Ellen bounced up to me in a scoop-neck t-shirt, tits a-jiggling, and said, "This place is just insane."
She didn't lie. We were in the main hall of the LA Convention Center, and a half hour before the doors opened. At eleven that Saturday morning Eroticon 1990 would commence, a paean to porn. It differed from the AVN Convention in Las Vegas, which was more of a trade show. Eroticon was more aimed at fans and consumers, with lots of meet and greets, autograph signings, and video and magazines being sold by the pallet. Smut fans from near and far would come in the hopes of meeting the stars and buying the hottest movies.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Vince didn't arrive in LA until nearly midnight, so he just checked in and went straight to his room. In the morning, Angel checked to see if he'd arrived, found him, and let him know we'd be meeting in the parking lot at 9:45. Don't worry about feeling drowsy, Lenny could take care of that. The others in the Inana crew began drifting downstairs, complaining about the coffee. I agreed. Not only was it lousy, there wasn't enough there for two people. I assured the others that I would distribute Ecstasy to everyone as soon as we reached the booth. Bekka and I were alert and doing well, but we were cheaters: as speedfreaks, we used a drug that most of the others were afraid of. That the two of us used meth all day, every day was a mystery to the others. We were neither insane nor torn up physically, and our lives were orderly. We contradicted every local news exposé that had ever been aired about methamphetamine. We were addicts, but apparently were really lousy at it, since we weren't fuck-ups.
Angel finally returned, bearing food. He had reconsidered and foregone the bakery, instead opting for hitting up a deli for roast beef sandwiches, cole slaw, and potato salad. The food was seized upon with gusto, a respite from the snacks we'd been picking at. The performers stayed on the floor as they ate, welcoming fans as they drew near. After a twenty minute break, Bewitched started playing on the TVs, to the joy of the crowd. All the chairs were full, plus guys standing at the back and sides, and a few sitting on the floor at the very front. Bewitched drew a broad base of fan loyalty.
Around five Bekka and I each ate another hit of the Ecstasy. I'd stupidly left my vial of speed in the motel room, and we didn't feel like walking back to get it. Well, the "MA" in MDMA is short for MethAmphetamine, so we were simply changing up from our usual method of ingestion. Maybe for the party/dance happening after we closed, we'd find someplace semi-private to crush up a pill and snort it up. We knew it worked.
Those waiting for us included Angel, Bud, Bekka, the pizza delivery kid, and six cops. More cops were inside. I was Mister Popularity. Several Hustler big-wigs also stood around, wondering how their weekend had gone to hell in such a dramatic manner. News vans were in the driveway, camera crews and talking heads trying to decide whether the drama was over for the time being. Chaos and kidnapping at a porn convention, such a juicy lead-off story. I stopped at the curb and powered down, letting Lois get off the bike before I dropped the kickstand.
I had a degree of fame at the party. Not only was I "the guy who made 'Bewitched' at twenty-two," I was also "Becky Page's husband" and "the dude who went and rescued Lois Ayres." I firmly stuck with my police version of the whole story, dismissing the idea that there was any heroism involved. Whatever, I'd still shot one of the abductors in the middle of the convention. That gave me a lot of caché as a tough guy around there.
I stood in line at the Hustler booth. All those around me were waiting to get Lois Ayres' autograph, and briefly tell her how much they loved her. I didn't have anything to sign, and I didn't love Lois. A teenage crush, maybe, but I was no longer a teenager. I just wanted to see how she was doing. She'd had an eventful night, and that was partially my fault. I just hoped she was okay.