Nobody Wants to Talk About Bestiality Until Somebody Fucks a Horse
On July 2, 2005, Kenneth Pinyan was dropped off by an unidentified man in the emergency room of the sleepy Enumclaw Community Hospital, about 25 miles outside of Tacoma, Washington. By the time doctors reached him, he had died of a perforated colon. When police began to investigate the death, following the trail of events that had led Pinyan to the hospital that summer day, they found themselves balls deep in a ring of bestiality the likes of which Washington State had never seen.
As it turned out, Pinyan had sustained his injury while letting a horse have sex with his ass on a farm outside of Enumclaw. After tracking down the man who dropped Pinyan at the hospital, authorities found and searched the farm where he’d sustained his injury and discovered a videotape of the act, along with over a hundred others depicting men having sex with or receiving sex from various farm animals (aside from horses, there were violations of goats, sheep, and chickens), taken by a man named James Michael Tait, who lived nearby. Confronted with the sheer scale and duration of the videos, police and reporters alike swallowed their discomfort and dove into the world of zoophile chatrooms and websites. After a little digging, it became clear that the Enumclaw farm was known in the community as a major bestiality brothel.
But when police tried to charge Tait with a crime, they realized that Washington did not have any laws on the books prohibiting the ungodly union between man and beast. The best they could tag him with was trespassing, resulting in one year of probation, a $300 fine, and one day of community service.
Stacy Martin Talks About Having Fake Sex with Shia LaBeouf in Lars von Trier’s New Film Nymphomaniac
Landing a role in the most infamous movie of the past decade—Lars von Trier’s four-hour epic, Nymphomaniac—isn’t a bad way to start your acting career. In her screen debut, 22-year-old British model Stacy Martin spends the majority of her time groaning, moaning, and doing weird things with a set square. Dark, depressing, and funny all at the same time, it follows the often brutal sexcapades of a woman (played by both Martin and Charlotte Gainsbourg) from birth to the age of 50.
I met Stacy in Soho, London, where we drank free coffee and spoke about sex addiction, porn doubles, and the awkwardness of shooting sex scenes with Shia LaBeouf.
The trailer for Nymphomaniac: Volume 1
VICE: What was your first reaction when you read the script for Nymphomaniac? Stacy Martin: I loved it! I read the script before I went to Copenhagen for a screen test, and I really fell in love with how dense it is and how there are so many different elements to the film—and the dark humor, which is very specific to Lars.
Shia LaBeouf said that, when he received the script, there was a note saying he had to send a picture of his dick to the production team. Did he?!
Yeah. I’m guessing it wasn’t the same kind of deal for you? No, I don’t have a penis[laughs], so I didn’t get that.
No weird requests? No, actually. I just got the script on its own in a little brown envelope—pretty standard.
How were your sex scenes worded in your contract? We had a nudity contract. Everything was set in stone before we did the film, so we all knew what we were doing. I was told that I would have a porn double—that I wouldn’t be doing anything sexual. We all agreed—and Lars agreed—that we would be using prosthetics and just stuff like that.
The blowjob scene in particular looks incredibly real. Yeah, it looks real. I mean, I’m convinced that it looks real—but no, it’s not real. It’s not a real penis… They made fake vaginas and fake penises and we used them for that.
In an era when fetish was still an anthropological term and men’s magazines relied on code words like specialty and mature, a pioneering Armenian pornographer with an unerring instinct for cultural taboos was busy inventing his own daring adult genre. Though his name is no longer mentioned alongside Hefner and Flynt, Milt Abdjourian’s bold, single-minded dedication to fabric, attire, and hyper-specialized contextual perversion lives on in dozens of colorful titles and still-provocative covers.
Sex sells. From sandpaper to steak, there is seemingly nothing it can’t be used to market—save baby formula. That being said, I’m sure a think tank of modern Mad Men are currently trying to eroticize the formula game. Of course, sex is best at selling itself, which makes the Adult Entertainment Expo business as usual; emphasis on business. A literal circle jerk for folks who make their living off lasciviousness, combined with a lil’ somethin’ for fuck fans—and by “a lil’ somethin’,” I mean, “the opportunity to take awkwardly staged photographs with bored looking women in sheer shirts”—the self-proclaimed “World’s Largest Adult Trade Event” is a veritable smorgasbord of smut, all of which can be possessed for a price.
The Adult Entertainment Expo takes place where events of its ilk should take place: Las Vegas, aka Xanadu for mouth breathers; where the cocktail waitresses are already conveniently dressed like sex objects. In the casino that surrounded the expo (Hard Rock, natch), degenerate gamblers refused to look up from the slot machines they were vacantly poking at, not even to gawk at the scantily clad ladies go-go dancing right in front of them. Countless others, I’m sure, sat in the rooms above, watching television on their vacations. Vegas, baby! Vegas!
In seventh grade, my friend Brian found his dad’s porn stash.
It was in the underwear drawer, a classic hiding spot for suburban fathers to keep their dog-eared fantasies. We breathlessly flipped through his dad’s three or four issues ofPlayboy—not knowing exactly what to “do” with the porn we had unearthed, we just looked at it, marveled and had to rearrange ourselves on account of our tiny boners. Then we heard a car door slam. Brian’s dad had come home early from work.
My friend hustled up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom, with me right behind carrying the precious contraband magazine we’d been poring over. (I remember Jenny McCarthy was on the cover.) As I bounded up the steps, I felt something seize my ankle—Brian’s dog had been spooked by our sudden frantic movements and lunged at what his stupid dog mind thought was a new intruder. As I fell back down the stairs, I frisbee’d the magazine to Brian, who avoided the fluttering pages and caught it by the spine. He placed the stash back in its proper place and stacked the underwear on top, just moments before his dad walked in. “What are you guys up to?” he asked.
“Nothing!” was the only appropriate reply.
I was in a mall bookstore’s magazine section, trying to be casual. This meant picking up an issue of Spin and flipping through it absentmindedly to give anyone watching the impression I was just another music-obsessed kid. In reality, my eyes were scanning the rack in front of me in search of a rare phenomenon. While most “adult” magazines were wrapped in cellophane—and are therefore impossible to secretly unwrap—every now and then some brave soul “stuck it to the Man” by ripping one open. That’s what I was after.
This Guy Shot a Porno on the Westboro Baptist Church’s Lawn
A week ago, Get Shot! was a relatively unknown punk band in Sacramento, but two days ago they released “Westboro Fingerbang,” a video of their bassist, Laura, masturbating on the front lawn of Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. Since then, they’ve received over a thousand new facebook likes and literally become famous over night. I got in touch with the band’s lead singer, J.P. Hunter, to talk about why he made the movie and what’s next for Get Shot!
Why did you decide to shoot porn on the Westboro Baptist Church’s lawn? J.P. Hunter: Everything in the book has been done to Westboro, but no one has actually filmed porn in front of their church. They’re used to going to other people’s sacred territory: gay soldiers funerals, other churches, Bon Jovi concerts, you name it. We’re trying to put a stance out that says, “Don’t be scared, you can fuck with these people.”
How did you make the video? We tour. We went to Kansas City, Topeka, and Denver, and we planned the little Westboro stunt. We were supposed to have a porn star and some other chick do it, but the porn star’s agent called and said it violated her contract with her company, so she couldn’t do it, and the other girl didn’t want to get arrested. We didn’t want to leave Topeka empty handed, and our bass player Laura wanted to leave sticky fingered.
Last year, when the AIDS Healthcare Federation (AHF) poked their heads into pornography and started the initial push for Measure B, a rarely enforced law that requires condoms to be used in pornography produced in Los Angeles County, high-minded reformers like AHF president Michael Weinstein seemed to have an obvious misunderstanding of how porn works. Like Marie Antoinette’s debunked “Let them eat cake” quip, Weinstein’s “Make them wear condoms” solution to the potential spread of STIs in the business was misguided at best. Weinstein—who I like to imagine wearing an intricate ball gown and a towering wig—doesn’t understand the comparative rigor that professionally produced sex scenes entail. The risk of sexually transmitted infections can’t be neatly solved by a few pieces of latex, in pornography or out of it.
Last week’s news that an adult performer named Cameron Bay tested positive for HIV has brought concern over porn practices back to mainstream attention, but you know what no one is talking about? The heterosexual end of the adult industry has not had a single case of performer-to-performer HIV transmission since 2004. In the few cases since 2004 where an adult performer has tested positive for HIV, porn performers’ self-imposed screening process overseen by the Free Speech Coalition, a nonprofit trade organization, has worked. While incredibly frequent testing has not prevented the rare occasion when a performer has acquired HIV offset, it has successfully prevented them from continuing to perform in sex scenes for long enough to pass HIV on to other performers.