The filming continued into the early evening, and I still didn't recognize anything from my script. I watched feats of sexuality that could only be described as psychopathic proctology, and not once did I hear them utter even a single line of my carefully crafted dialogue. I was beginning to suspect that this had been the plan all along. Hiring a writer was just a formality, but in the end, all they really wanted was a string of unrelated sex scenes.

Eventually I asked Brandon if he had any intention of shooting my script. "We have to shoot all the sex first," he said. "Once that's out of the way, we'll get to your stuff." I tried to be patient, but I was becoming bored with the proceedings. I wandered in and out of the set, pointing angrily at my watch or clearing my throat at inopportune times. I came dangerously close to being banned from the premises when, after witnessing a lesbian tryst drag on for almost two hours, I pointed out to Brandon that the scene was rapidly becoming redundant.

As midnight approached, Brandon finally called a wrap. But before the crew could pack up their cameras and run for the doors, Brandon reminded them that their day was not over. "OK, people," he shouted. "Let's do the fast forward."

His announcement was greeted with groans of protest and gnashing of teeth. A gloomy fatigue fell over the room, and the crew went about their tasks with exaggerated fatigue. One of the actresses walked onto the set, her hair in curlers, and asked me why everybody looked so upset.

"Something about a fast forward," I said.

"Oh no, really?" The actress said, frowning deeply. "Shit, I hate this part."

"What's a fast forward?" I asked.

A grip walked over, dragging his feet like a teenager on his way to detention. "Fucking hell," he said.

"I know," the actress agreed.

"It never gets any easier," the grip said.

Another actor joined the group. "Fast forward?" he said, noting their sour expressions.

"It's just not fair," the actress scowled.

"What's a fast forward?" I asked again.

"The script," the actor said, almost whispering the words.

"I don't get it," I said. "Why's it called fast forward?"

They looked at me like I had missed something obvious. And then they each held up a hand, mimicking the use of a remote control. "Fucking fast forward," the grip moaned. "Like it matters."

As I watched the actors perform my lines, there were moments when I felt genuinely proud of what I'd accomplished. I had a produced screenplay, which was more than half the writers in Hollywood could say. It wasn't art, sure, but it was permanent, or at least as permanent as celluloid could be.

My occasional surges of pride were quickly snuffed out by the haunting realization that I had contributed to something so rotten that it was almost unwatchable. It was drivel. Worse than drivel. It was crap, pure and simple. The performances were awful. The actors garbled their lines so badly, it almost seemed that the entire cast was suffering from the same disabling speech impediment.

But I knew that I had to share at least some of the blame. My dialogue was stilted and forced, and none of it was as funny as I'd once envisioned. I tried to tell myself that I'd intended it this way. It was all part of my plan to create the perfect porn parody. But deep down, I knew that I hadn't been quite so cunning. Every painful line, every inane plot point, every porn cliché, it was all bleached of irony. However good my intentions might have been in the beginning, somewhere along the way, whether out of impatience or just plain laziness, I had inadvertently written a fairly typical, unremarkable porn film.

After suffering through almost an hour and a half of unimaginable shame, I ran for the exit. Not that I was in any immediate danger. I just needed to get out of there, if only to assure myself that escape was still possible. Out in the parking lot, the Santa Ana winds were gusting hard. The desert breeze had rolled in, bringing with it a small dust storm. The air had the brownish color of exhaust, and it was difficult to breathe without wheezing. I found my car and fumbled for the keys. I had almost managed to open the front door when I saw somebody out of the corner of my eye, exiting the studio and walking quickly toward me.

"Leaving so soon, sport?"

It was Brandon. I thought I'd been able to slip away unnoticed, but apparently my presence was more vital to this production than I had originally believed. I turned and smiled at him, trying to appear casual.

"No, no, 'course not," I said in a lazy drawl.

He peered at me closely, and something in my expression seemed to concern him. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

"Nothing. Why?"

"You look upset."

I slouched against the car, resting an arm on the roof, like I had every intention of staying there indefinitely. "I'm fine."

Brandon nodded, like he understood something that I had yet to grasp. "Were you aware that the majority of porn actors don't die from sexually transmitted diseases?" He said.

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. It was apropos of nothing. I started to speak, but could manage only a few facial tics.

"Is that a fact?" I finally said.

"Most people think it's AIDS, but that's a fallacy. The No. 1 cause of death among porn stars is self-inflicted gunshot wounds."

"I had no idea."

"It's true. Just look at the body count. Wendy Williams, Cal Jammer, Megan Leigh, Shauna Grant, Savannah. They all offed themselves with shotguns. You know what the second most common cause of death is?"

"Uh ..."

"Asphyxiation. Followed closely by overdose-related suicides. And then AIDS. It's weird, huh? Everybody thinks that this industry needs condoms, but what it really needs is more therapy."

We both shook our heads, marveling at the strangeness of it all. I knew that he was trying to make me feel better, but all this talk of dead porn stars was just making me more depressed.

"I've been in this business for almost 10 years," he continued. "I've seen a lot of friends die, watched a lot of my peers take the easy way out. But I've never worried that it could happen to me. I'm just not the depressive sort. I've never been sad for no reason, never been plagued with self-doubt, never once had suicidal thoughts. And you know why that is?"

"No, not really."

"I want to show you something." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open to the inner sleeve, the part usually intended for family photos. He pointed to a picture, and I had to look more closely to see what it was. It seemed to be an angel covered in gold body paint. But upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a small statue.

"That's an Adult Video News Award," he told me. "This may not mean much to you, but believe me, it's the highest honor we can get in this industry. They don't just give these to anybody. You have to prove yourself. You have to demonstrate that you're at the top of your field."

"That's great, Brandon. Good for you."

He had that look in his eyes, that expectant gaze you usually see in parents when they're showing you baby photos. I could have mocked him, could have come right out and said, "How adorable, it looks just like you." But I couldn't bring myself to be that cruel. Apparently he saw nothing unusual about carrying around a photo of an award statue in his wallet. And that was probably for the best. If he suspected even for a moment just how pathetic it was, that depression he'd been avoiding for so many years might finally catch up with him.

"When I get up in the morning, I can look in the mirror with a sense of pride. I'm not ashamed of what I do. Sure, sometimes it's bad. Sometimes it's really bad. But of all the people who do it, I do it the best. You see what I'm saying? I'm the best."

"That's a nice way to look at it."

"It's the only way, sport. If you compare yourself with the greats of cinema, sure, you're going to feel inadequate. But you have to examine your life in the right context. We may be at the bottom, but we're at the top of the bottom."

In a twisted sort of way, it made perfect sense. And he really believed it; that's what made it so beautiful. I wanted more than anything to be like him, to be so blissfully unaware, to see the world through his blinders. All around him was evidence that he was wrong, tangible proof that his life was a joke, but he wouldn't look at it, wouldn't acknowledge its presence.

"You know what might help?" he said. "If you ever find yourself feeling low, and you think that everything you've written is terrible and it's all been a big waste of time, I want you to remember one simple thing."

"What's that?"

He spoke softly, enunciating each word. "It's not my fault, it's theirs."

"Whose fault?"

"Everybody. The actors, the producers, the audience and their filthy, stupid desires. There's always somebody out there to muck it up for you. But there's nothing you can do about that. Say it with me. It's not my fault, it's theirs."

"I'd really rather --"

"Just say it." He lifted his chin, cueing us to begin. "It's not my fault," we said in unison. "It's theirs."

"There now," he said, beaming at me. "Don't you feel better?"

I did, actually. And for one brief, fleeting moment, all was right in the world.

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