Naked Ambition

Imagine the hottest sex you've ever had. The wet, sweet, trembling stuff that still electrifies your body with tremors the day after.

The porn convention is pretty much the opposite of that.

I recently journeyed to a faraway place called Las Vegas with my stylist, Mitchell, to attend the Adult Entertainment Expo and the Adult Video News Awards. I like to call the events the "Sexpo" and the "Oscars of Porn," respectively. Mitchell is bleach-blond and thin as a catwalk model -- a real hipster queen. Here is a journal of our misadventures:

Day 1, Wednesday:
We depart for Vegas from NYC. Our cab driver is a deaf-mute Israeli who leans forward over the steering wheel, peering through thick glasses to drive. He nearly crashes the taxi, but instead catches only the front right side of the bumper as he passes through a tunnel. After barely arriving at the airport, Mitchell and I travel many, many hours. On the plane I wear a large black hat, channeling Bianca Jagger. Mitchell dons a bowler hat and round John Lennon-esque sunglasses. Once in Vegas, we have both forgotten about the time change and finally fall into our fancy hotel suite around 2 a.m. New York time.

Day 2, Thursday:
Up by 6 a.m. for hair and makeup. I head to the Sexpo at 8 a.m. for a business meeting with the top adult industry publicist. Afterward, I comb the rows at the convention, scoping out my competition. I encounter a massive number of thong panties emblazoned with the words "Eat Me," numerous booths selling stripper body glitter, and one gigantic bucking bronco ride in the shape of a huge penis.

Leaving the Sexpo, I feel utterly unsexy and generally nauseated.

That night Mitchell teases my hair and dolls me up in a pencil skirt, stilettos, and a black lace unitard. Meow. My nipples are barely covered by the flower pattern of the lace. We strut to the private industry party at a club in the hotel complex. I am turned away at the door by the bouncer, apparently because my shirt is see-through.

"Sorry, sir, you're telling me that I'm dressed too provocatively for the porn party?"

We console ourselves with a few dirty martinis at the slot machines. After winning $36.50, I cash out, and we crash another private party -- this one for the nerdy computer convention taking place simultaneously with the Sexpo. We dance forever in a sea of eyeglasses.

On the way back to the room, I trip and fall over some idiot's leg, twisting my ankle unnaturally. It's sprained.

Day 3, Friday:
Mitchell wheels me around in a wheelchair because I can't walk. Nevertheless, I sport fantastic fashions, bearing a resemblance to Joan Collins circa 1987, including giant Chanel earrings and a pert navy sport coat.

Day 4, Saturday:
Oscars of Porn. Still can't walk properly, but I refuse to let that stop me from wearing high heels and a tight black dress to the awards show. I hobble down the red carpet in Louboutins and crutches.

Day 5, Sunday:
Mitchell is sufficiently over taking care of me. He still pushes my wheelchair, but he does so while chain-smoking cigarettes and cursing. We depart for the airport, and our flight is delayed an entire day. I make a nest out of airplane blankets and sleep on the floor in the terminal while Mitchell gets drunk at the airport bar.

We finally land home around lunchtime the next day.

It's a constant adventure/struggle/joy to run a business in this crazy adult industry. Sometimes I stumble, but at least it's always in a forward direction. See you in two weeks, when I share with you what it is like to go to work on a porn set.