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An excerpt from my hottest newsletter: “The Hand Print”:
That scene would star Jenna and a properly-known male porn star named T. T. Boy, a brief, pugnacious performer with a lantern jaw and a lasting scowl who reminded me of a considerably less-shiny Patrick Bateman. (“Within the business, he is recognized as an untiring performer,” T. T. Boy’s Wikipedia webpage touts. “In a 2015 job interview, he said that above the study course of his vocation, he has slept with over 10,000 women of all ages.”) I understood who T. T. Boy was ahead of I arrived mainly because I had read through about him in the pages of The New Yorker. In 1995, Susan Faludi had composed about the suicide of a male porn star named Cal Jammer, and during her study in the San Fernando Valley, her path experienced crossed with that of T. T. Boy’s. In her tale, she’d quoted a previous male porn star who’d observed of T. T. Boy: “Basically, the dude is a daily life-assistance technique for a penis.” I located this assessment to be about appropriate. He was smaller than me, brooding, coiled as if seeking for an justification to do something to someone—it did not actually matter what or who, regardless of whether it was battling or fucking. Perhaps it was all the exact to him.
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