Ask any Gypsy worth her crystal ball. Seeing into the future is not all it is cracked up to be. In fact, I would take the clear 20/20 of hindsight any day.

Even though, let's face it. I mean...

RIGHT NOW.

Let's just pause for a minute to think about it.

Looking back at what happened a minute ago, yesterday, years before, even back before time was anything more than a matter of light and dark and light again, there is no clarity in it at all. Just recollections that become murkier by the minute, more faded and distant with each... and every... passing... second...

Because, like the cataract covered eyes of an old crone whose alzheimers has finally reduced memories to haunting visions, looking back means looking forward to nothing more than a good hunch about what might happen... next.

Like the dinosaurs. It might be an educated guess, but it is still just a good hunch about what sort of cataclysmic event resulted in their running out of time. They heading off into the sunset of extinction, where time is nothing but a speculation and a point of occurance, lost in the infinity of other moments gathered and tossed to eternity. But at least that is something to go on. At least speculating about it is a way to pass the time.

At least...

That might provide some insight into the future. Because anything at all would be better than knowing tomorrow, the next day, a year from now, a million generations from now. Those moments in the future will come but seeing them coming feels like being tied to a train track. There you are... tied down to the inevitable...

Because this train is always on time. Every car it pulls filled with your dreams and aspirations, with a caboose of longing and hope hitched to the back. You lie between it and the station. No way to stop it... as it rolls... closer... and closer still, where you feel the rattle of the track and hear the humdrum of death about to roll over you.

So all you can really do is look down at your watch. Guess how much time is left, if any, before everything... past... present... future... all are passed.

As time rolls on.

{Forward}

“So…”

The hesitation always lingers. A pregnant pause where everyone stands around wondering who the father might be

“… how did you end up in porn?”

If people actually still talk to me after they find out I did porn then that takes the lead as the first question to ask. However, usually the question drives the conversation more typically to an assertion.

“You don’t seem like somebody that would do porn.” I hear before I try getting a word in edgewise between strict condemnation and leering curiousity, “Well, that’s a story to tell”.

The thing is: Most people think porn is something people crash into at the end of a dead end, a crumpled heap of broken humans looking for the cheap insurance of a quick buck, making false claims of happiness for the ruin of their lives.

But me? I went into this with my eyes open, with direction and purpose. Marching to the beat of an unrecognizable drummer tapping a slick jazzy riff I went whooping and hollering over the hill and into the fray, looking for adventure, naked not only to the camera but also disrobed of the trappings of education or the cloth of experience that might equip me to the task. Instead, armed only with a keen sense of the absurd and a jagged smile on my face I charged in ready to confront my kinks and conquer my sexual insecurities.

I fought hard. And I fancy myself more a lover than a fighter so that wasn't easy.

To survive, I learned something new and useful every day kept in check and balance by what I didn’t have a clue about every other day. But making fantasies come true is not an easy business. You really have to put some foreplay into it.

So, to thrive, I learned how to perform and developed a wide range of important life skills.

I am not just talking about perfecting the perilous “Flying Anal” technique.

I grasped how to stay in a business where the product is free as rain. I managed to raise kids when everything around me bore the stamp “adults only” in red scarlet letters. I taught Princess Leia how to make porn in a galaxy far, far away. Dodged bullets both figuratively and literally. Like how to stay in business when the dude that owes a few hundred thousand decides to get a sex change, take all your cash, and live on a desert island. Of course, where would I be now if I never figured out guns and orgies never mix well?

I learned a few other things that might... ahem… come in handy…no porn pun double-entendre intended that is, when life gets weird. But weird is interesting and that was the best advice my mother ever gave, besides the bit about not letting girls tell me I have to marry if I got them pregnant, she advised “Make sure you live an interesting life.”

And doing porn has certainly been a matter of taking the scenic route, I mean, besides the obvious. Along the way, the spectacle was interesting enough that I enjoyed the great fortune of being written about by three best-selling authors. Evan Wright wrote about me before his “Generation Kill” ended up as a best seller turned HBO series; Eric Schlosser was doubling up on the success of “Fast Food Nation” when he included a bit about yours ever so truly in his “Reefer Madness” muckraker; and David Foster Wallace got a kick out my schtick in “Consider the Lobster”. But each only chipped off enough of the iceberg to make merely a sno-cone confection, sweet to the taste, but only one station in the magnificent Las Vegas epic buffet of my life.

So, rather than have the tale told through the eyes, from the squinting and judgmental, to the winking and knowing, even those staring blankly sometimes in disbelief, the time has come… again, no porn pun intended, to deliver the money shot. Shoot my wad. Tell the whole story, compete with the shootings, the groans, the sighs, the white socks, and the hot lights showing every little thing for better or worse.

Because the next thing I usually hear is “What do you tell your kids about what you do?”

So, this is what I would tell them.

“Lead an interesting life. Just remember the first step in an interesting life is the one that takes you right over a cliff. Let me tell you why from experience...”

If a rolling stone can gather no moss

then time to explain that to Brian Jones

his stone is now an emerald green cross

sitting atop what is left of his bones

now turned chartreuse by the passage of time

the rootless sphagnum gathers around them

left to their own devices and made to climb

by sending out tiny tendrils that hem

his granite round where the rain water pools

truth be told a rolling moss gathers rocks

those who say otherwise are the same fools

trying the right keys on all the wrong locks

forget trying hard to move like Jagger

for moss will always soften the swagger

I broke the bridge

when I stood on it

the rivets ripped from the beam

the roaring of cars

like the raging river below

rushing past 

trying to make it across

in time, but swept away

because current events have an undertow

that pull us all in

like the time when I asked her to dance

and she said she was waiting for somebody

some one else, anybody but me

so I didn't sweep her off her feet

only myself, because when I slipped

I broke the bridge

The pyre flames flare with an August wind's gust

it stokes them higher to make the bones shrink

become brittle and then turns them to dust

while a dance of death brings all to the brink

of ecstatic union, live with death, heed

the drum with its skin pulled taut by sinew

the spirit in pine smoke rising now freed

to shimmy, shake, roll into a life anew

while those below glow by the fire's ember

raise their hands, lift their hearts then sing their praise

so thankful for what they can remember

a count of beats in a rhythm of days

For all that has been, what will never be

we dance with death tonight in reverie

She plays the Alannis when she's angry

ball bustin' non stop cussing hissy fit 

pissed; full steam ahead, she'll sting like a bee

say what she means, mean the way she says it

that barb is planted, full of hot venom

to get her point across with searing pain

Yes it burns, boy, it hurts something handsome

because the truth hurts worst when it's so plain

But the Morissette, well that just adds salt

rubs it in the wound, she's just merciless

until no choice but to admit the fault

because to not would be just perilous 

If he hears that song it will be too soon

He knows what's coming when he hears that tune

Burly tattoo'd bouncers hold the long line

out on the street, against the wall, held back

not allowed to enter as though it's fine

seeing the club is empty for the lack

except for the Artists and Repertoire 

Reps that went in early and got their drinks

ordered quickly with no wait at the bar 

they try to avoid the unsigned band that thinks

their demo is worth a listen, a sure thing

the rep will pretend he's interested 

then rolls his eyes as he forgets to bring

the demo home where it can be tested

When the patrons finally get inside

they act too cool to care music just died 

The gutter punk drinks that piss cheap ass swill

smoking the stubs of cigarettes left by

rich assholes unsatisfied with their fill 

who tossed them aside to identify

themselves by what they have just thrown aside 

the punk flips them off with dirty fingers

behind their backs so the point's lost to chide

but his hot anger of course still lingers

at fucking douchebags in their Mercedes

who have no clue how hard the pavement gets

at night with a street light and a cold breeze

and nothing else but a lot of regrets

but he would rather live by that hard truth

than die by an easy lie more uncouth

Bluest song that one ever heard is one

that's so mournful it shouldn't be sung when

by chance someone hears it he'll come undone

words so sad tears are the ink of the pen

used to inscribe them guided by a hand

trembling with remorse so deep the singers weep

with pain that's so dark this song should be banned

lest it should happen to haunt even sleep

with dreams that will never come true ever

even over one thousand lives re-born

but no pain should last until forever

to render every life so forlorn

so better the peace of gentle silence 

be kept within to offer recompense

Even if a marriage is made in Heaven doesn't mean it won't end up being pure Hell; let me tell you. Those once red roses have wilted and dried until the petals look like dried blood in a black scab, that once sweet cake has become hard as a rock, it could break your teeth. The next time the bells will be ringing will be for the death do us part. Frankly, I don't think I can wait that long. 

He thinks his farts don't stink. 

He thinks every idea he has is the be all end all. 

He thinks every woman wants to fuck him.

Even if every woman did want to tickle his sack I wouldn't give two licks of a dog's asshole. He touches me and I just want to cringe. I wish I could just rip the damn thing off. 

THE LAST THING WE NEED IS ANOTHER KID! 

The bastard believes every sperm he spews is somehow destined to be the Pope, the President, the fucking Chairman of the board. He doesn't have a clue. He comes home from work, fixes a drink, plays "dad" for a few minutes. So clueless. He has no idea what it takes to keep our little angels from becoming the minion of the devil and pulling us all straight into Hell. No fucking idea!

Why do I stay with him? Vows? Our faith? I have zero faith at this point that anything is going to get any better. The longer I stay with him the more I just want to leave. Do I really care if I am excommunicated? All those pious assholes think they can judge me? Sally, who secretly gets drunk and tries to fuck her neighbor's kid? Mitchell? Just a matter of time before he goes to jail for ripping off his clients. The Taylor's? I am fucking positive he is molesting his kids. All those people make me sick and they are all his friends anyway. I can just see them all coming over to console him if I leave. They have no idea what a self centered, egotistical prick he is. 

And to make matters worse, like that is even possible, he called me "Lucille" today. He knows I hate when he calls me that. If I leave him that will be the first thing I do is change my name so no one calls me "Lucy", "Lucille", "Lucky", "Loose", I hate them all. I will come up with a new name for every day until I put all this misery way behind me. Bitch. Cunt. Whore. Whatever. He can call me anything he wants as long as he doesn't call me "Lucille" like my Mother did when she was pissed off when I skipped service. He only calls me that when wants to let me know that I am somehow failing his expectations. What a condescending prick!

Like I haven't done everything already to make him happy. Cook. Clean. Make his drink. Suck his fucking cock. Oh, I'm sorry, I just have to wash the baby's puke off  before I get down on my knees to worship your majesty's magnificent whiskey dick that smells like Limburger cheese. Douchebag.

He expects me to worship the ground he walks on. When I walk out the door he is going to shit his pants. I don't think he can even boil an egg without some slave to do his bidding.

Talk about oblivious. His best friend had his tongue up my ass this morning. Clueless. King of the Castle getting cuckholded by his best man. Pathetic. The sex doesn't even have to be that good to be better than the minute man wham bam thank you ma'am routine. When I leave I will light a match to all of it. When I leave I don't give a rat's ass what any of them think. 

The kids might not get it now but they will when they grow up. 

What would I say now if I had to explain it? "Kids, I am leaving your father because he is an insufferable ass who acts like I should do whatever he wants at the drop of a hat and wants me to be his mother when he isn't treating me like his whore?" They won't get it. They think he is God in Heaven. He can do no wrong. They never see the bruises. They don't know how he rapes me figuratively and literally. They have no idea. I am fine keeping it that way. They will figure it out. They will forgive me. 

I think. I hope. Maybe not. I will die though if I stay. Suicide will be much harder to explain that's for sure. So I am willing to take the chance. 

Today I am going to finally do it. I am going to go out on my own. I am going to walk away from this. I am going to become my own woman. I am going to have a life. I will be alone but I know I will be a helluva lot happier than I am now. Even a match made in Heaven can wind up in Hell. And if I am truly already in Hell then the best way for me to deal with it is to own it. Deal with it and move on. I'm sure he will tell everyone he kicked me out so what does it matter anyway? Till death do us part. Or until I figure out how fucked up things are and deal with it like an adult.