James Deen Dominant

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James Deen Dominant
Men aren't porn stars. Not really. They're extras. They're props. They're stand-ins for guys everywhere. But not Mr. James Deen. Just by being, well, average (or let's say larger than average), Deen has gotten huge (oops). And what's even stranger is who he's gotten huge with (hey, we didn't mean that): women, young women, and even teenage girls. Wells Tower spends a week with the man who would apparently have the best job in the world. (He doesn't)
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It is a clement spring day in greater Los Angeles, and James Deen is driving through the soft green tumescences of the Calabasas hills on his way to a pornographic-movie shoot. If Deen betrays not a trace of anticipation, aversion, or excitement at the prospect of having sex on-camera today, it is because having sex on-camera is something the 26-year-old does more frequently than most of us use dental floss: "About 360 days a year" is Deen's offhand tally.
Deen's professional relentlessness has yielded a host of accolades. In 2009, when he was 23, the Adult Video News (AVN) Awards, pornography's Oscars, named Deen "Male Performer of the Year." (Deen was one of the youngest actors ever to be so decorated.) This on the heels of a similar distinction from the X-Rated Critics Organization, which in 2007 noted the arrival of a major talent with an "Unsung Swordsman" award.
Industry plaudits aside, Deen has managed an order of renown far rarer in the world of pornographic film: He is a male performer people actually know by name. According to Deen, 10,000 unique visitors peruse his blog every day. Women seem to like him. A recent Nightline segment alerted parents to Deen's crossover appeal among teenage girls, who, the piece warned, hold for Deen a place in their hearts alongside Timberlake and Bieber. (Anchor Terry Moran: "For any parent concerned about what their teen does online, the huge popularity of the young man you are about to meet may be deeply disturbing.")
A visit to the comments section of Deen's website appears to confirm _Nightline'_s claims:
"Hey James :) I'm 16 years old and i love your work"
"hey (; have you EVER banged a teen latina ? e-mail me...."
"i would totally rock your world...mind you im 16 about to be 17."
Deen brakes his truck at the bottom of a steep gated driveway,** **which leads to a sprawling mansion that looks made of nougat. Its dominant interior materials are faux gilt, beveled glass, and plastic flora. The game room, which is as big as my house, contains dartboards, a pool table, and a saloon area with a neon sign reading ICE CREAM fid above the mirrored back bar. The house's real-life owner, one supposes, is a fabulously well-to-do 14-year-old.
But today the mansion's fictive owner is James Deen himself, who has been cast in the role of a priapic millionaire with a gambling problem. The shoot is for a company called Digital Playground, which claims to specialize in "high-end" pornography for couples—"vanilla porn," as hard-raunch aficionados dub DP's output.
"As far as making visually stimulating erotic cinema, Digital Playground's pretty much the best," says Deen. "Personally, I hate it. It's too pretty. When I'm watching adult, I don't care about the lighting. I want to see dirty, nasty: Rocco Siffredi"—an Italian porn star known for full-contact choreographies in which he dragoons pretty ladies into tonguing his caboose.
Over the next seven days, Deen will exercise his full array of talents and preferences on seven projects in three cities—Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Las Vegas. I will be riding shotgun in Deen's utterly bitching pumpkin orange off-road-package Ford F-150 Raptor, watching him work, and trying to make sense of his extraordinary life.
First off, brooking so much unremitting daily friction, how has James Deen's penis not been stropped to raw liver? "I don't know. I guess I've got pretty thick skin."
How does he keep his houseplants alive with so much travel? He doesn't. All the plants in Deen's 4,200-square-foot home in the San Fernando Valley have died.
Gosh, but mustn't Deen have an astonishing collection of venereal diseases? He and his colleagues undergo testing every month. Deen claims, incredibly, to never have had a test come back "dirty."
Does he gobble Viagra like popcorn? Certainly not. His erections are 100 percent organic and pharma-free.
A good portion of Deen's oeuvre consists of rather not-nice stuff: spitting, whipping, choking, slapping, etc. Is there anything he won't do on-camera? He will not have sex with someone who is unwilling to have sex with him. He will not have sex with men. He will not dress as a clown and have sex with someone; nor will he permit someone dressed as a clown to have sex with him. Clowns make James Deen uncomfortable.
Isn't this sort of career exhausting physically, spiritually? Doesn't he sometimes wish he'd picked another calling? No indeed. He loves his work. He'd do it even if he weren't getting paid: "My life is pretty awesome."
Lastly, a silent query to the nation's gentlemen, we who have spent many otherwise productive hours pondering what it would be like to be able to bed an infinite rotating population of beautiful women: If given the chance, would we live Deen's dream? For a day? For a week? Yes? We shall see.
Losing Kayden is the working title of today's film. Its centerpiece is an actress by the name of Kayden Kross, a wholly winning and improbably bookish young woman who reads the short fiction of David Foster Wallace between takes. The crew is far more substantial, congenial, and pro-seeming than one expected. There's no more ambient prurience than you'd find at an ad shoot for Windex.
A little after dusk, Deen is summoned to his first scene, a non-nude narrative load bearer in which he loses his mansion in a poker game with a gangster. Handling the role of the crime boss is a creepy German actor in his middle years named Steve Holmes, now parked at the card table. He wears a pair of granddad-ish EZ-reader glasses and below them a seedy mustache-and-goatee combo, and far below that a pair of dark trousers from whose open fly depends something like a turkey's wattle.
The third factor in the scene is a blonde 19-year-old named Allie James. Earlier, when I asked Allie James what she'd be up to today, she replied, "I'll be crawling around under a table sucking cock."
Allie joined the industry six months ago after fleeing the family farm in upstate New York. With the exception of Steve Holmes, she's the only person on the set who flaunts her zeal for the erotic when the camera is not rolling. She roams the mansion with her shirt hiked up over her breasts. While the other scenes were being shot, neither Deen nor any of the other talent were the least bit interested in watching the action, but Allie liked to perch on the sidelines, insouciantly masturbating and checking her Facebook page and also chewing the heck out of some gum.
While the crew is dragging lighting rigs and attending to last-minute particulars, James takes a seat at the poker table with Allie and Steve. Allie perches on Steve's engorged lap. Steve gets an idea: Wouldn't it be diverting if Allie James were to pose for a photograph with Steve's penis in her mouth, which Steve could text to Allie's mother?
She kneels. He snaps. "He's gonna send it to my mom!" Allie cries with apparent delight.
"I want to fuck them both," Steve Holmes explains, punching Allie's mother's number into his phone.
With minutes to go until go time, the cast talks shop. In response to a conversation starter I do not catch, Allie relates a childhood memory, the gist of which is that when she was 9 years old, hanging out with her brothers, she was encouraged to perform sexual acts for their friends in exchange for marijuana.
Now Deen looks up from his telephone for the first time in quite a while.
Deen hoists his eyebrows. "As long as you were cool with it," he says.
"Okay, okay, let's focus!" booms the director, Robby D., an imposing, fearsomely bald man. The time for horseplay is at an end. It is time for acting now. "So on ‘Action,'you guys are playing poker—and you," he says to Allie, "you start sucking his dingy."
Click goes the little scene-marker guillotine, the "sticks."
The scene takes halting shape after Deen brooks a surprisingly rigorous Stanislavsky-ing from Robby D. ("Try to find the character. He's a gambling addict. Nervous, edgy. Take your time. Check out the blow job.") Meanwhile, over by the ice cream bar, the crew reviews the tape and sniggers. Allie's blow job is deemed "horrible," for, as far as I can follow the logic, a dearth of audible gagging sounds. But anyway, it's not an important blow job—just some ornamental side action to mitigate the scene's dull plot load. The scene is a keeper. So while the crew sets up the next shot, Allie James fetches some paper towels and sponges up the squalid whey that has pooled about her knees.
Several hours later, after midnight, Deen is finally summoned to perform. His scene is in an upstairs bedroom with Kayden Kross, who really does look lovely in her pink top and purple bra. Deen and Kross are old friends. Deen was not her first scene, but he was her third some years ago. On the heels of Allie James's unheartwarming ministrations, James and Kayden seem sweet, natural, and eager to hump for reasons having to do with actual interpersonal fondness.
They run through a bit of dialogue concerning James's gambling problem and then collide. James disrobes in medias. Nude, he looks even tinier than his elfin five feet eight. His body is about like an eighth grader's. His penis is smaller than a baguette.
"You been working out?" Robby asks between takes.
It's true—no rippling sinews are visible on James Deen's body. There are probably 12-year-old girls who could take him in a fight. And this, Deen tells me, is partly the secret of his success. He is not the traditional porno man, no overbulked squat-thruster spray-broasted from the Darque Tan booth. He is sort of wimpy-looking. With luminous blue eyes and well-structured, stubble-flocked cheekbones, he is handsome, but in an everyday, non-Hollywood way. "Not horrible to look at" is how Deen describes his appearance. "I'm like a guy a chick might actually meet in a bar."
That Deen's very ordinariness is somehow a virtue in the industry is, one could argue, a symptom of pornography's journey from unsanitary movie theaters and paper-windowed bookstores to every computer screen the free world over. A theory: Back in the days when the culture could pretend that porn was being exclusively consumed by sex criminals and raincoaters, viewing pornography was actually a multilayered form of voyeurship. The chief thrill was, of course, watching people screw, but salting that thrill was a Lovelace-ian paratext of unhappiness, addiction, disease, etc. The fact that the performers were doomed and loathed, if hypocritically, by mainstream culture made them more exciting to watch. That female performers should be made to couple with satanic reptiles like John Holmes or Ron Jeremy was just, fitting, gross, and perversely harmonious with the moral aesthetic of the age.
In the 1980s and '90s, the grodiness of the male talent migrated somewhat, from Holmes-style Swamp Things to steroidal Fabioids. But still, the pornographic fantasy seemed to be happening among people not exactly of our species, on a planet where nude women languish in wait for pizza men who look like courtiers from Castle Grayskull.
So enter the present age, when almost everyone is watching porn (two in five U.S. Internet users—125 million—visit an adult site each month), when American porn sites reportedly receive 28,000 unique hits _every second, _when the AVN estimates that a third of consistent porn viewers are women. Now that pretty much every man (if not woman and child) is watching porn, there is at last demand for a pornographic Everyman in the form of James Deen, whose regular dudeness acknowledges that his world is our world and our world is Planet Porn.
Anyway, sorry for talking while you're trying to concentrate. Back at it: Deen does away with Miss Kross's panties. She spread-eagles on the edge of the bed, and Deen commences a kalimba move on her vulva. Then comes what I soon recognize as Deen's default prelude: a deft bit of multitasking in which he launches into a cunnilinctory overture with his legs in a sprinter-at-the-blocks posture. This affords him latitude to hand-crank himself rigid below the camera frame. Small and swart, snacking avidly on Miss Kross, Deen vaguely favors the incubus in Fuseli's _The Nightmare.  _
After a brief interval of manual pump priming, he breaks off the oral business, which now, in its frantic lateralness, has begun to resemble an impassioned harmonica solo. The derricking begins. Kayden Kross is posed in a swastika of shapely limbs. He toils, leans his face into hers, and the two murmur to each other in a guttural lock-jawed patois intelligible to no one but themselves. Every now and then, the two of them break into heliated laughter, as though to say, "All of this grunting and grasping and fuck-me fuck-me porno jabber is a bit absurd, isn't it? But jeepers, chum, it really is awfully nice to be having sex with you."
"I wish _I _got to stick my dick in some chick's fuckin' pussy," one of the crew members reflects bitterly. This attitude is perhaps shared by readers at home. But it soon becomes clear why neither the cameraman nor you nor I will ever get to have our trousers off near Miss Kross.
After several frictive minutes, the action stops. The still photographer comes in and for fifteen minutes or so arranges James and Kayden into assorted tableaux, and all the while James's gizmo stands as steadfast as the Chrysler Building. Then the action resumes, only this time it's for a soft-core version (inside factoid: The blue movies you see on late-night cable? The actors are actually having sex), followed by another ten minutes or so of intimate strife and moanery, before they at last go back to the full and flagrant penetrative churn. Finally Robby calls, "Okay, let's bring it home. BJ, then pop."
Within a few fleeting moments, presto: Deen is punctually drizzling genetic material onto Kayden's adorable face.
And cut. "I got come up my nose and my eyeball," Kayden says in a tone not of displeasure. "It was so good. I love James."
And James? Would he work with her again, someone asks.
Kayden snorts in mock umbrage. "I'll rape you if you don't."
At 2:30 a.m., Losing Kayden is pronounced a wrap. The crew coils cable. While the cast goes home, Deen heads to his ginormous pickup truck and sets a course for San Francisco, where he is needed on set twelve hours from now. A journalist in the passenger's seat, having spectated on live sex acts for the first time in his life, about a dozen solid hours' worth, is suffering not wholly agreeable reelings of the mind that he tries to cover for with ninnyish small talk.
"So that scene with Kayden seemed, ah, pretty enjoyable."
"Yeah," Deen says. "I always say sex is like soccer: It's fun and athletic, and you should do it with your friends."
Yes, I think. Right. Certainly. Here is a simple statement that Deen means pretty much as it sounds, but it also pithily expresses yet another reason why you or I will never be the sort of soccer player James Deen is. It's not just that he's got bigger, you know, feet than we do. It's that for you, on that night of enduring awkwardness when you went out for drinks with the woman in the adjacent cubicle and achieved your long-cherished fantasy of playing soccer with her, you did so not because you thought she was going to be this tremendously good soccer player. It was that you were thrilled that she found you sufficiently nonrevolting that she was willing to get on the field with you, which was a big consideration, because as you both knew, what makes the game so very, very exciting isn't its competitive physics but the conceit that the game is actually a high-velocity delivery system for privileged emotional knowledge of the other player's secret self. And that even if you're the sort of freebooting venereal Olympian who tries to play soccer with absolutely everything that moves, your compulsion to play is still ultimately grounded in the marrow-level conviction that the game matters in some way a good deal more complex and high-stakes than simple athletic fun.
But the remarkable thing about Deen is, I think, that he has managed to dissociate sex from emotional consequence,** **a feat of psychosexual contortionism he was limbering up for at an age when the rest of us had yet to tie our own shoelaces.
Q: So when did you decide to do porn?
A: Kindergarten. I remember I was walking home one day, and I found this magazine, I don't know, a _Hustler _or something, with people banging in it. I was enamored by it. I was like, I want to do this. I actually got in trouble in third or fourth grade. They were asking everybody what they wanted to be when they grew up, and I said I wanted to be a porn star. They didn't like that. They thought I was being a dick. I was like, "I'm not being a dick, it's just what I want to be."
But outside of porn, before he entered the industry, what else interested him? "Nothing. That's the thing. My whole life, I've never really found anything else that I've found interesting."
James Deen, whose real name is Bryan Sevilla, grew up in Pasadena, California. His parents are both, after a fashion, rocket scientists. His father is a mechanical engineer for NASA. His mother does data analysis for the space agency. Deen, contrary to our notion of porn stars as survivors of sexual trauma, does not recall any sexual abuse or destructive misadventures, other than a teacher who Deen says tried to molest him when he was 8 or 9, but Deen "punched his testicles a lot" and made good his escape.
Deen lost his virginity at age 12 during a sleepover at a Jewish camp. Not long after, in junior high school, he made enemies of the football team by having sex with a player's sister in the school pool during gym. He had some drug escapades in junior high. He spent a couple of years in outpatient rehab. Around age 15, he left high school and moved out and spent two years more or less homeless, hanging around with a crew of gutter punks. Relations with his parents remained reasonably cordial. They furnished him with a cell phone, and he periodically snuck into his mom's house to do laundry. (Deen's parents are divorced.)
At around 17, he moved in with his father. He was working at a Starbucks and taking classes at a community college when one evening he says he chanced upon a call-in radio program whose guest was the porn star Jenna Jameson. She imparted what was, for Deen, life-altering advice.
"So some guy calls in for like the millionth time and says, ‘I wanna do porn. How do I get into the industry?' And she's been listening to this shit all night. She's frustrated. She goes, ‘You wanna do porn? Go get a folding chair and sit in a room with twenty people and jerk off for an hour. And if you can keep hard, and when one of them yells "Come!" you can come in thirty seconds, then you can do porn.' "
Deen hearkened to these words. He began a self-styled apprenticeship in not-for-profit guerrilla pornography. "I started going to parties, and I'd bang girls in front of groups of people," he recalled. "I learned I could come on cue. I was told to com
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