what's a nice girl like you doing watching gay porn?

I love a good story. When I meet someone with a good story, I could sit and ask them questions all day. It’s amazing what happens to people; the choices people make; and how everyone we meet touches our life in some way.

Porn stars have always been an interesting subject to me. I am neither for nor against porn (although I find it boring and, at times, yucky). But the decision to enter into the profession of porn star is a decision that I find somewhat baffling. As open minded as any of us may be, we almost always use ourselves as context. So, if someone tells you they went bungee jumping, you’d ask them if they were scared, if they barfed, if they pooped their pants; and then you’d say something like, “I could never do that” or “ I've always wanted to try that.”

I take it several steps further. I want to know what lead you to the point where you were strapped to a harness, about to jump off a bridge, or having sex on camera. Sure; there’s probably some judgment happening in my mind but mostly, I want to know what happened to get you from point A to point B. I want to see if the dots connect in a logical way. Well, logical to me, anyway.

I used to live with my friend Nick. It would take me too long to describe Nick to you in a way that will truly capture his essence, so I’ll just give you an idea. Shortly after we moved in to the apartment, we got cable. I called Nick to let him know that the cable guy had been there and everything had been installed.

“Did you fuck him?”

That was Nick’s one and only question. Not, “Oh my God, can we watch the Food Network for hours and hours when I get home?” Or “Do we get the National Geographic channel?” But it came from Nick, which means, I wasn't surprised or offended. I simply said, “No, he was old.”

So when Nick came home after work one day and said, “Do you want to watch a movie?” and then put on a 1970s gay porn, I should not have been surprised. But my role in the relationship is to say, “Niiiick!” as if I am shocked but then stick around to see what happens next. So we watched it.

Kansas City Trucking Company is poorly lit, badly edited gay porn that was made in 1976, the year I was born. It is the story of a seemingly heterosexual guy who was in training to be a trucker. They made a point to let us know that he was straight; his hot girlfriend passionately kissed him goodbye before he climbed into the truck with his trainer. The idea was that he'd do a ride along and get to know the business. But the trainer had some off-agenda items to cover, like orgies with other trucking dudes at truck stops. Now, I have been to truck stops. Like real ones…in Montana. They’re very bright places where the people working speak loudly because everyone who walks in is struggling to stay awake.

But the truck stops on the Kansas City Trucking Company route are apparently much sexier, although there were so many people involved, I couldn't tell if what was happening was actually sex. It’s a classic gay porn film, from the hey day of prono chic, when the film was grainy and people still had body hair. It was also the first of Joe and Sam Gage’s Working Man Trilogy. It was weird and funny; we had a good laugh. I also learned a lot. For example, I had no idea how much gay sexual fantasy was focused on truckers and truck stops.

I found myself inexplicably drawn to the lead actor. He was hot, which was the initial reason why. There’s something about 1970s men, like Matt Dillon in Over the Edge (best movie ever); I find their shaggy hair and tight jeans appealing. Seriously, did every guy have a fantastic ass in the 70s? I would like to freeze one in time and have him be my present day mechanic, who I’m having a secret affair with in the backseat of an I-Roc.

But beyond his rugged good looks (tall, and appropriately muscular, with dark hair and gentle eyes), I wanted to know his story. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he end up at the Kansas City Trucking Company? For days after we watched the movie, he would pop into my head and I’d feel an overwhelming urge to know everything about him.

I was living in Seattle at the time, and working for the company that sent me to the porn training, so I felt comfortable searching for him on the internet at work. I started by searching the title of the film, and then I found the actor’s name. I then searched his name and the film’s title together and there he was: a very active
member of a message board for old California hippies who had been activists and artists. And there was his email address.

I hesitated. What the hell was I going to say in an email? What if that was a memory he didn't want uncovered? I could tell by reading his posts on the site I’d found that he wasn't exactly a born-again Christian or anything. He also didn't seem to be running for office. But I didn't know who I was dealing with. What if he was crazy? What if he became obsessed with me and came to Seattle to kill me? What if I watched way too much Dateline NBC?

So I opened a new Yahoo account under the name of Donna Martin (I can’t help it; I am forever grateful for the original Beverly Hills 90210 series). And then I emailed him. I don’t remember what I said, but I know that I told him a little bit about myself (“I’m a 26 year old woman working in the sex education industry”; I think I was trying to indicate that I’d watched his movie for work purposes) and casually mentioned the film.

“Are you the same Steve Boyd who starred in a film called Kansas City Trucking Company? If you are, I saw the film, and would love to know the story behind it. If that is something you don’t want to discuss, I
apologize and won’t bother you again.”

A few days later, I checked my decoy email account and almost threw up when I saw he’d replied. I opened it, half expecting it to say something like, “Mind your own business, stalker.” But instead, he wondered what a “nice girl” like me was doing watching gay porn. (Good question) He also said he was an open book and would be happy to answer any questions I had.

I was stunned. Why would anyone in this situation respond with, “ask me anything you want, random stranger who hunted me down on the internet”? I concluded that he must be nuts but I still wanted to know more.

I sent him another email, thanking him for indulging me, and asking him how he got into pornography. How many films had he made? How long was his porn career?

Steve’s story was basically that he came of age in the late 60s, early 70s. The way he described his late teens and early 20s sounded like what I’d always imagined growing up in the 60s and 70s would be like: art, activism, pot, hitchhiking and free love. He’d lived all over, spent a lot of time in California, and starred in his first porno in a hotel room for $50. He was vague about how that part of his life had come about; he made it sound like it had just happened. He didn't have a crack habit he was trying to support; he wasn't a survivor of childhood sexual abuse seeking to reclaim his sexuality - it just happened.

Steve told me he didn't identify as gay, heterosexual or bisexual. He was an open person, who was willing to try new things. When the opportunity to make some money came up, all he had to do was get laid on camera, which sounded like a pretty decent gig to him. As we exchanged emails, I became far less interested in the porn stuff than I was in the Steve himself. He was smart, incredibly witty, and seemed like he would happily give anyone the shirt off his back. It’s my opinion that Steve believed deeply in community, in love and in peace. He was the picture perfect old hippie.

When we began emailing, Steve was living in New York City. He worked as a handy man in a church, where he also lived. He’d lost his tongue to mouth cancer years earlier, so he had lost the ability to speak. But he was a fantastic writer; his posts on the website he was so active on were long and colorful. His emails to me were open, friendly and, at times, flirty. I was under the impression that Steve flirted with most people. He had this amazing charm about him, even via email.

About a month after we began emailing, Steve abruptly cut me off. He didn't stop responding; he sent me a strange email saying that he didn't know who I really was or what I was trying to pull over on him but he was leaving New York and I wouldn't hear from him again. I was bummed. I was almost sad. I’d started to look forward to his emails every few days. I was also sad that he thought I was up to no good. Old hippie paranoia? Maybe. I learned later that Steve was pretty active in protests against the Iraq war. Perhaps he thought I was the law.

I sent him an email saying that I was sorry he didn't want to communicate with me anymore. I assured him that I wasn't anything other than a weirdo who was interested in his stories, but that I had lied to him about my name because I wasn't sure if I should even have emailed him in the first place. I wished him luck in whatever he was moving on to. I never heard from him again.

My correspondence with a former 1970s porn star became fodder for my friends. They thought I was nuts and made jokes about it. But in the years since, things have happened that have eclipsed this brief, weird email relationship and I’d all but forgotten about it entirely.

Recently, I wanted to find out what had happened to him since we last emailed in 2001. I couldn't remember his last name, so I once again searched for Kansas City Trucking Company and found his name. Then I searched his name. I learned that Steve died in 2004 and I was inexplicably heartbroken. I hadn't even known him for crying out loud. I’d just been some stalker that had tracked him down because I wanted to know why he’d made the decision to be a porn star. But I was overwhelmed with sadness reading the tribute to him on the site I’d originally found him on.

They had a link to a PDF of all the posts he’d made in his last year of life, and he’d made a lot, even when he was very, very sick. In one of his last, he mentioned a woman named Eileen. To her he said, “Last night, I stripped naked to die and remembered that I had at one time asked for nothing more than to die in your arms.” That stays with me. It’s such a pure, raw expression of love. He ends his post thanking people and remembering things and saying goodbye. And then, an addendum; one final post that said, “I know I forgot to thank some folks, but you know who you are. This ain't no popularity contest, ya dig?”

I’m 100% sure that Steve forgot all about me, just as I’d forgotten all about him. But I was still sad to hear that he’d died. Someone once told me that I have a hard time letting go of people. I don’t think that’s true but I’m not a robot. When someone comes into my life, however briefly, I keep a little tiny piece of them in my heart. I don’t think that’s dysfunctional. I wish to God I'd kept those emails, but that address has long been closed and the password is buried somewhere with a lot of other strange memories from those years I spent in Seattle.