The Sad Demise of Panties for Perverts

Isn't Adult Content Supposed to be Lucrative?

Musical Background: Rahsaan Roland Kirk - The Inflated Tear

Over the last half century, I’ve earned my living through creativity in a number of different ways:  through the lens of adult films, writing for those who fought vice, trading in the back alleys of explicit literature, and building websites shrouded in secrecy. Just temporary jobs for the cash.  I’m just not the sort of fellow who feels comfortable working a nine to five job hence my freelance modus operandi.

In the late 60s, while at at NYU Film School, Alex Mann, my neighbor from the East Village got me a job as a cameraman in adult films. The films were mild, especially when compared to modern material, featuring nothing explicit, just curvy women and their amorous companions. Narrative was non-existent; it was all an assortment of mildly erotic tableaus set to the humdrum of elevator tunes.

Shooting these films in shady places, I often felt out of place. But at $50 an hour in 1969, it was good money for a 19-year-old. To wash away the day's work and any lingering discomfort, all it took was a long hot shower post-shoot.

In the mid-80s, married with a newborn and low on money, I joined forces with Father Bruce Ritter, an anti-porn preacher. He was helping street kids in Times Square with Covenant House. Nancy Reagan, the First Lady, supported his work, and he ended up in the White House, toasting to virtue with her help.

When Reagan became president in '81, with his strict morals and Jerry Falwell's backing, Nancy Reagan helped Father Ritter get a place in the Presidential Commission on Pornography, thanks to Attorney General Edwin Meese.

The spotlight on Covenant House brought a flood of letters and donations. Father Ritter, overwhelmed, hired a team to write thank-you notes. I joined to make money, and to keep my writing skills sharp.

In the thick of ghostwriting at Covenant House, things started to smell wrong. There was a rule – no talking to Father Bruce unless the holy ghost nodded. The job was like filling in blanks in holy scripts, churning out thank yous for the donors. I was just sorting mail, opening letters, a cog in the machine.  But man, let me tell you, floating in a sea of crucifixes, I stuck out like a sore thumb with a Star of David tattoo. A Jewish pen jockey in Christ's mailroom? It was like wearing a yarmulke at a papal conclave. So, when the calendar flipped a page or two, I hit the road for the next wild ride.

Not long after, Father Bruce got ousted from Covenant House for luring boys from the center for grim acts. But it wasn’t just Father Bruce spinning the wheel of sexual roulette, turns out a good chunk of the top brass were betting on the same numbers.

When the scandal hit the news, it didn't surprise me. Bruce soon left Covenant House and the Franciscans but kept his priesthood, retiring quietly in New York. He died in 1999. The House still runs, hopefully with better people.

Later, I dived into various jobs, mostly temporary word processing assignments, until a friend offered me a role in sales at a music magazine. It was more than a magazine; it was a monthly cassette of drumming masterclasses.

The brains behind it were linked to the adult industry – Jackie Lewis, related to Bob Guccione of Penthouse, and Guccione’s sister, running her adult empire out of New Jersey. She was the trailblazer of that infamous "Letters" segment, a textual tapestry of tantalizing tales.

And when Gucccione’s sister launched her own porn empire, it was an immediate hit, maybe because it whispered sweet nothings into the eager ears of its audience's imaginations. But instead of a Manhattan headquarters, she spun her own web of wordy vice right out of Hackensack, New Jersey.

They sold erotic products and niche newsletters, like "Adult Baby World" and "Spanker's Delight." The writing was done by a group of gay writers bussed in from the West Village, while suburban housewives managed production and shipping.  They were the queens of publication perfection and the conductors of adult product dispatch, fulfilling fantasies with a postal stamp..

But the music magazine couldn’t sustain its costs and shut down. I remember being in the office when a partner opened the mail and found a photo of a man performing auto-felatio. Yes, people would actually send in their photos hoping for some sort of adult fame.  The partner, whose name was Lou, gazed at the photo, turned it upside down and around, and proclaimed, Jesus if I could do that, I would never leave the house.

Finally, after moving to Tucson and losing my dot-com job, I advertised for web design work. A former Playboy model, now an escort, needed a website after bad reviews had hurt her business. "How quick can you whip up a website?"

In a New York minute—or fifteen to be Tucson-timed—Missy bursts into my shoebox office with a story that could only unfold under the unblinking eye of desperation. A former Playboy muse who veered into the night when the flashbulbs faded, she was now riding the escort wave, thanks to the web's seedy underbelly. The cash flowed until the tide turned sour; a slew of nasty critiques had clients balking at her voluptuous vibe. Her rep was taking hits, and she needed a digital revival. A website, her lifeline to lure the lustful, to broadcast in bold neon: Missy was still the siren of seduction.

It seems that a friend of mine who also produced websites in Tucson, had turned her down because he was up against another deadline.

Missy slid an offer across my desk, a gambit she wagered I wouldn't rebuff—a barter of flesh for pixels. She leaned in, her cleavage a whisper away, her eyes wild with the promise of pleasure, assuring me of a time that would rock my world.

But her allure was lost on me, her seduction as enticing as a tax audit. I kept it courteous, my 'no thanks' as firm as the day is long. Undeterred, she launched into a vivid pitch of her oral prowess. Just as her descriptions were about to tip me over into the abyss of queasiness, salvation rang—a buzzer.

I swung open the door to find a hulk of a man with a voice that didn't match his biceps, squeaking out for Missy.

With her exit, curiosity got the best of me, and a call to my pal Greg shed light on her past ventures—a raunchy e-commerce offering named Panties for Perverts, selling her soiled panties with a lipstick kiss on each.  The day the site launched, they had more orders than it was possible to fulfill, literally thousands within a few hours, so they had to pull the plug on what could have been a very lucrative venture. Who knew there were that many perverts out there.  Maybe Missy did.

But, fate it seems, had other plans. I soon found my groove crafting websites and videos for jazz musicans. And that's how I found my true calling as the Jazz Video Guy