Hello again! It’s time once more to take a trip into the dark recesses of my sexual past and tell a story that may or may not make me want to die of embarrassment, for closure and for lols. This is something I’ve literally never thought to write about until now, but nigh a decade has elapsed since it happened, so I’m starting to think it’s more funny than mortifying. Also, if it were going to pop up on the internet, I’m pretty sure it would have by now. Although I might be tempting fate by writing this post.
Are you eating? Good. Nothing goes with a sex tape story like a nice breakfast sandwich. Perhaps a Coffee Coolatta, too. Do they still make those? The last time I got one, I locked myself out of my car and had to watch it melt into warm coffee water while I waited for AAA to come. Warm coffee water is not good to drink. Do I know from experience? Yes. Am I stalling? Yes.
Let us travel back in time to a long ago year called 2003, and a far away place called Connecticut. I had just started having sexual intercourse and was very excited about the different things that could be done with it. I was having it with someone I’ll call Jim, a ridiculously hot and good hearted loser whose primary functions were to smoke pot with me, shoplift electronics for me, go see bands with me, and take my virginity so I didn’t feel like a freak when I got to college. Okay, so those were his only functions. But he fulfilled them well.
I was 18 when I deflowered myself via Jim (do you see what I did there?), which I know now to be a fairly normal age, but which to me at the time felt terribly old. I was thrilled to finally be checking out this thing called “sex,” and overnight, my vagina became a magical vessel from which all manner of delights could be produced. Sex was awesome! I wanted to try everything there was to be tried, and I was a vain young woman with an interest in pornography. Which, naturally, led me to want to try my own hand at porno-making.
On the big day, I went over to Jim’s house and got all dolled up for the shoot. Actually, it was his parent’s house—he was 23 and still making love in his childhood bedroom—but we don’t have to talk about that. For a cinematographer, we enlisted a friend of his, a small and giggly stoner girl whom everyone calledÂ Fuck. This created some confusion when trying to direct the camera. Which I’m pretty sure belonged to his dad.
For a soundtrack, we selected Music To Make Love To Your Old Lady ByÂ by Lovage, a short lived Mike Patton side project. (Jim was very into ’90s alt-rock; I’d lost my virginity a couple months earlier to some regrettable cuts from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and he had a Foo Fighters tattoo on his back.) It might not have been the coolest choice, but looking back it was just goofy enough to be appropriate.