By Anna Pulley
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Erin Sherbert
By Rachel Swan
By Joe Eskenazi
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
"These are my girls!" he says with satisfaction. "And who am I?"
"The king," answer the girls with ill-rehearsed conviction.
"And who is Forest Williams?" asks a Hustler reporter.
"A jack of all trades: I've been a taxicab driver, a dishwasher, and everything else. I've mopped out peep show booths ... I like to think of myself as the only honest person in the porn business. This is a promotional event. This is not real life. And, unlike other people who have held events like this in the past, I'm willing to give away the secrets." Among them: "having sex" does not mean the men will ejaculate; they will be on a two-minute time limit. And gangbangs never include the full number of men advertised. Forest expects around 150. About 20 have shown up. They sit in the well-lit game room surrounded by a '50s motif, reading over finely printed model release forms. Still images and video is where Williams expects to make most of his money. Even if no spectators show up to pay the $50 door charge, the interview on Howard Stern will, according to Williams, make everyone rich from video sales, though "everyone" is an easily recognized euphemism; the women have yet to finalize details regarding the video. But Williams promises that each of the women will be a shareholder in the new movie company he is forming, which will be owned and operated by the talent. As for other promises ...
There is no ice (to help with swelling and redness); there is no food; and there are no fluffers (an essential component to any sexathon) except for Lisa Rubio, a sensual masseuse from Santa Rosa who was meant to act as Raini's coach. As for the mandatory health screening, only half the men present wear the pink wristbands that indicate clear PCRDNA test results -- a porn industry standard that can register HIV within a few days of exposure; the other half wear blue wristbands indicating they've taken no test at all. Most of the men I speak to give me conflicting information as to what their wristbands signify; none of the women know what the colors mean, anyway.
Raini doesn't care. Fed up with the constant delays (digital subscriber line problems), she gets a few guys on the foyer couch to finger her while they wait. Libra and her husband express some trepidation, but come show time, they are downstairs in the dungeon with Libra stretched out across a four-poster bed and Brown ready with a handful of lube. Libra's first caller is Wild Bill, a 55-year-old businessman from Los Angeles who serviced Annabel Chong four times during the World's Biggest Gangbang. (There were only about 75 men present.)
Bill is a hairy, flabby man with ill-fitting teeth. After putting on latex gloves and a condom, he mounts Libra and mugs for the cameras that swoop in with lights and flashes. He pumps away, panting, flab flopping against Libra's belly. She moans. He moans, pulling an archetypal cum face and collapsing for a second before rising awkwardly. Libra comments on the high quality of the condoms as her husband wipes her off with a towel and relubes her. Frank and Hoyt, the wholesome, spunky hosts of Sexcetera, rehearse their prefab script with seasoned Los Angeles smiles as Libra says on camera, "Ahh, only 620 to go." Except there aren't 620, there are still only about 20, and not all of them can handle the pressure of lights, camera, and action. Rubio works furiously in Chocolate's room, trying to get a guy hard enough to perform. Finally, a quick tongue in the ear does the trick, but directly after insertion the man goes limp. He shuffles out of the room embarrassed, hiding behind the Mardi Gras mask most of the male participants wear. Chocolate looks self-conscious; her boyfriend whispers condolences in her ear, wiping her off, and kissing her cheek. Chocolate giggles as he drapes a towel over her until the next man steps into the room followed by a camera. Same story. No wood. It's to be Chocolate's lot most of the day. In an attempt to keep their dignity, Chocolate and her boyfriend retreat into a private world of jokes directed at the men approaching the bed. It doesn't matter that Chocolate is gorgeous and willing; most of the "studs" wind up feeling intimidated and inadequate, and she won't fluff. This is not a problem for Raini, who not only does her own fluffing, but encourages four men to participate at once, seeming happiest when mouth, hands, and vagina are filled. By the time Libra and Chocolate have counted 15, Raini has lost count (I clock her at 24), hoping that someone else is paying attention to the numbers.
Another small detail that has been overlooked.
After her 45th fornication, Libra begins to bleed a little. Friction burns. Despite her desire, she drops out of the contest with tears in her eyes. "If I could be sure about the health [of the men], I would keep going," says Libra. "I'm sure I could keep going, and I want to, but so much of what was promised hasn't happened. Forest didn't take care of us girls. He was too busy doing interviews."