Tangents & The Times

Editor’s note: This is a post which documents Miss A. Ross’ experiences at the two-thousand & nine AVN convention and awards. Please take this as a forewarning that the proceeding “literature” contains foul language, grimy metaphors and disgusting imagery that is enough to drive her family to early graves. Miss A. Ross went simply as a spectator, on a trip for strange & subjective journalism. If you are offended by graphic content, please take your eyes elsewhere.
Also, just to reiterate: Miss A. Ross is NOT a jizzaholic.
Cordial thanks,
Adin Hunter
Miss A. Ross’ editor, handstand spotter & Digital Playground Representative

I left on Friday night. I was sitting in the terminal when a man came and sat next to me. He had a thick British accent, which is fine, but I couldn’t stand the pig noises he was making and decided the only logical thing to do was to go to the bar and have a Maker’s & Ginger to pass the time along with everyone else that had a Blackberry. My father called and I didn’t hesitate to answer,
“Hey, dad.”
“Hey, sweetie. Whatcha up to?”
“Oh, just drinking some whiskey at the airport.”
“Why are you at the airport?”
“To drink whiskey… no, I’m going to Vegas.”
“What are you doing up there?”
“Going to the porn awards.”

The scratchy, Clint Eastwood voice caused by a number of bouts with throat cancer on the end of the line went silent and a nervous chuckle came out of my old man.
“The porn awards, eh? Yeah, that’s a joke.”
“No, Dad. I’m going to the porn awards. You know, it’s killing me not knowing who is going to win Best Anal Scene. I really hope Jenna Haze…”
He stopped me and went on to say in so many words that he was “repulsed” (yet, I knew he meant “jealous”) and that I am wreaking havoc upon my reputation with these sorts of ventures as well as our good name. He was confused on where he went wrong in my rearing that would nurture this kind of behavior and I simply explained that he had subscribed to Cinemax and not to hold himself too responsible for the effect softcore porn had had on my sweet malleable little brain.

I told him I loved him and not to worry, that I was in complete control of my curiosity and I wouldn’t let it get me into the pre-production of Blow Me Sandwich Thirteen.
I then threw back another Maker’s, boarded the plane and finished reading The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time which made me cry and made the man next to me pat me on the shoulder as I very soberly explained the story of the autistic boy and how the last paragraph inspired me so and how I was so happy the person who lent it to me was that person because…

I had been waiting to see how long it would take him to stop listening.
It took two minutes and seventeen seconds (approximately).
He then smiled and fumbled for the Sky Mall magazine and I reread the last paragraph aloud for him as one last inspiration before we got off the plane to potentially ruin our lives monetarily / emotionally / physically.

I was picked up in an inconspicuous white SUV and was taken to Trump Tower.

I will say right now, I have a vendetta against Trump Tower. They charged $1,200 to our credit card for rooms that had already been paid for, had the worst service, was completely understaffed and did not comply to any of my standard necessities I was promised they could provide free of charge for the priceless amount of publicity they would receive for being featured on my blog (whiskey, Cabernet, marble goblets, a jet-bath filled with See’s peanut butter cups [NOT REESE'S ESPECIALLY NOT WHEN I'M AT A GOD DAMNED FIVE STAR HOTEL] and Suri Cruise for in-room entertainment). Trump Tower is one of those Sidekick 2 covers that only looks like it’s covered in Swarovski crystals when really it’s plastic and was bought from some Mexican at a cart in the Montclair mall.

ANYWAY.
We got ready and went to Pure. I was accosted by an Italian landowner. We drank a lot of Patron provided by a UFC fighter that fell in love with one of my friends. Clubs are really not my thing but DJ AM got me through all right. The night ended with me passing out on the floor curled up in the curtain next to a perfectly good bed. The end.

Alright, so this has all been a lot of exposition leading up to what you really want to hear about.
I just wanted to see how far you’d read.
You read six hundred and ninety four words to get this far.
Thanks.
I appreciate you humoring me.

Saturday we went to the AVN Convention. This is one of the strangest things I have ever encountered. First of all, there is no point to even caring about what you wear. At a porn convention, you either fall into the “porn star” category or the “definitely NOT a porn star”. You are either naked or overdressed. To be frank, I didn’t understand the patrons that chose to go mostly naked. I mean, everyone else who is naked, is five feet nothing with a slight meth habit and all of their eighty pounds in their tits. There is no reason to go naked unless you want to seriously embarrass yourself. These girls are porn stars for a reason and you, you are a goth chick from Flagstaff. The black negligee with the pink skulls from Target should only be out for display in the privacy of your boyfriend’s parent’s basement and not to be out distracting me from Sunny Lane’s gaping asshole (she did win best Anal Scene).

The convention was absolutely insane- free anal beads everywhere, WoW fanatics with handicams, life sized barbies fingering themselves for Cobrasnake wannabes. Girls giving girls rimjobs while interracial gang-bangs play on huge lcd screens above their heads and their corporate mogul sponsors sipping gin from velvet couches on raised platforms. There were a great many products that were being demoed. This one I think takes the cake:

There is a huge stage with fifty girls, all bent over on all fours for a “booty shakin” contest. Girls. Girls. Girls. All over. Wandering, posing, groping…
“Your tits are so cute and perky. I want to eat them up!” they giggled.
“Thanks.”
“You should be on Girls Gone Wild with us!”
And out of nowhere some bro with Black Flys comes up with an HD camera.

The next two minutes involves this turd telling me I “don’t have to do anything nasty” and they just want “a nice girl to give a shout out” and me telling this douchebag that he is viler than the smegma Evan Scott pukes up after munching box for eight hours before walking away because I most definitely needed a drink.

“What website are you on, sweet ass?” the reprobate from Barstow in the dusty old Pepsi shirt asks.
“Tangents & The Times.”
“Oh, is that the one with the blond and the mouse that have psuedo-threesomes with indie folk singers?”
And then he asked for my autograph.

No…

No. That didn’t happen.
“What website are you on, sweet ass?”
“Tangents & The Times.”
“What the fuck is that? About geometry?”
I said yes and took my drink and took a seat.

I looked around. I was in a zoo where all the animals were in heat. And I began to feel sick, wondering why these girls enjoyed this as they bent over and spread their cheeks for the camera, one thin finger drawn to their mouth with practiced precision, begging to be a part of every man’s wet dream that night. And the men, waiting in hour-long lines to simply get close enough to see the fake tan lower back he had squirted onto his television for the past year.

I drank up and took in the sweet smell of lubrication and sweaty palms.

That night was the awards, hosted by Belladonna and Jenna Haze.

Throughout the awards, it became apparent to me that Jenna Haze cannot turn off the “porn star”. There were plenty of girls that went up there and appeared to be relatively normal, with a good sense of humor about it all (for example, Penny Flame. She’s dope [although I can't say I've seen her "perform"] or Joanna Angel who is pretty hilarious). But many of them can’t. They are porn stars, plain and simple. They can’t stop giggling or “mmm”ing or batting their eyelashes or banging themselves. It’s as though they weren’t hugged enough and were eventually fucked retarded.

Literally, fucked retarded.
And I just felt sorry for them.

I felt sorry that this is where their life had led them. That somewhere along the path, things were so destitute that this is how they got what they needed. This is how they felt loved. This is where they thought their place in the world was. And I couldn’t help but wonder about their families. My family freaks out if I just mention a butt plug, I can’t imagine what Belladonna’s mother thinks about her collection of foot fetish films. Did they call home and rave about the awards they won? Was Jessica Drake’s father cheering in the crowd? It all made me feel very disheartened and not want to have children because I would just die if I popped in some Jules Jordan flick and saw my daughter using one of her weapons of ass destruction.

On our way out, past the barricaded barrage of barbarians with their Cannon Powershots clicking away at anything with tits that walked by, I stopped one of the girls.
“Excuse me?”
“Autograph?”
“No, I just have a question.”
“[giggles] Sure!”
“Are you happy?”
“What?”
“Are you happy?”
“Why, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t be happy?”
“Well, I don’t know…”
“I do what I love for a living. What do you do?”

She sounded as convincing as when I tell people, “I just want to do what I love for a living.”

And then I started thinking about how maybe we’re not so different- porn stars and myself…

And then I remembered that I am nothing like a porn star.
And either way they have been fucked retarded.
There is no way you could take six black cocks in your ass and not be fucked retarded.
And I am glad we have professionals for that, like Jenna Haze.
Because I am not cut out for that shit.

(I shall post pictures from my Blackberry in the future. Unfortunately, my friend lost her camera over the course of the weekend which had all the evidence that I was groped by porn stars. I can be vouched for though and you can just imagine what it looks like. It probably looked a lot like me, making that face I always make, only this time with a bleached blond elfin-nymph fondling me. )