Performers sometimes get booked to appear in mainstream film or TV shows, usually as set dressing in the form of naked background extras having fake sex known as soft-core. Producers send cattle calls to porn agents and then the agents scatter the invitations among their fame hungry clients. The best part is, us performers are non-union, so you know we work for cheap.

I got a text from Beverly. “Hey sweetie,” she said. “Wanna work for HBO?”

According to her, HBO was producing a T.V. series based on an old movie about a wild-west themed amusement park populated by androids, and they were filming a scene involving a giant roaming orgy. I was offered the role of one of the many hot and sweaty fake fornicators at a base rate of $600 for twelve hours plus a potential $200 bump if I were chosen to be a “featured” extra. They were offering more money for me to pretend to have sex on camera than what I was paid to actually have sex on camera. And that’s considered cheap. Go figure. Of course, I’d be needed for twelve hours as opposed to the industry standard of four hours in and out for male talent. Still, it was a no brainer.

My call time was eight A.M. in a cemetery in the heart of Compton. Right away I was struck by the amount of grip trucks, trailers, tents, and general personnel. There were no less than a dozen workers for every department—makeup, hair, wardrobe, grip, lighting, security, drivers, catering, assistants, and more security. Seriously, I had never seen so many security guards on a film set before. I followed signs labelled “background” to a giant tent that was practically overflowing with people, at least 200 of us extras all standing around wide-eyed waiting to be told where to go and what to do. I spotted some familiar faces in the crowd, and we exchanged nods of recognition from afar.

In small groups, various assistants took handfuls of us aside to summarize the day’s events. “Here’s the deal,” the assistant announced, “There will be nudity and there will be simulated sex. I know it's silly to say but there will be no penetration. You should never have to feel threatened by anyone and no one should have to feel threatened by you. Do you understand? If for any reason you feel uncomfortable just find me or find someone like me and we'll fine a solution. Okay, let’s have a good shoot, everybody!”

After the speech we were then sent to a line to receive our SAG vouchers, which I then handed off to a woman at the wardrobe tent so I could receive my costume: a pair of black flip-flops and small piece of brown fabric.

“A loin cloth?” I asked.

“So you can cover up in between takes,” she said. “And then you hide it just out of frame before the cameras roll.”

“No robes?”

“Only for the women. You can change here or go into one of the honeypots if you prefer.”

“Honeypots?”

“The porta-potties,” she said, vaguely motioning outside the tent.

“Oh,” I said. “Gross. Here’s fine. I’m going to be naked in front of everyone all day anyway, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” she said. “Leave your clothes here with me.”

I got undressed and wrapped the cloth around my waist, handing my clothes to the woman, who promptly sealed them in a plastic bag with my name written across it on a piece of masking tape. I exited the tent and queued up in yet another line, this one leading into the hair and makeup tent, all of us standing in it now dressed in either a brown loin cloth or a bathrobe.

As we slowly shuffled forward, I eavesdropped on a conversation happening next to me. Another background extra, still fully clothed with his loin cloth slung over his shoulder, was confiding in one of the crew members.

“But will my face be seen?” he asked, his head moving side to side as if to make sure nobody else was listening. No one but me, buddy.

“Everyone is pretty much going to be seen from head to toe.”

“Yeah, see, I just don’t know about that.”

“Uh, okay then,” the crew member said, “come with me.”

The two of them walked off and then a minute later the crew member returned without the background actor. He approached.

“Logan Pierce?”

“That’s me.”

“We’re wondering, uh, are you comfortable with like having fake sex on camera?

“…Isn’t that why I’m here?” I asked, confused.

“So, you’re cool with it then?”

“I thought that’s what I signed up for in the first place.”

“I love you. Thank you. You’ll get a bump for this too.”

“Sounds good to me.” I said, still unsure how this changed anything.

“So, we won’t paint you or anything then.”

“There’s body paint?”

“Some people are being painted gold or red.”

“Can I still have sex if I get body-painted?”

“Trust me, your life will be so much easier if you aren’t painted. That way you can just walk right out of here after we wrap.”

“Fair enough.”

The crew member walked away, and I entered the makeup tent where there were nude men and women all around me being airbrushed gold and red, stenciled with intricate tattoo designs on their bodies and face. Part of me wished I were them, especially after learning they were paid overtime while waiting around after the shoot to have it all removed. There’s a novel concept. Overtime is entirely alien in the porn world where the rate you agree on is what you’re paid no matter how many hours you wind up stuck on set.

I sat in a chair and a makeup artist applied some foundation and powder to my face before a stylist walked over to work on my hair. I’d always kept my hair relatively short, but it was at least long enough to accommodate any number of playful styles. I was hoping for something fanciful to make up for my lack of body paint. Instead, she chose to center part my hair and comb it to either side, and spray in place.

When I saw my reflection, I couldn’t help but cringe. “Oh my God,” I said. “I look like a serial killer.”

“It’s period yet contemporary,” she said.

Yeah, sure thing, lady. There were a hundred more people waiting for their turn in the chair, so it was a moot point. I now had makeup, hair, and my loin cloth. I was camera ready.

The actual set was a short drive away from basecamp, so we were loaded onto busses, being told to leave everything including cell phones, books, watches, laptops, and dildos behind before being shuttled to the farthest reaches of the cemetery toward a mansion-sized mausoleum.

The production team had transformed one of the vacuous hallways into a hypnotic, sexual play space-red velvet curtains, chaise lounges, long elegant hardwood tables, and massive pillows strewn atop layered Egyptian carpets. A fine place for an orgy.

We were led upstairs to a balcony overlooking the grand hall which contained alcoves where the dead bodies were assumedly kept in their marble tombs. There must be something inherently immoral about turning a place of eternal rest into a den of sin, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just part of the clause of being buried in Los Angeles. I’m sure we’re all going to hell.

We were split into smaller groups and each group was assigned an alcove which the lead actress would then walk past on-camera while observing the debauchery occurring within. A crewmember walked in and assigned us our positions. One extra was instructed to get on all fours while a woman who was dressed in a long dark green Victorian dress straddled him from behind and simulated fucking him with a strap-on. Admiring them were three naked guests: an overweight middle-aged guy with a handlebar mustache, an even larger Samoan man with a surprising micro-penis, and me, a diminutive featherweight crouched on one knee, my finger seductively circling my lips as I watched the action. We stayed here in this room in these positions for what felt like hours as the camera slowly crept past on dolly tracks, constantly resetting and adjusting, take after take after take until we finally moved on.

The grand hall was now lit, and it was time for the true party to begin. I was selected to have simulated sex against a wall adjacent to the lead actors as they had a short dialogue. My partner for this was world famous super MILF, Vanessa Luv. She was insatiable—always on and always entertaining. She was baiting every single guy who was within arm’s reach, the crew, actors, paramedics. Everyone was at the mercy of the nympho. Not that any of the guys complained, they were all eager for her affection. Meanwhile, I was the one “fucking” her, so it was me who hit the jackpot. I was the luckiest guy in the room.

That is, until the cinematographer determined my ass was ghostly pale compared the rest of my body. It was so distracting that it pulled focus away from the actors. All this recent hiking had left me with some serious tan lines. After some deliberation, a makeup artist was sent over to airbrush my ass cheeks while everyone watched and waited.

She knelt behind me and started spraying color on my skin. I looked over my shoulder and the two of us locked eyes. I smiled. “Business as usual?”

“Another day in paradise,” she quipped.

With my body now a single shade, we were able to resume filming. I thought my troubles were over, but Vanessa had other plans. During takes, she was intent on whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

“You know you want to stick it in me,” she said, tonguing my ear. “I’m so wet.”

“You’re killing me here,” I said, my face buried in her neck.

“Come on,” she insisted. “Fuck me for real.”

It got to the point where I was literally begging her to stop so I wouldn’t get hard—a twisted bit of role reversal. I forced my mind to go to the worst places, cycling through images of car wrecks, crushed like soda cans with blood stains on the smashed windshields, dead animals with maggots eating away the decomposing corpses, doing everything in my power to stay soft in front of the camera. My blood continued to surge, and each take brought me closer to the edge, but in the end, I was spared the indignity of an erection, and the set broke for dinner. Dinner was a choice of chicken or fish, steamed vegetables, and a side of rice and dinner-rolls. Pretty standard fare for a mainstream set, far better than the typical porn snacks of chips and loose fun-size candy bars. By this point all of us had become so accustomed to being naked nobody was precious about the placement of their loin cloths, spread legs and saggy balls stretched and stuck to every available surface. Dinner ended and we shuffled back to the busses.

As I was about to board, I was taken aside by an assistant and told that due to my performance with Vanessa, I wouldn’t be needed in the next set-up in fear of being “too recognizable,” whatever that meant. I didn’t really mind; I already earned my pay bump.

The busses left and I took to grazing the last remnants of an unmanned crafty table. Walking around base camp, I wandered past the row of honeypots and noticed one of them was rumbling and rocking back and forth as if there was a wild animal loose inside. I approached and heard noises; guttural grunts coupled with high-pitched moans of ecstasy. The unmistakable sounds of sex. I hung back and soon enough the door opened. The craft services guy emerged a sweaty mess, affixing his apron and wiping his brow. Following close behind him was Vanessa Luv, positively glowing with post-nut radiance. I guess she didn’t mind missing out on the final shot neither.

Two hours later, the buses returned to camp. A voice on a loudspeaker thanked us for our time and announced that the shoot was officially wrapped. I returned my loin cloth and flip flops to wardrobe and the girl handed me my bagged clothes. I was free to leave. I got dressed and walked back to my car content with today’s foray into mainstream television, excited to show off my scene stealing performance to my friends, assuming of course it made it into the final cut.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.