How to Date a Porn Star: Huff Post spends a night out in Vegas with Joanna Angel

How to Date a Porn Star: Huff Post spends a night out in Vegas with Joanna Angel


BARISTASDir: Joanna AngelRating: 9Burningangel.com
I started taking steroids yesterday as an act of thanks and joyous celebration. I felt it was my duty as a native of New Jersey because the pieces of shit on the most atrocious public-relations disaster in the history of the Garden State, Jersey Shore, are not returning for another season. Hopefully by the time you read this my balls will have shrunk to a microscopic size (like those of the cast of the show), and I’ll be starting senseless bar fights because I have no other way to channel my latent homosexuality. 
Sadly, the steroids I’ve been prescribed are not the kind that will turn me into the Incredible Hulk. I asked the doctor how long before I’d be able to lift cars above my head. She laughed and said, “You’re thinking of anabolic steroids. These steroids are to get rid of that hacking cough you’ve had for three months. The only real side effect is that you’ll have very vivid dreams.” 
I was hoping for wet dreams, but instead got an entirely different brand of delight. Last night I dreamed I was on a road trip, heading to the Grand Canyon with five other fellows. We stopped at a greasy spoon on some desert highway in some nowhere town. 
“What kind of beer do you have?” I asked the red-haired, middle-aged waitress. “We got both kinds: Bud and Bud Light,” she replied, accented with a look of disgust, as she walked past me. My eyes and head followed her to the end of the counter, but my torso didn’t move. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and was nearly knocked off my barstool. 
I leaned back to get a good look at my fellow travelers. We were all dressed as famous female musicians. And we looked pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I was Dolly Parton, and as my dream camera panned down the bar like in Goodfellas there was Aretha Franklin, Lady Gaga, bald Sinead O’Connor, Cher, and Madonna. After we finished eating, things took a real Beverly Hills Cop twist, and Aretha Franklin got killed. (Yes, even in dreams the black guy is always the first to die.) Next thing, we had guns and were hunting down the killer. I remember saying the classic Eddie Murphy line, “I ain’t fallin’ for no banana in my tailpipe,” and one of the other ladies saying, “Ooh! Ooh! I will! I will!” 
I woke up at 4 AM, before we solved the murder, because I had to take a dump. Seems that these steroids have another side effect: shitting like you’ve been on a weekend-long ex-lax-snorting bender. 
Did I ever tell you about the time I was on tour in Utah and my buddy met this girl from Turkey or Syria or somewhere and went back to her place after drinking shitty, cheap 3.2 percent beer for 13 hours, and she fed him the darkest Turkish coffee known to man and as they’re making out he started farting and shitting himself? Long story short, he ran out without saying good-bye and barely made it outside before having to rip his pants down and spray poop all over her front door. It’s times like this that I’m thankful I’m not single and always have a toilet nearby.
Previously - Anal Lessons

BARISTAS
Dir: Joanna Angel
Rating: 9
Burningangel.com

I started taking steroids yesterday as an act of thanks and joyous celebration. I felt it was my duty as a native of New Jersey because the pieces of shit on the most atrocious public-relations disaster in the history of the Garden State, Jersey Shore, are not returning for another season. Hopefully by the time you read this my balls will have shrunk to a microscopic size (like those of the cast of the show), and I’ll be starting senseless bar fights because I have no other way to channel my latent homosexuality. 

Sadly, the steroids I’ve been prescribed are not the kind that will turn me into the Incredible Hulk. I asked the doctor how long before I’d be able to lift cars above my head. She laughed and said, “You’re thinking of anabolic steroids. These steroids are to get rid of that hacking cough you’ve had for three months. The only real side effect is that you’ll have very vivid dreams.” 

I was hoping for wet dreams, but instead got an entirely different brand of delight. Last night I dreamed I was on a road trip, heading to the Grand Canyon with five other fellows. We stopped at a greasy spoon on some desert highway in some nowhere town. 

“What kind of beer do you have?” I asked the red-haired, middle-aged waitress. “We got both kinds: Bud and Bud Light,” she replied, accented with a look of disgust, as she walked past me. My eyes and head followed her to the end of the counter, but my torso didn’t move. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and was nearly knocked off my barstool. 

I leaned back to get a good look at my fellow travelers. We were all dressed as famous female musicians. And we looked pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I was Dolly Parton, and as my dream camera panned down the bar like in Goodfellas there was Aretha Franklin, Lady Gaga, bald Sinead O’Connor, Cher, and Madonna. After we finished eating, things took a real Beverly Hills Cop twist, and Aretha Franklin got killed. (Yes, even in dreams the black guy is always the first to die.) Next thing, we had guns and were hunting down the killer. I remember saying the classic Eddie Murphy line, “I ain’t fallin’ for no banana in my tailpipe,” and one of the other ladies saying, “Ooh! Ooh! I will! I will!” 

I woke up at 4 AM, before we solved the murder, because I had to take a dump. Seems that these steroids have another side effect: shitting like you’ve been on a weekend-long ex-lax-snorting bender. 

Did I ever tell you about the time I was on tour in Utah and my buddy met this girl from Turkey or Syria or somewhere and went back to her place after drinking shitty, cheap 3.2 percent beer for 13 hours, and she fed him the darkest Turkish coffee known to man and as they’re making out he started farting and shitting himself? Long story short, he ran out without saying good-bye and barely made it outside before having to rip his pants down and spray poop all over her front door. It’s times like this that I’m thankful I’m not single and always have a toilet nearby.

Previously - Anal Lessons

Measure B Is a Pain in the Dick
Let’s not bullshit ourselves, condoms flat out suck—both in one’s private life and in pornos. They’re uncomfortable boner-ruiners and girls are always trying to put holes in them to get my babies. In porn, from a fan’s perspective, it’s just not stimulating to see a plastic bag going in and out of a girl’s mouth/butthole. I understand the need for them, but I just don’t like them and I am thankful I’m married and no longer forced to use them. Recently, a law was passed in Los Angeles that is so preposterous it could send porn stars and porn industry people to jail if they don’t use condoms, dental dams, and all sorts of other forms of safe sex in their films. The law is called Measure B (or Measure Bullshit to the folks who will be pummeled by its iron fist).
Measure B, which is really just a witch hunt and a means to run pornographers out of LA County, was proposed by the well-financed AIDS Healthcare Foundation President, Michael Weinstein. The language on the ballot was so deceptive it led voters to believe it was a law to protect the performers in the porn industry. The reality is that Measure B calls for pornographers to purchase health permits and it opens their shoots up to random inspections from the Health Department to make sure they are complying with the law. This goes for everyone, even the lowly cam girls who are in the safety of their own homes doing solo shows to help put themselves through college.
Many of my friends are both up in arms and fearful of what is to come. Director Kimberly Kane, who you know from my recent episodes of Skinema and her VICE magazine feature on Zak Smith and Mandy Morbid, is now a criminal under Measure B. She was uncharacteristically speechless when I asked her for a quote about the law. She didn’t know what to say for days. She finally told me, “Technically they’ll penalize you for breaking the law even if you’re married and performing with your spouse without a condom. Everything I do now is illegal without a permit, a condom, and probably someone on set from the Heath Department making sure that everything is up to code. I don’t know what we’re going to do. They say it’s a First Amendment violation and it could be litigation for a long time. But no one knows. Everyone is very worried. Measure B basically runs us out of town on a moral stance. They say Vegas or Nevada is an option [for relocating the industry]…”
Continue

Measure B Is a Pain in the Dick

Let’s not bullshit ourselves, condoms flat out suck—both in one’s private life and in pornos. They’re uncomfortable boner-ruiners and girls are always trying to put holes in them to get my babies. In porn, from a fan’s perspective, it’s just not stimulating to see a plastic bag going in and out of a girl’s mouth/butthole. I understand the need for them, but I just don’t like them and I am thankful I’m married and no longer forced to use them. Recently, a law was passed in Los Angeles that is so preposterous it could send porn stars and porn industry people to jail if they don’t use condoms, dental dams, and all sorts of other forms of safe sex in their films. The law is called Measure B (or Measure Bullshit to the folks who will be pummeled by its iron fist).

Measure B, which is really just a witch hunt and a means to run pornographers out of LA County, was proposed by the well-financed AIDS Healthcare Foundation President, Michael Weinstein. The language on the ballot was so deceptive it led voters to believe it was a law to protect the performers in the porn industry. The reality is that Measure B calls for pornographers to purchase health permits and it opens their shoots up to random inspections from the Health Department to make sure they are complying with the law. This goes for everyone, even the lowly cam girls who are in the safety of their own homes doing solo shows to help put themselves through college.

Many of my friends are both up in arms and fearful of what is to come. Director Kimberly Kane, who you know from my recent episodes of Skinema and her VICE magazine feature on Zak Smith and Mandy Morbid, is now a criminal under Measure B. She was uncharacteristically speechless when I asked her for a quote about the law. She didn’t know what to say for days. She finally told me, “Technically they’ll penalize you for breaking the law even if you’re married and performing with your spouse without a condom. Everything I do now is illegal without a permit, a condom, and probably someone on set from the Heath Department making sure that everything is up to code. I don’t know what we’re going to do. They say it’s a First Amendment violation and it could be litigation for a long time. But no one knows. Everyone is very worried. Measure B basically runs us out of town on a moral stance. They say Vegas or Nevada is an option [for relocating the industry]…”

Continue