"I love sex," Raylene says, laughing with a kind of stoner's guffaw. She can be seen in the current issue of Rolling Stone. It has graced the cover of New Times Los Angeles with Luke Ford. And in porn it is not uncommon to have a career whose arc closely resembles that of a firefly. It's clear that for Raylene - and many of her contemporaries - fame and money are yardsticks by which self-worth is measured. "I can make a lot of money at this," Raylene continues. The dancer teasingly removes her remaining garments. Raylene gets up, sticks a $20 bill between the dancer's breasts and sits back down. "I really like doing porn," relates Raylene as she stares directly at the ample behind of a Dream Palace dancer onstage. Funny, when Raylene tours strip bars like this around the country, she makes $6,000 to $10,000 a week. The club's mouthpiece says it's against the rules, something about independent contracting. Here, Raylene wants to strip and dance for the few droopy eyelids scattered and nubile young women. At Raylene's request, we empty into the Dream Palace all-nude club. Later, after some rude cab drivers, we miss the 1 a.m. On one side of me, Vlautin talks about his wife and 3-year-old daughter, while on the other side, Raylene goes on about how she used to do stock-car racers. At least he picks up the tab for everything. He might be one of a very small number who got where he is in the music biz by being nice. and possesses a healthy sense of self-deprecating humor and geniality. Later, as eager faces look on, she sprays on the backstage wall, "Vivid kicks ass/Watch porn/Raylene XXX0."įor a record-company weasel, John Vlautin, it turns out, is really no weasel at all. She has the kind of peripheral appeal that ensures a person success in any pop-skin trade from rock 'n' roll to modeling to porn. But when Raylene presses the flesh (shakes hands, that is) with curious mouth-breathers, porn fans and club girls, she is self-aware to the point of showing off. Her dressed-down looks deceive her job description. Raylene, wearing nondescript white jeans rolled halfway up her shins, sandals and a too-tight tube top, carries herself with a puissant sexual persona. Next stop is Tempe rock venue The Green Room. She can be seen in such highball porn flicks as The Bottom Dweller 5, Devil's Black Jack, Taming of the Screw, Up and Cummers 42, 69 Hours and As Sweet As They Come. She tells me her dad is Eastern European and her mother is Mexican. Raylene has a burgundy mane, dark eyes and dark skin. The bong comes sealed in a box that for Raylene is no fun to carry around. Out of the haze of posters, pipes and other paraphernalia, Raylene purchases a massive plunger-shaped bong. With me tonight are 22-year-old Raylene POPsmear scribe and Street Walkin' Cheetah shouter Frank Meyer the senior vice president of media relations at Island records, John Vlautin and tireless Vivid adult-flick PR flack Brian Gross.įrom the Ritz-Carlton in Phoenix, the night's first stop is the Headquarters, a head shop in Tempe. Tonight the gist is this: A sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll magazine called POPsmear is shooting its Halloween issue cover in Phoenix, featuring porno purrer Raylene and Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, the duo that is Detroit's much media-maligned Insane Clown Posse. Once porn is demythologized, nothing is left but gratuitous anatomy insertions, unsightly close-ups and men who are but life support for their penises.īut we are not here to talk about what we see on television or in the movies or that which we rent at adult arcades. Porn does not belong on the bookshelf or all over Rolling Stone and Entertainment Tonight. For porn to stay fun, it should remain under the bed where it is safe, dark and dirty. And over there is Jerry Springer hosting a harem of pedestalized porn stars, some of whom come across as emotionally damaged and anything but consenting.īut now that porn has rolled over into pop's mainstream wet spot, it has, in the process, also become yawn-inducing. Over here is Ricky Martin surrounded by a wreath of faceless women swimming naked on the cover of Rolling Stone. If you pay attention to the glossed shows and tabloids cramming our lives, you see that porn and pop are the two new, primary cultural colors rattling our collective and desultory brain pans. A cab ride that is a microcosm of that reductive cross of porn and pop. So what would it be like to cab around the city with a record-company weasel, a couple of writers, a punk-rock singer, a porn-PR pro and an adult-film star wielding a large bong in a box?Īn irony-rich ride more fun than a pop-up Popsicle, Daddy-O.
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