Holly Randall

Pirates II Premiere

sexdotcom — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 18:26:00 GMT

“I hate my hair.”

Acme, who was driving, looked askance at me, then directed his attention back to the road. “It looks fine,” he said. “Besides, the B-52s are back in right now.”

I punched him in the arm, making him swerve slightly into the other lane. “See!” I cried. “It does look too big. You’re not helping at all, you know.”

He was about to respond when we saw the klieg lights going back and forth across the sky, just a few blocks ahead. “There it is!” he said.

“Great,” I grumbled, checking my ostentatious hairdo in mirror one last time. “I’m going to look ridiculous on the red carpet.”

But really, there it was—the Pirates II premiere, which was assuredly the biggest event of the year. It certainly was the biggest and most expensive adult production ever. As we pulled up to the front of the Orpheum Theatre, the movie title Pirates II: Stagnetti’s Revenge shone in big bright lights, headlining the packed red carpet below it. This was going to be one hell of a movie.

As he parked the car, Acme let me out by the entrance to spare me the long walk from the car in my very high heels. I stood next to the security guard and quizzed him about my hair. No matter how many times he told me it looked fine, I wasn’t satisfied. The poor guy seemed relieved when Acme reappeared to take me into the theater.

On the red carpet, I felt a bit silly (as usual), sandwiched between porn stars who are the real recognizable faces of our industry. If people know me, they usually know my name by my work, but they don’t usually know what I look like. I stopped for my first interview with the always cheerful Tony Batman, who thankfully knows who I am.

“So, Holly,” he asked, pushing his microphone in my face, “what brings you here tonight? What did you have to do with the movie?”

“Errr, nothing,” I answered. “A friend brought me.”

“What did you think of the first Pirates movie?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Oh.” There was a slight pause when Tony realized he didn’t really have anything else to ask me. So out came the default question: “What are you working on these days?”

I answered, but my response was quick and short, because I knew that nobody really cares what I’m working on—well, at least tonight they don’t care. Tonight is Digital Playground’s night, not mine. So we ended the interview, and in relief, we both moved on.

I bypassed a couple of other interviewers, because they were busy with the stars of the movie: people like Jesse Jane and Evan Stone. I said “hi” to Evan, but I don’t think he heard me. Instead, he hit me on the leg with the long sword fastened to his hip as he swung around to smile for a passing fan.

Next, I saw the other male star of the movie—indeed its namesake, Tommy Gunn, who plays the evil pirate Stagnetti. Wearing the blue contact lens that he sports for the movie, he brought along a cute blonde who he promised to bring by my office when she was “ready to shoot.” I’m not sure what that meant, but I don’t doubt that she’s getting a lot of practice in with Tommy.

As I faced down the last leg of the red carpet, the familiar butterflies in my stomach appeared. I’m not very good (i.e. confident enough) to stand in front of dozens of photographers, all calling my name and taking my photo simultaneously. (When I reviewed the pictures online the next day, I saw that my fears were warranted—I’m looking more and more like my mother, and not when she was young. Note to self: Work on “red carpet face.”)

Once inside the theater, it was the usual schmoozing and “I haven’t seen you in so long!” types of conversations. For me, since I don’t go out that often, it really was great to reconnect with some people and feel like I was actually a part of this strange world of porn that I call my career. But soon enough, it was time to take our seats and let the real show begin.

Acme, through his friendship with Adella (Digital Playground’s, and porn’s, most powerful publicist), snagged us some seats that were not only up close, but on the aisle. Across the aisle from us sat stars of the movie, such as Jenna Haze, Stephen St. Croix, Stoya, and Sasha Grey. Now that’s some serious VIP action!

The lights dimmed, and the Digital Playground icon flashed across the screen. Already people cheered loudly and clapped. The air was filled with excitement as people anticipated watching the biggest porn movie in history. We’d heard of CGI animation, mainstream actors, and the countless hours put into making this film. Not to mention that we were going to see porn people—our people!—on the big screen.

Oddly enough, in a theatre of 500 seasoned porn pros, the room filled with nervous giggles when any of the 10 sex scenes came up on screen. But at defining moments in the scenes, such Belladonna and Jesse Jane spitting in each other’s mouths, the crowd cheered loudly as if at a football game. Every slap, every hair pull, and every almost anal fisting (if you keep the thumb out, apparently you’re safe), drew cries of jubilation from the audience. I half-expected someone to jump out of their seat and yell, “Touchdown!”

Needless to say, the movie was incredibly impressive. It felt like the adult industry was, for at least one night, legitimized. We all felt that we shared in this moment in porn history, whether or not we were involved in the movie. For once, I felt like I was part of one big family, and for once, I was proud of it.

My 30th Birthday Party

sexdotcom — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 19:05:00 GMT

It was going to be the perfect night. The day had been hot, and I sweated all day under the brutal September sun, moving furniture and stringing together dozens of lights that seemed to be never-ending. My parents’ boxer, Milton, panted as he followed me around the property as I performed my various tasks. Finally, exhausted by watching me work, he lay down in a shady spot and took a nap. How I wished I could do the same! But I had a birthday party to put on, and it wasn’t going to be just any birthday party. It was going to be mine, and I was turning 30.

It was the birthday I’d been dreading for years. So much of my identity had been wrapped up in my youth. I was a “young woman,” a “young professional,” or the “young girlfriend” to my 40-something boyfriend. A successful photographer, a columnist, and a businesswoman poised to take over her parents’ empire, all at the age of 29! And now, suddenly my accomplishments didn’t sound so impressive at age 30. When my father was young, he was told that you couldn’t be a genius if you didn’t publish a book before turning 30. He squeaked past by finishing The Dominant Man at 29. Here I was, 30 already, and I hadn’t even started on my book. I guess I’m not a genius.

I didn’t want my 20s to go. I mean, I really, really didn’t. Like a petulant child, I wrapped myself around the legs of my 29th year, wailing loudly as it continued to shuffle awkwardly towards my 30th birthday. I studied the wrinkles under my eyes for so long I probably gave myself new ones and collected opinions for the best botox job in town. I checked my butt in the mirror each day to see if gravity was taking its toll yet and listened anxiously for the sound of my biological clock starting to tick. In short, I drove myself crazy in anticipation of a day that simply altered a number that we use to determine our place in a chronological timeline. It was hardly the apocalypse—it wasn’t like I was going to suddenly explode on my thirtieth birthday. Was I?

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t going to explode. But I really wanted my birthday party to blow up. I invited tons of people (knowing only three-quarters would probably show), decorated outside with scores of lights and candles, filled coolers with booze and non-alcoholic drinks, and hired a live blues band to play. My good friend Aria Giovanni spent two days cooking an enormous, incredible spread for the guests. If I was going to have to turn 30, I was going to make sure I had a damn good time doing so.

The guests flocked in, many bearing presents. I received many touching cards and wonderful gifts, but none as great as the present I received from the very people who hired me to write for Sex.com: Ciara and Del. Ciara had been bugging me for photos of my dogs, which I thought was perhaps for some feature of people’s pets on sex.com (though in retrospect that makes no sense for this kind of site). It turns out that they had an artist do an incredibly accurate caricature of my dogs—they captured the personality of Poe and Bonnie perfectly! I realized what a silly and fanatical dog owner I was when the picture almost brought tears to my eyes.

But it was the next event that really did bring tears to my eyes until they spilled over onto my cheeks. It was time for the birthday cake, and as we were ushered outside, I joked that I had no idea why everyone was suddenly flocking out to the backyard. The band began to play “Happy Birthday,” and my friend Randy sang at the microphone, lending a beautiful, melodic voice to a song sung mostly out of key by the rest of the guests.

And suddenly I knew. This is what’s important in life: being surrounded by my friends and family on an important day in my life, and virtually swimming in the love of those crowded around me. All of those things that had mattered to me so much in my 20s—the career, the car, the clothes and the shoes and the handbags, the egotistical boyfriends and the inconsequential crap that I coveted to make myself look good on the outside—couldn't compare to the smiles and the hugs of the people who care about who you are on the inside.

My birthday wasn’t about “getting old,” it was about growing up and finally understanding what really matters in life. It’s something you can’t touch, but it’s something you definitely feel, deep down in your heart and soul. As cliché as it may sound, there is only one word we have been able to use to describe it, and that’s love. As I faced down my heavily lit cake, it was the feeling of this love that made me smile, then cry, and ultimately sputter, instead of blow, out my candles.

It really was the perfect night.

My Strange Job

sexdotcom — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 10:02:00 GMT

The other day, as I was cleaning up the makeup room in my studio, I was expecting one of two arrivals any minute—either my prop manager returning with a bed for the following day’s shoot, or a delivery guy with my lunch. Soon enough, I heard the front door open, and I called out to ask who it was. There was no answer, so I figured it was my prop guy unloading at the front door. I went back to what I was doing.

Suddenly, I heard a noise at the entrance to the makeup room, and when I looked up, I saw the delivery guy. He was holding my food and looking at me with a shocked expression. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out why he looked so stunned, until I looked down and saw what I was holding in my hands. I had been cleaning an enormous rubber black dildo. Oh, right. I guess that’s not something this guy sees every day on his delivery route.

Sometimes I forget how bizarre my job really is. And because I’ve been working in porn for so long, and I’m so desensitized to it, I forget how it appears to a normal person living outside my strange little world.

When I get my car back from the valet, I can’t figure out why the guy handing me my keys is giving an odd look. It’s not until I get in my car and remember that I have a huge bag filled with strap-ons and lube in my backseat that it occurs to me why he and his valet buddies are snickering.

It’s the same thing with the guy at the carwash, who found Anal Invaders #4 under my front seat and placed it strategically on top of the seat.

And when my drain clogs and the plumber has to come to fix it, I have to remember that it’s not polite to leave my issues of Hustler and Nasty Housewives laying out on my coffee table. God only knows what my maid thinks of the massive porn collection I have stashed away in plain sight in my closet. And I know she’s seen it, because she’s good enough to keep it dust-free.

I don’t really know what it’s like to have a life that doesn’t revolve around porn. Growing up, my parents were pornographers, so it’s always been a part of my life. Even though they tried to keep work out of the house and out of my eyesight, they were always honest about their jobs. I was painfully conscious about it, because I had to lie to my friends and their parents about what my mom and dad did. Sometimes, if they were really curious and kept pushing me to tell them about exactly what kind of photography my mom did, it became very difficult to keep up the charade.

Now that I work for my parents, I find myself still caught in those awkward situations. I’m not the least bit ashamed of what I do, but sometimes I just don’t want to tell people what my job is, because it will make me “that girl.” Sometimes I just want to be a normal person, not “that girl who works in porn.” This is new to me, because now I’m not using my career as a springboard to instant popularity and interest. Before I began to develop a sense of self outside my job description, I used my work as fodder for conversation and let it define me as a person. But that’s not who I am. It’s simply what I do.

If you and I ever meet in person, I think you’ll find out very quickly that I’m just your average, run-of-the-mill American girl. I won’t try to get your girlfriend to pose for me, nor will I ask to see the size of your boyfriend’s cock. I don’t hang out with porn stars, and I most certainly won’t be bringing them to your birthday party. I don’t want to talk about what Jenna Jameson is like in person or what it was like having my birth announced (and a photo of me as a newborn) in the pages of Hustler magazine. And if you ever come across me with a large black dildo in my hands, don’t worry—I’m not going to try to use it on you. Unless you’re the delivery boy, and you’re late with my order.