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An excerpt from my most recent newsletter: “The Hand Print”:
That scene would star Jenna and a effectively-regarded male porn star named T. T. Boy, a limited, pugnacious performer with a lantern jaw and a permanent scowl who reminded me of a significantly less-shiny Patrick Bateman. (“Within the company, he is regarded as an untiring performer,” T. T. Boy’s Wikipedia website page touts. “In a 2015 interview, he mentioned that in excess of the training course of his career, he has slept with over 10,000 women of all ages.”) I understood who T. T. Boy was just before I arrived for the reason that I had read through about him in the pages of The New Yorker. In 1995, Susan Faludi had published about the suicide of a male porn star named Cal Jammer, and throughout her analysis in the San Fernando Valley, her path experienced crossed with that of T. T. Boy’s. In her tale, she’d quoted a former male porn star who’d noticed of T. T. Boy: “Basically, the male is a life-assistance procedure for a penis.” I discovered this evaluation to be about right. He was lesser than me, brooding, coiled as if wanting for an justification to do a little something to someone—it didn’t really make any difference what or who, no matter if it was battling or fucking. Maybe it was all the identical to him.
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