves that title more than her. (Especially since she lets me borrow her Canon 5D to shoot with!)

She's one of the most famous pornstars out there, and Nikki Benz definitely works for it! I follow her on Twitter, and it makes my head spin how much she travels and all the different projects she's involved with. Before I actually worked with Nikki, I'll admit I was a little intimidated by her. But she soon put me at ease-- she's got to be one of the nicest, most easy going girls with a wicked sense of humor. Nikki puts the "star" in pornstar!

I can't really mention Nikki without talking about her best friend Puma-- and really nobody meets Puma and forgets her. Puma is a no-holds-barred free-speaking Amazon sexbot. No subject is off limits for her, and she definitely brings a much-needed goofiness to set. Everybody loves the Puma!

Mariah Milano has a temper (I've seen it on Twitter!) and definitely an opinion (read her blogs) but she's never been anything but an absolute doll with me. She loves my work and lets the world know that, and I appreciate that so much! Mariah is sexiness wrapped up in a busty Sicilian sexpot, and she definitely lets it shine on camera!

Emma Mae is new, and boy does she have a bright future. Leggy and all-natural, Emma's body is rockin' but it's her face that really takes your breath away. Sometimes when a girl is as pretty as Emma, it's hard not to stare!

I've known Sandy for quite a long time, and she has always been one of my favorites. A native of Budapest, she is honestly one of the nicest girls you will ever meet. But when you turn the camera on her, she just oozes sex. I love girls who can transform like that!

Ok so I admit I'm a little obsessed with Mosh. Her Russian hertiage is reflected in her porcelain white skin and delicate features. She's also got amazing curves and a fantastic sense of style. She's true vintage, and I always let her plan out her own outfits-- how can I say no to all of the amazing latex she brings to set?

Another latex queen is the gorgeous fetish model Darenzia. She's actually one of the first fetish models I started working with, and I credit her for introducing me to a lot of the models I've worked with since. I've always loved working with her, but I must say I gained a newfound respect for her when we shot in freezing cold weather out in Lancaster. I could barely hold my camera, but somehow she was able to model naked for me. Now that's a true professional!

I couldn't mention professional fetish models who braved seriously cold weather without Kayla-Jane Danger. We also shot in the cold weather of windy Lancaster, with fantastic results. Somehow when you put a model at risk of hypothermia, it brings you closer together. Kayla lives in my neighborhood and even introduced me to a local organic cafe. Thank you Kayla!

Carlotta Champagne is a curvy softcore Playboy model who is just the easiest girl to work with. She moves so well, and so frequently that really all I have to do is sit there and press a button. Almost makes me feel useless! ;)

Kayden Kross. What else can I say about her? She's gorgeous, intelligent, eloquent and sexy as hell. Plus her 4 wheel drive pickup truck saved me in the Salton Sea when my pathetic SUV got stuck in the sand. Thank God I was shooting a model with a manly truck!

I shot one of Jayden Cole's first erotic photoshoots, back when she was just doing striptease video. I shot her again recently for HollyRandall.com and it's amazing to see how much she's come into her sexuality. A total sweetheart and an absolute pleasure to be around!

Lisa Ann is arguably one of the most famous pornstars in the world, and has enjoyed a career revival when she came out of retirement a few years ago. My mom shot a lot of her back in the day, and I was thrilled that she came back, so that I could shoot her! If there is one person you can credit with the popularity of MILF-mania, it would be Lisa Ann.

Prinzzess was my very first Penthouse centerfold, and she's come a long way since that photoshoot. Currently a contract girl with Girlfriend films, Prinzzess has a natural flair for working in front of the camera, and she's a hardworking girl who deserves all the success she's been reaping!

Nobody makes me laugh harder than Jada Fire. Not only is she just gorgeous, she is so much fun to work with! It also helps that she really loves sex, and is absolutely 100% into her scenes. There's no faking here!

I've known Ryan Keely since before she decided to bare it all in front of the camera-- in fact I was surprised when she told me that she was planning to step out from her role behind the scenes. Not that I didn't find her hot! She soon proved that in front of the camera was where she belonged, and though I think I've shot some great stuff with her, we plan to shoot again, and I know that the best stuff is still to come!

Justine is known as a submissive model, but when I cast her in a girl/girl as the domme, she was absolutely spectacular. Justine is definitely someone you can't typecast-- her recent success in the off-Broadway show Caligula Maximus shows her as a multi-faceted and talented girl that I always knew she was. ;)

Another model who I've known for quite some time, Sunny Leone is a welcome ethnic addition to the lineup of A-List pornstars that tends to be dominated by white blonde girls. She's gorgeous, she's bubbly, and she's sexy as hell. Need I say more?

Well that's all I can list for now-- I didn't realize what an arduous task this was when I took it up. I forgot how many favorites I have, and how much I love all the girls I work with. Just because a certain girl I've shot is not on this list, doesn't mean I don't love her-- it's just getting late and I've got my shoot with Angie Savage tomorrow, my savior! Thanks Angie, and thanks all of the beautiful models I work with who make my line of work the dream job that it is. Love you all!

My New Obsession

2010-10-05T08:20:00.000-07:00

My friend Taylor Vixen did a dangerous thing when she lent me her new Canon 5D Mark II camera-- she created a monster. I instantly became obsessed with the incredible resolution, detail, and contrast range the camera produces. And I haven't even tried the HD video function!

The first girl I shot with the 5D was Eufrat-- a gorgeous all-natural Czech model who I'd been eying for a while. She finally made her first trip out to America, and so I jumped at the opportunity to shoot her. Our shoot was right in the middle of the heat wave at the end of September, and of course I'd booked a loft in downtown LA with no air conditioning. I (almost) hardly noticed the dire weather because I was too busy geeking out over the new camera, but Eufrat surely felt it, though she did her best not to show it.

Eufrat is a natural beauty with flawless skin and lots of modeling experience, so she was incredibly easy to shoot. It's funny but when I shoot seasoned models such as Eufrat, I almost feel useless because really all I have to do is sit there and press a button, since she needed no direction whatsoever. She was the perfect model to test out the camera on. The only problem was that we'd gotten her shoe sizes confused (as she's used to giving people European sizes) and so I brought shoes that were way too small for her, which meant that we had to use her shoes for most of the sets. I'm really anal about shoes, and when I have to settle for a pair that don't really match the outfit, or that I don't like, it drives me a bit crazy. I'm a bit neurotic like that. ;)

We shot one fresh and natural set, with Eufrat surrounded by green plants.

Then I shot the second set by an indoor phone booth, with dramatic lighting and a really strong hair light. American Apparel sends me boxes of clothes, and they had sent these amazing pants that I hadn't had the opportunity to use until this shoot. And let me say, they photographed amazing!

The last set was a bratty princess look which sort-of worked. This is where the lack of shoe choices really bugged me, because the shoes we were forced to use for the set I felt looked really out of place. But there wasn't much I could do, except try to crop the feet out in as many shots as I could.

Overall I was very happy with the results, and thrilled that I was able to shoot Eufrat when she was in town, because who knows when she'll be back!

It has occurred to me....

2010-10-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

That I am terrible at keeping this blog up. And writing is something that I love! I'm just so busy and I put all my energy into my photographs, so I just tend to neglect my blog.

I would like to change that though-- I have so many exciting new projects in the works, and gorgeous new girls that I'm shooting, and I want to share this with the world. So I promise to blog more often. With photos. Cause that's what I do best. ;)

So a quick update since my last blog post-- Budapest was, well, interesting. The biggest obstacle for me on my trip to Europe was finding good locations-- here in LA I'm used to shooting in grandiose mansions with large rooms. In Europe homes tend to be smaller, and I don't have as much room to set up my lights, which meant I had to improvise. My first day in Budapest was shooting Black Angelika in what I thought was a swanky, classy bar. At least that's what it looked like in the photos.

Turns out it was a gay transvestite bar (not that there's anything wrong with that of course) but the main problem was that my call time was 8 AM on a Sunday morning, and the bar had just shut two hours before, at 6 AM after a long and busy Saturday night. So needless to say, there hadn't been a lot of time to clean the place, and the cigarette smoke still hung heavy in the air. There was stains of God-knows-what all over the furniture, and all the surfaces were sticky with spilled booze. Fortunately I had the foresight to shoot the boy/girl first, which turned out to be a dynamite scene. But once we got to the solo, Angelika's eyes were watering like crazy from the smoky air, and frankly we were all feeling a bit sick. I had to cut the day short, though I did manage to squeeze out a solo set first. I had been looking forward to shooting Angelika for such a long time, and she was such a hot little number-- to say I was disappointed at losing most of my shoot day is an understatement. But we made the best of things, and the content I did manage to get was dynamite!

The second day I shot Simony Diamond, and Sandra Shine was there to help me with her photo equipment and assistant. Sandra is an old friend so it was wonderful to see her again. Simony is a total pro and she was by far the easiest and most low-key of all the European girls that I worked with. The location I'd originally booked was not available, so we had to scramble at the last minute for a place to shoot. The place we rented had a gorgeous indoor/outdoor pool, but of course it was pouring rain. And I mean cats and dogs. So I just shot at a 400 ISO and did the best I could!

All my sets from my trip to Europe have been published on www.hollyrandall.com but I do plan to go back next summer. My goal is to eventually travel all over the world to shoot beautiful women-- wouldn't that be amazing? Here's to dreaming! ;)

My Europe Trip: Prague

2010-06-18T13:38:00.001-07:00

Ever since I started working in this business, I have dreamed of going to Prague and Budapest to shoot. The girls out there are famous for being incredibly beautiful, with perfect skin and amazing bodies. And when the 2257 laws came into play, barring many European girls from traveling to the states to work, it became even more impertinent that I go directly to the source to get my shooting fix of gorgeous international adult stars.

So I saved, and I saved. Luckily, I have been asked to speak at a music convention in Germany on June 24th, and I was awarded this privilege with a free plane ticket to Europe. This was my chance to finally shoot in Prauge and Budapest, and so I made travel arrangements to stay a little longer in Europe and make the trip out to the mecca of hot nude models.

There was a lot of preparation involved, and a lot of speed bumps along the way. Fortunately when I shot Angel Dark, a Czech native, she gave me the names and numbers of makeup artists and model agents in Prague, which was an enormous help. Sandra Shine and Sandy, two Hungarian models who I've worked with numerous times and I would count as friends, run agencies out in Budapest and have both been instrumental in helping me book my shoots.

But I really have to thank Denys Defrancesco, who hooked me up with equipment and an assistant in Prague, and has once again come to my rescue in Budapest. If it wasn't for him I'd be really screwed-- and I've never even met him! But I will finally have the opportunity to thank him in person on Sunday, so I'm happy to be able to express my gratitude in person. He even changed his shooting dates around so that I could book his main makeup artist Petra-- a wonderful and sweet blonde girl who could easily be a model, but is more comfortable as a makeup artist. She was so lovely that when she told me she was coming out to LA in the late summer I insisted that she stay with me.

When I arrived I have to say that I was really impressed with the beauty of the Czech capital. Prague was the seat of the Holy Roman Empire for many decades during the Gothic and Renaissance periods, and it shows in their stunning architecture and plethora of religious statues around the cities. The old town of Prague is really beautiful with it's narrow cobblestone streets and old buildings with beautiful weathered walls (I love the texture of old walls).

For both days of shooting I booked a castle-type location, which is actually a hotel that is often rented out for weddings and big parties. I have to admit that when I got to the location, the style wasn't exactly to my taste, so it was hard for me to find spots that I wanted to shoot in (especially since I had it booked for two days in a row). Also there were peacocks on the grounds-- and as beautiful as those birds are to look at they are extremely loud and they like to make a LOT of noise. Which basically means that my video editor is going to have a lot of work to do!

The first day I booked Dominno, who is a beautiful brunette with big, natural boobs-- I first saw her on Denys' site www.handsonhardcore.com and have wanted to shoot her ever since. When she showed up though, I noticed a lot of new tattoos that I didn't know about, which made the styling I had planned on-- a romantic, classic lingerie look-- not very fitting. She would have been better served shot in a more fetish style, or in a rock-and-roll type look with a motorcycle or something that called for an outfit with plenty of leather. But we made do the best we could, and I have to say the photos came out better than I expected. The last look-- my favorite-- was Dominno in a black hat with a veil, and a black corset. She also wore cuban-heel stockings and bright red lips, and the result was striking. She even commented that the photos didn't look like porn, but rather a fashion layout. I told her that I liked to shoot "fashion-porn". She didn't speak much English, but I think she understood me, and seemed delighted.

The second day was a girl/girl with Anastasia and Bijou. Since once again I was going off of photos on a website and had never met these girls in person, I was a little dismayed to find that the girls had very different body types. Anastasia is a very petite girl, and Bijou is tall and curvy. Both are gorgeous and wonderfully sexy in their own way, but I would not have put two such different body types together. Not to mention that because I didn't have too many places to shoot in the location, that I ended up putting them on a bed that came with no linens or pillows (we had to grab some sheets from the Defrancesco studio), so I wasn't thrilled with the photos as the set was a little dull for my tastes. But all was forgiven when we shot the video-- the girls were dynamite and the scene was hot and easy to shoot. And I loved the solos I shot on both girls.

After a 4 day trip, I was very sad to leave Prague but I had more hotties awaiting me in Budapest, so my husband and I boarded a train and left a very rainy Czech Republic behind us. We just landed in an equally rainy Hungary, but eagerly await new adventures of shooting in a foreign country. If nothing else, it's an adventure!

Holly the Great

2010-02-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

Today I had a very good reason to skip out on work. I was asked to speak at a no cost rehab in Venice, on an AA panel at 1 PM. This particular foundation, funded solely on donations, is an adult rehab center for those with very little or no income. As I went to a pretty nice rehab (twice) I knew that it was going to be a crowd different than what I was used to.

Though honored to have been asked, I was very nervous to speak on the panel as the last time I spoke at a meeting I was just awful. I spoke in circles and hardly even breached the topic that was given to me. So this time, I would be much better. I would be eloquent, deep, and poignant. I imagined myself as some kind of sobriety Buddha, who would go before this crowd of addicts and alcoholics and spew forth my infinite wisdom. Those who normally slept through speakers would sit up and take notice, disbelievers would have an epiphany and suddenly believe, and people would both laugh and cry when they heard my story.

So I, The Great One, set out to share my invaluable insight, my life-changing message. I, The Great One, spent too much time in front of the mirror and thus left my house 15 minutes later than planned. I, The Great One, did not have an exact address and thus had trouble locating the center. I, The Great One, could not find any parking. And thus, I, The Great One, was 5 minutes late and walked in after the panel had already started.

Perhaps The Great One needs to work on her promptness.

I made a mental note of exactly what I would say to these people. I had plenty of drunk-a-log stories, but I know that my duty was to carry the message of sobriety. I remember very clearly how it was in my very early days of recovery, and the insanity centered in my mind, even though it had been physically cleared of alcohol and pot.
My last drink was a good story: I was kicked out of rehab after three weeks due to blatant fraternization (even modest fraternization with the opposite sex was not allowed) with a young man who had been court-ordered to this inpatient recovery program. Because our dalliances also had him booted from the rehab, he was en-route back to jail. In my desperate attempt to save this guy I hardly knew (but I thought I shared a deep connection with), I picked him up when he decided to run, and hid him at my house for three weeks. Did it occur to me that I could also face jail time for my actions? Of course it did, but I was too crazy to let it stop me. I was angry at the world— and so I clung to someone more fucked up than me, so that I could feel not so alone in my fucked-up-ness.

A week later, when I got in a car accident (I was sober at the time), I decided the best solution was to drink, and that this boy, now my “boyfriend” would have to join me. So after my second stint in rehab, after I swore to myself that this was it, that I would never drink again, I picked up a bottle of vodka. The first sip made me shiver with delight as the liquor burned through my veins. Forty minutes later I was in a blackout. Hours later I woke up covered in bruises, and with my boyfriend shaking his head over me. This heroin addict, this tough-guy felon who had lived on the streets, said that I scared him. Fortunately I can honestly say that was my last drink.

But when I arrived at the panel, my ex-boyfriend’s little sister was sitting in the front row. She had been in and out of rehabs ever since I’d known her. Well, there goes my I-dated-a-bad-guy story. Now what was I going to talk about that would impress these people? How would I speak to, and connect with people who had lived on the street? I have never smoked crack or even tried heroin, so how would I address those who were addicted to such drugs? How would I— a girl who has never known poverty, neglect, nor physical, mental, or sexual abuse— tell my story to people far worse off than I, and have them see the similarities rather than the differences between us?

If there is one thing I have learned in the past year, it is that alcoholism is the great equalizer: it affects people of all races, genders, and socio-economic statuses. No matter how different our pasts may be, the present for all of us is the same: we are addicts who have been given a second chance at life. I am not so great that I can “make” people listen to me, and thus be inspired to get sober. I can only hope that there is one person in that crowd who is ready to listen, and that there is one thing I say that they can relate to. If I can achieve that, I have succeeded.
So I told my story: what it was like, how I got sober, and what it is like now. And yes, some people slept through my story. Some people did not listen, and glanced at the clock frequently, hoping I would be shutting up soon. But there were a select few who did listen, people who never took their eyes off of me, who laughed at some of the things I said, and nodded their head in understanding at others. And though I know that most of the room did not pay attention, what mattered is that there were a few who did. It was the people who came up to me afterward to shake my hand and thank me, that gave me the hope that I was doing something truly good and unselfish. That I, a spoiled and self-absorbed pornographer could speak to a roomful of people off of the street, and bond with them. At that moment I was not “Holly Randall: Porn Personality”. I was reduced to simply being a garden-variety alcoholic, no better or worse than these people. And you know what? That made me feel pretty great.

Just Another Day at Work...

2009-11-22T20:03:00.000-08:00

The other day, as I was cleaning up the makeup room in my studio, I was expecting one of two arrivals any minute now. It was either going to be my prop manager, returning with a bed for tomorrow’s shoot, or it was going to be a delivery guy with my lunch. Soon enough I heard the front door open, and I called out to ask who it was. There was no answer, so I figured it must be my prop guy and he was probably unloading at the front door. So I went back to what I was doing.

Suddenly I heard a noise at the entrance to the makeup room, and when I looked up I saw it was the delivery guy. He was holding my food and looking at me with a shocked expression. For a moment I couldn’t figure out why he looked so stunned, until I looked down and saw what I was holding in my hands. What I had been doing was cleaning an enormous rubber black dildo. Oh, right. I guess that’s not something this guy sees every day on his delivery route.

Sometimes I forget how bizarre my job really is. And because I’ve been working in porn for so long, and I’m so desensitized to it, I forget how it appears to the normal person, living outside my strange little world. When I get my car back from the valet, I can’t figure out why the guy handing me my keys is giving an odd look. It’s not until I get in my car and remember that I have a huge bag filled with strap-ons and lube in my backseat does it occur to me why he and his valet buddies are snickering at me. It’s the same thing with the guy at the carwash who found Anal Invaders #4 under my front seat, and placed it strategically on top of the seat. And when my drain clogs and the plumber has to come over to fix it, I have to remember that it’s not polite to leave my issues of Hustler and Nasty Housewives laying out on my coffee table. God only knows what my maid thinks of my massive porn collection I have stashed away in plain sight in my closet. And I know she’s seen it because she’s good enough to keep it dust-free.

I don’t really know what it’s like to have a life that doesn’t revolve around porn. Growing up as a child, my parents were pornographers, so it’s always been a part of my life. And even though they tried to keep work out of the house and out of my eyesight, they were always honest about their job. And I was painfully conscious about it because I had to lie to my friends and their parents about what my mom and dad did for a living. Sometimes, if they were really curious and kept pushing me to tell them about exactly what kind of photography my mom did, it became very difficult to keep the charade up.

And now that I work for my parents, I find myself still caught in those awkward situations. I’m not in the least bit ashamed of what I do, but sometimes I just don’t want to tell people what my job is, because then it will make me “that girl”. And sometimes I just want to be a normal person, not “that girl who works in porn”. And this is new to me, because now I’m not using my career as a springboard to instant popularity and interest. Before I began to develop a sense of self outside of my job description, I used my job as fodder for conversation and I let it define me as a person. But that’s not who I am. It’s simply what I do.

So if you ever meet in person, I think you’ll find out very quickly that I’m just your average run-of-the-mill American girl. I won’t try to get your girlfriend to pose for me, nor will I ask to see the size of your boyfriend’s cock. I don’t hang out with porn stars and I most certainly won’t be bringing them to your birthday party. I don’t want to talk about what Jenna Jameson is like in person, or what it was like having my birth announced (and a photo of me as a newborn) in the pages of Hustler magazine. And if you ever come across me with a large black dildo in my hands, don’t worry, I’m not going to try to use it on you. Unless you’re the delivery boy, and you’re late with my order.

New Kid in Town

2009-11-01T16:08:00.000-08:00

Since I launched HollyRandall.com about 7 months ago, I've been voraciously devouring any and all online reviews on my website. Thankfully, overall they've been incredibly positive, with one main criticism that even the reviewer admits is understandable: the amount of content available. Though I update 5 days a week (and plan to move to 7 days a week in the near future) and at today's count offer 138 photo sets and 82 videos, that doesn't compare much to some of the mega sites that have been around for many years, including my own Suze.net. But I am growing every day, and I put a lot of money, time and effort into every set, so I'm proud of the quality that I offer. The quantity will get there eventually.

Which is perhaps why I found this one comment by a reviewer interesting: "But basically, the problem with [HollyRandall.com], in my little world, is that it's got too much of too many kinds of things! And Holly does a good job at all this! It's a marvel and it's a shame at the same time."

At first, I was a little confused by this, but flattered nonetheless. Then I realized that the reviewer was probably alluding to the wide variety of niches that I shoot for my site: glamour, fetish, stockings, MILF, smoking, hardcore, girl/girl, masturbation, softcore, etc. I understand this point, but I simply cannot help it-- I love variety and I want to try shooting everything! Well, maybe not every niche (I could do without shooting bug squashing, scat porn, bukkakkes-- you get the idea), but I do like diversity. And of course being the ambitious person that I am, I want conquer each market. Call it delusions of grandeur, but that still won't stop me.

Which brings me to the fetish niche, and the site I plan to launch specifically for it early next year. I have shot plenty of fetish sets over the 11 years I've worked at Suze.net, and I've even dabbled in the scene myself in my personal life. And really, I mean dabbled-- I'm by no means an expert, and with the fetish community as discerning and tight-knit as it is, I'm a little afraid of my attempt to wade into these waters.

See, I kind of feel like the new kid in town, and the fetish community is the group of cool kids that I want to hang out with, but I'm not sure that they'll accept me. Which is why I enlisted a good friend who is into the fetish scene to help me out with my recent shoot with Justine Joli and Scar. He was there, as he put it, to give me "street cred" and to ensure that I wasn't going to pussy out (no pun intended, haha) and shoot a boring vanilla scene. Both models are also very experienced in the fetish market, so really that left me (who's supposed to be in charge here) as the student, and they as the teachers. My friend brought along his assortment of very interesting toys, including my favorite: a gag with attachment capabilities. Basically you can screw an assortment of tools on the end of this gag, forcing the wearer to perform duties particular to the attachment with his/her mouth. It's humiliation at it's cleverest. Of the attachments that were brought: a shoe shine brush, a toilet brush (eew!), I chose the ashtray. The idea was that Scar would patiently sit on her knees with this ashtray gag, while Justine sat smoking on her throne, ashing ever so often into her slave's mouth-ashtray. Really, it's a brilliant device, and I applaud the wonderfully sick individual who came up with it.

The other toy he brought was a blunt, metal hook with a rounded end, complete with a chain attached at the end. It's purpose is to stick the end of the (again, blunt) hook into an orifice, and use the chain to control the submissive in whichever manner preferred. I decided that we should cuff Scar on all fours to a spanking horse (a kind of leather bench with rings for attachment purposes) and have Justine stand in front of Scar's face, effectively pulling the chain from over Scar's back.

Then of course there was the cross for spanking purposes, and Justine made Scar count the smacks as she delivered them, which Scar did in that incredibly sexy, breathy voice of hers. It beautifully complemented the sound of the paddle slapping against Scar's ivory white skin.

At the end of the day, I was exhausted but more than thrilled with what I knew was a wonderful, authentic and incredibly sexy shoot. Fetish is a little tiring because it's such an involved process: it requires a host of equipment and complicated setups-- and because it's an intellectualized form of sex play it requires models who can truly fulfill their roles as either the domme or the sub. Scar and Justine far exceeded my expectations (and those expectations were high!) and my friend was a great help, especially with the wonderful variety of toys he brought. Because I have so much I have to produce in one day, I tend to find myself in a hurry quite often, which is why at times I felt frustrated with his methodical attention to detail. But despite my anxiety, I knew that the extra time spent would be well worth it, and that in the end I would be grateful for it. And as I sit here, reviewing my photos and video from that day, I am proud of our work and I feel that my journey into the world of fetish eroticism may not be so daunting after all. Perhaps one day, I might even end up as one of the cool kids.

Read more reviews of HollyRandall.com at:
HonestPornReviews
TheBestPorn
PornInspector
PornUsers

Cum To Me

2009-10-31T11:04:00.000-07:00

NOTE: I wrote this piece about two years ago for Sex.com-- I no longer write for that website and I am now married to a man who is NOT the one I mention in this story.

I don’t want to live in a world where a man won’t cum on my face. I know that sounds a bit absurd, but really this is an issue I’ve been faced with (no pun intended) time and time again. Perhaps it’s because I’m a bit of a pervert, or perhaps because I’ve been dating particularly unadventurous men, but I’ve suddenly found myself alone in my desire for freaky sex. These last few boyfriends won’t spank my ass (at least they won’t do it hard enough), tie me up, choke me or call me their dirty little whore. And they certainly won’t blow their load on my face. And this makes me sad.

Have I been so twisted by my last 10 years in the porn industry, that I find myself scaring the kind of men I like to date? I’ve always sought guys outside of the adult industry, simply to get away from the incestuous nature of dating people in my line of work. (The problem with dating people in porn, is that they’ve already dated everyone else in porn, so you all end up as one big semen swapping family. No thanks.) The problem seems to be that I want a normal guy who hasn’t contracted every STD in the book, but in bed I want the kind of sex that I film for my website. But it doesn’t seem to be working that way for me.

On the other side of the coin, I have been in a relationship where the sex was perhaps a little too exciting, a little too freaky. I dated a Dom briefly, and found myself in an S&M relationship that lasted about 3 months. Though it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, it became a bit too much. He pushed me to my limits, and tried to get me to go even further, into territory I was uncomfortable with. Every sex act involved bondage, whipping, or at least some kind of rough play. We couldn’t even have lazy Sunday morning sex without him slapping my face a few times. I found that I longed for some simple, vanilla sex at times. And I also thought about our future, and what would happen if we were to get married and have children. Would he continue tying me up to his play horse and flogging me when I was in my 40s with two young children sleeping downstairs? It was a future I couldn’t imagine.

But I also can’t imagine a future without some of that deviant sex that I covet. If you really want to break the cum-in-the-face thing down to semantics, consider this: My face is where I wear all my expressions, where I convey my emotions, and if we’re dating, my love for you. Your cum is a cocktail of your sperm, that biological soup that carries your genetic makeup. It’s really the essence of you: your DNA and your ability to create life. To release your seed onto my face is really an act of love: your life-giving fluid all over my smiling visage. If that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is.

Sounds good, right? I certainly convinced myself of the valor of my blow-your-load-in-my-face pursuit, and I carried on through the precarious dating world, hopeful in finding my knight in shining armor brandishing his semen-spurting sword. And on a lovely sunny afternoon, I found him.

In passing, I mentioned to him this very article I was working on and it’s subject matter. He must’ve been listening, because the very first night we had sex he came on my face. As I lay there in bliss, waiting for him to return from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, I realized that my eye was starting to sting. Though I’d closed my eyes at the moment of ecstasy, that tricky liquid seeped through my lashes, past my contacts, and into my eye. I spent the rest of the evening with a throbbing right eye and a mental note to reevaluate my romantic notions about the whole idea. After all, it’s all fun and games until someone gets cum in their eye.

Taylor & Jenny

2009-09-30T22:42:00.000-07:00

The last day of September-- summer finally fades away, as will the frequency of my outdoor shoots. Though the last week of Santa Ana conditions brought on a heat spell that made me wish for winter, I can taste Autumn in the air, and I know that I don't have much more time to use our ranch for shooting. This is why when I booked Taylor Vixen and Jenny Hendrix, I decided to make use of some of my favorite outdoor areas for them.

My mother recently painted one of our balcony's doors bright pink, and when I saw it I instantly thought "1980". I'd seen some Michael Jackson t-shirts at my local mall, and I thought that perhaps I'd pay a small tribute to the King of Pop through my work. Jenny has the perfect platinum blonde hair and big lips, so I decked her out in tons of pink: pink jewelry, pink sunglasses, pink underwear, pink legwarmers and heels! And of course: bright pink lips. I've only met Jenny a few times and I forgot what a fabulous ass she has until she shed her clothes for me. Jenny's put on some weight, which she needed, and her curves are just gorgeous. I hope she keeps them!

I had Taylor come late because we were doing a night shoot (I'll get to that in a minute) so the next set was a girl/girl with the two of them. We have this little garden shack that my mom decided to stucco (she's on a bit of a stucco craze right now), and when we added dried palm leaves on the roof, sand on the ground, and some funky furniture, it came out looking like a quaint little beach shack. Throw in two hot curvy girls and you've got a beach party!

The sun disappeared right towards the end of the stills (this time I shot in reverse and did the video first since I knew I would lose the light), so Taylor and I only had to wait for about an hour or so until it was pitch black, which is what I needed for the solo I was going to shoot with her.

I have to admit that I stole my idea for Taylor's shoot from Mark Daughn, who shot me in this scenario. I loved the idea so much that I just had to try it with a professional model, and Taylor seemed to be the perfect candidate. I put her in a long sheer dress, and lit her straight on with a ring flash. A head on both sides behind her back lit her and the smoke I created in the water by throwing in large chunks of dry ice. The result was an un-earthly bubbling pool, with huge wafts of smoke drifting across the water towards Taylor's feet. It photographed incredibly well and I am still very thankful to Mark for showing me this trick-- I hope he doesn't mind that I am now sharing this with the world (ok well maybe with the five people who read my blog). Even though Taylor was freezing cold, she cheerfully put the wet dress back on herself so we could do the whole thing over again for video. But as I tried to convince her at the time, it was all worth it in the end!

Nyomi and Her First Fetish Shoot

2009-09-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Nyomi Banxxx and I have been trying to book a shoot together for a couple of years now, so when we finally had a date set I was thrilled. Nyomi is a tall, statuesque and incredibly beautiful black woman, with rich chocolate brown eyes and an gorgeous, shapely ass. She's been in the business a few years, so when I approached her about shooting fetish, I was quite surprised to hear that she'd never done it. I have to admit that revelation did make me a bit apprehensive, since fetish work is a little more trying than just standard modeling, and it's a type of shoot that really isn't for everyone. I find that usually one hates or loves bondage, spanking, and all the other trappings that go with a fetish shoot. But Nyomi was cheerfully up for it, even when I (gasp!) suggested we do anal toys. I must say I love a girl who's willing to go the extra mile!

One of the best things about booking a fetish shoot is that I get to go to my favorite store, Stockroom in Silverlake. They've got an amazing collection of toys, gags, and all kinds of inventive knick-knacks for your kinky pleasure. Plus they've got a latex collection that just makes me swoon. I went there with a plan to deck Nyomi out in some white latex, to contrast with her beautiful dark skin. Unfortunately they didn't have what I was looking for, so I switched material and found some great red leather gear. I got a red Bolero straight jacket and spanking skirt (that means the butt is exposed for easy paddling options). But my most exciting purchase of the day was a white bunny tail butt-plug. I was so excited about this item that when I brought it back to the office, I held it near my chest during a meeting, stroking it like the caricature evil villain strokes his cat (think Dr. Evil in Austin Powers). Also please keep in mind this was BEFORE the item was used! ;)

So when I got Nyomi strapped into her outfit, I had to help her walk in her towering heels on the uneven brick patio to the set. Her skirt was tight and didn't allow much leg movement, and her arms were in a straight jacket so if she fell there was no way she could brace herself against the cement. That alone made me a bit of a nervous wreck during the first half of the shoot. Of course, one doesn't realize how much they need their arms until they don't have them-- Nyomi couldn't shoo flies away from her face, or pull wayward hairs out of her lipstick. And if her nose happened to be itchy-- oh well!

After a few poses the straight jacket came off. But just when Nyomi thought she might get somewhat comfortable, I brought out the gag. It was a new one I'd been dying to try-- an open ring that exposed the inside of her mouth while forcing it open. Nyomi had never worn a gag before, so she eyed it warily, but she let me put it on her. After that, the shoot became a bit of a game of charades-- since Nyomi couldn't actually speak, she had to do some improvised sign language to try and communicate with me. Once I started putting her in certain poses, the drool came. She seemed a bit horrified at first, but I tried to explain to her that drool was actually really hot and that she should let it flow-- the more drool, the better. I'm not so sure she agreed with me but she couldn't stop it anyhow, so I got my way. Oh, and to top it all off, by now she had a big glass dildo up her ass. But even though she was bound, uncomfortable, drooling with a synthetic penis in her butt, Nyomi was in good humor and laughed about the situation. But when the gag finally came off, she admitted that she was NOT a fan of such things in her mouth.

So of course, for the very last position, I had her put it back on. Not only did she have to put the gag back in, there was still the grand finale-- my prized bunny-tail butt plug! Mind you, the plug portion that was to go in her ass was not small either, though she didn't voice a single complaint about it. So Nyomi assumed the position: kneeling with her hands tied behind her back, a gag in her mouth, and a bunny tail in her butt. And art was made. ;)

I have to say that for Nyomi's first fetish shoot, I did put her through the ringer a bit, and she was a great sport. The end result was some gorgeous photos, which you can see on HollyRandall.com!

Superstar Lisa Ann

2009-07-14T15:12:00.000-07:00

Since my mom used to shoot Lisa Ann quite a bit back in the day, I've known Lisa for quite some time. Fairly recently Lisa made a comeback into the adult industry-- and it wasn't one of those lame comebacks so many porn stars do where nobody really cares and they do about two movies and then vanish again. Lisa is a true bonafide star-- she was a big name back in the 90s, and she's an even bigger name now. She runs her own talent agency and is one of the highest paid per scene porn stars out there.

Lisa is one of those insanely organized people who gets up at 6 AM, works out for god knows how long, puts herself together immaculately: complete with very classy yet sexy outfits, and goes about her hectic schedule with ease. Even if I drag myself out of bed at 6 AM and make it to the gym, I still take forever to get ready in the morning and I hardly look cute with my standard outfit of jeans, and a t-shirt and no makeup. Lisa's the professional woman I really wish I could be, though I know I will never be that organized OR polished.

So when Lisa told me she'd be willing to do a content trade shoot with me, I was overjoyed. To get a big name like Lisa on my site is quite an accomplishment for me. I wanted to pull out all the stops for Lisa, so I hired the amazing styling company Chic Little Devil, as well as renting a gorgeous location in Highland Park. I see a lot of amateur-looking hardcore on Lisa, so I really wanted to portray her as the elegant, classy lady she really is.

For the boy/girl we got Tommy Gunn, who Lisa has apparently known since before he got in the industry. Their familiarity with each other translated to some great chemistry onscreen. But what I was really excited about was shooting the solos, so I could have some one-on-one time with her. The second set was a classic long gown in front of a mirror, but the last one I wanted to experiment with a ring flash. A ring flash gives a very fashion-y type look, as it flattens the depth of the photo out. It's not something you want to use all the time with nudes, but it's a fun light to play with every once in a while. Though I had my doubts on how it was working while I was shooting Lisa, after I prepped the photos I really liked the result. Definitely a totally different look for Lisa!

The energy of the shoot was great, with our webmaster Brian shooting behind-the-scenes, as well as some really sexy solo videos. Though while I was shooting I was nitpicking about everything (like I usually do), in the end I was really satisfied with everything. It was nice to work with a real pro, and I think that comes across in the photos. Of course, everything will be up on HollyRandall.com. Come check it out!

Hustler 35th Anniversary Party

2009-07-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

Typical to my true hermit self, at first I didn't really want to go to the Hustler 35th anniversary party. Even though I was promised that it would truly be quite a spectacle, I'd rather stay home and work, or take a bath and go to bed early. But I knew that it was a good idea, professionally, for me to go. I don't want Larry Flynt to forget what I look like and it also might be a bit insulting for me to not attend my biggest client's biggest party of the decade. So I got my hair and makeup done, and found a dress I could actually squeeze my 15-lb heavier frame into.

The theme of the party was "Heaven and Hell" and it really was the impressive spectacle that I'd been promised. At the "pearly gates" was a half naked man on a golden throne, flanked by two beautiful naked angels (Jayden Cole and Charlie Laine). It was a bit cold out, so when I hugged Charlie I rubbed her back and tried to warm her up. Jayden was actually fine with the temperature (mental note, I can shoot her in cold temperatures and she won't bitch at me). A few further steps in and Renee Perez and Sunny Lane were dancing on elevated stripped poles, with guests crowded around them snapping photos. As usual, I spoiled the scene by stopping the girls from dancing so we could say hi, catch up, promise to shoot together soon, etc.

It look me almost an hour to get inside as I kept stopping to say hi to people I hadn't seen in ages-- models, editors, journalists, photographers, etc. I ran into Nadeen, the magazine's photo editor and Mark Lit, a photographer for Hicks Photography. I've met Mark before, a couple of years ago at AVN, but we're supposed to be sworn enemies since Hicks is probably our biggest competitor, and we're always struggling to get new girls before the other one does. Well, I know at least I am! But I couldn't help be charmed by his boyish sweet demeanor, and by the end of the night any supposed animosity I was supposed to have against him melted away and I gave him and JP (another Hicks employee, who I shared a long philosophical conversation with) a ride home from the party later that night. It's really difficult for me to dislike people, especially when they're so nice and fun to hang out with. We parted ways as friends, not competitors, and that felt really good in my soul. Sometimes I forget that we're all human beings just trying to make a living, not vampires trying to viciously claw our way to the top of the porno pile. Or maybe it's me who's the vampire and I make up these rivalries in my head.

So finally I made it inside to spread my endless love to more people, and right on cue my mom took my hand and dragged me to say hi to Larry Flynt. As usual, he was a little hard to get to-- not necessarily because he was surrounded by people trying to talk to him, but moreso he was surrounded by strangers trying to get a photo of him on their camera phone. He was flanked by more naked angel girls, of course. I got a chance to say hello, and told him that I'd found an old slide photo of him and my mother holding me as a baby. It was really amazing to see how things have come full circle and how I've esentially taken my mother's role at Hustler, and I promised him I'd blow the photo up and send him a copy. If I can remember where I put the damn thing...

Inside were more naked girls, a S&M corner with whips and chains, lots of food, and my dermatologist! Dr Lancer has been Larry's doctor for years, and I just discovered him about a year ago. I kid you not when I say this guy is the best damn dermatologist in Los Angeles. He had some friends who were in town so he treated them to the spectacle that is the Hustler party scene. I would imagine that they will never forget it. Even for a seasoned porn pro like me the party was impressive-- so I can't imagine what it looked like to a normal person who doesn't work in this industry.

All in all I had a blast at the party, and I'm glad I dragged my hermit-ass out to it. Since I'm not used to wearing heels very often, my feet were definitely in hell by the end of the night, but my spirits were up in heaven. I have to say, it was one HELL of a party! ;)

See more of my photos from the Hustler 35th Anniversary Heaven and Hell party at my website www.hollyrandall.com.

Exciting New Affiliate

2009-05-27T23:42:00.000-07:00

So I've been admiring the retro-esque erotic site www.sugarcut.com for some time now. It's run by a female who posts galleries and video clips of gorgeous, edgy, and very hip adult content. I've discovered sites and models I've never heard of before, and I always find work that inspires me, and frankly, makes me a little envious at times. So when I wrote to her a few weeks back asking if she'd be interested in featuring some of my new work for hollyrandall.com, imagine my disappointment when I didn't hear back. Is my work not interesting enough, edgy enough? (Funny how doubt and insecurity finds it's way in through any little perceived rejection!)

So my webmaster encouraged me to try again, this time with a free username and password. Much to my delight the webmistress wrote back, and seemed very happy to feature my work! And then I got this nice little promotional surprise: http://sugarcut.com/holly-randall/

My ego has been reinstated. Thank you sugarcut.com, I really am very flattered! ;)

The Most Magical Place on Earth?

2009-05-13T21:21:00.001-07:00

Note: I wrote this almost a year ago, before I met my husband (we got married last week). The funny thing is, we had a small civil ceremony and then went to Disneyland the next day as a sort of "honeymoon", if you will. I guess fairytales do come true!

Leave it to me to turn a trip to Disneyland into a depressing reminder of how far behind me my childhood really is. As my friend Christopher paid for our entrance and the clerk handed us our tickets—or as she called them, “keys to the magical kingdom”—I should have been looking forward to visiting an amusement park that I had not been to since I was about 10 years old. And I was excited, but this excitement was mixed with a profound sense of disappointment that I could not enjoy “the happiest place on earth” without remembering how much happier it was twenty years ago, before adulthood stole the rose-colored glasses I saw the world with as a little girl.

As I walked down Main street, the stores seemed to scream greed and commercialism with their overpriced products. When I bought ice cream from the middle aged woman at the corner stand, all I could do was imagine her miserable existence in a dirty apartment with cheap linoleum floors, peeling wallpaper, and too many cats. Those dressed up in Mickey Mouse costumes were probably angst-ridden teenagers, sweating profusely in their stuffy getups and glaring at the surrounding children through their smiling masks. And the girl that sang in a fake Mardi Gras band was probably counting down the days until she could once again stand in an eight hour line for American Idol tryouts, only to once again be rejected and sent back to this mortifying job of singing at an amusement park for disinterested tourists. Oh yes, I was sure that everyone around me was as disillusioned with this place as I was. And I’d only just arrived about 20 minutes ago.

I took this attitude with me as we climbed into the seats for our first ride, Pirates of the Caribbean. This used to be my favorite ride—as a child I really felt like I was sailing the high seas, witness to a chaotic, yet exotic and thrilling world. Now it was not the same. As much as I admired the lifelike qualities of the animated human figures, instead of imagining them as real, I questioned what kind of material they made the skin out of. As I gazed around the dimly lit tunnel I wondered how often they had to clean the ride, how they did it, and at what times they could do so. How different the ride must look with all the lights on! I was just about to turn to my friend and ask him if he thought the water was heavily chlorinated when I realized that the ride had come to an end. I was quickly ushered out of my seat by an angry man dressed as a pirate, irritated that I did not move fast enough to make room for some people who might actually appreciate the ride.

Next was the Haunted House. This ride was a close second to Pirates, and it had truly frightened me as a kid. It begins with those in line crowding into a circular elevator. The lights dim, a spooky voice echoes over the loudspeaker, and the elevator begins to descend. Once we hit the bottom, the room turned pitch black and the sound of thunder was loud and sudden. Kids all around me screamed, and a little girl next to me began to cry. I rolled my eyes—is this really an appropriate ride for children? And why do we have to be crammed into this room like sardines?

It was the same experience for me as Pirates—instead of enjoying the spectacle, I considered the technical logistics that went into making the ride. I remembered how impressive the ride was when I was 10 years old, and compared that to my current disposition of unmoved disenchantment. It was depressing.

But not all the rides were as gloomy. Space Mountain was just as—if not more—fun as I’d remembered. Yes there was a brief moment that I considered what the jolting might be doing to my back, but that was soon cancelled out by the pure exhilaration of being catapulted forward through complete darkness. Only on the fast and jostling roller coaster rides could I be physically shaken out of my slump and forced to have a good time.

As time passed I allowed myself to let go of the expectations I knew were unreasonable, and I began to enjoy myself. But I wasn’t completely immune to the intermittent attacks of sad nostalgia. The last one came when Christopher and I, on our way out, visited the princess store to buy a present for my friend’s 5 year old daughter, and his one year old twin nieces. As I gazed around the room, I noticed several fairy-tales couples painted on the walls: Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, all with their perfect, smiling princes.

I saw that Christopher was standing beside me, looking up at the figures as well. “This is what’s wrong with women!” I exclaimed. “We’re raised on these fairy tales where we’re supposed to be rescued by Prince Charming, who is going to bring to us the happiness we were never able to have on our own. I spent a long time waiting for the guy to save me from myself, someone who would fix my life and make me happy. I finally learned that nobody was coming to rescue me, and only I could save myself. I firmly believe that you have to build your own happiness without a man, and then when you do meet someone he adds to your life, but doesn’t necessarily define it.”

Christopher agreed, adding: “Well also for men, it sets up this unrealistic ideal we are supposed to live up to. I’m far from perfect—how am I ever supposed to measure up to Prince Charming?”

As much as I agreed with him, and believed in my own feminist political statement, I was still drawn to the glittery girlishness of the souvenirs that surrounded me. I picked out a beautiful and opulent blue dress, decked in sparkles and matched by a shimmering tiara. I held it up against me and stood in front of the floor-length mirror. If I bent my knees a bit and squinted my eyes just right, I could almost see the little girl I used to be, staring back at me. I smiled at her. Perhaps she was still there, hidden somewhere among the cynicism, distrust, and worry that cluttered my life.

I know that I cannot bring that little girl back out today. But that’s OK, because she will wait, dormant, deep inside of me. She will be patient, because she knows what can bring her back to life. When I am able to revisit Disneyland as a mother, I think that she will re-emerge amidst the laughter and the wonder that the children I hope to have some day will experience here. I think that then, through the eyes of my children, I will once again believe in Disneyland as the happiest place on earth.

So I caved... I twitter now...

2009-04-12T22:13:00.001-07:00

I decided I would "twitter" after a few people requested to follow me-- but I figured I would only start once my site had launched so members could follow me as a prep for shoots, book models, and actually work on set. So if you are interested in following the steps it takes to run my business, you can find me at: www.twitter.com/hollyrandall

The Rape Fantasy

2009-03-24T01:27:00.000-07:00

From my Xbiz column:

When I was a kid, my sexual fantasies began playing themselves out in the lives of my Barbie dolls. Sure most of my dolls had extensive lesbian relationships, but what I really felt I had to keep to myself were the rape scenarios I’d orchestrate between Ken and Barbie. Being a kid and thus new to and unsure of my budding sexuality, I thought there was something wrong with me. I would never admit to anyone that my Barbies behaved in such a manner—that is, until I started working in porn and became more open about my sexuality. What surprised me is that when I admitted these childhood sexual fantasies to other women, I discovered that many of them did the same thing. And I’m not just talking about porn stars and other women I work with in the adult industry—I’m talking about all kinds of women, all across the board.

The human psyche is fascinating and multi-faceted to the point of being confusing. And in no other way does the mind display its bizarre ability to twist reality into a sick pretzel than in its sexual fantasies. The funny thing about sexual fantasies is that at first reflection, many appear to be quite contradictory to one's lifestyle. For example, almost every dominatrix I know says her main clientele consists of wealthy, powerful businessmen who come to them to be degraded and whipped. And what about female fantasies, are they more subdued and well, normal? Apparently not. If women were to fantasize sexually about what they really want in their man, then shouldn’t it be something like: Brad Pitt draws us a candlelit bubble bath, whispers flattery in our ear as he soaps up our back, and then takes us into the bedroom for some romantic, sweet lovemaking. And afterwards he whips up a soufflé, cleans the kitchen, and offers to take the kids to soccer practice. That would be the ultimate fantasy, would it not? Well, it doesn’t appeal to me. And it doesn’t appeal to countless other women, either.

When I conduct behind-the-scenes interviews on my shoots, one thing I’ve noticed is that almost every girl I interview has some form of the “rape fantasy”. Whether it be bondage, hair-pulling, rough sex, or simply being called bad names in bed, many women like to be man-handled. Of course, one could jump to the simple conclusion that since these are porn stars, we can blame these rape fantasy tendencies on a multitude of reasons: everything from an attempt to liven up their jaded perception of sex, to sexual abuse so many assume they’ve endured in the past. If these girls were the only people with this type of imagination, then the “why” behind these fantasies would not be particularly interesting, and would indeed seem quite obvious. But this is not the case. All kinds of women have rape fantasies, and this ranges from the good Christian housewife to the everyday college student. Many of my friends who work in law, medicine, or retail admit to these daydreams. A recent analysis of 20 studies over the last 30 years indicates that up to 57% of women have rape fantasies, and since this is an embarrassing subject for most women to admit to, the numbers may be even higher than that. Regardless of the study findings, it’s unmistakable that rape fantasies are much more common than one would think.

So why do so many women fantasize about something that nobody wants in reality? According to Matthew Hutson, who writes a blog for Psychology Today, there are several possibilities. One he terms as: “Sexual Blame Avoidance”. Huston says: “Women are socialized to not seek out sex lest they be considered tramps, but if they're having sex against their will they can avoid guilt.” Conversely, he also cites “Openness to Sexual Experience”, where those who are more sexually experienced and comfortable with their sexuality, and are open to a variety of sexual fantasies. I think that most of the porn stars that I’ve interviewed fall into this category.

We can also look at this phenomenon from a biological point of view, and for a moment look at ourselves as just another mammalian species. If we consider ourselves in the department of our unpretentious carnal tendencies, then one can argue for the biological predisposition to surrender. Just as the male lion pursues the female and then subdues her in order to mate, perhaps humans are, deep down, programmed to follow the same courtship. Of course, we are intelligent beings who rise above our animal instincts, and the societies we’ve constructed simply does not allow for men to chase women around and mount them unwillingly. I certainly don’t think it’s a good idea—but when you picture those nature programs where the lion is roaring atop his mate and biting her neck—well, that’s kind of hot, don’t you think? We cannot deny that despite all of our intellectual trappings and technological achievements, we still have the blood of animals pumping through our veins. We may have evolved as a species, but we are still only advanced primates. Also this type of rough play taps into another organic physical reaction: the sympathetic nervous system. When we’re startled into a sense of danger, our fight or flight response is activated, injecting us with a jolt of adrenaline. And that can make for some very exciting, heart-pumping, sweaty sex.

For me, it’s all about release. I run my own business and have several men who work beneath me, so I often take on the role of the alpha-female. I am in charge, and like to have everything at work under my control. I might even be a bit too controlling, which is why I swing so drastically the other way in my personal sex life. When I’m intimate with a man, I don’t want to be in control—in fact, I need to relinquish power in order to enjoy myself, and just let go. And isn’t that what sex is all about—a mental and physical release from the every day?

Overall, I feel it is important to stress that just because a woman has a rape fantasy, doesn’t mean that she actually wants to be raped. A genuine rape is a horrific and extremely frightening experience. Real rape is more about a show of power and violence than it is about the actual sex. But in the context of the rape fantasy, even though the scenario deems her out of control, the woman in fact has control as she is the one constructing the parameters of the situation. And so if the woman actually plays out this scenario with her partner, her real self has power over a set-up in which her fantasy self is powerless. So orchestrating a rape fantasy with another can actually be a sexually empowering act, because by doing so the woman is taking control over her sex life and getting what she really wants, even though the fantasy may suggest the opposite. Another thing—acting out the rape fantasy suggests a real sense of trust in your partner, whereas an actual rape is a trust-shattering experience. This is a very important distinction.

Personally, constructing the rape fantasy scenario and then acting the part is just too involved. The premeditated nature of it all takes the excitement out of the act. But when we go to bed, I’d love to hand over the reins every once in a while, and give you complete power over me. You’d just better know what you are doing.

All Dogs Go To Heaven, Right?

2009-03-21T00:30:00.000-07:00

NOTE: I wrote this a few weeks ago, so a bit of time has passed since Pudding's death. She is in peace, buried in the doggy graveyard next to her mom and dad.

So last night was not exactly the best night... My parents' dog Pudding, is old and has been visibly getting worse recently. We all realized she was on her way out, but when I arrived at the ranch last night I found my mom sitting out back with her. I immediately realized something had happened and this was Pudding's last night with us. Apparently she'd had a stroke earlier in the day and had wandered off into the bushes to die alone, as dogs do, but my mom brought her up to the house and put her in her bed. She was breathing very rapidly and her eyes were clouded. Tears sprung to my eyes and I crouched down next to her and stroked her thick, orange fur. She smelled of death and didn't respond to me at all.

For hours I refused to leave Pudding's side, even though I had to get up early the next morning to drive to a location photo shoot, and though my mom begged me to leave our dying dog's side I would not budge. Pudding began to have what appeared to be stroke after stroke-- she convulsed and every muscle in her body tensed as she arched her back and let out a silent scream. She bared her teeth and cried out softly as she drooled uncontrollably all over me. It was the saddest and most horrible thing I have ever seen. I was hoping to witness a quiet, peaceful death, but that was not the case. My mom called the vet, and as suggested, injected Pudding with a low amount of horse tranquilizer to ease her suffering and hopefully let her slip away quietly. I sobbed as I whispered in her ear that she was going to the "big ranch in the sky" and that her parents-- who were also our dogs and had passed years before-- were waiting for her. I promised her that there were more biscuits than she could ever eat and rabbits everywhere to chase. It felt almost silly to talk to a dog in such a way, but for some reason I felt like I needed to tell her something. Every time she had another attack I was convinced she was done and would finally stop breathing, but she continued to struggle against death as the night wore on. I don't know why I was so determined to stay with her until she died-- for some reason I felt I had to be there to watch her draw her last breath, and bear witness to the moment life finally left her body. But she would not die, and so reluctantly I let my mom drag me up to bed and shove a sleeping pill down my throat so that I would fall asleep and not stay up crying all night.

I woke up at 5:30 AM after a fitful night's sleep filled with nightmares, and crept down to Pudding's bed. As I'd expected-- and as I'd hoped-- she was dead. Her teeth were bared and there was foam at her mouth. Her head was twisted to one side, her body stiff with lifelessness. I adjusted her head the best I could, closed her mouth, and covered her with her blanket. Our boxer dog Milton was still by her side, as he had been all the while. He has his own doghouse in the front of the house and never sleeps in the back with Pudding, but that night he stayed by his dying companion's side until the very end. I'm not entirely sure that dogs can feel compassion as we humans do, but there was some kind of instinct in Milton that kept him with Pudding all night. Though I don't know if she noticed, I was greatful to him for that, especially since I felt guilty for leaving her alone-- though she probably preferred it that way.

I walked out into the backyard and listened to the songs of the early morning birds, the rustle of mice in the brush, and the jangle of the collars of my other dogs as they swarmed around my legs and jostled each other, playfighting over a toy my dog Bonnie had found hidden somewhere. Overwhelmed with gratitude that they were still alive and healthy, I smiled sadly and thought how Pudding would never join them again. But as the sounds of the stirrings of life all around me indicated, life does go on. As animals are born, they also must one day die. I've never been very good at dealing with death-- it is a subject I fear tremedously and have a big difficulty facing. And though I have never dealt with the death of someone very close to me, and though I grieved the passing of my dogs more than I grieved the passing of grandparents that lived on the other side of the world, I know that a time will come when I must face the real tragedy of the loss of a loved one-- of an actual human. I wonder how I will deal with it? Will I be strong, support the others who grieve that loss, or will I be unconsolable, curled up in the corner of my bedroom, crying endlessly? I don't know, but I suppose I will find out when that happens. In the meantime, I think I handled my dear Pudding's death better than I thought I would, and that gives me hope that when faced with death, I will learn to appreciate life a little more.

Pushing the Envelope a Little Too Far?

2008-11-26T22:33:00.000-08:00

They come in droves. Young, hungry and naïve, the new breed of porn stars aren't really "stars" at all, but rather girls attracted to the porn industry for its promise of the quick, easy buck.

New girls are popping up all over the place, in numbers I've not seen before in my 10 years in the industry. And often they disappear as quickly as they appeared, with a several thousand dollars stuffed in their pocket from few hardcore, low-end gonzo scenes they performed in during the week they came out to L.A. from some small town in the Midwest. And often, you never hear from them again.

What happened to the few, the proud, the real pornstars? Back in the Golden Age of the adult industry, the performers were mostly a small community of women who truly loved sex and enjoyed showing their passion for it on camera. They were often older than the typical just-turned-18 fresh meat that I see so frequently these days, and lasted much longer.

Let's compare. Steven St. Croix told me a story of a production he was a part of that was filmed in Europe over a decade ago. Every evening after work, the crew and talent would hang out in the bar at the hotel they were staying out. After a few drinks and general friskiness all around, Steven and one of the girls began to have public sex in the bar. When the host came over to protest, the girl grabbed him, unzipped his pants, and began to blow him. Needless to say, he stopped protesting. These were the kinds of girls that put the word "star" in "porn star" — women who just liked to have sex, and a lot of it.

Now, let's take the girl I shot several months ago: 18 years old, from Illinois. Right at the beginning of the day, she wanted to know how long she had to be there and specifically how long the scene was going to be. When I told her 45 minutes to an hour to film the whole thing, including dialogue, she made a face. She was used to doing the quick in-and-out gonzo scene, which she said only took 20 minutes to film.

The idea of having to work twice that amount of time for the same amount of money didn't please her — never mind that the quality of the content I shoot is much higher due to the careful lighting and styling of the set. All that mattered to her was that she was going to have to put in more time than she'd expected, and she'd have to go home with only a thousand dollars for a 45 to an hour time period. Poor thing.

I think that the change in technology, or more directly, the advent of the Internet, changed the face of the adult industry in many ways, but not in such an obvious way as the quality and the quantity of the girls. Cameras got cheaper and smaller, and thus accessible to the average person. Websites suddenly provided an opportunity to start up a business that was not only fairly cheap to initiate, but was quick and quite profitable in its return. Suddenly everyone could be a pornographer! It was no longer limited to those who could only get in if they knew someone, and had then spent years climbing up the porno social ladder. The market became flooded with new upstart companies, the job opportunities were abundant, and though new girls were in high demand, they were also disposable.

With high-end productions pushed to the side to make way for amateurish, extreme content, we created a market for what I call the Porn Olympics. It wasn't about the beauty and sexiness of the girl anymore, it wasn't about the chemistry between the performers, or the setting, or the quality of the production. Now it was a question of how far you could push the envelope: how many men can you have sex with in one film, how many dicks can you fit in your orifices, how many ways can you eat cum? In the attempt to one-up the last guy, scenarios I couldn't even dream up became, well, somewhat normal. Ever stuck live eels up your ass? Try it! Why just swallow a guy's cum when you can fry it up in an omelette and eat it that way? How about a new twist on enemas: do one with milk and squirt it out of your ass and into another girl's mouth. Yum!

What happened to good old-fashioned, passionate sex scenes? You know, the ones with the beautiful women, the gorgeous settings, the beautiful clothes and superior lighting? Oh that's sooo boring…. I mean, who can get off to a scene if someone's head doesn't get pushed into the toilet while getting fucked from behind?

Perhaps I'm just being defensive because I don't shoot extreme hardcore, and I feel slighted that the quality, not to mention expensive, content I produce has to compete with all the crap out there that some nobody shot in their garage, with average looking girls who did their own makeup and hair. And why wouldn't I be nervous about this trend?

As the younger generation grows up thinking that double anal is your typical run-of-the-mill sex act, the straight up boy/girl vaginal penetration scenes that I shoot becomes vanilla and boring. Not that I don't enjoy shooting — and indeed watching — double-penetration scenes at times, if it comes down to the fact that I have to resort to producing pissing and vomit scenes to make a buck, I'm out of this business. I won't shoot something that I find personally distasteful, and there's a lot of porn out there right now that is just that (for me).

I can only hope that as the pendulum has swung towards the extreme, that gravity will bring it back to swing my way, and eventually it will settle in a place where there is still room for me in a world of bukakkes and golden showers. After all, I don't want to take away people's right to make the kind of movies that appeal to their taste, but I also don't want to get buried in the rush to push the envelope so far that porn is no longer sexy, but just downright ridiculous.

Krossing the Desert with Kayden

2008-11-09T23:57:00.001-08:00

OK, OK-- I know the title to my blog is really lame, but I just couldn't resist. If you haven't already guessed, I shot Kayden Kross in the desert this past Friday. I'll write a complete blog about this for Sex.com, but just a few notes and some sample photos for here: it was a fucking PAIN IN THE ASS. I now realize how easy my job has been in the past-- rolling into the studio (a whole 10 minute drive from my house) at 8:30 AM, shooting in a comfortable, air-conditioned, easily controlled environment unti about 6 or 7, and then making it home in time for "The Simpsons".

But ever since my decision to start my own production company (I filed for my corporation last week, woo-hoo!), I've wanted to shoot stuff different from what I normally do-- I wanted to get out of my comfort zone and push myself. And that's exactly what I did on Friday.

We drove in the night before, but didn't arrive at the motel (a 3 hour drive away) until about 1 AM. Since I'd had a Red Bull for the drive, I didn't fall asleep until probably about 3 AM. Call time was 5:30 AM. Yeah, that's 2.5 hours of sleep.

We get to Bombay Beach (which isn't really a beach, it's actually a deserted mini-trailer trash town by an enormous lake) around 10 AM. Talk about poverty-- wow. I will never complain about my house ever again. I can't believe people can live in conditions like that.

Anyhow I shot Kayden in an abandoned shell of a home, dodging curious neighbors (they'd seen us drive in) who come by for a "look-see". It's just a mild inconvenience until the Park Ranger shows up. After I promise them that I'm a student shooting a project, and that of COURSE everyone is keeping their clothes on, they leave me alone. I can't say I wasn't really nervous, though. After that close call we decide to move location, but we don't know where to go. My friend Beatrice told me that there are tons of spots to shoot, but I'm not sure where she's talking about. I have no reception out there so I can't get her on the phone. So we just get back on the highway and drive.

Eventually I pull off on this unmarked road and head back for the lake. We find a pretty private spot near some abandoned shacks, including an old, dilapidated public restroom. It smells, but hell, every place smells around here.

But the locations are amazing and Kayden's an incredible model. I couldn't be happier with the photos. It was the perfect day-- well it would have been if my truck hadn't gotten stuck in the sand and cost me $300 to get it towed out. But even with that unfortunate occurrence, $300 is the cheapest I've ever paid for a location fee!

Travel Blog pt. 3: Last Days in Edinburgh

2008-10-10T20:09:00.000-07:00

It's 4 AM and this time I'm not so sure I can blame the jet lag, bur rather the 3 red bulls in a row that I had tonight. Tom came up to Edinburgh and we went out to dinner and then to a pub with a few of his friends. When I go out to a bar with people, I find I have to get totally wired on energy drinks to compensate for the fact that I'm not drinking booze. I'm not so sure it's the better alternative (actually that's a lie, anything is better than me drinking again), but what the hell, I've got to have at least once vice.

It was great to go out with some local Scots, but between them and Tom's heavy Manchester accent (plus the unfamiliar slang they use) I'm constantly asking people to repeat themselves. But the best part came when Tom told me a joke at dinner that I just loved: "What's brown and sticky?" Answer: "A stick." I found this joke totally hilarious, so when we joined his friends a little later I asked him if I could tell them the joke. He said of course, so I asked: "What's brown and sticky?" I paused for a moment for dramatic effect and then exclaimed: "A brown stick!"

Tom almost fell out of his chair laughing, and when I asked why (it was, of course, his joke, and he hadn't seemed that excited about it when he told it to me the first time), he pointed out that my answer "brown stick" was redundant, since the answer "stick" was enough to imply an object that was brown and stick-like (i.e. sticky). Anyhow it's not very funny when I have to explain why it was funny, but to me this was an absolutely comical revelation and I couldn't stop laughing. I still have a fit of giggles every time I think about it.

Earlier in the day I went to a salon across the street to get my nails done, and had a very nice woman as my manicurist. In fact, she was nice enough to tell me her whole history with her ex-husband who left her for a younger woman, and the two kids he refuses to help her raise. She then asked me about where I was from, and when I told her LA, I was descended upon with questions about whether or not I saw celebrities, and who had I seen? When I told her that yes, I see celebrities from time to time, she wanted to know especially if I'd seen Jennifer Aniston. When I told her I had not, she seemed disappointed, as she felt that she and Jennifer shared a common bond in their divorces from husbands who had left for another woman. She then went on to tell me about how great she thinks American television shows are, and I'm thinking she's referring to shows like Dexter, Gray's Anatomy, South Park-- things that I would think constitute quality programming (you may not think South Park fits into this category, but you'd be mistaken, says I). But noooo... she's referring to high brow shows such as Judge Judy: "Aye, we need a woman like 'det 'ere in Scotland," and Montel Williams "Such a saint, I think he's lovely, like a real 'ero." Christ-- are shows that like what's representing the U.S. here in Scotland? Actually, come to think of it, that would be pretty accurate, which is pretty sad.

Anyhow I leave tomorrow for Stirling, and I'm going to miss Edinburgh! This B&B has been very nice, and I've gotten quite used to this small room. Really, who needs all that room when you're just sleeping in here? It's been quite an excercise in keeping me un-slothful, as I can't toss my clothes all over the place. I'm especially going to miss the sweet, elderly dalmation here, who reminds me of Poe. I've been worrying about my dogs-- I really hope my dog-walker is getting them out! Ok I think sleep is finally settling in, so I'm off to bed, as I have to get up in 3 hours. Ick-- at least Stirling is only about 30 miles away!

Travel Blog pt 2: Edinburgh

2008-10-08T14:52:00.000-07:00

So now I'm on my own. I'm a little nervous as I leave Manchester and the hospitality of Tom & Co. but I'm also excited to explore Scotland, and on my own terms. Traveling on my own means I can do what I like when I like, and I don't have to take into account my traveling companion's desired agenda. But it also means that I will be alone for the next two weeks. I'm hoping this will result in some kind of epiphany of self-discovery.

I board the train set for Edinburgh, and of course I have to travel in style, so I booked first class. To be fair, it wasn't that expensive, and it is a 3 1/2 hour trip. And I love trains, so I wanted to sit in a quiet, uncrowded cabin so I could enjoy my trip. After we passed through the city, the scenery turned from gray streets cluttered with square red brick buildings to rolling green hills and lots of sheep. The sky turned darker and rain began to fall softly. As the softly sloping hills grew into more dramatic mountains, the large patches of green grass became choked with trees. Small clouds of mist clung to the foliage, drifting slowly across the treetops like wandering ghosts.

When I arrived at the train station, I asked for directions from a station official. I couldn't stop smiling at his heavy accent as he pointed me towards the cab stand. I really was in Scotland!

When I arrived at my bed & breakfast, a charming little place on a quiet residential street, I was greeted by it's owner and her dalmatian. He made little grunting noises that sounded exactly like my dog Poe, and it made me a little homesick for a brief moment. But what I saw next made me really homesick.

My room. Is the size of a closet. Oh. My. God.

How the hell am I supposed to spend the next 4 nights in this room? I looked in dismay at my overflowing luggage and wondered how the hell I was going to put all my stuff in here. There wasn't even enough floor space for me to open my suitcase. Not only that, my bathroom was down the hall-- not adjoining the room. It was private-- so at least only I would be in there, but I was a little dismayed all the same. But once I unpacked all of my stuff, I found that I could quite easily fit it into my little room and my bathroom. One positive thing about the lack of space is that it would force me to keep everything put away and tidy, since there's no room to leave a mess.

I've already made some friends out here-- two really nice women have "adopted" me, and I met them for coffee this afternoon. They're both a riot and it's really nice to have contacts in a strange city. Julia is from Pennsylvania, and Rosie is Scottish, born and bred.

Today I really lucked out with the weather-- it was sunny and blue skies all day. So I decided to start my day with a visit to the famous Edinburgh castle. Since it's off-season and it's a weekday, it was fairly uncrowded for being probably the most popular tourist destination in Edinburgh. But there were still too many people getting in my pictures. Of course, I needed those people to take photos of me in various spots-- traveling alone has the disadvantage that you've got to ask strangers to take your photo, and I felt like such a dorky tourist doing so. But I am on vacation, so I'm fully entitled to be a dorky tourist, right? Below are some of my shots from the castle.

The gates to Edinburgh Castle

This is the dungeons where they kept the prisoners of war.

Next I wandered down to Holyrood Palace, where the Queen still takes up residence in the summer. This is also where Mary Queen of Scots lived for a time, before she was forced to abdicate her throne and was sent to England. They won't let you take photos in the state rooms, but my god the decorations! The tapestries, the paintings, and the furniture! I loved all of it, but of course her 4 poster sumptuous bed would look a little odd in my room. One can still dream, though.

The ruined abbey was absolutely phenomenal-- I just love crumbling old buildings. The plaques on the ground marking the graves were still there. Next was the gardens, which needless to say were just gorgeous. There's many acres behind the palace, where you can hike up to a phenomenal view of Edinburgh. I plan to tackle that tomorrow!

After my tourist fix I did a little gift shopping for some people back home. Afterwards I met Julia for dinner, she took me to a place called "Yum-Yums" (if you know me you know that's my favorite phrase for food so that in itself is pretty funny). She said there's a really hot guy there she calls "Mr. Yummy". Sadly, he was not there, and so I drowned my disappointment in a ham and cheese pizza. If you think Edinburgh is pretty during the day-- it's really gorgeous at night. The whole place lights up (my one crappy photo really doesn't do it justice).

Well it's late so I'm off to bed. Goodnight!

2008-10-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

So here I am in my hotel room, at almost 3 in the morning, unable to sleep. I know I can blame this on the combination of jet lag and way too many cups of tea, which seems to be the only thing people drink around here. Well, except for beer, and since I can't have any of that, I'm doubling my intake of tea in respite.

But it's nice to be here. I'm in Manchester, at the "In the City" music conference at the Midlands Hotel. Why am I here, as I'm one of the most least knowledgeable people on the planet when it comes to music? Well, apparently I'm here because I know a little something about porn. You see, I've been asked to speak at this panel called "The Filth and the Theory", which is basically a panel about how the adult industry has been at the forefront of internet technology, and how we've used the world wide web to our advantage. The music industry, instead of embracing the internet as many porn companies did, instead turned their backs on it. I was told by someone who worked at Warner Brothers, that when the internet leapt onto the scene in '94, they asked "How can we kill the internet?", not "How can we use it to our advantage?" So, strangely enough, I'm here as a positive example and someone who can possibly teach the music industry a thing or two about developing an online business model. Sounds a bit strange, doesn't it? I thought so too, but they were willing to pay for my flight out here, so I'll talk about whatever the hell they want me to talk about.

I have to admit though, that I almost didn't make it here. I got held up in customs and received a hell of a drilling (and no, not the good kind, though that does give me a great idea for a porn scene!). But really, I was so dismally prepared that I deserved it. I forgot the name of the hotel I was supposed to be staying at, I didn't have my contact at ITC's phone number, and I didn't have any printed itinerary of my trip or any proof of my plane ticket out of Glasgow. Really, they should have have held me over, but the guy was nice and let me through, even though he told me he really shouldn't do so. All I can say is that I was glad I was wearing my low cut shirt with my amazing push up bra. Though I can't say for sure if it was my tits that got me through customs, I don't think it hurt.

So I finally get into the main terminal and my ride is nowhere to be seen (little did I know he was in immigration, arguing with the office who refused to tell him anything about me or where I was). Bewildered, I roamed around a bit-- I could catch a cab, sure, but I didn't know where to tell him to go. So I beg the guy at the information desk to go online and look up the ITC website, and tell me where the hotel it's located at is. Thankfully, he's very friendly and takes pity on this poor lost American girl, and I get my hotel's name and location.

So I make it to the hotel, and the guy who was supposed to pick me up finds me, very flustered and upset that we missed each other. Though I'd been annoyed that nobody had been at the airport to pick me up, it's obvious this man has been through a lot to try to find me, so how can I be upset with him? And besides, it's time for a proper English breakfast: poached eggs with fried tomatoes, sausages, and heaps of bacon. One can never be unhappy with pig grease dripping down your chin. God, I'm going to get so fat on this trip. And guess what? I don't care!

So after sleeping almost all afternoon in my very nice room (with a deep bathtub-- a massive bonus for my aching back), Tom, who coordinates the panels and invited me to the show, wants to take me out for a free meal at the MMF (music manager's forum) dinner, in a large tent in the middle of the Manchester Food and Drink festival (yes there are two festivals going on at once). And by the way, he's pretty cute. I don't know why I imagined he'd be older and fat and balding, but he's none of those things. He's also thoroughly amused at my lack of knowledge regarding music-- he introduces me to all these big players in the business-- men who have managed bands like Pink Floyd, and men who have signed bands like Depeche Mode. But I have no idea who any of these people are so I'm not exactly star-struck. But that's OK, I think I make him feel smart. Which, by what I can tell, he is anyhow.

The meal at this dinner is free, which should make it automatically delicious, but it really is delicious. Some fairly famous chefs prepared the meal (don't ask me who, this is another area I know nothing about), and they somehow made fizzy ice cream-- it feels like Pop Rockets in your mouth. Weird, but good!

After the meal we stand outside and smoke (well, I watch everyone else smoke, because I'm not a smoker). Everyone laughs at how bundled up and cold I am, and I fire back by telling them that I was at the beach 4 days ago. They all roll their eyes at me, and I continue to tease them by telling them that it will probably still be warm when I return to LA, and I'll be going back to the beach when I go home.

Another thing: I've been reading Kate Fox's "Watching the English" again on the flight out here. It's an anthropological study on British culture and their mannerisms, unconscious behavior, and unspoken rules of socializing. I can't help but take note of subjects Fox brings up in her early chapters: constant commentary on the weather, the perpetual undercurrent of ironic humor, and the excessive politeness of the English. My parents are British so I see a bit of it in them, but they've been Americanized somewhat in their 35 years in the US, so it's funny to watch their culture play out live and in color in front of me. I absolutely love the British, and having read a book that breaks down their behaviors into scientific terms only makes them more endearing to me.

The next day is my actual panel, and in true I'm-on-vacation-and-I-have-jet-lag fashion, I sleep until almost noon. My panel is at 4 but I'm meeting with the other members of the panel an hour beforehand, to go over what on earth we're supposed to talk about. I meet Jerry Barnett, owner of Strictly Broadband, the biggest VOD site in the UK. It's really interesting to discuss the differences between porn in the UK and the US. For example, did you know that even though hardcore porn was only legalized in 2000, prostitution is legal in the UK?

So our panel starts, and joining us is a man who works in the music business, but as he actually suggested the panel, he did a lot of "research" on porn. Even though he admitted that he enjoyed his "learning experience", the points he brought up showed me that he really did have a vested professional interest in adult entertainment, even though he might've been getting his rocks off on the side. Just goes to prove that not all research has to be boring!

Surprisingly enough, I'm completely nervous about doing this panel. I've done several panels at home, at porn events, with "my people". But I'm at a mainstream event, with non-porn people (civilians, as we call them in porn-talk). For the first time in my life, I feel a little judged. Back home, I'm the sweet "Pollyanna" of porn, but here, they probably just view me as a sleazy pornographer. Or do they? I can't tell, because the room is packed and people look very serious, like they've actually come to hear me talk about something of grave importance. I had no idea that one day things I have to say about my career could actually be considered important. The panel goes well, though I'm happy to let the guys do most of the talking. I don't really know how to draw the parallels between the music industry and my sordid little world, since we rely on that "impulse buy", where a guy purchases a membership to my website because he's got a raging hard on and he wants to see the rest of whatever teaser attracted him to my site in the first place. You can't really say that music inspires the same "desperate need" that porn does. But I do my best by suggesting band-created websites that charge a low annual fee, and in exchange give the fans direct access to them through blogging, behind the scenes outtakes, and exclusive first listen to new songs, or remixes of older ones. I hope something I say if of some use to these people.

After the panel, I'm interviewed by a couple of different groups, but I've had so much caffeine (I blame the endless pots of tea) that I've got a raging headache. I go to my room and lie down. After a few hours of napping, Tom calls me and says Yvette Livesey (the owner and founder of ITC) is taking a bunch of us out to dinner. Yvette is sweet, successful, and downright gorgeous-- possibly the perfect woman? I know I'm jealous, so she's got to have it all. And she pays for it all too-- about 20 of us had a fantastic meal at a very expensive restaurant, and she picked up the tab. I don't even want to know what the total ran, but I know it must've been in the thousands (I mean dollars, when you convert the British pound, which in itself is depressing).

Afterward everyone wants to go out and drink and watch all the bands who are in town for this conference play. But I'm tired again, and honestly I can't really sit in a pub all night. I haven't been out on my own in a foreign country, and especially not since I've been sober. Everyone keeps offering me drinks, and they seem puzzled when I say no. Britain is a big drinking culture, and this used to be one of my favorite places to drink. There's nothing I liked more than having a Stella straight from the tap at a authentic, old-fashioned pub. But I know those days are behind me, and if I picked up a drink again, it wouldn't be the way it used to be. I wouldn't have the kind of fun it seemed that everyone else is having around me. I'd drink way too fast (and feel terrible about picking up again), black out, and wake up the next morning with a hangover and that awful feeling that I did something terribly embarrassing last night, but I won't remember anything. So it's best I bow out gracefully, and early, so I can come back to my hotel room, get a second wind, and blog all damn night.

I leave for Scotland on a morning train tomorrow, so I'm going to try and get some sleep now. I'm now going to a country with nobody to (not) meet me at the airport, and nobody to take me out to dinners and live shows. To be honest, I'm a little nervous. But hopefully that will dissipate in the excitement of seeing a new and beautiful place. This time tomorrow I'll be in Edinburgh, and hopefully by this time tomorrow I'll actually be sleeping!

Penis Envy

2008-10-02T16:09:00.000-07:00

So let's talk about a very serious subject. A subject that probably occupies far too much time in the heads of most men, and a subject that my job admittedly probably makes into an ever bigger deal than it really should be. I'm talking, my friends, about penis size.

If there is one physical trait that men measure each other up with more than any other, it's definitely penis size. It's the one wild variable that can either break or make a man's self-esteem, regardless of his other physical traits. If a guy is fat and unattractive, a large penis will undoubtedly lessen the impact of these evils. And if a man is handsome, tall, and athletic, a small penis will override these fantastic qualities to a point where he may as well wear a paper bag over his head and spend the rest of his life on the couch, eating Twinkies and watching bad reality TV. Right?

Wrong. Or so I believe. And when it comes to the very delicate matter of penis size, I am very thankful I'm not man. Because this is one issue that can't be helped. As a woman, if I'm born with small, floppy tits, I can go out and buy myself an expensive boob job and wear low-cut t-shirts will all the confidence in the world. But a man with a small penis? I don't care how many "supplements" you take, or how often you use a penis pump, but your 4-incher isn't going to grow to porn star size. A friend of mine likes to joke that men who want to "take it slow" in a relationship don't actually respect you, nor do they want to "get to know you" before you two jump in the sack. He's just waiting until you're emotionally invested until he shows you his small penis. He needs to know that you've entrusted him with your deepest, darkest secrets before he introduces you to tiny Tim, which several weeks of chick flick nights and foot massages ago, might have sent you running for the hills.

And I know that the adult industry doesn't really help men with this conflict. I know that when men watch a porn and see these gorgeous women begging for the guy's "big, fat cock", that they can't help but compare themselves to this stud that seems to be giving these girls so much pleasure. It can seem that the only way to truly please a woman is to walk around with Mandingo-sized proportions. But you can breathe a sigh of relief guys, because I'm here to tell you that this is simply not true.

As ironic as it may seem, I think that growing up with parents who are in the porn industry, and now being in it myself, I've secured a pretty healthy distinction between the fantasy of porn sex, and the reality of real sex. Because I see the way most performers act in between rolling: the girl is bored and examining her nails, while the guy is left to his own devices. He is feverishly masturbating, trying to get hard so we can finish the scene and go home. When the cameras aren't on, she usually isn't paying the guy any attention whatsoever. But once I yell "action" again, suddenly she can't get enough of his throbbing cock. That is not real sex, and as a viewer, it's important to your sex life to make that distinction.

I often find that men I date are concerned that I desire well-endowed men, because I am around them so much at work. But I would like to make this clear: I do not wish for, nor do I fantasize about, porn-sized cocks. In fact, large penises actually hurt me, so I prefer them to be of average size. There's nothing sexy about having your cervix continually poked. In fact, I find that men with large penises often aren't very good in bed. It's almost as if they believe the size of their penis alone constitutes a good time, and they don't really have to put any effort into it themselves. They have large penis, so the sex has to be amazing, right? It's as if they can just lie back and procl.. "Jump on and enjoy my unusually large manhood! Who needs to lift a finger with this gift to womankind? Not I!"

But when I look back at some of the best sex I've had, rarely has it been with a large penis. It has been with passionate men who desire to please me, or intelligent partners who know how to engage in sex of the mentally adventurous. Or simply, it has been with men that I was truly in love with.

There are women who are size queens out there, but so what? Why do you think they are size queens? Probably because their vagina is so large and stretched out you could throw a football through it. Save yourself for the tight girls who will appreciate you for not ripping apart their vaginal walls. And who might actually appreciate you for more than just your penis size.

Goodbye 29!

2008-09-20T00:40:00.001-07:00

*Note* I wrote this a week and a half ago, just before it turned midnight on my birthday*

I have my 20s only for one more hour. I don’t know why I have been clinging so desperately to the last of those years, but it has been a struggle to accept that I am turning 30 and entering into a new decade of my life. But I feel that I have accepted it now, and I am ready for my future as a woman, no longer a young girl.

Being wrapped up as I am in a culture and a career that celebrates youth and physical beauty, the prospect of getting older and thus getting closer to a time where I may have to rely on my character rather than my looks, has been daunting. It is funny how I see the marker of this transition in the fact that when I login to myspace tomorrow, my age will read "30".

It seems such a trifling fact, but that’s what I keep thinking about. And I know how annoying my griping about turning 30 has been to my friends that are already in their 30s, and 40s, and so on. It’s like when I used to bitch about turning the paltry age of 25– now when I hear models complain about that, I want to punch them in the tits.

But I have a good feeling that my 30s will be much better than my 20s. Not only can I not remember most of my 20s, but at that age we are so insecure as we try to define who we really are and what we want in life.

I feel I am so much closer to loving myself as I am, and appreciating what I have, rather than wishing I was someone else or wanting what I don’t have. Everyone tells me that your 30s are some of your best years. And now, finally I think I believe them.

What is beauty without the confidence to go with it? What is your health without a responsible dedication to preserving it? Yes, I am looking forward to this new time in my life. And besides, there’s always botox.

Branching Out

2008-09-19T17:26:00.000-07:00

Branching out...

So I made a very significant, and difficult decision last week. I decided, with the blessing of my parents, to start my own production company to launch hollyrandall.com as a member site totally separate from suze.net. This is the opportunity for me to finally branch out on my own, and attempt to achieve a distinctive style and separate business from Suze. I'm well aware that by following in my mother's footsteps that I pretty much just adopted her style, and didn't really get a chance to develop one of my own. I've done a lot of soul searching and changed a lot in these last two years, and I feel that this is the culmination of my growth as not only a photographer, but also as an individual. I don't know if turning 30 was the tipping point, but this has been a long time coming, and I've been ready for it for quite some time.

I'm still going to be working for my parents full time, but since Suze wants to start shooting again and production has slowed, it seemed like the perfect time to do my own thing. I know that this may not seem like the best economic climate in which to start my own business, but I am confident that I can build a fairly successful one. I am starting off with no financial backing from my parents, which is really the way I prefer it, but that does put me in a position in which I start off shooting on a shoestring budget. I welcome this challenge as well, and I am quite sure that I can still shoot and produce good content without having to throw a lot of money around. I'm working on a content trade basis with girls who have websites, and I've already got some great models lined up to shoot when I get back from Scotland in late October. (Note: any girls wanting to do content trade please contact me!)

I'm not actually going into this venture to make a shitload of money so I can buy a yacht and build and infinity pool (though that would be nice) but I do think it will be a really good learning experience in teaching me how to become a better businesswoman by building a company from the ground up. I also think that the freedom which I have now to shoot what I want, combined with the challenges of not having the suze.net budget, will push me to become a better photographer. I am telling you all of this because I did my first shoot for hollyrandall.com yesterday on Celeste Star, out in an abandoned dairy farm in the middle of nowhere. I have a few photos from the shoot to show, and I'm pretty excited about them. I know they're a little wannabe fashion-y, and possibly not really jerk-off material (which, let's be honest, is the market I need to appeal to), but I will be doing more natural stuff as well. I realize that most guys may not find big pink eyelashes attractive. I just got a little overzealous on my first shoot, I guess!

I cannot describe the freedom and happiness I feel from producing my own shoot, completely unfettered by the restrictions I have been held to before. As always, I had great help from my friend and coworker Kaitlyn, as well as the amazing makeup artist Peggy, and let's not forget the uncomplaining and incredibly talented (and limber!) Celeste Star. Even though this is an independent venture, I still need the help of good people around me!

Even Nice Jewish Boys Masturbate

2008-09-19T17:21:00.000-07:00

"I'm a bad Jew."

I'm walking with my friend, an ex-porno journalist who has finally shunned my sordid world so as to devote himself fully to Orthodox Judaism. He's lamenting at the fact that though he dedicates himself fully to his religion, that he cannot seem to rise above his carnal desires, which is namely, masturbating to porn. And it's not just your vanilla couple-type porn. It's some pretty dirty stuff, and I know this because it's the same kind of porn that I'm into.

I would like to tell him that the only reason he is into hardcore pornography is because he was raised in an ultra-religious, sexually repressive home. But then what is my excuse? My parents are atheists and agnostics respectively, and as hippie-type pornographers they provided me with a very liberal environment to grow up in. Contrary to my Jewish friend, I found porn a little too early (through no fault of their own, I was a sneaky kid) so perhaps it's that Freudian theory about childhood development: potty-train a child to early or too late, and either way they can become anally-retentive. In our case, I was potty-trained too early, while my friend seems to have been potty-trained far too late.

But I don't tell him this as we're walking to shul, because I'm getting a little nervous. I've never been to a religious service in my life, much less a conservative Jewish one. But on my quest for spirituality I'm open to almost anything, and I need material for my column. But let's pretend I'm more inclined to the former reason, and that I'm not here for base journalistic purposes.

When we arrive, the religious service is already over but there are lectures that run all night. It is the Jewish holiday Shavuot so the tradition is to stay up all night, keeping busy with the readings of the Torah. We arrived in time for a lecture on gossip, and how the Jewish religion weighs in on the subject of a loose tongue. Of course this is ironic, as my friend was the undisputed king of porn gossip, and has given it up for the purity of his soul. A soul which still struggles against it's desire to watch porn.

I looked around the room, and said to him: "Look at all of these people here—it is mostly men, yes? I can guarantee you that there is at least one—if not many—individuals here who also watch porn. Even as a religious man I do not think it is wrong for you to masturbate. God doesn't care that you spew forth a few knuckle-babies then and again. To be honest, I think it's perfectly natural and healthy. What He cares about, if you really believe in Him, is that you are a good to others and try to be the best man you can be. That's all any of us can really ever do."

I think perhaps he was momentarily reassured by what I said, but I can imagine that when he is alone with his congregation, or his Rabbi, the shame will seep back in and he will feel guilty again. I went home, enlightened somewhat with knowing a bit more about an unfamiliar religion, but happy that I did not feel the pressure to be so pure and chaste. I was glad that the spiritual path I have chosen does not dictate that I adhere to a strict sexual code.

When I arrived home that night, I checked my email before going to bed. Much to my surprise (and delight), I received this email: "Holly, this may seem strange, but did I see you at temple tonight? I am a member of your website and a big fan of your work. I would have come over to introduce myself but I was much too embarrassed to admit how I knew you. Anyhow, keep up the good work, I love your stuff."

Who knew I could have been so right on? Triumphantly I forwarded the email to my friend. I hoped that if not providing at least some amusement, it would relieve his remorse a little. We are all sexual beings, and it should comfort him to know that even a good Jew masturbates.

Sex.com Blog

2008-08-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

Because I'm writing a bi-weekly column for Sex.com under a currently exclusive basis, there's a lot of material I'm putting out that I can't post here on my personal blog. So go to Sex.com (it's free!) to check out some of my newer columns! :)

No I Won't Be Your Fluffer

2008-07-28T15:19:00.001-07:00

From my monthly Xbiz column:

It may sound funny to suggest that a pornographer has moral boundaries, but I do have certain lines that I won't cross. But the day came when I'd reached one of those lines — one I really didn't want to cross. At this moment, it appeared that either I was going to have to compromise my integrity, or I was going to lose money on a failed photo shoot. What's disturbing is that I was almost prepared to do the former.

I was shooting a centerfold for Playgirl magazine, and what I'd always dreaded, but what I'd always suspected, had happened. The model, expecting some kind of female fluffer on set, discovered that I was to be the only girl present that day. Yes, I was the photographer, but why couldn't I perform double-duty?

"You know Holly, you're going to have to fluff me today," he commented as he appraised my unappealing getup of jeans and a loose-fitting sweater, complete with a face devoid of makeup framed by a messy ponytail. "I'm serious," he continued, when I rolled my eyes at his suggestion.

I tried to ignore the insinuation that I actually give a hand job — or worse a blowjob — to this man, but he wouldn't drop it. Not that I particularly blame him, since I know he was concerned about his performance and wanted a successful photo shoot, as did the rest of us. But I just wasn't prepared to go to any lengths to get it.

"Skye Blue shoots the Playgirl videos with her top off," he mentioned.

Skye Blue is a former porn star, so already many more people than just my model that day had seen her naked. But I didn't mention that, instead I said: "I don't really have Skye's tits, you know."

He glanced at my B-cups. "Yeah, but you'll do. I mean, I can make it work with just what you've got."

"Oh, thanks a lot," I replied sarcastically. "But it doesn't matter, I'm not taking my top off."

"Well you could've at least worn a see-through shirt," he grumbled.

Apparently my wearing a modest outfit that day was a problem — something I really hadn't considered as I got dressed that morning. But really, should I have? Of course ethically, one shouldn't have to consider turning a man on to get the job done, but that's exactly what so many women do in the job market today, whether or not they do so consciously. And perhaps the goal isn't necessarily as cut-and-dried as mine would be: to give one's subject a raging hardon. But it's the same game we all play: to construct some kind of sexual power over our male coworkers. Mine is just much more direct.

Would it have been more professional of me to wear even just a low-cut blouse? I'm not that old yet, and I'm not particularly unattractive. As the only female on a set where a man must get an erection for solo photos, shouldn't I have taken into account that I would be the only live female body around? Should I have spent more time in front of the mirror today?

Luckily I had my stack of trusty porn magazines with me. Once my subject was aware that I was indeed keeping my clothes on, he focused his attention to the spread of photos of hot women doing dirty things. Of course I'd only brought magazines with my layouts in them, because hey, my ego still wants a small part in getting this guy up.

So my minor crisis was averted, my dignity still intact. And this is not to say that the women I photograph who do take their clothes off for men have no dignity, but they've set the parameters of how far they'll go in terms of expressing their sexuality publicly. They are exhibitionists, I am not. Everyone has to define their own limits.

I think the situation of compromising one's self-respect comes from crossing that line you have set for yourself and doing something you are not comfortable with. As individuals, we all have our own ideas of what we deem personally acceptable, and at the end of the day, the only person whose opinion matters is our own. We all have to draw the line somewhere.

XRCO Awards

2008-07-06T23:17:00.000-07:00

From my Xbiz column:

"Suze! Over here!"

"Gosh I haven't seen you in so long! What are you doing here?"

"Wow you actually came out for a night!"

The calls and clamoring for her attention came from all sides the night of the 2008 XRCO awards, as Suze made her way to the red carpet, her first night out at an industry function in years. Though she had been absent, her presence still followed me like a ghost when I arrived at any kind of porn party, as I was always asked where my mother was, how she was doing, and if she'd actually retired or if that was just a rumor. My answers were always a predictable testament to her unpredictable nature: "She comes and goes—sometimes she swears she's done, and then the next week she's booking shoots and wants to get back in the game."

But on this night she was definitely back in the game—even when she had to whisper in my ear to ask who a particularly familiar model was because Suze has, as she calls it: "oldztimers." I'm pretty sure it was only because my mother was in attendance that we were rushed to the front of the line, given headway for the red carpet, and seated at a plush booth inside where the traffic of people was at its highest. From that throne Suze could call out to any passerby to come and pay homage, and pay homage they did.

Suze was at XRCO to accept her award as a Hall of Fame inductee, so when Nina Hartley and Amber Lynn went up on stage to present her award, she was ecstatic. Suze giggled like a schoolgirl as she rushed up to accept while Amber was still in the midst of her speech that praised her old friend and favorite photographer. Suze hadn't seen Amber in many years, so it was a heartfelt meeting when they embraced on stage and Suze pulled Amber's boobs out of her dress. Apparently Suze had done the same thing many years ago at the same awards show when Amber was a top starlet in her prime. It was a fitting reunion.

When Suze grabbed the microphone, made her short speech and thanked everyone for her "old farts award," everyone was at the bar drinking and few people were listening, which had been the pattern all night. But I was listening, and I was very proud. I smiled to myself knowing that the celebrity up on stage, the woman who had been the most popular attendee at that evening's festivities, was my mother. To many she is Suze Randall: a pioneer, a legend, an artist, and an unforgettable personality. But to me, she's mom.

As I looked around at all of the "pretty people"—bleach-blonde babes with big boobs, inflated lips, and botoxed foreheads, I could really see why my mother was so much more beautiful than the models that surrounded me. Suze is beautiful because she's never had a nip/tuck of any kind, or injected botox or fillers into her face. Her hands are rough because she's used them to work her way up to where she is now, her face is weathered from years of being outside in the sun, riding her horses and enjoying life. She was able to have a career based on her looks, and use it as a springboard to a position behind the camera where her career was based on her talent, toughness, and determination. She was able to age gracefully, and not fall prey to the unrealistic standards of beauty that keep so many of us hating ourselves. My mother is beautiful because she has better things to worry about than trying to hold onto a transient quality that leaves all of us, eventually.

And, after all these years, Suze has retained her beauty and popularity. And why not, she helped some of the biggest names in the business look even more beautiful and become even more popular, did it on her own terms and is loved for it. If I can achieve even half what mom has done in my career, maybe one day I'll find myself up there accepting a similar award. And I hope she'll be half as proud of me as I am of her.

Am I Old School?

2008-05-25T00:47:00.001-07:00

For someone who rarely goes out at night, the first week of February was quite the party week for me. Two nights in a row I was invited to events put on by XBIZ.

Though XBIZ hosted both events, they were conspicuously different.

The first night was the XBIZ 100 dinner, a deliciously decadent meal at the Ritual Supper Club in Hollywood. The invite-only gathering was for those important to the adult industry and XBIZ. The second evening was the highly anticipated XBIZ Awards.

The first evening at the XBIZ dinner was fantastic. I hadn't had such a nice time at an adult gathering for what seemed like forever. The venue was nice, the staff shockingly polite (this was in Hollywood, remember), and the crowd low-key and sophisticated.

The attendees were the crème-de-la-crème of porn — Tera Patrick, Jay Grdina, John and Karen Stagliano, among others. These were the movers and shakers behind some of the most powerful companies, these were the people who run the adult industry. Nowhere to be seen were ditsy 19-year-old gonzo girls falling over themselves to get inebriated at the open bar, or coked-out webmasters seeing who can talk the loudest about their fabulous new affiliate programs. This dinner was for the old-school respectable players in our industry.

I sat with the Staglianos, and for the first time in my life, actually had a sit-down conversation with John. I've known his wife Karen for a little while, and have grown very fond of her. John was a little more elusive, and little more intimidating (he is, after all, the creator of one of the best adult films of all time, "The Fashionistas"). I was sure he had no idea who I was, nor cared to find out.

Not true.

In fact, he claims one of the best parties he ever went to was my parents' New Year's bash in 1984. He said my parents were intelligent people, and he had enjoyed some stimulating conversations with my father in particular. I immediately pictured my dad and John Stagliano hanging out on the back patio, drinking port wine and discussing the fall of the value of the Indonesian rupiah. (Not that my father or John know anything about Indonesian currency, but it's a subject that sounds particularly academic to me, and something that I would know absolutely nothing about.)

At the end of the night, I left the dinner satisfied that I worked in a very professional industry.

The next evening felt quite different. At the XBIZ Awards, I was asked to present onstage, something I'd always wanted to do. This event was especially meaningful to me since last year I was in rehab and unable to make it, so I considered this to be my rebirth into the adult limelight.

I arrived with my two closest friends Aria Giovanni and Aimee Sweet, and at first the venue was fairly quiet. We were ushered into the VIP area in the back, where the drinks were free and really delicious appetizers made their rounds. I sat down and chatted with my new favorite Bree Olson, ran into the always-bubbly Casey Parker, and talked to Raven Riley about a possible photo shoot. Suddenly my buzzer went off, signaling that it was time for me to head to the green room to wait my turn to walk onstage and present.

In the green room I met my two other co-presenters Flower Tucci and Bjorn Skarlen. Though I'd met Flower before, I'd never heard of Bjorn, but I had been told he was a big-deal web guy and therefore a good person to know. We huddled around to discuss what exactly we would say onstage which surprised me, because I think I expected a teleprompter by the stage that would give me all kinds of witty one-liners to throw out to the crowd.

Flower offered to squirt on the crowd, but was afraid of being thrown out for it (don't forget there was an open bar, which is a wonderful incentive to stay awhile).

I don't know exactly what I was expecting, since I hadn't been out of the VIP area since the show had begun. Foolishly I think I anticipated a hushed crowd, sitting demurely in their seats, quietly awaiting the results of such a thrilling category as ours: Web Host of the Year.

But it was not even remotely like that. When we walked out onstage I immediately realized that few were really paying any attention — the crowd was loud, and mostly clamoring around the bar. We began our little shtick. I said something while opening the envelope, I don't remember what, but I'm sure it was pretty stupid. The winner was Webair, and some guy I didn't know came onstage and delivered his acceptance speech to the crowd.

I realized then that the XBIZ Awards was a show that mainly honored webmasters, a crowd of people quite different from the old-school DVD producers from the previous night's dinner. These are two markedly different groups — the webmasters are mainly young computer whiz kids whose skills granted them a sudden income way beyond what they made in any previous line of work. This, coupled with their youth and easy access to beautiful women, gives them an exaggerated sense of self-importance that really manifests itself after a few drinks.

The DVD producers are people with stories — those who remember both big AIDS scares and the Traci Lords underage crisis, and who are now watching the once-dominant DVD market crumble under the massive weight of the Internet juggernaut. It's a strange time, and one of immense change. I was brought up old school, as both my parents have been in the business for over 30 years. But I know my future is in the hands of the webmasters, this new youth culture that is taking over the adult landscape.

So, though I'd rather hear the stories about illegally shooting porn in the '70s and being on a constant lookout for the Vice Squad, it's the people who were nominated for the XBIZ Awards that hold the future of my company and my website in their hands. So please, tell me again why your affiliate program will change the industry as we know it?

If It's Too Loud, You're Too Old

2008-05-25T00:25:00.001-07:00

There's a saying that goes: "If it's too loud, you're too old." I remember seeing it on bumper stickers advertising my favorite heavy metal radio station as a kid. And I remember at the time, thinking to myself that I hoped I'd never get that old. Well if the bumper sticker is to be believed, at the age of 29, I am now too old.

I am at the hip and trendy LAX nightclub, where the model agency A List Talent is throwing a big industry party. Yes, the music is too loud. And the club is too crowded, too dark, and it's all happening too late in the evening for me. For someone who usually goes to bed around 9:30, the party didn't even start until an hour past my bedtime.

I see a lot of people I know, models mostly. But it's mainly packed with strangers, most of them much younger than me. Well, actually since I'm still in my 20s (just, I know, but humor me) and the youngest these people could legally be is 21, there's at the most a eight year difference. Later on in life this may not be such a glaring gap in age, but in your 20s, it's a lot.

I'm sitting at my booth, watching cute young girls dancing on the next table, wearing skimpy skirts and low-cut tops. They look really sexy, and they look like they're having fun. I gaze down into my glass of sparkling water and sigh. I really don't fit in here, not anymore. Did I ever? Sometimes I like to envision myself as a fresh-faced young girl, sexy without trying too hard. But I realize that I have moved past that stage—that if I got up and joined the girls who were dancing on the table, I would feel like someone who's trying to be the "cool mom", and I would definitely be trying too hard. And though I realize that the actual age gap is not that immense, mentally it feels like the Grand Canyon is separating me and the brunette shaking her ass about eight feet from my left.

But there's no sour grapes here, no resentment against the pretty young girls who are making me feel old. I smile at them, like a mother would smile at her child playing with other children in the sandbox. I'm glad they're having a good time, but I'm just not in their world anymore. And it would be sadly pathetic if I tried to be.

I see my age manifested not in the tiny lines beginning to form under my eyes, or in the lessening excitement at the prospect of my birthday. It's watching the people around me grow up—such as my siblings—that makes me feel old. My little brother has passed the BAR exam and was just sworn in as a lawyer, and my baby sister just turned 21, which means she can drink—well legally, anyway.

Today I met an old friend from high school for lunch, someone I hadn't seen since our graduation. He went from the stoner kid who sat next to me in English class and cracked jokes about our teacher, to a sophisticated, sober businessman who runs an art gallery in Pasadena. We exchanged stories about friends from our respective cliques and what they were doing now. His friend who used to flirt with me in photo class and once got punched by my boyfriend for lifting up my skirt is now an Orthodox Jew, married with children. My best friend from high school, whose partying rivaled mine, is a medical student at USC. I could never have looked around at these kids on the day of graduation and imagined these lives for them. Nor could I have imagined where mine would take me.

As my drinking problem continued to progress and the drinking habits of the people I grew up with lessened, I kept waiting to grow up, as they seemingly did. I figured that one day I would wake up, and I would suddenly have matured and grown out of my partying ways. But that never happened. And as my 30s loomed ahead, I got the sudden panicky feeling that it wasn't going to.

But it was this inability to emotionally mature that forced me to take probably the most adult action of my life: surrender to the fact that I was an alcoholic and undertake the difficult task of changing my ways, and ultimately my life. Some people mark their transition to adulthood by starting a family, or by embarking upon a serious career. I made that transition by attending rehab and throwing myself into working on my sobriety.

A year has passed and I've grown so much during these last 12 months that I scarcely recognize the girl I was before. Only with my head cleared from booze and pot can I see how incredibly childish I really was, even though I had all the semblance of being a matured woman. I've realized that the world doesn't revolve around me, that there's more to life than getting wasted, and that I have to face my problems, not hide from them in a bottle.

This wasn't the way I expected things to turn out, but my adolescent dreams of the perfect life are just that: adolescent. And there's no room for that kind of idealism in the real world. Do I still fantasize about the future: a perfect husband, beautiful children, my dream house on the Venice canals? Of course I do, the childlike imagination is still there, but I'm not going to throw a temper tantrum if things don't turn out my way. And that tells me that I've grown up, not grown old.

I may not be able to hang out in nightclubs and dance on tables, but I remember what those days were like, and I have to say I'm glad they're over. So what if my idea of the perfect evening is cooking dinner with friends, watching a movie at home, and relaxing in the tub while reading Martha Stewart magazine and listening to classical music on my bathroom stereo? And if it's not too late, when my favorite Bach song comes on, I might just crank up the volume.

I Learned Something Today...

2008-05-25T00:24:00.001-07:00

I learned something today: double-dongs don’t float. We were shooting Jana Cova and Jana Jordan at our newly refinished pool up at my parent’s ranch, and Chris posed the question of whether or not the double-dong they were using would float. It sure looked like it would-- it was clear and made of a rubbery substance. Clear, rubbery things float, right? When i answered Chris’ question with a flippant: "I don’t know why don’t you throw it in and see," he did exactly that-- and it sank like a stone to the bottom. Nobody wanted to dive in and get it, but you can’t leave a 12-inch double-dong at the bottom of a pool. Thankfully my father, who swims after his hike every morning, generously agreed to dive to the bottom and retrieve it tomorrow. This was one of those times I wish my life was a reality TV show. ’

"Hey dad, I’m sorry about this, but Chris threw the double-dong in the pool and it sank to the bottom."

"Oh you kids. I’ll fish it out tomorrow during my morning swim. What should I do with it?"

"Just give it to mom, she can bring it to the studio for me next week."

I guess most people don’t have these kinds of conversations with their parents. Or so I’m told.

Deep Thoughts at Target

2008-05-25T00:23:00.000-07:00

It was a simple weekend errand run to Target. It wasn't supposed to be a journey into the conflicted psyche of the modern woman. There I was, wheeling my shopping cart around the crowded store: an obstacle course of families and their squealing children playing hide-and-seek. Foot traffic pushed me into the books section, and I found myself confronted by pink and turquoise covers all hailing the life of the single woman. The isle was crammed with titles that boasted: Single and Loving It: Living Life to the Fullest, and Better Single than Sorry: A No-Regrets Guide to Loving Yourself and Never Settling. But as I wandered down the aisle, I noted the books began to take a defeated turn, with titles such as: The Surrendered Single: A Practical Guide to Attracting and Marrying the Man Who's Right for You, and Single by Chance, Mothers by Choice.

I've noticed that as there is a steady trend of women stepping into more powerful career roles, there also seems to be a spike in the number of single women. From personal experience, I would imagine that the abundance of unattached women most likely stems from their new status as powerful members of society: liberated from their previous role as a docile mate in patriarchal household, they have a means for supporting themselves, and consequently the option to be more selective about their mates. Women no longer have to depend on the income of a man to keep food on their table and shelter over their heads. Of course, there is also the theory that most men are intimidated by powerful women, but I'd rather give men the benefit of the doubt here.

I, for one, always dreamed of being an assertive career woman: as a child, I would often set up my bedroom as an office, and pretend I was the boss of some obscure company. I made imaginary phone calls to my subordinate employees, often yelling at them for not getting the job done right. As a little girl I was shy and non-confrontational, but I knew that one day I would grow up to be a powerful woman, and people would listen to me (and dammit, obey me!).

Well that day has come, and as these books seem to predict, so has a long spell of single-hood. Work has become my love, my obsession, and my first priority. Who has time for a boyfriend? Who has time to date when I work late almost every day, and check my email first thing in the early morning hours? I briefly dated a young man who had no job, and his persistent desire to spend more time with me interfered with my busy schedule. He didn't last long, needless to say.

Not only have I been single for about 80% of my life, I have also lived alone for most of my adulthood. In the absence of a "man about the house", I have learned how to fix toilets, replace the large bottle in the water cooler, and repair broken sprinklers (OK maybe that last one is a lie, but I'm sure I could if I actually tried). I sleep with a large hunting knife beside my bed, and in those moments of paranoia when I think there is an intruder in my house, I pick up a baseball bat and check every room and every closet by myself.

But the absence of a man in my life was sorely felt earlier this week, when I discovered I had rats. I hate killing animals, but I didn't see any way out of this except to exterminate the rodents before they grew into a happy family and threw parties in my walls late at night. I bought the standard spring traps, and went about setting them where evidence showed the pests had been. The trap kept going off as I tried to put it in it's place, and I was petrified at the possibility of losing my fingers. After several close calls and high pitched girly shrieks, the peanut butter from the bait pedal had been sprayed all over my face and in my hair. When I looked in the mirror as I washed my hands, I noticed one long string of peanut butter hanging off my nose. It waved back and forth like a white flag, announcing my surrender: I give up—I really do need boyfriend to do this kind of dirty work for me.

A close friend of mine has also had her issues with men, though as a successful model, she's a default man magnet. She runs a website that is highly lucrative, she's smart, she's kind, and she's a fantastic cook. What is the point of all this success, she laments, if at the end of the day she ends up alone and facing her 30s with no prospect of the husband and children that she so desperately desires? I share in her sentiment, and I know many of other women who do as well. Money, fame, success… what does any of it really mean if you cannot share your good fortune with someone? In my head I have this image of myself, many years from now, sitting on top of a pile of gold—alone. I think at some point material things become just that: things. Things don't snuggle with you on the couch, things don't buy you roses, and things don't tell you that they love you.

So is it possible to have it all? Is it possible to make the kind of money that buys you nice things, and be someone lucky enough to find real and everlasting love? I certainly hope so, because if not, I'm just going to buy a lot more things. And one of them will probably be a vibrator. Do you think Target sells those?

All's Fair in Love, War, and at the Bottom of a Dunk Tank

2007-11-23T09:28:00.000-08:00

From my monthly Xbiz column....

I don't normally frequent porn parties, so when I was invited to the Wicked charity barbeque, celebrating Brad Armstrong's Coming Home movie, I was inclined to pass. Until their vice president Joy King dangled the irresistible carrot before me: there was to be a dunk tank, and Luke Ford was going to be in it.

Now before anyone can understand my gleeful anticipation of dropping this man into a tank of water before a crowd, one must know my history with the adult industry's most controversial, yet most famous, blogger. Those who hate him tend to be his most dedicated readers, and those fascinated by him must relate in some way to his love/hate relationship with porn.

I spent quite a few years in the industry before I even knew who Luke Ford was. When I finally got a publicist, I was warned against this snake of a man, a truly sociopathic beast, I was told. He was one who twisted your words to suit his own agenda, which of course, was never in your favor. Since I'm the kind of girl who likes to do exactly the opposite of what she's told, when I met Luke in Tampa at the Nightmoves Awards Show, I instantly latched onto him, curious to know this person I'd heard such horrible things about.

What initially attracted me to Luke was that he was an outsider. He always carried a very serious book in his back pocket at parties, so that when he didn't have an innocent young starlet to corner and pose disarming and uncomfortable questions to, he could retreat to a dark corner and immerse himself tedious literature. Though I would never pull a book out at a party, I could relate, and often wished I had one when I was stuck somewhere I didn't feel I belonged. And that was often. In fact, I felt it then, at that Florida show. I felt it almost all the time when I attended industry functions: I'm not with the "in" crowd, and nobody really wants to talk to me. Except for the bartender of course, because I'm going to be his biggest customer that night.

So Luke and I got to know each other, and though we didn't become intimate at that show, it did happen later. I'm asked often why I became involved with Luke, and all I can say is that I was like the dumb kid in the sandbox who plays with the scorpion because I don't think it will sting me. And he didn't, until I did what I usually do: end the relationship, and badly.

Of course, it was then I felt the sting. He wrote extensively on my poor behavior, and it wasn't very nice, to say the least. Deep down though, I knew I deserved it, but my ego was bruised: as much as I imagine his was as well. After some time though, we reconciled and I thought things were pretty good between us. That is, until I sent myself to rehab, for the second time.

In my depressed and half-drunk state right before my departure, I let it slip to some industry people that I would be going away to treatment, and would be unable to fulfill some obligations I had coming up in the near future. I had been away for almost a week when I logged into his site and read the introductory title to his little introspective on my sudden departure: "Rehab - What Better Time To Mock Someone?" That was it: I called him up, and blew up when he picked up the phone. And of course, he recorded it all.

In that recording, I swore I would never be his friend again. I swore I would never feel anything but disgust and apathy towards him. And at the time, I really meant it. But I couldn't keep it up: I cannot stay angry at someone, and I do not have the energy to hate anyone. In this respect, I suppose my laziness actually does me some good.

Luke and I made up (sort-of) months after this final dispute, but we were never close again. I'd never completely forgiven him for calling me out, and bashing me for attending rehab. But I will admit it did open the door for me to speak openly about the subject, which in turn made me receptive to the topic and anyone who wished to discuss it with me.

Yet I still harbored some resentment against Luke, which brings us back to the party, and his participation in the dunk tank. Suddenly I saw a harmless and even comical way of exacting my revenge upon him, and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to take it.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am almost incapable of being on time for anything, but the day of the party, I was actually early. There was no way I was missing my opportunity, or allowing someone to get to Luke before I could. I wanted him dry and jubilant before I plunged him into the dark waters of my bitterness. People joked with me about my anticipation for the event, and I laughed along with them. There was merriment in my laugh and an easy lightness in my step, but there was murder in my eyes. I'd been practicing my throw all week. Luke was going down.

Finally my moment came. I'd bought 20 raffle tickets in case I missed, but Joy promised me that I could throw the ball as many times as needed to hit my target. My first throw was such a girly throw, it was embarrassing: I threw it straight at the floor. My next two were just as bad, going nowhere near the white disc that would drop the plank out from under Luke's seat. Luke was growing confident that I would never hit my mark, he began to viciously taunt me. I laughed along with the crowd, but my blood boiled. He was not going to humiliate me again.

Just as my frustration was mounting, my ball met it's mark, and Luke was dropped into the tank. In fact, as the words: "Holly you suck" escaped his lips, he plummeted to his soggy demise in such a way that his last word "suck" was drawn out into a long wail, much like someone who was falling down into a bottomless abyss.

After my triumph, I held out the olive branch and helped Luke get dried off and dressed. We were friends again. He took some photos of me, and taking pity on my delicate ego, edited out the bad ones. And being the newly baptized gentleman he was, he even walked me to my car.

You can see the video of Luke being dunked here. And below are some photos, courtesy of AVN.com.

Learning to Let Go

2007-11-17T23:48:00.001-08:00

One of the most interesting things that come with age is perspective. When time distances you from the dreams, experiences and follies of your youth, it's like a different person was living your life back then.

Barely 22 and having only just been in the adult industry for less than two years, I was full of hopes and expectations. I was naïve, inexperienced and intimated by everyone around me. But since I was born to a mother named Suze Randall, I was immediately ushered in the back door to the private rooms of the "in" crowd of porn. I felt unworthy, and people only remembered me when I told them who my mother was.

But then the manifestation of my dreams of power and fame showed up in the form of an older man. Proud and arrogant, he carried a business card that named him as CEO of one of the biggest and most-respected adult companies. He soon became my boyfriend: someone who I was sure would carry me to the cusp of success, so that I would be worthy of carrying the name Randall. Together I dreamed we would become the power couple of porn.

I had never dated an older man before, and everything about that age difference was so exciting to me. Though he had almost exactly 11 ½ years on me, I rounded it up to 12 because that sounded so much better. This guy was a man — someone who stood next to my father and didn't look like a meek little boy. His friends were older; he already had three kids, owned a house and even a boat. He always paid for dinner and he always drove. He would even offer me his credit card for a little self-indulgent shopping spree; and though I never accepted, it thrilled me to know that I could.

When we went together to the AVN show in Vegas, he rented a huge suite in the Venetian just for the two of us. He held business meetings in the room while I took a bubble bath, sipping on champagne and calling all of my friends from the tub, gushing at how lucky I was to be dating a real man.

But it wasn't long before it began to fall apart. Sometimes he wouldn't take my phone calls for days. He'd make plans with me for dinner and never show up. He was very secretive, and when I caught him in little lies, the red flags began to wave frantically at me. But I chose to ignore them because for once I really loved someone and I didn't want to let that go. But then his relationships with others got ugly — he left the company he worked for and thus the porn industry altogether. Finally I had cried myself to sleep too many times, and with all the strength that I could muster, I left him.

The next few years were just awful. My drinking, which was already excessive, spiraled out of control. Every other guy I dated afterwards was subject to the rage I felt at having my heart broken — I purposely sought out men whom I knew I could manipulate and control, because I couldn't control my relationship with the one man I had really loved.

Every time I heard Madonna's song "Tell Me," it brought back painful memories. The time it came out was when our relationship was taking a turn for the worse, and I would play it in the car on the way to or from his house, mouthing the lyrics and trying to find meaning in them: "Tell me love isn't true. It's just something that we do." For years, I cried when it played on the radio.

I'm 28 now and I rarely think of him. But I never forgave him, and even convinced myself that I still loved him. I felt that if I ran into him on the street, I would tell him how he had destroyed my idealism: my belief in true and unconditional love. I imagined all kinds of dramatic encounters and prayed that I would never hear from him again.

But he called me two weeks ago.

Out of the blue I received a phone call from a blocked number. I let it go to voice mail. When I heard the voice on the message, I froze.

For about a week I ignored him, but finally I couldn't resist and I responded. After I bitched him out for treating me like crap, I let him persuade me into meeting him for dinner. He promised me that he'd changed, that I was the love of his life and he'd do anything to win me back. He told me everything that I would have died to hear back when I was 22.

Everyone I told strongly advised me against it. But true to my nature, I decided not to listen to anyone and I went.

Though he knew of my struggles with alcohol and my fairly new resolve to never touch it again, he got drunk at dinner. He was rude to the staff, he immediately claimed me as his own and he tried to coerce me into staying the night with him at his place. Six years ago, I would have done whatever he wanted. But now, disgusted by his behavior, I refused him.

I went to see him for closure and I got it. I had to see him because I needed to know what I still felt for him, and it was nothing. All the love that I'd felt for him had faded with the inanity of youth. That infatuated little girl was gone and before me was a lonely old man who had called simply because he had run out of options. Finally with ultimate clarity I saw him for the egotistical, undignified and inconsiderate person he was — and I saw the miserable fate that I had so narrowly escaped.

Today I got in my car, and that Madonna song came on the radio. And for the first time in years, instead of escaping into my sad little state of a love gone wrong, I rolled down the windows and with a smile on my face, cranked the volume up. And I'll be damned if I didn't rock out.

Reaching Out for Help

2007-11-10T10:33:00.001-08:00

From my xbiz column:

Tales of drug use in the adult industry isn't just a Hollywood cliché. Personally, I hear about models' struggles with substance abuse far more than I actually witness it myself, but when the ugly head of addiction does rear itself in my studio, it's certainly not a pretty sight.

Since I'd had so much good fortune with timely, pleasant and (at least seemingly) sober models, I suppose it was just that time for that occasional train wreck to walk through my door. And funny enough, she was on time and prepared. I didn't even notice anything was wrong until my makeup artist pulled me aside.

"She's moving around so much in the chair, I'm having a really hard time doing her makeup," she whispered to me.

"Well maybe she's just excited to be here," I responded.

In response, I got that arched eyebrow — you know, the one that suggests you're a complete idiot. "Well, just know it's going to take me a bit longer to finish her up," my makeup artist said.

About an hour later, I cornered her again and asked if it was going any better.

"Oh yeah, much better," she muttered sarcastically. "Now she's falling asleep."

"Well maybe she had a long night."

I got the eyebrow again.

When we finally got the model in the set for test Polaroids, I couldn't deny the problem any longer. This girl's beautiful face bore the marks of extended drug use — her forehead was heavily lined for someone so young, and her beautiful blue eyes were dead and empty.

Further into the photo session, it became almost impossible to shoot her. She was incapable of taking direction, and though she had a willing attitude, she just couldn't focus. When I asked her to move her left leg, she moved her right. When I asked her to spin toward the softbox, she went the opposite way.

The minute I had her in the perfect position — by physically moving her limbs myself like she was a figurine — she lost her concentration and slumped back into a comfortable slouch. And then she literally began falling asleep on set, so much so that I half gave up by putting her in more comfortable, reclining positions so she wouldn't fall over. And when she would realize she'd just nodded out, suddenly she'd jolt awake and screw her face up in an exaggerated grin, one that grotesquely overcompensated for the fact that she'd just fallen asleep seconds ago. But she was fooling no one.

I thought back on other experiences I'd had with drug problems at work: There was the award-winning starlet who twitched so much that I was sure she was about to break into an epileptic fit. There was the girl who broke out in a sudden, feverish sweat on set and shuddered for hours on our couch. And then my favorite: the model who was so drugged up that we stopped the shoot and sat her down to eat, hoping that some food in her system might sober her up a bit. But our efforts were futile: she promptly passed out face-down in her bowl of spaghetti.

My mother says that the drug abuse was far worse in her day. Back in the 1980s cocaine craze, everyone was running to the bathroom several times an hour. But nowadays all kinds of drugs have infiltrated the industry: A heroin habit seems as common as a Valium addiction. Speed is making quite a strong comeback, and perhaps this can be explained by the drug's powerful ability to make anyone lose drastic amounts of weight, which is of course a convenient side effect for many models.

So what can be done? My mother and I have personally sent girls to therapists, to rehab, and sometimes back to their families to recoup. But you can only help those who want to be helped, and many come right back to their old ways and the destructive company they keep. I think that many porn stars are unaware that there is help out there — help from people who were once in their shoes, help from people who will not ridicule them for what they do for a living.

Of course if society as a whole didn't summarily point the finger at the porn industry as the direct cause of these maladies, girls could more easily recognize that people of all backgrounds and careers develop substance abuse problems. Instead, many of us assume it's the demons inherent in our chosen enterprise: "Well of course another porn star has fallen prey to drug addiction, look at what she does for a living!" an ill-informed cynic might say.

I say then if we, as pornographers, must stand on our own as the black sheep of the entertainment industry, a sense of communal support is key to encouraging those who need help to actually go out and seek it. Why not have more compassion for these models we have built our careers upon?

The return on such an investment must mean something — especially since that investment is the bread and butter of our industry: the girls who have brought us to where we are today.

Keeping Me On My Toes

2007-08-04T10:39:00.001-07:00

I've always loved photographing women-- their curves, their grace and their inherent sexuality make them wonderful artistic subjects. And perhaps deep down, they are a representation of what I always wished I looked like: long-limbed, fluid, confident and desired.

So when Playgirl approached me about shooting solo male centerfolds for its magazine, I balked. Men are boxy, bulky and un-wielding. It takes a certain type of photographer to shoot males without making them look, well, gay. And funny enough, I noticed that these types of photographers tend to be homosexual males.

When I picture the perfect masculine yet sexy portrait of a man, I think of Herb Ritts' "Fred With Tires," a black-and-white photo of a shirtless, greased-up young man in a garage, holding a large tire in each hand and glaring at the camera with a haughty, arresting gaze. Could I achieve a similarly sensual portrait? And how the hell was I going to pull this off?

I'd always said I hated shooting guys solo — they were only useful to me as a "prop" in hardcore sets. Someone to hold the girl's knees up in a reverse cowgirl position, or a penis supplied for the model's luscious lips to wrap around. But they were never the main focus of the photograph. And now, they were the sole subject of it.

My biggest fear was the guy's ability to get and maintain an erection during the shoot. I don't generally worry about this in my day-to-day work since there is always a woman there to tease and please him so that I can get him prepared. But this time there would be no girl, nor a fluffer provided for him. The only people on set would be two male assistants and me, and since my model was not a homosexual, nor was I a stacked, naked porn star, I expected all kinds of problems.

My first choice for the male model was Justin Magnum. I'd worked with him a few times before, and not only was he very good looking and well-built, but was he also reliable and a genuinely pleasant person to work with. I was nervous, and with him I felt a bit more comfortable.

As I rushed to the location on the day of the shoot, I stopped by a local magazine stand and headed straight to the porn section. I loaded up my arms with stacks of dirty magazines and breathlessly dropped them all onto the cashier's counter. A nearby customer eyed me with a curious look, not sure if I was a raving lesbian or a really horny girl who was in a big rush to purchase over a hundred dollars worth of porn. He probably imagined me hurrying home and gleefully spreading my titillating treasures around me as I powered up some enormous vibrator for a good few hours of raunchy masturbation.

What a pervert.

When I got to the location, I was nervous about getting down to the erect penis shots, so I did a lot of opening pictures — Justin clothed in a suit and slowly undressing on the stairwell, or shirtless in faded jeans. But eventually it was time for the inevitable.

I presented Justin with my horde of glossy porn magazines, pointing out that each one I'd purchased catered to a specific fetish, so he could get hard to whatever turned him on. But he barely glanced at the magazines, and instead turned to me.

"Holly, I was wondering if you could help me out here."

Oh God, he was going to ask for me to take my top off, or give him a blowjob in the bathroom to get him started — I won't do it, oh how am I going to tell him without humiliating him and ruining my entire shoot.

"Could you take off your shoes for me?" he asked me inquisitively.

What? Did I hear him right?

And then I remembered — Justin has a foot fetish. In fact, he'd often ask the girls to remove their shoes during the scene, something my stylist sniffed at since she'd spent about an hour matching the shoes to the outfit.

Well, I most certainly could do that — in fact, I don't even like to wear shoes. True to my Southern California roots, I practically live in flip-flops but always wear sneakers while I shoot, lest a heavy light drops on my feet. But suddenly I have permission to work barefoot, which is actually pretty great, since it's so warm out. And thank goodness I have a fresh pedicure; otherwise I'd be really embarrassed.

And so the "real" shoot begins. Justin's a great model, and he has no problem keeping it up during the duration of the session. Whenever he feels as if he may falter, I notice his eyes drift towards my feet, and the crisis is averted.

In a strange way, it's actually nice to be appreciated for my feet — I've never really had a guy focus on them that way before. I find myself almost proud of them, frequently going up on my toes while I focus my camera lens, and for the low angle shots, positioning myself on the floor in such a way that my feet are thrust in front of me, giving him a clear view of my 10 little treasures.

A few days after the film is submitted to Playgirl, I get a phone call from the editor: they are thrilled with my layout, and I got the cover. All the anxiety that I felt over working for a new client finally shatters. I did it, and I did a damn fine job.

That night I draw myself a long bath and celebrate with a big wine glass filled with Perrier water, extra lemon wedges. I sink down under the bubbles and rest my feet on the edge of the tub.

My toes peep out from the mass of bubbles, and I admire them, pointing and flexing them for a few moments. I have a new appreciation for my feet: they helped me secure a new client. I'm thankful for this undervalued part of my body — and I think they deserve a paraffin pedicure tomorrow.

I love this quote

2007-08-04T10:35:00.000-07:00

After I'd just finished Corelli's Mandolin, I found myself truly captivated by one particular paragraph. I thought I'd just quickly share this passage-- I found it very poignant, though it is slightly depressing. This is a father giving his lovesick daughter advice on marriage: "Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not laying awake at night imagining the he is kissing every cranny of your body. That is just 'being in love', which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two. But sometimes the petals fall away and the roots have not entwined. Imagine giving up your home and your people, only to discover after six months, a year, three years, that the trees have had no roots and have fallen over. Imagine the desolation. Imagine the imprisonment."

Doggies: the good, the bad, and the possibly pregnant

2007-08-04T10:32:00.000-07:00

I never thought it possible, but I actually met a dog this weekend that is more badly behaved than mine. Sure my dogs are lovable, but Poe (i.e. "crazy eyes") goes ballistic anytime a dog walks by my house. Even a tiny little Maltese poodle threatens the delicate safety net that my dog viciously protects by attacking the fence that separates him from his enemy, that wily and dangerous 3 lb animal. The apple of my eye, my darling Bonnie, shares my passion for gardening. She celebrates the arrival of a new plant by ceremoniously biting off the blooms and spreading them across the yard, in what I can only imagine must be an offering to the sun god. She also likes to play catch-- but this is the kind of game that involves some exertion on my part, as I chase her around the dog park, trying to catch her when we need to go home. The smirking dog owners who watch my often futile attempt to tackle my dog say "catch" is a different game-- one where a ball is thrown and the dog retrieves it-- but I swear this one is much better exercise for the both of us.

Anyhow, this dog "Max", who I call "Sharky" because he looks like a shark, was invited into my home, as the girl who lives in my guest house was watching him for a friend, and went to get her nails done. I was more than happy to keep an eye on this young bull terrier. Sharky promptly ate several q-tips, (which made me very nervous as he began to choke), enjoyed one of my shoes with relish, and jumped up on my bed, happily smearing dirt all over my freshly washed sheets. But the best part was when he attacked me as I tried to do my laundry. I have no real fear of dogs, so I looked at him a bit puzzedly as he thankfully only got a hold of my jeans, growling and shaking his head from side to side as the fabric continued to rip. I pushed him outside with my foot, and left him there to growl at me from behind the glass door. Since I couldn't believe this dog was actually vicious (we'd spent hours together before with no incident) I went outside again after a period of time. This time I put my foot out before he could grab a hold of my pant leg, so he was left wrestling with my sneaker and not my skin. As crazy as my dogs are, they would never have done this-- they are not interested in eating humans. True to his name (well the one I made up for him), I can't say the same about Sharky.

So, that being said, I now appreciate my dogs much more. They may not be perfect, but they could be a lot worse. I brought Bonnie up to the ranch today, and I think she's found a new boyfriend in Milton. Poe just didn't have the balls (literally) to keep her interest. The problem is, she hasn't been spayed yet (yes, I'm lazy), and she and Milton have had a lot of unsupervised time together. Let's just hope she's not a slut like her mom, otherwise is anyone interested in a really bizarre Australian Shepard/Boxer mix? They're sure to come out looking really odd!

The Randalls' Next Top Model

2007-05-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

I can only imagine how nerve wracking it must be — testing for us as a potential model for adult scenes. Hopefuls park in an alley in front of a fairly indistinct red brick building, with the only sign that it's a studio is exactly that — a sign that reads: "Parking for Randall. All others will be towed at owner's expense." All the other buildings in the alley are body shops and storage buildings — and then, plopped right in the middle, is the place where "the magic happens."

As much as I try not to make the experience like a cattle call, often I'm so busy shuffling parked cars, Xeroxing models' IDs and trying to calm my mother down that I don't have time to be personable and work on making the model feel comfortable.

In fact, I can recall one incident where I truly did feel like I was directing a factory line of models — an agent brought in 10 girls at once on an extremely busy day. Suze was already shooting on set, so I had to herd the girls in, one by one, to the makeup room and stuff them in the corner. Most of the girls — in fact, nine of them — weren't even remotely close to what we were looking for, so I simply shot two Polaroid pictures of each out of politeness. I can't imagine how much film I've wasted because I couldn't bring myself to tell the girls they didn't have a chance in hell of getting booked by us.

The worst part is getting a girl with a cute face but a horrendous body. As a woman, I understand the lifelong weight battle that most of us face (I'm no size 2 myself) so I find it very difficult to tell a girl she needs to lose weight. I once had a girl come in who was young, beautiful but about 10 pounds overweight. As delicately as I could, I asked her if she might be able to lose the weight — sympathizing with the difficulty of keeping in shape, lamenting the inability to gorge on Taco Bell and the sheer boredom of exercise. I stressed to her that one's figure was fortunately a factor that could always be improved, but she was blessed with a gorgeous face, which only nature can truly provide.

I felt that she took my sermon very well, but I later was horrified to hear that she had refused to eat and actually collapsed on set, and was rushed to the hospital for malnutrition. I felt terribly guilty, but I did have to remind myself that she picked a profession that relies on one's appearance. As a doctor must study medicine to practice, as an athlete must build endurance to compete, a model must stay in shape and take care of her looks to be successful at removing her clothes in front of the camera. The girl decided on her career, not I.

Then, of course, we get the beautiful girls who think they are ugly, and the ugly girls who think they are beautiful. A female's skewed perception of herself never fails to amaze me. I've had girls who bemoan an imaginary pot belly and girls with what look like bowling balls of flesh attached to their chest that hail their "fantastic" new boob job.

One of my favorite incidents involving a delusional model was back when I first started working in the adult industry, about eight years ago. A model called up the office and gave us a long diatribe about how she was a successful mainstream model who had finally decided to take the plunge and submit herself to Penthouse. She was adamant about the fact that we should be grateful that she would bestow such an honor upon us and how she had done many hours of research before deciding that the Randalls were the most deserving of capturing her divine image on film.

Naturally, we were curious to see her photos. So when the package arrived, breaths were held but then viciously expunged when we saw her photos. To say she was unattractive would be an understatement. I don't enjoy being cruel, but she was hideous. Unbelievably so.

She called us a few days later to make sure we'd received the package. When we admitted that we did, she unquestioningly inquired as to when we were going to schedule the photo shoot, and weren't we just stunned by her photos? Well we were, but not in the sense she so imagined. Gently, I explained to her that we wouldn't be able to book her and that Penthouse was not interested in her as a centerfold. Her response was less than pleasant. She called me every name in the book, and then some I'd never heard before. She even threatened to put her husband on the line, to tell me how wrong I was and what an opportunity we were throwing away. It actually got to the point that I simply had to hang up the phone because she was hurting my ear.

Thankfully, we never heard from her again.

I am often asked what I look for in a model. It's nothing that can be specifically named — obviously a good face and a great body account for much of it. But what truly defines a good model, what makes us book her time and time again, is the spirit inside of her. It's the way she arches her back, seduces the camera and lifts the corners of her mouth in a way that says, "I know you want me, but you know you can't have me."

It's that promise of an unattainable goal that leaves the viewer wanting more, and as a photographer, I'm here to give them just that.

Any models wishing to submit their photographs for review, please email Holly at hollyrandall@suze.net

See more of my monthly column that I write for Xbiz Video!

Must the Clock Start Ticking Already?

2006-03-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

"So all in all, it was a great scene. She's such a good performer, now I remember why I liked her so much."

"Oh good! Did she do the anal?"

"Of course she did, mom. You know I wouldn't let them skimp on that."

"Oh good." And then, the conversation turned to what would be to others, a normal one between mother and daughter. "Are you coming up for Sunday lunch? You know your brother is back in town and Jim and Leslie are coming over."

I rolled my eyes, secretly glad she couldn't see me do it over the phone. Jim is an old college friend of my father's, and he and his wife Leslie are a retired childless couple who spend most of the year traveling the world. They often stop in every so often for lunch when they pass through LA. Now I didn't roll my eyes because I don't like them-- they are a very nice couple. I just knew it was going to be a long, boozy afternoon. And I would be sober. There is nothing more annoying than being around drunk people when you're stone-cold sober. I don't know how Luke does it.

I purposely arrived late because I knew my mom would be with her horses all morning and lunch would be at least an hour later than she said it would be. I understand how different people work on different time standards-- for example, I am always at least about 10 to 15 minutes late. Rarely later than that, but I have inherited my mother's tendency to never be able to be on time. She of course carries the one hour extra tack-on. When it comes to lunch, at least. And when you realize she prepares a Thanksgiving-sized meal every Sunday, well, you can more than forgive her.

I found my father, Jim, and Leslie all sitting by the pool, a bottle of red wine on the table.

"Holly! What a vision!" Jim hollered and with some difficulty hoisted up his massive frame to envelope me in a mushy bear hug. He took me by the shoulders and looked at me. "My goodness! You look just like Lindsey Lohan!"

Lindsey Lohan. Hmmm, haven't heard that one before. Yeah, I could see that-- maybe if Lindsey packed on, say, 30 lbs, completely changed her body frame, and replaced her head with mine.

"So....blonde, so....California," he mused, studying me. He turned to his wife and threw his arms out, splashing his wine just a bit: "Now I feel like I'm in LA! She looks like a movie star!"

I think it was the oversized glasses-- you can't even see my eyebrows, they're so big. I didn't even buy them, I think someone left them at my house from a party.

Back in the kitchen, I finished up the salad while Jim and Leslie hung out and watched. I could see Jim was already getting a bit sloshed and I thought how long lunch would be...

"You should do acting," he finally started up again.

Oh god no. Anything but that. I'm a horrible, horrible actress. Ask my old drama teacher-- it's embarrassing.

"You have--" he paused, "Presence." He got excited and set his wine glass down with a thud-- I nervously watched it teeter for a moment before it righted itself again-- and began to speak quickly: "I know! You could do plays. We saw a marvelous play-- didn't we Leslie-- at the Geffen Playhouse. Oh they would loooove you!"

I don't like plays. I don't like watching them, I don't want to act in them. I did that in high school, and like I mentioned before, I was terrible.

"I'm a really bad actress," I finally argued. "Plus I don't have time for that. I'd rather concentrate on what I can do, which is photography."

Finally we sat down to dinner, and as Jim is a very large man, I hoped that his desire to keep his mouth full might cut down on his constant desire to steer the conversation towards me.

No such luck. And it just got worse.

"You know," Jim snarfled between mouthfuls, "you should be thinking about children, Holly."

I almost choked on the piece of lamb I was in the process of swallowing. My mom shot me a sympathetic glance. When I'd recovered, I responded uncomfortably, "Well, that's something I certainly would like one day but it's not something I'm thinking about right now. I'm a little busy with my career, and--"

Jim waved my protestations away with his hand. "Yes, yes, but don't forget it's your duty as a beautiful, intelligent woman to donate your genes to this planet." He giggled at bit and took another sip of his wine. "Don't want to wait too long, you know."

"Well, I hardly think I'm a spinster!"

"How old are you dear?" Leslie asked me gently.

"27," I replied nervously.

She shook her head at me. "Getting up there, ya know. By next year you should be getting ready to have babies."

I blanched. Next year? Are you kidding me? I'm still a kid myself, I don't feel that I could possibly handle being a mom right now. I can't even keep my houseplants alive!

"Holly's fine," my mom snapped. "She's busy right now and it's silly to even discuss. I didn't have Holly until I was 32, and she was the first of three."

I do always remind myself of that fact, but the truth is my mom met my dad when she was 21, so by my age she was well into a relationship with the man she was going to marry.

Suddenly I felt like Bridget Jones in the scene at the couple's dinner party. My mother and father-- dating since only a few years out of their teens and married now 26 years, Jim and Leslie married for at least 2 decades, my brother and his girlfriend of 4 years... to this day my longest relationship lasted a year and a half, and that was in high school. And, of course, it's always me: picking fights to push people away, shunning real intimacy, and ultimately ending the relationship... every single damn time. I just don't like it when people try to get into my head.

I really wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. "Well, before I have babies, don't I need to have a husband first? And last time I checked, a boyfriend usually precedes the marriage part. So since I haven't even reached step one..."

"Well hell, if you're in need I'll donate the sperm!" Jim guffawed, winking at me.

After a moment of deadly uncomfortable silence, everyone broke into nervous oh-my-god-did-he-really-just-say-that laughter. I looked agast at Leslie but she just smiled back at my unblinkingly. Her teeth were very white.

"Well," he said defensively, "I am the best canidate at the table, since the other two men are your brother and father."

"I wasn't aware that my potential dating pool didn't extend beyond this dinner table," I replied dryly.

"Fine, fine," Jim laughed. "Open another bottle of wine!" he bellowed to my father, who had wisely retreated into the kitchen during the awkward conversation (well apparently awkward to everyone except Jim). He settled back in his seat and wagged a finger at me. "Just remember Holly, we want the pitter-patter of little feet in here soon, and I don't mean puppies!"

When I told my friend about the bothersome conversation the next day, his eyes widened at the prospect of a pregnant Holly. "Oh no, you can't have babies. You have a career to build, Holly. No way."

But why the hell do I keep getting all this baby talk, just this year? Is 27 the "magic number" that you turn when you're supposed to start thinking diapers and strollers and breast feeding? What's now ironic is that as a little girl, I had a timetable as to what would happen when in my life, because as most kids, I thought everything was going to turn out the way I planned. I had decided that I would be at least engaged by 27, married by 28, first kid at 29 or 30. Funny how things don't turn out the way you thought they would when you were 8 years old.

I don't like this growing up crap. I want to go back to being 20, when I was living in Santa Barbara, going to college and working as the film girl at Samys Camera. I want the only things at work that I have to worry about is that the photo paper has been rotated and stocked, and that Mr. Zimmerman has his weekly block of E100 120 film.

When I was a kid, the one thing I hated hearing (because I always did) was grown-ups telling me: "Enjoy your childhood while you can, because before you know it, you'll be old and it will be gone forever."

I always thought that was such a stupid grown-up crock of shit. Now I'm the grown-up giving kids that advice. But of course, life's biggest irony is that we won't appreciate it until it's too late.

My unknowing attempt to date gay guys

2006-02-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

He was my type: tall, skinny, intellectual, and a bit shy. He was also slightly punky, a testament to my high school years when I used to wear a lot of black and listen to Screeching Weasel and Minor Threat, and decided that dyeing my hair blue was a really good idea.

He was the teacher's assistant in my Greek Mythology class at UCLA, and unlike the professor who tended to spit into his audience as he released his incredibly fiery diatribes, my crush remained quiet next to the projector screen. He was either reading his notes or pretending to be mildly amused by the professor's enthusiasm on the subject of sympathetic magic and the importance of Lamellae plates in magic rituals. And I imagine he also noticed that the excitement produced an abundance of salvia (which has no choice but to be expelled somehow) in our learned professor's mouth.

In group sessions, which were held once a week, I was his favorite. I must admit, I'm a bit of a teacher's pet-- I always sit in the front of the class, answer and ask questions, and arrive early. By the second week my professors always knew my name. This gorgeous TA always praised my essays, my literary interpretations, and my participation in discussions. I was sure he was hitting on me. I knew my professor did.

Our closest moment was when class turned to the discussions of witches-- and I posed the question as to why they were always associated with brooms. My interpretation was that the broom has always been a symbol of female domesticity, and "witches" were in truth indepent women who did not bow to the overwhelming men-are-in-charge rule. The fact that they are rumored to fly upon these instruments made me think it was a direct "fuck you" to the patriarchal system-- they took this broom symbol and "flew away" on it-- rising above the situation, if you will. He thought this method of thinking was brilliant, and encouraged, I hit the library that evening to find out exactly where this witch/broom association began.

I sent him an email the next day with my findings-- apparently "witches" used to use broomsticks to administer hallucinogenic drugs that were a part of their faith. Drugs enter the bloodstream very quickly through the vaginal walls, and the drugs were often applied to the end of the broomstick and the pole was thenceforth thrust-- well, you can imagine where.

He was thrilled by my findings and it was brought up in class a few days later, as he praised my resourcefulness to the rest of the students I turned bright red and pulled my sweater hood over my face. Wow, he must really want to sleep with me, I thought.

So finally, the day before the finals (which of course as the TA he did not grade) I told him I had a crush and I asked him out. He pulled me outside of the classroom into the hallway, and looked at me like I was insane.

"First of all," he said apologetically, "most guys would be doing backflips that a girl like you would directly ask them out. You aren't like most girls, I'll give you that. But there are two reasons I can't go out with you. First of all, I'm already in a relationship."

"I figured," I grumbled. "Guys like you are always taken."

"Thanks," he said. Then he looked at me askance, and studied my expression briefly. "Do you have any idea what the second reason is?"

"Ummm, is it because as a TA you can't date students?"

"Noooo... though that probably is a rule." Again, he looked at me. "You really don't know what the second reason is?"

I shook my head.

"Holly, I'm gay. You must be the only student in class who didn't pick up on that."

I was flabbergasted. I knew I had bad gaydar, but this was ridiculous. "Are...are you sure?" I stammered. "I mean, have you ever tried girls? We can take it up the ass too, you know!"

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Let me tell you Holly, if I ever decided to give girls a try you'd be the first person I would call." He gave me a reassuring pat on the back and went back into class.

Walking back to my car, I felt a fool for a few minutes. And then something hit me.

He told me I was smart, he gave me top grades on my homework and group discussions, and he was interested in what I had to say. And he was gay. Which means, he never said any of those things trying to get in my pants. He said it because he actually meant it.

Suddenly my spirits lifted. I had been appreciated for my mind, my intelligence. And you know what? I will take that compliment over any "Hey nice ass!" remark from a straight guy any day.

2006 AVN Show, Las Vegas

2006-01-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

Chris arrived at my house on time, as usual.

I was running late, as usual. “Are you ready?” he asked.

I shot him an amused look. “Of course not. When am I ever ready on time?”

He sighs and sinks into the couch to watch TV.

I’m finally ready to go 20 minutes later. We’ve waited until after traffic had died down at night so the going was quick. The only excitement was Chris accidentally almost missed changing freeways, and I shrieked as he made the last minute lane change and almost ran into the center divider.

We get to the AVN show on Friday, and both he and I have to carry incredibly heavy boxes stacked with the Suze Randall flyers for Celeste Star to sign all the way from 5C in the Venetian parking lot to the convention show floor. On the way, as Chris are taking a minute rest in a casino because these boxes are fucking heavy, I spot the first people I recognize from the industry: Jesse Jane and her new husband Rich. I congratulate them on their recent marriage and Chris and I re-embark on our weary way to the Pure Play booth.

By the time I get there I’m hot and sweaty and my shoulders ache.

Of course, this is the one moment a couple of fans that I know from the Glamourcon conventions stop by my booth and want to take my photograph. I beg them off for the moment but promise they can come by later, when I’m not panting and hunched over.

Celeste arrives and since the show is still in it’s early hours, Onxxx and I hang out at her little table, snap some photos and chat. But as the show begins to fill up with the fans, they gravitate towards her and she’s busy signing autographs and posing for photos. Mick Blue comes over and we sit down for a bit—he’ll be getting his American Ids so we’ll be able to shoot him again. I’m thrilled because I love the sweet way Mick treats the girls and he’s always been a strong performer.

Chris motions to me and we walk the convention floor. Sandee Westgate notices me passing by, and calls out my name. I come over to her booth and cut in front of the long line of adoring fans, giving her a big hug and snap a pic with her. The other fans steal the moment and their camera flashes go off as well, even though I’m sure they’re puzzled as to who the hell I am and why Sandee would call out to me. She looks radiant, as always.It’s difficult for me to get anywhere at these shows because I keep running into models I’ve shot and I have to stop and say hi, and sometimes snap a pic or two. Not that I’m complaining.

Many of the people I greet give me a knowing look and greet me as “trouble”, “heartbreaker” or “bad girl” and I have to sheepishly smile because I know exactly what they’re referring to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proud, but I don’t care to speak too much on the subject, so I try to act cute to reflect attention away from the actual subject. I get a lot of these kinds of comments: “I’d ask you how your New Years’ was, but I already read all about it.” Yeah, yeah, I know.

We decide to grab some lunch before some various meetings I have to attend. I run into Lacie Heart and Scott Nails in the hallway by the V bar, and Lacie bounds towards us, shrieking our names. She hugs me and I notice she’s dressed sensibly—Shane’s World t-shirt and flip flops. I’m already starting to regret my new Michael Kors boots that my mom got me for Christmas—and I will end up almost swearing off fashionable footwear by the end of the weekend.

“I’ve been drinking since I got here,” laughs Scott.

“Who hasn’t been?” I quip.

Though I’ve partied with Scott several times before, I’ve never seen him actually appear wasted. He can obviously handle his liquor.

Lacie is so damn cute I just love her—definitely one of my favorite newcomers. She’s got a realness to her, a very down to earth, pleasant quality that you don’t get that often. I promise to come by the booth later, but I never get the time.

At the Mexican restaurant I request a table next to the canal, and we inadvertently get a front row seat to a couple getting married in a gondola. It’s perfect timing—they exchange vows and kiss right in front of us as they are watched and photographed by total strangers who have crowded around the canal. At first I make a snide comment about the cheesiness of a Las Vegas wedding in the gondola ride, but when I see the happy couple’s beaming smiles and exchanged looks of adoration, I’m suddenly touched. It may not be my kind of wedding, but the important thing is they’re happy and in love. It brings a sad smile to my face.

After circling the convention floor again, I finally meet Carmen Heart, the Wicked Pictures new contract girl. I’ve been looking for her ever since the editor at Cheri magazine asked me for spread on her. She’s sweet and I notice an accent—it’s southern or something, I can’t tell, and I spend most of the time talking to her agent anyhow.When I get back to the booth, Celeste is exasperated. Several people have come by looking for me, and I wasn’t there. This happens continually throughout the weekend; one fan even comes by three times and misses me at each one. The two guys from earlier when I was sweaty and breathing laboriously swing by again, and I’m prepared for pictures. Another photographer who would always frequent our booth at Glamourcon came to visit, and this guy has a great camera set up—a softbox flash on a bracket, resulting in good, well-lit photos of me. He also insists on showing me the resulting pics for my approval. I love that.

Celeste has to go to the bathroom, so I sit on her chair and watch her belongings while she’s gone. An older man shuffles up and peers at me curiously. His gaze travels up to the huge posters behind me, each one representing a different company.

“Is that you?” he asks, pointing up to a poster of a brunette with enormous implants.

I glance down towards my (natural) modest size B rack. “Um….no.”

“Oh. Are any of those girls you?”

“No.”

“Well who are you?”

I snort, and in a moment of self-deprecation I respond, “Nobody.”

Hours pass. I’m tired, and my feet are starting to hurt. My shoulders ache terribly from carrying those boxes so far. Why the hell didn’t I get a bellhop? I’m ready to leave, and I’ve got a business dinner in a few hours.

I want to take a nap when I get to my room, but I am terrible at taking naps, which is why I rarely try. If I ever do have one, it often takes me well over an hour to fall asleep, and I wake up easily. Sleep has always been an evasive mistress for me; I can clearly remember long nights of insomnia at the age of 12. My dad takes a nap every single day. I’m so jealous.

Brickhouse mobile hosted that night’s dinner, and I brought Celeste along to meet the different phone company reps—she’s certainly not hard to look at. Aria comes as well, but because she has an independent business deal with them, not just because she’s eye candy (even though she is). She’s sporting a top that flatters her incredible boobs, and Aimee Sweet and I always tease her about how even we get distracted by her mesmerizing breasts, even though both of us are heterosexual and she’s our close friend. They really are hypnotizing, I swear. But tonight the seating arrangement puts Aria at the other end of the table, so we don’t get to speak during dinner. Twice we flashed each other apologetic looks that we were placed so far away, because the one thing we do all the time is go out to dinner together and the conversation always flows so easily. But there’s always next time.The food is amazing—nobody orders individually, there are simply many different dishes brought out to choose from. Celeste normally doesn’t eat red meat, but she tries the Kobe beef. It’s unbelievable, and she thinks so too.

Because the taxi line at the MGM is so damn long, Brickhouse springs for a limo to take everyone back to their hotel. They also bought dinner—I was really impressed. As we’re inching along the strip in typical late night Vegas traffic, we get rear-ended. The guy who hits us actually tries to take off. Funny thing is, he can’t get very far because of the traffic. It’s like a really, really slow car chase. The hit and run driver gets stuck at the intersection light, and the limo driver pulls up behind him and writes down the license plate number. The perpetrator is still trying to get away as we inch along for two long blocks. Someone in the limo opens the door to check the damage, and he knocks a guy who was passing by off his bike. The poor biker insisted he was all right, and he quickly rode off. At that moment I found this all a comedy of errors that I was sure were pointing to ridiculous direction this weekend was going in.

Some of us were dropped off at the Bellagio hotel to attend the Penthouse party at a club I’d never been to called Light. There are two lines at the party—one is very, very long and filled with excited looking young guys and scantily clad young girls saucily tossing their hair and looking to see if there was anyone important around. I go to the short line, the VIP line. Yet it doesn’t seem to be moving—and I recognize no one in it. I walk straight up to the doorman and give him my name. He lets me right in, but has to turn down a couple of friends I’d picked up to bring with me because they’re wearing sneakers. For the first time that day I’m not cursing my Gucci heels.

At the Penthouse party I see owner Marc Bell—he’s surrounded by hot young girls. He seems to be having a great time. Obviously. Dana the pretty redhead that we’d recently shot claimed one of the poles that dotted the dance floor, golden phallic symbols inviting drunk girls to spin and grind and strut. I would know—I’ve certainly been that girl before. But Dana is damn good at it. I’m incredibly impressed—normally she’s a fairly shy girl, I had no idea. I’m sure I’m not as good as I seem to think I am with a few drinks in me. Charlie Laine appears, and we all hit the dance floor. I’m wearing new shoes, and I quickly discover they are not meant for dancing. I spend the next 20 minutes or so concentrating on not falling on my ass. I look at the floor, and it’s covered in dirt and spilled beer. I keep praying that I won’t end up on it—I don’t want that stuff all over my clothes and in my hair. I make it safely to the nearest booth; I’m done dancing for the night. I take my shoes off, flex my toes, and massage them. Heels are sexy, heels are hot, heels are often necessary, but goddamn they hurt. I want my flip-flops back. A strange guy offers to rub my feet. I’m in so much pain I’m severely tempted to take him up on his offer. I shook my head; I had a feeling he wanted to do more than just rub my feet.

OK, I’m done with the loud music and the crowded, smoky bar. It was a good party and I’m glad I came and thankful for being invited, but I long for somewhere to sit and the ability to hold a conversation with someone without shouting over the music. The Circle bar in the Venetian is just the thing. I don’t know if it’s officially named that, but it is a circular bar in the middle of the casino that everyone in the industry tends to crowd around late at night, after all the parties. There’s always someone to see at the Circle bar.

We run into several tipsy porn stars at the bar. Everyone’s laughing, flirting, even confessing—I did a bit of all of that. A couple of girls exclaim surprise that Chris and I used to date back in early college. “I thought you and Holly were brother and sister!” Rita Faltoyano tells Chris. We get that all the time. It’s probably because we bicker and tease each other and fight just like a brother and sister. I’ll often get exasperated with both Chris and my brother, and I’ll call one the other person’s name on accident when I’m yelling at them. My brother likes to tap the opposite shoulder to where he is standing so I’ll turn my head to look for someone who isn’t there. Chris likes to secretly tape silly messages to my back when we work. They’re both brats, but I love ‘em.

A male friend comes up to me. “Do you want to party?” he asks.

Confused, I look around at the crowded bar with it’s boisterous, laughing patrons, and look down at the Heineken in my hand.

“Um, I thought we were partying.”

“No, party,” he says meaningfully, wiping his nose lightly and making a sniffing sound.

“Oh, you mean cocaine? Oh hell no—I hate that shit. I’m certainly no saint, but I don’t touch the hard stuff. It turns me into a bitch and I just don’t like the way it makes me feel.” It’s true. The last time I did coke was years ago at AVN, because I was so tired I never thought I’d be able to make it to the Hustler party, for which I’d scored VIP tickets. From the moment I took it I was couldn’t wait for the effects to wear off. Terrible stuff. For me, at least.

Monstar comes up to me and gets a picture of my breasts with his camera phone. I push them together for a pathetic attempt at cleavage, ‘cause I know I’m no Stormy Daniels. Still, he seemed happy with it.

It’s getting late, and I need to be up early tomorrow, so I leave the party and go to my room. I take a long, hot bath and read. I crawl into bed and have a fitful night’s sleep.

I wake up a little after 10, which is much later than I meant to get up. I’m often an early riser even if I get little sleep, so I usually don’t need to set my alarm. I forgot about the blackout curtains at this hotel.

Meetings, meetings. I talk to Brickhouse about our cell phone sales. It’s looking really promising—like the internet back in it’s early stages, for us it’s another outlet for our enormous library of exclusive, original content. I talk to the guys at DHD about learning more about our webmaster program. I’m truly clueless about it all, and I don’t like being clueless.

Back to the convention floor. I run into Amy Ried, the girl with the ridiculous body. Ridiculous in a good way. Ridiculously perfect.

I also run into Brea Bennett’s husband, who is surprised that Chris and I remember his name. We chat about her excitement about being a participant in Jenna Jameson’s American Sex Star contest. I wish them the best of luck, but not too much because I don’t want to lose Brea to a contract with Club Jenna. I’m selfish that way. But it eventually happens with most of our favorite girls. (sigh)

I stop by the Wicked booth again and talk to Joy King. I have to say of all the big companies, Wicked has always been my favorite. One of the reasons is that they are one of the few companies that allows us to shoot stills on their contract girls. Hence my earlier hunt for Carmen Heart.

I ask Joy if their director, David Stanely is around. We’d chatted a few times via Myspace, and I wanted to meet him in person. She brought him out from the back of the booth and introduced us. Whoa. He’s cute, I had no idea. How can he be a director, the entire (female) cast must all want to have sex with him, not their costars! I giggle like a schoolgirl and I can tell I’m smiling way too much-- I feel like a complete dork. I make an exit before I totally embarrass myself.

I immediately run into two fellow students from Brooks Institute, the photography school I went to. “You’ve come a long way from the Samy’s Camera girl who sold film, haven’t you?” one of them asked.

I smile and lean towards him. “Yes. I don’t sell film anymore. In fact, I couldn’t tell you a goddamn thing about the warmest version of Ektachrome these days. I don’t need to know anything about the latest films ever again.”

Chris and I run into Lisa Ann, who’s rushing around like mad, trying to organize all their girls. She tells me that they’ve got 92 girls at LA Direct now (which doesn’t include their male talent), and after the AVN show they plan to sign a big chunk more. I remember when Derek first started the agency, but I never expected it to grow so large so quickly. He’s built an impressive business, I have to say, especially since my mom has always stressed to me how difficult the job of an agent can be.

My mom text messages me. Because I struck up some new possible business deals that are too early to mention here, it read: “Congratulations darling, I’m so proud of you! I love you! Kisses, Mom.” Aaaw, I’m touched. Since text messaging is basically the only new snazzy technology she’s been able to master, she really enjoys using it. It’s cute.

The awards ceremony is tonight, and I have my hair and makeup appointment at 5:30 so I have to rush. By now I’ve developed a blister on one toe and I’m in total agony from the shoes. I don’t know how these porn chicks do this—standing for 6 hours in heels. So I take off my shoes for the walk back through the lobby. I know it’s not very classy, but right now I’m in so much pain I really don’t give a shit.

Chris and I run into Derrick Pierce on the way out. He laughs at my bare feet. “What are you doing walking around without your shoes on? Don’t be that white trash chick who goes out in public barefoot. Don’t be that girl.”

“That’s what I said,” agreed Chris.

“I don’t care,” I whine. “I think my feet are broken. They don’t want to work anymore. You guys don’t know what it’s like. I am convinced that high heels were invented as secret instruments of torture against women.”

Good thing I have the foresight to call the Canyon Ranch Spa club where I’d made my hair and makeup appointment to say I was running a bit late. They can’t find my reservation, it’s nowhere in the system. I’m pissed because I specifically booked this a month before the show—it was one of the few things I didn’t procrastinate on. They can get me makeup only at 6:30. Dammit. My hair looks like crap because I’m not getting it done until next week, and I’m really no good with it. But I’m even worse at makeup, so I’ll take what I can get.

At the salon I see Eva Angelina sitting two chairs down from me, and she looks great. I wish her luck tonight as I’m leaving—she does the same.

Back up at the room my photographer friend Beatrice lets me in. She needed a place to crash last minute because her original plans fell through, and since I had my own room with two beds I offered it up. She gushes that I look beautiful and I complain that I don’t know what to do with my hair.

I start pacing around the room because I’m freaked out about what to wear. I have a horrible bruise on my left knee that I got from running into a sharp corner on New Years Eve, and the dress I was planning to wear shows it. Beatrice has a great Dolce and Gabbana dress that’s just long enough to cover it. And she’s got incredibly sexy boots to go with it—thank goodness we’re the same size. In return, she borrows one of my dresses since her body isn’t marred by evidence of klutzy accidents. We look at each other and laugh—Beatrice is definitely more punky/edgy than I am, and I tend to dress in really girly pastel colors. It was like we were switching identities for the night.

I’m getting completely panicked because the red carpet makes me nervous, and I can’t hide behind my mom this year because she isn’t here. In fact, I have to escort Celeste and make sure she’s seen and photographed, which means I can’t shrink back away from the red ropes lining the walk.I’m pacing in the room and Beatrice is trying to calm me down as I get progressively more nervous as the time nears to go downstairs and meet up with the Pure Play people. My friend Ashley Fontenot comes by my room (also a photographer) to change and get ready too—she and Beatrice are also going, but separately from me.

And then the ridiculous happens. As I am all a flutter and rushing around the bathroom, I reach over to grab some toilet paper while snapping my cell phone shut. It slips out of my hand, and yup—falls into the toilet. For a moment, I just stare down into the bowl because I can’t believe what I just did. Beatrice hears my loud swearing and attacks it with a hairdryer once I’ve fished the phone out.

“Don’t bother,” I told her. “It’s totally destroyed and plus I don’t want to use a phone that fell in the toilet. I know it was a clean bowl, but that’s just gross.” At least now I have an excuse to upgrade to a better phone.

I don’t have time to bitch about losing my phone for the third time this year, I have to get downstairs. Once I’ve made it down there, I see April Storm immediately, and Celeste meets up with us no problem. The procession starts. It’s the same thing as last year, but this time, I have to be in charge. I have to make sure Celeste is seen and photographed—I watch the crowd as we walk, and any photographers whose eyes alight upon us I immediately encourage, and I say to Celeste: “Stop. Camera.” I motion to the photographer, and once we pose the flashes go off. I feel a bit odd and self-indulgent doing so, but that’s the red carpet. As a photographer, I know that no one wants to shoot a model that doesn’t think she deserves it 110 percent.

Once inside everyone is crowding the strategically placed bars for drinks before they have to sit down for the awards to start. I’m at the front of the bar and ready to order drinks—Chris taps my shoulder and I turn around to see Nick Manning.

“It’s ‘droppin loads’!” Chris laughs.

Nick laughs as well. “Hey Nick—what do you want to drink?” I ask. I get him his drink, as well as Chris’ and mine. Nick’s impressed that I leave a ten dollar tip. The bartender seemed harried, and he served me quickly and sweetly—I figured he deserved it.

I see Max Hardcore and Layla, his new girl who I shot recently. I give her a big hug (she’s such a sweetheart) and he kisses me on the cheek. I know he’s got a certain reputation—I’ve never seen his films-- they don’t appear to be my kind of thing, but to each his own. He’s never been anything but incredibly polite to me, so I see no reason why not to return the favor.

Once I locate my table, I see Paul Fishbein headed my way. I stop him and he tells me where to find his wife, Amanda. Table 12, right in front. Well, of course. I find her sitting with Dani Woodward, another gorgeous redhead. People are still filling in, most tables are only half full.

Dani turns to me. She’s so hot, I have to say I dig readheads. I wish I was into girls. “You still have my bracelet,” she accuses me. She’s speaking of a sterling silver bracelet she gave me to wear at Paul and Amanda’s wedding that I ended up going home with.

“It’s in the drawer of my nightstand,” I promise. (This is true). “I kiss it every night before I go to bed.” (This is not true).

Dani rolls her eyes. “You’re such a tease Holly,” she says.

I ask Amanda how she is feeling, and then it immediately occurs to me she probably gets this question all the damn time. So I follow it up with the question if she ever finds the previous question annoying. She laughs—obviously I’ve hit the nail on the head.

Time for the awards. The comedian host is very funny this year, and the clips starring Randy Spears are hilarious. He is a very good actor—a reputation that preceded him but I really don’t watch too much porn so I’ve never seen him in anything. Stormy wins one of the first awards of the evening, and I’m happy for her because Stormy fucking rocks. When other people have slammed my mother for no good reason, Stormy was always sticking up for her, and that meant a lot to me. Stormy is an intelligent, beautiful, sweet but takes-no-shit kind of gal. I like that kind of person.The only award I’m really interested in is best starlet. I’m convinced, and most of the industry is convinced, that Sunny Lane will win. So when McKenzie Lee’s name is called, I’m surprised, but certainly not disappointed. I know many people say that McKenzie doesn’t have much of a name yet, but I’ve worked with her before she signed with Club Jenna, and I can say she is a kick ass performer. I don’t doubt she will live up to her award. She wore a dress fashioned as a British Flag—an easy way to look incredibly tacky. But McKenzie pulls the dress off with absolute grace-- she looks indisputably amazing.

We don’t win. I never expected to, so it doesn’t bother me. Just like the Oscars, they have huge television screens marking both sides of the stage, wherein they display the edited scenes of said movies being nominated, or certain clips of important categories. They also from time to time zoom in on certain members of the audience as they are watching the show. They showed me up on the large screen twice. Not much, but I will take my small victories where I can get them.

During the show, I run into a few people I missed on the convention floor. I see Natalia Cruz, now Sophia Santi of Digital Playground; but to me she’s still the beautiful Natalia that landed me my first (but hopefully not last) Penthouse Pet of the Year Runner-up issue. She’s as beautiful as ever and her dress is exquisite.

“You look amazing,” she breathed. “What have you done?”

I knew she was politely asking me if I’d lost weight. “I shed about 10 pounds,” I told her. Though part of it can be attributed to diet and exercise, much of it is that I’ve been cutting down on my marijuana intake recently, and thus I keep forgetting to eat. I’ll go more than a day without a bite to eat, because it just won’t occur to me. I also can’t sleep. I know this will pass and my body will go back to normal, but for right now I’m skinny but I look like I haven’t slept in ages. Hot, let me tell you.

The best part is the award Noel Bloom accepts. His son, Noel Jr, went to high school with me, and we took 11th grade English class together. We bonded a bit over our parents mutual careers, so when I saw him after his father’s win, I jumped up from my seat and tugged at his shirt. He turned to me but didn’t recognize me.

“Holly,” I reminded him. “From Calabasas High School.”

His face instantly changed to one of shock and delight. He was on his way to his father, but he promised to return and say hello. And he did. It reminds me that like him, I really did grow up in this industry.

The awards die down and I’m ready to go up to my room and shed my tortuous shoes. I run into Lanny Barby, and we’re thrilled to see each other. She lived with me for a few weeks when she was “our” girl—i.e. before anyone really discovered how fantastic she was and signed her to a contract. AKA Vivid. They were smart enough to see her potential, but I will always feel smug that we had her first.

I run into a group of guys wearing balloon hats. I want one, so being the obnoxious girl I am, I stop them and promptly take a hat off of one of them. “I need to have this,” I tell him.

He protests, and my friend demands: “You have to give it to her. Don’t you know who she is?”

I hate it when people do that. I’m not fucking famous. “He doesn’t know who I am,” I said irritably.

“Oh yes I do,” he responds. I look at him, surprised. “You’re Holly Randall.” Instantly my ego inflates. “But you still can’t have the hat,” he finishes, and takes it from me. My ego deflates back to normal size.

Beatrice, Chris (and his roommate who has just joined us), Ashley and her boyfriend all head up to my room. I’m trying to be convinced to come down to the Circle bar and hang out, but I’m pretty drunk and I’d really rather quit while I’m ahead. I don’t want to go downstairs, get totally hammered, and make a complete fool out of myself. To make a point, I change into my pajamas and take off my makeup.

My feet still hurt immensely, I don’t recall them ever having hurt so much before. Ashley’s boyfriend offers to massage my feet. I look to her, and Ashley encourages me—she says he’s a healer. She’s right. While he’s rubbing my feet, I squeal and moan.

“That’s what she sounds like when she has sex,” Chris remarks.“Fuck off,” I groan. “This feels so fucking good, I think I might cry.”

“Or come,” Chris says dryly.

I’m bullied into going back downstairs, but I refuse. I really just want to lay down. If they want to bring the party to me, that’s fine. But they don’t. Oh well. Everyone but Beatrice and I head back downstairs, and we order “The Weatherman” on TV and fall asleep.The next day, I feel awful. I don’t get it, because I went to bed relatively early (for Vegas) the night before and I didn’t drink that much. I think it’s the fact that I haven’t slept well for two weeks, and my conscience keeps kicking me in the gut, reminding me what a horrible person I am.

Chris’ roommate is the only one in shape to drive home. Thank goodness. I lay down in the back seat and let their idle chatter and the background music wash over me. I roll onto my side and watch the scenery pass by me. I reflect on how my drive home how was so much different last year. I close my eyes. It’s much easier to sleep than think.

Christmas at the Randalls

2005-12-28T13:56:00.000-08:00

Christmas time means something different to everybody, and just because it's a holiday doesn't mean that my family takes any time off from being really weird. For me, Christmas means mimosas in the morning, opening presents in front of the fire, eating a huge lunch prepared by Suze that could feed a small country, and my father having a few too many and interjecting inappropriate, bad jokes throughout the day. Even though my siblings and I are way too old for stocking stuffers, my mom still insists on filling them (usually with meltable items such as soap) and then hanging them in front of a roaring fire (resulting in the aforesaid items melting in the stockings). But this year she took heed to my teasing her about this, and nothing was even slightly overheated in my stocking.

The one thing about these huge meals that my mother insists on making is that the pileup of dirty dishes afterwards is staggering, and our dishwasher didn't work and my mom refuses to use one anyhow: "It's such a pain! You have to load it, and then unload it and put the dishes away!" Hmm, last time I checked it took longer to scrub the dishes, towel dry them, and then put them away. Call me crazy. I think a dishwasher is one of those "silly American devices" that my mother never had growing up so she assumes it's unnecessary. But this year, I convinced her to get a new one. Of course she bought the most expensive dishwasher she could find-- it's got two separate compartments that you can wash at different times! Leave it to my mom to shun a particular technology, and then when she comes around, invests in the costliest of it's kind. Gotta love consumerism.

On Christmas Eve, I had gotten a copy of Adam's Film World through a friend of mine, and without telling me why he'd marked a certain page in the magazine. It was an article about "The Other Hollywood," a book that quoted both my mother and my father. I casually scanned the page and to my horror there was a large photo of my mom on the street next to some people with picket signs, a wicked gleam in her eye and a mischievous expression for the camera. Oh, and she had picked up her skirt, and was flashing the photographer. And she had no underwear on. "Ack!" I exclaimed as I slammed the magazine shut. Curious, my father asked for the mag. When he saw the picture, he got a dreamy look in his eyes. "Those were the days..." he sighed. This photo was apparently taken way back when (whether or not it was before I was born or shortly after we're not sure, though I'd like to think it was before), and it marked a religious right protest being staged at an adult convention. Being the troublemaker that she was (and still is) Suze followed the protesters, flashing them her privates and basically shocking everyone there. Apparently Al Goldstein was pissed because she took all the attention away from him. Funny thing, that an attractive woman flashing the crowd vs. a fat angry guy-- who are YOU going to pay more attention to?

My brother came downstairs shortly after, and without offering an explanation, I gave him the magazine and waited for him to find the picture. It took a while, but as I watched his face the change of expression from mildly interested to suddenly horrified I knew he'd found the picture. And like me, he immediately slammed the magazine shut and gave me a dirty look as he handed it back."Thanks a lot," he said."Hey man," I replied. "If I have to see it, so do you."This of course led to more reminiscing. My parents had just seen a photo of them from the early 70s at the Wet Dreams festival in Amsterdam."What a handsome devil I was," my dad has said repeatedly since he saw this photo."I don't know what you're talking about Humphry," my mom countered. "You were wearing this ridiculous outfit-- that jacket-- all I can say is you cannot make fun of the fact that your youngest daughter (not me) is dating a guy who dresses like a pirate. I of course looked exquisite, made me feel much better!"This argument between my parents over who was better looking in their youth can only be overshadowed by their fond memories of the orgies at this festival. Now that is a trip down memory lane I can do without.

The next day we had some friends over for Boxing Day lunch. Friends of my parents, a couple named Boris and Doris (I kid you not) brought their 6 month old baby. My dad kept teasing me that I was pining over the baby and my mother was lamenting that I didn't have kids yet, but neither of us did anything of the sort. I think it's my father who has baby fever! Who would have guessed, the man who never wanted kids in the first place...

Then I took a friend and his mom down to see the baby horses, the sheep, and the chickens (yes, we're just of short a pig and a cow-- which we've actually had at one point). Since I'm the animal expert, I boasted of our friendly hen, Henny Penny, who would allow anyone to pick her up. I chased her around the pen for 5 minutes before I gave up-- she wasn't going to let me even touch her. So much for that. Next we went up to take some pictures of my mom's older horses. My overwhelmingly irritating dog Poe had joined us by then, and he likes to bother the horses, snapping at their heels and barking excitedly. After I warned my non-equestrian friends to stay away from the horses hind legs, Poe made a sudden dash at one near me, and the horse lashed out. Somehow that mare managed to kick both me and my dog at the same time. After making much ado and pretending his leg was broken, Poe decided he'd gotten the attention he deserved and he dashed off, no sign of a limp. So much for the animal wrangler I pretended to be-- not only would Henny Penny not let me near her, but I wasn't careful enough around the horses' back legs and got exactly what I had warned my guests about. I suppose there won't be a show for me on Animal Planet anytime soon.

My Yard Smells Icky

2005-12-19T15:20:00.000-08:00

As I had feared, the incessant noise began at 8 AM on a Saturday morning. I groaned and rolled over in my bed, lamenting at how soft my new beechwood sheets felt, and that I couldn't revel in their luxury as the drone of a chainsaw rang in my ears. Damn my neighbor! He was a contractor, and thus onthe weekends there was nothing he liked better to do than do construction on his house and make a lot of annoying noise. I clamped a pillow over my exposed ear and tried to suffocate out the noise as I imagined the well-deserved lecture I was going to give him once I could drag myself out of bed. Muttering,I pulled on my robe and trudged downstairs, throwing back the curtain in my living room that exposed both my front yard and his. Goddamn, it was MY gardeners making all the noise. They normally come on Thursday afternoons, butI thought perhaps with the holiday season they were juggling their duties around a bit as to accomodate family vacations. Irritated that I had no one to blame but myself (and also imagining at the same time that my neighbors were probably cursing ME right now) I headed off to the gym. When I returned, I sawthe gardeners up the in the beautiful oak tree that marks my front yard,viciously sawing down the branches covered with the gorgeous orange and yellow leaves of fall.

"No no no!" I cried, and ran to the bottom the knarled trunk, scowling up at the villians who were murdering my favorite tree. "Don't cut the branches! What are you doing?"

"Excuse me senorita," the head gardener said. "These branches are growing into the power lines. They must be cut."

I glanced towards the electrical lines, and realized they were right. "Fine," I sighed. "But can you leave as much of the branches with their foliage up?"

"Of course," he assured me, obviously not understanding or caring what I had just said.

Downtrodden, I went back inside. That tree means more to me than most know-- the house I live in currently is the house I grew up in. We moved there when I was five years old and didn't move out until I started high school. My parents never sold the property, only rented it. So when I was ready to work full time for Suze.net and had moved back down from Santa Barbara, the house was offered to me as a kind of compensation for working for my parents. There was a swing that used to hang from one of the branches, and I would spend hours on it, rocking back and forth, contemplating my present and my future. I was much too pensive for a little girl, and my parents would often find me alone, letting the swing glide back and forth, staring into a unidentifiable spot in the sky that was the portal to the innermost regions of my young mind. I dreamt of one day being famous, happy and beautiful, with a wonderful husband and gorgeous, intelligent children. I was so secure in my youth, I was so sure I was going to have the best life ever, and that I would always be so happy. I was a very solitary kid, I had almost no friends, and so indulging in these fantasies were a theraputic release from that current reality. That tree was my best friend.

To get away from the noise of the chainsaws mutilating my childhood friend, I drove out to my local salon to get my eyebrows shaped and have a leisurely lunch, so that when I returned home, hopefully the noise would be gone. It was, but it was replaced by something I'm not so sure is much better-- though it's certainly more persistent than the noise of lawnmowers and chainsaws. It was time to fertilize my grass again-- which means I get to come home to a yard full of crap. Literally, the green lawn is covered with finely ground brown cowdung. The smell is hideous and lasts for a few weeks. Once inside, I feverently lit all my scented candles-- even breaking out my preciously expensive yet incredibly fragrant Vera Wang candles. The smell from inside has been expunged, but walking outside to my mailbox is just disgusting.

I better have one hell of a lawn after this. In fact, I insist on having a croquet party after this is all done. I don't know how to play croquet, but I imagine that sipping mint juleps in the sun and wearing cute knee socks is good enough. Hmmm... photo shoot?