I don’t know how I ever got a job before porn. It couldn’t have been my “can do” eager to please attitude. I can’t verbally suck dick. Physically? Yes I can do that. But I don’t suck dick for jobs. I suck dick as a job. But not the hiring manager’s dick. I prefer stunt cock. I’m off subject.

The point is I can’t kiss ass or blow things out of proportion. I can’t make a big deal out of my dexterity on a ten key calculator. I can’t turn past experience chasing bums off of storefronts into “oversaw promotion of positive company image” or first position on the burger line into “head chef”. I showed up to a job interview in pajamas once. I still got the job sans dick sucking. And no, it was not a porn interview.

So here’s where this is all coming from: I put an ad up on Craigslist for an assistant. 10-15 hours a week, simple stuff, must have own transportation and be comfortable in an adult themed industry. References required. I’ve had literally hundreds of emails. 90% include attached resumes. One person really did list the ability to use a ten key calculator. One person really did claim to be detail oriented and thorough, spelled thuro. Most of them started out with dear hiring manager, dear sir or madam, to whom it may concern: …

Or it was just a blank email with the resume attached. I deleted all of them. If there was a spelling error, if it was too impersonal, or too formal for porn, it didn’t stand a chance.

I was left with a spattering of resumes that seemed to be on target. I interviewed 5 people tonight. I looked for applicants who had personality and could get things done correctly without any instruction from me. And they can all spell correctly, just because it’s a pet peeve of mine. I didn’t make it easy so I figured if they showed up on time to the right place with resume in hand and not dressed like they had a stick up their ass we’d be good to go. 3 did, 2 were late, 2 didn’t show up. I’d weeded them out pretty quickly. I ended up with 4 aspiring actors/actresses and 1 aspiring musician. The two who were late are out of the running, not only because they weren’t on top of it enough to figure it out for themselves but one showed up with a resume folded eight directions and it just seemed off. I can’t imagine he really has his life together and the thought of charging him with the task of getting mine together is scary.

So now that I’m down to three, and they are all wonderful and prompt and smart and don’t need to be babysat and have all the necessary skills and experience and I don’t know what to do because I want them all. They each have one unique obvious strength. If combined they’d be superhumans. They’re all willing to accept the same pay. They’re all equally cool. I’m stuck.

So I did some research. It’s too late to do the reference checks but I looked up myspace and facebook profiles and still nothing concrete enough to whittle it down further. I’m dealing with three skilled, flexible, down to earth people. And all I can think about is what I could possibly have had on the other applicants when I got a job in pajamas.

I’m at Starbucks and I just finished my second Espresso Truffle of the day and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. Maybe it was because I stayed up until 4am fucking yesterday. Or maybe it’s because I was on set for 20 hours the day before. Or maybe it’s because I only got 3.5 hours of sleep before showing up to that set. And I can’t remember much beyond that. The airplanes and time changes are throwing me off.

Or maybe it’s because I have a Starbuck’s addiction and I’m crashing after my caffeine bump. But I don’t recall getting the initial energy rush part of it. Its so advanced that I can’t even perk up off an Espresso Truffle. Maybe I should order larger ones. Anything with the word “truffle” in it sounds fattening though so I’m ordering talls. Multiple talls.

I just checked my email. First thing in the box was the info for tomorrow’s shoot and I feel a vague sense of doom. It said to get a lot of sleep because it’s going to be a long day. This is coming from the same guy who called the 20 hour day normal. It’s a night shoot. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing the sun rise.

But the immediate thing to focus on is mustering the energy for tonight. It’s a Penthouse party. It’s my first time going to one of their events as one of their pets. Game face. I think game face might require more Starbucks but I don’t want more Starbucks. I don’t want the girl to look at me funny and say ‘another one?’ with that accusatory eyebrow thing she does. I might have to defend myself. I might go off about how at least when she goes home work is over. And a big day for her is eight hours. I laugh in the face of eight hours. I scoff.

Maybe there will be a shift change soon. Then they won’t know it’s my third one but they’ll still know I’ve had at least one already because I’m sitting here guiltily typing away on my computer with the empty cup next to me sneaking furtive glances at the cash register in intervals that are far too close together. They probably think I’m waiting to rob the place. Maybe if I make eye contact and smile they’ll know I’m harmless. Or they’ll think I’m coming onto them. Real human interaction baffles me lately. Thank Myspace and Facebook for that.

I’m gonna go the willpower route and pack up and walk out of here. I’m gonna walk tall. They’ll never know what obstacle I just overcame but I’ll know and that’s all that matters.

It’s Sunday. I feel like I haven’t taken a breath since Thursday. I drove out to Indio Thursday night with Holly Randall and my web master and a make up artist for a shoot we had planned all day Friday at the Salton Sea. We got in around Midnight after a real road trip filled with a taco bell run, a tiny bit of navigation error, and gut spilling. I feel like I know the webman better. I have material to tease him with for years to come. I feel empowered.

We checked into the hotel and I settled down to write an article I had promised then passed out. The alarm went off at 5:30 am and I was in the make up chair at 6. Then we jumped on the road for another 40 minutes. We ran into a small grid of trailers that didn’t constitute a town because there was no gas station. Actually, there were no businesses at all save a bar/mini mart and possibly an automotive repair in someone’s front yard. The place was deserted at 8:30 in the morning. We figured they were all asleep. When we couldn’t find the exact deserted spot we were looking for Holly turned back to the bar/mini mart to ask for directions. The bar was packed. I think I can safely report that the entire town was in that bar at 9am. They were quite friendly though and pointed us in the right direction. Sweet.

So our little caravan pulled up to the shore, my giant truck and her Volvo. At one point in time the sea rose up and flooded the old trailer park grid and what was left was gray and sagging and made of plywood. The salt crunched underneath us as we walked between abandoned homes and over fish bones. Everything was the same color except the sky which seemed vividly blue in comparison. There was no life anywhere. Except the ninja. There was a ninja practicing on the shore about a quarter mile down. He was spinning a large stick and wearing all black. My webmaster said he was quite good. My webmaster would know. He had brought a samurai sword for protection. I didn’t think anyone would believe this part so I got it all on BTS.

The first set was gorgeous. I wore a bright blue dress to match the sky and posed in front a water damaged chair in a roofless house and a broken out window. I wore trailer make up. Artsy. At one point some park troopers rolled through and asked Holly what she was doing. She was a student at Brooke’s University. This was her semester project. He said next time get a permit but as long as there was no nudity or money being made he’d let it slide this time. No sir. No nudity or profit here. He left. I know what you’re thinking: this is a national park? Yup. Protected by your tax dollars.

After the first set we drove off in search of another secluded beach. We found one down a nameless road and got more artsy grunge inside an old public restroom that had also been abandoned after it was flooded out. I was impressed with Holly’s range. I’ve only ever seen her shoot in a controlled studio doing the same controlled poses that are optimal for bright clear views of the cookie. She put me in black leather boots and fetish make up in the men’s bathroom. There were holes in the plywood and if you stared straight through the toilet seats you could see your own reflection in the communal sewage well at the bottom. She made it beautiful. This beach was in a different phase than I’m used to seeing. The sand wasn’t fine granules that make you want to build castles and bury your feet. It was broken down bones with whole spines or smaller individual vertebrae that crunched beneath our feet as we tried to step around whole preserved fish that had been perfectly dried in the sun and salt. It stank. We did another set in front of rotting telephone poles sticking out of the water at dusk and a final set on a concrete slab that had collapsed years ago at the shore as the last rays of light disappeared behind the mountains. My webmaster was upset that we didn’t get to shoot with his samurai sword.

Then we packed up in the dark and realized that Holly’s Volvo did not have 4-wheel drive. She was stuck in the bone-sand. My truck moved out with no problem but I didn’t have any way of pulling her out. She tried to get a tow service out but the road had no name and we didn’t know how to direct them to where we were so I drove her back the main road and entered a border patrol station from the wrong direction and they freaked out and yelled at me but helped us anyway. We drove back and ate Fig Newton’s and waited a couple of hours for the tow truck. We bonded some more. The tow truck finally showed up and I laughed. It was an F150. I had an F250 4×4. The difference was he had chains to attach to her car. He charged $300.

I got back late. My alarm went off earlier than I would have liked because I had a signing in Riverside for Adam and Eve. Traffic sucked. It was technically two signings. I got home after Midnight.

So today I get to relax. My call time tomorrow is 4:30am in Hollywood for a commercial I’m doing. I have to show up with red fingernails and expect not to be done before 8pm. My call time the next day is 7am in the desert for “The 8^th day”, which means I’ll probably drive up Monday night and stay in a hotel. Then Wednesday morning the flight leaves at 7 am to take us on a four day signing tour in the northeast. I’ll fly home Sunday and Monday I’ll be back on set. I truly cherish today.

Let me begin by making it clear that this is not my story. And no, I am not embellishing. It happened to a man with a slight Mohawk and an otherwise wholesome look. He makes good money. Drives a nice car. Lives alone in a clean house and keeps in shape between occasional late night fast food runs. He hasn’t’ dated seriously since his marriage ended. He writes children’s books on the side.

So the man went to a bar one night with the intention of doing nothing beyond killing time. His buddy showed up but got distracted by the dartboard and graduated to the category of useless. The man sat on a bar stool a few drinks in with a beer in hand while the bartender wiped up around him. The place smelled of peanut husks and wood and desperately needed to be filled with curls of cigarette smoke and dust to get the mood right. A girl walked in and surveyed the row of empty seats and chose the one next to him. She smiled and in broken English introduced herself. She was a Japanese tourist. She stuck out her hand and he grasped it and shook as his other hand swooped down over her jean skirt and then under and between her legs and he began fingering her.

She was surprisingly receptive. She threw her head back and made little foreign moaning sounds as he picked up speed and worked harder and started getting a clearer picture of what was actually happening right then. He made a split decision and pushed his seat out abruptly behind him and marched to the bathroom, abandoning beer and female alike and hoping both would be gone when he came out. He took his time in there. Washed his hands. Smoothed down his shirt. Checked his budding prep Mohawk. Everything was in place and he had run out of things to fidget with so he took a deep breath and walked back out.

She was still perched on the stool next to his empty seat and his beer hadn’t moved but the situation had changed drastically. On the other side of his seat now sat a second tourist. She wasn’t the looker tourist #1 was but she had the same youthful body and jean skirt and he set his jaw and sat back down.

Tourist #1 leaned into him as she pulled his right hand back towards her skirt and motioned to the new arrival and said “do her what you do me” in a heavy accent. With a quizzical look he extended his left hand in the other direction and found himself fingering both girls as they writhed theatrically and the bartender took his order for another round of drinks.

The evening had hit a point where he needed to either walk away or step it up. Not that the choice was entirely uninfluenced by female pressure and an unwilling hard on. The girls followed him back to his place in a taxi that he admittedly tried to lose a few times with sharp turns and weird acceleration but he was no match for a professional driver.

Once inside they jumped him. He didn’t make it past the hardwood floors of his living room. He could have been a blow up doll or a CPR dummy underneath them as he made a few more mild attempts at making sense of the situation. He was covered in foreign skin and clothes manifested themselves in a ring around him. He couldn’t keep track of all that black hair. They spoke to each other in Japanese and giggled and came on again with a vengeance. Finally he metaphorically threw up his hands and waved the white flag and let them do to him what they would.

When it was over they sat smoking on his couch and chattering in a language he didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure how to make the situation more awkward. They couldn’t leave until the taxi arrived and the attempts they made at communication involved the support of a lot of hand gestures. Then he got an idea. He went to his back room and came out again with a “V for Vendetta” mask on and a handful of props. He started playing with his special levitating baton and they went crazy. They jumped up and down on the couch and clapped their hands and laughed that laugh that sounds like it’s coming from a child with limited mental capacity but is really just the result of growing up in two entirely different cultures. He kept his magic show going for as long as they were amused.

Eventually they found themselves in the same position though, him feeling strangely left out in his own living room and them talking about any number of things in a language he couldn’t follow. Then they were arguing. Tourist #2 stood up and stormed out and jumped in the taxi that was intended for both of them and took off. Tourist #1 remained on the couch, now crying quietly. He was in over his head. She finally got herself together as he frantically dialed another taxi. She smiled. A big, blank, we can’t communicate kind of smile. She motioned to her chest and motioned to him and asked “I stay with you?”

He pointed at himself, “me?”, then did a little back and forth movement between them and spread his fingers with his palms facing her. Universal sign for stop. “no no no” he repeated wildly waving his open hands. He was stepping on his own tongue. He stared into her gaping expressionless smile and he motioned to his chest again. “I have girlfriend” he said. “Home any minute!”

She gasped and smacked his chest playfully. “You have girlfriend?” “you bad boy!” Right then the taxi was pulling up outside his window and he tried to rush her out the door. She still wanted his email though. She still wanted his phone number. She still wanted to see him again. He gave her all the information she wanted for a man he named Chavez. Anything to make her go. He finally exhaled as she smiled and waved excitedly from a taxi that was fading into the distance.

Another day another signing. We are in the heart of the Midwest and it can be a culture shock but despite the rumors it’s never dull. I’ve been buying too many things at the sex stores. It bothers me that their selection is better than ours. Go Midwesterners.

Yesterday we got a few colorful fans if you will. There was the college drop out duo who followed us from one signing to the next and stood behind the wall and just stared. Then they tried choppy conversation and it was memorable simply because of the flair. They are the Jay and Silent Bob of Indianapolis. You could get a contact high off their breath.

Then there was the uber fan. We like them because they appreciate all the things that the rest of the population does not. We spend the money on upgraded pedicures for them. We keep our sexual fantasies consistent for them. We put in the extra energy. He bought both of the magazines I was on the cover of and he wanted polaroids of our feet, top and bottom. He already had the “Rollerdollz” special edition and he wanted the shoelace signed. He told us about nudist colonies and the sexual and non sexual ones and how he once walked in on a gang bang at a non sexual one. He told Courtney she looked like Nancy Sinatra and she smiled. He told her he once got a hooker who looked like Nancy Sinatra.

And don’t forget the night guard. Mid forties with eyes like a basset hound only one droops more than the other. Smile like a two year old who just smeared poop in the crib. He came back a few times and grinned devilishly when I caught him looking at banana hammocks. Shiny ones with extra room for the banana. He couldn’t have been over 5’10” but he was at least an XXL shirt. Later he told us he was thinking about getting into the adult industry. A lot of them are out here. Courtney wants to know what he wants to do in the industry. Stripping he says. Own a strip club? No. He wants to dance for bachelorettes at house parties. He smooths his baby soft red brown hair under his hands and stands taller. He says that’s why he’s looking at man thongs and we all smile for different reasons. He says he already wears them and Courtney unwisely pushes the issue. He pulls the waist of his jeans toward us and stretches the band of a thong away from his body. It’s black. And shiny. He’s got that look again like the two year old with poop. We can’t help but visualize the scenario when he confides that it’s break-away.

We get to the next signing early because we didn’t account for the time change. Solution: wine coolers and old rock in the bus with various media forms. I pull out a cell phone a digital camera and a camcorder and grab a few amateur updates with Courtney Cummz for our websites (www.clubkayden.com and
www.courtneycummz.com). There was a slight hiccup at the liquor store where a teenage cowboy tried to pick a fight with Tony in the cooler. We can only conclude jealousy seeing as Tony was traveling with two females and he was traveling with a pudgy dude in a cast. Tony buying liquor in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday makes his situation looks promising. Redneck buying liquor in the middle of an afternoon on a Saturday with another dude makes his situation look slightly depressing. You can see how emotions would fly.

Well folks that’s all for now they’re calling me to sign.

I’m on a signing tour for the release of “RollerDollz” right now. We’re somewhere in the Midwest and the bus is plastered with our images. We’re larger than life in bikinis and skates. People ask and we’re all on a derby team. Or potential customers ask and we’re all yours baby, on a disk, with a calendar and a Polaroid. $49.95 cash or credit.

But no one has prepared me for the Midwestern mothers. One hefty one was on us in Subway. All she saw was a bus and two of the girls pictured on the bus climb out for lunch. She was taking pictures of us while we stood in line. She shoved her nine year old kid in Courtney’s arms and told them to say cheese. She followed us back out and took pictures of the bus. Pictures of us walking to the bus. Pictures of us getting on the bus. Pictures of us in the bus. Pictures of us eating.

I am a workaholic.

It’s easy to be though in my line of work.

It just blends so seamlessly with play.

Right now I’m waiting for my newest footage to upload to my other computer. I have to get it up and get it edited and get it on the server before I go to bed so my webmaster can use it as today’s update on my site (www.clubkayden.com). Today only started a few hours ago. And honestly, I would be in bed if it weren’t for the last minute call. I had just dropped off tons of new content to be sent out and edited and prepared for a few week’s worth of updates as well as some content that had already been cut and was ready to post. An hour later I was standing outside of a Hollywood restaurant trying to figure out how to get the man in front of me to come to my place so I could boink him. He thought I should come to his. He likes his bed better. But I have to work in the morning and I don’t want to deal with traffic. We were both making very good points. We had hit a stalemate.

Then the phone rang. My webmaster was scanning the disks and today’s footage was not on it. No bueno. I have tons of back up photo sets but we needed video and nothing was ready to go. We’re doing five updates a week. The stuff is flying off the shelves. We tried to think fast but it was already late and my mind was clouded by the prospect of penis. Finally I thought of something brilliant: I have a pussy and a camera. I can do my first POV masturbation scene. Then the man who had a much clearer mind than myself chimed in with another nugget of brilliance: He had a penis.

Just add lube. Spit. I don’t believe in lube from a bottle. I told him I was high jacking his genitalia for stunt cock and drug him back to Burbank. I put on some lip gloss and clamped a desk lamp to the side of the bed and we were in business. At that moment my entire objective in life was to blow that man. And I did. I saved the day.

Despite the last minute porn emergency my plans for the evening survived. I got the sexy time. I got it at my house. And I got it on camera.

Club Kayden:1 Life’s Obstacles: 0

Well I thought it would be best to ask my myspace friends what they want to know about my porn happenings and comings and goings and so on.

I felt I was running low on interesting things to blog about. I now have enough questions to keep fresh blogs coming for months. Here is the first response:

Q: Your job is to get fucked! Do you find it hard not to fall in love with your co workers! Or do you have love for everybody you’ve worked with?-Cole

A: Love is not something I fall into easily. At least not love in the infatuated-drunken-you-are-the-other-half-of-my-being sense. So, no, I do not fall in love with my coworkers. On the flip side, I cannot walk away from a scene without feeling something different for them. I feel more protective of, and more connected to, the guys that I’ve worked with. I consider them insta-friends. Just add water.

Most of them I keep in touch with outside of work. Ask me about any one of my regular boys and I will gush about how wonderful they are. They all have their individual strong points and I like them all as people apart from their stunt cocks. Even if I didn’t know them they all have the look of someone I would take home from a bar after a hard night of drinking and bad decisions. They’d be cherished bad decisions.

A couple of them have been so wonderful that I’ve wanted to date them on top of it all. And I know that whether it went somewhere or not I’d still show up to set for a quick romp in the sack and be happy to see them there as the fellow sack romper. Porn creates lovely gray areas.

So while it would be a stretch to say I have love for all of them, I can definitely say I have strong like for all of them. Who knows, maybe as we continue to work together in the future it will blossom into something very strange indeed.

I’m on a feature right now. In layman’s terms that means I’m on a celebrity guest stripper appearance. A strip club pays me per stage show and hopefully advertises the fuck out of it. I benefit from the base check, tips, and merchandise sales and the club benefits from the increased door fee and new clientele they could potentially pull and turn into regulars. And of course we are equally happy with the cross promotion. It’s a pretty sweet deal all around.

Then there are the costs. Features can’t just get up on stage in regular stripper gear. We have full blown costumes. A different one every show. As features climb the pay ladder their outfits become more elaborate, hence more expensive. My personal favorite outfit is my Batman one. Then again I would probably be fond of anything with a cape. I’ve seen girls spend thousands and thousands of dollars on their outfits. And of course they bring themed music for their shows. I don’t know where she found it but I once saw Sunny Leone dance to the song “little red riding hood .” She wore a little red riding hood and carried a wicker basket. Go figure.

The merchandise isn’t free either but with the mark up we can put on it no one complains. And the club usually covers the expense of travel and lodging. These are all predictable costs.

Very few people are aware that features use roadies though. I wasn’t even aware. I only found out that I was using a roadie when I was on my first feature and he told me to pay him. My first response was, “and who might you be sir?” He had been sent for me without my knowledge. I still use him on every single feature I do. His travel and lodging are negotiated into my contract same as mine. Here’s why:

1. When I shoot my tiny black thong into the middle of a dark room packed with people he tracks it down. He usually finds it in stranger’s pockets.

2. When I’m still sleeping the next morning he ventures out into the foreign town and tracks down replacements for torn fishnets, hijacked panties, burnt out blow dryers and empty cosmetics. He gets exactly what I need every time. It’s strange.

3. All requests go through him first. Therefore no one gets yelled at (except him).

4. He makes me eat. Not that I’m anorexic. I just don’t realize I’m hungry until two minutes before I have to go on stage. Same for peeing. He makes me pee like a parent would do with a five year old before a road trip.

5. He knows how to repair stripper heels.

6. He’ll buy tampons. And he’ll get the right kind every time. With a smile.

7. He always has flight info, contact info, hotel info, and the club contract in his back pocket. With a pen and a pack of gum.

8. He puts tips down to get the crowd started and throws money into stage games until the dudes catch on. If only it weren’t my own money he was contributing…

9. He makes me talk about it when I’m bitchy.

10. He pretends to care about things that I care about while he’s on the clock. He knows all of my horse’s nick names and when his shots are due. And he always knows where I left the book I was reading.

Right now he’s milling around with my thong from the last show still wrapped around his wrist. He’s unfolding crumpled up dollar bills and counting the money for me. He’s looking for my Bat mask. I don’t want to break his heart but I think I lost it in Columbus. He has me believing I‘d be lost without him. More than anything I’d probably just be lonely without him. Here’s to you, roadie.

Kayden Kross

I’ve been on a never ending quest to figure porn out since my first written agreement to strip down on camera. There are always nuances and it seemed as if no one was willing to sit down and give it to me straight, no one was willing to type up a bullet point list of do’s and don’t and how dare you’s…. until Penthouse sent me a handbook… two years into my career. This was two weeks ago. By now I’ve figured out a good chunk of it but I was thankful nevertheless. And of course I knew better than to blog about my handbook, but I couldn’t help myself. It was good material.

So up went a clear picture of the Penthouse Pet Handbook and my feelings on matter. Front and center of MikeSouth.com, one of the industry’s most controversial gossip sites and my favorite blog to contribute to. Lo and behold, that post was picked up and reprinted somewhere else, and through some sequence of events that I have not bothered to retrace Penthouse picked up on it. Lainie sent me an Email. She said she liked my irreverence. Penthouse can handle a little teasing, she said. Ayn Rand would call me immoral for allowing myself to read that email in the most friendly tone without further research. She would say I was not facing reality. That’s the problem with text. You can’t pick up on the subtleties of the spoken word. For all I knew Lainie could have just sent me a Penthouse death threat and I would have continued through my daily life believing nothing was amiss. I got lucky though. Lainie really did like my irreverence. She wanted to know if I’d like to blog for Penthouse.

And here we are. I’m sitting in New Zealand working on my first blog for Penthouse at 12:59am a day ahead of my world. My computer says it’s 5:57am yesterday. I just signed at a convention for 12 hours for the second day in a row. You could say I’m a little out of sync. I’m waiting for room service to deliver their famous Langham Beef Burger. I’m a vegetarian.

I ran out of headshots to sign towards the end of the night. That means I’ve signed hundreds and hundreds of headshots. I want them to be special. I want them to be individual. How many ways can one jokingly say “let’s fuck” though? It starts out easy enough: Dear so and so, you’re hot. You’re sexy. You make me wet. You have pretty eyes/ears/legs/elbows/hair/horns/shoes/fingernails. Your girlfriend/wife/ mistress/mother is hot/sexy/gorgeous with pretty eyes/ears/legs/elbows/hair/horns/shoes/fingernails. I want to steal her. I stole her. I grabbed her titties. She said she likes me better. Dear so and so, Do me.

I aim to please. I don’t want generic if I can avoid it. I want to sign a headshot that is cherished. What is going to make them keep it long enough to remember Kayden Kross? What is going to prompt them to hang it in the garage or show their buddies? Dear so and so: I had fun last night. You were great last night. Do that thing you did last night again. I love your cock/penis/manroot/schlong/wang/dick. You have the best ball sack I’ve ever seen. I mean it. You have the softest pubic hair. Your cum tastes like pineapples. Kiwi. Grapes. Sugar. Strawberries. Candy. I’ve never seen anything like it. Dear so and so, your cock was bigger than ____________ (insert best friend’s name here). I could barely fit it in my mouth. I can’t walk straight. Meet me at ________________ (fictional hotel, fictional room number) again tonight. Next time bring your wife. Next time bring a camera. I think you should be in porn.

Then there are the guys weighed down by women with feelings. Dear so and so: your wife eats better pussy than you. I’d rather do your wife. I have a crush on your wife. Leave your wife with me. I love her titties. I want to cuddle with her. You can stay home with the kids. There are also the guys weighed down by conservative lifestyles: Dear so and so, you’re handsome. I want to marry you and start a family. We’ll name our firstborn _______________ (insert name here). That’s a very spiffy tie you’re wearing this afternoon. I’m also available in softcore. Don’t let your wife see this. Cover this up on Sundays. I want to cuddle with you. Thanks for taking the time to meet me. It was nice meeting you. Hugs and Kisses, Kayden.

I always hit that point where I start stealing ideas. What do my panties say? Rock my world. I only have eyes for you. Where have you been all my life. Wanna play? That reminds me of another good one: cool name, wanna fuck? Cool shoes, wanna fuck? Cool accent, wanna fuck? I was taught a trick with Chinese fortune cookies–end all of their proverbs with “in the bedroom.” You will find great happiness in the bedroom. You will achieve great wealth in the bedroom. You will live long and prosper in the bedroom. It is also good to have some on hand for the guys that need to be messed with for whatever reason: You are a great friend in the bedroom. What goes around comes around in the bedroom. Next time bring Viagra. Size doesn’t matter. Dear so and so, thanks for coming out.

Some are going to want headshots signed for other people: Dear so and so, wish you were here (arrow drawn down to crotch)… you should have come. Dear so and so, you have the coolest aunt/brother/sister/
Nephew/boss/coworker/girlfriend/mom in the world. Dear so and so, look me up when you’re 18 (the Penthouse handbook covered this one).

It’s really a matter of reading the guys more than anything. They need to leave happy. Memories should be warm and fuzzy or at least tingly in the crotch. At the end of the day if you‘ve left any memory at all you‘ve at least partially succeeded. Good memories are best though. It’s not always easy to tell if the significant other is there, and if so, how willingly. It’s not always easy to tell how dirty or clean they want it and how comfortable they are with being there in the first place. Dear so and so: shove your steaming wet cock back in my ass and smack me and call me a bitch. I want to choke on your manroot right here and now. I had my back teeth filed down just for you. Dear so and so, degrade me.

End it with three exclamation points if your hand isn‘t cramping. At least one if they haven’t offended you. Dear so and so, you rock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I heart you!!!!!! I heart your cock!!!!!! I’ll never forget last night! Thanks for showing me how a real man fucks!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

…and sign off with feeling: Your secret lover, xoxo, hugs and kisses, yours truly, truly yours, with love, licks, muah!, love always, sincerely, forever and ever and ever, xxx,

Kayden Kross