Memories of the tropical Hawaiian Islands were only a week old as I strained to look through the bug-spattered windshield of the old Electra Glide. Ahead, Hwy 80 now stretched across the boring plains-land seemingly forever. I was definitely in Wyoming.
But hey, I was headed for the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally—this was good. Oh yea, the thought came, I was going there to work.
For most, the Sturgis Rally is a time of vacation. It means release from care, responsibility and boredom. But for those of us who report to no steady job, who spend our years rather traveling from place to place instead. For those few whose lives emanate from only the back of a motorcycle and the gear stored upon it, the motorcycle rallies offer an opportunity to replenish one’s stash of traveling money. For the pay there is often exceptional. Vacation would certainly be nice; but the winter spent in the hot jungles of deep Mexico, and the trip to Hawaii that followed, had not been free rides. Money was running low—it was time to work.
I thought of all the biker-rally vending tents of years past that I’d slaved in while the mobs of leather clad shoppers shuffled through as I’d stood on aching feet and tried to help them find that perfect leather jacket.
But then I remembered…hey, I’m not working for venders this year. What was it I’d be doing again? Oh yea, watching people fuck—and getting paid to do it. Well, I thought, this ought’a be a memorable experience to be sure.
The Black Hills lay just ahead now and before long I found myself riding the twisty little hwy-14 that runs though tight nit canyons of thick timber and beautiful meadows. Eventually 14 comes to pass through Lead, Deadwood and ultimately Sturgis.
I was early, about four of five days I guessed, and the streets of Sturgis now held only a spattering of bikes and their early party participant riders.
Tending to camp seemed like a good idea. For many years previous I’d set up in a spot just outside of town and always looked forward my stay in this fine place. But my boss had said he’d also be here early. I decided to check in first.
After pulling a tattered old wallet from road worn jeans I retrieved a business card with the inscription “Fallen Angel Productions” (a subsidiary of Adam and Eve Inc.) printed on it. The company was doing a series called “Sex Across America” and Sturgis was the place scheduled for this weeks filming. I threw a pair of quarters in the phone…“Yea,” a voice answered. It was the boss.
“Ah…Luc?” (pronounced Luke) I said, “This is Scotty. I just got into town and thought I’d go set up camp now. Figured I probably ought t’ check in with you first though.”
Although Luc Wylder was the film’s director and therefore everybody’s boss, he was a man who cared little for bossing people around. “Well,” he began, “the company’s rented a house on the other side of Lead. It’s probably 20-miles form you. I’ll need you here in the mornings and most of the day. Think you can make it okay? It might be easier if you just stayed here man. There’s plenty of room….”
It took no rocket scientist to realize that in order to become a useful employee here it would be necessary to interpret the bosses needs rather than heed his orders.
“Give me the directions Luc; I’ll be right there.”
A small dirt road led to an equally dirt driveway that stood before a beautiful house. The oversized place had been built on the side of a little hill. A covered wooden deck ran two sides of the center level while above was a top floor and below an additional third that had been built partially into the hillside. In the driveway sat an SUV, one convert-a-van and a handful of Harley Davidsons. I parked among the other bikes then dismounted to cross the wooden deck. Luc met me at the door and, after a short greeting, offered a quick tour of the house. With its fine furnishings, satellite TV, packed refrigerator and lower level hot tub the place was undeniably fine. But the life of a drifter is spent mostly outdoors and the kind of freedom to which I’d become accustomed does not exist behind closed doors and four wall.
I set up camp on the side porch.
Soon I was introduced to two Porn Stars—the first I’d ever met.
Aside from the many films she’s stared in over her eight years in the business, Alexandra Silk now also plays the bubble-butted bailiff on the Playboy Channel’s “Sex Court” (she told me the looser always wins). She was an unfairly beautiful grandmother (barely) who still retained the fun loving spirit of a 16-year old girl—I shit you not. This was a refreshing oddity of which I’d not before witnessed in a woman who was, in reality, closer to my own age, but then she was the first Porn Star I’d ever actually known. We liked each other right off.
At the age of 21, Rio Mariah was a South American girl who’d come to the States to make her debut in the adult film industry. Since then, an insatiable appetite for sex had kept Rio in the limelight as she’d since starred in many triple X films.
Stan Miles, the guy responsible for introducing me to Luc some months before, was an old friend and the boss’s only still-shot photographer. With his shaved head, fang-toothed mouth, snow-white eyeballs, numerous tattoos, and super high tech camera constantly in hand, it was almost like having a picture-happy lunatic forever lurking in the shadows. But regardless of whether it was shooting picturesque nudes of beautiful women against the background of an unbelievably amber sunset, or simply hard core triple-X stills, Stan’s passion came through in his work. For there was nothing in this world he loved more than photographing the female anatomy. So whether the image was caught from the shadows of an adjacent room, or simply a zoomed in close up, Stan seldom missed those fleeting Kodak moments; of which he would later transform into perfect living color. Of this passion the boss knew, and for this Stan received a healthy paycheck.
I’d always kinda figured that the producers of such smut were probably rather shallow and uncaring men—and Rio assured me that some were—but Luc was certainly not to be counted among them. On the contrary, he was a rather thoughtful cat who considered it his business to see that the needs of those who worked under him were attended to. And to this end he exerted much effort.
I settled onto my new home.
The following day I was sent to the Rapid City airport in Luc’s SUV to pick up a young stud. Trent was the first “dick for hire” I’d ever met.
Soon the work began.
In a field near the house an entire scene was shot upon my own bike before ultimately being moved to some large boulders nearby. I really couldn’t grasp the concept of not choosing one of the other, shinier, scooters belonging to some of our crew. But hell, they later shot scenes on those too. For this particular shoot, a part of my job was simply to monitor the tiny dirt road for any sign of cops or visitors and watch the filming in-between. I cannot tell of how strange it was for a laymen such as myself to see this kind of action taking place in the flesh (no pun intended). For the others it may simply have been just another day at the office, but for me it took some real getting use to.
I’d sometimes wondered, as I’m sure many have, if the girls ever enjoy this kind of work. I still couldn’t say if it’s a common occurrence, but there was one scene….
The cameras were rolling as Trent sat atop a large bolder that rested at the edge of the meadow against a background of thick forest. He wore only cowboy boots with dusty soles now placed firmly upon the ground. Atop him Alexandra straddled reverse cowgirl stile as she bounced furiously upon the object of her pleasure.
Eventually Luc called the cameras to stop. “Alex,” he said, “you can stop now. We’ve got it.”
She didn’t seem to hear.
Luc stepped closer and repeated, “Alex, stop, we’re done!” Again she did not hear and I watched the closed eyes of her pretty face reflect only the heat of the moment as she continued to work perfect hips with furious intent. Luc tried once more and was again rewarded with disregard. It was clear she simply would not listen. Luc took two steps back then and, after a moments contemplation, he simply ordered the cameras to resume rolling.
The following day I was again sent to the airport to retrieve a girl so named Michelle Lay, and her boyfriend. Both spent that afternoon settling in. In the morning Trent accompanied me as I returned to the airport to retrieve a dude named Kurt. I was told he was one of the industry’s top ten studs.
The fucking began anew.
They fucked inside and they fucked out. They fucked on blankets, rocks, cars and even in a bed. After the boys, the girls fucked each other.
At one point I watched Kurt almost throw Michelle into different positions across a bed as he took her from many angles. His professionalism was undeniable. At this point I realized the pressure of making your dick perform while under the scrutinized observation of four hairy men who were intent upon constantly shoving cameras up your ass. I gained a new appreciation for the difficulties of this job—and the men who do it—that day.
After helping to set up lights and arrange the set, I did my job of holding a C-light (a wide angled yet mellowly tinted type of flashlight) in one hand while trying to follow the cameras in for the close ups that I might properly illuminate the dark areas. So this was what my life had become—I was a human fuckin’ pussy lamp. Wouldn’t mom be proud.
In the mornings I ate huge breakfasts cooked and served by real live Porn Stars. In the evenings we piled into both company vehicles and headed for the finest restaurants in Deadwood. The company picked up the tab—always.
Luc told me that the porn industry pulls in more money than all other sports combined (if yuh can call sex a sport). When I asked why this was, he said, “’Well, some people are into football, others into baseball, but everyone’s into sex.”
It was late afternoon as the girls emerged from the house in spiked heals, spandex britches, and matching red tank tops with the words “Adam and Eve Productions” printed across the tits. Next everyone, except for Michelle, who followed Stan to his bike, and Rio Mariah, who followed me to mine, piled into both company vehicles. Soon our little caravan was on the road to downtown Sturgis.
Oblivious (as usual) of any plan that might exist, I simply followed the boss’s orders and led the way. But it soon became clear that I, the only actual veteran of this rally among us, had been designated as tour-guide.
The late afternoon Sturgis traffic was pretty thick but my real problem was where to park two, four-wheeled vehicles.
At any large motorcycle event there’s always two basic scenes. First is the party scene that’s been arranged in advance for the benefit of the vacationing biker who comes, rents a room, campground or the like, then sets out to party, see the sights and spend money.
Second is the “behind the scenes scene” which is comprised of venders, bar owners, promoters and the like. They come to make the party happen and hopefully turn a profit in the process. Much of the “behind the scenes crew” travel from state to state, set up large vending tents, then sell leather jackets, chrome motorcycle goodies, snake oil, or whatever. Many live in huge tents, trucks, motor homes and hotel rooms. They run across each other at different rallies across the country and among them deals are struck, alliances formed and friendships bonded. This is the unorthodox world of the modern day gypsy and the vendor exists amid his own obscure subculture.
The many years of road-life had repeatedly brought me to seek employment at the tent flap of these people and it was long ago that mine had become a familiar face among them. What this meant was, as appointed tour-guide, I would have to lead my small porn party, at least in part, into the backstage world of the Sturgis Rally. I simply knew no other way.
Across from the Broken Spoke Saloon is a large lot whose smooth pavement, I knew, would be crowded with many vending tents. Each space is rented from a man named Tim who owns the land and, appropriately, erects his own large tent near the small alley out back where he sells motorcycle parts under the banner of “Negotiable Parts”. Knowing that Tim would have parking space near the alleyway in back, I confidently led my little convoy to this place.
After brazenly parking our caravan on what was left of Tim’s cluttered pavement, I locked my ignition then stepped from the bike. Looking up I noted Tim’s unmistakable figure of balding red hair and bushy mustache as he approached. He stopped then and opened his mouth (probably’d ’a been some reprimand about the two trucks) but I quickly blurted out, “I brought porn chicks.”
For a moment he only stared. Then…“You what?”
“Meet the gang,” and I motioned to the small crowd who now gathered at his rear. First the girls, I thought, who’d made it easy since, being the obvious stars of this little show, had lined up at the forefront of the entourage. There they were…skin tight cum-fuck-me cloths, and three pretty grins. Each was obviously in character for the leading roll of ‘Miss Super Slut”. But the thing was, as every man who laid eyes upon them, had seen their films, or both, knew, this trio was unlike the many dressed up prick teasers who now littered the crowded streets. No. These were the real Bad Girls. The ones who do it all, can’t wait to do it some more, and are downright proud of it.
Tim forgot my forthcoming reprimand.
“This here’s Michellele Lay,” I went on. She shot him a naughty grin and shook his hand. “Rio Mariah,” who followed suit, “And Alexandra Silk”. Tim stuck out his hand but Alex stepped closer and shook his dick instead. That did it. He was a goner. “And this is Luc Wylder,” I continued, “famous hardcore film director, biker, and my new boss. Luc, this here’s Tim, owner of this fine establishment and peddler of Harley parts.” They shook hands. I then introduce the male talent, camera crew and soundman.
“Hey Tim,” I said—he was still kinda dazed, “Luc rides an 86-Softail and he’s lookin’ for an S&S Super-E Carburetor for it. Yuh got one?”
“No,” his voice was scratchy and, as usual, somehow out of tune, “don’t think so. You can look though, I might a missed one.”
Eventually everyone moseyed into Tim’s tent. No Super-E was found.
After a time Luc said, “Where to next Scotty?”
I thought of the “Wall of Death” where the stuntmen, and one stuntwoman, ride motorcycles on the inside wall of a great wooden drum. But the show was closed now.
“How about the Broken Spoke Saloon?” I said, “Wanna come Tim?” I didn’t have to ask twice. And so, with the Prince of Parts now in tow, I led the small mob of video sex offenders toward Lazelle Street.
The sun had just set.
It has been said that there’s more power in a single female pubic hair than in a locomotive train; and so was this theory proven on Lazelle. By the droves they came. They fumbled and nearly fell over one another for even a chance to get close to a real live fantasy girl—and maybe take her picture. I was embarrassed for all of my gender. Had they never seen a truly perverted woman before?
Eventually we entered the Spoke.
Tim now took the lead. The Broken Spoke’s usual jam-packed, beer swilling mob engulfed us as we headed for the stage. Upon arrival our new leader (Tim) called Jay Allen (owner of the Broken Spoke) to the corner stage (these guys are all business associates, pals, or both) and shouted into his ear over the great din of the crowd. I watched Jay’s eyes narrow as he regarded the girls with new interest. In a moment all three were pulled onto the stage for an impromptu wet T-shirt show. As anyone can imagine, things soon got downright dirty and I again thanked the lord that mom was not present to bare witness.
Later, at the Spoke’s adjacent outdoor arcade of sorts, I was made to endure an exceptionally nasty mechanical bull show. The things one must sometimes do for a paycheck…oh-my-god. The girls, one, and sometimes two at a time now spun in sultry skin-filled circles as the bull operator kept speeds to a minimal. Cameras flashed furiously from within the heated crowd.
Our little entourage picked up two new accomplices and, little did I know, the entertainment was soon to commence anew. Besides Jay Allen of the Broken Spoke, Stuntman Jay, owner of the “Wall of Death”, had joined our party. Unbeknownst to me, plans were soon set to open the “Wall” for a privet show in honor of the girls. The power of the pussy, it seemed, is respecter of no man.
It was growing late by the time we again hit the street (grope grope, mob mob came the fucking crowd again) and before long we found ourselves standing at the top catwalk of the giant wooden drum. All watched in awed silence then as the motorcycles dipped and weaved upon the inner wall of the Great Motor Drome. The show was that good.
Afterwards both Jays said their goodbyes and we soon wondered off to Main Street in search of the famous One Eye’d Jacks Saloon. The street crowd had mellowed at this late hour but our own half-drunk entourage was now loud and rowdy.
As we passed the numerous vending tents I saw some of my usual associates as they slaved in the confines of their tarp covered sweatshops. Their stunned grins flashed crudely as we passed. “Hey Scotty,” they yelled, “how’d you get that fuckin’ job?” I only shrugged. Then…“What’s your job description anyway?”
“I’m a fuckin’ pussy lamp, you guys! Uh…tell yuh all about it later.”
“Oh yea,” Michelle would then shout, “he lights my pussy sooo good!”
I only smiled as their jaws dropped.
Eventually we stopped by the giant Motorcycle Accessories tent of Joe Lupo. Owner of six vending lots and one house in Sturgis, not to mention much more in Daytona Fl. It’s common knowledge that Joe’s a heavy hitter among the vending crowd. But the smell of pussy is no respecter of social status (especially Joe’s) and before long our new leader—Mr. Lupo—was heading the procession. This shit was getting fun.
One Eyed Jacks still entertained a good, if not rather drunken, crowd and I sat at the bar listening as Joe, Tim and Luc carried on about sex, bikes and rallies.
On Luc’s behalf, I grilled Joe on the S&S Super-E carb thing. He said, “Let me think about it.” As Joe then spent a few minutes on his cel-phone I looked beyond to the slight form of a rather drunk Rio Mariah who now stood at room center. She appeared to be making time with about the finest young-blond-bartender I’d ever seen. Wait…the chick was going for it! Shit, she probably wouldn’t ah given any of us guys the time of fucking day. But there she was, playin’ right into whatever line Rio was dishin’ out; handing over her phone number, holding hands…etc. I made a mental note to ask Rio for a lesson in the fine art of “beautiful bartender seduction” at some later date.
Some time passed before a dude showed up and handed a small package to Mr. Lupo. Joe then handed the box to Luc and said, “Happy birthday”. I looked closer. It was a brand new S&S Super-E, complete carb, manifold, and air cleaner kit. The tag read 430-smackers!
Luc’s astonishment was complete.
It was sometime around two before the evening finally wound down and we all moseyed home.
The final days were filled with fine food and small parties and for this torture I endured valiantly in the name of a fat paycheck. But eventually the week ended, I received my money and everyone, save for Stan and myself, returned to the Los Angles porn scene.
Stan rented a room in town where he stayed with Tim (Negotiable Parts) for some four or five days, and I returned my tent to the land upon which was to be home for one week longer.
The mob scene was over now and, for the most part, only the vending crowd remained. Beneath the blue skies of perfect weather many a tired worker slowly tore down the huge tents of their trade and loaded leftover stock into the trucks. I took advantage of this lull to make the rounds, acquire a few T-shirts, and rekindle old friendships. The time of vendor parties and social responsibility was at hand.
At an offer from Joe Lupo, Stan bought a custom chopper that was nine fucking feet long and weighed approximately half a ton—or so I’d guessed. Then, as a kind of afterthought, he realized. Hey wait a minute. I came here on one motorcycle and now I got two. Jeez…how my gonna get ’em both back home to New Mexico? The problem was a perplexing one indeed. But, being in possession of an exceptionally brilliant mind to begin with, it was not long before an idea for the perfect solution was hatched. And so it was that a small trailer was purchased then hitched to the towing ball of Stanley’s late model Electra Glide. For three days more this strange rig was tested upon the small streets of Sturgis as miner adjustments were made to the tie-down-straps and chassis. But I had to admit, even as much as I like the guy, it was certainly a strange sight to behold as one tattooed, fang-toothed, bald guy cruised the small streets on a seriously shaky looking motorcycle with a teeny trailer beneath the huge chopper that was in tow. Stan told me that the going was actually exceptionally good so long as he didn’t try to turn, stop or drive over 45mph.
Wishing to avoid the heavy traffic and high-speed highways of Denver, Stan ultimately mapped out a small back road assault on his hometown of Red River N.M.
Well, all great parties must eventually come to an end and the small town of Sturgis had begun the return to its usual disposition of quiet country reserve.
It was time to go.
As the eastbound pavement of I-95 opened up across the great plains of South Dakota my thoughts wandered back over the week and I wondered if next year’s rally would be so colorful—I doubted it. Ah, but that was still a year off. Anything could happen between now and then. I’ve heard it said that God lives only in the moment and I believe there’s no truer statement that presides over the life of a gypsy rider. And so, turning my thoughts back to the highway ahead, I only took in the sights and wondered what little adventure might next come my way.
It was a beautiful day to ride.
Ride long and prosper my friends,
Scooter Tramp Scotty.