Making Porn

Near the close of a weekend event, I duck into my hotel room for a few minutes of quiet relaxation.

As I approach my room, I hear very loud music — a radio, or perhaps a television, cranked up full blast. Once I’m close enough to unlock my door, I realize the source of the noise is the room right next to mine.

Just in case someone’s looking out at me through the peephole, I glare at the neighboring unit. When I do, I notice an odd detail: streaming through the crack between the door and the carpet is the unmistakable glare of quartz halogen light. Having been an on-camera host for dozens of corporate films, it’s a glare I recognize.

Once inside my own room, I can hear several voices through the thin hotel walls: a number of men and, perhaps, one woman. Two seem to be giving instructions (“Yep, tilt your head back like that. Good. No smiling.”) while two others are delivering lines (“You like that? Yeah, you like that, don’t cha?”)

I can’t believe my ears. They can’t possibly be making porn in the hotel room next to mine … can they?

All doubts are removed by the next burst of dialogue, which involves something most men do once, and then doze off.

Someone says, “Okay, cut. Gimme a minute.” Furniture moves. Equipment is repositioned. Someone makes a crude joke about a particularly disturbing hazard of working in the porn industry.

And then it all begins again: the same lines of dialogue, delivered in the same wooden tones. The same action. The same ending.

“One more time,” the unseen director says. “This time, for real.”

More rearrangement. They’re on a budget, I conclude … they’re shooting with just one camera, and must restage the same shot multiple times in order to edit in shots from several angles later on.

This time, the scene goes on longer, and the ending is more … authentic-sounding. People hoot and start striking the set. I hear the unlocking of latches, the distinctive sound of aluminum tripods being collapsed, and equipment being packed away. Someone showers.

I keep all this to myself until breakfast the following morning. There, I prepare to amaze my tablemates with the revelation that our otherwise classy hotel doubles as a porn studio.

“Oh, my gosh,” Jeff says. “You heard it, too? It went on all night!”

I frown. “All night? No, it was this afternoon. The room went quiet, after — and believe me, I would have heard this kind of commotion during the night.”

Jeff frowns. “Are you on the same floor as I am? The second?”

“I’m on the fifth.” As I reply, my horror grows. Exactly how many rooms here are dedicated to producing flicks like Testosterone Cowboys in Manland?

After breakfast, I go back to my room. Without touching it too much, I yank the spread from my bed and stuff it in the closet. I can’t help it; the experience leaves me paranoid.

In every tiny stain, I see a story.