I was thirty minutes early for my interview with Jim South, as I parked in front of the World Modeling Agency. It was on the second floor of a nondescript building, located at 4523 Van Nuys Blvd. in Sherman Oaks. Out front, there was a busy sign where the name of the business surrounded a circular map of the world. Below that, these three words were bolded: figure, photography, and films, followed by "Wanted: Figure Models For Immediate Placement.” From my POV, the place looked shady as hell.

I continued sitting in my car, because I really didn't want to look anxious by arriving really early. As I watched Bunny Bleu walk into the building, my mind drifted back to this morning. I was in my room at around eight o’clock, putting on a blue suit for the interview. I had no idea what to wear to meet with a porn agent, so I went with a conservative choice, the three-piece dress suit my mom bought for me for my sixteenth birthday. This was going to be the fifth time I ever wore it. The first time I wore it was to my job interview at K-Mart, the second time was to my dad’s sentencing, the third time was to my mom's and grandma’s funeral, and the fourth time was to my interview at Safeway.

As I stood in my room, looking at myself while tying my tie, Annie, my younger sister, walked in. With a confrontational tone, she started screaming about me not coming home until three in the morning. She wondered why I didn't call to let her know where I was and that I was okay. To be clear, I didn't tell her that I was in Topanga Canyon shooting a porno with Ashley, our downstairs neighbor, who most people knew as Kelsey Lynn, a popular adult film actress. Instead, I profusely apologized and promised it would never happen again. After making me grovel for a while, she forgave me. Her attention then turned to my suit when she said, “You know, you look like a used car salesman who’s never sold a car.”

“Very funny,” I replied.

“Tell me, why are you dressed like a middle-aged man constantly going through a divorce?” she asked, laughing hysterically.

“I have a job interview,” I replied, while she continued laughing.

“And you’re wearing that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I stated. “This is what one normally wears to a job interview.”

"You know we live in Southern California?” she asked, as her chuckles got louder.

“I am aware of where we live,” I said.

“Then you’d know that you couldn’t get a job as a used car sales guy dressed like that,” she said, as her laughter subsided. “If I were you, I’d wear your black button-up, a pair of jeans, and your Doc Martens.”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking in the mirror.

“What kind of job is it?” she asked.

“One where I’d make a lot more money,” I replied.

"That's vague," she replied. “Please tell me.”

"I’ll tell you if I get the job,” I replied, as I started taking off my suit.

“You’re making the correct fashion choice,” she said, gleefully.

As I walked up the stairs to the offices on the second floor, I was starting to regret not wearing the suit. My mom always said that the best way to get a job is to dress not for the job you’re applying for, but for the promotion you’re eventually going to get. I also wondered why I was taking advice from a girl who’s never had a job interview in her life. The butterflies in my stomach were getting worse, and I wondered if I had time to go puke before eleven. After I looked at my Casio watch, I saw that I had ten minutes until my big meeting, and decided I could do that afterwards.

When I approached Suite 203, I saw a faded sign on the door that read “World Modeling.” If someone told me that, on the other side, was where some of the biggest careers in the adult film industry began, I never would've believed them. It looked more like the kind of place where you'd refinance your house, or argue with a sleazy insurance adjuster.

Inside, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Cigarette smoke, stale coffee, and whatever they used to clean the carpets had somehow blended into their own unique scent. The waiting room wasn't very big. A row of worn vinyl chairs lined one wall. A cheap coffee table sat in the middle of the room, buried beneath old porno magazines and headshots of the agency’s more famous clients. Behind the reception desk, an older woman answered one ringing phone after another, while scribbling names on pink message slips.

Nobody else seemed nervous.

As I looked around, I saw Bunny Bleu and another girl were laughing about something that had happened on a shoot the day before. Buck Adamss stood near the window talking about the Lakers with another guy. Eventually the phone stopped ringing, and the receptionist said, “Name and who are you here to see?”

“My name’s Tommy Mitchell, and I have an appointment with Mr. South at eleven.”

“He’s running late,” she replied. “Have a seat, and I’ll let you know when he’s ready.”

While flipping through an issue of "Hustler," I noticed that, every few minutes, someone would walk through the front door, say hello to half the room, sign in, and sit down like they were waiting for a dentist appointment instead of a job that involved having sex on camera.

Eventually, a man in his forties walked in, wearing faded blue jeans, worn cowboy boots, and a brown leather jacket that had seen better days. He wasn't particularly tall, maybe five-foot-nine or five-foot-ten, with an average build that suggested he'd rather spend an afternoon reading than lifting weights. His thick brown hair was beginning to grey around the temples, and he wore a neatly trimmed beard that made him look more like a college professor than someone walking into a talent agency for porn stars. There wasn't anything flashy about him. No gold chains. No designer clothes. No Hollywood swagger. Yet, everyone looked up when he came through the door. He smiled easily, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and made his way around the room, shaking hands as though he'd known everyone for years.

When he reached me, he offered his hand, and his soft, almost gentle voice said, “Morning.”

I then shook his hand, but before I could respond, the receptionist interrupted by saying, “Jamie, Jim will see you now.”

It was now eleven-thirty, and the man who cut in front of me had been in there for twenty-five minutes. Where I came from, it was rude to keep someone waiting. I promised myself that, if I were still in the waiting area at noon, I was going to leave and return to my normal life. We all know that didn’t happen, but when the clock struck five to twelve, the door to Mr. South’s office opened, and both men exited. After quickly talking to the receptionist, she pointed to me, and then Jim walked over to greet me, apologize, and escort me into his office. As we walked towards it he looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Alex says you're worth seeing.

Minutes later he sat behind the desk. He was somewhere in his forties, with neatly combed dark hair, a thick mustache, and large aviator-style eyeglasses that gave him the look of a successful accountant more than one of the most powerful agents in the adult film business. He wasn't physically intimidating, but he carried himself like someone who expected everyone around him to keep up.

His desk was almost hidden beneath stacks of contracts, legal pads, headshots, envelopes, business cards, and enough pink message slips to wallpaper a bathroom. Two telephones sat within arm's reach, and one of them seemed to ring every thirty seconds. Jim would answer one, finish a sentence with the person sitting in front of him, scribble a note, hang up, then answer the other before the first one had stopped ringing.

Metal filing cabinets filled one wall. The other was covered with framed magazine covers and photographs of performers he'd represented over the years, most of them signed with a quick thank-you. Sunlight slipped through the venetian blinds, cutting stripes across the cluttered room while cigarette smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. There wasn't anything glamorous about the room; it wasn't the office of a Hollywood power broker. It was the office of a man who knew where every job was, who belonged in it, and who could change your life before his coffee got cold.

Before I could sit down and properly introduce myself, Jim reached across the mountain of paperwork covering his desk, grabbed a Polaroid camera, and told me to take off my clothes. It wasn't awkward for him. Judging by the way he said it, he'd probably asked a thousand people the exact same thing. Once my clothes hit the floor, he had me stand in front of the window while he took a few pictures. After he was satisfied, he lowered the camera and asked, "Do you need me to get one of the girls to help you get hard?"

"Nope," I replied.

He took more pictures of me, focusing on my erect penis. As he was shooting, Jim asked, “How big is it when you're soft?”

“A little over ten inches,” I replied. “Thirteen and a half when I’m fully hard.”

Jim studied my cock before saying, “Interesting. You can actually get fully erect.”

“Yep,” I said proudly. Is that a problem?”

“Let’s just say that Holmes, Jeremy, and Rambone can’t achieve what you’re currently achieving.”

I was getting dressed when Jim picked up one of the telephones sitting on his desk, called his receptionist, and said, "Tell Bill to get his ass in here."

Less than a minute later, the door swung open, and in walked Bill Amerson carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He looked like he'd spent his life on movie sets. He was in his forties, with dark hair, a thick mustache, and the kind of tan you only got from living in Southern California. He wore jeans, a polo shirt, and loafers without socks. Nothing about him looked expensive, but he carried himself like someone who didn't have to prove he was important. Years later, I'd learn Bill was one of the busiest producers in the adult film business. He wasn't the guy behind the camera. He was the guy who made sure the camera had somewhere to be. If a movie needed actors, locations, or a schedule that actually worked, Bill figured it out. At the time, though, he was just another stranger.

"Who's the kid?" Bill asked.

"Tommy Mitchell from Livonia, Michigan," Jim replied. “Alex sent him over.”

Bill barely looked in my direction as he said, "So?"

"Yesterday was his first picture. Alex thinks he can be the next John Holmes," Jim said as he slid my Polaroids across the desk.

“Impressive,” Bill said as he chuckled. “The industry doesn’t need another John Holmes.”

“Drugs and that whole Wonderland thing,” Jim said. “It’s a damn shame that boy fucked up his entire life. Do you do drugs?”

“Nope,” I said, “I don’t drink either.

“Why not?” Bill asked.

I then explained that because my dad was abusing drugs and alcohol, he caused a major car accident, which killed several people, including his stripper girlfriend. As I told them that story, I felt like I was about to start crying. Just thinking about that causes me to get emotional about what he did and how he blamed it on everyone but himself.

“Good lord,” Jim said. “That’s horrible.”

Bill quickly changed the subject by asking Jim, “Who did he work with?

Jim smiled and handed me some Kleenex while saying, “Kelsey Lynn and Debbie.”

That got his attention. He studied the Polaroids for a few seconds before glancing back at me as he asked Jim, "How'd he do?"

"Alex called me before they even wrapped," Jim said.

Bill raised an eyebrow and whispered, "He never does that. However, one picture doesn't make a career."

Jim nodded as he said, “True.”

He paused long enough to make sure Bill was listening as he said, "But Alex said he'd bet his reputation on him."

That changed everything. Alex de Renzy had been directing adult films for nearly twenty years. He wasn't known for handing out compliments, especially to a rookie. If he personally vouched for someone, people listened.

Bill looked at me again, this time a little more carefully as he asked, "You got anywhere to be today?"

“Nope,” I replied.

As he checked his watch, he said, “Be at the Centerfolds Gentleman’s Club in North Hollywood at two; we’re filming at my studio directly behind it.” Then he looked back at Jim and said, "Scott Irish has crabs."

Jim stared at Jim as he said, “Three times in six months, I’ll have a long talk with him.”

Bill laughed as he said, Lesson one: Don’t fuck hookers on your off time, except for the one you’re going to fuck in “Hollywood Hookers 3.”

“What happened in the first two?” I asked jokingly.

“They got fucked in the first one. They got fucked in the second. And they’ll get fucked in the third.” Bill said, laughing. "If you screw this up, you're out."

He let that sit for a second before standing and extending his hand and saying, "Welcome to the business," before walking out the door.

“Here’s how it works," Jim said as he ripped a piece of paper out of a notebook and started writing on it. “You’ll be getting paid five hundred dollars for today’s shoot. It'll come in the form of a check. You will need to deduct taxes and pay them to the state and federal government every quarter.”

I interrupted by asking, “They don’t take taxes out?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Don’t fall into the habit of spending it all. You really don’t want to get fucked by Uncle Sam. To make sure you avoid that unpleasant feeling, I’m going to recommend this accountant.”

As he handed me his money guy’s card, “I asked, “How much of this goes to you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “The producer pays me a sixty-five dollar fee any time he books talent that I represent.”

After Jim handed me a piece of paper with the directions, he said, “When Bill says two o'clock, he really means one-thirty.”

I sat in my car memorizing the directions. It was now ten after one, and according to Jim’s notes it would take ten to fifteen miles to get there. I’m not going to lie, but Bill scared me. I didn’t like the way he didn’t acknowledge when he entered Mr. South’s office. I didn’t like the way he said that if I screwed this up I’d be out. Those words lit a fire under me as I promised myself that I’d make him eat them.

Centerfolds sat on Coldwater Canyon Avenue in a squat, windowless building that had probably seen better days sometime during the Carter administration. The last S on the faded neon sign had burned out years ago, leaving it simply Centerfold. Judging by the look of the place, nobody was in any hurry to replace it.

Inside, the place was darker than it needed to be. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and a weird smell that emanated from the shag carpeting that probably hadn’t been cleaned in years. A long mirrored bar stretched down one side of the room, its brass rail worn smooth from years of elbows and lonely conversations. Red vinyl booths lined the opposite wall, each scarred with cigarette burns and carved initials from people who'd probably forgotten they were ever there.

The stage sat in the middle beneath a spinning mirrored ball that had lost enough tiny squares to make it sparkle like it needed glasses. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” blasted through speakers that crackled whenever the bass hit too hard. Waitresses weaved between tables, carrying trays overloaded with long-neck beers, while the DJ announced dancers in a voice that sounded like he'd been smoking two packs a day since high school.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't even pretending to be. It was the kind of place where construction workers sat next to movie grips, where off-duty cops drank beside traveling salesmen, and where people from the adult film business could disappear into the crowd because nobody cared what you did for a living as long as you tipped the bartender. For a few dollars and a couple of drinks, Centerfolds let everyone believe they were somewhere more exciting than Coldwater Canyon Avenue. And for most of the people inside, that was more than enough. 

Bill was standing at the bar talking on his brick-shaped Motorola DynaTAC mobile phone. I had never seen one in real life, just in the movies. The fact that he owned one confirmed his status in this business, that whatever room he was in, he was the most important person in it. When he saw me, he waved me over and ended his call before saying, “Tommy Mitchell, thank you for arriving before your call time. You passed the first test.” 

Bill had me follow him out the back door and across a cracked parking lot to a corrugated metal warehouse that looked more like a machine shop than a sound stage. If it weren't for a single production truck parked outside and a line of extension cords snaking beneath the loading door, I never would've guessed an adult movie was being made inside.

The moment Bill pulled open the heavy metal door, I was hit with the smell of hot lights, sawdust, coffee, and once again, cigarette smoke. The warehouse had been divided into makeshift sets with flats, curtains, and rolling walls. Cables crisscrossed the concrete floor while light stands, cameras, and props filled every empty corner. It wasn't glamorous. It was a working movie set.

Bill held up a hand, signalling me to wait. On one of the sets, Peter North was finishing a scene by shooting his load all over Amber Lynn’s face, as director Henri...